#so i started crashing and i vaguely remember apologizing for the fuss as i heard my heart rate monitor start going <3 tachycardic <3

[inkskinned]

so one of the things that's so horrifying about birth control is that you have to, like, navigate this incredibly personal choice about your body and yet also face the epitome of misogyny. like, someone in the comments will say it wasn't that bad for me, and you'll be utterly silenced. like, everyone treats birth control like something that's super dirty. like, you have no fucking information or control over this thing because certain powerful people find it icky.

first it was the oral contraceptives. you went on those young, mostly for reasons unrelated to birth control - even your dermatologist suggested them to control your acne. the list of side effects was longer than your arm, and you just stared at it, horrified.

it made you so mentally ill, but you just heard that this was adulthood. that, yes, there are of course side effects, what did you expect. one day you looked up yasmin makes me depressed because surely this was far too intense, and you discovered that over 12,000 lawsuits had been successfully filed against the brand. it remains commonly prescribed on the open market. you switched brands a few times before oral contraceptives stopped being in any way effective. your doctor just, like, shrugged and said you could try a different brand again.

and the thing is that you're a feminist. you know from your own experience that birth control can be lifesaving, and that even when used for birth control - it is necessary healthcare. you have seen it save so many people from such bad situations, yourself included. it is critical that any person has access to birth control, and you would never suggest that we just get rid of all of it.

you were a little skeeved out by the implant (heard too many bad stories about it) and figured - okay, iud. it was some of the worst pain you've ever fucking experienced, and you did it with a small number of tylenol in your system (3), like you were getting your bikini line waxed instead of something practically sewn into your body.

and what's wild is that because sometimes it isn't a painful insertion process, it is vanishingly rare to find a doctor that will actually numb the area. while your doctor was talking to you about which brand to choose, you were thinking about the other ways you've been injured in your life. you thought about how you had a suspicious mole frozen off - something so small and easy - and how they'd numbed a huge area. you thought about when you broke your wrist and didn't actually notice, because you'd thought it was a sprain.

your understanding of pain is that how the human body responds to injury doesn't always relate to the actual pain tolerance of the person - it's more about how lucky that person is physically. maybe they broke it in a perfect way. maybe they happened to get hurt in a place without a lot of nerve endings. some people can handle a broken femur but crumble under a sore tooth. there's no true way to predict how "much" something actually hurts.

in no other situation would it be appropriate for doctors to ignore pain. just because someone can break their wrist and not feel it doesn't mean no one should receive pain meds for a broken wrist. it just means that particular person was lucky about it. it should not define treatment.

in the comments of videos about IUDs, literally thousands of people report agony. blinding, nauseating, soul-crushing agony. they say things like i had 2 kids and this was the worst thing i ever experienced or i literally have a tattoo on my ribs and it felt like a tickle. this thing almost killed me or would rather run into traffic than ever feel that again.

so it's either true that every single person who reports severe pain is exaggerating. or it's true that it's far more likely you will experience pain, rather than "just a pinch." and yet - there's nothing fucking been done about it. it kind of feels like a shrug is layered on top of everything - since technically it's elective, isn't it kind of your fault for agreeing to select it? stop being fearmongering. stop being defensive.

you fucking needed yours. you are almost weirdly protective of it. yours was so important for your physical and mental health. it helped you off hormonal birth control and even started helping some of your symptoms. it still fucking hurt for no fucking reason.

once while recovering from surgery, they offered you like 15 days of vicodin. you only took 2 of them. you've been offered oxy for tonsillitis. you turned down opioids while recovering from your wisdom tooth extraction. everything else has the option. you fucking drove yourself home after it, shocked and quietly weeping, feeling like something very bad had just happened. the nurse that held your hand during the experience looked down at you, tears in her eyes, and said - i know. this is cruelty in action.

and it's fucked up because the conversation is never just "hey, so the way we are doing this is fucking barbaric and doctors should be required to offer serious pain meds" - it's usually something around the lines of "well, it didn't kill you, did it?"

you just found out that removing that little bitch will hurt just as bad. a little pinch like how oral contraceptives have "some" serious symptoms. like your life and pain are expendable or not really important. like maybe we are all hysterical about it?

hysteria comes from the latin word for uterus, which is great!

you stand here at a crossroads. like - this thing is so important. did they really have to make it so fucking dangerous. and why is it that if you make a complaint, you're told - i didn't even want you to have this in the first place. we're told be careful what you wish for. we're told that it's our fault for wanting something so illict; we could simply choose not to need medication. that maybe if we don't like the scraps, we should get ready to starve.

we have been saying for so long - "i'm not asking you to remove the option, i'm asking you to reconsider the risk." this entire time we hear: well, this is what you wanted, isn't it?

#where's the word woman in this u might wonder if u suck #good news i am nonbinary and have a uterus so that is something that can happen #im also gender fluid tho which means im immune to certain psychic damage bc if u call me a woman i'll be like <3 okay <3 #writeblr #the tightrope of ''ppl need access to this'' #and like also #''what the fuck is going on over there'' is like. so difficult as an activist #i was <3 punctured <3 during mine #and almost bled out on the table :) they didn't have anyone standing by bc it's ''just a little insertion'' #so i started crashing and i vaguely remember apologizing for the fuss as i heard my heart rate monitor start going <3 tachycardic <3 #she wasn't even a bad doctor tbh #ps btw the reason i even HAD a heart monitor is that i have a genuine heart condition and they knew GOING IN that there was a chance #i'd crash on the table #like my heart just likes to do fun little tricks and <3 stop working <3 (i do not want to discuss the specifics ty i am okay im ontop of it #and they were like 'oh u will be fine' and then she did do a puncture thru my uterus . pop! #and im sitting there dizzy and feeling my heartrate start to drop bc it feels almost. beautiful. like. the whole ground just #woosh! out from under you. and shit is like grey's anatomy. i'm looking up at her grey eyes #she's old she wears this nice shawl she's like got Cool Lesbian vibes and people are sprinting into the room #from other parts of the clinic unrelated to me. while the monitor is like a little aria singing #and shes like hey youre okay stay awake stay with me something went wrong we have to keep trying #and i remember thinking - i was trying to think of nice things. i have so many beautiful places that now overlap #with this terrible memory #i became dimly aware that there was too much on her wrists and hands. like #that was too many liters #and then when they had finished all this. i packed up and drove myself home #i have had (bad thing) happen to me. and the same feeling happened after #that numb almost lamblike bleating. you cry without noise. like. ur body is so shocked and ur mind so empty #you just stare at the road and everything everything is happening behind glass and static and you are standing so far away from it #while you hold ur hands at 10 and 2. and something in ur brain is SCREAMING at you - IT WAS BAD AND IT SHOULDNT HAVE HAPPENED #and ur just watching the alarms in your body going off and youre thinking. a little pinch! ha. i think i just lost something important.

[sinisterlyhan]

03. bang chan ; 2chan / 5189 words

public sex, unprotected sex, crempie(ish...?), unprotected sex, female reader, it’s a quickie but i didn’t really write it like one

parts: 01 ; 02

a/n: my 1 whole minute google search looking up how to say changbin & chan 😭 also, ahh, this took a surprising turn.

1:00 pm, statistics class, and you absolutely dreaded it.

chan walked beside you, his eyes darting between you and the almost empty hallway of the math and science building. he looked somewhat nervous, but not nervous enough he appeared timid and shy.

according to his previous research, one that lasted for about two weeks, you would be getting grumpy starting right about now. and so far, he was able to conclude the reason behind your mini-bursts of temper tantrums: seo changbin.

ever since that night at the party, the one where you hooked up with changbin and never told him who you were, you had been avoiding him.

not in a sense where you were avoiding him in hopes that he would leave you alone because he would never look for you for anything. you were avoiding him in an attempt to keep yourself from thinking about him because he has been all you could think about.

you actively ignored his existence. not looking at him despite wanting to spare a glance during a boring lecture, not walking the path he does so you wouldn't get a chance to be near his vicinity, not thinking about him when you were touching yourself at night and trying to relish in the feeling of having him inside you.

it felt like an obsession, almost. it was unbelievable how much changbin has consumed you with just one night. if you close your eyes, you could still feel his plump lips on your neck and his bulky arms under your fingers. and you hated that, you really hated that. you thought getting off with only your vibrator was hard before, but oh, nobody prepared you for this.

you didn’t know changbin would be that good, and you had no idea that your preset fondness for him would take that secret affection, along with the sex, to a whole new level.

“he–“

“this is all your fault!” you huffed before chan could finish his sentence, snapping your head to his direction and cranking up your neck slightly to look at him.

“yes, i’m sorry.” chan nodded and clamped his mouth shut after the defeated apology.

he had no plans to argue with you, he tried that the first time you decided to get unreasonable with him and he completely lost the argument with all of his dignity lost. it was truly one of the worst arguments you two have had in the many years of your friendship, at least for him it was the worst because all he did was stand there while you brought up the weirdest thing to insult him.

he could remember everything, each one a little arrow to his poor, fragile heart. how he’s an idiot, how he’s the worst best friend, how you hate him for dragging you to the party that night, and possibly the funniest of it all—that his dick is small.

that didn’t hurt him as much as the other ones did because he knows you were wrong. and you would know if you had just asked him politely during that dry spell you had.

“gosh, i can’t stop thinking about him at all! this is crazy, i hate it!” you hissed as you ran a hand through your hair, scratching your scalp and pulling at your roots angrily before letting your hand fall to your side. “i literally cannot go one night without–ugh!”

chan looked over at you, his brows raised faintly at your dramatic reaction.

he was in disbelief when minho picked you and changbin back in the party, and he definitely did not miss the mischievous glint in minho’s eyes when he made direct eye-contact with him after he locked both you and changbin in the closet.

minho looked playfully spiteful, like he knew the secret chan was hiding layers beneath his opened heart, like he knew chan’s affection for you went beyond what one would call a best friend.

and he was in even more disbelief when the party was over and he was driving you home, then you started to really open up to him about everything that happened in the closet. your explicit words filled in the noises he heard from outside (those damn noises! the door banging and your scream of changbin’s name!), giving him a vague image of you fucking a man he had replaced his silhouette with.

it had taken him all the strength he has not to show you how turned-on he was the entire car ride. even though you just kept sighing about how good his friend was, which was ultimately weird but he thought he was more jealous and annoyed than weirded out. and he was so sure he could do better if you just give him the chance to prove it.

he wasn’t able to ask you so straightforwardly back then, considering how smitten you were with changbin just because of having sex with him once. granted, you did use to think of him during your midnight rendezvous, which was a detail chan really wished he hadn’t known.

he enjoyed nothing about this aside from the fact that you had asked him to help you avoid changbin so he would never find out you were the girl in the closet.

and chan did exactly that, happily as well. he has beaten it out of changbin’s head that you were not a candidate of choice and he wouldn’t have to take another glance at you. lo and behold, changbin really didn’t, and that has caused you so much distress because you wanted him so bad.

and chan was forced to hear you complain about it, it was so damn infuriating for him. he couldn’t take one more second of you whining about how good changbin fucked you that night.

“what if i make you forget him?” chan blurted that out far too quickly for his mind to fully process his words. by the time he was able to understand what he said, though, instead of fussing over it in embarrassment, he only turned to you with all seriousness in his eyes.

you took a moment to take in his insinuation. you wondered what he meant by making you forget changbin; did he mean he would take you out on a fun date? like somewhere in the middle of a roller-coaster ride where you’d scream so hard at the thrill of a drop that you temporarily forget about changbin. or did he mean something else? something else that still involves you screaming so hard that you’d forget about changbin.  

“i can make you forget him,” he pressed on suddenly, taking a closer step towards you.

you stumbled back in shock, your eyes widening in panic amusement as you looked up at chan. you could only find a pair of intense eyes staring back at you, anticipation and desire burning behind those hooded brown eyes. they shone so prettily, you couldn’t look directly into them, so you glanced away as a nervous giggle left your lips.

“chan, wh–what are you talking about?” you stuttered, your eyes shaking at the proximity he closed off between you two by taking another step closer.

“you know what i’m talking about,” he hushed, leaning closer to your ear. “you don’t have to beg for it, just thought i could have helped.”

you shivered at those familiar words, your mind bouncing back to the conversation you had with him before the closet game started. so your assumption was right, he was aiming for the second option, he was talking about sex. your mind zapped blank at the mere idea and you found yourself losing your voice when you opened your mouth to speak.

chan, chan… it would probably be a phenomenal experience—fuck, hold on, no, wait. chan has been your best friend for years. he was always so kind and patient with everyone he meets, and he was possibly one of the hottest men you’ve ever met in your life.

it was a miracle that he was your friend at all, so would you really run the risk of destroying this friendship just because you were horny and was trying to get over somebody else?

