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fortunatelyfresco · 3 years

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A Holistic Integration of Type 1 Narcolepsy into the Reading of Moist von Lipwig

Literary Interpretation, Disability, and Finding Yourself Between the Lines

As it goes, "I wrote this for me, but you can read it if you want." It might be a fun ride for anyone who is very interested in Moist von Lipwig, or narcolepsy, or both, and/or anyone who enjoys collecting small details from within a body of work and arranging them into threads that are supportable by the text, without being actually suggested by it.

Personally, I find it very interesting to read the meta behind different headcanons, and see how creators can unintentionally write a character who fits certain criteria. There are only so many traits, after all, and some of them tend to travel in groups! Humans are pattern seekers, etc etc.

The first step of reading Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic is wanting to read Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic. Being narcoleptic myself and relating heavily to Moist, this step was very easy. I invite you to take my hand and come along, at least briefly, if you were interested enough to click the readmore.

Once you have taken that step, things start falling into place. At least they do if you're intimately familiar with narcolepsy, or if you first learn about it in detail through, for instance, a Tumblr post with an agenda :)

I'll break this down symptom by symptom, citing only the ones I both have personal experience with and see textual support for.

I'll be using OverDrive's search function to catalogue "evidence" in (the American editions of) Going Postal, Making Money, and Raising Steam, so I might miss passages that don't use certain keywords.

Please take any statements along the lines of "being narcoleptic means X" with a huge grain of salt. Sometimes it's just more succinct. Narcolepsy can manifest in many different ways, and is still being actively studied. Don't base your entire understanding of it on a fandom essay I wrote to cope with the crushing pressures of capitalism. I have not even fully read the scientific studies linked here as sources.

Here we go! Spoilers abound.

I. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness (EDS) and sleep attacks.

Being narcoleptic means (salt now, please) that your brain does not get adequate rest while you sleep, no matter how much you sleep. This is because of a disturbance in the order and length of REM and NREM sleep phases. This leads to constant exhaustion. Some sources describe narcoleptic EDS as "comparable to [the sleepiness] experienced by a healthy individual who has been sleep-deprived continuously for 48–72 hours."

(Source.)

Sleep attacks can come on gradually or suddenly. In my case, I become irritable and easily overwhelmed, and nothing matters except finding a place to lie down. A more severe attack, under the right circumstances, can put me to sleep while I'm actively trying to stay awake and engaged.

Moist refers to 6:45 am as "still nighttime." He is "allergic to the concept of two seven o'clocks in one day" and is "not good at early mornings," and the narration even cites this as "one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn't have to get up until other people had got the streets aired."

In Going Postal, he repeatedly falls asleep at his desk. I can only find two instances, but the first one describes it as having happened "again," so it happens at least three times over the course of one week. Both of the times I found were after Mr. Pump cleared his apartment, giving him access to a bed, and I can't find any reference to the fire destroying it—just that his office is "missing the whole of one wall." His presumably wooden desk is still intact, even, just "charred."

There's also no build-up either time. No direct narration of the time right before he falls asleep, just retroactive accounting for it.

Which is primarily a function of stories not showing us every boring second, and secondarily one of the smaller ways we're shown Moist being overwhelmed and racing to keep up with himself, but tertiarily it's a great set dressing if you've already decided he's narcoleptic. Sometimes sleep is just a thing that happens, without any deliberate transition. Sometimes you sit down to catch your breath or get some paperwork done, and wake up several hours later.

I've found only one example in GP of Moist waking up in his actual bed at the post office: the morning after being possessed by all the undelivered letters. Presumably either they put him there, or Mr. Pump did.

There are two points in Making Money where Moist, in an effort to be a comforting and/or guiding hand, advises people to get some sleep. First Owlswick Jenkins, and then one of the clerks (Robert) who is worried about Mr. Bent.

I take the optimistic view that this is Moist genuinely caring about these people, not just trying to get them to do what he wants. He has always done some combination of those things (GP opens with him having befriended his jailers, after all), but there's definitely a thread of him learning to treat both himself and those around him more like real people. (See also.)

Looking at this thread through narcolepsy-colored lenses, you get Moist perhaps drawing from his own experiences in an effort to be helpful. In Owlswick or Robert's position, what is something he would want to hear from the man currently in charge of his fate, or at least his job? "Get some sleep."

If we accept this as a pattern, it culminates in Raising Steam, when Moist starts to worry about "Dick Simnel and his band of overworked engineers," fixating particularly on their lack of sleep.

What sleep they got was in sleeping bags, curled up on carriage seats, eating but not eating well, just driven by their watches and their desire to keep the train going.

[...]

"People are going to die if we push them any further," he said to Dick. "You lot would rather work than sleep!"

[...]

The young man swayed in front of him and Moist's tone became gentle. "And I see now that part of my job is to tell you that you need some rest. You've run out of steam, Dick. Look, we're well on the way to Uberwald now, and while it's daylight and we're out of the mountains it's going to be the least risky time to run with minimum crew. We're all going to need our wits about us when we get near the pass. Surely you can take some rest?"

Simnel blinked as if he'd not seen Moist the first time, and said, "Yes, you're right."

And Moist could hear the slurring in the young man's speech, caught him before he fell and dragged him into a sleeping compartment, put him to bed, and noted that the engineer didn't so much fall asleep as somehow flow into it.

Moist then recruits Vimes to help him talk the rest of the engineers into getting some rest. The two of them briefly commiserate about people not realizing how important it is.

"I have to teach that to young coppers. Treasure a night's rest, I always say. Take a nap whenever you can."

"Very good."

II. Insomnia.

This is a lesser-known but very common symptom of narcolepsy. Or a comorbidity, depending on how you look at it. It seems counterintuitive if narcolepsy has been presented to you as "sleeping all the time," but it makes sense once you know it's really a matter of disruption in the brain's ability to regulate sleep cycles.

The case for this symptom is flimsier, and I fully admit I'm just reading my own experience into it. But here are two excerpts from Going Postal that I find quite suitable for my sleepy agenda:

1. "A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall's thickness away."

I latched hard onto this detail the first time I read GP.

At my worst, I could not get more than a couple hours of sleep in my bed. I kept taking naps in the bath because it was one of the few places I could sleep. It seemed to fulfill some of the criteria (isolation, temperature control, etc) that my brain demanded in exchange for playing nice.

We're told over and over again, throughout Moist's books, that he functions best under pressure.

(Brief aside: This is often cited as a reason to interpret Moist as having ADHD, which I'm also fully on board with. Not coincidentally, narcolepsy and ADHD share a few symptoms, have a notable comorbidity rate, and are treated with some of the same medications. Source.)

So again, if you're already inclined to read Moist as narcoleptic, the following is an easy jump:

"Moist thinks he's good at sleeping in strange places under strange circumstances. This is because A) his basis for comparison is a disordered attempt to sleep in normal places under normal circumstances, B) something about danger satisfies his brain into running more smoothly, and C) he's a resourceful person who is 'not given to introspection,' and so is less likely to wonder why his body demands sleep at strange times and more likely to focus on finding a place for that sleep to happen, and chalk this up later as a skill."

And returning briefly to EDS: Why would someone like Moist waste time finding a safe place to sleep while people are actively trying to kill him? At the beginning of GP, he leaves Vetinari's office and immediately goes on the run. In multiple books, when he feels threatened, his brain instinctively launches into complex escape plans. We see him successfully blend into an Ankh-Morpork crowd at least once after becoming a public figure.

So why bother? After all, a safe place to sleep is also a safe place to change clothes, or at least remove whatever distinguishing features he's given himself. Why wouldn't he just become someone else and leave town immediately?

The obvious answer is that sometimes things just happen, and an author doesn't need to know or explain every single detail of a character's past.

I would suggest, though, that one of those things might be Moist reaching a point where sleep is just not optional. A point where he not only doesn't, but can't, care about anything else. Where he is too tired to think straight, too tired to talk his way out of trouble, too tired to even contemplate the long journey from one town to the next.

2. "Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there, too, alive and sparkling."

Sometimes (especially in combination with underlying mental health issues) narcoleptic sleep deprivation can bypass everything I've described so far, and lead straight into a manic state. You won't necessarily find that on Google, but it's been my experience.

That's obviously not what the text is implying. "Alive and sparkling" is just a very relatable description. And we do often see Moist getting away from himself, speaking without thinking, making absurd promises that he justifies immediately afterwards as Just Part Of Being Him, always raising the stakes.

And here are a couple of excerpts from Raising Steam that could be interpreted as Moist being a light sleeper, AKA struggling to get deep sleep:

1. "And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea."

2. "All Moist's life he'd managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard's van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn't know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open."

Moist is exactly the kind of opportunist to see that as a useful tool, isn't he?

III. Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Hallucinations.

These are hallucinations that come on as you're falling asleep or waking up. They can also happen during REM intrusions while you're awake. My most memorable ones include piano notes, someone calling my name, being trapped in the waves of a large body of water, and a huge truck going over a guard rail and tumbling down a hill. These are often, but not always, accompanied by sleep paralysis (and sleep paralysis is often, but not always, accompanied by hallucinations).

In GP, Moist casually cites his own hallucinations as proof that what is happening at the post office is not one.

"They're all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I've had hallucinations and they don't hurt!"

Obviously that's not true for everyone, but it's true for Moist, and he has enough experience that he immediately recognizes the difference.

At one point while awake, Moist "[snaps] out of a dream of chandeliers" to realize someone has approached him to talk, while he was busy having visions of what the post office used to look like/could look like again.

Now, that's cheating, because we're probably supposed to assume it's a side effect of being possessed, but... I'm putting it here anyway.

There is also perhaps a case to be made for the tendency of Moist's internal monologue to lapse into extremely specific and prolonged hypotheticals. The lines between hallucinations, waking dreams, and "regular" daydreams have always been very blurry to me. I'm especially curious about the example at the end of Going Postal, which goes like this:

"Look, I know what I'm like," he said. "I'm not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I'm not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I'm still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can't tell. I mess with people's heads—"

"You're fooling no one but yourself," said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.

Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn't seem to work anymore, the flair wasn't there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn't seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

And an angel appeared.

"What just happened?" said Miss Dearheart.

Perhaps you do get two...

"Only a passing thought," said Moist.

In-universe... what is Adora reacting to? What did just happen? The fact that these incidents are not isolated to Going Postal is a point against it being some sort of literal timeline divergence caused by The Spirit Of The Post.

So maybe Moist visibly zoned out. Maybe he had some kind of minor but noticeable cataplexy attack (more on those later) as part of a REM intrusion, brought on by the intense emotions he's currently struggling with.

IV. Vivid Dreams.

Again, at least some of this is probably supposed to be part of the possession, but I've been professionally projecting myself onto the surreal dreams of magically afflicted characters for years. Do try this at home.

1. "Moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name. In the best tradition of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him."

2. Moist is uneasy about the Smoking Gnu's plan, and then he has an extremely detailed dream about the Grand Trunk burning down.

This culminates in "Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head," followed by a paragraph of him thinking things through and starting to form his own alternative plan, followed immediately by "Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head."

So he fell asleep at his desk, woke up from a vivid nightmare, was awake just long enough for a coherent train of thought, and then passed back out. Which once again is not "proof" of anything, but fits the predetermined interpretation like a glove.

V. Cataplexy.

Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control, usually triggered by strong emotions. This is thought to be a facet of REM intrusion—waking instances of the atonia that is meant to stop us from acting out our dreams.

The most well-known manifestation is laughter making your knees buckle, but it's not always that severe. My own attacks range from facial twitching, usually when I'm angry or otherwise extremely upset, to all-over weakness/immobilization and near-collapse when I laugh. My knees have fully buckled once or twice.

This is the biggest stretch. This is the one that is absolutely only there if you've already decided to read entire novels between the lines. It's also not even necessary for the broader headcanon; plenty of people have narcolepsy without cataplexy (or such mild cataplexy that it's never noticeable, or very delayed onset, etc).

However. I am doing this for fun. So I want him to have it. It's also become a major part of how I imagine Moist engaging with emotion, and I'd like to make a case for that.

There are a few scattered references to Moist's legs shaking, or being unsteady, or outright giving way, but there's usually an external physical reason, and/or enough psychological shock to justify it without a medical condition.

The most compelling example I've found so far comes from Moist and Adora's conversation about people expecting Moist to deliver letters to the gods.

"I never promised to—"

"You promised to when you sold them the stamps!"

Moist almost fell off his chair. She'd wielded the sentence like a fist.

"And it'll give them hope," she added, rather more quietly.

"False hope," said Moist, struggling upright.

"Almost fell off his chair" at first sounds like casual hyperbole, but then "struggling upright" implies it was a bit more literal. It's also an accurate description of me recovering from my more severe attacks, supporting myself on a wall or my spouse, or pushing myself up if I've fallen over in bed.

That happens to me multiple times per day, by the way. It doesn't bother me, and I didn't realize there was anything unusual about it for a long time. I barely think about it, except to fondly note that my spouse is good at making me laugh.

Which is to say, even severe cataplexy is not always noticeable or debilitating. Sometimes it absolutely is! It can be downright dangerous, depending on where you are, what you're doing, and whether you have any other conditions it might exacerbate. I don't want to undermine that.

I am just hell-bent on justifying the idea that this fictional character could have repeated attacks throughout the canonical narrative that are so routine they don't merit an explanation, or even a description. Especially for someone who is used to hiding his few distinguishing features behind false ones that are much more memorable. (See also.)

(That link goes to my own fanfic. Sorry.)

On the milder side, between Going Postal and Making Money, there are three instances of Moist's mouth "dropping open" when he's shocked, upset, confused, or some combination of the three. This is the kind of thing that shows up a lot in fiction, but rarely happens so literally in real life.

(There's technically a fourth instance, but I'm not counting it because it seems to be a deliberate choice on his part to convey surprise.)

And then there's laughter. Or rather, there isn't. I could be missing something, but I've searched all three books for instances of laughter and various synonyms (not counting spoken "Ha!"s), and what I've come up with is:

Moist laughs once in Going Postal, when he receives the assignment for the race to Genua.

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

There's also an instance earlier in the book where Moist nearly "burst[s] out laughing."

I find the specifics here interesting, and, for our purposes, fortuitous. Cataplexy is complicated and presents differently for everyone. In my case, when laughter triggers an attack, one of the effects (which is sometimes also a cause) is that I laugh very hard, with little or no control. "Burst out laughing" is quite apt.

Let's move on to Making Money, and start with a quick tangent:

Mr. Bent explains that he has no sense of humor due to a medical condition, and that he isn't upset about this and doesn't understand why people feel sorry for him.

Moist immediately starts in with "Have you tried—" before getting cut off by the frustrated Bent.

Out-of-universe, "Have you tried" is such a well-known refrain to anyone with an incurable condition, I'm not at all surprised to find it in a book written by someone who had at least begun the process that would lead to a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. And Pratchett has certainly never shied away from portraying ignorance in his protagonists.

In-universe, it feels a little odd. Moist's tongue runs away from him all the time, but usually in the form of making ridiculous claims or impossible promises. Moist's entire stock-in-trade is People Skills, and it feels strange for him to make this kind of mistake immediately after being told Mr. Bent is not looking for solutions.

But if one were reading with, for instance, the idea in mind that Moist himself has an incurable condition related to laughter and is enthusiastic about, but still relatively new to, the practice of drawing on his own experiences to help people... it is easy to imagine the gears in his head turning the wrong way, superimposing those experiences over the tail end of Mr. Bent's explanation. Disabled people are not immune to these well-meaning pitfalls.

There is another Mr. Bent moment that I want to discuss, but we'll circle back around to it later.

I found two instances of Moist himself laughing in MM.

1. "He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little."

This is deliberate laughter, employed as a social tactic. A polite chuckle, probably. Not the sort of thing that generally triggers cataplexy.

2. "Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression."

The first and only involuntary laugh in MM. It doesn't always trigger attacks...

Which brings us to Raising Steam. Compared to the first two books, Moist laughs a lot here. I count nine instances. Two of them are "burst out laughing"s, a couple include him as part of a group, some of it comes off as deliberate, and some of it doesn't.

I've always seen a lot of... rage in Raising Steam. Combing through it for laughter, I realized Moist's emotions in general are much closer to the surface here, and he's much less concerned about letting people see them. He laughs with friends and acquaintances, he cries in front of strangers, he shouts at Harry King, he has that entire conversation with Dick that boils down to "I'm very worried about you," etc.

Opinions vary wildly and sharply on Raising Steam. I have my own hangups with it, as I do with most books in the series. (Every time I make a new Discworld post, Tumblr passive-aggressively suggests the tag "my kingdom for a discworld character who is normal about women and other species.")

But I like this particular change in Moist, and I choose to see it as character development. He's trading in the professional detachment of a conman for the ability to grow into himself as a person and make meaningful connections.

So, what does that have to do with cataplexy? A lot.

I don't want to get too maudlin, so I'll just say I have plenty of personal experience with emotional repression masking cataplexy symptoms. And so, I believe, does the version of Moist we've put together over the course of this post.

Which brings us back to Making Money, and Mr. Bent. He says something about Moist that I find very interesting: "I do not trust those who laugh too easily."

Unless I've missed something, at that point in the book, Moist has never actually laughed in front of him. And Mr. Bent is a man who pays very close attention to details.

So, what is the in-universe explanation for this? I'd like to propose that Moist is very skilled at seeming to laugh, without actually laughing. He smiles, he's friendly, and he makes other people laugh, which is another thing Bent dislikes about him. He gives the impression of being someone who laughs a lot. (He certainly left that impression on me; I was very surprised by the lack of examples in the first two books.)

Even staying strictly within the bounds of canon, it's easy to imagine why this might have become part of Moist's camouflage in his previous life. He wasn't looking to get attached to anyone, and he didn't want anyone getting inside his head. Engaging with people genuinely enough to laugh at their jokes would run counter to both of those things, but some of his personas still needed to come off as friendly and sociable.

Still working within the canon, it makes sense to assume he's similarly distanced himself from emotion in general. He sits in a cell for several weeks without truly believing he's going to die. He's bewildered when Mr. Pump points out that his schemes have hurt innocent people. He has no idea what to do with his feelings for Adora. Etc.

Interpreting Moist as having cataplexy adds an extra element of danger. Moist thrives on danger, but there's a difference between the thrill of a con and the threat of sudden, uncontrollable displays of vulnerability. And so it becomes even easier to see him stifling his own emotional capacity.*

We meet Moist at a moment of great upheaval. He is forcibly removed from his cocoon of false identities, and pushed out into the world as himself. And we are shown and told throughout Going Postal that he does not know how to be himself. (See also.)

He is repeatedly stymied by his own emotions. He gets tongue-tied and confused around Adora, he snaps at Mr. Pump, he lashes out at Mr. Groat, he gets lost in school flashbacks when he meets Miss Maccalariat. This thread continues in Making Money, where the sudden reappearance of Cribbins immediately rattles him into making an uncharacteristic mistake.

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

Later in the same book, Moist misses a crucial opportunity to run damage control on the bank's public image... because he's excited to see Adora.

The Moist of GP and MM is not used to feeling things so deeply. It throws him off his game. I'm not at all suggesting cataplexy is the only (or even primary) reason for that, but I do think there's room for it on both sides of the cause and effect equation.

With or without the cataplexy, I find Moist's relative emotional openness in Raising Steam... really nice. (It's a work in progress. He's still getting a handle on anger.)

Cataplexy just adds another dimension. A physical manifestation of emotional vulnerability, which would have been especially untenable for a teenager on the run. Just one more facet of the real, human, fallible Moist von Lipwig who spent years buried beneath Albert Spangler and all the rest.

Another piece of himself that Moist is growing to understand and accept, as he learns to more comfortably be himself.

The Moist of Going Postal runs into a burning building to save lives without fully understanding why he wants to, and justifies it on the fly as an essential part of the role he's trying to play.

The Moist of Raising Steam mindlessly throws himself under a train to save two children, and then blows up at Harry King about the lack of safety regulations. Freshly traumatized by the murder of several railway workers and his own violent, vengeful response to it, he still offers, in the face of Harry's own grief, to be the one to inform their families. On a long and dangerous journey with plenty of moving parts to think about, he worries about Dick Simnel and the other engineers, and pushes them to take better care of themselves.

He also meets a bunch of kids who nearly derailed a train as part of a childish scheme. His admonishment is startlingly vivid.

"Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people."

[...]

"I'll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I'd get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops."

Maybe what he is also saying, between the lines, is:

I left home at 14 and began a life of smoke and mirrors. I was empty inside, and I thought everyone else was, too. It was all fun and games, and then a man made of clay told me I was killing people. Nip it in the bud, child. Write books.

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

*There are studies suggesting that in addition to deliberately employed "tricks," people with cataplexy may experience physiological reactions in the brain meant to inhibit laughter. (Source 1, Source 2.)

Most of the information here is way over my head, but that second link also says "one region of the brain called the zona incerta (meaning 'zone of uncertainty') was only activated during laughter in people with narcolepsy, not in controls. Research on the zona incerta in animals suggests that it also helps to control fear-associated behavior."

The linked article about that (https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03581-6) is also over my head, but I would certainly describe Moist von Lipwig as having unusual fear responses.**

**Narcolepsy is a fun roller-coaster ride of constant scientific discoveries about exactly which parts of your brain are paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, or trying to eat each other.

#moist von lipwig #narcolepsy #discworld #disabled headcanons #oh my god this got so out of hand #earned itself a title AND a subtitle #mr. cybulskis i'm sorry i fell asleep in your class every day it was at the exact wrong time and temperature and lighting

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amitlee · 3 years

Text

Not a softie (2)

Summary- ohh wow a part 2!

Part 1 —

Switch!Techno Switch!Phil

Warnings: This is a tickle fic! The tickles in this are more intense than the ones last time but there is still fluff <3

Please don’t tag as a ship post!

———————————————————————

—“Come to my room?” Phil softly asked Techno, who nodded and sleepily walked after Phil.

—————————————————

“Soooo” Technoblade said awkwardly, he hadn’t been alone with Philza like this in a while and it certainly hadn’t been under these circumstances. His social awkwardness had started to kick in.

“Soooo what?” Phil replied with a mocking edge. “Ya know, I’ve been thinking in the time we walked together, and I realized that you seem very tense. I don’t know what kind of friend I would be to keep one of my dearest pals in such an uncomfortable state. Please, take a seat.” He patted the spot nearest to him on the bed and glanced over to Technoblade.

Phil had planned to take it easy, start slow end slow, you know? But there was a problem. The man was known for his infamous ler moods, in fact, he could be seen as one of the token lers of their large friend group. Said ler moods came in many forms, the most common being quick and ruthless, and if you were to ask Phil how he was feeling, he’d say common.

“Alright mate. I want to just get into it, so what are you feeling? Do you want me to be gentle or can I go all out? Restraints or no restraints?” Despite feeling ‘quick and ruthless’, the comfort and happiness of his friends was always the number 1 priority.

He watched as Techno stuttered, looking into his eyes once before he had completely turned his head to hide his flushed face. Techno spoke, “Y-Yeah. You can do what you want but I don’t really want restraints, pinning is fine though.”

That was all Philza needed to hear, he sprung into action with a smile on his face. He ended up on top of Techno and holding one hand in his own, leaving the other to be free for the time being. He made a show of looking for a place to start by moving his free hand to different spots, sometimes pausing and acting like he was going to start. Eventually, he settled to rest the tips of his fingers all on a different rib, some in between the spaces. He hesitated, “You remember the safe word, right?”

Techno knew Phil wouldn’t take it too far, but they both liked having a safe word just incase. “Yep. Amber, right?” Sure it was unoriginal, but it was easy to remember and used across many people.

Phil gave a gentle smile, his facade wavering a bit before he remembered what he was doing. “Mhm. Just making sure. Now if you’ll excuse me...” He vibrated his fingers where they were on the exposed ribs and was pleased to hear a gasp before Techno had gentle laughs pouring out of him.

“Oh, breaking so soon~” The eldest teased, he was hoping that Techno wouldn’t hold back, and after the gentleness in the living room, it seems he didn’t have the will to. He looked down at the man below him and took in his cheeks that were lightly dusted with a pink blush.

“Ohohoh, we bohohoth know ihihi’m far frohohom brokehen.” The younger man shot back without much thought, Philza lifted an eyebrow.

“You trying to test me?” Phil teased and moved to the upper ribs. “You? Trynna? Test? Me?” He repeated, poking at random places in between each word.

“Tehest? N-NohOHOHO-“

He dug his fingers into the man’s armpit, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. “What? Sorry couldn’t quite hear you.”

Techno was caught off guard at his underarms being so sensitive, he genuinely didn’t remember them being very ticklish. Phil wasn’t disappointed in the reaction in the slightest and kept up the firm touches.

When he got bored of that spot, he moved to one that he know was just slightly more ticklish, his hips. Now, with Techno’s hips, there is a very specific way you have to tickle them in order to get any kind of reaction. First, get your balance and make sure nothing is in danger of being hit or knocked over, because this spot always makes Techno kick and wiggle. Next you place your hand so your thumb is settled in the dip of the bone. You must act fast once you have your hand in position because he doesn’t wait until you start tickling to start writhing around like a mad man. Firmly rub in circular motions or drill into the cluster of nerves in this spot and there you have it, a hysterical warrior.

“PHIHIL- PLEHEHEASE FUHUHUCK ITS SOHOHO BAHAHAHAD!” Techno let his mirth take control, dissolving into laughter and losing some of his coherence.

Phil followed the process perfectly, as always, since he was the one who made it up. He was jolted around as he continued to tickle his friend silly, listening to the melodious laughter falling out of Technoblade’s mouth without restraint.

A few moments later he moved his hand to trace around his friend’s ears.

His reward was the rare giggles that only came out in that particular spot. He’d found it rather early on and to this day, was the only person able to get away with abusing this information. His ears were essentially the only ticklish melt spot Techno had, it was perfect for gentle tickling and relaxing him.

Once Phil believed he was sufficiently relaxed and too sleepy to fight back, he released the hand that he had been holding hostage since the beginning and lay down beside his tired friend. They were cuddled up together as Techno regained his breath and Phil asked, “Feeling better?”

