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missmungoe · 3 years ago

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Can we get more pirate Makino

Of course! I’m actually writing a thing about exactly that, so here’s a glimpse from the first chapter of a three-part fic I’ve been working on, titled On the Water (alternatively: How to Become a Pirate in Your Thirties).

Follows Long Live, rated M for, well, Shanks. The full story will be up on AO3 when it’s finished, but I hope you enjoy this sneak peek!

For her birthday he gave her the horizon, but adapting to life at sea was a work in progress.

The ropes scuffed her palms, gentle hands that had always known hard work, just not this particular kind. She’d have blisters tomorrow, Makino suspected, although hoped that was all she’d have, and not a broken back and fractured skull to boot.

“Need a hand?”

His voice reached down towards her, as a big hand was offered, the broad palm roughened with harder calluses than hers. The metal of his wedding ring caught the sunlight; unlike his fingers, it didn’t bear the evidence of his way of life, but then he hadn’t been wearing it on his hand for very long.

Her own ring was dulled and scratched from wear; the curious symmetry of their lives, at least before her recent about-face in terms of careers, her apron and serving tray exchanged with canvas, rope, and questionable safety measures.

She looked at the hand held out to her, following the sinewy forearm to Shanks, perched on the ratlines above her with an effortlessness she couldn’t decide if made her want to gawk or shriek in frustration. The fact that he could even offer his hand was hard to believe, given that he only had one, but he looked utterly unhindered by the fact, his bare feet steady where he balanced on the ropes, in a way that made it seem like having two hands would have just been overkill.

For her own part, Makino was trying her best not to cling with every appendage she had.

“Are you being cheeky?” she called up, just a little shrilly, gripping the ropes when an impish gust of wind sent the ratlines swaying.

“You tell me,” came the quick reply, her disbelief parried with the flash of a roguish grin. “You’re the one with the view.”

Poised on the ropes directly beneath him, Makino demurely refused to acknowledge the cheeks in question, hugged rather snugly by the fabric of his pants where he leaned his weight against the ropes. Today’s pattern was cheerful palm tree leaves against a bright red backdrop. The fact that it might be the last thing she saw before falling to her death was a sobering thought.

“Eyes aloft, sailor,” Shanks said, a note of command that sent a shiver jumping up her spine, and that had her gaze darting from his rear to his face, and the delighted grin stretched across it. “I know I’m distracting, but try to be professional?”

Had she been a better liar, she might have attempted a glib retort. As it was, the sight of him on the ropes was distracting, a captain in his natural element, his feet bare and his signature cloak discarded; the ruggedness of a man who’d spent his life at sea, all rough stubble and sun-darkened skin swept with dark hair, his half-buttoned shirt straining over his wide shoulders in a way that really ought to be against the law, or at the very least prohibited during certain circumstances, like, say, when she was trying to keep her concentration so she didn’t fall and break every bone in her body.

The toned arm extended towards her, the right sleeve cinched around his bicep, flexing when he caught her eyes darting to it.

Her attempt at an unfazed expression faltered, and his chuckle chased her gaze when she averted it, although her blush was arguably more incriminating, but then it was hard not to be impressed, and she still wasn’t used to seeing him like this.

Curling her toes, she tested her balance. She’d rolled her breeches up past her knees, and her bare feet helped with her grip on the lines. The only thing she’d kept of the clothes she’d brought aboard with her was her loose-sleeved blouse, and even her kerchief had been exchanged for a longer scarf to better hold back her hair; red with white embroideries, he’d gifted it to her shortly after they’d set out from Fuschia, weaved into her long braid now, brushing her spine where it hung between her shoulder blades. She wore no further embellishments, although had wondered how she might look, with gold in her ears and on her fingers, or pearls from the bottom of the sea. Trappings for a different pirate, or at least a bolder one.

She missed her skirts, her silk bodices and embroidered aprons, but this was more practical, and better suited her new chores. Maybe one day she’d be a barmaid again, but for now she was a pirate, and if an enemy showed up, they wouldn’t be asking for a drink.

Shanks offered his hand again, and this time Makino took it, sea-roughened fingers wrapping around her smaller ones tightly, and her breath seized when he lifted her up, and so fast she had to stifle the startled yelp that escaped her, and heard his laughter, a softer thing now as she scrambled to hold on to her new perch on the ratlines beside him.

Her feet curled around the ropes as she tried to reclaim her balance, her breath hitching when the rigging swayed.

She watched as Shanks moved, his leg sliding behind hers as he put himself behind her. A big hand settled over one of hers, gripping it reassuringly.

“Breathe,” came the gentle order, as her back met the sturdy width of his chest, the support allowing her to relax enough to slacken her death grip on the lines, the breath she’d been holding easing out as she did. His feet caged hers, tiny in comparison, his body keeping her secure on the lines. The top of her head was barely level with his sternum; she could feel the warmth of his skin bared by his shirt where it pressed against her back. “Attagirl.”

Shifting his weight, his hips brushed against her backside, and her breath shivered with her laugh, feeling him.

“This is hardly what I’d call professional,” Makino said, even as she yielded some of her weight to him, glad of the support offered by his bigger frame.

“What are you talking about? I’m the essence of professionalism. I just have a very hands-on approach to teaching.” His grin brushed the tender spot on her neck beneath her ear as he rumbled, “This is the first time I hear you complaining about that.”

“I’m not complaining,” Makino said, the shiver in her voice betraying her reaction, but sensing an opportunity to give him a taste of his own medicine, added demurely, “I like having you behind me.”

She felt his surprise in the startled grip of his fingers, and could picture his grin from the winded laugh that reached through her back.

“Say things like that and you’ll make me lose my grip.” The way he pressed against her felt retaliatory, her breath hitching at the grind of his hips, and the hardness beneath her rear. “I’m trying to show you the ropes here.” His lips skimmed the back of her neck, the fleeting kiss followed by a rumble, “Although if we move this to our cabin I can show you some different ones.”

Her heart skipped, although not so much for the suggestion as for the casual use of our that had found its way into his vocabulary lately.

Her laugh was soft, and she felt him squeeze her hand. “Such a thorough education you’re giving me.”

“Well, I want you to be prepared,” Shanks said, as a grinning kiss marked the spot above her pulse. “There are some real scoundrels on this sea.”

“Oh, I know.” Her eyes flicked up to catch his, tempered steel in the sunlight. “If I’m not careful, one might steal me away on his ship.”

His look softened, a gentler kind of heat, before he bent to kiss the crown of her head.

But even teasingly said, it touched upon something she hadn’t broached with him yet; an underlying fear that had followed her from East Blue like a shadow in the water, and that was a large part of why she wanted to learn how to sail.

She didn’t want him to regret taking her with him―that there should come a day when her inexperience would cease being endearing, if she became a burden he couldn’t afford to have on his ship.

“Hey,” Shanks said then; the shift in his tone made her blink, before she realised that her thoughts had wandered. “Everything okay?”

Makino nodded, and hoped the slight quaver in her voice helped make her lie convincing. “Just made the mistake of looking down.”

There was a beat where she wondered if he’d seen through her deceit, but then, “As much as I’m enjoying teaching you,” Shanks said, and she was surprised there was no teasing in his voice now, “you know you don’t have to learn this, right? I captain a pretty big crew. We’ve got plenty of hands on deck, and that’s not an amputee quip.”

Murmurs of agreement backed him, from the crew gathered below, all of them having come out on deck to observe. She’d ask them to mind their own business if she’d thought it would work, but recognised a lost battle. They hadn’t minded their own business since the day they’d met.

Although catching the wary looks on their faces, she wondered if the real reason they’d gathered to watch was so they could catch her if she slipped.

Ben was holding the baby, wide-eyed and sucking on his fingers where he watched them both aloft, and she had the sudden thought that he probably wouldn’t forget it if she fell to her death.

It almost made her hesitate, wondering if she really was pushing it, and that her focus was better spent on something a little less hazardous, like charting stars or assisting Marsh in the galley, and not on building a career as a sailor when she was long past the age most swabbies got their first posting. She wasn’t even a proper swabbie, but couldn’t exactly claim a higher rank when she had no skills or credentials to back it up.

But there was a part of her that wouldn’t back down, even against her own misgivings. She couldn’t choose this life, his life, and keep living the way she had. This sea wouldn’t allow it, and she’d be naive if she believed otherwise.

It was never going to be easy, and she was painfully aware that she’d chosen the worst possible time to abandon her law-abiding job to become a pirate. Granted, most fledgling pirates didn’t achieve overnight fame and a back-bending kiss on the cover of the WENP. If she’d hoped for a subtle change of careers, that ship had thoroughly sailed.

But whatever kind of pirate she turned out to be, she didn’t want to be useless. At the very least, she wanted to know her way around his ship.

“It’s not like I’m going to put you on watch duty,” Shanks said, when a lull had passed where she hadn’t spoken. “That’s why we have Fen, although between you and me, if Whiskey could sound the alarm, he’d be out of a job.”

“No offence, Boss, but that cat was shat out of satan’s arsehole,” spoke the freckled young man seated on the yard above them, with the ease of someone who spent a lot of time aloft, and who didn’t have thirty-two years of deeply burrowed roots holding him back. “But yeah, you’re probably right.”

“If our ship’s cat can do it, then I should be able to,” Makino retorted pertly, although didn’t say that she’d rather not spend a whole night in the crow’s nest by herself. Not that Shanks would ask her, and if he did, he’d have something rather different in mind than keeping watch, but even that would be moot if she couldn’t get up there by herself.

If they hadn’t had an audience, she might have told him. Instead what she said was, “I can’t be a pirate without any sailing skills, Shanks.”

“Hey, there are plenty of pirates who have no sailing skills,” Shanks countered. “Don’t underestimate how much you can get away with by riding someone’s coattails. It’s done wonders for Buggy’s career.”

“At this rate, he’ll be an Emperor soon,” Fen said.

“Who will?” Yasopp asked, appearing on the yard beside Fen, causing Makino to start, and she was glad to have Shanks behind her, as she didn’t lose her grip. She hadn’t even seen him climb up, but, “Hey, Ma-chan,” he chirped, swinging his legs over the yard as he took a seat. “How’s it hanging?”

“Oh, just swimmingly,” Makino sighed, and tried not to squirm, uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her. Unlike Shanks, she’d never loved the spotlight, particularly when doing something she wasn’t good at, and it was a little intimidating to have a whole crew of experienced pirates observing her stumbling attempts into learning their craft.

For all its delight, Yasopp’s grin was understanding, and her gratitude was silent when that sharp-eyed gaze left her to look at Fen, his arms crossed over his chest in a casual repose as he repeated his earlier question, “So who’ll be an Emperor soon?”

“Buggy,” Fen said.

Yasopp snorted, but after a beat, conceded, “You know, I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s got a way of falling upwards.” Then with a grin, “Roster’s getting pretty packed now, though, with Luffy and this one,” he said, nodding to Makino. “You’ll have to watch out for challengers now that you’ve announced yourself, Ma-chan. It’s eat or be eaten on this sea.”

“Don’t,” Makino said primly, before Shanks could open his mouth, and she couldn’t see his grin but she could imagine it well enough. Then to Yasopp, “And please don’t include me in this power-grabbing contest.”

“I hate to break it to you, my heart, but it’s a little late for that,” Shanks said.

“You did give an interview,” Yasopp pointed out.

“The photograph was also hard to misinterpret,” Fen agreed.

“I don’t mind what they call me,” Makino said, and already knew what it was, the endearment that had been given to her by the man she’d married long before she’d asked him to take her with him, but Empress was symbolic, not declarative, and the title itself wasn’t the issue. “It’s about what they expect. I’m not going to challenge anyone, I just want to be a normal pirate. No politics, just plain and simple swashbuckling. Whatever happened to parrots and peg legs?”

“Do you want a parrot?” Shanks asked.

“What I want is for my merits to speak for themselves,” she said, gently firm as she tipped her head back to meet his eyes. “Small and unimportant as they might be.”

His look held a thought he didn’t share, but before he could say anything, “So I’m not riding your coattails,” she told him, and was quick to add, “And don’t,”―he pinched his lips shut, although the boyish grin stayed―“make that into something lewd. It’s too easy, even for you.”

“She’s got a point, Cap,” Yasopp said. Fen made a noise of agreement.

“I feel like you’re all underestimating my creativity, but whatever,” Shanks said. “Also, ‘even for you’, wife? The level of disrespect. You’re on my ship now, and last I checked, I was still the captain.”

Doubtful murmurs from the deck below, which he answered by sticking his tongue out.

Her smile was sweetly mutinous. “Let me rephrase, then: I’m not riding your coattails, Captain.”

She knew from his grin that she was going to be paying for that later, but, “Have I told you that I find your premature midlife crisis adorable?” Shanks said instead. “Most people just change their hair. Or buy a really big boat.”

“Or marry a younger woman,” Ben supplied from around his toothpick. The baby on his arm was falling asleep, his head tucked under his chin.

Shanks turned his head to call down, “Et tu, you ass?”

Laughing agreement from the rest of their crew set off a debate of who’d had the biggest midlife crisis to date―a tie between Yasopp’s dreads and their captain’s choice of wife, who demurely elected to have no opinion on the matter―and Makino felt the momentary reprieve of their attentions, Shanks’ in particular, who for all his easygoing attitude had been watching her closely since they’d begun climbing the rigging.

It wasn’t that he minded her learning, but she wondered sometimes if he’d expected her to take the safer route, or at least one that didn’t include the risk of breaking her neck. His desire to protect her was endearing, if a little hypocritical from a man who was entirely too casual about danger. Their departure from East Blue was only the most recent example.

It had been a few weeks since her birthday, when she’d left the only home she’d ever known, chased from her safe shores by a fleet of navy warships. That last part had thankfully not needed repeating, but then the navy didn’t have the same foothold on this sea, or the presence to enforce their authority, in her husband’s territory.

Hers now, too, or at least symbolically, although even then it was a lot to accept for someone whose only claim before this had been to a little bar on the seaside. She still hadn’t fully grasped the finer points of the New World’s politics, aside from the precarious balance of powers that always felt one nudge away from toppling, and even saying that she wanted no part in it, she wondered sometimes if she would even have a choice.

Warm fingers squeezed hers. “Ready?” Shanks asked, and with a fortifying breath, Makino nodded.

She felt him shift his weight, yielding room for her as she made to climb further up the ratlines, and following close behind her until they reached the footrope beneath the course yard, where the bottom sails were stowed.

Reaching past her, she watched him swing himself up onto the yard, nimble in a way that never ceased to amaze her. She’d used to observe him working aloft, that first year they’d been docked in Fuschia, but watching him still stole her breath, his amputation no more a hindrance than the wind, and sure-footed in a way that made her wonder if he’d ever feared anything.

She wished for a bit of that confidence now, as she focused on making it look like she wasn’t clinging to the ratlines now that he was no longer behind her.

Her gaze fleeted down to the deck. She’d never been particularly afraid of heights, but then she’d made a point of keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground. The only other occasions she’d stepped out of her comfort zone had been at his direction, except this was a bit higher up than atop a table.

Shanks extended his hand to her, and this time she was prepared when he pulled her up, her weight not even a minor burden as he lifted her onto the course yard in a single, fluid movement.

His hand cupped her elbow, steadying her as she found her footing. It was the lowest yard on the mast, but the distance to the deck still felt considerable.

The sea spray was gentle against her cheeks, touched pink by the sun that had darkened her freckles, the weeks they’d been at sea. The salt wind kept trying to stubbornly coax her hair out of her scarf, a few rogue strands freed to brush her cheekbones.

Looking up at Shanks found him watching her, so tall she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, a thought behind them she wasn’t privy to, but at her questioning look he just said, “It suits you.”

Bemusement wrinkled her brow as she laughed, winded from the climb, “What, sweat and your old capris?”

The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, a fey smile that made her wonder if she’d guessed correctly, before his hand lifted to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing the arch of her cheekbone before tucking an errant lock of salt-swept hair back into her scarf, as Shanks said simply, “The sea.”

Her grin wavered, and she had no comeback to that, but he only curled his fingers under hers, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles, before gesturing to the mast. “After you.”

He let her grip his hand until she’d found a foothold, and kept one step behind her as she climbed the ratlines towards the top of the mast, until they’d reached the topgallant yard, and balancing on the footrope, he waited until she’d hoisted herself up before climbing up beside her.

The sea spooled out beneath them, the blue silk sky above the horizon the most perfect she’d ever seen. This high up, the wind sang louder between the masts, laughing where it tugged and teased the rigging, the shrouds stretched taut and the ratlines creaking as the ship swayed.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Makino eased her legs down on either side of the wooden yard. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to seeing the world from this perspective, and couldn’t say if the thrill she felt leaned more towards fear or excitement. 60/40, probably.

She looked down.

…or maybe 70/30.

Searching for a distraction, she lifted her eyes to Shanks, his long legs draped astride the yard, like he might sit on one of the benches in the galley. “How does it feel?”

Breathing in deeply, “Like I want to throw up,” Makino said, and saw his grin where it split his face.

Her smile softened, and keeping her eyes on him, she said, “And like I never want to go back down.”

His grin held understanding, and a feeling that made her heart ache, it was so fierce, and that wasn’t the view’s doing, although it was an undeniably spectacular sight, the sea and the sky ever-bending, the world stretched as far as it would go from horizon to horizon; an otherworldliness about this ocean that was humbling, faced with her own mortality against those terrifying powers, which had nothing to do with the pirates who sailed it.

Before coming to the New World, she hadn’t known what to expect. Between Shanks’ camping stories and the navy’s propaganda, all she’d known was that it wouldn’t be anything like East Blue, which meant she couldn’t keep being the same person she’d been. Not if she wanted to be in an Emperor’s crew, even just as his wife. There was no room for the ordinary in this realm, where only the extraordinary survived.

Lowering her gaze, she braved a glance at the deck far below. Hopefully she wouldn’t fall and break her neck. Given the countless ways to die on this sea, it seemed a somewhat anticlimactic way to go.

Lifting her eyes to Shanks found him considering her, outlined by the sun behind him, his eyes hooded under his scars, a curiously vulnerable look in them now, as though he couldn’t quite make himself believe she was really there.

She wondered if that look would fade, if he ever came to regret bringing her with him.

The intrusive thought slipped past her defences, before she blinked it away.

“So, my barmaid,” Shanks said, the tender note in his voice rendering it too sincere for teasing. “How are you finding the pirate’s life so far?”

She hoped her smile didn’t betray her earlier thoughts. “It’s actually been pretty uneventful,” Makino said, with a lightness that attempted to conceal the slight shiver in her voice. “I’m almost beginning to wonder if you really were exaggerating about all your dangerous escapades. I’ve seen no bears, either.”

His smile indulged her teasing, but his silence was telling.

She wondered what he was shielding her from, and if she even wanted to know. But even if she couldn’t hide from it forever, she was grateful for the uneventfulness of their voyage thus far. It wasn’t the same as Fuschia, with its gentle monotony, and where change had always been welcome. On this sea, change could easily be synonymous with war.

Her stomach twisted at the reminder, but looking out over the sea found it calm, although she did wonder what would happen the day it inevitably caught up with them. Shanks had enemies, and one in particular had featured in her nightmares since long before she’d asked to come with him.

Blinking her eyes, she dispelled the thought of Blackbeard, anchoring her focus in the present, and Shanks on the yard beside her, in his shirtsleeves and with his pants rolled up past his knees, the deceptive trappings of a simple sailor, and not the pirate lord the world knew. The wind had dragged its fingers through his hair, and his scars looked gentler under the look of contentment on his face, his staggering features eased with a smile, and the note of tension that was usually there gone from his brow.

Looking at him, it was almost easy to forget the authority he held on this sea; the kind of power he commanded, and the territories under his flag. To believe for a few seconds that she might be a simple sea captain’s wife, and nothing more.

But lifting her eyes to the top of the mast, and the jolly roger dancing on the breeze, there was no denying what he was, and what she was now, and had been since the day she’d married him. That the pirate who’d stolen her away from her quiet shores was not the same who’d first dropped anchor in her port twelve years ago; the one she knew as her husband.

She didn’t know him like that―as Emperor. She wondered idly if that was what he was shielding her from, more than anything else.

