#Microscope Comparison

[empiricalexports]

What Are The Differences Between Optical & Digital Microscopes?

Explore the key differences between optical and digital microscopes in our latest blog post on Empirical Exports. We break down how optical microscopes rely on lenses and eyepieces for high-resolution imaging and broad magnification, while digital microscopes leverage image sensors, built-in cameras, and screens for real‑time viewing, seamless documentation, and easy sharing. Learn how each type’s unique strengths—optical’s superior image clarity and digital’s convenience and connectivity—affect applications across labs, industry, education, and research. Whether you're choosing the ideal microscope for your needs or simply intrigued by microscopy, this article offers valuable insights. Dive in and make informed decisions!

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[hahahafangirl]

[WBK Character Analysis] Suo Hayato and the Crisis of Contact [Part 1]

EDITs

5/29: Added commentaries to Suo v. Oobiki and minor edits.

This is yet another contribution to the well-made observations that: Suo does not eat with others in a story that emphasizes eating together; his fighting style is predominantly evasive amidst a narrative of fighting as a conversation; and all the deflections he deploys in response to any attempts to know him deeper. All in all, an avoidance of contact and any violation of boundaries — the literal boundary of bodily contact and symbolic boundary of knowing.

Overall, most of the observations here are… not that new. However, there are a few things I have personally seen less discussed in details: humor as deflection (both in the story and its effect on the fandom), Suo’s arrogance and disinterests in his opponents, and his subtle detachment from his peers… even if he loves and cares for them.

The language of this analysis is heavily based on Anne Carson’s essay Dirt and Desire: An Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity. Unfortunately, I am too much of an insane Anne Carson stan to discuss this in any normal way (deeply sorry for that). Regardless, I will try to be as clear as possible, despite my general insistence in uh. using the words that I do (bear with me). Because I am absolutely insane, have a table of content:

Contact as a crisis; dirt; leakage (Part 1)

Suo's general (habitual) deflections (Part 1)

Suo's emotional intelligence and approach to emotionality (Part 1.5)

Teenage arrogance and disinterest in Others

Suo's relationships to other people; or, the disparateness between Love and Relationship

Suo versus Sakura

Note that much of these are interpretations/extrapolations outside of things that are explicit in canon.

I will try to keep each post about 2-3k or less; this total analysis will be split over multiple part. Part 1 (this one) will focus on point 1) and justifies its connection to Suo (and WBK) and point 2), which are primarily textual evidences.

Crisis of Contact: so what the hell am I talking about?

This portion will be on Anne Carson's Dirt and Desire essay, as to provide the context in which I framed this character analysis. I will try to be as brief as I can while being understandable. The original essay itself, as the title revealed, is mostly about the construction of female gender (roles) in Greek antiquity, but its discussion of Touch, Dirt, and Leakage proved to be very useful frameworks!

First, on Touch:

As members of human society, perhaps the most difficult task we face daily is that of touching one another---whether the touch is physical, moral, emotional, or imaginary. Contact is crisis. As the anthropologists say, "Every touch is a modified blow."

This is what I mean by the "crisis of contact." Every contact itself is a mini-crisis: when we exchange blows, our skin touch, thus violating a closed and fixed physical boundary; when we converse, our words and minds touch, thus breaking open our worldviews and preconception; when we connect with other, they (and we) shattered the walls we constructed in our mind and permanently nestled themselves into our minds and hearts. These are all the things that Sakura, our beloved MC, is challenged by the narratives to learn how to do-- and succeed. His blushing embarrassment, in this framework, is a response to these "crises" of violations.

[Sakura blushes nearly every time he learns how to communicate and recognize his feelings... lol]

[the mortifying ordeal of being known]

on Dirt:

"Dirt" may be defined as "matter out of place." The poached egg on your plate at breakfast is not dirt; the poached egg on the floor of the Reading Room of the British Museum is... Mary Douglas calls pollution "a particular class of dangers which are not powers vested in humans but which can be released by human actions."

A little more background: the Greek antiquity conceptualize men as "hot, dry, vessel" and women as "cold, wet, liquid (to be contained in a vessel". So, dirt as "matter out of place" equates to "liquid not being properly contained". As Mary Douglas puts it, being "dirt" is not anything inherent to human or even women in particular; we all just have the ability to displace matters and make them "dirt" -- including ourselves. Sakura was treated, as we can put it, "less than dirt" for being "out of place." Same with Kaji's unrestrainable anger -- until Hiiragi figured out a way to help him "contain" it. Umemiya, as a child, felt that his own grief was displaced, his own life and his family's lives misplaced between who die and who gets to live -- his entire existence as "dirty". We can formulate any ostracism and troubles in Wind Breaker into displacement and dirt -- it's a fun exercise! But it will be more helpful if we put this construction of "dirt" into use.

How does any of this relates to Suo? We already noticed that he avoids, and, if he cannot, minimizes all contacts-- avoiding all the crises that everyone else, especially Sakura, go through. Most of these have lead to immense character growth. Maybe it's just not Suo's time to go into it yet. But for a deuteragonist, on a similar level of screen-time and importance as Nirei, Suo's arc thus far remains glaringly stagnant. One thing that he perhaps "grew" in is holding in his ruthlessness better after Sakura refocused Suo's vengeance in a more productive way (fight off other opponents and not beat one guy to death) during the KEEL fight. But we haven't seen a situation that actually "proves" that growth in a fight yet. So far, no contact, no crises yet, to grow, while Umemiya has explicitly said: "You need a little bit of conflicts to grow." Thus far Suo's "vessel" remains completely intact and its contents unseen (unlike Sakura's and Nirei's anxieties and trauma).

Where does dirt comes in? On a more literal sense, we have seen that Suo... never get dirtied after a fight. There is one (1) chapter where his face is scuffed (ch145)...

... significantly less than others, and it magically disappear in the next chapter. I think it's innocuous enough to be a mistake in Nii-sensei's part (either to remove or to add it), but, there is another interpretation: Let's remind ourselves that stories are about narratives, and that character, their design, their physical and mental states, are tools of the narratives*. Suo's (minimally) scuffed state is more symbolic of the Bofurin kids engaging in Sakura's struggle to pull him out of it -- a collective contact, willingly be "dirtied" to touch and pull Sakura out of drowning -- rather than Suo finally getting injured in a fight, after all. In addition to this, it will be visually jarring if Suo remains untouched here (note that this is not to dismiss what I said right before that).

*(Nii-sensei has such a command of details and themes in WBK that I must allow everything to be Symbolic-- there will be more on this in other topic)

Although this is a counterexample, it is to emphasize that, well, we noticed that Suo has never been dirtied or "touched" in any way in a fight. In a work where people routinely gets injured, bleed, violently got their face smashed in (I'm still in pain thinking about the Kaji v. Banjo fight), Suo never has his boundaries breached the way others has. No contact, no dirt. A closed room. He never let anything "out of place" be on him and is never actively being "out of place" himself -- even in the Red Light district, he does not seems frazzled (out of place) the way Nirei or Sakura were. No crack in the vessel, no leakage; nothing is leaving him either. No substantial personal fact is known-- for a deuteragonist, that's quite unusual.

The only "secret" we know? Natto. It is honestly lighthearted enough to be a joke (that is not to dismiss its importance or factuality!). It becomes a gag in the fandom! Purely because of how little else we know about Suo!

AND SUO DOESN'T EVEN NEED TO SUCCESSFULLY DEFLECT IT HIMSELF. THE NARRATIVE DID IT FOR HIM!!!!!

LIKE. LMFAO. OMFG. WE HAVE ALL BEEN PLAYED!!!!!!!!

THE NARRATIVE WANTS SUO TO BE AS INSCRUTABLE AS POSSIBLE.

GO HOME. THERE IS NOTHING FOR US.

JK! WE ARE STILL DIGGING OURSELVES INTO IT FOR ANY GRAIN OF INFORMATION THAT WE CAN!

We have some textual evidences already. Let's go for more.

More on Suo's habitual deflections

Let's begin by making a list of his deflections:

Fighting style: predominantly defensive; "pushing away" instead of "smashing in"

Personal information: humor to deflect from (what could be) his insecurities; reveal-not-reveal origin of his fighting styles, or details about his master; the "diet"

Emotionality: "I'm not usually this emotional"; disquiets hiding underneath maturity

Clothing: no skin?.megamind

Narrative/Production deflections: why is Suo the only person whose room is not revealed? lmfao?

Ok. I think that's everything.

Fighting styles:

Suo is a predominantly defensive fighter. In a fight with non-fighters involved, he naturally steps into a protective role by default. The only time this changed was when Nirei volunteered to take that role and encouraged Sakura and Suo to go on the offense. Defense or offense, Suo deflects moves and takes down opponents by their offensive momentum — if they pass out hitting their head on concrete, great! He does not contribute his own force into the fight; no horse in the race, no input to the conversations.

Compare to, say, Sakura and most others, who charges ahead, moving into their opponents' space to attack; Tsugeura, whose virtue involves allowing opponent one (1) hit and then... German suplex them; or Kiryu, whose fighting style is most similar to Suo — except he often disables his opponents with what looks like accupressure. Perhaps the most relevant difference is that Kiryu does charge ahead to fight, and some of his moves involve pulling the opponents in. Suo does none of that— he waits until they violate his space and pushes them out.

Pulling in...

Pushing out. Note that Suo does not reach for his opponents— he waits until they are in his space.

