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moondirti · 1 year ago

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10. RESILIENCE

CHAPTER TEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter nine / chapter eleven ⇀

summary: miguel gives you something to work for

explicit (18+) | 5.1k words warnings: enemies (with benefits) to lovers, SMUT, fingering, praise kinks, edging, miguel is a tease, training arcs, using sex as encouragement, strict mentor miguel, angst, blood and injury notes: this is just five thousand words of banter and filth. am i sorry?

You’ve never been one to reminisce.

Nostalgia, déjà vu – to pull a sweet memory often feels like trying to fish a lightbulb out from the traps of your jaw. Impossible, not unless the glass shatters to cut your gums and you’re left with the bitter aftertaste of tungsten. There’s a barrier preventing it, somewhere in your mind, built to divide your life into two clean segments. Before and after.

The woman you were before the incident at Alchemax had plenty to look forward to. She spent her time shooting way beyond her ground to ever consider slowing down, lured by aspirations far more tempting than the comfortable life she led. Had she stopped to smell the flowers, to appreciate the way lavender lotion felt on her skin or the past not yet marked with blood, you believe things could have gone differently. That too is hard to consider.

The girl you are now is ripe with rot, softening in the places touched by radiation, crystallising in others. To bring anything – a voice, a face, any memory – back from your previous life would mean spoiling it, so you keep it all banked behind that wall. And of course, from the year past, there’s hardly anything new to recall with a smile.

Had you been anyone else, you suppose this could’ve been one of those rare times.

Because the gym is unchanged, exactly as you left it. Realistically, it’s only been a week, and to expect any major upheaval would be counting on a tragedy like the one that befell your Earth. Yet–

Somehow, you believed that coming back could paint it in a new light. Like the ground would collapse where you took him, and the mirrors would crack, all to expose an element you’d failed to consider. One to help you take comfort in the fact, despite your reckless tryst, you’re still here. Returned – which means that all your worst worries were needless, and that this is just a gym, and you are just a person. Perhaps, if you were to pace around that gaping realisation, then your anxiety would give away to thrill.

Would’ve. Could’ve.

It still looks like the roots of your most recent mistake, though. Your tummy knots with it, tangled in that dermal tissue. You’re overcome with the urge to run, in an almost exact mirror of the last you were here. The air brims with promise; not the well-heeled kind, but a twisted sort that makes it hard to breathe. You’re afraid that, whatever happens today, things will only get more complicated. You won’t handle it well if it does.

You’ve never been one to reminisce. This morning, it is all you can do.

When eventually it gets too much to bear, you search for something else while you wait. You’d come early, right out of your third shower of the weekend, to counter the warning he’d given you.

(‘Don’t be late.’)

Shivering, you zip your jacket before arranging your things on the entryway bench. You avoid your reflection on the mirror-lined wall, turning to face the machinery instead. They aren’t conventional, you notice – though a shelf holds an array of dumbbells, they run up to twice the average weights found elsewhere. There’s a frame resembling a medieval torture device; two hand pull mechanisms on either side, both of which are attached to a tower of barbells. To try pulling both up simultaneously would rip an unenhanced human apart, you think. It certainly would come close in doing so to you.

Of the bunch, your least favourite has to be the leg press sent from hell. That’s what you assume it is, at least. In truth, you can’t exactly tell. With a plate large enough to cover your entire lower half, wedged underneath approximately forty thick slabs of solid steel, the pressure alone would be enough to crush you.

You remain firmly within the confines of the hand-to-hand combat mat. Safe, if not somewhat weird for your foul misuse of it in the past.

But your unease is heavy enough to diffuse into your fingertips now. Your knuckles shake with it, and you must do something lest you start clawing away at your palms.

Stretching, maybe.

Yeah. Stretching would be good.

You start with what you know. The familiarity is agreeable enough to lose yourself to it. Five minutes pass; you’re bent into a low lunge. Ten, and you’re forcing your knees to touch the floor in a butterfly spread. Fifteen is when your tendons start to tremble with a warm ache, when you finally feel loose enough to relent and take a quick rest.

It turns out to be fortunate timing. The door swings upon not a moment later, the atmosphere sinking to accommodate the gravity of his presence. You catch his shadow from the top of your peripheral, hanging upside down as it appears from your point of view – laying on your back with your head slightly tipped.

You can’t see his face, and therefore have nothing to occupy yourself with. In its absence, you’re forced to consider the uncomfortable parallel your position draws forth. The only thing missing are his thick thighs, straddling your chest with subdued strength.

Swallowing, you flip around to settle on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows to take a good look at him. Last night, eyes hot and cloudy with tears, you refused to do yourself the favour in fear that his allure would only exacerbate things. You begin to understand the sentiment when your gaze locks to his.

“Morning.”

“You’re late,” You attempt to joke, grimacing at the awkward timing. The beam on which your relationship stands is precarious, possibly even more so than when you’d been plain-cut enemies. Everything is painted in grey, and it’s near impossible to discern where one boundary branches and the other ends. The confidence with which you once divulged in your humour is lost within the midst – your best bet is to cling to whatever instinct feels right.

Miguel nods, eyebrows raising in tandem to his languid shrug. There’s an almost playful beat to the way he walks, lined perfectly with the perimeter of the mat. You take note of his chosen apparel – his spider suit, perfectly complete save for the mask. A swell akin to disappointment rises within you.

“That expectation is solely reserved for you, fortunately.”

“I see. I suppose heroes have much better things to do, then.”

“Fate of the multiverse,” He waves his wrist, like the barb is easily dismissed. With what you’ve gathered about the man, you’re aware that’s far from the truth. “I still have things to tend to, beyond your containment.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” With the way he’s pursued you – relentless, a panther trapped in a box with an immaterial mouse as its meal – you’d have thought he’d delegated all other responsibilities to his trusted teammates in order to make time for it all. “Coming back from a mission?”

He traipses closer, blinking slowly in the affirmative. Unconsciously, you wiggle away.

“Successful, I take it?” You prod. “That an oddity for you, O’Hara?”

“The opposite.” He mutters, assessing your resting stance with mild intrigue. Your neck throbs with the angle it takes to peer up at him, again prompting a reminder of your last combat session. To quell it, you shift to sit on your knees.

Then, you imagine how your adjustment must look. Worse, likely. Wanton.

(Caveats seem to exist in abundance with him. There is always a but to your actions, a perspective to consider lest you want another misunderstanding.)

“My case being the exception?”

“As it continues to be.”

“I’m here though,”

“You are.” He pauses, inflection softening, as though the argument were fresh news. You half anticipate praise – a recognition of the effort it took for you to return. You’d spent your sleep after coming down that rooftop in a half-conscious state, reaching beyond your feverish dreams to grasp at whatever motivation you had left. You find, the longer he goes without mentioning it, the greater it begins to wane. Like a dying star, sputtering the last dregs of its fuel.

“Early too, I should mention.” You simper. For most intended purposes, it’s a crack at him, a push for the levity today so desperately needs. Yet another, lower part of you already mouths the response you wish to hear.

Good job.

He doesn’t give it to you. “Which brings me to the topic today’s lesson,”

“As a precaution, I should tell you that any of the equipment will likely kill me.” You disclose, if only to brush off the disillusionment, pointing in particular to the leg press.

“We’re not just there yet.”

“Then…”

“You want to know why you failed to pin me down when I asked you to?” He crouches, levelling to a degree closer to your eye-line. Still taller, you note. You steel yourself against shrinking back.

“Because you threw me off.”

“No.” His jaw ticks. “If you had kept with your attack, then you would’ve managed.”

You haven’t given yourself the opportunity to consider the reality of your clumsy attempt. The conversation lulls to make room for your contemplation. You’d thrown yourself onto him – like a glorified backpack – and were too wrapped up in your own panic that you hadn’t noticed his. With hindsight, though, it’s clear as day. He’s right, you could’ve managed. “But I faltered.”

“Exactly.” He echoes. “You didn’t stand your ground, which gave me the opening.”

It occurs to you that he doesn’t know the scope of your supposed error. It had really been the effect of his borderline aphrodisiacal cologne, potent and a dangerous addition to the vertigo that came with being jostled around. You consider pointing it out, a desperate last bid to disprove the very true argument he’s making, until he interrupts:

“Face down, forearms and toes on the floor.”

Your heart clenches with a febrile panic, blood piping hot through your veins at the same rate that your brain detangles the command behind his words. Either you’re debauched beyond reason, or it registers as filthy because he meant it to be. And where you’d usually rely on context, the murky limits of your relationship makes it hard to comprehend. You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and decide that the former is the more plausible option.

(Or you can’t admit to yourself how badly you want the latter to be true.)

Either way, you do as Miguel says.

Once across the ground again, you’re able to better process the direction he’s taking you in. A plank: he’s asking you to do a plank. Ironically, you dread it more than you would’ve done the alternative.

You keep your pelvis to the mat, not yet exercising your core strength. He carries on.

“You lack resilience. Not only are you unable to withstand struggle, you don’t think to recover when you eventually fall.” The barbed observations hurt, striking you where you’re tender. It’s the part of you that’s always dissected everything he does into small, digestible pieces, but has failed to realise that he might’ve been doing the same in turn. “The first mark of a hero is their resilience. For you, that means pitting what you want to do against what you need to do.”

Another strike. You’d poked fun at his philosophical approach before, but it’s starting to make sense. Perhaps that fact alone should scare you.

Perhaps it does.

(What you want versus what you need.

Is that what you owe the world, then? Self-sacrifice – some bloody atonement – like you haven’t already bitten tooth and nail in guilt?)

“So, you’re going to make me plank?” You snap.

“I’m going to make you hold a plank. I won’t define a duration; you’ll just have to keep on until I tell you to stop.”

“O’Hara, not to question the metaphor you’ve got going on, but what could I possibly want from that?”

