#it’s really mild but I’m throwing it in there just in case

[eringobragh420]

💜 Pairing: Damian Priest x f!Reader 💜 Summary: Damian and his girlfriend disturb the peace. 🛑 Warnings: NSFW. Fingering, oral (m and f receiving), dirty talk, rough, unprotected p in v, mild pain play, cum. 18+ 💜 Notes: Spanish translations are at the end of the story. I do not speak Spanish, so if anything is incorrect, please let me know and I’ll fix it! ❤️ This one got away from me, but I loved the requester's idea so much lol 💜 Taglist: @eddiesrockstargirlfriend, @terrortwinunicorn. If you’d like to be added, please click here! 💜 Requested By: @danithepenguin05-blog. Hope you enjoy!

“You know, I’ve been watching you all night …” She jumps at the voice coming from behind her, smiling when she can feel his warm breath ghost across her neck and bare shoulder. “And I think I’m gonna fuck you in that dress.”

Her grin widens, brow arching. “You might wanna be careful,” she advises, “my boyfriend is a big dude, and he gets really jealous.” She turns around, eyes climbing to meet the pair gazing down at her.

“Is he bigger than me?” Damian growls, puffing his chest out as much as he can in the confines of a button-down shirt, vest, and suit jacket, somehow making himself seem even taller than his normal six-five. 

“Oh, damn,” she purrs, closing the space between them. “You’re way bigger. Let’s get out of here.”

“And fuck you in that dress?” Damian repeats, eyes sliding down the garment in question—a deep purple ruched midi-dress with one sleeve and an asymmetrical hem that hugs every one of her curves, even ones she didn’t know she had but was excited to find just the same. His hands claim her hips, sliding back to her ass, possessive in his Priestly way, and she beams up at him. Her hands glide up his chest, straightening the tie she’d had to tie for him before clutching at the lapels. She inhales his cologne and body wash and the scent that is simply Damian, and her heart flutters, pussy dampening at the same time. The control he has over her should be studied by science.

“And fuck me in this dress,” she whispers, pulling him into a kiss that starts as a peck, but when she tries to pull away, his long arms wrap themselves around her. She giggles against his lips, her own arms snaking round his neck only when he bends his knees and comes closer to her height.

“We better get going,” Damian mumbles. He leans sideways and glances down at her silver heels—the ones that have diamond-encrusted bows on the toes, the excess of which provocatively climb her calves. “Because I think I wanna fuck you in those heels, too, and I know you’re not gonna last much longer before you whip out the chanclas.”

She throws her head back with a laugh. “Well in that case … Priest, you big stud. Take me to bed or lose me forever.” She’s given universal consent with a quote from their favorite movie to watch together, and the change in her boyfriend’s demeanor is palpable.

Damian releases her only to drop his arm around her shoulders, and she reaches up to interlace their fingers. She’s smiling up at him, adoring, as she usually does, when she notices the Three Stooges headed their way, all of them leaning on each other, none of them able to walk in a straight line. They stumble over JD, who is passed out with his head on a plate of salad. Damian glances down at her, shaking his head, and she takes the hint, averting her gaze in the opposite direction. Together, they pick up their pace.

“Guys, wait!” Dom hollers behind them.

“Nope,” Damian grumbles so only she can hear, and they continue on.

“Don’t leave us hangin’!” Finn slurs.

The couple continues on, waving goodbyes to friends in passing, blissfully, though not really, ignorant to the whining that seems to be following them.

“Besties,” Rhea cajoles, then exclaims, “oh, shit!” just before a stomp, a thud, and three dummies giggling. Damian and his girlfriend slow to a stop and look at each other.

“There’s like a 70 percent chance they’ll die if we leave them here,” she says.

Damian rolls his eyes, nods, and turns to their friends, waving his arm for them to hurry up. And once they arrive at the rental SUV, Damian stuffs all three of his inebriated friends into the backseat, slamming the door in Dom’s face when he asks if they can stop for chicken tenders on the way to the hotel. Rolling his neck, he straightens his suit before turning to his girlfriend, who’s patiently waiting near the front passenger door. He opens it for her, taking her hand and helping her inside before closing the door and making his way around to the driver’s side.

“No, but seriously,” Dom says, poking his face between the front seats. She glances at him, his cheeks rosy from the alcohol, and then she looks at Damian, catching him taking yet another deep, calming breath through his nose. “I was lookin’ on my phone earlier and there’s this place that’s open late that has tendies …” He begins searching the pockets of his suit. “Hey, hey, who has my phone?”

“Whoops,” Rhea giggles from behind her, and Dom reaches over Finn.

“Give it back!” Dom exclaims.

“Get your arm outta my face!” Finn says, shoving Dom’s arm away.

“Tell her to give me my phone back!”

“Give him his bloody phone back!”

“I know his passcode,” Rhea taunts.

Suddenly Dom’s own shiny black shoes bounce between the front seats as Finn launches him into the trunk area of the SUV.

“Well, open it already! What are you waitin’ for?” Finn shouts, holding Dom back as he both fights to climb over the seat and grab his phone from Rhea at the same time.

“If this is what having kids is like, you can forget it,” Damian remarks, making a left turn out of the parking lot. His girlfriend watches the street- and headlights bounce off his handsome features, smiling when he places his hand on her thigh, lifting her dress just a little.

“I’m not really concerned with that right now,” she quietly replies. The three in the back are still arguing and paying no attention to what’s going on in the front. Damian looks at her, and she lifts her hips, tugging the bottom of the dress up her legs until the very tops of her thighs are visible. His eyes return to the road to be sure he’s still in his lane, snapping back to her as she places her hand atop his, beginning to slowly drag it up her satiny skin.

Damian’s rough fingers make first contact with her bare slit, and he casts another glance in her direction. Her grin is wicked as she licks her lips, rolling her hips against his touch wantonly. His left hand grips the steering wheel, he adjusts the positioning of his own hips, and his middle finger slips within her folds. He massages the tiny nub in slow circles, torturing, before gliding his touch up and down, easily causing her pussy to surge. She sighs, head falling back against the seat, and she bites her lip.

“Shit,” she whispers. She squeezes his solid forearm with both hands as she rides his gifted fingers. Slithering inside her, first with one finger, then two, he hooks them expertly, and her back bows. The raucous from the backseat, the very fact that she and Damian are not alone in such a tiny space, sends her into a shivering, inaudible orgasm quicker than is typical when he uses his fingers on her. She releases his arm, gaping as he brings those cum-coated digits to his perfect lips where he sucks them greedily into his mouth. His cheeks hollow with the suction, sculpting those bones exquisitely, her thighs instantly twitching. He pulls them from his mouth with a lewd pop, winking at the same time, and she knows exactly which direction things are headed once that hotel room door clicks closed behind them.

He opens her door after backing into a parking spot. He rearranges the bulge in his pants as he holds his other hand out for her. She makes a show of raising her hips so she can pull her dress back down to its original length before placing her manicured hand into his, carefully climbing out of the vehicle. Damian closes the door, leaning down to press his lips to her ear.

“I’m gonna fucking wreck you,” he says.

“Promise?” she murmurs, brows raising.

“You guys suck,” Dom complains, tumbling out of the back of the SUV. Finn and Rhea lean on one another, uncontrollable laughter passing back and forth between them. “Now everybody’s gonna think I’m weird.”

“You are weird,” Finn and Rhea snicker in unison.

Damian’s arm rests on her shoulders once more, their fingers again tangled, as the party of five boards the hotel elevator. Dom continues to whine about whatever Rhea and Finn did to him, which evidently has something to do with an embarrassing Twitter post. But their bickering slowly begins to fade into mere background noise, the three of them standing in front of her and she in front of Damian, and she snakes her hands behind her. Her nails clack against her boyfriend’s belt buckle, a sinister grin splitting her lips as they continue southward. She follows the zipper, the mechanism threatening to burst trying to hold back the monster hardening within, which she tenderly cups in both hands. Damian brings an arm around her shoulders and across her chest, the other enveloping her waist, and she rests her head against his pec, massaging his still-growing cock through his pants. His perfect mouth latches onto her ear, biting, kissing, sucking, moving onto her neck, making sure to touch all of her spots. She’s so distracted she doesn’t notice his hand sweeping back across her chest so he can fondle her breast, which further occupies her attention and keeps her from realizing he’s pulling the sleeveless side of her dress down until that bare breast falls out. He takes it into his hand again, groping obscenely, all the while feasting on her neck.

The ding of the elevator breaks the couple’s building tension, and Damian lifts her dress back into position before the doors slide open. They resume their customary holding of one another as they follow their three friends into the hallway, Damian having to redirect them from turning right to turning left. The lump in his slacks is incredibly conspicuous, but he doesn’t try to hide it, and she doesn’t blame him—he has a lot to be proud of. She waits by their room door as he snatches the key card out of Finn’s hand, knowing none of the inebriated three will be able to operate the machine. He herds them inside, not even bothering to take Rhea to her room, and closes the door before they can make any more requests.

She backs slowly into their room as Damian stalks her. He regards her with a tilt of his head, stealthily reaching back to turn the lock on the door after it clicks closed. He casually starts toward her, opening his suit jacket and allowing it to slide down his arms. He catches it in one hand and lays it on a nearby dresser. Her breathing accelerates and she chews on the inside of her cheek as he unbuttons the cuffs on his shirt, rolling the sleeves halfway up his forearms like he’s about to take on a task that’s going to last for hours.

“I love that dress,” he tells her, closing the space between them.

She smiles. “Well thank you.” She runs her hands up his chest, over the vest this time, applying a small amount of pressure just so she can feel how hard his muscles are. “I thought you might like … the easy access.” Her hands come down his abdomen and she takes hold of the buckle on his belt. “And I—” She starts to unbuckle it. “—might like—” She unbuttons and unzips his pants. “—this big cock in my mouth.” 

Ahead of her descending to her knees, he grabs hold of her with his hands under her arms and he tosses her back onto the bed. A giggle nearly erupts, but Damian is leering at her in a way he’s never done before as his fists come down on the mattress, then his knees, and she backs up on her elbows. When she comes to the pillows, she bends a knee, lifts her leg, and Damian pauses his advance. He glances at the heel perched delicately on his against his shoulder, the diamond bows, the diamond ribbons ascending her calf, and when he returns his attention to her, his eyes are devoid of any color except sable and he’s wetting his lips.

“Lick me, Papí,” she says.

Damian chuckles softly, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of her ankle. “¿Qué dices?”

“Please, Papí, will you lick me?”

He seizes her thighs, spreading them, pushing them back toward her until her hips nearly come off the bed and her elbows collapse. She feels the cold from the air conditioner rush over her bare, wet pussy, sending a shudder throughout her body. She lifts her head only to have it fall back into the pillows again after watching Damian lick a hot stripe from her aching hole to the top of her slit. She groans and her back arches as she grabs at his ponytail of tiny braids, to which he responds by closing his lips around her clit and sucking, slurping, effortlessly holding her legs in place as she fights to close them around his head.

“Fuck,” she yelps, releasing his hair to reach back and grip the headboard. Damian releases one leg so he can pull her dress down until her breast spills out, and that heel lands on his back, digging in as much as she dares as she tries desperately to ride his tongue. Damian grunts, coming away from her pussy, and she looks down at him, worried the heel in his back is too painful. He glances behind him in the direction of the heel, and when he looks back, she’s not sure he’s the same person. This man must certainly be the devil—the onyx flames in his eyes and the impish slope to his grin supporting her hypothesis. He surrenders her other leg, and she instantly brings the heel down onto his back, because that’s where a devil would want it. His eyes close briefly, opening just before he attacks her pussy, assaulting every nerve-ending with every trick he knows. She cries out, heels burrowing even further as her body undulates, and gushes cum all over Damian’s gifted tongue.

Without warning, Damian pulls away, standing on the floor now at the foot of the bed, the bottom half of his face glistening with her juices, and he repossesses her legs. Before she has time to pout, he yanks her down the bed, a leg on either side of him. He reaches down and wraps his hand around her throat, pulling her into a sitting position, her hands immediately rummaging through his pants and briefs, reemerging with Damian’s cock and balls. She makes a show of spitting into the palm of her hand before sliding it down his rigid shaft. He leans down to kiss her, pulling back just as she attempts to accept the kiss. She glares, trying again to kiss him, only to be met with the same results.

“Papí,” she sulks.

“I want you to choke on this dick first,” he tells her, hand still clutching her throat, lifting to the point she’s nearly coming off the bed. She sighs, glowing, hand decelerating on his cock. “You know I like kissing you when your mouth’s a mess.”

She nods, waiting obediently for him to release her neck, and as soon as he does, she has his cock buried almost to the root in her throat before she gags, coughs, and has to come up for air.

“Fuck!” Damian shouts, one hand on the back of her head, the other on the side near her neck, as he thrusts into her mouth. She grasps the ends of his belt, simply using them for stability as Damian rides her face. After several pumps, he pulls out, strings of saliva and precum bridging her lips and his cock. Now he allows her to kiss him, groaning as their tongues twist and curl, and she knows he can taste his cock all over her mouth, just like he likes it.

He picks her up under the arms again and launches her just a few feet back on the bed. Snickering as she bounces, she watches as Damian sheds all of his clothes from the waist up before crawling on his knees to get between her legs. He takes one of her heels and arranges it on his chest. Rubbing the velvety head of his cock along her throbbing clit, she feels him press into the heel, so she adds resistance with her leg so it might go deeper.

“Goddamn,” he roars. He starts to push himself inside her, and she revels in the sensation of being split open as she gives a moan of her own.

“Mmm, Papí likes a little pain,” she coos. She gives him a shove with the heel, and he snarls, glaring down at her with a tilt of his head, and maybe she went too far, but they’re past the point of no return. “That’s hot.”

Damian’s hips surge forward, impaling her completely on his rock hard member, nearly bouncing her head off the headboard if not for the pillows. She cries out, gripping the wood that is fastened to the wall, making it safe from rattling. However, the mattress has a squeak, which sounds in time with Damian’s rapid thrusts. He wraps his fingers around her ankle, anchoring it to his chest, other hand groping her bare breast, and he has a steady, albeit aggressive, rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chants with each and every pump, unknowingly increasing the force in her leg. “Fuck me, Papí!” she cries out, finishing with a whisper, “please … please …”

Damian cries out his own set of curses, and with one final surge forward, he releases inside her. His pace slows, but doesn’t stop for several moments. A smile grows on her bruised lips, and even though she’s positive her makeup and hair are both incredible messes right now, she doesn’t feel shame or embarrassment. Her boyfriend doesn’t need to see her painted and polished to perfection every moment of their lives. And anyway, he’d warned her of his intentions to wreck her. Eventually he pulls out, lying next to her, and moments later, the couple is snoring together—she still in her dress and heels, he still in his pants and shoes.

The next morning, following a refreshing joint shower, they collect their belongings—Damian handling the heavier items, always leaving with her as little as possible to carry—and as she’s holding the door for him, Dom, Finn, and Rhea exit their room, Rhea having retrieved her things from her room earlier. The threesome are already wearing sunglasses and share a similar pale complexion, but when they spot her and Damian, they collapse into giggles.

Brows furrowing, she asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Finn replies.

She glances at Damian, who shrugs and rolls his eyes. They all head to the elevator, the three amigos murmuring amongst one another, and she has no idea what’s going on, but she knows it has something to do with her and Damian. Everyone stuffs themselves and their luggage into the tiny box, Rhea punches the button for the lobby, and the doors close. This is the moment the three of them launch into a litany of moaning and groaning and one of them even imitates the sound of a squeaking bed.

“Fuck me, Papí,” Dom’s voice is many octaves higher than normal.

“Papí likes a little pain,” Rhea joins in.

Finn repeats almost verbatim Damian’s list of curses after he came, and for some reason, she doesn’t understand what they’re talking about until this point. She feels her cheeks erupt as if coated in lava, and she’s shell shocked a moment before turning to Damian, who already has his hoodie unzipped and one side of it opened. Mortified, she buries her burning face against his chest and he covers her with the jacket. The rest of the elevator ride is filled with snickers and imitations.

Once outside, she pushes ahead of the group, hurrying toward the rental when she hears the distinct sound of hands clapping. Turning, she catches Damian grinning like he just won the fucking lottery, sharing handshakes with the boys and a high-five with Rhea.

“Really?!”

🎀 Chanclas - Flip flops 🎀 Papí - Daddy 🎀 Qué dices - What do you say?

[covid-safer-hotties]

also preserved on our archive

By Erica Sloan

These days, it’s tempting to compare COVID-19 with the common cold or flu. It can similarly leave you with a nasty cough, fever, sore throat—the full works of respiratory symptoms. And it’s also become a part of the societal fabric, perhaps something you’ve resigned yourself to catching at least a few times in your life (even if you haven’t already). But let’s not forget: SARS-CoV-2 (the virus responsible for COVID) is still relatively new, and researchers are actively investigating the toll of reinfection on the body. While there are still a lot of unknowns, one thing seems to be increasingly true: Getting COVID again and again is a good deal riskier than repeat hits of its seasonal counterparts.

It turns out, SARS-CoV-2 is more nefarious than these other contagious bugs, and our immune response to it, often larger and longer-lasting. COVID has a better ability to camouflage itself in the body, “and it has the keys to the kingdom in the sense that it can unlock any cell and get in,” says Esther Melamed, PhD, an assistant professor in the department of neurology at Dell Medical School, University of Texas Austin, and the research director of the Post-COVID-19 program at UT Health Austin. That’s because SARS-CoV-2 binds to ACE2 receptors, which exist in cells all over your body, from your heart to your gut to your brain. (By contrast, cold and flu viruses replicate mostly in your respiratory tract.)

It only follows that a bigger threat can trigger an outsize immune response. In some people, the body’s reaction to COVID can turn into a “cytokine storm,” Dr. Melamed tells SELF, which is characterized by an excessive release of inflammatory proteins that can wreak havoc on multiple organ systems—not a common scenario for your garden-variety cold or flu. But even a “mild” case of COVID can throw your immune system into a tizzy as it works to quickly shore up your defenses. And each reinfection is a fresh opportunity for the virus to win the battle.

