SYNOPSIS: Lewis Hamilton has never been a man to let opportunities pass him by. Following your break up with the Prince of Monaco, Lewis wastes no time in showing you exactly what it’s like to be with a King.
CONTENT: smut, fluff, angst, mentions of infidelity (previous relationship with Charles), self worth issues, age gap (reader is mid twenties), Lewis likes to spoil you, Rihanna being a bad bitch.
PARTS: PART 1, PART 2
(Word Count: 8.2k)
AMSTERDAM
THE ANSWER COMES IN THE MORNING WITH A SINGLE TEXT FROM RIHANNA. A grainy picture of you Lewis through the darkened car window. You half in his lap. His hand on your waist. Your mouth very--and you mean very--obviously on his.
Robyn: That’s what I’m talking about. Get it girl.
You make a sound of dread as you sit up in bed, prompting Lewis to stir awake behind you.
“What’s wrong?”
You shove your phone in his face. “It's everywhere!”
Tabloids--That Night
“Midnight Madness: Lewis Hamilton Caught Getting Handsy With Teammate’s Younger Ex-Girlfriend.”
“Backseat Confession? Racing Icon Lewis Hamilton Spotted Getting VERY Cozy with Teammate’s Former Flame.”
“Love in the Fast Lane: Lewis Hamilton and (Your Full Name) Can’t Keep Their Hands off of Each Other After Afterparty.”
There are photos under every one.
At the party: Lewis’s hand at the small of your back while he leans down to hear you over the music, his expression intent in a way cameras love to exaggerate.
Outside the venue: the two of you laughing, your heels in one hand, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder as he ushers you into the waiting car.
And the car. A blurry but unmistakable series through the tinted glass — your body turned toward his, his hand around your waist, your mouth on his, one frame where you’re very obviously straddling his lap while he looks at you like he’s forgotten the world exists.
Your face burns.
Lewis--the bastard--laughs.
A deep, genuinely amused laugh, like he’s reading something ridiculous instead of what is effectively photographic evidence of the two of you making out in the back of a car.
“Lewis,” you say, scandalized.
He looks up, entirely too calm, as he watches you, “They make it sound much more dramatic than it was.”
You stare at him.
“We were literally kissing in a car.”
He shrugs, laying back down and pulling you into him. “Yes.”
“You ripped my panties.”
“I’ll buy you new pairs,” he grins smugly, suddenly maneuvering you until you're straddling his waist.
“Lewis,’ you scold, still gripping your phone. “We have become a scandal!”
His hands settle on your thighs.
“Yes,” he says, hand meeting the back of your neck and pulling down until his mouth brushes yours. “And?”
Your retort dies when he kisses you once, slowly and infuriatingly unconcerned.
~~~~~
Charles almost throws his phone through a fucking wall. It starts with one notification. Then another.
Then a message from Pierre that says only:
Have you seen this?
He opens the link expecting some race commentary, maybe a sponsor story. Instead, he gets a full-screen photo of you in Lewis’s lap.
Charles goes completely still. The room seems to narrow around him.
There’s another picture — the two of you at the gala, Lewis leaning close, his hand on your back. Another outside the venue, his hand at your waist. Another in the car, your mouth on his, his face tilted up to yours with an intimacy that is impossible to mistake.
Charles’s jaw clenches so hard it aches.
He opens another article. And another. Every headline is worse than the last.He scrolls through them, anger building so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Not because you moved on. That’s what he tells himself.
It’s because of Lewis. Because of the optics. Because the press is dragging his name into it. Because Lewis — quiet, unreadable Lewis — had looked him in the eye all season and apparently been circling around you the whole time.
But underneath all those excuses is the thing he refuses to name.
The image of you smiling up at someone else.
The way you’re touching Lewis like you once touched him.
Like the years you spent together, the fights, the apologies, the promises — like all of it could be replaced in one night with a man twice as composed and infinitely harder to read.
Charles throws the phone onto the kitchen counter so hard it skids across the marble.
“Are you serious?” he snaps to the empty apartment, chest heaving.
He paces once. Twice.
Then snatches the phone back up, staring again at the photo in the car.
You look happy. That is what makes something ugly twist in his stomach. Not guilty. Not messy. Not drunk and making a mistake. Happy. Like you aren’t thinking about him at all. Like what happened between the two of you ended exactly when you said it did — and only one of you kept replaying it afterward.
Charles scoffs bitterly, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.
“As if it meant nothing,” he mutters, even though he was the one who cheated. The one who lied, then somehow managed to turn every argument afterward into your failure to forgive him quickly enough.
In his mind, none of that matters right now.
All he can see is Lewis’s hand on you. All he can hear is the teasing from the paddock that will come the second he steps into the garage.
His phone buzzes again.
A video this time. He doesn’t mean to watch it. The clip is halfway down the page, buried between race analysis and endless speculation, a grainy thumbnail with your face caught mid-laugh and Lewis’s hand unmistakably tangled with yours.
Charles knows he should keep scrolling. Instead, he taps it.
The footage is shaky, taken on someone’s phone in the dark. Camera flashes go off in violent bursts, bleaching everything white for half a second before the image snaps back into motion.
But it’s clear enough.
You’re the one leading Lewis. Your fingers are laced through his, tugging him forward down a narrow street crowded with shouting photographers. You’re laughing — head tipped back, cheeks flushed, moving with that loose, unguarded ease of someone who’s had just enough to drink to stop caring who’s watching.
Lewis stumbles half a step behind you and laughs too, low and easy, letting you pull him wherever you want.
Not resisting. Not rushing. Just following. Like he’d go anywhere if you were the one taking him there.
“Lewis! Over here!”
“Are you two together?”
The voices overlap, frantic and sharp. Then another one cuts clean through the noise.
“Lewis—any comment on the tension this is going to cause in the paddock?”
Charles stills. His thumb freezes against the screen. In the video, Lewis slows. Just slightly. He turns his head toward the cameras. For one brief moment, there’s something sharper in his face. A flicker that could almost be a warning. Then you glance back at him and the look disappears. It softens instantly, the hard edge melting into something infuriatingly calm.
He smiles, lazy, content, unbothered. Like the question doesn’t touch him at all.
Like Charles doesn’t touch him at all.
“Ask me when the season starts back up,” Lewis says, voice light, almost amused.
The reporters erupt. Questions come faster, louder.
You tug on his hand again, laughing as you look back at him.
“Don’t encourage them.”
Lewis’s smile widens, smaller than a grin, but somehow more intimate. Like it’s only really for you.
“I’m not,” he says, and lets you pull him forward again.
He doesn’t take his hand back, doesn’t glance at the cameras, doesn’t even bother hiding how naturally he follows when you lead.
And just like that, the two of you disappear into the waiting car together--that same car where you kiss him like he’s what you need to breathe, swallowed by the dark and the crowd and the flashing lights.
Charles replays that part.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time, though he tells himself he’s only trying to hear Lewis’s answer again.
It isn’t the question that gets under his skin. It’s the handholding.
The way you reached for Lewis first. The way he let you. No hesitation. No surprise. Like that’s normal now. Like letting you touch him is second nature.
Charles pauses the video at the exact moment you turn back to look at Lewis.
Your hand is still in his. You’re smiling at him, bright and careless, and Lewis looking at you — not at the cameras, not at the crowd — you.
Charles knows that look. He used to think it belonged to him. That soft, private expression. The one that makes everything around the two of you seem irrelevant.
He remembers when you used to laugh like that with him. Late nights after events, sneaking outside entrances to avoid cameras, your hand wrapped around his while you pulled him toward some afterparty or empty street or wherever the night happened to take you.
Except now, watching the clip again, something awful settles in his stomach.
You never looked that free with him.
You were happy, yes, but careful.
Always checking if someone was watching. Pulling your hand away before cameras caught too much. Smiling, but with restraint.
This—This is different.
You look like you don’t care who sees.
And Lewis looks like he’s already decided that if anyone has a problem with it, that’s their burden to carry.
Charles replays it again.
This time, he notices the smallest detail. When you tug Lewis’s hand, he tightens his grip before following. Not to stop you. To keep hold of you.
Charles drops the phone onto the bed like it burned him.
But even staring at the ceiling, he can still see it.
Your hand in Lewis’s.
Your laughter.
The way he followed without question.
And for the first time, something ugly and undeniable cuts through all the anger he’s been feeding himself.
It isn’t just that you moved on.
It’s that you look happier doing it than Charles ever let you be.
PARIS
YOUR DISLIKE FOR PARIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH PARIS ITSELF. You just have experiences you’d rather not relive again and Paris had a bad habit of throwing your problems back at you with a violence that could cause whiplash.
That is where Charles finally catches up to you. Of course it had to be Paris.
Paris is 3 for 0. Fuck you Paris, you know what you did.
You walk down the street towards where you planned on meeting Lewis at the end of your separate days out, shopping bags looped over your arm, sunlight catching in your hair. There’s an ease to the way you move now — something that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. No rushing. No checking over your shoulder. No bracing for a message that might ruin your day.
Just movement.
Just you, carrying the remains of a long afternoon and the kind of quiet happiness that sneaks up on you when you stop expecting it.
You’re halfway down the block when you see him.
Charles Leclerc.
Leaning against a parked car like he’s been waiting.
The change in you is immediate.
Not fear. Not even anger, at first. Just a sharp, tired irritation.
You keep walking.
“(Name).”
You don’t stop.
“(Name)—wait.”
His hand closes around your wrist.
And the second his skin touches yours, the memory hits so hard it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
Your apartment door unlocking after rehearsal. The hallway is still dim. Your dance bag slipping off your shoulder.
A laugh from your bedroom that did not belong there.
The sight of him in your bed.
The woman tangled in your sheets, wearing your robe, turning toward you with startled eyes while Charles stumbled to his feet saying your name like he hadn’t just split something open inside you.
The way you shoved him. Again. And again.
Driving him backward through the apartment while he tried to talk over your anger.
Get out. Get out of my house. Get out.
The slam of the front door. His knocking afterward. His voice muffled through the wood.
(Name), I’m sorry, I love you, it didn’t mean anything. Open the door. Please.
Your stomach twisting so violently you barely made it to the sink before you were sick, one hand gripping the counter hard enough your knuckles ached. The image is repeating in your head. That girl in your bed. In your room. The perfume that wasn’t yours still hanging in the air.
Then the rage. Ripping the sheets off the mattress. Shoving pillows into garbage bags. Scrubbing the counters. The bathroom. The door handle. The floor. Scrubbing until your hands were red and raw and your tears were falling into bleach water because you could not stop feeling like something had been taken from the one place that was supposed to be safe. All of it flashes in less than a second. You yank your arm free so sharply he stumbles back a half-step.
“Don’t touch me.”
Your voice is colder than he expects.
Charles exhales, already unraveling. “You won’t answer my calls.”
You stare at him.
“Yes.”
He blinks, thrown by the simplicity of it.
“That’s all you have to say to me? After everything?”
You adjust the bags on your arm, looking at him like you genuinely cannot believe he’s still making this about himself.
“What exactly are you expecting, Charles?”
“I’m expecting you to stop this,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely. “This thing with Lewis. The traveling, the photos—this is ridiculous.”
You blink, before releasing a short, incredulous sound.
“You think this is ridiculous?”
“Yes,” he says, louder now. “You disappear, you parade around with Lewis Hamilton, you let everyone think—”
“I’m not letting anyone think anything,” you cut in, voice turning sharp. “I’m living my life.”
“With him,” Charles says, like that alone is the offense.
Your expression changes. All the irritation drains out of it. What’s left is something much colder.
“With someone who didn’t cheat on me in my own apartment.”
His mouth opens immediately. Maybe to defend himself, maybe to have the audacity to claim that he loves you. You didn't let him get that chance, “You don’t get to make yourself the hurt party.”
A few people nearby slow. You don’t care.
“You brought another woman into my home,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “Into my bed. She was wearing my robe. I threw up, Charles.”
His face pales.
“I had to throw everything out,” you say over him, anger building with every word. “Do you understand that? I stood in my bathroom throwing up because I could not stop thinking about her in my sheets.”
The street grows quieter around you. People are looking now. Charles’s expression fractures.
“I didn’t know you felt—.”
“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “Because you never paid attention to me unless I was useful to you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really?” you fire back. “You couldn’t even come to the Tonys.”
“I had a race—.”
“You didn’t even watch,” you say, louder now. “I won the biggest award of my career and you didn’t even watch. But you had time to bring someone else into my home.”
He recoils like you slapped him. A couple at the corner has stopped entirely. Someone discreetly lifts a phone.
Your chest rises sharply, but you don’t stop.
“You made me feel small before you ever cheated,” you say. “Like my work didn’t matter. Like my life only mattered when it fit around yours.”
Charles’s jaw tightens.
“That’s not fair.”
“You made me scrub my own skin raw because I felt dirty in my own apartment,” You confess, “Do you know who sat with me when my hands were bleeding?”
His face changes before you even say it.
“Lewis,” You watch him flinch with satisfaction, “He didn’t ask me to be less to make room for him. He didn’t make me feel embarrassed for wanting to be seen.” Your eyes don’t leave him. “He treated me like I mattered before he ever touched me. He had a race too--but he still watched, he still celebrated me. He made the space. The time. You couldn’t even be bothered to make a fucking instagram post.”
Charles scoffs, but there’s panic under it now.
“He was waiting for this. He’s playing games.”
“Maybe,” you say. “But at least he didn’t destroy my sense of safety and call it love.”
Silence. Heavy. Public.
Charles looks at you like he’s finally realizing that whatever he lost, it isn’t something he can talk his way back into.
“(Name),” he says, voice cracking now. “I love you.”
“You don’t get to say that after I had to sanitize my own home because of you.”
“(Name)—.”
“No.”
You take one step back. Your voice is flat. Final. “We’re done here.”
And as you walk away, there is no trembling despite the unsteadiness in your gut.
No collapse.
Because the woman who sobbed on her bathroom floor surrounded by trash bags full of ruined sheets and stripped bedding is gone.
She disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic — somewhere between Barbados and Milan and Paris, somewhere between Lewis’s hand at the small of your back and his quiet voice telling you that what Charles did did not make you dirty.
At the end of the block, a black car waits.
Lewis is leaning against it, sunglasses on despite the late afternoon light. He does not interrupt. He simply waits.
As if he knew you didn’t need saving. And when you reach him, he takes one look at your face, opens the passenger door, and presses a kiss to your temple before helping you inside.
No questions. No demand for explanation. Just that steady, grounding presence that has become dangerously easy to lean into. As he makes his way around to the driver side door, you miss the way Lewis levels Charles with a sharp warning look. A silent and sure, “Stay in your lane,” conveyed in the silence of the aftermath.
~~~~~~~
The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, soft but final. For a second, you just stand there. Shopping bags slip from your fingers and land in a quiet heap by the entryway, tissue paper spilling out, one handle snapping under the weight. You don’t even look at it, moving deeper into the room. Straight past the bed, past the open balcony doors where late afternoon Paris light spills in, straight into the bathroom like something inside you has decided it can’t breathe anywhere else.
The faucet turns on too hard. Water splashes against the porcelain sink. Cold.
You put your hands under it immediately.
Soap. Lather. Rinse.
Again. And again.
Your breath is sharp, uneven, too fast in your chest. The mirror fogs in broken patches as you lean closer to the sink, scrubbing harder than you need to. Because your skin still remembers. Charles’s hand on your wrist in the street. Too quick. Too familiar. Too wrong. And worse than that—what it pulled up. The apartment. The bed. The woman in your sheets. The moment your world split open and never fully closed again.
Your stomach twists so sharply you brace one hand against the counter while the other keeps washing.
Soap.
Water.
Again.
The bathroom feels too small suddenly. Too bright. Too much. Your breathing sharpens.
“(Name),” Lewis’s voice, quiet behind you.
You don’t turn around.
“I’m fine,” you say immediately. It comes out wrong. Thin. Strained. You keep scrubbing.More soap, lather, scrub.
He steps closer anyway, “Hey,” he says softly.
You shake your head once, like you can physically dislodge the memory.
“I just—.” Your breath catches. “I can still feel him.”
Lewis reaches past you and turns the water off. Silence rushes in immediately. It’s worse than the noise. Your hands stay hovering over the empty sink, dripping. Soap sliding away too slowly. For a second, you just stare at nothing. Then your fingers twitch toward the tap again. His hand catches yours, stopping you from hurting yourself anymore.
“I know it’s stupid,” you say, words coming too fast now. “It’s just—he touched me and I can’t get it out of my head and I feel—.” your voice breaks slightly, “I feel sick.”
Lewis turns you gently, guiding until you’re facing him instead of the sink, when you see him, something in your chest finally cracks open properly. His expression isn’t alarmed, he’s steady, present, “There’s nothing stupid about it,” he says quietly.
You swallow hard.
His gaze drops briefly to your hands, red from scrubbing, then back to your face.
“He crossed a boundary your body still remembers,” he says. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Your throat tightens. You hate how much you need to hear that.
Lewis lifts your hand carefully, turning your wrist slightly. His thumb brushes over the exact spot Charles grabbed earlier. Then he presses a kiss there, soft and intentional like hes trying to erase the feeling with his mouth. Your breath stutters.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says.
A shaky breath leaves you, and then you’re stepping forward before you even decide to.
Lewis opens his arms immediately and you fold into him.
Forehead against his shoulder, hands gripping the back of his shirt like you need something solid to anchor you to the present. His arms wrap around you, firm and steady, one hand at the back of your head, the other between your shoulder blades, letting you exist there.
After a moment, he shifts back slightly, just enough to look at you.
“You’re here,” he murmurs.
Not a question.
A reminder.
You nod faintly, but your hands are still shaking.
Lewis notices.
Of course he does.
He leans down, slips an arm under your legs before you can protest, and lifts you easily onto the bathroom counter. You let out a small, startled breath.
“There you are,” he says softly, like he’s found you again.
He steps between your knees, one hand resting at your waist, grounding you in place without pressure. And for the first time all day, you stop bracing. Your hands loosen where they’re still curled into his shirt. Your breathing slows. But there’s still something raw under your ribs. Something that hasn’t fully settled. Lewis’s thumb traces the inside of your wrist again.Then he lifts your hand and presses another kiss there.
Your eyes close for a second, heart stuttering violently in your chest.
And when you open them, you’re already leaning toward him. It happens before you fully think it through. You kiss him. It’s quick at first—almost desperate. Your fingers catch in his shirt again, pulling him closer before you can second-guess it. Lewis stills for half a heartbeat. Then he responds, meeting you exactly where you are.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you as he steps closer between your knees, and the kiss deepens into something slower, more deliberate. Grounding.
Like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto from the inside out. Your breath catches against his mouth. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t escalate.
He just stays with you in it, letting you set the pace without letting you drift away from yourself. When you break slightly for air, he doesn’t go far.
Forehead resting against yours.
You’re both breathing unevenly now, but calmer than before.
His thumb strokes your jaw once.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, but it’s small, not fully there yet, so he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper and something in your chest finally unclenches.
The sink. The street. Charles’s hand. It all starts to fade at the edges. Not gone. But quieter. Less sharp. When he pulls back again, you don’t chase him this time—you just stay there, forehead still touching his, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
Lewis looks at you for a moment like he’s reading something only he understands.
Then he exhales softly.
“There you are,” he says again.
You let out a small breath that might almost be a laugh, still a little unsteady, still a little stunted. He smiles faintly in response before pressing a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—brief, soft, certain. “Tell me what you need, baby.”
You sigh into his mouth, you don’t know. He trails his lips, soft and sweet, down your jaw and your breath hitches slightly, involuntarily. He pauses a moment, mouth against your skin before he continues his path down your neck, his kisses slow, open mouthed, tongue tasting your skin in a way that makes you shiver.
You feel him smile against your skin, “I know what you need,’ he whispered, nipping slightly at the junction of your shoulder and neck, your eyes flutter closed. “Let me give it to you.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Good,” he wrapped your legs around his waist and picked you up, carrying you back into the bedroom. He plopped you on the bed and you looked up at him with wide eyes as he looked you over, liking his lips slowly, thoughtfully. His eyes lingered on your pleated black skirt before flicking back up to your face. “Take it off for me, baby, leave the skirt on.”
You find yourself doing what he says, with shaky fingers, discarding your blouse and bra.
“Panties too, skirt stays.”
Your painties join the small pile on the floor, leaving you bare under your skirt. He hums happily and drops slowly to his knees between your legs. Your breath hitched. “What are you doing?”
He looked up at you and your heart stuttered at the dark look in his eyes. “Helping you take your mind off of it,’ his hands trailed up your thighs and you shivered. “Will you let me?”
You hesitated, “No one has ever--.”
He raised his brows looking oddly offended on your behalf, “No one?”
You shook your head shyly. “Not really, one of my exes tried once,” you grimaced, “He bit me.”
Lewis laughed. You smacked him on the shoulder. “It's not funny! Robyn had to take me to the ER, she laughed at me the entire time.”
Lewis dropped his head against your knees chuckling for a moment more before he looked up at you, brown eyes shining. “I promise I won’t bite you, unless you ask me to.”
“I won’t,” you frowned, "I am a soft girl, I like soft things!” You protested, turning up your nose.
He laughed brightly, “That’s not what you said last night.”
“Do not use my vulnerable words against me,” you narrowed your eyes even more and he chuckled, leaning forwards to kiss the frown off your face.
“Yes, of course, my bad,” he kissed you again, deeper this time and you melted into the feeling. “Let me, please?”
“You don’t have to--.”
“I want to,’ he said, looking into your eyes. “Do you trust me?”
You nodded.
He smiled, his hands spreading open your legs slowly, “Can I taste you?”
Your breathing hitched, as you looked down at him. You nodded.
“Use your words for me, baby.”
“Yes. You can.”
“Good,” he pressed a kiss to your knee, pressing a hand to your sternum and you leaned back on your elbows, “Relax, let me help you feel good.”
He trailed open mouthed kisses up your thighs as he spread your legs wider, you couldn’t help but feel a little exposed as you watched him disappear under the fabric of your skirt, your breathing picked up as he drew closer and closer. He spread your thighs open wider. He pressed a warm open mouthed kiss high on your inner thigh, his warm breath on your skin sending a shudder through you.
