#conference room scheduling system

[infiniteaudiovisualseo]

9 Smart Benefits Of Room Scheduling Systems For Your Business In 2023-24

Room scheduling systems, also known as room booking systems or meeting room reservation systems, are software and hardware solutions designed to streamline the process of reserving and managing meeting rooms, conference rooms, and other shared spaces within an organization. These systems help organizations optimize their room utilization, reduce scheduling conflicts, and improve overall efficiency in managing their facilities.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 162 }

moonlight.

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

sung jinwoo walked into the hunter association building for a scheduled meeting with the chairman. while taking casual strides into the building, he let out a yawn. jinwoo believed that nothing out of the ordinary would happen today-

only to be proven wrong the moment he opens the double doors to the conference room as a sudden weight was felt shoved against his chest.

had jinwoo been any normal man, he would have quickly been toppled over. but thanks to the newfound poise he had gained since becoming an s-rank, jinwoo manages to steady himself while keeping an arm around the stranger’s form.

“whoa, be careful.” his voice was gentle and not at all spoken in a manner that was meant to be like a scolding. yet still, he hears the gasp and looks down-

only to be met with someone unfamiliar-

only to be met with you.

your eyes widen with surprise with your lips halfway parted. incoherent sputtering were all he could hear when you back away from him. clearly sensing your embarrassment and discomfort, jinwoo lets go of you while keeping a hand shoved into the pockets of his coat, grey eyes shining with mirth for you.

“sorry for bumping into you, moonlight! i’ll be more careful next time!”

now this was interesting.

never before had he been referred to by such a nickname before.

moonlight?

he replays the word you had uttered in your panicked state over and over again before deciding that he liked it.

ready to say something to you, he was given little time to react when you suddenly bowed down to him, “sorry, but i’m late for a very important mission!”

you end up stepping off to the side, running past jinwoo as the young hunter was left staring off at you with pure amusement in his eyes.

“ah, hunter sung jinwoo! it’s nice to see you again, come on in, there’s a few things i’d like to discuss with you.” chairman go gunhee greets him with a hearty laugh.

despite his reluctance to look away from you, jinwoo enters the conference room with chairman go. during the meeting, the chairman spoke about the hundreds of sponsorship offers he had received for ahjin guild, yet as jinwoo poured over the paperwork, not a single one of those offers stood out to him. clearly, he had you other things on his mind.

why would i need any of these deals when the system provides me with far superior weapons?

jinwoo was dimly aware of the chairman letting out a sigh before saying a name he had never heard of before.

“excuse me?” jinwoo looks up expectantly to see a smile painted on the chairman’s features.

“that’s the name of the new healer that ran into you just now. she gets a bit scatterbrained when she’s nervous, but the young woman has a good heart. ever since ms. joohee lee retired, i have seen her transfer and appearance at our association as a blessing.”

jinwoo winces at the mention of joohee, recalling back their last meeting together when she announced her retirement to him. perhaps he should figure out her address and mail a gift to her?

but chairman go’s next words was what ultimately breaks him out of his reveries, making jinwoo do a double take, “today was her first raid.”

knowing that it was your first raid fills jinwoo with a strange discomfort, his chest tightening as the urge to protect you fills his veins. “you sent her off without me?”

the chairman gives him a confused expression, “i assure you, hunter sung, that this is a low level gate; a mere c-rank. the woman is a certified a-rank healer, and i’m certain she can handle healing her comrades.”

jinwoo’s heart suddenly began to stop just then, being filled with fear as he had flashbacks pertaining to the cartenon temple-

the same double dungeon that had killed him before deciding to choose him as the system’s player.

without even thinking about it, he looks towards the exit and asks for the exact location of where the c-level gate had spawned. chairman go lets out a sigh, collecting all of the documents together into one neat pile before answering him.

“it’s in the middle of the city, you wouldn’t miss it, hunter sung.”

jinwoo thanks the chairman before making a mad dash out of the association’s building and into the busy streets of the city. as he ran, he was able to sense the gate’s power quickly dwindling as it seemed to be on the cusp of disappearing.

hm? that’s strange; is the raid already over?

within the next few minutes, jinwoo arrives at the location where the gate had supposedly been, being filled with a relief when he saw a group of hunters and you in the midst of the crowd. they each call out your name, giving you a thumbs up while expressing their gratitude towards you and your healing abilities.

in return, your expression was sheepish, and a little embarrassed, waving to your comrades as they each returned home for the day. your hand was still kept in an upright position when you finally noticed him standing a few feet away from you with a lazy smile on his face.

you appeared to be flustered now, hands now gripping on tightly to your satchel as you attempted to run away from him by going in the opposite direction-

lucky for jinwoo, he was fast enough, already able to cut off your escape as he appears directly in front of you, eyes glowing a faint hue as his lips were turned up in a smile.

“why did you start running right after seeing me?” jinwoo made sure his voice was soothing and smooth so as to not scare you away. he could see the way your eyes darted everywhere else but at him, cheeks seeming to warm up in response to his question.

“u-uhm, well, it’s because i had run into you earlier and uhm-“

“you had called me moonlight, right?”

it seems he had nailed it, for your expression became even more panicked as you tried to take several steps away from him. but jinwoo, still filled with amusement and joy, was simply having too much fun to let you go.

“come on, there’s no need to look so panicked. your nickname for me actually intrigued me a lot.” he keeps a hand behind your back, preventing you from moving away from him.

“i’m just curious about your nickname for me, that’s all.”

jinwoo had to fight back the grin and chuckle that threatens to escape from his lips (he physically had to purse them in response to your flustered state.)

“uhm, well, that i-is…” you kept stuttering the tiniest bit, even fanning your face in response before setting the palm of your hands against your heated cheeks. “i’m sorry, i’d rather not say, hunter sung.”

jinwoo didn’t like how stifling his title sounded against your pretty, parted lips, making him sigh as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

after all, he would much rather be your moonlight.

“come on, let’s celebrate.” he decides to change the subject then in hopes of getting you to relax around him.

“huh? what? did you say celebrate?”

not even giving you a chance to reject him, he places a hand behind your back while leading you into the city.

“wait… where are you taking me?”

“out to eat at this steakhouse as celebration for your first successful raid.” jinwoo admits to you with a wink and a grin, making you even more flustered in response.

“oh, there’s no need! besides, i’m a little sweaty a-and-“

“don’t worry about it; it’s more of a casual dining experience, and i’m certain no one will be opposed to a healer like yourself dining at their establishment.”

you were ready to protest once more when jinwoo could detect a low, grumbling sound coming from your stomach. a cheeky grin was felt spreading when he looks down at your abdomen. unable to meet his gaze, you fold your arms across your chest, “okay, f-fine! i’ll join you for dinner…”

knowing he had won, jinwoo takes a hold of your hand in his, weaving across the city with a bright smile on his face when he takes you to the restaurant. upon arrival, he felt a little disheartened to see how busy it was, but when the hostess saw him, he was immediately offered a private table near the back of the restaurant.

“hm, i guess it pays off to be an s-rank…” once they were both seated, jinwoo takes a look at the menu while offering you the basket of warm rolls with butter for you to munch on to help with easing your hunger. losing all of your prior shyness now, you take two rolls and place them on your plate, spreading the butter on it before taking a bite. basking in your eager moans as you ate, jinwoo couldn’t help but let out a light chuckle in response.

“is there anything in particular that you’d like to order?”

between bites of your rolls, you shake your head before swallowing. “n-no, i don’t mind having what you’re having…”

jinwoo hums in response, collecting both of the menus when the waiter comes by to take his order.

“we’ll have two 16 ounce steaks cooked medium rare please.”

the waiter nods and writes down the order, “and what would you like to drink?”

“red wine and two waters.”

the waiter then takes the menu while smiling, “got it. it will be out soon, sir.”

jinwoo was finally left alone with you, seeing the basket of rolls already half empty as you worked on what he assumed was your last roll. he smiles at you before taking a roll himself, “do you feel better now?”

“oh, yes! ah, sorry if i looked like a pig, scarfing down all that buttery bread.” you had a sheepish expression on your face now, scratching the back of your head while letting out a nervous giggle.

jinwoo shakes his head in response, “there’s no need to apologize, pig out all you want. you can always be yourself around me.”

he listens to the way you proceed to swallow thickly, not quite brave enough to meet his gaze when you thanked him. humming in response, jinwoo also starts enjoying the dinner rolls while making small talk with you, wishing to get to know you better as you both waited for your food to arrive.

and truly, jinwoo did not hold back with his questions that were strangely intimate.

were you seeing anyone at the moment?

what was your last relationship like?

what was your childhood like?

do you have any siblings? if so, are you the eldest, middle, or youngest child?

when did you awaken your powers as a healer?

what is your…

favorite food-

favorite color-

favorite song?

the moment his questioning ceased was when their food finally arrived, as two large plates steaks with mashed potatoes and broccoli were placed before them.

“well, dig in. and don’t be shy, i know you still must be starving, especially after your first raid.” jinwoo had to make sure to reassure you as he could see the way your mouth was practically salivating at the food.

“t-thank you so much!” picking up your knife and fork, you began cutting into the juicy and tender piece of steak, placing the morsel within your mouth as you let out a happy moan in response.

“delicious!”

jinwoo was filled with utter delight as he watched you eating your meal, taking casual bites of his own food, but never once straying his gaze too far away from you. you continue eating in silence, not saying a word as it was clear that you wanted to savor this meal to its fullest.

you and jinwoo continued to eat in a comfortable silence for the next hour, with jinwoo letting out a whistle at your own, empty plate. “wow, that’s pretty amazing. i thought i was the only one who could polish off this meal.”

you were in the middle of taking gulps of your iced water, setting down your glass before wiping at your lips, “sorry, it was so good… and i guess i was pretty hungry. i had skipped lunch earlier because i was so nervous about my first raid.”

“that’s understandable.” jinwoo nods while taking sips of his red wine. “just… don’t skip meals ever again, okay? your body needs it- especially now that you’re a healer.”

you nod in agreement while giving him a smile. “thank you, i’ll definitely keep that in mind… hunter sung.”

“jinwoo.” he ends up correcting you with a sigh. if you weren’t going to call him moonlight again, then he would much rather you refer to him by his first name.

“ah, what…? you’re giving me permission to call you by your first name?”

“yes.”

jinwoo leans back against his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, “is that a problem?”

you shake your head while clearing your throat, “n-no, it’s no problem at all! if that’s the case, then you may call me by my first name, too.”

when the waiter returns, he asks if you or jinwoo would like dessert, but you both shake your head at the offer. jinwoo gives the waiter his card, paying for both of the meals, which earned another smile from you.

with the dinner date completed, jinwoo places his card back within his wallet, pocketing it before casually walking beside you. you were playing with the straps of your satchel, mouth opening and closing, like you wanted to say something to him.

“the reason i called you moonlight was because your radiance is as gentle as the moon.”

your sudden words makes jinwoo stops in his tracks, feeling his heart begin to pound when he heard that nickname again-

moonlight.

his attention was fully on you now, facing you completely as he rests both of his hands within the pocket of his coat. you did not meet his gaze, clearly embarrassed as you forced yourself to tell him the truth.

“i spent some time perfecting my healing abilities because i held a deep admiration for you… you were achingly beautiful to me, jinwoo… you filled my life with such motivation and light- however, your presence and beauty wasn’t harsh like looking up at the sun, shining so brightly that it may blind me.”

you take another moment to yourself before finally meeting his gaze, eyes shining with a look akin to adoration for him.

“no, instead, your brilliance was more like that of the moon. your gentle rays was like a beacon for me… that’s why, you’re my moonlight.”

once you had finished your explanation, jinwoo felt as though his heart was floating in response. never before had such unbidden happiness filled his veins, the feeling becoming so potent that he had to take a step closer to you.

“oh? that’s why you called me moonlight?” he asks with another grin spreading across his handsome features.

“ah, yes. in my rush… i didn’t want to say your name and my secret nickname for you kind of slipped…?” you admit with a bit of a tremor in your voice.

his rich chuckle was heard echoing into the night air when he leans down, placing a hand on your chin while admitting, “to be honest, i’m glad that your secret nickname for me slipped.”

he hums a bit while brushing the tip of his nose against your forehead. you end up clinging to the front of his coat while shakily calling out to him.

“please, refer to me as your moonlight from now on.” jinwoo gives you a soft smile, taking your hand in his while pressing a kiss against the back of it.

“i can be your moonlight, and you can be my love. how does that sound?”

he basks in the way your smile widens in response to his proposition, giving him an eager nod before wrapping your arms around his neck.

“that sounds perfect to me, moonlight.”

and when he finally leans down to press his lips against yours, it was a sensation jinwoo knew that he would never once forget for the rest of his life.

a.n. - i’ve had this daydream stewing in my head for a while now, and finally decided to write it all down in a more coherent story ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡ i wanted to post this real quick before spending the following weeks doing research with my professor, so please do enjoy!

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[ladamedusoif]

Room Service

A Dave York x F!Reader one-shot

Pairing: Dave York x F!Reader

Word count: 2290

Warnings: EXPLICIT 18+ basically PWP; smut central; alcohol consumption; strong language; thigh riding; oral sex (F receiving); fingering; light bondage; unprotected PiV; praise kink; a little aftercare; sweetness among the smut. No physical description of F! Reader beyond her outfit (dress, stockings, high heeled shoes).

Summary: You’ve been summoned to Room 755 of the conference hotel by a man you know only as Dave.

A/N: Does this need explanation? I’m firmly in the Dave York Pit. I had to get this out of my system. Smut is the result.

Please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date!

The trick with passing unnoticed through the lobby and to the elevators is to walk like you should be there. Dress like you should be there. Don’t give them any reason to think you aren’t actually a guest at this glossy but generic business hotel, the kind of place that makes all of its money on conferences and overnights on company accounts.

The kind of place you’ve been called to before, for exactly the same reason.

Room 755. You have taken a note of it in your phone. You get into the elevator, adjust your belted trench-coat and dress, and check your hair in the mirror before pressing “7”.

He had confirmed he’d be there at this time. A clear schedule for the rest of the day, he said, and he would like to make the most of it.

You walk confidently down the neverending hallway towards the hotel room. A firm knock. You can sense that he’s peeking through the peephole to make sure it’s who he’s expecting. And then it opens.

”Hi there. You found it okay, then?”

”I did.” You step past him into the room, undoing your belt and unbuttoning the coat to reveal the fitted red dress beneath. “So what do I call you? What would you like me to call you?”

He double-locks the door to avoid any unwanted interruption before taking your coat.

“Dave is fine.”

***

Dave offers you a glass of red wine and you sit beside him on the small sofa near the hotel room window. You can feel his eyes roving over your body, taking you in inch by inch. Your high heels. Your stockings. The glimpse of your thighs. The way the dress clings perfectly to your tits.

He sips his wine and licks his lips lasciviously, edging closer to you.

“So you’ve got a free afternoon, Dave?”

He nods.

“Completely free. And I’d like to enjoy it.”

You cross and uncross your legs as you shift your body and lean forward, letting the line of your tits brush ever so slightly off his chest. “That can be arranged. I’d like to enjoy it too, though.”

Dave’s dark eyes sparkle with lust and he grins, eyes locked on your lips. “I won’t have a good time if you don’t.”

You chuckle. “I’ll hold you to that, Dave. Even if I’m the one providing the…service.”

He whines softly, so quietly you almost miss it. But it’s there. You can feel it. Sense how much he wants it. How much he wants you.

“So with that in mind… where would you like me to start?”

Your fingers find the sturdy muscle of his thigh, trailing over the grey fabric of his dress pants and nudging closer and closer to his crotch.

Dave gasps as he reaches for you, leaning in for a kiss.

“Tell me, Dave. I’m at your service.”

”Get on my leg. My…fuck, get on my thigh.”

You break the kiss and stand up to hitch the skirt of your dress up, exposing the lacy tops of the stay-up stockings you’ve chosen for today. He instantly reaches for your thighs, squeezing the flesh as he pulls you towards him.

“Get on my fucking thigh, baby.”

You straddle his firm, thick leg and wrap your arms around his neck. Dave’s dark eyes are burning, now; the lusty sparkle replaced by wanton desire and need. He puts his hands on your hips and starts to move them for you, dragging over and back.

“Ride like this.”

You nod obediently and kiss him deeply as you start to move, crying out at the sensitivity of your swollen clit and pussy dragging over the fabric. Dave never takes his eyes off you, occasionally grabbing your ass firmly or reaching for your tits.

“Fuck, Dave, feels so fucking good. Wanna get off on you like this.”

He begins to suck at your neck, making you moan loudly with pleasure and sending a wave of wetness to your core as you fuck his thigh faster and harder.

“Let me hear you, baby. C’mon. I want to hear you.”

You give him what he wants. It’s his time, after all. You grip his shoulders and ride his leg like a woman possessed until you come on him with a roar. Even before you’ve lifted yourself off him, you know there’s going to be a wet patch.

“Good girl.” He pulls you to him, still sitting on the sofa, and presses his face to your belly. His long, clever fingers work their way under the folds of your pulled-up dress and find the lace trim of your panties, tugging down the fabric over your ass and thighs. He takes you in, encouraging you to part your legs slightly, before he buries his face against your pussy, bending and tilting his head just so in order to sweep his tongue through your soaking folds.

”Taste good, Dave?”

He nods, lapping up your wetness like it’s his last meal. “Fucking delicious. Fucking delicious little pussy, so fucking sweet and wet for me.”

When he breaks away you see your own slick glistening over his perfect mouth and the tip of that beautiful nose. You lean in and kiss him deeply.

“Tasting yourself?”

You nod. “With a little of you mixed in.”

He laughs, low and purposeful. “Get on the bed. Keep the dress on.”

***

He kneels at the foot of the bed, looking up at you sitting pretty above him.

“Like butter wouldn’t melt.”

You huff a laugh. “Appearances are deceptive, you know.”

His broad hands start to caress your thighs, slipping over and back against the silky nylon stockings and hitching up your dress a little further with each pass.

He hisses at the sight of your flesh, the tops of your thighs bare above the stockings, the promise of your wet, warm, perfect cunt primed and ready for him.

“Lie back.”

You follow his orders. Dave’s hands move down to the bend of your knees as he tugs your body forward until his nose is rubbing gently off your pussy. You whine with anticipation, thighs pressed against his cheeks. He’s clean shaven, but with enough stubble to tease and titillate your sensitive skin.

“What do you want to do to me, Dave? I was here for you, not the other way around.”

He chuckles and presses his tongue flat against you, sending your hips bucking upwards. “I want to eat you out until you’ve come twice more. And then I want to fuck you until you come again around my cock.” He traces a slow circle over your swollen clit with the tip of his tongue, pulling a cry of need from your throat.

“Does that sound okay to you?”

You nod, desperate for his mouth to be back on you.

“Words.”

“That sounds fucking perfect to me, Dave.”

He looks up at you for a moment, hips and pussy exposed for him, dress hitched around your waist, black stockings emphasising the flesh of your thighs. His hardening cock twitches in his pants, and he undoes the belt and tugs down the zipper before focusing again on you.

And then he pauses.

“You okay?”

He stands up and walks around to the side of the bed, belt in hand. “Arms above your head, baby.”

You don’t break his penetrating gaze as you follow his instructions, stretching your arms out above you. A mewl of pleasure and submission escapes your lips as he wraps his belt around your wrists: not too tightly, he checks; just enough to keep your hands together.

Dave settles back between your thighs, taking a final look at your prone form before licking a long, slow stripe through the lips of your pussy. Your hips buck and writhe at the sensation, the feeling intensified by the restraints on your wrists.

He chuckles as he comes back for more, and he makes good his promise. You come for a second time as he’s sucking on your clit, for a third time as he’s flicking the tip of his tongue over the swollen bud while his fingers work you from the inside, expertly finding and massaging the perfect spot until he has you wrung out, boneless; slick covering his clean-shaven face and coating your inner thighs.

He lies beside you, naked now, shirt and dress pants discarded, and undoes the belt from around your wrists before pulling you tight to him, enveloping you in a kiss that sets your body aflame. Dave carefully helps you sit up and unzips your dress before easing it off you, pausing to admire you stretched out before him in your bra and stockings.

His broad palm follows the curves of your hips and belly, eyebrows furrowed as he studies your body from head to toe.

“You said you’d fuck me until I came again.”

Dave’s eyes sparkle as he chuckles, a smile spreading across his handsome face. “I did.”

“And…?”

“And…how would you like it?”

You sit up and caress his face, placing gentle kisses on his nose and forehead, before moving into position on all fours.

“Like this, I think. Does this work for you?” You can’t resist offering him a little wiggle of your ass, and you smirk with satisfaction when you hear Dave moan in response behind you.

He shifts into place, hands squeezing your ass and stroking your back before slowly sinking into your pussy with a long, low whine of pleasure. “It works fucking perfectly, baby.”

The angle is just right, and the combination of his rhythm, the feel of his cock massaging your most sensitive places, and his fingers seeking out your clit has you careening over the edge before long. Your ecstatic cries are muffled, thankfully, by the duvet and pillows as he tilts you forward and fucks you until your cunt flutters, delighted, around him.

He pulls out and watches you flop onto the mattress, chest rising and falling as you come down from your high.

“Good?”

“That’s…fuck. That’s one way of putting it.”

You reach for his cock, hard and ready, and languidly stroke it with one hand as you move to straddle him.

“Your turn.” He grins up at you. “Arms above your head.” He obeys, and you reach for his belt to return the favour before sinking down onto him, pussy still throbbing and sensitive from your own orgasms.

“Do you want to come for me?”

Your hips roll over and over in a perfect, steady rhythm that has Dave panting and moaning with every pass.

“Y-y-yes. Want to come.”

Pick up the pace, a little. He whines.

“Good boy, you’re so close.” You watch the flicker of excitement in his eyes at your praise, and take satisfaction in how well you can read him. “So good, baby. Good, good boy.”

You lean back a little, cupping his balls with one hand while the other reaches for his, bound and stretched above his head. Your fingers intertwine as you watch him edge closer and closer to release, pleasure written all over his face.

“Tell me when you want to come, Dave.”

He’s bucking up against you now, desperate for it, eyes closed and mouth open as his breath hitches and stutters.

“Now…need to come now. Now, baby.”

You purr the words into his ear.

“Come.”

He lets go with a roar, coming hard inside you until he has nothing left to give. Both spent, you flop back beside him on the bed, fingers tracing over the rivulets of perspiration on his beautiful, strong body.

Gently, you remove the belt, examining his wrists for any friction or pressure marks. He does the same in turn, turning your hands over gently as he studies the skin.

“I’ve got some skin balm stuff in the bathroom, if you’d like.” He kisses your palm with a kind of delicate care that belies the man who’d been begging to come just moments before.

“I’m fine.” Your eyes meet his, lost in the chocolate warmth of his hazy, post-coital gaze. “You want some, though?”

Dave shakes his head and pulls you to him for a kiss.

***

You weren’t supposed to fall asleep. You blink awake an hour later, naked under the hotel covers, Dave snoring lightly beside you.

“Dave. Dave.”

He mumbles as he warily opens one eye, turning to face you.

“Hi.”

“I fell asleep. Shit.”

His mouth meets yours before dropping to your breasts as he absentmindedly sucks on your nipples.

“‘S okay, though. Right? You were going to stay anyway.”

You feel the strong muscles of his forearms, fingertips following the pattern of the freckles speckled across his golden skin.

“You want me to stay, Dave?”

He furrows his brow. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Did you bring your bag?”

“I did. Left it in the car, though, just to - I dunno. Add to the atmosphere, I guess.”

Dave chuckles as he pulls you in again, his laugh resonating through your two bodies as they press together: warm, soft skin on skin; the dew of post-sex perspiration still fresh.

“Well, it fucking worked, baby.” He kisses your forehead affectionately and caresses your cheek. “And the kids didn’t mind going to Mai’s?”

You grin. “A long weekend at their cool single aunt’s house with a pool in the backyard? I didn’t see them for dust.”

He lies back and laughs. You nuzzle into his side, admiring the glint and gleam of your wedding band as you rest your left hand on Dave’s tummy.

A tell-tale rumble interrupts the blissed-out, post-coital mood.

“Hungry, are we, Mr York?”

Your husband smiles at you like a mischievous kid. “Worked up an appetite, baby.”

“Then let’s call room service. We’re not done here.”

(MDNI banner by @cafekitsune)

[bapple117]

File Not Found a radiostatic one-shot - AO3 link

Vox x Alastor (Unrelated to my main radiostatic series)

Minor angst, fluff, romance

During a system update, something goes awry for Vox and the update messes up, reverting his memories back to ones he'd saved from 1976... back from when he and Alastor had still been friends and partners in crime.

Confused and scared in a Hell he doesn't recognise, Vox searches out for the one familiar presence he knows will always be there - his old friend, his mentor, the Radio Demon.

6k words

(thank you @impale-me-radio-daddy for the guidance and inspo on how to format this nicely, ily)

The afternoon that Vox finally decides to relent to the ceaseless, nagging notification buzzing in his head daily - system update ready - happens to be a pretty dreary one. Rain falls lightly from the inexplicable skies of Hell; frail little drops that pitter-patter against the sleek windows of the Vee’s building, smearing like tears on the glossed glass.

Vox has been putting off the update for about a week, groaning every time the reminder pops up; remind me again tomorrow, he opts for, waving off the alert with an impatient hand gesture. Vox has better things to be doing. Spending an hour sitting static, plugged into the mainframe, waiting for files to finish installing - it feels as tedious as it sounds. 

But then, Vox stumbles upon this day; this sleepy, rainy Sunday afternoon, with nothing much on his schedule and no-one around to play with. Valentino is off filming; Velvette is at some conference, of all things. Vox finds himself milling about in the lounge, reclining on the sofa, dangling his leg in a fidget as he scrolls through his phone.

The alert strikes again. 

System update ready! Initiate now?

“Ugh, fine,” Vox sighs out, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get this out of the way, then, shall we?”

Staggering sluggishly into his control room, Vox flicks a few switches to boot systems up and then scrambles around, looking for the right cables. He mutters to himself; hushed, irritated mumbles of nothings and curses as he sorts through the mess on his desk. 

The alert bleeps at him noisily, again. 

“Yeah! Yeah,” Vox says, his annoyance and exasperation tinging his voice with a sharp edge. “I’m fuckin’ going as fast as I fucking can, just fuckin’…”

Vox’s narrow fingers land, finally, on the correct set of cables; he snorts to himself in victory. There we fuckin’ go. Settling into this chair, the Television Demon snaps the cable attachments into the back of his head, feeling an immediate surge of tingling power and connectivity in his nerves. 

“Alright, initiate mainframe interaction,” Vox says aloud, to no one but himself and his interface. “Update install, authorisation granted.”

An option pops up on Vox’s screen, and he can see it in his mind, too; allow system override?

“Uhhh, fuck, I forgot what that does,” Vox says, weary. “Let me get more info on that.”

System override will enter you into stasis. The system will commence the update and will automatically authorise any necessary backup installations should any errors occ-

Vox waves away the information screen, scoffing. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, blah blah blah. I haven’t needed to restore from fuckin’ backup in ages, who gives a shit. I could do with a nap anyway, so. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Vox authorises control of the update over to the system AI, and the initiating process slips him into a deep but comfortable sleep-state. 

Initialising�� 

Preparing to install…

Update installing…

….

….

….

….

Update unable to complete. Retry?

/ AUTHORISE RETRY: YES (SYSTEM proc)

….

….

….

….

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

error

—

—

Restoring from backup 

….

r e s t o r i n g …

Vox wakes, unsure as to why he was even asleep in the first place; his eyes open and reveal to him an unfamiliar space. What the fuck? He looks around, startled, confronted with a legion of strange screens and devices that he doesn’t recognise. 

Standing, stumbling, Vox lists forward and something prevents him from moving; cables, latching on to him like the gripping tentacles of some great beast. Grunting in confusion, Vox yanks at these, pulling them out of his head; his head… It’s… flat. 

Vox feels at his own face, fingers frantic and seeking a familiarity that he does not find. His own head is alien to him, thinner and flatter than he’s ever had it before. The TV Demon steps forward and peers into the reflective surface of one of the blacked-out screens before him, catching a foggy view of himself; a face he only half-recognises peers back at him, its expression alarmed. 

What the fuck is going on?!

Vox trudges through his memory in an attempt to figure out what he last recalls; after all, perhaps he got drunk and ended up… here, wherever this is, and he simply doesn’t remember… Yes. That’s the likely option, although he supposes that doesn’t account for the new face, so… 

Okay, okay. Stay calm. 

Something in the mass of strange technology in front of him bleeps some kind of alert, and Vox jumps; with wide eyes and a heaving chest, Vox looks around for the source. A notification, blinking on the smallest screen on the console table. New message. Vox lifts this device, peering at it; from what he can tell it seems to be some sort of small, handheld television. Disregarding this, Vox places the strange gadget back down, gingerly. 

This isn’t his home, after all; wherever he’s managed to get himself, he needs to get out, as fast as possible, before the owner shows up. Another screen amongst the larger ones has a wall of text; curious, Vox gives this a quick glance. 

Update was unable to install: reason, unknown

System was unable to restore from backup: reason, backup not created

System created custom backup made from uploaded / offloaded memories

Date of most recently uploaded memory: 1976

Memory backup install: complete

“What the…” Vox’s eyes dart quickly as he rescans this information repeatedly. “1976, but… But that’s now…”

A quick look at the bottom of the screen would happen to reveal information to quite the contrary; according to these devices, the year is actually almost fifty years later. 

“You gotta be fuckin’…” Vox’s words catch in his throat as a strange, disquieting feeling of nostalgia mixed with déjà vu washes over him like a cold dread. 

No. No. This can’t be happening; he has somehow time travelled? To the future? No; this can’t be possible - Vox assumes he is merely dreaming. 

When the Television Demon attempts to escape the strange labyrinth of a building he is in, he’s met with images of the bizarre new face he seems to have, plastered in every corner. Posters. Cut-outs. Advertisements of all kinds; it is overwhelming. Breathing heavily and feeling like he might be going insane, Vox looks for an exit in the bottom lobby of the building. A small, nervous-looking demon approaches him, its hands trembling around a thin, flat device. 

“Uhh, Mr Vox, sir?” The demon asks. “Can, I, uh, just get you to si-“

“What year is it?” Vox says to the demon, urgently. “And how the fuck do I get out of here?”

“What… uh, what year, is it, sir?” The demon asks, perplexed. 

“Ah, fuck it,” Vox says, distracted by a sudden glimpse of the way out. 

