Hey. Your Brain Needs To De-frag. Literally It Needs You To Sit There And Space Out.

Literally just for me.

Training for Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon's desperate to find Riley a pet sitter after she suffers an injury in the field and can no longer work alongside him. Despite being desperate, he's also picky. He wants someone professional, organized, and perfect for the position. You show up for an interview - and while you may not be his idea of the perfect candidate, you're the perfect fit for what Riley needs. Unfortunately for Simon, you flip his world upside-down and melt his icy walls of stubbornness and anger, making him crave you like the heat of the sun. The worst part? You don't even know it.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, brief mentions of animal injury (not detailed), pining, angst, possessiveness, jealousy, slow burn (?), cheating, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex

Chapter 1. Interview

Chapter 2. Rules

Chapter 3. New Trails

Chapter 4. New Tricks

Chapter 5. Back to Square One

Chapter 6. Pup Cup

Taglist is CLOSED - thank you to everyone who requested to be tagged in this story!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Easy breezy beautiful premature ejaculation. Hypersexual!Simon/fem!reader. Discussion of edging. Cumming untouched.

-

“If we do this,” he says around his cigarette, “then we do it my way.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit cautiously, turning your hands palm up as if to show you have no weapons, no tricks up your sleeve. I’m innocuous, your posture says. His own says: I’m still deciding, with his tense shoulders and narrowed eyes. “This weird, femdom thing. So I appreciate your guidance. Because I know fuck all—“

“You’re no femdom—Jesus, fuck, I can’t talk about it anymore,” he grits out. He takes a step back and away, creating distance, exhaling a plume of smoke that makes him look strangely ethereal in the evening light. Against your will, your eyes flicker down to just below his belt buckle and oh god. He’s hard. 

“Just from talking about it?”

The look he gives you could melt ice. It could sublimate it. You cringe, knowing you were in the wrong, wishing you could reach out and snatch the words right out of the air. He’s trusting you with this. The last thing he needs is to feel like a joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have—you’re not a, a science experiment or something—“

“Wouldn’t mind that so much. Might figure out what the fuck’s wrong with me. Less interested in being treated like I’m part of a circus troupe,” he grumbles. He drops the cigarette and grinds it to ash beneath his boot. He asks: “Inside?” 

-

Gingerly, so gingerly, he undoes the button of his jeans and unzips them. He holds his breath as he works the denim down his thick thighs. God, is he built: muscles made for more than just show. His history is inscribed on his body in its strength and in its scars, scars of white and pale pinks that darken to purple in the lamplight. He’s wearing boxer briefs, straining at the front from his erection, and they are soaked. You’re surprised that he hasn’t soaked straight through to his jeans. 

“Don’t look,” he grits out through his teeth. You look away, unsure where to cast your eyes to, and settle for shutting them. He explains: “Can’t take the way you’re looking at me.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, feeling your face flush hot. 

“Just—let me—” you hear the sound of fabric rustling. He kicks off his jeans—you can tell by the soft sound of them landing against the floor off the side of the bed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenching in your lap. 

“Nothing just—fuck. No way I’m going to last.” He sounds bitterly disappointed. 

“That’s the point of this, right? To get better at lasting?” 

He sighs, a long-suffering sound, like this discussion is well worn and frustrating to him. Something in you shrivels, and it takes your body with it as best as it can, sending your shoulders hunching inwards, your head ducking down. You pick at one of your nails by feel alone, eyes still closed, and nearly jump when his fingers brush your knee. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s what this is for. Might as well get used to embarrassing myself.” 

“That’s the spirit." 

He snorts. More fabric rustles, and at length he says: “Alright. You can look. Just…you can look.” 

You open your eyes hesitantly. His cock is right there—and Jesus. It makes sense, proportionally, but it is frightening in a very real sense. You’re already doing the math, measuring in your head and comparing to your past precedents. Ghost would have them all beat, quite comfortably, in length and girth. He’s cut, which surprises you, but isn’t a turnoff. He keeps himself landscaped nicely, which you appreciate, even if it isn’t necessary. 

