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bucketgetter535 · 3 days ago

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This is not a cry for help (but it might be) PART SIX

WC: 3k CW: Drinking ish? Notes: LOL what is up everyone. Plz send live reacts cause they're always so funny for this fic. Anywayssss enjoy. progress but slow. P is me.

Paige didn’t even mean to wake up early.

Actually, she was planning to sleep in. Like, full on cocoon in the blankets, hide-from-life, pretend-last-night-wasn’t-real kind of sleep. That was the dream. That was the move.

But of course her body was like nope! You’re a fun little ball of stress so enjoy waking up at 7:12 AM on a summer morning like a psychopath.

So now she’s awake.

And Azzi��s still asleep, which is probably a sign that the universe hates her. Because Paige is lying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about how close Azzi’s face is and how her hand is still sort of half on Paige’s waist like it lives there now.

She carefully (very carefully) gets out of bed.

Azzi shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up, which honestly feels unfair. Paige’s heart is still going dumb in her chest. Like she didn’t just wake up from the most ridiculous, intense fever dream ever. Like she didn’t fall asleep feeling… whatever that was.

Anyway.

Downstairs.

Katie is already there. Already dressed, already moving around the kitchen like a sitcom mom, flipping bacon and humming something that sounds suspiciously like one of those country songs Paife doesn’t really like.

“Morning,” she says, all bright-eyed and unbothered. Like it’s normal to have this much energy before 8 a.m.

“Morning,” Paige croaks, voice hoarse and slightly guilty sounding.

Katie smiles. “Hungry?”

Paige scratches her head. She’s still in her Azzi’s T shirt and whatever shorts she pulled on before leaving the room. Her hair’s a mess. She’s blinking like a mole seeing daylight.

“I mean… I guess,” she says. “Like… I could be?.”

Katie raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a ‘no, but I know I should say yes so you’ll stop asking’ kind of answer.”

Paige flops into a kitchen chair. “Wow, you’re good.”

“I’m all knowing,” Katie says. “It’s a skill set.”

Paige rests her forehead against the table dramatically. “Can I get a pass for today? I had a long night.”

Katie snorts. “You’re fifteen. Your definition of ‘long night’ is probably giggling under the covers and watching TikToks.”

“Yup,” Paige says, because absolutely not. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”

Katie plates eggs and bacon like she’s feeding an army. Or a teen athlete. Which… yeah, okay.

She sets it in front of Paige and pours a glass of orange juice like the food police.

Paige stares at the plate. It smells good. It’s too good. “I usually skip breakfast,” she says, almost apologetic.

Katie’s already flipping the next round of eggs. “Not in this house.”

“That’s aggressive.”

Katie points a spatula at her without even turning. “So is hypoglycemia.”

Paige raises her hands. “Okay, okay. Geez. It’s like I’m in detention.”

“You’re in a kitchen.”

“Same thing,” Paige mutters, stabbing at an egg. “One just has better lighting.”

Katie smiles at her over her shoulder. “Eat, Paige.”

So she eats.

She eats because saying no would feel rude, and because it actually tastes kind of amazing, and because even though she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s starving.

They sit in this quiet kitchen rhythm for a while. The house is still. The sun’s barely up. There’s birds outside and whatever else people say when they’re in the woods and pretending life’s not complicated.

Paige kind of likes it.

Which is annoying.

Katie glances over at her as she refills the coffee pot. “You sleep okay?”

Paige shrugs, chewing bacon. “Define okay.”

Katie doesn’t push it. She just hums and hands her another slice of toast like Paige is a project she’s already committed to finishing.

Paige eats that too. Because whatever. She’s here now.

“You’re wild,” Paige says eventually, gesturing with her fork.

Katie gives her a look. “Because I fed you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess that’s ok.”

Paige hides her smirk behind her juice glass.

She doesn’t say thanks.

But she eats every bite.

–

Okay. Here’s the thing.

Paige Bueckers has a long-standing, private, and very justified vendetta against swimming.

It’s not that she can’t swim. She can. She learned when she was five, thank you very much, in a chlorinated YMCA pool that reeked of bleach and childhood trauma. But she just doesn’t like it. Never has.

Maybe it’s the way her hair sticks to her neck. Maybe it’s the stupid way swimsuits always feel too tight or too loose, but never actually right. Maybe it’s the water. Or the sun. Or the entire concept of recreational wetness.

Point is—Paige is not a swimmer. She’s a hooper. She belongs on the court, not floating around like a dumb leaf in a lake full of fish poop.

But here she is.

In a lake.

With Azzi.

And Azzi’s brothers, who have been cannonballing off the dock for the last twenty minutes like they’re trying to flood the whole state.

And Azzi. Let’s talk about Azzi for a second.

Because Azzi is in a bikini. A purple one.

And it should be illegal.

Like genuinely, someone should call the authorities. Because Paige is trying her best to survive this absolutely blinding amount of hotness while treading water and pretending she’s not seconds away from drowning in feelings.

Azzi’s laughing and splashing her brothers and then wiping water off her face like she’s in a slow-mo summer movie scene, and Paige has never felt more like a soggy rat in comparison.

Her sunblock is already failing. Her legs are too pale. Her hair feels gross. And she’s fairly certain there’s a piece of seaweed stuck to her ankle.

“Why are you standing like that?” Azzi calls, chest-deep in the water, grinning like a demon.

“Standing like what?” Paige shouts back.

“Like you hate this!”

“I do hate this!”

Azzi just laughs. Tosses her hair back and floats on her back like the most graceful human to ever exist.

“Come here,” she says.

“No.”

“Come here,” Azzi says again, voice playful but threatening.

Paige swims over like a loser.

They float near each other, and Azzi bumps her foot against Paige’s under the water, which is so casual and also not casual at all.

Azzi’s brothers are still yelling about something. Probably who cheated in their splash war or who’s banned from holding the pool noodle. Paige has tuned them out.

Azzi leans in a little. “I’m hungry.”

Paige squints. “We literally ate like two hours ago.”

“I know,” Azzi says, dead serious. “But I’m still hungry.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

“No,” Paige says immediately. “We’re wet."

Azzi tilts her head. “So?”

“So the inside is are dry and I’m not about to walk inside like a wet sandwich.”

Azzi raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You’re dramatic.”

“I’m realistic,” Paige says, treading water like she’s on trial. “Also this lake is cursed. My foot touched something and I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Azzi is so not listening. She’s already swimming toward the ladder. She glances over her shoulder and calls out, “Paige.”

“What.”

“Come get snacks with me.”

And Paige groans because she can’t say no. She literally cannot. Even if Azzi didn’t just do the over-the-shoulder look like she was in a Disney Channel original movie, Paige would’ve followed her anyway.

“Fine,” she says, dragging herself out of the lake like a half-drowned cat.

Her swimsuit sticks in all the wrong places. Her hair drips straight down her back. Her foot crunches on the gravel and she knows her face is red from sun or blushing or both.

Azzi waits for her with a towel and that face. The one that says I know you’re annoyed and I’m enjoying every second of it.

Paige grabs the towel. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate swimming.”

“Fair.”

“I hate wet clothes.”

“Understandable.”

“I guess the snacks are alright though.”

Azzi grins. “Mhm. THat’s what I thought.”

They walk inside dripping water everywhere. Paige leaves footprints on the hardwood. Azzi heads straight for the kitchen, opens the fridge like she lives there (she does), and tosses Paige a juice pouch.

