#fixed wire testing

[signumfm]

Safety is a paramount concern of industries irrespective of their nature. A health risk to any worker at the industry can cause grave losses to the owners as well. Thus, they are always expected to stay abreast with all the inspections and safety measures necessary in the workplaces. One such safety measure is related to electricity with the help of fixed wire testing. This inspection is not just a legal necessity but also a solid protection from electric wiring issues. Once the testing is completed, the electrical installation condition reporting is carried out. Read this article to learn what the importance of fixed wire testing in industries. https://bit.ly/3RHZSqD

[mashmouths]

caved and bought wireless headphones and ohhhhhhhhh my god music i've missed you......

[avoelectrical]

Electrical safety is a legal and moral responsibility, especially for homeowners, landlords, and business owners. In Charminster, keeping properties compliant with current standards requires routine inspections, tests, and certification. This blog explores essential electrical documentation and testing, including the EICR report Charminster, electrical condition report Charminster, fixed wiring test Charminster, landlord report Charminster, and part p certificate Charminster.

[leyavo]

Ghost x mute!reader (electronics engineer)

Simon didn’t expect to get so close to you. He thought he’d hand over the busted radio and return an hour later to get it. But you’re the only one there at 2am, no one else to test it. You could tweak it and fix it, but you couldn’t test it.

No you needed Simon to speak into the coms, your gloved hand raising the radio to his masked mouth waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t complain, rolling his mask up and resting it over the tip of his nose as he speaks again. Your gaze flitting to his moving lips, his low gravely voice pulling you in.

The first time the speaker is crackly and you shake your head, setting the radio back on the table. Taking it apart and putting it back together. He sits beside you, hunched over the uncomfortable plastic chair. Comical really, the way he shifts in the seat trying not to widen his legs as not to touch his knee to yours.

You’re aware of the lack of space surrounding your workstation. Wires and spare/recycled parts scattered every inch of the surface. Lieutenant Riley sticks out like a sore thumb, headphones and tactical vest still on, sunglasses resting on top of his masked head. His warm umber eyes following your every movement, standing out against the charcoal paint smeared around them.

He hasn’t spoken to you directly since he entered, other than to test the radio. Just the buzz of electric and metal scraping, a drop of the screw in your grasp. You’re wiring the earpiece back to the main part and inserting it into the seam of his tactical vest when your commanding officer walks in. You glance over the lieutenant’s shoulder, the C.O signing you’re wasting a lieutenant’s time. A slight pull of your brow, fingers hovering ever so close to side of Simon's neck.

Simon can see the guy’s hands in the reflection of the glass cabinet behind you. “I’m in no rush, ain’t had a chance to sit down till now.” His words alone smoothing the line between your brows.

The guy huffs, throwing a disapproving glare your way and dumping a hard drive on your desk. Simon doesn’t know why, but he finds himself talking. Filling the silence. Telling you he’s just come back from an op, but was too wired to sleep so he thought he’d get his coms fixed instead. Least he wouldn’t have to fill out a form in the day and wait around.

You might not speak, but you’re a good listener. A nod of your head, hum of approval and a flick of your hand when you sign something back to him. He’s a little rusty with his sign language, an excuse to see you more often when he returns a week later with a shattered phone. Even manages to get your number, you know just incase he breaks anything else.

He notices you around base, can’t miss you now that he knows you and he finds himself going to your workstation for a cup of tea a couple times a week. You're desk a lot tidier as if you've made space for him. You’re starting to relax around him, hands moving animatedly as you communicate with him. He has to grab your wrist sometimes, asking you to teach him what a certain sign means and he does it as an excuse for you to guide his hands in signing, which you later catch on to. You even make up stuff to catch him out.

You’re quite popular around base too, medics and techs greeting you in the corridors on your way to the canteen. Simon’s watched you playing with the service dogs whilst on some smoke breaks. You seem to gravitate to the particular section and he finds out your brother’s part of the designated training teams. Wonders if you’ve mentioned his name and if he’ll get warned off.

[Masterlist]

[elliespassagerprincess]

Under her desk - ellie williams x reader

pairing: ceo!ellie williams x secratery fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts:)

Warnings: MDNI Explicit sexual content (18+): intense sexual tension, implied oral sex, semi-public workplace sex, voyeurism, jealous/possessive behavior

Summary: You're her secretary—organized, polite, and always on time. She's the boss—cold, brilliant, and merciless. But every glance from Ellie lingers too long. Every touch burns. And every closed-door meeting gets harder to forget.

masterlist

MONDAY

The first time Ellie Williams looks at you that way, you think you imagined it.

It’s just a glance. A flicker of her eyes up your legs as you place the morning reports on her desk. But there’s a pause—half a second too long before she meets your gaze, green eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is a low hum, raspy from lack of sleep or too much coffee. Or both. You nod, trying not to look at her mouth. Trying not to notice how she licks her lower lip when she turns back to the screen.

You walk out of her glass-walled office trying not to blush, legs unsteady under your pencil skirt. You shouldn’t have worn that lipstick. But the thing is—you know what you’re doing.

And so does she.

WEDNESDAY

Ellie Williams is brilliant, successful, and terrifying. She doesn’t waste time with small talk. She hates lateness. She reads contracts like they’re storybooks and intimidates men twice her age with a single look.

She’s also annoyingly hot.

You’ve spent the last three weeks working under her, literally and figuratively, and she hasn’t so much as smiled at you. Until now.

“Shut the door,” she says one morning, not looking up from her laptop. Her voice is low, authoritative.

You close it behind you, pulse skipping.

“Come here.”

She slides a file across her glass desk. You step closer than necessary, your hand brushing hers as you take it. It’s electric. It feels intentional.

“Read this clause,” she says, tapping a page. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

You lean over. She leans back in her chair, one leg crossing over the other slowly, eyes fixed not on the paper—but on you. You can feel her stare. Your skin burns under it.

“That’s… ambiguous wording,” you murmur. “It leaves too much room for liability.”

Her lips curve just slightly. You did well.

And then she says it: “You’re smarter than you look.”

You swallow. “You don’t know how I look.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t I?”

It’s dangerous. Everything about her is. But you leave her office feeling like you just passed a test.

FRIDAY NIGHT

The building is empty.

You stayed late because she asked. A simple email: Stay after hours. Need you to help draft a response.

No “please.” No “thank you.” But you came.

Her office is dimly lit. Just her desk lamp and the amber glow from the city skyline outside.

Ellie’s jacket is off. Her sleeves rolled up. Tattoos exposed. Her jaw tight as she types. You stand nearby, heart pounding.

“Come here,” she says again, voice lower now. Rough.

You step beside her. She gestures at the screen, scrolling through a client proposal. But her hand brushes your hip. She doesn’t move it.

You don’t breathe.

“You smell like cinnamon,” she murmurs suddenly, almost distracted.

“It’s my lotion.”

“I like it.”

There’s silence.

You turn to her—slowly.

Ellie’s eyes flick to your lips. Your knees go weak. She leans in. So close. Not kissing. Just hovering—like she’s daring you.

“I’m your boss,” she says, whispering it like a sin.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I shouldn’t want you.”

“But you do.”

Her hand grips your hip. You don’t know who kisses first.

But once her mouth is on yours, everything blurs. She pulls you onto her lap, fingers tangled in your hair, tongue sliding past your lips with a groan that makes your spine arch.

Her mouth is hot, desperate, possessive.

But the moment is short-lived. She pulls back, breathless, eyes wild.

“Get out,” she says harshly.

You freeze. “Ellie—”

“I said get out.”

You leave shaking. But she doesn’t stop you because she regrets it. She stops you because if you stayed, she would’ve had you on her desk.

WEEK LATER

She avoids you all week. Short emails. Clipped instructions. Barely looks at you.

It hurts. But you understand.

Power. Rules. Risk.

Still, she calls you into her office on Thursday. You go, heart hammering.

She’s pacing. Frustrated.

“I can’t think,” she snaps. “Not with you out there.”

You blink. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ellie stops. Looks at you like you’re the problem and the solution.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers. “That’s the problem.”

And then she’s kissing you again—this time rough, frantic. She shoves everything off her desk in one motion, making you gasp.

“Sit,” she growls.

You do.

And then her mouth is on your neck, your blouse unbuttoned, her hands everywhere, as if she’s waited months for this.

You moan her name—soft, breathy. She freezes.

Then she says it: “You’re mine.”

You nod. “Yes.”

You start sneaking around. Closed doors. Locked meeting rooms. Lingering touches behind your desk.

Ellie becomes obsessed.

She buys you new pens just because she saw you chewing the caps. Schedules “private reviews” that last way too long. Texts you when you’re home just to say, "Wanna come back and help me ‘finish something?’”

She doesn’t date anyone else. You check. But she doesn’t call you her girlfriend, either.

Power. Risk. Rules.

But in her eyes—in the way her thumb traces your lips after she kisses you—you know.

You own her, too.

MONDAY

The worst part isn’t that you kissed your boss. It’s that you keep doing it.

Ellie’s office becomes a second home for secrets: stolen kisses, whispered confessions, shaky breaths against frosted glass. But it never goes further than that—not fully.

There’s always a line.

Sometimes you think she’s drawing it. Sometimes, you think she’s one step from erasing it completely.

And every time she stops, the excuse is always the same.

“I can’t afford to lose you.”

You don’t know if she means as her assistant… or something more.

TUESDAY

Ellie starts acting weird.

She stares at you when she thinks you don’t notice. She double-texts you at night, then apologizes. Her fingers shake slightly when you hand her coffee. But she still never says what she wants.

And you’re getting tired of pretending.

