#Gettin the Band Back Together

[nerditudes]

@heedingcalls for duke

"I understand the last time you saw me I was a bright-eyed brunet with hope for the future-- but the long short of it is I'm a grumpy old man frustrated about the time I have left." He rubbed the back of his head nervously, an old habit that echoed the man he once was.

"I know it's been years but I-- uh-- missed you."

[avesseloflanguage]

drunk rant/discussion w my best friend the other night has caused me to figure out the last major piece missing in my EP concept and so now. uh. working on an EP i guess. and im fucking pumped i love having friends i love music i love writing i love being alive. i love college.

[primerockroast]

YOYOYO! Did anyone get their Spotify Wrapped yet?! Apparently, if Tally Hall gets 30 to 40 million listeners a month, they're gettin the band back together!!!

[mysteriesofmilo]

[johnbrand]

Laundry Mishap

“Hey dude,” Blake greeted, closing the door and locking it behind him.

Aaron did not bother looking up from his phone, “Sup.”

Blake’s lips began to curl as he entered the apartment, spotting his roommate on the massive chair.

“Who you textin’, bro?”

“Trying to pick up Kenzie,” Aaron responded. “But she’s hesitatin’ for some reason.” 

Blake picked up on the dull quality of his roommate’s voice, the vocal fry even stronger with Aaron was only half paying attention to their conversation. Blake took this opportunity to continue analyzing his roommate.

“Did you already hit the gym today?” Blake questioned, knowing Aaron had never once considered working out in his life.

“Just for a coupl’a hours this morning, yeah.” Aaron casually stretched out his legs a bit, as if to emphasize his point. They were long, hairy, and thick with muscle. Blake could not help but admire his roommate’s calves and the juicy thighs spilling out of the tight short shorts. “Worked the quads and hammies, even got some glutes action.”

The bubble butt Aaron was currently cushioned on confirmed this. Due to the oversized hoodie his roommate was currently wearing, Blake could not visually discern if the upper body matched the lower. “I thought you typically did ab days on Fridays?”

Aaron shrugged, one of his hands slinking away from his phone and down to his pouch. “Yeah but some of the machines were just too full.” Aaron casually palmed himself before continuing. “Buncha fags kept gettin’ in the way with their sissy routines.”

Blake was a bit surprised by the sudden homophobic remark. And by his roommate’s continual groping, as if it was reinforcing the new bigoted mindset. But it did not bother Blake; rather it made him even more excited. He did not have a problem with gay people, but the remarks were confirming that Aaron was no longer the derpy Discord homo that Blake had left in the apartment just eight hours earlier.

“...Bro?” Aaron had finally looked up from his phone, a smidge of disgust smearing across his perfect model-like face.

Blake immediately made eye contact, not realizing that he had lost himself staring at his roommate’s awakening cock. “Did Kenzie get back to you yet?” Blake tried to redirect the conversation, hoping his roommate would now be dumb enough to forget the harmless mistake.

Aaron peered down at his phone, simple glee replacing his former frown. “Ah dude she did!” Blake’s own smile returned, the test of his roommate’s lowered intelligence successful. “God hope she gets ready soon, I’m so boned up right now for some reason…”

With Aaron once again distracted, Blake stealthily eyed his accomplice with a knowing nod of gratitude, as if they had been along together for the ride like partners in crime. Being inanimate objects, the white Nike crew socks did not reply back, but their presence on his roommate’s feet were enough of a confirmation for Blake. Their thick terry material and ribbed arch bands perfectly wrapped Aaron's soles. 

Just hours earlier, the socks would have been at least three or four sizes too large for Aaron. In fact all the clothing Aaron was currently wearing would have swamped his former puny frame, nor would it have identified as a part of his personal style. Aaron’s former closet consisted of graphic tees, cargo shorts, and mismatched accessories. And by every Thursday, Aaron’s laundry hamper consisted of these same articles too, ready to be washed the next morning. All Blake had to do was “accidentally” drop in a pair of his sweaty, used socks; the simple “laundry mishap” would do the rest.

Blake would never know what had truly happened to the former Aaron, but he could at least imagine. In his mind, Blake envisioned Aaron preparing his laundry, then proceeding to find the funky gift, then getting boned up over the smell of a straight man’s feet and feeling the urge to try them on, and finally the magic happening. It was an exciting fantasy to conceptualize.

“Alright bro, she’s coming over in 10 for a quickie.” Aaron quickly stood up. Before, his roommate's sightline had reached Blake’s neck, but now they were able to make direct eye. “After that, wanna play a few rounds of COD?”

Blake grinned, his fantasy having become reality. “Sure thing, bro.”

[rockinglikemotley]

Something, something, Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish thinking you’re cute at the bar but… you have eyes for someone else.

The 1-4-1 boys were in America on a mission. They were extremely out of place in the Deep South, but they gotta do what they gotta do. They had one rest day and decided to head to a bar that looked a little run down on the outside, but the lot was filled with cars and trucks. People stood outside, conversing with one another as they smoked cigarettes with a bottle of beer in their hands. Their accents were loud and drawn out as they spoke about the town drama.

Johnny was the first one inside seeing as this was his idea to go get a pint before they continued on their mission the next day. Gaz followed him inside with Simon and John right behind them. Simon scanned the room for anything odd or out of place as they went up to the bar to get themselves some drinks before going and sitting at one of the few high tables there was.

People were all around, some stumbling, some singing along with the singer on the stage, and many of them dancing together at the slower song being sung. Johnny turned around in his seat to watch the girl on stage sing. “Oi. She’s a looker.” He smirked, nudging Kyle with his elbow and pointing up to the stage. “Oh yeah she’s quite fit.” He agreed with a nod of his head. John shook his head at the young men of his team while he took a drink of his draft beer. Simon sat stoically as her usually did, a glass of bourbon sat between his big hands.

The song changed into another slow country tune making the scenery of the bar slightly solemn. The lights cast an orangey hue, people weren’t as rowdy as the 141 thought they were going to be, and the slow song being sung brought everyone together. Couples danced, women were spun in slow circles, and people shared kisses in the sea of cowboy hats.

Simon finally looked to the stage after deeming the bar was safe from any potential threats. He always sat facing the door, so with his head turned he gazed upon he country singer on stage. From under a tan cowboy hat came long (H/C) hair and a sweet face. The woman sat upon a stool, even while singing her lips sat in a light pout, colored in a pretty pink color that shined in the light above her. She was in a matching denim vest and flared jean outfit with silver and turquoise jewelry. She was easily one of the most prettiest women in the bar, but Simon kept that thought to himself.

Especially when Johnny had his eyes glued to her like a dog with a bone.

As time went on, the guys nursed their drinks, Johnny and Kyle going back to the bar a few times to get more. Simon and John talked amongst each other as Soap and Gaz looked around the bar for a lady for Kyle. The pretty country woman on stage had ended her song, taking the mic in her hands and standing from the stool she had been sitting on. “Alright y’all,” Came her sweet southern drawl with a rasp to it. Johnny’s head snapped towards the stage with a boyish grin on his face.

“I’m gettin’ tha’ lassie’s number so help me God.” He uttered to Gaz who laughed and listened in on what the singer had to say. “This is our last song for the night so I hope y’all brought your dancin’ boots.” Her smile was gleaming as she moved her long hair over her shoulder and turned back to her band. Her guitarist started the tune and some of the crowd started to cheer with excitement towards the song. The pretty woman laughed into the mic, “I know y’all like Reba now!” She pointed to the people in the front.

“Steamin’ Jesus. She’s bloody fit.” Johnny huffed and downed the rest of his drink as his fair lady sang ‘Fancy’ by Reba. He was familiar with the redheaded country singer, Dolly as well. All thanks to his mother who had little shrines for them both. She often made him swear to them if she thought he was lying. “That she is.” Gaz chuckled as they watched her dance with the sway of her hips, her free hand raised above her head.

Johnny was damn near bouncing in his seat by the time her set was finished. John couldn’t help but laugh something low at the young man sitting across from him. Simon just huffed at his antics and watched him go off to find his ‘dream girl’ - Johnny’s words - as soon as she stepped off the stage. His mohawked head disappeared in the sea of people and orange light.

Johnny had a few close calls of almost running people over to get to the stage’s exit. He merely send absentminded apologies and went on his merry way to find the pretty country singer. He stood by the exit, watching as her guitarists walked out together, chuckling, as they fixed their hats and bolo ties. Then the drummer of the band came out and finally here came the singer.

He could see her darkened silhouette coming down the hall. Her full hips swaying as she walked, the muffled clack of her boots against the hard flooring. She was lucky she looked up in time to stop just before him or else she would’ve ran into his broad chest. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” She giggled, her accent making Johnny fawn all over again. “Ach. It’s okay.” He waved it off. Her brows raised at the sound of his thick Scottish accent. “Wow. You’re far from home.” She pointed out with a toothy grin.

“I came all this way just to see you.” Johnny smoothly joked with her. The apples of her cheeks went pink as she tipped her head back and laughed. “Hope it was worth it.”

“It’ll be more worth it if I could buy you a drink.” Soap smirked down at her, his big arms crossed over his chest. “Alright.” She nodded and off they went through the crowd to the bar. They ordered their drinks and while she wasn’t looking he turned his head over his shoulder to give his team members a big grin before turning back to her. “I’m Johnny.” He introduced himself, thankful the bar was lowkey and wasn’t loud so he didn’t have to yell his introduction. “I’m y/n. Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart? Already with the pet names, love?” Johnny smirked at her. She shrugged while she took a sip of her drink. “It’s a southern thing.” The pretty woman brushed off. “Well it’s a Scottish thing too.” He chuckled and shifted his feet. “I’m here with some of my mates, you can come sit with us if you’d like.” He offered, deep down just wanting to show her off already and to show them that he could get a woman since they joked too often about him scaring them off with his ‘Scottish-ness’ as Simon would say. “Sure, I can hang for a little.” She nodded and followed along right behind him.

When she got to the table she laid eyes on a charming looking man with a big smile, then to another one that had a thick beard and stache and wore a bucket hat, then finally she laid her eyes on one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Simon sat there all big and brooding with scars littering his face and a half sleeve of tattoos on his forearm. Johnny gave her his chair and she felt a little bad knowing he had come over to flirt with her.

But hey, she was only a woman.

They all introduced themselves to her with laughs towards Johnny and gave her kind smiles. She introduced herself back and took the time to talk to them all. Simon didn’t say much, he was as stoic as every but she figured he didn’t do well in social situations. Or maybe he was the nonchalant type. Hell, she didn’t care she couldn’t take her eyes off him for half of the time she sat there amongst the four of them.

By the time she finished her drink, Johnny was carrying back more for himself and Kyle. She reached across the table for the napkin holder that sat in the middle of the table and fished out the pen she kept in her back pocket to write her name and number down. With a sigh she slipped off the chair as her cheeks grew rosy. John watched her with a small smile which quickly went to shock as she slid the napkin across the table and over to Simon.

He looked up at her in shock as she stood there with a cheeky grin. Johnny had witnessed it with his own two eyes and his jaw dropped. Kyle couldn’t help, but laugh out of shock. “Well it was nice meetin’ y’all.” She grinned and rounded the table. “Hopefully I’ll be seeing you.” She gave Simon’s arm a squeeze, sending Johnny a wave before going off and disappearing back into the crowd.

“You just stole my girl!”

“I didn’t do anything.” Simon uttered as he picked up the napkin with the pretty writing before slipping it into his pocket. Part of him just wanted to spite Johnny and the other part of him was glad she had chosen him over his friend. “I can’t even be mad. That was sly as hell.” He shrugged and sat down in the chair.

Later that night, her phone buzzed with a text.

