This Halloween Is Just Going To Be A Worldwide Event Of People Walking Around In Adorable Outfits Saying

Do you ever read a really questionable fanfiction or a spicy love story and think "what the fuck did I just read"

─ you’re the sunflower ੈ✩‧₊˚

✶ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader

✶ synopsis: everyone on the team loves you, expect miguel who seems to hate you more than anyone.

✶ warnings: angst!! major angst. sunshine!reader x grumpy!miguel. reader is nicknamed sunflower, mentions of death.

✶ notes: there’s one spanish sentence in this, I’m not good with spanish so if I’ve made a mistake please tell me so i can fix it! I might make a part 2 if this fic does well.

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Marc Spector: 12

“Two of a Kind”

a parent trap inspired au

Summary: You and James Potter were once intertwined, hearts beating for each other, but due to unforeseen circumstances, you decided to break up, taking Harold with you and Harry with him.

Pairings: James Potter x reader

Series Masterlist

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv

MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Two: Delusions of Fantasy

Chapter Summary: Settling into the semester, you find yourself in an unsuspecting position with your professor, meetings that shouldn't feel so secret but do and an assignment that may change the course of things for the better...or much worse. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), mentions of infidelity (not by joel), sarah doesn't exist here, background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, talks of literature and lots of random writing topics, more dream smut that translates into writing, gratuitous descriptions of mr. miller's body and personality, joel is conspicuously toeing the line of lusting after a student while reader is very obvious, some unspoken sexual tension

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You weren’t sure when days would begin to blur, pulling all-nighters to finish assignments that you kept putting off until the absolute last minute. But, the small coffee shop on the edge of campus has become your pseudo-home, early mornings and occasional nights when you need the extra energy boost or focus. 

There was a perfect little nook in the corner of the coffee shop that was hidden behind a wall. A small alcove that was usually empty—at least, it was when you tried to use it. And you find yourself there on a lonely night, crisp autumn air biting at your skin as you slip into the coffee shop. It’s mostly empty at this hour and you order your usual drink of choice before you’re slipping around the corner with your coffee in hand, startled by the sight before you.

“Oh, shit—Mr. Miller—” You stammer, stepping back awkwardly as you almost run into his arm that is flipping a pen between his fingers, his gaze flicking up to you curiously.

He’s just as surprised to see you here, but ultimately, it makes more sense in retrospect.

He had a house, an office (both here on campus and at home), but he preferred a place like this, surrounded by the smell of coffee and the gentle ambience. He could’ve gone home to Tess and gave up grading and preparing assignments, but that didn’t sound appealing either. He finds the more he’s in Tess’s presence, the worse his thoughts wonder.

That maybe escaping to the coffee shop would push you from his mind, but here you were, in the flesh, and Joel couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He offers a curt nod, polite. Part of him expects you to just…go away. But, he has the idea that he’s probably taking up your usual study spot. Before he entertains the idea of leaving, you take a seat silently in the chair across from him, holding up your hand.

“No, it’s fine—you don’t have to leave or anything.” You tell him assuredly, opening up your laptop as you settle into your spot, eyes connecting with his over the edges of your screen, his expression looking a little more jaded than your own.

You were exhausted, but he was exhausted and upset. You couldn’t be sure at what, but there was the glaring fact that he was here, nearing midnight, when he could easily be at home. You didn’t question it though, finding that if you wanted to, you could wear him down enough to talk.

“So,” After a long stretch of silence and his silent typing away at his keyboard and you still staring at a mostly blank screen, knowing you wouldn’t be able to get much work done with him around, thoughts and eyes wondering curiously, “I read those books you suggested.”

Ah, right. The email he’d sent on a whim. A lapse of judgment after the fact, seeing how it could be misconstrued, knowing it could be viewed as inappropriate.

The thoughts he was having were inappropriate, but even then, he knew he would never entertain it. And shit, you’re still looking at him, expecting some type of answer.

“Did you enjoy them?” He asks simply, no elaboration or asking for much.

 Just a simple yes or no.

There’s an angst that settles in your gut over his acknowledgment of the email, nodding quietly.

You had, truthfully. It was a few poem books he said were his favorites, and you could see where your interests intertwined, finding that the tone in the poems he enjoys reading is what you also enjoy reading.

Angst, dread, intense feeling that was hard to ignore.

And truthfully, Mr. Miller was impossible to ignore.

“I read them the other night,” You add, pulling up a half-finished assignment from your English course, “you’ve got…good taste.”

Joel chuckles quietly at that, easing slightly in his seat. Part of him was worried, even if his intentions were in the right place, that things may be misconstrued. He breaths out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“I figured you’d enjoy them.” He smirks slightly.

You feel your cunt clenching at the subtlety, crossing one leg over the other as you find a hauty comparison to his words, thought flashing through your mind.

You’d gone to bed with the words of the poems on your mind that night, but the voice wasn’t lacking in tone or voiceless—in fact, it was his voice. His words as he pumped one, two, and then three fingers into you over his desk, hands clenched into his shirt as you held onto him like a lifeline, only surfacing back to reality just as you were about to come.

But, he didn’t need to know that.

And you didn’t need to know how desperate he fucked himself into a lonely fist when he was pent up from work (which was more often than not, lately) with the image of you on his mind.

