#but the way his coat is sitting on him and his face is hysterical to me

[skoulsons]

Analyzing?? :) This is a long one again. And their second scene at the end of episode is really just gonna serve as a second parter to this bc there’s CONNECTIONS. I was going to make a cut and put this all below it, but tumblr was like deleting it so..no cut

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Immediate reaction to her applying pressure to his wound is to grab her, hard. She reacts to it, hence her swears because he’s hurting her. But she would never tell him to stop because he’s in a lot of pain and can’t get it out any other way, so she lets him. But I think Joel recognizes he is hurting her. When it cuts to Joel’s face (possible continuity thing, but we’ll say no for the sake of overanalyzing bc this is my blog), he just has the side of his hand pressed, albeit hard, against her arm as opposed to gripping it. He recognized he was hurting her and tried to change to keep from continuing. He’s also trying to be quiet despite his very obvious need to scream about how much pain he’s in because he’s bleeding out with no medicine, no clean materials, and nothing to even try and disinfect his wound with.

“Come on, you gotta help me. Come on!”

baby, he is in a lot of pain. I don't know how much more pressure he can add. But I also think, in a way, she’s saying this to keep him awake and giving him something to do while she goes upstairs to look for something. She can’t have him passing back out, not with a life threatening injury, so she tries to give him something to do.

And something else (and I’m not the first person to recognize this), he’s trying to be quiet still. He could scream blood murder because he wants to because this hurts, but he’s trying to

“Leave. Leave.’

“Shut up, Joel.”

“Take the gun-”

“Joel, shut the fuck up!”

He is begging her to leave. Pleading with her as much as he can muster to get out. To leave him. To grab the rifle, because she can shoot, and go. He was just trying to leave her last episode because he was terrified for her and her safety because he knows he’ll kill her. And now, he’s begging her to leave him because he may kill her like this. It’s a harsh winter. She is giving him their warmth, food, and water. She is not taking care of herself the whole time because his life is on the line, and he is what matters. And knowing there is infected out there and people who she is all alone to defend herself against? She is capable to an extent, yes, but not to a group. Him being out like this could kill her, and he can’t risk that, not a single chance of it, so he tells her to leave him. Because he can’t fail her again, and dying while she’s still with him and not safe with Tommy is yet another fail.

And she tells him to shut up because what else is she supposed to do? She knows he’s trying to push her away because he just did it like a week prior to this. He can’t let people care about him, let alone letting them in in the first place. And this tiny, little girl was let in (with a little shove against that hard exterior of his) and she cares about him, more than he understands. That feeling being mutual and oh so complicated. No one since Tess has cared about him like this. But it goes deeper than that because this is a kid. His kid, now. She shouldn't ever need to do this or want to do this, but that’s the circumstances of their world, and he can’t help that. He can’t help the size of her heart or the fact that she cares so much about him because he did first. Through his protection, reassurances, and selfless caring in how he treated her, she grew to, too. And he never wanted that. Even now, the two of them being a ‘we’ now, she still shouldn’t have to because he’s the caretaker, and he’s failing.

“You go. You go. You go north. You go to Tommy. You go.”

This. This is a father’s anger. The absolute certainty and seriousness and the listen-to-me attitude. He needs her to leave. Because, like we’ve all discussed on a number of occasions, she is his weakness and he is her strength. And he does not believe he is that to her, especially not on the level he truly is. But beyond this, he needs her safe, as I already mentioned. So he grabs her and pulls her to him so she sees and hears him. He shakes her his second “you go” because he needs her to listen to him. He needs her gone, as much as it kills him to. But her safety is his first and highest concern, even if it means separating. He is willing to be separated from her and die alone in a cold basement if it means she gets to safety and is able to fulfill her journey.

This is after he shoves her and there’s already the glimmer of a tear in the corner of his eye. He does not want to send her away. He wants to be responsible for her. He wants to stay with her. He wants to hold her and he wants them to be okay. But he has to, for her safety. He reacts with force and he shoves her away, rejecting her care. Rejecting her help. And he just shoved her. Joel “ever so gentle with his little girl” Miller just shoved that little girl away from him, and that hurts.

Even after being shoved away from him, she doesn’t walk away in anger. No. No, she stands and lets her hand fall to his, just to brush against his. Despite being angry, upset, fearful, and pretty amazed at the fact that he’s still trying to get rid of her and won’t let her just take care of him, she lays a brief hand on his. Comfort? Reassurance? “You’re an asshole, but I still love you”?

And she moves to his coat, which I imagine she took off to better access his injury, and lays it across him. She evens it out across is abdomen and brings it all the way up to his chin to keep him as warm as possible. And Joel (pedro you mastermind I hate you) looks in…disbelief? Absolute unparalleled love at her that she loves him just the same? He just physically shoved her away. He has been nothing but physically gentle with her their whole journey, and now he just grabbed and shoved her away to reinforce his point. And in response, she quickly touches his hand and then lays his coat over him, covering him up to the chin. She is kind to him even after what he did, what he’s trying to do, and it’s almost insane to him. He’s used to violence. He’s used to using force and being given force back. And when he uses every ounce of power he has to use that force against Ellie to push her away, he is met with her kindness and unending care for him

They watch each other for a minute, no spoken words, and Ellie walks away. And he sheds a tear watching her go. His breath gets rapid and shaky, in part because he’s cold and losing blood and dying, but he’s watching her walk away and thinks she actually is going. That she is leaving. That they’re done, for good. That this little girl that is so important to him and that he loves way, way too much is leaving. And he watches her, thinking she’ll be the last thing he gets to see before he dies. He burns her into his memory, so that even after she’s gone and safe, a part of her is still with him. That he can picture her clearly in his mind to keep coming back to as he fades away.

And Ellie waits at the top of the stairs, but only for a moment. She waits. Does she think about what he said? Maybe for a split second, but no more. She needs him, but more than that she wants him. She wants to keep going with him. And, as much as he may hate it, that means suffering through it at his side and freezing through the nights just so he has a chance of surviving. She sits on what he told her, but she won’t listen because It’s him. Because It’s them. And that connection, that relationship, is worth it all

[gremlingottoosilly]

A bomb threat (And how it got you a boyfriend) special forces!Konig x fem!college!Reader

Konig saves you from a bomb threat when you get stuck at your Uni. Based on his bio - presumably, Konig was a part of the Austrian Special Forces before joining KorTac. He is also a bit of a dork and we have a bit of an obsessive episode.

Tags: Fluff, Reader is a cringefailure, Konig is overstepping his authority, hurt(not really)/comfort Warnings: Bomb threats, mentions of terrorism Word count: 2450

Someone called a bomb threat in your college. 

Well, at least, this is what the automatic email is telling you. The email that was sent to you, about especially avoiding the library on the second floor because the anonymous(not for long, since they have a knack for exposing who the hell is calling those threats each time) caller said that there is a huge chance of the bomb being placed here. 

You know, the same library that you were sitting in, right now, reading this exact email on your laptop. You thought no one was around because it wasn’t a busy day, just after the major finals, with most people staying on campus only if they failed first tests or just wanted to get extra credits for some extra curriculum. Even if you were staying here just because you wanted to work on campus’s newspaper – the library is a good place to scoop for some rumors about the dean of the uni being three raccoons in a trench coat, or the lunch staff posing as Polish mafia. 

The thing is – it seemed like you were the last fucking person to receive the email. The thing is, there are only a few weeks left before summer break, and the campus already started to turn off major announcement equipment since no sports or other events are planned. Are you going to die? Probably, there is a huge chance of you dying, as you can feel directly in your bones – god, there are probably some terrorists or uni shooters or that weird Christian suprematist who are going hysterical at the mere sight of religion other than theirs. You are going to die, you are going to die, you are going to…

— Scheisse! There is a civilian! 

You were never particularly religious, maybe only at the time of finals and work submissions – and in situations like this, where you are already mentally preparing yourself to get blown up with unfinished articles and forgotten hopes and dreams and everything and…

You were never particularly religious – so you have no idea why your pre-death auditory hallucinations suddenly included an angel’s voice with devil's timbre and some huge, tree-trunk-like hands wrapping around your waist, checking you for possible injuries or explosive device. 

These hands are really huge – and muscular, you can see how tense they are even through your black uniform, and they are roaming over your body in a way that would make you scream bloody murder and file sexual harassment if it didn’t belong to an obvious angel. Angelm in special forces uniform, an angel with a really nice boyish voice and warm hands that are sliding to your thighs, groping and checking for every possible outcome – for weapons, probably, because you are literally the only person in the room that was deemed as a bomb threat, and if you were this guy, you’d also think that you were the culprit. 

His fingers linger on your hips perhaps a bit too long – you can him patting you down like you were heading to a club – and then he lets you go reluctantly, not finding anything except for your phone which he also checked for possible timers. The interaction lasted…a minute or so, but you are already hot and bothered, getting off the strong hands holding you, even though he already let you go. 

— Are you alright? 

He must have noticed your worried face and international student badge – his English is a bit accented but nonetheless confident. You never thought that small traces of German in a speech can sound so fucking hot but, perhaps, you are just traumatized and high on adrenaline and weren't getting laid for too fucking long. 

He wears a badge – something something long German words, huge design construction that made you think he must be pretty high-rank – knowledge that you only had because of the movies and games you were playing, trying not to get off the military kink too much. Something in the situation told you that you’d spend the whole evening searching for porn with guys dressed in all black today. Maybe, a touch of cargo. 

— Y…yeah. Fuck, sorry. I’m fine, fine. Yeah. 

You are rambling and he tilts his head to the side. This large, looming hand goes to your face – you wait for either a harsh slap to return you back to reality, or a passionate and deep kiss from your fantasies and dirty novels. He slowly traces his fingers on your face, getting up, in the hairline, searching for something – perhaps, a nasty head parasite that got you acting so weird around this random guy. Random guy who is just doing his job, securing that you’re safe, sound, and not going to explode in the next few minutes. 

— No head injuries. Gut. 

You want him to touch your face some more. You want him to check for mouth injuries, to evaluate the status of your lips. Maybe do some chemical tests with that gloss you were using today. Check the reaction with his tongue. 

He twirls you in place and you almost want him to press you against the wall. Search you some more, maybe get his hands a bit deeper, pass the oh-so-modest pants that made you look like a little bitch boy – his hand goes to cup your waist again, checking for anything that might catch his interest. Nothing – and you were never this sad about Hot wearing a concealed weapon that might force him to pin you down or get you into a chokehold with those massive biceps of his. 

— What were you doing here, ma’am? 

Studying in Vienna, you never found an Austrian accent this sexy. Never knew that you might like being handled like this before – it’s not romantic, not even in the slightest, but you smile a bit shyly, a bit awkwardly, and look at him from under your lashes, trying to look as innocent as possible. You are innocent – you weren’t doing anything, you were just trying to study and write in the last few weeks. Concentrated enough, so you never even noticed a fucking bomb threat. Didn’t hear soldiers running through the building, securing each room. 

— I…study here? 

You gulp loudly, taking a few steps away from the soldier. Allowing him to examine the room, deem it safe – the bomb threat called on your university was probably fake. Maybe a call from a paranoid individual, maybe someone with nothing better to do than pranking colleges. You seriously doubt anyone would try to blow up this place while almost none of the students are actually inside – especially the library during the low season. Even you almost decided to ditch the traditional writing atmosphere and just do something in the cafeteria. 

— Oh. 

His voice actually sounds…nice. Funny even, that small remark also makes him cough and look at you more seriously. He has a mask concealing his face, some weird hood or net on top of it – you try to see his eyes, but you can only occasionally catch glimpses of ice staring at you. Mysterious, you like it. Too mysterious, that little journalist club member inside of you is itching to get a look at his face better – you tilt your head to the side, contemplating just yanking it upwards and praying that he won’t kill you. 