‘So I take it you perfer Brits over Scots?’

~~~~~

Just had his idea on my mind for a few days. Hope you liked it xx

[mytheoristavenue]

DM - Chilchuck Tims x Reader 🍋 - Logical Next Step

Kinktober 2024 - XI

Size difference + Breeding

Summary: Realizing he's getting up there in age, Chilchuck decides to settle down again for his remaining years. After taking you as his second wife, he finds himself missing a home filled with the pattering of little feet.

Warnings: Breeding, unprotected sex, creampie, tallman!reader, fem!reader, sub!reader, dom!Chilchuck, married/pre-established relationship, post-canon, language

Chilchuck would never have claimed to have had the perfect life, nor would he have claimed that that wasn't his own fault. He knew in his heart that he was the reason his marriage fell apart, why he was estranged from his children, why he was living paycheck to paycheck. As he aged and fell into life with the Touden party, he thought he was comfortable with spending the rest of his life dungeon-delving. That was until he met you.

You had joined the party shortly after Senshi had, during their search for Falin and the Red Dragon, and the half-foot was quietly amazed at your way of operating. You were a fair bit younger than him, around Laios's age, but you were so mature, so cool under pressure. You had a way of saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time to calm everyone's nerves. Chilchuck couldn't count how many times you'd soothed Marcille when she got anxious, or came between himself and Laios when he was ready to come to blows.

"Hey, we're all tired and frustrated. Let's cool off, yeah?" You'd say, your hand on his shoulder, smiling down at him patiently. After which, you'd lead him away to the other side of camp and offer him space or company. And you always respected any decision he made.

That was why, after the journey to save Falin was completed, Chilchuck took his savings, bought himself a cottage and a stop, and decided to settle down. With what little he had left, he bought a modest ring with a genuine pearl and approached you at Laios's dinner party.

"H-Hey, (Y/N), c'mere." Hey stammered as he passed you, everyone else preoccupied. Popping the question here, especially with his daughters in attendance was risky for sure, but he just couldn't wait. You followed him over to the corned, watching on curiously as he fidgeted with something in his pocket. "I know we haven't known each other long, and we've only been together for a little while..."

Tears instantly pricked your eyes and you gasped, covering your mouth, guessing what came next. "But I'm not gettin' any younger." He continued. " I never thought I'd find myself looking to get tied down again but..." He sighed, frustrated that he was losing words- he was stalling.

"Go ahead," You smiled patiently, sinking to your knees to be on his level. You didn't miss the way his eyes wet at your action, and he mirrored it, kneeling on his left knee.

"R-Right," He laughed nervously, clearing his throat. " I thought I had it all figured out, that domestic life just wasn't for me but- (Y/N), I wanna try it again. With you." By this time, he'd pulled the silver band out of his pocket. He didn't have an ornate box with silk lining, he just pinched it between his fingers as he offered it to you. "You've singlehandedly changed my entire outlook on life, and I'm tired of wasting the last little bit of my life doing odd jobs, sleeping on a bedroll by myself."

Suddenly, there was a chorus of squeals from the dinner table, and Chilchuck grimaced. Looking over his shoulder, you could see his two younger daughters, as well as Marcille, fawning over the sight. You giggled a bit as a crowd formed around him, pinning you both into the corner. He began to sweat, irritated that his moment has been ruined. "Can't you all screw off for five minutes?" He scolded, face red.

"Chilchuck," You smiled fondly, placing your hand on his shoulder. "What did you want to ask me?"

His attention instantly snapped back to you, the tips of his ears hot from his daughters excitedly cheering him on. "W-Will uh..." He swallows nervously, nodding to the ring. " Will you marry me?"

"Yes, I thought you'd never ask!"

-----

You hummed softly, stirring a large cast iron pot filled with Autumn vegetables and broth. Beside you, your youngest step-daughter set the dinner table. "Your father and sister should be home soon," You mentioned casually.

"I wonder how business went today," Puckpatti replied, fluffing the bouquet of flowers in the center of the table.

"I'm sure it went well, those two are the best lockpicks around!" Flertom chirped from the sink, washing up the dishes you'd used.

You and Chilchuck had been married for about a month and today was the first day that his new shop would be open. To celebrate, you and the girls planned a dinner to surprise him. You couldn't help but feel a warmth in your chest, truly part of the family. Nothing could possibly make you happier.

Just as you turned off the heat of the stove, the front door opened, and you could hear a jovial conversation and a pair of boots hitting the floor near the entrance. "Hon, we're home- oh!"

Chilchuck couldn't keep a straight face as he stepped into the kitchen, finding his lovely wife and beautiful daughters standing around the table, waiting for him. "What's all this?"

You smiled bashfully, setting the pot down on the table, plaid oven mitts still covering your hands. "We made dinner to celebrate the shop opening today!" Flertom cheered, pressing into his side for a hug.

"We wanted to surprise you!" Puckpatti added, mirroring her sister on his other side. Their father glanced back over his shoulder to his eldest daughter, who smiled back at him smugly.

"Did you know about this, Mei?" He asked with a smirk. She simply nodded, uncrossing her arms and patting his back.

You watched the moment fondly, feeling a bit awkward to be outside of it. Shyly, you turned away to the oven, pulling out a fresh loaf of bread. "Don't think I forgot about you," Your husband's flirtatious voice called, startlingly close. You nearly jumped, feeling his arms wrap around your hips, pressing a kiss to your tummy as you sat the bread down. The girls grimaced at the display. "Oh, grow up," Chilchuck groaned, taking his seat, and prompting you to sit beside him. "When you get spouses that are twice your height, you'll understand!" He huffed, crossing his arms before pausing. "Wait, scratch that, none of you are allowed to get married!"

The night went smoothly, filled with laughter, joy, and praise for your squash stew. As the stars came out, one by one, the girls all began to leave, each tired and heading to their respective homes. Once it was just the pair of you left, you stood up, beginning to clear the table. "Hey, lemme help with that." Your husband smiled, standing up with you and carrying the rest of the dishes to the sink.

You thanked him, rolling up your sleeves to begin washing them, plunging your hands into the wrist-deep sink of bubbles. "How was work, dear?" You asked softly as his arms found their way around your waist again.

"It was great, we were way busier than I thought we'd be." He mused, resting his head against the small of your back. "Mei's so skill now, she might actually be a better locksmith than me. Don't tell her I said that, though."

You giggled in response. "She's a carbon copy of you, of course she's skilled. She learned from the best."

"Patti and Fler seem pretty fond of you." He mentioned, partying from you and heading over to the cabinet, taking a bottle of ale from it.

"I'm pretty fond of them too," You laughed. "They're sweet girls. So is Mei."

"Yeah, you're right, couldn't ask for better kids." Chilchuck smiled softly, uncorking the bottle. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask... are we gonna have kids?" The question caught you so off guard, you dropped a bowl into the sudsy sink, shattering it. "I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sorry."

Concerned, he stepped up onto a stool, pulling your hands away from the sink as you tried to dip them back in, apologizing relentlessly. "Hey, it's okay, really. Let me," You watched as he carefully dug out the drain stop, revealing the rest of the dishes and broken glass, before picking it out into a towel. "You okay?" He asked, setting the towel to the side. "Listen, I'Il fix this tomorrow after work, m'kay? No harm, no foul."

You soften at his comforting words, nodding. Ever the worrier, his concerned eyes stayed trained on you. "You look a bit flushed, why don't you go rest? I'll finish up."

-----

Your hands wouldn't stop trembling as you undressed for bed, his words echoing in your head. Where the two of you going to have kids? He didn't want more kids, did he? Could the two of you even have kids, being different species? What would they look like? How would that even work?

Your mind raced with questions and visions of how he might go about impregnating you, considering the vast difference in your stature. Sure, you'd been intimate before, but when you imagined how a man would breed his wife, it tended to look a bit different than what you were used to with him.

Nevermind all that- did he want to have more kids with you?

As you slid into bed, you tried to immerse yourself in a book to calm your nerves, but just as you found your place, the bedroom door opened. "Are you upset at me, hun?" Chilchuck's voice was a bit more timid than usual and laced with worry. "I'm sorry I asked about having kids, it was dumb-"

"Do... you want to have more kids?" You interrupted him, voice quaking a bit.

"I wanna do whatever you wanna do." He answered, approaching the bed and sitting on the edge of it.

You search his eyes for sincerity. "So do I, so you tell me first."

"Well..." He trailed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I wouldn't mind. Kinda miss when the girls were little." He admitted with a sheepish smile. "Is that weird? Am I too old to be havin' kids?"

"No," you replied with a warm smile. "I don't think so, not at all."

"Would you... maybe wanna?" He asked with a nervous laugh, much like how he acted the day he proposed. "You wanna be a mama?"

Your cheeks heated up exponentially and you hid your face, save for your eyes with your book. "I-I... I-" You stammered, unable to find the correct words. Eventually, you simply nodded. Chilchuck's sheepish expression turned smug as he began crawling closer.

"Need you to tell me with words, hun." He cooed, straddling your lap. "Tell me you wanna have my baby."

"I-I want to..." You swallowed hard. "Have your b-baby." As a reward for your obedience, he pulled you close, tilting your chin up as he began peppering kisses up and down your throat. "M-My love, what are you...?"

"Givin' my pretty wife a baby."

-----

"G-Gods, Chil," You cooed, your eyes rolling back as he bottomed out, hips rolling into yours at a slow but firm pace. His hands cupped the back of your knees, pressing them into your collarbone, folding you beneath him.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" He rasped, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead onto your tummy. "Didn't think a guy like me could fold a girl like you? I'm stronger than I look." His brows furrowed, a cocky grin splitting his flushed face. "Not gonna lie, ain't never bred a woman bigger than me, but-" He laughed confidently, suddenly slamming his hips into yours, making you see stars. "Won't let that stop me from fuckin' a baby into this pretty little thing."

You had always known Chilchuck had a foul mouth, but you'd never heard anything like this from his lips. You felt a bit silly for worrying about how this would go, he was so stubborn, you should have known he'd find a way. Still, it made your tummy churn how he could be half your size and still dominate you so completely. He had you wrapped around his finger and you both knew it.

"That's it, pretty, just lay back," He soothed smugly, pressing you deeper into the mattress. "Let your big, strong husband take care of everything," You could practically see his ego inflate with his self-praise, breath falling out in ragged chuckles. "How does it feel getting pinned by a half-foot?"

"F-Feels good..." You whimpered, drool dripping down the side of your cheek as his tip endlessly nudged against that special spot, which he seemed to know exactly how to locate.

"What's that? Couldn't hear ya?" He teased, hips pistoning into yours with renewed vigor. "Tell me louder, mama."

"Chil, it f-feels so good," You moaned a bit louder, eyes squeezed tight, trembling under him.

"What feels good?" He laughed cruelly, his nails digging into the meat of the back of your thighs in his daze. "Be specific, babe."

"I-I feels so good to be under you like this..." You admitted shyly, overwhelmed tears welling in your eyes. Chilchuck groaned at your words, drunk off of your pretty, pouty, flustered expression.

"That's my girl," He grinned, doubling his efforts, reaching down to press his thumb to your clit, rubbing in rough circles with experienced ease. "Big surprises come in small packages, or however the saying goes."

"Chil, ahh-" You whined, feeling that familiar knot in your tummy tightens at his doubled efforts. "P-Please, make me a mommy..."

Your eager begging made his breath hitch and his pace faltered a bit. "Shit, pretty, so desperate to carry my baby, huh?" He grunted, thrusts changing to a more insistent pattern. "That's okay, I can't wait to be a daddy again."

You knew his last words would do you in, the knot in your belly snapping taut within seconds of hearing it. You couldn't hold back the needy pleading that spilled from your throat, clamping down on him as you rolled your hips into his, riding out. "A-Ahh, Chil! I love you so much!"

He let out a choked groan, sent over the edge by your constriction and loving declaration. "Oh fuck," He hissed, hips sputtering as that warm, gooey feeling enveloped his sensitive member. "Fuckin' milk it, mama." He muttered, folding against you, nestling his face between your breasts. "Shit, love love you like crazy."

Your chest heaved as you both lay there, revelling in the moment. After a bit, you began to shift, expecting him to pull away so you could stretch your legs. To your surprise, he continued to hold your knees to your shoulders. "H-Honey," You whispered bashfully. "My hips are getting sore."

"That sucks," He laughed, languidly rolling his hips into yours, making you jump in surprise. "Gonna have to get used to it, they're gonna get a lot worse when you start showin'." He teased, fuckings seed deeper into your womb.

"S-Showing what?" You asked innocently, melting at his tender pace.

"Your baby bump, obviously." He smirked, kissing up and down your stomach.

"I-I don't think I can go again so soon..." You admit shamefully, only to have him reach out, lifting your chin to meet his gaze.

"You want me to make you cum again later, I will, but that's not what this is, hun." It was just now that you were beginning to really look at his face, your eyes having been closed during most of this event. His cheeks, nose, and ears were blushed, freckles more evident against the pinked skin. His auburn hair slicked to his forehead with sweat and you could see the greys in his sideburns more easily in the moonlight. He looked so mature in this moment, you could almost forget how different his species was from yours.

"W-What is it, then, my love?" You asked, bringing up a hand to lovingly rake through his hair.

"Think of it as insurance," he replied, softening a bit, nuzzling into your hand. "Gotta make sure it takes, right? And hey, if it doesn't we won't stop 'til we get it right."

[dutiful-wildcraft]

I thought to myself, ya know? There isn't enough Gaz/Ghost. So I fixed that problem.

Fluff, 1K, unedited, enjoy <3

It starts with the pair laying together, soft and sweet in the afterglow.

Never in a million years would Gaz guess that Simon would match his touchiness. Scarred hands massaging and petting almost incessantly at Gaz’s warm skin. It’s reverent, eyes and hands roaming over his body with a soft curiosity that had Gaz shivering in his arms.

Simon's eyes flicker up from where they were trained on the curve of Gaz's waist, tries to withdraw his hand when he catches Gaz's look of amusement.

Gaz snags him or course, gives his palm a squeeze and replaces it firmly back at his waist, squirming in closer to Simon's bulky frame, like a cat demanding pets.

Simon continues after a moment, shifting to draw patterns with his fingertips over his skin that has Gaz biting back ticklish laughs, he peers back up at him, finds eye black stained eyes trained back on him, an almost confused furrow to his brow as his fingers stroke back and forth.

“What's on your mind doll?” Gaz murmurs, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. 

Simon pauses again, flattens his palm back out to slide down his hip, grab a handful a plush ass that has Gaz biting at his shoulder in playful retaliation.

“How are you so bloody soft?” Simon finally rumbles out, curling an arm around him to squeeze him close, bury his face into Gaz’s curls and inhale the warm scent that constantly clings to the man. 

Gaz laughs, rich and sweet, presses a trio of kisses over Simon’s heart in a quick rhythm. 

“I’ll show you.”

-

Gaz half thinks the big boy was going to back out as he corrals Simon into his bathroom. Simon stands there,  still and quiet as Gaz moves around the small space, void like eyes watching him as he unloads a small collection of hair and skincare products he’d picked up specifically for gentle giant.

It isn't until after a sufficient amount of steam is billowing from the shower and Gaz is guiding Simon’s old band t shirt off of his shoulders does he notice the stark blush creeping up his chest, red creeping up his neck. 