He’s never had thoughts like this and he can’t comprehend why—part of him wants to blame Tess and her choices and the stress it has put on his marriage. But, Joel has been checked out for a while and this, even though only in the confines of his mind, feels like an even worse betrayal.

“You should send me more.” A soft sip on your coffee as you stare flirtatiously over the rim of your cup—cool it, you tell yourself. But, it doesn’t work.

There’s a small twitch in his face, the deepest hint of a smile saying—yeah, I’ll challenge that—but it quickly fades. 

“Just…if you want to,” You add, playing things subtly, carefully, “if that’s okay?”

Joel knows he shouldn’t entertain the idea, but he sees the genuineness in your expression, beyond his attraction toward you. You had a desire to write and share and feel—he could respect that. He nods slightly, pressing his laptop closed and gathering his things slowly.

“Alright—give me a couple days,” Joel bargains, “Anything you prefer?”

You shake your head innocently, wishing he would recommend his own literature. You wanted to see how deep his ego ran, if he had the nerve to be so bold. “Anything you like, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it too.”

It was an understatement.

And the accidental coffee shop mishap doesn’t end there. In fact, it quickly grows out of control, beyond your own intention—this was natural, no coaxing needed.

–

Joel hated how much he craved your presence outside of work, in this stupid fucking coffee shop—but like his dependency to schedule and caffeine, he finds you become a normal occurrence and it throws him out of wack when you’re not around.

Luckily, you never strayed. You were there every night, even early mornings when he had to take a retirement for the night—you didn’t need to pry, you knew. He’d twist a nervous hand around his wrist that slowly trailed to his ring finger, fingers flexing anxiously. He had to be home, he didn’t want more problems. Even if this was somehow helping him work through his inhibitions, he still had a responsibility.

And Joel knows the time he’s spending with you could be misconstrued, but he does it out of a genuineness to further your interest and desire into literature if anything. He’s met with many students after hours—though, not to this extent. And always within the grounds of school, either in the classroom or his assigned office, nothing beyond the border of allowing a personal connection.

He was bending rules for you and he couldn’t help it.

There’s so much you learn in the short month or so that this drags on—Joel likes black coffee, no add-ins or sweet touches. He fidgets a lot, fingers constantly twisting at the watch on his wrist or scratching at his slowly regrowing stubble when he had just shaven a day or two prior—you start to notice the small blank patches in his beard because of it.

He seems so unsuspecting and normal—maybe that was what drew you in. You couldn’t really pinpoint it anymore. There was a point where the secret admiring morphed into open admiration and maybe Joel should’ve stopped it there. But, it made him feel good.

It made him feel wanted. And that was his first real mistake he made with you.

Allowing it.

It never breached anything inappropriate, but he’d notice when you would track the movement of his hands, rubbing over his face or neck in exhaustion, arms stretching over the back of his head after a long period of sitting down, hunched over in the small sanctuary you two had constantly found yourself in.

Mr. Miller was fair in that he never helped you with his assignments. He wasn’t there to give you a leg up or help you out in that regard, he knew you were capable. Competent. But, he fed your desire for him and literature by asking about your own interests and melding them his own, curating your time together in the small cafe with topics you could both find yourself getting lost in.

It was easy to lose track of time with him. And very irresponsible.

Joel does notice your longing glances and subtle twitches in your face when he does certaIn things, moving his body in a way that accentuates his strong form—he wasn’t toned necessarily, but he was broad, large, and he wasn’t amiss to how his own shirt clung to his body or how well-tailored his slacks were. He liked things to fit well. And you appreciated that so much.

But, beyond your own disappointment, things never cross that line.

He never makes a comment or threads the line of touching you, his hands always aware of their placement around you—and maybe he was just being respectful and was terrified to lose his job, but you can see the flex of his fingers when you remove your sweater or lean in to close to him, his eyes dragging along the slope of your neck, nostrils flaring in response at how comfortable enough you feel to just lean in.

He’s foolish to think this wouldn’t mean anything to you, but he allows that thought to stray from his mind and continues, too attached to these meet-ups like they were his own form of free therapy, beyond the dreadful marriage counseling he was going through.

It wasn’t working, but this was.

And he thinks that it is partly because it’s you and not Tess.

In fact, he knows it’s you.

The emails continue for weeks, days upon days of trading back responses and links—and really, everything is telling him to stop. Everything.

The guilt. The fear. The anger.

Yet, he never tries.

-

Joel can feel you breaking out of your shell little by little, more engaged in the group setting of the classroom the more time he’s spent with you one on one. He doesn’t want to initiate a responsibility in it, but he can since the familiarity and comfort when you speak–even if it's mostly directed at him.

Truthfully, you didn’t have a problem speaking in front of the class, but if it filled Mr. Miller with a sort of pride, you weren’t going to deny that.

You try to ignore the way he speaks your name, calls on you and beckons you to speak with a raise of his eyebrows, arms crossed firmly over his chest–and your eyes draw to his stomach, following along the soft slope and over his groin and you see his thighs tense as he crosses his legs too, one gently over the other as he leaned against his desk.

You smirk slightly, feigning a look of innocence as your eyes drag to his face, answering his question mindlessly—something about how to capture dialogue properly and even Joel can see that you’re not fully there, mind elsewhere.

It wasn’t hard to surmise where, but he ignored it. For now.