“Are we going to talk about this?” you finally ask, one evening after everyone’s left. You’re leaning in her office doorway, arms crossed. She’s behind her desk, eyes on her screen but clearly distracted.

She doesn’t look at you.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Ellie.”

Now she looks up. Her jaw tightens.

“It’s dangerous,” she says quietly. “This is my company. You’re my employee. If anyone finds out—”

“I’d be the one who gets fired,” you cut in.

Her face shifts. There it is. The truth.

“I would never let that happen,” she says, voice low and deadly. “You have no idea what I’d do to protect you.”

You step forward slowly. “Then stop hiding me.”

She looks like she wants to say something. Instead, she stands. Walks around her desk. Stops a breath away. Her hand brushes your wrist.

And she whispers: “I don’t hide you. I hide us. Because once people know, they’ll want to take you from me.”

There’s something unhinged in her voice. Soft, but sharp. Like she’s thought about it too much. Like she’s scared of how far she’d go.

FRIDAY

You try to act normal.

Emails. Schedules. Morning coffee runs. But Ellie keeps breaking the façade. She calls you in five times for "review." Never talks about work. Just stares at you. Sometimes says something ridiculous like, “You wore that on purpose” or “I had a dream about you.”

And then there are the nights. Her texts turn softer, needier.

Ellie: Are you in bed?

Ellie: Can I call?

Ellie: Just wanna hear your voice.

You let her. And when she breathes your name into the phone, quiet and rough, it makes your heart ache. Because this doesn’t feel casual anymore. It feels like it’s killing her to keep you a secret.

SUNDAY

You show up to her apartment for the first time.

Ellie doesn’t even pretend to play it cool. She opens the door in a black tee and sweatpants, hair a mess, eyes tired like she hasn’t slept in days.

“You came.”

“You asked me to.”

She pulls you in without a word. Kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she’s been holding her breath all week.

You don’t leave until 3AM.

There’s no sex. Just tangled limbs. Soft kisses. Ellie’s head resting on your chest like she needs to be near your heartbeat.

You stroke her hair, whispering, “Why do you make this so hard?”

And her answer is quiet. “Because if I ever lost you, I’d never recover.”

WEDNESDAY

It happens. You get caught.

You didn’t even notice the door was cracked open.

You were leaning on her desk, Ellie between your legs, her hand up your thigh, whispering something filthy against your neck.

And someone—probably an intern—saw it.

You don’t find out until later, when HR sends Ellie a request for a "private meeting." That afternoon, Ellie storms into your little cubicle, eyes wild, pulse in her throat.

“We’re not hiding anymore,” she says, grabbing your hand in front of the whole floor.

“Ellie—”

“Let them talk. Let them guess. I don’t give a damn.”

She pulls you into her office, slams the door, and kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And that night, she finally takes you home again—but this time, there’s no restraint.

This time, she makes love to you like she’s claiming territory. Like she’s trying to memorize everything, in case the world tries to take it away.

ONE WEEK LATER

Ellie is pacing. You're seated across her office, legs crossed, heart pounding.

“You’re not just my secretary anymore,” she says. “You haven’t been for a while.”

You look at her. “So what now?”

She stops. Walks to you. Kneels—yes, kneels—between your legs and rests her head in your lap.

“We rewrite the rules.”

You card your fingers through her hair.

“And if they fire you?” you ask

Ellie looks up at you with that same fire in her eyes.

“They won’t. But if they do? I’ll build my own damn company. Put your name on the front. Hire myself as your assistant.”

You laugh. You kiss her.

And you both know you’re done pretending.

MONDAY

It starts with a look. Ellie walks in late—coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up, jaw sharp—and heads straight to your desk. She pauses. Leans down.

You think she’s going to whisper something.

But no.

She presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Right there. In front of everyone. You freeze. So does the office.

Conversations stop. Keyboards go quiet. Someone drops their pen.

Ellie stands up straight, totally unfazed.

“Good morning, baby,” she says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And then she heads to her office. Just like that, everyone knows.

By lunch, the office is buzzing.

“Did you see that?”

“I thought she was single.”

“Isn’t that her boss?”

“There’s no way that’s allowed.”

“I heard they were already hooking up for weeks.”

You try to focus on your screen, but it’s impossible. Every glance in your direction lingers too long. You hear your name more in whispered tones than anyone should in a professional setting.

But Ellie? She acts like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just lit the entire building on fire with one kiss.

The next day, HR calls Ellie in again. You sit at your desk, sick with anxiety.

She walks out 30 minutes later, face unreadable. You follow her to her office, shut the door behind you.

“What happened?”

She exhales. “They’re not happy. But technically, I didn’t break any rules.”

“Technically?”

She shrugs. “We’re adults. Consensual. No direct coercion or manipulation. I didn’t promote you or change your pay. Legally, they can’t fire either of us.”

“But they’re watching now,” you murmur.

Ellie steps closer. “Let them.”

You overhear two coworkers talking about you in the breakroom later that week. Something crude. Something about how “you must be really good at keeping her attention” if the boss is that obsessed.

You walk out before they see you. Embarrassed. Furious. Ellie notices immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie.

She doesn’t believe you. Of course she doesn’t. Twenty minutes later, you hear her voice—raised—from down the hall.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

You stand up. Heart racing. Ellie’s got one of the men cornered, towering over him with a calm, cold fury that could freeze lava.

“She’s smarter than everyone in this damn building. And if I hear you speak about her like that again, you won’t be working here anymore.”

He stammers. Apologizes. She doesn't back off.

“She’s not just mine—she’s the best thing about this place.”

The entire office hears.

You’re both in her car. The sun is setting. You’re quiet. Ellie’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tight.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

She looks at you.

“Because I want to protect you so badly it scares me.”

You reach over, touch her arm.

“I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that.”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

And Ellie—tough, stoic Ellie—closes her eyes like she’s holding back tears.

“I’ve been yours since the first day you walked into my office,” she confesses.

THURSDAY

You didn’t think she’d go public with it. But she does.

At the company-wide meeting, Ellie is cool and composed as ever. She addresses the quarterly goals, talks profits and projections. Then, at the end:

“One more thing.”

She glances at you.

“I want to address the elephant in the room. Yes, I’m in a relationship with my secretary. It’s not a secret anymore. And if anyone has a problem with it, take it up with HR. Or better yet, with me.”

Silence.

Then applause. Actual applause. You’re stunned.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wink. Just steps down, professional and poised, like she didn’t just dismantle the gossip mill with a single announcement.

Later, in her office, she pulls you in by the waist and murmurs, “They’re never touching you. Not even with words.”

Ellie books a meeting room. Not for work. Just to eat lunch with you away from the eyes. She brings you your favorite sandwich. Sits close. Hands brushing under the table.

“Is this okay?” she asks quietly. “I know it’s messy.”

You smile. “I’d sit under your desk again if I had to.”

Ellie laughs—real, unguarded.

Then she leans in. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m not letting them shame us. You’re not a secret. You’re everything.”

MONDAY

Things have mostly gone back to normal.

Well—office normal. People don’t whisper quite as loudly anymore. HR stopped breathing down Ellie’s neck. And you’ve found a quiet rhythm with her—sneaking kisses in her office, flirty texts during boring meetings, soft nights tangled in her sheets. But there's still a tension in the air. Like something’s waiting to snap.

Like you’re both still holding back.

TUESDAY

His name’s Jordan. New hire. Tech department.

Cute in a safe, unthreatening way—gelled hair, bright smile, button-ups that are a little too fitted. He’s harmless. Probably.

Until he starts showing up at your desk. First it’s innocent. A shared joke. A smile. Then it escalates.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes in this whole office.”

You glance up from your computer. “Thanks.”

“Bet that’s how you got hired, huh?” he laughs, like it’s funny.

You go cold. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—c’mon. The boss is, like, obsessed with you. Can’t blame her.”

You stand up. “That’s completely inappropriate.”

He just smirks. “Relax. It’s a compliment.”

You don’t even answer. You walk. Straight to Ellie’s office.

You barely shut the door before her voice sharpens. “What happened?”

You tell her everything. She’s already grabbing her jacket before you finish.

“I’ll talk to him,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to—”

But her eyes have darkened.

“I do have to. Because he crossed a line and because you’re mine.”

You swallow.

“Ellie—”

“No. I’m done being polite.”

The entire office is silent again.

Ellie’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

“I don’t care if you’re new or stupid or both. You don’t talk to her like that. You don’t look at her like that. You don’t breathe near her unless she wants you to.”

Jordan stammers. Ellie steps closer.

“She’s not your peer. She’s not your flirt project. She’s mine. And if you can’t understand what respect looks like, you’ll be out of a job faster than you can blink.”

Jordan nods, practically shaking. You’ve never seen her like this.

Furious. Cold. Protective.

And so, so in love.

She slams her office door shut. You sit quietly.

Ellie’s pacing. Her hands run through her hair, jaw clenched. She won’t even look at you.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She stops.

“I hate it,” she whispers. “I hate the idea of someone touching you. Someone thinking they have a right to you.”

“Ellie—”

“No. I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to say it.”

You freeze. She walks up to you slowly. Cups your face in both hands.

“But I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” she murmurs. “Didn’t want to say it too soon. But I love you. And I’d burn this whole company down if someone hurt you.”

Your heart is racing.

“Say it again.”

She leans in, forehead to yours.

“I love you.”

You kiss her like you’ve been dying to for weeks. Deep. Grateful. Starving. And when you pull back, breathless, your smile is shaking.

“I love you too.”

Ellie’s whole body relaxes. Like she’s been waiting to exhale for months.

You’re at her place. You’re in her bed, skin warm from her touch, her fingers brushing your bare spine.

