#Hair restoration New York

[wedesignyouny]

Effective Hair Loss Treatment in Long Island for Long-Term Results

Effective Hair Loss Treatment in Long Island for Long-Term Results

Overview Losing hair can be a depressing experience that negatively impacts your look, self-esteem, and general state of health. Thankfully, there are efficient therapies available to stop hair loss and encourage the growth of healthy hair. MyHairNY provides cutting-edge hair loss treatments with long-lasting effects in Long Island. Our knowledgeable staff is committed to giving you back your self-esteem and giving you a full, healthy head of hair.

Comprehending Hair Loss Numerous reasons, such as genetics, hormone fluctuations, illnesses, stress, and lifestyle decisions, can cause hair loss. To choose the best course of action, you must understand the underlying cause of your hair loss. At MyHairNY, we do in-depth consultations to identify the root reason of your hair loss and create a customized treatment plan that is suited to your individual requirements.

Cutting Edge Hair Loss Therapy Options To address various forms and phases of hair loss, MyHairNY provides a variety of cutting-edge hair loss therapies. 1. FUE, or Follicular Unit Extraction Using FUE, a minimally invasive method of hair transplantation, individual hair follicles are extracted from a donor location and then transplanted to balding or thinning areas. With no linear scars and little recovery time, this technique yields results that look natural. 2. Treatment with Platelet-Rich Plasma (PRP) Using your own blood, PRP therapy is a non-surgical way to encourage hair growth. A tiny amount of blood must be drawn, processed to concentrate the platelets, and then the platelet-rich plasma must be injected into the scalp. PRP increases hair density and stimulates hair follicles. 3. Laser Therapy at Low Levels (LLLT) Low-level laser therapy, or LLLT, is a non-invasive procedure that stimulates hair follicles and encourages hair growth. This treatment improves cellular activity, boosts blood flow to the scalp, and helps to extend the hair cycle's development phase. 4. Oral and Topical Drugs We provide a range of oral and topical treatments that can aid in promoting hair growth and slowing down hair loss. For best effects, these drugs are frequently used in conjunction with other therapies. 5. Micropigmentation on the Scalp (SMP) In order to simulate hair follicles, little pigment dots are tattooed onto the scalp during the SMP cosmetic treatment. For individuals who favor a closely trimmed or shaved haircut, this procedure is perfect. It can also improve the outcomes of hair transplantation.

In summary Do not put off getting help if you are losing hair. We deliver cutting edge hair loss treatments with long-lasting effects at MyHairNY on Long Island. Our knowledgeable staff is committed to giving you back your self-esteem and giving you a full, healthy head of hair. Take the first step toward a more confident self by getting in touch with us today to arrange a consultation.

[goalsplastic-surgery]

Hair Restoration Gaithersburg

No matter how much hair you’ve lost, we can help you get your hair back. We have custom solutions for men, women and children of any age.

At Goals®, we blend cutting-edge technology with personalized care to tailor a hair solution that’s uniquely yours. Whether you’re facing the challenge of thinning hair or significant hair loss, our team of experts is here to guide you towards a confident, fuller hair transformation.

[scalptattoonewyork]

A New Era Of Hair Loss Solutions: Exploring The Art And Science Of Scalp Pigmentation In New York

Hair loss can be a significant source of distress for many individuals. It not only affects the way we look, but also our sense of self-esteem and confidence. As such, the search for hair loss solutions is an ongoing effort to restore one's lost appearance.

Recently, scalp pigmentation has emerged as a viable option for those seeking treatment options in New York City. This article explores how this relatively new approach utilizes both artistry and technology to create natural looking results for people who have experienced alopecia or other forms of hair loss.

Scalp pigmentation works by strategically placing tiny deposits of pigment into the skin that mimic the look of shaved hair follicles on balding areas of the scalp. The process involves careful consideration of factors such as color selection, shading techniques, and application methods in order to achieve realistic outcomes.

Through proper implementation of these considerations, patients can enjoy more aesthetically pleasing results than they could with traditional treatments like wigs or toupees. With its potential to deliver long lasting effects without any maintenance required after treatment sessions are complete, it is no wonder why scalp pigmentation is becoming increasingly popular within New York City and beyond.

