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mygnolia · 9 months ago

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to weave my love ⭒ n. riki

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he’s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, action ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 17k (i’m sorry idk why either.)

⭒ INCLUDES -› SPOILERS FOR GREAT GATSBY, cursing, non-graphic injuries (reader discretion advised), yes i made the patching up with first aid kit trope SUE ME!! takes place in a busy city similar to new york never specified, reader is rich, jake and heeseung are seniors and riki’s a junior, is riki stupid? yes… jake reveals stuff because he is also a little silly, reader wears a red dress!

⭒ GREAT GATSBY -› basically jay gatsby has this weird amt of money but no one rlly knows how he got it (nefarious reasons) and hes been in love with this girl daisy for five years but then she got married to tom buchanan but he gets rich so he can get the house across from her and wistfully watch her and he pines after her like CRAZY but he dies at the end

⭒ REN SAYS...special huge fat kiss to thena @sensitively-taken you will be in the will when im a millionaire THANK YOU for helping me with so much of this I WUV U AND I WLL BE WAITING FOR UR HUENING FIC!!! | LIBRARY

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM PRE-ADULTHOOD STRESS, IF THAT’S EVEN A THING.

What exactly does Riki have to worry about as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school? Right now, his most daunting responsibility is catching up on the chapters of The Great Gatsby because the only thing Riki’s actually read from the novel is that the main character shares a name with his best friend and senior, Park Jay. His second most daunting responsibility is handling the fact that with the new seating chart in his Literature class, it means he’s sitting next to the object of his very subtle affections, you.

See, the problem with having a crush on you is that Nishimura Riki’s committed to thinking that you’re way out of his league, and unfortunately, the boy believes that almost too well. Not only are you minted beyond his wildest dreams (having seen your posts on social media), but you’re hardworking, helpful, and dedicated to your role as student body treasurer. He’s already understood that you’d never go for a guy like him. Maybe someone more like Park Sunghoon, whose parents’ salary matches yours. If Riki lived in a rural estate with generational wealth, handling the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing might be a bit easier for him, considering he wouldn’t have to try so hard in school. It might even change the fact that Riki dealt with some alleyway criminals last night and is currently catching up on lost sleep, as your English Literature teacher goes on and on about a project on the book you’re reading.

In class, and even sometimes outside of the classroom, your small tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings has landed you in some awkward situations—like now.

“I don’t really tell anyone this, but I hate Daisy.” And instead of getting a response, you glance over to see Nishimura Riki slumped on the desk. Without trying to make preconceptions about what could land him in a situation like this, you poke his arm, stifling a smile at how his eyes widen when you’ve caught him rubbing the very obvious sleep from his eye.

“Sorry,” he whispers, still fighting the post-nap grogginess, “Did I miss anything?”

(Nope.)

Shaking your head, you return your attention to your teacher as he continues to answer questions. The second Mr. Yoo assigned a report, you wanted to die even more considering the work you had to do on top of the impending due dates. But for it to be partnered? And for you to get seated and paired with the one boy who's known for not caring about school? Maybe things are a little stacked against you, but there has to be a reason why Riki’s somehow still passing all his classes…right?

Considering it’s the last assignment about the book, you’re glad that you already read it so many times to know what you want to put into words. And in retrospect, answering a few open-ended questions about it can’t be that hard—the hardest part would be getting your partner to stay awake in class.

A small tap at your side makes you turn to face Riki, who you see has frantically written a page full of notes about the project in the past three minutes and how he can succeed. “Can you go over the first part? Sorry…I was…y’know.”

“It’s a partner project. And we’re partners.” You wince at the awkward wording.

Great! Riki was caught sleeping and that was your first impression of him for your paired assignment? Riki feels so stupid in front of you right now—in front of your meticulous notes with annotations and proper highlighting. He wants to curl up into a ball when he sees you glance over at his haphazard attempt to look like he was paying attention when, in truth, he was trying to remember the dream he had just ten minutes prior. When you offer him a small smile and nod, leaning over with your notebook in hand, he sighs in relief, thanking whoever it was that let him get away with his naps without the consequence of irritating you afterwards.

The bell rings when Mr. Yoo stops talking, and you pause, startled by the sound. Instead of leaving, however, you pack your bag and shuffle to his side of his desk, continuing to parrot details about your report in hopes that it all makes sense. You need to make sure he knows what he’s doing.

“I think one of the questions he mentioned was like ‘Is Gatsby a good person?’ and do you remember how in Chapter Eight…” The rest gets zoned out and forgotten in the boy’s head, because he in fact does not know what happened in Chapter Eight. He doesn’t know what happened…in any part of the book. But he agrees anyway, pretending like he understands what scene you’re trying to explain. What he notices is how thorough and dedicated you are towards ensuring he comprehends what you’re explaining, and although it could be because you don’t want him to fail you both, he chooses to believe you’re doing it because you tolerate him.

You’re so engrossed in covering all the little details and telling him random tidbits regarding the book that you don’t realize your feet have made it all the way to the cafeteria. “But here, let me get your number. I’ll totally explain more over text.”

Riki is definitely not freaking out when he silently grabs his phone and hands it to you with the contact page, staring a little longer than necessary at the cute smiley face you added to your name. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcibly tearing his eyes away from the ten digits of your number, “For helping me with this, too.”

“Of course! The Great Gatsby is a fun read for me. A little hard to read sometimes because of some of the characters, but still easy to understand.” And Nishimura RIki realizes that he has to do well. He’ll read the book five times over if it means gaining your approval.

Jake notices something a little different about the tuft of black and blonde hair when his friend walks in. The first thing is that he’s actually here, and that you’re next to him, smiling. The boy rubs his eye to make sure he’s not dreaming somehow, but when he looks up again, you’re waving goodbye and joining your friends across the room.

“Did you get hit with something while fighting a villain that makes you more bold? I feel like I just saw you and ____ talking,” Jake starts when Riki finally joins him with his lunch.

Riki laughs, shoving Jake’s head out of embarrassment and opening his chips. “It’s just school. Got some project in English and she says we’re partnered.” He looks over at his friend chuckling, rolling his eyes at how Jake pokes at his side and wiggles his eyebrows.

“I better hear you two are dating by next week.”

“Who’s dating by next week?” Heeseung places his bag of food in front of them and takes a seat, opening the fast food he got last period and stuffing a fry in his mouth.

“Riki and ____. Let me have one,” Jake answers, reaching inside the bag.

Heeseung looks over at his junior curiously. “You asked her out?” And the two older students hear a groan from the boy in question.

“Me and ____ aren’t anything, for your information.” He prods at the vegetables on his tray and takes a bite before a look of displeasure washes over his face. “You’re both way too excited for two guys who do not have girlfriends.”

“Hey! You know the girl I’m always fighting with is the reason why I’m single. I have to focus on studying to do well in school to do better than her.” Heeseung’s whining falls on deaf ears as Riki smiles victoriously, seeing how defensive the former got.

Jake offers him a shrug of defeat. “I got nothing.”

The three of them fall into normal conversation and Riki finally explains everything that happened during English. “So you’re telling me your plan to ask ____ out went down from 18 months to 6?” And with a nod from the younger, they both groan once more. Heeseung exclaims, “We’re both going to graduate, dumbass. Make the plan go down to like…two months? Please?”

Jake cuts in before Riki has a chance to respond. “Make it one and a half, so we can see you with a prom date before leaving forever.”

“You act as if you’re going to die after graduation. It’s like you’re begging to be a super senior.”

And they’re silenced immediately.

“Do you think the guy I was with earlier hates me?” you ask on the other side of the room. Minjeong stares at you blankly, waiting for your explanation. “I don’t know if you saw when I walked in but I was talking to this really tall guy with blonde hair and black tips. He seemed really out of it, like he kept staring at me and nodding. I think I scared him off by talking about the book too much.”

Sunghoon, who is also listening in, opens his neatly packed lunchbox and begins mixing his noodles. “I think you did scare him off, ____.”

“Not helping,” Minjeong interjects, “Just talk to him more and maybe he’ll warm up to you. You two sit together in class anyways, so hopefully he’ll talk more?”

“I know him,” Sunghoon comments, “Well, sort of. I’m friends with Jake who’s friends with Riki, and it seems like all that boy does is sleep.”

“Maybe he’s really good at subconscious in-class comprehension?” you try, taking a bite of your sandwich. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with treasurer stuff.”

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE IF HE SWINGS INTO ANOTHER WALL AT 100MPH LIKE HOW HE ALMOST DID TONIGHT.

All he’s had on his mind since school ended till now is how he should probably text you, if he really discarded the slimy acid monster from last week properly, and when the prom theme is going to be released, but there’s something amiss that confuses his spidey-senses and makes Riki much more alert.

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he had before, focusing on the situation at hand and looking around to follow his instinct. Riki cautiously plants himself on the side of a random apartment building to get a sense of what's going on. A tingle of some sort of in the air permeates the material of his suit and leaves him shivering from the cold.

He doesn't like it one bit.

Moving to the side of the building to the top, the boy finally catches a glimpse of something when he gets a decent view of the city and highway systems. Riki knows something’s wrong with the bridge the closer he gets. He zips from one side of the tall, metal tower to the other, crawling down on all fours making sure he isn’t caught. He feels the electric feeling once more, only amplified. It runs up his spine and he wants to slap it, almost like a frantic, summertime bug. The air around him is charged with something he has never recognized before. With a puzzled expression under his mask, Riki continues to investigate the surrounding area.

Riki finds a lone figure with some sort of attachment to his left arm, like a long glove made out of metal. The bulkiness of it seems to have no impact on his body as the man fiddles with the contraption, and the boy watches with bated breath as the machine fizzes and spurts with electricity. It begins to glow as power concentrates on his plated palm and the superhero sees it for the first time. It’s like a fizz, like a match striking at fire only to produce a quick burst of friction, but it almost feels liquid when he watches the person play with the flickering blue ball of electricity. It dances in the dark in a hauntingly beautiful way, with bolts jutting out from the metal as it spurts and buzzes with a life-like manner.

A spark.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The sound of Riki’s voice from the end of the bridge causes the stranger to look up with wide eyes. Although Riki fully expects it to simply enhance strength or block damage, the immediate strike of blue that flies straight towards him is anything but defensive. With a yelp, he jumps away, this time refusing to show himself.

What the hell was that?

He knows he should go back down there to change things and get the person and the metal pieces away before it escalates, but when he goes back down to watch, it's ten times worse. The bright blue illuminates the scarred face of the villain as he’s picked up the metal arm–but this time, it’s no longer clunky and sparking, but fused into his arm.

Riki’s face pales at the sudden change before his body acts on its own and he shoots out a web to stop the man.

The villain is shocked by the intrusion, but quickly yanks free from the webbing and flicks another bolt of electricity, one that flies much faster now that the metal flows into the arm instead of simply resting on the skin. It’s unlike something Riki has ever seen, something that is so controlled in motion and yet so erratic in nature, and it instills a deathly fear when it grazes his arm he hisses in pain. The sharp feeling springs Riki into action as he jumps away. He’s lucky another bolt isn’t sent his way, seeing how the villain’s too busy marveling at the power of his new gadget.

“You know that fucking hurts, right?” He yells out, cupping his wound. “Maybe leave the gadgets to the kids!”

The man scoffs. “It better have hurt. I sacrificed half my body for this to work.”

“But why?” All Riki wants is answers. Some sort of explanation.

The man charges up yet another bolt, almost like a laser gun is built into the machine. “Less talking, more running, Spiderman.”

That scared the shit out of him.

The boy doesn’t have time to think as he jumps out from the dark tunnel to the bridge and up the metal towers—he hates having to fight with people right below. The villain follows in pursuit, almost crumbling the metal with his engineered arm as he hoists himself quickly. Riki continues to jump between the structure to avoid the flashes, trying to get out and apprehend the man as quickly as possible. When he reaches the top, however, he feels death is near as he glances down at the villain below who’s quickly gaining on him. He shoots out webs to slow him temporarily, letting himself fall and swing from the side of the tower to escape.

What he doesn’t see on the way across the bridge is the flash that misses his cheek and hits his thigh instead. It burns, and mid-air, Riki gives the wound a quick assessment before he lands on the metal, immediately forcing his body to climb. While dealing with his wound, he fails to notice the villain swinging from the bridge support lines to meet him.

He needs to end this fast before he becomes burnt toast.

Riki doesn’t often rely on instinct to carry him, but he can tell that the villain he’s facing isn’t just a criminal.

“Land another hit, would you?” he tries to say, his voice strained from the pain in his arm and leg. It doesn’t do much to deter the man in front of him as the arm continues to destroy and bend the metal on the way up. “What are you going to do now, Sparky?”

The man says nothing, charging energy into his metal glove again before aiming and focusing on the target: him.

Riki jumps off, not able to properly land his web in the right spot as he goes from one section of the bridge to the other. The man behind him looks enraged at the boy’s attempt to escape—so much so that he reaches out with his normal hand to try to grasp the suit when Spider-Man swings past him. Instead of the feeling of fabric, the villain feels sticky spider fluid on his fingers. Riki shoots out a web, one that curls around the villain’s wrist and drags him off the tower. Instead of being able to launch him into the surrounding waters, the man slips from the poorly shot-out webs and falls from mid air into the sea of frantic cars, including one semi truck that collides directly with his arm. In the air, the boy winces when he hears honks and shouts from the impact, hoping it’s the last time he’ll have to witness it.

With his gaze trained on the falling figure, the weakly attached web breaks, and Riki all of a sudden starts falling down as well. He curls up defensively before bracing for impact, curling into himself when he feels the metal dent and the truck driver scream from outside of the parked vehicle, the body of the villain right in front of it.

Riki staggers, holding onto his arm and thigh the best he can before getting up. With wobbly steps and a small jump, he lands near the unconscious man, whose metal arm is cracked and fizzling—something that Riki knows is bound to leave more scars.

“Call the police. I’ll get rid of the pieces.” Although Riki wants to figure out who the criminal is and make sure he’s properly apprehended, the gashes in the boy's limbs leave him winded and exhausted. With hot metal scraps bound together by webbing in his hands, Riki swings out and dumps it somewhere rural, trying his best to cover the pieces with the pounding headache that

Riki revisits the secluded spot under the bridge, looking for clues to the man’s identity, and his expression falls when he notices a lanyard dangling near a trash can.

His name, his position, and the company. FLiGHT Corp. The company name caught the boy’s eye, and he pockets the item before leaving.

It seemed like he was a normal research scientist, but Riki’s recollection of the scars and tattered skin leaves him retracting his last thought. He heard something about the failure of a time travel machine at FLiGHT, and if the mass of the incident was anything to go by, he was in the center of it.

No matter how many times Riki tries to get it out of his head, on the way home, all he can think about is the inexperience he displayed and the lack of response he gave Riki during the whole time. But Riki can’t bring himself to really take away someone’s life—and maybe for that, he’s a horrible superhero.

He knows he should stop the man before it's too late, and especially with how many self-proclaimed villains there have been, it's not easy to see so many innocent people ruin their lives chasing a power that inevitably consumes them. He knows it’ll only get worse if he lets them run free.

And while the superhero has never been fully honest with himself, there are many times where Riki hates his role as Spider-Man, and wishes that he was just some teenage boy who didn't have the lives of others in his palm. He wishes he didn't have to sacrifice so much to stay behind a mask—and he wonders deep down if there’s anyone else who felt the same.

His swings lead him across the city above hundreds of lives he has to protect, and he tries to find some semblance of peace. He thinks about how he has his homework due despite having just risked his life, he thinks about how your project is going—and about you.

In the night under the stars, Nishimura Riki wishes for something just a bit normal. He wishes a good night for himself, but also for you, wherever you could be.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM TRYING TO READ THIS BOOK IN ONE NIGHT.

The Great Gatsby is exactly like how you described it; a little hard to get through but fun with the plot’s eccentric characters. He’s pretty sure he could’ve just used a detailed SparkNotes explanation for the book, but having a crush can make someone do weird things. And in Nishimura Riki’s case, his infatuation has got him reading a novel about morally-skewed characters and rich society to impress you.

When you come into class barely on time, Riki gives you a confused look when you sit down, but doesn’t comment on it any further. Instead, he takes out his book and tries to act like his eyes weren’t closing shut from exhaustion by the time Daisy was finally confessing how she loved Gatsby.

The moment Mr. Yoo stops talking, however, Riki isn’t asleep—much to your surprise. He has his book out, pages filled with sticky notes and a whole section of his notebook dedicated to characters (written in bright red to keep him awake) and their traits.

“I got it.” It’s the first thing he says when you two are left to do in-class work. It’s ominous, and maybe a little too enthusiastic in a high school literature class for a boy who doesn’t even care that much for school, but you’ll accept it with open arms if it means you get a helping hand on your project.

“Continue,” you tell him slowly, leaning back in your chair to listen to him. And you don’t know why, but a small part of you thinks that the boy who sleeps every period the book was discussed wouldn’t have much to say or contribute to such an open-ended prompt, but life is full of surprises.

What you fail to notice is how Riki is nervous and his stomach does at least twenty flips before he swallows dryly and starts rambling in hopes to impress you and redeem himself from his embarrassing slumber a few days ago.

“So you know how our prompt is based on one character and basically all their actions?” he asks, and you nod, absentmindedly thumbing a sheet in your journal. “I’m thinking we should talk about Jay Gatsby because so much is revealed to us about him that we might as well use it to our advantage. Y’know, talking about how the theme of exploitation and secrets is veiled under Gatsby’s desire for Daisy.”

“You don’t think Gatsby’s a good character?” Riki wants to tell you that Gatsby is more relatable than good or bad, but he shakes his head.

“I mean, not really.” He feels like with those four words, he’s completely changed the trajectory of his relationship with you from a positive slope to completely downhill—and a wave of panic washes over him. “Should I? I mean, I could see him as more redeemable if you gave me examp-“

You wave your hand to quell his worries. “To be honest, I don’t like him either. But he’s an interesting main character to write about, so I think we should go with your idea.”

To win your approval feels like he’s won at least three fights against a villain in a row without getting any bad injuries—it feels good. And for the rest of the period, you are able to finish a detailed outline of your work for the next few weeks, mapping out sections for each other, and he even gets to see a part of prom planning on a word document you had open. He considers your shared productivity a win when he packs up and bids you goodbye before leaving for lunch.

One wave doesn’t catch Riki’s attention from across the room. Not even two, or three calls of his name could get Nishimura Riki out of his thoughts, and Jake frowns before moving up in the lunch line.

“Something’s caught your eye again.” Jake feigns innocence and sighs dramatically as he places the food down next to Riki’s plate. “Could it possibly be our school treasurer?” Jake laughs, leaning over to catch a glimpse of what’s got his friend so entranced and non-responsive.

Riki scrunches his nose, annoyed, but never breaking his gaze from where you’re sitting. “We talked in class–like, a lot,” is all he says, paying his friend no mind. “She’s genuinely so understanding.”

“God, I don’t think you can be any more down bad for her than you are right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he notices you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last week. Let me have this before I die tomorrow.”

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair, “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response.

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.”

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.”

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.”

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.”

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up in my suit. Do that cheesy upside down kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spider-Man thing, but prom definitely.”

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter.

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“What’s your project about, anyways? Didn’t you tell me last night that she gave you her number? Must be pretty serious if she wants to text you.” Riki furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head.

“It’s just tying the theme of the book to one character and writing about how they show it. So we did the theme of money and Gatsby, because it’s easy and mentioned so many times.”

Jake gawks. “You must really like her,”

“I was planning to read it regardless of who I was partnered with.”

“Okay- that’s debatable.” There goes another one of Riki’s nachos.

“Gross.”

He thinks things are going pretty well for you two. The report is being written and your quotes are basically finding themselves, so Riki should give himself a pat on the back for pitching the initial idea for how to go about your assignment. Maybe reading the whole book offered him a few useful pointers, and he goes to sleep that night satisfied with your progress. Maybe Heeseung and Jake were right—maybe he could finally ask you out by prom.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO SAVE THE CITY FROM YET ANOTHER MONSTER TERRORIZING THE STREETS.

He wakes up the next morning, not expecting his alarm to alert his senses to danger. It rings in his head and makes him feel delirious, trying to shake sleep off as he looks out the window for any visible sign of what's wrong. If he could hear the danger in his head then that meant someone could be hurt, and he could go to school without a few hours of sleep if he worked fast enough, right?

Riki slips into his suit without much thought and goes to crack his window open, only to look back at his clock and read the horrific time of 6:23AM.

Who the hell picks a fight with a teenager at this ungodly time?

Then, he shoots from his wrists, once, twice, and suddenly, he's off, covering more ground through the air in just three seconds than he ever could while walking or running for minutes on end.

The source of his tingling spidey-sense is some large metal centipede creature that was setting off car alarms in a neighborhood near the market. Thankfully, no one was really awake to be caught in the crossfire, but he has to figure out how the hell he's going to catch that thing in...he checks his watch…twenty minutes?

Hopefully, his instinct will help him win this time—again.

The web he shoots out does nothing to stop the monster, and considering how it connected them both, the threads only drag the superhero to the edge of the building he was initially watching from. With some yelling and pulling, he finally detaches, and realizes that the odd sizzling feeling in his bonds must be from the same source as a few days ago; Spark.

He had this gut feeling that a villain as strong as him wouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, but his wounds were so deep and the blood loss so bad from a few nights ago that he couldn’t have truly dumped him in the ocean without fainting or suffering something permanent, and although Riki hoped things in the universe would work itself out, the presence of the giant fifty foot insect alone is proof that things were not in his favor.

He jumps off the building onto another, working quickly as he strings up a few webs between the houses as a wall for the monster, watching it slide and knock over cars in its wild pursuit. The monster spends a few seconds breaking down the wall of webbing and climbing over it, the many legs easily breaking through. As the superhero jumps across buildings and keeps track of the centipede’s movement, he has no idea why it isn’t going for him, and that makes his job much harder without the attention of the monster. One glance at the direction the centipede is headed in sets off another ding in Riki’s head—but this time, it finally clicks why the centipede is headed away from the boy.

It’s attracted to the power plant.

Riki immediately jumps and swings off of a lamp post, using the momentum of gravity and the force of his swing to propel him faster than the slithering creature. Squinting, he holds out his fist and points his pointer and pinky out, following the movement of the centipede as he aims.

Bam.

He sends clusters of silky white threads down precisely at the first pair of legs to pin it down. The webs stop the creature momentarily, and Riki doesn’t have time to watch how the body shrinks up and fizzes out with blue shocks as it tries to wiggle loose and malfunctions. This fight would be over soon, and the boy smiles when he jumps down to shoot more webs to apprehend the centipede. It wiggles and sends electricity out through parts of its body, trying to pry itself out. He expects it to simply be a robot of sorts following a mission considering its avoidant behavior, but as he approaches the tail, the monster suddenly swings at Riki, and its mass and speed is incomparable to the boy’s reaction speed.

Riki lands into a tree and someone’s garage, feeling the crumbling wall falling all over him and the sudden pain blooming in his lower back.

This fight will, in fact, not be over soon.

With his superhuman abilities, Riki grabs onto the metal of the car beside him to hoist himself up, coughing from the dust, and jumping over the rubble to see how quickly the centipede creature can get out, without regard for his current state. The sound and rumble of the giant monster is all he needs to know that the traps are effective, but not at the previous capacity.

The plan is simple: apprehend the legs and crush the head, where Riki assumes the decision-making and programming is taking place. But the monster’s angry and erratic actions throw a wrench in his plan. Its legs move faster, digging into the cement and leaving ruin in its wake as it continues down the road. While both the villain and superhero are fast, the distance between the power plant is finite—and only grows smaller and smaller.

Although Riki can feel the bruises coming, he runs and swings, hearing the wind in his ears as he catches up to the centipede in no time. He tries the same tactics again–aim, shoot, stick, all the while keeping his distance. Although the monster’s body spans incredibly long, and should carry an immense amount of weight, the way it snaps at Riki’s flying body and sends shockwaves through his core leaves him shivering as his body slams into the ground, coughing. It hurts all over, and it feels like there’s weight on his eyes when he tries to open them and get up. His head is spinning as he staggers onto his knees, clutching his chest as he watches the centipede shrivel and crackle.

It seems like the voltage produced is a double-ended sword, one that burns up the centipede body as much as it deals damage, and with the way the mutant creeps towards the electricity of the plant, Riki gets the feeling there’s a magnetic pull that forces the mutant to continue to crawl even against its instinct to stop.

Despite his waning strength, however, Riki knows better than to half finish the job like last time. He creates a net from experience, weaving together the thickest and most durable threads to trap the entirety of the slowly approaching creature. It seems to crawl slowly up the makeshift barrier, knocking its head against the white and spreading the bright blue waves of its energy throughout. The boy watches as the thin white mass absorbs all of it and clings to the creature. It works, finally, after his attempts to nullify its movements, and he knows that despite the ache in his every step, the almost mummified centipede that hangs between several roofs for all the neighbors to gawk at is his sure sign of victory.

All he remembers is hearing a familiar call of his hero name before his legs give out and his head hits Jake’s chest.

Holy fucking shit is the first thing Riki thinks when he wakes up.

He’s not out of his tattered suit and he feels grimy all over, but his body has done wonders in reducing the otherwise fatal injuries he got. No human body should be able to withstand two energy-filled blasts, but his suit and superhuman healing are of greater help than ever in alleviating the damage from his wounds.

He knows why he’s in his bed with bandages thrown over his open wounds. He knows that every time something like this happens, it’s Jake who shoos away the concerned civilians, telling them he’s a medic. Jake is not a medic—rather, he’s a seventeen year-old boy who knows about his friend’s double life and with all the times he’s saved Riki, someone might as well dub him the greatest medic of all time.

The clock on his bedside table has only served as a bearer of bad news. He looks over to see how it’s practically midday, and he’s missed yet another day of school from fighting crime. He’s in no condition to get up or get his bag, seeing how his hair is frizzy and his cheek has a cut that would warrant questioning. It seems only fair that he stays absent, and before he falls back asleep, he only prays you aren’t too mad at him for leaving the seat next to you empty.

But you aren’t mad, just worried. The soreness in his muscles doesn’t go away though, and he groans when he sits up in his bed, with bandages around his arms and an ice pack discarded next to him.

He’s most definitely not coming to school like this.

While you bore holes into the clock hanging off the wall, that doesn’t speed up the time. Two minutes pass, then another minute. As your classmates find their partners and begin discussing, you notice how the room gets louder with the due date looming near. It’s the first time you’re alone without the familiar boy beside you, and something hangs low in your chest when you put in a pair of earphones and open your laptop.

Riki’s absence should have no effect on you. After all, you’re both just high school students who’ve talked once or twice, and yet you still look over at the empty chair. Staring doesn’t make Riki appear, though, and you return to your edits. It feels empty without his insight, or without him asking you to help him with a passage. Riki was your solution to all things boring. If he wasn’t doing his work, then you two were laughing at something on his phone. And if you agreed to both do something other than the report, then you could ask for an extra opinion when deciding prom details. There was something freeing about working with him that attracted you. Riki knew how to lighten the mood on days that weren’t so good for you, but he also worked hard and let loose at the same time. There was a perfect balance in Riki’s life that you aspired to have; it was a good mix of playful, dedicated, and fun all in the same vein.

The words blend together on your screen. Jay Gatsby this, Tom Buchanan that, it all looks monotonous the more you keep trying to read and comprehend what exactly you’re talking about.

Before class is dismissed, Mr. Yoo steps to the front of the classroom to gather everyone’s attention. He introduces your new novel for the next month, explaining yet another large assignment associated with the text.

Truth be told, you don’t pay attention to any of it.

The only thing you remember to do is to grab extra copies of the printed graphic organizers, as you get out of your seat and rush out when class ends in pursuit of one specific boy.