Although you wouldn’t mind being crushed in his hold. 

— Let’s get you out of here, ja? 

You don’t question him when he suddenly picks you up – when the world starts to spin and you are pressed against his chest, his hands are supporting you under your knees and back. Securing you in place, making sure you are nice and comfy in his hold. You don’t ask questions when he slightly adjusts your hold so he can touch more of your thighs – you think he is just getting you comfortable, and you appreciate just how thoughtful he is. 

You don’t ask questions when he holds you almost like a bridal carry, even though you are certain you aren’t injured, and someone like him probably has more interesting things to do than saving poor college students who decided to ignore bomb threats. 

His hands are warm, his chest is even warmer, and his muscles aren’t even slightly trembling. You don’t know what sort of training those guys are coming through, but it must work – his steps are light and decided even when he can’t press you firmly against him, vest standing in the way. You don’t know what to do with your hands and you don’t want to mess with the government property – you think there is a law against fidgeting with special forces soldiers on duty – so you just get them on your knees. Like a good girl. Polite girl. Girl who isn't drooling over the guy who is just doing his job. 

— Thank you. For saving me. 

You whisper it in his headset – you are worried about someone else also hearing you, but there is something intimate about tilting your head upwards and getting right into his face, your lips millimeters away from the edge of his mask. You don’t want to sound suggestive, so you sound weak instead. You don’t to sound ungrateful, so you sound pleading instead. 

His hold on your thighs gets stronger. You lick your lips nervously, chuckling to ease the atmosphere a little bit. 

Your leg brushes above his waist – and you swear that you can hear his breath hitching. It’s impossible, you think, he must be a tough and content little soldier, perfect to save damsels in distress just like you – but something in his posture, in the way his fingers twitch slightly at the edges of your body, makes you think otherwise. Maybe, you’re just dreaming. Maybe, you know nothing. 

Someone slams into the room. Another man – shorter than the one who holds you, by a large margin, but none less intimidating. Burly, muscular, dressed up in full uniform which is expected – and with his face covered up by a similar veil or mask or whatever this is – which is unexpected. You thought that special forces would have something less eye-obscuring, but what do you know? You would be dead if the bomb threat was real. 

— Other sectors secured. No bomb in sight. Commander. 

He almost hisses, the similar accent in his voice makes your cheeks heat up even more. You feel weird, dirty even, thinking of those two large, intimidating men in such an intimate setting while they are just trying to save your life – but you try to silence that little annoying voice, to convince yourself that this is probably just adrenaline, ovulation and sudden urge to procreate before you would die. 

You feel your entire body stir when the man takes a step closer, looking at you. You can’t see his face, not even the outline of it – but you feel the burning gaze on your scared expression and obediently folded hands. 

— Gut. Other civillians? — 20 civilians in the building in total. University workers, some students. Already evacuated. — Any casualties? You hear a cruel chuckle from a shorter man. — If they were, you’d hear about it, sir. No, the sector is clear. — Gut. Dismissed – we’re finishing here. — What are you doing with the civi…

— Kruger, dismissed. 

The man who holds you is surprisingly stern when he isn’t talking to you. He used a much softer, quieter tone when he was talking to you, observing if you were hurt or in danger – and he is much, much different now. A cold voice, serious tone, the image of the ruthless commander flying in your head – well, at least you were right about his patches meaning something important. 

A shorter man leaves, and the door behind him swings open. To your surprise, the man who holds you – a mysterious stranger, you can’t even seem to find a name on his uniform – doesn’t let you go. His touches feel like you’re burning alive, he is igniting and brilliant and fucking perfect and…

He lets you down to the care of the local police department and some of the uni workers. His hand brushes over your face again – you think he was checking for the injuries but, then again, why would he touch your hair ever so gently only to move it out of your face to take a good look at your lips before letting you go? You’re imagining things, you probably must be – the man is just doing his job, he isn’t trying to fuck you in the nearest hallway even if you wanted him to. 

— Sir. I…thank you, really. For the help. 

— I didn’t do anything, Schatz. Someone must been playing a joke on everyone. 

You are going to find the guy – or a girl, or someone else, you don’t discriminate, everyone is equally capable of calling on the false bomb threats – who informed the special forces about the bomb in the building, and then you are going to kiss them. 

— What kind of joke is this? 

— A dumb one. 

He looks over to his unit – a group of tall, burly men, with weapons and uniforms and everything a girl could ask for – already packing in the vehicles to move out. You brace yourself to ask for his number – for his contact, anything, everything, maybe the favorite tree in the park under which you could meet again. You know that those guys aren’t supposed to reveal their identities, that he is probably out of town anyway, special forces aren’t usually called off to false threats, you know that your attempts are futile and yet, you lick your lips for added confidence and…

— Goodbye, Scahtzen. Stay safe, ja? Don’t want to save you from a real bomb one day. 

— I…I…um, you mean you wouldn’t save me from a real bomb? 

He was already halfway to the armored car before you could say anything. You aren’t nearly confident enough to yell across the whole fucking campus territory to get a number of this hot special forces guy, and something in his hunched shoulders, twitching fingers, and slightly less social and more abrasive manners tells you that he would hate the gesture as much as you would. 

Just like this, your first even real-life military crush is driving away, leaving you bombless, hoeless, and, most certainly, more depressed than ever. Summer is going to be great, right?

*** — What do you mean calling a fucking bomb threat?! 

Your friend wasn’t happy about the pick-up strategy you wanted to use.

*** — Of course, sir, let’s raid a fucking college dorm room. 

Sergeant Sebastian Josed Krueger wasn’t happy about his commander’s newfound love for college girls. 

Mostly because König refused to fucking share. 

[moondirti]

11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing. 

You don’t know how you got here. 

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud. 

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression. 

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal: 

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light. 

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white. 

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole. 

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is. 

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt. 

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend. 

It tends to go something like this: 

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself. 

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it. 

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm. 

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place. 

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you. 

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father. 

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses. 

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is. 

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you. 

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb. 

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed. 

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today. 

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but… 

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand– 

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you. 

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.) 

So, you try. 

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand. 

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good. 

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah. 

He’ll understand. 

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00. 

You’re pathetic. 

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead. 

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried. 

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was. 

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart. 

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.) 

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time. 

Where’s that progress now? 

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence. 

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better. 

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later. 

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if. 

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that. 

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth. 

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again. 

Christ. 

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door. 

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked. 

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched. 

So– 

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him. 

Is he checking up on you? 

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time. 

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern. 

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient. 

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace. 

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours. 

In the complete opposite way. 

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that. 

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.” 

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs. 

You just blink in acknowledgement. 

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.” 

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.” 

“Sick?” 

“Something like that.” 

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.) 

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper. 

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another. 

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.” 

And then he leaves. 

He just… fucking– 

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return. 

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous. 

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance. 

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing. 

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things. 

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch. 

And, really. What were you supposed to think? 

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’ 

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this. 

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment. 

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger. 

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.” 

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?” 

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.” 

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat. 

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.” 

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt. 

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going. 

As it stands, you’re blind. 

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.” 

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.” 

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.” 

“Remind me of the other half of it again.” 

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway? 

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash. 

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look. 

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?” 

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,” 

“Oh, I can imagine.” 

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak. 

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties. 

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.” 

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all. 

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out. 

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further. 

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…”  Your nerves spark. “For this–” 

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out. 

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer. 

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly. 

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro. 

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control. 

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now. 

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves. 

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless. 

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to. 

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.) 

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core. 

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?  

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement. 

Fuck, he’s good. 

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go. 

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow.  Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.” 

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips. 

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board. 

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.” 

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help. 

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command. 

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak. 

Growls, actually. “Hold on.” 

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both. 

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut. 

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so. 

You can’t last very long, anyway. 

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise. 

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace. 

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there. 

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face. 

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash. 

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity. 

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed. 

“Are you married?” 

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow. 

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be alerted of future updates!

[alenseress]

"Oh. Hah."

Elias makes his way in without much commotion to it. There's certainly enough space around Jon's somewhat limp body sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the doorway and he makes use of it, eventually stopping to neatly fold his coat. Jon is not entirely sure he finds it in him to be surprised. Or scared. Or, maybe, he just doesn't have enough will of his own left to feel pretty much anything.

"Take the shoes," he clears his throat out, trying to find his voice. "Take the shoes off. Georgie doesn't—"

"I know."

Of course.

"Of course," he blinks first and shuts the door second.

They go by a kind of move-stare-follow protocol while Elias proceeds to make himself at home. Although it's mostly Jon doing the staring, Elias doesn't look at all. He walks across the flat blindly, like his muscles remember the floor and the corners. Jon supposes they might, in some omniscient and messed up way.

"Charming," Elias proclaims dryly at the thin mattress Jon came to inhabit.

"Indeed," Jon echoes.

Seeing the man plop down gracelessly in his thick flannel suit doesn't have the same effect anymore. Jon used to think it was some weird corporate thing, something they'd teach you at a workshop about great leadership. Make yourself approachable. Sit down with them on a dusty curb in the back alley, share a cigarette, address them by their names. Crush a man's scull into a purée in their office. Make them feel. Make yourself human.

"Don't," Elias said softly as Jon takes a breath in.

He reaches out a hand that Jon doesn't take. Instead, he sits at the opposite end of the mattress, feeling a sudden vertigo. Elias drops the hand into his lap, palm up. "You're burning up."

Jon cracks a hysterical laugh, heavily propping himself up. He feels a tug at his chest, a yearning for a solid form beside him, spitting "fuck you" in the viper's face — a sad, childlike desire, to call for Tim like he'd make all the monsters go away in an instant. Jon squints at the hungry void across from him, all alone, he's so alone, and the monster creeps closer. Elias takes his still burning, still bubbling hand in a firm hold and tugs until the void swallows Jon whole. He watches the fall of his own body, wet forehead pressed into the wooly fabric, bones twisted in an unnatural position. Elias jolts involuntary as Jon tumbles into him but sits still for the few excruciating moments Jon needs to collect himself. Mentally, mostly, because to recuperate his body on the ground — mattress, — and push himself up against the wall proves to be easier than walking.

They sit now, shoulders and sides touching, and Jon now can't see the void. He closes his eyes to be sure and pants heavily.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing. You're just dehydrated."

"Sure."

Elias sighs and runs circles over his wrist.

"I might get sick," Jon adds.

"You are."

"No, I mean." He gestures vaguely, shaking off the cold fingers. "I mean puke."

"Mhm."

Jon makes an effort to pull his knees up and double over, curling in on himself. He breathes, fast and panicked, trying to will the nausea away and the cold hand returns to pet steadily at his back. Jon feels a very particular nothing about it being there.

"You..."

Killed. A complete sentence, not even an accusations, because Jon doesn't know how to finish it. Leitner. Gertrude. Sasha. You killed me, he wants to say, even when he's still hurting and breathing.

"Time and place, Jon. There's no use to try right now."

Jon squeezes his head between his knees and wants to wail. He wants to cry more and he wants Elias to be gone. He does get away, truth be told, the mattress shifts and pangs and Jon doesn't know if this twisted delirium of his is ever coming back until Elias carefully unfolds him.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he sounds almost amused as he cradles Jon close, pushing a bottle into his hands and palming greasy hair out of the way.

Jon drinks in gulps that hurt him more than the burning and drops his head onto the bony shoulder in some exhausted kind of surrender. Elias smells like the archives. Cologne and cigarettes, too, but mostly dry rot and dust. Never sweat. Never the must of a human body. Jon feels cold terror bite at his ankles and curls up again, this time pressing himself into Elias' rigid form, nose buried in satin. He doesn't knows gods, not the way his grandmother did, but he imagines this to be the smell of those catholic statues adorn in silks and left to stale for centuries on end.

Feed your god fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you.

He feels a gentle press to the top of his head. Might be lips or something else, Jon doesn't know, but he laughs coarsely, clinging to the shirt with bloodless fingers. "Don't get the wrong idea."

He doesn't really think there are any wrong ideas left between them.

Elias hums and it echoes all around. Jon speaks again. "Is this real?"

He's not sure if he's doing the thing, but Elias scratches at the base of his skull with repulsive tenderness and answers earnestly. "It is."

"What do you want?"

"At the moment?"

"I... Yes."

"For you to sleep, preferably."

"Why?"

Jon feels his pitying gaze. Like he's a blind rat staggering in a labyrinth under a watchful eye from the above.

"There's a job to be done, Jon."

Jon pushes away with a sigh, not meeting much resistance, and buries himself into the scattered sheets. Maybe this is the kind of acceptance the underground woman felt in the face of death. He never understood it before, not before a kiss touches his temple and slips onto his cheek. He's not sure he wants the touch. He's not sure if he resents it. Papers slide across the floor, a statement he won't read, not now, not in this room. He kind of expects footsteps and shutting of doors now, but instead Elias gives them some distance and seemingly settles for good, prickly eyes creeping up Jon's spine.

"Do you want to hurt Georgie?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Not to you, Jon."

Jon turns his back on the monster in his bed and doesn't find it in him to care if he doesn't wake up.

[ebbaskz]

an 'accident' | s.cb x reader (s, f)

masterlist | series masterlist

pairing : skz!changbin x reader (y/n)

content : 18+, car sex but not public, best bf!changbin, size/strength kink, restaint?, fluffy at the beginning, less plot more smut, fingering, finishing in pants

wc : 1.1k

God, how you loved Changbin.

Your sweet boy knew how horrible your week had been, surprising you with a night in the middle of an open field, watching stars and holding each other with the trunk popped open.

You may have sobbed hysterically cried a little at his adorable attentiveness to you, leading to him pressing delicate kisses across your face, scattered to match the constellations projected on the night sky above.

When your tears had been wiped away by your boyfriend's calloused thumbs from his recent days spent at the gym, the mood switched.

It went from him being the one pressing kisses across your cheeks to you now desperately kissing him in a constant search for more.

And who would he be to deny you anything, especially something that his baby is begging for?

Your hands wander quickly and make their way to the curly locs of hair adorning his head, tugging and pulling in the ways that make Changbin's brain turn into putty, molding it into raw forms of desire that now pump through his brain.

His hand gropes your plush hips, dragging your body to be atop his, straddling his dense thighs in a way that presses deliciously against your needy pussy.

A mewl escapes your mouth, traveling from Changbin's ears to his now throbbing cock. He breathes heavily, feeling your weight on his bulge that grants you both some pleasure.

But it clearly is not enough.

You both are frantic, with clashing teeth and saliva that coats both of your chins and dribbles down to the space where your bodies meet, dampening the already-soaked fabrics.

His hands dig into your sides, grinding you down onto his cock rhythmically, dragging out breathy moans from the both of you.

He breaks the kiss with you to move his mouth down your neck with a hot breath against your skin, leaving scattered bruises that will be beautifully colored purple by tomorrow. You keep your grip strong in his hair, tugging when he reaches particularly sensitive regions of your neck.

You are both lost in pleasure, letting your hips naturally take control as Changbin moves his hands to tug your shirt up and over your head, exposing your lace bra to him. He practically groans at the sight, moving his hands behind you to quickly unhook your bra, freeing your tits from their restraints to now sit prettily in front of your drooling boyfriend.

He had an infatuation with your tits, always leaving kisses and bruises displayed on them for only you two to see. He takes advantage of your lust-filled mind and presses his head forward to meet your breasts, sucking on one while using his hand to make sure the other is not left unattended.

Your mind blurs at this moment, clouding with lust and pleasure, letting him take his time while you lazily roll your hips against his. You fumble with his shirt as he works your tits, breaking away for a moment to remove the fabric before leaning back in to suck and bite wherever he wants to.

Your hands go to feel up and around his chest, admiring his build with breathy moans as you take your hands over to his shoulders and bicep, squeezing them taut and making him groan as it was recently arm day at the gym. He finds pleasure in the pain, breaking away from your tits to bring his arms wrapped around you, letting you caress and grab the muscles that you admire.

He smirks at your dropped jaw when you truly begin to take in how much his size turns you on, glancing up at him, hoping he takes the hint as to what the next step is.

He shakes his head with an airy laugh and repositions you both, now draping your body on the blanket below with his weight encapsulating you from above. His hand reaches up to collect your wrists and pin them over your head, immobilizing you under the power of his strength. His abuse of your chest starts up again as he goes back over the newly bruised skin with a lather of saliva dripping from his tongue.

Your moans start flowing, thrashing your body underneath his to feel how difficult it is to move. His strength ignites something in you, as it also does for him. He begins rolling his hips back into yours, leaving you with intense pleasure shooting through your body from your neglected pussy. His free hand travels down to your skirt, folding it up over your hips to allow him access to your panties that are soaked. He supports himself on the hand that is pinning yours down, letting the other travel to your pussy and pull the fabric to the side, exposing it to the cold breeze of the outdoors.

You whine in desperation, wordlessly begging him to do something, anything.

Your point gets across as he inserts a slick-coated finger into you, filling you with no resistance. You groan, still thrashing beneath him, as he curls his finger within you, hitting the spot that makes you see stars. Soon, another finger is added to your heat, adding to the pleasure that cascades through your body.

Your climax approaches quickly, feeling your legs twitch more often under Changbin's touch on your g-spot. Your moans turn whiny, whimpering pleas to your boyfriend of wanting to finish, "Please, Binnie. I'm gon- please, gonna cum. Keep going."

"I know, baby," his words are distant, fading from your reality as you get closer to your high, "you are doing so great, such a good girl for me"

"Your good girl, all for you," At this, he groans, copying the timing of his finger movement to match the thrust of his hips onto the blanket below.

Your high is seconds away, moans and pleads still pouring from your mouth with no filter, begs and wants of him filling you up repeating continuously.

He is losing his mind over you. Your pretty body is laid under him, held stationary by the hand that pins you down, leaving him with an erotic sense of possession over you, rutting his hips desperately into the blanket as he gets you to your climax.

Your orgasm hits you with power, knocking your breath out of you in the process.

Changbin's hits him, too, leaving a patch of cum to seep through the fabric restraining his cock.

You both take a minute to breathe, basking in each other's warmth as he rolls over and takes you to rest your head across his chest.

When your breathing calms, you ask, "So… you came in your pants?"

To this, he embarrassingly chuckles, "Baby, if you could only see yourself when you orgasm. You would cum in your pants, too."

a/n : i had an epiphany moment for this idea so I hope it turned out well. changbin has been soemthing else recently so this was very self-indulgent. i am wildly excited for hyunjins and I hope you all are too! ily all mwah mwah :) - eb

taglist: @teenagemoonharmony @lovesunshinefelix @applepenelope @kookiesbunny @dahliadaenerys @dawooosh @hynmgj1nnn @binniesbang @diorrxluvskz @queen-in-the-shadows @hotseesaw

[nejiverse]

I know that this could be kinda imposible, being in the bsd universe, but imagine s/o has parents, can i request hunting dogs meeting their inlaws?

MEETING THE INLAWS

Jouno, Tachihara, Tecchou

I thoroughly enjoyed writing this lol. Fem! Reader

cw: just the boys embarrassing you (both intentionally and unintentionally)

775 words

When you told Jouno your parents would like to meet him, he had no objections at all

You had to make him pinky promise that he wouldn’t do anything to embarrass you because he had a really bad habit of doing that, he enjoys seeing you all flustered and embarrassed

He greets your parents normally with a handshake and a warm smile which makes you hopeful that everything would go smoothly

Spoiler it doesn’t

He’s comfortably sitting on the couch next to your mother as he rambles on about every single embarrassing thing you’ve done

Your mother on the other hand is doing the same thing except only telling stories of when you were younger

It’s as if both of them had a vendetta against your or something

“Mom please stop..”, you drawled out the last word of your sentence as you attempted to drag Jouno off the couch and out the door.

You two had stayed long enough and you were tired.

“Actually that reminds me of another time Y/n wasn’t looking where she was going”, Jouno remarked.

You knew what he was gonna say cause he always brought it up 25/8

You glared at him. “Don’t you dare!”.

“It was on a cold Winter’s day that—”, you placed your hands over his mouth, telling him to shush.

Your mother only laughed.

She didn’t need to know that when you two were walking idly one day that you were on your phone and weren’t looking in front of you which ended up with you bumping your head against a sign pole and a big bump on your forehead which Jouno laughed hysterically at every morning he saw it.

He did try to warn you but you were too immersed in your phone.

Your mother didn’t need to know that though.

Tachihara is seen as a quite confident person but upon mentioning your parents wanting to meet him, he’s a nervous wreck at first but eventually he’ll calm down

He just wants to live up to the expectations your parents had for him cause if they didn’t approve of him, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself

His words are endearing

He promises them that he’ll take good care of you and that he’ll never make you cry

He’s very tense until you place a reassuring hand on his

“I would do absolutely anything for your daughter!”

If for some reason your parents didn’t approve of him best believe he’d get on his hands and knees and literally plead

“You’ll be fine, they don’t bite”, you patted Tachihara on the shoulder.

“I dunno. I’d say they would if worse comes to worst”, he began wringing his hands.

When you noticed this, you took on of his hands in between your own and placed a kiss on his knuckles, resulting in a light shade of pink coating the apples of his cheek.

“You haven’t even met them yet, how would you know?? Just calm down alright?”.

As expected, your actions and words were able to calm him down.

Tachihara was polite throughout and had his way with words. So much so that your parents immediately took a liking to him.

“See? All your worrying was for nothing!”.

He was smiling like an idiot all the way home.

Tecchou is very formal about it

Like boy’s on his knees and everything

He ends up saying a lot of things that embarrass you but he doesn’t do it intentionally, he trying alright!

He firmly believes that all his respect should go to your parents since they were the ones who created you (his words not mine)

Tecchou immediately sat on his two knees and bowed his head.

Your parents blinked at you but you only avoided their confused gazes and put a hand over your face. You knew you should’ve warned him before leaving home..

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. L/n”.

Your parents were reluctant to as but “For..what?”.

Techhou raised his head and placed a hand on his chest. “For creating such an amazing woman like Y/n. I’m forever grateful”.

That was your queue to butt-in cause if you didn’t, who knows what words would come out of his mouth next.

“Woah would you look at the time! We have to go”, you chuckled haphazardly, pulling Tecchou behind you.

“Go where Y/n? It’s eight pm—”.

“Shh!”.

Despite the fact Tecchou was a bit over the top sometimes, you still found it a bit endearing.

Masterlist :)

[ceilidho]

Soap has his kilt for formal wear, but sometimes he just decides to wear it. The guys have long since stopped ribbing him for it, the damn menace would just flash anyone who bitched so they all stopped caring. Now that you’re around though, it comes out way more often. He picks the windiest days, where everyone else avoids looking at him, but you can’t seem to help glancing every gust, more often than not getting an eye full. Sometimes the wind doesn’t pick up the heavy material, just pushes it flat enough to get a perfect outline of his bulge.

Meetings are torture. Usually Soap puts himself as close as he can physically be, whether it’s pressed shoulder to hip on a bench that’s more than big enough, or practically humping your shoulder as he stands behind your chair. Now he sits himself directly across from you. When you glance his way, the grin you’re greeted with is sharp, plush lips and shining teeth coated in self satisfaction. Heat lights up your face and on instinct your eyes shoot down. You choose not to think about how naturally your eyes flit to Johnny’s crotch.

Soap’s fat, lightly hair balls are resting on the wood of his seat, cloth brushed aside as he sat. Something near hysterical wants to laugh through the shock at how almost dainty his uncut cock, thick as several fingers even soft, looks pillowed on his balls.

Your eyes shoot to his then back to the front of the room, mind reeling as if the room had spun instead of your head. Disgust floods bubbles in your gut, from the audacity for assaulting your eye to the gall to rest his bare nuts on a public chair. The briefing is white noise as you slowly realize that some of the tension in your belly isn’t disgust. Little bubbles of unwanted desire trickle through. The image of Soap, hard and panting, stroking himself under the kilt while he stares at you, pops unwanted into your mind.

Ok I’m losing steam, basically you run from the meeting, Soap corners you in a supply closets, harasses you into giving him a blowjob because he is so hard, and it’s all your fault Bonnie, you just keep staring at him. Que under the kilt facefuck. Tada! That’s all I got in me tonight.

bro i forgot to publish this when you sent it DAYS ago because i read it in a daze, passed out, woke up the next day and then went to work. but you really went off with this one.

[oh-stars]

Who Did This To You?

Black Eye

a Stobin Month 2024 prompt | 1,299 words | CW: injury | Rating: T

--

The front door creaks open so slowly the hinges whine the loudest he’s ever heard them. Steve can’t help but turn the burner down on the stove and poke his head around the cabinets to see why. “Robbie? You okay?” They’ve shared this apartment for long enough that they both know how to open the door without it creaking so loud, and yet here they are. 

She’s got her back turned to him as she peels off her heels and puts her coat and bag on the rack “Totally fine,” she calls, not turning her head. This is all fine and well until she starts walking backward toward the hallway. 

“Hold it,” he says, a hand out to stop her. He presses firmly on her back, pressure moving from fingertips to the heel of his hand in case she tries to make a run for it. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Liar.” 

She groans and covers her face with her hands as she turns to him. “Can’t a girl go rot in bed after work in peace?”

Steve puts his hands on his hips. “Not when you’re acting suspicious. C’mon dude, just tell me what’s going on and I’ll leave you alone. Scout’s honor.” He even holds up the three fingers, not that she sees it. 

Robin doesn’t move her hands. “Nothing happened,” she says, on the edge of hysterics, “it was a totally normal day at the museum and I’m wiped from all the history I had to shove down fifth graders’ throats today. So if you don’t mind, I’d really like to–” 

His stomach drops. 

As Robin’s rambling, trying to make a quick exit, her fingers move slightly on her face and he can just make out the familiar edges of a bruise. A bruise that’s just under her eyebrow on her right eye and probably extends lower. 

Without thinking, Steve snatches Robin’s hands away, his fingers wrapped firm enough to move her but not enough to keep her in place, so he can see the full damage. It’s a black eye, a nasty one at that. There’s a small cut on her nose and the swelling looks pretty rough. 

“Who did this to you?” Steve asks as he moves her face gently into the light so he can get a proper look. 

Robin’s face turns bright red. “Noone!” 

“Robin,” Steve warns, “I’m serious.” 

“So am I!” Robin says, pushing her way out of his hands. She starts pacing, hands emphasizing her points as she starts to explain. “Do you know in school how those big, long tables in the cafeteria fold up? And at the very center there’s a gap and all the levers and stuff to pull the tables up?” She waits for two seconds for Steve to nod, then barrels on. “Right so I was sitting at the middle of the table in the cafeteria today and our tables aren’t as long as a schools but they still fold up and Bianca was sitting across from me. You know how stupid she makes me feel,” she whines. 

“You drop three IQ points,” Steve says, nodding despite the confusion on his face. “And you can’t keep your balance for shit.” 

“Exactly,” Robin groans. “So you can imagine how much of a disaster I was with one-on-one time with her! She’s just so pretty, Steve, and I was making her laugh! In, like, a good way! But we were also working through lunch, because we’re both workaholics and this project is a nightmare with how close the deadline is, so it’s better to just work through it. But I’m clumsy, I’m a walking hazard, so of course as I’m explaining my plan for the new tour and what changes I think it needs, my pen flies out of my hand.” 

“Oh no,” Steve says, pinching the bridge of his nose as his shoulders relax with the leftover tension in his body now dissolving. “Tell me you didn’t.” 

Robin stops her pacing to fall back onto the couch with an ‘umph.’ “It was under the table, Steve. Bianca offered to get it, but I couldn’t just let her stoop down and grab my pen. What kind of person would I be to inconvenience her like that? So of course, I have to get it.” 

“But you’re wearing a skirt,” Steve sighs. 

She points to him without looking. “I’m wearing a skirt! Which means I can’t just crouch down and grab it or do anything like a normal person. No! I decided to try and use my foot to pull it closer so I don’t have to degrade myself by crawling all over the floor.” 

Steve shakes his head as he pushes off the archway and heads to the freezer for an ice pack. He snags a rag out of the drawer to wrap it in as he makes his way back to the couch, where Robin’s still talking. 

“It gets farther and farther away. Bianca’s trying to ask if I need help. I’m in a weird half squat out of my seat, looking like I’m treading water trying to grab this pen. And now other people are starting to watch me. Which only makes me more flustered and determined to see this through so I don’t pay attention to the knob in the center of the table.” 

“And let me guess,” Steve sighs as he puts the ice pack on her face, “it got up close and personal with your retina?” 

Robin nods, face bright red underneath the rag and bruising. “My first black eye and it wasn’t even from something cool.” 

“You lost a fight with a table.” 

“Over a pen.” 

“But did you get the girl?” 

Robin whines and curls away from him. “No,” she grumbles into the cushions. 

He rubs her back. “Does it hurt?” 

“No,” she squeaks out but he can tell that means yes. 

“I’ll grab you something for it. Just keep that ice pack on while I finish dinner, alright?” 

Robin doesn’t say anything, just tugs the blanket off the back of the couch to burrow under as Steve heads back to the kitchen. She only mumbles a thanks when he returns with a glass of water and a few tablets of pain medicine. 

His sauce is nearly done so Steve gets started on making the noodles and getting the rest of their meal together. He doesn’t turn the radio on, just in case there’s a headache accompanying the black eye, so he hears the phone loud and clear when he’s draining the noodles. 

Steve nearly loses all of his noodles as he dives for the phone. “Buckley and Harrington’s, Harrington speaking,” he says as polite as ever despite the frantic movement of his hands. 

“Hi, is Robin there?” a woman asks. 

He pauses. “Yes, can I ask who’s calling?” 

“It’s Bianca, her coworker at the museum. I just want to make sure she’s okay after… everything,” she says, voice shaky and a little shy. If Steve had to guess, she sounds nervous. 

Steve grins. “Well, Bianca,” he says loud enough for Robin to hear, “Robin’s just come in and is busy at the moment but I can have her call you back.” 

There’s a series of thumps as Robin scrambles to meet Steve in the kitchen, her good eye so wide he thinks it may pop out of her skull. 

“On second thought,” Steve says, “it looks like she’s all free. Here she is.” 

He just barely catches a meek ‘thank you’ before Robin’s snatching the phone and taking a deep breath. 

She shuffles closer to the phone dock, twirling the cord. “Bianca? Hi, yeah, it’s so nice of you to call.” 

Steve grins as he finishes up dinner. Looks like she got the girl anyway. The Buckley Charm is working. 

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

[bradshawsbaby]

laughing when one drops their phone on their face for Mr. & Mrs. B ??

(I know that seems more Hannix coded but I’m mixiNG IT UP OKAY)

It’s definitely a Hannix-style scenario, but it’s fun to go with the unexpected choice 😂

It was one of those nights where you and Bradley were too exhausted to do anything more than fall into bed with tired groans, practically crying with relief when your heads hit the pillows. After spending the entire day chasing after your three rambunctious children, all either of you wanted to do was curl up under the covers and get some rest.

As zapped as your energy was, the two of you didn’t even have it in you to sit and talk the way you always did before going to bed. Instead, needing some mindless distractions to decompress, you and your husband each reached for your phones, scrolling through social media and catching up on some texts from earlier in the day.

“Aw, honey, look at this picture,” you cooed in delight, rolling onto your side and holding up your phone so that Bradley could see the photo you’d snapped earlier that afternoon.

Your family had spent the day at the park, and whenever the kids managed to stay still long enough, you had tried to take as many pictures of them as you could. This particular picture was one you had taken after the ice cream truck had pulled up. James was sitting on Bradley’s shoulders, vanilla ice cream dribbling down one chubby fist, while Lydia was tucked up against her father’s side, beaming brightly while holding up her sprinkle-covered cone. Goose stood on Bradley’s other side, grinning up at your husband instead of looking at the camera, his chin already coated in chocolate ice cream.

“That’s a great shot, baby. You should be a photographer,” Bradley winked, leaning over to peck you on the lips. “Can you send it to me? I want to save it on my phone.”

Nodding, you quickly tapped away at your phone, sending him that photo, as well as a few others you’d taken that afternoon.

Bradley reached for his phone as it buzzed, rolling onto his back and holding it above his face to look at what you’d sent him. As he went to unlock his phone, however, he fumbled it in his hands and it fell straight down, smacking him in the nose as it went, before plopping down onto the bed.

Both of you laid in startled silence for a moment, your husband’s eyes wide as he placed a tentative hand on his face. Your first instinct was to ask if he was okay, but before you could, you felt laughter bubbling up inside your chest, spilling out of your lips before you could stop it.

Bradley turned to look at you in surprise, your snorts filling the room as you tried to smother your amusement by pressing both hands over your mouth.

“I—I’m sorry, baby!” you giggled hysterically, unable to control yourself. “You just—you looked so shocked—and I—” You couldn’t even get the words out as your whole body shook with mirth.

Your husband feigned hurt, pouting beside you and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll have you know my nose could be broken at this very moment!”

Biting down on your lower lip, you swallowed down more giggles, shooting him a sympathetic look as you raised yourself up on your elbow and leaned over him, pressing a gentle kiss to his injured face.

“I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay?” you grinned, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“I don’t know,” Bradley sighed dramatically, putting a hand to his head. “I might need a few more kisses before I even begin to feel better.”

Your eyes crinkled as you giggled once more, your face breaking out into a bright smile as you nodded and peppered his face with kisses, paying careful attention to his battered nose.

“Better?” you teased, lacing your fingers through his.

Chuckling, Bradley lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Much better.”

cozy and content prompts

[endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus]

[Headcannons] A Day At The Beach w/ The Ghouls & Ghoulettes

Cutesy lil fluffy thoughts that came to me at 3 am about my favorite band.

Thank you to my writing muse and fabulous goddess @sink-me-in-your-ocean for always proofreading my docs.

Bone apple teet (-‿◦☀)

ℝ𝕒𝕚𝕟

bolts straight for the ocean, manically laughing - he very delulu but so stinking cute

wears fish themed swim trunks with matching fishy arm floaties

anyone who dares enter his domain is in for quite the surprise…

he pretends to be a shark

playfully gnaws on your ankles under the water before yanking on your leg and pulling you under

finds pretty seashells and gifts them to you with the most heart warming smile

“Rain! Its time to leave! Lets go!” you annoyingly yelled into the void of the blue ocean, knowing for damn sure he heard you.

In the distance you spot a gray blob emerging from the surface of the water, “NO!” the voice echoed back to shore before disappearing once again.

…

The car ride home, Rain was sitting in the back row curled up in a ball, tears silently flowing down his cheeks as he aimlessly stared out the window. *insert Summertime Sadness by Lana del Rey*

You roll your eyes as you catch a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror, shaking your head in disbelief, he is such a drama queen…

𝕄𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕚𝕟

he’s here for the good vibes and shade

paints a thick coat of sunscreen from head to toe

lounges under the umbrella with a paperback book of Twilight

ends up falling asleep within 20 minutes

could honestly sleep for eternity

In a hushed whisper, “M-mountain?”, you gently nudge his shoulder, attempting to awake him so you can pack up the car and leave.