The Scalp Pigmentation Process: Understanding The Techniques And Tools Used By New York's Top Practitioners

Scalp pigmentation is a relatively new procedure that can help people suffering from hair loss regain their confidence and self-esteem. The process involves the use of specialized equipment, techniques, and skills in order to achieve natural looking results.

In New York City, scalp pigmentation has become increasingly popular due to its effectiveness for those dealing with baldness or thinning hair. The scalp pigmentation process begins with an initial consultation between client and artist. During this meeting, the technician will assess the patient’s skin type and color as well as evaluate the extent of existing hair loss prior to creating a treatment plan tailored to each individual’s needs.

Once a plan is agreed upon by both parties, they move on to the second step which involves preparing the area for treatment. This includes cleaning and shaving the head if necessary followed by applying topical numbing cream to minimize any discomfort during application. After preparation is complete, pigment containing microdots are applied directly onto the affected areas using a handheld device called a derma roller or micropigment machine.

Depending on personal preference and desired effect, different colors may be used in combination to create realistic results that mimic real hair follicles. Masters of SMP (scalp micropigmentation) in New York possess unique skills allowing them to perfectly match shades so even up close it looks like nothing was ever done at all. As such treatments become more mainstream these experts have seen demand skyrocket for their services making them some of the most sought after practitioners in NYC today.

Choosing The Right Scalp Pigmentation Specialist: Factors To Consider When Searching For The Best Provider In New York

When researching scalp pigmentation providers in New York, it can be difficult to determine which is the best option. One of the primary considerations when selecting a provider should be their skill and experience level. Therefore, it is important for prospective clients to research each practitioner’s certifications, read client testimonials, and view portfolios of completed work before making an informed decision about who will conduct their procedure.

A qualified specialist should have appropriate certifications from relevant governing bodies that prove they adhere to certain standards and regulations laid out by the state or city.

Additionally, previous customer feedback provides insight into how well past procedures went as well as how satisfied patients were with the results.

Finally, looking at a portfolio of past examples gives potential customers an idea of what kind of results can realistically be expected from any given specialist.

Overall, taking these factors into consideration during the selection process helps ensure that anyone choosing scalp pigmentation New York receives quality care from an experienced practitioner whose methods are up-to-date and backed by evidence-based practices.

By thoroughly examining each candidate's qualifications and credentials, those seeking this type of treatment can rest assured that they have chosen a provider capable of delivering aesthetic satisfaction safely and effectively.

Customization And Personalization: How New York Scalp Pigmentation Artists Tailor Treatments To Each Client's Unique Needs

Scalp pigmentation treatments can be customized to meet the needs of each individual client, providing a tailored and personalized solution for hair loss. In New York City, scalp pigmentation artists specialize in tailoring these treatments according to personal preferences such as hairline design, color matching, and treatment intensity.

The customization process begins with an initial consultation between the artist and the client. During this appointment, they discuss desired outcomes including desired shape and size of the hairline, what type of pigment should be used for natural-looking results that match the existing hair color, and how intense or subtle the treatment will be. If needed, different shades may be blended together to create an optimal outcome.

Once a plan has been developed based on their discussion and agreement between both parties, it’s time to begin treating the area. The artist uses specialized needles with highly concentrated amounts of pigment which is injected into multiple layers of skin at varying depths depending on need and desired effect.

To ensure maximum precision during application and make sure all areas are treated evenly while still adhering to custom specifications, facial mapping techniques are sometimes employed by experienced professionals in order to guarantee consistent work across all sections:

1. Hairline Design: Carefully designing hairlines that look natural yet stylish

2. Color Matching: Perfectly blending colors so that they blend seamlessly with existing hair

3. Treatment Intensity: Applying just enough pressure to provide coverage without looking unnatural

By taking into consideration each client's unique needs during every step of the process from initial consultation through final treatment session, scalp pigmentation artists in NYC provide solutions that meet even most exacting standards – producing realistic-looking results guaranteed to boost confidence levels for those dealing with any form of alopecia or thinning locks due to age or other factors.

Frequently Asked Questions: Addressing Common Concerns And Misconceptions About Scalp Pigmentation In New York

Transitioning from the previous section, it is important to address some of the common questions and misconceptions that surround scalp pigmentation New York. As a relatively new procedure with many unknowns, potential clients may feel overwhelmed by all the information they encounter along their journey towards finding a reliable solution for hair loss.