“You know,” Shanks said then, his eyes meeting hers. “You’re handling this a lot better than most do, their first time aloft. Buggy only made it halfway up―I bet him that I could climb higher, so of course he had to prove me wrong. You should have seen him. Captain had to climb up to get him down.”

“What about you?” Makino asked, smiling. She could picture it easily, for all that she’d never actually met Buggy.

His grin belonged to the eight-year-old up to no good, all boyish pride. “I made it to the top.”

“He had to get you down too, didn’t he?”

“Yup. I think I even cried a little on the way down.”

Her laugh tumbled out, the sound softening his eyes, and she saw his gaze where it drifted a bit, as though remembering.

Watching him, Makino tried to picture their son at that age, if he would be similarly brave, and foolish, and if he might have a little brother or sister egging him on. Maybe even more than one.

It wasn’t the first time the thought found her, imagining more children. She hadn’t brought it up since the birth of their son, and didn’t know how to broach the subject now, when their lives had changed so much. She hadn’t been able to make herself ask him what he felt about it, afraid of what the answer would be. It was already a risk having her on board, and a baby who wasn’t even a year old. A pregnancy wouldn’t exactly make things easier.

Would he think it would be too dangerous for her to stay? She couldn’t say he would be wrong, but just thinking about going back to her life before, and that aching loneliness, to wait, scared and alone on some island, filled her with a fear that made all her other worries pale in comparison.

She knew his old captain had accepted the risk, allowing the wife and children of one of his men to sail with them, but it had been a different time, and from what Shanks had told her, she could hold her own against the best in their crew. Makino couldn’t say the same for herself.

“It proves my point, though,” Shanks said, drawing her back from where her thoughts had gone, and her hand slipped from where it had been worrying her stomach. The admiration in his voice was genuine, but then for all his teasing, he’d never been the type to indulge her just to make her feel better. “You’re a natural. At this rate you’ll be dancing on the yards in no time.”

The impulse seized her, not an unusual feeling where he was concerned, wanting his eyes on her, and his admiration. It was what gave her the courage now, overtaking her fear, and spurred by the sight of his eyes widening, Makino put the future out of her mind, focusing instead on Shanks as she made to push to her feet.

Shifting her weight, she rose to her full height. She wasn’t looking at him now, but felt his focus, the near-physical grip of his eyes, fastened on her where she balanced on the yard. The wind tugged her blouse from where she’d tucked it into the waistline of her breeches, filling her lungs, until she felt light as air. Aside from being terrifying, there was something exhilarating about being aloft, so high up it felt like you could see to the very ends of the world.

The yard creaked beneath her bare feet, but her balance held as she walked the length of the yardarm, her arms lifted, but she didn’t waver, a balletic grace that cheerfully defied her hesitance climbing up, and reaching the end of the yard, she turned to find his mouth hanging open, and couldn’t keep her smile demure where it split her face, her secret revealed.

She wished she could commemorate the look on his face somehow, as Shanks told her, “I don’t know what I’m more proud of, your acting skills or the fact that you’ve been practicing without me noticing.”

Smiling, she didn’t mention that the last one had been a bigger challenge than learning to work aloft, but the nights he’d been busy with their son, going to sleep early, she’d sneak out to practice. Fen and Yasopp had been teaching her, and she saw Shanks single out both culprits now in the crow’s nest, wearing near-identical grins.

His eyes found hers again, a new look in them now, as though he was seeing her differently. And it was a look she knew but that never failed to catch her off guard, something that was at once tender and fierce, and that filled her with a thrill that knew no equal, even against the adrenaline rush of being aloft where she stood atop the sea, dressed in the warm spray and the salt wind and with blisters on her hands and feet that it would take some time yet to become proper callouses.

She wondered what he saw now when he looked at her, if it was a barmaid or a pirate; wasn’t sure which she felt like, but the look on his face rendered the distinction unimportant.

Glancing down, the drop still made her stomach turn in on itself, but it was a different feeling being up here now than it had been the first time. It might also have something to do with his reaction, and the grin that was so proud it looked like it couldn’t go any wider.

Her own pride made her bold, and made her forget the distance to the deck, and holding his eyes, she didn’t pay enough attention to her feet, or the loose bit of rope where it peeked out from where the sails were stowed.

It caught her foot.

She saw Shanks’ eyes widening, his grin falling as he scrambled to reach for her, but it was too late.

Terror seized her limbs, and even the formerly playful wind couldn’t cushion her fall as she plummeted through the air. For all that it had seemed so far, the drop to the deck below was quick, and she had less than a second to think as she twisted mid-air, grabbing for the rope as Fen tossed it down, and her heart lurched into her mouth as her downward descent changed course, the momentum provided by her fall allowing her to swing around the main mast.

The wind rushed by, dragging tears from her eyes and a terrified laugh from her chest as she soared through the air, towards the deck and the crew who’d gathered to watch, wearing horrified expressions and looking like they’d been prepared to catch her, but they were forced to step aside as Makino released her grip on the line.

Her landing wasn’t as smooth as she’d wanted, as releasing the rope saw her stumbling forward as her feet touched the deck, multiple pairs of hands reaching out to grab her, but she didn’t fall, catching herself against Lucky, who was the closest.

A full second of stunned silence followed where no one made a sound, before Yasopp let out a whooping cheer, but the rest looked so shocked, they didn’t immediately respond.

She saw the first wavering grin, before more rippled through the crowd, followed by their voices, their salt-hewn timbres raised in a roar under the open sky. It filled her chest, leaving her lightheaded as rough hands ruffled her hair and gripped her shoulders.

Still reeling, Makino didn’t tell them she was glad for the support, because it felt like her knees were about to give out.

Her heart was pounding against the roof of her mouth, adrenaline and childlike exhilaration pulling a winded laugh from her chest, bright and airy as she lifted her eyes to the main mast, only to find Shanks calling down towards her.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she didn’t even attempt a demure smile this time, or pretend her knees weren’t trembling as badly as her voice, even as she called up, “Were you worried, Captain?”

His breath left him in a gust she couldn’t decide whether or not was a laugh.

She watched as he lifted to his feet, her eyes widening as he reached for one of the lines, before diving off the topgallant yard, using the propulsion from his jump to swing around the mast like she had, although with far more control.

But where she’d expected him to step onto the deck, he only shifted his weight, allowing his momentum to carry him towards where she was standing, and she’d just realised what he meant to do when he swept her off her feet, the arm extended to hold the line wrapping around her tightly.

Her hands scrambled for purchase, clinging to his broad shoulders, a shrieking laugh pulling from her lips, chased by his deeper cadence as they soared through the air, once more around the mast. The wind carried them forward, and glancing down saw the drop to the water below, but it wasn’t fear that filled her this time, her nose buried in his neck with her laughter, like when he’d spin her, dancing in her bar as the fiddle played until she was dizzy and gasping for breath, only this time they danced on the squalls to the singing of the ship.

He put them down on the deck, his arm around her keeping her legs from giving out as he stepped off, holding her to him as he gently eased her down on her feet. Her whole body shook, adrenaline and laughter in equal measure as she steadied herself against his body.

His arm curled around her loosely, his palm spanning her back, but he didn’t let her go, which Makino appreciated, as she didn’t trust her legs just yet.

“That’s payback for nearly giving me a heart attack,” Shanks said, playfully chiding, although there was a slight waver in his voice that couldn’t be smoothed over with humour.

Looking up at him where he held her, her beaming smile didn’t know how to contain itself. “I wanted to surprise you.”

His look softened, somehow both achingly proud and mildly exasperated, as he told her wryly, “You succeeded.” Touching his chest, he let out a wheezing sigh. “Well, at least I know my ticker is working. Always good to know at my age.”

“I try to keep you on your toes,” Makino said, and gently glib, “That’s what a younger wife is for, or so I’ve heard.”

The chuckle that left him was winded, and pulling her close, “I love you,” he sighed. “You’ll send me to an early grave, but at least I’ll be really excited about it.”

Her grin hurt. “Any comments on my form?”

“Exquisite. Dainty and petite. Perfect, tiny breas―”

She clapped her hands over his mouth, her laughter loud and startled. “Shanks!”

“What?” he asked, his voice muffled behind her hands. “Oh, was that not what you were referring to?” His grin peeked out from behind her splayed fingers, her palms catching on his beard as he chuckled, “My bad.”

Kissing her fingers, he wrapped his own around them, his big hand dwarfing hers as he squeezed it. Makino almost thought it felt like his fingers were shaking.

His grin had eased a bit, although his voice was rough with pride as he kissed her small fist and said, “Quick reaction time, and damn impressive manoeuvres. A bit shaky on the landing, but you get extra points for theatrics.”

Beaming, she didn’t mention that she’d fallen on her ass the first eight attempts; she was just delighted she’d stuck the landing when it counted. “I still need more practice going down,” Makino said.

His whole face brightened, his grin fairly wolfish, and she recognised her mistake a second too late.

“Oh my god,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with a gusting laugh.

“I’m torn between vehemently disagreeing with that statement and graciously offering myself up for you to practice on,” Shanks said, his arm wrapping around her as she bent her head towards his chest, her laughter helpless as he lowered his voice to murmur, “You know my feelings about that particular skill of yours. Look; it’s already got a standing ovation.”

She pinched his side, and demurely ignored said standing ovation where it pressed against her stomach, her arms wrapped around his waist as she leaned into his chest, his laughter soft as he pulled her close, a trembling kiss pressed to the parting of her hair.

The others were there, their voices raised with delight, “Seriously, Makino!”

Nervous laughter. “You really had us going there for a moment!”

“Yeah, no shit. I thought my heart was about to fall through my ass!”

“Lovely image,” Shanks said, his arm sliding around her back as she leaned into his side.

Ben was holding Ace, awakened from his brief nap by the commotion. For once, his untouchable expression yielded a surprising amount of feeling, although Makino didn’t know whether to call it relief or like he desperately needed a smoke.

“You’re supposed to be the one with sense,” he told her, handing the baby over to Shanks when he reached his arms towards his father.

Shanks just grinned, and settling their son on his arm, “Just wait until this little guy begins climbing the rigging. It’s a good thing you can’t get any greyer, Ben, but then it’s my turn now, I guess.”

Ben looked at them both, then at his godson. Makino wondered if it was the first time the thought had occurred to him.

Smiling, and ignoring the thought of how she would handle an overactive toddler on a ship, “Wish you hadn’t quit smoking?” Makino asked him.

Ben looked at the baby, making excited babbling noises as Shanks pointed at a seagull grooming on the yard where they’d been sitting.

But for all his long-suffering, and the worry she still felt that they’d be too much trouble to have aboard, it wasn’t regret that made a startled grin break across his face, catching even her off guard as Ben said, and with a look that made her wonder if he knew what she was hiding, “A small sacrifice.”

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vortahoney · 3 years ago

Note

if you'd do a reanimator fic for bad things happen bingo........ self-surgery screams herbert west doing his own top surgery

Self-Surgery- Herbert West

Word count: 658

Content warnings: blood, surgery, needles, scalpels, self-harm (technically)

This was one thing that Herbert had to do himself. Maybe it was the irrational mortification that came with someone else knowing his body more than he did. Maybe it was his conviction that he was the only one who could get the job done and get it done right.

Either way, he was on that table, and he was not going to let nervousness get the better of him. One hand, one scalpel, one incision to begin with.

He pulled his belt tight over his mouth and bit down, grabbing the scalpel as quickly as he could so as to not lose his nerve.

Everything went quiet as soon as he pushed the scalpel into his skin. His own breathing went silent for that first incision, a small one, luckily. He wasn’t a squeamish man, not by a long shot, and he was glad for it. Especially when he’d made that second incision, the long one, the hardest one.

It seemed as if his body had completely forgotten the small amount of anesthetic he had figured would be “enough”. Pain ripped through his chest, and he had to remind himself not to regret it. He’d started screaming into the belt while he dragged the scalpel over the long dotted line under his breast, no idea if he was cutting deep enough into his skin.

Blood bubbled up from the skin, running down his chest and his hands and reminding him why he was doing this. After this, freedom. After this, no one expecting certain distasteful things from him. After this, everything he’d ever wanted.

That line of thinking got him to the end of the second incision. Then, he needed to pull the skin back, and that’s when he forgot to be conscious.

Thankfully, he didn’t pass out, not completely. But nothing was clear. His hands were doing the work, muscle memory. Of course they would, he practiced dozens of times. His brain, however, was a different story. It was all blood and sharp, stinging pain. He started screaming at one point. He didn’t know if he stopped.

With a spurt of blood, he came to, heaving hard, scalpel on the floor. His chest was still open. Of course it was. Skin was still folded upward, exposing sinewy red muscle underneath to stinging air. But to his delight, it was mostly muscle, and when he glanced over the side of the table there was a massive glob of fat. To anyone else, it might have been horrifying, but to him, it was a victory.

He laughed with relief, and only stopped when the pain in his chest got too severe. Then, he gave a deep sigh with a smile on his face. Now, the easy part.

Maybe he’d thank god that the needle was already threaded if he believed in one. Instead, he thanked himself and pushed the needle through his skin. He hissed as the thread pulled through again and again. It wouldn’t have mattered if it were barbed wire or silk, it hurt.

In, out, over, pull. It was a simple pattern, and that alone made the stitching much easier than the slicing or any of the steps he didn’t remember. In, out, over, pull.

When he finished the first round of stitching, he took a moment to watch his blood slip off the needle and splash onto the somehow clean skin. He was so close to victory. He was so close to being exactly who he wanted to be.

So he plunged the needle through the next incision. In, out, over, pull.

He hissed when he pulled the final stitch closed, then sighed and finally let his arms go limp, despite the pain. Ignoring the pain that shot through him, he laughed a little and wondered how the hell he was ever going to stand up.

His thinking was cut short, though, when the door opened. Dan’s voice suddenly echoed through the room.

“Herbert?”

#bad things happen bingo #Herbert West #Dan Cain #Re-Animator posting #luca writes #tw blood #tw surgery #tw self harm

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babyybitchhhwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Shikaku x Reader 18+

Title: Kiss it Better

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 3830

Warnings/tags: barebacking, begging, older man/younger woman

♥♥♥♥

Shikaku’s body was a menagerie of scars. Some so old that you could just barely make out the pale, jagged pink lines cutting across his skin. Others more recent and darker. They were a stark contrast against his warm complexion, drawing your gaze and making the others seem less noticeable by comparison. You were struck by the sheer number of them; how every inch of his body appeared to be marred with some physical reminder or another of hard won battles just as much as narrow escapes. There were almost too many to count. Surprisingly, though, they did not detract from his undeniable good looks. If anything, they only added to the pretty picture he painted sprawled out underneath you.

Reverentially, you traced the path of what looked to have been a particularly gruesome wound with your fingertip. It was probably a miracle he hadn’t been eviscerated. You wondered how he’d ever survived - not only this attack but all of them combined. Just how many battles had he fought and walked away from? You weren’t so sure you wanted to know the answer to that question.

It’s not as if you could have ever given voice to your curiosity anyway. It wasn’t your place to pry and he was already watching you with a steady interest that made you feel decidedly put on the spot. Like a stagelight had been trained on you and you alone; effectively highlighting your role as the instigator in all this.

He seemed perfectly at ease playing the observer, your audience of one. Content to let you peruse his body at your own leisure. Those sharp, pinpoint eyes that never seemed to miss even the smallest of details tracked the motion of your hand whenever you’d reach out to touch a new scar before flicking back up to your face again, silently gauging your reaction to each one. You weren’t sure what exactly your expression was conveying in that moment but Shikaku drank it all in with unwavering complacency. If he was offended by your keen scrutinization of his scars, he certainly didn’t show it.

Drawing your gaze lower, you followed the lean line of his stomach until he disappeared underneath you. The meat of your thighs seemed especially soft and pliable where they were bracketing his narrow hips, bulging around and molding to the firm shape of him. He was lithe and hard despite his age. Despite his role as Jounin commander which consisted almost entirely of desk work. He must have taken the time to keep up on his own training over the years and with some frequency, and it showed.

You couldn’t help noticing that there were signs of past altercations even this far down on his body, much too below the belt to have been anything but a cheap shot. Who was petty and malicious enough to hurt someone here? A tinge of ire sparked through you as the pad of your finger circled the pock mark blemish that was just shy of his hip bone. It must have hurt like hell getting injured so close to the groin.

Shikaku drew a quiet inhale then and your head came up. Worry that you’d overstepped some unspoken boundary or touched on a nerve that still ached even after the flesh had long since mended itself flooded your thoughts in a sudden rush. You started to issue a hasty apology but, to your surprise, he didn’t look in any way put out. If anything, the crooked smile playing at his mouth only seemed to suggest amusement and the words died in your throat when he brought his hand up to poke at the pale indentation too.

“Shuriken.” He said, finally breaking the silence. “Friendly fire.”

Your brows lifted. “Really?”

Nodding, Shikaku abandoned the pale scar tissue in favor of squeezing your thigh. His palm was rough with thick calluses - yet more proof of his consistent training efforts - and wide enough to give the impression that even the plumpest part of your leg was a mere handful for him. It made you feel small and delicate by way of contrast, like something fragile under his touch, and you shuddered on top of him.

Your reaction did not escape his notice, the curve of his mouth taking on a more sly, knowing edge as he turned his head against the pillow to look at you from a different angle and size you up. “Back when I was still in the academy.” He explained. “Gods, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Just an accident during shuriken throwing practice though. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.”

“I wasn’t worrying.” You insisted but you could tell he didn’t buy it. Huffing, you slouched forward and splayed your hands across his chest to cover the dense cluster of crisscrossed lines littering his sternum. “You just have so many ...”

“Do they make you uncomfortable?”

You thought about that for a moment. “No. They make me sad.”

Shikaku pinned you with a wry look of humor. “Whatever for? I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but I don’t like to think about you getting hurt.”

A warm, rumbling chuckle vibrated up through his chest to set your guts on fire, making your loins twist and curl in on themselves. You drew a steadying breath as your fingers flexed and the nails sunk into the smooth meat of his pecs. There was more give than you’d expected. It was the only indication you’d yet found that his hard earned muscle mass, as slight as it was, had begun to deteriorate with the passing of time. You wondered if anyone else had noticed yet. Then, in the same breath, you wondered why that knowledge excited you so much.

“Aren’t you sweet.” He murmured, distracting you from those thoughts when he palmed your rib cage between his hands. A gentle tug was all it took for him to drag you further up his body until you were perched on his stomach rather than his hips. The casual display of strength had your pussy fluttering in eager anticipation, clenching around little more than your own slick as Shikaku threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled you down into a kiss.

His lips were firm but soft against yours, molding to your mouth in a way that seemed to suggest you two had been made to perfectly fit one another. Leaning further into him, you sighed through your nose and kissed him back. You wanted to stay with Shikaku just like this forever. There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than tangled up in bed with him. But, as all things must eventually come to an end, that brief exchange ended long before you were ready for it to.

“When you make that face, I feel like I should apologize.” He said against your mouth.

“What face?” You whispered.

“The one you’re making right now.” Shikaku kissed you again; a slow, lingering peck that inspired a shudder down your spine. Eyes that were such a dark shade of brown they looked black - true black - gleamed playfully at you from just a scant few millimeters away while he studied your expression. Taking in your every shallow breath, every minute muscle twitch, and neatly filing it away for later. “I just can’t stand to see you looking so sad because of me. I don’t think ‘sorry’ would actually make you feel any better though.”

You gave your head a small shake, allowing him to cup your face in the cradle of his palms. He was so gentle with you. Tender despite the calluses digging abrasively into your skin. You hadn’t thought a man like Shikaku actually existed until you’d found yourself working under him and subsequently, perhaps even inevitably, writhing under him in blissful ecstasy only a few short months later. It was almost too good to be true. A dream you never wanted to wake from.

“I don’t want your apologies.” You told him quietly.

“What would you have of me then?”

That was a question you didn’t have to stop and think about.

“You. I only want you.”

Leaning up, you pecked at his mouth and then his chin. The coarse hair of his beard tickled slightly as you trailed butterfly kisses along the curve of his jaw and cheek until you could press your lips to the scar slashing across the side of his face. You lingered there for a moment. Feeling the heat of him seeping through his skin and into you before pulling back just enough to speak. “If I could, I would kiss away all your scars. You look very handsome with them. Distinguished. But I wish you’d never gotten hurt in the first place.”

