#I want this thing to last until the heat death of the universe so I felled all the seams down. dont recommend doing this by hand | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soaps-mohawk · 1 month

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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 13: Piece Me Back Together

Summary: Your pack deals with the aftermath of your heat.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, handjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex (please practice safe sex irl), spanking (it’s like once), choking (kind of), light Dom/sub dynamics, Johnny's praise kink, excessive use of the word cock, heat cycles, mating cycles, brief mention of blood, brief medical stuff, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, and of course a little fluff

A/N: Well folks, we've made it past the heat portion of the fic. Now things can really start moving. Lots of aftercare, some world building, and of course a little spice at the end for you all to enjoy (as if the last chapter wasn't enough lol). I tried to catch all the possible tags for this one but as always, let me know if I missed one. The smut happens in the very last scene, so if you'd prefer not to read it, then skip that last little bit. You won't really miss much. Also, there's a lot of jumping around in time in this one so I tried to mark when things are happening relative to the present moment in the fic.

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6 Days Ago

“Looks comfortable.”

Kyle glances up as Johnny closes the door to his room, blanket and pillow in hand. “Slept on worse.” He shrugs, glancing down at the cot set up in the hallway before looking back up at Johnny. “Moving out?”

“Camping in Si’s office for the next week. Keep our distance.” He nods at the closed door.

“Probably for the best.” Kyle says. “Have fun!”

“Don’t enjoy yourself too much.” Johnny winks at him before making his way down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

Kyle shakes his head, starting to sort through the many bags of supplies they’ve stocked up on in preparation for their omega’s heat. They’re well prepared, all of them, for the next week, Kyle especially. He’s spent the last few days reading up on what to expect, how to best help and support his alpha and omega, and what to look out for in case things start going wrong. He doesn’t think they will. He has a lot of faith in Price and he knows Price will take good care of their omega.

Still, he can’t help but feel a bit nervous. He has a big job to do, even though there’s not much to do until after the heat is over with. He just has to ensure Price doesn’t hurt you accidentally, or maul you to death. He doesn’t think that’s likely to happen, but then again, one can never know.

Kyle lets out a shaky breath, grabbing the bags with the electrolytes and nutrient bars before heading for your door.

It’s going to be a long week.

Present Day

It’s quiet. Has been for almost an hour now. Kyle rises from the cot, slipping his phone into his pocket. He slowly approaches the door, leaning in to listen for a moment before putting his hand on the knob. He lets out a breath before pushing the door open slowly, slipping in and closing the door quietly. The smells in the room are worse than they had been last night, a toxic mix of omega, alpha, sex, and sweat. He takes a moment to breathe, adjusting to the scent.

You and Price are spooned together on the bed, asleep, or at least you are. Price had pulled the blankets up around you, tucking you in. Kyle approaches slowly, not wanting to accidentally step on a wrapper and startle either of you and risk you getting scared or Price getting territorial. He brushes the damp strands of hair from your face, your body temperature significantly lower than it had been even last night. He pulls the forehead thermometer from his pocket, taking your temperature quickly before sending a text to Dr. Keller.

He carefully lifts the blankets, checking beneath. You’re still locked together as he expected, and he lowers the blankets back down, tucking you both in again. He unplugs Price’s phone from the charging cord that he’d plugged in last night, rotating it to your phone. He knew the chances of either of you being aware enough to use a phone for anything would be low, but just in case, he kept them both charged.

He tiptoes through the mess of wrappers and bottles, grabbing the bag of trash that he had started a couple days ago. He picks up the mess on the floor, cleaning off the nightstand as well before setting out a new bottle of electrolytes and a couple nutrient bars. There’s still quite a few left, but those could be saved for your next heat.

Price stirs a bit as Kyle sets the bag of trash off to the side next to the bag of things that would have to go to the wash. He hurries over, gently keeping Price from moving too much.

“Easy. You’re still knotted.” He says, putting a hand on Price’s shoulder as you let out a quiet sound. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, and probably other things.

Price rubs his eyes before blinking up at Kyle. “What day is it?”

“Morning of the sixth day.” He answers, passing Price the bottle of electrolytes. “I think it’s over. Her temperature’s back to normal. Just waiting on Dr. Keller’s opinion.”

Price hums, unscrewing the cap from the bottle before taking a long drink. “Feel like shit.”

Kyle grins. “Been a long week for you, Cap. How do you feel?”

Price screws the cap back on the bottle before leaning over you to place it on the nightstand. “Like I got hit by a truck and rolled down a hill.”

“Speaking from experience, sir?” Kyle smirks.

Price gives him a look before closing his eyes again, relaxing against your back. He lets out a groan as his knot deflates, his cock slipping from your folds. “Christ, that's going to hurt later.”

“Let me get the bath started.” Kyle says, going into your bathroom.

He starts the water, making sure it’s warm enough before he grabs the epsom salt off the counter and adds some in. He leaves the water running as he moves back to the bedroom, helping Price off the bed first. The alpha groans as he stands, leaning heavily against Kyle’s side. Kyle wraps his arm around his shoulders, supporting Price as they make their way to the bathroom.

“I’ve been beaten, tortured, shot. I’ve jumped out of moving cars, been in helicopter crashes.” Price says, grunting as Kyle helps him down into the bath. “This might be the worst I’ve ever felt.”

“Not quite as spry as you used to be, old man?” Kyle teases, making sure he’s comfortable.

“Plenty spry, but god I forgot how energetic omegas can be.” Price leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Just relax.” Kyle says, turning off the water. “I’ll bring her in.”

He heads back into your room, approaching the bed. You’re shivering, eyes squeezed closed and eyebrows pinched. Kyle kneels down next to the bed, placing a gentle hand on your arm. You start a bit at the touch, a quiet whimper leaving your lips.

“Shh, easy love.” Kyle tries to soothe you as you shake. “You’re alright.”

You let out a whine, seeking out your alpha in your disoriented state. The bathwater splashes as Price shifts in response to your call, his own instincts still on high alert.

“Let’s get you into the bath.” Kyle says before gently slipping his arms under you and lifting you up.

You let out a whine in protest, your body sore and aching from the last six days. Kyle quickly carries you to the bath, easing you into the water between Price’s legs. You’re trembling, quiet whines leaving your lips as he eases you back against Price’s chest. The alpha wraps his arms around you, a quiet rumble sounding from his chest as he tries to ease your disorientation and discomfort.

Kyle leaves you and Price there to soak as he heads back to the room to strip the sheets and start the laundry. Most of your pillows and stuffed animals are stacked in the corner of the room by your desk, spared from the mess that the bed has turned into. The sheets are still wet with a concoction of fluids, and he knows they’ll need to soak for a while. He stuffs them into the bag with your clothes, along with your blankets, before he heads down the hall to the laundry room.

He checks on you and Price when he returns, both of you content still in the bath. He can’t help but smile as he watches the two of you, pride swelling in his chest at the sight of his alpha taking care of their omega.

Their omega.

It seems almost strange to think now. They’d gone so long without an omega, and thought they wouldn’t be getting one. Now, six weeks later, they’ve all fallen head over heels for a little omega none of them even knew they needed. He can’t imagine life without an omega now, how well you fit into their pack, how well you fit with all of them, how you’ve only served to make them stronger and more efficient.

He hates to admit that perhaps Laswell was right.

Maybe they did need you after all.

Kyle bags up the plastic mattress protector, glad to see it did its job. He replaces the sheets and blankets for now, knowing you’ll want to nest once you’re more aware. He checks his phone before heading back into the bathroom, kneeling down next to the tub. Your shaking has subsided, reduced to a shudder here and there as you’ve slowly relaxed in the hot water.

Kyle grabs a cloth and your body wash, starting to gently clean your skin, or at least get the sweat and other fluids off. Bruises litter your skin and the claiming mark on your shoulder is scabbed and angry. Kyle carefully washes it, not wanting to apply too much pressure as he cleans off the dried blood still stuck to your skin. He knows it’s going to hurt for a while.

“What did Dr. Keller say?” Price asks as he helps ease you up so Kyle can wash your back.

“Said if her temperature is normal then the worst is over.” Kyle answers. “She wants to do a check up soon, make sure everything’s alright. Said she’d come here to do it, if that’s alright.”

Price grunts quietly as Kyle starts to wash his chest. “That’s fine. Easier than going all the way to the medical building. Simon and Johnny?”

“Fine.” Kyle answers. “Been keeping busy running drills and stuff. Johnny’s been keeping Simon occupied.”

Price hums, letting his eyes close as Kyle washes his neck and shoulders. “Good.”

Kyle makes sure to get all of the soap rinsed off before pulling the plug on the water, carefully lifting you up to stand. He lets you lean against him, grabbing one of the towels to dry you off as best he can. Price gets himself standing, drying himself off as Kyle helps you back to bed. Price joins you, wrapping his arms around you tight as Kyle tucks the blankets up around you both.

“Can I get you anything?” Kyle asks as he sets a new bottle of electrolytes on the nightstand. “Real food maybe?”

“I’d kill for some bangers and mash, maybe a pint.” Price says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” Kyle says, glancing at you one last time before he leaves the room.

Your body aches. There’s a deep soreness in your muscles, and a painful throb between your legs. Your skin feels raw and tight, and there's a steady pulse behind your eyes. A quiet sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, the sound cracking and broken from your raw throat. There's a desert in your mouth again, your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth.

Your thoughts are dragged away from the agony in your body as a quiet rumbling starts somewhere in front of you, your brain going quiet except for the need to seek it out. You press yourself closer to it, meeting warm skin as you try to get closer and closer. You want to bury yourself in it, seep into its depths until you can feel the vibrations of it in your bones. Arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer until you're squished against a bare chest.

You press your face against the soft skin, trying to get closer to the rumbling purr vibrating from deep within. You let out another sound, body going lax as the purr lulls you into a relaxed state. The tension leaves your body, easing the ache in your muscles a bit. Not much, but enough to pull a relieved sigh from your lips.

“Easy, love.” A quiet voice says, another hand touching your back.

You tense slightly at the intrusion on your safe space, but quickly relax as the hand stills on your skin. The calming scent of beta overtakes you, easing your mind to a quiet hum as your alpha and beta work to calm you. You feel a bit disoriented as reality slowly begins to return, seeping back into your brain.

You went into heat.

You remember waking up with the blistering inferno burning hot within you, the insatiable need pulsing between your legs. You remember Kyle being there, the soft scent of him as he helped you prepare, pulling off your clothes and making you drink some of the electrolytes. You remember John entering the room, the way his scent made your brain feel like mush. You remember him sinking his teeth into your shoulder, his knot forcing you open before everything went dark.

