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wet-and-wedgied · 11 months

Text

Spencer’s Spicy Salad

Spencer rolled up from underneath the customer’s truck as the clock struck the time for lunch. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving behind a bit of grease and jumped up to his feet. Spencer was a tall young mechanic who had been left in charge of his boss’s shop for the day. A fit man college student with short curly brown hair, strong arms and defined chest he cut an figure even in his simple mechanic’s get up: a tight white shirt and a pair of well worn grey overalls.

He grabbed a rag and wiped off the excess grease off his hands as he popped into the break room, a tiny little alcove with a water cooler and mini-fridge, putting out the salad he had grabbed earlier before work. It was some kind of spicy Mexican salad he had seen on his feed at some local place and had decided to try it out. It was supposed to be really good for the digestive track and a delicious meal for those looking to stay fit.

Spencer propped his leg up and chowed down. It was way spicer than he had thought, the kale in it practically soaked in some creamy dressing that while delicious kept burning his tongue. Spencer kept refilling his water bottle and chugging the whole thing in order to cool off. Still it was delicious. And filling too. Spencer patted his full stomach satisfied as he tossed the bowl and finished up his lunch and went back to working in the truck.

Spencer was finishing tightened the last bolts in place underneath the truck and he felt his stomach flip. Still on the board on his back, he lifted a leg and ripped a hot fat fart.

PPOPPPFFFBBBRT!

Spencer laughed, patting his stomach as some pressure was lessened, and blew out two more farts

PPFFFERRT

BBRRTFFRRRT!

Spencer slid out from underneath the truck and was greeted with the rancid smell of his own ass. “Damn, I reck. But I really needed that!”

“Well I hope you got it all out of your system then,” said Spencer’s boss. Spencer looked up to see his boss, a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, holding his nose and fanning the air.

“sir!” Spencer flushed, scrambling to his feet. “My bad. Sorry, I thought you said you’d be gone today.”

“I am, I am, just checking in is all. Making sure you haven’t burned down the place.”

“no sir—” PPfffpppertRRT!

Spencer covered his rear as another fart ripped out him. His stomachgurgled and flipped again. His boss increased his fanning. “Geez. Light a match in here and you just might. What did you eat, son?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond but was waved off.

“Nevermind, is the truck ready, they should be coming to pick it up soon. I want to make sure you got this on your own, eh.” His boss smirk and tapped Spencer in the stomach and Spencer tense feeling his guts bubble and gurgle protest.

“no problem sir,” Spencer said.

“perfect, Ah look here they come now.”

Spencer turned to see a handsome man a few years older than Spencer with a bright smile and two twin teen boys glued to their phones coming in. “Hey, everything ready? We’re looking forward to going camping!” The truck owner said with high optimism. The two boys each rolled their eyes.

“You’re excited Uncle Daniel,” one of the boys groaned.

“Like a dork,” said the other. “You like being alone in the woods cause it doesn’t sound as bad as being alone in the real world.” The twins high-fived, neither looking up from their phones.

The truck owner— Daniel’s smile flattened but he push onward. “You two really don’t let up, huh. Sorry, is the truck ready? Then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“No worries,” Spencer’s boss said, “Spencer here will take care of you.”

“Right!” Spencer said offering a hand to Daniel. “Spencer. Sorry, you already know that. Um, yes, your truck is ready.”

“Wonderful that is great news.” Daniel took Spencer’s hand, giving it a firm handshake as their eyes.

“I really like camping,” Spencer blurted out. Daniel’s lips curled into a smooth grin.

“really? We’ll maybe we—“

“Ew, Uncle Daniel stop flirting with the mechanic dude,” whined one of the teens.

Spencer felt a flush on his cheeks— only for it to be replaced with a far more intense feeling in his stomach. Any butterflies he felt seemed to be carrying megaton warheads, dropping them in his intestines. An ominous gurgle went through him and Spencer clutched his abdomen. The pressure on his guts was intense. Fuuuck… he needed to shit.

“you okay?” Asked Daniel.

“yeah, yeah,” Spencer said hastily. “I just need you sign some paperwork and I’ll go grab your keys. Spencer hurried out of the garage and into the office, a series of small hot farts squeaking out of him as he went. He hurried over to the papers and

PPPPPFFFFBBBFFRRRTPPPBBBBT!!!

Spencer gasped as a massive fart erupted out of him as he bent to grab the clipboard sign the paperwork on it. He held his stomach. Fuck that spicy salad was messing with his guts. His stomach broiled like an Icelandic mud volcano. Spencer clinched his cheeks. Ahhh. Don’t think about mud volcanoes. He looked to the board where they hung the keys and then to down the hall where the bathroom was. He desperately wanted ti make a mad dash to the bathroom and absolutely destroy the toilet. But his boss and that hit uncle were waiting for him. He groaned. Shit. He could hold it for a few minutes. He grabbed the keys and speed walked back the garage. As he step through the door the water cookie gurgled and suddenly the pressure seemed to shift from. His rear, the pressure subsiding on his packed colon, but only to fall squarely onto his bladder. Spencer tensed as he paused in the garage, pressing his legs together as a lake of hot piss sloshed in his bladder, all those bottles of water lapping against the dam inside him. A dam that desperately wanted to burst.

“Spencer, you okay?”

Spencer looked up to see his boss and Daniel both looking at him. He gave them both a nervous smile.

“I-I’m fine.” Spencer said, and straightened. He forced his legs apart and focused on not pissing himself. He could hold it. He could hold it. He could hold it. Spencer repeated the thought in his head as he half walked half shuffle over to Daniel. “Here you go— Ahh!” A leak squirted out of Spencer, dribbles of hot piss splashing into his soft boxers. Spencer bent, his knees pressed together. He held back a whimper as he bounced from foot to foot, his bladder aching. Oh man he didn’t have drunk so much water.

“Are you sure you are okay dude?” Daniel asked.

“He looks like he is doing the pee dance,” snickered one of Daniel’s nephews.

Another leak squirted out of Spencer at the sound of the word ‘pee’. “Ahh!” Spencer cried out as he gave in and wedged his hand between his crotch, desperately holding onto his crotch. Spencer bit his lip and held the truck key’s for Daniel to take, but he was frozen in place.

PPpFfrtt

Spencer gasped as he farted, hot and stenching. His stomach gurgled and he temporarily lost his control on his bladder. Hot piss sprayed out of his cock and into his boxers.

“nNoooOO—Ahh!” Spencer cried out and moaned as he tried and failed to regain control. The dam gates had opened and now the flood came bursting through! Spencer stood frozen as his body let go and he began soaking his boxers, peeing his pants, a dark wet patch blooming at the crotch of his overalls and then spread fast as rivulets of urine ran down his legs and soaked through the fabric. Spencer’s eyes fluttered as he pee, flooding his overalls, sending hot push gushing through the material and over his hand, still desperately gripping his leaking crotch even as Spencer formed a puddle beneath him.

PSsssssSSHH

“oh man! The mechanic is pissing his pants!” Said on the of nephews.

“Dude is soaking them too!” Said the other, holding up his phone to record.

Spencer was helpless as his bladder emptied itself in his boxers and overalls. But that wasn’t the worse part. As his bladder gushed out, his stomach gurgle and shit that had filled him slammed against his rear. His guys bubbled and Spencer knew he wasn’t able to keep control over his bowels.

PPFFFFBBRRT

PPBBBBRFFFFERRTTT

BBBTRRFFF

Spencer bent as he was hit with a series of wet “oh no!” Spencer dropped the keys in Daniel’s hand and turned trying the run back inside, but only made it a few steps before a massive cramp bent him over.

PPPRRRRBFFFF!!!

“Come on, no, no, no,” Spencer said panicking as he fumbled with the clasp on his overalls. If he could at least get out of them, but the clasp was stuck and then it was too late. “No-AaggAAAHHH!”

Spencer moaned as he lost complete control of his bowels, a torrent of hot diarrhea exploding into his already soaked boxers and overalls. It was a volcanic mudslide, thick and soft as it blasted out of him. A massive bugle was instantly forming in his overalls, staining the back as he had the front.

BLLKOOPOOOPPPPFFFT

SPLKTPPPFFFFT

“oh my god!” Spencer’s boss cover his nose as Spencer relentless farted as wave after wave of hot recking shit erupted out of him . The liquid shit overflowed his boxers as he emptied his bowls, diarrhea slide down his legs and splattering against the garage floor. Spencer was helpless as he evacuated the hot muddy brown sewage.

PLSSPPOFFFRRT

PPBBBRRTTPPFFFTSSSTK

Spencer, defeated as another wave hit him, feel to his knees, landing in puddle of his own piss as more diarrhea filled his overalls. The foul stench filled the entirety of the garage, as Spencer could only sit in his disgrace.

“oh man,” snicker one of the twins. “This is going to get a shitload of views!”

Spencer groaned as a final fart marked the end of him shitting and soiling himself. He was never trying spicy salad again

#diarrhea #omorashi #malepoop #male piss #male pee desperation #pants wetting #pantspissing #malediarrhea #male omorashi #pants messing #pants soiling #Pants shitting

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sex-storytime · 1 year

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Raven

It was finally Friday and I would once again charge forth bravely into the night searching for love or at least a good time; to embark with the boldest intentions and the most optimistic outlook. I wouldn't be so shy this time and I'd get out and meet people and have fun. I'd find love, or at least a lover right? Sure... Well at least I'd have a few beers and watch other more confident guys do just that.

My plan was the same flawless failure I've always employed: hanging out at the local bar! I liked to show up early, around 8:30 I guess. Many of the regulars were there early and you could cruise around and exchange greetings before the out-of-towners and once-in-a-whilers showed up and packed the place. Some people might think it was weird that I would go there alone, but I wasn't alone if I knew 10-15 people in the bar (which I usually did). I wasn't like a "Hey NORM!" kind of guy, but I did get "hey," and "yo" (which came with the obligatory 3-part handshake/finger-clasp/fist-punch 'homey' greeting), so that was cool...

I strolled in at my usual time, scanned the bar, and there she was. Whoah. There were times when for whatever inexplicable reason, stunningly beautiful women would bless the bar with their presence. She was a fine example. I could immediately sense the tension around her. At this point, the clientele in the bar was comprised of people in a relationship or hapless dorks like me. For now, her beauty helped radiate an aura of intimidation that kept everyone at a safe distance.

She looked to be about twenty-five. Her skin was porcelain which contrasted the dark waves of raven hair falling down to the middle of her back. She sat neatly cross-legged on the barstool wearing a silky brown number that was low cut in the front, even lower cut in the back, and only went down just a little ways past her hips. She wore sparkling high heels with straps that wrapped halfway up her well-toned calves. She had several large metal bracelets on each arm and her ears were adorned ornate feathered earrings. Freckles covered the tops of her arms, back, and presumably chest and face (I couldn't see that yet). I drank in the sight of her in the spare second I had while I was casually scanning the room. The next second, my eyes fell on her friend.

Ah yes, the ultimate armor: the heavier-set, shorter, but still kind-of-cute best friend. Now I'm no ladies man, but I know the setup. I've seen it plenty of times in this place. It was like watching National Geographic. The antelope must band together to fend off attacks from the pouncing solitary tigers. Now I immediately knew that gorgeous woman was way out of my league, but I relished the opportunity to watch her as well as the drama that was likely to unfold around her.

I bellied up to the bar down the way from her so I could see her face. Yep, she had freckles. She was very pretty though - big eyes. They looked green to me; maybe hazel. Then she smiled at her friend. Wow, nice white teeth - very pretty smile. The edges of her lips formed a cute little crease that betrayed the slightest aging of her skin. She then turned her head my way. Her eyes settled on mine for just a second, and her smile lingered for just a second, before moving on. She saw me. She thought I was worth a look. She did right? Okay, I wasn't really sure.

I mean, who was I kidding? Here I was, a thirty-four year old guy of average height. I still had my dusty blonde straw-like hair, wild as always. I've drunk plenty of beer in my time and had a bit of a gut to show for it. It wasn't too bad though. I hid it well by wearing hemmed button-up shirts and a decent pair of slacks. I dusted myself in Obsession (for men), and I'm sure that helped too. While I've always thought my face was kind of doofy looking I've had girls tell me I was cute in a Simon Pegg kind of way.

It didn't matter though; I wasn't going to try to talk to her. Not now anyway. Maybe, after I've slurped a couple more pints of liquid courage. Maybe, if I could get her attention again. Maybe... But for the time being, I just ordered a beer and made the rounds saying "hi" to my friends and acquaintances.

I ended up sitting with Linda and Gary, an older married couple. They were pretty cool. I just chilled with my beer, listened to the music (which was of the slower tempo, not-ready-to-light-the-dance floor variety), and occasionally stole glances at the pale beauty sitting at the bar across from me, back turned. I hadn't even finished my first beer when her friend suddenly got up, calmly grabbed her purse, and left the bar. I was a little surprised. Surely she was just going to the car to grab something, right? She'd be right back.

I downed the rest of my beer and headed back up to the bar. Maybe I could make eye contact again. Maybe I'd even figure out if her friend was coming back. I stood at the end of the bar and casually stared in her direction, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed very composed, but a little nervous too. The expression on her face was very... business-like. Wow, I maybe she WAS alone. Just then she glanced up and caught my eye again. She lingered this time, for a half second, maybe even a whole second. It was just long enough for me to start getting scared wondering who would break contact first. Her lip starts to curl. She was going to smile at me! And then HE slid in and cut off her view from me.

Cock block! Well, I didn't have any claim, but still... she was going to smile at me! Grrr... Instead she turned her head up and fired off the half-cocked smile at him. Great. I didn't even see him come in. I took a quick look around and realized that the bar was starting to fill up. He must've been a recent arrival. What a classic douche: over 6 foot tall, pink shirt with a popped collar, and a white baseball cap cocked to the side in that schmucky I'm-too-cool-to-wear-clothes-normally fashion. He propped himself up on the bar, scooted right into her personal space, leaned in, and started talking into her ear. I hated him already.

I tried to watch her reaction to him. She seemed mildly (or was it politely?) interested in him. He bought her a drink. It looked like a cranberry and vodka. She daintily sipped it through the two coffee straws parked in the ice. Alas... another fine specimen lost to douchebaggery. I ordered another beer and headed back to my table. By this time, the lights had been turned a little lower, the disco ball was lit up, and the dance music began cranking through the speakers. I really did think that Kanye West Gold Digger song was pretty cool – the first twenty times I heard it.

Linda and Gary got up a couple times to dance. It was always hilarious to see an older couple shaking it to hip hop and modern pop songs. Meanwhile, I kept tracking back to my prized eye-candy for the evening. She was still sitting at the bar. Her friend never came back. The douche was still hanging around too. Clearly, he was trying to monopolize her attention. She seemed polite, but I couldn't really tell if she was enjoying herself or not. It looked like she was still nursing the first drink he bought her.

As was usually the case, the more beer I drank, the faster I drank it. Needing another refill, I sauntered up to the bar. This time I boldly decided to park myself right next to her. As I looked around, I realized that the bar was getting pretty full. The bartender was literally running back and forth behind the bar to fill orders. Okay, it was more like a half-assed jog, but you get my point. Her back was still turned to me because the douche was demanding her attention, carrying on about something – probably the size of the stereo in his rice burner. So I just patiently waited for my turn to order, trying to look cool.

The bartender caught my eye and I raised my empty glass to indicate I wanted another beer. He starts walking over towards the tap when the douche flags him down with some other order. Damn! I got bartender-blocked too! Before I could mope to myself, I realized my luck had just turned. With the frat-boy's attention set on the bartender, the pale beauty I'd been admiring all night finally turned around and noticed me standing there. Those big bright green eyes sized me up and in a heartbeat she fired off that smile again. She'd been saving it!

"Hi," she said sweetly.

"Um, hi," I responded in my best oh-yeah-I'm-cool manner. With her eyes on me, I looked over her shoulder at Pepto-Biff-Tannen and did my best impression of him trying to lean-swagger so hard against the bar while pantomiming the turn of an imaginary cap on my head.. She let out a little giggle and I smiled back, genuinely this time. Taking it further, I hammed it up pretending to flip up a non-existent collar while giving her the wankster "what's up" shrug of my head. She got her hand up to her face just in time to snort as sudden convulsions of silent laughter bounced her body up and down.

She locked eyes with me and then turned her head to take a knowing stare at Yacht-club-dropout who was still oblivious to our impromptu mockery. Her eyes flashed and that smile came firing out again. It was clear a mischievous thought had come to her mind. She pulled the straws out of her drink, gulped the rest of it, and set the glass down on the counter.

"Do you want to dance?" she asked me, looking me straight in the eye almost as if it were a command instead of an entreaty.

I was shocked. Really? She wanted to dance with me? What I really couldn't believe was that the next thought to enter my mind was, 'but I haven't gotten my beer yet.' Like waiting even another second for Preppy-Billy-Zabka to turn back around was advisable. Fortunately, I come to my senses quickly.

"Sure," I replied with an air of faux nonchalance, setting my empty mug down.

I took her hand and lead her out onto the dance floor. Lost Without U by Robin Thicke was playing. Perfect. As we get onto the dance floor, I realized how tall she was. I'm 5'10, and with those heels, she was just a bit taller than me. She smiled and wrapped her arms around my neck, content to dance close to me. I put my hands on the small of her back and leaned in to smell her hair. Mmm... very floral, perhaps a hint of vanilla. I breathed it in deeply, feeling it stir jittery butterflies in my core. One of her hands slid down my back as she stepped in a bit closer. A trail of goose bumps burrowed its way down my arm.

After about a minute of this pure bliss, she leaned back a bit and smiled, "Sorry about dragging you out here like that. I really needed to get away from that guy."

Yeah, it was a REAL inconvenience to have to dance closely with such an attractive woman. "Sure, no problem," I replied casually.

Reminded of the alpha-jock-archetype, I glanced back over at the bar to see him leaning back watching us, clearly fuming. "Yeah, your man-friend back there doesn't look too happy."

She tilted her head back a bit and rolled her eyes, "Ughh," before stepping back in to dance close again.

We dance for a few moments more. As I watch her expressions, it was clear was scheming about something. Then, as if an epiphany struck, her eyes lit up and she smiled that big, deadly smile at me, "Hey, can I ask you a favor?"

Anything. ANYTHING! I'll do anything for you.

"What?" I ask.

"Would you be my boyfriend?"

Huh?

"Your boyfriend? Wow, you move fast," I replied almost hoping she really did move that fast.

"No no no silly... You know..." she made air-quotes with her hands in front of my face before wrapping them back around my neck, "a 'boyfriend'. So I don't have to put up with creeps like that guy back there."

Oh... a pretend boyfriend. Got it.

"Oh I see what you mean," I replied pausing, only not to seem too eager, "Sure, I can do that."

I'm all smiles now. Of COURSE I can do that. When the song ended, I lead her back to my table and we sat down with Gary and Linda. I politely flagged down the waitress and ordered the next round of beers and cranberry-vodka.

We talked. I learned that her name was Brandy and recited 'Brandy Brandy Brandy!' a thousand times silently in my head to lock it in. I also learned that she was a receptionist at a local business that sells parts for industrial manufacturing or something like that. She revealed that her friend had to leave because she worked early the next day. Brandy was going to leave too, but it'd been so long since she's been out that she decided to stay. She leaned over and told me she almost regretted the decision because of the pink-narcissus. It turned out that her polite attitude towards him was just that: being polite to some random creepy guy.

I started rattling off some of my euphemisms for guys like him and she snorts again in laughter. "Ha ha!" she giggles, putting her hand on my leg, "Pepto-Biff-Tannen! That's hilarious! He kept going on and on about all the offroading he does, blah blah blah."

I also learned that Brandy was no slouch in the drinking department. It took her nearly an hour to finish her first cranberry and vodka. It only took her another hour to finish the next three. With each drink she became more open and vibrant. She laughed more often. She touched me more often. I didn't know if she was simply maintaining the ruse of us as a couple for onlookers, or if that's simply how she was. Mr-Overcompensates was still prowling around the bar. He'd moved to hitting on other women, but he was still keeping an eye on us.

And then Sexyback came on over the speakers and she DRAGGED me out onto the dance floor. Immediately, Brandy turned around, backed up her tush and started repeatedly slapping it against my pelvis while lifting her hair with both hands and letting it fall onto her shoulders. She was having a great time. More importantly, she was having a great time with ME!

At this point, I just tried to stand there and look cool, maybe swaying a bit to the beat. There was an audience of other men watching her, lust in their eyes. Other couples were on the dance floor, but the spotlight might as well have been on Brandy.

She turned around, placed her hands on my sides and went into a full squat. Perching on those heels with her legs fully folded, she parked her face right in front of my crotch. Now I had sprung wood the moment her rear had slammed into me the first time. It couldn't be helped. I'm sure she knew. How could she not? And now she was taking a good look at her handy work. On her way back up, she nudged my belly with her head, waving her hair all around. I looked down to see a lustful, pouty, open-mouthed look dancing on her face.