While you develop some immunity after a COVID infection, it doesn’t just grow with each additional hit. You might be thinking, “Aren’t I more protected against COVID and less likely to have a serious case after having been infected?” Part of that is true, to an extent. In the first couple years after COVID burst onto the scene, reinfections were generally (though not always) milder than a person’s initial bout of the virus. “The way we understand classic immunology is that your body will say to a virus [it’s seen before], ‘Oh, I know how to deal with you, and I’m now going to deal with you in a better way the second time around,’” says Ziyad Al-Aly, PhD, a clinical epidemiologist at Washington University in St. Louis School of Medicine and the chief of research and development at the Veterans Affairs St. Louis Health Care System.

But any encounter with COVID can also cause your immune system to “go awry or develop some form of dysfunction,” Dr. Al-Aly tells SELF. Specifically, “immune imprinting” can happen, where, upon a second (or third or fourth) exposure to the virus, your immune cells launch the same response as they did for the initial infection, in turn blocking or limiting the development of new antibodies necessary to fight off the current variant that’s stirring up trouble. So, “when you get hit an [additional] time, your immune system may not behave classically,” Dr. Al-Aly says, and could struggle with mounting a good defense.

Pair that dip in immune efficiency with the fact that your antibody levels also wane with time post-infection, and it’s easy to see how another hit can rock your body in a new way. Indeed, the more time that passes after any given COVID infection, the less of a “competitive advantage” you’ll have against any future one, Richard Moffitt, PhD, an associate professor at Emory University, in Atlanta, tells SELF. His research found that, while people who got sick initially during the delta phase were less likely to get reinfected during the first omicron wave (as compared to folks who were infected in a prior period), that benefit leveled off with following omicron variants.

There’s also the fact that no matter how your immune system has responded to a prior strain (or strains!) of the virus, it could react differently to a new mutation. “We tend to think of COVID as one homogeneous thing, but it’s really not,” Dr. Al-Aly says. So even if your body successfully thwarted one of these intruders in the past, there’s no guarantee it’ll do the same for another, now or in the future, he says.

Getting COVID again and again is especially risky if it previously made you very ill. Dr. Moffitt’s study above also found that the “severity of your first infection is very predictive of the severity of a reinfection,” he says. Meaning, you’re more likely to have a severe case of COVID—for instance, requiring hospitalization or intensive care, such as ventilation—when reinfected if you had a rough go of it the first time around.

It’s possible that some folks are more prone to an off-kilter immune response to the virus, which could then happen consistently with reinfections. The antibodies created in people who’ve had severe cases “may not function as well as those in folks who’ve had mild infections or were able to fight the virus off,” Dr. Melamed says. Though researchers don’t fully understand why, some people’s immune systems are also more likely to overreact to COVID (remember the cytokine storm?), which can cause serious symptoms—like fluid in the lungs and shortness of breath—whenever they’re infected.

Being over the age of 65, having a chronic illness or other medical condition, and lacking access to health care have all been shown to spike your risk of serious outcomes with a COVID infection, whether it’s your first or fifth fight with the virus.

But you’re not home free if you’ve only had, say, a brief fever or cough with COVID in the past; Dr. Moffitt points out that a small subset of people in his research who had minor reactions with their initial infection went on to be hospitalized with a repeat hit. The probability of that might be lower, but it’s still a possibility, he says.

Even if you’ve only had “mild” cases, each reinfection strains your body, upping your chances of developing long COVID. A 2022 study led by Dr. Al-Aly found that COVID reinfections also increase your risk of complications across the board, regardless of whether you recovered just fine in the past or got vaccinated. In particular, it showed that reinfection raises the likelihood that you’ll need hospitalization; have heart or lung problems; or experience, among other possible issues, GI, neurological, mental health, or musculoskeletal symptoms. “We use the term ‘cumulative effects,’” Dr. Al-Aly says, “so, multiple hits accrue and then leave the body more vulnerable to all the potential long-term health effects of COVID.”

That doesn’t mean your experience of a second (or third or fourth) infection will necessarily be worse, in and of itself, than what you felt during a prior case. But with each new hit, a fresh batch of the virus seeps into your system, where, even if you have a mild case, it has another chance to trigger any of the longer-term complications above. While the likelihood of getting long COVID (a constellation of symptoms lingering for three months or longer post-infection) is likely greatest after initial infection, “The bottom line is, people are still getting diagnosed with long COVID after reinfection,” Dr. Moffitt says.

Researchers don’t totally know why one person might deal with lasting health effects over another, but it seems that, in some folks, the immune system misfires, generating not only antibodies to attack the virus but also autoantibodies that go after the body’s own healthy cells, Dr. Al-Aly says. This may be one reason why COVID has been linked to the onset of autoimmune conditions like psoriasis and rheumatoid arthritis.

A different hypothesis suggests that pieces of the virus could linger in the body, even after a person has seemingly “recovered” (reminder that SARS-CoV-2 is scarily good at weaseling its way into all sorts of cells). “Maybe the first time, your immune system was able to fully clear it, but the second time, it found a way to hang around,” Dr. Al-Aly posits. And a third theory involves your gut microbiome, the community of microbes in your GI tract, including beneficial bacteria. It’s conceivable that “when we get sick with COVID, these bacteria do, too, and perhaps they recover [on initial infection], but not on the second or third hit,” he says, throwing off your balance of good-to-bad gut bugs (which can impact your health in all sorts of ways).

Another unnerving possibility: The shock to your system triggered by COVID may “wake up” a latent (a.k.a. dormant) virus or two lurking in your body, Dr. Melamed says. We all carry anywhere from eight to 12 of these undetected bugs at a time—things like Epstein-Barr, varicella-zoster (which causes chickenpox and shingles), and herpes simplex. And research suggests their reactivation could be a contributing factor in long COVID. Separately, the systemic inflammation often created by COVID may spark the onset of high blood pressure and increased clotting (which can up your risk of stroke and pulmonary embolism), as well as type 2 diabetes, Dr. Melamed says.

There’s no guarantee that any given COVID infection snowballs into something debilitating, but each hit is like another round of Russian roulette, Dr. Al-Aly says. From a sheer numbers standpoint, the more times you play a game with the possibility of a negative outcome, the greater your chances are of that bad result occurring. And because every COVID case has at least some potential to leave you very ill or dealing with a host of persistent symptoms, why take the risk any more times than you need to?

Bottom line: You should do your best to avoid COVID reinfection and bolster your defenses against the virus. At this stage of the pandemic’s progression, it’s not realistic to suggest you can avoid any exposure to the virus, given that societal protections against its spread have been rolled back. But what you should do is take some common-sense precautions, which can help you avoid any contagious respiratory virus. (A cold or the flu may not pose as many potential health risks as COVID, but being sick is still not fun!)

It’s a good idea to wear a mask when you’re in a crowded environment (especially indoors), choose well-ventilated or outdoor spaces for group hangouts, and test for COVID if you have cold or flu-like symptoms, Dr. Al-Aly says. If you do get infected, talk to your doctor about whether your personal risk of a severe case is enough to qualify for a Paxlovid prescription (which you need to take within the first five days of symptoms for it to be effective).

The other important thing you should do is get the updated COVID vaccine (the 2024-2025 formula was recently approved and released). Unlike getting reinfected, the vaccine triggers “a very targeted immune response…because it’s [made with] a specific tiny part of the virus,” Dr. Melamed says. Meaning, you get the immune benefit of a little exposure without the potential of your whole system going haywire. Getting the current shot also ensures you restore any protection that has waned since you received a prior jab and that you have an effective shield against the dominant circulating strains. Plus, research shows that being vaccinated doesn’t just lower your chances of catching the virus; it also reduces your risk of having a severe case or winding up with long COVID if you do get it.

So, too, can the deceivingly simple act of keeping up with healthy habits—like exercising regularly, eating nutritious foods, and clocking quality sleep. Maintaining this kind of lifestyle can help you stave off other health issues that could increase your risk of harm from COVID, Harlan Krumholz, PhD, a cardiologist at Yale University and founder of the Yale Center for Outcomes Research and Evaluation (CORE), tells SELF. “Given that we will be repetitively exposed to the virus, the best investments we can make are in our baseline health,” he says.

Doing any (or all!) of the above is a big act of compassion for yourself, the people you love, and your greater community. “For the average person, it’s like, ‘Oh, COVID is gone,’ but they’re just not seeing the impact,” Dr. Al-Aly says, noting the invisibility of long COVID symptoms like disorienting brain fog and crushing fatigue. The truth is, in plenty of people, just one more infection could be the difference between living their best life and facing a devastating chronic condition.

[riality-check]

More roadie shenanigans, keeping feedback from this post in mind! part 1, part 2

ao3

It’s before the second show, and they’re already fighting.

“You can’t chicken out,” Gareth says.

“I’m not gonna chicken out!”

“Good, because I’ll tell Wayne if you do,” Jeff says.

Eddie glares at him. “You’re an asshole.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Shut up and get out of here!” Archie says, pushing Eddie toward the tech booth. He complies, but not without another scathing look over his shoulder.

His friends laugh because of course they do. They’re assholes, but, luckily, they’re the same kind of asshole that Eddie is.

He straightens out his shoulders, breathes, and prepares to grovel.

Robin and Steve are setting up just like they were at the last venue. It looks like a mess of cables and boxes from Eddie’s perspective, but Steve and Robin work with ruthless efficiency, alternately talking and signing when their hands aren’t full.

“Um,” Eddie says. G-d, he’s never been this awkward in his life. But this matters, like, really matters to him, and he’s gotta do right.

Neither of them pay him any attention.

“Excuse me?” he says a little louder.

Robin turns around. When she sees him, her expression instantly sours.

“Hello?” she drawls, sounding bored out of her mind.

Steve turns around, too. When he sees Eddie, his face-

Well, Eddie isn’t sure what that expression is supposed to mean. If he had to guess, he’d say mild annoyance.

Mild annoyance shouldn’t look that hot.

“I just wanted to say again that I’m really sorry,” he says, making sure to talk clearly and loud enough to be understood. He’s not an idiot, he knows that shouting is rude, but he makes sure he can be heard over the general chaos of setting up for a new show. “It wasn’t any of my business, and even if I meant well, it’s not an excuse.”

Steve’s face softens a whole lot as Eddie stumbles through his apology, and then he reaches up to his ears to take out ear plugs.

Huh?

“Mind saying that again?” Steve says with a smile.

Eddie is. So confused.

But then Steve laughs. “You should see your face, dude. I got the gist. Apology accepted, we’re cool.”

Okay, that makes Eddie feel better. A lot better. But he’s still confused.

And his mouth always moves faster than his brain.

“Why are you- why do you have- what-”

Robin rolls her eyes fondly. “This idiot,” she says, pointing at Steve, “always tries to do the first show without the ear plugs he needs-”

“Not this shit again,” Steve mumbles.

“-because, as it turns out, your ears do a lot more than just hear. Like balance-”

“You’re one to talk about balance, Buckley,” Steve says, giving her a light shove. She nearly topples over if not for the fact that he immediately grabs her arm to steady her.

Eddie thinks he might know even less than he thought.

“I want to make it up to you,” he says, and Steve and Robin stop bickering.

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve says, and Robin elbows him.

“I want to,” Eddie insists. “What’s your favorite song? We’ll play it at the end of our set.”

Naïvely and terribly optimistically, Eddie hopes Steve might say something that’s already in their set list, or maybe another one of their songs.

From the way that Robin and Steve are looking at each other conspiratorially, he doesn’t think that’s the case.

“No,” Steve says, laughing and shaking his head.

Robin sneaks a glance at Eddie, smirks, and starts signing at Steve.

The only thing Eddie understands about the conversation as their hands move is their facial expressions: Robin with a smirk, and Steve trying desperately not to laugh.

He’s so cute. He gets this little crease on the side of his mouth that Eddie wants to smooth out with his thumb.

Slow the hell down, buddy.

“Fine,” Steve says, throwing his hands up in the air. He turns back to Eddie. “Pretty Fly.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Eddie blurts.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Didn’t you just apologize to me?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says. “It’s just that my bassist and lead singer have been gunning for this song for, like, 6 months. Archie chomps at the bit for fun bass lines, and Jeff just thinks it’s funny as-”

“Slow down,” Steve interrupts.

Right. He talks too fast.

“I’ll play it, but it means caving to my asshole friends,” Eddie says.

Robin cackles. “Told you it was a good idea.”

“Yeah, I love a good bass line,” Steve says. His face is softer again, and Eddie thinks he loves that expression.

He checks his watch. “Soundcheck is soon, so I’m gonna head back. Sorry again.”

“Eddie,” Steve says, and oh.

Eddie loves how Steve says his name.

“We’re good, okay?” he continues, small smile on his face.

“Well,” Robin chimes in. “After the apology song you will be.”

Eddie laughs. He really likes her now that she’s warmed up to him.

“Noted,” he says.

He heads back with a final wave and ducks backstage, where the band is tuning their instruments.

“Well?” Gareth asks, tightening his snare.

Eddie grabs his guitar, closes his eyes, and sighs. “He wants us to play Pretty Fly as an apology.”

“Let’s fucking go!” Archie roars, and Jeff gives him a high five.

“No way-”

“Gareth, I know-”

“You dick-hungry traitor.”

“Hey!”

“The fucking Offspring, Eddie? Punk? Are you shitting me? Punk just because you want a shot with a hot guy?”

Archie starts plucking out the bass line. Gareth throws a drum stick at his head. Jeff beams it back at him and misses.

“It’s one time,” Eddie says.

“Unless your cute roadie likes it enough,” Jeff teases.

“He’s not my anything.”

“Not yet,” Archie adds.

“Not ever.”

“Fucking pessimist,” Jeff says.

A tiny crashing sound makes them all turn toward the drum set, where Gareth is lightly thumping his head into the hi-hat.

“I’m gonna have to do the backing vocals for Pretty Fly,” he mutters.

“Your fault for sounding like a pre-pubescent chihuahua.”

Gareth throws his other drumstick at Jeff. “I’m not begging you for shit.”

“Do it for the bit,” Archie says. “You love doing it for the bit.”

Gareth picks his head up. “I do love doing anything for the bit.”

“Soundcheck in five!” someone calls.

“Thank you five!” Eddie yells back. Shit, he’s gotta tune his guitar.

Soundcheck is a breeze, and, after that, the time flies. Before he knows it, they’re out onstage, playing their usual set list.

Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this. The energy, the lights, the sounds, G-d, all of it. There’s nothing like being onstage and playing until his fingers hurt, nothing like joining in on the backup vocals, nothing like hearing the crowd roar with them.

It’s perfect. Touring is everything he dreamed of and more.

Eddie wants to do this for the rest of his life. They’re gonna headline one day, he knows it, but this is an amazing start.

What Eddie doesn’t want to do is talk, at Jeff’s request.

“Okay, okay,” he says, getting the crowd to quiet down. “We’ve got two more songs. The first one is one we’re playing because I fucked up.”

“And because he finally caved to us,” Jeff adds.

The crowd laughs, but it doesn’t feel mocking. Eddie laughs with them.

“So, Steve, consider this the final part of my apology-”

“And my peak embarrassment!” Gareth adds.

The crowd laughs again, and Eddie sighs, fondly long-suffering. “Let’s do it.”

The backing vocals are fucking embarrassing. Eddie’s with Gareth on that one. They suck, and he feels himself flush for reasons other than the heat.

But he imagines Steve smiling as he watches the show, and Archie is clearly having the best G-ddamn time on the bass, and Jeff is basically cackling his way through the song, so it’s worth it.

They get through it and then their closer without a hitch.

“We’re Corroded Coffin!” Jeff tells the crowd. “Y’all were amazing, so keep that energy up for the other opener and for the main act!”

The crowd roars, the lights black out, and they make their way backstage.

In the green room, on Eddie’s guitar case, is a note.

Apology more than accepted. Here’s my number in case you want to apologize again. Or maybe grab a coffee.

Text, don’t call. In case you haven’t noticed, my ears don’t work.

-Steve.

Eddie has never added a contact faster in his life.

I think I saw a 24 hour diner down the road. Hopefully they have good coffee.

Steve’s response is immediate.

Do you really think I care about the quality of the coffee?

You could be a coffee connoisseur for all I know, Eddie types back.

I don’t know a lot. Hence the date.

Date.

Woah.

Eddie tries to get his heart rate under control and text Steve back. He’s never been good at multitasking though, so by the time he’s able to formulate words again, the lights have gone down and the second opener is on. Steve’s working, and he shouldn’t be bothered.

Besides, Eddie should probably use the time between now and the end of the show to think before he speaks for once in his life.

Yeah fuck it I’ll keep the tag list (or you can follow the shiny new tag #gi;pe au): @vampireinthesun @paperbackribs @littlewildflowerkitten @estrellami-1 @messrs-weasley @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring @omgshesinsane @bestwifehaver @marklee-blackmore @gleek4twd @steddiestains @chaoticvictorianspirit @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @alienace @7shrewsinatrenchcoat @punctualhowell @pluto-pepsi @voidpacifist @sunfloweringstories @anaibis @evillitteguy @hallucinatedjosten @avi17 @b-u-g-g-y @shinekocreator @l0st-strawberry @brassreign @abbiecadabi-blog @rainbow-freckle @gregre369 @rehfan @just-a-tiny-void @weirdandabsurd42 @satan-is-obsessed @honeysucklesinger @coyotepup345 @gayafmermaid @thegingerrapunzel

[drowningkeyborad]

De Rolo Kids Headcanons

Disclaimer: These headcanons have no set timeline in the CR universe. I just like to keep them safe in my back pocket.

Vesper De Rolo

The oldest child

Part of me thinks that she has some mild case of ‘Only Child Syndrome’. For a while, it was just her, Percy, and Vex. Then the twins came along. I don’t think there is a canonical confirmed age gap, but given that Vesper is about 30 in her last canon appearance; I ballpark the age gap between her and The Twins at about 9-10 years.

 She’s the oldest child AND eldest daughter… so that’s a lot

Her white hair comes from Vex being pregnant with her while she was a Champion of The Dawnfather.

Paladin Class. Worships the Dawnfather and can often be found by the Sun Tree. 

Vesper and Vax’ildan II bond over their respective faith practices. 

Takes after both her parents in the best ways. But this can also backfire. 

Spends most of her free time reading or painting. Her preferred reading material is non-fiction and history. 