The most often asked question about scalp pigmentation has to do with its pain level. It is important to note that, since this is an invasive treatment involving needles penetrating the skin, there will be some discomfort associated with it; however, numbing agents are used during application to reduce sensations as much as possible and make the process more comfortable.

Moreover, patients have reported feeling only minor pressure or tingling instead of significant pain when under anesthesia.

Another commonly asked question pertains to the differences between scalp pigmentation and traditional tattoos. Both treatments involve injecting pigment into the dermis layer of the skin; however, while traditional tattoos use ink which fades over time due to external factors like sun exposure, scalp pigmentation uses organic dyes specifically designed to mimic natural hair follicles and remain on the head permanently without changing tone or hue significantly over time.

Additionally, because different techniques are employed depending on whether one desires short-term or long-term results, understanding these details can help ensure a successful outcome tailored specifically to each individual's needs and preferences.

Conclusion

The art and science of scalp pigmentation in New York offers a new era of hair loss solutions for anyone looking to address the issue.

By understanding the techniques used by New York's top practitioners, selecting an experienced specialist with personalized treatments, and being aware of common questions or misconceptions about this specialized service, clients can benefit from scalp pigmentation’s promise of lasting results.

With careful consideration, clear communication, and comprehensive knowledge about their options, individuals can make informed decisions on how best to achieve desired aesthetic outcomes.

Scalp pigmentation continues to revolutionize our approach to hair loss solutions; it is up to each individual to determine if it is right for them.

Smp Masters

New York, NY 10001

Phone: (929) 492-1144

[hairtransplantnewyorkcity]

Hair Transplant New York City

The Hair Transplant Center - New York, NY is pleased to offer advanced hair replacement and hair transplant surgery for men and women in Manhattan, New York City. As one of the leading hair transplant specialists in New York, we pride ourselves on providing spectacular results for our clients, allowing them to regain the confidence and youthful feeling of a fuller head of hair at affordable prices.

We offer a wide range of affordable hair restoration services to New York City residents and commuters including follicular unit transplantation (FUT), follicular unit extraction (FUE), micro-needling, facial hair transplants including eyebrow hair restoration, beard and mustache hair transplants, and more. Our experienced and board-certified New York hair transplant surgeons and clinicians will meet with you to discuss the most optimal procedure that would meet your hair replacement needs and provide excellent results.

Visit Us: https://www.hairtransplantsnewyork.com/

[hairdoctornyc]

Superior-quality Hair Restoration New York by  Dr. Roy B. Stoller

[growth99plus]

https://contorstudio.com/specialties/#under-eye-restoration

[rebelliousstories]

Restored Once More

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Fluff, Brief Suggestive Themes

Word Count: 908

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: Once Gambit had gotten back to his own timeline, he was certain there was only one thing he wanted to do, and with only one person.

Consider Donating: Here

Slow mornings were not something that came often for a member of the X-Men. Their lives were constantly full of danger and adventure. However that was not the case for the past couple of weeks for the couple. In a motel off the beaten path, as the sun was just beginning to break the horizon, they were starting to stir. Tangled with one another, the pair had been sleeping off another night of partying on Bourbon street.

Remy awoke first, and looked down at the woman in his arms. Sunlight was just now pouring into the room through the windows behind him, which bathed everything in a warm glow. While his body was shielding the majority of the sun from her, some did peak out from around his shoulders which just barely touched her own skin. It was then that she began to awaken much like her lover.

Her eyes blinked open, and took a moment to adjust to what she was seeing. Gambit was cloaked in warm sunlight. It made him look angelic with the backlighting. A halo of light was around his hair, highlighting every little stray lock of hair.

“Good mornin’, chere.” Remy murmured in a deep, gravely voice. The rumble ran through his body and into hers from where they were connected. She always did love how he sounded first thing in the morning.

“Morning Remy. How are you so awake right now?” Her head was burrowing deeper into his chest which caused him to chuckle.

“Can’t do nothin’ to keep da Gambit down for long.” His retort was met with a puff of air being blown through her nose in amusement.

“Whatcha feel like for breakfast, mon amour? Sweet? Savory?”

“Can I have both and just eat you?”

“Nothin’ I would like more. But you promised us some fishin’ out in the bayous today. Please, chere.”