But, it wasn’t until the day was nearing the end of your class, head buried in your laptop as you copied your handwritten notes down into a document for later, knowing absently that he was perusing around the room but trying to ignore his lingering presence every time he glanced over at you.

His hands surround your chair before he announces himself, flimsy plastic creaking underneath his grip.

“Mr. Miller.” You address pleasantly, typing idly away at your keyboard.

He speaks your name gently, a reverence in his tone that allures fondness, a smile creeping on his lips. 

“Any questions?” He asks curiously, brow furrowing in confusion, “On the assignment—“

He points blindly to the board, eyes still locked on you as your head turns toward the board, down at your notes, then back at him.

“I mean—not really?” You sound unsure, “Write something fantasy, make it interesting—“

He can feel your interest waning, seeming rather nonchalant about the topic, like it would be an absolute breeze and wasn’t worth the wasted energy. But, he’s challenging you.

To what, you weren’t sure.

Joel clears his throat, grip tightening on the back of your chair as he leaned over subtly, chest crowding around the back of your head, examine the notes you did have type out before his eyes dragging back toward you, and you can’t ignore his gaze, chin turning up toward him and your eyes soften as they connect with his.

“But, specifically—dreams.” He clarifies, “Sometimes your best ideas can come to you in a dream—so think of it as journaling them but, expanding…bringing it to life.”

Dreams…

You’ve had enough of them in preceding weeks to last you a lifetime, all including him.

“Bringing it to life…” You echo his words, mincing the words on your tongue as the idea flusters your mind, a small nod from Joel in response.

Of course, he had no idea the extent of how deep your mind wandered, but his words were edging too close for comfort, like he had the faintest idea.

There’s a brief moment of self awareness as his eyes drag to your lips, tongue dampening them as you soothe the chapped skin, nodding absently.

“I think—I think I understand what you’re saying.”

Mr. Miller smiles then, whether fake or not you couldn’t tell, “Good—feel free to, uh—“

Email him.

You see him hesitate to force the words out, chuckle awkwardly as he leans away, breaking the built up tension between you both.

“Yeah, yep.” You laugh softly, infectiously as you turn your attention back toward your laptop, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He pats your shoulder softly and squeezes, the only point of contact he ever allows himself, never letting his touch linger or stray because he knows—if he broke that point of contact and wandered elsewhere, he wasn’t sure he could stop.

-

You tap mindlessly at the edge of your keyboard, laptop resting wobbly in your propped up legs, start to type a word before quick erasing. Mind flicking through baseless and boring ideas, wondering how easily you could muster up a fake dream and amaze Mr. Miller with your lackluster writing skills—just lie, it wasn’t that hard.

You feel your mind wandering then, head hung back against your pillow as you stare at your ceiling, his expression etched into the back of your mind, eyes wandering along the dip in your cupid’s bow and the less than subtle lick of your lips that you offered in return. 

This couldn’t all be in your head.

You sigh, heavy and thick, but the soft ding of a notification on your laptop pulls your attention.

On the other end, Joel sits anxiously at his desk, foot tapping insistently against the hardwood floor, still fully dressed from work sans his tie that laid slack on his desk.

It wasn’t even a fully drafted email, rather a precursor to beginnings of an improper, but casual conversation. He tried to keep an open line of communication with all of his students, but when you don’t show up at the coffee shop that night, too burdened with the idea of just what you were going to write—he worries. 

‘Are things coming along? Didn’t catch you at the cafe tonight.’

You stare blankly, unsure how to respond.

It felt…odd, starting a conversation over email.

Of course, you didn’t have any other means of communication, so this is what Joel was forced to devolve too, tapping nervously as he awaited your response.

‘Having trouble actually—any suggestions?’

Part of you craves to hear his voice—and selfishly, he does too. And Joel knows the moment he offers the information up, he’s going to regret it. But, he does.

The house was empty, thankfully. Tess was working later than usual and Joel couldn’t be bothered with the semantics, finding himself straying further and further from this bed every night. His office was his new sanctuary, bad back be damned—he would choose the couch over a bed with her, knowing she still judged him for the choices she made.

A phone number is attached to the email that follows, ‘I’m free, if you want to talk through it.’

Your heart desynced from its usual rhythm for a brief moment, nearly fleeing your body if you hadn’t felt it so deeply in your chest. You couldn’t—this…it couldn’t be all in your head.

You quickly type the number into your contacts, hovering for far too many minutes over the call button, wondering if it mattered how you looked—if he would judge. You didn’t appear much different, but you were in your own comforts, vulnerable. And as much as he appeared here in your dreams, the reality of him being this close was startling.

You bite thoughtfully at your bottom lip as you prop your phone against the screen of your laptop, a blank document open behind the calling screen as you went through with your hesitation and attempt to connect the call, chin resting against your fist as you waited, eyes wandering aimlessly around the room.

When the familiar tone blares of the call going through and Joel is suddenly appearing on screen, you’re not sure why you followed through with this in the first place—even if he was the one who insisted it by offering up the information.

He looks slightly more disheveled across the screen, still dressed in the outfit you saw him in earlier, his tie gone, a button or two undone, and he’s definitely allowed his fingers to run through his usually quaffed hair, a curl falling freely over his forehead, his phone seemingly propped up in a similar manner as you can see most his upper body that wasn’t hidden by his desk.