She’s just as unhinged as the rest of her siblings, but tends to keep it out of the public eye better than the others. 

Loves painting. Like REALLY loves to paint. Her room looks like the inside of Rapunzel’s tower in Tangled. 

Yeah, turns out those paintings were linked to oracle powers–

Anyway– that means she’s off on an adventure! She likes to take her siblings with her, when they’re old enough. Leona and Vax’ildan II are her favorites to travel with. 

Despite the 9-10 year age gap, Vesper and Wolfe bond over being the ‘Eldest Daughter’ and ‘Eldest Son’ of the De Rolo family. 

Gwendolyn and Vesper have a very close relationship, despite having the biggest age gap of all the kids. They share a love for history and fashion. 

Has no real interest in politics, but given the order of her birth, she pays close attention in the case she might have to replace her Aunt Cassandra’s seat.

Heavy Weapons AND Heavy Armor girlie!! Will smash your skull in and look cute while doing so.

Wears her white hair in a messy side braid. Just like her mama <3

Wolfe Kristoff De Rolo

Contrary to most headcanons I’ve read about him; this boy is his father’s son. The Einstein of the new generation. 

Demisexual 

Definitely found old blueprints of Pepperbox and thought “I could do better”. And he did.

Fighter/Artificer Multi Class

Acts the most ‘Noble-like’ out of all his siblings. 

Will throw money and his family name at all of his problems. (“My father will hear about this.”)

“I’m gonna k*ill myself.” – Wolfe, at any minor inconvenience

The most sought after bachelor in Whitestone. Weekly, Percy and Vex are approached by other nobility with the proposal of a political marriage of Wolfe and their own heir. If it’s not nobility; it’s townspeople trying to catch the inventor out of his Workshop to ‘get to know him’.

Wolfe has threatened to Crash Out if either of his parents even considered one of the offers. 

Very well-versed in both engineering and politics. 

Accidentally invented the Printing Press at the age of twelve… He was trying to make a stamp for his dad and it just got out of hand. 

Took a really nasty fall when he was younger. Probably climbing on something he wasn’t supposed to. Resulted in a broken arm and busting his head open. 

Has a scar on his forehead from the fall. His brown hair turned white where the scar meets his hairline. 

Big into hair & skin care. Always has lotion on his person at all times.

Dresses like Percy in Vox Machina Origins. Thigh high boots people…

Take the demon-murdered family-torture trauma from Percy, keep the brains, add a healthy noble upbringing, and tune up the cockiness by ten; ya get Wolfe. 

Hear of Hearing! Boy is around heavy machines and gunfire all day. Sounds like he’s yelling most of the time, but his family knows it’s because he cannot hear them.

Learned Sign Language because of his hearing loss. 

Has to spray Gwendolyn with water like a cat to keep her out of his Workshop. 

Jealous of how free spirited his twin sister can be. He wished he could naturally let go of his worries the way Leona does. 

Leona De Rolo

Middle child. Literally. Between Wolfe being two minutes older than her, then followed by Vax’ildan and Gwendolyn– Leona is smack in the middle.

A bi queen

She loves hunting, target practice, etc. Anything to get a bow in her hands.

Thick-ass glasses and she HATES them! They’re so annoying when she’s trying to hunt/fight in the rain or snow. Still has a deadly aim though. 

Very competitive. She’s the reason the De Rolo family can’t have a game night. 

Fighter/Ranger Multi Class

Good fucking luck trying to tame her lion’s mane of hair. Vesper, Vex, and Gwendolyn have all tried to help her tame it, but it just gets put into a messy ponytail/bun/braid.

Very much a tomboy. Takes to wearing suits and more masc-leaning clothing. Hasn’t worn a dress or skirt since she was like seven years old. 

Wolfe has even commented on how she pulls off suits better than he does. 

She would never tell him, but that compliment has stuck with her for years. 

Often has to push/tackle her twin out of harm's way because he’s hard of hearing.

She and Vex bond over their shared love for the woodlands. There was a time the two of them were camping together, and Vex opened up about her own twin brother. That was the first time Leona had ever seen her mother cry…

She silently vowed to never let something like that happen to Wolfe.

Doesn’t care much for engineering like her father and twin, but she will willingly listen to them ramble on about whatever rabbit hole they’ve both fallen into. 

A small, dark part of her is jealous of Wolfe and how he seems to be admired by everyone. Everywhere. 

Will kill anyone for looking at any of her siblings in a way she doesn’t like. 

She and Vesper travel together the most out of the siblings. Sometimes they’ll go on separate journeys and end up meeting in the middle anyway.  

Leona and Gwendolyn love to pull pranks together.

Vax’ildan Frederick De Rolo

Trans.

Trans, and I cannot be convinced otherwise. 

He 100% chose the name Vax’ildan. 

He’s very quiet. Usually lost in thought or just observing the people around him. 

Stares at people. 

Really good perception (checks). 

Cleric/Paladin Multi Class 

Cleric of the Raven Queen… Yeah, Vex was real happy about that…

His family calls him “Danny” or “Freddie”. He understands that “Vax” is reserved for their dearest friend. 

Wolfe calls him “Danny Boy”. It’s Vax’ildan’s favorite nickname. 

Mama’s boy to the max. Vex, like all parents do, says she doesn’t have a favorite. But everyone knows it’s Vax’ildan II.

Vex was the first one Vax’ildan II came out to as trans. Then Percy, then his siblings, etc. 

“Yeah, dude, we already knew.” “...What?” 

Just like his uncle; Vax’ildan II had been/is watched by the Raven Queen. 

When he accompanied Vesper to her faith work, he would often wander off and be found by the Raven Queen’s Shrine. 

Ravens follow this poor kid everywhere. To the point that Leona has offered to shoot them on multiple occasions.

Fell through a frozen lake when he was about ten years old. It scared his family to death, and he was grounded to sleeping in his parents’ bed for like a month (Vex physically would not let him go.) 

He tried to explain that he was “-following the guy in the raven cloak who had daggers.” 

The reality of the situation didn’t hit him until a few years later, but he still felt no dreaded fear for when it happened. 

The only one allowed to come-and-go into Wolfe’s workshop as he pleases. Likes to sit in the back and read his books.

I could write a whole book on this kid. 

Gwendolyn De Rolo

Daddy’s girl 100%. It's canon.

The little game that Percy and she play during parties is just training her for trouble. 

Rouge Class through-and-through. 

Learns how to use a rapier from her Auntie Cassandra 

Around the age of fifteen, she starts asking to go by just ‘Gwen’. It’s much less of a mouthful, and something about dropping the lengthy name took a weight off her shoulders.

The age gap between her and the rest of her siblings puts a little bit of a strain on things when it comes to relatability. What would an eleven year old Gwendolyn have in common with a twenty-six year old Vesper? 

They all make it work though. 

Aside from Vesper; Vax’ildan II is the next sibling that Gwen is closest to. No one else in the family has the same level of spying skills and likes to gossip as much as she does– except for Danny. They talk shit about other people all the time.

Danny and Gwen’s relationship is similar to that of Cassandra and Percy. 

I can see her picking up bow skills from both Leona and Vex. Having her as a Rouge/Ranger multi class would be deadly.

Cuts her hair when she’s older and likes to keep in short afterwards

Can rattle off years worth of history of about any city/town/ceremony site she steps into. 

Despite her family not seeing her as anything other than their sister/daughter; Gwen feels, in a deep part of her, that they look down on her for being a Tiefling. More so WHY she’s Tiefling. 

She and Leona love to pull pranks on the rest of their siblings together.

[risriswrites]

Booze, Burgers, and Bartenders

summary: short love story involving rooster and penny's favorite bartender.

pairing: bradley bradshaw x fem reader

warnings: none really, just some mild language and minor angst (if you can even call it that)

author's note: wow!! thank you guys so much for all of the love on my second fic "just roommates". i don't have a lot to say about it because honestly i'm speechless! with that being said, this fic has been in the works for months now and i'm exhausted with it. i wanted to write this and get it out back in may but everything with college really held me back and then from there i've just been enjoying summer and have been putting it off. so i apologize for the wait, but i hope y'all enjoy it!! likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated :)

word count: 5.7k

“Penny! Where are the extra bottles of Budweiser?” you call out, body crouched just below the countertop of the bar in an effort to find a hidden Budweiser bottle behind all the Corona’s.

Somewhere in the bar, Penny shouts back to you, a muffled, “Just got a new shipment order in this morning! Check in the backroom, they’re probably still in their packaging!” reaches your ears.

Huffing, you force yourself back to a standing position, leaning your weight against the bar for a few seconds before pushing off and heading towards the backroom.

Flickering the light switch on once the door is fully open, you begin the tedious search for the famous beer the patrons preferred to order at Penny’s bar. Sighing to yourself, you grab a stool just in case the box was placed on one of the top shelves. Jaxson had a habit of doing that, he knew both yourself and Penny preferred the heavier boxes on the bottom shelves, but he somehow always managed to “forget” that important factor.

Crouching low you start with the bottom shelves before moving upwards. Luckily, Jaxson put the newest box of Budweiser’s one shelf above the middle. Lifting the box into your arms, you steady yourself before moving back out of the room and towards the bar.

Maneuvering around the tables and chairs scattered throughout the bar was easier said than done. It wasn’t until you were able to push the box onto the countertop that you could take a breath, leaning your body weight onto the bar again with a huff. Flicking your hair over your shoulder, you notice Penny coming into your field of vision, a sly grin on her face.

“Jaxson leave the box on the top shelf again?” she questions, quirking a curious brow in the process.

Pinning her with a joking glare you smile, “Not this time, but it’s still heavy.”

“Hey, I’ve been doing it for ten years, trust me hon, it doesn’t get much easier” she chuckles.

Throwing your head back with a groan, you grip the edges of the bar, leaning back on your heels, “I’m sure I’ll get used to it soon,” straightening back up on your two feet, you turn to face Penny again, fixing her with your stare and point in her direction, “but, if Jaxson continues to put new, heavy, boxes on the top shelf, I can’t guarantee he’ll be around forever.”

Penny lets out a snort and nods her head in understanding, “I’m right there with you, but until then,” she gets up from her seat at the bar and pats the box of beer twice, “let’s get these in the fridge.”

With a forced laugh and a mock salute, you let out a “You got it Pen,” and resume struggling against the bottles of booze.

~

Nights at the Hard Deck fluctuated. Weekdays were a little slow, apart from Friday nights, with Saturdays being the busiest. Not that you’re complaining since that’s when you receive the most tips. And having the local aviators around as eye candy wasn’t so bad, plus, they’re generous tippers.

Tonight though, there had been an abundance of new faces floating around the bar. Mainly naval aviators, not to your surprise, but the sheer amount that had been crowding the bar was just a tad overwhelming.

Even Jaxson was flustered, his eyes flitting back and forth from you to Penny in search of some assistance. Unfortunately for everyone, you each were too busy struggling with keeping up with your own sides of the bar, and just when you thought you had a second to breathe, another patron would waltz up to your side and ask for a drink.

Glancing over towards Penny, you notice her interacting with a brunette clad in a leather jacket, an easygoing smile accompanying the glint in his eyes as he spoke with her. Smirking to yourself, you keep this interaction in mind and turn back to the guy in front of you, grabbing a bucket, loading it with ice and the six coronas he ordered, popping the tab off one before handing it to him with a smile, “Here ya go.”

The blond shoots you a smile, and pats a hand on the bar, shouting a “thanks” back in your direction. Moving around your section, you plucked empty bottles off the bar top and disposed of them in the large trash bin under the bar. And just as you were about to grab a clean washrag to tend to simpler tasks than dealing with the local riff raffs of the bar, another patron squeezes their way up to your side of the bar.

Flicking your gaze over to the guy you shoot him a small smile, “I’ll be with you in a second.” Snatching the wash rag, you tuck it into your jean shorts and take two strides back to the bar, leaning your forearms on the top, you shoot the mystery man a small smile, and pose the million-dollar question, “What can I get ya?”

After mixing the jack and coke your customer requested, you accept the twenty and continue working around the bar, popping bottle-tops off Corona’s, Heineken’s, and the bar favorite, Budweiser. All while simultaneously wiping any spills off the countertop.

A few hours later, the Hard Deck is looking less and less crowded, with all the civilians having cleared out. Which allows for you to sidle over to Penny and pester her for the next two hours before closing, sipping on your Coca-Cola in the meantime.

“Haven’t seen you all night, how’d it go?” Penny questions, permanent smile on her face and a light in her eyes you haven’t seen in a while.

Quirking your head to the side, you raise your eyebrows, “Clearly not as eventful as yours,” you smirk. Wiggling your eyebrows you throw out a second question, “Who’s got you all hot and bothered?”

Penny giggles at your playfulness, swatting at you with her dishrag, “No one special.”

“Now that, is a lie if I’ve ever heard one.” you point at her with the pinky finger that had been resting around the bright red can you’ve been holding.

Bringing the can back up to your lips, you smile, “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that brunette with the brown leather jacket decorated in naval patches, would it?”

This earns you another swat from the dishrag.

Leaning away from her, your smirk grows wider, “I’m taking that as a yes.”

Penny playfully glares at you for the second time today, and peers around you, nodding her head in the direction of your side of the bar, “You’ve got another one.”

Giggling to yourself you turn your head in the direction Penny motioned to, the sight before you halting your giggling almost instantaneously.

Bradley Bradshaw.

Cussing under your breath, you take the last sip of your coke and turn to make your way towards him, receiving a swat from Penny’s dishrag in the process.

“Bradshaw.”

The man of the hour turns in his seat towards you, honey brown eyes gazing into yours for a brief moment before one side of his mouth quirks up into a half smile, “Hey.”

“What made the navy drag your ass back here for?” you ask, snorting at his attempt at remaining casual, folding your arms over each other, jutting your hip out in a stance that you hope comes across as vaguely threatening.

Bradley taps his thumb on the bar top and shoots you an award-winning smile, “I’m not really sure about that yet, sweets” he states, his voice coming out in a low rasp, while his eyes wander behind you towards the bottles of liquor.

Rolling your eyes at the nickname, you open your mouth to shoot him a smart-ass retort, but instead, choose to close it and offer up the same line you use on everyone else, “What can I get you to drink?”

Bradley refocuses his eyes back onto yours, lips forming into a frown at your lack of retaliation, “Bottle of Budweiser if you have any would be great.”

Moving on autopilot, you bend down and sort through the fridge for another Budweiser, gripping the bottle and popping the top off, before sliding it forward towards the tall hunk of muscle in front of you, “You opening up a tab?”

Bradley looks over towards the pool tables where his friends were gathered around, no doubt betting on who was going to have to pay for the next round of beers. Turning his attention back to you, he stands from his seat, pulling his wallet out from his back jean pocket and holds his card out to you, “If you don’t mind, that’d be great sweets” sending you a small smile in the process.

Plucking the card from his grasp, you send a sarcastic smile his way before turning to the computer to input his information.

Bradley lets his gaze linger on you for a moment, then sets off back to his friends.

Hangman is the first to comment on Bradley’s singular beer and the sour look on his face, earning him a rough shove from Phoenix.

Nat turns to face Bradley, offering a sympathetic look, “Didn’t go well I take it?” she mumbles.

Hangman snorts and gestures with his beer towards the bar where you’re currently standing with Penny, “Judging by the way she’s standing,” sucking a breath through his teeth, “I’d say it went swimmingly.”

Jake goes to sip his beer with a smirk on his lips, satisfied with his dig, until Natasha forcefully bumps his elbow, forcing his beer to miss his mouth and instead spill down his shirt. Glancing towards her, scowl present on his face, Nat flutters her eyelashes and pouts, “Oops.”

Bradley covers his laugh with a sip of his beer, looking towards the dart board as a distraction.

“Maybe you should go get cleaned up.” Phoenix smiles, her words sickeningly sweet and not up for debate.

Grumbling to himself, Jake gets up from his seat and makes his way towards the bathroom of the Hard Deck. Once he’s out of sight, Nat fixes her gaze on Bradley, “Alright, tell me what’s going on.”

A huff slips past Bradley’s lips and he slumps into the seat adjacent to Phoenix, “That’s the thing Nat, it’s not really going anywhere.”

Nursing her own beer, Nat plays with the perspiration sliding down the bottle, “It’s probably gonna take some time Bradley. You can’t just show up after not talking to her for a year,” sparing you a brief glance she watches the way you smile and pop a cap off the bottle for a customer you’d been serving for the better half of the night, “stuff like that actually bothers a girl yaknow” emphasizing her words with a pointed look.

Bradley taps his thumb against the tabletop, a low groan leaving his throat, “I know Nat, I just didn’t know how to tell her I was being deployed for six months and then dealing with the Uranium mission on top of that,” he pauses briefly to sip on his beer, “It’s not fair to her.”

Natasha nods briefly, understanding where he’s coming from, “I get that, but that’s not your decision to make.” Pointing at him with her bottle briefly, she maneuvers it to gesture towards you, “She’s a big girl, she can make her own decisions.”

Bradley nods his head in understanding, moving his gaze to survey the room briefly, a red blush painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Sensing how flustered he was Nat slaps the table and shoots him a sympathetic smile, “I’m going to get us a few more beers from our favorite girl. When I get back, you’re going to be done with all that sulking and were going to kick Coyote and Hangman’s asses in eight ball.”

An, “In your dreams hot shot,” settling over both Natasha’s and Bradley’s ears, the pair rolling their eyes simultaneously at the overconfident voice of Jake Seresin.

~

“Ready to start cleaning up? It’s twenty minutes before we close.” Penny asks, the clinking of glass bottles ringing in your ears when she tosses them into the trash.

Peeking at her from over your shoulder you send an exhausted smile her way, “Definitely, tonight’s rush took a lot out of me.”

Biting her lower lip, Penny begins wiping down the counter, “That the only thing that took a lot out of you tonight? Or did a certain tall, mustached naval aviator have something to do with it?”

She doesn’t look over at you when you whip your head to glare at her, instead choosing to continue to innocently wipe at the sticky bar top.

“Don’t start.”

Moving away from her, you begin to collect the remaining empties and toss them in the trash.

Ignoring her for another ten minutes, you busy yourself by sweeping up around the front of the building, avoiding Bradley and his lingering group of friends.