Ellie whispers into your hair: “You’re mine. And not because I’m your boss. Not because you work for me. Because I chose you.”

You whisper it back. And when she falls asleep with her arms around you, you realize something:

You were never under her desk. You were always under her skin.

FRIDAY, 6:42 P.M

The office is nearly empty.

It’s the end of the quarter. People went home early. Laughter and footsteps faded around 5:00. The air has that hollow, humming stillness that only comes after hours. Fluorescent lights dimmed. Elevator chimes long gone.

You should go home. You both should.

But Ellie’s door is closed. And your back is pressed to it.

Her mouth is on your neck, hot and open and needy.

You moan quietly, hands fisting the front of her shirt, body arching as her thigh presses between your legs, her grip firm at your waist.

“Ellie,” you whisper. “Someone could—”

“Shh.” Her voice is low, rough. Her lips brush your ear. “They’re all gone.”

You glance toward the glass panels. She’s pulled the blinds halfway, but it’s still risky.

And yet… You don’t stop her.

You're sitting on the edge of her desk now. Skirt bunched. Blazer long gone.

Ellie’s shirt is open—collar popped, chest rising fast. She’s in her chair between your knees, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding dangerously high.

“Look at me,” she commands softly.

You do.

God, you do.

Because Ellie in the office chair—tie loosened, hair mussed, eyes heavy with lust—is your undoing.

“You always sit here like this when you’re typing,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers up your inner thigh. “And you expect me to focus?”

“Ellie—” you gasp.

Her fingers brush against your soaked underwear. She smiles.

“Such a fucking distraction.”

You kiss her hard, teeth knocking. Desperate. Uncoordinated. Hot.

Then she slips her fingers beneath the lace and—

“Hey, boss, I—oh my God—”

You jolt.

Ellie jerks away, instantly on her feet, shielding you with her body. Your heart is pounding. Face flushed. Skirt still hiked. Her hands still warm on your hips.

In the doorway: Jordan. Eyes wide. Frozen.

“GET. OUT.” Ellie’s voice is a snarl.

He stammers, backs out, slams the door behind him.

You’re gasping.

Ellie’s jaw is clenched so hard, you think it might crack.

You fix your clothes in a daze. Ellie watches you. Still breathing heavily. Still angry.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “That was reckless.”

She walks up behind you. Wraps her arms around your waist. Buries her face in your shoulder.

“I don’t regret it.”

You turn, eyes meeting hers.

“Are you okay?”

She nods. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Ellie—”

“Not literally. Probably.”

You laugh, a little shakily. She presses her forehead to yours.

“I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“I don’t want you to.”

MONDAY

The entire office knows. Again.

Jordan’s quiet. Pale. Avoids you like the plague. Ellie calls a full department meeting. Not for discipline—but for clarity.

She looks every single employee dead in the eye and says: “Yes. We’re together. Yes, it’s serious. No, it’s not casual. And if anyone thinks about violating our privacy again, I will escalate it to legal.”

You feel the burn of her protectiveness long after she finishes speaking.

She pulls you into her office. Locks the door. This time, just to kiss you slow.

“Maybe I should move you out of the secretary role,” she murmurs. “Not because of the rumors. Because I need you close—and this isn’t sustainable.”

“Are you firing me as your secretary?”

“I’m promoting you,” she says with a smirk. “To something safer. Something that means I don’t have to hold back.”

Your heart flutters.

“Is that even allowed?”

“I’m the boss,” she says. “It’s whatever I say it is.”

[liyue-harbour]

lighter's 6-step guide to ruining your kitchen (and winning your heart)

lighter lorenz x reader

summary: what starts as lighter trying to fix your broken coffee maker turns into an explosion of chaos, tools, and laughter. he's confident— too confident— but even as things spiral out of control, you can't help but enjoy the mess. (he's trying his best)

you eyed the old coffee maker like it had personally wronged you. in fairness, it kind of had— months of leaking water, leaking coffee, sputtering, and smelling vaguely like burnt plastic had left you at your wit's end. when lighter showed up for a visit and saw you glaring at it, he made the offer:

"i can fix that for you."

you raised a skeptical eyebrow. "can you?"

"please," he said, rolling up his sleeves with the bravado of someone who definitely had no idea what they were doing. "i've tackled bigger challenges."

step one: the toolbox gauntlet

it started innocently enough. you dug out the dusty old toolbox you hadn’t touched in years while lighter sets the coffee maker on your kitchen counter like it was a patient awaiting surgery.

"this is a mess," he said, holding up a screwdriver and spinning it in his fingers like he was auditioning for a hardware commercial.

"i know," you replied. "that's why i was going to buy a new one."

"where's the fun in that?" lighter grinned at you. "trust me, i've got this."

famous last words.

step two: controlled chaos (emphasis on chaos)

lighter pops open the back panel with alarming confidence, revealing a tangled mess of wires. "here's your problem," he said, pointing at the horrifying jumble like it was obvious.

"oh really?" you deadpanned. "i thought it was working perfectly."

he ignored your sarcasm and started tinkering, tools clinking against the counter as he muttered things like "that's weird" and "pretty sure this goes here". you leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold. at one point, a small spark shot out of the machine, and both of you jumped back.

"totally normal," lighter said, though his wide eyes behind his tinted glasses betrayed him.

"normal for what? a sci-fi action movie?"

"relax", he said waving you off. "i've got it under control."

you weren't sure what definition of "control" he was using, but it definitely wasn't yours.

step three: the great coffee maker escape

things escalated when lighter attempted to plug the machine back in for a test run. it hummed ominously, sputtered, and then released a small puff of smoke. you grabbed a kitchen towel, ready to smother it in case of fire.

"uh, that's... progress?" lighter offers weakly.

"progress toward a lawsuit," you muttered, fanning the smoke away.

he finally threw in the towel, setting the screwdriver down with an exaggerated sigh. "okay, maybe it's more stubborn that i thought."

"lighter, it's dead." you laughed, shaking your head. "you didn't fix it— you put it out of misery."

step four: damage control

despite the chaos, lighter didn't look defeated. in fact, he looked entirely too pleased with himself as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and smirked at you. "hey at least we tried," he said. "and by we, i mean me, because i did all the work."

“oh, yes, all your hard work ruining my kitchen,” you teased, gesturing to the tools and coffee maker debris scattered everywhere.

“ruined is a strong word,” he countered, nudging you with his elbow. “i prefer ‘temporarily restructured.’”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “well, thank you for temporarily restructuring my coffee maker into a pile of junk.”

“anytime,” he said, his grin widening. “seriously, though, i’ll help you pick out a new one. one with fewer... deathtrap vibes.”

“appreciated,” you said, grabbing a damp cloth to start cleaning up.

step five: the clean-up crew

cleaning was just as chaotic as the diy attempt. lighter insisted on washing his hands in the tiniest sink possible, accidentally knocking over a glass in the process. you spent more time dodging his elbows than actually organising the tools.

“maybe stick to your day job,” you joked, shoving a wrench back into the toolbox.

“funny,” he replied, leaning over the counter to grab a towel. “i think i make an excellent handyman.”

“sure,” you said, smirking. “if the goal is to create more problems than you started with.”

he shot you a mock-offended look, but the glimmer in his eye gave him away. “you wound me.”

step six: the aftermath

by the time the kitchen was semi-clean and the coffee maker officially declared beyond repair, you were both leaning against the counter, exhausted but grinning.

“you know,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re banned from fixing anything in my apartment ever again.”

“fair enough,” he replied, straightening up. “but admit it—you had fun.”

“fun?” You gave him a look. “that’s what we’re calling this disaster?”

“a masterpiece of domestic chaos,” he corrected, his grin teasing.

you laughed, shaking your head. “alright, fine. it was... entertaining.”

“entertaining?” he leaned closer, raising an eyebrow. “try ‘the best time you’ve had all week.’”

“don’t push it,” you said, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

© liyue-harbour 2024 masterlist

[s7my]

☾⋆｡° WHAT YOUR MOON PHASE SAYS ABOUT YOU 🫵🏻

being born under a certain moon phase shows how you feel things, handle emotions, and go through life. it helps explain how you grow, deal with change, and what kinds of moments shape you the most 🌜

to find out which moon phase you were born under, here’s a simple way: first, get your birth date, then use a moon phase calculator — search for “moon phase on [your birth date]” or use sites like “yourmoonphase.com”

🌑 new moon

people born under a new moon feel like fresh starts in human form. they often carry this innocent, curious energy, like they’re always beginning something new or stepping into unknown territory. they’re instinctive, emotionally driven, and might not always know why they feel something. they just do. life tends to push them into situations where they have to learn by doing, even if it means starting from scratch over and over. they’re wired for initiation: first loves, bold ideas, trailblazing paths. emotionally, they might be more private or internal, but there’s a quiet intensity that pulls people in. they’re here to create beginnings, not follow what already exists.

🌒 waxing crescent

these people are dreamers, but with an edge. they’re fueled by the tension between “where i am” and “where i wanna be” so there’s always this soft urgency in their vibe. they’re full of potential and lowkey obsessed with growth: learning, improving, becoming. life often puts them in roles where they need to believe in something bigger than themselves. their emotional world is hopeful, but sometimes scattered; they crave reassurance but also space to figure things out. people are drawn to their idealism and quiet ambition, even if they don’t always shout it. the transformative energy is strong here. they’re not who they used to be, and they won’t stay who they are now for long.