He is flushed a ruddy pink, the head darker than the rest. As you stare, it jerks, a bead of precum welling at the tip. Suddenly one of his large, scarred hands reaches down and grips the base of his cock in a painful hold, hissing in a breath through his teeth. 

“Can’t look at me like that,” he admonishes again. 

“Like what?” you ask, a little defensive. You’re just looking! You have to look, right? 

“Like you want it,” he mutters. 

God, does he really have no idea? No inkling of how badly you want to sit on that monster in his hands? No notion of how wet you’ve been since your conversation in the parking lot? Sure you aren't like him, not about to spring off if the breeze was just right, but you are anything but unaffected. Still, it seems like the wrong moment to educate him on your attraction to him and his cock, so you do your best to morph your expression into one of unimpressed ambivalence and hoped it helps. 

“I’m ready when you are,” you say, interrupting his deep breathing exercises. He nods but doesn’t give you the go-ahead, not for another minute or two, until his chest stops heaving and he can remove his hand from the vice grip he has around his balls. His cock has a near purple tinge, and you wonder if maybe he should have rubbed one out in the bathroom beforehand just to take the edge off. Oh well, it’s a thought for next time. 

“Go ahead,” he says, like he’s giving you permission to pull the trigger on him during a game of Russian Roulette. 

You reach out—his cock twitches, a nice warm welcome if you’ve ever seen one, but you hesitate. Your hand is dry. Should you ask for lube? How does he usually jerk off? Dry? You have a feeling he doesn’t mind the discomfort; he seems like he has a self-destructive streak a mile wide. His eyes are fixed at a point on the ceiling, his chest unmoving as he holds his breath. You decide that some sort of lubrication is better than none—so you lick a broad stripe up your palm. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, a little punched-out sound. Sometime between opening your mouth and licking your palm, his eyes had transferred from the ceiling to your face, to the flash of your tongue and your wet palm. His eyes widen, irises swallowed up by the pupils, and he says again, more urgently: “Oh fuck.” 

He reaches down to grip the base of his cock again, but it is too late: he cums. His abs are thrown into sharp relief as he tenses with each pulse, cock jerking against his brutal grip. He doesn’t even jerk himself off—just ruins it as you stare with your mouth open and your hand wet, watching him splatter seed against the coarse line of hair that runs from his belly button to his cock all because he watched you lick your hand. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, throwing one arm across his eyes, breathing heavily. His mouth is flushed a pretty red, like he has been kissing. His hand clenches into a fist as he says: “I’m sorry. I tried not to.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, your nearly brain blue-screening from how turned on you are. You lower your hand and wipe it dry on your leggings. “That’s what this practice is for—so you don’t do it when it really counts. We can try again tomorrow or something.” 

He snorts. “Tomorrow? Give me five fucking minutes.” 

Alright, my account where I write all my little whatever's @baby-greatness is like.... gone to the world? It's pissing me off so I'm moving back to the main, give me a moment to reconstruct 💀

I will be ridiculously honest, I like this story just don’t wanna lose this post again 💅🏾

A Night to Remember (Part 1)

ModernAU!Viktor x f!Reader x Jayce Talis | 4K | 18+

Jayce and Viktor hold an end-of-semester party for their co-workers at the university, but not for entirely innocent reasons. They’re both hoping you’ll show up and give either of them a chance, since you’ve been extremely flirty with both of them in the past. This turns into a little friendly competition, and ends in a way neither of them expected.

A/n: this ended up being so damn long that I decided to break it into parts. probably there will be 3 or 4 in total. strap in for the long haul babes, because this is going to be a long ride 😏 

PART 2 | PART 3

Everything was perfect. All the best bottles were lined up against the bar wall, Jayce having to refrain from reaching out and completely centering each one. The house’s music system was connected and streaming a curated playlist Viktor had put together, containing all your favourite songs. All that was left was for you to show up.

