#they could Not fight 100 chickens

[capn-twitchery]

To twitch; how many chickens can you take on in a fight before you're overwhelmed?

[They barely consider their answer for a single second before responding, with utmost confidence.]

"One hundred, I'd fathom. Or thereabouts. No less than, at any rate."

[strange-aeons]

hi strange i’ve been enjoying yr videos for about four years thank u for giving me giggles for so long. however i am writing as i am not totally sure who else to ask…

my boyfriend had a traumatic pneumothorax last week and about 80% of his right lung collapsed. i don’t really know anything about pneumothorax (although i have learned so much recently lol) aside from hearing you mention it and as such i don’t know how to help him :(

i know it’s a shot in the dark but i was wondering if there are any comforts or ways to alleviate pain you could share? thank you so much strange you are super tough btw to have gone through this several times this Sucks big time

many good wishes to you and your sweet hairless babies in the new year!

If it happened one week ago he’s already gotten through the worst part! I’m assuming he’s still hospitalized with a chest tube in right now??

When I was in that situation it helped a lot having frequent visits from my partner and family. Especially when they brought snacks!!!!!! Hospital meals can be borderline inedible and there’s no way of escaping to the food court when you have a chest tube in (unless you plan to deceive multiple nurses and risk life threatening infection through the OPEN HOLE IN YOUR CHEST. Don’t do that).

Good food can be a relief in an otherwise horrible time, so finding out what he really wants to eat and brining it will definitely help. If he has no appetite then things like smoothies or drinkable soup can be very helpful. I often live off booster juice and Tim Hortona chicken noodle soup when hospitalized.

Finding the right media to keep sane is also very important!!! Your sleep schedule disintegrates entirely when laying on your back full of tube for multiple days. 2AM listening to alarms go off and 6AM getting woken up for x-rays and 1pm having the lunch slop delivered and 3pm being woken up for x-rays and 9pm visit from your surgeon all become basically indistinguishable, especially if you have no windows. Podcasts were ideal for me because it can be very hard to find a comfortable position with a chest tube / pneumothorax and looking at a screen was often too much of a hassle. Queer as fact and fall of civilizations are both excellent if you want non fiction btw. Old gods of Appalachia or welcome to nightvale if you want fiction.

There’s not a lot that you as a loved one can do about his physical pain, but I will share some of my pneumothorax expertise with you and anyone else who might go through this.

There’s no nerve endings in the lungs so all the pain/ discomfort related to a pneumothorax has to do with pressure in the chest cavity.

The pain is the absolute worst when your lung is actively collapsing so when that feeling starts SHOVE SOME EXTRA STRENGTH ADVIL OR TYLENOL DOWN YOUR THROAT, then lay down and wait for it to finish collapsing. It may seem tempting to rush to the hospital as fast as possible (or rush your loved one who’s lung is collapsing to the hospital) but trust me the last thing you want to do with a lung that is actively deflating like a sad balloon is exert yourself (this is how I collapsed my lung the full 100% and could not move my upper body for an hour. Quirky). Give it at least 30 minutes of floor time before you try to move. You will have a way better time getting to the hospital.

Wait sorry I lied lung re-inflation hurts sometimes more than the initial collapse. The sometimes are the times when ER nurses do not know how to do it properly. Immediately after they put the chest tube in, they attach it to a suction machine to suck out the excess air in your chest cavity. I do not know if these machines are the same internationally (I’m Canadian) but if you’re dealing with one where the settings are percentages, the one you want is 20% suction. NOT 100%!!! that just causes unnecessary excruciating pain without being more effective. I have had to fight numerous nurses while in the worst pain of my life to TURN THE PAIN MACHINE DOWN. fuck the pain machine. Anyway. After the pain machine they leave the tube in for a few more days to make sure the lung stays inflated. Nearing the end of that process, most of the discomfort is caused by the tube itself, so as horrible disgusting the worst getting that thing ripped out is, just know you will feel so much better after.

Throughout the healing process (and in the case of small pneumothoraxes not requiring chest tubes — I’ve had over 10 of those ones) I’ve noticed that heightened discomfort lasting a few minutes results from going from laying down to standing up or vice verse, or from bending over. This is why I have pioneered the sophisticated technique know as the pneumothorax squat. It is just as cool and hot as you’re imagining.

This post was supposed to be about how to support a loved one with a pneumothorax what the heck am I even talking about now.

Most of what he’s going to need will seem boring or insignificant. Companionship. Food. Medication. Toiletries. COMPANIONSHIP. podcast recommendations. But it absolutely is not insignificant. Abruptly losing mobility, independence, and bodily autonomy as a young person is really fucked up and I cannot fathom doing it without my family and my partner, even if most days that consisted of talking to me and bringing me smoothies and underwear.

Wishing a quick recovery to your boyfriend! Good luck with everything!!

[babiebom]

Heyyy! I was wondering if u could do the bachelors & bachelorettes reactin to / dating an s/o who has really intense nose bleeds when they're stressed. But plot twist bc this is literally the norm for the farmer bc they have crippling anxiety, especially social.

Thank u sm!!

A/N: I don’t know why I thought this was funny??? My anxiety just makes my stomach upset but a nosebleed in front of everyone like some sort of anxious demon is funny. Not the clean up tho. I’ve never had a nosebleed but I know they bleed SO MUCH. Also no problemo!!! Always glad to get requests!! I did different things (so not just stressed because I would’ve written the same thing for anyone I made crush aspects as sort of for stress too lmao) for each hopefully they’re good enough!

Tw: cursing, blood, anxiety, the nose bleeds are VERY dramatic because it’s fiction lmao. Physical fights(in Leah’s part), arguments(in almost all of them). Pierre hate Pam hate(kinda) Demetrius hate Morris hate. And Kel is gender neutral! let me know if there’s anything else to tag!

Wc: idk lmao hopefully at least 100 words for each

Stardew Masterlist

Sebastian:

Just frowns

Actually helps unexpectedly

….we can never talk about this happening again if you want……

It’s not often that you get to see the towns resident emo, even after visiting Robin multiple times for various building needs. So when you wander into the house, looking for Robin so you can upgrade your coop, seeing him makes your brain malfunction.

“Oh…hey farmer.” He greets, moving past you to head further into the house. You blink for a second before returning the greeting, watching as his dark hoodie disappears behind a wall.

You try to force your breathing to slow down. There is absolutely NO reason you should be this worked up over a literal one second conversation. While you sit with your thoughts, foot steps fill your ears and the sight of Sebastian returning from wherever he went makes all of your progress regress. “So…you here waiting for my mom?”

You nod quickly, clearing your throat, “yeah…um…just need to upgrade my chicken coop.”

“Oh well, she’s not in today. She usually goes to Pierre’s store to work out with the other moms.”

You frown to yourself, how did you miss that she wouldn’t be in today? Damn now all you can think about is how you just made a fool of yourself. Lost in your thoughts, you miss that Sebastian had cleared his throat a couple times until he waves a hand in front of your face.

“If you want, I can take your order and tell her when she gets home later. That way she can get started tomorrow.”

“Would you?” Your heart flips as you perk up. Was he usually this nice? You kinda heard from Robin herself that Sebastian never really interacted with people he wasn’t already friends with.

“Yeah sure.” He shrugs and moves to go around the counter, setting his slowly cooling food down. “Okay so she usually charges 10,000g and you have to have 400 logs of wood and 150 things of stone. Sound right?”

You nod and hand over the bag of money. The second your hands touch it’s like your body decided it couldn’t handle anything else from him. Luckily he just takes the money and pretends like your nose hasn’t become a geyser as you scramble to try to keep the blood from dripping all over their furniture.

Sam:

WOAH DUDE IS THAT LIKE….NORMAL?

it’s like from a movie or something

Is overall sorta scared but at the same time thinks it’s cool

“And this is how I do a kick flip!” Sam shows you skateboard trick after trick and honestly you can’t get enough of it. It wasn’t a secret that the both of you had crushes on each other, and even now it was very obvious by how you were watching him do his tricks that you had feelings for him. Yet still you two weren’t in a relationship, just sort of friends who like each other in a romantic sort of way.

“You’re so cool!” You clap as he lands another trick.

“And you’re cute!”

“What?”

You freeze in your spot and watch in confusion as he sort of freezes midway through his next trick and crashes to the ground. His words echo in your head, making your face heat up and your heart soar. He smacks his face on the ground, sending you into a panic because now all you can think about is how he thinks you’re cute, and now how he probably has a concussion from hitting his face directly onto the concrete.

When he lifts his face off the ground, you’re kneeling next to him, trying to check on him. His forehead is bleeding, his nose is bleeding, and so is his mouth. You shriek and try to go through your backpack to see if you have anything to help him. You didn’t.

You already know where this is leading, and you let out a groan of annoyance right before your nose starts leaking just like his. His eyes widen and he lets out a loud laugh. Maybe you two can move out of the weird friendship you have after all.

Shane:

Would just stare silently

Like no comments no nothing

Doesn’t even act like it’s happening

Having a part time job at Joja Mart during the winter is one of the absolute worst ideas that you’ve had in a while. But you didn’t make a lot during your first year of farming. Stacking the products onto the shelves, your only saving Grace is the fact that you’re allowed to have earphones in. Except for the fact that Pam is now standing next to you asking loudly about where something is. Shane is stacking the shelves behind you.

“I don’t know Pam…the alcohol is probably on the wall in the back.” You frown at her. She obviously knows that you don’t know this store that well, you were a FARMER that NEVER shopped here before. She rasps out another question and it takes everything in you to not snap at her. Trying to calm yourself of course there’s gonna be something else that makes you lose your mind. That something is Morris, coming over and being the absolute WORST and in turn making Pam LOUDER and more insistent.

He’s lecturing you, Pam is agreeing with him way too loudly, the music on your headphones is now overwhelming instead of calming, and the sound of random things in the market is making you want to bite a chunk out of the loaves of bread in front of you, plastic and all. With everything building up inside of you, you already know what’s going to happen. It always happens, but instead of excusing yourself you stand there, staring Morris down as the blood begins to flow from your nostrils.

Pam yells out curses and Morris begins to stutter, but behind them Shane just stares for a second before continuing to work. When you’re finally left alone with him in the aisle as your two stressors hastily take their leave, all he does is let out a dry chuckle.

“Sam has a hell of a mess to clean up…”

Alex:

Oh DUDE your nose is like….LEAKING

Doesn’t help

Just watched and comments

“AND THEN HE HAS THE NERVE TO TELL PEOPLE THAT MY HARVESTS ARE HIS BUT HE ONLY DOES IT IF ITS GOOD!” You rant to the brown haired boy, pacing back and forth in his room. Thankfully both Evelyn and George were out so you weren’t bothering anyone except for the man in front of you.

You huff and puff as he watches, slightly amused slightly concerned. Alex wasn’t the best person to go to when you’re upset unless it was something absolutely devastating. So being in front of him now, complains about your farming woes meant that he was only half ass taking it seriously. “You should go and speak your mind.” He says.

Turns out you should NOT take advice from Alex. Standing in Pierre’s shop, you’re staring him down angrily, anxiety creeping up your throat from you trying to will yourself to call him out on his bullshit. The older man just kind of stares at you in confusion because all you had done was shout his name angrily as you entered the shop then stand in front of him seething.

“You….you…..” you point a finger at him. This was the moment, the moment you stand up for yourself and tell Pierre how HORRIBLE he is!

But of course things don’t work how you want and your nose gushes out blood all over the counter before you can work yourself up to the point of accusations. With a gasp you run out of the shop, hoping that he would keep his mouth shut with Alex running behind you laughing. Again, NEVER let Alex talk you into anything.

Elliott:

Panics

How do I help PLS LET ME HELP

Everything probably gets messy

Fishing had never been your favorite pastime, but now trying to fix up the community center you had to. Unfortunately Willy was gone and couldn’t properly teach you even though he had gifted you an old rod of his, so the next best thing is getting your boyfriend to teach you since he does fish often. Now you stand on the docks, waiting for a fish to bite the hook.

“Keep calm, the fish can feel your fear and it makes them upset.” Elliott spoke. In all honesty you didn’t even know if that was true or not, but you take in a breath to calm down. You did not want to be here all day you had cows to pet.

The second your line begins to pull you try to pull the fish in. And you succeed until it comes time to unhook the eel you managed to catch. The eel is slimy and slippery and all around not a good thing to try to grip. A shriek leaves your lips and the eel struggles, Elliott tries to help you but is also struggling to catch hold of it. And now your nose is bleeding adding another layer to the already hellish experience.

You’re unhappy, the eel is unhappy, and Elliott is unhappy. After what seems like an hour, the stupid thing slips out of your grips and back into the ocean, washing your nose blood off of it and splashing you with saltwater. 0 out of 10 you will not be trying again.

Harvey:

Calm but concerned(after panicking for a second)

Has a doctory approach to it

But is secretly like WTF inside

Your heart thumps in your chest as you sit on the clinic bed. It’s been a while since you’ve been in Harvey’s clinic, having taken a break from the mines, and somehow this seems more shameful than having been beaten almost to death by living slime. Your hands bleed into the cloth you have pressed into it. One of the pigs knocked you over into the broken fence you were in the middle of fixing. Now you sit waiting for the good looking Doctor.

When he walks in he’s all smiles, tapping his clipboard with his pen. “While I’m sad to see that you’re injured, I’m glad to see it isn’t from those mines again.” The eye contact he makes with you makes your heart twist for a second.

He starts speaking of all the shots you need and the antibiotics you need to take, rust poisoning is quite serious you know. “Now,” he says, moving towards you, “let me see your hand.”

Your heart thumps erratically at the close proximity of him and you. You only really ever got to see him this close when you were half dead and barely conscious. His face is much too close for you to be able to do anything but focus on how pretty his eyes are, and how fluffy his mustache is, and how…

“OH MY DEAR YOBA” He yelps and jumps away from you. It takes only a second after him to realize what’s going on, and now your furiously wiping away at your nose with your hands instead of with the cloth, and he’s trying to get something on your nose to catch the blood. It’s a disaster, really. But at least you’re already in a clinic!

Penny:

Probably panics

Doesn’t know how to deal with it

Would try to help though

The warmth of the pool in the spa did nothing to ease your nerves as you waded in the shallow end of the pool. Penny had invited you to come sometime after 7 pm, and when you had arrived she was already waiting for you, kicking her feet in the pool. The thought of her asking you here made your stomach turn, did you do something wrong…? Was she inviting you here to tell you she hated you or something…? You had grown close to her over your time here and would hate it if she thought you were too much or something.

“Do you know why I invited you here?” She asks, moving closer but keeping her eyes on the water.

You shake your head, “I’m not exactly sure, no.”

She frowns and sighs at you, meeting your eyes for a fleeting second then looking elsewhere. “Really? I thought you would’ve noticed by now…” her words trail off and her eyebrows furrow.

The next few seconds are ones that you simultaneously want to remember for forever and forget. She confesses her feelings for you. Feelings that you obviously reciprocate, and the emotions in you mix and grow, rising up your throat as if you were a volcano of conflicting feelings. As soon as you open your mouth to tell her that yes, you like her too, her face morphs into one that’s horrified instead of hopeful, disgusted instead of smitten and you realize a second after she does that your nose is spouting red, dyeing the water you both were swimming in.

Penny shrieks for a solid second before trying to scramble out of the water as fast as she can. You do the same, swirling the red around the pool as both of you splash trying to exit the now crime scene looking pool. When you get out of the water, she’s holding a towel right in your face, smooshing it so hard you can barely breathe and now your nose is throbbing with slight pain. “What do we do?!” She asks moving about quickly. She’s so confused that she just keeps walking and turning as if she’s remembering and forgetting things at the same time.