The only time we have seen Suo "attack", per se, is 1) KEEL and 2) against Oobiki, where he needed to wrap things up quickly and this isn't an opponent who would go down with deflection. That's the literal, in-text explanation at least. Symbolically? I'm not sure! Maybe Suo did in fact get close enough to Nirei and his classmates to expresses something about himself— not deflect, but rather, physically engages in the fight. That will take me more time to think about.

EDIT: Hey, this is also the fight where Suo finally reveals something about himself— specifically, his philosophy and focus on teaching, “discipline” as passing down knowledge (and, side notes, not as “punishment” — this is something I’m exploring in a fic actually xP). We even got the first visual of his Master! So, yep, he contributed something in this conversation here. This is the very first step in advancing towards Suo’s backstory; Nii-sensei is telling us to be patient! We got a similar visual (the back of the head) of Akari ~200 chapters before Kiryu’s arc, after all.

And this is also the same fight where Suo's untouchability and INSCRUTABILITY ("I can't read you at all") is explicitly addressed— by a fighter that is approximately Noroshi's caliber; or at least, much stronger than KEEL or Kanuma.

In KEEL, his aggression was taken as unusual/"the wrong decision". Against Kanuma, he didn't even mean to hit for real— only to scare/shock the opponents. Suo is an incredible fighter, acknowledged by Nirei's intels, Hiiragi and Umemiya themselves, and Sakura wanting to fight him. And, from his untouchability, literally (as in, not symbolically) we have yet to actually see Suo's full, current capability at all! And that is A LOT to hold out on when every character, one after another, get pushed to their limit. Suo's avoidance of initiating fights is narratively convenient to this end and also... says something about his refusal to initiate a "conversation".

2. Personal information and humor

We have seen this before with natto! His easy-going demeanor, ability to diffusive and deflect ("This conversation is about Sakura!") enables him to stagnate the conversation until the narrative ended it for him. As for reveal-not-reveal: I want to note that we do know things about Suo; quite a few things, in fact. Suo does not never say anything about himself, but give enough information to satisfy/shut down the conversation without providing anything revealing about himself. "Oh, I can't personally tell you what my fighting style is-- my Master is self-taught." (You have a Master? What are they like? How long have you been practicing? What?) "Oh, I'm on a diet." (What kind of diet? What can you actually eat and not eat? Why aren't you eating anything at all?)

Suo has been demonstrated to be an incredibly socially-capable person; his self-selected main role as vice-captain is negotiation and people-dealing. He has shown an incredible level of emotional intelligence, sensibility, and sensitivity to other's thoughts and feelings: being able to tell that Sakura is not used to other helping him, therefore knowing that it will be difficult for them all if Nirei and him continue to push; repeatedly being able to use Umemiya "against" Sugishita to get the latter to do things. Suo knows how to start and end a conversation, what to say, how to steer the interaction one way or another, how to stall— his social skills and suaveness are vitals in all these social deflections.

Notably, humor plays into this a lot (yet another example of social-capability). His eyepatch is the biggest mystery by far— and he was able to shut down any speculations or focus on it by bringing it up before anyone else can, therefore being in control of the topic.

Note that he brought it up out-of-nowhere, already anticipating the curiosity: "By the way..." and quickly changes the topic to Sakura

The constant, mysterious "diet" is also introduced under humorous connotations (Suo agreeing with Nirei's about the unusualness of the context of the meal, then immediately subverts expectation by reveal that should he be able to eat, he would-- he is just on a diet).

He blatantly lies — for innocuous things such that they are humorous — and gets out of explaining anything; like why he does not want to go into water

(My theory on this is quite innocuous: depends on how recent Suo's eye injury is, healing can be quite slow and touching sea water is... bad for that. It'd just ruin the mood if we bring it up.)

With the eyepatch and the water, is there a chance that Nirei is too polite to push it? Absolutely. And that is another "manipulation" of social situation Suo is capable of: he gives non-answer that is tonally appropriates such that it is impolite/insensitive should anyone tries to push. Boom, nobody knows anything. Closed room, no leakage.

3. Emotional disquiets

Suo's "veneer" of calmness and maturity is so constant and iconic that the smallest ripple sends the narratives (and us) to ruin! And this contrast is emphasized by the narratives— I'm only showing here the more subtle signs in each "incident", and we already feel the disruption!

(Note the look of disdain in this one— we will come back to this later)

Suo is not as "mature" or unperturbed as he paints himself to be; he is, after all, a human, and a 15 year old child at that. In a story that emphasizes realistic emotional responses, it is extremely unrealistic to paint a 15yo boy as having it all together (orewing wrote an excellent post on this subject). Maturity, in this case, is a mask and therefore another deflection— hiding away his emotions and disdain until it came bursting out of him, ignoring his emotions to prevent others from seeing and "interacting" with it — vision becomes another mode of boundary violations (yes, this is in the Anne Carson essay). Now, the interesting question here is: Why is this the case? Unfortunately, that is outside the scope of this research <3

4. Conservative clothing: no_skin?.megamind

It's not about being revealing, it's about his wardrobe being so distinctly old-school and especially jarringly conservative in the beach trip that brought to attention how uh. tall the wall is. Funnily enough, recently there was a fake-merch post going around on Twitter that people immediately spotted as fake because Suo reveals his upper torso in that one (lol) and the official one, coming out the next day, has him covered from head to toe. Symbolically speaking, this is yet another visual hint that Suo is extremely mysterious and elusive. Fashion and personal styles are extremely important to WBK's characterization and narratives. Everything design-wise is very intentional— including Suo's secrecy.

It's highkey just funny as a gag at this point. There were theories about secret back tattoos (I think primarily motivated by Nii-sensei once posting a character design hiding elaborate back tattoos under normal school uniform that does looks suspiciously like Suo's initial design, now that I think about it.) I don't know if I believe that; scars theories are more likely, but I don't think tonally WBK is trying to tell a more violent stories than what normal people within 1-1.5 standard deviation of the Bell curve will experience. In other words, I don't think the narrative looks to tell what is implied if Suo's back is elaborately tattooed or viciously scarred. I am not saying that HCs about these are invalid, just that— who knows what is in store! It is possible that Suo, with all of his evasiveness and general strangeness from the narrative, is in fact the one representing the "exorbitant" violence in the world.

5. Narrative deflections: Nii-sensei is holding out on us.

Here is the final straw: It is no coincidence or innocuous chances that all of these deflections and overall sense of detachment is overthinking. Nii-sensei seems to be extremely involved, by usual manga standard, into (at least evidently) merch and game adaptation of Wind Breaker. Wanijima, I'm pretty sure, was introduced as a WBK game character prior to his "adoption" into the manga. All the merch strictly sticks to Suo's visual conservativeness. And, very intentionally, Suo is the only main class 1-1 member whose bedroom is not shown in the artbook. What is Nii-sensei hiding? A lot, it looks like.

What does that means besides confirming that we aren't all extremely delusional? Nii-sensei seems to be deflecting us, too. Well, it's actually way too late at night and I have spent too long writing this to overthink this point. I can only be certain that there will be a lot in store for Suo's character developments, arc, and that I trust Nii-sensei's pen. Amen.

That's it for now! Part 2 will hopefully cover the last three points (maybe only one or two each) depends on how much I have to say. Evidently, I have waaaaay more to say than I thought. Thanks for holding out if you reach this point, and let me say that we did most of the heavy lifting/justifications here :thumbs-up: The discussion of dirt, leakage, and crisis was hopefully constructive/interesting!

I would love any feedbacks/thoughts AND FEELINGS on this, including if my writing is absolutely unreadable (and yeah feel free to use anon questions should you desire to). Would be beyond happy to clarify anything I wrote, and discuss more!

See yall in Part 2, which may come out earlier than I or you want or expected.

[sergle]

you bitches have got to watch Scavengers Reign if you haven't yet, i'm only a few episodes in and it's already completely unlike anything else i've ever seen

[sforzesco]

lmao the rival dynasts are fighting and they're fucking it up for everyone else at a record pace

this tweet made me laugh, and I frequently make political comparisons between these specific groups of people, so now it's finally a comic

regarding the OctavianOctaviaAntony Uniteam Alliance

Octavia Minor and the Transition from Republic to Empire, Katrina Moore

in the red panel, which is an obvious anachronistic soup of events happening all at once: we have on the left: messalla corvinus

Alternative Memoirs: Tales from the ‘Other Side’ of the Civil War, Kathryn Welch

and then octavia (in despair & weaponizing that sacrosanctity to turn rome against antony), some kids (the two closest to antony are the twins, but tbh you can just kind of. pick whoever from the soccer team of kids antony had)

octavian and antony's back and forth is referencing suetonius augustus 68 and 69 (specifically: Antony also writes to Augustus [...] "What has made such a change in you? Because I lie with the queen? She is my wife. Am I just beginning this, or was it nine years ago? What then of you — do you lie only with Drusilla? Good luck to you if when you read this letter you have not been with Tertulla or Terentilla or Rufilla or Salvia Titisenia, or all of them. Does it matter where or with whom you take your pleasure?") and also the whole. thing. about antony's will. that sure was something.

the herod comment from kleopatra is referencing all of this

Mark Antony: A Biography, Eleanor Huzar

AND FINALLY. the art in the inset panels are from The Roses of Heliogabalus, Lawrence Alma-Tadema

[steveharrington]

and if i said fandom on tumblr has become so obsessed with having the Most Correct understanding of a character that it’s honestly sucking the fun out of everything !!! like i get that it’s annoying when All of the fanon content about a character is wildly ooc, but some fanbases are so wide and populated that there’s no way you can’t find accurate depictions of the characters. there’s always going to be headcanons or ships or interpretations that don’t seem quite right to you, but whatttt is the point of constantly complaining about it when you could instead just focus on the content you DO like and feel is accurate. why are you spending so much time getting mad that other people aren’t playing dolls right. it doesn’t matter dude

[chocolatewoosh]

"Sorry, am I too close?"