It was a very sexy routine. I couldn't tell if she'd practiced it before. Her technique wasn't flawless, but her enthusiasm was excellent. I put my arms around her and pulled her in close for some more intimate dancing. I ran my hand up her neck through her hair and then wrapped it around her head, massaging the lobe of her ear with my thumb. I wrapped my other arm around her and held her close. Our hips worked frantically, trying to grind the beat into each other. My manhood was at full attention and lasciviously pressing itself into her belly. She had to know it was there and seemed to relish focusing her rhythmic bodily contact at that point.

We ground our way lustily through the next song as well. Sometimes we changed position, but we were always rubbing hips. It was like we were having sex... with our clothes on... with an audience. Thanks to Brandy's provocative gyrations, I had a few moments where I wondered if I could 'contain' the excitement boiling in my pants. The dancing was hard work too. Pretty soon we had both built up a steady moisture and were wiping sheen from our brows. She looked much sexier doing so than I did.

When the song ended, we got off the dance floor and she planted a long wet kiss on my cheek. Then she laughed and said, "That was fun."

The musk of her glow had combined well with the scent of her perfume. She smelled intoxicating. It was like she'd been switched on. I imagined that she would smell equally great after making love. Hell, we'd just practically made love in all but the penetration and climax.

As I lead her back to our table, I couldn't help it. I had to blurt it out, "I like you. You're fun."

My sentiment came out completely childish, but she just smiled back and said, "I like you too!"

And so the night went on. She laughed at my corny jokes and when a good song came on, she dragged me back out onto the dance floor for another workout. When the DJ called last-call for alcohol, she was clearly disappointed, "Oh... So soon? But I'm not ready to go home yet!"

As luck would have it, I knew of an after-party that a couple of the bar-regulars held routinely. I was a little leery of suggesting it to her as I knew we would be greatly outnumbered by other guys, but it didn't matter. As soon as I mentioned it she jumped at the idea, "Let's go! Can you drive?"

So we decided to go. I could tell upon arrival that Brandy was not impressed. The house had a very run-down frat feeling to it. She stayed close to my side as we walked into the shabby living room and I exchanged greetings with a few guys I knew. Then we grabbed a couple cans of Icehouse beer (yum-yum! – NOT) and parked it on one of the beat-up couches. She sat on my lap and wrapped an arm around my neck. Based on her trepidation, I wasn't sure if she was really that into me, or just leery of EVERYONE else at the house. There was dance music playing and a few of the girls who showed up were dancing/stumbling around in the living room. Brandy seemed content to stay seated on my lap, rocking a bit to the beat. Of course, her proximity and steady rocking motion guaranteed my perpetual hard-on would last, frustrated to the early morning hours. There was no way she couldn't have noticed, but she never said anything. Instead, she just continued smiling and nuzzling her butt into my lap.

The upbeat energy of dancing and drinking at the club had not carried over successfully to the afterparty and before long, I could see the late hour and the alcohol taking its toll on Brandy. She'd curled her legs up and was resting her head on my shoulders. As much as I enjoyed the cuddle and stroking her long dark hair, my concern for her wellbeing eventually took over.

"Had enough fun for tonight?" I inquire, brushing a strand of hair away from her pretty face.

It wasn't meant to be a loaded question, but I was almost hoping she would say 'Not yet! I'm saving the best for last!' or something to that effect. Instead, she just nods her head and mumbles out an "Mmm hmm."

"Ok," I whispered close into her ear. "Is it okay if we leave your car at the bar for tonight?"

"No car. Took a cab."

"Oh, okay. Well I can drive you home if you want. Where do you live?"

"Aw... can't we go to your house?" she purred, running her finger down my chest.

Suddenly, I had gone from 'boyfriend' to BOYFRIEND. I feel a little guilty because I know she'd had too much to drink, but how can I refuse an offer like that?

She seemed to come alive suddenly and stood up off the couch reaching her hand out to me. Then she spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, "Come on loverboy! Take me home!" which drew immediate ogling "Oooooohhh's" from everyone in the vicinity. A couple of my friends gave me the whistle-wink-thumbs-up routine, knowing that for me to leave the party with a pretty woman on my arm was a rare thing indeed.

So I grabbed her jacket off the couch and hurried her out of the house to a cacophony of catcalls. She giggled the whole way. Once we were in the car, she turned to me, leaned over, and planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

"I had soooo much fun tonight! Thanks!"

"You're welcome," I replied warmly. "I had fun too."

Then her mood quickly turned sad. "I have a confession to make though," she frowned.

Uh oh, here it came. "What's that?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and sighed loudly, "I have a boyfriend."

All I could think was, 'What the fuck?'

"You mean other than your current 'boyfriend'?" I ask, referring to myself.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. ...I do. He doesn't like to go out," she sighs again, "I had a great time though."

Me too. I was certainly disappointed, but compared to any other Friday night in my life, this was still a top-tier evening. So I sucked it up and tried to make the best of it.

"Oh... so do you want me to just drive you home then?"

"Um well, he thinks I'm at my girlfriends tonight... Would you mind if I stayed with you?"

"Um..." I stuttered, not sure what to think.

"I'm sorry if I'm putting you out."

"No, it's okay. I don't mind," I replied, trying to hide my confusion. Why had she told me she had a boyfriend and then asked to stay over? Was this her way of politely backing out of any further intimacy?

"Okay, okay... but NOTHING's going to happen," she said while wagging her finger in a no-no pattern, "You understand that right?"

Sure I understood. I had a universal signal I briefly pondered giving her replete with a nice boot out the car door. 'Think about that while you're walking home!' But I couldn't do that. I was a nice guy, and up until this point, I'd had a really fun evening. So I just mentally prepared for the inevitable frustrating end to our evening and replied as politely as I could.

"Yeah, sure. I even have a spare bedroom."

"You do? Perfect! Thank you so much! You're so nice to me..."

Nice? Uh oh. Friend Zone.

The drive home was quiet. She cuddled up and turned away from me in her seat and appeared to be asleep. When we arrived at my house, I had to open the door and help her out of the car.

With her arm around my shoulder and my arm around her waist, I helped her inside and up the stairs. Despite the recent turn of events, I still got goosebumps from feeling her pressed against me and smelling her hair.

"You have a nice... house," she mumbled.

"Thanks," I said as we crested the stairs.

I got her into the spare bedroom where my mother would stay when she came to town. I hadn't washed the sheets yet from Mom's last visit, but at least the bed was made (thanks Mom). I flicked on the light and showed Brandy in.

She looked around and smiled, "This will do nicely."

With that, she shuffled over to the bed, sat down and began undoing the straps of her high heels. I stood in the doorway, ready to offer assistance if she needed it. She didn't. A moment later her shoes were off and she stood up. For the first time tonight, she was shorter than me.

Then she looked at me, smiled, and reached down to grab the hem of her dress. In one quick motion she flipped it up over her hips revealing a lacy blue thong beneath. It was happening so quickly, I didn't even think to turn away. A couple of wiggles later, she had the entire dress up over her head, exposing a cute lacy blue bra lifting up her small, pert breasts. The dress fell to the floor and she immediately set about unfastening her bra. It fell away easily as well.

There Brandy stood before me wearing only a tiny thong. Her demeanor suggested that being nearly naked before me was perfectly normal. She made a big show of stretching as she lifted her arms over her head and yawned, her breasts rising and falling before me. Then winked at me, turned around, wiggled her tush, and began peeling back the covers on my bed.

Then the show was over as quickly as it had begun. She climbed into the bed, pulled up the covers tight, and let out a long sigh.

"Can you turn out the lights?"

"Okay, um... goodnight then."

"Night night!"

Bewildered, I turned off the light, closed the door, and shuffled off to my own bedroom. It was 4 am by this time, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. Instead, I just laid in bed thinking to myself over and over, 'What the hell? There is a beautiful, nearly-naked woman in my own house yet I'm sleeping alone. What the hell? We danced. We hugged. I smelled her perfume. I played with her hair. She flirted with me the WHOLE time, yet here I am still sleeping alone. WHAT THE HELL?'

My thoughts wandered to her innocent little strip tease, the image of her lithe, fabulous body was burned into my brain. I imagined that instead of turning me away, she had continued to tease me. After undressing, she would lay back on the bed and begin rubbing herself through her panties while tweaking a nipple with her free hand.

"I had so much fun tonight," she would say. "Dancing all night, holding you close. Rubbing up against your hard cock..."

Then I would go to the side of the bed, sit on the edge, and watch her continue to rub herself and talk dirty to me...

"Yes, I know I made you hard... and I liked it. I kept you hard all night, rubbing my ass against you on the dance floor... Sitting on your lap and wiggling against your dick. I could tell it was big too. I liked that."

I would say nothing, instead continuing to watch her hand rub circles on the front of her panties. Maybe I would put a hand on her leg and gently pet her thigh...

"I've been wondering all night how your cock would feel in my pussy. Rubbing and dancing and holding you close... It's made me so wet. Can you see it?"

She would then lift her hand away from her mound, grabbing the top of her thong and pulling it tight against her sex. It was quite evident that her pussy was engorged, soaking through the front of her panties...

My lewd thoughts of Brandy had finally become more than I could stand. I had my hand down in my boxers, gently stroking myself as I fantasized about what would happen next. I was getting pretty into it when I heard a knock at my bedroom door. Brandy's almost child-like voice called out my name tentatively.

Embarrassed, I whipped my hand back out of my boxers and rolled over onto my belly. Like modesty mattered at this point.

"Yes?" I replied.

The door opened slightly, and through the shadows I could make out her sticking her head in.

"It's really cold in there."

Then I remembered that I had closed the vents in the ceiling of the spare bedroom to save on heating costs. "Oh, right... I'm sorry. The vents are closed. I can open them for you." I started to get out of bed but then hesitated when I realized she'd see my tented, wet-spot appointed boxers.

Perhaps she misread my hesitation, but she saved me. "No, that's okay," she said, slipping inside the doorway with her arms folded across her naked chest. "I was actually... I was wondering if I could maybe stay with you?"

A thousand questions ran through my head, but I only needed one answer, "Um, sure."

I saw her figure hurriedly approach in the moonlight as I pulled the covers aside and made room. She climbed in quickly and snuggled up against me. Eager to touch her again, I was surprised by how cold her skin was.

"Brrr..." she shivered.

I wrapped my arms around her and we settled into a spooning position. Once again, her butt was pressed into my crotch. A little chagrined, I wasn't sure what to do or think next. Do I just try to fall asleep with this gorgeous woman in my arms? Do I make a move? Would I be taking advantage of her? What the hell?

"Hmmm..." she purred, "You're warm."

And with that, she went still. Soon, her breathing becomes the measured in and out of a woman comfortably asleep.

I laid still with her in my arms for as long as I could. Though it was probably only minutes, it felt like I had held myself politely still for hours. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. I slowly began to run my hand down her thigh, lingering on her butt just long enough to caress it and then back down again.

I did this for about two minutes before she sighed and rolled forward onto her tummy. My hand froze, but her breathing stayed calm and measured. So my hand began wandering again, down her thigh and then up over her cute little butt to caress her back. I continued tentatively exploring Brandy's body, savoring the feel of her smooth naked skin.

I heard what I would have described as a contented mumble as I slid my hand back down her back. Her butt wiggled slightly and her legs spread apart. Her skin had quickly gone from cold to warm.

Emboldened, I took extra time caressing her butt on the next pass. I even went so far as to grab a handful and squeeze gently.

I was just about to move on to caressing her thigh when her hand snaked out and slapped mine.

'Uh oh,' I think to myself, 'I'm in trouble now.'

But instead of admonishing me further, her hand moved off of mine and down between the fabric of her panties and the fleshy crevasse of her butt. Grabbing a bunch of material, she yanked her thong upwards, pushing the lips of her sex aside as her wet gusset slid between.

She let out a contented sigh as I watched her, frozen with nervous excitement. After a brief tug, her hand let go, went limp again, and then slowly retreated back under her pillow. I was so surprised I didn't move, unsure of what had just happened. Was that deliberate or was she acting out in her sleep?

I slowly moved the covers aside and looked at her in the moonlight. I could barely make out her lips peeking out of either side of her stretched thong.

I was so entranced by the sight of her sex in the pale light, I simply sat there and stared at it. Moments passed quietly as I gazed upon her, transfixed. As if she had become impatient, her butt started to wiggle again. Snapping back into the moment, I took her gesture as an invitation. I reached my hand back down to caress her butt. My touch was met with a muted sigh of contentment.

Encouraged, I moved from slowly from rubbing her cheeks to slipping my fingers down under her thong, just as she had moments before. This elicited another contented sigh as my fingers immediately felt her wetness. I used my pointer finger to peel aside her thong while my middle finger caressed her sex.

I felt her hips shift as she pressed subtly back against my hand. What sort of game was this we were playing? Was she really asleep and reacting as if in a dream, or was she merely pretending to be asleep as part of some odd ploy to avoid responsibility for whatever was going to happen next? Either way, her body very much wanted me to continue. As I slipped my hand further down into her crotch, I used my fingers to spread her sex. It opened easily: wet, warm, and inviting.

Holding her thong aside with my thumb, I began running my two fingers up and down her labia. She continued subtly gyrating her hips and moaning softly into the pillow as I stroked her pussy and slipped a finger inside. Keeping my right hand working on her sex, I used my free hand to prop myself up onto my knees and straddled myself over her.

My hardon had never subsided, but my need felt more urgent now than it had all night. I fished out my erect penis from the slit in my boxers and began lazily stroking myself as I continued to administer to her wet, increasingly needy crevasse with my now sopping fingers.

I was incredibly turned on by our "unconscious" role play. I wanted to be inside her so badly. Would she allow the game to go that far? Was it what she wanted? At this point, what could it hurt to try and find out? I gently slid my fingers away from her sex, painting a wet trail on her bare as cheeks.

I paused a moment to see what she would do when I stopped playing with her pussy. For a few moments: nothing. Then I heard a muffled whimper as her ass wiggled again. She wanted more.

I sat up a bit more so I could work my boxers over my hips, springing free my engorged prick. I then carefully worked my underwear down past my knees and off. Brandi continued to whine and wiggle her tush almost as if she knew what I was about to do and couldn't wait.

I grabbed my cock and stroked it a couple more times as I squatted back down onto the back of her thighs. I aimed myself at her exposed sex and rested my head just above the entrance to her vagina.

She wiggled her butt again, swirling my cockhead around in her juices. I worked my hips with her gyrations to prevent her from slipping inside her. The thought of teasing her now seemed like a mild form of justice for the way she'd teased me all night. More than that though, I really needed to know for sure that she wanted me inside her. I needed to know I wasn't about to take advantage of a passed out young woman who only seemed to be enjoying my ministrations.

"Tell me you want it," I instructed calmly. "Tell me you want me to fuck you right now."

Silence. Her hips continued to jiggle, coaxing me on. I continued resisting, pulling back if her moist lips got too close to drawing me in.

"Say it...," I commanded now.

This time, her hips stopped moving. There was a long pause...

"Mmmm... Fuck me baby...," she relented in a passionate whisper.

That was all I needed. I relaxed my hips and slid forward slightly. As I did so, my dick finally breached the divide between teasing and fucking as my cockhead slowly eased its way into her. Brandy's hips didn't move, but I heard her exhale a long, contented sigh.

She felt wonderful. Already sloppy wet from our tease-play, her vagina accepted my manhood with a warm, snug embrace. I carefully eased myself forward, savoring every bit of her depth as I slid myself to the hilt. Aside from her sigh, Brandy was silent and motionless. Her body seemed completely relaxed with nary a tight muscle to be seen or felt. I slid myself back out just as slowly, observing the moist sheen she had deposited on my dick.

I started to steady my pace: slowly in, slowly out. I wanted to take my time enjoying the lewd circumstances of our joining. There she was like a ragdoll, letting me pull aside her thong and fuck her all while acting oblivious to everything that was going on. I continued caressing her butt and pulling on her thong as I slid in and out. Despite my best intentions, I began quickening my pace. Her pussy was coating me with her juices and the sight of her ass crack totally exposed was such a turn on, I couldn't help myself.

Before I knew it, I was fucking her properly; thrusting in and out. Though still relaxed, Brandy's breathing had intensified with my strokes. A slight vocalization escaped her lips each time I drove it home almost as if I was pumping life into her. By now I had given up the pretense of "sneaking sex" without "waking" her. My hands were gripping her butt tightly to steady my rhythm. I was breathing heavily. The whole bed was shaking. The headboard was smacking against the wall.

It felt so good. I knew I would not be able to last much longer. Only now did it dawn on me that, since I wasn't wearing protection of any sort, she might not like it if I came inside her. There was no time to make a reasoned analysis of my options, so I settled on breaking my silence again and giving her warning.

"Oh god baby! I'm going to cum soon..."

That elicited an immediate moan as if the anticipation of me fully "violating" her was going to push her over the edge. Her body curled a bit as she tightened her grip on her pillow.

"Fuck me," she whispered. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..."

I took that as permission to spill my seed inside her and pulled off the throttle a bit. I changed up my quick pumping for longer, deeper thrusts; each one prompting a complimentary "ugh" from Brandy muffled into her pillow. At the precipice of ecstasy, I shoved deep into her one last time, pressing the head of my cock up against her cervix. I tensed my muscles holding off the coming release for as long as I could. A moment later, my orgasm overcame that fickle barrier and exploded ejaculate in deep, forceful bursts against the walls of her sex.

"Ummmm..... cumming!" I warned her, a bit too late.

She was already reacting to the sensation of throbbing head releasing semen. Her hips began bucking more wildly than ever before, trying to milk the last bits of pleasure from my cock.

"Oh God yes! Adam! Yesssss!" she screamed as if waking from her self-imposed stupor.

Adam? My name's not Adam.

I refused to ruin the moment though. Her body started shuddering. I held her quivering ass tight, keeping myself buried deep in her as she rode out wave after wave of orgasm. Eventually the bucking of her hips subsided and her head rolled to the side. No longer muffled by the pillow, she took a deep breath and let out a long contented sigh.

"Mmmmmm...."

Her eyes were still closed, but I could see the crease of a slight smile on her face. Enjoying the moment, I caressed her body once more. I massaged her butt, rubbed my hands up and down her back, and then down the sides of her thighs. Brandy's only response was goosepimples. Then I slowly drew myself out. She shuddered one last time as the tip of my head left her sex and then she went still again.

Exhausted, I fell back on the bed beside her. I wasn't sure what had just happened, but damn it sure felt great. I just hoped I had read her signals properly. The grin plastered on her face suggested that I had. I wasn't sure who Adam was though. Did she think my name was "Adam"? Was that her boyfriend's name? The questions swirled in my mind for only a moment. As the euphoria of sexual release began to wear off, sleep quickly claimed me.

I woke up the next morning and found her gone from the bed. "Oh crap," I thought to myself, remembering back to the deeds of last night. Had I done something wrong? Where had she gone?

Just then, I heard the toilet flush in my bathroom and I saw her come out. She was now fully dressed and seemed to be in a giddy mood. In her hand, I spied what could only be the wadded, soiled material of her thong.

"Hey there sleepy-head!" she greeted me, sitting on the edge of the bed politely keeping the hand holding her thong out of sight.

"Hey," I reply as nonchalantly as possible.

"Thanks for letting me stay here last night. I really appreciate it."

"Sure, no problem."

"You know, I had the weirdest dream last night," she intoned sarcastically.

"Oh?" I said, playing along.

"Yeah. I dreamt I was having sex with my boyfriend. He was massaging me, toying with my pussy, and then he fucked me REALLY good from behind."

Adam must be her boyfriend then. "Is that so?"

"Mmm-hmm. It was pretty hot. I'm sorry if I got weird or moaned out loud in the night or anything..."

Not sure how to react to that, I just went with: "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway... I just wanted to check and make sure we're cool right?"

"Of course. Absolutely."

"Good. It must've been a pretty good dream, because I totally soiled my panties."

On cue, she offered up the evidence dangling her thong by the waistline on one finger in front of me. I could see could see the cloudy soiled gusset clearly in front of me. I said nothing.

Brandy continued, "Clearly I can't take these home with me. What would my boyfriend think if he saw these?"

"Uhh..."

"So I'll tell you what. Why don't you keep these," she said tossing her panties in my lap, "and we'll keep whatever happened last night strictly between us, ok?"

Who was I to argue with that?

"Sounds like a plan."

"Good. Now you just rest up and I'll get out of your hair. My cab is waiting downstairs."

She had already called a cab. Great. It was a relief to be so summarily untangled from whatever mischief we'd gotten ourselves into last night, but at the same time I was a bit chagrined to know I would likely never see her again.

"You didn't have to do that. I could've..."

"No, it's better this way," she interrupted. "Thank you so much for everything last night... and I do mean EVERYTHING. I had such a good time..."

I heard two distinct, impatient toots of a car horn outside.

"That's my ride!"

She got up, leaned over, and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. She looked me in the eye and gave me another one of her great smiles. Then she spun around, was out the door, and out of my life.

I looked down at my lap to the ragged blue thong. I picked it up and examined my handiwork. The mess wasn't anything a good washing couldn't cure, but I doubted that was the point. This was a memento to do with and savor however I pleased and a reminder of the crazy party girl who let me fuck her in her "sleep". Of course she had been awake the whole time. These panties were a token to let me know everything was okay.