You just tilt your head downward and cringe inwardly, this was not the way to get a girl to like you. “It’s fine…I’m fine,” you say voice nasally and muffled. “And I like you too by the way.”

Haley:

confused staring

wtf is happening

Actually speechless

It isn’t every day that you get to talk to a beautiful blonde. It isn’t even every day that you talk to anyone. So when she approaches you on one of your trips off of your farm you couldn’t help but feel like either everything is out to get you or that you’re up on your luck. You don’t really know for sure, it honestly depends on how things go.

“Hey farmer!” She smiles as soon as she stops in front of you, the feeling of your stomach twisting makes you want to vomit in all of your nervousness. “I have a favor to ask you…”

“Yeah?” You ask trying to keep your cool. “What is it?”

“I would totally love love LOVE you forever if you could bring me an amethyst? It’s for Emily’s birthday and I don’t really like Clint so I don’t wanna buy anything from him. I’m willing to pay 150g!”

You cough into your fist, nodding along and taken aback by how casually she’s speaking to you. Before you can accept doing her the favor, the horrified look on your face makes your words falter.

She looks absolutely horrified, and touching your hand to your face you can feel why. Your nose started dripping blood, and by dripping you mean you can now feel it running down to your chin. A flurry of curses leave your mouth as confused noises leave hers. It's not much of a surprise that this has happened, but man did you wish it wasn't in front of her.

Emily:

Surprisingly chill about it

Probably has a weird story about a nosebleed or something

Actually helps

You sit at the bar alone, upset at a horrible farming day. You tried your best, you really did, but those stupid ass crows actually ate ALL of your seedlings. Or…almost all of them but that’s basically the same thing! There is no way you’re gonna make enough to make it through winter comfortably. You told Emily exactly this, appreciative of her listening ear in the middle of her busy shift.

“You know they probably didn’t mean it…or maybe they did,” she sucks in a breath eyebrows furrowing as she thinks, “you know crows are very smart they probably know that you’re using that land to farm and stay there because of all the free food.”

“But it’s not free!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in annoyance, “I have to buy those seeds! They’re just putting me into debt!”

She hums and nods, wiping the bar next to you where a person had just left. You had only a couple months left until the snow started falling and making it virtually impossible to grow anything. The little plants you had left you had to fight the crows for. And by fight I mean you angrily swung a broom at the with the intent of scaring them (not hitting them that’s mean). Still the growing anger inside you was not easily crushed by her warm and quite frankly outlandish words. No, in fact your anger grew the more you thought about it.

You felt it coming before anything had even exited your nose, hurriedly snatching the rag from Emily’s hands. Damn now you would have to buy the bar a new one. She just blinks then nods as if your nose becoming a bloody waterfall was normal.

“You know…nose bleeds cause by stress is usually because your heart rate and blood pressure increase and it causes your blood vessels to dilate!”

You stare at her before laughing. Maybe she was helpful after all.

Abigail:

WOAH

WTF

WHAT DO WE DO?

You stand in front of Pierre in front of the shop, arms crossed as you watch his face grow redder the longer time goes on. “-IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH MY DAUGHTER?” You’re not really listening to his tirade, over the whole ‘protective dad’ thing.

“Dad I’m an adult! You have no say in who I date!” Abigail yells back, face equally red. Who would’ve known that he would have a problem with the farmer he rips off constantly dating his daughter?

He yells out more reasons that the two of you shouldn’t be dating, and in turn points a finger into your chest roughly. You sputter out an offended sound, moving away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

“You shouldn’t be touching my daughter!”

“What? Dude we just started dating, you’re weird as hell!”

The arguing only gets worse from there, accusations flying around and now an audience comes with the drama. It’s almost too much for you to handle with now Caroline, Harvey, Haley, and the Milner family standing and watching the chaos. “Abby let’s just go to my place…” you try suddenly feeling the need to escape and no longer feeling the ‘fuck you dude’ attitude.

“No! He needs to understand that he can’t control my life!”

It’s like a volcano in your body and just like a volcano your nose begins to erupt. Now you’re screaming, Abigail is screaming, Pierre is screaming, the Mullners are screaming. Could this get any worse?

Turns out yeah, it can get any worse, like a family fight worse and now all of you are sitting in Harvey’s clinic. At least you aren’t the only bloody one now.

Maru:

Is surprised

Also forgets what to do

Would probably make things worse

Maru talks about robots and space the way you would talk about her: totally and completely enamored. You sit on her bed listening to her talk about her newest invention, some sort of robot that can cook and clean and basically be a free maid. You laugh and move your arm to get in a more comfortable position to watch her. Unfortunately your arm had other plans and smacked hard into her bed post. Groaning out in pain, your eyes close and begin to water from how much your elbow hurt.

Demetrius is in your face before you even realize that he was in the room. You yelp out in surprise as he starts ranting about you ruining his daughter’s future. You blink in surprise and try to retreat back into the mattress. What was happening. You can hear Maru screaming over his words but your ears feel like they’re filled with water.

“We’re just friends!” You find yourself shouting. Like damn is the man insane? It wasn’t the first time he’s gotten upset at you over Maru, but it was the first time that he was absolutely losing his mind.

“Dad stop!”

Time froze for a second as you and Demetrius stared at each other, Maru standing near him. Breathing in you can taste blood in your mouth before your nose starts bleeding, yet you can’t bring yourself to do anything but sit and catch your breath.

“Oh my god!” Both Demetrius and Maru exclaim moving around the room trying to find something to help. You couldn’t help but feel annoyed at him acting concerned now.

Thankfully Maru looked cute trying to help you which at least made things a little better.

Leah:

Is also freaking out on the inside but calm on the outside

Helps you with tissues

Is understanding

Going on a date with Leah is a dream come true. There’s paint, wine, food, and you’re sitting in the prettiest meadow you’ve ever seen, well it’s pretty because Leah is there and she’s pretty and you’ve been here multiple times because it’s near her cottage but it still looks different today.

You sit, paintbrush in hand, laughing at something she’s saying. It’s fun and if she hadn’t have asked you would’ve spent the day farming like usual, this little break was needed. The day couldn’t be ruined, absolutely nothing can ruin it.

Okay, one thing can ruin it and that one thing is Kel coming and ruining everything. The argument that ensues is one of the worst that you’ve seen. Kel tries to walk up on you(translation: Kel wants to fight you), Leah stops them but in turn gets into a fight with them which causes you to actually get up and try to defend her.

You kinda black out until you can hear Kel call out ���I made your nose bleed bitch!” Which again causes you to want to drown in your anger.

“My noses is bleeding because I’m stressed, stupid!” You yell back. It’s obvious Kel hadn’t been able to hit your nose so claiming to be able to hit you so hard your nose bleeds isn’t even possible. It’s almost childish how the two of you argue.

Leah finally gets Kel to leave and hands you a bunch of tissues as she sits you down on the now rumpled blanket. As the two of you catch your breath and calm down, you find yourself smiling at her behind the wad of tissues catching blood flowing from your nose.

At least the situation would be funny in the future.

[hitlikehammers]

strongly worded letter 💌

or: Eddie Munson’s long, weird road out of (the) hell(-side down) ☠️ and into love💗

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-S4, steve’s one-man search-and-rescue for eddie’s not-dead body, falling in love, fluff in surprising places, eddie’s chaotic internal monologue, alphabet magnets🧲 for the win ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day four: "I had not intended to love him. [...] He made me love him without looking at me." —Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

To the external, uninitiated observer, Eddie is well aware his take on all of this will 100% appear both unhinged and as least vaguely self-destructive, bordering on suicidal.

But here’s the thing: if Eddie had been truly suicidal, the million times he could have just stood and let the mobs take him—bigots or mutant bats or a lichy-ballsac that made people float—he wouldn’t have even bothered fighting. Maybe he was questionably attached to self-preservation, but actively wanting to pack it in? Even the thought of sparing his poor uncle his bullshit—finally—hadn’t been a sweet enough deal. Nope: Eddie is selfishly attached to the whole living thing.

Which is why he is begging for it to be understood, in no uncertain terms:

He’d rather know for sure that he was dead in the endless, silent grey hellscape he’s been left in, than wandering in this half-formless, half-collapsing nothing-burger version of the town he grudgingly called home, unsure where he stands on the mortality-scale either way.

—

Here’s the deal.

Vents? Foolishly overlooked.

Epic concert? Rocked, no notes.

Bat-chow? Do no recommend.

Henderson sobbing? Recommend even less.

Being tagged as a corpse? Perfectly fine if that’s what you are; dead weight in an apocalypse simply cannot be justified.

The issue is when you’re tagged as a corpse, and you…aren’t one.

So you’re left behind.

Which brings Eddie to:

Meeting what they’ve been calling a demogorgon this whole time but that resembles no such thing, those goddamn lying liars: not fucking cool.

Having…enough demobat saliva or venom or poison or whatever, probably, where the misleading-as-fuck demogorgon sniffs at you like a dog with her puppies instead of eating you with those fucking petal teeth?

Neutral. Probably wouldn’t order it again.

Getting licked all over by said Petal Teeth, all lioness-grooming-its-young style? Disgusting.

Disgusting.

Figuring out demogorgon saliva has some kinda magical mystical healing properties and you’re basically just covered in fairly-smooth scar tissue now that looks months old rather than hours, and plus you got a bath out of it so most of the dried blood’s gone too?

Fine, okay, he’d leave a tip for service.

But now Eddie is as alive as he can think to test being—and he’s been running all the monster-category tests and he doesn’t pass for vampire, zombie, or any various other undead creatures, he’s hungry but mostly for like, Chicken McNuggets, and—

Stuck. He’s stuck here.

And he thinks they must have won, the Party that is, because nothing’s really happening except…things are falling apart, like rotting in slow motion.

Which is a concern. But. Cool, if it means they did in fact make the motherfucker pay.

But that also means nobody has any reason to be strolling back in to fight demons anymore, and come across his not-so-dead ass. Plus also, the place is probably going to keep crumbling—if a master of a realm is axed, the realm doesn’t typically survive. Mordor fell apparent when Barad-dûr came down. And he…

He did agree to go into Mordor.

Well, fuck him.

—

He mostly wanders around and pokes at random shit, collects some books, ignores the fact that the reality he’s looting is on borrowed time.

He doesn’t know if it’s healthier to deal with that part head on or keep pretending it’s not there, but he honestly could not give a fuck.

Because it’s just him. Save the demogorgon who gave him a tongue bath, he’s seen nothing living. Sometimes there’s a stray screech but it’s too distant to even guess where he’d find whatever made it, stumble upon whatever caused it. There’s not even a breeze to move the decaying trees.

There is nothing.

And it’s starting to drive him fucking insane. He might lose it before the reality caves in on him, actually, just for the sheer…void of it all.

He’s on the edge of that—losing it entirely—when he hears it, sees it.

Who the fuck took that magazine, it’s like three years old, only kept it for the tips on…

And then an echo, like a projection in the air, and it’s fleeting and its faint but where that voice what pretty unmistakable already, the coif of chestnut and the peek of a polo collar, and the seizing in Eddie pulse for both together—it’s almost more undeniable.

That’s fucking Harrington.

—

The vision is, seconds. At most.

But it shifts Eddie’s priorities entirely.

He starts the day—he’s guessing it’s the start of the day, it’s always fucking grey here but he’s just going off of when he’s hungry so—but he looks for cereal in one of these decrepit houses and eats it out of the box as he tries to get his bearings.

Tries also to remember all the weird shit the kids used to say before Eddie knew they were making any of it up.

Context clues give him that this is Hawkins. 1983 or thereabouts—makes sense for the magazine.

But what makes more sense, and is more helpful: Steve had bitched the magazine was moved.

And Eddie’s definitely the one who had it in his hand when he heard said bitching.

So there’s still some connection. Hope’s not totally lost.

Mostly, maybe. But not totally.

—

He decides to go back to Harrington’s and just wait until he goes there to sleep so he can tail him, have some sense of how he can try and make contact from his own side, let someone know he’s still here.

It takes forever; Eddie wonders just how different time runs, here, save that when he finally hears something, the vision is clearer in the air, ghostly but more complete.

And Steve looks fucking wrecked.

Like he hasn’t slept in days, like he’s about to fucking cry, like he—

He’s still the most beautiful guy Eddie’s seen in person, if this counts as in-person, but like—that was never not-true.

“Rob, I don’t know! I just, I just feel like—“

“I will handcuff you to your bed.”

Eddie tries to feel excited that whatever’s happening is strong enough that two voices come through, that Robin’s here, she’s safe too—

But he’s more invested in what’s causing the shouting.

”I know how to pick a fucking lock, Jesus,” and Eddie doesn’t not think about the lock he’s worn more than once around Steve at his belt, nope, he does not—

”The gates are closed, Steve. It’s over.”

Well. Fuck.

There goes the hope thing.

”Not all of them. Not totally.”

Or maybe not.

”Steve, I will hunt you down, I will dog your steps, I will follow you every single moment if you think I am leaving big you even consider going back to—”

“I love you, Robs, but you still can’t drive. Think you’ll beat me on your Schwinn?”

“I will slash your tires.”

“Sorry, birdie, got AAA to save me.”

And that’s all Eddie gets, but…

It almost feels like he’s got one single snowball’s chance in hell, here. Still. Just one, true, but.

If he’s learned anything the last few days, it’s that Steve Harrington’s maybe the most reliable snowball he could ask for.

His chest is all tingly about it, even—fucking traitor.

—

Eddie doesn’t even really have to follow where Steve goes next. In that he knows exactly where it is, just not why the fuck Steve wants to be there.

Especially since even the lack of evidence in ‘83’s version of the trailer still makes him look up at the ceiling and feel like he’s gonna puke.

”Oh sure Mister Munson sir, I just want to borrow your dead nephew’s cassettes, that are definitely in the trailer the fed have locked down to be sent to Area 51 or wherever, just in case he’s not entirelydead in another dimension, and he can hear me because I’m definitely not losing my fucking mind, and definitely not because being called ‘Big Boy’ didn’t fuck with my head more than mutant bats ever did…”

Steve’s frankly endearing muttering, and that last bit especially, distract Eddie enough from the fact that Steve is actively rummaging through his room.

Through his room, Jesus, Eddie moves because he even clocks that lunging at Steve here won’t do shit there to stop the questionable literature Steve’s already sifting through.

At least Steve can’t see him blush across planes of existence. Hopefully.

“Oh,” and Steve sounds shocked, but then looks…gutted?

”One more for the ‘you suck’ column,” and Eddie decides right then that he fucking does not approve of that tone, at all; ”not like I had a chance, definitely not his type…”

“But my type’s the paladin who protects everyone and needs a faithful bard to tend his wound and keep his bed!” Eddie blurts out into the nothing on his side of the divide.

“My type’s been you since fucking junior year!”

Because Junior-Eddie was admittedly much more lust-driven. Let that be said.

Now-Eddie’s equally if not more invested in the heart of a man.

And Steve Harrington, even remotely thinking that he isn’t Eddie’s type?

Maybe Eddie really is dead. And this is hell.

—

”Why do I need them?”

Eddie’s got a new box of cereal—Kix, could definitely be better—and has now trailed Steve to what looks like…the edge of town, which, who lives there…

”Nah, kid, nothing bad. Just want to see something. Promise.”

One of the kids. Maybe this is where the Byerses are, now, if they were right and they’d been on their way back? Because Eddie knows where the rest of them live, and this ain’t it.

Theresa are footsteps in one direction, and Steve wanders in the other, where Eddie sees a girl with a buzz cut he doesn’t know, but who stares Steve down in a way that…Eddie can kinda guess.

They’d all alluded to the super powered kiddo more than once.

