#Muscle Recovery Essential | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mortalislabs · 3 months ago

Text

Trigonelline is a methylated form of niacin and is a recently isolated molecule that could be the secret ingredient in your stack. This form of the B vitamin is involved in the generation of NAD+, a cofactor for over 500 metabolic processes in cells. Trigonelline promotes cellular repair and energy, and as we’ll see, exerts quite a few benefits that are specifically useful for anyone training seriously.

Trigonelline is found in several plant-based foods, notably coffee beans and fenugreek seeds. Green coffee beans contain trigonelline concentrations ranging from 0.6% to 1.0% by weight. However, traditional dietary sources don’t provide sufficient amounts to elicit significant physiological effects. For instance, the average trigonelline content in a cup of coffee is approximately 53 mg, and about 50-80% of trigonelline decomposes during the roasting process, leaving virtually nothing for your body to make use of.

Recent research published on this naturally occurring alkaloid highlights its potential in enhancing muscle function and combating age-related decline. A 2024 study published in Nature Metabolism identified trigonelline as a novel precursor to nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide (NAD+), a molecule essential for energy metabolism and mitochondrial function. The study demonstrated that trigonelline supplementation improved muscle strength and reduced fatigue in aged mice, suggesting that it can head off the natural muscle decline seen in aging, even in those who are already training at capacity.

NAD+ gets discussed a lot in the longevity space because of its natural and steep decline over the years, tied to all the diseases of aging. It's a metabolic linchpin that determines how efficiently your cells convert fuel into usable energy. For athletes, that efficiency translates into faster recovery, better performance under load, and greater resilience under metabolic stress. Or, you know, complete lack of those things if you don’t have enough of it.

NAD+ is required for redox (oxidation–reduction) reactions in mitochondrial energy production and is a cofactor and substrate for longevity-promoting sirtuins and other enzymes involved in muscle repair and adaptation. During intense physical activity, NAD+ levels drop as demand for ATP surges. Replenishing intracellular NAD+ is critical not only for restoring mitochondrial output but also for initiating the cellular programs that rebuild and reinforce muscle tissue [1].

Trigonelline offers a direct path to NAD+—one that bypasses the liver and supports muscle tissue specifically. In a landmark 2024 study, researchers at EPFL and Nestlé Health Sciences (yes, that Nestlé, but there aren’t any conflicts of interest, we checked) demonstrated that trigonelline functions as a previously unidentified NAD+ precursor, rapidly taken up by skeletal muscle cells and converted into NAD+ via a salvage pathway independent of the traditional NR or NMN routes [2]. This muscle-specific uptake is particularly important for athletes, who require localized replenishment in the very tissues under stress.

Most NAD+ precursors—including nicotinamide riboside (NR) and nicotinamide mononucleotide (NMN)—undergo hepatic metabolism before entering systemic circulation. This creates a bottleneck at your liver for targeted muscle repair. Trigonelline appears to bypass that constraint by delivering precursors directly where they're needed most: the muscle fibers responsible for performance and endurance.

This shift in delivery has implications beyond simple NAD+ restoration. In the same Nature Metabolism study, aged mice supplemented with trigonelline showed significant improvements in grip strength and fatigue resistance—outcomes tightly linked to muscle NAD+ availability. Unlike systemic precursors that may elevate circulating NAD+ levels without improving localized bioenergetics, trigonelline drives changes in muscle mitochondrial density and function.

For athletes, this is the difference between feeling recovered and actually being rebuilt.

Mitochondria Make Muscles Move

Endurance Starts in the Electron Transport Chain

Every sprint, every lift, every set depends on one thing: mitochondrial output. The ability to generate ATP on demand—efficiently and cleanly—is the defining line between sustained power and early fatigue. Trigonelline’s value lies not just in elevating NAD+ levels, but in what that elevation enables at the level of mitochondrial performance.

NAD+ drives oxidative phosphorylation, the mitochondrial pathway responsible for converting nutrients into ATP. When NAD+ is depleted, electron transport slows, reactive oxygen species accumulate, and mitochondrial output tanks—resulting in performance collapse and prolonged recovery. Replenishing NAD+ restores mitochondrial throughput, enhances metabolic flexibility, and allows cells to switch between carbohydrate and fat oxidation with minimal friction [3].

Trigonelline’s role as a direct NAD+ precursor in muscle tissue makes it especially powerful in this context. By bypassing hepatic metabolism and restoring NAD+ where it's most needed, it kickstarts mitochondrial biogenesis—activating pathways like PGC-1α that drive the formation of new mitochondria and increase the efficiency of existing ones [4]. This isn’t theoretical: in the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation significantly boosted mitochondrial content and activity in aged mice, restoring performance metrics typically lost with age and overtraining [2].

This cellular shift translates directly to the field, the track, and the gym. More mitochondria means more ATP per unit of oxygen consumed. This is the underpinning of higher VO₂ max, improved lactate clearance, and extended time-to-exhaustion. Trigonelline supports this adaptation at the source, which means athletes can train harder, go longer, and bounce back faster—without relying on stimulants or sketchy ergogenics.

More NAD+ in muscle equals better mitochondrial kinetics, which equals better athletic output. Period.

Strength and Muscle Health

Preserving Power, Not Just Mass

Strength isn’t only about size—it’s about contractile quality, neuromuscular precision, and the cellular capacity to resist breakdown under stress. Trigonelline’s impact on muscle tissue reaches beyond endurance. It supports structural integrity, performance output, and resilience across multiple pathways—especially in the context of aging or chronic training demand.

In the 2024 Nature Metabolism study, trigonelline supplementation restored muscle grip strength and improved fatigue resistance in aged mice, with outcomes exceeding those observed in control groups receiving traditional NAD+ precursors [2]. This effect was tied to increased NAD+ availability in skeletal muscle, which reactivated SIRT1- and PGC-1α-dependent pathways responsible for mitochondrial biogenesis, inflammation control, and protein maintenance—all critical for contractile performance and mass preservation [5].

NAD+ also plays a protective role against muscle wasting. It regulates the balance between anabolic and catabolic signaling, modulating FoxO transcription factors and suppressing atrophy-related genes like MuRF1 and atrogin-1 [6]. This anti-catabolic signaling becomes especially important during periods of calorie deficit, illness, or overreaching, when muscle degradation accelerates. Trigonelline, by supplying NAD+ directly to muscle cells, may help maintain lean mass even under systemic stress.

One overlooked aspect of muscle performance is neuromuscular junction (NMJ) stability, or, the connections between nerves and muscle fibers. These connections go both ways, with afferent signals carrying sensory feedback from muscle to brain, and efferent signals delivering motor commands from brain to muscle. Maintaining the integrity of this bidirectional communication is essential for coordination, strength, and rapid recovery from fatigue. NAD+ is required for the function of enzymes that protect NMJ architecture—particularly in aging or disease models where synaptic decline contributes to strength loss [7]. Trigonelline’s direct muscle delivery may therefore preserve the electrical signaling fidelity needed for explosive power and motor unit recruitment.

Muscle Fiber Type Preservation

Emerging evidence suggests that NAD+ availability influences muscle fiber type composition. High NAD+ levels favor the maintenance of fast-twitch (Type II) fibers—those responsible for strength, speed, and power—by enhancing mitochondrial support without triggering full transition to slow-twitch oxidative profiles [8]. This has implications for athletes seeking to maintain peak force output without compromising endurance. By elevating muscle NAD+ directly, trigonelline may help preserve this delicate fiber balance.

Trigonelline is formulated not to just support general energy—but to protect the architecture of athleticism at the cellular level.

For a reliable, pure form of trigonelline with zero additives, you can trust Mortalis Labs.

#longevity #trigonelline #nmn #fitness #gym #metabolismboost #metabolismsupport #healthylifestyle #healthtips #healthy living

513 notes · View notes

reasonsforhope · 7 months ago

Text

"A study looking at the bearers of artificial hearts found that a subset of them can regenerate heart muscle tissue—the first time such an observation has ever been made.

It may open the door to new ways to treat and perhaps someday cure heart failure, the deadliest non-communicable disease on Earth. The results were published in the journal Circulation.

A team of physician-scientists at the University of Arizona’s Heart Center in Tucson led a collaboration of international experts to investigate whether heart muscles can regenerate.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, heart failure affects nearly 7 million US adults and is responsible for 14% of deaths per year. There is no cure for heart failure, though medications can slow its progression. The only treatment for advanced heart failure, other than a transplant, is a pump replacement through an artificial heart, called a left ventricular assist device, which can help the heart pump blood.

“Skeletal muscle has a significant ability to regenerate after injury. If you’re playing soccer and you tear a muscle, you need to rest it, and it heals,” said Hesham Sadek, director of the University’s Sarver Heart Center.

It was previously thought that when a heart muscle is injured, it could never grow back.

“Irrefutable evidence of heart muscle regeneration has never been shown before in humans,” he said. “This study provided direct evidence.”

The project began with tissue from artificial heart patients provided by colleagues at the University of Utah Health and School of Medicine led by Stavros Drakos, MD, PhD, and a pioneer in left ventricular assist device-mediated recovery.

Teams in Sweden and Germany used their innovative method of carbon dating human heart tissue to track whether these samples contained newly generated cells. The investigators found that patients with artificial hearts regenerated muscle cells at more than six times the rate of healthy hearts.

“This is the strongest evidence we have, so far, that human heart muscle cells can actually regenerate, which really is exciting, because it solidifies the notion that there is an intrinsic capacity of the human heart to regenerate,” Sadek said.

“It also strongly supports the hypothesis that the inability of the heart muscle to ‘rest’ is a major driver of the heart’s lost ability to regenerate shortly after birth. It may be possible to target the molecular pathways involved in cell division to enhance the heart’s ability to regenerate.”

In 2011, Sadek published a paper in Science showing that while heart muscle cells actively divide in utero, they stop dividing shortly after birth to devote their energy to pumping blood through the body nonstop, with no time for breaks.

In 2014, he published evidence of cell division in patients with artificial hearts, hinting that their heart muscle cells might have been regenerating because they were able to rest.

These findings, combined with other research teams’ observations that some artificial heart patients could have their devices removed after experiencing a reversal of symptoms, led him to wonder if the artificial heart provides cardiac muscles the equivalent of bed rest like a person needs when recovering from injury.

“The pump pushes blood into the aorta, bypassing the heart,” he said. “The heart is essentially resting.”

Sadek’s previous studies indicated that this rest might be beneficial for the heart muscle cells, but he needed to design an experiment to determine whether patients with artificial hearts were actually regenerating muscles.

Next, Sadek wants to figure out why only about 25% of patients are “responders” to artificial hearts, meaning that their cardiac muscle regenerates.

“It’s not clear why some patients respond and some don’t, but it’s very clear that the ones who respond have the ability to regenerate heart muscle,” he said. “The exciting part now is to determine how we can make everyone a responder, because if you can, you can essentially cure heart failure.

“The beauty of this is that a mechanical heart is not a therapy we hope to deliver to our patients in the future—these devices are tried and true, and we’ve been using them for years.”"

-via Good News Network, December 31, 2024

#cw death #heart #heart failure #biology #heart disease #public health #medical news #medical technology #cell biology #cardiology #medicine #health #good news #hope

455 notes · View notes

roosterr · 2 years ago

Note

Hi idk if you're accepting requests but I literally just read the amnesia fic, and I was wondering if I could request where reader suddenly remembers everything, and sprints around base trying to find them, and just jumps on them crying and apologizing for forgetting them. Just some really fluffy comfort? It's okay if you don't want to write this lol

the 141 when you have amnesia – p2

note: i have received your therapy bills :)

wc: 5.2k

warnings: still a bit angsty I'm sorry I couldn't resist, fluff, hurt/comfort, mild injury and blood, happy endings for all I promise

ao3

[part one]

price

✹ john thought your initial reaction was a good sign. you seemed to be taking things well, considering the extent of your injuries, and it was only a matter of time before your memories returned.

✹ your spirits are high when you're reintroduced to the team, and though you don't remember them either you do say they feel familiar, which he takes as a good sign for your recovery.

✹ when you're finally discharged, he takes you home, to the house that the two of you bought together. he shows you the photos of the two of you that decorate the walls, fondly retelling the stories of each one to you even though you were there, and these are your pictures.

✹ if you notice the way he chokes up when you get to your wedding photos, you don't say anything.

✹ like the true gentleman he is, he insists on sleeping on the sofa and leaving you to take the bed, despite your protests about it being his home too. even though you were receptive, he would never risk making you uncomfortable by sleeping in the same bed when he was, essentially, a stranger.

✹ in all your years of marriage, he's never slept on the sofa before. the two of you rarely go to bed without each other, apart from the times you're separated by your job, and consequently he finds himself not getting much rest.

✹ you're still on leave while you're physically recovering from being in a coma, so john has to go to work without you every morning, something he also hasn't done since you got married. he wishes he could bring you with him anyway, just to have you near him, but he knows that's selfish and you still need time.

✹ the base is dull without you.

✹ again, he keeps up the appearance that he's okay, and maybe it's a little more true this time now that you're actually awake, but he still feels your absence like a weight on his shoulders.

✹ the other three are pleased amongst themselves about your recovery, gaz and soap constantly asking him how you are; and he knows they mean well, but it's still irritating because how could you be okay? you don't even remember your own husband, nothing about this is okay.

✹ he keeps his grievances to himself though. he's still their captain, he can't afford to fall apart when he still has a job to do.

✹ he's woken up one night by soft footsteps in the living room. his neck aches as his eyes snap open, every sense on high alert until he realises it's just you. a quiet grunt escapes him as he sits up, massaging his sore muscles from sleeping on the sofa.

✹ when the sound of muffled crying reaches his ears, he's immediately on his feet, his heart racing as he shuffles over to where you're standing with a hand covering your mouth.

✹ he presses a hand to your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. you don't look at him, your crying only increasing in volume now you're not worried about waking him.

✹ now that he's right next to you, he sees through the darkness that you're holding one of your wedding photos. it's his favourite picture, the one where he's lifting you with an arm around your waist and you're both gazing into each other's eyes with the most lovestruck expression on your faces.

✹ "i– i know i love you, so wh-why can't i just remember you?" you sputter in between sobs, and you might as well have just ripped his heart out of his chest, because he can't stop the way he breaks down at your words.

✹ john wraps both arms tightly around you, caging you to his chest and nestling your head into the crook of his shoulder while pressing his own tear-stained face into the top of your head.

✹ "it's alright, love–" his voice cracks pitifully, and he's never felt quite as hopeless as he does in this moment. "it'll be alright, you'll remember, i promise…"

✹ he's not sure who he's trying to convince, you or himself as you both sink to the floor in each other's embrace. you stay like that for hours, crying for your lost memory into the early morning.

✹ after that, he can't be bothered to pretend he's okay anymore.

✹ he starts drinking again, shamelessly in the middle of the day and grumbling at gaz and ghost when they wrestle the bottle away from him. he knows you'd disapprove, but the toll of lying to himself and everyone around him has caught up. all he wanted was his partner back, the love of his life, you.

✹ the others try to knock some sense into him, but talking to him becomes like going back and forth with a brick wall. gaz even gets kate on the phone to yell at him, but nothing seems to get through. he orders them to leave him alone, stop asking about you, and it really feels like he's lost hope.

✹ it goes on like this for a week straight, nearly a full month since you first woke up.

✹ and then one boring afternoon, there's a commotion outside his office. john hears cheers and shouts from down the corridor, but he can't bring himself to care enough to investigate.

✹ he's not in the mood to celebrate whatever it is they're cheering about anyway.

✹ john's just about to stand and yell at them to shut up, but then you're suddenly standing at his door, slamming it behind you as you rush over to his desk. his face must be the picture of surprise as he swivels in his chair to follow you as you approach, opening his legs for you to stand between them.

✹ his breath catches in his throat as you cup his face, your touch so tender it has his heart hammering against his sternum like the very first time you touched him all those years ago. he plants his hands firmly on your hips, too afraid of getting his hopes up to say a single word as he watches you get closer.

✹ your face hovers just above his, warm breath fanning over his face as you inch ever closer. he sees your eyes glistening before they flutter shut, brushing your lips against his with an anticipation that has his skin tingling.

✹ when you pull away, his eyes stay closed, but he can hear the smile in your voice when you whisper,

✹ "i remember you now."

✹ his heart might’ve actually stopped at your words, surprise shooting through him like a bolt of lightning as his eyes snap open.

✹ in a second, he's lifting you by the waist and dropping you onto his desk, uncaring for the various papers that he brushes out of the way to make room for you.

✹ he can't stop the overjoyed laugh that rumbles in his chest now he's the one standing between your legs, gripping your face and pushing his lips back against your with all the passion he's been bottling up during your recovery.

✹ you smile into the kiss too, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, running your fingers up his neck and through his hair. it feels like a weight has lifted, something heavy in the back of his mind finally dissipating and allowing him to relax into your hold.

✹ the two of you break away after a moment, keeping him close to you as you press your forehead to his. "i'm sorry that i ever forgot you."

✹ "i can think of a way you can make it up to me, love…"

gaz

✹ you're so apologetic about your amnesia, it breaks his heart all over again. what's worse is that he has no idea what to do; he doesn't want to try and force you to remember, that would just stress you out more, but he wants you to remember him so desperately he feels it ache in his bones.

✹ in the end, he decides to just let things play out. he wants you to recover at your own pace, and not just because of him and how he feels about you.

✹ he also doesn't say a word about your relationship, but with how he initially reacted, he's sure you got the idea. you don't mention it either, which admittedly hurts a little, but he's sure the confusion of waking up to having a boyfriend who's name you don't even know is worse than how he feels about it.

✹ kyle vows to take care of you the moment you're discharged. he takes you to your room, shows you where everything is, makes sure you know where he is should you ever need anything, and he even introduces you to the others again.

✹ you still remember your job and how to do it so, once you're physically well enough, you get right back to it. they carry on as normal, the rest of the taskforce – assimilating you back into their nights of drinking and fucking around as if you'd never left.

✹ kyle still doesn't feel right about it.

✹ he doesn't want to treat you like glass, because you're exactly the same as when he first met you. you're still quick-witted, stubborn, and one of the toughest people he knows, you just… don't know him.

✹ it kills him on the inside, but he stays strong for you; the last thing he wants is to become the mess of a man he was when you were out, he doesn't want you to see him like that. he sorely misses spending his nights with you, and talking endlessly about your days to each other. he sends you longing glances every time you look away, wondering if you'd ever feel the same again.

✹ if you can go back to living normally, why can't he?

✹ but as the weeks go by, kyle notices how you start to withdraw, the loneliness that blocks out the light in your eyes that he loves so much. you fade into the background of conversations, sticking to listening rather than engaging.

✹ you watch them from afar, and he still knows you well enough to know what's going through your head. feeling somehow like you belong and also like an outsider at the same time, wishing you could understand the inside jokes you were a part of.

✹ he wishes more than anything that there was something he could do – make you understand that you're wanted, and you're a valuable part of the team even without your memories, but any time he brings it up you simply brush him off with that far away look in your eyes.

✹ three weeks go by before anything changes.

✹ it's the first time in a while they finally have an afternoon off, so of course they decide to spend it playing football on one of the fields within the bounds of the base. soap and ghost on one team, gaz and the captain on the other, with you spectating and keeping score on the sidelines.

✹ kyle offered to sit out if you wanted to play, but you'd brushed him off with the excuse of wanting to rest and read your book, laying out your jacket on the grass to sit on.

✹ he could tell you weren't all there, but he didn't know how to help you; so he just reassured you that you could call him over if you needed anything, and left you to guard his own jacket and water bottle before running off to join the game.

✹ the whole time he was sprinting around the field, he couldn't stop looking over to you over by the sidelines. he wasn't with it, he hadn't been since you woke up, really, and the others could tell.

✹ price abruptly calls half-time, clapping gaz on the shoulder and giving him a knowing look. "just talk to 'em, before it eats you alive." he chides, pushing him in your direction before he can think to protest.

✹ with a deep sigh and a glace backwards to the others, who shoo him away without a word, he jogs over to where you're sitting. the way the late afternoon sun hits you just right stops kyle dead in his tracks when he catches how it glows in your eyes. he feels a pull in his chest as he approaches you.

✹ you look up from your book as his shadow reaches you, shooting him a tiny smile as he drops himself next to you. he takes a swig from his water bottle as he catches his breath, extremely conscious of the way your teammates are pretending not to watch him while he comes up with the words.

✹ "so, who's winning then?" you ask, turning so you're facing him. he sees how your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes.

✹ "aren't you supposed to be keepin' score?" kyle chuckles, shifting slightly closer to you as you look away with a bashful expression. he allows your hands to brush, wanting nothing more than to lock your fingers together.

✹ "i'm not really paying attention."

✹ there's a beat of silence and that helpless feeling is back as he watches you look back out to the field, where the others are still kicking the ball back and forth.

✹ "how you doin'?" he asks, keeping his voice low as he leans in even closer to you. your mouth opens to respond, that slightly off smile back on your face, but before you can he places his hand fully over yours, giving it a comforting squeeze. "actually."

✹ you sigh, heavy and tired, and bring your gaze back over to his. "it's… hard." you begin, your eyes betraying the internal struggle. "and i'm… i know, before, we were–"

✹ he blinks and you're being sent over backwards by a football flying into your face with a smack that makes kyle's ears ring.

✹ immediately he's crouching over you, helping you sit back up and pressing the sleeve of his jacket to your nose, uncaring for the blood that stains it.

✹ "you alright?" he murmurs, gently holding your face as he inspects your nose. you nod, wincing at the movement, and take the sleeve of his jacket from him.

✹ once he's sure you're okay, his vision turns red with anger. it's pretty obvious who kicked the ball when he whips around to see soap kneeling on the ground with his head in his hands.

✹ "oi!" kyle shouts, sending him a deadly glare as he gets up. "soap, what the fuck!"

✹ the man in question looks up from his hands, an incredibly guilty look on his face. "i'm sorry pal! i dinnae ken what happened!"

✹ "just piss off, you prick!"

✹ kyle looks back to you, crouching down again with a concerned frown; but you're already looking at him, the silhouette of his own form reflected in your wide eyes. your nose is still dripping blood, but you drop his jacket and your hands to your lap anyway, mouth agape as you stare back at him.

✹ "what's wrong? are you–"

✹ you cut him off by tackling him to the ground with your arms around his neck, squeezing a surprised 'oof' from him as you land on top of his chest. one of his hands flies to your waist to steady you, the other carefully cradling your head.

✹ "i remember!" you cry, an elated laugh bubbling up as fresh tears wet your cheeks.

✹ kyle lets out a relieved laugh of his own, craning his neck to plant his lips firmly on yours with an infectious grin. in the background the others groan at the display of affection, but neither of you pay them any mind.

✹ eventually the two of you pull away, a wide smile still plastered on both of your faces as you get up from the grass. he pulls you in with the hand that still hasn't moved from your waist and leans to whisper in your ear,

✹ "fancy kickin' soap's arse?"

✹ "you read my mind."

soap

✹ johnny's enthusiastic with your recovery. anyone could've guessed that from the moment you woke up he'd be doting, eager to help you in any way you could need.

✹ yes, you didn't remember him, but be was just so ecstatic that you were okay – apart from the amnesia – that he couldn't find it in himself to be disappointed about it. you'd get your memories back soon enough, and then everything would go right back to the way it was.

✹ sometimes he gets a little carried away, forgets that while you are technically in a relationship, he's not much more than a stranger to you right now. more than once you end up having to ask him for some space because he's so incredibly touchy, and you're not sure how to handle it.

✹ you also request a temporary room to sleep in while you recover, separate from him. johnny's not sure how he feels about it.

✹ he feels that sinking feeling in his chest whenever you push him back with a hand on his chest, a polite smile tugging at your lips. it's disheartening, but he tries not to let it get to him. you'll remember soon, and then this will all be in the past.

✹ maybe you'll even laugh about it, how you could ever forget your wonderful boyfriend.

✹ he takes it upon himself to read up on amnesia, so he can better understand how to help you in any way you might need. once he learns that exposure to memories that you've lost can help your recovery, he eagerly convinces you to let him show you places that have meaning to you and your relationship with him.

✹ you agree, and he didn't actually need to do much convincing because you seem just as interested in the idea as him. he knocks on your door the following evening, offering you a single rose before whisking you away with a charming smile.

✹ he takes you on your first date all over again, with the same level of enthusiasm as before. he treats you to dinner at a relatively nice restaurant, telling you all about how the two of you got together in the first place, and memories you have together. he even orders you dessert, recalling with a chuckle how he accidentally guessed your favourite on your actual first date.

✹ once you both finish eating, he guides you by the hand to the canal for the second half of the date, a romantic moonlit stroll by the water. he pulls you close with an arm around your shoulders, meeting your eyes with a fond smile and a blush dusting his cheeks.

✹ "hold on…" you mutter, a pensive expression taking over your face as you stop walking. you turn to gaze at the water, seemingly working something out in your mind. "this… this is where gaz fell into the river that one time, right?"

✹ johnny's heart misses a beat, his eyes lighting up with renewed, excited hope as he grins at you. "you remember?"

✹ "a little, yeah," you smile, dropping your gaze and hands from his with a sorry scratch at the back of your neck. "the rest is still blank, though…"

✹ his smile falters, but he's quick to make sure you don't see his disappointment by pulling you into a reassuring hug. "that's still somethin'! you'll be good as new in nae time!"

✹ the next morning, he finds you and gaz in the rec room on one of the couches, talking animatedly with each other. that familiar shine is in your eyes, the sight johnny's been missing for the last few months. it makes his heart feel light, finally seeing you acting like your normal self again after so long.

✹ he approaches you both, watching you fondly as you talk and laugh with gaz, but his good mood is soured when you only briefly acknowledge his arrival when he sits down across from you, before resuming your conversation with gaz. his brow twitches downwards.

✹ gaz is one of your closest friends, and he’s glad you remembered him. he's happy that you got part of your memory back, even if it wasn't a part that included him.

✹ this was a good thing. you'd remember him soon, he was sure of it.

✹ a few more days pass until anything else notable happens. while you were in the gym together, you told him you felt a headache coming on, so he offered to walk you to the infirmary for some painkillers. the casual conversation you made on the way wouldn't have bothered him before, but he just couldn't shake the image of you and gaz being so comfortable, while he's still stuck on the outside.

✹ he doesn't say anything though. making you feel bad about it won't solve anything, and it's not like you're doing it on purpose, he knows you wouldn't do that to him. you were just excited to have a familiar face, that's all.

✹ while you're waiting for the medic on call, your head suddenly snaps to attention and you get that same pensive look on your face as that night by the river.

✹ "you got something?" johnny asks, bringing his hand up to rest on your upper back. he doesn't want to get his hopes up, but he can't help the way his heart flutters with optimism.

✹ you nod, a smile growing on your features. "i remember that time lt. dislocated my shoulder, and price basically forced him apologise to me," you laugh, thankfully facing away from johnny as his lips turn downwards, "god, he was pissed, it was honestly kinda funny."

✹ "what, uhm…" he lightly clears his throat, hoping you don't hear the dejection in his voice, "what about me?"

✹ you meet his eyes again with an apologetic shake of your head. "i'm sorry, soap…"

✹ "yer fine, it's–" he swallows thickly, waving you off with an exaggerated smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "this is good, it's progress."

✹ since then, he's given you more space. it's clear to him that his efforts aren't helping you remember him, it actually feels like it's having the opposite effect. of course, he's glad you remember your friends, but you still don't remember him – your own boyfriend.

✹ it's wrong, and he knows it is, but he's jealous.

✹ he has to watch you carry on like usual, without him. you haven't set foot in the room you used to share together since before you were comatose. he's done his best to disguise how much it hurts, but it still annoys him how no one else seems to notice how wrong it all is. the others don't need you like he does, they don't lay awake at night going over every moment, treasuring the time you called him yours, yearning with every fibre of his being to go back.

✹ it's been a month and a half since you woke up, six weeks of being so close yet so unbearably far from you. he prays to any god that will listen to bring you back to him, allow him to hold you in his arms once more, but nothing ever changes.

✹ the thread he's been hanging on by ever since you went down on that mission gone wrong is one more bad day away from snapping.

✹ he's approached by gaz one morning, while waiting for the others to begin training, who takes it upon himself to ask johnny about how you're recovering. when gaz teases him about how he was the first person you remembered, and johnny thinks he might just strangle him.

✹ "careful, soap, i might steal 'em away," gaz laughs, patting his shoulder with a camaraderie soap scoffs at.

✹ "shut the fuck up." he snarls, his face bunched in a strikingly out of character scowl. his hands twitch at his sides, nails digging painfully into his palms.

✹ gaz blinks, his eyebrows shooting up, clearly taken aback by the hostility from his friend. "alright, i was only jokin', mate."

✹ "aye, well, i'm nae laughin'."

✹ the tension is stifling. he can tell gaz wants to say something more, but he holds his tongue – too worried about upsetting soap any further.

✹ they stand in silence with each other like that for a while, gaz watching him from the corner of his eye while he keeps his gaze firmly on the grass below him.

✹ thankfully, after not too long the uneasy atmosphere is interrupted by a shout from the direction of the building, "johnny!"

✹ his head snaps to attention to see you, grinning uncontrollably and sprinting towards him at full speed.

✹ "wha–" he's caught off guard by how you leap into his arms, hooking your arms around his neck as he stumbles backwards in surprise.

✹ before he has time to question your actions, you're smashing your lips against his in a searing kiss that has johnny's head spinning. he wastes no time in reciprocating, securing one arm around your waist and bringing the other to the back of your head, using it you press you impossibly closer to him as he groans into your mouth.

✹ you reluctantly pull away, just enough to take a shaky breath, but johnny's had stays put on the back of your head. "i'm sorry i forgot, i'm sorry…" you mumble against his lips, dragging your fingers through the unkempt hair of his mohawk.

✹ he drops his head into the juncture of you neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply the scent of you that he's gone so long without. he laughs into you, slightly delirious and just so overjoyed to have you in his arms again that feels his eyes sting with tears.

✹ "i've missed you, bonnie," he chuckles wetly, pressing his lips back to yours in another desperate kiss, "i've missed you so much,"

✹ "i'll never forget you again."

ghost

✹ he avoids you like the plague.

✹ or he tries to, at least. but truth be told, after spending so much time learning to be vulnerable around you and allowing you into his guarded heart, it's difficult to go back to being a stranger to you.

✹ that, and he doesn't actually want to.

✹ but he needs to. being around you, the love of his life, knowing that you don't remember him, it's like a knife stuck between his ribs. any time he's in the same room as you he finds himself fighting the urge to grab your hand, or press his forehead against you.

✹ he knows you don't want him anymore, the last thing you deserve is a giant of a man – who you're clearly afraid of, even if you won't say it – hanging around you like a shadow.

✹ you're still kind to him, because of course you are, checking in on him and trying to talk to him any opportunity you get. it's nice, sometimes he can even pretend everything is normal when he shares a laugh with you, but then he sees the hesitance in your eyes and he's brought back to the cold reality of the situation.

✹ the weeks drag like this, every fleeting look from you another bleeding wound on his heart.

✹ he keeps it together surprisingly well, all things considered, but the breaking point comes when you find him having a smoke one night, on a bench just outside the barracks.

✹ "simon?" your voice cuts through the silence, his eyes snapping to you as you sit down next to him. he takes another long drag from his cigarette as he watches you, uncertainty in your voice as you continue, "can you tell me about… me? and us?"

✹ no matter how much he thinks he should, he can't look away from your pleading gaze.

✹ "we… you're everything to me," simon mutters, dropping his cigarette and putting it out with the heel of his boot, "i've never felt the way i do with you before, you've helped me more than you could ever know…"

✹ his vision blurs with unshed tears. the sadness on your face starts and ache in his heart, the desire to take you into his arms and just hold you making his skin bristle.

✹ "you don't have to feel the same way, but…" he pulls the balaclava from his head, setting it on the bench in the space between you, bearing his face to you like he always does, "even if you never get your memory back, i'll always love you."

✹ the way you look at him makes it so incredibly difficult not to cry. your eyes are glassy and far away, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth with an expression that screams guilt – but it's not your fault, and he'd never blame you.

✹ you open your mouth to say something, but the words never materialise. the night stays silent, and simon expects it, but it still makes his bones ache with a heaviness that he knows he can't shake.

✹ he stands, picking up his balaclava, and walks quietly past you to the barracks door. there's no fleeting look, not this time. he disappears to his room without another word.

✹ he's not sure how much later it is when he hears a knock on his door. minutes, hours, it didn't matter. it all blends together now.

✹ when he doesn't bother to answer, whoever it is lets themselves in, shutting the door gently behind themselves. he sits up with the intention of chewing them out, but when he opens his eyes they land on your form, curled in on yourself and shuffling quickly over to him.

✹ you're here, in his room, with a face that looks like you've been crying for hours, puffy and tear-stained with bloodshot eyes.

✹ he almost thinks he's dreaming, but the warmth as you wrap your arms around him and bring his face to your chest is too real, too familiar. he brings his arms up around your waist, releasing a shaky sigh into your skin as he squeezes you tighter against him.

✹ a few hot tears meet the top of his head as you whisper to him the words he's been waiting, longing to hear, rocking gently from side to side.

✹ "i remember, si."

✹ it feels like he can finally rest, like the state of being he's been living in for the last few months melts away with your touch and he feels safe again.

✹ with his grip around your waist, he hoists you onto his bed to lay back down with him, holding you tightly against his chest, your heart right beside his own racing one.

✹ you cradle his face again, pressing your lips to his face over and over, touching every inch of him with your love.

✹ "i'm sorry…" you whisper like a mantra, punctuating every kiss with an apology that makes his throat constrict with the raw emotion he feels. "i'm sorry,"

✹ "don't be…" he mirrors how you hold his face, tangling his legs with yours as he captures your mouth and pours every ounce of passion he has into the way he kisses you. "don't be, love."

4K notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 10 months ago

Text

It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

514 notes · View notes

pocketsinfo · 2 months ago

Text

Los mejores suplementos para fortalecer los músculos de las piernas para correr, trotar y caminar.

#best supplements for runners #endurance supplements #fitness supplements for walking #jogging nutrition #leg muscle supplements #leg workout essentials #muscle recovery supplements #running supplements #strengthen legs #walking fitness tips

0 notes

lexosaurus · 5 months ago

Text

listen it's absolutely ESSENTIAL to the gym bro au that we all understand the difference between preworkout, protein, and creatine

preworkout: literally caffeinated powder. half the time it looks like cocaine. on friday one of my students said he took two scoops of preworkout "just cuz" and when i was like "wtf are you insane" he just shrugged and was like "ya but i was so locked in i had the best workout of my life" honestly idk how he's alive. i hc that this is the only thing danny likes about the gym and gym culture

protein: what muscles are made of!! gym bro ppl usually consume 0.7g per pound of bodyweight for optimal muscle growth. irl the most popular brand of whey protein powder on the market rn is no joke called ghost. danny thinks this is very funny.

creatine: 3 essential amino acids for supplying energy to the muscles and is used for recovery and muscle growth. supplements can be taken in either pill or powder form. dash always offers danny some creatine right after their workouts together and danny always turns him down because it's just one step too far down the gym bro rabbit hole and he's not mentally and emotionally ready for that yet. also kid barely passed biology with a D he doesn't know what the hell an amino acid is.

#danny phantom #gym bro au

262 notes · View notes

yellowjestertfs · 11 months ago

Text

Spare Parts

Al untucked his shirt, then tucked it in again, then quickly untucked it before landing on a French tuck—a mix of both that suited him worse than either. He had never been so nervous about going out with his friends. In the past, he was the life of the party, staying out clubbing until the witching hours, getting drunk, and ending up in some stranger's bed the next morning. That was before he made the fatal mistake of jaywalking drunk and got hit by a bus, which flung him into the path of another bus, which sent him off a bridge and into the water, where he was run over by a boat. Honestly, it would have been a pretty comical way to die—only he didn’t die. He should have died; he broke every bone in his body and turned his organs into a smoothie. The wonders of modern medicine intervened. He still didn’t quite understand exactly how, but the doctors had used stem cells, like those regenerating cells babies have, to essentially bring him back from the dead. A miracle, yes, but even miracles had their limits. The recovery process was long and hard, and even now, recently released from medical custody, he was not the same man he’d been before the accident.

Getting hit by two buses and a boat does that to you. His face was mangled—not to the point of being monstrous, but not attractive either. His body had also suffered from the accident, practically wasting away as he recovered. While the old Al partied with abandon, this new Al was self-conscious of his appearance and absolutely terrified to cross the street. Now, he stood at the crosswalk, fidgeting with his short-sleeve button-down shirt, thinking about why he had asked an old lady to help him across. He clutched her tightly as they crossed, ready to throw her in the way if a bus came barreling toward them—luckily for both of them, none did. Despite her age and his current condition, the woman actually made a pass at him, calling him a “handsome lad” and asking if he wanted to go back to her place. It helped his confidence, if only a little, and gave him a strange tingling feeling.

Finally, after detaching himself from the woman, he reached the club. Despite the relatively early hour, the place was bumping; the bass-boosted electronic music and a flashing rainbow could be seen and heard from the outside. A quick check of his phone informed him that his friends were already inside, so he joined the short line and waited to be let in by the bouncer. As he neared the front, he realized he recognized the bouncer. Back when he frequented this place, he was friendly with the muscular man. Now, though, he doubted the man would recognize him, and he honestly hoped to keep it that way. Back then, he was sort of a legend, a position he doubted he could live up to now. As the bouncer—Rod, he thought—waved him forward, Al couldn’t help but admire the man's physique. It seemed that while Al recovered, Rod made some serious gains. His arms were particularly impressive; Al found himself feeling bad for the man’s sleeves as they tried and failed to contain his massive arms. Their sheer size was only enhanced by the web of veins that patterned the muscles.

“ID, please,” Rod said, indeed not recognizing Al as he had predicted. Al handed over his card, suddenly realizing the picture on the ID was pre-accident.

“Had a bit of a glow-down,” Al said awkwardly, trying to flash a smile but only managing to lift one side of his mouth—the other’s nerve endings were damaged beyond repair. Rod grunted but returned Al’s ID; even despite the discrepancies in the photo, there was little doubt that Al was of age. As Rod handed back his ID, their hands touched just slightly, and for a second, Al felt a slight tingling in his upper arms. Then it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Have fun, man,” Rod said, “and nice guns.” Al laughed at that, thinking the man was making fun of his twig arms.

He lifted his arm, expecting the usual sight of his scrawny limb. But when his gaze landed on it, his breath caught. His bicep had swollen under the skin, somehow in the span of a heartbeat his twig arms had become tree trunks. Al’s fingers traced the now firm, rounded muscle, a mix of fear and fascination flooding his mind. The sheer size and hardness of his new bicep felt both alien and irresistibly satisfying, a forbidden thrill coursing through his veins at his arms meaty massive things they now were. They looked like almost exact copies of Rod’s, only instead of the man's olive complexion, the biceps had the pale look of someone who had spent the last two years in a hospital bed.

Al felt light-headed. How was this possible? Was he having some sort of mental breakdown, a delusion? He needed to find his friends. No, he needed to find a drink. The bar was right where he remembered—just to the left of the entrance. Unlike Rod, the bouncer, he didn’t recognize the bartender—a short, slightly pudgy man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with a strong square cleft chin that didn’t particularly match the rest of his average features. Al walked up to him, trying to hide his now-massive arms to little avail. He found he couldn’t stop flexing and feeling them, equal parts concerned and turned on by the mysterious new muscles.

“I'll take a vodka soda,” Al tried to say casually, although the words came out more as a question than a request. Luckily, the night was still young enough that he managed to get the man's attention, although the fact that he wasn’t a pretty girl kept him from making small talk. As he worked, Al saw the bartender occasionally glance up at his biceps, which he had crossed in an attempt to hide them. They looked a little ridiculous with the rest of his scrawny body. Wordlessly, the bartender placed a garnish on the drink before handing it to Al. Just as with Rod, their hands innocently touched, and again Al felt a strange tingle, this time centering on his chin. Lifting the glass to his lips, Al quickly lowered it, uneasy at how strange the sensation felt. Years of drinking had made him familiar with the feel of a glass against his lips, but something felt off now. His bottom lip somehow felt more supported, stiffer. A quick exploration with his finger revealed that his chin was causing the offense. But that couldn’t be—his chin had been round and soft even before the accident. Whatever this new chin that had somehow attached itself to his face was, it felt like a block of stone, the bone protruding in a harsh, strong way completely foreign to his face. The deep cleft was also new, creating a valley in the mountain that was his chin. Pulling out his phone, he saw what his fingers had felt: his face now somehow sported a strong, masculine chin almost identical to that of the bartender.

Al wasn’t the brightest, but even he began to put the pieces together. Somehow, he was absorbing the best qualities of every person he touched. His mind raced, trying to figure out what could be causing this. The stem cells he received might be the explanation, but why now? Al needed to get out; he needed to see a doctor. Panicked, he looked for the exit only to find a crowd had congregated between the bar and the nearest door. There was no way he could make it to the other side without touching anyone. Could he risk it?

His contemplation was cut short as a woman sauntered up to the bar, her stumbling gait indicating she was already a few drinks deep. That was hardly the most noticeable thing about her; put bluntly, she had massive boobs—the type that could never fit in a top without being the center of attention. As she stumbled her way toward the bar, she tripped on one of her own feet. Al’s eyes widened as he realized too late that her fall would take her directly toward him. He tried to move out of the way, but as she fell, her arms reached forward for support, landing on his own. For a brief second, he hoped he might absorb her winning smile, but judging by the tingling in his chest, he wasn’t so lucky. Horrified, he glanced down, expecting to see breasts pushing out of his shirt. Instead, he found different mounds there—equally large, yes, but the lumps on his chest weren’t boobs; they were too firm and square. No, instead Al had somehow gained massive pectoral muscles from his contact with the woman. Their growth had unceremoniously demolished the first three buttons of his shirt, which was having a bad day trying to contain his massive chest and arms. The muscles looked downright strange on his body, the rest of it still emaciated from the accident. In fact, Al struggled to support the weight of his new mass, his shrimpy legs and shoulders straining under the sudden load.