“Heard anything yet?” Jayce asked, bringing his thumb to his mouth. Viktor lifted a hand and wrapped it around his wrist, tugging it away before he could start chewing on his nail.

“Well…” Viktor leant against the counter next to his friend, pressing on the little circle of your face. Your recent Instagram story popped up, showing a mirror selfie of you surrounded by your friends as you got ready, a black cowboy hat askew on your head as you lifted a bottle of apple cider to your lips.

“You told her she didn’t need to bring anything, right?” Jayce asked nervously. “I don’t have any party tricks, dude. I’m the cocktail guy, That’s it.”

Viktor huffed a laugh, “Someone’s nervous.”

“Hey,” he frowned, “I’m not the one meticulously planning to queue up the ‘perfect entrance song’ for (Y/n)’s arrival. Seriously, how are you going to time that- Ow!”

Viktor’s smile fell as he accidentally stomped his cane down onto Jayce’s foot. “My bad,” he shrugged, locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket. “She will be here in approximately…” Viktor tapped his chin, muttering, “based on previous parties, she tends to arrive almost an hour late. Never the full hour, though, she never wants to appear rude… hmph, I would say fifteen minutes.”

Jayce shook his head, laughing. “You’re so fucking whipped.”

“Eh, I prefer ‘well-prepared’,” Viktor replied, “Anyway, I am only as ‘whipped’ as you.”

Keep reading

Backstory

Things to keep in mind when building a character’s past/backstory:

Before plotting a character’s backstory- Ask yourself if it's relevant. Your story doesn't need unnecessary details that don't fuel the plot/character. Sometimes, a characters entire life story isn't what's best for the plot. 

You don't need to know it all at once- The process is nonlinear/messy. It's okay to go back and forth.

Start with core memories- Smaller details can be great but it's easier to remember the big picture when you start with the corner pieces.

Timeline- use these core parts/events for your character to build a timeline to better understand the character/story. 

Don't dump it all in one place- We don't need to know everything about a character in chapter one. Don't forget to put thought into how you present this information. Flashbacks, dialogue, and playing with transitions can make a memory more vivid.

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

A Second Chance PT 1/10

Summary: After the loss of his daughter Miguel wants nothing to do with kids that is until he impulsively offers his pregnant neighbor a job at the Spider-Society.

Tags for this story: Grumpy x Sunshine, Double life, Secret Identity, Fluff, AGNST AGNST AGNST, Miguel x reader, Spiderman 2099 x reader 8.3k words

I really hope you guys like this one<3333

This takes place before the whole Miles situation, and instead of Miguel taking the place of his other self in a different universe when Gabriella was older in this story he took his place while his "wife" was in the last trimester. So he had the chance to see Gabriella grow.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

You slowly make your way inside your apartment complex carrying 4 plastic bags 2 in each hand filled with groceries. This is your second trip and with just your luck the elevator is out of order and you live on the 3rd floor which means that's 4 flights of stairs you have to walk up. It's 9 a.m. You just got off of work at 6 and took a nap in your car because the supermarket doesn't open till 7:30 and here you are on a hot morning in Nueva York breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth focusing all of your energy in making your way back into your apartment safe and sound. This is one of the parts you hate about bartending coming home so early in the morning after dealing with loud rude and obnoxious people all night. You love the rush and the adrenaline that comes with bartending. Memorizing drink orders, making the drinks, learning who's cheating on who. You love it you always had but now you're questioning your job as you steal a glance at your round belly that's peeking through your oversized shirt that's sticking to your skin. No one else knows it's there but you do.

Oh right, and you're 4 months pregnant.

It's just you and your baby, your ex he…. Well, let's not talk about him now, shall we? You just need to focus all of your energy on making your way back into the safety of your own apartment and these stairs aren't helping nor are the bags in your hands.

"One step at a time" You whisper as you reach the last flight of stairs.

