#overhead squat

[solradguy]

I complain about shoveling snow but that's just because it's cold and I will die of frostbite before I ever wear anything other than fingerless gloves, but the truth is that shoveling snow is really fun. I really like aggressively hurling giant scoops of frozen icy sky shit across the driveway with my bright red steel shovel. It's like the same motions as swinging my claymore just targeted at the ground

[jess-abides]

Ayyye look who made the trainer’s story today 😌💪🏻 feeling strong af, I literally could barely do these with a half lunge 3 weeks ago.

[autogeneity]

looks like I'm going to be finding new and exotic ways to make my shoulders hurt every 2nd day for the next several months 👍

[just-somedude]

.

[chuckg2]

undefined

Dmitry Klokov

[seisobarasub]

New goals

SW: 120.4kg

GW: 110kg

Lifts

Squat: 127.5kg x 5

Deadlift: 120kg x 5

Bench: 82.5kg x 5

T-Bar row: 65kg (on the bar) x 5

OHP: 60kg x 5

After I got myself down to 120kg I took a break on my diet for a couple of weeks, switched workout routines and started taking creatine to help with recovery.

Weight went up a bit as eexpected but I've gotten it back down to around 120kg so we start on the road to 110kg, would like to get down to it by the end of the year but won't lose any sleep over it taking longer.

Switched from a 3-day routine to a 4-day routine, went from M/W/F upper/lower split to:

Monday: Back and Biceps Tuesday: Chest and Triceps Wednesday: Rest Thursday: Legs Friday: Shoulders, Traps and Abs

Lifts are all progressing pretty well, think I'm hitting a bit of a wall on bench press and OHP, shoulders remain the most tempermental muscle group, need the planets to align and the wind to blow the right way to get a consistent OHP session. Last week I hit 60kg 4x5, this week I hit the following:

Set 1: 62.5kg x 2 Set 2: 60kg x 5 Set 3: 60kg x 2 Set 4: 50kg x 8

Going to learn from my last post and take some before pics some time this weekend

[seawitchkaraoke]

Loving going to the gym, it's a great supplement for the other sport I do, both to further train the muscles I need to yeet ppl higher for cheerleading and to train the muscles that don't get trained enough from the other stuff I do but.

The gym alone could never be enough for me bc I am fundamentally a lazy person. I'm not gonna really ever push myself as far on my own as I will when we're soo close to hitting this stunt, let's do it one more time, come on

Anyway we did double base for almost the full 90 minutes yesterday (one flyer on just two bases), most of the speed upwards has to come from me, I am so sore but yes we did hit it

[curiously-a-dreamer]

I was able to do those weighted tricep extensions without any elbow pain today!!!!

[autogeneity]

update: neither of my ankles are pleased about my adventures

[ninibeingdelulu]

It’s raining ✧

Plot: Training under the pouring rain for an upcoming mission, Lt Ghost find you.

It was pouring down but you couldn't have cared less, not when this upcoming mission could be the biggest of your career. You'd trained relentlessly, determined to be in peak condition.

Even now, wearing only a thin white t-shirt and shorts, you pushed through the brutal regimen - squats, push-ups, sit-ups - the rain plastering your clothes to your body.

So focused on your routine that you didn't realize the way that soaked shirt was practically see-through, clinging shamelessly to the curves of your breasts with every movement.

Rivulets of water traced along your skin as you panted heavily. That's when a low, gruff voice cut through the rhythmic pounding of the rain.

"That's enough for today, soldier."

You spun around, eyes widening as you found Lieutenant Ghost observing you with that inscrutable stare through his skull patterned balaclava.

"Sir, I can keep going-" you argued, unable to read his expression besides those intense eyes drinking you in from behind the mask.

"Not in this downpour," he growled.

"Unless you're aiming to get sick before deployment." His tone made it clear this wasn't up for debate.

With a huff, you opened your mouth to protest again but any words dissipated as Ghost suddenly closed the distance between you both.

His gloved hand clamped firmly around your arm, hauling you under the cramped cover of a nearby supply tent. You stumbled against his solid frame, heartbeat picking up from the unexpected contact.

Now enclosed in the tiny dimly lit tent, you were acutely aware of Ghost's overwhelming presence as the two of you stood mere inches apart, rain drumming on the thin canopy overhead.

