#pre-map call

[cynthiadasorceress]

I'm making a M.A.P.!! (Hopefully...)

It's not open yet, as I'm still figuring out character designs, and more importantly, the song. It'll be an animation about Rusty from The Sounds Of Nightmares (my boy doesn't get enough attention T^T) to either Circus of the Dead or Carousel.

When I am ready for participants, I'll post links to the Discord, Google Doc, and any other resources for the project, along with putting a video on YouTube. So keep an eye out if you're interested!

[happyk44]

To me, children of Zeus are natural strategists in the same way children of Athena are. But the difference is that Zeus and his kids have multiple plans and contingencies if a plan fails at a certain point and needs to shift gears. So like they employ Plan A and get all the way to stage four of the plan when suddenly there's a deviation from expectations for whatever reason. So they shift gears from Plan A1 to Plan A2, which accounted for this deviation and continue on.

Athena and her kids, however, come up with one solid, somewhat broader plan and refuse to deviate from it at all unless there is literally no other choice, in which case they will improvise quickly and efficiently to accomodate the change and get back on track to the original plan.

[lord-of-tomatoes]

Sorry if this feels like pro Egypt propaganda she's just stuck in the past

Prev | Next

[planetamarte]

EVERYTHING INSPIRES ME TO CREATE

[bourbontrend]

Discover the magic of Vox Machina in a bottle! Critical Role has teamed up with Find Familiar Spirits to bring you Sandkheg's Hide, a limited-edition bourbon inspired by the iconic in-game drink. Perfect for fans of Critical Role and whiskey enthusiasts alike! Don't miss out on this unique collaboration. #CriticalRole #FindFamiliarSpirits

[damnyousubdermalirritants]

UPDATE: NOVAVAX NOW AVAILABLE!!!

Hi everyone, it's been about a year since I posted about updated COVID vaccines and it's time for another update if you are in the US:

THE BRIDGE ACCESS PROGRAM IS ENDING!!!!

If you are uninsured or your insurance does not cover covid boosters, please schedule a new booster appointment before the end of August because the Bridge Access Program (the way the government will still pay for your booster) ends in September. The updated mRNA boosters from Moderna and Pfizer are available now. Go Go GO!!!

Shitty, I know! If you can call your congressional reps, the FDA, the CDC, whomever to tell them you want this program to continue/be reinstated, that would be great. Also, while you're at it, call the FDA to tell them to expedite the approval for the updated Novavax booster (3017962640).

The new Novavax vaccine is designed for the JN.1 strain which is one of the most recent mutations of the virus going around. If you have insurance and can afford to wait, I highly recommend getting the Novavax booster when it becomes available.

We are currently in the largest Covid summer surge since 2021

If you haven't had a booster in the past six months you are essentially unvaccinated. New strains with different spike proteins keep evolving faster than vaccine development and distribution can keep up. All that said, getting Covid is not a moral failing. If you do feel sick, take a rapid test! If it's negative, test again a day or two later. It is better to know than not to know. Here's a refresh on how to take a rapid test correctly:

If you do get Covid, it is worth getting on antiretrovirals within the first week of symptoms to reduce the overall viral load your body has to fight. If your insurance doesn't cover Paxlovid or Remdesivir, here are other low/no-cost ways to access it:

If you get sick, rest radically even after you stop testing positive on rapid tests. Avoid exercising for at least eight weeks after the fact to reduce the risk of developing long covid.

Regardless of your vaccination status, masking with a KN95 or N95 respirator (or equivalent standards in your country i.e. FFP2/3 in the EU) is the most reliable way to protect yourself and others. If Covid protections are a financial burden, there is likely an active Mask Bloc near you doing free distribution of respirators and tests that would be happy to help you. Here's a global map of them from covidactionmap.org

Some quick tips: if you're wearing a bi-fold mask, flatten the nose-bridge wire completely, then mold it to your nose on your face for a better fit. The best mask is the one that you will actually wear regularly to protect yourself. I really like the selection of styles, sizes and colors from WellBefore:

As school is starting, getting you and your family boosted is one of the best things you can do to protect yourselves. Masking is perhaps even more important. If you can advocate for updating and regularly changing the HVAC filters at your local schools to MERV-13 or higher to keep the indoor air cleaner, that can also make a big difference. Better indoor air quality in schools helps protect kids from illness, allergies, wildfire smoke, and more per the EPA's website.

These are steps you can take to improve air quality at home as well. Corsi-Rosenthal boxes are low-cost and highly effective for cleaning the air indoors.

Here's a map of clean air lending libraries for getting access to air purifiers for events from cleanairclub.org

[harrysfolklore]

first win - op81

gif by @princemick <33

summary: the road to oscar’s first grand prix win. wc: 3.4K

folkie radio: OSC’S FIRST WIN 🥹🥹🥹 that race that so stressful but he did it and i’m so happy! fun fact: i wrote this fic last night bc i just FELT oscar was winning, i just added today’s race a few hours ago 😭 i hope you like it! leave feedback

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

February 5, 2023. Bahrain Grand Prix

Today was the big day. Oscar Piastri was set to make his Formula 1 debut as a McLaren driver.

You've talked about this countless of times, sharing dreams and fears, mapping out every step of his journey from karting to the pinnacle of motorsport.

Now, as you stood in the garage with the crowd's energy buzzing around you, it was hard to believe that moment had finally arrived.

Oscar was going through some pre-race talks with his team. You caught sight of him from a distance, his face a mask of focus and determination. When he spotted you, he broke into a smile, and for a brief moment, the tension seemed to melt away.

You make your way over to him as he finishes up with his team.

"Ready to set the track on fire, hotshot?" you tease, playfully tugging at the sleeve of his race suit.

Oscar grins, a mix of excitement and nerves dancing in his eyes. "Well, hopefully not literally. I don't think the team would appreciate a barbecued car on my first outing."

His chuckle is tinged with a hint of nervousness. You notice his hand fidgeting with the zipper of his race suit – a telltale sign of his pre-race jitters.

"Hey," you say softly, taking his hand. "Remember what we always say? You've earned this. You belong here."

"I know. It's just...," he took a deep breath, "It's really happening, isn't it? All those years of dreaming, and now..."

"And now you're about to drive the pants off everyone out there," you finish for him, your voice filled with confidence.

As the final call for drivers echoes through the garage, you both know it's time. Oscar's eyes lock with yours, a swirl of emotions passing between you. Without a word, he pulls you close, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. It's brief but filled with emotion.

"For luck," you whisper as you part, your foreheads still touching.

"With you here, I've got all the luck I need," Oscar replies softly, his smile warm and genuine.

With a final squeeze of your hand, he heads to where he's needed. You watch him go, your heart racing with anticipation.

The race begins, and for the first 14 laps, everything seems to be going well. Oscar is holding his own, fighting in the midfield, showing flashes of the talent that got him here.

But on lap 15, your heart sinks as you see his car slow down, veering off the racing line. The team radio crackles with the devastating news: "Box, box. We have a steering issue. We need to retire the car."

You watch, helpless, as Oscar brings the car back to the pits. The disappointment is palpable as he climbs out, his debut cut short.

As soon as he's free from the debrief, you find him in his driver's room. His face is a mask of frustration and disappointment.

"Hey," you say softly, taking his hand. "You okay?"

Oscar sighs, squeezing your hand. "Not really. I just... I wanted to finish the race, you know? Show everyone what I could do."

You pull him into a hug. "And you will. This is just the first race, Oscar. There are plenty more to come."

July 9, 2023. British Grand Prix

Silverstone is one of the most special races in the calendar, and for Oscar it's even more special because England is his second home.

He really wanted to deliver a great result. So far, he hadn't been able to place above P8 and he desperately wanted to improve that.

"I know you're nervous about tomorrow," you said as you laid your head on his chest, feeling him tense, "But you're going to do great, baby."

Oscar wraps his arm around you, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder. "You really think so?" he asks, his voice a mix of hope and uncertainty.

You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "I know so. You've been getting stronger with every race. The car's improving, and you're more comfortable with it. Plus, this is Silverstone - you know this track like the back of your hand."

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his face. "I do love this circuit."

"That's the spirit," you say, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Now get some sleep. You've got some racing to do in the morning."

The next day you watch from the garage, your heart swells with pride as Oscar delivers a perfect drive. As he crosses the finish line in P4, the garage erupts in cheers. It's his best result in Formula 1 to date, a performance that will silence any remaining doubters.

When he finally makes it back to the garage, helmet off and face beaming, you're there waiting. He sweeps you up in a hug, both of you laughing with joy.

"You did it!" you exclaim as he sets you down. "I told you you could do it!"

Oscar's eyes are shining with elation and pride. "We did it," he corrects you. "I couldn't have done this without your support."

September 24th, 2023. Japanese Grand Prix

You're perched on the edge of your couch, eyes glued to the TV screen, your heart racing as the lights go out at Suzuka. It's killing you not to be there in person, but work commitments had made the trip to Japan impossible.

Your mind flashes back to your conversation with Oscar yesterday after qualifying. His voice had been filled with excitement and a hint of disbelief as he told you about securing second place on the grid, right behind Max Verstappen.

"Can you believe it?" he had said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "P2! Right behind Max! I mean, I knew the car felt good, but this... this is incredible!"

You had matched his enthusiasm, your pride evident in your voice. "I told you you could do it! Just imagine what you could do in the race from there."

Now, as the race unfolds, you find yourself alternating between cheering out loud and holding your breath. When he crosses the finish line in third place, you leap off the couch, screaming in joy. His first podium and in just his 14th race.

You watch the podium ceremony with tears in your eyes, your heart swelling with pride as Oscar stands there, beaming, champagne in hand next to Max and Lando. It's a moment you've both dreamed about for so long.

It was killing you not to be there.

Hours pass, and you know Oscar must be caught up in team celebrations and media obligations. You're itching to talk to him, but you don't want to interrupt. Finally, just as you're considering going to bed, your phone rings.

"Hey, podium finisher," you answer, unable to keep the smile out of your voice.

"Hey yourself," Oscar replies, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Sorry it took so long to call. It's been absolutely crazy here."

"Don't apologize! I'm just so incredibly proud of you, Oscar. You were amazing out there. Your first podium, it's a dream come true."

There's a moment of silence, and when Oscar speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. "I just wish you could have been here. It doesn't feel quite complete without you."

"I know," you say softly. "I wish I could have been there too. But hey, this is just the first of many podiums, right? I'll be there for the next one."

"You bet it is," Oscar chuckles, "And you better be, I need someone to help me wash all this champagne out of my hair."

You laugh, feeling a mix of joy and longing. "I love you, Oscar. Enjoy your celebrations. You've earned it."

"I love you too," he replies warmly, "And I miss you, we have some celebration on our own to do."

October 8th, 2023. Qatar Grand Prix.

The heat in Qatar is suffocating, but the excitement in the air is even more intense. You're back in the paddock, determined not to miss another milestone in Oscar's career. Yesterday's sprint shootout had been a nail-biter, with Oscar securing pole position for the sprint race by mere hundredths of a second.

As the short-format race begins, you hold your breath. Oscar gets a perfect start, maintaining his lead into the first corner. As the final lap approaches, the McLaren garage is in shambles.

When Oscar crosses the finish line in first place, the explosion of joy is deafening. You're jumping up and down, tears streaming down your face as you watch him punch the air in triumph. He's done it - his first ever Formula 1 race win.

As Oscar pulls into parc fermé, you can see the emotion on his face even through his helmet. When he finally removes it, his smile is brighter than the Qatari sun. The team swarms him, and you hang back, letting him soak in this moment with the people who've worked so hard to make this possible.

When he finally breaks free and spots you, his face lights up even more. He rushes over, sweeping you into a tight embrace.

"You did it!" you exclaim, your voice muffled against his race suit. "Your first win, Oscar! I'm so proud of you!"

Oscar pulls back, his eyes shining with. "We did it," he corrects you, just as he did after Silverstone.

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Well this is just the beginning. Next stop, Grand Prix victory."

May 5, 2024. Miami Grand Prix.

The air in Oscar's driver's room is heavy with disappointment. You watch as he paces back and forth, still in his race suit, his face a mixture of frustration and barely contained anger.

The race had started so promisingly - Oscar had taken the lead early on and was driving beautifully. But then, a collision forced him into an unscheduled pit stop for a new front wing, dropping him down the order and out of contention for a podium finish.

"I had it," Oscar mutters, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I was leading the race, I had the pace. If it wasn't for that idiot..."

You step closer, your heart aching for him. "I know, baby. You were driving amazingly out there."

Oscar stops pacing and looks at you, his eyes filled with disappointment. "It's not fair. We've worked so hard, the car was perfect, and then..."

He trails off, shaking his head. You close the distance between you, gently taking his hands in yours. "Hey, look at me," you say softly.

Oscar meets your gaze, and you can see the vulnerability behind his frustration.

"You're right, it's not fair," you continue. "But that's racing sometimes. What matters is how you come back from this. And you will come back from this, stronger than ever."

"I just... I wanted this so badly."

You pull him into a hug, feeling him slowly relax against you. "I know. And your time will come, Oscar. This doesn't change how talented you are or how hard you've worked. It's just a bump in the road."

May 26th, 2024. Monaco Grand Prix.

The streets of Monaco buzz with anticipation for one the most important races in the Formula 1 calendar. For Oscar, this was his second time racing in Monaco, and the excitement was palpable.

From your spot in the McLaren hospitality suite, you had the perfect view of the circuit. Oscar thought you were back home, watching from the living room, but you couldn't miss this race. You wanted to see him shine on this iconic track.

You had coordinated with the team to keep your presence a surprise. As Oscar has his last quiet moments in his driver room before the preparations started, you sent him a quick text: "Good luck, love. Drive fast, be safe. I'll be cheering you on from home!"

Oscar's response was immediate. "Thanks, babe. I miss you. Wish you were here, but I'll bring home a trophy for you."

You smiled, knowing that he was in for a big surprise.

The race began, and Oscar quickly settled into a rhythm. He defended his P2 position until the checkered flag waved.

The team erupted in cheers, and you felt tears of joy streaming down your face. It was his third podium finish, and it was in Monaco of all places.

Oscar climbed out of his car, waving to the cheering crowd, his face glowing with joy and relief. As he stood on the podium, spraying champagne and celebrating with Charles and Carlos, you made your way down to the team area.

When the podium celebrations were over, and Oscar was heading back to the garage, you waited for the perfect moment. As he turned the corner, you stepped out, catching his eye.

"Oscar!" you called out, your voice carrying over the noise of the paddock.

He froze, his eyes widening in surprise. "What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, a huge grin spreading across his face as he rushed over to you.

"I couldn't miss this. I had to see you race in Monaco," you threw your arms around him, laughing.

Oscar hugged you tightly, lifting you off your feet. "You sneaky little... I can't believe you're here!"

"Congratulations, baby. You were incredible out there," you pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"This... this is amazing. Thank you for being here. It means everything to me."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," you replied, kissing him softly.

July 7th, 2024. British Grand Prix

Oscar had been more motivated than ever. After finishing second the previous week in Austria, he was eager to claim his first Grand Prix victory, and what better place than Silverstone.