Techno pulled Phil closer until he was basically on holding him on his chest, both of them still laying down. “I felt fine before, but yes.”

Phil didn’t abject to being pulled closer but he was suspicious as to why he was being cuddled to Techno’s chest.

Techno didn’t give him time to question his position. “You on the other hand, how are you? You seem just so unfathomably upset.” You can’t expect to mess with Technoblade and get off Scott free, though he admired Phil for trying.

Oh, so that’s what he was doing. Phil had the realization. “I’m very much content thahank you.” He felt Techno slip his hand under his shirt and scratch his blunt nails on his lower back at an excruciatingly slow and steady pace. He arched his back and pressed his head into Techno’s shoulder in attempt to hide the squeaks he produced while holding back giggles.

“Aww, breaking so soon?” Techno mocked the earlier version of Phil.

“Noho! I’m still holding on unlike someone, chuckles.” Phil couldn’t help but continue to tease, he didn’t expect to be on the receiving end so soon.

After hearing the comment, Techno immediately started squeezing Philza’s sides. He knew it wasn’t a bad spot but would definitely get him squirming.

And squirm he did. Phil broke out into chuckles at the unexpected touch. “OHOhohok! Ok! Point tahahaken!” He sighed when the hands returned to skittering around his back, this time not holding back any reactions. He soon tensed as he realized that Techno was moving further and further up. He had always considered his upper back as one of his worst spots, which was especially unconventional since he couldn’t even protect it.

He felt Techno lean his head down to be able to whisper into his ear and scrunched up his shoulders before he could even get close, causing Techno to chuckle.

“Oh, stubborn aren’t we?” He paused “Or should I say, aren’t lee~” With that, Techno dug his fingers around the upper parts of Phil’s back, being sure not to cause pain. He occasionally fluttered his hands up to the man’s neck, making him further scrunch his shoulders every time.

Phil felt everything. The way Techno would dig into the backs of his ribs, massaging them with ticklish precision. The way he would randomly launch attacks of swift pokes to the same area for a few seconds to get him to squirm away only to be met by the other hand. How Techno would brush his nails over his shoulder blades and make him squeal. When he would travel up to his neck and collarbones like a true monster. He felt it all, and he loved every bit of it.

Despite his enjoyment, Phil was still a human and had to breathe at some point. “TEHEHECH, IHI’M OHOHOLD! MY LUHUHUNGS COULD COLLAHAPSE ANY SEHEHECOND!” He preferred to keep the mood light, not wanting Techno to think he’d been overwhelmed. Phil hadn’t quite reached his limit yet, but was satisfied with the wrecking bestowed upon him.

He felt Techno slow his fingers until he was simply dragging his nails in patterns. This kept Phil in light giggles and produced yelps when he found a particularly good spot. Techno had never been the type to stop tickling someone all at once, unless a safe word was called, he liked to fluster his lees a little more before truly letting them off the hook.

“Fehehe- Feeling behetter?” Phil asked again.

Techno smiled down at him, he would never admit it, but moments like these were very important to him. He adored the closeness and light hearted atmosphere, it also allowed for him to happily let off steam and build strong bonds. “Well, I can’t say I’m feeling bad. So yes, I feel better. Thank you, Phil.” Techno switched from the light tickles to now rubbing the breathless man’s back with his palm to help him calm down some more.

Phil felt his heart swell from the words and attention he was getting, his face heated back up and he buried it into the younger’s shoulder again. “Good.” He decided not to leave Techno talking into silence. “Me too.”

After a moment of sitting in the comfortable silence, Phil realized he was cold. He rolled out of the prolonged hug to grab a blanket. He got the blanket and wrapped it around himself, getting as comfortable as he could. He soon turned around to face Technoblade, putting on a fake pout. “C’mere” He whined at him.

His obviously fake pout turned back into a smile when he was joined by his friend at his side. He lifted the blanket up so the other could slide under it and also be warm.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I build a secret treehouse when I was 7?” Techno asked, planning to tell his friend stories until they both fell asleep.

Phil looked at him with a surprised look, he’d never even heard about this story before. “No, I haven’t. Tell me about it?” He requested.

Techno went on to tell him the story and more for the next 45 minutes before Phil fell into a light sleep.

They both woke up hours later, refreshed and ready to go about their day before looking out and noticing the absence of the sun.

“Sleepover!” Phil playfully cheered. They got changed into their pajamas and turned on Lilo and Stich before, once again, falling asleep.

———————————————————————

Yup, only about, mmmm let’s see, a month late...oops.

But I had the idea to put this as my, drumroll please, 100 FOLLOWER CELEBRATIONNNN!!!🎉🎉 HOLY SHIIITTT

That is huge for me and I really appreciate the way you guys let me grow and give so much support. Thank you so so much💕

As always, have a great night and I love y’all💞💞

#mcyt tickle #tickle fic #ticklecommunity #lee!technoblade #lee!techno #lee!phil #lee!philza #lee!philzaminecraft #ler!technoblade #ler!techno #ler!philzaminecraft #ler!phil #Ler!philza #mcyt tickle fic

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its-a-novelist-girl · 4 years

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Never Have I Ever

Chapter Two

Chapter One

Summary: A virgin, 20-year-old Damian with too many trust issues to let a girl get too close is constantly teased by his brothers for spending so much time with his female best friend, Y/N. During a game of never have I ever, Y/n is shocked to find that her incredibly good looking best friend has never had more than a brief kiss. Y/n starts to think and she might have a proposition that Damian can’t say no to.

(Disclaimer/Notes): I own nothing of DC characters. This will be partly comic cannon and partly my own. I have never posted like this on here so please be patient with me as I learn.

(Tags): @theyellowfeverexperience, @ginevraxrogers, @lilsxtan, @idkmanicantenglish, I’m sorry if I missed anyone!

This is a filler chapter before we get into the good stuff. Also did anyone catch who Damian's phone service provider is? And what it could possibly stand for? Hope you enjoy!

You woke up the next morning to a text from Damian that said he wanted to meet at a local coffee shop to talk. You had to admit you were nervous as hell as you wondered what Damian would say. You texted your best friend at almost 3 am to say that if he wanted to have sex that you would gladly volunteer, and all that he replies back with is him asking to get coffee. You really were out of your mind.

You don’t know what came over yourself last night to text him what you did. At the time in your groggy sleepy mind, it made perfect sense. You were the only person Damian trusted to be vulnerable around so, therefore, you could be the person that he would lose his virginity to. What were you thinking?

You cursed yourself all morning as you reluctantly got ready to meet for coffee. You messaged him back and told him to meet you at the coffee shop a few blocks from your apartment at 10:30. Which gave you just enough time to shower, dry your hair, put on a bit of makeup, and get dressed, all while wondering if you had completely messed up everything. Damian would most likely put you down gently, politely state that you aren’t his time and didn’t see you that way, and go on pretending this never happened.

You had to admit that you weren’t exactly on Damian’s level. You thought you looked beautiful, however, very average. Average height, average eye color, average body type. Damian was an adonis. Beautiful and powerful in every aspect. His whole body demanded respect and when he walked into a room he suddenly owned it. His whole family was like that. Even though they were all adopted by his dad, his brothers and sisters were just undeniable gorgeous. You wondered if they shared a skin routine or if vigilantism was just great for your skin.

You worried that you might be losing your best friend. Being shot down you could handle. It would hurt like hell but you could handle it. Brush it off with a joke and then you both just never speak of it again. However if this changed things between you, you could lose Damian entirely, and that’s something you just couldn’t handle. Damian was your rock and your biggest supporter. He was the person you told everything to. He was the person that you would call when you were sitting on your bathroom floor crying when life just got too overwhelming. You needed him.

You decide on a simple outfit of sneakers, black jeans, and a t-shirt on it with a yellow bat symbol on it. It was a common shirt for Gotham, and it made Damian laugh every time you wore it. You wore it today to judge how the conversation would go. If he laughed then you were in the clear, if he didn’t laugh you would start to mentally prepare yourself for the worst. You brushed your hair and gave yourself one final head nod of encouragement in the mirror before you grabbed your bag and headed out the door before you could change your mind.

The walk to the coffee shop wasn’t long and soon you were stepping through the front door. Your eyes immediately scanned the small shop and landed on a very deadpan looking Damian in the far corner. He was sitting up straight as a rod, checking the time on his watch, with two drinks in front of him. Of course, he would get there early. You started walking in his direction and his eyes immediately picked up the movement. You meet his eyes briefly before he glanced at what you were wearing. Damian’s eyes lit up and he chuckled lowly while shaking his head in an exasperated manner. You decided that the noise was magical as it lifted the worry from your shoulders.

You sat down in the chair in front of him thanking him as he slid over your favorite order. After a few beats of you both silently drinking your respective drinks, you decided to speak. “So Dami, what brings us here on this lovely Saturday morning,” you asked.

“I think you and I both know why we are here,” he said with a small smile and the slightest waver in his voice.

“Look its fine if you don’t want my offer,” you start but you are quickly cut off by Damian.

“No, it’s not that. I just want to make sure we are on the same page and I would rather do that in person. I want to know exactly what it is that you are offering before I agree.” he explained relaxing into his chair a little more when you smiled at him.

“I’m offering anything you want Damian,” You said.

“I would rather hear it in your words if you don’t mind,” He said.

You gave him a small smile and said “I’m offering to be the person you can trust to be vulnerable with. I’m offering to be your firsts of however much you want. However much you feel comfortable with.”

He thought about this for a moment, watching the small crowd in the coffee shop, and then finally leaned his elbows on the table to lean towards you, looking at the table said in a quiet voice “And that’s something that you would enjoy as well?”

There’s your Damian, asking to make sure you would enjoy yourself too, even though you were the one that offered. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable with this and make sure that by accepting your offer he wouldn’t be taking advantage of you or forcing you into something you wouldn’t be comfortable with.

You reached across the table and gently placed your hand on top of his, stroking your thumb against his wrist once before answering.

“Yes”

He then asked, “And you would tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable or if you wanted this to stop at any time?”

You could have laughed at the thought of wanting to stop anything with him if his eyes weren’t so serious. If you couldn’t see the worry in his face as his eyes continued to burn a hole into the table. The idea that you could have Damian touching you, kissing you, and in your bed was something you don’t think you would ever want to stop once you started. It was a dangerous game to play, having developed a slight crush on your best friend over the years, but this wasn’t about you. This was about Damian.

“Yes. This is going to require communication from both of us to work, but I promise you that I will be completely open and honest about everything”, you said with as much reassurance as you could possibly give.

He lifted his head and your eyes met. His rich green eyes searched yours for something. Any doubt or hesitation or fear, but when he found nothing but confidence, strength, and sincerity he smiled.

He leaned back in his chair crossing his arms in front of his chest as he cleared his throat with a smile and said “I don’t think there is a man alive that would turn down a proposition such as this one.” he said with amusement in his voice. He looked up into your eyes and simply said: “I accept.”

#older!damian #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #older!damian wayne x reader #dc #dc comcis #batfam

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believe-that-you-can-my-friend · 4 years

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Elisabeth & Noah in the origin world (2/?)

First date

He is not sure if he should text her or not.

On Monday, upon waking up with every ounce of alcohol finally off his bloodstream and after he has spent the entire Sunday recovering from the worst hangover he’s experienced since his college years, Noah is back on his reserved nature, the timid one, the one lacking the amount of whiskey-infused courage it takes for him to deal with matters revolving around human interaction, especially with women. He’s not a social outcast per se, but his confidence mostly accompanies him in the career-oriented side of his life.

It’s not like he’s not interested. He crossed the line of “interested” when he stooped to the lowest level possible, looking her up on Instagram, of all things, via Agnes’ account.

(His little sister has a long list of questions and he has a long list of brotherly favors that he promised to fulfill in exchange for her seven-digit password.)

She doesn’t have a vast presence on social media, a quality they apparently share. He keeps a long forgotten Facebook account and a professional LinkedIn one and acts blissfully ignorant towards any other platform that isn’t YouTube. Her Facebook account - oh yeah, he checked that one too - is a mix between personal and business, opinion posts about socio-politcal matters on the grounds of their country to the entirety of Europe to the endlessness of the globe and take-action events in regard to the causes she supports, occasionally interrupted by a reunion selfie with an old friend or a brunch date with her mom and her sister. That particular post redirected to some Instagram link, so, unwittingly, his curiosity was peaked.

Her Instagram account is colourful, vivid, filled with adventures and laughter. Just from an idle scroll, Elisabeth Doppler - Winden born, age twenty-four, Energy Engineer, Berlin based - can easily be perceived as someone that quite enjoys life. Her group of associates and friends seems endless and her gallery consists of photos of dinners with young professionals, pub-crawling with girlfriends, road tripping across Europe, Erasmus Programme memories, tree-planting projects, women’s rights marches, snorkelling, paragliding. Noah spends the whole Sunday afternoon feeling overwhelmed and in awe, tapping picture after picture, mesmerized by her lovely smile that adds a softer undertone to her busy bee of a life.

He finds it fascinating, her mindset and her lifestyle, but, at the same time, he fears that their personalities may clash, his more keeping-to-himself attitude the polar opposite to her seemingly outgoing one. Then, it’s also the age barrier. He thinks that thirty-two might be a little off-putting for someone in their early twenties, a decade that comes with a whole other set of expectations and milestones than the one he is currently in. The major problem, though - a chronic problem of his - is that he’s thinking too much.

Fortunately, that’s not a thing they have in common.

Elisabeth texts him on Monday morning, at 9.54 to be exact. He’s in the middle of a lecture, teaching History of Religion 101 to an auditorium filled with sleepy freshmen, when his phone screen lights up, its glow illuminating in the dimly lit room. It’s a simple “good morning” paired up with a smiling face emoji but it’s enough to cause his heart to race and his mind to short-circuit, leaving him reciting things off the projection screen without really registering what comes out of his mouth until the lesson is over. With sweaty hands and in the mist of internal panic laced with excitement, he texts her back at 10.38 an equally casual “hey, hope you’re having a good morning, too”. He beats himself up for not asking her anything the minute he presses send, like, how she’s doing, if she’s at work - literally anything, Noah, Jesus Christ, now she’ll think that you don’t care, nice work, you idiot - especially as the hours pass and there’s silence from her end. He spends the rest of the day drowning in miserable self-pity, checking his dead phone literally every minute, until there’s a new message from her, telling him that she had a very busy day at work and asking him how his day was.

(Thank God, because he was about to send her an embarrassing word vomit apologizing for having zero social skills whatsoever.)

They continue their back and forth texting for the rest of the week, casual conversations about their everyday lives turning into debates about the best places to eat and the best movies of all time to metaphysics and social justice that keep them up till the small hours of morning, Elisabeth sending him blowing-a-kiss face emoji’s for goodnight and Noah smiling like a silly teenager at his phone screen. Right in the middle of one of their more “serious” conversations, Elisabeth venting about income-based discrimination, Noah asks her out. It’s abrupt and totally irrelevant to the context of the rest of the bubbles that litter their personal chat at that moment but he can’t really help himself. She is a woman he wants - needs - to know more about, not through a screen, but in person, sit there and watch her express all the things she has in her brilliant mind.

They arrange to meet on Friday night, after she finishes work, since Noah has to attend a seminar in Dresden on the weekend and since both of them are too impatient to wait any longer. Noah arrives first at the bar she gave him directions to and decides on waiting for her outside but decides against smoking a cigarette, even though he’s itching to, out of habit and nerves. She rounds the corner barely five minutes later, strutting towards him in an electric blue pantsuit and a plaid maxi grey coat, her whole face brightening with a stunning smile when she notices him, and, just like that, everything else fades, his anxiety about their first official date, his mental fatigue after holding office hours, his insecurities, his worries and she is the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters.

A wave of panic washes over him momentarily, his inner perfectionist making a huge deal out of not having a clear plan of how to greet her. A handshake is too impersonal, a kiss too presumptuous. Ultimately, he attempts an awkward, one-arm kinda hug - which is ridiculous because a) he’s a freaking grown-up and b) her tongue has already been inside his mouth and he doesn’t recall his hands being particularly respectful the night of Jonas’ wedding, when she pushed him against a wall and stole his breath with a glorious kiss - an action she probably misconstrues as a leaning in and this results in them doing a clumsy dance right there on the pavement, but she giggles and her eyes shine with amusement, so his self-deprecating frown gives its place to a handsome smirk, when she moves closer to him and leaves a soft peck on his cheek, as a belated greeting. She smells of sensuous jasmine and intoxicating amber, her perfume aery but with a spicy twist that succeeds in stimulating all of his senses. He holds the door for her to enter and his hand lingers lightly on the small of her waist, as they make their way through the tables to the bar.

They settle on two empty barstools and order their signature drinks, Gin and Tonic and Whiskey on the Rocks. Elisabeth takes her phone out of her tote bag but before she gets to type anything, Noah holds her attention. He thinks for a moment and then makes his hands move, forming tentative gestures that lack any grace or flow but succeed in signing “It’s nice to see you. How have you been?”.

Elisabeth beams, impressed, her lips mouthing an excited “how?”. He just shrugs and shyly pulls out of his messenger bag a thick sign language book, a recent purchase of his which he’s been studying with every chance he got. Her whole face softens, touched by his sweet gesture, before she types on her phone.

That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you. Even though you shouldn’t have; apart from technology’s assistance, I’m pretty good at reading lips.

He uses his phone to reply. Yeah, I gathered that much. I just want to talk to you in your language.

The look that she gives him under her fluttering eyelashes is so tender and lovely that he can’t help but stare, a foolish grin plastered on his lips and a hot blush painted on his neck, creeping from the collar of his grey shirt.

They talk - type, to be exact, with the occasional mimic of a word or two - about everything and nothing, fast thumbs trying to keep up with their effortless conversation on the notifications’ section of their phones. He learns about her childhood in Winden, her hellish pranks to her older sister Franziska, her loving parents that separated when she was a preteen but never stopped caring about each other or being there for their daughters. She talks about her hometown friends and her honor roll high school experience, moving to Berlin to attend university and falling in love with the lively vibe of the city, getting her Master’s in Energy Engineering and recently landing her first job on the field at the Tiedemann Enterprises, a very prestige corporation in the industry of renewable energy. She’s still particularly excited about this, being part of a team of researchers thriving to improve energy efficiency based on an environmental friendly strategy.

Noah tells her about his memories as a young boy in Vechta, how he lost his mother when he was only six, due to complications while giving birth to his sister, how his father was never really in the picture after that tragic incident. How the local church and especially Sic Mundus, a church based organization for neglected children and troubled teens, contributed to his and Agnes’ well-being and education, helping him land a university scholarship and get a job, so he could afford moving his sister to Berlin, too, after he got his bachelor degree, and offering her a more stable living situation and a normal life. How, apparently, his aptitude for the humanities and his upbringing in a religious environment drove him to follow an academic career in religious studies, a field that he finds beyond interesting, especially its anthropology aspect.

Somewhere along the conversation, too absorbed into their own little world to register the fewer people in the bar and the clock ticking towards closing time, his hand, as if it has a mind of its own, slides slowly over the wooden top of the bar, her slender fingers meeting his hesitant approach halfway. They’re barely touching but it’s electrifying, the feeling of even an inch of his skin against her skin so exhilarating and powerful, like the impact of meteors colliding or the universe exploding into pieces. It feels like a Déjà vu, like a glitch in the Matrix, like they know each other from the past or recognize each other from their future. It’s a feeling both of them kept seeking, a feeling that they silently vow never to lose.

Noah pays for the drinks, despite her objections, and Elisabeth insists that, next time, the bill is on her. He smirks, a tad tipsy on the whiskey, a lot tipsy on her, and teases her that he must have done something right, because this is the first time a girl agrees on a second date with him this fast. She just shrugs, a cheeky smirk playing on her lip-glossed lips, as she types, if I left it up to you, we’d still be on the PG-13 “good morning” texts. He laughs, an effortless, loud laugh and he catches her staring - no, not staring, checking him out - the corner of her longing smile trapped between her teeth. He fights the insane urge to kiss her senseless right here in this empty bar with the bartender mentally plotting their death for keeping him past his shift.

He accompanies her to the U-Bahn station and his heart skips a heartbeat at the prospect of sharing ten more minutes with her, according to the information display over their heads. She wishes him to have fun in Dresden and he confesses that he wishes he could stay here, to spend the weekend with you, he wants to add but refrains, in fear of confessing too much too fast. Instead, he tells her that he had an amazing night and he’s so relieved and purely happy when she nods vigorously in agreement, her low ponytail bobbing lightly and her beautiful face radiating even under the harsh fluorescent light of the station. The atmosphere around them is suddenly very charged, their bodies gravitating towards each other, and their eyes engage in a stare off that speaks volumes and holds so much unresolved tension. He can hear the bright yellow train approaching and his breath quickens as he takes a brave step forward, invades her personal space, and his eyes declare defeat, falling to her lips. He’s the one to kiss her this time, a soft peck that turns into a needy battle of dominance when she melts into his arms and angles her face to kiss him more, deeper, hungry mouths dancing together in passion, his shoulders hunching over her smaller figure, his hands cradling her cheeks. Her own hands sneak under his coat and suit jacket, delivering a heavy caress over the material of his shirt before she closes her arms around his waist, Noah letting a trembling exhale into the kiss and his lips forming a lazy smirk against her giggling ones. Smugly, Elisabeth tugs lightly at his lower lip with her teeth, a naughty essence to the playful action, and this fuels another round of heated kissing, their bodies pushing and pulling, their heavy PDA a thing they’ll be embarrassed for in the morning. For tonight, though, they’re just two people getting drunk on each other in the middle of a train station, as if tomorrow will be the end of world and they’ll cease to exist.

When they pull back for air her lips are lipgloss-free and her eyelids, still closed, are fluttering over scarlet cheekbones. Noah has never witnessed a most beautiful sight in his life.

Elisabeth gets on the train with a dazed and dazzling smile, promising to text him when she arrives at her apartment. They refuse to let go of each other’s eyes until the train vanishes into the dark tunnel and Noah is left there, on the empty station, a finger reaching to his lips, not quite believing that the fruity taste of lipgloss that still lingers in his mouth or the woman whose lips left their trace behind are real and not a product of his wildest fantasies. There’s an extra hop in his steps as he walks up the stairs to catch the train to the opposite direction, boarding the vehicle at the last minute and sliding quickly on a seat, lovesick smile intact and a newfound feeling of contentment and thrill nested in his chest.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and types, unable to wait any longer.

I get back early on Sunday. Would you like to have dinner with me?

#dark netflix #noah x elisabeth #elisabeth x noah #elisabeth doppler #hanno tauber #noah #noah dark #noabeth #noahbeth #this turned out huge #but i have way too many feels to control myself #myedits #ogparadise

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parvuls · 3 years

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i tried to headcanon about sex and ended up with 1.5k words of commentfic

warning: nsfw discussion. also warning: i like to discuss my headcanons in writing even if no one cares.

as you know (and if not, seriously, what r u even doing here) i am obsessed with the boys' first summer. and once i started envisioning the delightful awkward chaos that are their first times, i also tried to make sense of their sexual development timeline.

THE FACTS:

huddle 3 (spoiler!) contains an anal scene that apparently takes place at providence during their first summer

bitty only visited providence once that summer

for no more than a week

after having seen jack in person only once (1) since the graduation kiss.

so obviously, i told myself -- here are the two options: a) huddles are not canon, and ngozi inserted that scene during the summer for no particular reason [but then why mention its timing at all?]. or, b) the boys moved far faster than i would otherwise headcanon for them.

but, ALSO FACTS:

bitty has no sexual or romantic experience

jack's sexual experience with men is limited at worst and just a really long time ago at best

they're both disgusting hopeless romantics who are exactly the type of couple to be into shit like candlelight and rose petals and freakin' elvis crooning in the background (can you tell i'm not a romantic person in my personal sex life? do people still listen to elvis?)

and, just to push this post further into the nsfw category, MORE FACTS:

anal sex is such a delicate, elaborate process

i am a sucker for the realistic!sex trope

it's like totally not exaggerated to have sex three or four times a day the first week you're in a relationship. especially if you've been waiting to be alone together for two months. and are young and horny.

so this leaves us with heacanon A (huddle is not canon compliant) and heacanon B (huddle is canon).

HEADCANON A:

they 'kiss a bunch and shit' in madison (thanks lardo!). they also tentatively make it to third base (i mean, i did say they were horny). i covered this bit in fic.

i personally do not believe in the skype sex headcanon pre-year 3 because i think they'd be too awkward for it before actually having had enough sex (it is, in fact, pretty awkward), but more power to anyone who does. i definitely believe there was some suggestive texting between july 4th and providence. both boys blushed like tomatoes during this.

i'd say providence started from where they left off (frottage and handjobs) and slowly developed into a lot of oral from both parties (their love for this act also features in huddle 3). if this was a typical college first relationship i'd say they lingered at this stage for longer, but because they had a week straight of private time and also knew they'd be doing long distance, there was probably a bit of really tentative fingering thrown there towards the end of the week. maybe intercrural, although i wonder which one of them would think of it at that stage.

ha, now i'm thinking about bitty waking jack up on his 25th birthday and throwing out some super cheesy line about giving him a birthday present, red-faced but determined, and then trying to go down on him for the first time. i'm now also thinking about it being a total flawed mess. i'm sorry, i can't help the realistic kink!!!

anyway. then there's year 3. i kinda feel like they were securely intimate before thanksgiving and coming out to smh, so they probably tried anal sometime between august and november during one of bitty's visits. maybe even relatively early on (again, horny and doing long distance). mid-september, maybe? the french flashcards weekend was september 13rd, that totally checks out.

personally, i always headcanon it as a complete disaster. to get more detailed, i think bitty would insist on bottoming the first time (lbh, bitty comes from a pretty biased background and probably didn't have a lot of in depth conversations about 'roles' in gay sex before, and also probably feels like he's got something to 'prove' as a gay man), but he's a nervous wreck and just the stretching hurts a lot more than he thought it would because he can't relax, and it hurting means he definitely can't relax, and jack's shaking because, well, bitty, but also because bitty doesn't seem to be enjoying himself and this wasn't what jack wanted -- but bitty's insisting he doesn't want to stop. anyway, jack tries to do it but just the first penetration hurts bitty too much and they break it off and then there's, like, three hours of cuddling and petting and really honest, intense conversation and some super intimate mutual handjobs at the end. but no anal. they'll get there.

if we're even more detailed, i think they get there first with jack bottoming. he's (probably) done it before, knows what to expect, is a lot calmer with bitty being in control of the pace. it goes great. there are candles and rose petals and elvis and they stare meaningfully into each other's eyes. you get the gist.

next time (a few weeks later? bitty's next visit?) they try bitty bottoming again. they go a lot slower. there's a lot more laughter and the fingering part takes, like, an hour and a half. bitty's having a great time. jack is having a great time (taking care! of bitty! who's enjoying himself! it's the best). the sex itself is a little stop and go but ultimately great.

then there's skype sex. poor chowder across the hall. i hope they've got good soundproofing.