”Can you look? Like, just to see if he’s—”

Eddie’s neck turns fast when he turns back in to the conversation, less for the words and more for how timid, how cowed Steve sounds and he…

Eddie just wants, more than anything really, to be able to reach out and touch. To comfort. To do…

Something.

”…would not feel him even if he was there. The connection is gone. The Upside Down is dead.”

And Steve deflates, and Eddie…Eddie remembers the lights didn’t they have to be emotionally unstable, kinda, to make the lights flicker, to let someone know they’re there, and Eddie’s definitely there because—

Not fucking all of it, not yet, Eddie wants to scream; or maybe yes all of it but I’m still fucking here.

Also: that man is 100% my type and I want a fucking shot, I want my snowball’s chance in hell, I want to bite him and call him sweetheart like I mean it and I want, I want, I want—

Also that.

Steve leaves with some…fucking magnets.

And the lights didn’t do jack shit.

—

Eddie spends most of that night playing with magnets.

Well, not at first.

First, he tries yelling, sobbing, focusing like a Force-user, really anything he could think of to get Steve’s lights to flicker. No such luck.

So then Eddie makes a side quest, after having dutifully made certain not to leave Steve’s side for…however many days.

He pops to Melvald’s because of anyone’s got kiddie alphabet magnets, it’s gotta be them.

And score. Definitely not the worst thing Eddie’s stolen. Plus this place is on the way out. Not really relevant, here, if he cared.

Which he fervently does not.

And proves by grabbing two fifths of tequila on the way out. Hah.

He finds Steve passed out on top of his comforter, plaid monstrosity that it is, and he tries very hard to brush his hair back—nothing.

And then Eddie…somehow that’s the straw that breaks the pack-mule’s back. Something in him just fucking snaps.

Because he distinctly remembers this whole fiasco being tied to the labs owned by the fucking Department of Energy, right?

And they can’t even keep the electrical connection between dimensions working?

That’s…that’s unacceptable.

He’s gonna…he’s gonna file a fucking complaint. He’s gonna show up at a picket line. He’s gonna write a strongly worded letter. He’s…

Actually, he’s got all night if the way Steve’s sprawled says anything for how long he’s gonna stay conked out. And he’s also got these handy alphabet magnets.

Letter it is.

—

”What the fuck?”

d3ar 3nergy d3pt he4d i ju5+ wan+ed to te11 th15 guy i w4n+ t0 b1+3 him but n00 y0u c4nt e73n d0 +h4t i h8 u

Eddie trips over some empty bottles, the answer of how they got there pounding in his head real quick—oh, hey, hangovers do transcend dimensions, seems suspicious—but yeah, okay, he does remember getting creative with the abundance of math magnets in the poorly-labeled alphabet pack last night, misleading to lead on letters by default on the packaging. He does recall being very convinced a sideways ‘7’ was a passable ‘V’. But.

He’s not looking at his side of things. He’s looking at Steve’s.

And so is Steve.

And then Steve—who Eddie wants to bite but also kiss and maybe just hold in his arms chest to chest to feel his warmth because when his control broke last night it conveniently knocked him upside the head with the clear realization of that fact that Steve Harrington?

Is doing all this shit for him. On the hope of a maybe.

And Steve Harrington had been disappointed not to have found his lookalike in Eddie’s porn rags.

And Eddie wrote a letter to the fucking DoE in magnets about it, and Steve can see it, stuck to his fridge in 1986 as clear as Eddie slapped it there in 1983.

”…Eddie?”

Steve’s voice is so small and so fearful to be wrong. His chest is heaving, he’s scared.

Eddie scrambles for the magnets left on the floor and smacks them violently to the refrigerator door in record time, prays to everything he doesn’t believe in that Steve can feel his relief spelled out in the bulky primary colors:

h3y 61g b0y v3

And goddamnit, when Steve falls to the floor with his jaw dropped loose, Eddie is 100% sold:

A ‘V’ turned on its side absolutely makes the bottom half of a heart for the three to butt-up to.

—

“Got these to play so if you were there, and couldhear me, you could find your way, if,” and Steve, Steve has been talking to Eddie since they both woke up and found those magnets, even if they haven’t been able to replicate anything, not the letter nor the faulty lighting trick Eddie’d complains about on the fridge in the first place: it could just be a fluke. Steve has no reason to believe Eddie’s alive, that Eddie did that, that Steve didn’t sleepwalk into sleep-spelling, that Eddie even alive in some form would be following his every move.

Of course he is, but. Steve can’t know.

It’s all on faith. For Eddie.

And fuck is Eddie’s heart doesn’t go playing ping pong with his ribs for how much it hits him, how wide and warm it swells in his chest like hope, only second to affection, to want, to—

“Vecna’s not gone, but he’s like, one step from it. I don’t know he can get you but,” Steve taps to the Walkman, to the headphone he gets on just one ear so he can hear and also so someone else—so Eddie—can hear Megadeath as Steve bustles around his house, packing a duffle that reminds Eddie of when they were peeping to storm the castle—

That’s what Steve’s doing. That, that’s what Steve is doing right now.

“I just,” Steve heaves a deep breath, hands on his hips before one pinches between his eyes; “I felt like you were still there, I can’t explain it,” and Eddie’s shaken to his core right now in the best possible way so when he blurts out in a croon:

“Power of loooove, Stevie!”

He can’t be blamed for that. He can’t. He’s…

This man is going down into hell, has not grantee of what Eddie knows in it being largely innocuous, now, save…undead Vecna lurking somewhere, so weak he’s not even noticed.

“But we know music works though, so.”

Steve’s still narrating his plan; Eddie is just staring. Wants to…wants so fucking bad to touch.

“We have to wait for night, for me to get down there. They’re shitty with security on the graveyard shift.” Then Steve’s smirking, and fuck, he’s so pretty.

”Plus Robin sleeps like the dead, she won’t have a chance to notice what I’m doing even on the off chance word got out.”

And the fact that Steve is willing to defy his own platonic soulmate for Eddie—barely knows him in terms of days and hours but at least, if it’s the same as Eddie’s realising more and more that he feels, and unshakable too: it’s like his soul knows Steve, and that cannot care a lick for how time runs, it’s bigger than that.

There’s too much of a sense of potential, a crackling possibility just being in his proximity, even with the distance of other goddamn dimensions—there’s too much swirling in Eddie already for it to mean nothing.

Plus, like: flip the script. Steve is risking everything on a whim, for him.

It cannot be nothing.

“I’m hoping you’re where we left you, which,” and Steve’s voice catches, he pauses, looks around like he’s hoping Eddie might pop into the visible spectrum, so he can see and know, but then he just looks up at the ceiling like—oh, fuck, like it’ll make sure no tears fall out and:

“I can’t fucking tell you how sorry—“ Steve starts to say be Eddie can’t bear watching like this, strides over in an instant and grabs Steve’s hand.

And Steve stills.

And Eddie can feel his pulse in his wrist.

“Is that you?” Steve barely breathes, stares now at his arm where…Eddie can only see the kind of glimmering overlap that means two things are happening in the same place on different planes, he’s grown used to that. But.

If Steve can feel him, if there are moments here that are probably limited where Eddie can prove some little tiny bit that he’s here and he’s listen and he’s with Steve—

He pulls Steve’s hand and drags him into the kind of full body hug he’s been aching for for…fuck.

Too fucking long.

“Eddie,” Steve sighs out, and Eddie can’t help himself. He runs hands through Steve’s hair, and holy fuck: Steve leans in.

Steve feels it enough to lean in.

“It feels like I’ve been falling for a ghost, man.”

Steve says it on a whisper, like he’s still not sold entirely, or else maybe afraid to break a spell. Eddie gets that second part.

“But I guess it kinda started before that, so maybe it’s not as fucking crazy,” Steve laughs a little wet with it and…Eddie has to, because what if he never gets another chance, and hell—if he does, how can he deprive them both the chance to know whatever the sensation will be, like this?

Eddie’s not up to risk never knowing what a cross-dimensional lip lock feels like, okay?

So he doesn’t.

“Please don’t be a ghost,” Steve breathes out and fuck, Eddie can’t taste it but he can feel the way the air moves and it’s, it is; ”I think if you are, I’ll live the rest of my life trying to make it work anyway, I,” and Steve doesn’t get to finish because Eddie pushes in again, and Steve’s as good as his reputation and then some, on wholly separate planes of being.

Eddie cannot fucking wait to feel it flesh to flesh.

“I fall fast, man, but this is kinda insane,” Steve pants, arms out awkward with any indication where to hold. He’s adorable.

He’s delectable.

“But you did say you wanted to bite me, assuming you were talking about me,” Steve smirks but then his eyes go wide:

“Oh, shit, are you a vampire?”

And Eddie has no idea how long he’s been down here alone, surrounding by the silence and the darkness and just the projection level overlay of Steve when he’s lucky, but Jesus H. Christ—

“Is that you laughing?” Steve chokes on his own kinda-giggle as he braces against an unseen and unseeable force barrelling into him: of course it’s Eddie.

Of course he’s fucking cackling.

Because however long it’s been, he definitely hasn’t laughed at any point at all in that span of time—and fuck if he didn’t need it.

—

Steve slips down the last burbling gate not without effort, not without lava-hot road rash no doubt fucking with his already not-yet-healed stomach.

When he’s tackled, thrown straight to the ground, weight pinning him to the ground that’s more dry, more deadened than Steve remembers from just days ago: when his back hits the ground—none of it matters.

“It was me laughing.”

And then Eddie’s mouth is on his—it’s the echo he was afraid he’d imagined that morning, just like the hand on his wrist, just like the laughter wrapped around him.

“You’re an even better kisser in person, holy shit, even your fucking glowing reputation shortchanged you.”

And Steve’s kinda breathless, not just for getting smooshed to the dirt; but then Eddie’s kissing him again, and breathing seems really kind low on Steve’s list of giving a shit.

“You are so my type it’s not even funny,” Eddie says, before diving back into kiss with a bruising kind of force, an unmistakable kind of intent; “I think my type has fully migrated to include kinda just you.”

And Steve’s heartbeat kinda stutters at that because…that’s new.

No one’s ever…well.

It’s just new.

“You weren’t wrong to leave me behind, you don’t ever have to apologize,” and then he’s kissing along Steve’s jaw, and it’s Steve’s laughter now, the tickle of dirty curls dragging at his stubble; “you got out, you’re safe, you’re here,” and Eddie sounds almost overcome with feeling, with relief, and then in the end, bubbling with joy. And somehow Steve can tell it’s not because Steve’s here to save him, bring him home.

It’s just because Steve’s here and that, that is—

Steve’s heartbeat’s just gonna do that tripping thing for the foreseeable future he thinks, at this point. Probably.

“I was trying to convince myself otherwise, because I didn’t think there could ever be a shot in hell but I was falling before it all fell apart, too,” Eddie says in a rush, leaning again to kiss the corners of Steve’s lips, like talking is just an inconvenient interruption to better ways of using his mouth and given how goddamn much Eddie Munson’s always talked, that fucking says something:

“And ever since, it’s felt like I was falling in love through a movie screen,” and he cups Steve’s face to angle it just so as he breathes, those eyes endless and glistening; “could see but never reach, until,” and then he’s kissing him straight on the lips again, a full-frontal assault, tongue seeking teeth, looking for the depths of his goddamn soul of something.

Steve isn’t even embarrassed for how he arches up, how he fucking moans. No one could ever feel this and do anything less.

Like: fucking impossible.

“I liked your letter to the editor,” Steve gasps when Eddie breaks apart and concedes to needing air, presses kisses up and down Steve’s throat while he regroups.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie’s face pops back up—dirt smears and ruddy and in need of a shower but on the whole in way better shape than Steve last remembers having to walk away from, and fuck, fuck—he’s never walking away from it again; “can we send that to the Post? No edits, I want my numbers intact, let them try to figure it out like Zodiac.”

Steve snorts, because god he really is half in love with this nerd, and he’s not a ghost, he’s sold and his chest is heaving into Steve’s and he’s grinning wills and he’s here and they’re here and this is realand—

He yells when the sting clamps through his much-less-extensive uniform of his Members Only jacket despite the weather—it’s freezing, but like, the gates were just cracks, he had to move like a ninja!

Just not a bite-proof ninja, apparently.

“You know, I should have expected that,” Steve deadpans, but his smile gives him away as Eddie pulls his mouth back from the stretch of Steve’s neck that runs to his shoulder, where honestly Steve thinks Eddie punctured the coat in the process. Fucking feral gremlin.

Steve really wants to keep him. Like, indefinitely.

“You really, really should have,” Eddie agrees, beaming like the sun when there’s only dark around them, making it all feel so warm in the chill.

“Honestly should have expect nothing less,” Eddie’s smile curls a little dangerous as he leans in again, apparently satisfied with having caught his breath enough as he mouths wet against Steve’s lips:

“Big boy.”

And then, again: he pounces.

♥️

also on ao3💫

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divider credit here

[estebanbicon]

The F1 driver who takes every opening he sees

A mechanic’s son, Esteban Ocon took an unlikely path to an F1 driver’s seat. Now he’s fighting to keep it.

MONTE CARLO, Monaco — The mechanic’s son walks past women in bright dresses and men in fine suits, many of them sipping champagne. He breathes in the salty air of the Mediterranean, its shoreline neither rocks nor sand but dozens of mega-yachts.

The Monaco Grand Prix, held each May, is the global peak of sports opulence, less street race than picture postcard from high society: A-listers and royals toasting the good life in the richest place on Earth. Several Formula One drivers live here, their plain-sight hideaway amid a Netflix-fueled fascination with their sport. Among them are Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton — champions, multimillionaires and household names in a sport Hamilton has called a “billionaire boys club.”

Esteban Ocon, though, is not of this world. When Ocon was a karting wunderkind, other drivers would sneer at him and scoff, whispering that the only child of a dumpster-diving mechanic doesn’t belong. That the Frenchman, now 28, will forever be a [wanderer] playing dress-up in a place such as Monaco. Even after eight years on the grid, he remains an outsider.

Then again, an impressive finish here would change minds. It might even change Ocon’s, convincing him it’s possible to be born into one end of the economic spectrum and, with enough talent and moxie, reach the other.

He changes out of his jeans and into an Alpine race suit. He stretches the muscles on his thin frame and climbs into a $15 million super machine. The green flag drops. Ocon accelerates, 0 to 100 mph in 2½ seconds, trying to position himself and his team for an early chance at points. Over the years, he has proved himself as a skilled and fearless driver, aggressive sometimes to the point of recklessness.

With Monaco’s narrow streets and hairpin turns, passing is dangerous. Three-time world champion Nelson Piquet once compared it to riding a bicycle in your living room. And trying to pass a teammate? It simply isn’t done.

Before the race, in fact, Alpine instructed its drivers to avoid each other. Whoever is ahead after the first lap should stay there; the driver behind him is to protect his blind side.

Midway through the first lap, the cars are clustered. Pierre Gasly, Alpine’s other driver, is immediately in front of Ocon. On the eighth turn, just before the circuit’s famed tunnel, Gasly eases off the accelerator. Ocon sees his teammate drift left, allowing space between Gasly and the wall, creating an opening.

FIVE HUNDRED MILES NORTH, there’s a small French village built into the lush countryside. People in Évreux raise chickens, recycle batteries, mow their own grass. And the locals tell of a man north of town who could bring back the dead, so long as the corpse had four wheels.

One of those locals, Marc Guillouet, still remembers the sound of Laurent Ocon’s air compressor bellowing at all hours as Ocon performed reconstructive surgery on another broken-down used car that had been towed through his gate. Then, hours later, another sound: the engine humming back to life.

“The way he refurbished it,” Guillouet says, “it was like new.”