He started strong, fighting his way to the front and eventually taking the lead. The team was buzzing with excitement; victory seemed within reach.

But then, disaster struck. A poorly timed pit stop strategy caused Oscar to lose crucial positions. Despite his best efforts, he crossed the finish line in P4. It was his best finish at Silverstone but not the victory he had hoped for.

Later that day back at Oscar's apartment you watched him pace back and forth. He finally stopped and leaned against the window, staring out into the night. His shoulders were tense, and his jaw was set in frustration. The silence was deafening.

"What's on your mind?" you asked softly, breaking the silence.

Oscar didn't turn around. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered.

You stood up and walked over to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know you're upset. But sometimes talking helps."

He sighed deeply and turned to face you, his eyes filled with frustration and disappointment. "I was leading the race. I could have won. My first victory, right here at Silverstone. And it slipped away because of a stupid strategy call."

You reached out and took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "It wasn't your fault, Oscar. You drove an amazing race. Everyone saw how talented you are."

"But it doesn't change the fact that I could have won," he said, his voice cracking with frustration. "I've been waiting for this moment my whole life, and it was right there. And now... I don't know when I'll get another chance like this."

You pulled him into a tight hug, feeling his body tense before he finally relaxed against you. "Your time will come. I know it will. You've shown everyone what you're capable of, and there will be other races, other chances. This is just one race in a long career."

Oscar pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes. "I just wanted it so badly. To win here, in front of the home crowd... it would have meant everything."

"I know," you said softly. "And you'll get there. Maybe not today, but soon. And when you do, it'll be even sweeter because of everything you've gone through to get there."

July 21, 2024. Hungary Grand Prix

The Hungaroring buzzed with excitement as the cars lined up on the grid. Oscar, starting from the front row, felt a mixture of determination and nervous energy. As the lights went out, he got a perfect start, pulling away cleanly from the pack.

Lap after lap, Oscar maintained his lead. The team's excitement grew with each passing circuit. This could be it - his first Grand Prix victory.

However, as the race progressed, pit stop strategies began to shake up the order. After a particularly well-timed stop, Lando emerged just ahead of him. The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable.

Soon, team radio crackled to life. Reminding both drivers about strategies, and particularly asking Lando to give the position to Oscar, creating tension both on and off track.

In the final laps, Lando finally relented. He moved slightly wide in a corner, allowing Oscar to slip past. Oscar crossed the finish line first, claiming his maiden Grand Prix victory.

The team erupted in cheers, but the celebration felt somewhat muted. As Oscar climbed out of his car in parc fermé, his face was hard to read.

As you watched Oscar ascend the podium, your heart swelled with pride. Despite the complicated circumstances of his win, seeing him stand on the top step, the Australian national anthem playing in his honor, was a dream come true.

The champagne spray began, and you couldn't help but smile as Oscar, Lando, and Lewis doused each other in celebration. For a moment, the tension seemed to melt away as the three drivers laughed and enjoyed the moment.

As Oscar descended from the podium, his eyes immediately sought you out in the crowd. You managed to catch him just before he was whisked away for interviews.

"Congratulations, champ," you said, pulling him into a quick embrace.

Oscar hugged you tightly, his race suit still damp with champagne. "Thank you for being here," he murmured against your ear.

You pulled back, searching his face. "How are you feeling?"

A flicker of emotion crossed his features. "I'm not sure yet. I need to process everything."

"I understand," you nodded. "Go do your interviews. We'll talk properly later."

Oscar's eyes softened. He glanced around quickly, then leaned in and gave you a quick kiss. "Love you, see you after."

Hours later, after all the media obligations and team debriefs were over, Oscar finally made his way back to the McLaren hospitality area.

As he entered the room, his eyes immediately sought you out. You were there, beaming with pride, and the sight of you seemed to melt away some of his conflicted feelings.

"There's my champion," you said softly as he approached.

Oscar's face broke into a genuine smile, the first one since he'd crossed the finish line. He pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your neck.

"I did it," he murmured against your skin. "I actually did it."

You pulled back slightly to look at him, cupping his face in your hands. "You did. And I am so incredibly proud of you, Oscar."

His eyes searched yours, vulnerability evident in his gaze. "It wasn't exactly how I imagined my first win would be," he admitted.

"I know," you nodded, understanding in your voice. "But that doesn't make it any less of an achievement. You drove brilliantly today, from start to finish."

"I just wish... I wish it had been a clean fight to the end, you know?" Oscar sighed, leaning his forehead against yours, "Without the team orders and all that."

"Hey," you said, making him meet your eyes again. "This is Formula 1. It's rarely ever straightforward. What matters is that you proved yourself out there today. You're a Grand Prix winner now, and no one can take that away from you."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "When did you get so wise?"

"Oh, I've always been wise. You're just finally starting to notice," you teased, earning a chuckle from him.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For always being here, for believing in me even when things get complicated."

"Always," you promised, leaning in to kiss him softly.

The kiss deepened, both of you pouring your emotions into it - your pride and joy, his relief and love. When you finally parted, Oscar was smiling more brightly.

"So, Grand Prix winner," you grinned, "ready to go celebrate properly?"

[ms-demeanor]

Can you offer any advice for avoiding hoarding when part of the problem is that trying to deal with the clutter and garbage and dirt causes paralyzing anxiety? I want my house to be clean and cluttered because it's stuff I like, but instead it's full of trash and stuff that had a place but doesn't seem to fit back in it after being used.

I can absolutely offer advice about that.

Short TL;DR:

Select the room you want to clean and make a map of it.

Divide the room into small segments like "top of desk" or "cabinet under sink" or even "half of junk drawer." SMALL segments.

Designate bags "trash," "donate," and "consider later."

Schedule a time to work on cleaning each segment, don't just assume "i'll do it next week." Write down an assigned day for each area.

Go into your target area and sort things into those bags.

Optionally, create a bag for memento items to put into a specific memento box/book.

Take bags out of the space when they are full to make more room to work and to see progress.

Do the section for the day and stop. Don't get overwhelmed by a ton of stuff, stop when you've done what you planned for the day (unless you've got good momentum built up and continuing will energize you.)

Long TL;DR:

Go someplace where you are not looking at the mess. You want to draw a map of the room, but you do not want to be in the room. Work one room at a time.

Divide the area you want to clean into very small spaces. You aren't cleaning an entire desk, you are cleaning one drawer of a desk.

Take three containers with you for each section: one trash bag, one donation bag, and one bag of stuff to consider later.

Plan out time to work on the space. Don't say "I'll do the whole thing this weekend" or "I'll get to it after the holidays," sit down and write out a schedule. There's a version of this called 40 bags in 40 days that people do for lent (that was the version of this i first found and followed the first time i did it), but you could do it in ten days, or a hundred, just try to stick to working on each segment on the day it's scheduled.

In each space, keep the stuff that's obviously meant to go there in that space, so if you're cleaning a desk drawer and it has a stapler in it, the stapler can stay there but if the staples and paper clips and rubber bands are a mess put that stuff into the "consider later" bin. Same thing with papers; if you've got a bunch of papers and you may need to keep some and may need to trash some, put them in the "consider later"

THERE IS AN OPTIONAL BIN FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO HANG ON TO A MILLION MEMENTOS AND CONCERT TICKETS AND SUCH. I make them by getting gallon freezer bags and filling them up with business cards and concert programs and scraps of wrapping paper and birthday cards. This isn't quite "consider later" because it's probably stuff you know you want to keep, this is "I don't have a home for this thing right now but it's not trash" so this is a temporary home for that category.

Remove stuff from the space as you work. As you fill up a bag of trash or consider later or donate, take it out of the space so you aren't looking at it and you can see the progress you're making on the space.

Do each section as you come to it on your schedule and then call it quits. If you cleaned out the counter next to the sink and that was your area for the day, you don't have to worry about the area under the sink unless you have the energy and enthusiasm for it.

Philosophical musing about why this works

The reason this kind of plan works (for me) is by pre-managing several things. You know you're working with a limited area, you know what you're going to do with the stuff you find in that area (put it in one of your bags or leave it where it is if it belongs in that area), you're working on a limited time so this can't stretch out forever it's just a little chunk, you're thinking about the space as you build your plan so you're visualizing the anxiety inducing thing outside of the space that actually gives you the anxiety which hopefully allows you to detach slightly from the anxiety, and you're getting your steps lined up ahead of time so there's no muddle of "what do i do now, how do I get started" - you get started by grabbing your bags and you go to that day's scheduled section.

The whole thing is constructed to prevent you from getting overwhelmed.

I used to try to clean my room as a kid and I would find something that needed to get put away but I didn't know where it went so I'd spend a bunch of time trying to make a space for it and I'd end up getting lost in the weeds of imagining how I'd use the item and if the new place for it was accessible, and oh look at the items that I found in this other place where I was going to put this item and this method cuts off all of that. Where I am putting the item is in the bag, where it is going is the "consider later" pile and when I've cleared out most of the space I can consider where things go when I've gathered all the uncertain things into one place instead of continually unearthing them and disrupting the process of going through stuff.

What it means to Consider Later

The reason you're working room by room is because you should be isolating the consider later pile by room. If you're cleaning out the bedroom you may end up with stuff that belongs in the kitchen or the office, but you'll end up with a lot of stuff that belongs in the bedroom. When you've worked through all your segments, you can sort the consider later pile and now that you have all the objects together, you can consider whether some of them belong together in a space in the room.

For instance, when I first did this there were a lot of books that needed to go on bookshelves, but my bookshelves weren't accessible in the early parts of the process. So books from the floor and the bed and the nightstand went into the consider later pile and after the whole floor was clear and there was no trash on my desk and all the books I was donating had been pulled from my bookshelves, I was able to organize all of my books at once instead of stumbling across a book every four minutes and trying to shelve it.

That's what spawned the memento bags for me; there was a ton of stuff in my consider later bags that didn't precisely have a place but weren't trash and needed a place made for them. If I'd struggled to find where each item went as I cleaned it would have completely stalled me out.

I kept finding yarn as I went but I didn't have a dedicated yarn spot, so I just put yarn in the consider later pile and at the end I found a basket for it and put it on a shelf in the closet that had been cleared out when I'd donated old clothes. If I had tried to find a spot for the yarn before donating the clothes, I would have had to move it once the better spot opened up, so saving all the consider later stuff for later saved me from having to move stuff several times.

If you're in a small space or if you're living with people and you can't make a pile of stuff in another room for two weeks, at the very least remove the trash and donation bags as you go and designate an area for your consider later pile; maybe a laundry basket or something similar so that you can keep it mobile as you clean.

It's kind of like moving in to a new space. When you move in to an empty room, you have all your stuff in boxes and you need to figure out where it goes and that can take a while, but it's sometimes easier to find a place to put things in a new environment than it is to put things back "where they belong" because maybe you've added a dozen skeins to your collection and they don't belong in the little yarn bag anymore.

What to trash, what to donate, and what to consider later

Trash should be immediately obvious as trash. Anything that is trash goes in the trash bag right away.

If you find yourself thinking "but I might use this plastic fork that came with my value meal," or "this receipt may be important," put it in the consider later pile and don't think about it right now.

The donate bag should be for stuff that will still be useful for someone, but won't be useful for you. Clothes that you don't like, books you hated and won't re-read, toys you don't want to keep, all of that goes in the donate pile. If you think you might want to keep a piece of clothing but you want to make sure it doesn't fit, don't stop to try it on now just put it in the consider later pile and you can sort it into the donate bag later.

"Consider later" is for anything that requires more than thirty seconds of thought or effort to handle. If you're looking at your desk and you've got a keyboard for your computer on your desk that keyboard is staying there and doesn't need to be considered. If there's an empty takeout cup on your desk, that cup is going in the trash and doesn't need to be considered. If there's a receipt for your computer sitting on your desk, you may want to save that for record-keeping purposes but may not have a place to put it, so that is what you consider later.

Some guidelines on what is or is not trash

You might look at a sturdy plastic cup from a gas station and say "that isn't trash, I could use that, that's still good" but unless you have a specific purpose in mind for it right now, that is trash. If you wouldn't put it in a donation box to be used for some ambiguous future purpose, you don't need to keep it.

If you have a specific purpose in mind, like using an old milk jug to make a watering pitcher for your plants, it may not be trash. But only ONE is not trash; more than that is trash.

If you wouldn't need to have a hard copy of a paper and you have an electronic copy, it is trash. This means receipts for most everyday purchases like groceries and fast food. Don't keep receipts for items past their return period, don't keep receipts for items that you have a digital copy of unless that item cost over $1000.

Nice cardboard boxes (or good glass jars, or sturdy plastic takeout boxes, or cleaned food containers) that you don't have a use for are trash (or recycling, depending on where you live, but still in the trash category).

If you know someone who is specifically looking for an item (like maybe the neighbor kids are asking for cardboard tubes for a science project, or you work with a meal delivery group that could use extra packets of takeout utensils, or you have a friend who is into canning and has asked for jars, or if you make your own soup stock and need containers to put it in, or if you have a friend who is moving and needs lots of good cardboard boxes) then these items don't *have* to be trash but if you are just keeping them in your space and not giving them to people who want them or putting them to use yourself, they are just trash in your space and you should throw them away.

Memory Books/Memento Bags

I make memory books out of the little items i collect into one gallon storage bags. They allow me to hang onto the stuff that I want to keep because it brings me good memories without having a pile of random junk and sometimes without having to keep the item, or having to keep the whole item.

If the thing I want to keep because it brings me good memories is bulky, perhaps I can take a put a picture of that item to put in the book. If it is a worn out shirt, perhaps I can cut a patch off the shirt to put it in the book. If it is a card, perhaps I can cut out just the front of the card, or I can almost certainly just throw away the envelope and put the card in the book.

If you have things that do *not* fit into the memory book, like costume jewelry or rocks or a weird toy you got out of a coin machine on a really fun family vacation, you can also make a memory box; I have some of these and they've got a bunch of truly random crap in them, but I *like* having the nametag from the four hours that I worked at Denny's, or the keychain from when my mom took me to the morgue training class. It's fine to like these things, and to keep many of them, but you want to keep them someplace that they won't stress you out; that might be a display case for nice things, but it also might be a pretty velvet bag that you periodically pull out of a drawer and sort through like a magpie, or a wooden box that you painted.

You can also be selective about this stuff. You don't need every piece of costume jewelry your grandmother owned; keep the pieces you really like or the ones you have strong memories of or the ones that are very nice or the ones that are in good shape. But look, my mom was a teacher and she had a wide variety of goofy holiday jewelry that she wore in the classroom and I don't need to hang onto that. I don't need the big plastic ghost earrings that won't fit in my plugs, but I'll hang onto the spider brooch. She collected cheap watches - I don't need all of her four dollar watches, I can keep the nice ones, or the one that she got for ten years at her job. Do the same thing with stuffed animals and baby clothes and magazines and children's books. You don't need to keep all of it, and keeping all of it isn't going to help you remember that time more, or remember that person better.

Do you really want to keep it or do you feel obligated?