“I’ve only witnessed you work hard for one thing.” He explains. It takes on a different tone than the one he’s been using thus far, though. Gentler, well-versed in the ways of a veterinary placating a feral cat. He’s treading lightly, you can tell that much, but for what you’re not sure. Because you’re close to walking out again, or because he’s about to broach unmarked territory. Whatever it is, it reads as condescending. Your muscles start to tense, like a taut elastic ready to snap, and your critique sharpens for what he’ll suggest next. “I won’t assume, and with what it can do as a form of encouragement, it’s important that you agree.”

“Spit it out.”

He doesn’t know you; you tell yourself. You’ve given him a lot of your worst, and maybe he can decipher a few truths from that, but he does not know you. You repeat the mantra over and over like a soothing balm, attempting to tamp your frantic confusion at this whole ordeal.

“I’ll touch you. Return the favour, goad you along – but only for as long as you’re able to hold it. Drop, and I’ll stop. Pick yourself back up, I’ll continue.”

Oh.

“When I feel as though you’ve met today’s goal, you can cum.”

And then he goes quiet. Deathly still, pouring his scrutiny into your wide eyes like he can read every thought that fires within you. But he wouldn’t be, because there are none. You don’t think. Can’t. It’s absolutely the last thing you could’ve predicted, a declaration so far removed from your worst-case-scenario that it sends you reeling beyond your flesh. You’re watching yourself in third person, a voyeur to the blubbering spectacle of Wraith – blanched and warm and entirely empty-headed. It’s unfathomable, disconcerting.

Then, to make matters worse, you laugh.

In a manner completely unbecoming of the seriousness you’d opted to take this whole thing with, you laugh.

A crowing, boisterous sound of relief that crackles through your chest like lightning. You have to heave huge gulps of air in between to be able to respond. “You’re serious,”

A dark eyebrow raises, the corner of his mouth curling with it. He must find it funny too, and for that you’re thankful. The mere notion injects a molten buzz into your gut. “Yes.”

“So… What – you’re insinuating a mentorship… with benefits situation?”

“No.” He shakes his head, like the title is any more ridiculous than the fact. “I’m giving you the option. You can’t trust your encouragement alone, so take it as something to look forward to. Something to work for. With it, you’ll be able to tell when you’re on the right track.”

“You’re going to Pavlov me into becoming a hero.”

He blinks. You meant it as a joke, though he seems to be taking it into account.

“If you don’t-”

“I want to.”

It’s said so quickly that you regret not faking a moment of deliberation. Really, though, there are only three things that occur to you:

Your contrition following last time was solely based on your fear of having overstepped.

The bottomless itch in you demanding some sort of recognition for your efforts remains unaddressed.

And him. It’s such an abstract reason that you can’t exactly name its contribution to your answer. Just that it’s him who’s asking; patchouli infused, broad-shouldered and stubborn Miguel O’Hara. The same man who you’d bet your life on wanting nothing to do with you, whose claw marks still scar the flesh above your wrist, whose venom still undoubtedly lingers in your system – making itself familiar with the chambers of your heart, that which you yourself can’t map. The very same man you can imagine being a father to adoring little children, because despite all the evidence to your feud, he’s also the same man who answered your curiosity about the 2099 space station with patience. Who’d cradled your neck between that rubble and refrains from calling you Wraith since you expressed your distaste for it.

Who felt so heavy on your tongue, pulsing and so fucking thick you wake up some mornings to the phantom feel of it stretching your lips.

Desire begins to gnaw up your bones. Changing your mind now would be the most blatant betrayal of oneself.

(What was it you promised earlier; to cling to whatever instinct feels right?)

“Extend your legs then.” He doesn’t let you dwell on it. “That means hips off the floor.”

You adjust yourself into a proper plank position. Or, less than proper. Miguel takes several issues with it, rising from his crouch.

“Your elbows are too wide apart.” His foot nudges your arm until you bring it parallel to the other, straight beneath your shoulders. “Evenly distribute your weight to your forearms and toes. Everywhere else should be rigid.”

“Like this?” You turn to assess his expression. Already your lungs clench in exhaustion – this isn’t as fun as you thought it’d be.

“Of course not. Stop trying to look at me. Face down, you’ll hurt your neck like that.” The air swooshes and you assume he’s crouched back down, near your middle. A large hand grazes your belly. It tickles. “Contract it.”

You try to, but the slightest movement causes him to come in contact with you again. It’s over your jacket, just the barest of touches, yet it’s enough to make your form go weak. Your legs almost give out.

“Sorry– Just…” You huff a nervous laugh, adjusting yourself the second his warmth pulls away.

“Not just your abdomen, but your glutes too. You should feel like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Full body tension.” You tune in to every syllable, triggered into every command like a well-rigged machine. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The acknowledgement makes you preen. It must affect your stance too, because he promptly clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Most importantly, you don’t want this.”

And he finds the small of your back – right where your ass curves upward – to guide you back down, completely straight. His hand doesn’t leave you afterward, either, warm enough that you can make out the contours of it through body heat alone. Somehow, it stirs you even more.

Your groan is so pained that you hope it’s from exhaustion and not pining. “How much longer?”

“Really?” He deadpans.

“I feel like I’m going to collapse.” Your hips dip.

“I haven’t started the timer yet.”

His fingers slide along your pelvis, tracing it around the curve of your waist, down to where you’re sinking. Then, he lifts you back into place – anchored right above your pubic region. His press now is firmer, nudging into your flesh with the pads of his fingertips, and you can’t help the nauseous thrill arising where they do. They brush beneath your baggy top, skimming the precarious edge where your pants’ hem dives to skin.

You feel like the pages of an old book, flipped through an array of different scenes.

The first and most blatant is the discomfort that starts seizing control of you. Miguel insists you haven’t begun, but your unfit body is already suffering from positioning alone. Contracting your muscles proves harder by the moment, fragility skipping along the tissue until you’re convinced of the temptation to just let go. Your feet are unbalanced, and the unforgiving ground does a number on your elbows. The thin sheen of sweat beading across your hairline can only aggravate your suffocation, not cool you down as needed.

What’s harder to focus on – for all its monopoly on your mind – is how intentional his caress is. Every shift of his hand is practised, hovering right around where you need him but never doing anything about it. If he hadn’t admitted his course of action, then you would have tricked yourself into calling it professionalism. But while you can’t see him, his smirk is almost palpable – like humidity that makes a temporary home in your lungs – and you’re confident enough in it that you’re able to name him a tease. He’s teasing you.

The amalgamation of it all sends you into overdrive. You’ve only begun and you’re already yelling.

“The timer!”

“You’re making it worse for yourself, you know.” He says, though moves to fiddle with his watch.

“You’re a little shit, y’know.” But he’s right. Talking amplifies the fatigue.

“I’ll add that to the list. Right next to cocky bastard.”

“Don… Don’t forget sadist–”

“Hm,”

And, as if to emphasise its inapplicability, he cups you.

From behind. Dips his fingers in the space between your thighs, winds them to the front of your groyne, and palms your clothed cunt.

Your skin prickles.

“Fuck!”

Static envelops your arms as they phase right through the floor – momentum stopped only by your chin, which remains corporeal. If it weren’t for your tongue, which slips to wedge itself between your teeth, then you’re sure your jaw would have shattered on impact. Ichor floods your mouth, sharp, like butter melted on a penny. You groan, rolling around to rapidly blink up at the ceiling, purging the stars speckling your vision.

Miguel just looks at you, expectant. His biceps flex when they cross over his chest.

“That was four seconds.”

“Oh, pleath. Thpare me the lecture,” Upon sitting up, you spit the blood out to your empty side. Your limbs have already reverted back to their natural state. “Not that you care, but it still counts as a personal record.”

“Go figure.” He mutters, helping you back into place. He doesn’t have to correct your posture this time. “Back to zero.”

Silence follows the beep of his watch.

Really, it’s more of a mental hush. You force your mind to scour all preoccupations to the backlog, cleansing the forefront of it to steam-pressed sterility. What had caught you off guard was your lacking focus on the physical; if you had been aware of the smallest movements coming from behind, then perhaps his touch wouldn’t have prompted you to phase out. You hadn’t even noticed his gloves retracting into his suit.

Your tongue is still sore with incisor shaped indents, and you vow not to repeat the mistake that caused it.

So, you focus on what’s happening rather than what could. Baby steps, one second after the next, waddling until you find a gait that suits your rhythm. When anything but your abdomen aches, you readjust. Your shoulder joints aren’t supposed to tense like that – you can almost hear him say – so you work on fixing it. If your toes begin to hurt, then clench your calves. Dig your nails into a fist, it helps take away from everything else.

The air conditioning unit hums evenly from all around you. The echoes of other spider-people outside filter in with it. The combat mat has a vinyl surface that zips when you scratch it. The material of his suit smooths tacitly across your jacket. Your breath is as consistent as you allow it to be, stunted when you exhale.

Your sweat is itchy as it dries to your lip. Your ribs pound where they fractured a while ago. Sinew wears down the longer you continue to flex it. He flicks the trim of your leggings, stroking the valley of your spine. Your palms split as your nails plough further into them, marked with crescent-shaped beads of red.

Varicoloured motes float by your nose. Somewhere, hitchhiking on your train of thought, there’s a confusion. No stream of sunlight exists to highlight them. They shouldn’t be here at all.

But then Miguel slips in, ironing over your cotton panties. Your whole body knits together, bracing like a compressed spring. There’s nothing you can do without making him stop, no jump or grand feat that promises release. You can’t even see the finish line, the marker an uncapturable notion, a rainbow moving away at your same speed. So, instead, you revel in how unwavering he is.

His hand strokes over the line of your ass, about to push downward to where you need him most, before deciding against it.

To pinch a cheek.

He… pinches the swell of fat, right where your rear curves to your hamstrings.