'but!' you say, if any of you read all the way to this part, 'what about huddle 3???'. well --

HEADCANON B

everything goes pretty much the same except a lot faster, and so a lot more awkwardly and with a lot more talking thrown in (these boys talk. a lot. and if they want to get from zero sex ever to anal in a week, they'll have to be very very open and honest. also, the sex itself is probably a little less technically good than headcanon A because they don't really know each other's bodies, but it's just as intimate and emotional and fun).

so let's say they have five days together (august 2-6). first day is making out against the front door (they missed each other, okay?) and the frottage and handjobs as previously mentioned. multiple times, probably. when bitty gets there; after dinner; before sleep (plus, first blowjob - jack takes his time worshipping bitty); in the middle of the night (bitty wakes up and jack is pressed up against him and --).

second day is jack's birthday and bitty's first time giving a blowjob, as detailed in A4. they probably do birthday stuff around town during the day and bitty attempts oral once again sometime in the evening (this time it's much smoother). when they go to bed that night bitty takes a deep breath and tells jack that he wants to try 'full sex'. it's a little because it's jack's birthday and bitty thinks it'd be romantic, and a lot because he's unsure of when they'll see each other next and wants to try it before school and the hockey season fill their calendars. jack is wide-eyed and fumbly and tries to simultaneously say that any sex is full sex (thanks shitty!) and that they don't have to go so fast and also convey that he totally, totally wants to do that with bitty but he just wants it to be really good. most of it comes out as: "ah... uhhh???" and a lot of blinking.

but they do try it. it goes as detailed above in A6, i.e. not well. afterwards, there's the same amount of cuddling and talking deep into the night and they both emerge from that experience a lot more confident in each other and in their bodies around each other.

on the third day jack wakes up before bitty and lies there staring at the ceiling and thinking, and when bitty wakes up groggy and cute jack says, in his best hockey captain voice, "we should try it the other way around", less like he's suggesting a sexual act and more like he's thinking of a hockey strategy. good thing bitty really likes him just the way he is. they do that, and it goes as described in A7, i.e. pretty damn well. it makes them feel super clingy and in love for the rest of the day and there's more frottage against the kitchen counter after bitty feeds jack pie and that night bitty tries bottoming again. we've established that it goes much better that time.

and, finally, on the fourth day they have the huddle 3 sex scene (it includes rimming). its tone would have to shift a little to fit in this timeline but i really did my best here.

on the fifth day there's sleepy morning groping and then oral in the shower and then the drive back to samwell. they're happy. they're in love. they're gonna get married (not now, but i just felt like mentioning it). they're gonna get much better at the whole sex thing that year.

the skype sex still takes awhile. and it’s definitely bitty’s idea. that boy knows his way around a camera.

#zimbits #omgcp #omgcheckplease #man i'm starting to think it's weird that i've been writing fic for eight years and i've never written smut until a few months ago.#apparently i have a lot to say about sex????#pavfics #maybe???#headcanon #text #check please!

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sage-nebula · 3 years

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((do NOT reblog))

Lately I’ve been thinking that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’ve been tired—like, extremely so—for . . . maybe a year now? If not longer. It feels like it settled in shortly after I started my new job back in March of 2019, so in that case it’d be more like a year and nine months, but it’s hard to say for sure. I thought for a long time that it was because of my new job, because I have to wake up early in the morning for it and my delayed sleep phase disorder means that I’m running on a lower than average hours of sleep each night during the week. But lately I think it’s more than that.

See, the thing is, it doesn’t matter how much sleep I get. Even if I get the suggested nine hours a night, I’m still dozing off a little after waking up, like a couple hours later. Even if I get twelve, thirteen, or fourteen hours of sleep in a night, sure enough I’ll be dozing off again a few hours after waking up. I have no energy to do anything on the weekends. Even if I get the aforementioned thirteen hours of sleep Friday going into Saturday, on Saturday I still feel so drained that doing a load of laundry leaves me feeling completely wiped out. This causes mess to pile up in my house, because I just don’t have the energy to get it done, because I only start to feel normal by Sunday night (and even then it’s like barely normal) but then the work week starts again. I had a four day weekend this weekend thanks to the Christmas holiday, and I spent both Thursday and Friday with no energy to do anything at all. Even when I didn’t feel sleepy, I felt so drained of energy that just laying there felt like the most that I could do. Today I’ve felt a bit better, but still recuperating. Tomorrow, my last day off, is the only day I think I’ll have the energy to actually do stuff and get my house in order. But then the work week starts again, and so does the cycle anew.

And the thing is, this isn’t normal. I didn’t used to be like this. Even when I was only getting like five hours of sleep a night, I’d just need a day or so of rest and then I’d be back at 100%. But now it’s like I’m slow charging, and it’s never enough because I don’t have time for it to be enough. One or two days of sustained activity is enough so that my body wants to shut down for like a week. And it’s not sustainable! It’s very hard to live like this! I can’t keep my house clean or do basically anything else because I feel so drained. This is also why I haven’t written anything of substance in so long; even though writing isn’t a physical activity (aside from the physical activity of typing), it still takes energy, and that’s energy that I just haven’t had. My battery is constantly in the red, yellow at best, and I don’t know what to do about it.

About four or five months ago, when I told my doctor about this, he gave me Antidepressant #2 in an effort to help it. That seemed to work for like, a day or two . . . then I went right back to falling asleep at my desk at work no matter how much I slept the night before. I recently asked him to up the dosage to see if that would help, and he agreed*, but then I discovered that upping the dosage gives me tinnitus, and people on the internet say that after they kept using it despite the tinnitus it got to the point where the tinnitus never went away even after they stopped the medication, so. I’ve decided to stop taking that one and I’m going to try to wean myself off it. I’ll talk to him about that on Monday.

(*He said that he didn’t think that it would help and suggested that I exercise to get more energy instead. Of course, the fatal flaw of that plan is that I don’t have the energy needed to exercise in the first place. Plus, my legs are such shit that even things like jump rope cause my right ankle and left shin to be fucked up for days afterward. He suggested I try yoga, since that’s a low impact exercise, and I’ve got myself a mat to give it a shot, but I don’t have much optimism about it making much of a difference.)

I looked up Chronic Fatigue Syndrome online and it honestly does sound like it fits. I’m constantly exhausted, I have daily headaches (which could be down to my genetics since I do have genetic migraines but still), I often have muscle pain in various parts of my body, etc. But at the same time I’m not sure if it’s actually that or if I’m just overreacting. Like I don’t know what the threshold is, or if I’m like, I don’t know . . . what if I’m just lazy? I don’t think I am, because there are things I genuinely wish I could do that I just don’t have the energy to do. I wish I could take my dog on hikes and long walks. Pre-pandemic, I wanted to do things like go to the art museum or the science center or the zoo. I’d like to do rock climbing, provided my legs could handle that, and so on. But even before the pandemic, I never had the energy on the weekends to actually go out and do those things. I’d want to! But then I’d feel so dead that I couldn’t even get out of bed before late afternoon / evening, much less actually go out to do things. Don’t get me wrong, I do take my dog on short walks at least once a day, usually multiple times a day, because I’d never neglect her needs like that. But it’s not the same as being able to take her out to a trail and explore new areas that would surely be more interesting to her nose than just our neighborhood.

So I don’t think I’m lazy, because I want to do these things, and even smaller things, like I wish that my house could be clean and that I could make all these interior decorating renovations to it, but I just don’t have the energy. But I still don’t know if it’s actually bad enough to be considered Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I still don’t know if I’m overreacting. What if this is a level of exhaustion that everyone has, but unlike me they can push through it? What if this is just part of Being Thirty and I’m just too weak to handle it? It’s like how I didn’t know if the pain I felt during my period was normal or not, and I still don’t actually. My gyno gave me the birth control implant to drive my periods down just because I asked for it, she didn’t actually diagnose me with any illness like endometriosis or anything like that. Sure, it felt like machetes were being shoved up into me every month to the point where I’d become incapacitated and sometimes even cry out in pain and sometimes even throw up due to how bad it was, but it could be that way for everyone, right? Maybe that’s just how it feels to have the lining of your uterus shred itself because it’s mad you didn’t get pregnant that month. How am I supposed to know?

There’s no real point to this post. It’s more that I just wanted to get my thoughts down somewhere. I don’t even know where to go from here, really. I don’t think my doctor takes me seriously enough to look into a diagnosis like this, but also I’ve never had luck finding a doctor that does take me seriously and I don’t really know where to start looking. To be fair, I do have an anxiety disorder and so I grant that my mind does find jumping to the Worst Case Scenario to be an easy one, but also the last doctor I had literally would not listen to me describe my breathing problems to her without dismissing me entirely, so. It’s been rough. Of course, even if I did get a diagnosis, it’s not like there’s a treatment, and definitely not a cure. So even if I do have CFS, what can be done about it? It’s not like knowing will solve the issues that it causes in my life.

I don’t know. There’s no point to this. It just really sucks to be fucking physically exhausted all of the goddamn time, especially since sleep does little to help it and I hate sleeping anyway since I have nightmares at least 75% of the time, if not 85%. (It honestly feels more like 85%. Maybe even 90%. It’s very rare that I wake up having not had at least one or two bad dreams that night.) I just want to have energy. I don’t know what that’s so much to ask of my body.

But anyway, DO NOT reblog this, or I’ll just delete it so the cut leads nowhere anyway and also block you, thank you,

#just medical ramblings under the cut #//--do not reblog--//

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nikstersss · 3 years

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Not How To Pass The PLE

Before I go into the main gist of this post, let me give you a small background story. I was a mid-year post-graduate intern in Manila who started in January 2021. I lived alone in our condo unit near the hospital I went to. My usual routine was to get up early, prep, take a short walk to the trike station where I’d take a tricycle to the hospital, go on duty, insert a coffee or carioca break in between, walk all the way home at the end of the day, then maybe have a short study session with a couple friends after dinner or just chill at home. It was a pretty good setup. But then COVID happened. Suddenly, I was a pandemic e-ntern stuck at home listening to Zoom endorsements and lectures all day. At first I was hopeful that things would somehow go back to normal and maybe I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my internship in front of a screen, but we all know how that turned out.

I finished the first half of my internship with the regular year PGIs online. While they were prepping for their boards, I was on my second half with the new batch of interns (that’s probably you, dear reader)—still online. Now you might think that it would have been wise of me to use all that “free” time to start early with my own boards prep and you would be correct. I thought the exact same thing. And trust me, I tried. And failed. Countless times. I won’t even try to justify it. Admittedly, I still think it was a wasted opportunity to read more and make notes, but then again, there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Besides, while it would have been nice and probably less stressful, I still survived without it. Which means that you can, too. So if you’re one of those who’s berating himself because you “didn’t make the most out of your time”, cut it out. You’ll be fine.

Towards the end of my internship, I enrolled in a review center. Despite the asynchronous setup, the review schedule was super tight and the sessions already started while I was still in the middle of final reports and exams. Needless to say, I was already behind on that before it even began. In fact, I didn’t even get to focus on reviewing itself until maybe around early February because of clearance, paperwork, and application stuff. So if you were to ask me how long I really reviewed for the March 2021 boards, I’d say just a little over a month. Kasalanan ko. Wag po tularan. Stressful siya. Nakakaloka.

And even when I did get to really buckle down and do some intense reading, I didn’t follow the program anymore. I tried to catch up at first, but I was already way behind. But I am grateful for all the summarized material because that meant I didn’t have to pore over the mother books anymore. What I will say, though, is that because I didn’t exactly follow the recommended study hours etcetera, I was able to enjoy the whole process because I did it at my own pace. Sure, there was still that dread that maybe I wasn’t on the same level as the others, but I learned to tune those thoughts out eventually. And that’s where goal-setting and discipline comes in, I guess.

The most common question I’ve been getting is what was my day like during the PLE review season. Honestly, I’d like to say I had a routine I followed, but that’s only half-true. While I did have a structure for my day, I rarely followed it exactly. Nevertheless, allow me to share what it would have been like if I did:

Ideally, I’d wake up at 5:00 A.M. then do my morning routine which included prayer and meditation, making my bed, taking a shower, and brewing coffee. And because I’m the type of person who enjoys these mundane activities and slow mornings, I also took this opportunity to get myself in the zone before all the studying that’s to come. I’d plan out my study goals and outline (something you can do the night before, actually) then maybe have breakfast while watching some videos (could be review-related, or those self-motivational vids, or maybe even Korean street food). I’d do whatever I wanted to wake my brain up without stressing it out too much until around 6:30 A.M. By this time, I’d work on backlogs for about an hour and study until about 10 or 11 A.M.—it depends how in the zone I am. I’d prep and cook lunch and then eat while watching Netflix maybe or even play a bit of Fortnite or Paladins until about 1:00 P.M. At this point, I’m pretty certain to be quite sleepy so it’s either I make coffee or tea, or maybe even go out to study at a coffee shop, and then it’s study all the way until 7 P.M. I then take a break to get some exercise, take a shower, have a light dinner, and if I feel like I deserve it, nap for a little bit. At around 8:30, my family usually calls and then we pray the rosary together. After this, I study again, but more of a recall and review session for the day’s progress until about 11:30. I then have my night self-care routine and then go to sleep around midnight.

The main takeaway from the previous paragraph? “Ideally.”

During the first few days of setting up my schedule or routine, following it was already challenging, but still doable. But then the backlogs started piling up and no matter how much I tried to streamline the whole study process, I just couldn’t keep up. I did what I could to follow study habits and schedules, but the setup was falling apart. And you know what? That was okay.

Normally, my type A self would have been so frustrated already with how poorly I was handling my review season. Admittedly, there were a few meltdowns and anxiety attacks as the exam drew nearer, but for the most part, I just let things happen as they did. I still adjusted, sure, but I wasn’t hard on myself for always having to. I kept changing goals when I didn’t meet them (which was probably 80% of the time). There were even instances where I’d finish a handout and then I’d say that okay, I’ll watch an episode for a reward, but that episode became the entire season. While I considered myself to be the most chill reviewee, I also thought I was the worst because I refused to give up any of my wants for my needs. I resisted, of course, but then they’d bug me the entire time I was studying so instead of staying productive, I’d just annoy the hell out of myself. I was probably just lazy and stubborn. LOL. Long story, short, it was a constant battle.

There were times when I felt confident enough to power through the whole thing. I enjoyed the whole process of studying, actually. Making notes and my own ways of memorizing things was fun. I made use of different study strategies, self-checks, and motivational boosters (more on these on a different post). Aside from these, having review-mates who were just a chat away made things bearable. Breakdown session muna tas aral na ulit. And how could I forget all my sweet friends who would send over coffee ayuda every now and then? To me, passing the boards, while mainly should be for oneself and one’s self-actualization, is also about not letting down these people who have been with you throughout your journey.

But it wasn’t always a hyped-90s-movie-transformation-montage kind of environment. Other times, I was just worn out and dejected by my lack of progress. In the already meager time I had to study, I still had plenty of off-days. Concepts just wouldn’t stick and it was disappointing how I’d already forgotten what I just read a couple days ago. It got really tiring even if I was staying indoors all the time. I missed the comfort of coffee shops and the company of study buddies. I missed my family. I wanted to hug our dog. There were days when I couldn’t even bring myself to make coffee and open my notes. I even reached a point where I was sure that I wouldn’t finish reading all the material. (I kid you not, I have handouts I never got to open.)

Yet here I am. Here I am writing about how I survived all that and got those two letters attached to my name. I am not a good example, obviously. There are hundreds better than me and you probably should be taking advice from them instead. I’m simply writing this to tell you that you don’t have to worry. This is all just to ease your anxieties about the PLE. I’m not saying it’s an easy feat that you can just achieve just like that. While I seemed rather complacent, I still put in the work, after all. Admittedly, I know I could have done more, but again, I’m not going to dwell on that anymore. It’s done.

My goal in writing this is to let you know, my dear future doctor, that you’re going to be just fine. Here’s someone who understands the huge disconnect that stemmed from being a pandemic e-ntern. Here’s someone who’s always been doubtful and full of anxieties about the PLE even before she filed her application at the PRC. Here’s someone who constantly prayed that the PLE be moved even for just a month (or kahit two weeks lang masaya na ako nun) up to the week before the exam along with a rising number of cases. Here’s someone who barely has the capability to maintain focus for more than an hour. Here’s someone whose reading pace was literally at 10 minutes per page (yes, I actually timed it and IDK if that’s slow or really slow). Here’s someone who still allowed herself to study at coffee shops and even have samgyup (with proper health protocols, of course) even if she knew she was drowning in backlogs.

My point is that if I managed to pass despite all that, you can, too. My close friends know that I developed a rather funny mentality to ease the jitters as the boards drew nearer. I knew and claimed it for myself that I would already pass. I viewed the whole PLE as just a “formality”--a means for His plans of me becoming a doctor to manifest in this realm. I believed it so much to the point that I thought that no matter what bloopers and slip-ups I have during the test, I’d still see my name on the list of board passers. I’m not saying you should totally ease up and just have a come-what-may attitude. Again, I’m not the model student you should be following here. What I’m saying is to have faith in yourself, your capabilities, and in God. So chin up, Doc. Just a little more ‘til you get to legally practice with that MD at the end of your name.

#nikstersss #PLE

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marinaaniseed · 4 years

Text

Dark ‘n’ Stormy, Pt. 11

Summary: It’s the day after the stuffing chapter. New Asgard decides which system of government it wants. Not much smut, an awful lot of politics.

Length: 6.9k. A more sensible person than me might try to edit this down, but honestly, I feel like you’d all be horribly disappointed if I didn’t write all the words.

Warnings: Eh the usual. Kinky food stuff, smut, drinking, swearing, mental health wonkiness, Asgardian politics, body shaming, intrusive media, social media shittiness, uncomfortable family relationships, mentions of starting a family, mentions of dead characters, smutty pictures, some ridiculously long speeches that might give you feels. I think that’s it.

Notes: This chapter, quite literally, took months to write. Apologies, therefore, if it’s a bit disjointed or I contradict myself. This bad boy is now over 50k in total (!) It took a while, because I couldn’t quite decide how I wanted it to go. Also, writing a story a day for the entire year is quite time consuming and a really fucking terrible idea. Typos and errors are all my own but please alert me to anything spectacularly bad so I can fix. I’ve not given this any distance, so I am hella word-blind.

Also, one of you gets a mention :P

Need a reminder of what’s happened? Pt. 10 & the masterlist.

If you like what I do, please let me know.

It wasn’t the cockerels crowing that woke you, but the dogs excitedly greeting someone.

“Whuh time issit?” you mumbled into Thor’s hair, your hand resting on his still full tummy as you spooned the sleepy Thunder God.

“Too early.”

He wasn’t wrong. Groggily you pulled yourself away, rummaging around for something to throw on so you could investigate who your visitor was.

Opening the bedroom door, you spied the Valkyrie crouched down by the settee, rubbing Geri’s tummy.

“Why?” you asked, not really awake enough to form a proper question.

“Why what?” Valkyrie responded, continuing to fuss the dog at her feet.

“Why are you here? Now? At this godforsaken time?”

“Has Thor forsaken this time in particular?”

Your glare said it all.

“I jest, sorry. Have you been online? Checked your phone? Seen or heard the news?”

“For fuck’s sake, Brunnhilde,” you said, startling the dogs and finally rousing Thor, “I’ve literally just gotten up. Because of you. When would I have done any of that? And why does it matter?”

“I’ll make the coffee, you go get Thor.”

You’d barely turned and taken a step, when you collided with the solid mass that was your lover.

“What’s wrong? Why is the Valkyrie here?” he asked, holding you to his stomach.

“Not a fucking clue.”

You weren’t exactly a morning person. Even less so after a few cocktails, and when your awakening had been rude. Not the good kind of rude, either. Thor knew, from prior experience, that waking you unexpectedly was like deciding to disturb a wasp’s nest. Nothing good would come of it and it wasn’t something you’d likely repeat in a hurry. You were a surly, venomous grump, sure to sting whatever had disturbed you.

Either Brunnhilde was more foolhardy than he thought, or something was seriously wrong.

Brunnhilde returned to find you slouched on the settee, buried in Thor’s hoodie with the hood pulled up and over, almost to the point of covering your eyes, in a vain attempt at ignoring the world. The steaming mug of caffeine placed on the table next to you was met with a snort of derision, and it was with no small amount of trepidation that Thor sat next to you, before pulling you onto his lap. Maybe whatever had brought the Valkyrie would concern only him, and you could doze off against his chest.

“Did you enjoy your pizza last night?” Brunnhilde asked, breaking the frosty silence.

“Yes,” Thor smiled at the memory. “How did you know we had pizza?”

“That’s what brought me here. I’m sorry it’s so early.”

Why would pizza have brought her here, Thor wondered. Did she need a recipe? Did she have some left over? Was she planning to open a pizza place in New Asgard?

“Someone… someone, erm, they snapped some pictures of you. The two of you. In the restaurant. They must’ve recognised you.”

“So?” Thor queried softly, hoping that you had begun to return to sleep in his arms.

“Well, they sold them to some media people. You’re, erm, trending on Twitter. I wanted to tell you before you saw for yourselves, some of the reporting is… unflattering.”

Yeah. Thor could already picture it. Being fat and in the public eye was just a magnet for the worst kind of people.

“If they’ve worked out who Y/N is, it’s not been published yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” Brunnhilde continued.

“Ah, balls,” you said, finally joining the conversation.

“Indeed. A few months back, I asked some friends to do some digging on you. Don’t be alarmed, I just wanted to be prepared for the time when it eventually emerged that you and Thor were together. I didn’t find anything to be worried about in what they found on you, but I understand that there may be things that you’d prefer to stay private. The silence of those involved can be arranged, if you wish.”

There were certainly things in your past that you weren’t exactly proud of. You probably should’ve realised that you couldn’t stay under the radar forever.

“No, it’s ok. Don’t waste your resources, or those of your friends. I’ve been alive long enough to know that if the tabloid press thinks there’s a story, they’ll dig it up somehow. Or just make one up. I’ve done what I’ve done, and that’s the end of that. Anyone commenting on my life probably has stuff they’d rather keep secret,” you answered with a sigh.

“Very well. Do you want to read the dossier?”

“No, no. I’m sure it’s very thorough and accurate. Thor, do you want to read it?”

“Anything you wish to tell me about your past, you can tell me about yourself,” he answered, running his fingers through your hair. “Whatever you have done, it’s of no consequence. You’re here now, that’s all that matters. Some youthful follies could not reverse my love for you.”

You nuzzled your face into his chest hair to hide the tears you could feel beginning to sting your eyes.

“Is that all, Brunnhilde? May we return to bed?” Thor said.

“Yes, of course. Apologies once again for disturbing you. I just wanted you to hear it from a friend before you heard it elsewhere.”

You were fast asleep again by the time Thor gently laid you back on the bed. You must’ve been warm in his hoodie, the early rays of sunshine beginning to seep into the bedroom, but he didn’t want to disturb you. His mind was all over the place, so he decided to check the news on your tablet while you were tucked into his side.

Thor’s Hammered!

King of Ass-gard

Pizza Gut - Avenger destroys pizza buffet

Thor quickly put the tablet back down. It stung to read the words they wrote about him, but even worse was what they wrote about you. They didn’t know you, why did they get to judge you, speculate about who you were and why you were with him? You were just another name on the long list of loved ones he wasn’t able to protect.

Gingerly removing himself from your side, relieved when he didn’t wake you, Thor decided to sit back on the settee, letting Loki slither over him. The snake wasn’t as helpful as his brother, but he found it calming anyway.

15 minutes later, the sound of a message being received made him jump. Unlocking his old phone, he saw it was a message from Brunnhilde.

I know you said you didn’t want to know about Y/N’s past, but I think you might find this interesting…

There were several links at the bottom of the message. Thor didn’t want to pry, he really didn’t, but he couldn’t help but be curious as to what was that important that Brunnhilde had felt the need to send him a link.

Moving as quietly as he could, he returned to the bedroom to grab the tablet, before settling back down to see what had been sent.

Typing the address was a torturous process, his fingers weren’t quite dexterous enough to easily manipulate Midgardian devices, although he was becoming more careful with them. Still, he nearly dropped the tablet when he saw where the link took him to.

It was a gallery of pictures. Pictures of you, to be exact. You weren’t naked but it was obvious that these weren’t the kind of pictures you shared with friends or family. He’d heard about these kinds of sites, adult sites they were called. The model had a different name, but it was definitely you. No doubt about it.

Pictures of you in corsets that pushed up your breasts and cinched in your waist. Pictures of you with chokers around your throat. Some pictures where you wore clothing made of a strange material that seemed to fit you like a second skin. Some more where you wore beautiful lingerie in vibrant colours, brilliant blues and vivid violets.

The pictures on the next link were a little different. Leather gloves, ball gags, handcuffs. Fishnet stockings and knee-high leather boots. Why had he never seen any of these outfits? Carefully gripping the tablet with one hand, he moved the other inside the waistband of his pants, rubbing at the head of his excited cock.

For a split second, he considered what Brunnhilde had thought of these pictures. Had she shown them to Sif? What if they’d both enjoyed them?

His cock grew harder at the thought.