Shikaku turned his head and nuzzled into your hair, making the tip of his nose brush the outer shell of your ear. “That’s what it means to be a shinobi. You get hurt and learn from your mistakes.”

“You’ve made this many?” You asked

“And then some.”

A faint, masculine grunt later, you abruptly found yourself flipped over onto your back. The sudden rush of movement happened too fast for you to comprehend what was happening until you hit the futon with a half stifled gasp. Your eyes widened up at Shikaku as he moved over top of you, sinewy muscles under his skin dancing in a delightful display of subdued strength. With one elbow braced against the mattress, he brought his other hand down to slip under your thigh, grabbing a tight fistfull of doughy soft flesh and hiking your leg up into the air. The faltering groan that tumbled off your tongue sounded needy even to your own ears and you grabbed onto his shoulders with fingers poised like talons.

Shikaku’s mouth curled into a mischievous little smirk, never missing a beat as he settled between your hips. His pelvis slotted to yours seamlessly, almost like you were two pieces of the same puzzle. The unmistakable nudge of his stiff cock at your pussy lips had you arching against him and trying to curl your captured leg around his ribs; writhing in anticipation as much as you were basking in the immovable force he presented above you.

He pressed himself flush to you then and your breasts squished against his chest. The sweat slick friction to your nipples sent livewire sparks shooting throughout your body, setting every nerve ending to vibrate. You drew a haggard breath, mewling softly when he bent your leg higher and hooked your ankle over his shoulder. Effectively locking you into place.

Helpless, all you could do was flex your toes while Shikaku took his time slowly angling his hips back and forth, teasing you with the hard weight between his legs. Gliding it along the puffy slit of your labia and coaxing yet more arousal out of your gushing cunt. Prodding your clit with the ridged glans on every smooth, drawn out stroke. It was maddening and wonderful at the same time. You could feel every bump and vein on the underside of his cock as it drug against you, feel it twitching with the need to sink balls deep into your body. Pulsing with red hot desire. It was enough to drive you wild and you whined softly in the back of your throat.

“Shikaku … please ...”

He groaned encouragingly in response. “Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes against the deep rumble of his voice, so gentle and soft despite the gruff note in his inflection. That alone would have been enough to send you over the edge if you’d allowed it. You could’ve listened to Shikaku speak for hours on end. This wasn’t how you wanted to find your release though and you squirmed, lifting your other leg to throw it over the small of his back and draw him closer. Trying to make him slip inside you.

It was no good though. Shikaku was as stubborn as a mule when he put his mind to it and there likely wasn’t a person alive who could force him to do something he didn’t want. He merely issued another low, carnal chuckle that made your pussy flutter and spasm, grinding his cock against you with more concentrated thrusts. Slipping and sliding through your drenched folds as if he were well and truly fucking you now.

You were entirely at his mercy, so wet for him that it bordered on obscene, and you shook as you threw your head back against the pillows with a half choked sob. “Please! I want you to take me … I need it ...”

“Is that so?” Humming his approval, Shikaku dipped his face down and kissed the tender column of your throat. His beard scratched and tickled, leaving a burning trail in its wake as he worked his way over the line of your jaw and higher still until he could capture your lips again. This exchange was far more heated than the last, more demanding, and you keened into his mouth when the head of his cock bumped your clit with growing insistence.

Trembling, you tore your mouth from his and gasped. “Don’t make me cum like this! I want to feel you inside of me! Please, Shikaku! Please cum inside me!”

He groaned, tense and halting as a shudder rippled down his spine. You could feel every inch of him rolling with it, not unlike the motion of a cresting wave, and your breath hitched as he adjusted the position of your leg over his shoulder. Shikaku shimmied a little lower then and leaned into you with his weight. His cock found your entrance through muscle memory alone, or perhaps instinct, and you tried to arch against him, eager for the sear of penetration. He had you so thoroughly pinned that it was no use though. Your only available option was to cling to him all the more desperately while he impaled you straight down the middle one excruciating fraction at a time. Forcing you to comprehend each inch of him that entered you in daunting slow motion.

You seethed. He had you wound so tight that you weren’t sure how much more of this teasing you could stand. The ache inside you only seemed to double down and grow more intense the further he sunk into your contracting passage, stretching you wide around his girth. It felt good. So good it almost hurt and tears of pleasure welled up along your lash line, blurring your view of Shikaku’s marred face. You tried to blink them away to no avail. He made you feel whole and complete; filling you up and taking you just shy of the breaking point. Reaching deep inside and touching parts of you that no other man had ever even come close to brushing against. It was overwhelming in the best possible way and you sucked in a ragged breath as his hand came up to cradle the side of your face, shaking.

“There you go looking sad again.” He murmured, settling against you at long last with an accompanying grunt and a wet squelch.

“I - I’m not …”

“I know, baby. I know. Shh.” Leaning close, Shikaku kissed the corner of your trembling lips. Those dark, dark irises studied you up close - taking in the flutter of your lashes, the moisture wetting your eyes, the way your brows furrowed and jumped in wonderful agony. You were sure he could see all of you in that moment, right down to your very soul. “You’re still so sensitive even after all this time. What am I ever going to do with you? Hm?”

A hiccuping moan was your only forthcoming response. You couldn’t seem to get your mouth to cooperate but that didn’t appear to bother him and you were grateful for that.

Smiling faintly, Shikaku backed off just enough to push up onto his elbow. His body, beautiful in its imperfection, flexed and roiled above you. The weight of his cock gradually retreated until you were sure he’d slip right out of you before surging forward again on a single, powerful thrust. You jerked at the intense pleasure that spiderwebbed through you, gasping and groaning. Your pussy flexed, squeezing around him in gooey palpitations that made his breath come a little harder. A little faster.

His mouth fell open with a barely audible groan, his expression pinched while he watched your face twist up in ecstasy. It looked like he was holding himself back. There was a bead of sweat forming on his brow, right above the scar gouged into his temple and you lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away. Shikaku readily leaned into the warmth of your palm, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment.

They opened again when he angled his hips back and locked onto yours as he drove into you on another powerful thrust. He didn’t pause to let you adjust this time; quickly taking on a steady rhythm of long strokes and sharp, pointed jabs that had you seeing stars. It felt like he was punching the air right out of your lungs and your breathless cries rapidly rose to join the deafening noise of skin clapping against skin. The humiliating schlucking sound of your cunt sucking him in deep on every downward lunge seemed loud between your bodies and only added to the lewd cacophony filling the space between you two. It echoed inside your head and seemed to heighten your arousal that much more, sending you barreling blindly towards the edge of oblivion. It was as if he intuitively knew how to hit that spot inside you at just the perfect angle and, as usual, you were powerless to stop it even if you’d wanted to.

“Shi - Shikaku!”

The breath puffing out of him grew more labored, straining against the exertion. “Go on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.”

You screwed your eyes shut and curled into him, holding on for dear life as the pressure in your loins rapidly mounted and threatened to suffocate you. Nails digging into long damaged flesh. The tension weighing heavy on all your muscles. Your leg quaking uncontrollably where it was stretched right to the edge of real discomfort over his shoulder. The delicious burn of his cock carving out a space within you one relentless thrust at a time. His sweat damp hips driving into the backs of your thighs with loud, wet smacks. The smell of him, intoxicating and woodsy. It was too much. You could feel the heat of your orgasm bubbling over, reaching critical mass, and your hands flew up to cover your face as you shrieked in delight.

“Let me see you, sweetheart.” Shikaku’s voice rumbled above you. “Don’t hide from me.”

His long fingers curled around your wrist in the next moment, gentle and coaxing. You let him tug that hand away from your flushed cheek, watching as if through a daze when he pressed your knuckles to his chest, but the other slipped back to tangle in your own hair. You could feel his heart pounding out an erratic rhythm against his ribs and he was looking at you like you were the only woman he’d ever known. Like you were the only one that mattered. Your stomach flipped over itself and, just like that, the coil snapped.

Arching so hard that you caught a sharp pop in your lower back, you threw your head against the pillows and wailed. The fingers in your hair clenched, desperate for something to hold onto while you shook with the force of your release. But the tug to your scalp only seemed to highlight the intense bursts of pleasure radiating from your cunt, making you cry out with more fervor.

As you shattered around him, Shikaku slowed to a standstill. Panting and tense with the effort of holding his own release at bay but content to let you ride out the waves of pleasure on his cock. He stayed lodged deep inside your pulpy cunt, just watching you writhe on him and shuddering each time your contracting walls spasmed and squeezed like a vice grip. All the while, you twisted and lurched, realizing in a far off, dreamy sort of way what he was doing but you were too far gone to care. It wasn’t nearly enough to dampen the sharp twangs of ecstasy cascading over your heaving body and you groaned dazedly when you started to come down from the high some moments later.

It took even longer to find your voice and when you finally tried to speak, your voice was thick with the lingering traces of your ograsm. “You never cum when I do …”

A short, breathless laugh rang out through the statically charged air. “I like to make sure you’re satisfied first, that’s all. Is that so wrong?”

You turned your head to regard the far wall, feigning a pout. “Am I one of them?”

“One of what?” He sounded mildly perplexed now and you couldn’t really blame him for not knowing what you were talking about. You felt silly even bringing it up again but you had to know. For your own peace of mind.

“One of your mistakes.”

Carefully taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Shikaku manually turned you back around to look at him. The fond look of exasperation you found peering down at you wasn’t what you’d been expecting - especially not when he was still flushed and sticky from having sex - but it made your heart skip a beat anyway. He was everything you could have ever hoped for and then some.

“You know you’re not. What a silly thing to say.” He muttered, craning his neck down to kiss you again in a lazy, lingering exchange that was as possessive as it was comforting. His lips curled against yours when you enthusiastically returned the gesture, leaning up to meet him, but he was quick to pull back and pin you with a knowing little smirk. “If you don’t think I’m paying you enough attention, all you had to do was say so. We can fix that right now.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You said, trying and failing to wipe the grin off your face.

“Even so,” His expression took on an almost boyish, mischievous edge as he grabbed onto your other ankle and hefted that one up over his shoulder too, effectively bending you in half like a pretzel. “How about we rectify it anyway?”

Your heart thumped wildly inside your chest when the change in position made him feel that much bigger inside you. The glans pressed tight into your spongy inner wall, sending fresh waves of exquisite pressure shooting throughout the sensitized nerves, and you groaned. This was certainly going to be another long, sleepless night and you couldn’t have been any happier about that prospect.

“Please, Shikaku. Please pay attention to me.” You gasped.

“As you wish, princess.”

♥♥♥♥

Link to fic on AO3: Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069682

#naruto #shikaku nara #shikaku x reader #self insert bullshit #my writing

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queenof-luna · 5 years ago

Text

Birthday Wishes

Dabi x reader

A/N: I know this is a little late but you know life and stuff. 😫 But I wanted to give my favorite husband some extra love and affection for his birthday 🥺💙 I love him. This was supposed to be short drabble but it's now 2000+. Enjoy!

Warning: NSFW, quirk usage, kitchen birthday sex.

💙💙💙

Dabi hated his birthday.

Scratch that, he hated most things, his birthday being somewhere in the top 10. The no. 3 being that top hero asshole Endeavor, but that was for another time. What he did love was being left the fuck alone in peace on this day, but that didn't seem to be an option as Shigaraki sent him out on a mission to deal with some snooping heroes that were getting a little to close to the league's location.

He managed to kill them all, but one of them managed to catch him off guard and in result of his carelessness he now sported a deep gash on his eyebrow and what he imagined were several fractured ribs, it hurt like hell so his intuition might be right. He needed to get somewhere safe for the night, police and other heroes would be out in force looking for him. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, maybe if he was lucky he'd get a nice birthday present too.

He continued his trek down the sidewalk, his ribs aching with every step until he stumbled up the back steps leading to your apartment door. He leaned against the framing of the metal banister and peeked into one of the side windows to see you standing at the kitchen counter mixing something in large bowl, cupcakes lining the counter waiting to be frosted.

You were mouthing the words to a song that was playing loudly from what imagined was a bluetooth speaker, your hips swaying to the rhythm of the bass. You looked so cute with your hair pulled up into a messy bun, powdered sugar smeared across your face and clothes with chocolate frosting staining your forearms and the corner of your mouth.

Dabi couldn't help, but smile as he watched you looking so domesticated and wifey like. He sometimes wondered what it would be like if he left the LOV and finally let himself love you the way he knew you deserved to be.

But he knew he didn't deserve you. You needed someone reliable and stable in both body and mind, someone who wouldn't break your heart every time he came over just leave a few hours later while you slept.

That was his no. 1 on his list of things he hated. Dabi tried multiple times to leave you to protect you from himself and everything he stood for, but he always found himself standing at your door like a stray waiting to be let in. He knew he was addicted to you and nothing he did would ever break it.

Dabi sighed and debated just to turn around and leave, maybe he could get a cheap hotel for the night and get himself fixed up before going back to the hideout. He slowly turned to ease himself off the railing careful of his ribs, but as soon as his boot hit the slick ice on the middle step he felt himself fall backwards.

He gripped the railing to stop himself, but it was too late. He fell back and knocked his head on the backdoor and the pain in his ribs suddenly became 10x worse than what it was. "Fuck" he cursed to himself clutching his side as he tried to push himself up into a sitting position.

Suddenly, the music stopped and the backdoor flung open, his head falling to the floor with a thud. One moment he's seeing stars the next he's staring into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. "Dabi?!" you called out in surprise at the obsidian haired male lying on the floor. His face twisted in delight and pain as he stared back at you.

"Hey babydoll, how's it hanging?" He asked with a pained grin. "What are you doing here? Oh no, are you okay?" you asked worriedly, you knelt down beside him, "I'm alright, just...you know what nevermind" he said forcing himself into a sitting position. The pain in his ribs, making it difficult to breathe he winced as he stood up.

"Your bleeding!" You cried, brushing his unruly black hair away so you could see the trail of blood running down his face. "It's fine, babydoll I'm fine" Dabi replied his reassurance a failure. "No, you're not your hurt!" You retorted, ushering him into your warm house. Dabi complied and staggered into the house, seeing that you weren't going to let him leave regardless of what he said.

"Sit and take off your jacket and shirt I'll be right back" you ordered after you managed to get him to the kitchen table, you quickly retreated to the bathroom to what he assumed to get the first aid kit. In the meantime, he obeyed and shrugged out of his clothes, taking care to not strain himself.

He tossed his jacket and shirt on the table looked down to see a huge black and purple bruise covering the portion of his unscarred skin. "Shit" he cursed under his breath, you were going to pissed off at him that's for sure.

Just as on cue, you came back around the corner with some white towels and the first aid kit. Your eyes immediately falling on his wounds. Your expression changing from worry to disappointment. You set the towels down on the table along with the kit before turning to grab a big bowl filling with hot water before returning back to the table.

"Should I know how you got hurt or do you prefer I don't?" You asked scathingly, wringing out the hot water from the towel before setting to work cleaning his face of the blood. Dabi remained silent. "Your right, I shouldn't" you said, seeing his silence his way of saying 'best not' and washed the towel again of blood.

you continued to wipe his face taking extra care around his eyes. His smoldering cyan colored eyes never leaving your face for a second, you looked so cute covered in powdered sugar with your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and your lips forming a pout as you diligently took care of his injuries, not batting an eye at the sight of blood.

You tossed the towel into the bowl and gingerly rubbed some antibiotic cream on his cut before sealing it with a bandaid. "What? No kiss to make it feel better?" Dabi asked. "I don't know, do you deserve it for showing up at my door bleeding after two weeks of not calling or texting me?" you shot back, your eyes glaring at him incredulously as you gently palpated his bruised rib cage.

"Don't be like that babydoll, you know I love you" Dabi replied, drawing his hand up to gently take your chin so he could see your face better. You jerked your head away from him, lips pursed into a pout "you have two fractured ribs I suggest you rest and try not to get into anymore trouble until you heal. You can stay on the couch tonight" you stated picking up the bowl and walked over to the sink to dispose of the dirty water.

Dabi watched you as you wrung out the bloody towel, your side profile suggesting you were both irritated and relieved to see that he was in fact alive and for the better word okay. Dabi got to his feet and walked over to you and stood behind you, his figure towering over you as he snaked his sinewy arms around your waist and placed his chin in the groove of your neck.

He could feel you tense up from his hot breath fanning the back of your ear. "Kitten," His voice thick and smooth like honey in your ear, forcing a shiver up your spine as he kissed the nape of your neck. "S-stop it, you know I'm mad at you" you chided, trying to squirm out of his grasp.

You failed, only for him to successfully push you harder into the counter and graze his teeth along your tender flesh. His forming erection pushing into the plushness of your ass.

"You can't be mad at me today's my birthday" he said smoothly, kissing the shell of your ear. You flushed vibrant pink. "And you know what I'm wishing for as my birthday present?" he continued, gently turning your head slightly.

He licked the chocolate frosting from the corner of your mouth and sucked his canines of any residual frosting as his hands trailed down the band of your shorts. You shivered at his touch. It wouldn't be long now before you were a trembling breathless mess in his hands.

"You," he said simply, without warning slipped two fingers into your slick heat and biting down on the exposed skin of your neck, marking you. You jutted your ass into his clothed erection as you threw your head back letting a stifled moan escape your mouth.

He rapidly pumped his flexing fingers in and out of your aching core until your spasming pussy was gripping his fingers. "Oh god, Dabi! I-" you cried out as you hit your high. He retracted his fingers from your throbbing core and you whined from the loss of contact.

"Such a good little slut," he purred softly, the sound of his belt unclasping making you tilt your head back in anticipation of what was to come. He slid your bottoms down to your knees and used his foot to shove your feet apart allowing him to align himself up to your throbbing sensitive core.

"Now be a good girl and take my cock" Dabi stated as he gripped a fistful of your hair and shoved your head down into the sink and snapped his hips into you setting a rough pace immediately.

"Fuck! Dabi!" youcursed, "harder!" he obliged you and rutted into you at more harsher pace trying his best to ignore the pain in his ribs as he did so. You gripped the kitchen counter for dear life as your knees started to buckle out from under you, the feeling of his cock filling you up so deliciously made the knot in your abdomen tightened.

"You take my cock so well, your pussy is throbbing so needy for me. You must have missed more than your letting on, babydoll" Dabi said, his fingers gripping your hips more firmly with each thrust of his hips.

"Shut up and fuck me!" You growled, throwing your head back to see his smoldering eyes glaring at you. In retaliation to your needy brat attitude, he pulled away from your aching pussy and with a hot hand he smacked the exposed skin of your ass leaving a burning impression of his handprint.

"Don't be a brat" he snapped back. You whined as You rubbed your sore spot he left glaring arm at him with lust blown eyes.

Suddenly your eyes gave off a purple aura and he felt his foot fly out from underneath him, by the time he realized what had happened he was already laying flat on the kitchen floor and you had already shimmied out of your shorts and sinking down the length of his cock.

"Fuuck! That feels so good" he groaned, gripping your waist tightly as you rocked your hips back and forth. His head pressing hard into your cervix until the knot in your stomach started to tighten again. You dug your nails deep into his chest leaving tiny crescents impressions of your nails into his skin as you tossed your head back in ecstasy.

With your climax nearing you shifted to bouncing on his cock impaling yourself deeper than before. He reached up to grip your throat squeezing hard enough until you was gasping for air. "Cum on my cock, baby, cum for me" Dabi proclaimed, squeezing your neck just ever so slightly until you was a panting mess and the knot in your stomach finally came undone.

"Dabi! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!" You choked, digging your nails harshly into his sensitive ribs and racking down until red lines marked his bruised skin. The raw throbbing of your cunt around his cock was the last straw he needed to climax, gritting his teeth as he teetered dangerously on his high, Dabi gripped your hips tightly as his hot seed coated your walls and womb in white.

You collapsed onto his chest completely breathless. The thunderous beat of his heart bringing a smile to your face. You turned your head lazily to stare at the beautiful turquoise eyes of his. You could have easily told yourself that it was the oxytocin and serotonin or the simple fact that they just fucked on the kitchen floor, but in reality it was more difficult than that.

You loved him and missed him and he knew it.

you pushed your weary self up still seated on top of him as you reached up to take an already frosted cupcake from the counter. You pulled open a drawer and fished out an old skewer stick and snapped it half before plunging it into the cupcake. "Can I get light?" You asked holding the cupcake out for him.