I lifted them up to my nose and smiled.

#Raven #freckles #one night stand #Fucking #sleeping beauty #sleep sex #Pick up #his perspective #pick up artist

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inneedofsupervision · 8 months

Text

The Big Bad Wolf And The Itsy Bitsy Spider

As you can read above, I've got a prompt. I took the liberation to alter it since I'm not comfortable writing "reader insert" fics, so here you go with some Bucky, Steve and Peter being dorks and bonding over snow I guess?

Summary: It takes some level of boldness to attempt a snowball assassination of Captain America and the former Winter Solider, but someone has to be the one to throw the first snowball and step onto the thin line that divides braveness from recklessness.

(Or, how Peter thought it would be fun to annoy two super soldiers)

Read on Ao3

"On your left!"

"You've got to be kidding me."

Bucky grimaces at Steve's voice penetrating his ear, breaking the peaceful silence. He blinks a straying snowflake out of his eye before glaring at the back of Steve's head. When did the punk catch up to him? He doesn't try to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at his friend speeding up to jog a few meters ahead, shoulders shaking in poorly hidden laughter. Bucky should have shoved Steve out of the cold and locked the door like Sam suggested when the other asked if he wanted to join him on the running track. The snow-covered running track, he might add. Bucky effortlessly catches up to Steve and shoves him, snickering as it causes the other to stumble, clearly unprepared for getting hit in the side by solid vibranium. Steve huffs, quickly collecting himself before starting to level up from his jog to straight-up running, passing Bucky but not without pushing him in retaliation.

Yes, they are very mature for their age.

"I liked you better before the serum. You've become a show-off, Steve!" shouts Bucky after him before he starts falling into a faster pace.

"Someone's gotta keep you in check, Buck," answers Steve, and Bucky frowns at the smug grin the blond's carrying. It is just like back then, Steve acting like a little prick. Not that he wasn't happy he could actually go for a run with his friend without the anxiety of an upcoming asthma attack sitting in the back of his mind. Steve just got a little too overconfident for Bucky's taste.

"Like the little punk he is," mumbles the man as he watches Steve running, probably sporting a grin like usual when he gets to pass Bucky. He played with the thought of running up and shoving the man into the piles of snow lying next to the running track. He decides against it. Being friends with the man for years, Bucky figures it would end up in petty revenge plotting, and he didn't want to spend much more time in the snow than he needed to.

"You're not sleeping, are you, Bucky?" teases Steve, still running in front of him. They are reaching the end of the track when Bucky feels the overwhelming need to throw a snowball at his friend's head. Bucky bends down mid-run and collects a handful of white fluff from the ground, skillfully forming a dense ball. He was acting childish, but damn it, his toes felt like they froze off. Steve deserves at least that for dragging him outside at six in the morning at 24,8 Fahrenheit. Just because he was frozen once doesn't mean he enjoys staying out in the middle of winter in the daytime when the sun decides to grace the horizon. The man straightens up, hand drawn back and ready to smack his little work of art against Steve's back of the head when someone beats him to it.

The ex-assassin's eyebrows shot upwards as he only caught the movement from the corner of his eyes. Before he could call for Steve to watch out, the snow projectile already hit its goal, the force great enough to let the ball crumple into pieces. Bucky grimaces in sympathy as a fair share of snow runs down the blond's neck and into his sweater, probably completing its mission to soak the backside of his shirt with icy water and causing it to stick against his skin in the most annoying way possible.

A thick silence settles onto the running track as Steve's hand slowly reaches upward to get the snow out of his hair and off his skin. Blue eyes cold as ice pin Bucky in place. Bucky finds himself backing away slightly.

"So that's how you like to play, sore loser," says Steve, but the glint in his eyes betrays the soft tone of his voice. Bucky let out a short cough. Not because he was trying to buy some time and avoid answering Steve.

It's not like he was intimidated by that punk or anything.

Bucky inconspicuously glances towards the compound, measuring the distance between himself and the entrance. He drags his eyes back to the blond.

"Steve, I swear that wasn't me."

Steve gives him a pointed look.

"And what's that?" the other asks, nodding towards him. Bucky looks down and draws his eyebrows together as he catches sight of his hand still holding onto the snowball.

Well, that certainly looks misleading.

"I know how this could come off as, but-"

"Good, we are on the same page then, Buck." interrupts Steve.

Bucky swallows as the blond starts pulling his sleeves up and going as far as to crack his knuckles. Oh, that dreaded smile. That smile tells you Steve Rogers wouldn't let go of this. Why did he have to befriend this punk again? If anyone asks, Bucky denies having taken a step back. He tries again to reason with his friend, squinting his eyes as Steve bends down to grab a fistful of snow.

"Steve, I didn't throw that thing."

"And I'm not about to push you face-first into the snow."

Bucky let out a frustrated groan. Steve was already closing the gap between them, and he wasn't close to taking a listen to his reasoning. It leaves Bucky questioning, where did that snowball even come from?

Bucky was too old to wrestle in the snow. Literally. Why did this kind of thing have to happen to him? The man holds his hands up in defense, ready to go and push the other off if he needs to, when another snowball flies at the pair of super-soldiers.

This time, it hits Bucky.

Right in the face.

The explosion of ice transforms into cold wetness trickling down his jaw, chin, and neck before sickering into the fabric of his training shirt as the snow melts instantly on his slightly above-human-average heated skin.

Without a word, he slowly reaches upwards and wipes the snow that has begun to melt out of his eyes. His face turns into a deep scowl as Steve's hearty laughter carries over to him.

"Stop laughing. I swear, I shove this in your face, Steve!"

Bucky narrows his eyes at the blond, still holding onto the snowball and contemplating throwing it in the blond's face but deciding against it. Before that, he has to figure out who would dare to throw a snowball at him. Bucky had to give the silent shooter credit. It took him a few moments to spot him. If it weren't for the slight color difference of the light gray accent on the guy's shoes, he wouldn't have spotted him in his thoroughly white outfit, blending in quite well into a blanket of snow. Successfully creeping up and keeping out of sight from not one but two trained super-soldiers was not an easy feat. Steve is busy chuckling when Bucky slowly puts a finger to his lips, signaling him to be quiet. Steve raises an eyebrow, and Bucky slowly turns his head, jerking it towards their silent visitor. His friend catches on quickly, and Bucky can tell by the minimal widening of Steve's eyes that the latter has spotted the hidden shooter. The two soldiers held a wordless exchange of glances and came to a silent agreement before Steve let the snow fall from his hands.

"Let's go back inside. It's too cold if we're only standing around."

"Sure. Wouldn't want you to turn into Stevie the Snowman."

Steve rolls his eyes before walking up to Bucky, sending him a silent nod.

They start walking, pretending to end their little workout, and leave the running track. Steve's eyes hang on the lump of "snow" lying next to the track as they approach from the side. When the two reached the same high as the uninvited visitor, Bucky's left foot took a side step, shifting as he twisted his hip, repositioning his body weight. In a split second, his metal arm shoots forward, throwing the snowball with all his might at the person lying in the snow. The two men watch with more fascination than surprise how the well-camouflaged figure rolls to the side with a shriek, snow-projectile hitting and leaving a rather impressive hole in the snow pile where the person's head had been a moment before. The previously silent attacker is quick on his feet. His move to the side brought a small distance between him and the soldiers before coming to a halt in an uncannily familiar crouching pose. The person who had successfully kept their identity hidden until now slowly raises their head. Steve's lips twitch upwards on instinct while Bucky narrows his eyes at the sight of brown curls hanging over equally brown eyes that sparkle in a mix of unmistakable mischief and amusement.

"Hey, Steve. Hi Bucky."

Peter has the nerve to give a small cheeky wave in their direction, still crouching and looking not an ounce apologetic. The two adults watch, with slight confusion, how the teen's positive expression changes into a frown, leaving the two adults confused about what could have caused the sudden change in Peter's mood. Bucky watches him slowly straighten from his position on the ground. He wants to roll his eyes as he feels Steve twitching next to him, the worry-wart. He can sense Steve's need to ask the kid what was wrong. Peter surprises them by drawing closer to them, towards Bucky, to be more specific, a frown still present on his young face. Before Bucky can react, Peter stands on his tip-toes and reaches his hand out to carefully peel a crumble of snow out of a stray set of Bucky's dark hair. Brown eyes narrow at the sight of the snow in his hands before they settle on Bucky. The teen tilts his head to the side, almost as if he were confused if it weren't for the minuscule twitch of his lips, giving his poorly hidden amusement away.

"Sorry, you've got some snow there. Steve got you good, huh?"

Bucky's fists clenched at the sound of suppressed laughter from the blond to his right. He elbows Steve in the side before he glances back, only to meet the face of a mischievously grinning Peter Parker. He swears that kid is full of shit. But Bucky will be the last to laugh today after he shoves that kid in the nearest snow pile. He feels a grin tugging on his lips at the panic taking over the teen's features as he strides forward, right into Peter's personal space, ready to grab him.

His plan doesn't work as the teen, in one swift movement, manages to dive under the incoming metal arm that took a swing at him. With ease, the vigilante emerges behind the older man, a winning grin painting his features. But the euphoria of escaping a pissed-off Bucky Barnes lasts only a moment. Bucky grins as the teen lets out a shout of surprise at the pair of very fleshy and muscled arms, almost tackling him to the ground.

The ex-assassin turns around, a taunt for the Spider sitting on his lips, but the words couldn't leave his mouth quick enough before the kid began moving again. Steve didn't know what was coming for him, as from one moment to the next, the Spider-Teen vanished from his vision by jumping up. Peter skillfully escapes the bear hug about to send him to the ground by leaping and pulling his feet up to his chest mid-jump, feet hovering over Steve's head for a moment. Steve grunted in surprise as a foot set down on his shoulder, and he could only glance up, catching a smug grin that the teen had to have learned from none other than Stark himself. Bucky could only watch how his best friend gets abused as the kid's personified springboard, Peter setting a foot down on Steve's shoulder and pushing himself forward to perform a neat somersault over the blond's head. The sheer force of the jump is enough to send Steve tumbling. While Steve takes a dive face-first into the snow, the teen lands with practiced ease on the balls of his feet, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

That little shit.

Peter's smug expression switches into shock-widened eyes and a surprised squeak getting pushed out of the teen as a metal arm slings around the back of his knees before a shoulder crashes into him. Gloved hands flail around before finding hold of the thick textile of Bucky's jacket as Peter tries to push himself off where he got thrown over the man's shoulder. A laugh escapes the teen, the latter involuntarily rendered in watching the world from upside down. Bucky unconsciously grins at the sound before he lets go of Peter's legs. He grabs the teen's jacket with both hands, ready to haul him into the snow. His hands are firmly on the teen's waist, pulling with strength, but, for some unexplainable reason, Bucky couldn't lift the boy. The body on his shoulder wouldn't move an inch, only shifting slightly along with the movement of his jacket. A short moment passes before Bucky tilts his head to get a look at Peter's face, eyes squinting with accusation.

"Are you sticking to me?"

The disgust in Bucky's voice sends Peter into a laughing fit, not having expected the sheer horror in the man's voice. He couldn't even form a coherent sentence from how much he was cackling while hanging over Bucky's shoulder, the latter still glaring at him. It wasn't easy to get a genuine reaction out of Bucky, the ex-assassin carrying a neutral expression most of the time if he wasn't scowling at someone or showing a smirk. The surprised tone of the super-soldier's voice, mixed with a spark of horror and disgust, had caught Peter off guard.

Bucky and Sam always reacted rather strongly at the display of Peter's most spider-like trait. Solely for that reason, he used his ability more than once just out of spite to annoy them. Their reactions are hilarious, and although they tell him to keep the "freakiness down a notch" while putting a hand over their chest in Sam's case and accusing him of trying to give them a heart attack, Peter finds himself not minding the teasing. As the youngest of the group, he often has to live with the jokes thrown his way. If sticking to the ceiling at three a.m. is a way to hand back some of their medicine, Peter gladly let go of the chance to get some sleep. The teen made it his challenge to get the two men used to his abilities, and if that meant he had to freak them out until they grew used to him sticking to stuff, then that's what he calls a win-win on his side.

"You, Peter Parker, aren't as innocent as you pretend to be."

That's what Mr. Stark had told him with an amused tug of his lips as he had to call someone to repair the hole in the living room, a keepsake from Peter's last little prank on Bucky.

Peter is still hanging over Bucky's shoulder, clinging to him with his hands efficiently sticking against the man's clothes. The latter can feel the teen shaking from laughter and shakes his head at the teen's antics with a little grin. "I'll get you off. Just wait, Parker," threatens the man playfully as he gives the body on his shoulder another experimental tuck. As expected, Peter wouldn't budge an inch, shaking his head at Bucky's words. Bucky rolls his eyes, having caught a glance at the large grin plastered over the teen's face. The kid was enjoying this way too much.

"Steve, get your frosty butt up. I need a little help here."

As soon as the words leave his lips, Bucky can feel the body on his shoulder stiffen. The man quickly fastens his grip on the teen. And he did so not too late because just a moment later, the struggle began. Bucky laughs. "What? Now, you don't want to stick close?"

He smirks as he hears Peter groan at his bad joke, the movement halting for a moment before it picks up again. Peter is pushing his hands against Bucky's back, trying to lift himself off. His movement grew more erratic, and Bucky raised an eyebrow. One glance at Steve gives Bucky an idea of why Peter's effort to escape is increasing tenfold. Steve frowns at the pair as he runs a hand through his short golden hair, wiping ice water and snow off. The blond had managed to climb out of the snow but gave off a comedic picture. Captain America covered from top to bottom in white, an unamused expression on his face.

"Do you want to go first, or should I?" asks Bucky Steve, his grin widening as he feels the kid's fingers curl into his jacket, holding on for dear life and probably fearing Steve's revenge. Knowing Steve, the latter would, despite getting kicked into the snow and laughed at, go soft on the teen but said teenager didn't know about that. Steve playfully scowls at Peter, hands on his hips and giving him the disappointed-Captain-America-PSA-look that the kid had probably seen too often during school.

"Hand the Spider over, Buck."

To the untrained eye, Steve looks convincingly pissed off, but Bucky could see past the stern facade. Steve is successfully messing with the kid. Said kid is easily fooled and starts pleading, nervousness dripping from every word, and Bucky notes with amusement that the hold on his jacket grows even tighter. The teen wasn't even realizing that clinging to Bucky wouldn't help him in any way.

"Steve? Come on, that was not that bad, right? You were frozen before. Stuck in a bit of snow is nothing new to you."

Steve wears an incredulous look on his face as he raises an eyebrow at Peter's words. He glances at Bucky, silently asking the man if he misheard or if Peter just added fuel to the fire. Bucky shrugs his shoulders. Peter seemed to realize that his nervous stumbling over words wasn't helping him out of this mess. Bucky has to put some strength into his hold on the teen, throwing Steve an amused grin at the teen wriggling like a worm.

"Whatever you're thinking of, please don't do it. Steve, I'm serious. Steve, no. Stop right there! Don't come closer!"

Despite his words and the evident panic in his voice, some nervous giggles are slipping between the teen's words. Bucky shakes his head at Steve, the latter wearing a stupidly wide grin as he draws closer, clearly amused by Peter's panicked rambling.

"Stay away, Steve!" shouts Peter as the blond reaches out for the squirming teen, ready to fling him into the snow. It's a good thing they are at the compound, far from the eye of the public, because the scene unfolding on the Avenger's training grounds would have drawn various headlines in the news. It was quite a sight, the former Winter Soldier holding an unknown teenage boy captive while Captain America tries prying said teen off of his shoulder.

"You're one sticky punk, aren't you?"

"Language, Bucky."

There is no real bite in Steve's voice, the blond too busy trying to avoid getting hit by a lanky arm that flails around while Peter tries to hold onto Bucky and simultaneously tries to push Steve away. Peter keeps shouting at Steve to leave him alone, threatening to stick to him if he gets too close, all the while laughing. His threats only last for so long before Peter lets out a yelp in surprise. His fingers let go of Bucky's jacket that was now lying on his lap, and he stared at it for a few moments, a puzzled look on his face. Peter slowly lifts his head, sitting on the snow-covered ground, dazed. His eyes fall onto Steve's and Bucky's faces. He swallows as the men smirk while looking down at him. In a blur of motion, Peter throws the jacket at its owner, successfully covering his head with it and earning a colorful curse. He uses the few seconds where Bucky is occupied with taking the jacket out of his face and tries dashing between the two men, choosing the fastest way back to the compound.

The empathize is on trying.

Steve stepped forward, grabbing the teen by the waist before Peter could run off. Peter let out a grunt as he was successfully tackled to the ground by a body twice his weight.

"Let's see how much you like playing in the snow."

Steve grins down at the teen pinned under him who, despite his earlier panic, throws back a challenging look at the super soldier. Steve raises an eyebrow, surprised at the smugness on the teen's face. It was typical for Spiderman to act confident, but he hasn't seen that look much in Peter Parker. It suits the kid.

Steve's eyes widen in surprise as a small hand clamps around his wrists. With one powerful tug, their positions reverse, and the blond finds himself pressed into the ground, one arm pinned above his head. Peter leans over him with a wide grin on his face. Steve notices the teen's free hand has grabbed a good amount of snow, and it doesn't take a genius to guess what the kid was planning to do. The teen opens his mouth, probably to throw some witty remark at him, only to wipe his head to the side so fast it nearly causes Steve to flinch. He catches the widening of Peter's eyes.

"Don't!"

The command hits deaf ears, and before Steve knows what happens, he's not looking at a grinning Peter but at the cloudless sky above. He turns his head towards the noise on his right, and a grin spreads onto his face. Steve watches a ball of limps rolling a few meters with a chuckle. Bucky had successfully tackled Peter off of him, and he and the kid were now fighting for the upper hand. Steve grins at his best friend grumbling about hyperactive teens and Peter trying to shove the man off him, laughing at his complaints. He laughs as Peter lets out a shriek of protest when the older man starts to put snow into the opening of his jacket.

"Stohohop, it's cold!"

"That's the point, punk."

Peter trashes under Bucky, who had made it to his challenge to shove as much snow as possible under the teen's clothes. Peter tries prying the icy fingers of his skin, laughing but shuddering at the coldness running through his body. Steve walks over, amused by his friend playing around like a kindergartener, watching the spectacle for a few minutes. In the beginning, Peter had been fiercely fighting back, but after some time, Steve noticed the teen growing tired. If it were anyone else, Steve wouldn't have wondered about giving up against the strength of a playful super-solider, but this was Peter. Spiderman doesn't grow tired this easily.

"Peter, are you alright?"

Steve's words cause Bucky to stop wrestling with the kid. He also had noticed the teen's movements become sluggish, but Peter hadn't earnestly told him to stop, and the older man hadn't put much thought into it. Now that he hovers over the teen, not holding him down anymore, he notices the complexion of the kid's face as unusually pale. Brown eyes glance up at them, a sheepish grin on the teen's face, and if Steve didn't know better, he would say the teen looks almost embarrassed.

"Too cold. Can't thermoregulate."

At Peter's words, Bucky turns his head at Steve, raising an eyebrow in silent question, hoping his friend knew what the teen was talking about. Steve wears a frown on his face, telling Bucky without words that his friend feels as much out of depth as he does with the short explanation. Peter must have caught their troubled expression as he tiredly tugged on Bucky's sleeve, gaining his attention.

"It's because of the spider DNA. I cannot regulate my temperature. My body struggles to create body heat like yours does. If it gets too cold-"

"Your body grows weak because it needs a certain temperature to function," finishes Steve Peter's sentence while looking down at the teen, the latter looking out of it but still nods at him with a small smile. Steve shakes his head at the teen, and Bucky doesn't feel like smiling at all, scowl deepening at the sight of a bluish hue on the boy's lips.

"Damn it, Peter, why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Before the teen could justify his lack of explanation, he finds himself bundled up in a jacket three sizes too big, the initials S.R. adorning the front. Not taking any risks of the teen being out in the cold for much longer, Bucky, despite the weak protests from Peter, throws the boy over his shoulder.

"Don't think we are letting you off the hook that easily," mutters the man under his breath as he carries the teen towards the compound. The automatic doors of the entrance already stand open when Bucky walks in. He kicks his running shoes off mid-step and hurries into the joint room. Despite his grumbling, the older man carefully puts Peter down on the couch. He straightens up, looking down on the freezing teen with a frown. Peter is cold, but the lack of shivering was a bit off-putting, giving little clue about what stage of hypothermia they are dealing with.

The absence of shivering must have to do something with being unable to thermoregulate. Bucky had to ask Banner about that, not trusting the kid to give him all the information.

"Friday, can you tell us Peter's body temperature?"

"Mr. Parker's body temperature currently lays around 94,64 °F. I recommend taking measurements to get the temperature up. It is beyond his average. A long-term drop in body temperature could cause health concerns, Mr. Rogers."

"Thank you, Friday."

Steve turns towards Bucky, who controls the urge to roll his eyes at the kicked-puppy stare his friend is wearing. "He'll be fine, Steve. Go search for a blanket and make some tea or something. I'll take care of him."