“So, what’s the issue?”

He jumps right in, which isn’t surprising.

You feel the sense of familiarity in your usual conversations, like you were almost there in the room with him—you couldn’t imagine how exhausted you looked or seem currently, but you push the thought from your mind and hoped it didn’t cross his, that he wasn’t harping on your similarly disheveled appearance in his mind.

He seemed as if he genuinely wanted to help.

You hated it, wishing he wouldn’t drag things out.

If he wanted you, he could have you.

Instead, it felt like he wanted to—or rather needed to keep you at a distance, just out of reach for his own good rather than yours.

“Just…wondering, I guess.” You look down briefly, feeling his curiosity through the screen as you pick at a frayed thread in your blanket. “How—how detailed are you asking?”

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be so loud that it feels like…too much?” Joel feels like he may not be making complete sense, but he tries. “Do you have a few dreams you remember well that you feel the need to jot down, that you can morph it into something tangible?”

The way he speaks so eloquently, even beyond the guise of his profession, never gets old. Maybe it is a habit he’s formed, speaking and teaching for so many years that he can’t force himself out of that mode—but maybe he was also allowing it to be a barrier, that if he let his guard down too much that you might sneak in and find a way to pick at him and allow yourself to get comfortable.

He couldn’t do…comfortable. But, this—this he could manage. It allowed for a clear divide between student and teacher. Professional and casual, even if he didn’t hand out his phone number to people so willingly. 

“Um…yeah,” You nod slightly, mind filtering through the filthy thoughts of him over you, breathing a deep satiating desire for relief into your body, lips on your body, fingers buried deep inside of you, bringing you right near the precipice before you’re being ripped away from the glorious fantasy, “there’s a few, I guess.”

“Do you wanna share?” His eyebrows raise inquisitively, his hand disappearing off screen to bring a clear glass to his lips, half-filled with a dark brown liquid.

Tequila, maybe? Whiskey? 

His lips curl around the edge of the and he sips, ice clanking inside of the glass as he awaits your response.

You shake your head hesitantly, smiling slightly, “I think the whole point is to surprise you, right?”

He chuckles softly, “I suppose.”

“Maybe…some vague advice, if you have any?”

Joel sets the glass against the desk a few inches off screen, thinking quietly. Eyebrows furrowing deep as he contemplates. Hard.

“Don’t hold back,” He starts, staring mindlessly off into the distance as he speaks, “be—be authentic and try not to limit yourself.”

“So, no sparing any details?” You ask teasingly and he smirks at your playful tone.

“Why would you do that?” He asks unknowingly of the thoughts on your mind, “You’re a beautiful writer, don’t discredit yourself.”

It tugs at something deep inside of you, a subtle frown forming on your face as you nod in response. “Thank you…”

“Hey,” There’s a gentle utterance of your name that has your eyes connecting fiercely across the screen, “I mean that.”

You’re silent, at a loss for words. It wasn’t for lack of knowing what to say, but how to say something—how to extend your appreciation. But, you figure that may translate better through writing, brewing over the idea in your head.

“Mr. Miller—“ Your mind lingers on unspoken words and thoughts, begging to be spoken, but the faint creak of a door in the background on his end has you both shooting to attention, a shared understanding as he scrambles slightly.

“If you run into any road blocks, just send me a message, okay?”

You nod, cut off by his sudden eagerness to end the call—feeling you just got caught doing something horrible, a shunning on the horizon.

You sleep that night with a fresh revelation on your mind, smothered by the feeling of special treatment that Mr. Miller was offering, wholly committed to your own delusion and it fuels and stokes that fire effortlessly. And the vivid scenes of your dream flow onto the page the following morning in perfect detail:

It starts off innocent, a bland tale of forbidden love or…something thereof, playing at the idea that this wasn’t supposed to be. Two parrying forces that yearn for the other but can’t find the courage to jump or take that leap—full of dread and hesitance and intensifying that idea. 

Until, there’s a major implode of tension.

A sudden snap on the male character that resembles Joel so much it is unsettling, down to the subtle mannerisms as he takes in the characters appearance and words throughout, slowly describing yourself in a way that isn’t…obvious. But, it is heavily implied. 

There’s a sudden confession of desire, not love, but a definite yearning that is mostly mutual, leading into a fantasy of filth. Debauchery personified in a way that feels inappropriate to write for a college assignment but is therapeutic for your mind.

His hands wander with a restrain that reads as worried—unsure of what the other character expects, but the moment your lips connect all bets are off, clothes rapidly disappearing amongst the confines of the male’s vaguely described quarters, laid over a flat surface. His bed or his desk, the detail is omitted, but he crowds dream you in and devours, capturing your mouth in another heated kiss, hands wasting no time as they slip over your cunt, beyond the sacred barrier of your underwear and inside of you like he’s done this a million times before.

In your mind, he had. But, that was beyond the point.

His fingers work you over expertly, your own hands wandering over his strong frame, biceps flexing underneath your touch as you describe a distinct feeling of stubble as he decends and you feel the texture against the inside of your thighs, underwear disappearing at some point you can’t remember before his mouth is latching into your cunt without hesitation, feeling the warmth of his mouth so vividly it almost startled you awake at the time, the distinctness of his voice echoing in your mind, biting your lip to stifle your desperate moans.