Maneuvering back to the bar, you grab the remaining glasses and bring them to the dishwasher in the backroom. Once you’ve loaded it up, you put in the dishwasher detergent and start it on a regular cycle, heading back out to the bar to help Penny finish up.

Gripping the rag in your hand you begin wiping down any places Penny may have missed, hyper fixating on the task at hand to avoid looking over at the man who ghosted you a year ago.

Penny eases herself into the space you were occupying, placing a hand on your shoulder in an attempt at gaining your attention. Looking up to the ceiling you breathe out, turning your head to give her your full attention. An apologetic smile is what meets you and you instantly feel your resolve soften.

“I’m only going to say this once, and from now on I won’t mention it.” Nodding her head in Bradley’s direction she continued, “He’s a good guy Hon, but unfortunately, he’s still a guy. And guys make stupid mistakes. Trust me,” an eye roll from her ensuing shortly after.

“I’m not telling you that you need to forgive him, but maybe hear him out?” she coaxes.

Looking over towards him, you watch as his drunken form laughs with his friends, “I’ll think about it Pen.”

“Okay honey,” leaning away from you she squeezes your shoulder, “Oh and I’ve gotta go pick up Amelia, soo could you close up?” she pleads.

Throwing your head up, you laugh, “Oh I see, just trying to butter me up so you can sneak out to go be with that Naval officer.”

Penny bites her lip at the thought and begins heading for the door, “Not yet, but maybe eventually,” she vocalizes, shooting you a wink in the process. “Alright guys and gals, time to go!” she calls out to the last group lingering at the back of the bar.

The blond calls back to her, “You got it Pen!”

Giggling to yourself, you finish up a few more tasks as the remaining aviators file out. Going to the storage room to grab some beers to restock the fridges for the following day, it’s always easier on you guys the next day if you restock the night before.

Heading back out to the bar you notice the handsome aviator you’ve been avoiding all night, sitting right where he had been earlier that night.

“Heyyy” Bradley smiles, clearly drunk judging by the flush that’s blossomed over his cheeks, neck, and ears.

Chuckling to yourself, you let an amused smile crawl across your face, “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you again?”

Bradley hiccups and leans his head on the bar top, “I need to,” another hiccup interrupts him before he continues, “close out my tab” he rasps.

Nodding to yourself, you go over to the computer and close out his tab, printing his receipt and wrapping it around his card, you turn back to him and place the card on the bar top, sliding it towards his drunken form.

Bradley looks you over and smiles, “You’re really pretty.”

Choosing not to laugh at his words you fold your arms over each other and smile at him, “How are you getting home, Bradley?”

He hums, still looking you over in a daze, “I drove.”

Shifting a little in his seat, he uses one arm to reach into his back pocket, presenting you with the keys to his infamous blue bronco, jingling them in front of you with a goofy smile on his face.

Leaning towards him you grip your hand around his, easing the keys from his hand into yours. His eyes watching your hand as it encloses around his.

“I’ll be taking those big boy.”

Bradley groans, reaching his arms out towards you as you lean away from him, “Nooo, come back, I need those.” he whines out.

Shaking your head you muffle a chuckle at his drunkenness, “Bradshaw you can’t drive yourself home,” nibbling on your lower lip you spit the words out before you can take them back, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

Bradley shoots his head up at your statement, “You’re taking me, where?” he questions.

Rounding the bar, you grab your purse in the process heading towards Bradley, “I am going to take you home.”

“How do you know where I live?” he asks, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Cute.

Smirking at him, you quirk your own eyebrow, “I’m a witch.”

Bradley points at you lazily and whispers, “If you’re a witch, then tell me what I’m thinking about right now.” Promptly closing his eyes afterwards.

Looking up, you shake your head, smile growing wider on your face, “Burgers” you declare confidently, crossing your arms in the process. As if this motherfucker didn’t spend every waking minute with you for a year.

His eyes instantly open, mouth dropping in amazement, an emphasized “Yes” leaving his lips.

Offering your hand to him, you give him a small nod, “We can get some on the way home if you want?”

Bradley eyes you skeptically, “You promise?”

Smiling, you fold your fingers in, leaving your pinky out for him, “I promise.”

Slowly, Bradley wraps his own pinky around yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Alright, let’s get going. Joey’s Burgers sounds amazing right now.” Giving his hand a squeeze, you lead the way out of the bar, Bradley stumbling behind you, mumbling about some triple patty burger that they recently added to the menu.

Once the two of you managed to make it out the front door, you turned back to lock up, Bradley leaning his head on your shoulder as you did, making it a little more difficult to maneuver around in the process.

“Okay tiger, lets get you in the car.”

Leaning his weight on you some more, he scrunches up his face in confusion, “I’m not tiger, I’m rooster.”

Lugging his weight across the graveled parking lot and towards the bronco, you snicker at his words, “I know Bradley, it’s just a nickname.”  Earning a low groan from Bradley in response.

Once you’ve made it to the bronco, you focus on getting Bradley’s passenger door open, all while he leans more and more of his weight on you, at this rate the navy should just hire you if you can lug a full-grown man around a dark gravel parking lot.

After you’ve managed to get the door open, you coax Bradley into the passenger seat with the promise of burgers and a movie once you got him home. Rounding the car after ensuring he’s buckled himself in and jumping into the driver's seat.

Looking over towards him, you note the way he’s leaned his head against the window, arms folded over each other, in what you could only guess is an attempt at staying warm. Mindful of his potentially cold state, you don’t bother with turning the air conditioning on, and keep the volume of the radio low, trying to allow Bradley to relax as much as possible. He’s lucky he’s cute when he’s drunk.

Pulling out of the parking lot of the Hard Deck, you make your way down the street to Joey’s Burgers, ordering two large fries, two medium soda’s, one triple patty burger for Bradley, and one regular cheeseburger (with only ketchup) for yourself. Then continuing your mission of getting Bradley back home for the night before he’s sobered enough to realize he’d not only let you drive him home, but also from the driver’s seat of his beloved bronco.

~

Parking Bradley’s bronco wasn’t an issue, however, getting Bradley to move out of his passenger seat was.

Pleadingly, you rushed out a whispered, “Bradley, please get out of the car, you can’t stay in there all night.”

Receiving only an annoyed grumble in response, you tried again in the form of bribery, “I got you your favorite burger from Joey’s, if you get out of the car you can eat it while we watch a movie.”

This gets his attention and before you know it, you’re lugging Bradley out of his seat and across the parking lot. Somehow, he’s gotten heavier in the past twenty minutes of your drive. Mumbling to no one in particular, you let out a low, “He’s got a lot of groveling to do after this.” Huffing out a breath, you manage to pull him up the steps of the cozy one-story house, forcing Bradley to lean against the wall while you unlock the door.

Once you’ve managed to get the door open, you pull the brunette aviator over the threshold and towards the couch, kicking the door closed once you’ve made it inside.

The grey couch that had been centered towards the edge of the living room absorbs a drunk Bradley Bradshaw into its cushions, earning a content hum from him in response.

Throwing yourself down next to him, an audible sigh slips past your lips, leaning your head against the cushions in an attempt at seeking a moment of comfort before you inevitably must help Bradley into bed.

Lolling his head to the side Bradley fixes his gaze on you, eyes trailing across the expanse of your face, when the question, “What happened to my burger?” comes tumbling out of his mouth.

A sharp laugh is what Bradley gets in response, along with a, “I swear you become more and more like a dog as the night goes on.” Bradley is too drunk to understand what that’s supposed to mean, so instead, he widens his eyes and tilts his head a little, a silent question in regard to the aforementioned burger.

Yep, definitely dog like.

Swiping the bag of burgers and fries from the table, you pull Bradley’s special burger; along with a few napkins, out and hand them over to the man of the hour, who immediately starts to gobble it down like he hasn’t eaten in days.

While the man who resembles a golden retriever consumes his food next to you, you start the venture of looking for a movie you wouldn’t mind focusing your attention on until Bradley falls asleep, settling on “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days”.

Settling into the couch again, you curl your legs up underneath you and proceed to snack on the fries you’d gotten.

Everything was calm, for a total of thirty seconds.

Your peace being ruined by an overgrown buffoon looming over you to steal one of your fries from its container.

“You know, I got you your own fries,” you snicker, side-eyeing the Topgun graduate who has resorted to looking like a kicked puppy from your scolding.

“Yours tastes better.”

Snorting at the remark, you shake your head in exasperation, “Finish your food and if you’re still hungry, you can have some of mine.”

Seemingly pleased with the compromise, Bradley gets comfortable on the couch once more, and continues with consuming the fried potato.

After some time has passed, Bradley satisfied with his food and no longer pestering you for yours, you make an attempt to clean up. Which is instantly foiled by a tipsy Bradley Bradshaw, “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you Bradley,” you wave him off, continuing your advances towards the kitchen.

Bradley forces himself off of the couch, stumbling after your composed form, “Sure seemed like it earlier.”

Tossing the leftover food in the trash, you grab a paper towel and the spray bottle of cleaner he always left under the sink, “And I don’t recall you being particularly sober within the past two hours.”

A small smirk graces Bradley’s lips while he leans his body weight against the doorframe of the kitchen arms folded over each other, “I had a triple patty burger from Joey’s an hour ago.”

Rolling your eyes at his retort, you push past him to get back to his living room, “You’re welcome then.”

Like a piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe, Bradley follows after you, “You don’t have to clean.”

Better than having to look at him while he’s sober and engage in this conversation.

Pulling your eyebrows together, you force yourself to concentrate on the coffee table littered with grease stains from the bag and a few misplaced French fries, completely ignoring Bradley’s piercing gaze.

Hearing him sigh, your gaze breaks from the table and flits to where he’s standing. Looks more like leaning to you since he’s clearly still feeling some of the effects of the alcohol. As your eyes roam over his figure, you take in his posture, his arms, and lastly his eyes, which are locked on yours and the way you’re examining him.

Looking up to the ceiling, you huff, bending to your full height. Abandoning the damp paper towel on the semi-clean coffee table before you address him.

“I don’t hate you.”

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, one side of his mouth quirking up in a half-hearted smirk, mustache following suit, “So you’ve said.”

Your eyebrows crease while your eyes pinch, fixing him with a glaring look, “But I don’t appreciate being led on for months either,” your tone heavy in the way you spoke to him.

Bradley visibly winces at the jab, “I know, not my proudest moment.”

Crossing your arms over each other, you jut your hip out, “Why’d you do it then?”  

Bradley crosses the room slowly, moving closer to your defensive stance with a slowness that resembled someone afraid of spooking a baby deer, “I didn’t want you to get caught up in all my shit.”

“One mission for six months is bad enough,” he pauses, “Another mission with no guarantee of survival a month after the last isn’t something I wanted to put you through.”

Your frown that you’d adorned for majority of this conversation, deepens, “That’s not something you get to decide, Bradley.”

A forced chuckle slips past your lips, “I’m a big girl, I’ve been able to make my own decisions for myself, for years. I don’t need you and your hero complex thinking you can make those decisions for me.”

Your eyes roam his face scowl still prominent. Finally uncrossing your arms, you poke a finger into his chest, “You should be able to trust me enough to tell me those things, and allow me to decide if it’s too much,” you pause taking a step back, hand retreating back to your side, “or if I care about you enough to stick around.”

Bradley tenderly reaches for the hand you’d forced back to your side, threading his fingers through yours, “I know, trust me I do. I just thought I’d be protecting you,” he breathes out, using his hand to bring you closer to him.

Your hardened gaze softens at his words, he thought he could protect you from himself, from heartache.

Settling your other hand on his chest, you tilt your chin up, the height difference between the two of you showing in the close distance you’re in.

“Like I said before,” you whisper, “That kind of decision I can make on my own.”

Bradley’s eyes are half-lidded as he looks at you, processing your words and what to do next with them.

Silence falls over the two of you, the only noise emanating from the tv next to you.

Breaking his gaze, you look behind him to see the clock hanging from the wall that’s surrounded by framed pictures of his parents along with a few pictures of himself with some of his squadron, taking note of the time.

Glancing back to him, you mumble, “You should probably go to bed.”

Bradley huffs at your suggestion but makes no move to argue.

Instead, he grips your other hand in his and pulls you closer, tilting his head to the side, “Tuck me in?”

Laughing to yourself at his suggestion, you give him a small nod, taking the lead down the hall to his bedroom, “Sure, do you want some warm milk while were at it?” you tease.

Bradley hums from behind you, “Now that you mention it,” he trails off, biting his lower lip to contain his laughter.

“Keep dreaming aviator,” you chortle.

“Oh I intend to,” is the retort you get in return.

Turning into his bedroom you push him towards his closet and gesture for him to change, turning your back to him in an attempt to avoid being distracted by his charm and physique, reacquainting yourself with his bedroom instead.

Not much has changed apart from the bedding which had gone from a pale blue to a darker green.

A raspy, “I’m decent,” makes its way to your ears and you turn to look for the source. Intaking a sharp breath at the sight of Bradley Bradshaw in a plain white t-shirt, and boxers, eyes roaming the expanse of his body before deciding you’ve ogled him too much.

Moving your eyes away from his lower half, you make your way to the closet in search of your own shirt and boxer combo, cause if you’re staying there’s no way you’re staying in your “The Hard Deck” tank top and jean shorts.

Wordlessly, Bradley sidles up behind you and reaches for his old training tee from his first days at Topgun, handing you the shirt and a pair of gray boxers to match.

Mumbling a soft “Thanks”, you make sure he turns all the way around before stripping down to put the new garments on.

Once comfortable, you glance to the opposite side of the bed Bradley’s in, fiddling with your fingers as you fight yourself on whether or not you can trust yourself with him again.

Screw it.

Acting before fully thinking through your decision, you climb into bed beside him, hiding under the covers for some warmth, and maybe from Bradley.

It’s Bradley’s warm hands that bring you out of your thoughts, hooked around your waist and pulling you to him, “You’re thinking too loud,” he mumbles, one leg slotting between yours.

Reaching up with your right hand, you glide your fingers through his locks, earning a sigh of content from him, “I just don’t want to get hurt again,” you confess, tugging your lower lip between your teeth.

The confession has Bradley propping himself up onto his elbow, his free hand finding your own, putting it square against his, measuring the sizes of your individual palms, slotting his fingers between your own once he’s satisfied.

“I can’t promise that being with me will never hurt,” he states, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Sighing, he continues, “I don’t know if something will happen to me when I’m in the air.”

You nod solemnly at his confession, running everything over in your head, the pros and cons of being with him, loving him. What that might do to you.

Bradley tilts his head toward yours, catching your eyes once more, “But,” he pauses, “I can promise that I’ll never voluntarily hurt you again, and I will do everything in my power to come home to you.” He finishes, voice shaky and his eyes displaying a vulnerability you’ve never seen before.

Scanning his honey-colored irises, you search for any doubt he may have hidden, finding none, a soft smile graces your lips.

Leaning forward, you nudge your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed at the contact, “Okay” you whisper.

Opening your eyes to scan his face, trailing along the faint freckles that litter his cheeks, your smile widens, “but this is your last shot Bradshaw, don’t ruin it,” you tease.

Bradley grins back at you before closing the gap between the two of you, slotting his lips against yours in a kiss that had been a long time coming; by at least a year.

His tongue traces the bottom of your lip and without much coaxing, you open your mouth enough for him to slip his tongue in, maneuvering his body over yours for easier access. Bradley slides his hands down your frame to trace circles into your hip, while the other braces himself next to you.

Breaking the kiss, Bradley maneuvers his lips down towards your exposed neck, trailing open mouthed kisses lower each time before coming back to your lips, catching them with his over and over until the two of you have settled into a relaxed state, lazy open-mouthed kisses replacing the urgent ones you were enacting before.

Gently reaching your hand up, you slot your fingers into Bradley’s tousled locks, tugging ever so slightly, earning a low groan from him in response.

Smiling to yourself, you slot your lips against his one last time before leaning back, appraising him with a gentle smile adorning your lips, “I thought we agreed on sleep?”

Chuckling, Bradley moves a stray hair out of your face, “Sweets, will you please put me out of my misery and go on a date with me?”

Clicking your tongue, you drag him down closer to you, snuggling into his chest as you make yourself comfortable.

 “Mmm, dating the bartender, huh? Hope it’s for more than free drinks,” you quiz, trailing a hand down to his abs, tracing each one with your fingers.

A tender kiss is placed to the crown of your head, while one large hand sneaks under the back of your shirt, tracing small circles across your skin, “Definitely.”

Humming, you close your eyes, content with the warmth emanating from Bradley and his tender touches, “That’s nice.”

Bradley chuckles at your drowsy state, “So is that a yes?”

He receives a chaste kiss that’s pressed to his shirt, right where his heart is as you mumble out, “It’s a yes Bradshaw.”  

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Undying Stupidity

Summary: After raiding a strange facility, 141 takes you back to base with them, where they interrogate you, and after shooting you in the head, quickly discover that you’re an immortal.

Word Count: ~ 1.4k

Warnings: blood, mentions of abuse, dead ppl, being shot in the head?? gaz being pretty

A/N: was giggling while thinking abt this today at school, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

They needed information, and where they got it from didn’t particularly matter.

A strange facility filled with what looked to be mostly dead or dying patients, the rest of the guards taken care of once Task Force 141 arrived. And they found…you. Locked in maximum security, malnourished with marks of what seemed to be abuse, but still able to walk.

Gaz and Soap exchanged a look as Ghost yanked you to your feet, dragging you along. You looked more annoyed and offended than afraid. An odd response for a teenage girl locked in enemy territory. You had a hint of a British accent, but also other accents as well. Weird.

“Uh…can we not yank on my arm?”

You said, looking in mild pain. Simon sighed, throwing you over his shoulder instead as the entire team began moving out. Price shot Ghost a warning look at the little ‘oomph’ you made. They needed you alive for the possible information you could have, and if he was too rough, he might break you.

Oh, how wrong they were.

Eventually opting to knock you unconscious once they got to their exfil, they put a white bag over your head. Couldn’t have you waking up and seeing where you were. Wouldn’t be great in case you escaped.