Steve sends him a small smile. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky shakes his head when his friend walks out of the room, not liking the guilty-ridden expression painted on the blond's face. Knowing Steve blames himself for not noticing something was up sooner was typical of the man. It made Bucky want to beat some sense into his best friend. He faces Peter again, the latter, at least looking relatively more aware of his surroundings thanks to Friday having raised the room temperature. He watches the teen fumble with the zipper of his jacket, a frown drawn on his youthful face as his fingers wouldn't work how he wanted them to. Peter stares at the metal hand popping up in his vision and pulls down the zipper he struggled skillfully. His jacket gets peeled off of him the next moment before a gruff voice causes him to lift his head.

"Arms up, punk."

"Hmm?"

Brown eyes throw him a confused look, and although Bucky would have teased the teen for being not quick to take on, he swallows the comment. He had time to make fun of the kid after he got rid of the blue on his lips.

"You need to put on dry clothes. If you get sick, Stark will throw a fit."

That coaxes a reaction out of the teen.

"Not keen on Mr. Stark threatening to take your arm off?" asks Peter with a little smirk.

Oh. Bucky grins. Seems like the teen isn't that out of it after all. He flicks Peter's forehead, earning a glare.

"I'll hear that every day. His threats don't work on me. Now, arms up."

Thankfully, Peter wore snow pants, which are relatively easy to pull off the teen. The thick sweatpants he wore under his outdoor clothes were dry, but Bucky couldn't say the same about the kid's socks and shirt. The gray shirt is soaked, sticking to Peter's skin all around. Thankfully, Steve wasn't here to see this, or Bucky would get an earful again. The soldier watches as Peter tugs at the front of his shirt, grimacing at the feeling of the wet fabric pulling off his skin, only to stick back when he lets it drop.

Maybe he went a little overboard with the snow. With a sigh, he bends over and gets a hold of the end of the wet shirt. Peter made a noise of protest as Bucky pulled the undesirable article of clothing over his head, leaving him in nothing but his pants, but at least he was left with only dry clothes on his body. Bucky scans the room in search of the blankets he had seen other members of the compound use before the voice in the ceiling spoke to him again.

"If I am allowed to interfere, Mr. Stark has arranged a range of special clothing for Mr. Parker in cases of a temperature drop."

"So Stark is aware of this problem of yours," says Bucky, glancing at the teen. Peter caught him looking and nodded.

"It wasn't fun when he found out. Mr. Stark caught on mid-February with winter almost over." The kid's expression is solemn as he talks. Bucky almost reaches out to ruffle his hair, amused by the seriousness with which Peter was telling him this as if it had been one of the worst days of his life and not his mentor being rightfully concerned. Instead, he gave a little shake of his head, a corner of his lips tugged upwards while walking over to a closet. He hears some shuffling behind him as he pulls out a set of blankets, almost throwing them at the kid in frustration as he sees the teen has stood up.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Peter sighs as he gets pushed back to sit on the couch with Bucky standing before him, sternly looking down on him. A person shouldn't be able to look as intimidating with an armful of baby blue blankets.

"I was about to get the shirt Friday told you about."

"You will sit here and wait while I get that shirt. It's in your closet?"

Peter nods while pulling the blanket around his shoulders but not without rolling his eyes, letting out a small yelp as Bucky flicks a finger against his forehead. The teen glares up at him, but Bucky merely raises an eyebrow at him, a silent dare. Bucky gives him one last glance, checking that the teen is bundled up tightly and behaving, not wandering around on his own before he retreats. With Stark's AI speaking to him and giving directions, it is relatively easy to find the clothes despite the chaos in Peter's room.

"This looks pretty tight."

The man eyes the almost plain-looking textile in his hand. Bucky wasn't sure what he had expected, but knowing Stark, he thought whatever this was, it to be more eccentric as he took in the dark gray clothing. Maybe the billionaire held back on his desire for extravagance to accommodate the young vigilante's preference for simplicity. He had noticed that aside from throwing in some colors and graphic shirts, the teen likes to dress easy on the eye.

"It is, but it does a good job. Mr. Stark made several of these. They are great. Maybe you could ask him to make some for you and Steve too?"

Bucky refrains from telling the kid that he and Stark weren't on the level for him to ask the kid's mentor any favors, although the hopeful sparkle in the kid's eyes tells him that Peter thought about that matter differently. Shrugging his shoulders, he skilfully avoids giving him an answer. The man stretches the sleeves to form an opening and holds it out for Peter.

Peter tilts his head to the side, his eyes wandering up to meet Buckys, giving him a look before settling back onto the clothing held out for him, confusion evident on his face. Feeling merciful, Bucky takes Peter's wrist. "You do have to put this on to work, you know?" teases the man while pulling the teen's hand through the sleeve, noticing with a smirk how a hue of pink spread over the teen's ears. Maybe he should start acting more like this if it's this easy to make the kid sputter around in embarrassment. Oh, he has to tell Sam about this. The kid tugs at his wrist, checks growing red as Bucky tries to pull his other hand through the second sleeve. When he was about to pull the shirt over Peter's head, the teen had enough. He pushes the hands away, sending a frown at the man.

"I can do this on my own!"

Catching the smirk on Bucky's face, it dawns on the teen that the ex-assassin was doing this on purpose. Peter quickly realizes that protesting wouldn't work on the man. Bucky had the mission to embarrass him, but Peter wouldn't let that happen. He was Spiderman, for crying out loud. Peter was perfectly capable of dressing alone. Getting cold slowed the process down, he had to admit. But still, Peter's sixteen years old.

He knows how to wear a shirt. Not planning to play along with Bucky, the now slightly frustrated teen leaned back into the couch and slid down to avoid the hands pulling further on the long sleeve. He uses the new-won distance to roll to the right, trying to make a run for it.

"Get back here, punk," scolds Bucky, but the playful twinkle in his eyes betrays the stern tone of his voice.

"I won't let you mess with me."

It would have sounded more convincing if Peter wasn't kneeling at the end of the couch, both arms stuck into the shirt but glaring instead of pulling it over his head, wearily observing what the man a few feet away from him was planning to do. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, amused.

"Doesn't look like you do a good job."

Peter squints at the words.

"If I pull this over my head, are you leaving me alone?"

Humoring the kid, Bucky acts thoughtful before grinning a shit-eating grin that Peter has seen too often.

"Why should I do that? I've got to make sure you are wearing it correctly. I cannot trust you to keep yourself warm."

The teen deflates at the words, almost sounding petulant now.

"I would have told you and Steve! Sooner or later..."

When the man raises a single eyebrow, the teen huffs in frustration. But he is not making a move that shows he agrees to let Bucky help him. The tension hangs thickly over the room as the two hold a stare-off. Both are waiting for the other to make the first move, Bucky watching the teen with rapt eyes while Peter's muscles are bulging under his sweatpants, ready to jump over the couch at any second. Bucky was the first to move. Without looking, his arm shots to the side, grabbing a hold of a stray pillow and throwing it at the teen while rushing forward. Thanks to the room's raised temperature, Peter wasn't as sluggish as before but still nowhere near his usual speed. His spidey sense prevents him from being hit in the head, raising his arms along with the thermo-shirt around his wrists to block the flying pillow. Peter's brows draw together in confusion as his spider sense still acts up, even after keeping the pillow from colliding with his face.

"Holy-"

The rest of his sentence gets lost in a high-pitched squeak as a metal arm wraps around his middle, tackling him successfully into the couch. Dark strands fall onto Bucky's face, the man grinning down at the teen who glares up from his position under him. It's a little insulting how easily he got him pinned on his back, straddling him by sitting on his tights and throwing him a winning grin that irks Peter just by looking at it.

"Get off," whines the teen and is about to push at Bucky's chest to shove him off, but the older of the two catches the shirt hanging between Peter's wrists and presses it down, forcing Peter's hands away.

"You're not in the position to make claims, kid."

While forcing the teen into the shirt, Bucky grins, an occasional chuckle leaving his lips at the glares sent his way. By the end of the ordeal, Peter let his head fall back onto the couch in defeat, looking absolutely done with everything. His hair is a tousled mess of brown curls hanging in his eyes, the tips of his ears red again from embarrassment. The teen rolls his eyes at Bucky when the latter asks if he is still feeling cold with a mild dose of sarcasm. The man catches Peter's expression, poking him in the now finally covered stomach. "Don't get sassy, punk," he threatens with a grin promising no good. He is about to poke Peter a second time, for good measure, when his hand gets caught in a firm hold. Peter lifts his head, sending him a glare.

"Don't."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"What? You're ticklish?

When the teen doesn't answer immediately, Bucky pokes him again, this time in the side, eyes trained on Peter's face. Peter's jaw is clenching under the pressure of trying to keep his facial expressions under control, but the unmistakable nervousness creeping on his face is almost too easy to detect. Without batting an eye, Bucky frees his hand out of Peter's hold, ignoring the confusion written all over the teen's face as he places his hand over the teen's middle. He just let it hover there, a few inches over the teen's tummy and not moving, never taking his eyes off the teen's face. Peter glances from the hand up to Bucky's face and back to the hand, eyes widening as he sees a single finger twitch. He observes with the morbid curiosity of someone watching a horror movie how the rest of Bucky's hand stays motionless while one finger moves as if independent of the rest of the body. Peter wasn't sure if it was because of the prosthetic, but somehow Bucky managed to wiggle just one finger, then two, and then three, while the rest stayed static. Under other circumstances, he would be fascinated by this observation. In this instance, it merely serves to freak the hell out of Peter. All of the vibranium fingers are moving now in a manner that only indicates one specific outcome of what happens next, and he is not ready for it.

When the hand starts to descend, he breaks. Before the wiggling finger could close the gap, Peter loses his will to pretend to be tough in front of Bucky.

"Okay, okay, I admit it. I'm ticklish, alright? You can stop now. You don't have to prove anything!"

Bucky merely raises his eyebrows in amusement at the panicked words stumbling out of the teen's mouth, accompanied by a pair of hands gripping his wrist, hindering his hand from moving further down.

"After your stunt from earlier, I'm not sure to believe you. Better check this out myself, just to be sure."

"You don't have to do tha-AHAHA! NOAHAHAH BUHUHUCKY!"

"I'm not convinced, Peter. Does this count as ticklish?"

A grin grows on Bucky's face as he watches the teen under him squirming like a worm on a hook. He had not even touched the teen before nervous giggles slipped out Peter. As soon as his fingers actually dug into the flesh of the kid's stomach, Peter's resolve had broken. He didn't try to hold his reaction back, fueling Bucky's curiosity to see what other noises he could coax out of the teen. His stomach has to be a rather good spot by the way Peter threw his head back as Bucky focused his wriggling fingers to dig into the sides of his tummy. Slender hands tried to catch his, but it was too easy to bat them out of the way to get back on skittering his fingertips over the smooth material of Peter's shirt. The shirt clung tightly against his lean body, making it very easy for the metal digits to glide over the middle of Peter's tummy, earning him little jumps whenever he traveled towards his belly button or his lowest rib.

"Is that a bad spot?" The answer was obvious, but it was too fun to pass the opportunity to watch Peter struggling to answer. Bucky grins as he watches the teen trying to form a coherent sentence between his laughing fit.

"Yes, yes, yes, yehehehes! It's sohoho bahad, it's bahahahad Buhucky!"

"It's that bad?" asks Bucky, acting surprised as he sends ten fingers onto the small patch between the teen's waistline and belly button, feeling the muscle contracting under his fingertips as the teen tries to curl into himself with a shriek but is unable to. His hands get shoved off by flailing arms.

"It's that bad," confirms Peter with a glare, taking the chance to catch his breath while the super soldier had mercy on him.

"That's too bad. I like that spot," muses Bucky as he looks down on the said spot, catching the nervous look Peter throws him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Don't you dare," warns Peter, failing to sound intimidating while grabbing onto Bucky's wrists.

"Oh, scary," mocks the man before letting himself fall forward. Peter lets out a panicked squeal and throws his hands up to catch the heavy body that's about to collapse on him. Bucky lessens his fall just in time with one arm probed against the back of the couch while using the chance to get a hold of the teen's arms with his free hand, wrestling them over Peter's head and pinning them there. Brown, wide-blown eyes stare up at him before Peter shakes himself out of puzzlement.

"You tricked me!"

"I thought you're smarter than that."

"And I thought you don't use dirty tricks."

"Seems like you've got some things to learn, punk. Now, where were we?" Bucky asks with a grin, challenging a Cheshire cat as he wriggles his fingers in Peter's face before focusing on the teen's stomach.

"No, nohohoo, Bucky pleahesehe, anywhere but there!" begins the teen to plead, tugging at his captured wrists, lifting his head, and trying to see what the man was doing. Bucky grins.

"You want me to try a different spot? Sure."

"NO! Thatahat's not what I mea-AHAHAHAH STOHOP! YOu know thahahat's nhohot whahat I meant! You ahahre suhhuch ahahahan. Suhuch ahahan-NO! DOHOHON'T!"

Peter's legs hammer down on the couch behind Bucky's back. The ex-assassin worries for a short moment if the furniture would withstand the constant abuse of a spider-kid kicking his legs around uselessly. His focus is back on Peter when he hears a high-pitched squeal escape the teen before a wave of hysterical cackling fills the room. Bucky raises an eyebrow at the reaction, concluding that he found the second worst spot on the teen. His right hand hovers between Peter's armpit and highest rips, fingers digging into the place with vigor.

"I'm almost convinced you told me the truth about being ticklish."

"Almohohohst? Whahahat do yohohu mean almost?"

Bucky stops tickling, eyes trained on the red-faced teen who tries catching his breath, body shaking when occasional after-giggle slips past his lips.

"Just saying, when I do this," he pinches Peter's hipbones, earning a full-body jump and a cackle, "or this," Bucky claws his free hand between Peter's ribs and let his fingers skim over the space between the bones to send the teen back into a high-pitched giggle fit, "I would say you are ticklish."

"Are you kidding me?" asks Peter. He wears a bewildered expression. "I've told you from the beginning, I'm ticklish!"

"You could have been lying," retorts Bucky.

"Are you seriously not believing me anymore because of earlier?" asks Peter. The man had another teasing remark already sitting on the tip of his tongue but halted as he caught something akin to hurt playing on the teen's face. Bucky feels thrown off. He knew he should do something, but looking at Peter's face and seeing the wounded expression, he caught himself out of depth for a second time that day. That's why he needs Steve. Steve is better at this kind of stuff.

Peter is still looking at him, but as the man above him doesn't answer, the younger man's expression turns hard. Bucky's eyes widen as he gets shoved off, unable to withstand the power behind the thin arms that were now easily pulled out of his grasp. It seems that the spider-kid had his full powers back in play. Watching the kid silently collect his belongings, Bucky blinks slowly before getting a hold of himself. As Peter was about to walk out, he called after him.

"Peter, please wait!"

Whatever the teen heard in his voice, it had to be convincing enough for him to stop in his tracks and turn around to send him a questioning look, daring him to give a good explanation.

"Can we sit down and talk about this?"

Bucky nods at the couch. There is a spark of hesitancy flickering on Peter's features, and the teen is about to open his mouth to answer when Steve walks into the room. Steve glances at his friend standing behind the couch. Something must have happened for Bucky, who looked troubled with his eyebrows pinched into a frown, and Peter, the latter holding his wet-dripping clothes in his arms, wearing an expression far from the cheerful smile Steve is used to seeing on his face.

"I made you some tea, Peter. Would you like to sit down with us?"

Steve watches Peter throw a glance at Bucky, the latter having not moved from his position behind the couch before letting out a small sigh that Steve wasn't sure he was supposed to hear.

"Okay," mumbled Peter, sounding defeated, but walks back to the couch, leaving his wet clothes on the floor next to the couch table.

Steve throws Bucky a questioning glance before putting the tray on the table and handing Peter a cup of tea.

"I also found these," Steve said and pulled a bundle of fuzzy Captain America-themed socks out of his pants pocket, letting them drop on Peter's lap.

"Nice try, Steve, but I won't wear these around the tower. I like the lab privileges."

"Could have worked," says Steve and slaps his knee in faux disappointment to lighten up the mood. Peter's lip twitches at the reaction before he takes a small sip of his tea. "It's good. Thank you, Steve."

"I'm happy to hear that, Peter."

While Peter takes another gulp of his softly steaming mud, Steve subtly nods towards Peter, telling Bucky to fix whatever he has done. Bucky rolls his eyes but gingerly sets his cup of tea down and leans his forearms on his knees before addressing the teen sitting between them.

"Peter, I want to apologize. I was worried about you earlier, but I wouldn't stop believing you because of what happened, even if I were still upset about it. I meant to tease you a little, but I overdid it. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or make you believe I don't trust your words. I'm sorry."

Bucky glances at Peter, who sits still, looking at the cup in his hands with a thoughtful look. "I guess I should have told you about this earlier," began the teen, cutting both soldiers off when they opened their mouths to protest. "I trust you to have my back. It's not like I believe you would use that information against me. We are a team, after all," Bucky watches Peter's thumb absentmindedly running along the edge of his cup, halting as the teen continues. "I guess I was too embarrassed to tell you."

"Embarrassed?" asks Steve, head tilted to the side in confusion. Peter nods before directing his eyes at him, a shy smile tugging on his lips.

"Isn't it kinda silly? I've got all these powers through the spider bite altering my DNA, but when it gets too cold, I become fatigued. Meanwhile, you are this strong, and the cold doesn't bother you two.

I know you can't compare the changes of the serum with my enhancements, but sometimes I think about it and, you know, feel kinda useless."

Steve hums, fingers drumming against his leg as he thinks about Peter's words. Before he comes to voice his thoughts, a voice on his right beats him to it. Bucky's eyes are trained on the young vigilante sitting between them.

"You will never be able to beat that flaw of your powers, but stressing about it will get you nowhere." Steve frowns at the harsh words, but when he glances at Peter, he finds him paying close attention to every one of Bucky's words. The latter puts his hand over Peter's knees, hovering there before putting it down, giving it a short squeeze. "Knowing your flaws is one of your biggest strengths. Just keep that in mind."

Peter sends the man a soft smile.

"Thanks, Bucky."

Bucky glances at him from the side, the corner of his lip tugged upwards.

"Don't mention it, punk."

#ticklish! peter parker #ticklish spiderman #marvel tickle fic #marvel fanfic #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #tickling #bucky barnes #steve rogers #captain america #winter soldier #avengers fanfiction #the avengers #marvel

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claireelle18 · 5 months

Text

Everything Turns Out Right - Ross Colton

He’s out of surgery and she meets him in his room afterwards, telling him “you know, they almost didn’t let me in here. They said I had to wait until you were up and asking for me.” Her pointed look towards him.

“They only let me in because you had me listed on your paperwork as your wife. Though I had to convince them, due to us not having the same last name.”

He put his hands up in a half-hearted attempt, “I’m trying to manifest the things I want by speaking them into the universe.”

“And you want a wife?” A faked pointed look shot to him.

“Only if it’s you.” A cocky grin spreading to show his pearly whites.

“I think your meds are too strong. You, mister, are lucky. I was able to convince them we hadn’t agreed to us taking each other’s names yet and that we were waiting for my passport to be renewed before anything else.”

He chuckles, “So you’re going along with this wifey?” Her heart racing hearing him jokingly call her that name she desperately wants him to actually mean.

“Only because I wanted to be here,” she stuck out her tongue, settling next to his bedside.

Hours must have passed before the next person visited. “Mr. Colton…” stated a middle aged nurse.

“Shhh…please. She is trying to sleep,” he motioned to her curled up in the corner of the hospital room couch. “Kept her up all night worried with the injury as she had to fly in before learning anything further.”

“So sorry, Mr. Colton. I was trying to inform you that visiting hours are soon to be over.”

“She’s my wife. She can stay.”

“My bad sir.” The nurse ducked out of the doorway. She stirred soon after. Blinking around, searching to understand her surroundings.

“Tony is on his way here with real food for you. You need to eat. I’m pretty sure you last ate that snack size bag of Cheez-Its before the airplane ride.” He said. She squinty-eyed him. “You know I’m right.”

“You need to eat too, R,” she huffed.

“Already ate. Hospital food. Not half bad,” he shrugged, motioning to the bed tray with the past dinner plate.

“I can go down to the cafe and get something before they close for the night,” she started to protest. He shook his head.

“Too late sweets. He’s on his way. Meantime I’ve been channel surfing and I found a Jurassic Park movie marathon.”

Thanks to Tony coming in with true food for her before retreating back to the team’s hotel, she was left with him again. “Come here sweetheart,” he motioned to the slightly larger than a twin bed.

“R…” she started to protest.

“Nuh uh honey. Join me, I need you here to make sure no dinosaurs come to eat me.” She rolled her eyes.

“You’re a dork.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I’m your dork. Now get over here.” She gingerly climbed into the bed as best as she could to avoid bumping into his shoulder.

Before the team jetted off to the next city for the next game in the road series, a few stopped by to check in. She had slipped out to grab a cup of coffee while the men all talked briefly. “Soooo Tony spilled the beans that you told the docs she’s your wife…” Patty joked.

“Well I knew she would just be too anxious to sit in the hotel room with one of you guys. No offense,” he replied back.