Remy nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck. She giggled as she felt the tickle of his stubble against her bare skin. He threw his leg over her, straddling her body, and continued his assault. Tickling her torso, the woman wiggled and writhed as she tried to get away from her boyfriend’s fingers. Sheets were thrown, pillows were tossed, and the two were rolling around on the bed like they were kids again.

“Okay, okay. Geez Remy, I’ll skip out on a nice breakfast so we can go fishing. You go start getting ready and I’ll make us something quick and simple.” Pressing a kiss to his lovely lips, she melted for just a moment into it.

“Merci, chere.”

With that, he left the warmth and comfort of the bed in favor for getting ready. For the past few weeks, this had been their routine. Plenty of slow mornings to wake up to the sun with nowhere to be on a set timeline. Being granted leave for a month following his return from the Void, Gambit knew there was only one place that he wanted to be and with only one person. Back in his home state of Louisiana was his version of paradise. He made sure that no Thieves or Assassins could mess with them during their stay as well.

As Remy hoped into the shower, he heard her groan as she, too, got out of the bed. His side was already starting to get cold but she did not stop to think about that now. Throwing on one of his discarded shirts, she strolled into the kitchen and began to make them some breakfast. It was a pleasantly cool morning, she noted, once she opened the window. Popping some bread in the toaster, she got to work on making her lover his favorite; spicy eggs and boudin. The latter being a treat that he did not get to have often living in New York with the X-Men at the school.

Glorious smells greeted Remy as he stepped from the steaming bathroom. With a towel slung low on his hips, he smiled to himself as he thought about his situation. Life was going great once more. Throwing on some jeans, Gambit left their room and headed towards the kitchen. He leaned against the frame as he watched his girlfriend cooking for them.

“Jus’ when I thought I couldn’t be more in love with you than I already am, chere.” His words startled her, making the woman jump briefly as she was at the stove.

“Whatcha doing without a shirt on mister? Trying to make us late?” She teased, flipping the eggs in the pan. Gambit just saddled up, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed a few kisses to her cheek.

“No, chere. Jus’ wanted to show my appreciation is all,” came his reply.

“Well then, you can appreciate after breakfast. I didn’t make all this sausage for me, ya know.” It was then that he finally realized what she had on a plate that was now being passed over to him.

“Ooo, you spoil me, chere.” His smile was contagious, as was the kiss he placed on her lips in thanks.

Sitting at the table, they ate in relative silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but a rather nice and peaceful one. They were enjoying the calm, and the quiet. They were going to fishing later with not a care in the world. And no crazy big, world threatening, life ending peril to tear them down in their little slice of paradise.

[petermorwood]

More Sword Questions...

These are further questions prompted by a post already long enough that I’m not reblogging the whole thing.  It’s here.

@softness-and-shattering (who posted the original Ask) wrote:

Thank you so much! What Im getting is that there arent any exact rules, different people and places mixed and matched sword features as they liked. Is that more or less correct? The swords that are green, is that oxidization? Theyre very pretty. And if fullers are to reduce sword weight, what are ridges for? Thanks again :)

*****

(1) Yes, it's oxidation. The uncomplimentary word is "tarnish", the complimentary word is "patina". Bronze swords in museums can be various colours ranging from green (verdigris)...

...through golden...

...to shades of brown and almost black.

I don’t know why (archaeological metallurgy is a mystery to me) but at a guess it's related to the acidity of the ground in which they were found, the proportions of copper / tin / other metals in their bronze.

It may also be the point at which conservators decided they'd gone far enough with that particular artefact and further restoration / cleaning would cause damage.

*****

(2) Ridges on sword-blades add stiffness, is the remnant of the bar or rod of steel from which the sword was made, and are created as the blade's final form is hammered out on either side, leaving a sort of raised centre-parting.

(If this is over-simplified or just plain wrong and swordsmiths reading it are going "Nooo!", please correct me!) ;->

Here's one example with a very prominent ridge, from the Victoria & Albert Museum in London...

...and another with a more restrained centre-line from the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

*****

(3) Sword shapes and features changed depending on functional requirements. If a shape worked and its use didn’t change, it stayed the same. The Roman gladius and Japanese katana are two examples of not much change in shape over several centuries.