The woman pulled away from his arms, drunkenly apologizing before reaching out to grope one of his now-massive pecs. Luckily, no tingles followed, confirming Al’s suspicion that he could only absorb from a person once. Now, Al felt torn about what to do. On one hand, he still worried about the changes and their possible repercussions, but did he want them to stop? If he went to the doctor now and they fixed him, would he be stuck in his current disproportionate form forever? This could be a blessing—a way to heal from the damage caused by the accident, to become the ultimate version of himself—or rather, of the people around him. So far, none of the changes had been bad. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Al scanned the room for someone with a feature he wanted to absorb. The choice became easier when a cute guy walked right past him, his clothing tight on his lean, muscular body, and he looked well-groomed. Before the accident—in fact, before tonight—Al had never paid much attention to the appearance of other men. Maybe it was the fact that he now saw their features as ones he could have, or perhaps it was something else, but for whatever reason, he found himself checking out the other men in the club, including the one walking by. On instinct, he stuck his foot out, tripping the man, their bare ankles making contact for a second in the process. The man stumbled and then turned to face Al, his face red with anger, which quickly cooled as he took in Al.

“Hey, I like your hair, dude,” he said. Al had hoped that he might absorb the guy's cute, tight ass or maybe his strong Roman nose, but his hair worked too. It was silky, thick, and coiffed attractively—definitely an improvement over his current thinning hair.

“Thanks, man,” Al said, reaching up to find that he indeed had hair identical to the man he had just tripped.

“Do you go to Clarice?” the guy asked. The question sparked a brief conversation in which Al lied through his teeth, pretending they went to the same barber rather than admitting that he thought his stem cells had magically copied the guy's hairstyle to a tee. Eventually, Al excused himself, claiming he had seen his friends. This was true; as they chatted, Al had located his friends huddled close to the DJ booth on the dance floor. Steeling himself, he made his way over to them, trying to avoid physical contact. His efforts were only somewhat successful. An accidental brush of a college-age girl’s hand lengthened his eyelashes, while a hip bump into a man with rolled-up sleeves thickened his forearms, so his arms were now somewhat proportional. Once he reached the dance floor, however, he lost total control. Falling arms and thrusting hips assaulted him from all sides. An accidental step on a foot caused his lips to buzz as if they had momentarily fallen asleep, puffing up to appear pillowy and soft. A hand brushed across his back, causing a tingle in his shoulders, widening them and only making his progress more difficult. The elbow wedged awkwardly into the crevice of his pecs by a sheepish-looking man earned him a short, coarse beard across his jaw—a jaw that had become wider and sharper thanks to the impatient shoving of a male model behind him. Al quickly lost track of exactly what features he had gained from whom. A sudden numbness in different parts of his body was the only indication that he continued to change. At one point, a gigantic man who had to be some sort of pro basketball player moved next to Al. Al indulged himself, letting his hand “accidentally” rub against the tall man's leg and feeling his whole body lengthen. The constant shifting of the dance floor meant no one noticed Al or the way his features shifted. As he neared his friends, a twink dressed only in a leather harness and thong approached him and started to grind up against him. Even more shocking was the rock-hard abs that formed from their contact and the boner that Al inexplicably developed from the experience. The twink started to unbutton the last few remaining buttons on his shirt, and he let him, not wanting to deprive the world of his body.

At last, Al reached his friends, finally finding a pocket of relative emptiness near the loudspeakers.

Al reached out to tap one of his friends on the arm before thinking better of it and just stood there awkwardly, waiting for them to notice him. Eventually, the song ended, and his three friends turned to face him. Only with a pang of shock did Al realize they didn’t recognize him. How could they? He had become a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of different features from the various patrons of the club. Where they expected their scrawny, balding friend fresh out of an extensive hospital stay, instead before them stood a 6’5” bodybuilder with a face, a hodgepodge of features from various people, somehow working together to give him a handsome and exotic look.

“Hey, have you seen our friend? Short, skinny, looks like he might have been hit by a bus or two,” his friend Jordan asked. It was a simple question, but for maybe the first time in two years, Al noticed not a trace of pity in his friend's voice. No, rather it was admiration. Al’s previous intentions of coming clean to his friends and seeking help melted away as he realized the opportunity he had. He could finally escape the shadow of those busses; he could have a new start.

“Nope, haven’t seen anyone like that,” he said in a voice much richer and deeper thanks to the vocal cords of some unknown stranger.

“I’m Jordan, by the way,” his friend said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“Al.” Shit. So much for a fresh start. Jordan glanced at his other two friends but didn’t say anything. Instead, one of his other friends, Sergio, grabbed Al’s hand and pulled him into their dance circle. The contact made his whole body tingle and, glancing down, he saw that his skin had darkened to the same ruddy tan as his friend's. Luckily, the flashing lights and the general darkness of the club made Al fairly sure no one noticed the transformation.

Throughout the night, he became reacquainted with his own friends and found innocent ways of making contact with each of them. From his friend Marge, he gained her show-stopping ass, the muscular butt complementing the thick thighs he had gained sometime during his mad rush. Contact with Linsey copied her perfect Barbie blonde hair. The stylish haircut and scruff he had grown sometime during the night bleached itself instantly while all his body hair, limited as it was by various tingles, turned the same gold color. His friend Jordan took a special interest in the new Al, and Al found himself reciprocating the attention, for the first time noticing just how hot his friend was. When at long last they touched, Al grabbed the man and brought him into a passionate kiss. He swore he felt tingles but couldn’t notice any change on his body. After long hours of sweaty dancing, a round of shots, and many more kisses between the two former friends, the group headed over to Jordan's apartment. Al nearly blew his cover by heading straight to his friend's door, but the excuse of “lucky guess” seemed to satisfy his non-sober companions. After a few more hours of chatting and more alcohol, everyone left but Al and Jordan.

Jordan used the classic “let me show you something in the bedroom” line, which led to more kissing and Jordan feeling up Al’s new muscular body. Eventually, as both men removed their pants, Al discovered what he had picked up from his friend. Long and thick, Al’s penis was identical to that of his lover, which Jordan seemed delighted by, claiming he had never been with someone with a tool as big as his. It took a moment for Al to get over the surprise of his friend packing so much meat and the fact that he now did as well, but once he accepted it, he used his new member to the fullest. After hours of fucking, the two fell asleep, not waking up until the afternoon the next day. Al politely said his goodbyes and awkwardly avoided giving Jordan his number, not wanting to explain why it was the same number as Jordan's sickly friend.

Exiting the apartment, he noticed the same elderly woman from last night and to his chagrin, she once again hit on him, asking to hold his bicep while they crossed the street. When he touched her, he felt no tingles, which he thought strange until he remembered she was the first person to induce that sensation upon him last night. Could it be that he had somehow absorbed her sex drive or sexuality? Was that why he had a sudden appreciation for men? The thought amused him as he made his way to his car. But before he could dwell on it too much, his attention was abruptly pulled back to the present.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the bus careening down the street, heading right for him. The blare of the horn hit him a second too late, and everything went black.

The next thing Al knew, he was waking up in a hospital—a horrifying déjà vu of two years ago. A young doctor stood over him, clipboard clutched in two massive, masculine hands. His eyes fluttered as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, the cold sterility of the hospital room bringing back memories of his long, painful recovery. Blearily, Al glanced down at himself. His perfect, hunky form was now a mess—bones broken, muscles flattened. All except his hands, which looked larger and callused, suspiciously identical to the doctor standing above him. It seemed that Al’s luck with public transportation hadn’t changed, but now he knew how to build himself back up. A minor setback, sure, but nothing a few spare parts wouldn’t fix.

Wrote this a while ago but thought i would post it here with images and some small edits. Not my best but think its still a fun story.

#straight to gay #musclegrowth #tf #male tf #male transformation #ai image

538 notes · View notes

zanystudentruins · 5 months ago

Text

Buy Anastrozole

Considering buying anastrozole? This aromatase inhibitor is primarily used for treating estrogen receptor-positive breast cancer in postmenopausal women. Anastrozole effectively lowers estrogen levels, which is crucial for managing hormone-sensitive tumors. Additionally, it can help men with gynecomastia and is popular among bodybuilders for managing estrogenic side effects. Ensure safe purchasing by consulting with a healthcare provider and selecting reputable pharmacies. By understanding anastrozole's benefits and potential side effects, you can make informed decisions about your health.

#Understanding Anabolic Steroids #The Science Behind Steroid Use #Steroids vs. Natural Supplements #Benefits of Testosterone Therapy #How Steroids Affect Muscle Growth #Safe Steroid Use for Bodybuilders #Steroid Cycles Explained #Common Myths About Steroids #Steroids and Athletic Performance #The Role of Steroids in Recovery #Legal Alternatives to Anabolic Steroids #Steroid Side Effects: What to Expect #Post Cycle Therapy (PCT) Essentials #How to Choose the Right Steroid #Understanding Corticosteroids #Best Practices for Steroid Stacking #The Impact of Steroids on Hormones #Anabolic Steroids for Women #How to Minimize Steroid Side Effects #The History of Steroid Use in Sports #Comparing Different Types of Anabolic Steroids #Steroid Regulations and Legal Issues #The Effects of Steroids on Mental Health #Nutrition Tips for Steroid Users #How to Spot Fake Steroids #Steroids and Weight Loss: The Truth #The Benefits of SARMs vs. Steroids #Steroids in the Bodybuilding Community #My Experience with Steroids: A Personal Journey #Understanding Steroid Addiction

0 notes

eringobragh420 · 7 months ago

Text

¡! ❞ ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ? (𝟺/𝟻)

✘ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ — damian priest ♥︎ f!reader ✘ sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ — damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. ✘ ʟɪɴᴋs — ᴏɴᴇ. ᴛᴡᴏ. ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ. four. ғɪᴠᴇ. ✘ ᴡᴏʀᴅs — 3.5k ✘ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs — nsfw. fingering (f receiving) 18+ ✘ ɴᴏᴛᴇs — spanish translations at the end of the story provided by google translate. ✘ ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ — if you’d like to be added, please click ʜᴇʀᴇ!

✘ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ ✘ ᴅᴀᴍɪᴀɴ ᴘʀɪᴇsᴛ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

ᴅᴀʏ ғᴏᴜʀ — ᴄʜʀɪsᴛᴍᴀs ᴇᴠᴇ

A string of headaches kept you confined to your bedroom most of the day and into the evening on Christmas Eve. Your head had been sore from the fall itself off and on since leaving the hospital, but this was the first day you’d experienced throbbing pain encompassing your entire brain. You and Damian had been invited to an annual holiday party thrown by friends and colleagues, an event, you were told, you’d attended every year since the very first invitation, but Damian turned them down. They’d understood, multiple messages coming through wishing you a swift and successful recovery, and you’d asked Damian to thank them, whoever they were. You’d then rolled over, pressing your back to his side, using his bicep as a pillow, falling asleep quickly with a mouth open and ready to drool.

You awoke sometime later, reaching to the opposite side of the bed, Damian’s side, because you didn’t feel his warmth against you anymore—it was empty and cold. Opening your eyes, there was a soft lamp lit in the corner of the room, the television softly playing yet another Christmas movie. Decorations were scattered throughout the room, but nothing compared to the living room, and you took your time to sit up in bed. Your head, for the first time today, was essentially pain free. You felt a throb here and there, but they were tolerable.

What wasn’t tolerable was the fact that your memories were still avoiding you like the plague. You and Damian both thought you were making progress when you recognized Archie, but it hadn’t gone much further since. You’d spent yesterday going through your closet, touching your clothes, even putting some of them on, and doing the same to your shoe collection, which was quite extensive. When that didn’t work, you wandered throughout the house, passing your fingers over various surfaces, stopping to stare at photos or works of art. Nothing.

Rubbing your eyes, you considered the stress from the day before as the culprit for the headaches today. The turning of the bathroom doorknob stole your attention, and when you looked, those tired eyes of yours were instantly awake and alert, vision as sharp as it had ever been. Steam billowed out first, followed by a Puerto Rican god who looked like he was stepping straight out of an 80s music video. Again, his hair was soaked, curly and down, a few strands framing his handsome face, but he was shirtless, every muscle on display accentuated by tiny rivers slithering down each chiseled dip and valley. And as your eyes continued southward, you were rather disappointed to find a towel slung loosely around his trim hips, low enough to show off his drool-worthy Adonis belt and tight enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Your thighs rubbed together like you were a fucking cricket, your pussy instantly responding to the surprising friction, and you wrapped your arms around yourself before you brought your breasts into the equation.

So much attention you were giving to Damian below his neck that you had no idea he’d been watching you the entire time you’d been watching him. And when your eyes met after what was probably an inappropriate amount of time of staring, you thought you should feel embarrassed and ashamed, that you should have looked away and melted into a puddle of self-pity. But you never took your gaze off him, your respirations increasing as your arousal did the same.

“See something you like?” Damian rumbled playfully. Oh, you really, really saw a lot of things you liked, and you gasped when he bent an elbow and flexed a bicep.

Swallowing, you replied with a surprisingly steady voice, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “Damn, that hurts, gatita.”

You shrugged. “Stupid questions deserve stupid answers.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed and he regarded you for a moment. You’re coming back to me, he thought. Slowly, but you’re coming back to me. “Well, I’m happy to stand here as long as you need,” he boasted.

Leering at your fiancé, the words came tumbling out of your mouth before you had the chance to think about them. “Well, since you’re just gonna stand there and look like … that … why don’t you tell me … about our sex life?” You expected embarrassment or a raging blush from one or both of you, but neither occurred.

Damian’s brows rose, smirk playing at his plump lips. He strutted toward you, your eyes exploring every inch of his body, curiously unashamed to be doing so in such a blatant manner. “I already told you sex is about 90% of our relationship,” he started. “It’s really … difficult for us to keep our hands off each other.” He was nearing the bed, and you were moving to your knees without noticing. “And we’ll do it anywhere,” he went on. “The beach, backstage at a show, fancy restaurant—” Oh, boy, did you want to hear that story, but you weren’t about to stop this one. “I am … madly, desperately, in love with you, and I can’t help but wanna show you every second of every day.” He was close enough you could feel his heat and smell the freshness of the shower, and you could even reach out and trace those Vs disappearing into his towel if you really wanted to. “And I really can’t help it that my love language is fucking.”

Your gaze rose to meet his, and the fire in his eyes was enough to set you ablaze. “What’s your favorite way to fuck me?” you whispered, not even considering your words before speaking.

Damian’s brows rose and he chuckled under his breath. “Uh … I love it when you ride me. I love looking at your pretty face when you use me to make yourself come.”

You bit your lip. “What’s my favorite?” you whispered.

Your fiancé took one step closer, and the bed shook when his legs came in contact with it. Your fingers itched to touch him—trace every single plane, ridge, and valley of his body, scratch your nails along his skin—while your lips screamed to kiss his tattoos and your mouth salivated thinking about licking every inch of him. Fuck, you wanted him bad, and yes, you’d always found him attractive, but you hadn’t wanted to wrap yourself around him as much as you did this instant.

Damian had no earthly idea what was happening—he was only here for it. He knew you still didn’t know him, but the physical attraction was very clearly still in play. He was semi-hard already, doing nothing to hide it, but he had no intention of acting on it. He felt like he would be taking advantage of you in some way. However, on the other hand, he decided, you were a grown woman, capable of making your own decisions. Your memories had been effected by the head injury, your personality only mildly, but nothing else. So he was prepared to let you drive this evening, and if it led to something intimate, he would do everything in his fucking power to make sure you remembered every moment for the rest of your life.

“You love it when I bend you over,” he rumbled, leaning down to just graze the stubble of his beard along your cheek, his words ghosting across your ear, sending a shiver down your spine—a shiver so violent, you gasped. “So I can spank your ass.” Your eyes rolled back before closing, your tongue passing over your lips. “And I can grab a handful of that hair and just …”

You pulled back—the second scraping of his beard on your skin opening the dam in your pussy—though not very far. Your noses touched, and Damian’s hand came up, thumb caressing your cheek bone. He was dying to kiss you, absolutely suffocating, but he refused to put pressure on you. Whatever was happening was happening at your pace and direction.

“Just …?” you breathed, eyes boring into his. You didn’t care if he finished his story anymore or not, you simply needed his lips on yours, but you weren’t sure you could make the first move.

Damian smirked. “—watch that back arch,” he went on, “listen to you beg for it … faster … harder …”

“Christ, Damian, just kiss me,” you sighed, sounding a little more frenzied than you would have liked, but it did the job.

His perfect lips collided with yours a little uncomfortably, but the hunger was too overwhelming. His strong arms wrapped around you as yours snaked around his neck. He tasted like toothpaste and a flavor indescribable—all you knew was you needed more, more, more. He teased your swollen lips with the tip of his tongue, and you instantly granted him entrance into your mouth. More of that zest, and his tongue was even more talented than you’d anticipated, simply exploring every corner of your mouth. At one point, your lips detached, but your tongues continued to flick against one another, and you sighed, hands sliding down his firm chest. You wanted him. You wanted him so bad, but should you really fall into bed with someone you technically didn’t know? Yes, you had a history, but you didn’t remember it, save for Archie and the muscle memory that correlated to Damian’s birthday.

Fucking hell, did you overthink this much before the head injury? Just go with it, you told yourself. You wanted him, he clearly wanted you, and there was nothing wrong with either fact.

As if reading your mind—or maybe he could feel the shift in the atmosphere—he severed the electrifying connection of your lips and tongues, pressing your faces together as you both caught your breath. “We can stop,” he panted, hot, minty breath rushing over your skin. “I don’t wanna—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, all but clawing at his chest. “Please don’t stop.”