And he knew he should feel a little ashamed. You hadn’t mentioned these pictures, so it probably wasn’t something you were proud of, but he couldn’t help but look, hope that others had looked, and seen just how sexy you were.

He didn’t really understand the third link. That seemed to be a niche site. You were barely visible, clad in rain gear, and wrapped in heavy duty tape to secure you to a post.

But, Brunnhilde really had saved the best until last.

Bound, gagged, blindfolded. Eyes wide in another as you looked at the woman stroking your hair as you sat tied to the chair. If he had to be king, he’d insist on having a throne, just so he could recreate that image with you. Only, in his version, you’d be wearing a lot less clothes, his face between your thighs, eating you out until the only thing keeping you upright were the ropes that held you in your place.

It was funny. He’d not really enjoyed being in chains, in a cage, when he’d encountered Surtur. But the thought of you being bound, held captive while he pleasured you in all the different ways he knew how. Now, that was something he liked the idea of.

Freeing his cock, he began to stroke in earnest, the images he’d just seen and images of what he’d like to do to you fuelling his desire. The harder he thought of them, the harder he got, and the harder he pumped his fist.

His orgasm was explosive, and Loki hissed at him angrily. Geri and Freki perked up their ears to see what the fuss was about. He knew he should move and clean himself but he was comfy, he was relaxed, he could rest here for a moment or two.

***

Evidently it was more than a moment or two when he awoke to the sound of pans clanging around in the kitchen. There’s no way you couldn’t have seen him, and there’s no way he could pretend it was anything else. He’d fallen asleep with his cock out, the evidence crusted onto his tummy.

Tucking himself back into his pants, he approached the kitchen with caution.

“Good morning, my love,” he tried.

“Good afternoon,” you corrected. “Dare I ask?” you said, looking at his gut pointedly.

Nothing good would come of lying, so he tried his best to explain the truth.

“Ah, well, what happened was, you see, Brunnhilde sent me an electronic letter with some links on my phone. So I looked at them on the tablet,” he explained.

“Brunnhilde sent you porn?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean maybe? The links were to pictures of you.”

“Ah,” you said, understanding. “Brunnhilde’s friends found those.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed them. I enjoyed doing them.”

Thor doesn’t ask for an explanation, doesn’t press you, doesn’t tell you about his fantasies. You’ll tell him when you want to, if you want to. He’ll tell you when you’re not trying to cook avocado eggs Benedict.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he mumbles before walking off to the bathroom. He’s glad that you’re not angry or upset, but he’s still embarrassed that you caught him in that position.

The shower is cold, but not cold enough to cool him down from his thoughts. Thoughts of those photos, thoughts of last night, and thoughts of what he’d like to do with you in the future. He could probably roll around on Jötunheimr and still feel too hot.

He’s quiet during brunch, but you don’t press him. You just hold his hand, silently telling him that everything will be alright.

You’d briefly checked your phone before Thor had woken up. There were so many notifications, you were afraid it might crash, and you’d put it back down again. Today was an historic day for New Asgard, you didn’t want to overshadow it by worrying about what Twitter trolls had to say about you. It keeps buzzing on the table next to you, and you continue ignoring it.

“Are you going to check that?” Thor asked. “It might be something important.”

“I don’t really want to, I’m afraid of what I might see,” you said.

“I understand, but the longer you leave it, the worse it will be. Maybe just check if there is anything from your family. You don’t want it playing on your mind throughout the day.”

Thor’s right, and so with a resigned sigh, you picked up your phone and looked at your notifications, dismissing anything that wasn’t important.

A message from Sam on Skype that read I knew you had a thing for older men, didn’t realise you liked them THAT old ;-) now I know where you are, let me know when I can visit. Ignore the haters, they’re just jealous.

There was also an entire chain of emails from your mum, without a subject. She’d never quite gotten the hang of email.

Is this you/??>????? And then a link to a news website.

It is, isn’t it.

WHy didn’t you tell us. Where you were????

Your father is looking at flights.

He’s found some cheap ones with Ryanair, we’re coming over in a fortnight. Flying to Oslo. Charlie is coming too.

He can’t find anywhere to stay in New Asgard, are there no hotels????

Answer me.

“Ah, fuck,” you said, staring at down at your phone.

“What’s the matter?” Thor asked, worried that you’d seen something critical of you.

“My family knows where I am now, they’re coming to visit,” you mumbled. “In two weeks.”

“That’s wonderful news, I can’t wait to meet them,” Thor said, kissing your hand.

“Yeah,” you said doubtfully. You loved your family, but they could be tricky at times. They were hurt, of course, by your vagueness on the subject of your whereabouts. You already knew they were going to make some unintentionally hurtful comments, either about Thor, or about Alex, or both. They were also likely to do the same about you.

“Two weeks,” Thor mused, still enthusiastic about the prospect of meeting your family. “I think that gives me sufficient time to build a place for them to stay.”

It was lovely that he was excited by the prospect, but you groaned internally. Something told you that Thor was not going to have time for much if the vote went the way you thought it would.

“I’ll tell them we can accommodate them somewhere,” you said, firing off a quick email. “Now, let’s forget about this and focus on the task at hand. Brunnhilde wanted us there no later than two, that only gives us an hour.”

***

At 2:10 you arrived at the mead hall, Thor in his full regalia, you in the dress he’d gifted you for the May Day feast. Geri and Freki loping along behind you. You went to add the one remaining cake to the long table of food, while Brunnhilde intercepted Thor.

“Is everything alright, after this morning?” she asked him.

“Yes, I think so. Y/N is strong, although her family have elected to visit. That seems to have shaken her,” Thor sighed.

“It must be hard to face someone you thought was dead, even if you love them, once you’ve been through the grieving process,” Brunnhilde noted.

“It is.” Thor knows it’s hard, he went through it enough times with Loki, but he’d do anything to have his brother back. Or his mother, father.

There are flowers everywhere. Bouquets on tables, bunting hanging from the rafters, and people everywhere with flower crowns on their heads. Thor’s pleased with how well they’ve turned out. He makes a note to thank everyone involved, as well as to the plants for blooming so abundantly for him. There was something very satisfying about growing things and tending to them, becoming one with nature.

He’s not surprised when you return with a flower crown, plus one each around the dog’s necks. He doesn’t think they’ll last long, which is why he’d made sure to cultivate flowers that wouldn’t make the dogs sick when they inevitably tried to eat them. Thor particularly likes how you look with your flower crown. He’s seen you wear one before, of course, but they really do suit you. He hopes that if he has to be king, then perhaps one day you’ll wear a different kind of crown.

“Hello, Brunnhilde. Apologies for our lateness. I didn’t grab a crown for you but if Thor doesn’t want this one, I’m sure you can have it,” you offered, holding out the wreath.

“That’s quite alright, I’m not really one for crowns,” Valkyrie answered with a small shake of her head. “I’ll leave you two to mingle, just don’t be late for the vote announcement.”

“We won’t,” Thor assured her, knowing full well that they won’t start without him. “I fear this may not be the only crown I accept today,” he continues, taking the flowers from you and placing them on his head.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’ll support you, no matter the outcome.”

Thor knows this, and he’s glad of it. He’s still not comfortable with being in charge, quite content with his life, building things, tending to the plants, and playing with his animals. But at least he doesn’t have to do it alone. After Loki died, he was so very alone. Korg and Miek were great, but there was something missing in his life, a much closer form of companionship that he’d finally found again.

“Let us mingle, I’m sure there are many children who will be glad to pet the dogs,” Thor said, looping his arm with yours at the elbow.

*** By the time it gets to the hour of the announcement, Geri and Freki have had their bellies rubbed by seemingly every child in New Asgard, much to their delight.

A little boy had brought you a small posy of flowers, and was extra pleased when Thor held him in his strong arms and let the child place the flowers in Thor’s beard. It’s very haphazard, and a little one-sided but Thor’s pleased with the end result, when you show him in your pocket mirror.

It makes him ache desperately to have a child - well, children - of his own. He thinks about what kind of uncle Loki would’ve been.

Hopefully he wouldn’t have stabbed them.

It’s too hot in the mead hall. Thor’s been trying to drink slowly, aware that he’s drinking out of nerves more than anything.

Dutch courage, you’d called it. Allegedly, Dutch soldiers had drunk jenever before going into battle. Thor considered that a little risky. Drinking was best done after battle, being clumsy while handling a weapon didn’t strike him as the best strategy. Then again, it seemed to work fine for Brunnhilde. It didn’t really happen to him, but supposed many people got nervous before a fight.

Thor knew you had a Dutch friend, a teacher. He wondered if they might bring jenever with them if they ever came to visit?

Bruce came over, crowds of Asgardians parting easily for his bulky frame.

“Hey buddy,” he said, hugging Thor. “Are you ready?”

“About as ready as I’ll ever be,” Thor answered. A few years ago, he’d thought he was ready. Had almost been crowned king.

He never thanked Loki for royally screwing that up. It was only now, with hindsight, that he could appreciate the favour his brother had inadvertently done him.

“It’s time,” Bruce told Thor, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Thor looks back at you, but you shake your head. This is an Asgardian matter. Your place is at the back with Geri and Freki, not onstage with Asgard’s elite.

“Do you know?” Thor asked Bruce, desperately.

“No Thor. Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you,” Bruce noted. “Whatever happens, you have people that care about you. It won’t be like it was before.”

Thor joins Valkyrie, Sif and several others onstage. Bruce waves his hands, dampening down the crowd that buzzes like a hornet’s nest. Despite all the assurances, this is still a volatile situation and Bruce says a silent prayer that everything works out for the best.

“Thank you all,” Bruce addressed the crowd. “Thank you for trusting in the process and for allowing us, as outside observers, to count all of your votes. No system will be perfect, but we hope that you will all respect the outcome, whatever it may be. It took three rounds of voting for an option to gain over 50% of the vote. I’ll now hand over to Captain America, who has the results.”

Bruce steps down, stands to the right hand side of the stage as Sam steps forward. Anticipation builds around the room, like static during a storm. Sif holds hands with both Thor and Valkyrie, holding in a breath as she waits to see which of the people she cares about most will draw the short straw of heading Asgard.

She fervently hopes that the people will have chosen another option, but she doubts it. Most Asgardians fell on one side of the divide or the other - traditionalists who wanted to continue the existing royal family, and those who felt that Brunnhilde was the best leader amongst those left.

“Thank you, Bruce,” Sam said, grateful that someone the Asgardians were familiar with had addressed them first. “The result is very close, but let me assure you, it is accurate. We counted every single ballot ten times, just to ensure there was no discrepancy. With 50.8% of the vote, the people of Asgard have chosen the option of an octarchy.”

The room erupted with people cheering, complaining, or otherwise chatting with people about what it all meant. Sam waited for the commotion to die down before continuing.”

“Furthermore, the proposed solution, as outlined within the election materials is that Thor, son of Odin.” Sam paused, Thor’s full title sounding odd coming out of his mouth, but that was what the piece of paper he was holding said. “Thor, son of Odin, shall rule as king, and head of state.”

Thor paled visibly and your heart went out to him, glad that Sif was holding his hand.

“Succession will be a matter of blood, as it has always been, unless Thor shall have no issue. In that event, the people of Asgard will once again convene to decide how they wish to be governed. Brunnhilde, of the Valkyrior, shall serve as his second in command. She will rule in his absence or if he is incapacitated, if Thor does not have an heir of legal age.”

Sam shook his head. He shouldn’t have let Bucky write the speech, he should’ve known his metal-armed partner would try to stitch him up with flowery Asgardian language. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky smirking, standing next to Bruce. Sam makes a mental note to put on his suit later, pick Bucky up, and drop him in the North Sea.

“The other six members of the council will be chosen as follows. Thor, son of Odin, and Brunnhilde, of the Valkyrior, shall each choose one. Two more shall be elected by the people of Asgard. The final two shall be selected at random in a lottery of all citizens who have come of age. These positions shall be reviewed every ten years, unless circumstances, or the will of the people dictate otherwise.”

The place descends into chaos, even the dogs start barking at all the noise, and it only stops when the valkyrie gets to the front of the stage and lets out an ear-piercing screech. Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at her, wincing.

“Settle down everyone, settle down,” she shouted. “I respect this result, just as I said I would, and I pledge to serve both Asgard and its king to the best of my ability, as long as I am able to do so. I would like to thank you for your trust and patience during the time in which I served as Asgard’s caretaker. I know that not all of you were happy with the situation, but I hope I served you well. There is one among us, who I would like to nominate for inclusion on the council. However, I am aware that some of you may feel it is a conflict of interests. As many of you are aware, the Lady Sif and I are in love. She is my nomination if you will accept her.”

Raucous applause erupts. Sif is well liked, and most people are pleased to have her helping to steer Asgard’s course, even if she’s a little too eager to head into battle at times.

“Very well, I thank you all for your trust,” the valkyrie continued. “While I have the floor, there is one more thing I wish to do. I was going to do it later, but I think now is best, to declare my love in front of all those I serve.”

This time it’s Sif’s turn to go pale, as the Valkyrie sinks to her knees, turning back to Sif.

“Lady Sif,” Brunnhilde began. “I have lived long and travelled far, and there is no beauty that can compare to yours. Your love shines brighter than any star, and I am a better person for you sharing it with me. I have no title or riches to give you. This is but a small trinket, for I have already given you the greatest gift I have to give, which is my heart. I would be honoured if you would accept this ring as a token of my love, as is the custom on much of Midgard, and agree to be my wife.”

Sif is openly sobbing, and Thor’s not sure he’s ever seen her cry before. Scores more around the room wipe away tears as Sif slowly moves forward, allowing the Valkyrie to slip the ring onto her finger. Once it’s in place, Sif takes Brunnhilde’s hands and pulls her up, embracing her tightly and kissing her fiercely to a chorus of cheers.

It’s a wonderful sight, and you’re glad that there’s something for Asgard to celebrate, even if the vote didn’t go everyone’s way. Your throat goes dry as Thor nervously makes his way to the front of the stage to speak.

“Hello everyone. Apologies if I seem nervous, it has been many years since I last addressed so many,” he said, fiddling with the hem of his cloak. It’s far too hot to be wearing it, but he’d insisted that this was an important occasion and that he should dress accordingly.

“My congratulations to the Lady Sif and the Lady Brunnhilde. Theirs is an excellent union, and I wish them an eternity of happiness together.”

Thor waits until the cheering dies down before continuing.

“I, too, respect and honour the results of this vote. No man can outrun his destiny, and it seems mine will always be to rule Asgard as its king, even though I feel ill-equipped to do so. Fate apparently wills it so. I have not led Asgard well these last few years, and I apologise for that from the bottom of my heart. I have been remiss in my duties. I know that some of you do not trust that I have changed, but I give you my solemn word that I have. That I will act for the good of Asgard, and the other eight realms, as long as there is life in my breast.”

The entire room draws a collective gasp as Thor sinks to one knee. Panic sets in. This can’t be happening. Surely he’s not about to propose as well?

“I kneel before you, as your humble servant,” Thor continued, and you sighed in relief. “Too long, the people of Asgard have knelt before the throne. No more. I kneel before you all, and ask for your forgiveness. I am not the man I was, but I hope with time, that I will become someone better, someone worthy of the position that I find myself in.

“Asgard is not a place, it is a people. My father told me that, and I see now how true it is. I thank each and every one of you for trusting and believing in Asgard, in each other, when I did not trust or believe in myself. Together, you have created something strong and beautiful. I thank you for sharing it with me. You have rebuilt, you have shown incredible strength and fortitude.

“I am sorry for abandoning you. It is the most dishonourable and cowardly thing I have ever done. I asked the Valkyrie to rule in my stead, because I felt she was the best person for the job. I am truly sorry for abandoning Asgard in her hour of need. Thank you, all of you. Thank you for preserving our traditions and stories. Thank you for building a new home for us all. Thank you to everyone who has helped today. Baking delicacies, creating flower crowns, playing music. All that you do, on this day and every day, to ensure that we survive, that our culture survives, is appreciated by me.

“I hope to be able to thank you all individually, but please understand, it may take me some time. I kneel before you, as your king, humbled by the faith you still place in me. I shall work to rule as a king of the people, not above them. The throne should not be an untouchable pedestal on which I am put.

“Although I do not have a crown, I kneel before you, ready to serve Asgard, completely and unreservedly.”

“About your crown,” a voice called from the stunned crowd, as all eyes turned to look at Lorelei. She walked slowly through them, people parting for her, before she stopped in front of the stage, directly in front of Thor.

“When Hela attacked, many of us realised that Asgard was in peril. As we fled the city, some of us gathered up important artefacts. I apologise for keeping this from you, your majesty, but there never seemed to be an opportune moment…” she trailed off, reaching into a leather satchel, slung low against her hip.

Several people fainted, as with trembling hands, she pulled a crown from it.

“My-my father’s crown,” Thor mumbled, stunned.

“Yes, your majesty,” Lorelei explained. “I apologise again for keeping it secret, but you had already lost so much, I did not wish to remind you of your father. I have kept it safe, all these years. I believed that one day, you would be restored to the throne. I believed that day would be today.”

With trembling fingers, she reaches out the crown as Thor lowered his head. Tears were running down his face, into his beard, for everyone to see as he sat back up, slowly rising to his feet.

A collective sense of shock reverberated around the room, and you anxiously stroked your two dogs, who sat flanked you on either side.

“Thank you, good Lady Lorelei. This truly is an extraordinary gift. I thought I would never see this again, let alone wear it. I do wonder, now, what else was saved from Asgard, but that is a matter for another time,” Thor advised. “I have but one more matter to discuss, before it is time to feast. There is much to celebrate this day, and I hope it is one that will long be remembered.”

Thor paused, taking a moment to look around the hall. His friends, his people looking up at him. It filled him with a tiny spark of confidence that everything would work out fine this time, unlike when he had told Loki it would, all those years ago, after Asgard was destroyed.

“Like the Lady Brunnhilde, I too have someone I wish to nominate to the council. Like her, this person is one who is very dear to me,” he noted, looking across the heads of everyone to look you in the eye.

Thousands of heads turned to face you as you froze, wishing the ground would swallow you up.

“I wish to nominate the Lady Y/N. She has done so much for Asgard, though her time with us has been short so far,” Thor admitted. “As an outsider, I believe she has much knowledge and wisdom to offer us about Midgard, its people, and their customs. Her counsel is invaluable to me, and I would like to offer her a place at this table, if there are no objections.”

Deathly silence descends, everyone waiting for someone to say something.

“A wise appointment, your majesty,” Leifr spoke up, and a chorus of cheers echoed around the room.

“It is settled then,” Thor exclaimed happily. “The other four positions shall be determined in due time, but now I say it is time to eat, drink, and dance our fill. There is much to celebrate as we enter into a proud new chapter in Asgard’s history.”

Everything was a blur for several hours as you try to process exactly what’s happened. Thor being king again was something you expected, and he seems to be taking it well. His speech was genuinely moving and you could see many Asgardians visibly softening to him as he spoke.

But appointing you to be one of Asgard’s eight rulers?

No. No no no. This could not be happening. You didn’t belong here, didn’t want that kind of responsibility.

Judging by the way people keep congratulating you, it definitely is happening. You barely have an appetite, pushing your food around, eating small amounts whenever Thor prompts you to try this dish or that.

It had been a productive few hours for the other three newly instated rulers. Between them, they’d managed to hash out a plan for getting the other council members appointed. They’d even found time to draft a press release with Pepper, covering the events of the day. The world media would be taken aback. New Asgard had never released any information before. Along with the details of the election, Pepper had made sure to note that the new rulers would be willing to engage with journalists going forward to ensure transparency about what the kingdom was doing, but that they would not interact with any outlet that did not respect Asgardian privacy or engaged in hurtful gossip about them.

Apparently, the prince of another country, and his wife, had done something similar a few years prior.

You sit completely zoned out, a zombie. Utterly alone while surrounded by people. Geri and Freki lie protectively at your feet, aware that something is wrong.

Even Thor can sense that something is amiss. You’re paying no attention to him eating increasingly absurd portions. He even mentioned that he was getting full and you just nodded politely, a slightly vacant smile plastered to your face. You didn’t even try to touch his stomach, where it sat pressed up against the table.

Eventually, Sam manages to make his way over, whispering in Thor’s ear. You’re dimly aware that they’re talking about you, by the way Thor keeps glancing nervously in your direction.

“Let us go for a walk,” he said, standing up and tugging at your elbow. “Young Sam said that you look like you could do with some fresh air.”

Moving on autopilot you follow him, Geri and Freki loping along behind you. He leads you down to the beach, the sun setting in the distance as Thor gently maneuvers you into sitting down on a driftwood log.

“Are you quite alright?” Thor asked, running his fingers up your bare arms as he crouched awkwardly in front of you. “You seem distant, distracted.”

“This is all just very overwhelming,” you said, looking at your hands where they rested in your lap.

“I agree, much has happened today. We can return home, if you wish?”

“Why did you appoint me to the council?” you whispered, voice shaking. “I don’t know if I’ll still be here in ten years. What if we split up? I don’t belong here, I’m not Asgardian. I don’t want this responsibility, I’m not qualified, I don’t want to do this.”

Thor’s heart sank and he let out a sad sigh, finally sitting on the soft sand, his hefty stomach making it hard to keep his balance while he crouched. He’d done it again. He’d thought only of what he wanted and hadn’t consulted you. He’d upset you, ruining your evening.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, tipping your chin up to make you look at him. “That was thoughtless and selfish of me, I should have consulted you before announcing my plan. Today has been trying for you, and you were already anxious and upset. I’m truly sorry for burdening you further.”

“I know you didn’t mean to Thor, but I’m so scared and sad.”

“Oh my love, no. I really am such an oaf,” Thor said sadly, pulling you into the small amount of lap he had left. If he kept on like this, he was going to really struggle to hold you like this soon.

He wants to kiss your lips, to kiss away all the hurt and worry he sees in your eyes, to kiss it better like his mother used to kiss his and Loki's scrapes and grazes. But he lets you bury your face in his shoulder. All he can do is cuddle you while you cry, chest heaving against his, while he rubs little circles onto your back, mumbling apologies all the while.

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to upset you, to make you scared or anxious. I can see that I was mistaken, even though I only meant it as a good thing, as a compliment to your character and your intelligence. I truly know of no other in the whole of Asgard more capable than you, not even Brunnhilde,” Thor explained. “You are wise for one so young, and far more learned than any of us when it comes to this land we find ourselves in. Please, allow me to apologise unreservedly for the hurt I’ve caused. Allow me to make it right, allow me to pick another to serve in your place.”

You're so silent, shaking in his arms. It hurts Thor in a way he’s not felt since his father banished him. What if he's finally gone too far? What if this is the thing that pushes you away from him?

It scares him more than the thought of Thanos returning once more.

“A trial,” you said softly, as you raise your head.

“Pardon?” Thor asked.

“Until the end of the year, I will serve for a trial period. But if at the end of that time, I still don’t want to do it, then you must replace me, without any reservations.”

“Of course, of course. Are you absolutely sure?”

“No,” you admit. “But I am willing to try. I trust you. I trust you not to force me into anything I can’t handle. I’m humbled that you and your people have accepted me, and are prepared to give me this chance. I know it’s a great honour. So I will try to repay that trust that you have, I will try to serve Asgard, even if it doesn’t come easily to me.”

“No one who seeks power or has it come easily to them should ever be allowed to wield it,” Thor noted, rubbing his nose against yours. “Thank you, my love for agreeing to try this. I will honour your request should you change your mind at any point. I admit, I was scared that I had lost you, that my foolishness had driven you away.”

“You’ll have to do more than that to get rid of me,” you laughed wetly, wiping your face on the back of your hand.

“That’s good news, although I hope never to test that theory,” Thor told you, relieved. “Do you wish to return to the hall? I’m sure you could persuade me to have some more wine and sweet treats. As you can see, I am not quite at capacity,” Thor teased, moving your hands under his tunic to touch his taut tummy.

“I think I would like to head home. I’m emotionally exhausted and I just want to faceplant into your tummy and go to sleep.”

“Also an excellent plan,” Thor admitted, standing up with your still in his arms.

“I’m not too tired to walk,” you tried to insist, looking down at your bemused dogs as they trailed alongside the gentle giant carrying you.

“I know that, I just wanted to hold onto you some more.”

Thor’s going to be extra affectionate for the next little while, still reeling from the feeling of almost losing you. Now he finally has something to lose again, he’s resolutely determined not to let it happen.

@innerpaperexpertcloud @morganhoran1671

#Dark 'n' Stormy #endgame thor #thor #Thor Odinson #THOR SON OF ODIN #thor smut #thicc thor #fat thor #squishy Thor #Soft Thor #chubby thor #chonkythor #reader insert #Female reader #x reader #avengers x reader #reader x thor #female reader x thor #The Avengers

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jksangelic · 5 years

Text

peaches & piercings (m)

↳ rating: M

↳ genre: punk!jimin, e2l, college au, very explicit smut, one-shot, jimin is a whole asshole

↳ pairing: cheerleader!reader x punk!jimin

↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, sub/dom themes, casual sex, be t r ay a l, alcohol (and weed? idk) consumption, oral sex (male receiving), squirting, thigh-fucking, kind of exhibitionism?, jimin is pierced (that’s all i’ll say), just expect the worst from me tbh

↳ summary: jimin, dipped in hair-dye and pierced in so many places that you just couldn’t keep track, doesn’t think you’re his “type”. you call bullshit.

↳ note: i reallyreallyreally hated this fic. loved the idea, hated how i wrote it. i’ve had this bad boy sitting in my archives for months and months and months and couldn’t gather the courage to post it until NOW! partially because this is an apology fic for my inactivity and more so because i just think i’ve read it too many times that at this point, i’m just being nit-picky and need to move on.

a special thanks to the lovely @14statelier whomst unwillingly received dong pics for the sake of this fic. i’m so glad i found someone as sweet as you to beta for me + become an even better galpal! love u always xx

also thanks to my gal @jungshookz, i’m pretty sure (78% positive) i sent her my idea via snapchat and was probably inspired by her in some way, per usual.

OKAY i’m done you can read now hehehe

↳ words: 11.6k

↳ parts: one | two (complete)

“Jungkook, if you’re not going to throw it then get your grabby hands off my waist,” you warn, eyeing him as he stands behind you and delays in one-manning you into an extension or ogling your ass in your skirt.

“You’re just so wobbly today, I’m waiting for you to chill out a bit,” he lies with a smirk. You smack his hand but exhale deeply as you firmly grasp his wrists and count.

“1, 2!” With mutual timing, Jungkook dips down with you before heaving your body above, squatting to catch your heels mid-air, and pumping back up into an extended position. He’s right, you wobble a bit, calling out, “Bail!” and feeling his hands disappear beneath to re-catch your thighs and bring you down safely on your toes. You curse silently under your breath but pat Jungkook’s shoulder as a symbolic “thank you”.

“It’s too fucking early for this, I’m tired,” you say, only making excuses for yourself.

“Well, liven up. The doors are going to open soon and no freshmen want to join a failure of a cheer team.”

“Hey, stop bickering,” the captain, Suzy, orders, “Y/N, you’re fine to just handle the flyers, I’ll stunt with Jungkook.” You squish her into an exhausted hug.

“This is why you’re captain,” you coo.

With that, some of the staff open the gym doors, welcoming an intimidatingly large group of people in with smiles. You fake one yourself, ready to get this over with as soon as possible so you can go back to your dorm and sleep. Within ten minutes, you had a group of girls and a handful of brawny guys already watching Suzy and Jungkook’s exhibition, a mixture of oohs and ahs being rewarded. You handed each of them a thin, poorly-made flyer with pixelated clipart of a girl doing a toe-touch before they scrambled.

After a while, most of the initial commotion dies down and you people-watch each clueless face, thinking how adorable they are, so young and so lost, as if it weren’t you only a few months ago. You’re only a sophomore, but in your head that gives you enough authority to judge the freshmen.

You snap out of your daze upon boots clicking in the distance, soon revealing a man seemingly darting through the crowds to exit across the other side. You would’ve ignored him if it wasn’t for his peachy-tinted hair, long and slicked back atop and close-shaven near his neck, his thin but fit stature dressed in all-black, and the glint of metal, that you soon realized was a septum piercing, in his nose. He has a dark sleeve consuming his right arm and you wonder what eighteen or nineteen year old has a fully-developed sleeve.

Although his eyes were covered with chunky black sunglasses (in the gym, at that), the rest of his appearance sent your pierced-and-tatted-hot-boy alarm berserk. Suddenly awake, you wait for him to head closer to your booth before hopping next to him.

“Hi there, freshie. Care to take a tryout flyer for this year’s cheer team?” you ask with a pitch that’s much higher than your own, kindly handing him one of the shitty-looking papers. He mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch but speaks before you can ask him to clarify.

“Not a freshman. Do I look like someone who cheers? I’m just looking for the counseling center to turn in my transfer papers.

“Also, can you, like, give me some personal space?” he continues in a mock valley-girl tone.

You jump back, completely caught off guard with his sudden hostility and attempting to regain your composure by clearing your throat. Someone must’ve shoved a stick up his ass this morning.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Once you leave the gym, you head right, pass two sets of restrooms, head left, and it’s behind the big statue where the foyer is.” Your voice sounds much better.

His eyebrows rocket upwards over his glasses, completely frazzled by the number of directions you gave him, “Shit, okay. That’s a lot.”

“Here, I’ll just walk you,” you say, not giving him any time for him to probably decline. You don’t even question if he’s following you or not, the obvious clunkclunkclunk of his boots giving it away.

Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t try to talk to you on the way to the counseling center. At most, he walks side-by-side, at least three meters between you for good measure. And even though it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk, you ring him out a little more anyway.

“So, you’re not a freshman. Underclassman or upperclassman? And you’re a transfer? From where?”

Pass two sets of restrooms and head left.

“Senior. From Busan.” He doesn’t even show a hint of feeling. Emotion. Does this guy even breathe?

Straight until the statue in the foyer.

“Great. Well, it was nice to meet you, senior from Busan. I’m Y/N. If you ever need help or anything, feel free to ask me,” you deadpan, swiveling on your feet to salute him.

He leans on one hip, taking a hand with an incredible amount of rings on it and pushing his sunglasses over his hair like a headband. You certainly weren’t expecting a reveal of the kindest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life. He almost looks permanently sleepy—eyes drooping flat on the lid. Your trance distracted you from his brief once-over, unpredictably impressed by your looks, if he had to admit it.

“It’s Jimin. Jimin, senior from Busan. See you around, cheerleader,” he says with a sly tilt of his lips before swinging the door open and slithering into the office. Past all the glitter and bright colors that poured out of that hideous uniform of yours, Jimin found you really cute.

Jimin waits patiently for the front desk to call him up, lounging in one of the hard, black plastic chairs that never failed to give his ass cramps. Though he didn’t seem like it to new faces around the campus, he was ecstatic to be starting college again in a whole new atmosphere. He even got to room with another male originally from Korea, Min Yoongi, in a small condo not too far a walk from the area.

He could even prospect cuties like you during his year, undoubtedly positive he could busy himself judging by the attention he’s attracted so far. All it would take is a hungry stare, a lick of his lips, an all-knowing smirk. It was easier here than it was back home, if not child’s play. He could have you in three hours flat. But then he thinks of you choosing the obnoxious cliché of college cheerleader and cringes at the idea of associating himself with such… American-ness. He could at least go for some sort of indifferent, grunge hipster that might actually have some thought to her. Yeah, more his style.

The woman at the front finally calls for him, so he arranges his papers and shoos away any daydream of hooking up with the girl in a tight skirt and ankle socks.

Taking the long route back to the gym, your imagination sputters through all the possible reasons why you should hate that guy, bad-guy radar ringing and shrieking and threatening to punch you square in the eye if you even think about it. Eventually, it comes to the conclusion that he was just new, he was probably having a rough moving-in, and you shouldn’t judge a transfer by their hair. Book by its binding? You don’t really remember how the saying goes in this situation.

“Hey, good job on snaking yourself out of flyer duty. What, did you bang Asian Hot Topic on your way?” Jungkook snickers.

“And did Cait break up with you because you can’t dom for shit? Hand me my jacket.”

He guffaws, practically throwing the clothing at your face, “We didn’t break up, asswipe. How am I supposed to act when she suddenly calls me ‘daddy’ without previous warning? I’m not ready to be a father.”

“Kook, you’re dumb as shit. Maybe I should bang Asian Hot Topic and give you pointers of how a real dom works their magic.”

Jungkook crosses his arms in denial, “Pfft, you don’t even know him. He could be a receiver for all you know.”

One, two, three seconds. You both chortle at the impracticality.

You take one final look in the body mirror, adjusting the slinky grey dress and hanging an oversized burnt-orange corduroy jacket over your shoulders for that final touch of unnecessary, but fashionably-adept, garnish to your outfit cupcake. Not having enough time to do your hair, you sweep it over to one side and leave it as is.

“You look fine and you’re ten minutes late so get out already,” your roommate, Sara, whines. She practically pushes you out, slamming and locking the door for emphasis.

Waving off your discombobulated roommate, you start your trek to the humanities building (which is so far away) with a skip in your step. A new school year meant new people, new classes, more lunchtimes with subpar food and occasional parties that could potentially lead to you getting arrested. Who knows!

A new school year, however, didn’t mean that you would know your way to your new class apparently. Bummer.

It’s only by your fourth circle and a glance at your phone that you panic, fifteen minutes somehow passing in the midst of your scrambling. Pace quickening, you pull out your paper with sloppily written notes of what class room number was at which time, simultaneously half-jogging past classrooms and—

“Oof!”

You land straight on your ass.

“Ow, watch where you’re going stu—oh, it’s you.”

You look up groggily, pain stinging through your legs from the brunt of your fall and lazily making eye contact with a pair of puppy dog eyes. Jimin stands above you, rubbing his chin where, you suppose, your forehead made rough contact with and indiscreetly staring at your bright blue panties where your dress failed to cover.

Hopping up and dusting yourself off, you pick up your fallen bag and paper before glaring at him, “Sorry, I got lost and wasn’t paying attention.”

He scoffs, “Aren’t you the cheerleader? You’re supposed to be, like, the girl scout of the school, right? You shouldn’t be lost.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, well. I am,” you mutter to yourself, “I don’t even think there’s a 207 in this building…”

“Oh, 207? Intro to psych, right? That’s where I’m going too,” he admits, eyes blown wide. Welp, certainly not the highlight of your morning.

“Great. By the looks of the current time, we’re both lost and,” you wave around the empty corridor, “there’s no one who’s going to help us.”

“I’m not lost. I just woke up late,” he answers nonchalantly, a warm glow to his face like he couldn’t give two damns about his class.

“W-What? Then let’s go! Where is it?”

Jimin twirls and walks a different direction, mumbling, “I’m not your escort, rich girl.”

You prattle at his comment but follow him anyway. When you find the correct lecture hall, you groan at the fact that you already passed it several times. He opens the door quietly, not even bothering to hold it for you as you scramble to catch it. A couple of the back rows look back at you two, annoyed by the minor inconvenience.

“Well. Welcome to my 10AM psychology class at,” the professor booms through the hall and peeks at his wristwatch, “10:36. Go ahead and take these two free seats.”

Jimin shrugs and walks towards the front of the room, a quiet and embarrassed you tiptoeing behind him. Being this late and having to sit next to this ass wasn’t how you wanted your first day to go at all.

For the remainder of the 24 minutes until the first break, you skim over the contents that you missed in the syllabus and want to ram your head into the closest wall. Participation and attendance by themselves are 30% of your grade, homework and assignments (thank god) being a measly 20%, and the final plus tests and quizzes a hunking remainder of 50%. What even was this system?

During your ten minute break, you silently scroll through your phone notifications, setting it down irritatingly when the hall refused to grant you enough service to respond to any of them.

“Don’t have LTE, princess? Might as well watch paint dry without your phone to entertain you,” Jimin snickers beside you. You scowl menacingly at him and he giggles more.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but back off, Jimin. Sorry I don’t, like, play the electric guitar in my free time or whatever.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, still smiling and blowing bubbles with his gum, popping them quite obnoxiously, and quite intentionally.

“What, do you think I play the electric guitar? Are you stereotyping me as some sort of garage band drop-out punk?” he jesters.

“And do you take me for some sort of pink fuzzy consumerist? You don’t know me. Buzz off.”

Jimin had definitely tucked you into his mental folder of “tough gals”; his aloof tactic of flirting not seeming to penetrate that pretty skull of yours. He could just take the path of least resistance and approach you normally, but where was the fun in that? You were too interesting a specimen to just use-and-discard.

Jimin suddenly thinks you look attractive with furrowed brows and pouted lips. It was most definitely working for you, so he lets it slide for now. When class ends, you all but bolt before Jimin can even look your way, sure he’d find another surface flaw to pick at.

You suddenly think of what all of the adults in your life have said during your upbringing: people that went out of their way to bully you were either jealous or had an embarrassingly crushing “thing” for you. Jimin, on the other hand, was just annoying.

Of course, to your dismay, class isn’t the only time you ever saw him. You weren’t totally stupid. The campus didn’t stretch for miles and you were bound to see him sometime and have to deal with the efforts of avoiding the man at all costs but fuck were you praying to whoever controls your Sim above that they would grant you some mercy.

“Just tell him to fuck off if he’s so far up your ass,” Jungkook argues, crushing his juice box in one gulp and biting his massive cafeteria burrito.

“You don’t get it, Kook. I have. So many times, in so many different instances. Did I tell you about the time I thought he was helping me get a textbook from a tall shelf but he ended up taking that last one for himself?” You angrily rip a bite from your limp sandwich. You really did hate Turkey Thursdays.

“Eh, first come, first serve. Maybe he didn’t know you were trying to grab that one.”

“My ass, Jungkook. He claimed that if I really wanted it, I would ‘do something in fair exchange’ for it. I’m not looking to going into prostitution anytime soon.”

“Respect sex workers,” Jungkook criticizes.

“Oh, no, totally. Sex work just isn’t my forte.” Kook shrugs.

“Okay,” you continue, “how about the time I went to IKEA to buy that ceiling lamp and was obviously struggling to one-trip everything from my car? The dumbfuck passed by and asked if I needed help, so I was like, ‘Yeah! Sure, it would definitely make up for the time you asked for sex in lieu of my psych book,’ but instead of helping me carry anything he took my coffee, drank some, and left.” Jungkook starts a rebuttal but you cut him off short, “Then he showed up to my work the other day, god knows how he even saw me in there, and started taking a video of me when I wasn’t paying attention!”

“What the hell,” your friend sports a face of disgust, “like, he’s stalking you?”

You scratch the back of your neck, “Well, not exactly? I think he was just maybe—see, A$AP Rocky may or may have not been playing on the speakers, and I didn’t know anyone was in the shop! So. I don’t know. I started—”

“Started rapping with a rolled up poster as your microphone,” he deadpans. Finishing your horrid sandwich, you crumple the saran wrap and chuck it at his eye, satisfied when we wails exaggeratingly.

“Maybe that’s just his way of flirting with you, he’ll get bored eventually.”

“I think he just hates my guts and thinks of me as an equal to the gum under his thick, goth boots,” you mumble.

“Does it matter? So what if Danny Phantom doesn’t like you?”

“He’s causing a problem though. Besides, everyone cares if someone doesn’t like them. It’s bullshit if they tell you otherwise; bullshit or a lack of sympathy.”

“So what are you going to do about it? Because I’m totally your friend and all but I don’t necessarily want to hear about your boy problems all the time.” You harrumph at his negligence and slump back into your seat.

There really wasn’t anything you could do about it; it wasn’t bad enough to the point of distressing tyranny. You simply couldn’t befriend the guy, it was obvious he didn’t want that. You would just have to pray to all things good that he would eventually lose interest, stop harassing you out of kindness, or have a change of heart and treat you like the saint you were.

If only it were that easy.

Sylly-week kicked ass, to say the least. Even two days prior the hectic week from hell, your body aches from partying while your wallet cries from all the textbooks and supplies you paid for.

Sara slept beside you, forehead stuck to the desk with her laptop stuck on some sort of half-assed document and you couldn’t fathom a better picture to represent college.

Although it was already around 11, you hop out of bed and throw on your windbreaker from cheer and some spandex, shuffling into a pair of your sneakers and bolting out of your room with your bag. The amount of sodium and sugar you consumed from Cup-O-Noodles and off-brand cookie dough bites made you feel disgusting, and you know running a quick mile at the gym would get your blood pumping enough to make you: 1) feel better about yourself and 2) put your ass to sleep.

The walk is short, the air still a little heavy with heat but cool enough for you to be comfortable in a long-sleeve. Some tired students exit the library, really the only other people you see at this hour. You would’ve thought it creepy if the campus wasn’t so well-lit and played background music through the announcement speakers. If you died or got kidnapped, at least it was to some groovy jazz.

You swipe your card across the sensor beside the athletic building door, waiting for that subtle beep before the gears clank and allow you to heave the door open. Immediately, the smell of sweat poorly masked with air freshener fill your nostrils and your adrenaline builds. You’re no body builder, but a run certainly sounded nice right about now.

You practically skip through the halls, rounding a corner to enter the weight room before you stop in your tracks to see someone in the room across. You squint suspiciously, peachy hair striking a very strong familiarity to…

“Jimin?” you whisper to yourself. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s at the gym, but you are because he isn’t. He’s in the dance studio. Before you bolt, your eyes glue to his sensual movements, legs gliding across the floor and body free-flowing alongside the bass-filled music. No previous bias could deny that he looks like an angel in his room, dancing smooth as meringue and practically skating across the floor despite those clunky black boots of his; and powerful, hitting every note and beat with intention and vigor. You’ve never seen anyone dance like this.

After a few seconds, you render that you’re spying on him and continue walking, nervously scuffing your sneakers down the linoleum and immediately, and unfortunately, catching his attention.

He first sees you in the mirror. Ignores you. Then realizes it’s you and turns into the most ungraceful bag-of-bones as he scurries to pause the music and chases you down the hall.

“Hey!” he yells, grabbing your elbow.

“Don’t touch me,” you strike back, jerking your elbow out of his grasp and staring him down.

He looks apologetic, genuinely worried for a second before he breathes deep and tries again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. Um, why are you here?”

“Um, because I can be? I was going to go to the gym, dickwad.”

It takes all of his patience not to insult you, “Okay. You’re right. Were you… were you watching me?”

You give him a sickeningly-sweet smile, “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just passing by.”

He nods solemnly, straightening his tank as if it wasn’t already wrinkled and damp with sweat, “Okay. Okay, cool.” He starts to turn before he keeps going in a 360.

“Can you keep this between me and you? That I was here? That I was here and I was—”

“Dancing?” you ask quizzically, “Why does it matter?”

His eyebrows stitch together in frustration, “Y/N, do I look like I’m a dancer?” He gestures to his piercings and his sleeve, waving his hands about in so many different places that your lewd curiosity wonders what he looks like naked—for the sake of knowing how many piercings and tattoos he has though, obviously.

“I think you look like a dancer. Just not a contemporary dancer. Did you take ballet?” you half-tease, crossing your arms and beaming slyly at him.

Jimin huffs, impatient, “Will you just keep it locked somewhere in that airhead of yours?”

“What’s in it for me, Jiminie,” you pout, “what do I get as reward for keeping your secret?”

He falters a moment, licking his plump lips and walking dangerously close, “You want a reward? I don’t take you as that kind of girl, Y/N.”

He must be delirious, eyeing him so and shoving him away, “Ew, no. I just meant, like, be nice to me from now on. And help me with psychology. That class is nothing but a memory test.”

He blinks dumbly from your rejection; who ever rejected him? He waves it off.

“Okay. I can be compliant. I won’t treat you like the rich bitch you are, and I tutor you on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Deal?”

“I’m not a rich bitch. I have student loans like the rest of the student population, thank you very much. Deal.”

You smile at each other devilishly, ready to part ways before bursting out with an instant, “Wait!”

Jimin looks over his shoulder curiously. Damn, you could really see how toned his shoulders were in that shirt.

“There’re dance majors here, is that what you transferred for?”

He turns all the way, leaning sideways against the wall and sighing, “Honestly, yes. But my family thinks I’m transferring to finish my business degree and that I would have better opportunities here. I really did it because there’s some great studios in the area but—” he catches himself rambling, “I don’t know how they would feel about my grand decision.”

You shrug, “You’re a great dancer, Jimin. Honestly, you could open your own studio here if you wanted to. You do have great opportunities.”

His sleepy eyes stare you down, a half-smile drawing itself out before he can take it back. “Give me your phone,” he orders.

You don’t know why but you do.

He dials into it with his overly-accessorized fingers, giving you a moment to get a closer look at his septum and the abundance of ear-piercings he sports before he hands it back. You’re pretty sure one of them is Gucci and you bite back a chuckle. Rich bitch.

“That’s my number. Text me when you’re free on study days.”

And with that, he re-enters his room and resumes the music.

The first time Park Jimin meets with you at a Starbucks on a Tuesday, like he instructed, you thought you somehow managed to get yourself stuck in the Twilight Zone.

“Hey, it’s Y/N. My last class ends at 3 on both days and there’s already a quiz this Friday. Help.”

You sent the text without emojis. He didn’t deserve any.

You had barely got to Instagram before he texted you back. With multiple messages.

“u text like a gramma”

“but ok”

“starbucks at 330? i’ll buy”

You giggled to yourself at his joke, sending a single “(:” and putting your phone to sleep.

To your disbelief, he really did buy you a cheese danish and a tall, iced, caramel macchiato. You sip it gingerly while he pulls his things out of his bag: a couple mechanical pencils (the industrial, expensive ones), a 1-inch binder organized by subject with dividers, and notecards. You grab them and hold them up like it’s evidence from a leading murder case.

“Notecards? You are way too organized and functional.”

He snags your pastry before you can grab it and takes a huge bite, “Yeah, but ih’s gonna het you a bedder ghrade.”

Whining, you get it back after his second bite, somehow only half remaining.

“Okay. Let’s get started. It should only be a vocab check because that’s really all he’s asked us to study so far. We’ll start with my wonderful notecards,” he waves them in the air for effect, “and see which ones you do and don’t know.”

You nod, waiting for the chaos to begin. Who were you to tell him that you haven’t actually studied any of the vocab yet? He holds the first one up. Abductive reasoning.

“Uhh… is that like, something detectives use on kidnapping cases?”

“Wh-What? No. Well—are you thinking of ‘abductions’? Abductive reasoning is being able to use the two states of induction and deduction alongside your intuition to reach a conclusion,” he pauses and tilts his head a little, “ I guess the best analogy is giving out a verdict on a criminal case. Without being 100% sure, they use the evidence to tie together as many different points as they can to come to a conclusion. So, I mean, you got it wrong, but you can easily remember the definition with that.”

You’ll take what you get (majority of his reasoning went through one ear and out the other, anyway), wiggling your eyebrows in justified approval. Jimin laughs at you, eyes squinting to slits and shaking his head. He takes notice that you aren’t wearing much makeup today, your cheeks and the bridge of your nose a tad red with irritation and a bit dry where the sun burnt and eyes daintier without so much eyeliner on them. You threw on a tank and some workout shorts and look like the epitome of… comfortable, in your head. Jimin thinks you look effortless.

“Park?” you wave your hand in front of him.

He catches himself staring and jumps out of his seat, chair screeching across the tile.

“Sorry,” he coughs, “I’m going to take a whiz.” Stupid. He practically trips over himself to get to the restroom.

You watch him hurry to the back. He probably had much better things to do than help you study in the middle of the afternoon. A couple of younger girls watch him as he passes, giggling like a pack of fangirls and combing their hair out of their faces. If they only knew.

Did he even have a girlfriend? Most likely not, right? He only just transferred here and despite his well-endowed looks, he was still intimidating. Like a giant “don’t touch, I bite” sign constantly hung around his neck.

He comes back shortly, and before you can deduct that you would rather save the embarrassment than to quench your curiosity, you ask, “Are you dating anyone?”

“Because you get a lot of followers,” you reason, shamelessly pointing out the girls who ogle his tattooed biceps. They giggle again when he looks their way. God, so many giggles.

He rubs the back of his neck nervously and that intrigues you, “No, I’m not dating anyone. I think if it weren’t for my… accessories? And the fact that I’m foreign, girls wouldn’t like me as much.” You find tiny comfort that he’s single but squish the thought away.

“How ‘bout you? Dating that guy on your team?” he retorts.

“Who, Jungkook?” you snort, “No. He has a girlfriend and he’s all brawn over brain. I’m not dating anyone, actually. I don’t like guys that are so competitive to win females strictly for the points, and there’s a lot of that here. S’gross; we’re not animals.”

“We kinda are,” he argues, but smiles understandingly.

“Okay, but not in the way where your possible significant other has to perform an instinctual mating dance?”

He juts up an eyebrow, “Really? Because I could easily arrange that.”

For the first time, you both laugh. At the same thing. Who knew that Jimin could dance of all things? And pay for your food? And actually be a nice guy who’s really smart? Thinking about it, today has gone so polar-opposite of what you expected that you contemplate if this is Jimin’s identical twin that just happens to have the same piercings and ink that bully-Jimin has.

Twilight Zone.

“Okay, let’s continue,” he says, resuming the queue of notecards.

“Define abulia.”

“Hello? Earth to Y/N?” Jimin waved a hand in your face.

“Hm? Sorry, say it again.”

Jimin packed up his supplies, then grabs yours and tucks them into your bag, “I said, ‘Are we going to your place right now?’ You said you picked up Black Panther on DVD so I want to watch it.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Cats and shit.”

You both stand up and stretch, the rest of the students in the lecture hall slowly filing out. Midterms were already approaching, which meant that you and Jimin had known each other for quite some time now. His tutoring was ditched weeks ago after you were finally comfortable with the material and able to comprehend what the professor was saying without Jimin to interpret. At first, meeting up stopped completely. You two would talk occasionally during class break and that’s all, and after a while, you just figured your deal was completed and Jimin finished his case and you both separated onto your different ways.

But then Jimin had asked if you wanted coffee at the same Starbucks you had first studied at, but for no specific reason. Just to hang out. So, you did.

Hanging out once or twice for coffee turned into twice getting lunch turned into four or five times lazing about your dorm, and now, you were just completely, wholesomely, friends. It was hard not to be on edge at the contrast of current Jimin to hell-on-earth Jimin, but you took what you could get.

“Is something on your mind? You’ve been spacing out for a long time,” he prods, taking your bag himself and throwing it over the same shoulder his own bag was on. The

walk to your dorm building was short but you could feel your feet dragging from sudden exhaustion.

“I think I’m just tired? I’m fine. Ready to Black Panther it up and all that jazz,” you chuckle. He takes the hint and resorts to quietly humming to your room rather than talking. That’s one thing you liked about him, he always knew when your mind just needed simple white noise.

Unlocking the door and jostling it out of its stickiness, you make a running jump to faceplant onto your bed. The mattress dips next to you when Jimin sits.

“I know you like cheer and all, but I think you need to take a break,” he says.

“Easier said than done. And I have mandatory captain conditioning in 3 hours,” you groan, propping your head on the palm of your hand to watch Jimin as he eats a stale bag of chips that he found on your nightstand. His face contorts in repulsion and throws the bag away.

“Okay, well, you’re not going. Tell them you’re sick. Let’s watch some DC movies and eat popcorn and have, like, a girl sleepover but I’m not a girl and I don’t want to spend the night,” he says, counting each point on his fingers.

“First of all, you lunatic, it’s Marvel not DC. Second, I don’t have popcorn. I can’t just skip conditioning because if I gain one pound Jungkook will sense it with his nose or something and attack me.”

“What,” he says in disbelief, grabbing your waist with one hand and squeezing a little, “you’re fine. You’re not going today and that’s final.” It’s not very often he touches you and as much as you try not to show it, you feel your face heat and mouth gape open and closed, ready to combust. You don’t particularly know why; guys touch you all the time (not in that way, thank you very much) but when it was Jimin, it was like you had been raised feral and failed to receive any means of human interaction.

He notices, taking his hand away as quick as he placed it and looking at the floor. Despite your lack of proper reaction, you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little twinge of disappointment. God, you’re so confusing to yourself.