On the streets of Hell, the nightmare continues; the city is a pulsating, noisy blur of lights and neon and voices, so many voices, all chattering together. Sinners walk down the sidewalks, gazes glued to devices in their hands, despite the dappling rain drops that paint every surface. Vox careers around, unsure who to talk to or what to even say - what does one say, when they believe they’ve woken up in the body of their future self?

There’s only one demon Vox seeks, now; his oldest, truest friend. The one he knows will have the answers. 

His trustworthy, ever-reliable mentor; the Radio Demon. 

Alastor sits in the lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, a mug of coffee in his hand and a headache throbbing in his skull. The cohort of the hotel squawk together in delight over some ridiculous new something-or-other on Angel’s phone, and Alastor has had enough. Eye twitching, he focusses instead - for once - on the television set which has been left to run idly in the background. 

The Radio Demon would never normally give the confounded television any time of day, but something catches his eye - a report, an urgent report.

CEO of VoxTek Enterprises Missing For Several Days In Unusual Disappearance

Alastor’s eyes narrow as he takes this information on board; he lets it roll around in his mind like a weighty marble, occasionally bumping into spongy feelings. Amusement, at his rival’s misfortune. Indifference, at the consequences it poses. Satisfaction. Victory.

But there is curiosity, there, too; and something else. Something deeper. Something that sits embedded within Alastor, a left over remnant from all the decades he and Vox had been the closest of allies. 

Concern.

A part of him, even now, festers for Vox - worries about his whereabouts, at this revealing of his disappearance. Where in Hell is he? What is he doing? Is he plotting, or has he perished? Alastor does not know, and the lack of knowing bothers him so wholly that he cannot help but meddle. Without uttering a word, Alastor releases his shadow, commanding it as if it is a scent hound, given only one purpose; find Vox, and tell me where he is. Alastor’s shadow slips out, unseen by anyone, and is gone. Out the door. Out, into Hell; searching.

Vox has been in a state of deranged hiding for several days. The Hell he knows from his own time has warped and shifted, and is rendered unfamiliar and unforgiving to him, now. Having come to terms with his reality, somewhat - that he has been displaced in time, somehow - Vox had attempted to seek out Alastor in locations he knew would be likely haunts. 

He had even shown up to where he’d known Alastor - at least in his time - lived, a shoddy apartment in a dodgier end of the city. The hunt was fruitless; Alastor was nowhere to be seen. Desperately seeking the comforting face of his dearest friend but only finding his own face littered on every street corner billboard, Vox grew manic. Unused to the level of notoriety he clearly has in this reality - he cannot step a yard without some sinner approaching him, apparently - Vox sought out the one corner of the Pride Ring he knew would never change.

And so, Vox has been seeking refuge in the blissfully familiar and thankfully never-evolving Cannibal Town. A place he knows that Alastor himself regularly frequents, and yet… Vox hasn’t even had so much of a glimpse of the red-coated Radio Demon. 

With nowhere to go and no friendly strangers offering assistance, Vox is alone, and afraid. He feels pathetic. He sits in an alleyway, avoiding the hungry gazes of cannibals, clutching at himself, fighting back tears. Vox hates himself for feeling so weak, for sinking this low. The version of himself that had grinned so smugly back at him from posters and strange, glowing screens had looked so self-assured and confident. Is that who he is, in the future? Vox feels like he might be going mad. 

“Well, this is a sorry state of affairs, don’t you think?”

Vox’s flat head whips up; Alastor is there, before him, standing prim and proper as usual, staff clasped behind his back. Oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is - Vox is immediately cheered, a grateful grin spreading across his screen, his soul feeling lifted.

“Al!” Vox exclaims, rushing to stand. “Oh thank fuck, I’ve been looking all over for you, something fuckin’ insane is happen-“

Alastor steps backwards, repulsed, as Vox attempts to get closer. There is clear disdain and mistrust in his red eyes, and Vox feels a blade of confusion and hurt stab him somewhere.

“Al, it’s me,” Vox says, laughing nervously. “It’s me, Vox?”

“I know who you are,” Alastor says, slowly. “Well, I just came to see for myself if the rumours were true, that you’ve fallen to rock bottom, and here you are! Quite the show, old pal, now, I will be getting on my way-“

“No, Al,” Vox says, tone despairing. “Please, you gotta help me, something is… Look, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, okay? I went to your apartment, but someone else fucking lives there now, I don’t fuckin’-“

“Which apartment?” Alastor says, raising an eyebrow. Curious, despite himself. 

“The one in fuckin’ Dodge,” Vox says. 

“I haven’t lived there in decades,” Alastor huffs, unamused; he turns away.

“No! Look, Al, please,” Vox says, grabbing Alastor’s arm; Alastor’s furious eyes burn at the sight of Vox’s claws clutching him. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. Something has happened to me, I’m not the me you know, uhh, right now…”

Alastor is clearly affronted, vexed beyond comprehension; but he hesitates, and doesn’t flee. His pupils glide over Vox’s screen in frantic movement, seeking understanding. What has gotten IN to him? All he finds in Vox’s expression is sadness, fear and hope.

“Something has happened to me, Al,” Vox says, loosening his grip a little. “One moment I’m there, 1976, we’d just done the Edsharp job, right, remember that? Anyway, the next moment, I wake up, and I’m fucking here.” 

Laughing; Alastor is laughing. Vox is bewildered, heart sinking; Alastor brushes Vox’s hand off from his coat sleeve, then smooths the fabric down. After he is done letting out his stream of wry cackles, Alastor exhales out a mockingly contented sigh. 

“Very good, Vox, old pal!” Alastor says, brightly. “Deeply entertaining, I must say! I suppose you expect me to believe you have forgotten all that has passed between us? My, my, Vox! You should know better than any that I know a performance when I see one.”

“What?!” Vox breathes out, exasperated. “Al, no! I need you, I need your help right now, I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I mean, my fucking face is everywhere and it’s driving me crazy!”

“Well,” Alastor says, inspecting his claws. “We agree on one thing, at least.”

Something drips in the background of the alleyway; a leak in a water pipe, perhaps. Vox blinks, confounded and not understanding why his dearest friend isn’t listening to him - or even willing to look at him. 

“Look,” Vox says, trying to compose himself. “I know it sounds insane, Al, okay? But I’ve fuckin’… I’ve time travelled some how, and I dunno what the FUCK is going on. Like I said, the last thing I remember is being in 1976, doing the Edsharp job, with you, and then I woke up here in this body with this crazy thin head, and I couldn’t fuckin’ find you, and… Al! Please!”

Alastor is walking away, having heard enough; this is some ploy of Vox’s, clearly, he thinks. His bruised heart has no energy for it. It is a cruel joke, a game that Vox is tricking him with, and Alastor wants no part in it. 

“Alastor!” Vox cries out, desperate. “You said you’d never let me down! You said you’d always be there for me! Don’t you remember?”

Alastor stops, his blood feeling thin and cold in his veins; flashes of his own memories bully their way into his mind. Flashes of the friendship he’d once treasured; Vox, his old boxy head. Smiles. Drinks. Jobs. Dances. It’s all still there. 

“You’re the only one who can help me,” Vox says, sounding hopelessly dejected. “You gotta believe me, Al, please. I’m so fucking scared right now, I don’t know what the fuck to do. Please.”

Turning on his heel, Alastor isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but he decides to humour the moment. Alastor analyses the micro movements and changes in Vox’s expression, observing carefully, and he opts to test the waters for a reaction. 

“Can’t you speak to Velvette? Or Valentino, perhaps?” Alastor asks, the names tasting like bitter filth in his mouth. 

“Al,” Vox says, squinting in clear confusion. “Who the fuck are they? You just making up fucking names now, or what?”

It hits Alastor like a brick wall to the face; Vox is telling the truth. He truly doesn’t remember, and here is a version of Vox who still adores him, plucked straight from the past. It makes no sense, but then, things rarely do make sense, in Hell. Alastor’s intrigue overrides his suspicion, and so, he relents. 

“Fine,” Alastor says. “Come with me. I still keep a private dwelling, fairly close to here, actually. Come along, then.”

Around a dining room table, two Overlords sit; a stiff drink in hand for both, and an awkward silence drifting between them. Alastor is still on edge, guarded and tensely watching Vox with keen circumspection. Vox is exhausted, ragged-looking and slumping in his seat. His clothes are mussed and the creasing lines around his on-screen eyes seem to deepen with each moment that passes. 

The TV Demon looks up at Alastor then, and the shrewdly evident dislike in Alastor’s gaze tells Vox a story he does not want to accept. Something has happened between them, in the years he no longer remembers. 

“What went wrong?” Vox asks, suddenly. Alastor’s grin is unfaltering but his left ear flicks, twice. 

“That’s a rather big question,” Alastor muses, wry. “And not one I’m sure I am qualified to answer.”

“No, not everything,” Vox says, sighing. “But what happened… between us?”

Alastor lets out a short huffing sound, looking away; his grip around his whiskey glass tightens. His expression darkens, his frown evident in all but his smile. Alastor feels an internal conflict pulling at him, wondering how much he should say; his eyes flicker around the room as he contemplates. Vox observes this, worried. Eventually, Alastor lets out a long exhale, and shrugs.

“We fell out,” he says, simply. 

Vox is immediately distraught, his mouth opening and staying open in a slackened shape of clear upset. 

“You and me? We fell out?”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Alastor snaps, the topic clearly sore. “We don’t speak anymore, save for the odd spat over the airwaves.”

“Al, what?” Vox asks, sounding pained. “We don’t fuckin’ speak anymore? But you’re my best friend!”

Vox reaches out, his claws seeking Alastor; they rest on Alastor’s arm, and the Radio Demon flinches immediately, withdrawing his arm with a snarl, his whole body tensing. Alastor’s eyes blacken, his ears are flat against his head. There’s a crackle of screeching radio feedback. 

Alastor stands, feeling an ocean of thrashing emotions pulsing through him; it is too much for him to try and grapple with. The sight of Vox’s distress is making him feel unwell, which infuriates him, and the whole ordeal feels deeply unwanted. 

“I will allow you to stay here until your memories return,” Alastor says, speaking quickly. “Other than that, I wish to have nothing to do with you, do you understand?”

“Al, I-“

“Goodbye, Vox, old pal,” Alastor says, and then he is gone.

Despite this, Alastor does visit the apartment again. And again. And again. And again. 

The first time Alastor visits is caused by some wretched bit of gnawing curiosity that itches within his skull and will not leave him. It refuses to be satiated by simply sending his shadow out for reconnaissance; Alastor must see things for himself. 

When Alastor appears in the apartment at some early hour in the morning, Vox is asleep on the sofa. Inspecting the bedroom, Alastor can tell Vox has left the bed entirely untouched. Has he been avoiding it? As what, some gesture of politeness?

Alastor rolls his eyes, and readies to leave again; but then, something stops him. He stares at the television demon, sprawled and snoring on the sofa. Vox is too tall for it, really; his legs dangle over the edge and one of his hands drags on the floor. His screen is off, black as night, but Alastor can hear the sound of his soft breathing. 

The Radio Demon stares with brazen intensity. The thought of having a chance to converse with a version of Vox who still loves him is deeply tempting, Alastor has to admit; the Vox he knows now wants him dead. But this Vox - whatever has happened to him - doesn’t seem to recall any of that bitterness or hatred at all. Alastor finds himself feeling an odd sense of longing for his oldest friend. 

Ridiculous. 

Alastor leaves like a thief in the night, cursing his own pathetic sentimentality, and Vox is none the wiser.

The second visit, Alastor shows up to the apartment rationalising it to himself as a mistake - a misjudged bit of teleportation, or his shadow acting up, perhaps. Vox, reading in an armchair in the living room, hears a sound from the kitchen; slapping the book shut, he stands, wary, and approaches the kitchen doorway. Vox prepares himself for an intruder, but on seeing it’s just Alastor, he is delighted. 

“Al!”

Alastor tenses, immediately; to hear his own name said so joyfully in Vox’s voice is both a tonic and a dagger to his heart. His lip curls above his toothy grin, but Vox is undisturbed. 

“I’m so glad you came back, Al,” Vox says, grinning, his hands on his hips. “I’ve been wanting to-“

“I came purely to make sure you have all that you need, I assume you are not leaving here much,” Alastor says, haughtily. “Can’t let you starve now, can I? Although that would be rather amusing…”

“I can conjure stuff, I’m fine,” Vox says, his smile twitching upwards on one side. “Turns out future me has a lot more powers now, which is, uh, cool, I guess.”

Alastor rolls his eyes; Vox doesn’t let it discourage him.

“Wontcha sit with me for a bit?” He tries, screen beaming. “I wanna know more about what I’ve missed. Y’know. The years I didn’t see, or, whatever.”

Vox is left wanting, though; Alastor has reached about as much as he can tolerate, and disappears, without a word.

The third time Alastor appears in the apartment, Vox chooses not to make a big deal out of it. Instead, he simply stays where he’s sat, reading again; not his first choice of pastime, but Alastor doesn’t own a television and so there isn’t much else to do. Alastor stands, staring at Vox for a while, saying nothing. Eventually, Vox looks up from his page, frowning. 

“You just gonna stand there, or…?”

“What year did you say you last recall?” Alastor says, bluntly. 

“1976,” Vox says. “That’s the last thing I know. I know, uh… I know time has passed, Al, but I don’t have any memory of it, at all.”

“Hrmm,” Alastor vocalises, turning his staff in his hand. “I suspect something has gone faulty with your frivolous technology.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Come here,” Alastor says. 

“What?”

“I said, come here.”

Standing, Vox paces over to Alastor, unsure as to where this is going. Alastor moves, too, closing the distance between them. Faces so near together that Vox can almost feel Alastor’s exhales, Alastor pinches at Vox’s screen with his claws, turning his head this way and that. Alastor is still tense, but he’s also really looking, his gaze washing over Vox with fixed intent. 

Vox’s pulse beats hotly in his veins, adrenaline flooding him; he is silent, stunned and frozen into place. Alastor’s eyes are all over him. 

“I see no injury on you,” Alastor says, and he removes his hand; his fingers flex, feeling burned by the touch. Not entirely unpleasantly. 

“No, uh. I’m not hurt, no,” Vox says, dazed. 

“That makes one of us, then,” Alastor mutters, looking privately forlorn, his gaze diverted. 

“Al,” Vox says, his tone gentle but pleading. “What happened? Between us, I mean? I can tell things aren’t like before, but… I fuckin’ hate that you can hardly even look at me.”

Vox reaches out a hand, meaning for it to come to Alastor’s cheek; before it can reach its goal, Alastor is gone. Lost to shadow. Vox stands alone once more. 

Fuck. 

The fourth visit of Alastor’s, Vox is prepared. Having magicked a bottle of rye - a brand he knows Alastor cannot refuse, his favourite - Vox has also dug through Alastor’s record collection to find the recordings he knows Alastor derives the most pleasure from. Knowing Alastor as well as he does, Vox manages to predict the timing of the next visit with impeccable accuracy; Alastor shows up, right on cue, one languid Sunday afternoon. 

Can he resist a glass of whiskey? No, he can’t; neither can he resist another two after, either. Soon the two demons are tipsy together, sat on the living room floor, jazz spilling out in warm, woody tones around them. 

As Vox had hoped, the truth comes out; the details of their conflict tumble out of Alastor like liquid poured from a bottle. How Vox had changed. How he had built his empire. How he had wanted Alastor to join him - had pushed it, hard, and had spoiled things. It’s a one-sided account, of course, tinged with Alastor’s bias and resentment and hurt; Vox feels guiltily to blame, anyhow. 

“Gee, I’m sorry, Al,” Vox says, staring at the glass in his hand. “Future me sounds like a fuckin’ asshole.”

“Mmmm,” Alastor hums, briefly raising his eyebrows in wry acknowledgement. “I’ll say.”

“Well, he’s not me, Al,” Vox tries, clearly inebriated. “I mean, he was, or, I will be… I mean, that guy, he’s not in me right now, or I mean, I guess he is-“

Alastor is laughing, and Vox’s world feels like it will continue to spin, finally; Alastor’s laughter is the most glorious sound he could hope to hear. Vox grins giddily like an idiot, overjoyed. 

“I forgot how entertaining you can be,” Alastor says, smirking. “Mmm. I suppose a part of me has… missed this, if I dig deep enough.”

There is truth in Alastor’s words, and this is evidenced by how frequent his visits to the apartment become; soon, Alastor is visiting every other evening. He stays for hours at a time, occasionally bringing things - old newspapers, ground coffee, cartons of cigarettes. 

Vox catches up on years of history as best he can through the newspapers, but he struggles to really comprehend it. It’s all too much; all he really wants to focus on is the comforting familiarity of Alastor. 

And, he does; they focus on each other, wholly now. Alastor lets his guard down somewhere around the eleventh visit. Each time Alastor materialises, Vox is ready for him with smiles and greetings. Alastor feels warmed by it; Vox’s adoring attention is addicting. They play cards, they listen to jazz, they talk. 

One evening, Alastor attempts to teach Vox how to play chess. Vox, frustrated at struggling to grasp it, ends the game early, groaning. By the nineteenth visit, they can play a full game together. Alastor always wins, of course, but Vox enjoys it anyway. Any time spent together is a gift to him, bored and cooped up in the apartment as he is. 

Eventually, Alastor speaks aloud what both demons know to be true; that Vox cannot hideout forever. Vox lets out a petulant moan, his mouth full; they are eating together at the dinner table, something delicious and divinely creamy that Alastor has made, all thinly sliced potatoes and copious butter. Alastor sips his glass of red wine and observes Vox carefully. 

“I know,” Vox says, begrudgingly. “But can we just, y’know. Not think about the future for now?”

“How very unlike you,” Alastor quips, smirking. “But fine by me. You can stay here for as long as you like. Let the rest of Hell panic over your absence, for all I care. What a ruckus they’ve made.”

“I’m not ready to face it, Al,” Vox shakes his head, prodding his food with his fork. “I don’t know this life that my future self has, I don’t know about any of the things you’ve told me he’s done or the demons he runs with. I don’t want any of it, I just want…”

“This?” Alastor offers, coyly. “Us?”

“…Yeah,” Vox breathes out, nodding. 

“Then you shall have it,” Alastor smiles, sincerely. “For as long as you want. Or, until your memories return, in which case I shall be very sorry to see you go.”

“Pfff,” Vox scoffs. “I won’t forget this, I won’t forget you, Al.”

“We shall see,” Alastor says, mostly to himself; he swirls the wine in his glass, and tries to ignore the strange sense of urgency building in his gut.

Several weeks pass. Vox is kept like a willing cockatiel in its cage; waiting, always, for Alastor to visit. And Alastor does visit, as often as he can. Excuses given to Charlie range from believable to the absurd - oh, I have some business to attend to! A lesser-known demon requires my help on the other end of town. Oh, I thought about going to get a new hairstyle!

No one in the Hazbin Hotel thinks to correlate Alastor’s strange behaviour and absences with the decreasingly reported-on disappearance of Vox, the CEO of VoxTek; truthfully, no one gives a shit what Alastor gets up to in his free time. No one bats an eye.

Alastor has been generous, too, supplying Vox with all kinds of pleasantries; clothes he might like to wear, new books to read, new records to listen to. A functioning radio. A well-stocked fridge. Vox isn’t sure if it’s a case of slight Stockholm syndrome, or what, but he finds himself not really minding being the Radio Demon’s secret pet. 

Vox is attempting to play a game of chess with himself when Alastor arrives; the sleeves of a soft sweater rolled up on his arms, and his tongue stuck out in concentration as he moves the pieces on the board. He’s been playing white, imagining the black side as Alastor, trying to predict how Alastor would play. The Radio Demon figures this out immediately when he glances over, and he grins wide. 

“I’d never make that move,” Alastor says, sitting down without hesitation to join Vox at the chess table. “You’ve done this all wrong, Vox, honestly. Do you really think I’d-“

“Hey,” Vox smiles, eyes soft. “How was your day?”

“Urgh,” Alastor sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Exhausting. More bonding activities, wouldn’t you know it. I grow weary of it, Vox, truly. Makes me want to go out and kill things.”

Vox laughs, resetting the chess board by placing the pieces back in their usual homes. Alastor slips off his coat, letting his shadow take it from him and hang it up. 

“Do you remember that loan shark mob, down at Ricky’s?” Vox asks, his smile mischievous. “You swallowed almost all of them whole. Remember that?”

“Oh! Yes, like it was yesterday,” Alastor nods, amused. 

“It kinda was, for me,” Vox deadpans, shrugging. “’75, that was. I’m surprised you remember it still.”

Alastor pauses; there is a real reason he remembers that particular occasion, but he does not voice it. Still, the memory echoes in his mind; how Vox hadn’t been able to shut up about it afterwards, exclaiming praises and admiration for Alastor, how in awe he’d been at such a display of power. Alastor has never forgotten that feeling. How it feels to be accepted, fully, even the ugliest, most monstrous parts of himself; something Vox always did. 

Later, before Alastor leaves, there is a moment. An important moment, one that weighs heavily on their minds for the next few days, after. As Alastor puts his coat back on, telling Vox about how he may not be able to visit for a little while, Vox stops Alastor with a hand on his arm. 

Freezing, Alastor looks up; Vox leans forward, and kisses Alastor. Quickly, chastely, just a peck - warm, buzzing screen meeting cool, dry lips. Vox isn’t sure what drives him to do it - beyond the fact he’s been in love with Alastor his entire fucking damnation, of course - and he regrets it immediately, dreading Alastor’s reaction. 

Vox pulls back, avoiding Alastor’s eyes. Alastor is reeling, wide eyed, his smile a faint, taut line; but he places his claws at the base of Vox’s screen, lifting, making Vox look at him. Vox’s expression is full of anguish. Alastor smiles, genuinely, and brushes his thumb over the base of Vox’s screen. 

“Give me a little time,” Alastor says, quietly. “I need to digest this. I will return.”

“Al, I’m so sor-“

“This isn’t a rejection,” Alastor says, kindly. “I just need to collect my thoughts on the matter. I’ll be back just as soon as I can be, alright?”

“O-okay,” Vox breathes out.

Alastor doesn’t visit again for a week. 

Vox feels like he might go mad; he paces the apartment, overthinking and worrying, wondering if perhaps it would be better if he regains his memories, so he can simply move on with his life. Alastor had said it wasn’t a rejection, but where is he now? Vox has been alone for days, left ruminating, trapped in this prison of his own choosing. 

Another evening with no sign of Alastor appears to be drawing to a close, and Vox readies for sleep, pulling off his sweater; but then there is a noise, and Vox knows Alastor has come. Breathing heavily, dressed only in his slacks, Vox pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway. 

Alastor is there, looking like a lost child, his pupils blown out and his hands wringing; he turns, and sees Vox, and their hearts connect silently. There is a palpable energy, and Alastor’s chest is heaving. 

“Alastor,” Vox starts, his voice a whisper. 

“Promise me,” Alastor says, his words ragged as he tries to still his breathing. “Promise me you won’t ever remember.”

Vox’s entire nervous system feels rigid with the tension of the moment; he swallows, a myriad of promises he could make swimming through his mind, none of them breaching the air. He lets out a shy laugh, not knowing what to say. Alastor walks over to him, slowly, looking like a startled animal; he eyes Vox’s bare chest. Vox’s deep blue skin is freckled with scars, some of which Alastor knows he will have no memory of gaining. 

“Al, you know I have no control over-“

“Promise me,” Alastor says, sounding desperate. “If you remember, it will all be spoiled, Vox. I can’t… I can’t… I don’t know why I want this, but I do, I do-“

Alastor’s words are halted as Vox rushes into him, pushing him against the wall, the heat of their bodies combining as they are pressed together, and then they are kissing, and it is the only thing either of them wants to feel, ever again. Moaning into each other’s mouths, hands grabbing and frantic, tongues colliding hungrily; the two demons hold each other, craving further and deeper closeness. When Vox pulls back, panting and breathless, Alastor lets out a needy sound of longing. 

“I l-love you, Al,” Vox breathes out, stroking at Alastor’s face. “I’ve loved you, for a really, really long fuckin’ time. And if this is a second chance, or, or-“

“I have fallen,” Alastor manages, gasping somewhat. “Also.”

“Wha-what?”

“I, too,” Alastor’s words shudder out of him; his voice is nought but a whisper. ���I don’t understand it, but… I suppose a part of me always did, deep down, but, I…”

“You… You love me?” Vox says, hardly daring to believe it. 

“Yes,” Alastor says, his grip on Vox’s arms tightening. “And if this is to be a second chance, then I shan’t let it go to waste. I know what the other side of losing this looks like, and I won’t let it happen again.”

Vox laughs, his heart filling with exhilaration, and Alastor laughs with him, still breathless. They kiss, again; and it is the sweetest taste either of them has ever savoured. 

“I think me losing my memory might be the best thing that ever happened to me, huh?” Vox jokes, his whole body feeling flushed with love and joy. 

Neither demon knows what the future holds; how they will proceed, how Vox will live his life. Alastor has some ideas, but truly, neither of them care, in this moment. They have found each other again, against all the odds, and have truly found each other, deeply this time. The Radio Demon has finally fallen in love back, not even understanding how; but not all questions need answers. 

“Yes, Vox, old pal,” Alastor grins. “I think we happen to be in agreement, on this one.”

The faults of technology have saved them, and neither Vox nor Alastor could be any more grateful. Memories lost, a friendship restored, a love created. 

Perhaps, in the end, it was the best system update Vox has ever received. 

[t-lostinworlds]

I Spy, No Spy | Peter Parker

》 PAIRING: peter parker x avenger/secret agent female!reader

》 TROPE/GENRE: friends to lovers; fake dating-ish; fluff

》 SUMMARY: You're a trained spy, Peter was not. But you two ended up on a mission together where he was needed to be less of the chatty superhero in red & blue tights and more of a debonair undercover agent in a suit & tie. It shouldn't be too difficult, right? No mask, no web shooters. Just you and him pretending to be fiancés, hiding and making out in a closet to avoid getting caught—simple. Unless he included his overgrowing feelings for you, of course.

》 WARNINGS: peter being down bad & horny™️ for r (my fave genre of peter by the looks of it), slight self-deprecating peter, pet names (darling, my love, babe, angel), peter x suit x glasses (a dangerous combo), mediocre spy-ish stuff, canon typical violence (i.e. guns, knives, fighting, ass-kicking), slight jealousy/possessiveness (both parties), slight pettiness from r, closet make-out, little peter got excited (idk why i said it like that lmao it’s just a boner), cuddling w/ boob grab (not sexual lol).

》 WORD COUNT: 21.3k+ (is anyone still surprised)

✘ MOODBOARD

A/N: this idea has been in my drafts since sept or oct 2020? I think? basically i plotted this a decade ago a.k.a this happens after Endgame but before...anything else (NWH who? lol) this is more an alternate universe tho. i honestly have no idea how i feel about this but i did enjoy writing it. a pretty tame, fun lil spy au fic so nothing groundbreaking sksks anyways! i hope you enjoy!

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ PETER PARKER MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

The sun rays that leaked through Peter's bedroom window tickled his eyelids, making them flutter open as he yawned.

A tired smile curled on his lips as he buried his nose into his pillow. It was rather comforting, hearing the faint chirping of birds, the soft rustle of the tree just outside his room, and hell, even the chants in the far-off distance of people training.

It was a peaceful Saturday morning, and Peter really liked that.

To top it off, summer had just begun, so no college work to worry about in the meantime. He was finally having a much-needed break from obligation and responsibilities—well, not entirely since the superhero gig didn't really have actual breaks. But he was hopeful that today was a quiet day, at least.

There were plenty of activities that could take up his whole day. He could start with a morning run around the large stretch of land, maybe pack up some breakfast and eat it by the lake, located at the edge of the area. He didn't mean to sound like some guru, but he could really use being one with nature for a little bit. Maybe he could meet his friends for lunch if any of them were free, or maybe he could spend the afternoon relaxing by the compound's private pool—

"Good morning, Peter."

Peter jumped with a squeak, limbs tangling with his sheets, making him fall off the bed with a loud thud. Groaning, he slowly sat up on the floor, rubbing the back of his head to soothe it.

That was certainly one way to get the sleep out of your system.

"Emergency meeting in conference room A-One in ten minutes."

Well, so much for his plans to relax.

"Got it, FRIDAY."

It was still a bit odd hearing the A.I. as an alarm early in the morning most of the time. She was certainly very helpful though. From scheduling to reminders, simple google searches to more complicated equation-solving whenever he would need help.

FRIDAY was like the compound's own Alexa but much, much more advanced. Well, she certainly wasn't meant to be used as such but nobody could truly blame him for not taking the perks for granted.

And there were a lot of perks living in the place—the Avenger's compound, to be specific—and despite being here for almost a year now, Peter still hadn't gotten used to its extravagance, much less exhausted all its resources.

It was a drastic change from the little apartment where he and May used to live, and he wasn't talking about the size alone.

She was living with Happy now, Peter visiting over for dinner whenever he could. She was a bit reluctant to let him move out at first. It was expected when they'd practically been living together for a good chunk of his life. But he was grown now, so wanting to dabble into independence shouldn't come off as a surprise.

Sure, it was more him being available and closer to saving the world type of independence, but independence, nonetheless.

Plus, Peter simply wanted to give them as much privacy as he could.

Happy and May were like teenagers in love and the things he heard despite the thick walls thanks to his enhanced abilities…he'd rather not think about it. His super hearing definitely helped in making the decision.

He still hadn't stopped patrolling New York, of course. If it was a quiet day on earth—more so, the universe—he still swung about the city, stopping any petty crime he would come across. But when an Avenger's level threat would arise, Peter was now only a couple of doors down, equipped and ready to join the mission.

It was difficult to juggle: his normal life, attending college, being Spider-Man on top of being an official Avenger.

Nonetheless, Peter wouldn't have it any other way.

Maybe it was because he enjoyed the thrill of taking the superhero gig to the next level. Or maybe it was because he was granted the opportunity to live lavishly in the compound. Maybe it was the sheer feeling of accomplishment and pride to be able to save the world. 

Or maybe it was because he got to see you every day.

You, who Peter has an insanely huge crush—no, who he really, really liked.

He might even go as far as to say that he was falling for you.

The two of you had moved in at the same time.

He could still vividly remember how he'd just placed the last box on his bed when the building shook. He peered out his window to see what the commotion was about, just in time to catch the Quinjet landing on the well-kept grass. His brows had furrowed in curiosity when the door opened, watching Sam and Bucky come out first, then a third figure trailing right behind them.

Peter didn't really believe in love at first sight, but God did it feel like that when he first saw you.

Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly love—or maybe it was, who knows—but he really couldn't deny how intrigued he was of you, intimidated even. And that was when you walked into the common room in simple jeans and a pink hoodie.

