#i need the hydraulic press i need to hold hands | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vivalas-vega · 2 years ago

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I'm in the mood for something angsty... would you write something where Jake's partner is hospitalized for some reason? Feel free to explore it any way you want, I'm sure it'll be great!

this gave me the perfect opportunity to rework something I'd set aside for Jake and Cobra if any of you are readers of real friends :) (this was orig going to be how they confessed their feelings hehe)

add yourself to my taglist

“Break right, Phoenix, break right!” You yelled in your cockpit as you and members of your squad were engaged in a training mission… one rooted in showing a new class of Top Gun recruits what teamwork sounds like in the air but you were all having an off day. She broke right but a second too late, almost clipping into Jake who whizzed past her.

“Phoenix, what the fuck?” He shouted, temporarily wavering in the air before recovering,

“Sorry, sorry.” She mumbled and you sighed.

“Everyone on the ground, now.” You ordered. You weren't sure you had the authority to do that, but everyone was off their game and you figured it was the best thing to do to avoid disaster. As you began to descend a flock of birds came out of nowhere and you cursed as you tried to fly around them.

“Birdstrike,” you said, “right engine on fire, climbing, throttling back. Shutting off fuel to right engine, extinguishing fire,” you said, narrating everything you were doing to keep ATC informed.

“What’s going on?” you heard Bob in your ear and you ignored it as you focused on the task at hand.

“Fuck,” you said as alarms rang throughout the cockpit, “left engine is out, trying to restart.” Your chest felt tight as you furiously pressed buttons, “throttling up.”

“You’re on fire!” Phoenix shouted in your ears.

“Extinguishing left engine,” you said and you felt a sinking feeling as more warning lights popped up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you muttered.

“Punch out.” You heard Jake in your ears and you shook your head though no one could see you. In his own jet he was hovering idly, watching as yours spun wildly out of control and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

“God damn it, just- give me a minute,” you yelled, but all of your hail mary’s were coming up short, “hydraulic failure,” you said as you pulled up.

“Damn it, you can’t save it, punch out,” you heard him again, not even attempting to hide the panic in his voice that mirrored your own that was radiating throughout your body. Your jet started to veer off, starting a spiral directly for the bluffs ahead of you as everything became unresponsive.

“Lost all controls, trying-”

“Eject now,” Phoenix yelled and you exhaled sharply, looking at the rapidly approaching hillside.

“Fuck, ejecting, ejecting!” you shouted, pulling up on the loops between your feet and gasping as the wind was knocked out of you. You desperately tried to get in a breath of air as you pulled your parachute cord but it was futile with a rather ungraceful collision with the ground below. You heard the sounds of a rescue chopper before you could even finish detangling yourself from all of your gear and once you were free you took a deep breath and counted to ten, naming things you could see out loud to ground you, needing to come down from the adrenaline high to properly assess if you’d been hurt or not.

“Trees, rocks, smoke from my damn jet, clouds in the sky…” you breathed, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins begin to subside. As you began to calm down you stretched out your muscles, bouncing your weight between each foot and decided you were unharmed, spare a gash on your forehead that was oozing blood faster than you would have liked. You dug around in your pack, grabbing a pack of gauze and tearing it open to press against the wound as you waited. As your body came down from the high of a near death experience you felt yourself slipping out of consciousness no matter how hard you tried to hold on.

“I don’t understand what the hell she was doing,” Jake said as he paced outside of your hospital room with Rooster and Phoenix standing by and trying to figure out how to help.

“She thought she could save it, any one of us would have waited until the last second too,” Phoenix tried but Jake wasn’t having it.

“She could have died,” his voice cracked just as a nurse came out of your room to let him know you were asking for him.

“Hey, sweetheart…” he said, softly sitting on the edge of your bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a battered highway cone,” you groaned, trying to sit up but every bone in your body protested. “How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours… what the hell was that?”

“Birdstrike, thought I could save the engine,” you answered and you saw the disappointment in his face.

“You should have ejected as soon as it went out,” he replied.

“You know that’s not protocol, I had to at least try.”

“I don’t care about protocol! We can replace your jet, we can’t replace you,” he said, voice thick with emotion and you just smiled softly at him.

“I’m okay, Jake, really… just a few bumps and bruises.”

“And a concussion,” he pointed out and you grimaced… that’s why your head hurt so badly.

“It’ll heal,” you tried but he just shook his head. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Yeah well, you almost weren’t so stop saying you’re fine,” he shot back and your eyes widened. “Because I’m not, and you shouldn’t be. I mean, what the fuck, sweetheart? Was I just supposed to be okay with watching you burn in?” you could tell he was trying his hardest not to yell, to still be gentle with you. “You don’t get to be reckless like that anymore.”

“Okay, honey,” you nodded, reaching up to cup his face.

“I’m serious, no more of that. I can’t- I can’t do that again, just watch you spin out of control. I can’t-”

“It’s okay, come here,” you said, pulling him down and wrapping your arms around him. “I understand, it’s okay.”

“I’m supposed to be comforting you,” he mumbled against your chest and you laughed despite how much it hurt.

“That’s okay… through thick and thin, right?” you asked and he nodded as he sat up.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said looking into your eyes and you nodded.

“I promise,” you whispered, pulling him in for a kiss. “I love you, you big softie.”

“I love you, too.”

#comet answers #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin fan fiction #jake seresin #jake seresin fan fiction #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #hangman #hangman fan fiction #hangman x reader #hangman x you #top gun maverick #top gun fan fiction

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year ago

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Keith knows, truthfully and entirely objectively, that his life has improved since he started dating Lance. Obviously. There is no disputing this fact if nature. His attitude has mellowed, his days are brighter, his nights are even better, his crops are watered his skin is clear et cetera et cetera. (Literally, on that last one, since Lance is sneaky with his product).

…However.

There are setbacks.

Like right now, where he’s been pushed so far to the edge of the bed that he’s actually holding his breath to avoid being squished against that wall like a new coat of paint. So.

He loves his boyfriend. Seriously. He’s slept more in the months they’ve been seeing each other than he has in his entire life combined, actually. It’s insane. There’s something about Lance pressed up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs, nose barely peeking above his shoulder to let in some air (seriously how does he do that; Keith has watched him and he has, like, maybe one nostril available for oxygen intake. The rest of his face is smooshed against Keith’s upper arm and pec. And he’s got the blanket up to his ears, too. Does Lance not need to breathe for long periods of time? Like a dolphin? Keith will have to ask) that just makes sleeping actually relaxing, for once. Like maybe he doesn’t have to stay half awake, like maybe he can actually trust himself to be safe in his own bed. It’s an incredible feeling, to finally feel well-rested in the mornings.

He does. However. Feel the ittiest, tiniest bit like he’s sleeping with a corset on. And being hydraulic pressed into the corner of the room. If he has to pick something to be nitpicky about, he means.

“Lance, c’mon,” he mutters, exhaling finally. Lance, who is mostly asleep based on the growing puddle of drool Keith feels wetting his sleep shirt, takes the opportunity to squeeze tighter like a goddamn python. “Can you move over a little bit? I’m up against the wall, I got no room to breathe —”

The human corset suddenly lets up, and Keith can breathe again.

So he does.

Perhaps a touch dramatically, with the bug gasping inhale or whatever.

(Look, he’s not perfect. He’s quite comfortable blaming Shiro’s influence, actually.)

“Thank you,” he huffs. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling the twinge in one of his ribs; tender from an injury he has yet to admit he has. (It’s fine. He checked. It’s barely even bruised mostly, he’s good. It’ll handle itself or become a Future Keith problem, so.) He curses under his breath as he stretches a bit, taking advantage of the space.

He frowns. “Wait, what?”

He sits up, confused as to why his spider monkey boyfriend is not in his immediate presence. It takes a second for his bleary eyes to adjust to the half-light of their bedroom, but eventually he manages and looks over and Lance is — Lance is on the goddamn floor. The blanket is with him. And four pillows.

“Lance.”

Keith bites his lip. This is either a bit or a very delicate situation, and if it’s the latter and he laughs then he’s very much in the doghouse, and for all his complaining he would much rather spend the night suffocating than alone. Much rather.

“Aw, Lance, come on.”

Unfortunately, his voice shakes, and he can’t quite tamp down his snorts and giggles, as much as he tries to muffle them.

Lance doesn’t speak, but Keith can almost physically taste his frown. His pout practically has its own atmosphere, it’s so potent.

“Hey.”

Keith gets to his knees, half-shuffling across the mattress. He leans over the edge, closer to Lance’s curled up form, and raises an eyebrow, amused. “Leandro. You are not being serious right now.”

The silence continues to grow. Keith can almost feel an actual chill, there’s so much iciness leaking from Lance right now.

(He also has the only blanket, but whatever. Tomato tomato.)

“Baby.”

“If you never want to sleep with me again that’s fine,” Lance says tersely. Keith rolls his eyes, head in his hands. “The floor is lovely. I’d rather be here than anywhere near your stinky mullet anyway.”

Keith sighs, long and heavy, steeling himself for the inevitable back pain he is going to have tomorrow morning. The things he does for love.

“You are the most dramatic man alive. Scoot over.”

Caught off guard, Lance uncurls, looking over at Keith in confusion.

Keith grins. “There are those pretty brown eyes.”

The pretty brown eyes in question are still squinted in suspicion, but Keith was expecting that. He moves as casually as he can manage, even trying his luck by humming something Lance was listening to earlier, picking up the edge of the blanket and sliding in behind his boyfriend, flat on the floor, arms winding around his waist and head bent at the junction of his shoulder. Lance is still tense, but allows Keith in his space, thankfully. Keith was half worried he’d stomp away to go sleep with Hunk.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to Lance’s neck and lingering there, making his boyfriend shiver as his lips tickle his skin. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Just feeling a little claustrophobic.”