Your gaze lifted defiantly to meet that masked visage but you felt your breath catch in your throat. Just his close proximity and that piercing stare was enough to set your nerves buzzing with inexplicable tension.

Ghost's focus drifted lower, darkly intent, and you followed the path of his hungry roaming eyes as they raked shamelessly over the contours of your chest where the waterlogged white fabric left nothing to the imagination.

You could have sworn you felt the ghost of his touch searing over your breasts despite the distance between you.

Then, with a single lurching step forward that had you instinctively backpedaling until you hit the tent's rear wall, Ghost leaned in so close you could feel the heat of his body through the soaked layers separating you.

"That's an order," he rumbled in a dangerously low tone close to your ear, voice rough like gravel.

"Don't let me catch you training in conditions like that again, soldier. Not unless you want circumstances to become... unpleasant for you."

You could only give a mute, flustered nod of understanding, rendered speechless under the building intensity smoldering in the confines of that tiny tent.

Ghost held your wide-eyed stare a beat longer before stepping back abruptly.

"Get dried off."

He instructed gruffly, reaching past you to snag a discarded jacket draped over a crate.

He tossed the bundle at you without ceremony before turning on his heel and ducking back out into the downpour without a backwards glance.

Leaving you flushed and flustered, chest heaving with undeniable arousal and stark realization of how fraught with tension this op had just become.

[juneknight]

Making Trouble

For the girlies on the Marc’s Girls discord, and specifically to whichever one of you requested this:

Possessive marc who decides to fuck reader in Jakes car to further piss of jake, praise kink, (maybe a little mirror action to make sure jake sees)

About this: Marc finally finds where Jake stashes his car when he isn’t fronting. Marc/fem!reader

—-----

“You can open your eyes now.” 

Nearly breathless from the suspense, you finally open your eyes to see—a parking garage. You blink, taking in its tall, squat appearance, the teenager manning the little booth to let people in and out, her face in her phone. When Marc had said he had a surprise for you during your day out together, you had spent plenty of time considering what it might be. Knowing Marc, it was either painfully thoughtful or way too on-the-nose. 

“Is it the parking garage, or is it in the parking garage,” you deadpan. 

“I bought you a parking garage,” Marc deadpans back, obviously unimpressed with your deductive skills. 

Mouth twitching, you ask: “You…bought a car?” 

“Better,” says Marc with a grin. “I found a car.”

On the fourth level, you stand shivering amongst the dreary concrete scenery, mouth agape. 

Marc holds up a key fob. The expression on his face is distinctly wicked, eyes dark and narrowed, mouth tilted in a smirk which makes him look years younger. He jingles the keys before pressing on the automatic lock. Within the car, you hear the soft sound of the doors unlocking. The taillights come to life, flashing an ominous red: warning, warning, do not fucking touch. 

“We can’t,” you gasp, even as if you watch Marc open the driver’s door. Out comes a hint of Jake’s scent: leather, tobacco, cologne. How Marc and his alters can even smell different, you could never understand. 

Marc is already stepping into the car. He turns to look at your gasped warning, but there is no fear nor trepidation on his face. He just raises a brow and says, “Seems easy enough to me.” 

He ducks his head and disappears into the driver’s seat. You glance around, conscience guilty. It’s not like there is anyone who would dispute your right to be in the car; the thing is in Marc’s goddamn name! But you can’t help but feel eyes on you, like Jake knows what you are doing. For months he had stringently refused to reveal where he stored the flashy ride, despite your best attempts—and Marc’s, and even Steven’s who couldn’t resist a good mystery. He obviously did not want any of you encroaching on this, on his territory. 

The thought of his punishment has you shivering, and not with fear. 

You swiftly move to the passenger side, open the door, and duck inside. It is like another world within: all dark leather, cool against your overheated skin. The tinted windows make it dim, even with the soft glow of the overhead light (which disappears once you shut the door). You sit in the seat beside Marc, breathing in the experience. Jake never lets anyone in his car—that he doesn’t plan to kill. The adrenalin has your heart racing. You turn to look at Marc in the driver’s seat with a wide, giddy grin. 

“So where should we go? I feel like fucking Ferris Bueler.” 