Youtuber Caroline Winkler (who has some great videos about home organization that I like a lot, in particular "this is why your home is a mess" - with the caveat that she likes closed storage and my ADHD ass loves open storage) has a really great tip on getting rid of stuff that works a LOT better for me than the Marie Kondo "Does this spark joy?" question and it's the Red Wine Test. Instead of asking if an item sparks joy, you ask yourself "If a bottle of red wine spilled on this (or if it was in some other way damaged) how hard would I try to fix it?" If you wouldn't try very hard, or if you would be *relieved* then you can get rid of that item. If one of the Venom mugs I have on the shelf fell down and broke, I wouldn't try hard to fix it. If my cat stuffed animal from when I was a kid tore open, I would immediately be looking for my sewing kit.

.... I should recycle those cheap teal glasses, actually.

Some general tips that may help to get you started that work for me and my ADHD and may work for you and your anxiety:

Start a timer for a short time. You don't have to clean your whole house, you are just going to pick up for five minutes. Then you can stop, and you only have to face a *little* bit of the anxiety.

5-4-3-2-1-go. Don't overthink it, count down quickly and then get up and do something. Keep going in as long a spurt as you can manage without getting too upset, but cutting down on the time for pre-game fretting might help with the anxiety.

Do the smallest amount possible. You don't have to clean this room, you just have to take one dish to the sink. You don't have to do all the dishes, you can just unload part of the top tray of the dishwasher.

Some general tips on trying to keep a space clean:

First, encouragement: It is a lot easier to maintain a clean space than it is to create one.

If you're thinking that something needs to be done and it can take you under five minutes to do it and it's right in front of you, do it. I do this with my dishwasher. It turns out unloading the dishwasher is the main thing that stalls me on dishes and keeps my sink full, so now when I'm waiting for the kettle or letting my tea steep, I unload whatever I can get done in that time. If I have the vacuum out and I did my living room but the hall and the bedroom could use a quick pass too, I vacuum them while I've got the machine in my hand.

Set success traps. Success traps are things that let you fall into succeeding by front-loading the effort (or executive function) of cleaning with planning. Trash collects in your living space? Put a bunch of little trash cans everywhere. Cleaning your bathroom takes extra time because you have to go get glass cleaner and paper towels from another room? Keep a bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels under the sink. You never sweep because it is a pain in the ass to get the broom out of the broom closet? Hang the broom from a mount in the kitchen. It takes too long to clean the counter because you have to pick up a bunch of makeup brushes and bottles and soap? Put that shit on a tray and now you only have to move one thing to clean the counter.

And for your specific question, with "things never seem to quite fit back where they came from" sounds like you're playing storage tetris, which is when things have a place and it is a *very specific and exact* place that doesn't have a lot of room around it. You may need to think about downsizing for your space, or, more likely, think about more efficient storage. That Caroline Winkler video I linked has some tips on this ("don't store things in a way that will make you angry like putting your common use objects on an out of reach shelf or you'll never put things back because it's hard to put them back" and "maximize your weirdo spaces" speak to your situation, i think) that I've put into use, particularly in my kitchen. It was hard to keep the counter clear because it was hard to put my stand mixer away because the rack for the stand mixer had a wok and a bunch of cast iron pans and a panini press and a chafing dish on it; I put the panini press and the least-used cast iron and the chafing dish and the wok in a more out-of-the way cabinet (because i basically never use them but they're very useful when I need them) and now that shelf has a little grill, my more commonly used cast iron, and my stand mixer so putting away the stand mixer is a lot less effort so my counter stays clear. I wasn't using the top shelf of my dish cabinet for dishes because it's too high up for daily use, but it's perfect for the rice cooker, waffle maker, and food processor that I use less than my dishes but more than my george forman grill.

And anyway, the TL;DR for all of that:

Work a little bit at a time, be nice to yourself, don't keep things that aren't worth keeping, and configure your storage in a way that works for you (by keeping your lifestyle, the way you use things, and how easy it is to put away into account before deciding that's where something lives).

Good luck!

[erwinsvow]

You creep carefully into Rafe’s bedroom, pushing the already-open door gently with your palm. Your eyes dart around, worried he’s going to be just around the corner, but you’re greeted with nothing—just the empty space that belongs to Rafe.

How exactly did you get yourself into this? It had started a few hours ago—at least that’s what you thought. You didn’t have any clue what Sarah and her new friends were up to, you were just over for a pre-planned girls night that was dismissed the second you walked into Tannyhill. Instead, Sarah asks for a favor, one that you deny almost immediately.

“You’ll be in and out, it won’t take more than a minute-”

“I am not sneaking into Rafe’s room for you, Sarah. What if he-he catches me? Finds me in there? What am I gonna say?”

“He’s not gonna be home later, I promise. It’ll be a second, and he’s always liked you most out of all my friends so he won’t even care-”

Your face flushes at the very sentence. Her brother, Rafe, the one that you’ve only interacted with on chance occasions, the one who makes your heartbeat speed up anytime he’s in the vicinity, that very Rafe, has always liked you? 

You’re too caught up in that thought and its implications to even question Sarah anymore. Her new friends—Pogue friends, ones that you don’t know and aren’t sure how long they’ve known her—linger by the door. They seem eager to make sure that you agree. 

You’re being moved around the board like a chess piece but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s shallow, you know, as one thought circulates through your mind, body, and bloodstream—Rafe has always liked you. 

A hazy, dreamy mist settles over you. You agree to Sarah, feeling increasingly stupid as you settle into the living room and keep your eyes on the television. She left with her friends, and when Rafe comes down, you’re supposed to tell him you’re waiting for his sister. Once he leaves, you need to sneak into his bedroom to find a map they seem to desperately need. One of the boys suggests it’ll be in his sock drawer.

“It’s not a porn magazine, JJ, why would it be there-”

“Oh, um, I don’t know, just that it’s the number one male hiding spot-” “What studies are you basing this off of?”

"A little thing called the study of life, Pope-”

You had interrupted them yourself, reassuring that you’ll look in his dresser and his desk. 

But now, walking into Rafe’s bedroom, you're losing all your nerve. You’ve thought about this before—you’d be lying to yourself to deny it. Any girl who has a best friend with a cute older brother has too. In the summers you sleep at Tannyhill more often than your own house, but you still could have never imagined this would be the reason you’re in Rafe’s room for the first time.

The house is silent, just like Sarah had told you. Mr. and Mrs. Cameron out at the country club, Wheezie at the beach, Sarah supposedly with you but actually with those Pogues. She says Rafe is gone too, driving around somewhere with his friends, and you believe her without a second thought.

But you do have a second thought, and it's the fact that this is so beyond wrong.

Looking through Rafe’s belongings with your eyes, your hands start to tremble at the idea of touching something of his without his permission. You want to swallow your nerves to do this for your friend, but you hesitate, hands hovering over the drawer to his dresser.

For a second, you want to puke, worried that you’ll open this drawer to find porn magazines like John B had said, or worse—photos of one of his girls that you really don’t want to see. 

Your shaking hands pull open the top-most drawer, but everything calms down once it’s open. Besides for white socks and plaid boxers, there’s nothing in there. Your shoulders relax, your knees feeling weak.

Then you wonder for a second—why were you so worried about finding evidence of some other girl in his bedroom? Your mind spins briefly, worried at how attached you really are to Sarah’s brother, someone who’s never spoken to you more than a handful of times. A million thoughts run through your brain, all of them about Rafe and none of them noticing the way his bedroom door has just opened wide.

“Looking for something?” The timber of Rafe’s voice hits your ears and you freeze, probably looking like something out of a cartoon, shoulders tense, eyes wide. You’re still facing his dresser, and you really, really don’t want to turn, but you do, and then you wish you hadn’t.

Rafe’s dripping wet—damp hair sticking to his forehead, a towel around his waist and droplets of water glittering on his abs. He’s looking at you like he never has before. Your eyes are focused on everything else—the bare skin of his chest, his huge arms, the blue color of his towel.

“My eyes are up here, kid.” 

Like a deer caught in headlights, you turn your gaze up to lock eyes. You’re terrified—he has to be angry, no, furious. You’re practically a stranger to him, a stranger invading his privacy. But when you finally take in his expression, it’s not angry. He looks amused, a smirk playing at his lips while he takes you in, standing before him like a child about to be reprimanded for touching something that doesn’t belong to them. 

“I-I…” you trail off, swallowing hard, still staring at Rafe.

“You, you?” he mocks. You think you’re going to start crying but no tears well up—yet. “What’re you looking for?” he asks it seriously, his tone shifting. 

You’ve never spoken to Rafe enough to notice, but he’s incredibly domineering. You shrink just from his gaze, while he closes the door and walks closer to you. 

“Um, I-” You stop yourself short.

“Looking for trouble, huh?” He says it like it’s a joke, but you know he’s not kidding. Your head shakes, trying to convince him you’re not, but it’s not much use.

He’s not very far from you now, maybe another foot and you could smell the scent of his soap, another few inches and you could feel the heat radiating off of his bare body. 

You realize how you must look right now, wearing a tiny dress because of the heat outside but now feeling goosebumps prick along your arms. Your bare feet rest on his carpet while your hands feel clammy from how scared you are.

“I, uh, I needed socks.” You look down at your feet and he does too, looking back up at the same time. 

“Socks? From me?”

“Couldn’t find Sarah’s. She needs to do laundry.”

���So you came in here to get mine?”

“I-I’ll bring them back. Washed. Promise.” Your gaze is now dying to avoid his, looking all around his room and then turning back to the drawer to take out a pair. 

You feel a wet hand on your arm, turning you back around at full force, his balled up socks falling from your hand as you stare Rafe in the eyes. He must be able to tell from the way your body shakes in his grip, how your eyelids are fluttering fast, how scared you are.

“Don’t lie to me, kid. I won’t like it.” You suck in a sharp breath. A few moments pass.

“I’m not lying, Rafe. Promise.”

You actually don’t know it happens—ending up with his towel on the floor and your sundress right next to it, tangled up in the sheets, your body folded in half with Rafe pounding into you. He grips your cheeks and fucks you like you’re his, like he owns your pussy and every other part of you. It goes on for so long you lose track, forgetting everything else but how to say Rafe’s name, remembering nothing but how he sounded groaning into your ear. He kisses you, hard and wet, and that’s when you cum for the third—fourth? fifth? you’ve lost track—time. He cums too—inside you, and normally you think you’d maybe have an issue with that, but since you were the one begging for it, you don’t think you’re allowed to say anything in the way of a complaint.

Rafe rolls off of you a little bit later, after you’ve had a chance to catch your breath. You think he’s gonna tell you to get out so you try to get up yourself, trying to balance on trembling legs, when he puts his hand on your waist and steadies you back onto the bed.

“What’d you need? You should sit.” You look up at him, surprised. He doesn’t like it. “Water?” You nod, and he pulls on some sweatpants and forgoes a shirt, walking out and closing the door softly behind him. 

You get comfortable under Rafe’s sheets, pulling them up to cover yourself and body sinking into his bed. You reach out to find your phone, which has somehow ended up on the nightstand even though you don’t recall putting it there. There’s a few new messages. 

Sarah: Did you go in yet?

Sarah: I think he left, go now!!

Then one from thirty minutes after that.

Sarah: Did you find it?? Call me!!

You reply quickly, setting the phone down when you hear Rafe’s hand on the doorknob.

Sorry, didn’t find anything. Had to go, I’ll see you tomorrow.

[thewulf]

Easy Skies || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - Feeling cuddly so you end up cuddling Jake for the first time in the early stages of your relationships. How this would lead to them napping together? Nothing but praises and love affirmations between them. Soft kisses. Readers first kiss with Jake.

A/N: Ahhh sorry I've been gone! Been enjoying summer :)

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.7k +

T/W : None just fluff

It’s been several weeks since you and Jake officially started seeing each other. You met at a community event honoring local heroes where Jake shared stories of his missions and the places his career had taken him. Your own interest in aerial photography sparked a quick and deep conversation between the two of you leading to an instant connection.

It was going really well. The two of you taking your time with everything. He shared stories of how we was reckless in the past and you were already very cautionary with types like his. So, you tested him a bit. Only kisses on the cheek, nothing more. And he did passed with flying colors. He never pressured you, never pushed for more. But now you were ready for something more. You're spending a lazy Sunday at Jake’s apartment for the first time. His place reflects his life as a pilot. It was decorated with navigational charts. With different models of aircraft he’s flown and photographs from around the world. The walls hold framed maps marked with the various places he's visited, each one holding a story he's eager to share with you.

As the afternoon fades into evening, you both settle into the comfortable couch in his living room. The soft music playing in the background mixes with the mellow golden light streaming through the windows creating a serene atmosphere. It's a rare and quiet moment for Jake who is usually caught up in the demanding schedule of a Navy pilot. You cherish the peaceful intimacy that has formed between you. Today’s simplicity is a precious contrast to the complexities of your usual routines.

As you both relax into the couch Jake recounts a comical error from his last training exercise. He'd accidentally swapped his day’s checklist with another pilot’s which led to some light-hearted confusion and teasing from his crew.

“You seriously went through half the pre-flight with the wrong list?” you laugh while shaking your head in amusement.

“Yep,” Jake admits with a grin. “It was only when I called out the wrong coordinates that someone caught on. We all had a good laugh about it later.” The conversation winds down as you both sink into the rhythm of each other’s presence, comfortable and at ease. There’s a genuine simplicity in the way you interact, no need for constant chatter. Jake’s job as a pilot often surrounds him with high stakes and rigor making these peaceful moments particularly valuable.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Just being able to sit and talk without rushing anywhere,” Jake comments. His tone relaxed.

“It really is,” you agree as you smiled over at him. “Especially with good company.”

He returns your smile with a warm, appreciative one of his own. As the room fills with the soft hum of a new song the day closes around you both, cozy and familiar. Like a well-loved jacket that’s been washed a hundred times. It’s easy, it’s comfortable. And right now, it’s exactly what you both need.

As the afternoon shadows stretch across the room a yawn escapes you, shifting the comfortable silence. Jake catches it and chuckles, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Tired?” he teases before nudging you gently with his elbow.

“Maybe a little,” you admit while stretching your arms above your head. “It’s been a long week.”

Jake nods understandingly. His gaze softening. “How about we take a little nap then? Recharge a bit?”

You playfully raise an eyebrow. A smile tugging at your lips. “Only if you’re joining. I hear you’re the best pillow around here.”

Jake’s laughter fills the room, warm and infectious. “Is that so? Well, I can’t let you down then.” He shifts himself making room on the couch and pats the spot next to him "Come here," he says softly. His voice blending with the low melody. With a contented smile you slide closer until you're nestled against him. Your head resting comfortably on his broad chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart through the soft fabric of his shirt. A reassuring rhythm that echoes quietly in your ear. Jake's arm wraps securely around you with his hand resting gently on your back. The warmth of his touch and the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes bring an overwhelming sense of peace and safety.