“nothing is going to happen to us, (name).” as if reading your thoughts, chan was quick to mutter to your ear words of reassurance. “i asked you for this. if anyone should be scared of losing something, it should be me.”

your sight was blurring the more he leaned close to you. his nose touched yours at some point, and he nudged forward to he put pressure against the bridge. your lips were almost touching, you could feel his breath reverberating around the entrance of your lips and your skin went cold.

“only twenty minutes until class starts, (name),” he said, pulling away slightly so he could look into your eyes better. “let me help you. you will look into changbin’s eyes later and only see me.”

oh, that sounded very tempting. but surely, the most tempting aspect of this would be the man standing in front of you. and you wanted to.

before you could speak, a small commotion erupted at the start of the long hallway. a group of students walked past, chatting and laughing amongst each other. classes were slowly getting dismissed one by one, and soon there’d be more people scattered along the hallway, waiting for their next class. if you wanted to start, you’d better start now while you could still make some noises.

“but where are we gonna–“

chan flashed you a small grin. that sounded like an agreement to him but he would definitely be asking for it more down the line. for now, he grabbed onto your forearm and looked up, his eyes scanning the hallway for the room numbers.

stopping when he found your statistics class, he hummed in satisfaction when he saw that the room was pitch black inside, and he quickly dragged you along with him.

he pulled you inside the dark classroom and left your side so he could close and lock the door. as soon as he turned around, he reached his hands out to your face and moved closer to you, simultaneously tugging you towards him.

you stumbled, your hands flying up to his arms to steady yourself just as your lips crashed against each other.

your heavy breaths resonated with each other as you kissed each other fervently. he shrugged off his backpack and let it drop to the floor, same as you slowly let go of your bag to place it near your feet. none of you wanted to let any interruptions stop whatever you were doing, your eyes closed and lips hot against each other.

his calloused hands found their way to your jaw carefully, and he held your head in place so he could take the lead. he could feel your fingers slowly dragging across his back, trying to find something to hold or to tug on. they moved up, running along the back fo his neck to his head, and you flipped off his cap so you could thread your hand through his hair.

oh, this was nothing like you have imagined before, simply because the real thing could never compare to the vivid scenarios you overplay in your head. his lips were so soft, much like changbin’s small but plump once. but chan felt to have much more control over the situation, understandably as he wasn’t blinded like before.

chan slid his hands off your jaw after a while, gliding them down your body and stopping at your waist instead. then he walked, slowly bringing you backward until the back of your thighs hit the teacher’s table located in the middle. he squeezed the side of your waist when he heard you groan, and his arms flexed lightly as he hoisted you up to sit on the edge of the table.

finally getting the willpower to pull away from you, chan panted heavily to compensate for the long minute of him seemingly withholding his breath. he was kissing you, someone who he has been so fond of for way too long.

as soon as his lips touched yours, that was all he knew how to do; he couldn’t even remember to breathe through his nose, he just focused so hard on mapping out the shape of your mouth.

“are you okay with this?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

he tilted your face up, his thumb caressing your cheek. you looked at him, your heart palpitating against your chest in newfound excitement. and he was staring straight back at you.

there seemed to be a mutual understanding of this situation; his tenderly fond gaze revealing a silent confession, the rubbing of his thumb at your skin spilling an unspoken promise that he would take good care of you, that you wouldn’t have to worry at all.

it made your heart swirl into chaos. it was a different feeling than when you were stuck in the closet with changbin. back then you were excited to be able to have sex with someone, albeit the person is one of the many people you have a crush on. but you couldn’t see changbin then, nor did you know him the way you know chan now.

the butterflies flew more rapidly in your tummy and the flutter of their wings wafted against the skin of your ribs crazily. it sent you tingles all over your body, you never wanted to be away from chan.

“i think we should be quick, we don’t have much time left until class starts,” you mentioned, looking pointedly at him.

chan huffed out a laugh in response, his head dipping low as his eyes quirked into crescent moons. “well, thank god you are wearing a skirt today then,” he muttered, running his hand up your bare thighs and disappearing under the fabric of your pleated skirt. “save us the fuss of having to take things off.”

“i do have safety pants on, in case you don’t realize that,” you hummed, rolling your eyes slightly before you felt his hand reach all the way up to the waistband of your skirt.

his fingers tugged through the band as he tried to pick out the hem of your safety shorts, and you helped him out by shifting your weight when he pulled it off your legs with a swift yank. it dropped to your ankles and you arched your feet to shake them off to the ground, flinging them a little farther away from where he stood.

chan pushed you down onto the empty desk, an amused smile on his face when you yelped in surprise, your legs immediately spreading apart to let him scoot closer to the table. his fingers danced along your inner thigh before they finally reached your clothed heat, his hand slightly trembling in enthusiasm when you sighed at the featherlight touch.

his mind blanked out for a moment there, needing some extra time to process how this was really happening. albeit not at the most ideal location and he was limited by a ticking timeframe, being able to get so intimate with you was basically a dream come true to him. his yearning for you was finally going to be satiated for once.

“god, who would have thought i’d be doing it in my stats classroom–mm, woah, okay,” your sentence got cut off mid-way when you felt chan press his thumb against your clothed clit, pressing a jolt into your body and causing your brain to short-circuit quickly.

you laughed slightly in embarrassment, finding your reaction less than appealing despite it being more than he could ever ask for. but your laughter could only last for a brief moment before a blissful sigh left your lips. your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of him moving your pantie to the side and slipping his middle finger inside.

oh, that was exactly what changbin did. flashes of the dark closet met your eyes as chan pumped his fingers in and out of your heat, flashes you felt guilty thinking about at a time like this. the man hovering above you wasn’t changbin, you had to remind yourself, and you opened your eyes just so you could look up at chan.

his hair was tousled from when you shifted your fingers through them when you kissed, and his eyes were focused on your every movement. the way your features scrunched and contorted with each pump of his finger, a prideful sight for him to look at until you suddenly opened your eyes to look at him. there was a moment of solace, just a brief moment, and then his hand slowed down as realization hit him.

“you’re thinking about him,” chan muttered.

you sighed, giving him a timid nod to confirm his assumption. and that—well, that was a new kind of soreness he has never felt in his chest before. he wanted to explode; the unreasonable anger stuffed inside of him, the jealousy churning in his chest that his friend not only got to fuck you first but he stayed in your head every single fucking day, the sore loser in him that so firmly believed that he could do so much better.

chan didn’t want to take it out on you, he really didn’t. but oh heavens, he was so tired of associating changbin with you.

“that’s fine,” he said with a nod, pulling his finger out of your cunt and reaching for his pants. he released the button and unzipped it, shrugging it off his thigh quickly before proceeding to tug his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring out. “you won’t be thinking about him when i’m finished with you here.”

if the setting was different, he would surely have his way with you however he wanted. he would make you squirm for much longer, and he would make you beg like a fucking whore for him before he decided you are good enough to have his dick pound inside of you. but this would be quick. this has to be quick, unfortunately for chan.

he was rather confident in himself, though. he would like to think if changbin could do it blind-folded, he could definitely do it with both of his eyes open. not to mention, being able to watch your features change in the face of pleasure would do nothing but add to the filthy lust burning through his veins.

he could fuck you better.

he will fuck you better.

you didn’t miss the soft beat of his eyes matching up with yours after he aligned himself at your entrance. his gaze wavering, waiting for you to give him a cue to go. your eyes grazed past his shoulder at the door, a sense of fearful thrill bursting like fireworks in your stomach when you realize how easy it would be for people outside to hear you, and how they could look inside the window and see you two if they angle their head a certain amount.

this was exciting. nothing you have ever done before and nothing you imagined you would ever do, yet here you were with chan waiting above you, your wetness clenching at nothing impatiently.

“fuck me, chan,” you whispered, your eyes returning to him.

his heart leaped at those words, far too excited for his own good. he smiled, leaning down to your face before he huffed, “i was planning to.”

your legs twitched when he inserted himself in quickly, the stretch fast and thus, painful. but the time was ticking, you knew, so you didn’t blame him for not taking his time. the slickness in your hole was doing a fantastic job of helping him glide in and out of you smoothly, and chan had been planting butterfly kisses along your neck in an attempt to distract you from the pain of adjusting to his size.

your cunt was tightening around him, a sensation so pleasurable that it overwhelmed his senses and almost drained his sanity clean. you felt good, and the fact that you were you, the fact that he has been secretly in love with you for so long just made everything even better than he could ever imagine.

chan couldn’t think of anything else. his shameless mind only knew he wanted to keep going, he wanted to keep feeling you, he wanted to kiss you everywhere and make you feel so great he occupies your mind for the rest of the day. and he was giving in to the pleasure, leaning into the bliss and abandoned all that he has ever known to pound into you relentlessly.

the squelching sound of your pussy haunted every punch to your hole, your heavy breathing slowly turning to desperate little moans. your hands were clutching his arm just for the sake of having something to touch, feeling his prominent muscles flex under your skin, and letting it turn you on even more. and your legs flailed about until they finally wrapped around his hips and pushed him closer to you.

“ahh, chan–fuck!” you gritted out, his cock sliding along your walls quickly and creating never-ending friction. each time his tip reaches a deeper end of your hole, you feel a burst of fluttery feeling across your body. chan kept going, hitting the spot once, twice, three times until he suddenly thrust into you hard, and you let out a loud, chocked moan.

chan’s lips quirked up automatically, feeling his ego boost with that loud moan you let out. but instead of showing you his smugness, he clamped a hand over your mouth tightly and glared at you. your eyes widened as your brows furrowed, not confused as to why he shut up but annoyed that you couldn’t let out any noises at a location like this.

“you better keep quiet, baby,” he warned, thrusting into your harshly to test out his grip. your sudden moan was a muffled, but from the looks of your eyes, he could tell it would have been loud without restrictions. “you don’t need the whole floor finding out what we’re doing in here.”

you hummed out a whine, nodding obediently at him as your hands flew up to grip his hand. you didn’t try to move his hand, you let it stay over your lips and tried to navigate his hand until he gripped the sides of your jaw. chan raised a brow at you, bewildered but not opposing to making sure you shut the hell up for the remainder of this session.

his hips continued to roll against yours, and you found yourself bucking your hips up for more. the knot at your abdomen was twisting uncomfortably, feeling like it wanted nothing but to burst, so your legs tightened around his hips and kept drawing him closer to you, even though chan has physically no more space to move forward.

he kept fucking into you, his pace only picking up more and more when he could hear students shuffling and talking outside the door. time’s ticking, he has to finish off quickly now.

“shit–“ chan groaned under his breath when you suddenly clenched around him, your high approaching unexpectedly.

being unable to hear your voice sure didn’t give him any hint of when you were reaching your limit, and he was too drowned in the sensation to feel your body language. the way your legs pushed at his back, the way your hands continuously tightened around his wrist, the way your back kept arching off the desk. he couldn’t pick those up until he felt it suffocating his cock inside of you.

and his own high was racing to the finish line as well, the way your walls felt all warm and rough around him was unlike anything he has ever felt. no amount of toys could help him relish in a feeling like this, no amount of people could make him feel the way he was with you now.

it has to be your body, it has to be your cunt, it has to be you.

your whined against his palm when chan rammed into you at an even quicker pace, his lips touching your neck and you could hear him sucking in his breath. your hands flew up to the edge of the desk where you grabbed on, your back scratching against the wooden surface at the way he pounded into you. oh god, he was hitting deeper, how was he hitting deeper—fuck!

your back arched off the table suddenly, your eyes rolling up and a strangled scream barely seeping through the gaps of his fingers. you felt yourself release around him, your legs jerking and tightening around his hips at the fulfilling feeling of letting it all go. the tightness loosened up in your stomach and you felt pleasant and free.

chan continued to move, his breathing getting louder with each thrust. he could feel your cum, mixing in with the warmth of your walls and moving about around his cock. he shut his eyes when you pressed your arms around his back, holding him close to you. you pulled at his locks, stimulating his senses more, and you pressed your thighs together as you raised your legs a little higher to narrow your walls around him.

“ahh, fuck–fuck! ahh–“ he whined when he felt the bubble burst at his tip. he bottomed out inside, reaching to the hilt and finally allowing himself a satisfying release. his jaw dropped, his breath hitting against your neck as he panted for a moment before finally pulling out of you.

he didn’t leave your side, though. chan let go of your mouth so he could kiss you, his hand moving down to your hole so he could gather the dripping cum and push them back inside your pussy. pulling away from you, he looked into your eyes pointedly as he pushed his finger inside your heat, then he demanded softly, “you’re gonna sit through the lecture with my cum inside of you, hmm?”

you whimpered a little, feeling him press his finger against your walls. “yes, chan.”