Everything else is a dark blur, wiped from your memory after your instincts took over.

You shift against the body you’re pressed close to, a deep ache rippling through you. It hurts, everything hurts. Your hips are sore, your shoulder is throbbing, every muscle feels like you just did a triathlon with no training, and there’s a sharp throbbing between your thighs.

You’re crying before you even realize it, the tears uncontrollable as they slide down your cheeks, the quiet sniffles and sobs aggravating your already aching body. The arms around you tighten, the purring getting louder, but you can’t stop the onslaught of tears.

You flinch as something tickles the skin of your forehead, chapped lips pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. You let out a whine as you continue to cry, your mind a swirl of confusion and disorientation as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened. You don’t know how long it’s been, what day it is. You don’t even know what happened to you in the last week.

You continue to cry, oblivious to the conversation happening over you, the gentle purring in your ears lulling you into a dazed state as you float in and out of consciousness. The pain of being moved momentarily brings you back before you settle again, laying back against a chest. A baggy shirt is pulled over your head, smelling of your alpha. The fabric feels different than it had days ago when you’d woken up in the throes of your heat. It’s soft, not offending, and it offers you warmth and comfort.

You don’t want to move, you don’t want to do anything. Exhaustion pulls at the edges of your mind as you lay there, the tears still streaming down your cheeks.

He hasn’t stopped purring since you woke up. The low rumble in his chest hasn’t stopped, and neither has the ache blooming there since you started crying. Even in your dazed, half asleep state, the tears still roll down your cheeks, quiet shaky breaths catching every so often. He’s not sure what to do, how to help. He’s never been with an omega that’s cried before. Not like this.

His purring kicks up in volume as you startle awake when the door opens, letting out a broken whimper as your space suddenly gets invaded. He tries to soothe you, his arms tightening around you to try and ground you in his presence.

“Hi, honey.” Dr. Keller says, kneeling down next to the bed, her voice soft and the scent of beta thick in the air. “Still a bit out of it, huh?”

“She hasn’t stopped crying since she woke up.” He says, rubbing gentle circles on your arm with his thumb.

“That’s not unusual.” Dr. Keller says, digging through her bag to pull out a thermometer. “There’s a lot going on right now for her. Besides the exhaustion and the confusion and the pain, there’s a lot of rapid hormonal changes happening. Some omegas can just wake up and hop out of it immediately and be just fine.”

John frees one of your arms so Dr. Keller can take your pulse and blood pressure.

“Others might struggle a bit more.” She continues. “Purebred omegas especially have a hard time coming out of it. They’re more sensitive to those instincts and the sudden cut off of them is rather jarring.” She puts her equipment back in her bag. “Her vitals look good, which makes me confident to hold off on any further examinations until she’s more alert and aware.”

“Are there things we should look out for?” Kyle asks.

“She’s going to be drowsy and fatigued for a while, but if you can’t wake her at all, call me. If her breathing gets shallow or her pulse weakens or she starts developing a fever again, call me. Also check for blood the next time she uses the bathroom. Her vitals aren’t showing any indication of internal injuries, though, so I think she’ll be just fine.” She pulls a pill bottle from her bag. “I’ve prescribed some muscle relaxers for her. There’s a week’s worth in there. It’ll help with the pain and discomfort, but they will make her sleepy. The best thing she can do right now is rest and recover. Once she’s more aware, you can try some soft foods and lots of liquids. If she’s really struggling, I can set up an IV and get some fluids into her, perk her up a bit.”

“Thank you.” John says, shifting you slightly so Dr. Keller can look at the bite mark on your shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” She asks him, pulling out a disinfectant wipe.

“Sore.” John huffs out a laugh. “Nothing I can’t handle, though.”

Dr. Keller hums as she cleans the wound on your shoulder. “I know I’m not here to give you medical advice, but as your omega’s doctor I feel the need to remind you not to ignore your own symptoms. She needs you right now, more than ever. So don’t try to macho man your way through anything. You need to rest just as much as she does.”

“Yes, doctor.” He grumbles, adjusting your shirt once she’s done.

Dr. Keller gives him a smile. “You did a good job.” She turns to Kyle. “Both of you. Don’t hesitate to call me. It’s what I’m here for.”

A smile tugs at John’s lips as Kyle practically beams from Dr. Keller’s praise. He did do a good job. You’re both still breathing after all.

3 Days Ago

“I cannae take anymore.” Johnny pants, his breaths near wheezes as he rests his hands on his knees. “Ye said you'd go easy on me.”

“I never promised anything, Johnny.” Simon says, standing behind him.

“Hell's bells, L.T.” Johnny groans, dropping to his hands and knees. “Gonna kill me at this rate.”

“Don't be dramatic. C'mon, again.”

“Uh uh.” Johnny says, flopping onto his side on the ground. “Am pure done in! ‘S almost lunch anyway.” He rolls onto his back, looking in the direction of the barracks as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “Think they're havin’ fun?”

Simon looks down at him, looming over him like a shadow. “Probably seems like it right now. Be a different story when it’s done.”

“Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like.” Johnny says, turning his gaze up to Simon's face. He can't see much under the mask, and right now is one of those moments when he wishes he could.

“You really don't. It's messy and gory.” Simon offers him a hand, helping Johnny to his feet. “Gotta be prepared to pick up the pieces afterwards.” Simon turns, heading in the direction of the barracks.

“That why you've never taken an omega?” Johnny asks, following him.

Simon stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at Johnny. Johnny's back straightens at the look in Simon's eyes. No, not Simon. Ghost. He's looking at Ghost again.

“Drop it. Or I'll make you do another lap.” Ghost says, his voice taking on the low rasp he gets when he's shifted into the laser focused headspace of the Lieutenant.

“Yes, sir.” Johnny says, following after Ghost as they head back towards the barracks.

Ghost slips into the showers once they enter, Johnny heading to the corner to peek down the hallway towards their rooms. It's quiet now. It hadn't been when they left earlier. He could hear it as they passed the hall to go out the door, the distant sound of moans and the bedframe knocking against the wall. He had fought the erection threatening to tent his shorts all the way to the field. He knows heats are no light matter, but the mental image he's drawn up of you blissed out, mouth open as you moan, back arching in pleasure has been plaguing him for nearly two weeks. He's desperate, practically chomping at the bit to get a chance to see it himself first hand, to see the real thing putting his mental image to shame.

He makes his way down the hallway, keeping a respectful distance between himself and your room. Kyle looks up from his spot on the bed where he'd been scrolling on his phone.

“How're they doin’?” Johnny asks, wiping the sweat from his face.

“Alright. Sleeping for the moment.” Kyle answers. Johnny can only imagine the torture of having to sit and listen to nonstop fucking for the last three days.

“We're gonna grab lunch soon. Want us tae bring ye somethin’?”

Kyle nods. “Sure. That'd be great.”

“Ye got it.” Johnny nods, passing a glance at your door before looking back to Kyle. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, mate.” Kyle says, watching his fellow beta walk back down the hall.

Johnny glances up from his phone as Simon huffs out what's the tenth sigh in the last three minutes. The alpha is seated at his desk, clicking away at something on his computer and occasionally mashing away at the keyboard rather harshly. Johnny's surprised he hasn't cracked a key yet, or just thrown the whole thing out the window. The beta can see how tightly his alpha is wrung by the tenseness in his shoulders, the hard set of his brow, the set line of his lips, the occasional tick of his jaw.

“What's got ye all riled up?” Johnny finally breaks the silence, setting his phone aside.

“Nothing.” Simon grumbles, ignoring Johnny's gaze.

Johnny’s brow furrows and he pushes himself to stand, moving over to Simon’s side. “Doesnae seem like nothin’ to me.” He puts his hands on Simon’s broad shoulders, squeezing them, feeling the tension in his muscles. “Awful tense, Si.”

“Leave it, Johnny.” Simon grumbles, trying to swat the beta away, but he’s insistent.

“Wouldnae be a little omega getting you so tense, would it?” Johnny teases.

Simon turns to him, his eyes darkening. His jaw clenches, hands closing into fists where they sit on the armrests of his chair. “Don’t push it, Johnny.” His voice has that deep rumble to it, the threat of his alpha coming through.

Johnny stares at him, feeling the danger prickling at the back of his neck, but at the same time, he wants to push that boundary. He wants to see just how far he can push his alpha until he finally gives in.

“I don’t know why ye keep torturing yourself like this, Si. Ye know ye like her. She’d be more’n willing-”

“That’s the problem.” Simon snaps, pushing himself up from his seat, forcing Johnny to take a step back. “She’s not doing this because she wants to. She’s only doing this because she’s been told to do it.”

“She’s an omega. Her whole life was going tae be people tellin’ her what to do and forcin’ her tae do things, even if she didn’t want to. Ye think things would have been different if she’d been put with a different pack?” Johnny doesn’t back down from Simon’s glare, having been on the receiving end of it enough times now he’s almost immune to it. “Things could have been a lot worse for her. She might not have wanted to be here, but she is. Ye can’t change that, Si. No matter how badly you might want to.”

Johnny can tell by the slow fall to Simon’s tense shoulders that he’s struck home. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it’s what they were dealt. You’re here with them, and he’s going to make sure you feel as comfortable as possible.

Simon lets out another sigh, turning away from Johnny to crawl into their makeshift bed. He lays down with a huff, closing his eyes. Johnny smirks, slowly crawling onto the two cots pushed together, laying down right next to Simon. He rests his hand on Simon’s thigh, feeling the powerful muscle flex under his hand. He slowly begins to drag it higher, Simon’s eyes opening again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Simon rasps, but he doesn’t move, even as Johnny reaches the junction of his hip and thigh.

“Yer all worked up, big guy.” Johnny says, leaning his head on his hand, slowly moving his hand over Simon’s very prominent bulge. “Thought I’d help ye.”

“What makes you think I want your help?” Simon says, still laying still.

Johnny lifts his brows, slowly rubbing Simon through his pants. “This looks rather painful, and I seem to be the only option to help, since everyone else is rather occupied-”

Johnny’s words are cut off as he finds himself suddenly on his back, Simon’s hand around his throat. The alpha is leaning over him, a deep rumble vibrating through his chest. “You talk too much, Johnny.” Simon rumbles, leaning close to the beta’s face.

“I’ve been told tha’ before.” Johnny says, leaning up to try and kiss his alpha, but Simon backs away before he can make contact. “By you if I remember correctly.”

Simon’s fingers flex around his throat, a moan spilling from his lips as Simon grinds his hips against Johnny’s. His cock is hard in his pants, has been for a while. He’s not sure if it’s from the lewd thoughts that have been plaguing his mind since you first kissed him, weeks ago, or if it’s just a response to the knowledge that you’re currently fucking their pack alpha like your life depends on it.

Johnny lets out a whimper, bucking up against Simon desperately. Simon tuts at him, pressing against his throat to keep him still on the bed as he sits himself up on top of the beta.

“Naughty little thing.” Simon says, staring down into his blue eyes. “Know you’ve been thinking about sinking your cock into the new little omega for weeks.” Johnny lets out a whine, his cock twitching in his pants. “I don’t think you’ll even make it that long, will you pup?” Simon chuckles. “Gonna cum in your pants as soon as you see her tits, huh?” Simon presses down, putting more pressure against his cock as he rubs it through his pants. “Gonna cum in your pants just thinking about it.”

Johnny holds his breath, trying to focus anywhere except for Simon’s hand. He squeezes his eyes closed as Simon undoes the button on his cargo pants, releasing his throat to tug the fabric down around his knees.

“Bloody hell.” Simon says, wrapping a hand around Johnny’s hard cock. “Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought Kyle’s was the prettiest.” Johnny says, opening his eyes to glance down at his alpha.

“Kyle’s just pretty.” Simon says, slowly stroking Johnny’s cock. “You have the prettiest cock.”

“Christ...” Johnny breathes as Simon continues to jerk his cock, his hips bucking as he can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge.

A pathetic whimper leaves Johnny’s lips as Simon pulls his hand away, sitting up on his knees over his beta. He undoes his belt, tossing it to the floor before undoing his pants, pulling them and his briefs down to release his own throbbing cock. Johnny licks his lips as Simon fists his own cock, slowly stroking it.

“Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass.” Simon says.

“Yes, sir.” Johnny smirks, wiggling himself until he’s flat on his stomach, pushing his ass into the air as best he can with his legs trapped between Simon’s.

Simon purrs quietly at Johnny’s response, running his hands over his beta’s pert cheeks. “Prettiest ass too.” He murmurs, gently spreading his cheeks.

“I’m startin’ to think I might be the prettiest.” Johnny says, gasping quietly as a glob of warm spit hits his hole.

“Give me a night with Kyle and I’ll get back to you on that.” Simon says, pressing a finger into Johnny’s ass.

Johnny groans, pressing his face into the pillow. “Fucking Christ.”

“You can take it.” Simon soothes him, reaching down to fish the lube out of the bag he’d tossed it in last night. He squirts some on his finger before pressing further in, spreading Johnny’s ass open. “Good boy.”

Johnny nearly melts into the cot, letting out a pathetic sound as Simon adds a second finger. He’s still sore from the last three days, but his drive to please his alpha pushes away any sensitivity he’s feeling. That, and the lust burning hot in him. Betas don’t have heat cycles, but he might as well be in the middle of one with how horny he’s been these last few days. He knows part of it is Simon being worked up by the knowledge that there’s an omega in heat nearby, and his own body reacting to his alpha. He’s never been around an omega in heat, and he doesn’t think Simon has either.

He’s not sure Simon has ever been with an omega at all before.

More cold lube hits his hole, a second finger pressing in. He gasps at the stretch, squeezing around Simon’s thick fingers. Simon’s other hand trails up his back, pushing his shirt up as he goes. Johnny pushes himself up slightly, tugging the fabric over his head before he relaxes back down against the blankets.

Simon presses a third finger in, working Johnny open with what still won’t be enough, but Johnny won’t complain. He’s taken his alpha before. He’ll do it gladly again.

“Fuck, Johnny.” Simon grunts as Johnny squeezes around his fingers again.

“Cannae help it.” Johnny whines. “Feels too good.”

“Didn’t say you could cum yet.” Simon says, removing his fingers. “Naughty pup.”

Johnny lets out a pathetic sounding whimper, pressing his ass up to try and chase Simon’s fingers. He yelps as Simon’s hand meets his skin, his hips dropping back to the bed at the force of Simon’s spank.

“Stay still.” Simon growls, the cap of the lube popping open again.

Johnny does as he’s told, keeping himself still as Simon prepares himself. He groans as the tip of Simon’s cock presses against his hole, his hands fisting the sheets at the stretch. Simon’s hand rubs his back, trying to get him to relax. Johnny breathes, forcing himself to go lax, letting Simon slip in further.

“Good boy.” Simon groans, bracing himself on the bed as he presses further and further into Johnny’s tight hole. “That’s my good boy. You can take it.”

“Fuck!” Johnny groans, practically preening from the praise.

“That’s it.” Simon groans, pressing in until his hips are flush with Johnny’s ass. “Bloody fucking hell.”

Johnny’s mind goes blank as he’s filled, all thoughts leaving at the feeling of his alpha inside of him. He’s panting already, stretched open around his alpha’s cock. Simon begins to move, rocking his hips slowly, drawing his cock out before pushing it back in. Johnny whines, pushing back against Simon, needing more.

“Please...” Johnny begs. “Please alpha!”

“Fuck.” Simon grunts, bracing himself further before snapping his hips against Johnny. “Like that? That what you want, pup?”

Johnny almost yelps at the sensation, hands fisting the blankets as his body rocks forward on the cot. “Fuck, yes!”

Simon sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against Johnny’s ass. Pleasure numbs Johnny’s mind as the sensation of Simon inside of him. His cock is trapped between his body and the cot, dragging against the blankets with every thrust. He’s going to cum soon, he knows that. He won’t be able to hold it, not with how sensitive he already is.

“Gonna cum, can’t hold it!” He whines, pushing back against Simon’s thrusts for more friction. “Fuck, alpha!”

Johnny cums quickly with a groan, the blankets getting damp under him as he shakes in his release. Simon doesn’t stop, undeterred by Johnny’s clenching around him in his orgasm. He’s going to ring a few more out of Johnny before he’s done.

They’re both in for a long night.

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moondirti · 8 months

Text

13. A CHALLENGE

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

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath.

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.”

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.”

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.”

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.”

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?”

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding.

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.”

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I, now.”

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.”

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely.

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.”

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.”

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.”

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?”

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him.

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement.

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.”

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing.

“Before that.”

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.”

“Right now?”

“No.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.”

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.”

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!”

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.”

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.”

“Okay…”

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–”

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.”

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–”

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine.

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?”

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.”

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.”

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort.

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.”

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.”

“So you’re going to reach.”

“Rea–”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs.

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates.

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.”

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on.

And then–

And then… what?

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance.

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.”

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.)

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?”

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.”

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late.

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that:

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him.

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late.

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent.

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now.

Fuck. That bastard.

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time.

“Lyla.”

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off.

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position.

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?”

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.”

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.”

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head, clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams.

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy.

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.”

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!”

And then, she disappears.

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind.

Double agent.

Do you want to know?

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up.

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.”

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.”

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria.

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you.

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression.

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away.

There goes your plan.

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support.

It fails. Obviously.

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?”

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.”

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then–

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear. “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait.

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat.

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time.

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about.

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges.

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still.

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners.

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder.

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence.

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here.

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop.

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed.

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.

Which leads into your third remark–

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead.

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind.

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from.

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now.

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter.

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never.

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit.

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth.

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?”

“You got in, didn’t you.”

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own.

“How long have you been under there?”

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.”

“Half past ten.”

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.”

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.”

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.”

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?)

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in.

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.”

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out.

Fucking fine.

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you.

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal.

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it.

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!”

“No. Not this time.”

“Theeeen…”

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.”

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.”

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple.

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force.

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough.

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it.

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door.

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby.

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end.

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit.

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart.

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut.

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops.

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away.

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome.

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.”

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.”

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head.

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?”

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.”

And in a blink, you’re on your own again.

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach.

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation.

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do.

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them.

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time.

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage.

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too.

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence.

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out.

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise.

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine.

Nothing exists beyond this small jump.

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them.

That verity reassures you just enough.)

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall.

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so.

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover.

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does.

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet.

Move closer it is.

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away.

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire.

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed.

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check.

Sneak up on me. Check.

Anywhere, any time of day. Check.

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds.

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check.

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid.

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse.

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods.

“I won. I won. I wo–”

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ”

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.”

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.”

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar.

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.”

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.”

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?”

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet.

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to.

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right.

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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romancefranaticstay · 1 month

Text

𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼

𝓒𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓻𝔂: 𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯, smut

Lee felix x devil reader

ミ◦❧◦°˚°◦.¸¸◦°´❤•.¸♥♥¸.•❤´°◦¸¸.◦°˚°◦☙◦彡ミミ◦❧◦°˚°◦.¸¸◦°´❤•.¸♥ ♥¸.•❤´°◦¸¸

As a devil, you shouldn't fall in something called 'love'. Like it was thought on your side, love was a trap for poor souls to fall into. It didn't excist on your side. You were 'The Devil'. Not the honor or the highest devil of them all, but your father was indeed the devil. You were extremely dangerous, but there was something. Something only you knew about. A side of yours that has a weakness, a weakness no one else has. A weakness of those beautifull white wings...

Others called you the perfect example, of the death nouns. You liked to be evil, to have the cruelity personality of a devil. To have the guts to make others eyes bleed. To make the soul bleed for enternity, and not to feel any guilt. To cut a wound that would stay forever and never heal, how much others would try to reach your level, you would be the only one with the cruelest soul.

One day you were like the others on earth. You were undercover on earth. Nobody regonized you as the cruel. Nobody ever does, nobody ever has, and nobody ever will. Observing poor and weak souls from a distance. Seeing through them, without even noticing. People walking by, trying to discover your new victim.

Suddenly a person walked by, you though it was a person. A boy, with perfect white skin, perfect blond hair. You couldn't look through him, it felt weird. You tried to lead his eyes towards yours, because everyone knew the eyes are the door of the soul.

The eyes you looked in, were one of a kind. It didn't feel like a human, didn't sound like one. His dark brown eyes falling into a place, a place nobody ever has been. His gaze gave you a weird feeling in your stomach. People describe it like butterflies, you describe it like thorns. Thorns of a red rose.

His gaze counting in seconds, his gaze lasting forever. Your eyes binding together like one. The feeling got lost when his eyes left yours, alone in the dark. You weren't letting this slide, this was like witchcraft.

He was walking away, but ofcourse he couldn't escape you. You gave him a couple of seconds to walk further.

....

Time to hunt him down. You had the feeling it was an angel. His soul felt to pure. He was walking around into a crowd of people. All of a sudden he went left, into a dark erea. The perfect time. You followed him into the darkness, untill you felt someone grab your arms.

You couldn't see what happend into the dark. Your hands pinned above your head. Looking into the darkness of the space. Suddenly seeing two eyes staring into yours, those angeleyes.