Demands of fashion also played a part in what kind of sword was worn when and with what.

While swords (not just Messers or falchions or other "fighting knives") do appear without armour in medieval art...

...swords only became a regular part of civilian dress in the mid-late 1400s.

In Germany this was called a Reitschwert - "riding sword" - for self-defence when out (riding) in ordinary clothes. In Italy it was a spada da lato - "side-sword" - for what's now called EDC (every-day-carry) not just in war. In Spain it was an espada ropera - "robe sword" - for wear with regular clothes rather than armour.

That last one, worn down, mispronounced or just plain pinched, became "rapier", and because it was worn every day, with stylish garments, it became yet another way in which to show off.

The most common Europe-wide rapier was a "swept hilt", comprising bars and loops, while Spain and Spanish-influenced places like Italy preferred the "cup-hilt", which had a different style of swordplay.

Cup-hilts are familiar from movies because it's easy to dress up a sport-fencing sword as something much older. Here's a stage-combat modern épée and two real rapiers.

Cup-hilts could be plain metal bowls like those, or beautiful examples of chiselled, pierced metalwork.

Swept-hilts could be equally impressive.

They were proof that their wearers were dedicated followers of fashion, men of wealth and taste - and, of course, always armed and just as always ready to use what they carried at the drop of whatever was just dropped.

Duelling became a craze, laws against it were ignored, any excuse would do, and Shakespeare summed it up nicely:

MERCUTIO:  Nay, and there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou? why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast; thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? With another for tying his new shoes with old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling?

(That one about the doublet had echoes in 1922, with The Straw Hat Riot in New York, involving assaults on men who hadn't stopped wearing straw hats by the fashion-approved date of mid-September. At least nobody got run through...)

Oddly enough, portraits which include rapiers usually show swept-hilts, even in Spanish portraits where cup-hilts might be expected (I've seen a couple, but not many). Perhaps the artist didn’t have one to hand, or thought the swept-hilt style was more visually interesting.

The smallsword (shorter, lighter, less cumbersome to wear) replaced the rapier, and it too featured a lot in portraits. It was a piece of masculine jewellery, with a stiff narrow blade on an elegant hilt which might be metal...

...or some more exotic material like mother-of-pearl or porcelain.

Then fashion changed again, smallswords also went away, and once again the only people wearing swords on a regular basis were uniformed military types, whose swords could be all sorts of shapes and sizes depending on branch of service and function.

Even when that function is just to be part of regalia, and look good on parade.

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[wedesignyouny]

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[angstasff]

Remember Me Pt.1

🕸an: I'm backk, and what if I told you this came to be when speaking to a Peter Parker Ai Bot... anyways! Part 2 is in the works already, and tbh I don't know how many parts this may be. also gif creds to @mercurysstars

🕸Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

🕸Genre: ANGST, fluff (later)

🕸CW: parent death, no way home ending, kinda not exactlycanon I think

🕸Word Count: 2K

🕸Summary: After Dr. Strange did his memory erasing," the estranged daughter of Tony Stark, discovers she's the only one who remembers Peter Parker. In an attempt to restore their friend's memory of Peter, Peter and Y/n grow closer, but how long can her memory of him really last?

∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩彡

In the heart of New York City, amidst the hustle and bustle of daily life, there was a small diner tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It was a place where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of sizzling bacon, and where the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation filled the air.

It was here, in this unassuming diner, that y/n had started working as a waitress, weaving her way through the crowded tables every weekend. She had started working there part-time, while in high school, to help pay for her hopeful future at MIT, taking orders and serving up plates of comfort food to the weary souls who found solace in the diner's welcoming embrace.

It was minutes before she could clock out, and y/n had been wiping down the counter, lost in her own thoughts when the door swung open and a familiar figure stepped inside.

Tony Stark, billionaire playboy and renowned inventor, sauntered into the diner with all the confidence and composure of a man who owned the world. He was clad in a sleek suit that cost more than most people's monthly rent, his dark hair tousled and his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Y/n was confused and nervous. She had seen Tony Stark in the headlines countless times, his face plastered across magazine covers and news articles, but she had never imagined she would encounter him in person, let alone in a place like this.

Tony approached the counter with purposeful strides, his gaze fixed on y/n with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "You must be Y/n," he said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I've heard good things about you."