“You must really love her to go that far to lie about her to a hospital,” Brayden chimed in.

“And to have us use your card to buy her that emergency flight,” Steven commented. “Ross you have to just tell her the way you feel. Sandra tells me that the way she looks at you is the same way that all of our ladies look at us, but that there is that look of longing written deep in her expression. Hate to break it to you now, but do something about it. Seriously.” No one knew that she had returned from her coffee adventure to over hear the conversation.

Steven was right. All the guys were. Sandra was, and she knew exactly her feelings towards the New Jersey native as it was a family common topic of discussion in the family box. “I want to give her the entire universe. I wasn’t really lying about the whole wife part, more just trying to actually speak what I want into existence with her. I know Tony knows this since he was there to help me pick it out, but I have the ring for her.” A ring?! So he had that planned out already.

She burst into the already cramped hospital room, carefully flinging herself into the body of the man she loved so much. A couple of the guys chuckled at the scene in front of them. “I love you so much, R.”

“So I am guessing you heard the conversation,” his laugh reverberating through her.

“Every word.”

“Well fuck this wasn’t really the way I had thought it would happen,” he glanced around the room at the guys. “I don’t even have it with me. Didn’t expect to have you here with me, even if it is due to the unfortunate circumstance.”

“I don’t care if you physically have it. You have known that items aren’t important to me.” Her eyes getting all teary.

“Sweetheart, it’s important as it’s my promise to you. You deserve to have a ring. It’s been in my nightstand drawer for months.” That was true. He bought the ring almost a year ago. She had left for a weekend to visit her family, which meant he was able to go pick out the right ring for her. He had been speaking with a local jeweler for a handful of weeks, and the designed ring finally came in.

The team left, and the couple (well Ross) was discharged from the hospital. The flight back to Tampa was uneventful, except for the company of one of the trainers to make sure there were no unforeseen complications to the injured offensive. When the two arrived home, he pulled the velvet box from that back part of his nightstand. Her tears springing to blur her vision. “Again, not how I had imagined or planned to do this for you,” he started.

She shook her head, a silent laugh shaking her body. “My love, you have been the best part of my life,” he continued on. “The nonstop love you have for everyone around you. How much you pour yourself into your life. I could not even imagine life without you in it. When you came into my life, the sunshine brightened the world even further. I saw it from a different outlook that only you could show me.” He watched her closely as he momentarily struggled with the small box.

Pulling it open, revealing the large custom ring to her. “Will you do me the honor of continuing that life, and be my wife?” He asked her.

“Absolutely yes! I would say yes in every life time to you Ross.” She couldn’t imagine her life without him in it, and was so glad he felt the same. Through it all, life would be amazing with each other by their sides.

#ross colton #imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nhl hockey #tampa bay lightning #tblightning

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1moreoffkeyanthem · 4 months

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Hey y’all guess what?!? :) it’s time for a new episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE!!!

Who ordered some old man yaoi? That’s right, this one is set right after If Heaven And Hell Decide, with a sick Kyle, worried Stan, the best little immortal cat of all time, adding injury to illness, two middle aged men being massive fantasy dorks, all that goodness. Very sorry to my favorite arthritic ginger it will happen again, very sorry to his extremely concerned husband.

And y’all. I’m dedicating this to the Sickfic Queen herself, @alwaysinstyle who consistently kicks ass and gets stoked about style taking care of each other with me. Ana I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. All the people in your corner, we have you covered.

Also OFC the rest of the RANT homies have been subjected to random snippets of this over the past 2 weeks or so (jesus my sadsack ass needs to get some motivation back how has it been two weeks) but hey I will always be obnoxious when the mood strikes me and this long ass monstrosity is FINALLY done!!! Thank y’all fr for putting up with me.

Here’s •Well, That Would Be Pretty Odd•

A subtle knock at the door drew Stan’s attention and Kyle from uneasy rest. His husband’s head lolled exhaustively in his hand, still drained of energy and, according to the screen displaying his vitals, running a pretty high fever. Stan kept one arm protectively over him and turned to the door. “Yeah?”

The doctor entered, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, guys, how are we doing in here?”

Kyle pulled up slowly, clearly emotional, like he always got when he was sick. “Can I go home yet? Moose needs me.”

“Our cat,” Stan explained. “He’s worried he scared our cat.”

“I did.”

“Scared the hell out of your husband, too, sick as you are. It says on the chart you guys filled out that your blood sugar was low enough to potentially trigger a seizure. If he hadn’t acted as fast as he did, you’d be even worse off than you are.”

Kyle slumped back into Stan. “He always rescues me,” he murmured.

Stan felt like crying. “I’m your knight when you need me, dude.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what’re we working with here? Stomach flu, dehydration, complications because of the diabetes, all that, right?”

“Right. Kyle, we have you on antivirals and fluids via IV for now, and I know you’re eager to get home-“

“-he hates hospitals-“

“-I hate hospitals.”

The doctor smiled kindly, even after getting interrupted. Stan liked her. “We’re keeping you overnight at least, but if your vitals are still stable and your fever is less than 102, we can send you home.”

Stan knew Kyle appreciated being the one addressed about his own health. This doctor could read the room, that’s for sure. Kyle nodded tiredly, eyes closed.

“How about when we go home? What’s the plan?” Stan inquired, tired as fuck himself but making an exception for Ky, always.

“Fluids, rest, anything with nutritional value that can stay down. Your friend in the waiting room mentioned orange juice as you guys’ go-to when Kyle’s having trouble with blood sugar? And he said you’re always diligent about keeping an eye on his health.” She was definitely addressing Stan now, since Kyle had clearly relinquished responsibility for the time being, knowing Stan had him covered. Hell yeah he did. “Any further complications; if you catch the bug too and can’t take care of him, another bad sugar drop or fever spike, and you guys come right back here. But at this point, it’s looking like this is something manageable from home, fingers crossed.”

And Stan had every finger crossed. He’d take care of Kyle, just like Kyle took care of him. Even if he was kind of scared as fuck, not having seen him quite this sick since maybe college. Or even when they were kids and he needed kidney surgery. He bit the panic down. Kyle was okay.

“Gotcha. I can spend the night? Spousal rights and everything?”

“You won’t convince him not to stay if you say no,” was Kyle’s muffled reply.

The doctor laughed. “I won’t make you leave. The last thing I want is either of you worked up, especially you, Kyle. If you need your husband with you to be comfortable-“

“-mhm-“

“-that’s not a problem in my book.” She tapped her clipboard with long fingernails. “There’s a call button on the bed if you need anything between the nurses checks, and I’ll tell your friend he’s free to go. He isn’t allowed back here, I’m afraid, but I can also let him know he can be the one to pick you up in the morning, if that’s what you two want?”

Kyle mumbled something that sounded like “like a good neighbor, Tucker is there” to the tune of the state farm insurance jingle. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s pretty delirious, alright.” A couple quick checks to Kyle’s IV line and heartbeat monitor, and she was gesturing for Stan to lay his half asleep husband back down. “You boys get some rest. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Stan whispered, letting Kyle nuzzle into his chest as she left the room. Once they were alone in the darkened space, he kissed him softly on the top of the head. Kyle was a space heater. But if the hospital staff wasn’t alarmed, they were okay. “I’ve got you, baby, just sleep.”

The next morning, Kyle improved enough to leave and discharge paperwork done, they faced the problem of actually getting the sick man home.

Stan waved off the nurse’s offered wheelchair and stubbornly picked Kyle up because like hell was he losing even a second of contact. That and he took pride in the fact that he was in his 40s and still able to carry his husband.

“Sir, there’s procedure…”

Kyle snorted from where his head was against Stan’s shoulder, coherent enough to be aware but still too weak to insist on, god forbid, trying to walk on his own. “Believe me, ma’am, there’s no way in hell you’re convincing this guy not to carry me. Losing battle, mark my worms- words.”

Someone needed to be home in bed.

The nurse sighed, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth argument. Thank God, because Kyle could out argue anyone normally, but he was fucking tired.

“Just sing me home again, Orpheus,” he murmured into his husband’s ear.

Stan laughed at the reference. “Alright, ma’am, so if we’re all set….”

“Yes, yes, you can go. Hope you feel better.”

Kyle only had a vague recollection of both Stan and Craig yelling at the hospital staff when they brought him in, which was kind of funny to think about. Craig didn’t get worked up about things easily, and Stan was as gentle as they came. But it was nice to know his friend and his partner were willing to act so out of character for his sake. He muttered a “hey, spaceman” in greeting when Stan lowered him into the back of Craig’s car, mid morning sun forcing him to keep his eyes closed.

Craig barked a short laugh, pulling from the parking lot when both his passengers were settled for the short drive. “Someone’s feeling better.”

“I’ll get him set to rights, kick the plague’s ass,” Stan said, softly kissing his husband’s still too warm forehead. “Thanks for picking us up, dude. And for last night.”

“No biggie,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “Someone had to keep a level head and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be either of you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Craig was probably the least prone to getting over emotional person Stan had ever met.

Craig’s husband, however, was the exact opposite. Upon getting home and getting up to bed, Kyle could faintly hear the frantic voice of Tweek downstairs, bringing Moose back from spending the night over at apartment two.

Kyle was nauseous, not to the point that he had been, but nauseous all the same, waiting for Stan to be done retrieving their cat and filling Kyle’s water. He felt weak as shit, and sweaty, which was probably a reasonably good indicator of his fever coming down, but it fucking sucked. And he was going to need some soup or something in him soon so his blood sugar didn’t get so bad again, which was another thing that sucked, because why do flesh prisons require so much maintenance? Why did his body require so much to function.

He didn’t realize tears were flowing until Stan entered the bedroom, hands full with the water, a KMBS, and one of those bottled protein drinks that tasted like chalk. Moose was quick to jump up and pad softly over to him, big blue eyes so worried and sweet as he curled up beside him. Kyle’s two blue eyed boys.

The second of whom was setting the drinks on the bedside table. There was a straw in each, so Kyle wouldn’t have to move as much to drink. It made him cry harder.

“Shhh, dude, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Stan climbed onto his side and grabbed the juice, holding it to Kyle’s lips. “I know you don’t feel good, that’s okay. I’ve got you. Go slow, okay?”

Kyle complied, the sharp taste of salted orange juice helping both physically and mentally. Plus, it’s hard to drink something and cry at the same time, so his breathing was a little less sporadic. A few sips were all he managed before his stomach started rolling, and he shook his head. Stan understood, setting the cup down and pulling Kyle’s face into his chest. “Just sleep, baby. I’m gonna have to check your temperature and levels in about an hour, but just sleep until then, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Stan would take care of him. Kyle would put up a fight, when he had the strength to, but Stan knew from experience that he’d be ‘secretly’ loving being cared for.

The husbands had a couple favorite positions to hold each other in. They’d hold the other from behind, arms wrapped around and poised to kiss an exposed nape or shoulder as a reminder of their presence. They would entangle themselves like they were doing now, they’d let the other’s head rest on their legs, Kyle would perch himself in Stans lap or Stan would drape over him like a blanket. Holding each other was safe. And in this moment Stan wrapped protectively around his sick partner like it was his sacred duty, one hand cradling Kyle’s head from underneath, fingers gently rubbing his hair, the other arm tucking him firmly against himself, feeling Moose’s purrs vibrating where the cat had claimed his place against Kyle’s back, right below the place Stan’s arm was wrapped around.

Stan glanced at the nightstand clock, keeping watch for the next time they’d need to wake up for a check in. About an hour and he’d get the thermometer to make sure they were still headed in the right direction, check Kyle’s levels, make them both something for, well, he supposed lunch at this point, and call the clinic to let his coworkers know that he’d be out a few days for a family emergency. He’d have to let Kyle’s work know too, before his husband tried to go into school still unwell.

Fitfully, Kyle dozed, sweating in his sleep, which Stan knew damn well he’d complain about when he woke up, but personally, he didn’t mind holding a miniature sun, because it was Kyle. Overheated, but still Kyle.

It hadn’t quite been an hour, but the warmth was starting to concern him. He gently kissed the top of his husband’s head, encouraging him to stir.

“Dude, hey.”

Kyle let out a tired whine as indication that he was awake.

“I know, baby. I just need to check your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I can check my own damn temperature,” Kyle protested, rolling over onto his back when Stan relinquished his grasp around his beloved. He scowled. “I’m all sweaty.”

Stan chuckled lowly. Was he right or was he right. “Gimme a second.”

Upon getting the thermometer and finding that they were still going in the right direction, Stan relaxed slightly. He let Kyle check both his temperature and blood sugar by himself, because it wasn’t worth the impending argument and the last thing he wanted was to make his husband feel helpless. Fever was down, but he definitely needed something to eat soon.

“Dude, do you think you can handle something solid, or you wanna keep sticking with drinks?”

Kyle hadn’t puked in a while, so he felt like maybe something simple, easy on the stomach, would be okay. As much as he wanted to keep going with the safe option of juice and a protein shake, he wouldn’t get better without something substantial in him and he knew it. “I can try. No promises.”

“You don’t need to promise anything,” Stan insisted, leaning down to kiss him on the way out of bed. “But I have an idea, if you’re okay by yourself for a few minutes.”

“Moose is with me. I’m not by myself,” Kyle remarked with a sleepy smile.

Stan snorted and went to change into jeans, last night’s pajamas not exactly ideal attire for walking to the BBQ place a block over. Kyle was weird about food sometimes, but Brendan’s mac and cheese was a simple, safe, Kyle approved bet. He’d probably want it to get cold first like he usually did (weirdo), but sick Kyle was sort of a wild card. They’d see.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, dude, drink some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Kyle heard the door close downstairs, slowly reaching for his water at the bedside, one hand resting on their cat’s head. Moose was stretched out along his side, fluffy tail dangling off the side of the mattress.

“You sleepy too, young nastyman?” Kyle asked, setting the bottle down and closing his eyes. Moose purred in response.

Apparently he’d drifted off again, waking up to the rustle of a takeout bag and a strong, smoky smell.

Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth. Ordinarily the smell of brisket and ribs wouldn’t bother him, but in his half asleep state, smelling meat on Stan of all people…

“…Dude?”

“FUCKING CHANGE!” Kyle screeched, staggering up to run to the bathroom, tears in his eyes because the bbq place smell all over his vegetarian husband was wrong and disorienting and he hated being sick and fevers made him sensitive and an asshole and-

Falling hard in front of the toilet, he felt his knee go out. The cherry on top of the fucking cake while his stomach tried to escape his body. Kyle cried out in pain, which was cut off immediately by a wave of sick splashing into the porcelain while he attempted to move and take the weight off his left leg, shaking and already crying because he was pissed and it hurt and he couldn’t catch a damn break. Dry heaving and spluttering, he collapsed tiredly into the alcove between the toilet and the cabinets, one trembling arm draped over the seat and the other hand clutching his knee, eyes shut tightly against the light and the nausea and pain.

“Ky, hey, hey, oh, fuck, baby, shit, did you twist your knee? Okay, you’re okay, hold on-“

Kyle leaned over to retch again, choking out “YOU SMELL WRONG” because that’s all he could manage between gasps.

Stan yanked his shirt off and threw it through the open door into the hallway, past where Moose was watching with wide eyes from the threshold. “Okay, I’m sorry, is that better? Here.” He gently eased Kyle’s hand away from his leg, carefully straightening it out. “God, yeah, it’s already swelling.”

“WHY do I have to LIVE IN THIS GODDAMN FLESH PRISON?!?” Kyle slammed his fist against the floor, frustrated beyond belief. Stan caught his hand before he could do it again.

“Shh, Ky, c’mon. You’re okay, it’s fine.”

Seeing his husband like this, sick, aggravating his bad knee mid vomit, broke Stan’s heart. But he had him. He had him and wouldn’t let go. Was that dramatic? Absolutely. But when the fuck was he not dramatic about Kyle’s health?

“THAT FUCKING STUPID ASS NURSE!” Kyle was yelling. “Sending me sick kids, thinking they were just trying to get out of class, that BITCH!”

“Baby, dude, calm down, man, breathe.”

“YOU’RE ONE TO FUCKING TALK!”

Alright, point to Kyle. Stan sighed as Kyle heaved over the toilet again, expelling nothing but water. They really needed to get something in him before he wound up needing the hospital again. Stan gently rubbed his husband’s back as he hiccuped and cried, clearly feeling betrayed by his body. A few minutes of heavy breathing, and Kyle was pulling back up. “I- I think I’m d-done.”

“Alright dude, I’m gonna get you up now, that okay?”

“Mhm”

Very, very carefully, Stan hauled Kyle from the floor, mindful not to move his knee too much and going slow in case of another bout of nausea. Moose trotted into the bedroom after his dads, obviously distressed seeing Kyle cry and immediately curling back up against the redhead when Stan set him down.

Stan was honestly a little nauseous himself, because Kyle’s frustrated tears never failed to make him emotional too. But he knew what to do here, he reminded himself. Fever was coming down, leg flare up was pretty routine, Kyle would rant it out if he had to and Stan would be his yes-man, and liquids were probably going to be the staple for the rest of the day.

He rolled up a throw blanket and propped it under Kyle’s leg, taking some strain off the irritated joint and kissing his husband’s kneecap when he did so. “You want ice, babe?”

“Yes I want fucking ice,” Kyle mumbled, arms draped over his eyes.

Stan could admit to enjoying taking care of Kyle when he fucked up his knee; pissed off Kyle was cute. “Aw, baby, I got you.” He grabbed the takeout bag from the nightstand too, not knowing if the bbq smell was lingering there too. “I’ll stick this in the fridge for when you want something solid, okay? How ‘bout another Ensure?”

Kyle grumbled something inaudible that Stan took as a yes. Poor thing was so upset. But he had every right to be, and Stan would never be annoyed at him for that.

Downstairs, he debated making his husband a smoothie, but the blender was loud, and his head probably already hurt from throwing up. Instead, he just grabbed an ice pack and a shake (strawberry, still gross but the flavor Kyle hated the least), taking the time to scribble out the nutrition information, just in case. That practice was pretty much habit at this point; he’d started ripping off or crossing out the calories on food for Kyle when they were fourteen, when his favorite person was recovering from his eating disorder, and even if he’d been more than fine for a longgggg time, Stan was prone to reverting to the past. When Kyle wasn’t okay, for whatever reason, food lore got crossed out.

“Dude, you up?”

“Mm”

“Shit, babe.” Stan knelt by the bed to carefully apply the ice, reaching a hand up to thumb away a falling tear. “You just mad?”

“Fucking pissed,” Kyle moaned. “It’s not enough that I have the goddamn plague?!? I have to have to fuck my leg up too? My parents are, like twice our age and even they don’t have fucking arthritis!” Kyle pointed two middle fingers to the ceiling as a ‘fuck you’ to god, which was actually pretty funny, but Stan didn’t laugh. That would only make his husband madder.

“Ky, c’mon.” Stan cupped under his head to kiss his cheek, relishing in the subtle smile that action brought. “And your parents didn’t shred tendons and refuse to do physical therapy.”

“I am damn well aware my goddamn arthritis is my own fault, Staniel.” But he sighed contentedly, adjusting the ice pack before leaning back against the pillows. “That helps. I’m sorry.”

Declaring the anger over for now, Stan climbed into bed beside him. “Don’t be sorry, dude. How’s your stomach?”

“I don’t fucking feel good.”

“I know, dude, can you drink a little water? We have to keep you hydrated.”

“It’ll just come back up.”

“Not necessarily.”

Moose crawled up between his dads, small furry head on Kyle’s shoulder, knowing he needed comfort. Kyle rubbed his face on the cat. “Babyman, did I scare you last night? I did, huh?”

“Dude,” Stan started, “he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Drink something and don’t move your leg.”

“I didn’t shred my tendons, by the way.” Kyle protested. “I just tore some shit a little.”

“Enough that it’s a problem even now.”

“See, you get it.”

Stan laughed. “Quit being a dick and go to sleep, baby. You know you’ll feel better. I’m right here, dude, whatever you need.”

“I’m not being a dick, I’m being contrary.”

“Same difference.”

“Mm.”

God, poor Kyle, pissed off, sick, having a flare up on top of everything else. “Dude, what do you need?”

“Leg hurts.”

“We have a pack on it, dude. Maybe some ibuprofen? You should take some for the fever anyway.”

“It hurts.”

Stan started to gently rub his partner’s knee. “I know, babe. I know it’s hurting.”

“I hit it on the floor.”

“I know you did.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Kyle knew he was being a total dramatic asshole, but he didn’t care. God had fucked him over; he could be a dick. That made sense. “I’m mad, dude.”

“That’s okay.”

And no he didn’t have the right to be mad. Stan was being so sweet. Always. Any time Kyle’s meat suit betrayed him and he got upset about it, Stan was there, doting and adorable as ever. “I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep.”

“Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude.” Stan wrapped around him, carefully. “We’re not OCD spiraling. We’re not. A little rest, alright?”

In actuality, Kyle was too tired to argue.

It had to have been a few hours when Stan felt Kyle stir against his chest, swinging over to get out of bed… and promptly falling with a loud “FUCK!”

“Ky?”