His face coming closer to yours, untill your two noses touched eachother. His breath smelled like flowers and heaven. You may ask how i know how heaven smells... No questions, for now...

'Your prescence is making mine heart beat to fast.' he said.

'It isn't mine fault your heartbeat can't handle the heat.'

'You should have stayed in the flames of hell.'

'You should have stayed behind the gates of heaven.' you hissed back.

He stopped pinning your hands on the wall. You placed your hands on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes, knowing the other side wants it to.

The thing with devils and angels are they can sense heat-feelings. Heat feelings aren't anger or frustration. Heat feelings are sexual feelings between two.

He opens his wings and embrace's you with them. Holding close to his body. Feeling every inch of it. Feeling everything you want to feel. He holds you close as he launche's himself in the air. Ofcourse the people eye sight were so terribly bad, they never could seen through the 'wall'.

He was flying towards a space, a space nobody ever knew excisted. Only God knew it excisted, but God can't stop true love. The place was somewhere in the universe. A place were everything was like a bed, so soft.

'Gosh, you are driving me insane Y/N.' his hands wandering around your body. His lips smacking on yours. Moaning in eachothers mouth. Your tongues interwining with eachother.

He pushed you on the ground, his arms around your body. You moaned out his name. His hands found a way in your panties.

'Alreaddy so wet for me, devilly.' his two fingers playing with your clit.

'G-go faste-.' you couldn't make any sentencen's anymore, it was to difficult. The feeling of pleasure was to overwhelming.

'Devilly, devilly, so needy.' his finger going faster, faster and faster. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

'I- am going to c-cum.' suddenly he stopped.

'W-what? Why did you stop?' he smirked. He undid his belt and lowered his pants. He took out his length. It was big and veiny. The thoughts of him inside you made you dizzy.

He placed his lenght by your entrance. He slamed his hips into you. You choked on a moan. He interwined his hand with yours.

'You are doing great devilly.' his other hand he placed on your cheek. Softly touching it. Your cheeks were bright red because of the heat. He found it adorable to see you under him.

His pace started to go faster. Sounds of moans, skin slapping and sweet little words filled the space. He was pumping fast into you. Looking straight into your eyes.

'Angelly, i-am going to c-cum.' you moaned out.

He started to pump into you fast, faster and faster. Untill you couldn't hold it in anymore. You screamed the biggest moan. Felix stayed pumping into your, untill he came with a moan.

'You did so well devilly, so well.' he whispered. You felt his sweatty body on yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him into a sloppy kiss. His arms embracing your body.

Both of you stayed laying in eachother arms. His wings embracing and hiding you both.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A wonder happend with you both. It is impossible for a devil and an angel to pro-create, but because the love between you two, were so strong. God gifted you a beautifull baby boy and girl. A twin boy and girl.

The boy was called: Cupide (Cupido) and the girl was called: Amora. They both represented the love between you two. And those two, would become one of the most powerfull people in the univserse.

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tequiilasunriise · 10 months

Text

Annabel Lee & Fears: A Short Essay Based On Ep70

Here it is, folks, the truest crux of Annabel’s character, her deepest fears is not going mad or even people discovering she’s not as put together as she tries to appear, but rather:

Was that gambit of constant scheming and using others worth it, Annabel? Was always trying to think ten steps ahead and always keep yourself in a position of power and control truly worth it, because how can you ever be trusted when all you do is play 5D chess with everyone?

There is is, folks!!! Just like her greatest strength- her cunning willpower- is centered around a certain bright moon, Annabel’s greatest fear is rooted in Lenore. The deepest, darkest trenches of her soul, the one thing that would shatter her heart and send her lungs choking fer breath? The killing blow that would end her and make all these charades worthless? It’s Lenore seeing her constant conniving and asking Annabel, “Why would I be any different? You already have no problem using everyone else as a pawn, how could I ever possibly trust you, Annabel Lee?”

The way Annabel is SUCH a great morally grey character, y’all tell me you love hot villains yet many a time I’ve seen people calling Annabel too heartless. She’s the opposite! She cares!! SO MUCH!!! She would burn the world down if it meant kissing Lenore one last time, to the point where her deepest fear is losing Lenore in the process of trying to protect her. All Annabel knows is using manipulation to gain the upper hand because simply being born a woman in the Victorian era she was so throughly disadvantaged by such a horribly misogynistic society that girlypop had to scrape together any form of control she could. Annabel wants so badly to protect Lenore but all she knows are her own methods of protecting herself, which involves plausibility deniability and facades and sometimes sheer cruelty, and that’s where the conflict arises. From the start Annabel assumed Lenore and her had the same understanding of this ‘fake enemies’ ploy going on but surprise surprise babygirl, not everyone is overthinking four parallel universes ahead like you do. This boils over into her lover having doubts on what’s real and what’s not, which then culminates into Lenore asking if Annabel is using her affections as empty currency to get what she wants, and Annabel’s first move to tell Lenore to fucken kill her????

“To you alone, I have left myself completely defenseless.”

The drama of it all!! The shattered facade leading to exploding vulnerability of it all!! The dim sun sparking out into a heat death just to prove her sincerity of it all!!! The exposed innermost organs ripping out my heart with my bare hands and begging you, “Do you see it now? Do you see the way it beats for you and only you? Tell me you see it, tell me you see me…” of it all!!

Oh baby the way Annabel still retains this deep fear of Lenore not truly believing in the “only thing that’s real” to her, the way her lover’s ghost still lingers and haunts her and is then ripped up from her innermost psyche like a desecrated grave and given form by Ada’s power. The way, after all this time- and I mean all this time from Lenore’s constructed resurrection, to their relationship blossoming into a wedding, all the fucking way up to that bell tower scene, the fucken way Annabel still never truly let go of her fear that Lenore doesn’t see her, doesn’t see how she alone bashed through all of Annabel’s walls and made a home where her heart laid. I’m sure during their living relationship all the way until the wedding Annabel’s fears were greatly settled, but it’s the fucken way these panels implied that this wretched heartache never completely left Annabel’s guilt-wracked soul.

I just know, okay I just KNOW, that even up until she was putting her wedding dress on Annabel still questioned if she even deserved this happy ending because she still feel phantoms of guilt fer this betrayal. This comic only furthers this implication of unabsolved guilt when it’s made clear as day that Annabel’s biggest fear is Lenore not believing in her love. And before anyone argues how Annabel can currently feel guilt fer betraying Lenore when she hasn’t recovered the memory yet, I’ll argue back that from the very beginning of the comic these two were inexplicably drawn to each other even when they had NO memories. Therefore, even if she doesn’t have the explicit memory, I highly doubt Annabel’s subconscious would ever let go of something as huge as deeply hurting the one person she truly cared about in such a wretched way.

Fuck, dude, I mean Annabel’s greatest fear wasn’t even Lenore dying- which was already a huge thing if y’all remember her tearstreaked, panicked, “What is left? If she’s not here, what’s the point?”- no her greatest is Lenore!!! Not!!! Believing!! Her!!! Like yeah losing Lenore physically definitely would’ve cut so deep even her bones would bear the scars, but losing Lenore in the form of the other woman walking the same ground as her but choosing to stay away?? Call her fucking selfish because some people would rather have their other half still be alive even if they’re not by their side, but Annabel ain’t one of them that’s fer sure. Babygirl has spent a lifetime perfecting the craft of deceiving others fer her own gain, but the ONE TIME she’s genuine her heart is to be called nothing more but empty??? Oh babbyyy that’s gotta fucken hurt.

The thing is, I don’t think Annabel really loves herself all that much. I really don’t. A huge focus on self-preservation doesn’t necessarily mean one really loves themselves, and when we add the aforementioned guilt she carries? Plus, the fact that Annabel being forced to swallow down her anxiety attacks from a young age could easily lead to her having a rather sour view of her 'not normal' self? Yeah no yeah, I truly don’t think Annabel loves herself that much, if at all. So really, this line is adding immense insult to already grievous injury. Not only does Annabel deeply fear Lenore not believing her affections to be true, she also fears the New Yorker misconstruing her as nothing more but a shallow as hell, prissy, little pampered damsel, a role pretty much everyone else regulates her into whether she wants it or not (right from the beginning, before she even set her schemes in full effect, Annabel was already explaining, “Ada wanted a queen, so I gave her one”). Lenore, the only one Annabel had believed to ever really see her fer her, is now discrediting Annabel’s vulnerable affections AND seeing her as that unloving ice queen like everyone else?? Horrible terrible horrible!!! She may have a ribbon threatening to strangle her right now, but it’s clear that ghost!Lenore’s words are what truly cut her down to size. Y’all seeing that fucken pain in Annabel’s eyes? Her worst fear is just so… personal.

Which actually leads me to my next point, which is how just before Annabel’s worst fear is revealed in stark, horrifying detail, we see Prospero’s. Lemme just preface this by saying what Prospero went through is n o t any less terrible and is a super fucken mega valid fear/trauma, but let me cook y’all just hear me out. Prospero’s fear seems to be about medical malpractice and/or being conscious during a painful operation that likely went south (aka ‘oh shiiitttt he fucken DEAD-‘), and that’s fucking tragic as all hell. Yet, okay let me cook here, it’s more… I don’t want to say general, because that does NOT mean his fear is any less significant but it’s like. Way back when, death via medical bullshit was more or less fairly common, especially during wartimes (which is the era I headcanon Prospero to be from); meanwhile, Annabel’s fear is so uniquely hers, it’s borne of a culmination of specific experiences tied together by her relationship with Lenore.

By contrast of a more common fear vs something so deeply personal and specific to this one person- because it’s not just unrequited love, it’s being so vehemently denied and misunderstood by the ONE (1!) person who you wholeheartedly trusted in your entire life who also oops mega died on you- this distinction gives way to an almost more raw, more visceral feeling to Annabel’s fear sequence. Again!!! I am not undermining Prospero’s own trauma, I promise!!! But you have to admit that there’s something, from a narrative standpoint, that hits so much harder with how deeply personal Annabel’s fear is. The contrast is even more great when you look at how Prospero’s involved a buncha bloodied hands not really tied to any faces or even any indication of personhood like accessories, scars, etc etc. It could’ve been a group of anyone holding him down hurting him; on the flipside, Annabel is being restrained by one very specific person we see in full view. The faceless crowd who could’ve been anyone at anytime vs the lone perpetrator whose history you know like a second name. It’s just!!! So personal!!!