Then his mouth met you exactly where you needed him, you both moaned at the contact. Your elbows slipped out from under you, back hitting the bed as he licked a long strip through your slit.
He took his time with you, mapping out every reaction, every hitch in your breath, every buck of your hips. He catalogued what made you whine and what made you tremble. Soon he was building pleasure with a slow intensity that made it almost too much but equally not enough.
He sucked gently at your neglected clit and your hand flew to your mouth almost instinctively when a sound slips out of you—too honest, too unfiltered—and you try to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. A low hum leaves him in response, quiet but approving, and it sends a sharp ripple through your whole body that makes your stomach tighten.
“Lewis—."
Your voice breaks on his name.
One of your hands drops to the mattress, gripping the sheets hard like you can anchor yourself there. The other reaches for him without thinking, needing something real.
He notices instantly.
Of course he does.
His arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place—not letting you retreat from the intensity building in your body, but not letting you drift away from it either.
“God,” you whisper. “You’re—."
You can’t even finish the sentence.
Because everything feels like it’s building too quickly now—too concentrated, too focused in a way that makes your thoughts fragment.
You shift slightly, overwhelmed, your body instinctively trying to retreat from the intensity.
“Lewis,” you gasp. “Wait—."
He stills instantly, not fully stopping, but pausing just enough that the pressure eases, enough that you can breathe again, but not far enough for you to come down, the feeling of his breath against your sensitive flesh making you tremble.
“Look at me.”
You do.
It takes effort.
Your vision is a little unfocused, your body still trembling faintly, your pulse loud in your ears. His expression is steady—completely focused on you, not on anything else. Not on anything but how you’re doing.
“You with me?” he asks quietly.
You nod, but it’s shaky.
“Words, baby, I need words.”
“Y-yes .”
“I need you to stay here,” he says, it's not quite given as a command, but more of a grounding point.And something about that—about the way he’s prioritizing you inside this instead of just the moment—cuts through the overwhelm just enough for you to reach for him properly.
Your hand slides up, finding his wrist.
Then his hand.
Your fingers curl around his first.
And then you lace them together.
He responds immediately, tightening his grip—not restricting, just anchoring you back into the present through touch.
You exhale sharply, some of the tension in your chest loosening as your hand stays firmly in his.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You swallow.
“Yes.”
But you don’t let go.
And neither does he.
When he is sure you’re still with him, he starts again, mouth meeting you again, tongue lapping at you with slow confident strokes, like he had already processed all the information he needed to make you tick, to make you whimper.
His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles, steady and repetitive, like he’s reminding your body how to settle even while everything inside you is still humming. The intensity doesn’t lessen, it burns through you like a slowly creeping fire, your hips twitch up as his mouth moved over you, tilting you towards the edge.
But now it’s different.
Contained.
Shared.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, before doubling down. Your breath started coming out in sharp pants, legs trembling, threatening to close around his head, but he forced your legs apart with one strong hand.
Your back arched off the bed, “Fuck! I--Lewis, I’m gonna come--I’m--.”
Your high tore through you with a sharp pulsing heat that rattled through your body, a sharp whine escaping you as you shuddered. Lewis held you down through it, continuing to devour you through your waves and just as you were coming down you were going up again.
“Lewis! Lewis-fuck!”
Your second high detonated through you, a loud sob leaving your mouth as you tried to scramble up the bed, your free hand leaving the sheets to push at his head. “Too much! Too much!”
Lewis lips left your clit with a slick, filthy pop that skittered through your body so hard you sobbed, pushing yourself up the bed, only then did he let you scramble away, still holding your hand, so you didn’t get far.
He followed you up the bed, pressing open mouthed kisses up your sternum, chest and neck until his mouth met your in deep kiss that seemed to short circuit your system, your entire body softening and going lax. You could taste yourself on his tongue, it made you kiss him harder, arm coming up to wrap around his shoulders.
He pulled away just enough to look at your face, a grin pulling at his mouth, “Still thinking about it, baby?”
You blinked, perplexed and dazed, still clinging to him like you needed him to breathe, “About what?”
He laughed and kissed you again, “Good girl.”
Tabloids--That Evening
“Explosive Paris Showdown: Star Calls Out Ex For CHEATING in Her Apartment.”
“ “I Threw Up”: (Name)’s Devastating Public Confrontation With Driver Ex.”
“Tony Winner Leaves Ex Stunned After Street Argument in Paris.”
~~~~~~
Charles calls while you’re still asleep, early in the morning, the sun having just risen. Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand, then stops. A minute later, it lights up again. Then again.
By the fourth call, Lewis finally reaches over with a quiet exhale and picks it up, glancing at the screen before his expression shifts into something unreadable.
Charles.
He looks down at you.
You’re draped on him, dead asleep, wearing his oversized team sweater from the night before because the hotel room had been too cold and he’d tugged it over your head without waking you. The hem barely covers your thighs. One of your hands is curled against his chest, your face tucked into the side of his neck as if that’s where you naturally belong.
His mouth curves up at the thought of it, because you do.
The phone starts ringing again.
This time, Lewis answers.
He doesn’t move you off him. Doesn’t even straighten from his position against the head board, just keeps one arm around your waist and lifts the phone to his ear. “Good morning, Charles. A bit early don’t you think?”
There’s a split second of silence.
Then Charles’s voice explodes through the speaker loud enough that even you stir slightly against Lewis’s chest.
“Why is her phone with you?”
Lewis’s hand slides lazily up your back, soothing when you shift but don’t wake, your breath warm against his neck.
He speaks evenly, almost bored. “A better question might be why you’re calling my lady’s phone this early.”
The silence on the other end is so sudden it’s almost comical.
Then Charles absolutely loses it.
“Your what?” he snaps. “Are you out of your mind? Lewis, what the hell are you doing?”
Lewis says nothing.
Charles keeps going, his voice rising with every word.
“This is about me, isn’t it? You think because your season’s been rough you get to pull some stunt like this? Taking advantage of her just to get under my skin? She was drinking, she—”
Lewis pulls the phone away from his ear as Charles rants.
Not to hang up.
To open the camera.
Still holding you with one arm, he angles the phone just enough.
The photo is almost offensively intimate.
You’re asleep in his lap, wearing Ferrari red but no longer Charles’s. Lewis’ number printed across the back. Your legs are folded over either side of him, your face hidden against his throat. His hand is spread across the small of your back. The hotel sheets are tangled around both of you, sunlight spilling over the bed.
There’s no room for misinterpretation.
You look completely at home.
Lewis sends it.
Then lifts the phone back to his ear.
A beat passes.
Another.
Finally, he asks, calm as ever, “Did you get it?”
Charles doesn’t answer at first.
When he does, his voice is shaking with anger.
“You son of a—.”
“Let’s not resort to name calling, mate,” Lewis cuts him off, not loudly, but with a quiet finality that somehow lands harder. “She is with me now.”
The room stays silent except for your breathing.
Lewis’s fingers move once against your back, absent and almost possessive.
He continues, voice smooth, unhurried, “And she seems very comfortable where she is.”
The sound on the other end is ragged breathing.
Charles says nothing.
Then the line goes dead.
Lewis pulls the phone back from his ear and chuckles slightly to himself, putting your phone back on the nightstand, before pressing a kiss to your head.
~~~~~
In a hotel across the city, Charles stares at the photo for exactly three seconds before throwing his phone hard enough that it smashes against the wall of his apartment and drops to the floor in pieces.
His chest is heaving.
That image won’t leave his head.
You in Lewis’s clothes. Sleeping on him. Wearing his number. The quiet intimacy of it is worse than the tabloids. Worse than the car. Worse than the gala photos.
Because those could have been explained away.
A drunken kiss. A reckless night. A bad decision.
But that picture?
That picture looks like something settled.
Like you woke up in Lewis’s bed and never thought twice about it.
Charles drags both hands through his hair, pacing so hard he nearly kicks over a chair.
He hates the jealousy crawling under his skin.
Hates that Lewis sounded so calm. So smug. Not even taunting — which somehow makes it worse. Like he doesn’t feel threatened by Charles at all.
Like he’s already won.
And what tears at Charles the most is the awful, humiliating suspicion that Lewis might actually mean it.
That he is already that gone over you.
That while Charles was busy convincing himself you’d eventually come back, Lewis simply reached out and took the place Charles left empty — and did it without a second of hesitation.
ZANDVOORT
The next race weekend arrives under a storm of gossip.
Every paddock screen, every entertainment blog, every sports panel has spent the entire week cycling through the same grainy photos of you and Lewis Hamilton in the back of that car. Analysts pretend to talk strategy and lap times, then somehow end up discussing your lipstick on his collar.
And Charles has spent the whole week preparing.
Not for the race.
For you.
He tells himself it’s because closure matters. Because there are things left unsaid. Because if you show up in the paddock — if Lewis brings you there like some statement — Charles is going to pull you aside and say everything he should have said months ago.
That he was sorry.
That he was stupid.
That he still loves you.
That none of this with Lewis means what it looks like.
He rehearses versions of it in hotel mirrors, in the driver gym, walking from engineering to the garage. He builds entire conversations in his head where you look uncertain, where maybe you admit you’re confused, where maybe there’s still some opening.
Then Friday morning comes.
And Lewis arrives alone.
No you.
No dramatic entrance.
No hand at your back. No flash of cameras catching you stepping out beside him.
Just Lewis in team kit and sunglasses, walking into the paddock with a coffee in one hand, looking so calm it borders on offensive.
He looks rested.
Content.
Absolutely stable.
That is what throws Charles off.
Because Lewis should at least look irritated by the circus.
Instead, he looks like a man who slept eight solid hours and woke up with exactly what he wanted.
~~~~~~
The team meeting is tense enough to make the mechanics go silent.
Fred doesn’t even wait for the door to close, before he slaps a tablet onto the conference table. Your face flashes across the screen in a tabloid collage.
“Would anyone care to explain,” Fred says tightly, “why one of my drivers ignored six calls from communications while the entire internet watched him devour his teammate’s ex in the back of a car?”
Silence.
Charles stares at the table.
Lewis, meanwhile, takes off his sunglasses and smiles like he’s being asked whether he’d like cream in his coffee. Then he reaches into the leather bag he set by his chair and places a polished cedar box in front of Fred.
The room goes still.
Fred narrows his eyes.
He opens it.
Inside is a pristine set of rare Cuban cigars, he stares at them for a long moment, then the team principal--with all the fiend composure of a squirrel caught in a trap-- closes the lid slowly and exhales through his nose.
The expression on his face says he knows exactly what this is: an apology wrapped in expensive, utterly unapologetic smugness.
Lewis folds his hands on the table.
“My phone was unavailable.”
Charles nearly chokes.
Fred glares at him for a full five seconds. Then, against every expectation, he tucks the box under his arm and moves on to race strategy. The meeting continues. Charles says nothing.
He forces himself not to look at Lewis. Forces himself not to ask the one question tearing at him:
Where are you?
~~~~~~~
By media hour, the press pack is feral. The first few questions are about tires, upgrades, and the new aero package. Then one reporter grins and asks the obvious.
“Lewis, are the romance rumors true? Are you and (Name) together?”
Lewis leans back in his chair. There’s a beat where he could dodge. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. A slow, smug smile spreads across his face — not flashy, not performative, just deeply pleased. “Yes.”
The room erupts. Camera shutters fire like machine guns. Another reporter jumps in.
“Are you concerned this relationship could create tension with your teammate, given (Name) previously dated Charles?”
Lewis’s expression barely changes as he folds his hands and answers in the same calm tone he uses to discuss tire degradation.
“I don’t feel guilty for treating a woman the way she deserves to be treated.”
The room goes dead silent.
It is such a smooth answer that it takes everyone a second to realize what he actually said. Then every journalist in the room starts talking at once. Across the media line, Charles’s face goes white. Lewis doesn’t even look at him.
“Where is (Name) this weekend? Was she expected in the paddock?”
That same small smile returns, softer now.
“She’s in Los Angeles working on a few projects she’s been excited about for a while.”
The way he says it changes everything. He sounds proud.
Genuinely proud.
“She won’t be around for the rest of the season,” Lewis continues. “Her schedule’s full, and I’m looking forward to seeing what she’s building.”
No possessiveness.
No annoyance.
Only open admiration.
Charles feels sick. Because Lewis says it like supporting you is the most natural thing in the world.
~~~~~~
When it’s Charles’s turn, the room turns predatory. The first question is polite.
“Charles, how do you feel about the public confirmation of Lewis and (Name)’s relationship?”
Charles gives a practiced smile.
“I wish them both well.”
“Were you aware of their relationship before the photos surfaced?”
He shrugs.
“People have private lives. It’s not my concern.”
He’s doing well, too well.
Then someone from the back asks:
“Do you regret cheating on (Name), given Lewis’s comments suggesting she’s being treated better now?”
The air leaves the room, Charles’s jaw tightens. The PR manager in the front row visibly straightens.
Charles smiles — but only with his mouth, “That’s a private matter.”
“Do you think (Name) left because of the infidelity, or because she had already developed feelings for Lewis while you were still together?”
That does it, The chair scrapes sharply as Charles leans forward.
His voice cuts hard enough that several cameras jerk toward him.
“You people don’t know anything about what happened between us.”
The room freezes. His PR manager is on their feet immediately.
“Last question,” they cut in quickly, stepping toward the podium, but Charles is already halfway standing, anger flushing up his neck.
“You take one photograph and build an entire story out of it—”
“Charles,” the PR manager says sharply.
The warning in their tone finally reaches him. He stops, but only barely.
His hands are shaking, and every camera catches it.
Tabloids--that evening.
“Lewis Hamilton confirms romance with teammate’s ex — responds with quiet class amid media storm.”
“Charles Leclerc visibly rattled after ex goes public with older teammate.”
“One Man in Love, One Man Unraveling: F1 Paddock Drama Reaches Boiling Point."
“(Your Full Name) Spotted in Los Angeles While Romance Headlines Explode Overseas.”
And the photos from LA spread just as quickly.
You wearing oversized sunglasses outside a dance studio in North Hollywood Arts District, carrying a garment bag and iced coffee, completely unaware that half the motorsport world is dissecting your love life. Smiling, busy, moving forward.
While in the paddock, Charles sits alone in his driver room, staring at the article comparing his outburst to Lewis’s composure. The worst part isn’t the headlines. It’s the comments under the photos. Thousands of them. And the one repeated over and over:
She looks happier
MONACO
The café is small and tucked away from the main streets of Monaco, the kind of place you only find if someone brings you here once and you remember it by instinct after that. Quiet enough that conversations don’t carry. Quiet enough that you can breathe without feeling watched. You chose it on purpose.
Neutral ground.
Not Charles’ world. Not yours in any official sense either. Just somewhere in between, where nothing feels like it belongs to him.
You’re already seated when Arthur arrives.
He spots you immediately and slows for half a second at the door, like he needs to confirm you’re actually here before he commits to walking in. Then he does, and you watch him take in the room as if it might change on him halfway across it.
He looks different. Taller than you remember, though you know he has been for a while now. Broader in the shoulders too, the kind of growth that happens when you stop noticing someone every week and start seeing them in snapshots instead.
But his face still gives him away. Still Arthur. Still the same boy who used to trail after you in paddocks, stealing chips from your bag and asking you questions like you had all the answers.
When his eyes land on you, relief softens everything immediately.
“(Name).”
You smile before you can stop yourself.
“Hi, bébé.”
It slips out naturally, like it always has, and you see it hit him in real time. He crosses the room and sits across from you, pulling his coffee closer like he needs something to hold onto. His hands are a little too tight around the cup.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Then Arthur exhales, too fast, like he’s been holding it in since the moment he decided to come, “I’m sorry.”
You don’t even hesitate,“No.”
He frowns immediately. “(Name), I should’ve said something earlier. I should’ve—.”
“Arthur,” you cut in gently, but firmly, you lean back slightly, studying him. “You are not responsible for what Charles chose to do.”
His jaw tightens at the name anyway, “He hurt you.”
You nod once, “Yes.”
The honesty lands between you both without embellishment. Arthur looks down, “I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“You can’t fix it,” you say simply. “It’s not yours to fix.”
That makes him go quiet again. A heavier silence settles.
Then, softer, almost reluctant, he says, “I thought you’d stop talking to me too.”
That one actually stings. Your expression shifts immediately,“Never.” It comes out so fast it almost interrupts his thought entirely.
Arthur looks up sharply, you don’t look away.
“You don’t get to disappear on me just because your brother lost his mind.”
His eyes flicker, emotion catching before he can hide it properly, you reach across the table without thinking and cover his hand with yours.
“And for the record,” you add, because you need him to hear it properly, “you’re stuck with me.”
That earns a shaky breath of laughter from him, “You say that like it’s a punishment.”
“It is,” you say seriously. “For both of us.”
That gets a real laugh out of him this time. Tension loosens slightly around his shoulders. Arthur glances down at your hand over his, “I just didn’t know what to do,” he admits again, quieter. “He’s my brother.”
“I know.”
“And you’re…” He hesitates, searching for something that doesn’t quite exist. “You’re you.”
You raise an eyebrow, “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
You sigh, amused despite everything, “You’re terrible at emotional arguments.”
“I’m not having an emotional argument.”
“You are absolutely having an emotional argument.”
Arthur huffs out a breath, finally relaxing a fraction more. For a while, the conversation drifts into easier things. Racing schedules. Travel complaints. The usual nonsense that makes up most of your shared history.
At some point, you lean back in your chair, watching him more than the table, “You know,” you say casually, “I always wanted a little brother.”
Arthur immediately narrows his eyes.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The part where you pretend you’re significantly older than me.”
You blink, “I am significantly older than you.”
“You’re three years older.”
“Which is basically a decade in emotional development.”
Arthur groans and drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God.”
You smile into your drink. “It’s not my fault you’re permanently seventeen in my head.”
“I am twenty-four.”
“A child.”
“I race cars.”
“A child with a dangerous hobby.”
That finally pulls a laugh out of him despite himself.
He shakes his head, still smiling now.
“I regret coming here.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely don’t.”
“You buy me expensive birthday presents and then talk to me like I need supervision.”
“You do need supervision.”
“I really don’t.”
“You once tried to microwave pasta in a hotel kettle.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
Arthur groans again, but there’s no real frustration in it now. Just familiarity.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” you say lightly, “you’re still here.”
You both go quiet and smile softly at one another. Arthur sighs, and hooks his ankle with your under the table, and your grin at the familiar gesture.
“Okay, enough emotions," he declares dramatically and you laugh, “Tell me about it, you and Lewis.”
You raise your brows, “Do you really want to hear about it?”
“I want to know that he’s making you happy.”
You smile, “He is.”
Arthur nods, “Good. Because I’ll kick his ass.”
“You’re too French and delicate to kick anyone’s ass.”
He gasps in offence, “I am not French, first of all, second, I’m taller than him--!”
You can’t hear him over your laughter.
~~~~~~
The winter break changes everything. It starts quietly.
One photo from a ski lodge in Switzerland — your face hidden in Lewis’s scarf while he takes the picture, both of you snow-dusted and laughing.
Then another from Christmas: you standing in the kitchen of his family home in France beside his mother, flour on your cheek, Lewis in the background pretending not to watch you with the kind of soft expression that sends the internet into a frenzy.
New Year’s in Monaco, your hand in his, fireworks blurred overhead.
Then his birthday.
A candid shot posted to Lewis’s account — a rare thing in itself — of him seated at a restaurant table, looking up at you like there is nowhere else he would rather be. Your hand is in his hair, his smile small and private.
No caption.
He doesn’t need one.
By the time pre-season testing starts, no one is calling you a rumor anymore.
You are simply understood.
Lewis’s girlfriend.
And somehow, that still feels too small for what the photos show.
AUSTRALIA
The new season opens under fresh regulations and an entirely reshuffled grid.
Lewis should, on paper, be struggling to adapt. Older drivers are supposed to take longer to settle into new machinery. The younger field is hungry, the car is radically different, and the paddock has spent all winter speculating whether his best years are behind him.
Instead, Lewis is in his element.
From the first practice session, he looks terrifyingly composed.
Every lap is precise. Controlled. Like he and the car came to an agreement long before anyone else.
And on Thursday morning, just as the paddock begins to fill—
There you are.
For the first time in months.
In person.
Charles sees you before he registers his own reaction.
You’re standing just outside Lewis’s garage, sunlight catching in your hair, laughing at something one of the engineers says. You’re wearing Lewis’s team jacket, his number stitched large across the back, sleeves slightly too long so the cuffs cover part of your hands.
You look bright and completely unmoved by the fact that half the paddock is staring.
Charles stops walking, actually stops, right in the middle of the hospitality corridor, because for one awful second he forgets how to breathe.
You should look awkward. At least a little uncertain. Instead, you look like you belong there.
And then Lewis walks out of the garage, catches sight of you, and without breaking stride presses a casual kiss to the top of your head before continuing toward engineering.
No performance, just the kind of unconscious affection that only comes from repetition.
Charles feels something inside him drop.
He tries to talk to you that afternoon.
He catches you near the hospitality terrace, alone for the first time all weekend, iced coffee in one hand and Lewis’s paddock pass around your neck.
You turn when he says your name.
And smile.
That is what destroys him, because it’s not forced, not cold, not even angry.
Just polite, almost friendly, like he’s someone you used to know.
“Hey, Charles,” you say easily. There is no trace of the woman who once kicked him out of your apartment, screaming and crying.
He swallows, “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
You glance toward Lewis’s garage and shrug lightly.
“Lewis asked if I wanted to come for opening weekend.”
The way you say Lewis’s name is casual and warm and practiced.
Charles hates it.
He searches your face for something — resentment, nostalgia, anything. There’s nothing.
You ask him how winter training went. As if you are making conversation with a coworker. As if he did not break your heart. And before he can figure out how to steer the conversation anywhere meaningful, someone calls your name.
Arthur jogs over, carrying two coffees.
The second he sees Charles, his face hardens.
He hands one drink to you.
“Lewis’s looking for you,” Arthur says, pointedly ignoring his brother.