Y/n blinked in surprise, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. 

"I, uh, yes, that's me," y/n stammered, her cheeks flushing with heat. "What can I get for you, Mr. Stark?"

Tony flashed her a curt smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just Tony is fine," he said, leaning against the counter with casual ease. "I'm here on business, actually. I've been keeping an eye on you, y/n. You're smart, you're capable, and you've got a gift that most people can only dream of."

Y/n's brow furrowed in confusion, her mind racing to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Tony's smile faded, replaced by a steely resolve that sent a shiver down y/n's spine. "I want to offer you a job," he said, his voice low and intense. "A job at Stark Industries, working alongside some of the brightest minds in the world. You'll have access to resources and opportunities that most people can only dream of."

Y/n's eyes widened in disbelief, her heart pounding in her chest. A job at Stark Industries? It was an offer she couldn't refuse, a chance to escape the drudgery of her mundane existence and step into a world of limitless possibilities. But what about MIT?

But as she stared into Tony's piercing gaze, a nagging thought tugged at the edges of her consciousness—a question she had been too afraid to ask, too afraid to confront.

"I have been saving up for months to be able to get into MIT, Why me, Why now?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Tony's expression softened, a hint of sadness flickering behind his eyes. "Because you're special, Y/n," he said simply. "More special than you realize."

And with those words hanging in the air between them, Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, sealed with the emblem of Stark Industries. He placed it gently in y/n's outstretched hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"Think about it, Y/n," he said, his voice soft but firm. "And when you're ready, give me a call. I'll be waiting."

And with that, Tony Stark turned and strode out of the diner, leaving y/n standing there in stunned silence, clutching the envelope in her trembling hands.

When she got home later that night, when y/n was alone in her apartment, she mustered the courage to open the envelope and read the letter inside. And as she poured over the words on the page, her heart pounding with excitement and trepidation, she realized the truth that had been staring her in the face all along.

Tony Stark was her father.

The revelation hit her like a thunderbolt, shaking her to her core as she struggled to come to terms with the enormity of it all. Her born from accidental pregnancy? She had always wondered who her father was but could have never imagined she was the daughter of the legendary Tony Stark.

But as she stared down at the letter in her hands, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The strange sensations that had plagued her for years, the memories that seemed to linger just beyond the edges of her consciousness—they all made sense now.

∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩彡

Y/n Stark stood before the towering window of her penthouse apartment, the panoramic view of New York City sprawled out before her like a glittering tapestry. The fading rays of the setting sun bathed the skyline in a warm, golden light, casting long shadows across the urban landscape. From her vantage point high above the bustling streets, y/n could see the city pulsating with life, the steady flow of traffic like blood coursing through the veins of a living organism. It has been two years since Tony died, and she is still left with so many questions about herself unanswered. 

Before Tony had died, he confessed to her, her real lineage. Her mother was not her mother. Her mother is dead and died when she was little. Tony revealed who your mother was. It was all too much. Of course, y/n believed him so he showed her. An image of her mother, and in an instant memories resurfaced.

In the faded image, y/n saw herself as a young child, cradled in the arms of a woman whose face was obscured by the passage of time. But it wasn't the identity of the woman that caught y/n's attention—it was the glint of recognition in her own eyes, a spark of familiarity that sent a shiver down her spine.

She remembered a time when she had been just a young girl, no older than five or six, playing alone in the sprawling gardens of the Stark mansion. The sun had been shining, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across the lush greenery, and y/n had been lost in a world of her own imagination.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she had seen something—a flash of movement, a figure lurking in the shadows. Intrigued, she had followed the mysterious presence, her curiosity leading her deeper into the labyrinthine maze of hedges and shrubbery.

And that's when she had found her—her mother, standing amidst a grove of ancient trees, her hands outstretched toward the heavens as if invoking some unseen power. Y/n had watched in awe as her mother's form seemed to blur and shimmer as if she were weaving a spell of magic that transcended the boundaries of reality itself.

At that moment, y/n had felt a surge of energy course through her veins, a tingling sensation that left her feeling both exhilarated and afraid. It was as if her very essence had been infused with the power of the universe, awakening something dormant and long-forgotten within her soul.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment had passed. Her mother had turned to face her, her eyes shining with a mixture of love and sorrow, before fading away like a wisp of smoke on the wind.