“How about you? Your vampire ass won’t dance in sunlight so you must be tired too. How long do you normally dance for when you’re in the studio?”

“Well,” he lays flat on his back and stares at your popcorn ceiling (your dorm building was extremely outdated), “I try to workout at the actual gym in the morning before I get ready for class, and then I dance from 11 to whenever I feel is enough during the weeknights. That is, if no one’s there.”

“Why do you even follow this whole path of disliking mainstream trends and ‘rebelling against the world’? Isn’t that tiring? Aside from dance, do you, like, make your own skateboards and go to secret underground bars or something?” you tease. He rolls his head towards you in annoyance and mouths a “ha ha”.

“No, I just. I don’t know. I don’t like people telling me what to do or where to go or how to look,” he showcases his tatted arm. “This is all mine. I don’t want to be another puppet controlled my whole life to consume and work off a never-ending debt just so I can only live comfortably when I’m old but too old to actually live.”

“Wow, bro. That’s deep,” you pretend to smoke a pretzel stick. He continues anyway.

“Recently I made some friends that are in one of my labs. They’re from Korea too. If I’m not studying or working or hanging out with you, I’m probably with them. Partying or something,” he says, stealing away your “cigarette” and crunching on it loudly.

“Woah, you work? How do you find the time to do that?”

“Kinda. Nothing official, I just tutor people sometimes. Charge them by the hour and make some decent pocket change for food or whatever.”

You contemplate. How come he’s never charged you for your tutoring before? You ask him, studying his side profile and admiring his jawline when he talks. Flexing then easing; taut then relaxed.

“Because we had a deal. We agreed that I would help you in psych as long as you kept my secret, in which you did, so I figured that was good enough. Besides, you’re too cute to charge. I look like a bad boy but I’m not evil.” You giggle, resembling a middle-school fangirl and exaggerating a flattered stature.

Jimin laughs again, light and refreshing staccato notes that you could honestly listen to all day. It was therapeutic in its own crackhead way.

You’ve been unintentionally staring at him more and more often, Jimin finally taking notice within the last few minutes. He knew how to read a girl; how revealing they make themselves to impress him or how their eyes dim in any sort of suggestion that his hands should somehow find place on their body. But with you, he has no idea what that stare means. For the most part, you carry yourself so independently to the point of being standoffish and Jimin just can’t figure you out. He sought the day you would give in and beg for a night with him just like most of the other girls in his classes did, and when you didn’t, he wanted to know why. Not out of inflated ego or need to get into your pants—okay maybe because of that initially—but even more so that he just needed to dissect you. Know how to get you going, what kind of person you really are, which was completely different from what he originally imagined.

You were talking amidst his thoughts, not paying attention to the strings of sentences that fell out of your lips and before he knew it, he held himself directly above you, hands on each side of your head and staring right down into your disordered doe eyes.

“What makes you so different?” he asks aloud, more to himself than you. Puzzled and not under the impression that it was a rhetorical question, you shake your head.

“I don’t u-understand. What are you doing, Ji—”

He tucks a loose strand of yours out of your face, causing you to hiccup. “I feel like when I think I know you, I’m actually far from it.”

You don’t particularly know what you’re supposed to say to that.

“You didn’t ever need to get to know me. You just needed to make sure I kept your secret,” you play along. Knowing it wasn’t really the whole case, your own statement stings a little. If it weren’t to save his own ass, would he even be here right now?

Like he read your mind, he answers, “Why would I be here? I haven’t needed to help you in weeks. I’m with you all the time because I want to be. Because I—”

“Because you…?” you trail on, heart beating so hard you swear he can hear it. You wanted him to say it, maybe that’s what was keeping you from confirming your feelings. You needed validation; that this wasn’t just you or that this was some one-sided longing because you doubted someone like him could ever like someone like you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks instead, so hesitant and delicate and worrisome all in one question and you ponder if this is the same boy you first met at orientation.

“Please.”

He dips down slowly, eyes half-closed in anticipation of what your face looks like so close, pausing an inch away when you shut your own. You feel his warmth near your mouth, waiting for that first touch, any contact, until it seems like it’s been far too long. When you peek, you see nothing but his perfect… cheekbone? He stares, jaw stuck open and eyes fluttering, at the intruder in the door before swinging himself off the bed and coughing awkwardly.

“Oh, Sara. I didn’t know you were coming home so early today,” you squeak out. You sit up yourself, brushing off nonexistent dust from the bed and watching Jimin gather his things in a rush and squeezing past a concerned Sara in the doorway. He doesn’t even turn back, ears stinging red and peeping a quick, havetogotextyoulater. Great, the asshole left you to face your roommate alone.

“Was that Jimin? Park Jimin? The fucking transfer student?”

“Oh my god, Sara, what’re you freaking out about?”

Dropping her stuff in the middle of the room, she shrieks annoyingly and grabs your shoulders, “Are you seriously fucking with the Park Jimin? Y/N. Nuh-uh. No way. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Chill out! We’re just friends. He tutors me sometimes.” Not quite a lie.

She eyes you and deadpans, “Yeah, I didn’t know tutoring also included a one-on-one session of how to have sexual intercourse.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you remove her hands, which were digging crescents into your skin, and pretend to arrange your bed, “we haven’t even kissed. You just walked in at an inconvenient time.”

Sara sighs, rubbing her temples and sitting on your bed, “Look, babe. Just be careful. I’ve been to parties with him and have heard some awful things. Shit you expect from a movie where the girl gets fucked over because the guy doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants. I just want the best for you, okay? He’s not as sweet as you might think he is.”

He isn’t sweet at all, you said internally. But still, your heart clenches at her words. Sure, he acts like a dick, and you shouldn’t be surprised if he really does get around as much as Sara suspects; but there was just some sort of denial that lingered. If he really was such a player, why would he have stuck around with you for as long as he has, as platonic as it has been until now?

“I… I didn’t know that. I’ll be careful,” you assure her.

All it took was a squinty-eyed smile and a tiny caress to the small of your back on the way into the lecture hall for you to completely melt into his hands. You were simply putty, magically molding into some gross, odd-smelling ball of love just because of the almost-incident yesterday. You can practically feel the radiating disappointment from Sara if she knew how easily you gave yourself up for him.

His face reoccurs in your daydreams for days, all the way up until the weekend comes up from behind and smacks you on the ass.

“Focus,” Jungkook taps you through you skirt again. Oh, or maybe it was Jungkook.

The stadium speakers blared with announcements and you’re brought back to the world of clashing helmets, captain’s orders and Jungkook’s strong hands residing on your waist for partner stunts.

You didn’t need to be reminded, you were much more stable than you were weeks ago. He throws you in the air during the signaling note of the band and catches your right foot with ease above him, keeping you stable as you pull a heel stretch and present a pretty smile. The crowd roars along, inspiring the team and singing along with the cheers.

By the end of the game, you’re exhausted, tearing down paper signs from the concrete walls and shuffling your poms into your bag in a hurry.

“Hey, are you going to the feed after? Everyone’s going, I could give you a ride,” Jungkook offers, but you shake your head.

“I’m pretty beat. I’ll go next time.” He shrugs, finding more interest in catching up to someone who is interested than trying to convince you otherwise. By the time your clean-up is done, most of the fans are gone, the stadium a comparable difference of quiet than how it was only twenty minutes ago.

“You’re sure taking forever,” a sudden voice pipes up. Outside the gate stands Jimin, all-black tank and jeans, per usual. “You looked great out there.”

You smile, suddenly awake and jogging towards him, “What’re you doing here? I thought you didn’t like football.” During all your rushing do you realize that you relax around Park, time always seeming to slow down in his presence and you dissolve into his effect.

“I don’t. Such an American moneymaker. They’re all cons.” He takes your bag like he always does, leaning against the gate and looking excited, “Mind if we stop by my place? I have something to show you. It’s not far, probably only a 5 minute walk from here.”

You nod before he even mentions how long it takes to get there, heart palpitating at the thought that he’s inviting you over. You’re sure you smelled from cheer and you probably looked like the opposing team warmed up suicide runs over your sweaty body, but you nod.

“Were you here the whole time? Or just towards the end?” you ask, slightly insecure towards the fact that he could’ve been watching you cheer.

“Was here since halftime. Got Yoongs to watch with me at the gate where I was before for the most part. He left halfway through fourth quarter though, said he got tired from seeing others exert themselves so much,” he chuckles at the thought, eyes squinting and crooked tooth visible from the side. Your heart swooned, you were even starting to notice the little things. How he acted. His habits. What he did and didn’t like.

You were in fucking deep.

“I did get to see you cheer though,” he answers your unspoken inquiry, “you looked pretty, Y/N. It’s like watching a whole ‘nother person compared to how you act outside of uniform.” You’re still stuck on the word “pretty” and nod along like you’re listening.

“You should see how people look at you,” he draws on, “like they’re entranced. Even when you were just relaxing on the sideline, not doing anything, you stand out.”

“Oh my god, Jimin, where is this even coming from? One more compliment and the world might explode from the paradox you’re creating.”

He shoves your shoulder lightly, laughing at your tomato-red face, “What do you mean? I can’t compliment you?”

“No that’s not—I just mean. You know. You used to hate me and now you shower me with praise like I’m the best person in the world. It’s just crazy how much our relationship has changed. And… And yesterday—”

“Yo, can’t believe you really stayed for the rest of the game,” a raspy voice outbursts. You just realize that Jimin stopped you in front of a house, presumably his house, as a mint-haired ball sits on the porch. He inhales from his cigarette and exhales through his nose before throwing it underneath his boot.

“Hey, Yoongs. This is Y/N. Y/N, Min Yoongi, my roommate. Has a bad smoking habit and have only recently gotten him to smoke outside.” Jimin snickers, offering a hand to lift Yoongi off the step and welcome him into some bro-hug.

“You smoke too, bastard. Just did it ‘cause I knew you were bringing someone home tonight,” Yoongi retaliates, eyeing your figure. Shivers run down your spine at the comment.

Jimin coughs unexpectedly, then anxiously laughs as he pulls your arm behind him and into the house, “We’ll be in the living room. Go sleep or something.” Yoongi only clicks his tongue in response.

“Sorry,” he says once your inside, “he can be a little too personal sometimes. He’s really nice once you get to know him.” You shake your head, giving him a comforting smile that eases the tension in his shoulders.

He settles you on the couch, host-like politeness apparent when he asks if you want anything to drink, tells you where the bathroom is, and hands you the tv remote before disappearing to find his laptop. His home was cozy, minimalist furniture often in gray, black, and an occasional blue spread throughout the rooms. You weren’t sure if the boys were attempting to be modern or if college tuition only allowed them this sort of set-up, but nonetheless, it was way nicer than you expected.

“Back,” Jimin plops onto the couch right next to you, Apple laptop unlocked to a default background. He looks to you briefly before setting up some page on Google, “Have you signed up for your classes for next quarter yet?”

He looks different, your eyes scanning over his face to figure out just what it is, “Basically, just gotta confirm and pay and whatnot. Have you, Jimin?”

It’s his septum, you discover, that he’s taken out. He looks handsome either way. Propping the laptop suddenly on your lap, he beams, “Yeah, go ahead and take a look.”

You scroll through the page, humming to yourself, “Mhm… Mhm… Accounting, business 101, contemporary repertory… God, you’re going to hate sociology with Doyard, she’s a complete psycho!” You trail, giggling at his misfortune. Once you’re done, you meet his discontent face.

It takes a few takes from his face to the screen, back to his face, until oh shit!

“Wait does ‘contemporary repertory’ mean something important?” you squeal in rushed excitement. “Is that a dance thing? Are you taking a dance class here?” Before he can even explain, you shut the laptop and safely place it on the coffee table before tackling the man, withdrawing an oof from his lips.

“Easy, girl. Please don’t break me before I even get to show up on the first day.”

“Jimin, this is amazing. You’re finally doing something you want to do, during regular hours, at that!” You nuzzle into his warm chest, “I’m so happy for you, Jimin. I hope you have fun.” His heart clenches at that; how could you be so fucking caring about him? He knew you’d be surprised, but not genuinely happy for him. His hand glides over the skin between your midriff and skirt, an inkling of a gasp floating out of your throat.

“Sorry,” he whispers, moving his hand higher and locking eyes with yours. Time is always slow with him but now, it’s like it was screaming at you to take the opportunity. Unwinding one of your arms from around his neck, you smooth his hair up so you can see those prepossessing eyes.

“You can touch me,” you confirm just as softly. His features harden and you hope you didn’t read the situation wrong.

“I… I never got to kiss you that night.”

“Then you can kiss me now, if you’d like,” you say, pleading in your voice and it’s all he needs to hear before he burns his lips into yours. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted this,” he pants between suckles to your bottom lip. He kisses like he dances: powerful and in perfect control with his body, molding it to yours and massaging the skin he just apologized for touching only seconds ago.

You cup his face and look down at him with sultry prowess, “I want you, Jimin. I’ve always thought about this, hoping you would just make a move, idiot.” You dive back into him, his moans prominent when you lick and nip at his lip. He lowers his grip to your ass, squeezing and pushing his hips into your own.

“Well, I’ve always thought about fucking you in this cursed uniform,” he growls, forcing a giggle out of you. Grinding down into him for effect, your mouth travels to his ear so you can state a small confirmation.

“I’m flexible, babe. I’m all yours.”

He hums his praise, latching his mouth onto your neck, laving and peppering blues into your skin before he carries you off the couch. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, “Where are you taking me?”

Heading into a hallway and taking a sharp left, he kicks his door open, “I don’t know about you, hot stuff, but Yoongs doesn’t need to see you getting dicked down in our living room,” he jests. When he lays you back onto the foot of his bed, you briefly scan his room and find it hard to believe that it’s relatively clean, the posters on his walls the only thing that seemed cluttered. This guy was your high school self’s wet dream. Scanning him promiscuously, you chuckle.

“I can be into it,” you drawl playfully.

Earning an unimpressed scoff, he fingers the hem of his shirt, “You’re mine,” he sheds it in a swift pull and throws it to the side cockily. Marveling at each detailed divot and curve of muscle, you can’t help but bite your lip in frustrated anticipation. “Unless, you don’t want me,” he finishes with a tilt of his head. He knew what he was doing, simulating innocence to draw you out of your transfixed stupor to hear those three words string from your mouth. You reach out to touch his abs, tracing over linework of ink and watching him shiver from your touch. Knowing exactly what he wants to hear, you gaze into oblique eyes and mouth the words, “I do want you”.

Goading him on, you lay back and extend your legs above you, shuffling your spandex tantalizingly slow over your skin. Jimin whistles at your show, staring at the white g-string you sported under your skirt and wandering his hands over the supple skin you expose.

“Jesus, you fucking tease. Leave the skirt.” Tittering at his request, you dig your heels into his back to propel him down towards you, his ringed hands keeping himself afloat and a winning smile winking down at you. Bless your heart you didn’t faint right then and there.

He kisses you like a man starved, lips burning hot with desire and aching to be bit—so you give him that. Sinking your teeth gently into the flesh, he punishes such action with a slap to the underneath of your thigh, then holding it close to the side of his abdomen and rolling over with you on top. Practically suffocating from lack of air, you dislodge yourself, quite reluctantly, from his mouth and soothe his complaints with brief kisses to his thick neck.

“Why didn’t we do this—ah, before?” he pants. Sucking a particularly tender spot of his jugular, he moans out and bucks into your hips. You continue your way down, leaving no inch of skin untouched until you reach where his skin ends and the nuisance of clothing began.

“You don’t make things very easy for me. Can I suck you off?”

“Fuck, don’t ask. Just do it. Turn around, though, I’ll finger you at the same time,” he offers, propping himself up on his elbows as you readjust yourself with your head towards his bulge and your ass facing him, knees keeping you up on one side of his torso. “Perfect,” he commends.

Unbuckling his ridiculously tight jeans, you hook your thumbs under the denim and whisper a quick, “Up,” to pull them off when his hips lift off the mattress. Your pride inflates at the sight of his bulge resting in the crook of his thigh, adorned by simple black boxers that hugged him in all the right spots. All but drooling at the member, you place a loving kiss where you know his head resides, mouthing at it gingerly and soaking the material with your saliva.

He ruts into your face as he watches such indecency, “You know, I should probably tell you something,” he says rather seriously, shuffling your skirt up above your ass and mischievously prodding at your sex with his thumb.

“Hmm,” you mumble, sliding his boxers down enough to suck at the pink tip that oozed of precum and spreading the liquid around with your tongue. The bitterness that came with it was all welcomed, slightly sweeter than others you’ve ever tasted and you appreciated it much more when a man this good-looking was laid out before you.

He groans, “Ever heard of a Jacob’s Ladder? Fuck, right there, underneath a bit…” You suck and nip at the skin of his frenulum, knowing he was bound to like small dosages of pain mixed with his pleasure—a guess all too correct when he cries out in ecstasy and gives your ass a light spank.

“A Jacob’s what?”

“Just—just look at it. If you don’t like it then I can just take them out,” he sighs, all too impatient to give you a rundown of whatever a Jacob’s hoo-ha entailed. You perk a brow at his vocabulary, halting your mouth and sliding his boxers the rest of the way down.

If you weren’t riled up before, you were hot, ready, and willing to beg on your knees to be stuffed with Jimin and his… accessories. You understand the term “ladder” now, three rungs of metal pierced on the underside of his shaft and glinting up at you with intimidation. You hope Jimin can’t see the now overflowing amount of arousal oozing out of your pussy, squeezing thighs together in a useless attempt of hiding yourself.

“Fuck, didn’t that hurt?” you question, hovering fingers over the balls of silver that protruded on each side in complete awe.

“Of course it did, honey. It’s all worth it, though. It’ll make you feel good too. Need me to take them out?” You shake your head a little too vigorously, earning a chuckle and his middle finger to slide in between your folds unexpectedly. Yiping at the sudden entrance, you cast a glare over his shoulder with his only response being the curve of his digit.

“C-Can I lick it? Can it get infected if you don’t use a condom?” you bombard him with questions, entirely unfamiliar with the subject and entirely enamored by it.

“It’s all healed up, baby. You can do whatever your little heart desires with it. And I would oh so much prefer going bare,” he confirms, and your heart flips at his pet name for you. That, and the thought of his thick, pierced cock penetrating you condom-less.

You wrap your lips around him once more, unafraid to take more and more of his length until you feel the cold metal—your stopping point. Call it your lack of experience, but you prefer not to catch your teeth on those piercings today. You make up for it by sliding a hand back under his scrunched boxers, fondling his balls as you bob diligently. He curses and struggles to keep his body still, digging another digit between your legs to slow your own ministrations. When it works and you moan around his cock, Jimin can’t help but want to play a little game.

“Should I give you a challenge, babe? It’s super simple. Whoever makes the other cum first gets to request something. Anything. Deal?”

“Deahl,” you muffle, swirling your tongue lavishly around his crown. Everything with Jimin was much more… intriguing. Even your first time having sex was turned into some lusty escapade of unexpected metallic embellishments and cheeky gambles. It made you feel something in your veins, wanting more and more of whatever poison Jimin was.

Taking a breath, you lick broadly over his entire shaft and scarcely taste the titanium—more than anything, it was just cold. Jimin shudders at the feeling, punishing you with a third and final finger and pushing downdowndown into a spot all too sensitive for you to focus.

Try as you might, your now pathetic attempts of sucking him off is all forgotten in your own haze of chasing your orgasm. Instead, you rest your head on his hip and writhe against his hand, fucking back onto it while he simultaneously prods your g-spot over and over again until you see stars.

“Giving up already? You were doing so well for a while, you could’ve won,” he lilts.

“Jimin, please make me cum. Oh god,” you wail, legs straining for just that final push…

“Is this what you want?” He slides his thumb across, swiping whatever he could collect and using it to knead at your neglected clit. It’s all you need, pleasure washing over you in tandem of near oversensitivity, a near scream tearing through your lungs that only comes out in ragged whines against his leg.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re ruining my sheets over here,” he criticizes, removing his hand with an obscene squelch and moving around in the bed.

The torpor you caught yourself in didn’t render what he was saying, just letting him move you about so your head rests on his pillows while he places himself between your legs.

“Jiminie,” you babble, “fuck me.” He strokes your hair away from your face and smiles, that cute puppy smile that turns his eyes into crescents. The rest of him, though, is purely sinful. Hair sweaty and pieced to perfection as his body taunted you with toned muscles.

“I don’t think you’re ready, honey,” he answers, “even though you’re dripping in your own cum.” He leans back and stares at your pussy without embarrassment, pulling your knees together and watching the juices flow even more. “I should put it to use.”

You peer up at him, curious as to whatever the hell he’s dreaming of over there and inexplicably stunned when you see his dick between your legs. “J-Jimin, what are you doing?”

“Shh, just keep them closed tight,” he orders, fucking himself between the lips of your heat and the warm skin of your thighs. You can’t help but ravish the sight of him as he slicks himself up, eyeing you down as his hips roll into you agonizingly slow. His piercings graze against your nub occasionally, warmth once again growing in your stomach.

“Fuck, you’re so soft and so wet. Who did this to you, hm?” You moan maniacally, angling your hips as to catch him and push inside, but he only laughs degradingly and intentionally misses.

“You think I’m going to fuck you if you can’t even answer this simple question?” he sneers. “Answer like a good girl, then I’ll fuck you into oblivion.”

You scramble for words, initially incoherent and struggling. “Jimin! Shit, Jimin. You made me this way. Ah, you m-make me so wet, so please put it in, put it in and—ha, aah!”

He shoves his length in like it’s all he knew what to do, your ankles to his shoulders so he can drink up your moans with his reddened lips. He was right—the piercings didn’t feel like any dick you’ve received before, it was so much better. This was pornographic, it was so good. He all but pistols into you, his cock grazing places previously untouched. Indulging in his heaven sent strokes, you cry and groan at each relentless thrust.

“Hush, baby, Yoongi’s going to hear your pretty self,” he warns, but you don’t give a shit. If anything, you moan louder with a know-all glint in your eye, testing Jimin’s patience. “Brat,” he spits.

He pounds into you repeatedly, completely removing himself before filling you up again and again and again. Between the pressure to your g-spot and the added stimulation from his Jacob’s Ladder—your stomach heaves, an unfamiliar feeling washing over your abdomen contrary to anything you’ve ever experienced.

“Oh, Jimin, wait!” you sob, halting his hips from another brutal shove a little too late. The second he pulls out, your second orgasm (and first ever untouched orgasm) of the night reigns over, briefly showering his lower stomach in your own wet arousal.

“Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot. Did you just… squirt on me?” he growls, not taking the time to hear your answer as he lifts you into his lap, legs wrapped around his muscular back and arms gripping around his shoulders for dear life.

He sinks back into you deliciously, filling you to the brim with your added weight and rutting up into you to chase his own release. Everything is soaked and sticky, Jimin’s ragged breathing and groans so close to your ear that you’re sure it’ll be engrained into your memory forever, his thrusts so deep inside you wail once more.

Consequently, the banging on the wall next to you comes as no surprise, Yoongi’s angry, “Shut the fuck up!” clear as day. Jimin waves it off.

“Don’t listen baby. Moan louder for me. Tell me where you want my cum.”

The slaps of skin become louder; it wouldn’t be long before Jimin came. “Inside, Jiminie, please. Cum inside me, pump me full,” you squeal, lust sparking inside you knowing that his roommate could hear you getting fucked senseless.

One, two, three more aching pounds before he spills into you, his pretty moans music to your ears. You flop back as soon as he takes himself out, suddenly aching all over from how much he stretched your legs and groaning at the pain.

You slap his eager hand away when he fingers his cum back into your abused lips, “That hurts, idiot.” He smiles and sucks your intermingled cum off his fingers with a pop.

“We taste good together,” he husks. Fuck. “By the way. You came first. Stay the night?”

You oblige with or without the pressure of the bet, dog-tired from your beating and not even fathoming the trek back to your own room. Jimin takes charge in your state of haziness, washing you off in his shower, replacing your uniform with a t-shirt of his own and laying you beside him on his mattress (sheets replaced and refreshed).

“You have piercings in your dick,” you state in the middle of the quiet.

Jimin snorts at the outburst, looping an arm around your side and melding his body to yours, “Yeah, is it weird?”

“… Robot dick,” you whisper, words cracking at the face of your laughter.

“Oh my god.”

“So, when you’re going through metal detectors at airports and whatever, do you have to tell them that the metal’s in your penis? Do they have to check?” Titters are awarded with light jabs to your side, which are then led to screams and kicks to his legs.

Yoongi bursts through Jimin’s door, brows stitched together in heated anger parallel to the flames of hell, “I swear to fucking god, if you two don’t quiet down I’ll mount your heads on my wall, it’ll make a great decoration.”

“What the hell, what if we were naked? Don’t just go busting through—”

“Yeah because you obviously care if I know you two are fucking. ‘Don’t listen, baby! Tell me where you want my cum, baby!’” Yoongi mocks. Pillows are flying and insults are thrown as you watch them bicker sleepily, all fading into white noise as you begin to drift off.

Sleep itself feels like a blink, so exhausted that you don’t dream. Waking in the same position that you were last conscious in, the only difference in picture is the fact that: A) the sun is shining through Jimin’s skylight and B) Jimin is no longer in bed with you.

But before you can even question where he’s run off to, his sly self sneaks back into the bedroom, shirtless and face clean from washing up just now. You don’t even hide the fact that you look down to check out his tight briefs, metal detector in your brain trying to scope it out.

“You’re awake. Sorry if I was loud,” he smiles, crawling on top of you as you stretch out like a mangled cat. You shake your head, combing his hair back with your nails as he dips down into your chest. “I like when you wear my shirts.”

“That’s pretty stereotypical,” you whisper out, voice low and raspy from your slumber. This isn’t fair, you think, he got to brush his teeth already.

He sits up and gives you A Look, making you giggle and giving you the leverage to feel up his abs as he flexes haughtily.

“I can get used to this,” you purr.

“I bet you could,” he mumbles into your neck, nipping at the places he already marked last night. He doesn’t push, just relishes in your warmth and fondles you carefully as you continue to wake up and it makes you shiver.