Lance softens, but only barely. “You can tell me to back off, you know. I will.”

There’s still an undertone of hurt to his voice, a backing of insecurity. Keith tightens his grip, shaking his head.

“No. Don’t want that.”

Lance makes a frustrated noise. “Well, then what do you want, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

“You.” He traces an invisible line down the side of Lance’s neck with his mouth, kissing and biting slightly, relishing in every little twitch of Lance’s shoulders. “Duh.”

“No, not ‘duh’,” Lance argues, but his voice has gone weak. “You’re a pain in my ass. Do you want to be cuddled or not, Red?”

Bingo. Keith fights a smirk at the nickname, knowing he fails when Lance sighs, but the slide of his hands to rest on top of Keith’s bely his amusement, his fading irritation.

“Course I do,” Keith promises. His kisses the back of Lance’s neck again, but it’s softer this time; no underlying motives. An assurance, a promise. “I just. You know. Would also like twelve percent more space to inflate my lungs, if that’s okay.”

Lance snorts. Keith grins.

“You’re such a goober.”

“You’re the goober, actually. The pile of drool on my shoulder proves it.”

He feels more than sees Lance’s neck go red. Keith snickers. Lance hates when Keith brings up the drooling and for that he will literally never ever stop.

“I hope you wake up in agony.”

“Oh, I will, thanks to your hissy fit.”

Lance kicks his heel into Keith’s shin because he’s a shithead. Keith takes it without complaint because he’s the biggest whipped loser of all time and he’s well aware of it.

“We can go back to the bed, you know,” Lance offers eventually, although he makes no effort to move.

Keith yawns. “Nah.” He rests his head on the top of Lance’s spine, tangling their legs together. “I’m good where you are.”

———

based off this post

#i love writing them stupid and dramatic #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #klance #established klance #insecure lance #fluff #domestic klance #dramatic keith #dramatic lance #whipped keith #brown eyed lance #my writing #fic #longpost

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 6 months ago

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If I arm wrestle with Yves, would he let me win or nah?

Tl;dr: Yves lets you win if you manage to overcome his normie strength, but he will teach you how to win against it

It depends, could you overcome his forearm torque of 160Nm in total? Yves can absolutely handle much more intense forces, arm wrestling an entire hydraulic press and winning without breaking a sweat. But for the sake of appearing "normal", he would tone his abilities down tremendously. Even his "normal" strength is a little jaw dropping, as a torque of 160Nm is as powerful as the higher end of an electric mountain bike.

Regardless of your personality, he would let you try your luck and strength on him without giving any pointers. You would find that he is an immovable object, staring at you dead in the eye as you're fighting for your life. It's as if he was elegantly holding a martini glass in the air, while you're close to popping a vein in your forehead.

The scenario above is only if you're untrained; the average person. If you're a professional arm wrestler and are able to beat his grossly undermined arm strength, he would put up a show and pretend that you're genuinely beating him in the game. After that, Yves will shower you in praise for succeeding, but also checking your arm if you had accidentally broken a bone or injured yourself in any way.

After humiliatingly losing (or painfully winning) to him, Yves would thank you for trying and of course, praise you for your efforts. As Yves is a man of Physics and science, he would lay out exactly how to best him at arm wrestling.

He would tell you the length of your forearm matters, and the pushing force you apply must be exactly perpendicular to it. The shorter your forearm is, the more force you have to apply, on top of that, remembering to keep it perpendicular.

Yves would take the chance to teach you about moments in physics, pulling out his reading glasses, some pens, calculators, protractors and papers. He also made sure to remind you that your bones and muscles can only handle a certain amount of pressure until they tear or break.

Let's say, for example, if you have a forearm length of 23.5cm, or 9.3 inches; you would need to exert around 70 Kilograms or 155 pounds of force just to get a torque of 160Nm. Before you could even achieve such a feat, it's incredibly likely that you would either fracture a bone or dislocate a shoulder. Or die from an aneurysm.

Yves loves to think, he enjoys exploring such topics and hypotheticals with you; welcoming any and every absurd idea you have just to win in a match of arm wrestling. You could suggest lengthening your forearm by either using a bionic prosthetic or taping a metal rod, he would do the maths and run his predictions for you in real time; enthusiastically explaining its likelihood to succeed or fail.

He would also love discussing about the ethics and integrity, what constitutes cheating or unfairness in a game. If you're the type to indulge him in these debates, it could go on for weeks. Even months or years.

But chances are, as soon as you see him holding a notebook and a set of stationery in his hands, you would probably run away and give up trying to win. Not everyone fancies a good physics lesson.

And he would expect that to happen, but it doesn't make him any less disappointed.

He shows his love in many ways, one of which is imparting some of the vast reservoir knowledge he has onto you.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader

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forest-falcon · 3 months ago

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The Butterfly Effect

Chptr 14

🧡❤️🩶💛🚒🐦‍🔥

"So what's the plan?" Rigby jogged up alongside John.

"Here," John pressed a button at his wrist and the rock face in front of them opened; much the way a garage door might.

"Impressive," Rigby mused aloud. He let out a long, low whistle as he stepped inside.

"We need to clear a path around the pool. Jetpacks just won't cut it if we're gonna try n' stabilize One," John pointed to his brother's green Bird.

"Need me to pilot her?" Rigby's face held more than a trace of excitement.

"Oh...no, sorry," John scratched the back of his head.

"You'll be driving one of her pods. When we've cleared enough of the debris, and the villa has been stabilized; I may need you in Phoenix's carrier to help with moving One."

Rigby straightened and gave a nod.

"Time is scarce. Reports say Alan's okay, but we have a further three people in the villa who may require urgent medical attention, and I can't risk McCready's team in there until we know they have a chance at making it back out again," John sighed.

Rigby cleared his throat; his face visually construing a silent inner-debate.

"What?" John urged, then winced inwardly at his tone. Adjusting to Earth's gravity appeared to be even more wearing when fearing for your family's well being.

"You know, you can call them by name - Virgil and Gordon. We...we have your back," Rigby gave John an awkward clap on the back.

The clap echoed around the cavernous hangar.

John swallowed hard to staunch impending tears. There was a second's pause, before the astronaut stepped into his missing brother's Bird.

*. *. *.

"Knock, knock!" Parker called to signal his arrival outside of Alan's door.

"Erm...am I supposed to say who's there?" Alan's young voice came back.

" 'Oo's there? Well, hI'm glad to see that yer haven't lost your sense of humour along with yer bedroom!" Parker chuckled as he worked the lock on Alan's door.

There was a satisfying sound of the latch clicking, and the door swung open.

"Looks like you could use an 'and, Master Alan," he smiled, extending a hand.

"F-A-B-," Alan enthused, hauling himself up, and into the corridor, with Parker's help.

The teen cracked his back.

"Welp, I think I now hold the Tracy Island record for the longest pull up!"

*. *. *.

"We had to make an 'ole in Master Gordon's window to get to you. 'Fraid your brother's parking had made somewhat of a mess," Parker gestured towards Gordon's rooms.

"Didn't you teach him to drive?" Alan grinned.

"Cars, young Master Tracy, not rocket ships! And, I'll 'ave less of yer cheek! Scott might not be firin' on all cylinders at the moment, but you mark my words - I 'ave a memory like an elephant!" Parker chuckled, wagging a finger.

"You look like one too!"

"Oi!" Parker swatted at the teen as he ran.

*. *. *.

John and Rigby had made light work of clearing the debris surrounding the villa, and the structure was stabilised enough for a team to head up to help locate Virgil, Grandma, and Gordon.

"HELLO? VIRG? GRANDMA? GORD-"

"-OVER HERE!" Gordon hammered a small rock against a metal support beam.

The team tentatively picked their way over splintered floorboards and around mounds of rock that lay strewn across what was left of the comms room.

"Allie, is that you?"

"The one and only! I've brought some friends with me. Didn't wanna hog all the glory, y'know?"

"Phoenix?"

"Yup!"

Jonesy took a step closer, with a small hydraulic whine from the suit.

"Jonesy?"

"S'up Gords? I like what you've done with the place. You're kinda lacking in the door department though."

"Well y'know what Virgil always says; if you can't find a door, make one!" Gordon called from behind the fallen rocks.

"My thoughts exactly!"

"WAIT!" Tycho was almost pulled forwards into the rock face as he tried to stall Jonesy's suited arm.

"The structure's too unstable. Any attempt to move these boulders risks the whole lot coming down on top of Gordon," Tycho gesticulated wildly.

"Yeah, let's not do that." Gordon deadpanned.

"So what's the plan?" Jonesy couldn't deny that the thrill of using the exosuit had him itching to use his new superpower again. Two tonne boulder? No problem! He'd just shifted it like....kapow!

Tycho dragged his hands down his face as he thought.

"Hmm...we need to get a better view of what we're dealing with. Right here, we can only see half of the puzzle." Tycho pensively ran a hand down the largest boulder.

"And how are we gonna do that?" Jonesy was under the distinct impression that Tycho wasn't referencing the exosuit.

"I think I have just the thing!"

The scientist bent down and unfastened the clasps of a small metal case he'd carried down from the carrier.