Paige catches it. “Are we five?”

“Yes,” Azzi says. “Now drink it.”

Paige does. Because it’s cold and fruity and actually slaps. She leans against the counter in her wet swimsuit, juice in hand, and side-eyes Azzi.

“You in that bikini is actually a hate crime.”

Azzi looks over her shoulder, deadpan. “File a report.”

Paige takes another sip. She’s not even sure if her heart rate is from swimming or Azzi anymore.

Probably Azzi.

Definitely Azzi.

–

The thing about sunburns is that they don’t hit all at once.

No, they sneak up on you. They let you float around in your false sense of “maybe I actually tan now” security. Let you feel like maybe this time will be different.

And then they burn you alive.

Paige feels it first when she’s drying off after her shower. That tight, itchy stretch across her shoulders. Her arms feel like they’ve been microwaved. Her nose is pink. Her neck’s mad at her. Her face is just straight-up betrayal.

Honestly, it’s deserved. Paige vs. The Sun has been an ugly rivalry since birth.

Azzi had already passed out the second they got back from the lake, full-on snuggled into her pillow like she didn’t just look illegal in a bikini all day. Paige wanted to say something dumb to her before crashing, but it didn’t happen. Azzi was too cozy, too asleep. So Paige just showered, changed into her comfiest oversized tee, and tiptoed her way downstairs in search of cold water and peace.

She’s halfway through grabbing a glass when Katie rounds the corner like she’s been waiting.

“Oh honey,” she says.

Paige freezes. “What?”

Katie points at her shoulder. “You’re toasted.”

“I’m fine.”

Katie gives her a look that says absolutely not, try again.

Paige sighs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Paige. You’re medium-well at least. Come sit.”

Paige shifts uncomfortably. She tugs her shirt down like that’ll help.

Katie already has the aloe out. Like she was born with it in her pocket or summoned it from the mom void. Paige considers arguing again, but honestly she hurts and standing sucks and she’s tired.

So she sighs and sits.

“I’m not taking off my whole shirt,” she says quickly.

Katie sits beside her with the aloe. “You’ve got a bra on, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then it’s fine. I saw you in a swimsuit three hours ago. I just want to put some aloe on it, okay?”

That somehow doesn’t make Paige feel better, but she pulls off her shirt anyway, wincing as the fabric tugs against her shoulder blades. She keeps her arms tight to her sides. Feels very aware of everything.

Katie is gentle. Like annoyingly so.

The aloe is cold, but it’s a relief. And Katie doesn’t say anything at first—just rubs the gel in careful, slow circles over the worst spots. It stings a little, but Paige isn’t gonna whine about it. She already feels weird enough.

She stares at the kitchen tile and pretends it’s not vulnerable or whatever.

She’s mid-thought when her phone buzzes on the counter.

It’s her dad.

Of course it is.

Paige flinches without meaning to. Her whole body goes still.

Katie pauses. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paige says automatically, grabbing her phone. “I’ll—uh—I’m just gonna take this outside.”

Katie nods once, already back to capping the aloe. Paige pulls her shirt back on, not meeting her eyes, and practically escapes to the porch like the house is gonna explode.

The swing creaks when she sits.

“Hey,” she says into the phone.

“Paigeeeyyy,” her dad says.

And that’s… not great.

He’s slurring a little. Talking fast and slow at the same time. His words loop, like maybe he’s trying to sound casual but forgot what sentence he started three words ago.

She knows this version of him.

It’s not even the worst one. Just the one that makes her stomach twist.

“You home yet?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, looking at the trees. “Been home. Then came up here. Remember?”

“I miss you.”

That makes her blink. “Okay.”

“Tell Drew I love him,” he adds suddenly, like it popped into his brain mid-rant.

“You could tell him yourself,” Paige says. “He’s with you.”

But her dad’s already moved on. He’s rambling about the lake cabin they used to rent when she was little. About her mom, randomly. About how this whole thing with “her”, which means his wife, or ex-wife, or enemy number one, or whatever, “isn’t fair.”

Paige goes quiet.

She just sits there, half-listening, half-fading out, watching the trees move in the breeze. They’re green and soft and kind of blurry. It should be nice.

It’s not.

Eventually her dad says, “Alright. I’m gonna go, kid. Love you.”

Paige doesn’t answer right away.

“Paige?”

“Yeah. Love you too,” she says, and it sounds fake even to her.

He hangs up.

She sits still for a while. The porch swing creaks again. Her chest feels too full. Her throat feels too tight. She doesn’t cry, but it’s close.

Then the door creaks open and Katie steps out.

She’s got a glass of water and that look. The one that says I’m not gonna make you talk, but I’m here if you want to.

Paige wipes at her nose even though it didn’t run. Just to feel something.

Katie hands her the glass.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Paige snaps.

Katie just sits next to her. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lecture.

They sit in silence for a bit. Paige sips her water. The woods are still moving.

She says it before she even decides to say it.

“My dad’s not doing great.”

Katie glances over.

“And I mean like, not great. Like spiraling and weird phone calls and barely holding it together and I think maybe drinking again but I’m not sure and I don’t wanna accuse him of stuff but also I’m not a little kid.”

Katie doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react.

“And it’s been loud at home. Like… bad loud. And I know I’m lucky to not be there but my little brother is there, and I don’t know how to help. And I feel bad being here. But also I don’t want to be there. Like, at all. So I feel double bad. And also I think I might like girls. Which is… not related but still a problem. I guess. I don’t know.”

She laughs, short and sharp and hollow.

Katie just hums. “That’s a lot, kiddo.”

Paige leans back against the swing. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

Paige shrugs. “You kinda Jedi mind-tricked me into it.”

Katie smiles. “I have secret mind control powers. It’s a thing.”

Paige looks at her. “I thought Azzi made that up.”

Katie shrugs. “She did. But I like it.”

They sit there until Paige finishes her water. The sun’s going down now.

Katie stands up eventually and ruffles Paige’s hair before she heads back inside.

Paige leans back, watching the trees some more.

And for once, everything’s kind of quiet.

–

The room is quiet when she comes back upstairs.

Azzi’s still in bed, curled toward the window, blanket all bunched up under her chin like she didn’t just spend the afternoon being hot and chaotic and bikini-evil. Paige stands there for a second in the dark, watching her breathe, trying not to think about the porch swing or the phone call or how her whole body feels like it’s made of too much.

Her sunburn still stings. Her throat’s tight again, which is fantastic. She’s tired but not tired. You know?

She climbs into bed gently. Like quietly-lower-yourself-gently, blanket-tug-silent-exhale kind of gentle.

Azzi stirs the second the mattress shifts.

Like of course she does.

Paige freezes. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

But Azzi already reaches out, eyes still half closed. “You’re back,” she murmurs, and she’s already moving closer, sliding an arm around Paige like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Paige flinches. Just barely. But it’s enough.

Azzi’s hand brushes her shoulder and Paige hisses.

“Ow—sorry—”

Azzi pulls back immediately, blinking awake now. “Shit—sorry babe—”

Babe.

Babe?

And then she kisses Paige’s shoulder. The unburnt part. Soft. Just once.

And Paige’s whole brain short circuits.

Because what the hell. Who does that? Who says that? Who kisses people so gently they actually feel like crying?

It’s not like a big kiss. It’s not flirty. It’s not anything but real.

And Paige is… she doesn’t do that. She’s sarcastic and annoying and full of noise. She doesn’t just…get touched like this.

“You alright?” Azzi whispers.

And it’s a real question. Not one of the dumb ones like everyone keeps asking. It’s not like you okay? like a formality. It’s soft. It’s asking in a different way. Like Azzi can feel something on her.

Paige blinks up at the ceiling and does not cry. She doesn’t. But her eyes sting a little, and she breathes weird for a second.

“I’m fine,” she says.

Azzi doesn’t believe her. Obviously.

“Your back’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi hums. Her hands trail lightly across Paige’s back, carefully avoiding every place that might sting. She doesn’t press. Just lets her fingers move slow and steady, like she’s tracing Paige’s heartbeat through her spine.

Paige exhales into the pillow. Her whole body starts to un-tense. Not all the way. But some.

She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t say anything at all for a while.

Azzi just holds her.

One hand on Paige’s waist. One hand moving in lazy shapes on her back. Her forehead pressed against Paige’s shoulder like she belongs there.

And Paige? Paige stays really still. Because if she moves, she might cry. Or scream. Or say something stupid like I needed this more than oxygen tonight.

And like, she knows it’s dumb. It’s just Azzi. She’s just being nice. But it feels like something more. It feels like..

Like like?

Being in-like?

Paige’s chest doesn’t hurt as much now. And her skin still burns, but a different kind of burn, the kind that’s actually kind of okay.

#paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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elllisaaa · 9 months ago

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FOCUS ON ME - J. WONWOO

KINKTOBER DAY 12 - BONGAGE + MIRRORS

SUMMARY : you wanted to be more confident about your body and having a boudoir photoshoot seemed to be a good option. you just didn't plan that having the photographer tying you up would excite you that much.

-> pairing : photographer!wonwoo x fem!reader

-> words count : 2.2k

-> genre : smut

-> warnings : bondage (obviously), mirror sex (obviously too), mentions of body insecurities, boudoir photoshoot, lingerie, praise kink, body worship, begging, fingering

+ the way i'm depicting wonwoo does not represent him, it's only a work of fiction

-> 18+ content bellow, minors DNI

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated ! sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> masterlist | svt masterlist | kinktober 2024

You had always struggled with your body image. Being raised by an almond mother and surrounded by people who constantly commented on your weight and appearance didn’t help either. However, you tried to get your confidence back, it was a long path, but you could feel that you were getting there. In everyday life, it was easy to be sure of yourself, but when it came to being intimate with someone else, it was still complicated. And you had enough of asking your hook ups to turn off the light, or of keeping your clothes because you couldn’t bear to see yourself in the nude. It was over, and you had decided to take big measures.

“- So… How do you want to do that ? I’m sorry, this is a first for me.”

Wonwoo smiled at you gently despite your initial awkwardness. He was a friend of your best friend, and even if you had crossed paths with him at some hangouts, you had no idea that he was studying photography. So when you told her about your project and that she gave you Wonwoo’s number, you thought that it was perfect. Though, now that you were really about to do it, you felt a little shy. Mostly because of these insecurities that had been eating you up for years, and also maybe a little because you didn’t remember that Wonwoo was that handsome.

“- Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine. The bathroom is right there if you want to change, we can start whenever you’re ready. And if you feel uncomfortable at any moment, tell me, okay ?

- Okay, thank you.”

He smiled at you again, his eyes crinkling at the corner behind the frame of his glasses. You went to his bathroom to change into the lingerie set you had brought with you, taking a deep breath as you looked at yourself in the mirror. The black lace of your panties and corset were complimenting the tone of your skin perfectly, underlining your curves. You knew that you were objectively very pretty, but you still had trouble admitting it, really seeing it. And the fact that Wonwoo looked so good in his simple black pants and white tee shirt didn’t help you relax either.

As you walked back into the room in only your underwear, Wonwoo turned to look at you, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the mostly nude state of your body. You had warned him that you wanted to do a boudoir photoshoot, but he wasn’t prepared to see you like that. He tried to not make it obvious as he pretended to be busy setting up his camera. You could already feel your cheeks grow red as you walked to the set he had prepared according to the inspiration pics you had sent to him, the fluffy white plaid laid on the floor ready to welcome you.

“- You can get comfortable and I’ll let you tell me if you want to do a pose or something in particular, if that’s fine with you.

- Yes, that’s perfect.

- Oh, and Y/N ?

- Yeah ?

- Don’t stress, it’s gonna be alright.”

His reassuring smile and words did ease your nerves as you sat down on the blanket on the floor. In the meantime, Wonwoo had started to play some sensual music to put you in the mood. As he walked over to his camera, you decided to start out with something soft, only slightly suggestive.

“- Okay, let’s go. If you want to take a break or to stop at any moment, just tell me.

- Yeah, thank you.”

How careful and cautious he was made you feel at ease, and as the shoot went on, you let yourself forget about what made you anxious in the first place. Your poses got more and more sensual as time went on, getting more and more confident.

“- Perfect, you’re doing so good Y/N.”

Your cheeks were dusted in a slight shade of pink everytime Wonwoo praised you, even more so because you were now bending over, showing off the arch of your back and the curve of your ass, your eyes boring into the camera lasciviously. Wonwoo had the excuse of his camera to check you out shamelessly, but as you got bolder, it also got harder for him to hide how affected he was by the show you were putting on.

“- Wonwoo ?”

He snapped out of his daze as you called out for him, detaching himself from his camera to really look at you, and he gulped down loudly as he tried to not let his eyes wander down. He knew why you wanted to do that, he knew about your motives, and the last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable.

“- Yeah ?

- I had… Something else in mind.

- Yes, of course. Tell me.”

Without any other words, you stood up and went to get something from your bag. When you turned to him again, you were holding some red ropes that left little to his imagination as to what you wanted to use them for. Wonwoo looked at the ropes in between your hands for a moment, speechless. He pushed his glasses up on his nose to try and give himself some composure.

“- Do you… Do you need any help putting that on ?

- Yes, please.”

You started to make some of the knots yourself, and you showed Wonwoo which ones he needed to make, until your arms were tied behind your back, and your chest was covered in the red ropes to underline the shape of your breasts. Everytime his fingers brushed against your bare skin, you shivered, and you couldn’t help how much seeing him focused on tying the knots through the reflection of the mirror had turned you on. You looked at the final result and you nodded at him with a satisfied smile.

“- It’s perfect, thank you…

- You’re welcome.”

You went to kneel down in front of the camera again, showing your tied arms and your back to Wonwoo as you turned your head back to look directly into the lens. And he had to mentally stop himself from looking at you for too long as he adjusted the angle to take the perfect shot. It was as if this had sparked up your confidence even more, and you got even bolder and seductive in your poses. It was also getting harder for Wonwoo to concentrate on his camera and not on the way he could figure out the outline of your nipples from underneath the thin material of your corset.

“- Wonwoo ?”

Your name coming out of his mouth made it even more complicated for him to not pop a boner, but he still perked up from behind the camera to look you in the eyes.

“- Yeah ?

- Could you… Take some closer shots, if you don’t mind it.”

You saw him visibly swallow as he shook his head and took his camera in between his hands, stepping closer to you to take some focused shots of certain parts of your body. Now, it was impossible for him to not get hard as he had your ass in full display for him.

“- Can I… Can I try something ? I think it would make it even better, if you don’t mind.”

Something darker was passing through his eyes, but you didn’t care as you nodded at him. You watched behind your bent back as he carefully let one of his hands come down to lend on your ass, his eyes locked with yours as if to be sure you were okay with it. But you only licked your lips as Wonwoo snapped one more photo of his big hand resting against your skin. Slowly, he let his hand travel to one of the ropes crossing over your back, grabbing it and taking a larger shot of your whole body bent over, his muscular and veiny forearm coming into the frame.

“- Turn around.”

You hadn’t realized just how into it you were until his deep voice echoed again. You obeyed his command, leaning on your back and looking up at him. He was now kneeling in between your legs, his hands traveling up from your waist to the ropes around your breasts, tugging on them and making your breath hitch in your throat. He was still holding the camera, but it was like he forgot why you were here in the first place, not taking any more photos as his free hand roamed all around your body.

“- Tell me to stop…

- I don’t want you to, please Wonwoo…

- Fuck it.”

He didn’t let you any more time to think before he crashed his lips against yours in a messy and hungry kiss. Wonwoo discarded the camera to the side, nothing other than you crossing his mind as both of his hands went to spread your legs wider, caressing and groping the plush skin of your thighs. He couldn’t understand how you could not love your body when you literally looked like a goddess, when it was hard for him to contain himself when he saw you walk out of his bathroom almost naked.

“- You look so fucking pretty, all tied up like this… I can’t tear my eyes away from you.”

His praises made a fire come alive in your veins, a whine escaping from your lips as he pulled you closer to him, pressing his boner against your sensitive clit. His lips derived from your lips to your neck, down to your cleavage and all over your body. Every spot he kissed was left burning, from your ankle to your inner thigh, so close yet so far away from where you needed him. Every little sound coming from your mouth only spurred him on, ignoring the raging boner that started to hurt to worship your body.

“- Wonwoo, please…

- You sound so good, baby… You need to see just how pretty you are.”

Wonwoo lifted you in his arms as if you weighed nothing, making you sit down in front of the full-length mirror of his living room, your back pressed against his chest. He spread your legs again, resting your thighs over his as his fingers finally brushed against your clothed core, making you exhale a shaky breath. He worked you up slowly, even if the dark spot on your panties were telling enough about how turned on you were.

“- Look at yourself, look at how well you’re taking my fingers.”

His voice murmuring the words just against your ear made you moan just as loud as the feeling of two of his fingers pushing past your folds, stretching you out and gliding in your folds so easily. Your eyes bore into his through the reflection of the mirror, his gaze full of lust for you making you clench around his fingers.

“- You’re doing so good for me, every inch of you is perfect.”

Every word he spoke brought you closer to the edge, and even if the ropes were starting to hurt and burn your skin, you felt too good to care. His fingers moved in the perfect way to hit your sweet spot just right, over and over again until you were a moaning mess under his touch. You could clearly see the way you were getting wetter and wetter by the seconds with your underwear pulled to the side. And you felt sexy, you felt attractive, all because Wonwoo couldn’t stop telling you that you looked perfect, that you were the prettiest thing he had ever seen, that you were being a good girl, his good girl.

“- Wonwoo, I’m close…

- Let go Y/N, cum for me.”

Your moans became more broken as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your thighs trembling and your walls clenching around his fingers. Wonwoo slowed down his pace gradually, until you were shaking from overstimulation.

“- Look at you, look at how pretty you are.”

You did look pretty, even though you also seemed completely gone, completely fucked out. Your chest heaved up and down with your ragged breathing.

“- Say it.

- I’m… I’m pretty…

- Yes, you are.”

His lips were on yours again, his glasses getting fogged up by your hot breath as he devoured your mouth in a much more tender manner than before. You chuckled as you watched him wash his glasses, and his eyes were glimmering with something else than the lust that had taken over him. Then, he detached the knots one by one, massaging your sore arms once you were free.

“- Are you okay ?

- Yeah, it was… Amazing.”

You turned around until you were able to sit on his lap, kissing him again, as you rocked your hips against his still painfully obvious boner. The relieved sigh he let out and that you swallowed in your mouth made you smile.

“- You want me to take care of that ?

- You don’t have to.

- Yes, but I want to. Do you ?

- Fuck… Yes, I do.”

You smirked at him as you reached for his camera, getting out of his lap to put it in his hands as you crawled in between his legs, your hand squeezing his hard on over his pants and making him groan under his breath.

“- You can take some photos. These ones are only for you, though.”

And Wonwoo fully intended to keep them all for himself, to keep you all for himself.

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

kinktober taglist (dm or comment to be added) :

svt taglist (fill in this to be added) :

@lil-kpopstan @hann1bee @heevllog @foxinnie8 @bewoyewo @jaderabbit-98 @lala-----------lala

@d-dilemma @bath1lda @anxiousskylar @mikaelless @leeknowinggg

#kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober fic #seventeen #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #seventeen kinktober #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo smut #wonwoo kinktober

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1oftherottenones · 1 month ago

Note

Heyy! What if a Crowe x reader in a sleepover? 👀

⭐Jericho Ichabod x Reader⭐

Reader pronouns: They/them

Pairing: Jericho "Crowe" Ichabod x GN!Reader

Plot: You and Crowe have been far too busy to do anything, especially spending time together. But finally you caught the perfect moment to have a sleepover! But it takes a bit of a romantic turn late in the night...

Word count: 1.6k

Extra: Wrote this as 4 am please excuse the mess this is 🫠

"Uno! Again." You said, placing a card down with a grin on your face.

Crowe sighed and smiled, "How are you so good at this game?"

You look between your singular card and Crowe's 6 cards in his own hand and snicker then shrug, "Can't reveal my secrets if I want to keep winning."

The two of you have been friends for some time now. You've practically attached yourself to Crowe since you first became friends, but recently you two haven't found much time to hangout. It was a mix of things that kept you two from being around each other. Exams, projects, you meeting two new friends, Crowe being busy with his own friends, and just overall life worries.

But finally the two of you scheduled a night for a sleepover! At first you weren't so sure about it ... Just the thought of sleeping in the same house as Crowe was enough to make your face red. Plus calling it a 'sleepover' felt overly childish, but when you said that, he just said, "It's important to keep some childish wonder in your life, it makes things happier." And how could you argue with that?

But you also figured it was the best time to spend together and agreed.

Crowe asked if it was okay to stay the night at your house, which you agreed to.

You two were sitting on your bed, the big comforter blankets you had making it feel extra soft. There were various snacks on the bed and across the room that you two had been snacking on all night.

The moonlight softly dripped through your curtained windows, casting a soft glow. Which reminded you that you needed a new lock for the window, but also reminded you how late it was.

The glow of the moon hit Crowe's face perfectly, you swore it was like looking at an angel every time. The way his eyes look like stars... The way the light illuminated a halo around his head.

"Well, we can be done with Uno if you're tired of losing." You smile, gathering the cards and shoving them carelessly into a zip lock bag since you'd long lost the original box for them.

"What would you like to do now then? If you're tired at all, we can start getting ready to go to bed... It is late." Crowe suggested, though he didn't look too tired himself.

You cross your arms and playfully roll your eyes, "What? Tired? It's only 12."

Crowe shrugged, "You are getting old..." He said teasingly, obviously only joking around.

"Oh shush, I'm only a year older than you." You laugh lightly, playfully shoving his shoulder.

You really missed messing around with him like this and just giggling with each other. It was always so nice...

"Okay fine. How about a movie?" He suggests.

You tap a finger on your chin before nodding, "Sure. But I don't want to watch another romcom... They're starting to become unwatchable bad rather than funny bad."

Laughing again, Crowe nodded in agreement, "Fine. No romcoms."

"Oh! How about horror comedies? They're pretty awful too, but I'm not sick of them yet." You grin.

"We can watch whatever you want to watch." Crowe responds, looking you in the eyes.

God, you wished he knew what he did to you every time he looked at you like that. It made your chest tight, your heart melt, and your palms sweaty. You quickly looked away and grabbed the remote to turn the TV on.

After the two of you settled into a more comfortable sitting position on the bed—facing the TV and backs against the headboard—you put on some random movie that came up when you looked under the horror comedy genre. It seemed like a weird movie, a horror version of Freaky Friday pretty much.

The two of you sat in silence as the movie started, it being a little gorier than expected, but still laughed every now and again at some of the jokes.

As the movie went on, Crowe found it hard to focus, and after casting a few glances to him, you caught on to his disinterest.

"Is this boring for you? We can watch something else." You suddenly say, looking over at him.

He suddenly looks to you, being snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh! No. No. It's fine. I like this. It's funny." He says but it's quite obvious he had something else on his mind.

You turn your body to face him, propping yourself up with your arm, "What's on your mind?" You ask, the movie still playing in the background.

He looks back for a moment before hesitantly turning to face you as well, "You know, talking about romcoms earlier just started making me think of romance and stuff, I guess..." He laughed awkwardly, obviously there was more to that.

You stay silent for a moment, your expression unreadable to him. Which only drove him to feel more awkward... You honestly didn't expect him to be so awkward and nervous on the subject of romance.

"Yeah? You like someone."

A small blush appears on his face and he casts his eyes away before looking back at you, "I do."

You smile but it really felt like you just got punched in the gut... What should you expect though? Crowe is like a prince, of course there's someone he has his eyes on. And no way in hell it's you.

"...Tell me about them." You say, settling back for your body to face the tv but still looking him in the eyes.

He hesitates for a moment, "Well... I've known them for a few years now... They're the nicest person I've ever met." He starts, but you immediately regret asking. Hearing him talk like this about someone who was most definitely not you, made you feel sick. But he continued, "They're so smart and no matter how many times I think I finally have them figured out, they're always able to pleasantly surprise me. They're a little awkward sometimes but once you really get to know them, they're the brightest person out there. Brighter than any star... But the awkwardness is cute too.'' he chuckles quietly as he stares down at his fidgeting his hands. A blush was still apparent on his face.

"Okay ew this is getting sappy." You joke but really you do want him to stop talking. The way his eyes looked when he was talking about this person made him seem so deeply in love. How could you ever compete with someone who gives him those feelings?

"Hm... You think so?"

"Definitely."

He chuckles quietly, "What about you? Do you like anyone?" He then turns the question on you.

"Yeah. I do..." You say quietly, looking away.

"What are they like?" He asks the same question you did.

You hesitate, looking at him from the corner of your eyes, "Well, he makes me feel stupid. But... In a good way?" You already have trouble describing how you feel.

He laughs. You laugh. You both let out a content sigh and look back into each other's eyes, both of you now sitting up.

The two of you just stare into each other's eyes for a moment... Not saying anything.

But it was a comfortable silence. A small smile on your face and a slightly bigger smile on his. You swore you could see the galaxy in his eyes.

Then, you weren't sure when or how. But he leaned in, and you leaned in. His hand gently reached to cradle the back of your neck as your lips softly lock together. Your eyes close and you just focus on the moment.

You always daydreamed about what this moment might feel like... You thought maybe it would feel like the wind being knocked out of you, or your heart exploding from your chest, or maybe your brain melting.

But it felt... Calm. You felt your whole body relax, you felt his cold skin tickle the back of your neck pleasantly, and you felt at peace.

Finally he slowly pulls away, still his lips only inches from yours as he keeps his eyes on yours, "I really like you... A lot." He confesses.

So all of those things he said... That look in his eyes, the way blushed, how nervous he got... Was because of you? It was hard for you to wrap your brain around, but it was the happiest you've felt in a long long time.

You look him in the eyes, "...I like you a lot too."

Somehow he seemed a little shocked by this despite the two of you just sharing a kiss that went on for a lot longer than it should've.

"Do you really?"

A grin slowly forms on your face, "Of course. How could I not?"

He smiles too. He pulls you back into another kiss, this one with a little more passion and movement. You, of course, put up no protest and return the action.

Though it didn't go any further, your heart did now start feeling like it would beat out of your chest. But then you yawn, seeing as it was now almost 2 in the morning.

"We should sleep." He says, leaning back against the headboard.

"Before the movie is over?" You ask but you can already feel your eyelids getting heavy.

The truth was, you didn't want to sleep yet. You wanted to stay in this moment for as long as possible.

You subconsciously lean your head on his shoulder. You can't see his face but you had a feeling he was blushing.

The movie was already near its end, though it's not like either of you have been paying attention. You feel your eyes close and your mind drifting elsewhere.

Crowe looks down as your head sleeps on his shoulder. He softly smiles, gently caressing his fingers against your cheek. He rests his hand on top of your and then leans his head on yours.

"Goodnight..." He says before drifting off himself.

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salahmanarfamily · 5 months ago

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VERY DANGEROUS 🚨

I went to northern Gaza. My house was completely destroyed. Now I need your support for me and my children so that we can buy a tent, winter blankets, and a bathroom to relieve ourselves because life is very difficult in Gaza.

My compigen has been verified by @90-ghost @gazavetters list (48)

Butterfly effect project line (944)

Plz donate and share my link 🙏

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#gaza free #free gaza #olympics #gravity falls #free palestine #donations #gaza strip #boosting #signal boost #boosted #palestinian donations #palestinian fundraiser #txt #margot robie barbie #deadpool #rwby #fundraisers

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literallymechanical · 9 months ago

Text

Breeding blankets for fusion reactors

So, barring a few ambitious projects involving helium-3, fusion reactor power plants will use hydrogen isotopes as fuel: a 50/50 mixture of deuterium (hydrogen-2) and tritium (hydrogen-3). Deuterium is very stable and relatively abundant, as far as these things go, and can be extracted from ordinary seawater. Tritium, however, has a half life of just over 12 years, so it doesn't occur in nature.

Fortunately, you can use your fusion reactor to synthesize its own tritium fuel, via the transmutation of lithium-6. You use the powerful neutron flux from the fusion plasma to “breed” tritium in lithium, extract it, then feed it back into the reactor. The figure of merit for this process is the tritium breeding ratio (TBR), which is simply the ratio of tritium bred to tritium used. The goal is to get a TBR substantially greater than 1.

This figure shows the physics of tritium breeding, where neutrons from the deuterium-tritium fusion plasma are absorbed by lithium, which then splits into helium and tritium. [source]

Generally speaking, most concepts for tritium breeding involve wrapping a lithium “breeding blanket” around the outside of the reactor, with as few gaps as you can manage. A deuterium-tritium reactor is constantly generating fast neutrons. You want to keep as much of that emission as possible inside the breeding blanket, for both tritium and power generation.

There are a few different ideas for breeding blanket designs, several of which are going to be tested on ITER, the massive reactor being built in France. One concept is a thick sheath of lithium ceramic that surrounds the vessel, either as solid slabs or pebbles. As tritium breeding occurs under the blanket, water or liquid helium is circulated through it, cooling the lithium and potentially extracting heat for electricity generation.