[lesamis]

Hi yes I have questions!

🤩 What's the most meaningful comment you've ever received?

also

🛌 What's a trope you haven't written, but want to?

Thank you!

thank you talia 🧡

🤩 What's the most meaningful comment you've ever received?

well! i'm not just saying this bc you're asking this question and i know you understand this sentiment, but. @starkey left one of the most thoughtful comments i've ever received on things we found on our way way back in 2020. we didn't know each other at all and it literally made me want to be friends with her harder than i've ever wanted to be friends with an internet person. back then it was meaningful bc it means a lot to have someone read your fic so closely and kindly, by now it means all the more for friend reasons :')

🛌 What's a trope you haven't written, but want to?

i love friends with benefits fics. as a trope it's basic, it's formulaic, it's nestled in my heart for all of its angst potential, it's unattainable (for now!) for the way my writing works. maybe some day!

[mxbitters]

on behalf of my gramma i think i should be allowed to tear people who make ai generated cross stitch and crochet patterns limb from limb thank you very much

[tvglowing]

lrb if anything (and i'm Very ready for people to post elaborate death and r*pe threats in my inbox for this since thats how libs are responding to critique right now <3) i was concerned if harris won that then vast swathes of white leftwing americans would just Stop Caring about gaza and sudan and everything else. we got our Girlboss Warmonger, surely no one on earth will ever have problems ever again, right? no more donations or flags in shop windows or any of that stuff, thank goodness we can all pat ourselves on the back for being a bunch of Good Whites who Solved Racism, something something "compassion fatigue", insert instagram infographic here, etc.

quite frankly these past couple days i've just sort of felt numb, because this past year has put a lot of life stuff into perspective. I just keep thinking, like... i'm not getting bombed! none of my loved ones are being bombed right now! i get that im a disabled transgender person in one of the most hateful countries on earth and my chance of being hatecrimed just went up by like 40% minimum but all i can think is like. i have not had to cradle the severed limbs of my child in my arms as a funeral. why the fuck would any of our "problems" matter?

[analabtron]

Optical magnification range=2-5x-120x; video recording system=3-mega-pixels-1024-times-768-resolution-digital-camera-port; Working distance=100-mm; Objective stage dimension=100-mm-lt-br-gt-moving-range-x-50-mm-y-50-mm-z-50-mm. Shop Online at Labtron.us

[catcze]

SEMI-NSFW!! 16+ ONLY !! — Sylus. gn reader, no body parts mentioned. Fade to black right before you fuck so nothing explicit, but heavily implied. Lovesick Sylus ♡

Yes, Sylus finds enjoyment in branding your skin with his teeth, leaving marks for all to admire for the coming days. He’s a man in love— sue him. But when you’re the one marking him up, clinging to him with your face buried in his neck and your teeth in his skin, painting another pretty bruise there for everyone to see, Sylus’ breath catches and his heart races. Knowing that you’re marking him— that you’re staking a claim on him. That you’re declaring him yours. Your man, your beloved, your dragon.

A helpless groan rises from his chest, guttural and rough. One of his arms wraps around you, keeping you pressed close. It’s almost like he’s begging you to keep going— to leave more bites and bruises on his skin. Enough that they won’t fade, enough that no one doubts the fact that he’s yours.

His other hand rises to his mouth, shakily trying to muffle the embarrassing litany of gasps and groans that are punched from his chest. His cheeks are heated, his wool body feeling like it’s burning under your touch.

“I’m all yours,” Sylus can’t help but breathlessly murmur when you (regrettably) part from the painting of bruises on his neck. His eyes are hazy— dazed. Like he’s seeing the world in sparkles and shines, with you at the center of it all. His hand tightens around your waist. “Say it, my heart. Please.”

And he’s helpless as you caress his cheek so gently. Helpless to melt in the palm of your hand, cheek nuzzling against your touch like a man starved. His eyes flutter shut, and his one hand grasps yours, holding it still as he presses a kiss to the base of your palm, then your wrist, then each of your fingertips.

You shiver at the heat in his kiss— at the expression of pure love and desire that he wears. It’s hard to breathe, you think, when faced with your dragon’s immeasurable devotion. “You’re mine,” you say, soft and sincere, trying your best to not let your voice shake. Sylus shakes underneath you. “From now until eternity— you’re mine.”

And he groans, raw and ragged, the sound of deep satisfaction pulled from somewhere in the recesses of his soul. It feels so right when you say that— when you claim him as yours. It makes all the years he’s spent without it seem microscopic in comparison. He’d relive it all, just to hear you say it again and again.

“And you’re mine, as well,” Sylus says, taking your hand and pressing it over his chest, where his heart beats, but only for you. “And I will always find my way back to you.”

With a single smooth movement, he rolls the two of you until your back is cushioned against the sheets of the bed, and he’s hovering over you— the only thing you can see. Crimson eyes devour you hungrily, reverently. But his hand is still gentle as he caressed your cheek, soft in the way his arm around your middle still keeps you pressed against him.

“Let me show you my devotion, my heart, so that you never forget it again,” Sylus murmurs, the hand on your cheek trailing down— down your neck, past your chest, even lower than your stomach, and suddenly, you understand why dragons are described as greedy creatures.

[batwithaknife]

Danny hates Damian. He knows logically it’s not Damian’s fault he died, it was kill be killed, and Danny tried equally as hard in that fight. The fight for the right as heir to the Demon throne, the cumulation of all their pent up rage for the constant comparisons (“your brother is faster”, “your brother never struggles at this”, “I only had to explain this ONCE to him”) and the mind numbing terror and dread of the moment they had been anticipating all their lives to finally come to fruition and it still feels too soon-

Danny knows it could of easily been Damian that died that night and Danny wouldn’t have lost any sleep over eliminating his competition (they could of been brothers)

But they were not raised to forgive, or to love and four years of negligent parents and an adoptive sister whose love language is studying your psyche under a microscope and picking you apart (the same way the Fentons would if they ever found out what you are-)

Danny may be the better infiltrator between them but he is just as much a League brat as Damian and he understands that he deserved to die for his loss but-

Danny hates Damian. And ghost are feelings and imprints of life and sentient but most importantly ghosts are death, and their very existence hinges on their feelings when they died. Ghosts are death and death is static and Danny hates Damian. And that can never change.

[amaranthineghost]

THE MIGHTY HAS FALLEN (BUT YOU'LL RISE AGAIN, LOVE) ( max verstappen. )

max verstappen x reader

after a tough race cut short, max pushes away any person around him, but not her. never her. she always picks up the pieces to put him back together.

authors note: I love max. I know he's not the self-deprecating typa guy, but in this, he is, OKAY. charles is after this <333

HE WAS A BOMB. the fuse getting shorter and shorter every minute that his patience was tested. everything around him seemed to irritate him more and more as he tried to keep himself from exploding, for pr's sake.

he just wanted to avoid the media all together, for obvious reasons, but he was contractually obligated to give his words to the journalists under the media tent. putting him under a microscope and asking questions that had an undertone of scrutiny in hopes of catching him break. he was close, but he wouldn’t.

it hadn’t even been a fault of his own, he rarely made those anymore. the car had caught fire, but not due to a mistake he had made, and even if it had been, he wouldn't have admitted it anyways. still he felt the guilt of his lack of performance, beating himself up after every question asked about his car and what had happened.

it was just stupid. the questions were stupid. the car was stupid. this whole race was stupid.

the pressure to perform, even in the best car on the grid, was high. despite his seat being secured for plenty of years to come, he still had expectations to meet and records to break.

it was obvious to everyone that max was hard on himself every time he didn't perform his best, his girlfriend especially noticing when she’d find him in his very luxurious driver's room sulking at even the slightest of a mistake made by him.

it didn't happen often, but when it did, she'd been there for him. he knew that.

he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never be seen again because world champions don't make stupid mistakes.

even if this hadn't been a mistake he made, he should've known. even if there was no possible way he could’ve, he should've.

he was raised to believe that he was only deserving if he had been first, that he was destined to fail after every second place or worse finish.

so it wasn't surprising when he thought he didn't deserve her. in comparison, or more like his eyes, she was simply perfect.

and she understood him, which not many people could because he wouldn't let anyone pick apart his brain like she did.

he locked his thoughts and feelings in the dark that shrouded his mind from early childhood trauma. he promised he would never let anyone see.

but he was never great at keeping such promises because it hadn't taken much for her to pick the lock to his brain. even though he wasn't ready to spill every detail of his upbringing to her, he trusted her.

and he didn't get to do that all too often.

the media had been brutal—he knew they would be—and yet it still crushed his mentality and faith in himself.

with his race suit around his waist despite having time to change beforehand, he walked through the paddock in shame at the early retirement.

it wasn't like this determined the outcome of his career because the next race, he'd be back on top. he didn't feel so sure of it though because all his thoughts were on this failure. what if he failed the next race?

what if he failed the whole season? what if he fails her?

unlikely, the people know, but he had so much confidence which had so easily crumbled when it got a little too hot. he wasn't sure of himself anymore.

anyone could see the turmoil bubbling underneath his skin, harsh waves crashing in the ocean of his blue eyes as he pushed past anyone and everyone.