Marc snorts softly. He reaches down between the seat and the door—and he pushes his seat back as far as it will go, creating copious space between himself and the steering wheel. It doesn’t look like a very comfortable way to drive. All at once, you realize that Marc isn’t intending to drive. He has not even put the keys in the ignition. 

“Marc,” you say, low and warning and scared and excited all at once.

“Come here,” says Marc, just as lowly. He pats one jean-clad thigh. “Come sit on my lap.” 

It isn’t a question. But for the first time you are caught between the authority Marc has over you and the authority Jake has over everyone. The rules are simple: do not touch his car. Do not look at his car. Do not think about his car. Definitely do not go looking for the parking garage which houses his car. And if you should find it? Definitely don’t fuck in it. 

“What if he gets mad?” you ask, running your fingers over the natural creases of the leather seats. 

“Leave him to me. Come sit on my lap.” 

You climb across the center console and into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs. Marc leans back in his seat looking like a god, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, one hand braced behind his head like he is relaxing and nothing more. The bulge you can already feel in his jeans says that as relaxed as he appears, at least one part of him is as eager as you are. 

“Undress.” 

You gasp, like this is unexpected. Like you expected him to ask you to sit in his lap and then the two of you would talk about the weather. Even though the window tints are thick—standing outside the car, you cannot even see the swirl of shadows behind the glass—your eyes are drawn towards the windows around you. Can you undress here? You would feel so exposed…but the way Marc is looking at you is exposing as well. Like he sees your thoughts and is watching them bounce between arousal and terror in the ping-pong match of the century. Like he sees your thoughts and enjoys them. 

He says nothing, just sits patiently, chest rising and falling softly with his each breath. 

Yeah, alright. You pull your shirt over your head, reaching back to unclasp your bra. Marc takes each article of clothing and tosses it into the backseat. There isn’t enough space to comfortably slide down your panties while on his lap, so he perches you on the center console and works the lace down your legs, testing the texture between his fingers.

He opens up the dash console and puts your panties inside.

“Marc,” you whine. “Come on, you’re going to get me in even more trouble.” 

“You’re trouble,” Marc says, lifting you with ease to set you back in his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare thighs. He is so thick that you’re spread uncomfortably wide, and your cunt—hungry, leaking—can’t even grind against the bulge in his jeans. Once you’re seated, Marc palms your ass in his broad hands, spreading you apart, eyes glued to the sticky place between your legs. “How else am I going to remind Jake that you belong to me, huh?” 

Marc’s possessiveness makes you shiver. Maybe it’s some unevolved part of your hindbrain that craves such a thing, something that makes you want to rub yourself all over him until his scent is your scent and no one can refute it. Whatever it may be that makes your heart pound and pussy clench tight when Marc makes such comments, it must also be the same thing that makes you want more. 

“I belong to him too, you know,” you tease. “And Steven.” 

“Steven knows his place,” Marc says darkly. He reaches up and threads his fingers through your hair at the back of your skull, clutches tight and close to the scalp so that he has utter control as he tugs you forward and down until you are nearly nose to nose with him. “Jake sometimes needs a reminder that you are mine, first and foremost. Maybe you need that reminder too.” 

You go to shake your head, but Marc holds it firmly in place by your hair. He tightens his grip (though not to the point of pain) and makes you nod in affirmation.

“Yes?” he asks, with mock surprise. “Yes, you need reminding? You need a lesson?” 

“Marc,” you breathe. There is nothing else to the sentence. There is nothing else in your brain, just Marc. 

“I’ve got you,” he coos. He pulls you in for a kiss, searing and consuming and all too short. Your mouth tingles after he pulls you away, lips quirking at the way you strain against his hold, eager to kiss him again. But he just says: “Take my cock out.” 

Your fingers scramble for the button against the denim. Perhaps if you weren’t tingling all over, it would be easier to unfasten them—but then you get distracted by Marc, Marc who is reaching up to the rearview mirror and adjusting it. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” says Marc. The grin he gives into the mirror is like a shark’s. Toothy, mean, hungry. 