“I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT MY GODDAMN LEG!!!”

Stan sprang off the bed then too, getting on the floor beside his hyperventilating husband. “Dude, shhh, okay, okay, straighten it out.”

Sobbing, Kyle did. “D-don’t, freak, okay? I moved it weird, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, dude. Look at me. I’m not freaking out.” He was just doing a good job hiding it. Stan hated seeing Kyle cry, emotional, probably still feverish and nauseated, trying to get up in the middle of the night and falling on his knee, just the perfect storm of fucked up shit. But Kyle needed to stay calm, above all else. “What did you need, dude? Let me help you.”

“Water,” Kyle mumbled dejectedly.

“And guess what? You have me for that.” Stan carefully felt around his husband’s leg. “Can I turn a light on?”

Kyle responded by throwing up into the trash can, which had Stan gagging too. Fuck. Honestly, he was surprised he lasted so long without sympathy puking. “Hold on, baby.”

Stan rushed to the bathroom to empty his own stomach, somehow only just noticing that he still hadn’t put a shirt on from earlier. And Kyle hadn’t said anything about him wearing “outside pants” in bed, either, which was probably the best indicator of how sick he was.

Flushing down the panic induced vomit, Stan stood and glared at his reflection while he rinsed his mouth out, gulping a few handfuls of water from the sink. He had to keep it together. He needed a plan. Okay. Get Kyle back in bed, check his temperature and blood sugar, go downstairs to fill up his water and feed Moose, go from there.

Kyle had curled up on the floor back in the bedroom, and Moose had the zoomies. Stan sighed.

“Dude, okay, let’s get up.”

“Moving sucks ass.”

“I know it does, babe, but the bed is better than the floor.”

“Quit being right,” Kyle mumbled, allowing himself to be helped back under the covers. Stan snagged his readers from the nightstand, flipping on the lamp and grabbing the thermometer too.

“Okay, melmë, let’s see.”

Kyle smiled a little. “You look like a dad.”

“I am a dad,” he reminded him. Even if he’d bemoaned needing reading glasses and his body getting softer with age, his sentimental side was happy he had made it this far in life, especially with Kyle at his side. “Our son is bouncing off the walls as we speak. Open.”

Down to 100.3, thank whoever the fuck was up there. Maybe he should be thanking Kyle’s God, not having any attachment to one of his own. When he’d first started AA and found that part of the whole thing was putting things in the hands of a higher power, he had posed the question of what to do if you weren’t particularly religious to his sponsor. Mark had said “hell, put your faith in the doorknob if you want. Got you in here, didn’t it?”

“What’s the damage?” Kyle inquired.

“Definitely better. You want to check your levels or can I?”

Kyle slowly opened his eyes. “I got it, sweetheart, you’ve been doing so much.”

“Because I want to.”

“I’m difficult.”

Stan brought Kyle’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “It so isn’t your fault that you got sick, or that you hurt your knee, or that you have diabetes. In sickness and in health, right?” Kyle’s fond grin only grew, and Stan decided to let up on the overbearingness. He snatched Moose up quickly on the cat’s next lap around the room. “I’m filling your water and feeding the dragon, okay? Be right back.”

So he had sweat out most of the fever, it seemed like. Judging by how sticky he felt, Kyle was fairly certain he was over the worst. At least in terms of the fucking stomach flu. His leg was a different story.

It was dim in the bedroom with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the window, and the soft light from the lamp, but he could feel that he’d aggravated his knee pretty bad. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The cartilage felt like it was grinding when he shifted. Kyle groaned in frustration, debating trying to hop over to the closet for his brace, but deciding against it, because Stan would flip his lid if he saw him standing. And considering what his blood sugar was at, being vertical was a bad idea anyway.

Said husband returned to the room. “I come bearing gifts for the king!”

Dork. Freshly refilled water, a KMBS, sleeve of crackers. Stan presented the juice. “Your elixir, melda târ. And-“ he beelined for the top of the closet, clearly having read Kyle’s mind.

“Thank you, my most dutiful and trusted of knights.” Kyle let him secure the knee brace, watching as those careful, strong, gentle hands worked, as Stan leaned down to kiss his leg when he was done. His Stan. His sweet Sir Marshwalker.

“Oh, shit, dude, are you crying? Does it hurt that much?” Stan was up by his face again. Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not that; I just- I really fucking love you,” he sobbed.

“Aw, baby, come here.” Stan climbed into bed and wrapped around him again, avoiding touching his husband’s stomach or leg. A little jingle of Moose’s collar announced their boy’s return to the bedroom, a tiny *prrrt* as the cat settled back at Kyle’s side. “You’re not as warm as you were, Ky, I think you’re getting better. That’s good, my love, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Kyle murmured against him, damp eyelashes tickling Stan’s chest. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”

Stan laughed. So he had noticed. “You complaining?”

“You know I’m not.”

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wanderingpen · 1 year

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Thinking about how much the Owl House means to me and people all over the world.

Thinking about how much Luz Noceda means to all of the neurodivergent kids out there. The ones who are bullied and think they're weird and out of place because they think a little differently. Thinking about how she is always herself, and it has a positive impact on everyone around her. Thinking about how she's dorky and geeky and neurodivergent and perfect. Thinking about how she is so true to herself and to her family and they love her because she is LUZ and no one else is Luz. Thinking about all of the children of color who get to see themselves on the screen fighting bad guys and being amazing and never being ashamed of their skin or culture. Thinking about how everything she is stems from herself and her amazing latina, single, neurodivergent mother. Thinking about how she is bisexual and gets a girlfriend and is happy with said girlfriend for years to come. Thinking about all of the queer kids who get to see two girls kiss and love each other and be dorks together like kids should be able to.

Thinking about how much Hunter means to kids who are abused and hurt and scared. Thinking about how he had a happy ending, thinking about how he's healing even after years of abuse and neglect. Thinking about how he shows people that you can heal, that you don't have to continue the cycle, that you are NOT just your DNA. Thinking about how he loses a friend and grieves and hurts but he's okay in the end. Thinking about how he doesn't fit into the nuclear family idea, thinking about how he has so many parental figures and siblings and friends and he doesn't have to be "Hunter Noceda" or "Hunter Deamonne" or "Hunter Clawethorne" because he is all of them. Thinking about how found family is just as important as blood family, and thinking about how you don't have to put a name to something to know it's there.

Thinking about Eda, and how she is a disabled character who stays disabled even in a world full of magic. Thinking about how she embraces her disability and she's never put down for it within her family, and she's just as amazing and badass as any other character. Thinking about how she's queer and sassy and disabled and hot and perfect and she never lets anything stand in her way. Thinking about how she loves her kids and loves her partner and loves life.

Thinking about how much Raine Whispers means to me as someone who is figuring out their gender identity. Thinking about how they are the person that helped me figure out that I am nonbinary (at least to some extent) and thinking about all of the other nonbinary kids who get to see themselves on screen in a fantastic show as an important character who isn't shown of as the "queer quota" character and then pushed aside. Thinking about how they are nervous and shy and talented and brave and a monsterfucker in love and them being nonbinary is just a part of a whole amazing character. Thinking about how they're middle-aged, showing kids and adults that being queer doesn't disappear when you age. Queer people get to live a full, happy life just like everyone else.

Thinking about Lilith and Gus, and how they're obsessed with things that some people consider "strange", and how no one that loves them ever puts them down for it. Thinking about how Gus is a gifted child, who deals with gifted kid burnout and the others give him the space and kindness to help him deal with that. Thinking about how Lilith makes mistakes, like everyone does, but finds happiness in her sister and in her friends and is forgiven because she never meant to hurt anybody. Thinking about how she doesn't need a love interest to be "whole", and that she finds complete fulfillment in her platonic and familial relationships.

Thinking about Belos, and how they really said no, some people do not deserve your forgiveness. No, sometimes people just hurt others for the sake of hurting them, and you do not have to forgive them just because they apologize. Thinking about how he is not even given the honor of a dignified death, thinking about how he is purely fascist and no one ever tries to humor him or give him another chance.

Thinking about the Collector, and how they just didn't understand. Thinking about how they were scared and hurt and traumatized, and all they needed was someone to help them understand the world around them. Thinking about how, while the show didn't forgive Philip, they did forgive the Collector. Because some people really don't intend to hurt others, even if they accidently do. Thinking about how the Collector decided to put space between himself and the people they hurt, to give everyone the chance to heal and how they still visit because he has friends to turn to now, because even if you accidentally hurt people, there will be those who forgive you. Thinking about how they show that you are loved, even if you make a mistake.

Thinking about how Amity and her siblings learned to be better and escaped their Mother's horrible treatment. Thinking about how Amity didn't immediately forgive her father for being idle in their treatment, but also thinking about how Alador is genuinely TRYING and she is willing to give him a chance. Thinking about how she recognizes that she hurt people and tries so hard to make amends, and thinking about how people are slow to trust her again but she finds people that eventually DO, and thinking about how she loves her human girlfriend and thinking about how she's grown and matured and become her own person outside of her mother's influence.

Thinking about King, about how he loves and misses the father he never got to meet, but that he also loves his mother for adopting him and taking care of him. Thinking about how King shows that you can love both your blood and your adoptive relationships and that just because you have one doesn't mean you can't have the other. Thinking about how he loves his sibling and teases her and fights with his family like families do, but they forgive each other in the end because no one ever really meant it.

Thinking about Willow, and her strength and boundless support for her friends, but also how she isn't an infinite well of hope. Sometimes she needs help too, and that's okay. Thinking about how she is chubby and badass and strong and about how she has a boy head-over-heels for her because she is so loveable and so amazing.

Thinking about how everyone is allowed to make mistakes, allowed to hurt and cry, allowed to be different and be queer and be neurodiverse. Thinking about how much these characters mean to kids around the world, and thinking about how much love and effort the cast and crew put into letting their little world touch so many people's hearts.

Thank you to Dana and the rest of the crew. Thank you for showing kids and adults alike that there are people like them out there and that love and hope is not lost on anyone. Thank you for inviting us into the carnival and taking us on the most amazing, magical ride we have ever been on.

The Owl House will live in my heart, and in the hearts of many for years to come.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Bye-eeeee!!!

#the owl house #watching and dreaming #toh spoilers #toh #hunter #luz noceda #raine whispers #eda clawthorne #willow park #gus porter #amity blight #camila noceda #king clawthorne #emperor belos #the collector #penposts #lilith clawthorne #philip whittebane

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starstruckkittensweets · 11 months

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chapter one

Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: Dabi x Reader Words: 6.2k

A/N: The first chapter of my lil Dabi passion project. Partially inspired by "Haunting Adeline" (awesome book but PLEASE heed the warnings in it). The full list of warnings is included in the main masterlist, but individual ones will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Also this is my first time writing from both Reader and Dabi's perspective, so I hope it's not too bad. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ only (minors DNI), explicit language, mentions of arson, mentions of violence, stalking, breaking and entering, working in retail (I'm sorry), Reader lives in a cute lil house in the middle of the woods, Reader also has 3 plushies (that all have names, because I'm a dork)

"Kerosene and Butterflies" Masterlist

It’s raining again, for the fourth day in a row. Barely any light to work with at the little workspace you’ve made for yourself at the kitchen table. So instead you rest your hands on your arms, watching the rain patter against the window panes. Pen and paper pushed away and left forgotten on the surface.

Rain always makes you feel nice. Not happy or sad, just nice. Gives you something to look at, the sound mindless enough to put you at ease. Soft and warm, more often than not lulling you to sleep with its voice. It’s hard to explain, but it seems to make sense in your mind.

Your phone lights up on the table with a text. It’s your mother again, sending her weekly check-in text. Even though you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and living on your own. But it’s more for her than you; you think it helps her cope with one of her kids living abroad, so far out of her reach.

Well, that’s what enticed you about this house in the first place, but you’ll never tell her that.

With a yawn you grab your phone and send a quick reply. Yes you’re okay, you’re getting enough sleep, you miss her home cooked meals. Call her tomorrow, put her mind at ease. Buy another few days of freedom before the cycle inevitably repeats itself.

When you finish and place your phone back down, you give the paper and pen one last look. Maybe you could try one more time, see if anything comes to mind?

Your chest deflates at the thought. No, the spark is long gone. Try again a different day, get some sleep for now. You need it.

You can almost hear it laughing at you, the uncapped pen lying dangerously close to its blank skin. You’ve been hearing it for the last hour or so, wracking your brain to come up with something, anything. Words, ideas, or even bullet points you can just jot down in your chicken scratch handwriting. Just a sliver of something to get those creative juices flowing.

But your eyelids are already drooping, the rainy weather not helping you one bit. Your brain feels like it’s all dried up, giving you a never-ending headache. Telling you that you’ve already reached your peak; that nothing else you make will ever come close to how you want it to come out.

Oh well. Tomorrow’s another day, right?

But you know damn well you’ll be back to square one tomorrow night, when you get home from work. Staring at that blank page with your head in your hands, praying for the words to come. For the inspiration to strike—to make you feel anything other than this.

At least the paper’s still good, maybe you can use it for a shopping list later in the week. That way it’ll get some good use out of it.

Your job isn’t exactly the flashiest; definitely not what you envisioned yourself doing at twenty-four years old. Working at a dead-end department store in the shady part of town, along with four or five other people—and none of them are close to you in age. But it keeps the bills paid and food in your fridge, so you guess it’s not as bad as it could be. You could do without the annoying entitled customers, though.

At least your shift stretches into the latter half of the day, meaning you only have to deal with them for about four hours, five tops if you end up taking your lunch break late. Then the store closes, the customers are ushered out, and you spend the rest of your time stocking the shelves and getting ready for the next busy day.

Most nights the store’s already empty, with only a handful of customers roaming the aisles. That gives you some extra time to start stocking; you prefer putting stuff back on the shelves rather than ringing on register anyways. Register gets boring and repetitive fast, but working on the floor always gives you something new to do.

“Excuse me, where can I find the laundry detergent?”

“Down the next aisle and to your left, all the way down at number twenty-four.”

“Where’s the soup and all the instant meals?”

“Right over here actually, on the middle shelf.”

“You have any beer?”

“Last aisle down, all the way to the end. You’ll see the freezer straight ahead.”

Every interaction gives you a rush of excitement, as sad as it sounds. In all honesty, your job isn’t the complete worst. Most customers are fine and even pleasant to deal with, and it always makes you feel good when you’re able to help them find something on their lists. Besides, it tests your knowledge of the store, almost like a matching game; after three years of working in the same place, you pretty much know it like the back of your hand.

Tonight seems like one of those lazy nights, with only a couple customers roaming through the aisles, the lone cashier at the registers looking like he’s about to fall asleep. You’re sorting through the grocery bin at the front (either what customers decided they didn’t want, or items found randomly throughout the store). There’s quite a bit today, must’ve been pretty busy earlier in the day.

It doesn’t take long to put the shelf-ready stuff into a cart and trek down to the grocery section. Most of it is candy anyways, which is in the first couple aisles. One item after another, until you start to see the bottom of the cart.

You step back from the shelf, a handful of candy bars clenched between your fingers, when your back suddenly collides into something—or someone, judging by the grunt they let out.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean that, I should really watch where I’m going, I’m really sorry about that—”

The words die right there on your tongue as you glance up at the person. You can barely see his face behind the dark mask over his mouth and his hood pulled over his hair. But something catches your eye—something dark and heavy beneath his eyes.

He’s got some serious bags under his eyes, poor guy must be working himself to death. Must be a college student, you know how it feels.

Wait a minute…bags?

Your head begins to buzz. You don’t think you’ve ever seen bags bad enough to leave the skin so…wrinkled. Almost like they’re—

But he’s already walking away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Head hanging low and shoulders tense as he disappears down the next aisle.

It’s not until another customer asks you where the hand soap is, that you remember to blink—and breathe. It takes a bit of effort, but you manage to give them the right aisle across the store. But then you’re staring off into space once more, thinking about the strange person in the black hoodie and mask.

Dark patches under his eyes… Could it really be…?

No way, stop thinking like that. You know where your mind is going, don’t you dare entertain the thought.

You shake your head. You’re being ridiculous. It’s getting late, anyway. You didn’t get that much sleep last night to begin with, it’s early to bed when you get home later tonight.

You file the last of the candy in its proper home on the shelf before heading down the main path towards the registers. Pet food, paper goods, detergent, body wash… A couple aisles here and there for every department. You should check and see if there’s any chemicals up front that need to go back on the shelf. Probably the easiest department for you to handle, other than food and appliances—

Your jaw drops when you turn the corner and come face-to-face with the dark stranger from earlier. Staring down at you with those dark eyes—no, the patches are dark, his eyes are actually quite bright, and oh my fucking God they’re blue—

There’s something sticking out of his pocket—the red and white label of a box of Band-Aids. And that’s not the only thing in there, judging by the awkward bulges and pointy corners. Maybe some extra medicine or painkillers.

You glance back up at him. Neither of you make any move to leave.

“…I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. All you can think about is how this little corner of the store lacks any functioning security cameras, and how it’s probably only a few dollars, it won’t necessarily put the store out of business if he gets away with it. Just this one time. No one has to know, except the two of you.

He’s glaring now, probably curling his lip at you from behind the mask. You swallow the growing lump in your throat, your heart throbbing furiously against your ribcage.

“Can…I get you anything else?”

“Fuck off.”

He shoves his way past you, shoulder nearly knocking you on your ass. Your throat runs dry as his words echo in your ears, his voice sending chills down your spine.

You know him, but from where? You know his voice, his looks—but why can’t you remember him?

You glance over your shoulder but he’s already gone, most likely heading towards the exit. Not like you’re gonna stop him.

Still, you can’t get your little encounter out of your mind, even as you try to busy yourself with your work. Not even ten minutes pass by before you grab another box of bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, mumbling to your coworker, “Store use, I’ll claim it out when I get back,” all the while feigning injury as you cradle your wrist against your chest (where a small pack of cotton balls is pressed between your fingers).

The back of the store leads out to the dumpsters in the back alley. A prime spot for smoke breaks, despite smelling like absolute crap. Chalk marks and spray paint decorating the walls, trash bags spilling out of the dumpsters in the corner. You clutch the supplies to your chest, head swinging wildly in search of the stranger.

But there’s no one out there. He’s gone for good this time—and for some reason, you can’t explain the sudden ache in your chest.

You don’t know what makes you leave the bandages and alcohol in the corner of the alley, hidden by the shadow of the dumpsters. Or why there’s a pang in the pit of your stomach, as you remember how bright his blue eyes looked.

Here’s a tip for any aspiring writers out there: get comfortable with constantly going on the internet. Whether it’s looking for an obscure random fact about Victorian houses in the 1800s or learning just how long it takes to recover from a bullet wound in the shoulder, search engines like Google will become your best friend. It won’t always provide the most accurate information, but it’s a start to get the ball rolling.

But this particular search doesn’t stem from a story in your drafts; all you can see are those mysterious blue eyes from the store, and the dark wrinkled patches beneath them.

It doesn’t take long at all to find your answer: a thread of articles and blurry photos of the infamous League of Villains—the same ones that have been terrorizing the country for the past year or so. Casualties, crimes, and even past victims. Every word brings another wave of goosebumps, but you can’t tear your eyes away.

Of course. That’s where you knew him from. Makes sense now.

There’s a handful of people in the photos, each one more terrifying than the last. A young girl with a feral smile, associated with a string of murders involving severe blood loss. A man capable of decaying anything with just a brush of his fingers. And the same stranger you saw in the store, known for over thirty murders and thousands in property damage, all thanks to those dangerous blue flames.

You slam the laptop shut and suppress a shiver. What were you thinking? Acting so casual with a villain—you knew you recognized those eyes somewhere—and oh my God, were you really going to try to meet him outside at the back?

And for what? Some bandages that he’d clearly already stolen? Hell, you’d let him walk away even when you knew he was planning on stealing them!

Hopefully your boss never finds out about that.

You glance out the window of your living room, pulling the lapels of your jacket closer to your chest. The door’s locked, the windows are latched, and the curtains are closed. Nothing out there but the trees and the moon and the gentle rainfall.

Calm down. Why would he come after you? You didn’t do anything to piss him off, did you? So what makes you think he’d try to figure out where you lived? What would he have to gain from that?

Still, you triple check the lock on the door, before moving backwards towards your bedroom. Also clicking the lock into place once you’re safe inside.

A villain. You can’t believe you came across an actual villain.

Villains were a common presence even back home, and you knew before moving abroad there was a possibility you could encounter some of them. But they always kept to the shadows, staying out of the spotlight for as long as they could. Only showing up in cities far away from your own. You’ve never come face to face with one of them, never been so fucking close to one of them before—

You crawl into bed and throw the covers over your head. Trying to focus on the pitter patter of the rain against the windows.

But you can’t get those images out of your mind. No matter how hard you squeeze your eyes shut, or bury your face into the pillow, you can still see his face. Those horrid wrinkled patches beneath his eyes. The same shade of blue as the flames from his palms. The way he looked at you as though you were nothing but a smear of dirt on the bottom of his boot.

He could’ve burned you right then and there.

You don’t fall asleep easily that night.