It’s rough enough that you’re sure you’ll bruise.

“Nmmgf–” You sulk. “Don… Y– T-tease.”

“Se te olvidó. Squeeze your glutes.”

The sarcastic yes sir dies in your throat. Your face is aflame – from the work out, his ministrations, the revelation that when he reaches your cunt, he’ll be greeted with a humiliating mess. Your thighs are spread apart, yet your underwear still slides over your core, jostled by his intrusion and too slick to provide any real friction.

That is, until he nips the fabric to bunch up between your lips. It stresses over your clit, biting down on the fattening pressure there. Pleasure tremors up your nerves, unsure of its validity under such an unfamiliar sensation. Your subsequent moan is almost miserable in contrast.

“P-Ple… O’H-ra.” To punctuate your plea, you purse your bottom as hard as you can. A physical signal, a question – is this good? Is it not enough? But all that manages to do is worsen your lust. Adding to the fire tenfold, potent as a gallon of petrol. You try to remain steadfast in the face of it all – this calamity, bombs upturning battlefield soil, to keep yourself in the position he’s asked of you.

But fuck if it isn’t punishing.

“Mierda– that’s it.” He curses. You’re at the point where it’s enough praise to urge you along. “You’re soaked.”

You hadn’t noticed his index and middle digits, finally fondling over your hole. Fabric still separates you, bunched tight right over the weeping thing, but as you hold out, he moves it to the side. It snaps away like he’s vocally ordered it to stay that way, his whims laws of physics in their own right, and you use that skewed rationale to supply the basis to your obedience. You couldn’t have done this alone – in no universe, of the hundreds you’ve visited, have you ever thought of it. You’d purchased gym memberships for their showers and walked right past the purpose. In your own world, you’d wasted your limited free time in strangers’ beds.

There’s always been a deficit of purpose in your life. For a brief moment, you’d found it in the stars. Now, with Miguel, you’re granted every ounce you might’ve missed in between, if only to experience what it would be like to unravel by his touch.

And he leads you to it like he’s been trained in your precise anatomy. Blunt fingers implant onto your electric centre – that bundle of nerves overfed by the edging – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike wrecked sobs. Your eyes cloud with desperation, foggy tears budding at your lashes and flowering down your sweat-slicked cheeks. His thumb responds, thrumming along your opening to test its elasticity. Upon deeming you ready, it dives to plug you shut.

It’s delicious. You’re beyond delirious. He’s got a grip on you in every way; spiritually, his philosophy for today echoing as your only tether to reality. Mentally, with his stupid fucking lesson and this god-forsaken plank. Physically, strong arm literally hooked into your cunt and coaxing new slick with every quirk of his fingers.

Which press down with a vengeance now, bearing on a trillion little synapses that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Everything is screwed in, bolted to the same position he asked for – you don’t dare let go. Not as your heart stutters out of beat, finding the pace he dictates instead, flicking over your clit unhinged. Not when the digit that fingers your clinch twirls in place, searching for the lewd sounds it can create. Or with the following squelch, your lungs flaring – embarrassed – at every consecutive one thereafter.

He’s talking, whispering, goading you along. You can’t hear any of it. Either dirty talk or reprimand, it’s lost amidst your self-doubt.

Because truthfully, you can’t persevere through this much longer. The tunnel continues to unroll before you, the light at the end waning dimmer and dimmer. How wonderfully poetic, you brood; your whole spider-hood spent chasing salvation, navigating through one purgatory to the next, only to lose sight of your little prelude to heaven.

You want this – so much so that the word begins to blur with need, and Miguel’s lesson gains more relevance. You want this so bad that you’d worship every atom, every callus of his, from cuticle to elbow.

(Resilience. Resilience. Resilience.)

What you want and what you need.

Which is which, again?

You can let yourself go now, suffer through a shameful orgasm by collapsing to the floor and holding his wrist still to fuck yourself onto. It isn’t so much about that anymore, though – that pure sexual gratification, the most basic of requirements.

It’s about the thing you’ve been wishing for the whole morning. Approval, the cue that you earned it, filtered through his encouragement alone. Not the physicality that manifests as a screeching voice inside your head, but his own – unadulterated, smoke-charred, the slightest of accents scorching its edges. And whether you like it or not, you can only gain it by enduring this test.

(He walked into this gym with the assumption that you’d want your way, and need his.

Funny, how things turn out. It’s completely the opposite.

Perhaps he does not know you at all.)

But he sees you.

Watches the rigidity of your muscles, how they stiffen further given your newfound resolve. Observes as you smear bloody palms onto your wrists, and sniff back the cries you’ve let rip thus far. Your heels straighten out, ninety degrees to the arch, your head ducking to ensure your torso is as straight as can be. You hardly feel the pain anymore.

And you see him.

Or – the vague shape of his hand, tucked beneath your leggings. It’s dark, shadowed by the overhead fluorescents, but the bump is big enough for you to pinpoint when exactly he makes his decision. It halts, breaks away a smidge, and comes back with a renewed vigour.

“Can I!”

“Go.” He permisses.

(And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before matter meets antimatter, where magnets lose their function and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, mass converting entirely to energy. When you roll into a ball of fear–)

You wind impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in ripples, but as one metre-high wave, floodgates open to the mat beneath you.

(–and your best to embrace a quick death.)

Miguel aids you down to lay on your back. When he lifts his wrist to check the set stopwatch, his hand glistens with your juices. You're compelled to wipe it off, raptured by humility like he isn’t the one that just fingered you into oblivion.

“Two minutes.” He says. “Good.”

“That… that was only one-twenty seconds?”

“Talk about a personal record.” You huff. “Shut up.”

chapter eleven

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survivingcollegeonefanficatatime · 1 month ago

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take three.

what the hell is beskar.

it could be an elelment that'd be cool, but Its described as "an alloy" as well as"Iron" and "steel" in the wiki so how dose that work.

is iron lightsaber resistant? is steel? what kind of steel is it? I saw someone say it was high carbon steel, is carbon lightsaber resistant. if it is are people trapped in carbonite lightsaber resistant, that might be cool.

how can you have pure besker if it's an alloy, alloys arn't pure that's the point is it jsut like... a way of saying "we didn't mix any other metal in it's just steel" (is it steel?)

if it's steel how is it natural, I mean i'd accept some planets can natrually produce steel so I guess that's fine. but what if besker is more of a metod of creaton, like it's a spusific way to create steel that makes it besker. that would be really intresting, and it'd be a fun way to worldbuild. I'd imagen if that's the case there's an ancent mandaloral message about how they learned to make besker. it would, however mess with cannon (mines) but the mines could be for the materals for besker, or maybe there's some natrually occuring besker but the alloy could also be produced (but it's really hard and a HEIVALLY garuded secret)

i it's high carbon steel, and it's lightsaber resistant, would it also be considered a dangerous secret for that information to get out?

to be honest this whole thing depends on how the metal is being writen. if it's being writen as just "super melt resistant" then it's a metal with a shockingly high melt point, maybe it's tungsten (beskar as a natrually occuring iron/tungsten alloy, uh Ferrotungsten I think) if it's being writen as force resistant (which I THINK is atually a fannon thing?) then it's gotta be a little werid.

what if it's an isotope? like an isotope of iron, I don't think this idea would be partuarally reolistic but I mean, it's star wars how much do we pay attention to real world accurate science? anyways I think the main diffrence between Iron isotopes are it's weight and ressonance (the vibrational frequency). ok so what if there's like a vibrational frequency that messes with the force and that's the resonance of beskar. it would also explain how force supressors work, they just let out a signal at that spusific frequency.

I don't think that's anywhere near scientifically accurate, I'm overtired and can't be bothered to fact check any of that. but I'd ablsootly accept it if I read it in a fic.

#star wars #mandalorans #beskar #worldbuilding #seriously I'd love for someone to use this idea in a fic its so cool

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rustedhearts · 1 year ago

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sentimental reasons (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)

summary: sunday afternoon musings in autumn.

uses she her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring ✶

tags: pregnant!reader, fluff, that’s about it.

sentimental reasons - nat king cole

hawkins, indiana, october 20th 1996

“I wonder if she’ll have my eyes.”

“Hmm. I hope.”

Steve’s lashes tickled the tip of your finger as it delicately scaled the soft tissue of his eyelid. His lip quirked, nose twitching when you came to trace the slope of it: bent sideways by brutal fists barreling into cartilage. But once, it was smooth and straight. No matter how crooked or left-leaning it was these days, you still found it handsome.

“Hope she doesn’t get stuck with that,” Steve snorted, and you frowned as you smoothed your thumb over the swollen bridge. “Hope she has her mama’s.”

Steve lifted his hand from where it rested on your stomach to bop your nose. You smiled, fingers pushing through the long tresses framing his face. You had been reclining on your back for a few hours now, late-term pregnancy responsible for consistent exhaustion and sore ligaments. It felt like the whole of you existed in the front, and sometimes you worried you were walking on a forward slant.

The house smelled like the slowly-browned roast your mother brought you, warming in the crockpot; the sweet aroma of brown sugar carrots and the bitter snap of celery. From your open window: damp earth and the musk of goldenrod leaves. It smelled like home.

Cheek pressed gently to your stomach, chapped hands feeling for flutters and kicks, massaging your aches through a faded, stretched-out tee: Steve. He smelled like a morning Marlboro—faded and nipped away by the wind—and the woodsy vanilla of your laundry detergent. He smelled like Steve. He felt like Steve: warm and firm and lovely. Cocooned between his half-pressed weight and the softness of the comforter, you felt you could’ve lied there for the rest of your life.

You closed your eyes and listened to the leaves rustle in the afternoon. The distant babble of youthful laughter. The whoosh of rubber on asphalt at thirty-five miles an hour. The crunch of bike tires over the pile of leaves Steve raked and then left on the tree lawn so he could tend to you.