"Jonesy, meet Mini Max.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderbirds fanfiction #gordon tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #aloysius parker #oc jonesy #the butterfly effect

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crypticcowboys · 1 year ago

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hi there, i absolutely love your writing! please may i request some general headcanons for mike x gn!reader where both he and the reader are autistic? i’m glad to see that someone else headcanons him as such :D i hope that’s not too vague!!

a/n: thank you for being my first ask :3! and ofc it's not too vague! this is going to be focused more on mike's traits and basically his interactions with you. this was also lowkey self indulgent. i actually really enjoyed writing this so i think i might make another one of these focusing just on him@))@ pairing: autistic/audhd!mike schmidt x autistic!gn!reader headcanons, also autistic abby (the entire family is autistic) warnings: brief mention of autistic meltdown, otherwise fluff. wc: 836 (i ran out of ideas.)

not proofread i wrote this while high

mike schmidt didn't find out that he was autistic until a lot later into his adult life-- only knowing that he had adhd. he always knew that abby was autistic, she had been diagnosed earlier into her life. but him? he never gave second thought to it. of course, he felt disconnected in a sense to the rest of the world. he was there, but he felt like nobody truly clicked nor resonated with him besides abby. of course, until he met you.

to say that mike was truly comfortable with you was an understatement. he didn't feel forced to make eye contact with you, and of course, ended up feeling comfortable enough with you to make full-on eye-contact... each and every time.

i feel like mike's love languages are definitely quality time and physical contact. he enjoys sitting in a room with you as a sort-of body double-- you two don't have to talk at all for him to have a good time with you. he enjoys being close to you, or being in a room with you, the both of you engaging in anything that you'd like. as for the physical touch part, he always needs to be connected with you in some way. in public, he's behind you, interlinking your arms or your hands together and giving you a soft squeeze. or when you're both in bed, and you two can actually fully hold eachother, this man needs pressure. he needs to feel like he's being pressed by a hydraulic press. either lay on-top of him or squeeze him from behind whilst he's the little spoon-he's in heaven.

mike definitely loves the sound of your voice. when you're talking he's pretty much giving you his full attention, even if he's not looking directly at you, or doing something else. he won't mind if you ramble about your special interest or your hyperfixation, he'll listen and ask you as many questions that pop into his mind. he's genuinely curious about what you're into!

as for mike's sPin/hyperfixations, i feel like one of the biggest hyperfixations he ever had as a child was pokemon. it's basic and mainstream, i know, but i feel like he especially took interest in card-collecting. i feel like he's a big collector in general-- he likes seeing physical groups of things that he either picks up or buys himself. he doesn't have much money to expand his collections now, but every once in a while he'll save up to expand them. i feel like he really enjoys miniature things-- like tiny things he can build. this may seem a bit childish to him and he'd never admit it-- but he likes calico critters because of the small objects. he can just never afford the sets. i feel like he also watches tiny cooking videos on his phone when he can't sleep.

mike's also a really big music enjoyer. i feel like he's always got his walkman on him-- several tapes. this man is a sade and jeff buckley enjoyer and you can't tell me any different.

despite the fact that he needs a job to support himself and abby-- mike is quick to burn out with work. he'll start off strong at first, and then later, everything down to the very air he could breathe in the place could just irritate him. besides all the stuff that happened at freddy's, it was... sort of a fresh breath of air, being his 'own boss.' no coworkers that couldn't understand the meaning of taking a break due to overstimulation to nag in his ear during rushes. not that rushes even really existed in the first place at freddy's. but for all his other jobs, he either got fired or outright quit less than 6 months of work because of his dull-minded managers. fast food was the worst-- he'd always encounter rude customers. he got a drink thrown at him, once, and he swore to never work fast food again. he does not back down on promises.

but whenever he does have burnout, or have a meltdown, mike instantly seeks you out first. he's clinging to you like a lifeline, feeling tears springing to his eyes whenever he's thinking about the amount of bills and fees he has to pay, or the chores he needs to do. he needs you to distract him from it all, he needs you to hold him tight and just distract him from everything. the burnout takes weeks to go away, but you and abby just make the experience so much smoother for him.

i feel like mike really enjoys going on road trips and long drives. no destination, just driving around with you and abby, making up dumb stories or you giving storytimes from your job that abby probably shouldn't be hearing, incase she starts picking up words like 'shit.' but she's already picked them up, honestly.

both you and abby are his lifelines. and the world wouldn't quite click if it weren't for you, especially.

#mike schmidt is autistic #i feel like the miniature stuff is so real #like he definitely loves tiny cooking #i feel like he really loves cats too #ahh i have so many ideas brewing ill def make another #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x fem!reader #mike schmidt x reader #movie!mike schmidt #mike schmidt x gn!reader #mike schmidt x you

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spontaneousglitterbees · 2 years ago

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(click for higher quality, text description under the cut)

welcome to the hydraulic press channel

[Begin comic description:

Scene begins with Kokichi and Kaito during the offscreen Hangar Scene of Chapter 5. Kokichi, having been shot and poisoned, lay on his back on a hydraulic press. The first panel shows him from the side, with Kaito out of view behind machinery. Presumably, they are in the moments before enacting Kokichi's plan.

KOKICHI: "Momota-chan?"

KAITO: "Ouma?"

KOKICHI: "Before I die (which should be very shortly). I... need you to tell me something."

Zoom out. The camera focuses on the distance between the press and the control balcony. Kaito responds, "If robots didn't already have them I'm sure Miu—" Kokichi cuts him off. "Not that."

Zoom back in on a deliriously bemused Kokichi, who is slowly pulling the portion of Kaito's coat that will be trapped with him under the press over his still-bleeding right shoulder. "Did she hit it?"

Three small panels in succession show a confused close-up of Kaito's face: "... What?" as Kokichi fires back "On my jacket... the stitches make an 'X' pattern on the back!" Kokichi holds his crossed index fingers over his head, the intersection highlighted in purple-pink.

Cut to Kaito at the control panel of the hydraulic press, leafing through Kokichi's planning notebook with rigid shoulders and a determined expression. Meanwhile, from his position below, Kokichi less speaks to Kaito than in his general direction: "I'm such a nice murder victim, Momota! Ahahahahaha, I even showed her where to aim!"

Kaito is mildly alarmed as he hears a weak "Nishishishishi" from the press as Ouma loses steam, and he cringes as it progresses into a cough so severe it jars the outline of the speech bubble from its background with an overlain spatter of purple-pink blood. Kaito looks away from the press and toward the toilet where the two earlier attempted to flush Ouma's clothes and disrupt the future crime scene. A close-up confirms that the crossbow bolt went through between the large 'X'-shaped stitches on the back of Ouma's jacket, not through the center of an 'X'. Kaito sighs, and mumbles. "Oh, Maki...."

Regaining enough resolve to smile (and, perhaps, taking a few notes from Kokichi), Kaito forces a thumbs-up gesture Ouma cannot see. He lies through his teeth to comfort the dying kid with a morbid joke he just knows Ouma will prefer to any platitudes: "Yeah."

Kokichi, laying with his head tilted to one side and having determined he is isolated and out of view enough to cry, expresses genuine shock as he listens to Momota go on.

"She got it. 'Dead' center, Kokichi."

Ouma, crossing his arms over his chest as though he were to be lain in a casket, looks up at the top of the press with tears in his eyes. Even now, he forces himself to grin (or, since the expression is deep enough to affect his eyes, it may just be real. Dead men never need to tell.) "H-eh. Nice." His thoughts resound around the panel, unspoken. "but... I know that was a lie. Am I... proud?"

The camera pans over to a side-view of a sobbing Kaito and the shadow of an Exisal behind him as Kokichi's thoughts continue: "M-Maybe Mr. Luminary of the Stars..."

The final panel shows a side-profile view of a relaxed Ouma horizontally on the press, the sleeve of Kaito's coat dangling over the side behind him. He has one hand still crossed over his chest as the other lay palm-down at his side. His eyes have closed, perhaps for the last time. He smiles.

"wasn't so boring after all."

"Goodnight...."

End description.]

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kindersurprisebacterium · 7 months ago

Text

Sutures and Shootouts (Ghost/Reader)

CW: slow burn, gunshot wounds, stitches, ghost is afraid of needles, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, reader is a medic

gender neutral AFAB reader

W/C: 6.3k

The propellers were deafening as we approached the drop ship. I grunted as I adjusted my grip on the backboard. Watching the medic in front of me for his cue, we pushed the board up the ramp and set it down on a gurney. I secured the belts into place as my partner began to reassess the patient. I glanced toward the ramp. Riley glanced around, his gun at his side as he pushed the button to activate the hydraulic doors. A loud bang sounded, Simon grunted, immediately grabbing at his shoulder. The doors shut soon after, dampening the noise of the propellers.

“Ghost, let me see,” I said, taking a step forward.

“Patient is cyanotic. I need you to place an airway,” my partner said as he pushed medications into the patient's IV. He handed me a laryngoscope and an endotracheal tube. I quickly maneuvered the scope into the mouth of the patient, slipping past the uvula and down to the epiglottis. I pushed the scope into the small muscle to make way for the tube. I slowly slid the airway past the larynx and into the trachea. I taped the end of the airway in place and positioned a mask over the patient's face.

“You’re on bag duty,” I said to my partner as I moved, letting him take over on ventilations. My gaze flicked across the room and landed on Ghost. He was sitting on one of the bench seats, slumped over. His eyes were narrowed and his furrowed brows could be seen even through his mask. His hand was clasped tightly over his shoulder.

“Let me see,” I said as I approached him. He shook his head, looking away toward the doors.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. I stepped closer, reaching out to push his gear off. “I said I’m fine,” He pulled away quickly.

“I’ll get fired if I don’t check this out, and I’m not letting a stubborn asshole take my job,” I told him as I pulled his vest off. He winced, pulling away from me. I set the vest down next to him and reached for his hoodie.

“‘S fine,” he grunted, tugging on his sleeve. He sharply inhaled through his teeth as he attempted to tug the fabric off of his injured arm. I stuck my hand out, placing it on top of his. I slipped my other hand underneath his shirt, holding his bicep still as I pushed his forearm out of the sleeve. He held his breath as I tugged the fabric over his head. My eyes trailed to his body, old scars littered his toned abdomen. Bringing my eyes up toward the bleeding, I gazed upon a jagged, linear laceration across his shoulder. The bullet had just grazed him, but still hit some surface-level veins. I pulled a four-by-four from my pocket, pulled open the pack, and placed the cloth over his shoulder. Taking a seat, I pressed firmly into the wound to control the bleeding.