For a few moments you simply listen, taking in the sound of his heartbeat and the soft, steady breaths he draws. It's a new level of intimacy of sharing this quiet closeness without the need for words. Jake's hand moves in slow, soothing strokes across your back further relaxing you. With each passing second the world beyond the walls of Jake’s apartment seems to drift further away. You're drawn into this serene bubble where the only things that matter are the soft fabric of the couch, the gentle caress of Jake's hand, and the comforting rhythm of his heart.

Jake breaks the silence with a whisper that's barely audible over the music. "This is nice," he murmurs. His breath tickling your ear. You hum in agreement as you were too content and relaxed to form words. The trust and affection in this simple act of cuddling deepen, marking a beautiful, quiet milestone in your growing relationship.

As the soft jazz continues to play creating a soothing backdrop, the room grows quieter still. The comfort of Jake’s embrace coupled with the warm, gentle atmosphere lulls you deeper into relaxation. His breathing becomes slower, more rhythmic, signaling his own descent into sleep. You feel his grip tighten just a bit. A subconscious affirmation of his presence and protection. Gradually, the space between wakefulness and sleep blurs. Your thoughts drift away, anchored only by the steady heartbeat beneath your ear. In the safety of Jake’s arms sleep seems like the most natural progression. Without planning it you both drift off. The world narrowing down to the couch where you lie together.

The nap isn't long but it’s restorative. Exactly what you needed. As you both sleep there’s an unspoken exchange of trust and comfort. It’s one thing to share conversations and activities but another to share such vulnerability as sleep in each other’s presence. This mutual comfort speaks volumes about the trust and closeness developing between you.

Time slips by quietly and when you eventually stir it’s to the feeling of Jake’s fingers lightly brushing through your hair. His movements are soft and careful, designed not to wake you but to reassure himself you’re still there. You open your eyes slowly meeting his gaze which is filled with a quiet joy.

“Hey,” he whispers. As if speaking too loudly might break the spell of the peaceful moment you've shared.

“Hey,” you respond with your voice just as soft. The simple exchange feels like a gentle reconnection to the world affirming the comfort and affection that wrapped around you both as you slept. The nap together was simple yet intimate. It deepens the connection between you. Each quiet breath shared adding another layer to your growing relationship.

The afternoon light has softened into a cozy twilight by the time you both stir from your nap. You’re still wrapped in Jake’s arms and as your eyes meet there’s a playful spark between you that feels both exciting and comforting. “Welcome back,” Jake murmurs. His voice low and slightly husky from sleep. He leans forward pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. Then one on the tip of your nose, which makes you giggle.

“Is that how you wake up all your guests?” you tease. Your voice light and tinged with laughter.

“Only the special ones,” he replies with a grin with his eyes crinkling at the corners. He doesn’t stop there though. His kisses wander from your cheek to your jawline, each peck light and teasing, drawing more giggles from you. The laughter that fills the room is warm, echoing the affectionate mood.

Jake’s playful kisses continue by tracing a path down the side of your neck, sending a shiver of delight through you. You can’t help but catch him by the collar before pulling him back up to meet your eyes. “You’re going to make it impossible to leave this couch,” you laugh while still holding onto his shirt.

“That’s the plan,” he whispers back. His voice playful yet sincere. Then in a swift, fluid motion he captures your lips with his in a kiss that’s deeper and more intentional than the playful ones before. This kiss feels like a culmination of all the gentle pecks, each one adding a layer to the profound connection you’re building together.

As you break away there’s a shared smile. A mutual understanding of the affection and joy weaving through each interaction, each touch, each kiss. The playfulness adds a lightness to your relationship. He made moments like these not just romantic but genuinely fun, enriching the bond you share with laughter and love. After the laughter subsides and the atmosphere settles into a comfortable quiet, Jake looks at you with a contented smile. His eyes reflecting a gentle appreciation. "These moments with you. They're the highlight of my week," he says quietly. His voice carrying a note of sincerity.

Feeling a warm glow from his words you nod and smile softly. Your response understated but genuine. "It always feels different when I'm with you. It's easy, you know?" Your words are simple, echoing the straightforwardness of your time together.

Jake's response is a nod, his smile lingering. "Let's keep it that way," he replies. His agreement simple yet full of promise. The conversation feels natural, reflecting the comfort and understated affection that characterizes your relationship. As twilight transitions into the deep blue of night neither of you feels ready to break the comfortable cocoon you've formed on the couch. Jake glances at the clock, then back at you with a playful challenge in his eyes.

"How about we order some dinner?" he suggests. His tone casual but hopeful. "I'm not quite ready for this day to end. But I don’t think I can get up quite yet."

You laugh while agreeing instantly. "Sounds perfect. What are you in the mood for?"

"Pizza okay with you?" Jake asks already reaching for his phone to place the order.

"Always a good choice," you reply settling back against his chest while feeling utterly at ease.

The wait for the food is filled with more soft conversations. Each shared thought strengthening the bond between you. As the evening unfolds it becomes clear that days like these are just the beginning of what you both hope will be many more shared experiences.

When the food arrives, you set up a makeshift dining area on the coffee table, continuing the easy flow of the day into the evening. Each slice of pizza comes with stories you share. Each laugh making the room warmer. As the evening winds down, you find yourselves eagerly talking about other things you could do together, from movie nights to hiking trips. The night ends not just with satisfied appetites but with the excitement of planning future outings. It's clear that your relationship is blossoming. Full of promise for more beautiful days and nights shared in each other’s company.

Jake Seresin/Top Gun: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: Taglist Sign Up) @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @mamachasesmayhem @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @illisea @jessicab1991 @guacam011y @dempy @mrsevans90 @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @missxmav @kajjaka

[pomefioredove]

if you're still taking requests for the event could i request floyd with "Maybe we should just kiss to break the tension" ? ty !

hehe ofc ofc!

summary: "maybe we should just kiss to break the tension" type of post: fic characters: floyd additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, pre book 3, kissing, yuu is very much canon yuu here lol a part of this event

Riddle's noble efforts to warn you about Floyd Leech had fallen on deaf ears.

"And stay out of trouble!" were his exact words, if you remembered correctly.

You'd almost scoffed.

You had already been at NRC for months; you'd fought monsters, solved mysteries, and come out of all of it in one piece.

You could handle a history of magic project.

Sure, this is your first mixed-year assignment; and yes, the project itself makes up a great portion of your semester grade...

...but if anyone had asked you, you'd say that a measly school presentation is nothing compared to what you've already been through.

"Remember not to play along with his antics; it only encourages him,"

Riddle had wasted no time lecturing you about your mysterious project partner the second his name left your lips.

You'd come to him to ask if he knew the guy, not his entire life story.

"Stay focused... and stay out of trouble!"

Trouble. Ha. Every second at NRC since you'd arrived had been trouble.

You walk into the library; like usual, it's mostly empty.

Floyd Leech, Floyd Leech... now, where would...?

"Hey, you!"

You turn on your heels to face the source of the shout; leaning against a bookshelf behind you is the tallest boy you've ever seen.

He even gives off the vague impression of towering over you, making you feel small regardless...

"Man, I almost didn't see 'ya, you're so tiny," he grins, baring a row of sharp teeth. "I'm gonna call you Shrimpy. Now, come onnn, I've been waiting forever!"

You're early. Before you can say as much, he grabs you by the forearm and drags you off to a table.

"Alright, Shrimpy," he says, taking a seat across from you. "What's on the docket for today?"

"Uhh..." you're still slightly dazed. He's got some energy, that's for sure.

Riddle's words flash through your mind.

"...Well, I was thinking we could find our material first, then outline..."

"Reading?" Floyd asks, slumping in his seat as if he'd just received terrible news.

You blink. "...Well, we're going to have to read a little,"

He groans, loudly. A few people in the library turn to stare before awkwardly shuffling away.

"...Nah, I'm not in the mood. Let me do 'somethin else,"

What had Riddle said yesterday? "He changes his mind at the drop of a hat. Arguing is no good,"

"...Okay," you say, tentatively reading his expression. "I'll start with the outline. Do you want to look for pictures instead?"

He's quiet, as if seriously considering the pros and cons of the offer, and then he shrugs.

You sigh. Riddle was just being overdramatic. This is fine!

Floyd becomes lost in his assigned job, leafing through an atlas in search of a map from the time period you're researching, leaving you to your reading.

It'd be an easier job with two people, but...

"You're real quiet, Shrimpy,"

You look up from your encyclopedia. He'd shoved the atlas aside, his eyes fixed on you instead.

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm reading...?"

"Aw. Don't tell me you're the serious type?" a loud, dramatic sigh follows. "I was hoping we could have some fun. I was really looking forward to meeting you and all..."

You have to remind yourself that you have a reputation here. Great...

"Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm a pretty boring person. Normal,"

Floyd's brow furrows. "Nah, I don't buy that. You wanna know what I think?"

You don't like this. The way he's looking at you, like he sees something you don't...

"...I think you only act normal 'cause you're afraid of being judged. You try way too hard to be a good student and stuff 'cause you wanna fit in here,"

Ouch. You blink, momentarily stunned to silence. He could tell all that just from watching you read?

"I'm just 'sayin," he gives you another sharp smile. "I wouldn't mind if you stopped acting all serious around me. You're way too tense."

"...Tense? I am not tense,"

Your denial only encourages him. A wide grin creeps across his face.

"Yeah, you know. You could feel the stress in this place from a mile away...

...Maybe we should just kiss to break the tension,"

Riddle had drilled you for hours; Floyd stealing your things, making you chase him, getting bored and leaving, a thousand possible situations that could come out of a simple study session...

...This was not one of them.

Floyd grins again, wider this time. "Ahah, never mind. You're way too boring and normal for something like that, right?"

You suddenly feel hot; he's putting you on the spot, and he knows it. He seems to be living for your agitation.

"Hey, that's not fair-"

"Fair schmair," he cuts in. "I gave you a dare, and you can't do it. Happens all the time to you, I bet. It's-"

Riddle had warned you, several times, quite clearly, not to play along.

But... in your defense...

Floyd giggles against your lips, the delighted little noise giving away a hint of surprise. His hands, cold and clammy but nice nonetheless, grab hold of your face, drawing you closer into the kiss. He's threatening to pull you across the table at this point...

...It's a good thing you chose a time when the library would be empty.

After a minute or two, he lets go, leaving you breathless with another smile.

"I knew you had it in 'ya," he says, reaching across the table to pull the encyclopedia back towards him.

"My turn to read, okay? I was getting bored of the pictures,"

[jim-the-simpleton]

Fallout 4.

There is a settlement in Fallout 4 called Spectacle Island. It's situated off the coast of the southern half of the map, and is one of the largest settlements you can acquire in the base game.

Fallout 4's settlement system allows you to set up supply lines between settlements, which allows them to share basic resources like food and water, as well as component items you need for crafting. This will also set up a settler on that supply line who can be encountered in the world moving between the two settlements, which can create some interesting encounters.

You can set up supply lines to and from Spectacle Island, but the game doesn't have any functioning boats and NPCs aren't supposed to swim, so the settlers will just kinda hang out on the coast with a brahmin. Fallout 4.

Functionally, the supply line still works and the settlement will share resources with wherever you set it up, but cosmetically it isn't a great look to have someone longingly look out to the coast with a pack brahmin.

However, if the settler is wearing power armor, they can just walk along the bottom of the ocean between Spectacle Island and your other settlement just fine. Fallout 4.

The problem is, you can't assign settlers to power armor. Fallout 4.

Well, I know for a fact that settlers CAN get into power armor, as it's happened to me and several other people in the past. If the settler is engaged in combat and if they have a fusion core, they will- sometimes - enter an empty suit for the fight.

However, they have to be close to the power armor (which, I mean, yeah), and Spectacle Island is one of the largest settlements in the game, so the chances of a settler being close to the power armor while they're in combat is low. Thankfully, in workshop mode, you can tell settlers to go to a certain location. Less thankfully, they will walk as slowly as possible to where you need them to go, and they tend to get distracted on the way by anything and everything, requiring constant guidance the entire path. On top of that, as soon as they reach the requested destination, they will wait there for all of two seconds before getting bored and going back to wandering aimlessly. Fallout 4.

Well, I put a fusion core in the settler's inventory and hold their hand as they walk to the shed where I'm keeping the power armor. There are ways of bringing enemies directly to a settlement thanks to a DLC I have installed, but it's a long and slow process that I really didn't want to have to deal with, so I used console commands to spawn in a Deathclaw Matriarch, a high-level enemy. However, at my high level and with the defenses I have set up, the deathclaw takes about all of thirty seconds to take down, which isn't enough time for my settler to decide to get in the power armor. Fallout 4.

After this, I start spawning Deathclaw Matriarchs in 2-4 at a time. My settler keeps running out of the shed to fight the deathclaws with a base-level pipe pistol and getting knocked down instantly, which prevents him from entering the power armor. I decide to use the power armor to trap the settler inside the shed, so that the only way to leave us to enter the power armor. The deathclaws are still dying too fast, and I still have to spawn them in multiples to keep combat going as long as possible. The settler simply won't get in the power armor. He's clipping through and getting stuck on the power armor, but not entering it. Fallout 4.

Miraculously, after about 12 Deathclaw Matriarchs had their lives taken as unceremoniously as they were given, my settler finally decided that now was the time to enter my power armor. I could now safely assign him to a supply line. I usually liked to give my supply line settlers higher-level weapons since they tend to encounter enemies pretty frequently. Plus, basic pipe weapons look really small and awkward when paired with a beefy suit of power armor, and this entire endeavor has been for cosmetics' sake, so I walk up to my settler and press the talk key. Instead of hearing my character ask to trade a few things, I instead hear:

"I need you to get out of your power armor."

My settler agreed and was more than eager to hop out of a top-of-the-line suit of T-45d Power Armor. Fallout 4.

I gave him the weapon I wanted him to have equipped and started the entire endeavor over, with another dozen Deathclaw Matriarchs dying for the express purpose of forcing a settler into a suit of power armor. But, well, it worked again, and he had the Assault Rifle I wanted him to be using. I hit the quicksave key as fast as I could because if Fallout 4 knows you've done a lot of things since you last saved, it will crash just to make you do it all again, because Fallout 4 is a vindictive and spiteful force of evil.

All of this so I could see my settler do this:

Fallout 4.

[stevieschrodinger]

Just imagine how put out Dustin would be. He's spent months and months working on Steve, trying to get him to come and play. It had been a personal, ongoing campaign. He used every trick and manipulation and wasn't above just outright whining about it. All he asks is Steve try it; just once.

Just imagine how put out he is when Eddie gets out of the hospital, and he asks Steve one time, and Steve says yes. But of course Dustin can't complain OUT LOUD, because he got what he wanted, didn't he? Steve's going to play.

Dustin makes this as absolutely painless as possible; Steve doesn't even see his character sheet until it's done. Dustin has him roll for stats. They talk about race and class. They talk about what skills his character should have...but he doesn't go into detail. he wants to make this fun for Steve, so he lets Steve pick whatever the hell he wants and when Steve calls his gnome Trip Hazard, Dustin doesn't even bitch about it.

Dustin corners Eddie ten minutes before their one shot starts, and explicitly tells him to let Steve get away with absolutely any and all bullshit. The goal here is that Steve comes back.