In conclusion, on the surface level, one would think a character so deeply ingrained in using deceptions and manipulation would have her greatest fear tie into having her true nature revealed to everyone she’d fooled, but then it turns out it’s the complete fucking opposite. What homegirl fears the most is her truest, innermost self not being believed and accepted by just one (1!) person. The way it’s framed is just so heartstabbingly personal, especially when you parallel it to a previous fear sequence just a few panels preceding it. This is it, your honor, this is Annabel’s deepest driving force broken down to its bare essentials. To hell with whatever reputation she’s carefully crafted! Who cares what anyone else thinks of her if she doesn’t believe her, if she doesn’t SEE her. Really, truly see her. Lenore is the defining point that Annabel has revolves around so wholeheartedly, and there’s no point to anything anymore if Annabel loses her. This crux of her character, OHHH BBAAABBYY it’s just so well done because we, as the audience, have been given clear evidence to build up this narrative of Annabel’s characterization fer so long now and to finally see it come together in a fiery explosion of lesbian angst with this latest chapter??? Gods, the writing of Nevermore will never not drive me absolutely insane in the membrane.

#if yall think this essay went crazy i need yall to kmow i once wrote a legit MLA cited college research paper about mf Bumbleby #and I got a high grade and everything yall heard me it was 12 pt new times roman and had literal academic sources to back up my points #i had to cut it down from 15 pages to like 10 bc of a max word count my prof set it was so sad #so yeahhhhhhh your girl may or may not just go crazy on the fictional analysis #which makes sense when u know that imma character-driven writer #anyways in conclusion i be clocking in to fight fer annabel as an amazingly written character like its a 9-5 job #to all the ppl who doubted her how yall feeling rn hmmmmmmm #annabel lee whitlock ur just so much fun to dissect like a lesbian lab project #nevermore webtoon #white raven #annabel lee whitlock #lenore vandernacht #prospero nevermore #<—i swear i care fer the rat man guys i rlly rlly do #but man. the way annabel’s shit was just to personal. it rlly got me okay???

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gojos-thot-patrol · 7 months

Note

HIIII how have you been?? <33

Candy here, and dear lord have you heard about a star being named after satoru?? Literally, my first thought about it is that should tell this news to you and maybe request (if you’re not doing anything and up to writing rn) because i thought this star will really spread heart-wrenching fanfictions about him, something related to a star with satoru, i kept thinking about him and sugu and stars defining their fate.. sorry this is so vague, tell me if you want details hihi,

hope you’re doing so finee, have some candy babes 🫶🫶

CANDY HELLO DARLING HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?!?!

They named a Star after out boy?!?!?!?!? I'm gonna be emotional-

Okay okay, so I am currently working on kinktober BUT I'm gonna take a break here and wrote a lil warm up for you for two reasons.

The opening line to the fic instantly came to me and I couldn't not wrote a drabble at least

once you're one of my named anons or moots, you get special treatment <3

That being said, I call this one

Starlight.

When you first saw Satoru Gojo, you could have sworn whatever higher power there was put the stars in his eyes by hand, carefully and meticulously placing the celestial sparkles to make the most breathtaking eyes you had ever seen.

You saw galaxies when he laughed, constellations connect when he smiled, you were sure your heart exploded into a thousand celestial galaxies when he finally asked you out. You had fallen in love with Astraeus himself.

The only person Gojo seemed to love even half as much as he loved you was Suguru. The two boys beyond inseparable. Suguru would talk about astrology and you could see the celestial bodies in Gojo's eyes dazzle with adoration. You couldn't blame him. Suguru had a charm to him that made it impossible not to fall into his orbit. It only felt natural when Gojo suggested Suguru officially join your relationship.

You remembered the countless nights you had spent cuddled between your loves, watching movies until the early morning light. You remembered how in love Suguru was with the moon and how fascinated was with the stars. Spending entire nights out under the glittering sky on full moon evenings, dancing and laughing and falling in love.

You remembered the first time you saw the luminaries in Gojos eyes explode, marking the inevitable heat death of your universe. When word of Suguru's betrayal came out. You saw entire galaxies collapse in real time as he coped with what felt impossible. It wasn't the last time you saw the black holes form there.

You though they would never glimmer again after Suguru died, By Gojos own hands no less. You didn't spend the nights under the stars anymore. Instead they were spent at home, with him curled into your side. The stars weren't in his eyes anymore, they were glimmering in his tears. Nothing you did seemed to help. He needed time.

He slowly recovered, though his eyes never dazzled quite as bright as they used to. He recovered, and you recovered with him. He found joy in new things. In raising his son Megumi, in teaching and leading his kids to creating a new world for Jujutsu Society. He found a purpose beyond just being the strongest. You swore the stars in his eyes dazzled exactly how they did the first day you met him on the day he asked you to be his bride.

It was the last time you would ever see the stars. You remembered taking comfort in the soft glitter of his eyes when he told you he would win, and then feeling impossibly betrayed when he never came home. You couldn't cope. The sun had died, the universe had proven it's self to be cold and uncaring.

That is until you the full moon. It was weeks after Satoru's funeral, and by all means you had plans to just ignore it, finding it almost too painful without your darlings. And yet, once the time came, you found yourself drawn into it's orbit.

You swore you saw those stars smiling down at you. The ones you had fallen in love with all of those years ago. You just knew, some cosmic comfort assured you, Satoru was okay. You could hear Suguru in your heart. "Thank you, for fixing what I broke. I'll take care of it from here Darling."

You knew they were okay. And one day, you'd see them again. But for now, at least you still had Satoru's stars in your life. And if you ever missed him, you had the entire galaxy to remind you he was never truly that far away.

#warm up #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #suguru geto #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu #satosugu x reader #gojo angst #geto angst #hurt/ only a little comfort #bittersweet #gojo x reader angst #geto x reader angst #jjk spoilers #Candy Anon 🍬🍫🍭

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teyamskxawng · 1 year

Text

In Heat [IV]

Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Previously: Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III

Keep reading: Chapter V

The rundown: As your first heat finally comes to an end, you worry that your shameless behavior put a strain on your relationship with Lo'ak.

Warnings: 18+ content, language, final angsty bits i'm sorry, characters are aged up, minors do not interact!! please

WC: 3.4k

A/N: This is a little shorter than usual but it’s mainly just filler plot before the good stuff starts next chapter (which is already done and will be posted tomorrow 🫡). No more angst!! f yeah

Training that afternoon was grueling. Lo'ak didn't know if it was because his mind was so out of it or if his father had just decided to play with death that day.

Either way, Lo'ak left the training session pissed off and sore, feeling every bruise and nick from when he couldn't dodge Jake's skilled moves in time.

The walk back home with Neteyam was just as frustrating. Lo'ak stormed ahead, aggressively pushing away any stray branch or leaf that got in his way.

Neteyam knew that his brother acted this way every time he had a tough training session, so he took it upon himself to attempt to lighten the mood.

"C'mon baby bro, you gotta get your skxawng-ass in shape," he said with a laugh, grabbing Lo'ak by the back of the head and nudging him around until Lo'ak managed to pull away with an annoyed hiss.

Neteyam took a step back, cocking an eyebrow in Lo'ak's direction.

Lo'ak, on the other hand, was in no mood to be made fun of or lectured by Neteyam. He just wanted to go back to his tent and crash for the remainder of the day. Lo'ak's mind was spinning, and he just needed a break from everything.

With that in mind, he marched ahead, reaching Hometree before everyone else in their group. Just as he was about to head to his sleeping mat for some much-needed rest, he suddenly recalled his promise to you.

Bringing you lunch was the least he could do, but facing you again in such close quarters was more than he could manage. He didn't trust himself to keep his emotions at bay.

Lo'ak knew that your heat was coming to an end, and he dreaded encountering the ever-conscious version of yourself that would definitely be able to tell how head-over-heels in love he was.

Despite the storm of emotions raging within him, Lo'ak was painfully aware that he couldn't afford to break his promise. You would go out searching for him if he failed to follow through, which was the last thing he needed.

With a long, exasperated sigh, he reluctantly took off toward his family's tent.

As if the universe was granting Lo'ak at least one small favor, the tent was mercifully empty upon his arrival. Sitting patiently for their consumption was his mother's carefully prepared lunch. It was intended for himself, his brother, and his father–a reward for a hard day of training.

He piled a veritable mountain of food high enough for two whole meals onto a spare leaf.

Lo'ak couldn't care less that he was taking not only his own serving but also snagging a portion from either his brother's or his father's share to give to you.

With clumsy haste, he wrapped and tied the meal before stealthily slipping out of the tent and making his way toward you.

Lo'ak gingerly approached your home and peered inside, relieved to find that your windows were still rolled open.

The morning's stillness had given way to a soft late-afternoon breeze, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. As he scanned inside the room, his eyes fell upon your sleeping form, curled into a ball on your sleeping mat, your breathing slow and even.

He didn't let himself linger for long.

He moved closer to the entrance, trying his best not to make any noise, and left the neatly wrapped meal just outside the foot of your tent.

He then reached out and gave the structure of your tent three loud knocks, hoping it would be enough to rouse you from your sleep.

As he stealthily returned to the window, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at disturbing your rest, but it was all for a good cause.

Lo'ak watched as you started to stir, moaning in protest at the unwanted intrusion. You sleepily sat up, rubbing your eyes and probably wondering who would dare disturb your precious sleep. He didn't stay any longer than he needed to, confident that you would find the food and get the picture that he wouldn't see you for the rest of the day.

You had no choice but to wake up to the obnoxiously loud and aggressive knocking at the front of your tent. It was a sound that would render anyone jumpy and disoriented.

You grumpily stretched your legs out in front of you, picking yourself up off the floor and forcing your legs ever so sluggishly toward the disturbance that interrupted your slumber.

To your confusion, you opened the flap to find nothing but a clumsily wrapped package containing copious amounts of grilled hexapede and banana fruit.

Your eyes widened in disbelief as you took in the sight–it had to be enough food to keep a small army of children fed.

You furrowed your brows at the food, recalling that Lo'ak said he'd bring you lunch that afternoon. However, maybe naively, you had assumed it would be a shared meal.

The whopping portion of food left for you by the tent implied that the plan might not pan out after all. Either he had no clue how much was too much, or he wasn't planning on bringing anything for dinner that night.

You couldn't help but feel a little stupid for thinking that Lo'ak would be able to drop everything and be by your side all day.

You were determined not to let the situation get to you.

You brought the food inside and cautiously ate half of it, saving the rest for later. You didn't want to jump to conclusions and assume you would need it if Lo'ak never returned for dinner, but it was always better to be prepared.

After you finished eating, you spiritlessly sat at your table, restlessly tapping your fingers against your folded legs.

Suddenly, you stood up and walked over to your sleeping mat, rolling it up and stashing it away in the corner of the room. With a sigh, you made your way to your shelf of knick-knacks, which held your collection of wooden beads, half-woven tops, leather arm bands, neckpieces, visors, and shawls, all carefully arranged atop the wooden structure.