“Gettin’ shy on me?” Gaz teases, placating him with another kiss as he tugs off the ratty balaclava, revealing Simon’s full glare.  His hair has grown out, blonde curls sad and dry. Gaz would take care of that too. 

Gaz sets to work as soon as they climb into the shower,  guides Simon under the warm spray and pours a sweet smelling shampoo between his palms, working Simon’s curls over with gentle massaging. It’s powerful Gaz thinks, to see his lover like this, at peace, eyes closed as Gaz draws swirls in the suds of his hair. 

He applies a light leave in conditioner to sit next while he works his way down to clean away the remnant eye black from Simon’s face. Rubbing away the stubborn paint from his eyes and cheeks with gentle hands. Simon is putty in his arms, practically leaning on him as he works an expensive soap over his curves, thoroughly massaging the sweet smelling scent into skin as he works him over from head to toe.

After he’s finished he props Simon up against the shower wall and subtly gives a little show of lathering himself down. Simon’s hands are on him almost immediately, his hands playing in the bubbles against his skin as he steals kisses under the warm spray. Gaz just barely gets him pried off to wash his own hair, almost giddy with the way Simon watches him. Eyes following the rivulets of water that slide along his skin. 

It’s a challenge to coax his cold natured partner out of the hot spray, but Gaz can barely fight off his pleased grin as he finally pulls Simon free, his lover red faced and dreamy as he pats him dry with a soft towel, and works another lotion into his pale skin. He can tell Simon is valiantly trying to will away the blood flowing to his groin, chubbing up his length as Gaz sits pretty on his knees, working over Simon’s calves and thighs. 

“Like being pampered don’t you doll?” Gaz purrs, pressing a cheeky kiss to his thigh that has Simon’s fingers curling into his hair in warning. “Be patient.” he reminds. 

Simon complies, of course he does, lets Gaz coat is hair with a light curl cream, fingers carefully taming and reshaping the short curls that Simon has neglected for years. Sits quietly on the toilet seat while Gaz shaves away the stubble that he knows Simon hates , lines up the back of his neck to keep his curls from touching there, applies cool feeling creams to face to battle any razor burn of acne.

By the time it’s all said and done, Gaz can’t help but admire the man. 

Simon is glowing. 

Pretty blonde curls so soft and shiny. Face clean and cheeks pink. Gaz runs his hands over his skin, preening happily at the silky glide of his fingers over Simon’s muscles, the way Simon’s own scent mingles beautifully with the honey almond scent Gaz painted him with. A little treat Gaz is more than happy to have all to himself. 

He’s never seen the man drunk, but Gaz thinks this must be pretty close. Simon’s eyes are half-lidded, dopey with the way Gaz caresses his face, pets over his skin like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Kisses him sweet and slow, chuckling as Simon’s big paws find him again, pulling him in close by the hips, former chub now full and hot against his thigh. 

“Come along sweets, not done with you yet.”

[fanaticsnail]

Kind And Gentle

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,100+

Synopsis: Your shoulders and back ached with a pain you had attempted to cast aside as you went about your duties. The ache turned excruciating, your focus now being taken hostage between the gripping pain. Fortunately, the grip of two firm hands found your body and eased you through the torment.

Themes: Benn Beckman x reader, Friends to lovers, confessions of love, suggestive dialogue, massaging - reader receiving, pain, aching, yearning, small kiss, Shanks is a meanie, swearing, teasing, Beckman is a softie, Beckman is a gentleman, term of endearment "Darlin'" used - it's just what I associate him saying.

Notes: Pure self-indulgence fic, procrastinating while I should be going through my WIPs. My shoulder hurts, guys. Needed this to get out of my system and get through the pain. Art link.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @i-am-vita @gingernut1314 @mfreedomstuff @missbeckman @tiredemomama

Pain. White and hot, swelling and encumbering. This was what you were experiencing in the middle of your spine; just a little to the right side of your body.

The ache never eased, no matter what position you slept in, nor adjusting your posture throughout the day. It was unending, the torment which knit your muscles together and cemented them in place. 

You clenched your eyes tightly shut, bracing yourself against the wooden hallway wall as you rotate your neck in a circle atop your shoulders slowly. Arching your back, you winced as the knot continued to integrate itself in a woven entanglement of painful muscle beneath your skin. 

Biting back a whimper, you tried as you might to reach the cursed divot beneath your flesh, whining quietly as your fingertips barely brushed against the surface of the painful coil. The ache called to you, the burden causing a small tremor in your lips from the electric heat of the hidden wound. 

Shaking your head, you huffed out a breath as you attempted to soldier on about your daily chores. Ignoring the tight ache beneath your skin with a deep grimace written on your lips, you finally gave into your pain and balanced your hands against the wooden beam atop the deck of the Red-Force. 

The sea breeze hit your nose, relaxing you briefly before the pain eclipsed all your senses. Brain foggy with anguish, lips parted and panting, eyes frantic and wife: you could bear it no longer. You muted a cry, muffling it within your mouth while you tried to release the elastic coil in your back by twisting your torso. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you curse in a soft whisper, your brows rising in a pain-riddled peak in your forehead. You moaned out in a soft whimper, praying nobody could hear your weakness as you tried to reach for the spot a second time.

The band was bordering on excruciating, your mind contemplating whether or not to seek out Hongo for medical attention due to the intensity of the pain. Just as you began to turn on your way, two strong hands clapped over your shoulders: thumbs moving in rough circles against your skin. 

“I got you, Darlin’,” the gruff voice Shanks’ first mate whispered in a calming rumble, “Just tell me when I'm gettin’ close to it.” 

Benn Beckman. It was always Benn Beckman. Any time any of the crew needed anything, no task too small, no feat too great: Beckman was the champion you had all grown accustomed to rely on. Leaning back into his touch, you hung your neck low to grant him greater access

“Oh-... mmmf-... -‘kay,'' you whimpered, curving your back down to expose more of your spine to him, “It's not-... Hhah-... It's not normally this-...fucking, shit-... -this bad.” A small click of his tongue snapped at you in empathy as his thumbs brushed against the coil of pain. 

Although your friendship with Beckman ran deep, you had never engaged with him physically before. You respected one another, adored one another, and were as close as two crewmates could be. Two sides of a coin, twin edges of a blade, the gunpowder and the spark that lit the fuse - this was how you were described by your red-headed captain. 

But as his thumbs sought out your deepest pain, all your thoughts escaped you. There was nothing else, just: Beckman, his focus and his expert touch. 

“Just a touch to the right-... ahh, Becks!” you cried out as his digits flicked over the painful swell beneath your flesh. Huffing out pants of breath, you sobbed in strained relief as he continued massaging your body. 

“Oh, fuck. It's there, isn't it?” he whispered, the thumb of his right hand pressed firmly against the tight knot as his left hand braced you against the side-beam of the boat, “There it is, Darlin’. I found it. There's the spot.” You arched your back within his broad hands, your arms stiffening in firm pillars against the deck as he prodded the painful peak in your back. 

“Oh, that's it! Right there, that's the spot,” you mewled out, crying and gasping for him as he untangled your muscles with his rough, practiced hands. Just as he pressed his strength further against you, you winced out a strangled, “Fuck, not so rough! Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” 

“Darlin’, this is me being kind and gentle,” he bullied his thumb into your skin, stapling you to the wall of the ship by his hips and holding you steady with his hand perched on your left shoulder, “You need a bit of rough treatment. Hold still, let me coax it out of you.”

“Becks,” you whispered out his name, lulling your head back on your shoulders as he continued to pry, paw and claw the knot apart with his right hand, “Becks it hurts.”

“I know, I know,” his gruff voice reassured you, the gentle hold of his left hand against your shoulder contradicted the right hand that bruised your muscles, “It'll all be over soon. I'm nearly there, I can feel your body moving it with me. Just hold on.”

His thumb pressed an intentional swipe up, directing the pain up your back and into the peaked corner of your shoulder. His brows knit low in deep concentration, prompting him to suck in an empathetic breath in anticipation. 

“Ohh… You're gonna hate me,” he whispered in your ear, kicking your feet apart with his heavy boots before anchoring his pelvis against your glutes to hold you firmer against the ship's wooden railing, “You need an elbow.”

“No, no, no! Not an elbow!” you cried, just as his right elbow drew itself against your spongy flesh, “Becks! It's-... nnmfph-... too much! Ahh! Too much!”

Attempting to break from his grip, you shook yourself away from his hands, only for your body to immediately betray you. Bent over the railing, your back immediately became unraveled by a firm grip and a strong elbow to the point that ailed you. 

“Oh hush, you need it,” he barked in a soft tone, eclipsing your concern with an intentional rotation of his elbow against your shoulder, “Be a good little thing and take it.” He was moving the vines of the entanglement away from the source point, breaking it down beneath his body and flushing it out with heavy swipes. 

Benn Beckman was experiencing the toughest battle he had ever had the displeasure in engaging with. He was trying to tune out how good you sounded calling out his name in pants and whines, his own empathetic huffs and groans mixing harmoniously with yours as he gripped your flesh.

“Benn Beck-...fuck-... It's right there. Right there, Becks! Don't stop!” you whimpered, your voice high and your desperation showcased in the soft pants of your breath. The release of your entangled flesh was just within Beckman's grasp, prompting him to switch back to using his fingers to expel the pressure beneath your skin. 

“I got you. There ya’ go,” he confirmed again, expanding the heel of his palm against the binding presence of the last of the entanglement, “Breathe through it with me, I'm not gonna stop ‘til you're done.” 

“Oh, fuck Beckman,” your eyes glazed over, your lips parting and crying out in bliss as his skillful ministrations cast out the pressure in your shoulder as a priest would cleanse unholy ground to make their sanctuary.

“Th-That’s it. Oh m-my fuck-,” you whined back into his hands, “You're so good. Your hands feel so good.” As the last of the knot fled your shoulder, a warm chuckle rumbled from behind you. Beckman's laugh brought you comfort, his softness depicted in this small moment as he held you in his arms. 

His firm hands turned soft, caressing your shoulders in tender, gentle touches. He molded both of your shoulders within his palms, your body becoming jelly beneath his rough and calloused hands. You moaned softly as he maneuvered your body in a perfect arch against his chest, the rumble of his chuckle reverberating within your back to vibrate within your chest. 

“Better?” he whispered in the shell of your ear, easing his body back to enable you to escape his broad cage. Instead of breaking away from his body, you relaxed into his arms, sighing out a warm breath of contentment. 

“Thank you, Becks. You're bloody amazing at that,” you praised him, feeling light and free of the bonds that confined you, “Why did you offer to help me with it?” 

“There was something in your face that told me you needed it,” he shrugged, huffing a small chuckle out of his nose and leant down to rumble out a whisper in your ear, “Always wanna help you, Darlin’.”

“Oh Becks, I could kiss you,” you turned in his arms, gazing through half-hooded eyelids up at him, “Can I?”

He smirked down at you, a small pink due flushing his cheeks with a subtle dust, bobbing his head in a soft nod to grant you permission. As you circled your arms over his neck and began to draw him closer to your lips, a chorus of barked laughter and an uproar of cheers echoed along the hull of the ship. Clapping hands, whistles and hoots erupted from your crew now surrounding the two of you. 

“Oh, Beckman,” your captain cackled at you, his right hand clapping over his heart, “In public, big guy? And you,” he pointed his index finger at you, his wolfy grin painted in a drawn-out taunting smirk, “You sly little fox. Gettin’ the big man to take you right on the deck?”

“What?” you questioned your captain in a warning tone, floating your eyes between the rest of the crew gathered on the deck beside him. Shanks’ playful twinkle fluttered beneath his weighty eyelashes. 

“Be gentle with me, Becks,” he mocked in a needy moan not too dissimilar from your own, before hardening his features and deepening his voice in a grunted, “You need a bit of rough treatment,” he commented gruffly. The color drained from your face, eyes widening and lips parting once again in bashful horrification. 

“Oh right there, Becks, don't stop,” Shanks continued his performance, a small warning began to rise within Beckman's throat in a rumbled growl. Breaking out of your embrace, he grimaced at the red-head in front of him. 

“Enough, Cap’n,” Beckman snarled, reaching within his pocket and pulling out his lighter with his left hand, fishing out a cigarette to follow, “Got out a knot, s’all. You know how shit they are.” Beckman ignited the end, taking a lengthy drag and exhaling a puff away from your face. 

“Really? That's all?” Shanks cried out a laugh, the crew echoing his unashamed and carefree joy at the notion, “I thought I saw some hips moving together, Becks. You were letting some of your own groans out too, mewling like a wh-.”

“-Or should I relay half of the bullshit you curse out when Hongo releases the knots in your own shoulder?” Beckman smirked, his eyes daring his captain to say another embarrassing quip. After a pregnant pause, silent tension only momentary before another uproar of laughter barked out amongst the Red-Hair pirates. 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm done,” Shanks waved his hand in the air, shooting you a small wink before turning to face his crew, “What say we make port, huh? Resupply with some fresh drinks, a hot meal, some good company, and a comfortable sleep on dry land?”

“Aye, sir!” the crew echoed in unison, your own confirmation falling from your lips as you began maneuvering around the first-mate to resume your duties. Just as you passed Beckman's shoulder, a firm hand shot out and gripped your forearm to hold you in place. 

“Beckman?” you asked, turning to meet his eyes. You floated your own between his, hovering your attention to fixate on him completely, “Everything alright, Sir?” 

“Goin’ back to ‘Sir’ again, after all that,” he murmured, barely above comprehension. Your quizzical feeling never left you, still hovering between the lenses of his glassy orbs. 

“How you feeling?” he asked as he pressed down the filter end of the cigarette beneath the pad of his thumb, placing the butt-end in the small drawer attached to the hull of the ship, “I get it all out, or the ache still hangin’ in there?”

Humming in thought, you rotated your right arm and felt the ghost of your prior pain simmer down and flee from your form. The small pinch only remained behind in memory, but the small remnants of the ache threatened to return. 

“It's gone for now, I think,” you uttered with a small shrug, “It'll likely begin the slow journey back up my spine in a pinch.” Beckman hummed in thought, nodding along as he checked over your body for any changes. 

After a small lull, you held your ground as the atmosphere once again fell into awkwardness. You shook your head to stifle your nerves, sucking in a breath to elevate your courage. 

“Can I buy you a drink or two when we get to port?” you ask him, eyes dropping to the ground and hands laced behind you, “An expression of my gratitude for you helping me out?”

“You askin’ me out on a date?” Beckman disguised his growing smile by arching himself away from you, loosening the tie in his hair and beginning to restyle it.

“And if I am?” you ask, still avoiding his gaze by holding your eyes firmly against the floor, “What then?”

“What then, Darlin’,'' he smirked, his eyes softening as his hands found your hips, “Is that I'd accept.” He pulled you flush with him, prompting your eyes to widen and search his gray orbs in your shock, “I wouldn't mind spending an evening with you, havin’ drinks in a quiet corner for a change.”

“It would be a nice change,” you confessed, eyes again falling soft for the first mate. He leant his hips back on the wooden railing, reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. His index finger lingered on your chin, holding your eyes against his. 

“What was it for you? To have you finally make a move after all this time?” he asked, his eyes turning playful as he looked down at you through half-hooded eyes, “The hands or the elbow?”