Despite your paranoia, the next few days go by without any issue. Work, errands, go back home. Your life continues just as it did before you met that crazy villain—and knowing that, you can breathe a little easier when you rest your head on your pillow for the night.

The little pile of medicine and supplies you’d left in the back alley had disappeared the next morning. Someone else had probably picked them up, who could say no to free medical supplies? There’s a slim chance that villain came back and took them for himself.

You know it’s a long shot. And yet there’s still some part of you that clings to it, wondering if he’s still sticking around this part of town.

Come on, what’s wrong with you? Are you really that eager to put your life in danger like that?

The rational part of your brain says no. But there’s another part, a much more vocal part of your brain, that can’t stop thinking about your little encounter. And what you would’ve done if he’d been in that alley that night.

Probably cry your eyes out. Then get killed like the dumbass you are.

Still, no matter what you do or what you try to focus on instead, he keeps coming back to your mind. And you find yourself visiting those damn websites, those stupid forums night after night when you get home from work, speculating just who he might be beneath those painful scars and bright blue flames.

What kind of life did he lead before joining the League? Does he have any regrets about becoming a villain? Does he actually enjoy being on the run like this?

It’s only when you’re lying wide awake in bed at close to two in the morning, still worn out from a long day at work that the more innocent questions start to plague your mind:

What’s his favorite color? Is it blue, or does he actually hate it? When is his birthday? Does he have any friends, either before he became a villain, or anyone in the League? You wonder, what’s his real name?

“Why am I even thinking about this? Not like I’m ever gonna see him again…” And you should be grateful for that.

But there’s still an ache in your chest, an awkward swirl in your stomach, every time you remind yourself of that simple little fact. And you don’t really know what to make of it.

Another hour passes before you push yourself out of bed and right to your desk in the corner. Grabbing one of the little notebooks you’d bought for story notes and ideas, but haven’t really touched in the last few months. Sliding into the seat with a sigh and clicking open one of the many black pens from the drawer at your side. Flicking on the small desk lamp and squinting against the sudden brightness.

It’s not uncommon for the inspiration to hit at ungodly hours of the morning. Honestly, you do your best writing between midnight and six a.m.; the only drawback is being unable to stay awake at work the next day. But at least you have some damn good writing to show for it.

But that hasn’t happened for months now. Not since you moved and started working nights. Now you have to hit the hay almost as soon as you come home, if you want any chance of a normal sleep schedule.

The pen moves on its own. Every breath brings another word on the page. Ink starts to smudge the side of your hand.

They appear in front of you: all the questions circling around in your mind, begging to be answered. The honest, the childish, even questions you think of on the spot. Anything and everything you would ask him if you were ever given the chance.

What are you doing? You should be in bed trying to sleep. Not doing…whatever this is.

You swallow hard as a single word appears before you: Dabi.

And immediately you start to shiver, your cheeks growing warm beneath the scathing looks of the ink and pages.

You’ve always had a strange complex when it comes to writing out people’s names. They’re much easier to speak out in your mind, or even say verbally. But once you write them out, it becomes almost final. It’s different to actually see those letters right in front of you, rather than just imagining them in your mind. Guess it makes everything seem so much more real that way.

It’s stupid, so fucking stupid.

But you don’t stop, even when your hand begins to cramp. Because this is the first time in almost half a year that you’re actually letting your pen guide you. The first time you truly feel at ease, not even caring about what you’ve written, or even stopping yourself to edit it.

What’s it called, word vomit? It’s therapeutic, but incredibly hard to do sometimes.

It’s not until the sun rises a couple hours later, and you’re half-asleep at your desk. Your arms curled beneath your head, the muscles in your hand throbbing like crazy. But then you see all those words you’ve written, all that ink staining those pristine white pages…

And you can’t help but smile as you drift off to sleep.

The air is stale with the scent of smoke and ash. The city always smells like shit, but it’s usually better on the outskirts. But the burning pile of flesh at the end of the alley begs to differ, and his hands still ache as blue flames lick at his palms.

Another shitty night coming to an end, thank fuck.

Dabi’s been in this damn city for the better part of two weeks now, boss’s orders unfortunately. Scouting for any possible members, new blood they could add to their ranks. But every group is the same; they’re either loud-mouthed fucks with more muscle in their arms than their own damn heads, or they’re practically children, fresh out of school and all set on playing hero. Still thinking this is a fucking game, and that they can stand to take the League out from the inside.

He’s already had one guy try it a couple months back, but he knew better than to go through with it. Can’t say the same for the rest of the dumbasses burning in the alley, though.

Oh, well. No doubt the heroes will find them tomorrow, if they even bother showing up. Not many of them like to venture all the way out here, especially if it means real danger.

He slides a pack of cigs out from his pocket, choosing one and lighting it with the tip of his finger. He’s walked these roads too many times in the last few nights, practically knows them inside and out. And it’s not long before that silly little department store comes into view—the same one that oh-so-generously let him borrow some of their stock last week.

Didn’t even need to use his quirk to make it happen, either.

The double doors slide open, the blaring lights a stark contrast to the shadows of the streets. He barely has time to step back before someone steps out, waving their hand behind them with a smile on their face.

Oh, the same one from that night. He can’t help but smirk at the memory.

It’s a girl—and if her face and height are anything to go by, he’s starting to wonder if she’s even old enough to work at a place like this. Apparently her brain must be impressively small too, with the way she’s walking down the darkened street without a care in the world. One hand fastened on the strap of her purse and the other dangling down at her side, a dark lanyard wrapped around her wrist. She must have a shit-ton of keyrings on them, judging by how hard she swings it back and forth. As if that’s going to protect her if someone tries to jump her.

Fucking dipshit.

He rolls his eyes and takes another long drag of his cigarette. Watching the stupid kid out of the corner of his eye—and nearly dropping the cig altogether when he watches her veer off the sidewalk and head straight for the forest.

What the fuck is she doing? Does she want to get herself killed?

Maybe it’s sheer curiosity—or maybe it’s hoping something out there will pick her off so she’ll learn her lesson—whatever it is, it has his feet moving on their own. Picking up the pace to keep her within his sights, the cigarette barely hanging from his mouth.

Didn’t anyone teach her not to go walking around this late at night? For fuck’s sake it’s nearly one in the morning, does her shift really last that long? What compelled her to take a walk in the goddamn forest of all places? No way she lives all the way out here, she’s probably got a place somewhere in the city. Probably just looking for a cheap thrill so late at night.

Stop it. She’s not your problem to worry about, so quit it already. Just sit back and watch the show.

He follows her down the old trodden path, waiting for her to hit a stray root or trip over a rock and fall flat on her face. But nothing happens, other than a few scuffs of dirt on her ratty old sneakers. Almost like she knows these woods—like the back of her hand.

It’s a struggle to keep his footsteps soft. His boots do nothing to quell the sound of leaves crunching, dirt spraying across the path. Luckily she doesn’t hear, either that or she just doesn’t care.

Where the hell is she heading at this hour?

His answer appears in the form of a house. A pretty shitty-looking one, if he’s being completely honest. Shabby roof, flimsy door, moss creeping over each and every corner. Almost like no one’s bothered to visit the place in the last decade or so—at least.

The girl steps right up to the door, swinging that stupid lanyard at her side. Shuffling around until she finds the right key, before disappearing into the house altogether. A light flickers on in the window, her shadow visible behind the aging curtains.

Fuck him, she does live here.

In the middle of nowhere, secluded from the rest of the world. She’s stupid, isolating herself from all those people in town. Help’s not gonna come if you’re stuck in some random forest, she’s probably better off in the heart of the city. Then again, it must be nice for her. Being able to wake up in the morning without the blaring of sirens in your ears. Tucked away where no one can find you, safe and sound in the comfort of your own quiet home.

He almost envies her. Almost.

The longer he stares at the little mossy house, watching her shadow flit back and forth behind the curtain, the more he starts to wonder what she has inside. Must be stocked on food and medicine; that shit’s hard to come by these days. Might be worth a peek once she’s gone. She’ll probably leave tomorrow night for her shift, right? He’ll slip in then, see if she’s got anything worth his time. Better this random cottage than an apartment in the city, right? From what he can tell there’s not a soul in sight, save for the looming trees and starry sky.

He’s smirking now, slipping back into the shadows of the forest, right beside the old trodden path. She never even sees him.

The house is dark and empty by sundown. The path is easier to walk in the daylight, but he still waits until nightfall before scoping out the house. Just in case she getany bright ideas and decides to return home sooner than she should.

It’s a two-story house, and while the front door’s latched shut, the windows sure aren’t. It slides open with a squeak, like it hasn’t been touched in years. Looks like the kitchen—or a sorry excuse for one, if he’s being honest. A small table with only two chairs, neither of them looking like they’re from the same set. Papers and books and pens litter the surface, with the napkin holder knocked down on its side.

Not that they have a better one back at the base. Hell, they’re lucky enough if they’re able to sit down for most of their meals, if they can get their hands on any.

Which reminds him of his mission, and he’s scanning the room for any possible food. And there, to his left: a crowded counter stacked with boxes of cookies and candy, below a pair of cupboards with even more food stored inside.

Jackpot.

The League’s not picky when it comes to food, anything will do when your stomach’s keeping you up at night. Well, Dabi can’t say the same for himself—he fucking hates fish. He’d much rather deal with an empty stomach rather than scarf down a few meager bites of sushi. Just the thought of it makes him want to puke.

He can’t take too much the first night, that’ll only make her wonder. It’s best to have as little people in this secluded house as possible. So for now he stuffs his pockets with small snacks for the guys back at base…and maybe even a few candy bars for Toga. Last thing that little psycho needs is more sugar in her system, but he’d rather not hear her whine that he didn’t get anything for her when he gets back.

Plus, this girl doesn’t seem to have any pomegranates around (or any fruit or vegetables, for that matter), so candy will have to do.

When both pockets are jammed with food, he takes a step back to survey the rest of the house. At least the inside looks marginally better than the outside, save for the abhorrent dining room. Simple and sweet, even if it’s a little bland in color.

A gray couch with a couple of pillows in bright colorful pillowcases. A side table with one too many remotes on it, along with a paperback that’s definitely seen better days. A kitchen isle with a sink cluttered with dirty dishes, and a single stool resting beneath the opposite end. Not a single house plant in sight, but plenty of photos throughout, some on the wall but most taped on the fridge. Must be friends and family—but so far, he can only see one person living in this house.

How sad, she must be so lonely without anyone else here…

He rolls his eyes and trods up the creaky set of stairs. Might as well take a peek at the rest of the house, right?

The hallways split up into three major bedrooms. One is filled with storage totes and moving boxes, still waiting to be unpacked (though, by the layer of dust on each of them, he’s not thinking any time soon). The other bedroom is filled, and he means filled, with books. Every square inch is either vacated with an old aging shelf or a stack of hardcovers on the floor. It’s messy and cluttered and he slams the door shut as soon as he opens it.

Lives like a fucking slob, doesn’t she?

The final bedroom turns out to be the biggest one of all, and it’s the only one in the house that actually lives up to its name. A dresser, a desk, and surprise, surprise, another fucking bookcase. There’s also a bed with a thousand plushies on the covers, each one more ridiculous than the last. A giraffe, a raccoon, and whatever the fuck that is. Some weird fuzzy brown creature with a large snout and a bitchy expression on its face. Toga probably knows the name of it, but Dabi couldn’t care less.

There’s also a set of double doors that leads out to a little terrace. It looks better than the rest of the house—must be a newer addition—overlooking the forest beyond. Overall it’s a cute little spot to live in.

And still no sign of anyone else living here with her.

He’s smirking now, thinking of all the things he can sneak out of here in the next few nights—when something else catches his eye. A strange outline under the blanket of the bed, in the center of all the damn toys staring back at him.

He has half a mind to burn the little giraffe to a crisp as he reaches in for the mysterious object. And it’s…a book. Fucking shocker.

No, wait—it’s a journal. Only a few pages filled in so far, the ink messy against the bright white pages. It’s the size of his palm, with a black leather cover and a matching black string attached to the spine, probably to act as a bookmark. And sure enough it’s stuck in a certain spot in the book, the entry dated to just a few nights ago.

I want to see him again. I know that sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. I can’t really explain it, no matter how hard I try. Everything that comes out just sounds wrong…but in my head it makes perfect sense.

I know I’m probably screwed in the head for thinking this. For thinking about him like this. Like I could be the one to change him, to be the only one he wouldn’t kill on sight.

No, wait a minute. I was, wasn’t I? We saw each other that night at the store, and he didn’t even try to hurt me.

He can feel his brow inching further up with every word he reads. What the fuck is she talking about? He flips to another random page—

And the answer’s staring him right in the face, in stark black ink.

Dabi

I want to see him again. Ask him so many questions, the same ones that keep rattling away in my head. Why did you become a villain? Where did you come from? What is your favorite color?

Please, just one more time. We don’t even have to talk to each other. I just wanna see him with my own two eyes. Now that I know he’s real, that he’s the villain everyone’s afraid of. And I know I should be too, and I am…but I think I’m more curious of him. Maybe that just makes me stupid.

Yeah, I’m just stupid.

The words are swimming on the pages, blurring together, screaming in his head so loud he wonders if he’s read them out loud. But no, it’s dead silent in this room, in this house. Just him and this little black book, written in the hand of that little weirdo. The same one that chooses to live in a creepy old house in the middle of the forest, the one that works at a sketchy department store well into the night. The same one that didn’t scream once she saw him—but instead offered to let him go, even when she knew he was stealing.

And for some reason, he can’t hold back the smirk that stretches across his face.

Of all the people in this city, in this whole damn country, he thinks he’s found the one that intrigues him the most.

Poor girl, doesn’t even know what she’s caused. Just mindlessly writing her thoughts down in her diary, hoping no one will ever read what she’s written.

As carefully as he can, he tucks the book back in its place under the covers. As tempting as it is to take it with him, he knows that’ll only cause more suspicion. Still, he wants to leave her a love letter of his own—something that lets her know she’s not alone in her fascination.

So he does.

And a few minutes later he’s climbing out the kitchen window and making the trek through the forest, pockets full with snacks and a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hate Saturday nights. Arguably the busiest night of the week, and yet you’re still so short-staffed the cashiers end up taking the full brunt of the work. Ringing register, sorting supplies, stocking shelves—oh wait, we need you back up front to do register. Wait why aren’t you working on that cart I told you to finish? Excuse me, can you unlock this item for me? Can you help me check out, and only me, these lines are too long for my liking. Why can’t you be in two places at once?

Not that you ever find it fun to come to work…but Saturday nights just make it a little less fun. And once it calms down and the store closes up, you have to make the journey back home half-asleep. It’s a miracle you haven’t woken up in the middle of the forest yet.

Tonight is one of those nights, where you stumble your way back home like you’ve just had one hell of a night at the bar. But no amount of rubbing your eyes or chugging the bottle of soda in your hands will keep you upright. Eventually you see your little house in the distance, and your chest starts to feel a little lighter at the promise of sleep.

You fumble with the keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Latching it shut behind you, you don’t even turn on any lights before heading straight to your room. The dishes and laundry can wait till tomorrow. Right now, all you need is some fucking sleep.

The trio of stuffed animals on your bed greet you when you step into the room. Before coming to live here, your mother insisted you bring along some childhood stuffies with you, just so you wouldn’t get too lonely. And you hate to say it, but she was absolutely right. More often than not do you find yourself cuddling up to them, wondering about your family back home.

You kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the back of the desk chair. Then you flop face first onto the bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas. You know you’ll be out cold within five minutes, so what’s the point?

“Goodnight, Rascal,” you mumble to the little raccoon, “goodnight, A.J.,” you pet the little giraffe, “and goodnight, Maxwell.” The little capybara toy is your favorite, but you’ll never admit it out loud. (Not when the other two can hear you.)

You roll over onto the bed, but something sharp juts into your side. You groan and force your hand beneath the covers to yank it out—oh, that’s right… you forgot you’d left your little notebook in bed with you. Must’ve fallen asleep while writing in it last night.

But there’s something sticking out of it, something that prevents it from closing all the way. You open it up and a scrap of paper falls out; not a loose page from the book, but a folded-up index card. One that’s got a note of its own written messily on the side.

One that makes the exhaustion all but vanish from your body.

You should keep this book in a safer hiding spot. You never know who might be reading all your little love notes, doll.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x you #kerosene and butterflies #tw: stalking #restricted fics

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 1 year

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| FLY ME TO THE MOON | part of the A Weight Off Your Shoulders collection ║ series masterlist ║ main masterlist ║ | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x plus sized!fem!neighbor

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 5.5k | CONTENT: age gap (Joel mid 40s, neighbor late 20s), struggles of body image and self-worth, Joel gives off some himbo and “he’s so babygirl” vibes (an absolute chef’s kiss of a combo), these two dorks are so down bad for each other it’s stupid

| SYNOPSIS: Joel convinces you to take a weekend trip together.

✧this is the fourth installment of a oneshot collection but can (probably? sort of?) be read as a standalone✧

✧◦◦║ Part 1 ║ Part 2 ║ Part 3 ║ Part 5 ║ Part 6 ║◦◦✧

“Damn, I can’t even remember, darlin’,” Joel drawls, thumbing circles against your leg absentmindedly as he looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Ppfftt. Years. Years.”

“And you were the one telling me that I needed a vacation?” you huff in a laugh.

“Time ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. I’m still right. You need a damn break,” he shoots back with firm but loving kindness.

The airport intercom buzzed with static overhead before an announcement by way of a way too chipper, absolutely-cannot-be-her-actual-voice informed you that your flight would begin boarding in 10 minutes.

“How’d you hear about this again? This deal package thing?” you ask.

“Buddy a’mine from work.” He’s studying the ticket in his hand and glancing at yours. He’d made you print yours out instead of just using the digital ones he’d been issued. Because of course he had. And in the same middle aged man fashion, he’d hauled you to the airport way too many hours before you actually needed to be there. You didn’t really mind, though. It just meant the two of you could sit and talk and relax for longer. A nice start to the quick 3 day vacation to Cabo San Lucas that Joel had all but insisted you take with him.

“Your work friends take cute little weekend trips to Cabo?” you snort.

Joel smirks at the tickets as he reads over them for the 5 millionth time to ensure all the details haven’t magically changed since the last time he checked them. He pushes his glasses up his nose from where they had steadily crept down.

That’s one of the things you’d learned about Joel early on. He wore contacts almost exclusively when he was working on major projects or during the busier time of year for contracting - “safer’n tryna stack safety goggles on top of some glasses” - but opted for some seriously unfairly adorable glasses the rest of the time. He looked good either way, of course.

You follow the line of his nose to where the bridge of it now correctly supports his frames. There was numerous things about Joel’s appearance that you loved, but his nose had snuck into the lineup at some point. Probably something to do with how much you loved when he’d drag it into you when he was lapping you up, the tip of it bumping and stimulating your clit until you couldn’t take it anymore and–

The announcement overhead informs you that the First Class flyers could “ready themselves for boarding at this time.”

“So do they? Bunch of manly, manly man men taking beach getaways?” you taunt.

He lifts an eyebrow and tears his gaze away from the tickets.

“No, just my dumbass buddy who’s on his third wife ‘n has managed to learn enough that a romantic gesture here ‘n there is a helluva lot cheaper than a divorce lawyer,” he chortles.

“Pretty good motivator, I guess,” you admit with amusement. “So what’s your excuse?”

“My excuse? For what? Bookin’ this trip?” he asks. You nod, and he shrugs.

“I’ll be honest with ya, I’m tryna get into this girl’s pants, and I think a coupla beachside margaritas’ll do the trick. She seems like a bit of a slut, to tell ya the truth, but that works out just fine ‘cause I’m a slut, too.” He wiggles his eyebrows theatrically and grins at you when you playfully swat his arm. He leans in closer and grips the inside of your thigh.

“Truth be told, I’m hopin’ to catch sight’a her in this lil pink stringy bikini I’m rather fond of,” he rasps into your ear. You erupt in goosebumps and half-heartedly nudge him away with a bad impression of a chiding look.

“Yeah, well, let’s hope there’s not any turbulence or else the only thing you’ll catch sight of is that girl with her head down the toilet for the rest of the night,” you deadpan.

Joel makes a dissenting noise and trades his grasp on your leg for your hand. “Baby, it’s alright. It’s not a long flight. Promise. I checked the weather and all that. Sunny. Not even a cloud out there. It’ll be alright,” he soothes.

You’d let him know ahead of time that you did not like flying. You wouldn’t go so far as deeming it a phobia, but flying in general made you anxious enough that any amount of turbulence was enough to set you off entirely. You were too embarrassed to share the other reasons of why you hated flying. Joel wouldn’t have made you feel bad about it if you had, but you hated that it was even a thing in the first place.

It was a commonly shared experience that flying was little more than “sardines packed into a tin can” that commoners just had to deal with. Then of course there was the lost luggage or the crying babies or the seating disagreements. Common ground for just about anybody who traveled enough. There was a reason why so many comedians had made airline and flying jokes their bread and butter.