🌓 first quarter

first quarter moon people come with a built-in fight. they live in the tension between what they feel and what they’re doing, so they’re constantly being pushed to act. they often come off strong-willed, passionate, and restless. they want change, and they want it now. life throws them challenges early on to build resilience and grit. emotionally, they can feel torn, caught between comfort and risk, but they’re very brave and keep showing up anyway. they’re the ones who take leaps even when they’re scared. people admire their boldness, though they might not always get how sensitive they really are underneath.

🌔 waxing gibbous

born under a waxing gibbous moon, these people have this deep internal pressure to perfect things. not in a superficial way, but like, “how can i make this better, deeper, truer?” they have a natural gift for seeing what’s almost there, and that makes them amazing at building, fixing, or refining. they’re emotionally deep, super reflective, and often get stuck in cycles of self-improvement. life tends to test their patience and faith in themselves. they’re the ones always searching for meaning behind the mess. people find their wisdom and attentiveness magnetic. they give “i see you” energy, and it’s powerful without being loud.

🌕 full moon

full moon people are walking contradictions, and they own it. they carry both light and shadow so visibly that it’s impossible not to notice them. emotionally expressive and highly relational, they often learn who they are through mirrors: friends, partners, and even enemies. life brings them intense relationships and moments of truth that push them to integrate their inner world with their outer reality. they might struggle with clarity in their early life but eventually become truth-seekers, bridge-builders, or natural therapists. people are drawn to their raw honesty and emotional insight, even when it’s messy. their presence is powerful. they reflect what others are scared to see in themselves.

🌖 waning gibbous

these souls are wise and generous, often feeling older than their age. they’re here to teach, not necessarily as formal teachers, but through storytelling, insight, and emotional truth. they’ve seen some sht, and they turn that pain into something useful. emotionally, they’re deep but not overly dramatic. they’ve already worked through a lot and want to help others do the same. life often puts them in supportive or mentorship roles, and people naturally open up around them. they might struggle with being “too available” or drained, but their heart is huge. their vibe is calm, knowing, and comforting, like someone who’s been through the fire and made it out.

🌗 last quarter

last quarter moon people have major “old soul” energy. they’re not here to follow the crowd; they’re here to break cycles, release what no longer works, and rewrite emotional patterns that go back generations. they often go through deep internal transformations and might feel like they don’t quite fit in with others. life pushes them to let go, forgive, or detach from things that used to define them. emotionally, they can seem distant or hard to read, but there’s a storm of insight under the surface. they carry wisdom through silence, and their energy is felt more than heard. people find them mysterious, thoughtful, and deeply impactful, like they’re always on the edge of something bigger.

🌘 waning crescent

born under the dark moon, these people are here to wrap things up, not just in their own life, but karmically. they might feel like they’ve lived many lives in one and tend to carry heavy emotional wisdom. they’re dreamy, introspective, and often need solitude to process their feelings. life gives them spiritual themes early on, like grief, endings, intuition, and they come out of it with a powerful softness. emotionally, they are like mystics or artists; they don’t always explain their feelings in words but express them through energy, creativity, or presence. people are drawn to their quiet depth and the sense that they “just know” things. they’re not here to chase attention, but instead they’re here to find peace.

thanks for reading <3 @s7my

[lazy-ahh]

CLOSE ENOUGH TO HURT (CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOLD)

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

jason todd doesn't ask for hugs. he asks you to punch him instead. it's your job to read between the bruises.

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure

you’ve known jason todd since he was a scrawny kid in a robin suit, all sharp edges and sharper wit—a storm crammed into a too-small body, grinning at you from across the rooftops like he’d already decided you were worth sticking around for. you’ve known him through the laughter that came easy back then, the anger that never really left, the grief that hollowed you both out when the world decided he was gone. you’ve known him through the impossible return, the way he came back wrong and right all at once, a ghost with his same stubborn jaw and new scars he won’t talk about. you’ve known him for years, and still, he finds ways to catch you off guard.

like right now, for instance.

"c’mon, hit me."

your breath stutters. the words shouldn’t startle you—jason’s always been like this, all reckless taunts and testing boundaries—but there’s something different in his voice tonight, something raw under the challenge. you blink, before raising an unimpressed eyebrow, fingers twitching after you set the book you were reading aside. "what?"

jason leans back against your couch like he’s trying to melt into it, arms spread wide over the backrest, legs sprawled like he owns the place (and okay, fine, he kinda does—his favorite mug’s in your cupboard, his boots are by your door, and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s crashed here after a bad night). his smirk is all sharp edges, all i dare you, but his eyes—god, his eyes give him away. they’re too bright, too focused, like he’s starving for something and this is the only way he knows how to ask. "you heard me. punch me. right here." he taps his cheek, just below the scar, the one that cuts through his eyebrow and down to his jaw. you’ve traced it with your fingers before, when he let you, when the night was quiet enough for honesty.

your stomach twists, that familiar ache between frustration and affection that only jason can pull from you. you want to shake him until his teeth rattle, until whatever self-destructive impulse he’s clinging to finally cracks. you want to pull him close and tuck his head under your chin the way you used to when he was smaller, when the world hurt him less but he still pretended it didn’t hurt at all. instead, you cross your arms tight over your chest, nails biting crescent moons into your sleeves to anchor yourself. the fabric is soft under your fingertips, worn from too many washes—just like the way jason’s edges have softened over time, even if he’d never admit it. "you’re such an idiot," you say, but your voice betrays you, warm and crumbling at the edges like old brickwork.

"jason," you deadpan, shifting your weight onto one hip, "i’m not punching you in the face for no reason." the words taste like a lie even as you say them—because you would, if he asked right. if he ever just asked for what he needed instead of wrapping it in violence like a gift in barbed wire.

he tilts his head, the picture of innocence if not for the way his fingers drum restless against the couch cushions. the light catches the faded scar along his knuckles, the one he got years ago when he threw a punch for you instead of at you. "who said there’s no reason?" he counters, voice too light. "i’ve been annoying you all night. you’ve gotta be pissed by now."

"you’re always annoying," you shoot back, but your throat feels tight. you know this game—know how he turns himself into a lightning rod, how he’d rather you direct your anger at him than let it fade into silence. you step closer, close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his neck. "why do you suddenly want me to hit you?"

he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw. his gaze skitters away, fixing on the window behind you like the night sky might have answers. but you catch it—the flicker in his eyes, something hungry and aching, something that makes your chest hurt. it’s the same look he gets when he lingers too long in doorways, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. "just wanna see if you’ve got a good swing," he says, but the smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.

you narrow your eyes, studying the way the dim light catches on his stupidly long lashes, the way his grin stretches just a little too wide to be convincing. "you're so full of shit." your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, the words crumbling at the edges like they always do around him.

jason's grin turns sharp, all white teeth and barely-hidden desperation. "prove it." there's a challenge in his voice, but his fingers are tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh—morse code for 'i don't know how to ask for what I really want'.

you sigh, rubbing your temples where a headache is forming. this is how it always goes with him—pushing until you push back, prodding at bruises he won't admit are there, testing how far he can go before you walk away. you know this dance by now, know the way his breath catches when you call his bluff, know the exact shade of pink that creeps up his neck when he's flustered. you know him, all his jagged edges and soft spots, and that's why you can't help but play along.

so you stand up, stepping into his space like you belong there (you do). his pupils blow wide as you raise your fist, his body tensing like he's bracing for impact—not just from your punch, but from whatever comes after. the air between you crackles with something unspoken, electric and terrifying and beautiful.

at the last second, you flick his forehead instead.

"ow—what the hell?" he scowls, rubbing at the spot with exaggerated indignation, but you don't miss the way his shoulders drop just slightly in relief. "that's not a punch."

"you didn't specify," you say smugly, biting back a grin when his nose scrunches up in that way you've secretly adored since you were kids.

he growls, all fake annoyance, and suddenly his hand is around your wrist, pulling you forward with just enough force to make you stumble. your free hand flies to his chest to steady yourself, palm flat over the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat. it's racing, and you know it's not just from the scuffle.

"cheater," he mutters, but his voice is rough around the edges, his grip on your wrist alternating between too tight and barely there, like he can't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"drama queen," you shoot back, but it comes out breathless. you don't pull away. you never do.

for a second, the world narrows to this: the warmth of his skin under your hand, the hitch in his breathing when your thumb brushes absentmindedly against his collarbone, the way his eyes keep darting to your lips like he's mapping out all the ways this could go wrong. his fingers flex around your wrist, tight then loose then tight again—a silent battle between want and fear, between the part of him that craves contact and the part that's still convinced he doesn't deserve it.

then, so quiet you almost miss it, he says, "...missed this." and oh, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable nearly undoes you—all vulnerable and raw and so painfully jason.

your expression softens without permission, your thumb tracing a gentle arc over his sternum. "me too," you murmur, and you mean it more than he'll ever know. you mean the easy banter, the way he fits against you like a missing puzzle piece, the quiet moments when he forgets to be angry at the world. you mean all of him, even the parts he's still learning to love himself.

his breath stutters when you lean in, just slightly, just enough to make his pulse jump under your fingertips. you can see the war in his eyes—the way he wants to close the distance but can't quite bring himself to, the way he's always been better at taking punches than kindness. so you make the decision for him, resting your forehead against his with a quiet sigh, feeling him melt into the contact like a man starved.