Purely out of habit, you anxiously picked up each item, placing them in piles on the floor before rearranging them all back onto the shelf.

You repeated this process multiple times, each time rearranging the items in a slightly different order until you were somewhat satisfied with the display.

You then took a step back to look at your work, only to realize that it looked exactly the same as it had initially been.

You had to physically refrain from shouting out in frustration.

Your eyes darted around the room, landing on the half-finished top you had abandoned on the shelf. You hastily grabbed it and planted yourself on the floor, mindlessly weaving the item of clothing. Your fingers expertly wove in and out of the fabric, but your mind was elsewhere.

Bizarre. Restless. That was how you felt.

You didn't feel restless in the sense that you needed to get off (which had been the case all throughout your heat), but you felt restless in the sense that you were hyper-aware of everything: the rustling of the forest outside your window, the crackling of the fire in the center of the room, and the glaring fact that you were all alone.

Even though it was now dark outside, and you were sure that dinner had come and gone, Lo'ak was still nowhere to be found.

A part of you clung to the hope that he would show up, but deep down, you knew it was a lost cause. He had left you lunch outside your door earlier in the day and made no indication that he would be returning.

As you continued to weave the fabric, you could hear the wind howling outside. It was a familiar sound that had lulled you to sleep many times before, but tonight it was different. There was an edge to it that made your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Your thoughts incessantly circled around the way you had acted towards Lo'ak and, fuck, the things you said to him throughout those past few days.

It all resonated in your head, making your heartbeat quicken with equal parts worry and embarrassment. Had your actions driven him away? Was he so uncomfortable around you that he couldn't stand to be in your company anymore? Had you ruined your lifelong friendship?

Your fingers fumbled with the weaving pattern, ruining the piece so many times you lost count.

You tossed the partially-finished top to the side, anxiously running a hand up your face, through your hair.

You needed to do something. Anything to keep your mind off the angst you felt rising to the surface all at once. So you pushed yourself to your feet, tied your hair up with a leather band, and made your way out the front door.

You managed to sneak out of Hometree, escaping to the peaceful forest that surrounded you.

Breathing in the fresh air, you took a moment to appreciate the serenity of the forest, feeling its calming aura wash over you. Finally free from the confines of your indoor prison, you relished in the feeling of the leaves brushing against your skin as you sprinted aimlessly through the forest.

With each stride, you grew increasingly invigorated, the rain puddles splashing beneath your feet as you bounded across stones and beneath looming branches.

As you ran, your thoughts began to quiet to nothing, melting away the day's tensions. You ran without a destination in mind until your lungs burned and your legs ached. Finally, breathless and exhilarated, you came to a stop, slowly catching your breath.

Satisfied with how burned-out and sore you felt, you turned back in the direction of Hometree, which now had to be a good twenty-minute walk back.

You made your way slowly back through the forest, your feet dragging with bone-deep exhaustion. As you finally approached your tent, you rolled out your sleeping mat and sank onto it with a sigh, feeling the peacefulness of the forest still humming through your veins as you fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, you woke up feeling more rested than you had in months. You sat up with a yawn, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes before you stopped in your tracks and gasped in shock.

"Holy shit," you whispered.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you woke up entirely pain-free, without the gnawing pressure on your core that you'd become so accustomed to during your cycle.

It was like a miracle had occurred overnight.

You couldn't even recall having any lust-filled dreams, and you actually woke up without the uncomfortable feeling of being all sweaty and sticky.

With a massive grin on your face, you squealed out in delight at having made it through your first (and what would undeniably be the worst) heat cycle.

You were finally at peace with yourself now that you had complete control over your emotions and hormones. You eagerly got ready in record time to leave your home and return to the world again. The thought of hiding out in your home all day and night made you feel suffocated.

You made your way towards the center of Hometree, where breakfast was already underway.

Like the previous day, before you were unceremoniously dragged away from your meal, you quickly spotted Näoo, grabbing a bowl of food and making your way over to the girl with a smile on your face.

Näoo's face lit up as she caught sight of you, her excitement evident.

"y/n! I was getting worried I wouldn't see you today," Her eyes scanned over your face, widening in delight when she saw your eyes.

Your previously dark eyes now resembled their original bright yellow, your pupils no longer blown out to extreme proportions.

"You look better than you did yesterday, yawne." Näoo said, her delight evident. "Your eyes are back to normal! How do you feel? Is your…"

She trailed off, her eyes going wide at almost screaming your business out to the entire clan. She continued at a lower volume, much to your relief. "…is your heat cycle finished?"

You smiled, your eyes sparkling with excitement as you nodded at the girl before you.

"I think so…" you replied, barely able to contain your enthusiasm.

Näoo reached out and took your hand, squeezing it tightly as she beamed at you. "How do you feel?" she asked, her voice filled with joy.

You paused for a moment, unsure of how to answer the question.

On the one hand, you felt so relieved that you were back to normal, finally feeling like yourself again in your own skin. But on the other hand, you couldn't help but worry that you'd put a strain on your relationship with Lo'ak.

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Näoo squeezed your hand again, urging you to go on. You hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"I feel like I messed up," you admitted in frustration, hastily biting into a piece of Spartan fruit.

Näoo's forehead creased in puzzlement, her head cocking to the side as she tried to make sense of your response. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Does this have something to do with 'you-know-who'?"

You snorted derisively at her blatant attempt at not spilling your secrets to anyone who happened to be within earshot. However, you still nodded your head in confirmation.

Näoo's expression changed dramatically, morphing from one of confusion to understanding within a matter of seconds.

"Have you spoken to him since your cycle ended?" she inquired pointedly.

The thought of approaching Lo'ak again made your stomach drop. You quickly shook your head no, which only caused Näoo's face to pinch even more in confusion.

"y/n," she admonished, "you have to talk to him! You're only making things more awkward if you don't address what happened!"

You rolled your eyes in frustration. It wasn't that you weren't aware of how much the situation between you and Lo'ak had deteriorated ever since you entered your heat, but you literally would've rather been eaten alive by a palulukan than talk to your best friend after the way you'd so brazenly acted towards him.

"Absolutely not." You vehemently shook your head.

And you absolutely did not want to discuss the topic any further. To mask your present frustration, you stuffed your mouth with a healthy serving of fruit.

Näoo noticed your childish behavior and began to roll her eyes, something you, the older of the two, usually did to her.

"So, what? You're just never going to talk to your best friend ever again?"

You shrugged. "I guess not."

Näoo knew that you were being irrational. You knew that you were being irrational.

Näoo sighed in frustration.

She inconspicuously nudged her head across the room towards the Sully family, who unfortunately included the boy in question.

You swallowed at the sight of Lo'ak, feeling your cheeks flush at the memories of what your heat-induced self said and did to the boy.

Kiri noticed you and Näoo looking their way.

She broke out into a smile, waving her hand at you both, which immediately caught Lo'ak's attention. His brows furrowed as he looked up from his food towards his sister, following her gaze all the way across the room to where you and Näoo sat.

His eyes only briefly widened as he made eye contact with you before he quickly averted his gaze towards his food, not looking back for the life of him.

You exhaled deeply, releasing the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

You made an attempt to flash a reassuring smile at Kiri in the midst of the chaos before switching your focus back to Näoo, who appeared baffled by Lo'ak's odd demeanor towards you.

The two of you had a history of being inseparable. You were best friends, for Eywa's sake. Just yesterday, Lo'ak practically ran to you upon seeing you at breakfast. Näoo couldn't understand why he reacted so differently today.

In a dramatic flourish, you widened your eyes at Näoo, emphasizing your point. "See? He's avoiding me. Has been since yesterday afternoon."

Näoo looked back and forth between you and Lo'ak, squinting in confusion, trying to find an explanation for the boy's strange behavior. "What the hell happened yesterday afternoon, then? Did you guys get into an argument or something?"

You sighed deeply, because how could you even answer that question? What the hell did happen yesterday afternoon?

You remembered Lo'ak's words clearly, that you shouldn't have been out in public during your heat. You got pissed at his overbearing nature and told him off for telling you what to do. But deep down, you knew he was only looking out for you.

Lo'ak then tried to set a firm boundary between you both while you finished your heat cycle. But you begged him not to leave, not wanting to be alone during such a difficult time, and then proceeded to do the unthinkable right in front of him. Eventually, Lo'ak left and never came back, except to drop off enough food for two meals while you were asleep.

All signs pointed to him being so uncomfortable around you that he felt the need to put a Pandora-sized distance between you two. You felt so embarrassed and guilty that you couldn't blame him for avoiding you.

Näoo shook your shoulder as you went silent. "Well?!" She pressed.

You took a deep breath and sighed before finally opening up, "I don't even know. I think I was just too much, too forward and needy and desperate while I was in heat. He probably hates me for doing this to us."

Näoo vehemently shook her head. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"No, y/n. It's not your fault. You were under the influence of your heat. You couldn't control what was happening to you."

You shrugged your shoulders, clearly unconvinced, as Näoo continued trying to reassure you, "He could have easily said no or pulled out of the situation when you guys did stuff together. If anything, he's at fault for going through with it while you were in an altered state of mind! That little piece of–!"

You cut her off, instinctively reaching for Näoo's arm.

"That's what he said, too, right before he started avoiding me," you sighed. "But I even said that I was fully aware of what I was asking for, of what I wanted from him. That's kind of when he freaked out and said that it wasn't really me who said those things. I guess maybe…."

A lump formed in your throat at your realization. "I guess maybe he doesn't see me like that. Oh fuck, I deluded myself into believing that he did…"

Näoo's eyes softened at you as she shook her head.

"y/n. That boy is head over heels in love with you," Näoo said simply. "I said it before, and I'm saying it again now. Everyone knows it—except for you two idiots."

Your eyes widened in surprise, "Everyone knows?"

Näoo rolled her eyes at your obliviousness. "Yes, everyone. It's obvious. The way he's always by your side, the way he goes on and on about you when you're not around, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. It's all there," Näoo said with a knowing smile.

You couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. "Really?" you asked tentatively.

"Really," Näoo confirmed.

She leaned back and crossed her arms, "Look, it sounds like you two have a lot to sit down and talk about. And I mean seriously talk. Like two adults."

Upon hearing Näoo's words, your face twisted into a grimace.

As much as you hated to admit it, Näoo was right. But you honestly couldn't imagine yourself being able to hold a conversation with Lo'ak any time in the near future.

Näoo noticed the expression on your face and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I care about you, y/n, and I know how much you care about Lo'ak—whether you want to admit you do or not. I just want to see you happy."