Then there were the additional drawbacks for “passengers of size,” as they were so lovingly called by airlines. Those who carried “more than their share” of poundage being seated beside - or worse, in between - smaller passengers meant you ended up a source of annoyance. An easy, uniting point of focus for disgruntled flyers to project all their grievances onto. How dare you squash into the seat like the rest of us, except you’re bigger so it’s somehow a personal insult to them that you’d make an unpleasant experience even more so.

Because it was so preventable, right? Just be smaller. Eat less. Control yourself every once in a while. Put down the cheeseburger and go for a run every now and then. If you would just stop being so selfishly huge, the rest of us wouldn’t have to put up with your body spilling over into our seat. We wouldn’t have to deal with you shoving and squeezing past everybody because you don’t fit. You aren’t meant to be so big, that’s why you don’t fit. Take the hint and drop a few pounds. For our sake. For your sake.

Or at least have the decency to buy yourself two seats and spare us all the unpleasantries of being made to deal with your bad decisions, your lack of control, your lazy life that has made you too big. We shouldn’t have to pay for the consequences of your bad choices.

Yeah. You dreaded flying.

But how could you possibly put such a damper on this nice gesture from Joel? He’d been so eager and sweet to suggest it. He’d even bought the tickets before even talking to you so that he could guilt trip you into treating yourself to a vacation if you turned him down.

It didn’t take much convincing, though. The thought of Joel half naked and all to yourself for multiple days in a row clouded your judgment. Now that you were about to board, reality was sinking in fast. You tried your best to not let your anxiety get the better of you, but your leg was jumping up and down already.

Joel’s hand cupped the side of your face and turned you to look at him. “Hey, c’mon. I’m right here. I’ll stay beside you the whole time, alright? Get myself permanently banned from the airline when I pee into a water bottle instead’a gettin’ up to use the bathroom. Promise.” His playful attempt at distracting and comforting you works.

“That’s so gross, Joel,” you groan with a scrunched face.

“Just sayin. I’ll do whatever I hafta if it means you’re comfortable, baby,” he says in all sincerity. He brings your hand to his lips and trails a few kisses along your knuckles.

“Let’s go before I gotta chase you down and drag you onto this metal tube myself.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, feeling slightly more relaxed. You just hope nothing embarrassing happens in front of Joel. You don’t think you could stand that level of humiliation.

You hand your ticket to the woman, and she scans it wordlessly with a bored look. You walk ahead of Joel who calls for you to go ahead as he doubles back to the terminal seating where he’d dropped something from his pocket.

You move along the small boarding bridge until you reach a curve in it where you can step aside and allow others to pass. You notice the lingering looks from a few people. The tell tale “god, I hope I’m not seated next to her” expressions flashing before being politely buried and exchanged for a forced, tight-lipped smile.

Joel finally meanders along and gives you a quick peck before you both board. Joel is walking in first and puts both of your overhead luggage away in the bin. His bicep flexes with the movement, and you think to yourself you might just be able to distract yourself enough with certain things to make this flight go faster.

You glance around the plane as Joel finishes loading up the suitcases and closes the cover. The flight is packed. You don’t spot more than 7 empty seats, and there are people behind you. Great. You should’ve looked at your tickets closer like Joel had because maybe then you’d know if either of you had the aisle seat. At least that way you could shove some of yourself into the aisle and give everyone else more room.

“You first, honey,” he prompts, placing a gentle hand on your lower back.

“Um, I’ll just- I’d actually just rather sit in the aisle seat,” you say. “I don’t know if either one of our tickets–”

“I got the aisle seat on my ticket. You take it, baby.” He slides into the middle and pats the aisle seat beside him for you to sit down. You shimmy as gracefully as you can, praying that the armrests won’t dig into your sides too noticeably. You breathe a sigh of relief when you settle into the seat without having to fight the vice grip of metal bars on either side of you.

Joel lifts the armrests that divide the three seats. He wiggles with approval at the less confining arrangement and scoots closer to you.

“Mmmm thas’better,” he hums as he leans a kiss into the crook of your neck and grabs at the inside of your thigh again. His hand is working its way across your lower belly roll when you warn him under your breath to not get you worked up right now when you’re just gonna have to wait hours until he can do something about it. He doesn’t bother to hide the smug expression he’s wearing, all too proud of himself for getting you turned on so easily.

You anxiously await the arrival of the third person bound to put an end to the pretend private party you and Joel are having. You look around confused with a growing thrill when it appears that everyone has boarded the flight. The seat next to Joel’s is empty. You turn your neck to see if there are more open spots in the otherwise packed flight, but you can’t see any from where you’re sitting unless you stand to get a better view.

“I can’t believe we get the whole row to ourselves,” you whisper excitedly to Joel.

He smiles softly at you, taking a moment to soak up the shift in your mood where delight has taken the place of anxiety. “You must be a lucky charm, baby,” he coos before giving you a quick kiss.

It’s the usual spiel: exits are this way, put your own oxygen mask on first, don’t get up until the seatbelt sign goes off. Your last bit of nerves over securing the belt around yourself slip like grains of sand through open fingers when Joel leans over and buckles you in himself. As always, he plants a quick kiss on you before getting himself buckled.

He also unbuckles you once takeoff is done and everyone is “free to move about the cabin.” He cups your face, reminding you gently that he “told you it wasn’t gonna be too bad.” You grin at him. A small heat simmers from your chest to your cheeks at all the comfort and attention he’s showering on you, unaware of just how many things he’s helping you through.

When you repeatedly crane your head to look out the window, Joel asks if you still want the aisle seat.

“Oh. Sorry. I was just-No, I was just curious is all. The aisle seat is good,” you lie.

Of course you want to have the window seat. Everybody loves the window seat. It’s the best seat.

But you never get the window seat because that would mean you would be stuck in the corner, nowhere to lean your body to give others room, having to hold your pee because you can’t scoot past the other two seats and don’t want to be the spectacle of the fat girl making everyone else in your row get up so you can get out.

So, yeah. Aisle seat is fine.

Joel rolls his eyes at you and pokes your thigh. “You’re in my seat,” he says pointedly. You start to argue with him that no, seriously, it’s fine! you want the stupid aisle seat and not the much obviously better window seat, but then he decides to play dirty.

“I’mma call a stewardess over here and have her remove the unruly passenger that’s refusin’ to give me my seat,” he challenges with a playful jut of his chin towards you.

“OHMYGOD,” you huff. “FINE.”

Joel squeezes over and past you, and you shimmy over to the window.

“There is seriously something wrong with you, Joel,” you try to say as sternly as possible, but the wavering giggle in your tone gives you away.

“Shutup, baby, you love it,” he murmurs with a chuckle as he presses himself flush against the side of your back and rests his head on your shoulder. You both sit like that for a bit, looking out the window together with his hand holding yours in your lap.

The rest of the flight is over in record time after you amuse yourselves with the product catalogs in the seat pockets. You and Joel marvel at the dumbest shit that has ever been “invented,” and it somehow gets worse with each page. Joel mercilessly teased you at one point when you tried to hide your genuine interest at the lawn gnome that was fashioned like an accountant. Well, a banker. But still. Close enough in looks and all. And it was only $47.99 plus shipping and handling. Okay, that was an awful price for such a tacky, cheap garden decor item, but it was cute.

He still wouldn’t let it go after you landed and made your way towards the exit. “So lemme get this straight,” he starts with a devilish edge in his voice. “You give me grief for my ‘middle age man bullshit’ like, I dunno, gettin’ to the airport early enough so you’re on time for a flight, but I’m not supposed’ta say anythin’ about you tryna order from a damn airplane catalog?”

“Joel, you told me one time The Eagles made better music than Nirvana,” you scoff in defense of your position.

“That’s not what I said!” he huffs right back.

You only have yourself to blame for the 6 minute Now That’s What I Call Dad Rock! explanation that followed with all the “complex layers” that “determine good bands from bad bands.” Joel was quick to drop the subject entirely when you casually mention that you knew he had Black Eyed Peas in his iTunes library.

“Sarah must’a added that. Don’t even know what that is.” The nervous neck scratch and patchy pink on his cheeks suggested otherwise.

When you finally made it to your hotel, you can’t believe you’d ever considered not coming. Joel confesses that he upgraded the existing package for a “villa suite.” You considered lecturing him over “wasting his money on you,” but you settled for a “thank you” and a kiss when you correctly reminded yourself that this was for both of you.

You feel the hot burn of overwhelming contentment in your gut as you watch Joel list off all the activities included in the package. The snorkeling, sunset yacht cruise, and jet skiing all sound fun. The horseback riding, parasailing, and kayaking stand out as the biggest NOPEs for fat girls.

Joel calls down to the front desk to arrange the sunset yacht cruise for the two of you a few hours from now. He wants to shower - “fuckin’ airplane oxygen makes my skin crawl” - and you wave him off as you help yourself to some fruit the staff has left for you on a decadent looking platter arrangement. You hear the water cut on in the shower. You open the sliding panoramic glass doors to listen to the water from the beach that makes up most of your view.

You feel cliche the moment you think it, but you really do feel like you’re in paradise. Not just the location, either. Here, with Joel. Who pushed you to do something spontaneous and fun and spendy. Who comforted you the entire plane ride. Who made you feel special. Who still hadn’t pressured you to put a label on your relationship and seemed content that you were mutually exclusive and just needed more time to adjust to the idea of getting into another serious relationship so soon after you broke off your engagement with your shitbag ex Michael.

Another side of you was nervous for this trip because it was a very undeniable “couple in a serious, longterm, committed relationship” move. Not that Joel had ever mentioned it as such or even made you feel that way. It was all in your own head, like most of the things that held you back from doing what made you truly happy.

You shake your head and decide you’re going to focus on the amazing time ahead of you. Just as soon as you can get the price of your plane ticket from Joel so you could balance your digital register and pay him back. You’d talked him into letting you split the cost of the hotel package, but then he’d gone and upgraded it to this villa. You felt antsy about your airline ticket still being outstanding when you know Joel must’ve spent a good chunk of change for this nicer, more secluded lodging option.

“Hey, babe?” you call into the bathroom. He answers back with a watery yeah?

“Hey, how much did you say the ticket was? For the flight?”

A beat or two of silence. “Uhhh, I dunno off the top’a my head, baby. I can tell ya when I get out of the shower, though. Be just about 10 minutes, okay?”

“Alright,” you call back.

You turn and walk back into the bedroom portion of the villa. You see Joel’s clothes discarded on the floor. His phone, belt, and wallet littered on the neatly made king size bed. A thought crosses your mind that makes you smile. You pick up Joel’s phone and stare at the lockscreen. You didn’t know his password, but you didn’t have to. He’d unlock it for you if you ever asked to borrow it for a second. He wasn’t anything like the “suspiciously protective of their things” guys you’d been with before who didn’t want you to go through anything of theirs, especially electronics.

You hum to yourself and take a bite of pineapple. You’ve just come up with a little game, a test for yourself, to see if you can guess Joel’s password without any help from him. Worst case scenario it’d lock you out for a little bit and you’d have to wait to get your ticket price. Best case scenario you prove to yourself and to him that you know him like the back of your hand. That, and you can check his email for the flight receipt.

Hhmmmmm. Seven numbers. Must be Sarah’s doing. Joel wouldn’t go out of his way to add more digits to a passcode just to make it harder to get into. Path of least resistance was Joel’s general approach to technology. You take a bite of a strawberry. Then a mango. Oh my god, this shit is delicious. Fresh fruit had to be one of the best things on earth.

Seven. Seven. Seven. Hhhmmmmmmmm.

Your face lights up. You know it. You know his passcode. It HAS to be this. You’d wager a good amount of money that you’re correct. You start to punch in the numbers.

8 0 0 8 1 3 5

It unlocks the second you hit the 5. You let out a victorious cackle. This DORK. Of course his password is “boobies” in numerical form. Of fucking course it is. Just when you think you can’t fall for this man any more than you already have, he goes and has that for his phone passcode.

“Fuckin’ perv,” you giggle to yourself with immense delight.

You are giggling and smiling to yourself as you click open his email. You scroll down until you see the airline name and then tap it open. Your brow furrows. The giggle that had been bubbling up your throat goes away in an instant. You don’t notice the sound of the shower being turned off or the rustling of Joel toweling himself off.

Joel’s words from earlier echo in your mind. “I’ll do whatever I hafta if it means you’re comfortable, baby.”

You stare at the screen, scrolling up and down and back again to make sure you’re reading it correctly.

“Everything okay? You aren’t answerin’ me,” Joel asks from the bathroom doorway.

You turn towards him, and he can now see you clutching his unlocked phone in your hand. The glow of it reflects off your glossed eyes where tears are prickling at the brim. A look of realization from Joel.

“Baby, I– Please just let me–” he starts in a hurry.

“You bought three plane seats? You bought the whole row?” you squeak out.

“I’m– I did, but it wasn’t–”

“Why’d you do that?” you demand. You already know why.

“Baby, listen. It’s not like that! I knew you’d be annoyed at me putting up the money for first class, so I just did it this way instead. You weren’t supposed’ta find out,” he implores.

He slowly approaches you, sensing the teetering mood that’s been set. His eyes are searching yours and begging for forgiveness all at once.

“First class? Because of, because they’re bigger seats? And-And a whole row so a third person didn’t have to squeeze in? So just me and you could sit together in the row?” you mumble.

You make a frustrated noise when you start replaying the day.

“Oh my god. The pocket. Your thing you said you dropped from your pocket? That you went back into the terminal to get? You didn’t even drop anything! Did you? You just needed to make sure I couldn’t see the lady scan two tickets!”

Joel swallows thickly and looks like he has no idea what to do or say.

Something akin to embarrassment threatens to take hold of you, but instead an overwhelming sense of love and security takes its place. Joel wanted to buy you First Class seats for a more comfortable flight, but he knew you’d get stuck on him spending that sort of money. So instead he bought an extra seat in economy class just so you could have enough room to move around comfortably. So you’d have a good flight. So you’d have a good start to the amazing weekend trip he’d planned.

“I-I did it because I-I just wanted you to have a good flight and be comfortable. Please, it’s not what you’re thinking. I know you get anxiety flyin’, and nobody fits good in those stupid seats anyway.” He’s a bit more frantic in his explanation now that you’re just staring at him, blinking slowly. He grabs your hands in his.

“Please. Please. Don’t be mad at me. Please,” he begs.

“Mad? At you?” You’re confused. Joel thinks you’re mad at him. For doing one of the most considerate things anyone has ever done for you and without any prompting. Somebody who’d probably never been more than 10 pounds “overweight” their entire life. Somebody who had no lived experience occupying a fat body. Somebody who because of those things would have to care deeply for someone to think of them in such an intimate, personal context. To even consider what their experiences were like. To imagine how they might be able to do something to make those experiences safer, nicer, more palatable for them. Joel had come up with this idea because he cared about you that much.

His head shifts sideways, sharing in the confusion. “Aren’t you?” he wonders.

“That is… the nicest thing… that anyone has ever–,” you break off when your voice cracks with emotion.

Joel’s expression softens when he gathers you aren’t furious with him. You close your eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again and wrapping your arms around Joel’s middle.

“No. I’m not mad. At all. You… You’re … Just.. I just….” You shake your head as you look up to him. Trying to collect yourself and your thoughts feels like the hardest thing that’s ever been done in the history of doing hard things.

He shakes his head back at you. “You can– You’re allowed to be upset with me. I shoulda told you. I shoulda just told you the truth. I just didn’t want for you to, I dunno. Didn’t want you to feel embarrassed or somethin’. Not that you should feel embarrassed. Just that I thought you might feel embarrassed ‘bout it. ‘Cause of nerves or how you’d fit in the seats. Didn’t want you feelin’ self-conscious about any of it. Jus’ wanted you to be comfortable. Thought it was the best way to go about it, s’all. I know it was dumb. Shouldn’t’a kept it from you.”

“Take this stupid towel off,” you order.

“I-what?”

The quick turn in the conversation stuns Joel for a moment. You don’t wait for him to catch up. You shove the towel off his hips and let it drop to the floor. You walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed. A hard shove lands him onto his back against the soft mattress.

“The hell?” he mutters. There’s confusion in his tone but zero resistance to the surprising but welcome turn of events.

He’s sprawled out against the large bed, and you take the opportunity of his wide spread to start licking anywhere and everywhere. His hips buck at the first pass of your flat tongue against his balls.

“Gahh-Goddamn. Fuck. The fuck is goin’ on?” he rasps.

You laugh at his suspended disbelief and bewilderment as you slurp both of his balls into your mouth and start a pull of light suction on them. A whiny moan grumbles in his throat at the sensation.

You release him and let the slobber drip down your chin. “M’showin’ you how not mad I am at you.”

His eyes roll back when you take his entire length into your mouth with one motion. His hips jerk when you bottom out.

“Ooohhh-hngggg jesusfuckinchrist,” his voice crackles and strains. You work his length with such fervor that your drool is running down his shaft, dripping onto the curly brown hairs at his base, sliding in hot streaks down his ass on either side of his ballsack. You so rarely got to please him like this. He always preferred you riding his face or letting him titty fuck you. You hadn’t really ever shown him your particular skillset in this department, but you were sure as hell gonna clear that up today.

“Ba-Baby. Agh fuck. Lemme tast–” Joel is sputtering through his sentence, but it drops off entirely when you start to jerk him off and bury your tongue into his asshole. His legs snap up into a loose bend at the knee. His hand flies to the top of your head.

“OH FUCK,” he blurts out, raising his hips off the bed slightly for you to have better access.

You trade off between rolling your tongue with firm presses against his hole and darting as much of your tongue as you can inside of it, and he sounds borderline hysterical. You move up to his balls again and suck them into the vacuum of your mouth more urgently than before. By the time you make it back up to his dick, he is blabbering absolute nonsense.

“Gah-jus’ wanna— hhhngggg, oh fuck haahhhhhh, christ— if I wanna – but wanna fuck your–”

A strangled moan cuts his incoherent musings off. The fact that this man thinks he can last long enough to fuck you? In the state you’ve whipped him into? Actually hilarious. He’s about to spiral, and you’re almost done showing him how not mad you are. You know what will get him there, and quick.

“Joel, shut the fuck up already and turn my throat into a daycare,” you growl.

“JESUS CHRIST, YOU’RE GONNA FUCKIN’ END ME,” he practically sobs when you take him into your mouth again.

You bob the tip of his head in your throat and massage his balls. His entire body stiffens as he grabs for your hair. He makes a sort of pained noise just before you feel him twitching inside your mouth. The loud, distress-adjacent moans ripping from his chest are almost enough to make you get off, too.

You work him through his release, swallowing and bobbing as his spend shoots into your throat. You don’t stop until he gently pulls you off of him.

You are a complete mess. Slobber and cum dripping and sliding every which way. You couldn’t give less of a shit. Joel’s astonished, blissed out look right now makes your day. You wished your phone was closer to you could snap a picture of him, looking like he’d just seen a sleep paralysis demon do a long division math problem before running off to play hopscotch with some Keebler Elves.

“You okay?” you laugh as you crawl up next to him and wrap your arms around his neck. He turns to look at you with wide-eyed awe. You can’t help but crack up at his astonishment.

“You’re acting like nobody’s ever sucked your dick before, Joel,” you gibe.

“NOT LIKE THAT THEY HAVEN'T.” His voice perfectly compliments his expression. Bewildered. Satisfied. Reverent.

You laugh again. You made mental notes of your performance. Save that routine in your back pocket and bust it out when you need it. A real “BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY” type blowjob. Always a good thing to have.

“Told you I wasn’t mad,” you titter. You place wet kisses against his neck and snuggle closer. He relaxes against the bed and slowly comes back to his senses. You feel his chest shake with a laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?” you demand.

“Turn my throat into a daycare?” he echoes your words back to you. He sniffs an impressed, incredulous laugh through his nose. “Absolutely foul, Roxanne.”

You bark a laugh at his use of your full name. You could probably count on one hand the times he’d used it, and it was always when he was being very serious about something. The fact that he’d used it in this context felt like the funniest thing you’d ever heard in your life. When your rolls of laughter subsided, you took him to task on his declaration of you being “foul.”

“Uuuhhhhh, that’s real rich coming from the guy who has BOOBIES for his passcode! If I’m a pervert, then you’re a pervert,” you assert.

“Damn, guess you’re right,” he tuts. “Sounds like we really deserve each other.”

Your breath catches, and you lock eyes with one another. You don’t think he meant for it to sound as meaningful as it did. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before settling for silence. His face is so open yet impossible to read.

“Yeah. I think you’re right. I think we do deserve each other,” you agree in a low voice and a shy smile.

Joel wordlessly brings your mouth to his and captures you in a slow, deep kiss. It feels like he’s saying whatever it was that he couldn’t just a few moments ago. For now you greedily take what he’s able to communicate, but you know eventually you’ll both have to work up the nerve to talk about it and say all the things you’ve been saying through touches and gifts and looks and gestures and acts of service.

But for right now, you’re just going to take the time to enjoy what’s right in front of you.

me, to the characters I am writing and putting into the very specific situations I'm reading: OH MY FUCKING GOD, YOU TWO JUST KNOCK IT OFF ALREADY AND ADMIT YOU LOVE EACH OTHER

me, before anyone can ask why this is being posted before the sub!Joel fic that was supposed to come out next: