#bathroom aids available

[fairuzfan]

But the other images I had was like a mass refugee camp. So basically at that point in time, two months ago, about 20,000 people had sought refuge both in the hospital and outside the hospital. And these weren’t tents. They’re still not tents. They’re makeshift shelters with bed sheets or plastic bag sheets. The ones outside sleep on the floor. They’re lucky [if] they get a carpet or a mat. There was one bathroom at the time for about 200 people that they have to share. And inside, the hallways of the hospital were also made into shelters. There was hardly any room to walk, and there’s children running around everywhere. It’s important to remember all these people were not homeless. They all had homes that were destroyed. They’re all displaced people that took shelter in the hospital.

So that’s the kind of mass chaos that I encountered initially, and then I was told that every time there’s a bomb, give it about 15 minutes and the mass casualties come. That was the other thing that at the time shocked me: What we’d been seeing livestreamed on Instagram, on social media or whatever, I actually saw myself and it was worse than I can imagine. I saw scenes that were horrific that I’d never witnessed before and I never want to see again. You have a mother walking in holding her 8, 9-year-old, skinny — because they’re all starving — boy who’s dead, he’s cold and dead and [the mother is] screaming, asking for someone to check his pulse and everybody’s busy in the mass chaos. So that was kind of my initial welcoming scene when I entered Khan Younis the first time.

{...}

What I saw — I’m an eye surgeon, an eye plastic surgeon, and so I saw the classic, what I penned “the Gaza shrapnel face,” because in an explosive scenario, you don’t know what’s coming. When there’s an explosion, you don’t go like this [cover your face], you kind of actually, in fact, open your eyes. And so shrapnel’s everywhere. It’s a well-known fact that the Israeli forces are experimenting [with] weapons in Gaza to boost their weapon manufacturing industry. Because if a weapon is battle-tested, it’s more valuable, isn’t it? It’s got a higher value. So basically they’re using these weapons, these missiles that purposely, intently create these large shrapnel fragments that go everywhere. And they cause amputations that are unusual.

Most amputations occur at the weak points, the elbow or the knee, and so they’re better tolerated. But these [shrapnel fragments] are causing mid-thigh, mid-arm amputations that are more difficult, more challenging, and also the rehabilitation afterward is also more challenging. Also these shrapnels [are] unlike a bullet wound. A bullet wound goes in and out; there’s an entry and exit point. Shrapnel stays there. So you gotta take it out. So the injuries I saw were — I mean, I saw people with their eyes blown apart. And when I was there, and this is my experience, I treated all children when I was there the first time. It was kids that [were aged] 2, 6, 9, 10, 13, 15, and 16, and 17 were the ones that I treated. And their eyes unfortunately had to be removed. They had shrapnel in their eye sockets that I had to remove and, of course, remove the eye. There’s many patients, many children who had shrapnel in both their eyes. And you can only do so much because right now, because of the aid blockade and because of the destruction of most of Gaza, there’s no equipment available to take shrapnel that’s in the eye out. And so we just leave them alone and they eventually go blind.

{...}

I was on the ground, I toured the refugee camps, I went around Rafah, I saw, and if there’s an Israeli invasion, I can’t emphasize enough how catastrophic it’s going to be. It’ll be mass killing, mass destruction, because all these figures come in, 50 dead, 100 wounded. But what people don’t realize is, being wounded is a death sentence. Being wounded in this environment with no health care system, completely collapsed, is a death sentence. And the wounded often will lose everybody, like all family members, so they have no supports, especially children, have nobody left to take care of them, not even aunts and uncles. It will be catastrophic. I don’t know what to say to the world to stop an impending invasion. You’ve got to rein this prime minister of Israel in. You got to do something to stop this stupid invasion that he still wants to do, because it’ll be catastrophic.

{...}

I had one young man, about 25 years old, he lost one eye that I took out myself. He spent about five, six, or seven years, basically spent thousands and thousands of dollars in IVF treatment because he got married young and they wanted to have a child and they couldn’t have one. So he spent years on IVF treatment and finally had a baby that was 3 months old. And there was a missile attack by Israel at his home. He lost his entire family, including his baby and his wife and his parents and family. He’s by himself, single guy. I took his one eye out, and he has nobody in this world. He just kind of walks around the tent structures, just kind of walking around with no home and trying to sleep wherever he can.

#palestine #gaza

[bkgml]

hii! i have a hurt/comfort idea with pro hero bakugo where basically his pro hero wife (or gf) comes home looking like shit after getting called to save civilians from a flood caused by a villian (but her quirk doesn't have to do with water) since the other aquatic heroes weren't available n basically shes upset with herself since she wasnt able to save everyone :( anddd bkg comforts her and cleans up her wounds

ive had this idea for a long time and i thought youd execute it perfectly 💙💙

“i made dinner! you better like it because i lowered the spice level for you!” katsuki yells from his spot in the kitchen.

you shut the door lightly. there’s a hollow expression on your face, dried tear streaks covering your skin.

you can’t find the strength to reply to him.

“hey, did you go deaf on patrol??” he calls, voice getting closer as he rounds the corner.

he stills at your sullen face, his fingers twitching.

“baby? what’s wrong, what happened?” he says in a whisper, trailing over to you.

your empty gaze stays glued to the wooden floors of your shared home, unable to look at him.

he immediately goes into protection mode.

“can i touch you?” he whispers softly.

you offer a small nod, letting him know you won’t flinch or get uncomfortable.

he brushes his hand across your cheek before moving down to grab you from under the armpits.

he pulls you to him and you gently wrap your limbs around him, a small sniffle escaping you.

“shhh i know.” katsuki comforts you, starting to walk to the couch with you still tight in his hold.

he sits you on the couch and gets on his knees in front of you, grabbing your foot to unlace your boots.

when he’s done he stands and places your boots in the front hall before returning in front of you.

he grabs your hands while still just kneeling there for you.

“ready to talk?” he asks slowly.

your brows furrow and you shake your head.

“okay, let’s go shower.” he says before lifting you again. he’s never pushed you to talk in situations like these and you’ll have to remember to thank him for that later.

the walk to the bathroom is silent. he strokes your soaked hair and rubs your back over your equally drenched hero suit.

he wants to ask what happened, wants to tell you he’ll be able to help you once he knows what it is.

he sits you down on the toilet seat before grabbing the first aid kit and resumes his spot in front of you.

“you need to take your suit off baby.” he says gently.

you look down at your suit covered in blood and soaked with water and tears.

sniffling, you grab the zipper on the front of your suit. you tug on it gently and it won’t budge. tug on it a little harder, frustrated tears burning in your eyes. you rip the zipper as hard as you can and start to tug on the fabric of your suit. you feel constricted and claustrophobic and hurried sobs rip from your throat.

“hey. hey. stop. i’ve got you. katsuki’s here.” he mumbles grabbing your wrists and peeling your hands off your body.

“i can’t- it won’t come off! i can’t do this.” you whimper, squirming in his hold.

he shushes you gently, caressing your face to wipe the tears.

“i got it, okay?” he assures you, reaching for the zipper and pulling the trapped fabric that stopped the mechanism from working before freeing you from the suit.

you continue to sob as he takes your suit off and once you’re free there’s a myriad of kisses pressed into the skin of your face and hands.

he waits with you. doesn’t rush you by immediately cleaning your wounds, he just waits. letting you cry while he rubs your thighs to keep you warm and kisses your face.

once the tears slow he presses a last kiss to your forehead before pulling back to his spot on the floor.

“can i clean you up now?” he asks softly.

you sniffle, wiping your hands down your face and nodding.

“okay.” he says sweetly, opening the first aid kit while assessing your wounds.

the alcohol he uses to disinfect your cuts stings, but every wince you make disgusts you compared to what the victims of the flood endured.

he finishes disinfecting your wounds and makes a note to himself that there were only small cuts and bruises, they should all heal quickly.

“okay, we gotta shower now baby.” he says, grabbing your face in both hands to make you look at him.

“kay.” you nod and stand on shaky legs to remove the last of your clothes.

katsuki does the same after turning the water on, the pitter patter of the water hitting the tiled floor mimics the white noise in your head.

you feel katsuki wrap his hand around yours, pulling you into the warm shower.

you sigh deeply at the feeling of the water against your skin.

katsuki starts to clean you up, top to bottom. shampooing your hair before grabbing a loofa and dragging it down your arms and stomach, careful not to irritate any of your cuts, then gets back on his knees to scrub your legs.

a whimper makes break his focus. looking up at you, he watches as you break out into wailing sobs, echoing off the walls of the shower.

“i know. just let it out.” he says, continuing to clean you off.

when the tears don’t stop he puts the loofa down and look up at you.

he’s never seen you cry like this before.

standing from his spot on the ground, he drags his hands up your body, caressing you with care.

“it’s over now. you’re safe.” he whispers, arms wrapping around your head to pull you close.

“they’re not safe.” you mumble uncomfortably.

he looks down at you, trying to be eye level.

“who’s not?” he questions.

“i couldn’t save them. i was drowning. the villain covered the city in water and-” a choked sound rips from your throat.

“windows on the apartment shattered and all the bodies… they all got swept into the water.”

katsuki’s eyes widen, he didn’t know what to expect but it definitely wasn’t this.

“it’s not your fault baby, you did everything you could.” he soothes, kissing your face in a desperate need to convince you.

your eyes meet his for the first time tonight, you look broken. it’s like the light from your eyes has been drained.

“i know it’s my fault katsuki.”

your words suffocate him, he doesn’t understand how to help you and it’s killing him inside.

“and they know it’s my fault too.”

your eyes bore into his skull and he tightens his grip on you.

“what? what do you mean, what happened?” he’s desperate. desperate for answers. desperate because he couldn’t help you. desperate to get his girlfriend back.

“the woman’s husband. the boys mother. the little girl whose mother died because of me!” you’re desperate too. you don’t deserve to be held and comforted after what you did.

you struggle in katsuki’s grip but he doesn’t let you go.

“you didn’t do anything wrong. this wasn’t your fault, and you did everything you could. this isn’t a villain you should’ve been sent to deal with, especially on your own. you can’t punish yourself for things that were out of your hands. you stopped the villain, okay?” katsuki says firmly, voice not wavering once.

you stop struggling, knees going weak in his hold. he picks you up and lets you koala around him, the vibrations from your whimpers and sobs echoing off his skin.

“it wasn’t your fault.” he whispers into your ear.

he shuts off the water, taking you outside and wrapping a towel around you.

you’re shivering. partly from the cold and partly from guilt and sorrow.

but katsuki’s there. to hold you up, to keep you from falling apart.

“i’m here.” he whispers as he lays you down in bed, not caring about your wet hair and choosing to forgo getting you both dressed.

he climbs in next to you, pulls the covers over your cold body and wraps his arm around your waist, the other coming to play with your hair in a final attempt to soothe you.

“i love you. more than anything, okay?” you nod, silent tears streaming down your face.

“i’m so proud of you.” you sniffle, inching closer to him to tuck your face in his warm chest.

you both stay like that, his fingers running through your hair and your steady puffs of breath hitting his chest.

“goodnight angel.”

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou x yn #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou imagines #katsuki bakugou angst #bakugou angst #bakugou katsuki angst #katsuki angst #angst

[hyperactively-me]

black tie affair

He slowly comes up behind you, hands stretched out in front of him, wordless. He grasps your waist firmly, holding you in place as his other hand brushes up against your lower back. You shiver under his touch, body still, unmoving. He was so close. So close.

"oh nooooo the zipper on my dress is stuck, what ever will i do? who would ever help meee?"

zipper is stuck trope. with ghost. lol bye.

also, don’t mind me making stuff up for this fic. don't think too hard about it. let's just pretend!

(asks are open)

happy reading

EDIT: PART 2 OUT NOW

warnings: none

Tonight was the Special Forces Military Ball. It was a once-a-year event that everyone on the task force looked forward to as an opportunity to unwind from work. A night of speeches, dancing, and drinking was highly awaited. 

You were in a hotel room, finishing applying your makeup in the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. The lighting was horrendous, but you persevered. You gently brush on the last touches of your eyeshadow, blinking a few times at your reflection in the mirror. You tilt your face side to side, inspecting every inch of your makeup before pulling back, smiling contentedly at your work. It’s been a while since you last wore this much makeup. A quick sigh escapes your lips as you turn out of the bathroom and into the main room. 

A long, black dress lays across the hotel bed. The dress swishes gently across the floor as you pick it up from the bed and hold it up in front of you in front of the floor length mirror. The sweetheart neckline swoops gracefully, the thick straps of the dress adorned with small silver gems. The skirt of the dress hugs all of your curves in the right places, accentuating your features. 

You start to slip on the dress, pulling it up and around your body, then pulling the sleeves over to rest on your shoulders. Reaching around your back, your hands come up as you fumble around with the zipper, only pulling it up an inch before it stops.

You try pulling it as hard as you can to no avail. Messing with the zipper a few more times does absolutely nothing, the continuous motion of pulling it up and down useless in aiding you. The zipper rests, stuck, on your lower back. 

“Fuck” you groan, annoyed with the stubborn zipper.

You angle your back towards the mirror and stare at it, mostly bare, with a frown. Someone was going to have to help you with this. 

Everyone, with the exception of one person, was busy preparing for the event as you racked your brain about who you could call. 

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

The big guy. 

You grab your phone and scroll through your contacts before your finger lands on his name. You hesitate for a moment, almost already regretting this. Next thing you know, you bring the phone up to your ear, biting your lip as it rings. The phone rings once, twice, then you hear the line pick up. 

“Hello?” the low timbre of his voice echoes from the phone. 

You inhale dramatically, and turn to look at yourself in the mirror. 

“Hi,” you sigh. 

The silence from the other end is overbearing. You grimace a little. 

You speak quickly, “So uh, I need some help.” You hold your breath as you wait for a response, any response from him. 

You hear some shuffling around, and a small cough. You roll your eyes once more. 

“Please,” you strain. 

He hesitates for a moment. “What’s wrong?” 

“This is awkward, but uh, the zipper on my dress is stuck, and you’re the only person I could think of to call and I totally get it if you can’t help me–”

“Which room is yours?” he cuts you off briskly. The shuffling in the background abruptly stopped. 

Your mouth opens and closes for a moment, shaking your head as you try to answer.

“Oh, yeah, it’s room 456, fourth floor…” you trail off. 

He hangs up without a word. You bring the phone away from your ear slowly and stare at yourself in the mirror once more. 

He really is a man of few words. 

You pace the room a few times, waiting for him when a single, brief knock raps your door. You stop in your tracks and turn to the door, then run to the mirror to make sure you look presentable enough. You look through the peekhole just to make sure its Ghost before you pull open the door swiftly. 

You’re met with his chest in your face, and you drag your eyes upward to his face. His covered face. In that skull mask he always wears. He’s wearing a black tuxedo along with a crooked black tie. 

“Hi” he says simply, raking his eyes down your form. 

You immediately grab his bicep and pull him into the room and shut the door behind you, pressing your exposed back to the door. He chuckles quietly at you, raising his eyebrows in amusement under his mask. 

“Thank you so much for coming” you breathe out, wringing your hands together. 

He just stares at you for a moment longer, taking in your appearance unabashedly. He shoves his hands in his pocket and clears his throat. 

“Wow. You look amazing” he whistles. 

Your cheeks heat up, your mouth slightly agape as the air leaves your lungs.

“Thank you.”

Your dress swishes around your feet as you push yourself off the door, brushing past him. “I could say the same for you, Simon.” 

Turning around, you brush a piece of stray hair behind your ear, taking a deep breath. He takes a few heavy steps towards you, his silence overbearing. 

“If you could zip me up, that would be great” you smile gently at him, biting your bottom lip awkwardly. You turn around, your exposed back facing Ghost, and you pull your hair over your shoulder. His breath wavers, eyes roaming the expanse of your back, then finally coming to rest on the small of your back. He slowly comes up behind you, hands stretched out in front of him, wordless. He grasps your waist firmly, holding you in place as his other hand brushes up against your lower back. You shiver under his touch, body still, unmoving. He was so close. So close. His free hand closes around the zipper, hesitant to free it. 