“I think it was the words,” you confessed with a small laugh, “Not used to having the Great Benn Beckman whisper: ‘be a good little thing and take it.’ Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm being honest,” a small choked pause fell from Beckman's lips, your own question now posed to him.

“What made you accept a drink with me?” you searched his eyes quizzically, pursing your lips as you continued, “We've served together for so long, what made you consider it now?”

“Oh Darlin', I've always considered it. More than considered it,” he huffed out a chuckle, bringing your face closer to his with the curl of his index finger, “Just didn't know how much I wanted it ‘til you started sayin' my name like that.” He hovered his lips over yours, his breath still scented with the sour, smoky tang of his last cigarette as he beckoned you in. 

“Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm bein' honest,” he parroted your words back at you before finally claiming your lips beneath his own in a chaste kiss. The attention he gave your lips was brief, ending contact almost as soon as they touched. 

He pulled away from your lips, noticing your pout and slight agitation at the hastiness the kiss ended. Chuckling, he leant over your ear and confessed his intentions further. 

“Cap’n’s watchin’,” he nodded over to where Shanks’ taunting eyes and winning smile wordlessly teased you both, “Don't wanna give him more ammunition to tease you with, Darlin'. No matter how much I really wanna kiss you.”

“I owe you more,” you hummed up at him with a soft smile, tucking the loose strand of hair away from his forehead and behind his ear, “Anything I can do to repay my growing debt to you? More than a couple drinks later, a little kiss, or taking care of your duties for you today?”

“Just the promise of your company later will do for now,” he chuckled, leaning into the heel of your palm with his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your skin.

“Aye, Sir,” you smirked at him, giving his cheek two gentle taps before returning back to duty with a newfound rejuvenation. Your limbs felt lighter, your body felt freer and your head felt less foggy with the prior pain you felt. 

Shanks sauntered over towards his first-mate, smirking and kicking up his feet all along the way in a playful dance. Beckman shook his head, reaching for another cigarette and lit the end. Shanks leaned his head against Beck’s shoulders, uttering not a single word as he fluttered his eyelashes, wiggled his eyebrows and clicked his tongue at the broody, larger man. 

“Don’t even start,” Beckman growled under his breath. Shanks smiled wider, jolting his right index finger into Beckman’s side as he hummed up a playful mock at him. 

“But you finally made a move, big man,” Shanks chuckled, nudging him with his left shoulder, “How long’s it been now? Two, maybe three years of longing, yearning and lusting from afar, hm?”

“Four,” Beckman commented gruffly, inhaling a deep breath of smoke in his mouth and holding it still behind his lips, “And I remember saying: ‘don’t even start’.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going, I’m going,” Shanks held his right hand up in defence, an extra buzz in his step at the knowledge that Beckman and you had finally allowed a small crack in the door open to engage with one another this way. A small chuckle erupted in Shanks’ voice, his own amusement adamant over his features.

“Right there Becks, don’t stop,” Shanks’ voice whined again in a needy moan, before growling out a rumbled mock of, “I’m not gonna stop ‘til you’re done,” he laughed, turning back over his shoulder, “Honestly, Beckman. Show a bit of composure, man.” 

Beckman’s blush scorched scarlet on his features, prompting him to thrust the butt of his cigarette into the drawer and begin to charge at his Captain. Shanks shrieked out a giddy cry of amusement at his first-mate.

“Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” Shanks laughed, turning tail and began running away in glee from successfully taunting his first mate. The barrelling boot heels of the first mate almost managed to catch up to the Captain immediately, but Shanks continued successfully darting away from Beckman’s disciplinary grasp.

[the-kr8tor]

The Less I Know The Better

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Synopsis: An office holiday party gone awry.

Word count: 8.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, part 3, mockumentary AU, Co-worker AU, Co-worker! Hobie, slight loser! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW food mentions, CW injury.

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Co-worker AU Masterlist

Part 3 >>> Part 4

Your whole body is stretched to perfectly line up the holiday garlands on the conference room walls. Back aching and arms starting to cramp while Jessica stands a few ways behind you. She instructs you on where to tack on the scratchy garlands with its sparkly tinsel. The air smells like cinnamon and ginger bread. The food is all laid out on a long foldable table, the sight alone has your stomach rumbling.

“Here?” You struggle a bit, arms aching as you tiptoe on the highest step of the ladder.

“A little bit further up.” You're starting to think that she's just playing with you. She notices your strained huff as you sweat from the harsh camera lights pointed right at you. “Sorry, I would help but the company will not pay me hazard comp if I fall, especially while I'm pregnant.”

“You're pregnant?” You almost fall back, metal ladder wobbling under you briefly before you manage to balance yourself. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you were almost grateful that the documentary crew wasn't there to witness it. Just their cameras that they placed on each corner of the room whilst they shoot b-rolls of the rest of the ‘cast.’ Great.

“Whoa, you okay?” Jess holds up her hands, quickly crossing the distance to steady the ladder.

“Yeah, um congratulations.” you exhale out a nervous bout of air. “That was almost the end of me.” With a nervous laughter, you climb back up the steps to pin the garland. You don't even care if it's lopsided or not, and Jessica doesn't speak up about it either as she grasps her stomach. “Crap, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I bet he was nervous too.” She takes a deep inhale. “I'll be back in a second.”Jessica leaves but comes sauntering back inside. “Can you start decorating the food table, thanks.” Before you could say yes, she's already heading towards the bathroom.

“Okay,” you climb down the ladder with measured steps. You're still a temp so that means if you get injured on the job, you won't get worker's comp. Just three months to go and you can finally breathe easily when you're officially an employee.

Once your feet are back on solid ground, you head towards the sparsely decorated table. There are saran wrapped dishes placed, courtesy of your co-workers. There are also a few dishes with tin foil covering on top of it to keep the heat in, and an empty punch bowl ready to be filled with juice. That makes your mind wander back to Hobie and how he's doing. You two have become casual friends throughout the past few months. He smiles at you whenever he delivers your mail, and would sometimes start a friendly conversation with you. “It's gettin’ colder, innit?” He asks, “What're you havin' for lunch?” And you'd answer back with a smile and a friendly reply. After that he’s gone and out on delivery again. And of course you sometimes have lunch with him together with the rest of the lunch club. But it doesn't feel the same as before the bar incident. You don't know what changed when you tried incredibly hard to not let exactly like this from happening. The awkward glances and the polite smiles have made you feel…bad. Frustrated. Like you've done something terrible to your friend.

MJ has been apologetic to you, and has taken it upon herself to seek out Hobie and his band to personally apologize to them. You start to notice that they've been hanging out more after that. Without you usually, well, more than usual. You don't mind it, or you keep telling yourself that you don't. She comes home telling you stories about the band and Hobie more and more. “He only likes the blue sour patch kids.” And, “yeah, he also told me that there used to be another band member.” You're happy that she found a new friend, and sometimes, just once, you wish that she'd invite you to one of those hangouts. You always liked being alone in your own little bubble of comfort. And MJ knows that, being your friend for a decade or so, she knows how introverted you are. She says that you're her favourite because you know how to listen. But you like to talk too. Not as much as her or as social as her, but it's nice to just be around people, to be invited to sit at the same table as them— to just talk and be listened to. Just like how Hobie is with you. But recently, you two have been missing each other in the office. Usually you would arrive just in time at the exact moment he arrives. But lately, you keep finding yourself alone in the office hallway while you wait for the elevators to open.

The lunch club is at least consistent, and you always eat with them in the break room. You're too afraid to ask where Hobie is or what's happening to him. Maybe he's planning on quitting? Maybe the band is just ramping up their performances from every weekend to every day? Either way, you haven't spoken to him in a while other than seeing him briefly with his mail cart. Why do you feel bad for missing him?

With a sigh, you look outside the window where a fresh drizzle of snow covers the whole empty soccer field right next to the office. The weather has been icy and chilly, more than when you walked to the bus stop. And the feeling’s mutual inside the office. Everyone just wants to go home and stay home. Hobie did invite you to that concert he was talking about a couple of months ago. You're still thinking whether or not you should go. Are you even still invited to that?

As you rearrange the red plates with printed garlands around it, an arm shoots out next to you. For a second you think it would be Hobie coming to fill the punch bowl or to place his contribution, but based on the rich cologne, it's Harry.

You know the scent well ever since you two started carpooling together. It all started on accident really when the ground was too slippery from sleet and he practically begged you to take you home, worried that you'd crack your head on the pavement on your way to the bus stop. After that it snowballed from taking you home occasionally, to giving you a ride home every night. He offered to drive you to the office every morning too if you hadn't told him that he actually lives out of the way from your side of town. He just sighed with a lopsided smile and accepted to only take you home to save you a bus fare. You liked the conversations with him, and you always offer to pay him back but he just shrugs and asks you to buy him a cheap cup of coffee from the convenience store on the way to your place. A cup of coffee turns into talking on the hood of his car while you two chat the night away while munching on chips and gas station hotdogs. It was a surprise kind of friendship that you never thought would blossom into something more than just being co-workers.

“Hey, ice princess.” He smiles, cheeks red from the biting cold outside as he places bottles upon bottles of red punch on the table right next to the bowl. “Your domain’s expanding.”

“Sorry about that.” You joke back, earning a rare chuckle from Harry. “Did you go outside in that weather?”

He blows at his palms, the tip of his nose is rosey. “Yeah, I forgot these in my car.”

“You should warm up, don't want you getting hypothermia now.” You cheekily side eye him.

Shaking his head with a grin tamped down by biting his lip, his cheeks grow redder. “Using my own words against me, wow.”

“I try my best.” You shrug, stacking the plates in a neat pile before you go around him to grab the box of decorations under the table. He helps you lift it up, and you give him your thanks as you place it on the table. It's filled with Santa Clauses, dainty snowmen, and tiny pine trees. “I heard about your sale, congrats.”

“Yeah,” he puffs out his chest with pride as he opens a bottle to fill the bowl. “Thank you, it was a tough sell.”

“I heard, literally, we're desk neighbors. I heard everything.” You say as you place the figurines of Santa next to a savoury smelling dish. “It was like I was watching ‘the wolf of wall street.’”

“Was I that loud?” He mutters while the gurgle of juice fills the bowl. “How about I treat you—” he swallows thickly. “— as a sorry for being too loud, and as a celebration.” Avoiding your eyes, you gaze at him, blinking slowly. “Nothing fancy, just dinner.”

“Okay,” you slowly say. You two technically always have dinner together. But this time it'll be a far cry from eating in his car while mustard dribbles from your fingers and he makes fun of you for putting mustard on your hotdog. It's still just dinner, right? “What do you have in mind?” You can practically hear the docu crew snickering from somewhere once they review the footage. This is probably ‘hot goss’ for them, or that's what Lyla always tells you when they focus on a couple in admin.

“There's this Thai place I've been meaning to go to.” Harry exhales shakily as he continues to pour the second bottle of punch. “Do you like Thai? We can go someplace else if you want.” He almost stammers out the last word.

You smile with endearment, fingers unconsciously playing with the snowman figurine in your hand. “No, I like Thai, that sounds great.” You even surprised yourself at how composed you sounded.

“Yeah?” He boyishly smiles, a brown curl falling over his eye as you nod. “Cool, great. I'll pick you up this weekend.”

“Okay,” you nervously nudge him, and he hides a growing smile. “Be careful, it's almost full.”

“Oh yeah, shoot!” He tips the bottle back before the juice spills over the old carpet. “Thanks, do you need help—?” Before you could say something, a shrill ring of a phone interrupts you both. He takes out his phone and winches. “Sorry, it's my dad…”

“No, it's okay, go ahead, I'm good over here.” You wave him off, and as he leaves, you notice him grimacing at the garland you just put up. “Shit,” you huff, placing the snowman down on the table as you make your way back to the ladder.

It's the last hurrah before the holiday break starts, and you're incredibly glad that you got hired into a company that has a week off during the holidays. So you definitely want to make the place look good or at least presentable to maybe impress your bosses.

The metal creaks under you while you climb up the highest step. You stretch yourself once again as you pluck the garland out to fix it. Something almost falls from within the thick garland, and you catch it in your hand before it falls. Opening your palm, you see a mistletoe all bundled together with a red ribbon. You stare curiously at it since this came from a box labeled ‘office holiday decorations.’ A mistletoe at an office party? Is that even appropriate? You chuckle at the thought.

“How's the weather up there?” A familiar voice asks and you crane your neck so fast that you accidentally fling yourself from the rickety ladder, grip loosening as your fingers brush along the cold metal step. “Oh shit!” You gasp as Hobie rushes in to catch you.

Bracing yourself for impact, you don't feel it as Hobie took the blow of the floor for you.

“Oh fuck, are you okay?! I'm so sorry, Hobie.” You take his cheek as he groans from under you. Your legs are beside him, accidentally straddling him while the mistletoe lands right on his chest— right in between the two of you. “Are you hurting anywhere?” You ask, frazzled and worried.

Hobie lifts up his head with a wobbly grin, eyes gazing at you softly then over to the fallen mistletoe. “Does this still count?”

You follow his line of sight. “Wha— Hobie!” Your cheeks run heavy with warmth when you realize what he's talking about. As you look down, your eyes are fixated on his goofy grin and handsome face. His wicks frame around his face, piercings glinting under the blinking Christmas lights.

“Why do we always find ourselves like this, lovie?” He reminisces about the time you fell on him during Lyla's earthquake scare while you're just trying to even out your breathing lest you fall unconscious on top of him.

“What happened?!” Jessica comes running after the sound of the ladder clatters on the floor. You're immediately rolling off of Him on the floor before she could even wrap her mind around the position you two were in. “Are you two okay?”

Hobie, still on the floor, lifts his hand and gives her a thumbs up. While you could only look at the carpet and how it feels under your clammy hands.

The rest of the office follows, all clambering over each other to witness the commotion. Miguel groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, while Lyla gasps at the scene in front of her. The lunch club walks in, eyes wide before shifting their vision over to a very flustered you and Hobie, who's still a puddle on the floor with the mistletoe on his chest; they all give him a knowing smirk. Meanwhile the camera crew are running to check if the mounted cameras captured the scene.

“If you're hurt, you gotta file a worker's comp, Hobie.” Lyla shakes her head when Hobie dramatically groans as he stands up weakly. “C’mon, man, you know I'll still give it to you without all that.” Miguel glares at her. “Pretend you didn't hear that.” She tells him.

Miguel could only wave it off with a scoff and returns back to work. Hobie gives you a hand, but before you could reach for it, Harry returns and helps you off the floor himself, earning a glare from Hobie.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks you after lifting you off your feet. “Nothing damaged?”

You shake your head, “no, I'm fine, Hobie saved me.”

The two men meet each other's eyes. Their jaws are set, moreso with Hobie while Harry looks more annoyed.

“Are you sure you're okay, Hobie?” You crane your neck and take your attention away from Harry to gaze at Hobie worriedly.

He cups your elbow and gives you a genuine smile. You haven't realized that you missed him this much for your heart to beat as loudly as it is right now. “Yeah, ‘m fine, lovie. Just glad I was there to save you.”

Lyla looks between you and the two men sizing each other up. She glances at Gwen briefly as cameras capture their knowing stares. “Alright, show's over!” She claps her hands together and shoos people away. “Y/N, are you really okay?”

“Yeah, I was just clumsy and good thing Hobie was here to save the day.” You flick your eyes to meet his own gentle look. Harry stays behind you, hands tucked inside his pockets while Pavitr picks up the ladder off the floor. “I'm really okay, I need to finish this.”

Stepping to the side, you head towards the table again and take out the decorations robotically as snow drifts down on the frosty glass. You say thanks to Pav before he gives you a smile and heads back to his desk.

“Good, Brown and Osborne, come with me.” Lyla says sternly, you've never heard that tone coming from her before.

“What?” Hobie asks while he stretches his shoulder.

“Why?” Harry groans.

“Because I said so, now.” She pushes them outside, leaving you alone with Jessica and the cameras.

“Damn.” Jess relays what you had in mind.

“Couldn't have said it better myself.” You look at each other before returning to work like nothing happened. Or you like to pretend to at least.

—

You don't know what happened in Lyla's office with Hobie and Harry, but the two are now avoiding each other like the plague, even more than before. Harry stands near the plastic Christmas tree, nursing a red plastic cup filled with punch. His jaw is clenched, shoulders kept straight and aligned to the wall behind him. He looks like the grinch with all the holiday lights and decorations around him. A classic Christmas tune filters through the air while everyone chats around the room. It's peaceful, even Hobie, whose eyebrows were furrowed together when he first entered, is now happily filling his plate with food.

The camera crew stands on each end of the room, giving everyone space after a very irked Jessica told them to back off or she'll call security on them. You still have no idea why Miguel even lets them in to begin with. Or perhaps it's the big bosses on top who are letting them film for tax break purposes. There's nothing interesting to film in the company anyway— or at least one that doesn't include what happened earlier, or back at the bar, or in front of your apartment. Maybe they should just ask to film you instead of pretending they like documenting the day to day work of an electric toothbrush company. At least then you'd have enough money to have your own place.

Gayatri and Gwen are talking about their classes whilst you listen until Hobie saunters in with two glasses filled with eggnog, one bitten in between his teeth, and the other in his hand. And a filled plate that he has to juggle all together lest there's an accident on the old carpet. His button up is open to a more casual look, necktie nowhere to be seen, while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a few tattoos along the way. You spot a spider on the underside of his elbow, and a music note near his wrist. For once you thank the bright fluorescent lights for showing them to you.

You side glance at him, unsure whether the drink was for you or not. He can't speak with the drink in between his lips, so he wordlessly tells you to grab the other cup in his hand simply with his eyes and a muffled call of your name. With a chuckle, you take the drink and he can finally speak as he releases the rim of the cup and places his plate beside a sweet smelling baking sheet of caramel fudge brownies.

“Thanks, Hobie.” You smile sweetly at him, and the two interns share a brief look.

“Where's ours?” Gwen interrupts Hobie before he could even say the two words.

“‘m not an octopus, Gwendy.” Hobie scrunches his nose at Gwen, sipping teasingly at his drink, leaving a milk mustache on his upper lip.

“Fine, chivalry truly is dead.” Gayatri sighs and takes Gwen's hand as they glare at him before heading towards the food table where Miles and Pavitr are talking beside a plate of mashed potatoes.

“Can you believe them?” Hobie nudges you and takes the space where the two women were.

“Maybe they really like eggnog.” You joke with a smile, sipping casually at the warm drink. It's creamy with a hint of warmth lining your tongue. “Oh, you got a little something…” pointing at your upper lip, he wipes at his mouth, miraculously missing the milk mustache. “No, right…” you take a handkerchief from your pocket and wipe it for him. “...here. There, you don't look like a baby anymore.”

For a moment, Hobie looks like a deer in the headlights. Blinking, he composed himself, smiling through the fog of shyness. “Got it all, love?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning against the table as you two gaze at each other. You suddenly feel a wave of déjà vu. “T–The eggnog is really good, Hobie. Did you make it yourself?” In your flustered stupor, you try to make casual conversation as he stares at the handkerchief in your hand.

“It's Ned's recipe, but yeah I made it all by my lonesome. You kept my handkerchief?” He almost said breathlessly.

“Y–Yeah, you said I can keep it— but if you want it back.” You try to hand it to him but he chuckles and pushes the cloth back towards you.

“Nah, ‘m jus’ surprised you kept it.” Hobie scratches the back of his head,

You flick your eyes to the checkered handkerchief. “Thank you again.”

“Stop sayin' thanks, love, your smile’s enough for me.”

“Cheesy.” You say, muffled against the rim of your cup.

“What's that?” He plays along as his eyes glimmer.

“Nothing, I just said you're a cheese ball, Hobie Brown.” You tease with a lilt in your tone.

“Everyone fancies a cheeseball, don't you think?”

The two of you chuckle whilst the party continues to go on without the two of you. The snow stopped falling outside, covering the parking lot and street with a soft sheet of snow as the world seemed to come to a standstill. The gentle piano rendition of ‘jingle bells’ plays in the background, while the laughter of your co-workers instead of clacking keyboard filters through your ears. Hobie gazes at you with the same fondness back at the bar before you had to walk out in the cold. And you mirror his expression, lips curled into a subtle smile, body turned towards him as you two cradle matching cups of eggnog.

With liquid courage courtesy of the drink, you finally ask him. “How have you been, Hobie?”

“Fuckin' busy.” He sighs, hand placed inside his trousers pocket. “The show on the twenty fourth got us all bloody busy. The interns can't join so Yuri and the others have to work twice as hard without ‘em. I don't have a stand in though. That's why I've been out of it these past few weeks.” With the tip of his shoe, he nudges your heels. “I've been takin’ my lunch with the band just to get an extra hour of practice in. Why? Did you miss me?”

“No one can replace Hobie Brown.” You nudge him back, earning a wobbly smile from him. “And no, I had the lunch club to keep me company.”

“Well, shit, and ‘ere I thought you missed my presence.”

“I’m pretty sure that's called a delusion.”

Hobie laughs, a deep rumble that has the whole room staring briefly at him. And unfortunately, the cameras too. But for the first time, you don't mind all the eyes and lenses on you when his laughter fills your chest with warmth. And you're pretty sure it's not from the spiced eggnog.

He opens his mouth to say something, hand reaching for your elbow but before he could say it, Miguel calls for everyone's attention.

“Time for secret Santa, everyone gather around in a circle—”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Suddenly, out comes Lyla, dressed in a fluffy Mrs. Claus suit. It looks expensive to boot, and not like anything you see online. Does she use it every year? “I come bearing gifts!” She lifts up the giant velvet sack in her hands, barely lifted up from the weight of it. You remember that you had to put your present in the day before per Lyla's request. Your eyes nervously glance at the recipient of said gift.

Suddenly, Peter walks behind her, dressed as Santa, but in a blue suit rather than the iconic red. “We come bearing gifts!” He helps lift the sack over Lyla's head, earning an annoyed look from Lyla. It seems like they didn't talk about this beforehand.

Hobie shakes his head, smiling and clearly amused. “Fuckin' hell. C’mon, let's get our presents before Miguel gets to his fifth glass of eggnog.” Grabbing his plate, he slowly eats his way towards the slice of red velvet cake in the center that's crowded around by a mishmash of pastries and cold cuts. Your holiday cookies are piled up on his plate while he munches on poor frosty the snowman’s head. “It’s good.” He says, muffled by the cookie in his mouth. You chortle at him, lip bitten from tamping down a squeak of delight at his reaction.

You follow beside him, making a circle around Lyla and Peter. “Why, is Miguel a lightweight?”

“He gets to his sixth and he gets…chatty.” He offers you something on his plate, and since you already ate, you only took a mini muffin from it.

You can't imagine Miguel being chatty out of everyone whilst you munch on the tiny muffin. “Does he spill company secrets?”

“I wish, he talks ‘bout his personal life.”

“Ow, we better finish this quick then.”

You don't notice the way the interns are looking at the two of you from across the circle. Harry sidles up next to you on your left, biting into a kebab.

“Hey, Harry.” You smile at him.

“Hi, princess. Where'd you get the muffin?”

“From over…” Craning your neck to look for it on the table, you can't find the tiny muffins. “...I don't know actually.” You laugh unsurely. “I got it from Hobie.”

Hobie, without missing a second, says. “We're all out of it, bruv, that's the last one.”

Yep, definitely déjà vu.

Harry scoffs. “Right.”

You glance at the two of them as they avoid each other's line of sight. You really do feel like a referee whenever you're in between them.

“Alright, rules.” Peter says, and a groan echoes around the room. “Come on, we've got new people here so I gotta say it again. First of all, I hope none of you said who's your secret Santa before because you can only say that once after they open their present, capiche?” Another round of groans can be heard. “It's just not fun when everyone knows!” Everyone gives him an unenthusiastic nod. “Second, no second rule, just have fun!”

“That is the most dad thing I've ever heard.” Gwen says, and Peter dramatically frowns.

“It’s because I am a dad, Gwen!”

“Alright, enough, let's start because the lasagna isn't agreeing with me right now.” Miguel gruffly says, fifth drink in hand.

“Great,” Hobie says sarcastically. “‘Too much information' Miguel is ‘ere.”

Miguel scrunches his face and plops himself beside the dessert table. All without giving Hobie lip.

“Wow, he just accepted that.” You say, surprised.

“He gives up after his fourth drink.” Hobie bumps his elbow with yours as you two laugh. Unbeknownst to you, the camera is zooming in on Harry's disgruntled expression.

One by one, names are called to grab their presents. Some are happy about their gifts, like Miles, who got an old CB radio from Peter. But most are trying their best not to disappoint the person who got their name. Just like Gwen and her stuffed bunny rabbit gifted by someone in I.T. and like Miguel, who got a pair of airpods which Hobie reacted with a coughed out ‘arse kisser.’ No one dared to say who it's from after that. You have a feeling it's from Harry since he has a similar pair. It'll be revealed after everyone gets their presents anyway.

“Alright, this one is for… Hobie!” Peter exclaims as he hands the neatly wrapped present to him.

You bite your lip, fingers playing with the hem of your sweater as he opens the gift carefully. You only hope that he likes it since it took you so long to finish it.

Hobie whistles out as he admires the vintage leather jacket. “Damn.”

His finger skims over the metal buttons that you painstakingly polished and then over to the stitched holes that you carefully stitched to make different patterns of. You're not a seamstress of sorts, and you had to watch a sewing tutorial on how to make a lightning bolt simply with a needle and thread. The aches and blisters on your fingers are evidence of that. Turning the denim around, his eyes widen at his band logo that's stitched at the back. He recognizes it from a band t-shirt they used to give out. The fabric was cut from the front of it and then stitched on the back with neat running stitches. At the hem, his initials are painted in big bold letters.

“I said not to go over the limit.” Jess has had enough of the expensive gifts.

“I–I didn't.” You blurt out and everyone turns to you. Hobie included as his smile grows. “I thrifted the jacket and I made all the restoration myself. I didn't go over, it's even below the budget.”

“Okay, sorry about that.” Jess sighs, still clutching the hundred dollar gift card to some baby clothes shop. “Still,” she waves it around to make a point. “I see a pattern.”

“It's okay.” You resist the urge to meet with Hobie's eyes, or anyone's on that matter.

“You got this for me, lovie?” His voice is an octave higher, like he can't believe that you'd work so hard on a present just for him. Especially something that's so meaningful to him.

“Yep,” you pop the letter ‘p’ to hide your bashfulness. You finally gather the courage to look at him, finding that his warm honeyed eyes are looking at you softly that you forgot what just happened. “Do you like it?”

Harry side eyes the two of you, skimming over the band logo with a heavy look.

“I fuckin' love it.” Hobie says with a breathless sigh. “Where'd you even get the shirt? I lost mine years ago.”

“I asked MJ if she knew where to get it, she tried but couldn't find it so she told me to try talking to your band mates.” You nervously pick at your nail, rambling on. “Turns out Ned still had his.”

“Let me guess, he got you to pay a pretty penny for it, hm?”

You shake your head with a chuckle. “No, he gave it to me for free, as an apology for the bar. He's actually quite nice.”

“Good thing you asked him and not James. You picked the nicest one of us.”

“Please, you're plenty nice too.”

“‘m nice to those who deserve it, love.” He puts on the denim jacket, all the while watching you in the corner of his eyes. Thankfully, it fits him like a glove, except for the sleeve that's a few inches shorter, but he doesn't seem to mind while he has the biggest grin on his pierced lips. “How do I look?”

“You wear it well.” Is the only sentence you could manage that doesn't have the word ‘handsome’ or ‘gorgeous’ in it.

“Thank you, love.” He rubs the rough denim, smiling like a kid who just got what he wanted for Christmas. “It's perfect. I also have—” Your name gets called suddenly, interrupting his words.

“There you go, kiddo.” Peter hands you an expensive looking paper bag that's all tied with a sparkly navy blue ribbon.

“Oh, thanks.” You mumble out.

You were planning on opening it later after the party but since everyone opened theirs already, you suppose you had to. It feels like a birthday party of sorts where everyone’s singing you a happy birthday while you could only stare awkwardly at the candles on the cake. The cameras come around you, not trying to miss anything. Unwrapping the ribbon, and feeling like a goldfish inside a tank, you put your whole arm in the bag, feeling something smooth inside as you pull it out. The paper bag drops by your feet as you gasp at the gorgeous antique looking box in your hands. It's about the size of a textbook, it has some weight too.

“What's in the box!” Peter acts and you immediately get the reference to it. While most people rolled their eyes at it, you and Miles chuckled at the joke.

You run your thumb across the peony flower engraving around the metal clasp. It's well made, something you see at some expensive antique shop that looks like all the items are either cursed or haunted. Now you're afraid that when you open it famine and disease will escape out of it. But as you unclasp it, rows of vibrant paint tubes greets you. There's a handful of paint brushes along the top of it, by the looks of it, it's just as well made as the box. With a nervous chuckle, mouth agape, it seems that not just the bosses got the ‘arse kisser’ gifts.

Jess huffs but shrugs, accepting that people have gone over the price limit. At the end of the day, it's just a nice gesture.

“Who?” You instinctively look at Hobie, cheeks warm at the prospect of him being your secret Santa. But he just shakes his head, mouthing ‘not me.’ Then you look over to the group of interns and they all mirror Hobie's gesture.

A tap on your shoulder has you looking over to your left. Harry smiles softly at you, green eyes shining.

“Don't worry, I got it on sale.” He whispers to you, index poking the side of the box. “I saw your paint set back at your place, most of the tubes were almost finished so I thought I'd get you some new ones. This is what they call serendipity, I think. ”

“Harry,” you sigh out while everyone has moved onto you and your expensive looking gift over to Gayatri and her secret Santa present. “This is too much. I think there's every colour in here.”

“That just means you don't have to buy new ones for a while then.”