No response.

Anxiety slowly creeps in, i-is he dead?

His neck is exposed and you take two fingers to take his pulse, as soon as you make contact he jolts awake, both of you screaming. Him with a high-pitched shriek of fear and you in shock that he’s alive.

“I thought you were a vampire!” he hysterically gasped.

𝔻𝕖𝕨𝕕𝕣𝕠𝕡

hates despises water with a fiery passion (don’t get me started when it's time for him to bathe)

he made it his mission to dig the largest hole possible beside Phantom and Swiss who were on their separate crusade to construct the most glorious sand castle

starts clawing at the sand like a deranged dog, kicking the small particles in Phantom and Swiss’s face

gets scolded and growls at them before repositioning himself the other way

happily zens out in his proudly accomplished hole

doesn’t realize the high tide was coming in as the day went on, causing the shoreline to sneak in closer and closer

A small stream of water trickled into his territory but he ignored it, not thinking much of it at all and resumed his rest, leaning up against the high wall with his arms crossed. Dozing off after a laborious work day.

SWOOSH! A huge tidal wave of water crashed in, submerging him in salty depths, ultimately scaring him. He yelped and frantically tried to climb out of the overflowing pit. You rushed over to rescue him, pulling him up, his body shivering from the frigid temperature.

Once he secured his bearings within your arms, he angrily turned back to see the catastrophic wreckage. Madness ensued - every hair in his small figure shooting straight up and his tail viscously whipping side to side, creating dents in the soft sand.

Oh, he big mad.

This wasn’t the first time he’s lost his cool and most certainly will not be the last. He aggressively launched himself towards the evil aqua, nothing but pure rage fueling his very fiber. You swiftly caught him by the waist, wrapping your arms around him and digging your heels into the ground for proper anchorage.

He violently hissed and swatted his arms about like a mad man, you held onto him for dear life, shouting, “Dewdrop! Stop it!” over the savage snarling and profanity spewing out of his tiny mouth.

(home boy really thought he could physically throw hands with water).

ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞 & 𝕊𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕤

true definition of bromance

begged and pleaded for you to buy them the “Super Duper Crazy Mega Plastic Sand Castle” building kit (as advertised on TV). Equipped with every tool in the shed to assemble the perfect castle of your dreams!

they damn well knew how to abuse their power of sad puppy dog eyes and pouting lips

so of course you caved into their ridiculous yet adorable request

They scouted the vast sandy land, personal privateers carrying out the Dark Lord’s decree. Dewdrop tagged along behind them as they paced back and forth in this vigorous expedition for the “perfect spot” to declare ownership.

Swiss grunted in annoyance, “That’s too far of a walk from the water, we need it to dampen the sand.”

Phantom sighed, pointing to the area Swiss had fallen in love with, “The rocks are going to get in the way, it's too close.”

The two continued to butt heads, both equally stubborn and childish.

Dewdrop stood in the middle of them, his head whipping between who was speaking. Bored with the endless bickering, he plopped down on the cushiony sand, tracing a phallic symbol in the pale dirt, “What about right here?”

They exchanged a mischievous look with one another, mirroring a brow raise at the fascinating offer. In unison they shouted, leaping in the air to tackle down poor little Dewdrop.

“LAND HO!”

𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖

fashioning the cutest teeny, weeny, polka dot bikini

sprawled out her towel on the pillowy ground and laid facing down

basking in the sun's scorching hot rays

much like a cat, she loved to lounge in the sun any chance she got

its ultraviolet rays recharging her energy- utter bliss

She stretched her limbs far out as she could before turning over to roast the front of her body, exhaling a deep yawn and placing large rounded shades over her eyes.

Her face scrunched in frustration at the commotion coming from Phantom, Swiss and Dewdrop hooting and hollering - it was disturbing her well deserved me time and she will not have them ruin it!

She propped up on her elbows, lowering the shades to the tip of her nose to gander at what the fuck was going on, “Aye!”, she roared loud enough for everyone within a mile radius to hear, “Shut up over there! I’m trying to relax!”

All three immediately stopped to stare at her with wide, fearful expressions, knowing from past experience she would definitely give em a good bop on the head for pissing her off.

In a stink eye glaring standoff with the Ghouls, she slowly pushed up the frame of her sunglasses -not breaking contact- to re-cover her eyes and reclined backwards to lay.

“Idiots…” she muttered to herself.

ℂ𝕦𝕞𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕤 & ℂ𝕚𝕣𝕣𝕦𝕤

life of the party

verybody wants to be em or fuck em

baddest bitches

matching skull patterned bikinis and fancy floppy hats

love checking out the locale mom and pop shops lined up along the beach

buys trinkets/souvenirs for the other Ghouls

*insert shopping spree montage*

The ultra plush sand squished and practically swallowed their feet as they struggled to walk back to the group, hands full of bags from the shopping haul that they kindly charged to Papa’s credit card.

After settling in at basecamp, they began to unload the many items from chic clothing pieces to varying sizes of memorability that were neatly bound in gift wrap and topped with a colorful bow.

Cirrus used her thumb and pointer finger to whistle, calling the unruly herd to gather. The Ghouls' faces lit up in excitement as they sprinted to welcome the Ghoulettes. As Cirrus distributed the presents, Cumulus unboxed a package of ice cream sandwiches, letting each individual Ghoul pick out a flavor as they approached.

Today was a great day for the beach.

[theelementofsurprise505]

Panoramic Windows

Alex Turner x reader (fluff)

summary: an afternoon with Alex during a storm ϟ

warnings: none, just pure fluff

It wasn’t unusual for you and Alex to nap together most days, you found comfort in engulfing yourself in eachothers arms as you drifted off after a long morning. Today was no exception, you both had dozed off on the sofa around two hours ago, he had his arms firmly around you as you lay on his chest, both your legs tangled beneath you as a few light snores escaped your mouth. Your hair was perfectly sprawled around your shoulders whereas Alex’s sat messily over his forehead, the gel free strands creating soft waves that felt like silk whenever you ran your fingers through them.

The storm outside roared as the rain pattered on the windows, creating blissful pink noise as it coated the greenery in your garden, but a particularly loud clap of thunder caused Alex to stir beneath you. He slowly peeled his eyes open and adjusted himself to his surroundings, taking a few seconds to recollect and direct his gaze on the young lady that lay upon him, still ripe with slumber.

He placed a kiss atop your head and moved a few strands of hair out your face, he always admired how you looked when you slept, the prominent lines on your forehead caused by stress no longer present, your plush lips slightly ajar as your chest rose and fell, he’d hate to wake you when you looked so perfect yet he had lost feeling in his legs and longed for a stretch, so he had no choice. “y/n, darling” he whispered just loud enough for you to hear him, yet not enough to startle you. “hm” a mumble escaped your lips as you were ripped from your peaceful sleep, seeking the cause of your awakening you managed to open your eyes and were met with that face you knew all too well, the one you fell in love with and could never get tired of. “i didn’t wanna wake you but i can’t really feel me legs sweetheart” he warmly chuckled as he placed more kisses on your hair, stroking your cheek to coax you out of your sleepy haze. “oh, ‘m sorry” you groggily spoke, yawning after reaching the end of your sentence before placing your hands either side of Alex and pushing yourself upwards, swinging your legs over him and moving yourself to the other end of the sofa, dragging the blanket you shared and snuggling up underneath it.

Alex wasted no time standing up and reaching his arms up, stretching his body out with a loud groan followed by a yawn of his own, “you hungry baby?” he leant over you, peeking at your face as you attempted to catch just a few more minutes sleep. “no i’m okay love” you quickly gave up your mission to sink back into slumber as Alex was now practically sitting on top of you, cupping your cheeks and showering your face with kisses, “leave me alone” you tried to sound as stern as possible but that soon failed as a giggle escaped Alex’s lips, causing you to burst out in a fit of laughter, pushing him off you so he landed on the floor with a loud thud. “oi you bitch!” he faked hurt and rubbed his ‘sore’ spots. “that’s no way to talk to your girlfriend” you folded your arms and watched as his little pout turned into a mischievous grin and before you knew it he had grabbed your ankles from under the blanket and pulled you to the floor with him, you landed with quite a loud bang as your ass hit the floor. Safe to say Alex was satisfied with his little stunt as he sat there in hysterics, watching you get up with a huff and storming off to the bathroom.

You stayed put for awhile but after a few minutes you heard a few little knocks on the door, “y/n i’m sorry it was just a little joke, open the door please love” he tried the handle but the door was locked, you stayed silent for a few more seconds until you suddenly sprung the door open and Alex was met with a face full of shaving cream, “you little shit” he gasped and you made your escape, running as fast as you could to the kitchen. Within seconds Alex was bursting through the door, the foam still covering his face as you watched him calmly walk to the sink, you were confused as to why he wasn’t trying to get you back, that was until he turned around and quickly threw a small glass of cold water over you. You couldn’t help but let out a small scream as the water hit your face, dripping off your nose and soaking your hair, he went in for another glass, “okay enough! you got me!” you quickly ducked behind the island, shielding yourself from a second drenching. “your no fun” he fake pouted, walking round to help you stand up, “i’m all wet now” you sighed, pointing at your wet hair and huffing at him. “bet i can make you wetter” he winked as he snaked his arm round and lightly slapped your ass, “Alex Turner you dirty bastard” you couldn’t help but laugh at his seductive nature.

A few hours had gone by and you decided to watch a movie in bed as it was getting late, Alex was sat up leaning on the headboard, engrossed in the film whereas you were cosily tucked under his arm, head resting on his chest as he rubbed up a down your back soothingly. “you tired angel?” he peered down at you as he noticed your eyes fluttering as you tried to stay awake, “a little bit” he picked up the remote and switched the tv off, placing it on the nightstand before laying himself down properly. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he pulled you close to him, his hands resting around your torso. “the rains finally stopped” you sleepily mumbled into his chest upon noticing the fact that you couldn’t hear the pattering of the little drops against your window. “shame, i love when storms come in” he placed a kiss on your hair as his hands traveled inside your top to continue rubbing your back, you felt yourself growing more and more tired by the second, “goodnight al” you tilted your head up to give him a soft kiss, “goodnight darling, i love you” he returned the kiss, his soft lips brushing against yours in an act of sleepy love. “i love you even more”, you drifted off to sleep shortly after, to the sound of his heartbeat and his steady breaths, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else..

a/n: sorry that this is short and lacking on details but it’s the first time i’ve ever written fluff😅

[kocherry]

Nowhere to Run

Yandere Dottore x GN!Reader

I try to thread myself in the yandere zone by starting with Dottore. So here's a drabble about him with a reader he just caught from escaping.

Tags: Dottore is his own warning, Yandere behavior, Blood and Injury, Murder

< 0.7k+ words >

You're trembling from the cold weather of Snezhnaya even though you were wearing a thick coat while seated in a soft cushioned sofa. You couldn't sit still because of the grave action you had done. And there were multiple eyes that were on guard because of you for having almost escaped the estate of the Second Fatui Harbinger.

Usually the segments wouldn't have bothered with you that much but you just killed a man with your bare hands. They were all intrigued by this sudden change in your behavior. You were mostly well-behaved despite being so against the Doctor's principles.

The Prime Segment dismissed all the clones just to have a word with you in private.

The sound of his heavy boots echoed in the room as his steps circled around you like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. "When you killed the soldier who captured you, did you fantasize that it was me instead?" He asks as he could recall the amusing sight earlier at your desperate attempt to escape his estate.

"No..." You answered.

"Then I suppose shouting my name while telling me to die isn't the case then?" He stops walking and stood at your side looking down on you.

Anger rumbled in your chest as you whip your head at his direction. "Why are you even asking if you already knew?! I killed a man just to get away from you!" You pointed at Dottore who observes that your fingernails were still swollen and your hand were filled with bruises.

"Is that not enough proof that I hate you to the point where I would kill anyone who gets in my way?"

Your voice trembled as you let out a choked sob covering your entire face with your hands. The blood from the soldier you killed and yours mixed together in your knuckles. Dottore sneered at that sight, if anything... you should be cleansed from another man's fluids.

He would let you go unclean if it was his blood instead.

"Enough with your hysterics, let me clean your hands so you wouldn't get an infection." Despite Dottore's harsh tone, his touch is gentle as he leads you to the bathroom.

His hands were on yours as he guides your bloodied hands to the running warm water of the sink. "Does that feel good?" He asks and you nodded, the warm water helps in calming you down. "Tell me if it hurts when I clean you up." He is never this gentle with you and... somehow... you crave for more. If he was always this kind and understanding you would not hate him.

Dottore slowly wrapped white bandages around your injured hands as he already had disinfected it with iodine. "The man you killed is a high ranking officer in my ranks. I can help you cover up the incident but that doesn't mean people will talk. They will surely associate the crime with me so you're going to be off the hook..." His teethy grin sent shivers down your spine, he found the man's death amusing.

As the matter of fact Dottore's ego fed even further because you finally fantacized about him. His sweet (Y/N), the one who had been at his side for so long finally commited a crime. No one would believe this of course, so he'd relish your actions deep within his blackened heart.

"You would still be the same old sweet and gentle (Y/N) who married the Doctor. You should be quite pleased with this, I know I am."

"Of course you are." You tiredly stare at him, not even having the energy to glare anymore.

"Now if you would just be a good little spouse and..." Dottore asks gently as he places his bare hand on top of your bandaged and injured ones.

"...Stay with me."

"Where else would I go?" You asked him in defeat.

Tears well up in the corners of your eyes, you turn to your captor with a defeated look in your expression. Having killed a man with your bare hands is something you could never ever go back to. What's worst is that you fantasized it was your captor because you were too powerless against him. You condemn him for being a monster and yet you became one as well.

Dottore could feel an eerily smile creeping up in his lips and you could see the victorious expression he had when you finally accepted your fate.

[siremasterlawrence]

Frat Hypnosis: The Five

Don’t you hate it when your friends demand you join them on a campus trip that I well unfortunately have to be a part of as they literally drag me out of the house.

I am in the car with my asshole best friend Brenton who is in just a tee shirt, short tight pair of jeans wrapping on his waist and sexy.

He presses the button on the Raghu as it hit our senses blasting loudly into both or pit ears as we drive a long the coats I can see him turn to me.

He points at me in utter excitement saying I am so quiet when will I open up I had more then enough of this bullshit smacking him across the head.

He laughs a bit of it hysterically in a crazy yet fun, authentic and honest way as he is smirking at me. I roll my eyes continuously at his actions.

Cracking up at it I slip my pin into the radio as it emits a buzzing sound blasting through the radio hitting him like a eargasmic senses of emotion.

His facial expression went blank as he drove down the road way his cock rises beginning to stir upward as it points straight from his pants.

I giggle a bit reaching for it because In the base of a buzz the track induces a deep sexy tone pulsating in to his body as he is vibrating.

His ass began to shake a bit his nipples are pump, his pecs super strong bounce move upward and downward causing his shirt to pop open.

This is my chance taking action my hands are a go feeling him up every Inch and tight crevice spots of his body as he gasp in lust and desire.

His mouth flows open, tongue hanging from his mouth, the drool trickling down on to his face, he has this stupefied expression over his face.

He is so lost in his own haze of power heavy struggle spinning round and round with me rubbing his back and then I lay my head on his shoulder.

My lips attach to his neck kissing up slowly to him as we vibe together both heart beats begin to match and I make my way from the passenger seat.

Sitting behind him now my arms fully length going outstretch onto his shoulders continue to rub him his neck bends back, and I can smell his scent kissing him down.

“Brenton, we are more than friends because I am your Master. Master Lawrence is my real name, you will answer me sir yes sir and you will obey my every command.” I whisper into his ears controlling his new narrative as we arrive to the beach house.

“When you wake up on my command you will do exacts as I instruct you, you will park the car exit it going for a walk.”

“Yes park and go for a walk.”

“You will strip off your clothes and wait by the water.”

“Stand by it staring in to the lake but do not move.”

“Yes, Master Lawrence “

“Go!”

“Sir Yes Master Sir”

“Anyway! I can focus on the rest now “

“Hey Lawrence over here”

“Hey Zach! Catch”

“Woah! What’s this?

“Press the button”

“Ok sure weirdo”

“Whatever”

“Bbbooommm…ffflllaaassshhh”

“Uuuuggggghhhhh….what the fuck happen to me?”

“You are my slave, you love me and will obey everything I say.”

“Sir Yes Master Lawrence

“Colton is barbecuing”

“Hey Colton buddy “

“Hey Lawrence “

“Say cheese”

“Cheese”

“FLASH”

“Bbbuuuzzz”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“What…is…so…funny?”

“Remove your spatula”

“Spin to me”

“Focus on my eyes “

“Yyyeeesss”

“I am your Master”

“Yes! Master Lawrence “

“Good boi”

“Take a knee”

“Don’t worry the barbecue will be fine”

He can’t but smile scooting over on hind legs to my side he places his hands on my waist holding my hand and kisses my palms with love in my eyes.

“What do you wish of me?”

“Get back to work on my dinner “

“Yes Master”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“You are my bitch”

“I am your bitch”

“Pussy bitch”

“Sir Pussy Bitch Sir”

“I love when you touch my ass”

“Do you ?”

“Yes! Grope it “

“Hey Lawrence”

“Dustin?”

“They say you wanted to see me”

“Did you “

“Listen? I did “

“You will address me as Master Lawrence “

“Sir Yes Sir”

“I am your Master”

“Your king”

“Take off your clothes “

“Hell yeah”

“Say fuck!”

“Do a dance “

“Striptease”

“Yes sir!”

“Spin for me”

“You are my property “

“My slave”

“Kill it “

“Blow me a kiss”

“Between my legs”

“Touch me”

“Embrace me”

“Kiss me”

“Mmmm”

“Taste like candy “

“Not that song”

“It’s cheesy “

“I love it”

“Yes Master babe”

The end

[downtownbunnybaby]

JACKASS HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

Jackass Group x G!N Reader!

4140k

Description: Halloween Activities With the Jackass guys. Fluff. SWF. Johnny Knoxville romance subplot (if you squint..maybe)

WARNINGS: emetophobia, swearing, alcohol consumption, romantic Johnny Knoxville subplot ?

A/N: Part 2 of the little Halloween special from yours truly. let's pretend it isn't November and this fic is super late. Okay, thank you, much love.

It was a week before Halloween, and you and Knoxville were in the van watching Pontius perform his Devil skit, patiently waiting to film your stunts. 

“Any plans for this weekend?” He asks, taking his sunglasses off to get a better look at you. 

“Back home, around this time, my friends and I would rent these cheesy horror movies and spend all right eating sugary snacks and trying to scare each other.” Knoxville smiles fondly at your little anecdote, allowing you to rant about your high school endeavors. 

“How about you come over to my place Friday night? I'll buy some snacks, and you bring your favorite films,” Your eyes widen at his proposition, rapidly noddy, fumbling into another rant about your excitement. 

“Alright, doll, save the excitement for Friday.” He chuckles, watching you blush at the pet name. 

By the time Friday rolls around, you’re simply beaming. You had spent hours inside Blockbuster selecting only the highest quality cheesy horror films for you and Knox to watch. Practically sprinting to his front door, you knock, rocking on your heels and waiting for him to greet you. A few seconds pass before Knox answers and welcomes you into his home. 

“Excited for tonight?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer. Taking your coat, he leads you to the living room. 

“So I was thinking we should start with A Nightmare On Elm Street, then move on t—” You’re interrupted by an assortment of voices. All of your Jackass friends were present in Knox’s living room. 

“Heard you and Knoxville were having a horror marathon,” It was Steveo. “Couldn't let you two have all the fun.” Winking, he takes your bag filled with VHS tapes, forcing you to sit on the couch next to him. You thank Knox for putting this together before being silenced by Chris as he inserts Scream, despite your previous mentions. 

You were halfway through the fourth film, and no proper scare had occurred. The screams of Boo! from Chris and Wee-Man, not doing it for you anymore. Sensing the lack of tradition, Johnny catches your attention, motioning to the rubber snake next to his side of the couch. Bam would be your first victim of the night. He hands you a tape recorder filled with several snake sounds. The two of you had spent weeks retrieving the sounds and would randomly play them around Bam to scare him. Getting up from the couch, you ask the group if they need anything from the kitchen. The lack of responses, especially from Bam, confirms they had no idea what you and Knox had planned. You watch Bam from your position near the light switch. He looked so vulnerable. Huddled near Ryan, his hands subtly shield his eyes from the Gorey scene displayed on the TV. Johnny pulls the snake from his side. Quickly, you shut the lights off and play the recording as Knoxville tells Bam to watch out. 

A high-pitched scream is heard, followed by several gasps and laughs from your friends. Turning on the lights, you were all sent into hysterics. Bam was standing about 10 feet from his original position, and the rubber snake flung across the room. 

“I swear, Y/N, Knoxville, I will kill your faces so hardcore.” Crying with laughter, you and Johnny make your way over to Bam. Like a child, he pushes the both of you away, mumbling about how he wasn't scared. 

The following hours are relatively calm, except for the occasional giggles from you and Knoxville. The rest of the guys try their best to ignore it, knowing the two of you were planning a bigger and better scare than before. Like a circus clown, Johnny pulls several mouse traps from his pocket.

“Get Ehren, and I’ll get Dave.” He whispers, handing you a couple of traps. Dave and Ehren sat below you, Ehren practically using your leg to cover his eyes. The two of you wait for the perfect opportunity to snap them. Counting down with your fingers, you prepare the mouse traps. 1…Johnny Depp is sound asleep on the screen. 2…Freddy Krueger's hand pops up from the bed. 3—The knifed hand pulls Depp into the bed, clasping Dave and Ehren's ears with the traps. The loud SNAP, mixed with the jumpscare of the film, causes everyone to jump and let out a yelp. 

“Knock it off!” Ehren shouts, removing the trap from his stinging red ears. Giggling at the infamous line, you snap his ear again. 

“Why—why would you do that?!” Dave says, confusion and pain clouding his mind. 

Knoxville answers for the both of you, clutching his chest and teetering on the edge of the sofa. “Because it’s fun.” He was right. Of course, this was way more intense than what you did back home, but that’s what you liked about this new tradition. You look over at Johnny, who is already staring at you with a sly smirk. You couldn't wait to tell him about your Winter Holiday traditions. 

—

“Hi! I’m Johnny Knoxville, and this is a dumb idea.” Johnny sighed, holding a semi-rotten pumpkin. 

“Man, this is so gross,” Steveo says, gagging at the rotten vegetable. The two men were on the roof of the Jackass offices, waiting for their fellow castmates to walk below them. “I see someone! Drop it.” Johnny peers over the ledge, seeing you, Ryan, and Bam walking idly to the entrance. 

“So you’re going as a cooler version of yourself?” 

“Beats going as a rabbit,” 

“Not a rabbit, a bunny,”

“I’m going to wear a bear hat,” 

“Dunn, Shut u—” Your conversation is promptly interrupted by someone yelling, Happy Halloween, followed by a loud squelching sound as something lands by your feet, barely missing your bodies. 

“Dude! What the hell?!” Ryan gags at the sight of semi-fuzzy pumpkin guts covering his shoes and pants. You see Steveo and Knoxville cackling as they make their way down. You turn to Bam and Ryan, and a malicious smile adorns your face as Steveo and Knoxville head your way. Grabbing a handful of rotten pumpkin guts decorating your brand-new shoes, you throw it at Johnny. 

“Y/N! Stop!” You and Johnny run around the lot like cartoon characters. “These are new shoes, Knox,” Bam and Ryan mimic your actions, chasing Steveo around with the guts as he gags. 

You smile wide into Kosick’s camera, “What a great start to the episode.” 

“Welcome to the first annual Halloween Vomelet eating competition. Johnny stands in front of Dave, wearing a hazmat suit. Dave takes a bite out of a bat-shaped cookie and spits it on a plate, signifying the commencement of the competition. 

“What exactly makes this a Halloween competition?” You ask. 

“The costumes, Y/N,” Johnny replies matter-of-factly, motioning to the cast and crew dressed in terrible costumes. He playfully rolls his eyes before continuing, “Right, moving on, Dave, will you explain what you will be preparing tonight?” 

“Well, I will be preparing a standard Vomelet,” The camera pans to Steveo, who is already gagging at the idea. You and Preston sat next to him, dressed as skeletons, shaking your heads. 

“Why did I volunteer to do this?” You ask into the camera, hands in your face. Preston reaches over, grabs your shoulder, and says, “If you win, you’ll get a sweet trophy,” He points at Bunny,  holding a “gold trophy” shaped like a chef's hat. 

Dave begins his horrific meal, taking bites out of several vegetables and regurgitating them into the egg mix. Johnny, Chris, Wee-Man, and Ehren laugh at your reactions. Steveo looks like he’s in pain, despite just sitting there. Preston is giggling at your face. You’re staring dead ahead, not a single thought or emotion behind your eyes. 

“Now that we have our ingredients mixed up,” Dave pauses, showing the camera the light brown mixture. “We are going to cook it in this skillet,” The smell following the sizzling causes everyone in the room to cover their noses. “See, already smells delicious,” Toothy-grin adorning his spit-covered face, 

“That’s fucking disgusting,”

“Preston, come back,” Johnny tries to coax Preston to return between laughs. “Don’t think about the smell,” With Preston forfeiting, you motion Pontius to join. He grins, happily joining you and Steveo without hesitation. “See, I’m a vegetarian, so this is good,” He says, earning several laughs from the cast and crew. 

Once Dave’s abomination is finished cooking, he carelessly places bits and pieces on the plates in front of you. “Bon appetite!” He exclaims, tossing the spatula in the distance to focus his attention on the three of you. You simply stare at the “meal” in front of you, regretting every decision that led you here. Dave interrupts your thoughts, “Come on, take a bite,” Johnny does the same, edging the plate towards you. You’re incapable of moving a muscle, so Johnny takes the liberty of lending you a hand. Grabbing the fork, he makes train sounds, “Open up Y/N. Here comes the train,” Eliitcing a series of laughs, including your own, he takes the opportunity and shoves the fork in your mouth. By some miracle, you managed to keep the bite down. Everyone cheers as you open your mouth to reveal you DID swallow the abomination that was the vomelet. Dave hands you one of the many Halloween-themed cookies on his side of the table as a reward. 

“Steveo, Bunny, your turn,” You mumble, several cookie crumbs falling from your mouth. The two boys look at each other, nervous smiles turning into full-on grins as they link arms, feeding each other. Knoxville is the first to ask them anything. “So, how is it?” 

“It’s not that bad,” Chris replies, masking his gagging with laughter. He and the camera turn to Steveo, who looks like he might collapse. “O, any tho—” Bunny is promptly interrupted by Steveo spitting the egg dish and vomiting onto the plate.

“Hey!” Dave says, hurt laced in his tone. (You couldn't tell if it was fake or genuine hurt.) “I made that for you.” Chris then does the same, causing you to jump from your chair to not get any bodily fluids on you. Everyone is in hysterics as you gag at Steveo and Chris, covered in their vomit. 

“I should have gone with Preston. That’s fucking disgusting.” You grab the plate of cookies, leaving the mess behind you as you exit the room, but not before receiving your trophy. 

Wee-Man hands you the gold trophy as Johnny emphasizes your victory. “The winner of tonight's competition is Y/N! Who managed to eat one bite of Dave England's vomelet,” You smile, gloating in your victory. “I’ll give you another reward at home if you take another bite.” Johnny loudly whispers, winking at the camera. You gag, rushing to the bathroom. The idea of taking another bite makes you feel nauseous, causing your stomach to rumble. You hear Chris “comfort” Knoxville after you rush out of the room. 

“Rejection is hard, but there’s always next time.” 

“Y/N, I have to say, you make one hell of a bat,” 

“Thank you?” Johnny smiles at your confusion at his odd compliment. He was currently holding you up so you wouldn't fall on your face wearing roller skates. You had no idea why Dave chose you to do this bat skit with him. You were probably the most uncoordinated person in the group, well, second to Knoxville. Although most of it involved the two of you hanging upside down in several spots to scare pedestrians, several scenes involved you skating. Dave skates over, informing you that it’s time to film. 

You and Dave screech, flagging the start of the skit, and skate down an empty sidewalk, but you're quick to stumble and fall on the cement.

“Dave! Go back. Y/N fell again,” The cast laughs as Johnny picks you up and helps you move to the first scary location. 

You can’t help but giggle at your position. Dave shushes you as he hears people approaching. At the count of three, you both screech and spread your arms, showcasing your bat wings. Naturally, the recipients scream in terror, dodging imaginary attacks. The night goes as such, except for a few montage scenes of you and Dave skating while holding hands. 

“Y/N, if you’re going to fall, let go of my hand,” Says Dave, eyeing you worryingly as you stumble to stay upright. 

“I’m not going to fall! Now help me climb the lamppost,” Reluctantly, he helps up the shady-looking pole. You hung upside down for several minutes, waiting for someone to pass, but no one seemed to be in the vicinity. You whisper to the microphone attached to your chest, a link to you and the crew. 

“Guys, I might pass out if someone doesn't come soon,” 

Jeff is the first to respond, “Don’t,” He laughs as you complain about his curtness to Dave. “Unbelievable!” You begin. “I do all this shit for him, and he can’t be bothered to be worried about me. Let me tell y—” Jeff’s voice rings through your ear as he silences you, signaling someone is coming. Once again, at the count of three, you and Dave open your arms, screeching at a young girl below you. However, you miscalculated the distance between you and Dave, so when he spread his arms, he hit you right in the chest. The force of his fist caused you to lose balance and fall right off the lamppost. Luckily, your face protected the rest of your body from injuries. 

“Sorry,” You weakly shout at the woman trying to escape the chaos, but Dimitry follows her, trying to get her to sign the release form. 

Upon impact, Kosick shoves the camera in your face as everyone asks if you're alright. Ignoring their invasive questions, you simply hum the intro of Corona. 

“I think they hit their head too hard,” Kosick says, stifling his laughter as your humming grows louder. Johnny is the first to understand why you’re humming. 

“It’s the outro to the show,” He says, smiling at your odd way of communicating since you had no desire to speak after that brutal slam. “Am I right?” You stop humming, giving him and the camera a weak thumbs up. 

You playfully shove the camera from your face as Johnny helps you up. “Are we good? Because I’m ready to leave,” Subtle laughter erupts as you stumble on the skates, forgetting you had them in the first place. 

—

It was Halloween night, and by sheer dumb luck, your unrestrained group got invited to one of the most prestigious Halloween parties of the year. Twenty minutes into the pretentious party, Steveo decided to stir up the reserved environment. Jumping on a rather expensive table, hearing the cheering and validation from his friends, he threw himself into a wall forming a dent. Seeing security coming your way, you all decide to perform for the cameras. Spike and Tremaine knew you would be kicked out and prepared with Kosick and his camera. As the security grabbed two of you at a time, you kicked and flapped your body in hopes of being released. Oh, what a sight it was. Two grown adults in bunny suits (You and Pontius), attempting to climb much taller security. A fairy and skeleton (Dave and Ehren) trying to avoid physical altercations. Two Oompa-Loompas (Preston and Wee-Man) laughed hysterically, taunting the guests. A Bear and an Emo boy (Ryan and Bam) make their bodies limp, attempting to weigh the security down. Lastly, a wild boy and a sailor gloated at the attention they received. 

“Yeah. Dude!” was the last thing the party heard before the security threw you out on the street. Kosick pans the camera towards you and Chris. Tremaine asks, “How are we feeling, bunnies?” 

“Awesome!” Chris replies, showing his signature laugh. You ignore his question, scanning your now black-stained white bunny costume. 

“Son of a bitch! Could he not have tossed me softer?!” 

Based on the smile on all your faces, Tremaine proposes an idea. 

“How about we have a little competition?” You all chime in, curious but intrigued. 

“What kind of competition?” 

“If it involves drinking…I’m winning.” 

“No! I’m winning!” 

Jeff claps his hands, gaining your attention like toddlers. “Whoever gets kicked out of the most parties by the end of the night gets to pick out Danger’s next stunt.” 

“Oh, come on. Why is it always me?!’ 

Making your way up a street somewhere in Hollywood Hills, you all spot a particularly crowded mansion. 

“Ready, boys?” You ask, not waiting for a response as you sprint into the house. You’re in and out in a matter of seconds. When you ran inside, you bumped into the security guarding the entrance, disturbing his otherwise “peaceful” night. Grabbing you by the bunny ears, he tosses you into a nearby bush, ignoring your protests about keeping your suit clean. 

“Asshole! I was planning on getting my deposit back.” Standing up and picking leaves off your suit, you walk toward the group standing in the mansion driveway. Johnny is clutching Jeff’s shoulder, out of breath from laughing. “Y/N, what happened?! You were in there for 3 seconds.” 

“Doesn't matter.” Looking into the camera, you say, “I’m in the lead, and I have a great stunt for Danger Ehren.” 

The next party is by far the most entertaining. This time, the entire group managed to enter the home. Chris began to do his signature party boy dance to random guests and security while you and Steveo body slammed onto tables, taking an obscene amount of alcohol with you. Ryan and Bam pestered security. They asked the most random questions and even started fighting in front of them. 

“So…” Ryan begins. “What did you have for lunch?” The security guard doesn't even acknowledge the dirty blonde. 

“Hey, Ry! Eat this!” Bam side jumps, attempting to kick Ryan in the face, causing both of them to fall. A circle formed around them, and they up their performance for the cameras and guests. Tremaine quickly directs Kosick to record the Westchester boys. Spike pans his camera to the group, asking them about the current events. 

“Well…” Johnny begins, “Dunn is finally kicking Bam’s ass, and—” He’s interrupted by Preston's heavy Missouri accent. 

“Get him, Bam! Son’s of bitches, they got Y/N.” Laughing at the camera, he points at you, a heavy grin on your face. Two security come for Bam and Ryan, one already pushing Pontius out the door. Spike was already outside with Wee-Man, Dave, and Ehren, recording and providing commentary on your less-than-graceful exits. 

Dave provides very National Geographic-Esque comments, “Well, as you can see, a wild bunny—not the lifeguard, is fighting for its life. Struggling to be released from the grasp of a much larger predator.” Wee-Man joins Dave, “Oh! It seems the bunny is growing tired. Ehren, will the prey survive?” 

“No.” He says, giggling as you're thrown on the ground, another black skid mark adorning your white suit. Pontius is next, landing on top of you. You both groan in pain, cursing the security. 

Wee-Man and Dave announce that you two have gained a point, making you in the lead. Unfortunately, that did not last for long. Steveo was on the ground by your feet, shouting, “I’m going back in!” He charges back into the home. Gasps and shouts follow as he emerges into the house. The camera nearly misses as he’s quickly thrown out again, with Bam and Ryan following shortly after. 

“Yeah, dude! That’s two points in one go.” High-fiving an entertained Knoxville, he goes to Kosick and Pontius, pretending to interview him like a sports star. 

You interrupt the “interview,” “Wait! That doesn't count.” Ehren backs you up, not wanting Steveo to pick a stunt for him. “Yeah! Y/N is still in the lead.” The three of you begin bickering, going into technicalities about the silly game Jeff created. 

Johnny grabs your shoulders, slightly running his hands over them, trying to calm you down. The alcohol and adrenaline in your system made you way more competitive.  “Alright, let's have a vote.” Johnny was a victim of your competitiveness, so a vote was the only thing he knew would keep you from launching at Steveo. Jeff asks, “Should Steveo get the extra point for being kicked out twice?” Kosick then goes around recording everyone's responses. You and Ehren were the only ones that voted no, even Spike, Jeff, and Kosick voted yes. 

“Remember, I have the keys to all of your offices,” Pushing the group out of your way, you walk to the next house. 

It was nearing 3:00 AM, You and Steveo tied with 8 points, Chris 7, Bam and Ryan 4, and the rest had between 1 and 3, promptly giving up after you and Steveo surpassed 4 points. 

“One more house!” Chris chanted, gesturing for the group to join him. Softly chanting, the slams you had endured throughout the night finally settled in your body, a wave of pain hitting you as you hiked up the small hill. Luckily, you were behind the group, and no one noticed your slight change in demeanor. Well, except for Knoxville. 

“Everything alright?” He asks softly so the rest of the group wouldn't be inclined to comment. Slurring m’ fine in response, speeding up, you attempt to catch up to Steveo, but the pain, mixed with the alcohol, clouds your cerebrum, causing you to trip over your feet. Knox quickly grabs ahold of you, preventing you from a brutal face slam. 

“Alright, Y/N, I think it’s time for us to go home,” 

“No!” You protest, mumbling about a stunt called The Human Bullseye. Your outburst causes the rest of the group to turn, focusing on the duo behind them. Puzzled looks adorned their faces as they took in Johnny trying to hold you back. By some ungodly given strength, you wiggled your way out of his arms and sprinted towards the house. Halting at the front gate, you shouted at an out-of-breath Steveo, loud enough for the cameras and mics to pick up, “All or nothing?!” He sticks out his hand, a signal of agreement, “All or nothing.” 

Pontius is now the one to take on the animal documentary persona as you and Steveo disappear into the house, followed by Kosick, Tremaine, and Knoxville. “As we’ve just seen, the wild bunny presented the wild brown bear with a proposition,” Giggling, he breaks character for a moment. “Whoever gets kicked out first is deemed the winner of tonight's treacherous battle.” 

Inside, Johnny followed you as you searched for an opportunity to cause chaos near security, not wanting to cause yourself pain for too long. The crowded room and the heat radiating from your fur suit blurred your vision. If it weren't for the stunt you had planned for Danger, you would have given up long ago. Steveo fell into the same routine of falling on tables and throwing himself into walls. Luckily, you drew the camera's attention as you stumbled over your feet and fell head-first into a group of people, knocking their drinks out of their hands. You even managed to bring several of them down with you. Muffled chuckles fill the otherwise silent room after your less-than-graceful tumble. Johnny steps over several figures to help you. However, security beats him to it, picking you up by the underarms like a toddler. Not having sufficient energy to protest, you allow him to scold you as he carries you out of the home, “Alright, kid, go home. The neighborhood is tired of you ruining their parties.” 

Outside, Spike was prepared with the camera, waiting to capture the winner. The sound of Steveo cackling causes him to whip the camera from Dave and Ehren’s playful fist-fight to the front door. To everyone's surprise, Steveo was far behind you as security carefully threw you out. Ehren is the first to speak, letting out a cheer as he runs towards you, “Yeah, Y/N wins!” The other boys join Ryan and Bam lifts you, unbeknownst to your pain, accidentally dropping you on the solid cement. Muttering apologies as Johnny picks you up to go home. 

“Ehren, just put the suit on!” It was Monday now, and Danger Ehren was reluctant to perform the stunt you had come up with, despite winning last weekend's Halloween challenge. 

“No! This suit isn't going to protect me,” He shakes the flimsy nylon in your face, emphasizing his point. Dave is the only other member present and helps you convince Ehren to go through the stunt. It was more of him hitting Ehren until he agreed, but whatever works. 

“I’m Ehren. This is the Human Bullseye.” Throwing a football to his chest, you thank him. 

“Finally! Now let me throw these pomegranates at you.” 

—

TAGLIST

@spoookyberry @ckygetsjobs @asskickedbygirl @captainboomaray @morbidxmagic

TAGLIST FORM

[onyondump]

Just a Touch : Rough Night Soldier?

Arthur x M!Reader/OC!Karsa Hendriks

Summery : Arthur is in a daze after disposing a 'rat' in Tommy's request and ended up in front of his friends apartment.

Moodboard | First | Third

this is my first time uploading my fanfic and my grammer isn't great so please don't eat me alive thank you

'Rough night soldier?'

The comforting smell of burnt wood, tobacco and jasmine waken Arthur's tired eyes. Unbeknownst to him, his body took itself to the front steps of a familiar friend's apartment and now he's sitting on the sofa with a hand covered in blood, not his ofcourse.

"Aye" he couldn't bring himself to look anywhere but his shaking bloody hands. Another job to take care off, another body to dispose and another maddening night.

A warm towel envelopes his hands, scrubbing it off the remains of his victim. A victim to his viciousness with a beating pulse and a life, but of course anyone who dares cross the Shelbys will face the consequences. Even if their only sin is to breath at their direction.

'Heads up, let me clean your face!'

He does as he's told, like always, from his father, his comander and now his brother.

It's for the good of the family, sacrifices have to be made, they will all reap the reward in the end. But every time he follows orders, why is he in a deeper pit then the rest? It's so dark

'Hello *snap* *snap* Art!! Don't daydream too much or a spirit will posses your body'

A small chuckle escape his thin dry lips. His friend sometimes have the same superstition as his aunt. How interesting that two people from each end of the earth would have the same believes.

"Don't worry mate, I'm already the devil yeah? No spirits will possess me" He laughs as the other scoffs

'Should have known the only way for you to wake up is to make fun of me' as a revenge the man Infront of him scrub his face HARD and a white shirt is thrown onto his lap as his companion plops onto the space besides him. Watching him

'Thats the last good shirt I have this week before laundry day. You better not come here dirty again!'

This is they're new routine now. Arthur would come to his friends house either drunk, high, in a trance or all three at once and his companion would take care of him until the song bird calls for his return.

He would feel guilty about using his kindess like this but it doesn't seem like the other man mind . So he assumes he's welcome anyways.

When Arthur finish putting on a shirt a loud coughing followed by a puff of heavy dark smoke emits from his companions mouth.

'SHIT'

Another laugh comes from Arthur this time with a booming sound

"HAHAHA Your really bad with cigars eh?"

'SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU PRICK, this shit is strong'

Arthur's snatch the fat cigars from his friends fingers and takes a long hard suck as the heavy smoke travels his lungs, coating his lounge. He puffs out slowly but surely, the kiss of death.

"This shit! Is for real men. Not like yours small ones"

'Whatever Art' he snatches back the cigar he lit and tries to do the same but failing at the last second and was mocked again with the chuckle of the moustached men as they countine to share the cigar between eachother.

Nights like these would make him forget what he was doing just 5 hours ago. It's certainly no Tokyo but it does the trick and usually leave no side effects. Just two best friends together in a smoke filled room, alone.

"Do you think I'll ever be normal?"

'There aints such thing as normal Art. Just work with what you have and try to move forward'

"But what if I'm tired? What if I don't want to move forward? I can't shut the door like Tommy tells me to do?"

'Then you fix the hinge, oil it up and air out the smoke once in awhile. It's not like a door is just for closing'

With that comment, finally every thread in Arthur's body snapped. Another booming laugh emerge, what a stupid thing to say. Tears and sobs accompany his laughter he couldn't stop himself its almost hysterical. The dam is broken and everything is on fire.

'Uh..Art.. the Cigar?"

The last light of the cigar finally went out, burning Arthur's finger in the process but the man was too caught up in tears to react as his companion hold his burnt fingers and rubs it with his own. Arthur laughed and cried for a long time that night and through it his friend didn't say a word while calming the wound. And for that Arthur never felt more thankful.

Notes : YEEHAW!! I hoped you all understand my incoherent writing. I wrote this as I was waiting for my lecturer to come for assistances. I have not sleep and I crave Arthur. YEEHEE!!! 🍉🍉🍉 Also I have no idea the differences of the different smokes, just pulling it out of my ass.

[ghostchems]

Can I have the #4 prompt with terzo please? :)

“no panties?” with mister troublemaker

You can’t believe you’re doing this right now. It has been a long time since you’ve really let loose while being out on the town. What started off as a girl’s night has now shifted to a man’s tongue being shoved down your throat while the two of you wait for an Uber.

It started with exchanging small glances across the bar. You clocked him immediately, the sound of his voice pulling your concentration away from the conversation with your friends the second he walked into the bar. He was dressed well, his smile lighting up his face, his black hair falling perfectly on his head and the curious white eye that drew your attention.

He bought you a drink and now, here you are, on the sidewalk with your fingers curled into his jacket, tugging him close to you. You feel him smirk against your lips, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulls away from you.

“Bella, bella.” Terzo practically sings and he wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. “Dov'è the Uber, cara? It should be here by now, no?” He is getting antsy, swaying the both of you side to side as you fumble to check your phone. Still, he is pretty much giggling into your ear.

What you’ve learned about Terzo in the short time that you’ve known him is that he is an extremely fun and affectionate man. He isn’t shy but he isn’t disrespectful.

“Ah, here it is!” You gesture to the car that is pulling up and he releases you from his arms, quickly skittering over to the car to open the back door for you. A true gentleman. You get into the car and slide all the way to the end of the seat with Terzo right behind you, settling in the middle seat. The two of you exchange a few pleasantries with the driver and then you are off to your apartment.

You usually find the ride back to be awkward but Terzo is chatting you up and being generally pleasant. That is, until his hand rests on your thigh. As he rambles on about whatever, it creeps further up your dress causing you to suck in a breath and shoot him a look. He only grins at you then brings his fingers even higher and brushes them over your cunt.

Terzo leans into you, his breath hot in your ear. “No panties?” He barely whispers, dragging his fingers over your folds to coat them in your slick. You suck in a breath as he pushes one inside you.

“I thought the drinks were very good there, no?”

“Mm, yes. Not too strong but not too watered down.” You answer quickly, your eyes darting to his face as his smile only widens. He slips another finger in and curls the two of them against that sensitive bud. Before you’re able to make a sound, he’s kissing you and you sigh in relief. At least now you’re able to make sounds. You gasp and moan against his lips, trying to keep them tame.

He breaks the kiss as he slides another finger in and quickens the pace, though he tries to make sure it’s not too loud. Your body is tensing and untensing, you place a hand over your mouth to try and muffle your sighs. Terzo is loving every second of seeing you try to keep yourself composed, licking his lips as he watches.

You can’t hold it back anymore, reaching peak as you groan loudly from behind your hand.

“Cara, are you alright?” Terzo is quick to remove his fingers from you, concerned look on his face.

“It’s a… a leg cramp.” You groan again and lean down, pretending to touch at one of your calves.

“Which one, cara? Do you want me to massage it for you?”

Oh, he is a stinker.

“N-no, it should pass soon.” You sit back up and sigh, shooting Terzo an angry look. Once the Uber pulls up to your apartment complex, you cannot get out of the car quick enough.

“Thank you, sir. Buona notte.” Terzo says before closing the car door and skipping to meet you on the sidewalk. As soon as the car drives away, the two of you are laughing hysterically and Terzo has his arms around you.

“I promise to give you many more, eh, leg cramps this evening, cara.”