“Don’t hold back.” He echoes, a distinct line of dialogue that sticks out in your mind as you type it into the document, feeling your inside twist and clench at the fleeting memory of his voice.

You come against his mouth with a shout, fingers twisting into his horrible disheveled hair, just long enough that you can secure a good grip before you’re pulling him upright, tasting the slick of yourself on your tongue as you kiss him.

It’s all a dream, after all. 

You take your own liberties, playing up the descriptions in a way that feels sinful, but you do it anyway. You finished the assignment in a few hours despite the ability to extend it over a few days, not bothering to wait as the idea was still fresh in your mind as you typed it out.

You don’t even hesitate to send the assignment once it is finished, fully confident in your abilities and Joel’s echoing encouragement.

It may have been the best thing you’ve ever written.

-

Joel is blissfully unaware of the debauchery awaiting him in his inbox, busying himself with the endless list of divorce attorneys in the state, wondering if he should really go through with this—ending his marriage, starting anew and cutting ties with Tess. He isn’t sure, really.

He isn’t positive about anything in his life anymore. 

He sips gingerly at the steaming cup of coffee, his second of the night as he switches between his browser and a separate page of assignments he was concocting for the rest of the semester, specifically tailoring some around your own interests. He couldn’t explain why he was putting the effort in, why there was genuine concern—but he wanted you to succeed, if anything.

You don’t see him at first, he wasn’t hidden away in your usual spot, but he’s tucked away in a quiet corner near the back of the cafe, and you almost decide to ignore him and give him the space he seems like he craved, wondering if he had already read through your essay, but he nods at you subtly when he catches your gaze, a quick look up from his computer as you grabbed your coffee order from the barista.

Come here, he beckons silently.

You cross a single arm over your chest and press the lid of the cup to your lips and sip, gentle are careful steps progressing his way as you stop, hip pressing against the edge of the table. He looks at you, friendly and innocent, like he hadn’t offered up his phone number without precautions or asking, handing out the final line of connection that sealed the deal for you. This wasn’t just…help. It had to be more.

“J–Mr. Miller,” You catch yourself, finding his first name almost slipping from your lips, too close for comfort but he doesn’t seem to catch it, “reading through the assignments?”

You’re curious, but silently hoping he hasn’t crossed yours yet. Or, if he had, wondering if he was calling you over for that very reason—he wouldn’t express his thoughts in the coffee shop though, he couldn’t. If he lies, you can’t see through it.

“Uh, not yet, giving that a couple days,” He shakes his head, closing out of the browsers and shutting his laptop, “sit?”

He’s extending the invitation, hand gesturing toward the empty seat.

You bite back the smile that creeps on your face and take a seat, pulling at the sweater that covers your body, the cold chill creeping into the cafe as the bells to the entrance ring.

“Did you ever figure out what you were struggling with?” Joel asks curiously, still painfully in teacher mode, much to your dismay, “I didn’t hear from you, so…”

“Oh, um,” There’s an excited fluttering in your tummy, hesitant to debrief him on the details, but you nod, “yeah—just took a little bit of thought and the words started flowing.”

“Well, that’s good,” He offers politely, “I’m glad I could help—if…if I did.”

“Of course,” You smile more confidently, “You always do.”

If he only knew.

His eyebrows furrowing subconsciously, staring at his watch as the numbers creeped closer to midnight, his mind heavy with thought he wouldn’t speak out loud. So, you ask.

“Are you okay?” You utter softly, knowing it was the instance either of you have ever made the effort to ask—through countless meet-ups and secret conversation, feeling a need to keep it all hushed—it never occurred to you until you’re saying the words out loud. “You seem…irritated.”

Joel laughs bitterly, a soft chuckle that radiates in his chest. “Who isn’t?” He challenges, seeing the familiar look cross your own face, “Sorry—that’s—”

Joel looks away briefly, feeling that confiding you was a line he couldn’t cross, even though he’s blurred just about every other one in existence. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” You shrug, “but I figure—it doesn’t hurt to ask?”

He’s withholding and you can see it, clock it in the way he checks his phone screen—a few missed calls and a text but you can’t read out anything other than the name. Tess.

Tess Miller. Got it.

“Did you get your assignment turned in then?” He asks curiously.

You nod shyly, twirling the cup slowly on the table, eyes drawn away from him despite how starkly he glared at you, hands cupped in his lap underneath the table. If you scooted closer your knees would knock together and you fight the urge to do so.

Joel notices the way you curl inward, a subconscious act that always denotes something simmering beneath the surface with you. He was used to your forwardness, your inability to respect personal space to a degree that…didn’t necessarily bother him in the way that it should. And he hates how his cock twitches at the sight of you glancing away, intimidated by his eye contact for once in the few months he’s gotten to know you.

There’s a creeping thought edging its way into his mind, an urge to force your wandering gaze on him, coax you into trusting him, wondering just how easy it would be for you to comply with his will, if it would take any fight on your part at all.

“Good, I’m excited to read it.” Joel replies honestly, a genuine smile finding its way onto his face, “I’m always lookin’ forward to what your mind thinks up.”

He may be asking for more than he bargains for with that.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday then?” You confirm, feeling the need for a quick escape, things getting entirely too close for comfort, “Hopefully with a perfect score?”

Joel smirks knowingly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself now.” He teases.

Unfortunately, you were yards if not miles ahead. 

