#someone give me a ventilator

[damnprecious]

Weather appropriate question 3. do you leave the window open at night?

Thank ya for the question!!

I do not leave the windows open at night, I usually just settle for keeping the balcony door open until I go to bed and that gives pretty good ventilation now that it's no longer too hot to actually keep it open in the evenings..

*Gollum voice* ask us

#asks #blue-village #*gollum voice* ask us #I did keep my window open at night at my old uni apartment #that one had like a tiny ventilation window #my current flat has two standard ventilation windows that face the balcony #and I feel like there isn't really a point in keeping them open bc I'll close my balcony windows anyways #so there isn't as much airflow as there'd be if the windows didn't open to a glazed balcony #and having the balcony windows open at night gives me way too much anxiety #bc in theory someone could fairly easily parkour up to my balcony #I mean there isn't any reason anyone would want to parkour up to the balcony but hjfhjfdfd

[nichuuu]

Lemon.

Word count: 13k+

You decide that you don’t quite like Balls (get your head out of the gutter).

Music: odd. Yes, it’s a fancy mansion—5 floors, the works… But you don’t know how to feel about the sole pianist in the centre of the foyer, the one that’s playing some classical piece that has the people around you murmuring about his technique and sound (whatever the hell either of those meant).

People: you don’t know a good half of them. Scratch that—it’s a sea of strangers

Drinks: strong, way too fucking strong for your liking. The drinks are free of charge, and the bartender clearly didn’t shake this Pina Colada well, but you have to drink it if you want to even try and get into the mood of the party. Around you, men in posh suits and women in flamboyant dresses skirt each other, talk to each other with placid smiles—hoodwinking each other with their highfalutin laughs and smiles to establish connections that probably won’t matter in a couple of days. The only person you’ve talked to tonight is the bartender, and that was just to order your drink. 

This whole place stinks of capitalism, and you feel out of place in your cheaper suit and dress shoes. On your right, some guy is talking about how bitcoin and blockchain will make a grand return, some lady is gossiping about the latest Gucci handbag on your left. In front of you, a man and a woman are clearly flirting with each other, bashful grins on their faces as they hold their fancy drinks in their hands and talk about god knows what. You’re wondering if you should ask for a straw from the bartender just to dip your toes in social interaction.

Wonder why Cinderella was so hot on attending a Ball, thing seems pretty bland to me, you’re thinking, watching the tip of the ice that was shaped like an iceberg melt away and sink beneath the surface of your margarita. Some guy in a tux comes by, orders two glasses of Prosecco—one for him, one for the woman next to him. He’s talking loudly, disrupting your peace and quiet. Your solution: move seats.

From a distance—two chairs away from your original seat—you watch as he takes the two glasses from the hands of the bartender, hands one to the woman, then clinks his glass with hers. He’s preternaturally genteel, and you’d know because you recognised him as the guy that got slapped at the start of this whole thing because he grabbed the ass of someone’s wife. Impropriety, but it’s the behaviour of the newfangled rich. 

Now he’s bragging about his car. Nissan GTR fitted with this engine, this ventilation, blah, blah… Whatever it is he’s saying, the woman’s having none of it. You’re no psychologist, but you can tell that she wants to get out of a conversation; her smile is awfully sweet, but you can see that she’s silently importuring him to shut his trap—her eyes give it all away. You pity her, silently sending her your best wishes as the man grabs her by the arm and leads her back into the sea of people. Personally, you’d be screaming if you were in her shoes.

(Off to your left, just at the edge of your vision, you see your boss talking to a woman. She’s getting touchy, really touchy and really flirty; her hand’s on his thigh, fuck me eyes out to play and on full display—A trite tactic used by these types of women to get lucky with a rich man at these type of events. Luckily for her, your boss is quick to bite on to such bait. God bless them both.)

For the record: you’ve never really enjoyed Balls or anything of the ilk, because quite frankly speaking, you’d much rather burrow up in your bed at home and binge Kimini ni Todoke till you were giggling and squealing like a little schoolgirl. Maybe I’m still young, I’ll learn to like these types of events later on, you tell yourself, I’ll need connections at some point, maybe I should start—

A sickly sweet fragrance crawls up your nostrils, truncating all thought. Perfume, you’re quick to identify, and then you’re aware of the presence of someone on your right. Your grip on your glass grows tighter in the slightest; you’re praying—Please just be ordering a drink, please be ordering a drink.

Frankly, you don’t know why you’d ever think anyone would talk to you, an unimportant cog that just tagged along with his boss because he had nothing better to do. Irrational fears are really a funny thing.

Sharp, clear, resonant—three words that came to mind when you heard the voice of the person next to you, the voice that delivered the simplest of orders: Yamazaki. I want it neat. 

Your first thought is, Damn… Neat Whisky? Someone’s having a horrible night, as you turn your face away from her (if you couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t be able to see you, right?). And just as you’re wondering if she’s gonna take her drink and leave, your question is answered by the soft creak and even softer rustle of shifting fabric from your right. You bristle.

The glass makes a sound against the wood as it’s gently placed down on the table.

(Now would be an excellent time for a subtitle to come in, one that states in square brackets: Awkward silence.)

You can hear her swirling the liquid around in her glass. Fuck, now this is awkward… You’re thinking, and then you’re wondering if you should just get up and leave, absquatulate, skedaddle—any word that can convey the act of disappearing in an instant—right out of there. But as you start to slide your butt off the chair, that voice rings out once more.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

She doesn’t know how her simple sentence has caged you in the most challenging position (to you at least). Now you’re sliding your ass back into the bar stool and you turn and face her—

(Now that you’re looking at her, your second thought about her comes in: God, she’s beautiful. Dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders like velvet curtains, soft yet somehow piercing eyes, a smile that makes you feel fuzzy all over—probably one of the most attractive women you’ll ever meet. She’s the woman from earlier, the woman that you saw smiling and nodding placidly to that guy who got her the Prosecco. She must’ve found a way to slip away, and she has your full respect for that.)

—and you find that you’re drumming your nails against the base of your glass.

“Shy, huh?” she’s throwing out a guess, watching as the Whisky in her glass slowly swirls to a stop inside the chilled glass. “It’s been a while since I met a shy man. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

You shift in the stool, and your first instinct is to ask her if you two had met before. It’s only after that last syllable leaves your mouth that you realise how stupid of a question it is. You don’t know her, and judging by the fact that she hasn’t called you by your name: she doesn’t know you either. You let her decide whether to oust you as a fool as she scans you up and down.

(Update on your boss and that woman: She’s kissing him now, full on making out. It’s an unsettling sight to behold, and you attribute your queasiness to the fact that they’ve somehow found they’re way behind the woman you're talking to. Your boss doesn't see you; you choose not to see him. God bless them both.)

“Well… Considering that you don’t look the least bit familiar,” she sets the glass down, “and that you haven’t been introduced to me like some product by a crusty, old man… I think it’s safe to say that we’re.”

Now her eyes are on your drink. What are you drinking this fine night? She’s asking, using her chin to gesture towards your Pina Colada. You tell her exactly what it is, and she cringes slightly. They say Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, I say it doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Oust it as a fruit! she’s telling you, making sure to add a little more emphasis on the word “oust” as she couches her firm belief, something you find rather hilarious considering that it’s your first meeting with her. She sips the Whisky, grimaces a bit, then sets the glass back down to say, we skipped past a lot of formalities, didn’t we?

And here comes the part of talking to strangers that you’re the most comfortable with—Introductions. You think that it is safe to assume that just about anyone would find saying hello and telling someone your occupation much easier than holding up a conversation, what more with a beautiful woman like her. You give her your name, tell her what you do for a living, the usual stuff. She listens, the gleam in her eyes that comes when you’re done talking ever so enigmatic and cryptic. 

“Lawyer huh?” She’s playing with her glass again, “considering were we are right now, I really shouldn’t be this surprised… Yet I am. Little shy for a guy dealing clients on the daily, no?”

Somehow, by the grace of some supernatural force (you call it alcohol), you crack your first joke of the night—I know. The most I ever talked is in court—and you’re relieved that she’s kind enough to humour you (or maybe she really does find it funny. You’ll never know), and gives you an elegant chortle, one that makes your hair stand at their ends as your third thought about her goes through your mind: even her laugh is attractive. Is there anything wrong with this woman? 

And when she tells you her name, you realise why she seems to be exuding this inexplicable aura; Minatozaki Sana, pleasure to meet you, she introduces herself with a generous amount of pizzaz. You’re scanning her up and down at this point, and only now do you take in the expensive dress that dons her slender frame, the same dress that’s accompanied by a glimmering necklace and earrings, 3 rings on her middle, index and ring finger respectively.

“You’re…” you begin.

“The host’s daughter? Yes.”

Now you’re at a loss for words. Well uh… It’s an honour to meet you, is what you plan on saying, but it comes out as a simple, more blunt manner: Oh damn. Sana’s giggling to herself, swirling her Whisky as she watches you struggle to find things to say to her.

“I take it that you don’t come around here often?” she asks. When you raise an eyebrow, she explains how her father hosts a Ball like this every other month to try and find her a “suitor”. Apparently, 27 years old is “too old”  to still be single, so my Dad just gets a bunch of men together and parades me around, she’s carping. The glimmering chandeliers, the array of drinks and food, the vanity of all these people; the dazzling marble floor, the glass sculptures, the embroidered tablecloths; this event, in all its glory and prestige, is all about her. 

Christ, you’re thinking to yourself, money really gets you to places, huh? 

Now she’s explaining how some of the people here are frequent visitors. Mothers and their sons, fathers and their sons, young business men, old business men, middle aged businessman; whoever can afford to come to this lavish Ball—all of them frequent this mansion like moths to a flame, all looking for a chance to ingratiate with the Minatozakis so that maybe, just maybe, they get a chance to get Sana’s hand in marriage. It’s a glorified yet obsolete form of Tinder really.

(Your boss is nowhere in sight now, and you’re pretty sure that the two of them have gone off somewhere to get it on. Maybe this event isn’t just about Sana, it’s about finding a rich person that can spoil you for the rest of your life too. God bless everyone here.)

“So what brings a man like yourself here this fine night?” She seems oddly interested in you (and also very hot on using this fine night as well apparently). You give her the truth that carries your watered down emotions in your tone—My boss asked me to tag along. Apparently all attendees were to bring a male plus one.

Sana chuckles, but it’s one of bitterness.

“So Dad’s reverted to these tactics huh?” you hear her whisper before taking an alarming large gulp of Whisky. She swallows, then sighs, “wonder what he’ll do next… Maybe an arranged marriage?”

Past the frustration and utter disappointment, there’s amusement in her voice. It tells you: if I could, I’d kill my Dad. It’s more of an inference from your end than a message that you’re sure that she’s trying to imply. You always had a bad habit of reading between the lines—probably picked it up from your job.

Sana downs the rest of the Whisky in a flash, wincing as the alcohol burns her throat. She scratches her nose, then turns to you and asks, “say, you don’t look like you want to be here, and neither do I.”

Behind you, you can hear the voice of a man approaching. He’s talking to someone—my daughter should like you very much, you seem like a man that suits her taste—and Sana bristles. Her father, you deduce, noting the way that the woman before you is searching around for an exit. Then you blink, and in that split second, she grabs your hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Just like that, you’re running through a crowd of people, spewing a million-and-one apologies as you jostle your way through the crowd, in tow behind a woman you've known for a grand total of 5 minutes. 

A very unlikely start to a romance really.

*

Now the gears in your head are whirring, your stomach’s churning—there’s no other way to describe how you feel when Sana’s looking at you like that from across the table: small smile, a slight gleam behind those eyes, hand under her chin and fingers tapping against her cheek… She’s got you in perdition just with a look. You’re a guy of relatively taciturn nature, and the last time you went on a date was in university. That date went horribly, and now you’re wondering if this one was gonna go up in flames as well. Your brain urges you to say something to her, but your mouth seems to be sewn shut. 

On the other hand, Sana’s poised as ever. “What’s wrong?” she’s cocking her head and pouting slightly, “nervous?”

You're not ashamed to admit that you indeed are, and that you’ve never really gone out on dates in a long time. Sana seems tickled by this—It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shy man. I like it, she tells you—and assures you that she won’t bite. In fact, she’s glad that you’re quiet and not rambling off about some business venture. She tells you, I don’t recall the last time I’ve been with a guy like you, though I’d appreciate it if you assist me in starting some conversation, and you’re slightly ashamed of your reticence. 

There’s a gleam in her eyes when you start asking her some questions on her personal life, and she finds it congenial to gesticulate in a moderate manner as she answers your questions. Her outgoing nature leaves you flummoxed, and there’s barely enough space in your brain to remember everything she tells you about herself. Born in Osaka, likes yoghurt smoothies, likes to take walks in the park, likes this, likes that… You vaguely remember her telling you this on the night that the two of you escaped that event.

(To jog your own memory: She took you to the garden, where the two of you spent the rest of the night strolling amongst shrubs and other greenery that thrived in Spring. The Pina Colada in your system allowed you to hold a conversation, one that lasted long enough for her to take a liking to you. At the end of it all, she gets your number, you get her’s, and a date’s been settled in some french restaurant she patronises.)

“Now, I don’t expect you to remember all of this,” she’s watching the wine leave streaks against the glass, “but if you do, I believe you're entitled to some extra points.” 

“Points?” you’re keen on inquiring, “we’re keeping a scoreboard?”

Sana simply smiles. For asking that question, minus 2 from you, is her answer—not a very good one if you were to be blunt. You can’t suppress a chuckle as you take a sip from your own wine.

Unwittingly, Sana has eased you into her presence. It suddenly feels like you’ve known her forever (if forever meant 2 weeks that is).

A smooth start to a relationship if you do say so yourself.

*

“Sana, there’s people out there.”

“I know.”

“They might hear us.”

“I know.”

“We could get caught.”

“We won’t.”

It’s the confidence in her voice that irks you really. The lack of hesitance combined with the sheer lack of shame towards the fact that anyone outside the changing room in this damn Prada store could easily raise a phone over the door and start recording. It’s not that she’s not cognizant of this, but more of the fact that she doesn’t give two shits if someone captures a video of her blowing you in this dressing room. Shameless, aplomb, obstinate, are the three words that come to mind when dealing with Sana at the given moment, but there’s no energy in you to convey this to her, not when she wraps her lips around your cock. The outfits that she chose remain untouched behind her, fabrics still in light while the person that chose them remains active on her knees. 

(Almost a year. Almost a year the two of you have been dating. You thought you’d learned all there is to know about her, yet she’s hitting you with new facts and surprises every day, left, right, and centre. There are probably many more things that you have yet to figure out, but they’ll all come to light in due time.)

Really, it’s on you for not exercising due diligence upon entering the store; you should’ve known better from the moment you saw that look in her eyes while she was looking at a dress. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when she’s already enraptured you with that damn gaze—the one that exudes want and lust, the one that’s the leaven to your morality in her eyes. She knows that she’s got you wrapped around her finger when your hand rests itself atop of her head as she slowly bobs her head over your crotch. She’s taking her time despite the situation that she’s placed the both of you in. 

“This has always been on my bucket list,” she’s letting her hand run along your shaft, spreading her saliva with each stroke of her palm. Her nails, freshly done just over 2 hours ago, glisten under the light—partially because of her spit and partly because of the gloss. “Everything about this is just so… Eroctic, isn’t it?”

Christ, she’s really into this thrill-seeking thing, you note as you choke out a reply: Not particularly, but whatever floats your boat Sana (obviously, it doesn’t come out as smooth as it should. No one would be able to get out a full sentence with phonics properly strung together if they too were getting blown in a changing room). She’s got a glint in her eye, but it���s covered by your shaft as she slides her tongue down your cock, nose brushing against the base of your cock, just behind her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, she’s given you head before; she’s building up the suspense and waiting for you to beg for more. You really don’t want to indulge her, you really don’t, but there’s not much you can do when she starts placing kisses on your shaft—base to tip in a fervently slow fashion. How far is she gonna go with this, you can’t help but wonder, but you quickly have your question answered in the next second or so.

“Unenthusiastic?” she quips, “minus four”.

She wraps her lips around you and pushes her head forward, and you almost let the people in the store know that something’s going down in here.

You figure that the feeling of her lips wrapped around your shaft will never get old, not when it sends electricity up your spine and makes your hand ball into a fist in her hair. Her eyes seem to glint as you let out a sharp gasp. Yes, you could be caught by an employee at any second. Yes, you could very well be caught on camera by a customer at any second. There were a lot of things to consider when assessing the dangers of the circumstances that Sana has put the both of you in. Yet, none of them take anything away from the pleasure she’s bringing you, not as she starts to bob her head in beat to the metronome in her head. There’s no point in trying to figure out her pace. 

“Jesus… Fuck… Sana I…” Your voice is—somehow—hushed as you struggle to convey how weak she’s making you, but it’s not like you need to anyway—she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s loving every second of the havoc she’s wreacking upon your senses. The slight tug in the corner of her lips is the suggestion of a smirk, and the muffled noise that rises from her throat is the implication of a giggle. 

There's a knock on the door and you bristle; Sana slows down, but she doesn’t stop. Past the door, the voice of the staff that led you to this very room asks if everything is alright in there, and you’re praying that her eyes aren’t set on the floor. Sana locks eyes with you, then darts her eyes to the door to tell you—Answer it goddamnit. Of course, she doesn’t make it easy for you as you open your mouth, applying light suction to your tip as you find the strength to say: Yep, just give us a few more minutes please, making you choke on that last word and sending alarms blaring in your head. Thankfully, the store assistant is kind enough to leave you with a take your time sir, and the shadow of her feet disappear from the gap beneath the door. It’s then that Sana pops your glistening cock out of her mouth.

“A few more minutes, huh?” She’s got drool on the corner of her lips as she rises to her feet. “Better make this quick then. You gotta keep your word as a lawyer, don’t you?”

Her wit is certainly better than most of your colleagues.

(There are customers outside now, you can hear them talking to the store assistant. They sound vaguely familiar… Maybe you heard them at the restaurant? Or maybe they’re colleagues… No, that can’t be it, at least you hope so).

Now for the record: you’ve seen Sana naked on multiple occasions, be it voluntarily or not. The shower, the bedroom, even a public shower at the pool… You could name a lot more places where she’d shamelessly flaunted her nude body before you off the top of your head. “A body to die for” is a fitting expression for Sana; you’ve always wondered if you’d find her on the top of the Google image search if you were to look up “dream bodies”, and you figure that you can probably get her there if you could somehow take pictures with your eyes as she undresses before you. She’s more methodical than anything, straying away from her usual teasing nature for the sake of being quick (that’s what you infer from her behaviour, but really, she could just be extremely horny and desperate. There’s never a solid answer to Sana’s behaviour). Mini skirt, then top, then bra; she’s going through the motions that she’d usually drag out just to get a reaction out of you preternaturally quickly.