“I would've settled for just one tube.” You lean closer so as to not disturb the rest of the party with your conversation.

“Can't, you deserve all the colors of the rainbow.” Harry comes closer until his shoe kisses the side of your heels.

“This is definitely more than the rainbow, Harry.”

“You're welcome, princess.” He nudges you, hand lingering on your bicep.

Hobie swallows thickly next to you. The camera crew are eating it all up it seems.

Peter gasps as he lifts up his present, interrupting you and Harry. “It's a dragon onesie!” A crocheted one in fact as you chuckle at his reaction.

“It's for Mayday so don't try to wear it, mate—” A strained cough roars above the merriment.

Everyone looks over to the source where Miguel is hacking out a rough cough, a swollen hand clasped around his neck as he wheezes out. A caramel brownie falls from his other hand, rolling across the floor. Your eyes widen with panic as he keels over on the carpeted floors, bumping on the dessert table as food tumbles out and decorations falling while he's still coughing.

“Shit! He's choking!” Jessica runs over to him, palm slapping Miguel's back.

Everyone crowds around Miguel in a panic. His lips are swollen, eyes red as he continues to choke.

“I'm calling an ambulance.” Gayatri has the right idea and dials the number.

“Move over!” Harry speed walks behind Miguel, arms wrapping around his middle and trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on him.

Gasps echo around, worry and panic setting in.

“He needs CPR!” Peter argues with Harry and Jessica while Gayatri’s frantic call to emergency services roams above the voices.

Hobie crouches down, grabbing the fallen brownie on the ground and smells it. The harsh lights of the crew and their added space makes the situation worse and claustrophobic. Not an ideal environment for someone who can't breathe.

“What—?” You ask and Hobie has a lightbulb moment.

“Peanuts! There's bloody peanuts in this!”

You immediately push people away and bolt over to your desk, rummaging through your bag for the orange cap and leaving the paint box on your table.

“Does anyone have an epipen?!” Jessica yells in a panic, but you're already pushing Peter away from trying to do CPR on Miguel as the needle meets Miguel's thigh in a quick and practiced motion from you.

Within a second, Miguel inhales deeply, colour returning to his lips. His fingers and lips are still swollen, but at least he's breathing much better now.

“Holy shit!” Harry exclaims, eyes darting over to Miguel and over to you with something flitting across his expression.

“Holy shit.” Hobie says breathlessly, mirroring the same expression on Harry's face. You can't quite get a good read on them as you heave, hand still clasp around the epipen. Are they impressed or something?

“Damn, newbie.” Lyla pats your shoulder, then a round of applause follows around. You almost cower from embarrassment.

You look at Hobie, who's still fixated on you. “I always have one on me since MJ’s also allergic to peanuts.” You explain since he might be wondering why you carry it around. He smiles at you, eyes twinkling. “Keep that in mind, Hobie.” You say since they spend a lot of time together.

“Sure, l–love, whatever you say.” He stammers out, crouched across from you. Even when everyone pats you for a job well done, he can't keep his eyes off you.

“Nice save, princess.” Harry says, nodding and grinning at you.

“F–Fuck.” Miguel groans out a laboured exhale, head slowly lifting up. “Thank you.” You curtly nod at him, pride filling your chest.

“Alright, everyone, give Miguel some space!” Jessica shoos people put. “He needs some air.” The documentary crew gladly filters out and weirdly happy that they got some interesting footage. A bit fucked up, you thought.

“He still needs to go to the hospital.” You say as Hobie helps you up on your feet. Miguel is still on the floor while Jessica and Lyla tend to him.

“Ambulance is on the way.” Gayatri nudges you as the group gazes down at Miguel. “What else do you have on you, girl scout?”

“Narcan and antihistamines.”

“Shit,” the lunch club gasps in tandem.

“Remind me to always bring you when I go out to dinner at the seafood place.” Gwen shoves you lightly with a smile as you mirror her expression.

“Does this mean the party's over?” Peter asks and everyone just stares at him.

—

“Love, wait!” Hobie runs after you, sliding on the ice as he tries to keep himself on his feet. You stop and open your arms to catch him mid slide. He collides against you in a flurry of snow and giggles. “Sorry!” He laughs in your arms and he feels warm despite the weather.

“What's got you running on ice?” You laugh, a puff of smoke filtering from your cold lips. Your hands are still on him, and his touch lingers for a second before he pulls his backpack out and grabs a wrapped present inside. “Secret Santa's over.” It's merely a whisper as you stare at the brightly wrapped gift with ballpoint doodles all over it.

“I know, I jus’ wanted to give you somethin'.” He inhales, eyes bright and soft under the glare of the snow. The denim jacket is tucked under his thick coat, peeking under it and you smile at the thought of him loving it so much that he's still wearing it.

“You don't have to, Hobie. I told you that I already forgave you.”

His palm rests above your own. “It's not an apology present. You're my mate, and I give presents to my mates.”

There's warmth behind your eyes as you lean over and hug him without second thought. Hobie embraces you back, chin tucked on your shoulder while he smells like eggnog and cookies.

“You haven't opened it yet.” He chuckles, breath fanning the shell of your ear.

“I know.” Moving away, his hands hover around your sides for a second or two before fully leaning away. “I just wanted to say thank you. You made working here bearable.”

Hobie inhales shakily as he stares into your eyes. “You make it sound like you're leaving.”

“Not leaving just yet, Hobie. I've got rent and debts to pay.” You hug the soft present against your chest, his smile doesn't leave his lips while he gazes softly at you. “Can I open it here or…?”

“You can open it.” He says immediately, chuckling nervously while he scratches the back of his neck. “It's something for the concert on the twenty fourth so you don't have to borrow anymore.” Sniffing, he gestures at the present with his head. “You're still goin’ right?”

“Of course. You and MJ have been working hard on it. I won't miss it, I promise.” Your words have him grinning even more.

Carefully unwrapping the present and unfurling the blue crêpe paper, a black crocheted cardigan greets you. The soft thread has sparkles weaved around it, and when the light hits it, the whole thing almost glows. You choke on a gasp.

“Shit, did you make this?” You ask, impressed and happy.

“I did, I hope it fits because I jus’ fuckin' eyeballed it.” Hobie says with a bit of nervousness. “Look at that, you gave me a jumper and I gave you one. It's serendipitous.” He chuckles out the last word. “It's not a leather one, but I think this suits you.”

You can't help but reach for him and hug him again. “You’re right, it looks comfy. Thank you, Hobie, I love it.”

He pats your back, and you can feel his face tug into a smile. “‘course, love.”

A car horn honks behind you, and Harry rolls down his window, waving you over impatiently. You and Hobie unlatch yourselves away, and with him holding you at arm's length.

“In a bit!” You gesture back as you turn towards Hobie one more time. Not knowing what to say next, you could only bite your lip bashfully with a smile. “Thank you again, Hobie. I'll see you at the concert.”

“Bye, lovie.” You begin to walk away but he calls you back. “Oi,” he gets your attention and Harry's. “Drive carefully, yeah?” You realize that he's talking to Harry and not to you.

“I always drive carefully, Hobs.” Harry scoffs, getting out of his car as snow crunches underfoot. He goes around the hood to open the passenger side and waits for you.

Hobs?

“‘course you do, prick.” Hobie says under his breath while you enter the passenger side and give him one last wave.

Harry glares at him while he returns to the driver's seat. Rolling up his window, he turns to you, eyes softening as you meet his eyes. “Ready to go?” He glances briefly at the cardigan in your hands.

“Yeah.” Your smile doesn't fade.

—

The concert wasn't what you thought it would be. Instead of a dark bar with crusty seats and sticky floors, you stand in a decent domed concert hall that has food vendors to the side together with the various band merchandise. Both teenagers and adults attend the event, smiling and listening to a pop group playing on stage. There's still bright lights flickering in and out, spotlights shining around while the sound system booms and bounces all over the walls. Above the stage, a banner reads 'F.E.A.S.T. annual children's hospital benefit.’ Now you feel silly when you first thought that you'll once again tread around a bar.

“Are you sure you want to come here instead of the movies, princess?” Harry loops his arm around your hips, palm resting atop your side comfortably. “They have 4D. Y’know the ones that spray water on your face.”

“It's a charity, Harry.” You hold the back of his hand, craning your neck to look at him.

The first ‘dinner’ wasn't just a regular celebration dinner at all. Turns out it was an actual date, and you only realized it when he picked you up from your place and handed you a sweet smelling bouquet of flowers. He did the whole thing too, opened the car door for you, pulled the chair for you. Shared a slice of cake for dessert with you, and even secretly paid for the whole meal when he said that he was only going to the bathroom. He was sweet the entire time, a lot more talkative outside of work and the regular car rides, but a good date nonetheless. Immediately after walking you to your front door, he asks for another date with a sheepish smile. You said yes. You did promise MJ that you'll try. So try, you did. Then after a coffee date, you two went to a drive in theatre. The next thing you know, you two are already on your fifth date. Or is it your fifth? You lost count after the butterfly sanctuary date.

You haven't kissed him, apart from a chaste peck on the cheek, there's no lip locking. And he hasn't asked for it nor made a move to kiss you either. It's alright though, you're still not ready to seal the deal just yet. Maybe it has something to do with today, or maybe with a certain someone. You like Harry enough, but there's a nagging feeling on the back of your head for some reason.

“I know, it's just— you know what, this is nice.” Harry relents and pecks your temple. That'll need some getting used to. “I saw a Korean corn dog stand over there, do you want one?”

You're too distracted from looking for the band and Hobie's familiar gait. “Yeah, sure, Harry.” Turning back to him, you squeeze his hand. “I'll wait for you at the front.”

“You sure?” With a nod from you, he unwraps his arm from your side. “I guess I'll call you if we get separated.”

“Yeah, I'll be fine. This isn't like the bar.”

Chuckling, he pats the small of your back before walking towards the food stalls. And you see the familiar camera crew looking around, befuddled and looking lost. You immediately, yet subtly walk away, hoping that the crowd will help camouflage you.

As you make your way towards the front, you see MJ's familiar head of red hair. “MJ!”

She turns around, squealing and bounding towards you. “You made it!” Hugging you, she squeezes the life out of you. “Is that new?” Her eyes flick over to the black sparkly cardigan you have on.

“Yeah, it was a gift.” You hold her at arm's length as she bounces on the balls of her feet excitedly. The rest of her band stands behind her, all visibly excited as they give you a friendly yet quick greeting. “Remember to breathe, we don't want a repeat of the talent show.”

MJ rolls her head back and groans audibly. “Don't remind me! I still have nightmares from it! Good fucking thing we're not on for a little while.”

“Oh, I thought you guys were playing first before Hobie's band?”

“Change of plans apparently. They get to go on first.” She says as the spotlights go wild after the band playing on stage bows to the clapping crowd.

“Where are they anyway—?”

“So where's the new guy, huh? I need to see if he's hot so he can get my approval.” She tugs you to her side, bouncing up and down.

“He's not my— he's buying me a corndog.”

“A man after your own heart, I love that.” She pokes your chest.

You rub the point where she poked you. “Yeah, I guess so. Where's Hobie, I need to wish him luck—?”

A loud guitar riff bounces around the walls, signaling the band's arrival. The lights turn blood red, and the crowd goes wild at the sight.

Hobie looks stunning under the light, wicks pulled together in a ponytail, top almost sheer as it shimmers in the spotlight. His pants are tight and flared at the bottom, all tied together by silver accents, a belt that has a spider on the buckle, and numerous rings and necklaces on him. But most of all, the jean jacket you gifted him fits perfectly on him. He put his own spin on it, adding his own flair with a few buttons and patches while the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It all made you smile.

MJ screams each band member's name, voice cracking when she yells Yuri's name. Her band follows behind, fully screaming out together with the audience. MJ leads you towards the front to see them better, clutching your arm tightly and grinning brightly.

“Hobie!” She screams at the top of her lungs, earning a guffaw from you. “She made it!” Pointing at your head, your heart almost lurches in your chest when his eyes meet yours.

Immediately, the nonchalant look turns soft for you. But as quick as it came, he cranks his charm to a hundred and winks at you. A few people shriek, thinking that the wink was intended for them. You aren't sure if it was even for you.

The lights make his eyes glow bright red, skin looking like it's on fire as he shreds his guitar. Yuri's almost haunting singing voice adds to your swirling thoughts.

“Let's go, Hobie!” You add to the screaming fans, cupping your mouth with your hands for added volume. It has Hobie almost cracking a smile as you see his lips tug up, and he's clearly fighting with it as he swallows.

MJ guffaws, following your cheer with another.

“Hey,” Harry appears beside you, eyes flicking over to the band briefly before turning to you. “They ran out of corndogs!” He yells above the music.

You miss how Hobie sneered at the sight.

“That's okay!” You grin, yelling back. “Just enjoy the music, Harry!”

“Yeah,” he nods, and you feel his hand wrap around your own. It's not weird in the slightest since you two held hands before. “You must be MJ!” Harry leans in front of you, making you stand on your tiptoes to see Ned playing on the drums.

“What?! Oh you're the guy!” MJ does the same, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you! You better take care of my girl!” You almost shush them both.

“I will, don't worry!” Harry nods and reciprocates MJ's fist bump.

MJ stands back up, “I approve.” She whispers into your ear, giving you a thumbs up.

You chuckle, putting your arm over her back to half hug her. You wonder if Hobie can see the three of you clearly while he's on stage. Or if he knows that he's got people rooting for him. MJ hoots and hollers, and you feel a hand cupping your cheek, moving your head towards Harry's face.

“Yeah, you okay?” You ask him, smiling until you feel his lips on your own. And the sound of a wrong guitar chord squeaks out.

[levanswrites]

who you gonna call when it gets dark?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

warnings: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, pain, mild description of injury/blood, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers

word count: 3.4k

a/n: pt. 3 of my mini series: what's it gonna take?, but this can be read as a stand-alone piece. title by FINNEAS

06:48

It’s safe to say that Steve doesn’t get a lick of sleep, playing back the images of you in the gym like a sick refrain: struggling beneath his grip, straddling his chest, stepping over him—hell, nearly stepping on him—to get across.  

So when he trudges into the communal kitchen the next morning, looking like he hasn’t slept in a century, the others take immediate notice.

“Woah, Steve, you alright man? You look like death.” Sam blurts out, never one to mince his words.

He barely registers Sam’s face, eyes glazing past where he’s sat next to Bucky on the kitchen island. 

But there’s no missing you. 

Perched on the other end of the counter, legs crossed under an oversized band tee, sipping from a glass of bright orange juice. You smirk knowingly over the rim, as if you know exactly why he’s got bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Captain Muscle’s been burning the midnight oil, gettin' his reps in.” Natasha teases by the coffee machine, arms crossed, mug in hand.

“Damn, Steve,” Sam pipes up, “you getting laid, man?”

And just like that, he’s feeling a little more alert, pivoting to shoot Sam a look. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Sam grins, arms raised defensively. “You gotta work off that energy somehow. When’s the last time you brought a girl back here?”

Amused by the very idea, he chuckles, shaking his head as he continues his weary march toward the fridge. 

“Here? Never.”      

The clink of bottles echoes as he opens the steel door, itching for something cold.

From behind, Sam persists: “Ah, but you did somewhere, huh?”

He chooses to ignore him, grabbing a bottle of water instead. Takes a long, slow swig, feeling it cool him down from the inside. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that you’re still sitting there, out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. As if he doesn’t know you’re locked in on every word.