“good girl,” chan smiled, running his hand through your hair and patting your head as a sign of praise.

almost immediately then, a knock sounded at the door, and you both widened your eyes at the noise.

right, classes!

scurrying off the desk, you picked up your safety shorts and pulled it back up your thighs again. you wiggled your waist to adjust your skirt before heading over to pick up your school bag. you dropped it on a chair before reaching down to grab chan’s backpack, bringing it to him with an amused smile.

“i’ll pick you up when class ends, okay?” he said as he took his bag, swinging it over his shoulders as he smiled at you. “if that’s fine with you, of course. we can have dinner together.”

you looked at him, a soft smile gracing your lips. “yeah, sure.”

he heaved a relieved sigh inwardly, hoping his nervousness didn’t seep through his facade. he reached an arm out around your shoulder and pulled you towards him, his lips briefly meeting the top of your head before pulling away and waved you a quick goodbye. he made his way out of the room, not forgetting to flick open the lights before he did so.

and, almost immediately, changbin walked into the classroom from the other direction. chan must have missed him when he walked out, because surely chan would have made a cheerful greeting and acted like he hadn’t just stuffed you full of his cum.

you stood stoic for a moment, catching his eyes and finding him stare back at you. well, while you did momentarily forgot about changbin, seeing him still made your heart pump from nervousness. damn, you really couldn’t get a moment’s of rest and think about the fact that you just had sex with chan in a classroom, huh?

to avoid staring longer at him, your lips pursed into an awkward smile as you waved at him before turning away to rummage through your bag.

but you didn’t get to do much, because only a few seconds later, his presence walked up close behind you and his hand went around your neck to give it a frighteningly familiar squeeze. your breath halted and you whimpered at the pressure he added to your bone, your hands flying up in defeat.

changbin huffed out an irritated laugh. he could recognize that whimper anywhere now, he’s replayed it so many times in his head.

he leaned close to your ear, his hot breath pricking the back of your neck dangerously and his chest pressed against your back. he spoke in a low tone, his words intending not for even the air surrounding you both.

“so you were the girl who fucked me in the closet a few weeks ago.”

you licked your lower lip and nodded. all that effort to result in this. “yeah…”

“i thought i recognized that choked moan somewhere,” he said, rolling his eyes as he recalled the awkwardness he felt when his hand left the doorknob and he stood to the side to wait.

it had taken him a second to find out why he felt icky all over his skin. he remembered your voice, and that sudden moan you let out through the door came from you.

he had his doubt, of course, something within him didn’t want it to be you, because how heartbreaking—and pathetic—would it be if he had been spending weeks hung up on your identity while you were, well, having fun in concerning locations.

he got his answers when chan walked out and you were the only person in the classroom. it has to be you; both your voice and the fact that you happened to also be in the circle that night.

there was a dramatic pause, the silence almost wrapping around you whole before he spoke again, “i’ve been looking for you everywhere. turns out you’re just here getting fucked by my friend.”

“tell me the truth,” he said, “was i better?”

you couldn’t answer. your mind simply blanked out and no thoughts were coherent at the moment. his hand deliberately pressed your neck, causing your chest to heave, and you could still feel the sticky substance sliding out your cunt and wetting up a patch at your panties. you didn’t know where to put your attention, and you felt hot all over once again.

just as changbin was about to taunt you even more, the classroom door opened with a loud bang. he quickly moved away from you and looked away, pretending to be walking off to the back of the class. but as he turned around and sat down, you found his hooded gaze was fixated on you, and you gulped at the words it told you.

you have the class period to figure out the answer to his question.

#stayverse #stray kids dark hours #stray kids smut #chan smut #bang chan smut #changbin smut #seo changbin smut #skz smut #skz dark hours

[babineni]

A Night Out in Dyrford

A little something something about a certain farmer becoming a mayor and how that complicated his relationship with his best friend.

Roughly 2500 words, cw for violence ending in beheading

"Dear Gaura"

Edér read the words over and over. Something didn't feel right about them, and he didn't even write anything worth writing yet. A single drop of ink dripped off his quill while he pondered how to continue. He sighed as he ripped a strip off the top of the page. He didn't have a whole lot of blank sheets of paper and he had no idea where to get any in Dyrford. Yet. It's only been a day since he arrived after all.

The Watcher was so much better at this, he mused. Edér looked at the page again.

"Miss having you around. I'll see you soon, I promise."

Now, he ruined the page. The farmer crumpled the sheet as if he could squeeze the thought out of his head. Not that there was anything wrong with such thoughts, he reassured himself, but he couldn't just put something like that on paper and have it sent to a friend. She might get the wrong idea. Edér tossed the tiny ball of paper over his shoulder. A second later he groaned as he stood up to clear it up. He couldn't just mess up a rented room like that.

A rented room. That was a decent place to start, he thought as he sat down again and took out a new, empty page.

"Gaura,

Just letting you know, I didn't go back to Gilded Vale so don't send any letters there. I'm in Dyrford now, I'm thinking about moving here. I got the sense I could help out around here, be of use, all that. And folks around here have been real friendly towards me so far. Reckon they remember us passing through. The mayor invited me over for dinner."

Me, he thought to himself and a chuckle bubbled up from him. He wasn't sure what to make of his situation. He wasn't used to being wanted around. At least not by anyone other than the Watcher. He liked the feeling.

"Willing to bet he'll try to get me to stick around. I'm thinking I'll play hard to get, but I do want to stay. We'll be basically neighbors. So don't think you're rid of me, just 'cause I left. I'm still around, I'll visit as soon as I'm able. And you better come over too."

Edér nodded at the letter in satisfaction. That will do.

"See you, when I see you,

Edér"

The farmer folded the page and a moment later he realized he didn't have any sealing wax. He shrugged. It's not like he could send it before morning, anyway, so it became a problem for tomorrow. That night's problem was the dinner. Edér wasn't sure how to present himself, not that he had a lot of options on that front. He didn't take most of the things the Watcher pampered him with. He could only hope she didn't take it as an offense that he left her gifts behind. It's bad enough he walked away from her. But what was he supposed to do? She became the Lady of Caed Nua, and Caed Nua became one suffocatingly fancy place. It was just like Gilded Vale - a home turning into... something else - something alien - right before his eyes. Except no one would have hurt him in Caed Nua, and knowing the Watcher, she would have let him live there however he wished to live. And he had a purpose now, one that lead him away from Caed Nua. He just wished he could've gone about his departure in a way that wasn't unfair to Gaura. She deserved better.

His old armor would do, he came to the conclusion. It always was lucky in a way, not that he needed luck, but it couldn't hurt. Edér lit his pipe and opened his windows, once he felt ready to go. He watched the smoke leave through the window and be carried away by a breeze. It was blowing towards Caed Nua. He glanced at the letter on his desk and made a mental note to ask around for messengers, as he put the pipe away a few minutes later.

By the time Edér left the Dracogen Inn, the sun was already setting. The mayor didn't live far from the town square, luckily, and the farmer got there in no time, and yet his host was already waiting for him by the door. He looked pale and a little anxious.

'Sorry for being late,' Edér couldn't help but apologize seeing the mayor's sorry state.

He, however, only blinked in confusion. 'No need, you're just in time,' he offered his hand with a strained smile.

'Happy to be here, if that's the case,' Edér shook the mayor's hand. He had quite the grip, he noted. His eyes probably just played tricks on hím.

'It will be just the two of us, if you don't mind,' the mayor said as he ushered him in. 'Wife's visiting relatives in Eina's Rest, dragged the kids along. So you'll have to bear with my cooking.'

Edér chuckled. 'Can't be worse than my own cooking and I've been eating that crap for years.'

The mayor's house was more spacious than Edér expected. It had an upper floor and there were no rooms on the ground floor, just a kitchen, the hearth and a rather long table with plates prepared on each end. And yet there was also something about the place that made the farmer feel like the walls would close around him if he stayed in there too long. Still, he took the seat the mayor pointed to and said nothing when the mayor came to fill his cup with beer that had a strangely red-ish hue.

'It's from Dengler's reserves, beer made of strawberries and wheat'

'That's real kind of you, thanks,' Edér shuffled awkwardly in his seat. He didn't expect any sort of fuss around him and could only hope things wouldn't escalate beyond the fancy beer and the Pearlwood chicken on his plate.

'The last time you were here, you helped out quite a lot around here. This is the least I could do to welcome you back,' the mayor made his way to the end of the table and sat down as well. He poured himself a drink as well, and drank it in a few gulps. 'Sorry, cooking got me feeling real parched.'

Edér drank from the beer for courtesy's sake. 'Don't be. There was really no need for your trouble. I'm really just here looking for work and lodging. Like most folk coming here, I assume.'

'Most folk coming here didn't take part in ending Waidwen's Legacy. Really, the honor is mine.'

'Mine was a pretty small part,' Edér's fingers lightly drummed by the fork in front of him. 'The Watcher did all the important bits, I just stood between her and everyone coming at her mostly.'

'I imagine she had quite a few folk coming at her. I heard some... troubling things about her last visit here.'

The farmer tried to forget about that particular memory. He emptied his cup, hoping that the beer going down his throat would drown the disgust turning into nausea in his belly. The shadows in the room seemed suddenly very long in the last rays of the sun.

'Yeah, she's got a knack for tangling with cults,' Edér chuckled. 'Remind me to tell you about our trip to the White March.'

'You really make it sound like standing between her and her enemies was quite the part to play,' the mayor let out a vaguely bitter laugh. 'Sure hope you got paid handsomely.'

'It ain't ever been about the money,' Edér picked up the utensils and was about to cut into the chicken when he realized he wasn't really hungry. He noticed the mayor hasn't touched his dish either. It was already dark outside and the room looked a lot smaller than when he entered it. At the other end of the table his host gave him a knowing nod.

'And yet you're here, looking for work and lodging.'

'Reckoned I'd be more useful here than in Caed Nua,' the knife in Edér's hand felt almost comforting to him.

'So there's no bad blood between you two, that is good to know. Good on you, son,' the mayor filled his cup again and raised it to Edér, a grin growing wide on his face. 'To your friendship with the Watcher.'

At that moment, the farmer realized why the room felt as crammed as it did: as he looked over the mayor's shoulder, he noticed an axe by the hearth; as he looked to the window, he noticed a garden hoe resting against the windowsill; and of course there was the pitchfork right by the door, just waiting to find its proper place in someone's chest. Completely ordinary things in a completely ordinary house in a completely ordinary village. Dyrford already felt like home. Edér let out a hearty laugh as he stood up.

'Can't really drink to that,' he said. 'My cup's running dry.'

'Well, why didn't you say so?' The mayor stayed seated. If Edér had to guess, he was going to grab the axe the moment he turned his back to him.

'Guess our conversation was just that godsdamned riveting.'

For a moment he and the mayor eyed each other in silence. Then the moment passed, and Edér dashed for the door. He grabbed the pitchfork and without looking, he ducked. He heard a swing going for the spot where his head was a fraction of a moment before. Edér turned around just in time to block the second swing coming at him - and the garden hoe got stuck between the tines of the fork. Edér couldn't help but scoff in surprise. He pulled the pitchfork to the side, dragging the hoe and the mayor at its end along, creating the perfect opening. The farmer landed a blow on the mayor's ribs, drawing a stifled grunt out of him but just as he lifted his fist for a second hit, the mayor dropped their interlocked weapons and lunged straight for Edér's throat. His momentum pushed the farmer against the door. Dull pain bloomed on the back of his head where it hit the door, fuelling a rage burning in Edér's veins. He twisted the hands off his neck until he heard joints cracking and cries of pain, then he slammed his head in the mayor's. The force of his strike sent the mayor staggering back against the table.

Edér could've turned and ran. The mayor could've grabbed a knife from the table and lunged at him again. And yet, both their gazes darted to the axe by the hearth. If only the Watcher were there, Edér thought just as he ran towards his goal, she could've made him faster. But as it were, the mayor threw himself at the axe, and while he may have been on the floor he held on to it firmly. Edér got there a moment later and barely stopped himself from crashing into the weapon held out at him. The farmer grabbed it instead and pulled. Then pulled again. But the mayor held on to the axe for dear life. Edér then twisted the axe downwards instead, leveraging every muscle in his body, and pushed with all the strength he had.

The next thing he knew, he was covered in the mayor's blood. The axe went right through his neck.