What kind of fiancé would Damian be if he didn’t obey his future wife, he mused. The kissing continued as he delicately laid you back on the bed, the towel around his waist still somehow maintaining its position. He made a split-second decision to not try to fit between your legs—what if you closed them? Or worse, what if it killed the mood entirely and you never felt comfortable with him this way again? Instead, he laid his big body next to yours, so talented and capable as to get you into a cozy position without once breaking the kiss or even accidentally pulling your hair.

You didn’t remember ever kissing him before, but there was also a feeling of nostalgia—maybe your brain didn’t remember, but your body did. You and Damian were in sync as far as where and when your hands touched the other, or where your kisses landed, or how easily it was to find one another’s spots. You had no idea it was there, but your lips latched onto the junction at Damian’s neck and shoulder, and the man threw his head back and roared like a goddamn lion. You giggled, grabbing a handful of his wet hair so you could bring his mouth back to yours, and suddenly it was as if you had unleashed an animal inside him. He pulled you closer to him, on your side, and his hand grabbed your ass, squeezing, before it slid south to your thigh, which he then yanked over his hip.

Yes, you wanted this. Well, you had wanted this. Without warning, things had gotten out of hand. You’d begged him not to stop, that was true, but you’d been referring to the kissing, and, considering your current position, you probably should have made that a bit clearer. You worried he would be upset, possibly even angry, but you weren’t ready. Not for this.

“Wait,” you breathed, pressing a hand to his chest, severing the kiss at the same time. So many scenarios played in your mind within seconds—one where he didn’t stop, one where he stopped and was pissed off, one where he stopped and got embarrassed, one where he stopped and—

He looked at you, transparently shocked, and he held up a hand. You wondered briefly if raising his hand was some sort of defense mechanism or something he did because he thought it calmed you down? He took a few breaths as you carefully removed your leg from his hip, backing up only a little so he didn’t think you feared him because you truly didn’t, but you needed to put some distance between your body and his impressive erection tenting the towel.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally exhaled.

“No,” you said, “it’s me.”

“I thought—”

“I know. That’s my fault. I didn’t mean to—”

“I would never—”

“Okay, stop!” you interrupted maybe a little more aggressively than you had anticipated, and you weren’t trying to just stop him from talking. “I wanted this, Damian.” You cradled one side of his face, his eyes downcast, looking everywhere but at you. “I do want this. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready for …”

Damian nodded, still not meeting your gaze. He’d gotten carried away, he knew that as soon as he’d grabbed your leg. He hadn’t been able to control himself, which was no excuse—what kind of person did that make him? What kind of a man? What kind of a fiancé? You and he had taken so many steps forward—how many would this incident cost you?

“I wanna keep kissing you,” you continued breathlessly, and this finally brought his eyes to yours. “I mean … I kinda feel like I wanna kiss you forever. And it doesn’t make sense to me. Well, it does, but it doesn’t. I’m sorry, I’m probably just babbling. I—I just … I want you, Damian.” His petrified irises instantly softened and he raised his hand to cover yours on his face. “But—”

“Listen,” Damian gently, thankfully, interfered in your chaotic ramblings. Your mouth clamped closed. “I understand. We both kinda …” You stared at him, hanging on every word, fully prepared to dissect each one. “But … and I’m just putting this out there. Feel free to say no or slap me or send me to the couch or all of the above.” He smirked, though your heart tingled a bit at the preface. “If you want to, there are … plenty of other ways for me to … make you feel good.” His rich tone, that smoke on velvet timbre, was one hundred percent successful in relaxing your body to its very core. He scooted a bit closer, moving much like molasses, which you assumed was him giving you every opportunity to push him away. Your head tilted, though, as you became enchanted by Damian’s chocolate eyes, his nose grazing your cheek, and there was that sensation of sedation again.

“I could use one of your toys on you,” he suggested. Your eyes fluttered as you played that particular image in your mind. “Or I could use my fingers …” You noticed his hands weren’t even on you at this point—just the tip of his nose still kissing your cheek, which you nuzzled back against him. “I could use my mouth …”

“Your fingers,” you decided without thinking. He pulled away to meet your eyes. “I can’t stop kissing you, but I want—”

His mouth claimed yours, putting you and your incoherency out of its misery, and he lowered you back to the mattress. You found that perfect harmony again so easily, lips moving in unison, tongues trading dominance, and he swallowed your groan as his hand snuck under your shirt, splaying across your belly. His skin was so hot and rough, a stark contrast from the smooth, cool rings on his fingers. He left his hand there a moment, and you assumed he was testing the waters. You tugged at his bottom lip with your teeth, granting the unasked question, and his hand finally started moving south.

“If you want me to stop,” Damian mumbled against your lips.

“I know,” you whispered, tugging his mouth back to yours.

His hand continued on, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties, and you were suddenly so incredibly thankful you’d shaved recently. Damian’s middle finger slid down and between your folds, slipping around your clit, and your back arched every bit of three feet off the bed. More or less. Damian sighed, the sound laced with relief, as his fingers continued making slow circles around the bundle of nerves that had you coming utterly unglued.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Damian mumbled into your mouth. “I was worried you wouldn’t …” He trailed off.

You clutched his jaw, pushing him away just enough to look him dead in the eye. “Me too,” you whispered, “but clearly—” You glanced down at his length, which was still poking impressively against the towel. You had an urge to just lift the towel and confirm what you already knew to be true—that he was huge, and you’d probably made the right decision avoiding letting him inside you—but you didn’t. “—we were both worried about nothing.”

He kissed you again, stealing a moan and a sigh, giving one in return when you rolled her hips against his fingers. That long, thick middle finger of his skidded further down your clit until your pussy all but absorbed it. Your jaw dropped, a feminine whine escaping your lips, and you had one arm around Damian’s neck and the other hand was cupping his face, holding him as closely to you as was physically possible. He chuckled wickedly as he curled his finger, effortlessly finding another spot, sending your back arching again. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this for you—you couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done it for you, including yourself—but you knew deep down, somewhere, that Damian did it the best. He was attentive, talented, with many tricks up his sleeve with regard to finger movement and placement as well the fine art of kissing. He had only one goal: to make you come as hard as he ever had before, and if he continued the way he was, that would happen sooner rather than later.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, the irony of those two words not lost on you. “Please.”

“I got you, sweet girl,” Damian promised, simply petting and teasing that spot within you like he’d been there before, many, many times. He kissed your lips before moving to your cheek, earlobe, and neck. “Te tengo.” You didn’t know what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it for the rest of your life, and your hips seemed to agree as they undulated, rolling in ways you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped suddenly. Surely you’d never reached orgasm this quickly before, but there it was, building deep within your belly, tightening your lower back as your hips accelerated. “Please, Damian, I’m gonna come …”

“Yes,” Damian sighed, burying his face in your neck just in case he started blubbering like a fool right before he made you come. You knew his name, yes, he’d heard you say it since the injury, but nothing compared to the breathlessness with which you moaned it during such an intimate moment.

“Fuck,” you squeaked, your fiancé’s thumb flicking at your clit, and with each flick you repeated the obscenity. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

And just before you did, you lifted Damian’s face to yours so you could secure his lips, and therefore secure the impending mind-blowing orgasm. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d come, but you’d bet your life savings—wait, did you even have savings?—that this was the ultimate orgasm. The best you’d ever had. The wettest you’d ever been.

Speaking of wet … Damian delicately removed his fingers from your pussy, the squelching of your juices the loudest sound in the entire universe, just before the sound of the waistband of your panties smacking against your skin. Your lips separated with an equally lewd noise and you watched with blown pupils as he lifted his soaked hand to his mouth, his own black eyes meeting yours. “Do you mind?” he growled.

You licked your lips, blinking. “Only if you share.”

Damian tilted his head before shaking it, smirking, and he tapped the drenched tip of his middle finger along your lower lip. You sucked the digit into your mouth, tasting him, tasting you, tasting the flavor that was both of you, twisting your tongue in every direction to make sure you didn’t leave a drop behind. Once you had the finger completely clean of your delicious—if you did say so yourself—essence, he pulled his thumb into his mouth, the one that had been massaging your aching clit, and his cheeks hollowed. You’d never seen anything sexier (that you could remember) than Damian Priest, your fiancé, sucking your cum off his own thumb.

“So sweet,” he mumbled, your lips coming together in something soft, something needy, something electric, and something goddamn addicting.

✘ ɢᴀᴛɪᴛᴀ — Kitten ✘ ᴛᴇ ᴛᴇɴɢᴏ — I've got you

#wwe #damian priest #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wwe x reader #damian priest x reader #smut #damian priest smut #damian priest kinklist #damian priest imagine #damian priest fanfic #wwe fandom #wwe fic

202 notes · View notes