Dabi chuckled, he ignited a small flickering blue flame from his thumb and held it over the skewer until it caught fire. "Forgive me if I sound old fashioned but I do believe I owe you the pleasure of embarrassing you with the birthday song" you said, teasingly.

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear Dabi

Happy birthday to you

Dabi chuckled as he blew out the flickering flame with a single puff of breath. You set the cupcake down beside his head and you leaned down to place tender kiss to his creased mouth "happy birthday" you said softly into the shell of his ear as you placed another kiss to his mouth.

Dabi eagerly parted your mouth with his tongue, lapping at your hot muscle with tenacity. You pulled away from his hot kiss "what'd you wish for?" A devilish grin creased his broad lips tugging at the staples in his cheeks as he ran a hand through your messy hair.

"If I tell you then it won't come true, babydoll" he replied, pulling you back against his chest resealing your mouth with his.

His wish being granted on that kitchen floor for a second time.

#bnha #dabi is a todoroki #dabi my hero academia #dabi x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #happy belated birthday to my husband #touya x reader #mha touya

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thetorturerwrites · 5 years ago

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Can I request Pennywise and oviposition please 🥺🥺 lots of cum, stretching, or biting?? Bloodplay is 😍😍 anything that'll make it fun for you!! Thank you 🤡🤡🤡❤❤❤❤❤❤

I don’t know if this will be shocking, but I don’t identify much with a victim. I identify with the bad guy. So, as much as I tried it the other way, this did not go in the direction I thought it would, and it strayed from this ask. I still think its pretty good, though. I enjoyed my tromp through the crazed clown’s mind, and I hope you like it.

***

Her screams echoed in spirals through the sewer maze, high in pitch just the way you liked. She wouldn’t be as sweet as the idiot children. Too old. Stupid, stupid cow. But it was necessary for the task. No matter. Her flesh would still taste of fear and adrenaline, aged like wine.

She hung from the wall, anchored in place by the sticky web at her neck, wrists, and ankles. You’d learned that the most likely places to beget your spawn were thicker and warmer than the skinny, gangly ends. You would need every gory pocket you could find and create. You picked her because she wasn’t licorice thin and wobbly. You needed sturdy. Sturdy’s good, yes.

It had been a millennium since you'd last laid eggs, and your body was bloated with the burden, aching and sore.

She shrieked, demanding your name, your intent, as though you would bow to such a worthless creature. They were honeyed scraps, little more. They were specks of nothing in the face of your eternity.

“Need a body, need a body.”

On a sing-song voice, you danced nearer, lifting and waving your hands so she could watch the curved, discolored claws rip through the satiny, white gloves. Leaning in, you sniffed at her, drawing in the delicious fear. Good good good. Nice and plump dread. Tasty.

You tore at the pastel fabric she wore, hands rough and impatient, shredding it to ribbons. A hungry growl bubbled up, the smell of her enticing your mouth to water and froth. During the breeding cycle, your senses heightened, and you could feel the blood rushing through her veins, the terror weeping out of every pore. Nuzzling your face into the soft underarm, you drew in a lengthy breath and matched it with a low groan.

She would do nicely. Yes, nicely.

With one hand, you kneaded and pinched the soft underskin of her arm, tugging the muscle down. The other, pointed on that razor-sharp talon, sliced through the skin, carving muscle away from bone. The scream that tore from her lips sent fire along your spine, a delicious shudder working its way up.

Delightful. Do it again, make it scream again.

Dipping your head, you caught her sanguine snowflakes on your tongue, and hummed at the rich taste. In your current state, driven by this base need to reproduce, it was almost more than you could bear to not sink your teeth into her body.

So close; right there, just a nip.

No! Concentrate. Fix it. Finish.

Using your thumb to hold open the wound, your sinewy, spindly leg unfurled from inside the silken disguise, lining up and plunging into the red meat. You tipped your head back on a pleased hiss, the hot, sticky pocket against the sensitive, innervated nub jolting delight through your body. Yes, good. Good, yes.

Her tantalizing screams quickly dissolved into wretched pleas, hiccups of begging. Tucking up against the bone, you pushed the bundle of eggs through the thin column, gasping at the sensation, and packaged them between the solid structure and the supple support.

Close it up tight!

Fibrous sutures dotted the wound, encased with a fresh layer of webbing from shoulder to elbow. Your host hung pitifully, abandoning her screams momentarily. You set similar pouches at the opposite arm and into both thighs, licking up the tasty lubrication at each opening.

You shook, wholly awash in gruesome, erotic need, each dispensing of your young tingling and sizzling. You clutched at her belly, claws digging into the soft flesh, and slumped into the wall. Soft dumpling, sweet cake. Just a taste.

You howled in abject need; the exertion of this burgeoning force was almost too much.

Finally understanding what was happening to her, your host quaked, angry tears rolled down her ruddy cheeks. Resolved to her fate, she closed her eyes and slipped into anxious prayer.

Finish. Lickety split. Do it. 1-2-3.

On another day, you might have berated her for the futility of it all, but your lips burned, your head throbbed, and you were lost to depraved craving, caught between the demanding need to feed and the interminable compulsion to breed.

Nononono. STUPID, DOUGHY COW.

Impatient, chased into urgency by the sudden leakage of lost offspring, you clutched at both soft thighs, wrenching them apart to force your appendage into the hot, tight cavern. Your eyes rolled back into your head when the walls clenched as you made her womb ready, shedding cells and blood at the invasion.

Too good. Too sweet. Just a bit, bit, bite. Just a bite!

Unable to withstand the call any longer, you sunk the rows of your teeth into her shoulder, rocking and jerking your body into hers and slurping down her sweet blood until she was filled with your young, packed in and patched up tight.

You hunched over, exhaustion curving your body into the damp asphalt. Your breathing was choppy, stunted by the grit of your pointed teeth. Your every particle ached from the effort it took to maintain this form. Shifting to anything else, to your true shape, would abandon this host to nothing more than a meal, and it would be another millennium before you again had this chance.

Pushing off the slimy slab, you crawled up the wall, tearing chunks from the concrete to make your perch. Tasty treat. Taste it, rare cow, cured meat. Capturing her weeping face, you prodded her mouth open wider, purring delightedly at the candied smell of her saliva. You flicked your viper tongue along her teeth and tongue, humming at the taste.

She jerked and struggled, enraged and launched into a renewed will to fight by the absolute understanding she would not survive this encounter, but you plunged the whole of your tongue down her throat, sliding through the esophagus to splash into stomach acid. Your sticky spit countered the destructive digestive juices, making the environment hospitable.

You replaced your wicked tongue with the pregnant tube and groaned obscenely loud as it slid into the warm sack. You lingered, the velvety feel of constricting throat and smooth organ coaxing pleasure from your heavy body.

Yes, done. Almost done.

Lining the sleek cavity with silk, you pumped it full of eggs and loaded her neck and mouth with the sinewy fiber. Staggering back, you roared, decorated with every possible fluid she could leak and saddled with this insatiable appetite. You would gorge on the blood of this town, drowning the streets with bodies and bones.

I'll kill you all! I'm every nightmare you've ever had! Coming for you; yes!

Spent of ready eggs, you launched from one form to another; seven more limbs, accompanied by grisly pincers, burst through alabaster skin. Tearing your host from the wall, you rolled her between your legs and body, your spinnerette encasing her in the strong wrapping until she was a human-sized pill, swaying from one of the large sewer pipes.

Eater of worlds, nightmare nightmare. Slaughterer of souls. Soon, I will be legion.

#pennywise #pennywise imagine #torturer tuesdays #good lord what did i do

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imyourbuddie · 5 years ago

Text

Even When I Break Your Heart

Somehow, he's back to being Buck one point o.

It's a bitter thought, that even his "best friend" wants nothing more to do with him than his body.

"No."

"No?" Eddie repeats angrily, taking a step forward.

It’s a tiny bit terrifying, Buck has to admit, glancing at Eddie's already bruised and clenched fists. Will Eddie hit him? What will Buck do if he does? It's definitely not a thought Buck would have considered before all this started.

"Whatever I did to deserve your anger, I've paid for it,” Buck says, glaring right back at Eddie. “But it's not even that, is it? Whatever's going on with you isn't getting better Eddie."

He swallows as Eddie's face darkens, but doesn't back away when he takes another step closer. Refuses to flinch when Eddie's hands come up to grip his arms.

"I want to help you, but not like this.” Buck ignores the nails digging into his skin. “Not where you ambush me with great sex and we don't talk about anything."

When Eddie doesn’t respond, Buck closes the distance between them and cups Eddie’s face in both hands. He stares into those Hazel brown eyes, remembering their shifting colours as Buck and Eddie lay together under lazy sunbeams. There’s no light dancing in them now, just a void filled with rage and fear.

Buck’s heart aches, and he brushes his lips across the corner of Eddie’s mouth. He’s desperate. He wants to help Eddie so damn much. "Please, Eddie?" he mumbles. "I care about you. Let me help."

The sob is hardly audible, and before Buck can process what’s happening, Eddie’s mouth crashes into his. Demanding tongue prods at the seam of Buck’s lips, and Buck opens on autopilot, his body always willing to take whatever Eddie wants to give. Fingers rake across Buck’s scalp, gripping Buck’s hair and yanking until Buck’s moaning in pained pleasure. Eddie attacks his mouth with a ferocity that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. It’s a challenge, and Buck’s never been one to back away from a good fight.

Reaching one hand between them, Buck grips the base of Eddie’s jaw, forcing Eddie’s head up and breaking the kiss. Their eyes clash in heated passion. Buck shoves, and Eddie resists for a moment before relenting, shuffling until his back hits the living room wall.

“Where’s Christopher?” Buck asks, glad his voice is steadier than his nerves.

“With Carla,” Eddie replies and looks away, his cheeks gaining a little colour. “Didn’t want him seeing me like this.”

Hope flickers in the pit of Buck’s stomach. The old Eddie is still in there, even if he’s buried under all that anger. “What do you really want from me?”

Eddie swallows, and his body tenses. Buck tightens his grip, and Eddie sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Want you. All of you.”

All of you.

Buck swallows the lump in his throat and ignores the rapid onset of tears. Not just his body, then. Not just Buck one point o. The thought sends a tendril of warmth through Buck and wraps around his heart, melting the ice that’s formed there since he found out Eddie’s been street fighting.

Eddie looks up at him, his body still tense, the corners of his eyes tight. He’s still a ball of wild energy contained by sinewy muscle and taut skin. It looks to Buck like Eddie’s about to burst at the seams.

Usually, Eddie’s the one in charge. The one with a level head, cool as a cucumber, whether they’re out on a nasty call or in bed. Usually, Buck is happy to let Eddie lead, happy to hand over the reins because he knows Eddie will take good care of him. And Eddie always just knows when Buck’s having a bad day. Knows what Buck needs to find equilibrium again after a bad call.

Now it’s Buck’s turn to figure Eddie out. Buck’s turn to flip through the pages of Eddie’s manual until he can find that reset button.

“Promise we’ll talk after?”

Eddie pauses, wide eyes narrowing as they bore into Buck’s face. Buck’s not sure what Eddie’s searching for, but he must have found it because his shoulders slump. He tries to nod, but Buck’s hand around his throat turns it into a small jerk of his head, and it’s enough.

Their mouths clash once more, only this time Buck’s the one pushing his tongue past Eddie’s lips. Buck’s the one licking into Eddie’s mouth, stroking with every breath as he licks and nips and drinks Eddie in. Eddie moans, and Buck claims that too as he presses a thigh between Eddie’s legs.

Eddie gasps, his eyes fly open wide and wild. Buck’s heart stops for a chilling second until he feels the press of Eddie’s hardening cock. Buck grinds his thigh a little harder, using his two inches of height to their full advantage, and grins when Eddie hisses with dark delight.

“You like that?”

Eddie gasps when Buck latches onto the soft spot behind Eddie’s ear and sucks. “Christ, Buck.”

Buck growls and pulls back. Eddie’s skin is flushed, his pupils lust-blown. His parted lips are glistening and plump, and Buck groans at the thought of those lips wrapped around his cock.

As if reading his mind, Eddie drops to his knees and makes short work of Buck’s button and zipper. He yanks Buck’s jeans and boxers down in one swift motion and licks his lips, his darkening eyes stormy.

Molten heat and velvet. That’s how good Eddie’s mouth feels as he swallows Buck’s cock. Buck sways, but Eddie’s steadying hands hold him upright as he works Buck’s cock with long, hungry strokes. Tongue lapping, lips stretched obscenely wide, eyes never leaving Buck’s.

Buck can’t decide what’s more intoxicating—the feel of Eddie’s throat clamping around the head of his cock or the look in Eddie’s eyes. So desperate. So full of rage. “Eddie—”

“I need you,” Eddie cuts in before diving back down.

Buck hisses and yanks Eddie off the floor and his cock.

“Whatever it is you need, come get it. Just, please, stop fighting.”

Eddie blinks, and that haunted look is back in his eyes. He fists the front of Buck’s shirt, yanking him close. “I need—fuck—”

Buck fights the urge to stroke Eddie’s face and pull him in for a gentle kiss. That’s not what Eddie needs right now. Instead, Buck growls and spins Eddie around, one hand on the back of his neck, pinning him against the wall, his other hand yanking down Eddie’s sweatpants and boxer briefs.

“This what you need?” Buck husks in Eddie’s ear, his grip on Eddie’s neck tightening until he knows it’ll bruise later.

Eddie whimpers and nods, his hands balled into fists as they brace against the wall. Fuck, Buck swallows and takes a few deep breaths. If Eddie’s looking for bruises, then they might as well come from him.

“Hurt me, Evan,” Eddie rasps, “por dios.”

Maybe it’s the Spanish, or maybe it’s the way he uttered Buck’s name, so broken and vulnerable. Buck doesn’t know why Eddie needs to be hurt, doesn’t know why Eddie’s seeking this sort of punishment, but he doesn’t want Eddie going out to those street fights anymore. No one there cares. All they want is some bloody entertainment at the expense of guys like Eddie.

But Buck cares, and Buck will hurt Eddie in every way that Eddie needs to be hurt, then pick up the pieces and mend Eddie whole again. He’s not good at much, but he’s good at saving people, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do everything in his power to save his best friend and lover.

“Where’s the lube?”

“Don’t need it,” Eddie grits as he pushes his hips back and grinds his ass on Buck’s cock.

Buck’s heart breaks a little more, but he doesn’t question. Instead, he jams two fingers into Eddie’s mouth and coats them with saliva before reaching for Eddie’s hole. Eddie shudders, but the look he gives Buck over his shoulder grounds him. Eddie wants this, and beneath all that heat and pain and desire is a silent thank-you.

Buck massages the puckered ring of muscle, then slips a finger into Eddie’s tense body. The heat is incredible, and he gets a little lightheaded at the thought of sinking his cock into that inferno. Eddie hisses and relaxes a touch, but it’s still a tight fit when Buck pushes a second finger in. He presses into Eddie, his chest to Eddie’s back, and opens Eddie up roughly as he sucks bruises along Eddie’s shoulder and neck.

When Buck thinks Eddie’s prepared enough, he pulls back and smears pre-come down the length of his cock before lining it up at Eddie’s hole. Eddie is practically vibrating, his back arched as he tries to impale himself. Buck grips Eddie’s hip with one hand, his other pressing into the small of Eddie’s back, and pushes his cock into Eddie’s waiting heat.

Eddie hisses, his body tensing, and it nearly chokes Buck’s dick off. They hang in limbo, and Buck holds his breath as he waits for Eddie to open up. Eventually, the tension bleeds from Eddie’s shoulders, and he relaxes enough for Buck to push the rest of the way in.

Buck sets a brutal pace, and Eddie matches him thrust for thrust until they’re both panting and slick with sweat. With every thrust, a little more tension fades from the tight muscles of Eddie’s back, and Buck breathes a little easier.

Buck reaches a hand around Eddie’s hip and grips Eddie’s cock, drawing a high pitched keen out of Eddie. “That’s it,” Buck grunts. “Come, Eddie. I need you to come on my dick.”

Eddie moans, and his hips stutter as he jams himself onto Buck’s dick then thrusts into Buck’s fist. “Fuck, B-Buck, voy a—Evan—”

Hot, sticky ropes of come cover Buck’s fingers. Eddie’s raspy cries bounce off the living room walls, his body turning into a vise as his orgasm punches through him. Buck jerks him through it, squeezing the head of Eddie’s cock to milk him of every drop. Eddie’s body softens, and tense muscles become pliant as he shudders with the aftershocks of his release.

Buck drapes himself over Eddie’s back and wraps both arms around Eddie, pinning him in place as he pistons into Eddie like a man possessed. He loses his rhythm, and all finesse is gone from his movements as he chases his own white rabbit. Pressure coils low in his gut, and it builds and builds until Buck’s vision goes white. He sinks his teeth into Eddie’s shoulder, his muffled shout joined by Eddie’s shocked gasp, before emptying himself into Eddie.

Buck’s legs grow weak, and Eddie’s knees give out at that exact moment. They sink to the floor, Buck slipping out of Eddie in the process, and Eddie snuggles into Buck’s lap. Buck gathers Eddie into his arms and leans back against the wall, his heart still beating a drum solo against his ribcage.

The bruises along Eddie’s shoulder are already darkening, and Buck’s afraid to check where he’s grabbed Eddie during their wild love making. Afraid that he’s only adding to the plethora of yellow and green bruises that are finally starting to fade on his torso.

They sit like this until their breathing calms and the sweat has chilled their skin. Buck rouses Eddie from their cuddle pile on the floor and moves them to the bathroom. The shower they share is muted and chaste, but the silence between them is comfortable. Eddie’s movements are languid and relaxed, and that haunted shadow is gone from his beautiful eyes.

Showered, sated, and still as naked as they day they were born, Buck and Eddie slip under the covers in Eddie’s bed, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. Buttery sunbeams filter through the window and splash across Eddie’s face, highlighting the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“Evan,” Eddie murmurs. His eyelids droop, but he flutters them open.

“Shh,” Buck slips his arms around Eddie and pulls him close. “Talk later. Sleep first.”

He can feel Eddie’s smile spread along his skin. “Okay. And Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Te amo.”

#buddie #buck x eddie #buddie fanfic #because buck just wants to help and love eddie #but eddie's being a bit of a dick about it until he realizes it's *BUCK*#some rough wall sex ensues #but there's softness after #and sunbeams #because Buck is a goddamn romantic

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jenniboo311 · 4 years ago

Link

Hot Ones: Spider-Man Tries Not to Spill His Secrets While Eating Hot Wings

by jenniboo311

Part 1 of the Hot Ones: Avengers in the Hot Seat series, Part 1 of the Social Butterfly Spidey series

Teen | 17416 Words | Chapter 1/3

The video begins focused on a man in his early thirties looking into the camera, hair buzzed short and wearing a white hoodie under a black bomber jacket. He is sitting at a small table with ten bottles of hot sauce lined up down the center from hot to hottest, a platter of ten chicken wings set in front of him, with the whole set backdropped in black. The man smiles and begins his introduction.

"Hi everyone, from First We Feast this is Sean Evans and you're watching Hot Ones: the show with hot questions and even hotter wings."

The camera angle changes but maintains the closeup.

"You may recognize our next guest from his daring acrobatics, swinging high above the streets of Queens as he patrols vigilantly to keep its citizens safe. From rescuing cats stuck in trees to taking down drug rings and even occasionally joining the Avengers in taking on aliens to save the world, there is no task too simple or too daunting for this hero. Please welcome to the show, the amazing Spider-Man."

The camera changes to focus on the guest sitting across from him, a young man wearing dark blue jeans, white sneakers, and a thin dark grey hoodie that easily displays the shape of his fit body, the sleeves casually pulled a third of the way up to reveal sinewy forearms corded with veins and a few faint scars. Most notably he is wearing a Spider-Man mask to preserve his identity.

The large white eyes narrow a fraction in delight and the area around the mouth twitches, as if there is a smiling mouth beneath the fabric.

"Wow, what an intro," he enthuses, "Thank you so much for having me! I'd say it's a pleasure to be here but I'm actually a fan of your show and so I have a good idea of what's in store for me."

His voice is light and friendly and sounds relatively young.

They both laugh at Spider-Man's joke and Sean looks delighted and flattered.