He heard your silence from the front yard. He felt your ache.

“It’s funny,” Steve murmured, eyes wide and alert, finger trailing a path down the roundness of your bump. “I never thought I’d be here. Never thought I’d have…another part of me. Like this.”

He flattened his palm to rub across your belly, spreading a blissful massage that had you shifting. Expelling a breezy sigh, you blindly tucked a patch of hair behind Steve’s ear. Soft, just-shampooed: vetiver and musk.

“She’s all ours, baby,” he whispered.

The room swayed in the stillness. Like being cradled in a lullaby, gently rocked to sleep by one dreamy, autumnal afternoon. You felt like you were floating, gently bobbing to the rush and recede of the sea.

"Kinda scary to think about," you returned a moment later, just as quietly. You peeped your eyes open to find Steve's face.

Smoothed into mindless relaxation, he watched his own hand lift over the mound of your bump. Back and forth, over the swell and down the valleys. His wedding band caught a spark of pale afternoon light: thick silver tungsten around his ring finger. Unbreakable. Irreplaceable.

Work got in the way of him wearing it often, but on long weekends like this—when you slipped away from the busy, sunny California life for a slice of small town America back home—Steve slipped the ring on and never took it off.

He liked seeing it on his hand. He liked hearing it clink with yours when you held hands at night. He liked seeing them together—your ring, his ring—and knowing: this was eternal.

"God I hope I don't fuck it up."

You tipped your head on the pillow, craning to find Steve. You gently scraped your nails over his scalp, watching them create gaps in his mop of hair.

"You won't," you cooed. "No more than all the other parents."

Steve's lips curled into a pursed smile, handsome and boyish. Your chest stuttered a moment.

"Thanks, angel. Think 'm just nervous," he sighed, words tight between his teeth with his chin pressed to your belly.

You shifted again, socked feet rubbing his sides. "Me too. My mom said she used to throw up just from nerves right before she had me, but I think I turned out alright."

He breezed into another grin, a scoffed laugh shooting from his mouth. "Yeah."

You twirled a strand of hair near his brow around your finger. It curled into shape, tickling his eye.

"Wonder if my mom was nervous with me," he whispered.

You took pause, scanning the surface of his face. His eyes flicked away from your stomach toward your own, and he instantly scoffed and shifted on his stomach.

"Ah, shit, sorry. That was—sorry—"

"Baby, hey," you awed, reaching down to cup his face. "Don't be sorry. It's okay to wonder."

Steve halted a moment. Staring at you, head risen from his place on your center body, eyes a little rounder and wider and laced with pleading. Softened and sweet, you flashed him a small, reassuring smile and scratched your nails against his scalp again. He slowly sank back down, rubbing his cheek against your clothed belly.

“‘Kay,” he murmured.

“Wanna talk more about it—“

“No, baby. Just…wanna talk about names.”

You giggled. “Names?”

You could see the coil of his mouth from here, how the side of his face lifted with the small quirk of muscle.

“Yeah. Been thinkin’ about what we’re gonna name little Harrington.”

Your heart swelled to double the size, aching in your chest. You could barely contain the burst of adoration blooming with a pulse.

“You have?”

Steve’s finger made a zig-zag trail on your belly again. “Mhm. So…let me see it.”

You blinked, brows etching together. “See what?”

Steve turned his head, hair dragging across your belly and flouncing from his face. “The notebook.”

You clapped your hands together with a giddy grin. You’ve kept a notebook of baby names since your first sonogram. You knew you were getting ahead of yourself, and there were chances the pregnancy wouldn’t stick—but all you could think about was what you’d name your child. When you found out it was a girl, that you’d have a daughter, the notebook immediately became a place of scribbles and exclamation marks and highlighted stars.

Interestingly enough, when you started to show a bump beneath your clothes and required more assistance for daily tasks, Steve swapped roles with you as the worrier. He helped you up and down stairs, poured your cereal, made you smoothies, cut your steak, and did his best to do the cleaning exactly the way you did it.

Steve was terrified you’d lose the baby, and that it would be all his fault.

For some reason, naming the baby felt like “jinxing it” to him.

“Really, you wanna see it?” you squealed, capturing your lip between your teeth.

Steve chuckled, a deep, grumbling sound that shuddered through you. “Yeah, baby.”

“Okay good, because I can’t get up.”

Steve chortled, shifting on his stomach to press a kiss to your belly, wide hands spanned on either side. He wiggled off the bed and headed toward the door, rounding the corner toward the library room.

The Hawkins house, made the Harrington residence circa 1994, had a gorgeous, oak-shelved room full of first editions and signed copies. Steve spared no expense when it came to your little corner of the house, where he often found you curled up in the window seat scribbling in a journal, or scanning a book. You had a desk against the wallpapered wall, where a type writer from 1935 found at a flea market in Virginia sat with every intention of good use. Steve hated the sound of your clacking, but you said the sound was “transcendent.”

Steve padded into the room, blanketed in a pale grey darkness as the sky muddled with rain clouds. The window came to a peak in a rounded arch, wet with old rain drops from last night’s shower. Collections of leaves from the oak tree looming in the yard congregated on the glass in groups of yellow.

He found the notebook on the desk beneath your piles of paper, all full of ink. Steve fought the urge to filter through it as he returned to the bedroom.

You struggled to sit yourself up, wobbling on your palms like doing the crab walk. Steve flung the notebook toward the bed and rushed to your side, hands at the ready.

“Baby,” he huffed, hoisting you toward the pillows at the headboard, which he fluffed adamantly as you settled back. “Wait for me.”

Your eyes rolled, though you were already out of breath. “I had it.”

He shot you a pointed look through narrowed brows, and fumbled for the notebook at the edge of the mattress. He settled beside you, and as the air followed his motions, you caught whiffs of damp soil from his time outside this morning.

“Okay, open it,” you insisted, voice wavering with delight.

Steve flipped the spine open, revealing the first lined page of paper with your familiar writing.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” Steve drawled, pulling the notebook back an inch to take it all in. His eyesight had been slipping for the past year and a half.

He needed glasses, but refused to wear them.

Cheeks swelling with warmth, you tipped your head over to get a peek of your work. “I had a lot of ideas.”

"And they're...alphabetized," Steve commented, tone thick with amusement.

"Obviously."

Steve scanned the list of names, eyes shuttering half-closed and popping back open like a camera lens. The ones he didn’t like got a screwed up face in response. Steve had a headache by the time he got to the fourth page, and the names weren't stopping.

Only few caught his eye: Alice, Caroline, Catherine, Eloise, Emma, Lily, Josephine, Jane, Winnie.

As he continued to scan, he found himself pairing the names with his own surname. Alice Harrington, Catherine Harrington, Lily Harrington. None had the ring he thought they would.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked, flipping pages again.

Resting your head on his shoulder, you gently skirted the pads of your finger over the warm skin of his forearm. You trailed them to the bone of his knuckle, feeling the purple veins protruding beneath the flesh, plumped from overexertion.

"Mhm," you hummed. "But I don't want to sway you."

Steve turned his head, lips brushing your temple. "It's Jane."

You lifted your head so quickly that it knocked Steve's chin, and he tongued away the pain with a wordless grimace as your face bloomed with warm thrill. You gazed at your husband in delightful wonderment.

"How did you know?"

"It had five stars next to it."

You giggled, warmth increasing. "Oh."

"And," he added, head cocking to pop a kiss on your cheek. "I remember you mentioned that name before. Back when we were still dating, talkin' about kids. You said you always loved the name Jane, and if you ever had a girl, that would be your top choice."

Looping your arm around Steve's, you squeezed him close and nuzzled his neck. "Oh, Steve, you are so hot right now."

Steve's laughter was sharp and surprised, and he snapped the notebook closed to toss it aside. Hands free and desiring your touch, he gently pulled at your legs until you reclined flat on the bed again.

"I know."

Mounting over you with an agreeable and cautious space between his body and your bump, he pressed a gentle pepper of smooches to your face. You ran your hands across his chest, playing with the silver chain around his neck, thin and linked.

"So...Jane it is?"

Steve pulled back, eyes flicking between yours. His features were soft, a sharp contrast to the scars and bruises they regularly carried. He brushed the back of two fingers across your brow, guiding your hair away.

"Jane it is, my love."

♡ ♡

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meowmeowriley · 8 months ago

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Me: literally can't handle reading anything that doesn't have an explicitly happy ending.

Also me: aims to hurt you all with this next fic. Gaz is going through it. Ghost is coping, but he is far from okay. Soap is... struggling with the weight of his decisions.

Stay tuned for pain? 😊 hope/comfort with a hopeful/open ending.

Tungsten Heart: comming soon

#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #call of duty #modern warfare #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #fanfic #ao3 #fanfiction #cod wips #my wips

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tungsten4anglers · 2 months ago

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Shop Top-Grade Tungsten Fishing Weights and Tungsten Jigs in Canada – Tungsten 4 Anglers Upgrade your catch rate with premium tungsten fishing weights & tackle in Canada. Shop Tungsten Jig Heads, sinkers, & more! Eco-friendly.

#tungsten jig #tungsten bass weights

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30somethingautisticteacher · 4 months ago

Note

Prompts, you say? What about this post I made 🤣

https://www.tumblr.com/v88sy/756596064088391680/nothing-just-watching-the-9-1-1-episode-where?source=share

"Nothing, just watching the 9-1-1 episode where Chimney thinks he lost Maddie's engagement ring in the city dump and realizing I need something like that for Tommy, hbu"

Thank you for the prompt @v88sy I hope I did it justice ❤️🥰 Now also on Ao3...link at the bottom.

***

Tommy was no Clipboard Buck, but between his childhood and the army, he had definitely learned to be efficient. So when it came to proposing to Evan, he had everything meticulously planned out. Every detail was in place, every moment accounted for. Tommy couldn't help but smile to himself as he went over the plan one last time muttering to himself as he checked each step. Evan wasn't going to know what hit him.