You smiled back at your friend, returning the reassuring gesture. "Thank you, Näoo. It really means a lot to me." You said.

Upon hearing your words, Näoo's smile grew even wider. "You're so lovesick," she snickered.

After finishing your breakfast, you promised Näoo that you would talk to Lo'ak soon. You had to, even though the very thought made you feel like you were going to throw up.

A/N pt. 2: This was originally part of the last chapter (which was getting tooooo long which is why this prob feels so weird), but next chapter is so much better I promise :)

Taglist <3:

@vanillawhale, @strawberryclouds22, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @kurogxrix, @yunonaneko, @ahsatan785, @lauratstrange, @lwesodra

Previously: Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III

Keep reading: Chapter V

#teyamskxawng #teyamskxawng’s fics #lo'ak x reader #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak smut #lo'ak smut #avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar 2022 #atwow #lo'ak x y/n #lo’ak x y/n #lo'ak sully #lo’ak #lo'ak fanfiction #avatar fanfiction #james cameron avatar

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trafficlife · 8 months

Text

drown me in your love

The last time Tango and Scott were the last "peaceful" colors on the server, it was Scott who died first. Now, the tables have turned and Tango died first. Which meant he was red, and his emotions amplified tenfold… Including his love for Scott. Yet, Tango didn't expect to be able to satisfy his bloodlust and passion in one fell swoop. But this game was known for being unpredictable.

word count: 1925

ao3 link

(inspired by this artwork)

TangoTek fell from a high place.

Now, the first thing Tango should've said when respawning was "damn it Martyn!" Or "I need to get some time back."

Instead it was "Where's Scott? I need him!" in response to opening his communicator and seeing that Scott was the last yellow.

It could've been up to interpretation, but Tango already knew it didn't mean "I need to kill him" or "I need his time."

Tango needed to hold Scott in his arms, to kiss him until he was gasping for air once they pulled away, but quickly going in for more. Maybe it was possible for Tango to bring Scott down to red by suffocating him with his kiss. It'd probably kill Tango as well but that would be quite the way to go, drowning in the kisses of the person you loved.

He needed to gently rub his thumb along Scott's cheeks to feel his scales, and feel the aquatic man shudder at the touch.

Tango didn't realize how far his thoughts were spiraling until he saw patches of grass that were scorched by his fiery tail.

Oh.

Oh dear.

In the words of Scott Smajor himself, "oh Jesus."

Being red meant that all emotions and thoughts were intensified, making it difficult for some players to think straight. Of course, being a red life didn't affect everyone the same way. Some people were completely consumed by their bloodlust (such as Joel and Pearl); other people were able to weaponize their bloodlust, wielding it like it was a sword (this also applies to Joel and Pearl).

Tango and his bloodlust just co-existed. He didn't need a kill to be satisfied, and really only acted when he wanted to. It didn't mean he was immune to the intense emotions that came with being a red life. And of course, because the universe definitely wants to see him make a fool out of himself, that included his love for Scott

The fact that Tango and Scott loved each other wasn't a secret. After all, pretty much half the server walked in on them making out before turning yellow (Scott blamed Grian for that). Jimmy was very happy to hear that his ex-husband and his ex-soulmate were hitting it off and even messaged Tango during the short-lived Yellow Peace and asked "isn't Scott a great kisser?" (Tango almost burnt down a forest while figuring out how to respond while still appearing sane).

Tango inhaled sharply, staring down at his communicator. Scott seemed to be hanging with team T.I.E.S and Martyn, probably since they were on okay terms with each other. But that meant Scott wouldn't be alone, especially if Martyn is trying to protect him.

Tango knew for a fact that he could never beat Martyn in a fight. PVP was not his specialty.

He opened the chat in his communicator to send Scott a text. But where could they meet up? Wherever they met, it couldn't be anywhere around Skynet, should the bad boys feel extra bad and drop more TNT minecarts. The T.I.E.S base was their safest bet; it seems that the other members were busy, so Tango and Scott would be alone together.

The smell of smoke snapped Tango out of his thoughts. His tail dragged along the grass, leaving a scorched trail behind him. He yelped and stomped on the flames, scolding his tail for having a mind of its own. "Calm down, Tango. It's literally just Scott... And he's going to be hunted down by the entire server for his time." Tango chuckled to himself. "Guess I'm not the only one who wants Scott..." He bit down on his lip, a wave of heat creeping up his neck and blooming on his cheeks and ears. "... This man is going to be the death of me."

"Not unless I kill you first, Tango!" A sing-song voice called from behind him, followed by a bang! from a firework.

"Scar- Scar, don't!" Tango shouted, pulling out his bow to fire back. "I had nothing to do with it!"

"You're a part of T.I.E.S, you must die," Scar responded smugly. He looked up to Bdubs and Cleo, who were standing on top of a mountain. "Get him!"

"NOPE!" Tango rushed through the dark forest, with the Clockers' arrows beating down on him like hail. He had just turned red, couldn't he get at least a few minutes of peace? "Nope-nope-nope, WHERE IS MY TEAM?!"

He pulled out a piece of bread to eat it, turning around to make sure Scar wasn't on his tail.

That was simultaneously a bad and good idea.

An arrow hit him right in the chest, causing him to wince and stumble backwards, falling into someone.

Now, who could he possibly fall into?

Definitely not the cyan-haired Scottish fish hybrid currently being hunted down by the rest of the server. Definitely not Scott Smajor, the person that Tango found himself falling head over heels for. Definitely not the person that Tango was raving about not even a few minutes ago.

Fate was such a funny thing.

Tango's breath hitched as he stared down at Scott. His scales were more prominent on his skin, cyan fins replaced his ears, and there was a tail swaying on his side. Thankfully, Tango didn't have Scott laying directly on his tail. Scott smirked a bit, his cheeks a soft shade of pink. "Hey, Tango. Nice to see you dropping in."

"Hey- That's my line!" Tango did his best to ignore the cracks in his voice as he smiled down at Scott. They were so close, it was driving Tango insane. Scott could probably hear his heart thumping against his ribcage.

"Do you need help with anything?" Scott asked, pointing to the arrow in Tango's chest. "I thought I heard you screaming 'no' earlier."

"Ah, yeah. The Clockers are trying to find me, but..." He leaned in a little closer to Scott, tail swaying in the air. "I don't really care that much. 'Cause they led me into you."

Scott raised a brow. "It sounds like you missed me."

"I might've."

"More like you missed my lips, with how much you're staring at them."

"Ah, I... Might have?"

Scott chuckled, the sound music to Tango's ears. "If you really wanted to kiss me..." He brushed his fingers along the nape of Tango's neck, causing him to shiver. "You could've just asked."

"I was hoping we could be alone..." Tango's thumb brushed against Scott's lower lip. "But at the same time, pretty much everyone knows about us. And half the server walked in on us last time—"

"Just shut up and kiss me before the other half of the server walks in on us—"

Tango quickly obeyed, swallowing the rest of Scott's words for himself. This kiss felt much more passionate and heated than the previous ones, thanks to Tango's additional (blood)lust. The blazeborn refused to waver in his advances, his hands all over Scott's face. One moment, they were caressing his cheeks and thumbing his scales, the next they were tangled in the coral and seaweed in his hair.

For a nanosecond, Tango parted his lips in a smile before he began softly nibbling on Scott's lower lip. Scott's breath hitched, as he wrapped his arms around Tango's neck to pull him closer. The taste of Scott's lips was still so delectable, still so addicting. At this point, Tango was going to swallow Scott whole.

However, he felt Scott flinch and shudder underneath him as if he were taking damage. If this were Double Life, Tango would've assumed that Scott's soulmate got into an accident. But it was just them now and there was no explanation, unless Tango was accidentally hurting Scott.

Tango pulled away from a reluctant Scott who whined insistently and tried pulling the blazeborn in for another round. He took one of the fish hybrid's hands, inspecting it for burns or cuts. "Tango..." Scott rasped, still struggling to catch his breath.

"Sorry," Tango murmured. "I thought I was hurting you. It seemed like you were taking damage."

"No- No, you weren't"—Scott took several deep breaths— "you weren't hurting me." His fingers were entangled in Tango's golden hair, chest rising and falling as he recollected himself. Tango watched him, waiting for Scott to recover before diving in for more. The last thing Tango wanted to do was kill him—

Wait.

Was that what he was taking damage to?!

Oh.

In all honesty, the thought had crossed Tango's mind in the form of a joke. He did not think dying from asphyxiation via making out was possible but a lot of things didn't make sense in this game.

He snapped out of his thoughts, at the feeling of Scott lightly tugging at his hair. Tango chuckled seductively. "And I thought I was impatient... But you do realize, I could probably kill you and bring you down to red if I keep kissing you, right?"

Scott nodded eagerly, eyes half-lidded but full of desire. "I know. And, well, if I'm going to turn red... I'd rather die at your hands. Or, your lips."

"That's making me wonder, what the death message is going to look like..."

"Only one way to find out," Scott whispered as he pulled the blazeborn down into another kiss. Their lips were permanently locked this time, with the only key being Scott's death. It was a good thing that drowning didn't take too long so they had some time before Scott disappeared.

The fish hybrid whimpered as Tango slipped his tongue into the kiss, starting to shudder underneath. Scott gripped Tango's hair more rougher, as if trying to take him down as well. Tango wasn't affected by the drowning—either because he had a larger lung capacity or Scott had a smaller one (now that he was a fish hybrid). Tango cupped Scott’s scaled face with one hand, and his hip with the other, making comforting circles to lightly massage them. Tango relished in the muffled line that escaped Scott’s lips, though it was slightly strained from the lack of oxygen.

Eventually, Tango face-plummeted into the grass once Scott disappeared. His communicator buzzed a couple times in his pocket and he pulled it out, biting down on his lip. How was he already missing Scott's lips? He stifled a smirk upon reading the chat.

Smajor1995 drowned whilst kissing TangoTek <Skizzleman> HAHAHA <Bigbst4tz2> thats one way to go to red lol <SmallishBeans> way to go tango! <Inthelittlewood> of course its tango who brings scott to red <Grian> YESSSSSS <Grian> I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD DIE LIKE THAT <Grian> this is legendary <Ethoslab> thats the best death of the season <ZombieCleo> me killing etho several times in one session is a close second <Ethoslab> thanks gem <Ethoslab> i mean cleo <SolidarityGaming> when can i be next <SmallishBeans> tim please you're already low

Yup. That was the best death of the season. If not for the death game setting, Tango would definitely do it a thousand times over. And he had a feeling that Scott wouldn't be upset with it either.

Tango pulled out his clock to find that he had gained 30 minutes and was now yellow again. Which meant the target was slapped on his back again.