"Can you move?" You jump startled at the deep voice coming from behind you. Immediately turning around you accidentally drop a bag and of course with your luck it was the bag that held your glass carton of milk. The contents spilled out all over the stairs and landed on the stranger's shoes. Your eyes widen in horror. You slowly drag your eyes from the bottom of their feet to their face. It's a fit middle-aged man with black hair that looks like it was gelled back but is now messy. He definitely has a few wrinkles on his face and you're pretty sure you just added another one. He's wearing a pair of black slacks that hug his thighs and a loose black top. 

"Shit you scared me, let me go get something to clean up" You begin to place your bags down but you hear a dissatisfied grunt from the man.

"Just move"

"But your shoes" The man says nothing as he takes a step up towards you and he stands there looking at you expectedly. You give him a confused look before realizing that he wants you to move. Or more so that you have to move since the staircase is so narrow.  You watch as he makes his way into the 3rd floor and it isn't until you hear a door opening and closing that you look away from the direction that he went in.

Bringing your attention back to the stairs you let out a groan of frustration all you wanted to do was put these groceries away and go to sleep. But no now you have to clean up this mess and you just lost a carton of milk that you spent almost $5 on. Fucking inflation.

Sighing you trudge your way up the last flight of stairs making your way back to your apartment to get stuff to clean up the mess. You hope that's the last time you see him. That encounter was embarrassing enough. 

But of course, it's not every day for the next two weeks you see him each morning as you come home from your shift. Each encounter always leaves you feeling embarrassed and leaves you feeling like he wants nothing to do with you. But by the 3rd day, you realize that the two of you are actually neighbors.

"I didn't know we were neighbors," You say as you both are unlocking your doors. When he doesn't say anything you decide to speak again. Maybe he didn't hear you.

"It's weird I only ever see you in the mornings I've never seen you anywhere else"

"Yeah let's keep it that way"  You turn around to face him but his door is already closing shut. Rude.

Day 8

Your feet hurt like hell. The bar was swarming with customers tonight which is typical on a Friday but still, you barely had any time to sit down and take a break. A break in which your feet needed desperately you chose the wrong day to wear sneakers.  Finally reaching back to your apartment building you smooth down your skirt as you walk through the lobby doors. You go to check your mail before you decide to lock in for the night…well morning.

While looking through each of your mails you accidentally drop one. Since there's no one behind you you bend over to pick it up, your skirt lifting up slowly revealing the ends of your ass and your underwear. Lifting back up you flatten out your skirt with one hand as you begin to close your mailbox. Turning to head to the stairs you nearly trip over your feet when you hear a voice behind you.

"Have some self-respect" You turn around to the sound of the voice and you see the middle-aged man who happens to be your neighbor standing a few behind you with a scowl on his face.

You immediately jumble over your words. "I'm sorry I didn't think anyone was behind me" You watch as he rolls his eyes and scoffs. "That shouldn't matter, you clearly have no respect for yourself if you walk around in a skirt that looks like it will fall apart with one breeze from the wind" You gape at his words and then you look down at your skirt. It's not like you chose to wear this skirt your boss asked you to wear it, plus it got you more tips.

Rolling your eyes you fold your arms over your chest. "This wasn't by choice it's my uniform for work"

"And somehow that makes it even worse. Listen I didn't come home to talk I came here to sleep so if you'll move out the way that'll be great"

You don't know how a person you barely even know could be so rude to you. You've barely even said anything to him. You walk over to the front of the staircase before turning around to face him. "No, I think you can wait I don't walk that slow"

He walks up to you and the minute he's in front of you you take a nervous step back. He's huge in every aspect. In height and width. He towers over you easily even though you’re 5'7. But you don't let that faze you. Sticking out your chin you stare up at him unmoving determined not to let him intimidate you.

"Move"

You lean forward lowering your voice. "No"  Turning around you begin to walk up the steps. Once your feet touch the 5th step you feel hands on both sides of your forearm lifting you up and putting you back on the lobby floor. Did he just…?