You try not to. You focus on his cock which you are finally able to work free from the denim. He is achingly hard, a familiar velvety rod of steel in your palm. So much changes about your three lovers when they are fronting: accents, expressions, mannerisms…but this is one thing that never changes. You adjust your grip, let your thumb trace over the crown of his cock. When you stroke over the slit, your thumb comes away wet with his precum. 

Marc uses his grip on your hair to gently turn your face downward until you are staring at him: ruddy, deliciously thick, a length that already has your legs shaking just at the memory of the places it can stroke inside you. At the tip beads more precum, and you watch, mesmerized, as you spread it across the sensitive head turning it shiny pink and eager. 

“See my cock?” 

“Yes,” you laugh.

“Then why aren’t you sitting on it?”

A good question. You shift upwards. Marc helps, hands braced against your waist as he lifts and twists and turns you to his liking. By the time the thick head of his cock nudges at your entrance, he has turned you around until you face away from him, your palms on the dashboard, the steering wheel nearly brushing your breasts. 

Marc slips inside you. It’s always a tight stretch, no matter how wet you are for him. You whine, rocking forward and backward as your cunt spasms, eager for him and fighting his intrusion all at once. His hands are burning hot on your hips, your ass, your waist as he rubs at the skin firmly, murmuring soft encouragement beneath his breath. At last you relax enough to take the last few inches of him, and when the head kisses your cervix, it feels like it pushes the breath from your lungs. 

“Marc,” you groan. 

His hands, tan and strong suddenly reach for your own where you have braced them on the dashboard. He interlaces your fingers and then pulls back—he makes you put your hands on the wheel. You know why straightaway; because beneath your grip you feel the grooves worn into the steering wheel from Jake’s touch. You shutter all over, cunt squeezing Marc’s cock. 

“Hold on,” Marc says. You tighten your grip.  

Then Marc takes your hips in his hands and begins to fuck you on his cock. That’s the only way to describe it. His strength makes it easy for him to bounce your body the way he likes, as fast or as slow as he likes, as deep or as shallow as he likes. And you know that’s what he’s doing. You can tell that he’s taking you like this for his own pleasure, and the thought drives you fucking wild. 

You turn your head, searching for his mouth to kiss—

—but Marc is too busy staring into the rearview mirror. 

“Is he—?”

“Watching?” Marc pants. “Yes.”

“What’s he—?”

“Saying?” Marc laughs. “Cursing me. Threatening me. Telling me all the filthy things he’s going to do to you to punish you, to try and reestablish his claim.”

Marc’s teeth bury themselves into the junction between your shoulder and your neck, making you cry out and tighten around him. His tongue soothes the sting of the bite. The message is clear: stop asking questions about Jake. Right now there is only Marc. A few pointed, bruising thrusts push the remainder of your thoughts from your brain. You arch your back to soften the intensity, to let his cock stroke against that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. 

Behind you, words begin to pour from Marc’s mouth, dark and sinful: 

“Pussy this sweet, I can’t blame him,” Marc says through his teeth. He slows his thrusts, slows the speed with which he bounces you on his cock though the force remains the same. “The sweetest little toy for me to fuck. But this pussy belongs to me. I am the one who broke it in. Remember the first time I fucked you? You shook like a leaf in the wind just at the sight of me. ‘Will it fit?’”

Your face goes hot at the mocking way he pitches his voice. You didn’t sound like that…

“I made it fit, didn’t I baby? Didn’t I split you open? You cried like I was killing you—except you were begging me not to stop, so tight, like I had to push your guts aside just to get balls deep. I broke you in, baby. Steven and Jake just help me keep you loose, don’t they?”

Marc’s cock seems to do more than rearrange your guts. It scrambles your fucking brain. All that comes out of your mouth are broken gasps of his name, half formed pleas—and when you take a hand off the wheel to touch your clit, a warning. You’re about to cum.

Except Marc lets go of your hips to grip your arms just below the elbows. He tugs your hand away from between your thighs and twists both arms behind your back with practiced ferocity, no rougher than he needs to be as he makes your arms fold and hooks his arm through them, binding you. His hand against your upper back pushes you forward, forward until your chest meets the steering wheel, breasts against the cool material.

“You’ll cum on my cock or you won’t cum at all,” Marc warns you darkly, digging his heels into the floor so he can snap his hips up into the cradle of your thighs. He thrusts with such force that he balls tap your clit with each one, the light rhythmic pressure nothing compared to the firm rub of your fingertips, but still pushing you higher…higher…can you cum like this? With just the barest touch? 