“Ghost–”

“It’s Simon. Simon, when we’re not on job,” he corrects. You stand up straight. 

“Simon. Are you going to zip me up?” 

He grunts quietly, then pulls at the zipper once, twice, before it's finally freed. You can feel heat radiating from his fingers as he pulls the zipper up agonizingly slow. As he pulls it up your back, his fingers brush against your skin, the small touches making your knees weak. Your cheeks feel hot from his languid movements. You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding when he zipped it up to the top.  

The trance you were in abruptly stops as you hear the small click of the zipper hitting the top. You swiftly turn around, the skirt of your dress bustling around as you take a step back, his hand falling from your hip. 

“Well, thank you Gh– Simon” you say, pushing your hair back to its original place. You rock back on your heels as you inspect his covered face.

His eyes look blown wide, his hands now pulling at the bottom of his tux jacket.

“‘s not a problem” he murmurs, eyes still not looking away from you. His hands wander up to his loosened tie, fidgeting with it.

You notice his tie isn’t properly tied, and you take a few steps close to him, your eyes staring straight at his chest.

“Let me help you with that” you point to his tie. You take his hands in yours and gently pull them to his sides. His hands dwarf your own, and you drop them. His breath hitches. 

You wrestle with the tie, your hands brushing up against his chest and collarbone as you twist it into perfection. You keep your eyes trained on the tie, biting your lip as you concentrate. Simon’s eyes remain locked on you, following your every movement. 

The silence permeates the air, save for the rustling of fabric against fabric. 

You finish tying the knot, and pull it up tight to rest against the base of his throat. He stretches his neck upwards as your hands come to fasten the tie in place. You smooth your hands on the edge of his jacket, straightening out any remaining wrinkles. Your head tilts upwards, smiling softly at him. 

“There” you sigh contentedly, patting his cheek gently before pulling away. 

Before you could fully remove yourself, his hand snakes down to your waist, pulling you up against his body. A small squeak slips out of you as his hands rigidly hold your waist.

“Simon–”

“Stop talking.” 

Before you could even process his movements, he yanks his mask over his nose. Your breath catches in your lungs as your eyes trail the features of his lower face. His breath is hot on your face as he leans down, closer and closer. “Can I kiss you?” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering as he stares at your lips, noses bumping into each other. He’s only an inch or two away from your face, and you can see every lineament of his skin, his cheekbones, the tip of his pointed nose, his lips. He smells like sandalwood and vetiver, the scent peppery and strong. 

You nod your head fervently, heart racing in your chest. 

“Please.”

That’s all he had to hear you say. 

Simon leans in, closing the miniscule gap between you two. He leans down to press a firm kiss on your lips, inhaling sharply at the contact, eliciting a soft sound from you. Your hands wrap around his neck, tugging him down to your height as his hands roam up and down your back. Simon draws your body against his, pulling you flush against him. He begins to nip your bottom lip, tongue swiping over your lip as if to ask permission. You let him take charge, his hand gliding up your body, your breath growing ragged. 

He bites your lip, slowly pulling away as he breaks contact. You gulp in the cool air of the room, studying his face as he slowly pulls his mask down in place. Your ears are red, face flushed. 

“You’re beautiful,” his voice comes out hoarse as he takes your hand in his. He rubs his thumb in circles around your palm, outlining your face. 

“Thank you” you whisper, taking his hand into your own. 

You gingerly pull him out of your room, and don’t let go of his hand for the rest of the night. 

PART 2

#*ੈ✩ simon “ghost” riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod #call of duty reader insert #call of duty #ghost #simon “ghost” riley #fluff #ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost imagine #hyperactivelyme

[justaaveragereader]

Use Me

Pairing: FuckBoy!Wooyoung x Afab Reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: Dom Fuckboy!Woo, Sub!Reader, Unprotected Sex, Choking, Face Smacking, Degradation, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Woo Is Mean Asf🤪…If I Missed Anything…👀Lemme Know!

A/N: Listen…idk why but Woo has just been clouding my mind😵‍💫, I just feel like Woo would be a honest fuck boy, like he already is honest now, and loves being honest. Can you imagine him being a fuckboy?!? The man wouldn’t be sparing ANY feelings. Also I literally said I was going to take November off, and here I was at working writing a lil some some, if there are any mistakes, sorry😬. I wrote this without my glasses.

You knew that this was wrong, you heart yearned for him, he used you when he pleased, whispering sweet dreams into your ear, and you let him. That’s all he sold you, nothing but dreams, and you bought them everytime. You watched as his eyes ran over the large crowd, stopping once they reached your frame. With one simple look he could break you down in various ways then one.

The crinkle of his eyes, due to that mischievous smile he sported, he was taking you all in. Shifting your body weight from foot to foot you watch as his eyes flicker over to the bathrooms, before looking right back at you. Signaling to you to meet him in the restroom, subtly you make your way to the restroom, excusing yourself from your group of friends, you push your way through the packed crowd, the club lighting shining off your skin. With each step you take, Wooyoung hawks you down with his eyes, drinking in your form, the way you move, the way your chest slightly heaves with anticipation of knowing what’s to come. He's got you wrapped around each individual finger.

Excusing himself from his own friends, he makes his way towards the restroom, following closely behind you. Shutting the door behind him, he braces himself against the door. His sharp eyes drift over to your form that is leaning against the wall right across from him, how can someone make you feel so small? Walking slowly over to you, he stops right in front of you, his body slightly towering over you.

Squatting down to your level, so he could get better eye contact with you, he wanted to make sure your full attention was on him. He didn’t want you looking up to him, he wanted to make sure you understood him, with no room for misinterpretations of things. His intense gaze made your face heat with embarrassment. You both had sung this song various times, danced this dance numerous times. Yet he always made sure he drilled what was going to happen into your head, and made sure that you understood that this would be nothing more or nothing less. Nodding your head letting him know that you are listening closely, and that you understood his every word, he drags you over to the first available stall, not wanting to waste anymore time.

Shoving you in the stall, he quickly locks the door, shoving your chest against the cool metal door, pulling up your dress, moving your soaked panties to the side, as he places sloppy kisses along the side of your neck. Your body so easily submits to him, he’s like a drug, you know he’s no good for you, you know he’s nothing but a user, yet you can’t stay away from him. He's your daily dose, as much as you are his.

Pulling your back flush against his chest, he slowly thrusts into you, causing you to let out a loud mewl. His fingers immediately find your throat, tightening his grip around it. His wet lips brush over your ear, which each deep thrust your body hikes up the bathroom stall door. With your dress around your waist he uses the scrunched fabric as a way to stabilize himself.

“Fuck Woo..” you choke out through a moan. A large grin takes over his face, clearly pleased at every loud sound that leaves your mouth, it helps aid and feed his ego. With one harsh thrust, your cunt clenches hard around him, pulling a loud groan from him, he wraps his hand even tighter around your throat. Cutting your airways off partially

“Do you know what your purpose is? Hm?” He grits out between clenched teeth. There is so much fury beneath his dark eyes yet you miss the storm that’s brewing behind them.

“Your purpose is to satisfy me, and only me.” Gripping the sides of your throat tighter with each word he spits. You let out a choked out noise, your cunt clenching with need, the sounds of his deep voice in your ear, no matter how degrading they are, is enough to make your eyes roll back.

“Isn’t that right?” He spits out, your lack of an answer annoys him, slapping the side of your face lightly, he cocks your head to the side, bringing his face close to yours, the tip of his nose brushing against your own, his soft plump lips lightly touching yours.

“I. Said. Isn’t. That. Right.” He says with a harsh slam of his hips in your cunt. Letting out a choked out moan, you scream nothing but confirming words to him. Acknowledging you are nothing but something for him to stuff his hard dick into when he pleases.

Nodding your head swiftly, your forehead rubs against the cold metal stall door. While your heart pulled with each thrust of his, your pussy clenched with need. You wanted Wooyoung all hours of the day, you didn’t care how he came, you just wanted him.

“Fuck, this pussy is so good.” He grits out through clenched teeth, cocking his head back as he picks up speed, the sound of skin slapping echos in the empty bathroom, not even caring if someone was to enter and hear the noises you two created. He had one goal, and only one goal in mind.

Gripping your hips tighter, your body crushed against the door, face completely smushed against it. Wrapping his hand around your waist while the other tugs the bunched up fabric around your waist. Making sure to slam your hips down with each thrust up, making sure to hit that spongy spot over and over again.

“Fuck, Fuck Woo…please.” You rush out, your sweaty hands find grip on the top of the stall door, trying to stabilize yourself. The door rattles from the movement of his thrusts. Gripping your waist tighter, speeding up the pace of his thrust, while keeping the same hard thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut, your orgasm washing over your body with a loud mewl. Your hands grip the door for dear life. Orgasm so intense, tears stream down your face. He thrusts harshly a couple more times, before he pulls out, shooting his cum all over your lower back. Giving his cock a couple more pumps. He slightly leans forward, his nose brushing against your neck, stepping back he tucks himself away, pulling your panties back over to cover your dripping cunt. He doesn’t even wipe the cum off of your back, pulling the dress down, he pats where his cum is sitting on your skin, like a stain, like a temporary tattoo that only he leaves you with, that you wear secretly with pride.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he helps you stand up, unlocking the stall door, as he washes his hands, he looks up, catching your eyes through the mirror. A wicked grin grows across his face. Your eyes grow big and glassy. Looking back down at his hands, your eyes take over him. Taking him in for what he truly is, a user, an abuser, an opportunist, a man who sells you nothing but wishes and dreams, just as he finishes drying his hands he makes his way over towards you, placing a soft kiss upon your forehead.

“It’s never going to be me…is it?” you whisper out quietly but loud enough for him to hear. With his lips still on your forehead, you feel them stretch into a smile.

“Don't ask questions you already know the answer to.”

DO NOT REPOST.

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #ateez angst #jung wooyoung smut #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung angst #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez one shot #ateez oneshot

[faulty-writes]

Headcanons for Izuku, Tenya, and Mirio taking a nice, relaxing bath with the reader for the first time? There's just something so domestic and intimate about it!

[ Hello anon. A nice relaxing bath sounds wonderful, sign me up! Not sure who I'd want to take it with though, hah. I hope you enjoy these headcanons! ]

When you suggested taking a bath together, Izuku's face turned red and his hand fisted into his shirt as he tried to blurt out an answer. "I…uh y-you, I t-together um…" He was at a loss for words, but you did not take offense. After all, he was a shy individual.

He agrees after some convincing, and before you can even enter the tub, he ensures that the water temperature is comfortable for both of you before shyly looking away when you begin to remove your clothes. As soon as he enters the bathtub, he becomes shy again despite your efforts to encourage him that everything is alright and that he can look at you.

"Um s-sorry I, uh, d-do you have enough r-room?" He asked, wanting to provide you with enough space as you enjoyed your first bath together. You appreciated his concern but preferred to remain close to him so that the intimate feeling lingered.

"I-is this okay?" he asked, gently stroking your back with his fingers. A content smile adorned your face as you leaned over the bathtub edge, enjoying the well-deserved massage and the faint sound of the water swishing in the tub.

The subtle moments of silence throughout the bath caused him to feel somewhat uncomfortable. However, doing this with you was a pleasant change of pace. There is something so intimate and yet so innocent about it.

Izuku's shyness had worn off toward the end of the bath. There was such a sense of peace and tranquility as he leaned against the back of the tub with his arms wrapped securely around you, even as the water grew colder.

Tenya was initially uncertain about your request. "Forgive me, is this truly appropriate? I understand that intimate moments are expected in romantic relationships. However, are you certain this particular activity is what you wish to participate in?" He did not envision taking a bath with you, but he was willing to participate if you so desired.

As he prepared the bath, he ensured that the water temperature was perfect and that the bath salts he had poured into the bath to aid relaxation and comfort were dissolved properly. Furthermore, he ensured that the towels were properly folded, and placed near the tub so that there were no tripping hazards. In addition, he ensured that the soap and washcloths were readily available.

Considering his manners, it was understandable that he was reluctant to expose his body to you and refused to look at your body until it was hidden under the water. Despite this, he found himself relaxing, at least a little bit, as the soothing hot water surrounded him.

Tenya engaged in conversation despite knowing that this was intended to be an intimate moment since he was not in favor of the silence that lingered between you two. "Is the water temperature to your liking? I can adjust it accordingly if you wish," he desired that this moment be perfect for you.

As he continues to avoid your gaze, he reminds himself that it is inappropriate to stare at your body in such a manner. Nevertheless, he insisted upon washing you and making sure that your neck, back, and arms were clean.

Tenya suggested doing some post-bath stretches and minor exercises after the bath had ended. Although you were not thrilled with this, you were aware that Tenya followed a strict healthy lifestyle that included regular exercise.

The idea of taking a bath together immediately appeals to him. "Wow, I didn't know you wanted to take our relationship to the next level, but it sounds awesome! Heh, let's do it sunshine!" He drags you to the bathroom without delay.

Because of his quirk, he is quite comfortable being naked and has no qualms about removing his clothes before filling the tub. He did this as usual with a smile on his face and a sense of eagerness in his eyes.

"Hah, hah. Got you!" Mirio smiled as he splashed water at you again, seemingly intending to encourage you to engage in a splash war. Even when you were doing something as simple as soaking in the tub together, it was pleasant to have a little fun now and then.

"There you go! Heh, stay still now!" He instructed as he poured water over your head, washing away the shampoo he had just applied. "Now…" He paused and grabbed a washcloth soaked in soap. "Lift your arms!" he commanded enthusiastically, causing the water to swish and drip over the side of the tub.

Even after he had washed your hair and body, you were hesitant to cuddle with him and it didn't take him long to figure that out. Regardless, he would not allow your shyness to stand in his way and instead, wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your wet locks when you least expected it.

Upon noticing that the water was becoming cold, he suggested ending the bath and draining the water before exiting. As you attempted to do the same, he wrapped a towel around you and lifted you into his arms. "Walking back wouldn't make much of a special pampering, would it?" he joked.

#izuku x reader #tenya x reader #mirio x reader #midoriya x reader #iida x reader #togata x reader #izuku x y/n #tenya x y/n #mirio x y/n #izuku x you #tenya x you #mirio x you #midoriya x you #iida x y/n #midoriya x y/n #midoriya x fem!reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #faulty writes: izuku midoriya: 23 #faulty writes: tenya iida: 23 #faulty writes: tenya iida: headcanons: 23 #faulty writes: mirio togata: 23 #faulty writes: mirio togata: headcanons: 23 #faulty writes izuku midoriya headcanons 23

[disabled-disaster-king]

Disabled bathroom psa:

When I and other wheelchair users are talking about how abled people should not be using disabled toilets I can almost garente that they are not talking about your standard slightly larger stall in a bathroom with only two stalls. Im talking about separate bathrooms designed entirely for disabled people. Handicap bathrooms are different from handicap stalls. They are a separate room with its own toilet sink and mirror all positioned with the equipment designed for those with mobility issues and mobility aids such as walkers, gait trainers, wheelchairs, and crutches. A handicap stall is a stall ment to be wide enough to alow a wheelchair to fit (most don't though especially if you are fat or in a power chair.) With one or two grab bars placed. I don't care about people using the handicap stall if others are taken, they need the extra room (bags don't count, I mean things like strollers, todlers, fat, and autistic people not your shopping) those who need the grab bars like people with mobility issues, back problems, and invisible disabilities. I also don't care if you use it because all the others are in use. I care when people use it to make stupid videos on their phone, hang out, smoke, or just cause they like it when there are a dozen other stalls available. I swear most of you never think of anything besides making sure that you are never the one in the wrong.🙄

If I'm not talking about you, IM NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU.

I am talking about those who use those bathrooms as a fashion changing stall. The ones who smoke and film tik toks talking about the crazy disabled person knocking on the door. I am talking about the people who, after telling then I am going to pee myself decide that acting like I don't exist or that they can't here me will make me go away and guess what? Make me pee all over myself.