"Thank you so much, I am a fan of yours as well, Spider-Man! You sound a bit apprehensive though. I've gotta ask, how are you with hot food?"

"Uhhhh-"

He reaches back to scratch the back of his neck nervously and the eyes on his mask widen comically as he cocks his head to the side and continues.

"I'm gonna be real honest with you here, Sean."

Sean laughs again, "Okay lay it on me Spidey - can I call you Spidey?"

"Yeah of course. I actually used to love hot food. A relative of mine was pretty terrible at cooking when I was growing up so we got takeout a lot and we would often get this crazy hot curry for fun from a spot down the road and man, I think we had cast iron stomachs because it didn't bother us a bit and most people can't even get through half."

Sean throws his hands up in confusion and gestures at him, "So this should be a breeze for you! Why do you sound so worried?!"

"I said 'used to'! Since I became enhanced and became Spider-Man my senses have been heightened and are what I've described as 'dialed to eleven'. So where I used to be able to basically eat battery acid, I fear now it's going to kick my ass. I actually don't know for sure since I've avoided it since the incident but I suspect it will be bad."

Sean grins devilishly and not at all sorry, "Uh oh! That's not looking good for you!"

Spider-Man shifts in his chair to get more comfortable and one eye widens slightly as if he has raised an eyebrow, "No it's not! Give me a mob of dangerous armed criminals any day, but a plate of chicken wings can get the best of me!"

Sean rubs his hands together like a cliche evil villain, "And now we know your weakness!"

Spider-Man recoils in jest and slaps a hand to his covered mouth.

"Seriously though," Sean continues, "Aren't you worried that potential enemies will know now that you're weakened by things that will overwhelm your heightened senses?"

"I mean nobody is invulnerable, not even people who are enhanced. I'm still human, just...extra. If you blast loud noise or bright lights at anyone it's going to be unpleasant. But I've got my suit to help with most of that. My mask helps dampen sounds and dim lights, things like that."

"Well what if you lose the mask?"

Spider-Man shrugs, "If they're close enough to manage to relieve me of my mask without a fight I've got bigger problems."

They both laugh and Sean nods and concedes the point.

"Okay Spidey, let's get this party started! Good luck!"

Spider-Man reaches up to carefully fold the mask up over his mouth to reveal a chiseled jaw, light stubble, and a gentle, friendly grin.

"It would be a bit difficult to eat wings with a mask over my mouth."

Sean looks intrigued at seeing even this much of his face and a bit surprised, "My God, that jawline could cut glass!"

Spider-Man gives a surprised laugh that reveals even, white teeth, and a faint flush creeps up his neck. He settles on an embarrassed smirk and brings his hand up to drag down his jaw, "Thanks, I think?"

"Wow, did I really just get Spider-Man to blush?"

Spider-Man shrugs awkwardly, "I'm not use to getting compliments on my face since I've always got my mask on, usually people comment on my ass."

"I mean, it's a great ass!" Sean quips teasingly.

They both laugh and Sean is obviously joking and trying to rile him up but it works and Spider-Man flushes darker and shakes his head in embarrassed resignation.

"It's the spandex! Not much left to the imagination unfortunately."

"Or fortunately, depending on who you ask!"

Spider-Man shakes his head again and they both finally take a bite of the first wing. After a couple chews Spider-Man freezes and then clenches his jaw and inhales deeply to fortify himself.

"Alright there Spidey?" Sean is quietly amused.

After a moment he quickly chews the rest of the bite and downs it in a painful sounding gulp, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing. He tries to speak but his voice cracks and he has to clear it and try again, "I think I'm in trouble."

"Already?!" The host exclaims in disbelief, "It's only the first one!"

Spider-Man's jaw clenches and his large white eyes narrow at him playfully.

"I am painfully aware of that, Sean."

Sean laughs at Spider-Man's deadpan delivery and gives him a minute while he finishes the wing and tosses it in the trash hidden behind the table before dabbing his mouth politely with a napkin.

"Speaking of spandex," Sean begins, "I've gotta say it's extremely strange to see you sitting here without the red and blue, you look like a totally normal dude! I'll be honest, I was expecting you to show up in the suit. I wasn't expecting this normal dude in a mask to stroll in!"

Spider-Man laughs, "That's the thing isn't it? I am a totally normal guy outside of the walking on walls thing. I've been told I'm a little boring to be honest."

Sean shakes his head and scoffs, "I'm not sure I believe that."

Spider-Man shrugs a shoulder, "I guess the Spider-Man side of me is so exciting that a little boring isn't a bad thing. Everyone needs a bit of downtime. Nobody can stay switched on all the time, even Spider-Man!"

"No, I guess not," Sean concedes.

"And I figured if I was going to suffer through the agony of 'the last dab' I should at least be comfortable instead of sweating a puddle in my spandex. I dare say I'll sweat more today than even some of my more memorable fights."

"You're so sure you'll get to the final wing and 'the last dab'! I love the confidence," he crows and Spider-Man answers with a cocky smirk and cheeky finger guns.

"And is this something you typically like to wear," he continues, "Your civilian clothes, so to speak?"

"I mean...yes and no? I guess it's what I would wear if people knew I was Spider-Man? I usually wear thicker hoodies and baggy shirts to hide my body. I'd love to be able to wear clothes that actually properly fit me all the time. I usually only wear these when I'm at the Avengers compound."

Sean's jaw drops, "So you're telling me that you're ripped and nobody even knows?"

Spider-Man laughs, "Yep! I tend to act a little differently as a civilian to separate the two for safety, not as saucy or outgoing, and that definitely includes hiding how strong I am."

"I don't think I'd have the willpower to not show off," Sean admits. "So if your identity is eventually revealed, will people who know you be surprised?"

Spider-Man clears his throat a couple times, clearly uncomfortable with the spice but trying not to be too obvious.

"When I'm revealed, and I've always assumed it will get out eventually so it's more of a when rather than an if, I think people are definitely going to be surprised. I don't think anyone who knows my civilian self would ever guess I'm Spider-Man. Which I guess is a big part of how I've managed to keep it secret these last few years."

Spider-Man begins to visibly relax as the interview progresses and he slouches back into his chair, resting his right ankle over his left knee. His left hand comes to rest on his shoe, his fingers idly tapping.

"But does that offend you though?" Sean continues, "I feel like if that were me and I was like, 'I'm Spider-Man!', and my friends were all like, 'There's no way this weird wimp is Spider-Man', I'd be pretty offended. I'd be like, 'Not even a small part of you thinks I could be Spider-Man?!'"

Spider-Man laughs, "I mean yeah, there's a small vain part of me that bristles at having to act 'lesser' than what I am. I'm a pretty lean guy so if I wear a baggy shirt I just look kinda scrawny. I've been mocked for being 'weak', I've been pushed around, roughed up. And I can't even fight back because I don't want to hurt anyone and it wouldn't be a fair fight, and because it would give away the game so to speak. So that part of me is offended I guess, and wishes I could just show people what I'm made of. You know? Show them I can be a funny smartass who can hold his own and that I'm not as shy and meek as I might seem. But the sensible side of myself, which is thankfully a lot more prominent than the vain part, is relieved that it's that much more unbelievable because my friends and family are safer that way."

"Except now people will know that you act weak and shy, won't that give you away?"

Spider-Man pauses to think and scratch thoughtfully at his jaw, "No I don't think so. I just act more like normal people do. A ton of people are shy to some degree and most people will avoid conflict so I don't think that's really giving things away. That's just describing most of the population and if they can figure out who I am just from that I'll be impressed."

They both move on to the next wing, Spider-Man giving a slight cough after the first swallow.

"Hoooo, that's got a kick!", he wheezes and takes another bite.

Sean is impressed, "Wow, and you're still going to clean the wing. Mad respect, Spidey!"

Spider-Man finishes eating and tosses the bone away and dabs his mouth with a napkin, "I detest wasting food."

Sean raises his eyebrows curiously, "Is that from some kind of personal experience or just on general principal?"

Spider-Man ponders how much to reveal, purses his lips, and hesitantly admits, "I...grew up in a limited income household. It never got so bad that I truly went without, but we were sometimes limited enough that I wasn't always exactly full either. My family did their absolute best to provide for me and I'm incredibly thankful for that and I try to never take things for granted like food or a roof over my head. And that unfortunately translates to cleaning a chicken wing even when my tongue feels like I've licked a cheese grater."

Sean nods along sympathetically to Spider-Man's answer until the end where he laughs and says, "Surely it's not that bad already?"

Spider-Man answers by hanging out his tongue, which is an angry red color.

Sean winces, "Oh God! That looks painful! You are totally in trouble! Are you okay to continue?"

Spider-Man sticks his tongue back in and takes a few deep breaths with his mouth open to try to cool it with the air. After a moment Spider-Man answers him in a humourous deadpan, "You may not know this about me, Sean, but part of being Spider-Man involves having zero self preservation."

This causes Sean to laugh before he continues with the interview.

"Growing up on movies and comics where the hero with the secret identity miraculously transforms into his alter ego by taking off his glasses and sporting a cheesy spit-curl, I never much considered how silly that really was. Now, being privileged to live in a time and place that honest to God real superheroes exist I've gotta wonder how challenging it actually is to separate the two identities in real life. Do you worry that acquaintances of your civilian self will watch this interview and recognize your voice? Or even that they'll run into Spider-Man in person some day and recognize your voice and figure it out?"

Spider-Man shrugs, "Back when I first started, sure, that was a possibility. I made my own gear by myself in those days and didn't have access to the real fancy tech. I made my web formula and my web shooters and a crappy version of my suit but that's about it. But after I met Tony Stark and we started working together on my gear I haven't had to be worried about that so much. He installed a voice modulator in my mask. It's not drastically different than my normal voice, but it's just different enough that if you knew my civilian self you wouldn't hear Spider-Man and think, 'Hey I know that guy!' And as for this video, since I can't wear my mask over my mouth for the modulator I have a piece that is clipped over my mic right now that's modulating for me."

Sean perks up in interest, "So the voice I'm hearing right now in studio is your real voice?"

Spider-Man grins cheekily and jests, "Yes! Aren't you lucky?!"

Sean claps a dramatic but genuine hand to his chest, "I am! I feel so privileged!"

Spider-Man's cheeky grin softens into a flattered smile and his eyes narrow in delight, "I wasn't too worried because I knew that I didn't know anybody that works here on your set so nobody will recognize my real voice. And everybody watching at home will just hear the Spidey-voice." Spider-Man's grin sharpens, "And hey, if you guys end up recognizing me somehow anyway, you've all signed NDAs."

Sean snaps his fingers in feigned disappointment, "Oh man! So if I happen to meet you while you're in your civvies and I recognize your voice I can't acknowledge you?"

"I mean, I'd probably make eye contact and smirk at you when no one is looking because I'm a little shit. But otherwise I'd pretend not to know you."

They both share a laugh.

Spider-Man coughs a couple times and sniffles as his nose has started to run with the spice.

"Hanging in there, dude?"

Spider-Man doesn't answer right away but takes a couple deep breaths before answering with a slightly strangled, "'M fine."

Sean smirks and they dig in to their third wing.

"You've mentioned Tony Stark, how did you two meet? Did you approach him and be like, 'Hey I'm Spider-Man!"

Spider-Man snorts and coughs into his napkin from the spice as he's cleaning his mouth. He sniffs some more and wipes his running nose, "No, not at all. We met a couple years ago now, but I didn't approach him. I had no intention of telling anyone who I was and that included Tony Stark, Iron Man or not."

Spider-Man pauses for a moment to hang his head backwards in a fit of desperation and grabs the top of his head in a tortured manner.

"God that's hot. Why am I doing this?"

Sean laughs good naturedly and replies, "To be honest, Spidey, I ask myself that question everyday."

Spider-Man chuckles and visibly flustered says, "What was I taking about? Oh right, meeting Tony. Yes. I came home one day and he was sitting on my couch talking to my family member like it was no big deal."

"What seriously?!"

"Yep! So I start internally panicking like, 'What does he know?' I can only think of one reason Iron Man is in my living room and it's probably to do with my alter ego. And sure enough he starts rhyming off this totally bogus competition that I had supposedly applied to Stark industries for and that I had supposedly won and I knew then that he knew. The look he shot me that screamed, 'Play along or else,' really cinched it."

Sean's jaw dropped, "Oh god what did you do?"

"I played along of course. My family member didn't know anything about Spider-Man - in fact nobody else at all knew at that point in time - and thankfully Tony had assumed as much so we kept it up until my family member was satisfied and we stepped out to speak alone to 'hash out the details'."

Sean was visibly intrigued, "What did he want?"

"He was trying to recruit me for that whole Avengers conflict that people dubbed the 'civil war'. He needed help and had seen some YouTube videos floating around of me, and Tony Stark being Tony Stark managed to figure out who I was just from that."

"Holy shit!"

"I know!"

Sean's eyebrows creased in concern, "Are you worried someone else could find you that way?"

Spider-Man grins in mirth, "Not unless they're Tony Stark. I think only he can manage something like that with such flimsy information."

They both laugh and Sean agrees that that is probably true.

"So judging from the few clips that surfaced in the news, you fought with them in Germany so you took him up on it I guess?"

"Yeah, of course I did. He needed the help and I mean you don't just say no to Iron Man for no reason."

"No I would guess not! And how did all of that go?"

"I mean I'm sure you heard the basic jist of the outcome in the media. Other than that, I stole Cap's shield! Bucky and Sam are still a little salty that I kicked their asses but everything was worked out later so no hard feelings. We're all friends now and back together again."

Sean stutters, "Wait-wait! You stole captain America's shield?!"

Spider-Man grins proudly, "I did! But then he dropped an airport terminal on me so I'd say we're about even."

Sean goes wide eyed at the nonchalant quip of an event that would kill any normal person, "Dude what even is your life?"

He repeats Sean's words back to him from earlier in a dry tone and with a wry quirk to his lips, "To be honest, Sean, I ask myself that everyday."

They take a moment to laugh together and Spider-Man turns his face away from the camera to pull his mask a little higher to blow his nose. He readjusts his mask again before turning back to Sean.

"Oh God," Spider-Man moans, obviously suffering.

"Almost halfway there Spidey, you're doing great," Sean coaches.

"Am I? I don't feel great."

They eat their fourth wing and Spider-Man whines as he chews and shakes his head like he can't believe he's doing this.

Sean smirks.

"So obviously you've kept in touch with Tony Stark and you've met the other Avengers. What is that relationship like? Have you thought about the possibility of one day becoming one? Is that something you would want?"

Spider-Man thoughtfully nods, "Yeah we're pretty close. I've never told anyone this but not too long after Germany Tony actually invited me to become an Avenger."

"Oh my God! So you're actually an Avenger now?! How did nobody know this?"

Spider-Man coughs and clears his throat, "No, I turned him down."

Sean stares at him dumbfounded, "Did you just say you turned down Tony Stark when he asked you to join the Avengers?"

Spider-Man laughs and tries to smother his smirk but fails, "Yes and he never lets me hear the end of it. I don't think many people tell him no."

"So what was your reasoning? I think most people in your shoes would kill for that opportunity."

"Yeah I think I surprised the hell out of Tony. Actually made his mouth hang open. I like to remember it when he's being particularly irritating."

They snicker and there's a clearing of a throat off screen and Spider-Man looks past the camera in its direction and delivers a shit eating grin. After a moment he becomes serious again and turns back toward the host.

"It's not that I wasn't honored, or even that I didn't want to become an Avenger, because I did and I still do, but unfortunately there was more to consider than just wanting it. Joining the Avengers would involve signing the accords, and signing the accords would require me to unmask to the general public. The biggest reason that I keep myself masked is for protection. Not for myself, because I can handle it and I willingly signed up for all this nonsense and sometimes it would just be easier if I didn't have a secret identity, but I do it for the people around me who wouldn't be able to protect themselves and who didn't ask for any of this. Being in Spider-Man's orbit is incredibly dangerous."

Sean quietly nods, respectful of the sudden serious turn of the conversation.

Spider-Man continues, "It's been determined by the media and law enforcement that I am a young man, likely between the ages of 16 and 25. If that were true then hypothetically it would be logical that I would likely be a student of some kind. And if I were hypothetically a student that would mean an entire school full of students and teachers would be vulnerable at all times just because I attend. I have an awful lot of enemies and every one of them would cheerfully do whatever they needed to do to exploit a weakness to see me dead, and attacking my hypothetical classmates to get to me would be a big one. And that's not to even mention my family, of course."

Sean looks horrified, like he wouldn't have considered that reason, and it brings a weight and seriousness to the interview that hadn't been felt until now.

"Hypothetically," Spider-Man reiterates.

"Right," Sean agrees dubiously, though it's obvious that he is admitting to being a student without actually admitting it.

"And you know, the accords only account for the big world ending stuff, and I'm all about helping the little guy, you know? I have been since the very beginning. And signing the accords right now would prevent me from continuing on how I am now. I would be obligated to stay out of any conflict without consulting the council and who has time for that for a petty theft or an assault? I'd get myself thrown on the RAFT pretty quick because there's no way I could witness a rape and not stop it."

"Wow, yeah, and crime would soar I bet once criminals heard you're off the streets. You've really reduced the crime rate over the last few years. Criminals would have a field day if they knew you couldn't interfere."

"You bet they would. But they're currently working on a clause to address that, so hopefully by the time I need it it won't be a problem."

"So you're still hoping to become an Avenger in future? The offer is still on the table?"

"It's logical to assume that I would hypothetically sign the accords after I hypothetically graduate or when my identity gets outed to the public, which ever comes first. The offer has strictly never been taken off the table, exactly."

Sean snickers at Spider-Man's unwillingness to come right out and confirm without the silly hypotheticals.

"But you know," he continues after a moment, "The loop hole is that the accords don't say anything about training together. I spend some evenings and most weekends at the compound training together and learning to be a team. Legally they can't call on me when they assemble, but if I'm in the area and get wind and join in or am already engaged when they join in, then there's nothing preventing that. And we work seamlessly together because of that training and familiarity. So legally I'm not considered an avenger but I guess you could call me an honorary one until it's made official?"

Spider-Man shifts in his chair in discomfort and plucks at his hoodie. He gives in and takes a tiny sip of ice water and clears his throat.

Sean has no mercy and continues the interview without pause, "Avengers training on evenings and weekends, patrolling as Spider-Man, 'hypothetically' studying, making time for family and friends, you sound like a busy guy! When do you sleep?"

Spider-Man grins and sniffles with his runny nose, "Sleep is for the weak."

Sean snorts and they dig in to their fifth wing.

Spider-Man makes a noise of enjoyment, "Wow this one is delicious."

Sean looks pleased, "Thank you! This one is actually a Hot Ones branded sauce, glad you like it. We'll send you home with one in your gift bag."

"That's so nice, thank you. And I mean this in the nicest way, I won't be eating it."

Spider-Man begins coughing as the delayed spice kicks in and he gasps in desperation as Sean laughs in amusement.

"I'll give it to my family member though, the one who loves spice. They'll love it. God you're evil, who the hell made this sauce?! Was it you, Sean? I don't think we can be friends."

Sean laughs again and claps a hand to his wounded heart, "I'm devastated to hear that, but yes I was one of a few who had input on the sauce."

Spider-Man looks up at the ceiling in desperation and then pounds a fist against his thigh and then sits up straight again after a moment, though still gasping and groaning.

"You know, you're a funny guy but based on the footage I've seen of you on YouTube and the news, and heard from people who have encountered you in public, I was expecting someone with a lot more wisecracks, who is more sarcastic and a bit goofy. You're humourous but there's a seriousness to you that I didn't expect."

"Yeah I mean I can be a smart ass for sure, but a lot of that is put on and exaggerated for the persona. I find the bad jokes and the nonchalance often unsettles opponents, throws them off. They're used to people being afraid and running away and then I bounce in making terrible puns and they don't know how to handle me. And it brings a certain levity to my day that would otherwise just smother me. I mean I've seen it all, it's some heavy shit. Weapons, drugs, theft, torture, murder, rape, enslavement. I don't act flippant to make light of the situation, I do it because if I don't I'll get buried in the shit that is the dregs of society that I witness everyday. You wanted to interview me to actually get to know me a bit and I don't feel like it would be truly genuine if I snarked my way through the whole thing. The truth is, I'm just not like that twenty-four seven. So you're getting genuine Spider-Man right now."