the walk through the paddock was short, considering the red bull motorhome was the first of ten. max hastily entered through the automatic doors, skipping steps as he was eager to hide out in his driver's room.

he felt the eyes of the staff follow him down the hall until he disappeared quickly around the corner. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

the door to his driver's room closed as fast as it was opened, but much louder. she heard the slam of the door echo down the hallway.

she didn't flinch, she just calmly greeted staff with smiles and left a bag of sweets on the table for them. she always brought something for the team, to celebrate every victory and despite this not being one, they still deserved it for working hard.

since she had gotten there not too long after him, she lingered around the lobby. she didn't want to be waiting around for him to show up and have him brush her off because he wasn't in the right headspace.

he would never mean to dismiss her, and she knew to give him at least a little time to himself to think and process things. she couldn't give him too much time though because she didn't want his self-deprecating thoughts to eat away at his confidence.

from what she analyzed from the staff and their demeanor, he'd probably caught them off guard when he slammed his door.

she wouldn't apologize for his behavior because she would make him do it when he cooled down.

so she hung around and made small talk with the sparse staff around to allow max a few minutes to himself before excusing herself down the hall.

she had a bomb to defuse after all.

the clack of her heels on the hard floors bounced off the walls, but she walked quietly enough so max didn't hear her coming. he knew she would though. he knew she would find him with his head in his hands, barely covered in sweat because he didn't race for more than three laps.

his face was still flush with disappointment though. he didn't want her to see him like this even though she was with him during his last disappointing race, but even though his singaporean grand prix finish wasn't great, at least he hadn't been out of the race.

max hadn't DNF’d in two years because he was simply just that good, and he still is. he just didn't feel like it.

his hands pressed so hard against his eyes, the blood vessels in them would have popped if he pushed any harder. he had taken off his red bull hat, he felt he didn't deserve the number one right now. it was thrown lazily onto the makeshift bed in his driver's room.

the room was practically silent, every so often interrupted by a deep sigh of disappointment that escaped his lips. he had sat there for a good couple or minutes, sulking.

when she reached his door, she held the bouquet of flowers she always got for him close to her body with one arm while she raised the other to knock. her hand only slightly hesitated before her fist made contact with the door and a few seconds later, she tried entering. it was locked, which was usual whenever he was brooding.

at first, when max heard the knock, he thought of all the people last on his list that he would want to see right now, but on the bottom of the list was the person he wanted to avoid the most right now.

his dad.

their relationship was rocky. he never supported max at any place unless it was on the very top of the podium, and even then max thought he looked unpleasant.

“go away,” was all max could mutter through his hands as his heart started to pick up the pace.

she sighed, shaking her head with a smile pulling at her lips, “max.” it was all she needed to say.

part of him didn't want to let her in, he didn't want her to see him like this, but he knew she was just as stubborn as him, if not more. he knew she would stand there all day if he didn't open the door to let her in.

and he would always let her in.

she heard the low creak of the sofa she could imagine him sitting on, but not his footsteps while he made his way to the door. she only knew he heard her when the lock clicked and the door slowly opened inwards to reveal the red-faced max verstappen.

she stood staring at him, her head tilted as she studied his face. he didn't move, he just watched her eyes dart around his appearance, and he felt himself getting hot under his fireproofs.

“are you going to let me in, verstappen?” she teased, a sly smile on her lips as she watched her boyfriend roll his eyes.

he scoffed, stepping aside, “don't call me that.”

“what?” she acted innocent, stepping into his driver's room with the fresh flowers, seeing the already prepped vase, “don't call you by your name?”

“you know what I mean.” though he tried to keep a straight face and act like he was still mad, he couldn't keep a smile from creeping onto his lips. she just had that effect.

she heard the door close and lock again as she took the wrapping off and placed the flowers in the vase. she shrugged at his words, her back still towards him, but she knew he had sat back down.

“you didn't have to get those,” he mumbled, “didn't win.”

she sighed, crumbling the wrapping in her hand and throwing it away before walking to where he sat. she stood in front of him as he looked up at her.

even with heels, he was still much taller than her and even though he was sitting, he reached barely below her chin.

she spread her arms to offer a hug to him, which he gratefully took, his arms snaking around the low of her hips. pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped around his head, running her fingers through his hair.

she felt him sigh against her skin, his eyes closing as they stayed like that for minutes without speaking. she felt him caress the bare skin of her thigh with his thumb.

when they finally pulled apart, his hands still laid firmly on her hips, his hair disheveled from the hug. she ran her hands through it to fix it and he only watched as she did so.

when she finally finished after only ten seconds because guy hair is a lot less complicated than women’s hair, he finally spoke up, “why are you dressed so uncomfortably?”

she was slightly taken aback, seeing as he was just moping about his race not even ten minutes ago and now commenting on her appearance. he only assumed she was uncomfortable, but unfortunately his assumption was correct.

“what do you mean?” she looked down at her attire, which isn't so different from the other wags that she hung out with.

his hand snuck around the back of her thigh and pulled up her leg, “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels, you always complain about them.”

“i’m fine,” she said, about to cross her arms, but her balance said otherwise so she settled them on his shoulders for support.

he gave her an incredulous look because every time she wore heels, without fail, she would complain less than an hour into wherever they were that she wanted to sit.

“okay, i admit i can't wait to get these things off,” she let out a deep breath, putting a hand on her hip, “but I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”

she said in his response to take the heels off her feet for her, a simple gesture really, but this was about him.

“do you want to talk about it?” she massaged his shoulders as he threw her heels to the other side of the small sofa.

“nothing to talk about,” he shrugged, “maybe I don't deserve being first.”

she pushed his head to look up at her, shaking her head, “you just don't realize how much you deserve, max. you're a world champion, a three-time one,” she reassured him, “you've won countless races, and you still have the entire season ahead of you. I know you want to, but you can't let one bad race define your season.”

“I know, you're right.” he bit the inside of his cheek as he thought deeply, “but I have to prove myself.”

“you've already done that plenty of times,” she shook his shoulders in emphasis, “besides you'll still lead the championship, unless charles gets p1, but you'll get it right back if that's the case.”

she was right. she always was, he never doubted her. he would never doubt her because she would never lie to him. she always backed up her answers by building up his ego and confidence back up so he was ready to fight it out on the track next race.

whether it took a couple of minutes or hours to bring his mood back up, she'd take her time in making him feel like the champion he was again.

she would take his phone from him, he didn't need to see the articles being written or the missing phone calls from his dad.

all he needed was her and she would always be there.

—

taglist (found here): @slut4lrh @taylorslovesswifties13 @sbella13 @kaa212 @nhlfs

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 5 masterlist

-

The day starts poorly and ends worse.

You sit with Gaz’s words all night and decide by morning’s first light that it is worth worrying about them after all. But for a different reason. The worry you settle on is that your deteriorating mind is now giving you warning signals of troubles to come, manifested in the form of an astronaut outside of the ship. A messenger; a harbinger. 

Breakfast is cold coffee over bit fingernails. You pull at a hangnail until it tears and pain zips up your finger, blood welling up under the split skin. Since you take your coffee in the medical unit these days, bandages and disinfectant are always within reach, meaning your fingers are always wrapped in them. Pigs in blankets. 

You make your way across the ship when morning briefing comes, fingers throbbing by your sides. 

Farah watches you from the other side of the cockpit during the briefing, her gaze inscrutable as ever. It takes a conscious effort not to shake under her stare. You’re not sure what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. 

In the background, Graves drones on about something that doesn’t penetrate through the thick miasma of your thoughts. It goes on for entirely too long. When he dismisses you all for the day, you stand up on crooked legs and hope they don’t buckle under you on the walk back to the medical unit. Farah’s eyes follow you until the door shuts behind you.  

You make another coffee instead of getting started on your tasks for the day. Your research can wait. That’s what you tell yourself at least, nails tapping against the metal table while the coffee machine spurts out your drink in a short, violent burst. A thin, reedy hiss. No instant crystals this time. It tastes almost burnt when you bring it to your lips. 

The mundanity of work pales in comparison to the events rapidly unfolding before your eyes. Are you sick or well? Is the man outside the ship real or not? Surely not, you tell yourself, pulse picking up again. You know better than that. Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is most likely the correct one. 

It’s just that you don’t like where your mind is going with this one. 

The alarm goes off when your head is bent over the microscope, the sound so sudden and jarring that you nearly tumble right off your stool. It blares a piercing shriek through the medical unit and the hall outside, so loud that you cup your hands over your ears to hear yourself think. The stool clatters to the ground when you hurriedly slide off, heading towards the door. 

You stumble into the hallway to find it flooded in red light, pulsating in steady intervals for any deaf crew members. It guides you like a beacon down the hall towards the cockpit. Standard protocol is to head to either extremity of the ship, lifepods stored at both the front and back of the ship in case of an emergency. 

The others are already in the cockpit by the time you arrive. Claustrophobia sets in when the doors slide shut behind you, the room smaller with everyone packed inside at the same time. 

You feel someone’s eyes flick towards you before flitting away in the same second. Accounted for and disregarded. Hardly meriting any attention when the alarm blaring overhead is a far more pressing concern. 

Graves punches a button. “Ship, what’s the situation?” 

Micrometeoroid impact 

Damage sustained to starboard quarter

“Some of the photovoltaic cells are cracked,” Alex says, checking the status of the ship on another computer screen. “We have replacements though—could be worse.”