Laurent was a self-taught mechanic who built his shop onto the back of the Ocons’ home, a single-car garage jutting out in yellow stucco. It was in the house’s rear, but it acted as the family’s entrance. Before school some mornings, young Esteban would see his father, grease up to his elbows, still trying to solve the previous night’s puzzle. When Esteban returned in the afternoon, he would watch Dad beamas he turned the key, listened and … there it was, that beautiful music.

“We live for that,” Esteban says now. “He wants to win, like me.”

Laurent’s passion was reviving machines. His son’s was maneuvering them. Esteban says he was 4 the first time he got behind the wheel of a go-kart, gliding around the track at an amusement park, through cones and around other karts as if it were second nature. His friend who came along drove straight into the wall.

Esteban kept driving, testing himself in bigger, faster, more complex machines. The families of some other 8-year-olds hired engineers, barked into radios and traveled with professional mechanics. But Laurent and wife Sabrina had no money for that. If Esteban’s carburetor failed or his torsion bar broke, it was Laurent who mounted a new one. Then they would return to Évreux from Ambourville or Rouen, often with Esteban cradling another trophy.

“We tried to protect Esteban from pressure as much as possible,” Laurent says, answering questions emailed by The Washington Post. “But unfortunately, the only solution is to perform.”

After one of Esteban’s races, a representative from a management company approached. The boy had the talent to make racing his career, the man said, but it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

Thousands of European kids grow up dreaming of the Formula One life, waiting to pilot a rocket at circuits such as Monza and Silverstone and Monaco. Most never make it, and even those who only come close do so after millions have been spent on equipment, travel and engineering.

The families of many drivers commit hundreds of thousands before their child becomes a teenager, largely to get noticed by top feeder programs and driver academies. Among the hopefuls are the kids of billionaires and oligarchs, able to bankroll the pursuit of a nine-figure dream. A few even pay their way onto the F1 grid, with cash-strapped teams agreeing because it transfers the financial responsibility.

Most, though, spend years working their way up.

“Even if you are talented,” Esteban says, “if you don’t have the right people, you don’t manage.”

But all he had were his parents.

“If he really wants to do it,” Esteban remembers hearing Laurent say years ago, “we’ll give him everything we can.”

LAURENT AND SABRINA SOLD THEIR HOUSE and the family business, leaving behind anything that didn’t fit in a 21-foot motor home. They stuffed Esteban’s mini-kart into the rear of a van, surrounded it with tools and Esteban’s toys, then hitched the motor home to the van’s rear.

“Prepping,” Esteban’s parents told him, “for the rest of your life.”

With Évreux in the rearview, home now was a parking lot in Lyon or a roadside in Le Mans. Ten-year-old Esteban had his bicycle and the family border collie to keep him company. Sabrina outfitted the motor home with a fake fireplace and told friends it was their mobile chateau. Le Palais des Ocons had a living room and shared sleeping quarters, with views that were a mountain some days, a vineyard others.

Sabrina and Laurent convinced their son that each day was an adventure, each morning a chance for Esteban to open the door so he and their dog, Viper, could breathe in a dramatic new backdrop. He and Laurent sometimes went on long bicycle rides, where they talked about engines, racing, the future. Then the convoy headed to a nearby track, where the soft-spoken Esteban slid on a helmet, climbed into his kart and transformed into an assassin. There wasn’t an opening he wouldn’t hit, a pass he wouldn’t attempt, a throat he wouldn’t cut. Esteban wanted to win races, yes, but victory was about more than bragging rights.

In his 9-year-old mind, he says, it was the only way to repay his parents.

“I had weight on my shoulders very early,” he says. “There was never a Plan B in my head.”

In 2006, Esteban, then 10, won the regional mini-kart championship, which qualified him for a spot in the French Cup’s “Minime” division. He reached the final heat, and he and another young star, Charles Leclerc, angled for positioning on the last lap. Esteban went inside, trying to overtake Leclerc, and their tires touched. Leclerc spun out and hit the wall; Esteban recovered but finished outside the top five. The two boys spent the rest of the day crying.

The family returned to Évreux each winter, staying with family so Esteban could attend a few months of school before the new season. Otherwise, they kept moving, rarely in the same place for more than a few days.

Esteban won the French Cup in 2007, the “Cadet” title a year later, the junior championship in 2010. With every promotion came longer trips and more expensive gear. An entry-level “baby” kart costs about $3,000, not including registration fees and fuel, and a used mini-kart engine and chassis can be twice that.

By 2011, with a promotion to Winning Series Karting, the chateau was crossing borders so Esteban could race in Spain, Italy and Portugal. Entry fees alone were upward of $5,000 per race, with fuel and spare parts pushing the cost higher. All youth sports have their own unique cultures, and in this one, there is an established taboo: Kids don’t talk about their parents’ wealth.

But chatter happens anyway. Jos Verstappen, father of 14-year-old Max, used to drive in Formula One and spent $1 million bankrolling his son’s career. Leclerc grew up among the yachts and Ferraris of Monaco, and Lance Stroll’s dad, Lawrence, was a fashion billionaire.

Esteban’s folks?

Homeless, the other boys murmured. Sometimes, they said, they even saw his dad lurking near the circuit, waiting to pull other drivers’ used tires out of the trash.

IN 2014, OCON, THEN 18, won nine races and finished in the top three in 21 of 33 races to claim Europe’s Formula Three championship. But it was 17-year-old Verstappen, who had finished third, who was promoted seven months later and became the youngest driver ever to appear on the F1 grid.

“My dad always said it’s not going to be easy,” Ocon says now. “I didn’t really know what my future would be.”

He spent the 2015 season with Mercedes and Lotus — discussed alongside Verstappen, George Russell and Gasly as the sport’s next generation of starsbut still toiling in its minor leagues.

The next season, another young driver, Indonesia’s Rio Haryanto, won a spot with Manor Racing, a fledgling F1 team from Britain. F1 teams today operate under an annual maximum budget. Back then, though,the annual cost for a two-car team could reach nearly $200 million per year. Some teams have lucrative sponsorship agreements and investments from engine manufacturers, but others rely only on prize money and the potential share of a year-end financial pie that is distributed to the teams that finish in the top 10 in points.

Haryanto started the first 12 races that year before Manor dropped him — and not just because he never finished better than 15th. It was because Haryanto, initially backed by a $16.65 million investment from an Indonesian oil and gas company, ran out of money.

Manor’s own survival depended on performance, so in August 2016, it contacted the most talented driver available and told 19-year-old Esteban to get to Belgium. A management company had agreed to underwrite Ocon’s career, so with the motor home now retired, the family traveled by plane.

“A lot of emotions and relief,” Laurent recalls. “The culmination of 16 years.”

FOUR MONTHS AFTER ESTEBAN’S F1 DEBUT, with the sport itself at a crossroads, Manor Racing announced it was broke.

It was January 2017, and this was the first of several dominos to tumble.

The next was that Force India, a well-funded team and a new contender, offered Esteban a multiyear contract after its No. 2 driver, Nico Hülkenberg, defected for Renault. With an elite car, Esteban finished seventh in Russia, fifth in Barcelona, sixth in Montreal — valuable points for his team and proof he belonged.

Then, in Azerbaijan, Ocon saw an opening. He tried to pass Sergio Perez, his Force India teammate, before their wheels touched. A moment later, he went for it again, contacting Perez’s car and damaging both vehicles.

“What did Esteban do, guys?” Perez said on his headset radio. He later called Ocon’s behavior “unacceptable.”

Three races later, Ocon again collided with Perez in Hungary, and a week later in Belgium, Ocon tried to pass his teammate on the inside. The cars made contact, Perez’s front wing flew off, and the veteran driver’s anger exploded.

“Honestly, what the f--- is this guy doing?” Perez said. “F---ing idiot.”

High drama — which, considering the sport’s new ownership, was undoubtably welcome.

Long owned by a European private equity fund, Formula One had recently been purchased by Liberty Media, an American entertainment titan that parlayed its ownership of struggling assets, from satellite radio to the Discovery Channel and QVC, into ownership of the Atlanta Braves. It wasalready planning the all-access Netflix docuseries that would debut in 2019 — less than a year before the pandemic. When the sports calendar ground to a halt, “Drive to Survive” became a massive hit that sent each team’s value soaring.

Sponsors and investors were fighting for a piece of a sports gold rush. Not everyone could keep up, though. Force India’s owner, Vijay Mallya, defaulted on more than $1 billion in loans after his airline failed, before numerous banks accused him of fraud. (Mallya has called these accusations “rubbish” but, after fleeing India for England, is still considered a fugitive.) He sold his team to a group of investors led by Canadian billionaire Lawrence Stroll, who had made his fortune on the threads of Tommy Hilfiger and Michael Kors. And who happened to have a son, Lance, who drove, if not very well, for Williams Mercedes.

Just like that, it was Ocon being bumped, his dream blown to pieces by his own team. When the 2019 season started, he was out of a job. He blamed “politics.”

He joined Mercedes as a reserve driver, and during race weekends, he says, he would climb into a racing simulator and go through scenario after scenario until 4 a.m. On no sleep, he would go to the airport and travel to wherever F1 was because that’s also where Ocon could meet with potential investors, sponsors and engineers. Then, a week later, he would do it all again.

“I didn’t care because I said, ‘Let’s give it a full go,’ show the people how hungry I am,” he says. Failure, he told himself, would mean that his parents’ sacrifices had been in vain.

“I didn’t do all that just to sit on the side,” he continues. “Teams saw how much I was willing to give, how much I was willing to suffer. I wanted to show everyone that I’m willing to go further than anyone else. No sleep for three straight days, simulator day and night, I’m going to do it. And, yes, I’ve lost four kilos in that year and got sick seven or eight times, and the reality is, yes, I’ve suffered and it was tough. And I don’t want to be suffering forever.”

In late summer 2019, with the first season of “Drive to Survive” being filmed, Ocon’s phone rang. Renault was parting ways with Hülkenberg. The French team wanted the kid from Évreux to come home.

“A crazy moment,” Ocon says. “This was it. The tough times are over now.”

LAST YEAR IN MONACO, something happened that was highly disruptive: Ocon finished third. It was his third appearance on the podium and his best result since he won the Hungarian Grand Prix in 2021. In one of Europe’s nightclub capitals, the 27-year-old celebrated. Hard.

Fatigued, dehydrated and emotionally drained, Ocon again got sick. He was nonetheless due back on the grid in Barcelona four days later. He finished eighth in each of his next two races, then 14th, then didn’t finish the two after that.

Nobody weeps for the motorsports rock star, but a life spent in constant motion does take a toll. A year after signing with Renault, which rebranded as Alpine, Ocon was reportedly paid $5 million per year. He put Laurent and Sabrina on the payroll of “Team Esteban,” he says, assigning his mother administrative tasks and his father responsibilities such as renovating Esteban’s house. He could also hire a performance coach to keep his body and mind sharp — or as sharp as possible in a sport whose schedule features two dozen stops around the globe.

Now, years after Laurent and Sabrina tried shielding their son from many of racing’s pressures, it is Tom Clark’s job to act as Ocon’s conscience. To tell him it’s okay to sleep in on weekends, to grab a nap after practice, to avoid media and fans because more interactions mean more exposure to pathogens.To urge him to eat more lean protein and complex carbohydrates, stay ahead of time zones by wearing sunglasses to simulate darkness, use a light therapy lamp or glasses that emit a bright glow above the eyes. To encourage him to take it easy sometimes, especially when it comes to challenging teammates, and maybe to even think about gearing things down a tad.

“Let’s really just put a bubble around you,” Clark says he tells Ocon.

The problem is this is in conflict with the instincts that got Ocon here. Without deprivation and exhaustion, would he have ever left Évreux? If not for aggressive racing and a ruthless competitive drive, could he have even reached the grid? Especially when it comes to challenging teammates, can’t he gear things down a tad?

ON THE FIRST LAP at this year’s Monaco Grand Prix, there’s Gasly in 10th place. Ocon is 11th. Points are awarded to only the top-10 finishers.

The Alpine drivers have known each other since childhood, their hometowns just 20 minutes apart, friends scratching and clawing for better footing. When they were 12, both were in the same championship race. Gasly overtook Ocon on the last lap to win. “I kicked his ass,” Gasly told the Netflix documentary crew, “and he didn’t like it.”

Not long after, the French racing federation had an opening at its sports academy in Le Mans, a kind of Hogwarts for kid racers. It was Gasly who got the invitation, not the mechanic’s son. The friendship crumbled, just one more thing Ocon left behind as he boarded the motor home once more, looking to win races, yes, but also in search of acceptance.

“But look where I am now,” he says. “That has helped me to get through a lot of steps in my life. That’s what made me so competitive, I guess, from so early on.”

Ocon and Gasly hadcollided in 2023, too, in Australia, with both cars taking race-ending damage. After that, tension between the teammates boiled over when Gasly accused Alpine of coddling Ocon. Before Monaco, the team told the pair to cool it.

And they did, for all of 40 seconds. Now, seeing that narrow opening, Ocon goes for it.

His rear tire connects with Gasly’s front wheel once, then a second time, sending a bitter cloud of burned rubber into the sea air. Ocon’s car goes airborne before turning sideways, and though it lands on its wheels, the impact causes catastrophic damage.

“What did he do?” Gasly says into his radio.

Pieces of carbon fiber fly off Ocon’s car. The tire is punctured, the gearbox fried, the suspension arm broken.

“That’s it, guys,” Ocon tells his team. His Grand Prix is finished.

Needing repairs that will cost tens of thousands and with Ocon’s car due in Montreal in 10 days, Bruno Famin, Alpine’s team principal, publicly admonishes Ocon and vows “consequences.” F1’s governing body, the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile, penalizes Ocon after ruling he initiated the collision.

A week after Monaco, Alpine announces that, in 2025, it will replace one of its drivers. Neither had gotten a podium, and only Ocon had won a point for Alpine. But the team chooses to keep Gasly, meaning Ocon again will be set adrift, the [wanderer] seemingly destined to forever roam.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, Esteban and Laurent went for a long bike ride. The old man still lives near Évreux, operating a shop his son bought him. He still likes to work on cars and make music, albeit as more hobby than job, andprefers to traverse the countryside on an e-bike.

Even against his dad, Esteban can’t help himself.

“I still pull away,” he says.

First, though,during a quieter moment on a recent ride, Laurent told his son a story.

There was once another boy with talent and ambition, the story went, hoping to someday become a professional cyclist. He was as skilled as anyone, but the other kids had access to training and coaches that this boy’sfamily couldn’t afford. So lying in bed one night when he was 16, he succumbed to these economic realities and abandoned his dream, diverting his attention and passion into becoming a mechanic.

So, he went on, when that boy became a man and a husband and a dad, he and his wife agreed to do everything possible to position their son for success. To tell him about possibility, not limitation, and raise him in an environment that would eliminate regret.

“He had never told that story,” Esteban says. “That moment, basically, when he was lying on the bed like that, probably changed my life. They clearly gave more than what they could, and without them I wouldn’t be here.”

Esteban says he occasionally fantasizes about what it would be like to stay in one place: to stop moving, inhale, feel settled. Maybe someday, he says, but not just yet. In July, after Ocon was two months adrift, Kevin Magnussen announced he would be leaving Haas.

Haas, as it happens, is run by Ayao Komatsu, a former F1 engineer who had met and encouraged Esteban when he was just a teenager. A decade later, Komatsu came through. Haas offered Ocon not only a seat for 2025 but acceptance for all the things he is and is not.

“Esteban, he needs an environment that he knows the team is behind him, supporting him, listening to him,” Komatsu says. “No politics. I believe we can provide that.”