You stare up at him in disbelief but he's already walking up the second flight of stairs. "You're a jerk" You shout out after him as you begin your journey up the stairs.

Day 14

Once again you're coming back home around 7 am. It was surprisingly windy this morning and you can already feel the mess that the wind made of your curls. But you’re too lazy to put it into a bun or truthfully you just don't care. You really hope you don't run into your rude neighbor today, you're way too tired to deal with him. Plus you'll need all of the sleep you can get if you're going to make it to your summer class on time for 2 p.m. You're grateful that after you finish your 2 summer classes you'll finally be getting your bachelor's degree. You would've gotten it sooner if only your ex would've allowed it…. You had to sneak around to get the information you needed in order to apply for community college and you’ve spent all 4 years taking online classes. You're grateful for each day that you wake up and he's not there to yell or to put his hands on you. You thought that he was going to change you really did he promised you. But you guess there are just some promises that can't be kept. You knew you had to leave him when you were 1 month into your pregnancy and he hit you not once but twice in the same day.

You just finished checking your mailbox and you turn around ready to head upstairs when you walk straight into a brick wall…..or straight into a man who lives in the gym. You subtly rub your nose and look up immediately groaning when you see who it is.

 "Can you move out my way?" Folding your arms across your chest you stare at him expectantly waiting for him to move. But he doesn't move away instead he takes a step forward and you hastily take a step back. You begin to feel uneasy when he continues walking forward until your back hits the mailboxes.

"H-Hey listen I'm sorry I didn't mean to upset you just-" The minute you see his right hand raise just above your head your body reacts on its own. You duck your head lifting your hands blocking your face from taking the blow. You wait for it to happen but it doesn't. It isn't until you hear the sound of keys rattling from above your head that you take the chance and peek through your arms. You watch as he stares at you with a confused look on his face, his eyes narrowing before he shows you your keys…?

"You left them in your mailbox"

Slowly you lower your hands as you feel tears begin to fill your eyes. It's been 3 months and yet you still…."O-Oh I'm sorry I didn't know"

Hesitantly you take the keys from his hands and you watch as realization dawns on his face. He takes a step back before opening his mouth to speak. "Did you think….I would never"

Wiping your eyes you try to bring light to the situation by changing the topic. "I'll willingly let you go first this time" He takes another step back before you meet his eyes he opens his mouth to speak but you shake your head no turning your attention away from him.

"Just go…please" You don't watch as he leaves you’re too embarrassed to do so but you wait till you hear the sound of a door opening and closing before making your journey up the stairs.

•°~°•

It's early Saturday morning and you had to have a security guard walk you home. Working at a bar as a woman has its cons just like every other job. Men immediately think that you’re up for grabs or they can talk to you however they want. Two men made crude comments towards you the whole night. One of them even tried to touch you inappropriately. As a safety precaution, you begged a security guard to walk you home. You even offered to pay him. But thankfully he agreed to escort you home free of charge.

Instead of going into your apartment straight away, you decided to go up to the roof to catch the sunrise. Even though you just came out from outside you feel like you need a breath of fresh air. You just need a moment to let go. You're grateful that there are only 5 floors in your apartment because of course the elevator has yet to be fixed. You absentmindedly rub your belly which seems to be growing each day as you walk to the roof. You can't believe that you're already 5 months pregnant. In the app that you use to track the growth of your baby, it says that at 20 weeks they are the size of a banana. You’re really excited to know the gender of your baby. You can’t wait to hold them in your arms for the first time. You’re even more excited to paint and decorate the nursery. Finally reaching the door to the rooftop you say a silent prayer hoping that you’ll be alone before pushing open the door.