Of course Dustin has no idea that Eddie has been making heart eyes at Steve for literally years and fully intends to do that, anyway.

It's a one off, so Eddie has some fun with it. He's generous with the XP and everyone has two levels before lunch, excitedly choosing new skills and spells. After a mini boss battle they come across a hoard of treasure; some of it magical.

It's a free for all and everyone walks away with a fun new powerful toy for their character; Eddie's even pre made little cards with illustrations, descriptions, and the magical abilities of each item. He does a whole array, more than they need, but everyone gets one thing each.

Steve, hilariously, chooses a seven foot spear.

Eddie holds it together and does not laugh. He lets Steve do whatever he wants, and when Steve has a moment of madness and acts out his tiny gnome suddenly getting his spear stuck in every single doorway, everyone looses their shit.

The final battle though, that evening, rapidly because serious; an acid spewing black dragon. Everyone rolls initiative. The Dragon, with advantage, goes first, and the battle goes back and forth for several turns before, "the great beast raises itself onto it's back legs, mighty wings spread, so massive they fill the cavern," Eddie climbs up on his chair, spreading his arms demonstrably, "the dragon draws in a mighty breath...Will the Wise, your move."

The party uses their turn to attack, moving their little people on the board appropriately. Steve's turn comes and everyone looks at him..."I'll, ah, move, I think."

"Attack Steve!" Dustin encourages him.

Steve moves his little gnome, with hilariously oversized cardboard accessory, to directly in front of the dragon, the air in the room grows heavy, intent, "no attack...I set to receive a charge."

Every turns to look at Eddie, who frowns down at the map.

"It's on here," Steve volunteers the little card that came with his spear. "This counts, right? Double damage because it's magic, then setting to receive a charge is double damage again..."

Everyone looks back to Eddie again who, solemnly, frowns...then nods.

The dragon unleashes it's attack, everyone in the party taking damage. The dragon falls forward, aiming to land on all of it's feet again.

"Does that...work?" Steve asks hesitantly.

Eddie nods. The damage is so great when Dustin works it out, they have to borrow dice from Will to combine with Dustin's so Steve can roll them all together. The combination enough to fill his cupped hands.

Steve kills the dragon. Everyone is up, screaming and cheering.

Steve is the only one to notice when Eddie rolls damage; Trip Hazard is instantly killed by the crushing force of a dragons corpse.

Steve doesn't care, especially not when Eddie gets real close to whisper in his ear, "that was so fucking clever, I'm furious."

[pin-k-ink]

hunt // miya osamu & miya atsumu

tw ⇢ dub-con, dom/sub themes, the twins are third years, threesome, mild violence, power imbalance, degradation/name calling, spit roasting, coercion, unprotected sex, objectification, throat bulge, face fucking, asphyxiation, daddy kink, fauxcest(?), spanking

wc ⇢ 6.4k

The first pale brushstrokes of dawn were just beginning to tint the horizon outside the high windows of the gymnasium when you arrived. The cavernous space was cloaked in deep indigo shadows, the air holding that crisp, still silence that always precedes the break of a new day.

You exhaled a wispy plume that dissipated rapidly as you moved across the hardwood court, footfalls echoing in the emptiness. Despite the early hour, a current of restless energy thrummed through your limbs, propelled by a mixture of pre-practice excitement and anticipation for the upcoming day's regimen.

Depositing your gym bag by the benches, you straightened and began your ritual of scanning the space - mentally mapping out adjustments to equipment positioning and other preparations for when the rest of the team began trickling in. Temporarily losing yourself in those pragmatic thoughts, you startled violently when a pair of strong arms materialized from behind to engulf your waist in an inescapably snug embrace.

"Mornin', beautiful," Atsumu's unmistakable timbre purred against the sensitive whorls of your ear with just the barest ghosting rasp of his lips. "You're here bright and early as always, I see."

You stiffened instinctively at the sudden intimate contact, pulse kicking up several rungs as his masculine warmth and clean, musky scent enveloped you. But the rigid tension swiftly transmuted into a full-body shiver that had your bones turning to blessed friction as Atsumu tugged your back flush against the solid wall of his chest and abdomen.

"A-Atsumu!" You managed in a higher register edged with uncertainty, head spinning slightly from the sheer overwhelming physicality of him pressing in on all sides. "You startled me. I didn't hear you coming."

His low chuckle vibrated straight through to your core in delicious reverberations, stirring something molten and unfurling in your depths despite your best efforts to tamp it down. Every instinct screamed at you to put space between your bodies for propriety's sake. Yet you remained rooted, unresisting, as he dipped his aristocratic nose to the juncture of your neck and shoulder on an indulgent inhale.

"Mmm, and I like the way you say my name," he rumbled in a tone somehow darker and more possessive than his usual playful candor. "All breathy and needy already...makes me wonder what other sweet sounds I could coax out of those pretty lips with just a bit of effort."

Heat blossomed beneath your skin at the suggestive undercurrent laced through his words. You parted your lips to offer protestation, but the syllables shriveled up stillborn as a new figure slowly materialized from the encroaching shadows in your peripheral vision.

Osamu prowled from the deeper recesses of the gym, broad shoulders set in a prowling line and every measured footfall reeking of tremendous coiled power barely restrained. His quicksilver gaze flickered over every inch of you with hypnotic, ineffable intensity —as if he could see straight through the thin barrier of your clothing to map every swell and plane hidden beneath. A wicked curve tugged at the corner of his sinful mouth as he lazily closed the remaining distance.

"Looks like somebody's keen on starting the day's...activities...a little early. And without me, for that matter." He tutted in a low rumble thrumming with dark undercurrents of untapped promise. "That's hardly fair to leave your favorite out in the cold like that now, is it, 'Tsumu?"

Atsumu issued a scoffing sound of feigned indignation. "Maybe if ya got your lazy ass outta bed at a decent hour once in a while..." But there was an edge of smoldering hunger flickering behind his dilated stare that stole the casual bite from his retort.

Osamu paid him no mind, attention rapidly narrowing down to your flushed, discomfited form instead. You swallowed hard as he crossed those final few agonizing paces to loom over you—near enough that the woodsy, petrichor-tinged musk of his skin set your senses reeling in visceral recognition. He radiated such intense, alpha virility in casual, unconscious waves that your instincts flailed between contradictory urges of fight-or-flight and something more primal, less defined.

Then he raised one large palm in a disarmingly tender gesture, tracing the whorled curves of your hair before tucking an errant strand behind your ear with exquisite tenderness. The calloused pads of his fingertips grazed your feverish cheek in the process, catalyzing a shuddering exhalation as fresh tingles ricocheted outwards from the point of contact.

"Well? Don't we at least get a good mornin' in return, gorgeous?" Osamu rumbled in dark, honeyed prompting raspy from the depths of his broad chest.

You swallowed convulsively, mouth suddenly bone dry despite the slick sheen of perspiration beading across your upper lip. Up close, you saw his pupils were blown wide, ringed in quicksilver shards of gunmetal and liquid mercury. That inscrutable yet smoldering perusal felt like physical gravity weighing you down into aching quiescence.

"G-Good morning, Osamu," you somehow managed in a reedy tone edging towards breathy submission. The hand not currently imprisoned against Atsumu's sculpted abdomen drifted upwards as if beyond your own volition until your fingers encountered the rugged jut of Osamu's stubbled jawline.

A muscle ticked in that sharply defined line of tendon and masculine ridges as he fought back a wolfish grin that would have revealed too much. Osamu exhaled a slow, measured breath, the barest perceptible shiver cascading down his powerfully corded frame. Then, just when you thought his mercurial focus would utterly unravel you into deconstructed fragments, his thumb traced the ripe-plum arc of your parted lips with devastating precision.

"Such a good girl," he husked in liquid smoke tones dripping darkly sensual implications. "So unfailingly polite, even under...duress. Tell me, darlin'...how much of that pretty manners would it take to make you come undone into a hot little mess for us?"

You could only gape at Osamu in stunned disbelief, mind struggling to process the blatant indecency threaded through his graveled words. A confused furrow etched your brow as you floundered for some semblance of rational grounding against the surging tides of unfurling yearning uncorking in your core.

"W-What do you mean?" The stammered rejoinder emerged in a tone just north of a strangled whisper—half plea and half entreaty for lucidity.

Rather than grant elaboration, Osamu's lush mouth only curved higher at the corners in a sinful facsimile of reassurance thoroughly undermined by the intensity blazing behind his frittered silver stare.

"Don't worry that gorgeous head of yours over the details, pretty girl." Atsumu's smoky rasp materialized against the wild flutter of your pulse point, every consonant seeming to skim callused fingertips of heated friction down your hyper-sensitized skin. The arm still anchoring you immobile against him constricted incrementally tighter. "We're just teasin' you a bit, that's all."

Despite the nonchalance professed in his words, the underlying message carried the unmistakable weight of something darker...heavier with unspoken promises sewn into the subvocal vibrations thrumming through your intertwined bodies where you pressed flush back-to-front.

The intimate knowledge that the twins encircling you could surely detect each minute shiver and microexpression telegraphing the muted shockwaves coruscating through your undefended form sent a fresh cyclone of mortified heat spiraling beneath your skin. You tried in vain to extricate yourself, twisting weakly against Atsumu's immovable restraint even as Osamu shifted to cage you further—one calloused palm settling at your hip to imprison you between their overheated, devastating proximities.

"What's your rush, babygirl?" The tendril of dark velvet snaked from Osamu's tongue to tangle insidiously against your senses. "Practice doesn't officially start for a little while yet. We've got plenty of time to get...acquainted first."

You registered the steady thrum of your pulse kicking up several staccato notches, senses rendered hyper-lucid from the neuropathic datastream of details flooding your frenzied awareness. The damp sweeping graze of Osamu's thumb inscribing needful arcs against the jut of your hipbone through the thin practice skirt's fabric. The branded heat scorching from Atsumu's palms where they anchored your ribs and solar plexus in an inexorable arc of possession from behind. The mingling, intoxicating musk of their purely masculine essences cloying the air you struggled to inhale in shallow, panicked sips.

"I...I should go set up the equipment," you managed in a withering tone edged with desperation as every instinct screamed at you to flee this rapidly overheating situation. "The rest of the team will be arriving any minute and—"

"Shhh, shhh." Atsumu clicked his tongue, somehow both languid and laced with authority in the subtlest undercurrent. "Always so focused on responsbilities, ain't ya, sweetheart? That's one of my favorite things about ya."

You felt your breath hitch despite your best efforts at control, spine stiffening infinitesimally as those final two syllables ricocheted around your rattled psyche with the resonance of an implosion detonating at your core. If Atsumu sensed your fracture, he allowed no outward indication beyond the barest constriction at the corners of his hooded cognac stare.

"One of the many things, that is..." Osamu's sibilant murmur filled the ringing void of suspension as he reclaimed your scattered focus once more. He continued studying you with a raptor's immutability, the cryptic leather-and-whiskey of his irises glittering like thunderclouds roiling with unreleased potential.

A hollow, pregnant pause stretched in the intimate keeper charged between the three of you. The hair prickling along your nape felt electrified as if by static cling. Realization began to slowly, ponderously blossom that some irrevocable line had been crossed beyond innocuous flirtatious norms into newer, more fraught territory.

Then, as abruptly as the suspended tension reached fever pitch, the twins eased back in an unhurried dilation of space around you once more. You instinctively swayed, robbed of the immovable anchors of their presences. Your lungs attempted to greedily gulp replenishing oxygen as though they had been deprived during your interment in their encompassing sphere.

"Well go on and handle your setup then, sweetheart," Atsumu purred, edged in indolent nonchalance yet subtly underscored with that same thrumming promise. The tip of his tongue flicked out to trace the pout of his lower lip ever so briefly, heated regard never wavering from your thunderstruck features. "We'll just be over here enjoying the view and biding our time."

A rasping, slightly garbled sound of confirmation attempted to spill from your constricted vocal cords, but all that emerged was a submissive whine slipping unbidden past your defenses before you could abort it. Heat blossomed in a scorching flare across your cheekbones and down your throat at the betraying display of responsiveness despite your internal lassitude.

That seemed to be all the twin's predatory instincts required to ignite their searing focus anew in that fleeting moment. When you finally managed to process putting one rubbery foot in front of the other towards the storage lockers, you could feel their piercing scrutiny track every faltering step in your wake like dual pinpoint lasers of atomic intensity.

Within the safety of the equipment room only partially shielded from their view, you finally managed to draw a full, steadying lungful of air purged of their singularly overwhelming masculine presence. You braced yourself against the cool metal of the lockers, squeezed your eyes shut, and fought to regain equilibrium through sheer stubborn force of will.

But that polished, rich baritone continued echoing through your synapses in an inescapable resounding loop:

"We'll be seein' ya real soon..."

The cool evening breeze carried the faint tang of honeysuckle and freshly turned earth as you walked between the twins, their solid forms engulfing you on either side. Atsumu's arm remained looped possessively around your shoulders, the sculpted muscles of his bicep brushing againstyour arm with each unhurried stride in a heated line of contact.

Osamu's palm scorched the small of your back through the thin cotton of your uniform, long fingers splaying wide in an unmistakable claim of possession. You could feel the thrumming warmth of his body resonating against you with each rolling step in time with your shared gait.

Despite the innocuous setting of darkening twilight shadows stretching long across the sleepy neighborhood streets, the very air surrounding the three of you seemed to subtly intensify and charge with pulsating tension. An intangible aura settled like an electrified static cling, catalyzing each tiny hair along your forearms and nape to prickle into alertness.

The twins' earlier behavior at the gym had already stoked banked embers of confusion and unwitting arousal flickering through your depths into smoldering life. But with every casual brush of their forms against yours, each lingering graze of fingertips and weighted look exchanged over your head, those embers swiftly blazed hotter and brighter.

You shifted unconsciously, trying to alleviate the tension rapidly transmuting into a liquid, unfurling ache low in your belly. But any subtle attempt at increasing the infinitesimal space between your bodies was swiftly negated by Osamu's broad palm applying a deeper furrow of pressure against your spine. His actions were accompanied by a low, subvocal rumble of dark amusement that seemed to reverberate straight through to your core and set fresh ripples of contradiction shivering through you.

They were penning you in, separating you from any sense of personal space or autonomy by sheer inexorable degree—and somehow, you lacked the wherewithal to mount any objections beyond feeble token protests.

It wasn't until the trio of you had fully diverged from the main street onto a narrow side path cutting through a small copse of towering oaks that you found your voice again, throatiness undermining what pitiful scraps of composure you might've mastered.

"T-This isn't the way to my place..." The words emerged reedy and plaintive, drenched in naked bewilderment as you craned your neck to better take in your shadowed surroundings.

Tree boughs nudged by the lazy breeze creaked in spectral oscillations, filtering the winking corona of evening's first stars into ethereal dappling across the loamy footpath. A beat-up wrought iron gate practically consumed by clutching alabaster tendrils of resilient ivy stood askew just a few yards ahead marking what looked to be the entrance to...