Satisfied, Tommy reached for the ring box to practice his proposal one more time. But as he opened it, his heart stopped. There was no ring inside.

Tommy felt his heart race as panic set in. How could he have lost the ring? It was perfect - a black tungsten band with a sleek blue stripe running through it. He had spent weeks choosing it, making sure every detail was just right. The engraving inside, 'My Evan', had been his final touch.

His mind raced, trying to retrace his steps. When was the last time he had seen it? Where could it have possibly gone?

Tommy took a deep breath, forcing himself to think logically. He couldn't let this derail everything. He had faced worse challenges before, surely he could handle a misplaced ring. But as he began to search, a nagging worry persisted - what if he couldn't find it in time?

Tommy's mind raced as he tried to recall the ring's last known location. "Where did I see it last? Where did I have it?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Suddenly, realization dawned on him. "Oh my God," he gasped. He had taken it to work because he was worried about Evan stumbling onto it during his 48-hour shift at home. The memory came flooding back - he had taken it into the helicopter and shown it to Lucy.

A new wave of panic washed over him. Was it still in the chopper? Or worse, had he lost it on one of their calls? The possibility of the ring lying somewhere in the city, lost during a rescue operation, made his stomach churn.

"Oh God," Tommy whispered, the full weight of the situation hitting him. He needed to get back to the station, and fast. The clock was ticking, and his perfect proposal hung in the balance.

Tommy raced to Harbor, his heart pounding. As soon as he arrived, he made a beeline for his locker, frantically searching every pocket and crevice. The empty ring box in his pocket seemed to mock him as he searched.

"Hey, has anyone seen a ring? About this big, black with a blue stripe?" he called out to his coworkers, trying to keep his voice steady. A chorus of shaken heads and apologetic looks answered him.

With growing desperation, Tommy headed for his chopper. He searched every inch of the aircraft, checking under seats, in compartments, and even in the most unlikely nooks and crannies. He tore apart the interior, his usual respect for the machine overshadowed by his urgent need.

But as he stood back, surrounded by displaced equipment and opened compartments, the reality sank in. The ring itself was nowhere to be found.

Tommy leaned against the helicopter, closing his eyes in defeat. He pulled out the empty ring box, staring at the velvet indent where the perfect ring should have been. The proposal he had planned was in jeopardy, and he was running out of options.

Tommy's mind raced, recounting yesterday's calls. Four. There had been four calls.

A cliff rescue, two life flights, and an organ transport. He distinctly remembered having the ring during the first three calls, even recalling how he'd absentmindedly touched his pocket to ensure it was still there.

But the last one? The life flight from the beach? Tommy's stomach dropped as uncertainty crept in.

"Shit!" he muttered, then louder, "Fuck!" The possibility hit him like a ton of bricks. Did he lose it in the sand?

The image of the ring, lying lost and buried in countless grains of sand, made him feel sick. If it had fallen out there, finding it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

How could he possibly find it in time? And how was he going to propose to Evan without the ring he'd so carefully chosen?

Tommy took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for. His thumb hovered over the call button for a moment before he pressed it, bringing the phone to his ear.

After a couple of rings, a familiar voice answered. "Hey, Tommy. What's up?"

"Howie?" Tommy's voice was a mix of desperation and hope. "I need your help. You don't happen to have access to a metal detector, do you?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "A metal detector? That's... an unusual request. What's going on, man?"

Tommy closed his eyes, dreading having to explain his predicament. "It's a long story, but I think I might have lost something important on the beach during a call yesterday. Something small, made of metal, and incredibly important."

He could almost hear the gears turning in Howie's head. "Wait, is this about what I think it's about? The thing you showed me last week?"

"Yeah," Tommy admitted with a sigh. "That's the one. So, about that metal detector?"

"I don't have one," Howie replied, sounding apologetic, "but maybe Eddie does? Chris went through a pirate buried treasure phase a few years back."

Tommy's heart sank for a moment, but Howie quickly continued, his voice brightening, "But hey, I'll help you look, and I'm sure everyone else will too. We've got your back, man."

A wave of relief washed over Tommy. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear those words of support.

"Thanks, Howie," Tommy said, his voice thick with gratitude. "I really appreciate it. Could you maybe call Eddie about that metal detector while I finish checking here?"

"On it," Howie assured him. "Don't worry, Tommy. We'll find that ring. Operation 'Save the Proposal' is officially underway."

As Tommy hung up, he felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe there was still a chance to salvage his plans.

****

"Alright team, fan out," Athena's authoritative voice rang out across the beach. She stood at the center of a very determined group.

Bobby stepped forward, naturally taking charge alongside his wife. "We've got two metal detectors. Eddie, you take yours. Hen, you're on the one Athena brought from the station."

Eddie nodded, already adjusting the settings on his detector, while Hen powered up the police-issued one. Chimney and Ravi stood ready with shovels, as Lucy prepared the sifters.

Tommy looked at his assembled friends with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. He never expected his proposal plans to turn into a search and rescue mission, but he was touched by their willingness to help.

Athena turned to him, her eyes focused and determined. "Tommy, you said this is approximately where you think you lost it?"

Tommy nodded, gesturing to the area around them. "Yes, it was during that life flight call yesterday. We landed somewhere in this vicinity."

Bobby added, "Alright, people. Let's grid this area and start searching. Those without detectors, use the shovels and sifters. That ring isn't going to find itself."

As the team spread out, Tommy's phone buzzed with a text from Maddie: "Buck is thoroughly distracted thanks to your niece. Take all the time you need. Good luck!"

The beach had transformed into a scene of organized chaos. For hours, the team had combed through the sand with meticulous determination. Metal detectors beeped incessantly, shovels dug, and sifters shook as they searched every inch of the designated area.

Their efforts hadn't been entirely fruitless. A small pile of found objects grew steadily: over three dollars in assorted coins, a set of car keys that had probably ruined someone's beach day, a pair of military dog tags that Eddie carefully set aside to be returned, and even a retainer that made everyone grimace.

Tommy watched his friends work tirelessly alongside him, a mix of gratitude and growing despair churning in his gut. He appreciated their effort more than he could express, but with each passing minute, his hopes of finding the ring – and salvaging his proposal plans – dwindled.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the beach, the reality of their situation began to sink in. The fading light made their search increasingly difficult, and the team's movements grew slower.

Eddie was the first to voice what they were all thinking. "Tommy," he said gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder, "we're losing daylight. We might have to call it for now."

Tommy looked out at the darkening beach, his heart heavy. The weight of disappointment settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"We can come back tomorrow," Eddie continued, trying to inject some hope into his voice. "First thing in the morning. The light will be better, and we'll have fresh eyes."

Tommy nodded, unable to find his voice for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Yeah," he managed, the single word carrying all his devastation.

The team gathered around Tommy, their faces a mix of sympathy and determination. Even though they hadn't found the ring, their support was unwavering.

As they began to pack up their equipment, Tommy couldn't help but wonder: how was he going to face Evan now? The perfect proposal he had planned now seemed impossibly out of reach, lost somewhere in the vast expanse of sand beneath their feet.

Tommy trudged through the front door, his shoulders slumped with defeat. He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the sight of Evan sitting at their kitchen table, practically vibrating with excitement.

Before Tommy could even process what was happening, Evan leapt up and threw his arms around him. "Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with joy.

Caught off guard, Tommy returned the embrace instinctively, his mind racing to catch up. "Well, not that I'm complaining about the warm welcome," he said, a confused smile tugging at his lips, "but yes to what?"

Evan pulled back slightly, his face beaming with happiness. He lifted his left hand, and there, prominently displayed on his finger, was the very ring Tommy and their friends had spent the entire day searching for.

Tommy's jaw dropped, his eyes widening in disbelief. "How... what... where did you find that?" he stammered, a mix of emotions swirling through him – relief, confusion, and an overwhelming surge of love for the man in front of him.

Evan's smile, if possible, grew even wider. "First, I believe you owe me a proper proposal, Mr. Kinard."

All of Tommy's planned words flew out the window as he sank to one knee, his heart overflowing with emotion. Looking up at Evan, his eyes shining with love, he said:

"Evan, baby, love of my life. Come with me to our wedding?"

Evan burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling with joy as he recognized the callback to their second chance coffee date nearly two years ago.

"Of course," Evan replied, his voice thick with emotion, eyes sparkling with unshed happy tears. He reached down to cup Tommy's face in his hands. "This ally is yours forever."

As Tommy rose to his feet, they fell into each other's arms, both laughing and crying at the same time. The proposal might not have gone according to Tommy's original plan, but in this moment, with Evan in his arms, it felt absolutely perfect.

After a moment, Tommy pulled back slightly, a mix of joy and curiosity on his face. "I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you. But first, you've got to tell me - how on earth did you find the ring?"

Evan's eyes twinkled with mischief. "You're not going to believe this," he said, barely containing his laughter. "I found it in the washing machine."

Tommy's jaw dropped. "The washing machine?" he repeated incredulously.

Evan nodded, grinning widely. "Yep. I was doing laundry earlier today, and when I went to transfer your work clothes to the dryer, there it was, just sitting in the bottom of the washer. Must have fallen out of your pocket."

Tommy groaned, half laughing, half embarrassed. "You mean to tell me that while I had the entire team combing the beach with metal detectors, the ring was here the whole time?"

"The entire team?" Evan asked, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Oh, this I've got to hear."

Tommy pulled Evan close, pressing their foreheads together. "It's a long story," he murmured. "But we've got the rest of our lives for me to tell it."

Evan smiled softly. "I like the sound of that," he said, leaning in for a kiss.

As their lips met, Tommy couldn't help but think that sometimes, the best laid plans go wrong for all the right reasons.