"idiot," you whisper, fondness dripping from every syllable like honey—sweet and slow and sticking to everything it touches. the word hangs between you, softer than the moonlight bleeding through your curtains, warmer than the june air clinging to your skin.

he doesn't argue. for once, jason todd has nothing to say, and that might be the most surprising thing of all. you can practically hear the gears turning in his head, see the way his throat works as he swallows down all the sharp comebacks and defensive quips. his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks, too fast, like he's trying to clear something from his eyes.

then he exhales—a rough, shaky thing that trembles through his entire frame—and suddenly you're being tugged forward. his arms come around you with all the grace of a collapsing building, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt while the other presses almost too hard between your shoulder blades. it's awkward, all stiff limbs and too much force, his nose bumping against your cheek before he buries it in the crook of your neck. he holds you like he's afraid you'll disappear, like he's twelve years old again and still learning how to ask for comfort without throwing a punch first.

but it's jason. your jason, with his too-big hands and his too-soft hoodie and the familiar scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo clinging to his skin. so you don't tease him (much), just wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze until you feel some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. his heartbeat thunders against your chest, rapid but steady, a reminder that he's here, he's alive, he's yours in all the ways that matter.

"you could've just asked for a hug, you know," you murmur into the space between his throat and jaw. your lips brush against his pulse point when you speak, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches in response.

"shut up," he mumbles into your shoulder, but there's no heat behind it. his fingers flex against your back, tentative at first, then more sure as he starts tracing idle patterns over your spine. it's such an un-jason-like gesture—soft and unpracticed and so painfully earnest—that something in your chest cracks open like an egg, all yolk-bright warmth spilling through your ribs.

you laugh, quiet and breathless, and feel the exact moment he gives in—the way his body relaxes against yours, the huff of air that ghosts across your neck, the barely-there vibration in his chest when he joins you. it's not the loud, head-tipped-back laughter from when you were kids, but something quieter, more private. just for you. his shoulders shake with it, and you hold him tighter, memorizing the way his joy feels pressed against you after so long only knowing his anger and pain.

and if his lips brush against your skin when he pulls away—just once, just barely—well. neither of you mention it. some things don't need words.

..........aaaAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH JASOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN-

[signumfm]

Fixed Wire Testing

Signum FM stands as a renowned Doncaster-based enterprise with an impressive track record spanning over two decades. Our expertise lies in the realm of maintenance, repair, and installation of fixed wire testing services.

[jesuistrestriste]

but android!art wireplay hhnnnnggg im shortcircuiting

cw (18+) : android!art, wireplay, implied corruption, first orgasm/simulated release

android!art asking you for help when his daily diagnostic tests sense that one of his wires has disconnected inside of his chest, opening up his chassis for you to dig your fingers inside and hopefully fix the issue.

and he’s fine with it all; no pain, no discomfort, no intense sensation linked to your touch there—at first.

but then your fingernail catches on the outside of a thick, blue wire close to his thirium pump, and suddenly his back is arching and his eyes are rolling under his lids and he’s gasping raggedly. he grabs onto your wrist, panting and writhing while his LED flickers from blue to red. he looks like a scared puppy, and you immediately notice that his pupils are unusually large beneath his fluttering lashes.

“i.. i’m sorry, i—.. that’s never happened before, i think my systems are just overworked and malfunctioning.. please, continue..”

so you do. you search through the colorful mess of his innards, your fingertips grazing each electrical tendril as you pass them by. it takes several long moments before you find the problem wire, and you’re just about to tell art the good news, but when you look up you find your breath catching in your throat.

he’s artificially flushed all over his face, his hands are gripping the edge of the sofa with white knuckles, and his head is lolling back lazily like he’s lost control of his expertly-engineered musculature.

“art?” you hum, “are you okay?”

he begins to quake, moaning lowly, and you can feel the scorching waves of heat radiating off of him.

he releases his grip on the couch only to readjust it and squeeze harder. you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows around a barely-contained whine.

“please, just— just plug it in, i can’t—“ he mewls.

you’ve never heard him sound so out-of-control before, but you want nothing more than to help him feel better. you line up the yellow wire with its designated socket, making note of the way his body jolts when you pinch it between the pads of your digits, and push it forward to click it back into place.

as soon as the connection is restored, art’s eyes are flying open—wide and wild—and then he’s wailing. his hips rush upward and knock your elbow in the process, his legs kicking out and convulsing as he curls in on himself. your own stomach swirls and flips as you take in the sight of his abdomen repeatedly tensing and relaxing in a vicious cycle of what appears to be.. hmm..

it takes a hand on his shoulder and your whispered reassurance for his cognitive capabilities to come back to him, but he can’t resist leaning forward to bury his face in your neck. his hands clutch your back, his breathing heavy and exhausted. his vision flares with pop-ups. “warning: systems overheating” and “warning: coolant levels low”.

“some.. something just happened.. i.. i’m embarrassed, i’m so sorry—please, will you exclude that from your memory? i’m.. i’m so hot inside.. i’m.. i don’t know wh—aah..”

he nuzzles the bridge of his nose into your skin, still holding you tight like he’s afraid you’ll go. you realize that he’s become an entirely different android in the last few minutes. some part of him has sprung loose.

you have to let him cool down for the entire rest of the evening before he’s back to normal, at which point you assume all is well again—only for him to pad sheepishly over to you the next afternoon to announce that another one of his wires has mysteriously slipped out of its port..

what a coincidence.

[landososcar]

tacky tree ; MV1

pairing(s) ; dad!max verstappen x leclerc!reader

summary ; in which it’s the most wonderful time of the year and the house is almost completely decorated – except for the most important part.

warnings ; probably incorrect translations, tacky christmas tree because they’re more fun! no use of y/n. not edited.

“papa, when do we get to decorate the tree?” his son’s voice grabbed max’s attention and he immediately set down the fairy lights he was desperately trying to untangle.

max was trying his hardest to unravel the ball of string lights but it proved to be a harder task than what he had initially thought. his son stood in front of where he was sitting on the couch, impatiently waiting for the ‘go ahead’ to start putting his favourite ornaments on the tree, and max had to explain that “we can’t decorate the tree until we put the lights on, jules”.

a groan left the six-year-old boy’s mouth, he had been looking forward to decorating the tree the most of all. “grand-mère would have had the lights ready ages ago!” jules loved complaining – max often said he got his love for it from his uncle charles, and there was no real argument to the statement.

max chuckled softly at jules’ exclamation. “grand-mère also doesn’t have to deal with your sister trying to eat the lights,” he replied, glancing toward the corner of the living room where his four-year-old daughter was crouched. she held a tangled string of lights in her tiny hands, inspecting them with great curiosity.

“not eating, papa! i’m testing!” sophia chirped, her cheeks flushed pink with the excitement of the holiday season.

jules groaned again, this time dramatically collapsing onto the couch beside his father. “but we’ll never finish in time for santa to see it!”

“santa doesn’t come to check the tree, jules. he comes for the cookies and milk,” max reminded him with a smirk, “and to give boys and girls their presents.” max raised his eyebrows towards his son before continuing, “but only good boys who are patient,” he paused before getting up to save sophia from being engulfed by fairy lights, picking her up and putting her on his hip, “and good girls who don’t eat the lights for the christmas tree.”

before jules could fire back a sassy remark that would have reminded his father far too much of the boy’s uncle, a soft voice interrupted them from the kitchen. “have the two verstappen boys fixed the lights, or should i send in reinforcements?”

max turned to see you leaning against the doorframe, a tray of freshly baked cookies balanced in your hands. your warm smile was framed by loose strands of hair that escaped your festive headband. before you could continue to tease your boys, the six-year-old yelped, “mama! tell papa to hurry!” jules pleaded, scrambling to your side.

you laughed and ruffled his hair, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “let’s see if mama can work her magic.”

handing jules a cookie to keep him occupied, you sat where max was previously attempting to fix the mess of lights, and reached for the tangled lights. your fingers moved easily through the wires as you worked to untangle the mess, the cozy christmas scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air.

“mama is so clever, isn’t she?” max murmured to the girl on his hip, watching your nimble hands make quick work of the lights. sophia nodded quickly before leaning towards the plate of cookies as best as she could. 

max noticed her attempt at thieving a cookie and endorsed it by leaning down, her body still flushed with hers as she reached with both her hands, snatching a cookie. before the girl could begin eating her cookie, max caused her to gasp as he took a small bite from the cookie in her tiny hands.

“mama’s like grand-mère!” jules shouted back, his eyes wide with admiration, “they can both do anything ‘cause they’re the best!” jules declared, his face lighting up with pride.

“careful, jules, if you keep saying things like that, you might just end up on the extra good list this year,” you teased, winking at him as he beamed.

within minutes, the lights were untangled, and you handed them back to max with a triumphant grin, scooping sophia into your arms in exchange. “voilà. now, get to it, boys,” you said, tickling sophia’s tummy to make her giggle before continuing, “while they do the lights, soph, let’s go find your favourite ornaments!”

sophia clapped her hands excitedly. “the sparkly star! and the reindeer!” she squealed, pointing toward the box of decorations.

before the two of you could walk off, max wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, “i’ll admit, we’d be lost without you.” he left a kiss on your lips and both children protested.

“eww!” jules groaned, covering his eyes with both of his hands, while sophia, in dramatic fashion, pushed max’s face away with her tiny palms. “no kissies!”

laughing, you pried sophia’s hands off max’s face and carried her toward the decorations. “alright, no more kissies—let’s get this tree looking like a christmas masterpiece.”

while max and jules worked on stringing the lights around the tree (with jules shouting instructions that max tried valiantly to follow), you and sophia rummaged through the box of ornaments. “look, mama! it’s papa’s car!” sophia said, holding up an f1 car ornament painted in red bull’s signature colours.

you chuckled, taking the ornament from her little hands. “that’s right! should we put it somewhere special so everyone sees it?”

sophia nodded enthusiastically, and you carried her over to the tree. “papa drives that car!” she announced proudly before making ‘vroom vroom’ noises, earning both a loud chuckle and an approving grin from her father.

“do you think santa will like it?” jules asked as he passed max another strand of lights.