Beyond saving.

And Joel had no idea.

dearest gentle readers | introduction

pairing(s): marauders (undetermined) x reader

warning(s): eventually 18+, bridgerton au, mentions of marriage, slight cursing?, i’m not british so just pretend i know what i’m talking about, mentions of scandal and incest, not proofread/edited so forgive me

word count: 818

masterlist

Sponsored by Lady Minerva McGonagall and desperate to find a match before you’re truly considered a spinster, you find yourself caught up in the whirlwind that is The Season. Will you be able to find a husband by August? Or is fortune just as fickle as the ton?

Swathes of fabric lined with lace, ruffles, and beads filled the great expanse of the room.

Yellows as pale as cream and blues as deep as midnight thrown over chase and chair. London’s dreary gloom seemed brighter the longer such a vibrant array of colors decorated the space. Lady Minerva McGonagall wasted no expense on the three debutantes she’d chosen to sponsor again this season.

Beside you, Mary eyed the fabrics with rapt attention.

You fingered the expensive satin silk of the dress nearest to you. Simple in silk, but a striking royal purple, it truly was a marvel of craftsmanship.

“I can’t believe how many dresses there are.” Mary’s Scottish accent appeared to be far less pronounced than what you might’ve imagined, but you three were sure to be an odd bunch. Lady McGonagall had sponsored you lot for two years already. A favor welcomed by your not-so-noble families. Or rather, your not-so-wealthy families.

“I’ve decided on new wardrobes for you this season. You will be married by the end of it, if I have any say. Mary’s are by the window and Lily’s are by the bed.”

Minerva’s sharp gaze turned to you. You’d had either the luck or misfortune (which one it was, you weren’t quite sure) to additionally spend the last few years as Minerva’s ward. Her rough edges were thorns you’d grown accustomed to, especially in her times attempting to make you a reputable lady.

“Your’s are by the chest of drawers.”

She’d certainly paid attention to detail. Mary’s dresses consisted almost entirely of her favorites: warm pinks and oranges. Brilliantly cut to showcase her clavicle, each dress appeared as if it would cover her breasts modestly but still draw attention to her long, slender neck. The simplicity of their silhouettes showcased the utterly perfect embroidery that decorated each bodice and skirt.

Lily’s were a myriad of greens, sprinkled with the occasional peach or yellow. Her soft, drapey dresses contrasted beautifully with the sleek lines of Mary’s attire.

Your own clothes appeared to be a quite suitable mixture of the two.

In moody shades of blue and violet, with the odd periwinkle and silver, you were honestly looking forward to donning the impressive garments. Any jewelry you wore would be borrowed from Lady McGonagall’s extensive collection. A collection, you were afraid to say, you’d miss dearly once you wed.

It was Lily that surged forward to examine her pieces, a chorus of thank yous from each of your lips as you did the same. Minerva smiled knowingly. Your dresses last year and the year before were beautiful, yes, but these actually suited you in a way those hadn’t. Three years of sponsoring the same girls had gone from a favour to fondness. She leaned onto her cane as her gaze flicked between you all. Still, she would be lying if she said she wasn’t eager to find you husbands.

“This is beautiful,” Lily breathed. In her hands, an elegant ensemble of a cream colored fabric hung. You grinned. If this was any indication of how this year’s season would go, you were more than ready. Jill, Minerva’s favorite maid, entered the room holding four sheets of familiar pale paper. Your eyes narrowed in delight. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers were a joy every season. Mary reached for the pamphlet first. She knew better than anyone how gossip could be wielded as a weapon, and her eagerness to uncover the secrets of this year’s marriage mart was palpable. You felt the same.

Dearest Gentle Readers,

How lovely it is to greet you again. Our time away from Society has proven wonderfully refreshing indeed, though I would be quite the liar if I claimed to not miss you. Our extraordinary ton has now returned from our glorious reprieve, and it seems there are a many anxious mamas hoping to prey on the unsuspecting wiles of this Season’s eligible bachelors.

Last year, scandal swept through the ton when none other than Miss Narcissa Black married Duke Lucius Malfoy in secret after a supposedly whirlwind love affair. Hopefully, Mr. Sirius Black is as unbothered as he appears.

Regardless of the nearly disastrous ending to last year’s entertaining exploits, the new batch of debutantes seem sparkling indeed.

There is fierce Lady Charity Burbage, who proves to be a bold wonder amongst a meek crowd. Or perhaps one might find interest in Lady Aurora Sinistra, who I dare say is more brilliant and sharp than ever. Even Lady Pandora Rosier seems dreamier of late.

There is one thing for certain, reader: this season will be one to remember.

Keep your wits about you. Scandal lurks in every corner, as tricky as a hungry fox and more than ready to sink its claws into an unknowing victim. Guard your hearts, gentle ton, for I fear what I will write this season will be quite damning indeed.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

Second to None

summary : you may be Percy's girlfriend, but not his first choice.

word count : 0.9k

type : imagines

pairing/s : Percy Jackson x Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson x Daughter of Hades! Reader.

warning/s: angst lol, and a little cliche. never settle for fucking less, guys.

here's my masterlist!

Note : I'm not against Percabeth, just so you know. Or Annabeth, I think she's a badass. I just thought of this and I was like "Damn, did I just hurt myself?" Blue aesthetic since the color represents sadness. It will have a Part 2.