“Sim Jaeyun!” The call of his name diverts Jake’s attention from his phone to your waving arm as you weave through the students and finally reach him.

“You can just call me Jake,” he explains, “what’s up?”

You begin to reach into your backpack, trying to feel for your folder, and pull out a few sheets. “These are for Riki.”

Jake cheers internally for his friend who’s busy recovering at home. “What, you got a crush on him or something?”

He tries to play it cool by teasing you, but the smile you bite back leaves the boy questioning if there really is anything going on. Jake knows better than to tell you anything about Riki’s feelings, and opts to instead grab the papers and to thank you for looking out for his friend.

“Is Riki okay?” You have to know, just to make sure he’ll be here tomorrow to cure your boredom.

What Jake says is much different than the nonchalant wave and half grin he gives you. “He’s just bedridden.”

“That’s pretty serious! Did he come down with anything?” He seemed fine yesterday, so what’s the catch?

He blurts, “He just got badly hurt.”

Immediately, Jake knows he’s fucked up.

Your confusion and silence answers him far more than words ever could–he basically hears the gears turning slowly in your head.

Jake weakly defends, “His parents had a fight with him because he hit his head or something. He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just bedridden from sadness, y’know?”

The look you give him is unconvinced, but when Heeseung pats him on the shoulder and waves to you, the boy realizes that maybe staying quiet would’ve been the better decision.

“I’ll see you later, ____.” And he’s off, waving half-heartedly and dragging a very confused Heeseung out of the cafeteria.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO WAKE YOU UP AS GENTLY AS HE CAN.

Ever since March started and flowers began to bloom, your energy seemed to do the opposite, dwindling until Riki catches you mirroring his frequent in-class action: sleeping. And it worries him beyond belief, because you’re not the type to fall asleep like… ever. However, Riki does not have the heart to wake you up, even if it’s with a little nudge that you probably barely feel with how light he taps. It breaks his heart to have to ask you to review what he has done, because the bell is about to ring and the teacher might just send you to detention if he catches you off-task.

The allergies always make Mr. Yoo irritable, and Riki knows not to get on his nerves.

Your eyes flutter open to the pokes and prodding from none other than Nishimura Riki, who gazes at you softly when you adjust to the bright classroom setting once more.

Panic settles in. “Wait- how long was I sleeping for?”

He shrugs and scrunches his nose, not giving you an answer as he finishes scribbling something in his notebook.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Your hand squeezes into a fist at the frustration that you’ve let your partner down.

And yet, Riki seems to be unfazed, frowning when he sees you stressing out. “Don’t ever sweat the little things, yeah? If there’s anything you ever need to talk about–trust me, I know what it’s like to have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.”

Smiling at him, you respond with, “Thank you, really.”

Being treasurer is daunting in the spring. It’s full of requests, forms, and small tasks that leave you spent by the end of the day. “But,” you glance at the clock to see just how much time is left, “how’d you know?”

He motions to your open computer with a now dark screen. “I saw your document pulled up. ____’s tasks or else she will be kicked out of student government,” he taunts, snickering when your eyes grow wide with embarrassment and you lightly nudge his shin with your foot in warning.

“It’s not polite to snoop,” and although you say that, you catch something in your peripheral vision. It’s a few drawings of a figure and gadget drawn, shaded from rigid shapes with small descriptions pointing to different places. You weren’t sure what was more surprising; how good the drawings were, or the subject of his imagination.

Weird. Inherently, there was nothing wrong with Riki drawing a villain, and you chalked it up to him being creative. Nothing more, nothing less.

He puts his hands up in surrender at your last comment, his grin showing anything but. Just one look at the boy makes you realize that everything you’ve just thought about is foolish.

There’s no way he’d have time to be a villain and a student. With one final thought, you let your raging thoughts rest and focus on the present; him. You’ve seen his hair messy, especially after his naps, but when Riki tries to style it like how he did today, you pay more attention to the streaks of blonde and how he often hides behind his bangs and scrunches his nose. It’s cute. He’s cute.

The truth is, you enjoy being around him like this, joking around and never worrying too much about your responsibilities and expectations. It’s refreshing. Being around Riki gives you the feeling that things will be okay in the end.

You snap out of your thoughts to see that his desk is empty, while your’s hasn’t changed one bit.

“You’re going to sell prom tickets now, right?” He makes small talk before leaving for lunch, closing the notebook you were suspiciously eying before slipping it into his bag.

“Yup,” you answer, popping the ‘p,’ “I’ll see you later,” and you two part ways.

All the long lines and constant distribution of change doesn’t allow much wiggle room for you to daydream. As time goes on, the ticket-selling line grows smaller and smaller, but the only thing you truly care about is eating the lunch your parents packed you. Your sandwich is probably sad and soggy now that there are only a few minutes of lunch left. When you finally sign off one last time after triple checking the forms are all correct, you let out a sigh, leaning back and finally getting a break.

Then, it hits you that you’re not even sure if the boy you’re fawning over is attending the biggest event of the year, and you feel stupid for forgetting to ask.

Yesterday was a rookie’s mistake–today, you’d make sure you get an answer from him.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah, whatever confidence he had when convincing himself he’d ask you out isn’t serving him well at this moment. Quite frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?”

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes for the new book you’re reading.

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it carefully, really because you don’t have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to be someone I know—someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from over-thinking if he keeps on wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM

☐ talk to ____ regularly

☐ don't make it awkward

☐ be..cute?

The boy decides that his superhuman responsibilities might be easier to complete than any of those three things.

He switches the subject to stop his head from hurting too much. “Did you finish the report?”

You still, and Riki’s question reminds you of the report looming over your head. In your defense, you two hadn’t brought it up much in the past week, and he didn’t seem to worry over how much of your time was spent emailing teachers or making spreadsheets. Although caught off guard, you’re quick to respond with, “What did we have to finish? I thought we were done since last week, but if there’s anything else-”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, biting his lip, “I meant, if you finished reading it.” And the answer is no, you haven’t read it since your last edit on it three days ago.

Within a few clicks, you find the document and scroll to the bottom, seeing the small note that Riki left that said ‘let me know how it looks.’ It’s sweet to know he thought about your input as much as you did his.

“While some can agree that Gatsby’s rise into high society was sketchy, Gatsby still retains the same reserved character from years ago, and doesn’t manipulate others into success or use his money for nefarious purposes. It’s not like he changed after his wealth, and it could be argued Gatsby loved Daisy until his last breath and was willing to die as long as she was happy, emphasizing the theme of sacrifice.

So, is Jay Gatsby a good person? The question targets the morality of a character who many can empathize with. Those who are charmed by his overwhelming love for Daisy would say that he’s committed textbook crimes, but focus more on the intent behind it. To pine after someone from a distance isn’t easy, but to pursue her after years of separation is even harder. It’s universally agreed, however, that love as a driving force doesn’t nullify what he’s done to others and the dirty schemes he’s enacted to gain the power he has. Therefore, Gatsby makes for an interesting main character, and highlights just how twisted a system around money can be.”

The last page is–for the most part–his writing, and your admiration for him grows when you finish reading and scroll to hit your Works Cited page.

“It’s good,” you tell him wholeheartedly, “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Riki cracks a smile at your light teasing, soaking up your praise.

“Now you know.” He shrugs. And he can only hope that you like him as much as you like his literary skills.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE COMES TO THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS EXACTLY LIKE JAY GATSBY,JUST WITHOUT THE MONEY—DESPERATE FOR THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS, DYING YOUNG, AND A FRAUD HIDING BEHIND SECRETS.

Nevermind the last one, he has to hide when he has an identity to protect as the city’s only superhero, but Riki feels his heart sink to his heels when he read a few weeks ago how much Gatsby simply adores Daisy. When Gatsby died, he scoffed, closing the book with a sudden disinterest. If he were the male lead, he wouldn’t have been laying in a pool for target practice. Maybe being a superhero teaches you how to avoid being easy bait for all your enemies, or maybe Gatsby was too carried away with love to think straight.

Fighting crime gives you insurmountable experience with sneaking around, but it wasn’t something he could just teach to anyone. When he gets this horrible gut feeling that something’s happened to you, he just knew something was wrong. He might not be easy to catch, but for anyone else? Definitely.

For everyone else, prom was a month away, but for you, it was three weeks of talking to your advisor and president, arguing with your other board members, and sitting behind that damn money box for another five days to sell tickets. For you, it was realizing that you were supposed to buy streamers and balloons yesterday on your way home from school. It was the thinly veiled disappointment in your board member’s texts when they told you they were at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’re busy, but how could you forget? Prom is so important for all of us. What if they don’t have what you need anymore?’ It all repeated in your head as you bit your lip in frustration and slipped on the first pair of shoes you could find. Although it was dark and dangerous, you could care less if it meant avoiding the passive aggressive comments you’d get tomorrow during your meeting.

There it is again: that little tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings.

You yelp when you feel someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you in, muffling your screams as he pulls you along. To see him on the news was worrying, but to see Spark in person with your life on the line is even worse.

Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle against the metal to no avail, and you curse every previous moment you spent worrying about balloons rather than your safety.

Spark suddenly stops, shoving you against the wall before his hand grabs a brick with his metal arm, beginning to climb. “Don’t let go.” And you don’t think twice before holding on.

The city view would be beautiful if you weren’t hearing your heartbeat in your ears or if you weren’t dangling from the railing of some company building, trying to wiggle yourself free of the rope around your wrists.

Spark speaks up, drumming his fingers on the railing next to you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is, would you?” And you furrow your eyebrows, genuinely questioning for a moment if he really knew how the superhero operated.

A voice from across the street puts a temporary hold on your thoughts, and you glance up to see a flash of blue and red soaring through the air, followed by a groan and a beam of light next to you. Seeing Spark’s powers right in front of you spurs you into action, yanking at the rope and trying to take tiny steps away from where they were fighting.

“From what I’m seeing, you wanted to hold someone hostage because you’re not feeling too good, huh?” Spider-Man shouts as he shoots out webs and blocks hits. You shake your head in partial disbelief of how unserious he is, but also how unbelievable all of this seems. “You tried to take a potion or something? I’m going to tell you this now, but these usually don’t work.”

Riki’s assumption is right, and considering how Spark now has a leg and arm from metal instead of just the arm, the procedure for the additional limb couldn’t have been easy. The superhero still proceeds with caution, making sure to pay attention to anything new as he dodges and fights back.

The villain immediately gets back up, stumbling for a moment before he regains his stance and runs towards the boy. You hear the clanging of fist hitting metal from their fight, and considering the difference in height and build, you’d expect Spider-Man to be easily flung to the side, but he holds his weight in battle.

Riki aims for around the left shoulder, where an abundance of stitches cover the skin and fuse the metal into muscle. He lands a hit, and almost another one, before a punch to the side knocks him from his momentum. The boy wheezes when his back makes instant contact with the ground, rolling and getting up before Spark has time to shoot.

He notices how quickly the gadget generates electricity now. Before, the beams took longer, and were easily predictable, but now, it glows bright for a moment before it fires directly in Riki’s path. The boy dodges the first, but the second one almost hits the top of his head before he ducks and creates distance.

From the roof-top, Riki scans his surroundings before making the split-second decision to jump.

He swings to the other side of the building, keeping you in his peripheral vision as he works on apprehending the villain in front of him. They spring into yet another fist fight, with Riki’s agility easily letting him avoid punches and land precise hits to make the previous injuries even worse.

You think Spider-Man has the upper hand in this, seeing as how none of Spark’s punches seem to slow down the superhero, but you hear something loud before you can register it.

You figure out what happened after Riki stumbles and suffers a blow to the stomach, sending him tumbling to the edge of the building. Spark knew that Spider-Man was avoiding his left arm—he knew that one wrong move paired with the tungsten material would have a lasting effect on the superhero’s fist.

Riki coughs from the impact before his spidey-sense rings, pulling him back into battle as he runs as fast as his body can take him.

You. He still needs to save you.

With renewed vigor, he continues to avoid the flying sparks as he ducks between structures and uses the terrain to his advantage. He can tell, though, that the villain is slowing down. The shots are less accurate–a telltale sign that the enhancer Spark tried is working against him.

Between all of the chaos, Riki finally lands a proper web, yanking as hard as he can to pull Spark to the ground. He stumbles, grasping at thin silk before Riki lets go on his side. The villain’s balance is off, giving the boy an advantage as he closes the distance, hopping over a thrown slab of metal and landing a solid kick into Spark’s ribcage. As he stays down, Riki continues to aim for muscle and flesh, his head spinning as he packs punch after punch to keep the villain apprehended.

Spark’s body–curled into itself to absorb the hits the best that he can– hides the growing blue flash that he’s slowly charging up with his remaining power. The moment it escapes from under his abdomen, Riki directs his efforts towards avoiding the electric glimmer. The villain rolls over, his body tattered from the consistent injuries, and he fires what seems like an intense bullet of energy. It zips by the boy’s cheek, cutting the mask and leaving blood to run down in its wake. Time slows down as the superhero tries to process the unlocked speed of the burst, and Spark loses focus marveling at his new abilities. Never before had either of them seen power so concentrated, and it inflicts both fear and excitement.

He lifts his arm, the other holding it up for support, and Spider-Man notices the fizzle of bright blue. Riki’s about to jump out of the way, preparing for yet another high-speed bullet, but before Spark fires, something clicks. The arm doesn’t directly point to Riki–but it skews off to the right.

Except, he’s no longer aiming for Riki in the split second that the boy blinks. He’s suddenly aiming at you, where your hands are tied to the railing and your feet are dangling from the bent metal that holds you precariously over the edge, leaving a fifty foot drop in its wake. When you see the blue energy in the villain’s palm growing slowly bigger, you pull at the rope desperately with zero regard to the tender rawness of your wrists.

In your attempt to somehow break the rope, your cry of fear snaps Spider-Man into action.

Riki pushes his sore body to jump as quick as he can, leaping across the rooftop to the building over. He easily avoids the metal railing, grabbing onto your arm as he yanks hard on the rope, the force of it separating a piece of metal from the railing. He immediately jumps, sending out a web to swing him back up. It all happens in a flash–first, you were bound to the edge about to fall to your death, and all of a sudden, you’re tightly pressed against Spider-Man’s chest with your bound wrists still attached to the metal. Shutting your eyes, you trust Spider-Man entirely, closing your eyes to avoid seeing just how far up you were. Wind rushes in your ears and leaves your stomach fluttering with butterflies until the superhero sets you down on a secluded rooftop.

“Please,” he begs, “don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

You’d be a fool to do anything but wait.

Riki checks on you one last time before diving down, springing himself back up with another web. The damage from the blasts is recognizable even from far away, and yet, he notices the reflective shine of a metal arm on the edge of the building before Spark lets go.

To Riki, Spark is dead after dropping from a fall having taken that much damage, but he hears no impact. Making haste, the boy fails to find any figure no matter how hard he looks, but Spark’s laboratory has to be here somewhere. The badge from a week ago was stuck on Riki’s mind, and he could only imagine the reasons why he pursued this life. Was he recreating something? If he needs to power some sort of machine, then the heart of the city is a perfect place to harness the electricity for any large scale project. As much as he wants to dedicate the rest of the night to searching the city for some sort of clue, the fact that you’re still stranded on that rooftop after having just experienced a life-changing event blares like an alarm in his mind.

He quickly leaves, returning to where you’re seated.

Without the fear of falling to your death from earlier, you were able to focus on undoing the knots from the rope. Red scratch marks and irritation bloom on your wrist, and the reality of it all happening still hasn’t settled in. Despite not being harmed once, the fear and incessant pounding of your heart overwhelms your senses, and it leaves you heaving with confusion.

A pair of footsteps only become apparent as Riki walks closer, taking a seat beside you and letting out a large sigh. He stares at the stars silently as if he doesn’t have a cut on his cheek and bruises waiting to paint his skin purple–as if he isn’t hiding his true self under a facade.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” You shake your head, grateful that Spider-Man was the reason you got away without a real injury.

“Thank you, really, for saving me. I don’t know how you manage to do it.”

Riki chuckles under the mask. “Eh, you get used to it,” you hear Spider-Man say. “You fight a couple bad guys, get over a fear of heights and eventually you get the hang of things.”

Scoffing, you gently rub at your wrists to ease the redness. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t been taught a crash course on how to avoid being supervillain bait just yet.”

“Maybe you should learn it sometime,” Riki responds absentmindedly, “someone like you shouldn’t have been out so late doing whatever it could’ve been.”

Sighing, your mind drifts off to think about the balloons and streamers that are not in your hand. “I had stuff for my upcoming events.”

He knew about all of it when you’d explain your cryptic reminders and notes on your computer, but he still feigns curiosity. “What upcoming events?”

“Just prom,” and he hears just how strained it makes you.

Riki tilts his head in faux confusion. “What do you have to do for prom?”

He notices how you immediately slump, as if the mere mention of prom deflates your happiness. “It’s only a few weeks away, and I was supposed to get decorations for our venue yesterday. I just wanted to slip out before my parents noticed.”

Despite the fabric over his eyes, Riki’s expression shifts from surprise to pity when he understands your stakes. “You still need to be careful. Is your student council strict?”

“Not strict necessarily, but judgemental–I ran for the position because I thought I could help my school raise funds and find more opportunities, but it just feels like no one truly wants to try anything new.” You wave it off as if it’s not that important, as if it isn’t the reason why you find yourself stressed so often. “I just don’t want to disappoint or give people something to talk about.”

Despite not being involved with school the same way you are, the boy next to you resonates with the fear you currently face. The fear of letting people down was a large part of why Riki continued to put on that mask and step into the most dangerous situation of his life; he never wanted to sit down to hear the news that Spider-Man quit.

So he keeps doing his job, even if some days are harder and some fights aren’t worth winning–just like what you do.

“Yeah, I get that,” he tries to console, “You must be doing a lot for everyone around you, and I’m sure a lot of people appreciate what you’ve done. Don’t beat yourself up too much, yeah? You’ll always have me.” He smiles, but he knows you don’t see it. You’re looking at the stars, trying to calm your mind and return to your life before everything happened.

You glance over at Spider-Man, wondering if he’ll truly be around for you when you need it. “If I need to talk to you, should I step out of my house past 8PM again?”

Riki chuckles, watching clouds slowly dim the moon’s glow in their path. “If I’m not fighting crime, I’ll show up at a moment’s notice.”

There’s no way he means it, but you grin, feeling a lot of the pressure and stress of earlier slowly wash away. After all, nothing happened to you–Spider-Man made sure of it. Maybe things really were going to be okay.

“Let’s get you home, yeah? Don’t you have stuff to do anyways?”

You shrug, nothing really coming to mind. As you get up, you remember having to run a plagiarism check on your work, and how Riki told you to text him when you got home after your student government meeting.

Riki. Spark. Spider-Man.

“Wait,” you tell Spider-Man, sitting back down on the cement, “I need to talk to you about something else, too.”

“It’s not like my dinner’s getting cold,” the superhero mumbles quiet enough that you can’t hear.

“There’s this guy,” you start, paying no mind to how dirty your clothes are getting when you cross your legs.

Spider-Man scoffs, looking off into the distance, and it makes you believe he has to be your age or older. “You have a crush on him, or something?” And a whole tidal wave of deja vu hits you in the chest.

‘He must be badly hurt’ isn’t just something people say. People don’t just draw insanely detailed drawings of Spark’s arm and machines without notes to follow unless they knew. People wouldn't just randomly miss school without any impending signs. You’re sure of it–the tired naps in class, the random drawings of superheroes and superhumans alike, or how awkward he could act–it all makes sense.

Your classmate, aka Nishimura Riki, aka the guy who you’ve questioned if you had a crush on for the past few days, might be a villain.

The swirling feeling of trepidation in your stomach leaves three words running around your head.

What. The. Fuck.

Although you tried so hard to stop thinking about it, Jake’s comment from before rubbed you the wrong way. It was sometime last week where you couldn't get your mind off of the implications of his words, but that feeling was brushed underneath your responsibilities.

Until now.

“Yeah, there’s this guy,” you breathe, feeling your chest constrict, “Nishimura Riki. I think he’s Spark.”

His blood runs cold.

“You think this…why?”

You take a deep breath, trying to organize all your thoughts. “Well, first, it was his friend, Jake. He said that Riki was badly hurt, and I was really confused at first, but tried to let it go.”

Riki was going to strangle his best friend.

“And then, I was looking at him in class, right? And keep in mind, he’s pretty cute, and we sit next to each other, so I just noticed how good his hair looked that day, but his notebook was out, and I saw all these drawings of Spark. Like, the arms, the metal things, even the projectiles! Who would know the ins and outs of that thing if it wasn’t Spark himself?”

He didn’t know what to think about first; the fact that you gushed about him for the first time, or if he should even tell you that Spider-Man would know those things, too.

“And sometimes, I notice he’s a little awkward around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s paying attention to me. That must’ve been why he captured me.” He wants to laugh at how damn close you are to figuring it out, but in reality, nothing is funny about the situation.

Nishimura Riki is actually listening to this, right now, as Spider-Man–not Spark. The awkwardness, though? It was his crush on you, and was not superhuman related in the slightest.

“I don’t know,” he attempts to divert, pretending to focus, “I saw a badge for FLiGHT. You know the company that’s been making time traveling machines? I saw a glimpse of his name and face. It’s not that guy you mentioned.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you haven’t gotten him caught?”

“Villains aren’t easy to find, y’know. It’s not like playground hide and seek,” Riki defends, crossing his arms.

You shrink in your spot, feeling sheepish for questioning a superhero so bluntly.

“Plus,” he continues, “Spark has never had a hostage. Wouldn’t it be pretty mean of that friend of yours to kidnap a girl from his class?”

“Yeah—that makes sense. Thank god,” you breathe, closing your eyes momentarily. “Then what do you suspect all that evidence leads to? Maybe he’s a secret agent?”

“I think,” Riki continues to keep up his clueless facade, “Your friend might just be clumsy. Or creative. I mean, maybe he went through a break-up?” Nice one, Riki.

You shake your head. “No, there’s no way he has a girlfriend. You’d think I like guys who are taken?” Scoffing lightly, you then remembered that Spider-Man really would have no idea who any of you are.

He shrugs and stands up stretching before motioning for you to follow him. “I have no idea what you high school kids do. Come on, let’s get you home.”

As you hug him tight, the cold air whips around your body and leaves goosebumps in their wake. You barely open your eyes from the fear of seeing yourself inches from hitting a building or up in the air. Spider-Man only yells his confirmation after asking how to get you home, finally placing you on the ground outside of your large gate.

“Thank you for saving me tonight.”

“Anytime. Figure things out with that friend of yours, and don’t go out late, okay?” You nod and take his words to heart.

“Goodnight, Spiderman.”

—-

Nishimura might die. One, because he has this horrible guilty feeling in his stomach, and two, because of a villain.

Yesterday, he ignored the salmon and rice bowl that waited for him back at home, choosing to follow the coordinates he saved on his phone after he took you home. It led him to a seemingly harmless auto-shop, with an arrow on his GPS pointing to a garage that was shut down completely with nails and blocked with boxes. The exterior pointed to it being abandoned, but Riki suddenly saw some light coming from a makeshift above.

The boy scaled the wall as quietly as possible, glancing into the source of the whirring. He caught small glimpses of something–metal, glowing, blue.

Or at least, for a few seconds it was on until the power went out.

The voice that complained from inside the room sounded identical to the man Riki fought. Spark grumbled, turning on a flashlight and quickly waving it around. Riki ducked from the window and held his breath, waiting for the man to suspect something.

Nothing.

One lightbulb slowly flickered back on, and then the other dingy light followed. The space was cramped with the metal equipment in the middle, resembling what Riki had seen in the news.

He was right–it was the same time travel portal that was ruined from a few months ago.

Spider-Man continued to observe the man as he worked and drilled, plugging certain wires or pausing momentarily to read from a journal. To anyone, it’d seem peaceful, like some sort of renovation project. But in reality, it was so much more than that.

Riki searched for any sort of information about the machine, trying to see what exactly was left to do until his gaze landed on something.

There was some sort of date on a bright pink sticky-note, and Riki’s eyes widened when he finally comprehends it.

The machine was scheduled to be completed tomorrow.

A street lamp next to Riki dies out—which was a clear sign that something was powering up. From the dark, he hears the metal from the same place as last night moving again, and he knows that Spark has left. His presence sends anyone down the street and immediately running, leaving the area for only them two.

Riki finally sees the completed metal build. Half of his body is wrapped in or replaced with metal parts as he sets down the metal portal, beginning to push it in the direction of the power plant.

A truck or car would make things much easier, but whatever.

Riki wants to cry from fear and run away. He wants to leave and pretend he never saw anything from last night.

He’s going to die fighting Spark and he will quite literally a) never finish highschool and get that stupid diploma, b) finish explaining how Gatsby is not a good person and is naturally selfish, and c) he’s never going to tell you how he’s had a small crush on you ever since he saw your cute campaign video as to why you should vote y/n l/n for student body treasurer last spring.

“You sure that thing works?” Riki asks, jumping into action as he sends webs to immobilize the machine.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Spark sends a projectile in the superhero’s direction, hitting the wall behind him instead as Riki jumps out of the way.

With another duck mid-air and the roof of a flying car dangerously close to his nose, Riki thanks the dance practice he does for his flexibility as he shoots another web and swings away.

Spark is uncontrollable by now, sucking the light from street lamps and fizzing wires in his wake. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get in contact with the villain like before. The body of his suit fizzes with bright electricity that sizzles and pops. It illuminates Spark’s figure, making him easy to spot, but not so easy to defeat. It’s an overload of power, causing the voltage to escape between the joints and gaps of the metal pieces in his suit. And Riki can feel it; the air is heightened and so are the stakes of this fight—and with how the man that stands in front of him looks upgraded and menacing, he knows only one person can make it out of this fight alive.

“You injected the city’s ‘Gas and Electric’ into your system or what?” Riki calls out, making light of the situation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s scared out of his wits seeing the six foot figure with blue and white shooting from every crack, looking like a nightmare to touch.

Riki avoids a few more angrily thrown objects, using the momentum of his jump from the side of the building to zip from the top of a yellow fire hydrant to go from one side of the street to the other. “You’re slow!” He taunts, tucking in his legs to avoid a shot of electricity directed at him.

The screech of metal from the nearby hydrant can be heard as the top flings off, making Riki lose his anchor/ Before he can process it, instead of smoothly landing on the building, he crashes into it faster than expected, groaning when his back makes contact with the glass and he tumbles into the living room of someone’s apartment.

“Fuck,” he curses, fighting his aching limbs to get up once more.

And the solution hits him. Literally.

When he steps out and quickly attaches a web to the top of the building, he’s met on the way up with a splash of water from the hydrant to his face, and Riki splutters as he wipes his mask, regaining focus as he lands on the concrete and hides behind the ledge.

Water. If he can get it in contact with Spark and pour enough water on the right spot, the excess of electricity blazing from his mechanical body should work against him.

“Too scared? You should know better than to run away.” The superhero rolls his eyes, crawling away silently to avoid being seen by Spark. Riki does his best to look around for something, and finds a black flower pot in the corner, using a web to grab it before he scales the side of the building and runs away while Spark is distracted as the villain also climbs the wall to face him there. But when Spark climbs the ledge and scans the premise, Riki is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Riki swings across the street and fills the pot with water, heaving the extra weight as he shouts out from the sudden pain in his side. He stumbles on the pavement, crying out from the injury as the pot falls with his whole plan.

Maybe this is where Spider-Man dies.

He sucks in a deep breath before rolling from his back onto his knees, ignoring the wound to pick up the flower pot. The hydrant still shoots out water, and the superhero rushes towards it, causing Spark to follow. He narrowly avoids another shot from behind him, reaching the yellow hydrant before dropping the pot on the ground. Spark is th

While Spark has always been intelligent, Riki could tell that the man didn’t fear the water, believing he’d be invincible to the elements now that his suit was perfected. There was something off, Riki could tell, and he would make sure to use it to his advantage. Spark was uncontrolled, and his powers drastically decreased the more he used them. There’s no way his body isn’t in overdrive with how recklessly he’s been letting himself get hurt.