“i think santa will love it,” max replied. “it’s not every day you see a christmas tree with an f1 car on it.”

once the lights were up – though slightly uneven, thanks to jules’ ‘supervising’ – it was time for the ornaments. sophia insisted on placing all the sparkliest ones together in one spot, while jules picked the funniest ones, like a snowman with sunglasses and a gingerbread man with only one arm.

“you know,” max began as he hung a cat ornament that similarly resembled one of their three fur children, “some people call this a tacky tree, but i call it... creative.” jules passed the other two cat ornaments to max, insisting that they need to be next to each other so they don’t get sad.

“it’s festive!” you chimed in, balancing sophia on your hip as she placed a glittery unicorn near the top of the tree. you watched as your son stepped back like an artist proudly admiring their masterpiece.

after the tree was completely covered in colourful decorations, max hoisted jules onto his shoulders so he could place the star at the top. “steady, buddy... okay, now!” the moment the star clicked into place, sophia clapped wildly, and jules raised his arms in triumph.

“we did it!” jules cheered, and max carefully set him down before pulling you and the kids into a warm group hug in front of the brightly glowing tree.

“best christmas tree ever,” max echoed, his voice soft as he kissed the top of jules’ head, then sophia’s, before looking at you with a laugh, “no kissies for you, sorry”. you couldn’t help but laugh and agree with your husband’s statement, feeling the warmth of your little family wrapped up in the magic of the season.

“best christmas ever.”

[finniestoncrane]

OH BOY! How about Office Eddie nsfw headcanons? I love that dweeb at the office with a dark streak and honestly just want anything about him 💚

Dano!Riddler x Fem!Reader Headcanons oooooooooh yeah!! i've started writing a little outline for something like this but longer!! this is a good excuse to test some things out and see what works >:3c 🐀💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: voyeurism, pervert eddie, peeping tom, spying, non-consensual stuff, masturbation, unintentional cum swallowing

listen, employment in a nice office isn't all that common in gotham, and you're lucky you're not behind a bar serving sleazy wannabe rogues or hustling for what little money you can get, so you're willing to put up with your shy and quiet and kinda dweeby co-worker

but that's only because you have no idea about all the weird stuff he's up to...

eddie is smitten immediately by you, but he doesn't speak to you at all for the first two weeks you're sharing an office with him

it makes you a little uncomfortable, but he slowly warms up and offers you a hello and a goodbye

when he starts talking to you a bit more, it's about quite dark and deep subjects

it's almost like he's trying to guage your response to decide if you're a good person

or one of the people he goes on about, the undeserving masses

he's nice enough though, and you find that he's very helpful and willing to guide you with the tasks

and you quickly notice that he's far smarter than you, and is willing to hold himself accountable for your training

this seemingly kind gesture isn't selfless, however, it's actually his way of getting closer to you

and to have you depending on him for your job

it's not something you notice at first, if at all, but edward always offers to look your work over before passing it on to the bosses

he's changing it without you knowing though, making sure there are little mistakes that have you reprimanded

eddie delivers that bad news of course, and offers to show you how to fix your errors

you're so grateful that you hug him, or compliment him, and so he can hardly stop doing it

besides, the stupider you feel, the more you'll have to rely on him, and the more you'll view him as smart and wonderful

and in order to keep you thinking that, he'll criticise you sometimes

nothing too mean, not too obvious

but enough that he can see your pupils widening and your skin flushing when he does compliment you

"don't worry, i won't tell the bosses"

gosh, you owe him so much... maybe he'll cash in the favours someday

eddie has the keys to the office and he unlocks it every morning, since he's always there a lot earlier than you

you never question why, but it's so he can set things up

you wouldn't believe how many cameras are hidden in the little space you share

under the desk, in the toilet, in the stationary cupboard

and the work laptop he offered to set up for you?

the webcam is hacked, so he can watch you at home

because at a certain point, he can't stand not to be around you or to know what you're up to when you clock out for the day

and that includes when you leave the room to go to the toilet

he had to drill a hole in the wall of the cupboard between the office and the bathroom, just so he can keep an eye on you

and he finds his behaviour escalating, like an experiment to see how far he can go

it starts with him touching himself under his desk, rubbing his hands over his erection and trying to keep quiet

rubbing against you in the elevator, placing his hands on your shoulders as he stands behind you, staring down your blouse

asking you to reach up high or down low to watch the way your clothes move to expose you

messing with the ac, watching you sweat when it's too hot, watching your nipples harden when it's too cold

then he starts messing with the cables under his desk a lot, something with the wiring you don't understand

but it's an excuse to stare at your legs, trying to get a peek up your skirt

and then before you know it, your sweet coworker is masturbating into your coffee creamer

waiting to see if you can taste the difference, to see if you recognise him on your tongue

[talekinesis]

I need Stan and Ford to see their mom again

Like let's say she's still alive and in her 80s, she's in a wheelchair (ambulatory, she has customized canes) she still lives in their old home because a part of her hoped Stanford would come back, and she didn't want to leave their home, so he'd know where to go back to.

She wanted to stay put in case Ford came back.

So imagine her shock when both her boys come back home to her

Obviously Stan immediately starts apologizing for faking his death, putting her through grief, her arranging and attending his funeral, but she stops him like "I'd much rather it be fake than real." That's her baby boy, back from the dead, something most people don't get, so to her it's a miracle.

Her Jersey accent is thick, and it actually brings out the twins' accents that had faded over time (Stan's sounds natural to him since he always retained it a little, but everyone finds it funny when Ford's accent comes back because he just doesn't seem like the type to speak like that)

THEY MOVE HER INTO THE SHACK

The boys wanna take care of their mama and keep her around since it's been so long, and Caryn is delighted to be moved out of a loud city with rough memories and into a quiet little town where the people are odd but nice. Ford and Stan both work together to make the Shack accessible for her. Ford actually sat in her wheelchair to test everything and make sure she could get around on her own.

They catch her up on everything, and at first they don't think she'll fully believe them but she's like "Stanford built an international portal and got lost for 30 years? Stanley took his place and turned his home into tourist trap? Yeah, that seems like something my boys would do."

When she learns Stan taught himself engineering to re-build the portal, she's obviously very proud of him. "You were never dumb, Stanley, ya just learned different. Honestly, I always thought ya had A-D-H-D but Pa never wanted ya tested. But look how smart and creative ya turned out, son! I think ya did good." And Stan is definitely not crying.

Personal headcanon: Caryn was also really smart and picked up on things quick. The boys had to have gotten it from somewhere, and it wasn't Filbrick. He just took the credit because 1) he was the worst, and 2) times were different back then and no one would have really taken her seriously. But she's the one who would fix things around the house since she taught herself how to keep the place together and running since Filbrick wouldn't pay anyone to come and repair anything.

Imagine little Stan standing behind her with a flashlight while she fixes the wiring in the wall because an outlet stopped working. Both of the boys helping her while she fixes the car for the third time that week because it keeps breaking down. Mama Pines taught herself how to keep things up and running because no one else would or could.

Caryn meets Mabel and Dipper when they come back in the summer, and Mabel is THRILLED

She's technically met them before but they were still newborns at the time so they don't remember her, and she hadn't gotten a chance to see who they'd become

Mabel makes her a sweater and she wears it with pride. And I really think it would go like that scene from Elemental

Caryn: You made this?

Mabel: Oh, yeah, it's nothing-

Caryn: Nothin? Babygirl, my designer dresses were made by 'nothin.' Oh sweetie, you have got to do somethin' with this skill. And to think, I have an original 'Mabel Pines.'

And don't think I'm leaving Dipper out of this, he gets his great-grandma's attention too. She loves talking to him and listening to him tell stories about the monsters they've encountered in the past. She sees a lot of Ford in him, but she also sees a lot of Stan in him in other ways.

I think Dipper's love for "girly" music is something Stan used to share before Filbrick "disciplined" him for it. Child Stan used to sit in the kitchen with his Ma and sing along to the radio, usually listening to whatever she had put on.

Now all three of them sit in the kitchen and listen to the radio while Stan cooks.

Ford feeling like a failure for putting everyone in danger, and Caryn just goes, "Come talk to your mama." And he does. He goes and talks to his mama, like he always has in the past. She's in her 80s and they're grown men in their late 50s, but she's still their mom, and you never really quit being a mom.

I might actually write a short fic about this, I love it so much.

[b1eedthefreak]

hiii! could you do daryl fluff where reader is sick but is determined to go out and help around and daryl just keeps finding her and dragging her back to bed to take care of her, or just something like that!

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Under The Weather

⌇daryl dixon x reader

summary⌇you’re sick, stubborn, and set on helping out, daryl’s having none of it.

warnings⌇none!

word count⌇0.6k

a/n⌇this is so cute anon thank you for the request!! happy father’s day 🫰

A sniffle.

Then a cough.

Then you hacking up a lung behind cell block c while trying to sweep the hallway like some victorian chimney orphan, hunched and wheezing into the broomstick like it wronged you personally.

“Jesus Christ,” Daryl mutters when he finds you for the third time that morning. “What the hell are ya doin’?”

“I’m helping… or can you not use your eyes to see anymore..” you croak, defiantly upright despite your sweat slick forehead and three layers of clothes you’re now regretting. “People are busy. I’m fine.”

“You’re burnin’ up.”

“I’m not—”

He walks over and places the back of his hand to your forehead before you can finish the sentence. You swat at him halfheartedly.

“Don’t,” you whine.

“You’re cookin’ like a goddamn stew,” he mutters, glaring like the fever personally offended him. “That’s it. Go. Bed. Now.”

“I don’t need to go to bed.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh. That why ya just tried to sweep the same three feet of hallway for ten minutes?”