You thank him, then give Charles a perfectly pleasant smile.
“See you around.”
And just like that, you leave.
Arthur lingers long enough to level Charles with a look that says you did this to yourself.
Then he follows you.
Charles stands there feeling like he’s been erased.
The whole weekend is like that.
You spend time with Noah. With team staff. With Lewis’s family who flew in for the opener.
You laugh in the garage. Sit on the pit wall with headphones too big for your head. Post a blurry picture of Lewis’s helmet to your story with a single heart. And not once do you look at Charles like he matters.
Race day arrives with Lewis starting P2.
Charles starts P4.
The new regulations suit Lewis perfectly. The car rotates the way he likes, stable on entry, aggressive on traction. By lap twelve he’s hunting the leader. By lap twenty-three he takes the overtake in a move so clean the commentators lose their minds.
And once he’s in front, he never gives it back.
The checkered flag falls.
Lewis wins.
After the difficult previous season, after months of questions about decline and retirement and whether the younger generation had finally pushed him out—
He wins the first race of the new era.
The garage erupts.
Charles crosses the line in fourth and barely hears his engineer.
Because on the giant screen above parc fermé, Lewis is climbing out of the car, helmet in hand, grinning with a kind of open joy no one has seen from him in years.
And then he spots you.
You’re already waiting beyond the barriers, wearing his team number, eyes shining.
Lewis doesn’t hesitate.
He walks straight to you, takes your face in both hands, and kisses you in full view of every camera broadcasting live around the world.
The crowd screams.
The commentators stumble over themselves.
You kiss him back without a second of shyness, smiling into it, one hand fisted in the front of his race suit as if you don’t care who’s watching.
Charles goes cold.
Because it hits him all at once.
Not the jealousy, not even the humiliation. The finality. You are not his anymore. You are not waiting for closure or apology or one last conversation and what hurts most is the realization that you were never like this with him.
You had loved him privately. Carefully. Like something to protect.
But with Lewis?
You are loud about it.
Unashamed.
Proud.
As though being loved by him makes hiding unnecessary.
Charles has to look away from the screen because suddenly he cannot stand the sight of it.
By the end of the weekend, the headlines write themselves.
“Lewis Hamilton Returns to Winning Ways Under New Regulations — and Celebrates with Girlfriend (Your Full Name)”
“LOVE AND VICTORY: Lewis Kisses (Name) Live on TV After Stunning Season Opener Win.”
“One Ex Thriving, One Spiraling: Charles Leclerc Overshadowed by Teammate’s Comeback Weekend.”
“(Your Full Name) Returns to Paddock After Winter Romance with Lewis Hamilton — Couple Appear Inseparable.”
The photos are brutal.
Lewis, triumphant, arm around your waist, smiling like the world has aligned.
Charles in the background of another frame, helmet off, expression dark and hollow as he walks away from the podium celebrations.
The contrast becomes the story.
~~~~~~
That night, none of it matters.
The hotel room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside.
You’re curled against Lewis in bed, his arm tucked beneath your shoulders, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. He’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp, one hand absentmindedly moving through yours where it rests on his chest.
The winning trophy sits on the dresser across the room, forgotten.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
He’s already watching you.
That same calm, steady expression he wore stepping out of the car after winning, except now it softens in a way no cameras ever catch.
“You were brilliant today,” you murmur.
A small smile touches his mouth.
“You flew in for one weekend and I suddenly remembered how to win.”
You laugh quietly and tuck closer, your leg sliding over his.
He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then just rests his mouth there for a moment.
Nothing pressing in from the outside.
Just the quiet weight of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.You close your eyes, warm and content beyond measure, and let yourself sink into him. Across the world, headlines are still dissecting the kiss in parc fermé. But here, in the dark, with Lewis’s fingers tracing lazy circles over your back and his body curved around yours like he can’t sleep any other way—It feels wonderfully simple.
He won.
And at some point, without either of you saying it out loud, so did you.
TAG LIST: @diorsava @shadowdark00 @amandapiealamode @stargirl-mayaa @omgsuperstarg
He better keep this up. Fp1 and Fp2 looked promising, another thirst trap might keep the momentum going. Chocolate 122 is also my second account if you’re interest in F1 one shots and all that.
I know I’ve been absent. I’m sorry lol 😂. I promise I’ll finish my Qimir stuff.
Hey guys! I just wanted to let you know about a GoFundMe that mt friend made to hep her family out of homelessness. If you could donate even a little bit or, at the very least, repost and share to get the word out, that would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!!!
Hi guys , I know this isn’t a smutty post or anything romantic of the sort, but I have something here very important to me personally and any help you can provide would be so greatly appreciated, you have no idea how much it would mean to me. Just a share or a repost , anything to help out would mean the entire world.
I was just wondering if it was a good idea to make a story about Qimir that's inspired by WILDFLOWER and GREATEST by Billie Eilish mixed together? I love angst story soooo much. And no happy ending. Reader is completely loyal to Qimir and loves him dearly but he sees her as nothing but a loyal servant. So when Osha comes into the equation, reader sees he doesn't and will never care about her the way he does Osha. I feel like you would make that into a masterpiece ✨️
I LOVE THIS PREMISE!
“WILTING FLOWERS ”
PAIRING: Fem!Black!Reader x Qimir/The Stranger
SYNOPSIS: There is nothing more devastating than a flower being slowly deprived of sunlight and there was nothing more painful than a heart slowly rotting from the inside out.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Hurt no comfort and Angst.
COMING SOON! COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
SYNOPSIS : When the lines between desire, fear and rage blur, all that is left is an urge to consume.
CONTENT WARNINGS : angst, complex relationships that we won't dig too deep into (I'm looking at you Yord and Sol), murder, violence and most importantly smut, which includes: biting, riding, force choking and overstimulation. This part is also shit read at your own risk.
PARTS : ONE, TWO, THREE
YOU THINK THE THING THAT TERRIFIED YOU THE MOST ABOUT THE SITUATION WAS HOW EASILY YOU MADE UP YOUR MIND. You had always planned to do this. Always knew that you would fall of the precipice that you had violently crawled your way onto. There was no other way for this to go—for this to end. The only issue was that if you went through with it, you would have nothing left. Osha wouldn’t embrace you, Mae had been dead and you had nowhere to go, no means of escape.
But now you did.
Qimir not only gave you an opportunity, but a light at the end of the tunnel.
Your heart twisted at the thought of it.
His reasoning was clear—at least a part of it was, he wanted you. All of you. Not these stolen moments in the middle of the night.
The worst part is that you craved it too.
You licked your lips, as you took a sip of your water, could still taste him there, you could still feel his hands on your thighs and it dangerously, terrifyingly strengthened your resolve.
You wanted more than that too.
It suddenly made so much sense why the Jedi discouraged such connections. Because people were selfish. You get a taste of what it is to be alive and suddenly peace becomes a lie. Because how can you not choose that feeling over pretending it doesn’t exist?
“Sisi, you there?”
A tap between your brows blinks you out of your stupor and you turn to look at Osha who is watching you with a concerned furrow in her brow. The look causes you to falter in your stride, your stomach twisting into an unpleasant knot.
“Sorry,” you smile apologetically as you hold your canteen to your chest, fiddling with the lid. “Lost in thought.”
“I know,” Osha whispers quietly as your shoulders bump together with how closely the two of you wedge together in the hallway. “I keep thinking about her too.”
Mae.
You flinch at the reminder, “I—I d—.”
“I know,” Osha whispers, looking at you in pity. “I’ve been trying so hard—going through it again and again in mind—we should have turned back.”
Your breath comes out shakily as you come to a slow stop, Osha follows turning to face you. “I keep thinking about that day,” you whisper, swallowing thickly as your fingers continue to fiddle with the lid of your canteen. “I, uh, I walk through everything that happened—try and rewrite the story. What could have been done differently? What choices could I have made to keep Mae with us,” you look down at your shoes. “I try and try—,” you shook your head. “I try and—nothing changes.”
Something agonizing swells in your throat. “Nothing ever changes Osha—it only gets worse.We still lose everything—how is that fair?” You question, you move to quickly wipe away an escaped tear before anyone can see it. “It’s not fair.”
Osha seems to deflate, “I know.”
“It just—it just makes me so angry,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper.
“It makes me angry too,” Osha mutters in return as she grabs your hand in hers.
“Maybe that’s why you’re failing to be a Jedi.”
You and Osha turn and much to your dismay you find Yord looking at the two of you in disapproval. Mostly you by the glare he keeps sending your way. You tense up and avert your gaze, swallowing thickly as you do.
“Shut up, Yord!” Osha hisses in a way so out of character it cause you to look back in shock.
Your sister steps in front of you protectively.
Yord blinks at her, “Excuse me—.”
“This isn’t any of your business,” Osha snapped defensively. It wasn't like her to get defensive like that but perhaps the impromptu resurrection of Mae had shaken her enough to make her falter.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Yord retorts. “It is my business as specified by the council. It is also my business if a fellow Jedi,” he glares at you, “is loosing herself to emotion.”
You bristle, “I am not loosing myself to anything,” you sneer. “Excuse me for having normal emotions. I did not realize that was a crime, Yord," you huff.
"Not a crime, but allowing your emotions to cloud your judgement--."
"What judgement?" You can't help but snap. "I haven't made a choice that you can say I have made on the basis of my emotions--you're just inserting yourself where you are not needed."
"But it might," Yord stresses and you scowl. He inhales deeply before stepping forward placatingly, you have to fight with your entire being not to let your lips curl up in disgust. "I understand that you have been through a lot--too much."
"Stop-stop it," your voice is foreign to your own ears. Something odd and scorching settles low in your stomach. "You do not understand--and you never will. Your compassion is misplaced."
You go to walk around him but he grips your arm, stopping you.
"I am trying to help you," Yord hisses in your ear, you try to shake him off but his grip is unrelenting. He had always been like that--unrelenting, overbearing--there used to be a time you found it endearing. "I wish to see you succeed," he stresses, "We were supposed to be knighted together, but you still cling to the past, let that darkness blind you."
"I am not blinded."
"Maybe you see it that way, Sisi," he says lightly the pointer finger of his free hand pointing at the mark sat between your brows. You recoil, breath hitching painfully.
"Don't--!" Your voice pitches dangerously, as you jerk roughly in his hold, it takes everything in you not to react the way he wants you to, especially with his eyes boring into you, "Don't you ever call me that again."
Your gums itch, you want to sink your teeth into him, rip him apart--swallow him whole...consume him.
"You're angry."
"Because you're a nuisance, Yord," you say lightly, mockingly. "I am hardly the only one in the order who thinks that that way."
His own anger flares as he tugs you closer.
"Yord," Osha's tries but she is ignored.
"Need I remind you to show a little respect?"
"To whom?" You make a show of looking around before looking him up and down, "You? Don't make me laugh,' you spit.
His grip tightens, you relish in the pain with a giggle.
"I outrank you, I am your superior, Padawan."
Your smile is bright as you laugh outright, "Oh, my dear Yord. Let's not forget who is the one who out ranks here," you whisper between giggles, your cheeks flushed with that searing heat. "I am better than you--I could be a Padawan for all my life and you can climb ranks as deftly as you want--I will always , and mean always be the better of the two of us. The Council knows it, you know it, I know it."
For a moment all the two of you do is stare at each other, come to understand the strangeness in the other.
"What s going on here?" Master Sol's voice is low and sweet as he happens upon the three of you. His own Padawan, Jecki following closely behind.
You pry Yord's hand from your arm, "Nothing," you say brightly. "Just catching up with each other, right Osha? Yord?"
Osha grabs your hand while Yord draws himself up with a shallow nod. "Yes, just catching up with an old friend."
"I see--lunch will be ready soon," Master Sol says conversationally, no doubt sensing the tension but choosing not to acknowledge it. "Jecki and I were headed to the lunch hall, would you like to join us."
"Of course," you and Osha chorus much to Master Sol's delight.
Yord's frown deepens.
~~~~~~
Your Master watches as you settle in front of her to meditate. Your Master, Master Cara hasn't been your Master for long. You had been put under her supervision six years ago when your sister left the Jedi Order. There were whispers that you may have followed if given the chance. The council according to Master Sol didn't want to loose you but they were weary of you. So they sent you far away, put you under the tutelage of a strict Master, kept you from progressing as quickly as you should have. Progressing meant freedom--freedom was the last thing they wanted to give you.
"You need to learn to listen," Master Cara says sharply as she inhales deeply. Her pink skin shimmers in the artificial light. Her black eyes are closed, and her blue hair is hidden under the hood of her robes.
"I listen, Master," You say pushing your simmering anger to the very back of your mind, away from her reach. You cross your legs and rest your arms comfortably on your thighs, hands on your knees.
Master Cara frowns, "You do not. Not sincerely. You're too combative."
You sigh, "I am not--."
"There is the combativeness."
The sigh that escapes you is louder and more annoyed than you mean it to be. She opens her eyes to glare at you and you look away.
"Do you know why I make you meditate as much as I do, Padawan?"
You frown, "No."
"It is the only time I can ever have you at peace," she says quietly, softly. "Peace evades you like a plague any other time. It skirts around you in whirlwind. Like it's trying to escape your hold. You're only at peace when you sit, when you let the force run through you--the only other time is when you disappear into the woods for whatever reason."
"I like trees," you admit with a shrug, it is true, trees remind you of home. Although that's not where you disappear to. You merely walk into the woods as a diversion before you slip back into town to see Qimir.
"Trees might not always be there to bring you peace--but the force will," Master Cara says. "Meditate."
You straighten your posture, take a deep breath and shut your eyes.
The force felt different for every living creature. The force manifested differently for everyone as well.
For you the force always felt like a cool flowing creak as it swept through you. You always simply laid within it, let it coax you into safety. You let it soothe your deepest aches and calm your loudest worries. When you wielded the force it was constantly spinning correct that both pushed away and pulled inside.
There is a moment where peace finds you, nestles into you, you relish in it. Just for a moment it is there, but then you feel it again. That coldness. It crawls up your spine, wraps violently around your neck and smothers you.
Water comes in on all sides, it's ice cold and terribly still and vast, it consumes you, entombs you.
"Little Jedi has an urge to learn how to swim," that voice mocks you from all sides. Seeps into you like anesthetic. "Shall I teach you?"
You claw for air, beg for light.
"Don't fear the water, little Jedi. It is what you want--what you crave. It is a part of you."
You thrash, you scream--you beg.
"Swim."
You struggle a moment more before stilling, your body sinks like stone, the word around you blurs, grows muffled. There is a moment of clarity--or peace. You push your fear to the back of your mind. You inhale, water burns your lungs and nose. You exhale. Your body stops sinking. You inhale, the burn is pleasant, you welcome the agony. You exhale, your body begins to float. The water warms, wraps around you like a summer breeze. Flows peacefully around you. You break the surface with a soft inhale.
Your eyes open, It looms over you, it's crookedly large grin seems to grow larger.
"Good girl," It coos down at you, It's hand is rough and familiar as it caresses your cheeks, your nose, lips, you collar bones, you moan breathlessly. "You and I shall have such fun together. Complete your task, before your window closes."
He fades away like condensation on a mirror.
The image that replaces him is familiar.
There is something going on around you, you can feel it in the way the sea of purple ripples violently around you, you can taste the paranoia--the anger. It is Mama Aniseya that stands out among them, regal, powerful, her attention is fixed elsewhere and you know why. Infront of you stands a young master Torbin, his Padawan braid still pulled over his shoulder. That's when you taste it on your tongue--the fear. it radiates off the boy and much like you Mama Aniseya senses it, feasts on it. You can feel his fear she grips him, seeps into his mind, you feel the thread wind around him.
His eyes go black, his knees give out.
This is Power, my Little Moon, your mother's voice whispers in your mind. Taste it. Consume it.
Your eyes open with a strangled gasp. You are exactly where you began, sitting on the floor in the training room--only Master Cara is no longer in front of you. Osha lingers in front of you, jerking at your sudden awareness.
"Oh, Kriff!" She exclaims, pressing her hand to her chest. "Don't scare me like that."
You blink at her, smacking your dry lips with a grimace. "Don't watch me like a weirdo," you quip, while stretching out the stiff knots in your neck.
She scowls in offence, "I was just checking on you," she defends, as you stretch out your legs. "The only weirdo here is you. Who in their right mind meditates for almost two days straight--you need to eat. come on."
~~~~
It is an attempted break in that your gives you your opportunity. The temple is in painful disarray as Jedi move in hopes to apprehend your sister or who ever was smug enough to try with the temple on high alert.
Osha forces herself upon the team that move to patrol the city while you stay behind with the few who don't have the thirst for potential confrontation. It is in the frantic shuffle that you slip into Master Torbin's room. Your feet are quick and silent as you look around.
He is as he's always been, silently hovering, eyes shut in meditation. For a moment all you can do is stare at him. He looks nothing like the boy he once was, if you didn't know any better you would have thought that he was an entirely different person but you remember how he feels, how his fear tastes.
Your gums itch for relief.
Footsteps send you into hiding, you leap upwards with the force to propel you, slipping unseen into a dark alcove. You watch one of your fellow temple dwellers look around the room before slipping out. You wait for several minutes, extending your senses.
There is a painful stillness that sends a thrill up your back. You leap down and look at him once again. You know he knows you're there. How can he not?
You reach forward as if to touch him but your hand is met with a solid resistance. You hum--this was probably why Mae failed before. How does one kill a meditating master wearing the force as if it is an armoured blanket? Luckily for you, your hastily put together plan excludes the use of violence.
This is power, My Little Moon.
You shut your eyes, and feel for the force around you. It's different, colder, deeper, yet it still flows gently around you, you direct the flow open you mind, press it against Master Torbin's consciousness.
He resists you, pushes back.
"I know what you want," you breathe quietly. "You took the Barash Vow in hopes of finding it but you and I both know that will never be the case."
He is staunch in his resistance of you.
"There is no peace in silence," you whisper. "Silence won't give you the forgiveness you seek. Only I can."
He wavers.
"Only I can give you what you want--absolution. You will not find it anywhere else. You can only receive it right here, right now from me...let me show you."
He sighs. It is the sound of relief, it slithers through your sudden bond, echoes around the darkness of his mind. It lingers in the crack in his resolve. You taste the guilt, the shame, the anger, you let it sit on your pallet, savour it on your tongue.
And then you consume him, rushing at him from all sides, smothering him in your rage, your pain, your grief. You consume him whole, let the thought of him sink into the ever growing pit in your gut.
Just as soon as the connection is made it is severed, your eyes open and you catch his body before hits the ground with the force. For a moment he lays limply suspended in the air. You look down at him with a thundering heart. With a shaky exhale you silently reach for his belt and unclip the long neglected lightsaber, silently tucking it behind your back under your cloak.
As you lower Master Torbin softly to the ground, you come to a terrifying conclusion.
You're still hungry.
~~~~
The blame falls upon Mae, there was no other logical conclusion. She got the jump on them, evaded them. Perhaps she had never left the temple as everyone went on a chase that had never even begun. No one knows how she did it all they know is that she had and she had stolen his lightsaber too.
A part of you felt guilty that Mae was getting the heat for what was happening but you're selfishly glad it is not you, besides she is nowhere to be found to take the heat--she'd forgive you eventually. They would found out eventually but you will cling to their ignorance for now.
Osha lays beside you as she sleeps. For a moment, you envy her but you don't blame her, she had been exhausted for days now, her rest was deserved.
It takes everything in you not to start fidgeting, you try to rest, try to sleep but both evade you.
You have a craving something other than rest.
You stand softly from bed, using a pillow to replace the warm that you took with you. You look at Osha as she shifts closer and clings to it. You quickly find your robes, grabbing a dark cloak to easier blend into the night. You look back at Osha's sleeping form before you reach under your bed grab the sack that held Master Torbin's lightsaber, strategically buried under an extra change of clothes and a sack of coins.
You grabbed your own lightsaber on your way out, clipping it to your belt. You shrug your cloak onto you shoulders as you walk down the hall, hiding your bav under your cloak.
When you're ten paces from the door a voice rings out, "Where are you going?"
You sigh, "Outside, clearly,' you grunt as you turn on your heal giving Yord a halfhearted shrug filled with attitude that you know he does not appreciate.
"At this time? After what just happened?"
"I'm restless, I didn't feel like sleeping in a place someone was murdered in," you hum before pointing towards the exit, "So I'm just gonna-."
"Its dangerous, you shouldn't be alone."
"Mae is my sister," you mutter as you continue on your way.
"Still."
"Oh my goodness," you groan before turning back around, "Its just a walk! Come with me then if you're so paranoid."
Yord frowns, "What?"
"Come with me or shut up," you snap, "Either way I'm walking out that door."
You stare at each other for a long moment before you turn on your heal and slip to the door. You don't have to look back to know that Yord is following silently behind you.
"You don't seem saddened by Master Torbin's death?"
"I am a Jedi," you quip as you look at the stalls in the night market. “I mustn’t let my emotions blind me,” you mock as you look over a selection of beautifully embroidered scarves and shawls. You pick up a shawl in a deep purple, embroidered in gold.
“That doesn’t mean you should lack compassion,” Yord says.
You hum as you turn and hold the cloth up to Yord’s face. You had similar complexions and there was no mirror for you to tell. He gives you an annoyed look. “I give compassion to those who deserve it,” you say as you consider the shawl. “What do you think? I love the colour but perhaps I’m biased, purple has always held significance to me,” you mutter. “What about you, did you have a favourite colour? Or is that too beneath a Jedi knight?”
“You can’t have it,” Yord quips as he snatched the shawl away from you and placed back in the stall, you huff at him. “And who are to decide who is worthy of compassion?”
You roll your eyes as you continue browsing, “I’m going to say , yellow is still your favourite colour,” you say lightly as you pick up a yellow scarf with green embroidery up to his face. You hum, “Yes, it does wonders for your eyes, I’ll buy it for you—.”
“No,” he snatches it from your hand again and puts it back and you grumble in annoyance.
You grunt as you turn to continue walking, “You know, I’ve known Master Torbin long before he took the Barash Vow?” You say as you walk side by side.