He swooned the minute you smiled at him when you introduced yourself, his knees wobbling the minute you shook his hand.

It was later on that he found out that you were a former (more like forced) member of HYDRA, abducted at a young age, trained to be one of their elite spies, and brainwashed to do their bidding. Which was why it made so much sense how the one and only Bucky Barnes had a soft spot for you—quite surprising for someone who was known to be a huge grump.

You actually came from Wakanda that day, to erase whatever it was HYDRA planted into your brain. Now, you were a recruit on the team, willing to do good with the skills you now had.

You and Peter were around the same age—part of the young ones, as Bucky pointed out—so it didn't really take long for you to become friends.

Well, a friend he kept ridiculously fawning over, a friend who made his heart race whenever you were nearby, a friend who Peter didn't really want to remain as such.

He was thankful though, being your friend was better than being no one to you at all.

But still, it was difficult to suppress his feelings, especially when you were one of, if not, the sweetest and kindest person Peter had the pleasure of knowing.

Whenever he would stumble into the compound late at night, all badly beaten and bruised, somehow, you'd be the only one awake, helping him up to his own room where you'd then clean his wounds for him.

The first night it happened, you had said FRIDAY alerted you of his presence. You had rushed as fast as you could when the A.I. mentioned he was injured. After that, it simply became a routine for you both.

It was like an unspoken rule around the compound, how you were always the one who'd patch Peter up after missions—unless you weren't present, of course. There were even a handful of occasions where Peter would be the one patching you up, a rare instance where he'd be home from campus while you'd come back from an intense mission that rewarded you with fresh bruises and cuts.

He was convinced you were simply being nice to him, though. You did consider him as your friend and you were kind enough to help with an ailment or two. You were such a caring person overall. He was sure if it was any other person, you'd do the same. So, Peter wasn't exactly special in that regard.

But then you got assigned to help him train every weekend, which only made his overgrowing crush for you, well, grow some more.

It was a new requirement for recruits, learning how to fight without much use of technology.

From the wise words of the new captain: Gadgets and tech should be there as extra sets of tools, not as a replacement for your arms and limbs. If you rely on them too much, they're going to become crutches.

Bucky stared at Sam funnily at that—since his vibranium arm was both a tool and a replacement of his limb—but everyone got what he meant. Being able to take down bad guys with only your bare hands was definitely more helpful than not.

Peter didn't know if someone was secretly spying on him, or had overheard him gushing about you to Harley—or if said friend himself had ratted him out—that led to the two of you being paired together.

Bucky said that you were the best woman for the job to help improve hand-to-hand combat or overall fighting skills. You'd been training since you were young after all, and that was saying something. Peter was probably still learning his additions and subtractions while you had already mastered the art of jiu jitsu. Wanda added that the two of you were already close hence why you got paired together, simply to skip through that awkward phase of introductions.

Peter had a feeling the two were playing matchmaker. But he chose to ignore it.

Either way, it certainly didn't help his predicament.

Being so close to you in that regard, with you wearing those tight leggings and tank tops, grunting and sweating, your bodies getting tangled and just…yeah.

Training with you was enough to make his head—both heads, if being honest, but he'll keep the other one to himself—explode.

You were incredible.

So it didn't take much for him to get distracted by you during your sessions, either.

More often than not, Peter would find himself watching you in awe rather than trying to dodge your punches. You called him out on it a few times, and each time he'd turn pink, the tint on his skin turning darker when you'd order him to do push-ups as a means to discipline. You were strict at times, but he was still so lucky that you were also being patient with him when he couldn't get it quite right the first few times. Although, you being in command and in control only added to his endless list of things he was swooning over you for.

It was admirable the way you would have him so out of breath after a spar and he was the one with superpowers. You were being smart with it, tactical with the when, where and how to hit rather than just throwing a punch for the sake of it. You'd dance around him, gracefully, swiftly, strongly, each move precisely choreographed to outmatch him as if you'd already looked into the future to know what he was going to do next.

Peter was a goner the minute you pinned him down on the floor for the tenth time in that one session.

He didn't know if it was the smug smirk on your face, your knees on either side of his hips, the way you had his hands above his head, or everything all at once. But Peter's blood was definitely boiling with every touch, rushing up to his brain that quickly turned it to mush—or maybe it was rushing down. He really couldn't tell where the pulsing was coming from. If it was his heart or some other organ that gets filled with blood.

By then, he couldn't stop thinking about you, couldn't stop talking about you, head over heels like he was living and breathing for you.

Ned and Harley said it was an obsession at this point but in his defense, you were way out of his league.

And he hadn't even taken into account how you felt about him.

Sometimes, Peter would have an inkling that his feelings were reciprocated. With the way you'd smile at him, the way you'd say sweet things to him, and the lingering touches from time to time, how could he not?

But, what if that was his rose-colored glasses making them seem like something they're not? Was it truly acts of affection and adoration or was it Peter's brain just romanticizing the shit out of simple kind gestures done for a friend?

Then came the thought that you were sweet and kind to everyone. It was just who you are, a ray of sunshine through and through—a ray of sunshine that could kick your ass ten times over but still. He'd rather not give himself too much hope. It was safer to assume that you were only seeing and treating him as a friend and nothing more.

Besides, it was too far-fetched, someone like you feeling something for someone like him.

You'd walk down a hallway with your head held high, while Peter would keep his eyes trained on the tiles. You'd stare your enemy down with no hesitation, your presence commanding, threatening, both words and actions carrying that certain chill that would make anyone second guess crossing you. While Peter would dance around them to avoid proper confrontation, going for silly jokes and sarcastic quips to mask any nervousness he would sometimes feel.

You're one hell of a powerful, strong woman and that's without any enhancements or superpowers involved.

While Peter…well, he's just your dorky, other times clumsy, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

As he said, you were way, way, way out of his league.

So he really couldn't do much but admire you from afar—or up close, but discreetly—until he would grow the extra set of balls needed to actually do something about his feelings for you, especially with the possible outcome of rejection.

He'd like to believe he'd grown quite a bit of confidence after entering college. It was a slow progress but he did manage to break out of his shell. With the number of parties Harry Osborn had managed to drag him into, how could he not? He was quite glad that now, he was able to talk to pretty girls without much stuttering and blushing involved.

But somehow when it was you in front of him, he would suddenly revert to his old high school self again. His cheeks would either be red or pink, barely able to get his words out as he would sometimes stare at you for longer than he should, all awestruck and dazed with admiration.

Peter's point was painfully proven right once again when he saw you down the hallway.

You were wearing black leggings and a black tank top along with your favorite running shoes. It was your usual getup whenever you would train or workout. Yet no matter how many times Peter had seen you in them before, it never failed to make his heart skip a beat. It was nothing fancy at all, but God did it look stunning on you.

It was mostly unconscious, and well, his rational brain did sometimes take a backseat when it comes to you. But his eyes drifted over your body, from your exposed shoulders to your collarbones, flitting momentarily on your chest, before they went to your legs, your tight leggings leaving so little to his imagination as they hugged your thighs. He tried to move his gaze back up to look at you more appropriately but simply got stuck on your hips. There was a slight sway in them as you walked—in slow motion, he was sure of it—with such confidence, and the way you held yourself with power and poise was breathtaking.

Shit. Did the AC malfunction? Why is it suddenly so hot—

"Hi, Pete."

Your voice snapped him out of his stupor. But your bright, beautiful eyes and your so-goddamn-pretty smile all while you stood right in front of him was more than enough to have him swooning again.

"H-Hey," he squeaked, painfully aware of how hot his cheeks had gotten. Add the fact that he hadn't been out under the sun much, he was sure you could see how pink it was. That knowledge alone probably made it a shade darker. Then came the fleeting thought that you might've caught him practically eyeing you up—

He quickly cleared his throat, keeping his head down to hide his blush as he opened the door to the conference room.

"After you."

"Thank you," you hummed, reaching a hand out to squeeze his arm before you moved past him.

It took a lot for his knees not to wobble at the gesture, even more, when he caught a whiff of your shampoo…or was that your perfume? But if you had just gone on a morning run and taken a shower—no, that wasn't your body wash. You didn't look like you'd just got out of the shower, so maybe it was just your scent. God, you always smell so nice.

"Holy—get your shit together man," he grumbled to himself, hastily wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, fixing up his hair before entering the conference room.

It was relatively empty—well, the whole compound was given that the rest of the Avengers weren't at headquarters in the meantime, caught in other obligations whether personal or otherwise. The only other person in the room was Wanda, sitting across from you.

"Pete," you called, tapping the chair beside you before he could even choose a seat to take. There were plenty of vacant ones. Trying to calm his raging heart, he walked over to your side and sat down. But each beat only grew faster when you tilted your head at him with a smile. "Did you go on a run this morning?"

"Oh—uh, no, not yet," he said, trying his best to keep his eyes on yours rather than let them wander, like…down your lips. Shrugging to seem unbothered, he added, "FRIDAY announced the meeting just when I woke up."

"I haven't either," you hummed. So, it was just your scent earlier, the same one that was filling up his nostrils now as you leaned a little closer to him. "Maybe we can go—"

"Another day, another robbery," Sam cut you off as he and Bucky entered the room.

You moved away from him then, leaning back on your seat, attention now on the captain. An unconscious frown made its way onto his lips, because yes, he was slightly—greatly—annoyed at the interruption.

"Only this time, it calls for a national emergency," Bucky added, taking the seat next to Wanda.

"Global, if we don't stop it in time," Sam sighed, connecting a flash drive to one of the USB ports installed on the table.

"Oh no, did they steal the president's nudes?" Peter joked, immediately shrinking in his seat when the two men shot him a look. "Sorry, sorry, bad joke and definitely not the time—I'll shut up."

"That was funny," you whispered, flashing him a smile and Peter's face immediately burned. He wasn't given much time to respond when Sam cleared his throat.

"As much as that would be horrifying, it's something much worse." He pressed a button on the table that made the hologram come to life. There was only one item shown, a rectangular, gold-colored device, probably the size of a credit card but thicker by half an inch. Sam pointed at it and said, "The Gold Codes."

"The Gold Codes?" Peter muttered, brows furrowed in confusion.

"The president's nuclear launch codes," you answered, always willing to help him out on things he wasn't too well versed on.

"Oh." Peter nodded, smiling at you appreciatively before his face fell, eyes widening in realization. "Oh. That's definitely worse than his nudes."

You laughed, and it made Peter's heart do flips.

"And of course, its partner, the nuclear football. But instead of it being a whole briefcase, it's been reduced to this—" Sam flicked through the hologram, a black device coming up beside the gold codes. It looked like a plain external hard drive, roughly the same size as a pocketbook. It wasn't that big so it was definitely easy to carry around and, by the looks of it, easier to steal.

"Technology advancing sometimes isn't the best," Bucky grumbled.

You sat straighter in your seat, forearms resting on the table as you eyed the devices. There was a furrow between your brows, lips pursed as you tilted your head.

Peter couldn't stop his smile.

He always found your thinking face adorable.

You turned to Sam after a moment and asked, "Don't they change the codes every day?"

"Yes, but as our hundred-year-old resident said, technology is advancing so the card automatically syncs up to any changes made," Sam explained.

"That's the stupidest thing ever," Wanda scoffed.

Peter nodded in agreement. "Why did these even get stolen in the first place?"

"The one who was carrying the nuclear football was a double agent," Bucky said.

"Classic," you scoffed. "And have we found where it is?"

Sam nodded at Bucky, the super soldier rummaging around a bag that Peter just noticed he brought with them. He slid across a black envelope with gold detailing, your brows furrowing as you took it in your hand.

"Oh wow, an invitation to a charity gala tonight at The Aces," you gushed, scanning through the glossy, black paper before you turned to look at Peter. You probably saw the confused look he wore because you offered him a sweet smile before explaining, "It's one of the fanciest ballrooms in New York, most of the galas they hold are very exclusive for the rich and the rich-rich, like filthy 'I can end world hunger but I'm an asshole so I won't' rich."

"Thanks," Peter hummed, smiling.

"I got you." You bumped his shoulder with a wink, which quickly made him blush.

"But it's a smokescreen," Sam continued. "The real party happens later in the night."

"That's what she said," Bucky interrupted enthusiastically, earning a heavy eye roll from Sam and laughs from you and Wanda. The technically old man looked around the room. "What? Did I say the joke wrong?"

"You got the spirit," Peter chuckled.

"As I was saying, they're holding a black market auction later in the night in the small underground theater a floor beneath the building." Sam continued, swiping up the hologram until it showed a floorplan of a theater along with a couple of photos of high-tech armor, guns, and a whole bunch of things Peter couldn't exactly name. What stood out the most to him, though, was the logos: Stark Industries, Oscorp, Pym Technologies, Sable International, and the likes. "Stolen technology and weapons being sold to anyone who has the money to buy them."

"So, it's like the dark web, but fancier," Wanda quipped.

"Stealing items and then selling them to the highest bidder," Peter hummed. "Sounds like the British."

You snorted, quickly covering your mouth when everyone turned to you with raised brows.

"Sorry," you mumbled, kicking him under the table playfully, probably as a warning to stop making you laugh. Peter only grinned proudly in response. He always felt proud whenever he made you laugh.

"Anyway, the nuclear football is easier to find. It's locked in a room along with the other items they're planning on selling," Sam started, flicking through the hologram to show a floor plan of the whole building. He circled the large room in the middle before tracing a pathway leading up to another, much smaller room. "It's located on the east wing, right side of the main ballroom. It has double doors so you wouldn't miss it, especially with the armed guards."

"And the card?" Peter asked.

"Would be much more difficult to retrieve. It's going to be with the person who orchestrated this whole thing. The problem is—"

"You don't know who it is," you finished.

Sam nodded grimly. "Whoever is the mastermind of this grand scheme has been quite good at maintaining anonymity. The only time they're going to reveal themselves, along with the codes, is during the secret auction, which you can't get into unless you're chosen to be there."

"If you think the gala was exclusive, the auction is on a different scale," Bucky explained.

"We don't know what code or secret handshake will be needed to be able to attend the auction. Our best course of action is to attend the gala, scope the scene, and hopefully, get intel on how to join the auction without much breaking and entering involved," Sam said. "I had Harley tap into the security system of the building and guess what?"

"You found an even bigger problem," you and Peter said at the same time.

Sam nodded. "The whole building is now armed with sensors fit to detect every single Avenger's superpower, any Stark-grade weapons and also, vibranium. Bucky's metal arm, Wanda's magic, my wings, so on and so forth. Neither of us could simply swoop in because the second those silent sensors go off, or any commotion will start, poof goes the codes along with our criminal."

Bucky shifted in his seat. "Even if we discard all of that and try not to use it, going in there as, quote-on-quote civilians won't work either because—"

"Everyone would immediately recognize who we are," Wanda finished.

"Since there are only two people here whose faces aren't known publicly"—Sam looked between the two of you—"Peter and Y/N, you two are going to be the ones to retrieve the codes and the football."

"W-What?" Peter choked, eyes wide as he stared at the captain. "Don't they have my powers in the sensors?"

"They only have it for your web shooters and suit, and as far as I know, both are detachable."

"But that's me, that's how I operate," he stammered. Going out there as himself wasn't part of his skill set. He'd feel too exposed without his suit. Not to mention he was going with you. Which of course wasn't a bad thing at all but it only added this pressure to not mess things up. He couldn't live with himself if he'd fail this mission, fail you—or worse, have you get hurt because he wasn't capable enough. "How am I supposed to be Spider-Man without those?"

"You have to give yourself more credit, Pete," you said, placing your hand over his own, the one resting on his thigh. Peter's eyes followed your touch before he met your gaze again, his blush prominent, heart thumping so loud he was scared you might hear it. "You're more than just a suit. And you need to remember how you've managed to make your synthetic web in the first place. So I'm sure you'll do fine with your brain alone. Even then, you still have other abilities, and you have me."

Peter looked at you fondly, a smile curling on his lips as he turned his hand so your palm was over his, squeezing it to silently say thank you. He wasn't even aware of what he was doing, not until he saw your smile turn slightly shy. It was the quick glimmer in your eyes that made him realize he was absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Seconded." Wanda smiled at the two of you, chuckling when you and Peter jumped slightly away from each other. You pulled your hand away, Peter frowning at the loss of contact. But he shook his head, turning his focus back on the mission.

"Y/N here also said you'd gotten really good at your hand-to-hand combat skills," Bucky said, an all-knowing smile on his face as he glanced between you two. "So, I don't think you'd need your web shooters as much if ever it comes to a fight."

"Which we hope won't result in that," Sam quickly added with a reassuring nod. "The plan is simple: scope and mingle, assess the scene, try and get some information as to how to get into the auction. Once you've done that, sneak into the vault to retrieve the nuclear football. I've already assigned Harley to make a duplicate device to swap with the real one so it won't trigger the alarm.

"Then, you sit at the auction and wait until the codes come up. I'm sure it will be presented by the anonymous seller so by then, we will be able to put a face on the mastermind. Our agents should already be blocking every single exit of the building by that time so all you have to do is to retrieve the code calmly. Try and ease your way into the main stage, charm and persuade, or whichever way works. Any more questions?"

You and Peter looked at each other, before you both turned to Sam, shaking your heads.

"Good. We've already set your fake identities up, google searches running for miles, the last thing we need are photos, together, individually, candid and professional which would only take a few minutes. Your fake names are already on the guest list, your outfits and everything else you need will be waiting for you at the hotel you're getting ready at as part of the whole ruse," he instructed. "You two are the best and only shot we've got in this. Plan your moves wisely and rely on each other. We can't afford to lose those codes."

"Yes, Captain."

•••

The hotel suite was fancy.

Peter had never been in one this expensive-looking before.

It had its own living room, a minibar, a huge bathroom, a king-size bed, and then a massive window that overlooked New York City. He definitely indulged himself with their complimentary champagne, and given the fact that he couldn't get drunk, he mostly did it for the taste—which was flavored expensive, to those wondering. Hell, even the chocolate they had tasted expensive.

Then again, the two of you were undercover as a rich, engaged couple so it was part of the whole thing. You never know whose eyes and ears were for who in these types of missions.

But still, it was quite the treat and he'd be stupid not to make the most of it—without getting too distracted, of course.

Peter was now all suited up, not in spandex this time. It was a crisp, black, formal suit made with fabric he wouldn't dare guess the cost and a brand he couldn't even begin to pronounce. He had a white dress shirt underneath, paired with a black tie. The one he was currently having a hard time doing as he stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the living room.

He groaned in frustration when he once again messed it up. He didn't wear this kind of clothes often, so he really didn't have much of a reason to learn to master the art of…tying?

"Need help?"

Peter turned around, the breath knocked out of him once he saw you come out of the bedroom.

Wow.

Oh wow you looked gorgeous in red.

It was an off-shoulder, long-sleeved dress, your arms covered in lace as the fabric hugged your figure. The skirt was long as it fanned onto the floor with a really high slit on your right leg to show off the silver heels you were wearing. Your hair and make-up were done to marry the whole style, all while enhancing your natural features rather than covering them. Your red-painted lips though—

"Wow."

"Yeah," you laughed softly, your gaze falling over yourself as your hands smoothed the fabric of your dress. "I don't know who picked it but it's really pretty and it fits really nicely. Perks of having body scans for our suits, I suppose."

"You look beautiful," Peter breathed out, still frozen in his place as he stared at you in absolute awe.

"Thank you," you said, your sweet smile turning into a smirk as you eyed him up and down with a nod. "You clean up nice, too, Parker."

"Oh—uhm, t-thanks." He blushed, shaking his head before gesturing both hands at you. "But you, I—wow, you look, wow."

"Shut up," you laughed, your dress flowing as you moved closer to him. "Here, let me."

Peter wasn't even given much time to recompose himself when you once again took his breath away by simply standing so close to him. Every inhale was just filled with your scent, his heart skipping a few beats as he scanned your face, only a couple inches from his and God did you look even more beautiful up close.

His blush deepened when you reached for his tie, your brows furrowed in that adorable way he'd come to familiarize as you slowly did it for him.

Peter honestly didn't know what to do with his hands, yet there was some sort of pull that he couldn't resist, like an instinct as he gently rested them on your waist. He was distracted by how close you were, but not enough to miss the way your breath hitched at the contact. Testing the waters, he squeezed it gently, biting his cheek to stop his smile from growing when he saw your fingers falter.

But oh did the pride bubble in his chest.

You shook your head, finishing up his tie with a smile. It was Peter's breath that hitched this time when you smoothed it over his chest, your palms flat against the muscle, touch so sweet, skin so warm. You looked up, your smile faltering when your eyes met his.

He didn't know how long you stared at each other. He also didn't know who moved a little closer first, but he definitely wasn't complaining. Not when he was so close that he could count exactly how many eyelashes you had. And he gladly would've if your voice hadn't snapped him out of the trance that nobody could ever put him under but you.

"We should get going," you whispered, but you still lingered for a few more seconds, more than enough for his brain to run its course, thinking that maybe, his feelings for you weren't as unrequited as he thought.

It was the sound of a beeping alarm that broke you two apart.

"Come on, we can't be late," you said after a breath, flashing him a sweet smile before going to grab your things.

"Wait," he cleared his throat, patting around his pockets before finally retrieving a velvet box. You turned around just as he'd opened it, showing you the ring that resided inside.

Your eyes widened, lips opening and closing as you gawked at the sparkling diamond for a few seconds before you met his gaze. "Peter—"

"Oh shit! It's not what it looks like!" he panicked.

Peter did always find himself daydreaming about you often, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't already pictured something similar to this moment. But even he could recognize how many steps he'd basically jumped over by showing you a diamond ring. And as much as he would love to fast-forward to that part, he'd also like to take you out on a date first. Well, if he'd even get the courage to ask you that, anyway. 

"I-uh, you know, us, covering as an engaged couple? So, of course, uhm, you'll need an engagement ring?"

"O-Oh," you fumbled, nodding quickly before you offered him your left hand. "Yeah, of course."

Peter took it in his delicately, fingers running over your knuckles before he carefully slipped the ring on. Squeezing your hand, he reluctantly let go. 

"Did you pick this?" you asked, bringing your hand up to your face, fingers wiggling as you admired the ring.

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I did—well, Bucky helped."

"It's beautiful."

"It looks even more beautiful on you."

Your eyes snapped up to look at him, your smile growing as you hummed, "Charmer."

"It's the expensive suit." He shrugged, a teasing grin with a blush to match.

You laughed that lovely laugh of yours, adoration and pride swelling in his chest.

"Oh, Harley asked me to give you this," you said after a moment, pulling out a familiar pair of glasses before handing it to him. "He said it's all you need to do your magic."

"Nah, it's just a little tool kit I put together, really, kinda like a small computer so nothing magical about it," he chuckled, waving the glasses before putting them on. "It's carbon-based nanotech, passable through metal detectors. I've managed to look up what security system they had installed in the safe and there's sort of a minicomputer inside so it should be easy to bypass the system. I already have the program in here that would run through all the probable security codes so all I need to do is activate the glasses and it would automatically unscrew everything and connect to a hopefully pre-existing female micro-USB slot with the male counterpart in this old thing and—" he paused, face heating up as you gazed at him with a twinkle in your eyes. "What?"

"Nothing, just—you're amazing," you sighed, smile widening before you nodded. "Let's go?"

Peter ignored that way his whole body tingled at your praise and offered you his arm.

Not like it was a new reaction whenever he was around you, anyway.

"Let's."

•••

"Mr. Reid, the car is already waiting for you."

That was the first sentence Peter heard when you reached the hotel lobby. He looked behind him before looking at the man in a suit, pointing at himself in confusion.

"I'm not—"

"Lucas, honey, come on," you cut him off, slipping your fingers in his. You flashed him a knowing smile, squeezing his hand before you tugged him along as you followed the guy.

Right. Fake identities.

"Woah." Peter gawked at the car in front of him, leaning closer to you as he whispered, "Is that a Rolls Royce? Like, the new one?"

"Sort of. It's the Phantom Extended." You nodded with an amused smile. "The best way to blend in with the rich, don't you think?"

Peter was about to open the door for you but then the butler—at least, he assumed that was who he was—beat him to it. So, he opted on helping you with your dress instead, making sure it didn't get caught on anything as you settled inside.

"Thank you, my love," you giggled.

My love.

Peter luckily didn't slip on the expensive lambswool floor mat as he got into his seat.

It's pretend. Get a grip.

Once the car started moving, you pressed a button on the center console, the clear glass that separated the front and back immediately turning into an opaque white, completely secluding the two of you from the driver. He looked at you curiously, nervous—okay, and maybe a bit excited—as to why you decided you suddenly needed privacy. Peter had heard a lot of stories about what goes on in the rear cabin of expensive cars, especially with the partition up, so could it be—

"Did you get to read about our fake identities? The one Sam sent?"

Thinking with the wrong head again, aren't we, Parker?

"I, uhm, no, got too preoccupied with the ring and getting dressed," he admitted, looking at you guiltily. The mission had barely started and he was already messing it up. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, no, it's okay," you reassured with a smile, hand on his thigh, squeezing for good measure. He wasn't able to relish in the warmth of your touch for long as you shifted in your seat, turning around to face him. "I mean, everything is very last minute. I'll just tell you about it.

"Lucas Reid, the young 26-year-old and dashing CEO of Reid Enterprises. You inherited the company at nineteen when your father died of illness," you started.

Peter scrunched his nose. "So, basically, I'm a trust fund baby?"

"Sort of, but you do prove that you did the work," you said. "Company sales skyrocketed when you took the seat."

"What about you?" Peter gestured at your ring, blushing. "Well, apart from being my fiancée."

"I run my own fashion company." You shrugged, winking at him as you added, "Can't be living in my future husband's shadow now, can we?"

Future husband.

God how Peter wished for that to be true.

He shook his head, hands rubbing on his thighs. "Do we have a backstory? Like, as a couple?"

"Not much. Five years ago, we met in Milan during fashion week—"

"Let me guess, sparks flew right off the bat?" he chuckled.

"Love at first sight, obviously," you scoffed, rolling your eyes teasingly.

Not too far off from reality.

"Besides that, it's all the basics from there. Dates, extravagant gifts, and then two months ago, you proposed."

"Right," he started, bumping your knee with his lightly. "So, when's the wedding?"

You laughed, "We're not sure yet. Too busy."

"Of course," Peter sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. "Can't get me out of my office, now can you?"

"I have my ways," you hummed, wiggling your brows at him.

Peter was so sure his face had gone so red.

"You always do," he chuckled shyly, shaking his head before smiling at you. "Can we go over the plan real quick?"

You smiled. "Of course."

Peter knew what to do, obviously. He'd already gone over the plan probably a hundred times in his head. But he simply wanted to make sure he wasn't missing anything, especially something that could potentially jeopardize the whole mission. He couldn't afford even one single misstep, not when you and your safety could be put at risk—and the millions around the world that would suffer if those weapons got into the wrong hand, of course.

"We're almost there," you said once you've gone over the plans twice, eyes scanning across the windows. "It's just on the next turn."

Peter's heart quickened.

He didn't even notice that his emotions had gone evident on his face. Not until you squeezed his arm.

"You okay?" you asked, brows furrowed in concern.

"Yeah! Yeah, of course," he said quite unconvincingly. It was when he heard the ticking of the turn signal did his nerves shift to overdrive, his eyes wide as they met yours. "Shit, I don't think I can do this. I mean, I'm not usually out there with my face showing, you know? And I'm so so so not James Bond, I'm the farthest from James Bond I'm like, Lame Bond. I'm not smooth o-or charming or suave enough to be a spy—oh no. No, no, no, what if they find me out right away? I'm going to mess everything up and this is going to go horribly wrong and—"

"Hey!" you interjected, hands cupping his face, squishing his cheeks slightly as you pulled him closer, eyes boring into his with determination. Peter didn't know if it was the proximity that shut him up, or if it was your scent that overpowered his senses—probably both. "You're going to be fine. You've got this."

He gulped, nodding before letting out a shaky breath.

You smiled reassuringly, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, his skin turning redder with each caress. "Be observant, you don't have to talk. With this kind of crowd, trust me, the quiet ones are the most intimidating. If there's anything you feel like it's a bit off, trust your gut, and let me know, okay?"

"Okay," he breathed out, nuzzling into your palm absentmindedly, finding a sense of comfort from your warm touch.

"And if it gets overwhelming, just follow my lead."

•••

Peter got out of the car, nodding curtly with a tightlipped smile at the driver who opened the door for him.

He decided at the last minute that Lucas Reid was going to be a stoic, passively quiet CEO with a resting 'serious' face that only means business.

Peter straightened up his suit before he offered you his hand, the huge rock on your finger glinting underneath the city lights as your palm met his.

He gently guided you out of the car, helping you fix up your dress before offering you his arm. Your fingers curled around his bicep as you kissed his cheek with a soft thanks. Peter smiled at you warmly, pulling you closer to his side as you made your way inside the building.

Stoic and passive except towards his lovely fiancée, of course.

He might or might not have stumbled upon a few Mobster Spider-Man fanfictions on some website not too long ago. And he might or might not have taken some inspiration from it.

"Please take a basket to put your phones and any other electronic devices in and step under the detectors one by one," one guard instructed.

Adjusting his glasses, he pulled out his newly upgraded phone. It was sponsored by the Avengers obviously since he couldn't exactly rock up with his old, cracked one, with him being rich and everything. He smiled at the lock screen photo—it was of you and him, your lips pressed against his cheek, taken just a couple of hours ago to have photos to make this engaged couple gimmick believable—before he placed it in the basket you were holding up for him.

You smiled reassuringly before you stepped under the metal detector first, Peter following just closely after.

He let out a nervous breath when he saw how heavily armed the guards were. A variation of M17s and a couple of AK-47s were in the hands of fully uniformed men from head to toe. They look like your typical SWAT team, but Peter knew they were more dangerous than that, especially when their morals were as corrupted as he'd presumed.

He was an enhanced superhero, yes, but he sure as hell wasn't bulletproof. And as much as he could probably dodge a few shots, he would rather not take the gamble of finding out exactly how many he could avoid.

That wasn't what he was worried about, though. Because as he felt your fingers slip back into his, he was reminded of how vulnerable and defenseless you were. No superpowers, no bulletproof vests, still an amazing badass who without a doubt could take on two guys in a fight and win, but still a human who could get badly hurt by a simple pull of a trigger.

There were only so many bullets he could jump in front of you for.

"We're going to be fine," you whispered, squeezing his hand as if you could sense his worry. "I got your six."

Peter squeezed back. "And I've got yours."

The two of you stayed close to each other, arms linked as you headed towards the ballroom. But once the huge archway came into sight, you leaned closer to him.

"You go ahead," you whispered in his ear, squeezing his bicep. "I need to go to the bathroom."