#disabled #disability #actually disabled #wheelchair #wheelchair user #physical disability #mobility aid user #service dog #bathroom #handicap stall #wheelchair bathroom #wheelchair problems

[takami-takami]

Scent Kink!Keigo who's raptorial senses have been finely honed like a sharpened blade for as long as he can remember. For all his analytical prowess, he could never quite pinpoint the exact cause of his heightened senses. Perhaps it, like most things, is a combination of nature and nurture— avian DNA and brutal, militant training. The source matters little to him. Keigo has always been one for outcomes.

Scent Kink!Keigo who discovers pretty early on in your friendship that your scent is distinct. If he could put it into words, the first that would come to mind is warm. It smells warm when he sits next to you on the couch, bouncing his leg like a dog that smells something delectable right under its nose yet tries to behave and contain himself all the same. Your neck is perfectly bare. If he could just lean over and bury his nose in whatever crevice is most available, he'd die a happy man. 

Scent Kink!Keigo who is actually so normal about your scent, all these years later. Sure, he memorizes your smell, conjures up the scent in his mind's eye whenever he has trouble sleeping at night. The thought of it soothes him, aids in building his picturesque fantasies of you holding him from behind and shushing the bad dreams away. But he's very normal about it. Of course he's attached— you're his best friend.

Scent Kink!Keigo who can't remember the first time your scent began to cause his pants to grow tight. He thinks it was that night you arrived late for your usual meetup, panting and running before throwing your arms around him and apologizing, promising you ran just to make sure he didn't wait too long. He remembers his eyes widening while his pupils shrunk to dots, overwhelmed by the potency of you invading every sense. It made his cock throb. He made an excuse to hide in the bathroom within the hour.

Scent Kink!Keigo who does a remarkable job at containing the whine in his throat when you show him around your new apartment, quickly discovering you didn't bother to put away your laundry basket before he arrived. Why should you worry about your best friend seeing it? Keigo would never hold ill intentions. Keigo would never stuff a pair of your panties in his back pocket, Keigo wouldn't dream of fantasizing the second he secures it, flashes of the misbehavior he could get up to conjured quickly in his mind.

Scent Kink!Keigo who fidgets and avoids your eyes when you insist he stay so you can feed him takeout that night. The weight of his prize stings against his thigh; and as much as he loves your company, something else is calling to his attention right now. He quickly makes an excuse, faking a dispatch call by your window and waving once before he takes flight.

Scent Kink!Keigo who's brain glitches when he gets home and realizes he has to decide what to do first: take out his cock to touch himself and relieve the pressure straining in his pants, or pull your used panties out of his pocket. He picks the second option.

Scent Kink!Keigo who's whining in his bed moments later, your scent finally rubbed across his face with his hand fisting between his legs. It's like static when he twists his wrist with each stroke, imagining the smell of sex in the air as you ride his cock. Eyes rolled into the back of his skull, he swears the scent of your freshly used panties is enough. At least for tonight. At least until he needs a little refresher for his memory and has to snag another.

Scent Kink!Keigo who thinks he's a degenerate. He's a pervert. He's a sick freak who gets off on his crush's panties stuffing his mouth to muffle his moans, his saliva drenching the poor fabric; and he's even sicker for getting his dick wet to the thought of you catching him and repeating those insults in his ear while you sit on his face. He's sick, imagining himself inhaling it right from the source, spilling all over his abdomen to the thought of it.

Scent Kink!Keigo who is entirely, utterly fucked when you decide to move in together as roommates. Trouble isn't something he considered before. He's too excited by the idea of being around you to consider the repercussions on his mental health to be in such close proximity to you when night falls.

Scent Kink!Keigo who doesn't know whether it's a blessing or a curse that your room is directly adjacent to his. He knows exactly when you're touching yourself in the next room over.

Scent Kink!Keigo who throws his head back with a groan, hand ghosting down his happy trail and sliding beneath his waistband to grab his swelling cock again.

#dark content #kind of #I wrote this in the backseat of a moving car like a degenerate instead of making conversation like a normal person #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #mha thirst #bnha thirst #🖋 writing #🌶 spice #smut #x reader #fem clothes

[goldeunoias]

Decisions.

A/N: I like writing for Jay stans the most because they give me the most reblogs and comments instead of just only leaving likes (which doesn't really do much darlings) soooo here's a Jay fic for you amazing guys <;33333333

Summary: Yandere! JayX Female Reader (it shows bit by bit the more it goes on)

word count: 3,1k i think idk

Warnings: this literally has my favorites, horse cock Jay, teasing dom Jay, like multiple orgasms, just like....horknee thoughts bc it's me....upon proofreading there is like...anal fingering look I'm....a whore okay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10 years ago~

Jongseong sniffled as he sat down with his lunch, once again eating alone. Had he known the kids here would be so mean he would've begged his parents to let him stay back where he was from with his grandmother, but to no avail.

"Hello! I like your glasses! They make you look smart. Are you?" the girl who stood in front of him curiously asked. She was the first person who had even bothered to stare in his direction, let alone talk to him.

"U-Uh I don't know. Maybe?" he cautiously replied, waiting for a cruel punchline to follow.

Instead, she giggled, sitting with her lunch in front of him.

"You're cute," she laughed, opening her lunch.

Jongseong looked down shyly, feeling his ears turn into shades of peonies.

From that point on he'd always thought you cuter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stood outside the club, wondering what the hell you were thinking.

You'd never been in a proper relationship.

Never been on a proper date.

And yet here you were, outside a BDSM club with an appointment that you'd made.

"Well, I'm sure women have made dumber decisions," you muttered to yourself, shaking out your sweaty palms and walking inside. The establishment looked excellent and pristine, which was expected since it was your city's nicest and safest S&M club. So at the bare minimum, your impulsive decision was backed by somewhat sound logic.

When you went up to the counter you found a petite lady wearing a mask, though you saw the corners of her eyes turn up as you approached.

"Hello, do you have an appointment?" she said in a soft voice. You nodded and told her your name and appointment time, thankful the receptionist seemed professional and not judgemental like your anxiety had expected.

"You're gonna be in room 305, with Jongseong Park as confirmed in our phone call. We recommend that you shower for hygiene, and there are bathrooms located in each of the rooms. If there are any accommodations missing such as towels, soap, or anything else feel free to use the phone to call and a staff member will bring items as needed. If you feel scared or unsafe at any time there are red buttons in our rooms which can be pressed and staff members will rush to aid you. Our doms go through different training and extensive background checks so rest assured you are in safe hands," she informed you gently, giving you a brief description of how to find your room.

You gave her a sincere "thank you" and walked off to find your room, finding it easy enough thanks to her directions. As expected, when you opened the room no one was there since you were informed on the phone that your master doesn't show up until you've pressed one on the phone, to make sure you have ample time to prep if needed.

From appearance, it looked like a normal hotel room, though upon further inspection you found many BDSM items in the drawers and cabinets. You wrote on your profile and informed me on the phone that you needed someone who would ease you very gently into all of this. You took a shower and got into the bathrobe that was complimentary, still keeping your underwear as you were too nervous to go completely naked just yet.

Taking a deep breath you went over to the phone and pressed one, sitting on the bed and twiddling your thumbs until his arrival. There were three knocks on the door before it slowly opened, the man keeping his head down as he stood at the threshold.

He asked you for your name and you told him, Jongseong raising his head once he had confirmation it was you. His voice was deep and warm, causing goosebumps to rise on your freshly washed skin as he slowly walked over to you.

He knelt down at the foot of the bed where you sat, grabbing your hands and massaging them gently.

"Mm, you're even prettier than the photos they gave me kitten. Is it okay if I call you that?" he inquired sweetly, the gentle command he held in his tone making your spine tingle.

"T-that's okay," you stuttered out, the cotton bathrobe feeling 10x hotter now. "Do you have a preference on what you like to be called?"

You watched as Jongseong cocked his head to the side in playful thought, the shadow of his jawline becoming more prominent as he did so.

"Why don't you call me 'sir'. Or you can call me my name if 'sir' feels too intimidating," he added on, squeezing your hands when he felt your erratic heartbeat through your wrists.

"That works," you rushed out, feeling stupid in his presence. "Sorry you probably have way more experienced clients and better ones than dealing with someone like me," you apologized.

Jongseong shook his head and pulled your hands so you were even closer to him, his lips only centimeters away from yours as he spoke.

"Never feel bad for lack of experience kitten. That's what you're here for isn't it?"

You nodded.

"Exactly. And I'm here to make you feel good. Can I kiss you?" he asked gently, smiling slightly when you nodded. His lips were soft in a way that made your toes curl, your hands clenching the material of your bathrobe as you didn't know what else to do with them.

Jongseong sensing your slight discomfort moved your hands around his neck, gently moving you so you were on your back and he was on top of you.

"When was the last time you were kissed kitten?"

You tensed up at the question and told him through bashful stares that it was freshmen year of college, and you weren't even sure that that counted.

"Sorry, can you tell I'm not the greatest," you muttered out, biting down on your lips in nerves. Jongseong avidly shook his head and pressed his thumb against your bottom lip to prevent you from biting it, cooing at you gently.

"You're just tense is all, holding back. If you came to a place like this that means you have at least some curiosity in kinky sex no?" He teased, holding your chin when you tried to look away from him.

You gulped and nodded.

"Words for me kitten, I gotta have your verbal confirmation on things no?"

"I do." you meekly replied. "I just thought well, um...I'd get more satisfaction if I went to a place like this," you explained to him, your body melting when Jongseong started leaving open-mouth kisses on your neck.

"Mmhmm, tell me more," he urged on, grabbing both of your hands and pinning them above your head.

"I've only had minor sexual experiences in high school and had "real" sex early in college and they weren't good so I gave up on relationships and sex since I didn't-" A moan left your throat as Jongseong's tongue swirled around your pulse.

"Continue kitten," he teased, noticing how you started melting into his touches versus tensing up at them.

"...I d-didn't get good experiences. But I recently got curious and so here I am," you finished. Jongseong came up to your face with a smile that held sinister intent, leaning in close to you.

"Don't worry kitten, I'll make you feel good..." he trailed off, biting your ear gently. "So good that you'll come back to me every time..."

Before you could answer his lips pressed back against yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth with ease. His mouth felt hot and the texture of his tongue against yours made you whimper, feeling droplets of his saliva trickle into your mouth.

When he pulled back you instinctively reached for him and Jongseong couldn't help but smile internally as he let you pull him back in, letting you set the rhythm you wanted.

Your skin was so soft against his callused hands, better than he'd imagined as he slid his fingers underneath your robe and undid it. Before you could cover yourself he pinned your hands to your sides and took an erect nipple into his mouth, letting you feel the texture of his tongue as it swirled around delicately.

You bit down on your tongue to keep what you thought were embarrassing noises in your throat, Jongseong huffing and coming up to stare at you.

"Why aren't you moaning kitten? Are not feeling good?" he inquired sweetly, circling his warm finger around your saliva-laden nipple. You were caught off guard by it and let out a yelp, rushing to cover your mouth before lowering it.

"It's um, not that...I just won't sound like those girls in hentai or porn and I don't know what I am supposed to sound like...is all," you finished weirdly, following Jongseong's movements as he went to the other pert nipple, delicately flicking it with his tongue.

Your breath hitched and Jay chuckled, his finger tugging at the bud.

"Oh but a kitten, I want to hear you," he drawled slowly, coming up so he was speaking teasingly against your lips. "I want you to have lost your voice by the time I'm done with you. For you to even be heard through the hotel walls," he pushed on.

You gulped at how sultry his voice sounded, your body burning as his calloused hand came in between your thighs. You scrunched your face up and let out a moan at the contact, wondering if he could feel the slick that covered your underwear.

"Thatta girl, show sir how good you're feeling," he praised gently, kissing your jawline.

"Can you...," you stopped yourself at your own nerves.

Jongseong stopped and perked up, his carob eyes making you feel extra shy. "No no what is it, tell me kitten."

You swallowed thickly. "I've never really, well never actually had a guy eat me out andIwantedtoknowhowitfeltlike," you managed out, unable to make eye contact with him. You didn't need to because he was already inching down your body and tugging down your underwear before you could even say anything.

His grip was strong on your calves as he firmly held your legs open, Jonseong's breath getting heavier as he saw your arousal-coated core.

"You wrote in your profile that you don't like it when it's shaved so I didn't," you muttered gently, feeling embarrassed from how intently he was staring.

"Shit kitten~ your pussy's so goddamn pretty, I mean you're dripping onto the sheets already," Jongseong groaned, the tone of his voice causing you to clench around nothing.

You didn't even realize a guy could get so turned on by you, let alone from a region that you found rather embarrassing.

"D-don't just stare at it," you whined, your chest rising as he dragged a digit down the center, gathering up syrupy beads of arousal.

"Of course not kitten...," he trailed off, flattening his tongue against your core and you let out a moan. You didn't realize how textured someone's tongue could be and how warm and wet it was until was circling around your swollen clit, your head lolling off to the side as you gripped his hair.

Jongseong could hardly contain his excitement as sweet honey coated his tongue, spelling out his name with his tongue against your folds.

"You seem to like the letter "o" of my name don't you kitten," he cooed as he slid a single digit in. He raised his brows at the amount of resistance that was met and your reaction, your hands gripping the pillow tighter.

"Do you not finger yourself at all sweetheart?" he inquired as he left open-mouthed kisses on your aching core, curling it in an area that you'd never reached. You shook your head and felt your stomach contract at the feeling, feeling your head get lighter at the sensation.

"It never felt good when I did it and then when a guy did it it just hurt a lot," you whimpered out, your voice breaking at the end as he slid a second digit in.

You never knew that having your core stretched out could feel so good, the squelching noises coming from you making your face burn in bashfulness.

Jongseong on the other hand was reveling in it all, doing his best to not push you to your very limits: he wanted to make you cry and blubber out his name, paint your walls white with his cum, and other sinful things.

Your whimper of "jongseong" snapped him out of his thoughts, the innocent and expectant eyes you gave him almost making him cum right then and there.

"S-sorry I didn't mean to call your name when you said sir but you were lost in thought," you answered, flinching slightly when Jongseong came up face to face with you, shoving his fingers in knuckle deep.

"Shit, I knew there was a reason you shouldn't have said my name," he panted out, pressing on the spongy spot on your walls at every chance he could.

"Why is t-that," you yelped out, legs closing around his hand as you felt a tight knot form in your lower belly. You also felt something else building up as he alternated between pressing down on your clit and scissoring your core, your hands meekly attempting to push his wrist away.

"Because if you say my name I won't be able to hold back," he groaned, his breath hitching as you moaned his name out again.

"I think something weird is going to come out, waitwaitwait," you croaked, your nails leaving claw marks down his tan skin.

"Shhh it's okay kitten just let it out, I got you I got you," he pushed softly in your ear.

Your legs tried to clamp around his hand to stop his movements but his reactions were quicker, situating himself so you could only close your legs around his waist.

"Don't be scared sweetheart, make me proud yeah? It'll feel really good, promise," he cooed at you as he put more force behind his movements, wanting you to unravel from the seams.

Your eyes fluttered for a second as the knot snapped. You were still pushing his hand away as liquid gushed from between your legs, tears forming in your eyes as you felt a pleasure so intense it felt like your body would give out right then and there.

"I-I got your robe wet," you said through panted breaths, trying to say anything to divert the attention away from the liquid that soaked your form and partially his.

Jongseong smiled to himself at the attempt, undoing with with ease and tossing it somewhere in the room. You couldn't help but stare at the erection that was practically forcing its way of his briefs, Jongseong lowering the waistband so you could see him fully.

There was a trail of hair that led from his lower abdomen to his erection, your eyes glued to the area like you were in a trance.

"You can touch it kitten, it doesn't bite," Jongseong purred, gently sitting you up so you could reach him with ease. You wrapped your hand around his length and were surprised at the warmth and weight you felt against your hand.

You gave it a gentle squeeze to see how he'd react and were surprised to hear him hissing through his teeth, his abdomen clenching at your timid movements.

"Why don't you get it nice and wet so it can go in easy yeah?" Jongseong cooed, his dick already twitching at the thought of pushing past your gummy walls.

You gathered up courage and wrapped your mouth around him, hollowing out your cheeks and relaxing your jaw to the best of your abilities. Maybe it was because his intoxicating smell but you were salivating to the point of having droplets trickle down your chin as you got greedy to take more of him.

"Easy there kitten, don't force all in at once," he cooed through a hissed breath, head swimming at how hot your mouth was. You nodded and pulled off of him to circle your tongue around his tip like a popsicle, a sheen glossing his member as you coated it with your saliva.

"That's a good girl~ making me so proud. See how deep you can take me hm?" You nodded and took a deep breath before slowly relaxing your throat around him, the intense groans and pants leaving him giving you more courage.

You weren't able to get down to the base but you were pretty damn close, Jongseong pulling you off of him before he came down your throat.

The cool demeanor Jongseong had started with was gone: his cheeks were rose and there was a sheen of sweat across his body, a ragged "get on your stomach" leaving him as he stroked his member with your saliva.

You did as you were told and gripped the pillows anxiously, Jongseong chuckling and bending over you.

"Don't worry princess, we're gonna make it fit," he taunted against your ear, raising you up by your hips. He grabbed a condom and ripped it with his teeth before pulling down on himself, stroking his base languidly.

You felt the air get knocked out of you as he forced his mushroom head past your walls, your legs kicking from underneath him as you felt the push.

"Jongseong it's not gonna fit, it's not," you pleaded with him, fat tears rolling down your sweaty cheeks. It was a mistake to show him your crying face because it only egged him on more, a saccharine-sweet smile coming onto his lips.

"A good pussy takes any cock that it's given, kitten. Don't you wanna be my good girl?" he emphasized, forcing in another couple of inches. You nodded through your tears, shaking when Jongseong grabbed your hand and pressed it against your lower belly.

"Look kitten, you can feel where I'm going inside you. Do you think I'll be able to touch your cervix?" he almost taunted you, a muffled moan leaving you as he bottomed out.

"I-I don't know" you whelped out, feeling your inner thighs get sticky as cock his pushed out more droplets of syrupy essence.

Every breath you took caused your stomach to press against his member, Jongseong enveloping his large hands in yours on either side as he started moving. You couldn't even moan as you felt your head get lighter, only able to process how his member was stretching you so much.

Jongseong swore as you clamped down on him like a vice, pulling back some so he could see you leak around his cock. "Oh sweetheart, wouldn't you look stunning like this in Polaroids," he mused, his cock twitching inside of you at the thought of having black and white photos of your cum leaking out of your core and bite marks littering your soft skin.

He chuckled when your walls fluttered around him for a moment at the thought, burying your head in the pillow in shame.

"Oh? Seems princess would be into it?"

You hesitantly nodded.

Jongseong pulled your chin from your pillow and turned you around so you could see his darkening eyes, that same saccharine smile coming onto his lips.

"Next time yeah?"

"Next time....?" you repeated, gripping the headboard when Jongseong snapped his hips into you, trying to ease yourself away from the full feeling.

Jongseong only chuckled at your pathetic attempt to flee from his length, pushing your hips back against his as punishment for even attempting to get away.

He smiled, watching as your other hole twitched before letting a trickle of saliva from his mouth seep into the area. "Of course kitten next time. What, did you think you were gonna leave me?" He cooed, rubbing the area before sliding his middle finger in. Your legs spasmed underneath his at the intrusion, burying your mouth into the pillow as you groaned heavily.

"No, but don't you have other clients?" you inquired as he curled his finger and moved his member at the same time, your hands reaching back to meekly push his waist away.

He pouted and kissed your ear gently before using his weight to pin your body down, his hips starting to pick up faster.

"Not anymore."

**********************************

Jongseong walked outside the hotel room, giving the guy who waited outside the wad of cash as promised.

"Can't believe you looked everywhere just for one girl," He said in amusement, flicking his head to the room where you slept. "Think she'll find out you don't work here?"

Jongseong smiled and leaned against the wall. "Doubtful. And we're gonna keep it that way," he warned, putting on a soft smile as he walked back into the hotel room. He leaned over your restful form and kissed your cheek, his hands rubbing over the beautiful marks he'd left.

You rustled in your sleep but still lay there, Jongseong playing with the hem of the t-shirt he let you wear.

"You're all mine now kitten, all mine."

**********************************

feedback leads to me writing more for certain members so remember that and leave a comment, reblog, or anon!

there shan't be a part two <3 tho.

#enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfic #enhypen scenarios #enhypen hard thoughts #jay smut #enhypen jay smut #jay scenarios #park jongseong smut #jongseong scenarios #jongseong smut

[literaila]

this is alarming 

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary: you consider yourself a generally unlucky person, but when you meet peter parker it becomes even more apparent that the universe hates you. 

warnings: mean peter, mean reader, coworkers, angst (?), working, jameson

a/n: this is part one because i wrote 10k and decided that tumblr wasn’t going to put up with me any more. next part will be out later tonight, or tomorrow. 

*

you always set seven alarms in the morning. 

it's often that your alarm clock falls behind the nightstand, often that you shut it off without a moments notice--eyes closed, dreaming dreams you can never remember. it's often that you don't hear anything at all. 

only the sound of a groan escaping your mouth when you pick up your phone and see that you're two hours late for work. 

the first alarm is to be snoozed; almost an hour and a half before you need to wake up. 

the second alarm is for the dreams to muffle, to hear the sound but pretend that it's only a figment of your imagination. 

the third is for stirring. 

the fourth is to open your eyes and feel some haze snap them immediately shut. if you can't open your eyes, why should you even bother to wake up? 

the fifth is for shivering into the covers. your temperature hasn't regulated, and if your bed wasn't so welcoming, you probably wouldn't still be in it. 

it's usually by then that you've pushed the alarm clock off of your nightstand, and that it rests under the bed, collecting dust. 

you've tried moving it to the other side of the room, but even seven alarms weren't enough to get you up. 

so there it remains, ready to be picked up whenever you are graced with the opportunity to really notice it. 

the sixth alarm is to think. wonder to yourself what you're supposed to be doing right now, if you need to shower, smell your own sweat from restless sleeping, and consider the possibility of never waking up at all. 

you usually get caught in these thoughts, and your eyes still don't want to open. 

the seventh alarm is the one you get up to if you're lucky. it's the one that pushes you out of the bed, onto the floor and laughs when it sees the bruises you have from falling. 

and it doesn't really matter when you wake up, or when you get to work. 

there's a bitter taste in your mouth, and it's not just morning breath. 

*

it usually rains on the days you walk to work, and conveniently you've never really learned how to open an umbrella properly--proven by the stack of broken ones you keep hidden somewhere in a closet--so there's no hiding from the drizzle of the sky. 

sometimes you wonder if the earth is mad at you. if whatever deity controls all of this thinks that you're making a mistake. 

a mistake every time you wake up in the morning, and suddenly feel the courage to move your limbs. 

it doesn't matter though. you have an extra pair of clothes in the ridiculously large bag you always carry around. 

there might be a first aid kit in there, a water bottle, a lighter, and many other things that you only realize you need when you don't have them. 

your relationship with this bag is the longest one you've ever had. and it's beginning to fray at the edges, not unnoticed by you. 

still, as soon as you get to work--only fifteen minutes late--you hide in one of the bathroom stalls, cursing when you accidentally drop your clean clothes onto the floor. 

you try not to think about bacteria, or who's walked in this bathroom before you. 

and if you weren't already late--and if you cared a little bit more--you might try and deal with your hair, but today, you settle for dripping it out over the sink and ignoring the woman who walks by behind you, giving you a look you can't miss in the mirror. 

you ignore all of it, at this point. 

*

when you got this job as an editor at the bugle--known for crazy conspiracy theories and adamant headlines, or pictures of spider-man--there was only one desk available. 

it's hidden in a little alcove of the space. a corner you have just to yourself--and it would be nice, you're sure, if there was any actual lighting or an outlet that worked anywhere within the eight-foot vicinity. and also if the ceiling would quit leaking almost right above your desk. 

you didn't complain when betty showed you it on your first day. you figured that after ten job interviews and six very strange first days, you didn't have any room left to complain. and you wouldn't be surprised if this only lasted three days. 

but it was supposed to be safer than stocking shelves at target--which, coincidentally, had no more shelves--or passing out flyers for local offices in the middle of the street. or even working at annie's flowers where everything was supposed to be beautiful and nurturing, but you were pretty sure you still needed stitches from all the thorn pricks you'd endured.

this was an office job. this was reading and writing and hoping to avoid the available eyes of everyone else--or a helicopter crash into the side of the building. 

what could go wrong, you'd thought, smiling at betty and thanking her for showing you around. 

and then you grabbed the nearest file on the desk, stained with something that looked like tears. you never said a word about your desk or the discomforting smell that came from the exposed pipes on the wall. 

you'd managed to last seven months at bugle, so far. seven months of laughing at grammatical errors and wincing at headlines with puns that even you couldn't have come up with. 

you fixed things and stayed out of everyone's way. 

and then you went home, running to avoid the rain, or trying to catch the subway before it left. 

you sat on the couch and watched the news, eating a sandwich or whatever you could find in the fridge that hadnt already rotted. 

you hadn't put the pictures up, and you didn't think you were going to. even though you'd been living in this apartment for more than a year, and it had been three since any of that mattered. 

you were lucky to have this life, you reminded yourself. and you sat at your tiny desk, reading about fates that were far worse than yours. 

*

there were at least twenty pairs of eyes on you when you opened the door. the hinges squeaked as you closed it, and you almost squeaked when you realized that everyone else--everyone--was already in there. 

all sitting down, all giving you confused looks. 

and you swore that the email about this mandatory "morale" meeting--an excuse for jameson to talk about failures for the month--said eight-thirty. 

you were absolutely sure of it. 

but as you lean against the wall because there aren't any chairs left, after whispering a soft apology, it was clear that you were very wrong. 

or maybe you'd been sent a typo that no one else received. or they forgot to put you on the forward list again, and there was no way for you to know that the time had changed to eight. 

or maybe you just couldn't read. 

it didn't matter, because after about fifteen seconds, the lecture resumed and the eyes left your sullen and guilty face. 

you couldn't listen to anything else you were supposed to be paying attention to for the next thirty minutes. 

your feet ached, and your head hurt, and every two minutes your stomach grumbled. and then you were thinking about breakfast. you were thinking about quitting this job so you didn't have to see any of these people ever again. 

and whatever jameson was ranting about, it probably didn't apply to you. 

still, it got worse when you began to doze off--who knew drywall could be so comfortable--only to wake up to people passing you, pushing you with glares in their eyes. 

"hey, cathy," you nodded, giving her a reckless smile and waving. you’d never shared a proper conversation with the older woman. you definitely did not hear her scoff as she walked by. 

and as soon as the crowd of your coworkers had cleared the room, you were sighing, hand to your head, and then promptly tripping over a leg of a chair someone didn't push in. 

a hand wrapped around your shoulder, awkward and warm, as someone pulled you toward them, keeping you from falling. 

"are you sick?" a rough, low voice whispered, not quite in your ear but not quite far enough away for you to feel comfortable. 

with the grace of a drunk elephant, you attempted to stand on your own two feet, trying to find your balance without flailing your arms. 

"what?" you croak out, trying to laugh this furious heat off of you. 

"you came in late, and now you're falling over. also, you feel a little warm." 

"i thought the meeting started at eight-thirty, and there was a chair," you say to this man, pushing the damn chair back in. "plus--" and then you look up. 

peter parker, with his signature furrowed brows and lip bite, stands there, looking at you. 

well, that explains the heat.

"oh, um--" you scratch at the back of your neck, going for a pleasant smile. "hey, peter. thanks for... not letting me split my head open." 

"do you want me to call you a cab?"

"why?" 

"you don't have a car right?" peter says, eyes clearly saying are you serious?

"i-- no?" 

"you probably shouldn't walk home then. you're already having trouble standing.” 

you blink. "i'm really not sick," you tell him, trying to sound stern or serious or anything but flustered. "it was an accident." 

he holds intense eye contact with you, barely blinking. "you sure?" 

you nod. it doesn't feel necessary to tell him that this happens a lot. 

"okay. well, jameson wanted me to talk to you about the jenson project. which he wants us to do together." 

"oh. how come?" 

"apparently 'partner work' is a strong selling point. i'd just send you some pictures to fit into an article. you'd have to--" he purses his lips. 

"mess with them?" you ask, trying to be helpful. 

"sure. jameson said he wants it to be nice and shiny for next weeks release. i thought maybe we could work on adding the pictures together, just so i know if i need to change anything." 

"like photoshop?" 

peter nods. "or if there's anything you have questions about. i was there taking the photos so i got a lot of the interview too."

"yeah, okay. i'm just working on a couple of footnotes for this week right now, so i'm not sure when i can--" 

"how's thursday?" 

you try not to flinch at his tone. certain but soft. his eyes, you think, might be the most terrifying thing you've ever seen up close. 

clearly, peter is not very interested in any of this. or maybe he's a strict rule follower and is holding a grudge against your lack of punctuality. 

"thursday works," you tell him, dropping your somewhat regular smile. 

"great. we can work at your desk or mine, it doesn't matter to me. or we can go get coffee to escape the office for a couple hours. just let me know."

and then he's walking away, pushing in a chair as he goes with a look back to you, and you've barely even comprehended what he just said. 

or the fact that he didn't let you answer him. 

"okay," you say, in a whisper, but you're just talking to the wall. 

last to come, you think, and last to leave. 

*

here's the thing about peter parker. he's not known for being the friendliest of coworkers. 

he's pleasant enough, gets all his work done, doesn't snap at people when they make mistakes and doesn't finish the coffee in the breakroom without brewing another pot. 

and since you've been there, you've learned--mostly from eavesdropping--that he's been working here for three years. that he's taken lead photographer out of many qualified candidate's hands and only responded with a smirk. that he's supposed to be a genius, comes into work with bruised knuckles sometimes--which your coworkers gossip endlessly about--and jameson is either constantly praising the man, or degrading him.

he doesn't go to office parties, he doesn't respond to emails. peter practices something you like to call "every man for himself." 

and he doesn't ever smile. 

trust that you should know. because, you'll admit, when you first got there, it was hard not to notice peter. 

first of all, he's very tall, strong, and kind of brooding. he takes up fifty percent of the office space alone. 

but he's also insanely attractive. blessed with thick hair and glorious eyebrows and cheekbones that put knives to shame. his eyes are soft and his lips are plump and he is a certified asshole. 

or at least something like it, everyone knows. including you. 

but for at least the first two weeks you couldn't avoid staring at his pursed lips or snorts when someone said something particularly obnoxious--usually jameson--or the way he tapped his wrist incessantly, like he was counting down time. 

peter parker makes for a very suitable work distraction. 

but as soon as you talked to him for the first time, you realized that he was a pretty, intelligent man.

you'd stumbled into the breakroom and dropped whatever semblance of a lunch you were going to pretend to eat that day, and peter was sitting at one of the tables watching. 

he didn't have anything to eat, just a cup of coffee and a bitter look on his face. 

you'd smiled sheepishly, picking up your now tarnished food, and swallowing. "i wasn't that hungry anyway," you'd said aloud, mostly because you weren't thinking clearly at the time. 

peter didn't say anything back, not acknowledging the sarcasm or your lost lunch, he just stared. 

and then you held a hand out to him. "hi, i don't think i've introduced myself. i'm y/n, a new editor." 

peter blinked, looking at your hand, then back to your face. "peter," he said, giving you a small wave. 

and then he turned his attention back to the mug in front of him, leaving your hand in the air, radiating embarrassment. 

you cleared your throat and left the room, deciding to get more work done instead of worrying about it. 

you'd sort of assumed--recklessly--that he would be charming. that he might smile at you, welcome you to the team, tell you that if you needed anything he was there. maybe it was his face, you'd thought. soft and knowing. 

but peter wasn't there for anything but the money, and gradually, he became just another grim coworker, watching the clock until five every day. 

and that was probably good for you anyway, because as angry or numb as peter already was, you didn't want to inflict anything bad on him, as you might've if he'd just smiled at you. 

and if you overheard the clique of middle age ladies talking about him during lunch, you didn't say anything. didn't smile or laugh, or try to pretend like you weren't listening. 

you kept your conversations with him short and tried to stay out of his way. 

but apparently, he was going to get in yours. 