Yord looks at you suddenly, “W-what?”
“He was still a Padawan when I met him, he was Master Indara’s Padawan,” you say as you look at a stall with jewellery.
“The one Mae killed.”
You nod, “I always liked Indara,” you admit. “She was kind, patient, compassionate, impartial—a true Jedi, a true leader. I was saddened to hear of her passing,” you look at Yord as you speak. “Master Torbin could never live up to her.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
You nod slowly as you move onto a food vendor selling meat on sticks,“You’re right, it’s not—but you don’t know what I do—two please.”
“And what is that?” Yord questions as he reluctantly takes the stick you offer him. You pay the vendor and continue walking.
“There is a reason Mae targeted them, four Jedi came to our home and all they left was destruction,” you explained. “Fear clouds choices.“
“Mae was the one—.”
“You know nothing, Yord,” you snip with a scowl.
“Osha said—.”
“Osha told you what she saw,” you tell him. “You know what I saw?” You ask as you come to a stop. “A fire didn’t kill our family—lightsabers did.“
“But—.”
“As Master Sol dragged me and Osha away from our dead family, I saw my mother dead on the ground—she had been stabbed by a lightsaber—not burned by a fire or bludgeoned by debris.”
Yord slumps as he stares at you, “If I were to point fingers I would point at the trigger happy Padawan, but then again it doesn’t matter what I think. Only what the council does. So no my compassion is hard to come by.”
“What about Master Sol and Master Indara?” Yord questions and you frown.
“What about them?”
“They were there too,” Yord says quietly, “they could have easily been responsible.”
You stop walking and look at him, “I know that.”
“Then why does Thorbin get your scorn while Sol and Indara have your admiration?”
You tilt your head, “It’s complicated,” you confess. “The heart works in mysterious ways. Ways I don’t feel like speaking about.”
Yord is quiet for a long moment as you continue to browse through the stalls. “You keep a lot of things to yourself,” he mutters and you stop.
“Well, it’s the way of the Jedi,” you quip.
Yord sighs, “Perhaps, but a burden shared is a burden halved—we used to be friends, right?"
For moment, you feel something painful twist inside of you. It was true. There was a time you and Yord were as thick as thieves. He had in some twisted way filled in the gap in your heart Mae had left behind. Then Osha all but abandoned you—Yord had tried to be there, tried to understand your pain, but he was growing to attached, you both were. You had to separated. Yord turned out fine, you on the other hand began to wilt.
You never did well on your own.
A moon needs a star to shine.
You step forward and reach out, your press a hand to his cheek and his eyes flutter closed.
“I’m really sorry, Yord.”
You would never be friends again.
You feel a sudden overwhelming sadness.
Yord flinches and pulls away from you, your hand drops to your side. He says nothing as he turns on his heel and leaves you behind, his stick of meat falling to the ground.
You inhale deeply and shut your eyes, you let your pain fall into the abyss in your belly. You focus on your hunger. You left the temple for a reason, hadn’t you?
~~~~
It’s muscle memory, you decide. It’s ingrained into your body, the way to Qimir. You’re sure your body had a built in compass. You’re convinced that you could find him anywhere if given the chance.
The lights in the apothecary are on and the door is open, it’s not often that he has his door open late. You know he’s the only one inside as you slip into the shop. Qimir always felt like a point of constant cold to you. Like pack of ice pressed against a swelling bruise. It felt relieving, soothing.
You shut the door behind you, locking it quietly. Qimir looks up from his task immediately, expression brightening at the sight of you. “You’ve been gone too long,” he says in greeting as you shed your cloak and bag, placing them on stool by the door.
“Two days—.”
“Three days,” he corrects and you roll your eyes as you silently make your way around the counter.
“I was with you in the morning.”
“Does not count,” he retorts petulantly, cocking his head as you draw ever closer. You can’t keep your eyes from hungrily roaming his every feature. “I like occupying your nights.”
That hunger in your stomach rises to the surface, your gums begin to ache, you want to sink your teeth into him. Your heart bounds dangerously.
“Mhmm,” you crowd him, pushing him back. He lets you corner him against the wall, your hands on his waist. “Did you miss me?” You question in delight, watching as he shivers at the tone in your voice. You relish in the heat of him, the smell of him. Your mouth all but waters.
“If I say yes?”
You say nothing as you grip the collar of his shirt and yank him down. Your lips hungrily attack his and he moans in both surprise and approval. You kiss him desperately. You kiss him like you need him to breathe—no—to survive. You coax his lips apart, tongue pressing into his. You moan at the taste of him. He tasted of cherries and sea salt. You savour him, let him linger on your pallet, give into the urge to consume him.
Your lips part and he gasps for breath. You press open mouthed kisses along his jaw and down his neck, indulging in the taste of his skin. Your hands tug desperately at his clothes, eagerly looking for an opening to touch his skin. Your cold hands run up his sides, nails scratching at the skin of his waist.
Qimir moans breathlessly and you swell with hunger. You bite down on the junction of his shoulder and neck hard enough to leave a mark. Qimir all but whimpers, his knees weakening. He leans his entire body weight back against the wall and you tip forward on your toes as you soothe the bite with your tongue. You go to mark him again but something pulls your attention away, you turn your head to the shuttered window but don’t have time to contemplate.
Qimir’s hand curls into your hair, grabbing a fist full he pulls your mouth back up to meet his. Your hands resume to roam as your lips meet again and again and again until you start to feel dizzy.
Qimir gasps as you palm him through his pants, hips bucking into your hand. He nips at your lips and your thighs clench, the ache building between them slowly becoming unbearable.
You slip your hand past his waistband, and you grip him firmly in your hand. Stroking his erection slowly and firmly. You sweep your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-cum along his sensitive flesh. Qimir’s thigh clenched, his breath escaping him in ragged gasps as he pulls his lips from yours, his dark eyes hooded.
You pull you hand away, ignoring his groan of protest. You bring you hand up to your mouth and spit on your fingers before slipping your hand back into his trousers. You pump his cock once, twice before pressing your thumb against a spot just below the weeping head that causes Qimir’s hips to jerk into your hand.
“Oh, fuck!”
His legs tremble and he slowly sinks to the ground, sliding down the wall, you follow refusing to part from him as you take in the way his face contorts in pleasure, straddling his thighs.
You yanked at the waistband of his trousers, releasing his erection from its confines. You stroke him faster, and relish in the broken moans that fall from his swollen lips. “Do you like that?” You whisper in question and he hums, pressing his face into your neck. You twist your wrist as your grip reaches the head of his cock.
“Please, I need—.”
You don’t need him to finish as you shrug out of your robe, letting it pool around your waist. You move to stand to pull off your undergarments but Qimir hands finds the flimsy fabric at your crotch and rips it apart as if it nothing. A wave of intense need washes through you at the display.
You gasp as his fingers sweep through your soaking slit. He groans in approval, rubbing a finger against you swollen clit. You realese a choked whine at the feeling, thighs twitching at the stimulation. It’s not enough and Qimir knows that.
He yanks you closer, swollen lips slotting over yours in a sloppy kiss. It’s too wet, there’s too much tongue, too much teeth—you can’t find it in yourself to care. His hand meets the back of your thigh and you sit up on your knees at the prompting. He wastes no time in lining his weeping cock up to your entrance.
You sink down slowly, breath hitching painfully in your throat at the burning stretch. Qimir groaned deeply, hands gripping your waist.
You begin to rock desperately, gasping and moaning at the burning pleasure that slowly starts to build inside you. Qimir grips your hips tightly and changes your hastily set rhythm, bouncing you up and down his cock and your thoughts fly out the window.
For a moment there was nothing but your breathless moans, Qimir’s heavy breathing and the embarrassingly wet sound of him slipping in and out of you.
Qimir drags his teeth down the side of your neck, a sharp stab of pleasure wracks through your body and you tremble, releasing a little squeak. Heat begins to threateningly pool in your stomach. You were so close, but you were getting tired. Your pace falters and your thighs tremble and burn at the exertion. You choke on a sob of frustration, no, no, no.
Sensing your frustration, Qimir coos soothingly and wraps his arms around you, forcing you up onto your knees he presses back against the wall for leverage and thrusts up into you, his pace quick and hard. You wail and press your hand against the wall by his head for balance.
“Yes! Yes!” You chant, the heat in your lower belly beginning to over flow. Yes. Yes. You slither your hand down between you, selfishly circling your clit.
“Oh, fuck,” Qimir gasps, feeling your squeezing around him as your release edges dangerously closer.
“D-don’t stop—please,” you beg desperately, press your cheek against his head feeling his hot breath on you collar bones.
His grip on you hips tightens and he pulls you closer, each of his frantic thrusts dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. It doesn’t take much after that, one last frantic thrust paired with selfish pinch at your swollen clit is all it takes to send you over the edge.
Your body tenses and you squeak, body trembling. You grip Qimir tightly as he continues to thrust into you chasing his own reales while dragging yours on for an almost painfully long time.
You hiccup, shuddering, trying to squirm away but Qimir refuses to let go, refuses to let you escape. Pleasure builds up again, and you sob into his hair. The heat crawls up your spine like a threat and your second orgasm consumes you, encases you, smothers you from all sides.
“Yes, fuc—!”
Qimir choked on a groan as his spills into you, his body tensing and shuddering beneath yours. Continues to rock into you, riding out his own orgasm, stretching it as thin as possible.
You curse swatting at the hands that keep you trapped against him. You’re ready to crawl away and hide but he hugs you to him finally, finally stopping. You slump against him whimpering and shuddering, hiding your flushed face in his chest.
“You’re so mean,” you whisper after a moment of content silence.
Qimir chuckles pressing a kiss to your temple, “And you’re too selfish.”
You sit up and he winces as you shift with him still inside of you. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a soft kiss to his swollen lips, before laying your head on his shoulder, silently playing with his hair.
He rubs his hands over your back, “This is a new development—not that I’m complaining,” he starts quietly. “What brought this on?”
You were never one to initiate sex. For as long as the two of you have been together Qimir was the one who often initiated and you were always happy to follow along.
You feel a thrill crawl up your back and you sit up once again grinning brightly. He raises his brows at your expression.
You thrust a hand out calling for your bag. It draws to you quickly and you eagerly dig for Master Torbin’s lightsaber. You show it off proudly, before turning it on. The gold yellow glow reflecting in his dark eyes.
“Wh—.”
“I did it,” you say brightly feeling that hunger in you rise to the surface once again. “I killed him without a weapon.”
He blinks at you stunned, “How?“
You hesitate and cock your head, you press your hand to the back of his neck, drawing him close to you. “I…I consumed him,” you whisper looking deeply into Qimir’s bottomless eyes. Your grip on the lightsaber tightens and you bring it dangerously close to your faces, watching how the darkness in Qimir’s eyes consumes the bright light.
You caress the side of his neck with your thumb, listening to his increasingly ragged breathing. You feel him twitch inside you and tremble at the growing hunger in his eyes.
“I offered him absolution,” you whispered, “and swallowed him whole.”
Qimir’s lips are on yours, he kisses you so hard it hurts. Everything about him seems to grow ten times as vivid. He becomes overwhelming—he is overwhelmingly dark and hungry. He kisses you like he’s trying to consume you whole—entomb you inside of him.
Master Torbin’s lightsaber clatters to the floor as suddenly flips the two of you over. Your back hits the floor so hard it aches, the breath leaving your lungs in a single puff that Qimir selfishly breathes in as his own. His hands skim up your body ripping your your robe open before tearing your camisole off of your body. All your left in is a pair of torn underwear that he pulls down your leg and discards somewhere in the shop.
He presses deeply into you, refusing to risk separation as he quickly tears off his own baggy robes and shirt and for a moment you’re stunned. You had always known Qimir was stronger than he often let on. All those moments where he manhandled you into submission being a testament to that, but the body he often hid under swaths of clothing was not what you expected. For a moment you think of all the times you had been intimate, how you were always unfairly bare while he remained fully clothed. You knew that it was a power play, nudity was vulnerability and Qimir often refused to vulnerable.
You come to the conclusion that even naked he would never be vulnerable. This was the body of a fighter, not a Hut runner. This was the body of a man who caught all his life. You think of the callouses on his hands, how intimately similar they were to your own.
In that moment you come to the terrible conclusion that you know nothing about the man in front of you.
Your lips part, questions building on your tongue but it is all yanked from you with a hard thrust. All that leaves your mouth is a desperate squeak. Qimir chuckles down at you as he hovers above you, bracing a strong hand on the floor by your head. It’s a dark sound, nothing like the lighthearted giggles you have come to know.
“You’re such a good girl,” he whispers in your ear, working into you without mercy. It’s too much. You cling to him, hands clawing at his back as you sob. “Made for me,” he whispers.
You don’t know if it’s fear or pleasure that swells up inside of you, your desperate for every peace of him. You beg your ribcage to gape open, pray for your innards to consume him into you. It’s not possible, you settle for bringing your knees up, desperate to take him deeper, and lock your ankles at the base of his spine, desperate to keep him closer.
His lips press against yours swallowing your moans and hiccups.
Your orgasm crashes through you so violently you think you have been blasted into a million little pieces.
He doesn’t stop, his pace is relentless. His lips part from yours and press against your ear. He groans deeply, thrusting into you and stilling at the feeling you coming around him. “That’s a good girl,” he whispers. “Can give you me more?”
You shake your head with a whimper and he chuckles again, the deep sound shoots through your ribcage like a well aimed blaster to the chest. You press him into you, turning your head for more open mouthed kisses.
“Yes you can,” he whispers into your mouth, thrusting into you again. He straightens and you sob, hands reaching out for him but he grips both your wrists in one hand while the thumb of his other circles your clit mercilessly.
You thrash, thighs trembling. Too much. Too much.
Another orgasm threatens to drown you, it tries to beat you down tries to take your breath away but you resist, trying to yank your hands away.
Qimir clicks his tongue scoldingly, “Don’t push it, my love,” he coos thrusting into you sharply and you cry out. You watch the way his muscles ripple with each movement, the way his brows furrow with concentration as he angles his hips just right, determined to drag his cock against the overly sensitive spot inside of you again and again and again. His relentless pace causes tears to well in your eyes.
Pleasure comes from all around.
Too much. Too much.
You feel like you have been stretched too thin. Like something inside of you was about to snap. Qimir continuous circling of your clit does nothing to help elevate that threatening feeling.
“Please!” You hiccup.
Please continue.
Please stop.
Please, it’s too much.
Please, it’s not enough.
“Come on, you can do it,” he encourages, rolling your sensitive clit between his rough thumb and pointer finger. That familiar deep cold swelled around you, curled over your limbs, pinned you down, caressed your skin. You shivered and pressed against it. The cold caressed where Qimir couldn’t touch, up your waist and chest and curling delicately around your neck. You whined, squirming as your breath hitched.
For a moment you’re suspended in a feeling of weightlessness. Floating in the cold vastness.
It’s a sudden thing, the way it clamps around your neck, cuts your breath short. You thrash, your mouth gaping open as you desperately try to yank yourself free. Fear crawls up your spine, it brings everything into sharp focus, heightens all your senses and just like that the damn breaks and you drown.
Your back arches off the floor, your thighs tremble, desperately trying to close against his hips. His pace falters but he continues to thrust into you with cruel precision. It feels as though every tight wind in your body snapped at once, and you go nearly lethargic beneath him, tuning in to a pile of mush. Your eyes roll back as the feeling rolls over you so hard you feel as though you would never resurface again, you see It the dark figure with Its metallic grin, you see Qimir’s face flash in the void of its face. The cold releases you and you sob through desperate breaths.
“Fûck, yes!” Qimir curses, his grip on your wrists so hard you feel your bones grinding painfully together. “That’s it—good girl!” He comes with a loud moan, hips stuttering against you. His spills inside you again filling your fluttering walls. He leans down and presses his lips to yours again, rocking his hips, carrying you both through your orgasms until you can’t take it anymore.
His grip loosens around your wrists, and you bang against his chest still trembling with each extra thrust. “N-no more—!”
The Force swells around you and he is pushed back, ripping away from you. You scramble desperately onto your feet as he skids a several feet back, looking at you with flushed cheeks and hungry eyes.
He looked painfully stunning.
Your legs give out from beneath you and you settle for leaning back against the counter. Cupping your hands between your legs as if shielding yourself from his insatiable need. Everything is embarrassingly wet, it’s all over thighs, the floor and it glistens on the skin of his pelvis. You burn with the need to disappear and he grins with triumph.
You lean back gasping for breath.
“Come here,” he beckons you towards him and you shake your head.
“No—keep that thing away from me,” you say trying to catch your breath and he has the audacity to chuckle at you.
You glare at him and search for something to throw at him in retaliation. You settle for your shoe, yanking it off your foot, you launch it at him. He ducks beneath it and leans back grinning in amusement.
“I’m not done with you.”
“Yeah you are.”
“Look at me,” he points at his erection that seems to taunt you threateningly, slick with your release and his. You clench around nothing and feel horror creep up your spine. “This is your fault.”
Your own body betraying both you and itself.
You scowl.
“Come here.”
You shake your head once again but something cold and familiar wraps around your ankle and before you know it you’re being yanked across the space and you’re in his arms around again.
You shriek as he suddenly picks you up, your arms wrap around his shoulders and your legs around his waist. You can feel him dripping out of you, hear the drops splatter against tile as he carries you into the back room. You hide your face in his shoulder.
“W-wait—can I have a break first? You can use my mouth—,” he kisses you quiet as the door shuts behind you.
~~~~
You wake up to that familiar dark cold. Only this time it doesn’t threaten to consume you, it merely settles behind you, moulds into you the same way Qimir moulds his front your back. His fingers trace patterns on your bare hip and your eyes open to squint at the light that seeps through the blinds.
“Good morning, my love,” he whispers and you grunt in exhaustion.
“You’re so mean.”
He chuckles pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. You hum and close your eyes again. “I should go,” you whisper and he holds you tighter.
“Stay with me a little longer,” he says in response.
You turn and look at him, you run a finger over the slope of his nose. “Should I be angry with you?” You question quietly.
“Do you want to be angry with me?” He returns and you frown slightly.
“Depends on how much you’re actively hiding from me right now, Master,” the last word come out comes out like a curse and Qimir has the decency to flinch away from you at the sound. It was easy, perhaps too easy to figure it out, especially after last night. It felt like turning the volume up on sound, something low and muffled suddenly becoming tangible and vivid.
His lips part to answer you but a viscous bang from the shop door stops him. For a moment you both freeze, dread creeps up your spine.
Another bang comes and you both scramble to dress. You’re grateful for Qimir deciding to bring your robes in from the shop after last night’s escapade. You have to steal one of his shirts to wear under your robes seeing as he ripped your underwear apart.
The door is banged on again.
“I’m coming!”
The banging continues as you slip on your shoes and grab your lightsaber. You leave Master Torbin’s on Qimir’s nightstand and grab your bag. You go to slip out the back but Qimir grabs you, and pulls you to him.
He kisses you deeply before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m leaving today.”
You frown.
“Just for a cycle, maybe more. I need to restock, we’ll talk more when I get back, okay?”
You force yourself to nod, your lips pursing in discontent. He kisses you again to soothe your annoyance. “I’ll see you soon,” he says again.
You nod and press your forehead against his, relish in his presence before you slip away through the back door.
~~~~~
Despite the rising sun it is too early for life to begin on Olega. The streets are overwhelming deserted and silent. When you reach the temple you grimace at the person waiting patiently for you.
Master Sol has his head titled up towards the sky.
“You’re up early.”
He looks at you and smiles warmly. “Early mornings are best for contemplation,” he says warmly. “I’m sure you agree.”
You force yourself to nod.
“Where did you disappear to last night?” He questions and you blink at him. “You went out with Yord, he came back, you did not, I got worried,” he clarifies studying your expression with a keen eye.
You look down at your shoes and shrug your shoulders, “We got into an argument, so I went to clear my head. I’m sure Master Cara has told you about my preference for trees.”
Sol chuckles, “I know you better than anyone, my dear. If I remember correctly I was the one who let Master Cara know about your preference before you left Coruscant.”
You hum and he motions towards the trees, “Would you like to take a quick walk with me, before you start your duties for the day?”
You hesitate.
“Please,” he gives you one of those warm, sad smiles that always cause your throat to close up with something painful. “We haven’t had a chance to speak since I arrived.”
You sigh and nod and the two of you move slowly into the surrounding fire following the foot made paths. The quiet is peaceful and soothing, you hum quietly to yourself as walk on the balls of your feet.
“What did you and Yord ague about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Master Sol breaks the quiet as you walk side by side.
You shrug, “What don’t we argue about? Yord and I would argue about if the sky were blue or cerulean just to argue.”
Master Sol chuckles in agreement, “But what about this time? He was sad when he came back, not angry or annoyed like he often is when the two of you find yourselves conversing.”
You sigh tiredly, “We argued about Master Torbin, then we argued about perspective and then…,” you squint up at the canopy of trees, the sunlight breaking through the leaves, casting a golden glow around the forest. You turn back to Master Sol with a saddened expression. “We talked about what used to be, what could have been.”
“And what was there to say?”
“Yord and I will never be friends again,” you admit quietly.
Master Sol shakes his head, “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you refute with a shake of your head. “It’s one of the few things I have ever been sure of in my life. The Council shall rejoice, I bet.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
Master Sol thinks hard on his words, “You and Yords attachment to each other placed the both of you at odds with those around you. You … you encouraged each other’s worst impulses—one could argue that you still do.”
You click your tongue in annoyance.
“The council feared what would happen if that connection continued to fester so the best course of action was pulling you apart.”
Isolating you from each other.
“And it seemed to work well, you both begun to excel.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Were they wrong?”
You shrugged your shoulders and looked away. The silence between the two of you stretches for far too long.
“Do remember when we first met?” He questioned and your raised a brow.
“How could I forget?”
It was quickly followed by the downfall of your family.
Sol smiled slightly, nostalgia painting the contours of his face. “You were so shy. Osha could draw Mae out but you refused to reveal yourself—at least until—.”
“You showed me that metal,” you finished. “I thought you had somehow plucked the sun from the sky,” you both laughed slightly.