"Well I appreciate that, Spides, and I can honestly say that I've enjoyed getting to know genuine Spider-Man and I think everyone watching will too."

Spider-Man smiles widely, sniffs again, and snarks, "Yeah maybe not everyone, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Speaking of, you've had your fair share of bad press for sure. People seem to be really divided on whether they love you or hate you. It must be hard to put so much into saving people only to be called a menace. How do you feel about all that?"

Spider-Man pauses to think for a moment while trying to discretely pick chicken out of his front teeth with his thumb nail.

"I mean...I guess I'm used to it now."

He discretely sucks on his front teeth to dislodge the chicken and pauses to turn away and blow his nose again. He tugs at his collar which brings attention to the sweat beginning to gather in the hollow of his exposed collarbone. He continues in a strained voice, "When I first started it was definitely harder to take. I was just trying to help because I have power and abilities that most people don't have and I felt a responsibility to use that for good. A late relative very dear to me used to tell me 'with great power comes great responsibility'. I didn't take it seriously at the time and without going too deep into that I will say that I later learned the hard way what that motto really means and is largely the reason I actually became Spider-Man. But you know there are always going to be critical people, people who don't like you no matter what you do just for the sake of disliking you, and people who don't like you because they don't understand. It was hard not to take it personally at first but over time I developed a thicker skin and just kind of laugh at it now. I had a rocky start with the police at first but these days they trust me and we have a good working relationship now. The stuff I get blamed for by the public is sometimes ludicrous but you know that's a part of becoming a public figure. I think anyone who becomes famous or dare I say, a celebrity, has to deal with that. Maybe not to the same degree I do, but definitely in similar ways. But the lives I have truly touched and the people I have helped drown all that out. To save someone's child from a burning building and then have them tearfully embrace me and thank me over and over for saving their child's life, feel them shaking in relief and squeezing me as hard as they possibly can, that beats any negativity any day. I don't do it for the gratitude, nor do I need it, but it's fortifying and energizing. That's food for the soul right there. That's why I keep doing what I do. It keeps me going even when it gets really difficult to do so."

Spider-Man starts to sound a bit choked up near the end of his passionate speech and Sean tactfully pauses for a moment to allow Spider-Man to compose himself.

"Wow I can't imagine. Nor can I imagine what it's like to run into a burning building when everyone is running out."

"It's not for everyone! But you know I'm not the only one, we have to give mad props to first responders everywhere because they're running into danger too, not just me. Policemen, firemen, paramedics. They're heros, all of them. And they're not even enhanced. I have the biggest respect for them."

They pause to eat their sixth wing and Spider-Man gets into a coughing fit and struggles to swallow the whole thing but eventually does before wiping his mouth and nose and tugging at his collar again.

"God it's warm in here. Is it warm in here?" He chokes out.

Sean snickers but is otherwise largely unaffected.

"I'm so mad you're not even phased. I'm losing some serious street cred here. I look like a wimp!" Spider-Man gestures angrily at Sean and Sean snickers.

Spider-Man leans his head forward and props it up on his hand, his elbow resting on the the table, sniffing and moaning in distress.

"To be fair I don't have enhanced senses and I've done this a lot, so there's that."

"Yeah I don't think people are going to care too much about that when they're calling me Spider-wimp anyway."

Sean let's out a surprised snort and grins as he watches Spider-Man suffer.

Spider-Man suddenly cracks and reaches for the glass of ice water to his right, "To hell with it, does this shit help?" He gulps a couple mouthfuls and then holds some in his mouth while he looks at Sean in distress.

"I mean psychologically maybe? Mostly no."

Spider-Man leans over to spit the water into the trash hidden to the right of the table and he dabs at his burning red mouth with his napkin.

Spider-Man groans and seems to deliberate for a moment. "Okay this is coming off"

Spider-Man reaches for his hoodie and yanks it over his head, careful not to upset the mask and reveals his body mic with a small modulator device overtop clipped to a red t-shirt that had previously been concealed by the sweater. The shirt is not skin tight but fits his form well and does nothing to hide his trim figure. The sweat at his throat is more noticeable and glistens in the bright studio lights.

Sean smirks, "Stripping off Spidey? Should we get some music and mood lighting?"

"Listen. If this gets much hotter everyone's getting an eyeful. I'll be the first guest to finish their wings fully naked at this rate."

Sean laughs hard and shakes his head in disbelief, "We'd have to blur, but we'd go viral I think. You do you, Spidey. Do what you need to do."

Spider-Man wheezes out a painful laugh.

Sean changes the topic and gestures at Spider-Man's forearms, "I can't help but notice a couple scars on your exposed arms, do you get injured often? What types of injuries are typical for you?"

"Yeah of course. Obviously I try not to get hit and I'm pretty slick and can usually avoid most incoming attacks, but sometimes it's unavoidable. Both just because I can't move away in time or because there's a civilian behind me and if I move I know they'll get hit."

Sean looks shocked, "Are you saying you've willingly taken bullets for people?"

"Yeah totally, as well as knives and other random projectiles. Desk chairs, mailboxes, chunks of drywall, you name it and they have probably thrown it at me."

Sean interjects with a laugh, "So basically everything but the kitchen sink!"

Spider-Man quirks his lips, "Well actually..."

"You've literally been hit with a kitchen sink?!" Sean asks incredulously.

"I've been hit with almost everything at this point. Usually on purpose though they probably just thought I was too slow to dodge. Most times I can dodge, so often if I get hit it's by choice." Spider-Man turns to address the nearest camera suddenly and points at it as if scolding those watching, "Which is why it's extremely important to flee the area if you can if there is an ongoing altercation. The less potential casualties around the more effective I can be, and the more effective the police can be as well."

He turns back to the host and takes a moment to shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"And do you have a higher pain tolerance then, being enhanced?"

Spider-Man shakes his head emphatically, "No I wouldn't say that. I may be stronger than most people but that doesn't affect my pain tolerance. It hurts to get wailed in the face or shot in the arm as much as if it happened to you or anybody else. I just push past that and do it anyway because the alternative might be someone losing their life. I do have enhanced healing, however, so I heal a lot faster than a regular Joe would. That means a bullet that would cause a fatal bleed out in someone normal might be able to heal fast enough on me to not prove fatal. Still hurts the same though. But yeah, I get a lot of sprained muscles, bruises, minor cuts like a split lip or a superficial graze on my body that usually looks worse than it is. I haven't kept count but I've been stabbed -and this doesn't count superficially - maybe three or four times so I guess that averages to maybe once a year. And I've been shot - again, not counting superficial gunshot wounds - roughly twice that on average. Bone breaks are also fairly common but it depends on what I'm doing. It's not terribly common fighting petty crime because they're usually not skilled enough in hand to hand to give me a broken bone but if I'm training with the Avengers, that's where I get weekly broken bones. They heal pretty fast though, usually a couple days.

"Wow they're not kidding around."

"No definitely not. At this level you play for keeps, you know? There's no pulling punches. Going easy on each other in training would just end up in someone getting killed once they come up against the real deal and find themselves unprepared. I've got Hawkeye actually shooting arrows at me, Black Widow trying to crush me with her thighs, Captain America with his damn shield. Breaks my hand everytime I'm forced to catch it with my bare hands instead of my webs. I hate that thing. It's kind of a running joke at this point. I think he secretly enjoys it because of how we first met and I stole it from him and made him look bad."

Sean raises disbelieving eyebrows, "I'm not sure I believe that. He seems so wholesome in the press."

"Hah! He's a nice guy sure, but he can be a little shit when he wants to. Everyone calls me the little shit but I think it takes one to know one! He's going to punish me for that one later, when he sees this."

"Have you ever had any close calls or truly bad injuries? Any moments where you thought you weren't going to make it?"

"Absolutely." He pauses to take another gulp of water and swallows before coughing and turning to blow his nose.

"Ohhh, God, what is my life? Why is this my life?!"

Sean laughs and waits patiently for Spider-Man to get ahold of himself and answer the question.

"Uhhhhh bad injuries. Hmm. I got skewered once with rusty rebar right through my lower abdomen. It thankfully missed vital organs but I lost a ton of blood and nearly bled out before I could finish the conflict."

Sean's jaw drops, "Are you serious?"

"Yeah that was messy!"

Spider-Man promptly yanks up the bottom half of his t-shirt to reveal his lower torso. It is muscled and smoothly toned as expected, marred by a puckered, nasty looking scar on the left side.

Sean leans in a little and squints to get a better look. After a beat he whistles and shakes his head.

He releases his shirt so that it falls back in place, "And I can't go to a hospital so Tony allows me to get treated at the compound with his personal medical team when it's bad enough that I can't just let it heal on my own."

Sean nods in understanding, "So like getting shot."

"Naw, I usually dig the bullet out myself and staple it closed. I usually have enough time to quickly angle so it doesn't hit anything important. So I do occasionally get shot but it's usually not likely to be fatal."

Sean stares in incredulity, "You dig it out... Staple...That's possibly the most badass thing I've ever heard anyone say."

Spider-Man laughs in surprise and it turns into a cough. He dabs at the sweat on his throat, bringing attention to his now damp shirt collar, and sips some more water.

Spider-Man continues, "Nah, it's usually for something life threatening, or that I will need surgery for. And that really sucks because it's super hard to knock me out or give me painkillers because my body metabolizes them too quickly to be truly effective. Usually I have to suffer through it conscious. One time they needed Thor to come in and belt me in the head to knock me out long enough to operate because it would have been too agonizing to sit through awake."

Sean's eyebrows crawl further up his forehead, "I stand corrected. That might be the most badass thing I've ever heard anyone say."

They share a laugh, Spider-Man's bordering on hysterical from discomfort with the spice.

"What about a situation where you thought you were done for? Had any of those?"

"Yes, though no one knows about it."

Sean sits a bit straighter in his chair with peaked interest, "Nobody?"

Spider-Man shakes his head while gasping and sipping more water.

"Alright, story time," Spider-Man allows, "And though there's a lot more to the story I'd like to tell I can't because it would give too much away and put my identity in jeopardy, so you're going to get the CliffsNotes version. But anyway, you might remember a couple years back, I had a few run ins with a guy who called himself the Vulture."

He pauses to sip and Sean nods in recognition.

"So anyway let's just say shit escalated in a real scary way and it all came to a head one night. He ended up causing a distraction which resulted in the building collapsing on top of me. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a strong guy, made of stern stuff, but this was a freaking building okay?"

Sean's mouth drops open and he looks stunned.

"Something else you should also know," he continues, "Is that I didn't have my suit. Most everything I do as Spider-Man is all me, not the suit - besides the webs, of course - so I wasn't defenseless by any means, but the suit provides a little protection, has built in vital stats monitoring to alert Tony if I'm seriously injured or in distress so he can provide assistance, and has built in comms so I can easily communicate with the team in case of trouble. Earlier in the week Tony and I had argued and he took back the suit. We disagreed about some things, it's not important for you to know, but basically all I had was my old suit which was basically glorified jammies. Funny tidbit: Tony often calls me 'Underoos', a nickname that he came up with because of my first suit, the one I was wearing when he met me. It was just a hoodie and sweat pants and a basic mask and goggles and my web shooters."

He paused to turn away and blow his nose and gasp some more and sip some water.

"So I ended up trapped under this structure with no comms, no backup, and nobody knew where I was. I could feel myself slowly being crushed to death and let me tell you, nothing can prepare you for that feeling. I strained every muscle in my body trying to delay the inevitable and I could feel that I only had moments left before the end. And of course my mind went to the people I care about most, my family and how devastated they would be at yet another loss to our family, to my best friend, my 'guy in the chair' who had recently found out about my alter ego and was so supportive and my biggest fan. And then my mind went to Tony who had been a recent big player in my life. He made me an awesome suit and let me explore some of the ideas I had for new Spidey tech while completely footing the bill, as well as generally being supportive and trying to give me advice where he could. And even though we had parted badly I still appreciated him and cared about him and I regretted our last interaction. And that reminded me of one of the last things he said to me as he took the suit back. He said, 'if you're nothing without the suit you don't deserve to have it.' And as the debris pressed the last of the air from my lungs I thought 'he's right you know. C'mon Spider-Man.' and I thought of all the people that would die once Vulture hijacked Tony's plane and the tech got into the wrong hands. I didn't even have enough air left to scream my defiance but defy I did. I stood up from that place somehow, debris raining down around me like an avalanche, and staggered my way after him."

Sean was riveted. "Holy shit! And then what happened?"

"I crashed the plane somewhere safe with the two of us on it, had an epic smackdown, tied him up with a pretty bow, and somehow staggered home to pass out. And hypothetically if I were a student, I hypothetically showed up bright and early Monday morning for school like it was no big deal."

Sean shakes his head in disbelief, "You're unbelievable!"

Spider-Man goes into a coughing fit and when he's finished he's flushed and sweating.

"Thanks! I'm afraid to look over at Tony," he admits nervously, "That's the first time he's heard that story, I don't expect him to take it well. How does he look?"

Sean glances awkwardly off camera and quickly turns back to Spidey.

"Err..." He hedges, "He looks incredibly stony faced. I can see why he's called Iron Man. I think you've got a discussion ahead of you."

The camera cuts to show Tony standing with Happy Hogan behind the main cameras next to a few crew members. He's staring hard past the camera at what is presumably Spider-Man, eyes pinched with guilt. After a moment his eyes shut in devastation and he hangs his head before the camera returns to Spider-Man.

Spider-Man deflates, "Yes I expect so. But that was early in our relationship, we're cool now. Not to spill the tea or anything, but after that incident he apologized and admitted he was wrong. And he almost never does either of those things. It was actually after that incident that he invited me to join the Avengers. Said he was impressed with my integrity and capability."

"I feel like this interview is going so much more differently than I expected," Sean admits, slightly baffled.

Spider-Man cocks his head to the side, "In a good way I hope?"

Sean straightens and raises his right hand as if to swear on scouts honor, "Definitely good!"

Spider-Man claps his hands once and rubs them together, "That's great because it will probably be my last interview ever after Tony murders me at the conclusion of this one."

Sean laughs and Spider-Man turns to look deadpan into the nearest camera and says as his big white eyes narrow, "He thinks I'm joking."

They eat their seventh wing and Spider-Man looks confused for a moment.

Sean smirks knowingly, "Wait for it."

Spider-Man cocks his head curiously and after a moment his mouth drops open in shock and the lenses on his mask bulge comically as he exclaims, "Jesus fuck!"

Sean laughs hysterically and clutches his chest at the sudden and uncharacteristic profanity.

Spider-Man claws at his throat and wails, "Oh my God that is so much hotter. Why is this so fucking hot? Why would you do this to me? You're an asshole, Sean."

The crew behind the cameras can't help but join in the laughter and Spider-Man grips the table white knuckled until the metal groans and dents inwards slightly and he releases it.

Spider-Man jolts and apologizes profusely, "Sorry! So sorry! I'll pay for that!"

Sean waves him off as he gushes, "Are you kidding? We'll keep it as a badge of honor. Dented by Spider-Man himself after calling me an asshole!"

Spider-Man laughs desperately and shakes his head in disbelief and gasps before chugging the rest of his water and pouring another glass.

The host considers him thoughtfully, "Actually I think that's the first time I've ever heard you curse. You're rather well known for your non-lethal approach to conflict and lack of potty mouth. Has sweet, innocent, and wholesome Spoods been a lie all this time?"

Spider-Man doesn't answer right away and instead sticks his tongue into the glass of water in an attempt to assauge the heat. It's an angry red and Sean winces sympathetically. He tries to answer, falters, and goes back to the water. After a moment he wipes his mouth and chin and his running nose. After a few gasping breaths he tries to answer but is flustered and no longer as smooth talking as he has been up until now.

"Uh. What? Oh right. Cursing. Yes. Uh. No. I try not to curse," Spider-Man snaps out shortly in between gasps and gulps of water.

"Why is that? Some of the other Avengers have been known to be potty mouths, I don't think they'd be offended," Sean wheedles.

"No, of course they're not offended. I curse in private with them sometimes. Usually during intense training or if that archer asshole gets a prank over on me."

"Hawkeye?" Sean supplies helpfully.

"Yeah, that one," Spider-Man continues to pretend to not know his name in order to subtly insult him.

Sean catches on quickly and snickers at the slight.

Spider-Man manages to get ahold of himself and supplies, "I try not to curse in public because I have a lot of younger fans. I try to be a good role model where I can because whether I want them to or not they look up to me and follow by example. I'm a scientist by nature, not a fighter, so I try to lead by example and show people that sometimes getting physical can't be helped but that using your words is often more effective and should be the first course of action."

He pauses to moan and put his head in his hands before continuing, his head still in his hands.

"Pen is mightier than the sword and all that. Cursing usually isn't helpful in those situations and actually just escalates things. Most people don't realize that a lot of incidents I respond to I talk down the assailant without even getting physical. But those aren't interesting or sensational enough and don't make it on the news as much as a standoff or car chase would. If everyone used calm, respectful dialogue to resolve conflicts Spider-Man probably wouldn't need to exist."

Sean nods thoughtfully and concedes, "There's much more to you than meets the eye, Spider-Man."

They share an understanding glance for a moment and Spider-Man suddenly interjects, breaking the serious pall, "Having said that, sometimes you need to curse. And I still think you're a fucking asshole."

The whole studio erupted in laughter once again at his serious matter of fact delivery and complete change of character from the joking, friendly guy who first came in, and allowed Spider-Man a few moments to collect himself while they calmed down.

They move on to the next wing but Spider-Man pauses and fearfully looks at the bottle in the center of the table to see what one it is.

Spider-Man eyes the hot sauce bottle for the next wing as he reaches for it and despairs, "Oh god, this is 'da bomb'? This one is always the worst! I watch all the Hot Ones episodes and this one is always the worst. I'm going to die! Here lies Spider-Man. RIP. He saved a lot of cats from trees and had a poppin ass."

The studio erupts in laughter as a bit of the smartass persona bleeds through in his distress.

Sean has already finished his wing and calmly waits for Spider-Man to eat his.

Spider-Man fortifies himself and finally takes a bite and wails in displeasure, "Christ this show is so much more entertaining when it's not me!"

Sean slaps his leg in mirth.

"Yeah I'm not going to lie Spidey, this is going to be good internet."

"UGHHH, I'm so happy for you," he half yells, though his sarcastic tone clearly indicates otherwise.

Spider-Man suddenly focuses on something off camera and his eye lenses narrow into a glare.

"He's mocking me! I'll remember that next time there's a power surge and you're free falling a hundred feet in the air towards the ground!"

There's louder male laughter off screen and Sean turns to look.

Spider-Man points at whoever is laughing, "I'll do anything for you to come over here and clean this wing right now. C'mon hot shot."

Tony Stark waltzes into view and stands next to Spider-Man's chair and smirks down at him.

"Anything?"

"Anything within my power," Spider-Man clarifies.

"The quinjet is due for maintenance next month."

Spider-Man yelps, "That's like a six hour job at least!"

"Yup!" Stark chirped, popping the p.

Spider-Man sighs in resignation and holds up the wing, "As if you werent going to rope me into that anyway. Deal."

Tony smirks as he takes the wing and eats the rest of it without hesitation, noticeably not being bothered by Spider-Man passing him the wing despite his hatred of being handed things and of having to eat from a wing already half eaten by Spider-Man.

Spider-Man watches in anticipation and Tony tosses the clean bone in the trash and nods as he grabs a napkin and cleans his mouth and fingers.

"Not bad," Stark muses nonchalantly.

"Not bad?" Spider-Man repeats, his voice growing in volume, "Not bad?! That's it? Oh my God, I'm going to have a melt down. This doesn't bother you at all? What the hell are you made of?!"

Tony smirks at him and turns to look straight into the camera.

"Iron."

Spider-Man's mouth drops open as Sean is set off into laughter once more.

"Did. Did you just."

Spider-Man and Tony look at each other again.

"Yes I did."

"Get the hell out of here," Spider-Man snaps.

This causes Tony to crack and he starts laughing and grasping his chest as he throws his head back and staggers off camera. Spider-Man's eyes follow his progress, lenses glaring the whole way.

Spider-Man finally turns back to Sean and shakes his head, "The audacity."

This sets off another round of snorts before Sean manages to compose himself to ask his next question.