*

you really don't even notice him when he walks up to your desk. 

it's not your fault that you didn't get much sleep last night, being that your neighbors--right next to your bedroom--were fighting all night long. slamming doors and throwing things that shattered when they hit the floor. 

and then they'd start screaming again. 

you'd attempted to drown them out, only just barely dozing off when some other loud noise would wake you right back up. 

you'd considered putting your headphones in and playing white noise, but with your luck, that would last all night into the next day, and your seven alarms would be pointless. 

so you laid there, trying not to eavesdrop on the fight they were having, or think about your own voice yelling, screaming, and then going completely silent. 

and now, you were nursing a cup of coffee, blinking at the computer screen like it was a puzzle. 

and peter had come up to your desk--made the effort to venture almost across the office to your little cave--and you didn't see him there.

you didn't see anything until he cleared his throat, tapping his foot against the floor like an angry mother, and you finally looked up. 

looked up to threatening eyes and a frown. 

and peter parker, because of course he was there, at this very moment. 

"hi, peter. what-- what's up?" 

he blinks at you. you blink back, though significantly slower. 

in the past two days, you had avoided any and all eye contact with him and accidentally forgot to look at the email he had sent you with some files attached. you also conveniently learned that jameson was disappointed with his last set of pictures, and that was probably why he'd forced the two of you to work together. 

it didn't really matter. 

"it's thursday," peter answers, dryly, after several moments of uncomfortable silence. 

you look away, searching for any other person that could talk to him instead of you. "was that a question?" 

"we have a date," he says, a bit harsher. 

you couldn’t avoid leaning back at his voice, nor noticing the wince that fell upon his face as soon as he said it. 

"er," peter clears his throat. "we're supposed to work on the jenson article today. are--do you have amnesia?" 

"huh?" 

"or some other medical condition," peter continues, "that would cause you to forget about the one article you have to edit this week?" 

briefly, you want to ask how he knew that it was your only article, and why he was allowed to judge your work ethic when his was "consume coffee like blood and scare away any person who tries to speak." 

you try not to laugh at the idea of vampire peter. 

instead, you mumble "just a severe mental deficiency," under your breath and pinch the skin of your thigh, just to wake you up some more. 

"what?" peter says, still frowning at you.

you sigh. "look, peter, i'm sorry. i haven't even looked at the article yet, or any of your pictures. i've been busy. but if you just want me to finish it myself i can--" 

peter holds a hand up, telling you to stop without asking nicely. 

you almost scowl at the very idea of it. 

"no," he says, like it physically pained him to do so. "i need this--jameson wanted us to work through it together. as an actual collaboration." 

you're very grateful that he's explaining this to you. 

"i'm not going to tell him," you say, voice rough.

"you can read it and figure out where you want the pictures and the description for them while i edit some of them. i was rushing when i did it last week." 

"um... okay. are you sure?" 

"we can't work here," peter responds, instead of answering the question. "there's barely enough room for just you." 

"...yeah." 

"my desk is a mess," peter says, more to himself. "we can go to the coffee shop a block away." 

you squint at him. "are you sure? 'cause we could always go to the starbucks on fifteenth, or we could just skip it and head to tipsy's." 

you're just briefly aware that your sarcasm is not coming across well, and that you probably shouldn't have said that, nonetheless to peter parker, who already hates you enough. 

to be fair, he hasn't asked you about any of these decisions.

"i'm going to go get my bag," peter grinds out. "i'll meet you by the elevator." 

*

the only thing keeping you sane while you sit across from peter is the latte that you've been chugging for the past three minutes. 

as soon as you got there, peter had ordered some tea that you didn't know the name of, picking the table for the both of you, and before you could even sit down he was frowning at his computer. 

he hasn't bothered to say anything to you, so you don't bother to say anything to him. 

still, you look up every couple of minutes, wondering what he could possibly be so worried about. 

luckily--ha--this article is reasonably proofread. you only have to fix a couple of jumbled sentences and reread a couple of paragraphs because you can't really focus.

it's about half an hour after you've both been working that you get tired of it. 

collaborating with peter by staring at your computer and hoping that the pleasantries, or nice relationship you've been craving for the past six months will manifest itself into existence. 

he's right there, you think to yourself, and he's an ass sometimes but so are you. 

and it's not like you get the opportunity to talk to a lot of people at work. 

you clear your throat. "the pictures are good," you tell him as if this is new information. 

you've known about peter's affiliation with photography since your second day. 

the man just grumbles out a thanks, not even bothering to look up and acknowledge you. 

you have a tight smile on your face. "are you still editing them, or can i start asking you where you think they should go?" 

"you finished already?" 

there's some emotion in his voice that you don't recognize, but there is still the obvious disdain that you're becoming very comfortable with. 

"i'm a fast reader," you tell him. "was that a no?" 

peter finally looks up, face blank. "i'll send you the updated ones. do you want me to add them in where i think they'd work, or just tell you where to do it?" 

you'd really like to never have to have a one-on-one conversation with him again, but that doesn't really seem like an option right now. 

"how about i put them in and you blink twice if you think it's stupid." 

peter does not crack a smile. he doesn't even blink. 

you try to hide another sigh. "go ahead and put them in." 

and so you wait five minutes for the internet to catch up to him and silently curse jameson for subjecting you to this. 

your latte is almost gone. 

"okay, you can go through it," peter tells you eventually, returning to something else on his computer. 

you scroll through it, beginning to write descriptions for each of the photos--which really are beautiful. and bright, almost too good for the bugle. 

but you're a bit bored, and a bit delirious. 

"can i ask you something?" 

peter looks up at you, classic furrowed brows, and then back to his computer, grunting. 

you're assuming that it means yes, but if he's not going to use his words like a big boy, then he'll have to deal with the consequences himself. 

"how do you get the pictures of spider-man?" 

"with my camera." 

you can't tell if he's kidding or not.

"no, i mean, how do you get such good quality? he's always moving around, and quickly, so i'd assume it would be pretty difficult..." 

he frowns. "it's just some angles and flash," peter answers. "honestly, it's less complicated than you think. they're not all good, i go back and edit them." 

"yeah, but still." 

peter shrugs, and looks down again. 

"have you ever actually spoken to him?" you continue, still sizing pictures, still writing descriptions. 

but you'll be damned if peter sits there in silence for another minute. 

he sighs. "yeah, couple times." 

"really?" 

peter nods. 

"is he nice?" 

peter frowns. "'is he nice?'" 

"yeah. i mean, i've heard lots of stories and read the articles--obviously--but i've never met him. is he... a good guy?" 

"he keeps people from dying on the daily, and you're asking if he's got a good moral compass?" 

you almost scowl, looking up to find brown eyes studying you. and then you shake your head. "i just find it hard to believe, i guess. i can't imagine--" you pause, shrugging. look away from peter's intimidating eyes. 

"you can't imagine what?" 

"just... doing that every day and being okay. i mean, he sees people get hurt all of the time, and he's supposed to be okay with that? that's a lot of mental energy. what if he's helping someone that he knows? or what if he can't help? not to mention the physical aspect..." 

peter closes his computer, taking a breath. "are you good with the photos?" he asks. 

"what?" 

"i need to get back to the office and talk to jameson about some stuff. do you need anything else from me?" 

peter is stiff and scowling. you shouldn't be surprised, but he also just shut down the first actual conversation you've ever had with him. 

"oh, no. no, i'm okay. thanks." 

"okay. i'll see you later." 

peter packs up his stuff, and doesn't bother to look back at you while he walks out the door. you're not sure what you did this time--besides just generally existing--but you groan, hands rubbing at your eyes. 

you're too tired for this. you're too exhausted to be talking to peter parker, who doesn't talk to anyone. 

you sigh and look back to the article. 

and then you spill what's left of your coffee, watching as it drips to the floor. 

*

you're trying not to move. 

even breathing, you think, is moving. so you hold your breath for as long as you can bare it, counting by tens, thinking about all the reasons you shouldn't need air. 

but eventually, your body gasps for you. 

your body moves because it can't think the same as you can, it can't hold that same guilt. 

you know that if you don't move--not even a millimeter--nothing bad can happen. the dominos won't fall if there's nobody to push them over. 

you're laying in bed completely still. 

you're thinking about all of the mistakes you made, all of the unfortunate things you've caused to happen, and it causes enough fear to turn you to stone. 

you'd be a statue. you know if you could choose that, you would.

what do you want to be when you grow up? 

clay. 

you'd choose being cemented in concrete than ever having to look your own luck in the eyes again. 

you count by tens until you fall asleep. 

and you dream of things that have already happened. 

*

when you show up to work on monday, soaking wet, there's already a cup of coffee on your desk. 

you try and think back to friday--which was lifetimes ago, really--and remember if you left it there. but you stayed in the office on friday, contemplating putting in your two weeks or throwing your computer across the room. you didn't go out for coffee. 

and when you pick up this disposable cup to smell it, you can feel the steam on your face. 

it's warm. 

you look around the room, searching for someone who might've left this on your desk--even though you're literally hidden from every common eye--but can't find anyone who looks particularly tired this morning. 

and there are only four people in the office as of now. 

so you wait ten minutes, and then fifteen, ready for someone to come up to your desk at any moment and accuse you of stealing their coffee. 

this would not be a surprising occurrence. 

but even after twenty minutes, no one does. 

you're back in your corner, alone, as per usual. 

and when you realize that the coffee is going to go cold--claimed or not--you decide to take a sip. 

and for the first time in a while, you've started the day off alright. 

*

on tuesday, jameson calls you and peter into his office. 

and, out of nothing less than familiarity, you're ready to be yelled at. you've prepared a list of snarky remarks to keep you from crying. 

and you're completely, one hundred percent ready to ignore peter. 

if he doesn't like working with you, fine. that's up to him--even though you definitely did a good job with his pictures. and if he doesn't even like you, fine. 

you can deal with that. 

what you can't deal with, of course, is standing a foot away from him in this office, feeling towered over by both of these men, who are much bigger than you. 

but you keep eye contact with jameson anyway. what else can go wrong? 

"i heard we were having some issues with the article last week," the boss starts, his voice typically unserious. 

you furrow your brows and try not to look at peter. 

he tattled on you? 

"yes," you say, instead of admitting defeat. "i was behind on editing the article, so it took a little longer than expected. but i emailed you the finished copy on thursday night." 

you don't mention that it was exactly one in the morning, and you'd been having twenty-minute naps since you got home. 

or that peter had completely unnerved you. 

"parker?" 

peter sighs, shrugging. "it gave me more time to go over the pictures. we got it in." 

at that, jameson smiles. 

you wonder if he finds peter's grumpiness as amusing as you do. or if he's just enjoying the two of you struggle to completely ignore the other. 

"good. well, seeing as it worked out--and it's some of the best work i've seen from both of you--i'd like to make it a regular arrangement." 

finally, you glance over at peter, noticing his jaw clench. 

you're not sure if it's at jameson's suggestion or his praise. 

"it's a brilliant idea, having the photographer and editor working together. parker, you've got some fine pictures, but you're no writer. and obviously, she is." 

you don't tell him that you feel anything but. 

jameson chuckles, holding his hands up in defense. "i know, i know, it's more work for both of you. and more interaction. but it's only one article a week. everything else will remain the same." 

"for how long?" peter asks, for the both of you. 

"until one of you quits, i guess. or dies." 

it's at this point that you see that there are no other options. no choices for you to consider. if peter wants to quit, he certainly can. he could get a job anywhere he wanted, any newspaper. 

but you've struggled to keep this job. you've struggled to be anywhere for more than a month. 

and despite how much you might dread the place, it's also an escape from everything else. 

so you can't leave. and you have no current plans to die. 

"alright, you can both go. shut the door on the way out. and one of you ask betty to get me a cup of coffee." 

you follow peter out, looking at the muscles in his back tense. 

and when you shut the door, he turns toward you. 

he looks even angrier, even worse than he had last week. he's not even trying to remain professional. 

"thursday?" he asks, but you know it's not a question. 

"fine." 

you go back to your desk, watching the ceiling leak onto your computer. 

*

peter decides to go back to the coffee shop. 

he orders the same tea, sits at the same table. 

and he doesn't say a thing to you. he didn't even blink when you went to his desk at nine, gesturing towards the elevator. 

but honestly, that's fine. you don't have anything to say to him either. 

except to ask what made him hate the world so much. but you don't think he'd appreciate that. 

eventually, you swallow. "so, you can put the pictures where you'd like, and then i'll write the descriptions. it'll be faster that way, and you've got a good eye." 

peter nods but he doesn't answer. 

"is there anything i need to know? anything important you want to add?" 

"about the pictures?" peter confirms, waiting for your acknowledgment. "no. about social courtesy? definitely." 

the last part is said completely under his breath, but you catch it anyway. 

catch it like a rope you're hanging onto, hoping that it doesn't slip from your fingers. 

"what?" you say, looking right at him. your hands are off of your computer. your hands might be around his throat in a couple of seconds. 

peter furrows his brows. "what?" he repeats as if he doesn't know what he's said. 

"what's your problem?"  

"my problem?" 

"yeah, with everyone. but especially me. peter, you don't have to like me, but i'd appreciate it if you could at least try and be professional. or talk to me about the work that we need to do." 

"i don't have a problem--" 

"save it. i'm sorry that jameson is making us work together, but unless you kill me, there's nothing i can do about it." 

peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. "well there's something you can do about the way you get everything done," he says, quick and sharp. 

"excuse me?" 

"is it physically impossible for you to sit still? or show up on time, or do the work that you need to do? if i have a problem with you, it's that you're not doing anything to help me, and i don't need you." 

"that's not what jameson thinks." 

the words slip from your mouth, but honestly, peter deserves the wind knocked out of his chest, just like he did to you. 

if karma is a thing, it's coming through.

it's just your luck that you'd get partnered with the one person that couldn't hate working any more. 

"jameson doesn't even read the articles," peter scoffs, "he just sits in his office and smokes cigars and bosses everyone around--" 

"then why does he want me to write your descriptions? you can't do it yourself?" 

"maybe he pities you." 

peter's eyes are sharp. his words are perfect. 

"why would he pity me?" you ask him, "because i'm an editor?" 

"because there's not a single person in the office that likes you. because disaster is attracted to you. because you can't follow directions to save your life, and you clearly have some issue with speaking up for yourself. he's probably pairing us together in some last-ditch effort to save you." 

save you. 

you take a breath in, tell your lungs that there's no air that they need. 

there's no reason to be breathing, if you think about it. 

and when you look at your hands, they're shaking. and you can't keep your eyes in one place. and you're ready to run out of there, to anywhere where peter can't follow. 

you can't admit to yourself that he's right. you can't sit still, and you can't be there for much longer. 

"you think you're better?" you ask him. "everyone in the office is scared of you. you don't have friends or anyone that likes you either." 

peter shakes his head. "i chose that." 

there's an implication there that you can't think about. there's something about his calm demeanor. 

you can almost see the ghost of a smile on his face, just like everyone had said. 

you don't have a choice about most things. but you know when to quit. 

"peter, you can talk to jameson. you can quit, or do all of it yourself. if you want to just send me the pictures and have me edit all of it, that's fine." you stand up, shoving your computer in your bag, and trying to keep your hands steady as you pick up your latte. "but if you can't treat me like a person, or a coworker," you tell him, "then i'll talk to jameson myself.”

and then, without waiting for a response, you walk out the door. 

you try not to let it hit you on the way out. 