"A park? But I thought you were taking me home," you pressed in rising confusion and...something darker, more viscous that you couldn't quite put a name to.

The weight of Atsumu's arm tightened infinitesimally with an implied air of coalescent possession. When he angled his head towards you, lips brushing the fragile whorls of your ear with lush friction, his deep baritone seemed to bottomlessly resonate with dark carnal promise.

"We are takin' you home, sweetheart... just a scenic slow-spin 'fore arrivin' at the final destination, that's all."

His lush mouth brushed the whorl of your ear in a sensual ellipsis contrasted by the rapacious weight of his words in a way that had you swaying dizzily on your feet. The bone-deep confusion stratified even as it transmuted into a molten unfurling low in your core that had nothing whatsoever to do with innocence.

"Seems our dear bunny could use a crash refresher in what exactly 'home' means for her pretty lil' self from now on," Osamu rumbled from your opposite side with dark promise.

His index finger traced a scorching path along the deliciously oversensitive topography of your nape, raising pearls of shivering friction before splaying wide to engulf the line of your throat with devastating possession. You couldn't restrain the tremulous whimper spilling past your lips as his palm constricted incrementally, effectively pinning you between two raging long smoldering bonfires.

The shrouded emerald of Osamu's regard trapped yours in an immobilizing tractor beam of simmering intensity barely leashed by restraint's fraying threads.

"So responsive already," he husked with a gravel-rough edge in his timber's darker registers that portended unspeakable profanities.

You sensed Atsumu's chin dipping in a subtle crowing nod despite being unable to break away from his twin's hypnotic scrutiny. Then both of them were crowding your personal space with covetous slow burning hunger radiating off them in palpable thermal waves catalyzing each atom of your loaded stillness into a bristling crest of profound awareness.

"Time to take our sweet lil' homemaker on a field trip," Osamu's parting grin delivered in a slantwise murmur reeked of unholy benediction as the twins began towing you along once more in their combined wake.

The twins didn't so much walk you further into the secluded park as simply propel you along in their combined wake, your sense of personal autonomy steadily dissolving like mist burning off beneath dawn's first blazing incursions.

You moved in a haze of prickling contradiction—every instinct screaming at you to resist being led so deeply astray, juxtaposed with those cloying tendrils of primal submission unfurling through your marrow at each scorching point of contact. It was as if their overwhelming presences exerted their own gravitational fields of influence that overrode independence of thought or mobility.

The rough gravel path crunched beneath your stumbling footfalls, interrupted only by occasional drafts of humid night wind gusting through the shadowed tree canopies overhead. Silhouettes of twisted oaks and looming hedgerows took on increasingly abstracted, dreamlike contours the further you ventured from the park's fringe dwellings.

At some point, Osamu relieved his twin of stewarding your docile form—his larger palm mapping intricate spirals along the dips and flares of your waist and hip through cotton layers in a blatant seal of ownership. Meanwhile, Atsumu assumed point, leading your small procession past a seemingly endless succession of looming oak sentinels and into near-total immersion within night's clutching vestry.

The pervasive gloom suited the enveloping metamorphosis occurring in the atmosphere around you. What had initially blossomed as playful, heated flirtation was now rapidly transmuting into something far more primal...darker and slipperier, etched in discordant minor keys of need and unvarnished id.

Somehow, you'd wandered into the heart of the park's tangled bower by the time both twins slowed to a predatory prowl, easing you to a halt before some kind of crumbling, vine-choked gazebo structure. The tang of humus and creeping must cloistered the air from the wreckage's interior as the scudding clouds overhead briefly parted to drench the scene in lurid moonlight.

"Seems like the perfect place for our lil' bunny's first lessons in her new place," Atsumu rumbled in a voice gone viscously, unhurriedly prurient.

Osamu simply grunted a baritone concurrence against the nape of your neck, the humid brand of his lips and tongue flickering out to tease your thundering pulsepoint into frantic pulsing arrhythmia. Fresh streaks of slick friction trailed scorching in his wake, his free palm shamelessly mapping your abdomen while yanking your hips back to grind your body flush against what could only be described as devastating evidence of his arousal.

"As much as I want to just take what's mine right here," he purred in a voice rendered somehow even more dangerously silken by its hungered gravel, "perhaps somewhere more...accommodatin' is in order for our lil' initiate's debasement."

The eroded gazebo groaned around you in winded rebuke of the lurid imaginings those words profaned into being. You distantly recognized the shrill peeping in your ears as thin streams of panicked panting slipping from your own constricted vocals.

But even the moss-choked pavilion surrounding you felt like the thin shroud of propriety was rapidly disintegrating between the twins' steadily intensifying thrall. Their hands and mouths issued obscene benedictions putting the ancient metaphysical principles required for unholy desecrations to shame.

"Mmm, awfully gallant of you 'Samu..." Atsumu chuckled with profane avuncularity against your nape while simultaneously cupping the underside of your jaw to angle you up and into the unyielding vice of his heated stare. "But you might be wastin' your sweet concerns over modesty or deflowerment. Pretty sure this lil' wildflower is already well on her way to bein' ruined for any but us."

The promise stitched into his rapacious tarryweavingwords hit you like a psychic hammer, jarring loose another plosive whimper from your constricted windpipe.

Then Osamu pivoted you in a scintillating blur, yanking your back flush against his chest which just allowed Atsumu's lush mouth to plunder the exquisite wreck of your swollen, panting lips while he nonchalantly aided his twin in stripping you of your obstinately clinging garments.

The twins moved with predatory precision, stripping you of your clothing with an almost ritualistic deliberation that allowed no space for objection or resistance. Their hands branded scorching paths over each newly exposed expanse of flesh, mapping your curves and valleys with ravenous entitlement.

Osamu's calloused palms shackled your wrists behind your back as he plastered his solid frame against you from behind, the uncompromising ridge of his cock grinding against the cleft of your ass through the barrier of his clothing. You trembled overtly, a piteous whine vibrating against Atsumu's marauding tongue as he thoroughly plundered the defenseless cavern of your mouth.

"Such a responsive little thing," Atsumu husked in approval once he finally allowed you a desperate gasp of air. His quicksilver stare glittered with unholy promise in the wash of pale moonlight as he leisurely took in your mostly-bared state with shameless appraisal. "Fuck, darlin', you have any idea how long we've been waiting to get you just like this? All trussed up and shakin' apart with sweet little need written across every tremblin' inch of you..."

You shook your head in a dizzying micro-motion, drowning beneath the roiling tsunami of their combined intensity. Osamu chuckled against the nape of your neck in rich wickedness, subtly rocking his hips to grind the brand of his cock deeper between your parted legs.

"'Course she hasn't the faintest idea," he rumbled in amusement, large palms sliding up to engulf the generous swells of your breasts in scalding possession. "Pretty lil' thing was too busy playing the wide-eyed innocent to notice the way her teasing glances and pretty lips were drivin' us half-mad with want."

Reflexively, your back arched into the rough exploration of his achingly dexterous hands working your tender nipples into stiffened points between finger and thumb. The resultant mewling cry spilled shamelessly from your parted lips, only to be swallowed by Atsumu capturing your mouth once more in a soul-searing brand of possession.

His tongue swept with conquistador's dominion, staking rapacious claim to every untried crevice and plane until you spiraled into boneless quiescence within their encompassing immensity. Rough denim rasped against your over-sensitized skin with each shift of their bodies, stoking subliminal friction into merciless sublimation.

"No more playin' coy now, babydoll," Atsumu growled against the slick, swollen want of your lips before winding his fingers into your hair to yank your head back with cruel precision. His stare pinned you immobile beneath its thrall as he allowed the broad crown of his cock to grind against your bared abdomen in a sensual ellipsis.

"You're ours now, sweetheart—body, soul, and any other part of your pretty lil' self that tries to pretend it can resist givin' us everything we crave."

Osamu rumbled in agreement, the graveled brand of his lips blackening tingling lasers of sweet unraveling along the side of your arched neck.

"Mm, think I hear our bunny pleading to sample just how thorough her new masters' attentions aim to be. Say the words, little dove...beg for what that delicious little body won't stop tremblin' in wanton cravings for. Beg Daddy and Uncle 'Tsumu to give it to you good..."

The twins seemed wholly unconcerned with decorum as they backed you further into the secluded gazebo, hands continuing to roam and caress in undisguised possession. Their nearness and intensity was utterly overwhelming, suffocating in its profane dominance over your senses.

"Look at you, pretty girl," Atsumu purred, the rumbling timbre of his voice laced with dark promise. "Flushed and breathless already just from our touch. You may have played the innocent before, but your body knows exactly what it craves from us."

Osamu chuckled, lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. "She doesn't have to say a word, 'Tsumu. We can read every one of her wanton little needs written in the way she trembles for more."

You shuddered at their words, at the implication that they could so thoroughly unravel you with just the barest of contact. A whimpering sound slipped free, one you didn't quite recognize as your own amidst the thundering of your pulse.

The twins shared a loaded look over your form, a silent interaction heavy with meaning. Then, almost casually, Atsumu reached out and plucked at one of the few remaining scraps of fabric still clinging to your flushed skin. With a deft tug, he stripped it away entirely, leaving you bared before their insistent perusal.

A desperate keening built in your throat as you instinctively moved to cover yourself, a last vestige of modesty surfacing. But the twins were having none of it. Strong hands captured your wrists, holding them immobile at your sides as they drank in every quivering inch.

"No hiding now, bunny," Osamu rumbled, the endearment carrying a darker edge you'd never heard before. "You're ours, all ours to admire and fuck as we see fit. And we intend to admire every luscious curve until you're sobbing with need."

The words alone were enough to have you squirming helplessly between them, the very air itself seeming to throb with their smoldering possession. This was far beyond mere flirtation or teasing now. There would be no going back once you fully surrendered to the rapacious hunger written in every line of the twins' bodies.

But even as uncertainty flickered, a deeper, more primal part of you thrilled at the thought of belonging so completely to them. Of giving yourself over and letting them take everything they craved. You wanted it with a ferocity that terrified and excited you in equal measure.

So when Atsumu trailed a scorching path down your body, callused palm settling between your parted thighs, you didn't resist. A guttural moan tore free as he stroked over your slick pussy, eyes blazing like gemstone flames.

"That's our girl," he growled in approval. "Gonna make you feel so good, kitten. Gonna show you exactly why you were made for us and us alone..."

With those words, he lowered his mouth to your breast, sucking and laving the hardened bud with devastating precision. It was as if a livewire connected between his hot, wet tongue and the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core. Every teasing flick and swirling suck sent a fresh wave of electricity shuddering through your veins, stoking the burning embers in your belly to molten life.

You arched against him, desperate for more, and Osamu's answering chuckle ghosted across the damp skin of your throat. "That's it, sweetheart, give in to the pleasure. We're going to show you just how good it can be when you let go and give in to what your body craves."

Atsumu's fingers continued their slow, maddening rhythm, and you writhed helplessly between them, a mewling, pleading mess. You felt him smirk against your skin, reveling in the power he held over you. "Mm, fuck, I love how you taste. I could eat you for hours, bunny. Make you come over and over again until you can't even remember your own name. Would you like that?"

Your response was a desperate, incoherent cry, hips bucking against his hand as you chased the white-hot peak of pleasure. Atsumu smirked, dark and wicked. "Oh, you'll be getting that and more, bunny. But first, I think you're ready to find out exactly why you're here."

With those words, he pulled away, leaving you shivering and bereft. You blinked up at him, uncomprehending, only to gasp as he and Osamu turned you around and bent you forward, your palms landing on the weathered wood of the gazebo's bench.

Your breath caught in your throat as Atsumu nudged your legs apart, baring your dripping heat to the night air. Behind you, Osamu's hand settled on the small of your back, a subtle yet unrelenting command. "Be a good girl and stay still, now."

You shivered as you felt Atsumu's calloused palms trail up the backs of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kneaded the firm flesh, thumbs dipping tantalizingly close to where you wanted them most.

"Look at you," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So wet and eager, just begging to be filled. And we're going to fill you so good, bunny, gonna stuff you so full you won't even remember anything but the feeling of our cocks stretching you open."

He punctuated his words with a light slap to your ass, the sudden sting making you jolt. Osamu's fingers dug in harder, a warning to hold still, and you whimpered, the anticipation nearly unbearable.

Then, finally, you felt the blunt head of Atsumu's cock press against your entrance, and you couldn't help but cry out as he sank inside, stretching you open with a delicious burn. Your fingers clenched around the bench, and you bowed your head, panting as he slowly worked his way deeper, each inch sending fresh waves of pleasure rippling through you.

By the time he was fully sheathed inside you, you were a trembling mess, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your skin. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to the sensation, and then he started to move, the slow, torturous slide of his cock pulling moans from deep within your throat.

Your fingers dug into the bench, and you hung your head, lost in the sensation of being fucked so thoroughly. Each thrust seemed to strike sparks deep within you, building the pressure until you were practically vibrating with need.

"Such a perfect little hole for my cock, so fucking tight," Atsumu murmured, his voice laced with lust. "We're going to use it so good, bunny, make you forget all about your old life and replace it with this. Just the feel of my cock pounding into your needy cunt, filling you up with my cum until it drips down your thighs."

He punctuated his words with sharp, stinging slaps to your ass, the pain sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. You arched into him, desperate for more, and he obliged, setting a punishing pace as he pounded into you.

Osamu watched it all, his own cock hard and heavy in his pants, the sight of his brother claiming what was rightfully his sending a possessive thrill through his veins. He could feel the tension building, his twin's thrusts becoming more erratic, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he came.

He waited until the last possible moment, then yanked Atsumu back, his twin's cock sliding out of you with a lewd pop. You whined, desperate for more, and he smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you're not done yet. Not until I've had a turn."

He ignored Atsumu’s protests as he pulled you up and spun you around, settling you on his lap as he sat down on the bench. You straddled his hips, the thick length of his cock nestled between your folds, and he reached up to cup your face, tilting it towards him. "Now be a good girl and show Daddy how grateful you are for his cock."

You hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, sinking down onto his length, the stretch nearly enough to make you see stars. You rocked your hips, taking him deeper, and Osamu's fingers tightened on your face, his gaze burning into yours. "That's it, sweetheart, take every inch. You were made for this, made for us to use and fill and pleasure. And you're going to learn just how good it can be when you're obedient and do as you're told."

You could only whimper, lost in the sensations as you rode him, each roll of your hips drawing fresh gasps and moans. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you arched your back, grinding against him, chasing the elusive peak.

Osamu's fingers dug into your skin, his breath coming in harsh pants as he matched your pace, driving his cock deeper and deeper. You could feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter, until finally, with a strangled cry, you tumbled over the edge, your whole body shaking with the force of your release.

Your nails raked across Osamu's skin, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside you, pumping you full of his cum. The sensation drew out your climax, and you collapsed against him, the aftershocks rippling through you.

As you came down from the high, a bone-deep satisfaction settled over you, and you melted against him, spent and sated. He stroked your hair, murmuring soothing words as you caught your breath, and you closed your eyes, reveling in the moment.