'Shit,' Edér muttered as the realization dawned on him: he just murdered the mayor of his would-be new hometown. His legs shook as he made his way to the table and emptied the mayor's glass that he raised to his friendship with Gaura. If only she were there, she would know just the right thing to say to save him from this mess. He sighed. As he walked to the door it felt awfully far away.

Edér wasn't sure what he expected when he opened the door. He certainly didn't expect a crowd gathering in front of the house, staring at him wide-eyed. It was only then that he realized he was still holding the axe. He dropped it hurriedly as he raised his palms.

'I can explain.'

But before he could say anything, Dengler, the innkeeper pushed past the crowd and looked him over. When he saw the blood wasn't his, he pushed past the farmer as well, and into the house. He came back out with the mayor's head.

'The mayor's dead!' He held up the head and Edér was almost certain he was doomed. But in the next moment he saw something completely unexpected: relief washing over the crowd.

'The Twinned God blessed us today!' He heard a voice cry out in joy.

'Bless you, stranger, bless you!'

More and more voices joined into one bizarre, celebratory cacophony, that Edér couldn't process, but it became clearer with every passing moment that these people were terrified of their cultist neighbors and that he was needed here.

'Wait, who will lead the town now?' A question arose in the joyful chaos, and it quickly silenced the crowd. Edér stood stunned as gradually more and more gazes fell upon him, questioning him, pleading to him...

'If you want... Uh... I could give it a go.'

A moment of silence followed his offer, then another question came.

'What's your name?'

An awkward laugh burst out of Edér. What was he thinking? These people didn't know him, they may be grateful but who would trust a stranger with the responsibility of running their hometown?

'I'm Edér,' he answered regardless.

'Gods bless Mayor Edér!'

And the celebrations continued. Edér felt Dengler's hand on his back guiding him away from the mayor's - former mayor's - house and towards the inn.

'Needless to say, your room is on me until we get you a proper house,' he said as he opened the inn for the crowd and for the new guest of honor.

Edér muttered a thanks and did his best to slip away to his room quietly. He left his window open, he realized and the evening breeze was now caressing the letter he wrote not so long ago. It ended up on the floor while he was away and it was now bathed in the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

"See you, when I see you"

It felt like a lifetime ago that he wrote those words. The excitement he felt then felt foolish now. The mayor was awfully interested in the Watcher and the relationship he had with her. Edér knew he wasn't his real target. All those months ago when they first came to Dyrford, that girl they saved wasn't the Skeanites' real target either. He sighed as he reached for the letter and took it to his desk. He lit a candle and fed the sheet of paper to the tiny flame. The smoke stung his eyes.

It took him some time to finally clean up and go to bed, but when he did, Edér was overcome with a sense of loneliness he hasn't felt in a long time. He fell asleep holding onto a crumpled piece of paper that he couldn't bring himself to burn. He liked the thoughts it contained.

"Miss having you around. I'll see you soon, I promise."

#pillars of eternity #edér teylecg #Wrytinge™ #i couldn't sleep until i finished this idk what spelling is anymore

[tsarisfanfiction]

End of Blue: Chapter 1

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Gordon Tracy, Scott Tracy, Tracy Brothers