“It just grazed you. You’ll be good after a couple stitches.” I explained. I parted my fingers, watching for any blood stains through the gauze. Patches of dark red blood slowly sank into the fabric. I pulled out another gauze, ripped it open with my teeth, and placed it on top of the soiled one.

“You feeling okay, Lieutenant?” I asked, holding his unaffected shoulder for counterpressure.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your other arm. I’d hate for your sleeve to get messed up,” I said with a smile as I looked up at Simon. His brown eyes flicked across my face, narrowing quickly, and then darting away. I felt my heartbeat quicken. My lips quivered as regret washed over me. I shouldn’t have said anything. In an attempt to get my mind off of the tension, I checked the gauze for any signs of bleeding through. The cloth was still a pristine white. Taking my hand off his unaffected shoulder, I pulled a roll of curlex from my pocket and began wrapping it around the dressings. I secured everything in place with a quick knot, knowing I’d be stitching him back up at the base. I stood up, returning to the apenic Patient to take another quick set of vitals.

The loud hum of the engines dimmed as the aircraft landed back at base. The hydraulics squealed as the doors opened. A flood of medical personnel ran toward the gurney, and in an instant, they were running toward the operating room. I glanced back at Simon as he stood. He picked up his vest from the bench seat and slung it over his good shoulder.

“Let me stitch you up,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest “Please.”

He sighed and nodded, following behind me. I walked toward the medical bay. There was a mess of scrapped sterile packets and gauze. Peering in toward the equipment, I sighed, opting to use my office instead. I nodded my head toward the end of the hall. Riley merely huffed in response. We approached the door. My name was engraved into a bronze plaque on the exterior. I slid my key into the lock and pushed the door open, flicking on the lights with my free hand. I gestured toward the examination table, stepping aside to let Riley in. He dropped his vest on my desk and took a seat on the table. I grabbed a suture kit and a topical anesthetic from an overhead cabinet. I pulled the cap off of the needle as I approached the table. Turning the vial of anesthetic upside down, I slowly drew back a dose. I perched the needle between my fingers as I cleaned his shoulder with an alcohol pad. He winced, biting down on his mask.

“You can take that off if you want,” I mumbled as I inserted the needle into his skin. His skin, what was visible at least, turned pale. His eyes glazed over. I slipped my fingers under his mask, pulling it off. I’d seen his face before. Sharp nose, the scars that marked his cheeks, and his defined jawline. Sweat began to drip down his forehead. I held the alcohol pad under his nose. His eyelids fluttered, brown eyes locking onto me.

“You okay Lieutenant? You almost passed out on me.” I said as I withdrew the needle. The lid of my sharps bin clattered as I pushed the used needle through.

“I’m not good with needles,” he huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I pursed my lips, stifling a laugh. “What,” He Said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Sorry I just think it’s a bit amusing,” I said with a smile as I sunk my suture needle into his arm. He turned to look at the injury, I quickly pushed his face away with my gloved hand. “Stop looking, I don’t want you to go out again,” I told him as I tied my first stitch. I sunk my needle into his skin, applying just enough tension to get the edges of the wound to close. He looked around my office, brown eyes squinting at the pictures tacked to my corkboard. I followed his gaze as I finished up the second stitch. His eyes were set on a picture of me and my cousin.

“That your man?” He asked, pointing at the picture.

“Cousin,” I said, catching his gaze as he glanced at me in his peripherals. “Him and my brother are the only ones I’ve got waiting for me at home,” I continued as I finished up a third. The edges of the wound were closing nicely. The tension wasn’t too tight on his pale skin. “What about you? Got anyone waiting on you?” I asked, piercing through his skin again.

“Not really,” He Said softly, looking away at the wall. I clenched my jaw, knowing I’d overstepped once again. I secured the stitch in silence, opting to focus on my work instead of the man sitting before me. Peering up quickly through my lashes, I noticed him staring at me as I worked. My gaze shot back down to my work. Heat rose in my cheeks as my now trembling fingers worked to put one last stitch in place. My fingers slipped as I attempted to secure the stitch. Sighing and grabbing the thread again, I tied it in place. I grabbed some sterile dressings and secured them over the wound with tape.

“Um, you can come see me in five days or so. I’ll take them out for you.” I said as I took off my gloves. “Try not to move your arm a whole lot. I don’t want you to pop your stitches.”

Without another word he stood up, locking eyes with me one last time before leaving my office. As soon as the door shut, I turned around, sinking into my desk chair with a sigh.

I had feelings for him, didn’t I?

“And can you push your feet against my hands,” I said to the soldier as I pushed my hands against the balls of his feet. He pushed back against my hands with significant force. I pulled back, tugging off my gloves and discarding them in the trash.

“I’m not qualified to say what it is for sure, but your vitals and your examination results are normal,” I explained. “If anything gets worse, feel free to stop by and I’ll make sure that a physician can see you.”

The man stood up and left my office. I brought my focus back to my patient paperwork. A stack of unfinished patient care reports adorned my desk. I took a seat in front of the stacks of papers, sighing as I skimmed across the forms.

“Ahem,” a deep voice said quietly, snapping me from my thoughts. I snapped my head toward the door, locking eyes with a familiar masked face. He was holding a dressing to his arm. The sleeve of his shirt bunched up around his shoulder.

“Ghost, is everything okay?” I asked, standing up. His brown eyes flicked across the room, and then back to me. Tapping his fingers against his arm, he stepped forward, pulling back the gauze to reveal a broken stitch.

“Got a bit rough while training some new recruits. Figured you can patch me back up,” he explained. I reached out, gently brushing my fingers against his bicep as I examined the stitches. One of the sutures in the middle of the wound had opened up. I nodded as I reached for a pair of vinyl gloves. With my other hand, I pushed him towards the table.

“Sit down then. I’ll place another,” I told him as I reached for a kit. I brought the needle and thread over to the examination table, setting them on a tray with a soft thud. I pulled a vial of topical anesthetic from a drawer and drew it up into a needle. I stole glances at him as I cleaned the site with a prep pad. His brown eyes flicked up and down my face. I felt a noticeable heat rise to my cheeks as I injected the anesthetic into his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply as I pushed down on the plunger. I gently rubbed over the skin as I withdrew the needle.

“You feeling okay?” I asked, squeezing his bicep lightly. He silently nodded with his eyes still closed. “Do you want to take the mask off? If you’re about to pass out I think it would be a good idea,” I added. With his unaffected arm, he reached up and pushed the mask up over his nose. His lips were parted and he was breathing heavily. I quickly placed another suture in place so I could shift my focus to his breathing. As I moved in closer I noticed his skin was growing pale and clammy. I grabbed one of the patient care reports and began using it to fan him off. I grabbed his wrist to quickly check for a pulse. It was elevated but strong against my fingers. Slowly his color began to return and the drops of sweat dripping down from his mask began to evaporate. I sighed, placing the now bloodied care report back on top of the pile.

“Do you want some water?” I asked as I peeled my gloves off.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled. I turned away, approaching the mini fridge behind my desk. A wave of cool are hit my skin as I opened the door. I pulled out a bottle of water for Simon and a juice box for me. Leaning against my desk, I held out the bottle for him. He grabbed it with a small nod.

“Just stay here for a bit until you’re ready to stand up,” I told him as I took a sip of my juice. He shifted his weight onto one of his hips and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a small red package and held it out to me. I glanced down at the packet and back up to his face. In his hand was a pouch of Skittles. It wasn’t something you’d regularly come across on base, and it also happened to be my favorite candy. The corners of my lips curled up into a smile as I accepted his gift.

“How did you know these were my favorites?” I asked, setting the candy down on my desk.

“I asked your partner. I mean’ it to be a sort of apology gift,” he explained while taking a small sip of water.

“Apology for what?” I asked, tapping my fingers against the mahogany wood of my desk. Simon looked away, pursing his lips, and then parting them to speak.

“I felt like I might’ve been a little bit of an arse to you. You were only doin’ your job.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t expect someone of his rank to be so thoughtful, even going out of his way to find out my favorite candy. Thinking back to the pushback he gave me on the ship, it was minimal, and most likely fueled by the heightened emotions at the time. I leaned forward, placing my hand on his wrist.

“You’re the one who usually gives orders. I can imagine it felt a bit weird to take them, especially from someone like me.” I said with a smile. In comparison to patients of mine who have spat at me and hit me, snarky comments and mild resistance are something I’d take any day.

“And what do you mean by that, dear?” He asked, taking another sip of water. My heart stopped at the name he'd given me. I looked away abruptly as I felt another wave of heat ignite in my cheeks.

“I don’t know,” I sputtered out quickly, taking my hand off of his arm. He huffed with a smile as he took another sip from his drink. He sat up, sliding off of the table with a thud as his boots hit the linoleum. I rushed to his side, holding my hands out in case his steps grew unsteady.

“Take it easy lieutenant, these tiles don’t need any more blood on them.” My fingers brushed against his back as I followed him to the door. He twisted the knob and pulled it open.

“You know, you blush like you're still in primary school, dear,” he said with a smirk as he left. My paces halted to a dead stop as I felt my knees grow weak. I watched as he turned down the hallway and then quickly shut the door. I fell back against the frame, sinking to the ground as I drowned in embarrassment.

Eventually, after gaining the strength to stand, I moved to my desk, examining the tower of paperwork in front of me.

“Simon fuckin’ Riley,” I mumbled to myself as I shook my head. “You’ll be the death of me, won’t you.”