You knew what you were signing up for when Percy Jackson asked you out.

You fell in love with him despite knowing the risks.

The constant danger, the relentless quests, the whispered rumors, the pointed stares whenever you were together— none of it was enough to scare you away. He was the great hero of Olympus, the son of Poseidon who had saved the world twice and continued to do so. Of course, people talked.

And you could handle all of it.

All of it— except one thing.

Annabeth Chase.

You were new to Camp Half-Blood, but not naïve.

You knew, the moment you agreed to be his, that you were stepping into a love story written long before you came along. You weren’t a new chapter. You were just a footnote, scribbled in the margins, fighting for space in a tale that was never yours to begin with.

Even your own brother, Nico di Angelo, had warned you. Everyone did.

They had seen Percy and Annabeth’s story unfold— the rivals turned partners, the friends turned lovers, the two who walked through literal hell together and survived. The kind of love even the gods envied.

"It will only end in heartbreak."

But you ignored them all. Because when Percy pulled you into a fierce kiss after winning a game, when he whispered sweet nothings as you lay beside him, when he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world— it was easy to pretend.

Pretend you didn’t notice the silver owl pendant he kept hidden under his shirt.

Pretend you didn’t see the way his sea-green eyes softened at the mere mention of her name.

Pretend you didn’t feel the hesitation in his touch whenever she was near, or the way he always seemed to be waiting— for something, or someone.

Forget that you were never meant to be his forever. That you were just the one keeping his heart warm until she wanted it back.

And yet, you knew Percy loved you. Maybe not in the way he loves her, maybe not in the way you deserve, but in the only way he knew how.

You never doubted your own worth before. You were the daughter of Hades, powerful in your own right, admired, desired. But with Percy, doubt bloomed inside you like a slow-growing poison.

And you loathed it.

Loving Percy Jackson is your greatest blessing. And your greatest curse.

Annabeth never tried to take him back— not outright.

She didn’t need to.

She moved like the strategist she was— calculated, deliberate, patient. Weaving herself into his life in ways you couldn’t contest.

Inside jokes only they understood.

Touches that lingered just a second too long.

Shared memories and unfinished dreams that whispered, This isn’t over.

She never crossed a line.

She never had to.

Because she was Annabeth Chase. His first love. His best friend. The one who had built a world with him long before you ever arrived.

You were the outsider.

Because Annabeth never really lost Percy.

She had simply let go.

And Percy? He had never truly moved on.

So, you waited for the inevitable. Like an inmate on death row, counting down the days.

Maybe you were still hoping. Hoping he’d look at you and finally see you, not her shadow. Hoping he’d realize that you were the one here, standing beside him, loving him— not better, but differently.

Or maybe you were just a fool who enjoyed her own suffering.

Or an addict who couldn’t let go of her drug, even as it destroyed her.

Then one night, walking through the woods, finding solace in the quiet and darkness, you heard them.

Percy and Annabeth. Sitting on a log beneath the stars, wrapped in the weight of a history you could never rewrite.

"Do you ever think of what could’ve been?" She whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"All the time." Percy admitted, after a long silence. "Annabeth, you know I’ll always—"

She moved closer. Too close. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, and you felt the chill of inevitability run down your spine.

"If I asked for a second chance..." She breathed. "Would you give it?"

You braced for the pain of hearing him say yes, for the final dagger to be driven into your heart.

But he hesitated.

Perseus Jackson, who never think twice in the face of death, hesitated.

But Annabeth didn’t.

Before he could answer, she leaned in, claiming a kiss that had always been hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck like they belonged there.

"Choose me, Percy." She whispered against his lips. "You know it’s always been me. Be with me again."

You turned away before he could kiss her back.

You didn’t need to hear his answer.

You already knew it.

Shadow-traveling to your cabin, you threw a few things into a bag. Nico wasn’t there— probably off with Will— and you were grateful. You weren’t in the mood for questions.

You couldn’t stay long enough for Percy to look at you with guilt-ridden eyes and tell you what you already know.

So you left a note on his nightstand.

"I wish you and Annabeth the best. Don’t let her go this time."

Some might call you a coward for walking away.

But you didn’t care.

Percy had made his choice.

And now, you had made yours.

i think this screenshot is a sign to post chapter 10 (😘)

I think you're right👀👀👀

Pink Pastels Pt 10

Description: Your rooftop rendezvous with Spiderman. NSFW content below the cut

“He phrased it all wrong, good girls don’t suck dick, they take cock.” Miguel says it slowly, and seductively, watching as your breathing hitches, your heart rate speeds up, and your body temperature rises.

“Yeah?” You ask, half breathless, your hand settling on the blanket right next to his knee.

He nods, twirling a lock of your hair around his finger. “Yeah, they look all pretty, and take all the pleasure you can give them, until they’re a beautiful, babbling mess.”

“O-oh…” Your face is adorable, eyes looking anywhere but his masked face.

“Look at me.” He orders, lightly, not to scare you, never to scare you.

Your eyes flicker to his, and he preens under your gaze, his free hand wrapping around your waist, fingers splayed across your clothed skin. “Good girl.”

He sees you rub your thighs together ever so slightly, and it drives him wild. He can’t fuck you, you have a boyfriend, and you don’t even know it’s Miguel under the mask, it wouldn’t be the same. But he does have another idea.