Riki uses a web to get himself on higher ground instead of fighting, waiting for the supervillain to follow. If he could get Spark off the edge and fall into the growing puddle of water, it should slow him down.

Spark scoffs. “Run away, then. Like you always have.” Riki hears the wall crumbling under the villain as he climbs within seconds, immediately preparing to fight when he makes it onto the rooftop. But Spider-Man was also prepared, jumping from his crouched hiding position and attempting to catch Spark off guard.

All he can focus on now is pushing him off. There’s no way it’d be easy, considering he had to focus on his touching any of the electricity off of his suit. Riki delivers a kick to Spark in the ribcage near his heart, where he’s fused metal into flesh. The villain coughs before taking a step back, his metal arm reaching for Riki’s outstretched leg. He grabs it, twisting with anger before the boy meets the ground in a violent throw. Not only is the slam greater because of the enhanced strength, but the power seeps into Riki’s skin, leaving it hot from the energy radiating off of his palm.

The boy groans, flipping to his side to avoid a fatal hit to the chest. He reaches for Spark’s normal arm, swinging the villain’s body away with as force as he could to create distance between them.

Riki has been in enough fights to simply know when to run, even if he doesn’t know what’s coming. He could feel the tingle of the charge as it powered up, and with its energy so unrestrained and its user so unstable, the large attempt to hit Riki sends the villain stumbling back from the force. The more Spark uses his powers, the more likely he’s going to end up dead.

“Your skin can handle that anymore!” he shouts, getting ready to swing himself closer as a plan manifests itself in his head. “You’ll die like this!”

Spark seems to know that too as he wipes his mouth and recovers from Riki’s attacks.

“You think I care?” He shouts, desperately pressing his wounds to stop the bleeding. “You think I have anything else for myself?” The vulnerability of his character shines through as he clutches his bleeding wound without regenerative powers to help. “You think I didn’t know that when I did it to myself--what they did to me?”

Riki doesn’t respond, grimacing as he continues hand-to-hand combat. Although he takes a solid punch to his jaw that’s forming a deep purple bruise, he manages to trip Spark onto the ground.

The man stumbles back from the head injury, the pounding from earlier not letting him to think straight. Riki doesn’t try to injure him anymore, but he instead blocks an incoming punch and tries to force Spark towards the edge.

The villain barely notices how much space there is left, and the boy lunges with full force. They tackle each other into the ground, and Riki gets off after apprehending him once more.

The city's a mess, and Spider-Man’s eyes want to shut down so badly, but he takes a few steps in Spark’s direction, pushing him off the side of the building as quickly as he can. Riki hears the thud before he peeks over the edge, seeing the water erode all of the engineering from the machinery. He slowly descends from the rooftop.

“You were in the accident, huh?” Riki shouts on top of the plethora of sounds. Pain, buzzing electricity, splashes of water as he lands next to Spark; it all echoes in his ears as he pours the water from the pot on Spark’s body. “Why did you try it? Why did you want to go back so bad?”

“If I could go back,” Spark coughs, trying to get away from the large pool of water, “I could’ve prevented the accident from taking the lives of the people around me. I could’ve saved them.”

Spider-Man understands loss, and he understands the regret that comes with failure. He understands how the man in front of him feels after having everything taken away from him, but his emotions could never justify his actions.

“You know you can’t change things,” Riki responds, “You tried your best, Spark.” It’s the last thing Riki tells the villain before his body slumps and police sirens grow louder and louder. It’s the last thing that he continues to think about, even if the medic quickly assesses the severity of his wounds.

“I’m fine- really,” he pushes away the hands of a concerned woman as she holds a roll of bandages. “There’s something else I need to do.”

Riki knew he had to tell you about this–he couldn’t just let you confide in him about..well, him, without your knowledge. And Riki wasn’t morally perfect, but he knew an explanation would be the only way to fix things.

Your house looks different when jumping over the fence instead of standing in front of it. When he realizes he has no idea what room belongs to you, he racks his brain, suddenly remembering how yours was the only one with a gray balcony over the pool. And so he climbs, slipping from the exhaustion creeping into his body.

You’ll understand after he explains everything, right?

“____, a little help?” And what the fuck is Nishmura Riki doing outside of your door? You go to investigate the muffled sound, inching towards the curtains and pulling them back to expect him there. When you hear a half yelp and a hissing sound that follows right after, without a person anywhere in sight, your heart drops to its stomach.

Do not say it’s true.

“Riki, where the fuck are you?” you ask, traversing out when you don’t see him anywhere across the glass.

“Down here.” You run in the direction of the voice, and your eyes grow comically large and you gasp, staring down at the sight before you.

“Holy shit.”

There Nishimura Riki is, with his mask half burned off his face and his blonde and black hair messy and matted to his forehead with sweat. The suit is ripped in multiple locations with gashes and purple replacing the healthy skin underneath. His face is in more of a grimace, as he holds onto the web with both hands and one foot planted on the stone of your balcony—read; the bottom of your balcony.

“A little help?” And you see his sheepish emotion through the tattered fabric, embarrassed after you had to find him in such a compromising situation. “I’m a little worn out and I think my webs are getting weaker.”

You’re a little frustrated with him for being out so publicly, but more scared and worried for his condition. Your gaze narrows on the mask, tattered and covered with scratches, but clearly visible. It was Spider-Man’s mask. The material gives way to a familiar face, and your mind almost blocks you from putting the pieces together. It’s impossible, almost horrifying to think of the implications of what it means to wear the blue and red suit.

Instead of being the villain, Riki is, in fact, the savior.

The harsh truth is that your classmate, who you spent the last month working on a project with and suspected was a villain, is the same superhero that went out and risked his life every night fighting crime. It’s jarring to see him like this, breathing heavy and straining against the stone of the balcony, and his cough snaps you out of it. “What the fuck do I do?”

Riki tries to put his hand up in surrender and shuts his eyes at your harsh tone. “Okay, okay, I get-“ and he cuts himself off with a yelp as his footing slips.

He holds out his hand, and you immediately bend over the smooth railing to grab it, leaning back on the heels of your feet to help him up the most that you can. You’re filled with confusion when the boy hobbles over the cool surface of the balcony and lets his head rest on the stone, not saying much as he catches his breath. You watch the rise and fall of his chest and how his right arm goes to nurse the left side of his ribcage, wincing and sucking in a pained breath as he assesses the smear of red on his fingers.

Sitting there with your mouth agape, you’re not really sure what to think about first; to check if RIki’s alright, to think about how your city’s greatest superhero is your English project partner, to yell at him for going to your house instead of his house to fix himself up, or to think about how good his side profile looks in the moonlight. Maybe you should’ve just been relieved that the boy you started to like wasn’t a fear-inducing villain.

“Okay, first of all, we need to have a huge talk. But I’m not a medic Riki- I’m going into accounting for fuck’s sake.” He hears the amount of curses flying from your lips as you ramble, and sees how stressed you look watching him sit against your railing.

“I don’t know how to help you. And also,” you lower your voice and scoot closer, looking around at the large property to really make sure no one’s listening. “you’re Spider-Man?”

The information all hitting you at once is worse than when your history teacher told you your essay was horrible. At least then, in her office, you could process everything. But here? You’re about to faint.

“I’m pretty cool, huh?” And of course Nishimura Riki says such a thing, taking deep breaths as he shallowly presses on the blossoming bruises on his skin and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Pretty fucking stupid is what it is, Riki.” You cross your arms and try to take a look at where he’s been hurt, hoping that at least he has some sort of regeneration ability that helps him heal much quicker—because there’s no way he could deal with all of this on top of school.

“I have my reasons,” he says, his voice quiet.

You pause. “For being Spider-Man?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “For coming here.”

“What could possibly make you want to come over to my house instead of the nearest hospital? What’s that important to you?”

“I really want to ask you to prom.”

You simply stare at him, surprised.

“You came to my house, even though you’re like, a punch away from passing out, to ask me out? And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, asked me anytime during the classes we have together?”

Riki somehow finds it in himself to frown and shrink from your angry piercing gaze. “I can’t because talking to you makes me nervous–so yeah, I’m sorry I’m half conscious on your balcony in my suit instead of at your door with a poster.”

You’re conflicted, your mind still reeling from the recent discovery and your flood of emotions. Ever since you questioned his identity on top of your feelings for him, you had a hard time really knowing if you could like Riki if he turned out to be a villain, so to know that he proved both of your theories wrong leaves you quiet as you think. If possible, the color in the boy’s face drains even more when you go back inside, but the door stays open, and he thinks he hasn’t ruined things after all. You emerge with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a bowl of warm water, and a pristine white towel.

“I’m not mad about that, you idiot,” you reprimand him, setting everything down as you examine the cuts on his face. You squeeze the towel and start to dab at his skin, avoiding the cuts as you clean it. “Who does this for you if not me?”

“Jake.”

“Seems like a pretty good friend.” Riki nods in response.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, sitting up to properly address you, even if you weren’t able to meet his gaze.

“For what?”

“For putting this on you–all of it. Not just the whole Spider-Man thing.” He knew he’d have to tell you at some point, or else it’d eat him up inside to know he kept all of it from you.

“Look at you, saving me mid-air and talking to me as if you didn’t know who I was.”

You notice a flash of regret through his wince as you clean up a cut with antiseptic. “I meant it when I told you I knew what it was like to have a lot of pressure.”

“Guess I wasn’t so far off, then. If we never talked, would you have told me?” Riki shakes his head, and the simple motion leaves you somehow disappointed.

“How do you ever tell anyone you’re…y’know, Spider-Man?” Even if it’s a hypothetical, you shrug, not being able to answer.

“How’d Jake find out?”

Riki chuckles and hisses at the same time before trying to remember. “I think I just kicked his window in after a nasty poison got hold of me. He was a little too excited to have Spider-Man on his bedroom floor, and less excited to know it was me. I’m not really supposed to tell anyone, though.”

“Then why’d you tell me? You could’ve just gone back to your friends.”

“I felt guilty–I know, I know, it sounds stupid. I’d definitely get my identity revealed at this rate.” You shake your head.

“Not stupid. Keep going.”

“I didn’t care that you suspected me, or if anyone else did, because I knew it was never true. But I felt so bad knowing you were sharing to me how you felt without even knowing it was me who was listening–like I was holding something from you.”

You admire his honesty, and when you look at his furrowed brows and his lip that he’s been gnawing from worry, you can’t even imagine what he’s had to hide and do for this. In a way, you look up to him more, for trying his best even if he’s gotten all odds stacked against him. Riki’s commendable in your eyes–he always had been, ever since you woke him up in class.

“I like those things about you, Riki. That you’re honest with yourself and the people around you as much as you can be, and you try to help others when you can. I’m glad we got to know each other more this past month.” Talking to him feels different than talking to Spider-Man from a few days ago; it feels raw, like you’re not just confessing something to a brick wall anymore. If none of this ever happened, you doubt you’d get the chance to tell Riki any of this properly.

The boy stays silent, taking deep breaths while processing what you’ve told him. “I’m glad I could help you out.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I hope you know I don’t like you because you help me out. I like you because you’re attractive, and because you’re genuine,” you blurt.

Riki laughs despite his ribcage hurting everytime he does so. Riki nods and mumbles a ‘thank you,’ also glad to truly get to know you. While his crush was more of an infatuation with your hard work and amiability, the past few weeks really opened his eyes to who you were. You never wanted to disappoint, and even if your recklessness left you in some dire situations, Riki could see how much effort you really put into things.

There wasn’t anything else he needed to tell you–you were smart enough to see how much he cared about you.

You’re so close, your lips glossy with lip balm as you watch him carefully. You hear and see it all; the heavy, labored breathing from his body healing itself rapidly, and the way his hand is full of rough cuts and calluses as his fingers intertwine with yours. But your eyes catch a glimpse of his mask tossed to the side, the blue shining in the corner of your eyes as you’re reminded of who he is right now, and what role you play. You are still ____ ____, but he’s a superhero.

It makes you momentarily forget whose suit you're peeling away, whose skin you're cleaning. It reminds you that he’s just the boy in your English class that you fell for. “What does that make us?”

“Prom-goers,” he answers with a slight nod.

You smile, wiping a cut before placing the towel back into the bowl for the last time and getting up. “We can be prom-goers, yeah.”

You’re not sure if you’re ready for anything, and you’re thankful that he understands that, too. As much as it warmed your heart to see him again and hear his confessions, the blaring truth still hangs over your head. You grab his mask, finally looking at him before handing it back and grabbing your things. His secret identity wasn’t something you could just ignore.

“Go home, Spider-Man,” you turn your back on him, and time slows when you falter before sparing him one more look. “I want you as Riki, not like this.”

MAYBE NISHIMURA RIKI DOESN'T NEED TO DIE–OR ALMOST DIE–ANYMORE.

He went home that night with his scars somewhat cleaned and his bruises miraculous healing on their own, and even if slipping through the window left him clutching his side in pain, Riki silently jumped up to celebrate his multiple victories before slipping out of his suit and finally getting some rest.

Riki’s scared of how he’s affected your relationship. He’s worried you’ll avoid him in the halls, and he’s worried you’d never want to see him again after putting you through all of it. As much as he'd understand how upset you'd be towards him, he hopes he did the right thing by telling you.

But you see him on your way to English, and you call his name. His eyes search for yours in the crowds, and you two see each other before you crush him in a hug.

Riki isn’t sure how to feel at first, but eventually wraps his arms around you as relief settles in his stomach.

“Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man,” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear.

He smiles at you, ruffling your hair as you go to English together. “Anytime, ____.”

NEVERMIND, NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE SEES YOU IN YOUR RED PROM DRESS.

But first, he has to try something out.

He curses to himself when silently zipping from a tree outside your family property to the top of your house, staring past the ledge two and luxurious stories to your well decorated porch light and door. He just prays that Google Maps is right about how secluded the area is, so no one can see him pacing around your rooftop, with flowers elegantly wrapped in his hand (courtesy of your mother’s sleek envelope from a few days ago).

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, shooting a web and dangling himself down. Riki’s upside down figure watches swirled window frames and meticulously designed accents as he descends, and he wonders what kind of shady business your parents could’ve done to afford something so grand.

He faces your door—hanging down instead of rightside up, but he’s still here on time like he promised.

The door opens at 6:00PM like he instructed you to, but what he didn’t tell you what to do was shriek and slam the door. On his nose. With a loud yelp, Riki clutches his nose, rubbing the spot you hit and trying to apply pressure to alleviate the pain.

When the door slowly creaks open again, you face with the image of Nishimura Riki, aka your boyfriend, aka your English partner, aka Spider-Man, curled upside down in the fetal position as he cradles the sore spot on his face and swings slightly from the breeze.

“You scared me, dumbass! How was I supposed to know it was you? It was so hard to see!”

Although muffled, Riki’s able to mumble, “You have a porch light for this reason, _____,” and a jab at his stomach from you follows his sarcastic remark. Finally, his nose feels better, and he straightens out to finally look at you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty, and the boy wonders how you look even more stunning with a glittering red dress and perfectly done make-up. “I like the red,” he says, trying not to freak out over your beauty. “Reminds me of a certain neighborhood superhero.”

“I have some blue spider earrings to match.” With a beautiful smile, you turn to show him the little accent, and it melts his heart. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m fine. I should’ve probably put more thought into that.”

You snicker, sliding into your heels and closing the door behind you.

“One of us is better at romantic gestures, it seems.” It warrants a scoff, and Riki brings a gloved hand to poke at your forehead teasingly.

“Let me have a do-over, then?” And the way your lips curl up into a bright smile leaves him quiet and in awe.

“What, were you going to kiss me? Very original, Spider-Man.” With the way the fabric shifts over his features, you can tell he’s pouting.

“I thought girls liked this.”

You shrug, pretending you aren’t swept off his feet by the effort he’s put in. Taking a step in his direction, your hands reach up to gently pull the mask over his chin, ears, and then his nose.

Whispering quietly, you ask, “You’ve kissed other girls upside down?”

Riki’s quick to shake his head. “You’re the only girl I’d withstand a head rush for.” And god, you just can’t stop yourself from grinning at his sweet, genuine words.

You lean in, placing a small kiss on his nose as a silent apology. Then, you close your eyes and lean into him once more, feeling his hands carefully holding the side of your head and his lips on yours. Your kiss with Riki is saccharine and slow, making you pull away when the urge to beam at him is too much. Your cheeks definitely hurt by how romantic he’s being, and you can’t resist kissing him once more.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts, finally letting himself down, “It feels weird.”

“You ruined the moment.” And he really didn’t, but you enjoy his subtle reactions to your light digs at him.

“Whatever.” Riki laughs. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You nod, sitting down on the porch and dragging a manicured nail over your lips with the ghost of his affections, thinking about how you literally just kissed Spider-Man.

Riki comes back, dusting off his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, with a large bouquet of red roses and one blue one snuck in there. Your lips stretch into a grin and you accept the bouquet, keeping a mental note to read the card in there.

“You never cease to amaze me, Riki.” It’s the last thing you mutter to the air before you loop your arms around his neck, urging him to lean down as you kiss him once more—this time rightside up, but still as sickly saccharine as the one before it. Your heart is fuzzy with fondness and your eyes glitter with adoration.

“So, which kiss was better?” he asks when you pull away, a little breathless and dizzy.

You swat his arm and walk past the gates, seeing the sleek limo waiting by the curb. “I don’t know, Spider-Man. Maybe show up in your suit and we’ll try it again.”

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED AND ALWAYS READ!

RIKI FIC DONE!!!! ngl y/n u were right there how did u not know riki was spiderman but whatever idc she's a hard worker not smart LMFOAOAO. my first ever action fic so i hope you enjoy! also i hate the ‘oh he pined after her for 4 years she liked him for 2 months’ bs because I WAS IN IT. and it sucks so i tried to deviate from it :)

꣑ৎ permanent fic taglist (TAGGED IN TEASERS, FICS, HEADCANNONS, DRABBLES, ETC.): @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll @llvrhee @firstclassjaylee @in-somnias-world @rairaiblog @suneng @mavlogist @sensitively-taken @sumzysworld @simpjay @moons-v @riksaes @txtari @jungwonscatcus @tya0 @sasfransisco @woorcve @shypen @pinkriki @rikisluv @saranghaohoshi @lilifiedeans @wonmyheart @k1ttyluvr @nikisgfff @ramenoil @laurradoesloveu @lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me @ikeulims @missychiefs1404 @qwonyoung23 @yangjungwonnie @onementally-unstabel-kid @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @blooqz @anormieee hi permies hope u enjoy! kith

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mollyrealized · 1 year ago

Text

How Michael Met Neil

original direct link [MP3]

(Neil, if you see this, please feel free to grab the transcript and store on your site; I had no easy way of contacting you.)

DAVID TENNANT: Tell me about @neil-gaiman then, because he's in that category [previously: “such a profound effect on my life”] as well.

MICHAEL SHEEN: So this is what has brought us together.

DAVID: Yes.

MICHAEL: To the new love story for the 21st century.

DAVID: Exactly.

MICHAEL: So when I went to drama school, there was a guy called Gary Turner in my year. And within the first few weeks, we were doing something, having a drink or whatever. And he said to me, “Do you read comic books?”

And I said, “No.” I mean, this is … what … '88? '88, '89. So it was … now I know that it was a period of time that was a big change, transformation going through comic books. Rather than it being thought of as just superheroes and Batman and Superman, there was this whole new era of a generation of writers like Grant Morrison.

DAVID: The kids who'd grown up reading comic books were now making comic books

MICHAEL: Yeah, yeah, and starting to address different kinds of subjects through the comic book medium. So it wasn't about just superheroes, it was all kinds of stuff going on – really fascinating stuff. And I was totally unaware of this.

And so this guy Gary said to me, "Do you read them?" And I said, "No." And he went, "Right, okay, here's The Watchman [sic] by Alan Moore. Here's Swamp Thing. Here's Hellblazer. And here's Sandman.”

And Sandman was Neil Gaiman's big series that put his name on the map. And I read all those, and, just – I was blown away by all of them, but particularly the Sandman stories, because he was drawing on mythology, which was something I was really interested in, and fairy tales, folklore, and philosophy, and Shakespeare, and all kinds of stuff were being mixed up in this story. And I absolutely loved it.

So I became a big fan of Neil's, and started reading everything by him. And then fairly shortly after that, within six months to a year, Good Omens the book came out, which Neil wrote with Terry Pratchett. And so I got the book – because I was obviously a big fan of Neil's by this point – read it, loved it, then started reading Terry Pratchett’s stuff as well, because I didn't know his stuff before then – and then spent years and years and years just being a huge fan of both of them.

And then eventually when – I'd done films like the Underworld films and doing Twilight films. And I think it was one of the Twilight films, there was a lot of very snooty interviews that happened where people who considered themselves well above talking about things like Twilight were having to interview me … and, weirdly, coming at it from the attitude of 'clearly this is below you as well' … weirdly thinking I'm gonna go, 'Yeah, fucking Twilight.”

And I just used to go, "You know what? Some of the greatest writing of the last 50-100 years has happened in science fiction or fantasy." Philip K Dick is one of my favorite writers of all time. In fact, the production of Hamlet I did was mainly influenced by Philip K Dick. Ursula K. Le Guin and Asimov, and all these amazing people. And I talked about Neil as well. And so I went off on a bit of a rant in this interview.

Anyway, the interview came out about six months later, maybe. Knock on the door, open the door, delivery of a big box. That’s interesting. Open the box, there's a card at the top of the box. I open the card.

It says, From one fan to another, Neil Gaiman. And inside the box are first editions of Neil's stuff, and all kinds of interesting things by Neil. And he just sent this stuff.

DAVID: You'd never met him?

MICHAEL: Never met him. He'd read the interview, or someone had let him know about this interview where I'd sung his praises and stood up for him and the people who work within that sort of genre as being like …

And he just got in touch. We met up for the first time when he came to – I was in Los Angeles at the time, and he came to LA. And he said, "I'll take you for a meal."

I said, “All right.”

He said, "Do you want to go somewhere posh, or somewhere interesting?”

I said, "Let's go somewhere interesting."

He said, "Right, I'm going to take you to this restaurant called The Hump." And it's at Santa Monica Airport. And it's a sushi restaurant.

I was like, “Right, okay.” So I had a Mini at the time. And we get in my Mini and we drive off to Santa Monica Airport. And this restaurant was right on the tarmac, like, you could sit in the restaurant (there's nobody else there when we got there, we got there quite early) and you're watching the planes landing on Santa Monica Airport. It's extraordinary.

And the chef comes out and Neil says, "Just bring us whatever you want. Chef's choice."

So, I'd never really eaten sushi before. So we sit there; we had this incredible meal where they keep bringing these dishes out and they say, “This is [blah, blah, blah]. Just use a little bit of soy sauce or whatever.” You know, “This is eel. This is [blah].”

And then there was this one dish where they brought out and they didn't say what it was. It was like “mystery dish”, we had it ... delicious. Anyway, a few more people started coming into the restaurant as time went on.

And we're sort of getting near the end, and I said, "Neil, I can't eat anymore. I'm gonna have to stop now. This is great, but I can't eat–"

"Right, okay. We'll ask for the bill in a minute."

And then the door opens and some very official people come in. And it was the Feds. And the Feds came in, and we knew they were because they had jackets on that said they were part of the Federal Bureau of Whatever. And about six of them come in. Two of them go … one goes behind the counter, two go into the kitchen, one goes to the back. They've all got like guns on and stuff.

And me and Neil are like, "What on Earth is going on?"

And then eventually one guy goes, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you haven't ordered already, please leave. If you're still eating your meal, please finish up, pay your bill, leave."*

[* - delivered in a perfect American ‘serious law agent’ accent/impression]

And we were like, "Oh my God, are we poisoned? Is there some terrible thing that's happened?"

We'd finished, so we pay our bill. And then all the kitchen staff are brought out. And the head chef is there. The guy who's been bringing us this food. And he's in tears. And he says to Neil, "I'm so sorry." He apologizes to Neil. And we leave. We have no idea what happened.

DAVID: But you're assuming it's the mystery dish.

MICHAEL: Well, we're assuming that we can't be going to – we can't be – it can't be poisonous. You know what I mean? It can't be that there's terrible, terrible things.

So the next day was the Oscars, which is why Neil was in town. Because Coraline had been nominated for an Oscar. Best documentary that year was won by The Cove, which was by a team of people who had come across dolphins being killed, I think.

Turns out, what was happening at this restaurant was that they were having illegal endangered species flown in to the airport, and then being brought around the back of the restaurant into the kitchen.

We had eaten whale – endangered species whale. That was the mystery dish that they didn't say what it was.

And the team behind The Cove were behind this sting, and they took them down that night whilst we were there.

DAVID: That’s extraordinary.

MICHAEL: And we didn't find this out for months. So for months, me and Neil were like, "Have you worked anything out yet? Have you heard anything?"

"No, I haven't heard anything."

And then we heard that it was something to do with The Cove, and then we eventually found out that that restaurant, they were all arrested. The restaurant was shut down. And it was because of that. And we'd eaten whale that night.

DAVID: And that was your first meeting with Neil Gaiman.

MICHAEL: That was my first meeting. And also in the drive home that night from that restaurant, he said, and we were in my Mini, he said, "Have you found the secret compartment?"

I said, "What are you talking about?" It's such a Neil Gaiman thing to say.

DAVID: Isn't it?

MICHAEL: The secret compartment? Yeah. Each Mini has got a secret compartment. I said, "I had no idea." It's secret. And he pressed a little button and a thing opened up. And it was a secret compartment in my own car that Neil Gaiman showed me.

DAVID: Was there anything inside it?

MICHAEL: Yeah, there was a little man. And he jumped out and went, "Hello!" No, there was nothing in there. There was afterwards because I started putting...

DAVID: Sure. That's a very Neil Gaiman story. All of that is such a Neil Gaiman story.

MICHAEL: That's how it began. Yeah.

DAVID: And then he came to offer you the part in Good Omens.

MICHAEL: Yeah. Well, we became friends and we would whenever he was in town, we would meet up and yeah, and then eventually he started, he said, "You know, I'm working on an adaptation of Good Omens." And I can remember at one point Terry Gilliam was going to maybe make a film of it. And I remember being there with Neil and Terry when they were talking about it. And...

DAVID: Were you involved at that point?

MICHAEL: No, no, I wasn't involved. I just happened to have met up with Neil that day.

DAVID: Right.

MICHAEL: And then Terry Gilliam came along and they were chatting, that was the day they were talking about that or whatever.

And then eventually he sent me one of the scripts for an early draft of like the first episode of Good Omens. And he said – and we started talking about me being involved in it, doing it – he said, “Would you be interested?” I was like, "Yeah, of course." I went, "Oh my God." And he said, "Well, I'll send you the scripts when they come," and I would read them, and we'd talk about them a little bit. And so I was involved.

But it was always at that point with the idea, because he'd always said about playing Crowley in it. And so, as time went on, as I was reading the scripts, I was thinking, "I don't think I can play Crowley. I don't think I'm going to be able to do it." And I started to get a bit nervous because I thought, “I don't want to tell Neil that I don't think I can do this.” But I just felt like I don't think I can play Crowley.

DAVID: Of course you can [play Crowley?].

MICHAEL: Well, I just on a sort of, on a gut level, sometimes you have it on a gut level.

DAVID: Sure, sure.

MICHAEL: I can do this.

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: Or I can't do this. And I just thought, “You know what, this is not the part for me. The other part is better for me, I think. I think I can do that, I don't think I could do that.”

But I was scared to tell Neil because I thought, "Well, he wants me to play Crowley" – and then it turned out he had been feeling the same way as well. And he hadn't wanted to mention it to me, but he was like, "I think Michael should really play Aziraphale."