“I’m getting close,” Marc warns cruelly. 

You try to say something back, some garbled plea, but it is inarticulate. Marc speaks the language, though; knows what your frantic little sounds and whines mean, well-versed in this tongue. He uses his free hand to grip one ass cheek, spreading you until he can see the stretched entrance of your pussy thanks to the arch of your back. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s it, cum for me. Come on. And look in the mirror while you do it. Show me those pretty eyes.”

But when you glance up to the mirror, the dark eyes that look at you—pierce into you, flaying you open and laying you bare—do not remind you of Marc. They remind you of the real person Marc wants you to make eye contact with. The one who is watching. 

It’s a good thing you can’t string syllables together, otherwise you might have shouted Jake’s name (and wasn’t that a lesson that Marc had already taught you!). Your cunt clenches down like a vice, back arching like a cat as the sensation explodes inside you, slick dripping down your thighs onto Jake’s leather seats. Your shouts and yaps and whimpers have nowhere to echo within the enclosed space, forcing you to listen to your own pleasure in high quality. 

Marc groans in satisfaction, slowing his thrusts to languish in the spasms of your pussy. 

“Good girl, that’s a good-fucking-girl!” Marc says, voice a little too awed and overjoyed to appropriately coo the cruel way he often does. He pulls you up from the steering wheel and makes you lay back against his chest. 

“Marc, too deep,” you hiss, shifting in anxiety at the hard thrusts which must be coming. 

He just hushes you, rocking his hips more than thrusting, one hand cupping your breast while the other finds your aching clit and begins teasing it, stroking your sex deeply. 

Your breath catches—as if you had ever managed to catch it in the first place. Already you feel that fire within your belly swelling, Marc’s fingers and the way his cock splits you wide acting like a lit match on dry kindling. His fingers make slick sounds, so loud in the enclosed space that you would be embarrassed if there were room for it inside you. But Marc’s cock must push that out of you, too: your shame, your brain.

“Come on, baby,” Marc whispers tenderly, his other hand teasing your nipple as he rocks into you gently. “Come on, give me another. Milk my cock.”

You do. You’d do anything that Marc told you to, but it’s impossible to even consider disobeying when his fingers stroke through your folds, when you feel his cock twitch where it’s buried practically in your guts. One of your hands scrabbles at the seat, scratching the leather. The other reaches up to bury itself in Marc’s hair, mussing the slicked back curls. His breath stops, head falling back against the headrest as his cock jerks and fills you with his warm seed. The sounds of his thrusts into you grow slicker, even wetter with both of your spend. His cum seeps out around his cock with each thrust in, smearing both of your thighs. 

At last he wraps an arm around your waist and pins you to him, his cock still buried within you. His heavy pants brush your neck as he catches his breath, and your fierce grip on his hair instinctually turns into a soft pet. You definitely muss the curls a little more than necessary; you can’t help how much you like them. 

“He’s going to be so pissed, Marc,” you breathe. But there is laughter in your voice. 

Marc snorts softly. He reaches up and pinches one of your nipples softly. “Yeah. He’ll live.” 

He helps you dress, cleans your thighs and his own with a pack of tissues that he finds in the glovebox. You sit in the passenger seat, eyes on him. It is strange seeing him behind the wheel of Jake’s car. 

“Ready?” Marc asks at last, glancing to you. It’s only then that he notices how much you’ve been watching him, and the fact that he can look flustered after everything he’s done and said to you today is a true feat. 

“Ready.” 

You face goes hot again as you step out of the car, even though there is no one around to see you. Orienting yourself, you spot the lift and begin towards it, a spring in your step. If you plan to make it home before Marc’s cum leaks out of you, you’ll have to be hasty. The last thing you want to do is ride the tube with cum dripping down your legs. 

Marc lingers. He glances back into the car, eyes searching for anything the two of you might have left behind. Besides the panties in the glovebox—let Jake find those. When there is nothing, he shuts the door softly and locks it with the fob. Fucking you in Jake’s car is one thing; leaving it vulnerable to any proper London thief is another. He wants to piss Jake off, but he would never wish to hurt him. 