You glance at the ground. It is… in fact, very clean.

“Coincidence,” you grumble.

“Yeah, ‘cause bein’ dizzy as hell’s real helpful.” He snatches the broom from your hand. “Go lay down ‘fore I carry ya there.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He gives you a flat look. “Don’t test me.”

You shuffle back toward the cellblock with the dramatic flare of someone being banished from the kingdom. He follows behind, muttering under his breath the whole way.

“Stubborn ass… sick as shit… mopin’ around like a damn walker…”

You ignore him. Until he throws his arm gently across your back when you wobble on the last step. Then you lean into him. A little. Just for balance.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move his arm either.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re in bed under three blankets, sipping water, being glared at like you’re on death row.

“I could’ve totally fixed that wiring in the rec room,” you mumble.

“You couldn’t even sit upright for five minutes.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I ain’t the one who passed out on the table tryin’ to peel potatoes.”

You scowl. He smirks.

“Not funny.”

“Kinda funny.”

Daryl sits at your bedside, one hand picking at the label of the water bottle he brought, the other resting near your pillow. You know he won’t say it outright, but you can see the worry all over him — that twitch in his jaw, the occasional check of your temperature, the quiet sigh when you close your eyes for too long.

You peek over at him. “You gonna hover all day?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile grows. “Weirdo.”

He shrugs, not even bothering to deny it. “Ain’t leavin’ you like this. Not when you’re sick ‘n stupid.”

You reach out and flick his wrist. “I’m not stupid, I’m determined.”

“Same thing.”

“Daryl.”

He finally looks at you, soft but tired. “Ya scared me, alright? Was out there lookin’ for you all damn morning. Thought maybe someone got in. Turns out, you were out back tryin’ to scrape mildew off the damn water barrel.”

“…It was really gross mildew.”

He lets out a half laugh, half growl. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “Still love me though.”

His expression softens in that way it always does with you — like he’s melting around the edges, even when he’s trying to keep the hard shell on.

“Yeah,” he mutters, brushing a knuckle over your fever warm cheek. “I do.”

Later, he tucks you in a little tighter when you start to shiver.

You fall asleep to the sound of him sharpening his knife nearby, muttering, “Ain’t doin’ this sick bullshit again,” under his breath.

But when you wake up, he’s still there, sitting on the floor, leaning against your bedframe, fast asleep with one hand wrapped loosely around yours.

[leyavo]

Dad!141 x Dyslexic!kid

Summary: tf141 x their kids struggling with dyslexia at school. Requested by anon [Masterlist]

John’s pissed when he finds out your teachers been making you stand against the wall each time you’ve failed your weekly spelling test. It’s always when they add a new word that you struggle to remember it, mixing the order of letters. You’d just transferred to a new school due his work and being closer to the military base. The last one had more funding, better understanding of your dyslexia. Whereas this one looked like it was stuck in the eighties and didn’t have enough teachers to watch the kids.

“What do you mean they make you stand against the wall?” He asks, fork clanging to his plate at dinner one night.

“They make me stand in front of the wall and read the words so I don’t forget.” You say it like it’s the most logical thing, but John’s chest aches. He’s tried telling you that your brains wired different, that you’re not slow or dumb. Just learn different than others.

He loves the way your mind works. How you pick up on things he’s never thought of or how you’re good with fixing things. Reminds himself that your short term memory isn’t the best, so he’s patient with you and explains again no matter how many times he has before.

“I’ll talk to ya’ teacher,” he grumbles, ruffling your hair. “Eat that broccoli.” He points to your plate, trying to contain the boiling rage burning the back of his throat.

John schedules a meeting with the headmaster, all the little things you told him about the teacher, noted down the day it happened. How many times it happened. Ended up getting you moved to a different class and he was able to talk to your new teacher and make them aware of your dyslexia etc. Checked in a couple weeks later with new teacher and you to see you were okay.

Simon stares at your school report and glances to you. On paper you’re a completely different kid, described as too quiet, need to participate more in the classroom and work on your reading, you’re behind for your age. Given an extra five minutes now for your tests. The teacher had mentioned that your recent dyslexic diagnosis had discouraged to do work and engage with others.

The comic books in your room are the only ones you like to read, complain every time you look at a bigger body of text. You’d been spending most of your time in the library instead of the playground, organising the books on the shelves.

At home Simon can’t get you to shut up, there’s always something coming out of your mouth that he regularly tells you take a breath. So he sits you down before bed and asks you what’s going on.

“Everything’s harder now,” you say, picking at the broken nail in your lap. “I notice it more and it’s so annoying. Why can’t I just be like you.”

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders and tucks you into his side. “You’re just like me,” he says, squeezing you in his hold.

“I am?” You pull away staring up at him in awe.

“Yeah, you’re bloody stubborn…don’t give up most times. Keep at this and ask for help if you need it kid.”

And it’s like he’s lit something, fuelled something inside of you to combat anything in your way. There’s some frustrated tears and shouted tantrums, but he always reminds you to ask for help when you feel like that.

Kyle’s more upset than angry as he sits in the car on the driveway. He’s just picked you up from school for fighting, you haven’t said a word nor have you explained why you punched a kid bigger than you. No your face scrunched up, knuckles scraped and resting in your lap. The teachers didn’t see what happened on the playground, so it’s a case of he said, she said. You won’t talk though, which makes you the bad kid.

“Come on, poppet. Can’t stick up for you if you don’t tell me what happened. I’m on your side.” He says, shifting in the front seat and leaning into the back towards you. “They push you?”

You were a little smaller than some of them, an easy target if they didn’t know who your dad was.

“They called me dumb, said I was slow.” A little pout on your lips and brows furrowed.

And Kyle listens to you as you tell him about how the teacher made you read in front of the whole class - something that had been agreed they wouldn’t force you to do. How you stumbled over the words, the kids muffling their sniggers and making fun of you in the playground. How you warned the one kid to shut up.

“And I hit him, then asked him did I stutter?”

Kyle’s proud of you for sticking up for yourself, you’d warned them and they still stepped over your boundaries so he’s not going to punish you for it. Just going to remind you that violence isn’t always the solution as now you’re the one suspended from school. He’ll talk to your teachers and get it sorted out.

Johnny can’t understand why he’s being called into the headmasters office again for the second time this week. He walks into the reception area and you’re sitting in one of those awkward plastic chairs with your head hung low.

Something about disrupting the class, refusing to read aloud and not handing in your homework. It’s been a rough couple months since your dyslexia diagnosis and you’re too clever using it as an excuse to neglect your school work. The youngest of four it’s easy for you to go under radar, but now Johnny is on your case and checking anything school related.

The headmaster drones on about your three older siblings and how they were a great addition to the school. Eldest even setting a new school record for test results. Johnny can see the sag of your shoulders as it’s said, he knows you’ve got big shoes to fill and knows you’re different, all his kids are.

Johnny drives the long way home, glancing at you in the rearview mirror in the back. “I don’ expect ya’ to be like them,” he says, trying to catch your gaze in the reflection.

“Not smart enough anyways,” you mumbled, arms crossed tightly over your chest and head turned to the trees flitting past the window.

“Eh! Look at me,” Johnny snaps and you do. “You’re smart in other ways, just want you to try. Alright?” And it’s true you’re a whizz at connecting wires with Johnny whenever he’s trying to fix something, you even remember the name of every tool in the garage and its use. There’s just other things you have to work harder at.

“Yeah, Da’. I’ll try.”

🤌 there might be mistakes/errors due to dyslexia lol - Leya

[futureplayboibunnie]

Aphrodesiacs

Miguel O’Hara x fem! spidey! reader

yk that bit of spiderman lore between silk and peter where they were bitten by the same spider and can’t be near each other without feeling….

yeah this is that but with Miguel. SO NSFW. i love blue balling y’all. PART 2 IS UP NOW!

There were certain things that were absolutely not up for discussion when it came to Miguel: his leadership skills, his authority, his ability to lead this society, his daughter and…you.

There were too many issues to discuss about your strange…he didn’t even know what to call it at this point. See, you were both bitten by the same spider which everyone deemed highly impossible, but it happened. What came with being bit by the same spider were chemically and biologically bound side effects no one knew the first thing about. You and Miguel were more enhanced than the others, in many ways, many uncomfortable and impossibly distracting ways. You were physically drawn to each other, unable to physically feel anything but an intense primal, primitive and animalistic sexual attraction to one another. Neither of you could be in the same room without wanting to fuck like bunnies. The chemical compounds in your brains were the same, and it made you both become aphrodesiacs for each other. No one knew about it other than Lyla and Jess.

This was a problem, he was your boss and you couldn’t actually look at him without feeling hot and wet, you had fangs the same way he did but no one knew about it, Lyla made sure of it. Miguel on the other hand was a wreck because of it, his blood would burn at the mere thought of you. He worked his body out to the bone, he would work out and sweat the thoughts and desires away from him. It never worked. But he needed to pretend it did. Neither of you would anticipate how drastic it could be. You knew it was the genetics and the chemicals from the same spider that bit you which made you weary of ever getting close to one another but Lord, the desires were still there. It felt like you were muzzled and on a leash, hindered by moral righteousness. You both knew you couldn’t give in but that was rather difficult when you actually needed to see one another.

You ripped a hole in your suit, where your waist was and only Miguel seemed to have the supplies to fix it. A massive horizontal gash that exposed your skin. Your brain was dreading to see him, your heart said otherwise and your pussy throbbed at the mere idea. It was like you were magnets, constantly avoiding due to the the impossibility to be pulled apart. Taking a deep breath to keep a cool calm head seemed to work momentarily and then you walked into his lair.