But what about the suggestion that Ocon doesn’t play well with others? That you can never take the Évreux fully out of the kid?

“If I was worried about that,” Komatsu says, “I wouldn’t sign him.”

After their bikeride, Laurent and Esteban turned around but kept talking over the wind. Farmland and hills blurred past, same as they did years ago, and a favorite memory of Esteban’s sprung to mind. It was morning, and the 12-year-old awoke in the motor home again with no idea where he was. So he opened the door to see blue sky, the slopes of great mountains, the shoreline of the Mediterranean.

Laurent had parked the van and motor home in Monaco, where yachts are moored and the best drivers live. Esteban remembers the feeling of that moment, the possibility, and his dad stepped out and said there was nothing to stop his son from racing here someday. Whatever came next would be determined by Esteban.

“There was no guarantee,” Esteban recalls his dad saying. But the boy had a chance to prove he belonged. Picturing the momentyears later, he inhaled, kept pedaling and let Laurent catch up as the two of them headed home.

[yourlocallyneysimp]

well... if no one wants it, I thought I would like it again, please don't get tired of me (TwT)

The reader and Lyney are lovers, but the childhood friend and bully of the reader who is jealous of Lyney starts beating the reader a little more than before?And no matter how hard the reader tries to hide her beating from Lyney, Lyney sees what's going on...

(I have very different fantasies, right🤭😔)

Bruises. ♡

Lyney x Reader

A/n: I won't ever get tired of you. ♡

Warnings: Abuse, injuries

Everyday.

Every day you would be wearing more clothing than the day before.

Lyney didn't mind at all. You could wear a chicken suit and he would still consider you beautiful.

But what worried him the most was when you would cover yourself up, even when it was well over 100 degrees outside.

"Are you sure you want to keep that on, m'lady? It's really warm out here you know.."

"Yes, I'm fine."

You clearly weren't. You were sweating and clearly out of breath, but Lyney didn't push the topic any further. He still made sure to find shade and hand you a cold water bottle though.

It has been going on for a while now.

Ever since you've became good friends with Lyney, your childhood friend clearly held distaste for him, but you at first ignored it.

He would talk bad about Lyney and spew random insults, explaining why Lyney was the worst. You would uncomfortably shift in your seat as you should listen to him talk.

You tried telling him to stop multiple times, but this caused him to roll his eyes and proceed to trashtalk your friend.

Now, your childhood bully.

He moved back to Fontaine, and ever since he did, your days have become worse and worse.

You didn't know him that well, all you knew was that he was good friends with your older brother.

As a child, you remembered that your bully and your brother would team up and 'play fight' with you.

It hurt, it really did. But they always just said that they were playing.

But now that your bully was back, it didn't seem like play fighting anymore. The hits were more aggressive and they hurt.

It is only when you get hit in the face that Lyney notices what's going on. That bruise on your face was not easy to hide.

"Y/n, who hit you?"

You tried playing it off like you accidently ran into a pole, but Lyney was not buying it. You knew that Lyney was serious since he called you by your name.

Usually, he calls you "m'lady" or "princess," but right now, it was different.

"It's nothing really. It was just a simple accident.."

Lyney only sighed as he swiftly took off your sweater, causing you to try and grab it back, but Lyney held it up.

"..Were these an accident then?

Lyney pointed towards your bruises. At that point, you couldn't help it anymore. All the lies and emotions you've been bottling up for so long finally came out.

You burst out crying as you explained everything to him. About the way your childhood friend talks about Lyney, the reason why you've been hiding your bruises and, most importantly, your childhood bully.

Lyney for the most part kept calm, but he was still upset.

Lyney gently hugged you, making sure not to put any pressure on your injuries.

Kissing your forehead as you sobbed into his shirt, his eyes furrowed.

"Stay here, I'll be right back."

Lyney smiled at you, but the smile was unsettling and made you worried.

"Don't worry, just wait right here."

Lyney picked up his hat and left you alone in the room.

As Lyney walked through the halls of the building, his smile faltered. He would make sure to conflict pain on those who did the same to you and will turn them into a sea of cards.

[vagabond-umlaut]

gesundheit

you deem gojo to be the most stubborn nurse you've ever seen. you suppose you're the most stubborn patient gojo's ever seen.

but what you don't know is you both are the most caring, and the most idiotic, couple of best friends [or perhaps... something else] anyone's ever seen.

▸ student! gojo satoru x student! gn! reader; sickfic; mentions of flu & the medicines treating it [i wish i could include their composition too but no :(((]; a brief appearance of yummy chicken soup; gallons & gallons of tooth-rotting fluff; one sexual innuendo; ETERNALLY PINING 'TORU & ETERNALLY OBLIVIOUS SHORTIE ARE BACK!! :D

▸ belongs to series we're the summer to our winter rain but you can read this as a stand-alone if you wanna!

▸ the gif, divider and characters used ain't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

obdurate, obstinate, bull-headed, pig-headed—

you reckon there's no word in the lexicon of any language, from any corner of this world, that can adequately describe the boy crouched before you.

furrowed brows barely visible from behind the unkempt white bangs, gojo shoots you a woefully concerned look, so much so that it makes you wanna smack it right off his face– and says, "your temperature is still above 100, shortie. you sure you took all the medications right on time?"

"i did," you grit out through clenched teeth and a hoarse throat before a fit of cough racks through your warm body, making you clutch onto your blankets for dear life while the airways fight to expel the irritants into the tissue you've pressed over the lower two-thirds of your face—

a painful battle which continues for a good portion of a minute or two before ending– temporarily— you toss the tissue into the overflowing trash can few feet away and return to glaring at your best friend, with a very exhausted, very frustrated sigh.

gojo's shades glint back innocently in the low light of the television as the boy dutifully places the thermometer in its box then moves to put the lids back on the tupperware he brought you dinner in.

you sigh yet again, wrapping the blankets tighter round yourself.

"sometimes, i wonder if you ever learnt to read, y'know?" you mumble in a soft voice, yet its tone mad enough to make him flinch as he rises from the carpet– having cleared the center table of the remainders of the chicken soup haibara made for you– only to cover it a tiny second later with anti-pyretics, cough syrups, nasal decongestants, inhalers-

gasp of shock worsening into a scratchy cough, you wheeze out, "did you really not read my messages, 'toru? i asked u to leave my soup at the doorstep but you warped right to the centre of my living room— i also asked you not to buy any medicine for me, i already bought them today, but- but- you literally bought the entire medicine shop for me!"

"yeah. and?" the white-haired boy retorts, short and sweet with that eye-crinkling beam of his– one he knows never not works on you, "it isn't like i don't have the means to afford it. and as for your orders via the messages..."

he trails off, shooting you a wink as he moves to plop down near your feet on the sofa and drawls, "i've always been a brat. why don't ya put me back in my place, huh?"

in his place... don't tell me this idiot's speaking of...

"is that supposed to be a bdsm thing, satoru?" you inquire, genuinely confused. concerned. "and you should raise your standards, y'know? thinking a person sick and dying from a flu to be attractive enough to apply a pick-up line on them; i hone– hey, no, why the fuck are you—"

"scoot. over."

neither gojo's stony tone nor his pinched features brook any room for you to disagree, yet you decide not to be held back by such, legs and arms struggling to free themselves from the blanket to push the way too tall figure squeezing you into the sofa as he lies down beside you.

not even a moment passes before your blankets are rudely ripped off your body, then dumped on the floor beneath. swallowing back a sigh of relief– the fan feels so good!– you muster a glower to shoot at your best friend.

earning an eyeroll and a huff, you know are fond, in reply.

"the paracetamol will be kicking in soon, and you'll start sweating like hell then," the boy explains, plucking his shades off and placing them on the table beside, "and that sweat needs to get evaporated asap for your fever to reduce asap— which won't happen if you stay swaddled in your blankets. didn't ya know that, shortie?"

your fever-stricken mind didn't until now, but you decide not to voice the fact out loud, just to not appease the smug grin on that bastard's face.

instead, you retort, "but don't you know staying in close contact with a sick person, taking no preacutions, can make you fall ill too?"

"nah!" gojo shoves your concern away with a dismissive shake of his head, "i'm not one of the strongest duo for nothing, you know? them weakass flu viruses can do nothing to me."

then adds, swiping a calloused palm over the skin of your forehead— cracking a smile, you realize, is 'cause he finds it sweating, "moreover, you're sick, shortie— you don't think i'm gonna leave you to take care of yourself, all alone with no one to help, do you?"

you don't.

of course, you don't, knowing who your dearest friend is— a very very stubborn boy, a store of immense power, but most importantly— the holder of a heart made from the purest of pure gold...

a half-hearted ugh is the only response you decide to grace his query with, not really minding when the boy ruffles your hair and pulling the thinnest of the blankets over you both, shifts so that he is now on his side with an arm tucked under his head, while you remain squished in between him and the sofa, face nearly pressing into his shirt-covered chest.

allowing a beat to pass, you peer up at him, mumbling tiredly.

"but why are you sleeping with me here, 'toru? go to one of the rooms and sleep in them. your legs will hurt a lot tomorrow, if you keep them dangling like that."

"let them," gojo smiles, wrapping a loose arm round your midsection, "it's more important for me to stay close to you to know when you're feeling sick and when you're not- or do you wanna make me sleep on the floor? i can do that for you."

"i am not saying this for me, 'toru," you grumble, inching closer to him despite your brain barking opposite instructions at you, "it's for you– i move a lot when i'm asleep. you won't get even a wink of sleep."

your best friend's lips lift knowingly. "why do you think i trapped you like this, hm?"

your zeal to dissuade him, itself fades a little. still, you persist, "i also tend to mumble in my sleep. won't you find that creepy?"

"nothing's creepy if it's in your sweet voice," he answers with a very... uncanny smile then rushes to add with a visibly exhausted sigh when you shoot him a frown, "i've got earplugs in my bag. i'll use them if it's too unbearable for me."

"tch!"

the battle of talking him out of this seemingly- definitely lost, you tsk and move to shut your eyes, finally letting your ailing body to listen to the call of sleep— before your eyes fly open again— a brand new idea whirring to life in your mind.

"but what if i start sneezing, or worse, coughing in the middle of the night? what are you go—"

"shut up," gojo shushes you, pressing your face into his shirt by a firm hold on the back of your head. you make a yelp of protest but it goes ignored by him as he continues, voice dropping to a pleasant rumble.

"and in case you start sneezing or coughing, i'm gonna wake up and take care of you and will stay awake till you're perfectly okay and fine— is that clear to you, shortie? taking care of you is only why i'm here tonight— why else would i bother myself with a snot-nosed person?"

his remark makes your fingers want to pinch his sides hard– but you stop them— choosing to let them draw nonsensical designs over his back, instead. a barely-there shiver passes through his body, you feel it, the same moment he removes his hand from the back of your hair to keep it in between your shoulder blades, lightly pressing, loosening the knots there.

yawning a little, you nuzzle into him at the comfort his action gives, then blink a pair of bleary eyes up at him, "do you know how much i adore you?"

curiosity and delight dimple his cheeks in a smile, clear as day for you to see. he asks, "you do?"

"mmhm," you don't waste even an instant in humming your assent, the relief brought by the medicines and gojo making you slowly fall into the grasp of slumber, "i really do. you're very very very precious to me and i adore you so much, 'toru. you're the best."

"i'm very happy to know that," the boy murmurs in a tone way too soft for him, but your slowly ebbing consciouness doesn't let you dwell on it for long— a smile shaping your lips at his next words, "and i too love you very much. i lo-"

he stops abruptly, making you frown up at him, worried— only to find him wearing a bright grin on his face. something tells you he is hiding something— his eyes are too nervous for a bragging person as him...

deciding not to pay it any attention, you pucker your lips into a pout.

"heyyy," you whine, "finish your sentence, 'toru!!! you can't leave your darling best friend hanging like thattt!!!"

the tension in his facial muscles reduces a pinch at your demand. the boy's grin widens, glowing even brighter to your tired eyes than those led-like blue eyes of his in the dim lights of the room.

thumbing your cheek lightly, he gives into your urging. "okay, fine— i love my darling shortie the most in this world. so much so that there is no one in this world who can love you as much as i do," he says in a gentle whisper, then adds— face growing that same strange smile as before— "my beloved best friend... now does that make you happy?"

the abrupt change in his tone to an oddly cheery quality as he makes his query is more than enough to give you one hell of a whiplash. you quickly sidestep it– filing the many queries it brings, away to be dealt with on a healthier day.

a brief shiver sending you press yourself closer into his comforting self, you close your eyes and mumble into the fabric of his shirt, "it makes me the happiest... thank you, 'toru. i too love you the most."

a tiny beat passes before you feel a feather-light kiss landing on your hairline— and that's the last thing you notice, before your drowsiness finally claims you, lulling you to a restful sleep in the safe embrace of your dearest 'toru.

▸ IMPORTANT NOTE: whatever u do, pls don't be as dumb as 'toru or shortie here!! if u r the one suffering from a flu or if u r the one taking care of a person who has flu, pls take the required precautions, and take care of urself and the ppl around u! love u sm!

[as a med student, it literally pained me to write these two being so stupid & careless when dealing with an illness as infectious and irritating like flu... but oh well. anything is possible in fiction, right? 🙃]

▸ masterlist

[marshedmallowes]

Like anything miles 1610. I feel like everyone is writing for miles 42 and forgetting about the og!

midnight cravings - miles morales

SUMMARY: texts at 3am + a mcdonalds notif = a recipe for chaos

WORD COUNT: 561

A/N: i love midnight snacking. mcdonalds always hits harder at 2 in the morning! also sorry i keep writing miles in like situations where he isnt usually 100% Himself (sleepy, sick) so um,.. i will get to a proper one soon

WARNINGS: nothing seriously bad just fluff, food i guess, reader doesn't know miles is spiderman, reader is highkey a simp

"Ugh..." You wake up with a groan, rubbing your eyes and assessing your surroundings. Noticing the still-dark environment surrounding you, you reach out for your phone which was on the bedside table.

2:42 AM. The phone lights blare onto your face, causing you to squint. As you scroll through your notifications, two catch your eye— a text bubble from Miles sent a few minutes ago, and a promo from McDonalds for their new meal.

Miles’ message was rather cryptic, and a normal person wouldn’t understand what “ruawkkekkrkx” meant. But a few months of these kind of typos (which meant Miles was either on patrol or barely awake), and one learns the language.

On the other hand, the McDonalds notif… if it was a propaganda technique, it was definitely working on you. You click on the advertisement, and damn did that chicken burger look good…

You decide to go back to Miles’ text. After opening the app and keyboard, your fingers feel too heavy to type… so you tap on the call button instead.

After exactly three rings, he picks up; in place of his normally spunky voice was a low, raspy one.

“Hey. You good? What’s with the random call?” Damn, his voice was unintentionally sultry as hell. Would it be weird if you started screen recording? He wouldn't know, right?

Ahem. Anyway.

"Oh, I'm fine, a little hungry though. I just didn't wanna type. Um, nice voice by the way." You hear a chuckle through the screen.

"So, you hungry? I mean, I could like, get you a snack or whatever."

"It is literally 3 in the morning right now." Though you expressed disapproval at what he said, your facial muscles tugged into a smile.

"Whatchu want?"

One link to a McDonalds meal later, you're patiently waiting in a now dimly lit room, phone in hand and still in bed. You decide to watch a show while waiting.

You're midway through your show, engrossed in a particular fight scene when you hear your window open with a click. Your fight or flight senses kick in, and you jump out of your bed and grab your phone and lamp (it's the nearest weapon, so...).

You watch as a dark figure comes out of the window in fear, you are ready to swing your lamp and dial your nearest police station when the figure raises both their hands in the air, to signify peace...?