Peter nodded.

He knew that some agents had already hidden some of your equipment hours before. Well, he hoped they successfully did, anyway. If not, then, you both might have to compromise.

Peter didn't know what exactly he was expecting when he entered the ballroom but it definitely wasn't as fancy as this.

The ballroom was grandiose in itself with its ornate marble columns and crown moldings, complementing the beautifully impressive murals that covered the ceilings. Even the red curtains that draped along the walls seemed far too luxurious for the mere fact that they were curtains for crying out loud.

Peter had never seen so many chandeliers hanging all in one space, not to mention, ones that seemed to be decked out in gold and crystals…or were those diamonds?

Everything was decorated with a color scheme of cream, black, silver, and gold, from the round tables and accompanying chairs. To contrast were various glass structures illuminated by some kind of light as they glinted and shimmered even from the corner of his eye. There was an open bar in one corner, a long table of finger foods and various desserts, and live music coming from the string quartet on a rotating, circular stage right in the center of a—is that an indoor fountain?

"Wow," you gasped as you appeared beside him, your eyes twinkling underneath the chandeliers. "It's gorgeous."

"Yeah," Peter sighed, eyes trained on the way your face glowed in awe as you admired the space. "Gorgeous."

Your smile brightened as you tilted your head, gaze meeting his. Then, your brows furrowed, stepping in front of him and eyeing the top of his head. "Come here. I need to fix up your hair."

Peter ducked his head without question, hands around your waist as he let you settle the mess of his windswept curls. He found the furrow of your brows absolutely adorable, but the way your tongue slightly poked out of your red lips made him want to just pull you in and kiss you senseless.

You tucked a few short strands behind his ear, gently pressing your thumb into his concha, the earpiece fitting snugly before he heard a faint crackle and then a deep voice.

"Parker, can you hear me?"

"Aye, aye, Captain," he muttered.

He heard a few snickers in the background followed by Sam scoffing sarcastically.

"My, aren't you two cute."

Peter's brows furrowed, confused eyes meeting yours. "What does he mean?"

"I answered the same way," you giggled, shrugging as you smoothed over his tie and buttoned up his suit jacket.

Peter's heart fluttered at that.

"We'll be on the line listening. Be discreet. Only communicate what's necessary."

You and Peter shot each other a look, grins widening into a knowing smirk.

"Aye, aye, Captain."

"Jesus Christ."

The line went quiet, presumably Sam muting their end until further notice.

Peter shook his head, chuckling before turning to you. "So, what now?"

"Scope," you said, waving back at a random woman who was making their way over to you both. You turned to him with a smile. "And mingle."

•••

Peter was so far out of his element.

He was already a terrible liar when under pressure, stuttering and blubbering until he would end up telling the truth. And that was around people he got along with.

Now how was he supposed to make small talk with the rich all while pretending to be rich himself when he clearly was not?

His best course of action? He didn't talk.

It fit well with the persona he'd created, anyway.

He was mostly following your advice—well, more like literally following you around. He was like your trophy fiancé in some way, and honestly, Peter wasn't opposed to it.

You were taking charge, and all he had to do was scope the scene, nod and smile whenever he was acknowledged while mostly speaking only to you.

From an outsider's point of view, he probably looked like such a puppy for his girl, only meeting your eyes, hovering by your side, his attention and touch always on you. A hand on the small of your back, an arm around your waist as he hung onto every word that slipped past your beautiful red-painted lips. For them, he was simply a man completely enamored by his soon-to-be wife. So it definitely sold this whole fiancé gimmick you two got going on.

Then again, it wasn't like he had to pretend that much, either. It wasn't hard to act all smitten with you because he already was. And, okay, he was playing it up a little. Peter would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy acting like you were his and he was yours, even if it was only for a mission.

Other than that, he also quite enjoyed indulging in the food and beverages that were paraded around by the waiters. It tasted so good, so obviously made with high-quality and expensive ingredients, but most importantly free. Could you blame him for taking advantage of it?

He was being an opportunist, he was well aware, which was why he didn't think much about downing the very tasty champagnes they offered, especially when he was free from any consequence that the drink brought—well, one of the consequences.

Because as much as he was immune to the buzz of the alcohol, he couldn't say the same for the effects it brought on his bladder.

It didn't really expand when his abilities got enhanced.

With how utterly gorgeous you looked tonight, it shouldn't have surprised him that the second he left your side, some men in this gala would take his absence as an opportunity to make a move.

He might've been acting like a guard dog, he admits, glaring at anyone who dared to glance at you wrongly. You were "his fiancée" after all, he was simply playing the part of your possessive protective husband-to-be.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

But still, when he came back after his little bathroom break, Peter wasn't too keen on what he saw.

You were talking to some dark-haired man wearing a bold, fully gold-colored suit and an even bolder beard. He didn't look old, but he didn't exactly look young, either. Or perhaps his facial hair played a part in that regard. He was—as much as he hated to say it—well-built and good-looking. If Peter was to guess, he was probably in his early 30s.

The interaction looked innocent enough, and Peter wouldn't have found it a big deal if this guy wasn't eyeing you up like you were a piece of meat.

"Amelia Devonché," the man greeted, his French accent thick, his flirtatious tone, even thicker.

So that's your fake name.

"The one and only," you said, smiling as you tilted your head. "Although I don't think we've been introduced."

"Halbert Auclair," he said, bowing as he held out an open palm.

Halbert? What kind of name is that?

"Pleasure to meet you," you hummed, slipping your hand into his.

"Pleasure's all mine. You look quite lovely tonight, mademoiselle," he crooned, bringing the back of your hand to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

Peter's jaw clenched, an intensely heated emotion boiling his blood, only relaxing slightly when he heard your fake giggle.

He'd heard your real one enough to differentiate the two.

"Why, thank you, monsieur."

Clouded by his emotions, Peter took long strides towards you, swiftly wrapping a possessive arm around your waist and pulling you to his side, kissing your temple and then, without thought, near the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes snapped to meet his, a fleeting look of surprise on your features before you quickly masked it with a smile. "This is my fiancé—"

"Lucas Reid, one of the youngest yet richest CEOs here today," Halbert interjected, offering his hand out to shake.

"Hmm," Peter said with a curt nod, his grip a little tighter when he shook it.

"Man with few words, I see," Halbert chuckled dryly, flexing his fingers once they were free from his hold.

Peter bit his cheek to stop a smirk, pushing his glasses up before slipping his hand into his pocket, looking at you with a much more relaxed smile.

"My fiancé isn't great with crowds. Always stuck in his office, he is. The only thing in his mind is the business, and well, me," you gushed, resting your left hand on his chest, tilting your head to flash him a smile. "Am I right, handsome?"

"Very much so, darling," Peter said, unaware of how his voice sounded. He was still running on jealousy that he couldn't help but gently take your hand from his chest, bringing the back of it to his lips and then kissing the diamond ring on your finger. He smiled at you sweetly as he ran his thumb over your knuckles. "You still owe me a dance, my love."

You blinked a few times, lips parting before you shook your head with a soft laugh, "Oh, yes! How can I forget."

"Have a lovely night, madem—"

Peter didn't even wait for him to finish his sentence as he gently ushered you towards the dance floor, just in time for the string quartet to play their version of Quando, Quando, Quando.

So…he didn't quite think this through.

Peter had no idea how to dance.

His boiling jealousy was quickly replaced with nervousness and dread as you guided his hands, one on your waist, the other curled around yours.

You were so blatantly staring at him that his nerves could only grow tenfold. It was only a matter of time before you realized just how jealous he acted. Hell, he only just realized it after the emotion had left his system. And despite avoiding your eyes, he could still sense it, how you were trying to figure out why he'd done what he just did.

Peter cleared his throat, "Something wrong?"

"Are you okay?" you countered, placing your hand on his shoulder before moving to the music.

He didn't know if he should be thankful or slightly embarrassed that you were the one leading the dance. But then again, there probably would never be a time when Peter wouldn't follow your lead—dancing or otherwise.

He'd follow you to the ends of the earth if he could.

It was working, though, bodies synchronously swaying to the sound of strings as if you'd done this plenty of times before. It was either a testament to how good you were at basically everything—a quick learner, a leader, a teacher and hell, a dancer—or just how well you two complemented each other.

Peter believed it was both.

"Yeah," Peter chuckled timidly, eyes trained on the ground to avoid your eyes and to make sure he wouldn't step on your foot. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seemed…" you paused, hand squeezing his shoulder lightly. "Angry."

Peter blushed.

Jealous. Not angry.

"I'm not," he brushed off, shaking his head. "Got nothing to be angry about."

"Right," you hummed, and it sounded like you didn't believe him at all.

"Did I mess up?" Peter sighed, worried eyes finally meeting your curious ones.

"What? No. You just came off as quiet which isn't a big deal," you reassured, smile widening with amusement. "Where did that South London accent come from, though?"

"Wait." Peter blinked, frowning. "I did an accent?"

"Yeah, you did," you laughed. "Which I didn’t even know you could do."

"I guess I was too nervous to even realize," he admitted, chuckling. "I've been binge-watching The Great British Bake Off lately, maybe I just picked it up."

"So nervousness makes you do accents," you hummed, smiling. "Interesting."

"What?" He narrowed his eyes at you teasingly. "Don't tell me you like a British accent too, like, half the world apparently."

"It's cute," you admitted with a shrug. "But I like your accent more."

Peter blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah, I like the kid from Queens," you said nonchalantly.

Peter almost stepped on your foot. If you weren't a trained spy with quite good reflexes, you might've gone home with a bruised toe.

You shook your head, giggling as you pulled him back to the rhythm of the dance. "You're going to have to keep the charade if you speak to other people, now, though"

"Yeah, didn't really think about that." Peter scrunched up his face, clearing his throat before he looked at you shyly. "I really don't dance."

"Well, you're doing great so far," you hummed, pulling him closer as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Peter secured his on your waist then, both of you gliding across the dance floor to the symphony of the strings as you held each other's gaze. It was impressive, really, that this was the first time you both danced together, but danced like two spiders spinning their silks in a synchronized choreography to create a large heart-shaped web.

Then, he felt bold, confident.

He didn't know if it was from that same pull from earlier tonight, his senses being muddled by your overpowering presence, your warm body pressed so close against him, or the sweet lure of the music that added something to the air.

Perhaps it was everything all at once.

But Peter couldn't help but lean even closer, the tips of your noses just a hair's breadth away.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his gaze fluttering across your face before meeting your eyes.

Peter reveled in the way your smile got shy.

"You've said that already."

"Once will never be enough."

You shook your head with a giggle, eyes twinkling, "And you said you aren't smooth."

"Like I said," he started, lowering his voice, shrugging with a teasing grin, "It's the expensive suit."

Peter's heart warmed at your sweet laugh, that certain pull growing stronger at the lovely sound. He dipped his head, noses touching before he pressed his forehead against yours. He squeezed your waist when your breath hitched, warm and inviting as it tickled his lips, tempting, oh so close—

"Ahem."

You both jerked back, eyes wide with surprise.

"Sam! You've ruined it!" Peter heard Wanda hiss through the earpiece.

"He was finally getting somewhere!" And that was Harley.

Peter's whole face grew hot with embarrassment, squeezing your waist, still keeping you close as he looked away.

He completely forgot about the comms being live and open to everyone back at the compound.

Then again, all of them had been suspiciously quiet until now. 

"Well, damn, I'm sorry? But this is an important mission, not a radio drama?"

"You just had to cockblock—"

"I'm surprised you even know what that means, you white fossil—"

You cleared your throat, smiling at Peter shyly. "Any intel?"

"I think that French dude is our bad guy," he answered swiftly, ready to change the subject or else his knees might go out.

"Auclair?" You raised a brow at him with a smirk. "How so?"

Peter might sound like he had a vendetta against the guy who shamelessly flirted with you. But, he did have a few points to back his claim.

"It's kinda weird how quickly he knew about us. Unless he stole the guest list and researched every single one of the names or he's the host. Also, he really made a point in stating how rich I am. You only do that when you want money for the auction. And if that's not proof enough—" Peter pulled a black and silver playing card out of his pocket, the same one Halbert gave to him during the handshake. "Seven of hearts, well, kinda. It's more arrows than it is hearts. All of them are pointing downward no matter which way you turn it. Look—" He turned the card, an almost holographic effect as the arrows remained south. "That's not how normal playing cards are. So I assume it means downstairs to the secret auction. And we've got about an hour max until it's seven. And if that's not obvious enough—" Peter showed you the back, tilting it to the light to expose the words 'Big Toys, Bigger Guns' in the middle in gold lettering.

"Cheesy, but it works," he finished.

"That's a really good catch, wow," you praised, grinning proudly. "Someone's getting the hang of this already, huh?"

"Watching those James Bond movies finally paid off, I guess," he chuckled, nodding at you. "Plus, I got a good teacher."

You smiled. "Keep a careful eye on him," you instructed, snorting a little when he all but glared when he found the man. You squeezed his slightly tensed shoulders. "Subtlety."

"I don't think I need to be subtle because he keeps eyeing you like he stands a chance as if the rock on your finger isn't big enough. You're my fiancée. So me glaring at some guy with too much beard who looks at you far too long for comfort let alone appropriate isn't out of the ordinary," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Men are pigs I tell you."

"Someone's committed to the bit," you teased, smiling far too bright for it to be innocent. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."

Peter quickly snatched a champagne flute from the tray when a waiter walked past, handing it to you with a small curtsy.

"You look parched, my darling."

You rolled your eyes but took the glass anyway, your grin telling him that maybe you like the accent more than you were letting on.

But she likes your accent more.

Peter couldn't stop his heart from melting at the thought.

He was also glad that his distraction worked, his jealousy hopefully forgotten as he guided you toward the bar once the song finished.

"Door's unguarded," you murmured against the glass, sipping gingerly before you handed it back to him. "Stay here and keep an eye out. I'll find us a key."

Peter nodded, sitting on one of the stools as he carefully and deliberately followed your movement. Not that he thought you couldn't handle yourself, but an extra pair of eyes will always be better than none. Also, he was being observant of his surroundings, his enhanced senses helping in making sure there wasn't anything suspicious going on, keeping him on high alert in case he needed to jump in.

He watched with pride as you slyly stole a keycard from a gullible enough guard who was too distracted by your flirting. It was an impressively swift sleight of hand that if he wasn't paying attention enough, he would've missed it.

Still, Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes at how stupid and easy these guards tend to be, any focus and rational thought out the window all because of an alluring smirk, a teasing touch and a glimpse of skin—the simplest seduction from one gorgeous woman.

But then again, he wasn't exactly one to talk. Because as innocent as a bright smile from you, Peter would literally do anything you ask him to.

He was far too focused on you that he didn't even realize that someone had replaced your seat, not until he heard his name—well, the fake one.

"Lucas Reid."

Peter turned, eyes landing on a woman wearing a gold dress, curled, long hair framing a somewhat familiar face. Peter wasn't blind, he could see she was objectively pretty. But she simply could never hold a candle next to his gorgeous fiancée—fake or otherwise.

"Greta Auclair," she said with a smile, holding out her hand.

Peter didn't miss the flirtatious undertone in her actions. How could he when she was so adamant on fluttering her eyelashes at him, or the way she wasn't subtle at pushing up her chest, the low-cut top doing so little to hide…it? Them?

Not that he was looking. It was simply in his line of sight.

"Auclair," he hummed, shaking her hand briefly as he tried to make sure his accent didn't sound so forced. He honestly didn't know why he decided to make things harder for himself. "Any relation to Halbert?"

"Twin sister," she waved off, flipping her hair to one side.

Peter nodded without another word, attention swiftly shifting to search for you in the crowd.

"I must say, I've heard a lot of things about you," she hummed as she leaned forward, fingers curling around his bicep, gold-colored, manicured nails glinting underneath the light as she squeezed the muscle. "Apart from being a quiet man, of course."

Peter's resolve faltered a little, the gesture completely catching him off guard.

What's up with this family and overstepping personal space?

"Good things, I hope." He smiled tightly, crossing his arms over his chest, subtly shaking her hand off.

"Oh yes, very good things," she giggled, hand on his thigh as she leaned forward with a smirk. Winking, she added, "Naughty ones, too."

Peter gulped as he leaned back.

"O-Oh, uh—"

"Lucas."

He quickly spun around on his stool to the sound of your voice, facing you fully. His eyes widened in surprise as you gently nudged his knees apart but he didn't even hesitate to make room for you to stand in between. He placed his hands on your hips when you pulled him closer, your arms snaking around his neck.

Peter didn't know exactly what was going on, but he certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, like he said before, he would always follow your lead.

Yet still, he looked up at you in both curiosity and confusion, trying to gauge what was going through your mind. But you certainly were better at reading people than he was. Or perhaps that was you simply being a master at masking your emotions. Because apart from the slight edge on your smile, he was coming up empty.

"You must be Amelia," Greta interrupted.

Your grip on Peter's shoulder tightened, eyes rolling with a scowl before you turned to Greta with a forced smile. "Yes, hi."

Peter's brows raised at your uninterested tone, even more when you didn't even bother prolonging the conversation as you turned back to him, body leaning closer.

Interesting…

"Can you help me find the bathroom?" you purred, tone seductively sweet to match the implication of your words. You pressed your chest against his, faces only inches apart as your fingers played with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

Peter short circuited.

He merely stared at you in awe, blood growing hot, heart pumping erratically as his grip on your waist tightened.

Peter would be lying if he said he wasn't at the least bit turned on.

"Please?" you added with a pout when he didn't manage to speak for a good few seconds.

It was the slight pinch on his skin that snapped him out of it.

"Of course, my love," he said, clearing the lump in his throat as he hastily stood up.

Peter wasn't even given the time to get his bearings straight when you immediately took his hand in yours, pulling him away from the bar and down the hallway. He squinted at the sudden brightness of the ceiling lights, greatly illuminating the cream wallpaper with intricate gold-colored patterns, similar crown molding from those in the ballroom, and various paintings hanging on the walls for guests to admire. The space was obviously still for public access, but it was relatively empty.

Once you two were alone, you didn't bother hiding your emotions. And Peter could clearly tell that you were angry.

It was making him slightly nervous.

"Is everything okay?"

You ignored him.

Peter frowned when pulled your hand from his and put some distance between you. He watched as you tensely opened a metal door, entering in haste without looking back. He ran after you to avoid getting locked out, the two of you entering another much smaller hallway that could only fit one person at a time. It was more of a tunnel, to be honest.

He never liked it when you were upset, especially during a high-risk mission. But most of all, he hated disappointing you, and with the way you were acting, he could only assume he'd done something wrong.

Peter was hot on your tail, carefully watching your every sharp turn, just to make sure he wasn't going to lose you. Though, it wasn't long until you two emerged into a hallway that was similar to before.

You were staring straight ahead, heels clicking angrily as the skirt of your dress rapidly swished with every harsh step.

Oh you were pissed.

"Did I do something?"

"You shouldn't be distracted on the job," you said, tone clipped.

"But I wasn't distracted," he defended, his frown deepening.

"Flirting, distracted, same thing," you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "It's not the time to woo girls. This is not a frat party."

Flirting? Woo girls?

"But I wasn't flirt—wait," he paused, his smile breaking out as realization dawned on him.

He could be quite oblivious sometimes, but he was not dumb. This wasn't going over his head, not when the way you were acting looked far too familiar. He'd seen the same thing happen only a couple of minutes ago, after all.

Because you weren't angry. 

Much like how he wasn't angry moments before your dance.

Peter stopped, looking at you carefully with arms crossed over his chest, smirking as he quoted your words,

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."

You halted in your tracks, shoulders straightening with a huff before you continued walking.

It told Peter everything he needed to know.

He couldn't wipe off his smirk, pride bubbling in his chest, confidence boosted that little bit more as he jogged after you.

"There's going to be two guards at the door," you instructed monotonously once he reached your side, eyes avoiding him. "I'll distract one. You take care of the other one."

Peter stood straighter with a salute, still grinning from ear to ear.

"Yes ma'am."

You rolled your eyes, but he didn't miss the way the corner of your lips quirked up.

•••

"Excuse me, ma'am, this area is restricted."

"Oh, dear! My apologies, is this not where the bathroom is?" you gasped, and Peter was impressed at how clueless you sounded. If he didn't know you beforehand, he never would've guessed that you'd be one of the most elite and smartest spies there ever was. "Would either of you fine gentlemen guide me to where it is?"

Peter heard the two guards grumble before one spoke up gruffly, "Go. I've got this covered,"

"Yay!" you giggled, clapping your hands excitedly. "Thank you so much!"

Peter couldn't stop his grin at how cute you were.

When you and the other guard were out of sight, Peter made a run for it. Guard Two only caught a split-second glimpse of him before his fist harshly connected with their jaw, wincing when he heard a faint crack.

"Sorry," Peter whispered with a grimace, standing straight and adjusting his glasses. "Didn't mean to hit that hard."

He quickly turned towards the sound of grunts and hisses, fists colliding against muscles and then a body falling onto the floor. He rushed towards where you disappeared, entering the hallway just in time to see you fixing up your dress. Your eyes met his when he walked over to you, your smile sweet yet proud.

"Need a lil help carrying this guy," you said, gesturing behind you.

He nodded with a chuckle, eyes trained on your face once he reached your side before his brows furrowed.

"You got a little—" Before he could think about it, he reached a hand up, thumb rubbing over the corner of your mouth, attempting to get rid of the smudged lipstick.

He couldn't help but stare, easily putting him in a trance as he smoothed his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it away slightly before letting it plop back, your warm breath tickling his skin when your lips parted.

Your little outburst of jealousy earlier might've boosted his confidence a lot more than he'd initially let on.

"Peter," you murmured. "The guard."

"Oh! Right," he cleared his throat, moving over to the unconscious guard, hauling them over his shoulder effortlessly as if they weighed nothing. He walked over to the second guard, doing the same over his other shoulder. When he turned around, he saw you standing there, brow raised. He shrugged, smirking. "Super strength."

You shook your head, rolling your eyes, "Show off."

Peter laughed.

After carrying both guards into the room—unlocked thanks to their keycards and fingerprints—you busied yourself with their weapons.

Peter was looking through the various crates and boxes, all labeled with familiar and not-so-familiar logos, some in different languages, while others were completely blank. Some items weren't hidden at all, from high-tech guns in glass displays to alien guns in wooden crates, various iterations of vibranium shields, and holy shit, is that a Wakandan spear?

"Where the hell did they get all of these? This is so much ammo in one room—"

Peter's words died in his throat when his eyes landed on you.

You were leaning over, one foot resting on one of the boxes on the floor, your fingers grazing your leg as you carefully pulled your skirt up inch by tempting inch until your thigh was exposed to him. Your gun holster later came into view, the straps squeezing the supple flesh tightly and fuck—

Peter had never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly ever in his life.

He quickly averted his gaze when you pulled your skirt back down. He pretended to read the labels on some crates as he cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt because Jesus it's getting really hot in here.

"Take this," you said, walking over to him with your hand extended, your fingers curled around the barrel of a gun.

Peter's eyes widened as he looked at the gun and then at you. "We haven't gotten to this part of my training yet."

"Come on, you've seen some movies."

"Since when did movies become tutorials?"

You stared at him for a moment, shaking your head with a chuckle before holding up the gun before him to demonstrate.

"Safety on when you don't want to shoot, safety off when you want to shoot," you said, flicking the pin on the side of the gun. "Cock it only once. It's semi-automatic so after that, all you need is to pull the trigger for continuous shots. Grip with two hands, dominant hand tight around it, other hand on top. Don't try to be arrogant by holding it with only one, especially when you've never fired a gun in your life. Point and shoot, simple. Make sure you aim at the bad guy, though."

You took his hand and placed the gun in his palm, smiling at him sweetly as if you hadn't just given him a loaded weapon.

"Got it?"

Peter stared at you dumbfounded, gulping as he held it to his chest, "That's definitely not all there is to it when using a gun."

"Hey, don't worry," you said reassuringly, squeezing his shoulder. "It's just for precaution. You might not even need to use it."

Peter nodded with a sigh, staring at the gun in his hand before he slipped into the hem of his pants, snuggly kept there by his belt.

Rookie mistake.

"Make sure the safety is on before you put it there, wouldn't want an accident to happen."

Peter froze before he quickly pulled it out, aiming the barrel as far away from him as possible.

He groaned in utter embarrassment when you laughed.

"Can you just carry it for me?" he asked, pouting for good measure. "Please?"

"You're fine," you giggled, gesturing at your leg. "And I only have one thigh holster."

Yeah. I saw.

"I really don't want to shoot myself in the balls," he said, physically shuddering as he screwed his eyes shut. "And I think you're aware of how clumsy I get sometimes."

You laughed out loud, shaking your head as you moved back toward one of the unconscious guards. Peter watched you curiously as you started checking their suits, a faint 'aha!' leaving your lips before you started taking one of their jackets off.

Peter's brows shot up. "What are you—"

"Jacket off," you interjected, showing him a shoulder holster. He did as told as you walked back to him. You helped him slip the harness on, clicking buckles and adjusting the straps before taking his gun and slotting it in soon after. You tilted your head as you smooth it over him. "Better?"

"Much," he breathed out, smiling at you gratefully as he slipped his jacket back on. "Thanks."

You returned his grin, patting his chest before you went and looked for the safe.

Which didn't take too long.

"They could've at least made it inconspicuous, shit's too easy," you scoffed, gesturing at the safe that had a huge American flag on it, stars and eagles, too, as if it wasn't obvious enough. You looked at him with a knowing smile. "Do your magic."

Peter squatted in front of it, taking his glasses off and twisting the nose bridge. There was a soft whirring sound before the glasses turned into a mini, android spider.

Carbon-based nanotech will always impress him. Imperceptible to metal detectors all while never losing its function and durability.

"Of course it's a tiny spider," you muttered, delight laced in your tone.

"What?" He looked at you over his shoulder with a teasing pout, holding up the spider in his palm. "You don't like him?"

You purse your lips, shaking your head before meeting his eyes. "He's cute."

"And hopefully he works, too," he said, turning back to the safe before carefully placing the little guy on the keypad. It took a few moments for the mechanical spider to do its thing. Peter let out the breath he was holding when the safe opened without a hitch. He looked at you with a grin, gesturing at the device inside. "Voilà."

You scrunched up your face. "And that proves that you can't be good at everything."

"Hey!" he gasped. "It wasn't that bad."

"Just leave the French accent alone," you teased, though your eyes were shining with admiration. "But that brain of yours is definitely something else."

Peter blushed, waving your compliment off, "Nah, it's just—"

"Shut up, Parker," you scoffed playfully, but your smile was genuine. "You're incredibly smart and annoyingly amazing. It's not up for discussion."

"Thanks," he chuckled shyly, cheeks turning redder. He gestured at the nuclear football, before looking up at you. "You have the decoy, right?"

"Oh, right." You nodded, reaching into the neckline of your dress before you pulled the rectangular device out, showing it to him with a proud grin.

Peter stared at you, mouth agape.

"What?" you snorted, shaking your head at his surprised face. "I don't have pockets!"

"You could've asked me to carry it."

"I can't exactly bring you with me into the ladies' restroom now, can I?" you said, shrugging. "And I couldn't just hand it to you in the middle of the ballroom with all those people."

"Touché," he hummed, taking the device from your hands. His brows furrowed as he turned it in his palm. "Is it supposed to be warm?"

"It's been with the girls in the past hour or so, of course it's going to be warm."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he tried not to let his curious thoughts wander.

He was failing, though. Miserably so.

Because holding the device when it's been in your boobs made him wonder exactly how warm your boobs would actually feel if it was direct contact, right in the palm of his—

"What?" you asked, none the wiser, briefly. Because then it was immediate, the realization crossing your face, probably noticing just how red his face had gotten. "Oh my god—Peter!"

"Sorry!" he squeaked, hurriedly turning his back on you, focusing on the task at hand.

"My boobs are clean, by the way."

"That wasn't the route my thoughts went to," he grumbled.

"Yeah, I figured," you giggled. "Just wanted to confirm."

He rolled his eyes even though you couldn't see him.

Focus. You got this.

But just as he was about to switch the devices, you moved closer to him, bending over until you were at eye level with the safe, your scent overpowering to the point of being distracting.

"Y/N," Peter sighed, head hanging low as his hand fell onto his sides. "You're making me really nervous when you're breathing down my neck."

"Sorry! Sorry," you laughed, heels clicking as you moved further behind him. "I'll just…step back."

With bated breath yet careful fingers, Peter swiftly switched the devices, blowing out his cheeks in relief when nothing happened.

"Great job, Pete."

He shot you a smile over his shoulder and closed the safe, letting his spider friend reverse its steps before taking him off the safe, pressing its tiny tummy for it to turn back into glasses.

Peter put it back on, running his fingers through his hair before turning to you.

You beamed and held out your palm.

But just as he was about to hand you the device, he quickly pulled it back with narrowed eyes.

"Are you putting this in your boobs again?"

You stared at him in amusement. "I didn't grow any pockets at the last minute, so yes."

"Don't you think it's dangerous?" he reasoned, carefully waving the device to get his point across. "I mean, this is the real thing."

"It's not radioactive," you chuckled. "It's not going to suddenly blow up."

"We don't know that—"

"Hey, don't worry," you hummed, your reassuring smile turning mischievous. "I'll still have my boobs at the end of this mission."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I'm concerned about you, like, as a whole person."

"Yeah, I know, and that includes my boobs."

He groaned, "Is this becoming a thing?"

You shook your head, laughing, "No, no, I just didn't think I'd find out that you're a boob guy, during a mission, no less."

"I'm not a boob guy," he scoffed.

Peter was a you guy, to be honest, as in you as a whole person—eyes, boobs, lips, butt, thighs, everything included.

And personality, obviously.

You laughed, leaning close to kiss him on the cheek, throwing him off-guard that you were able to take the device from him without breaking a sweat.

Peter sighed in defeat.

He really wasn't any better than any of the guards in this building.

"Come on," you called, hands now free, the device properly hidden with 'the girls' as you opened the door for him. "We need to get going."

•••

You both were navigating your way back into the ballroom when the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood up.

"People incoming," he warned, grabbing your hand as you pulled you down a hallway. His enhanced hearing just about picked up the sound of guns being loaded. "Armed."

"How many?" you asked, your free hand picking up your skirt as you walked even faster.

He tried to listen closely, calculating the footsteps that echoed down the hall sans both of yours

"Four," he confirmed, brow raising. "Maybe Five."

"That's too many. The minute they'll see us, they're going to get suspicious. It's going to be too late for both of us to take all of them down without at least one sending a signal," you rushed, testing out every door down the halls in hopes that you'd get lucky. "We need to find a place to hide."