When you woke up, you were tied to a steel chair in a dark room with gray walls. The paint was peeling. In front of you was a table, and across the table, one of the men from earlier sat. The prettier one of the group. When you woke, he gave a little faux sympathetic smile, glancing over at what must’ve been a watch concealed within his sleeve.

“Right on time.” He said, putting his elbows on the table. A gun was in his holster and a few pairs of pliers and knives were on the table. You felt a bit mildly uncomfortable in the situation you were in.

“Look, I don’t think you know what you’re doing-“

You began, but he cut you off with a raised eyebrow.

“Really? I think I know exactly what I’m doing, now what’s your name, hm?”

You sighed, glancing down at the rope bindings chafing against your wrists, leaving angry red marks behind. The ones on your wrists weren’t any better.

“Y/N.” You said glumly, and he pulled a small notepad out from his jacket, writing things down on it with a small pen.

“Good, always easier when they cooperate.” He said, seemingly talking to himself, before glancing back up at you with deep brown eyes.

“Now, can you tell me why you were at that facility?”

You frowned, nose scrunching up slightly as you tried to find a way to explain it. He waited patiently, and you could hear his foot tapping against the floor.

“I was an…experiment?”

You tried with a little shrug. And he looked at you point blank, eyes running over your small form.

“Just shoot me. It’ll make sense after that.” You said with another uncomfortable look. It seemed to be your default. The strange man seemed a bit surprised at your words, but his features quickly tightened.

“Why would I shoot you?”

“I mean—I’ll come back, promise.”

A pause on his end and his gaze turned almost concerned. He stood from his chair, turning to face the door, and as he walked out, you heard him mutter under his breath.

“Didn’t think she was a crazy one. Could’a fooled me.”

Before he closed the door and left you in the room alone again.

It must’ve been a few hours before the door opened, except this time, it was the bearded man coming in. You’d decided that he wasn’t as threatening, not as the giant skull-faced one, anyway. The pretty man from earlier followed, looking panicked.

“Cap, you can’t just-“

A man with a Mohawk filed in after, a confused frown on his face, and the man with the mask stood by the door, silently watching.

“Anyone wanna explain wha’ tha hell is goin’ on?”

Mohawk-man spoke, with a Scottish accent. It made sense, you supposed, since he had a Scottish flag on his uniform.

“I’m gonna test somethin’, is what’s gonna happen.” The bearded man spoke, his voice gruff and low, and pretty-boy tried to stop him, but the man grabbed his gun from his holster, pointed it straight at your head, and fired.

You faintly heard yelling and fighting, your vision blacking out not too long after, and a warm liquid dripping down your face, dripping into your mouth. It tasted like iron and copper at the same time. Your senses faded to nothing, and then….

Groaning, your previously limp body straightened back up as you sat up in your seat, an empty bullet shell falling from a rapidly closing wound in your head.

Bearded-man watched, only nodding as if that had confirmed his suspicions. The pretty boy watched, mouth slightly agape, pure confusion and disbelief clouding his features. The Scotsman stared for a while, before letting out a breathy laugh and clapping you on the shoulder from where you were still in the chair. You winced.

“Well, that was one helluva show,”

He said, and the masked one just stared from his spot in the doorway, uttering the one thing most of them were thinking right now.

“Wot.”

The bearded man put his gun back in its holster, undoing the rope bindings on your hands, and the Scotsman followed his lead, taking a knee to free your ankles.

“Captain John Price.”

He said, shaking your hand. His grip was firm. Mohawk-man grinned and took your other hand.

“Johnny, but you can call me Soap.”

Your hands were limp in their grasp, still trying to recover from the bullet to your skull. Pretty-boy still gaped, mouth opening and closing, before Price explained, probably having known the shock the poor team would have.

“Immortal. Injuries don’t kill ‘er, she jus’ heals.”

A moment later, a skeleton-themed glove was in your hand, shaking it.

“Ghost.”

Was all he said, before the pretty boy came up, hesitantly shaking your hand.

“Kyle, but just..call me Gaz.”

He backed away quickly, still eying you like you might bite. Instead, you groaned, head falling against the chair.

“M….hate getting shot in the head.”

You mumbled, one hand going to rub your head where the bullet hole had now closed up. Your head was pounding, your mind swimming, and generally, it was not a good experience.

“I’d imagine,”

Soap said with a snort, and Price gestured to Soap.

“Walk ‘er to a room. Might as well get her acclimated. Laswell’s gonna want to hear about this.”

Soap gave a nod, a little grin remaining as he approached you, cocking his head slightly as he glanced down at your legs. Injuries didn’t remain on you, not much at least, but some scars did. Little indentions or light pink circles from bullets pockmarked your skin.

“Can ya walk?”

You glanced down at your legs, a doubtful frown crossing your face.

“…maybe?”

“Good enough excuse for me.”

He said, using one large arm to lift most of your body. Your arm slotted around his shoulders surprisingly easily as he carried you in one arm like a rag doll. He walked down endless hallways, until he stopped at one door, opening it up. It was mostly empty, with a thin mattress on the floor in the corner, a small window that was more like a slit on one wall, and a small dresser.

The bare necessities, but more than enough.

Soap set you gently down on the mattress, and your body relaxed into it, eyes nearly shutting from pure bliss. You’d had enough of stiff chairs, sore joints, and achy limbs. Just because you could survive almost everything didn’t mean it still didn’t hurt.

“I would say we’d get you medical, but…”

He glanced down at the spot in your forehead where the bullet had been, and you shrugged.

“I just wanna sleep.”

You said, and he chuckled, ruffling your hair before stepping towards the exit.

“We’ll get ya some food in the morning,..and maybe a bed frame. Wouldn’t count on the bed frame, though.”

Your lips quirked into a tiny smile at that, amused. He must’ve considered it a victory, because his grin widened, and he gave a little jerk of his chin upwards that looked like a goodbye.

“See ya la’er, kid.”

You knew one thing as you drifted into some much-needed sleep that night.

Life was going to get much more interesting from this point forward.

[moondirti]

13. A CHALLENGE

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

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath. 

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.” 

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.” 

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.” 

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.” 

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.” 

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?” 

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding. 

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.” 

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.” 

“Am I, now.” 

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.” 

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely. 

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.” 

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.” 

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.” 

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?” 

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him. 

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement. 

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.” 

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing. 

“Before that.” 

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.” 

“Right now?” 

“No.” 

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.” 

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.” 

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!” 

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.” 

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.” 

“Okay…” 

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–” 

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.” 

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–” 

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine. 

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?” 

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.” 

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.” 

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.” 

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort. 

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.” 

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.” 

“So you’re going to reach.” 

“Rea–” 

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs. 

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates. 

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.” 

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on. 

And then– 

And then… what? 

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method. 

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance. 

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.” 

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.) 

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight. 

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?” 

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.) 

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.” 

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late. 

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that: 

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him. 

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late. 

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent. 

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now. 

Fuck. That bastard. 

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time. 

“Lyla.” 

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off. 

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position. 

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?” 

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.” 

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.” 

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”  

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head,  clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams. 

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy. 

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.” 

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!” 

And then, she disappears. 

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind. 

Double agent. 

Do you want to know? 

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up. 

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.” 

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.” 

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria. 

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you. 

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression. 

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away. 

There goes your plan. 

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support. 

It fails. Obviously. 

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?” 

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.” 

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then– 

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear.  “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait. 

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat. 

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time. 

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about. 

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges. 

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still. 

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners. 

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder. 

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence. 

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here. 

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop. 

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed. 

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.  

Which leads into your third remark– 

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead. 

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind. 

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from. 

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now. 

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter. 

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never. 

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit. 

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth. 

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.” 

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?” 

“You got in, didn’t you.” 

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own. 

“How long have you been under there?” 

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.” 

“Half past ten.” 

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.” 

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation. 

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.” 

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.” 

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?) 

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in. 

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.” 

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out. 

Fucking fine. 

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you. 

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal. 

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it. 

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!” 

“No. Not this time.” 

“Theeeen…” 

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.” 

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.” 

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple. 

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force. 

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough. 

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it. 

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door. 

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby. 

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end. 

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit. 

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart. 

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut. 

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops. 

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away. 

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome. 

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.” 

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.” 

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head. 

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.” 

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?” 

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.” 

And in a blink, you’re on your own again. 

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach. 

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation. 

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do. 

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you. 

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them. 

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time. 

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage. 

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too. 

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence. 

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out. 

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise. 

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine. 

Nothing exists beyond this small jump. 

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them. 

That verity reassures you just enough.) 

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall. 

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so. 

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover. 

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of  action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does. 

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture. 

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet. 

Move closer it is. 

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away. 

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire. 

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed. 

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check. 

Sneak up on me. Check. 

Anywhere, any time of day. Check. 

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. 

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check. 

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid. 

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse. 

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods. 

“I won. I won. I wo–” 

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ” 

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.” 

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.” 

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar. 

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.” 

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.” 

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?” 

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet. 

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to. 

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right. 

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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[kiradrabbles]

Ouuggh uuu if you want maybe headcanons (if you do them ofc) w the Marble Hornets fellas (oh just Tim if I want :3) w a afab s/o who's a volleyball player?

Have u seen their uniforms???

Ouugh sorry this took a while....... i got halfway through and my phone crashed and i lost some motivation q-q

In any case, why yes nonny i have seen the uniforms, and i do take headcanon requests!

Without further adieu...

Tim, Brian and Alex with an AFAB S/O who plays volleyball!

Mild NSFW warning!! No graphic sex but a few suggestive things said (and the worlds shittiest pickup line)

Tim:

His awkward ass!!! I see a lot of people portray Tim as this cool confidant man, but especially pre-MH I think he was a little awkward. Not quite shy, just.. awkward, as he spent a lot of his childhood in the psych ward. So that would carry over to this.

He wouldn’t stare so visibly, but he’d make it obvious he had to try not to, averting his eyes and shuffling on his feet.

I think sometimes he’d steal looks when he thinks you aren’t looking. He’d glance over, and let out a little sigh and lean back in his chair just a little bit, and you know he’s just admiring you.

how did he get so lucky?

he isn’t a huge fan of sports himself, but he’ll try his best to support you!! He’ll turn up to every game he can, make sure to sit or stand in the front row, and cheer so loud everyone looks at him and he’ll sit back down in embarrassment.

Tim is a physical touch fiend, considering he didn’t get it a lot as a child, so he loves hugs, and will probably be touching you somehow often.

the problem is, when he hugs you in uniform, he is suddenly very acutely aware of how.. much he can see of you right now, and gets all red, and won’t tell you why.

you could probably force it out of him though :3

Brian:

This mf is into it and does not hide it!!

Brians pretty much a smug asshole in canon (lovingly) so he’ll be all smug and show you off to pretty much everyone. Will not hold back on the PDA either. Will probably slap your ass in public and act confused why you’re mad at him. (Only if he knows you don’t mind ofc).

i wouldn’t put it past him to run up to you as soon as you get in the game and quite literally pick you up and kiss you and spin you around, like some scene in a shitty movie.

most ATROCIOUS pickup lines ‼️

“Hey girl, are you an overpass? Because I’d hit that” “BRIAN I JUST SAT DOWN-“

He’s canonically a nursing student, so I’ve always imagined he takes pretty good care of himself, eat well, stay fit, workout often. So you two would match!

he’d be happy to train with you, one of his love languages is quality time, and he’d get to stare at his girl in short shorts and a top anyway, so who is he to complain?

plus, you’d both be all sweaty after, and he could invite you into the shower with him.

I’m sure you can imagine what ensues.

Alex:

He was intimidated at first. I mean, look at him, he’s a twinky theatre kid, and you’re.. muscular and not afraid to show it off, clearly. I mean you could probably pick him up and throw him around, or wrap your legs around his head, or- Not that he’s thinking about that (that he would admit).

he’d stare, but unlike Bri he does NOT own it.

he won’t admit it, but he will stare at you so much. sometimes unintentionally. He thinks he’s being subtle (he is not). I mean, how is it his fault that you’re really pretty and the shorts are so short.

it’s so easy to fluster him, even if he would rather die than admit it.

tsundere ass!!! /silly

Sit on his lap all sweaty after a game and he will turn the most red you've ever seen him and stutter like all hell. he isn't blushing red though, he doesn't know what you're talking about, he just forgot the sunscreen.

Your biggest fan!!!

He'll film your games (and you KNOW mf would get the best angles even if it meant pushing other onlookers out the way). Perks of a film maker bf...

He does want you to crush his head between your thighs i'm so sorry....

[artydonsgf]

Hi, I know Mike fiast has a dog and not sure if you only write about art or mike but can I request Mike with his dog and a story regarding y/n - any direction works

hi! i forgot to add it to my rules but i don’t really write about actors/real people, all my work is fictional characters because that’s what’s comfortable to me. that’s on me though, but i did write a meet cute with art n his dog! please enjoy<3

“Stop!” The single word is so desperate, you can’t help but look up. Right as your eyes left the book in your hand, a speeding object hits you right in the chest. Everything goes flying, your book now ruined a few feet away. Your head snaps to the ground, your vision briefly going black as a result. You’re still on the floor when the same voice keeps yelling.

“Bad boy! No!” The sound of running fills your ears. You’re hauled up until you’re sitting, making the green of the grass and the blue of the sky blend together. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to control the nausea rising in your stomach.

“Are you alright? Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” a voice frantically checks on you. The stranger places a hand over your hair. You finally stop swaying enough to put a hand up.

“Please stop yelling,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. You swallow another wave of nausea.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” the voice quiets but not by much. You crack an eye open, not really sure what you’d find. Crouched in front of you is a boy your age. His blue eyes are crinkled with worry and his blonde curls stick to his forehead, slick with sweat. The rush in your head stops a fraction. The hand that isn’t on your head is wrapped around the collar of his dog, effectively calming the puppy down. “Racket is only a puppy and I’ve been trying to train him to be less-,” he starts ranting.

“Not to interrupt or judge, but you named your dog Racket?” You both interrupt and judge in the same breath. The stressed look on his face melts away, now replaced with a puzzled look.

“I’m a tennis player, it only felt right,” he explained, his hand still situated on your head. You slowly nod. The dimples on his cheeks deepen with a smile. A click sounds in your brain and you recognize the boy in front of you.

“You’re Art Donaldson!” You move too fast and speak too loud and the sharp pain in your head is a swift punishment. He grabs your shoulder to steady you before nodding. His smile somehow getting bigger.

“You recognize me?” He sounds bashful. You give him a look before throwing a glance at the poster pinned to the tree behind him. A picture of Art is plastered over it with details of his upcoming game. There’s one on every tree in the park. His cheeks turn pink. “I didn’t actually think they’d put it on every tree,” he explains. You nod, still dizzy. It’s only then he remembers that his dog knocked you over. “You need a doctor. Can I bring you to the athletic trainer?” He points to a nearby building. You nod, getting ready to gather your things. He beats you to it and soon, your bag is slung around his shoulder. Racket sniffs at your feet but with a stern warning from Art, he walks forward with no issue. When you finally arrive at the trainer, Art explains what happened and waits patiently until you’re assessed.

“You likely have a very mild concussion. Keep an eye on your symptoms and if they worsen after about three days, please see your primary doctor,” The athletic trainer tells you, strapping a ice pack your head. “And if you can, stay with someone. This is just in case you end up passing out.” She pats your hand and gives you a lollipop on your way out the door.

“Thank you for bringing me,” you turn to Art with a smile. The ice pack strapped your head probably makes your face look a little wonky. “I’ll see you around.” You start to turn away but he grabs your hand.

“Wait,” he turns red upon realizing he grabbed you. “Do you have anyone to stay with?” He drops your hand and starts running his fingers through his hair. Your eyebrows shoot up, though your face looks squished.

“Yeah, my roomate is getting back from spring break in a few days, I’ll be fine,” you start to turn again but he stops you once more.

“I’m just a little worried, do you mind if I check up on you? Maybe through text?” He fishes his phone out of his pocket, dropping it in the process. Your head pounds still but butterflies start to flutter in your stomach.

“Are you asking me for my number?” Your sly look is thrown off once more by the ice pack but his face turns an even deeper shade of red anyway. He clears his throat.

“Yes, I am. I want to make sure my dog isn’t the reason a pretty girl gets irreversible brain damage,” he says with a grimace that is somehow adorable despite its awkwardness. You grab his phone and tap your number in, dropping an emoji with a bandage next to your name.

“We’ll work on your flirting techniques, I’ll see you around,” you wiggle your fingers before crouching down to gently rub Racket’s head. As you walk away, you decide that the concussion was worth it if it meant meeting Art Donaldson.

i know this isn’t exactly what you were looking for but i hope you enjoy anyway!! idk how concussions actually work by the way. thank you for the request n as always, feel free to request something again! mwah mwah mwah

[eyesofshinigami]

For Love

Rating: T

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, very mild sexual content, fluff, humor, a little dialogue heavy

Prompt: For @starryeyedjanai "Love is letting him put his cold hands under your shirt and only complaining a little bit"

WC: 617

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 22

Steve knows it’s coming. He wants to brace himself, even if he’s not sure exactly when it’s going to happen. It’s something he’s come to expect, so he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Just let it happen,” he whispers to himself. 

Which is exactly when Eddie chooses to slip his hands up Steve’s t-shirt. 

Steve manages to only jump a little bit. Months of being together has honed his ability to ignore the way Eddie’s freakishly cold fingers feel against his skin. It’s like his boyfriend has no ability to produce his own body heat. Even now, Steve can feel the scrape of his own sweater against his skin, and yet, Eddie’s fingers still feel like tiny icicles against his skin.

“Sorry, baby. You’re just… so warm,” Eddie says, not sounding sorry at all.

It’s a familiar song and dance. Eddie constantly shoves his cold hands (and occasionally his cold toes) up Steve’s shirt, his sweater, and sometimes even his shorts. 

“And your fingers are fucking freezing. Seriously, Ed. You’re like a corpse.” 

“Maybe when they revived me the first time, they forgot to turn that feature back on. Besides, you’re a human furnace, surely you’ve got some body heat to spare?”