“I wish you would’ve done this a long time ago,” you sigh.

“You hated me.”

“You didn’t make it easy for me to like you,” you retort, gasping when he bites your collarbone, “Now—Now I like you.”

He stops abruptly and pulls away, landing on his side with an elbow and tilting his head towards you, “Well, I hope you don’t start liking me too much.”

You squint, “W-Why? Don’t tell me this was just a one night stand or anything.”

“No! I mean, not just one night or whatever. I just—this is just casual, right?”

You all but bite your tongue to keep from lashing out, “What do you mean ‘casual’? You didn’t say anything about ‘casual’.”

“Oh, Y/N, c’mon. Did you really think we should date? Look at us, baby. We’re just not… each other’s types, you know?”

It’s about time you get up, shoving aside his warm blankets and grabbing your soiled uniform from the floor, “No, Jimin. I don’t know. I thought you were being genuine with me.”

“Hey, no, don’t leave,” he grabs your arm before you leave his bedroom, “Okay, there was some miscommunication. I’m not trying to be mean. Can I just… I don’t know, think about it? I’m just not used to this.”

Looking into his eyes for some sort of confirmation, your tensions subside. “I’m not a toy. If you don’t want to be with me, just say it.” The hurt he feels in your tone breaks his heart, for once. Would he really be willing to try something he knows won’t work?

For you, maybe.

“I do like you, Y/N. Just give me some time.” He pulls your arm once more, hoping you’ll stay. But you draw the line and pry his hand off politely.

“Of course I’ll give you time. I’ll see you later, okay?” He nods understandingly. He can’t feel butthurt when he’s the one putting you on ice, he knows that. So Jimin watches you leave in his shirt, mind clouded more so than when you arrived.

a/n: yay! you made it through the first part! if you liked it, feel free to let me know or ask any questions to the characters! xx, selene

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jankyunsolved · 4 years

Text

Title: Find Balance [in your life] Summary: Who knew Steven Lim could inspire Ryan to go home to his two favorite people?

Or: Ryan Bergara works too hard and neglects what’s important, but his partners welcome him home anyway.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983251

Sara 💓: The bed is cold without you.

Ryan glanced at his phone and did a double take when he saw it was a text from his group chat with Shane and Sara. He picked up his phone with shaking hands, the coffee he just finished still rushing through his veins, and opened the text.

When was the last time he saw Sara? Shane, he saw almost every day, but Sara? He hadn’t slept at their place since they announced the launch of Watcher, and that was weeks ago. He slept at his much closer house, or as of late, on the floor of the office for cat naps.

He’d been working nonstop on getting videos edited, checking Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, and Twitter, meeting with sponsors and completing paperwork; creating their own channel was a never ending job.

Shane’s been working from home for almost a week and a half due to a minor disagreement between them (first big fight since he began dating Shane and Sara, and Ryan couldn’t even remember what it was about, so he tripled his workload instead of dealing with it) and Steven left for the night a few minutes ago, so Ryan was alone, frantically working on edits and posts that could probably wait until Monday.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. It was already 9:53, and if he could just finish this final edit, he might be able to leave and sleep in his own bed by 1:00AM before coming back to the office bright and early on a Saturday to try and get ahead. “Sorry,” he started to type. “Work calls.” He almost hit send when he got a notification that Steven posted a video on Instagram.

He watched the video. It was Steven in that very office, and Ryan must’ve been making coffee when he made it, because his workstation was dark and empty.

It was just Steven, sitting in a chair in an empty room, talking. But what he had to say was more inspirational than Ryan was expecting. Taking care of yourself, fostering your relationships, finding hobbies, leaving work when the temptation is there to keep working.

Ryan felt like he couldn’t breathe, one phrase echoing inside his head: “My identity doesn’t only live in my work.” He looked around his small space, at his open laptop and desktop, at the lack of pictures, doodles, little knick knacks that would usually surround him as he worked. Plain white. And he knew that they were moving to an even bigger office soon, but that didn’t stop Steven or Shane from decorating their small space.

He pushed himself away from his desk, ducking his head between his knees. Anxiety rippled through his body. How much has Watcher taken over my life?

After breathing and waiting for the wave of nausea to leave, he opened his texts and flinched at what he almost texted Sara. “God, what a fucking fool,” he whispered as he erased what he typed and simply wrote, “I’m coming home.” He hoped that not only would Sara welcome him this late, but that whatever happened between him and Shane could be squashed as well. “Wishful thinking,” Ryan said, pulling himself back to his desk. “I don’t even know what we fought about.”

He saved what he was working on, turned off all the tech in the small office that they were temporarily occupying, and glanced at the board. 80,000 subscribers. 20,000 away from the goal their sponsors were expecting to be met by January 10th. How to get 20,000 over a holiday…

“Stop,” Ryan said out loud. “Business can wait until Monday. Sara is waiting for you, and maybe Shane too.”

He put on his backpack, turned off the lights, and made his way to the elevator, waving to the security guard who was stationed on the floor. With laser focus, Ryan pressed the down button, got on the elevator, and went to the parking garage beneath the building.

Keys in hand, Ryan ran to his car. The quicker he got in his car, the less likely he was gonna turn around and go back to work. He blasted music in his car, a mix of local LA rappers and the metal of his youth, to make sure he stayed awake, and then he made his way to Shane and Sara’s apartment.

Traffic was terrible, as always, and he made it to their apartment a little after eleven. He parked his car in the last available parking spot and then grabbed his bag, hesitating for a moment. He looked at his phone and saw that Sara responded.

Sara 💓: I’ll reheat a snack for you.

He didn’t know what to say. How could he thank her when he was being the worst? He took a shuddering breath and opened his car door.

It’s now or never.

He had keys to their apartment, so he didn’t waste time by knocking on the door. He just unlocked it and stepped inside, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. He slipped off his shoes and lined them up with the others that were in the entryway and dropped his bag by Sara’s.

There were few lights on in the apartment. The Christmas tree was lit up, and Ryan saw Obi curled up beneath it, watching him. The light was on in the kitchen, and Ryan went there first. Standing at the microwave was Sara, in an old t-shirt that she usually slept in. She turned and looked at Ryan, and the genuine smile that graced her mouth brought tears to his eyes.

“Hey,” she said softly, as if she could see and feel his fragility. “We had Chinese and we got all your favorites, which you can eat tomorrow.” Just before the microwave beeped, Sara turned and opened it, taking out two egg rolls on a small plate.

Ryan beamed and stepped fully into the kitchen, reached for Sara and kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood in silence, Sara leaning into Ryan as he devoured the eggrolls, his hands shaking as he consumed something that wasn’t a granola bar or coffee. She had her arm wrapped around his waist and her head resting on his shoulder.

When he was finished, she took the plate from him and washed it and Ryan dried it before putting it back in its place. Then he finally looked at Sara again and blew out a heavy breath. “Shane?” he asked, not sure what he was asking, not sure what he was wanting to know.

“Downstairs, getting some sheets from the dryer.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder and looked up at him. “You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

“Bed?”

Ryan shrugged. “I just had coffee and I need to shower and my mind is just running running running—“ Ryan froze when Sara interrupted him with a kiss, sensing he was on his way to a rambling frenzy.

“Shower. Sleepy Time Tea. Bed. I already set out clothes for you in the bathroom.”

“Oh Sara,” he kissed her softly and she sighed against his mouth. “What did I do to deserve you?”

-----

Ryan turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain just as there was a knock on the unlocked door. “Yeah?” It opened slowly, and there was Shane with a towel folded over his arm.

“Hey,” he said softly, and Ryan smiled, stepped out of the tub and onto the mat.

“Hey.” He reached for the towel that Shane had, but paused when Shane closed the distance, unfolded it, and began gently drying him off with the still warm towel. He must’ve dried it with the sheets. Ryan’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but he found he couldn’t even say anything.

Reverently, Shane made sure that Ryan was dry, starting at his head and moving down, even kneeling at his feet to dry his legs. Once again, Ryan felt fragile, as if his very core was made of glass. He looked down at Shane, his vision swimming in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, needing to apologize, needing to say something, “I’m sorry I’ve been so impatient and stressed and I took it out on you.”

Knelt at his feet, Shane looked up at him, and Ryan’s knees trembled as Shane opened his mouth and paused, before saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t try and talk to you sooner.” Shane then pressed his forehead against his hip for a moment, hugging his legs. Ryan shook harder as he ran his fingers through Shane’s hair.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, Ryan trying to stay upright, and Shane holding him. A few tears finally escaped his eyes and he swallowed thickly; Shane just squeezed him tighter. Ryan was thankful Shane didn’t try and talk him through this, giving him a few moments of peace that he didn’t even know he desperately needed.

When Ryan finally stopped sniffling, Shane kissed his hip and pulled away. “Sara made some tea.” His thumbs rubbed soothingly as Ryan still trembled.

“Okay.”

“You think you can drink it?”

“I—I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Let’s try.”

Shane stood up, groaning as his knees popped, but he just smiled and shrugged at Ryan, as if to say, “What can ya do?” He hung the towel up and went to the still open door, pausing as Ryan slipped on pajama pants and a t-shirt. They linked fingers and Ryan followed him to the couch where Sara was nestled in the corner with her own cup, and another one was on the coffee table. Obi had moved from the tree to nestle in Sara’s lap.

Ryan sat down next to Sara, easing himself until he was pressed against her side. Sara cradled her cup in one hand and took Ryan’s in her other. Shane draped a blanket over his lap, and then handed him his tea.

Ryan sipped at the perfect blend of chamomile and vanilla as Shane fiddled with the remotes until a roaring fire appeared on the TV. Ryan grinned; Shane and Sara went absolutely wild for this kind of stuff. When the fire was on, Shane finally settled on the couch, sitting on Ryan’s other side and resting his arm behind him.

Halfway through his tea, as Obi went from Sara’s lap to his and was making biscuits on his stomach, Ryan’s eyes began to close and his head rocked forward.

“Let’s get you to bed, Little Guy,” Shane said softly, collecting his mug. Sara picked up Obi and Ryan stretched and stood up, folding the blanket and leaving it on the couch. Sara took his hand and led him to the bedroom, where it was nice and cool. Obi jumped from Sara’s arm and made his way to his little cat bed in the corner.

“Wanna be in the middle?”

“God, yes,” he said, around another yawn. He crawled onto the bed and Sara pulled the blanket up and over him before getting in on her side and snuggling up to him. The sheets and blanket still held some warmth from the dryer, and Ryan burrowed deeper into the bed, making himself comfortable. He could hear Shane moving around the apartment, turning off lights, the TV, and double checking the door.

Ryan shivered when Sara slipped her hand into his hair and began massaging his scalp. “Ooooh fuuuuuuck,” he swore, his entire body going limp as she giggled. He didn’t even notice Shane coming into the room until he felt warmth at his back and an arm on his waist.

His eyes slid shut and he felt Shane lean over him and kiss Sara, whispering, “Goodnight, babe.” Then he felt Shane’s lips on his own cheek. “Goodnight, Ry-babe.”

Ryan tried to say goodnight, and he must’ve said something because he could hear Sara giggle and he felt Shane’s huff of breath against his cheek, but he was already falling fast asleep, nestled between his two favorite people

#Shyanara #Shyanara Fic #Fics by Me #Ot3: Ruining Mystery

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littlelovelyspiderling · 5 years

Text

Doc Oc

This has been stuck in my brain so I had to write it...sorry for not answering a lot of requests, I promise to get to them soon!! (also if you want to be tagged on my writing stuff just let me know!)

Peter is captured by Doctor Octopus. While trying to get the young hero to talk, the evil scientists learns a few interesting facts about New York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

word count: 4,100

Peter had faced Doc Oc plenty of times before, but never four nights in a row. He was in the middle of a much-needed nap when the psycho eight-limbed scientist suddenly popped up on the news again, terrorizing the citizens of downtown Queens again, and demanding an audience with Spider-Man—again. This guy would not give him a break. Peter had bested him four times, but four times he had slipped from his and the police’s grasp. On top of early school days, mounds of homework, and a slew of new Avengers missions, it was really wearing him down. Peter groaned, threw on his spandex suit, and begrudgingly swung out to the scene, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes.

Doctor Octopus chucked a car down the street, narrowly missing a group of terrified bystanders. His metal arms spit sparks across the pavement with every massive step.

“Bring me Spider-Man!” he cried, laughing maniacally. Spider-Man flipped off a building and on to a streetlamp, stifling a yawn.

“Alright, alright, I’m here, freak show.” Doc Oc turned on him, grinning fiendishly. Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Seriously man, how many times are we gonna do this? Can’t you just go to jail already? Or take a day off? Start a new Netflix series maybe? I’ve heard Nailed It is stellar. Or, I don’t know, do something more constructive with your time besides dragging a very grumpy superhero out of bed every night to whoop your ass for the millionth time this week?”

“Do not fret, arachnid,” Octavius assured him, rising high on his mechanical limbs. “This ends tonight.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you said yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, so don’t mind me as I continue to fret most ardent—ah!”

A tentacle swung at him, whooshing beneath his feet as he leapt over it. Spider-Man whipped around the light post and dropped to the ground, landing low to the asphalt. Not even a second later, another arm came flying for his face. He rolled this time, the clawed hand barely nicking his shoulder as it whipped overhead. The sharp sting made him hiss. He sprung on to the side of a building and fired a glob of webbing mid-leap, but it missed the evil doctor by a mile. His movements felt sluggish, uncoordinated. Oh crap. The consequences of three nights without proper sleep were really starting to take their toll—and it was not cheap.

He shook his head, fighting to clear the fog from his brain, but it refused to dissipate. His muscles, too, felt tired and limp. Spider-Man ran along the side of the building and threw himself at Octavius, fist wound back, teeth gritted, only to get knocked sideways and thrown into a wall. His head hit first, sending a jolt rattling through his skull. He slumped to the ground, jarred and dazed, the fog creeping into the edges of his vision. A shadow loomed over him, smiling like the grim reaper coming to claim his soul.

“My, my, Spider-Man. One hit, and you’re already out for the count? I expected better from you.”

“You…planned this,” Peter realized, staggering to his feet. “Drawing me out late every night…never letting me rest.” His eyes felt heavy in his head. All he wanted was to sleep. The world was spinning like a carousel. “Y-you…son of a—”

A tentacle whacked him on the temple. Spider-Man was out before he hit the ground.

Light was what finally woke him. Harsh, white, aimed directly in his eyes. He blinked and squinted, groaning in protest, scrunching up his nose and furrowing his brow.

“Took you long enough,” a familiar voiced groused. “I was almost worried I had rendered you comatose.”

The light moved away. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, letting himself take in the room. Doc Oc was standing in front of him, looking irritated. Gradually, his brain switched back on, and the situation dawned on him. Oh no. Oh god. He…he had been kidnapped. By Doctor frickin' Octopus. That was red flag number one.

Next, Peter gazed around, noting the boring gray walls and strange equipment lining the tables. It seemed he was in some sort of lab, the dark and clammy and evil secret lair type. Red flag number two.

Red flag number three came when he tried to move. Because, well, he couldn’t. Peter looked down and discovered he was suspended upright on a large metal board in the shape of an ‘X’. His arms and legs were pinned to the board by thick metal clasps, thicker than the width of his wrists. The realization launched his heart into his throat. Spider-Man was captured and restrained. By his absolute worst nemesis. A man who spent more time plotting to murder him than most normal people spent working a day job. Terror welled like lava in his stomach. Peter couldn’t stop himself from immediately trying to wrench free. He knew he looked pathetic, weak, desperate, but he hated the feeling of being trapped. And he was dead if he didn't escape.

Yet try as he might, the bonds were too strong. Doctor Octopus chuckled.

“Valiant efforts, arachnid. But I’m afraid you’ve been caught. Not even the Hulk could break those restraints. No use wasting your energy on so hopeless a feat.”

Eventually, Peter stopped struggling, gasping in frustration. “L-let me go,” he growled. He cursed the tremble in his voice.

“I’ve spent this entire week orchestrating your capture, and then I’ve had to sit here waiting for you to wake up for the past twelve hours. I’ll pass, thanks.”

Spider-Man swallowed. I’ve been asleep for twelve hours? At least he’d gained back some of the rest he’d lost. His newfound alertness and the lack of pain in his skull seemed to confirm Doc’s claim. Still, what good did that do for him now? He lowered his head, fear throbbing through his system in sync with his rapid heartbeat. Peter Parker was totally and utterly screwed.

“What do you want? Why haven’t you just killed me?”

“Curious how all your childish quips dry up so quickly once you find yourself beat,” Octavius sneered, approaching him. Peter pressed as close to the metal ‘X’ as he could, unable to back away. “I like seeing this side of you. Helpless, trapped, too terrified to even crack your pathetic little jokes. Completely at my will and mercy. Why, I could slice open your gut and let your entrails spill across the floor, and all you could is watch. Isn’t this exciting?”

His breaths came out in choppy huffs. He pulled ferociously at his bonds. They didn’t budge.

Peter Parker was on his deathbed. That was certain. But Spider-Man couldn't let him win. Not yet.

“Very exciting,” Peter eventually agreed, slumping against the boards, forcing his voice to level out. “I’ve, uh—I’ve always wanted to know if my third grade science teacher has been right all these years—that I’m perfect both inside and out.”

The side of Doc Oc’s mouth twitched. “Hm. The comedian returns. Amusing.” He rose up on two of his metal limbs to stand eye-level with Spider-Man. “But trust me, arachnid: he won’t last long.”

Peter waited for him to stab him, strike him, skewer him like a shish kabob. Instead, the evil scientist turned away, meandering up to a table across the room. Peter breathed a slow sigh of relief.

“And to answer your earlier questions, I was paid a handsome sum of cash to capture you from a person I’d best not name. Quite a handsome sum, enough to fund my research for years. Half up front, and the next half once I hand you over to him.” He sifted through the tools on the table, examining each one with delicate and ominous interest. Peter watched, fear shivering across his skin. “But this person is not expecting your presence until tomorrow morning, which gives me plenty of time to ask you some of my burning questions, and to pull the truth out of you using a few…persuasion methods.”

Mr. Stark had warned him that this might happen some day. The more he tried to protect the world, the more powerful the enemies that would rise against him. Nearly all of the Avengers had been in this position at some point in their career. Now it was his turn to be strong. Spider-Man summoned all the courage he could muster up from within his little body.

“Sorry, but your bedside manners suck, Doc. I’m not telling you anything.”

Doctor Octopus lifted a drill-like contraption from the table, a sinister grin on his lips. “We shall see how stubborn your resolve is after I tear the muscle from your bones fiber by individual fi—”

The ring of a cell phone interrupted him, causing both Peter and Otto to jump. Octavius grumbled to himself, yanking the phone from his pocket, and frowned at the screen before answering.

“Hello?” he snapped, then immediately sobered up. “Oh, um, hello sir. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. Yes, yesterday evening. The plan worked marvelously.”

“Who’s that?” Peter asked. Doctor Octopus ignored him.

“Yes, of course. I’ll have him to you tomorrow. Where’s he now? Here, in my lab, preparing to face the interrogation of a lifetime.”

Doc Oc shot a smug glare in his direction, making Peter stiffen, then turned back towards the wall.

“Harm him? Well, obviously, sir. How else am I to get him to talk?”

A voice warbled back at him from the phone. Otto’s expression immediately fell, replaced by anger and confusion.

“What? But sir, you never said…ugh.” He dumped the drill on the table, pouting like a child. “Alright. Yes, I understand. Not a scratch. See you tomorrow.”

Octavius slipped the phone back into his coat, then slowly turned to face him. He flexed his hands at him sides and held his shoulders tight.

“It seems you’ve had a stroke of luck, arachnid. The man who wants you needs you fully intact. While you are in my custody, I can’t harm you.”

Peter lit up. “Wait, really? Ha! Suck it, Doc!” Then he frowned, tilting his head to the side. “Wait, why?”

“He didn’t say. But I wouldn’t celebrate so hastily, Spider-Man.” He lifted closer to him. His eyes were cold and dark. “There are plenty of means of torture that don’t require bodily harm.”

This was his chance to think his way out of here. He had to buy himself some time. Peter cleared his throat.

“Well, you better hurry and come up with one, Doc. You know, before the Avengers show up here and kick your ass.”

Otto rolled his eyes. “The Avengers will never find this place, you idiot.”

“Yes they will. They’ll track my phone.”

“I destroyed your phone as soon as I caught you.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “What? Doc! Not cool, man. I know it was a piece of crap, but it was my piece of crap!”

“Shut it, you blabbering moron!”

Peter grinned. Now he was back in the game.

“My suit has a tracker too, genius. They’re going to find me, and I promise they won’t go easy on you, even if you are a fat, ugly loser living in a garbage can.”

The doctor scoffed. “You’re lying. I disabled your suit. And if there was, my sensors would have picked it up.”

“Not this one. Tony Stark made it. It’s teeny-tiny and puts out a signal only he can track.”

Peter was lying, of course. Tony hadn’t made any tracker of the kind, at least not to his knowledge. If his suit was offline, which seemed to be the case, the tracker that was in it was offline too. Still, Doc Oc didn’t need to know that. Slowly, the color drained from the scientist’s face.

“Where is it?” he hissed. His metal arms flew at Spider-Man, searching for the hidden device. “Tell me where it is, now!”

The two mechanical claws started grabbing at Peter’s legs and midsection in their hunt for tracker, causing him to cringe. The sensation was not what he was expecting, and before he knew it, a massive wave of laughter was building behind his lips. He managed to stay quiet for a few more seconds, clenching his jaw, coiling his muscles, until one of the tentacles squeezed his side. Spider-Man flinched and yelped, making Octavius start.

“What was that? Is the tracker there?” His metal claw tweaked the same spot. Peter squeaked.

“Quihit it! It’s too small to find!”

“Then why are you so jumpy all of a sudden?”

Spider-Man didn’t answer, his face heating up beneath his mask. Doc Oc narrowed his eyes. To Peter’s dismay, the prongs returned to his ribs and began kneading at them experimentally. Despite his attempts to fight it, high-pitched giggles slipped through his defenses — and once the seal was broken, he couldn’t make them stop. Doc blinked in surprise as Peter jerked away from the contact.

“Ahaha hey! Stohop it, you psycho!” He giggled and squirmed until Octavius withdrew his arm, leaving him panting and flushed pink.

“Ah, I see now. You’re not worried about me finding any device. You’re just ticklish.”

The redness in his cheeks bled through the rest of his body. After having Tony Stark discover how unbearably sensitive he was, Peter thought the worst of the embarrassment was behind him. What could possibly be more humiliating than having your biggest idol find out that one poke to the tummy rendered Spider-Man a giggly, useless blob?

Your biggest nemesis, that’s what.

Peter suddenly felt hyperaware of how vulnerable he was. Doctor Octopus could sense his discomfort, which mirrored how he’d been acting earlier: twitchy, anxious, devoid of chatter or childish jokes. An evilly knowing glint entered the scientist’s eyes.

“You seem tense, Spider-Man. I told you I’m not allowed to harm you, so why are on edge again?”

The young hero swallowed, shifting against the ‘X’. “W-well, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m imprisoned by a maniac and strapped to a freezing cold board like a dead carcass about to get an autopsy. You try getting comfortable on this thing. Not exactly the spa day I’ve been meaning to treat myself with, Doc.”

“You were acting perfectly at ease until I brushed you here.” He pointed towards the spot with one of his mechanical claws, causing Spider-Man to flinch sharply. “Are you really that sensitive?”

Peter stared sideways with a nervous cough. “Uh…no…?”

“So you don’t mind if I do this?”

Before he could squeak out a protest, the metal prongs zipped to his side. It was comical how violently the contact made him jump, and how quickly laughter succeeded it.

“Ack! Oho c-crahap! Nohoho!” Good god, he was in trouble. Now that he was tickling him on purpose, it was so much worse. The robotic fingers were stiff and icy, kneading his ticklish torso with machine-like precision and cruelty. Different than how hands felt, but no less maddening—perhaps even more so. As they moved up his side, pinching each individual rib, Peter’s laughter climbed.

“Now that I think about it, this works out marvelously. Although the method is rather…unconventional, I can still get you to talk without having to physically harm you.” He dropped the claw back down to his belly, making Spider-Man wince and squeal. “Now tell me, arachnid: where does Stark keep his research on nano-technology, and how can I get ahold of it?”

Uh-oh. Peter had been hoping he’d ask him something he had no clue about, like where Hawkeye had been for the last two years or what size underwear the Hulk wore. Unfortunately, he knew the exact location of the hard drive Mr. Stark kept all of his nano-tech information on, because he’d been letting Peter work on it with him in the lab.

But he couldn’t let Doc Oc know that.

“W-whahat? I dohohon’t know! I have noho idea!” He angled his body as far from mechanical fingers as he could manage, giggling hysterically. “This ihis rihidiculous! Let me gohoho!”

Octavius smiled at the helpless hero. “Not until you tell me what I want to know.”

To Peter’s horror, a second metal hand pounced on his defenseless torso, squeezing his other side and tickling his tummy. Now there was absolutely no escaping the tickle torture, and it was twice as unbearable. Poor Spider-Man shrieked and laughed, thrashing and jerking and throwing his head back.

“Nohohohaha! Ahahahahasshole!” He hated how much Doc’s evil plan was working. He was already desperate to make the cruel tickling stop. The metal prongs continued to knead and claw at the teen’s sensitive midsection, increasing their speed and intensity with every passing second. Peter’s sides ached as he giggled wildly, endlessly.

“Cursing?” Octavius teased. “That’s awfully out-of-character for our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.” He moved both arms to his ribs, drilling them with tickles and sending the superhero into a twitchy frenzy. He had to admit, it was odd to see the renowned wall-crawler reduced to such a pathetically helpless position. It was even odder to see how effective tickle torture was on someone with such a high pain tolerance. In all of their brawls and battles, he had never considered utilizing so frivolous a tactic. There was something strangely…endearing about it. Spider-Man could take four nights of beat-downs, but hardly two minutes of tickling? His laughter was so high-pitched and childlike; it made the doctor begin to wonder how old he actually was.