Why is she getting naked in a changing room? You have no clue. Your best guess: she’s doing it for the thrill of it. The thought of getting caught completely nude with her boyfriend speared inside of her must be sending lethal doses of adrenaline through her veins. A pretty solid guess if you do say so yourself. No time for anymore guesses anyway—she’s already brought your hand up to her right breast, and she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of your fingers closing around the semi-firm flesh. Her top lip’s furling behind her front teeth, she’s letting her other hand rest on your arm. She’s telling you where she wants it—did you cum in my ass yesterday? Or was it the day before? Ah, whatever… Give me a fucking creampie—in this soft, low voice that sends a velvet chill down your spine. Then she's kissing you softly, sweetly, nibbling on your top lip as usual, all while pushing you to the corner of the room where your feet aren't visible to those outside, flushing your back against the wall. It’s an uncomfortable fit, but that quickly changes when she grips the middle of your shaft and lines you tip up with her slit. The hand on her tit is guided to that slim waist, your other hand quickly finding its place on that symmetrical, slim figure. 

“I don’t care if I cum or not,” she drawls, trailing a finger down your chest, “I just want your load inside me, right here, right now. Just focus on that, nothing else.”

(Half request, half demand—give her an award for being so damn ambiguous. Subtitles that could translate what she truly means would be really, really handy right now. Alas, such a system doesn’t exist.)

Describing how Sana’s pussy felt would be doing her injustice. The feeling was ineffable. From entering her to hilting yourself inside of her, there was never a second of that process where you had an easy time breathing or thinking. You’ve never been so reliant on your senses to keep you grounded in reality, nor have you ever been so glad that Sana’s nails are digging into your shoulder. This position—facing each other, standing and fucking against the wall of (all places) a changing room—is a stranger to the both of you, but the sheer tightness of her cunt working hand in hand with the intimacy of it all has you welcoming it with open arms.

Your hips are moving on their own, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you start thrusting into Sana. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into Sana in a mindless, slow fashion, relishing the  feel of her skin in your palms, the look on her face, the soft moans that are slowly slipping from her ever so slightly opened lips. Then your ability to think slowly returns, and you’re thinking like a damn neanderthal—tight, wet, hot, so fucking good—as your grip on her waist tightens. Your shaft glistens in the light of the changing room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her slick, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weak. Sana cups your cheek, lifts your head, and it’s now that you see how her eyes have been completely glazed over with lust and want. Her face, her figure down to the sounds she’s making; everything about her, about this, is the phantasmagoria of a wet dream.

If you were being completely true to yourself right now: You couldn’t care less if you got caught. 

And as if on cue, the voices approach as soon as you finish that train of thought. 

“Do you provide altercation services?” It’s the voice of a man, closely followed by that of the store assistant: Of course sir. After you try on the suit, you can note how you’d like it to be altered to your liking. 

A shadow of feet appears at the base of the door. Sana cups a hand over her mouth as the door rattles—the customer trying to open it. You stop your movements, breath caught in your throat as the store assistant tells him to use the other fitting room. Sana’s breath is loud in your ears as a second set of footsteps approach, followed by a female voice that asks, “Is my husband in there?” 

Yes ma’am, is the assistant’s reply. Of course, this is hardly the end of it.

Now, as the woman engages the store assistant in conversation right outside your door, Sana lets the hand on her mouth drop. She flushes herself against you as the store assistant answers, and she whispers, “Keep going”.

Endlessly seeking thrill. Classic Sana.

The logical part of you warns you against doing as she says. Sadly, there’s not much room for logic in your head in the given circumstances, not when your balls-deep inside your girlfriend in a changing room. There’s barely enough room for dilemma to occur; Sana’s the sole occupant of your mind, rent-free, free-hold, and really: she’s the only thing that matters right now. 

She almost, just almost, lets out a cry when you spear yourself back inside her. You didn't expect to start so soon, and neither did she. However, catching her by surprise is a novelty to you, and you relish in that brief rush of smugness before you restart your movements. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream, but her eyes say all that she wants to: smug asshole, I’ll kill you later. You reply by letting your index and forefinger slip into her still-open mouth. 

“Personally, I enjoy the Italian selection more…” The store assistant’s voice is barely audible to you over Sana’s small, muffled moans that manage to skirt your fingers and Sana’s closed lips, and as the lady starts talking about trench coats, Sana coats your fingers with a fresh layer of saliva, turning your fingers slick and slimy with her tongue as she looks you dead in the eye, as if challenging you: Is this the best you can do? Is this the riskiest you can be?

Every question from her deserves an answer, and your’s is to remove your saliva-slicked fingers out of her mouth, draw a circle with her spit just above her collarbone, then whisper right into her ear: I’m gonna mark you right there. The involuntary gasp that she lets out tugs the corner of your lips up into a perverse smile. Slowly your lips drift down to the glistening spot, and you wait just a moment to build up that sweet-sweet suspense. It’s a split second, but it’s a second too much for her to bear—the way her body tenses when you finally make contact is the clearest indication you will ever receive. And when you start sucking, God does she almost drive you over the edge: she tightens, she gasps, she starts twitching; she loves it, every second your lips stay locked around that sweet spot of skin is bliss to her.

You can hear the door to the other fitting room unlock, and you hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he walks out, no doubt in that suit he had earlier. The compulsory question comes: how do I look?

There’s a brief moment of silence, and you’re almost fearful of the fact that maybe, just maybe, their ears are picking up on the ragged breathing and slightly audible squelching coming from the other fitting room. All consternation dissipates when the woman starts to comment on how she looks, but Sana seems to have an answer to his question as well: So good. So fucking good. Harder, let me feel all of you, fuck me harder. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking deep. 

You look dashing honey. The pitch of the woman’s reply harmonises with Sana’s soft whine as your lips leave her skin, the same patch where you’ve left your purple artwork on. I think we can afford to alter the pants—

Sana crushes your lips against hers, hot breath filling your mouth as you feel her lift her leg. You hold the back of her knee (like the gentleman you are), bring it to your side, hold it there. She bites your lower lip, hard enough for her to pull and tug it as you start losing yourself in her: her scent, her breath, her skin—all of it’s so deliciously addicting. You can’t get enough.

Then she’s going straight to moaning into your mouth, letting those muffled cries permeate in the small space and hopefully not outside the fitting room. She’s wet, she’s tight, she’s everything you need right now. You want, so badly, to pull her apart, ruin her till you can’t put her back together, get her begging at the top of her lungs for you to fuck her harder and harder. 

And you’re almost on the verge of calling her a slut. There’s no need for that though, she knows what she’s made of herself.

—so that they’re a little shorter. I think we could also try—

Sana’s figured out the best way to moan: straight into your ear. She’s not letting up with them, and she’s giving you one hell of an array of sounds. There’s the common ah, the not so common, oh, and the very common shit, fuck, fuck me and so good. Her phonics are so loosely strung together that they’re just a jumbled mess, and you're perfectly ensconced with that; you love hearing those lazy, sloppy cries, and they only seem even more melodic at this volume, at this moment. Fuck, record them and play them as white noise as you sleep.

—changing the colours of the buttons? Ooh! Maybe we could even change the stitching around—

She tilts her head back, and you’re peppering her neck with kisses. She loves it, you know she loves it; all this attention, all this adrenaline, all this carnality she’s invoking—all of it for her. Each time you grunt, she knows that she’s the damn reason for it. Every time your fingers dig into her thigh a little more, she knows it’s because of her. Every kiss on her neck, every inch of her pussy you fill with your rock-hard meat, all of it’s for her. She isn’t vain, nor is she a pick me girl, but she sure as hell knows how to make you treat her like she’s the only girl in the fucking world, and you’re more than happy to give her what she wants.

Because it’s always like this with Sana: if she wants it badly enough, she’ll formulate a stratagem to get it, nip her cravings in the bud before they turn into desires that she can’t control. Mind you, she’s not dissolute; she’s just “riding the highs of life” as she calls it. Pretty bullshit and circumlocutory, but you always let her off the hook.

—the pocket area? That’s my two cents. What do you think darling?

Another moment of silence follows, and Sana seizes the opportunity to nibble on your earlobe. Her leg’s sweaty, slowly slipping from your grasp and trembling from the pleasure that’s giving her voice this lilt when she says: Carry me. Fuck me. Cum in me. Please. Pleasure, coursing through your veins, makes you comply in an almost servile manner. It’s precipitous, even fatuous to pull such a stunt in a fitting room of all places, but when your hands are supporting her by her ass and her legs lock around your waist, there’s no turning back.

And as the man starts going off on his own preferences, Sana’s wrapping her arms around your neck, letting you get a look at those bouncing breasts as you reach new depths inside of those slick, warm walls. If she could cry out, she would, but those damn customers outside are placing her in a box here, and it’s clearly frustrating her. If you were at your place, her hands gripping your sheets and her juices messing up your quilt, she could moan, mewl, cry and cuss however loud she wanted. In a way, it was funny to watch her hold back, but at the same time: you so badly want to make her scream, undo her right here and now and make her a mess in your arms, but you’ll settle for what you have right now. What the two of you have created is controlled chaos, and should it be released past that damn changing room door, God knows what will happen.

Now it’s the store assistant’s turn to speak, and she’s giving them a rundown of the pricings. Outside, they’re talking about the possibility of a discount; inside, Sana’s talking about how deep you feel inside of. Outside, the man’s trying to guilt-trip the store assistant by saying how exorbitant the price is; inside, Sana’s exclaiming and pleading in a hushed voice—Own me. For the love of God, fucking o-own me!—as each thrust you make into her pussy sends her further and further down this rabbit hole of pleasure. It takes guts to fuck in a fitting room, but it takes the guts of Minatozaki Sana to be this needy while fucking in a fitting room. The risks of being caught are high, the risk of being heard even higher, but neither of those affect her ardour. At a controlled volume, she’s pleading for you to fuck her harder, faster, unravel every single bit of her being while she tries to keep herself together. It’s one hell of a show, and it’s one hell of an experience too. 

(The sight of her perfect body flushed against yours as she’s fucked in the air, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the feeling of that divinely tight pussy wrapped snugly around your shaft like a damned glove, the way those sonorously soft moans filter into your ears. Add these together with the fact that the people outside could hear you at any second, and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a voyeurist’s wet dream. You’re no voyeurist, but everything about this moment is making you feel like one.

Right now, this is everything to Sana. Having you this close to her, feeling that cool Prada air conditioning against her bare body, listening to you grunt and sigh as you piston yourself in and out of that slick, wet slit… All her needs are being fulfilled, all of her senses heightened and primed, aware of every movement you make inside of her pussy. Sometimes, you feel so good and oh fuck, or maybe even oh god isn’t enough to convey how she feels, so she just opts to let out this strained, strangled gasps that tells you everything you need to know—a maelstrom of emotions and expressions compressed and compacted into one simple “hngh” is enough for you to know that you’re doing something right.)

“You like this Sana?” you find yourself whispering. “You like being fucked like a damn slut with people just outside, don’t you? You like everything about this, don’t you?”

Right now, she doesn’t have that capacity to reply. Of course, you know this, which makes you feel all the more smug as you watch, watching as she slips into a state of complete, utter bliss: her mouth hangs open, her eyes are unfocused, she’s barely holding on to you. The purple mark that your lips have left on her neck sears itself into your sight, and it’s joined by the breathtaking view of her breasts loosely bouncing each time you drive yourself into her. Loose strands of hair are flying, neither of you have any hands free to fix them. Her legs are quaking around your waist, neither of you want to stop just so that she can be back down on the floor. Her eyes are closing, you can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, she’s begging, pleading, fucking imploring you to keep going. 

Christ. You want her to moan as loud as she can for you.

It’s hard not to get turned on by the sight of it, and it’s even harder to keep yourself controlled under the rapidly tightening grip of her cunt. Her breaths are shallow, her head is almost completely limp. She may not seem to be aware of it, but you sure as hell are more than cognizant of the fact that the both of you are about to hit that peak that you’ve been chasing for the past God-knows-how-many minutes.

“Sana.” Uttering her name is all that’s needed to bring her back to the real world. When you have her attention, you give her the sentence that she’s been waiting to hear for so damn long: I’m gonna fucking fill you, and It’s like the air gets heavier when she softly whispers, pleads for you to fulfill her new desire; cum with me. I need it so bad. 

Controlled orgasm would take strength to pull off, and you silently pray that you have that strength as you send one final thrust between her shaking legs. Your cock twitches, spasms and the first rope of your warm seed that’s sent into her waiting walls is enough to send her over the edge. She bites down on your shoulder, quick enough to muffle the cry that escapes her throat. The tightening of her walls seem to coordinate with each spasm of your cock, and they sync up, working together to get every last drop of cum out of you and into her. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed. You let out a single, soft grunt, as though thanking her, as though every twitch of her walls that sends a shock down your cock is a treasure to be relished.

So the scarf that she brought in to try is no longer just an ornament like the rest of the outfits. Even after adjusting her outfit, the fabric still can't seem to cover that hickey you left on her collarbone. The simple solution: Sana waits there, you buy the scarf, hand it to her, she puts it on and the both of you walk out of the store like nothing happened, like the both of you really were in there to try on some clothes, then leave. 

It’s unsuspecting, it’s smooth. The store assistant wishes you a good day, and Sana smiles and waves to her, looking exactly like she did when she entered, plus a scarf. The only difference in Sana’s entrance and exit from the Prada store is the load between her legs.

But that’s a secret for the two of you.

*

“Hey. Could I talk to you about something?”

In your two years of dating Sana, never have you heard her this nervous in your life. The fact that your client isn’t responding to you a day before his trial plagues you no more, and your laptop is shut before she can close the door. 

Your posture—arms crossed atop the desk and back straight—is all she needs. The message is implicit: I’m here, all ears, and she smiles softly as she walks over to the bed. The frame creaks a little as she settles down.

“My uh… My Dad is organising another one of those damned Balls again.” The way she intonates her words tells you that the Ball is the least of her concerns at the moment. “It’s gonna be at the usual time.. Usual place… Not like we can move it anyway.”

You offer her a chuckle to assuage her, diffuse the tension a little. She manages a half-forced giggle at her own joke. Is this a transitional opening? Or is this legitimately the subject of her conversation? you’re thinking, and as you sip from your cup, that subtle shift in her posture is shifting the atmosphere of the room. 

She’s scared, but of what?

“I was wondering,” she drums her nails against her knees, “could I… Introduce you to him tomorrow? M-My Dad I mean.”

And now you suddenly understand why she’s on edge. She’s not scared for herself; she’s scared for you. The head of the Minatozaki clan, Sana’s father—you heard much about him, partly because of the stories that Sana tells you and partly from the things you heard through the grapevine at work. In your firm, there’s a whole box dedicated to storing suits that have been opened by him on the intern’s table (it’s a hilariously off-putting thing to say out loud), and from what you’ve heard: there’s another two in the storage room. Personally, you’ve assisted a colleague in one of his lawsuits, and the emails you billed weren’t pretty. You’d be throwing out a fib if you ever couched that you never once thought: It’s a pretty bad first impression of the man, could he maybe… You know… Stop suing people? Please? but you’re not going to let a mere few boxes and one night of reading through emails determine your perception of Sana’s father. 

And hopefully, he won’t judge a book by its cover too.

“I have a trial tomorrow Sha,” you remind her, but it’s not like you actually expected her to remember this; you whispered it to her while cuddling on the couch a solid week ago. “I don’t know when I’ll end. It might be a little tight for me.”

It's undeniable that she sighs in relief. The blush that follows the breath is a clear indication. She’s glad, too glad. You can't help but ask: What’s up? Think I’ll flub everything when I meet him?

Sana does that thing where she wants to answer, but doesn’t know how to: her mouth opens, closes, opens again—longer this time, then closes again. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about; what your father will think of your partner is never not a touchy matter. All touchy matters should be discussed in comfort (Sana knows that you strongly believe in this, that’s why she’s situated herself on the bed), and you join her on the mattress. 

“WIll he feel that I’m not enough for you?” You’re prodding, all while you gently reach for her hand and grasp it in your own. It’s cold, really cold. You’ll warm it up with your palms, keep them there while she replies, “it’s not that… I know that you’re more than enough for me, that’s what matters to him… At least I think so.”

She’s staring down at her hand, the one that’s slowly heating up via the warmth of your hand. Then what’s making you so worried? you’re asking. She folds her bottom in, past her front teeth. You rub her knuckle with your thumb.

“Yea I… I don’t know what’s making me so worried either,” she finally muses. “Guess I’m just… New to this practice. Never had to do it before...”

Because all the men that have tried to win you over have never lasted for more than a week, you complete in your head, smiling as she lays her other hand over yours. It’s cold too—that won’t do.

And as you set another hand atop hers, she’s asking you for a kiss. Luckily for her, obliging her wants is your specialty, and your lips are quickly travelling that small gap between the two of you. Connection is made, and you physically feel her relax. You know. You know that she belides a truth that she’s not ready to divulge. It’s in her kiss, it’s in her hands, and that’s fine with you. You can infer that it’s not something that’s going to be detrimental to your relationship, and whenever she’s ready to speak about it, you’ll always be available.

Now the kiss is done, she’s asking for fried chicken. You counter-ask if the kiss was to soften you up so that she could ask for her Famichiki. Of course, you get a classic Sana reply: a “maybe”, followed by that mischievous grin. You rise from the bed to grab your coat. 

You're glad that the Konbini is just next to your apartment. Sana’s glad that she gets to be close to you as you walk through the snowy street.

“You know,” she’s whispering, “I really won’t mind if you propose to me one of these days.”

You laugh it off, kiss her on her forehead. 

In your head: you note to start looking for a nice ring.

*

Money can get you to places, but it can also get you a private soundproof karaoke room in a club. Three and a half years of dating—that’s all you need to know: you can bet your left kidney that Sana is taking full advantage of that room.

The bottle of Whisky that she opened to get the room is hardly the main event; Sana, slowly slipping out of that tight black dress she’s wearing, foreground to the default music that’s on the TV, has your unwavering attention. The smile on her face could've been mistaken for a sweet one if it weren’t for the fact that she’s getting naked, and the lack of a bra really doesn’t help with her case either.

“There isn’t a time limit to the use of this room, right?” You know the answer to that is no, the lady at the counter told you so. The question is more of a gauge, an instrument that’s helping you assess her plans for the night.

“If you’re trying to know how long we’ll be here for,” she slings her dress onto the couch next to you, and in her stockings and panties, saunters over with a sultry sway in her hips, “my answer is a secret.”