For the next few days, I made myself scarce, leaving the brunt of the cases to my partner, much to his chagrin. I made excuse after excuse. I was overloaded with paperwork. I was burnt out. Patients had specifically asked for him. One of our EMTs needed help studying for an upcoming assessment. A patient requested to be assessed in my office instead of the bay. No lie I told could stop the barrage of pounding on my door. I stood up from my desk and quickly scattered some instruments in an attempt to make myself busy. Pulling the door open I was met with my partner's reddened face. He dragged me by the wrist, pulling me toward the medical bay. The scene before me was hectic. Battered and bloodied soldiers took up almost all of the available beds. Comrades stood waiting in the hallway for news about their friends. I stepped past the dividers and pulled on a set of gloves. Just as the vinyl snapped tight against my wrist, my eyes met his. Sitting in the corner of the bay, casually stretched out in a chair. I quickly placed my gloved hand over a sucking chest wound, and thus I was thrown into the chaos of another sleepless night.

My fingers gripped tight on the patient as the doctor set his shoulder back into place. He bit down on the cloth in his mouth

“I’ll tell you what, if I could I’d-” the soldier started

“Yeah, yeah, sleep it off, private.” I huffed as I walked toward my office. The flood of soldiers had either been sent off to surgery, their dorms, or the morgue. I ended up hearing from a sergeant that one of our airships had come into contact with some sort of explosive, explaining the horde of patients.

As I approached my door, a hand gripped my shoulder. I turned around, teeth clenching as that set of deep brown eyes stared me down.

“Ghost,” I mumbled as I stepped into my office. Without a word, he followed. I sank down into my chair, sighing as my aching feet could finally rest.

“Where have you been?” He asked, stepping closer. He shifted his weight onto one of his feet. His hands slid into his front pockets.

“Busy,” I mumbled as I leaned back in my chair. He looked around my office, chuckling lightly.

“I can tell,” his eyes focused on me again, flicking down to my body, and then back up to my face. I kept my gaze fixed on his. He stayed silent as he leaned against my desk. My pulse began to quicken as he got closer. Feigning composure, I cocked my eyebrow at him. He hummed as he tapped his fingers against the wood.

“You said five days.” He started, “It’s been six, but god are you hard to get ahold of.”

I recall telling him I’d remove the stitches in five days. I stood up, wincing as the ache in my feet returned. He stayed put, blocking my path to the examination table.

“If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought I’d scared ya off.” He said with a crooked smile.

“It’s a Good thing you know better then, isn’t it?” I quipped. Having enough of his cockiness for today, I brushed past him on my way to grab my scissors.

“Oh come on, you’re cute when you’re flustered.” His boots made a dull thud on the linoleum as he approached me from behind. I felt the heat of his breath tickling the back of my neck. I spun on my heel to face him. He quickly placed his hand on the wall above me, caging me in with his broad torso.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you’d popped that stitch just to see me.”

He was silent, eyes wide. It was a hunch, just a hunch, that I had. As far as I was aware, training wasn’t scheduled for that day. It was a Sunday after all. His look of shock confirmed my thoughts. I’d caught him.

“Lieutenant, you look quite cute when you’re flustered,” I said with a shit-eating grin.

Maybe it was the fact that I was a paramedic, or maybe it was drilled into my head after my time in the military, but I wasn’t going to let him see me as someone so eagerly conquered. I gripped his mask, partly to pull him close, and partly to pull it up over his nose. As if I snapped him from his shock, he quickly moved his hands to my waist, fingers digging into my bloodied uniform. His breath fanned over my face. His eyes flicked back and forth between my lips and my eyes.

“If you don’t want this, you need to tell me now,” he said sternly. His fingers impatiently kneaded my sides. This time using the collar of his shirt, I pulled him in for a kiss. Our lips mashed together harshly, moving against each other in perfect sync. His hand slid down my back, over my ass, and to the back of my thigh. He gripped my thigh tightly, tugging it up and over his hip. Even through the layers of tactical gear, I could feel his stiff cock pressing into me. I moaned against his mouth as he rutted his hips against me. He pulled my other leg over his hips, hands slipping under my ass to stabilize me. I hooked my arms around the back of his neck and pulled him back into a heated kiss. He slipped his tongue into my mouth, colliding with my own in a messy battle for dominance. Drool ran down my parted lips, partly from his intrusion, and partly due to the way he rocked his hips against my aching core. My fingers slid under his mask and tugged it the rest of the way off. I carded my fingers through his short blonde hair, pinching the strands between my knuckles and pulling. He moaned into my mouth and sped up the movements of his hips. A knock at my door drew me from my bliss. Simon quickly set me down on my feet. I wiped the saliva off of my lips with a sleeve. Noticing his mask on the floor, I picked it up and quickly slipped it into my back pocket. I pointed to the exam table. Getting the hint, he took a seat, pretending to act injured. I pulled open my office door and was met with my partner.

“Need your signature on this paperwork,” he explained as he handed me a clipboard and pen. I quickly, and messily, signed on the line labeled “witness signature” before handing the papers back to him.

“Good work out there, man,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder.

“Oh, can you help me put these backboards away? Greyson cleaned 'em all for us,” he asked. I nodded, quickly shooting a glance back at Simon who was staring down at his phone.

“Yeah, just let me wrap this up. I’ll meet you out there,” I said, gesturing to the blonde behind me. My partner nodded and started down the hallway. I turned toward the table and quickly approached Simon. Leaning in with my hand resting on his thigh, I spoke quietly next to my ear.

“I’ll meet you back at your room, just give me twenty minutes.” I slid my hand up his thigh until my fingers just barely brushed against his hardened cock. His hips twitched. I withdrew my hand and spun on my heel, leaving him alone in my office.

My heart was pounding in my ears as I stood in front of his door. I slowly reached my hand out and tapped my knuckles against the wood. The door swung open. A toned arm reached out to pull me inside. My body was swiftly pushed up against the door. My eyes widened when I saw him. He’d changed out of his tactical gear, instead opting for just a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants. What a fuckin’ tease. His lips crashed against mine as his hands worked to quickly unbutton my uniform top. Heat rushed to my face as he tossed the fabric aside. His focus went to my belt, nimble fingers quickly slid the leather from my belt loops. He dropped to my knees and looked up at me through his lashes as he undid my quick lace boots. The sight of him kneeling before me was dizzying. I ran my fingers through his hair as he helped me out of my boots. He then moved to my pants, undoing the buttons and easing them down my hips. He pressed soft kisses to my bare thighs as he pulled the fabric down to my ankles. I gripped his chin, tilting his head up to look at me. I stepped to the side, leaving my pants on the ground. I glanced at him over my shoulder as I walked towards his bed. I slowly crawled onto his mattress and turned to lay on my back against his pillows. He stood up, making his way to the mattress. His brown eyes scanned every detail of my body. He kneeled between my legs, running his hands over my thighs. I crossed my ankles behind his back, pulling his hips closer to mine. He propped himself up on his elbows and leaned in to kiss me. With a groan, he began to move his hips against me. I could feel a damp spot in my underwear that began to grow. My stomach fluttered as he began to kiss down my neck, sucking roughly on my skin. His hands glided up over my hip bones, over my ribs, and under the band of my sports bra. He pawed at my chest, tweaking my nipples between his fingers. I twitched, my hips bucking forward into his growing bulge. He groaned as he slipped the spandex over my head. His lips latched onto one of my nipples while his hands occupied the other. He gently sunk his teeth into the sensitive skin, earning a whine from me. I watched as he pulled back, tugging on my skin.

“Ghost-“ I Said breathlessly. He hummed, bringing his mouth to my other nipple and circling his tongue around it. He palmed my cunt through the thin fabric of my underwear. He groaned, pulling back from my chest and focusing his attention between my legs.

“I haven’t even done anything and you’ve already soaked through,” he said in a deep voice, pupils dilating as he looked at the mess between my legs. He slipped his fingers under the waistband of my underwear, roughly pulling them over my hips and down my legs. I yelped as my body jolted from the force. He placed his hands on top of my knees and slowly spread my legs. I looked away, feeling another wave of heat on my skin. My head began to spin as he pressed gentle kisses to my inner thighs, slowly creeping toward my center. Pushing my knees further apart, he licked a thick stripe up my cunt.

“Ghost-” I said breathlessly as I gripped his sheets. He moaned against my skin, sending vibrations up my spine. He flicked his tongue against my clit as his fingers kneaded my thighs. The warmth that enveloped my cheeks spread down my neck and through my extremities. His brown eyes looked up at me through his blonde eyelashes. His cheeks were dusted with a light blush and his hips steadily grinded against the mattress. His lips wrapped around my clit, sucking harshly. My thighs quaked and squeezed around his head. With a grunt he pushed one of my legs up to my chest, not daring to break contact with my clit.

“Ghost,” I whimpered, “you're so good,” I praised him. I reached down between my legs and slipped my fingers through his damp hair. He pulled back, snapping me out of my haze. His teeth sank into my inner thigh. Two of his fingers circled my entrance, slowly sinking in up to the first knuckle. His fingers were thick and calloused, and the way they rubbed against my walls had me drooling. He pulled out, rubbing his fingers up my saliva-soaked cunt, and then dipping back down again. His fingers slipped in easier, meeting less resistance as he slowly worked me open. He kissed over the red marks he left on my thigh before focusing his attention back on my clit.

My body was quivering as his fingers hit every right spot inside me. A stream of moans slipped past my tongue, only to be muffled as I clamped my hand over my mouth.

“Baby,” He Said with a Kiss to my thigh, “let me hear you.” He pulled his sodden fingers out of me and lightly smacked my cunt with the palm of his hand. The sound that came out of me was too loud, too desperate to be muffled. I buried my hand in the sheets again. My knuckles turned white from the force. He thrust his fingers back into me, starting up a fast pace with a force strong enough to have my body bouncing against his knuckles. With a groan, he leaned in, bringing his tongue back to my clit. My hips rocked against his mouth. He chuckled at my desperation, opting to flick his tongue against me with more fervor.