Meanwhile, Peter was hanging on by fraying threads. He bucked and squirmed and shook his head, giggles pouring from his lips. “Dohoc plehehehehehease!” he cried. He wasn’t sure if begging for mercy would increase or dampen Doc Oc’s thirst for brutality, but at this point, it was his only option. “I d-dohon’t know ahanythihing! Mihister Stahahark hasn’t shohohown me! I dohohon’t—I cahan’t—oho gahahaEEEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAA!”

Mid-sentence, Doc’s sinister claws crept up to his armpits and started scribbling experimentally against the hollows. Spider-Man all but lost it, wrenching with every ounce of his strength and peeling into loud, hiccup-filled bouts of uncontrollable laughter. Octavius couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Oh dear, have I found your weak spot?” he asked. The deadly prongs burrowed deeper into his underarms, eliciting yelps and squeaks from the poor hero. “Maybe I’ll just hang around here until you start talking.”

Peter was certain he would die if the tickling didn’t stop. Maybe he could survive a few more minutes of it in other places — belly, sides, ribs — but his armpits? Nope. They were too damn sensitive for him to bear. Where the hell were the Avengers? A part of him hoped they didn’t come, because this would be very embarrassing to have to explain. The rest of him was too worn down to care.

He had to tell him. He had to. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t!

“STAHAPSTAHAHAPSTAHAHAHAP!” he pleaded through tears. “I SWEHEHEHEAR! I DOHOHON’T KNOHOHOHOW! AHAHAHAHAHADOHOHOCSHIHIHIHIHITPLEHEHEHEHEASE!” His words were swallowed by painful hiccups that racked his entire frame. At this point, he could hardly even make a sound, he was laughing so hard. Octavius shook his head amusedly.

“I’m not an idiot, arachnid,” he said. The tentacles suddenly withdrew from his underarms, leaving Peter dazed and reeling with incredible relief. “I know you know where they are.”

Weak giggles spilled continuously from his mouth as he fought to catch his breath. “Ehehe…ahehehe…oho my god.” He hung limply from the metal ‘X’. “Noho, I…no I dohon’t…”

“You do,” Doc insisted. “It’s funny how effective this is on you. It’s almost cute.”

Peter wanted to punch his smug face in so bad right now. If he could just get out of these stupid restraints…

Before he had a chance to try, one of Octavius’ metal arms reached up and grabbed hold of his mask.

“I nearly forgot; I can see who you are now. Why wasn’t that the first thing I did? Silly me.”

Panic flooded Peter’s system. “No—Doc—wait—!”

It was no use. In an instant, Octavius ripped the mask from his head. Just like that, his cover was blown. Slowly, he met Doc’s gaze, eyes wide and afraid.

After soaking in the true face of his archenemy, Doc felt a sick twist in his stomach. “You’re…a child,” he finally said. The Spider-Man mask fell from his claw.

Peter’s face was still red from laughing; his eyes still shone with tears. He was at a loss for words.

“You’re telling me I’ve been fighting a child all this time? Spider-Man is just some kid? I was planning to break every bone in your body, for crap’s sake. I was going to sell you to be experimented on.”

Peter swallowed and stared at the floor. “I’m not…a child…”

“How old are you?” he asked. When Spider-Man didn’t answer, his metal hands jumped back to his torso. Peter shrieked.

“AHAHAHEHAHAHAHA!” His laughter was even more adorable when his face was visible, and you could see the giant smile that overtook his features. “NOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEHACAHAHAHAHAN’T!”

“If you tell me, I’ll release you,” Doc said. Peter didn't care that he was probably lying. He immediately crumbled.

“FIHIHEFIFTEHEHEHEEN! I’M FIHIHIFTEHEHEHEHEEHEEN!” He realized too late he could’ve just lied. But Doctor Octopus had seen his face; by now he could probably look him up and easily find the answer.

Slowly, the mechanical tentacles relinquished their tickle attack. Peter melted with relief, giggling breathlessly.

“You’re fifteen?” Doc Oc gawked. Spider-Man didn’t understand why it was so shocking. An eight-year-old was a child, not him! Huffing in frustration, Octavius slammed one of his arms against the panel of buttons in front of him.

With a click, the clasps on his wrists and ankles suddenly opened. Peter dropped to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.

“A teenager has no business being involved with superheroes or criminals or anything like this. Even I know that. Go home, and never interfere with my operations again.”

Peter fought to shake the remaining laughter from his voice. “Y-you, heh, can’t really expect me to listen to you, can you Doc? I’m not gonna stop fighting you just cuz you suddenly decided to develop some weird, skewed morality.”

Octavius hinted a smile. “Are you sure about that, Spidey?” he asked, feigning innocence. Before Peter could react in time, four metal limbs lunged at him, pinning him to the ground and tickling his tummy and underarms with merciless cruelty. Spider-Man exploded into hysterical laughter, kicking and squirming but unable to escape the evil scientist’s hold. No matter how much he tickled him, the young hero’s tolerance for it never grew.

“Because if you don’t listen, then perhaps I’ll just have to do this every time you show up to try and stop me. Not a very heroic look on you, is it?”

Not even Spider-Man’s greatest nemesis was immune to the web-slinger’s endearing aura. Like everyone else that knew him, Doc couldn’t get over how adorable the kid was when he was reduced to a puddle of helpless laughter.

As Spider-Man giggled and squealed and struggled vainly to break free, a crash sounded from the room next door. Octavius fled the evil lair as quick as a flash; Peter didn’t even see which way he went. He laid flat on the floor, trying to catch his breath, hugging his aching sides.

The back door burst from its hinges and careened across the floor. Peter jolted upright as Iron Man, Black Widow, War Machine, and Cap came rushing into the room.

“Peter?” Tony cried, the helmet dissolving off his face. He landed beside him and laid a hand on his back. “Kid, are you alright?”

“Is he hurt?” Cap asked, jogging up to join the group. Tony gave Peter’s shoulders a shake.

“Kid, answer me. Are you okay?”

He was having trouble processing everything that had just transpired. When he opened his mouth, his ears reddened.

“I, uh, yeah. I’m fine.” He blinked, rubbing unconsciously at his giggle-filled belly. “How’d you find me? Doc disabled my suit.”

“You think I left your suit with just one tracker? After that stunt you pulled with the ferry?” He helped him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his back.

“Where is it?” Peter asked.

“Lucky for you, it’s too small to find.” Tony poked him playfully in the tummy, as he’d started doing now that he knew how well it worked in cheering the kid up. Peter yelped with laughter and buried himself into Stark’s side.

“Plehease please plehehease don’t,” he wheezed listlessly. Once the giggling started up again, he couldn’t make it stop. “I cahan’t—you don’t—eheheh.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tony chuckled. Peter was giggling too much to reply.

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triplefrontierstuff-blog · 5 years

Text

When were you gonna tell me? - Will “Ironhead” Miller x OC - Part I

A/N: Okay, I got a little too excited with this, so don’t mind me for writing this bible. Really hope you all enjoy, though xx

Genre: Angst

Word count: 4063

Writer: Lari

A soft breeze blew on her face as Diana woke up, only to discover that it was actually Will's warm breath on her face.

"Good morning," he said, softly and drawn, the corner of his lips slightly arched in a trace of one of his beautiful smiles, taking small strands of hair gently out of her face. Diana gave him a sleepy smile, rolling over to caress his face. Will's blue eyes brought her a feeling that almost never overwhelmed her when she received it: the usual comfort, but also a sense of anxiety and worry in the pit of her stomach.

Something was wrong, and she barely remembered what as he came over and kissed her lips gently.

“Sleep well”, Will asked, and as she thought of an answer, she realized he was ready to leave.

"Perfectly," she lied. "And you?"

"Better than I deserve," he answered, giving her another kiss on the forehead. Will knew that Diana had been sleeping badly, not only for the way she'd been up all night in bed, but how restless she seemed in the first few minutes of the day. He’d been noticing her girlfriend's stress for a few days, but he also knew that post-graduation was being hard on her, especially since it was their first year living together and being away from the family was affecting her more than she could admit. Will tries not to bring up this topic, but he knows it’s being more complicated than she expected. He doesn’t judge her. Not everyone is trained to adapt to any kind of situation and environment as he and his brother were.

"Are you going early again?" Diana asked, yawning and watching Will's eyes color shift slightly as the light streamed through the curtains. The day was grey and cloudy, making his usually blue eyes get a little darker. He nodded.

"We need to train the new staff as soon as possible, some of them are still having a hard time adapting," he replied. Diana was beautiful in the morning and he resisted the urge to kiss her again. She just nodded, caressing his beard and watching him in a long and strange way. She seemed to ramble on something. Still, he kept it to himself, as he usually does. "Anyway, I have to, darling." he said, giving her a warmer kiss before getting up, picking up his jacket and leaving.

Diana didn’t wait another second. Quickly, she got up, looking for the bloody little boxes she’d left in the bag last night; after picking them up, she ran to the bathroom.

She lowered the toilet lid, sat down, and sighed heavily. Diana had bought two pregnancy tests - just to be sure. She knew her own body enough to fear the worst, but she still hoped it was all in her head. It happened before.

In a hurry, she opened the first box, peed in the pot and all that known process and waited.

Those five damn minutes seemed to last for hours. Her eyes glinted at the shadow of a little stick forming itself, and Diana, hopeful, kept praying that that was the only one.

Her prayers were almost heard, until she saw the second one.

Nervously, feeling the adrenaline take hold of her veins, she took the other test and did the same procedure.

But the second little stick also appeared.

She knew, deep down she knew.

She stared at those two positive pregnancy tests for a few minutes, the most agonizing in her life. She knew that Will would take it as a welcome surprise; Incredibly, he appreciated the idea of having a child. He didn’t exactly feel ready or good enough - he feared what he would be like around the kid on one of his bad days -, but deep down he was found of the idea.

But Diana wanted to wait.

Her life was never easy, she was 34 years old and still in his first degree, when most of her friends were practically PhDs. She’s been dreaming on getting her expertise in applied biochemistry and even pursuing a master's degree in forensics. In her plans, she’d never even thought for a second about having a child - in fact, she fell in love with Will so unexpectedly that even that was out of the plans. Now, staring at those two little sticks in each of the tests, she wondered where her dream would be in the middle of this.

How could she let that happen? Would it be fair to allow something that never had place in her plans to just rob them from her?

No, she couldn’t let that happen.

Diana suddenly heard the bedroom door opening and, startled, she realizes that she hasn’t closed the bathroom door. Quickly, she tossed the two tests into the trash, covering them with the toilet paper she kneaded hastily, squeezing the discharge right away and leaving the bathroom still in her T-shirt and panties.

Will was beside the bed, looking for something under the pillow and the sheets.

“Something wrong”, Diana asked, reaching out to him and hugging his wide back.

"I left the God damn cellphone again" he said, still dismayed. She smiled, knowing he loses that cell phone every minute of the day simply because he wasn’t into technology enough to care carrying the thing with him everytime.

“Is that the one”, she said, pointing to the object, which rested on the nightstand beside the bed. Will smiled, putting it in his pocket and turning around.

"What would I do without you?" he asks, holding her face in both hands, making circular movements with his thumbs, as he used to. Diana inclined her head to brush her face against his touch; filled with worries, feeling a gentle touch of Will's large, warm hands made her forget for a second all the mess that her life was becoming.

"Not much," she said, leaning down to feel his soft lips touch hers tenderly.

"I promise I'll try to get home earlier."

"I promise I'll really try to make us dinner before I give up and leave it to you." they both laughed, and, giving her one last warm kiss, Will said goodbye again.

As the slight feeling of anesthesia that was Will's touch and scent dissipated and reality plagued her again, Diana sat up in bed and took a deep breath, trying to put her thoughts in order.

That would be a long day.

***

The university was busy, as usual, and Diana didn’t quite know what she was doing in there. She barely managed to think of what to wear to get there, she doubted she’d really focus on anything. But she couldn’t miss that class - besides being an important subject for the exams, it was one of the most important ones for her thesis, where most of her hours of research in the library were concentrated.

She just picked up her things in the closet and headed for the classroom - a large auditorium where the teacher was setting up the projector for class.

Diana tried very hard to concentrate, or think of anything but the result of the two tests that morning - she tried to think about the lab where she worked, how the weather would be like. Nothing seemed to catch her attention or distract her enough, so she left the auditorium, literally threw her things in the closet, and picked up the cell phone, disking a familiar number.

“Hello”, said the slightly euphoric voice of Benny.

“Hi, Ben, it's Diana.”

"Your timing is always perfect," he said ironically. "I'm in the middle of something."

“Is it gonna take too long?”, she really needed to talk to him. Benny could feel the subtle hint of urgency in that question, so he looked at Pope, who was talking to some bad looking guys who didn’t want to pay them, and sighed heavily.

“Did something happen?”

"Kind of", her voice sounded more broken than she planned, and she knew at once that she wouldn’t be as strong as she imagined.

"I can see you in an hour, ok?"

She was about to hang up when he called her.

“Hey, Diana?”

“What?”

“Was it Will?”, the way he asked that question was so unexpected and genuinely worried that Diana felt her eyes burn.

"Kind of", she replied, evasive again, choosing to tell everything at the right time.

"You know I’ll kill him, right?", she smiled slightly.

“I know.”

“Then go to Deli’s and order my beer”, he said and hung up, leaving her surprised that he could always soothe the anguish she felt with only half a dozen unspoken words. She also knew that the beer was a well-known Ben Miller tactic of making her have enough of it to be completely honest - but that wouldn’t be needed.

The day seemed to improve as she approached the cozy diner, which was the stage of Diana and Will’s first meeting, but which had been long frequented by her and Benny. No matter how much time passed, Diana couldn’t understand how she and Ben Miller had become friends, considering that, if they didn’t meet in that bar, they would never see each other again because of their diverse careers. She, in the first graduation of her life, first semester, a junior college who still lived with her parents; Benny, a war veteran who drinks and fights better than anyone she know; both the same age, however.

When she got in, Diana went to the place they always choose - at the window, with padded seats and a rectangular table - grateful for the empty spots. Of course it was, it wasn’t even close to lunch yet, so the place hadn’t got the chance to be crowded by noisy people.

Diana ordered a cappuccino, opting for something less aggressive than a large cup of beer before noon, and looked around deliberately. She remembered how Benny, on a hot, humid night, had taken his brother and friends - Pope, Catfish and Redfly, as she came to know - by surprise, claiming it was his birthday and his brother - who had returned from the Middle East - also needed a nice night to get away. She remembered William Miller - who later discovered were also called Ironhead - sitting next to her, as Ben was getting drunk in his own seat. He smiled lightly, knowing that in a short time he would have to break his brother's partu and take him home before an alcoholic coma.

Will was not the shy type, Diana soon realized this - he just wasn’t willing to take that night as his brother would. Still, they talked for a while, in the middle of the bustle that Benny caused to want an arm-wrestling battle with everyone who passed their table. Will was educated and reserved, always a good listener while Diana explained that she was in her second semester in college and hardly expected to finish the course. Will enchanted her without her own noticing in how he was paying so much attention to her, looking right into her eyes and smiling discreetly as she began to shuffle a few words over the beer.

Everything came in flashes as she sipped her drink, until her thoughts were interrupted by the front door bell.

After entering the diner, Benny immediately looked to the right, finding Diana sitting in their usual place.

"A large beer, please", he ordered to Wendy, the attendant who was always flirting with him, even though she knew he was in a relashionship.

He didn’t have to come too close to realize that Diana's greeting smile was tainted with an insistent worry, something he easily learned to notice. Her eyes were tired, he could see she haven’t slep well, and her hands wouldn’t stop moving - either by tapping her little pinkie in the cup, or by curling a lock of her long, dark hair, or by picking up a napkin and wiping her fingers unnecessarily; something she always does when she’s anxious.

“Been waiting too long?”, he asked, sitting across from her, leaving his jacket by his side; the day was really heating up.

"Not much," Diana replied, not quite sure, for she had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn’t really notice if it had been that long. “Large beer before lunch?"

"It’s been a long day," he said, watching Diana smile.

"What were you guys doing?", she questioned, because whenever Benny and Pope were together for some work, things didn’t always go well enough, to say the least.

"Incredibly boring," he answered, getting his drink from Wendy, who smiled falsely shy and touched his hand on purpose before leaving. "But the money you get in cargo escorts is incredibly good, so at least it was worth it”. He pulled the glass to his lips and gave a few good sips, sighing heavily at the end. She thought it was too early to drink beer so avidly, but she didn’t even bother to censor him; Benny has his own conceptions of proper schedules. "There was a smart guy who wanted to screw us up, but he clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. If you think I'm convincing, you don’t know what Pope can do.”

Diana simply drifted through the whole plot. Unbelievably, it was calming her a little. All the effort to find something to be distracted with - even forcing herself to go to class -, for Ben to do it better than anything. She loved it in him, just as she loved the way Will was more self-contained. Sge didn’t know why she had never been attracted to Benny, but had fallen in love so deeply with his brother.

Benny was still talking when, as he realized the unnatural, restrained silence of his sister-in-law, his tone decreased until a quick silence happend before he asked:

“Okay, can you tell me what happened now?”, Diana was feeling perfectly restrained so far, but as she looked at Benny, she was afraid she couldn’t hold the ends.

She looked at him with almost all the forces she had.

"I'm pregnant," she said, perhaps a little too quickly; in fact almost scrambling to say the words, like a fifteen-year-old girl telling the news to her controlling and authoritative father - not to a friend and brother-in-law who most represented a brother to her.

Benny was speechless for a moment, just assimilating everything.

“From Will?!

"Hell, of course it's Will's, who else would it be, dumbass?", she wasn’t necessarily offended, but she found the insinuation ridiculous.

"I'm not judging, I'd still be with you if it wasn’t, I just realized how worried you are two miles away from you and suddenly it made sense when you told."

Diana said nothing, only sighed, still holding her cup with the almost cold drink.

"But why are you so worried, Forest?", Benny questioned, this time with the voice lower and leaning forward on the table, waiting for the moment she looked at him. Diana thought it was cool to call each other by their last name sometimes, except she find hers to be too simple.

"I don’t know if I want it now - and it's not just the fear of not being a good mother, I just ... I don’t want to.”

"You don’t want it to disturb your career, right?", as unbelievable as it sounds, Diana would never be offended by this kind of question, because as much as it seemed that he was judging her, she knew he was only saying it because he knew her very well, his voice subtle and intimate. Benny could be quite spontaneous and even a little euphoric at times, but he was incredibly understanding and affable with those he loved.

Diana nodded, unsure what to say, making Benny remember a seven-year-old girl being caught red-handed using her mother's jewelry and being forced to confess everything. Whenever she did that, she reminded him of this. He smiled, got up and sat down beside her.

"Listen, I don’t know what you really want to do – actually, I think the idea is desperate, but if I can suggest something, I'd say you should talk to Will, see how you can handle it."

"He’ll wanna try, Benny, he will and will also propose to take care of the child all the time if I want to."

"Does he want to have a baby this bad?", Benny didn’t imagine his brother to be that way.

"It's not like it's a dream for him, but I know that if it happens, as it is happening now, he won’t appreciate the idea of ruling out the possibility. He lives with too many deaths in his own mind to not want to preserve a possible one.”

Benny nodded, just waiting for her to finish.

"He's going to say that he's gonna do all that’s needed for the baby by himself, if I want to; I don’t want to get rid of this child, but we know it won’t be like this, Benny. I won’t be able to just leave my boyfriend with our son and focus on my career like that, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself or not to be worried all the time. I don’t know what to do, Benny, that's the truth.”

Benny pulled her by the shoulders in a hug and felt the top of her head touch his chin.

"I took 28 years of my life to be able to do what I wanted," she continued, her voice muffled. "I know it's selfish, but a child has never been in my plans and it's very unfair that now that I can be what I want to be, it might be taken away from me so abruptly.”

Benny stepped back a little so he could look into her eyes and said, firmly this time:

"Diana, you're perfectly capable of getting what you want, whenever you want. I'm not saying that necessarily because I want you to have this baby - I'm really going to support you in any decision you make -, I'm just saying that you shouldn’t martyr yourself and think that it's selfish to prioritize something you've always dreamed of, do you understand?”, she nodded, feeling her eyes burn, but not letting any tear fall. "Now, you're sure you don’t need a drink?", he asked, pulling the glass to himself and taking it in halfway. Diana smiled briefly, feeling some weight drop from her shoulders.

"I don’t think so", she said, watching as he shrugged and finished at an impressive record time. "You know, just because you ordered a large beer necessarily means you're competing with someone to see who finishes it faster. You can just take your time.”

"Strength of habit", he said, blinking and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The day was virtually lost after Deli's. Diana couldn’t concentrate on her assignments, and even a co-worker in the lab realized that, volunteering to help her and finish cleaning the glassworks at the end of the day - which Diana promised herself se would be more grateful for later.

The subway to her house didn’t take long, so in about twenty to twenty-five minutes she arrived home.

The house was dark and empty, as usual, considering she always arrived before Will. She couldn’t help but smile slightly as she remembered that his promise to come earlier had been predictably broken. Not that Will was some kind of workhoolic, he just wasn’t used to leaving earlier, so he only remembered that promise when he was almost home.

Anyway, Diana didn’t think it was bad at all, she wanted some time with herself to take a long bath in the tub and try to relax. Then, shortly after throwing her purse on the bed and taking off all her clothes, she prepared her bath unhurriedly, went slowly into the hot water and closed her eyes.

In fact, the feeling of coming from an emotionally exhausting day and sinking into the hot water was perfect - as if, for just that moment, it sank all the problems together.

Diana didn’t notice when Will parked the car in the garage, throwing the key on the side table by the door and snapping his neck. However, she realized when he entered the room, even though he was silent as a cat - and it took some time and some scares to learn for her to learn- and took off his shoes; then, she just waited for the door to be opened in a crack a few minutes later, with William Miller prostrate in his underwear.

"Can I steal your bath?", he asked, a ghost of a smile haunting his lips. He always did this, even though they had dated for some time and it was perfectly understandable that he would just walk into the bathroom and slip into the bathtub with her. Diana knew how much Will preserved privacy and the intimate moment of each one with itself, and she could only think how perfect that damn man was.

It was a pity that at the moment this thought didn’t bring her as much happiness as usual.

"Definitely," she replied, sitting up better to accommodate his big legs. They always talked about buying a bigger bathtub, but deep down they both knew it was perfectly adequate for the two of them, he was just roomy as a bear.

Will opened the rest of the door and entered, silent, in a way that he became accustomed to being unaware of, as Diana watched his concise way of doing things - the way he shut the door, as he pulled his hair back with one hand, smiling, handsome, watching her wait for him to take off his underwear and slowly walk into the tub, trying not to step on her feet. Right after that Will was sitting, legs spread and flexed, almost out of the tub, and it was not long before he drew her into his chest, a cuddle that was one of her favorite ones.

Diana soon got up and turned her back to him, just to sit down again and crawl backward until she touched Will's firm, soft chest. Before she even settled down, she felt his long arms wrap around her in a place where Diana could stay forever, without worrying about anything else.

All this – at the same time that left her with the feeling of a warm and happy heart -, made her feel the icy fingers of guilt and anguish rise into her gut.

Will could feel her brief tension, her breath not fully relaxed. Diana was good at disguising, so it took him some time to notice these subtleties in her ever-so-spontaneous behavior. Her hair was partially wet, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Will gently pushed away the long dark strands that rested on her shoulder - leaving all her hair on one side -, and buried his nose in her soft neck, smelling the bath salts, but looking for her own smell, inherent to her skin. Diana couldn’t deny that every time he did that - no matter how this was a common habit of his in tub-baths -, her legs always loses their way home.

He felt her shiver a little bit and smiled, his lips and nose still glued to her skin.

“How was your day?”, he asked, his voice muffled as he made an involuntary caress with his fingertips on her hips, sipping her scent that he had to find in the midst of so many bath salts.

"Basically the same," Diana replied, her whole body shivering and feeling the effect that this man had on her. Eyes closed and head tilted, she continued. "The class was boring, so I left early and meet Benny.”

"Wasn’t he at some work with Pope?", Will questioned, never taking his face from her neck.

“Yeah, I didn’t even know that. I called him and asked if we could see each other, we didn’t speak for a long time, and he said he was busy, but he managed to go." she answered, knowing that what she was telling him wasn’t the whole truth. With Will, she couldn’t disguise anything so well, and the more serious she was, the less success she had. Not that she lied with frequency, but she knew she couldn’t tell a complete lie. She needed to mask it with some of the truth.

Will nodded, and, still sucking her scent, he trailed his hands between her thighs - one of his favorite parts on Diana's body -, simply caressing and feeling the softness of that fleshy region. Diana knew that he wasn’t necessarily trying to do something - Will liked to feel her skin and, whenever he could, he rested his hand unknowingly and began to drag his thumb from side to side; or, in flashy parts, to give light grips. She didn’t know if he was aware of what he was stirring inside her, but she made no mention of making him stop.

Will began to kiss her neck, dragging the warm kisses closer to her shoulders, his lips soft and tender, promising things she knew they would fulfill if she wanted to. His fingers began to sink deeper into the flesh of her thighs, his hands now rising up at her hip - another part he adored -, pressing her lightly against his chest. Diana was just letting go, feeling his big hands, his fleshy lips kissing her shoulder, his beard brushing her skin calmly, calculated, and it was not long before she felt his usual stiffness at the end of her back.

Suddenly, she seemed to be aware of everything, and it seemed she was doing something he shouldn’t do - as if she didn’t deserve it. The tension spread, but Diana soon restrained it, for she knew that Will would ask her if she got desperate; then she just centered her head so that he could no longer continue to kiss her, and took a deep breath, sitting more erect in the tube.

"I'm sorry, I...", Will stopped the movement with his hands and interrupted her.

"No need to apologize if you just don’t want anything, you know that.", he said, low in her ear, and placed another warm kiss on her shoulder, reposing his hands on her hips again. "Besides, that’s not my point here.”

Diana sighed, pulling his hands in front of her in a warm embrace she knew she was far from deserving, but she needed to make the most of it before being hit by reality again.

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