“I have work tomorrow, Sana.”

“Too bad. Call in sick.”

She picks up the glass of Whisky, raises it to her lips. When she drinks, she lets some of that amber liquid trickle out past her lips, down past her chin and onto her tits. In the light, her wet skin glistens and shimmers, and you once again find yourself in absolute awe with the woman before you. And as she straddles you, glass in hand, the way she uses her fingers to tilt your face up to the light tells you that she’s in control. She takes a sip of the amber liquid, swallows it, then brings it to your lips.

“Be a good boy,” she’s tipping the glass as she speaks, a strong way to convey that there’s no room for disobedience, “say ‘ahh’ for me baby.” 

The glass is cold against your lips, the liquor even colder on your tongue as it flows into your mouth at a manageable rate. When she stops pouring, you take the cue, and you swallow all of it in one gulp. The burn in your throat is oddly rewarding, probably because Sana’s smiling down at you, stroking your hair and telling you how obedient you are as you swallow. Then she makes you open your mouth again, pours another portion down the hatch. 

How does it taste, she’s asking, cupping your right cheek as she swirls the glass. You give her a short honest review of it: It’s good. The answer pleases her, and she sets down the glass in her hand to pick up the bottle from the table next to you. 

“Yamazaki, 12 year old single Malt.” She’s letting you see the bottle under the light, though you have to admit that her tits right next to the bottle are a horrible distraction. “My personal favourite.”

She unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle, swallows it without even flinching. She’s always been able to hold her alcohol well, and you know for a fact that she can probably outdrink 5 of your colleagues and maybe, just maybe, your boss too. But you’ll never have a fair gauge on how well she can drink in comparison to your peers; she only drinks around you. 

Your face is back in her hand, and she’s got some more things to say—Drink it neat, on the rocks, add it to another drink, it tastes great no matter what—as she starts to lightly grind herself over your throbbing shaft in your pants. But you know what the best way to drink it is, she asks you. She’s not looking for an answer from you, just finding a way to transition from the Whisky to whatever it is she has in mind—you can tell because she leans down to capture lips right after she throws out the inquiry, kissing you deeply, her tongue playing aggressively on your lips before searching your mouth for its counterpart. The smell of Whisky is so damn strong on her breath, and the only thing hotter than the burning sensation in your throat is the fact that she’s using one hand to play with herself, the bottle of Whisky in the other. You can hear it slosh next to your ear as she raises it. 

And as she breaks the kiss, the thin strand of saliva connecting the two of you doesn’t stop her from providing the answer to her question—it tastes the best when you drink it right off my body—as she straightens herself. The next second, still playing with herself, she’s bringing the bottle to her lips, tipping it just before it touches those red-tinted lips to let the golden liquid flow down her chest and breasts. There's no time to admire; you reach out and catch the rapidly falling liquid, your tongue pressed tightly to her skin to lap up as much of the bitter liquor as you could. Her skin glistens with the Whisky on it. It looks like gold in the snow. She smells like lavender and lust.

Your tongue, saturated with Whisky, finds and captures her left nipple. You close your lips around it, suckling deeply from her chest, enjoying the taste of her body and the liquor that made it spicy and bitter. Sana gasps and moans as you have your way with her chest, fondling her small mounds, suckling both of her taut nipples—roughly, hungrily. You could say that she’s wasted some perfectly good Whisky, but you say that she’s added complex flavours to an already exquisite meal. The blend of alcohol and Sana’s skin is not something you never knew you needed, but now you do. The novelty of it, the sheer lust she’s emanating, all of it makes her tits taste better than ever, and you find yourself leaving marks on her cleavage, the right side of her left breast, the left side of her right breast; every centimetre of skin that can be reached is marked and tasted—your attempt at dipping your toes in a little control in this karaoke room that is Sana’s domain.

Maybe you’re a little over-indulgent in her, maybe you’re just unaware, but you certainly can’t feel her slipping your tie off your neck. By the time you’re aware of the sudden feeling of freedom at your throat, she’s already wrapping your wrists, securing them together with an intricate knot. You know damn well that even the boy scouts couldn’t untie this one, even if they sent their best member. The theory is only enforced when Sana asks you to try pulling your wrists apart, and it feels like they’ve been superglued together. Satisfied, she feeds you some more Whisky off her body, then it’s time for her fun.

Palm flat against your chest, eyes flaring, wicked smile; Sana pushed you back against the couch with graceful authority—something that only she is capable of. Then it’s onto your shirt, and he’s unbuttoning it with practised dexterity: unfastening, pulling—motions so fast that she has your reverence for mastering the art. She takes a moment, parts the fabric covering your chest and runs a fingernail down the centre of your torso. The nail—painted black with little Sakura flowers adorning it—stops at your belt. It isn’t hesitance that keeps her finger there; it’s the innate cheekiness that makes her linger there a little longer, that makes her smile softly as the other hand joins in and starts undoing the clasp of your belt. Not a word is uttered as she pulls apart your belt, then goes straight for the buckle of your belt. 

Then it’s back to kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing as she runs her fingers through your hair. The Whisky on both of your breaths mingle. Admittedly, you’re feeling a little floaty, engendering a pleasant tingle on your skin as she starts placing kisses on your cheek, then on your jaw. Next thing you know, she’s sucking hard at the nape of your neck, marking you with those lovely lips, as if she’s placing a wax seal on you, declaring: you are mine and mine alone. And when she successfully sears the shape of her lips onto your skin, she traces the slick outline with a finger, whispers softly, You have no idea how much I want to own you right now. 

The excitement is palpable, the tension even more so. She’s whispering all sorts of things to you—most of them entailing what she’s about to do with your cock—all while she starts to slip your briefs off of your legs. Your cock springs out of your pants, slaps against her ass and twitches on the rotund flesh. The smile grows wider, devilish dimples appear. And for the record: no, she’s not gonna blow you. She’s gonna make herself cum before anything else happens, and she’s going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. 

She slides off you, gets back up on her feet. With her back turned to you, she bends forward at the waist, shaking her ass while she uses her thumbs to hook onto the waistband of her panties. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. Her pussy glistens in the light, flushed pink and folds tantalising as ever puffy and swollen with excitement.

She bends her knees, getting down on all fours.

She wiggles her ass at you, looking back at you over her shoulder.

“Bet you wished,” she gets on her back, spreads her legs to get the spotlight on her slit, “that you could absolutely own me like this right now, don’t you?”

She’s so cocksure. It’s driving you crazy. You swallow, your voice barely audible as you utter her name. She crawls to you, sits up, her face in front of yours, so close, so hot. Her hand touches the back of your head, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the base of your cock—but you can’t, and it’s so damn frustrating, isn’t it?—and rubs your tip between her dripping folds, lathering her juices all over your head and smiling all the way through. 

And when you least expect it, she turns and sinks down on your cock.

You throw your head back, groan, the sound of her wetness as she takes your cock into her pussy loud and clear over the music. Your head falls forward again, watching her sink further and further, taking more and more of your cock inside her with every passing moment as she lets a long, drawn-out moan float through the air. When her crotch meets yours and you are fully embedded inside her, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure that leaves open lips. You meet it with a sigh of your own, somehow tearing open your own shut eyes to watch the expression on her beautiful face as you fill her. 

Christ, fuck and god—just some of the words that you want to cry out as she starts to slowly grind herself against you. The ride she’s about to take is one that’s of perverse nature; it’s not going to be a slow, pleasant ride. Naturally, her habit of jumping straight into things leaves her unprepared for what she’s about to experience, so now she has to slowly slowly adjust to your size, like striking the flint over and over next to the fireplace as you hope to get a flame going. Usually, this would be a time where you’d caress that beautiful body, run your hands over that unblemished white skin and pepper kisses all over the places that she loves to be kissed. But she’s not in the mood for that, not when she has this room and you at her disposal. 

Then the fire ignites, and it is merciless, a force of nature—untameable, unrelenting. In your bonds you are unable to resist. You never would’ve in the first place. She begins to move, her pussy tight and slick around your cock. She rides you like she was made to do this, like a pro. She rides you fiercely, roughly, taking you in and out of her tight wet heat, caring little for your comfort or much of anything aside from stuffing herself over and over with thick, hard meat. Throughout it all she is digging into your thigh, crying out like her life depends on it as she goes up, down, up, down—a lewd seat on a merry go round.

Yes, yes, yes—she throws her head back, auburn hair flying like streamers in the wind as she has her way with you—o-oh fuck I need this! I need this so fucking bad! The rhythmic, repetitive motion, her unbridled desire to be filled, it sends you reeling. The pressure on your leg is forgotten, the slight discomfort in your arms pushed out of the way. You can do nothing but watch her ride you. You can do nothing but marvel at how good you feel inside her, how the tightness of her pussy massages your shaft, how the way she takes you so completely into her folds, how you stretch her and make her quiver and quake.

A part of you wishes the mirror were visible from your current position, so that you could watch as Sana impales herself over and over on your cock. You want to watch the expression of pleasure wrangle her cute features, want to watch her full, round breasts bounce up and down, want to watch every muscle of her long, perfectly shaped legs work to throw her body again and again against your cock. But you’ll have to content yourself with the almost equally alluring view of her sweaty back (not that it was a particularly difficult position to enjoy. How could you call it “bad” with the view of her round, full ass as she slams it down against your crotch?). It’s not like you can change anything about this anyway. No—the only thing you can do is sit back, watch, and savour how her ass jiggles as it crashes against your crotch.

Oh fuck, oh yes! I’m so fucking full! I’m so stuffed with this cock!

You lose yourself to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her pussy as it swallows up your cock, the sight of her back arching and her hands shaking. As much as you try, you find yourself unable to move, as though your own pleasure has been drained out of your body, and you are just an observer. You watch as she pushes herself down further on your cock, impaling herself with every thrust of her hips, her voice growing louder and louder as she gets into that dangerous rhythm, the rhythm that makes you think she’s on Acid. Well-formed breasts bounce, you see them past her slender figure. Her shapely, luscious ass ripples. Long legs work overtime, cooperating with the stamina of the girl who is using them to drive herself over the edge like it’s her be-all and end-all. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling. 

It’s so fucking hot. 

Oh god. You’re stretching me out so good. This cock feels so damn good!

Two things are getting you at the moment: (1) The sweat glistening that’s building up on her back. (2) The fact that she’s pushing your thighs apart to get more of you inside her. The former sight is a breathtaking process really: beady moisture on that well built back, pooling at all the best places and making her skin glow as some of it slowly trickles down her spine. The latter’s no grain of sand either mind you, maybe even hotter than Sana’s sweaty back if you dare say. Freshly done nails sit just outside the insides of your thighs, the palms that they’re connected to pushing down against the flesh beneath them. They’re indenting the muscles of your thighs, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second at a time. 

I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna fucking stop!

In your restraints, your hands grasp at the flesh that’s so close yet so far, the skin that’s rippling and slapping against yours. Her ass taunts you, tempts you, teases you. It’s so frustrating yet so erotic; you aren’t sure if you should welcome this mix of emotions or reject it before it folds its wings and nestles itself in your chest. The mix of desire and vexation, exasperation and ecstasy—any two emotions that shouldn’t go together are mixing, blending, forming these bubbles in your chest that you can’t explain. 

One woman; innumerable sensations.

You need more. More of everything. More of her.

You wish you could touch her.

You wish you could fuck her.

But all you can do is watch, watch as she starts going down harder, crying out even louder. 

Her body, so flawlessly feminine, is in deadly motion, working you over from the inside like you’ve never experienced. The air is filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her pussy sucking you in your hips slapping against her ass, her moans and groans, her curses that seem to go on perennially, blending in perfectly with that shitty synth in the background.

And you’re just along for the ride.

You have no idea… How good this is.. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And she wants you to see it, she wants you to watch her—it is exactly that kind of attention that she is basking in. So you watch. You watch her, the way she looks back at you, the way her eyes flare as she takes you in, the way her hands claw at your leg. The way she's moaning with that lilt back in her voice. Everything about this spectacle seems like it’s been scripted for some porno, and her body is certainly making you feel like you’re in one. The only grasp on reality that this situation offers is… Well, nothing. And it’s not that there really isn’t anything for you to root yourself in this real world, rather you’re choosing not to make that mental effort to do so; every little corner of your mind is being bled with whatever colour the image of Sana bouncing on your cock is. There’s no room for reality, and it's addicting, enthralling.

Fuck. You can't get enough of her, and you probably never will.

So deep! So fucking… Oh my god!

Your breath is ragged, and it takes every bit of control you have left in you to not cum right then and there. It takes every ounce of focus not to simply give in to her, not to simply melt into the couch, not to lose your mind to the sensation of her tight, wet slick as it swallows you in, pushes you out; fucking itself over and over and over again on your rock hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can hold out for, and as if she can tell, Sana starts to move faster, her movements getting even more aggressive. The slaps of her ass against your crotch are louder now, and the wet smacking sound of her pussy's getting faster and faster. Her fingers are digging into your leg, her moans more frequent and more desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, the way her walls clamp down, the way her legs are trembling, the way her voice is going up in pitch. 

(It’s the moments of privacy that really get her going; the moments where she can scream and cuss and moan like there’s no tomorrow are everything to her. 

Yes, she likes fucking in public spaces for the thrill of it, but she likes it better when she can hold you freely as you fill her, not having to care for the fact that the way her body’s positioned engenders any discomfort or risk of being heard.

Yes, she likes it when there’s the chance that someone can walk in on the two of you, but the prospect of being able to own your cock, uninterrupted and unheard, thrills her like nothing else in the damn world.

Yes, she likes to see if she can hold in her cries while you’re rearranging her insides in a bathroom stall, but she prefers it much more when she can slam herself down on your cock—be loud and be proud of the fact that she loves every inch of meat that fills her till she can barely breathe. 

Bottom line: she likes chasing that thrill of being caught, but she loves those moments where she’s alone with you in private even more. Now is one of those times, and God… She’s barely herself anymore.

She is a storm of pure, unfiltered lust. And you must say: it’s fucking sublime.)

Then the game changing sentence comes from her, and it's beautiful. 

"I'm fucking cumming!"

The words ring out, clear and loud. And she doesn't stop; she keeps riding you, taking you into her wet hole and milking your cock, using you to bring herself off. It's not until the final second that she slows down, her back arching as she lets out the most satisfying scream that you have ever heard in your entire life. It is all that you can do to watch as she slumps forward, breaths ragged and body twitching as you hold yourself back. It takes everything—every fibre, every cell and every last bit of will—to not cum in her right there and then. And when the final spasm has passed and the shuddering has subsided, when Sana has collapsed against you, your cock still buried inside her, she turns to you.

There are no words spoken, just a mutual understanding of what comes next. She slips off the couch, takes your slick shaft in her hands. A few pumps are delivered, and they’re considerate and slow; she’s good at building tension.

“You’ve already marked my tits. Might as well cum on them.” She’s still got some cheekiness left in her, and that smile is really doing everything for you. 

“Fuck, Sana, I—” “Do it. Paint me.”

You feel the semen gather in your balls before coursing up your shaft and erupting from its tip, landing in thick, wet, warm ropes upon Sana’s creamy skin. Your tip is directed between her cleavage, and the first spurt of cum shoots itself between those wonderful mounds. It’s quickly followed by a second rope, and the third lands on her upper chest. With grace, she manages to direct your spurting cock by the base so the fourth and fifth ropes cover the front of her tits, then the rest don’t matter anymore.

The last ropes of thick, warm semen land upon her face, staining her soft, blushing features with creamy white cum. Some of it lands on her cheeks, on her forehead and onto her open mouth and the thirsty tongue within it. When you finally open eyes you hadn’t known had closed, the picture of Minatozaki Sana, face and chest painted with your warm, thick cum, is one you never want to forget. And as she scoops up your seed with her fingers, she’s got a thing or two to say.

“Excellent load,” she whispers, watching as the cum slithers down her palm. “Plus two to you.”

Just two? Is your reply of false bewilderment. Sana chortles. 

Maybe if you can give me a load up my ass, I’ll consider adding another three points.

*

Now the ring’s oddly heavy in your pocket. 

Sana’s father seems more imposing than he should for a man his size, and looking at the Yamazaki bottle on the desk, you can tell that Sana gets her liking for Whisky from him. 

“I’ve never met you in my life,” he begins, “and now you come here like a friend, asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Sana’s head is bowed. In the corner of the office she sits, hands clasped over one another as she listens in silently. No amount of trials or oral submissions could ever prepare you for this tension.

“Mr Minatozaki… I understand that all of this is sudden,” you begin, but you’re interrupted by a raised hand.

“You know boy… You sure do talk like you know everything about the situation.” His voice is nowhere near threatening as he speaks, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “For a lawyer, you sure do sound quite the fool. Guess I shouldn’t have been expecting much considering your background.”

And it’s that very statement that has you on tenterhooks. You’ve never met him, never even seen his face, yet he knows your occupation which you never even touched on, and from the sound of it, knows what went down in your family. Sana’s head snaps up, her eyes wide as she watches her father produce a file from under his desk. 

“It’s not the suddenness,” the air quotations he uses hold more weight than they really should, “that doesn’t sit well with me dear boy. No, no… It’s more than that.”

The broad leather chair in his office grows constricting. As he rises from his seat, the foam that holds your butt up seems to depress. And as he begins—if you sauntered in here as just a lawyer, I would’ve let you take my daughter in a heartbeat!—his explanation of what’s grinding his gears, you start feeling uneasy. For context on the severity of this feeling: the last time you felt like this was when you first met his daughter.

But you’re not just a lawyer—he’s opening the file in his hands, flipping through its contents—you’re a disgrace to this very world. You shouldn’t even be in this damn house right now. 

Into the file his hand reaches, and out from it: two mugshots. You bristle; Sana gasps (and it’s not that she didn’t know, rather because she was shocked that her father knew.)

So it’s the next sentence that seals your fate. Frankly, you kind of expected it, but it still doesn’t take away from the sheer bedlam that goes down in your head when Mr Minatozaki waves the mugshots of your parents before your face and shrieks at the top of his lungs. 

This isn’t the way you pictured this going. 

Honestly, you never pictured this happening at all.

 “Do you seriously think for a second that I’d let the son of two druggies—two disgraceful, repugnant, filthy, druggies—marry my daughter?”

*

It’s hard to forget what she told you over the phone after your talk with her father (if you can even call it that): we’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out. 

Money can get you a nice fancy Ball, some nice Whisky and a private Karaoke room. Naturally, it can grant you a means to keep the son of two convicted drug abusers that hung themselves in their cells away from your daughter. 