“Ghost!” I cried out as my hips began to move on their own. “Fuck I’m so close!” He pulled his face back, instead opting to use the thumb on his unoccupied hand to drive me closer to my orgasm. My grip on his hair tightened. A flood of static washed over me as my muscles spasm uncontrollably. With a loud cry, I reached my climax. My vision turned to white, and my eyes stung as they rolled into the back of my head.

“That’s it, bein' so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t’cha,” Simon said as he sat back on his shins, watching me slowly come out of my haze. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. Droplets of sweat ran down my chest and dampened the hair covering the nape of my neck.

“You’re cute when you cum,” he said as he stood up off of the bed. He pushed his sweats down his hips. My eyes widened as I watched his cock spring free. It was thick, and flushed, with a string of precum beading from the tip.

“Ghost, I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” I told him as he stepped out of the sweats. He grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward the edge of the bed. My fingers dug into the mattress as he pulled me even closer. My ass was hanging off the bed. I firmly shifted my weight onto my shoulders, propping myself up to watch as he lined his cock up with my entrance.

“I’ll make it fit,” he huffed, running the head of his cock up and down my cunt. “You on the pill?”

“Implant,” I responded.

“Good, 'cause I don’t like to wrap it up.” He pushed forward sinking just his tip inside me. I threw my head back against the pillows, moaning at the stretch of his cock. His head hung low, lips parted as he eased his way inside me. I felt full, filled to the brim, but he kept pushing forward. I bit down on my lip until a twinge of metal soaked my tastebuds.

“Hang on,” He muttered as he pulled out. He threw open his bedside drawer, digging through its contents until he pulled out a clear bottle. I watched as he popped open the cap and drizzled the lube over his cock. With his free hand, he stroked his shaft, spreading the wetness over his skin. Tossing the bottle aside, he quickly stepped forwards and pushed into my cunt once again. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he slid in with much less resistance.

“There we go, Open up for me,” He groaned as he started to slowly pull back. My toes curled as he quickly shoved himself back in at a rough pace. I threw my head back against the covers, savoring the way his thrusts made my body bounce against him. My legs thrashed as he circled my clit with his thumb.

“Simon!” I cried as tears began to well in my eyes. “Too much!”

“Oh come on, baby. Your clits practically beggin’ for it. Who am I to deny,” he grunted, voice trembling with every rough thrust against my cervix. The muscles in my stomach tightened as I rapidly approached my second orgasm.

“You’re fuckin-“ he gasped, “squeezin’.” His thrusts grew more intense. His cock head pounding against my cervix sparked a delicious pain that had me gripping even harder on his cock.

“Simon, cum with me, please.” I whimpered as I reached out to tweak one of his nipples. He threw his head back groaning loudly as his hips drew back and forth. My throat grew sore as a flood of moans broke past my vocal chords. I cried out his name as I lost myself again. He moaned, hips twitching as warmth filled my insides. I looked at him through my fluttering eyelids. His brows were furrowed, lips plump and slick with saliva. His eyes opened and settled on my flushed face. He slowly pulled out, drawing my attention to the mess between my legs. I felt his cum slowly drip out of me and run down my ass. His eyes widened, cock stiffening again as he watched my twitching cunt.

“Fuck, you really took all of me, doll.” He bit his lip and began to knead my ass.

“You wanna go again, Lieutenant?” I asked, sliding my hand down my body and spreading my cunt for him. He grunted and brought his hand to his cock, giving it a couple of pumps.

“Turn around for me,” he said, gesturing with his finger. I flipped onto my stomach, wiggling my ass just to tease him even more. He spread my cheeks and stood back to watch as another stream of his cum dripped from my cunt.

“You want me to fuck another load into you?” He asked, gripping my hair tightly.

“Yes sir,” I said, moving my ass. His hand harshly landed on my skin, drawing a moan from me.

“Want me to fill your cunt, aye?” He said, punctuating his words with another smack.

“Mmmh fuck me, lieutenant!” I moaned as I felt the head of his cock press into my hole. With a grunt he pushed forward, fully sheathing himself. My head dropped. I bit down on his blanket to muffle the influx of high-pitched moans arising from my stomach. He grunted and made what sounded like a spitting noise. I was too fucked out to pay attention to what he was doing, but eventually, I felt the intrusion of his fingers at my ass. He started with his index, slowly sinking it in, testing how tight my muscles were. He groaned, speeding up his hips as he curled his finger.

“Spread your ass. Wanna see you take my fingers,” he ordered as he slipped a second spit-soaked finger into my ass. I let out a muffled moan as I spread myself for him. He groaned, pushing his fingers deeper into me. “Oh I can feel my dick in ye like this,” he groaned, angling his hips up.

A fire ignited in my extremities as his cock hit every single nerve ending inside of me. With the added pressure of his fingers, I felt like he was damn near close to splitting me open. My toes dug into the carpet as I crawled further and further into my ecstasy.

“Baby, you’re clenchin’. You gonna cum again? What is that, number three?” I could hear the smirk in his voice as he gripped my hip, pulling my ass back onto his dick. I nodded, choking out a sob against his soaked blankets. “Maybe next time I’ll fuck your arse. You seem to like- it,” his words were cut off by a moan. His thrusts grew sloppier, the pace erratic as he approached his climax. With a particularly deep thrust of his cock, I lost myself, screaming his name out as my legs turned to jelly. He slid his fingers out and used the palm of his hand to give me another hard smack to my ass. His hips stilled. My body heaved as I choked out a sob, maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the growing pain in my cervix.

The mattress dipped as he climbed into bed. His hands gripped my sore hips and tugged me back into his embrace. My breathing was labored as I attempted to catch my breath. Simon softly pressed kisses against my jawline, stroking over my stomach lightly.

“Fuck, Simon. I could feel you in my goddamn lungs.” I said with a chuckle, placing my hand over his.

“Told you I'd make it fit,” he said with another kiss to my jaw. We sat in silence, only interrupted by the sound of each other's breath. I could feel his heart pounding against my back, a strong, fast rhythm. He slotted one of his legs between mine. Our limbs began to tangle as I pulled him closer to me. His lips moved to the back of my neck, and my shoulder. Not a single millimeter was left without a kiss. My lips curled Into a smile, and I reached my hand back to grab at his hip.

“So what about my stitches?” Simon asked against the skin of my shoulder.

“We can leave it for another day. Just don’t make me leave this bed right now, Simon.”

Masterlist

#ao3 fanfic #fanfic #read on ao3 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost smut #cod fanfic #cod fic

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wain-fleets · 1 year ago

Text

NOT SO NUMB AFTER ALL.

(miles quaritch x fem!recom reader)

just a small miles snippet/one shot. i needed soft miles and some fluff, but didnt wanna go all out. so here.

the lyle x miles x reader smut sittin in my drafts mad as hell rn.

whatever simple task you'd taken on had ultimately proven to be too difficult, because instead of finding success, you found an open wound scaling across your arm. it wasn't life threatening, but it hurt like hell, and you had to physically suppress a pained yell with the palm of your opposing hand.

being a trained soldier, you were modeled to endure conflicts such as this. but taking a quick overlook around the room you occupied, to find yourself alone, you decided fuck it. let loose. even the strongest people needed to cry at times, right? you weren't a *robot*, after all.

so you did. without a second thought, you breathed out a shaky sigh, and the tears started to flow freely. as freely as the blood trickling from your arm.

you cradled your injury to your chest, hoping to keep the crimson contained to your frame and not the floor. your boots tapped the marble tiling as you sought out a sink.

stopping to rest next to the counter, you leaned your lower abdomen against it, holding your arm over the metal tank and allowing it to bleed.

yes, you knew it'd just be best to patch it up and get on with your day, but you were too exhausted to care at the moment. but you told yourself you would after you caught your breath. and only after. damn, you needed a break.

so consumed by your thoughts, you failed to acknowledge the faint creak and rattle of the metal entrance door sliding open. the hydraulics hissed, and heavy footsteps approached your back. this caught your attention.

you werent alone anymore. shit, fuck.

your healthy arm shot out to the faucet, and you pushed up the handle. water flowed from the spout and onto your arm, washing away the blood, and you gathered some onto your free hand to wash away your tears.

just as you felt two strong hands take hold of your hips, and a broad chest press to your back. and a chin on your shoulder.

some evidence was still there, of course, despite your efforts. and miles noticed immediately. you felt the colonel tense, his hold on your hips tightening a bit too much. but you wouldn't complain.

his ears pinned back, his eyes widened before his brows furrowed in concern. he was worried, and trying to hide how truly worried he was. he couldn't stand to see you hurt. who could blame him? the dipshit was head over heels for your cute ass.

"hell happened to ya, baby?"

his usual cold tone of voice had faded. this one was soft, sincere, and just for you. not a damn soul saw this side of him, except you.

his left hand slid around to your front, over your belly and towards your arm. he wrapped his fingers around it firmly, tilting it towards him so he could get a better look.

"just a cut. im okay." you told him, faintly sniffling, swallowing thickly. miles reached around with his right hand and shut the water off, grabbing a fresh washcloth from the drawer at your side and pressing it firmly to your cut.

"turn around, darlin'. look at me." there was that firmness. one that made you want to run and hide, and open your legs all at once. odd.

you did, though reluctantly at first, turn around and face the recom. his eyes immediately trained on yours, but you couldn't meet them, and you kept your focus downcast to the floor.

he took your chin in a gentle but stern hold, tilting your face upwards towards his. forcing you to look at him. at those piercing yellow eyes.

it almost looked as if he was glaring at you. like he was angry, upset with you. but you knew he wasn't. anger and concern looked the same on miles' face, and he couldn't bring himself to be angry at you. most the time.