"Shit," Peter cursed, looking from left to right of the hall. "They're coming from both sides."

"In here!"

He wasn't given much to process your words when you all but grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him inside a room. The space was quick to grow smaller when you followed suit, your dress knocking over a broom on your way in.

Of course it had to be a janitor's closet.

As if his life wasn't already filled with enough clichés.

Peter grabbed the handle to pull the door close, darkness swallowing you both as it clicked shut. He felt around the metal knob only for his fingers to fall on an entirely flat surface.

"There's no lock," he said, so deathly confused. "What kind of door has no lock?"

"Quiet!" you hissed, pressing your palm over his mouth.

Peter stared at you wide-eyed, his pupils slowly adjusting to the lack of light that he was only now able to gauge just how close you two were.

"Listen," you whispered.

He nodded, closing his eyes as he concentrated on distinguishing the voices.

"The guards have been knocked out."

"Nothing is missing in the room."

"Still, check everything. Be on high alert for anything out of the ordinary."

Peter's eyes snapped open, panic settling in as he heard the footsteps growing nearer.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he cursed, voice muffled by your palm. You removed your hand, eyes confused yet expectant. He explained in hurried whispers, "They're not suspicious of anything being stolen yet but they're coming this way. If we get caught, they're going to immediately find out what we're up to and we're doomed."

Peter watched as your face went through different types of emotions. First, it was worry, a flicker of panic crossing your eyes only to be replaced by something else entirely. The crease between your brows deepened, lips pursed as you tilted your head.

It was that all too familiar thinking face he'd grown to adore.

A second later, your brows shot up, eyes wide, and—if he didn't know any better—twinkling as if a light bulb lit up on top of your head.

"Not unless we make them believe we're just some couple needing a quick fix."

"What?" Peter asked, confused.

You only gave him a sheepish smile and a barely-there whisper of,

"I'm sorry."

Peter wasn't given the time to ask what you were apologizing for when you suddenly grabbed him by the nape of his neck and crashed your lips against his.

He stumbled, his back hitting the shelves. Although the way his head was spinning was definitely not because of the impact.

Peter groaned, kissing you back immediately and with fervor, his hands gripping your waist, head tilting as he pulled you closer.

He shivered when your hand moved down his chest before moving inside his jacket, only realizing that you were slipping the nuclear football between the holster, tugging the straps a little tighter to stop it from slipping out.

Then, you guided his hands, much like with your dance earlier. Yet this time, one landed on your exposed thigh as you hiked your leg against his waist, placing the other on top of your ass.

Peter felt like he was about to faint.

But with every bit of respect he had for you—which was a lot—he still hesitated. 

He was unsure as to how far he was allowed to go, deeply worried to cross the line of no return. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable by pushing your boundaries.

He also didn't want to ruin everything he had with you. Whether that was you being his friend or you being his teammate, he really didn't want to lose any of it.

Peter didn't want to lose you.

"It's okay," you whispered against his lips, probably sensing his inner turmoil. "Touch me, Peter."

That was the last thing that made any sliver of his self-control snap.

He growled, squeezing your ass and your thigh simultaneously, pulling your body flush against his as if you could go any closer.

Your gasp was met by a low groan, your hand fisting his jacket as the other took home in his styled hair.

The door swung open, a momentary stream of light illuminating the tiny room. There was a disgusted growl before the door slammed close, darkness covering you both again but neither of you stopped.

Peter gripped your hips, pushing you back slightly until you were the one pressed against the closed door. He cupped the back of your neck, arm curling your waist as he slotted his thigh in between yours in a desperate need to be inhumanly closer.

Your soft moan just about made his knees buckle.

It also made him feel daring enough to gently tease his tongue against your bottom lip. You let him in with his ease, both of you moaning as your tongues did their own dance inside your mouth.

It was intoxicating.

The faint taste of champagne mixing with the taste of you. 

It was something that Peter probably spent a great amount of time thinking about yet nothing in his imagination ever came close. No matter what his brain had conjured in the past, it could never do you justice.

It was addicting.

Your pretty little sighs in response to his soft groans, how you were everywhere, your scent, your taste, your overwhelming warmth engulfing his very being. Peter was drowning in all things you, the very thing that could make him breathe again.

It was too much, yet he needed more.

You were so close, but not close enough.

Peter's hands glided down your body until he was cupping your ass, their warmth settling on each of his palms. But just as he was about to tell you to jump up into his arms, you placed a firm hand on his chest.

Your lips detached with a soft pop, the back of your head softly thumping against the door. You gasped for air, hands fisting his jacket before you rested your forehead against his.

He really needed to remember the fact that he could hold his breath longer than any average human could.

Peter put his hands back on your waist, fingers squeezing as he nudged your nose.

"Y/N, I—"

"Like you, too."

Peter's eyes widened, head pulling back as he stared at you in shock. Whatever confession he had left his brain, a lump caught in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he failed to string any letter into words.

Oh boy he was flustered.

The thought of you, you, someone so confident, someone who is way out of his league liking him back, him, little nerdy, dorky, stumbly old Peter Parker, it made his heart soar.

"I'm a trained spy, Pete, I know how to read people," you giggled when he stayed silent for a few seconds. "It's written all over your face. You really haven't been subtle about it the whole night, either."

"I don't think subtlety is my specialty," he whispered, a shy smile growing on his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing in the sweetest of ways.

"It really isn't." You nodded in agreement with a wide smile of your own.

"So I don't think I need to be subtle about this," he started, gaze holding yours. He was nervous, but if he didn't say this out loud, he might just explode. "I'm falling for you."

"You're so cliché," you giggled, his cheeks growing hot, his whole body melting, his heart jumping out of his chest and landing straight into the palm of your hand when you added, "I'm falling for you, too."

"Really?" he asked, surprised yet his voice came out a little shy.

It was obvious enough. The words had been said. But he wanted to make sure because this just seemed like one big lucid dream and he'd actually die if he were to wake up any moment now.

"I mean, I haven't been subtle about it either," you giggled, kissing him briefly yet sweetly, brushing your nose with his as you breathed out, "But yeah, I do. I feel so strongly for you Peter that I just—I feel nervous, I feel giddy, I feel safe and appreciated and I just feel so, so happy whenever I'm around you and I just, whatever I did in the past didn't matter because you accept me for me and I trust that you've got the best intentions, I trust you with my life, and you're just the sweetest most thoughtful and I'm just glad to have known you and—" you paused, shaking your head with a soft laugh, "I'm such a sap."

God this felt like a dream come true.

"I like you being a sap," he chuckled shyly. "But I'm just…me, though."

"Exactly," you confirmed, smile genuinely laced with pride. "You're brilliant, Peter Parker. How can I not fall for you?"

Peter's cheeks were starting to hurt with how wide his smile was, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

"You're so way out of my league," he whispered, arms wrapping around your waist.

"I could say the exact same thing to you," you giggled, pecking his lips. "But let's debate about this another time, yeah? We still got some codes to find and a bad guy to catch," you said, turning around swiftly to face the door before he could even have a chance to stop you.

"Wait, don't—" Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on your waist tightening as his face landed on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. Your back was against his chest, bodies pressed up far too close. "—move," he lowly groaned against your skin.

"Oh."

Peter felt his whole body heat up from embarrassment. Because he knew you could definitely feel it behind you. He could hear the fast pace of your heart, and if that wasn't a tell-tale sign, he didn't know what was. And no matter how much he tried to pull away, even just slightly, the small space of the closet wasn't letting him do so.

"I'm sorry, I am so, so, so sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen I—"

He tried to move away from you again, but clumsily elbowed the shelf on his right instead which made a few empty buckets topple over from the top. He quickly pulled you back to avoid you getting hit by the falling cleaning supplies, but in turn, it made your ass press against him a little harder.

"Fuck," he groaned, body going rigid when you gasped. You probably think he was a proper pervert now. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that either. And I tried to control it I swear but it's just—my senses are enhanced and you're so close and that kiss was really hot and you're even hotter and your ass really feels nice in my hands—shit! I shouldn't have said that, I should not have said that. I mean not! Not that it's untrue, it's very, very true. You've got a really pretty and nice ass and I should really shut up goddammit—"

You cut him off with a giggle, head tilting to the side as your fingers reached up, burying it in his now messy brown hair.

"I feel flattered that a kiss got you this excited," you teased, earning a soft whine from him.

"It's not just a kiss when I've been wanting to do it for so long," Peter confessed, kissing your shoulder softly before he mumbled, "And it's not my fault that you're out here looking like a goddess."

"Look at you," you giggled, squeezing his forearm that was wrapped around your waist. "That expensive suit is really doing wonders with your smoothness, huh?"

"It brings out the suave in me," he hummed, grinning. "Makes my eyes pop, too."

You let out a sweet, hearty laugh.

Peter chuckled, heart warming as he buried his face into your neck.

"How about you take this because I really don't want to accidentally drop it," he started, pulling the device out of his jacket and handing it over to you, kissing your shoulder with a deep breath, "And just give me a second to calm down."

You giggled.

But what you said next did anything but help.

"Yes, sir."

•••

It was quarter to seven when you both made your way down to the underground theater.

There were fewer people this time around. Peter supposed it was expected. What, with a secret auction selling dangerous weapons, you simply couldn't hand out invitations like it's free candy. It could land in the wrong hands—well, right hands, in this case.

He fiddled with the card inside his pocket, free fingers pushing up his glasses, eyes narrowed at the guards by the entrance.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath, noticing how they were ushering people into the theater individually. "I think it's a card for each person and we only have one—"

Peter stopped when he found no sign of you.

"You're not supposed to disappear without letting me know," he said through his comms.

He heard you giggle in response, "I was supposed to be back before you even notice."

"Point still stands," he grumbled. "Where are you?"

Peter grinned when he felt a familiar warmth behind him, your arms wrapping around his waist as you rested your chin on his shoulder.

"Hi."

"Hi," he chuckled, taking your hand to pull you by his side. He circled his arm around your waist, brow raised. "Where'd you go?"

You smiled innocently, yet the proud glimmer in your eyes was unmistakable. You held a hand up, a black and silver card pinched between two fingertips.

Always ten steps ahead of him.

It made him want to push you against a nearby wall and kiss the living daylights out of you.

"Now, how'd you get that?"

You winked. "You know I have my ways."

Before Peter could respond, everyone suddenly turned around to the sound of a commotion.

"Sir, you're not allowed without an invitation," one guard said.

"But I had it!" a man with a stark white beard exclaimed, patting around his pockets, "It was here!"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."

"Well, you just lost your highest bidder!"

Peter turned back to you, impressed. "You need to teach me how to do that."

"I can't teach you all my tricks—" your laugh died once you walked by a lamp, illuminating both your faces in this otherwise dimly lit entry hall. You pulled him back under the light, your eyes widening. "Oh shit."

"What?" he asked, worried. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just—" you snorted, gesturing to get him to come closer, hand cupping his cheek. "There's lipstick all over your mouth."

Peter blushed, chuckling, "Would it be so bad to just leave it?"

"You look like you just ate a can of tomato sauce."

Peter pouted.

You shook your head with a laugh, thumbs brushing as much lipstick stain as you could. Just when he thought you were done, you cupped his face, pulling him closer to kiss him firmly on the cheek.

"There," you hummed, giggling, "Since you want my lipstick on you so bad."

"It's hot," Peter shamelessly admitted with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but grinned anyway, taking his hand and pulling towards the entrance.

"Come on. Let's go spend the millions we don't have."

•••

It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle in their seats. You and Peter choose the front-right corner. It was near the stage but not at the center of attention.

As the clock struck seven, the main stage lights lit up. There were a couple of marble statues littered across—for decoration he assumed—and vases filled with wildflowers he could never name. Right at the center was a white podium, a huge projector screen behind it.

Then, a flash of gold appeared on the stage.

Peter immediately knew who they were.

"Welcome, everyone," the Auclair twins said in sync.

"Why is it always evil twins?" he said.

Obviously, he knew about Halbert, he was the one who gave him the card. But he didn't expect his twin sister to be in on it, too. But then again, the guy seemed to be all beauty with no brains.

And no, he wasn't biased.

"I knew there was something off about her," you scoffed, arms crossed over your chest, pout prominent as you glared at the stage. You were starting to look like you were throwing a tantrum. But Peter decided not to say anything.

Yet.

"I think you all know why we've gathered here so I won't bother you with unnecessary semantics," Greta started, waving her hand at the projector, now showing a live feed of the room you broke into earlier. "Any or all of those high-grade toys could be yours tonight, if you're willing to empty out your pockets, of course. But, to lift everyone's spirits up," Greta paused, giggling wickedly as she dug her fingers into the neckline of her dress, procuring the star of the night, and the bane of yours and Peter's existence.

"The Gold Codes and the nuclear football, available for bidding at the end of the night," she purred, waving the card around as if it wasn't one the most dangerous items on the planet. "We have to save the best for last, of course."

"So hiding things in your boobs is a common thing then," Peter said, catching the sour look on your face from the corner of his eye. He was trying really hard to bite back his smirk.

"So you found the codes before anyone else did."

"What?" Peter looked at you confused. "But I didn't."

"You did," you said, jaw ticking. "You just didn't know you were already looking at it."

It took Peter a moment.

"I was not looking at her boobs."

"Sure you weren't," you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"Darling," he drawled teasingly, playing up the accent, the fire in your glare unmistakable as you met his eyes. He pinched your chin between his forefinger and thumb with a grin. "You've got nothing to be jealous of."

Huffing, you pulled your face off his grasp, "Shut up."

"You know," he started, daringly throwing his arm over your shoulder. You were never one to cross when you were angry. But Peter simply wanted to have some harmless fun. After all, this was the first time he'd ever seen you like this. "I still haven't decided if you're cute or hot when you're jealous."

"Don't tempt me to punch you."

He chuckled, leaning to press his lips against your temple. His smile widened when he felt your whole body relax beside him.

"So, what’s the plan?" he murmured against your skin.

You shifted in your seat, resting your head on his shoulder.

"We wait until the codes and the football are up for bidding," you mumbled. "Then, I'm going to be a show-off, placing a higher bet over anyone while moving closer to the stage. Once I'm in good proximity, cause a distraction and I'll swipe the codes."

"Got it," he confirmed, flinching in his seat when he heard the bang of a hammer.

"Your numbered paddles are under your seats. Now, let's begin."

Peter had only seen auctions in movies, and they always seemed to be the most boring thing ever.

He never expected them to be as anxiety-inducing as this one.

It was probably the fact that these were dangerous and deadly weapons, carelessly sold to anyone who had the money to buy them. 

His heart would sink every time he'd hear that fucking hammer.

Peter was fidgeting with the bridge of his glasses, eyes sharply trained on the stolen Chitauri gun being wheeled off the stage.

"Relax," you whispered, hand on his knee to stop it from bouncing. "We've got backup near the premises. Once we secure the codes, they'll immediately interfere. None of those weapons are getting out of this building."

"They're buying it like it's candy," Peter grumbled frustratingly. "As if lives won't be put at risk if it gets out there."

"Next up, Oscorp's drone satellite," Greta introduced excitedly. "Bigger, better, deadlier than the one by Stark Industries."

Peter's fist clenched. "Why do they always find the need to one-up each other?"

"Egomaniac billionaires," you supplied, hand curling around his fist, bringing his knuckles up to your lips before you intertwined your fingers together.

It helped him calm down a little.

"Things are starting to get boring, don't we think?" Greta laughed, waving around the controller. It was either she wasn't aware of how dangerous the device in her hand was, or she simply didn't care. Her wicked grin told Peter it was the latter. "So how about we do a little test run?"

"Shit," he cursed, sitting upright. "That's not part of the plan."

"You're the faster one," you said, tone calm as you tugged your skirt discreetly and pulled your gun out. "When I give the signal, immediately run towards her and secure codes."

"What signal?"

You stood up, gun raised.

Everyone froze as you shot at the wires that held the scaffolding that was hanging on top of the stage. It immediately gave way, dropping onto the wooden stage and blocking both exits on each side.

Chaos erupted then.

The people running towards the small entryway made it difficult for the guards to get in right away.

But Peter was still staring at you in shock.

"Go!"

He snapped out of it, taking long strides towards the stage, reaching the twins just in time before they could even manage to escape.

"Mr. Reid," Halbert chuckled darkly, pushing Greta right behind him before pulling out a revolver. "You should've bought a gun."

"Well, good thing I did," Peter quipped, reaching inside his holster only to find nothing. He looked up, eyes wide. "Shit. I dropped it."

"Oh my God—" Peter heard you groan in disappointment, and he could practically hear that eye roll.

He would've found the time to be embarrassed if Halbert hadn't started shooting at him. He dodged every bullet easily. His enhanced reflexes paired with how inaccurate this guy's aim was, it wasn't really much of a challenge.

And no, he wasn't showing off.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Peter couldn't stop his chuckle when he heard the familiar clicking of an empty cylinder.

"Well, looks like I didn’t even need one," he bragged as he stalked towards Halbert, yanking the gun out of his hold before hitting him on the side of the head with the butt of his own gun, rendering him unconscious. He turned to Greta with a mocking tut, "Your twin isn't the wisest, isn't he?"

"No," she scoffed, smile widening as she glanced over his shoulder. "But he bought us time."

Peter saw the entryway clear of civilians, the armed guards swiftly invading the theater.

"Shit."

A flash of red caught his eye, your sharp heels clicking rapidly before you slid on the floor, picking up the gun Peter dropped. You knelt on one knee, gun in each hand, aiming it toward the guards and raining hell on them motherfuckers.

You didn't miss a shot.

He shook his head in awe, "And you said to hold it with two hands!"

"I've fired guns since I was twelve!" you said, tilting your head to throw him a smirk. "I think I can be an exception."

How could he argue with that?

Peter swerved to the right, heart thumping as the glint of a knife covered his periphery. He grabbed their wrist, pulling him forward in one swift motion and throwing the culprit towards the seats.

"Who brings a knife to a gunfight?" he huffed as he kicked away the knife that fell out of their hand.

Peter's attention got stolen by your growl.

His eyes landed on you just in time to see you grab a man's forearm from behind, using all your body weight and the right momentum to throw him over your shoulder, a pained scream when you undoubtedly dislodged his arm, the knife clinking onto the floor. You kicked the guy on the head, his eyes rolling back as he turned limp. You stepped on the knife's handle to fling it into the air, catching it with your left hand before flipping to your right, holding your skirt taught before cutting a new slit on your skirt. Then, you spun, red dress flowing with the motion as you kicked the guy running towards you on the side of his throat.

If Peter wasn't in love before, he sure as hell was now.

"What?" you panted when you caught his gaze, brows furrowed.

"That was so hot," Peter breathed out, your eyes rolling for the umpteenth time before they suddenly widened.

"Down!"

He ducked as you threw the knife, the blade soaring past him and landing into the guy's shoulder, the gun that was aimed at Peter's distracted ass dropping onto the floor.

He looked back at you in absolute wonder.

And did his pants grow a little tighter?

"Will you marry me?"

"Jesus—focus!"

"Is that a 'no'?!" he called out teasingly, elbowing one guy on the chin before hurling his unconscious body toward his allies. He called it the bowling move. Taking a gun from the floor, he turned to you with a pout. "Can't believe you'd reject me, babe!"

"Kinda in the middle of something here!" you yelled back, shooting a guy on the leg before knocking him out with the butt of your gun. You stood straight with a deep breath, tilting your head with your lips pursed before nodding behind him. "How about you help me get those codes first?"

Peter turned, seeing Greta dragging her twin towards the side exit.

"Oh yeah, right," he chuckled sheepishly before going after her. "My bad!"

Fully catching him off guard, Peter flew forward and landed on his chest when Greta swiped his legs. He rolled onto his back, narrowly avoiding the six-inch heel she dug into the floor where his head was supposed to be.

"So you can fight," he breathed out, doing a kip up to get back on his feet.

"I bite too," she hummed, winking. "And I've been wanting to sink my teeth into you, pretty boy."

"Uh, thanks?" he chuckled dryly, face scrunched up. He swerved the knife she threw at him, looking back only to see she got two more, one on each hand. He sighed, "Great. You throw knives."

"What?" she asked, tone mocking as she flipped one in the air, catching the blade in between her fingers with ease. "You don't like knife play?"

"That doesn't sound like fun," he grumbled, running towards her, swiftly ducking as she kicked her leg before grabbing her by the ankles.

Greta fell on the floor with a thud, yet she was quick to kick his knee with her other foot, Peter hissing as her sharp heel dug into his skin. She used this slim window to pull her leg forward, dragging Peter with it and making him land right on top of her.

"Quite a handsome face. Maybe we can go out for dinner sometime," she purred, running her tongue over her lip as she traced his jaw with a knife, sharp tip teasing his throat. "The real party happens later in the night, of course."

"Yeah, no thanks," he breathed out, pulling his head back and quickly grabbing her arms, flipping her onto her stomach in one swift motion. Peter pinned her down using his body weight as he knocked the knives out of her hands. He pulled her wrist towards her back, his knees tight on either side of her hips as he sat up. Holding her wrists with one hand, he undid his necktie with the other, tying her up securely before letting go.

"Kinky," she huffed out a giggle.

Peter rolled his eyes, pulling her up by the shoulders until she was seated on the floor. He walked around, dusting off his suit and adjusting his glasses—they got sticky tape on the sides to not let them fall off during fights. He thought about this ahead, thank you very much—as he stood in front of her.

"I guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones," she said, head tilted as she shamelessly ran her eyes down his body before meeting his eyes. "You're a different kind of man, Lucas Reid."

"The name's Parker," he said with a deep voice as he buttoned up his jacket with the utmost seriousness on his face. "Peter Parker."

You scoffed loudly.

Peter immediately spun, his landing eyes on your figure standing behind him, your jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest, a scowl on your pretty face with that fiery glare to match.

Oh you were pissed.

But Peter had a feeling it wasn't at him.

"You've been itching to do that the whole night, have you?"

"Maybe," he chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, nodding towards Greta.

"Just take the codes."

Peter stared at you like you'd grown a second head.

"What?" you asked, voice taut, so clearly getting annoyed.

"You take the codes."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I respect women?"

You blinked a few times before dropping your head with an exasperated groan.

"What? You know where it's hidden!" he exclaimed in defense, gesturing towards the bound woman. "I'm not just slipping my hand in there!"

"I have a feeling she won't mind," you muttered to yourself, but thanks to his enhanced hearing, he heard you loud and clear. "You've practically been humping each other."

Peter decided to keep quiet, scared that you'd actually punch him this time.

Though the glare you shot him was proof that you knew he heard you.

You shook your head, another eye roll before you walked over to Greta, bending at the waist until your face was level with hers.

"Let’s make this quick. Left or right?" you asked.

"Dégage, salope," she hissed.

You gasped, hand over your mouth in feigned shock. "Now, that's not nice."

"Wait, what did she say?" Peter asked as he stood by the sidelines, not too close but not too far. He was giving you the space to do your thing.

"She called me a bitch," you cooed, pouting condescendingly. "Fine. Since you don't want to make this easier for us—"

Before Peter could even question what you were about to do, you stomped on a knife, catching the handle mid-air and straight up slashing the blade in front of Greta.

"Woah!"

Peter downright expected you to have chopped her whole head off—okay, maybe slit her throat because the knife wasn't that big.

But nothing happened.

No chopping, no slicing, no blood, nothing.

Well, not until a split second later when Greta gasped, the top half of her—really expensive, he assumed—dress sliding down her body.

Peter looked away immediately, face hot as he screwed his eyes shut, turning his back on her for good measure.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he muttered, taking his glasses off to rub his face with his palm.

But he couldn't wipe his smile off.

Peter knew you could take the codes without having to cut her dress. You were simply being petty. And it was safe to assume it had something to do with the way Greta had been shamelessly flirting with him for the whole night.

Your jealousy fed his ego a little bit.

"You can look now," you said, tone low. "She's covered."

"Are you sure?"

You scoffed, "It's not like you don't want to see it, anyway."

Peter swiftly turned, only catching a glimpse of Greta now wearing Halbert's jacket with the matching gold tie gagging her mouth.

He immediately turned to you who was standing to the side, looking anywhere else but at him. He walked over, rubbing up and down your arms until you uncrossed them. He pulled you closer by the waist, nudging your nose while mirroring your pout.

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Then why did you do that?"

"I had to get the codes."

"Yeah, but it didn't have to involve boobage exposure."

"Boobage exposure," you snorted, the corner of your lip twitching as you finally met his eyes. "I feel like that's something you enjoy."

"I didn't even look!" he defended, his smile widening when you tried your best to hide yours. "I promise. I didn't want to, either."

You shook your head, sighing, "You're such an annoying dork."

"Your annoying dork."

That made your smile appear.

"My dork, huh?" you hummed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Peter smiled, pulling you closer, tip of his nose brushing yours. "Well, if you'll have me, that is."

"Have you as what, exactly?"

"Your boyfriend," he said, slightly surprised by his own boldness. But then again, you two had already established what you felt for each other. The fear of rejection wasn't there anymore. Shaking his head with a smile, he added, "Wait, answer that on our date this Friday?"

"Love the newfound confidence, Agent Parker," you said, giggling. "And yes, to both questions,"

"I really like the sound of Agent Parker," he hummed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "Am I a certified spy now?"

"Eh, if you don't drop your gun next time, then sure."

"Come on," he sighed, pouting. "I could use a name change, you know, like Spy-Dork-Man."

Peter burst out laughing when you physically cringed.

"Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't kick you because of that god awful pun."

"Because I'm your dork now, bad puns included, so you're going to have to get used to it from early doors."

"Touché," you laughed.

Peter looked at you adoringly, but just as he was about to kiss you, a sudden ruckus of applause made you both jump, stance on defense reflexively.

It was the team, right in front of the stage, clapping and wolf-whistling like a bunch of assholes.

Peter groaned, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms around you.

"About time you two solved this…tension you have," Wanda said as she reached the stage, gesturing at the two of you before she held her hand out to Bucky. "Hand it over, Super Soldier. She technically kissed him first,"

"Maybe I shouldn't have held Sam back from unmuting the line in the closet," Bucky sighed, pulling out his wallet and handing over twenty dollars.

"You had a bet?" you gaped at the two of them.

Peter turned to Sam. "You tried to interrupt us again?"

"I wouldn't have to if you guys didn't constantly forget that your comms aren't reserved for the two of you only," the Captain chuckled.

"You guys were so cute, though," Wanda said with a smile.

"The smooching sounds were a bit much." Bucky grimaced.

"Don't forget the abundant talk about boobs and ass," Harley laughed, appearing from behind everyone with a bag in hand. "Good thing you finally grew those balls though, Parker. I've grown really tired of hearing you whine about your obsession—sorry, I mean, crush on her."

"Shut up, man," Peter groaned, burying his face back on your shoulder to hide.

"Leave him alone," you laughed, rubbing his back in comfort.

"I wished I could've hacked the cams earlier so it would've been like watching a James Bond movie meets rom-com live," Harley said. "But the audio was good, popcorns still definitely enjoyed."

"Lives were on the line and you guys enjoyed popcorn," you deadpanned.

Sam laughed as he patted both of your backs. "Nah, we just knew you two got it handled."

"What are you guys doing here then?" Peter countered, glaring at them.

"Clean up," Wanda said, cracking her fingers before adding, "I also need to erase your faces off of people's memories because blowing your covers wasn't exactly part of the plan."

"And this guy practically gave out his real name," Bucky chuckled, patting Peter's shoulder before moving over to the unconscious men lying on the floor.

"I couldn't let the opportunity slip!" Peter protested. "It's probably going to be my only James Bond moment, I had to take it."

"That was pretty stupid," you said, scrunching your face at him with a laugh.

"I know that now, thanks," he grumbled.

"Here." Harley tossed him his web shooters and mask, and Peter felt a sense of comfort as he snapped them onto his wrists.

"Pete, you think you can swing us home?" you asked, slipping your fingers into his.

"Yeah, of course," he chuckled, squeezing your hand. He could definitely get used to feeling your affectionate touch constantly.

"Right, we're going to leave this to you guys, now bye!" you called out before you all but dragged him towards the exit, Peter's groan and your laugh echoing down the hall when Sam yelled,

"Use protection!"

•••

You both were honestly too tired to even attempt and continue what started in the closet.

Well, you did try to.

When you landed back at the compound, you both decided to go to your separate rooms and take much-needed hot showers first. But getting to your quarters in itself probably took around ten minutes, all because Peter simply couldn't help but stop every couple of meters down the halls, pressing you against the nearest wall to kiss you senseless.

It took you shutting the door on his face for you both to finally wash off the sweat and grime of the day.

After he was all cleaned and clothed, he didn't waste any time making his way out of his room. But when he opened the door, you were already standing there, fist in the air, mid-knock.

Peter chuckled as he grabbed your waist and pulled you into his room, giggles and satisfied sighs bouncing off his walls as his lips covered your own. He grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you with ease, a murmured comment from you about him showing off his super strength as he carried you to his bed.

But the second you both hit the mattress, it was simply far too comfy and soft that the intense heat of the kiss gradually simmered into a mellow warmth. His body was covering yours, fingers intertwined, lips moving slowly, lazily yet just as sweet. 

And after a few more moments of you two languidly kissing, you ended up settling with cuddles for the night.

Now, here you were, being the little spoon with your back pressed against his chest, limbs tangled, bodies warm and snug under the covers. He was drawing lazy circles on your stomach, his eyes growing heavier with each rise and fall of your chest, the steady beat of your heart lulling him.

Peter thought you were already fast asleep. And he was just about to follow suit until you spoke up,

"Are your hands cold?"

"Not really," he murmured, voice a little rough. "Why?"

"You can always use my boobs in case you need to warm them up."

He groaned, burying his face onto your shoulder. "Are you ever going to let this go?"

"What?" you giggled softly. "You just seemed so interested in their warmth earlier. I'm allowing you to quell your curiosity."

Peter lifted himself a little, just so he could get a clear view of your face.

"Is this a genuine invitation for me to cup your boobs?"

"Only if you wanna," you said, turning to him with a soft smile, eyes half-lidded. "No playing, though."

He nodded with a laugh, settling behind you and gently sneaking his hand under your shirt, no pressure or anything so that you'll be able to move away whenever you wanted to. Then again, you were skilled enough to break his wrist, anyway.

But you didn't do that, not at all.

Instead, you shifted in your place, providing more space for his arm to fully wrap around your torso until he was cupping a boob in his hand.

You sighed, body melting into the mattress even more, your back warmly pressed against his chest as you nosed his pillow.

"They are really warm," he hummed, his whole body relaxing as he let his hand just…be there, without any malice whatsoever. "This is oddly comforting."

"Yeah," you mumbled, a loud yawn following suit. "Like stress balls."

Peter chuckled, "That's one way of describing it."

You hummed, yawning out a soft, "Good night, Pete."

Peter smiled. "Good night, angel."

The next response he got was your soft snores as you finally drifted off to sleep,

Peter didn't expect his night to end with you sleeping in bed with him, all cuddled up in his arms, let alone, with him cupping your boob—which he surprisingly found comforting and adorable rather than anything else.

But he did expect to fall asleep with a huge smile on his face.

And then later in the morning, the thing that would wake him up wouldn't be the sunlight anymore, it'd be your warmth, tickling his skin as you cuddle closer to him. A tired, yet satisfied smile would curl on his lips as he would bury his nose into your hair, breathing in your sweet scent. It was much more comforting, hearing your little snores and sighs, or even your occasional mumbles about whatever it was you were dreaming about.

It was new, but definitely something he could get used to.

It was going to be a peaceful Sunday morning with you, and Peter really loved that.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

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[goldenseresinretriever]

False Confidence: Prologue

Pairing: Javy “Coyote” Machado x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: The Athletic named Javy Machado the fifth sluttiest player in the NHL last year. He’s a known playboy who leaves every game with a different girl. As far as he’s concerned he’s living the dream, playing his dream job with the dream lifestyle. Unfortunately his friends and bosses don’t agree. At 33, they think it’s time for him to settle down. You’re a kindergarten teacher at an esteemed private school. You don't expect much when you finally accept your colleague’s invitation to attend her husband’s hockey game but when you accidentally get separated in the post-game rush, you find yourself in a compromising situation with the last person you’d ever expected to meet. When his PR rep suggests a mutually beneficial agreement, your hands are tied. How long will you have to keep up the act? And how long will you be able to?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, angst, fluff, fake relationship, suggestive language, anxiety, school system inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. There will be individual chapter warnings. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: This is a repost from my series, False Confidence. It was originally posted in March 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

You stare at the event on your calendar, willing it to disappear into the void. The words “staff meeting” glare back at you as you glance at the clock. Five more minutes. Maybe they’ll cancel. Maybe the sun will fall out of the sky. You nibble your lower lip before you can catch yourself. Your fingers worry the hem of your sweater, keeping time with the thundering of your heart. It’s fine. You’re okay. It’s just a staff meeting. After three years working at Acacia Academy, you’re more comfortable here than you’ve been in any job before, the product of time invested and the aid of a stable schedule, but sometimes you have days like this. Days when the pounding in your heart reaches your ears, echoing like the drum of an executioner signaling your imminent demise.

“Roadie?” Three minutes left and a familiar voice calls out your nickname. You force your lips to curl into a smile as you turn to the door of your currently empty classroom. Your colleague and perhaps your only work friend, Josie Fitch is leaning against the doorframe. She’s wearing the patient, sweet smile she’s always using on her rowdy fourth-grade class. “You ready to go? We have that staff meeting today, remember?” You nod, finding it harder to keep the smile on your face at the reminder of the meeting. Nevertheless, you force yourself to stand, smoothing a hand over your slacks before crossing the room to where Josie’s waiting. She slides her hand into yours, pulling you along after her to the teacher’s lounge and staff conference room.

When you reach the room, it’s already at least half full. Thankfully, Josie takes pity on you and slides into the last pair of chairs in the back of the room, leaving the seats at the front for the stragglers. Dan Jackson, the principal, is standing at the front of the room, hands clasped in front of him and a firm look on his face that makes you struggle not to fidget. Principal Jackson’s gaze drags over the room as the clock strikes three thirty and heaves a heavy sigh before clearing his throat.

“Regardless of attendance, let’s get started. After thoughtful consideration, the school will be implementing a new soft policy. In the face of our upcoming contract renewals and an effort to combat employee fraternization, we’ll be looking at relationship status as a qualification when deciding which contracts get renewed. While a stable relationship is not a hard requirement, as that’s not enforceable under the law, it will greatly help your case for re-employment. Your heart is beating so loudly in your ears that you can barely hear Principal Jackson as he continues. Josie seems to notice your distress and squeezes your hand gently. She doesn’t have anything to worry about since she’s been happily married for twelve years and she’s the mother of two beautiful children who are currently students at Acadia. Not for the first time, you wonder why you didn’t just take a job at a public school. You wouldn’t have to deal with these borderline illegal policies and all the politics that come with working for a private school that’s unregulated by a school board. Unfortunately, public schools are a nightmare for you. Hundreds of students, dozens of teachers, and large buildings make any kind of familiarity almost impossible. During your student teaching years, you worked in a public school and you were constantly on edge leading to your pivot into private schools. Sure the administration is almost always corrupt and the parents are entitled, but at least you know every one of your students and colleagues by name, and as long as you keep your head down, you stay out of trouble. And you’ve done exactly that. Despite the issues Principal Jackson’s speaking about regarding employee fraternization, you’ve been removed from that. No one pays you much attention. Well aside from Jeremy Dickinson.

Jeremy came to Acacia Academy the same year that you did and while you tend towards the fringes of social circles, he’s magnetic and constantly the center of attention. You have a sneaking suspicion that this meeting and new policy is actually a direct response to the negative side effects of said magnetism. Jeremy’s the one that gave you your nickname, Roadrunner or Roadie for short. You’re always dashing from place to place, trying to stay out of people’s way and he joked that you resembled the speedy cartoon character. Now more teachers refer to you by the nickname than by your real name and while it used to annoy you, you’ve taken to appreciating the kind of anonymity that the nickname gives you. If people want to see you as a caricature rather than a person, you’re alright with that as long as their eyes slide over you instead of lingering.

While you’ve been lost in your thoughts, the meeting has come to a close and you slump into your seat as the reality of your situation comes crashing down onto you. Josie’s giving you a concerned look that you do your best to ignore as you stand and head into the mass of people squeezing through the doorway, eager to head home for the day. Josie follows you but doesn’t speak up until you’re back in your classroom. “So, Roadie, what are your plans for the evening?” She’s deflecting, giving you the option to bring up the meeting yourself. You sigh heavily as you start to pack your belongings.

“Looking for a new job, apparently.” You answer with a hollow laugh. She frowns at that.

“You know that policy isn’t about you, right? That’s for people like Jeremy who can’t keep it in their pants. You’ve never dated anyone at school.” You’ve never dated anyone but that’s beside the point. Andrew St. James doesn’t count or so your high school therapist had assured you.

You shrug as you slide your laptop into your tote bag. “You heard Principal Jackson. He wants people in relationships working here. I’m not in a relationship, so I’m at a disadvantage.”

“So maybe you should get a boyfriend,” Josie suggests like it’s the easiest thing in the world and you feel a twinge of bitter jealousy in your chest. As if it’s that simple.

“That’s not going to happen.” You say with a tired shake of your head as you slide the bag onto your shoulder. Josie shrugs but lets the conversation drop.

“If you’re free tonight, you should come with us to the game.” Josie’s been trying to invite you to one of her husband’s games all season. Reuben Fitch is a winger for the newly formed San Diego Dogfighters hockey team here in San Diego. You don’t know the first thing about hockey and sports games are the last place you’d rather be so you’ve casually dodged the invitations over and over but today you’re simply too tired to keep shutting Josie down.

“Sure, why not.” You relent and Josie’s face lights up with excitement.

“Really?! Oh, that’s great, Roadie, the kids will be so excited that you’re coming! They keep begging me to bring you!” The Fitch kids, Jamie and Skylar attend Acacia Academy and thanks to your friendship with Josie and the fact that you’re Skylar’s teacher, you’re all thick as thieves. You’ve babysat for Reuben and Josie plenty of times, giving them some well-deserved time to themselves. As a hockey player, Reuben’s traveling for work almost as much as he’s home, and between that and wanting to be as present of a parent as possible he doesn’t have a lot of time to spend with his wife. Thankfully, Josie takes it in stride, leading her family with a poise you’re constantly impressed by while her husband is away and you’re more than willing to help where you can. While you’ve never been comfortable with your peers, you’ve always been comfortable with children. You think maybe it’s because they don’t expect you to be anything more than yourself. The younger the better in that respect and that’s why you teach kindergarten. Josie gives you the details for this evening, offering to drive you to the arena with them so you don’t have to bother with parking and you swallow hard as you make your way to your car trying to convince yourself that you haven’t just made a huge mistake.

***

You’re starting to wish you hadn’t taken up Josie on her offer. You’re sitting next to Skylar at the end of the row in case you need to make a quick escape. You’re up by the glass and the people in the next section are banging on it as the players zip around on the ice. The kids are caught up in the infectious energy buzzing through the Hard Deck arena. It’s got you dizzy with nerves. One of the Dogfighters slams one of the opposing team against the glass in front of you and you jump, stomach queasy. How anyone could enjoy watching let alone playing this sport is beyond you. You fiddle with the hem of your new sweater that Josie insisted on getting you after the slightly chilly air in the arena was adding to your shivers. The Dogfighters logo is emblazoned on the olive green fabric and it’s ridiculously soft but that’s to be expected given its hefty price tag. You protested but Josie pointed out that she could probably get it discounted and maybe even reimbursed afterward due to her husband’s role on the team. The score is in the Dogfighters’ favor as the other team can’t seem to get on the board. Another player slams into the glass and you jump all over again, realizing this time it’s one of the opposing team shoving a Dogfighter. Despite the fact that he’s most likely going to wake up with an array of bruises you notice that he’s got a fierce grin on his face, dark eyes dancing dangerously as he pushes off the wall and giving chase to his assailant. You suppose you have to love the sport to play it for a living but you’re still struck by his expression long after the game has moved on.

***

The game ends with the Dogfighters shutting out Los Vegas 5-0 and the crowd is in good spirits pushing and shoving as they all try to exit the arena at once. You feel your body get shoved and jostled by a stray elbow and you stumble, righting yourself and realizing you’ve lost track of Josie and the kids. Panic climbs up your throat as you’re carried forward by the crowd as you whip your head from side to side, trying to find your group. You make it through the door and people jostle you every which way as you try and escape the crowd and find somewhere quiet to call Josie. You try to dull the panic as you fight against the stream of people, ducking down hallways, anything to get away from the crowds that are causing your heartbeat to echo in your ears yet again. Finally, you find yourself in some abandoned hallway and fish out your phone, cursing as you realize you don’t have service. You’re about to head back the way you came, anxiety pulsing through your veins when a voice startles you.

“Well, well, you’re definitely not supposed to be here.” You whip around, fear clenching your chest as you spot the man leaning against the wall. His posture is casual but his gaze is electric, curiosity dancing in dark brown eyes. You recognize him as the player you noticed earlier, the one who’d been thrown into the glass. He’s still in his equipment but he’s ditched the helmet, and now you have an unrestricted view of his face. He’s handsome, with a strong jaw and full lips that are currently pulled into a playful smirk. You stammer as you try to find your voice to explain what you’re doing here but he just chuckles, pushing off the wall and stalking towards you like a wolf approaching its prey. You’re pinned to the spot as he comes up, invading your personal space and you can smell the sweat on his skin and something else, a heady, spicier scent that tickles your nose. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf as he takes your chin in his hand, frozen from his brazen actions and unable to step away. His eyes search yours before his smirk widens.

“Lucky for you, beautiful, I like a girl who knows what she wants.” His eyes darken and you barely catch the glint in them before his mouth is on yours.

[trans-axolotl]

I went to the anarchist/abolitionist healthcare conference this weekend, and it was really a beautiful experience that I don't even have words for. Being able to share resources, knowledge, dreams, and joy together with other people invested in this work was so special, and I gained a ton of hope by seeing the many ways that other people are actively engaged in resisting these fucked up systems and building care into our communities. I gave a presentation about psych abolition, talked about resistance within the psych ward, and got a standing ovation from a room filled with 50 people, many of whom were mental health professionals looking to build solidarity. I legitimately almost cried because of being to have that experience with my mad comrades. I met so many beautiful crazy people who intimately understand what it means to survive as a mad person, and just gained so much knowledge from people actively putting their abolitionist values into practice. I want to share a few of my favorite resources that I became aware of at this conference, and I'll make another post later with some of my key takeaways.

Mutual Aid Self/Social Therapy: This is a support framework designed by one of my friends that provides an intentional structure for providing therapetuic support within communities, especially organizing communities where there's a lot of burnout. It offers so many resources for skills training to allow anyone, whether you have a background in emotional support or not, to set this up within your community. The framework is purposefully not hierarchial or transactional, and allows for actually addressing people's material conditions as well as providing space for emotional processing.

Of Unsound Mind: Incredible archive and research on psychiatric history. Mostly focused around America, but also has some info on other countries. The author of the website will be coming out with a book later this year, which I think is mostly going to be about the Trieste, Basaglia, and that history of psych resistance in Italy.

Power makes us Sick: Collective that focuses on autonomous healthcare and emotional support, especially in terms of autonomous trans healthcare. Has some fabulous zines and resources.

A Corpse among Corpses: Incredible documentary about asylum graveyards in the Midwest and the trade of graverobbing for experimentation in medical schools, and how this connects to settler colonialism, slavery, eugenics, and modern gentrification. Really do want to emphasize a trigger warning for genocide, eugenics, medical violence, self harm, antiblack racism, instituionalization, and lots of discussion of death. I talked a lot with the filmmakers, and really appreciated their care and intent in making this film as a way of bearing witness rather than exploiting atrocity in the name of art, but do want to be very clear that this film is incredibly heavy to watch and might be something worth doing with other people. It was deeply impactful for me, and made me tear up many times.

The Living Museum: Through transforming the old Creedmoor hospital grounds into a musuem and workspace for current patients to showcase their art, this space celebrates psychiatric resistance, transformation, struggle, and joy. I really want to go visit and share in that space, as it seems just so fucking cool. It seems like you might need to contact directly to schedule a visit.

Cahoots Crisis Response Model: This is one model for crisi intervention teams that respond instead of police. They are not perfect, still have some enagement with police, but are an interesting example of how to try to implement these types of programs. Since theyv'e been around for 25 years, they have a lot of knoweldeg and could be a good first group to reach out to if you're trying to create this in your community.

Overall this whole weekend was a beautiful example of how to put our values into practice, and really just wanted to share these projects with you all!

[marc--chilton]

mgv house!! okay so what if house is left alone in his & wilson’s apartment while wilson goes to a conference in another state, and something about being away from wilson for a longer period than normal mixed with a bad pain day triggers an early heat. he tries to ignore it for a day or so, since wilson had scheduled this so perfectly to line up with their cycles (which had synced and were due in like a week) BUT eventually he just Cannot Handle It so he calls wilson absolutely RABID with the need to be railed so hard he forgets his own name. cue wilson pacing a hotel room and trying to a) get a plane home asap, like calling around madly trying to find some way to get back to his omega. b) have desperate needy phone sex with house to try and help as much as he can from a distance and c) keep his own rut at bay which is becoming increasingly more difficult since he keeps hearing house whining and begging and pleading and whimpering about how desperately he needs to be knotted 🥰 pls also imagine what both of them would do the SECOND wilson opens the front door to their apartment. thank u for ur time

HELLOOOOOOOO ANON

some omegas cycles aren't so bad, manageable with toys if an alpha isn't available, but house's heats are SO bad. he fevers, he aches, and the stress to his system aggravates his leg until he's in agony. the echo of his Doctor Brain telling him the endorphins will help; his hands shook so bad when he tried to take some vicodin he dropped the bottle out of his nest, and getting out of it when he feels that bad is unfathomable.

he still has the phone at his bedside, though. and even as miserable and stupid as he is, he still manages to call wilson. luckily wilson is his hotel room in vermont when he picks up because house's keening is more than audible to any would-be passerby. he hadn't even had a chance to snarkily greet him before house was whining these awful rattling breaths. it sets off alarms immediately. he knows those noises.

"it's your heat, isn't it?" a meek yeah tinged with pain is his answer.

but when he tries to hang up so he can call cuddy, house sobs. the resolve shatters instantly. so wilson instead calls cuddy with the room's phone with his cell close enough for house to pick up his voice but with his thumb over the speaker to muffle the sounds of an omega in distress.

at first, cuddy simply does not believe him. "he's probably just bored and trying to trick you. there's that saying, 'everyone lies'--"

and it swells something ugly and protective in his gut, just like every other time he has to defend house from her, or the board, or vogler, or tritter, or the fucking hundreds of other people that have the power to make house's life worse.

"you think i don't know my own omega?" he growls without thinking. a challenge is clear in his words, one alpha to another. later wilson would wince at his choice of words and nothing else.

the line crackles with cuddy's sigh after a few seconds of silence -- even house's muffled whining on the cell has dimmed. "dammit, wilson," she huffs wearily. "he's already pulling you down to his level. at this rate you'll be in full rut by tomorrow, just in time for your panel--"

"i know, lisa." wilson has to set his cell down to pinch the bridge of his nose before he snaps again. "but i need you to find me the next flight back. he needs me."

cuddy's tone is laced with something almost sad among the ire. "he always needs you, wilson. you owe me." then she hangs up.

he lets himself have a moment of composure only to realize house has been quiet. cautious, not unlike how he would approach house when he's in the throes of it in person, he puts the cell back up to his ear. house is saying something and sheets are rustling. "house? you still with me? i can't hear you."

the shifting gets louder -- did he drop the phone? -- and suddenly house is panting into the receiver, "yours... 'm yours, always..." and wilson is FLOORED at how he can almost smell the pheromones through the phone, can practically see house's pathetic attempts to grind into the bed when his leg is spasming.

it's so pitiful it makes wilson's heart clench and his slacks tight. "oh, honey...."

[sarahowritesostucky]

Art: @hopelessartgeek

📖 "Medically Necessitated" Ch 5

Rated: Explicit Pairing: Bucky x Steve Tags: a/b/o, age gap, past rape, rape recovery, trauma recovery, pregnancy, medical trauma, hurt/comfort, mentions of CSA, religious fundamentalism, first time, gender dysphoria, male omegas are intersex (peen & vagine) Summary: After a medical emergency brings him into the ER, Bucky escapes the religious cult he's been raised in. It's up to Steve, nurse practitioner and omega sex & repro specialist, to see him through a medically supervised heat.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter! Story masterlist

5. Robert Wheeler

Just as the bond is settling, someone from Bucky's past shows up unexpectedly.

“Good boy,” Steve praises again, when Bucky obeys him and finishes a fair amount from the breakfast tray.

By the time they’d woken from their nap it’d been nearly noon, so they nuked everything and had breakfast for lunch. Bucky’s been saying he isn’t hungry, but he needs carbs and sugars during his cycle, and thankfully he’s been very compliant to Steve’s commands now that they have each other’s pheromones in their systems.

They’re bonded.

Steve had Voiced for him to eat at least one of the pancakes, “with plenty of syrup.” Bucky ate two.

Once he's finished, Steve puts the tray outside the suite and relocks the door. There’s a notification flashing on the room’s tablet. He pulls it down to check and sees it’s a message from Banner.

B. Banner M.D. [om-Sex&Repro]: We need samples: CBC, BMP, TFT. And a urinalysis.

Steve twists his lips and types back: Urgent?

The tablet chimes as Banner’s reply comes through.

B. Banner M.D. [om-Sex&Repro]: No. After his next insemination would be ideal.

Even Steve has to grimace at that one. People in his field can tend to become callous and clinical in their language over time. Steve really hopes he isn’t that bad yet. There’s a message from Sam as well, marked from earlier that morning.

S. Wilson R.P.N. [om-Psy]: I have him booked for a session. Banner knows to send him my way once you two are done shacking up. And they’re scheduling a care plan conference at his discharge. Barton says the foster parents will probably show, so you should prepare him for that.

Steve’s still frowning at that when the tablet pings another incoming message. “Christ.”

C. Barton L.C.S.W. [om-Care]: Somebody from his home situation showed up. They’re forcing legal into a meeting. Today. They won’t get him, but Phil wants you there if possible.

Another, automated notification pops up on the home screen. It’s from legal, informing Steve of the conference room he’s now supposed to try and get to in only a few hours. Tense, he grits his teeth and tries to mentally clock out if he could possibly get Bucky down to a dip somewhere around 3:30. That’d feasibly give him time to—

He glances up to see Bucky, sitting in the bed and watching him use the tablet. “What’s it say?” Bucky asks.

Steve hurriedly sends back a thumbs up emoji to each of the messages and closes out the app. “Just a few staff notes,” he says, purposefully vague. Bucky might panic if he knows anybody from his old life is here trying to claim him. “The doctor wants to test your blood again. And I’m supposed to try and make a meeting in a few hours.”

Bucky shrinks into the back wall of the nest. “Oh. So … you’ll leave me alone? And somebody else is going to come and—”

“No,” Steve cuts him off, shaking his head. “No, nobody else is coming. I’ll do the blood draw myself.” He sees Bucky visibly relax at this, and offers him a tender smile. “I promised you, remember? Nobody but your Support touches you while you’re in here.”

“And that’s you.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, Buck. That’s me. Did you get enough to eat?” He goes over to the counter and grabs a protein bar for himself. He’s got it ripped open and half the thing rammed down his throat by the time he turns back around to face Bucky. The omega has rolled up the sleeve of his bathrobe and is blinking at Steve expectantly. Steve makes a sound past his mouthful of granola and swallows. “Aw, no, not yet, Sweetheart.” He walks back over to the bed and stops Bucky with a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no rush. It can wait.”

He purposefully doesn’t mention the ‘insemination’ factor from Banner’s message. Knotting Bucky’s body and exposing him to alpha semen during his heat is a therapeutic tool that’s part of what’s helping here, but Steve is almost positive that the kid doesn’t really understand that. Bucky’s certainly had zero sex education on such topics, and Steve doesn’t think bringing up words like ‘insemination’ would be helpful at all. “I’ll take your blood later,” he simply tells him, then changes the topic by asking the omega if he’d like to use the bathroom or maybe watch a show during the lull before his next peak. “They’ve got Netflix and Hulu,” he says. “Disney Plus too now, I think.”

Bucky glances briefly at the tv on the wall, but then decides, “... Yeah I’ll grab a shower.” He wrinkles his nose and grimaces down at himself. “Cause, ya know, I probably stink by now.”

Steve laughs. “Oh I’m sure we both do. We’re just nose-blind to it at this point.” He cheerfully reminds Bucky that the tub has jets, and Bucky perks up and heads into the bathroom to investigate. Steve doesn’t follow at first, convinced that the omega will want his privacy.

But Bucky soon reappears in the bathroom doorway, peeking back out. “Um, the tub’s big,” he says. “... Wanna share?”

“Sure.” Steve’s hands go to the tie of his robe, but then he hesitates. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

Bucky looks down and shrugs, heat collecting in his cheeks. But he surprises Steve by throwing out a blithe little, “I mean I’ve already seen you naked, Steve. But if you’re too shy …” He shrugs dismissively and turns to walk back into the bathroom, out of sight.

Steve chuckles and follows after him with a grin. If the kid is feeling relaxed enough to make jokes at Steve’s expense, then they’re probably doing okay.

Once they’re dried off from the bath, Steve starts to reach for their robes again but Bucky quickly touches his wrist and shakes his head a little. “No?” Steve checks softly, noting the rising flush under Bucky’s skin. “Okay Honey, okay.”

Bucky climbs back into the nest and rolls around a bit, rubbing his face in the piles of soft blankets, picking up Steve’s scent again.

Steve watches it fondly and with a small thrill of possessiveness that he can be almost certain is coming from their bond. Bucky’s gone increasingly non-verbal again since he let Steve hold him in the tub and rub soapy hands all over his body. “C’mere,” Steve murmurs as he gets into the bed, guiding Bucky to lie on his back and crawling over him. He kisses him down into the sheets, still able to taste the remnants of maple syrup on his lips. “Hey Sweetheart,” he rumbles, propping over him on his elbows. He idles a thumb at the edge of Bucky’s damp hairline, clocking his pretty blue eyes and his pupils, blown wide in arousal once again. “How you feeling?”

“Better,” Bucky whispers, squirming under Steve’s bulk and parting his legs more. He’s been more relaxed with the bond, more pliant. “Um ... I think it’s coming back,” he admits.

Steve glances over to the clock on the wall: 12:27pm. He’s got the next three hours to get Bucky through this peak. “Yeah. Well it’s been a while, so that’s not a surprise.” He presses kisses to his lips, keeping it gentle and shallow until Bucky starts to ask for more by venturing out with his tongue in timid little licks. Steve hums in approval and gives him a slow, purposeful swipe of tongue, dipping into his mouth and relishing the whimper he makes.

They kiss like that for a bit, Bucky humping his half-chubbed little cock up against Steve’s abs and Steve feeling his own cock getting rock hard at the increasingly strong smell of slick. “You wet, Honey?” he asks, when Bucky has started squirming and whining like he wants more. “You want to have sex again?”

Bucky nods. There’s a little color in his cheeks but Steve’s apt to believe it’s more from arousal than shame now. Bucky can sense Steve’s urges through their new bond, after all. He can feel the proof of how much Steve wants him, how desirable he finds him, and it’s helping him to not be as embarrassed. “But can we …” he starts, but cuts himself off unsurely.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve prompts. “What do you want? Tell me.”

“Well … this way I can see you,” he murmurs, still shy but forging ahead. “Um, and it’s … it feels closer, ya know? I like it when I can, like, touch you and stuff.” He slides his hands over the tops of Steve’s shoulders and his upper arms, eyes going half lidded as he drinks in the sight of the alpha's body. “Can we?”

“Of course,” Steve coos, pride flowing through him at Bucky’s improved confidence, at him asking for what he wants so sweetly. He cups Bucky’s jaw and draws him in for another kiss to show him how pleased he is. “We can do whatever you want, Baby. Whatever makes you feel good.” He reaches down between their bodies and finds Bucky’s cock. He’s small there; soft and delicate, just enough that Steve’s palm barely covers everything from root to tip when he wraps his hand around him.

Bucky gasps quietly when Steve starts working it, more of a pulsing squeeze than actual stroking, and his hips judder up into it. “Oh!”

Steve keeps eye contact the whole time, watching, turned on by Bucky’s easy reactions. “You want to cum like this?” he asks, and Bucky gives a breathless little nod. Steve smiles. “Okay.” It only takes a few more minutes of gentle touching, and then Bucky’s tensing up and moaning, what meager ejaculate his body can produce wetting up the inside of Steve’s hand. “Good boy,” Steve praises, kissing along his neck and shoulder as he recovers. “Beautiful, Bucky. Yes. I bet that felt so good, didn’t it?”

Bucky nods weakly, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Oh.”

Steve chuckles and waits him out while he calms back down. Like beta women, omegas don’t have much of a refractory period, and in estrus they tend to need four to eight orgasms every time their cycle peaks. So, knowing his job isn't done, Steve lets Bucky’s cock go and looks back down at him. “Face to face?” he rechecks, stroking a thumb tenderly along his cheek. “You’re comfortable with that?” He’s not going to say one word about the rape if the boy doesn’t initiate it himself, but he now knows a few specifics on how Bucky was violated, and he wants to give him plenty of opportunity to decide on what his feelings are as they move along. Triggering distress in a tied omega is something that Steve’s dealt with before and wants to avoid at all costs. It’s not the easiest thing to change positions once knotted, after all.

But Bucky smiles and nods, pulling down on Steve’s neck for more kisses—which Steve happily gives—and bringing his knees up higher around Steve’s hips. “Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah I am.”

If they didn’t have the physicality of the bond, Steve would ask again, but he can feel the certainty and safety that Bucky feels, and that’s enough to have him nodding, reaching down to run fingertips over the omega’s slit. Bucky whines and tries to tilt up into it as much as he can, so eager from only a touch. And Steve can understand because he feels it: Bucky is soaked already, so slick that Steve’s fingers just glide right through, effortless. He hums and pulls away so that he can kneel back between Bucky’s legs. He can’t resist, he wants to see.

He hushes Bucky gently when the boy whines at losing their full body contact. He guides Bucky’s knees higher, pushing, making him spread his feet farther apart in the sheets. “Good boy,” he praises. “There you go. Let me see you, Gorgeous.” Bucky whines and shuts his eyes like he can’t take the scrutiny, but he’s still humping the air, tilting up for more. “Shhh,” Steve soothes, running his hands over the skin of his lower belly and hips, framing his pelvis as he stares. He represses the moan that’s building in his throat, his own hips twitching once and his balls giving a mightly throb at the pornographic sight before him. “Fuck,” he can’t help but whisper.

Bucky’s sex is pink and glistening, outer lips swollen and inner lips bloomed open from his first orgasm. It’s obscenely beautiful. Steve loves getting to see such a sweet cunt unfurl under his attention, loves slipping the pads of his fingers through all that wetness, watching that vulnerable little hole pulse and clench on nothing.

All he wants in the world is to bury his cock inside and never come out.

But they’re not here for him. They’re here for Bucky. So he ignores himself for the moment and continues to explore Bucky instead, stroking along the delicate lips of his sex. Bucky’s only a little different here than a female would be, but he’s still got all the same nerve endings in almost all the same places, and Steve wants to give him pleasure in every way possible. He uses both hands, thumbing errantly along the underside of Bucky’s little cock with one hand while sliding the fingers of the other through his sopping folds, up and down, giving just the barest bit of pressure. It’s so slick, so fun to play with, and Steve takes the time to tease him, avoiding penetration for long minutes.

Until Bucky opens his eyes and chirps in annoyance. Steve laughs in surprise. “Didn’t know you could make that sound, Honey.”

Bucky’s face flushes harder. “N-neither did I.”

There’s the tiniest bit of self-consciousness there, so Steve finally dips the very tips of two fingers in at his entrance and tells him, “I like it. I like an omega who asks for what he wants.”

Bucky groans and his hips jerk up, making Steve’s fingers slide inside by an inch. “Oh … fuck.” His eyes slip closed. “S-steve.” Steve watches his face carefully to make sure it’s good for Bucky as he slowly presses all the way in. Bucky breathes open-mouthed, eyes closed and an agonized little pinch appearing between his eyebrows. But it’s from pleasure. Steve starts fucking him softly on his hand, bumping knuckles against his mound on the way in, curling fingers on the slow drag out. “Oh, oh, oh,” Bucky pants; tiny, sweet little sounds that get stronger the closer he gets. He grabs suddenly at Steve’s wrist between his legs, not to stop him but to urge him on, and Steve grins and goes a little harder.

“Right there, huh?” he purrs.

Bucky's eyes are still closed but he nods his head tightly, whispering, “... f-ffuck. Ohh.” He’s gripping Steve’s wrist hard, clinging to the part of him that’s giving him so much pleasure, rocking his hips against it as his breath hitches in desperate little 'ah, ah, ah's. “M’gonna cum," he gasps. "Steve. I’m, I’m gonna …”

Steve rumbles low in his chest and reaches down to give his own cock a merciful squeeze. “Yes, Bucky,” he praises, fucking his fingers in faster, the noises wet and sloppy. “Good boy. That’s what I want. Come on now, right on my hand. Lemme feel it.”

Bucky fights for it for a few more seconds, then he cries out sharply and jerks, his cunt pulsing rhythmically as he starts to come. There’s a wet gush against Steve’s palm, and then a bunch of high, hurt little moans and sobs of “shit, shit, onghfuck!”

Steve groans at the feeling of it, at the sight and sound of Bucky gasping and riding his pleasure out against his hand, humping down mindlessly through the entire orgasm. “Fuck, Honey,” he whispers in awe.

“Ohh.” Bucky lets all his breath out in one big ‘whoosh’ and goes limp against the sheets, his death grip dropping away from Steve’s wrist. “Oh, man.”

Steve withdraws, using his absolutely drenched hand to tug on his own aching cock a few times. “Feel good?” he asks, voice coming out deeper and rougher sounding than intended.

Bucky hums and nods. His eyes open lazily. “Mm. Yeah. Really good.” He locks onto Steve's stroking hand, arousal growing in his eyes at the sight of his own slick coating the alpha's cock.

Steve gives him an easy grin and reaches out to swipe over his soaked cunt again, gathering even more slick to wet himself up with.

Bucky moans. “Oh my god, that’s so—” he swallows thickly, cutting himself off. Steve feels a pang of sadness, because he can tell when Bucky’s tamping down his attraction, can sense the intrusive thoughts and conflicting feelings he’s having again. His shame is creeping back in.

“Hey.” Steve snaps, a low, dominant growl starting up in his chest. He’s Voicing when he quietly orders, “Look at me, Omega.” Bucky snaps right to attention, wide eyes tripping down to Steve’s huge cock, and Steve hums his approval. “Yeah, that’s it. Watch me. Look at it. Watch me touchin’ myself.” He gives a lewd squeeze and drag, letting all the slick squelch between his fingers, and chuckles when Bucky looses a little, uncontrolled moan. “Yeah, exactly. Y'see that?” He wrings his fist up beneath the fat head of his cock, forcing a bunch of precum out of the slit. It rolls over his knuckles. He groans indulgently and finds Bucky’s eyes again. “That’s all because a’ you, Honey. Look how good you make me feel.”

Bucky whimpers and squirms, obviously pleased, so Steve keeps on using the praise and dominance and his own hand around his dick to distract him, telling him how gorgeous he is, how natural and good, how much Steve loves touching him and watching him come. It works, in that Bucky loses his reservations and his hips start to move again, tensing and releasing in little pulses that he probably doesn’t even know he’s doing. “Steve,” he says. “Steve can you?” He reaches for him, tries to pull his big body back down close, and of course Steve obeys.

“Course I can, Sweetheart.” He lies back over Bucky and lets his cock drag against his groin a few times, back and forth, their two very different cocks lined up and brushing together. “Want me inside you? It’ll feel so good, won’t it?”

Bucky makes a meek little sound and nods, tilting his pelvis up to try and get him lower, where he’s aching for him to be. “Yeah. Please.”

Steve reaches down to guide his cock up and down through the slick folds of his cunt. “Yeah, okay. Here you go.” He allows himself another few indulgent swipes before letting the head catch at Bucky’s entrance. He lets go of himself, propped on his elbows as he watches Bucky’s face, watches his expression as he slowly, slowly pushes in.

Bucky’s irises flare and his breath shudders and trips as Steve slides all the way home. Finally, when they can’t get any closer, he lets out a sob and wraps himself around Steve, feet hooking behind his thighs and arms grabbing around his shoulders. Steve lets him cling, lets him bury his face against his neck and mouth needily at his glands. Bucky starts crying, rubbing his tears against Steve’s skin.

“Shhh,” Steve soothes, nuzzling into his neck in return, not thrusting yet. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He strokes at Bucky’s sides, up and down his ribcage, promises softly against his bond mark, “Only when you’re ready, Buck. You just tell me when.” It’s only because of their bond that he knows he doesn’t have to be worried about the crying. They’re tears of grief, but not distress. And there’s relief there, too. Steve hums against Bucky’s skin and gives him time. He never expected a miracle out of the poor kid. This has got to be equal parts devastating and pleasurable for him. “You’re so good, Honey,” he tells him, murmuring kind, understanding things for Bucky to latch onto. “So brave. I know it’s hard. It’s gonna be okay. Gonna take care of you.” Bucky calms down over the next few minutes, tears going sluggish and then disappearing altogether. When he stops clinging to Steve enough to look up at him, his eyes and cheeks are still wet. Steve offers him a tender smile. “Feel better?”

Bucky nods, licking his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Steve says, gripping him a little tighter. “Whatever feels good. That’s what I said. If you need to cry, that’s just fine.”

Bucky relaxes and his body loosens a little bit more. He moves his hips experimentally, looking up with an expression that makes Steve’s balls throb. “Please,” he says, hands migrating to the backs of Steve’s arms, up to his shoulders and back down again. “I’m ready.”

Steve smiles and leans down to kiss him as he pulls out and pushes back in. He begins to roll his hips, setting into fucking Bucky with a steady, if somewhat slow, rhythm. And it’s exquisite, has his cock pulsing with need and his knot aching within minutes. He has stamina though, knows he can fuck Bucky through at least one more orgasm before he gives in to his own.

And Bucky is so perfectly responsive beneath him, moaning little sounds of pleasure and pushing up into every thrust, hands roaming ceaselessly over his back while he mouths at his neck. “Oh, ohSteve,” he sighs when Steve has grabbed behind his one knee to hitch it higher and rut deeper. “Yeah.”

Steve grinds slow and hard against him, keeping himself buried in Bucky’s warm cunt. “You close?” he asks, feeling Bucky’s fluttering walls as he holds still. Bucky whines and nods, trying to move his hips, to get more. Steve growls and obliges, fucking him firm and with purpose, grinding in and barely pulling out, making him feel it deep, getting him close.

Bucky’s soaking wet and his cunt makes filthy noises with each thrust, getting wetter and wetter until he cries out and starts to come. Steve shoves a hand between their bellies and thumbs rapidly under the head of his cock, prolonging it for him. "Aw, yeah Honey. There you go, there you go ..."

It’s gorgeous, Steve could watch it all day. But eventually Bucky’s orgasm subsides. When it’s clear he’s done, Steve kisses him softly. “Feel good?” he murmurs. Bucky nods his head, still calming his breathing. “Can I knot you?” Steve asks, desperate to do it. But then he catches the eagerness in his tone and revises it to a more open ended: “Do you want me to knot you?” He needs to make it Bucky’s choice. Everything, every step. He waits for an answer and kisses leisurely along the boy's jaw, pulsing his hips a little bit but keeping himself buried.

“Please,” Bucky eventually whispers, when his desire has started ramping back up and his hips are chasing Steve’s again. He kisses Steve and drags his lips against the short hairs of his beard. “Please.”

‘Please’ is Bucky’s way of asking for things he’s ashamed to want. Steve knows this well by now. So he hums in approval and tells him he’s a good boy, and he starts to fuck him again, this time letting his self control go enough to start seeking his own release. When he’s close he grunts a warning, but he knows Bucky can feel his knot growing erect, can feel it tugging more with every thrust, and he hasn't pulled away. He pushes into it, legs wrapping around Steve’s waist and holding him deep as he comes and ties them together.

Steve moans through it, eyes slammed shut because holy fuck does it feel good. Bucky’s cunt is so tight and wet and perfect. The sheer, primal satisfaction Steve gets from burying his knot and emptying his balls into a willing omega while he comes and comes and comes is the best feeling in the world. He registers Bucky’s body locking down in another orgasm, and it only prolongs his own. “Uhfuck,” he moans, humping into it, face buried in Bucky’s neck and mouth latching onto his gland in a hard suck. Bucky keens and Steve thinks he comes again from the stimulation, but he’s too blissed out in his own, drawn-out pleasure to be sure.

It feels like it lasts forever, but eventually they both come down. Steve rubs his face over every part of Bucky he can reach, a reassuring and possessive gesture, and Bucky hums little sounds of satisfaction as he lets it happen. When Steve pulls back enough to look him in the face, Bucky is totally relaxed, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly up at him. Steve smiles and strokes his cheek. “You’re purring, you realize that?”

Bucky huffs and makes a face, but Steve can tell that he’s pleased. “Can’t help it,” he murmurs.

“You’re not supposed to help it,” Steve says happily. He can feel how relaxed Bucky is, can feel it so intimately from the bond. And it feels good in a way that’s intensely pleasurable but not exactly sexual, to be tied to him right now, his knot held snug inside his body. Steve sighs and gives him a lazy kiss. “It usually takes me about fifteen minutes,” he murmurs, knowing that Bucky will know what he means. They trade kisses and he asks, “You want to cum again?” He rolls his hips a little in indication.

Bucky smiles and shivers at the jolt of stimulation. “I don’t know if I can,” he says, but he rocks into their tie a few times to test it out. His breathing picks back up, the tension returning to his body as he works himself to another orgasm on Steve’s knot. It feels good for Steve but he can’t come again so soon, so he focuses on giving Bucky pressure, on encouraging him with sweet sounds and praise rumbled into his ear. Bucky exhales long and low after he comes that final time, relaxing again. “Oh, man.”

Steve smiles against his neck. “Feel good?” He’s nuzzling against the bond mark.

“Duh.”

He laughs softly, satisfied and beyond pleased that he’s just been able to bring Bucky to orgasm … five times? Six? One of those. He asks him if he wants to roll over together, so that Bucky can lie on top. “You can fall asleep if you want.”

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise and yawns and asks if that will be uncomfortable for Steve. “Mmm. Won’t I be too heavy?”

Steve rolls his eyes and holds onto Bucky's hips as he turns them, putting the omega on top and letting him settle into the new position. Bucky seems happy to rub his cheek against Steve’s pecs and chest hair, quickly growing still and quiet, though there is the faintest hint of a purr still coming from him.

Steve closes his eyes and lets his mind drift as he pets the smooth skin of Bucky’s back. He’s extremely content right now, primally satisfied in a way that only this can make him. Helping an omega feel good through their heat, helping them find that relief, is the absolute best feeling in the world. And Steve is so thankful he’s the one who gets to help Bucky now. The poor kid’s been through the wringer and he deserves a fucking break. He deserves to be treated like something precious.

Steve plans on doing just that. Peeking his eyes open, he glances around the mussed nest, spotting several blankets that’ve come loose from where they were tucked neatly in formation. Bucky’ll probably want to fix it before they go again, Steve thinks with a smile. They’re both still overheated from their sex, but once they cool down and lose the tie, he'll snuggle Bucky into the soft things around them, hold him close and watch over him until his heat peaks again.

After a long few minutes of his breathing deepening and slowing down, Bucky begins to snore the tiniest, most adorable snore ever, right against Steve’s pec. Steve chuckles and reaches for the nearest loose blanket.

There’s a simple blood draw chair next to the suite’s medical supply cabinet. Steve makes Bucky sit in it while he gets everything ready. Given that omegas tend to become dehydrated during heats, he selects a pediatric butterfly needle for the draw. Bucky whines from the moment Steve ties the tourniquet and starts tapping around for a vein.

“But Steeeve: I hate needles.”

In Steve’s experience, roughly a third of all patients are lookers, and the rest are looker-awayers. Bucky falls into the previous camp, needing to know exactly when the jab is coming. He still complains ad nauseam, and Steve catches on fairly quickly that he’s half doing it just to annoy him. It’s amusing.

The omega maintains his grumpy little grimace the whole time that Steve is taking his blood. “Hate needles,” he mutters, again, then gasps when Steve has the audacity to pinch him in retaliation. “Hey!”

“It’s already in, you big baby.” Steve removes the second collection tube and pops on the third, glancing up at Bucky’s face as it fills. “Stop looking, if it bothers you.” Bucky scowls at him. Steve finishes up with the whole process and has Bucky hold the cotton ball in place while he goes to root around for a bandaid in the supply cabinet. He grins when he sees the perfect box sitting there. Someone’s been stealing from Pediatrics. He rips the box open and hands one of the bandaids over to Bucky. “My little Pony, just for you, Princess.”

Bucky stubbornly takes it, slapping on the bright pink bandage and looking down at its pattern of googly-eyed little unicorn characters. He shrugs and looks defiantly up at Steve from his seat. “Whatever. I like it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Course you do.” He plucks a specimen cup from the cabinet and tosses it over. “Pee in the cup,” he says cheerfully. “Past the red line at least.”

Bucky complains less about this. He sighs and heaves himself up from the chair. Steve busies himself with labeling the blood vials while Bucky disappears into the bathroom. Bucky comes back out with the filled specimen cup. The dark color tells Steve that he was right to go with the butterfly needle.

“One, steaming-hot cup‘o’piss,” Bucky drawls, handing it over. “What’s this for, anyway?”

Steve’s still wearing gloves as he labels and bags the cup. “Just checking your progress,” he answers vaguely. “You had infection when they admitted you. The doctor ordered repeats on all your labs.” Luckily, Bucky doesn’t ask for any specifics, which is a relief. Steve would be legally obligated to tell him if he did.

The blood is for typical panels, but the urine is mainly to recheck for pregnancy. Hospital policy is to test throughout any patient’s heat where a support alpha or seeding machine is employed. Lab-manufactured seeding solution is sterilized, and Steve’s on the mandatory birth control for his position, but mistakes can happen, so they test for malpractice reasons.

He checks the clock and tenses when he sees that it’s already three-twenty. “Crap,” he whispers. Only ten minutes until the meeting with legal. He hurriedly starts collecting the cup and the vials in a little basket. He can drop it off at the nurses’ station, then if he gets like a three minute shower he’ll probably still have time to—

“What’s wrong?”

Steve pauses. He looks over to where Bucky has flopped back on the bed. The nest is a mess but Bucky seems unconcerned at the moment, attention fixed on the room’s tv screen as he fiddles with the remote to bring up Netflix. Steve tells him, “I’ve got that meeting, remember? They want me there in a few minutes.”

Bucky nods, getting distracted as he finds the horror section and starts scrolling through the titles. “Oh.”

“... You gonna be okay?” Steve checks. Bucky has seemed to be in the lull of a dip for the past half hour or so. It’s likely he won’t peak again for at least two more hours, and Steve has no intention of being gone for that long. “If I leave you here alone for a bit?” he adds. “I won’t be gone long. And you can page the nurses for anything you need.”

Bucky finally looks back over at him and smiles. “Yeah. ‘Course.” He waves Steve off, digging himself back into the messy remnants of the nest and clicking on what looks to Steve to be some sort of torture porn flick. Gross. “I’ll be fine.”

Between that and the bond, Steve can tell that Bucky really is feeling okay about being left alone for a time. Exhaling in relief, he turns for the door.

“What the fuck, Rogers?” Sharon snaps at him when he’s passing by. The next nurses are on shift at the desk and Sharon’s got her purse in hand, about to clock out. She’s pointing accusingly at Steve’s naked feet. “Gross!”

Steve grimaces just to avoid rolling his eyes at her. He’s in a hurry, okay? “Sorry!” He hustles down to the staff locker room and grabs a towel and pair of disposable shower shoes, because he’s not a monster. He doesn’t even give the water enough time to fully warm up before he’s stepping into the spray and yanking the curtain closed. The shower stalls are all outfitted with dispensers: shampoo, conditioner, and hospital grade scent-neutralizing body wash. Steve lathers himself up in record time, rinses, then dries off and goes to root through the supply cage for some scrubs that are big enough to fit his shoulders. He’d left his clogs in the heat suite, so he’s forced to don a pair of unisex keds that’re at least a half size too small, and that’s the best he’s going to manage. He glances at his phone: 3:29. Fuck.

There’s a missed text alert, too.

Clint Omcare guy [Today 3:22 pm]: You coming? We’re using the Soc. conference room.

Steve grinds his teeth and hurries for the elevators.

Most of Mercy General’s administrative staff is located on ground level. Steve takes the B elevator down to put him out closest to the building’s east wing, where social services, legal, and financial aid are all located. He pushes through the conference room door at precisely 3:33.

Six faces turn his way. Steve stalls as he tries to apologize for being late. “Sorry. Hope I didn’t hold things up. I was …” he twists his lips, not knowing a polite way to say ‘balls deep in our patient’. “Sorry,” he says again, pulling out one of the available chairs and sitting. He looks around. Phil’s there at the head of the table. Clint is sitting next to Sam, the woman from legal on his other side and Steve next to her.

The other two people, a man and a woman, sit isolated on the opposite side of the conference table. They stick out in their plainclothes, and Steve knows they must be the ones who are trying to get Bucky back. They’re from the cult.

The man looks like he's in his seventies, with mostly silver hair pulled back in a gross little ponytail. He’s older, but tall and broad in a way that hints he might’ve been an athlete, back in his prime. He’s got a look of authority about him, a stern face and the sort of posture that makes it clear he’s the kind of guy who’s used to getting his way.

The woman is much smaller and nearly diminutive in comparison. She seems meek, right down to her mousy brown hair and modest dress. She'd glanced up when Steve first entered the room, but now she’s back to keeping her eyes downcast and her hands tucked in her lap.

Steve instantly dislikes the both of them because he knows what they’ve done. He knows about the abusive way Bucky’s been treated and the messed up things he’s been raised to believe. These people, whoever they are, are responsible for Bucky nearly dying.

Phil is nearing the tail end of his introduction of Steve, explaining how Steve is the alpha support who’s been seeing Bucky through his heat. Disgust is already curling the old man’s lip as Steve nods in confirmation and says, “Hi,” without too much friendliness in his tone. “I’m Steve Rogers. I work on the hospital’s omega OB GYN ward. I’ve been caring for Bucky.”

The man scoffs. “Is that what he’s told you his name is?” When Steve and everyone else from that side of the table just stare at him, the man says, “His name is James.”

“And a last name?” Clint is holding his pen poised over a stack of forms. “Sir?”

The man shakes his head. “We forswear our earthly family names. James is simply James.”

“... Uh huh.” Clint looks about as unimpressed as Steve feels. “And your name is? Sir?”

“I am Russel. His father.” After a beat, the man seems to remember himself and flicks his hand at the woman seated next to him. “This is Rebecca. His mother.”

Steve catches Sam shooting him a dubious look from down the way. He gives Sam a matching look and a little nod back. This dude’s lying. Steve pulls out his phone, careful to keep it below the level of the conference table. He searches for the Wikipedia page on The Children of God’s Kingdom. When he finds what he’s looking for, he glances up. “You’re Russel Wheeler,” he says, confronting the man. “The head of your little religious group.”

Wheeler’s face goes stony but he holds his chin up. “I told you who I am.”

“Right. Bucky’s father.”

“James’ father,” he corrects. He and Steve kind of glare at each other from over the table for a long moment, until Phil clears his throat and says,

“Nurse Rogers has been booked into your son’s heat suite these past thirty-six hours. He’s the one who’s been most closely involved with James’ care. I promise you he only has your son’s best interests at heart.”

Steve watches as Wheeler’s face deepens in disgust. “'Heat',” he repeats, saying the word like it’s something dirty. “James was on suppressants. He shouldn’t be in heat.”

Steve leans forward in his chair. “We took them out. Suppressants are illegal for omegas under twenty-one,” he says. “You broke the law by putting that poison in him.”

Wheeler scowls. “I’m his father.”

“His biological father?” Steve challenges.

“Adopted,” Wheeler grits back.

“I’m sure you’ll have adoption papers to show us then. Legal ones?” Clint says.

Wheeler says nothing.

“You know he almost died,” Steve says icily. “People in your group assaulted him, and the reaction he had afterwards almost killed him. He could have died from all the years you suppressed his heats.”

The woman at Wheeler’s side finally looks up, her eyes round with alarm. “Is he okay?” she asks. Wheeler looks sharply at her for speaking up, but she keeps looking at Steve until he answers her.

“He’s okay now,” Steve says. He’s got a feeling that this might actually be Bucky’s real mother, if her concerned look is anything to go by. She seems way too young to have a seventeen year old kid, but cults have a reputation for child marriages, and Steve can see Bucky’s eyes in her eyes. She relaxes somewhat at his reassurance. “We’re helping him to recover,” Steve says. “He should be just fine.”

The woman’s shoulders sink in relief, but she quickly withdraws again once Wheeler makes an upset noise. “We want him home,” he says. “Where is he? We’re taking him home today.”

“Sir, I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Your son has treatments that he—”

“We didn’t consent to any treatments!” Wheeler snaps, cutting Clint off and hitting the table with his hand. The woman next to him flinches. “We don’t believe in all that stuff. Boy-girls. It’s unnatural and against God.”

“Sir,” Phil tries,

“You all are infringing on our religious liberty!” Wheeler declares. He points at Steve as if he’s the mastermind behind the whole situation. “You’re perverting him and forcing him to go against his religion!”

Steve glowers while everyone else shifts in place uncomfortably. “Hey,” he hisses. “You can believe whatever you want to believe, but not when it starts to spill over and hurt other people. Bucky almost died. Don’t you get that? Your so-called ‘religion’ nearly killed him!”

Infuriatingly, all Wheeler does in response is narrow his eyes and repeat, “His name is James.”

Steve scoffs and throws himself back in the chair, fed up. He folds his arms and shakes his head. Talking logic with these people is useless. The next person to speak is Phil. He and the woman they sent down from legal try again to explain the reality of the situation the Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler: Bucky isn’t in their charge anymore. OmCare has custody now. Bucky needs to receive ongoing medical care and therapy to get well.

“Unfortunately, sir, there isn’t anything you can legally do right now,” Clint finishes up at the end of the meeting, when they’ve made absolutely no progress with Wheeler. “There will be another custody hearing in two weeks. You’ll have to bring proof of identity and of legal custodianship, and you’ll need to get a lawyer to help you if you want any chance at getting your son back.”

“You bet your ass I will,” Wheeler says, standing abruptly from the table. He points angrily at Clint, and then at Steve. “I’m not going to let you pervert him against the Lord. I’ll be back. Come on,” he says to Rebecca, and when she doesn’t move fast enough he grabs her wrist and yanks her along. “I said come on!” He storms out of the room, promising that he’ll be back and that every single one of them is doomed to go to hell because of what they’re doing. Once it’s just Phil, Clint, Sam and Steve left in the room, the air seems to double in oxygen saturation.

It’s Sam who speaks first. He lets out a low whistle. “Wow.”

“You said it,” Steve grumbles. “What a piece of work.”

Clint makes a sound of agreement, still scribbling down notes on a paper form. “Well the good news is that it’s a pretty cut and dry case. Even if they are the real parents, he just openly espoused his nutso beliefs.”

Phil’s mouth quirks and he quietly checks, “Nutso?”

“An official, scientific word,” Clint maintains. “And we have him on record admitting that he's got no intention of following any medical care directive. That's good. No judge in their right mind is going to let an omega be dragged back into that cult. Religious liberty my ass. It’s completely unsafe.”

“Good,” Steve says, happy to hear Clint express it with such certainty. If anybody knows how the system works for minors in custody disputes, it’s Clint. And it’s just one less thing for Steve to worry about. He pushes his chair out from the conference table and stands up. “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’m gonna head back up.”

Phil nods at him that he can go, and Steve leaves to go back to Bucky.

Art: @hopelessartgeek

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[witchofthesouls]

How is the relationship gonna work out between thunders and his love and optimus once thundercraker gets reunited with his spouse and kids?

Sweet Lord, it's gonna be a complicated lineage since the Command Trine has three bits and Optimus managed to sire two on you. It'll end in an armistice that was originally formed with the return of the Quintessons and just... kept going.

Peace conferences and treaties will be a hot-cold hassle, but everyone is basically committed. It's just hashing out the details.

There are plans to utilize the untapped resources on the uninhabited planets of the Solar system to help with Cybertron.

Earth is getting a deeper connection with their space invaders/once comatosed aliens.

Meeting Elita would be awesome and terrifying since the femme commander kept her troops under Shockwave's nose over many millennia and she still holds Optimus' affections. The pink femme would goodheartedly slap you on the back and coo over the sparklings.

Optimus can't let the kids go, the Matrix and Prime-protocols had ferociously latched onto the only sparklings on the planet after a long stasis.

He knew he wanted little ones in his life, even as Orion Pax, but he can't tell how much is it himself and how much is the Matrix's giddiness.

You have no idea how it happened, but you're part of a "girl's night" group. One moment you have wriggly wingnubs and soft armor in your lap, and then the next you have a cocktail in your hand and bracketed by other femmes.

Never in his life did Starscream think he would share a family with a Prime's bitties, but here is. With his trine and you and the sparklings as well as Optimus and Elita and slagging Megatron orbiting around.

Starscream has to take into consideration on rebuilding a Vos that's more grounder-friendly (just a little) since the Seeker kids love their convoy siblings and their Truck sire.

Thundercracker may be the progenitor and Starscream and Skywarp may have given code, but it doesn't erase that the fact that Red, Blue, and Purple had sent their early newspark years with Optimus.

Starscream and Elita exchange sharp tongues in each other's vicinity. Thundercracker explains it as a Vosian greeting and how it's practically friendly since it's Starscream.

Skywarp is having the time of life since the nest is growing and kids are farking cute in his well-grounded opinion.

Because of the sheer amount of attention the bitties are getting from mecha that didn't know about them, there's an established guard and the duty is heavily coveted by the Autobots and Decepticons.

It's a room to keep the bitlets in one spot, so many of the Seekerkin are gunning for it because of the awakened nesting-protocols.

There's fierce competition full of threats, fist fights, and bargains because of the betting tables and to be the Favorite.

You caught Skywarp whispering into their audials to influence their first words and made a deal to split the profits since it'll be hilarious to see Starscream's and Optimus' reactions.

Ironhide is the favorite. He made Plans ever since you shot a bolt into his panel as a prisoner. The others adults will be collateral, but willing ones, so he has not one smidgen of remorse in destroying their sleep schedules or down-time with the fun things he brings to the sparklings.

[saydams]

from the article:

"The state agency is giving the public six days to digest the park plans before it hosts simultaneous, apparently in-person-only meetings across the state. All meetings are scheduled for 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. Tuesday. Agendas obtained by the Tampa Bay Times from the parks Tallahassee office are scarce in detail, but show there will be a brief presentation followed by a public comment period."

[...]

Eric Draper, who served as the director of Florida’s state parks between 2017 and 2021, said it appears the state’s environmental agency is skirting the legal process and the parks system’s own internal operations manual for updating park management plans.

“This appears to be something that has been planned in secret, and it doesn’t appear to have involved the hundreds, if not thousands, of people who are volunteers in the parks, the citizen support organizations, or the many people who have been involved in helping to create and develop Florida’s award-winning park system,” Draper said in an interview with the Tampa Bay Times. /end excerpt

if you are in florida, the comment period is apparently this tuesday, August 27 2024 from 3-4pm, in person

locations for the in-person meetings are below the cut, and in the full article

Hillsborough River State Park, Jimmie B. Keel Regional Library, 2902 W. Bearss Ave., Tampa, Community Room D

Honeymoon Island State Park, The District, 11141 U.S. 19 N., Suite 204, Clearwater

Oleta River State Park, Florida International University, Biscayne Bay campus, Kovens Conference Center, Room 114, 3000 NE 151 St. North, Miami

Jonathan Dickinson State Park, The Flagler of Stuart, 201 SW Flagler Ave., River Room, Stuart

Dr. Von D. Mizell-Eula Johnson State Park, Downtown Event Center, 416 NE First St., Fort Lauderdale, Lecture Hall, Building C, second floor (enter at Main Entrance B — clearly marked on the outside of the building)

Anastasia State Park, First Coast Technical College, The Character Counts Conference Center, Building C, 2980 Collins Ave., St. Augustine

Camp Helen State Park, Lyndell Conference Center, 423 Lyndell Lane, Panama City Beach

Topsail Hill Preserve State Park and Grayton Beach State Park, The Lakehouse at the Watercolor Inn, 238 Watercolor Blvd. W., Santa Rosa Beach

[junkomc]

Cod x OC【title：Afterglow】第11章

（NSFW/18+ / MｘM / bottom oc）soap x oc/ghost x oc/price x oc/ Pierson x oc / oc x oc

​>>>１・２・３・４・５・６・７​・８・９・10・11・12・13・14・15・16 ​・17・18・19 (Part 1 scheduled to end)

※英語は母国語ではありません。主にGoogle翻訳を使っていますので、読みにくいところがあるかもしれませんが、ご容赦ください。翻訳版の後に日本語版の小説を載せています。

※English is not my native language. I mainly use Google translation, so please forgive me if there are some parts that are difficult to read.

The Japanese version of the novel is posted after the translated version.

―――――――――――――――――――――――――

※免責事項：これは娯楽目的のみで書かれたファンフィクションであり、ストーリーのいかなる部分も現実世界の出来事や個人に関して何かを暗示または肯定す��ものではありません。

*Disclaimer: This is fan fiction written for entertainment purposes only, and no part of the story is intended to imply or affirm anything about real world events or individuals.

 Chapter 11: Briefing/ After receiving an explanation about the mission from Laswell, 141 is introduced to Pearson of TETRA, a PMC...

―Briefing room―

When Jet entered the conference room, all the other members of 141 were seated, and everyone's eyes were on Jet.

To be in the same room as the boss who had fucked me just a few hours ago and the two coworkers I had kissed...that was crazy.

Jet didn't hesitate to avoid the chair next to the three of them and sat next to Gaz. Just as Soap was about to say something to Jet, Laswell came into the briefing room.

"Is everyone here? Well, it's been a month since Jet joined, so I'm sure the team is starting to get along by now. How's it going, Jet? Everything okay?"

"Yes, there's no problem."

Jet thought to himself, "No, there are a lot of problems!" but focused on the fact that he was at work.

"That's good."

Laswell said this and scattered papers on the table.

"Last month, the Japan-US Joint Committee was held at The New Sanno Hotel in Tokyo, and a group of US military officials and Japanese bureaucrats fell ill. Several of them were so ill that they are still hospitalized. Officially, they announced it was food poisoning, but it was a biological terrorist attack using botulinum bacteria that was sprayed through the air conditioning system. At first, it was suspected that it was a radical group in Japan that opposed the Japan-US Status of Forces Agreement, but it was the work of the Revolutionary Socialist Union (RSU)."

"A bioterrorism attack in Japan? Has a statement been issued?"

Soap asks with a frown.

"We received information from the CTU-J (Central Terrorist Intelligence Unit of Japan). The perpetrator has already been arrested and has confessed everything. This attack is only a small part of their plan."

"RSU... They've been quite active lately. Do you know the full extent of their plan?"

Price looks at the documents while touching his beard, and speaks in a low, calm tone.

Jet, who was sitting opposite Price, has a flashback of a few hours ago at his gestures and voice, and blushes. Luckily, everyone was looking down at the documents, so no one noticed.

"Yeah. They're going to launch a high-altitude electromagnetic pulse (HEMP) attack. They'll probably launch a missile towards Japan near North Korea."

"What?! HEMP?... Are they going to launch a nuclear missile?"

Jet raised his voice in response to the words Japan and missile.

His desire for his boss disappeared in an instant, and Jet remembered how one day his father suddenly called him, introduced me to Laswell, took him to England and threw him into TF141, and it felt like the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

"...If a missile loaded with nuclear power explodes in the sky over Japan...it will instantly destroy almost all electrical systems within a radius of several hundred kilometers. All infrastructure such as communications, electricity, gas, water supply, sewage, and transportation will be destroyed. The country will go into panic all at once. And as you know, there are many US military bases in Japan."

Jet bowed his head slightly and spoke in a mutter. Laswell nodded and continued.

"Almost all of the US military's military systems would be destroyed. On top of that, Japan's Self-Defense Forces and police would not be able to function. Other crimes and accidents would likely occur at the same time, so it would be hard to find them if something were to happen. Also, there is a possibility that biological weapons like botulinum would be used again."

"If a HEMP attack and a biological terrorism attack were to occur at the same time, I wonder if Japan's NBC terrorism response specialist unit would be able to handle it..."

When Jet lived in Japan, the country was constantly threatened by missiles from neighboring countries, but this time it was more serious. Not only were ballistic missiles on board, but nuclear warheads were definitely on board.

Some countries claim that an EMP attack is not a nuclear attack, but it is technically easy and certainly a more real threat than a nuclear missile attack.

"Anyway, our job is to secure the missiles and capture the head of the organization, Suhail al-Qadr, and his executives. We are still investigating whether there are other chemical or biological weapons and how they obtained the nuclear weapons, but first PMC TETRA and Delta Force will head to secure the missiles."

Jet unconsciously furrowed his brow in response to the word TETRA. He hated himself for reacting even though he knew this was inevitable.

It's been over a year... It's okay

Besides, this is work...

Jet tells himself and clenches his fist.

"Jet, you used to work for TETRA, right? I'm sure you know our CEO Pierson, who I'll introduce later, but when I told him about you, he was very surprised. You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

Everyone's eyes are on Jet at Laswell's words.

"Yes... well, I don't think it's worth telling him. It's been a year since I left."

Price looks at Jet's expression, seeing Jet's somewhat cold tone and restlessness. Jet notices this and smiles a little at him to tell him it's okay, and Price smiles back at him like a quokka.

"Now, as soon as we secure the missiles, I'm going to have TF141 go to Japan. RSU number two, Tarik Radan, is hiding out in Japan. If we can capture him, we'll probably find out the locations of the other weapons in Japan. Jet, you'll be coordinating with the Japanese public security police while you're there. I'll leave everyone in good hands over there."

"Yes, I understand."

Jet's father's face in Japan flashed in his mind, and his stomach churned with stress.

"Well, let me introduce Pierson from TETRA right away."

Laswell said, opening her laptop and facing everyone.

Jet couldn't look directly at the face on the screen. He unconsciously moved his chair to hide behind Gaz, who was sitting next to him.

"Hey, everyone. Nice to meet you. I'm William Pierson from TETRA. ...It seems some of you already know me..."

Jet glanced at the screen.

It had been a year since he'd last seen Pierson, and he was still as handsome as ever, with a charming smile as he gazed at him.

"Haru...Jet! How are you? I'm glad to see you again."

"I'm fine enough to walk on two legs and eat with my mouth."

Gaz and Soap smirked at Jet's sarcastic greeting, but Ghost didn't like the way Pierson kept staring at Jet, so he glared at him through the screen. Price also seemed to have noticed that Jet called him Hal and realized something.

"Pierson, Jet, you two can talk about your memories later. So, how is it over there?"

"We found a suspicious cargo that seems to be missiles at a railway facility near the border between North Korea and Russia, but it seems that there are not only missiles but also a large amount of weapons. Delta Force, who are already on the ground, has reported that the Russian border patrol is also taking action. We plan to enter Vladivostok tomorrow."

"Okay, Pierson. Keep it up. Well, we're dismissed now. Please wait for further instructions."

With that, Laswell operated her laptop, said a quick hello to Pierson, and closed the screen.

Jet felt relieved that Pierson had disappeared from his sight, but at the same time, he was irritated with himself for some reason feeling lonely.

After Laswell left the room, Gaz quickly stood up, and Jet was about to follow him out the room when...

Ghost grabbed him by the arm.

"Wh-what?"

Without answering Jet's question, Ghost sat him back down in the chair. With his arms folded, Ghost stood in front of Jet, looking down at him. It was so intimidating and sexy.

"Did something happen with Pierson?"

Ghost's sharp gaze was like a truth serum, and Jet couldn't think of any lies to cover it up.

"...He's my ex. We broke up about a year ago."

Even though he was telling the truth, the piercing gazes of the three of them made his chin tremble and his forehead sweat.

Price muttered, "I thought so."

"Was it he who gave you your call sign...?"

Soap asked, and Jet nodded slightly. Seeing this, he grinned and said, "Looks like my prediction was right."

"Are you satisfied? Can I go back to my room now?"

Jet sighed and stood up from his chair, slipping past the Ghost in front of him and trying to open the door, but the door was closed again by a log-like arm that suddenly appeared above his head, and he turned around.

"You may think you've broken up, but... he was clearly violating you with his eyes."

Ghost's gaze crucified him, and he couldn't move for a while.

"N-No way. He got tired of me and married a woman!!"

Jet was surprised that his voice had come out louder than he had intended, but the Ghost was even more surprised than him, with his eyes wide open. Jet didn't take advantage of the opportunity, and pushed Ghost's arm away from the door and quickly left the room.

After Jet had left, the Ghost sighed and muttered, "Oh dear..." The three of them looked at each other and smiled wryly, but Soap seemed to be bothered by something.

"Hey,... I feel like I've seen that Pierson guy somewhere before... Ah! I remember now!!"

*The terrorist organization RSU does not exist, but other police-related organizations do exist in reality.

I am neither a military critic nor a supporter of war. There may be military errors or inconsistencies, but please do not pursue them as this was written by a novice writer who wants to write a male romance fantasy.

Also, as a citizen of Japan, the only country to have been attacked with atomic bombs during war, I sincerely hope for world peace. I hope that everyone can eat delicious food, sleep safely in a warm bed, and in a room with a roof over their head...

Below is the Japanese version

～（１１）会議～

―会議室―

ジェットが会議室に入ると、彼以外の141のメンバーは着席しており、皆の視線がジェットに向けられた。

つい数時間前に自分をファックした上司と、キスした同僚2人と同じ部屋にいるなんて…狂っている。

ジェットは躊躇う事なく3人の隣の椅子を避け、ギャズの横に座る。ソープがジェットに何か言おうとした瞬間、ラズウェルがブリーフィングルームに入ってきた。

「皆、揃っているな？…さて、ジェットが加わって1ヶ月が経つが、そろそろチームも打ち解けてきた頃だろう。どうだ、ジェット？問題はないか？」

「はい、何も問題はありません」

ジェットは“いや、問題だらけだ！”と心の中で毒付いたが今は仕事中だと意識を集中させた。

「それは良かった」

ラズウェルはそう言うと、テーブルに紙の資料をばら撒く。

「先月、日米合同委員会が東京のニュー山王ホテル（The New Sanno Hotel）で行われたのだが、その時米軍の幹部と日本の官僚が集団で体調不良を起こした。数人は症状がひどく現在も入院中だ。表向きには食中毒と発表してあるが、あれは空調システムを通して散布されたボツリヌス菌によるバイオテロだ。最初は日米地位協定に反発する日本国内の過激派グループの線も疑われたが、革命的社会主義者同盟（RSU）の仕業だった」

「日本でバイオテロだって？…声明が出されたのか？」

ソープがしかめ面で尋ねる。

「日本の国際テロ情報収集ユニット（CTU-J）からの情報だ。実行犯はすでに拘束されて、その男がすべて吐いた。今回のテロは奴らの計画のごく一部でしかない」

「RSUか…最近動きが活発なグループだな。その計画の全貌はわかってるのか？」

プライスは顎髭を触りながら資料を見つめ、低く落ち着いたトーンで話す。

ちょうどプライスの向かいに座っていたジェットは、彼のその仕草と声で数時間前の記憶がフラッシュバックし赤面する。幸い皆は資料に視線を落としていた為、誰にも悟られることはなかった。

「ああ。奴らは高高度電磁パルス（HEMP）攻撃を行うつもりだ。おそらく北朝鮮付近で日本に向けてミサイルを打つ」

「なんだって？！HEMP？…核ミサイルを飛ばす気か？」

ジェットは日本とミサイルいう単語に反応して声を上げた。先ほどまで上司に欲情していた自分は瞬時に消え去り、ある日突然父親が電話をよこし、ラズウェルに引き合わせ、イギリスまで連れて行きTF141に放り込んだ経緯を思い出し、パズルのピースが埋まって行くような気がした。

「…核を詰んだミサイルが日本の上空で爆発すれば…瞬時に半径数百km以内の電気系統をほぼ全て破壊する。通信や電力、ガス、上下水道、交通などのインフラは全滅だ。国は一気にパニックになる。それに日本には…知っての通り米軍基地がいくつもある」

ジェットは少しだけ俯き、呟くように喋った。ラズウェルは彼の言葉に頷き、話を続ける。

「米軍の軍事システムはほとんどやられてしまう。その上日本の自衛隊も警察も機能しない。他の犯罪や事故も同時に多発するだろうから、事が起きれば奴らを見つけるのは大変だろう。それに、ボツリヌスのような生物兵器が再び使われる可能性もある」

「もしHEMP攻撃と生物兵器テロが同時に起これば、日本のNBCテロ対応専門部隊（核、生物、化学物質を使用したテロに対応する部隊）も対処できるかどうか…」

ジェットが日本に住んでいた時も、日本は常にミサイルの脅威にさらされていたが、今回はもっと深刻だった。ただの弾道ミサイルではない、確実に核弾頭を搭載しているのだ。

EMP攻撃は核攻撃ではないと主張している国もあるが、技術的には容易であり、核ミサイル攻撃よりも現実的な脅威なのは確実だ。

「とにかく、我々の仕事はミサイルの確保、組織のトップであるスハイル・アル・カドルと幹部の拘束だ。他の化学・生物兵器の有無や核の入手経路についてはまだ調査中だが、まずはPMCのTETRAとデルタフォースが合流してミサイル確保に向かう」

ジェットはTETRAという言葉に反応して無意識のうちに眉間に皺がよる。わかっていたのに反応する自分が嫌だった。

もう一年以上経っている…大丈夫

それに、これは仕事なんだ…

ジェットはそう自分に言い聞かせ拳を握りしめる。

「ジェット、君は元TETRAの人間だったな？後で紹介するCEOのピアソンはもちろん知っていると思うが、彼に君の事を話したら、とても驚いていたぞ。何も伝えていなかったんだな？」

ラズウェルの言葉に皆の視線が一斉にジェットに集まる。

「はい…まぁ、伝えるほどのことでもないかと。もう辞めて1年は経ちますし」

ジェットのどこか冷めた言い方と落ち着きのない様子に、プライスは彼の表情を伺う。それに気づいたジェットは"大丈夫だ"と伝えるために少しだけ彼に微笑むと、プライスもまたクオッカワラビーのような笑顔を返す。

「さて、ミサイルを確保次第TF141には日本に行ってもらう。日本にはRSUナンバー2のタリク・ラダンが潜伏している。彼さえ確保できればおそらく日本国内の他の兵器の場所もわかるだろう。ジェット、現地では日本の公安警察と連携をとる事になるだろう。向こうでは皆をよろしく頼む」

「はい、わかりました」

ジェットは父親の顔が脳裏に浮かび、胃がキリキリした。

「では、さっそくTETRAのピアソンを紹介しよう」

ラズウェルはそういうとラップトップを開き、皆の方を向ける。

しばらくしてその画面に映し出されたその顔を、ジェットは真っ直ぐ見ることができなかった。無意識のうちに隣のギャズに身を隠すように椅子を後ろに引く。

『やぁ、皆。初めまして、 TETRAのウィリアム・ピアソンだ。…初めましてじゃなくて、久しぶりの人もいるようだな』

ジェットはチラリと画面に目をやる。

一年ぶりに見たピアソンは…相変わらずハンサムで魅力的な笑顔でこちらを見つめていた。

『…ハル…、ジェット！元気か？久しぶりに君に会えて嬉しいよ』

「…二本足で歩いて、自分の口でものを食べられるくらいには元気だよ」

ジェットの皮肉な挨拶にギャズやソープは苦笑いしていが、ゴーストはピアソンがジェットを見つめ続けているのが気に食わず、画面越しに彼をじっと睨みつけていた。また、プライスは彼がジェットの事をハルと呼んだ事を聞き逃さず、何かを察したようだった。

「ピアソン、ジェット、思い出話は後程2人でたっぷりしてくれ。それで、そっちはどんな感じだ？」

『北朝鮮とロシアの国境近くにある鉄道施設でミサイルと思われる不審な貨物を確認したが、どうやらミサイルだけでなく武器も大量にありそうだ。先に現地にいるデルタフォースの報告ではロシアの国境警備局も動き出している。明日我々もウラジオストクに入る予定だ』

「わかった、ピアソン。引き続きよろしく。それでは、これで解散だ。また��示が出るまで待機していてくれ」

ラズウェルはそう言うとラップトップを操作し、ひとことピアソンに挨拶した後画面を閉じた。

ピアソンが自分の視界から消えた事への安堵と共に、なぜか寂しさを感じる自分に苛立った。

ラズウェルが部屋を出た後、ギャズがすぐ立ち上がったのでジェットも彼に続いて部屋を出ようとした瞬間…

ゴーストに腕を掴まれた。

「な、何？」

ジェットの問いに何も答えないまま彼を再び椅子に座らせた。ゴーストは両腕を組んでジェットの目の前に立ち、彼を見下ろす。その様はあまりにも威圧的で、セクシーだった。

「ピアソンと何かあったのか？」

ゴーストの鋭い視線はまるで自白剤のようで、誤魔化す為の嘘が何ひとつ思いつかなかった。

「…彼は元彼だよ。一年前くらいに別れた」

喋っているのは真実なのに、突き刺さる3人の視線で顎が震え、額がじんわりと汗ばむ。

プライスは「やっぱりな」と小さく呟いた。

「君にコールサインをつけたのは彼か…？」

ソープが尋ねると、ジェットは小さく頷く。その様子を見て彼は「俺の予想は当たっていたみたいだな」とニヤリと笑った。

「満足した？もう部屋に帰ってもいい？」

ジェットはため息を吐くと椅子から立ち上がり、目の前のゴーストの脇をするりとすり抜けてドアを開けようとしたが、再びそのドアを頭上に突然現れた丸太のような腕に閉じられ振り返る。

「お前は別れたつもりかもしれないが…あいつは明らかにお前を目で犯していたぞ」

ゴーストの視線に磔にされ、またしばらく動けなくなる。

「そ…そんなわけない。彼は俺に飽きて女と結婚したんだ！！」

ジェットは思ったより大きな声が出て自分でも驚いたが、彼よりもゴーストの方が驚いて目を丸くしていた。ジェットはその隙を逃がさず、彼の腕をドアから退けると素早く部屋を出ていった。

ジェットがいなくなった後、ゴーストは大きなため息をつきながら「やれやれ…」と呟く。

3人は互いの顔を見ながら苦笑いし合ったが、ソープは何かが引っかかっているようだった。

「なぁ、…あのピアソンって男、どこかで見たような気がするんだが……………あ！思い出した！！」

～to be continued～

※テロリストグループRSU以外の組織は現実に存在しています。

私は軍事評論家でも戦争支持者でもありませんので、軍事的な間違いや辻褄の合わない部分があるかもしれませんが、これは男同士の恋愛ファンタジーを書きたい執筆初心者が書いたものなので、追及しないでください。

また、唯一の戦争被爆国の日本国民として心から世界の平和を願っています。

すべての人が美味しいごはんを食べられ、屋根のある部屋で、温かいベッドで安全に眠れますように…。

[yourkimjaejin]

Johnny x Moxy (Minny) Moments

Here's a couple of moments in the relationship between Johnny and his little sister Moxy, Enjoy!!! ~ Author Izzy

Studying

Moxy has a one track mind. When she’s focused on something, she won’t stop until she gets it done. 

That gets in the way when Moxy was in school at SOPA

Sometime’s the rapper would get frustrated at how things were worded, how they solved math problems, and the sheer amount of homework given was overwhelming. To avoid it, she would fake like she had dance practice. Dancing all night until she was forced to spend an all nighter finishing her work

After the fifth time Moxy wandered into practice with blood shot eyes that were barely open, Johnny stepped in telling Taeyong he’d handle it.

Johnny told her that his door was open no matter the time. He’d been through what Moxy was going thru but he didn’t have help. 

Anytime Moxy needed it, Johnny would stay up and help solve any question Moxy had regarding her homework

Eventually they formed a system where the two would take over a conference room and knock out her homework for the next day

Cute

When Moxy love’s something, she studies everything she can about it. She wouldn’t be a kpop idol if she didn’t want to know more about the Korean side of her.

But Johnny can’t get enough of Moxy’s little obsessions. He finds her one track mind sooo cute

Like when it comes to wrestling, Moxy loses her collective mind. She’ll start reacting like nobodies in the room with her. He has dozens of videos of Moxy practically hyperventilating at different segments from show

Moxy has a weird eating habit. She eats all the vegetables out of her meal before any rice or meat. Seeing her dig through every section of a meal for any veggies she forgot makes Johnny want to squeeze her.

Johnny could just shake her when Moxy reads something in Korean. It’s when she sounds out the words she doesn't know. 

The audible coo Johnny releases when Moxy’s pouts or glares in frustration

Johnny think’s Moxy is the cutest when she’s listening to music. It’s like she can’t control her body anymore. She’ll start dancing and singing no matter who's around. 

The best are when they’re in the car on the way back home from a schedule. It's those times when Johnny can tell Moxy is lost in another world while listening to her music. Sometimes the two will meet each others eyes. Johnny will smile and Moxy smiles back….yeah those are the times when Moxy is the cutest to Johnny

Awe

Johnny is in AWE of Moxy

Her Strength and Fearlessness. 

Johnny and Doyoung would frequently accompany Moxy to the gymnastics gym to keep an eye on her, making sure she didn’t get hurt 

Sometime’s Johnny couldn’t watch as she threw herself into dangerous trick after dangerous trick. Doyoung would laugh at his hyung hiding behind his fingers.

The couple of times Doyoung was able to get Johnny to look up, he couldn’t help but see why Moxy was considered one of the best from her high school’s cheer squad. 

The strength she held while flipping and cartwheeling across the mat. The fearless expression in her eyes as Johnny watched her do one last rotation at the last second to land properly. 

Her Mind

Johnny could listen to Moxy talk about her passions for hours. 

The best times are when she has an idea for music videos. Johnny can’t count the nights he’s stayed up for hours listening to Moxy’s ideas for NCT music videos

Johnny always encourages her to write them down. Hopefully one day she’ll share them with the company, he knows she will

Her Talent

Johnny is pretty sure nobody is luckier than 127 to have Moxy on their team. She has so much talent it's embarrassing 

Moxy can pick up lyrics in a snap. Choreography comes so easy to her. The versatility of her voice. 

Johnny could spend hours gushing about his little sister so make not to ask him about what’s his favorite thing about Moxy cause you’ll be stuck listening for HOURS

Sexy

There's one thing that all the 127 members know and its that Moxy is considered, by a large margin of male kpop idol’s, to be one of the sexiest female idols out there

A lot of guys take glimpses at her. She never notices because they’re stopped by her fellow members

Johnny has literally seen boys stop what they're doing and gaze at Moxy with so much longing. It makes him sick.

Johnny and Moxy will get into a ton of fights because he’ll want her to cover up  but not explain why. Most of the time, Moxy will change just to get him to shut his mouth

The worst era’s for this were Favorite and Faster. 

Favorite was bad because the stylist thought of the amazing idea “Let's show off Moxy’s body after YEARS of hiding it.”. 

Dresses that stopped right before the middle of her thigh, tight in all the right places(all the wrong places in Johnny eyes). She always wore shorts underneath so she was never afraid to dance full out. 

Faster was even WORSE! Moxy was walking around in leather crop top and pants that showed off just a bit too much for Johnny

Johnny and Yuta have mastered their glares due to this ‘problem’. Jaehyun doesn’t glare so much as he blocks the view of Moxy with his body. 

Moxy hasn’t run them down because of this but it’s coming

Driving

Whenever Moxy wanted to go somewhere, It was on Johnny's gas tank. He took her and anyone with her everywhere

The unofficial reason, Johnny wanted to practice driving in Korea. The official reason, Johnny didn’t trust Moxy alone on Korean Public Transit

But like most big brothers forced to lug their sister’s around Johnny got tired of it. So he began teaching Moxy to drive

In the end, Johnny took Msquared to take their driving test together. Marks loves to rub his higher score in Moxy’s face. 

To keep in practice, one of their older members will take them out for a drive late at night so they don’t get caught by a wandering camera. This usually ends up being Johnny and 

Side Msquared note: Mark and Moxy are saving up to buy a car together

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Taglist: @alixnsuperstxr / @1-800-call-ria / @sophrodite / @sunflower-0180

[lupe-valdez]

"I feel like there has to be someone we can hold accountable for this sandstorm. I spent way too much time googling sandstorm defense systems last night. And then guess who I was up against in court this morning? That butthole of a man, Calvin, who refuses to ever match his pant color to his blazer color. And then somehow still wants to act smarter than me. I mean, come on." Lupe rolled her eyes as she and Sawyer had lunch in the conference room before taking on the rest of the day, though they were talking while both on their phones as well. "So glad I only slept with him once," she added with a sigh. "What's your afternoon look like? I have a 5 minute space in my schedule where we could scream into the void together." @sawyerdecker

[eponymous-rose]

Something I wanted to do in the New Year is be more aware of how I'm spending my time at work, so I think I'm gonna try to do little summaries here of what each day entails. Hopefully also kind of interesting/useful if anyone's interested in academia?

For reference: we're on the quarter system, classes started on the 3rd, and I currently teach one class per quarter (heavy research-focused department, so very light teaching load). I also currently supervise 1 PhD student, 2 Master's students and 2 undergraduate research interns.

Monday!

Checked email on the bus to work, which mainly consisted of me seeing a colleague had received an endowed professorship, me writing her an effusive congratulatory message, and then me editing back the message a bit so it was less embarrassingly over the top. Also sent my students a reminder about their homework due on Wednesday and our little field trip tomorrow morning and accidentally sent it to last quarter's class, whoops. Luckily a former student quickly notified me of my mistake and I got it fixed!

Class was great - lots of flipped-classroom stuff that worked well even with only two students in the room (it's a conference week, everyone's traveling). I knew from previous years that the students had really, really struggled with this one equation, so I had them do a couple of examples in class and after working through the first one together, they both nailed it on the second try. Had to cancel a meeting with one of my undergrad research interns after class because the other members of our research team are out of town this week. Where is everyone? Well, at a conference and doing a two-month-long field campaign on the east coast. Forgivable. She offered to send me some of the work she's done thus far, so that's handy!

Went to check email after class and found that apparently a new remote meeting had popped on my schedule for immediately after class with an old peer mentoring group of mine (fellow 4th-year assistant profs in tangentially-related fields - we all did a professional development course last year together). Luckily it was cameras off so I could snack and decompress a bit while we caught up and made some strategic plans for the quarter.

Okay, FINALLY time to check email in earnest before my next meeting. 36 new messages since I checked last. New software package I need to bookmark and keep in mind for later work. Updates from the conference I'm technically attending virtually this week. Reference letter request from an undergrad student; add to calendar! Title and abstract to get added to the website for a seminar I'm hosting in a couple weeks. Reminder that the Zoom recording of my class is available to put online (which I promptly did). Triple-check with our tech guy that we're good to go up on the roof tomorrow to set up instrumentation for my class's term projects (all good!). Time flies, so here's the email with research progress from my undergraduate research intern and a handful of questions, we'll answer those and see how she likes jumping into a new dataset. New grant opportunities, job listings, a bunch of easy stuff to mark off. An essay about allocating time each week into the categories of Teaching, Research, and Service and strictly adhering to the percentages laid out by your tenure/promotion committee. Got a few minutes before my next meeting so I'll try it this week? Ish? Maybe? Looked sidelong at the new schedule, sure, we'll try that this week. Sent an email to my collaborator who's on a field project to see if we can do a remote meeting tomorrow to chat about a couple research proposals. Queued an email for next week's seminar speaker to see if he can send me the title and abstract for his talk/PhD entrance exam next week - no sense freaking him out before Wednesday, so we'll do a scheduled send.

Next up, meeting remotely with my former postdoc advisor! We've set up these meetings to "work on research projects" together but honestly this week it was just listening to him tell a very entertaining story about his car breaking down in rural Missouri and also listening to him describe a truly tragic tale of his very fancy sandwich getting thrown out of the office fridge by accident. That's scientific collaboration, baybee. We did talk research for a bit and he mentioned wanting to collaborate on a paper (he offered to pay for it out of the much more substantial research funds that come with his 30 extra years in the field) so I'm gonna come up with something for that by our next meeting in two weeks. I like working with him - we've published a couple papers in some pretty high-impact journals and he's always let me take the lead and go for first authorship without butting in, only providing support - so this is a fun prospect! I do have to submit an abstract this week for a European conference that'll be happening this spring, so maybe I can go ahead and lean into that idea a little.

It's now getting a little dark and rainy and I'm flagging a bit but I still have an hour before the afternoon seminar, so probably time to do a little course prep. Did some "grading" (just checking completion certificates for an introductory module the students had to go through). Fixed a mistake in Wednesday's lecture (why is there an anemometer when I'm talking about thermometers???). Reviewed some of the more complicated topics in Wednesday's lecture to make sure I'm not totally lost (some thermodynamics I haven't looked at in a while, thermocouples, semiconductors). Replacement slides uploaded to our course management system.

Aha! Email back from collaborator, she's going to be on a research flight tomorrow and won't be able to meet. All good, I don't have much to report anyway. That frees up an hour tomorrow, woohoo.

Okay, students have a homework assignment due a week from Wednesday, so I'm gonna post it this Wednesday. I have a good homework assignment prepared, I just needed to go in and write up a nice answer key. Got that done (along with some sample Python code to provide them with) and the homework assignment is scheduled to be posted, so it's time to look at next week's lectures. I've inherited this class from someone whose course notes can be a little scattered, so this is usually a bit of a process. Only two lectures to prep for next week, though!

Took a break from lecture prep to go to today's seminar, which purported to be about a really dodgy geoengineering scheme (redundant descriptor, am I right?) but in fact just rigorously tested said scheme and demonstrated it would actually have the opposite effect. Super fun and interesting seminar!

Okay, back to working on lectures for next week. Somehow got both of next week's lectures done before the end of the day, so those should just need a little polish and they'll be ready to go! Uploaded them to the course management system but sneakily and they won't appear to students until I've checked them over.

Tomorrow: going to the roof with my students to set up their term projects, then tons of sweet, sweet, meeting-free office time carved out. Hope this doesn't come back to bite me with a million meetings on Wednesday (...it will).

Important: work is done by 5PM. I try very hard to adhere to "leave work at work", which is not as much of a pipe dream as it seems, even for R1 tenure-track.

[queenofthursday6599-blog]

So apparently they (I'm assuming the government, but it could be a movement of parents, I'm not too sure I haven't looked into it that much) are trying to get rid of special ed classes, along with gifted and talented classes, to just have all kids in one classroom.

Why.

What purpose would that serve?

If the kid is struggling in class due to their disability why would you insist on them not being in a special ed class? Where they can better have their needs met by a specifically trained special ed teacher?

There's no point to it that I can think of, other than wanting to shove as many kids in one class as possible under a single teacher.

Same with getting rid of gifted and talented programs (though I do think like the vast majority of those programs are structured really poorly, and are in need of overhauling anyways).

Schools just don't want to pay for extra teachers, and parents don't want to hear that their kid isn't smart enough for certain classes. Be it the mainline classes, or the gifted classes.

Like even I, as just a child growing up with just ADHD on a 504 plan, struggled to the point of leaving public school and switching to homeschooling in high school.

In middle school there were times were I would spend weeks at a time spending my lunch in ISS (in school suspension) desperately trying to get caught up with my peers on assignments.

And I preferred that.

At that point I was so desperate to try and keep up with my peers that I preferred having to spend my lunch and recess in the detention hall, sitting at a desk where the dividers are set up so you can't see any other students, where it was quiet and there was nothing to distract me because talking was forbidden.

I went through years of parent teacher conferences hearing my teachers tell my mother that I was "really bright, but if she could just focus/pay attention, and remember to do xyz".

Like I wasn't medically diagnosed with a neurological difference that made doing those things extremely difficult in the framework the school was set up in.

The main thing I remember about junior high, is me nearly sprinting through the two stories of the school desperately trying to figure out where the hell I was supposed to be going.

Because every day had a different set of classes I was supposed to go to, and the schedule changed with the semester. So by the time I finally managed to memorize the pattern, it would change and I had to start from zero again.

Not to mention teachers are already hella over worked, and now they want to also have mainline teachers have to try and teach students who would probably be better in a special ed class (which have a max of 15* students).

Along with the kids who fly through mainline coursework in half the time as the rest of the kids and are then left to screw around for the rest of class, distracting their classmates.

[*Which is about half the size of the biggest mainline class I was ever in. A class that I in fact flunked out of and had to take remedial classes for, because so many other students distracted me to high hell.

Remedial classes, which I flew through in less than a month because you did it at your own pace on the computer, so there was nothing to distract me.

After which I got bumped to the only remaining Sci class that fit into my schedule, which had only 12 students including me, which I then mysteriously flourished in.]

I don't understand it. I don't. I just can't help but feel like this is setting up a number of kids, disabled and not, up for failure in an already shitty school system.

What else could be the appeal to having all these kids of different learning ability all stuffed into one class room be? Other than not wanting to pay for the special classes and extra teachers (be they special ed or gifted and talented), or parents not wanting to admit that their kid is disabled and just needs extra help with some things.

Like this is either a money issue, or this is an abileist parents issue, and I don't know which.