And neither of us would bring it up. And then eventually we did. And it was one of those things where you go, "Oh, thank God you said that. I feel exactly the same way." And then I think within a fairly short space of time, he said, “I think we've got … David Tennant … for Crowley.” And we both got very excited about that.

And then all these extraordinary people started to join in. And then, and then off we went.

DAVID: That's the other thing about Neil, he collects people, doesn't he? So he'll just go, “Oh, yeah, I've phoned up Frances McDormand, she's up for it.” Yeah. You're, what?

MICHAEL: “I emailed Jon Hamm.”

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: And yeah, and you realize how beloved he is and how beloved his work is. And I think we would both recognise that Good Omens is one of the most beloved of all of Neil's stuff.

DAVID: Yes.

MICHAEL: And had never been turned into anything.

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: And so the kind of responsibility of that, I mean, for me, for someone who has been a fan of him and a fan of the book for so long, I can empathize with all the fans out there who are like, “Oh, they better not fuck this up.”

DAVID: Yes.

MICHAEL: “And this had better be good.” And I have that part of me. But then, of course, the other part of me is like, “But I'm the one who might be fucking it up.”

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: So I feel that responsibility as well.

DAVID: But we have Neil on site.

MICHAEL: Yes. Well, Neil being the showrunner …

DAVID: Yeah. I think it takes the curse off.

MICHAEL: … I think it made a massive difference, didn't it? Yeah. You feel like you're in safe hands.

DAVID: Well, we think. Not that the world has seen it yet.

MICHAEL (grimly): No, I know.

DAVID: But it was a -- it's been a -- it's been a joy to work with you on it. I can't wait for the world to see it.

MICHAEL: Oh my God. Oh, well, I mean, it's the only, I've done a few things where there are two people, it's a bit of a double act, like Frost-Nixon and The Queen, I suppose, in some ways. But, and I've done it, Amadeus or whatever.

This is the only thing I've done where I really don't think of it as “my character” or “my performance as that character”. I think of it totally as us.

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: The two of us.

DAVID: Yes.

MICHAEL: Like they, what I do is defined by what you do.

DAVID: Yeah.

MICHAEL: And that was such a joy to have that experience. And it made it so much easier in a way as well, I found, because you don't feel like you're on your own in it. Like it's totally us together doing this and the two characters totally complement each other. And the experience of doing it was just a real joy.

DAVID: Yeah. Well, I hope the world is as excited to see it as we are to talk about it, frankly.

MICHAEL: You know, there's, having talked about T.S. Eliot earlier, there's another bit from The Wasteland where there's a line which goes, These fragments I have shored against my ruin.

And this is how I think about life now. There is so much in life, no matter what your circumstances, no matter what, where you've got, what you've done, how much money you got, all that. Life's hard. I mean, you can, it can take you down at any point.

You have to find this stuff. You have to like find things that will, these fragments that you hold to yourself, they become like a liferaft, and especially as time goes on, I think, as I've got older, I've realized it is a thin line between surviving this life and going under.

And the things that keep you afloat are these fragments, these things that are meaningful to you and what's meaningful to you will be not-meaningful to someone else, you know. But whatever it is that matters to you, it doesn't matter what it was you were into when you were a teenager, a kid, it doesn't matter what it is. Go and find them, and find some way to hold them close to you.

Make it, go and get it. Because those are the things that keep you afloat. They really are. Like doing that with him or whatever it is, these are the fragments that have shored against my ruin. Absolutely.

DAVID: That's lovely. Michael, thank you so much.

MICHAEL: Thank you.

DAVID: For talking today and for being here.

MICHAEL: Oh, it's a pleasure. Thank you.

#neil gaiman #michael sheen #david tennant does a podcast with...#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #sushi #whale #the cove #oscars 2010 #coraline #mini secret compartments #howneilmetmichael #howmichaelmetneil

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jesuistrestriste · 2 months ago

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sage. my flight got delayed AGAIN. i’m not getting back to school til late, i have an assignment due tomorrow i haven’t finished…may i please request some Mickey 17 stuff? smut or fluff or angst idc i miss that little guy:(

⭑.ᐟ cw (18+) : dry humping, tiny bit of fluff —

mickey’s body is a mess.

he’s just been reprinted for the twelfth time, his limbs slimy and his blood whooshing erratically through his veins as he’s sat up on the cold table. the familiar scientists poke and prod at his skin while they scribble hurried little notes in their pads of paper. his head spins badly whenever he gets propped up fresh out of the machine, but he still manages to immediately think of you.

where you’re at right now, what you’re doing, who you’re with.

he can’t do anything until the people in the lab are ready to let him go though, releasing him until the next agonizing experiment needs his lungs or his heart or his brain. sometimes it’s funny because they’re ready to kick him out the door before his legs are ready to be used, like a mother bird kicking her baby out of the nest before its ready to fledge. regardless, they’re usually pretty quick about finishing their post-printing examinations. and he can use the spare minutes while they’re working on him to think about what he’s gonna do when he finally gets to see you again.

the sting of his new cells adjusting to the atmosphere is drowned out by thoughts of pressing his lips to yours, trying out one of the stupid sex positions you and him made up on one of the tablets, running his hands over your warm flesh. he sighs.

one time—a few bodies ago—you had sucked him off when it had only been about 30 minutes since the reprinting, and you’d told him that his come tasted like plastic and sterilized metal. (which was weird because his body was supposed to be biologically the same as the last, so shouldn’t he have tasted normal? whatever. didn’t matter. you had swallowed. you had licked the rest of it into his mouth afterwards. it did taste artificial.)

the people surrounding him eventually scampered off and he assumed his freedom, got dressed, and slinked off and out. he walked through the hallways and listened to the sound of his heavy shoes hitting the flooring. climbed the stairs to the rooms, then slid open your door to find you laid on your bed. his chest sags with relief.

you smile at him. god, that smile. he can’t help but shut the door in a hasty effort and crawl up on top of you. your guys’ dark colored jumpsuits slide together. its only a tiny spark of friction, but its enough.

his body is always extra sensitive after coming out of the machine; he always feels like a virgin again, not that he’s had much sex in general. he feels your hand over his hip, and he shudders.

“mmgh,” he breathes into your neck, stiff and shaky, “i missed you.”

“missed you too. it’s only been a day and a half, but i really, really missed you,” you whisper against his jaw.

he loves how you can be just as clingy as him sometimes. you even beat him at his own game on occasion, sticking to his side like a glob of glue, but he blames the fact that you only get to see him during select parts of the day. with your duties and his expendable work.. it’s tough. you both take what you can get, and as much of it as you’re allowed. and that usually also means getting handsy as soon as you’re together.

you feel him rock down against your thigh involuntarily, reflexively, chasing a brewing feeling in his stomach. your fingers run through his brown hair, and you bite your lip when it elicits a whimper from him.

“already, mick?” you hum teasingly, the tips of your digits scratching the back of his scalp, just the way he likes it, “don’t you wanna go down and eat first?”

he chokes around a moan when he starts to hump the most perfect spot on your leg, just enough muscle there to give him something to work against. his hands find fabric of your suit, slipping under your back next as he keens. he feels a rush of warmth coat his cock, and then he feels a dribble of something start to leak from his tip.

“don’t wanna eat.. not really hungry..” he gasps, his brow pinched up now in the shadows of the crook of your body, “this.. you.. this feels so good, i don’t wanna stop..”

you tilt your head slightly and then lift your leg under him to press it further against his bulging crotch. a sharp cry spills from his lips. you pet his hair again. he’s like a puppy sometimes—a needy, possessive dog that looks up to you like you’re something to be worshipped. you can’t get enough.

“okay, well, i snuck you some food anyways, its in my—“

mickey cuts you off, crashing his lips to yours with a hunger that’s almost unlike him. he usually wants you to lead (much preferring following your directions). his tongue seeks yours desperately, flattening over your own once he gets access. you have to swallow down all the little noises he’s making as he starts to thrust his clothed appendage against your body quicker. the movement of his snapping hips is building a warmth between all of the layers.. you wouldn’t exactly be surprised if he burned a hole right through with all the rubbing he’s doing. you lovingly slide a hand over his lower back in an attempt to soothe his frantic movements, but it doesn’t quite work. he breaks from the kiss, body jolting, to look down to your face and hiccup. expression all crumpled and contorted and flushed with an orgasm that he’s almost got clutched in the palm of his hand. eyes glazed over and jaw slacked like he’s high on pure oxy from timo. just a disaster of a man. and to think—a hunk of machinery and a brick of his memories brought him back to life less than an hour ago. birthed him, really. everything about him in this moment is so primal. you can’t shake the need to mark your territory, just in case he’s forgotten somehow.

“easy, easy.. you’re all mine for the rest of the night anyways.. i don’t care what they want, they’re not taking you from me tonight..”

and that’s all it takes.

just those sweet, possessive words pouring like thick honey into his ears, and then he’s gone. easy as that.

his eyes roll back, his head drops to your shoulder, his length spasms in his new underwear, then he’s coming. it happens as quick as you can blink.

“aah! im.. im—!”

he heaves through the uncontrollable waves of pleasure that bloom and spread throughout his nervous system, rendering him a trembling heap on top of you. if it weren’t for the remaining strength in his biceps, he’d collapse and probably fall like dead weight over your chest. he gives a few more shaky rolls of his hips as he rides out the prickling aftershocks of overstimulation. “f-fuck, ohh, ngh..”

then he really does slump over you. lowering himself slowly over your frame so as to not crush you. there’s something tender about the way he moves to ensure your comfort, even when he’s so wrecked, and it makes you instinctively wrap your arms around him. he sniffles while he catches his breath.

“s-sssorry,” the word broken up lazily as he struggles to bring himself back to the reality of your touch, “mmn.. jus’ felt so good, and you smell so nice, and i just couldn’t..” he trails off, shaking his head as he feels his body begin to overheat.

a little laugh bubbles up and out at his incoherency. then your hand over his upper back snakes down to playfully squeeze his rear. he sucks in a gasp and then chuckles into your skin as he squirms.

“s’fine, i like watching you finish like that.”

he chews the inside of his cheek like gum. you can almost feel his lashes flutter against your pulse point.

“felt like i wasn’t myself for a second..”

it’s a joke, one twinged with a bit of shame and guilt, you know that, but it doesn’t feel like one. each time he gets reprinted, a part of him changes—gets stripped away and plastered over with something new. you don’t always mind, but it does make you question which mickey you’ll get next time. will he be soft and kind? blunt and impulsive?

at the end of the day, you suppose it doesn’t matter much.

“you’ll always be my mickey.”

he lets out a weighted sigh of relief for the second time in the past thirty minutes since he’s been back in your presence, and it’s almost like you can feel the very last of the tension drain from his pores. he only whispers two more words against your ear before he finds his own hands wandering your body, eager to reciprocate and prove that he’s still useful. he owes it to you for loving him through it all.

“yeah.. yours.”

#ellias i hope this helps <333 #sry its a bit late but i hope the assignment went well and that ur back at uni safe:3 #yay for mickey barnes who loves riding your thigh #sage’s asks #💌 - mutuals #🩷 - thirsts #mickey barnes x reader #mickey barnes x you #mickey barnes smut #mickey 17 fic #mickey 17 smut #mickey barnes fic

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watchmegetobsessed · 7 months ago

Text

UNMATCHED

A/N: it's been like 6 months since i last posted something and honestly, i haven't even written anything, things are very shitty these days but i felt the motivation to write this quickly after watching 'tell me lies' and 'rivals' these past weeks so here we go! if student-prof type of fics are not your thing then don't read it

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

WARNING: age gap, student-professor relationship

SUMMARY: Harry is very strict about staying away from students as a young and handsome professor, but there is one person he can't get out of his head and a Christmas party brings an unexpected turn.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry hates these type of parties, mostly because he can’t imagine inviting dozens of students into his home, his private space, have the roam around and spend an entire evening with them, talking and pretending like they aren’t just trying to get a better grade at the end of the semester with their too friendly behavior. Or, in his case, some girls try to push the boundaries and flirt with him, hoping to hook up with him.

He is not stupid. He has heard students whisper about him several times, he notices the heart eyes when he is talking in class and he has gotten several phone numbers on papers since he started his PHD studies and started teaching last year. His friends teased him about being the heartthrob of the faculty, but he didn’t think it would actually happen and to this extent. To avoid any possible scandals, not that he planned to make any, he has put on quite a rigid mask towards the students to scare them off from even trying, though that hasn’t stopped some of them from wanting to shoot their shot.

He wouldn’t have come to this party, he would rather be home and continue his research that’s still not even close to being done, but Professor Bradford, or Stella as she requests Harry to call her, is the only person he gets along with in the faculty. She is 18 years older than Harry, but still younger than the rest of the old men who have been teaching here since probably before the declaration of independence was signed. Those men are the reason younger people don’t like classic literature anymore, with their outdated ways of teaching and unwillingness to bring something modern into their lectures they are scaring the new generations away. But not Stella. She is one of the reasons Harry went into his PHD and now he gets to work with her. He couldn’t just reject her invitation for her annual Christmas Party she holds for her students and some colleagues.

Now he is standing by the wall, drinking mulled wine and just gritting his teeth, trying to calculate how early is too early to leave. A couple of girls have already tried to chat him up, they like to circle him, leave him almost no room to escape and then make him talk about school stuff, but then they slyly bring up personal things, hoping to break his usual character, but he sees through them always.

Harry’s best friend, Niall always teases him that he should just give in and have fun with one of them. His morals are a lot looser than Harry’s, that’s for sure.

Just as he is about to look for the bathroom, not to use it but to hide for a bit, another group of girls spots him and he can already feel his skin crawling as they approach him from down the hallway. He is quick to assess the situation, but he realizes he has no chance of fleeing before they reach him.

“Profesor! So good to see you here!”

And here we go.

It goes the same, they are extremely nice and inquiring about his plans for the next semester and then suddenly they are talking about summer and Harry knows they are moments away from asking what he’ll be doing once the school year is over. One of the girls is talking about going to Italy on a yacht and the others chime in with their own ridiculously over the top plans while Harry is avoiding to even look at them, his eyes roam around the other guests.

That’s when he sees her.

Just down the hall he can peek into the kitchen and there she is, with a boy Harry assumes to be her boyfriend. He’s seen them around campus the past few weeks, he even waited for her after Harry’s class and saw them walk away together as he fought the way his stomach churned every time.

Since the moment she walked into his class at the beginning of the semester Harry has been feeling like he is losing his mind. Whether it be the way she laughs with her friends before class or focuses with undivided attention as Harry explains something by the board, or says hello every time she passes him in the cafeteria, Harry can’t stop thinking about her for days after even though he knows such feelings should be banned from his mind when it comes to a student. Every time he catches himself thinking about her he wants to throw himself out the window, but he still can’t fight it. There’s something in her that draws him in and swallows him whole and it’s not just the looks. Unlike a lot of students who take his classes for easy credits or to drool after him, she is there to learn as much as she can and she’s had the most brilliant thoughts on certain subjects Harry has ever encountered, making him almost jealous he wasn’t the one to think about them.

She is… unmatched. And forbidden, but impossible to ignore. She’s been his vice for months.

From where he stands it appears she is having a fight with said boyfriend, her always cheerful expression is now rather upset and confused while the boy seems to be over the conversation, almost irritated by her, dismissed. Harry tries to appear not too obvious about watching them, but he is also way too fixated on her to ignore what’s happening just down the hallway.

He glances away just for a few seconds, but the next time he looks back he sees the boy stomping away, irritated, while she is left there, pulling on her coat before disappearing through the backdoor, swallowed by the darkness of the unlit back terrace.

And before Harry could stop himself, he is already moving.

“Excuse me girl,” he mumbles disorientedly as he slips out of the small circle.

He places his glass to a nearby table and then grabs his own coat from the wardrobe in the hallway before making his way outside. After her.

The moment he steps out into the cold a short sense of realization washes over him that he definitely shouldn’t be here, that he is crossing a line, but then another voice in his head tunes it out, convincing him that he is just making sure she is okay and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Stopping by the door his gaze rakes through the terrace, but he doesn’t see her, until she spots her slouched form sitting on the bottom of the stairs leading out to the lawn. He hears her sniffling, but she hasn’t acknowledged his presence yet, if she noticed it at all. There’s a couple of moments of hesitation on his end, he can hear the rational side of him screaming somewhere in the back of his mind, telling him to turn around and just walk back inside, yet he still finds himself moving towards him and then that voice is silenced.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks from the top of the stairs, but he startles her so much that she jumps to her feet and backs away a few feet. That’s when he sees her tearful eyes and red nose.

“S-Sorry, I don’t–”

“Hey, it’s all good. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just checking in.”

She squints her eyes at him and that’s when he realizes she must not even see his face since the light is coming right behind him. So he walks down the stairs and then finally his face is lit and realization settles in her eyes.

“Oh, Professor Styles. Hi.”

“Hello Y/N. Are you okay?” he asks again, to which she just chuckles bitterly.

He can’t miss that even with tears running down her cheeks and her eyelashes stuck together, she looks so fucking beautiful it baffles him. He has to fight the urge to reach out and touch her tear-soaked cheeks.

“Um, yeah, everything is… perfect,” she scoffs, reaching into her pockets, probably looking for tissues, but finding none so Harry grabs one from his inner pocket, handing it over to her, her fingers brushing against his for the shortest second as she takes it and then it’s over, but his skin keeps tingling.

“Thanks,” she mumbles before drying her face as much as she can. “I’m good. Just…” She looks at him and changes her mind. “Ah, wouldn’t want to bore you with my nonsense personal drama.”

“Drama is never boring, have you learned nothing in my class?” he jokes and it actually makes her laugh.

“This drama is not worthy of being taught in class though.”

“I bet some of the big names thought the same thing upon writing what we read in class these days.”

“So you’re saying I should write about how my boyfriend is fed up with me because I told him something he did hurt me?”

“That sounds like something I bet a lot of people would want to read about,” he smiles and when she mirrors it, he can feel his chest expanding. Somewhere way too deep in his mind an alarm goes off, but it quickly becomes one with the void and all he can think about is her. “Actually I can think of a few great pieces that are about similar topics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, you’re not the first one to experience this.”

The way she looks at him is setting him on fire. The mixture of sadness, tiredness and gratitude towards his attempt to cheer her up is still making her glow in a way Harry has never seen before on any woman.

“Do you mind analyzing one for me right now?”

“I’d be happy to.”

The party is completely tuned out for the two of them. First they actually talk about a novel, but soon it turns into sharing their favorite books and authors, their guilty pleasure reads, recommendations for each other and even more personal bits Harry would never share with a student, but Y/N is the exception.

They have no idea how much time passes as they stand outside and Harry ignores how the cold starts to sting his fingertips even in his pockets, because he knows that if they go inside this bubble will pop and he is too selfish to let that happen just yet.

When there’s a short silence Harry notices that she is probably slipping back into what happened earlier and when she looks at him again he already knows she is about to share.

“I gave him a chance and explicitly told him not to fuck me over, because I can’t deal with that again. But all he has been doing is manipulating to believe that I’m always in the wrong.”

“It’s impossible for you to always be in the wrong.”

“I know. Well, part of me knows, but then I always go back to thinking that he is right, I must have messed up something.”

“That just proves that you have self-criticism, that you don’t just think everything you do is perfect.”

She sighs and looks away, her gaze distant as she battles herself inside her head, a feeling Harry knows very well, unfortunately. It doesn’t sit right with him that she is visibly struggling because of an immature guy’s untreated problems. She deserves so much more, but how can he tell that without crossing a line?

“Give it some time and you’ll see it clearer. Use your critical thinking on his actions as well, not just yours and don’t settle for less than your worth.”

“You think I did that?” she asks, eyes jumping back to meet his gaze. “You think I settled for less than my worth?”

There’s more behind her eyes than the words she said out loud and he is torn, because he can feel himself being pulled in more than ever, like she just opened the door the slightest and he has the chance to slip in. It’s the first time he senses something on her part and after all the yearning he is eager to take the chance.

“I think you deserve a lot more, Y/N. You’re brilliant, bright and give so much to others, you should get the same amount if not more back. If someone can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you.”

For a second he wishes he didn’t say a thing, he regrets crossing the line and he fears her reaction, but then…

Then he forgets everything. Because she is kissing him.

It happens fast, one moment she is staring up at him with doe eyes, the next her lips are crashing against his, her hands grabbing onto the lapels of his coat. He barely recovers from the shock when she is already pulling away.

“I-I’m so sorry, I d-didn’t mean to, I just—Oh my Go–”

Her stammering is quickly cut short when he kisses her, his hands holding her jaw to angle her face perfectly and while her kiss was closed, rushed and panicked, this one is different. He is quick to beg for her to open her lips so he can explore as much of her as humanly possible, he is letting all the passions loose that he’s been locking up these past months and when she returns it just as eagerly it just pushes him even further.

They inch back to the wall of the house and when he pins her against it a moan slips past her swollen lips, completely maddening him.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes against her lips, kissing her jawline, savoring the sweet taste of her skin that’s supposed to be cold, but it’s actually burning. For him.

He keeps one hand on the side of her neck, the other one digs into her hip through her coat and she keeps pushing against him, while her hands wander under his coat, they are on his waist, back and when they move to his lower stomach, brushing against his belt, something snaps inside him.

But before he could completely lose his mind the backdoor opens and he quickly sobers up, pulling her farther away from the corner so they can’t be seen.

“...and that was actually crazy,” a girl speaks up, oblivious to how Harry has Y/N pinned against the wall just a few feet away. They are both breathing heavily, but she has her face buried in his shoulder while he covers his mouth with a hand, adrenaline racing through his veins.

“Ah shit, I’m out of cigarettes,” another girl says.

“Mm let’s get out of here then. I think Max said they are having a little party as well.”

“Okay.”

Then the door opens again and the voices disappear, but reality hits Harry hard in the head.

He slowly pulls back, enough to look at her face and when he sees her swollen lips and slightly smeared mascara he almost combusts.

Because he wants nothing more than to take her, right here and then everywhere else in the world, but he also realizes what he just did and this time his rational side wins.

“Fuck,” he gasps as he jumps back, cupping a hand over his mouth.

“I wanted it–”

“Y/N, stop!” he cuts her off. “Fuck, this was a mistake.”

“But I wanted it! You didn’t–”

“I said stop!” he barks and she shuts her mouth right away. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

And before she could protest again or worse, kiss him again, he is already storming back inside, across the house towards the front door.

“Harry! I haven’t seen you all night!” Stella catches him, but he just wants to get as far away from this house and from Y/N as possible.

“I’m sorry, I need to go. I’ll talk to you later,” is all he manages to say before he is already out the door.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 6 months ago

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autism in china

if you been here for long enough you probably know that even me fucking explicitly naming country of origin & ethnicity instead of vague around something east asian, huge deal.

so.

as chinese person who born & part grew up in mainland china n been though HORRIFIC trauma from it... cannot talk about anything related to it.

but in mean time. there important things desperately wish non-chinese, or people who lived) in china in general (including diasporas), would know n understand.

because it been extra traumatizing & isolating n lonely, be only person in big metaphorical or literal room, who know these trauma exist, n horrific extent of it. some of which have live experience with. some of it looming threat for my future. some of it not my own experience but my friends (aka my community. my autistic n disabled community).

so, going share some stuff written by other chinese people in this post. that. oh gods. it so accurate it hurt.

there may be some parts not fully agree or would word different if am write. but. think overall message important enough.

especially if you non-chinese. hope you read through all of it (if accessible). even if it make you deeply uncomfortable. n then imagine autistic chinese people living in this reality. because many parts SHOULD make you deeply uncomfortable.

EDIT: image description link for those need ID or not have instagram

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fact is, most prevalent, majority—n by majority don’t mean 51% majority, but enough to feel like it hopelessly whole entire country—understanding of autism in china is that. there real autism (真自闭症) that rare n severe n hopeless n should die, n majority of cases fake autism (假自闭症) that can be cured / taken off hat 脱帽, that caused by environment like bad parenting, n you should be glad it fake, n kid n parent should then dedicate entire life to taking off that hat to finding cure, even if it mean , via old school gold standard (read: abuse) ABA. all professionals say it all professionals endorse it n who would question professionals? look this grande new intervention came from great United States Of America, that proof it top quality it works n am going charge ridiculous money for it. but why you saying USAmericans n “the west” saying [things that humanize autism], they wouldn’t know real struggle, their diagnostic criteria super wide it all fake, why would you listen to them, you traitor you boot licker. —but either way, both real n fake autism drain on public resources n should be kept away should be locked up in chains (no, literally. seen documentary where high support needs autistic get chain in closet for majority of day, “for his benefit.”), should never be born should all die. keep it away from my normal children my normal children should not have to share same space same classroom same world as it, its behaviors its symptoms its screams its existence rob teachers attention away from my normal children. they all should die n will proudly explicitly admit eugenics good.

(don’t actually believe this. but pretending write what have seen people talk about.)

n finally, post about general (visible) disability—because in my however many year grow up there, before (temporarily it seems) left, have never seen visibly disabled person in public. ever.

ever.

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n generally anything from this instagram account. need stop linking now or else link entire account.

so please. reblog this. share this. read this. don’t let me be only person bear this. because my god it breaking me

#am tired. am so fucking tired. no fucking wonder am want to [redacted]#actually autistic #actuallyautistic #autism #autistic #race #china #chinese #autism in china #loaf screm #long post

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delphi-shield · 3 months ago

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— 「 STRICTLY BUSINESS 」 PT 1

Sylus x Reader x MC — 10k

summary: mixed signals are her first language. she strokes her hand down your forearm, laces her fingers with yours and hits you with a one-two punch: "i'm so happy you made it! this is my boyfriend."

content: threesome, piv, pussy inspection, body worship, fem reader, reader is not mc, established relationship (mc & sylus), creampie, unsafe sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism (fantasized), dry humping, miscommunication trope that kind of works out in reader's favor, alcohol consumption, mc is nameless, non-descript, and referred to with she/her. mdni. dividers by @/adornedwithlight

You were on your way out the first time she walked into your bar.

She had come in with a gaggle of other hunters - work friends, you’d learned quickly. Hunters came in all the time. It was just far enough from headquarters that their superiors wouldn’t stop by for a cocktail, just ritzy enough to justify the elevated prices, but not enough to break their budgets. The bartender was a complete madman, but he could make a hell of a signature cocktail. Something pretty enough for a Moments post, but tasty enough to order again and again, and rotated just often enough that there was something new to post when you needed it.

You’d worked there for years - longer than you had ever planned on staying. Cocktail waitressing was supposed to help you get through school. When you had graduated, you’d found yourself struggling. You'd landed a cushy gig in the archives. Zero contact with the general public, great benefits. It was perfect, almost, except for your salary. It would have been enough to live on if you hadn’t been saddled with student loans, suddenly accruing interest again after years. As much as you hadn’t wanted to pick up more work (read: cried into your drink with some friends, lamenting that you weren’t born rich), you wanted to be debt-free more.

It had been easy enough to start picking up a few shifts a week. No need to look around for some place new when your old manager had practically dropped to her knees and wept when you asked if there was any room for you in the schedule again. It was less that you were a world-class server, more that you were consistent. On time, minimal call outs, already knew the ins and outs of the club. The interview was a formality. You filled out your paperwork while she caught you up on the workplace drama. Who broke up, who got together, who finally got fired – important stuff.

The first time you had served her, she had seemed so polite.

Any other time, you would have been happy to have a regular like her. Hunters were usually a mixed bag. Tips were usually good, but they could get rowdy. She kept her more boisterous coworkers in line with an ease you hadn’t expected from her. She was sweet, almost gentle at times - but she curbed bad behavior swiftly. Sometimes through misdirection - her hand on someone’s elbow, nodding along with their joke, effortlessly steering the topic of conversation away from the hot button issue. Sometimes, though, she’d put a stop to things with force.