So not even 12 hours after that fate-sealing conversation did you get a phone call from your boss. Next thing you know, you’re uprooted from your workplace in Osaka, transferred to the branch in Nagoya; Sana’s number mysteriously changes itself, none of your letters ever reach her. 

It’s over the payphone, months after all of this, that Sana finally reaches you, and she’s ugly crying over the phone. 

We can fix this, we’ll figure something out. We’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out. 

In a way, she ended up being right. 

And in your suit, you smile as you watch her walk down the aisle. She’s beautiful as ever, and you feel like that white veil over her face is doing her the biggest disservice ever. The little boy carrying the wedding rings seems a little confused, but it only adds to his adorable aura as he stumbles behind Sana. The flower petals are being scattered, the crowd’s on their feet. They’re clapping; you’re crying. Have you mentioned that she looks beautiful?

Oh? You have? Odd…

But just in case it slips your mind, you tell her how beautiful she is in your head, all while she walks right past you and continues to the stage. It feels like the ring boy’s acting stupid to taunt you for being the fool here. 

In a way, she ended up being right. If “We” referred to Sana’s father and that man on the stage, “We” did indeed end up figuring things out. The invite broke you, and this wedding is breaking you even more. You know that this invite wasn’t sent by Sana—she isn’t cruel. This has the fingerprints of her father all over it: the seat close to the aisle, your wristband to authorise your access to the venue holding the same serial code as your father’s prisoner ID… All of it is him. 

But there’s not much you can do about it is there? You chose to come, you chose this for yourself. There was the option to not come, to tear the invite up and go cry in your apartment in Nagoya, but you bought the Shinkansen ticket here, didn’t you? You walked through the doors of this damn place and took your seat, didn’t you?

And the Yamazaki doesn’t taste as good as it should, and the Spring air is sharper than it should be at the afterparty. They’re over there, congratulating the newly weds and wishing them all the best; you’re over here, sipping on your neat Whisky behind a bush as the music roars on.

It really shouldn’t be a question on how she finds you; she knows you too well to know where you’d go at a place like this. And in her wedding gown, she stands where she is, this look of a god-knows-what mix of emotions simmering on her face. You rub your nose with a thumb, sip on the bitter Whisky as your remedy. No words are spoken, not even a “hey” or “how have you been”—both of you know that there’s no use in starting a conversation here. It’ll go sob, fast, and this isn’t the place for it.

There will never be a place for it.

So why not substitute words with actions? 

So in her bare feet, she hikes up her gown, runs over to you, lunges to close those years of separation between you two to hug you like she used to. The Whisky is knocked out of your hands; you’re knocked off your feet. And in the grass, she buries her head into your shoulder and weeps. 

You always thought that only death would make you cry, but now as you hold her for what may very well be the last time, you realise: you're not as tough as you think.

Like a Lemon, the realisation that comes is bitter, and it has you bawling.

Cause maybe in a world that wasn’t so cruel, you could’ve been the one on that stage.

(Then the two of you could be in love, happier than ever.)

#minatozaki sana #twice smut #sana smut #kpop #fanfic #writing #smut

[andhumanslovedstories]

A while ago at work, I had a patient whose condition rapidly deteriorated during my shift, which I believed at the time was due to me not monitoring certain therapies closely enough. Essentially patient had parameters that their oxygen saturations should be between 88-92%. The patient was on supplemental oxygen via a nasal cannula, and was having oxygen saturations of 95% or more. The patient later became lethargic, confused, and hard to rouse. The patient was in hypercapnic respiratory failure, where they essentially were not exhaling enough CO2, the waste product of respirations. Patients who have oxygen parameters of 88-92% tend to be COPD patients, and I'd been taught where giving them too much oxygen can result in CO2 retention.

We ended up having to call a rapid response on that patient who needed to go on the bipap (non-invasive ventilator) to help them breathe effectively, and I went home from that shift feeling certain that I killed this person. That I had triggered a terminal decline that the patient would never recover from.

(Perhaps some context here: my grandfather went into hypercapnic respiratory failure and then died within a few days. Maybe he would have passed either way, I think probably he would have, but the respiratory failure was the moment his decline started accelerating. After he went hypercapnic, he was non-responsive from that point on.)

I called in sick to my next shift because I couldn't face going in. I spent the day thinking about what I'd done, what my moral obligations were, how do you atone for something when you cannot reverse the effects of the original error, and how paralyzed by shame I felt. What did I owe the patient? What did I owe the family? What did I owe myself? How many times had this happened before and I just didn't know because the decline happened after my shift ended?

It was a productive if unpleasant day of trying to sincerely examine myself and the things I'd done wrong without flagellating myself. It'd be almost easily to complete condemn myself and to stop nursing because I'm a Bad Nurse than it would have been to acknowledge the many steps that led to this patient outcome, only some of which I had a hand in. But this was my patient. They were my responsibility. What was the right reaction to have? What should I be feeling? In the course of doing my job, I caused harm to someone I swore to take care of. I still think that I am a thoughtful, hardworking, and compassionate nurse. I don't think the hospital would be better off if I quit. But I hurt someone.

I thought a lot about how this outcome happened, came up with steps to prevent it in the future, and found a new commitment within myself for continued learning. (If you've got a timeline of my particular fixations, this is about when my determination to go to grad school began.) I also thought about how much shame was making me sick. When my patient started declining and I realized the effects of my actions and inactions, one of my first thoughts was genuinely, "Everyone's going to know what I did." It was thought with absolute horror. I'd hurt someone and everyone was going to know it. They were going to know I was bad at my job and bad as a person.

And I was struck by what an unhelpful emotion that was. How much it made me, if only for a moment, tell NO ONE what was going on and what I believed to be the root cause. That it'd be better to let the decline continue rather than intervene because if I intervened that'd be admitting that I'd done something wrong. I didn't listen to that voice that told me to hide what I'd done, but I instantly understood the power of it.

There's this thing called the Compass of Shame which is about the different ways people handle their own feelings of shame--they avoid the shame, they withdraw from themselves and others, they attack others, they attack themselves. I know my own reactions to shame and try therefore not to go with my gut instincts, which are always to say I'm an irredeemably bad person and no one can know about this and if anyone does not about what I've done wrong, I deserve literally whatever punishment they could give me. I've had to learn I can both have failed to complete my responsibilities and still not deserve to lose my job or my flunk this class or give up on college or lose all my friends. But there is something appealing about masochistic shame. Like you can prevent others from judging and punishing you if you sufficiently judge and punish yourself. You'll still be a wretched monster, but no one else needs to know that.

That's actively dangerous for patients, who are the victims of healthcare errors, and it doesn't help prevent future mistakes if we are too ashamed to talk about what happened and why. We'll just keep fucking up in the exact same ways because no one else told us how they'd fucked up that way in the past and here's how we've changed the process because of that. I therefore have an ethical obligation to not internalize shame when I make mistakes at my job. I have tried to remember that while also trying my best to not make the same mistakes twice.

And then a week later, I was sent back to the same floor with the patient who'd declined on my watch. Because I'm a float RN and therefore don't have an assigned unit, I go to different floors every night (occasionally multiple floors on the same night). I see patients for 12 hours and then almost never see them again. Since I was back on the floor, I girded myself and went to go visit the patient, who to my surprise was alert and upright and about the same as I'd seen her at the beginning of my shift before they'd gotten bad. I said hi and asked how the patient was doing, and the answer was that patient was doing about the same as they'd been doing for the last month.

This was not good news for the patient, who was still medically complex, still dealing with an extremely difficult to address condition, but they were also not in the ICU, dying, or dead which is what I'd feared. And with the new knowledge that the patient was, if not okay, than at least stable as ever despite my actions, I could look back on that shift and see it differently, namely that this patient kept continuing to go into hypercapnic respiratory failure with or without oxygen. And then I looked into what I thought I'd been negligent about before and found that the scholarship on it was more complicated and divided than I'd thought. That the mechanism of action that I thought was driving the hypercapnic respiratory failure was in fact waaaaaaaaaaay more complicated than just over oxygenation, particularly in this patient who had a number of muscular abnormalities that made much more of an impact on ventilation than the oxygen would have. And while I still had to improve my practice, upon more reflection I could no longer say there was a direct one to one of my actions and the patient's decline.

I felt simultaneously forgiven, absolved, and humbled. I cannot describe to you the almost sheepish relief that rushed over me. Nothing that bad had happened. What did happen was only ambiguously my fault.

There's a power fantasy to shame sometimes, that you are uniquely bad and that your actions have monumental consequences. My actions on the job can have monumental consequences, but usually they are little things, little cares, little turns, little med doses, little therapies, little steps, little tasks, little jobs, little kindnesses or little cruelties that help a patient move forward or which hold a patient back. I'm there for 12 hours and never again. I can do a lot in that time, but I'm not gonna cure them and I'm probably not going to kill them. It's a relief, and it's a strange disappointment. We want to be important, even in bad ways.

While I can certainly fuck things up for patients, while I can certainly kill patients or traumatize them or withhold care or misuse my position, while I can do all those things, I don't actually have that much power over life and death. Everything that goes wrong isn't my fault. And sometimes something is your fault and nothing really happens except a few people have a bad night and you try not to do it again. I think that last bit is the most important part. I still should have titrated her oxygen down. I'm more careful about that now. I'm trying not to fuck up in the exact same way. I'll find exciting new ways to fuck up, and then I'll learn from those too.

#nursing tag #this is like waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more detailed that i typically like to get with a post about my job #but i've been really thinking about it #this is the long post i said i'd reward myself with btw

[nobody7102]

Not What He's Made For

Spoilers for Season 6, Episode 11

Pairing: Evan "Buck" Buckley x Reader

Warnings: Angst, mentions of pregnancy and lost pregnancy

A/N: First fic in a while, it had to be for my baby Buck. This was inspired by Billie

Main Master-List

________

Standing at the window watching as everyone gathers in his room. Buck swallows hard, seeing himself laying in the hospital bed hooked up to the ventilator, his jaw clenches with anger, an anger that no matter how hard he tries, he can't wake himself up.

Its as if the universe is playing some sick joke on him. He already talked to Daniel and the alternate version of Bobby, what more does the universe want him to learn?

Banging against the glass window “I’M HERE!” He yells over and over as the crew of the 118 slowly file out of the room. Leaving just three.

Maddie, Bobby, and Y/N,

He watches as they sit and make small talk, sometimes discussing things that the doctors and nurses have told them about Buck’s current status. After about an hour a nurse stops in to have Maddie look over some paperwork as his closest next of kin, being that their parents are still hours away from arriving at the hospital. Leaving just Bobby and Y/N.

If there ever where someone who hid their troubles well, it was Y/N.

Always seeming fine and calm in tense or hard situations as her fears screamed inside of her.

When Y/N joined the LAFD most of her previous houses would say thats what made Y/N such a good firefighter, but if you asked Y/N she would always say it was her fear that runs her life. 

And when Y/N joined the 118, Bobby was the only captain who could read through her facade. 

After a call where Y/N had to crawl through a collapsed building a year after she joined the 118, Bobby found her having an anxiety attack in her hospital room after the 118 had visited her after she was found in the rubble. Other time Bobby had learned to tell when Y/N was too in her head about anything.

And when Buck and Y/N had started to turn their situationship into an actual relationship Bobby helped Y/N learn how to navigate her fears when it came to seeing a fellow first responder, and he taught Buck how to help Y/N navigate her anxieties.

And slowly over time, Buck and Y/N became each other’s persons. They had been though so much together, from being almost drowned by a tusnami, being shot at, crawling out of a sinkhole, to fighting wild fires down in Texas, and now this.

A lightning strike. Something so beautiful yet as much as Y/N would normally have admired their beauty, right now she loathed the beauty of plasma.

The one shift she took off and now Buck’s life hangs in the balance.

Placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N turns her head away from Bobby to quickly wipe away her tears. “Comon Y/N… what’s going though your head?” Bobby prys gently.

Letting out a sigh Y/N shakes her head, finally turning to face Bobby. “Did Buck tell you we had a fight-” she correcters herself “or rather that we’ve been fighting…” 

Bobby shrugs slightly “He mention you two were bickering but he didn’t say over what” he takes a seat next to Y/N.

“...The fights… the bickering, whatever you wanna call it… its part of the reason why I asked for this shift off…” 

Bobby nodded his head as he listened “I get it, come back with a clear approach to everything after giving each other some space… what have you been fighting about if you don’t mind me asking”

“...Buck….. Buck thinks I don’t wanna be with him anyone…. That I’m getting tired of him, and I kept trying to tell him… show him that it isn’t the case” Y/N glances over to Buck.

“Okay… then what’s the other reason you asked for this shift off?” Bobby raised his brow. 

Blowing out a breath, Y/N shakes her head.

“If you let it sit, it’s gonna fester into something more. We both know that” Bobby sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, waiting for Y/N to talk.

She knows he’s right, if she avoids talking its just gonna sit in the back of her mind and eventually come back to bite her in the ass later. 

“...If I tell you this… no one else can know, you have to swear to me Bobby. No one… not Athena or Maddie or Eddie or Buck, no one.” She turns to Bobby.

“Y/N, if its serius enough you know Buck-”

“Bobby.” Y/N pleads “He can’t know” 

Bobby lets out a sigh, stuck between a rock and a hard place, he eventually nods his head “It stays between us, I promise” 

Slowly nodding her head, Y/N takes a deep breath and looks back at Buck one last time before she turns back to Bobby.

“... Buck and I have been fighting because he thinks I’m pulling away from him… this has been going on for the past week and a half” Y/N glances down to the floor as she continues “and I mean maybe I was a little bit like three days ago but it’s not for the reason’s Buck thinks” 

Starting to pick at the loose threads of her hoodie, Y/N shakes her head and blows out a breath before glancing to the doorway of Buck’s hospital room, making sure no one other than Bobby is around to hear her before she speaks.

“... a little over two weeks ago… I found out I was pregnant” Y/N sees the shock on Bobby’s face and cuts him off before he has the chance to speak “I was gonna tell you, I swear… but anytime we were on shift it was slow, we didnt end up doing anything super dangerous… and I wanted to tell Buck before I told anyone else”

Bobby’s gaze softens as he sees Y/N close her eyes and lean back in the chair as she takes a breath before continues. “If…. If I was pulling away, it’s because I was trying to figure out how to tell Buck” He sees how Y/N keeps her eyes to the floor as she talks, a tear starts to roll down her cheek before she brings her hand up to wipe it away. “Becuase its Buck. We all know he’d make a great dad, and a great dad deserves to be told in a great way… because Buck is worth taking extra steps to plan for so I ordered this little onesie and all these balloons and a cake to surprise him… and I know he would have loved it” Bobby can hear the passion in her voice before Y/N goes quiet for a moment to compose herself before she clears her thought.

“But then… four days ago I went to the ER because I was having some cramps and light spotting… I asked my doctor about and she said it was normal” Y/N shakes her head “But I could tell… something wasn’t-” Y/N stops herself, taking a moment before she swallows hard. “And… that’s when I learned that I lost the pregnancy…” She shrugs as she tries to maintain was little composer she has left.

“They don’t know what happened… in the ER they told me that things like this just happen sometimes…” Y/N’s voice tightnes she brings her hand up to cover her face for a moment as she tries to take a few deep breaths.

“So… for the last few days… yeah I was pulling away because I had all this stuff planned and I had to figure out what to do with it now because-” her voice breaks “It was all for nothing” her shoulders shake as Bobby wraps his arms around Y/N, letting her cry on his shoulder as he glances between her and Buck with pity and sadness in his eyes. 

“Y/N” He starts once she’s a bit more calmed down “This isn’t something you can hide from Buck”

Y/N just continues to shake her head “I can’t Bobby, I’ve tried-” 

“Y/N” 

“No I mean it” Y/N cuts him off her voice wavers a little bit “I have tried to tell him at every opportunity but i can’t… everytime i try i choke everytime.”

Pulling away from Bobby, Y/N sniffles and wipes her eyes before she glances to Buck “...I think it’d just make it worse, make it hurt more if I told him…” Y/N mumbles “he’s not made for sadness Bobby… Buck thrives on the happiness and joy… love and happiness and passion run his life… something like this?” she just stares at Buck laying in the hospital bed and the tears start to roll down her cheeks once more “it’s not was he’s made for…”

Staring at Y/N and Bobby, Buck bangs his fist against the glass one last time before he stops banging, his hand growing sore as he rests his head against the glass, his tears matching Y/N’s as all he can do it watch…

Hoping that this isn’t his forever.

--------

Tagging: @beachbabey @t-nd-rfoot

#evan buckley #evan buck buckely #buck buckley #911 #911 fox #oliver stark #911 x reader #buck #buck x reader #evan buckley x reader #buck buckley x reader #evan buck buckley x reader #oliver stark x reader #x reader

[sharksnshakes]

Open Arms - John "Soap" MacTavish

Soap might be the tiniest bit jealous of the throw pillows you nap with. You might just have to do something about that.

A/N; can someone please give soap a hug

Wordcount; 605

TW; none... but beware of tooth rotting fluff

"Why don' you hold me like that, huh?"

You blink a few times, swallow twice. Freshly awoken from a nap, your mind is still foggy, and you glance halfheartedly towards the sound of the voice--your boyfriend, Johnny MacTavish--with bleary eyes.

As you fully come to, you see him sitting at the opposite end of the couch, an amused expression on his face.

It takes you a moment to speak. "Huh?"

"I said," he repeats, leaning back on the cushions and giving you a sideways glance, "Why can' you hold me like that?"

Your brows furrow.

He rolls his eyes teasingly in response, gesturing to the throw pillow you have clutched in your grip. It's drawn close to your chest, chin hooked over the edge.

"You're talking about the pillow?" You ask drowsily, voice equal parts teasing and confused. "You're jealous of a pillow? I didn't take you for the type."

"Och, shut up," he chuckles, waving a dismissive hand in mock irritation.

You take a breath, momentarily shut your eyes, and stretch out on the cushions like a cat in sunshine. When you look up at Johnny again, his attention is elsewhere, looking at something on his phone. Frowning softly at the sight, you nudge the edge of his thigh with your foot.

He glances over at you, a brow raised. "Yeah, lass?"

You wordlessly pat the empty space on the cushion beside you.

This time, your boyfriend's the confused one. "What?"

"C'mere," you say, dropping the throw pillow to the ground and making a show of stretching your arms open.

His eyes glitter with amusement. That familiar, easy smile is tugging at the corner of his lips again. "Y'really don' have to. I was just jokin' with you."

"Lucky for you, I take everything seriously," you banter back, patting the cushion once more.

After a moment's hesitation, Johnny shifts to face you fully. "And... you're sure about this?" He asks, biting the inside of his lip. His gaze catches on your open arms, your sleepily determined expression. "You're positive?"