“Could be a lot fuckin’ better too,” Graves grumbles, forehead already pinched. 

Despite not being an engineer or astrophysicist, you’ve gone on enough interplanetary voyages to understand the implications of damaging the photovoltaic solar panels. Much of the electronics on board rely on the electricity derived from sunlight; this particular ship, designed only to venture as far as Jupiter, isn’t equipped with an alternative power source. 

“Should I engage the Canadarm to fix the damaged panel?” Alex asks from his perch.

Graves shakes his head. “We need to preserve as much power as possible while the cruise control is still out. It’ll have to be fixed manually.” With that said, he flips a switch to shut off the droning alarm, though the lights overhead stay red.

You flinch when the chief engineer slaps his hands down on his thighs, the sound jolting you out of your spiralling thoughts.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “I fix like usual. No problem.”

“Nothing different than what we trained for.”

“Easy peasy,” he confirms, an easy smile on his face. 

“Okay, Nikolai, suit up—I’ll guide you from the cockpit,” Graves instructs, shifting into a mode you’ve never seen before. “Hadir, there’s a replacement panel in section seven in the cargo hold—get it and bring it back now. Nikolai’s going to have to fix it from the outside.”

The terror that lances through you when Graves says that is immediate and sharp. You know nothing’s out there, but the fear response is as real as if something were. 

It’s an unwarranted response, fueled by paranoia and delusion. This is a scenario the crew has prepared for back on Earth a multitude of times. They wouldn’t have been given clearance to leave the planet without having run through every potential complication and calamity. There are strict regulations to follow, protocols and standards to ensure that nothing comes as a surprise. 

But still—

Your chest is tight. Heart pounding against your ribcage so hard that you wince. There’s no one outside the ship but still you can’t help but think that opening the doors might let it in. 

When Nikolai leaves to suit up for the spacewalk, you trail after him, following Farah’s lead. You didn’t notice that Hadir had already departed, but his absence is glaring on the walk towards the airlock. 

“Smile a little, Farah,” Nikolai says, poking fun at the eternally stern woman keeping pace with him. “It’s good to have some excitement around here.”

“I’m not a fan of excitement,” she responds, voice terse. He laughs at her words, the booming sound echoing through the corridor.

You watch helplessly as Nikolai gears up, Farah helping him lock the helmet into his suit, doing a quick, final inspection of the glass to ensure that there aren’t any cracks or scratches. 

The glass of Nikolai’s visor glints opalescent under the station lights, the glass infused with low-grade aerogel to protect from interplanetary radiation and solar winds. Packets of higher grade aerogel are stuffed into the lining of his suit, protecting the rest of his body as well. 

Hadir returns not long after with all of the requisite parts needed for the repair neatly stored in a rectangular container that attaches securely to the front of Nikolai’s suit, leaving his hands free. The three move in synchrony, a finely-tuned dance practiced repeatedly in the months leading up to the launch. 

You keep to the wall in order to avoid getting in the way. 

The first door leading into the airlock is opened when Nikolai finally gives Farah the word, their checklist run through twice before being met with approval. 

Nikolai deliberately turns away from the door when the airlock door shuts behind him and the chamber begins to depressurize. You wince sympathetically when you notice his shoulders tense. The oxygen in his tanks is specially designed to purge the nitrogen from his blood, but under better conditions, he would’ve spent closer to an hour prebreathing in order to transition from high to low pressure. 

He only gets a few minutes to adjust. When his allotted time expires, the second pair of doors slide open—the last partition between the inner and outer world—and Nikolai takes his first step towards the darkness of space. 

You can’t watch after that. Instead, you hurry back to the cockpit, jaw so tight that it aches. 

Graves looks up when you enter, but otherwise doesn’t say a word to you. Alex flashes you a brief, tense grin. The first couple of minutes of any space walk are always nerve wracking, despite the reassurance of preparation and all times before. There’s an inherent anxiety in seeing the human body go out into the cold vastness of space. 

“Nikolai—you copy?” Graves asks through the transmitter.

The receiver crackles. “Loud and clear, boss,” he rumbles, accent thick even over radio waves. 

A shadow of a smile flits over Graves’ face, the tension in the room briefly relieved. Even your shoulders lower at the sound of his voice. 

“You sound better like this,” Graves teases. “Less nasally.”

“I’ll ask your mum the next time she calls,” Nikolai rebuts, a similar teasing sneer in his voice. 

“Asshole,” Graves laughs, keeping his finger on the button the whole time. 

The camaraderie would usually make your heart ache. Not today though. There’s no space for anything other than worry. 

“Proceeding towards starboard,” Nikolai says, narrating his movements for the benefit of those on board.

There aren’t any cameras on the outside of the ship, meaning the crew can only communicate with the man via audio. On a newer spacecraft that might not be the case, but this ship is old, a relic of times past, her maiden voyage predating the addition of exterior cameras. 

You wait in the cockpit with Alex and Graves while Nikolai repairs the panel outside, nerves shot. A half hour passes by without thought. You dig your nails into the palm of your hands and wait it out, each minute feeling eternal, elongated somehow. Every so often, the receiver crackles and Nikolai gives an update on his work. Each time, the crackle makes you flinch. 

Despite the unease churning in your stomach, the amount of time isn’t suspect; you know he has to disconnect and remove the damaged panel section before installing a replacement panel.

Yet, you can’t quite shake the nausea building in your stomach. The way it cramps and flutters. 

At some point during the wait, Farah slips into the room, and you only notice her when you twist your head from side to side to stretch out the muscles in your neck and find her leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed tight over her chest. 

For someone who has most certainly monitored and participated on spacewalks before, you’re surprised to find her just as anxious as you, albeit better at concealing it. You’d have thought of all people, she’d be the most comfortable. Instead, her eyes stare sightlessly at the flight deck window, finger tapping against her elbow; a nervous twitch. 

The receiver crackles again. “Panel secure. Heading back n—” 

Both Graves and Alex sit up straighter, staring down at the receiver as if anticipating the rest of the sentence. It never comes. You feel a sweat break on the back of your neck. 

Graves presses a button. “Nikolai, we didn’t catch that. Say again.” 

He’s met with a deeper, more prolonged silence. 

“Nikolai?” Graves repeats into the mic, his voice broadcast over the intercom system throughout the ship. “Nikolai, do you copy?”

Silence. Nikolai’s transmitter crackles in response, as if his finger were on the button, but his voice never follows. 

“Kolya?” Graves asks, and you can hear the sliver of desperation, the worry couched in professional concern. You’ve never heard him use that name before. 

Another minute goes by without a response. The tension is thick in the air. 

The sound of the door to the cockpit opening cuts through the air and you turn to watch as Farah leaves without a word. Again, puppyish, you follow after her. You’re not sure why. Her back is ramrod straight as she marches down the hall, tension rippling down her shoulders. She doesn’t acknowledge your presence as you make your way down the corridor together. 

The two of you stare out the first porthole for some time before proceeding to the airlock further down the hall. No sign of Nikolai. Graves’ voice crackles over the intercom, keeping the crew dispersed throughout the ship abreast of any sign of Nikolai. 

“I’m going out,” Farah abruptly announces, punching in the code for the second spacesuit locker. 

“Huh?” you ask dumbly, watching as she rips the zipper down the length of the suit to open it and starts to tug it out of the locker. 

“I’m going to check on him,” she repeats, enunciating each individual word as if you didn’t hear her the first time. 

“Is that—is that a good idea? Shouldn’t you consult the commander before—”

It isn’t your place to question her, but an instinct deep inside of you says don’t go out there, don’t go out. What’s out there should stay out there. 

“This is my job, doctor,” she cuts you off, finally wrenching the second suit out of the locker and jamming her leg into the lower torso component. “I don’t tell you how to do your job and you certainly don’t tell me how to do mine—”

Then, somehow, you both see it at the same time. A hand pressed flat to the airlock window, the fingers spread wide. The body attached to it must still be hanging off the side of the ship because you don’t see the rest of him, just a palm open wide on the far edge of the window. And though Farah breathes thank fuck, Kolya under her breath—the most relieved you’ve ever heard her—your stomach cramps and your palms grow clammy. 

The spacesuit she’d been about to step into falls to the floor in a heap. From the corner of your eye, you see Farah reach for the airlock lever to open the door, and your hand instinctively goes up as well, your fingers closing around her wrist to hold her in place. 

“Wait.” It’s your voice but not your voice. It’s your fingers around her wrist though, staying her hand. It’s your stomach cramped up in a Gordian knot, bile at the back of your throat because this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. 

She wrenches her wrist out of your grasp with more strength than you anticipated, pulling down the lever in the next breath. The look she sends you as the exterior door slides open is scathing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps, her repressed fury coming to life. You can feel it now coming off her in waves—the days of doubt and mistrust, so unsettled by your actions to the point that now she snarls at you without a second thought. 

Your lips part but nothing comes out. No way to explain yourself, just the gut feeling of something terribly wrong. 

All you can do is watch as the first set of doors open to the blackness of space, your body frozen where you stand, heart in your throat. The hand briefly disappears from the window just to reappear a second later, gripping the side of the door to haul himself inside. His movements are slow and deliberate, hampered by the lack of gravity. 

You notice the glaring issue almost immediately, but your throat is far too dry for you to speak. You wonder if Farah has noticed it as well. The man in the spacesuit taking his first step into the airlock is leaner than the man who left. Shorter too. Not the bear of a man that stepped out just an hour ago, but someone new. Someone that now flips the switch on the interior wall to shut the door behind him, which it does noiselessly. 