"Alright Spidey, we have a recurring segment in our show called explain that 'gram where we look at our guest's Instagram, do a deep dive to pull a few of the more interesting looking photos, and ask for a little more context. Does that sound okay?"

"Fine!" He coughs and gasps and finally grabs the milk to drink.

Sean brings out his laptop and shows him a picture of Spider-Man in super hero pose holding captain America's shield.

Spider-Man snorts loudly mid sip and some of his milk splatters. He grabs a napkin to clean up while he tries to compose himself.

"That was actually in Germany, remember when I said I stole Cap's shield? That was it!"

"This was it?! How is there a picture of this?"

"Tony has body cams in some of the tech he makes, for example the Spider-Man suit and the Iron Man suit. He was trying to get under Cap's skin one day and everyone knows he's still a bit salty about it so he pulled up the footage, took a screen grab and made me post it," says Spider-Man as he smirks.

Sean snickers, "How did he react?"

"He roped me into a spar, threw his shield at me, and broke my middle finger. Ironically it needed a splint for a day while it healed so everytime I saw him I flipped him the bird with it. Everyone got a good kick out of that."

Sean shakes his head with a grin, "You guys are insane and hardcore."

Spider-Man laughs in agreement and wipes his runny nose and turns his head to cough politely.

"What about this one?"

Sean shows him a picture of Spider-Man posing with a little girl with a shaved head in a hospital bed grinning at the camera.

Spider-Man momentarily perks up from his struggle with the spice to say, "Yes! That's my friend, Jenny! Nobody really knows this about me but I try to visit children's hospitals when I have the time. It cheers them up. Makes them so happy to see their hero, Spidey. It costs me so very little to brighten their day so I try to do it as often as I can. I met Jenny one day and she asked if I would be her friend and I answered that of course I would! So she wanted us to take a picture to post on my Instagram, which I did with her mom's consent."

"That's so selfless of you. What do the parents and nurses say when they meet you?"

"Oh, I don't think any of them actually think I'm really him. They usually comment on what a dedicated cosplayer I am and how close my costume looks to the real thing."

They both laugh at that.

He continues, "I get asked a lot if I made it myself and I just nod and go along with it. Which isn't a lie, I had a lot of input in the current iteration of the Spider suit. Although Jenny's mom realized I was the real deal when it ended up on my official Instagram! And I guess if they all see this video they'll know it was me all along."

"You didn't tell them it was really you?"

"No because then the focus stays on the children as long as they think I'm a cheesy cosplayer just trying to do a good deed. Once they know it's actually me and word gets out then I get swarmed by fans and it becomes about me. That's not what I wanted. I wanted the kids to feel important and special and loved. A small moment of happiness in what for some of them has been a lifetime struggle."

"Well now I feel terrible, I've outed your secret and you can't get away with it anymore. Apologies, my dude," Sean says regretfully.

"It's alright, you didn't know! I'll figure something out. I'll make quick sneak attacks to visit or something!" Spider-Man reassures him.

They both laugh and Spider-Man turns to lift his mask a little and blow his nose.

"For real though these hospitals can always use volunteers, and everyone sure appreciate it. So if you've got some time, please drop by your nearest kids hospital and offer up a little time to put a smile on a kids face. It's the best thing you'll do all day trust me."

"Okay, second last one, Spoods. Are you still with me?"

Spider-Man drags a hand down his face in exhaustion and plucks at his sweaty t-shirt which is now clinging to him a little more than it had been, his throat glistening with perspiration and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the milk he's desperately been holding in his mouth.

He raises the arm closest to the camera to reveal a damp underarm, "Look at this shit. I don't even break this much of a sweat fighting the tin man over here." He nods in Tony's general direction off camera and gets a snort from him in return.

"And you've got me cussing now. Ugh, I need a second."

Spider-Man stands up and starts slowly pacing behind the table, hands on his hips.

"It's alright, take a lap, Spoods! Whatever you need!" Sean reassures him good naturedly.

Spider-Man stops, turns around and braces his hands against the wall and drops his head, his back to the camera. He gives a heavy sigh, then after a beat with a small snicker, says, "Oh would you look at the time!" and starts crawling up the wall to escape.

Sean's mouth drops open in delighted shock and he throws his arms up in the air. He turns to look at his crew off camera in astonishment and gives them a giant grin.

Spider-Man disappears from sight but Sean's gaze follows him to the ceiling above the table. A faint thwip sound is heard before Spider-Man slowly lowers himself back to the table upside down in his signature pose, his t-shirt falling up his chest a bit to give everyone an eyeful. He gracefully flips forward into his seat and releases the web.

He tugs his shirt back into place and says, "I had forgotten that's why I don't usually do that in civvies. Oh well, I did warn you I'd be naked by the end."

Sean laughs and looks exhilarated at seeing wall crawling with his own eyes.

"That's amazing! You really don't need the suit for that!"

"Nope! That's one hundred percent Spidey, baby!"

He waggles his fingers at Sean as if to demonstrate and announces proudly, "I'm sticky!"

"That's what she said?" Sean fires back uncertainly and Spidey tosses his head back and cracks up at the dirty joke.

They eat their ninth wing and Spider-Man moans in agony. He gulps down some milk and then dabs his nose and mouth. After a moment he grabs a new clean napkin and turns away from the camera to pull the mask away from his face enough to get a tissue in to wipe at his watering eyes.

Spider-Man turns back around and scolds, "You monster, you've made Spider-Man cry!"

"Oh no, I'm going to get so many hate comments for this! Please don't cry, Spoods!" Sean pleads.

Spider-Man chuckles and it turns into coughing.

Sean suddenly gushes, "Looking at all the footage of Spider-Man in action on the news and online, and of course meeting you in person... You're just so cool!"

Spider-Man barks out a loud laugh at that, "That's actually the funniest thing I've heard all week. Anyone who knows my civilian self would have lots to say about me, but 'cool' would not be in the top five. In fact in wouldn't even be in the top ten, if at all. That's actually hilarious, thanks for that."

"Well they don't know what they're talking about because you are indeed cool and I'm sure most of New York would agree with me!"

"Wow that's so nice, thank you! I love you guys!" Spider-Man gushes back.

"We love you too, Spides! Have there been any super embarrassing moments as Spider-Man you'd care to share with us? What's your most embarrassing moment?"

Spider-Man pants loudly and grabs a couple ice cubes out of his glass to press to his sweating neck, the water dripping down his throat to soak into the collar of his t-shirt. He opens his mouth to answer, falters, and then shakes his head as he thinks about it some more.

"God, I don't know if I want to share my most embarrassing. It was so bad and I went to great lengths to keep the team from finding out," he gasps out in a strained voice.

His neck and cheeks start to flush deeper as he thinks about it and Sean grins widely, "Oh this ought to be good. Don't leave us hanging on that one Spidey! Don't worry, we'll be gentle!"

"Oh man! I dunno!" Spider-Man moans in indecision and agony and takes another gulp of milk.

"C'mon!"

"Oh no, peer pressure!"

He looks into the camera and points his finger as if to coach those watching, "Don't give in to peer pressure kids. Think for yourself and if you really don't want to do something, say no and stick with it. If a situation is getting too overwhelming, leave, get yourself out of there."

Sean looks suitably chastised and looks like he feels bad, "You're absolutely right-"

"Having said that-" he interrupts Sean's apology, "I'm gonna tell you anyway. Close your ears kids, this story isn't for you."

Sean's eyes widen like he can't believe his luck.

Before Spider-Man can even begin his story he breaks off in a distracted tangent, "Be honest with me here, Sean, what kind of aftermath damage am I looking at here? Because I feel like I've swallowed napalm and I've got a spar with Black Widow in less than forty minutes before a team up with Deadpool this evening. Am I going to survive this or should I start composing my epitaph now?"

Sean snickers at him as he gives a low scream and chugs more milk.

"I'll never lie to you, Spoods. I'll be honest with you. I think you might be a dead man."

"Yes I thought that might be the case," he confesses in a defeated manner.

"What possessed you to schedule Black Widow after an interview with hot wings?" Sean asks incredulously.

Spider-Man shrugs, "It wasn't so much that I scheduled her after Hot Ones. It was more that I had committed to the interview and then she told me we were going to fight afterwards. And you don't say no to Black Widow, Sean. If she says you're fighting then you're fighting."

"Does your gym have a bathroom? I'd stick close to the bathroom if I were you," Sean confesses hesitantly.

Spider-Man stares at him for a few moments and his eye lenses narrow dangerously, "Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious."

"Fuck!"

"I'm sorry, Spoods, I wouldn't lie to you!"

Spider-Man stares at him for another moment, his lips pressed in a firm line. "Sean, I swear to God, if I shit my pants while Black Widow has me in a headlock I'm coming back for you."

Sean starts laughing hysterically and manages to choke out, "No no no no! You signed the waver! You agreed to this!"

"They'll never find the body," he continues menacingly as if Sean never spoke.

Sean laughs helplessly and presses his hands together as if he were praying.

Spider-Man clears his throat several times and drinks the rest of his milk. A crew member comes forward to bring him more milk. "Thank you so much."

He moans in despair and shifts around in his chair before wiping a few drops of sweat from his throat impatiently.

"Okay right, the story. Ugh. So there is a very small group of people these days who know my identity. The Avengers, one enemy, one family member, my best friend, and a close female friend. That's it."

He pauses to clear his throat, wheeze, and take a drink.

"So it's a night I'm planning to stay over at the compound, to get some early training in for the next morning with the team, but it's also an evening I've set aside for my friends. My best friend is out of town so it's just me and my-" He clears his throat, "-lady friend. She is one of two friends who knows I'm Spider-Man so I decide hey, might as well show her some cool stuff. So we go back to the compound to show her the lab where I work on my gear. I should probably mention it is also Tony's private lab. We share it. We work on all the Avengers gear in there together, me and him and sometimes Bruce. Anyway. I had just finished showing her a cool prototype for a new web shooter I came up with and I mean we're friends and all, but things started to get a little friendlier if you can pick up what I'm throwing down here."

Sean's jaw drops, not expecting this kind of story, "Oh my God!"

"Yeah. So I'm suitably uhhh... Distracted. And while I'm distracted she picks up one of the prototypes and next thing I know she's got me by the wrists. Stuck in my own goddamn webs."

Sean laughs loudly and encourages him to continue, which he does so after blowing his nose and sipping the milk.

"And these things you can't get out of unless you get cut out or you let them dissolve two hours later. So I trusted this girl, and put my guard down -that was my first mistake - and she caught me literally with my pants down, stuck in my own goddamn spiderwebs."

He plucks at his t-shirt in discomfort again and fans at his face with his free hand.

"At this point I'm getting a bit concerned, but she's not stopping so I give her the benefit of the doubt. Fast forward..." Spider-Man hedges, being purposely vague to preserve a little modesty. Spider-Man looks at the camera and his eye lens gives a sly wink, shakes his head and gives an embarrassed laugh before he continues.

"Fast forward a while and she collects herself. Then-"

He needs a moment to shake his head with a rueful smile. "THEN, she says, 'later', and waltzes out the door. As she turned, I caught her smirk. She smirked! She thought this was hilarious!"

Spider-Man is half yelling as the studio laughs and he's shaking his hands in angry emphasis. "So now I'm glued to the fucking lab completely in the buff for who knows how much longer until these things dissolve, and I honestly have no idea if anybody is going to come by the lab at any point and end up catching me. And any of them can, there's prototypes for every Avenger in there so there's a chance they might wander in."

He takes a drink and blows his nose.

"So after an indeterminate amount of time, I am released from my prison. It is bittersweet. Don't get me wrong. It's been a great night-" He pauses to laugh embarrassingly and his lips give a wry quirk, "-but that was some of the scariest shit I've lived through. While I was trapped I eventually started hearing footsteps up and down the hall and I was absolutely terrified someone was about to come in. And it isn't until I'm halfway back to my room when I remember Tony has cameras, like, everywhere. So back I go. Hacked in and deleted it, thankfully."

As the laughter simmers down, Tony from off camera yells angrily, "I can't believe you desecrated my lab!"

Spider-Man laughs and puts his hands up in surrender, "I'm sorry Tony! I'm so sorry! It won't happen again!"

He has to suddenly duck an incoming half empty water bottle aimed for his head that Tony had obviously thrown.

"Don't think I'll let this stand, Underoos. I know what we're watching for Avengers movie night tomorrow."

"Oh God, no! I deleted it!" Spider-Man exclaims in horror.

"I have backups."

"I deleted those too."

"We'll see."

Spider-Man bites his bottom lip, half grinning and half apprehensive.

Sean grins and asks, "Did you get them all?"

"Yes," he confirms confidently. After a moment he whispers uncertainly, "I think so."

"So," Sean says gleefully after a moment, "There's potentially a Spider-Man sex tape floating around somewhere?"

Spider-Man flushes a dark red and laughs in embarrassment, "I mean I'm pretty sure I deleted everything. But potentially, I guess?"

"I'll let you know," Tony quips and they laugh again.

Spider-Man puts his face in his hands and groans in embarrassment, "I can't believe I confessed that. I can just see the headlines once people see this video."

"And your lady friend?" Sean follows up.

"Oh we're fine. I snarked at her the next day and she smirked a lot and honestly I should have expected as much from her. Don't worry, we're still friends!"

"Just friends?" Sean needles.

"... Close friends." Spider-Man hedges after a moment.

"How's she going to react to you telling us all this?"

"Oh, she'll be endlessly amused and probably take a screenshot of me in distress to print out and leave for me to find in various places."

"She's terrifying," Tony mutters, but the camera picks it up.

"Oh yeah?" Sean perks up, looking for more information.

"She's... Something else. She'll probably rule the world some day. And that's all I'll say about that topic for safety," Spider-Man concludes that line of questioning.

"Fair enough. Moving on to the final battle! You've come so far! I'm proud of you, Spidey!"

Sean picks up the last bottle of hot sauce and starts shaking it and Spider-Man bites his lip in apprehension. "Oh no, I know what happens next. I don't like this."

Sean laughs and continues as he opens the bottle and dabs a little on his wing, "Now Spidey, this is called 'the last dab', as you know. For the viewers at home, it's called 'the last dab' because it's tradition around here to put a little extra on the last wing, but you don't have to, we won't judge if you can't handle it."

Spider-Man doesn't hesitate, "Yes you will. You'll totally judge. Hit me!" and holds out his hand for the bottle.

Sean laughs as Spider-Man dabs extra on his wing and agrees, "I mean yeah, we totally would."

"I'm not a spider wimp, I'm not!" Spider-Man jokes in a petulant tone.

Spider-Man takes a deep breath and tries to gather his courage. "God, I'd rather get yeeted into the Hudson again. At least I'd stop sweating."

Sean snorts as Spider-Man devours the wing quickly before he can overthink it. Spider-Man swallows and immediately shouts in distress and starts gulping milk.

Sean laughs and asks his final question quickly, "It's been so great having you on here today, getting to know you a little better. Obviously, all we have really seen of you these past years are the small clips of you swinging or fighting, so it's been great getting to talk to you. I'm sure I'm not the only one who is surprised in that you're much different than we expected you to be. Honestly you're a pretty normal guy, just like the rest of us, except sticky."

Spider-Man doesn't pause in guzzling the milk but gives him a thumbs up in agreement.

Sean continues, "I know there was a lot we didn't cover, that we can't cover for various reasons, but we appreciate you giving us a bit of a peek at the real guy behind the mask. My final question for you is: can you tell us a few fun facts about yourself that we don't already know?"

"Uhhh," Spider-Man choked through the burning pain, "Uhhh... God it's like I swallowed fire. Literal fire. I can't even think."

Sean snickers and blinks rapidly, trying to hide his reaction to the hottest sauce as he finally shows that he is affected.

Spider-Man sniffles and wipes his nose and continues, gasping, "I invented the formula for the synthetic webs by myself, and the gadgets I use to shoot them, long before I met Tony. I used to dumpster dive, that's where I got most of my components."

He drinks more milk and coughs before blowing his nose. "Oh my god it hurts. Food shouldn't hurt. Oh this is awful. Do you hate me, Sean? Is that it? Is this your way of telling me you hate me? I keep New York safe and this is the thanks I get?"

Sean laughs and tries to deny it, "No! No way!"

Spider-Man accepts a fresh glass of milk and chokes out a thank you before continuing, "I, uhhh, I dunno, I enjoy photography."

"As in you like looking at photography or you like taking photos?" Sean asks.

"Well both, but yeah taking photos. I've posted a couple on my social media but I'll start posting more if anyone is interested in seeing that kind of stuff."

"Yeah totally, I bet you get some unique shots being able to get places other people can't," Sean enthuses.

Spider-Man nods, drinking again.

"Uhhh, I'm arachnophobic," he admits, fishing to come up with more anecdotes.

"Wait, what?! Dude, you're SPIDER man! How can you be arachnophobic?!" Sean questions incredulously.

"Ugh, well I can't say too much since it involves Spider-Man's origin story and I don't want people trying to recreate it or something and end up getting hurt, but it was an accident and involved spiders and agonizing pain and almost dying so I think I'm a little entitled to a bit of arachnophobia, don't you?"

Sean is wide eyed as he agrees.

"And on that note, congratulations on making it through. It's been a struggle for you, considering your enhanced senses, but you pulled through like a champ. It should be no surprise to anyone, since you don't know how to quit! It's been an honor meeting you, and hopefully you'll consider coming back someday when you've unmasked and we can have another go."

"Uhhhh, I'll think about it," he hedges.

Sean laughs and points to the cameras, "This camera, this camera, or this camera, let the people know what you've got going on in your life."

"Right, well, I support a number of local charities and they're always incredibly in need, so please consider donating some money. And if you don't have that, maybe donate some of your time. You can find a list of these charities in the description below, and at the end of this video. I'll also be attending a fundraiser for orphaned children at the end of the month. We're going to hang out, take some pictures, have a bit of fun. You can also find information on that in the description, and I hope you'll consider dropping by. Come say hi and tell me how much of a wimp I'm not."

Sean laughs, "Thanks for joining us! See you next time on First We Feast, this is Sean Evans."

The camera cuts to show sometime shortly after the interview, Spider-Man, Tony, and Sean standing around chatting and laughing as the crew walks around cleaning the set. Tony is telling a story involving Spider-Man getting distracted during a mission and body slamming the side of a brick building while web slinging. Sean erupts in laughter and Spider-Man playfully shoves Tony before fishing his ringing phone out of his pocket. He answers it and they curiously watch him.

"Ohhh, hey Nat!" He nervously greets the caller. He pauses while the caller talks and he responds, "Of course we're still on. I'm sorry, I totally lost track of time. I'll-" He gets cut off by the caller and he listens nervously, tugging on his collar. "Errr... No. No of course not. Wait... No. Yes of course. I-" he cuts off what he was about to say and looks at his phone. He looks up at Sean and Tony and his eye lenses widen comically.

"Oh man, she's pissed. I'm late."

Tony smirks, "Nice knowing ya."

Tony and Spider-Man then pose for a group picture with the entire crew, Spider-Man making his signature hand pose. The video goes black as Spider-Man and Sean shake hands and the audio lingers with Spider-Man saying, "Ten out of ten, would not do again," and Sean and Tony laughing.

__________________

Comments:

AceSummer well he's not wrong. that's good internet.

Mrs Spiderman I think I'm in love

Spidey fan aaaaaaaaabs

Sophi Wow he's not at all like I imagined

Bebeetch Spidey on that seventh wing LOL

Benticat RIP Black Widow gonna thigh choke him out

Vistale I would pay good money to watch a Spider-Man bondage sex tape

TweetNinja Hmm it never really occurred to me why he didn't sign the accords

Flameswell Oh man I can't wait for him to finally sign the accords and unmask

PinkJan "hypothetically" lol

dodododododo Guys I just had a crazy idea. I think he might be a student

Nervous Nelly Whatever gave you that idea? Lol

I am a banana High school or college?

dodododododo Probably college. A high schooler can't be that kick-ass can they?

My name Jeff I wonder what he looks like under that mask

MemeLord Probably deformed

waaaaat no I doubt it, he says he hides to protect his friends and family. I can understand that.

Marry me Spides I'd say he's pretty handsome actually, look at that jawww

Kuro2cool So he can do a few tricks, that doesn't mean he should be doing this shit. That's what we pay professionals good money for. He's not a cop.