You don't miss his hesitance. When you speak again, you're mindful to keep your tone soft and inviting. "I wouldn't offer unless I wanted it."

You watch him swallow, Adam's Apple bobbing before he finally bridges the gap and settles himself within your open arms. There's not enough room for the two of you to lay side by side, so you lay flat on your back, Johnny sprawling overtop of you like some sort of weighted blanket. His head falls to rest on your chest. Almost instinctively, you reach up and card your hands through his hair.

You swear you hear him purr.

"Good?" You ask quietly as his arms wrap snugly around your waist. The hand that's not playing with his hair rubs gentle circles on his upper back, almost imitating the way you'd hold a stuffed animal.

"Mhm," he mumbled.

Leaning down an inch or so, you press a kiss to the crown of his head and relish his contented sigh.

For a while, there's nothing but a calm, slow quiet. There's the distant sound of the ventilation system kicking on; the faint scent of dish soap hanging in the air from when you'd worked together on chores earlier in the day. Johnny's chest rises and falls in time with your own.

After several minutes of muted hums and soft breaths, he speaks up, voice slightly muffled. "So," he murmurs, "You're tellin' me this is how you treat our pillows every time you settle in for a nap?"

You shrug. "Basically."

He groans quietly, burying his face in your chest. "...Lucky fuckin' bastards."

#cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #call of duty mw2 #cod mwii #i feel like he'd be shy abt this stuff #like he wouldn't wanna ask for it? #maybe i'm crazy #but that's just my personal hc!! anyways enjoy

[marlynnofmany]

Singing and Other Noises

If you have to clean the bathroom on a multi-species spaceship, you can at least take the opportunity to annoy your coworkers with some high volume space shanties. The acoustics of most bathrooms I’ve been in are great, and this one was no exception.

“If you find snacks in high places, adhesive eyes making faces…” I sang, passing the sanitation wand over the floor. “Someone gives thanks to the void, and knives to the droid … Then you might have some humans onboard, onboard, you might have some humans onboard!”

Paint laughed in the hallway. “I don’t think anyone would miss the fact that we have a human onboard.” When I leaned out to grin at her, she continued, “You’re very loud.”

“This is the perfect place to sing!” I said, leaning back and switching to a different song. “You’ll hear us singing loud and proud, in halls and hulls and ventilation chutes. You’ll know us by our range and joy, and we sing better than you!” It echoed nicely.

Paint was shaking her lizardy head. “Are there any quiet human songs?”

“Oh sure,” I said, looking for spots I’d missed. “Calm melodies for a relaxing afternoon, lullabies to soothe babies to sleep, plenty of those. They’re just not as fun. I like the ones where you can really feel your lungs vibrate, you know?”

Paint was giving me that cocked-head look that said she wasn’t entirely sure what I was talking about, but didn’t feel like saying so. “Right. I think that one made the floor vibrate too.”

“Oh, you should meet an opera singer. They can shatter glass.”

“What!” Paint stepped closer, switching her tail. “You are making that up.”

“No, really!” I said. “It’s very impressive. A rare talent for sure.” I got to my feet and emptied the sanitation wand into the trash chute. “My voice is nothing special. Pretty good, I like to think, but no kind of superstar. Still, singing is fun.”

Paint seemed to be having trouble coming up with a compliment. “Your voice is very… clear? Low? Is that a good thing?”

“I like to think so.” I put the wand away and washed my hands. “I can sing the low notes easier than high, which is great, because I enjoy them more. I think that makes me an alto? Contralto? Something like that. Not a soprano, at any rate.”

Even with her orange scales, Paint’s expression was a distinct mask of polite blankness. She nodded, hands clasped together.

“Not much for singing, I take it?” I asked.

Paint exhaled and dropped her hands. “I just don’t see the appeal,” she admitted. “It’s only talking! In a distorted voice!”

I switched off the light and joined her in the hall with a head bob of agreement. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Some of it’s fast and good to dance to, though.”

She pointed at me in excitement. “The dancing does make sense! That’s fun! But I just cannot understand the noises that go with it.”

I shrugged. “Eh, don’t worry too much about it. There’s bound to be lots of things that any given species does that makes no sense to others.”

“Like those shiny rocks you insisted on keeping?”

“Hey, that’s not just me,” I protested. “Zhee and Trrili both wanted some too. And you’ve still got those smelly seed-things that you liked so much.”

Paint raised her snout in pride. “They remain beautiful. Coals, Eggskin, and Captain Sunlight will agree with me!”

“And those are all the Heatseekers on the ship, which is exactly my point.”

A high-pitched noise that I’d been barely aware of grew louder, drifting down the hallway all faint and screechy. I had no idea what it was, and judging by Paint’s expression, neither did she.

“Is that metal scraping?” I wondered.

“I don’t think so,” Paint said.

The sound continued, changing in tone like an alien violin. I turned in place, trying to locate it. “Is that music?”

Paint rubbed her earhole. “It’s unpleasant.”

“C’mon, let’s make sure it’s not actually a problem of some kind.”

“Yes,” Paint said with a sigh. “Ignoring a mechanical failure because we passed it off as horrible music is not something I want on my record.”

I started off down the hallway. “I think it’s this way.”

Ready as I was for a long and mysterious hunt for the quiet shrieking, I was almost disappointed to find it coming from the third door we reached. This was the door to Coals and Trrili’s translation workroom. It was shut. I hesitated over the opening panel, then knocked instead.

The noise stopped.

When the door slid open, it was to a vision of exoskeletoned nightmares, shiny black and red, with pincher arms, mandibles, and a pair of antennae angled into a very irritated expression.

“Hi Trrili,” I said. “Everything okay in there?”

Paint added, “We heard a noise—”

The door shut in our faces. After a moment, the screechy serenade resumed.

I blinked. “Rude.”

Paint had her hands over her earholes. “What is it??”

“Probably not a machine failure,” I said, wincing as the noise approached nails-on-chalkboard levels. “Let’s go ask Zhee.”

We walked very quickly away, and found Zhee outside the kitchen talking to Eggskin. The sound was faint here, but still audible.

“Hey Zhee,” I said cheerfully. “Can you tell us what in the seven spherical black holes Trrili is doing right now?”

Zhee threw his own purple pincher arms in the air. “Butchering a classic,” he exclaimed. “I’ve told her that she’s got the middle part backwards, but she insists it’s a regional variant!”

I glanced at Eggskin, who was just shaking their scaly head. “So it is music, then.”

Zhee folded his pinchers with a flare of antennae. “There’s a skreeking competition at Basal Station,” he said. “She’s under the impression that the judges there will enjoy regional variants that are wrong.”

“I see,” I said, wondering if I should ask the obvious question.

Paint beat me to it. “What’s skreeking?”

“Leg-singing,” Zhee said. “You know.” He moved a hind leg in a way that made a brief screech.

I knew I was staring, but it was either that or burst out laughing, and that was rarely complimentary. You’d think I’d get used to discovering ways that my alien crewmates resembled Earth animals, but you’d be very wrong.

Paint let out a gusty sigh. “I don’t understand that kind of singing either,” she said. “This makes even less sense than the other one!”

“Remember, there’s always dancing,” I told her. “And if it makes you feel better, I have no idea how to dance to the noise Trrili’s making.”

Zhee hissed quietly. “No one could dance to that. Not without tripping over every other limb.”

Eggskin spoke up. “Well, I’m certainly not going to try. Would you three like to help me settle on the primary meal for tonight’s dinner?”