Now also on Ao3! ⬆️

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #firepilot #fic prompt #30sat writes

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tungstenpartswyoming · 8 months ago

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One important part of gun systems is the H2 buffer weight, which is used in the buffer assembly of AR-15-style rifles. This part is essential for controlling recoil and improving overall shooting efficiency. A particular weight arrangement is denoted by the "H2" designation; it is heavier than the conventional H1 buffer but lighter than the H3 variant. The H2 buffer weight contributes to better accuracy and control, less felt recoil, and recoil impulse adjustment, all of which help the handgun cycle more efficiently.

#H2 Carbine Buffer Steel Weight #Tungsten Parts Wyoming #AR-15 Buffer Tube Assembly

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thesilliestrovingalive · 3 months ago

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Updated: November 10, 2024

Reworked Character #1: Marco Rossi

POTENTIAL TRIGGER: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to neglect, self-harm, alcoholism, SA, death, and torture.

Real name: Marchrius Dennis Rossi

Alias: Intelligent Soldier

Occupation: Major of the P.F. Squad

Retirement plans: Become a mechatronics engineer, foster a bunch of kittens, and start a company that designs and develops functional computer models, artificial intelligence, and cybersecurity programs for both military and civilian usage

Special skills: Proficiency in lightweight firearms, mechatronics engineering, computer science, intimidation tactics, and drunken-style boxing

Hobbies: Creating artificial intelligence and technological viruses from scratch, calculating complex mathematical equations and running times of computer programs in his head, taking naps at his desk, completing crossword puzzles, and stargazing

Likes: Cat cafes, maintaining his manliness, his quick mental calculation, going on smoke breaks with Tarma, Eri, and Tequila, and subway rides where there are little to no people around him

Dislikes: Large lines in front of restaurants, being wrongfully distracted from work, spending vast quantities of time away from Perifa and Midori, computer crashes paired with slow Internet, and torture

Favourite food: Chinese noodles (preferably its mildly spicy) and barbecued burgers and hotdogs with onions and honey-flavoured carrots

Sexuality: Sex-repulsed, aromantic asexual

Gender: Male

Age: 17 (in 2022), 23 (in 2028), 25 (in 2030), 27 (in 2032), 29 (in 2034), 36 (in 2041), 38 (in 2043), 39 (in 2044), and 42 (in 2047)

Blood type: A-

Weight: 162 lbs. (73.48 cm)

Design: He's a 5' 7" (170.18 cm) Italian-American ectomorph with an average musculature, broad shoulders, ivory skin, a cleft chin, and dull turquoise eyes. Marco sports wavy strawberry blonde hair, characterised by a large forelock that falls to the tip of his nose on the right side. On the left, two short, thick strands with subtle waves curve gracefully above his eyebrow. His features are further accentuated by well-groomed sideburns and a neatly trimmed chinstrap beard.

He bears occasional dark circles under his eyes and a distinctive glass left eye in a lighter turquoise hue. He has accumulated several battle scars: a few stab wounds on his right shoulder; vertical cuts on his chest; a deep slice mark extending from the left side of his nose bridge to the back of his trapezius muscle; multiple lacerations and severe burns on his back; a large patch of scar tissue on his right lumbar region; and bullet wounds on both calves and one on his left thigh. To cope with his emotional pain, he has a history of self-harm, which has resulted in the horizontal scars visible on his right forearm, hips, and inner thighs.

He's well-known for his cutting-edge, cybernetic left arm crafted from sleek, high-strength metallic alloys and advanced, artificially intelligent flexi-circuits, allowing for enhanced strength, agility, dexterity, and precision. It also has micro-sensors and neural interfaces seamlessly integrating with Marco’s nervous system for intuitive control. It possesses a high-strength, serrated blade made of tungsten, capable of extending up to 12 inches (30.48 cm) from the forearm. It can temporarily deploy an energy shield that surrounds him, providing protection from incoming attacks. This shield is powered by advanced capacitors and optimised for maximum efficiency using AI technology.

Marco's military gear consists of a white headband, a metal dog tag necklace with his name, and a platinum grey sleeveless shirt. He wears a crimson vest with four pockets and an embroidered logo of the P.F. Squad on the back, alongside khaki-green army cargo pants tucked into his olive green paratrooper boots. He also wears a leather belt with a snap-on silver buckle, mahogany gloves, a sheath for his combat knife, and a gun holster for his trusty handgun. The pockets of Marco's army cargo pants carry two boxes of cigars, while his vest contains a gilded lighter he found in Gerhardt City, a black case for his garnet-hued reading glasses, and an old photograph of pre-teen him, his father, and his childhood cat on a leash at a park during autumn.

Over his shirt, he wears a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a MultiCam pattern, which carries his walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. His right forearm is wrapped in worn gauze, and he wears two black bandoliers that form an X-shape, holding bullets for his handgun. Marco carries a khaki-green load-bearing backpack containing camping equipment, tactical explosives, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, a Gatling shot, and a thunder shot. He's always carrying around a red-orange laptop adorned with a bronze circle on the lid, housing a black six-pointed star at its centre. This custom laptop serves as his mobile command centre, where he develops malware to breach enemy cybersecurity, tackles various classified technological assignments for the military, and works on personal software projects.

He wears his father's circular, gilded watch on his right wrist, using it to check the time as a reminder of his father's enduring presence and an opportunity to seek guidance from the past. The timepiece features an ivory dial with burgundy hands and black Roman numerals from I to XII, interspersed with four thin etchings. Additional details include a secondary display bar showing the time and AM/PM indicator, while a leather strap is secured with a matching gold buckle.

Character summary: He's a charismatic and cautious leader who takes immense pride in his high intellect, computer expertise, and masculinity. He's a self-reliant introvert who prefers to accept help and emotional support from others when absolutely necessary. His stoic demeanour is a constant, making it challenging for him to show humour or vulnerability. Due to being a workaholic, he has developed a harmful habit of neglecting his own basic needs, including eating when necessary. He mainly struggles with loneliness because he finds it difficult to form meaningful connections due to his exceptionally high intellect, which can make it challenging for others who may not be able to keep up with his level of understanding. He also struggles with major depressive disorder, trust issues, a fear of abandonment, and unresolved trauma stemming from past experiences. While Marco tends to internalise his emotions, he has learned to open up to trusted individuals when his burdens become too overwhelming to bear alone.

Despite his gentle and taciturn nature, he's capable of being ruthless and will fly into a deep rage when General Morden's name is mentioned near him. When interrogating others, he employs a menacing tone, his aloof demeanour making those on the receiving end feel uneasy and intimidated. He doesn't hesitate to wield threats of violence or exploit vulnerabilities, and with Trevor by his side, his intimidation factor is amplified. He's a socially awkward loner who doesn't tolerate distractions and has a strong fear of losing his current friends.

When experiencing great distress in relation to past trauma, he's prone to having a full-blown mental breakdown and indulging in suicidal ideation. Marco tends to get stressed easily, which has led to him developing a chain-smoking habit. He privately grapples with self-harm and binge drinking, often consuming multiple beers at once, while concealing his struggles with alcoholism and suicidal thoughts from those around him. He attempts to conceal his struggles with alcoholism by either excessively partying or withdrawing socially, and privately harms himself due to his reluctance to burden others or cause unnecessary concern. Additionally, he struggles with denial, finding it difficult to accept the loss of his father and former war comrades, and resisting the idea that he needs professional mental health support.

He has a dry sense of humour that he rarely showcases, and when he does, his witty remarks often blend English and Italian. Having learned some Japanese from Tarma and Eri, he occasionally sprinkles Japanese phrases into his jokes. He deeply cares about his friends and will stop at nothing to protect them, even if it means putting his own life at risk. He finds great comfort in the presence of his best friend, Tarma, thanks to his breezy and optimistic attitude. Although he doesn't always show it, he genuinely enjoys Tarma's jokes and appreciates listening to them, even if they occasionally test his patience. Additionally, he cherishes his calico shorthair cat, Perifa, a heartwarming birthday gift he received from Fio prior to the Survival Island Occupation.

He’s in a polyamorous queerplatonic relationship with Fio and Tarma, a bond that satisfies his deep-seated longing for emotional intimacy. He’s close friends with Trevor, regularly mentoring him in computer skills like reading binary code and enjoying social time together, but their occasional marijuana use has raised concerns due to Marco's pre-existing unhealthy smoking habits. He holds Tequila in high esteem, recognizing his pivotal contributions to the success of the Regular Army and S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S. special forces unit. He deeply values his wisdom, open-mindedness, fatherly demeanour, and exceptional covert agent skills. He dislikes accompanying Nadia on shopping trips because her constant meddling and overly inquisitive nature frustrate him.

Having never experienced raising children, he had always doubted his ability to provide love and be a good parental figure, consumed as he was by his own interests and mental health issues. But everything changed on Christmas, in the aftermath of the Unforeseen Invader Conquest, when he adopted an abandoned baby girl with striking features: pinkish-orange hair streaked with pale blonde and bright teal eyes flecked with dark brown. With the guidance and support of his friends, he discovered valuable parenting skills and named his new daughter Midori. He transformed into a loving, supportive, and overprotective father, dedicated to ensuring her happiness and safety. He made it a point to offer wise advice, hoping to spare her from his own past mistakes.

He found immense joy in watching Midori form close bonds with his friends, affectionately regarding them as uncles, aunts, and grandparents. Her friendship with Pocke, Walter's adoptive son and a Martian infant, brought him equal delight. He was particularly grateful for the ways his friends nurtured Midori's passions: Tarma and Alisa encouraged her interest in engineering, while Walter and Trevor fostered her love of music. He can't imagine a world without his adoptive daughter, who has brought him a new sense of purpose and motivated him to overcome his personal hardships.