“Whatever happened to it?”
You quietly unclipped your lightsaber from your belt and held the hilt out for him to see. A thick band of gold wrapped around the base of its hilt. “I didn’t want to lose it—this seemed to be the best way.”
He beamed silently taking your lightsaber from you hand to observe the hilt. “I thought you lost it.”
You huff in offence, “Never. I just kept it to myself. If I had told anyone I would have been scolded and lectured,” you rolled your eyes, “I can hear their chatter, “This action encourages sentimentality and nostalgia which is the path to the dark side” or so they’d say,” you hum as he hands it back to you. “Aren’t memories lessons?”
Sol nodded, “That they are—I find the Jedi throw the weight of the dark side around too much these days. Not everything they fear leads down that path.”
You nod silently.
“Attachment isn’t always bad,” he says after pause. “Attachment is care. It’s compassion. It’s love—it is the purest thing in the universe. You and Osha for example,” he says lightly and your brows furrowed. “Dare I say myself and the love I have for you and your sister,” he places a hand on your shoulder and you both come to a stop. “I can never shame a person for forming an attachment.”
“Sol, where are you going with this?” You question, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach.
“I saw you last night.”
You blink and shake your head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sol gives you a knowing look, “When Yord stormed in without you, I got worried, I went looking.”
You step back and his hand falls from your shoulder, your face feels brittle, you can’t mould it how you wish to, like you’re used to. Your muscles clench into a look of dread, of guilt like a child caught stealing sweats. “I—no,” you shake your head. “No you didn’t.”
“I saw you and the apothecary together—.”
“No!” You took a step away shaking your head, panicking seizing your lungs. “No—no you didn’t.”
Sol gave you a look so soft and understanding it made you want to die. It was the same look he had given you when you woke up on the ship with only Osha to call family. It was the same look he gave you when you blamed him, when you said you hated him and Indara-and-and Torbin and Kelnacca.
“I didn’t see all of it, I will admit. It was not my place to intrude,” Sol said kindly. “I am not here to judge you, My Dear. I just—I merely wish to understand who you are now.”
You shifted from door to foot and looked at him guiltily. “I—,” you voice shook and your throat began to ache. “I was—I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear,” you whispered, vision growing foggy. “I was just—I was just so lonely,” you sobbed out.
Sol’s face fell at your confession.
“I had nothing—no one,” you angrily wiped at the scalding tears that ran down your cheeks. You felt like a child again, sobbing in front of your Mother, confessing your loneliness. “Osha left, Yord and I got separated and I,” you shook your head, hugging yourself. “It was—it was this feeling like I was dying. I felt like I was dying, Sol. And I tried, I tried my best completion but I couldn’t—but then I met him,” you smiled bitterly.
“I met him and suddenly I could breathe again—he completes me,” you admitted with a choked sob. “In some stupid, messed up way he completes me. And I know, I know I’m failing, I know I’m disappointing you—.”
“No!” Sol stepped forward and pressed his hands onto your shoulders, “You could never disappoint me,” he cupped your cheeks in his hands silently wiping the tears away with familiar calloused thumbs” “You could never disappoint me,” he pulled you into his arms and you burrowed into him, clinging onto the comfort you had been so long denied.
“No matter how much we trey to deny it, we are complex beings,” Sol whispered reassuringly in your pale hair. “It is what makes us beautiful.” He rubbed your back, “I wish others thought like did but that is not the case. Someday you will have to choose—just know no matter what you choose I will always, always love you.”
You wrapped your arms around him with a sniffle, that bottomless pit inside you had never felt so full. Peace was easy to find there in his arms.
Of course peace was a lie, a fact made clear with incident at Khofar .
You made your choice.
~~~~~~
I’m deciding to make a part three because this was getting too long and I want to finish this up cleaner. This parts ass btw 😬😬
SYNOPSIS: When the lines between desire, fear and rage blur, all that is left is an urge to consume.
CONTENT WARNING: smut that turns into a freaky dream,
PARTS: ONE, TWO, THREE.
YOUR BODY COILS LIKE A TIGHTLY WOUND SPRING AS YOU PROCESS THE WORDS THAT FALL FROM YOUR SISTER’S MOUTH. Osha looks like she’s always had, a mirror of what you never were. Wide doe eyes, pretty, sharp features and her dark brown hair wound into tight locs that your mothers had taken great pains in starting all those years ago and that she has maintained.
You on the other hand do not compare. You never have. It was a fact that you had learned to accept since you were children. Three children Mama Coral birthed—but two were a soul halved—a perfect mirror of the other, and then there was you. The third other, the unexpected stowaway, the one who existed outside the two, forced to circle like a dejected moon.
You taught yourself to braid your pale grey hair, spending hours forcing your fingers to weave the tight coils into something worth the effort. You did not share the angles of her cheeks, the curve of her nose. Your similarities were subtle.
You were not her mirror in the way Mae was.
Mae who you watched die.
Mae who was never dead to begin with.
Mae who would look like an exact replica of the girl currently watching you through the grey sheen of a ships hologram.
“Sisi?”
You blink at her and she cocks her head worriedly. Like a big sister would—it frazzles something inside of you. You haven’t been a little sister in a long while. You hadn’t been a sister in nearly twice that time. The youngest of three, the moon ejected from the planet they were once a part of.
“I see,” you force yourself to say as lightly as possible. You are being watched from all angles as is Osha, you cannot risk your position by reacting the way you crave to. You want to wail, you want to pull at your hair, you want to sob in failure.
You do neither.
“They are saying she is killing Jedi—she killed Master Indara.”
You nod, “And you say she was the one responsible for the attack on Master Torbin—do you know why?”
Osha shakes her head, “No—I don’t care either way, what she’s done is evil, she can’t keep doing this. She must be punished.”
Your try not to frown.
Your Master interrupts further discussion stepping into the Hologram’s line of sight, replacing you. You stumble back at her sudden interference.
“I’d like to speak to Master Sol,” she demands before turning to you. “You have meditation to do, leave us.”
“Can I—.”
“Go.”
Can I at least say goodbye?
You bow to your Master and leave the room, thoughts twisting around your head so violently that you feel nauseous. Mae was alive. Mae was alive and she was in this temple. Mae was alive and she was killing Jedi—not just any Jedi either.
Your feet lead you to your sister’s potential next victim and you frown as you stare at him. Your lips purse in indignation. You lower your guard as silence fills the night. “If anyone is going to kill you, it will be me,” you whisper so quietly it barely registers in your own ears you glare at him once more before you sweep from the room all but stomping in your rage.
~~~~
You do not go to meditate as your Master demanded of you. Instead you slip silently out of the temple onto the streets of Olega. A part of you, the childish part wonders if you would find Mae before she attacks again. You squash the thought as quickly as it comes. You didn’t know she was alive for sixteen years—not even the force had guided you to that conclusion. You doubt it would now—you didn’t want to find her—not yet.
You couldn’t handle it.
Your feet are silent against the ground as you move past civilians, a single place in mind, the itch for company uncomfortably loud against your skin.
The lights in the apothecary are off but that does not deter you as the lock suddenly clicks open, your fingers barely twitching in evidence. You slip silently into the cluttered spaces, deftly avoiding the half full bottles of beer.
Your nose scrunches at the sight.
You shed your cloak, revealing your pale curls to the moonlight. You make your way to the back of the shop. You can feel him there, hear his steady breathing. You tiptoe towards the sound.
“I thought you weren’t coming to see me tonight.”
You refuse to jump at the sudden address, you see his figure shift in the darkness, feel his eyes find you in the shadows. “I can leave,” you say to cover the way your stomach jerked in fear—in anticipation.
“No.”
You hum and shed your robes and unclip your lightsaber from your belt to place on a little table. There is a shuffle and a lamp bathed the room in warm light. Your eyes find him again. He is swathed in black oversized robes, his dark hair falling into his sleepy eyes, yet he tracks you without struggle.
You strip down until you’re in a black camisole and black shorts. He shifts to make room in the little cot and you invite yourself into his embrace. He is solid beneath you, warm, living. He smells of sandalwood, sea salt and sweat. It hits your sinuses and you melt like an addict as his arms wound around you. One hand running up and down your hip, the hem of your camisole riding up with each sweep, the warm, rough skin of his palm skimming over the soft flesh of your waist.
“Will you not get in trouble?” He questions languidly.
You toss a leg over his waist and tuck your head under his chin. “I have an excuse, don’t worry about it.”
“I always worry…about you,” he whispers and you hum a smile pulling at your lips. You lift your head stare into his dark vast eyes. Your fingers caress his cheek and eyes flutter as he leans into your touch with a content sigh.
Your heart flutters at the sight.
You feel overwhelmed in a way that makes your throat tighten and eyes burn.
“How sweet of you, Qimir,” you whisper and he looks at you again, dark eyes even deeper, darker. His own hand, bigger, warmer, rougher cups the side of your face. You lean into it as his thumb sweeps an escaped tear from under your eye.
“You’re sad…why?”
You inhale deeply and sniffle, eyes shutting for a moment before you look into his eyes again. “Have I told you about my sisters?”
He tilts his head as his large hand moves to rest on the back of your neck, fingers digging into the soft tight curls at the base of your neck. “I wasn’t aware you had sisters.”
You hum, “I have two,” you say quietly as you sit up back pressed to the wall, legs swinging over his waist and his fingers skim the tops of your thighs. “We’re triplets actually.”
He blinks at you stunned. “Triplets?”
You nod, “In the vaguest sense of the word. My older sisters were born minutes apart, as exact mirrors of each other. I was a surprise—a stowaway, I came three hours later. My sisters were everything—to me, to our parents, our family…I was always the one left on the outskirts of things but that was fine,” you whisper as you grab one of his hands, playing with his fingers. “I loved them.”
“Loved?”
You stare at the lamp that casts beams over your faces.
“There was an accident,” You whisper before explaining what you remember of what transpired that night. You feel white hot anger coursing through you when you tell him about Osha’s desire to be a Jedi, about Mae’s anger, about your own conflict. Your hands feel cold as heat drawn into your chest. You tell him about watching your sister die, you tell him about your rage at the Jedi. You tell him about Mae being alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.
He is silent for a long moment, deep in thought.
“Why did you join them? The Jedi?” He questions suddenly and you blink at him. “If you blame them for what happened?”
“Where else was I supposed to go?” You question. “I had nothing left—all I had was Osha and this is what she wanted, this was how we were supposed to stay together.”
“You could have left with her.”
“I could have,” you admit. “But I had already made my mind up about something.”
“And what was that?”
“I was going to get my revenge,” you whisper darkly and his vast, bottomless eyes spark with something adjacent to pride. “I’ll ruin them,” you promise.
“I love it when you’re angry,” he whispers heavily, “your rage is so beautiful,” he admits and your breath hitches as his free hand moves higher up your thigh. “And to think the Jedi want to deprive the world of something so stunning.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Qimir?” You question coyly and he giggles as he sits up, you feel the hard planes of his muscles shift under your thighs.
“Maybe, is it working?” He hums, his one hand presses against the cot to keep him propped up while the other softly caresses the apple of your cheek.
“Depends,” You start as you look into his eyes. “Am I only beautiful to you when I’m angry?”
“You’re beautiful always,” he says it easily and your heart twists painfully in your chest. “But do you know when you’re absolutely stunning?”
“When?” You prompt and his crooked smile turns coy.
“When you take what you desire,” he coos and your thighs clench together. He leans in even closer, his breath on your neck. You shiver. “Do you want me, like I want you?” He looks at you through his lashes and something in your stomach stirs.
You lean in closer, nose skimming along his.
“Always,” it comes out of your mouth so easily you barely register it. He grins and closes the gap between you. His lips are warm and chapped as they mould into yours. He tastes of oddity, of starlight and natural sweetness. He tastes like a drug made only for you to get addicted to.
The position is uncomfortable, your neck craning at an angle that makes your muscles twinge. You rectify it quickly, shifting around until your knees are on either side of his waist, your chest pressed against his. Qimir wraps his arms around your waist, pressing the two of you closer. Your hands skim up his shoulders, one grips the back of his neck, fingers curling into his soft hair, the other pressing against his cheek.
A part of you, something dark and deep down wants to consume him whole. You want your ribcage to gape open and hold him inside you forever.
You kiss him deeper, tongue slipping past his lips to taste him better. He moans and you feel him shiver.
This was his fault. If someday you do consume him he will be the only one to blame. He made you this, opened a deep pit that had never been tread inside of you. It started with exotic fruits, offering them to you with his own fingers, prompting—seducing, it made you come back again and again. Then it was his skin, the pads of his fingers pressing into your mouth, wide dark eyes telling you to suck the juice off of them, his own taste underlying the sweetness. Then it was his mouth, his tongue—on yours, on your neck, your collarbones …between your legs…
Then it was this—.
You gasp as his teeth sink into the skin between your neck and shoulder it stings and causes your hips to buck against his, feeling his arousal through his pants.
“Focus on me,” he begs as his hands push under your shirt. “Don’t think about anything else.”
“Only thinking about you,” you whine as his fingertips squeeze and pinch and your breasts and nipples.
“Good girl.”
He flips you around, presses your back against his cot and he edges his hips between your thighs, pushing your camisole up over your breasts and he mouths at at them. You pant and moan as his tongue swirls around one nipple, his hand pinching the other one before switching his attention. You hiss and whine, fingers tugging at his hair. He groans, hips pressing against yours.
More. More. More.
His lips trail open mouthed kisses down your sternum then your stomach until his lips are hindered by the hem of your shorts. He looks up at you, your eyes meeting and what he sees in them is all he needs to pull your shorts and underwear down your legs. You spread them wide for him and he grins rakishly at you. “So wet, for me?”
You hum in confirmation.
He presses kisses on each thigh as he slowly descends to where you need him most, tongue laving at your skin . When he reaches where you need him most he doesn’t waist time as his head dips, the flat of his tongue laving a searing path through you slit.
You gasp, muscles clenching. Your thighs threatening to close. He hums scoldingly as he wraps his arms around your thighs, to pin you down, pull you closer and keep you spread.
“Qimir!” You gasp as he blow a puff of air against your clit. Your hand shoots down to grip his hair, tugging him closer. He resists and you want to cry out in frustration. “Don’t tease me,” you snap and he looks up at you innocently.
“I want to take my time with you, be patient,” he coos, pressing his lips to your slit.
He is slow and methodical in the way he devours you. His sucks at your inner lips, laps at your entrance, sinks his tongue into you as he artfully avoid your throbbing and desperate clit, only occasionally sweeping his nose against it. The room is filled with the sounds of his lips on you and your hiccuping moans. He breaks you down until you body attempts to mould into his cot. He consumes you, he is all you can feel and smell, all you can think about.
Qimir. Qimir. Qimir. Qimir. Qimir. Qimir.
Please. Please. Please.
“Please!” You sob, “Please.”
Perhaps he’s gotten his fill of you or actually takes pity but he finally—finally laves his tongue over your neglected clit. The sudden swell in pleasure causes you to cry out, your body jerks in his hold as if to run away, he grips you tighter, finger nails digging crescents into the flesh of your plush thighs.
It is too much but it what you desired, what you deserved. Your high crests quickly—too quickly. Your eyes blur with tears, your breaths come in desperate hiccups. It’s right there, so close—but there is something else seeping into you.
A coldness that pushes you down. It clouds your head, muffles the sounds of Qimir’s groans and your desperate cries. The sudden fear that grips your throat is what sends you over the edge and your orgasm washes over you so violently you drown, the world around you fades of colour—goes dark, goes cold and suddenly you’re standing alone and bare.
You look around the dark space, heaving and gasping for air as you whip around. There is nothing but darkness.
“Q-Qimir?”
There is no answer.
You shiver at the cold breeze that caresses your skin like a whisper. Your ears strain, your eyes squint there is nothing but vast space and the cold stone beneath your bare feet.
That’s when you hear it—the breathing. Breathing that’s not yours. It’s loud and steady, yet muffled at the same time—like—like someone breathing through a mask. It’s not you—you’re not alone.
The hairs on your arms stand on on end as you slowly turn your head. For a moment you don’t see anything in the darkness. For a moment there is nothing to be afraid of.
“I see the little Jedi has wandered too far from shore.”
The voice comes from all around you , deep and automated. You tremble, feeling the tips of your fingers go numb. “Where are you? Show yourself!”
It is the distinct sound of a lightsaber coming to life that makes your knees tremble. It is the disturbed glow in your peripheral that makes your eyes water.
You turn your head and struggle to make sense of what you’re seeing in the bloody red glow. There is now way what you’re staring at is a living being if any kind—they seem to be entirely made of shadow…of darkness. Carved from it, birthed from it. The red glow from the abomination in its hand reflects off the teeth of its terribly long grin.
“W-what,” you falter, “What are you?”
It’s head cocks, it’s breathing just as unnatural as itself. “I am what you can be,” It says. “I am what you want to be.”
“And what is that?”
“Powerful.”
You step back, your foot slips and you’re falling down, down, down , down.
Water consumes you like a tomb, surrounds your from all angles. You try to swim try to claw your way up to a surface you cannot see. It appears beside you as you drown, presence even colder. Its voice hollowly rings in your head.
“I am what remains when one kills the dream. I am what remains when one embraces their darkness. I am what emerges when you finally learn to swim.”
You wake with a shriek, your body shooting up from where you lay, you reach for something comforting, something grounding. Your lightsaber is a familiar and comforting weight in your hand as it comes to life with a familiar buzz. The familiar glow lightsaber grounds you.
You’re not drowning.
You’re not drowning.
“Whoa—hey! Please don’t cut me in half!”
You blink, it’s dark but not as dark as it once was. You recognize the back room of the apothecary, register the familiar smell of you and Qimir intertwined.
You see him standing a few feet in front of you, hands raised in surrender, the glow of your lightsaber reflected in his eyes. You note the smell of singed cloathing, see the burnt cloth too close to his chest. The observation hits you so hard you gasp in horror, your lightsaber falls from your hands, the blade disappearing back into it hilt as it clatters to the floor.
“Oh—I’m sorry!” You surge forward stumbling, hands reaching for him pressing against his sides. “I-I didn’t mean t—did I hurt you?!” Your words escape in a jumbled panicked mess as you search him for injury.
He shakes his head, hands pressing against your cheeks, “No, no. I’m fine—I promise. Hey, hey breathe. It’s okay, I’m okay.”
You tremble as you grip his shoulders in shaking fists , “Okay.”
“Come on,” he leads you slowly back to bed, forcing you to sit. He crouches in front of you and presses his hands to your cheeks. “Are you okay? You had me scared for a minute there.”
You blink, and chew nervously at your lips, “I—I don’t,” you shake your head. “W-what happened? I don’t remember.”
“You blacked out,” Qimir whispered, dark eyes nervously flicking around your face. “At first I thought—but then you went so still and then you got so cold,” he presses his hands against the sides of your neck. “You’re still freezing, I’ve been trying to get your temperature back up—how are you feeling?”
It is only then that you notice the layers of his clothes you had been wrapped in, the extra blankets on the cot. Your fingers are numb and it was taking everything in you to keep your teeth from chattering.
“How—how long?”
“An hour at most.”
“I need to get back to the temple—.”
“No,” Qimir shakes his head, “Not until I know you’re better, I’ll make you some tea.”
“Qimir—.”
“You scared me,” he says. He says it in a way that sounds nothing like him. His tone is too firm, too demanding. “Please—let me take care of you,” he begs, the tone is gone. “Please,” he cups your cheeks again and you melt when you look in his eyes.
Your own hands shake as you reach for his cheeks, you pull him closer and press your forehead against his with a low hum. “I’ll stay.”
He hummed and kissed you sweetly, “Get back in bed, I’ll bring you tea.”
~~~~
“I didn’t realize your lightsaber was that colour.”
“What?” You turn to look at him, not quite hearing his question, your mind stuck on your encounter with that thing.
“Your lightsaber,” he repeats as he grinds down herbs for an order later that day. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s purple,” you state as you pull your cloak over your robes. “I thought I told you that.”
“You did,” he says, his grinding comes to a stop. “I just didn’t expect it to be that red.”
A part of you wants to get defensive, wants to snap and defend it. You have always worried about it. Purple was a rare colour, a purple more red than it was blue was worrying. You could remember feeling like you had been put on trial shortly after you put your saber together, how the Masters looked at you, forced you to bare it out for them to see, to judge.
But this was Qimir, he never judged you, never questioned your darkness.
“I never really thought about it.”
He knows you’re lying but doesn’t comment on it, “I think it’s unique and pretty,” he says brightly, “Kinda like you.”
You can’t quite keep your blush at bay and he grins at the sight of it.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It’s gotten me many places,” he retorts in amusement, “Especially with you.”
You grin slightly and lean over the counter to press a kiss to his lips. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” he grips your wrist as you go to pull away. “I have to tell you something—you’re not allowed to get upset.”
Your lips purse, “I already don’t like how this conversation is going.”
“I have a friend—.”
“You have friends? Shocking.”
Qimir rolls his eyes at you, “Isn’t there a saying about stones and glass houses that can apply here?” He questions snarkily and you giggle. “But this is serious.”
Your brows furrow as you watch him intently. “What is it?”
“My friend—well I wouldn’t necessarily call him friend but, I told him about you.”
Your frown deepens, "What exactly did you say about me?"
He hesitated, observing you with weary eyes, "About your...complicated feelings about the Jedi."
Your muscles coil,"I'm guessing those aren't the words you used."
"Listen," his voice is low and placating," He wants to strike a deal."
"A deal?"
"He wants a student," he says, his voice to firm. "He thinks that you have potential--."
"And why would I want this stranger as a Master?" You question sharply. "And who are you to go around and spread secrets I told you in confidence?"
You try to yank away from his hold, feeling something inside you begin to splinter painfully, but his grip is firm. "What do you think will happen when the Jedi finally realize you're unfit to be one of them? Hmm? They'll toss you aside, take away all of you have worked for. Sever your connection to the power you have a right to."
You open your mouth but he continues over you.
"You know it, I know it. You want to keep learning, you want to be powerful, don't you?"
"You know I do," you whisper in near shame and he nods.