“Farah,” you whisper uncertainly. She doesn’t respond. You wish you could turn your head to look at her, but you can’t rip your eyes off the man in the airlock. 

You wait with baited breath for the airlock to repressurize the first chamber. It takes as long as it did to depressurize in the first place, an agonizing handful of minutes that you can only spend staring at the man standing in the middle of the chamber, his visor still tilted too low for you to make out his face. 

But you know, don’t you? 

With a door separating the two of you, the sound never actually reaches your ears, but you swear you can almost hear the hiss of his helmet unlocking. You’re sweating hard now, heart racing in your chest and still you blink twice, hoping that the man behind the glass will suddenly disappear or suddenly grow in size. 

The man reaches two gloves hands up to twist the helmet out of its locked position and then slowly pulls it off, revealing a face that you’ve become familiar with these past few days. Dark skin and a high fade. A scar high on his cheekbone, the wound long healed. 

“Farah,” you say again, and your voice cracks this time. Beside you, you hear her let out a shuddering breath. 

Through the glass, he smiles at you, full lips pulling apart to expose a row of gleaming white teeth. He waves a thick-fingered, gloved hand and mouths your name.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Can you write an insecure!reader who has stutters or nervous tics or anything that prevents her from talking easily so she just rathers to keep quiet because it kind of embarrases her, even with her boyfriend Logan

It can be any Logan you picture!! Be free with the idea too

Glossophobia

Trilogy! Logan X F! Reader

You prefer to stay quiet, keep to yourself, and do your work, but you're asked to do something that fills you with anxiety, and Logan talks it out with you

A/N: I'm sorry this took me so long! I really wanted to write this properly. I had to take speech therapy when I was a kid (had a LOT of trouble with my S, C, and Th sounds), not to mention I would get tons of anxiety speaking to groups of people or people I didn't know. It hits a lil close to home. Hope you enjoy! Also Idk why trilogy Logan called out to me for this one...

Warnings: Sort of a subplot included, reader is a scientist apart of X-men, a bit of angst, reader gets frustrated, anxiety, a small moment of comparison to others, Logan being a sweetheart and supportive, Charles jumpscares reader (there's no way Charles randomly popping in your head wouldn't scare the shit out of you), open ending

“Can you explain these results to me?” 

You looked up from the microscope, examining the broken down elements of a particular Rice Krispie cereal, the cereal box sitting nearby- the cartoon character on it seemingly staring at you in a mocking manner. Hank stood there with a stack papers in hand, looking at you questioningly past his glasses.

You took a deep breath, pushing yourself from the table, you reached your hand out for the papers, taking them gently from his hand. A deep sigh as you glanced over the papers, words forming in your head in what to say- how to explain it. You understood it completely, you wrote the paper.

Just, talking about it went a little differently. 

You let out a breath, “Okay…” You paused, as you read the results again. Hank waited patiently. Then you dropped the papers in your lap and you looked up at Hank with a raised eyebrow. “There's no way that you don’t understand this, Hank.” You point at him. “You are a doctor after all” You say. 

“I just want to hear your interpretation, not the science. I don’t quite understand the section regarding biological functions. That is your specialty you know…”

You looked up at him, with a displeased expression, before taking the papers back in your hand, flipping through to find the section Hank is talking about. “Okay.” you reread them for the third time. “Um, S..s..so, this is basically just an explanation about how drugs affect the system.” You begin. 

“Right.” Hank nods, he turns grabbing a chair nearby, and pulls it up to sit next to you. “You write about how it binds to DNA cells, which then affect the hormone cycle.”

You nodded. 

“How?” Hank asks, a small shake of his head indicating he didn’t understand. 

“It’s…It’s the same way alcohol affects hormones.” You explain. “It…affects the um, the levels of testosterone, in a man’s body. The oestrogen, in a woman’s. Except with this- it doesn’t reduce the fertility. It c-c-lings to the spermatozoa or ovum of the individual, and…” You pause to take a breath, sitting straighter in your chair. Hank was staring at you, listening intently. While you appreciate the fact that he wanted to hear your explanation….

All the research is. Right. There!

“It attacks the cells that uh, have the potential to include or actually, form a mutation.”

“Fascinating and terrible.” Hank shook his head. “This is an amazing discovery on your part dear.” 

“I wish it was for something better.” You force a smile to him, as you look back down at the papers. “Is that all you want to know?”

“Actually-” Hank sat up, leaning over to the papers as he began to point at various sections, he began to talk about different points in your paper, asking for clarification as you stare at him with silent dread. 

After that grueling conversation, you were finally left alone in your lab. Thankfully. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy talking to Hank, you were both like-minded people, who enjoyed hardcore science, and drama-ridden soap operas. You just weren’t a talker, which is why you preferred pursuing research over medicine. 

With research, you’re sitting in a quiet room, focused on your own tasks, and writing your notes to type up a paper later. Occasionally quiet small talk over the water cooler, a little;

“How's your day?”

“Fine, yours?” 

A goodbye and back to work. 

Hank pushed you to explain and explain. Which was fine, totally fine, at least he wanted to make sure he understood everything before he brought the papers up to Congress, your papers, evidence, and commentary of the genetically modified food you have discovered. You rather not have your research being mistaken, especially since it was dire that things change, and fast.

It’s just the more you talked, the more you paused, the more you stuttered, the more you misused a word, or went “um” for the 4th time in a sentence; and the more anxious you got as you began to wonder if Hank was getting annoyed. Not once did his expression change as he listened to you attempt to explain your research in more casual wording, patience was always a virtue of Hanks. 

It still left you overthinking.

You attempted to go back to your work, resting in the silence that filled the room. Your nerves settled as you forced yourself to ignore your anxiety over the conversation with Hank. Just as you were getting ready to peer back into the microscope, to finish taking your notes on the most recent discovery of yet another popular food, genetically modified to attack mutant cells. 

It’s too bad, this type of cereal were yours and Marie's favorite and now you can’t be bothered to eat them. It makes you cringe to even have to buy the damn things just so you can confirm that yes, this major brand is also poisoning mutants and damning your futures. 

What a bunch of dicks

Just as you placed your eyes over the ocular lens of the microscope, Charles voice appeared in your head- scaring the hell out of you and making you jump. 

“Jesus!” You yelped, jumping out of your chair and tipping over the box of the cereal. You heard Charles apologize sympathetically for startling you, then requesting you to come to his study. 

You sighed, standing there as you watched the cereal pour out onto the floor, creating a mess. You watched the grains form a small pile, a conceding expression on your face as your shoulders slump. 

Deciding to clean it up later, you left the lab to go to Charles study, and find out what he needs you for. 

“I think you should present this research.” 

Your face fell at Charles words. “Ex..Excuse me?” You ask, your blood running cold at the sound of presenting. You let out a small nervous laugh. “No…No way.” You shook your head. 

Charles smiled sympathetically, “Now I know you don’t like doing it, but you’re the one who discovered this. You deserve the credit.” 

“That’s why my name is on the p-p-paper!” You exclaimed. “Besides no one, is-is going to want to listen to me.” 

“Now that’s not true.” Charles says, straightening his shoulders, clasping his hands together on top his desk. 

“There’s no reason for me to present!” You hands flew out. “Hank- can do it just fine. I…cannot do it Professor. You know I hate t-talking a lot, much less in front of people.” You attempt to keep your voice steady, not allowing much emotion to fall through but you were unfortunately failing terribly. 

Not that it mattered anyway, Charles could easily read your mind and see how you felt about it. You enjoyed the telepathy Charles and Jean both had, which allowed you to not always have to talk out loud with them. Nonetheless it become a tad bit awkward eventually when Jean and you are in a lab together in complete silence, and she randomly blurts out responses to things you were thinking about. 

“Think about it.” Charles says gently, and you purse your lips together, and force yourself to nod. 

You knew Charles had good intentions. He was always trying to get you out of your shell, especially ever since you came here. You just can’t do it. It’s hard enough on your own, talking to people you considered family. You found yourself embarrassed at your own voice most of the time, preferring to just stay quiet. Talking in front of strangers? Congress?

Absolutely. Not.

You were now at your desk, your chin resting on your clasped hands; staring down at your papers with a frown. You weren’t reading the papers, you weren’t even seeing the papers. Looking past them, as you obsessed over the conversation with Hank, and Charles earlier in the morning. 

Why can’t you just do it? 

You hadn’t noticed Logan slipping inside. A big goofy smile on his face as he walks up to your desk, slowly fading as he notices the intense look in your expression, the way you were glaring down at your papers. He recognized the grumpy look, the look that tells him you were having a bad day - and was gonna need some TLC. 

He came up from your side, standing behind your chair as he leaned over you, a hand pressing to your desk to brace himself. 

You still hadn’t noticed his looming figure yet, until your eyes just happened to flip over to his hand, in which you lifted your head up in confusion, before turning to look up, scanning the familiar and muscular arm, and landing on Logan's face. He quirked a brow, a small smile spread across it, as he leaned down to press a soft greeting kiss to your lips. 

You returned it, eventually melting into it as a smile formed on your face. He parted from you, a loud smooch echoed in the room. 

“What’s it take for a guy to get noticed by ya, huh bub?” He teases. 

“Sorry...” You mutter bashfully looking away. He moved to lean against your desk, crossing his arms. 

“Still working?”

“Uh, no.” You shook your head, not looking up at him. 

“You were glaring at these papers pretty hard like they said something to offend you.” 