You still remember the time she’d hefted her friend off of a table, scruffing him by the back of his shirt like a naughty kitten before you’d had the chance to intervene. She’d managed to haul him off of the table top with one arm, muscles flexing underneath her sleeves, steadying the table with her foot.

“No one came here to see you crack your head open,” she started in, shoving him back into his seat. You left long enough to return the mop to the supply closet. When you got back, she was still tearing into him.

It had been such a thorough dressing down that you’d said the only thing you could think of at the time – “yeah, get his ass.”

That had been the first time you had heard her laugh.

Not the sweet, restrained thing you’d heard before, the kind that you had leaned closer to hear more of, but loud and raucous, a snort taking her by surprise. She took the drink you passed her, her shaking shoulders sloshing it from rim to rim, and pressed her laugh to the edge of the glass.

That was when she became your favorite.

It’s mutual, you think. You dove for her table every time she came in. When you didn’t manage to get her right when she walked through the door, she requested you by name. Niceties gave way quickly to small talk, to hushed confessions and secrets exchanged underneath the driving bass of the club’s tracklist.

'Please' and 'thank you', eye contact every time she spoke to you. She laughed at your jokes - a little too long, a little too loud. Was her sense of humor that broken, or was she just dedicated to being kind to service workers?

You live for the moments she walks in the door, for the times that she picks the lint off your black button ups. No judgement, no comment, cleaning up your frayed edges like it was the most natural thing in the world. You start pushing your sleeves up in a bunch, only because after her first drink she will demand you sit next to her. She pushes your sleeves down and rolls them up nicely, takes her time making every fold crisp and presentable. She pats your arm when she's done, smiles sweetly, and turns back to her drink.

You'll catch an earful about playing favorites later. What are they gonna do, fire you? You're on your way out, anyway.

That day is closer than you thought. One sunny weekend, you’d sat at your kitchen table, blearily squinting at your computer. The realization warmed over at the same speed as your breakfast burrito, the microwave blaring as you realize that you’re at the finish line. You click through the pages, searching for anything you missed, any hidden fees or missed payments that would put you back into the hellhole of student loan debt - but there’s nothing. This next payment, and it was really over.

Thank you, scholarships. Thank you, dollar menus. Thank you, pretty hunters who leave fat tips.

You didn’t think twice about putting your notice during your next shift. The late nights after your 9-5 had been getting to you for a while. There was no benefit they could offer, no raise substantial enough to get you to stay. All that was left was to tell the regulars and struggle through your last few shifts.

The temptation to walk out during your last week was almost irresistible. You’d said most of your important goodbyes. There was only her left, your favorite hunter - and lo and behold, she came traipsing in with her usual crew that Wednesday.

You’d intended to tell her straight away, but her friends were rowdy that night. You're sure they'd all want to know thatyour're getting out of here, but the selfish part of you wants her focus. Some drama about protocores and wanderers keeps them chattering. Not your concern. If there’s no immediate threat, most of it goes in one ear and out the other. With no Evol yourself, you left that to the people a little more gifted than you. It was their job to deal with that, and your job to get them drunk so they still showed up to work.

Opportunity presents itself when you're busy collecting their fourth round of drinks. Her friends dart away to the bathroom, stumbling down the stairs, leaning against each other. You stack their orders quickly onto your tray and try not to seem excited when you bounce up the steps to her booth.

She looks up from her phone at the sound of your footsteps. There's a delay in her reaction, smile lagging before she's able to muster it. She sways gently. Definitely drunk, you note.

“It's my last week.” You lower your tray. Her hand stills on the glass before delicately curling around the stem.

Her fingers are slim. Well kept. Short, clean, probably a clear coat of polish if anything. She cradles the martini glass as if you'd offered her a flower.

A rose. No – too much, too forward. Daffodils, maybe. Vibrant, bright - something that could bring her good luck.

“What? That's so exciting!”

She tries to clap, forgetting the glass in her hand. Her manhattan spills against her chest, stains her white shirt. You divert your eyes immediately, pull a clean cloth from your pocket and offer it to her. It takes every effort to stop yourself from dropping next to her and dabbing her chest clean yourself. Not appropriate behavior with a customer, you chide yourself.

"You're kind of a goblin, huh?"

Shit. Neither was that. The words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them. You kept the grin pinned to your face even as your heart shriveled up in your chest. Oh my god, how could you have said that? She was still a customer. You didn't know her like that.

She blinks at you, lips parted - shock. She's too polite to say anything, but she’ll lodge a complaint with your manager. It shouldn’t matter. This is your last week. You’ve been saying out of pocket shit all week just because you can. But to her, of all people?

"Kind of?" She laughs. She drains her drink and sets it back to the table. You intercept her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She trades you for the cloth and paws at the mess like a little kitten. "It took you this long to figure it out?"

Your shoulders round, grin smoothing into a smile. The tension in your stomach unspools into warm relief.

"You put up a good front. Want another?"

She shakes her head. Her whole body sways with the movement. Hopefully she's got a ride home. Otherwise, you'd be calling her a cab. A pretty girl like her, making her way home on public transit, stumbling every other step, was a recipe for disaster even if she was some kind of ace hunter.

"Nah, I probably shouldn't," she sighs. She lays back into the plush chair, arms splayed over the back, legs kicked out wide. Her head turns to the ceiling, eyes shut. A sigh rolls through her body.

Your eyes scan down her form. Stop, you tell yourself, eyeing the space of her legs, how the width between her knees is the perfect amount of space for you to step into, to kneel down, hands braced against the tops of her thighs.

It's not that sort of club, you chide yourself, eyes sliding back up. A jolt cracks down your spine, aftershocks tingling through your fingertips. Her cheek is cushioned against the back of the seat, eyes low and half-lidded, staring at you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, pretend to be busy wiping the rim of her glass. Your fingers brush against her lipstick print. Don't think about it. Don't think it. Don't–

"When's your last day?" She asks, leaning forward, elbows dropping to her knees. You force yourself to hold her gaze, to keep your eyes averted from the clear view down the front of her stained shirt.

"Friday."

"Two more days! Are you excited?"

I was, you think. You shrug, playing at non-committal detachment.

"It's bittersweet," you finally settle on. It's not a lie. You're excited to move on, excited to leave the late nights, the rowdy patrons, the constant turnover.

But then there were your coworkers. The years of memories. The routine and policy that was ingrained in you, as easy as breathing.

There was her. Her smile, her laugh hidden behind her hand, the brush of her fingers when you passed her a drink.There were the fleeting touches that you convince yourself you imagined when you were alone in your bed, sheets tangled in your legs. You’d stare at the ceiling, pet the empty space next to you, imagine her tucked under your arm and snoozing peacefully against your chest. How long will she stay in your memory? How long til her edges bleed into something formless? Til you no longer imagine her, or someone in her shape, or anyone at all, til you’re staring up at the ceiling alone again.

She falls quiet. You imagine it, you're sure, the way that her eyes rove up and down your body, the way they flit back to your eyes. Locked on, target sighted -- one shot from those fancy hunter pistols and you're done for.

"You're my favorite," she says, voice approaching a whine. Her head tips back, delicate column of her throat bared to you.

You laugh, a little too late to be natural. You swipe your thumb – the same one that had smudged the lipstick from her glass – against your bottom lip.

“Want the scoop on the other servers so you can pick your new favorite?”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowing.

“No. I want you.”

Heaviness settles between you. Your fingers twitch towards her. You flatten your palm against your hip. The music fades as the track blends to something slower, softer, and you realize at once that the thrumming in your chest isn’t the beat, it’s your heart, hard and fast and pounding in your ears.

“Really?” You try to whip the heaviness to something lighter, offer her a dollop of levity. “You don’t want the gossip?”

Her silence stretches on. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. A burst of movement and she fishes out a scrap of paper, struggles to find a pen.

“I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, already waving away the company line before you can draw it between you. She scratches the dry pen against the paper again and again, crumpling it until the ink flows. “But if my number just happens to wind up in your pocket, then I guess I was just a patron who had a little too much. And when you don’t work here anymore…”

She tucks her number into your pants pocket, fingers pressing flat against your thighs. Your heart is in your throat. If you try to speak, you’re certain she’ll hear it, loud, beating for her.

“You keep trying to get me fired right up until the end.”

It takes you until Monday to text her.

You have no excuse. Your weekend was unhurried. You'd barely left the house, spent your time turning her words over and over in your head in between housework and intermittent naps. Text her. Don't text her. It's wrong, it's right - do you even want to? Do you like her, or do you like being seen? You don't know her. Not really.

But isn't this part of the knowing, though? This awful in-between, hanging in limbo, getting tossed around on the wash cycle.

You type out a hundred drafts and delete every single one. She was drunk when she gave this out. You should have just texted her after that shift to check if she got home okay. That would have been what a better woman would have done, a woman that could match her step for step.

It's too late now. You're not self-sabotaging, you're just being honest with yourself. There's a difference.

Monday rolls around and you find yourself drafting out your 101st message in between synchronizing old archived files with the city’s new database. Your eyes flit from the screen, the progress bar creeping up torturously slow, to the flicker of your cursor at the end of your latest drafted message.

Fuck it. Why not.

hey. it's your favorite waitress. is this weird? lol

Regret punches into your stomach the moment that you hit send. You stare at the faint 'Delivered' status and grimace. Definitely weird. All that time and that was what you ended up with? God, you didn't even put your name in the message. She probably thinks some rando is texting her, creeping –

She read it. She's typing.

You lock your phone immediately and click around pointlessly on your computer. Open email. Close email. Refresh. Log into the old archives. Click around through the years. Nod along sagely as your eyes glaze over some old police report. Yes, of course. Evol records. Traffic reports for 8th Avenue. Mhm.

The light flickers, message preview lighting up the screen. You drop your head into your hands, more than prepared to just delete the number and forget this ever happened. You snatch your phone up, dread weighing your movements down.

I was wondering when you would text! Saving your number right now.

What are you doing?

Huh. You hadn't seen that one coming. It only takes you a handful of drafts to respond this time. You're both at work - shocking, you had commented. You thought that hunters would be too busy to play on their phones. Turns out there's more desk work involved than you imagined.

The ease you felt in person weaved quickly between your texts, even when the demands of the day pulled you both away. By the end of the day, you'd made plans to meet up with her for drinks later in the week. Some great place she knows, a real hidden gem.

The conversation tapered off naturally, and you found yourself swiping up to reread your messages. You're smiling at your phone like a teenager. Embarrassment cold clocks you. You focus up, tucking your phone into your desk drawer to try to focus.

You’re on cloud nine for the rest of the work day, humming to yourself, tapping out a rhythm against your desk while the system takes forever to process basic search requests. By the end of the day, you’re still bubbly. You bounce into the break room to collect your lunch box.

Even the sight of Inspector Devon’s scowling mug doesn’t ruin your day. He’s just clocked back in, you’re sure. A whole half shift to go, finding minor infractions to meet his quota.

"What's got you all," he waves a hand up and down the length of you, nose crinkling, "giddy?"

"Can't I be happy?"

"No. It's creepy."

You roll your eyes and brush by him, out the door. Nothing could ruin this.

You stare down at the text on your phone, brow pinched.

We’re at the bar! Excited to see you. Punctuated with a little crow emoji waving at you through the screen.

You should have just asked. You should have made sure this was a date, not just expected it to be one. Now, standing outside the club, you feel like a kid playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

You'd gone all out. Wore your favorite outfit, fixed your face up, the whole nine yards. Now it feels like too much. The jewelry is too heavy, makeup caked on too thick. You're acutely aware of every place your outfit fails to hide your flaws. The pinch of your heels is suddenly unbearable.

You had showed up on time - not early, not late, 9 PM on the dot. Disappointment stings the fresh edges of rejection. You did this to yourself. You know that. It's no one's fault but your own.

You force yourself to move, one step at a time. It can still be fun, you tell yourself, deleting the draft you had typed out that claimed some mysterious stomach virus had struck you down. You can stockholm yourself into having a good time. Your life is different now. You're different. You send back a perfunct ‘omw in’ and force yourself through the doors.

The place is packed. It's far larger than your old workplace. Less private booths, more tall tables and standing room, crowded dance floor and driving bass that propels your every step forward. Couches dot back end of the room, fitted neatly into recessed conversation dens. That’s going to be filthy, you think. The clientele skews older. One glance at the bar has you realizing you’re far out of your price point.

You peer past glittery dresses and designer shirts, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet for a glimpse of her. You expected her to be with her hunter friends, but she's posted up at the bar, leaning close to some man. None of her usual crew is to he found.

He's tall - silver hair, angular features, outfit that screams ‘I have money’. More importantly, he has all her attention. Through the crush of bodies, you see her hand rest against his knee.

You divert your attention immediately, ignoring the spike of jealousy. She takes a long sip of her cocktail - a Manhattan again, you might have guessed - and that's when she spots you.

Her face lights up. Your smile is gentle, dim in the shadow of her own glow. She pushes her drink into the man's hand and weaves her way over to you.

"You made it!" She cheers, her hands sliding from your elbows to your wrists. Your heart flutters. You try to sear the touch into your memory. "I'm so happy you're here. C’mon - you have to meet my boyfriend."

Her boyfriend. There goes that. You take some solace in the idea that she wants to introduce you to her boyfriend. What you’d hoped for is out of reach, but you can still find friendship here.

"This place is great," you lie.

She says something under the cover of the music that you don’t catch. You lean close, cupping a hand over your ear, and you still don’t catch it on the repeat. Sure. Smile and nod, and that's enough to get her pulling you back to the bar. The people part for her, like they know better than to stand in her path

The man – her boyfriend, you correct – turns, hands her drink back. He looks you up and down, opens his mouth, and she cuts him off.

“This is Sylus,” she says, hopping up into the seat next to the tall man again. There's something unspoken in his gaze, the way his eyes cut to hers, the sly twist to her smile when she ignores him. She introduces you quickly. You smile, wave, go through the motions of small talk. Whatever that was, you're not getting into it.

She leans over the bar, flags down the bartender to get you a drink. It goes on his tab. Sylus keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. He probably knows you’re into his girl, can smell it on you. She's plucked herself in between the two of you, and every time you find yourself staring at her, Sylus’ cold gaze cautions you to cast your own out to the dance floor.

Their back and forth is easy. Your heart aches, but you laugh along with jokes that you lack context for, pretend you don't see the easy touches he presses to her waist. He's not being cold, you know that. You're hyper-aware, analyzing every tiny movement, looking for a reason to call it quits. Your little rabbit heart wasn't built for this.

When she flutters away to the bathroom, she trails her hand along your back so gently that you want to believe it was intentional. Your heart plummets into your stomach. It's a miracle it doesn't just fall out your ass.

Silence stretches between you as far as it can in a nightclub. You flash Sylus a smile. It goes unreciprocated. You drain your drink instead, set it back to the bar.

How do you make a swift exit? How do you get out of this and preserve your friendship with her? You map out escape routes in your mind. You’re mentally half-way out the fire exit when the bartender drops another drink off in front of you.

"You didn't have to do that," you say, cradling your drink close, both hands clasped around the lowball glass.

"That's a funny way to say ‘thank you’.”

Real charmer, this guy. You swallow a mouthful with a swing of our head, let the whiskey burn down your throat. You were just going to assume that was his attempt at teasing. Good will goes a long way.

“Are you a hunter, too, or–”

“No.”

You nod. “Cool. Me either.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I work for the city.” You wave your hand nebulously in the air. Another long drink. “Back in the archives. I’m a ‘Data Steward’. Basically just means I handle information requests and deal with the record management.”

Sylus appraises you for a moment, carmine eyes tracing your expression, stalling on your lips. Whatever he finds, he seems to accept. He smirks - the first sign of warmth you’ve seen from him aside from the drinks you keep draining.

He leans forward, the gap where she had been diminishing. The timbre of his voice undercuts the music, reaches your ears in a way that makes you shudder. “You must have quite the security clearance.”

You laugh, push your empty glass back. Sylus raises a hand. It's removed swiftly.

“Background checks are a cakewalk. I’m super boring.”

A look flickers across Sylus’ face. Amusement, you think. You'd seen the same look when she had made a joke, thought it was disdain at first.

“And what does someone who's ‘super boring’ do for fun?” He casts his gaze around the club. Your eyes linger on the slope of his nose. “Not this, clearly.”

Wherever that line of questioning was going, you never find out. Warmth and weight presses against your back. Her perfume envelops you - sweet up front, just short of cloying, cut with a spice underneath those layers. Your hunter is back, her arms draping around your neck. You twist to see her. It takes everything in you to keep your hands on the bar in front of you.

"Dance with me," she demands, her hand finding its way to yours. She tugs you up and off your stool before you can compose a denial.

Your eyes flit to Sylus, wide and worried. He only sips at his drink, gaze focused on you. You don't know if he nodded to the dance floor or if you invented the movement in your memory to assuage the guilt.

The guilt doesn't last long. She has an incredible ability to wipe your mind the moment it’s the two of you. She twirls out of your reach, leaves you stumbling after her, and laughter comes easy afterward. You've never heard any of these songs in your life, but she dances as if every one of them is her favorite. Her joy is just as infectious as her laugh, her smile. If you make a fool of yourself, she doesn't let you feel it.

Affection worms its way between your ribs, wraps around your heart and squeezes. She grabs your hand on the up tempo, raises it high - you get the memo and keep it held there, let her do a pretty little spin that sends her reeling into your chest. You giggle, stumble back onto your heel. You brace her with hands poised on her hips, and she meets your eyes, so close, so warm.

The club dances on around you, bass a driving heartbeat that the patrons pulse to, but you're suspended with her. It happens in an instant. She moves to kiss you and you surge forward to meet her.

The first pass is clumsy. Your enthusiasm crashes your noses together awkwardly. Her lips are soft against yours. She laughs into your kiss, effortlessly shifting to align with you. She raises your hand again, demanding another spin. You give it to her - of course you do - but you're chasing after her kiss, leaning after her.

She’s at the end of your reach, clinging to your fingertips, when reality slams back into motion. Your muscles seize. The graceful, flowing way you had reeled her in turns stiff, elbow locked tugging her back. Your breath barely squeaks past the lump that’s wedged into your throat.

She's still laughing, radiant and shining under the pulsing club lights. Your hands brace on her shoulder. Confusion pushes the happiness in her eyes to the side. She tries to curl against your chest again, and you take a step back, this time without her.

"I'm sorry," you say in a rush. “I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have.”

Her boyfriend is going to kill you. You don’t know how he’s going to do it, but you know that it’s going to hurt. They’re going to bring your family in to ID your body and they’re going to shrug and say ‘this could be anyone. I’m not convinced you’re not just showing me a pile of ground beef.’

“No, I liked it,” she insists. “You can do it again.”

“I can’t.”

“Please?”

Your mouth works around syllables that stay inside your mind. What the fuck kind of world did you wake up in? Is this a protofield? Are you in a coma? You thumb towards Sylus over your shoulder, only managing to produce a singular, confused noise.

Her foot wedges between your legs, body pressing against yours. “It’s okay.”

That does not help. Your hands hover over her hips, fingers flexing in the air, so close to touching her, restraint held by a thread. If your hands land on her again, you don’t know if you’ll push her away or pull her close. What the fuck is going on?

A big palm settles at your hip. You jolt, reeling back into a broad chest. Sylus peers down his nose at you, hand tightening to keep you upright. This is the end, you think, while he sets you steady.

“You're staring,” he drawls. You haven't figured that expression out yet. Right now, they all mean death. “What? Do you want to spin, too?”

His hand slides slowly, purposefully, along the small of your back. He steadies you there, thumb arching across the cheap material of your dress. You’re wedged firmly between them, snared between a snake that winds and writhes against you and one that keeps you still, binds your movements with a single touch.

The pieces click into place, an audible snap accented by your head whipping between both of them.

“This is, like, a thing?” You blurt out, index finger drawing a line between the three of you, wagging back and forth until she snares your finger in her hand.

She nods, confusion in her expression smoothing. Sylus smirks, his brows raised. He guides you from the dance floor with the mere suggestion of a touch, a barely there pressure at your side.

“You didn’t tell her?” He drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable.

“I thought she knew!”

You can imagine the way she might have stomped her foot if not for her heels. The world is spinning. Did you just get unicorn hunted? How the fuck did you get yourself into this situation.

“Why would I know that?”

She flounders for an answer. “I talked about my boyfriend all the time.”

“You said ‘partner’.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when you’re a hunter.”

“Are you upset?”

Yes. Of course you are. You’re completely blindsided. She could have at least given you a heads up, dropped some hints. You probably still would have said yes.

Your jaw works, grinding your sharp, pointed words down to dull, harmless things.

“No. I’m just confused."

Her hands circle your wrists. Sylus’ heat disappears from your back. He slips away, barely tracked in your peripheral. The squeeze of her hands brings you back, calluses dragging against your soft skin.

“I should have said something.”

Yes, you think, you should have. But she’s giving you those puppy eyes, big and round, the same kind that she would flash whenever she spilled a drink, when she knew you would have to clean the mess. You bite your tongue. You can’t fall for this forever.

“Yeah, you should have.” There you go. Your spine grew three sizes today. “I still had fun.”

Forget it. Your spine is collapsible. You can hear your own vertebrae collapsing into themselves, hollow thunk-thunk-thunk every time she bats her eyes.

Sylus manifests from the depths of the club, your coat slung over his shoulder. He stretches his arm out to her, welcomes her back with that simple unspoken invitation. She fits against him snugly, like she was molded for him. He reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face gingerly - the sort of care that you hadn't expected from him, that had been absent in his evaluating gaze earlier.

"Ready to go, kitten?"

There’s the escape route. She hesitates, her eyes drifting back to you. It's her pout that does you in, perfect glossy lips pursed, her lipstick only faintly smudged. (Is it pressed to the corner of your mouth, you hope.)

"Do you want to come back to my place?" She asks, voice somewhere between hopeful and hesitant. Sylus' hand squeezes her hip. She clarifies, rolling her eyes. "With both of us."

You can think of a hundred reasons to say no. This isn't good for your heart. You know it isn't. It will hurt, and you will be just as alone as you started.

"Yeah," you say. Sylus swings your coat off of his shoulder, offering it out to you. You shrug it on, noting that he has both of your purses tucked under his arm. You fumble with your coat, hand getting caught in the sleeve. You flap it aggressively until your hand pops free. Sylus snorts, but she laughs. "Sounds fun."

Her place is everything that you expected. Clean, comfortable, modern. She wobbles out of her heels the moment the door shuts. Sylus is faster than you, catches her elbow to steady her before your hand can slide to her back. You avoid his eyes, feign interest in the decor instead.

She tugs you down onto her couch the moment your coat is off. Her eyes are bright, smile wide, laugh loud. You crash down onto the seat next to her. An old classic – flop carelessly, end up closer than normal. Your shoulder brushes against hers. She doesn't even bother to play coy. She leans against your side, kicks her legs over the arm of her couch.

Sylus strides through her apartment, clearly comfortable. Glasses clink faintly in the kitchen, background noise to the idle conversation that falls so naturally from her. He passes her a water first, then inclines his head to you, wiggling the glass in his other hand back and forth faintly. You take it from him. It’s nearly impossible to avoid brushing his hand when it nearly wraps all the way around.

He makes his way around her apartment like he lives here. Does he? You look around as subtly as you can.

Not that it matters. She's chatting happily to you about the evening - the music was great, wasn't it? Yeah, it was great. Could that shoe rack fit Sylus' shoes? No way. If it would, if he was accustomed to that kind of domesticity, he would have put them there instead of lining them up neatly by the door. You had kicked yours off haphazardly, stumbled into the room after her. Decorum was a second thought when you were with her. Was the sharp scent of leather polish swept in by Sylus, or had it been soaked into her apartment, tucked away neatly in a drawer next to her things?

“Yes, oh my god, that guy was so wasted.” You parrot his drunken babble back to her in your best impression of the man from the club, and she cackles. Her hand slaps over her mouth. You're grinning toothily, eyes pressed to crescents. How do you get her to laugh like that again? You could spend the rest of your life trying to pull that sound from her lips.

Sylus drops next to you, thigh brushing against yours. The same move you'd just used on his girlfriend. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, curls behind both of you. He nurses a whiskey in his other hand - the first drink you’ve seen him have all night, you realize.

You don’t remember when conversation was exchanged for kisses. You don’t even remember who touched you first. She pulled you into her by the front of your dress, sucked your bottom lip into her mouth, and who were you to relent? You kissed your way down her body, hands bunching her dress up to her hips. Sylus had positioned your legs in his lap, hand stroking your ankle while he finished his drink.

You’re mouthing at her through her panties when his grip shifts. The only warning he gave was the clink of his glass settling against the side table. His hands slide to your hips, rucking your dress up along the way, and he flips you in one smooth motion. Static fizzes through your spine - excitement, arousal, shock. Probably all three. Your back is pressed to her stomach, head pillowed between her breasts.

Sylus leans forward. You lift your chin, angle to receive his kiss, and it never comes. She leans forward to receive him instead. The press of them, so close, so intimate, and still so far away, is maddening. Your breath quickens. You’d never expected Sylus to moan like that, but he’s unabashed in his pleasure.

He rolls your dress up further, and you lift your arms obediently once their kiss breaks. Don’t even have to be told - aren’t you good?

She thinks so. She tells you so when she presses a kiss behind your ear, when her hands push at your shoulders and guide you to lay back against her.

Your cheek presses against the plush of her thighs. You nuzzle against her skin, stretch like a pampered cat and press your nose to the point of her hip, breathing deep. Your face could be buried in her syrupy cunt if the hands bracing your cheeks and pinning your hips didn't keep you from turning over. Mean, you think. It's the last thought you plan to have for a while.

There's some murmur happening above you - a conversation about logistics, about the height of your hips, whether your breasts should be bare or restrained by your bra.

“It doesn’t matter to me, kitten.” Words like honey, drizzling lazily down to your ears. “This is your show.”

You preen. You're the pretty little bauble, all dressed down for her amusement. She strokes the back of her fingers against your tummy and huffs. It's not fair; even her grumbling is pretty. Her bottom lip juts out and you can imagine running your tongue along it, suckling gently. How soft her skin, how sweet her taste. Her hands travel down your skin, skating over the planes of your ribs, curling upwards to press your breasts together. She hums. Her brow furrows. You arch your back, mold yourself into the shape of desire.

A hand slides up the valley of your breasts, backs of her fingers dragging. She catches your chin with her knuckle, urges you to tilt your head up to her.

You can't imagine what you must look like, so you picture the roles reversed instead. She'd look just as good lying in your lap as she does looking down her nose at you. Your nipples peak, press against the cups of your bra and fuck, you must be hot if you can feel that, if every breath has you tingling for more.

"Off," she says with a determined nod. She smiles down at you, turns her hand to cup your chin. You lower your head to her touch instantly, all but purring.

If Sylus cares one way or the other, he gives no indication. He presses the small of your back, urges you to keep arching. His warmth surprises you. You’d expected him to run cold, expected his long fingers to dot your skin with goosebumps. There’s no caress to his touch (not like when he touches her, fingers drifting down her skin, stroking, circling, ever present. You could watch him pet her for hours. In your mind, she bends into his hands. You bend the same way, wonder if it will turn his touch gentle, but it’s–) just efficiency.

His eyes trail a cold path down the curve of your body, knuckles trailing along your spine until they catch the clasp of your bra. He strokes along the band, assessing the way it sits, counts the hook and eye closures with a swipe of his thumb, and then it’s undone.

Her hands slide down your shoulders, tidal in their movements. Down, up, down, so steadily you barely realize that she's slipping the straps from your shoulders. She presses open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paws at your chest, revealing your breasts as if they were works of art, a statue unveiled for the very first time.