But the memory had lingered, etched into the fabric of y/n's consciousness like a scar on her soul.

Hours were spent conducting experiments and research, exploring the limits of y/n's abilities, and pushing the boundaries of what was possible. But as the days turned into weeks, and Tony became increasingly preoccupied with other matters, their investigations were pushed to the side, left unfinished and unresolved.

And now, with Tony Stark gone and y/n left to grapple with the truth on her own, she was faced with more questions than answers. What was the true extent of her powers? How had she come to possess them in the first place? And what did it all mean for her future?

The truth is that it didn’t matter. Tony was gone, and she now was accepted into MIT, she had other things to worry about now. Well, at least that's what she thought until the “shift happened”.

It was morning, a week into winter break when she felt it—a strange, disorienting sensation that washed over her like a sudden gust of wind. It was as if the very air around her had shifted, leaving her feeling unmoored and adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

At first, y/n had dismissed it as nothing more than a trick of the mind, a fleeting moment of vertigo brought on by exhaustion or stress. But as days went by she knew something was terribly wrong. 

It all started when she turned on the TV and the channel "The Daily Fix" hosted by the nosy and annoying J. Jonah Jameson was on. Y/n didn’t care for the usual news but kept it on as she made her morning coffee. She was mid-coffee pour when she heard Jameson criticizing Spider-Man once again, claiming he was a coward for hiding his identity. But that didn’t make sense because he was just the one outing Peter Parker as Spider-Man, so how could his identity be hidden? It didn’t make sense, but honestly, she was too happy about her acceptance to look into it. In fact, that reminded her that she meant to gush to MJ about it.

Y/n called MJ, and they expressed their secret excitement for MIT.

"Ugh, the fall is going to be so fun, MJ. I literally can’t wait. Did you ever find out if Ned and Peter got in?"

"Oh yeah, Ned got in, but uh, who’s Peter?"

"Ha ha, very funny, MJ. Did you guys get in a fight or something?"

"No, what, Y/n?"

"Peter. Peter Parker. The nerdy guy you are like totally in love with…"

"Y/n, I don’t know what you are talking about, but I have to go. I’ll see you later. Be safe!"

"Uh, okay, bye, see you later."

Why is MJ acting like she doesn't know Peter? Y/n dialed Ned's number, her mind racing with questions and confusion. As the phone rang, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.

"Hey, Y/n, what's up?" Ned's voice crackled over the line, filled with warmth and familiarity.

"Ned, it's me," Y/n began, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I just talked to MJ, and she acted like she didn't know who Peter was. She said she doesn't remember him at all. Do you know what's going on?"

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.

“Peter?”

Y/n felt her heart drop.

“Ned, is this some kind of prank that you two are pulling on me? Cause it’s not funny, everything has been all weird lately and-”

“Y/n, I have no reason to prank you, I have no idea who Peter is.”

“Oh- Okay pretend I never asked, also congrats on MIT, I have to go but ill see you soon.”

“Okay see ya, I hope things get better!”

As y/n hung up the phone, her mind raced with a whirlwind of questions and confusion. Why did MJ and Ned act like they didn't know Peter? And what was going on with the strange shift she had felt in the air lately? The pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together, leaving her feeling more lost and bewildered than before. But amidst the chaos of her thoughts, one thing remained clear—she needed answers. And the only person who could provide them was Peter Parker himself.

∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩彡🕸🕷🕸彡✩∘․‧₊˚∘․‧₊˚✩

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These are all important questions to ask before making a decision. To truly maximize the benefits of scalp micro pigmentation, selecting a reputable provider who takes pride in offering excellent levels of client care should be paramount.

Conclusion

The selection of a scalp micro pigmentation clinic in New York can be challenging. It is essential to consider the expertise of their technicians, assess their portfolio and client testimonials, understand the importance of personalized consultations and treatment plans, as well as post-treatment support and aftercare services.

While the process may seem daunting or time consuming at first, investing the effort upfront will ensure that clients are able to obtain quality results and lasting satisfaction from the experience.

When selecting a provider for such an important service, it is critical to keep these key factors in mind. With careful research on available options, you can find a reliable SMP clinic that meets all your needs.

Smp Masters

New York, NY 10001

Phone: (929) 492-1144

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