While such a blanket might be relatively “simple” (lol) to build, there are some pretty fundamental challenges. Neutrons will penetrate most materials with ease, and it might be tricky to extract tritium that's been bred deep inside of solid lithium. Ideally, you could do the extraction without pause, even as breeding is ongoing. For some designs, though, you have to cycle out breeder units for harvesting as they get a full load of tritium.

Another concept is “liquid breeding." This concept uses a molten mixture of metallic lithium and lead, or a lithium salt compound like FLiBe (fluorine-lithium-beryllium). The liquid would be pumped through a “breeding zone” around the vessel, where the neutron flux is thickest. The tritium will then be continuously extracted from the breeding fluid as it flows back out. As part of the process, you can run the hot liquid through a heat exchanger, heating water to power a steam turbine.

Liquid breeding does raise some prominent engineering challenges. Hot, molten breeding fluid will be very hard to handle – not just because of the heat, but also because you're trying to pump a massive quantity of viscous fluid into a very tight breeding zone. Moreover, molten lithium-lead might react explosively with air. If your breeding system springs a leak, you’ll have a serious mess on your hands!

It’s still unclear which of these breeding strategies will bear fruit. From conception to implementation, there are still a lot of unknowns! Both liquid and solid breeding will be conducted in France, and a number of private fusion companies have plans to breed tritium in their machines as well.

#fusion #engineering #science

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journeyman-tier-fibercraft · 2 years ago

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Was having some trouble with my newest doily, dropping stitches and just generally having a hard time knitting and couldn't figure out why. And then I realized I had nearly 250 stitches jammed onto a 8 inch cable (16 inches including needle tips).

I moved it onto my 14 inch cable but realized immediately it could fit on my 22 inch cable (and did a bit of math, the final row of this doily is going to be 640 stitches and that'll need my 22 inch cable minimum). So after a bit of musical cables, he's finally laying mostly flat.

This guy is a square doily so he won't lay fully flat until I get him off the needles but he's already looking cute as hell. And bigger than I thought. The pattern says he'll be about 10 inches by 10 inches but I'm about halfway through his rows and he's already over 8 inches wide.

(Pattern, making version A)

#project: doily 12 #knitting #knitblr #lace rot #wip #i did end up frogging the bag i randomly started just to get my 22 inch cable back #but tbh i probably wasn't gonna work on it again anyway. having one less project much worth some wasted work.#i'm gonna focus on this doily and the socks i just started primarily i think #i have been working slowly on blanket 10 but it's so warm and heavy that it makes me sleepy every time i work on it lmaoo #i'm excited to use it but i gotta not nap while making it

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skzstarl0ver · 2 months ago

Note

I know you did a long distance Felix but can you maybe do an in person one. It would make me really happy. and if you would allow me I'd love to reblog it if you do. But over all I absolutely love your work ♡

if you do accept my request please make sure to tag me if you can.

Love, Ember_Fires ♡

ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕗𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

Hii @emberfiresbitchy I wasn't 100% sure what kind of fic you prefer so I just mixed a little bit of smut and fluff, I hope you like it xx

Lee Felix x reader / classmates to lovers / slow burn / smut / fluff / one shot

**involves!!** sex, strong tension, cursing, teasing, dirty talk

enjoy xx (request open)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

There’s a rule in our class that everyone hates, except for maybe two people.

Every Friday, Ms. Jang makes us add one song to the shared class playlist. She says it “fosters emotional intelligence and communal bonding through sound.” I say it’s just a way to expose everyone’s deeply embarrassing music taste.

But fine. Whatever.

At first, it was funny. Someone added “Barbie Girl” ironically, another added a 12-minute Norwegian death metal track that played at full volume while we were doing worksheets. But then..

The first time I notice it, I’m curled up in my dorm bed at midnight, trying not to cry over a theory exam I definitely failed. The shared playlist starts auto-playing, and instead of some chaotic EDM garbage or meme audio clip, it’s… soft.

Lo-fi. Gentle. Intimate.

The lyrics?

“I keep noticing you.” “How you laugh. How you lean back in your chair like you own the world.” “I shouldn’t, but I do.”

The title is even worse: “if you knew what i felt, would you smile?”

My heart clenches.

I glance at the username. felixlee

We barely talk. He sits a few seats behind me in class, always in hoodies, always with that quiet, raspy voice that makes you want to lean in closer. He laughs easily. Smiles like he means it.

We’ve had small talk about—coffee machines, shitty printers, dumb assignments—but never anything real.

So why does this song feel like a secret he accidentally let slip?

The next week, he adds another one. And then another. Every Friday night like clockwork, after everyone else has already dropped their songs, he adds his: quiet confessions buried in dreamy lyrics.

“You smile at me like I matter. I don’t think you know what you do to me.”

I don’t say anything. I pretend I don’t notice.

But I do.

I start listening alone in my room, legs tangled in blankets, headphones in, heart in my throat.

I start looking at him differently, too.

The way he drums on his desk absentmindedly. The way his hair flops into his eyes. The way he’s started waiting at the classroom door for me.

I tell myself it’s a coincidence.

But when I laugh too hard one day and glance behind me, he’s staring.

And smiling.

We get paired for a midterm project.

Three weeks of working together. Study sessions. Shared notes. Coffee runs. Him leaning over my shoulder to look at my screen. Me catching his scent—clean and warm and a little vanilla—and pretending it doesn’t do things to me.

He teases me constantly.

“You always chew your pen when you’re stuck. It’s cute.”

“Is that a playlist of sad girl indie music? On brand.”

“You gonna steal another one of my pens?”

I roll my eyes. I call him annoying. I think about kissing him every goddamn day.

It finally breaks one night, deep into our last project session.

We're sitting side by side on the floor of an empty practice room, laptop between us, snacks spread out, low music playing from his speaker.

“I like your taste in music,” I say casually.

He glances at me. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I’ve been listening to your playlist songs.”

A pause.

His voice drops, quiet. “What do you think they’re about?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “Someone you like?”

He looks at me. His eyes are soft and unreadable. “Yeah. Someone I’ve liked for a while.”

My breath catches.

He leans closer.

The air between us snaps.

And then he kisses me.

It’s soft. Gentle. Warm.

His lips move against mine slowly, like he’s giving me time to pull away.

I don’t.

I kiss him back—harder, messier. My hands in his hoodie. His fingers sliding into my hair.

We’re breathing into each other’s mouths, flushed and panting, when he pulls back just enough to whisper, “Do you wanna—?”

“Yes.”

We stumble into his dorm thirty minutes later, soaked in rain and adrenaline.

He shuts the door behind us, then pins me to it—gently, hands braced beside my head. He kisses me again, slower this time. His tongue slides against mine and I groan softly.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he breathes.

My shirt is gone before I realize it. His hoodie follows. I run my hands down his chest, and he shivers under my touch.

He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed and lays me down like I’m something delicate. Then he kneels between my thighs and just looks at me.

“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under my waistband.

I whimper. “Then stop teasing.”

He grins—and pulls everything off me.

His mouth on me is heaven.

He licks slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on mine while he holds my hips in place. I moan shamelessly when he flicks his tongue just right. His name slips from my lips like prayer.

When I come, it’s with his fingers inside me and his tongue still working my clit.

He climbs up my body after, kissing his way up my stomach, chest, throat, lips. “You okay?” he asks softly, voice hoarse.

“Condom,” I whisper.