The person pulls up their mask to show their face, one that you'd instantly recognize anywhere.

"Miles!"

You drop everything and sprint to his arms— literally nothing, not even a meteor, could stop you at that moment from wrapping yourself around his lean figure. Miles places his hands on your back, and the two of you relish in each other's presence.

You wish the two of you could stay like that forever, but the enticing smell of a chicken burger and drink eventually draw your attention towards it and you pull away from him.

"Can we talk about how the hell you got to my window with me living in the 21st floor? I seriously thought that the moment you clicked open the window was going to be my last for a few seconds."

Miles smiles and slightly bites his lips, and God forbid the kinds of things you would do for this man.

"Maybe over a chicken burger?"

a/n: to be completely honest i cringed so hard typing this fanfic but i just need to finish it so i hope none of you umm.. feel what im feeling rn at my own writing...

[fictionalmenxyn]

Can we get a Nightwing or Red Hood taking care of a sick yn if it hasn't been done before

Of course I can!! Imma do both in one if that’s ok! If you want them separate let me know and I can do that too!!

☞︎𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮☜︎

Pairings: nightwing x reader x red hood

Warnings: language

꥟꥟꥟

It’s been a long night. The day was slow, you felt unwell. You could feel the oncoming flu since this morning. But only when you were on patrol did it hit you like a brick wall. So much that Jason said “who the fuck keeps sniffing into their ear piece?!?” You tried to laugh it off saying it was Dick. But it was 100% you. You just didn’t want to tell the guys. Cause they’d go protective mode on you.

But it was after you all showered that they realised you were coming down with the flu.

So that’s how you ended up here. Wearing Jason’s t-shirt and Dick’s boxers. Laying in bed with Jason laying next to you. He held you closely. Not caring if he got sick, he rarely did. I mean since his ‘accident’ he never got sick. So he had Dick go and make you some warm food. Considering for some reason you had the opposite of a fever. Well you had one, but you were extremely cold. Hot at the touch, but you felt cold.

Jason has the remote on his one muscular thigh. The other held your legs on top. His one arm around your waist as the other hand caresses your thighs. He had put on the show you had been binging recently. But due to patrolling, you keep up with it as much.

Dick soon returned “how you feeling now, love?” You nodded “I’m okay, still feeling cold…” Jason pressed the back of his hand to your forehead “still feeling hot to me, baby…” you nodded “I know… I’m just having the chills…” he nodded and pulled you closer.

Dick holds out a hot water bottle for you “I’m not sure if this will help… but I did it cause I know you like it when you’re sick..” you smiled softly “thank you, Dee…” he kissed your temple and headed back out the room and downstairs to the kitchen.

Jason rested his cheek to the top of your head. “You know, you could’ve told us before patrol… Dick would’ve stayed here with you…” you hummed “I know… but I didn’t want you patrolling alone and also I was fine all day… it was like my luck ran out when I started patrolling…” Jason chuckled softly yet deeply.

As you ate your chicken and noodles, one of your favourites that Dick would make cause he’s really good at the dish. Due to Alfred’s handy knowledge.

Jason rubbed the side of your arm as Dick played with a few strands of your hair. You all in the large bed of your sheared bedroom. You practically squished in the middle of the two huge men. You smiled softly. Considering you three are crime fighting people who help civilians at night. You felt normal, like an everyday person who doesn’t stay up till ungodly hours fighting people.

After you were done with your food. You placed the fork into the bowl. Jason picked the plate up and left to go put it in the dishwasher.

Dick pulled you into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you. He mumbled into your hair “how’s the princess feelin’?” You sighed “like shit… but better now you two are takin’ care of me..” he smiled softly “you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Jason returned. He laid back in bed with you two. He rubbed your back as you laid on top of Dick. Dick kept his lips pressed to your head as Jason moved closer to you both and continued to rub you back under the T-shirt. Jason pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

After some time, you felt tried. Jason and Dick noticed your half-lidded eyes. Jason saw you struggling to go to sleep. Something he often saw when you were sick. He reached over you both grabbing his book he was currently reading. He opened the page. Resting his head on your back as his mouth was close to your ear. He knew you loved when he read aloud. Both of their voices were attentive, but Jason when he would read??? Would make you melt on the spot. A guy who’s buff, crime fighter, badass and an overall hunk… who READS?!? Hot… very… very hot…

So as he read, Dick would occasionally kiss your temple and rub your side. Dick then reached over and grabbed an eye mask he’d use when it would be too light in the summer time. He gently pulled it over your eyes. Stroking your hair as Jason read to you.

Jason smirked softly when he heard your breathing. A thing he learnt when you were awake and asleep. The difference in your breathing. He did it, not purposefully. But when he’d have nightmares or he’d get anxious out of nowhere. He’d always liked listening to your breathing. So he could regulate his. So he naturally learnt the difference of your breathing. Jason whispered to Dick “she’s out..” Dick nodded. Gently moving you to the middle of the bed. Dick wrapped his arms around your shoulders as Jason wrapped his arms around your waist.

All of you calling it in for the night. The guys loved you dearly, so they were on full guard when you were sick. As you did for them. And you definitely did when Dick was the next one to fall sick after being close to you. Then Jason was the ‘part time nanny’ since he doesn’t get sick.

And best believe he got you both to make up for the fact he did everything for you both. He wasn’t leaving this empty handed. No chance. He loves you. But you owe him.

꥟꥟꥟

[spaceagebachelormann]

zigmar i come to you humbly on this fine evening with the simple request that you give me some sort of might duck sustenance por favor and muchas gracias

they can be incoherent and stupid and goofy and silly to the max i just need to rotate this little kids like rotisserie chickens in my mind (esp fulton portman and julie)

random miscellaneous tmd thoughts !

✧ warnings: some of them may be ooc ngl

✧ additional info: u got it pookums 😈😈😈🙏 also these can be read as either platonic or romantic (not luis)

✧ m.list — nav.

♡ charlie conway !

the most insane taste in music literally ever

bro goes from madonna to death metal SO FAST

but ngl his playlist is always the best and he always gets to play music whenever u go anywhere

but oh my god he’d love pierce the veil in present day

HES ALSO LIKE SOMEHOW AMAZING AT MATH. but he cannot do science for literal shit

also his clothing style changes js like his music taste

will literally be kurt cobain one day and morrissey the next (hed hate morrissey though)

♡ adam banks !

every team sleepover/event/literally anything could js be a spontaneous hangout is always at his house

it’s because he’s rich and his house is huge as fuck and he has every board game known to man

just do not play uno because a fight always breaks out (charlie is always part of it)

he’s always the one who ends the fight also

he has this very calming presence that’s so nice to be around and him js talking to whoever got into a fight immediately helps calm them down

also weirdly good at comforting in the middle of the night but never during the day??

♡ lester averman !

he would watch full house religiously prove me wrong

his favourite character is obviously joey because they are one in the same

everyone on the team and their mother has been forced to watch full house while he’s been at their house/vice versa

he can also cook like. decently well !! it’s not something he’d prefer to do but he will for his friends if they’re tired or smth

♡ fulton reed !

this little shit

he is so unbelievably competitive over the smallest things it’s actually insane

typa guy to race u to see who can get to one side of the room first and start genuinely tweaking if he doesn’t win

at sleepovers he refuses to fall asleep first even if it’s just by a few minutes

he could be dead to the world but still have his eyes open cause he refuses to let u win (unless ur his s/o cause he might consider it that way)

♡ connie moreau !

she is definitely a theatre kid idc

her favourite musicals are probably grease, hairspray and heathers

she likes female main characters!!

everytime she gets into a new fandom she immediately starts thinking abt what it’d be like a musical and probably wanted to be a composer at some point

would 100% beg to use the aux on a road trip and then blast hamilton loud as balls

she wholeheartedly believes six is a top tier musical and she will DIE on this hill

(fun fact i’ve met andrea macasaet <3)

♡ guy germaine !

modern day guy would’ve loved basic white girl music

“life is too short to pretend to hate taylor swift” —him

also 100% a britney spears girlie. and nsync and every stereotypical white girl artist

but i wholeheartedly believe britney would be his favourite and he has her whole discography on cassette, cd, vinyl, u name it he has a britney spears collection

also his ass is NOT straight 💀 i’ve never met a straight man who listens to britney spears

♡ julie gaffney !

lowkey a regina george multitude if she wasn’t kinda. yk. a bad person

she’s a mix of cher and regina

everyone at the fancy ass boarding school literally loves her because she’s calm, smart pretty nice etc etc she’s just a really great person to be around

shes that one student who has every assignment finisher a week early, all a’s and 100% in every subject WITHOUT being mean abt it!!

her ass is friends with the whole student population and knows every well and knows all the drama but won’t tell everyone if she thinks it’s too personal (it’s it’s random petty nonsense she tells the team)

♡ ken wu !

secretly rlly good friends with julie but nobody knows even though they do not try to hide it at all

literally wander the halls talking abt whatever just for everyone to be like “y’all are friends???”

also this man secretly loves lana del rey

him and julie will sit on his bedroom floor and literally tell him the most insane and jaw dropping gossip she heard that day while lana is playing in the background

everytime someone asks his favourite lana song he says grandfather please stand on the shoulders of my father while he’s deep-sea fishing on did you know that there’s a tunnel under ocean blvd to fuck with them

♡ dean portman !

is actually very very good at math!!

he was a tutor for the 9th/10th graders for a bit to get volunteer hours and also cause he just likes doing math

you’d expect it to be like doing homework with ur dad and the poor kid is in tears while deans like “WHATS NINE. TIMES TWO.” but he’s actually surprisingly patient

if he’s explained something a few times and they still don’t get it he’ll just try it a different way until they get it and work them through the problem

has rlly strong relationships with the 9th and 10th graders cause of this and is essentially their older brother figure

the amount of 14/15 year olds that he’s given relationship advice too is insane (id be one of the 14 year olds probably)

♡ luis mendoza !

his type is secretly quiet girls cause he finds them rlly interesting and likes the thought of them being happy around him but quiet around everyone else

he’s like yes girl be urself with me

it all stemmed from the girl he liked in 8th grade who helped pick up his pencils when she accidentally knocked his pencil case out of his hand (she was a quiet nerdy girl)

like a whole year later and he’s still trying to rizz her up 💀

he’s one of those guys who takes forever to lose feelings

the girl is actually good friends with him btw

♡ dwayne robertson !

i feel like he is fucking AMAZING at baking

his icon is dolly parton and he heard berry pie so he immediately learned how to bake

if someone he knows has a birthday he either bakes the birthday cake or brings them something he made depending on how close he is with them

and holy shit it’s the most amazing thing u will ever taste and nothing will ever compare

yes he’s one of those guys who will go on an 18 minute tangent on how amazing dolly parton is if someone talks shit about her (same i love dolly)

[screamintoad]

Silanche kid-Fleur Vanrouge

“Now I’m one step closer to becoming a knight!”

Voice claim: TBA

Character info

  Finally we have Fleur Vanrouge, eldest child of the Vanrouge family. When she was younger her hair formed thick and fluffy curls that seemed to be as wild as her personality, as she grew older, nothing changed. She’s rarely found inside, she’s mostly outdoors with the animals, exploring the forest around their house, or running around castle Draconia. She aspires to be a knight like her father and uncle Sebek so she did everything to become one. She learned horsemanship, sword fighting, and studied everything that she could. From linguistics, to history, and science. When the time came for her to be sorted into her dorm at NRC she was ready to hear the mirror shout “Diasomnia!” Only it didn’t, it shouted the name of her mother’s dorm. Pomefiore. Now she’s an agent of chaos for the current dorm leader as a type of rebellion. 

  Growing up in such a large household is something she adores. When she was younger she would always go with Silver to the castle if he didn’t have to be on patrol, if he was then she would hang out with her grandpa or uncle Sebek. As kids, Lilia gifted her and Alaric matching crystal necklaces that were enchanted with a protection spell, ever since then they always wear them. 

Fun facts: Always has something stuck in her hair (flowers, leaves, twigs, etc.). When her or Alaric visits home, they have a tradition of going on a trail ride past a waterfall that they’ve dubbed the “Fire Fall” because at sunrise the water appears golden-orange, then they’ll race back home and the winner chooses their next activity. Always has some type of armor on under her casual clothes post-graduation. Veryyyy baby-faced during her first year at NRC. People assume she’s a daddy’s girl but that’s not 100% true, she loves her dad and is his mini me but much like her brother she’ll always call Blanche “Mama”.

Basic info

Age: 16-20 (first year-post graduation)

Height: 167cm/5’4 during first year, 182cm/ 5’10 at graduation 

B-day: May 17th (Taurus) 

Dominant hand: right

Family: Blanche and Silver (Mama and Dad), Alaric (brother), Lilia (grandpa), Granny Primrose (great grandma “granny”)

Nickname: Wildflower (by family and close friends)

School years

Class A

Club: Horseback riding club

Best subject: P.E

Hobbies: archery, horse riding, loving her significant other

Pet peeve: People underestimating her 

Favorite food: Her mom’s baking

Least favorite food: Her grandpa’s cooking

Talent: Swordsmanship 

Unique Magic: Rose Armor, similar to Blanche she can grow thorny vines around her and even grow roses from the vines. Similar to Miss Acacia from Jack and the Cuckoo-clock Heart. 

Character dynamics

Alaric: Thick as thieves, they’re inseparable when either of them comes home. Despite having different hobbies and interests she tries her best to remember everything he likes. 

Jane: Little sister numero uno. Fleur sometimes enables Jane’s chaotic tendencies but she always makes sure that she doesn’t get hurt. They would explore the Vanrouge property and Fleur would show her all the good spots to look for rare rocks. Girl talks go hard between Jane, Fleur, and Luna. 

(Jackrose AU)

Joey Howl: Lovers! They grew up together and have a classic friends to lovers relationship. She’s a year older than him so at NRC they meet up either between classes or after the school day to talk about stuff. Usually it’s Joey complaining about the ruckus at his dorm or Jane complaining about Pomefiore. 

Luna Howl: Little sister numero dos. If Luna wasn’t causing trouble with Jane and Alaric she would be with Fleur. There’s been numerous times where Fleur’s had to stop her from chasing the chickens. 

(Emmeleus AU)

Aria Draconia: They’ve known each other forever and Fleur is even her personal guard. As serious as she likes to be on duty, Aria always reminds her that they’re friends first before knight and princess. Perhaps even more than friends. One day Aria began leaving gifts for Fleur and she assumed it was because they’re friends or maybe the princess was being polite or she knew about Fleur’s crush on her and is just indulging it in a way that isn’t rude. Until one day the king himself pulled Fleur aside to ask if her and Aria were in a courtship. 

HOWL KIDS AND ARIA BELONG TO @blood-red-hummingbee

TAGS: @gimmeurmoneyagh @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @4necdote @twtysevapr

@angelwishess @moonyasnow @beneathsakurashade @h0neybane

@justm3di0cr3

@bunniehunn @midnightmah07 TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED OR NOT. TAGGING EVERYONE THAT I REMEMBER FOR THE FANKIDS

[goreinfested]

Take your time dear, love that you’re getting into writing again.

Can you do protective rko hcs pls?

PROTECTIVE RANDY ORTON HCS:

(c’mon you know I HAD to use my favorite picture for his first request, how could I not ? Imagine reader is the person in the picture thoooo)

I feel as though Randy is kind of possessive so that goes hand in hand with being very protective of his significant other

Will get into a lot of fights for you.