*

peter avoids you the next day. 

or maybe you're avoiding him. 

luckily, he's gone most of the time, taking pictures and sulking in corners where you don't have to watch. 

jameson hasn't said anything about the article you submitted, and you're trying to assume that it's a good thing. 

but honestly, none of it feels good anymore. 

you know that you shouldn't let someone like peter parker get under your skin, but he has some iron grip on your brain. some cave built in your head, echoing the things he said to you yesterday. 

nobody likes you. 

disaster is attracted to you. 

it's in your nature to prove him wrong, somehow. to start gossiping with the other ladies in the office, maybe even ask one of the men out on the date--though none of them are as tall, or as pretty as peter parker, so it probably wouldn't matter to him anyway. 

you think about talking to jameson, tell him that you and peter can't work together, or that peter is an asshole, or that you would like a raise. 

you think about blackmailing peter, but you have nothing on him. (besides his obvious attitude problem). 

you want to do anything to prove to yourself that what he said isn't true. 

people can like you, and you can like yourself. 

but you know, that even if peter is just an asshole, bitter, and lots of other things you don't care to think about, he's also right. 

at least about one thing. 

disaster is attracted to you. and to the people you care about.

cared. 

you wish you could tell peter that all of those things he thinks about you aren't by choice. that you don't want to live in your cave of a desk, and you don't want to show up late to anything, or trip on chairs, or walk in the rain. 

but he'd probably just laugh. 

and anyway, he isn't there on friday. so you can't tell him any of it. 

*

on monday, it only takes two alarms to wake you up. 

and typically, you'd be proud of that. grateful for it. 

but it's cold outside, and you have to go to work. 

you'd rather be sleeping. 

rather be laying in bed than thinking about peter, or anyone else pitying you. rather do anything than think about peter and still recognize that he's smart and talented and better than you. 

so you leave your alarm clock under the bed. 

what are sick days for, if not days like this? 

*

on tuesday, you get to work early. it's not by choice, but you were running in the rain. 

you were trying to beat everyone there so that you might not have to speak to a single person all day. 

that would be nice. 

but someone is already there when you walk through the elevator doors, jacket still dripping. 

and that someone doesn't even look up, or bother to wonder where the water is coming from. 

of course, peter beat you there. 

you've never loved your desk, but it's a welcome refuge now, despite how bad it smells. you can't see him, and he can't see you. 

and you can take your jacket off over there. 

but when you sit down, there's something on your desk that you don't recognize. 

a blue hairbrush, and a candy bar next to it, wrapper somewhat wrinkled. 

on tuesday, you decide that you're officially going crazy. 

*

you try to avoid wednesday as a whole. thinking of it more as another object in your way, and something that can be ignored until it's over. 

and it works, for the most part. you eat lunch at your desk, bring coffee from home, and sneak handfuls of chocolate whenever you feel like it. 

you go through a thousand articles and decide that all of your coworkers are illiterate. 

which you don't really mean, but prefer to think anyway. 

it's about an hour before you can get home that you see the notification show up in your mail. 

a new message, most likely some coupon for h&m. 

but you see peter's name at the top, and a file attached to it. you stare at it for at least a minute. 

it could be a hate note, a notification about submitting an hr claim, a picture of a house burning with a description of "this will be you." or even a list of people that peter hates, with your name in bold. 

there are a thousand possibilities, and you don't care about a single one. 

but when you click on the link, you just open a pdf with new pictures, labeled with the title of the article for the week. 

and you're not sure what any of that is supposed to mean. 

*

on thursday, peter is at your desk again. 

in fact, he's at your desk before you are. and when you see the back of his head peering over your pens and pencils, and files that you haven't wanted to put away, your breath stops. 

he might be there to murder you. 

still, you continue to walk forward, tennis shoes squeaking, and pray that you don't accidentally trip before he's even noticed you're there. if peter is going to kill you, you might as well accept your fate. 

and then you step past him, frowning. "peter?" 

"oh, hey," he says, softly, standing up. his hands are awkwardly clasped in front of him. "you're early." 

"what're you doing here?" 

"at work?" 

"at my desk." 

peter bites the inside of his cheek. he gestures to the ceiling. "it's leaking," is all he says. 

"yeah. it rained last night. why are you here?" 

"did you tell jameson about it?" 

you don't know how to feel anything but shocked. is he waiting for the perfect moment? does he want you to get comfortable just so he can ruin it? 

"i--no, it's fine. i don't..." you shake your head, setting your bed down. "did you need something, peter?" 

he clears his throat, nodding. "are we going to work on the article today?" 

you might be gawking at him. 

"what?" 

"i just--there are some details i want to add, if you don't mind, and i think--" he stops, taking a deep breath in. "you're better at it than me, so i'd like your advice." 

there is only one thought running through your head as you stare at him. 

when did peter parker get a nicer, shyer twin? 

"what?" you say again, just because you don't know how to answer any other way. 

in fact, some part of you thinks that this might be fake. peter parker would kill you, and then you would hallucinate a different version of him that's actually talking to you. 

no trick the world might be playing on you is more surprising than the smile peter is trying to put on his face, stiff and wrong. 

he blows out a breath. "i'm sorry about last week. i shouldn't--i didn't, well. i shouldn't have snapped at you. or said any of those things. and you were right about me being unprofessional and mean, and just--" peter shakes his head. 

and then he meets your eyes. "i'm really sorry. i'd like to continue working with you, because jameson is right, and... but i understand if you don't want to. if you don't feel comfortable. i can talk to jameson, so you don't have to, or--" 

"peter?" 

he stops talking, nodding. "yeah?" 

"am i hallucinating?" 

you must be. you must be dying or something. you can't believe that you didn't notice until now, that you didn't pay attention to any of the signs, or worried over something stupid like what you should be eating for breakfast when-- 

but peter parker laughs. 

it's small and almost inaudible, but he's laughing. 

and it's not that laugh that first drew you to him all those months ago, that judgemental snort or the laughing-at-you-not-with-you chuckle you'd thought was adorable. 

this is a genuine laugh. 

you blink, because this is just another sign that you're dead. 

peter sighs. "no, i mean all of it. i'm... just sorry." 

"you are?" 

he nods, and he's still looking at you. 

"um, okay," you say, nodding your head. "yeah, we can--we'll go get coffee. but there's, um, i just have some stuff i need to finish from yesterday, so--" 

"how's nine?" peter asks, softly. 

and this time, it almost isn't an interruption. it's more of a saving grace. 

"yes, sure. nine." 

"okay," peter gives you that same fake smile, and then he turns around, leaving the cave and going back to his desk. 

you can't decide if this is a good or bad thing.

*

"you didn't have to do that," you're saying to peter as the two of you walk to the only empty table in the shop. 

conviently it's much smaller than your usual table. 

"i owe you," is all peter says. 

"not coffee." 

"it's six dollars." 

you're having a hard time deciphering his face. and his attitude. 

you're wondering if this more pleasant, sweet version of peter is going to last long. 

you're wondering how far you can push him. 

"i don't want to be indebted to you. it sets a bad precedent."

peter sighs, and he's shaking his head, and possibly rolling his eyes, but he says: "fine. next time we come you can pay." 

you're satisfied with this, at least for now, so you take a sip of your latte and open your computer. 

"which descriptions do you want to add?" you ask peter, "i already looked through all the pictures." 

"just the ones of the church, and the bank." 

"you want to add descriptions to the burned-down buildings?" 

peter doesn't seem to recognize the sarcasm, because all he does is wince and nod. 

you're frowning at his face, but you agree, letting him handle your computer so that you don't have to wait for it to update. 

peter takes a couple of minutes, writing details that you'd have no idea about, scowling all the while. 

"when'd you take these pictures?" you ask him, in the middle of it. 

"saturday before last." 

"you work on the weekends?" you raise an eyebrow at him, but he's not looking. 

"i carry my camera around. sometimes jameson asks for pictures that i can't get six days after." 

he pushes your computer back to you, nodding. immediately you start reading what he's written, trying very hard not to laugh at some of the word choices. 

most readers aren't going to respond to an acrid smell. 

but you don't tell peter this, you just change it, adding and deleting words where you see fit. 

"did you work at another journal before this?" peter asks, after a couple of minutes of silence. 

you look up at him and realize that he might've been staring at you the whole time, and you'd have no idea. he might be texting someone about how horrible you are. 

"no." 

"you started writing when you got the job?" 

"mm-hmm," you continue typing, trying to avoid peter's eyes. 

"how'd you get so good at it, then?" 

"oh, well. it's just editing, you know, not that complicated," you repeat his words back to him but feel uncomfortable at his praise, even if it is a lie, but especially if it's true. 

"you're writing all of these descriptions. jameson says i make them too complicated, or unreachable for readers." 

"jameson says that to betty when she puts cream in his coffee." 

peter almost chuckles. "that's true." 

there's a moment when you aren't sure what to say. if this is friendship, or peter pretending to be kind just so that you won't tell jameson. just so you'll keep helping him. 

but he doesn't need you. 

"well, you're a brilliant photographer, so you don't have a lot to make up for." 

"tell jameson that." 

and that third week, everything goes smoothly.

*

after the fourth week, you and peter don't need to plan when you're going to work together. four days of the week you are completely independent, editing articles and spinning around in your chair, and listening to jameson yell at people from across the room. 

but on thursdays, you and peter are partners. 

it's a regular meeting now, so you show up at the elevator at eight-fifteen and peter is already waiting there. and then you walk to the coffee shop, making small talk that isn't completely uncomfortable. 

peter asks you about your plans for the weekend--though you doubt that he actually listens to the answer. and you ask him about working at the bugle for three years, about wanting to quit every day. 

it's only when you mention something of the sort that you can get peter to smile, even a little. 

but today, as soon as you sit down, sipping on your coffee and moving hair out of your face, peter is frowning. 

but it's not his typical resting frown. 

"what did you do?" he asks, staring at your forehead. 

"hmm?" 

"to your head. what happened?" 

you touch the edge of your head, feeling the cut run up your skin, and sign. "oh. that. i fell." 

peter is blinking at you like you've removed your head from your body. 

you move your hair back, feeling self-conscious. 

"what'd you fall on? a knife?" 

it's almost a joke but peter's face is concerned, his eyes are running over yours. so you're not sure that it counts. 

"i bumped my head on the corner of a table." 

"and got a five-inch cut?"  

you roll your eyes, realizing that neither of you has taken out your computers, or actually sat down properly. "by 'bumped' i meant tripped and fell into the table and woke up a couple minutes later feeling a bit dizzy." 

peter's frown deepens. "do you have a concussion?" 

you raise a brow. "no?" 

he tilts his head, pursing his lips at you like you're a reckless child. "you didn't go to the doctor?" 

"i washed my face and put some glue on the cut." 

"it probably needs stitches." 

you just shrug. 

"does your head still hurt?" peter asks you. "are you having a hard time focusing? did you feel nauseous when you woke up?" 

you blink, laughing just a little bit, mostly because you're confused. "whoa, dr. parker, i'm fine. it happens. i'm clumsy." 

"you're reckless, you mean." 

"says the man who wears converse and a t-shirt when it rains." 

at that, peter has nothing left to say. 

*

it's maybe three weeks later that the two of you have moved on. 

way, way on. 

bypassing the small talk stage, you now make fun of peter for being knowledgable about every single thing--to avoid showing him how impressed you are--and he teases you about your abnormaly large bag, all the while trying to give you life advice, telling you that he has more experience than you do. 

he's about a year older. 

and it's comfortable now. peter doesn't joke much, but when he does, you react with nothing short of a cackle. and you've finally chided a real smile out of him, even if it's just a twitch of his lip or a wrinkle of his nose. 

peter doesn't complain about your tardiness or the strange way you like to get your work done, and you don't complain about his sour attitudes, and glares. 

well, not much, at least. 

and you're not friends--you don't think you can say that, if only because it terrifies you--but that's okay. you don't think either of you needs that, some label on a relationship that could fluctuate into something else at any minute. 

but peter is there, and you don't feel like every move you make is a mistake anymore. 

when jameson calls the two of you into his office to praise you about an article that did well or ridicule the two of you for slacking on an article that no one cares about--even though he chose the topic--well. you smile at peter, and he smiles at you. 

and if you laugh, he laughs. 

still, you notice some layer of bitterness behind peter's eyes. like he knows that he's not supposed to be here, not supposed to be laughing or smiling or working with someone that he doesn't need. 

you can see it, hear it in the way he talks sometimes. 

so you tread lightly, not talking much on those days, and only offering him suggestions that he can't turn down. 

he never snaps at you, and you don't think he's going to. 

but there's still a bit of hesitation. 

and on this particular wednesday, you're crossing out some section of an article, sighing into the paper, and trying not to listen to the creaks of your chair, when peter walks up to your desk. 

in his eyes is something curious, something you don't see very often. 

"hello, peter. is there something i can do for you?" you exaggerate the words, sort of like a warning. 

"just stopping by. wanted to make sure that our fresh meat isn't being worked too hard." 

you frown. "i've worked here almost a year." 

peter tilts his head, shaking it. his eyes display some fake show of shame. "ah. to be so naive." 

and then, without giving you another glance, he steals a pen from your desk and walks away. 

you don't know if you're supposed to call out to him. 

*

"what is that, peter?" 

he looks up from his phone, still chewing. "what?" he asks, through a mouthful of food. 

"that's your lunch?" 

"wanna bite?" he offers the protein bar to you. 

"you're surviving on that?" 

peter rolls his eyes, looking away from you. "i have a big breakfast." 

something about the way he says it makes you feel like he's lying, or hiding something, but if peter wants to lie about his eating habits--you had a bagel with butter on it this morning--who are you to judge? 

it's comforting to be sitting here, in this lonely breakroom, next to an actual person. 

it's also a bit strange because peter had said one word to you in this very room, the day you'd met. 

"do you also eat wheat and very occasionally half an egg?" 

peter bites his lip. "how do you half an egg?" 

"c'mon, you can have some of my lunch." 

you pull out a bag of chips, a sandwich, and some assortment of fruit that had been sitting in the fridge for far too long. 

peter furrows his brows. "what is that?" 

"this is a lunch, peter. say it with me. lunch." 

"i think your sandwich is rotting." 

you snort. "i don't want to hear any criticism from you, mr. ant, when you're literally eating eight grams of protein and four chocolate chips." 

"there's at least seven," he argues, and frowns. "ant?" 

"cause of your appetite." 

and then, peter almost smiles. 

*

and there's a part of you that feels the guilt seep into your skin with every breath, every almost laugh you get out of peter. 

there's that voice in your head, laughing at your stupidity, wanting to whisper threats in your ear. 

when you're home alone, you can't ignore it. 

you can't feel anything. 

you worry that sometimes, seven alarms won't be enough to wake you up. not from this foolish dream of having a friend, or just someone to talk to. 

you'll never stop being reckless, that voice says. 

you'll never stop hurting people. 

you know that you need to let peter go, right now, before you get used to his laughter and a smile with teeth. before he wonders where you've gone on days that you miss work, and can call you when he's bored. 

the last time this happened, the last time you let this happen-- 

every night you promise yourself that tomorrow. tomorrow you'll start distancing yourself. 

you'll be too busy for peter. too busy for anyone else. 

you've kept this job for longer than any other one, and you don't want to lose the familiarity. you don't want to have to leave. 

you'll be a ghost, starting tomorrow. 

*

"what do you mean?" peter says, arms crossed, glaring at you from the other side of the table. 

you're typing as you say "what do you mean what do i mean?" 

the two of you have eliminated peter's computer completely. you type descriptions, and he places them where he wants, making sure not to mess up the rest of the article. and then you read what you've written to him, and try to ignore his snide comments. 

it's a well-thought-out routine. 

thursdays might be your favorite day of the week. 

"you don't cook?" peter asks, sounding dubious. "not even pasta? or a pre-cooked meal in the oven?" 

"i save those for special occasions." 

"you just eat things you find at the store?" 

"i'm a big fan of those pre-made salads, and cans of fruit." 

peter sighs, leaning his head into his hands. 

"what?" you say, "the lack of protein bars in my diet is upsetting you?" 

"you don't cook?" peter repeats. "at all?" 

"no, peter. now will you help me--" 

"why not?" he interrupts, closing the computer. 

you sigh at him and he sighs back. 

you think that his foot might be kicking yours under the table. 

"i'm kind of a hazard in the kitchen. i don't feel like making a hospital visit every time im craving some mac and cheese." 

"you can't be that bad." 

you laugh and roll up your sleeve, showing peter the side of your arm. "see that scar? it's from when i tried to make thanksgiving dinner and burned myself trying to put something in the oven." 

peter frowns, running the tip of his finger over it while you laugh. 

you roll your sleeve back down, looking at his far too concerned eyes. "last time i tried to use a knife i almost lost the tip of my pinky." 

peter waves a hand. "that happens to everyone." 