You fiddled with some of the papers, not saying anything. He observed your body language, the way you were closed in on yourself, avoiding looking at him, and not speaking much. Meant that you were having a really bad day.

“Hey.” His voice low, as his hand reaches over to tip your chin up at him. His brows creased together in focus, but his expression was lighthearted. “You okay?”

“M’fine.” You mutter. 

“Something happen?” 

Your eyes finally reached his. You waited a moment, “Lo?” 

“Hm?”

“Does…Do how I t-talk..Bother you?” 

He blinks, his chin tipping back a bit, as if he were baffled by your question. Then he tilts his head, brows creasing as he examines you. “How you talk?” He shook his head, “What do you mean?” 

You sigh looking down, removing yourself from his hand. Chewing on your lip, you began to pick at your nails - already thinned down from your encounters this morning. “You know what…I mean.” You glance back up at him. “I s-s- stutter, a lot. I can never just…Say what I want to say.” 

His brows creased, he tilted his head, examining your face. “I….Don’t get it. I mean, is there stuff you want to say?” 

“No I mean- When I talk, I…. have trouble getting it out and I start to s.s..stutter- Like that!” Your hands went in the air in frustration. 

“Woah, woah, settle down.” His hands went to your arms. “I don’t notice it, and I don’t think anyone else does, and if they do, who gives a shit?” 

You sigh in frustration, a little embarrassment overcoming you. You never really talked about this with Logan before, only mentioning in passing during the timing of your friendship. When you got together, you really couldn’t bring yourself to talk about it to him. You were afraid of pointing it out, that he would notice it more if you did. Maybe he would get sick of it. Especially when the other ladies here, like Ororo, or Jean, seems to speak perfectly clear with no hesitation in their words. 

You didn’t want the way you spoke noticed, or to be compared in anyway to your peers. So you simply chose not speaking much. When asked for your opinions, inputs, etc, you simply opted for the easy answer, or simply redirecting the conversation to someone else.

Your conversation with Charles put you on edge though. On one hand, you don’t want to turn him down. You knew he meant well and has high hopes for you but that merely filled you with more anxiety that if you really went up on that podium and spoke in front of congress- representing X-men and mutants alike, you were going to be an embarrassment. You certainly held a passion for this research, and want to contribute to protecting your fellow mutants, but this…

“Hey-” Logans voice cut through your thoughts again. “What is it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Stop that.” He says firmly, then moving to kneel in front of you, his hands on your knees. “We talked about this before.” He says, referring to your conversations from the past, about opening up to each other more. You weren’t the only one who didn’t like to talk much, yet Logan’s “talking” was more about his feelings, rather than physical speaking. You let out a small sigh.

“The way I t-talk. It’s like I…swallow my words. It doesn’t annoy you?”

“Of course not.” Logan says. “Did I…Ever act like it did?”

You shook your head, and a small bit of relief came across his face. “So what’s this about bub?”

“Charles…Asked me to p-p-present my findings to Congress, instead of Hank.” You look down at where your hands were on your lap, Logans hands resting over yours. “I…don’t want to.” 

“Then don’t.” Logan replies with a small shrug. 

“But Charles-” 

“You don’t gotta do a damn thing just cause Chuck asked you to.” He says with a shake of his head. “If you want to do it, do it, if you don’t want to, don’t. You don’t need to prove anything.”

“It’s just with this…This..The way I talk…” You forced yourself to look up at him. “I, I’m c-c-constantly wondering when people are going to snap at me.”

“Fuck em.” 

You blinked in surprise, and a small laugh escaped you. “Lo!” 

“I’m serious.” He raised a brow, his expression and tone evident that he was indeed serious. “Someone’s gonna be a dick, fuck em. Tell em that to their face. In fact I’ll do it for you. Don’t need to waste your time on someone like that.” 

You giggled, shaking your head and closing your eyes as you tipped your chin downwards. A faint smile appeared on Logans lips as he watched you. You opened your eyes and looked back up at him, and for a moment he felt his breath taken away. His hands squeezed yours, as he leaned up to capture your lips in a soft but urgent kiss. Parting from you, he rested his forehead against yours, your noses bumping into each other. 

“You sure it…doesn’t bother you?” You ask softly. 

“It’s you baby. Everything about you.” He replies, “There ain’t a single thing I don’t like about you. Don’t hide yourself from me. Got it?” 

You let out a small hum and nodded. 

“So…About this presentation Chuck wants ya to do…” He leans back a bit. “What worries you?”

“Making a fool of myself.” You mutter softly, as you felt a heat in your cheeks from admitting it. 

“You?” Logan raised a brow. “The only people making themselves out to be fools is the assholes who created the whole…food…thing.” He waved his hand in annoyance. “..and everyone with those damn suits but that’s another story.” 

You laughed. “You’d look g-great in that.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Focus.” He says in a warning tone, before pausing and winking at you. “Look, if you really don’t want to do it. Don’t. You don’t need to. Beastie will be fine. Just, don’t do it just because you’re worried about others judging you.” He reaches out, brushing some of your hair back. “Guarantee you’re 10 times smarter than all the assholes in Congress anyway. Don’t let others scare you from being yourself, and speaking up for yourself. Got it?” he adjusted himself on his knee. “Whatever you do, wherever you go, I got your back.”

Just when you thought you couldn’t love the man more. 

You bit your lip, and nodded. A genuine smile came across his face. He brought your hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it, and then the other. 

“So, what are you going to do?” He asks looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.

[heavenbarnes]

Jesus loves her, she wants more

Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x AFAB Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB (no pronouns), blasphemy, praise kink, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex (always use protection), finishing inside, swearing, mentions of knives (it's a kitchen), inappropriate workplace relationship (boss/employee), idiots at the end.

Word Count: 2.9k

Working title was "No harm, no foul: How a praise kink nearly ruined a career." No, really, this stemmed from my immediate understanding that I'd never be able to work for this man.

Good job.

Fundamentally, that's what it was. It's a good job, it's a good location, it's good pay (for the most part).

It's a good job.

You're good at it, if you do say so yourself. Prepping food, thin slices, plating up, it comes naturally to you.

You do a good job.

At least that's what he tells you.

"Chef-" Carmy's voice cut through the air, your plate in his hands as he swiped the edge of it with his cloth.

You waited for the drop, the punchline, the clincher- whatever you wanted to call it, you could feel yourself on the knife's edge waiting for it.

"Good job, it's beautiful."

It's a good job that you're good at.

Not something that you'd want to jeopardise, you know that much to be true.

"Good job, chef."

"Nice, chef, nice."

"Making me happy, chef. Keep that up."

It should be enough, good job with a good team and a boss that isn't a total jackass.

"Just like that, chef."

It's not like you're doing it on purpose, just one of those things you cannot control.

"Yes, chef."

You're good at what you do, and Carmy's good at reminding you.

"That's it, chef, that's it."

A little distracting, that's all it is. No harm, no foul.

-

You tucked your fingertips against the carrot, knuckles against the flat of the knife as you followed it through the vegetable. Tiny matchsticks flitted against the chopping board as you carried out the motions.

Perfecting your julienne cut was your new-week resolution and it'd been riding your ass a bit. You didn't know if your eyes were betraying you after all the repetition but you were sure the sticks were getting bigger.

Placing your knife down, you lent until your nose was centimetres from the board, laying up two pieces of carrots together. So intent on your task of comparison, you didn't even register the office door opening.

"Still here, chef?"

You'd hoped Carmy had missed the way his presence made you jump, but in all honesty, he could've passed a bus under you. His brows rose a little as you did, the faintest hint of a smile under his expression.

"Yes, chef." You stepped away from the carrots you'd had under a microscope. "Just trying to get my prep done for tomorrow."

He didn't say anything, just nodded knowingly as he stepped towards your space. A nervous glance around the kitchen confirmed for you that everyone else had gone home. Come to think of it, you vaguely remember them throwing you a 'goodbye' or two as they left.

It was just you and Carmy.

Your attention was drawn back to him as he brought his elbows forward to lean on the bench in front of you. He surveyed your handiwork, picking one of the carrot sticks out of the pile.

When he held it between his thumb and forefinger, it looked considerably smaller than it had before. Truthfully, it looked-

"Perfectly julienned, chef."

The lump in your throat caught and refused to release. You swallowed harshly, nodding your head with a queasy smile.

"Thank you, chef. Been practicing hard."

He placed the piece of carrot between his lips and nodded. It seemed to be in agreement, that he'd seen you practicing hard and was well aware.

"They look bad to you because you've been doing it too long."

So, not only was he a masterfully talented chef- Carmy had also acquired the ability to mindread.

"Leaning half a millimetre from the board isn't going to help either."

You snorted a laugh out your nose and it was your turn to nod in agreement. You reminded yourself that he'd probably been in this spot before, he wasn't really a mindreader.

At least you hoped he wasn't. He'd probably think you were fucking depraved.

You both looked towards the one last carrot you had to prep before you could allow yourself to rest. Dragging it onto the board, you suddenly became acutely aware of Carmy's gaze on you.

Flickering your eyes up, you found him already looking at your face and not your knife. The silence that past between the both of you was loud, his expression never moved an inch.

"Show me how you do it, chef?"

Jesus Christ.

Swallowing against that lump in your throat, you nodded once before finally breaking eye contact. Focusing back on your hands, you measured your knife up against the carrot for your first stroke.

This was going to be just your luck. Carmy's presence would, undoubtedly, screw over your chances of impressing him. You could already feel your wrist shaking as you tried to follow through with the weight of your knife handle.