Oh, he sure does. Steve’s always run hot, so there are some occasions when he really appreciates Eddie’s cold ass fingers against his skin. Like in the middle of the summer. Or when he’s sleeping and he has to throw off the blanket because he feels like he’s sweltering. He appreciates it considerably less when he’s doing something like cooking breakfast, or bending over to get the laundry. Case in point, he’s standing at the stove, trying to flip eggs with Eddie’s slowly warming fingers digging into his sides. “Is that all I’m good for, huh?”

Eddie grins, shifting to cup Steve’s pecs with his hand as he presses against the line of Steve’s back. “Not all you’re good for, no, but it is one of my favorite boyfriend package features for sure.” He gives Steve’s chest a good squeeze before his hands retreat to fold across Steve’s belly. They’re a tolerable temperature now, but they’re both enjoying the closeness. “Come on, you know you love it.”

Steve grumbles, just for show, “That’s what you think. Now, are you going to stop being a menace and let me finish making you breakfast?”

“Only if you promise me we can go back to bed after? It is No Fucks Sunday, after all. Maybe you can warm me up in other ways?” Eddie wiggles his eyebrows and somehow Steve still wants to tell him yes. 

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Steve turns back to the stove, but Eddie doesn’t let go. “That’s your cue.”

“Never was a good drama student. I think I want to negotiate terms. How about you say fuck the eggs, we go back to bed and fuck until we can’t move anymore, then we order in?” Eddie lets his now warm fingertips trail down, fiddling with the band of Steve’s sweatpants and dipping just underneath, a nice little tease. “And look, my hands are warm now. Imagine how good they’ll feel…”

Steve is a weak, weak man. He doesn’t speak, just turns the eggs off and sets the spatula to the side. “You better be naked and lubed up by the time I get this kitchen cleaned up.”

Eddie gives him a dorky salute and speeds off towards their bedroom. Meanwhile, Steve looks down at the half-cooked eggs in the pan and can still feel the cool tingle of where Eddie touched his skin. 

The things he does for love, he thinks to himself as he scrapes the pan clean.

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Rolling with the Punches ~CollegeStudent!Broken!Casey Novak xFem Reader (Charlie Angst)

Summary— Set in past, when Casey was still with Charlie. Casey shows up at your doorstep after a fight with Charlie. You are left to pick up the pieces of a broken Casey Novak.

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: mild SVU spoilers, angst, crying, implied anxiety attacks, implied abuse, implied abusive relationships, comforting, physical comfort, fluff, etc.

Enjoy (:

You didn’t question how or why Casey wound up at your doorstep on a pouring night at 3 am. But she looked like a wreck with smudged makeup, raw skin and red eyes. You simply let the drenched redhead in without another thought.

“Christ Case, you’re soaking…!” You exclaimed softly, immediately guiding the young woman into the house and towards your main bathroom, “Come on, let’s get you out of these clothes… don’t want you getting sick…” you hummed.

“I… sorry mm sorry….” Casey rambled in a mutter.

Casey simply followed along to the bathroom. You turned around a found the redhead frozen in tears in front of you.

“Oh honey…” you comforted, opening your arms and nearly falling back into the bathroom with how the redhead barreled into your embrace.

You didn’t care that you were getting wet off of her drenched clothes one bit. Her head nuzzled into the crook of your neck as she let out a fresh batch of sobs. You could feel the young woman trembling underneath your touch. This only resolved you to hold her closer, wanting to let her know that she was okay and that she was safe.

“You’re okay, Case. I’m here, you’re safe.” You cooed softly.

You swayed back and forth in the doorway of your bathroom, until her sobs stifled and she let out a sniffle, pulling back and meeting your caring gaze.

“I’m sorry I^^hic^^ didn’t know where to go… I left and I couldn’t stop and I just ended up here and—” the redhead whispered.

Your heart melted for concern at the woman’s disposition. She had walked from her place all the way to yours, not impossible, but terribly long considering it had been pouring the entire time.

“Oh Casey it’s okay. It really is. Now, let’s get you into a warm shower… Don’t want you getting sick on me.” You gently comforted the redhead, indicating to the large shower in the bathroom.

Casey nodded as she shuffled into the lavish room. You followed her, pulling out a warm, fluffy towel and placing it on the counter for her.

“If you leave your wet clothes by the door, I can run them through the wash for you while you shower.” You softly hummed.

Casey nodded once more.

“Thank you…” she croaked.

You immediately nodded, squeezing her shoulder lightly and reassuringly.

“Of course, Case. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

Receiving an understanding nod from the young woman, you left the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Soon you heard the shower start, and you took that as your cue to grab her wet clothes and throw them in your dryer. You then walked into your kitchen with a sigh, itching for a glass of wine. Your nimble fingers grabbed a glass and a bottle of red, instinctually pouring just the right amount, as if you had done this before.

Sipping at your wine, you surveyed your food provisions to see what you could offer Casey. You had an inkling of why she was here in the middle of the night… You had noticed the bruising along her face and arms. You knew that she was in a complicated relationship… to say the least.

With another sigh, you decided on making some breakfast for dinner for the poor girl. Not that it was either time of the day to eat, but you had a feeling that she needed to eat. You cooked up some eggs, bacon, and pancakes. As you were plating the pancakes, Casey came padding into the kitchen wrapped in the fluffy towel. You saw her eyes go wide and her mouth practically salivating at the sight of food.

“Come, sit and eat.” You softly instructed the woman, “Your clothes aren’t done yet, but I can grab you some of mine for now if that’s alright?”

Casey scurried over to the large kitchen island, sitting on the opposing end. You pushed the plates towards her as you plated the last pancake and handed her some silverware. It took her less than three seconds to start digging in right then and there. You chuckled lightly as you cleaned off your hands. Casey’s face flushed in embarrassment at her current ravaging nature.

“Mm sorry…” she mumbled, gazing up from her plate to you with a strip of bacon hanging out of the left side of her mouth, “Clothes would be great”

“Don’t worry about it, eat ‘hun. I’ll grab you something to wear.” You hummed caringly.

Casey nodded, returning her full attention back to the plates of food. You smiled lightly, happy to see the redhead eating something, before going deeper into your apartment to find her some clothes. You came back to all of the plates on the island being completely cleaned off. You handed Casey a pair of pajamas. The redhead muttered a thank you, before padding over to the bathroom and getting changed.

When she came back out, Casey let out a yawn. You had cleaned up all the dishes and were making yourself some tea on the counter. The redhead walked up to the island, fidgeting with her hands as she sat on a bar stool. You handed her a mug of hot tea.

“Thanks��”

“Of course.”

Silence took the room for a moment, before you spoke again,

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to… You’re more than welcome to stay in the guest bedroom for the night.” You hummed.

Casey fiddled with the mug, keeping her eyes low. Her hair was still damp, and she smelled of your body wash.

“I… I—” Casey stammered before breaking down into tears once more in front of you.

You put your mug aside to draw your full attention to the redhead. And you immediately rounded around the island, placing your hand on her back reassuringly rubbing little circles along her trembling and small frame.

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay…” you cooed gently.

Casey sniffed violently a couple times to try and reign her tears in. You squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, making sure to let her know that it was alright. The redhead then turned toward you and curled her face up into your chest.

“I didn’t… didn’t think it would get this… like this…” She stammered, spiraling in thought.

“I know, I know, sweet girl. This is not your fault.” You comforted.

Casey hiccuped again.

“I… I don’t know what to do…” she whispered into your chest in confession, clinging on tight to your frame and not showing any indication of letting go anytime soon.

You hummed and let her lean into your embrace as much as you needed. You knew what she had to do, but you also knew that now was not the time that she needed to hear it.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? Then we can talk in the morning.” You softly hummed.

Casey reluctantly peeled her face off of your chest and shirt, looking up at you hesitantly.

“Don’t want to be alone right now…” she whispered,

“D-don’t know what I might do”

Trying to mask the anger and fury coursing through your veins, you gulped lightly and nodded in recognition. You hated what this Charlie was doing to Casey. Destroying her every fiber of self, self worth, self confidence, self esteem… You wanted to go over there yourself and tear her a new one. But you took a deep breath instead.

“I understand. Why don’t you sleep with me tonight? We can cuddle if that would help…?” You offer.

Casey’s eyes immediately light up a little brighter at your offer. She nods slowly but eagerly and lets you lead her to the main bedroom. You let her climb into bed, while you change into your nightwear. Then you join the redhead, allowing her to curl up into your chest under the covers.

“Good Night, Casey”

“Mmmm night…”

Casey was off like a light, dozing away almost the second she curled up next to you. You could feel her tired bones finally relaxing against you, hear her snoring ever so slightly. It gave you a moment to sigh and let all your emotions out.