Miguel could smell you from here. His skin tightened and his muscles tensed when he felt your scent wrap around him, like a warm golden glow. He would taint you in red. He would break you. He knew this. That’s why he could never….

“You know you can’t be here.” He sighed, ignoring your presence as he was staring blankly at his screens. “You know I can’t concentrate.” He added quietly.

You swallowed thickly and closed your eyes, wincing slightly. “I know we’re not- Look, I just need you to fix my suit and Lyla told me I had to fix it immediately or the wiring would go to shit. You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need to.”

Miguel paused and blinked slightly at the last thing you said. You did need to see him. You did need to be here but neither of you wanted to talk about the true reason. He turned his head to face you. He wanted to groan at the sight of you.

Miguel had to force himself not to stare at your body and the way your suit clung to it, there was a massive gash in it that exposed the skin of your waist. Why did God always have to test his patience? Lord above give him strength. Even with his impeccable self control and strength, it took everything in his power to resist the urge to throw you against the floor and...Miguel groaned softly and rolled his eyes. “If that's what it takes...”

“I know you want to get rid of me quickly. I promise it won’t take long.” You say hurriedly as you hop onto his platform. You were really close to each other now, You swallowed and your breathing became slightly more shallow. Please let this be quick. Please. You begged silently. “I just need you too stitch my suit on my waist for me.” You say. “Quickly…” You added breathily. You had to get closer for him to actually help you and as he sat in his chair and pulled out his supplies, he raised an eyebrow to lure you closer. He felt his body tighten as you breathed so near him. The electricity was sizzling between you. Your heart beats synchronized and your minds only on one thing.

You got closer and you were practically standing inbetween his legs, you saw his breath hitch slightly but Miguel was a master at not letting his mask slip. He was good at pretending. His brow furrowed slightly, making a fruitless effort of avoiding that fucking look in your eyes. That face. Fuck.

This was bad, this was so dangerous. Being this close could end in a catastrophe for the both of you.

He paused before he put his fingers on your suit, a spark of electricity caused your body to still. He just closed his eyes and breahed out hurridly. He bit the bullet and grabbed your waist for you to stumble closer.

He needed to get this over and done with. No matter what it took, he needed to get you away from him. You gasped a little when he did that and he could feel that sound travel all the way to his dick. He tried to ignore it by getting to work and scanning your suit and then stitching up. His fingers worked at the speed of light. Your eyes just widened, continuing your mindless gawk as hazy thoughts of grabbing his hair and lowering his head further down between your thighs clouded your head. You tried to shake the sensation of his hands gripping your waist but it felt impossible, part of you genuinely wanted to grit your teeth until they shattered- the tension hurt.

Miguel always seemed to be perfectly fine on the outside, he had masked emotions other than anger or annoyance very well but this was causing that picture of himself to falter at the seams. Internally, he was breaking apart. Weakened by desperation. Lord, you were his weakness.

Images of you flashed through his head as he stitched, he wanted you tied up. Yes. With your own webs. Letting him have his way with you, pounding you until you cried and begged him to stop. He would fill you up, make you guzzle his cum as you pleaded for more. He let out a soft grunt at the sheer idea.

His fingers moved quickly as he sewed your torn suit together. “Why are you always getting hurt?” Miguel's voice was raspy, and he was unable to control his breathing. Miguel did his best to look away, but the smell of your exposed your skin was making it hard for him to think clearly. Your body was perfect. Jesus, it was like it was made for him.

You swallowed hard, your thoughts became hazy as he was this close. His hands were brushing on you and you tensed slightly at his fleeting barely there touchs. “Mm- I’m not always getting hurt.” You say softly, if you said it any louder you were sure you would moan.

“Right,” Miguel mumbled softly, his words catching in his throat. “I'm sure you were just passing by when you ran into trouble.” Miguel kept his eyes down to avoid meeting your gaze. All you could do was scowl at him. He finished his work and immediatly grabbed your waist and pushed you away as he got up from his chair to stare at his screens again as a means to avoid looking at you. “Don’t come back here.” He muttered at you seriously.

“I won’t.” You glowered at his broad and muscular back. You lied though, you were sure you’d be back. “But…I can’t keep going on like this.”

His ears pricked up at your admission and he felt the exact same way. Miguel's body was on fire. He wanted you. Right now. He didn't know what would happen if he gave into his urges. His body was shaking, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his hands to himself. He was trying not to touch you, but every move you made, every tiny shift, only made your body more desirable. “Please, go.” Miguel choked, his voice harsh and strained.

You did as you were told and you hurriedly left. Praying that this would naturally wear off as long as you stayed away from him.

-

It had been a few days since your interaction and you had both successfully avoided each other since then but he could still feel your presence whenever you were at HQ. He could still feel the air in his office carrying your scent.

Now it was 2AM and he was still in his office. He was banging another hookup over his desk, she was bent over just so he couldn’t look at her. She was pretty but she wasn’t you. As his dick slid in and out, her moans fell flat to him, he only wanted to hear you. He was praying that this one would be the one that made him forget about you, that this one would tamper down his sexual anger and frustration but no. He got angrier. Animalistic. All he could think about was you. He was pretty sure he was hurting her when he was like this. His mood soured when he wondered what he would do to you if he finally gave in. Would he hurt you? God, what if he did….

He never wanted to hurt you.

He knew you would never be able to take it, to take all of it.

You on the other hand were in your apartment, also fucking a random hookup. You were hoping it would help your predicament but if anything it was making you more frustrated. He wasn’t fucking big enough. Yeah, his dick was better than average but it didn’t have the girth that Miguel would- You shook your head out of any thoughts of him and decided to be in the moment. You decided that it was a terrible moment. There were much more irritating things than faking an orgasm like your incessant need for Miguel.

Even though you were being fucked by another guy all you could thing about was: Miguel, Miguel, Miguel.

Nothing was working, for either of you.

-

Your mind wandered towards another way to fix this. Maybe there was a suppressant or an antidote to help keep down these primal urges and desires. These thoughts were keeping you from doing any sort of work, you couldn’t concentrate properly. Your mind was burned alive by constant thoughts of him in so many different situations. So you decided to talk to him about it. He’d probably end up killing you for even thinking about it but you were way passed that.

You sighed deeply before thrumming up the guts to see him again. Entering his lair was never a welcome idea to anyone but you and him were struggling and he was lying to himself. Miguel felt your presence again, your scent, your skin. He tampered down the jumping urge to drag you by your ankles and-

“I know you didn’t want me here again but we need to talk.” You crossed your arms but it further accentuated your chest, his stare lingered for a moment and he looked blank. Then he looked back down at a new suit he was fixing up and seemed unamused. That look just made you even more wet and desperate for his attention.

“No… we don’t.” He said thickly and your knees started buckling under the pressure. You swallowed.

“Uhm…there has to be an antidote for this or a suppressant for whatever…this is.” You said hurriedly. “Maybe I can manufacture one, I think I might be able to if I could genetically scan the spider and take it’s DNA and change its raw qualities…” Miguel watched you pace desperately as you rambled on, not even looking at him, you were pleading for a solution to this and he was getting more and more annoyed.

He stared at your lips as you spoke. Flashes of you on your knees, drooling and gagging on his cock pierced the forefront of his mind, causing his legs to feel nothing but limp. The things he wanted to do to you. He was an addict because of you.

“There is no cure for it!” He grunted loudly, cutting you off. “Hell, I’ve tried to make one since the first day I met you and all you’ve done is make me lose my fucking self control. You just standing there is enough to make me go crazy for you and I. Can’t. Help. It. I can smell you, I know you want me too but we have to fight it. We have to manage this because if you let me get close to you, I know I’ll hurt you and I won’t let that opportunity arise.” He admitted in a frenzy, his teeth almost shattering against each other, jaw clenching and unclenching. He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair as his eyes bore a ruby hue and his breathing became uneven and heavy.

You bit your lip at his angry outburst, not being able to deny how turned on you were by his rage and lack of self control. Part of you thought your mind was playing tricks on your or that you were hullicinating all of this as you were dulled by a cloud of lust, but no. You were very aware now that it was real. You were both feral for each other. You just glowered him.

“I have denied every single impulse I have ever had for you.” You grit out. “Maybe I want you to make it hurt, because any other kind of hurt right now is better than the pure need for you to fuck me right here, right now. You are not the only one who is capable of making another person hurt. Maybe I blame you. Maybe I can’t get you out of my head. Maybe I need your cock in me. Whatever….I just need to do something about it or else I’ll go fucking insane.” Miguel watched your brows furrow and your lips loosen as you uttered those fated words. His eyes glazed over twice and widened, your words were sharp and unfeeling. He believed that if you weren’t this way you wouldn’t find a need to be cruel and direct, the way your eyes glimmered yet darkened with need and passion caused him to halt in his tracks, now you were inching closer to him and he didn’t know what to do.

“It's impossible to create an antidote,it genetically and chemically changed our code.” Miguel mumbled, his voice husky and strained. “We're stuck like this...” He sighed, trying to collect himself. “Look, we just have to learn how to handle this," Miguel muttered, trying to convince himself more than you. “We'll learn to control ourselves. This...this is manageable.”

He didn’t believe any of the lies he spewed. There’s no way this was managable.

“Why do I get the feeling that that is not true.” You say softly, biting your lip and blinking up at him. Neither of you knew how you got this close now, it was like you were drawn to each other.

“Stop giving me that look. I-I can’t-“ He breathed heavily, trying to rescue himself or beg for your mercy. He didn’t know which one. Miguel hung his head and quickly turned his head as to not face you. “I’ll hurt you.” He added stoically.

“I. Don’t. Care ”