There is a smudge on the window. Marc wipes it away with his jacketed elbow. 

“Go easy on her, hermano,” Marc teases his reflection. The one that is glaring back at him. 

“Marc,” you call, squinting back towards him from your spot by the lift. Your voice echoes off of the concrete. “Are you coming?” 

“Didn’t I already?” Marc asks the window. He snorts at his own joke, tapping the nose of his reflection before turning and sauntering away.

[seisobarasub]

Weight loss updates

SW: 145.3kg/320lbs (~35% BF) June '22

CW: 119.8kg/264lbs (~25% BF) June '23

Lifts

Squat: 115kg x 5

Deadlift: 110kg x 5

Bench: 75kg x 5

T-Bar row: 60kg (on the bar) x 5

OHP: 60kg x 3

Leg press: 247kg x 12 (included because big numbers are fun)

Weight built up after 2 years of no gym due to lockdown and moving to a new city, back at it for a year and lost my pandemic weight and then some. Tentative aim is to get around or below 110kg by this time next year.

I regret not taking many "before" pictures for comparison, the only stuff I have is passport/work ID but the changes in my face are pretty noticable, that and just wearing old clothes from last year feels pretty good in terms of seeing the progress.

Lifts are progressing pretty well, squats and deadlifts aren't close to my all time PR (think both were 135kg x 5) but the rest are PRs.

I think my deadlifts are suffering from being done after I do squats and leg press so going to change my program from next week and that should progress a little better.

Goals for my lifts for now are to build to 3 plate squats and deadlifts, and 2 plate bench (to go with my 1 plate OHP), also I want to be able to do a pullup (currently at -56kg on the assisted pullup machine).

Not used to journalling like this so might post more updates etc if this feels good to get out there

[sleepy-steve]

🧠🪱 Wiggly Wednesday Thursday 🧠 🪱

thank you for tagging me @stervrucht 🖤

no pressure tags: @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @stevesbipanic and of course anyone else that would like to ♡

thinking about Steve and Eddie who, after going through rounds of physical therapy after everything, continue to work out together because Steve obviously loves it and loves having a friend to work out with. and Eddie notices the difference in his stamina when he gets back to performing on stage. (and if Eddie likes to watch Steve work out a little bit, and likes Steve coming over to help his form more than a little bit, well that’s his business.) but Steve takes a dance class and shakes up his usual warmup, leaving Eddie with some… thoughts.

***

“Okay, Munson,” Steve says, pulling his arm across his body for a shoulder stretch. “You ready?”

“Ready to be tortured? Always,” Eddie jokes. It was their thing. Eddie acts like he hates being there, but he still shows up every other day to their local gym in Indianapolis. And he won’t ever deny the benefits he’s noticed since starting their exercise regime. He's faster on stage, doesn't get winded near as easily, holding those screaming notes without feeling like his lungs will explode. Little did he know that today his joke would come to be true.

Steve liked most kinds of exercise. He was a sporty guy. He liked the pull and stretch of his muscles, the feeling of accomplishment after achieving a new goal, that delicious soreness the day after a really good workout. But mostly he loved trying new things. He’d give anything half a chance if he thought it might be fun. Which is how he ended up at a dance-aerobics class the week prior, finding himself having a lot of fun, blushing furiously when the women in the class complimented how quickly he picks up the steps.

He went back three more times that week. Part of his enjoyment came from the new warmup he was taught in the class. Steve’s usual warmup consisted of basic stretches and a light jog, covering all bases to ensure he didn’t get injured, but not very exciting.

This, however, was far more enjoyable. Steve found himself sinking deep into stretches he didn't know he had flexibility for, and moving his hips to a beat, ultimately just having way more fun with the warmup. And it was about to become a huge problem for Eddie.

Steve pops his headphones over his ears, the tape deck tucked securely in his shorts pocket. He bends over, inhaling deeply as the song starts, rising up with his hands overhead, exhaling as he rolls his wrists, hips moving side to side with the beat. His already short cropped t-shirt rises, showing off a good amount of his chest. He lets his arms come down, bending over again, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. Gripping his elbows, he lets the top half of his body hang, swinging from side to side, his hamstrings fully stretched out.