Her kisses stop. She hooks her chin over your shoulder, cheek resting against your own. She sighs, her chest pressing against your back, and you find yourself mimicking the movement. Breath flows out of her and into you. She gazes down at your body from the same angle that you do every day.

You squirm as the thought truly cements. You know what she sees. Every angle, every curve and roll, all of the parts that you have fixated on and pinched at, pleaded for to smooth away, to become a firm plane of muscle not unlike the ones that lay behind her clothes.

But she runs her hands down the soft angle of your ribs, the curve of your waist, finally settling at your hips. She noses into the crook of your neck and squeezes.

"You're so soft," she says, words pressed into your skin -- flowers for the artist. You shift in her grip, trying to squirm from her grasp. It's too much attention, too vulnerable, but she grumbles. "So pretty. Look–"

She runs the backs of her fingers from your hips up to your waist. She kneads another palmful of your flesh reverently. Her breath is warm against your neck when she moans, but it sends a chill across your skin, a frigid anticipation. Your head knocks back against her shoulder.

Your eyes close. The comfort of her presence and praise lulls you to a space you’d never felt before, your body melting against her frame. Sylus’ weight is a welcome surprise. He grips your ankle tenderly, position your legs wider, and lays himself in that space, and–

What the fuck. You nearly choke.

You wish his dick wasn't big. Not because it doesn't make your mouth water, not because you can feel yourself clenching at the feel of it against your clothed cunt, but because you don't want his ego to be justified. He chuckles at your little noise, at the restrained pulse of your hips against his. He presses against you fully when he leans up to kiss her and you feel it against your core, hard in his pants. You can imagine the tip, glistening, dripping, wetting the front of his boxers, can imagine it slapping against his stomach when you dip your fingers into the waist of his pants and tug them down.

Your throat tightens, heart hammering against your ribs. His hips shift against yours and you whine like a bitch in heat. You’re torn between the need to press your hips up to meet his and the paralyzing instinct to remain still, to savor every movement. This is meant for her, you know it is, but if you lay still then you can pretend. Your body can be her proxy. He can rut against you until he spills himself on your stomach. She can admire his cum against you skin, swipe it onto a finger, lick it clean and then press her finger into your mouth, let you swirl your tongue amidst the remnants of her spit and his spend, swallow down only the traces of them.

A big hand curls around your rib cage, fingers flexing into the gaps, thumb tucked under the swell of your breast. He could squeeze, cave your chest in, and it might feel like relief. Any touch is relief, even if you want his hand to slide around to your front, his big palms rolling and squeezing your breasts together. You want his tongue running over them, teeth nipping, lips sucking, marking.

Instead, he pulls you up, makes you roll into the movement you’ve tried so desperately to restrain. Your resolve is broken easily. You rock into him again and again, whimpering, desperate for anything they will give you. Her hands slide between your bodies, squeezing your tits hard. Your clit throbs. Desperate and whining, you grind yourself into him, savor every controlled roll of his hips.

He pulls back from her and his hands slide down your body. Long fingers hook into your panties, dropping them down to your knees.

Sylus doesn't move until her hands press at his shoulders. You exchange a look with him, and the unspoken is agreed upon. It's not your pleasure - it's hers.

You thought you were ready. You thought he'd reach down, undo his belt (one hand, you imagine, practiced) and get to work.

Instead, he slips down your body, hands braced on your hips. His thumbs press the point of your hips, and a spark of pleasure ignites the kindling piled in your stomach, sends you squirming. He braces himself on his elbows, lowers his face to your cunt. His breath fans against you, thumbs massaging your skin.

"Wait–" you blurt out. You could kick yourself. You free your hand from her grasp and push weakly at Sylus’ shoulder.

His eyes cut up to you immediately. The sight is enough to make your insides squirm, breath evaporating from your lungs. What kind of idiot were you to stop this? His hands loosen. For the first time the entire night, he's truly looking at you as if she isn't there. Sylus waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he draws himself up to his elbows.

"No?" He arches a brow. His hands slip from your skin, palms laying flat by your side instead.

Your mouth runs dry. Embarrassment heats your face. You hold his gaze.

"It's too..."

Too intimate. Too much. I don't know you like that.

Sylus seems to get the message. He shuffles back, sits on his heels. His hands come back to your skin, splayed against your thighs this time. There’s no pressure in his touch. When you knock your knees together, suddenly struck by the awareness of how bare you are, spread out in front of him, he lets you.

“We can still – other stuff,” you stammer out.

“Be more clear,” Sylus instructs.

Your breath comes out in a whistle, and the words that follow are a ten car pileup.

"You can fuck me. Like, with your dick. Or something."

The irony isn't lost on you. You won't let him put his mouth on you, but his cock will do. You're fairly certain that the quick exhale from behind you was her attempt to stifle a laugh. You turn your head away from his gaze. Too intense. Too much.

"Is that what you want?"

Your tongue is heavy and thick in your mouth, words failing you.

"I don't not want that."

He clicks his tongue. Admonishment, a quick flash of shame shooting up the column of your spine.

"Not good enough."

His hands withdraw from your skin, touch dragged away. You force your eyes back to him.

"Wait, no - I want it," you say quickly, stumbling over yourself to claw him back to you. "Please. I really want it."

The corner of his lip quirks. His eyes raise back to her, and suddenly you can breathe again. You knock your head back against her chest, rolling to settle against her tits. In your relief, you miss their silent exchange.

It doesn't take you long to piece together what's going on. She leans away, slides a drawer open, and passes Sylus a bottle of lube over your body.

“Is that necessary?”

Sylus snorts. "If you're not going to let me prepare you my way, then yes. It is."

Truly, you wish you could call his bluff, but you'd felt him against you mere minutes earlier.

He shakes the bottle in one hand, the other sliding to press against the inside of your knee. It's a suggestion for the moment, but you feel the strength behind his touch. You part your legs again after a moment's hesitation. Nerves flutter back into your chest.

He huffs. You think that might be the closest he gets to laughing.

"You'll need to be wider than that," he points out.

Her hands shift from their hold on your waist, sliding down your body and smoothing over the softness of your inner thighs. She presses you wider for him gradually. Her mouth catches your earlobe, teeth scraping gently.

"You're going to feel so good," she promises. She could tell you anything in that voice and you would believe her, but this time it takes effort. "Can he use his fingers?"

You nod. Her teeth snag against your skin, and you inhale ragged.

"Can you tell him?" She says. If she asks it of you, then why not?

"You can- you can touch," you manage. She kisses beneath your ear, whispers for you to be more clear, to tell him how. "You can finger me."

The heat in your face is nothing compared to the pulse of your cunt. You twist to bury your face in her shoulder, embarrassed and certain that he can feel the heat fanning from you in waves.

His touch is slow, searing. His fingers stroke down your thigh. His touch hovers, and then he's palming your pussy. The heel of his hand grinds against your clit. You press back into her arms, head rolling. You mouth needily at her neck, desperate to keep your noises at bay.

Sylus drags his fingers through the mess of your cunt, slow, testing strokes. One long finger teases your entrance, lazy circles drawn against your sensitive skin.

His press is gentle. First knuckle, second knuckle – fuck, his fingers are thick. You'd admired his hands all night, spent time chasing away thoughts of sucking them, but now they're pressed inside you,

"Don't hold your breath," she instructs. Your exhale comes out in a needy, pitiful whine. She's grinning, you're sure of it, but Sylus withdraws his finger to add a second and that thought is quickly discarded for the thrill of this new stretch.

Slow and easy breaks to hard and driving the moment he pulls a shattered moan from you. You writhe as he hits the same spot again and again, callused fingers brushing and hooking against the perfect spot. Heat pools in your limbs, toes curling with every press of his fingers.

And then it’s gone. The heat dissipates, embers still burning in your veins. You clench around nothing, body struggling with the absence. Your chest heaves. You force your eyes open and you’re transfixed by the sight of Sylus stroking himself. It’s lube, you tell yourself, but god you wish that slick on his cock was you instead.

He drags his glistening tip through your folds, nudging your clit. You shift to meet him, struggling to find your timing in the haze of lost pleasure. Your knee presses against the back of the couch, desperate to welcome him back to you.

Sylus presses himself to your soaked entrance. He plants a hand by your hip, reaches past you with the other. Her hand tangles with his, their fingers intertwining against your stomach.

His fingers were nothing compared to his cock. The first thrust leaves you gasping against her shoulder, hand clawing at his back. The stretch fades to pleasure when his hips draw back and press deeper, his pace driving you back into her body.

Every time you think he’s bottomed out, he stretches you deeper. Those careful, slow thrusts with his fingers weren’t courtesy, they were reconnaissance. You choke on your moans. Her hand grips your jaw, directs you to kiss her, to pour your sounds into her while he pounds into your cunt. Her perfume mixes with his cologne, some heady concoction that will have you wet at the very trace of it in the future.

There’s no time to figure out how much of him you’ve taken, how much is left, how much could possibly fit. Their hands press against your stomach. You clench around him. Pleasure floods through you, pries free a cry that sharpens to a sob when she wedges her hand between you, two fingers rubbing your clit. He kisses you hard, teeth clacking against yours, his hips snapping. You can’t close your mouth and that’s perfect for him, his tongue delving past your lips, brushing pants yours. All you can do is moan into him.

Her fingers keep circling, circling, harder and harder, your clit throbbing, pleasure needling through your limbs. Your hands flex, toes curling - and then your knees snap closed, press hard against him, the dam breaking, your orgasm washing over you in waves. Your vision tears. Pleasure and sheer sensation sweep you away, leave you babbling and writhing.You’re pulsing around him, hands roving between her and him, unsure of who to cling to, who to claw at, who can catch you while you tumble. Sylus’ arm wraps firmly around your waist, drags up flush to his hips and keeps you pinned there. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, throaty groan rumbling from his chest. His thrusts are quick and deep, prolonging your pleasure until it verges on painful sensitivity.

His cock jerks. He presses himself deeply into you, fully seated when he cums. She surges forward to kiss him, to swallow all those pretty moans he had been panting into your skin, folding you to a new angle that makes you gasp and shudder.

Your body is a heartbeat. You’re boneless in their grip, at their mercy. Your eyes flutter shut when Sylus finally stills inside you, when his hips stop fucking his cum deeper. Her hand draws away from your over-sensitive clit, petting your sides gently. They talk, a quiet murmur over your body that you can’t be bothered to parse.

It’s not for you. Even with your brains liquefied, you have enough sense to know that.

Sylus draws himself from you, and it feels like a loss. You curl into her chest instead, movements heavy and sluggish. She strokes your hair back from your face, neatly arranges the mess they’ve made of you as she lays you back against the cushions.

Sleep would have taken you immediately if it weren’t for her probing touch.

Her fingers drift across your sensitive folds, two fingers parting your labia. Heat sears your skin, embarrassment a flash fire sparked from the dull embers of your orgasm. You’re too sensitive for her curiosity. The pad of her thumb drags against the sore hood of your clit and you turn your head the side, wounded noise locked obediently behind your teeth.

Sylus snares her wrist in a loose hold. His thumb traces her pulse point.

“Give her a rest, sweetie,” he says with all the admonishment of a parent telling his daughter to put away her toys.

Her gaze is stuck on you, watching his cum drip out of you. How can you feel equal parts adored and objectified?

She sighs dreamily and rises to her knees. You give in, your eyes too heavy to keep open any longer. She leans over you, kisses your forehead and says, “did you have fun?”

You wake to the sound of a shower. You blink yourself to consciousness and find yourself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. The lights are warm. The blanket over you is soft, the scent pressed into the weave familiar but not your own. It takes a moment for the recognition to set in, and when it does so does the ache in your muscles.

One deep breath expands your ribs, highlights the muscles in your back you'd pulled, the fingerprints against your ribs, the soreness in your breasts. Your lips are swollen and raw, kissed to the point of pain, and your mouth has run dry. Your hand slips from your stomach, fumbles around aimlessly for your phone. It's habit, not logic. Of course it isn't there. This isn't your home, and you didn't leave it on the table. It's probably still tucked away in your purse, dead or dying.

Trying to sit up is a mistake. You feel it in you core, in your hips. Were you out of shape, or had it just been a while?

Who were you kidding. Probably both.

You squint around the room, waiting for the bleariness in your eyes to clear. Your knees wobble when you trust your weight to them. You hunch over the plush couch, take a moment to right yourself.

"I thought you'd sleep much longer than that," Sylus says, sipping at a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

You jump, grumble a quiet 'shit' under your breath. He'd been there the whole time, surely. His hair is damp, water dripping off the ends and onto a soft towel wrapped around his shoulders.

You stall in the entryway, twisting this way and that, arms stretched high over your head, then down to your toes. You regret every movement, muscles screaming at you to give it a rest.

"I don't sleep well in new places," you admit.

"Neither do I," he notes. You believe it. He seems the paranoid sort.

You'd seen his type before, the kind that scanned every corner for threats. Usually, it was a show - jumpy men scared of shadows, masking their fear with proactive aggression. You weren't so sure about him. Same song, different key.

He doesn't look up from his reading. You assume he's done with you for the moment. Not the first time someone's treated you coldly after having their dick in you, but this time it stings. You pin it on the aches and pains again, brush it off, and fish your phone out of your pocket.

4:47 AM. 6% battery.

“Shit,” you murmur. You turn it off and press a knuckle between your eyes, massaging the tension out. You would ask her if you could borrow her charger once she was out of the shower. You could call a cab, or at least map out the walk home. You'd been so blinded by her the entire drive that you weren't even sure what part of the city you were in.

"Did you need a ride home?"

It's like he's a mind-reader. That's the generous interpretation of that statement, at least. The reality is he probably just wants you out of his girlfriend's apartment.

You smile tightly and shuffle your purse onto your shoulder.

"You don't have to do that. I can walk, or I'll get a ride."

He looks up, eyes dark under the ridge of his brow.

"I'll give you a ride."

That didn't sound like there was room for argument. You stuff it down, fidgeting from side to side.

"Okay. Sure."

Her shower is still running. You hesitate only for a moment. Sylus is paused at the door, keys in hand. Not the kind of man you keep waiting. You would call her tomorrow. Maybe then you could figure out what all of this was - if it was anything at all.

The ride home is nearly silent. You’re not sure what you expected. You’re not sure why you expected anything at all. You don’t take it to heart. It’s not your first awkward car ride home after getting your brains fucked out.

Sylus has the decency to wait for you to wobble to your door, unlock it, and get inside before he drives away. That’s nice, at least. You leave a trail of your belongings back to your bedroom, too tired to do much of anything other than flop down face first on your bed. The stickiness between your thighs demands attention, however, and you treat yourself to a five minute shower.

The night replays in your mind as you wash it off. Their hands on you, their mouths - their eyes looking past you, towards each other.

You shut the water off. No more of that. You’ve tortured yourself enough tonight. You stumble through the halls of your apartment. The beginnings of the sunrise glow through the dark of night. You draw your curtains closed.

When you lay back in your bed, body aching, blood pulsing through the marks they had left on your skin, you realize that you are still alone.

#Sylus x Reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace imagine #Sylus smut #Sylus x MC #lads smut #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace x reader

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etheries1015 · 1 year ago

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Can you do a twst wonderland x overworked reader? But instead of being normal and taking a break they keep pretending everything is fine despite the fact they are starting to flunk classes and forgetting lunch?

I don't really care who it is for I just need more twst wonderland stuff haha

I actually really really love this, since I've been working full time and going to college full time, overworking is NOT difficult to achieve. Remember that your grades do not determine your worth, and take care of yourself <3 thank you for this lovely request, Anon <3

Twst x Overworked!Reader

General warnings: Gender neutral, mentions of not eating and being exhausted.

featuring: Riddle, Silver, Vil, Malleus, Lilia

Intro:

Being the prefect of Ramshackle came with a plethora of responsibilities. You were practically the campus rag doll- carried around by everyone's will, solving problems, fixing issues, someone people would trust to go to in times of crisis. You were always there when a student over blot, and it was no hidden secret that you managed to do that while being at the top of the class despite being non-magic.

However, there was so much you could do, and so many smiles to hide behind. Everyone began to take notice, of the way you became snappy at others a little quicker than usual, dismissing issues with a wave of your hand and a stand-offish quick solution. It was in the way someone would ask if you were alright after noticing the dark circles under your eyes, only for you to give your signature kind smile and insist you were alright.

It was also obvious in the way that you were not found at lunch as you normally were, most students unable to find you not to realize that you were attempting to catch up on school work where you could. You could feel yourself begin to wither away, but the fear of being judged and losing the title of the smart, courageous prefect was slipping from your fingertips causing you to fall into a vicious cycle.

What do they do when they finally decide to confront you, seeing past the facade you were so clearly painting?

Riddle

It came as a complete surprise when you showed up to his dorm asking him to assist you in studying for classes. This was uncommon since he was certain you were doing incredibly well for yourself, taking note of your slowly increasingly disheveled look with every session you had set up. It wasn't until you yawned for the fifth time during a study session that he spoke up.

"Are you alright, (Y/N)? He asked, "You're distracted. You better pay attention if you wish to do better on this test, since-"

"Yes, since I practically failed the last one. Yes, I'm fine, please continue." Your interruption left Riddle surprised, raising an eyebrow and setting down his pencil.

"Are you sure you're-"

"I'm fine!" You snapped. Riddle was taken aback at this sudden outburst, a look of dread covering your features at the realization your voice had raised in a way you hadn't meant it to. You pursed your lips and looked down in shame, tears filling your eyes. You were quick to cover your face in embarrassment, shaking your head.

"I'm sorry," You mumbled a few times, each time becoming more broken as tears streamed between your fingers and you attempted to choke back sobs. You heard Riddle close his book and let out a small sigh, before standing up. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the red-haired male, for you were ashamed of yourself for lashing out in such a way when he had only meant to help.

"Come," He said. Confused, you peeked between your fingers seeing that Riddle had stood up and grabbed your hand.

"When I'm feeling overworked and sad..." He said shyly, "I secretly go to the kitchen and take a tart, or some other dessert." You raised your eyebrows, your tears slowing as you furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head. "Do not repeat that to anyone else, though. Come, I'm feeling...overworked." Biting your lower lip, you nodded and took his hand, Riddle leading you out of his room and towards the dorm kitchen. Silence filled the hall for only a minute, interrupted by your curiosity. You knew how he felt about taking tarts that were meant for unbirthday parties, much less breaking the very rules and morals he strictly maintained.

"Do you really do that?" Without looking back, Riddle replied with a smile on his lips.

"I do in this moment."

Silver

Silver has always been a sweetheart to you, being attentive to your state he'd often bring you things such as teas on occasion, however, you realized he was doing it a lot more frequently than usual.

"Here," He said to you as you let him into Ramshackle and set down an armful of items on the table, "This tea my father says is good for aching muscles. Young master and I cooked some of these foods, they are good for replenishing your energy, especially after a long arduous day of training."

"I don't do any physical training though?" You pointed out to the silver-haired male, pulling out a chair and sitting in it, resting your head upon your hands as you glanced over the goodies he had brought you.

"Well, it works a lot for when you're really tired. I eat these myself frequently, and it makes you feel a little better when you're overworked." Your eyes widened at his statement, mouth opening slightly and looking up at the tall male who only graced you with a gentle yet sad smile.

"I'm not...overworked," Overwhelmed by his gaze that only held affection, you averted your eyes and began picking at your fingers. Silver placed a hand upon yours, before pressing his forehead against your own. Your face flushed red, yet you couldn't find the energy to pull away.

"You're warm, I think you're getting sick..." You tried not to correct him in the fact you were warm in his close proximity, allowing him to do whatever he felt was needed. Silver grabbed one of the teas that lay against the table, eyeing it and looking back at you.

"This will be good for you...I'll make some. You should go get some rest, and I'll help you sort out an appropriate schedule for you."

"Silver, I-" You wanted to decline his offer, yet was interrupted by the shaking of his head and a chaste hug.

"You do so much for all of us around the campus, your bravery shows no bounds. But even the strongest of heroes need to know when they've taken on too much." Sighing in defeat, you gave in and nodded. Silver smiled in satisfaction and made his way towards the kitchen to prepare you the tea he so kindly brought for you, as your eyelids felt heavy and the weight of burden slowly eased from your shoulders.

You were going to have a wonderful night's rest for the first time in a very, very long time.

Vil

You weren't particularly in the mood for this, Vil inspecting every part of you at this moment simply by attempting to convince him you were fine.

"your skin is pale showing signs of fatigue, your muscles are untoned-"

"They're always like that."

"I am not finished," Vil folded his arms, " The skin around your nails are torn up, and you have bags under your eyes that only get that dark and puffy after a significant amount of sleep deprivation and lack of hydration. You went from the top of the exam board and plummeted to the middle," He strutted towards you, looking into your eyes with sadness.

"And worst of all, you are nowhere to be found during lunch the past two weeks, and you seem to be losing weight and have less energy."

"Thank you," you rolled your eyes, "For pointing out everything wrong with me, as if I didn't already know. I'll be fine, thank you for your concern." You went to turn away from Vil, before his strong hands turned you back around and held you into a hug, stroking your hair. You were taken aback by this sudden form of affection, your arms laying flat at your sides.

"I'm fine," You repeated, mumbling into his chest where he held you firmly.

"I'm very good at spotting when someone is lying," Vil said plainly, "I can tell when someone is putting on an act. And it isn't to point out your flaws, (Y/N)," You paused at hearing your name escape his lips rather than your typical "potato" nickname he oh-so loved to attach to you.

"It's because I am worried for your health. Stop putting on an act." You felt your determination to hide your feelings crumble and tears form in your eyes, your arms trembling as you moved to give him a hesitant hug back.

"I know how hard it must be," He said with calmness and understanding in his voice, "to feel pressured to be okay. But around me, you do not need to pretend. Let me help you, as you have helped...us." He pulled away to see your tear-stained cheeks, tucking a hair behind your ear,

"As you have helped me. You do not need to struggle alone."

Malleus

"Child of man," Malleus called out to you, "Are you alright?" It was your typical meetup outside Ramshackle dorm, You sat down lazily at the garden table the two of you worked hard on, your head lay down on the table.

"I'm fine, Mal," You sighed, not looking up to see his gaze. You suddenly felt something soft wrap around your shoulders, recognizing it as His blazer. This caused you to finally raise your head, a gentle smile upon the lips of the tall black-haired fae.

"It's cold out, wouldn't you agree?" He took a seat next to you, "The flowers may wilt soon." You nodded, propping your head up with your hand.

"Sad, isn't it?" You grumbled, "they were so vibrant and colorful, and soon their leafs will wilt and turn brown. They will become weak and fall apart." Malleus eyed you curiously, noticing even in the dark the way your eyes were swollen and the frown that painted your features. Something that wasn't common to see, for you were typically so energetic to be engaging in conversation with him. He turned his gaze back to the flowers, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms.

"Yes...but when this harsh winter snow passes," He said, using green magic to grasp one of the blooms to twirl between two fingers, "Spring will come, and their vibrance will become apparent." You shifted your gaze over to him, tilting your head as his eyes lovingly inspected the flower.

"With seasons changing, so do these plants upon their own time. They will become weak and wither during the harshness of the seasons, yes, However...with the proper support..." the flower was suddenly wrapped in magical clouds, and when they dispersed the flower had grown in size and become a rose with large and healthy properties, a bright green stem and the reddest glow shining beneath the moonlight. Malleus looked back over to you with a smile, quickly de-thorning the rose and placing it behind your ear. Your eyes smiled for the first time in a while, letting out a breathy chuckle and a shake of your head. He really knew how to make his points come across without being direct, his poetic tongue becoming soothing for your tired heart.

"Thank you, Malleus."

Lilia

The ex-general fae was not unfamiliar with the signs of exhaustion and fatigue, and you were showing clear signs of such.

"Skipping lunch again, little bat?" A familiar voice called out to you, causing you to yelp in surprise, dropping your pen. How he managed to sneak inside of ramshackle dorm, much less your room, was far beyond you.

"Lilia! gosh.." You shook your head and picked your pen back up after glaring at him for startling you, shaking your head and continuing your studying endeavors.

"Playing catch up, I see? Take a break," The red eyed fae said, "I made you something~"

"No thank you, i'm fine," You quickly replied, almost panicking. Lilia pouted and pulled out a lunch box that was large and smelled...actually pretty good.

"It has many nutrients that are good for replenishing your health," He said proudly, "Seeing as you have been skipping meals, losing sleep, and your grades have been dropping presumably from your lack of self-care," He said bluntly. Your eyes widened as you looked at the fae with surprisingly good observation skills, curious how he was able to discern that information. You opened your mouth to reply that you were doing alright and that you just needed some time to catch up, however, his reflexes were far too fast for you. He pushed a spoonful of whatever food he had in his grasp, watching you with delight at your shock.

You almost choked at the suddenness, however the pleasant taste of whatever soup he had given you caused you to become almost entirely distracted.

"This...is actually really good. You didn't make it, did you?" Lilia huffed and closed his eyes with his signature look of disappointment, yet a smile not wavering from his lips.

"You wound me, but the others had convinced me the best way to help you would be by good-old chicken/veggie noodle soup!" he held out the rest of the bowl to you, pulling a seat next to you and clearing off your desk organized. You stopped protesting, for with this fae there was no getting around whatever he was doing.

"Now, take a break and allow your body some rest. You cannot learn nor function properly under these conditions. I understand how much it may mean to be accomplished, however, those accomplishments will mean nothing if you die from exhaustion," his smile never faded, yet you could tell his words were meant in seriousness as he chastised you. It was full of love and affection, though. He had the best of intentions, his ruby eyes

"Holding your issues inside is no good either, dearest. Now, confide in this old fae, perhaps I can be of assistance to your woes. And I hope this will be the last time I hear of your negligence to your health through your classmates, and next time you seek out help."

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whore-ibly-hot · 2 years ago

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Yan!Mean-Girls x Fem!Reader

"Just Girly Things"

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Bullying (Not at Reader), name callung, nude photos, coercion, dubcon touching, fem pronouns for the yans, mentions of school, general perversion, toxic behaviors, masturbation, sex toys, mean girls, dumbification, buying affection.

(AN: I'm not super proud of this one, but did my best. Never written a fem!Yan before.)

The sound of clicking keypads and the occasional scoff can be heard in Maggie Robinsons loft bedroom. As the most popular girl at Delta High, it was important her room look as perfect as her. She chews on the strawberry flavored gum in her mouth, scrolling through her phone. She scoffs. "Sasha, did you see Jenny Taylor's latest post?" Sasha gags and nods. "Totally a spray-on tan." Sasha says, and Maggie nods. "She looks like a fucking orange. I bet you that nerd she's been with, his dick is that same shade right now..." The two cackle.

"Is he sick?" The third and final member of the group of cheerleaders asks. "Why would his dick be orange?" Sasha sighs, and puts a hand on her friends knee. "Lindsey, his dick is orange because her fake tan would rub off on it. It isn't like, permanently that color. It was a joke." Sasha explains. Lindsey pauses and tilts her head, before giggling. "Oh, I get it!" She claps her hands together, shaking the sequinned bracelet around her wrist as she does so. Maggie grins and roll her eyes at Lindsey's air-headed nature. Luckily, Sasha is always around to explain he jokes, because Maggie won't. She likes to watch her dumb subordinate work things out slowly.

"What about you, newbie? Ever had a fake tan?" She whips her head over to face you. You gulp as the school's queen bee sets her sights on you. You aren't sure why she seemed so fixated on you since you joined Delta High. Maybe it's because you were pretty, or talented, or just really obedient, but she's been dragging you around like a little purse dog since you met her, with Sasha and Lindsey flanking you both at all times. "Um, no." You mumble. She nods, and says "Good, you already have good skin. I mean, you should get a little more tan, but not with that shitty spray stuff. Or, y'know, you'll turn some jocks dick orange." The three laugh. "Because the tan rubs off!" Lindsey giggles. Maggie rolls her eyes, and groans. "Yes, Lindsey. Thanks for explaining." Lindsey looks down.