"You want revenge for what happened on your home planet, he is your best bet to do to that and get what you really want."
"And what is that?"
For a moment all he does is stare at you, his bottomless eyes looking straight into you your very soul. He knew you too well, you realize. He looks at you as if you are nothing but an open book and it frustrates you--but it also warms you in a way that makes you insides want to eat themselves--or worse off, eat him.
"The power of two."
Your breath hitches painfully and your eyes dart around his face. "I--how did you--?"
He says your name firmly, centring you, his thumb caressing the skin of your wrist. "I know what it's like to be lonely, my love,' he whispers soothingly. "I see it in you--and I know you want more than what this life has given you. I need you to trust me."
You blink slowly feeling almost light headed, "Why?" You question. "Why would you try--why would--?" Words escape you but he knows, he understands.
Qimir leans forward and kisses you so hard it almost hurts. Your fingers curl into his collar as you lean in closer, desperate to be consumed by him--to consume him.
You pull away before you decide to put yourself in anymore trouble, "What do I have to do?" you question and the smile he sends your way is absolutely wicked.
~~~~~
The sun is rising as you slowly tread back towards the temple, your hands clasped behind your back, your head tipped towards the lightening sky in silent thought.
"You must kill a Jedi without a weapon. Kill the dream."
Your foot kicks a tiny stone as you happen upon the entrance.
Now how were you supposed to do that? To kill a person with a weapon--that was easy. But without one--especially a Jedi, that just made things harder. Harder but not impossible.
You let your fingers trace your raw lips, and let your thoughts linger on the ghostly feeling of his lips on yours.
"And where have you been?"
You stop and turn to the culprit, seated just under a temple window to your left. She beams at you and you can't keep the bright grin off your face as you squeal.
"Osha!"
You run into your sister's arms with a little giggle and she grips you fiercely, one hand to the back of your head, other gripping you robes.
Her hugs haven't changed, you think as you cling desperately to the familiarity.
"Hi, Sisi."
You pull away, your smile so bright and big your cheeks begin to ache, "When did you get in?"
"Last night," she beams, her rough hands tracing your cheeks as her brown eyes take in your every feature. "Imagine my disappointment when my little sister wasn't there to greet me."
"Sorry," you grin sheepishly, "I was...meditating."
She raised an unconvinced eyebrow, "Meditating? All night?"
"And then some," you add cheekily, earning a light giggle that fills you with a longing for home. You make a show of pouting, your shoulders slumping, "And I may or may not have fallen asleep in the forest--don't tell my Master."
Osha tosses her head back to laugh at you and you let it happen, relishing in the familiar sight so close to you.
"Hiding things from your Master, Little one?"
You turn, your smile dimming just slightly when you spot Master Sol watching you with a warm smile. You have always felt conflicted when it came to Master Sol and his bright, eager smiles. You think of the first time you ever saw him all those years ago, how his brown eyes picked you out from where you hid in a sea of purple robes, how he bribed you with a curious looking metal you had never seen before.
You were always too curios for your own good, eyes always drawn to the shiny and the strange. Perhaps that is how you grew so infatuated with the strange Qimir and his odd, bright and shiny fruits.
The warm smile that curls your lips falls into place too easily for your own good. You go to bow but his arms wound around tightly. He all but lifts you from the ground in sudden rush of affection. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hide your face in his gold robes. "Master Sol."
"My dear," he sets you back on your feet with a bright smile, his finger reaches out to trace the white swirl stamped between your brows. "You look well."
"As do you."
"And where have you been?!"
Your masters voice is shrill as she all but stomps into your line of sight. You and Sol flinch at the volume while Osha giggles at your predicament.
For a moment the image cast is so familiar and warm it almost allows you to forget. To pretend. But your mind has already been made up--the pit in your gut tells you so.
You must kill a Jedi without a weapon. Kill the dream.
I was having a peaceful day until I saw this monstrosity on my fyp…I will know no peace.
Why is my husband up there? Hmm? I understand that people are still sour over season eight. Don’t get me wrong I am too but why is my boy up there? Like genuinely?
You have
1. a rapist
2. a raging misogynist/shitty parent
3. a manipulative pig/ abuser
4. a righteous hypocrite/abuser
5. Vaegon is just genuinely unlikeable (I also hate the fact he used to Laena’s funeral to take a jab at my boys)
6. a genocidal maniac (who offed my boy Luke and offed thousands of innocent ppl during a temper tantrum)
7.a man who bred his wife to death/ ripped her apart/married a fourteen year old
8. An incel
Annnddddd 9. A dude who’s done nothing but try and do the right thing, yeah he has some dumb moments (bc dnd butchered him after season 5) but he hasn’t done anything!
Who’s the odd one out?
One of these things is not like the other.
I find it really ironic how my boy gets so much hate for stopping Dany from going on a genocidal march through Westeros and finds himself lumped in with literal scum of the earth when he genuinely has nothing in common with them other than the fact that he has a penis, is a Targaryen and was stupidly named Aegon (idk why that was the choice when he had a bro named Aegon already).
You know who has something in common with the men up here?
Jorah Mormont*gags* ( an incel who likes young girls, Dany is 13 in the books btw and a literal 16year old in the show, he’s a fucking weirdo): basically relates to 7&8
Rheagar Targaryen, who married a FOURTEEN YEAR OLD abandoning his sick wife and his children: he gives me 2&7 vibes.
Viserys Targaryen, an abusive weirdo, murderous psycho, misogynistic asshole who sexually assaults his little sister in the FIRST EPISODE: uh, I’m gonna give him numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (just because I hate him) and 6 (bc of his temper).
And then just to piss you off…
Daemon Targaryen, um…let’s see childish temper tantrums, seduces his 15 year old niece, MURDERS his wife (who was hot by the way) marries a girl younger than his niece and then marries his niece days after his second wife’s death. I’ll give him a partial 3 &4 (bc he put hands on my queen), a half 6, and third of 7 (the last part).
And then just to piss Y’ALL off EVEN MORE…
Danaerys Targaryen, who throws temper tantrum (bc of shitty writing) and burns thousands of innocent ppl alive, for what reason? I’m gonna give her 6. (She’s pretty tho, I’ll give her that, ily Emelia).
You know who doesn’t have a reason to be up there???
the fact that i had to narrow it down is such a shame, but alas, here are my four
Harry Hook from Descendants
Uzumaki Naruto from Naruto
Todoroki Shouto from My Hero Academia
Perseus Jackson from Percy Jackson
the only other mutual i have on here is @moonballspls122, so i nominate you for this. though i want be surprised if i see a certain snow bastard or lazy shadow user....
IN WHICH Miles Morales hadn’t spoken to you in six years until you are saved from eating metal by the new spider-man who looks like he’s bleeding from the armpits. Why does he look like he’s bleeding from his armpits?
CONTENT: AgedUp! 1610 Miles Morales (they’re in their early twenties), slight toxicity, possessiveness, well intentioned stalking, kink on the readers end, It was gonna be black cat x Sunshine BUT it’s Doberman GF x Sunshine BF (I think it’s cute) after she gets passed the hostility, there’s gonna be a little Gwen hostility don’t worry it fades away (I LOVE HER), Tony Stark exists (he’s retired as Iron Man and you work for him, he loves you very much, he WILL crack skulls on concrete for you if you asked he practically raised you), Jeff and Rio are the best.
An: another ass part only this time it’s short and I left y’all hanging for months. Sorry about that lol.
PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
YOU HAD NEVER THOUGHT THAT YOU WOULD BE STUCK FANTASIZING ABOUT SOMEONE ELSES MOUTH. But here you were staring intently at Miles’ face as his lips puckered in thought, his pretty brown eyes fixed on his new copy of Mexican Gothic.
When he walked into class that Monday morning waving the book at you, you nearly jumped his bones right there and then because fuuuuuck, he just got like ten times hotter.
You were so fucked and you blamed Tony for your predicament. This in some way was his fault, honestly everything that was going wrong in your life as of September was somehow his fault, you were sure of it.
“Hold on, so this chick—.”
“Noemi.”
“—Noemi, receives a letter from her cousin about white people trying to kill her—has a conversation about eugenics with said white people then proceeds to sleep under the same roof as them?” Miles flicked his brown eyes up towards you brows furrowed in disbelief. “Does she have no sense of self preservation?”
You shrugged, “It kicks in at the end.”
He looked so cute like that.
Damn it.
“And who the heck is Ruth because I wanna know what the fuck she did,” Miles leaned forward to whisper conspiringly and your eyes unconsciously flicked down to his lips. “I have the feeling I’m gonna love her—even though she’s dead.”
You hummed, distracted as you picked at your honey garlic chicken.
“Ruth is iconic,” you agreed after a moment, reluctantly drawing your gaze away from him to flick around the lonely hallway the two of you had occupied before your art lecture.
“Don’t tell me,” Miles protested going to cover his ears.
“I won’t,” you chuckled, silently offering him a piece of chicken and he ate it off the end of your chopsticks. You had to resist the smile pulling at your lips, instead looking down at your food.
It had been just over a month and they had already handed in their last project. They were supposed to get their grades back that day and you were feeling good about it.
It wasn’t jaw dropping or raunchy, it was simple and safe but you didn’t think that would take away from the grades you would receive or maybe it would. Either way you felt good.
You and Miles were spending a lot of time together these days and it made you…happy. He was overwhelmingly apologetic about what had happened in the past and although sometimes he still was a bit flakey he seemed to be trying his best to maintain this new relationship the two of you were cultivating. You appreciated it a great deal.
Your attention is drawn away when your phone rings. You pull it from your back pocket only to sigh and put it on silent, scooting closer to Miles so your knees touched.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody.”
“Is it Jonah?”
“Perhaps,” you hummed and he nudged you with his knee prompting you to look up at him through your lashes. “It was Jonah.”
Miles hummed, “I noticed that you guys don’t talk much these days.”
“Yeah…”
“Why?”
“He’s still on getting me to be his girlfriend—I just don’t like him that way, you know?”
Miles looked down carefully at the book before looking at you. “I know. But like—is there someone else or are just not in the mood in general—?”
“There’s someone else,” you admitted carefully watching his ears twinge red.
“Really, who?” He asks his nose scrunching
“You wouldn’t know him,” you whisper playfully watching with amusement as his shoulders slum and his brows furrowed in thought.
“What year is he in?”
“How are you sure it’s a he?”
His lips parted and he seemed to grow even more devastated, it took everything in you to keep yourself from chuckling. “Th-then who is it?”
“Why would you like to know?”
He stumbled over his words a long moment. “W-well I’m you’re friend, shouldn’t I know these things.”
You made a show of thinking, tapping your chin as you stared past his face. “Well, they’re tall.”
“T-tall.”
“Yes very tall, they have nice hands, and have a great taste in music. Oh! They’re an amazing artist too.”
“Are you serious?”
“Mhmm.”
You stood, grabbing your bag and the rest of your food. Miles scrambled to follow.
“Their name sounds like Biles.”
“Bi-Biles—.”
He froze but you kept walking with an amused grin.
If you had turned around you would spotted him jumping up and down in triumph.
“Yes!”
~~~~
“Good work, a bit boring but I liked it,” Your Professor stated as she handed back your personal reflections. Two large red A’s standing out on the white paper. “You showed good technique and colour, I’m looking forward to what you do with our next assignment.”
As she walked off you made a face at her back and Miles made sure to nudge you scoldingly. You batted your lashes at him innocently and he rolled his eyes.
~~~~
You stared at the completed Spider-man suit with a satisfied grin. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
Tony nodded, “It looks great,” he praised snacking on a handful of blueberries. “So much better than the one he has—looks like he’s bleeding from the armpits.”
“That’s what I said.”
“How’s he gonna get it?”
You hadn’t really thought about it. “I’ll figure it out.”
~~~~
“I finished Spider-Man’s suit,” you tell Miles later that night. You’re both sitting on your couch watching reruns of the Fresh Prince of Bel-air. His head immediately snaps around to look at you, his eyebrows raised.
“Seriously.”
“Yeah,” you shrugged. “With the amplifiers built in.”
His jaw dropped slightly and you miss the growing excitement on his face as you look down at your bowl of ice cream craving more.
“Which design?”
“The one you pointed out,” you shrugged before a thought occurs to you. “He remind me of you.”
Miles spluttered, “W-what?! Nah! I don’t think so, he’s spider-man he’s cool! I’m just Miles.”
You frown and nudge him with your toes. “I think you’re cool.”
You see his ears grow red, “R-really?”
You nod and narrow your eyes threateningly. “Mhmm, and if you say otherwise I will smack you with this spoon.”
He smiled shyly and looked away, “I think you’re really cool too.”
“I know that,” you say with a cocky grin , “I am me, after all.”
“Wow, Tony Stark just rubbed off on you in tons hasn’t he?”
“You have no idea.”
“How’s he gonna get it?”
“I left it on my balcony, FRIDAY says he tends to swing this way,” you shrug, “I hope he sees it. I worked really hard on it.”
“I’m sure he will.”
You linger on one another before looking back at the TV.
Miles moves closer to you.
~~~~
You…haven’t been sleeping.
You didn’t think it was big deal, but the lack of sleep was starting to turn you nutty. You didn’t really notice it at first—the lack of sleep. You just found ways to stay occupied, and that kept you awake. The thought of closing your eyes for a long period of time caused you to recoil so you chose not to.
You chose not to because the feeling of your stomach swooping low made you feel like vomiting.
You survived on Monsters, Red Bulls and triple shot espresso in your iced coffee.
The first person to notice your lack of sleep was Pepper, which was unsurprising. She noticed these things all the time, being married to someone like Tony gave her a sense for these things.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?” You look up from your sketch blinking heavily, nearly prying your eyelids open with your fingers.
“When was the last time you slept?” She inquired from where she leaned against the door to your personal lab.
“Uh…”
She gives you a scolding stare.
“Yester…Yester-week,” you give up on the lie before it leaves your mouth with a low sigh, she already knew FRIDAY no doubt snitched.
“(Your Name)!” She scolded. “You need sleep, you need rest.”
“I know that,” you sigh. “I just…can’t!”
“You just can’t?”
You throw your arms up, “I’ve tried! I’m trying! It’s just that…I don’t know…it’s like my brain won’t shut up—or I can’t relax.”
Pepper frowned cocking her head, blonde ponytail swishing behind her head. “You sure it’s not because of Whiplash.”
You scoff, “Of course not, I was fine—.”
“You weren’t fine. You cried in your sleep.”
You spluttered, “No-no I didn’t!”
“Babes, have you been having nightmares?”
“No,” you shake your head. “I just—I don’t know.”
Pepper pursed her lips, “Have you tried talking to someone?”
“I don’t need to talk to someone.”
“Yes you do. You and Tony do. The both of you have been weirdly quiet about what happened, I still don’t have the clear picture.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Pep. It’s no big deal.”
“Guess who told me the same thing?” She raised her brows.
“I’m not Tony.”
“No,” she agreed. “But you guys are similar. If you won’t talk to anyone at least talk to each other about it, okay? I don’t need my husband and kid running themselves into hell because of exhaustion.”
You grunt, “Alright.”
“Go to bed.”
“But—.”
“If you don’t go to bed I’ll lock you out of your lab for a month.”
You stand immediately and walk out passed her, shutting the lights as you do.
She chuckled, “Two for two.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
You didn’t talk to Tony about it either.
~~~~~
“Whoa!” An arm locks around your waist and your yanked out of incoming traffic for a moment you hang limply in their hold. “Is standing in the middle of the street a pass time for you?” They quip.
You look at Spider-man with a blank stare trying hard not to keel over and die.
“I didn’t notice.”
“You look terrible.”
You send his masked face an angry look only to stop and perk up.
“You’re wearing it!” You exclaim. “I knew it would look good. How does it feel? Does it fit well? I was worried that I made the back too tight—oh! Have you been shot at yet?! It’s bullet proof. Go get shot at it will bounce right off—ooh! Ooh! Do you like the amplifiers?! I made them better but I’m currently working on an upgrade—.”
Spider-man placed a hand over your mouth to shut you up. “I like it. No I have not been shit at. No I don’t plan to. It fits fine. The amplifiers work amazing, I don’t need an upgrade—when was the last time you slept?”
You blink prying your eyelids apart with effort.
“What day is it?”
“It’s Thursday,” he sounds worried.
Your sleep deprived brain perks up at the familiar sound of his voice and you lean forward unconsciously. “…you’re not gonna like my answer.”
He sighed and twitched in a familiar and endearing way that had you narrowing your eyes in confusion.
“How about you go home and sleep?”
“No thanks.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“I can’t skip school, I have work to do with my friend, he’ll freak if I don’t show up—.”
“I’m sure Miles will understand.”
“Miles once freaked out when this kid in our class in middle school didn’t show up for a day, he was sure the kid had died-he had an appointment,” you rub at your eyes.
“I’m sure he’ll let this slide—I’ll tell him myself—you need sleep.”
“I need caffeine shoved up my asshole—that’s what I need—Ahh!”
Your feet leave the ground and you’re suddenly being swinging through the air . You squeak and lick your legs around his waist as your arms wrapped around his neck. The can of red bull in you hand lying forgotten on the ground.
“Warn a girl before you swing her around the city.”
He stets you down on your fire escape. “Go inside.”
“And if I don’t?”
You didn’t have to see the superhero’s face to know he levelled you with a look.
Sighing you turned and opened your window. “Tell Miles—.”
“Yeah.”
“He the tall one.”
“Tall, handsome, Puerto Riccan?”
“Yeah, he’s really cute isn’t he?” You giggle slightly as you stumble inside. You pause and frown, a sudden observation coming to you, “wait, I didn’t tell you his name—,” you turn but he’s gone and you frown.
Maybe you imagined it.
You drop your bag on the floor and begin to strip from your outside clothing, arching you back to get your bra clasps. You change into something more comfortable kicking your cloathes off to the side bit in the mood to pick them up.
You look for something else to entertain you.
It’s about an hour later that there’s a knock on your door.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Mr. Morales,” Friday informed and you save you hand to get her to unlock the door. Miles steps in and you frown at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I got worried.”
“Miles—.”
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“No shît.”
“You look like shit.”
You gape in offence. “Don’t be rude.”
“You need sleep.”
“I need you not to call me ugly!”
Miles rolled his eyes, dripping his bag at the door and shedding his spring jacket. Your eyes linger on his shoulders shoulders and chest before you correct yourself.
He noticed if the red of his ears was anything to go by.
Damn, your sleep deprivation was getting rid of your sneakiness l.
“I didn’t say you were ugly.”
“You said I look like shit!” You whine and he huffed at you.
“You’re beautiful but you’re tired and you look it, let’s get you to bed.”
“If you wanted me in your bed you could have just said something—eek!” Miles lifted you up from the couch and walked you to your room and proceeded to deposit you on your bed. “Miles!”
“Bed time!”
“But—!”
“Bed time!” He snapped and you glowered at his forcefulness. “You’re getting all nutty and forgetful and it’s freaking me out,” he yanked your covers from under you and threw them over your sprawled body.
Your chest heaved slightly in panic as he shut the curtains to hide you from the light.
“Miles.”
“At least a couple hours,” he muttered brows furrowed in concern as he went to leave the room.
“Miles wait—!”
The panic in your voice drew his immediate attention and his lips puckered in confusion. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I-I can’t sleep,” you whispered. “Not like I’m not letting myself sleep—I just can’t. It gets dark I feel like I’m dying. Okay so just—.”
Miles shuffled, “Does it have to do with what happened last month?”
“No? Maybe. I don’t know,” you confessed. “I was fine. I swear I was fine and then I wasn’t and now I can’t sleep.”
“Have talked to anyone about it?”
You frowned and looked down at your fiddling hands. “I don’t know how. Me and Tony aren’t good at talking about things like this—it’s—it’s no big deal. It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does though,” Miles refuted stepping back into the room. “You almost died. He almost killed you—.”
“He did kill me though.”
“What?”
You looked at him with furrowed brows, knees pulling up to your chest. “He killed me Miles,” you gasped out, breath heavy throat aching. “He killed me—I-I dreamt about it. I could feel it. He killed me somewhere in the vastness of the multiverse, I am dead and he was responsible,” you whispered eyes growing wet with tears. You ducked you head and sucked in a trembling breath. “It’s so stupid,” you sobbed out. “I don’t know why I am so scared!”
The bed dipped as Miles sat beside you, his calloused hand wrapping around yours. He said your name but you couldn’t look at him.
“I don’t feel safe. Not even with the people who are my home I can’t—,” you sobbed pressing your free hand over your eyes. “I’m so—I’m so tired and I don’t what to do!”
“Okay, okay.”
He let go of your hand for a second, there was the sound of clothing hitting the floor. The mattress dipped once again and you squeaked as he suddenly pulled you into his arms, you head cushioned on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering in his rib cage and the twitch of his tense muscles with how tight his muscles had coiled.
Your face went hot.
“A-what are you doing?”
“H-holding you.”
“Why?”
He reclined, bringing you with him until you were both pressed against the mattress and your pillows. “You’re high on adrenaline. You have been in a constant state of fight or flight. Hugs are know to reduce stress levels and blood pressure. So I’m holding you till you ‘come down’. You’re supposed to relax.”
“How am I supposed to relax when you’re so tense,” you mutter and he takes a deep breath his hard muscles softening his heart beat slowing into something less concerning.
“Take a deep breath,” he tells you, “and relax, U won’t go anywhere, okay?”
You twitch, “Promise?”
“Of course.”
You breathe in deeply and force the tightness in your muscles away with an exhale, his grip on you tightens and you press closer eyes fluttering shut.
You breathe in once more and release in slow drawn out breath. You repeat and repeat and repeat…
You sleep.
You dream of Miles, he different. His face is harsher than the one you’ve come to know. He staring at you with eyes full of love and devotion, his lower lip is split and you’re fussing over him with an alcohol wipe muttering to yourself in Spanish.
“I can’t believe he hit you.”
“He’s jealous,” Miles hummed lowly cocking his head his braided hair swaying. “He’s jealous because I get all of you to myself,” he pulls you close and you sigh and tut. “Kiss it better, Mami please?”