Thunderbird One’s dead in the water.  Scott Tracy isn’t responding.  Rescues never feel the same when it’s one of their own they have to save.

~~~ Once again, you can all thank, or blame, the wonderful @gumnut-logic for this thing.  Two seemingly unrelated vague conversations have ended up culminating in one of my specialties - yup, another Scott!whump, as though I haven’t written enough of these already (no such thing as enough!).  Not sure how frequently this is going to be updated - or how long it’ll be.  I know what Chapter 2 is going to do and I know there will need to be at least one more chapter after that, but muses do weird things.  Title has been snaffled from Beast in Black’s “End of the World”, make of that what you will.

“Gordon!”

John appeared in front of him, looking not quite his usual calm self.  For John to be showing that, even to a brother who’d learnt to read his nuances, meant that something was very, very wrong.

Gordon’s hands inadvertently tightened on the controls of Thunderbird Four as he held the sinking ship steady while Alan did the evac in Thunderbird Two.  This sounded like terrible timing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, skipping all the quips he’d make if it was just a regular check-in.  The loss of John’s fantastic poker face and resulting prickles down his spine told him it was far from one.

“How long until evac’s done?” his space-residing brother asked.  An unusual question from their Eye In The Sky, but with Thunderbird Five under annual maintenance, the ginger didn’t have all his usual data.  Not even half of it.  Maybe that was causing the panic, but it was just that – annual. Nothing unusual, if universally disliked.

“Alan’s clearing the last of them now,” he said.  “But I’ve been asked to hold the ship steady until the GDF get here; they’re suspecting something’s-”

“Screw the GDF,” John interrupted, and woah something was really niggling him if he was getting that obviously frantic.  “The first instant you can let go of that ship, get the hell back to Two.”

That was not John-typical at all.  Gordon’s squid sense almost exploded.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “John, where do I need to be?”  He was running through scenarios but he couldn’t think of a single reason John would be hurrying him like this.  Not unless-

“Thunderbird One’s down.”

Shit.  “In the ocean?”

“North Pacific.”

That was the other side of the world.  Two hours, easy, until they got there, and they didn’t even have Virgil to get all the juice out of his ‘bird, what with the collection of broken bones he’d acquired on the last rescue.  Gordon forced his hands to relax before he inadvertently gave Four a command he didn’t mean to.

“Scott?”  Thunderbird One was watertight, she should be able to hold out as long as she wasn’t too deep.  As long as whatever had taken her down hadn’t compromised that… What the hell even took her down?

“Not answering.”  John always looked a shade or two off through the holograms, but Gordon suspected that this time the too-pale skin wasn’t entirely a trick of technology.  “Too much of Thunderbird Five is still offline; I don’t have telemetry.  Brains and EOS are working as fast as they can, but it’ll still be a few more hours before she’s fully back online.”

Gordon was just grateful enough of her was online to register One’s crash.

“Have you told Alan?” he asked.

“He knows you need to get to the North Pacific yesterday,” John answered.  “Not why.”

Alan was going to be furious at being left in the dark, but Gordon understood why.  He’d have to fill him in on the flight over.

“We’ll get there,” he promised, because there wasn’t another option.  They had to.  “Give me updates as you get them.”

“F.A.B.”  It was a reluctant acknowledgement, but they both knew John was almost useless until Five was fully online.  “I’ll update Tracy Island.”

Gordon did not envy him that task one bit.  Virgil was going to freak out.  Badly.

“That’s the last of them, Gordon,” Alan broke in.  “John says-”

“On my way,” Gordon interrupted – okay, so he was a little frazzled, too.  Sue him.  It wasn’t every day he had to rescue his eldest brother from an unplanned watery landing.  “John told me.  I’ll fill you in on the details when we’re on the way.”  He released the ship and shot back towards his floating module as fast as Thunderbird Four could handle.  “Don’t wait for me to get out of Four.  Grab the module as soon as I’m docked and go.”

“What about the crew? We need to drop them off, remember?”

Gordon had forgotten about the crew.  “Any of them need the hospital?”  A high-speed spin and he was in position for the cable to draw Thunderbird Four up the ramp.

“No, but-”

“Then they get a joyride in Two.”  Clunk, and the docking began.  Maybe he shouldn’t be authorising a nice round trip for a bunch of sailors, but it was already a two hour journey and they had no idea how badly Scott was hurt, or what sort of damage One had taken.  Gordon had salvaged downed planes before.

They weren’t pretty.

“Gordon, what-”

“Module’s ready for retrieval,” he interrupted, mostly because he didn’t want to answer the inevitable question just yet.  “Haul me up and punch it.”

“F.A.B.”  Alan sounded far from happy, but the familiar noises and rocking sensation of module retrieval began.

Despite his instinct being to run straight to the cockpit and fill Alan in, thereby making sure he was indeed going as fast as Two could go, Gordon took his time with his post-dive checks.  Thunderbird Four needed to be in top condition for the next rescue, and he refused to jeopardise Scott’s safety by fluffing the checks on the ‘bird that was going to save him.

She was, thankfully, just fine.  No warning lights, no errors, scratches or scrapes.  Thunderbird Four was more than ready for the rescue.

Now they just had to wait until they got there.

“Explain,” Alan ordered the moment he entered the cockpit.  The rescued crew were also looking at him attentively, although thankfully none of them seemed to mind the detour.  Gordon ignored them as he sidled into his seat and began checking their flight data.

Alan was a good kid; he’d heard punch it and taken it for the order it was.  Thunderbird Two was travelling at top speed, hurtling through the skies towards her drowning sister with everything she had.

Still, there was always room for a little more, and Gordon flicked a few switches.

“Gordon!”

“Thunderbird One’s down,” he admitted.  Behind them, he heard the unified gasps of shock from their passengers.  “John can’t raise her, and we have no telemetry.”

“In the ocean?” Alan asked. He didn’t sound like he believed it. Gordon just hoped he wasn’t going to go into shock when it sank in.  Hell, he hoped he wasn’t going to go into shock when it sank in.

“Yup.  No more data, no idea why, no contact.  We just know she’s down.”

Despite already reportedly being maxed out, Thunderbird Two sped up.  Gordon knew Virgil hated it when Alan or Scott treated her like their own ‘birds and pushed the limits, but he suspected they might get a pass this time.

Speaking of their grounded older brother…

“Gordon, Alan!”

Virgil looked awful. The pyjamas and general ‘injured person’ vibes – including at least one visible cast and general mummification by bandages – aside, it was entirely too obvious that he’d been filled in on what little they knew.

“Receiving you, Virgil. Any way this girl of yours can go any faster?” he answered.  “Alan’s trying, but he’s not you.”

“Hey!”

“Make sure you get there in one piece!” Virgil demanded.

“That’s the plan,” Alan promised.  “Anything from Scott?”

Virgil’s face tightened, panic and frustration both clearly etched onto his face.  It hurt to look at – Gordon knew he wanted nothing more than to be where Alan was right then, getting every last scrap of speed out of his ‘bird.  Gordon wanted him there, too, and not just for piloting.  Virgil would have a plan, but most importantly, Virgil had the best medical knowledge.  If Scott was hurt – not really an if if they weren’t getting any contact from him – Gordon wanted the best man for the job.

The best man was currently stuck in the infirmary with too many broken bones to be of any practical use even once they got Scott home.  Gordon and Alan were just going to have to make do with their lesser qualifications.

“Nothing,” Virgil growled, as though the word physically pained him.  It probably did.

“Maybe he’s just out of range while Five’s down?” Alan suggested hopefully.  They all knew that wasn’t likely, but Gordon wasn’t going to be the one to shoot it down.  Not when he wanted to believe it, too.

“I’ll try pinging him from Two,” he said instead, both for something to do and in the vain hope that Alan might be right – never mind that geographically they were further from Tracy Island than Thunderbird One was and their comms were working fine.

“Is there anything we can do?” the ship’s captain asked from behind them.  “I know we’re not you guys, but if there’s anything…”

Gordon was so glad they weren’t kicking up a fuss.

“Accept our apologies for the extended trip,” he shrugged.  “Otherwise, there’s not much anyone can do until we know more.”  He opened the line to Thunderbird One.

It connected.  Normally, he’d call that a good start.  Now, it just filled him with dread, because it meant comms weren’t down.

“Thunderbird One from Thunderbird Two,” he called.  “Scott, are you receiving?”

Silence.

On the other line, Virgil looked almost as pale as John’s normal holographic visage.  Whether that was the pain from his injuries, or something less physical, Gordon didn’t dare guess.

“Scott!” he tried again. “Thunderbird One, do you hear me?”

Nothing.  Not even a flicker of visual or a semi-conscious groan of pain. Nothing at all.

The thought crossed his mind that Scott wasn’t even in her.

“John, how soon before you get the cameras back online?” he asked.  The ginger head popped up to accompany Virgil’s over the dashboard – Gordon’s earlier observation had been right.  Their faces were both the exact same pallor.  It wasn’t a good look on either of them.  Beside him, Alan wasn’t looking too hot, either.  He didn’t dare think about his own appearance.  “If we can’t raise him, we can at least try and see what we’re dealing with.”

The line had connected, and he hadn’t heard water.  Hopefully that meant she wasn’t leaking and Scott was still comfy and dry, but Gordon wanted to be sure.

Needed to be sure. The rescue would be a lot more complicated without that sort of information.

“Cameras are online, but Thunderbird One’s are turned off right now.”  John’s face was the picture of frustration, and he wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding it in his voice, either.  “It’ll take a little longer before I can access them to turn them on, but EOS is making it a priority.”

Scott never let any of the rest of them turn their internal cameras off.  From now on, Gordon was going to enforce that rule for Thunderbird One, too.  If John and Virgil didn’t beat him to it.

Beside him, Alan was sitting in silence, staring ahead as though if he glared at the world hard enough, he could discover the secrets of teleportation.  Gordon really wished it worked that way.

Sadly, teleportation didn’t exist, and they were having to do things the slow way.  Not that Two was slow, but she certainly wasn’t fast enough.  Not today.

The minutes crawled past like hours.  With Alan firmly in control and channelling Scott’s inner-speed demon as much as the big green ‘bird would allow, there was little for Gordon to do except periodically try to hail Scott, getting ever more concerned as silence persistently responded. He could understand a black-out for a few minutes, but it was – he checked the time – at least an hour since John had contacted him and there was still nothing on the other end of the line.

Virgil was still there, hovering in his bed-bound state and periodically throwing his own frantic calls Scott’s way. Gordon hadn’t even tried to tell him to leave it to them, reminding him that there was nothing he could do.

No-one knew that better than Virgil, after all, and his frustration at his helplessness was steadily mounting the longer the silence persisted.

With no solid information on what they were going to find – external access cameras, which Scott hadn’t turned off, were merrily showing nothing but water and the occasional sea life investigating the strange intruder – Gordon turned his time towards planning.  Plans for an intact Thunderbird One, plans for a leaking Thunderbird One, plans of extraction depending on the severity of Scott’s condition.  He might be going in blind, but he wasn’t going to be going in unprepared.

“Coming up on the co-ordinates now.”  Alan broke through his planning – this scenario involving Thunderbird One somehow stuck and unable to be airlifted – to give him the heads’ up.  His younger brother had been far too subdued the entire flight, and Gordon just hoped he’d be able to keep it together a while longer.  Thunderbird Five wasn’t online enough to have remote control access yet.

And she still didn’t have telemetry, which John was panicking over more and more as Scott continued to be non-responsive, or control over Thunderbird One’s internal cameras.

“F.A.B.,” Gordon responded automatically, getting up from his seat and heading straight for the module and his Thunderbird.  She was just as he’d left her – fully prepared for the next dive – and he settled into the cockpit with ease of experience.

This was just one more rescue.  One with limited information and a brother’s life on the line, but still just one more rescue.  He could do this.

He had to do this.

Pre-dive checks were completed, all systems green and raring to go.  He wondered if she was as anxious to get to her sister as he was his brother.

“Ready for module deployment,” he reported, and barely a moment later they were falling, crashing into the water and rocking for a moment before they stabilised.  “Alan, see if you can get a scan of Thunderbird One’s condition.”  It wouldn’t be as good as a Thunderbird Five scan, but immediately overhead, Thunderbird Two should be able to get something.

Thunderbird Four slid out of the module and under the surface to the tune of his brother’s “F.A.B.” Nose pointed down and sonar active, he pushed her as fast as he dared towards the location they had for the downed Thunderbird.  It wouldn’t be exact – Thunderbird Five’s maintenance downtime crippling the accuracy – but Gordon had enough faith in it to trust that he was at least in range.

Sonar registered the craft just as Alan called him.

“Scans show one life sign,” he said, and Gordon knew he wasn’t imagining the relief in his younger brother’s voice – mostly because he felt it, too.  One life sign meant Scott was alive.  Whatever state he was in, he was alive.  “But Thunderbird One’s been taking on water.  Scans suggest she’s half-flooded.”

That was not such good news. It had to be a small leak, if it was only half after two hours, but with Scott still not responding, he had no idea if his brother was wearing his helmet.

Flooding also meant she was going to be heavier to lift, but the amount of water meant it would be too risky to deploy the tube to link the two craft and attempt to evac Scott into Four. He sent one more ping at the downed Thunderbird, hoping against hope that Scott would answer this time.

He didn’t.

Getting visual on her was a muted sort of relief.  On the one hand, Scott was found, but on the other, Thunderbird One was not supposed to be nestled on the seabed.  It just wasn’t right.

Her wings were still closed, implying she’d been supersonic, and the nose cone was crumpled from the impact with either the water or the sea floor.  Perhaps both.  Gordon suspected that was the source of the leak, but he was more interested in the way she wasn’t entirely belly-down.  Rolled ever so slightly on her side, he should be able to get some sort of visual through the viewing window.

“I’ve got eyes on her,” he belatedly reported.  “Her nose is damaged but otherwise she doesn’t look too bad.  She’s not quite belly-down, so I’m going to go EVA and see what I can see through the viewing window.”

He just needed to see Scott. See that he was okay, see if he had his helmet on and if it was intact.

“Be careful,” John warned. “Your suit won’t hold for long at those depths.”

That was normally Virgil’s line, but Virgil had gone silent.  Gordon would worry about that later, once Scott was safe.

“I just need to check his condition,” he said, tipping backwards into the airlock.  “I won’t be long.”

Compared to Thunderbird Two, Thunderbird One always seemed small.  Somehow, in the wide expanse of the ocean, she looked big.  Crashed machinery instead of sleek ‘bird.  The thought made him shudder as he pushed through the water, heading straight for the panel of window he could see.

Thunderbird One’s emergency lighting was on, dim and shrouding most things in shadow.

It was enough to see that Scott was slumped in the pilot chair.  Definitely unconscious, and also not wearing his helmet, because that would have made Gordon’s job too easy.

It wasn’t enough to see why.

He banged on the glass, in case the vibrations could do what persistent comms couldn’t and rouse his brother.

Nothing.

The water was up past Scott’s boots; Gordon couldn’t see how far but his brother was at least partially submerged.

“Alan, we’ll need the lifting bags.”  There was no way he could safely get Scott out until they were on the surface.

“Coming down to you now.” It was Virgil who responded, deep voice full of determination.  Gordon suspected he’d demanded the remote controls for them.  “How is he?  Can you see him?”