•°~°•

Fighting an anomaly and putting it back where it belongs no matter how many times he does it never gets easier. This particular anomaly did put up a fight and left him bruised way more than he likes to admit. Miguel does his last round of patrol of his neighborhood before landing on his rooftop. He hates that he has to come home. Or rather that he was forced to return to his place for at least 4 hours a day from Jess, Peter, Pavitr, Gwen, Hobi, and of course Lyla. He doesn’t know why he puts up with them. If he had the ability to do so they all would be fired maybe with the exception of Jess she isn’t too bad but she has her moments. They all decided that it was a good idea to riot against him. Their reasoning: 

“Running the Spider Society is taking over your life”

“When was the last time you took a shower your funk is spreading throughout Spider Society” 

“It’s getting hard to speak to you I can smell your breath from over here”

“You need a break”

And so on. At first, Miguel was able to ignore them but it all started to go downhill when they began to purposely mess up on missions. Even though their mistakes always got fixed it became annoying. So Miguel had no choice but to agree with them that he’d go home each day for at least 4 hours. He hated every moment that he wasn’t in his office. The fate of the multiverse is in his hands and they want him to sleep…? At first, he found ways around it he would just disappear from his office somewhere in Spider Society but they quickly found out and made it their business to see him out of HQ.

Each morning deep down inside Miguel felt his brain and body rejoicing the minute his brain knew that they were on the way to his apartment. It was hard some days he would just spend the 4 hours in his bed checking on stuff through his watch. Most days he didn't even make it to his bed he just stayed in his living room staring at the clock waiting for those hours to pass him by. 

There’s a large gash on his shoulder and a deep cut on his thigh that he's pretty sure he’ll need stitches for. He would've just fixed it up at the Society but it made no sense since he was due for his 4 hours of “break”. He thought he might as well go home and take care of it. Turning around to make his way out of the rooftop he stops as he sees the door opening.

It’s you.

He rolls his eyes at the sight of you. Here’s another reason why he loathes coming back to his apartment every day. He doesn’t know why the universe is doing this to him. Every day before making it to his apartment he runs into you like clockwork. It doesn’t matter if he takes the long way back or if he leaves an hour in advance he always runs into you. Each morning you look more tired than the last. You probably spend the night out partying. But every day..? It seems a little excessive but you seem young enough to partake in such activities. You’re weird but also very annoying you talk way too much and for someone your age you walk too slow.

Miguel knows his size is intimidating to most people and he knows that he isn’t particularly the best at conversing with people but the moment he saw you flinch it made him think is he really that scary? To those at Spider Society sure but when he’s a regular civilian no suit no nothing just him bare and exposed he's not…he can't be that scary right?  He would never hit you or any woman for the matter. He knew better and the one thing that he learned from his mother was to respect women.

Concealing himself in the shadows he takes a step back watching, waiting to see your next move. He watches as you walk closer and closer to the edge of the building. What are you doing? It looks like you have no plans of stopping and if you continue you’re going to fall off. 

Shit, you’re going to jump.

Miguel immediately makes his way over to you grabbing you by the elbow and pulling you away from the edge as far as he can.

"Don't do it, it's not worth it" He watches as you stare up at him with wide eyes. Your eyes dart up and down from head to toe.

"Spiderman?" He looks at you confusingly before he realizes you’re talking to him. Right, he has his suit on you don't know that he's under here. Remembering how you flinched last time he drops his hold and takes a step back but this time his back is towards the edge. So if you try to make a run for it you'll have to go through him.

"What are you doing here, what's going on?"

"You were going to jump"

"I was not" He narrows his eyes at you before you stand on your tippy toes peeking out over his shoulder. He moves into your line of vision.

"Don't think about it" You roll your eyes at him before tapping on his shoulder. "Come on big guy move you're going to make me miss it" You immediately step around him and begin walking towards the edge.

 Oh for fucks sake. 

He hovers over you subtly holding out a hand just in case. He watches as you try to sit down awkwardly. Why don't you just sit down normally? Thankfully you're not wearing a skirt this time so he won't get flashed by you. When you finally sit down you begin to scoot closer over the edge till your feet are dangling. You slowly put your arms behind you leaning back as you close your eyes taking a deep breath.