Three or four strikes in, you felt a gentle touch against your elbow. Silently, you prided yourself in not letting that make you jump this time. Carmy was reaching across the bench, hand holding your elbow in closer to your side and subsequently improving the cut of your knife.

Moving his hand away, you allowed yourself to feel a strike of disappointment as you kept your elbow where he left it. Disappointment dissipated into heart-palpitations as you caught Carmy moving around to your side of the bench in your peripheral vision.

Stood on your side, you could feel him watching your every move like a hawk. You tried your hardest to focus on the food before you, paying no attention to the way his eyes were no longer on the same thing. The feeling of his gaze on the side of your face was unmistakable.

"Just like that, chef."

If your lip didn't start bleeding from the pressure your teeth had around it, it'd be a miracle. You had a hard enough time being normal when he was walking behind you in a kitchen full of people. But this?

This?

Alone, nearly pressed against your side. Undivided attention perfectly trained on you. Quiet but constant praise for your work. Breath ghosting across you and faintly tinged by the piece of carrot he'd stolen earlier.

You thought you might pass out.

What once was a whole carrot soon became one last match stick, gathering them at the edge of the board with the blade of your knife. Carmy finally looked away from you and back to the board, studying the product of your efforts.

"Very good chef."

"Thank you, chef."

Flickering your eyes to the side, you found him fixed back on you again. You held the tension a moment until you felt something pressing against your side.

Carmy was handing you the plastic container for your carrots.

"Oh- thank you, chef."

He stepped off as you collected them all into the container and laid the labelled tape across the lid. Picking up the cucumbers you'd worked through earlier, you stepped around Carmy to reach the chiller. Propping the door open with your foot, you lent into the place your prep on the shelves.

Stepping back out, you swung the door shut and turned on your heel to find Carmy leaning across the bench in front of you. His arms were crossed against his chest as he just lingered.

"You did good today, chef." He remarked, pulling the cloth off his shoulder and pocketing it in his apron. "Deserve to go home and get some rest."

God damn it.

You didn't want this to end. Sure, your feet were fucking killing you and you were pretty sure your eyes would shut of their own accord any moment - but this shouldn't end.

There was a pit in the bottom of your stomach that said this wouldn't happen again. The kitchen would be full, Carmy wouldn't be so close, so kind, so- him.

Trying to reason with yourself was a bit redundant. Every time you'd had the talk with yourself, the 'chances are, he isn't actually into you' talk, there was still a bigger voice convincing you that there was still a chance he was.

Then that talk developed into, the 'just because you can, doesn't mean you should' talk. That one was arguably more important. That talk was reminding yourself that it was a good job, a good gig, something you shouldn't mess up.

Going after your boss was a sort of surefire way to mess it up. You had it good, you didn't need to push it any further because pushing it could well and good send it over the edge.

You were good, this was good, keep it good.

"You're good, chef. Very good."

Let sleeping dogs lie.

"Real nice, chef."

Pretty fucking distracting.

"There isn't anything else I can help with tonight?" One shot, you'll give yourself one shot.

If he politely declines, then that's your signal to leave this one be. Go home, go to bed, come back tomorrow, do some good work.

Carmy placed his hands on the bench behind him and used the leverage to push himself up to standing. He took one step closer to you, almost bridging the gap.

"You any good at paperwork?"

Yes, chef. Very good.

-

Carmy's foot kicked his office door shut as you walked backwards into the room, the backs of your thighs hitting the edge of the desk. The move of his lips against yours was torturous, somehow better than those late night fantasies you usually treated yourself to.

One of his arms looped around your back, pulling you into his front as the other swiped out behind you to clear off his desk. The aforementioned paperwork went flying to the floor, floating delicately around your feet as he took up space between your parted thighs.

You'd been fighting with the arousal that'd claimed home in the pit of your stomach since he'd appeared earlier in the night. You knew that you'd have to sate it soon before it killed you.

However.

There was an even bigger part of you that knew exactly what you wanted, what you need. That part of you knew that if Carmy was that generous with praise when you so much as seared a steak, you were sure you'd could get it in other ways.

Allowing his tongue to take over your mouth, you ran your hands down his chest and tugged at his apron. He quickly pulled back to take it from over his head, back to kissing you as he untied it from his back. Your fingers began burrowing under his chef's whites, palm smoothing over his crotch.

Groaning into your mouth, he bucked his hips into your hand as you started breaching his waistband. One hand on his pants, the other cupping his jaw, you turned the both of you so he was leaning against the desk. Slowly, you dropped down to your knees before looking up at him with a smile.

He had that look of bewilderment across his face that you sometimes saw when the kitchen was overwhelming him. This time, he was just taking things in, grappling with the fact he finally had you on your knees before him.

Undoing his pants, you brought them down his thighs just enough to free his cock into your hand. Holding it in one hand, you ran your tongue from the base to the tip in one long stroke. Carmy shuddered above you, one hand gripping the table and the other taking your head.

"This good, chef?"

His eyes screwed shut, a long and shaky breath leaving his chest as he nodded furiously.

"Very good, you're very good." He sucked another breath back in. "But you cannot call me 'chef' right now or I'll never be able to work in the kitchen again."

"Heard, ch- Carmen."

He wasn't sure if his full name was going to help him any better, the way his hips stuttered and pushed the head of his cock through your lips. Your tongue enveloped him, suctioning around him as you bobbed your head into him.

Saliva filled your cheeks, running out the corners of your mouth as you pushed right down on him. Carmy's head tipped back, hand securing tighter around the back of your head to keep you there.

"That's it, just like that - you're doing so good."

Your thighs squeezed together in your spot on the floor. That praise sounded better than any time you'd successfully plated a dish, that was in a league of it's own.

Looking up, it was nearly enough to put you in an early grave. His hair was disheveled as ever, but knowing that it was your doing was different. He opened his eyes in time to see you watching him, a cocky smile drifted across the bliss on his face.

"You know you're good, don't you?"

Pulling off him with a pop, you wiped away some spit as you smiled proudly.

"Mhmm, yes, Carmen."

His smile dropped as you spoke, one of your hands still jerking him off as the other came to cup his balls. He went to speak again but was betrayed by the moan that fell out instead.

The hand on your head moved around to your jaw, cupping it gently to tilt up and look at him. "Up here, please."

You'd never get enough of his orders. He had a way of saying them in the kitchen that made you forget a "please" even existed. That being said, the way he used a "please" was something else all together.

Coming up off your knees, you allowed him to make quick work of your chef's whites, pushing your pants down to your knees. He pressed you up against the desk, tilting your head back to he could re-capture your lips with his.

You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, collecting the slick as he began to push in. Your mouth dropped open, allowing him to get his tongue back into it, as he had before. His initial stretch had your knees buckling, until his arm tightened around your front to hold you up.

"Next time, I want my mouth on you," He hummed against your lips. "Wanna' hear those manners of yours."

There was so much to unpack in his one sentence.

One, there was going to be a next time. He envisioned this happening more than once.

Two, he noticed your manners, your responsiveness in the kitchen. Your manners to him was his praise to you.

Carmy's hips snapped into motion as he drove himself into you, repeatedly rocking into you. Your chest opened up with a symphony of moans, unable to keep any of it to yourself.

"That's it, lets hear what you have to say, huh?"

"Carmen- feels, fuck, feels-"

"Mmm? Feels good?"

"Feels so fucking good."

He hummed contentedly, satisfied with your babbling in bliss. "Always so responsive for me."

You shot an arm out in front of you to brace on the desk, all of this at once was a touch overwhelming. Coupled with the way Carmy slipped his free hand down to touch you, circling his fingers until your back was arching for him.

The coil in the pit of your stomach was wound dangerously tight, ready to snap at any moment. Carmy was dead set on getting you there, skilled fingers matched with the steady roll of his hips, your vision was beginning to blur with tiny stars pricking the corners.

"Fuck- Carmen, I'm gonna'-"

"Yeah, you are." He cooed, hips picking up just a touch. "Let me here it, baby."

And that did it.

You always knew it'd be his words that did it. Part of him knew it too.

Your whole body wound tight, muscles strained until you felt it come loose inside you. A white-hot flood overtook you, legs shaking as you felt yourself tip right over the edge.

Carmy had a good hold on you, working you through your orgasm as your body was giving out on you. Once the blood rushing in your ears quieted down, you could hear the faint sounds of him talking you through it.

"Very good."

"That's it."

"Just like that."

Letting your arms give out, your front laid against Carmy's desk as he chased towards his own high. You felt one of his palms splayed against your lower back, pulling you back onto him as he drilled his hips into you.

"You want it? Think you've earnt it?"

You threw him a look back over your shoulder, fucked out expression with a blissed smile painted on your face. "Yes, chef."

Carmy's hips stuttered, his eyes locked on yours as he still with his final thrust. Coming hot inside you, his final pumps sending aftershocks through your body as you enjoyed the way it overtook him entirely.

You watched the way he pulled out, tapping his cock against your ass a couple times before helping you pull your pants back up. Both of you fixed your chef's gear in the office, quickly picking up the discarded papers that managed to reach all corners of the room.

Both of you went to your lockers, grabbing your belongings and purposefully ignoring the time on the clock beside you. As you shrugged your jacket on, you couldn't help but peer beside you. Thankfully, Carmy was already looking your way.

You both shared a smile that soon broke into quiet laughter as you picked your bag up. You couldn't even help yourself. "So, did I do good?"

"Yes, chef," Carmy rolled his eyes with a snort. "Good job."