“I can see he’s still in his seat,” Gordon answered.  “Not wearing his helmet, so I can’t evac him until she’s lifted with all that water in her, and still not responding to anything.  It’s too dark to see anything else.”

“Any sign of what brought them down?” John asked.

“Nothing,” Gordon admitted, and that concerned him, because what could bring One down – especially with Scott piloting her?  “Only damage I’m seeing so far is from the landing.”

“Lift bags incoming,” Virgil warned, and he looked up to see the yellow bags descending.

With one last look at his unmoving brother, eerie with the emergency lighting playing over the water inside, he peeled himself away from the viewing window and swam up to meet them, making sure they were firmly attached to the Thunderbird.  No room for error.

“Ready to deploy.”

He swam back to Thunderbird Four, slipping back inside and into the cockpit to watch as the bags inflated and slowly, slowly, peeled the downed ‘bird off of the sea floor.

The ascent seemed to take forever, and Gordon kept pace the entire time, peering through the viewing window as best he could to keep an eye on his brother.  There was no movement at all, no reaction to the way his Thunderbird was rising back up to the surface.

If not for Alan’s report of a life sign, he would have been fearing the worst.  As it was, he was still terrified that something was badly wrong, although with Thunderbird One mostly intact, he wasn’t sure what. There shouldn’t have been anything to knock him out.  Certainly not for this long.

The moment they breached the surface, he latched on to her with Thunderbird Four’s arms and once again left his ‘bird.  Gecko gloves gave him the grip he needed to scramble up to Thunderbird One’s dorsal hatch, and with a quick manual override – that thankfully worked – he dropped down into thigh-deep water inside the Thunderbird.

“Scott!” he called, ignoring frantic demands from his brothers that he update them.  He’d update them when he knew what was going on himself.  Thunderbird One rolled gently with the water she was floating on, somewhat stabilised by Four but not entirely.  Not until clanks told him Alan had fired grapples to lock on.

He waded his way towards the pilot chair, eyeing the way Scott was slumped and already mentally running through all the possible reasons for his unresponsiveness.  A hand on the shoulder of the seat – not his brother until he knew injuries – and he pulled himself the rest of the way until he was in front of Scott, and-

Oh shit.

He must have said it out loud, because suddenly there were three brothers in his ear – loud and frantic – but he only had eyes for his white, white brother.  None of his theories, his suspicions, had been right. Not even close.

Blood-soaked bandages wrapped around Scott’s abdomen, but it wasn’t those that had Gordon’s teeth grinding in a mix of fear and fury.  No.

It was the knife buried hilt-deep.

tbc...

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #gordon tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #alan tracy #virgil tracy #end of blue

[musicallisto]

☠ Dork of a Best Friend (Dan Pierce)

anon requested: Maybe like a ilitw dan x mc where they aren’t together yet and dan is jealous of one of the other guys relationship with the mc and so he watches as they flirt with mc but finally tells her how he feels. Angst at first then whatever you want in the end (just as long as they end up together :) )

word count: 2000+ words

summary: In which Dan tries to concile all the contradictory feelings in his heart, including his very weird attraction for his best friend and his anger when seeing her with Noah.

author notes: Jealousy, a little bit of angst but not much, happy ending! :)

It started out as a silly, middle-grader crush, really. Dan was sure of it. He couldn’t have had feelings for her before, even minor - it was when he entered ninth grade and people all around him started to make a real fuss about dating and love. But as a ninth grader, Dan had no idea about love or its intricate physics, so he didn’t really pay attention to the mixed signals his mind and body sent him when he made eye contact with his childhood best friend. He restrained the intrusive thoughts in the middle of a History class that reminded him of how beautiful she had gotten over the summer once again and shot down the butterflies in his stomach when their fingers brushed oh-so-lightly. He ignored it all, convinced it would go away, that he was just too attached to Devon - in a friendly way, of course. What other way could it be? - and it would go away with time when he would start to understand a little more about girls.

Four years later, he was almost done with high school and still had no idea about girls nor the mixed signals he got around Devon.

Especially not the nausea and irrepressible need to punch something or someone whenever he saw Noah and Devon together, pressed on a couch at a house party none of them really wanted to attend, killing time by telling endless stories. Dan had observed them more than once, smiling at each other timidly in the hallways and meeting after school to take a walk through the town, keeping a respectable distance to the woods, as though they were something sacred and redoubtable. He had seen Noah shudder when his eyes wandered off and found the tall shadow of the trees, and he had seen Devon place a comforting hand on his shoulder and worriedly scan his face. He didn’t have any right to feel this way - Noah had always been Devon’s favorite, and as far as he could remember, she had always had a sweet, young crush on the boy with cold, denim laughs and mud eyes. Dan was the one Devon had told about her attraction, a seven-year-old little girl smiling proudly “I’m going to marry Noah! But don’t tell him!” - and Dan had always been relegated to the background, to the role of the best friend, the adviser, and never to be more.

He couldn’t possibly tell her the truth. He couldn’t possibly tell her that he feared the young woman smiling proudly had captured his heart and would never give it back.

So he stayed silent. Kept quiet. It was what he had always done, and what he was best at; not saying a word, pretending everything was under control, when in reality he was falling down a rabbit hole every day and had no roots, no miraculous stone to hang onto and climb his way back. He played football every day, more than he ever had, surrounded himself with the most popular, the most superficial he could find, those who could help him forget. Numb. He skipped more than a few sessions with his psychiatrist, claiming he wasn’t feeling well one day, he had to focus on his work another, he had football practice yet another.

And before he knew it, a thousand empty smiles and filled red cups had replaced the one brimming smiled he had ever cared about.

They stopped talking. It was a soft process, there were no arguments, no insults nor knives thrown to the chest, no betrayal, no cold shoulder for days. There was no dramatic scene in front of the high school, no running away from a party, eyes watery, escaping from the couples slow-dancing to Creep to the freshness of the night.

It was a soft process. Progressive. Discreet. But it didn’t hurt less. Actually, it probably was the most painful way Dan could have ever ended his friendship with his long-time crush. It was crossing her path in the hallways, the two too timid, too ashamed to say hi, to even look at each other. It was abnormal, straight stares, up ahead, avoiding at all costs the football jersey and the whimsical brown curls. It was the disappointment in Devon’s shoulders, slumping sadly after Noah informed her that for the first time in years, Dan had come home without her. It was Dan’s parents’ perplexity when Devon’s birthday came up and he refused to call her, vaguely explaining they “hadn’t talked much lately”.

It was just like that. It was what once was the strongest stainless steel bridge between two children that was rusting, attacked, bitten by the claws of time, of misunderstandings, of jealousy, and of trials. And it was painful because, even if they would have never admitted it, preferring showing their powerful side to their respective friends, both silently hoped that the other would have the courage to build back the bridge.

But the bridge remained hopelessly collapsed for three years of high school.

And as ridiculous as he sounded at the unhealthy hours of the morning, tossing and turning in the middle of yet another insomnia, he couldn’t help seeing Noah standing on the other side of the broken bridge, far, far away from him, his arm surrounding Devon’s shoulder.

He knew Devon had always been brave, loyal, and quite short-tempered; it hadn’t been a difficult aspect of her personality to grasp, only evolving more and more as the years passed. He could remember clearly a nine-year-old standing up for him in the middle of a crowded school playground, overflowing with cruel kids, their mockery, his traumas. He could remember clearly an outraged nine-year-old pointing inquisitive fingers, yelling “shut up! You don’t know anything! Dan is braver than any of you!”. That was how Devon had always been. She stood up for her friends. She never let them behind; she’d rather die than live with the guilt that one of her loved ones was in pain and she had done nothing about it. She stood her ground. Firm. Tough.

And despite that certain portrait of Devon, despite every time she had proven him wrong in the eighteen years he had known her, he didn’t expect her to walk up to him and demand an explanation.

“Hey, Dan, I think it’s about time you tell me what’s going on,” an unmistakable voice suddenly rang in his ears as he was picking up his notebooks in his locker.

A lightning ball struck him in an instant. It had been months since he had heard that voice, bearer of all his most prized childhood memories, of all his courage and hope. It had been months since he had heard her, and maybe even longer since he had last talked to her. He had thousands of things to tell her, millions - but his mouth was dry and his throat obstructed by months of doubt and introspection.

So he kept quiet and simply turned to her.

A crevice had crawled its way to her forehead, showing her worry, and her eyes raced all around his face, searching for the smallest of fissures, the smallest of signs of weakness, anything that could explain his behavior for the past months... but Dan knew her too well, and knew himself too well. He knew she would use any crack to break him to pieces, to have the upper hand, and she wouldn’t leave without it, without an apology or a marble statue at her feet. So he contracted his muscles and remained perfectly still, emotionless.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low, his lips straight, his words blank.

“What do I mean?” she exclaimed, obviously scandalized. Her wrath came in waves and crashed down onto the poor boy, making it harder and harder for him to stay on course. “What do I mean? You’re the one who’s been ignoring me for months for no reason at all! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’ve never acted this way before and- and I’ve tolerated but I deserve better than being left on read by my best friend.”

He bitterly retained a laugh. My best friend. How long would it take before she understood? Before she realized? Before she opened her eyes and stopped being so damn clueless, all secluded in her isolated tower? He didn’t want to be her best friend! He liked her!

Stand perfectly still. Emotionless. Over all of that. Over her. He could do it. He had spent months doing it. A second more wouldn’t change anything.

“Let it go,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping as he turned away from the girl, proceeding to stack up his books.

“No. No, I won’t let it go,” she fiercely bit back, leaning one hand on the side of his locker, preventing him from avoiding the confrontation like he had cowardly done for months. “Damn it, Dan, I want to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” the young boy shrugged, his voice more abrupt and cold than he had wanted. “You can go back to your Noah,” he spat.

The two teenagers froze in place. The coldest of silences hung around them, enveloping them in its noxious embrace. Realization was crawling its way up to their two skulls: Dan had only just heard his previous words, which had escaped from his lips like a reflex, a defensive barrier against intruders; and Devon, paralyzed like after the passing of a raging storm, was witnessing all the clouds shatter in her mind, all the gray areas scattering, revealing the true reason why her best friend had stopped talking to her so brusquely.

“So... so that’s why you stopped talking to me?” she asked, softer this time, her voice a single murmur like the unsure whisper of a waterfall. “Because... because I started spending more time with Noah and you were jealous?”

Dan bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It was not supposed to go this way. She was going to uncover his secret feelings and it wasn’t the way he would have wanted it; she would laugh, she would mock him, and he would lose her for good this time. All because of Noah!

“I... I thought you were better than that,” she admitted with an incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “So that’s it? You couldn’t bear not being the center of my world so you just... disappeared? Ignored me because I had other friends? I never thought you were that self-cent-”

“You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” he muttered with a nervous chuckle.

“Say what? That you’re a suppressed narcissist an-”

“That I like you!” he yelled, slamming the door of his locker shut.

And she stood there, immobile, pierced by a knife right through her open chest, lips parted, and he stood there, scanning her furiously, taking his head in his arms and breathing heavily.

“I like you and it’s stupid because I know you like Noah and you’ve always liked Noah and I’ve never been more than the best friend but I was jealous because you spend all your time with him and never with me and I couldn’t stand it anymore and I would understand it if you hated me a-”

Soft, careful hands lifted his chin up and he found himself silent in front of the deepest of concerned browns.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you liked me?”

“Tell you?!” he choked out. “No! You... you would have laughed or told me we are better off as friends or-”

“No,” Devon assured quietly, a sweet shade of pink on her cheeks betraying the nature of her thoughts. “No, because I... I kind of like you too...”

“See, you would’v- wait, what?”

Her laugh tinkled deliciously before she reduced the space between their lips and initiated the sweetest kiss Dan had ever dreamed of. They parted after a few seconds and Dan hadn’t moved a muscle, too stunned to process everything that was going on.

“So... so that means you don’t want to marry Noah anymore?” he stammered, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Devon giggled, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately. She had missed her dork of a best friend - and hopefully now, something more.

#it lives in the woods #ilitw #choices #choices stories you play #pixelberry #dan pierce #one shot #dan pierce x mc #mywriting

[spideyxchelle]

this is PART 1 of my spideychelle regency au. there will be two parts. 

i am being free and loose with the history in this head canon/ficlet, like history is a guideline in this fic. also as a WOC, MJ would not have been received in society the way that she is in this head canon/ficlet. but fuck that. she’s bamf.

y’all know the deal. i don’t edit. 

Peter Parker is of meager means. 

His status in society is that of a poor man. With no money, lands or titles to his name his Aunt often reminds him that the most he can wish for is a trade and a comfortable life in the country. And, for a time, the thought of this life, a simple life, is a welcome one.

Yet, when he turns fifteen war breaks out and honor dictates he serve the crown and his country. It is 1812 and the navy is dispatched to America to fight in the name of King George. 

Peter is not a sailor. He is a blacksmith with strong arms, a mind for metal working and a gentle disposition. The war turns a tradesmen into a soldier. His superior, the brother of the King, Admiral Stark is a congenial man. He is smart, has a mind for strategy and has assembled the country’s best naval officers to fight this war. The rest of the sailors call Admiral Stark’s ragtag band of officers the Avengers for it is said they would avenge the injustice brought about by the one-time colonies of America.

For the first six months of war, Peter is a no one. He’s a strong lad with a quick mind and a head for deciphering problems, but he at fifteen none of the men pay him much mind. Until the Battle of Lake Eyrie. 

The Americans fight with more grit than Peter had anticipated, than the Royal Navy had suspected. Though small, they gain control of the port and light fire to Admiral Stark’s ship. 

Peter sees the ship go up in flames from a boat away and courage propels him to jump in the water. There are men, good English men, aboard that ship and if no one will act to save them then he must. The tide is rough and the fresh water has terrifying creatures that the sea does not harbor. He fights and kicks against the tide and, once he reaches the burning boat, he grabs hold of a loose rope and pulls himself up to the deck. 

Men are fleeing. He sees Captain Rogers yelling through the wooden door to the Admiral’s quarters, but the flames rage around him. Peter pushes through the sailors abandoning ship and grabs Captain Rogers by the arm, “We have to leave, sir.” 

“I cannot,” Rogers shakes his arm free, “Admiral Stark is inside. I will not abandon him.” 