“Charlie doesn’t deserve you, honey…” you sigh.

~~~

Casey Novak Masterlist

[eomayas]

new thing (pt. 7) • pcy

pairing: chanyeol x f!reader, age gap, established relationship

synopsis: reader and chanyeol reconcile after being broken up for a few months.

genre: angst & fluff. LOTS OF FLUFF. e2l. happy ending

warnings: swearing, drinking, crying. lots of crying. reader is just a girl and chanyeol is just a 30 year old boy :(

a/n: this is the finale!! yay!! thank you to everybody who has been here from the beginning and stuck with me and this story! it has been a lot of fun writing this. once again thank you, and i hope you like it. sorry for the lowkey trash ending lmao! ❤️

series masterlist

seulgi runs across the grass with her arms open wide, gown flowing behind her. you meet her halfway and throw your arms around her, engaging in a moving hug. “we really did it!” she squeals, hugging you tight against her.

your heart beats rapidly from pure joy that you haven’t felt in awhile, and mild case of anxiety at the prospect of your future truly beginning now. you two just walked across the stage to declare yourselves officially done with undergrad. it’s exciting and nauseating at the same time.

“i know, i know,” you say, pulling back and holding her arms. she looks up at you and you get the overwhelming feeling to cry into her arms. “i love you.” you say, pulling her back into a hug so you don’t have to look at her in the face.

“i love you more!” she says. you two stay wrapped up together for a moment longer before she taps your back. “i’m sinking.” seulgi says, making a show of picking up her legs to remove her heels from the grass.

“me too,” you say, letting go of her to pull both of you out of the earth. “our parents should be around here somewhere.” you say, linking arms with her and weaving through throngs of people. a lot of them stop the two of you to give hugs and exclaim how excited they are to be done with college. you're excited too, but there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach that reminds you that you're officially not a kid anymore. there's so much of life that you haven't experienced, and its all going to be laid out in front of you.

finally, you find your parents talking amongst each other, as well and mr and mrs. kim. seulgi is practically family to them at this point, so it makes sense that they showed up to support her. "congratulations!" mrs. kim yells, bouncing over to you two and engulfing you into a hug.

you go around giving hugs and accepting congratulations from everybody before ending up at your mothers side, clinging to her the way a child would. “so, what’s next?” mr. kim asks, and you and seulgi glance at each other before bursting into breathless giggles, no clear idea or answer.

everybody laughs when you two laugh and it puts you at ease for a moment. seulgis parents suggest heading to the restaurant to go eat, and you agree. “i think someone is looking for you,” your mom says, glancing over your shoulder. you assume it’s a fellow classmate, so you turn around with the intention to shout congratulations, but are stunned into silence when you see who it is, going weak at the knees.

he looks nervous, and so endearingly awkward that it makes you want to cry and scream. and in extreme chanyeol fashion, he holds an assorted bouquet of pink flowers between his hands.

your heart leaps into your throat, just as shock and confusion cross over your face. you wonder if he can see the desperation in your face, that your been wanting to see him for months. you’re aware of other people around you, but it just feels like it’s you and him. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him—nearly three months to the day—and you still don’t know how to properly function near him, or without him, for that matter.

“uh, hi,” he says, and your knees feel weak at him being so shy and awkward. somehow, your brain tells you to move, and you take a few short steps towards him, stopping when there’s about two feet of space between you. “hi.” he says again, looking down at you with a soft smile.

“hi,” you say, nervously wringing your hands in front of you. you shift your eyes to glance at the flowers, and his eyes widen like he forget he was holding them.

“oh, these are for you,” he says, a blush forming on his cheeks and going to the tips of his ears in the way that you’re so fond of. it makes your heart clench in your chest.

you thank him as you accept the flowers and hold them between to shaky hands. you wonder how you look to the people around you; if they can read your body language and see that you two have obvious history. or maybe you look as rigid as you feel, nervous and taut? “what are you doing here?” you ask, blinking a few times.

“uh, seulgi invited me,” he says. you whip your head around to glare at her, but are met with an empty path of grass; your mother the only person still standing there. “she said… she said you wouldn’t mind.” and you hate that she was right, because of course you’d want him here. you’d want him anywhere, at any time.

“oh. well… thank you for coming,” you say, ducking your head shyly. chanyeol nearly reaches out to tip your chin up, but stops himself before he gets the courage. you’re not his to touch like that, and the realization burns in his chest.

“always. i’m proud of you, y/n,” he says softly, and you look up at him, lips folded into your mouth. that pit in your stomach only gets deeper and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. you can feel yourself melting into the earth as he keeps looking you dead in the eye.

“thank you,” you say, hugging the flowers to your chest as if to ground you, like you’re afraid if you’re not anchored to something you might float up, up, up into the clouds and disappear among the stars. you’re not even sure you’re still breathing properly, not with the way you can smell his cologne despite being outdoors and surrounded by hundreds of people.

chanyeol glances behind you, and you become acutely aware of the fact that your mother is still standing behind you. “oh!” you exclaim, whirling around and motioning for your mom to come over. they’ve never met, and this isn’t necessarily the way you want them to meet, but you’re not going to have them ignore each other just because you’re broken up—especially not when he keeps looking at you like he could eat you. “mom, this is chanyeol; chanyeol, my mom.” you say, gently nudging her, telling her to be nice.

your mom shakes his hand and gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. a few months ago, she did her typical check in via a phone call. you never told her about chanyeol explicitly, just told her that there was a guy you were seeing back when you two first started dating. she asked about him here and there, but it was never anything pressing and you weren’t just going to give up the information. but when she called you after you two broke up, you couldn’t help but vent to her on the phone. for once, she let you cry in peace over a man—you don’t know why, maybe it’s because she could tell you actually liked him? but she let you cry and told you that one day, it would get better. she didn’t chastise you and tell you to simply get over it and to stop crying like you expected. you never asked her, but you figured she might’ve experienced something similar when she was your age or before you were born.

“it’s nice to put a face to a name, now,” your mom says, glancing at you before returning her gaze to chanyeol. he smiles, and the tips of his ears turn pink again. “how nice of you to show up today, too.” she adds and you cut your eyes at her, wanting her to lay off of him.

chanyeol only nods, his eyes never leaving yours as he says, “of course. i’m proud of her.” your whole body burns, the heat starting at your toes and spreading upwards. it’s too much to look at him, so you break first and awkwardly clear your throat.

“we’re about to go celebrate—you’re welcome to join us, if you want,” your mom says, shocking you and chanyeol, and probably even herself. you look at chanyeol with wide eyes, praying that he says no and spares an awkward, tension filled dinner.

“thank you, but i’ll pass for now,” he says politely and you nearly sigh in relief. your mom nods and smiles at him, seemingly happy with his answer, and announces that she’ll be waiting for you in the car.

you and chanyeol are truly left alone, and you don’t know how to determine the rolling of your stomach; anxiety, or excitement? either way, your pulse quickens and you feel shy when he smiles at you. "you look pretty, by the way," he compliments, and you feel like you're floating in the air when he says it. you thank him and he stuffs his hands into his front pockets of his jeans. "can i see you later? after your dinner?" chanyeol asks.

you bite the inside of your cheek. you know you should probably say no, because while you're elated to see him right now, you don't know when reality will set in and shatter whatever idea you have of him. his proposition from a few months ago still lurk in the depths of your memory, reminding you that you were too much and not enough for him at the same time. but on the flip side, you really do want to see him. theres so much you've wanted to say to him since your breakup and that rotten day.

blowing out a breath, you look up at chanyeol who wears a hopeful expression on his face. you’ve never been strong around him, never been able to resist him and those eyes that make you turn into mush around him. “yeah, sure. after dinner,” you say, nodding as if to convince yourself and psych yourself up.

chanyeol smiles, his dimples popping out and making your chest squeeze. “okay, cool. i’ll see you then,” he says. you nod and the two of you look at each other for a second before awkwardly laughing. chanyeol opens one of his arms, inviting you in for a hug. it takes everything in you to not throw yourself at him, and you slip underneath his arm just like you used to. you’re practically made to fit in his side.

the whole uber ride, you wonder if you’re too dressed up to see him. you changed your outfit four times, always feeling like it was too much or not enough, before you finally ended up in a blue, silk midi dress with lace trim, paired with heeled boots and a leather jacket. it might be too much, since it’s not a date. but he said he wanted to buy you a celebratory drink, and would it really hurt if you looked nice?

thanking your driver, you step out of the car and make the short walk into the bar. it’s quiet, save for the soft jazz music playing over the speakers. it’s definitely not somewhere you’d have picked if it was up to you, but it’s very chanyeol.

he sits at a high table near the windows, and gets up from his chair to greet you. it’s awkward again, stuck in the in between of a hug, or if you should just sit down. you both opt for the latter, chanyeol casting you a lingering glance. “what are you drinking?” you ask him, hanging your bag off the back of your chair.

“don’t know yet; i was waiting for you,” he answers, and you hate that you find it sweet. you only hum and start looking over the drink menu, not set on one particular drink.

“i think i’m gonna try this,” you say, pointing and showing chanyeol. he nods before slipping the menu from your fingertips and looking for his own option. you study him while he’s momentarily preoccupied and take in the few changes: the stubble, which you can admit you’re a fan of, thicker forearms like he’s been working out, and slightly longer hair. you slip your eyes to look out the window when he lifts his head and announces to you that he’s going to go order your drinks.

letting out a breath, you fold your hands together and glance around the bar, really wondering what you’re doing here with him. you know you shouldn’t be here after the way he tried to have some of you without having all of you, but you still have feelings for him despite it all. you’ve never really stopped.

chanyeol returns with your drinks and you two cheers before taking a sip, both making a face when you taste the alcohol. "so, how've you been—besides graduating?" chanyeol asks, looking over at you with a small, expectant smile.

with a shrug, you take another sip of your drink and set it down. "i've been fine, i guess. not really much going on," you say. "i have an interview coming up for this job—hopefully its my last one." chanyeols eyebrows raise at the mention of a new job, and eggs you on to tell him about it. you get a moment of deja vu, like you've had this conversation before and are going through the motions of trying to make everything right again.

"thats great, y/n. i'm really proud of you," he says it with so much genuineness that you have to take a deep breath to relax yourself. its just the simple things that make you ache the most. when you got an email back from the job, the first person you wanted to tell was him. he hasn't been an afterthought for you, not even after over 100 days of being apart.

you must get a look on your face, because chanyeol frowns and leans forward and asks if you're alright. "huh? yeah, i'm fine," you say, taking another sip of your drink. chanyeol backs off, but he knows you nearly as good as he knows himself, and the look on your face is one he's seen many of times. it lets him know that there is something on your mind that you aren't saying, but he knows better to press you about it, especially since you are not his anymore. "whats up with you?" you ask, wanting the attention off of you.

chanyeol goes on about how its been pretty much the same for him as well, except he's helping his cousin produce an album and is trying to get his brother in the studio more. you can't help but think about that fateful night at the drug store when you caught him buying condoms. you wonder if you hadn't run into him, if you wouldn't be sitting here with him trying to act normal and like you don't think about him nearly everyday. "y/n, you're doing it again," he notes, snapping you out of your own thoughts.

"doing what?"

he makes a face that says, really?, and shakes his head. "i know you, you know. say whatever's on your mind," you chew on the inside of your cheek and crack your fingers against your leg. "please, y/n."

you look up at him and your eyes start to well with tears, for reasons unknown to you and him. "oh my god," you mumble, covering your face with your hands. you sniff and wait for your eyes to dry up before uncovering your face and blowing out a heavy sigh of a breath. you look away from chanyeol as you talk, not trusting yourself to be able to make it while looking at him. "i am just so... confused, chanyeol. we don't talk for months, and then you show up to my graduation—and that was fine, okay?—but this? i can't just sit here and act normal with you, like we're friends or something, because we're not." your voice is even and slow, but you feel a wave of emotions brewing up again. "and with how we ended things? chanyeol, i need to know why you're trying to come around again because i just can't deal with it."

hes silent as he absorbs your words. chanyeol runs a hand through his hair and presses his lips together into a thin line. "okay, i'm just going to be honest, alright?" chanyeol looks over at you, and his stomach flips when you look up at him with wide, tear filled eyes. "first, i want to apologize—for everything, but especially the last time we saw each other. that was fucked up, and i knew it, and i still said it anyways. i wasn't... that just wasn't fair to you," chanyeols picks at his fingernails and looks down at his lap.

"i broke us up the first time; that wasn't your fault."

"yes, it was, y/n. there were things i didn't say to you, that i should have said. i could've tried harder, i could've just been honest with you," you bite your bottom lip, wishing he would just tell you those simple three words, whether they're still true or not. you need to hear it. "you can say it was all on you—fine—but i know that it wasn't. we both played a part, but it was completely my fault this time around. i don't want you to think that i... that i think less of you, because i don't. it was a stupid and fucked up thing for me to imply." chanyeols says, running his hand through his hair and gently tugging at the roots.

you fold your lips into your mouth and blink back the tears that form in your eyes again. his words mean something to you, so much that you don't think you'll be able to make it the rest of the night without crying. "y/n, can you look at me? please?" his tone is pleading, like its all he needs from you to get through the night. but you know the moment you look like him you'll start crying, and you don't know if you'll be able to stop. "please, y/n." and you wish he'd just call you baby.

with a breath, you finally turn your head to face him, and it hardly takes a second of seeing him before your face crumples and you drop your head into your hands. you're embarrassed for crying so quickly and in public, and you try to keep it silent. chanyeol jumps up from his chair and comes over to wrap you in a comforting embrace. you let him hold you for a moment, missing the feeling of being wrapped up in his strong arms. it doesn't last long before you mumble that you need air, and pull yourself from his grasp, not making eye contact with him as you slip on your jacket and dash outside.

you expect him to follow after you, and are greatly relieved when he does exactly that. "y/n," chanyeol says, a crestfallen expression on his face. the tears don't stop and you lean against the side of the building to support yourself. "i'm sorry." he's not really sure what he's apologizing for exactly, but he feels guilty and helpless watching you cry like this.

shaking your head, you wipe underneath your eyes and sniff, letting out a breath. "i don't know whats wrong with me," you mumble, letting out a weak chuckle. chanyeol gives you a small smile, taking a step closer to you. you take the risk of looking at him again, the urge to throw yourself into his arms tempting you. "why couldn't you just tell me?" you ask him, sniffing again. but you could ask yourself the same thin. why? seems to be the one question neither of you can figure out.

chanyeol lifts his shoulders and drops them before slumping against the building, mirroring your stance. "i don't know. i really don't. i felt—feel—so many things for you, so strongly, that i didn't want to ruin it or complicate it. especially if you didn't feel the same way," he says. the correction to the present tense makes your heart skip a beat, but also just makes you feel more frustrated.

"chanyeol, do you seriously think i just... kind of liked you, or something?" you ask, wiping the last of the tears from your cheeks. he shrugs and hangs his head when you let out a sarcastic cackle. "the way i felt about you scared the shit out of me. and since we're being honest, i still feel the exact same way. i can't even go a minute without thinking about you and wishing i could just go back in time so none of this happened." you're shocked that you found the bravery to tell him, but it feels like a weight has been taken off of your shoulders.

chanyeol blushes, and looks down at his shoes. "its the same thing for me. i really fucked up when i said what i said. i want you in more than that way, and i mean it. you mean more to me than just sex. i don't know why i thought i could even do that with you and not want more," you bite your bottom lip, his words settling in the pit in your stomach. the words are on the tip of your tongue, like they've been for months.

he beats you to the punch, nearly knocking the wind out of you. "i can't imagine trying to go through life without ever getting the chance to tell you that i love you. because i do, and i have for a long time, and i should have told you a long time ago."

"chanyeol," your voice cracks on the last syllable and tears immediately stream down your face again. his arms are around you in seconds, holding you tightly against him. chanyeol rests his chin atop your head and cages his body around you in a way that is just natural for the two of you.

you circle your arms around his torso and rest your cheek against his chest, letting out a deep breath and closing your eyes for a brief moment. this is all you've wanted, to be back in his arms, to be his, if not just for the moment.

"yeol," you mutter, pulling back to look up at him. chanyeols looks down at you and your eyes flick to his lips. thats all it takes for his lips to be on yours, one of his large hands cradling your head and the other around your waist. your palms rest flat on his chest before sliding up to grab onto the back of his neck to press him closer to you.

chanyeol backs you up against the wall of the building and presses your bodies impossibly closer, your hands sliding into his hair. you kiss him like its the last thing you'll do in this lifetime. theres a sense of desperation in the way you press yourself against him, but you don't care, and neither does he because all he does is shove his tongue into your mouth.

a whine leaves chanyeols throat when you pull away, and he chases after your lips. you blush and let him kiss you before you pull away again. you put your hands on his cheeks and look up at him, with what you can only image are heart eyes. "chanyeol," you say, gently stroking the left side of his face with your thumb.

"hmm?" he gently holds onto your wrist.

"i love you," you confess, and the smile that stretches across his lips is enough to make you weak in the knees.

"i love you." kiss. "i love you." kiss. "i love you." kiss.

you two stay like that for a few more minutes, pressed against each other. you feel his love for you in the way he holds you like you're delicate. you feel it in the way he kisses you like he means it, and you wonder why it couldn't have always been this easy and simple.

you've spent so long wondering why?, and you don't know if you'll ever find the answer, and for right now that is okay. because being back in chanyeols arms is enough.

[starlostjimin]

i know the feeling too, i've been inside the dark

Pairing: Bang Chan/f!reader Rating: Explicit Warnings: Unprotected sex (in the context of an established relationship; safe to assume proper discussions have been had), body image issues (Chan) Tags: plus size female reader, body image issues, established relationship, unprotected sex, a frankly alarming amount of pet names used, they're disgustingly in love your honour, pwp Summary: Your boyfriend comes home from work frustrated and with a serious case of not-good-enough-itis. You hope you can cure him the way he once cured you.

***********

   The front door closes with a dull thud and you hear two more as your boyfriend’s shoes hit the back of the closet. 

     “Hey babe,” you call from the kitchen. “How was work?” A muffled grumble comes from the living room and you emerge to find said boyfriend face down on the couch, his head buried in a throw pillow. “That good, huh?” you ask, settling on the floor beside the couch and running your hand lightly along his back. 

     “Tmfkjiepafffee,” comes the response, and you can’t help but laugh. 

     “Want to try that again? Maybe in a language I know?” 

     Chan turns his head slightly to the side and repeats himself. “They dropped a surprise photo shoot on me.” He sighed. “It was supposed to be next week, but the photographer had something come up and they had to move the shoot earlier instead of later. So it was all of a sudden today, and I look like crap, and I ate ramen yesterday so I’m all puffy, and this stupid shoot is going to be in a magazine and -” 

     You put a gentle finger to his lips, stopping the avalanche of words before they canbowl him over any further than his thoughts clearly already are. You lean forward and kiss him gently before speaking, your lips dancing lightly over his and lingering a hair longer than was really your intention, always reluctant to pull away from him. 

     “Christopher Bang Chan,” you say, your voice soft. At the surprise on his face, you giggle. “That’s right, I’m bringing out the government name. I mean business, mister.” 

     His eyes soften as he looks over at you, waiting for you to finish speaking. 

     “You, my love, are your own worst critic,” you say. You run a hand lightly along his cheek and down his jaw. “Without even a shadow of a doubt, you’re one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen - inside and out.” You add on the last part when you see him preparing to argue back at you. “Even first thing in the morning, when everyone is a little puffy, and your hair isn’t brushed and your face isn’t washed and you have morning breath. You still blow the rest of the world’s population out of the water. It’s a little unfair, to be honest.” A giggle escapes you before you continue. “And before you say I’m biased because I’m hopelessly, overwhelmingly in love with you, did the photographer have any complaints today?” Chan shook his head. 

     “The director of the shoot?” Another head shake. 

     “The stylists? Makeup artists?” Shake. 

     “So is it possible, even just a little, that maybe you’re being too hard on yourself?” 

     “They’re nice people. They wouldn’t say anything. But I know I need to hit the gym harder.” 

     Your head drops back in mild exasperation. Chan’s confidence is never great, but he goes through periods like this where it seems like nothing can snap him out of it. You’re patient, always - you know his job has him in the spotlight and that kind of constant scrutiny would destroy a lesser man - but it kills you to hear him talk about himself this way. You take a deep breath and bring your head up to look at him again. You don’t particularly like using this method, but sometimes it’s all that will nudge him out of this headspace. 

     “Chan?” you ask, your voice dripping innocence. “Do you think I need to go to the gym more?” It feels like a dirty move - you’re definitely heavier than him, your curves soft and muscles undefined. But you are, thanks in no small part to Chan, okay with your body. On your good days, you like it, and even on your bad days you don’t hate it the way you once did. You know what his response will be, and he doesn’t disappoint you. 

     “What? No! You look amazing. I’m sorry baby, have I been dumping on you on a bad day?” Chan’s answer is instant and he bolts half upright, leaning on one arm and reaching the other out to you. 

     “No, you ridiculous man,” you say softly, smiling and taking the offered hand. “But if you can see me that way, when I’m significantly, to use your word, puffier, than you, then why can’t you extend the same kindness to yourself?” You squeeze his hand gently and encourage him to roll over so he’s laying on his back on the couch. “I couldn’t always say this, but you make me feel beautiful.” You climb up to straddle his thighs, leaning forward to cup his face in your hands. “And considering you look like you’re carved from marble, that’s something I never expected or, for the longest time, felt like I deserved.” 

     His fingers trace patterns on your thighs absentmindedly as his face flushes under your gaze. “You’re incredible,” he says. “You fit perfectly in my arms - like you were made for me. And when you laugh your eyes sparkle, and it feels like the sun has come out. Your hair is so pretty,” he lifts one hand to the back of your head and runs his hand through your hair before pulling you down to kiss you softly. “And you have the kindest heart I’ve ever known. I’m so lucky.” His voice catches in his throat and you can’t doubt his words for even a moment. 

     “Your arms hug me like you’ll die if I ever escape,” you say softly, running a hand along his bicep. “When you’re focused on something, you bite your lip in this very particular way. I can’t explain it, but it’s insanely hot. You’ve got this classically handsome face, like some ancient artist should have carved statues of you or something. You don’t have a bad word for anyone but yourself; you’re encouraging and loving and just straight up good to everyone you meet.” Your hands begin to play with the hem of his hoodie, and you shoot a grin at him. “Let me show you how handsome you are?” 