He's watching you confusingly as you look straight ahead. When he feels heat on the side of his face he slowly turns his face in that direction. The sun is rising, peeking up just above the horizon. When he hears you sigh he turns his attention back to you.

"I was just trying to catch the sunrise. I don't need to be on suicide watch I'm fine." He folds his arms across his chest trying to analyze you. His muscles bulged against his suit. He's not sure if he believes you or not. It isn't until he feels a sharp pain in his shoulder that he remembers his current state. When you finally look up at him your eyes gape at the sight of his wounds.

"My goodness you’re dripping blood all over the floor” You swing your legs over so that they no longer dangle off the edge and you form a squat position before rising to your full height.

You wave your hand beckoning him to follow you. "Come come I have a first aid kit" You walk a few steps but turn around when you realize he's not following you.

Miguel shakes his head no and stretches out a hand so you can continue walking. "Go on"

"No you're going to leave the minute I turn my back come on big guy let's go" You reach for his left hand and he slowly draws it back. Your eyes dart down to the big watch with the orange screen that's on his wrist.

You point to his watch. "Oh…I don't want that come on you're wasting time you're going to bleed out before you know it" Grabbing him by his right hand you pull him into the staircase. Miguel doesn't know why he's letting you do this. Maybe he's just too tired to protest. He watches as you drag him down the stairs you're not even half his size, what are you thinking? Surprisingly though you're not that slow when walking down the stairs. Once reaching on the 3rd floor he subtly glances at his door that's directly across from your's. So close yet so far away. He's going to regret this. He takes a deep breath as you pull him inside your apartment.

•°~°•

If you knew that you were going to start your morning on your knees for Spiderman you would've laughed and called yourself stupid. You sat him down on the loveseat couch in your almost bare living room. He looks so out of place it looks like he's been photoshopped in your apartment. You sit down on your knees carefully pulling your shirt away from your body so that it doesn't stick to your growing belly. You sit your first aid kit on the couch between his legs. Before starting you pull your curls into a very uneven puff on top of your head. You watch as he quickly turns away folding his arms across his chest. You're super positive you look like a hot ass mess right now but it's fine you have no one to impress.

You stare at the deep cut on the inside of his left thigh near his knee. You're grateful that it isn't high up on his thigh near his crotch otherwise things would've gotten awkward real fast.

"You're going to have to take off the suit so I can properly disinfect it"  You expect him to take off his suit but instead the parts of the suit where his cuts are disengage creating an opening so the skin around it is free.

"Oh, that's very convenient" You begin to get out the stuff that you're going to need to disinfect his wound. You lean forward placing a gentle hand on his knee to support yourself.

"This is going to sting" You slowly press the cotton ball dipped in alcohol on the wound. You pause for a second expecting him to flinch or to grimace but you get nothing. The only thing you feel is his body tensing up. Taking that as a sign to continue you try to figure out what to say. How does one start a conversation with Spiderman?

"What Spiderman are you?" You take a glance at him before returning your attention back to his wound.

“2099”

“Oh so you’re this universe’s Spiderman…that’s cool. Sorry, I don't keep up with the news. I felt like I should've known that '' After you finished cleaning his wound you stared at it for a little bit realizing that it’s going to need to be stitched up.

“You’re going to need stitches, is that alright with you?” You watch as he finally turns to look at you, unfolding his arms and resting them on the back of the couch.“You know how to do stitches?” You slowly nod your head. Getting the needle and thread ready.

“How?”

“I had to do it a lot…are you ready? A distraction may help lessen the pain or….well distract you from it”

 “Uh, so how was your day?” You begin to thread the needle through his skin hopefully this will lessen the pain. You steal a quick glance at him thinking that he’s paying you no mind but you find him looking directly at you well you’re assuming that he is since you can’t see his eyes. You begin to scan him tracing the red lines of his suit with your eyes. From down his arms leading to the red spider in the middle of his chest. He’s incredibly huge. The width of his shoulders looks like a foot long or maybe it just looks bigger because you’re on your knees? One headlock from him and you'd be dead instantly. It isn’t until the lines on his face circling his eyes narrow that you realize he is in fact looking at you. Shit, he caught you staring. Feeling embarrassed and your skin heating up you turn your attention back to the very important task at hand.