Benny Yeah and at least they're trained

Roseawayee I dunno, Spidey seems to know what he's doing

Kuro2cool until he's not and gets someone killed

Roseawayee Sometimes the police just isn't enough

EpicChikk omg spiderman is my fave

FunHi Spides once stopped a mugger from taking my purse! He was super nice and sat with me for at least 20 minutes until I calmed down and stopped crying and then helped me get a cab to the hospital. He even paid for it! I love you Spides!

LawnMoon dat ass tho

Margethe Awww blushy spiderman is the sweetest

VanderKit He's so normal, I wasn't expecting that

metawank spiderman sucks

IronManIsMyDaddy Yay iron man made an appearance!

IAmIronStan Anyone else think it's super sweet that Tony came with Spidey for his interview? #friendgoals

The not so incredible Hulk Get Tony on hot ones next!!

IronManIsMyDaddy Yessssss

IAmIronStan I mean he didn't even flinch at da bomb though, when he finished Spidey's wing. It would probably just be a normal interview but with a snack

Spidermenace241 I still think he's a menace

MMM whatcha say J Jonah is that you

JrWaves4 I'm so jealous Sean got to meet him in person

crazycatlady18 I wanna hear his real voice!

MajorFraser There's a couple videos floating around from when he first started and it captured him speaking a little. It was a few years ago so he sounds a lot younger but he doesn't sound too different from the modulator in my opinion

crazycatlady18 I wonder if Sean will ever come across civilian Spidey in the wild? Can't you just imagine Spidey making eye contact and smirking and Sean just getting this look of realization on his face that he's looking at the real deal before the crushing defeat sets in when he realizes he can do nothing about it

GoobleRay Those wings hit him harder than rhino lol

Juztinny Hahaha

TaraSweetie Shit did you see Tony's face after Spides told that story about him getting crushed by Vulture? He looked so guilty

CrownBillion Who'd have thought Spidey was into the kinky shit

Softy4Spidey think his lady friend is a girlfriend or just a fuck buddy?

CrownBillion doesn't matter, he'll never tell us

DJTwinkle I've always wondered if he ever used his webs for bondage

LolaShun Lol wtf dude

wHeN wIlL yOu LeArN Woo Spidey! Get some!

CrownBillion Yeah, was not expecting that story. I dunno, always thought he was too wholesome for that hahaha

Softy4Spidey for what, sex? he's human too, just like us. i'm sure he has needs

CrownBillion I guess I always pictured him fighting crime 24/7 lol

ChicMoto Wow I had no idea he did so much volunteer work, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He's too good for this world and you can fight me on that

ChampionFeline he's a precious little bean

ForShark "sleep is for the weak"

onesbuma00 mood!

henrytech I wonder what he meant when he said things got scary real with the Vulture

MUSTCONSTRUCTADDITIONALPYLONS I dunno but must have been bad to scare this guy. He keeps cracking jokes even when staring down rocket launchers

JuzzFizz He also mentioned that one enemy knew his real identity and that he couldn't say more about his conflict with Vulture because it might compromise his identity. I wonder if it got scary because Vulture found out who he was

henrytech Shit that's terrifying

JuzzFizz And he wouldn't be able to say how he found out because if it was his next door neighbor or something people could just look up where Toomes used to live

henrytech Plus then other criminals could give Vulture the shake down in prison and find out who he is if they know that he knows

BannerBaby Yeah I wonder why that one enemy who knows hasn't told everyone his real identity. Isn't that what evil people do when they find out a secret identity?

henrytech Maybe Spides threatened him to stay quiet?

PenguinBad I mean maybe, but that doesn't seem his style

TotallyNotDeadpool At least in this universe he doesn't strut down the street making weird finger guns, trying to impress women

Cordolicious What the fuck? Where did that even come from?

TotallyNotDeadpool Just saying. That would be weird.

#fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #spiderman #jenniboo311 #hot ones avengers #social butterfly Spidey #humour #peter parker #secret identity #iron man #tony stark

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acdhw · 5 years ago

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ACD and appreciation of male beauty

Rodney Stone has been on my reading list for ages, ever since I saw that tumblr post with a quote from it describing the physique of a trained boxer. Finally I read the novel, and in one aspect it did not disappoint. The plot was somewhat boring, and the mystery predictable, but boy, those descriptions. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember The Picture of Dorian Gray being that explicit in appreciation of male beauty. Or rather it celebrated another type of beauty: Dorian’s youthful, androgynous, even effete good looks—the aesthetic movement, etc. Meanwhile, Rodney Stone is all about masculinity and ogling manly men. By the way, ACD did ogle manly men in a quite legit way: he was friends with Eugene Sandow, the pioneer bodybuilder, and agreed to be one of the judges at Sandow’s bodybuilding contest. stonepicnicking_okapi wrote a wonderful ficlet about Watson serving in the same capacity and Holmes being a tad jealous. Returning to Rodney Stone, I’ll just leave the quotes here, for future reference if nothing else: “...could look at his perfect shoulders, his narrow loins, and his proud head that sat upon his neck like an eagle upon its perch, without feeling that sober joy which all that is beautiful in Nature gives...” “I looked at him, his proud, eagle face, and his tall, sinewy figure, and I wondered whether in the whole land there was a finer, handsomer man.” “My uncle ran his eyes over the fine lines of his magnificent figure with the glance of a connoisseur.” “His shoulders were sloping rather than bulky, and his chest was deep rather than broad, but the muscle was all in the right place, rippling down in long, low curves from neck to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow. His work at the anvil had developed his arms to their utmost, and his healthy country living gave a sleek gloss to his ivory skin, which shone in the lamplight.”

“He was certainly a splendidly built young athlete, and one could not have wished to look upon a finer sight as his white skin, sleek and luminous as a panther’s, gleamed in the light of the morning sun, with a beautiful liquid rippling of muscles at every movement. His arms were long and slingy, his shoulders loose and yet powerful, with the downward slant which is a surer index of power than squareness can be. He clasped his hands behind his head, threw them aloft, and swung them backwards, and at every movement some fresh expanse of his smooth, white skin became knobbed and gnarled with muscles, whilst a yell of admiration and delight from the crowd greeted each fresh exhibition. Then, folding his arms once more, he stood like a beautiful statue waiting for his antagonist.” Bonus: This is from The Croxley Master, ACD’s self-insert story about boxing: “He was trained to a hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and every muscle rippling down his broad shoulders and along his beautiful arms as he moved them. They bunched into ivory knobs, or slid into long, sinuous curves, as he raised or lowered his hands.”

#acd

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chiseler · 4 years ago

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VISAGE... VOICE... VITAPHONE

In Dimitri Kirsanoff's Menilmontant a destitute waif, betrayed and abandoned by the man who seduced her, sits on a park bench with her newborn infant. Beside her is an old man eating a sandwich. This wordless exchange is one of the greatest moments ever committed to film. Nadia Sibirskaia’s face reveals all of life’s cruel mysteries as she gazes upon a crust of bread.

The persistence of hope is the dark angel that underlies despair, and here it taunts her mercilessly. A whole series of fluctuations of expression and movement in reaction to anguish, physical pain involving hesitation, dignity, ravenous hunger, survival, self-contempt, modesty, boundless gratitude. All articulated with absolute clarity without hitting notes (without touching the keys). Chaplin could have played either the old man on the bench (his mustache is a sensory device!) or Nadia. And it would have been masterful and deeply affecting, but Nadia went beyond virtuosity and beyond naturalism.

She made it actual. And it was more than just a face. Sunlight travels across buildings at every second of the day; and the seasons change the incidence of light, too. Nothing stands still. Even déjà vu doesn’t attempt an exact rendition with the feel of a perfect replay.

***

Another face equates with pain—though a far more luxurious and decadent kind of pain, a visage summoning leftover ancient Roman excess or Florentine backstreets, the contortions of Art Nouveau with its flowers, prismatic walls and perennial themes of ripeness/rottenness, sadomasochism. While various directors have helped mold her naturally unsettling screen presence into nightmare visions, it’s Barbara Steele's vulnerability I tend to remember.

She is open and sensitive even as she materializes in the viewer’s mind as a kabuki demon one moment and a radioactive waxwork the next, a kind of alchemical transformation, an appeal to what Keats called negative capability—one’s ability to appreciate something without wholly understanding it; in fact, one’s ability to appreciate an object for its mystery.

“When did I ever deserve this dark mirror?” Barbara Steele asks me. “Clever you – I feel you’ve just twisted and wrung out an old bible to dry that’s been left somewhere outside lost in timeless years of…” She pauses. “…of rain.”

She made her Italian screen debut as a revenant. And in so doing taught us all the eye is not a camera. It’s a projector.

Barbara Steele’s appearance in 1960’s Black Sunday is, even now, a shock of such febrile sexuality that it forces us to ask ourselves—why do we saddle her with diminishing monikers like “Scream Queen”? And, more fundamentally, why does her force of personality seem to trouble and vex every narrative she touches?

Of course, the answer is partly grounded in Steele’s unique physical equipment—and here I’ll risk repeating a clichéd word about those famous emerald eyes of hers: “Otherworldly.” As if sparked to life by silent-film magician Segundo de Chomón, the supreme master of hand-tinted illusionism. Peculiar even within the context of gothic tales on celluloid for the consumption of Mod audiences, flashing at us from well beyond their allotted time and place in history.

Barbara Steele is one of cinema’s true abominations—a light-repelling force that presents itself in an arrangement of shadows on the screen. No “luminary,”Steele is celluloid anti-matter; a slow burning black flame that devours every filament around it. Steele’s beauty is no accident of nature, even if she is, but in Black Sunday she gives a virtuoso performance by an artist in full command of her talent summoning and banishing it in equal measure in her dual role as mortal damsel in distress and undead predator released from her crypt. Filmmaking is the darkest and unholiest of arts (done right, that is), and for Mario Bava it becomes the invocation of beast and woman from the unconsecrated soil of nightmares. Steele remains the high priestess of the unlit and buried chambers of the imagination; the pure pleasure center of original sin and the murderous impulse buried just below the surface. She reminds us that existence itself is the highest form of betrayal and a continuing curse on us all.

Where Steele’s Italian films are concerned, we are watching silent movies of a sort. “The loss of voice for me has always been devastating…. It’s almost like some karmic debt…” Her sonic presence was eclipsed in a string of crudely, sadly dubbed horror vehicles, yes, including Black Sunday—no doubt aficionados of the great Mario Bava will object to my calling it a “vehicle.” But whenever Steele appears, the storyline falls away. Anachronism rules. Not to mention the director’s exquisite sets, all keyed and subordinated to his ingénue’s stark loveliness (understood in black and white, molded by Italian cameramen into disquieting and sudden plasticity). Like a hot-blooded funerary sculpture made of alabaster, raven hair piled high, Steele’s already imposing height summons schizoid power, satanic sorcery—she’s Eros and Thanatos dynamically balanced. I’ve screened the film many times; and the famous opening sequence invariably leaves my otherwise jaded film students looking traumatized. (Just as a young Martin Scorsese was shattered by it once upon a time.) Barbara Steele’s defiant witch, spewing a final curse upon her mortal judges, pierces to the bone.

While Italian movies robbed Steele of her voice, they liberated her from what it had meant in Britain. Leading ladies in Brit films tended to be well brought-up young things, unless they were lusty and working-class like Diana Dors. Even at Hammer, where sexuality was unleashed regularly via bouts of vampirism, the erotically active roles usually went to continental lovelies (Polish immigrant Ingrid Pitt got her work permit based on Hammer’s claim that no native-born actress could exude such desire and desirability). Steele turns up all-too briefly in Basil Dearden’s Sapphire (1959) as an art school girl, the only kind of role that might allow for both intelligence and a certain liberated attitude. And Steele really was exactly that type. Her appearance is so arresting, you want the movie to simply abandon its plot and follow her into some fresh storyline: it wouldn’t really matter what.

In Italy, Steele suddenly became class-less and nation-less, devoid of associations beyond those conjured by the chiseled cheekbones and enormous eyes (convincingly replaced with poached eggs by Bava for a special effects shot). Her inescapable exoticism didn’t make sense in her native land, but that bone structure could suggest Latin, Slavic, or anything else. Omninational, omnisexual, but definitely carnivorous.

Generally remote with his actors, who were nothing more than compositional elements to him, Bava’s capricious move of selecting his female lead from a magazine photo-spread looks almost prescient in hindsight. Was it luck? Or, perhaps her now legendary eyes suggested a bizarre and beautiful leitmotif… to be destroyed, resurrected, and played endlessly on a register of emotions—extreme emotions, that is, tabooed delights.

Steele shares an anecdote about her director’s temperament and working methods on Black Sunday… “Everything was so meticulously planned that Bava rarely asked me for multiple takes. There was no sense of urgency or drama, which was rare for an Italian director…” I’m suddenly detecting deep ambivalence as she vacillates between little jabs at Bava (“He was a Jesuit priest on the set, somewhere far away”) and gratitude. “There was a tremendous feeling of respect, whereas in my earliest roles at Rank I always felt shoved around, practically negated by the pressure of production.

“Bava did go absolutely berserk once,” she goes on. “John Richardson, this gorgeous, sinewy creature, for some reason couldn’t carry me across the room. And I was like eleven pounds in those days. We had to do it over and over, twenty times or something, and whenever John stumbled or dropped me, the whole crew would be in hysterics. We were all howling with laughter, except for Bava – he went simply wild! Eventually, some poor grip had to get down on all fours, and I rode on his back in a chair with John pretending to carry me.”

If Black Sunday is a summation of spiritual and physical dread, it’s because Steele is everyone in this dream-bauble, everyone and everywhere, an all-consuming autumnal atmosphere. Which, of course, provides Mario Bava with something truly rare—a face and mien as unsettling as horror films always claim to be and almost never are. The devastation she leaves behind, her anarchic displacement, which has nothing to do with conventional notions of performance or “good acting,” is hard to describe. And here Bava earns his label of genius through compositional meaning—amid the groundswells of fog, lifeless trees and gloomy dungeons, Steele is an absence impossibly concretized in penumbras and voids. She is a force of nature never to be repeated.

Nightmare Castle (1965) starts off in Lady Chatterley mode as Steele cheats on her mad scientist husband (“At this rate you’ll wipe out every frog in the entire county,” is an opening line less pithy but more arresting than “Rosebud”) with the horny handyman. She’s soon murdered on an electrified bed, hubby preserving her heart for unexplained reasons while using her blood to rejuvenate his mistress. Then he marries her insipid blonde half sister (Steele again in a blonde wig) and tries to drive her mad. So we now have Gaslight merged with Poe and every revenge-from-the-grave story ever.

The identical twin half-sisters (?) bifurcate further: blonde Barbara goes schizoid, possessed it seems by her departed semi-sibling. Dark Barbara comes back as a very corporeal revenant, hair occluding one profile, like Phil Oakey of the Human League. Tossing the locks aside, she reveals… the horror!

Almost indescribable in terms of plot, character or dialogue, the film looks stunning, as chiaroscuro as Steele’s coal-black hair and snow-white skin. Apparently the product of monkey-typewriter improvisation, the story serves as a kind of post-modern dream-jumble of every Gothic narrative ever. You might get a story like this if you showed all of Steele’s horrors to a pissed-up grade-schooler and then asked them to describe the film they just saw. As a result, the movie really takes what Dario Argento likes to call the “non-Cartesian” qualities of Italian horror to the next dank, stone-buttressed level.

When I first met Barbara Steele about ten years ago, we somehow found ourselves sitting in front of a Brancusi sculpture here in New York City—I remember a filmmaker acquaintance joking afterwards: “Steele beats bronze!” Indeed, at 66 she was still stunningly beautiful, flirtatious, frighteningly aware of the power of her stare.

She was a painter in her youth, so it’s not surprising that, even as I visualize her in a voluptuous, cinematic world of castles and blighted landscapes, her own self-image is perennially absorbed by art—in the sense of André Malraux’s Museum Without Walls. She asks me to show her my paintings and when I dodge the subject out of shyness she offers:

A friend of mine just had a show of his art in a little cinema here – very small paintings, about 8 inches by 6 – and then they projected them onto one of their screens and they looked fantastic! Size is everything! Unless you were born in the Renaissance… then you were surrounded by silence and stone walls, shadows and glimmers of gold, and faces that are like spells they look so informed.

Steele speaks of her “old, suspicious Celtic soul,” her bitterness at having “flitted through movies par hazard,” and a newfound desire to make audio books (what colossal revenge!). It’s poetic really, this doppelganger, a ghost-like screen persona following her around. Whenever I think of the effect her movies have had on me, the following words by Charles Lamb leap to mind.

Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras – dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies – may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition – but they were there before. They are transcripts, types – the archetypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to effect us at all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body – or without the body, they would have been the same… That the kind of fear here treated is purely spiritual – that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless infancy – are difficulties the solution of which may afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shadowland of pre-existence.

Even the wooliest metaphysics can be hard to separate from actual violence. Case in point: the night of September 22, 1796. Charles Lamb had his own brush with horror, when the future poet and author of children’s stories found himself removing a bloody knife from his sister’s hand. A spasm of matricidal rage that would land her in a mad house—and tending to prove, once again, the need for genres of terror and trepidation. For a moment at least, Steele seems to agree, bowled over by the Lamb anecdote, literally screaming: “AND THAT NAME – LAMB – IT MAKES YOU THINK OF SUCH INNOCENT BRITISH LANDSCAPES!” She’s a fairly solitary and introspective person on the one hand, capable of intense and unexpected eruptions of joy on the other, which may be why Italians have always embraced her—a shared gloomy zest for life, fatalism and pasta. There’s something intensely porous about her (as porous as film itself), which helps clarify her otherwise inscrutable tension with that shadow-self up on the screen, the one she so busily downgrades.

***

The thirties bustled with wise-cracking, fast-talking dames, probably not for any proto-feminist reason, but simply because the writers had a surplus of sassy talk to dispense onto the screen, and audiences liked looking at legs, so why not combine the two? Amid all the petite peroxide pretties, a few acerbic character actresses were allowed room, perhaps to make the cuties bloom all the more radiantly against them. Whatever the aesthetic logic, we can be grateful for it, since it gave us Ruth Donnelly and Winnie Lightner and Jean Dixon and a few other unforgettable shrews and wiseacres, adept as stage mothers, streetwise best pals of the leading lady, etc.

Aline MacMahon sort of fits into this category, but also destroys any category she sees with her laser vision. In Gold Diggers of 1933, she’s a Fanny Bryce type comedy showgirl, and in Heat Lightning (1934) she’s an ex-moll running a garage. In between, she played world-weary secretaries and put-upon mothers, taking any role and stealing the movie along with it. Rather than resist classification, she goes on the offensive, smashing down stereotypes and insisting on her own peculiar individuality.

Big and rangy in the body and hands, she had a strange, sculpted beauty, and was as luminous as Dietrich. Maybe more so: cameramen hit Marlene with brighter lights to make her shine out, whereas Aline was typically in the lead’s shadow. Her complexion is like the glass of milk in Suspicion in which Hitchcock planted a light bulb. That white. A sheet of paper passing before her face would appear as a dark eclipsing rectangle.

The law of photogenics insists that actresses hired to play the non-glamorous roles must be staggeringly lovely, but off-kilter and unconventional enough to fool the audience into thinking they’re seeing failed beauty. Aline’s unlikely photofit of attractive features resulted in a caricature of elegance and earthiness in precisely the wrong proportions, which makes her fascinating and alluring to watch.

The eyes are seriously big, saucers hooded by the heaviest lids since Karloff’s monster, resulting in long slits which strive to echo the even wider mouth, a perfectly straight line seemingly intent on decapitation. Like a horizon with lips. The chin cleft below catches the viewer by surprise. Were chin clefts on women more common then, or did studios screen in favor of them? The cheekbones have a graceful, yet powerful curve, so the face as a whole combines the qualities of an ice-cream baby and a crystal skull. All wrong, and alright with me.

Aline’s humor about her ill-assorted collection of perfect features was often played on in dialogue, so it’s pleasing when a role like the one in Heat Lightning admits that, for all her unlikeliness, she was indeed beautiful. More than a pretty face, too: her way with a snappy rejoinder distinguished her even in an era of exceptional wit and quicksilver delivery. And her essence, which radiated out whatever the role, was that of a philosophical, warm, smart, funny, sad woman: the essence of the age.

By Daniel Riccuito and David Cairns

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