You catch yourself in the bathroom mirror, your dress pretty, your make up made to match your green mini dress. a silver necklace is clasped around your neck, a sunflower pressed between your collar bones. You look harsher than you do now. Your face made of hard lines. Your hair out in it’s natural state while you at this moment have your hair in braids.
“I don’t want to make it worse.”
“You make it worse by not kissing me,” he muttered before pulling you down to do just that. He tasted sweet.
When you wake up, it’s dark outside and your position has changed. Your back is pressed against Miles’ front your fingers and legs interwoven in a tight knot.
You don’t dwell too much on your dream, eyes slipping shut again.
IN WHICH Miles Morales hadn’t spoken to you in six years until you are saved from eating metal by the new spider-man who looks like he’s bleeding from the armpits. Why does he look like he’s bleeding from his armpits?
CONTENT: AgedUp! 1610 Miles Morales (they’re in their early twenties), suggestive content, slight toxicity, possessiveness, well intentioned stalking, slight!corruption kink on the readers end, It was gonna be black cat x Sunshine BUT it’s Doberman GF x Sunshine BF (I think it’s cute) after she gets passed the hostility, there’s gonna be a little Gwen hostility don’t worry it fades away (I LOVE HER), Tony Stark exists (he’s retired as Iron Man and you work for him, he loves you very much, he WILL crack skulls on concrete for you if you asked he practically raised you), Jeff and Rio are the best.
A/N: THIS PART IS ASSS! 😖 read at your own risk. Sorry it took too long, family member died you know all that jazz. Ps. If you’re going to report my shit and accuse me of writing smut when I haven’t done that let me ask you this : Where was this same energy with Muichiro these few weeks, Neteyam and Lo’ak a few months ago? I’m not writing smut they’re aged up, if you don’t like it don’t interact save both of us the hassle.
PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
YOU STOOD FROM BED EYES SEARCHING FOR YOUR STREWN CLOTHES. You sighed to yourself, lips pursing in discontent as you found your underwear and clothes. A part of you was ashamed, but definitely unsurprised. You were a person who craved validation, educational, social, sexual. You liked praise. You liked pleasure. You liked being purposefully shallow without being judged.
Perhaps that was why you liked Jonah more than you should’ve. He didn’t expect much from you. At least that’s how it started. He liked pleasure. He liked that you were pretty, he liked that you never wanted anything from him outside being the conclusion to a nights out.
But he changed.
Things have changed.
He asked you out.
Started talking to you throughout the day, texting you more than the initial ’WYD?’
You didn’t like it.
You weren’t opposed to long term relationships, you looked forward to the day you found someone outside your familial circle to let yourself be deep with.
You couldn’t see Jonah in that position, but he sought to change it.
That was the problem.
“You’re not staying the night?”
“No,” you grunt unapologetic as you clasp your bra, before reaching for your wrinkled blouse. “I have things to do.”
“And they can’t wait till morning?”
“They could,” you admit, jumping to pull your skinny jeans over your ass. “But I’d rather not leave them for Friday.”
You and Miles had been struggling with your concept and you were getting worried, so you both hopped to get something done by the end of the weekend.
You wiggled your legs, tugging at the waist of your jeans once more before buttoning them closed. “I’ll see you…” you trailed off with a frown, tucking your phone into your back pocket looking at the lounging Jonah with a cocked head. “…huh, I’ll think I’ll be too busy, so try not to miss me too much—.”
“Are you serious right now?” Jonah deadpanned, “we literally just went on a date and had sex and your ditching me for an unprecedented amount of time—.”
“You say that like it’s shocking.”
“Yeah, when we were just having occasional sex,” he pointed out. “Things have changed.”
You shut your eyes, “Jonah—.”
“You like me don’t you?”
“Wow,” you started just slightly annoyed, “would you like to rephrase that or did want to sound like an insecure ninth grader?”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“Then don’t ask me stupid questions,” you retorted, “I like you enough to let you bend me over—.”
“Do you like me enough to date me?”
Shit.
He looked like a puppy, brown eyes wide and vulnerable.
You opened your mouth and were saved from the need to answer when your phone rang. You suppressed a sigh of relief. As you answered you picked up your shoes and made for the door. “What do you want?”
“Be nice to me, I figured out our concept,” Miles said brightly down the other end and you couldn’t help but wonder how he was always happy.
“What?”
“A rose, are you at home?”
“No, but I will be, give me fifteen minutes. If you’re already there, I’m guessing you are because I can feel your nervous smile on the other end of this call just ask FRIDAY to let you in.”
“They’ll just let me in?”
“Yep, she already has your face memorized so just go up to the door.”
“Holy shit.”
“Good evening Mister Morales,” you heard Friday greet from the other end as you slipped your feet into your shoes.
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
“Yeah.”
You hung up and turned to Jonah.
“I gotta go—.”
“You didn’t answer my question—.”
You left the room quickly an found his roommates already home. They shot you suggestive looks and you flipped them off unamused.
Jonah called after you but you were already gone.
~~~
“Thorned roses symbolize pain and pleasure,” Miles started from where the two of you sat on your plastic covered floor.
“I get that,” you nodded peering at him blankly. “What about the human aspect?”
“Hands?” He suggested, sketching a very crude idea on a small sketch pad.
“Pleasure is mostly associated with intimacy,” you started noting the red twinge to Miles’ ears. “Sexual,” you made sure to clarify and he made a choked sound that had your lips curling in amusement. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t show human intimacy with just hands.”
“Blood?” Miles suggested, “It adds more red to the canvas and blood is often associated with lifeforce, like vampires.”
You nodded in agreement, “Like in For Blood Is The Life, Cristina is intimate with Angelo and feeds on his life force in the process.”
“For Blood is the Life?” Miles inquired and you cocked your head.
“It’s a gothic story by F. Marion Crawford, it’s a vampire tale,” you shrugged, “I went through this gothic phase back in middle school, it was in that anthology you…” you trailed off feeling suddenly embarrassed.
“The one I got you for your birthday?” He finished with a small almost sad smile and you looked away.
“I moved on to Gothic work written by women, gothic tales written by men are misogynistic, a woman being sexual is associated with the devil and straying from god, while the heroine is alway pious and saintly, fainting constantly,” you huffed and Miles smiled slightly.
“Any recommendations?”
“Frankenstein by Mary Shelly—.”
“I thought Frankenstein was written by a man.”
“Her husband stole her work and even his work can never compare.”
Miles nodded,”Good to know. Anything else?”
“Luella Miller by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman that defies patriarchal norms, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman which is about patriarchal harms to women,” you thought on it a moment hearing his pencil scratching, “The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter which is a retelling of Bluebeard, it’s also the name to her anthology which are all folktale retellings, something more recent is Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno Garcia, it wasn’t my favourite but it it’s a lot nails on the head regarding societal issues, the patriarchy, colonization, eugenics—what are you doing?”
He blinked at you, pointing down at his sketch pad, “Writing them down.”
“W-why?” You couldn’t help but stammer, perplexed. He was actually listening to you. Normally when you rambled about things you liked to boys you were dismissed, Jonah didn’t like reading or anything above his level of understanding. Tony let you ramble, absorbed what you said but never really understood it if it was outside the things you had in common, but if it was too quiet he would prompt you to speak about it. Happy let you ramble until he got tired and blocked you out. Rhodey was normally very blunt, ‘Kid, I love you, but I don’t care.’
Miles was actually listening, he was actually curious.
“I’ll pick them up sometime.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“Oh,” you breathed unable to truly process. “Why?”
“I want us to be friends again.“
“Why?”
“I miss you.”
You were pretty sure your heart shot straight through your ass.
“Why?”
He gave you a bemused stare. “You’re very missable.”
“Oh,” you breathed again. You waited for the anger and bitterness to well up in your gut. It never came. You couldn’t seem to find it when he was looking at you so warmly and earnestly. Instead you just felt a little sad, “I’m not good at making friends.”
“I know,” he nodded because he did.
“They think I’m too much, or too closed off—.”
“I know, you’ve told me this before.”
You nodded slowly, and turned away, playing with your hair, tugging at the kinky strands nervously. “Why did you stop talking to me?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, “I was going through some really rough things,” he admitted with a shrug. “With uncle Aaron dying and the new school I was struggling to find my place and I…I shut down for a bit, ignored the things I cared about. I couldn’t paint or draw, I got testy with my parents it was shitty all around and when I finally looked up a couple years had passed and you were gone and I didn’t want to make you feel any worse so I pulled away entirely.”
You pursed your lips.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he apologized, tapping a finger on the back of your wrist to draw your attention. “Let me make it up to you.”
“I could have helped,” you whispered, “I know how it feels.”
He nodded, “I know, but I had to figure it out on my own.”
“I get it,” you licked your lips still very aware of Jonah’s lingering taste. You felt suddenly guilty as you looked at Miles’ open expression. “Anyway,” you averted your gaze and dint bother to finish your sentence as you looked at the roses Miles had brought as reference.
“So, how was your day?” He asked suddenly and your raised your brows as you stood to get your camera and tripod to take pictures of your concept.
“Um,” you shifted on your feet, “it was okay,” you muttered awkwardly. “I—I went to work, then went on a date…”
“Oh,” he hummed, “Did you have fun?”
You shrugged, “It was okay, we got into a little spat.”
Why are you telling him this?
“What about?” He prompts curiously as you angle the camera.
“He wants more than I’m willing to give.”
“And that is?”
“Commitment,” you answered a bit too bluntly. “Do you want to do it from above or from the side?”
“Above—what do you mean by that?”
You shrugged, “I just don’t see him and me in a long term relationship—how high, because this tripod only goes up to my head.”
“It’s fine there, we’ll sit on the floor—long term relationship? As in you have a different kinda relationship?”
You pursed your lips, “We can add more body, heads vent, rose in the centre—I like to think of us as kinda friends with a bit of sec here and there.”
“Oh,” Miles looked flabbergasted, he blinked at you shook his head and licked at his lips, “Maybe, do you want to do the extra work?”
You shrugged, “I don’t mind, I think we can do it.”
“So, that’s actually a thing?”
“What’s a thing?”
“Friends with benefits.”
“It can be,” you admitted, “It rarely ever ends well and of it does they wind up locking each other down.”
“And you don’t want to be locked down?”
Was that fear in his eyes? Or dread?
“I want to be locked down,” you said honestly, “just not by him.”
Miles nodded, “Can I ask why?”
You were quiet a moment as you set up your camera. “He doesn’t like me.”
“It seems like he does if he wants to be your boyfriend.”
“No,” you shook your head.
Why were you talking to him about this?
“He doesn’t like me, he likes this idea of me. He likes the version of me who wants his validation. The version of me who is shallow enough that he can touch the ground,” you rambled, “He doesn’t know anything about me—he does want to know anything about me outside of my body and maybe my humour other than that it’s just…” you shrugged and wrung your hands. “He has no idea where I’m going in life, he has no idea what my goals are, what I like to do outside of getting occasionally drunk, he doesn’t know my music taste or anything about my family.”
“Why haven’t you told him?” Miles asked slowly.
You sighed, “Because he never asked me,” you threw your hands up when the camera was secure. “He never asks me anything about myself. I know things about him because he’s told me but he can’t say the same about me,” you looked at Miles, “why would I want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t know me? What would be the point?” You motioned for him to sit below the camera, “Let’s get this over with, FRIDAY, can you be my photographer?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
You sat across from Miles and looked at him expectantly. He blinked at you. “Come closer,” you motioned him forward and he did as you asked, you reached for the roses he brought, plucking one from the bunch. You brought yourself closer, prompting Miles to blush. You ignored the admittedly adorable red twinge to the apple of his cheeks, asking him to extend his legs. You threw your legs over his and he made a chocked sound.
You looked up at him, “Is this okay?”
“Uh, yeah. More than okay, it’s-uh, really okay-/.”
You nodded, and scooted closer, the heels of your feet pressing against his hips and he sucked in a sharp breath. You reached for his hands, they were calloused and scared, you didn’t expect that. You expected his hands to be soft and smooth to match his personality. You peered at him through your lashes as he stared down at your intertwined hands. There was a darkness swimming in the light of his eyes.
You wondered what.
And as Friday took the photos you found yourself not wanting to let his hand go, so you didn’t, you sort of flipped his hand over tracing the scars on his palms, flower discarded to the side.
It was weird.
You were being weird.
And if you were weird perhaps Miles was just as weird for letting you and even weirder for returning the favour.
~~~
You and Miles spent the entire weekend holed up in your apartment painting. You had seen more of each other in seventy two hours than you had in the passed six years. It was unnerving but so natural.
You fell into a routine.
Miles would knock on your door with breakfast. The two of you would sit on opposite ends of the couch talking about anything and everything. You would then spend hours painting, he would pop out for a bit. You would make lunch and the two of you would eat on the floor in the art room because you hadn’t bothered to buy a dining table yet and Miles liked the view from that room. You talked some more, caught up with each other, paint some more. Miles would then leave for an hour or two, maybe longer, come back and the two of you would make dinner together.
It was painfully mundane.
You liked it a bit too much if you were honest. Always found yourself a bit sad when he left for the night and a bit too happy when showed up the next morning. You felt like a middle schooler all over again, looking forward to seeing your friend that morning.
You didn’t talk to Jonah for that entire time, hadn’t even thought about him until Monday evening after spending most of the day with Miles.
“So how was your date?”
You looked up from where you were sketching designs for a spider-man suit. You had seen him on the news that morning fighting some sort of bird man and thought about your offer to make him a new suit.
“What date?” You asked Tony from where he sat across from you tinkering, he was dressed in one of his many graphic T’s and a pair pyjama pants. You were spending the night because you had stayed late that evening and Happy had gone home for the night and Tony didn’t want you using the subway at such a time. Not that really mattered. The Tower was your first home outside your parents.
He raised his brows. “The one I set you up on?”
“Oh that—oh crap what day is it?” You flinched dropping your pad pen.
“Monday.”
“Crap.”
“Okay,” Tony drawled, “By your reaction I’m guessing the Friday I set you up didn’t happen. Did the date happen at all.”
“It did, the next Thursday but—shit!—where’s my phone?” You looked around the lab bench eyes searching for your phone before you stopped yourself.
Why were you panicking?
You felt like a piece of shit for not calling or texting but you did warn him that you might do that.
“Why the next Thursday?”
“I cancelled on him, I had other things to do.”
“Like have a breakfast date with that guy?”
You blinked and narrowed your eyes at the man, “Are you spying on me Tony Stark?”
“Pssh! No,” he waved you off, “I just asked Friday to fill me in on your days without me, expecting you to be miserable only to learn that you went on a date with someone I never met before—.”
“First of all FRIDAY, you snitch,” you looked directly into one of her cameras and it blinked at you. “Second of all, you have met him before.”
“I think I would remember meeting a boy who has a crush on my surrogate daughter—.”
“He doesn’t have a crush on me—.”
Tony laughed, “Sure and my name is Justin Hammer.”
"Give it a rest," You grumped, but something about your face felt off, heated, flushed. You looked down at your sketches, "he used to be my best friend."
Tony hummed, "What happened?"
You shrugged, "We fell apart and he wants to reconnect..."
"Reconnect? Or reconnect?" He wiggled his brows and you frowned.
"Stop being weird!"
"I'm not being weird, he seems to like you a lot."
"And you figured all that out from, a six second glance at his face? Are you serious?"
"I'm good at reading people.'
"Put me out of my goddamn misery."
"You like him too, don't you.'
"Shut up!" You snapped immediately, feeling your ears ringing in embarrassment, Tony outright cackled at you.
"Poor Jonah from sales, lost the game before the kick off."
"I'm going to bed," You huffed angrily standing from the table you turned to him at the door, "And Jonah was never even a player.
"Wow so mean," Tony whistled, "I raised you well."
You grumbled and left the lab.
~~~~
You sat at your seat on Tuesday eyes fixed on the sketches on the pad in front of you. You wondered about the materials that you could use to enhance the suits. There were many different options to choose from but most had to do with personal preference.
“What are you drawing?”
You looked up to find Miles standing over you curiously, headphones hook around his neck, head cocked to the side as he caught a glimpse of your designs.
Your cheeks went hot at the sight of him, “Um, Spider-Man suits,” you tugged nervously at your hair as he leaned closer to get better look.
He motioned to your pad, “Can I?”
You nodded and he drew the device closer to him to get a proper look. He swiped through the designs, lingering on one in particular. “These are great,” he murmured taking a look at the notes you had scribbled along your designs, “Why?”
You shrugged, “I’m not a fan of the racer stripes they make him look like he’s bleeding from his armpits, and the red feet just make it look like he’s standing in it.”
Miles spluttered face screwing up in what can only be described as offence. “They do not.”
Something in the back of your mind perked up but you pushed it aside. “Look me in the eye and tell me these are not better? I’ll wait.”
He sent you a look, “They’re pretty cool,” he swiped back to the one you were initially working on. “I like this one the most, I think it’s kinda cool.”
You smiled at him, “Thanks.”
"Are those what I think they are?” He pointed at a rough sketch of amplifiers designed to fit against the palm of the hand points extending to each finger.
“This is just a guess on my end but I have noticed the Spidey 2 has more abilities than Peter Parker, one of them being static electricity, so these could help direct a stronger and more concentrated blast of electricity,” you muttered with a little shrug, “That way we can a avoid having another city wide black out,” you rolled you eyes and Miles winced in secondhand embarrassment, chuckling to himself.
“These are great,” he complimented once again with a beaming smile. “You gonna make them anytime soon?”
“When I have time, and if I figure out how to get in contact with our Friendly neighbourhood Spidey,” you shrugged, “The other night he was on my fire escape, trying to get to the roof, maybe he’ll make the same mistake again.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a mistake,” Miles shrugged his broad shoulders, leaning his hip against your table and you leaned forward elbows balanced against the wood, chin cushioned on your hand as you peered up at him through your lashes.
“No?”
“No.”
You raised your brows, “So you think that Spider-Man is stalking me purposefully?”
“Well intentioned stalking,” Miles spluttered and you scoffed in amusement.
“Is any kinda stalking well intentioned.”
“W-well he is a hero.”
“Maybe he has a dark side,” you cooed with a mischievous grin, eyes hooding as you held eye contact with the boy in front of you, “Maybe he wants to tie me up and have his way with me.”
Miles gasped and spluttered, ears turning an adorable shade of red, “W-what no!”
“Why not?” You grinned, cocking your head, “I’ve always wanted to be tied up, consensually of course, it sounds fun, he could use his webs and every thing, I’m down.”
“St-stop it!”
“Why?” You leaned even closer, “Jealous?”
He looked like he was about to fall over.
“If you want, I’ll let you go first or do you want me to tie y—,” he pressed a hand to your mouth rendering you silent and you laughed at his embarrassed expression.
“Cut that put we’re in public!”
You giggled griping his wrist in your hand to try and pry him away, but his grip was unrelenting in his fear you opening your mouth to say something ten times as vile. Your laughs came out as wheezing gasps as he scolded you.
God he was too cute—.
Oh shit.
‘You like him too, don’t you?’
Damn you Tony.
Miles started chuckling as you reached to out to poke him in the side to get him to let go.
“Am I interrupting?” Someone slid into the seat beside you and you watched Miles’ smile curdle into nothingness. His hand falling from your face as you turned to spot Jonah sat next to you.
“Uh, hey Jonah,” you smiled but it was nothing compared to the one Miles had prompted from you. You tried to think about anything else but the conversation you had on Thursday’s night.
He smiled at you, “Hey, who’s your friend?”
“Oh, um, this is my old friend Miles,” you pointed at the boy standing to your right. “Miles this is Jonah,” you introduced them awkwardly.
“Sup,man,” Miles nodded his head.
“Hey.”
Miles looked back at you, “I’ll see you later, ma,” he tapped his fingers against your forehead before taking his leave.
You sighed already missing his presence. You turned to your notes app and looked down, scrolling through last week’a notes.
“What? You ignore me for four days and suddenly don’t want to have a conversation?” He prompted and you sighed, barely looking up from your pad.
“The phone works both ways, Jonah Smith,” you hummed, “You didn’t call either.”
“You told me not to.”
“I told you not to miss me because I would be too busy to see you, I never told you not to call, that’s on you not on me,” you shrugged.
“The phone works both ways,” he shot back and you rolled your eyes in annoyance.
“I was busy.”
“So was I.”
“Good for you,” you hummed scrolling through your notes, “Do you want a medal?”
“Is it just me or are you getting bitchier by the day?”
“Oh really, I was about to ask you the same exact question,” you cooed sarcastically, refusing to spare him a glance.
He chuckled leaning into your space, “Go out with me.”
“No thanks.”
“Come on! Please.”
“You just called me a bitch, why on earth would I go out with you?”
“You just called me one too, we’re even, so I’ll pick you up at eight?”
“Mr. Stark has a dinner to attend and I have to make sure he gets there on time and in order, you know…my job.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Can’t, I have things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Other people,” you said cheekily and he gave you an unamused look.
“You wouldn’t do that to me would you?”
“As if you have given me the same courtesy, how’s Casey by the way?”
“I’m not interested in Casey,” he whispered lips brushing your ear. “You on the other hand.”
You leaned away, unmoved by his attempt, a week ago you probably would have crumbled, but if you were honest with yourself…you turned you head slightly catching Miles’ gaze from where he looked up at you.
Maybe if it were Miles…
He called you beautiful.
‘You like him too, don’t you.’
“I wish I could say the same, Smith.”
Jonah frowned, “Smith? Are you serious?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Why are you so against the idea of the two of us together?”
“Why are you so for it?”
He grumbled, “You’re so stubborn, just go out with me!”
“Oh my god!” You turned away from him as the lecture began. “I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Come on—!”
“Ignoring you now.”
When your lecture finished you were quick to pack away your things and move for the exit.
“Wait!” Jonah called after you and you squeaked.
A warm calloused hand swallowed yours and you were tugged out the door and around the corner with a strength and speed that left you breathless. Your body collided with theirs, warm solid and athletic. You looked up to spot Miles grinning down at you.
“Are you busy?”
You bit your lip, “Not until five.”
“Come on,” he intertwined his fingers with yours and pulled you along with him and you were eager to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m thinking lunch, you hungry?”