He often mistakes Sophia Greenville for his mother due to their similar appearance, and he's always embarrassed when he accidentally calls her "mom”. Nevertheless, he's deeply grateful for the maternal affection she shows him, treating him like a son and unknowingly becoming the kind of mother he wishes he had. He finds comfort in spending quality time with his cat, affectionately referred to as his "dramatic little princess”. He enjoys engaging in playtime, giving gentle pets, and even using soothing baby talk to calm his feline companion. He's easily offended by people who rudely insult cats, going as far as to comfort the insulted feline and silently glaring at the person who uttered such words.

Whenever he's had too much to drink, he starts to act rowdy, easy-going, overly affectionate, and clingy. When sexual activity is mentioned, he reacts with extreme discomfort as he finds it to be disgusting. He’ll either become nauseous or start gagging, displaying expressions of strong distaste towards the person discussing the topic. If he unexpectedly encounters someone engaging in sexual activity, he often experiences a panic attack, feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed. In such situations, he usually tries to seek comfort and support from a trusted individual to talk to and receive a reassuring hug. This experience may also trigger unpleasant thoughts related to sexual matters, leading him to fear that he's somehow perverted and disgusting. He'll only lose his temper with others if they say something extremely rude to him or his friends, intend to hurt his loved ones or tell him blatant lies. Although he tends to have a pessimistic outlook on life, he sometimes manages to see the brighter side of things.

He has a sleepwalking habit, often accompanied by vivid dreams of fighting or killing someone, which greatly annoys and frightens Tarma, who’s frequently the target of these nocturnal episodes. He resents being hailed as a war hero due to his intense aversion to fame and his conviction that conflict should prompt sombre reflection, not glorification. He dislikes flirtatious advances and has low tolerance for complaining, bullying or excessive talking, which can trigger irritability and extreme defensiveness. He feels uneasy with romantic inquiries and is secretly intimidated by Gimlet, whose rape threats, relentless verbal aggression, and frequent heated confrontations leave him on edge. He has a commanding presence that demands respect, and his consistently serious demeanour can make him seem intimidating and unapproachable to others.

He's incredibly introspective and prone to questioning the intentions of his friends and his own worthiness of having meaningful friendships. He defines his masculinity by embodying traits like physical strength, courage, independence, leadership, and assertiveness. However, he makes a conscious effort to avoid toxic masculinity by ensuring his behaviour doesn't harm others' feelings or self-worth. Despite this balanced approach, he admits to having some vanity regarding specific issues he considers unbefitting of his ideal masculinity, such as sagging pants and carrying toys, as he sees these as detrimental to personal dignity.

He's a consequentialist who believes that all life forms are more capable of destruction, ultimately prevailing the act of creation. He also believes that all conflicts are gradually moving towards the equitable unification and collective strength of humanity. In his perspective, it'll pave the way for a new era free from violence, hate, and political corruption.

Backstory: Marchrius Dennis Rossi was born on April 13, 2005 in Twin Falls, Idaho, United States. Marco's mother, Katalina, was a researcher for a secret government project, and his father, Salvatore Rossi, was stuck in a dead-end office job. His parents had a distant relationship and had Marco, hoping that a child would bring them closer together and fix their broken marriage, but they often ignored each other and argued. Katalina had never wanted Marco, viewing him as an unplanned consequence and a responsibility that hindered her career. His father provided unwavering support and care, while his mother was neglectful and emotionally absent, hiding her true behaviour behind closed doors. But despite this, Marco shocked his parents by exhibiting a fast-growing intelligence at a very young age.

From the moment he opened his eyes, he muttered his first word, "daddy". He learned how to walk at 3 months old and showed advanced motor skills by 5 and a half months. He skipped object permanence altogether and completed his first crossword puzzle at just 1 year old, astonishingly understanding political terms. By the age of 2, he had memorised all 50 U.S. states and read two books in their entirety, demonstrating a profound understanding of their documented subjects: moral philosophy and psychoanalysis. By 4, he was answering calculus-level questions and describing his feelings about endangered animals in zoos with sophisticated vocabulary.

From the age of 2, he would occasionally see a pair of glowing red eyes in darkened corners or places drenched in darkness. He described them as always watching him and swore that they belonged to a living, breathing creature that seamlessly blended into the darkness. When he turned 5, he created an imaginary friend as an excuse to enjoy his alone time and avoid befriending the children who frequented the local park. This imaginary friend was named "Jubby", and Marco often drew him, depicting him as an anthropomorphic snow leopard with golden eagle wings, Komodo dragon legs, and a face covered in a ball of black scribbles.

Before he turned 6, his neglectful mother, Katalina, grew fed up with how "weird" he was. She was also annoyed by his persistent fear of a glowing pair of red eyes that watched him occasionally and his uninterested attitude towards forming connections. While Salvatore was away from home, Katalina took matters into her own hands and packed her belongings. Before leaving, she noticed Marco standing before the basement door, which was wide open. She investigated and saw the same glowing pair of red eyes, which terrified her.

Believing that Marco was attracting an evil spirit, she pushed him down the basement stairs and locked the door, hoping to contain the perceived threat. Abandoning Marco, she left the house, leaving him absolutely terrified. Marco attempted to cope with the trauma by conjuring up Jubby, but he claimed that his imaginary friend never came to his aid. This painful realisation marked the day he began to harbour resentment towards his mother, feeling unappreciated, unloved, and viewed as a burdensome presence in her life. When Salvatore returned home and discovered that Marco was trapped in the basement by Katalina, he was infuriated. His father attempted to track down Katalina, but it was too late. This traumatic event instilled in him a lasting fear of heading down into dark basements alone.

During his time in grade 1, Marco struggled to make friends and often looked sad when he saw other children with their mothers, a concern his father noticed. To cheer him up, his father brought home a Turkish Angora with a black, orange, and white fur coat, which sparked Marco's love for felines. As a result of his childhood cat's fondness for eating bugs, he affectionately named her Grubley. At the age of five, his father introduced him to the world of computing, igniting a passion for computer science that would last a lifetime. Salvatore was always supportive of Marco and his passions, encouraging him to excel in school, chase his dreams, and make the most of the opportunities life has to offer.

Marco knew he had an uncle, but his father forbade him from seeing him. Salvatore had warned him that his uncle was untrustworthy due to his con artist lifestyle and struggled with alcoholism. However, he was permitted to visit his aunt and grandparents, who were incredibly kind. They encouraged him to appreciate nature and the simple things in life, rather than spending all his time on the computer. He has fond memories of his grandfather teaching him how to barbecue. His grandmother, an immigrant from Italy, taught him some Italian and often shared photographs she had taken in her home country before moving to the United States.

His father unknowingly sparked his interest in the Tuatha Dé Danann, an ancient race of demigods that existed before all life, and two antediluvian places, Atlantis and Ultima Thule. He would silently observe his father spend a short amount of time researching these fascinating topics when not working. Marco would eventually discover that he has a slight hint of Tuatha Dé Danann DNA, leading him to wonder if others might also have ancestral ties tracing back to the Hadean Eon.

He was bullied by many students for being perceived as "friendless" and for having an abnormally high intelligence, leaving him feeling isolated. A few students attempted to befriend him, but he rebuffed their efforts, fearing they would eventually abandon him. He also struggled to connect with them on an intellectual level, feeling like an outsider. During high school, he was involved in a few physical altercations, but he typically managed to defuse the situations with his words or, if necessary, defend himself relentlessly. In his spare time, he mastered the unconventional art of drunken-style boxing, giving him an edge in self-defence. Despite his school troubles, he excelled in all his classes and achieved outstanding grades in mathematics and computer science courses.

Before graduating from a state technical high school, Salvatore died due to health complications caused by Huntington's disease. Shortly after, Marco's beloved cat, Grubley, peacefully passed away in her sleep. Marco was devastated by these losses, compounded by the shocking revelation that his father had been secretly battling Huntington's disease without ever sharing his struggle with him. The last gift his father gave him was a red-orange laptop, which was intended to be a graduation present. Rather than letting the tragedy consume him, he transformed his grief into a driving force, cultivating resilience and independence. To move forward, he made the difficult decision to distance himself from his remaining family, seeking to leave the past behind and forge a new path.

He began developing artificial intelligence to engage in online debates and sophisticated computer software, including anti-viruses and error-checking tools, as a means to earn a living and hone his programming skills. He went so far as to meticulously rebuild and upgrade the desktop computer in his father's old office at home, enhancing both its design and performance. Marco decided to attend officer's school at the Academy of Special Technologies and subsequently joined the prestigious Peregrine Falcons Squad shortly after graduation.

Unlike many of his peers, he quickly distinguished himself through his exceptional leadership skills and computer expertise, earning him a spot as 1st Lieutenant of the P.F. Squad. This was also when he met Tarma, forming a fast friendship after discussing their interests, reminiscing on their childhoods, and having a couple of beers. Tarma was his first real friend, whom he holds dear, despite viewing him as a “maniacal gearhead”. Through his friendship with Tarma, he discovered the value of having friends and stepped out of his comfort zone to befriend the other members of the P.F. Squad and Regular Army. He would also gradually develop a queerplatonic relationship with Tarma as he deeply cherished their friendship and came to realise that it filled a void of emotional intimacy left by his father's passing.

During his time in the P.F. Squad, Marco created a computer virus for fun, which inadvertently spread to the Regular Army's mainframe server. The virus destroyed several security systems, compromised the lowest echelons of the Regular Army, and nearly triggered the launch of a nuclear missile. Fortunately, a military scout named Trevor, whom Marco would meet years later during his recruitment into the P.F. Squad, managed to stop it. Marco refuses to discuss this potentially disastrous incident, even after a few too many beers.

When the Amadeus Syndicate served as the scientific and medical branch of the Regular Army, Marco met Doctor Amadeus, the organisation's founder and Nadia's clone mother. They had a cordial relationship, and Doctor Amadeus was particularly impressed by Marco's exceptional computer skills. She wanted to utilise his talents for a bioengineering experiment, aiming to create super soldiers using abandoned Martian and Invader technology.