"and i was also wearing a cutting glove." 

he closes his mouth. stares at you very intently. 

"peter, can we get back to actually finishing this article before jameson fires us both? and by fire, i mean literally burning us both alive." 

peter is still staring, apparently thinking very hard. "i'm going to cook for you," he states, shrugging finally. 

"what do you mean?" 

"my aunt taught me enough to feed you for one night." 

"peter, i meant, why would you do that?" 

"because apparently you only eat boxed food--" 

"--there's cans too--" 

"and you're already crazy. you need some actual dinner. a meal." 

"peter, you always criticize me for eating so much at lunch when you're munching on your apple or whatever--" 

"yeah, because i didn't realize that those bagged foods were the only sustenance you were getting." 

you laugh at him. "i think that's a little dramatic." 

"i don't. are you free tomorrow night?" 

something inside you screams no, violently and furious. it tells you to get up right now and leave. tells you that you shouldn't even be here, that they should. 

but the other part of you is laughing. 

"peter, i'm not letting you cook for me." 

"you think i'm a bad cook?" he challenges, just barely smiling. 

"i think you're insane." 

he mock laughs, and then holds his hand out. "give me your phone." 

"why?" 

"just do it." 

and you do, only because peter's eyes are right on yours and he's not going to let you look away. 

he takes your phone and types something in, smiling a little while he does so. and then he hands it back to you. 

"type your address in." 

"peter, i'm serious. you're not coming to my apartment to cook for me. i eat." 

"so am i," peter responds, "put it in." 

you raise a brow, refusing to lose this battle. in all honestly, you're not sure who's going to break first, because peter hates eye contact, but you hate his eyes. 

"do you want me to just ask jameson for the address listed on your file?" 

and there's something about the way he says it that makes you giggle, finally looking away. you shake your head, a bit annoyed that he's gotten this far. 

but you type your address and send it to him anyway. 

and there's only a small piece of you that regrets it. 

*

there's a knock on your door while you're pacing around. 

it's seven o'clock, and you've only had the last two hours to think about how to get out of this. you've contemplated playing sick, pretending not to be home, telling peter that there was an emergency, accidentally forgetting about this whole in the first place. 

and the only real answer you've come to is that you can't answer the door. 

work is one thing, you think, but as soon as someone is allowed to invade other areas of your life, you've got no choice. 

you need to keep peter away, and you need to start doing it tonight. 

but he's knocking at your door, and there's something about him standing there that makes you feel restless. 

insane. 

and you're not even thinking as you walk through the hallway, swearing to yourself that you're only going to make sure that it's really him. 

you're not thinking when you bump into the side table by the door, and knock over a vase that you could've sworn you moved weeks ago. a vase you shouldn't even own. 

"shit!" you're saying, as you try to catch it. 

it shatters against the floor, covering the entire walkway, and effectively trapping you from moving forward. 

maybe it's fate. 

maybe this is just another warning not to answer that door. 

but then a muffled voice says "y/n? you alright?" 

and you rap your hand against your head, feeling so stupid and unlucky. still, you call back to peter. "i'm okay. just broke a vase. let me clean this up really quick and i'll--" 

peter is frowning when he opens the door. 

and you are frowning when you realize that you left it unlocked for the last two hours. 

"don't move," peter says, quickly. "you're not wearing any shoes." 

"it's fine, peter, i'll be careful." 

"where's your broom?" he asks, meeting your eyes.

it's only then that you realize he's wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. he's standing in front of you in completely normal clothes and carrying a bag of groceries. 

"no, you're my guest and i'm not letting you pick up my mess." 

"where is it?" he repeats, softer now. 

and you want to walk over the shards just to prove a point to him--whether it's that you're fine, or that you can handle a little pain--but peter is looking at you and walking inside, trying to kick away the shards closest to your feet. 

you sigh. "there's a closet just around the corner." 

peter gives you a small smile, hand grazing over your shoulder, and then he goes to get it, unconcerned about the cracking underneath his feet. 

when he comes back and begins to sweep it up, he's almost laughing. "were you running to the door?" 

"i think i lack control over all of my limbs. i might be a robot." 

peter scoffs. "you wouldn't get hurt all of the time if you were a robot." 

"i'm realistic."

 "you're human and ridiculously uncoordinated." 

you frown at him, and peter smiles at you. he brushes the broom over your bare feet, laughing when you squirm away. and then he clears a path so you can walk forward without cutting yourself. 

"thanks," you say to him, watching shamefully as he continues to clean. "sorry, i don't mean to make you my butler." 

"i'm already cooking for you, might as well clean." 

and then peter lets you lead him inside, asking where he can dump all of the glass, and moving the grocery bag he put by the closet onto the counter. 

after a moment, he looks around, his eyes scanning the walls and the floors. 

he licks his bottom lip. "it's... nice." 

you look at him, pouting. "you don't think i'm a good interior designer?" 

"it's just a lot more empty than i thought. i figured you'd have art and sculptures, and... more." 

you don't tell him that you'd love to, that you'd love to fill this apartment with things close to your heart. you don't tell him that if anything gets that close, it's sure to be broken. 

but you smile anyway. "sorry to disappoint you, mr. parker." 

"it's just unexpected. show me where i can get a pan." 

you show him where all the necessities are, scoffing at some of the ingredients he has in the bag, and listening to him explain that it isn't his recipe, but that you still aren't allowed to criticize. 

you just nod errantly, sitting on a bar stool so you can watch him. 

and peter makes it look like a little dance, finding the things he needs in seconds, handing multiple things at once, and catching anything before it falls. 

you sigh, and peter looks over to you, questioning. "i think you stole all of the coordination i was supposed to have." 

and then peter laughs--with teeth and everything--and turns back around. "i don't think it matters much." 

and you're about to argue with him, when some timer he set beeps. 

"almost there," he says, "do you want to get some plates and forks so i can just move it onto there?" 

you nod even though he can't see it, and walk around the counter to move past him. 

but peter has ridiculously long legs, and without even noticing, you're stumbling into one of them and almost falling into peter's back. just as always though, he's quick to turn around and keep you from hitting your head on anything, including his bones. 

peter sighs and you look at him, sheepishly smiling. 

"see what i mean?" he says and then helps you stand back up. 

even when he lets go you can feel the imprint of his hands around your biceps, the taste of his laughter in the air. 

peter is in your apartment, laughing and cooking for you, taking care of you, and doing it all with a smile. 

and, god, you don't think you'll ever be able to wake up from this. 

*

part two. 

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf  @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon  @moo-b1tch​ @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff​ @hollandweather​ @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan​ @valvlry​ @imthatcoolmom​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​    invisibletrolleyson-jeremy  @sharkswaters  

#tasm #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter smut #tasm!fluff #tasm!peter x reader #tasm peter parker #tasm peter x reader #tasm!spiderman x reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #Andrew!Spiderman #andrew peter parker #andrew garfield #andrew garfield!peter parker x reader #andrew!spiderman imagine

[zmbiesuga]

I'M NOT A VIOLENT DOG, I DON'T KNOW WHY I BITE.

pairing: i. hajime x gn!reader

includes: hurt/no comfort, iwa gets into a fight, blood mention, cursing, iwa and reader are friends, reader refuses to be with iwaizumi due to emotional constipation, pre-timeskip, w.c 3.0k

notes: "always an angel never a god", "i don't know why i am the way i am ; not strong enough to be your man", "i can't love you how you want me too", yeah. i'm having a fucking field day.

soundtrack: not strong enough, bite the hand

It's nearly midnight when you hear the soft raps against your front door. You cautiously open it to find a disheveled Hajime, bruised and battered with red blood trickling down his nose.

"...The other guy looks worse..." he mumbles, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck, "...I didn't know where else to go, (y/n) I'm sorry. I had a fight with my dad and Oikawa is asleep for once — "

"Haji, just..." you say, holding up your hand with a sigh, moving to the side, "...just get inside, it's cold."

He's the last face you wanna see and the last person you want to offer a semblance of comfort for right now, but even though you haven't talked in weeks, he's still your friend.

"What was it this time?" you whisper, leading him in the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub and watches you rummage through the cabinet to find a first aid kit.

He can't help the way his eyes trail over your body, he wants to hold you. That was his first thought, he wants to hold you, feel you pressed against him while he sobs and apologizes for every little thing he's ever done wrong by you.

But he won't.

"Some guy, said somethin' stupid to me," he mumbled, looking down at his lap where his fists lay clenched in anger, "I don't...it's not right, I know, I know it isn't (y/n). I can't help it, I get so worked up over everything and then..."

He stops mid-sentence, breathing hitching as he raises his head to look at you. His gaze is pleading, begging you to understand a part of him that he won't even show you.

You offer him a sympathetic look for a split second before your eyebrows furrow, pressing the tissue against his nose and tilting his head up higher with your other hand on his chin.

"You can help it, Haji," you muttered, pulling back to look at him, your gaze almost pitying and it makes him sick to his stomach, "I know you can. You know what your problem is? You never know what you're feeling because all your emotions stack on top of each other like a jenga tower waiting to fall."

His own brows knit together, his own expression slowly turning to frustration, "You don't know shit about how I feel," he growls, "you don't know anything."

"You're right, I don't," you quip back, hand gripping his chin tighter, "how should I? You want me to love you, but you won't show every part of yourself. You're scared and you don't trust me enough to love you past all of it."

His gaze softens once more, pulling your hand away with a gentle tug and looking down at the bathroom floor in shame.

"I know you're scared, Haji," you whispered again, voice cracking with emotion as your eyes glazed over with tears, "I can't expect you not to be, but...you don't trust me. I get it, okay? It's hard to open up right away and that's not what I expect. I just want you to find a way to sort through it yourself."

How could he open up? Hajime Iwaizumi, the hothead, Oikawa Tooru's best friend. A side character to everything who's only there for the development of the main guy. It doesn't matter how he feels, it's a burden. It's who he is, what defines him. He loses that and he loses everything...except you, but he's not sure how much he wants to trade in his reputation for you yet.

And here you are, waiting for a man who doesn't know if he wants to change. Waiting for someone who you know is so much more than anger, than the side character. Waiting and waiting for when he sees that himself, but to no avail.

When he slowly lifts his head up to meet your gaze, you expect an apology. You expect a change in heart from him, a promise to figure out how to sort through it all. You can see his own eyes are watery, ironic the way he wouldn't let you see him cry. You expect everything except what he actually confesses.

"I'm moving to California."

#˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ love letters from leo #♡ : haikyuu #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x gn!reader #iwaizumi angst #iwa x reader #iwa x gn!reader #iwa angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #haikyuu angst #hq x reader #hq x gn!reader #hq angst #ive had this in my drafts for a week #rewriting and rewriting because i was so afraid to get iwa's character wrong #so i hope i did him some justice

[wheelie-sick]

So you just got diagnosed with inflammatory arthritis....

A guide to coping with inflammatory arthritis written by someone who has been living with it for years

1. Warmth helps with pain and stiffness

Take a hot bath or shower

Use a rice bag to heat your most stiff and painful joints - How to make a warm rice bag (no sew) How to make a warm rice bag (sew) Adorable heated stuffed animals

Heating pads can also be good for heating specific joints (I don't like either of the ones I've had so I'm not dropping a recommendation)

2. Compression helps with stiffness

Compression gloves work really well in particular - Really cool compression gloves

Compression for other joints works well too

3. NSAIDs help reduce inflammation in your joints

Topical diclofenac is my personal favorite, it works wonders

Meloxicam is only available by prescription but has fewer negative side effects than over the counter NSAIDs do

Ibuprofen and Aleve/Naproxen are both OTC NSAIDs

Here's a full list of NSAIDs

4. Steroids reduce inflammation but are usually only used for flares. If OTC remedies are not working for your arthritis it may be worth asking about steroids to manage flares

5. Use adaptive devices

Note that I haven't tried all of these!

In the kitchen - Jar opener, pull tab opener, arthritis friendly silverware, ergonomic knife, another ergonomic knife

In the bathroom - My favorite shower chair, long handle bath sponge, shower grab bar

Dressing - Many button and zipper aids, magnetic jewelry clasps, sock aid

Standing assists - Bed rail, couch stand assist, cane with stand assist

Office - Pencil grips, book stand, vertical mouse

Other - Arthritis friendly gardening tools, so many grips adapters and holders

.... and many many more

6. Use mobility aids - I'd strongly recommend talking to a doctor before deciding to use mobility aids. mobility aids cause damage to your body so it's important to weigh the pros and cons of using them. Anyways my personal recommendations:

Canes - NOVA T cane, Carex ergonomic offset cane

Crutches - Millennial In-Motion Forearm crutches

Other people with inflammatory arthritis are welcome to add on!

#inflammatory arthritis #rheumatoid arthritis #systemic lupus erythematosus #gout #ankylosing spondylitis #psoriatic arthritis #chronic illness #chronically ill #cripple punk #cripplepunk #physical disability #physically disabled

[gandalfsbignaturals]

what is tme/tma? (sorry i’m cis)

they stand for transmisogyny exempt and transmisogyny affected. nominally they are supposed to label people who are targets of transmisogyny (tma) and people who are not targets of transmisogyny (tme), but in practice they are typically instead defined to mean "trans women, trans femmes, and (sometimes) gnc men" (tma) and "literally everyone else" (tme)

unfortunately, as i have tried to argue, this... isnt really how oppression works, especially considering the queer community necessarily resists hard categorization, and especially binaries

whats more, people who are supposedly tme are frequently the victims of transmisogynistic hatecrimes, something the proponents of the terms usually call "misdirected transmisogyny." i have gripes with this, though, because misdirected bigotry is... well, its still bigotry.

when sikhs (and whats more, any brown person who looked a certain way) were facing a monstrous amount of misdirected islamophobia in the wake of 911, the muslim community did not come out and say "well, they arent really muslim, so the islamophobic attacks on them dont count." nor did the sikhs and others use it as an excuse to attack islam! instead, they recognized that the bigots didnt actually care about the specific labels of the people they were attacking. all they cared was that someone was brown, and that they practiced a foreign religion, and that was enough.

likewise, when gentiles are attacked by antisemites for defending or associating with jewish people, those jewish people do not say, "you are not jewish, and therefore this doesnt count." instead, they acknowledge that, once again, the bigots in this instance dont actually care about the specifics of the lives led by those theyre attacking. i cannot imagine a jewish synagogue denying aid to a victim of an antisemitic attack, even if they are not jewish.

similarly, when a queer or gnc person is attacked by a transphobe for performing gender wrong, that transphobe doesnt actually care what particular label or lifestyle the person theyre attacking subscribes too. a trans man with some stubble in a dress is the same as a non-passing trans woman to them. a burly woman with higher than average testosterone going into the womens bathroom is the same as a non-passing trans woman to them. a masculine black woman in baggy clothes is the same as a non-passing trans woman to them. and they will attack accordingly, and no matter how the victim protests that they arent a trans woman, the bigot will not care.

this is all glossing over the fact that, by advocating that people disclose their tma/tme status in their blog description or carrd or whatever, you are effectively asking them to out themself. if you define tme as "not a trans woman," and someone has a trans flag and he/him pronouns on their profile, and you ask them to also include tme on their profile... well, then youre asking them to publicly state what their genitals are. while tma and tme are not defined exclusively based on genitals, it is undeniable that in combination with other readily available information, they can be easily used to determine what someones assigned gender at birth is.

when applied to trans people, tme/tma is just another false binary. it is a poor attempt to categorize a human experience that is simply not divisible into neat little categories, and especially not a binary.

#this is a long answer but i tried to be thorough in my definition

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐒 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Eren Yeager x reader [ SYNOPSIS ] Eren comes home after a rough night at the bar with Jean. Unable to see him in such a state you decide to tend to his wounds… among other things… I'm talking about his dick. [ WORD COUNT ] 1.8k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, minor injuries, blood, marijuana, alcohol is mentioned, dubcon (Eren's high), biting, sadism, masochism, rough vaginal sex, no plot.

“So what exactly happened?” You asked as Eren trudged through the door of your apartment.