I smiled. “Oh, I’m sure we won’t disagree on anything there.”

~~~

Keen eyes might recognize the shanty lyrics from a couple older posts. I even used one song in The First Time Traveler to Survive, which is a different storyverse entirely, but it's too much fun to leave there. I'm going to say humans invented it twice, and no one's going to stop me!

Anyways, this is the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

#somebody did a lovely recording of one of those songs #but the link isn't working anymore #so I guess I won't share that #more's the pity #my writing #The Token Human #space shanties #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #science fiction #writeblr

[unboundprompts]

writing a fic where blorbo is poisoned and blorbo in love with her has to take care of her, ideas for how i could get this across?

I would recommend doing some research on the poison involved so that it's as realistic as possible. In a fantasy/sci-fi setting you can probably make up your own poison and choose the symptoms and treatment you deem the best for the situation. Here are some ideas to help you with that:

General Symptoms of Poison

-> from this source.

Stomach Pain

Feeling Nauseous/Being Sick

Drowsiness

Dizziness

Weakness

High Temperature

Chills (shivering)

Loss of Appetite

Headache

Irritability

Difficulty Swallowing

Breathing Difficulties

Skin Rash

Blue Lips and Skin

Double Vision/Blurred Vision

Sudden, Noticeable Heartbeats (Palpitations)

Mental Confusion

Seizures

Loss of Consciousness

Treatment

-> seeking medical help is also a good idea. The best idea probably.

-> from this source.

If they are poisoned by swallowing something, try to get them to spit out anything that is remaining in their mouth.

If they are unconscious and swallowed something, try to wake them to encourage them to spit out anything left in their mouth. Do not put your hand into their mouth and do not try to make them sick.

If the poison is on their skin or clothes, remove their clothes and wash the affected area with warm or cool water. Be careful not to contaminate yourself.

Lay the person on their side with a cushion behind their back and their upper leg pulled slightly forward so that they do not fall on their face or roll backwards. (Recovery Position)

If vomiting, keep their head pointed down to prevent them from breathing it in or swallowing it. Do not give them anything to eat or drink.

If they have stopped breathing or their heart has stopped, perform CPR.

It is important to know what substances you think the person may have swallowed, when it was taken, why it was taken, how it was taken, and how much was taken.

Any existing medical conditions prior to being poisoned are important to be aware of, as it may impact their recovery/ the poison may have effects on their condition.

Activated Charcoal - sometimes used to treat someone who's been poisoned. It binds to the poison and stops it being further absorbed into the blood.

Antidotes - these are substances that either prevent the poison from working or reverse its effects.

Sedatives - may be given if the person is agitated.

Ventilator (breathing machine) - may be used if the person stops breathing.

Anti-epileptic medicine - may be used if the person has seizures.

Writing Prompts For a Character Being Poisoned

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

"Hey, hey, hey," she was lightly tapping his face, his head lulled to the side. "Open your eyes," she said to him gently, her heart sinking with each passing second. "Wake up, I need you here with me."

She had trouble keeping her eyes open. The room was spinning. She felt so weak. All she could hear was their voice, as if they were far away, telling her not to fall asleep.

They had this awful marking on their skin. It crawled across their shoulders and peeked out from underneath their shirt at the sleeves and neck. She thought it looked like it was getting worse every day, slowly blossoming across their skin. "It's not as bad as it looks," they said, trying to make her feel better. The raspiness of their voice and pale complexion did not fill her with hope.

"Your heart is pounding," she said, pressing a hand to his chest. His skin was feverish, warmth radiating off of him. Yet, he shivered as if he were freezing. "Only because I get nervous around you," he responds, a flirty tilt to his voice. They both knew that wasn't the only reason, but she smiled anyway.

"Will you eat something? For me?" They shook their head miserably. "I can't."

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider donating! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi!

#writing prompts #dialogue prompt #creative writing #otp prompts #writeblr #ask box prompts #hurt/comfort prompts #angst prompts #poison #prompt list #poisoned prompts #whump prompts

[a-bag-of-issues-blog]

Language in a Space Age

I've been going down the "humans are Space Orcs" rabbithole again, and a lot of it felt unsatisfying to me, so I tried my hand at whipping up a story I liked.

---

It was four sols prior when the security contract with the mercenaries ended.

Three sols prior when the ship’s Captain had said Xe might know someone.

Two sols prior when we had landed on the sandy, hot planet.

And one sol prior when I had first seen a Human fight.

It was an underground fighting arena – almost literally, with only the very top of the domed structure rising out of the sand dune, its colored glass absorbing the worst of the radiation. The seating was arranged in the large, concentric rings common of many gathering places (and yet we still do not have a word in Common for it, is that not strange?), and they were packed with people and dust alike. Despite the obviously ill maintenance of the ventilation and heating, they were bearable, and I only had to remove a small amount of dust from my body coat as we ventured deeper inside.

“So, boss, who’s your mysterious benefactor?” Asked Asdelon as its left eye moved towards the Captain, the right one continuing to scan the crowd.

Our pilot was something of an outsider – from both its home culture and, perhaps, every culture it has ever entered. As a Khetansh, it was born an almost perfect clone of its progenitor, who was itself part of a set of almost perfect clones of their progenitor, like the rest of its species one way or another. And yet Asdelon has always described itself as different, in a way that the Common tongue can not express. There was a word for it, in its language – but it had never found the need to translate it, and I had never dared ask. It was one of the species that felt the need to stare at others’ eyes as it spoke, and while I would now trust it with my life, back then those large eyes and sharp teeth reminded me too much of the old cautionary stories my parents used to tell me.

Those eyes turned fully onto the Captain after some time of no response. While the scales on its face could move very little, its voice was higher and definitely sarcastic when it continued:

“Thanks for the info, boss, makes tracking this Iethid a lot easier.”

The Captain’s eyes swayed in time with his antennae, a sign of what I had begun to recognize as amusement.

“Oh, don’t scuff your scales now. I was just looking around.”

Captain Exlasl was a Xelthor, and a large one for Xirs age. Xirs outer skeleton was a slight blue and white, and Xe liked to brag that the brown stripped markings on Xirs abdomen were signs of great strength and wisdom in Xirs culture. As I did not – and do not – have much knowledge on Drugarian Xelthor culture, I never challenged Xir about that.

“And we could be helping you, if you were a little less mysterious about it.”

“Don’t worry, I think you’ll have your answer soon enough…” The translator trailed off as Xe reached up to adjust it with Xirs smaller hand, but Xirs eyes began turning towards the arena floor where the latest combatant (a Horenga, with a body coat almost identical to mine) had entered. Asdelon looked down at the combatant, and I could tell it was not impressed.

“Really? That one? I’ll give you that they’re probably a little faster than our Horenga here, but I can tell you right now they’re still more…how do you say…more words than action.”

“The Horenga has a name.” I reminded it. “And their name is Linome.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Its tongue flicked out to drag down its right eye (a method of self-cleaning that was also an expression of boredom, almost like how I and other Horengas clean our ears) and it shifted the weight on its legs. “Listen, if you’re out of ideas, then you could’ve just told us. No need to –”

The announcer’s voice called out, in a dialect of Common so blended with the local language that I could not understand a single word. A combatant walked out, and I have never felt such awe and dread so strong in a single moment before.

Humans are not rare. They are not the strongest species, or the largest species, or the toughest. But they are resilient, they are tenacious, and many are warriors.

This Human was small for her species – which meant her eyes were level with the middle of the ears of her opponent. Her skin had multiple marks on them, wounds healed from past battles in the raised and bumpy way Human skin heals, and her limbs were large and clearly muscled. Her clothes were loose and flowing, and her hands were wrapped – from the base of her digits up to the second joint of her arm. Her face, though, drew my attention.

Supposedly, Human faces change drastically as they emote – the movement of skin and muscles in the face being their primary form of expression. Since moving onto the sand, though, the Human’s face had changed as little as Asdelon’s had – even when they bowed to their opponent, even as they moved to opposite ends of the arena.

“Is that your secret weapon?” I still could not pick up on the inflections of Asdelon’s voice, but the way it moved closer to the arena showed it was interested in some way. Exlasl’s pincers clicked together quickly, amusedly – excitedly, even.

“You bet your behind it is. You’re about to meet the person that once tore off my big arm.”

That caught my attention – but the bell had already rung, and the combatants were running at each other face first already.

---

The event lasted almost an entire rotation, and afterwards we still could not immediately contact the Human, because she was still being treated for her injuries. She had promised to contact us on the next rotation, though, which was good because I needed the time to prepare myself.

The brutality and relentlessness of Humans were not exaggerated. When that poor Horenga struck the Human a over and over, she simply took the blows she could not avoid, and a single direct strike to their chest was enough to end the fight. When an Asdelon walked into the ring with her, she did not flinch as she stared down those large eyes, her face did not change as her skin became torn from claw and teeth. And when a Xelthor entered…

They say human hands were not born for fighting – they are dexterous, but with no more reinforcements than the rest of their body. Yet they taught themselves ways to fight with them anyways, and trained until their bones would break stone.

And on and on and on like that she went, battle after battle, until the rotation was done when her final opponent simply dropped from the exhaustion of so many previous battles. And we were to talk to that, because she was old friend of the Captain’s and “more than willing to be violent when necessary”.

I was scared. Terrified. Multiple levels of fear beyond that which the Common tongue could not fully describe. I was pacing the doorway in front of our rented resting place because I had rested and eaten multiple times during the rotation already and felt like I might be sick if I had done any more of either. I wanted to run, and – what? Feed the stereotype that Horenga were mostly weak cowards? Abandon the Captain and Asdelon, after all they’d done for me? But – but we were about to have a Human onboard! A fleshy, hairless, skin and bones death machine –

“Hello?”

The word was in Horengian (the global version of it, anyways) and while it was clear and understandable, it sounded…wrong. Like a machine had spoken it, except the voice was very clearly…

“Human?”

That was a rude way to address her, looking back on it. She did not mind though, instead only tilting her head slightly in a…shockingly familiar expression of confusion.

“Do you…prefer…the Common language?” Despite the pauses and hesitation and the accent (or, well, the complete absence of any accent), she was easily understandable. I was, of course, afraid for my very fragile life so I did not have an answer ready for her.

Luckily for me, it was at that moment that the Captain opened the door to investigate the noise. Xirs antennae rose fully up at the sight of the human, and her mouth curled upwards as she saw Xir (a human gesture of joy, the one that didn’t involve baring teeth).

Xir didn’t even turn on his translator, simply started clicking in his native Drugarian. And she answered back in kind, pulling her lips back and finally showing clear white teeth as she clicked back at him…somehow (Humans and their terrifyingly good mimicry.) The entire conversation afterwards happened entirely in Drugarian, and I wound up serving drinks for them almost out of an absence of other things to do.

The Human did not ever take off her coat – light brown, large, almost seeming to drag her down – and every time I turned my back to her, I could feel myself being watched. When the captain went to go fetch Asdelon, she turned and looked at me directly.

“You never answered my question, earlier.”

Cornered, instantly. Like a true predator.

“Well…I don’t mind whatever language you use, really. It’s not like I particularly like our global language.”

She moved her head up and down – nodding, a gesture of understanding in some cultures. “What’s your…original language, then?”

“Oh, no need to ask, it’s not like you need to learn it to really talk anyways if we’re going to be travelling together.” Deflect, quickly. “Why do you ask, anyways? The Common language was made for this situation, wasn’t it?”

The human tilted her head, again – the lack of moving ears removes much of the subtler indications in body language, so I wasn’t sure if she was just considering me or confused. She was staring at a point above my head, which – well, I appreciated, but still.

Eventually, when she spoke again, it was slow.

“The Common language…it is what we all have in common. The one through line to unite us disparate people. But it is not…comprehensive.”

She took off her coat, then – and I almost jumped when she let it drop onto the floor, its impact as heavy as if it was filled with sand.

“There are sandbags, in my coat.” Well, that explained it. “The gravity here…it is less than that of my home. Dirt, as we call it.”

Her lips curled up, briefly, at the name.

“The rotation cycle here is different as well. The people are of course different. Yet…when I see them…many are not from this world. Many do not need bags. They need other things. Things to maintain temperature, gravity…level of water.”

Her digits were moving, again, four of them thrumming a rhythm (humans sang, of course they did, anything with a voice like that could sing) as she tried to piece together her next words.

“The Common language is the thing we have in common. That we are people is another of those. But reducing so many people to only the things they have in common…it is like reducing a galaxy to a painting. Too much is lost in translation.”

There was a moment of silence. She was staring to a point to my right. I was looking just over her head.

“…we have a saying for that. In my language. Ylimuan Horenga, I mean. It…” I could not help but chitter a little at the irony. “It doesn’t translate very well.”

She tilted her head, a small amount to the other side. When her face changed this time, a little bit of teeth was showing, but she closed her lips almost immediately to hide it.

“Could you…teach it, to me?”

Excerpts from What Is Lost Between The Words by Linome Aiklion Prinou, translated into Earth English.

#text post #text #long reads #language #scifi #stories #writing #humans are space orcs

[sgiandubh]

As usual you to try connect things that have nothing to with Sam and Cait to prove your fantasy. You have zero direct evidence proving relationship, marriage, children with Sam and Cait. ZERO. You are also admitting if people on screen are involved they are terrible actors. Give it up. As Sam again is off on vacation alone next week, beginning traveling for the next 8 weeks alone for various appointments which have nothing to do with Cait

Dear (returning, I suppose) Beauchamp and Fraser Anon,

Unlike other people in this fandom, I do not need to invent aggressive Anons: you provide the material almost on a daily basis, using the same old, same tired arguments. A very primitive harassment technique, indeed, that pushed many reasonable people in the shadows.

Because this is what y'all want. One of yours had the courage and honesty to write it down, just because a fencer (who should have known better) went on to engage with your faction. She got this response:

Note I did not publish the handle of the person who wrote this. I am only discussing people when prompted or when necessary. I usually discuss problems - and this is a big problem.

In other words, 'believe what you want, but verboten to write or discuss or even question'. I think it says a lot about your degree of tolerance and your democratic values. Or lack thereof.

I did not connect anything. I simply posted something and left it on the table for debate.

And now you invite me to 'give it up'. Because I piss off many, many people on both sides of the Great Divide and I am perfectly aware of it. Exactly what you want me to do, of course. Exactly what I am not going to do, Anon.

So, for the last time:

What really pisses you off is that I always did things my own way. Refused to post funeral pics. Refused to endlessly discuss the number of children S and C might have. Refused to disclose (completely against it) and discuss (unless absolutely necessary to do so) legal documents your side always ends up by revealing one way or another. And you do so usually via Anons, because you have no clue of what they really mean and you think you know (and you don't). Oh, and lest I forget: refused to judge C's attitude or behavior towards this fandom. Because Anon, I honestly don't know how I would react (if I were her) with all the bullshit you managed to ventilate their way and/or the brutal pressure under which she is living her life.

For all these reasons and then some more, you have decided I have to leave this fandom. Because this page, notwithstanding its mistakes, annoys the crap out of you. Because it strives to bring up reasonable dialogue, not circular discourse. Because it took upon itself to answer your insults: usually with irony, something that somehow escaped you. Because it managed to prove that when you deal politely with likeminded people, differences between factions of the same community can be put, if only for five minutes, aside. Because it also brought (or tried to) a new, no nonsense perspective informed by who I am and what I do. And because it is read on a daily basis by people who began to feel encouraged and valued simply for who they are: kind people, sharing a similar point of view of a given situation.

So guess what, Anon? I am not going anywhere.

Live with it. I can live with the daily dose, for sure.

I am also absolutely impressed by the illiterate confidence (I am sick and tired to correct your bad grammar and spelling) with which you suggest to be in the know of S's travel agenda or C's whereabouts. I should also hope someone, somewhere, financially rewards your efforts: if not, maybe you should ask them for a raise, or something. You surely are a very, very dedicated troll.

#anon #fandom #shitshow

[whumpy-daydreams]

CPR in hospitals

I did a post on doing cpr as a 'civilian' (i.e. in public with no equipment). But most people who follow me are writers! So here's how it goes down in hospital.

It varies on where someone is in hospital having a cardiac arrest, so this is just for if a patient is in a hospital bed with monitoring on.

The first sign is going to the monitor going crazy and the patient unconscious.

Step 1 - pull the emergency button and start chest compressions (they are still the most important thing!)

Step 2 - someone else will give rescue 'breaths' using an oxygen mask and bag (technically called a bag valve mask or BVM). Two breaths after every 30 compressions

Step 3 - someone else is cutting clothes off and putting defibrillator pads on. An anaesthetist may also intubate the patient and put them on a ventilator (this means you can do compressions continuously)

Step 4 - the defibrillator will scan the heart rhythm. If it's shockable (ventricular tachycardia or fibrillation) then everyone steps away while it shocks. As soon as it's safe, CPR continues (most defibrillators determine the rhythm and calculate voltage automatically)

Step 5 - if it's a non-shockable rhythm, give IV adrenaline ASAP

Step 6 - if it's a shockable rhythm, wait 2 minutes after first shock, check and shock again. Repeat a third time.

Step 7 - if the patient is still in cardiac arrest after 3 shocks, give IV adrenaline and amiodarone

Step 8 - continue CPR and give adrenaline every 5 minutes.

The person giving compressions should switch every 60 compressions (two cycles of 30) - the next person is counted in so there's no time without compressions

There are 10 main causes of cardiac arrest - while all of this is happening a team of doctors will be trying to work out the cause so they can treat it. I won't go into the causes because it's boring and technical.

CPR, defibrillation, and drugs will continue until the cardiac arrest stops or the patient is declared deceased.

If someone is in hospital because of hypothermia, remember! They're not dead until they're warm! (there have been cases of hypothermia patients being successfully resuscitated after over 5 hours of CPR!)

#cpr #cardiac arrest #tw medical #writing advice #I got to do this in a simulation with a defib and it was so cool

[viburnt]

You did just amazing job portraying what divorce can look like especially with someone is IN DENIAL of their own actions. I wouldn’t let it past him that it will take years for him to get over you. Perhaps would never do.

But even his lawyer was like FREE THE POOR WOMAN 😭 that killed me.

The only people who could see the real issue are the lawyers behaviors see the behavior. No wonder the lawyers would be able on the wife side. No pity points for you Hero.

Poor ex-wife probably gotta move out of the country. The boy fan base is scary I can only imagine and his family and friends trying to but in into your business. Hopefully she stroke a deal to not have nothing from him since in paparazzi point-view could spin it differently.

The more I am imagining the more I am terrified.

YOU SHOULD BE TERRIFIED.

I don't think Izuku would ever understand the kind of prosecution he's putting you through by ventilating your divorce. The sea of photos, memes and articles berating you is enough to bury the little peace you could have in Japan. He doesn't get why you want to move far from the country, much less why you're not taking any of the things he had bought specifically for you.

And yes, considering Izuku's fan base, the risk of one of his stans trying to do something sketchy is high. He is somewhat conscious of that, meaning there's also a chance that someone is actively watching over you.

Izuku is definitely not getting over you by the way, doesn't matter if he later dates or remarries. You're still his wife.

"So, most of the goods you share are under your name, Mr. Midoriya. How do you wish to proceed?" Your lawyer asks, revising thoroughly the documents on her desk. She had to admit it was impressive to see just how much someone like Izuku had bought, but considering the side of him she'd been witnessing during the divorce process, it was clear he didn't mind spending money to fill the cracks of his relationship. "I wanna give it all to her..." Izuku said, looking at you with sorrow and shame. Part of him expected that you could forgive him that way, but he knew there was no return point. "No, thank you. I don't want anything from you." You bluntly answered; it almost made your lawyer snicker, but that would be unprofessional from her. "But, why? Honey, all these things-"

"All these things were bought with your money. I don't want people to say I'm a gold digger that wants to take you to the cleaners." Izuku heard you say. His lips curved into a defeated smile, trying to understand. "I see, then, what do you suggest? I don't wanna have something that's not mine."

"You can always consider selling the goods and splitting the money. That way your wife can decide whether she uses it or not." The lawyer suggested, waiting for you to speak. "Does that sound good to you, Miss?"

You nodded, "That would be for the best, I'll be moving out of the country soon." It was almost comical to see Izuku's jaw drop, but at least he was being more decent than in the first negotiations where he yelled. He'd try to talk it out with you outside the office, refusing to let you get away from him.

#my hero academia #izuku midoriya x reader #bnha ask #deku x reader #Divorced! Izuku #Honestly if I were the wife I wouldnt tell him my destination but I figure he'd investigate it anyways

[leiflitter]

Hi I'm doing a research paper on antiheroes and I'm using Oliver as one example. Could you maybe tell me why he appeals to you as a character despite the murdering and the scheming etc

You come into my askbox while I sleep and make me think? First thing in the morning? BUT I SHALL ANSWER

won't make any sense probably but HEY!

I think the main reason I love Oliver is because I can see a lot of myself in him.

Cut bc this will be long af

Granted, my perspective on the character is... I spend a lot of time thinking about that idiot, so this is fully based on my interpretation of him buttttt

Okay, so the murders and scheming are firstly... Ambiguous. Elspeth is the only one we see as it happens- not in a flashback, big-twist, oh it was my evil plan all along #classwarfare #girlboss #theyhatetoseeabadbitchwinning way- and she's so far gone she's on a ventilator and just dies without it. How did she get so sick? It isn't mentioned. Honestly, as someone with long covid, she's wandering around London without a mask. LADY. YOUR LUNGS.