“Starving, do you like shawarma?”
“Never had it.”
You gasped, “Well you’re missing out.”
“Lead the way,” he motioned you forward and you eagerly tugged him along with you, very content to lead the way, holding onto his hand as you did.
“Thanks by the way,” you whispered as you stood in line.
He beamed down at you, eyes soft, “The guy seemed a bit pushy,” he said in an attempt to be light but there was something else in gaze that caused you to shiver.
“Jonah, Pssh,” you waved him off, “He’s harmless, just a little stubborn.”
“A little annoying.”
“What was that?” You asked not sure that you heard him right.
“Nothing,” he nudged your should and you have him a little smile. “Do you come here often?”
“All the time,” you answered, “This place has saved my life,” you looked around the simple restaurant, took in the old leather seats, the chipped wouldn’t tables. Took in the smell of roasting meat. This place was a part of your bloodstream. This was the first place you ever ate at after your mother died, Tony had dragged you here rambling about how good food made the pain better. He was right. He watched you sniffle sob as you devoured a chicken platter right before his eyes. You came here regularly it made your shoulders feel light when things got a bit to heavy. “I love it here.”
Miles was watching your expression thoroughly s small little smile pulling at the corners of his soft lips, “Then I’m glad you showed it to me.”
You had to look away so he couldn’t see your beaming smile. You heard him chuckle to himself as you looked around trying not to find his gaze.
The sounds of giggles drew your attention, you looked passed Miles to spot a group of girls giggling and pointing at Miles’ lithe figure. You frowned, annoyance bubbling to life in your chest.
You tried to ignore them as you pointed out things on the menu for Miles to consider trying. Until you noticed one of the girls stand and start making her was over eyes fixed on Miles determinedly.
‘You like him too, don’t you.’
Damn it Tony.
You pressed your self into his side, drawing his attention and you looked up at him innocently, “We’re still meeting up tomorrow right?”
“Yeah, as long as you’re still up for it,” he scratched the back of his neck and you smiled.
“Of course,” you waved him off, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something else after we work on our painting some.”
He cocked his head curiously, “Something else like?”
You shrugged, “I don’t know, something fun,” you wiggled you brows and giggled at the expression on his face. Your hand pressing against his chest. You skimmed you hand across the expanse of muscle before reached for his opposite hand intertwining your fingers. “You can choose.”
“I can choose? Are you sure about that?”
You shrugged casually switching sides with him, so you could hold his hand comfortably. “If you’re anything like you used to be I think it will be fun.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” he grinned and hummed pressing into his side again. You turned you head slightly noticing the girl slinking back to her table complaining.
You surpessed a triumphant smile as the two of you got to the counter. The cashier greeted you with a smile, “Your usual, I’m guessing.”
You nodded and turned to Miles, “What’s your usual?”
“A chicken platter, it comes with rice, hummus, salad, and potatoes, I always get mine with garlic sauce and tahini—oh and everything is halal,” you pointed at the different sauces and the different options.
Miles settled on getting a lamb and beef platter with hot sauce and sweet sauce.
The two of you found a table by the window and settled comfortably.
“I saw that you know?”
You looked up from your food, to see him smiling knowingly at you. “Saw what?”
“I didn’t know you were possessive.”
You scoffed feeling your cheeks grow hot under his stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry, ma, I thinks it’s kinda hot.”
You spluttered and he chuckled at your expression.
You grumbled, “Whatever.”
Miles shook his head in amusement, hooking his ankle with yours from under the table. You smiled lightly looking out the window.
‘You like him too don’t you.’
~~~
“This all your fault,” you grumped at Tony that night on your way to dinner, scrolling through his schedule for the rest of the week. He had a press conference Friday afternoon.
“A lot of things are my fault, you need to be more specific, Light of My Life.”
You adjusted the hem of your dress and shot him a glare, “You like him too don’t you. Now it turns out I do and it’s your fault!”
He chuckled, “You’re the second person to give me shit about that today, Rhodey called me crying on the phone because he finally realized he’s in love with that Maya girl from his unit.”
You gasped, “Oh I love Maya, she’s so badass and pretty, he should be glad to fall in love with someone like her.”
“Yeah, but you know Platypus, you and him are kinda similar.”
“I resent that,” you snapped , “Besides it’s not even love, it’s more like—.”
“A massive crush?” Tony raised his brows, “Sounds like love to me.”
“Shut up!”
~~~~~
Dinner was as pleasant as dinner could be when speaking to a bunch of snotty children with way too much money to their names. Tony spoke about what was needed to be spoken on before he had all but checked from the conversation, eyes fixed on his phone.
No doubt harassing Pepper to get out of this.
You looked around the fancy restaurant with bored eyes, blinking slowly lips pursing. You were itching to take a page out of Tony’s book and look down at your phone but you were too polite for that.
You looked down at your glass of wine spotting the small tremble in the liquid.
Your looked around the restaurant again, noting the swinging chandelier. Your phone vibrated in your clutch and you sneakily looked down to check who had texted you. Much to your delight it was Miles.
‘Where are you right now?’
‘Dinner with my boss. I told you before.’
‘Where eggs tacitly?’
‘*where exactly?’
You frowned feeling the ground beneath you tremble. You looked down at your phone typing in the name of the restaurant and just as you pressed send the frond door was razed down by —a fucking armoured tank.
What the absolute fuck was your life right now?
Dust and debris clouded the air and people shrieked and scrambled for cover. For a moment you sat there in disbelief until a man—a man who seemed familiar to you popped out the top of the vehicle.
Your eyes immediately caught the crude arc reactor strapped to his chest. The gauntlets on his hands.
Was that? No. It couldn’t be. He’s supposed to be dead.
“Tony Stark!” He bellowed and you trembled.
It was. It was exactly who you though it was.
Tony moved fast gripping you by the arm and yanking you down under the table. You squeaked at the harsh movement. Brown eyes wide. “I-Is that?”
“Apparently.”
“You told me he was dead.”
“He self destructed, excuse me for assuming such,” Tony whispered, pulling his wrist up to mouth he whispered, “Friday deploy Mach 108 and Mini 16.”
“Mini 16 is still—.”
“Don’t care deploy ASAP—!”
Boom!
“Stark! Come face your greatest enemy!”
Boom!
You peaked out from beneath the table noting that he was making good use of his new gauntlets. Since when did Whiplash shoot plasma ?
“He’s not even top thirty,” Tony grumbled yanking you back under the table. “I’d put him at at least low hundreds.”
“Now is not the fucking time—!”
Boom.
You and Tony went flying.
Tony gripped you to him tightly, the familiar mechanical whirring of his gauntlet (only for emergencies) encompassed his hand. A blast from the gauntlet cushioned your fall, but the two of you still went rolling several feet away from where you once stood were.
The wind left your lungs.
“There you are old friend!”
“Not friends,” Tony grunted crouching in front you protectively, “Could hardly say enemies, I like what you did with your hair by the way,” Tony mocked, “It’s giving cultural appropriation, ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ but Haiti instead of India.”
“I was thinking more Jamaica,” You whispered hysterically, “but I’m not gonna do my people like that, that’s pure dirt and grease.”
“Really?” Tony cocked his head, “I knew his hair was too shinny—you disappoint me Ivan.”
“I see you haven’t changed a bit Stark, is it just me, or did you age ten years?”
“It’s been ten years Ivan,” Tony deadpanned, “Just because I aged beautifully does not give the right to be rude—FRIDAY what part of ASAP isn’t clicking?”
Whiplash cocked his head, “No…,” he narrowed his eyes, “I saw you six months ago, remember?”
Tony cocked his head, “No…No I don’t think so, I would remember your greasy disposition—no scratch that, You exploded so I’m still trying wrap my head around the fact that you aren’t pink mist in the sky.”
“Exploded—? I killed your little sidekick remember?”
Tony shook his head and you didn’t have to see his face to know his nose was scrunched. I’m confusion. “I don’t have a side kick.”
“Yes you do.”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“ (Your Full Name),” Whiplash sneered it so viscously you flinched, he smirked mockingly, “Sharp pretty little thing, always had something smart to say, she didn’t have anything left to say when I cut of her head.”
You choked on your breath, lungs burning.
What did he just say?
Cut off your…?
Tony risked a glance at your terrified face before he looked back at the undead man standing in front of you.
“Oh that rang a bell didn’t it, Iron Man,” he drawled the tittle, “There’s the look. You have a moral code, hero’s don’t kill,” he chuckled, “it’s why you threw me in a bunker instead of putting an end to me right then and there—ack!” He seemed to glitch in front of you splitting at the seams.
Oh no.
Six years ago all through out New York things that didn’t belong seemed to glitch in their spot.
All these happenings linked to Kingpin’s experiment below Brooklyn, his super collider.
If that was the case then this man…
“Tony he’s from a different universe—.”
“What did you just say?” Tony’s voice was low and cold, viscous. It caused a shudder to run down your spine. You had never heard that tone.
Whiplash cackled, “What are you gonna do, Hero.”
Crash!
From the right a came a familiar flying tube, Tony caught it in his gauntlet, and the metal seemed to melt, climbing up his arm and covering his body in the familiar red and gold armour of his Iron Man suit.
You shrink back against the wall.
“What are you gonna do, Stark? Throw me in another pit? I’ll just crawl back out.”
“Nah, I think I’ll put you six feet deep...again”
“You’re a hero.”
“News flash, fucker, I’m retired."
Tony blasted him without much thought. While you scrambled to get civilians out of the way, ushering cowering people towards the kitchen out the back door as quickly as possible.
"Mini 16 has malfunctioned," you heard FRIDAY say but you were too frantic to stop and think about what she said.
Thwip!
Thwip!
People were yanked from view and out of the cross fire by webs and for a moment you let yourself feel relief. The confusion when instead of your your friendly neighbour-hood Spider-Man you saw a...Spider Woman wearing a pair of turquoise converse. Her white and black suit reminded you of a gymnast or a ballerina, the hood on the back marked with webs. She swung passed you snatching people up with their Webbs and out of harms way.
What the fuck?
Scratch that, who the fuck?
Not just her.. was that a punk Spiderman, with plat forms and electric guitar strapped to his back? And another Spiderman with gold bracelets and a blue and gold dhoti...indian? Then as if that shit wasn't enough this huge ass fucker emerged from the shadows with glowing red webs and were those claws? Oh hell no.
The call of her name had you turning to find your Spider-Man appearing in front of you, "What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I don't like the tone of accusation, you think I wanted to be here?! I was having dinner with my boss who by the way is on a murderous rampage!" You pointed at where Tony was no doubt trying to kill Whiplash a second time. "I didn't plan this!"
"Focus!" The dude with the claws bellowed as he lunged to attack the criminal.
"J-just please get out of here."
"yeah no shit!" You turned on your heel and sprinted for the exit.
Boom!
You stumbled as the ground shook beneath you, but just before you could get to the door, Whiplash came flying crashing into the wood and blocking your only chance of escape.
You shrank back immediately, lips pursing to withhold you cry of terror.
He stumbled to his feet, eyes zeroing on you. His eyes widened, and his lips curled, "you're alive." he whispered and you took a step back. He grinned, "Looks like I'll have the joy of decapitating you a second time!" He lunged, wiping at you with his plasma whips, the floor melting beneath each strike. You dove out of the way.
Your purse. Where was your purse.
You dove for your table, just barely catching the screams of commotion from the hero's, hearing Tony yelling at them to get the hell out of his way.
Shit. Shit. Shit. SHit.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You found your purse under your collapsed table.
"(Name ) get out of here!"
"I'm fucking trying!" You screamed in frustration, what did they think you were trying to do with a maniac blocking your fucking exist. God they were annoying. You pulled two pens from your clutch, clicking them to life, the writing tools morphing into two black batons and their points blazed with thrumming energy. You whipped around and swiped your arm when he got to close, from your batons emerged a a plasma whip much like his own that cracked the ground between you. You whipped at him again, using the other baton to blast him away from you.
You retreated towards the main entrance but he was persistent.
You dove out of the way of his strike, and blasted him with electricity from your batons. He twitched and shuddered, body going limp as he collapsed. You surged forward, stabbing down towards his arc reactor, electrocuting the power source in an attempt to shot circuit it, power him down.
Nothing happened.
He grinned up at you, "I learn from my mistakes."
Not enough power.
You stabbed down towards his neck but he kicked you backwards sending you toppling.
That’s enough being a Good Samaritan for today. Time to check out.
Tony appeared in front of you and you scrambled to get away, "Stay away from my kid!"
You slipped between the wall and the tank with a shuddering breath, your heels meeting the sidewalk, just barely missing his whip searing through the wall. He waschasing you.
Thwip!
You shrieked as you were suddenly yanked up into the air into a pair of familiar arms. "Oh thank god, he's trying to kill me."
"We figured," Your Spider-man said as he set you down on the roof of a building across the street.
"He wants to cut-off my head again,' you gasped, gripping his arms to keep you steady. "You need to over power his arc reactor, electricity, you need a lot of it."
"Didn’t you just try to do that?" The Spider-woman inquired.
"Yeah, uh, these are for self defence, not offence, this is just enough voltage to put a bear down, not an arc reactor like his apparently I had done this to him before and he learned from his mistakes--did I mention that Whiplash died ten years ago? How the hell is he here, why are there so many of you?!"
"We're from different universes," The Indian Spider-man shrugged.
"Yeah, I know I’m just freaking out—nice suit by the way" You complimented, before turning to your spider-man, "You see that's a good suit."
"You can insult my preferences later."
“I can make you a better suit.”
“Can we put pin in this conversation, before your boss kills the man?!”
“Fine jeez! I need a phone,” you patted your person, knowing you had lost your phone at some point. “Does anyone have a phone?”
The spider people looked at you blankly and you almost pulled out your hair, you turned to your spider man noting vague Spanish cussing coming from a silver and orange watch on his wrist. “Take me to the pay phone.”
“We’re in a life and death—.”
“Take me to the phone! And the rest of you stop standing around like idiots!” You snapped.
“Okay fine jeez!”
“I don’t listen to authority.”
“Maybe if you asked nicely—!”
Your batons blazed threateningly and they all scrambled , your Spiderman took you by the waist and swung you down to the nearest pay phone. You reached into your bra, producing a tiny coin purse. Feeling eyes on you you looked up, “What? I don’t have pockets, if I had pockets I wouldn’t have to do this.”
He raised his hands in surrender as you made a call.
“Voice activation required.”
“Lightheart.”
“Access Granted, emergency protocols are in effect.”
“FRIDAY deploy sticky fingers prototype to my exact location immediately.”
“Sticky fingers?” Spider-man asked.
“I was in a hurry, leave me alone.”
“Prototype Sticky Fingers on route.”
“Thank you.”
“I shall inform Mr. Stark of your whereabouts.”
You hung up and squinted up at the sky. “My friends need help—.”
“A second.”
A small thin canister came zooming towards you from the Stark Tower. You took it from the air and motioned Spider Man forward and you opened it, producing two metal circles, flat and barely the size of your palm. “Give me your hands.”
He held them out and you pressed the disks into his pals watching them open and extend out to his fingers.
“Whoa.”
“Amplifiers for your static, they’re prototypes so they’re probably shit—.”
“When did you make these?”
“What time is it—? Like two hours ago—anyway, amplifiers; amplify what’s already there, charge up, use the palms of your hands not just your fingers, give it one good blast, you win, got it?”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. Go! Go!”
“Don’t move from here!” He scolded before swinging off to go join his spidery friends.
“I didn’t plan to,” you sighed resisting the urge to sit yourself down on the curb.
Cut off your head.
He cut off your head in another universe.
In another universe Tony did not have the same reservations about you joining him out in the field as your Tony did. In another universe you probably bullied him into letting you be his side kick and he let you. In another universe you were dead.
In another universe—.
You shuddered violently everything you had eaten making a reappearance as you hunched over and threw up on the sidewalk. You crouched muffling a sob.
He cut off your head.
You could remember having this reoccurring nightmare about dying. Was that it? Was that?
You’re not quite sure how long you crouched there shoulders trembling in fear, ears ringing before a hand touched your shoulder. You flinched away, recoiling from your sudden company.
“Miles?” You gasped, “W-what are you doing here?!”
“Looking for you, I couldn’t get you on the phone, I got worried,” he whispered, reaching out to wipe your tears away.
“You came looking for me?”
“Yeah?”
“W-why would you do that?!” You hit him in the shoulder and he hissed. “Are you crazy?! What if you got hurt?!”
“I was worried about you,” he protested evading your viscous palms.
You sobbed, “H-he tried to kill me and I—.”
Miles pulled you up into his arms, and you sobbed into his shoulder feeling warm all over. He came looking for you.
He actually came looking for you.
You pressed your face into his shirt and locked your arms around his waist as he rubbed circles into your back muttering quiet reassurance.
You felt safe.
“Kid,” you pulled away from Miles as Tony landed in front of you, his Iron Man suit peeling back off his body, gathering into a small cylinder in his palm. “Oh thank god—.”
You surged forward and wrapped your arms around him and he kissed your head, “You okay, kiddo?”
“I think so.”
“Better than nothing—Who’s your friend?”
~~~~~
You spent the night at the Stark Tower, wedged protectively between Pepper and Tony in their bed while watching reruns of the Golden Girls and eating pizza. It reminded you of when you were younger, it filled you with warmth. And reassurance that you were okay and that you were alive.
You emailed your professors to Take Wednesday off, spending most of your time in your lab, trying (and failing) to deconstruct gravity. You got yourself a new phone, that Tony has immediately downloaded Friday onto. When you got tired at failing, you turned your attention to remaking your amplifiers. If what Tony told you was correct, your Spider-Man came in clutch with the sticky fingers (will come up with a better name later) after the Blue Panther guy subdued Tony’s rampage and the other Spider-men were nearly put on a T-shirt and powered him down.
It was good to know it worked.
Now they just needed to work better.
Your phone rang and you looked down at the caller immediately snatching the phone to press it against your ear. “H-hi,” you breathed.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” you whispered running a hand over your lab bench, “I’ve been hold up at the tower for today, finally stopped shaking enough to get my mind to work.”
“Makes sense.”
“Did you miss me at school today?”
“Oh definitely, I finally noticed the guy that sits on the other side of you and I am surprised by his resemblance to Natalie Nunn.”
You gasped, “Morales! That’s foul!” You giggled putting your phone on speaker to turn your attention back to your project. “Anything important that I missed.”
“Not really, if you think it is I’ll just lend you my notes.”
“Thanks…”
The two of you talked for a few more minutes, “Are we still meeting up tonight for our project? If you’re not feeling up to it that’s totally fine.”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you at my apartment later.”
“Are still up for that something else I promised yesterday?”
You smiled, “I’d really like that.“
“Then I’ll see you tonight.”
“See you tonight.”
It took a bit of convincing to get Tony to send you home for the rest of the day. But you managed very excited to see Miles.
Which was very embarrassing really, but hey he started it.
He grinning when you opened the door holding up a box of chocolate and a full duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. “I’m not sure about you but chocolate makes me feel better.”
You were happy to accept it.
The two of you work diligently on your project together relieves to know you would have a finished product by the end of the month until the clock struck 9:30.
“Put on some comfy shoes and a good sweater.”
You did as he asked, “Where are we going?” You inquired as you walked side by side down the dark street, hands shoved into your hoodie to hide from the New York chill.
He sent you an excited grin, “Just wait and see.”
“You’re not gonna kill me are you?”
He spluttered and vehemently denied any such though and you laughed at his face, “Just kidding, Morales.”
He led you underground through an abandoned subway tunnel and hopped over the frankly tall fence plucking public entry.
“I don’t think this is legal,” you muttered your veins thrumming as you climbed up the chain link, nowhere near as graceful. You almost fell on your face but he righted you before grabbing your hand and leading further down.
And that where you saw it, the tunnel opened up into this dome like space. Some of the circular walls had been tagged with familiar art work. The biggest was a face you hadn’t seen in a long time. “Is that Aaron?” You looked up at the grinning man’s likeness.
Rest in Power.
“He showed me this place,” Miles out the duffel bag down on the ground.
“You painted this?”
“Yeah…”
You turned and smiled, “It’s amazing.”
He grinned at you and opened his bag, revealing a variety of spray cans, sitting atop them was a sketch book. He opened it up and motioned for you to look over his shoulder.
“I was thinking, this,” he pointed to a coloured in drawing, “Up there,” he motioned to the wall directly in front of him, lit up with old generator lights.
“I like it, let’s get started,” you reached into your bag and pulled out a Bluetooth speaker, “Any music preference?”
“As long as it’s a vibe, ma.”
You hummed and put shuffle on you playlist, which you described as “Random shit I listen to”, you sang along to the familiar sound of Afro-man, “Said colt 45 & 2 zigzags, baby that all we need we can go to the park after dark, smoke that tumbleweed—what?” You pouted at Miles who was looking at you in disbelief.
He merely shook his head and tossed some gloves at you. “Let’s get started.”
By the time you had finished it was nearly three in the morning. You looked up at the colourful mural with a little smile, head cocked. “I like it,” you whispered before yawning, laying your head on his shoulder.
“Mhmm.”
“Thanks for bringing me here,” you wrapped your arms around her bicep snuggling into his warmth, he turned his head lips pressed against your hairline.
“No problem, but looks like we gotta get you home,” he helped you stand up throwing his bag over his shoulder leading you out the way you came
If you had been paying attention on your way out you would have caught a glimpse of girl with blonde hair dressed in something familiar and a hero long dead but so familiar, but you were to caught up in the warmth of the boy beside you.
Proceeds to post an absolute masterpiece of a story with an interesting plot, good story pacing, realistic characters and dialogue, AND LONG CHAPTERS….AND U THINK ITS ASS?!?
Yeah, this is TRULY unfair. There is literally nothing in that part I have just posted that calls for being flagged. And it’s frankly fûcking annoying so—that’s gonna be my last post on this stupid app unless Tumblr appeals it, bye.
So reread what I’ve posted while you still can. I’m taking it down soon. I might post them on ao3 but my dumbass typed all this shit on the app, so it might take some time—🤷🏿♀️.
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