"Speaking of, have any of the guys at school caught your eye? I mean, like, appropriate ones for you. Not a fucking mathlete dork or something." She asks. "Not really. I've never actually had a boyfriend." The three girls freeze, and gasp. "Seriously?" "You've never had a boyfriend?" Maggie asks. She waves frantically, trying to get you to sit beside her on her bed. "Why not?" She asks. "Do you have a sex disease? Like... like cancer?" Lindsey asks, eyes wide. "Sex cancer, seriously?" Sasha says, glancing at her blonde friend, who only shrugs. "No one was ever interested, I guess." You grimace. You hadn't ever been popular, only making Maggie's interest in you more jarring. You had finally gotten a peek at what it was like to be school royalty.

"Not interested? Aw, you poor baby." Maggie pouts. "That's why you have us, you know? To doll you up, and keep you popular, that way you can have anyone you want." Sasha chirps. "I can't believe no one ever tried to get with you, you're like, really pretty." You smile awkwardly. "Thanks, Lindsey."

Maggie scoots closer, and you bite back a gasp when you feel her cold hands on your tank top, cupping your breasts. "Honestly. The jocks at school are horndogs, they'll stick it in anything, I'm surprised you haven't gotten any attention because of these." She bites her lips as her eyes wander down to your cleavage. "They're natural, right?" You nod. You feel the bed dip behind you, as Sasha and Lindsey join the two of you on the bed. "So you've never kissed anybody?" Sasha asks, tilting her head as her curls bounce. "No, I've kissed a boy, back in church in like, middle school or something." You chuckle, shrugging and rolling your eyes.

"What about kissing girls?" Your eyes widen. You shake your head as you feel the three girls gazes resting heavily on you. "I haven't. Why do you ask?" Maggie grins. "You could try with us. You're one of us now, you've gotta live a little. I mean, you haven't even had a boyfriend, or done it with someone. Let us help you." She coos. She leans in, and you gulp. "Don't you have a boyfriend, Maggie? Jason, right?" She asks. Maggie nods. "Yeah, but like, he won't care. He'll probably think this is hot or something. Besides, it's just girls helping each other out. It's not like a random hookup, we're all friends here." She feigns hurt at your hesitance, pouting. "Don't you like us?" Lindsey whines, giving you puppy dog eyes as she rests her head on your shoulder from behind. "No, I like you guys, it's just-" You look at Lindsey. "Alright, we can do this." You sigh. Maggie grins, and puts her hands on your waist, pressing her chest to yours. "Good, it's not even weird. It's like, just girly things." She explains. She bites your lip playfully, making you blush as she finally presses her lips to yours. As you kiss the school's queen bee, you can taste the light strawberry flavor of her gum, and as she pulls away a string of sticky lip gloss connects your lips for a moment.

"See? You did good, especially for someone who's only kissed once before." Maggie coos. Lindsey pops up to kiss your cheek. "Your skin is so soft!" She giggles, nuzzling your neck. Sasha sits to the side, waiting for orders from Maggie. "Lemme see your chest." Maggie begins to tug up your tight, white tanktop, grinning when she sees that you have no bra on. "No bra, huh? Maybe you wanted us to do this?" She teases. "Pretty..." She circles her fingers around your left nipple, watching it pebble up. "I bet you're sensitive, huh?" Sasha asks. You can't speak, and only nod. Maggie's cold hands make you shiver, as she gropes your breasts with a wicked grin. She reaches down and puts Lindsey's hands on your breasts. "Lindsey, keep playing with her tits, okay? I'm gonna move a little lower." Lindsey nods, fondling your breasts from behind. "I'll try not to scratch you, my nails are kinda long right now..." She giggles. Maggie hikes up your skirt, keeping it around your waist. She licks her lips as she touches the black panties covering your cunt. "Are these from that department store on 9th?" She asks. "Uh, yeah?" She rolls her eyes. "You don't need to be wearing that shit, that's for people like Jenny Taylor, not girls like us. Tell you what-" She leans closer to your ear, kissing the shell of it. "You make me cum, and I'll take you downtown tomorrow and buy you something cute. That's sure to help you get a guy." She obviously has no intentions of getting you a boyfriend, considering the way her gaze turns possessive. Still, she can't deny that she likes the idea of seeing you in something lacey, especially something she bought you. She notices from the corner of her eye how Sasha is squirming, clearly eager to act, rubbing her thighs together subconsciously.

"Sasha?" Her head perks up immediatly, and she stills. "Y-yes, Maggie?" She pants. "Go get my wand, the pink one." Sasha nods, and scurries over to Maggie's closet, digging around for something. She manages to pull out a pink wand, with a microphone-like rubber tip. You can feel Maggies fingers trying to pull your panties to the side. "You ever played with yourself?" She whispers. You nod. "Yeah, a few times." You admit. "How?" She presses an index against your aroused clit. You gasp. "Fingers! I use my fingers, inside me." You moan. She pouts again, as Sasha hands her the wand. "Well, no wonder your little clit is so swollen, you've not been giving it any attention." She coos. "Don't worry, I've got just the thing." She takes the wand from Sasha. "It feels so good." Sasha says, her eyes full of sincerity. You wonder just how many times these girls have done this sort of thign. Does anyone else at school know?

You are torn from your thoughts when you hear a whirring sound. "What's that gonna do?" You ask. "It vibrates, and I'm just gonna press it right up against your clit, okay? It's gonna feel so fucking good..." She groans. "But, I'm going to enjoy something too. You know, for being such a good friend, and taking in a little newbie. You watch as Maggie mounts your thigh, gasping when you feel her slick pussy press against your leg. Has she not been wearing underwear this whole time? Your whole body flinches when you feel a pusling wave in your lower. "A-ah, shit." You grip the sheets of Maggie's bed tightly. Somehow, the stimulation to your clit makes Lindsey's pawing at your chest feel even more pleasurable. Maggie chuckles as she begins to grind herself against your thigh. "Feels good, huh? You like that? Your pretty new friends taking good care of you? Putting a pretty vibrator on your clit?" Her condescedngin tone makes you blush in shame. After a while, her moans grow in volume too. "Fuck, even just your thighs feel good. Maybe, god- maybe soon I'll ride your pussy like this." She groans. "God, not even Jason makes me feel this hot, this wet. That little limp-dick, can't even make me finish." She tilts her head back. "Sasha, take a photo, m' boutta cum." Sasha pales. "I don't... um, can I use you phone, mines dead?" Maggie doesn't open her eyes, but Sasha can sense her rage. "I don't care, just taking the fuckin' photo, I'm so close. C'mon, baby. Cum on my vibrator, I'll buy you something, anything, just do it." You weren't expecting to her Maggie beg for anything in your lifetime, much less for you to cum. Overwhelmed, you feel your orgasm hit hard. "M-maggie, I'm, oh..." She nods rapidly as she practically bounces on your thigh. "Yeah, right there, I'm cumming to..." She pants.

You close your eyes, but still sense a flash of light from Sasha snapping a photo. As your legs shake from the feeling, Maggie casually dismounts your thighs, sitting down on the bed beside you. She kisses your forehead. "You did so good. I'll get you something so cute to wear to school next week." She flips her hair and acts nonchalant, as if she hadn't just held a sex toy to your cunt while she rode your thigh like her life depended on it. "Sasha, let me see that photo." Sasha shows her the phone, and she grimaces. "Ugh, I look so fucking pale. Put a Sepia filter on it or something." Before Sasha can, Lindsay snatches the phone, and lets out a whine.

"Only my hands are in it! What the hell, Sasha!"

#yandere #yandere oc #ask me stuff #tw.yandere #yandere fanfiction #tw.dark content #yandere content #x reader #yandere girl #fem reader #fem yandere #yandere mean girl #yandere cheerleader #oc Sasha #oc Maggie #oc Lindsey

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petew21-blog · 9 months ago

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Friends with benefits

Two long time friends Trent and Brett. A classic story. Met in kindergarten and have been friends since. Grew up together. Spent their holidays together. Graduated together. But then stopped seeing each other as often. Why? Because adult life ain't easy. Brett had to find a job while Trent got into college, graduated and on top of that became a fitness influencer. Brett started his Twitch account and became a gamer, which he had time for, cause how he was constantly doing a different job, depending on what he could find. But both of them always took some time off for a beer with their buddy.

This is Trent

Although he doesn't appear like that, he is a 24 year old male with young looks

On the other hand Brett is also young, but his looks are a bit more mature. Maybe it's because of all the hair

This is Brett

So hairy.

Normal guys, right? Well something was about to change very soon

Friday, August 2nd, 5 PM

Brett:"Hey, dude. Wanna grab a beer later tonight?"

Trent:"Yeah, sure. I am down. Is 8:30 ok? I gotta finish a video"

Brett:"Oh yeah, totally fine. See you then"

Friday, August 2nd, sports bar, 8:33 PM

At the bar Brett waits patiently, only his leg is slightly shaking. Trent comes in through the door. It's kinda funny, cause Trent used to be really insecure and not confident. Now he looks basically like a god. But still, he has this cute shy looking guy whose face doesnt match his body and the fact that he's 24. Brett was kinds jealous, most of the people that didn't know him always thought he was older because of his looks. Trent had the opposite problem. Always had to show ID whenever he went. Yet Brett was probably more jealous about his life in general. He finished school, took great care of his body, which now could help him hook up with anyone he would set his mind to.

Brett:"Hey, maaaan. How are you doing?"

Trent:"Heyyy. Yeah good. You know, single influencer life, haha"

Brett:"The ladies must be driving you crazy"

Trent:"If only it were just ladies. Haha. You should see the messages some of these gay dudes keep sending me. It's insane"

Brett:"You tell me. They always send random shits to my chats while playing. But it's mostly dumb kids."

Trent:"I think we should find you a date for tonight"

Brett:"Nahhh, fuck it. I'm not in the mood. I just wanna chat with my bro."

After a few beers

Brett:"Shut up, you did not!"

Trent:"I swear. She came on to me without a word."

Brett:"So what did you do?"

Trent:"You think I put up a fight? Haha"

Brett:"Maaaan. I want this stuff to happen to me to. That's so hot"

Trent:"Come with me to the gym then, I bet more chicks woukd be into you if you would gain some muscles"

Brett:"You calling me fat?"

Trent:"No, just saying that all that body hair would be good to match with a good body. You're just a walking gorilla right now"

Brett:"Oh shut up twink! Haha"

They finished their drinks, said their goodbyes and went home.

Brett felt amazing. He really needed to get a beer with his best friend. He came back home, sat behind his computer and searched Dark web. He already knew what he was looking for. He wanted to mess with Trent. Just a another one of his pranks. All he needed was Trent's personal item. He found the body swapping website. He read the rules and conditions and filled out his and Trents name. The only next step he had to follow was to go to sleep. And so he did. Only taking off his shirt in the process and collapsing on the bed. Not even brushing his teeth

Brett woke up feeling better than ever. He was used to have a hangover by now, but today he felt great. He opened his eyes and immediately noticed the different sheets. He looked around. This is Trent's place.

Brett:"Trent?" he said, but he heard Trent's voice.

He turned around to get up

His body. He has a different body

Brett:"Holy shit. It worked" he said amused. He looked down at his now soft chest. He got up

Brett:"Oh wow. getting up is so different when you have these hard muscles"

He went to the nearest mirror. And there he was. Trent in his glory. Brett was so happy right now. His prank worked. He is now inside of his best friends body. And the pranks probably won't stop there. Now he can mess with him all he wants. But not now.

He looked from top to bottom how tall and slim his body was. "Almost no hair anywhere. Lucky guy"

He took Trent's phone and snapped a photo to send it to Trent in his body. He knew it would take a while for Trent to wake up so he proceeded in his exploration.

He felt his curly hair. "How come you don't even have widow's peak? So unfair" He traced his jawline, now with tiny baby hair that Brett wouldn't even call a beard. But his sight was now caught by those nice Calvin Klein's. He looked around as if there was someone in the room with him who would judge him. He pulled on the waistband

Brett:"Just as I thought. Also shaved" he grabbed his new dick, that was getting harder and harder by the second, when suddenly his phone received a notification. he let go of his dick

It was Trent. Brett:"Haha, this is gonna be good"

There was a photo of Brett's body, observing his hairy armpits in shock

Trent in Brett's body:"Hey. Got any idea why I am a gorilla now? And why that gorilla looks exactly like you?"

Brett:"Surpriseee. And fuck you"

Trent:"So this is your doing?"

Brett:"Yeah, I kinda wanted to prank you somehow for all the pranks and the gorilla jokes. Joke's on you ape man"

Trent:"Fuck you. So this is reversible?"

Brett:"Sure, man. No worries. We'll meet tonight at the bar again and chat how our day went?"

Trent:"I don't know how to feel about this, bro"

Brett:"Just try enjoying being another person"

Trent:"Do you realise there are some no go things including intimate stuff and hygiene?"

Brett:"Sure I do. I'm already holding your dick in YOUR hands right now"

Trent:"Dude! Not cool. I meant more stuff like shitting etc. But yeah, this too."

Brett:"I gotta say Trent. You have a very nice dick"

Trent:"I'll comment on your size when I find it in the bushes I guess. Have you never heard of trimming?"

Brett:"Keeping it natural, baby face"

Trent:"Fine, let's see each other tonight at 8, ok?"

Brett:"Enjoyyy" Hangs up

Trent:"Jesus, this guy. I hope he doesn't fuck up something or someone"

Starts observing himself. "I must say, It feels good to look like a mature man and not a teenager. All of this hair. And the moustache is hot too. I could never grow this thing"

Trent looked down and had a mischievous thought. "Well, Brett. Since you have already held my dick, I think it's time to step it up. Gonna see if you can last longer than I do" Trent said with a smile and whipped out his new hard hairy dick

Saturday August the 3rd, bar, 8:04 PM

Brett is sitting amused in the bar, eating chips on the table and drinking beer. Winking at the ladies looking at his direction.

A waitress came by his table:"Want another?"

Brett noticed his old incoming body:"Sure, and another one for my friend who just arrived. Thank you, sweetheart" he said as his flirtatious look almost seduced the local waitress

Trent:"You need to stop!"

Brett:"What? I was just flirting"

Trent:"Not that. Stop eating those chips. God knows how many calories you ate already"

Brett:"So you don't mind that I was flirting with her?"

Trent:"Nah, I don't care. I jerked off your dick for like the fifth time half an hour ago"

Brett:"What? You beast. I would have never expected that. Cool. You have a really good dick to jerk off too. I didn't expect to shoot so far tho. Made a bit of a mess"

A couple off bikers started eavesdropping to their conversation and turning heads

Trent:"You might want to quiet down, or we're gonna get beaten up for mistakenly speaking like gay guys"

Brett:"But you gotta admit that my body is not so bad, right? All the hair and everything. You like it"

Trent:"It's not bad, but I prefer being in my own body. I'm used to it."

Brett:"Ok, I'll pretend I didn't hear the part before about masturbation. But what do you say? We didn't even have enough time to see what the life is like in our new bodies. It's only been a day"

Trent:"And your point is?"

Brett:"Let's stay swapped for a while. We can swap back anytime we want. It's reversible. We know almost everything about each other, so pretending to be the other one will be easy. You'll just teach me your workout routine, I'll show you... what games to play and how to set up a livestream and we'll figure it out"

Trent:"Livestream? That's all you got?"

Brett:"Come on, man. We got nothing to loose"

Trent:"I don't know man. It's gonna be complicated. I agreed to leave for a few weeks to work at one of our gym branches in another city. And now you'll be the one that has to go. I think now is not the best time"

Brett:"So? I can update you about everything. We can chat all the time. We can call. And I got nothing to do. Actually, you might need to find some job for those few weeks. And there's never gonna be a better time then now. We're single, ready to mingle. So let's enjoy that month"

Trent:"You wanna stay swapped the whole tíme I'm gone?"

Brett:"Yeah, I'll be a fitness instructor/viral star and you'll ne enjoying my chill life"

Trent:"Chill life. Man, you won't even recognise your life when we'll swap back"

Brett:"So you agree?"

Trent:"Yeah, what the hell. I'll be a gorilla for a month"

Brett:"Deal. Now, let's see if you'll have a better game in finding a hookup then me"

Sunday, August 4th

Brett sends a text to Trent:"Why do I feel like my body still hasn't gone through puberty?"

Trent:"Piss off. Yours looks like it went trough yours several times."

Brett:"Nah, gotta be honest. I'm really enjoying this lean figure and hairless body"

Trent:"And my dick..."

Brett:"Haha, yeah and your dick. How are you doing in my body?"

Trent:"Feels pretty weird to be so hairy, but gotta admit it's a nice change. Like... feeling so manly"

Brett:"Yeah, but tip for that hairy stomach. Don't cum on it. It's really irritating to get cum from it"

Trent:"Never had the issue in my body, so yeah. Thanks for the tip"

Brett:"No problem. I had to try it out in yours haha"

Trent:"Doesn't this feel kinda gay to you? All the dick and jerk off talk. Appreciating each other's bodies"

Brett:"Nah. We're exploring, man. Who knows if we ever get that chance. Gotta enjoy it"

Wednesday August 7th

Trent:"How are you settling in?"

Brett:"Yeah. Pretty great. I just jerked off to some porn"

Trent:"Ew. I mean the appartement"

Brett:"Whooops. Sorry. Right. Yeah it's nice. Very clean. Very modern"

Trent:"It's yours only for a month so don't destroy anything there"

Brett:"It's kinda poetic right. New appartement, new body, new job"

Trent:"I don't see anything poetic about me playing games in front of a camera"

Brett;"Dude you have to. My fans are gonna wonder what happened to me"

Trent:"Fine. I'll log in tonight. By the way. Dude your feet smell so much when you work out."

Brett:"Work out? You took my body to the gym?

Trent:"Yeah. I had to show off these bushes somewhere, right?"

Brett:"Ahhh thanks man. Looking good"

Trent:"And I think oke girl was checking you... me out"

Brett:"If you can score than go for it. I'm actually late for a date. Or... how do you call it if you're just gonna have dinner and fuck?"

Trent:"Standard hook up man. Please be safe. Wear a condom. And watch our foe those carbs, man."

Brett:"Sure thing, bye"

Monday, August 12 th

Brett:"Dude do you like ever have to shave your face?"

Trent:"Sure I do. I just don't have to do it so often as you. Btw can I please shave off this moustache?"

Brett:"Absolutely not. You'll learn to love it and appreciate it. Just like I will your baby face"

Saturday, August 17th

Brett:"I have to admit I really love showing off your muscles man. I have been doing it constantly at every occassion. So many people turn their heads to take a peak"

Trent:"Yeah I get it. It helps with the confidence a bit"

Brett:"A bit? I feel like I can beat any fucker whk crosses me"

Trent:"Brett, please don't beat anyone in my body"

Brett:"Just kidding, man. How have you been"

Trent:"Well I tried being consistent with the gym. I think your body is doing pretty well"

Brett:"Daaaamn bro. I look good. You really do take care of my body really well"

Trent:"I was actually thinking I could offer this for money. Swapping with people, doing their routines and then swap back. But that's a talk for another time after we swap back"

Brett:"Yeha, sure. Cool idea. Anyway... how was the streaming?"

Trent:"I don't know, man. I think they are desperste for me to say your catchphrases, but they are so cringe."

Brett:"Nah, you have to do that. That's how you get into Tiktoks and become viral"

Trent:"Honestly. I can't wait to get back to my body and to my life back. So we will swap on September 2nd?

Brett:"Yeah. I suppose. Depends how the work will be etc. Anyway I gotta go man. Talk soon"

Trent to himself:"It feels like he's avoiding me with amswering more and more. Trent rubbed his hairy chest, recalling his sweet soft pecs that he missed.

Thursday, August 22nd

Trent:"Hey, man. How is it going?"

Friday, August 23rd

Trent:"Hey. I just wanna know if you're ok. I just wanna talk about the reversal."

Saturday:"please call me back as soon as possible"

Sunday, August 25th

Brett:"I'm ok"

Trent:"What the hell happened?"

Brett:"Nothing I just felt like I needed a break from phone and that stuff"

Trent:"Brett you didn't answer the phone for 4 days"

Brett:"Ok, I was avoiding you, cause I kinda fucked up and was afraid to tell you"

Trent:'What did you do? Is my body ok?"

Brett:"Yeah your body is unharmed. Nothing that bad. We just had a party in the appartement. Broke the TV and... I had unprotected sex with one girl. She didn't know if she was pregnant or not. So I was waiting. And congrats. You're not gonna be a dad"

Trent:"Brett..."

Brett:"I know. I'm so sorry. Won't happen again. Promise. I just got drunk once and it led to this. I'll be good now"

Trent:"Please, don't do anything anymore. I want to switch back"

Brett:"Nah man. We still gotta week to finish. You said until September 2nd."

Trent:"I didn't know you'd do something like this"

Brett:"Please Trent. I'm begging you. Just that one week"

Trent:"Fine. But don't do anything else!"

Sunday, September 1st

Brett:"Hey. Are you packed yet?"

Trent:"Hey. Not really. I planned on packing tommorow. You can come and help if you got time"

Brett:"Sure. I'll come by"

Monday, September 2nd

Trent arrives to the appartement. Brett is on the couch playing video games

The TV is new and there is a PlayStation on the table

Trent:"You didn't tell me you got back into gaming and that you bought all this."

Brett:"Yeha, I missed it. I thought to myself that you'd like it too. So I bought it. By the way. You should see how the fans dig it"

Trent:"Fans? You're live streaming in my body?"

Brett:"Yeah. The gamers are so into it when I'm flexing in the spare time. I even got a viral Tiktok already!"

Trent:"I think we should swap back, Brett. My life is out of your control now."

Brett:"I'm just using all the goods, man. You don't like my body anymore?"

Trent:"Stop changing the subject. I want to swap back"

Brett:"Ok... but on one condition"

Trent:"You want money?"

Brett;"Nah I want to have sex with my body. I want to have sex with you."

Trent:"You have lost your mind"

Brett:"Oh come on. Admit it, that you thought about it. Who gets the chance to fuck their body? To watch their body in the most animalistic moments from somebody else eyes?" Brett flexes his biceps to let Brett watch

Trent:"Brett..."

Brett stands up and goes towards Trent

Brett:"You know you want to kids thus face. To suck this hard dick" he says holding tightly his hardening bulge

Trent:"I... I do. I want to suck my dick"

Brett:"Atta boy"

They begin making out. The fast movements heading towards the bedroom could be described as chaotic, but for them it was a dance of passion. Brett was ripping his old clothes from his old body was all over his body, kissing his neck. Sucking each part of his skin

The kissed even more

Brett began to be more dominant. He gripped Trent's now receding hairline and pushed him down to suck his dick. Trent was choking. But did his best to swallow most of the shaft he now had. He had his dick in his mouth. He couldn't believe it. He is straight and he is sure of that. But this is absolutely different

Brett took his old body by the neck, choking him. "Say you love being in my body"

Trent:"Brett I can't breathe"

Brett:"Fine, let's do this the hard way"

He turned him around. Trent now on all fours. He knew what was coming, but he wasn't ready

Brett spit in his hand and spread it all over the head od his dick. Ready to penetrate his old hairy hole

Trent:"Brett wait... I... Ahhhhhhhh". Trent screamed in pain

Brett:"Yeah. Sorry about that. I'm just so horny. I love your body, Trent. I love every inch od it. Admit you like mine"

Trent:"Brett, please slow down"

Brett:"Naaah, you'll get used to it in a sex"

Trent:"Please, get lube or something"

Brett spit again to where his dick was penetrating Trent's ass. Brett:"Should do it"

Trent was still in pain, but now a new feeling was making him feel better. The pain was now... pleasant? He wanted to feel more. With every thrust from Brett. He felt like shitting himself and cumming at the same time

Brett:"Admit it. Admit you love being in my body" he sped up. Thrusting painfully.

Trent:"Yeah.... yes..."

Brett:"Louder"

Trent:"I do... I love your body. I love being you"

Brett:"Ahhhh. I'm gonna cum. Turn around. I want to cum on your chest"

Trent turned around. He could feel cum leaking from his dick. And now he saw his old face like he never did before. Brett was so into it. His face was full of lust, rage and mischief.

Brett:"Ahhhh. I'm cumming!"

The cum shot all over Trent. Not only on his chest, but also on his mouth and face

Trent watched in awe what just happened.

Brett:"Whew. That was a ride wasn't it? First gay sex. Am I right?"

Trent:"Brett... I?"

Brett:"Oh sorry. I have to catch my breath. You look so funny with my cum all over you. Haha. By the way. I'm glad you love your new body. You get to keep it"

Trent:"Brett, you said we would swap"

Brett:"Yeah I did. That's true. But after this little 'cum over your face' and 'dick in your ass' we made it permanent"

Trent watched in shock as his old body was still standing on top of him. Breathing rapidly and laughing.

Several months later

Hi my name is Brett. Welcome to my only fans channel. If you got any hairy request, hit me up

Brett in Trent's body:"Well this is just pathetic. Man, I knew you'd crumble. But this just seems you lost your mind"

Trent's massive colleague came next to him:"Hey, bro. What are you looking at?"

Brett:"Just looking how one of my friends threw away their life, kinda sad. But whatever. Their life, not mine"

Friend:"Hey, wanna grab a beer later this evening?"

Brett scanned his friend from top to bottom and smiled:"Sure thing. Be there at eight"

Brett thought about switching it up a little. That body would be amazing. But then he turned around and looked at himself in the mirror. And flexed

Brett:"Nah. I'm Trent. And I'm keeping this body"

A request from messages (another one who waited for a LONG time, sorry guys) for @swappwas

Hope you like it :)

P.S. written late at night on a phone with a very irritating autocorrect, so please excuse the mistakes

#friends body swap #body swapping #body swap #body switch #body switching #m2m body swap #straight to gay #Straight body swap

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stayteezdreams · 1 month ago

Text

Seonghwa + Subtle ways he shows he loves you

Scenarios/Headcanons: Subtle ways Seonghwa shows that he loves you.

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Gn!reader

Series Notes: Banner photos are simply for aesthetic, everything I write is a Gn!Reader/Non detailed Reader insert! There will probably be similar or repeat headcanons from others members versions, because there are many that I can see multiple of the members doing!

Words: ~445

Other Parts: Yunho || Mingi || Hongjoong || Wooyoung || San

Peak Gentleman behavior when it comes to you.

Opening doors for you, pulling out chairs, holding your stuff, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, giving you his jacket, etc.

Fixes your hair, outfit, or makeup without you asking or needing too.

Compliments, all the time. Words of affirmation are his bread and butter.

As are acts of service.

Tidying up your place for you when you are tired or busy.

Cooking for you after a long day, or leaving a little surprise care package of snacks and cute things for you to see when you get home if he's too busy to be there.

Matching Lego sets + a custom Lego set of the two of you.

Mothers you, but in a loving boyfriend kind of way.

When he is away he sends you long texts talking about everything and nothing, just to make sure you know he is still thinking of you.

Cute matching couple items, like sweaters, jewelry, keychains, mugs, accessories, plushies, etc.

Bought you a flower/bouquet subscription (or a food/snack subscription if you are allergic to flowers)

Massages without asking.

Cozy Care Nights; he shows up with face masks and creams, as well as cute headbands, and the two of you have a face-care night while watching shows or playing games while snacking.

You also have matching pajamas that you only wear during these spa nights (you have holiday specific ones as well).

Runs the two of you over-the-top baths, complete with A LOT of bubbles, and candles.

When you are sitting together, he often has a hand on you, gently outlining circles in your skin, or just holding your hand.

Running his fingers through your hair, playing with it, braiding it, etc. (He also loves when you do this to him btw)

Loves surprising you with cute fun dates. Going to a craft or art classes, markets, picnics, arcades, petting zoo's, etc..