Everything else? The spiked bottle. The razorblades. They're shown to us at the end, this big gotcha moment... From someone who has clearly spent every moment since Felix Catton died trying desperately to gather some small piece of him.

His home is decorated like Saltburn. He's immediately trying to get back in. The moth battering itself against the window.

Whether or not Oliver Quick is an evil, scheming murderer is entirely down to your interpretation of that reveal montage. Mad props to Emerald for that.

My interpretation of it is... Not to say he's innocent, but that he's a sad, sad man grasping at straws to give himself more agency. He's spent years dwelling on and analysing the worst time of his life, and as a good Eng Lit student (dude was doing essays on Browning) he's turned it into a narrative.

If we stop suspending disbelief, then we have:

Felix

Oliver put some cocaine in a bottle (as evidenced by Oliver having the same sort of vial Farleigh has in the main hall). Oliver drank some. Felix drank some. He threw up, Felix died.

I have probably said this before, but Felix's death cannot be directly attributed to Oliver's actions.

Felix was in the bathroom, and although we don't see him doing lines, he's not just hanging out there for funzies. He's going hard, probably mixing drugs and booze. He's so off his tits that he doesn't notice how bad/bitter the booze Oliver gives him tastes. Plus there's a reason people snort cocaine; it's efficacy is highly reduced when eaten, and it takes far longer to reach the brain. How long would Felix have just stood in the maze? Waiting there like a sim with no activities queued until he keeled over?

It's likely that Felix overdosed, but it's really unlikely that Oliver was the sole cause, if he was the cause at all.

Venetia

He left razorblades near her. That's literally all we see. From Oliver as a character, I don't think he has the guts to actually, directly kill- and it wouldn't make sense to. He'd be found out immediately if he did- any sign of violence and the Cattons would have private investigators and all sorts at their disposal. He was in the next room. It'd be open and shut. I do think, from the blood on the floor, that she tried to go to his room for help and he ignored her- but!

Leaving something sharp near someone in distress is another shitty scheme. What was he going to do if she didn't notice them? What if she knocked them off the side of the tub accidentally? Was he going to leave her a post-it note like HI V PLS KYS LUV OLLIE to make sure she noticed them?

Another thing that often is kinda... Glossed over... Is that Oliver is a fuckin teenager, and he isn't as smart as he portrays himself.

Olls. Why would you fool about with Felix's sister in plain view of the house? Ollie. What exactly did you expect one email to do? Erase Farleigh from existence? Oliver. Mate. You left your phone in the bathroom? Where Felix "no boundaries" Catton could find it? Why? Did you need to play Snake in the bath THAT BADLY? Oliver. Why would you lie about something so easily disprovable? Oliver Quick, you started digging a hole and it became Felix's fucking grave.

Older Oliver has turned what happened into a narrative where He Has Agency. He did it, and he did it on purpose, because HE WASN'T IN LOVE WITH FELIX (he was in love with Felix). He had a plan, you see, it wasn’t him being desperate and trying anything, everything he could to stay close to Felix.

He wasn’t a weird, awkward teenager who went away from home, fell in love with someone entirely unobtainable- due to socioeconomic bracket, gender, the year, all of that- and was so desperate to be near Felix that he built an unsustainable web of lies that fell apart. I think the maze scene is Oliver at his most honest, because he doesn't understand why his performance is any different, other than the amount of effort he's put in.

No, he was evil. A bad guy. A wolf in sheep's clothing, Felix his innocent victim. He's a genius... Because what is the alternative for Oliver Quick?

Admit that he was little more than a child, lashing out, unable to accept his own feelings- as he's unable to accept them as an adult- and now...

The immutable fact is that Felix died, and Oliver will never be over it.

What's the safer option?

I was a mess and I might be responsible for this and I was lashing out and I might have killed the thing I loved most because I fucked it all up.

or

I did it all on purpose.

And... To bring this back to the question.

I have been Oliver Quick in the bit before the bike scene. I've watched people I'd like to be friends with, living a life I was too shy or scared to go after. I can remember desperately wanting to be cool, to have a backstory, to be compelling...

I just never got desperate enough to lie. And I'm doing pretty good now, but I fucking get it. To want that connection so badly, to yearn for the life you see other people living, to want to be someone other than yourself.

So y'know

That's why I love him.

#leiflitter answers #leiflitter rambles #saltburn brainrot #yah!posting

[valmare]

Stilettos and Sea Turtles, Iceman x OC

Summary: Anywhere but a Christmas benefit sounds good to Tom Kazansky, especially six days before leave. But it's a merry little Christmas for him when someone at the bar catches a little more than his attention.

Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x nameless!femOC

Warnings: slight swears, shameless flirting, Cougar being adorable with his wife, smoker Ice that unravels me in the best possible way.

Stilettos and Sea Turtles

Between the steady pulse of overplayed, tired Christmas tunes and the murmur of hushed conversation, it’s no surprise that the bar is packed. Men dressed to the nines, a mix of dress whites and traditional slacks and suits stand at the ready with credit cards and cash—even in the crisscrossing shadows of lowlight and after-five dark there’s bland indifference splashed across the sea of faces. Irritation, impatience. Some stand on toes, looking for better halves or opportunities across the room, in the mosh of cocktail dresses and floor length must-haves—creasing finely polished rental shoes, no doubt. 

Bartenders and waitresses nearly sprint circles around the aged walnut bar—flitting in and out around tables, hushed apologies as they contort through too-close bodies and little floorspace like bats. Lost in the lowlight of ambiance and good times, deep pockets, and charitable contribution. ‘Tis the season for alcoholism to come full circle, for bad decisions—somewhere, some guy is fumbling a ring around his pocket, dreading making a scene. Unable to hide excitement over the next perceived chapter a thrilled and shrieking “Yes!” may promise. 

There’s three hundred people here. Six days before Christmas. And that hardly seems to stop anybody from progressing the night along—certainly hasn’t stopped the band from setting up. The valet from taking keys and directing to coat-check. Auctioneer from selling bidding numbers at the front door, heaven forbid. 

No, the veins of this pace are thrumming with anticipated thrill. Alcohol and what’s-for-dinner wafts through the air like it’s been pumped in through ventilation. Fifteen dollars a plate, it should be nearly tangible in the air—charitability aside. Who the hell charges $15 a head to eat at a charitable auction and dance? Practically asking you to bend over while giving it to you in the ass.  

Honestly, to say this is the last venue Tom Kazansky wants to be six days before shipping out for holiday leave is an understatement. To stay the least. But Cortell had insisted—fucking Bill. Roping him into an event. Six damn days before he could be passed out somewhere on the familiar, creamy sands of the Big Island. 

In his own house, on his own two thousand dollar mattress. That he hasn’t seen for a year and a half. Driving his car. Consuming food straight from the islands, that isn’t fried or been sitting in a freezer for a month and ten days. Watching copious amounts of Christmas-vacationing tits on the beach, stone’s throw from his back door. There’s no less than two dozen other thing Ice would rather be doing at the exact moment he takes his number from coat-check, but, too little too late. 

The reminder on that damn calendar hanging above his cot, circled in bright vermillion Sharpie marker, basically is branded into the back of his membrane. Has been, since Theresa called and asked him if he’d be there. Here. And what else could he say but Yeah, Ter, sure? Never was able to deny Terri Cortell anything, really. Especially when she asked in that sweet southern little accent of hers. Cougar had just chuckled at his wife and told Ice he’d see him around Christmas, to stay “Fucking safe and in the air,” a sentiment that he hadn’t necessarily been trying to take literally but had managed nonetheless. 

Because the Navy was nothing if not demanding, even if Viper had cleared them to attend the same damn charity event his own wife was dragging him to. Ice won’t soon forget the look on the man’s face, the smirk when he’d reminded his boys to baby their dress whites. Chicks dig the whites. Not a mistake, having them hanging on the back of the door. Nearly sparkling in their milky glory. Guaranteed a few smiles and flirty giggles, if nothing else. 

Slider had all but rapped the calendar off the wall this morning when he’d knocked a knuckle against the date, havig greatly anticipated this event all quarter. Ron had spent the better part of the afternoon preening like something out of Men’s Health, all the way down to trimming his sideburns and breaking out the cologne his mother had sent for Christmas last year. Ice had nearly rolled eyes out of his skull watching his backseater sprint back to their assignment for more Trojan’s. As if this was high school. And not a function demanding a semblance of adult responsibility.  

Not that he was surprised. Slider was nothing if not expecting a quick fuck and a pretty smile in heels and a dress at a flashy San Diego party. And December 19. Coronado Comm. Center, 5:15PM OPEN BAR couldn’t have read anything less. And it’s not wrong, if Tom thinks about it honestly. If the shoe fits, wear the damn thing. 

But the date scrawled on his calendar, the conversation with Terri. All on a loop in the back of his head. Like a broken record, or a film reel that won’t stop churning out projection. And as he slides his hand into his pocket for his lighter and pack of smokes, Ice can’t really shake that fact that this is the reason he isn’t home right now. That’s he’s not up to his neck in SPF and his mother’s Pina Coladas, in Blue Christmas reruns on his father’s front porch while mother drones on about commitments and her Association functions.  

It sounds like first world problems, sure. But he’s earned these problems. Being the son of a retired Admiral has its charms—charms Tom Kazansky is more than opportune to cash. He hadn’t put up with his father’s demanding shit for nothing. Kazansky privilege was the least this life could offer him. 

Smacking the smokes against his palm, he makes a quick pass over the floor of the community center for Slider. Separated from his wingman, again. Of course. Sent two different directions for coat check, and despite Slider being significantly taller than the average male specimen, he’s nowhere in the sea of fine dress and hushed murmurs. 

Slipping a smoke from the pack between his fingers, he lights up. Sharp nicotine and Marlboro warmth spin into his blood like familiar demons. Ease the chilled knife of irritation that’s been cutting between his ribs since this morning. Thank Christ for the cigarettes he’d forced Slider to stop for. For the bar he’s definitely imbibing in. Ridiculous amounts of booze he’s going to consume. 

Dress whites and aviators-on nearly promise any drink he could ever want, but that comes later. After he’s planted his presence at the bar and made it more than known that he’s not here with anyone important. Ask about how the night’s going, if any of the bartender’s have worked this event before. Almost seems effortless, really. It’s all a part of playing the field, looking the part. And if Viper and any of his brass is here, well—the part is the most important thing he can play. 

Sucking on his cigarette until the hot tension between his shoulder blades eases, Tom outs the end of the smoke on the heel of his shoe before flicking it in the nearby trash. Smoothly cutting his way towards the bar. Slipping between sequins and silks, feathered hair and perfume that spins through the air like delectable poison. He draws attention like he’s canvas, setting the entire room on edge. 

The whites stick out like sore thumbs in a crowd like this. Draws the right attention. unattached women are the easiest to make—they all but flock. The married are a little more subtle, but not by much, reaching up on toes for looks of their own. And Tom likes the way it feels, if he’s honest—power and sex, all the arrogance of the Navy cocktailed into a heady wake that ticks up his heartbeat. Loosens his shoulders in the right ways. 

After a few dozen whispered apologies and cool smiles, he’s elbowed his way up to the bar. Catches strong hues of vodka, tequila. Saccharine sweets of grenadine; the warmth of hops. Even though the music is loud, even though there’s no less than a few hundred conversations happening in the air, the rattle of ice and the pour of a finger’s worth of bourbon is unmissable. Roars like a demonic energy that magics his attention, almost immediately, to the bartender that slides to a stop in front of him. 

No less than forty, the guy looks rough. Exhausted, at mach 10. Already. And the night has just started. 

Rough 40 doesn’t have to ask what Ice wants—the expression on his face pulls “Bourbon, rocks,” from him like it’s nothing. The warm oaks and sweet vanilla swirls of bourbon is the single best way to kick this event into high gear—or, rather, his ass into this event. Nothing short of two fingers’ worth is what he expects as the man nods, spins on his heel, and moves to concoct the drink nearly out of thin air. 

Within seconds it skids across the counter, bumps into his arm to a sloppy stop. Elbow knocked against the walnut wood of the bar, Ice leans heavily against the lacquered wood to scan the audience that’s gathered for this event. It’s for underprivileged kids, if he remembers. Salvation Army, something or another. An auction, dance, and dinner all rolled into one helluva extravaganza scheduled to Cinderella around midnight—a mightnight he’ll be long gone before. 

And honestly, it’s a good cause. Decent. One that he can get behind, even if being here is the last thing on his agenda. And speaking of agenda—the hell was Cortell? His blonde crop and whites won’t be missable—Terri’s sparkling smile aside. Checking his watch, it’s half after. Cortell was meeting him here around six. 

Slider still unaccounted for, Ice takes a slow draw on the bourbon. It spins his blood in all the right ways, and it’s good—almost as good at the hushed little giggle that crops up behind him. That almost enunciates the tick of heels on the floor, strikes the air dumb and paralyzed as white-hot energy rumbles to an all-stop against the edge of the bar. 

Fresh meat. 

It’s all enough to draw his attention over his shoulder. Swift glances make a once-over at the modest little dress standing there, hugging all the right places. Not offering nearly enough to the imagination. It’s simple, charcoal tones. Cut to the knee. Almost more business than pleasure, but not in a bad way. And it’s all complete—gaudiest, funniest looking Gingerbread earrings. Mis-matching rings and a watch at least designed for a Harvard graduate, nothing less. Short, almost controversially short hair that protests gel in ringlets at the top. Right down to the most ridiculous neon-green stilettos that she’s managing like a champ. 

Even behind aviator’s and in the low event lighting, she looks fantastic. Like a million and one dollars all rolled into a sweet little package that’s smiling in red lipstick and glittery eye makeup settings off the earrings enough to make him smirk. Her side profile is simple. And the more Ice watches, the more tells she reveals. It takes some work. But she fidgets with the hem of her dress. Fingertips brush the straps on her shoulders. She continually smooths the back of her hair, and in a few moments of just simply existing in the same atmosphere, Ice knows. He can see through the gambit, all the curves and the sparkle and the red lipstick. 

Discomfort. Apprehension. Uncertainty. It balances there like she’s Vegas neon on a tightwire—and she may as well be. Those are four inch heels. And much like pulling back the stick and getting lost in the sun, he’s blinded by the transparency such little tells can reveal. If only we’re quiet enough to watch, to understand. To see. 

And maybe that’s it. Maybe nobody sees her. Has seen her. Past tense. Or maybe they have, and that’s the entire point. Divergence is a powerful agent. Grasp attention with the little things so you ignore the elephant under the rug, as it were. Dazzle them with the right smile, the right accessories—the perfect lie. That things inside are just as perfect as they are outside. And make them lie, right along beside you. Bedfellows in the dance of deception and wicked shadows. 

He knows the game. Pretty well. Has seen it before. Lived it, even. In some ways more than others.  

And it takes a heartbeat, if that, for her to notice unsolicited attention to the elephant she’s trying to shove under that proverbial rug. Side eye would thin him without shame, if he would let her disarm with just a passing glance. As if she isn’t trying to be slick at all and show her cards. It’s like playing chicken in the air, in a sense. All cock and brazen bravado under a canopy of sunlight and cumulous. Who will break first? 

And Ice is just about to maybe apologize for staring, but—can his perusal even be labeled unsolicited? Electric-green stilettos and on-brand earrings, the way that dress hugs perfectly. It’s hardly fair to expect nobody to stare and label attention as unsolicited when the opposite sex walks in looking like that. You can’t blame a guy. 

Though she’s hardly the type he goes for. And he knows, just by the few heartbeats of watching her against the bar. How she rocks forward on her toes. Drums her nails against the bar. How she scrunches her nose and bobs her head to every damn song blaring through the PA while the live band sets up. All telltale signs of energy, personality bubbling beneath makeup and a tight dress. 

“Hey,” and it’s unusual that they speak first. The first move is always the advantage. Ice is still smoothly considering the cut of her in what he’s pretty sure is a lacking-the-jacket sheath dress when she turns on a heel to full-front face him. Earrings lightly dancing, making the damn Gingerbread couple look alive. Eyes flicking up, he smoothly pushes off the bar to stand. Slips the aviators into his hair, making a show of looking her over just one last time before conversation demands his attention. 

Her hand is still on the bar, a single nail lightly tapping against the clutch purse that, for a minute, he doesn’t remember noticing. It’s the most offensive neon yellow he could imagine.  But somehow it only makes the corner of his mouth curl, because of course it is. Another layer of the element. Shifting on her feet, her brow lifts expectantly. She’s waiting for his response. Poised like a knocked arrow, ready to fly. 

And in three, two, one, there it is—the telltale cock of the hip. It’s too easy, almost. It prompts the slow roll of his tongue along his bottom lip. Her once-over of him takes him hostage, for a second–he didn’t expect it. Isn’t sure how to process the little jut of her chin, either. And it’s like injecting hypodermic needles beneath his epidermis, the way her lips pull into a little, but aha!-all-the-same, grin. 

Almost aimlessly his hands set to palm out the Marlboros and his Zippo, again. Her brow pops, maybe not expecting this, but it’s a power move. More distraction, smoke and mirrors. 

Ice makes a show of drawing out a smoke, of tossing the package on the bar. Rips that flint and lights up like it’s as easy as Sunday morning, and the organ pumping blood in his chest rests a little easier against his ribs as warm nicotine chases down his throat. Lights up his blood like a control panel, puts things back into perspective. 

He takes his time responding. Because the little flush on her cheeks is a pretty pink. He likes it. More than he should. 

“Hi.” 

And she must like it, because she smiles again. Ice realizes that she’s not offering anything else, on purpose. Waiting for him to line up his aim, perhaps. Little muscle tightening in her jaw, the resolution to not break first is there. Damn. He takes a deep breath off the cigarette, smoke tumbling from his lips. Don’t take the bait. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

And it shocks him more than Ice is prepared for. His brow lifts a little before he shrugs a shoulder, smiling behind his cigarette a little as she ships to rest her hip against the bar. He’s not sure if it’s an invitation to continue conversation or if it’s a polite gesture. She’s definitely eye-fucking him a little. Flirty, to a degree. 

Time to drive the knife a little deeper. First blood. 

“It’s a free country. Can’t stop you even if you did.” 

Her smile purses into a pert little “o” that drags her eyes to her feet for a second. Not before they snap back, like a boomerang. Blinking a few times, the fan of her lashes against creamy skin is spectacular. Deliberate, perhaps, to draw attention to her eyes. 

And it’s worked, because Ice hasn’t ever seen such an inferno of sapphires before—they almost burn. Intense in a way he’s only ever seen in Pete Mitchell, but not in the same way. Alive, yes. Intelligent. Wild and dangerous in the wrong ways that somehow always shake out okay. 

But something simmers behind hers, something that Mitchell doesn’t quite have. He can’t put a finger on it. Yet. 

“Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way.” Leaning over the bar, her fingers catch the arm of the bartender and she flashes him two fingers. Looking back to him, her eyes flick down the uniform. “Though it looks pretty good on you, Lieutenant.” So Neon Stilettos can read rank. 

Impressive. “Is that right.” 

She settles back from leaning over the bar and smooths a hand over the front of her dress, pulling at the hem with a little tug. “You look healthy enough to me.” Corner of her mouth lifting, she shrugs a shoulder. Ice couldn’t miss the little bite of her bottom lip for anything, the muscle in her jaw flexing. He can see the wheels turning for all of a few seconds. Taking the break in conversation to drag the cigarette again. 

“But this,” she smiles, “Smoking is bad for you, Lieutenant," she tsks, leaning in to pluck the cigarette from his lips and holding it delicately between her fingers. It burns there between her fingers before she brings it to her own lips, taking a deep breath. He's captivated as the smoke curls  from her lungs, carried away in the air between them. 

"See," she smirks, "bad for you." Stunned into captivated silence, his heart crashes against his ribs. In a single maneuver she’s toppled every conclusion he’s drawn in the minutes he’s been standing here, breaths from gawking. It’s like nosediving, almost. Mach 10 in the wrong direction. But he isn’t mad about it. 

Stumbling around a reply for a minute, his brow lifts. 

Fuck me. "And for you?"

It’s rapid fire. Ice realizes she’s in the element–in her element. Confidence sparks in the corner of her eye, like she’s entered the arena. Blade drawn and ready. He could never miss it, the way her shoulders roll back ever so slightly, opening up her chest. How the corner of her mouth ticks with an ever-suppressed smile she knows will be more of a tell than anything. The game is on. 

Her eyes flutter to an easy half master as she shifts her weight a little against the bar. "Well I can't just toss it," she contemplates before bringing the smoke back to pouty lips. "I'm a concerned citizen. Littering's bad for the sea turtles." She holds another breath before the Marlboro comes tumbling from her lungs, slow and easy. Controlled. The way he likes it. 

 "I guess you think that makes you an exception to the rule." Despite himself, Ice finds his lips curling up. "And here I thought you were a bad girl." And before he realizes how forward the innuendo is, it’s out in the open. Swirling between them like warm Marlboro smoke, snapping and crackling like white-hot embers. She doesn’t exactly strike him as, well, that type. 

Maybe he’s been hanging around Kerner too long, maybe—Christ help him. 

Maybe he’s been hanging around Maverick a spell too long— "For the right someone?" And it makes him pause. The last of the ember sends tendrils wafting past her face before she scuffs it out on the bottom of her shoe, still perched between long fingers. "Baby, I just might be."

Almost making a show of the length of her leg, of how absolutely fucking sexy she looks in those neon stilettos, she turns to flick the end of the cigarette into the ashtray perched on the bar, her smile all but quicksilver. Biting the corner of her lip she takes the two drinks that slide to a stop in front of her between bejeweled, lithe fingers and brushes his shoulder as she slips by. 

“Thanks for the smoke, Lieutenant,” eyes casting down to the wings on his breast, she looks up through her lashes, almost sweetly. “Stay safe up there.” Eyes rolling to the ceiling, her lips curl up into a full smile. Ice couldn’t miss the little pink of her tongue wetting the seam of her mouth, or the full thud of seemingly every organ screaming against his skeletal system. Fairly certain he can’t feel any of his extremities, he realizes his blood is bubbling in his ears as she slips away, stilettos ticking off the floor. 

From his place at the bar he watches her crowd into the press of people, drinks lifted in preservation effort. Once he’s sure she’s well and gone from sight he releases a full breath. Some faint, pretty smell of perfume lingers in her wake, cocktailed with the heavy scent of smoke and nicotine. 

Tom’s blood simmers like low fire in his veins. He’s fairly certain the heat racing across his musculature could fuel at least a handful of locomotives—and for a second, he’s not sure why. She’s not the first pretty face to put him through the paces. Despite himself, he can’t quite shake the sparkle in her smile. The light that flickered behind her eyes, alive and dangerous and familiar. It takes a drink to remember he didn’t learn her name. Another cigarette to finally settle the twitch in the base of his gut that ever threatens to drop into his cock. 