"huh.. are you cryin'?" his ears pinned back further at the sight of those puffy cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes. his tongue darted out to trace his canines, his lips parted slightly as he squinted down at you. he was thinking.

you couldn't help but roll your eyes and pull your head away from his hold, your own ears pinning back in response to his closeness. the proximity didnt make you uncomfortable, no. but you found yourself feeling guilty. you felt caught, like you had been doing something wrong even though you weren't.

miles wasn't one for people crying. if you cried, you were a pussy and didn't need to be in the military. fortunately for you, you owned the softest spot in his *stone* heart. and his gaze grew gentle.

"don't pull 'way from me.." his voice lowered to a whisper, and his hand fell to massage your ribcage, before he turned. he reached over your head, opening an overhanging cabinet to fish out disinfectant and gauze.

he lazily tossed them onto the nearby metal exam table, leaving them there as he turned back to you.

his arms looped around your waist, his palms encasing your ass cheeks as he lifted you up and placed you to sit on the table.

he wasnt saying much, but miles wasn't a big talker unless he was mocking/berating someone. so you figured he wasn't too upset.

he took your arm and a cotton ball, dousing it in rubbing alcohol. he paused just short of pressing it to the open wound, noticing how you visibly tensed and held your breath in preparation.

he sighed. how in the hell did you get here?

"d'aw.. baby, it's alright. only burn for a second." he assured you, and his lips pressed to your forehead in a tender, comforting kiss. before he started to clean.

it hurt so fucking bad, but you managed to keep quiet and hold still, letting him wrap your arm. and when he was done, his eyes met yours again.

"there we go. all done. wasn't too bad now, was it, huh?" the corners of his lips curled upwards in an almost teasing grin as his thumb brushed over your lips and cheek.

"ah, look'it my pretty lady.." he breathed, leaning in. your eyes fell shut as he peppered small kisses across your cheeks and nose, your forehead, your jaw. now, he was just trying to mend the ache in your lil heart. another thing, he couldn't stand seeing you hurt, but he could hardly *breathe* when your feelings were.

"you did a good job, darlin'. proud of ya." he whispered, "my good girl.. mmh." he hummed, his lips ever so softly pressing against your eyelids.

miles was so rough around the edges, it was rare to see him so *soft*. but here he was.

you felt his lips finally meet yours, and the two of you shared a sweet kiss. sweet as honey, you felt. after a few seconds, he broke it.

"quit cryin', now.."

his palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over it as his free hand took yours and lifted your bandaged arm. he tracked kisses over the wrapping, making sure not to press too hard as to not hurt you further.

"don't cry, baby." he cooed to you, as you leaned your head into his hold. a tired sigh slipped past your lips, and his ears twitched as he picked up on this.

"i hear ya. i hear ya.. c'mon." his arms looped under your rear again, lifting you up. your legs hooked around his waist, your arms around his neck as he carried you.

"let's get us a shower and some sleep, yeah?"

he asked you quietly, his voice slightly muffled by your hair. but he didnt mind. you grumbled a sleepy yes into his shoulder, your smaller frame slumped against his chest.

his heart melted. he stayed composed.

maybe you'd feel better after a good cat nap, and he could give you some *special treatment*.

#avatar the way of water #avatar #miles quaritch x reader #quaritch x reader #atwow #fluff #x reader #one shot #quaritch x fem!reader #quaritch x recom!reader

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builder051 · 9 months ago

Text

Month of Sick 2024 Day 3: Bad News(ish)

———————

@monthofsick

Iron man and Spider-Man. Choose your own timeline.

Warnings: emeto, high school drama

———————

Something seems off with the kid. Tony can sense it before the door to the lab whirrs slowly shut and seals like a hydraulic bathtub.

He can’t stand slamming. Not that Peter would dare to make an entrance with a bang. When the kid was first starting to visit him in the lab, Tony thought the mouse creeping was some sort of respect thing. Then he’d realized it was probably an apartment thing. Topics like housing inequality and wage gaps set angry, brain-eating larvae loose in his prefrontal cortex.

Tony usually fills the holes with a few spontaneous donations to institutes of higher learning. His fingers twitch toward his keyboard, but he rests a millimeter above the touch screen. Tony doesn’t want Peter to catch him throwing cash around, even therapeutically. That would just throw the kid-money-apartment guilt trip back into motion. At least Peter will be prepared for the niceties of life in a college dorm. It’d taken Tony a couple times around the block to recognize and participate in the etiquette of close quarters. And, of course, to start holding himself to the same standard he expected of everyone else. Hence his objection to doors noisily bouncing off walls.

Peter exhales slowly. “Hey, uh, Mr. Stark.”

The kid’s sneakers come to a halt, and he stands a respectable distance from Tony’s elbow. Something hangs in the space between them. The air feels charged with electricity. Is this what the tingle, the spider-sense feels like? Tony has never coveted Peter’s powers. He’s glad to stick with good ol’ observation and inference. He’s just a little proud how naturally the scientific method flows toward the correct conclusion. Like the fact that Peter’s anxious as fuck. And he’s been skating on carpet in wool socks. Or combing his hair without adding product. Tony grounds his feet and puts his hands on his knees, just in case the static bursts into an electric shock.

“Yeah?” Tony replies. He holds his gaze on the holographic screen in front of him for a moment, for the sake of normality. If he replies too quickly, he might tip the balance and bring on the thunderbolt. Tony cringes internally as he imagines Peter burned to a crisp. Or maybe a small pile of ash.

It would be the ash, for sure. Now that Tony’s turned to look at him, he considers his hypothesis confirmed. The kid’s pale. His hair sticks to his glistening forehead. His shoulders move up and down with every breath, which comes out loud and shallow. Bronchitis, Tony guesses. Depends on whether or not Peter’s running a fever. He could have FRIDAY run a scan in seconds. He could probably write a program for a chest x ray as well, but he doesn’t think breaking the eye contact is a good idea for now.

“Pete?” Tony asks cautiously. He tries to keep his concern out of his voice. “Did you run here or something? Why? It’s cold and brrr.” Tony mimes shivering and crossing his arms for warmth. “I thought track and field didn’t start until spring.” He eases up. If he talks too much, Peter will just start nodding in pseudo agreement.

“No, I, uh,” Peter stammers. “I took the bus.” He jerks his head suspiciously over his shoulder. “Do I smell like the bus?”

Tony keeps a straight face. He fights the urge to breathe in through his nose but eventually needs to rearrange what’s certainly a stony expression. He tries not to sniff too hard, then sets it off with a gentle smile.

“But do I, like…?” Peter trails off, lifting one arm. He presses his lips together, and the palest blush colors his nose and cheeks. If anything it makes him look sicker.

“You smell like… Rolaids, cinnamon, carnauba wax, and…pie crust?” There’s also a tinge of sour stress sweat, but Tony decides not to mention it. This whole topic of body odor is a surface issue. Meaningless chatter. Tony hopes his answer helps to loosen whatever’s got Peter so constricted, though he worries it might just pull it tighter.

“Hm.” Peter takes another audible breath, then nods. “Yeah, that’s—um, good.” He drops his arm back to his side, where he immediately begins picking at a rivet on the pocket of his jeans. “I was at Ned’s. His grandma was making emanadas. And she has those big glass candles with, like, the virgin Mary, you know?” The kid tries for a casual laugh, but he hiccups when he takes in a breath. He releases the rivet and puts his hand over his abdomen.

Tony wants to thump the kid on the back, but now’s probably not the right time to introduce physical contact. Tony doesn’t like to be handsy. Peter might have germs. The hand sanitizer is too far across the lab bench, and reaching for it now would be downright offensive.

“Ned’s house sounds great.” Tony says, filling what would be an awkward pause as Peter collected himself. The anxiety’s still coming off him in waves. Tony watches Peter’s shoulders quiver.

Tony ditches any remaining decorum and asks, “Hey, is your stomach bugging you?” He’d initially left is comment about Rolaids alone. They’d seemed like kind of a personal thing. He leaves a moment for the kid to respond, perhaps if time is of the essence to get to a bathroom or something, but Peter doesn’t say anything. He just swallows, then looks up without meeting Tony’s eye.

“Too many empanadas before the bus ride?” Tony offers.

“Hm… no.” Peter twists his lips, but settles on neither a smile nor a frown. It seems like he’s making his mouth as small as possible. “Yeah, I’m, like, I keep tasting lunch, but it’s, like, I’m fine.” The kid laughs again, sounding just as congested. “That’s probably TMI. Sorry.”

Tony shrugs. He doesn’t love discussions about acid reflux, but if that’s the problem… At least it’s a straightforward problem, but Tony has a feeling that’s more of a side effect. The real issue is something much deeper.

“They weren’t real Rolaids.” Peter blithers on. “Some kind of off brand…I got them at the bodega for, like, three bucks. I don’t think they actually work.” Peter catches himself and continues, “Not that I feel sick or anything. Just kinda—“ He removes his hand from his stomach and wavers it in midair. “I don’t know if the CVS ones are any better, or if it has to be, like, brand name…” Peter trails off nervously.

“If you do feel sick, we can fix that. Medicine cabinet in the ‘s pretty stocked ” Tony clasps his hands and rests his chin on his knuckles. “What’s going on, Pete?” Tony asks. “You don’t look so good. I mean, you smell fine, but…” Tony shrugs again. He doesn’t want Peter to feel interrogated, but if they can get to the heart of the matter… Maybe the kid will stop looking like he’s going to shit himself.

“I…” Peter hesitates. “I don’t feel really good.”

Tony can’t hold himself back anymore. “FRIDAY, run a temp scan.”

“Oh, no, I don’t have a fever.” Peter shakes his head, but the AI begins to glow, running a thin red line floor to ceiling and back again.

“Temperature scan complete,” FRIDAY reports. The outlines of two human bodies appear on the screen; temperature readings appear beside each in both Fahrenheit and Celsius.

Tony doesn’t even glance at his information. He squints in confusion when he reads Peter’s, though.

“98.7…” Tony muses. Maybe the kid isn’t incubating a bug. “How about heart rate?” Tony requests.