He grabs one from the drawer. Rolls it on. Lines himself up—

And sinks into me with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding it in forever.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel so good.”

He moves slowly at first. Deep, languid strokes that leave me gasping. He holds my hands above my head, kisses my mouth every time I moan. It’s not rushed. It’s not just sex.

It’s him saying everything the playlist couldn’t.

When I come again, I cry out his name. He kisses me through it, whispering how beautiful I look, how much he likes me, how he can’t believe he finally has me like this.

He follows right after—hips stuttering, breath catching, forehead pressed to mine like he never wants to let go.

We lie tangled in his sheets after, sweaty and breathless.

His arm is wrapped around my waist. I’m tucked into his chest. He kisses my forehead and murmurs, “You know they were all about you, right?”

I smile against his skin.

“I do now.”

The next morning, he adds a new song to the playlist.

“your name tastes better than coffee.”

And that’s when the class group chat blows up.

I feel like this one was kinda short but I still hope you liked it xx

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myceliacrochet · 7 months ago

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🥶Neveen & Akram al-Najjar's Family☔

☔Four Cool Kids in a Cold, Wet Blanket🥶

Hey guys! I'm so proud of you. Get a drink of water, take a deep breath, and let's talk about Neveen and Akram's family!

Neveen and the kids --

Yara (12),

Ammar (10),

Sarah (7), and

Sham (5)

-- are getting flooded by the winter rains.☔🥶

They feel alone without Akram.☔

This campaign is DANGEROUSLY STAGNANT during this rainy winter famine.☔🥶

They're hungry!! This family needs a team of people to support them!!☔

Donate:

Vetted by association by the Sidra Project -- they are neighbors of Omar (#28).

@scott1984fp2 @sar-soor @1tsny4nc4t @fairycandles @girlinafairytale @sinhasfluffyheadfur @amatteurrwave @sissa-arrows @taviamoth @buzzy-bee-13 @spaghetti-gremlin @reduxskullduggerry @saintverse @littlegermanboy @maggot-baggage @cherry-shrimp @celadonwanderer @lavendersfunhouseofbobbles @2024yr @transvalkilmer @starry-system @localcoffeeaddict @cori-randomstuff @sunmooneclipseandstars @sushi-the-kitsune @miluciole @oinkoinkfeedeepiggy @ydic74the @butchmagicalboi @springacres @tacit-semantics @transformers4palestine @3lawzdef1ant @fiapple @pupindaturd @playthemz @yourlocalamoeba @chingaderita @radicalhighway @leovaldeeeznuts

#akram gfm #vetted #vetted by the sidra project #vetted by association #vetted gofundme #the sidra project #free gaza #free palestine #gaza #gaza genocide #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza solidarity #the gaza strip #mutual aid #children of gaza #famine #disaster relief

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loganlermanstanaccount · 8 months ago

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Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room.

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans.

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe.

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand.

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say.

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue.

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours.

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’”

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.”

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it.

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…?

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns.

“I think I'm happy.”

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead.

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth.

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances.

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.”

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples.

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up.

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.”

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely.

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile.

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet?

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun.

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...”

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw -

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over.

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights.

“It's okay, Em.”

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname.

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour.

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think.

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl.

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere.

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again.

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang.

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.”

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub.

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint.

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big.

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed.

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck.

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket.

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own.

“Mig?”

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes.

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines.

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look.

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires.

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?”

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore.

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.”

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.”

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on.

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights.

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–”

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis.

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones:

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara.

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara.

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #angst #mutual pining

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tohakumaru · 1 year ago

Text

[project page]

>walk away, go with the nomad. i love you.

since you cannot cry, you make an effort to push the stale air out of your lungs, a poor imitation of a sigh - i guess bad habits really die hard. if the nomad has noticed, then it pays you no mind and simply carries on. casting one last lingering glance at the water and the sky above, you dutifully follow. after a short while, it becomes clear that something has changed. the nomad has picked up its pace, moving in erratic strides. here and there, you find it dashing across the sand, beak and head angled upwards, as though searching, or following an invisible thread in the air, one that you can feel, but cannot quite grasp, like a long forgotten name - always on the tip of your tongue, yet never to be spoken aloud. at times, you struggle to keep up. it's so hard, you're so tired, it's too much. your eyes burn with fatigue. you want to scream, to beg the bird-thing to slow down, but the words evade you everytime you open your mouth, and the nomad does not so much as look at you. a hot and bitter pressure builds behind your nose and muffles your ears. once again you feel yourself falling apart - but the blanket wrapped around your frame and the water sloshing in your hollow stomach seem to work against your body's trajectory to disintegrate, two forces swirling inside and all around you, like a wicked pendulum that propels you forward despite, despite.

i won't let you go, should have known that from the start.

---

tenderly her eyes made their pilgrimage across the mounds of glass and steel, mourning perhaps hunger is a cure for insanity, shut-you-up-real-nice knowing full well being alive is a horrendously beautiful thing while the dogs, blood stained snouts dig out the madness, turn it into a five course meal heaving, a still-beating heart melts like butter on their lips as poorly clipped nails fumbled and fussed,

just enough to make a day-ride.

---

in this fashion, you and the nomad dance across the white sand for some time, until a hillside comes into view. upon closer inspection, you are awed to realise it is made entirely of roots. at the foot of this strange hill, a grove - an incredible indent in that tangled mass that is the tree-hill - opens up and presents an even more curious sight: 12 creatures, each bearing the likeness of a bird, but is clearly not one. they stand stock-still and solemn, with multitudes of dried flowers and glittering gemstones at their feet. their faces, elongated and coming to pointy, beak-like ends, are not dissimilar to the nomad, but much more haggard; and so immobile, it is easy to mistake them for statues, has there not been the occassional puffs of dusty smoke and shrill noises, like a kettle boiling over, coming from their beaks and throats that betray any hints of liveliness about them.

the nomad slows its steps, and looks down. it keeps its eyes to the ground as you get nearer to the grove. it occurs to you that it is avoiding the living-statues' gaze. surprisingly, they reciprocrate the gesture. Ever so slightly each of them turn their head, so their eyes fall off the nomad, and onto … you. you, who does not belong you, who comes on a leash, believing it to be choice you, who dies, and nothing changes

to your bewilderment, the statues came to life, all at once. they grovel at the flowers and gems, and toss them in handfuls at you as the nomad leads you through the grove, leaving a trail of petals and stones. when you pass the 12th statue and come to the end of the opening, everything suddenly shifts: slowly, mechanically, the roots shape themselves into a winding stairway, leading you up the hill.

calmly, the nomad signals you to go up.

what do you do?

[previous chapter]

#illustration #fiction #drawing #impossible nomad #writing #storytelling #prose #poetry #poll #stories #ocs #creatures #monster #art #artists on tumblr

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junosmindpalace · 10 months ago

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heya, Dr. Stone headcanons of the Wise Generals' (all or any ones you prefer) sleeping habits? Pretty please🥺

i’m sooo indecisive when it comes to headcanons i just end up talking about every perspective! but i hope these are fun! sorry some of these are shorter than others </3 i had more ideas for ryusui and senku

-> SENKU:

I’m pretty sure it was shown or implied very briefly in the show, but I believe Senku is a kind of person who sleeps pretty neatly.

Maybe not like a vampire on his back with his hands crossed over his stomach, but he mostly keeps to himself; his limbs aren’t usually all over the place, and he’s probably just curled within himself on his side.