Eddie looks up from his own basic stretching, shocked to see Steve fully bent over, because hey, since when was he so flexible? With Metallica blaring through his own headphones, Eddie just stares, completely forgetting where he was at in his warmup.

Steve lets his hands drop, moving to one foot, back to the centre, then the other foot. Ass just up in the air, his shorts way too tight. Eddie swallows. He’d been denying his crush for months at this point, and good god this was not helping.

Rolling his shoulders as he stands up, Steve lets his hands travel down his bare thighs, sinking into a squat with his back arched and head tilted back. Eddie's eyes are wide as he watches those tight little shorts with the little cut-ins on the sides ride up, showing far more of Steve's glorious hairy thighs than Eddie can handle. Steve drops his head forward, hunching his shoulders as he moves back to standing. He repeats the motions, and Eddie wishes he had the strength to pull his stare away from Steve's ass.

Seeing Steve's head tilted back and his back arched is sending Eddie insane. Like, he geninely thinks he might evaporate on the spot if he keeps watching. But he just can't look away.

Turning himself sideways, Steve has one foot stepped out in front of the other, legs perfectly straightened into a triangle shape, bent over his front leg. Just when Eddie thinks he’s about to get up and end his suffering, Steve lowers himself down into a lunge. His little shorts definitely way too small and tight for the movement, Steve lunges back and forth, fingertips resting on the ground on either side of his front foot. Eddie watches as the t-shirt rides up with each lunge, the desire to get his lips and tongue all over Steve's chest overwhelming him.

Shaking himself, Eddie tries to remember which shoulder stretch he was up to. He attempts something close to a stretch, but he can’t be sure he's doing it right, because Steve has lowered himself to the ground, front leg bent and back leg perfectly straight, and is fucking thrusting into the ground. If he were to ask Steve, he’d find out this was a hip flexor stretch. But Eddie’s forgotten how to form words entirely, suddenly imagining nineteen different ways he wants to get dicked down by the man before him.

Eddie suffers in silence, heart racing in his chest, watching as Steve repeats the movements on his other side. He prays that the torture ends soon, that they can just get to the workout, and Eddie can go back to pretending he doesn't want to ride Steve until his thighs give out. But Eddie gets no such luck.

Steve has moved into some kind of triangle position, hands on the ground, legs straight, and of fucking course, his ass in the air. Eddie marvels at how straight the shape is, only for a moment, because then Steve is lifting his heels up and down in turn, and jesus christ those tiny little shorts are just riding up, and Eddie can see a hint of Steve's ass peeking out. His jaw drops. He may actually explode.

Just when Eddie's thinking he can't take much more of this, Steve lowers himself down, knees spread wide, arms stretched out in front of him and head tucked down. A wild and rushed series of thoughts fly across Eddie's mind, all centred around Steve kneeling down in front of him. Eddie needs to get it together quickly.

As Steve brings himself back up to the triangle position, walking his feet to meet his hands and rolling his spine up, shoulders and head rolling back last, he sees Eddie taking off for his warmup jog. Assuming that he probably just took too long with his new warmup, Steve shrugs it off and starts his jog shortly after.

Eddie hits his personal best in several weights that day, desperately trying to expend his excess energy in some way. He barely registers the wins, mind still stuck on Steve and his perfect ass in all those new positions. He almost dissolves on the spot when Steve claps him on the shoulder in congratuations.

At the end of their session, Eddie takes a freezing cold shower and prays for the sweet release of death.

[loislame84]

*Kate entered the gym at the compound and saw Yelena doing overhead barbell squats*

Kate, trying not to drool: oh hey, Yelena.

Yelena, smirking through the mirror at her: Kate Bishop, just the woman I was hoping to see.

Kate: me?

Yelena: da, maybe you can explain that text you sent to me last night.

Kate, clearing her throat: oh that was just my autocorrect.

Yelena: your autocorrect wrote “Yelena Belova. You are so hot. Please step on me.”

Kate: yep. Totally autocorrect.

[tikosblogg]

My Hero..

Summary: you get dragged to a house party and end up having a panic attack, when you run into Noah.

Warnings: just fluffy cuteness, mentions of anxiety, panic attack.