He hung his head, attempting to obscure his battered face. The lengthy sigh he let out filled the room with his exhaustion. You took a few steps closer to him while he dropped his keys on the floor. The metal colliding with the tile flooring destroyed any semblance of serenity once held in your home. You pulled him into a hug and he let out a pleased hum. His arms snaked around your waist and he held you close. The remnants of weed smoke and vetiver cologne filled your nose.

“Jean…” He said, tone dripping with subdued exasperation.

“What did he do?” You asked.

It was so hard to hide your desperate curiosity. You loved hearing about the inner workings of his social circle.

“He was mainlining adios motherfuckers all night.”

“What did he do? Black out and kick your ass?”

Eren chuckled. “You honestly think Jean could kick my ass?”

“Maybe. Jean does look like the kind of guy to hulk out when he drinks.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

You rubbed his back, each pat radiating affection.

“I’m kidding. Jean could never kick your ass.”

“He could, but it’s fine.” Eren dropped his arms and released you from his grip. “Can I tell you about it while you clean me up?”

You were finally granted a full view of his face. His right cheek was a strawberry scrape and showed the beginnings of a bruise. His bottom lip was split. The blood exuded from the cut had dried, leaving behind a swatch of maroon. What stood out the most was the fresh blood dripping from his right nostril. You took him by the hand and led him into the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet and held his head in his hands, obscuring his face once more.

“Here,” you said, handing him a tissue.

He rolled it up and stuck it up his leaking nose.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying in vain to wriggle out of his pants.

You had little desire to see your beloved struggle. You kneeled before him and tugged at the jeans, peeling them off. A happy “phew” flew past his bloodied lip.

You grabbed all your first aid supplies and organized them on the ridge of the sink.

“Gimme the details.”

Eren sighed. “Jean decided to hit on every girl at the bar.”

You prepped a cotton ball with alcohol. “Every girl?”

“Maybe not every single girl, but he hit on every girl that had the shit luck of making eye contact with him.”

“Oh no. He was that guy.”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “The last one he bothered was with her boyfriend on a date. I tried to tell him! But he wouldn’t listen. He was convinced it was because I wanted to fuck her. I even brought you up!”

“Aww!”

Eren ignored your little remark.

“Fuck. And you know what,” he said, tone bristling with repressed rage. “I wasn’t gonna say anything because Jean was drunk and I don’t even care about what that horsefaced shitdick thinks. But fuck it! He thinks you’re too good for me! Did you know that?”

You swiped his cheek with the cotton pad. A little squeak crawled up Eren’s throat as the alcohol came into contact with his scrape.

“Sorry,” you said softly.”

He looked at you with sad, tired puppy dog eyes, red rimmed from the blunt he shared with Historia and Ymir earlier in the evening.

“‘s okay,’ he mumbled.

His posture grew rounder, softer. A chiropractor would likely have a shit fit had they seen such a shoulder slump but not you. No, even with the little info available you were able to surmise Eren’s immense need to decompress. Why pick on him about his posture when he was already battered and bruised?

You suppressed the urge to tease him and crawled into his lap, straddling him. His Grecian body radiated a pleasant warmth. It felt like home. You brushed a few locks of hair away from his face and gave him a quick peck on the forehead.

“I actually wasn’t aware of that. You know why?” You asked.

“Hm?”

“Because it’s not true. I’m definitely shitty enough to be with you.”

“You have such a way with words,” he groaned as you tended to him. “Anyway, the girl’s boyfriend was pissed to say the least and tried to drag Jean outside the bar by his collar. It all happened so fast I—ouch! If I had been a little quicker…” Eren’s voice trailed off.

His viridescent eyes were pinched shut as you dabbed his face with another cotton ball imbibed with alcohol. Your touch, while gentle, felt like hundreds of needles pricking the apple of his cheek. It was a pain you were familiar with. You tried to be gentle yet thorough. Though each muted moan and wince from Eren made your clit pulse.

“Did the guy fight Jean?”

“He tried. But I got in between them. I thought I talked everyone down but out of nowhere the boyfriend must have heard a sleeper word because he ran at me and punched me in the face twice. The last one sent me into the wall which is why my cheek is all scratched up.”

“What a loser. Did you hit him back?”

Eren half-smirked. “No. Too high for that shit. I was more concerned about not breaking my phone and getting home in one piece. When I saw an out, I took off running.”

“Nooooo. What about Jean?”

The brunette giggled. “Just kidding. I took his phone and got him a Lyft. I did have to push him inside it, but I’m sure everything worked out.”

You couldn’t help but think about Jean fighting his way out of the car in desperate search for unsuspecting women to hit on. You snickered at the thought. Eren placed his hands on the small of your back.

“What’re you laughin’ about?”

“Nothing,” you said, rocking your hips slightly.

His green gaze was penetrating. Even the haze of weed and head trauma couldn’t dull it. Eren’s desire took precedence over all. It was an unrelenting force. You stroked his uninjured cheek.

“Does it hurt? Does it ache at all?”

“Yeah, but I think I know what will make it feel better.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what exactly would that be?”

Eren pressed his semi hard cock against your clothed cunt. He rocked his hips a little, eyes fixed on you, awaiting your reaction. You put your hands on his shoulders and slowly dragged them down his chest, his muscles taut against your palms. You smirked, reciprocated the pressure he provided by grinding up against him.

You pressed your lips against his and sucked lightly on his swollen bottom lip. The metallic taste of blood linger on your tongue as Eren let out a pained groan. He pulled away, betrayal fell upon his face.

“Sorry,” you demurred. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Alright, enough of that. Get up.”

You slid off of his body. He stood up and tossed you over his shoulder with a swiftness you didn’t think his stoned self was capable of. He carried you to the bedroom and tossed you onto the bed.

“Undress.”

You laid there, unmoving.

Eren sighed. “Undress… please?”

“‘kay.”

You eagerly stripped off your clothes and presented your naked body to him. He followed your lead and disrobed, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.

He crawled onto the bed, his ardor riddled gaze fixed on yours. His cock was tumescent, the tip pink and leaking precum. You longed to tongue the tip and savor the sweetness seeping out. He wrapped his hand around the length of his erection and stroked, leaving it slick and glistening.

You spread your legs and draped your arms over his shoulders and ran your hands down his muscled back, dragging your nails along the way. A pained groan fell from his lips. Your hands stopped on the apex of his ass and dug your fingertips into the delicate flesh.

“Too much?” You whispered in his ear.

“It’s fine,” he replied through a clenched jaw.

You gripped his cheeks harder as he slid his cock into your cunt. Eren’s hunger for pain embedded ecstasy into your existence. His hands roamed your body before one found its way to your swollen clit. His thumb encircled it, applying a hint of pressure as he drove his cock further inside you.

The muscles of Eren’s ass tightened as he bottomed out, his balls slapping up against your writhing body. Your fingers dug deeper into his skin, relishing in every groan that grew from the depths of his throat.

“Does it hurt?”

“Ye—yeah it does.”

“Good,” you growled. “That’s what I want to hear.”

You nipped at his neck and ran your tongue along the length of it. The piquant taste of his sweat dancing across your tastebuds. You wanted to lick him clean, get rid of all the sweat, blood, and stress that afflicted his evening. Eren deserved to be worshiped after the fuckery he waded through… Though he’d have to suffer a bit more.

“Shit!” He cried out as you proceeded to bite him.

Your eyes held an impish glint as he pushed your face away from him. He held you down by the shoulders and thrust into you like you were nothing more than a nameless hole. You missed having his thumb pressing on your clit, but this was nothing to complain about. You were on the verge of coming undone regardless.

“‘Ren—fuck—I’m close.”

Eren was silent, too focused on his cock touching your cervix to respond. You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him gently. He welcomed the tenderness even if it took him by surprise. His hips skipped a beat and a trickle of cum entered your cunt. It felt as if the warmth was traveling through your veins, engulfing every inch of your body. Your breathing labored and you struggled to articulate your needs. You wanted to tell Eren how good his cock felt inside you, how happy you were that he was okay, and how badly you wanted to suck on his split lip.

You cried out his name as he pounded his cock into you, the tip now slamming into your cervix. Your body quivered under the weight of his and you felt as if you were ascending.

Eren held you close as your orgasm peaked, whispering the sweetest of words within your ears.

“That feel good, baby? You deserve it after taking such good care of me.”

“E—even though I made you blee—”

A breathy moan interrupted your sentence much to Eren’s enjoyment. He laughed and pulled his cock out, jerking off and aiming his tip at your stomach. He shut his eyes tight as a stream of pearlescent cum coated your skin. He hopped off the bed and grabbed the shirt he had been wearing previously. He wiped away his mess and gazed lovingly at you.

“I could use a shower. Join me?”

“Y—”

He cut you off. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Why ask me then?”

“... Due diligence?”

“I—I don’t think that’s what that means but… alright.”

#eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger smut #attack on titan smut #shingeki no kyojin smut #aot smut #snk smut #x reader #reader insert #.fics #.aot #.eren

[lushlovers]

hi my love! would you possibly be interested in writing a joe blurb/one shot (whichever fits best) where the reader is alone/at home or something and gets injured and we see some fluffy, lovable panicked joe when he finds out? thank you!!

Who's Cutting Onions, J Burrow

summary; you really wanted to make him something nice but you aren't the most steady-handed...

warnings; mentions of injury with a knife, knives in general, blood, anxious and protective joe, domestic fluff!

word count; 330

note; if anything mentioned in the warnings sounds remotely triggering for you please sit this fic out, i have plenty of others coming out and already available for you to read. that aside, thank you nonnie for the request, i had loads of fun writing it for you:)

Cooking never has been your specialty, but when it comes to impression Joe in any way possible, you're quick to jump to do so, even if it meant preparing something in the kitchen. The counters were covered with the various ingredients needed to make your mom's spaghetti recipe.

Whilst your olive oil was heating in the pan, you chose to start slicing your vegetables for the sauce. Everything was going relatively smoothly until somehow your index finger got in the way. The cut was small but big enough to bleed a significant amount.

"Fuckin' shit," you instinctively shake your hand around manically, trying to soothe the stinging feeling shooting through your finger as you run in the direction of the guest bathroom. The spaghetti is long forgotten now, as your next mission is to search the cabinets for Neosporin and a band-aid.

Once located you turn the sink on and let the warm water wash away any remnants of blood on the wound and quickly follow up with some soap. As you're doing so, Joe's making his way into the house, when he passes the kitchen he sees the oil boiling on the stove and rushes to turn the burner off.

When he notices the knife and blood on the cutting board next to it, his heart skips a beat, "Baby?" he shouts, frantically looking around for you. He hears the water in the guest room running and how you yell back that you're in there, he lets out an exhale that he hadn't realized was trapped in his lungs.

"Are you okay?" He questions, obviously worried, and you want to just kiss him all over his flustered face simply for being him. He's always so protective, especially when it concerns you. "I'm alright, Joey, it was tiny," you smile, stepping up on your toes to kiss his cheek, and using your bandaged finger to pull his lower lip from between his teeth to prevent his nervous gnawing at it.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x you #joe burrow fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fluff #nfl #nfl fan fic

[trentknd]

"Please my love, stop moving". Your Polaroid camera was pointed at Trent, desperately trying to capture at least one picture of him from the position you were in. It was late in the afternoon when you came over to his apartment after training to help him set up the gift he received from a teammate. A gift you desperately wanted to show him the benefits of at the moment.

"I'm not moving, you are!" You were perched on his laying body on the bed, straddling his waist in an attempt to stop his contention. He argued that the picture would not look good seeing as he was still in his training jersey, only his pants quickly traded for grey joggers.

"I'm not. Please stay still. Just one picture." You playfully pouted at him and quickly batted your eyelashes in an attempt to weaken his argument. He smiled at your poor efforts, finally admitting defeat.

"Alright, just one." He conceded and held his hands up to the sides of your waist to stabilise both of your bodies.

As soon as he stopped moving around, you pointed the camera at him again, your finger grazing the button and ready to snap the picture. He took the opportunity to flip your over, his knee now resting between your legs and his embrace caging you in.

Your attempt to free yourself was to no avail as he took the camera from you and closed one eye behind the lens to shoot a picture of you. You put up your hands in front of your face, not wanting to give him the one-sided satisfaction of taking a picture of one of you.

"Don't do that, baby." His left hand was quick to hold your wrists to uncover your face. You shook your head in a left and right movement, mimicking his previous behavior to show him how infuriating the whole ordeal had been.

When he brought his face closer to your hands-clad face, awaiting the moment you'd move so he could snap the photo, your fingers moved to shield yourself. In a hurried movement and unaware of the distance separating you two, your long nails accidentally scratched the surface of his cheek.

The camera fell in between your two bodies, your hand coming up to cradle his wounded cheek and your eyes watching him in horror as red liquid started forming atop the scratch. "Trent, I'm so sorry." Your apology came in the form of a babble as he winced at the deep cut your nails had left on his face.

He definitely played up the pain the scratch had caused him but he'd be lying if he said that seeing you hurry to take care of him didn't please him. You took it upon yourself to jump up from the bed you two were bickering on for hours to run to the bathroom in search of a disinfectant.

He hid his grin, faking discomfort as he followed your hurried footsteps. "Please sit here." He sat on the lid of the toilet as commanded and he intently set his eyes on your movements. You opened the cabinet sitting on top of the sink and rummaged through the dozens of skincare products you had left at his apartment.

"Got ya." You set the first-aid kit on the vanity and pulled out a piece of cotton to soak it with rubbing alcohol. You turned around, catching Trent's smile for a fraction of a second before his expression quickly turned to one of pain. You dropped your head and shook your head in despair, partially happy that he was in no actual discomfort.

You started working at disinfecting the small wound, the initial scarlet-colored scrape starting to slowly bruise. When the cut stopped bleeding altogether, you opened the bottom cabinet of the vanity in search of band-aids.

Trent was still eyeing your every movement in silence, relishing in the domesticity of it all and accepting whatever you'd come to do to his face. His brown doe-eyes looked up at you from his seat as you stood before him with a tin box in hand.

"I think I only have this box of band-aids left." You held up the box to him in apprehension as he carefully opened it.

"Hello Kitty band-aids?" He questioned with a raised brow, battling the dimpled smile that was starting to etch on his face. You nodded as you showed him the different options the box offered, holding up the one fitted for the size of his cut.

"They didn't have anything else at the pharmacy the last time I went there." You impishly defended as you took the box back from his prying hands and put it aside on the edge of the vanity. He happily complied as you stretched the pink band-aid on the disinfected area and softly placed a kiss on his cheek. "Wait here, there's something else I need to do to heal the cut."

He silently sat as he saw you rush out of the bathroom and come back with your arms crossed behind your back. Before he could have time to react, you brought the Polaroid camera up to his stunned face.

"Smile!" Taken by surprise, your lover's expression was quick to naturally match your excitement and give the camera the brightest beam you could've asked for.

The photo that came out of the small object would eventually become a lock screen, a picture in a wallet, and a memento of his adoration for you and animated cats with red bows.

#trent alexander arnold imagine #trent alexander arnold x reader #footballer x reader #footballer fanfiction #trent alexander arnold x y/n #trent alexander arnold #football imagines #trent alexander x you #trent alexander imagines #trent alexander arnold one shot #trent alexander-arnold

[cannabiscomrade]

What would be a good accessibility setup for an event to ensure a person with a feeding tube had comfortable access?

I love you for asking this 💜

Bathrooms: need hooks that are high enough off the ground to not allow the tube to dangle, while low enough for wheelchair users and shorter people to use. Additionally, shelving with hooks underneath is great for multiple tube sets, oxygen set ups, and mobility aids.

Outdoors: adequate cooling tents with ice options for people like me running continuous feeds, and unlimited access to free water

Indoors: disability seating with hooks for medical equipment, or traditional seating with fold down hooks in the seat backs. Private sanitary areas (like nursing rooms) for bag changes and medication administration/disposal.

General: medical bag checking up front or pre-check availability, pre-seating for disabled/chronically ill event goers, eliminating drink/food minimums

I’m sure this is not 100% extensive because I’ve only had my tube for 6 months today (🥳) so other people who have/had feeding tubes can feel free to add on.

#disability tag #feeding tube #tube feeding