I don’t think it’s impossible for him to splay all over, but usually he’s a pretty still sleeper. Maybe he shifts around a little, a stray arm or leg here and there, and unless it’s super hot or cold or he’s unnerved by something, he’ll mostly just stay curled within himself.

I think it was also shown that he tends to stay up pretty late doing science related things, so maybe a little bit of a night owl, too.

Has at least once or twice pulled an all nighter doing science related things. Sometimes he isn’t even aware of the time, and he ends up accidentally staying awake all night (which he feels the effects of full force in the morning when he has school).

It also seems like when he’s nervous about something, he can’t rest easily, either. So most of the time he should be spending sleeping is instead used for problem solving.

He knows that, logically, he should be investing time and effort into developing and upholding a more than adequate sleep schedule in order for him to function and continue on with his hobbies at 100%. Buuut…he’s an eager person, and, for a lot of the series, a teenager. So his sleep schedule is probably a little all over the place.

He’s probably out sometime between 12-2am on average though; that’s typically when he starts yawning and his body starts feeling heavy.

Usually he just ends up exhausting himself with experiments, however, and retires to bed when the words in his textbooks begin to blur by curling himself up under a blanket.

Doesn’t mind sleeping in the dark, and doesn’t fully mind sleeping with a small light. Too much of either, however, might set him a little on edge or make it harder for him to fall asleep.

Not a deep sleeper but not a light sleeper either.

If he’s sharing a sleeping space, he’s not going to go out of his way to do anything particularly different. He’ll sleep as usual; depending on the person, he might choose to put some distance.

If it’s with you, he may just fall asleep facing you. That’s the only notable thing.

Overall just a generally calm and quiet sleeper.

-> GEN:

Also similar to Senku in a lot of ways, such as in that he doesn’t sprawl around too much.

He’s usually curled up, perhaps even more so than Senku, however, and out like a light. It’s funny for me to imagine him a deeeeep sleeper.

But in actuality, I think he’d be an inbetween of heavy and light sleeper. When he’s nervous about something, he’s much more aware of himself and his surroundings, so the slightest off detail will have his eyes wide open.

Usually, though, he can be a pretty heavy sleeper. Maybe a mouth breather. Maybe snores just a little (on occasion).

Sleeps fairly regularly despite his celebrity status and being a student, or at least finds it harder to pull all-nighters. But like anyone else, he may get restless if he feels nervous about something.

If I remember correctly, the fanbook mentioned details about his family life not being so great (either that or its some headcanons that resonated with me based on the almost sad expression he makes in reference to his family). Perhaps the exhaustion or stress from that either kept him awake or had him passing out when it came to sleep.

Maybe sleeps in somewhat of a fetus position? Wakes up with his neck killing him (projection).

If he’s sharing a sleeping space, he might be flirty about it, depending on who you are.

Teases you slightly in every scenario, however; it only depends on what kind of jokes he's making.

Also depending on his mood, he may start up some late night convos before heading off to sleep, usually if he’s got something on his mind.

In the same bed, I think he would want to be cuddly, but just wouldn’t be able to handle the sweat and discomfort I think, so he goes back over to his side fairly quick.

Has a thousand alarms for the morning because he has a tendency to sleep in or immediately fall back asleep when he wakes up.

-> RYUSUI:

I can imagine Ryusui’s sleeping habits going either way.

On the one hand, Ryusui can be a pretty deep sleeper. With his pampered lifestyle, he probably has heavenly bedroom accommodations; luxury bed, high brand pillowcases and mattresses and what not. He also doesn’t have very many worries in his life. So he probably sleeps like a rock at night. I can also see that deep sleep habit occurring even in the stone world, much to everyone’s disgust.

At the same time, Ryusui can be weirdly alert. Perhaps this would be more so stone world, but I can see him being disturbed by small changes in the environment and waking up to them.

His sleeping schedule may also be all over the place, but generally organized and well kept up. I imagine that he doesn’t fall asleep too late.

He does occasionally pull an all-nighter if he’s working on something of his, however. When his mind is set on something, sometimes he can get caught up in it.

Francois’ character profile lists events pre-petrification, saying they developed “a special drink for Ryusui, who has little time for sleep, to help him recover from fatigue after a short night's sleep.” I forget if context is ever given for this, but it sort of implies Ryusui doesn’t sleep a lot. So the all-nighters may be more frequent than expected.

Either way, he’s probably one of the first people awake at any time, around maybe 5-6am. He likes to spend his days being productive, so no matter what, he’s typically up bright and early, no matter what time he goes to sleep at.

I can imagine him with a somewhat firm expression while he sleeps, again, mostly during stone world. The lifestyle sort of toughens him up, makes him a bit more on edge constantly. It’s reflected in his face while he’s sleeping, mouth firm, eyebrows furrowed. He may also have this kind of face while he sleeps pre-stone world too, however, almost like he’s always in a perpetual state of slight unease despite his optimism.

If he’s sharing a sleeping space with another person, he probably tries to be mindful of differing sleeping schedules…but either way, he might accidentally wake you with crashes depending on what he’s doing.

If he’s with you in bed though, I think he might like to cuddle, at least at first. Until he gets all uncomfortable and accidentally pushes you away.

But you get to share in all his bed luxuries! And all of the things Francois does to help keep Ryusui awake throughout the day also extend toward you on his order.

-> UKYO:

One of the more calm sleepers.

He’s another person who’s, again, like Senku, in that he just lies on his side the entire night.

Doesn’t move around too much when he’s sleeping, maybe just to readjust his blanket or whatnot. At most, he’s just repositioning himself to be more comfortable.

I think he too would have a bit of a firm face when he sleeps.

He may like to hold something when he’s sleeping. It’s usually just the pillow he’s sleeping on top of, but sometimes he might yank it down enough so it's almost like he’s holding it to his chest.

Also maybe curled up in somewhat of a fetal position, also wakes up with a killer neckache on occasion.

If he’s sharing a sleeping space with someone, he probably just sticks to his side of the bed.

Doesn’t mind cuddling, but like most people, that probably just means you’ll break away later in the evening when the two of you fall asleep.

Might try to watch shows and movies he’s wanted to catch up on only to fall asleep curled up on the couch (you don’t have the heart to wake him) (it's why you have a blanket on your cushions now) (more projecting).

Also may have a billion alarms, all at absurd times. He gives you an apologetic kiss on the forehead if it disturbs your own slumber.

-> CHROME:

Ultimate mouth breather, ultimate blanket hog, ultimate BED hog (exaggeration).

I’m mostly kidding, but out of all five, I can imagine Chrome to be one of the more chaotic sleepers.

His leg is in the air, he’s starfishing, he’s snoring. He’s the whole insufferable package.

At the same time, however, I feel like it’d be funny if people anticipate Chrome to be such a difficult sleeper, only for him to be the exact opposite and instead sleep like a sound baby.

I can see him being pretty hyperactive during the day and then crashing out at night so much so that he hardly moves, but mostly on days where he’s working himself to exhaustion.

So take it either way.

If he’s sharing a space with you when he’s sleeping, he might be nervous as hell. Or if you’re a good enough friend, he’ll turn over and pass out with his leg out unapologetically no problem.

I think for obvious reasons he doesn’t really tend to sleep with anything; no pillows or toys.

And I also think cuddling is not a big thing. Though you might find an arm or leg tossed over you on restless nights…

If you confront him about those things in the morning, he’ll deny them endlessly.

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