“I’m telling you, man.” Sam leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Online dating’s where it’s at. One word that you’re an Avenger, and these girls are sending you all kinds of—”

“—careful, Wilson.” Natasha interrupts, a crimson-polished fingertip pointing in your direction. “There’s children present.”

Your head lifts from your phone at that, and as all the attention shifts over to you, you let out a small huff, flashing a sarcastic grin in Nat’s direction before slipping off the counter. Steve takes it as opportunity to look too, and silently wonders if you’re still a little bothered by the offhand comments about your age.

From beside him, Sam groans, turning to you with renewed interest.

“Oh c’mon, she’s plenty grown. Hey, Ace, lemme ask you something.”

You glance over on your way to the sink, setting your empty glass down before swiveling around, hand on your hip.

“Sam.” Steve mutters a sideways warning, trying not to appear invested. Yet, the soft crinkle of his water bottle betrays him, his grip tightening around the flimsy plastic.

When his eyes flicker back to you, you’re still watching.

“Say you’re scrolling on tinder and you come across Captain America. Would you swipe right?”

Steve’s stomach drops, breath hitching in his throat.

“Don’t answer that.” He mutters, raising an eyebrow at you. And he immediately regrets saying anything, because his voice completely misses the casual air he intended, coming out like a strained command instead. If he had any chance of playing the nonchalant card to begin with, it certainly wasn’t an option now. 

And Steve isn’t the type to hate anyone. 

But in this moment, he thinks he might just hate you—standing there with your knowing smile, as if you’d waited your whole life to answer that question.

“Hmm. I don’t know…” 

He can practically taste the satisfaction on his tongue when your eyes land back on him, observing the way he stares. Slowly sucks in your bottom lip, letting it go with a soft ‘pop’ before you flash a devilish grin.

With your gaze still locked on him, you shrug:

“…personally? I’m more of a Winter Soldier girl.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Sam bursts out laughing. Bucky gives you a sidelong glance, clearly amused but playing along.

"When did I get roped into this?”

Yet, your gaze lingers on him, stretching the moment just a fraction longer, savoring the details of his expression. He notes the soft flicker of your eyes, darting between his with a quiet intensity, as though you're searching for something he can’t quite place. 

And the stunned look on his face must have been all the answer you needed, because the next moment, you’re promptly turning on your heels and exiting the kitchen, leaving him staring after you.

“So you and Ace, huh, Bucky? How long has that been a thing?”  

“Shut up, Wilson.”  

As the noisy banter fades into static, all he can comprehend is the pounding in his ears, and the look in your eyes when you had answered Sam’s question.  

Did you find it? What you were looking for?

And when his mind eventually comes to, he realizes the water bottle in his hand’s been reduced to a shriveled-up heap of plastic. He stares down at the bottom half of his shirt—soaked through and clinging sticky-cold against his skin—and sighs. 

21:27

“Negative, Fury. We’re boxed in, asset’s KIA. We have to pull back. Now.”

In his line of work, they’ve got all kinds of slang for situations like this—Charlie Foxtrot, FUBAR, SNAFU. 

Or, to put it bluntly, a real goddamn mess.

Minimal gear, no real prep, just a routine asset extraction in a neutral zone.  

Less than ten minutes after touchdown, they’re ambushed in the middle of a crowded market, surrounded by enemy forces with no escape route. A nearby apartment building reduced to ruins by a stray grenade, hundreds of civilians on the ground caught in the crossfire.  

They’ve barely scraped by with their own lives intact, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of loss where the ride back home is deafeningly silent, the air hanging thick and heavy over the cabin.

You take it the hardest, running point on the job. 

Steve knows from experience that there’s nothing more to be done. No point in mourning any alternatives. 

But when you yank your earpiece out and haul it at the ground, a sharp crack piercing the silence before the plastic skitters across the floor, he knows a million different scenarios are running through your mind right now.

The kind of spiraling that never ends.

Even Sam, with all his years of counseling, can’t seem to reach you, his words hushed and careful as he approaches you in the back corner of the cabin. You remain motionless, slumped in your seat like a wounded animal too tired to flee.

When the Quinjet touches down, you’re the first one out, sprinting across the tarmac before the ramp can fully lower. It’s a blur—your boots pounding against the metal, the cold air rushing past him. He watches a trail of dust flare in your wake. Maybe blood. He can’t tell.

It’s not too late to catch up to you, but he remains motionless, eyes lingering on the small limp in your step as you disappear inside the building. Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he turns his attention to the grim task behind him, helping the medical staff carry the most severe injuries off the jet. 

22:51

38 civilian casualties. 2 agents in critical condition. Estimated $14 million in damages. 

Steve’s pacing by the exit to the recovery room, hands gripping the edge of a tablet, eyes fixed on the damage assessment flickering across the screen. But his mind’s somewhere far off. 

“You alright?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise—he’s observing from one of the treatment beds nearby, holding pressure against a shallow bullet wound. 

Steve doesn’t have to answer.

He sighs, feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze as he goes to set the tablet down, feet already pointed toward the door. 

“I’ll be back.”

23:19

The halls of the compound feel long. Empty. 

His combat boots drag like chains, scuffing the pristine linoleum with dark streaks. They halt in front of your door, and his bloodied knuckles tremble as they hover, inches from the metal. Over the ridges of his bone-white fists, the smaller cuts are already knitting themselves back together. 

He stays suspended there, breath hitching in his chest, before exhaling and landing two sharp knocks.

Radio silence.

But then again, not really. Not when his enhanced hearing picks up the faint rustling from inside. 

He calls your name, softly. Then again, a little louder.

The third time provokes a response. 

“Go away.” Your voice is muffled but sharp, the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

He’s not in the mood to argue either, but he reaches for the door and steps inside anyway.

His eyes find you immediately, the dark outline of your silhouette curled up on the edge of the couch—knees drawn tight, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold in on yourself. A lamp in the far corner casts a muted glow, stretching your shadow long and sinuous across the wall.

The rest of the room is barely lit, though there’s not much else to see. Identical to his own—bed, dresser, sofa, tv. If he were playing ‘spot the difference,’ he’d point to the quilted beige throw hanging off the back of your couch, though most of it’s obscured behind your frame.

You’ve got your own place outside the compound—somewhere in the city, he recalls—yet you choose to spend most of your nights here, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Plus, Tony’s got free HBO and Disney. 

Your head snaps up at the intrusion, and the despair that flickers across your face is immediately chased away by the sharp edge of irritation.

Your lip quivers when you snap, rolling your eyes:

“What part of go away is so hard to understand?” 

He takes another step forward, feet dragging against the coarse carpet. His best attempt at a smile is a stiff twitch of his lips, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Guess I’m getting hard of hearing.”

The words hang uselessly in the air, doing nothing to soften the harsh lines of your brow. You retreat further into yourself, chin tucked behind your knees, glaring at him warily like a cornered stray. 

And there’s anger there, sure, but it’s something else too—beneath all the layers of pain, frustration—a bone-deep exhaustion he knows all too well.

“I don’t need—”

“—I know.” Nylon fibers cling to his sole as he kicks, boot scuffing against the carpet. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

It’s a lousy line, he knows. But it works, if only to crack through your cold façade. 

“Holding up?” You laugh, a dry sound that sucks all the air from the room. “I’m fine. Perfectly okay. Just like those thirty-eight civilians. Like Jones and Meyers in the IC-U.”

Your voice breaks on the last syllable, arms unraveling like a broken slinky as they fall limp over your lap, your feet sliding to the floor. He sees it, then—a flash of white beneath the hem of your shorts, deep crimson staining the gauze from the inside out. 

And something in his stomach twists. Breaths quickening, fingers twitching at his sides—he’d noticed the limp earlier, but this seems worse.

Urgency flares in his chest as he steps closer. The edges of your makeshift dressing are frayed, the dimensions of the wound too large to hide. Only then does he register the emergency med kit splayed open on the coffee table, its contents scattered about haphazardly.

His eyes lock in on the heap of gauze pads nearby—soaked through with your blood, darkening the fabric in patches—and his breathing stops. 

“What happened?”

You freeze, realization flashing across your face.

“Nothing.”

Brows furrowed, he steps in closer, trying to tamp down the strange irritation bubbling in his chest. “It’s clearly not—“

A sharp, heaving breath cuts him off, halfway between a sigh and a scream, and you lurch upright.

“—Jesus christ, it’s nothing, just,” Your hands rake through your hair, fingers clawing at your scalp, “god, can you just—” 

You collapse back down, palms digging into your eyes as you let the couch swallow you whole. He holds his breath, biting his tongue at how quickly it had all happened. 

The first sob hits after a long, suffocating pause. Your body crumples like parchment, folding inward, the lines of you trembling like branches caught in the wind.

His eyes trail back to the pile of blood-soaked bandages, your muffled sobs pounding against his eardrums. And the knot in his stomach tightens another notch.

Because all he can think is—this is it.

What he’s been running from since the day he met you. 

The most terrifying, fundamental truth.

For all your indomitable spirit, you aren’t him. Not shielded by the same untouchable strength. That miraculous concoction that lets him sidestep his reckoning at every turn.

It’s a fickle thing, mortality. He’s teetered over its shadowed edges, more times than he can count. Yet, even when he chose the drop, 80 years ago in the middle of the Arctic, it had failed to claim him—some twisted stroke of man-made fate suspending his corpus and careening him into a new century. 

Your mortality doesn’t play by the same rules—a newly lit match, flickering brightly at one turn, snuffed out the next.  

And he realizes the knot in his stomach is fear.

He’s terrified. Of you. Of the way you make him yearn for a predestined loss. 

His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

“…I should’ve clocked it,” your muffled voice breaks the spiral. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”  

“Hey, hey.” 

He steps forward, bending one knee to the floor, his hand rising to brush the side of your arm, hovering as if to offer solace. He swallows hard, dislodging the words caught in his throat.

"It was an ambush. None of us could’ve seen that coming.”

You shake your head, rubbing the corner of your cheek so roughly it makes him wince. 

Then the words that slip from your chapped lips nearly break him.

“It should’ve been me.”

He shakes his head, swallowing back a wave of nausea, the taste of bile rising sharp and bitter on his tongue.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone.”

The rest of his words claw at the back of his throat, burning.

No, not you. 

Never you.

You snort, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you straighten.

“Look, if you’re here for a pep talk, can this wait till tomorrow? I’m kinda tired right now.”  

But his gaze is already wandering downward, tracing the path of your injured leg.

And he murmurs:

“Let me fix it.”

A soft tap against your bare knee, and it makes your eyes grow wide. The tears clinging to your lashes turn sharper than cut glass, refracting crystalline and jagged under the dim light. 

You cock your head and blink, incredulous. 

“The dressing’s too loose. You can’t leave it like that.”

You sigh out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Oh, so now you’re a medic too?”

He lets his gaze drop, the weight of it settling on the floor as he shuffles forward, dropping his other leg to the ground. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, even quieter now, giving your knee another tap. 

You release a heavy breath before you oblige, brows furrowed, lifting your leg so he can peel off the bandaging looped around your thigh, wincing when the cotton clings stubbornly to the raw edges of your wound.  

As exhaustion drags your leg downward, his hand finds the hollow behind your knee, steadying you, warm and achingly soft against the calloused edges of his palm.

At the sight of your wound uncovered, he swallows—a ragged gash stretching across your thigh, too long, too deep.

His lungs feels tight, each breath snagging like the time he fractured half his ribcage.

“Did you even clean this out?”

Your silence answers for you, loud and clear. 

And even in the weight of the moment, he can’t help but glance up and give you a look. The kind of chiding, quiet disapproval that would normally have you rolling your eyes all the way back.

Now, the only energy you can muster is a subtle tilt of your head, your gaze soft and unfocused, blinking slowly as he averts his eyes back down. 

He reaches for the first aid kit, still strung out on the coffee table, and his hands quiver when he tips the bottle of iodine against a cotton pad, the copper liquid staining it with a sickly gleam. The acrid scent punctures the air, thick and harsh as he holds it up against your raw wound.

You exhale sharply, a pained breath caught between your teeth.

"Fuck." You groan, tensing immediately. ”God, son of a—"

And this must really hurt, because you’re one of the few people he knows who can match his chronically abnormal pain tolerance. 

“I know,” his voice is thick with restraint, shoulders tipped forward and crowding the space between your legs. His left hand moves to splay across your knee, tension rippling beneath his palm, your breaths growing heavy when he has to start pressing deeper. 

Once so deep that you let out an involuntary gasp, your hand shooting out to grab at his wrist, fingers curling tight. He freezes, eyes fluttering shut to avoid looking up, because he’s pretty sure that’d be the thing to undo him completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. Waits for your grip to loosen, that trembling, frantic hold slipping just enough for him to continue.

“…almost done, promise.” Desperation seizes his chest as he tries to work quicker, and the only taste in his mouth is metal now—’cause if you’d had just let him bring you to med bay, they could’ve given you something, topical cream, lidocaine shots, whatever, to make this go away. 

He bites down harder to try and block out the sight of your hands in his periphery, the way your fingertips turn ghostly white, digging into the scratchy upholstery to resist reaching for him again. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s no reprieve from that grating sound of your nails against the fabric, the way it scrapes and claws every time he lowers his hand, your body jerking to try and brace against the agony.

23:54

Slow and mechanical, the bandage wraps around leg in measured turns, like tape over his knuckles before he steps up to a punching bag.   

He gently tugs on the bandaging, his eyes lifting for the first time since he’s been down here. He takes your tired nod as confirmation, immediately occupying himself with rustling, scrunching up empty packages and crinkly plastic into a tight fist as he closes up the kit.

“You still need to get that checked out, looks like it might need stitches.”

“Uh huh.” 

And the knot in his stomach grows, cause he’d be willing to bet everything that you won’t. 

But then, you say:

“Steve.” 

And he stares back, incredulous, at the slow curve of your smile, the swell of your cheeks catching the light. Your eyes glint up at him, and his stomach does another lurch—this time for a different reason altogether. 

“…thank you.”

He nods, clearing his throat as he rises to his feet, knees creaking like old floorboards and hell, maybe he is getting old. 

“Make sure you’re not putting weight on that leg, means no running or lifting for a while.”

“Yessir.”

A lazy smile accompanied by a salute, and he has to fight the wave of nostalgia of that day in Lagos. 

And—because old habits die hard and the habits of this job die harder—a parting remark starts to formulate in the back of his throat. Something profound about their line of work, about doing the best you can. 

Don't beat yourself up, you did everything you could.  

But instead, he settles on a silent nod, heavy ache simmering in his chest.

He casts one last look at your tired frame, draped loosely over the couch, and leaves the same way he came in. 