Then again, Jimmy did say he wanted to be next. And he was already low, so why not kill two birds (or a blaze and a canary) with one stone?

<TangoTek> jimmy <TangoTek> want an extra 30 minutes?

#꒰☆彡꒱— karma writes #꒰➳꒱— writings #life series smp #limited life #limited life fanfic #trafficblr #trafficsmp #scott smajor #tangotek #smajor x tango #snowbugs #emberfrost #a continuation of i could even learn how to love like you #cause it is referenced a couple of times #chiikin ilyvm <33

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feelbokkie · 8 months

Text

Ephemeral Love | Chapter 10

pairing: Seungmin x fem reader

genre: smau, crack, angst, fluff, non!idol au, university au, right person wrong time, minor character death

pov: 1st/2nd person (depending on how you view it)

warnings: swearing, fluff, gets slightly heated towards the end but it is pg 13

summary: Does love last forever, or is it fleeting? For university juniors Kim Seungmin and Seo Y/n, it's love at first sight but sometimes you meet your soulmate at the wrong time.

word count: 2,167 (unedited)

screenshot count: 22

a/n: halfway point which means things are about to start getting serious... also, i think i got carried away with this chapter, sorry

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You lay peacefully on Seungmin, resting. Your torso slotted between his legs, your head flat on his chest, his hand drawing small shapes on your back. You can hear his heartbeat swiftly. Still, it’s calmer than when you first laid on him earlier, it sounded like he had a jack hammer in his chest.

You finished your paper within the first hour of you being at Seungmin's apartment. The melona he gave you being an excellent motivator to get you to finish. Afterwords, you helped Seungmin cook dinner, which he insisted on doing instead of ordering in like he suggested earlier. And by help, he had you cut vegetables and then read his textbook to him as you sat on the counter top and he finished cooking. You two ate while watching the show you were in the middle of the last time you were over. Afterwords, the two of you retreated to the couch where you took a nap on Seungmin's chest as he finished his reading.

"Min?" You ask when you woke up. You weren't sure if he is still awake. His hand is still moving on your back but he's been still.

"Oh, you're awake?" He asks softly.

"Yeah, I was just thinking."

"While you were sleeping?"

"I guess,"

"What were you thinking about?" He hums. You feel it in his chest. It's almost like feeling 2 cats purring.

"Why do you want to become a lawyer."

"You were thinking about why I'm studying law?" He chuckles.

"No, I-- just answer the question." You softly hit his chest.

"It's always fascinated me. One time when I was little, my dad took me to work with him and I thought it was amazing that he was getting paid to argue with people. Seemed fun." You can hear the fondness in his voice as he talks about his father.

"But you're doing it because you want to?"

"I don't do things I don't like or don't want to." He says simply.

“Noted,”

“Why’d you ask about why I wanted to become a lawyer?”

“Something my brother said to me earlier. He thinks I want to become a doctor to stay in our dad’s good graces.”

“Are you?”

“Yes and no,” Seungmin taps your back, signaling for you to sit up. You quickly get up and bring your knees to your chest, resting your head on top of them, facing Seungmin.

“What do you mean by yes and no?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor. I saw some show that I’ll never know the name of because I never checked but it made medicine look interesting so, I decided to become a doctor. I just didn’t know what I wanted to specialize in until my dad had his first heart attack. It was not too long after Changbin told our dad he wasn’t going to go to university and that he was moving to Seoul to become a tattoo artist. I’m not saying my brother gave our dad a heart attack, that man eats so much red meat and smokes habitually—I’m surprised he lasted that long before that moment. But it was a minor attack and so were the other 3 he’s had since. I figured that if I went into cardiothoracic surgery, and my dad could wait that long, I could help him prolong his life long enough for him and Bin to make amends and for our family to be whole again.” You sigh. You didn’t mean to ramble, but something about being with Seungmin made you feel safe enough to do that.

“You’re trying to literally mend broken hearts.” Seungmin says in awe.

“I guess. I know my dad is devastated about how things with Changbin went, even though he’ll never admit it. That’s his only son and even though they’ve been at odds my whole life, I know those stubborn idiots care for each other. Our dad told us not to tell Changbin about the heart attacks. Saying that 'if he cared he would have never left in the first place.' But I know it’s because he worries about him.” You've never told anyone about any of this, not even your sister.

You haven't even told her that your dad has sent you extra money for your monthly allowance and once you did the math you realized that he was sending money for Changbin too knowing that you would figure it out. You've been pulling it out and sneaking it into his wallet or random jean pockets for years now knowing that he wouldn't take if if he knew it was from your dad.

“Is that why you’re at JYPU?”

“It’s the closest university to where my brother lives. I had to lie to my dad and tell him I got rejected from all the top universities so he would let me go. Convincing him to let me live with Changbin was easy after that. I just want everything to go back to normal.” You squeeze your knees tighter to your chest.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?” You hum.

“I’m in awe of you,”

"I--What? So suddenly?" You laugh.

"No, I've thought it for a while. You're smart, like really smart, and when In asked me to tutor you I thought you were going to be a pain in my ass. But you're like the opposite?"

"I'm a relief in your ass?" You giggle.

"Nevermind, I take it back." His face quickly gets red at the realization of what he said.

"I'm sorry, go back to what you were saying."

"I'm good,"

"Seungmin," You whine.

"It's nothing, I was just going to say you aren't how I thought you were going to be. And the fact that you could be at any university you want and you gave that up to try to fix your family. I don't think that many people would do that."

"I'm a certified genius. It wouldn't have mattered much where I went to school for my undergraduate degree anyway, all people mostly care about is what medical school you go to. So, I have only this year and next year to fix everything." You say the last part to yourself. In retrospect, it's not a lot of time to fix years of fighting, but you're stubborn like your brother and father.

The two of you sit silently for a moment, staring at each other. Seungmin rests his head in his hand as he stares at you. He has a soft smile and a twinkle in his eyes. You've seen that look on him before. He had it once when he was watching a baseball game. Only for the first half ot the game though, his team started losing after that.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You giggle, sitting up straight and stretching out your legs.

"I'm thinking," He says sheepishly.

"About?" You quirk your eyebrow at him.

"It's not really appropriate, i think."

"Kim Seungmin, are you having pervy thoughts?" You tease.

"No! No, quite the opposite actually." His ears turn bright red.

"Oh?" You turn your body towards him, fully intrigued about what could be going on in his head.

"I was...thinking about kissing you." He says innocently. Your eyes glance at his lips quickly. You'd be lying to yourself if you said you haven't thought about the same thing for week now. Your heart leaps at the idea of him thinking the same thing.

"Then do it," Your boldness surprises you. You've never been so direct or commanding about anything and if anyone checked your heart rate right now, they'd think your heart was about to give out with how hard it's pounding.

"I'm afraid," He whispers, sitting up straighter.

Ba-dum

"Of what?"

Ba-dum

"That once I start, I might not be able to stop."

Ba-dum

"Would that be so bad?" You throw back his words from earlier at him.

Ba-dum

Seungmin slowly closes the small gap between the two of you. You squeeze your hands tight, scared that if you move he'll back off. You're not sure why the idea of kissing him is making you so nervous. You've been sleeping next to him for a while now and you were just laying on top of him not that long ago. You swallow the lump in your throat as Seungmin's eyes flick down to your lips. He places his index finger under your chin and tilts you head up slightly towards him.

He gently places his lips on yours, almost like he's afraid you'd disappear if he presses his lips deeper into yours. Your eyes flutter close, letting out a breathe you weren't aware you were holding. It's a simple kiss, he doesn't part his mouth or swipe your bottom lip with his tongue trying go further. It's so simple and yet, it still sends shock waves through your body. You can't help but melt into the kiss, your hand finding it's way onto Seungmin's chest and slightly gripping his shirt. After a few seconds he pulls away, looking at your lips before slowly looking into his eyes. He has a look you've never seens in his eyes before, almost like desperation.

Before you could say anything, Seungmin is gently laying your back on the couch. His hands are on either sides of your head, caging you in as he leans in again. His lips find yours again, this time desperately. Like he knows what he wants and he's afraid you're going to disappear. You're not sure if it's the combination of his velvety soft lips on yours, his cologne, and his body heat overwhelming you, but you're starting to feel light headed. You slightly part your lips to breathe and Seungmin takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. Your left hand hands Seungmin's chest again, griping his shirt tighter than before.

Seungmin separates from you again, and rests his forehead on yours. You're sure that kissing Seungmin cut off all oxygen from going to your brain. For the first time in your life, you don't have a single thought going through your head.

"Y/n," He says breathlessly. The kiss seems to have done damage to him too.

"Hm," You hum.

"I'm not trying to sleep with you right now." He whispers.

"Oh?" Your brain still hasn't recovered, you can't even think of a proper sentence right now.

"I just really, really like you. Fuck, I might even be in love with you. I just...I just need you." His right hand lands on your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.

"You need me?" You question. His words aren't entirely making sense, but you're blaming that on him kissing you and making you dizy.

"Not like that. Okay, maybe a little like that but more than that too. I like going to sleep next to you and waking up next to you and just doing mundane shit with you like brushing our teeth. And studying. And I go to sleep really early but I like staying late to talk to you. And your voice is like music to my ears, even that weird giggle you do. And I'm glad you're fighting with your roommate because that means I get to see you more often, and I know that sounds selfish, and that's entirely your fault. You make me do stupid shit like running to the store and buying one of every box of melona. And if I keep doing all of that as a friend without having all of you, I think I might actually die. Especially after kissing you because I don't think I can back to how we were now that I know how your lips feel against yours--"

"Seungmin--"

"I'm literally using every fiber in my being to stop myself from kissing you again because I don't want you to get the wrong idea. But I want you to be my girlfriend, actually I need you to be my girlfriend but if I keep kissing you I feel like you're going to think I'm just trying to sleep with you--"

"Okay,"

"--and...Okay?"

"Okay, I'll be your girlfriend."

"You will?"

"Yes. I really, really, really like you too and if you've noticed, I didn't exactly push you away either of the times that you kissed me. Actually, I told you to do it. Which is so unlike me. You make me do dumb shit too. I hope you're happy, you've reduced me to an idiot. And I hope you know that I haven't been coming here just because my roommate is an ass. I also don't do things I don't want to or don't like."

"I...so...you... Sorry, I think my brain is short circuiting."

"Kissing me might help that." You suggests.

"Is that right?" He laughs, his breathe tickling your face.

"Trust me, I'm a pre-med student."

"Well, shit, who am I to go against my doctor-girlfriend's orders."

"Hurry up, the situation is quite dire, I fear." You grip Seungmin's shirt again and pull him down closer to you.

—

Buy me a coffee?

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