Has a polaroid camera he uses specifically when you two go on dates.

Gives you the photos to put together in a scrap book.

Spoils you by buying you things, even if you tell him not to, you cannot stop him lol.

Always holds your hand, or has his arm around your waist in public.

Pulls you to lay on his chest when you are lounging on the couch and refuses to let you go.

If you are in class or at work, he will meet you when you are done, often having a drink or snack to greet you with.

When you are busy with school, work, or general life stuff, he often checks in to make sure you are taking breaks, drinking water and eating.

🌼 Taglist Form 🌼

General Taglist: @charmsprout, @brattybunfornct, @bahng-chrizz, @otakutrash669, @tinyelfperson, @meaniemace, @teenyfinds, @nikisfmine, @shymexican, @stillwjk-channie-lixie, @alexxavicry, @queenofdumbfuckery

@luckypaintertyphoon < tag doesnt work

Ateez Taglist: @soso59love-blog, @hongjoongsprincess, @thedistractedwriter, @dear-dreamie, @thunderous-wolf, @briqnne, @hyukssunflower, @dinossaurz, @skz1-4-3, @carattinymoa, @demonlineslut, @vnessalau, @dancinglikebutterflywings, @tunafishyfishylike, @life-is-a-game-of-thrones, @stormsandsea, @moonlitarcade

Seonghwa: @ye0nvibezzn

#park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa/reader #park seonghwa imagine #seonghwa/reader #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa imagine #seonghwa headcanons #seonghwa scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez/reader #ateez imagine #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez headcanons #seonghwa fic

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whowrotethenote · 1 month ago

Text

𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐀 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

A/N // Short story set in the universe of Biggest Fan. This takes place during Wrestle-mania 40 weekend; before All We Do, after Company, and after One Of Your Girls.

Warnings // Angst // Smut // NSFW // Adultery // Profanity // Age gap // Consumption of alcohol // Mentions of disease

Word Count // 5.6k

Disclaimer // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I knew you in another life. You had that same look in your eyes. I love you don't act so surprised.

— Billie Eilish (Birds of A Feather)

Monday, April 1, 2024

The sun fighting through the sheer white drapes of our living room is enough to wake me all the way up. I groan and shiver at the chill of early morning in nothing but a white tank and silk pajama shorts. There’s nothing on the agenda today. No class. No work. And still, my body decides to rise at seven a.m.

The hefty pile of mail Anthony left on the marble island top catches my attention. Bills, bills, and more bills. The sight of which would’ve given me a heart attack prior to earning myself a seat at a table, where he is the head.

I rapidly shuffle through white envelopes emblemed with companies who want what they’re owed before a blank one halts me. No logo. No company. No return address. Still, my name—Alana Floyd— is printed on the back of it. I rip the top open and unfold the thin stack of papers.

“Demi!” My slippers scrape and slide across the floor of our hallway and I almost slide right past her open door. She rubs her eyes, craning her neck up and squinting with a colorful scarf pulled tight atop her head. I wiggle the loose tickets in my hand. “We're gonna go see…Dwayne.”

Her square face lights up as she plops it back on the plush pillow. “Before I do too much—this isn't an April Fools joke?”

“It's not, I fear.”

“He's a generous Tribal Chief,” she croaks. I scan over the hotel itinerary. April fourth to April eighth. That won't work. “Oh my god—you think you'll wear his underwear?”

“I don’t see him leaving the speedos behind for this one.” I scroll through my messages to find WiseMan.

“All the hotels are probably booked up now.”

I laugh at her seven a.m. cluelessness. “Oh—my man thinks of everything.” I wiggle the other papers adorned with the hotel itinerary and confirmation.

“He's like a genie. Only we got way more than three wishes…and a side of tribal dick.”

i got the tickets. thank him for me pls. No problem. Car will be there Thursday. Should we send it in the morning? we don’t get out of class until 2 that day. we can't stay until the eighth. finishing midterms. we'll have to leave on Sunday morning or Saturday night… I'll let him know

I lean on her door frame, peering down the hall that leads to the kitchen. On the center of the island, a large bouquet—pink and white mix of roses he replaced from Valentine’s day starting their descend to death. Still breathtaking nonetheless.

The gifts just didn’t stop. One week it’s a bouquet too big for me to carry in myself. The next week it’s a bag I don’t even see on the designer’s website yet. Shoes. Jewelry. Whatever. And I didn’t ask for any of it. The stuff on the shelves and hangers of my walk-in can probably feed an entire high school for months.

Demi’s sly chuckle breaks my thoughts—wiping away my smirk that I didn’t even realize captured my face. “What?”

“Oh nothing. Just wondering if you’re going to be staying with me or him.” She screws her face up, mouth falling open while making the bed creak.

Shaking my head, I walk away from her door to go shower. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cum twice!” She yells down the hall. “One for you—one for me!”

Thursday, April 4, 2024

In the city of brotherly love—home to the greasiest cheesesteaks, where they bleed green and curse you out for absolutely nothing—Demi and I fit right in.

The Ritz-Carlton planted in Center City—structured like a Cathedral inside and out—treated us like royalty. Demi and I didn’t lift a manicured finger and no request was too much.

The room is massive. Built like a penthouse and certainly too much for two girls only staying for a few days. There’s a bottle of champagne waiting for us on a California King—whitest bedding tucked tight to perfection. We don’t waste a second cracking it open. Mouths in a mutual O, when the cork goes flying recklessly, leaving a mark on the ceiling. Somebody else’s problem.

White foam overflows and spills over the neck of the bottle and down her hand. No cups needed. We take turns passing it back and forth, basically inhaling the crisp liquid until the bottle is empty.

The night is ridiculously young. So, we let Summer Walker and Latto be the background noise to our rampant routine of getting ready to hit the streets hard. Tonight we bring in Wrestle-mania weekend the right way.

Already half-way drunk from the bottle of champagne, we end up at Noto—a nightclub where some YouTuber is hosting. Whoever he is, he has the club packed out. Faces wall to wall. Every section full of niggas with jewelry shining, even in the dark—accompanied by women that belong in some rapper’s music video.

In the middle of it, Demi and I, utilize a section to ourselves. Dropping a bag on Ace of Spades and 1942. The DJ plays Dreams and Nightmares and it’s a wrap. Our heads are gone, as we scream the lyrics back and forth as if we lived every single line. Blue lights shining down on us— cameras out, taking videos we don’t even plan to post. Creating enough memories to last a lifetime and stories to brag to our future children about.

Saturday, April 6, 2024

Everything about this Wrestle-mania is different from the one before. The tickets were intended for us—not some miracle-ridden accident due to an old man carelessly flinging tickets around in the air. A much smoother transition from all the hustling and bustling—pushing through strangers like we did last year. No floor seats. Skybox Lounge. An entire suite to ourselves. Removed from all the chaos of pumped up testosterone and rowdy kids down below.

“Excuse me ma’am.” A light touch to my shoulder has my head shooting up. A dark-haired woman in all black, with a headset on and clipboard tucked tight under her arm looks me in the eyes. “Are you Alana Floyd?” She asks.

I hesitate for a moment. I’m not even supposed to be here. Not just here in the skybox where all the important people belong—but here period—supporting my closeted sponsor and fuckbuddy. This makes me rethink answering her—whoever she is. How does she even know my full name?

“…I am.”

“Do you mind coming with me, please?” She steps a little ways back allowing me space.

I look to Demi, whose furrowed eyebrows mimic mine as she shrugs. “Are we switching seats or something?” I ask the unknown lady.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I just need you. You’ll be right back before the main event.”

She’s swift in all her movements as I struggle to keep up in these six inch designer heels—too busy gawking at faces I’ve only seen through a TV screen before, as I am forced to just pass them by. Radiant and charismatic as they seem in character.

It’s all a blur. Everyone moving in a different direction at a different pace. Backstage crew with equipment, men in suits, and more people talking into headsets like hers. She leads me down and down—removed from all the chaos and activity the further we go. Before I know it we’re stopping at a door. A man I know very well coming out of it.

“Lana,” Pauls greets me with more enthusiasm than I expect.

“Paul.” I nod. I see what’s happening now. All three of us are quiet. Paul and I’s smile fading in the silence. The mystery lady straight-faced and all business.

“I’ll be out here waiting.” She’s the first to speak, flicking her head to the closed door Paul came out of.

I nod and face the door, twisting the metal knob to push it open. My breath immediately taken away. That feeling never goes away. I’ll never get used to this. Used to him. The door clicks behind me automatically.

Legs spread, bun loose, as he messes with the red glove on his wrist. Our eyes lock and he stands tall across the way. It’s so weird seeing him like this. Before, Joe was the stranger and seeing him in anything other than ring gear was alarming. Now it’s the opposite. Him without all the extra is comforting and the ring gear is as it’s intended to be—a costume.

The silence is comfortable yet charged. Compelled to speak, but not knowing what to say, I settle for, “hi.”

A clipping breath comes through his nostrils. “Hi,” he responds. Another beat of silence, used to just drink each other in. “I hope you don’t mind that I put you up high.”

“No, it's fine. I’m just happy to be here. I think it's better away from the crowd. I can see everything up there.”

He nods. “Noted.”

I look him over again. Swallowing hard at the gloss over his hard chest and explicitly defined arms. “Are you nervous, at all?”

His upper lip tugs at the corner to reveal the dimple line beneath his dark beard. “Nah.” He shakes his head adjusting the red glove again. “Done this too many times to count.”

“Right. I used to get nervous before every meet,” I share.

“Not you, Miss Penn Relays.”

Didn’t matter how fast I was or still am. I can’t outrun this feeling. Rooted deep in emotions so overwhelming—so foreign, yet familiar.

I giggle. “I know. My mom used to have to talk me down before every race.”

“What would she say?”

“That nerves are only a result of doubt—and there’s no need to doubt cause if I wasn’t supposed to be there—I wouldn’t have been.”

His eyes dance over my frame. “Wise woman.” I nod in agreement. “You think I belong here?” He probes.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“And what about you?” He steps closer invading all possible personal space. “You belong here?”

My neck cranes up to not loose sight of his perfect face. He’s so close, I can smell whatever oil they put on him paired with the conditioner he uses for his hair.

His eyes are low as they’re pinned on me. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I answer almost inaudibly.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

I’m caught in that rift, where the part of my brain that stops me from doing what I want—what I feel—it gets fuzzy. Almost like I’m drunk on something. I’m leaning in before I can stop myself. On my tippy toes to accommodate for the eight inches he has on me. I kiss him.

“—I’m sorry.” I’ve never done that without the courage of alcohol flinging me. But tonight, I’m drunk on something else.

His upper body leans down into me, overpowering my presence in this room. My breath hitches with every centimeter of space he closes. Before I know it our lips meet again. Soft at first. Like he doesn’t want to break me. But another follows—and another—until his tongue is being warmed in my mouth and my hand instinctively grips the neck of his neck.

I breathe again when he pulls away abruptly. Our foreheads touching while his brown eyes pierce mine.

“I’m gonna need you back on the bus when everything’s done,” he whispers. My voice fails me, so I nod to indicate I understand. A knock on the door breaks our bubble. “I gotta go.” He pushes his forehead into mine one last time before moving away. Grabbing a spray bottle, he makes his way to the door.

I try to settle the butterflies in the my stomach, paired with the tsunami he left me to deal with down below.

“—And Alana?”

“Yes?” In slits his eyes trace the perimeter of my entire body. Head to toe.

“Fucking perfect.”

Demi gets her wish. Dwayne came out with his speedos—tight and on full display. The man I just left—or a scripted version of him—enters the arena shortly after. Taking his time as usual—strutting and letting the room soak in his power and magnetism.

I don’t know how the two of them are just now tag teaming for the first time. Besides them being family, their chemistry in the ring is harmonious. It just makes sense.

The way he tosses and maneuvers Cody and Seth—it’s equally terrifying as it is thrilling. I shift in the seat—throbbing. A deep pulse growing down below watching his dominance. Another in my heart every time he gets slammed. I flinch at every hit. I wasn’t doing this before. What the hell is wrong with me? I used to be able to watch a match with no issue. I was all for the violence, being able to spot every hit that doesn’t connect or a move that’s just two men working together instead of against one another. But tonight, it looks like every hit might kill him and it has my anxiety at an all time high.

There’s no shock—to me at least—when I hear the one, two, three. A pin by The Final Boss to The American—not so—Nightmare. He looks defeated and I hope it’s all for the cameras and the crowd. On his knees, nose dried up with blood, and hair wild as it can be.

Demi and I scream in celebration like two fangirls that belong in front row. Two of our childhood favorites, live in action, whooping straight ass. It doesn’t get any better than this. Or maybe it does—seeing as I get to reward the winner myself later.

Chugging the last of our drinks, we pack it up to leave. Not even a few feet out of the Lounge and Demi’s scream paired with a gorilla grip on my forearm, has my head snapping in her direction.

“Oh my god!”

I follow her line of sight and gasp.

“Well, hello to you too young lady.”

“Somebody fucking pinch me.”

“I would do it, but I think I’ll get in trouble.” Randy fucking Orton. This weekend is one for the books. He flashes us both a smile.

“I think I’m the one hearing voices in my head, now.” Demi pulls her phone from her back pocket. “Take our picture—please, please, please.”

Taking her phone I step back from them. “How we looking, baby girl?” He questions.

“Like supermodels,” I tell him. “With voices in their heads who should probably see somebody about that.”

I’m not surprised at all, by how friendly he is. A far cry from his menacing character on-screen. Fitting and molding into our tipsy goofiness, like we came here together. He has us laughing so hard, my stomach is tight like I did a core workout. At one point, even lifting his shirt so we can feel his abs.

Mid-laugh, I hear my name being called. “Hey.” I turn to find the lady from earlier with no headset, but still with that urgent energy like she doesn’t have a second to waste. “Just a gentle reminder that he wants you in his trailer, okay?” She tells me, in a tone low enough for only me to receive.

“Yeah, sure.” She’s gone just as fast as she came, like lightning.

I don’t even know how long we stay inside chatting to Randy. We talk about the match—dissecting the storyline and telling him what we think should happen next. We talk about him—how much The Viper meant to us as kids and how good it feels to still see him in the ring after all these years. We talk about him…

“Don’t tell me y’all are here alone?” He looks past us and then turns back the opposite way. Besides us, there’s only about three other groups of stragglers up here still, combined with staff. “No dates?”

“Nope,” Demi answers first. “Just two girls who enjoy shirtless men fighting to the death.”

“Oh, come on. No way your boyfriends let you two come alone. No special someone?”

I laugh bitterly. “Oh, there’s someone. But special?” Yeah, right. I shake my head lifting a brow.

“I know that look. Look, if a guy can’t take the time out to make his presence special—or make you feel special—he doesn’t even deserve to be someone in your life.”

As if my head isn’t all fucked up and twisted already. Leave it to The Viper to twist it some more.

“Look—it was really nice talking to you ladies. So nice to meet you.” He starts his stride in the opposite direction after embracing us both. “Make sure you tag me, if you post that!” He yells back.

“I hope you’re not letting what he said get to your head.” I turn to find Demi already looking. We walk leisurely to the backdoors leading to the outside. “He doesn’t even know the full story. And so what if it's not ideal or traditional? Life didn’t come with a fucking handbook.”

“I think it did though,” I interject. Her eyebrows pinch as we both push through the double doors. The night air of April hitting us. A whole different atmosphere from inside. “The Bible?”

“Girl—you know what I mean.” She links her around mine as our heels click simultaneously on the pavement. The occasional honking and sirens in the near-distance. Philly is not so far removed from New York. “We’re only twenty-two. I don’t know about you, but nothing in life is that serious to me right now. School is almost over. And that’s the most serious thing about me.

“Special?” She continues. “I mean—what even is special anyway? Pfft.” I know exactly what she’s doing and I am appreciative, but my head has always been louder than anyone’s opinions of comfort. The problem is, he is special to me—but I fear that feeling is not mutual. This is not a two way street ordeal.

Tabling the conversation altogether, I switch gears. “You wanna go to South Street, again? Bar hop? I got two hours—give or take.”

I hear the sound of the doors we just came out of slam behind us.

“I'm sorry, Lana. But he really, really wants you back in the trailer.”

Blowing air from my mouth, I do a complete one-eighty on my heels. “He's not even in there. He's gonna take at least another two hours for press.”

I already know how this works. He leaves me in that hotel room for hours, working, before he has a chance to get to me. This is no different. If anything, it’ll be worse because it’s a PPV.

Her hand goes up and down as she offers me nothing. It's then I notice the large man in all black beside her. “Can I at least walk my friend back to the car? I wanna know she's safe.”

“Lana, we have security escorts for that,” she explains in that rushing hue. It does nothing to soothe my irritation of constantly being pulled like a puppet on a string. Special, alright.

“It's fine," Demi grabs my elbow, soaking up the last bit of bite-back I have for Miss Bossy. “It's fine. I'll be fine.”

“You're sure? I can come with y’all.”

“No. Believe me, if a motherfucker try anything, Bron Breaker over here will get the job done better than we can.” She motions to who I assume is supposed to be her escort back to the truck so she can go back to the hotel. “We had our fun already. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

No phone, no human interaction, and only reruns of Family Guy on the flat screen, and something close to two hours passes me by. Just when I begin to dose off, the sound of the bus door closing has me alert. I sit up wiping my eyes with my palms.

He comes busting through the curtain. Moving about in the space as if he’s the only one in here. Not sparing me a single glance. No greeting. Forget a kiss. I wasn’t expecting the sitcom, “honey, I’m home.” But damn. It’s like I’ve been warped into a year before when I met him for the first time.

He goes through the motions of his routine. The black band discarded into the nightstand drawer. He checks his phone—scrolling for only a few seconds before settling it face down. His shoes come off.

I cross my arms, over it all already. Wishing I would’ve just left with Demi. “Is this all we’re gonna do? Cause I can leave now, then.”

He has his days where’s he’s in this funk—sad or angry about something I know nothing about— and we just sit in silence mostly. Or we’ll have sex, but it’s disconnected. Sterile. Robotic almost. Like that’s the only purpose I serve. Like I'm not even a person. There’s no eye contact. No words being exchanged. Barely the inaudible “fuck,” or "shit,” from his lips. It’ll prompt me to muster up all the strength I have to not make a sound. Make myself as small as possible. Let him do his thing. And if I'm lucky he’ll find his way behind me with one heavy arm draped across my hip.

In the beginning, none of that would bother me. I’d just be lucky to even be in his presence. But I would think that we’re miles away from that. That hasn't happened in a while, but I guess we're overdue for one of those nights. I don't understand what the fuck the problem is. He won the match. I'm here and I've been in here like he asked—no, demanded of me. I don’t understand what the need for me to be here is, if he won’t even acknowledge me. It’s pathetic—on both of our parts.

“Take your clothes off.”

“What?” I ask shakily. His words like blows to my stomach. He finally feels the need to grace me with eye contact. I begin to shake my head in protest.

“No—that’s all you wanna do? Take your clothes off, then.” He’s never looked more like the man from TV than he does in this moment. Calculated, mean as hell, and irritable. It’s unsettling. I don’t know that version of him. It rattles me.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” I try my best to keep my voice steady. If I wasn’t staring I would’ve missed the slight eye roll as he turns his back to me.

I leave him to do whatever, while fighting the urge to set these tears free. Redirecting my gaze to my hands after he removes his hoodie, revealing a black tee. I play myself every time I get too comfortable in this. Fucking stupid.

The fierce sound of his hiss has my head snapping in his direction. I catch him in the middle of pulling the shirt off his body with one arm. The scene is horrid. It’s not even the bruises— large, shapeless, globs of green and purple—that force me to stand. It's the rashes. The oh so familiar rashes. Patches of them decorating his strong back.

My eyes sting immediately at the sight, already knowing what causes rashes like that. I try to regulate the scale of my emotions—rewinding back to all the times I had to help my mom put cream on my dad from the breakouts caused by the chemo. He was always too weak to do it himself. Always in pain. My brother couldn’t help—he was off to school during the worst of it.

“Are you okay?” My voice just barely there.

He doesn’t answer. He throws the black shirt across the way and it lands on the corner loveseat. I close the space between us—in more ways than one. His broad shoulders sag, releasing a deep breath. Defeated.

I grab the familiar jar from next to him on the dresser chest, opening it to perform in muscle memory the lightest strokes to the red breakouts on his back. He’s stiff as a board. I press down and make circles until the tacky consistency dissolves into his bronze skin. Not too hard—not too soft. My mother’s instruction rings loud in my head as if she’s standing over me like she used to.

A big breath leaves him as he relaxes, finally. Shoulders not as square with his head hanging. The fight to steady my hands trembling like my bottom lip is persistent. Remembering the shame on my father’s face, as if having cancer was his fault. As if dying was something he orchestrated.

His big hand is warm and firm as he reaches to stop me. Pulling until I’m in front of him now. His broad shadow cascading over me.

I’m not sure about that four letter word, but I do know that I care deeply for this man. He is special to me. Beyond any gift or earth shattering pleasure gifted in between sheets. No—it’s way deeper than that. I recognize his pain—his fears. I’ve seen them before. Maybe in another life, I always tell myself. Or maybe our time had already came and went before. Maybe before this instance, we knew each other in a past life and got all the opportunities we lack now.

There was no wife. No kids. No cancer. No age gap. No need to hide. Things made sense. Our only concern was each other. Maybe our bodies just recognize each other and that pull I always feel is just my old self pointing me in his direction.

“Can you look at me please?” He pleads. The unfamiliar monster from before disappearing— and the gentle Joe back in his place. Hurt still painted on my face, I meet him. “I’m sorry.”

Unable to even speak—not knowing what to say—I just nod. The sincerity in his big brown eyes swallowing me whole.

I don’t even notice he’s leaning until his soft lips are on me. On my lips then to my chin. And just like that, all armor is relieved from me—and him too apparently. If my dad knew I allowed a man to talk to me the way he just had, he’d have nothing but disgust written all over his face. And for the first time ever, I feel like this is a mistake. Not just tonight, but all of it.

It was all meant to be lighthearted. Fun and adventurous. Matters of the heart and greedy emotions weren’t supposed to play the front—ever.

I don’t move as he finds his way to my jawline, nudging my head to the side with his to find my neck. He yearns for all to be forgiven and forgotten. That much is obvious. And I detest myself for being so weak. So pliable.

The heat from him transfers right to me. My insides igniting like a furnace. He knows exactly how to dissolve me and I hate—and love it all the same. Every kiss after another—a silent plea—another sorry. Turning it up a notch, I feel the roughness of his hands on my ass. Kneading the flesh like a skilled baker, earning a moan from me.

Ass up and face buried in the comforter, is how I end up. He fucks me the same way he performed tonight in the ring. Wild, dominant, and taking every opportunity to gain the upper hand. It’s passionate, but not in the traditional way.

“Ohh—fuck, baby!” I teeter the edge of pleasure and pain, tears sitting at the corners of my eyes. Blurring my already obscuring vision.

His hand is firm on my neck in a vice grip. The other resting on the curve of my back, controlling my arch. Every hit, a louder smacking in the space, feeling better than the one that comes before it. Drilling my hole like he owes it something. I end up just sliding and lying flat. It’s too much. His pace doesn’t falter. A heavy hand comes down on my ass as punishment.

“Stop running from me,” he grunts.

He attacks my ear with licks and bites and I melt like ice cream in the summer. Slowing his pace so I can feeling everything. Every vein, the slightest curve—all of it. “I thought about you all day,” he whispers. “Look at me.” I barely turn my head and he’s right there. Fine lines garnishing his flat nose as his lip curls into a slight snarl. “So fucking beautiful.” His tongue comes out and I take it. Snatching away when he switches gears from slow and deep to slow and hard. Slamming into me with the aggression of a dozen street fighters.

The kisses and licks are a thing of the past. Bites—deliberate and firm—take their place. He’s all over me. He’s everywhere. His animalistic grunts countering my helpless whines.

“It’s too good, Lana. I can’t stop,” he warns. And I already know what’s coming. Too blinded by lust and all the angst from earlier, I don’t even protest.

I must be losing my mind. The events of this weekend tainting my judgement—because the next words to leave my mouth can’t be mine.

“C-cum in me. I wanna feel it, daddy.”

“Yeah?” He questions breathless. I nod eagerly.

Slanted eyes glued to one another, he goes even harder. Meeting his peak. Mouth falling open. Swollen inside of me before he breaks free.

“Arghhh!” We moan in unison, notches of energy trickling down. Milking him. Feeling every last drop. I’m in a daze. His nose brushing and sliding against the side of my face, centering me.

“Mmm,” he hums. Pulling all the way out. I turn on my back, defeated, just to find him stroking himself back to life.

God, help me.

His fingers making a trail up and down my bare back has me fighting sleep like a newborn baby full on milk and burped already. I can hear his heartbeat. It’s strong and steady—just like him.

“Are you okay?” I finally ask.

His fingers stop, but he doesn’t answer. Resting my chin on his peck, I find his eyes in the dark. “Don’t worry about me,” is his only response.

I’m sure that weary spirit has been passed down from my mother. Lord knows, she’ll worry about the sun coming up—despite her seeing it every morning of her life. The older I get, the more I start to mimic those same habits. I worry about school and my future. I worry about my friends—Demi and Anthony—and if they’re genuinely happy with life or just going through the motions and putting on a front for me. I worry about my brother and if he’ll ever find his niche in life. My dad—praying every other night that his cell count stays at bay. And now—I worry about him. What he’s doing when he’s not with me. If he ever thinks about cutting the cord on this unstable arrangement. If he’s healthy. If all the man hours put into this job is too much for him. All day long, seven days a week, the unknown takes precedence over what I can see with my own eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. How delusional am I for noticing this is something like our one year anniversary. All the shit that’s happened in between now and then. I wonder if his scope of us even goes that wide. Instead of ruining the night, I rest my ear back flat on his chest. But his next question has me popping back up.

“Will you stay?”

He’s always so hard to read. Impenetrable at times. Tonight is no different. But I can feel something. Something in him is different. The way he asked if I would stay. If I didn’t know any better I would think he needed me here in place of want.

“I can’t,” I deny in a low tone. It’s then the question of where his family was today emerges like a horizon in my mind. Certainly he didn’t have us both here? He would’ve ended the night with her instead. Right?

A strong hand sliding up the back of my neck, holding firm to cup my head grabs my attention. “Please—stay? For me?”

Our faces just inches from connection—sanctions a real war to stand on business. My responsibilities outweigh anything going on here—but damn. Damn. If I knew I’d be straight with school in spite of missing my last two midterms, best believe, I’d stay right here. Right in this bed. Until it was time to see him win again tomorrow night.

I breathe in from my nose. A smile on my face, even though he’s hard as steel. “I can’t,” I repeat. “Believe me, if I could I would.”

It seems like forever when his eyes bounce around my face before nodding in acceptance. “I’ll be watching from home. I swear.” I reassure him, even though I’m sure he’ll throw it in the trash. My stream tomorrow is probably the last thing on his mind when he steps out and into the openness of the arena. Thousands of people screaming his name and going ballistic. That means much more to him. That’s his special.

I lay my head back to its original spot. Listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, paired with his breathing, until it grows to light snores. Wishing we could stay like this forever.

Birds of a feather. Oh, how I wish we could stick together.

A/N // this was not supposed to be this long and it was supposed to been up. life got in the way. smh anyway...

all i have to say is Joe...idc how old you are or what you've done. you could've marched with MLK... who the fuck is you talking to like that???

as always, if you read it or even a portion of it, i am forever grateful💗 feedback is welcomed.

next round of shorts before pt 4 Desires is listed on the masterlist. i have no idea when any of them will be up. i've already started all of them and they're at different stages; however, May and June will be very busy for me. i'll keep y'all updated as much as possible.

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