More numbers appear beside each figure. Tony blinks to be sure he’s reading the measurement correctly. The kid’s reads 130. Peter’s more than wound up. He’s about to blow his circulatory system.

Peter’s powers raise his metabolism, Tony reminds himself. But not that much. He’s pretty sure there are defibrillator paddles in the lab somewhere.

“Your heart rate is rising really fast.” Peter points to the pulsating heart icon beside Tony’s outline. “Is that, like, not good?”

“Oh—“ Tony backhands the air in front of his face as if batting the kid’s comment out of the way. “Forget me. Look at yours! That’s what’s not good. You’re stressing me out.”

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Tony says firmly. “Are you scared or something? Is this- I don’t know- a panic attack?”

“Um, I don’t—” Peter gulps, then pulls his lips into a straight line. “I guess kinda stressing too.”

“What about?” Tony braces himself. What bothers highschoolers these days? Tony thinks to his own teenage experience, but he was so detached during that phase of life. He had nary a responsibility. His parents were still alive. Peter doesn’t even have that to lean back on. A rush of belated empathy hits Tony in the chest and leaches into his heart. The shot is not full of flesh-eating parasites this time. It hits hard and heavy, adding a terrible weight and increasing his worry.

Peter sighs. He puts his hands over his eyes. “Ok, ok. But please don’t get mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?” Tony’s still focused on the possibility of a serious health incident. Even if the kid did it to himself, he’s far more concerned about the fallout than the details. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re probably going to be totally disappointed.” Peter keeps his eyes covered. “I—I don’t think I made it into MIT.”

“You don’t think?” Tony repeats. “What, did you get a letter or something? They didn’t waitlist you, did they?” He does feel his temper begin to rise despite himself. Not toward the kid, though. What kind of signature-stamping admissions officer would put Peter’s application in the ‘maybe’ pile? His grades, coupled with his experience, should blow anyone out of the water.

“No. I don’t think so. But maybe? I didn’t think of that.” Peter says in a rush.

“What do you think?” Tony presses. He glances at the flashing numbers of Peter’s heart rate again. “Tell me.”

The kid takes a shaky breath. “Ned and I made this, like, pact thing, that we would tell each other at the same time, If we got in. After we’d both gotten our letters.”

“Ok…” This is clearly background. Tony waits for the hammer to fall.

“I kind of accidentally found out about Ned. Just now, at his house. He got his MIT letter. And I saw it. I saw Ned’s letter. But like, not really, exactly.” Peter wrings his hands and cringes. It’s like he’s trying to minimize his involvement in a crime.

Tony’s heavy heart throbs with empathy. If he were a cop, he’d let the kid off. He nods, and Peter keeps talking.

“It was just the envelope, though. But it had the logo and the return address and everything. And it was a big fat envelope. So he got in. They sent him the whole admission packet thing. I know he got in.” Peter bites his lip. “Denials come in tiny envelopes, right?”

“Usually,” Tony replies. “Bureaucratic shit.” He rolls his eyes, but immediately realizes he’s being too flippant. He straightens up and looks into Peter’s eyes. His lower lids glisten with unshed tears. “Why does that make you think you got denied?” Tony asks slowly. “I get that your big reveal is sort of ruined, but did your letter—“

Peter cuts him off, his cheeks burning red against his pale face. “That’s just it. I haven’t gotten my letter. Ned’s, like, two streets away, and I’m pretty sure we have the same mail carrier person, so if Ned got his, like, yesterday or today, mine should’ve come too.”

“Well—“ Tony intends to inject a little logic and reassurance, but the kid keeps going.

“I don’t know what kind of envelope they sent, I mean, like, whether I got in or not, and it’s—it’s— just too much, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and my stomach’s, just, like,” Peter pauses and contorts his face, his fingers slowly closing into a fist, “It’s making me all messed up. It might actually be making me making me sick. I think—maybe — I could, like—puke—or something—“ The kid wraps both arms tightly around his middle, then reconsiders and presses a hand over his mouth.

“Ok, ok,” Tony says, making placating gestures while looking wildly around the lab for a trash can. There’s one under the desk on the other side of the room. Definitely not helping. And it’s too late anyway.

Peter leans forward and retches. Vomit dribbles from his palm and drips down his chin. He makes an apologetic sound, but it’s lost in the next upcoming heave.

“You’re good.” Tony stands, sending his stool rolling backward under the lab bench. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh,” the kid groans. His shoulders lurch, and more splashes down into the puddle growing around his feet. “‘M really sorry.”

“Don’t be, really.” Tony tentatively pats Peter’s shoulder. For now, he’s providing comfort. But Tony’s poised to catch the kid if he slips or starts to pass out.

Peter hiccups. Then he gasps, and his entire body shudders.

“Pete?” Tony moves sideways so he can get a look at the kid’s face. He’s still pallid, but now his eyes and nose are red as well. The impending tears are now running down his face.

“It’s ok,” Tony intones. “Really. We’ll get through it.” They’re just words, but he means them. Truly. Deeply.

Peter splutters, then spits on the floor. “Sorry,” he says again. “That was, like, really gross.”

“Eh.” Tony shrugs. “Feel better?”

“Uh, no.” Peter’s voice is hoarse, and it sounds like his mouth is still wet and stringy. “I mean, yes,” he amends quickly. “But, like, not completely?”

“Stomach is better, but the stress is still there?” Tony interprets.

“Yeah.” Peter sighs. “I’m, like…” he shakes his head.

“You’re going to be ok.” Tony gives the kid’s shoulder a squeeze, then points him toward the couch against the wall. Once he’s sure Peter is steady on his feet, Tony follows, dragging his stool along behind him.

Once they’re both sitting, Tony points at the bot positioned by the desk. He clicks his fingers. “Hey. You. DUMM-E.”

The robot whirrs and spins its tires.

“Mop,” Tony commands. “Now,” he pauses, then adds, “please.”

DUMM-E clips the wall with a loud scraping sound, but soon they can hear the squish of a wet mop against the floor.

Tony rests his elbows on his knees again. It’s his best calm, listening posture, he thinks. That’s what he wants, anyway. He doesn’t have a default reaction to stress-puke. Tony tries to be calming and an active listener. Maybe a sounding board. He wants to be whatever the kid needs, and, to be honest, he isn’t sure what that is.

“God, I’m…” Peter looks at the floor and shakes his head. He’s trembling and still suppressing sobs. “Sorry.”

Tony leans in and speaks quietly. “You’ve got to stop saying that. I don’t care. I have the bots to deal with the small stuff. Gross stuff.” He shrugs. “Whatever.”

DUMM-E makes a reproachful swivel and whir, but Tony ignores it.

Peter sniffles, but doesn’t say anything.

“Alright, I’ll start,” Tony says. “I’m going to skip the sappy stuff. But I am going to ask you the annoying questions.”

Peter nods without looking up.

Tony puts his hand up to count on his fingers. “Did you check your mail today? Or just Ned’s?”

“I checked,” Peter replies in a monotone. “Well, actually I texted May and asked her to check.” He meets Tony’s eyes for a brief moment. “So, well, basically.”

“Alright.” Tony nods curtly and puts one finger down. “Do you know the timing of your mail carrier’s route?”

“It’s, um, in the morning? Usually?” Peter wipes the back of his hand under his nose.

“Ok.” Tony puts down his second finger. “Have you…” Tony pauses. He can’t remember the next question. He’s sure there’s another. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m so doomed,” Peter whispers. “I’ve totally failed you, Mr. Stark. If you don’t want me to go on missions anymore, it’s ok.”

“Hey, stop that. I’ll still care about you if you don’t get into MIT.” Tony lets out a breath. “There, now you’re making me say sappy stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter’s face folds and tears start falling again.

“It’s ok. It’s ok, really.” He has another question. He does. He just needs to concentrate. Emotions rattle between the holes tunneling away his brain. “Umm…” Then it comes to him. It’s so stupid simple. He should’ve asked it first. “What address did you give them? On your application?”

“Huh?” Peter squints, then blinks wetness out of his eyes.

“Did you put your address? Like your apartment?” Tony specifies. “Or did you put this one?” He points at the floor. “The tower. I get a few other people’s mail here. People without permanent addresses. Like Thor.”

“Thor gets mail?” The kid asks.

Initially, Tony isn’t sure if he should answer. Would Peter feel like he’s distracting him on purpose? “So much mail.” Tony chooses to go with the flow. “And he reads all of it. He sits there for hours. Eating out my fridge.” Tony hazards a smile, but continues to make haste. “What about your mail. Do I get your mail? I can’t remember.”

“Oh.” Peter covers his mouth.

Tony prepares himself for another round of puking.

“I think…” Peter murmurs, “I think, maybe, yes?”

Tony can barely hear him; the kid’s voice is both quiet and muffled. But he sees the expression on Peter’s face. Surprised. Hopeful?

“I think I put this address. Because it was all official and everything?” The kid raises his head. “I think I probably did.”

“Ok,” Tony says. “Well—“

“You must think I’m so stupid.” Peter seems on the brink of tears again. “Oh my god—“

“Stop talking.” Tony doesn’t mean to make it an order. Well, perhaps he does. Just a little. He stops barely a second, then issues another. “Why don’t you run up the stairs and check the mailbox?”

“What? You think it came here?” Peter jumps to his feet.

“Go see. It’s right at the end of the driveway.” Tony points to the door.

Peter takes off at a sprint. His shoes squeak halfway across the floor. It’s still damp from its recent mopping.

Tony looks down at his watch. He gives the kid a 30 second head start. Then he swivels his stool around. “FRIDAY?” he asks.

“Yes, boss?” Tony swears he senses excitement in the AI’s tone.

“Pull up the security cam feed. I want a good look out front.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #month of sick #day 3 #month of sick 2024 #bad news #sickfic #emeto #spider-man #iron man #Marvel #mcu

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