Peter looks around desperately for help, but there is none to be had in a fire. Men fear nothing more than death. Peter grits his jaw and has a frankly wild idea. “Captain Rogers,” he huffs through the smoke, “the glass of Admiral Stark’s windows. Would they be hard to break?” 

“Well, no but-” 

Rogers words are enough information for Peter to make up his mind. He runs up the stairs to the quarter deck and begins to tie rope to the back of the ship. Peter tugs on it twice to make certain that the rope is secure and then, he jumps off the back of the boat. 

He swings through the air and for a moment he thinks that flying is far superior to sailing, but then he is crashing through the Admiral’s window and rolling out on to the floor. His arm feels like it may be broken but Peter has more pressing matters to attend to, namely saving Admiral Stark. 

The smoke in his quarters is suffocating and nearly blinding. Peter covers his mouth with his forearm and tries to blink through the haze. “Admiral Stark?” he coughs, “Are you here?” 

A weak voice groans from the corner and Peter launches himself over some knocked over furniture to find Admiral Stark nearly unconscious on the floor. The fumes must have nearly taken him. The King’s brother. Peter finds what strength is in him and begins to drag the admiral to the back of the quarters, back toward the window he crashed through upon arrival. 

Admiral Stark groans and with each tug Peter feels the twinge in his arm sharply. 

Once he is at the window, Peter tosses some broken wood out of the window into the water waiting below. He heaves Admiral Stark up and apologies, “I’m so sorry for this, sir.” And, without warning, pushes his Admiral out of the window and into the water. He hears the splash and with one last look in the quarters, Peter jumps into the water as well. 

He grabs for the sinking Admiral and pulls him up over the floating wood, like a makeshift raft. The water is colder than he remembered it being from earlier but Admiral Stark is safe and cold water matters less than that fact. 

A life boat full of Admiral Stark’s men find them and haul the two water-logged men into the lifeboat. Admiral Stark is unconscious but his heart beats strong, the way only a Prince’s can, and all of his commanding officers relief is tangible. 

Peter shakes his wet hair out off the side of the boat while the men fuss over Admiral Stark, but once things seem certain to be alright for their Admiral, Captain Rogers, the man from earlier, crushes Peter into a bone-crushing hug. Peter vaguely hears the words, “Thank you,” in his shoulder and, if he did hear them, he does not mention it. 

That night they find salvation in the home of a British sympathizer a mile out from the shore. The room the men cart Admiral Stark into is small, cramped and dimly lit by candles that have seen better days. Peter shuffles himself to a dark corner where he will not disturb the men as they strategize. 

Lieutenant Barnes moves a shelf of pillows under Admiral Stark’s head as he comes to consciousness and Sub-Lieutenant Barton unfurls a damp map out onto the blankets of the bed so all of the officers can sit around Admiral Stark and plan.

Admiral Stark speaks, “How far are we from HMS Industry’s port stop in three days?” His voice surprises Peter. The last six months at sea Peter had heard tales of Admiral Stark’s power and prowess, the way he entered a room and commanded it not because of his royal pedigree but because of the boom of his voice and his stature. The stories did not equate with the wounded man curled up in the bed. However, Peter thinks, all heroes are grander in their stories. 

Officer Banner takes a strange tool out from his pack and begins to measure the distance between their location and the desired port. Peter watches on fascinated. Officer Banner clicks his tongue, “A day and a half, but Anthony with your injuries moving should be the least of our concerns.”

The candle crackles, “Robert, do not make me pull rank on you. We leave at first light.” 

Some angry monster briefly flickers across Officer Banner’s face but Peter supposes his expression is akin to concern between friends. He glances down at the tool laying lamely on the bed that Officer Banner used and it is in that moment that Admiral Stark’s eyes drift across the candlelit room and fall on Peter. “What’s your name, son?” 

“Peter. Peter Parker, your lordship.” 

The whole room twiddles with laughter and Peter flushes. Admiral Stark, “Admiral works just fine for me at sea, Mr. Parker.”

Peter fast mouth, the one May always warned him would get him in trouble one day, blurts, “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but we’re not at sea at present.” 

Admiral Stark’s mouth turns up in the corners, “Well said, Mr. Parker.”

The Avengers and Peter leave at first light the next morning. The march to the nearest port suffers serious delays because of Admiral Stark’s sustained injuries and Peter thinks that perhaps he knew that he would delay his men, which is why he wanted to leave early. 

Beyond the delays, the march is enjoyable. The men take to Peter easily. Officer Banner teaches Peter how to use the measuring tool that had enchanted him that first night; Sub-Lietuenant shows Peter how to play cards efficiently which Captain Rogers calls cheating; and, Lieutenant Barnes points out plant and tree indigenous to the Americas. 

Admiral Stark takes the keenest shine to him. As he stumbles through the march, keeping his weight off of his wounded right leg, he dazzles Peter with tales of the court and stories of the sea. He is a man who has lived a hundred lifetimes in the span of one and Peter hangs on his every word. Yet, Admiral Stark– “call me Anthony”, he says at the end of the second day– always listens. He smiles at Peter’s stories about his Aunt May and his trade.

He finds himself wishing the march to the port would stretch on longer. 

However, the journey does come to a head on the third day when they arrive at the port and the HMS Industry is waiting in the water. It is a magnificent display of the might of the British navy and Admiral Stark takes command of the ship like it is nothing more than a floaty in international waters. 

The sailors aboard the ship put every man to work to pull the boat out of harbor as soon as possible. The British forces have suffered major losses and Admiral Stark tells his men that there is no shame in knowing when to call a fight. They will regroup and re-attack. 

When Admiral Stark dismisses the crew, Peter falls in line with the rest of the sailors and starts to head below deck to their quarters. Admiral Stark’s voice booms like the stories always said, “Mr. Parker, pray tell, where are you going? Officers meet in my quarters for meals.” 

Peter wipes the sweat from his brow and blinks dumbly at Admiral Stark, “Admiral?”

Lieutenant Barnes, Captain Rogers, Sub-Lieutenant Barton and Officer Banner are all smiling unabashedly wide. Admiral Stark rolls his eyes, “Look alive, Officer Parker. Come along.” 

And, from that moment forward, Peter Parker the blacksmith becomes Officer Peter Parker of the Royal British Naval Forces. 

The three month journey back to England is filled with more laughter and friendship than Peter had ever known in his sixteen years. He learns how to be an efficient officer under Anthony’s tutelage and when they arrive in England, Admiral Stark elevates him further.

He tries to return to his forge. The rumors that the war between England and the Americas will end soon with an English defeat have Peter considering his naval career. There are always wars to be fought for the glory of England but there may be less of a need for a low-ranking officer than he would like to admit. His forge is sensible. 

That is when he receives a summons to Duke Stark’s home. They are home and on land now and Admiral Stark is once again Duke Stark, the King’s younger brother. 

Aunt May spends what little money they have and some of Peter’s naval wages to buy him a proper outfit from town. Carlton House in London is the most extravagant place Peter has ever been to in his life. The man at the door is dressed in more finery than Peter is and he shakes at the thought of what the lords will wear if their servants are dressed so posh. 

He is led to Duke Stark’s personal office and Anthony is wearing the deepest, most vibrant red tailcoat he has ever seen in his life with gold stitching. It is reminiscent of war, the red coat, the gold lining, but he supposes Anthony is always prepared for war. He is a warrior, after all. 

Peter clicks his heels and gives a curt bow upon entering the room. Duke Stark laughs low, “Such formality, Peter.” 

Peter smiles, “M’lord, you called for me?” 

“Your grace,” Anthony corrects him, “m’lord makes you sound like a peasant, Officer Parker.” 

The back of Peter’s neck prickles, “I am a commoner, your grace.”

Anthony stands and walks around the front of his desk before sitting on front of the desk. “Sit, Peter.” He does. Duke Stark tugs on his vest, “I will be frank with you. I have no sons, no daughters. And I returned from this war safe but the next war may not be as forgiving.”

“Your grace?” Peter’s throat is dry. 

“I would, with your consent, make you my ward and heir, Peter.”

The world spins and Peter’s mind hazes over with imagery of all of the finery he had walked through upon arriving at Carlton House. “Sir,” he stutters. 

“Your grace,” Anthony corrects him.  “Your grace,” Peter tries again, “I don’t know much about finery, being a lord.” He pauses, “It would be a lord, right?”

Anthony laughs, “Yes. A Duke’s son is a lord. You would be a marquess lord, actually. My brother’s sons will be princes and dukes and lords.” 

“Your grace,” Peter chokes, “this is generous of you to think of me, but I mean…look at me.” 

“Think about it,” is all Anthony says, “but you would be provided for. Any children you have would have titles and lands and status. They would never struggle. Neither would your aunt.” 

It is those words that haunt him that night as he lays under the canopy at Carlton House. It is those words that have Peter politely entering Anthony’s study the next morning and saying, “I accept.” 

Becoming a ward of the Duke is a lot of work, Peter finds. There is a lot of paperwork to sign and Anthony forces Peter into etiquette lessons every day for several hours. The blacksmith Peter Parker is no lord, the Officer Peter Parker is no lord, but Peter Stark is quite a convincing one. 

It takes Peter months of training to become Peter Stark. There is so much education, etiquette and dancing to be absorbed and taught. The rest of the Avengers spend days at a time at Carlton House teasing Peter for his lordling learning. 

Yet, on his eighteenth birthday, Anthony deems him ready enough to be introduced into society. 

The trip to Windsor Castle is tense. Peter wrings his hands in their carriage and Anthony watches amused from the seat across from him, “You’re prepared, Peter.” 

“You think, your grace?” Peter squeaks. 

“Anthony is fine in private, really. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. The rest of our team will be there to distract you should some horrible German princess decide to fluster you.” 

Peter smiles softly, “I am not easily flustered, your grace. I am an officer of the British Naval Forces.”

“Yes,” Anthony leans back, “I know.” 

Windsor Castle makes Carlton House look like its fallen into disrepair. It is a gothic goliath with towers that reach the sky. Their carriage drives past the wall and into the large courtyard where hundreds of carriages are parked and Peter feels his stomach lurch. His head screams that there has been some kind of error, he is no lord. 

The carriage door opens and Duke Stark is escorted out. Peter follows behind him trying to keep his jaw off of the ground. 

A servant walks the two members of the royal family up the stairs and through the corridors to the grand hall. A man with a baton takes one look at Duke Stark and slams his staff hard on the floor. His echoing voice silences the hall below, “Presenting His Grace, the Duke of Manhattan and, introducing, the Most Honorable, the Marquess of Queens.”  

Duke Anthony pats the servant on the back and descends down the stairs like he is the star of the show. Peter sees the King rolls his eyes from across the room. He crosses his arms behind his back and follows behind Anthony at a comfortable distance. 

The King approaches them immediately and he bows his head. “Your majesty,” Peter says reverently. 

“So this is the sea rat you’ve ennobled, Anthony?” the King drawls, his voice hazy with drink. 

Anthony’s jaw tightens, “Yes, George. So it would seem.” 

“He’s small, not like my George. My George is princely and strapping.” 

“Your son is quite the young man, George.” 

“Yes, he is,” the King preens and finds conversation with the person beside them. 

Anthony grabs Peter by the elbow and drags him into the thick of the crowd, as they walk he speaks under his breath, “My brother is the King. Long may he reign, but, if I may say, perhaps for the duration of that reign avoiding him may be a smart strategy.” 

Peter bit back any hint of a smile, aware that in court all eyes were watching, “Perhaps I should have gone back out to sea, your Grace.” 

“Perhaps, Officer Parker,” Anthony grins conspiratorially, “Now stop talking to me. Find a handsome girl and take her for a turn on the dance floor.” 

Peter ducks his head in embarrassment and skirts off to find a suitable dance partner. He takes a lord’s daughter out first and she spends the entire quadrille talking about how her father intended to marry her off by his sixteenth birthday which was coming up in the coming months. Peter politely listens, keeps a respectful distance, and when the dance ends, he bows his head and takes his leave. 

Sub-Lieutenant Barton finds him after his first dance and teases, “My lord, your first partner seems rather discontented you did not ask her for a second dance.” 

Peter straightens his shoulders, “She was perfectly pleasant. I, however, do not wish to neglect the other ladies here.” 

“Yes,” Sub-Lieutenant Barton chuckles, “that would be rather rude.” 

The strings strain to be heard over the mindless chatter of the court as Peter dances with partner after partner. Each young lady is lovely and well-bred, as Anthony had warned him they would be; yet, none of them catch his interest. A dance is the only time that Peter can speak to a lady without a chaperone. He had been told conversation during a dance is how to get to know a potential suitor, how to court. 

None of his partners had, thus far, caught his attention thusly. 

And then, fate rings. 

Peter’s head snaps up at the familiar echo of the servant’s staff clunking on the floor. The dance ceased as all eyes turn to the top of the stairs. There is a lady hidden behind her fan, her chocolate eyes scan the floor and Peter’s hands flex in anticipation. This lady is a late arrival, her appearance has made the room flutter. They know her. 

Peter does not. 

The voice shouts across the expanse of the room, “Presenting her Grace, the fille de France.” 

Her fan closes and Peter sees her face. She is all angles and soft lips. Her hair curls in a wild way that the English ladies of court try to emulate with hot rods, but her beauty is effortless. He knows that she is French, he heard her announcement, but the French words of her title escape him. His schooling does not stretch that far. 

Peter leans over to Captain Rogers and whispers, “Captain, who is she?”

“Princess Michèlle of France. The youngest daughter of the king.”

She walks down the steps confident, a foreigner in a hostile court. Peter does not know much but he knows that tension between France and England has always existed and, perhaps, it always shall. 

Her dress is a dusty pink and kisses her ankles as she walks. The room transforms back into lighthearted conversation but Peter only has eyes for the French woman. 

The violins scratch out a tune so romantic he wonders if God has set the scene. He has seen the plays, he knows the stories of cosmic love and while he’s never even heard her voice Marquess Lord Peter Stark knows that this moment is of epic love. 

He wonders if their meeting shall end in tragedy or boundless joy. 

She moves through the crowd like the men that approach her are no more than flies beneath her feet. He walks along the outskirts of the crowd to mirror her movements, a step for a step. 

Her eyes lift and meet his across the hall and his heart stops. She tilts her head and something passes between them, a moment he cannot describe even with every word of the English language at his disposal. 

Princess Michèlle turns and begins to make her way through countless suitors to where Peter is standing frozen. His heart thuds, his folded hands placed politely behind his back sweat and fear grips him. The unimaginable roar of the ocean is nothing compared to the piercing nature of her eyes. 

“It is customary,” she says when she reaches him, her voice thick with an accent, “to ask a lady to dance if you plan to stare at her for an extended period of time, my lord.”

Peter’s eyes widen and he bows his head, “Your Grace.” 

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes, “I know who I am, my lord. Who are you?” “Lord Marquess Stark. Duke Stark’s ward.” The title sounds more foreign on his tongue talking to this princess than it has in the last year of learning to act like royalty. She is everything he can never achieve, she was born to greatness. It was simply thrust upon him, he the ever unwilling patron. 

“Ah, yes,” she curtsies brief and uninspired, “I have heard of you Officer Parker, was it?” 

He nods, “In another life, your Grace.” 