In the silence, a low chuckle echoed, and you opened your eyes to see Atsumu watching you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Well, well, looks like our lil' bunny is a quick learner. I'd say she's more than earned a reward, don't ya think?"

Without waiting for a reply, he stepped forward, his gaze raking over you. "'Samu, bend her over, will ya? I wanna fuck he throat until she's droolin' with my cum."

Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth to protest, but Osamu was already obeying, manhandling you until you were splayed along his thighs, your head hanging upside down as his fingers dug into your waist with the effort of holding you in that position. The new position put your face directly in line with Atsumu's cock, the thick shaft already glistening with precum.

He reached down, running a thumb along your lower lip, and you felt a surge of heat between your legs, unknowingly clenching around Osamu's still-hard cock. He groaned, his grip on your waist tightening, and Atsumu chuckled, his eyes dark with desire.

"I knew you'd enjoy bein' used like this, bunny. Now open wide and let me use that pretty little mouth."

Before you could reply, he pushed past your lips, his cock sliding deep into your throat, cutting off any sound. You gagged around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and Osamu's grip tightened, grounding you.

"Relax, sweetheart, and let him use you. It feels good to be used, doesn't it? To know that your only purpose is to please us and be filled with our cum?"

The words were filthy and depraved, but you couldn't deny the truth of them. You were already growing wetter, and Atsumu's cock was hard and thick in your throat, cum-heavy balls pressed against your nose as he fucked your face. You could feel your throat bulging, and the obscene sight only fueled the fire burning within Atsumu.

"Fuck, 'Samu, look at that, she's takin' it so well, her lil' throat stuffed full of my cock." He pulled back, just enough to allow you a ragged gasp of air, and then he was plunging back in, watching as your throat stretched to accommodate him.

"This is all she's good for, being our lil' fucktoy to use and pleasure as we see fit." His fingers curled around your neck, feeling the outline of his cock through your skin, and his eyes blazed with lust.

"I can't wait to fill her up, to watch her belly swell with my cum. We'll breed her over and over until there's no doubt she's ours."

His words were like a physical touch, and you squirmed against Osamu, your pussy clenching around him as a wave of need washed over you. He was rocking into you, now, small movements that kept you stimulated without bringing you too close to the edge.

You moaned around Atsumu's cock, the vibrations causing him to hiss and jerk his hips. His eyes narrowed, and he reached down, gripping your throat and squeezing.

"Oh, bunny, are you gonna be a naughty girl and make me punish you?" He thrust hard, cutting off any response, and then he was coming, spilling down your throat as he groaned. You swallowed around him, the sensation sending him over the edge, and he pulled out, painting your face with the last of his cum.

"Fuck, you're so goddamn perfect, such a filthy little slut." He ran his thumb through the mess, rubbing it into your skin, and you moaned, the filthy degradation only serving to stoke your arousal higher.

Osamu's grip on you tightened, and you could feel his cock throbbing inside you, his rhythm stuttering as he neared his own release. You rocked your hips, grinding against him, and his breath hitched, a low growl escaping his throat.

"Are you gonna come for us, sweetheart? Come while you're stuffed full of Daddy's cock, and Uncle 'Tsumu's cum is drippin' down your chin?"

His words were a litany of filthy depravity, and you were helpless to resist, falling apart under their combined attentions. Your pussy spasmed, clenching around him as another orgasm ripped through you, sending sparks flying across your vision.

Osamu snarled, his fingers digging into your hips as he held you in place, slamming into you with animalistic force. You could feel his cock twitching, the sensation amplified by the aftershocks still rippling through your core. With a final, guttural cry, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he pumped you full of his cum for the second time that night.

The three of you stayed there for a moment, locked in carnal embrace, the only sound the harsh pants of your breaths as you struggled to recover. Finally, Atsumu spoke, his voice laced with smug satisfaction.

"Mm, what do ya say, 'Samu, d'ya think our lil' bunny is gonna get the hang of havin' two big cocks stuffin' her tight lil' holes soon enough?"

You could only whimper, the mere suggestion of another round already sending heat pooling low in your belly. Osamu chuckled, his fingers stroking idly along your spine. "Oh, I think she'll be a fast learner, 'Tsumu. But don't worry, we'll make sure she gets plenty of practice. After all, we can't have her disappointing her new owners now, can we?"

As he spoke, his hand slid down, dipping between your legs to circle your sensitive clit, and you shuddered, already aching for more. You could feel his cock, still buried deep inside you, growing hard once again, and Atsumu's fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat was bared.

"No, we can't," he agreed, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. "Now be a good girl and let Daddy and Uncle 'Tsumu show you what a real fuckin' is like..."

[bellawoso]

We fell in love in October

Alexia Putellas x fem!reader

A/N: this was going to be an Ona fic, but when I discovered this picture of lex, I couldn’t help myself 🤍

i brought back diego for this fic, he is too cute not to, and y/n + diego are besties in every universe :)

You were not happy that you were coming into work today, after working a full day yesterday, crammed with people only seeming to be ordering pumpkin spiced lattes with the now colder autumn days.

You loved your job, working in a small cafe in Barcelona whilst you completed your studies, seeing your favourite regulars each day, and the perk of being able to make yourself a coffee whenever you would like.

It wasn’t unheard of for new customers to come in, however it was extremely rare. The cafe was tucked away in the depths of Barcelona, reserved for locals who new the area extremely well.

One of your favourite regulars was a tall, heavily tattooed, blonde woman, who often came in each morning in a Barcelona training kit, wanting a latte.

At first, you had joked that she was a big fan of Barcelona, thinking her matching kit was quite extreme for a fan, however you later learnt to your surprise that she was on the team, which she still teased you about to this day.

Your co-worker Diego, a massive football fan, still fawned over Mapi each day she came in, until one day you couldn’t stand his shyness and instead asked the question that always lingered on the tip of his tongue.

“Diego wants to know when you will bring some other footballers Mapi”, this statement received a smack to your arm from said co-worker, who had blushed crimson red.

“I’m a big fan, okay?” Diego justified himself.

Except Mapi only chuckled and explained she liked having her “own” coffee shop hidden away, and didn’t like sharing with her teammates.

You and Diego left it there, understanding people like their own secret pleasures, Mapi’s being the staple in her daily routine, of visiting you two and ordering a latte.

———————————————————————

You had forgotten about the conversation with Mapi, until two weeks later, she walked through the door at her usual time, you and Diego had already pre-prepared her drink, except for this time, a blonde woman, also in her training kit, followed her into the cafe.

The moment you and Diego both saw Alexia, you both stood there dumbfounded for a second, completely forgetting Mapi’s drink.

Diego was shocked because as a loyal football fan, he obviously knew who Alexia Putellas was, it was hard not to, internally he was fangirling.

You however, thought Mapi’s teammate was beautiful, her smile, her eyes, her muscles.

You broke out of your trance first, handed Mapi her drink, whilst asking “Would your friend like anything?”

The girl spoke up “a latte aswell please”

When you asked for a name for her order, she froze for a second, the majority of people in Barcelona knew who she was, with her infamous nickname “Reina”

Mapi chuckled and muttered

“Ella es inglesa, y no es fanática del fútbol” (She’s English and not a football fan)

You, having moved from England for your studies only a year ago, had no clue what they were saying rapidly in their heavily accented Spanish.

Diego however, heard and laughed with them “She’s called Alexia chica, do you not know the footballer”

“I’m sure if I knew, then I would not be asking, would I? Idiota!” You replied whilst scribbling down the name on the cup, as Diego feigned a look of hurt as he prepared Alexia’s drink.

“Si Diego, deja en paz a mi barista favorito!” Mapi said (Yes Diego, leave my favourite barista alone!)

“I don’t know what Maps said, but I agree with her” which earned a grin from Mapi, as you handed Alexia’s drink to her.

“Pasarlo bien” (enjoy)

“Gracias y/n” Alexia replied with a soft smile, as her eyes lingered on your name tag.

“Adios chicos! See you tomorrow” Mapi shouted as she left the shop.

“Adios Mapi, and Alexia!” You and Diego shouted.

As soon as the door shut, Diego squealed in excitement, “you like her! You have a crush on Alexia Putellas!”

“Shut up Diego! No I do not”

“Ay! Do not fret chica, I saw she was eyeing you up too!”

“Don’t be silly Diego! Now hurry you have to prepare Val’s drink, she comes in soon!”

Although Diego left his teasing there, it didn’t stop for the next few weeks when Alexia accompanied Mapi each morning, and both you and Alexia constantly flirted with each other, but neither making the first move.

Until one morning Alexia didn’t come in with Mapi, and the regular explained how Alexia had to go in earlier today, but how she was going to call in later after training at around 3 o’clock.

Until at 3pm, just as Mapi said, your favourite blonde stepped through the door.

“Bon día, my favourite customer!” you said, earning a smile from Alexia, she usually complimented your improving Spanish, which always no doubt brought a blush to your cheeks.

“Hola y/n! Can I have a-“

“A latte? It’s already finished Ale” you said, sliding her drink towards her, the use of her nickname falling from your lips made the midfielders cheeks flush pink.

“Thankyou cari, tastes as amazing as always” Alexia had recently been using the term of endearment for you, the first time you head it, you choked on your latte, making Diego and Mapi let out a boisterous laugh.

“Can I get you anything else lexia?” You asked.

“Your number.” The blunt statement caught you off guard, did you hear that right?

The girl you had been pining over for the last month wanted your number?

Alexia mistook the silence as rejectment, and turned to leave muttering a soft “lo siento”

“Ale! Wait!” Which made the Spaniard turn back round, a glint of hope sparking in her eyes.

You grabbed a napkin and scribbled down your number, adding a heart on the end and handing it to the blonde, who looked like an excited puppy.

“Call me?”

“Why else would I want your number cari?”

You blushed at the obvious statement, shrugged your shoulders, and the previous adrenaline high you received from Alexia asking for your number, pushed you to lean over the counter and kiss the blonde’s cheek, making her in turn blush.

“See you tomorrow?” The blonde hesitantly asked.

“Diego missed you.” You stated.

“If I gave you both tickets for the upcoming match, would you go?” The blonde asked uncertainly.

“To cheer you on? Obviously ale.”

The Spaniard grinned happily at your answer, said goodbye, and left.

The same night, you received two e-mail tickets for the upcoming Barcelona match.

When you told Diego, to say he was excited was an understatement.

You however, was only excited to see where your new future with Alexia would take you.

———————————————————————

A/N: Making a part 2 now! But I will do a poll of New Romantics part 3 or part 2 of this! 🤍

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel does everything he can to make you feel better after a civilian casualty steals your ‘sunshine’. —a fic featuring reluctantly adoring miguel and his sad spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 4k

cw character death, violence, reactive depression

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Miguel," you say, your voice grained by the communicator in his ear, "this universe is almost the same as mine, right?" 

Miguel stares down at a Doc Ock variant you're staking out, lying in wait for the anomalistic antagonist to make his first move. He's trying desperately to maintain his focus but you have a nice voice, and you ask him with a confidence that betrays your total faith in him. You haven't considered that he might not know. 

Well, Miguel does know. He's not sure he should start this discussion and distract you, but he has trouble saying no to you in any capacity, so he does. 

"I don't know every difference, but yeah, they're the same. Same geography, world leaders, roughly the same fast food chains." He bites his lip. He's at work, more than work —you're attempting to save an entire dimension, here— and he shouldn't feed the conversation anymore. But he knows you'll be interested in this. "Donuts aren't a thing, here."

"What?" 

"They have donuts, but they aren't called donuts, and they're nowhere near as popular." 

"This is a very strange way to flirt," Lyla says, her flickering hazed by a golden aura as she changes rapidly between laying on her front, legs kicking, and her back, as though she's in a therapist's daybed. She floats across his vision lazily.

"That's because I'm not," Miguel says. 

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Talking to Lyla." 

"How come Lyla doesn't talk to me?" you ask sweetly.

Miguel can see you in the distance, your simple black suit like an ink splodge against the blue grey glass of the skyscraper you're standing on. Anchored with a web and your body tensed, you're perfectly parallel to the ground below, as though you're standing on the windows. 

"It's not that I don't want to," Lyla promises. "Miggy won't let me." 

"That is not true." 

Projections cover Miguel's vision, powered by his favourite lying intelligence. Movements are mapped in a bright marigold yellow, though the net turns red to signify potential danger, chance percentages bouncing up and down. Doc Ock raises an arm and it turns an eye-straining red. He sits down on a park bench and his body turns yellow again. It's a smart program, but it can't account for everything. 

"Something isn't right." 

You hum appreciatively. "It feels weird, how he's acting. Like he's two separate people." 

Doc Ock glitches hard, the air around him fractured by colours in varying depths, like a tangible, physical screen tone. They've been coming faster. He doesn't have much time before he begins to tear apart, and that tearing will prompt panic. Panic will prompt anger. 

"What should we do?" you ask. 

Miguel doesn't know. He regrets asking you to come with him, not that you aren't capable. When you first joined the Spider Society you'd hadn't been Spider-Girl in your own universe for very long, and you weren't particularly proactive. You were kind-hearted but lackadaisical, and after worming your way into his life, a flower budding between concrete slabs it shouldn't have the power to crack, (he seriously doesn't know how it happened, only that you'd been bringing him things, carefully wrapped foods and trinkets you'd made, your bad conversation, and suddenly you were worrying about him and doting on him in the strange way that you do, suddenly, he was doing the same), you decided you wanted to help. You've trained hard on Spider-led courses at the Society, improving your overall fitness, your stamina, your technique, to become the fighter you are now. You can hold your own well. 

Miguel knows what motivated you. You want to look after him. You'd all but admitted to it. And that's why Miguel wishes he asked someone else to come with him, because you'll put yourself in harm's way as he would for you, to protect. 

"Why did you want to know if this universe was the same?" he asks, the nano of his suit morphing over his hands, claws growing long and minaciously sharp.

"Oh! Because, I used to have these favourite cookies called Butter Leaves, but they stopped making them in my dimension 'cos of the Whey disease. Even when it was better, loads of companies couldn't come back…" 

You give him the entire history. He already knows it. He tries to listen to you with the attention you deserve anyway, only he's weighed the options, and taking down Doc Ock feels much more important than listening to your cravings. 

"They were really thin and they had this sweet coating brushed over the top. You'd like them, I think." Miguel drops the last hundred feet to the ground, ignoring the jarring heat in his ankles at such a landing without having rolled into it. "If they were a little softer and had some sugar they'd taste just like polvorones, Miguel."

"You could say that about lots of things," Miguel argues, tone measured as not to alert bystanders nearby of his presence. 

"This doesn't feel like a good idea," Lyla says. Standing now, alert. 

Miguel toggles the communicator so you can't hear him. 

He wonders if you'd even notice him speaking over the intensity of your excitement, "I know it's not professional but maybe we could go and look? After we beat the bad guy. They're more than worth it, I swear," you say hopefully. 

"It's fine," he says to Lyla, throwing out a hand, shins braced and ready to burst into a tackle. 

"It feels off, you both said it." 

"It always feels off. He's in the wrong dimension, his presence caused a shift. The wrongness is unavoidable, like the body–" 

"Rejecting an organ transplant," Lyla says. "I know. You say it constantly." 