During a battle against a terrorist attack, Marco suffered severe injuries and was taken to one of the original Amadeus Syndicate's medical facilities to recover. Doctor Amadeus seized this opportunity to force herself upon him to collect semen and DNA samples, leaving him deeply traumatised. The experience was so distressing that Marco tried to suppress the memory, inadvertently forgetting much of the history and purpose of the Amadeus Syndicate in the process. He also swore his revenge to kill Doctor Amadeus one day for what she did to him. As a result of this event, he began to act strangely anxious and slightly aggressive when in a hospital or near Nadia for prolonged periods of time.

During the first coup led by General Morden, he scraped together the remnants of the Regular Army government forces to reassemble the P.F. Squad. He became the leader of the governmental resistance against General Morden but at a great cost. As he, his comrades, and his friends were approaching the last known base of the Rebel Army, disaster struck. General Morden and his soldiers ambushed them, seizing the opportunity to decimate the remnants of the P.F. Squad, leaving Marco with mental and physical scars that would haunt him forever.

Marco endured unimaginable suffering at the hands of General Morden, Allen O'Neil, and the Rebel soldiers, who brutally tortured him, gouged out his left eye, and severed his left arm. After experiencing a strange tingling sensation of familiarity, General Morden realised that Marco possessed Tuatha Dé Danann heritage. Intrigued, he discreetly collected DNA samples from Marco, which would later be utilised by the Amadeus Syndicate for experimentation in bioengineering and advanced military technology. The cruelty continued as Morden forced Marco to witness the slaughter and torture of his comrades and friends. Devastated by the losses and horrors he experienced, Marco teetered on the brink of giving up. He was even convinced that his best friend, Tarma, had perished, plunging him into a deep depression.

However, Tarma managed to escape the Rebel Army's clutches and staged a daring rescue, reuniting with Marco. With Tarma's emotional support and his own newfound rage, Marco found the strength to keep fighting. Before confronting General Morden, Tarma constructed his prosthetic left arm using technological debris and cutting-edge medical technology available to the Regular Army. However, it took him a couple of weeks to adapt to his new limb. Together, they became legendary heroes, ultimately defeating Morden and restoring world peace. Marco's bravery earned him the rank of Major, but he soon grew to resent his war hero status as he realised that the media often glorifies conflict.

Marco continued to lead the P.F. Squad together with Tarma, who is the true linchpin of the elite task force of the Regular Army. Marco joined forces with Tarma, Fio, and Eri for a second mission to thwart General Morden's second coup. Although the mission technically failed, as they captured a Martian troop from the Pipovulaj Army disguised as General Morden, the Regular Army's higher-ups deemed it a success nonetheless. This moment got on Marco's nerves as he deeply desired to see General Morden brought to justice and face the full consequences of his actions.

Following this success, Marco attempted to resign, but his higher-ups quickly denied his request. They insisted on his participation in a mission to eliminate the remaining remnants of the Rebel Army and other operations addressing threats to global peace such as the Pipovulaj Army.

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junosmindpalace · 2 years ago

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Can I request a senku x fem reader where she goes with the group to the cave instead of magma and her and senku end up cuddling for warmth and senku is all flustered by it.

hi anon! thank you for your request! short n sweet scenario 4 this that i wrote while i was sick..,..,.

synopsis: as the strongest in your village, you accompany senku and chrome on their quest for tungsten.

warnings: none

wc: 1.3k

“We’re lucky to have you instead of Magma, isn’t that right Senku?”

As the strongest person in Ishigami Village, you joined Senku and Chrome on their exposition to acquire tungsten for the cellphone that the Kingdom of Science was creating. The two were obvious choices as they were the most experienced scientists on the team, but your strength was necessary in order to actually mine the tungsten.

The exposition would take a lot of time and tough work, but it was a necessary step in the development of technology--and one that could be pulled off.

Your small group had left the village in the early morning and entered the designated cave with the tungsten only a short while ago. The three of you were now making your way toward the skarn deposit that held tungsten, climbing over walls and bridging gaps along the way.

“If we had brought Magma, I bet he would’ve used the opportunity to kill Senku so he could take over the village.”

You gave Chrome a look. “That’s a harsh judgment. But a fair one no less…”

“If he were here, he could easily push us into a hole and say we died accidentally- it would be the perfect crime! Plus, he could take our heads as proof to Tsukasa that science is officially extinct and they wouldn’t have to worry about the war!”

Senku rolled his eyes while listening to the conversation. “Get real. There’s no way the big ape would think that far in advance.”

A little while into your trek later, as you were admiring the cave, Senku suddenly stopped in his tracks and extended a warning hand out to you and Chrome. “Stay back!”

You and Chrome eyed each other nervously. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s mica, a lot like baumkuchen…which you’ve never heard of. The point is, it's a rock brittle enough to break with your fingers.” Senku directed his flashlight toward multiple large pits in front of him.

“You see? It forms natural pit traps.”

“Damn. Nature’s got some bad ways to getcha…” Chrome muttered out breathlessly.

“So if you accidentally fell into one, you couldn’t get out?” You asked, carefully examining the pits alongside the boy.

“For sure. Try getting back up with a rope or ladder and it’ll cave in on you and bury you alive.”

Ironically, at that moment, you heard cracking from beneath Senku’s feet and your eyes widened. He had shifted too much of his weight, and the ground was about to cave in underneath him.

In an attempt to save him, you dove toward the scientist and pushed him out of the way, but in the process, created a pit right underneath you. Chrome cried out in fear and you screamed in terror, but quickly a hand grabbed yours.

You looked up toward Senku, whose face was contorted into one of great pain using up every ounce of his strength trying to keep you from falling in.

“Let Y/N go, Senku, or else you’re going to fall in there with them!” Chrome yelled out from a distance, trying to keep himself steady to avoid the same fate as you.

“Chrome’s right! You have to let me go, Senku! I’m not dragging you down with me!”

Senku's panicked and struggling face stared straight at you, and his grip on you didn’t loosen despite your protests. But as Senku applied more pressure underneath him to keep himself steady, another pit opened up underneath him, and the two of you were both left spiraling down.

The two of you were stuck in the mica pit for a pretty long time. Once you both reached the bottom and recovered from the harsh impact, you were left thinking of ways to get yourselves out of the mica pit. Eventually Senku took inspiration from Chrome’s idea to swim back up by filling the pit with water from a nearby pool of water. He threw his bag up and instructed Chrome on how to fill the pit more efficiently, and after some time, multiple streams of water slowly started streaming in.

The wait became harder to endure as you kept yourselves afloat. You were freezing and getting weaker with each passing minute, but you could tell Senku was struggling more than you were. His teeth chattered loudly and he shook violently, his skin turning blue. You shared his symptoms on a more minor scale, and so you decided to prioritize his own rescue over yours, knowing you could wait out the rest of the time it would take for you to swim your way back up. You dove under the water and swam beneath Senku, securing his feet on your shoulders and surging him upward toward the surface.

He looked down at you in concern, and you attempted to reassure him. “I grew up on the water! I’ll be alright!”

Eventually, the two scientists helped pull you out of the pit and both you and Senku were saved. After the tiring extra work that had to be put in to rescue you and Senku from the mica pit, your small crew was exhausted.

Senku started a fire beside the pits and prepared food for the three of you to eat, while Chrome offered the two of you blankets to keep yourselves warm and dry. All of you got to talking over your food about the events of the exposition, the development of technology and the Tsukasa Empire, but eventually, you slowly started to feel your consciousness drift in and out.

Resting your weary body beside a cozy fire in the comfortable presence of your two friends made it easy for you to relax and succumb to exhaustion, and as you fell asleep, your body gently collapsed against Senku’s side while he was talking to Chrome.

His eyes widened for a second as the impact interrupted his train of thought and he looked down at you, observing your tensionless face with a surprised look on his. You were asleep.

And leaning against him.

“Already out, huh?” Chrome chuckled, and a yawn followed. “We did go through a lot of trouble today.”

Senku couldn’t help but stare dumbly at Chrome, and then turn his attention back to you. You didn’t shift at all, continuing to sleep peacefully against his arm.

For a couple of moments, all he could was stare at you, processing the sight. Senku wasn’t the type to feel comfortable with things like this, and if you were any other person, he’d probably go stiff and stare in disgust. But to his surprise, he felt his face warm at the situation. He’s never been in such close proximity with someone, and there was something intimate about such a small show of trust and comfort. His initial flustered reaction (which embarrassed him greatly) only lasted a minute before he relaxed and attempted to adjust himself so you were more comfortable.

“You’re gonna let Y/N sleep on you like that? Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Chrome asked as he finished his fish and went to pull out sleeping bags.

“I don’t want them complaining about neck pain in the morning.” Senku joked gently, hoping that Chrome missed the small crack and waver in his voice, and turned his head back down to look at you. Deep down, Senku also felt some guilt for having you sacrifice your small amount of strength to hoist him up from the pit. So allowing you to recover on him was the least he could do to repay you.

It wasn’t long until Chrome fell asleep, Senku following suit a short while later and waking you up briefly so you could move into your own. But that wasn’t before Senku forced himself awake by staring at the fire for just a couple of minutes to let you rest your head in the crook of his neck and revel in his body heat. His tired eyes stared at the last embers of the dying fire as you slept with your head bowed into his side, letting himself be soothed to the sound of your soft, steady breathing.

i'm still recovering from some other aches and pains (and also exhaustion in general LMAO), but i hope you all are taking care of yourselves!

#dr stone headcanons #dr stone scenarios #dr stone fic #dr stone x reader #dr stone hcs #dr stone oneshot #senku ishigami x reader #senku headcanons #senku x reader #senku ishigami oneshot #senku ishigami headcanons #senku ishigami fluff #senku fluff #senku x y/n

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