She smiles, “Yes, you look very unlike a sailor now.”

Peter hears a cough sound from behind him and the two stop their conversation. Anthony is near and he bows to Michèlle, she curtsies back. “Your Grace,” Anthony smiles.

“Your Grace,” Michèlle mirrors. 

He wonders at Anthony’s sudden appearance but from a single look he knows their conversation has been deemed inappropriate by the court. Young people talking without any form of chaperon is cause for scandal. Anthony’s appearance is to be that chaperon. 

“You have grown since the last time I saw you at court, your Grace,” he remarks.’ 

Michèlle unfurls her fan, “I missed you on my last visit. You were away at sea, I heard.” 

“You heard correctly,” Anthony affirms, “Serving the crown and country.” 

“Very brave,” she says almost like she does not mean it and Peter tries not to smile at her utter lack of propriety in the face of her English counterparts, “Off fighting a war against a country that won their independence fairly.” 

“With French help,” Anthony points out.

“What can I say?” she smirks, “We love an underdog.” Her eyes drift to Peter and he knows her words were meant for more than just her support of the Americas. It was in regards to him. His palms heat up and sweat stick to his fingertips. 

Anthony looks between the two and inclines his head to the string quartet playing nearby. “The waltz is quite an elegant dance, wouldn’t you say, your Grace? It is new to us here in England.” 

Her eyes remain on Peter, “We, in France, are quite fond of the waltz. But we do not fear dancing there.”

“No?” Peter’s voice cracks. “Then, I would regard it a mark of extreme favor, your Grace, if you would share the next dance with me.” The formality is as foreign to Peter as Michèlle is to this court. 

Yet, she smiles at him with her teeth and curtsies, “I would be delighted.” 

He buzzes with the most pleasant warmth when she lines up across from him on the dance floor. The violins begin and the gentlemen bow and the ladies curtsy. 

The movements are slow, making conversation easier than it would be in a country dance. Peter hesitates to speak, afraid of what to say now that they are truly alone in a crowd of dancers. Michèlle takes the lead, “My lord, are you only capable of speech with the assistance of your guardian.” 

“I say,” he smiles, “I believe I did quite well before his arrival, your Grace.” 

“You did moderately well,” Michèlle corrects him, “I did have to walk across a crowded room to approach you first, if you remember correctly.”

“I have not forgotten. Forgive me for saying, your Grace, but I did not think to approach a lady so beautiful.” 

“I do not forgive you for saying,” she rolls her eyes, but her mouth is soft and teasing and his heart flutters with hope. 

He grabs her hand to lead her down the line of dancers, following the couple ahead of them, “You speak very freely, your Grace.” 

“Does that shock you?” she asks, her head turning briefly to catch his eye, “That a woman should know her own mind and speak it?” 

“It would depend much on the woman, your Grace,” he remarks.

Her tone is harsh, “Meaning?” 

“It does not shock me that you would be so bold as to know your mind and speak it.” 

“A woman speaking her mind, in your opinion, is bold?” 

“Yes,” Peter says, “It should not be, but we live in a world where many things are not as they should be.” 

He releases her hand as the two of them separate and dance back to the top of the line. When they join each other again, several counts later Michèlle asks, “What things are not as they should be, my lord?” 

“This dance is not long enough to list the injustices of our world, madame.” Peter corrects himself quickly, “Your Grace.” 

Her fingers brush his in the dance and, for only a moment, her fingers encircle his and squeeze. He has to let go of her hand again too soon, a slave to the rules of the dance, but that moment shocks his entire body. 

“My lord,” Michèlle speaks as she spins around the man beside her before rejoining Peter in the middle, “you are new to court. If I may advise you, do not speak so candidly about injustice in front of his Majesty. He thrives on injustice.” 

“You would speak ill of the King in his own home?”

Her eyes are fire incarnate, “Yes.” 

As the dance ends, Peter bows and Michèlle curtsies. It is in this small beat of applause that she whispers, “The rose garden. Midnight.” And then, with a blink, she has disappeared into the throng of the crowd. 

He searches for Anthony after who laughs upon seeing him, “My lord, you look winded. Was the dance so effortful on your part?”

Peter wastes no time with ceremony, “As your ward, I am expected to marry. Yes, your Grace?” 

Anthony takes a setting breath and politely guides Peter off of the dance floor and into one of the less crowded side rooms. The two men stand in a corner and Anthony flashes a smile at a passing lady before turning to Peter with a tone so pleasant it was almost painful, “Marriage is expected for young lords, yes. Marriage to ladies of their standing.” 

“And, would you say,” Peter probes, “a foreign princess is not of my standing?”

“I would say,” Anthony inclines his head at another lady, “the youngest daughter of a king might be permitted to marry the King’s nephew. However,” Anthony’s eyes bore into Peter’s, “you are the ward of the King’s brother, not his nephew. And, as we discussed, we were to avoid interacting with his Majesty at any cost on your behalf.”

“And, if I should say I love her, how would you reply?” Peter challenges.

Anthony’s eyes shoot to the ground, like he is the Admiral of his great fleet again preparing for battle. His eyes are pure steel when he looks up, “Then, I would say you are a fool.” Anthony bows rigidly to Peter and rejoins the festivities.

It is the fool that meets Michèlle in the rose garden per her request. As he walks among the flowers he has the occasional shriek and giggle of a couple in a nearby bush. His face flushes from the gall of such an action. 

A slim hand wraps around Peter’s wrist near the rose sculpture of the King and he is tugged behind a hedge the size of a wall. 

He prepares to fight, the sailor in him bubbling to the surface, but when his eyes clear he seeing Michèlle shrouded in the darkness, the etch of a smile playing at her lips, “My lord, you are surprisingly easy to surprise for an officer.”

Peter heats more, “I believe I informed you that Officer Parker is from another life.” 

“That other life sounds far more thrilling than the monotony of the court.” 

“I daresay I disagree,” he swallows, “For in that life I never would have been acquainted with you.” 

Her hand shakes as she reaches out to touch him. His whole body shakes, too. He’s never touched a woman outside the confines of a dance. If he is meant to know how to respond, months of etiquette keep his actions at bay. 

His mind brings to the forefront a catalogue of poems he was tasked to memorize upon first being brought into Duke Stark’s household but none of them capture her loveliness, her fire, her grit. If poets consider their muses angels, Michèlle is the opposite. She is human, flesh and blood. She does not float above him as some ethereal figure to be worshipped, she exists in the moment across from him breathing the same enchanted air he sucks in by the bucketful. 

When her hand brushes his cheek, he exhales, “I fear I may faint.” 

“You mustn’t,” she smiles, “for how shall I kiss you if you do?” 

As her lips brush his, he does not feel the thrum of boundless joy like he had envisioned. Their lips pressing urgently together under the cover of night feels very much like inevitable tragedy. 

#spideychelle #regency au

[loudlooks]

Dead Drunk

I needed a distraction so I decided to edit this today, after all.

Tiva-in-the-making inspired by the prompt :

“You’re drunk and walked into the wrong apartment and fell asleep on my couch oh god you’re going to be so confused in the morning” AU

Also on FanFiction and AO3

Word count:  1748 (that’s approximately 1300 words too many)

Ziva folded the last shirt and placed it on top of the pile on her bed, then picked up the clean laundry and turned towards the wardrobe. Hearing the telltale click of her apartment door being unlocked, she dropped the clothes and silently moved to the head of the bed. Her hand slipped underneath the pillow, fingers gripping the cold steel of one of the backup guns she had hidden.

She patted towards the open bedroom door on socked feet and peered into the semi-darkness of her living room. A tall dark figure closed the front door, back turned towards her. Something about the shadowy figure seemed slightly familiar, but she raised the gun, anyways.

The stranger turned around, mumbling, then moved towards her couch, swaying, stopping to regain his balance for a few seconds, then continuing a few more feet. It wasn’t until he bumped into the couch, that his face was illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the half-drawn curtains.

Her next door neighbor.

The hot one, Tony—the federal agent whom she had been getting to know better the past couple of weeks—not the sixty-year-old who smoked a pipe and apparently refused to wear anything other than a coffee-stained undershirt and sweatpants.

Tony turned a quarter to his left, swayed some more, mumbled again, then turned back and tried to move forward once more. This time when his knees hit the armrest he toppled over, landing on her couch face down.

When he moved his face, probably to breathe, and spoke again, Ziva narrowed her eyes and slightly turned her head. What she heard was slurred, muffled, and didn’t make any sense.

“Gimme back my Mighty Mouse stapler.”

Ziva lowered her gun, wondering just how drunk he was. Tucking the weapon in the waistband of her pants she walked closer, the smell of alcohol and sweat assaulting her nostrils. She grimaced and considered her options as he started snoring. By the looks of it, any attempts at trying to get him to wake up and sleep it off in his own apartment would be futile.

Ziva sighed. He was going to be so hung-over when he woke up in the morning, not to mention confused.

She retrieved a bucket and a bottle of water, and placed them beside him. On her way to her bedroom she locked the front door, and a plan to make him suffer just a tiny bit more in the morning started taking shape.

Dropping the spoon on the tile floor the next morning wasn’t an accident. They weren’t so well-acquainted that she trusted Tony alone in her apartment, and she had already postponed her morning run by two hours. Unfortunately, the clattering didn’t have the desired effect and she was tired of waiting.

Ziva walked over to the couch with a cup of tea. Judging by Tony’s snoring he wasn’t waking up on his own any time soon. She placed the tea on the coffee table and unscrewed the bottle of water.

The cold water dripping all over his face did have the desired effect.

She took a step back—away from the bucket—as Tony clumsily swiped at the wetness on his face. He groaned, lifting himself up on his elbows.

For a few seconds he turned so pale, Ziva was certain he was going to throw up. She took another step back.

The movement caught his eye and he stared at her bare legs for what felt like an hour, but was probably not even a minute. She dangled the bottle of water in front of his face to distract him.

Tony took it from her with a croak she assumed was a thank you. He blinked slowly then looked up, eyes wide, before quickly scanning the room.

Realization had clearly dawned on him that he wasn’t in a familiar apartment. He sat up straight with a pinched expression, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Sitting down on the coffee table in front of him, she said, “Drink up, you’ll feel better.” She crossed her legs, ran a foot along his calf, and said in a breathy voice, “You promised me more fun in the morning, remember.”

Tony gave her a half-hearted grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and placed the bottle against his lips. While taking a swig he glanced at her sideways, and she smiled seductively.

His gaze drifted from her lips to her neck, and he raised an eyebrow seeing his barely buttoned shirt—she  had found it discarded on the floor that morning and had thought it would help sell the prank she came up with last night.

After taking one more good look at her legs, he took another gulp of water.

“So,” Ziva said, and twirled a strand of hair between her fingers, licking her lips slowly while looking him up and down. “Do you really want to move in together?”

Tony spit out the water and coughed violently.

Ziva grimaced—maybe she should have timed that better—and discreetly pulled the bucket closer. “I have given it some thought, and you are right, we have been living next to each other for two months, it makes sense. Do you want to move in here, or do I move in with you?” She asked innocently.

He let out another cough as the last remaining color drained from his face.

“Look, Ziva,” he said and scraped his throat. “I was…dead drunk last night…I don’t remember…” He waived a hand between them instead of finishing his thought.

“True,” Ziva said as she tilted her head and gave him a devilish smile. “You were really drunk, and I did almost shoot you, so you were almost a dead drunk.”

Tony’s eyes went wide as saucers. “That’s…that’s not what…you almost shot me?” He shook his head, then rubbed his face with his hands as he groaned in pain.

Ziva handed him the cup of tea, but he scrunched up his nose. “It’ll help with the hangover,” she said.  

He sipped the warm drink. “That’s actually not that bad.”

She leaned in closer, and husked, “Does that mean you are up for round three?”

Tony gulped and his eyes shot to her lips, a wide smile forming on his.

“Or would you rather break out that wall,” she continued, pointing at the wall separating their apartments.

“You know, I should…I should go,” he said and emptied half of the cup of tea before handing it back to her.

He stood up quickly, too quickly, and pressed his eyes shut in pain.

Ziva stood up, as well, completely disregarding any sense of personal space. “You honestly don’t remember what happened last night,” she said looking up at him.

Tony locked eyes with her and shook his head slowly. “I wish I did.”

Ziva scratched her ear. Maybe she should tell him she was yanking, no, pulling his leg. After all, she had no intention of letting him walk out the door believing they had actually had sex.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end even more. He looked downward, then said, “Look, I don’t remember anything I said, or did, last night, but...” He shook his head lightly. “You have to understand that I didn’t know what I was saying.”

Ziva wondered how often he ended up apologizing in the morning. He had a different date almost every week. That and the way he sometimes looked at her had given her the idea to fool him into thinking something had happened.

“You know I usually don’t black out like this when I get drunk,” he said pensively. “Did we…use protection.”

Ziva bit the inside of her cheek. “I told you, I had a gun.”

He clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes, then walked a few feet away from her. Taking a deep breath, he crossed his arms and said, “I’m sorry, okay. This isn’t how I imagined, or wanted, this…” He vaguely gestured between them. “To happen.”

Ziva did a double take at his words. She turned her head to the side. “What?”

“We were starting to get to know each other better, right?” He shrugged. “I don’t want whatever I said last night to ruin that.”

Ziva’s skin tingled and she let out a bark of laughter. This was an unexpected revelation and she wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it. The one thing she was certain of was that now was the time to come clean.

“Tony, the only thing you said last night, was something about a Mighty Mouse stapler.”

His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side. “What?”

Ziva avoided his gaze and fidgeted with an earring. “It was a prank,” she said and made eye contact again.

The incredulous look on his face made way for a small smile. He wagged a finger at her, and said, “That’s…not funny.”

Ziva shrugged and said, “I thought it was funny, considering you broke into my apartment last night and decided to crash on my couch.”

He scraped a hand through his hair, managing to make it look slightly more presentable. “Right. Well, that’s a relief, I guess.”

Ziva narrowed her eyes and took a step closer. “Are you implying sex with me would have been bad.”

Tony cleared his throat and grinned. “No, having sex with you and not remembering any of it would’ve been bad.”

The corners of her mouth twisted upwards and she quirked an eyebrow.

He headed for the door, then turned towards her. “Tell you what, why don’t I buy you breakfast. For your trouble…and to teach you how to properly prank someone.”  He thrust out his chest. “ I’m the prank master at work.”

“Oh,” Ziva said with a smirk. “I’m sure your coworkers love you.”

He mock-laughed. “You’re seriously not funny. I’m going to shower and take some painkillers, while you get dressed.” He looked her up and down again and shrugged nonchalantly. “Or, not. I’ll be back in ten.”

Ziva opened her mouth to protest—she still hadn’t gone for her morning run—but he was already out the door.

For a few seconds she hesitated in the middle of her living room. She fussed with the hem of his shirt, then wet her lips. With a frustrated sigh, she headed for her bedroom to get dressed.

One skipped morning run wasn’t the end of the world. Besides, they could always get some exercise together later.

#tiva #tiva fanfiction #ncis fanfiction #tony and ziva #ziva david #tony dinozzo #tony x ziva #my fanfiction #apartment building au