He trails his hands down your body, watching your face for any signs of fear.

“What else did he phrase wrong?” You ask with an adorable nervousness coloring your tone.

He can tell you want him, not just because his suit is giving him your bio signs, but by the way you inhale, and the way you lean towards him, hanging onto his every word.

He brushes a thumb over your lips. “How long has it been since he’s tasted you?” You avert your eyes, and he lightly taps your cheek with his forefinger. “Don’t turn from me Querida, I want to see those pretty eyes.”

You do as he says, and he hums in satisfaction, moving his hand to cup your face, thumb still resting on the center of your lips.

“So long, Spiderman.” You breathe, your lips moving against his thumb.

“Corazón.” He says, “not Spiderman, not now.”

You repeat the word after him, a little clumsily, but the sound of it makes him hide his face in your neck, his fangs begging to break through and claim you.

“It’s been so long, corazón.” You say, once he raises his head.

“Allow me to repent for his sins, then.”

Your eyes are wide, lips parting in surprise when his hands leave your face to grasp your thighs, pulling you forward, the bottom half of his mask dissolving once he’s lined up with your clothed core.

He’s dreaming, he has to be. You’re there before him, pretty little sundress bunched up around your hips, damp cloth covering that perfect pussy he’s seen night after night in your bathroom mirror.

“Oh Querida, you smell so good.” He presses kisses to your thighs, careful not to do more than nip you, mindful of the venom in his fangs.

“Corazón, please…” Your voice is quiet, but he can smell your arousal, and he rips off your underwear, tracking where it falls, intent on taking it home with him.

And then he feasts, large hands holding your thighs apart, as he devours you, tongue like silk through your folds, moaning at the taste, his lips wrapping around your clit.

You gasp at the feeling, and it goes straight to his cock.

“I don’t—fuck, um, I haven’t really shaved, and you really don’t need to all this for me, I mean Todd told me guys don’t like it when…” You’re nervous, insecure, and it breaks his heart.

He pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your skin before he rests his head on your thigh, giving you a reassuring smile. “It’s okay y/n, let me take care of you, forget what Todd says, focus on me.”

“Yeah, but what about—" You’re cut off by him diving back in, mouthing at your core like a man starved, and your eyes flutter shut.

You taste divine, and he needs more. He locks his arms around your thighs, his hands spread on your soft skin, his nose brushing your clit. “You’re so pretty, Querida, so perfect.”

“Corazón, corazón, I need more, please…” You beg, hands grabbing at his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his suit.

“Anything, mi vida, I’ll give you anything.” He promises, as he plunges his tongue into your entrance, his words vibrate against you, and he moans when your walls clench around him.

“You, corazón, I want you.” You gasp, bucking your hips against his face, smearing your juices over his skin.

He could die like this and be content, but he wants more, he wants to see how desperate he can make you.

“Get on top of me.” He orders, not giving you time to react, instead Miguel holds you up with one arm and lies on his back.

He has you facing the street, hands able to find purchase on the ledge, as he pulls you down, the scent of you flooding his senses, your thighs framing his head.

“Spid—” He pulls you down further, seating you fully on top of him, lips and tongue working in tandem to drive you closer and closer to your peak, his suit growing tighter and tighter as you pant and whine above him.

 “Corazón, please, touch me.” Your head is hanging down, he can see the way your eyes are screwed shut, your expression is all he imagined while he watched you pleasure yourself, and now he gets to see it—be the cause of it.

He drinks you in, slipping two fingers in to aid his tongue, and your eyes fly open, locking with his.

You’re so beautiful, truly he thinks you might be an angel, a goddess, a succubus, with the way you begin to ride his face, rutting against his nose, crying his pretend name over and over again.

“You sound so beautiful, mi reina, sing for me.” He pleads, grinding your hips down on him.

Your eyes flutter shut once more. “I—fuck, Miguel, I—”

You’re singing for him. His name slipping from your lips unknowingly, and he loses it, free arm wrapping around your waist, his tongue bullying your clit, his fingers finding that spot within you, in a record time, he applauds himself for that, and curls against it mercilessly, a punishing pace that has you screaming.

“Miguel, I can’t, it’s too much, Miguel—” Your words are resistant, but you grind down on him, making no attempts to escape him.

“Lo siento, querida, no puedo parar, no puedo. Sabes demasiado buena” He strokes the clothed skin of your back to comfort you, his words muffled by your pleading. Trsl: I’m sorry, sweetheart/my dear, I can’t stop, I can’t. You taste too good.

Then you crash, your muscles tightening, hips moving wildly, and then you go boneless and Miguel slides from under you, wrapping his lips around his fingers and savoring the taste.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m so embarrassed, that isn’t even your name and—”

He tilts your chin up, and presses his thumb to your lips, like a vixen you part them unconsciously, and he groans, his cock aching. “No apology needed; I understand.”

“No but really I—”

“Y/N.” He warns playfully, the lower half of his masks reappearing.

You fall silent, and he feels a slow curl of lust. How obedient could you be? If he stayed to find out, he’d fuck you on this dirty roof, and he refused to debase you in such a way.

“Good girl, now go inside and get some rest.” Then he stands and swings away, desperate to find a quiet corner and take care of himself, your ripped underwear tucked safely away.

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