Like one time some random guy was catcalling you after Monday night raw just finished airing, you were clearly trying to tell him nicely that you weren’t interested but this idiot would NOT take no for an answer

Randy of course is walking over to you since you had plans to meet up after he was done changing and so when the scene was unfolding before him he wasted no time walking over to your side

“ hey babe.” He would say nonchalantly as he towered behind you BUT the veins popping out the side of his forehead tells you that he is VERY pissed off

Of course you see the fucking legend killer you’re not sticking around long enough to find out what consequences of your actions were so it didn’t tell long for the guy to fuck off. Scary dog privileges <3

He’s very hesitant when it comes to introducing you to all the guys he works with since not everyone in the business is actually nice backstage. Which probably makes you feel sometimes that he’s hiding you but really he just doesn’t want you to end up in any situation where you’re in danger ( not that he’d EVER let that happen to you )

People rarely get the privilege of even LOOKING at you let alone trying to mean mug you any sort of way

This man will give them the nastiest glare

Constantly stands beside you with his arm hung over your shoulder. any sort of contact to make sure he can jump in the moment anything happens

Though he doesn’t ever verbally express how concerned he can get over you his actions definitely show it

Will deny deny deny if you ask him

“ hey why are you always so close? I don’t need to be protected” you say and he always replies with “ oh don’t flatter yourself, I just need arm candy at all times” but we all know that is a lie

He stole your phone one time to make sure he was listed as an emergency contact

gets HEATED if his fans try to harass you on social media because why the hell are they harassing his significant other? I’m talking about full on rants with some of the people in the comment section ( he’s definitely chilled out the longer you’ve been together) now he makes it a point to post stories of you two on Instagram with him hugging you from behind or just holding you- just to show that if anyone wants you they have to go through him

Does not like letting you go anywhere alone which is actually ironic considering his job.

He definitely tries to talk you into or bring you with him while on the road whenever possible

You’re going to a cafe? He’s going with. You’re going to the bar? Not without him.

He tries to dress undercover when you’re out in public but it never really works so really at this point is he helping protect you or is he just bringing more attention to you?

Is your nurse 100%

If you get sick he will cook for you ( probably just warms up a can of chicken noodle soup TBH) “ can you stop being an inconvenience and get better already?” Kind of mean about it which makes you feel bad but again his actions are always more truthful to you than his words

Refuses to sleep unless you are in the bed with him

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[NEXT PART]

Okay I'm trying to be brave and post this before I chicken out, first time writing a fic, and I'm not sure if this is any good.

So, since I don't have time to draw out all of the revenant au story, but I still want to share it, I'm writing it instead.

Will continue this if people are interested!

[this isn't requiered but reading the comic might help you understand this better]

[also there's a Soap pov version of this by Badolmen, it doesn't line up 100% because we didn't work together but it's very very good and you should read it regardless]

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking, Ghost.”

He shifted in his place. Can never get used to Price’s voice in his head.

“You know I work best alone. All he’s gonna do is get in the way.” 

Price’s mustache twitched, as if he’s fighting a smile. Bastard is about to drop something to win the entire argument, Ghost already knows.

“He’s a revenant. Strong one too.” 

Fucking figures. Still, he could argue he doesn’t need any support-

“Intel is rigged with explosives. And the Sergeant just so happens to be explosion-proof.”

…Fuck.

Ghost sighs heavily like he was presented with an unreasonable amount of shit to deal with. He watches as Price sits there, shit eating grin spitting at him. He looks back to the folder, at the details of this already annoying mission, “you said there are 2 buildings?”

Price snaps from his self boasting to confirm “one suspected barracks and the other an abandoned warehouse. Warehouse contains the majority of explosives.” 

Finally finding something to work with, Ghost straightens his back to his usual self-assured posture, “the Sergeant can deal with the warehouse, I’ll clear the barracks. No need to work together.”

Price seems less happy about that. Serves him right. He sighs and drags a hand over his face, and Ghost almost feels bad for ruining his plan to get him to play with a team. Almost.

“Will it kill you to try and work with the lad?” Price asks offhandedly, while organising the folder back to the never-ending pile of documents on his desk.

“You mean again?” Ghost would wear his own shit eating grin if his face wasn’t permanently covered.

Price still seems equally pissed. Probably saw it in his literal mind’s eye. “Get out of my office Lieutenant, wheels up at 0500.” He gets up and walks around his desk to face Ghost, “don’t scare the kid off alright? I have a feeling you two could mash well together.”

Ghost tilts his head and projects the most doubt he could muster at Price. “Yes sir.”

This is going to be a bloody long day.

It’s not that Ghost hates people per se, it’s just that most of them seem hell-bent on being annoying, disruptive, or boring. Useless on the field for someone of his caliber, and even more useless off-field.

He knows he’s not exactly easy to relate to, but he couldn’t care less about trying to be. He’s here for one purpose. And it’s not “making friends” or whatever Price and Gaz has been trying to push him towards.

He wonders which category the Sergeant currently standing in front of him will fall into. By his fidgeting nature and easy smile, Ghost would put his money on “annoying”.

The Sergeant, “Soap” apparently (Ghost wonders if that callsign was given to him before or after he died a probably painful death), now directs that smile at him, seemingly undeterred by the giant man wearing a skull like a stereotypical grim reaper. He has to give it to the lad, at least he hides his discomfort well.

“You must be Ghost, eh? Let’s get ourselves a win LT” The Sergeant says with an obvious Scottish accent, fist-bumps his shoulder and walks off towards transport.

Oh, annoying is definitely winning.

Despite that, Ghost can’t feel like Soap really fits it. He’s unlike the other muppets in the category, He’s not poking him like the rookies do, trying to make him reveal his powers.

No, the Sergeant is annoying like an overly friendly dog is to someone that doesn’t want to be licked. He’s acting like they’re just two normal soldiers on their way to a normal mission, not the unnatural, unexplainable phenomena they actually are.

Ghost will have to keep watching. Certainly on field he will be able to find out his true colors.

On the helo, Ghost picks his usual spot near the ramp, where the lights don’t reach as much and most prefer not to sit, and observes Soap. His fidgety nature stayed the same, but the carefree expression he wore on ground morphed into a determined one, face stern and serious. He seemed lost in thought, eyebrows twitching here and there. He sees how his fingertips flicker, watching flames dance between them before the rapid movements put them out.

Well, at the very least Soap doesn’t fall into “boring”.

Clearing the barracks is a laughably easy job, even without using his powers. Although, it would’ve been so much faster with them… too bad he doesn’t hate the Sergeant enough to send him to Limbo.

They practically run through both buildings, untouchable storms. Ghost has to admit, Soap is clearly competent, disarming bombs and taking down hostiles at an impressive rate.

God, he hates when Price is right.

“Ground floor clear, heading to the basement” Soap relays on comms. 

“Copy, clearing third floor, keep an eye out for Intel.” 

“I have to say LT, you’re not quite like I expected.”

Feeling’s mutual, Ghost thinks to himself. “That so?”

“Aye, you’re not a major cunt for starters.”

That startled a small huff out of him. What the hell do the rumors say about him? He would have to ask Gaz about that, “Could still change that Sergeant.” he mock-lectures him.

A small laugh is what he gets in return, “I doubt that. I’ve worked with some bastards before, you barely make top 50.”

“Only 50? I hoped for at least 20”

“Got work cut out for you then, sir”

“That I do.”

Ghost continues clearing the floor methodically before faltering for a moment. Why was he entertaining the Sergeant like that? Since when does he joke with people? 

Though, he would’ve done it more if he had someone so ready to joke back…

Useless thoughts. 

Cursing Price, Soap, and all other stupid distracting things swirling in his head, Ghost takes down another hostile.

The mission is going without a hitch. Which is usually when something “hitches”.

A couple of minutes after Soap’s last words, Ghost sees a bright light flash from the warehouse, before a soundwave shakes the windows of the now barren barracks.

One of the explosives went off… “Soap, what the hell happened there?”

No answer.

Ghost knows he’s fine. Price wouldn’t brag about how “explosion-proof” he is otherwise. But he’s not answering…

“Sergeant, give me sitrep, now.”

Ghost stands still for another minute, listening to static. He checked the last room right before the explosion went off, so he just has to go to exfil and wait for the Sergeant at this point. His part of the work is done.

He should just go to exfil.

Ghost climbs down the stairs and heads for the warehouse, a foreboding plume of dark smoke billowing from its roof.

If asked why he didn’t ignore his gut feeling and use his brain like always, he wouldn’t have an answer.

Maybe he just wanted to exchange one more joke with the Sergeant before they finish the mission and never see each other again.

Arriving at the doors, he sees how the ground floor caved in, creating a ramp down to the basement. He starts making his way down, when he sees bodies littering the debris. Was Soap ambushed?

“Soap? Where the fuck are you Sergeant!” Ghost shouts. He has half a mind to be quiet, not wanting to attract enemies to their location, before realizing no one would’ve survived this. No one but-

“LT…?”

“Soap, why weren’t you answering comms- what…”

He stumbles upon Soap. Soap, who's laying on the grey concrete floor, wheezing and shaking, a metal rebar in his hands. Ghost walks closer and realizes the rebar is going through his stomach and pinning him to the floor. 

The Sergeant’s eyes blearily look at the metal “I need, I n-need to get this out…”

He lifts himself half an inch and Ghost sees how the blood rushes out of the wound, how Soap pales. 

Ghost rushes to his side. “Stop fucking moving”, he slides his hands under his torso, feels his gloves getting soaked in blood, “let me help you”.

Soap’s breathing becomes less harsh, and he looks up at him, “you… you don’t have to-”

He slowly lifts Soap before he can say another useless remark. The muscles under his fingertips clench and the Sergeant chokes out a scream.

“Fuck” Soap mutters between pants. 

“We’re halfway there, you’re doing good.” Ghost lets him rest before continuing to lift his body up. The blood keeps rushing out of the wound, enough that he doesn’t understand how Soap is still conscious. The sergeant let go of the rebar, and is now gripping Ghost’s forearms like he’s about to fall to his death.

After a few seconds, which Ghost is sure felt like hours for Soap, he eases him off the metal and onto the ground. Soap immediately collapses, shuddering and holding his hands around the wound.

Ghost then realizes he’s not sure how the Sergeant’s powers work. Is this supposed to even happen? Is he actually dying?

Soap looks up at that moment, giving him a small smile that looks more like a grimace, “I just… give me a minute to heal, I’ll be ready to go soon.” he uncurls and drags himself to sit against a piece of wall.

Ghost frowns and slowly steps towards Soap and slides to sit next to him, “take however long you need.”

He doesn’t look, but from his peripheral, he sees Soap’s head whipping around and staring at Ghost like he told him he’s giving him a million pounds.

He seemed to find something in his expression (however much he could even see of it), and looked down at his bloodied hands, “thank ye…”

Ghost blinks down, “I hope this doesn’t lower my cunt rank.”

Soap lets out a small laugh that turns into a fit of coughs. More blood rushes out of his wounds, and Ghost internally winces.

“Ha… I think it takes ye off the list, mate.”

Ghost heaves an over-the-top sigh, “shame”.

Soap smiles at him, and Ghost notices it’s different from the one he gave him before the helo. This one is… warmer. Or at least it makes him feel so.

Soap lifts his shirt to inspect the wound, and Ghost can’t help by take a look. The wound stopped bleeding, and when Soap wipes some of it away, he can see how it’s already closing.

So he does get hurt… it just heals. Ghost still wonders how it all works, but he knows their powers work with bizarre rules, weird exceptions and what not. He can almost hear his Reaper laughing. Or whatever you would call that chilling noise it lets out when it finds something funny.

It doesn’t matter either way. Not like he’ll get to work with Soap again. 

The Sergeant exhales and lets his shirt drop, “a’right, let’s fuckin’ finish this.” he slowly starts lifting himself up before Ghost wordlessly grabs his arms and helps him.

Soap mumbles a thanks, “did you find any intel?” 

Ghost looks ahead. The climb out of the basement won’t be easy on his wound… “Negative. We’ll keep looking.”

Eventually they reach a door labelled “storage”, that is blocked by several tonnes of concrete and metal. Ghost internally curses.

Soap, who’s been trailing behind Ghost, reaches the door and looks around. Ghost is about to ask him if he’s got a few C4’s hidden somewhere when the Sergeant asks him, “permission to use my powers, sir?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, “what are you planning?”

“Gonna blow it up sir” Soap says like it was obvious.

“...go ahead.” Ghost replies, half baffled Price forgot to mention the Sergeant, besides being unkillable by explosions, can also create them. 

Was probably in the folder he didn’t bother reading.

He takes a step back to let Soap Have a go. The Sergeant rests his palms on the debris, inhales, and…

A loud boom makes Ghost’s ears ring. He’s momentarily blinded by the bright explosion before he regains his vision, and sees Soap stepping around the remains of the door into the small room.

Ghost shakes away his slight shock and joins him. Soap’s powers intrigue him… he wonders what else he could do.

Somehow, the intel survived the explosions. Ghost could barely care. At least they won’t have Price on their case later on. 

As they walk towards the exfil point, a heavy feeling sinks within Ghost. He’s not sure what to call it, but if he had to it would be “regret”.

Regretting what, he’s not sure. Maybe he should’ve prolonged their walk.

And from a glance at his face, Soap might understand this feeling as well.

“You did well Sergeant.” He has the sudden urge to say. Maybe it will make him regret less.

Soap casts a smile at him. It doesn’t warm him in the slightest.

The chopper blades slashing through air never made him feel worse.

“I guess this is it then.” Soap says when they land.

Ghost turned to face him. That heavy feeling in him just kept getting heavier throughout the flight. Why?

“So it seems.”

Soap stares for a moment longer before sighing. Ghost wants to do something about the annoyingly heavy air of despair around them.

“Soap” the Sergeant hums, “Why did the Scotsman’s prank fail?”.

Confusion takes over his features, “what?”

Ghost inhales, “because no one let him get away scot-free.”

Soap stares at him like he brought shame to his entire bloodline. Ghost grins like he did.

“Steamin’ Jesus LT, that was horrendous.”

“Ah Sergeant, just admit my jokes are better, no need to be a sore loser.” 

“My gran got better jokes than this, fuckin’ hell” Soap laughs.

“I’d like to meet her.”

“So you two could battle? I rather not see you die of embarrassment sir.”

Soap’s transport decides to arrive at this moment, chasing away the small joy they both found.

Soap looks back at it and turns to Ghost.

“It’s been great working with you sir.” if Ghost was feeling bold, he would say Soap almost looks sad, “I hope we’ll get to go another round later.”

Ghost hates the hopeful tone in his voice. Hope is uncertain, leaves everything up to chance.

Useless.

“Likewise, Sergeant.”

He stays standing there for a few minutes, staring at the truck vanishing towards the horizon. As if it will lighten the boulder in his chest.

“So, Simon, what’s your verdict?” Price finishes after debrief.

Ghost thinks about the entire endeavour. Not annoying, not disruptive, or boring.

Soap is…

“He’s something else…”

Critiques are welcome! Nobody beta'd this so I'm sure there are mistakes lol (that and this isn't my first language...)

[ronearoundblindly]

Hey I don’t know if you still write for that ask game but in case you do, could you please write:

N-Not yet, with Ari?🥺🥺

Ok, technically, I was not still writing for that game BUT! This has me

😵‍💫🥴🫨

*This is written for Ari in general, but it could also apply to the Bedrock and Blueprints universe.

I'm getting write lol right into it, and remember, these are dirty headcanons, so MINORS DNI, please and thank you!

First of all, anyone ever notice this man is a whole bucket of chicken?

Breasts, legs, and thighs for the whole fam, right there...mmm mm mmmm. I digress...

orgasm delay?

orgasm denial?

do they tell their partner not to touch themselves for a certain amount of time or under certain circumstances?

do they delay or deny other things like bathroom usage or food?

do they need to beg first?

do they like being denied / delayed?