     You feel his agreement stirring below you before you see him nod, his hands reaching out to wrap around your waist as you lean forward and slide his hoodie up his torso. Holding onto you tightly so you don’t fall, he shifts into a sitting position, settling you more comfortably on his lap. 

     “God that’s hot,” you mumble as you pull his hoodie up and over his head. His chest is bare underneath it - he obviously just tossed on whatever he had in his bag after he showered off the photoshoot makeup at the studio. You lean down to kiss him deeply as you run your hands along his chest. When you reach his nipples his breath hitches, and you smile against his mouth. “So sensitive.” Your lips move to his jaw, then his neck, and before he can get a word out they’re wrapped around a dusky bud, your tongue flicking across it. Heat shoots to your core when you hear his gasp and feel his hands tangle in your hair. You nip at him lightly before moving over to pay attention to his other nipple. 

     You’re nothing if not fair. 

     A whine escapes his lips and you can feel his cock twitch below you. You tap his hand lightly to encourage him to release his grip on your hair and slide down to the floor in front of him, tugging on his legs to have him face you. He changed into sweatpants before coming home and you’re grateful for the ease of access it gives you when you hook your fingers over the waistband of those and his boxers and tug them down over his hips, waiting (mostly) patiently as he lifts them so you can free him of his cotton prisons. You slide them down slowly in the front, letting them drag deliciously over his cock before it springs free. 

     “I think I forgot to mention how hot this is.” You nose lightly at his cock, hard and already beginning to pearl precum at the tip. “Let me remedy that.” Your tongue strokes over him once, base to tip, before he’s engulfed in your mouth. 

     “Oh, fuck,” he stammers, and you giggle before relaxing your throat to take him as deep as you can before sliding back again to suck on the tip, working his shaft with your hand as you do. Your tongue swirls around the head as your cheeks hollow, and salt dribbles along it as his arousal grows. You slide slowly down his shaft again, keeping the pressure as tight as you can, and he shudders beneath you. 

     “Y/n,” his voice is practically a whimper as he pulls you up off his cock. You look up at him from your seat on the floor and the fire in his eyes threatens to burn you alive. “Too many clothes,” he growls, leaning forward and pulling your t-shirt over your head. You lift your arms to ease the process for him, and he groans when he spies your breasts unencumbered by a bra. Leaning down and placing his hands on your sides, he tugs you upwards and pulls you into his lap again, kissing you deeply. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck and you cling to him as you grind down on him. His hands on your hips follow your movement until he seemingly can’t handle it anymore and they slide up your torso to cup your breasts, his thumbs grazing your nipples in an echo of what you’d done to him earlier. When he begins to lightly pinch and twist them, you pull your lips from his and throw your head back. 

     “Chan, fuck!” the words fall from your lips much louder than you’d intended, but you decide your neighbours can be happy for you or they can fuck off.

     “Pants,” he says in response, and you lift up onto your knees so he can slide them off of you. You lift one leg, feeling the cool air hit it as he slides the black leggings down, then shift your weight to lift the other one. 

     It doesn’t go as planned. 

     Shaky, your weaker left leg doesn’t hold your weight as well as your right leg did, and you collapse to the side, very nearly kicking Chan in the head as he tries to finish pulling off your bottoms. You erupt into laughter as he dodges before tossing your leggings to the side and leaning down over you. 

     “Sorry baby,” you say through your laughter. “Still think I’m hot?” 

     His smile is equal parts amused and heated as he answers. “The hottest. Now get back up here.” He drops a kiss on the tip of your nose before pulling you back up onto his lap, your heated core pressing against his still desperately hard cock. You roll your hips against him and the smile drops from his face, pure need replacing it. 

     “Please, y/n,” he murmurs, burying his face in your neck and covering it in kisses and light nips. 

     You have no interest in making him wait any longer, since that would also require you to wait. You lift your hips and reach in front of you to take hold of his cock. Angling yourself back just a bit to get the angle right, you slide onto him, your muscles immediately clenching around his thick length. Finally fully seated, you drop your head to his shoulder with a whimper. No matter how many times you fuck, it somehow always feels like the first time all over again - minus the slight awkwardness that comes from learning the particular needs of a new partner. The pause lasts only a moment before you’re moving instinctively, your hips rolling in the particular way that you know sends him over the edge. He guides you with a hands on the front of your hips, somehow making you feel tiny with the way his thumb can still reach your clit as he does so. He presses onto it with a tight rotation of his thumb, and you clench around him, feeling yourself shudder already. 

     “Not gonna last long if you keep that up, handsome,” you say through gritted teeth. 

     “Maybe that’s the plan,” he says, lifting his lips from your neck so he can look up at you, meeting your eyes. 

     “Fuck, you’re so hot,” you whine, another shudder passing through you as he rubs at your clit hard, all facade of finesse gone. 

     “Yes baby, that’s right,” he murmurs as your eyes close. “Come on my cock for me, show me how much you like it.” When your head drops to his shoulder, he presses his lips to your ear. “I know you like how I fuck you. You’re so good to me, love. Do one more thing for me and come on my cock. Please.” Desperation is clear in his voice and you drop down hard onto him once more before giving him exactly what he’s begging for. Your orgasm washes over you, sending uncontrollable shudders through your body as you press down hard into his lap, but you can’t stop moving. You keep fucking him through it, desperate for more and more as you cling to him with every possible part of you. It’s when you start to feel the wave begin to fade, his name drifting off your lips, a soft “Chan,” that his hands tighten on your hips and he drives into you again, once, twice, and you can feel his cock throb inside of you as he finds his own release. You move slowly, milking him through it, and only when he lets out a slight gasp of overstimulation do you stop, collapsing against him. He holds onto you tightly, rotating you both around so you’re laying on the couch again, but taking care to make sure he doesn’t slip out of you. Neither of you are ready for the loss of connection yet, and you both know it. You nuzzle into his chest and he tugs down the blanket that you keep draped over the back of the couch, pulling it over the two of you while you rest off your orgasms. 

     It’s a couple of hours later, you think, when you wake up fully, having spent the last however-long drifting in and out of sleep, pressed tightly against Chan’s chest. You trail a couple of kisses along his sternum as you look up at him, and find him looking down at you with so much love in his eyes you think your heart might burst. 

     “Hey,” he says softly. 

     “Hey,” you reply with a grin. 

     “We’re gross.” 

     “For once, I’ll agree with you.” 

     “Shower?” 

     “In a minute,” you say, slowly sitting up and tugging him up with you. You wrap your arms around his neck and scratch through his hair lightly with your fingernails. A shiver runs through him and you can already feel his cock beginning to twitch with interest again. 

     “Chan,” you kiss his forehead and then his lips, a light brush of lips that is in direct contrast to the neediness of earlier. “I really do mean it, you know. You are incredibly, undeniably, gorgeous as fuck.” Your eyes meet his and you continue. “You’re handsome, you’re built, and your heart shines through your eyes and your every movement. Everyone who knows you has been given a gift from the universe, and I’m the luckiest of all. And I’m going to live to my last moment showing you how much I mean that.” 

     His eyes glisten for a moment and you can see him trying to steady himself. “I love you,” is all he says, but there is so much emotion behind the words you find yourself joining him in trying not to cry. 

     “Always,” the word is followed immediately by another kiss, and then you’re sliding off his lap and running down the hallway with a giggle. “Coming?” you ask, looking back over your shoulder and shaking your hips. You can feel your ass move, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Chan launches himself over the back of the couch and chases after you as you run to the bathroom, incredibly aware that this shower is going to be at least twice as long as usual.

[ticklygiggles]

Cheerful people | Iura Shu & Yanagi Akane

A/N: Last commision from @wertzunge! Thank you so much for your kind, kind support, Max! As always, I had a lot of fun writing your fics and I hope you enjoyed them too! Thank you for being so patient with me! I hope you enjoy this fic and that you don't find them too ooc!

Summary: Iura invited his friends to a studying session that day, but why is Yanagi the only one there? While they wait for the others to arrived, they'll spend their time bonding!

This is totally platonic, but idk why everything I write seems romantic to me??? sjns

Gentle, polite, and mild-mannered boy, even while struggling with math problems and english literature, Yanagi Akane looked simply perfect, too handsome and breathtaking - and Iura couldn't help but want to mess with him, even though that way of thinking also made him feel a little bad... and kinda like some kind of molester.

It hasn’t been long since they started to be friends ‘officially’, and even though Yanagi still felt a little reluctant to call Iura by his given name, Iura couldn’t deny they have done some improvement and gotten closer to each other. He was well aware he could be a handful sometimes, but Yanagi seemed to accept him even with that very characteristic trade of his, and he even looked like he enjoyed being around Iura. 

Or at least he liked to think so. They had been alone inside Iura’s room, studying for upcoming exams and, even though very focused on his studies, Yanagi didn’t seem to hate Iura’s company… Yet again, he was very good at hiding his real emotions and feelings, so could it be…?

A soft chuckle made Iura look up with a confused expression, his head tilting to the side like a curious bird when he found Yanagi hiding his mouth behind his hand, smiling humorously.

"You look a little constipated right now, Iura-kun, is everything alright?"

“Consti-!” Iura sighed, smiling awkwardly. “N-Now, I’m serious for once and you say I look constipated? So mean, Yanagi-kun,” he said, pouting for extra drama, and he was glad to see Yanagi chuckling again, shaking his head a little. “I just thought you looked a little funny. Could it be that you’re bored?”

It was a simple question: yes or no, but Iura sensed there was something behind that question, a second meaning. To him it sounded more like ‘could it be that you’re bored because I'm here with you?’, something like that, and of course that wasn't the case at all, on the contrary, wasn’t Iura just thinking about wanting to mess with Akane? Geez, he really sounded like a molester!

Iura whined, pressing his cheek against the cold wooden surface of the little table in his room. “Of course I’m bored. Don’t you get bored when you study?”

“Oh.” He was relieved, Iura could tell and he smiled, looking up at Yanagi expecting an answer. The other boy jumped a little and his cheeks tinted a bit pink.”A-Ah, of course I do… get bored, but it is something that we have to do, don’t you think?” He hummed, tapping his pencil against his open book. “I wonder when the others will arrive.”

Iura never thought he’d have his group of friends coming over to his house to study, but there he was expecting everyone with bags of chips and fresh beverages, however, Yanagi was the only one to arrive at their set time and he was not surprised at all. As soon as Yanagi excused himself and set foot inside Iura’s room, he started to study like a mad man, going through pages and pages of equations and English poems that had Iura’s head spinning. It was a little hot and Iura certainly didn’t feel like studying at the moment, couldn’t Yanagi and him bond a little before the rest arrived? 

He stole a glance to Yanagi and found him with his nose buried into his book again and Iura couldn’t help but whine again, his legs kicking a little under the table, throwing a little tantrum like a kid. Yanagi looked up at him with wide eyes. 

“What is wrong, Iura-kun?”

“Stop studying! Let’s have some fun while we wait for the rest! We’ll do plenty of study when they arrive!”

Iura pouted and Yanagi blinked a couple of times, looking down at his book, then at Iura, his book once again and then at Iura one more time before he spoke again.

“But… we can at least do homework, right? So we don’t have to do it la-

“No! That’s boring! We’ll do it later!”

Oh, his expression was so funny! Iura wanted to burst into laughter. Yanagi didn’t have any idea what to do or say! Iura couldn’t help but want to tease him some more, but what was Yanagi’s limit? He wouldn’t like to overstep it and make him feel bad in any way, not when he was finally opening up and being his true self around others. Besides, Iura was just playing around, he could easily put himself to study as well, but where was the fun in that? 

“I-Iura-kun… listen, I am not against waiting for the others to study,” he said, trying to reason with Iura, “but if we do at least our homework, we’ll have more time to have fun, don’t you think?”

He sounded just like a parent, oh goodness, Iura really wanted to laugh! A parent trying to convince their little kid to stop throwing a tantrum over a candy in a store. Yanagi was hilarious! Maybe Iura could push this a little more?

He chuckled a little, “I think you need a little convincing, Yanagi-kun.”

“C-Convincement?”

“Yes! Maybe I should force you to stop studying and do homework?” Iura hummed in thought, tapping his chin with one of his fingers. “Ah! Maybe I could tickle you? That way you would definitely stop that pencil of yours!”

“T-Tickle me?!”

This time Iura couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Yanagi’s expression was one of pure horror, his cheeks turning pinker as he started to sweat a little. 

Iura smirked, “oh? Are you very ticklish, Yanagi-kun?”

Yanagi gasped when Iura moved forward over the table to reach for him and before Iura could react, the other boy had sprung up on his feet and quickly moved away from his spot. Iura blinked and he looked at Yanagi, who had his hands raised in some kind of shield as his torso arched backwards. Iura blinked and as he looked up, he laughed and also stood on his own feet, his hands also raised, showing all ten fingers wiggling viciously. 

“Oh, Yanagi-kun, you are very ticklish!” Iura said, taking a single step forward that made Yanagi take two back and away from him. “You shouldn’t have let me know!”

“I- I didn’t say anything! I’m just- I’m n-not ticklish! You just- ah! No, wait!”

And so, the chasing started and the two of them staggered every three steps, almost falling on top of the table or the bed. Iura was giggling like a kid and Yanagi let out little squeaks every time he felt the brush of a hand against his back, almost catching him.

“I-Iuhura-kun!”

Iura gasped, “are you giggling already, Yanagi-kun? Oh, you’ll be dead when I get my hands on you!”

Yanagi squeaked again, “y-you sohound like a peherv!" 

“What?! Oh, now you’ll see- ah, wait, careful!” Iura wasn’t sure how, but Yanagi was suddenly slipping with God-knows-what and falling face first, thankfully, over the bed. Iura’s heart stopped for a second before he gasped and hurriedly neared the bed, placing a hand against Yanagi’s back. “Goodness, Yanagi-kun, are you alright?!”

“Y-Yes,” he said, a little breathless and with his cheeks pink. “That was scary, I thought- ah! N-no, nohohoho! Ahahahaha!”

“Aha!” After making sure he was alright, Iura had slowly darted his hands towards Yanagi’s sides, and in a single breath, he latched them to Yanagi’s body and started to squeeze, sending the boy into a fit of giggles as he squirmed on the bed. “Oh no, Yanagi-kun was distracted!” Iura taunted, giggling to himself. 

Yanagi flushed to the tip of his ears and he tried to get himself up, but everytime he pulled his arms away from his sides, Iura would speed up his attack and the poor boy would collapse on the bed again, pressing his arms to his sides and giggling brightly. 

Iura found all of this hilarious, seeing someone like Yanagi, as perfect as he always was, giggling and squirming around like this, was something only cool people like himself could see. He giggled and laughed at Yanagi’s reactions, Iura’s fingers squeezing at his waist, earning high-pitched giggles, then he clawed at his ribs, making Yanagi shriek as his giggles turned into cackles, and let's not even talk about how he reacted when Iura's fingers went up to the hollows of Yanagi’s armpits! Iura thought this was imagining all of this, but he certainly wasn't.

“AHAHAHA! Iuhuhurahaha-kuhuhun!” Yanagi laughed, trying to catch Iura’s hands now squeezing those muscles above his hips. “Thihis is unfahahair!”

“Well, I did tell you I was going to do it, didn’t I?” Iura said, laughing when Yanagi let out a desperate laugh as Iura vibrated his fingers against his hip bones. “How can you go around being this ticklish, Yanagi-kun?”

“I’m nohohot thihihis tihihicklish! Yohohu’re juhuhust- plehehease!”

“Ouch!” Iura whined when a heel suddenly connected with the middle of his spine. “Now now, Yanagi-kun, are you trying to hurt me?”

“N-Nohoho! Thihis is juhuhust a n-nahatural… r-reflex and- what, what are you do- NO! NAHAT THEHERE!” 

Iura couldn’t help but throw his head back with a laugh when Yanagi let out an honest-to-God shriek when he felt nimble fingers skittering across one of his soles; going all the way under his sensitive toes and then going after his heel. Blunt nails scratching at the ball of his foot and then at his arch. Yanagi’s laughter had finally turned hysteric, he desperately pulled at his foot, but Iura had caught it in an ankle lock that prevented him from escaping, no matter how hard he tried. 

“Oh, wow, did I find the spot, Yanagi-kun?” He teased, but wasn’t sure if Yanagi actually heard him, laughing as hard as he was, he could probably only hear himself. “Is this spot really bad?” He tried again, a little louder this time and he chuckled when Yanagi shrieked out a ‘yes’.

“IHIHIT IHIHIS! Plehehease, Iuhuhura-kuhuhun!” Yanagi laughed, kicking his free leg. “I’ll dihihihie!”

“Oh, you won’t,” Iura said, rolling his eyes with a big smile. “It’s just tickling, it’s not even that bad, is it?”

“IIHIHIT IHIHIS!” Yanagi said, curling his toes to stop Iura’s fingers from going under them. “I’m tihihicklish thehehere! Plehehease, stahahap!”

Iura laughed. “Ah! You’re finally asking me to stop! That is my clue then, hehe.”

With a last wiggle of his fingers under Yanagi’s toes, Iura finally stopped, letting go of the captive foot and laying on the bed beside Yanagi. The poor laughing boy was trying to catch his breath as residual tingles against his foot still had him giggling quietly. The sound was making Iura smile and he couldn’t help but break into laughter himself, making Yanagi laugh too, this time not from the tickling. 

After a moment, they stopped, giggling and grinning at each other. 

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Iura asked with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. 

Yanagi looked at him and he chuckled. “Yes. It was fun, Iura-kun.”

Iura nodded and he got up in one jump, lending his hand to Yanagi. “Well, I think the others will be here soon, so why don’t we- ack!”

Iura gasped when he found himself back on his bed, Yanagi grinning at him, making him feel somehow, nervous. 

“What’s the matter, Yanagi-k-kuhuhun?! Nohoho! Nohohot mehehehe!” Iura giggled when he felt Yanagi’s fingers wiggling against his sides, tickling him. 

“Oh, Shu-kun, I think we can still play while the others get here, don’t you think?” Yanagi teased, easily following Iura’s body as he squirmed. “Let’s keep having fun!”

Iura gasped, trying to catch Yanagi's hands, "how- hohohow did yohohuhu cahahalled mehehe- hohohold on! You sahahaid my nahaha- Ah! Nohohot thehehere!”

Yanagi had used his given name! Iura couldn't enjoy the moment as much as he wanted to, because Yanagi had found that particularly sensitive spot near his ribs and he was cackling like crazy. Oh, the others will get very jelous when Iura tell them about it... but perhaps, he could keep it in secret until Yanagi said his name again.

Ah, bonding with friends was the best! Even if that mean being tickled to hysterics, not that Iura minded anyway!

[ferret-the-overseer]

so camera angles in F1 right

In case you don’t know this about me, I’m a mild film/cam passionista, and I have opinions sometimes okay.

F1’s main problem with cameras (imo) is that they really want to “keep people in the action” which they’ve done by keeping cars in the direct center of your screen all the times, and putting cameras at sections with wider angles of view. This is nice, because the sort of limited camera angles from before made it occasionally difficult to keep track of race action.

HOWEVER

They sort of swapped to this wide, central shot style, instead of implementing it. One thing F1 did really well was letting you feel and understand the power of these cars, even through a TV screen. The camera whipped around to follow Raikkonen absolutely sending his car through Eau Rouge (absolute madlad btw) or the Schumacher brothers chasing each other through that wide right hander in Silverstone. The cars felt fast, they felt close, and a lot of that was due to the very stationary cameras relatively close to the track, and the fact that the operators didn’t seem to feel the need to adjust the zoom angle every microsecond to keep the car perfectly centered on your TVs screen. Like sure, I couldn’t see all the pretty sponsor logos, or maybe I didn’t always catch the honestly fascinating front or rear wings of the 2000s (next up on the fact list?), but that was part of the magic. The cars were screaming past so quickly you could hardly keep them in frame at all.

This started going away in the 2010s. By 2020 it was nearly gone completely, and watching races just felt sort of stagnant: no matter how fast I knew Hamilton and Vettel were throwing themselves through every corner, they always seemed to be moving at the same speed.

But things are starting to change.

New cams like the ones on front wings, on/inside driver helmets, and the saving grace of the mid-season camera development upgrades (lol), the gyro cam. These are SO COOL, and the gyro cam in particular feels FAST, I think because the mildly warped field of view makes the motion blur heavier while still keeping that crisp video quality we’ve come to expect from modern cameras, combined with the defining feature of it rolling with the horizon as the car experienced angle changes itself.

Also just angles in general, like the ones at the Monaco pool chicane and tunnel, and some of the ones at Singapore this year, they just bring back that close-to-the-track action.

Interestingly, if you go back and watch recordings from the 1970s and 80s, you’ll notice they actually had some of these. The onboard cameras back then were genuinely exciting, and I watch them all the time. I’d recommend that any F1 fan do that, even if just to see the evolution of driving styles and cars. 

I think F1 is finally listening to fans saying they liked the more stationary cameras, the wild onboards, stuff like that. You can feel the speed of the cars like back in the 2000’s and early 2010’s.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Two questions haha! Post-war, what kind of domestic things lead to spicy things for Gale and Maureen? And the same goes for Ida and Rosie later on?

Oooh excellent ask, one I need to give more thought to and write on but for now here’s basic what comes to mind -I’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts.

Gale x Maureen: nothing really changes in the fact that Maureen remains proud as hell of her little golden overachiever but also miffed at the sheer amount of time his important jobs and higher studies require of him, the way he gets into a whole mood about them and brings it home inadvertently. She certainly has more patience for it by now as they’ve come to an understanding, he’s working on disentangling and leaving it at the office and on her part she throws fewer tantrums over it and merely declare: her need for his attention.

Which he’s always willing to give. Sometimes his engine is not revved as hot as hers and it takes a minute to play catch up, but he’s there for her in every way he can, a dynamic they solidified in camp. Often when she knows hes genuinely too busy to make time, she simply crawls under his desk, bounces in his lap and tells him carry on, while she gets her fix.

Spankings, I’m afraid. She wasn’t so sure she liked them all that much but she could feel how despite the first few being non sexual in nature, they made Gale hard, and that aroused her in its own way. He’s got a very specific way he makes love to her after such discipline, it’s very slow but hard with a great deal of reaffirming eye contract which makes her cum like a girl possessed, his whole attitude being like he’s pinning his newly tamed prey down after not just the attack but then the devouring.

This couple is about power plays for sure, but mostly nice ones. And Maureen does most of the initiating although this man cannot restrain himself when she’s on the water. Boating or kayaking or what have you, his mouth runs dry watching her enjoy herself so much in her little swimsuits and he’ll act on his feelings with a rash publicity utterly unlike his usual self.

Rosie and Ida? Ooh, so many things, and a lot of them very domestic, mild, not at all a blatant wooing. He’s done the damn dishes, she’s found and archived a case he was about to have a panic attack over losing, they won a case, they did something mildly risky (they’re both closeted adrenaline junkies), they aced their Christmas shopping list, they smoked everyone in snow skiing -you know what all these mild things lead to?

Celebratory or grateful kisses, and no one, absolutely no one kisses like the Rosenthal’s. It would get you heated just running into them in the hall going at it, much less if you were engaged in it as one of them.

They don’t eat each other’s faces off, or not always, they’re the best at sensual kisses that make you realize you have no fucking clue that the mouth could caress so much. And they hold each other’s faces and she tugs at his hair and he often kneads her shoulders while at it which turns this rather stiff spined woman into goo.

Phone sex is huge for them,… ok maybe not full phone sex all the time but good Lord, the foreplay of an average call between them! Started with their courtship and now it’s gotten so blazing and so specifically coded, nothing better be in their way between them and the bedroom when one or the other gets home.