"If you know, why are you asking?" he asks, deadpan. 

"Good to know your girlfriend can ask questions and I can't. You're a trailblazer for equality, O'Hara."

Not my girlfriend, he thinks, but he isn't sure how true that is. Miguel realigns his eyesight, the holographic netting that pinpoints anomalistic stress a menacing red where it maps Doc Ock's limbs. The colours are abrasive against the yellow-green leaves fluttering in the breeze to the grass below, trees like arms stretched toward one another standing behind the simple brown bench where Doc Ock murmurs drunken-sounding ravings. 

Miguel's fangs slice through gum and lock into place. He tries not to salivate. The paralysing agent produced gives him a numb tongue. 

Miguel attempts to work quickly. Approach the target. Lock the target in. Incapacitate. He rears back and takes a deep breath. 

"Wait! Behind! Behind you, Miguel, there's something behind you!" 

He twists backward without hesitation and swings his arm around a cold neck. He squeezes hard, hears a metallic crunch similar to a mortar and pestle, but the person in his chokehold isn't a person, it's a robot. 

"Octobots!" Lyla shouts. 

"HELPFUL!" Miguel shouts back, grunting as a robotic arm curves around his back, and then a second, a third. 

The hills of his muscles strain against white-lacquered steel, a sweat breaking at the back of his neck as he groans, desperate to stop the octobot from crushing his arms to a powder. He can practically hear the creaking of his humerus. 

Around him, civilians scatter, screaming for their lives as a small horde of octobots descends on the park. Doc Ock doesn't react to the chaos. He sits there muttering to himself as people run past him and his octobots play cat and mouse. Miguel finally snaps the arms off the robot holding him with a pissed grunt, punching the carcass of machinery away from him while you tuck and roll from a dive to the ground. In an impressive show of your improvement and coordination, you throw out a web as you roll and hit Doc Ock square in the face, a second binding his chest to the bench. You spring to your feet, shooting at bots one after another. You must take down six by the time he's gathered his bearings. 

"On your left," Lyla says. Miguel smashes a bot at the apex of its white body and she laughs. "Nice. Behind." 

Miguel falls into the fight as though it's a well-practised dance. With the stress maps locked on, quick-thinking, and Lyla's pointed direction, Miguel can decapitate or incapacitate each bot swiftly as long as they don't get a hold on him like the first one managed. 

You're like Lyla in that a good skirmish seems to set you off —you're giggling, cheering, enjoying yourself much more than you should be. "This is just like that video game," you say, leaping onto a moving octobot and shooting webbing at the joints, gumming them up until they can't move. "With the girl and her super powered puppy, you know that one?" 

"Of course I don't know that one." Miguel brings his claws down into the aluminium shell of an octobot as it swipes your legs from under you and tears it in two. It cracks like a halved apple, the gore of its inside sparking and smoking as it hits the ground in tandem with you. Your head whacks hard into the concrete pathing beneath. He doesn't have time to help you. 

The arm of a bot races forward like a stinger. This one must be the head of the hive, the Queen bee so to speak, far more complicated than the others in the plating of her ivory bodice and chain-mail like shielding on her arms.

Miguel swears under his breath and vaults at it. 

He pulls your droid feed up in his display, watches you writhe from one side and the other as your pained moans play in his ear. You clamber onto wobbly footing as Miguel descends, the screeching cry of metal while it's shorn apart beneath his hands not half as loud as your useless gasping —you're winded, likely concussed. 

"Civilian entering range," Lyla says. 

"What? Where?" 

Lyla has your drone's camera spin on the spot to show Miguel the civilian stupid enough to enter an active fight zone. They aren't stupid at all, it figures, but unaware. A man in activewear jogs the beaten path with headphones in, eyes to the ground. He stops for a moment to look at his sports watch, and like the octobot can tell, it shakes Miguel like a bothersome flea and surges for him. 

You're closest. 

"Y/N!" Miguel shouts, knowing it's too late before he so much as closes his mouth. You turn, your head braced in your hand, breathing hard with pain. Miguel would take it back if he could. 

You can't save the civilian, but you can watch him die. 

—

People look at him like he's a ghost, sometimes. Wide-eyed, horrified, they move aside in the halls. They treat him how he feels on his worst days, like someone who should've died a long time ago. Today, things are different. 

No less than three Peter Parker' have stopped to stare at him unabashedly. Nearly all make the same jokes, Late for a date?

He'd honestly prefer feeling like a ghost. He can't deal with their derision and he doesn't want to, ignoring their looks and their judgement as he treks to the elevator that's gonna drop him outside of the medbay. The only person he wouldn't mind poking fun at him is you. 

You aren't in the mood. 

Miguel doesn't acknowledge your prone form at first. He walks to your bedside table to deposit the bouquet he'd chosen, peonies for good health and strength, swapping old for new, changing the water in your small shared sink. He may orchestrate the Spider Society, but Miguel's special privileges can't reduce the extreme turnover rate of the medbay. You have curtains to partition the room for privacy, and you got the bed by the window, and that's as much as he could get you. You deserve better. 

Miguel opens the window to drown out the smell of antiseptic. He stands in front of it, his shadow stretching over your twisted hip. You're not sleeping, you're resting. Doctor's orders.

Miguel wishes you'd deign to rest in your own bed, or his, but you're a little too catatonic for a safe discharge either way. 

He sighs quietly. You likely hear it with your enhanced senses and still you remain an impassive lump under your blue hospital blanket. 

"Good morning," he says, instead of the thousand other things he wants to say, that he's too much of a coward to ask. "Let's get up." 

He doesn't give you any choice about it. Starting slow, Miguel rounds the bed to meet your eyes through your sluggish blinking. Perhaps you'd been more asleep than he thought. 

Gentle, Miguel peels down your blankets enough to push his hands under your armpits. He pulls you up into a sitting position, and it —it breaks his heart. He's a monolith, he's hurting, he has years and years of loss and grief behind him and it doesn't matter, it finds him again. His heart breaks at your limblessness and your willingness to be positioned like a paper doll. 

Miguel arranges the sad pillow behind you and puts the remote for the adjustable bed frame in your hand. The last time you'd been here in the medbay after a training exercise fractured your ulna, you'd spent pretty much the entire time messing around with your bed, even as they crafted your cast. It made for messy work. Miguel must've told you to quit it fifty times. 

Your fingers curl around the remote. 

Miguel perches on the mattress on one knee to fix the protective style your hair is in. Nothing serious, just smoothing the tiniest of stray hairs and making sure it's still comfortable. He strokes your temple absentmindedly, checking you over one feature at a time. Tired eyes, nose tip looking parched, your lips chapped. Frowning, he sits properly, and he pulls your big hospital bag from the bedside table, his hand falling to your wrist to say, Hey, I'm here, and I'm not going far.

He finds your smaller bag of toiletries and necessities and unzips it. He tries not to think about the last time he had to take care of someone like this as he cleans your face with a wet wipe, two fingers wrapped in the wipe and petting at your skin carefully. He notices the life returning to you inchingly, his touch a tether you're pulling on, so he prolongs his actions. He smooths moisturiser over your face extra slowly. If you asked why, he could say it's cold, but you don't ask.

Your face shiny in the sunshine filtering in through the wide windows, you almost look like yourself again. 

"Are you hungry?" 

You shake your head. An almost imperceptible gesture. 

"This is why you don't feel well," he says. "You're not eating enough." 

"That's not why," you say.

He aches to hear your voice. I know, he thinks, but doesn't say. 

"Eat something," he says. 

You shake your head again. He managed to bring you back and squash you back down in less than a minute. He really doesn't like himself, at that moment. Often, but especially now. He's failing you. He failed you with the octobots and he's failing you now. 

Miguel refuses to fail someone he cares about again. 

He takes the remote for your bed and lifts the top section so you can sit back comfortably. He shakes the blankets out over you, and he puts away your things. Hopeful, Miguel places new pyjamas and underwear with your shower caddy at the end of the bed and pulls a strict pose, hands crossed over his chest. 

"I need to go. Shower, eat breakfast when it comes. Please." 

You give him a look that might mean Yes but probably doesn't mean anything, laying down as much as the bed allows and turning your face from him toward the flowers. Miguel leaves, stopping a ways away to look back, and watches through the gap of your curtains as you reach out to touch the flowers he'd brought. Your pinky finger is less than an inch from the petals when your movement stutters, your hand falling back to your chest with a soft thud. You close your eyes. 

When Miguel returns, he's thankful to find you've done as he told you. Showered, changed, a discarded breakfast tray at your feet. You've attempted the oatmeal and left the toast to go cold, congealed butter white against golden yellow. 

Miguel swaps the tray for his bags. He's hoping you might be tempted to look while he's gone. He knows before you would've known the entire contents of the open bag by the time he'd left the room, but he returns having taken your tray to the rack and is sorely disappointed. 

That's fine, he decides. You don't have to look. He doesn't mind laying things out for you. 

First port of call: extra pillows. He pulls the plastic wrapped 'hotel pillows' up onto your sheet and tears the plastic. They pop out. He didn't think for pillow cases, so he slides them behind your hospital pillow and pushes you down by the shoulders, not cruel but not particularly gentle —you actually laugh at his handling. He bites back a smile. 

"What, you got me presents?" you ask as he dumps a blanket onto your lap. It's one of those soft, shiny fleece ones patterned with those characters you love so much, the girl and her super powered puppy. 

You rub your hands over it appreciatively and spread it out over your legs. "What's that mean?" he asks, pointing at the Chinese characters, '超級汪汪!'. 

"Chāojí wāngwāng!" you cheer, an impression missing the majority of your usual pep. "Super woof. It's his level five power up. He yaps and Joyce gets her HP back." 

Miguel pretends to know, like he'd forgotten, and you're reminding him. "Ah."

You're watching now, interested. He puts his back between you and the bag and you whine weakly, "Miguel." 

"What? You think these are for you?" 

"Please, I want to see." 

He gives in like a cheap tent, passing you a packet of pearly beads for your bracelet making, skeins of variegated thread that change colours, a packet of pencils with frogs on the lids, a plushie. You don't know how to react and Miguel doesn't know what to say. He honestly doesn't want to say anything, vulnerability stopped being his thing a while ago, but he clears his throat. "Do you know what I look like in the middle of Miniso? Picture it."

Miniso being a Chinese home goods store lined floor to ceiling with plushies.

You laugh weirdly. Miguel knows it's guilt holding you back. 

"One last thing." He sits down on the bed next to you, hands big enough to cover the box in its entirety. "You were wrong, by the way. Extremely wrong, these don't taste a thing like polvorones." 

He passes you the box. You take it into steady hands, smiling widely, your thumb brushing up against the black cursive font. A box of butter leaves from one of your sister dimensions.

"I don't know if they'll taste like they did. Are they the same ones?" 

You nod, loosing a breath between parted lips. "Same ones." 

"If you don't eat them all, I won't get them for you again." 

"That's so mean," you murmur. Miguel would apologise if he thought you meant it. 

"That's how it is. Eat your cookies. I'll come back later to make sure you actually ate dinner." 

He stands. You immediately grab him, cookies dropped in favour of braceleting his wrist in your warm fingers. 

You look up at him through your lashes, a frown dampening your pretty features. At least, in his eyes. 

"Please don't go," you say. Your eyebrows pinch together. It's even more heartbreaking than your catatonia, this pleading loneliness, like you think he won't stay. 

"You have to talk to me," Miguel says. He softens at your chastised wince, sitting back down again. "Did you want a hug?" he asks. 

It's an apology to offer it, though he should've asked you this morning, or yesterday, even the day before. You'd been inconsolable when it happened. Miguel's never seen you that way. Your sunshine shattered, your shoulders shaking under his hands as he led you away from the scene, he didn't hug you like he wanted to. It wouldn't have made a difference at the time. You couldn't speak. You could barely walk. 

Seeing something like that happen leaves a mark, even if you've seen it before. 

You sweep aside your gifts and twist your legs to climb onto your knees. Miguel hadn't realised how much you wanted to be close to him until you're bordering his lap, your arms sliding over his shoulders, your pyjamas soft and smelling of antiseptic under his nose. A switch flicks at your nearness. He pulls you into his lap and sandwiches you there, chest to chest, thankful for his stature because it means he can encapsulate you effortlessly. He can hide you from the world for a short while. 

You choke him half to death. 

"It's okay," he says, your back curved into the length of his forearm, leaning forward so you can take the weight off. "You're okay." 

"I don't– it's not me. I'm not worried about me." 

"It's over," he says. "What's done is done." Which isn't to say it isn't tragic, or that it didn't leave a permanent mark on the world. But you're punishing yourself for a crime you didn't commit.

"It's all my fault," you whisper, your cheek pressing to his shoulder, face hidden in the juncture of his neck.

He tilts his head toward you. "It's my fault. I jumped in. I wanted it to be quick."

"I let him…" 

"You had a grade ii concussion, you didn't let anyone do anything. I'm lucky you didn't pass out right there. I'm lucky you had the ability to defend yourself, because I left you defenceless." 

"No, you didn't, it–" You rub your cheek against his shoulder. "It happened really fast, you were making sure that bot didn't get me because I was stupid enough to leave myself open–" 

"Stop it."

It's harsh enough to stop you in your tracks. Miguel sighs hard, hair blowing away from his face. 

He lays down backward, skewiff on your bed, and pulls you with him in a secure but gentle hold. You make a quiet 'oof' as you go down. Apologetic yet again, Miguel rubs a line up and down your back, fingertips between your shoulders, palm flattening as he reaches the small of your back, your shirt inching up. He's sure you look foolish to anyone watching, but for once, he's past embarrassment. 

"I don't want to hear you blaming yourself. It's not your fault." 

You've twisted on your side on the mattress rather than crush his pelvis, though your chest remains pressed to his. You twist a strand of his dark hair around your finger. "Why did you bring me all this stuff?" you ask softly. 

"To make you feel better." 

"But why… do you… want that? Why does it matter that much, that you'd waste time going to get me things?" 

"Why do you think?" he asks. 

Your lips ghost the column of his throat. "Mm… 'cos you're nicer than you let on." 

"Wrong." 

You laugh again. He's more grateful than he'd ever say aloud. 

"Because you care about me too much." 

Too much is right. He feels like he's at the stern of the universe's most important ship. The universes, plural. That ship is heading square for an iceberg, for the precipice of a gargantuan whirlpool, and there's nothing Miguel can do but hand out buckets and veer sharply to the left, hoping it will be enough, knowing deep down that it won't be if something doesn't give soon. And he's lived a life, two lives, before he even met you. He's tired. He doesn't want to lose anyone else, and he hoped he could do that by never caring again. 

What a stupid hope. 

"I just want you to feel like yourself again," he admits. 

"I really wanted to save him." 

"You can't save everyone." 

He knows better than most. 

"I know," you say, no tears left to cry, voice impossibly small. 

Miguel wraps his arms around you and doesn't let go for a long, long time. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you so much for reading, I really really hope you enjoyed! please think about reblogging if you liked it, I appreciate it &lt;3