A/N: thought this was a cute idea❤️

As I stepped into the dimly lit house, the pulsing music crashed over me like a wave, enveloping me in a cacophony of noise. My friends had begged me to come to this party, insisting it would be a night filled with laughter and fun. But the moment I crossed the threshold, the walls of the crowded room began to close in, suffocating me with an overwhelming sense of anxiety.

The house was packed with strangers, their laughter mixing with the heavy bass of the music. I could feel my heart racing, pounding in my chest as my breath quickened. I’m not a party person; I had known this. But their pleas had drawn me in, and now I was regretting it. I pushed my way through the throng, my 5’2” frame feeling lost in the towering bodies around me. My eyes darted from face to face, searching for an escape, but all I could see was an endless sea of unfamiliarity.

“Just breathe,” I whispered to myself, but even the words felt useless as my heart hammered louder. I could feel tears prickling in my eyes, and before I knew it, they began to spill down my cheeks. That was when I collided with a solid wall, or rather, a person. I instinctively looked up, my breath hitching painfully in my throat.

The man towering over me was a stark contrast to my petite figure. He stood at least a foot taller with shaggy brown hair that framed his face and a tapestry of tattoos blanketing his arms, and throat. My mind raced through a myriad of thoughts, but one thing was clear — I felt so small, so frail against him. “I’m so sorry,” I managed to stammer, my voice barely a whisper. My hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of my shirt.

His expression changed from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, leaning down slightly to meet my gaze. The kindness in his voice cut through the chaos, grounding me, but I shook my head vigorously, unable to form words.

“It’s just — I- uh- so m-any people,” I finally managed to breathe out, my voice quaking. The realization that I was having a panic attack washed over me like a tide.

Without hesitation, the tall man reached out, his hands gently grabbing my hips. “I got you,” he said firmly, and before I could react, he hoisted me over his shoulder. I squeaked in surprise, my breath catching as he pushed through the crowd, calling out, “Excuse me! Coming through!”

I instinctively wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face into his back, where the scent of laundry detergent mixed with something fresh and earthy. The rush of movement took me outside, where the air struck my skin like a cool balm.

He set me down onto a soft patio couch, his presence still looming large as he squatted down in front of me. The lights from inside pulsated, casting a warm glow behind him, but I focused on his face. “Okay, what’s your name?” he asked, his tone gentle as he carefully observed my trembling form.

“Y-y/n,” I said, the name slipping from my trembling lips almost shyly. His warm smile returned, easing some of the fear clenching my heart.

“I’m Noah,” he replied, and I could see the sincerity in his brown eyes, a striking contrast to the inked skin that told stories of adventures I could only imagine.

Noah’s presence offered a cocoon of calm. “Can you tell me five things you can see?” he asked, a technique I recognized from my readings on anxiety coping methods. My heart was still racing, but I nodded slowly, willing to engage.

“Um,” I started, looking around the expansive patio. “Those string lights overhead,” I said, pointing to the fairy lights strung above, glowing softly. “And… the trees.” I took a deep breath, my voice gaining strength. “There’s a ceramic pot with flowers near the end of the couch, and… the stars.” I hesitated for a moment, searching for that fifth thing. “And… you. Your tattoos.”

Noah’s eyes softened as a smile spread across his face, and I felt a little piece of the tension within me dissipate. “You doin great, y/n,” he said, his voice like a warm blanket wrapping around me.

“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks warming under his gaze. It felt strange to connect with someone in such a chaotic environment, but somehow, sitting on this patio, it felt safe — comforting, I noticed my breathing going back to normal.

“I hate crowded places, too,” he confessed, leaning back slightly. "I come to parties to a lot, but honestly, I’d rather be elsewhere."

“Then why are you here?” I asked suspiciously, still internally debating the wisdom of even coming to a party at all.

“I was dragged here by my my best friend,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But now I think I’m somewhere better.”

My heart swelled a little. It was refreshing, and maybe a bit reassuring, to share this moment with someone who understood. “Yeah, me too,” I confessed, feeling the next few breaths settling into a new rhythm.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” he suggested, his eyes sparkly with mischief. “Books? Movies? Or maybe we could brainstorm ways to escape parties in the future?”

I laughed, a real sound that surprising me. I couldn’t help but smile at him, meeting him made this night a lot more bearable.