Hell fuck yes Ari would control how you experience pleasure! Not every time, though, because sometimes just being in that moment of intimacy and love is great, too. However, this man is a horrendous tease. He would 100% edge you all night just to hear you whine or get 'mad' at him.

Ari likes--how to put this?--he likes to talk in bed. Dirty talk, sure, but also praise and communication about you and him and this sex. Adding commands to hold off coming until he does, to wait naked on the bed until he brings you food, or to speak more are a natural escalation of this.

He is very, very intrigued by you doing the same when you're on top. He'll tell you if he's close and happily fight his orgasm back down while you still ride him, gently tugging or massaging his balls to make it that much more torturous. He likes to be pushed and he likes to push back.

None of it is violent; that's very important. No one acts with malice or the intent to not followthrough with enhancing the other's pleasure. Orgasm denial only lasts so long.

Like maybe he makes sure you don't come during a quick fuck in the morning. He knows you'll stay wet and wanting for hours and hours afterward, excitedly straddling that edge of ecstasy until...well, there are two ways that goes.

If Ari's feeling more generous (and slightly scandalous), he'll tell you to get yourself off on your lunch break. He expects either A) a voicemail that includes the moment you peak--even if you do so silently because there are people close by,--B) a picture--of your face or your pussy,--or C) for you to hand over your soiled panties when you get home.

If Ari's feeling more domineering, you have to wait until he gets home. He knows you'll be a puddle, a whimpering mess ready to bend over any surface for him. He also knows you'll come quickly to start. You get so hot and needy like that. He can get at least three orgasms out of you when he plays that right, but your fucked-out face and subsequent clinging to him are really what he's after. When he pushes you like that, you get the most chatty, spewing dirty little thoughts you've had about him or things to try or fantasies that haunted you all day.

Yeah. Ari likes that a lot.

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[brisquad-unit-4402]

things zali would say while you’re asleep

ah yes the classic confession while someone’s asleep. i need to abuse zali’s lore as a medic more

tags: gender neutral reader, fluff, pre-relationship, pining zali, reader is a krisis hero, sickfic, confession-but-not-quite, i had fun with a translator, rare flustered zali

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Unfortunately Zali is an early riser by occupation, not nature, and clocks into the A.S.H. infirmary at 5:00 AM sharp. The beds are usually unoccupied, leaving the medic to his own research, but today he stops walking by one.

The other day, you and the rest of Krisis did the whole crime-fighting planet-defending thing, as expected. Also as expected, you took care of the threat without a hitch as a 4-person unit.

It was the day after that posed a problem. Namely, a 100-degree-Fahrenheit problem. Somehow you didn’t even get a scratch while beating the villain of the week, but you woke up to a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and a fever. As your medic, Zali was the first person you contacted.

You asked for any easy home remedies, expecting some French chicken noodle recipe or a home remedy.

He insisted on bedrest in the infirmary instead.

Damn medical professionals and their overreactions.

Despite your protests, Zali has a hard time thinking it was the wrong choice. He stands beside your medical bed with a clipboard in hand.

Sleep treated you well. Your pale cheeks and reddened nose were less noticeable now that you had time to rest (and a cool towel along your forehead), but your arms were cast off to the side as if you were reaching for something while you slept.

Zali watched your chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Good. Regular breathing patterns are always a good sign with respiratory infections. A quick check with the stethoscope confirmed that it wasn’t interfering with your heart, too. Definite improvement all around.

He still held two fingers to your throat to check your pulse, though. Heartbeats thump, thump, thumped underneath his gloved fingers. He didn’t bother to log that test outcome on his clipboard; he has the results logged up there in his head.

“You’re doing better,” he says. His instinct is to explain his logic to the patient, but then he looks at your sleeping face, and now he feels awfully silly for it. He usually doesn’t talk out loud when his patients are asleep, but he’s inclined to keep you informed. “You can tell, I think. You’re not waking up in the middle of the night because of your stuffy nose.”

He giggles at that. He lost count of how many times you snorted awake (quite literally) before he retired for the night. As he shakes his head with amusement, he notices a bundle of fluff at the base of your bed.

Zali reaches down to pick it up, and stares back at a small Vezkit plush. The Vezkit was one of his many tools to subdue problem patients, such as children on the rare occasion that he had to heal them. If he noticed his patient was getting antsy, he’d offer the Vezkit as comfort. And, yes, when you were so stuffed-up he could barely understand your voice last night, he figured you could’ve used the comfort.

He glances at you, and how your arms are splayed out on the side of the bed where the Vezkit sat. No wonder the poor guy was misplaced—you accidentally dropped it in your sleep while you were cuddling it.

The thought makes Zali giggle again. “Be careful not to harm the citizens in your care, Reader,” he teases. “What would we do if you dropped a real Vezkit in action?”

Rise and fall, regular breathing. Zali doesn’t need to wait for you to respond, but he watches your face anyways. Even in sickness, you look peaceful.

“I should get you a new towel,” he says aloud.

He returns a second later, and when he removes the old towel, the thermometer confirms you're at 100.6F. With a sigh, Zali places a hand on your forehead. Just as hot as he expected. “You still need to rest,” he instructs to no one. “I don’t want my Reader to feel under the weather.” He rethinks. “Our Reader. You’re one of us.”

The hand rolls down to your cheek next. Fingers end under your jaw at the pulse point he checked earlier, and rubs along your cheek.

In a quiet breath, Zali mutters to himself. “Stop that.” He can’t find it in himself to quit, though. To a bystander it would be clear he isn’t just checking your temperature anymore, but your cheek fits perfectly into his palm. “Reader, you’re irresistible.”

Earlier he managed to excuse himself, but now Zali awkwardly chuckles. “My goodness, I’m really doing this now.” He finds it easy to tell your resting face things he’d never dream of saying out loud when you’re awake.

Silence fills the space when he doesn’t admit anything. Why is this so hard? It must be easier than a proper confession, but Zali is thankful for the bandages he wraps around his face like a medical mask. At least he can pretend he can keep his blush to himself, even if there’s no one to see it.

“You brighten up our days,” he continues, grabbing a fresh towel and letting water soak through it until it’s cooling to the touch. “But you have no idea how much you affect people.” He wrings the towel so tight that his rubber gloves stretch with the force. “Least of all how you affect me.”

He folds the towel neatly and returns to your bedside. Your lips are parted slightly as you sleep, a soft color, and one that he wished he could dwell on. Since your head was slightly tilted, he could admire the contours of your face, from the tip of your nose to the curve of your cheeks, all the way up to your forehead which so dearly needed something to cool it down.

That reminds him of his task, but his heart keeps skipping beats as he looks at you. Hair rested over your face and along your forehead as you slept, and as he watched you, a strand fell a little lower. You look angelic.

Zali unravels the bandages along his face, then quickly kisses the towel.

The desire to kiss you has been one Zali has resisted for a long time, but he’s starting to lose the fight. He flips the towel over, intending to place the side he kissed onto your forehead. Indirect and secondhand.

He tries not to think about how soft your hair is as he brushes it out of the way. Tries not to admire your eyelashes and the bridge of your nose, or the way your lips must be as soft as they look.

But that leaves the forehead, and before he can think any better of it, Zali lays his lips there.

The medic regains his sense a second after and practically lurches back. He slaps a hand over his greedy mouth as he turns away, brain going into overdrive as the blood rushes to his head. How unprofessional! How improper! Is he really this weak for you when you’re in his care? He buries himself further into his hands, letting out a groan as he does, begging these thoughts to abandon him at least until he’s done caring for your illness.

But he does glance at you through his fingers, and maybe it’s because he’s swooning, but he swears you look a little sweeter after being on the receiving end of his kiss.

Zali sighs, hoping that’ll clear his head even though he knows the outcome, and places the towel down as intended. “Cute.”

Saying that was a mistake. Now he’s even more flustered, but ‘cute’ doesn’t even begin to describe you. “Tu es éblouissante,” Zali tries. “J’espère pouvoir admettre cela un jour.”

That’s not enough either, but his native French confessions come easier to him, and the rest he can keep locked up in a small dark place no one else can see, least of all you.

He adjusts the towel into place, then pats your head as a final affection. Meanwhile, the Vezkit plush watched him work on the bedside table, and you could use the comfort.

The fabric is fuzzy in his hands, and the perfect size to hold. Your arms haven’t moved at all since you let go of the Vezkit in your sleep, which serves as the perfect place to return the plush.

Zali sets the Vezkit down, and in your deep sleep, you immediately react to its fluffiness. Your hands twitch first, then your arms rise to keep it close.

However, sleeping heroes can’t see their surroundings, and Zali’s eyes widen as you hold his hand down. You managed to grab both the plush and his arm in one fell swoop.

If his face wasn’t red enough before, it certainly is now. Take his heart too while you’re at it. Not like he needs it anymore. It’s going way too fast to be functioning properly.

“Oh. Oh, gosh.” His breath catches as he nervously laughs with a hand over his mouth, hoping it’ll make him sound less lovesick. “Don’t give me hope.”

He can already imagine Wilson teasing him, or Vanta calling him whipped. They wouldn’t be wrong, though. Zali is supposed to be the composed one. He can smooth-talk his way out of a situation, or go unaffected by femme fatales and playboys, but he’d do just about anything if you were the one asking him for a favor.

And in this case, he’s got a million things to work on, but he can’t think of a single one. They’re all flimsy excuses to break out of your warm grasp. None of them sound appetizing compared to this, even if you held him unknowingly.

“Oh, forget it.” With a huff, Zali bites on the edge of his glove and pulls it off. It’s rare for him to work without one, whether it be medical-grade or the black pair he dons religiously, but he hungers for contact.

Fingertips hardened by battle medicine caress your face as gentle as can be. He doesn’t want to go further—not while you’re unaware—but he really can’t get over how easy it is to set his hand along your cheek and jaw, soaking up the soft skin like sun to a plant.

You really must be in deep sleep if you haven’t noticed yet. This is fine, Zali muses. The less you see of the longing look in his golden eyes, the better. Usually he would muster up his courage and just go for it, but not with you. Not when he’s never felt anything like you before, especially considering how close-knit Krisis is. Disrupting the balance is out of the question. He has to be fine with what he has instead of striving for something else, no matter how he yearns for the satisfaction, the possibility of what could be, even if he knows you don’t see him as anything other than a friend. It’s for the sake of the team.

But Zali wakes up at the crack of dawn, and you certainly aren’t, not while you’re still sick.

He can indulge himself for a little longer.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[meaty4spicedbuns]

Eustass Kidd x RemReader - Hate sex with Eustass Kidd

At first is was just me thinking about how Kidd would be able to be in a toxic relationship.. But let say I let my mind slip a little. Tho this was written for another character, but re-reading it, it match more Kidd's vibe.

It was suppose to be small, but since it way more longer than it thought here the tag:

Warning : you can considerate this toxic relationship, smut, swearing, and everything turning around sex in general, two peoples not assuming they wanna fuck each other so they are in denial but doing it anyway, noncon said out loud but they both 100% want it.

Listen listen,,,

Kidd is cocky.

And a cocky bastard nonetheless. Went to fight throught see, killing innocent peoples, with so much angry issues he surely doesn't know where to put them anymore.

So, since he is a cocky batard, and can be easily teased, imagine being able to crawl under his skin ; to made him honnestly annoyed. And sometimes, just for fun, you make him flew into rage to play with his nerves and show him the grap you've got in him.

Kidd doesn't like it. At all. But you don't care. In your case, you probably play around just because you like to see him upset. You find it interesting, liking the feeling of danger he gaves you from his deadly stare. You love seeing his muscle twitching, his fists clenching when he looks at you with frowned eyebrows :

" Seriously!?" He shout.

Even tho he tried, really hard, to put a calm facade around you, you just found with ease his buttons to push, the one that will tickles his nerves.

But, not to be that simple for you, he is also able to do exactly same. Tought, he isn't mean, he just answer the same vibes.

Smirk, tease,, hit, push, pull, fight. You both acte up like childs near each other's. Although at the end, hidden under a snarky smile, the act is just for cover up an enraging need to feel the skins of other. A small burning interest.

Let's say you're the perfect illustration of the classic "I pull the ponytail of the one I like."

Now,, important part,,

Imagine the hate sex.

How he would proudly pound into your cunt. How he would be delighted to see your eyes rolling behind your head.

And, gosh, the wetness you gave him.

Your fingers curling into the bed sheets.

Your shorten breath.

He would be so hard from seeing you being turn on of his dirty talk he could almost feel embarassed. How him putting you back in place made you creamy, quiver under his fingers. How the feeling of his body pressing you against the mastress could made you create thoses kinds of little sounds you're trying to so painfully swallow back.

"Playing the big girl, but look at the dolly eyes yours giving me." he tease.

You're hiding your face under your hands, shutting your eyes as if it will made your embarassment go away.

You cannot just look at how wild he is when looking down at you, spark in his eyes, smile burn on his lips. Your legs opening and closing themself under his trust while you're working to get your breath low, pleasure sparkling in your lower area, chicken skin all over.

He wants to get a moan. He wants to get you moan his name so bad. It's his quest, and he'll get it no matter what. Taking his time tho. His trust are hard enough, but slow. He wants to see how he can made you fall apart under him.

"What happen all of a sudden, getting real'quiet miss."

Both his hands on each part of yours hips, grabbing them for you to stay in place, he is slowly making you move it, listening to you, staring at your reaction. Thought you don't paid attention, you're too focus on how it feel inside you gave in no filtered reponses. And your eyes open wides the moment he finds yours sweet spots, soft breath of literal pleasure escaping from your lips.

The cutest, hottest, moan he ever heard.

The sound of it is honey to Kidd ears. It's so hot he stops himself. Towering you, staring directly, him focusing on you made you felt so shameful. So you stare back. Trying to give a deadly stare. Both silent, out of breath. He is smilling wide at this point. You're drowling on his cock, clenching around him to get more. He is loving this so bad he made him feral.

" What was that miss?" He teased. "Weren't it cute?"

" Shut up on work it up brat."

" Oh yeah? But..,He bends over and grabs your chin so you look at him back, I won't let that sink no worry."

Yes. Oh god he won't let that slide out.

He'll be sure to work that spot so he'll crave this memories into his brains.

The perfect round shape your mouth is drawing. The broken sound of your breathing mess while his hard cock is working inside you. And gosh, the moment his fingers find your clit to made you cum, you became a puddle under him.

The weakest puddle he ever saw from you. And God it felt good seeing you like that. And it's not because your climax came that you'll have a break. No rest for the bitch. He is a total egoistic cunt so once you're done, he would just play with you.

After all, what a show you're giving him.

He'll just overstimulate you to see your legs dramatically shake from your tired muscles, closing and opening on him. Just to hear you muttering you can't take more, even thought he can't neither tbh. Just to crave the fact he is the one making it to you. But on the other hand, you're not even trying to stop him, and once you open your eyes, the first thing you do is to stand your chest up to grab his face and bite his shoulder, his lips. Nothing too lovely tho.

" Want me to stop ?!, he asked the first time you asked, whimpering. " "N-No! Just go in you idiot !"

He'll fill you to the brim and once he think it's enough for him, he'll let you go like he is doing you a favor.

Howerver they'll be no passionate kisses exchanges. Not gonna give you more than that. He would just rub your hairs with a smarky random line, so fucking proud of himself. Tho he doesn't assume he is dry as hell, and in the same mental state as you. He'll play tought just for the show.

But in the end, deep down, hidden away from any stare, and he can't wait for a next time. Anytime he would see you after that, he would just feel that cold shiver down his pain, flashing memories from seeing you under his body.

Yes. He can't wait ~