00:00

a/n: soo i had finished this chapter a while back, but ended up rewriting it and decided to go in a completely different direction. hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading :) feedback is always welcome!

[mysteriesofmilo]

[sludgewolf]

I saw that you were searching for Hazard asks so I thought I’d pitch in! 😁😊 (I luv that Scottish big boi)

How about some headcanons or a scenario about Hazard with a shy, petite (5'0-5'2) s/o who blushes easily?? (subtle touches, getting picked up/manhandled, quick kisses, etc.)

Thanks for the pitch, this was way too cute to write for that big softie! ;-; Also sry Scotts, I may've butchered your language. English isn't my first language and Hazard is my only reference for scottish slang, any feedback is more than welcome

Disclaimer: do not copy, repost, take or feed to AI or NFTs anything I post

Masterlist

Ye Daft Wee Bastard - Hazard x Shy!Reader

You're just about the cutest person Haz has ever laid eyes upon, you're so tiny and shy compared to him, Findlay can't help but want to protect this little blushing fairy that came into his life

He def has a field day with you, teasing you relentlessly just to see you blush bright red and try to hide away on his side

constantly jokes that he'll implant a tracker in you so you won't get lost among the dust bunnies

loves dropping his jacket over your shoulders to see you disappear in it, he says he'll be taking you to his next mission in his pocket

thankfully he doesn't take it too far to the point it makes you actually uncomfortable, his bands did raise him right after all

Haz is head over heels for you and doesn't ever bother hiding it, will do anything you ask of him in a heartbeat

well, anything but to stop annoying you, that's his god given right as your partner

besides that he has the patience of a saint when it comes to you, knowing you're shy it took so long of you both dancing around each other before finally coming clean with each other

even if it has been clear since forever, he wanted to wait till you were comfortable with finally outright admitting it all

The main thing he can think during missions is if you're safe, it doesn't matter what's the goal, he has to be by your side the whole time to make sure you're safe

straight up jumping in the line of fire for you kind of overprotective, completely forgetting the crystal walls he can now create

So, so many nicknames like Fun Size, Sugar Plum Fairy, Cherry, Wee Yin, Numpty and

Due to you being, well, you Findley suffers badly from cuteness aggression, needing to softly bite your cheeks and tiny fingers before covering your face with kisses as he hold you close to show you how much he truly loves you

will sometimes point off to somewhere to your side so when you look he'll kiss your cheek, to then laugh at how hard it made you blush

Takes you on rooftop hopping dates, where he'll hoist you up on his shoulder and jump from building to building while badly singing "A whole new world" for you as you laugh

You're hanging together in a concert of one of your favorite bands he surprised you with tickets it doesn't take long in the night for crowd starts to get a bit too rowdy, Haz in fear of you getting hurt uses his body to shield you from the others as you manage to pull him off to a quieter area " Ye oke lass? Was afraid aff ye gettin wallap in there " he breathes a sigh of relief as he checks up with you you can only nod 'yes' before realizing you still have his hand in yours, as if feeling your sudden alarm over it Hazard tries to retreat his hand gathering all your courage you pull it back, laying your hand flat against his massive one your cheeks burn as you meet his questioning gaze "your hands are so warm ..." you gulp, interlocking your fingers together "I- uh I'd like for us to stay like this" now it was his turn to blush cherry red, he turns away from you trying to hide it as a smile creeps on his face " Aye, ah would like that tae" he breathy laughs meeting your eyes again " Ye Daft Wee Bastard"

If you liked this pls reblog and comment so I know to write more like it reblogs >>> likes

[finalgirlfae]

that miles smut was so good omg🤭🤭

pls write moree💕💕

thank you! ask and u shall receive ;)

sunday morning, miles morales

DISCLAIMER: miles is aged up to 19.

pairings: miles morales x afab!reader

summary: it’s sunday morning, and for breakfast miles is craving you.

tags, warnings: unprotected sex, soft sex, praise, teasing fingering, slight body worship, oral (f!recieving), miles using his webs🤭, uhh i think that’s it lmk if i missed anything!

you slowly opened your eyes with a quiet yawn and rolled over to the other side of the bed. the sunrise was climbing the sky and peaking through your white curtains, landing on miles’ face.

the golden yellow rays hit his featured perfectly. a small smile found its way on to your lips as you admired how peaceful your boyfriend looked. he was sound asleep, bare and toned chest rising and falling slowly with each breath he took. you took another moment to admire miles before turning away and deciding to get ready for the day. you pushed your self to the edge of the bed, feet not even getting a chance to touch the floor before you felt something sticky grab at your arm, immediately pulling you back into bed.

“miles!” you let out a soft shriek and turned to face your boyfriend who was laid on his side, arm propped up to hold his head as he stared at you with a soft smirk. “how many times have i told you not to web me from behind!”

“how else am i supposed to get to you stay in bed with me?

“ask.” you narrowed your eyes at him, only pretending to be mad.

“ok.” miles sat up. “i want you to stay in bed with me.”

you scoffed. “that’s not asking me that’s telling me.”

miles sucked his teeth at you. he moved his hands to your legs, grabbing you by your ankles and making you yelp again when he pulled your body closer to his, sitting you in his lap to straddle him.

“what?” he asked, pressing a kiss to your cheek. he smiled. “i didn’t use my webs this time.”

“shut up.” you cupped hands on either side of miles face, pulling the boy into a kiss. he immediately kissed back, pushing his lips into yours softly and nibbling at your bottom one.

soon his hands trailed up your waist, slipping under the t-shirt you wore and tracing over your back. “this is my shirt actually, and i want it off.” he muttered against your lips. you pulled away from the kiss. “oh yeah? come and get it bugboy.”

you slid off his lap and moved to the head of the bed, pressing your back against the pillows and looking at him. he sucked his teeth again and crawled over to you. “stop playin’ with me.” he put his arms out and pressed down on his palms, sending two webs to attach to either side of your shirt and pulling it off in one swift motion. you only laughed.

“i’m gettin’ good at that.” miles winked before attaching his lips to yours again. his hands hands cupped your boobs causing you to moan. he pinched the one he knew was most sensitive and began to roll it between his thumb and middle finger, after that he moved to kiss your neck, beginning to nibble and suck at your favorite spot. “perfect.”

“miles.” you whined at the compliment, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer.

he took his hands off your boobs and lips off your neck. miles looked at you for a second, rolling his plump lips together. he played with the band on your underwear. “take ya panties off.”

as if you could get any wetter right now.

you followed his order, taking off the gray cotton panties and tossing them somewhere in the room.

he gave you another quick kiss before laying you down on the bed. miles began to kiss your chest before trailing down to your stomach. he pressed kisses and sometimes little nibbles against your pelvis before laying down and spreading your legs, placing them over his shoulders.

he made eye contact with you, pressing a kiss on your inner left thigh before immediately beginning to roll his tongue on your clit. a moan fell from your lips and you threw your head back. he sucked your clit gently, bringing a finger to your pussy and pushing it in.

your legs clenched for a second at the sudden feel as the tip of his tongue swirled your clit. he added a second finger, beginning to pump a little faster and slightly curl them.

your hips bucked into his face and you reached a hand down, grabbing a fist full of his coils. “shit, keep doing that.”

he half listened to you, keeping the exact same swirl pattern on your clit but choosing to add a third finger. you immediately clenched around his fingers, letting out a very loud fuck. he pumped his fingers into you a little harder, curling them and making you scream a bit as you came around them.

he slowly pulled his fingers out and made eye contact with you asked he sucked them, letting out an almost pornographic moan. your jaw dropped at his actions and if it was possible, you were even more turned on.

“miles.” you whined out. he smirked at you and brought himself closer, using a hand to hold your jaw while he began to kiss you.

his let go of your jaw and slid his hands over your breasts again, squeezing each of them in his large hands.

the two of you melted into the kiss, hands moving all over each other but suddenly you were very aware that you were the only one fully naked. he still had on his blue flannel night pants.

you trailed a hand down miles stomach, tracing your finger tips over his abs before reaching down and palming your hand his large bulge. you gave his dick a gentle squeeze and miles let out a groan before grabbing your hand. he webbed one of your wrists above your head. “stop playin with me.” he muttered the warning against your lips.

you kissed back, “unfair advantage.”

“shh, you love it.” he leaned back, swiftly pulling off his pants and boxers. you glazed eyes over his body and found a small smile place on your lips. miles was so beautiful and his body was absolutely perfect to you. his arms and chest were so toned. you didn’t get mych time to admire him before his hands were back on your body. he grabbed your legs, pushing them back and putting you into a breeding press. he liked this position the best because like missionary; he could still see your face and kiss you but he had more control.

“look so pretty folded f’ me.” miles muttered to you before he began to trail hot and wet kisses down your neck. a large gasp left your lips as you felt something long, thick and hard slide into you. he went back to your lips, laughing at the gasp you let out “yea, its big. i know.” he whispered, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

you let out of muffled moan as miles slowly started to thrust into you. his dick before the bite was already kind of big and after it grew an extra two inches so it’s safe to say you were more than satisfied with your lover.

a curse slipped from your lips when miles gave a particularly deep thrust. he had set a medium level pace that felt good for both of you, not too sustained but also not too rough for morning sex. he was right in the middle.

he leaned up, taking one of his hands and pressing down on your stomach. “fuck oh my god.” you could feel everything now. every ridge, vein and every curve on his dick. miles gave you a small smirk, licking his thumb before circling it over your clit. your body jerked at the sudden stimulation and your tried to grab at his hand. he immediately grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours before moving both your hands above your head.

miles now had all the control. he body was pressed against yours, hips beginning to snap at a ruthless pace while your legs trembled and pussy pulsated around his dick. his tip began to brush your g spot with every roll of his hips.

“miles-”

“i know, i know baby.” he whined. “you feel so fucking good, fuck.” miles’ breathing became a bit heavier. he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, beginning to bite and suck at the hot skin.

his hands gripped yours tighter and a muffled moan fell from his lips as your wrapped legs around his waist. it drove him crazy when you did things like that, little actions that let him know how much you wanted him, how much you enjoyed the feeling between you two and the sensation of his body on top yours.

“shit,” miles spoke, snapping his hips against your faster. he was close and you could feel him throbbing inside you. miles moved his free hand down to your clit again, rubbing figure eights and immediately making you clench around him. the feeling of him thrusting inside you, rubbing your clit and kissing your neck was entirely too much and it didn’t take much longer before you came around him with a loud moan.

miles smirked to himself, pulling his face from your neck and pecking your lips before he pulled out of you. he began to stroke himself, tossing his head back and letting out a moan as he came all over your chest. when you came down from your high you looked at your wrist that was still webbed to the bed. “..gonna let me go now?”

miles gave you a laugh. “for what? we not done.” he moved your legs to lay flat, kissing down your stomach again and across your pelvis. “far from done.” he muttered into your skin. it was going to be a long morning.

•••

i need him so bad.

tags:

@multifariousqueer

[not-the-coffee-machine4]

gettin’ the band back together :)))

[thesassypadawan]

Make Them Blue (Leo x FemReader) *Blurb*

Summary:  It’s No Nut November and, as usual, your man lets his stunad friends talk him into participating.  Everything was going sort of well, until one crazy day working at the shop.  After dealing with idiot customers, watching you scampering around in that skirt and his hoodie…he needs to unwind badly.  So he grabs the bottle of wine stashed for emergencies and you, dragging you both out back to the alley.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there’s sooo much of the smut. Thigh riding; some good, cheap vino; one horny and worked up big chooch, sauce stain, jizz in pants, and… Leo’s big, fat dick.

Notes: Happy No Nut November all you, lovelies! 🤍💙

- Two fingers beckon while holding a bottle of wine.  “Come here, amore…”  Other flour covered hand easily captures both of your sweater pawed ones.  Bringing your knuckles to his red stained lips; placing a kiss on the icy-hot skin.  “Missin’ ya all afternoon…”

- Tugging gently, he urges you to take a seat.  “Leo…”  Flirtatious grin widening on his flushed face as you happily oblige.  Plopping down onto his toned thigh.  “…I've practically been glued to your side the whole time.”   Knee ‘accidentally’ glancing his already hard cock; warm, tacky core pressing against his sauce-stained jeans.

- One last deep swig for himself, for you, and he sets it with a soft clink on the alley floor.  “Yeah, I know.”  Calloused fingertips come to rest on your waist, squeezing and kneading your handle like fresh dough.  “But I couldn't do…”  Before wandering lower, slipping under the hem of your skirt.  “…this…”

- Hooking his thumb, snapping the band of your lacey panties.  Ample globes jiggle, ripple from the recoil.  Tits bounce beneath his stolen hoodie.  When a squeak, followed by a giggle bubbles up from your throat.  “Ooooh, true.  Customers kind of frown at the cook feeling up the register girl in front of them.”    

- “Exactly,” he chuckles.  Big hands come to rest, cup your bottom firmly.  Pulling you even closer, little paunch brushing his thick middle… the swell of his prominent bulge.  “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

- Your own small ones settle on his toned chest, fingers tangle lazily in his gold chain.  “I am, but…”  Head tilts slightly to the side, mischievous smile curling at the corners of your mouth.  Plush pillow rubs and prods; eyes search his glassy, blue ones.  “…what about your bet with the guys?”

- Low hiss, hot breath washes over you.  Faint smell of alcohol tickles your nose and senses.  “Fuuuck ‘em.”  Shrugging, leaning down; lips hover inches away from yours.  “Choochs don’t got it as good as me…”

- Crashing them together, pushing past yours.  Tongues tangle, wrestle.  “Got someone to keep their dicks wet…”  Bitter, sweet taste tantalizing and arousing.  Adding to the overwhelming, swirling onslaught of pent-up frustrations and tension.  “Got a fat ass like this…”

- All the while he caresses, gropes your full cheeks.  Guiding, rocking you back and forth.  Stimulation, friction from your puffy folds passing over the course denim; making a thrill run, sparks of pleasure erupt throughout your body.   Causing you to moan softly into his mouth, yank roughly on his chain.  “Faster…  Faster…”

- Landing a solid, painful smack.  His grip tightens, fingers dig and sink into the subtle flesh.  “Faster, huh?”  Presses you down harder on his flexed thigh, drags and grinds your sensitive bud.  Pushing, hurtling you towards the edge…the much-needed release.  “Better hang on then, angel.”

- Pace picks up, almost brutal and blinding.  Juices totally soak, drench your panties; seeping into his jeans, coating them in a sticky trail.  Needy mewls, whines echoing off the brick walls.  Along with the distressed creaks from the wooden crate below.  “’Cause I ain’t stoppin’…”

- You can feel him rutting frantically, desperately against you.  Chubby cock straining at the fabric, poking at the underside of your stomach.  His breaths coming out in shallow pants; wispy puffs that float away on the cool, night air.  “…‘til…’t-til…”

- Nails scratch at, digits just start to fumble with his zipper.  Trying to free him when…  Abruptly he stops, deep groan escapes him.  Face and cheeks grow redder, sweaty forehead leans on yours.  As a moist, heated spot forms, soaks through the front of your skirt.   “…cum.”

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