Fingers drumming on the bar, he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath again until the sharp barb in his chest reminds him that yes, he still needs oxygen. Sucking in a breath as he takes his drink between fingers, he pauses when he spots movement in the crowd. Bouncing, a hand lifted above heads in a frantic little wave. Blonde hair pops around shoulders and bodies, eyes pointed in his direction. 

His smile is cocksure as Terri dances her way through the bodies crowding around the bar, Cougar all but staggering behind her as she tugs him along, their fingers interlaced tightly. Ice doesn’t miss the protective arm that snakes around her middle as Bill pulls her close against his chest, her smile all but dazzling like Vegas neon as she slaps eyes on him. 

“Well there he is, Mr. Sex himself,” her drawl is as slow as the smile creeping across her lips, “Look at you, dress whites an’ aviators and all. Tom Kazansky, you’re liable to make a grown woman cry.” Her hand slips over Bill’s around her middle as her head tips back against his shoulder, giggling, “Coug, you should go roundup a priest. I’m liable to need confession.” 

Rolling his eyes, Ice shakes his head and moves from the bar when she breaks away from Cougar’s embrace. Hang lingering in her husband’s as she moves to kiss his cheek sweetly, Tom’s hand lingers at her waist for a fraction of a second. The curl of her hair brushes his shoulder when she wraps him in a hug, and he returns the sentiment. Whispering something in his ear he can’t quite catch, Ice angles to ask her to repeat, but freezes at first blush of the perfume that lingers on her skin. 

It’s the same perfume. Neon Stilettos. Freezing, Terri shuffles back a little, hands on his arms. “Ice? You okay?” The look on his face must be a stroke of awful, because she splutters out a little laugh. Brows lifted as her pretty eyes scan over his face. “Whoa, Iceman—taking your callsign a little bit too literal, ain’t ya? What’s up?” 

He isn’t exactly sure how to explain, but thank God for Theresa and her powers of perception. Because he doesn’t have to before she’s already moving on. “Didn’t you hear me, Kaz? I said I had someone I wanted you to meet—she’s fresh all the way from the great, frozen lakes of the north. Pretty and ready for a San Diego good time.” Squeezing his arms, Tom is drawn back into reality at her wagging brows—and as Cougar steps up to relieve his wife from Ice’s hands still on her waist. 

“Ice,” Cougar extends a hand, his other arm snaking back around Terri’s waist. It’s been forever since he’s actually seen Bill, so Ice considers the man’s hand for a heartbeat before clapping his hand into Bill’s. “Good to see you, man. Top Gun looks like she’s treating you well.” 

“Thanks, Cougar.” They shake, break, and Bill shuffles his better half towards the bar, her standing on his toes giggling as her husband’s nose brushes the soft of her neck. Moving back to his place at the bar, he orders an Old Fashioned for himself, Terri’s martini, and Bill’s Whiskey 7 all in a breath as the bartender passes by. 

“Make that a virgin!” Terri’s calling to the bartender snaps his attention like a rubber band, first to her knowing smile, then to her abdomen. He doesn't miss the little bump for anything. It peeks out in her tight, white dress like the sun.

“Yeah, I know—don’t look at me like you don’t know Cougar is fucking his wife on the regular.” Spluttering, and before he can even congratulate Cougar for knocking up his wife, again, Terri’s already turned to face him. “So. Thomas,” Terri’s nails drum against the lacquered wood as Bill cages her against the bar. He can’t help but notice they both look fantastic. She’s nearly glowing, Cougar hasn’t ever looked better, facial hair aside. “About this girl I want you to meet.” 

“Here we go," 

“Oh, stop!” She reaches to push at his shoulder, giggling brightly. “I promise she’s better than the last one,” Cougar cuts him a side glance so sharp that for a second Ice wonders if his carotid is still intact. But Terri notices, and she swats at her husband with a less-than-serious hand, rolling her eyes. “Oh come on. She was bad but she wasn’t that bad.” 

“She organized her lingerie drawer,” Ice’s brows lift before he draws the aviators back to their perch on his nose. And Theresa’s mouth opens to respond, but he cuts her off with a lifted, impatient finger, “by textile, Ter. Textile.” Shaking his head, he leans an arm heavily against the bar. Kicks his foot over the other. “You can’t argue with that, Theresa.” 

“No problem fucking her though, huh Ice?” 

And that stings, a bit more than it should. Terri’s brow is cocked for all of a few seconds before the superior look flies off her face to accept the virgin martini, sliding Bill’s whiskey over to him easily. Nodding to the bartender in thanks for the Old Fashioned, Ice lifts it for a drink while Terri’s popping an olive into the pocket of her cheek. 

“So, Cougar—” 

“—now, unless you’ve got a steady girl, I’m assuming you’re up for meeting this girl I’ve got picked out for you, Tommy,” Terri doesn’t look from her work of spearing olives back into place, head canted to the side as she lifts a shoulder to Bill’s nuzzle against her collarbone, “trust me. She’s gorgeous, she’s funny, and perhaps the best part—she doesn’t have a lingerie drawer.” This cracks a smile and produces a little chuckle, which prompts a slick little look from Cougar’s wife. 

“Is that right?” 

“Fuck yes it is. I checked.” His peering over the aviator’s produces a quick about-face and two lifted fingers that find her heart. “Scout’s honor, honey. I wouldn’t do that to you—”

“You already did, Ter,” 

“—you didn’t let me finish. Again. I wouldn’t do that to you again.” 

Cutting a look to Cougar, who takes a slow drink of his whiskey, Ice lifts his chin a little before turning the discussion over to the Lieutenant. Terri is all but buzzing beside Cortell, he can see it. The optimism painted across her face is adorable, accentuated by the glow of a new pregnancy. Eyes skating over her, he looks back to Cougar. Somewhere he knows that Cougar wouldn’t let his wife set up an Academy buddy without at least having some reservation. 

And as if he can read his mind, Cougar shrugs. “She’s a honey, Kazansky. Take my word for it.” Cougar’s word hasn’t meant much since leaving the Academy, at least in the department where sex is concerned. Even before Terri, Cougar had a pretty good taste in women he remembers. He wasn’t ever without a steady girl, even before he’d knocked Terri up and made her a blushing bride. 

Better Bill to set him up than Slider, who couldn’t tell a fuck from a football unless it hit him in the dick. “Alright, you win, Cortell,” his sigh his almost primadonna as he rolls his eyes, knuckling the aviator’s into place properly as he watches Terri’s face go from black-and-white to technicolor like the Wizard of Oz Halloween special, “but listen, Ter. I’m not really—” 

“ —I’m gonna go find ‘er, I’ll be right back,” moving to kiss the corner of Cougar’s lips, she brushes by Tom’s shoulder before clapping his other with a strang hand, “trust me on this, Ice. You’ll love her. You’ll salivate, I swear to God.” Crossing herself as if he could pass as a priest, both he and Bill watch her sashay away, nearly bubbling out of her heels. 

And it’s minutes, maybe, that he's sharing a conversation with Cougar on his new assignment before Terri’s calling for both of them, blonde head of hair bobbing to look over shoulders all over again. Even in heels, the woman is a shrimp of a thing. Cutting a look to Cortell, Cougar takes his wife’s drink and Ice falls in line behind him, moving away from the security of his perch at the bar. 

Melting into the crowd of people that’s all chattering and socializing, Cougar’s extending the virgin to his wife as Terri clutches the hand in hers a little tighter, nudging slightly for its owners to step up into their conversational circle. Ice casts his gaze across the crowd for any happening chance of Slider right at the exact moment the familiar scent of cigarettes catches his nose, and it’s like lightning that his gaze snaps back to the conversation. He almost boomerangs backwards, and subliminally the muscle in his jaw is locked lest its hinge fall open to gawk stupidly. 

Eyes cutting to her feet as if his eyes could deceive him, sure enough. Neon Stilettos. And Ice has missed the introduction almost entirely, and would’ve probably the entire thing, if Cougar hadn’t nudged his arm to shake him out of it. 

“—cousin, from Minneapolis. This is Tom Kazansky, a friend of Bill’s from the Academy.” And all at once, Terri releases her cousin’s hand, gesturing between the two of them, her hand heavy with Bill’s overpriced engagement ring. Ice’s attention couldn’t be more glued to the eyes that linger over the rim of what appears to be a new drink. And fuck all, they are flirtatious. And raking across his veins like she’s breathing fire over him. 

“The guy from the Layton mission, honey.” 

And her eyes are focused on Cougar for all of a microsecond before they pull back to him. Sparkling. Swirling, like temper-spun waters. Willpower, it takes willpower not to get lost in his own thoughts—his cock between his legs that nearly jumps at the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, the way he can feel his skin buzz with electricity when she shifts her weight in those utterly ridiculous shoes he would so enjoy fucking her in. And Tom hasn’t had thoughts that bold in more than a while, but he can’t quite dismiss them when her head cants to the side. Making a show of looking him over. 

Seconds, and he isn’t sure how to play this. To tell Terri that they’d already had a great eye-fucking session or to keep that to himself. What a dilemma. His tongue clicks off the back of his bottom teeth as pregnant silence swells between their group; she’s looking at him knowingly. Like she can read his mind. Another cool, slow drink punctuates the little lift of her brow—should we or shouldn’t we? 

Drink, slip a hand into the pocket of his dress pants, play it cool when he’s anything but ice-cold and no mistakes. The warm alcohol splashing the back of his throat is almost enough to cover the cough of surprise—Neon Stilettos sidles up to him, the cut of her nearly perfect against the plains of him. She slips an arm around his neck, moves in to brush her chest against his. And within a heartbeat, before he can even think beyond the instinctive pull to wrap an arm around her waist, those plush red lips are skipping along his bottom lip. Teeth catching just so, the hum of a chuckle rumbles against his breastbone—and she kisses him, softly. Sweetly. Purposefully. 

She tastes like booze. Cigarettes. Like sin, a mistake that’s got him in a tailspin. Dizzy like he never remembers being. Oh shit. Oh fuck. 

And before Tom can register that punched-out feeling in the base of his gut, she’s turning in his embrace to wrinkle her nose at Bill and Terri. The hinge of their jaws has failed, pert little “o’s” stark against the positively flaming red of their faces.

Ice would think to care if Bill is catching air if he were able to think past the pistoning heart against his ribcage, the buzz humming in the back of his skull. How his fingers feel divinely molded to the flare of her hip, how her hand feels so at home and match-made as it skips along the buttons of his dress uniform. It takes him looking at the drink in his hand to register that he’s now white-knuckling the half-empty Old Fashioned like it’s the only thing keeping him planet-side.

“Thanks, cuz, but—we already met. At the bar,” her head cants to the side as she studies the lines of his face. “Right, Ice?” The way she says his name, the way it sounds from between pretty lips is insane. Like screaming twin engines, like touchdown on adrenaline when he isn’t thinking straight and high on a win. “Tom and I had a lovely chat about the sea turtle population and what the Navy is doing about preserving San Diego’s beach wildlife. It was great.” 

Ice watches how she drinks in his expression, like the world outside this moment is little to nothing of importance. Feels the steady jump of her heart against his breastbone—it’s strong. Assured, constant. Like it’s comfortable, not going anywhere. Her knee gently brushes the front of his thigh before it gently slats between his. And his spine shoots to an all-soldier straight, as if a rod has dropped down the length of his back. But it isn’t as strange as it is fiercely hot, and her arm falls from around his neck. Fingers easily slipping down his arm to find his free hand. 

And before he can confirm or deny anything, she’s whirling about on her heel to face her cousin and Bill, smiling brightly. Her, “I need another drink, does anyone want anything?” follows her as she bleeds from his side, backstepping through the crowd in the direction of the bar. Hand still in his, she tugs him away from Cougar and Terri after her. “You can help me, Sunglasses.” Plucking them from his nose, she slips them into her hair and turns, her fingers slipping home through his. 

He needs control. Whiplashed between the twitch of his cock and the drunk of her energy still on his lips, Ice doesn’t think. For what is probably the first time in his life. It’s hardly a career move, hardly anything more than a gut reaction and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but it’s something. And the recklessness of it feels good. He gets how Maverick can live his life like this, can gamble with this feeling that pits out the gut and stings the nerve endings like sweet poison. 

Unwilling to concede another step in the direction of the bar, he sidesteps in the other direction, tugging her along sharply to his side. Foot over foot, stumbling into his side, his arm slips around her waist like it’s made for it. Briskly steers them off the main floor, past coat-check. Past the eyes that maybe cut for a second to watch him high-tailing out of there, to a nowhere-important hallway that’s barely lit. Smells like Clorox. 

And the muted, through-wall chattering of the benefit is all but roaring in his ears when he shuffles her against the wall, stepping to brace her against the sheetrock like she’s planning on being somewhere other than right here in his sights. And for a second his eyes skate over her, checking for irregularities—for any sign of hesitance, all-stop. But she’s so there, all breathless and pinks cheeks, those stupid little gingerbread earrings dancing off every shallow rise and fall of her chest. And for a second he swears to God he can’t think straight when she bites the little corner of her bottom lip, eyes darting to his mouth and then back to his. And maybe it’s been too long between moments, because he’s a little jump when her fingers curl into the line of buttons on his shirt, material taut as she crooks a finger for him to come. 

“Well?” She’s still a little breathless. He can feel her elevated heartbeat as he steps closer, chest brushing against hers. “Chicken out, Lieutenant?” Arm slipping around his neck again, her other hand moves to card her fingers through his hair. It feels damn good. Good in a way he can’t remember. “For a second there I thought you were gonna do something—Kazansky, was it?” Half-mast eyes and the flutter of thick lashes tell him she hasn’t seriously forgotten his name. He still doesn’t know hers. But that can come later. 

He chuckles, isn’t able to help the smirk that ticks up the corner of his mouth. “You are bad,” his tongue skates his bottom lip, hand bracing against the wall as the other plays with the back of her curls, memorizing how the texture of it feels against his fingertips. 

And before he can say anything else, she’s fishing the cigarettes out of his breast pocket. Retrieving one with seductive, lithe fingers. And it slips between plush lips like nothing, before she slips the package of Marlboros into the front of her dress, tight up against the cleavage that fills out the front of her dress. 

He can’t help the chuckle as he ducks to brush his nose along the line of her jaw. “Anyone ever tell you smoking’s bad for your health?” The tang of her perfume on his tongue is strong, but good. She chuckles a little breathlessly as he guides her hand to his chest. Her head falling to his shoulder is so Hollywood it almost makes him laugh. 

“Maybe once or twice.” 

taglist: @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed @kmc1989 @imp-number-3 @spicydisaster14 @thescreamingpeach @your-local-crzy-lady @radical-sky @bisexual-watermelons @mongoosesthings @gothidecorem @philcoulson-redtapeninja @itsgoghtime

#tom iceman kazansky #top gun #top gun 1986 #top gun imagines #iceman x reader #iceman x oc #val kilmer #tom kazansky #iceman kazansky #top gun iceman #iceman #top gun fanfic #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction

[dancingdonatello]

Hey! i love your writing! its beautiful and amazing! I was wondering if you could do a Donnie x reader where the reader has really bad anxiety and fidgets when they get anxious to take their mind off it so in order for them to stop biting their nails/picking lips/picking skin/ etc he makes them a fidget toy??

I cant wait to see what you come up with! drink water and charge ur chromebooks people

donnie x gn reader

“Rate this one through ten.”

“Um… an eight?”

For the past hour and a half, Donnie had been giving you things to rate. These things ranged from button clicking noises to the sound that was made from a joystick going back and forth as if you were playing a video game.

“And this?” Another clicking noise.

“A four.” Donnie nodded very seriously and then turned around to keep fiddling with whatever he was making. His back kept you from getting a clear view of what it was.

You bounced your leg and brushed a hand over your lips.

A spray of water hit you in the face. “Hey!” You spluttered, dumbstruck at the sight of a spray bottle in one his mechanical arms. “What do you think you’re doing?” You wiped your face off.

“How will your lips ever heal if you keep picking them?” Donnie huffed, waving the bottle threateningly when you wiped off your lips. You glared at him and he returned it.

After a moment of staring you down, he slowly turned back around.

“Alright.” The arms went back into his shell and the spray bottle fell to the ground. He turned around with his hands clasped together. “Are you ready?”

“I guess?” you held your hands out and an irrational fear of him dropping some rat or spider in your hand made you twitch nervously.

Donnie grinned and released his hands. A cube fell into your cupped hands. You brought it closer to look at it.

It just looked like a fidget cube. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Donnie’s chest puffed out proudly. “Go ahead and press a button.”

You did.

“You like buttons with this certain noise.” He motioned for you to press it again. “You like switches with this amount of give. You like joysticks with this sound, also.”

There was definitely a lot of care and attention put into this.

“And!” He snatches it away from you for a moment as he pressed a small switch on the bottom. “It glows.”

“Thanks... but,” He placed it back onto your outstretched hand gently, “you know I can buy these online, right?”

An offended look crossed his face. “What? You dare compare my work to some shabby manufacturers who care more about quantity than quality?”

“What? No!” You waved your hands but kept a grip on the cube. “It’s just… this is a lot of work just for me.”

Donnie scoffed and took the cube from you again. He held it up to his scrutinizing gaze. “This? A lot of work? Absolutely not. If you want more things to fidget with on it, it’d be easy as recounting the first 100 digits of Pi. This was only the first prototype.”

“The first?” You took it back from him. You clicked the switch to make it glow a certain color. “What more can you add?”

Donnie laughed and picked up a screwdriver. “Wanna find out?”

“Nope!” You hid it in your hands. “This is fine for me.”

Donnie let out a disappointed sigh and threw the screwdriver carelessly behind him. “If you insist.”

“Thank you,” you said genuinely. “But how will I know what to give you as a gift in return?”

“Mess with it instead of your skin and we’ll be square.” He waved you off, seemingly distracted by a new sheet of metal he picked up. But you saw how he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “I hate thinking about your skin cells clogging up my ventilation system.”

“Right…” You smiled happily, pressing a button rapidly on the cube. It sounded just like someone repeatedly clicking the top of a pen in class.

Donnie jerked at the sound, his eyebrow twitching in agitation. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

#rottmnt x reader #rise donnie x reader #donnie x reader #rise donatello x reader #donatello x reader #rottmnt x gn reader #rottmnt x gender neutral reader #rottmnt fanfiction

[covidsafehotties]

hello, i hope i don't sound naive I've only recently started to become aware again of the actual health situation, here in germany things are very much ignored as well by government, media etc

I'm currently out of secure employment and have been busking, guitar and singing at places with medium people flow I'd say and there's always six feet between where i stand and ppl put tips in my hat but I've also heared that the six feet thing was from when we thought most infections were cos of droplets so I'm unsure now

I've seen it said to visualize covid like it's smoke and in terms of that if someone smoking is walking by i think i smell it for maybe three seconds

i wanted to ask if you have an approximation of how big if a risk this is? there's been lots of rhetoric about how outside is so much safer but now I'm unsure

since realizing things are not fine I've gone back to always wearing an n95 in grocery stors and public transport (no restaurants, can't afford that anyway) and i do want to take this seriously, i also got the last updated vax even tho i wasn't in the recommended group and my doc questioned me on why i wanted it, i insisted on getting it but it was weird

i hope you can give me some type of insight and this blog is a place for this and I'm not mistaken

General covid risk is a complex calculation including some factors you are not able to detect without the aid of atmospheric sensors. In indoor situations, densely packed spaces that lack ventilation and air filtrarion allow covid to drift on the air for longer than 4 hours. Outdoor situations are somewhat more safe in the fact that they are pretty much perpetually ventilated. That means covid does not linger in one place long, and the complex, chaotic nature of outdoor air movement causes more covid to drop out of the air more quickly. The more people the more close to you, the higher the risk. If you are in a crowd of unmasked people standing shoulder to shoulder, your risk is incredibly high. If you are sitting on a park bench and someone passes by down wind 10 feet away, your risk is negligible. A Japanese study from 2023 showed that the greatest risk of outdoor transmission lies in the several seconds before passing face to face.

Maybe this will help you better gague outdoor risk. When in doubt, mask up. I typically wear a mask anytime I'm outside my house because you never know when someone will decide to bother you, and face to face conversation is when you face the highest risk of infection not just from aresols but large and small droplets.

#asks #anon #mask up #covid #covid 19 #covid isn't over #pandemic #covid conscious #long covid #covid is airborne #wear a mask #coronavirus

[edelfan]

Ice could barely feel Slider's hand on his shoulder, but he was very aware of the looks Sarah and his former RIO were giving him. Despite Ice's initial refusal, they had turned up and never left his side since Maverick had been admitted to hospital.

"It's gonna be okay, Tom. You will see."

"How can you say that? Hmm? How do you know..."

Ice's raspy voice didn't let him continue. Sarah was about to hand him a bottle of water, even though they both knew it would barely soothe the damage the cancer had caused in his throat. However he just pushed her arm away as he stumbled up from the couch.

Knowing her brother all too well, she didn't take it personally - especially when she saw him hiding his face in his hands while leaning against the window towards the big garden beyond the porch.

"It's all my fault..." Tom's mumbled words barely made it past his lips, but the house was so silent without Maverick that Sarah and Ron could still hear it.

"That's not true. It's a disease, a world wide pandemic-"

"Shut up! He went to the hangar when he got sick because of me... I should have checked in more... should have called for help earlier-"

Ice's self-hate rant was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. They had waited for this call, but now they feared what news they might get, hesitating to answer it. Finally Slider picked it up, surprised that it was a video call.

"Bradley?"

Hey, uncle Sli.

Ron could barely recognize the young man he considered family. Rooster was wearing heavy medical gear, his face hidden behind a mask and a face shield.

Is Pops with you?

"Yeah, just a second."

Ice rushed back to the couch sitting down between Slider and Sarah. As soon as he saw Bradley, his heart broke.

"Hi, baby goose."

Hey, Pops. Before I get in there, I wanted to ask, if you really want to see this. It's bad...

"Define bad."

Dad's completely sedated. He's on a ventilator and... they also had to put him on ECMO. I can only get into his room for a moment, but uncle Chip pulled every favor for me to be here.

Tears were running down Tom's face. Slider and Sarah had pulled him in from both sides, both not faring any better than him.

"I want to see him..."

Bradley nodded and for a moment the camera went dark on the other side - only to reveal Pete's pale face in the next. Ice knew that the younger man didn't show all the medical equipment on purpose - instead getting the phone as close to Maverick's ear as possible.

Hi, Dad. There's someone here who wants to talk to you...

"Hey...b-babe... Oh my God, Pete... I love you, so much. Come back to me, okay? Be my impossible Maverick again, please... I can't... I just don't know how to live without you..."

#icemav #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #ron slider kerner #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #iceman x maverick #top gun angst #top gun drabble