“I’m sorry I thought you weren’t paying attention since you didn’t answer me”

“Did you get this from a villain or were you-”

“You talk a lot” You feel your heart sink at his words. You were just trying to engage in conversation to distract him from the pain but you guess you’re doing too much. He’s Spiderman after all he probably does this all the time so it’s not a big deal to him.

“Oh…you’re right I’m sorry let me hurry up and do this for you so you can go back to doing what you do best” You give him a small smile shutting your mouth too scared to say anything that will embarrass yourself even further. Once you're finished with the stitches you take a small scissors to cut the hanging thread. 

You then get what you need to disinfect the wound on his shoulder. Realizing that you're going to need to get closer to him in order to clean the wound you sit up on your knees leaning forward to get a closer look but almost immediately he draws his head back. Oh, maybe you should've warned him.

"Sorry I just need to get a closer look at your shoulder, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable" He stares at you for a moment before turning his head to the side away from you to presumably give you more room. 

Putting the finishing touches on his wound you seal it with gauze and you lean back resting on your knees again. Pleased with your work you sigh contentedly happy to be finished. You fight back a yawn and glance at the clock. It's 8 am and you've been up since 2 pm yesterday. You pat his knee twice signaling that you're finished.

"All done" You rest your hands on the couch bracing yourself as you stand up grabbing your first aid and heading over to the kitchen counter.

Walking over to the fridge the sounds of your bare feet hitting against the tiles echoes throughout the room. "Sorry, I don't have much to offer you but would you like something to drink? I have milk and water?" You turn around to face him expecting to find him where you left him on the couch only to find it empty with a dent in the middle where he sat. He left. You sigh, maybe you were doing too much. He's Spiderman for goodness sake. You shouldn't have expected him to take a break. He probably has a million and one things to worry about.

You glance around the room trying to figure out how he left it isn't until you feel a small gust of wind your eyes dart to the open window. Making your way over you close the window before turning off all the lights to get ready for bed.

"Come on baby Mommy's tired"

•°~°•

Two days have passed since you practically dragged Spider-Man into your home. You left for work last night finding a blue note on your window seal saying "Thank you" with the number 2099 at the end of it. He stopped by to give you a thank you note. You place the note on your kitchen counter since you have yet to get a coffee table. You've been using the extra money that you have to spend to buy things for the nursery and diapers for the baby. You didn't know how expensive diapers were until you had to buy them. You're waiting for your next ultrasound appointment to finally find the gender of your baby. You can't wait, you know that you'll be grateful for whatever gender you have. This is your baby and you'll love and cherish them no matter what but secretly you're hoping you'll have a baby girl. You just can't wait to have a mini-you running around.

You just got off from work and you're parking your car a few blocks away from the supermarket because you know how hard it is to get parking over there. You’re way past overdue for a grocery run and luckily you got paid today so you can finally satisfy your cravings. Weirdly you've been craving cream cheese and pickles. It's a weird combination for sure but that's all that you can think about while you are at work. You sigh as you make your way to the supermarket. You have an uneasy feeling in your stomach and no it's not the baby you just feel worried. The voice in your head is telling you to hold off on getting groceries but your intense cravings are saying otherwise. Grabbing a shopping cart you head immediately to the milk and cheese aisle.

You stand in front of the cream cheese section with strawberry cream cheese in one hand and regular low-fat cream cheese in the other. You've been standing here for 2 minutes trying to figure out which one to get. Half your mind is telling you to get both and the other half is telling you to rip them both open and take a taste.

"Pregnancy cravings?" You turn around to the sound of the voice coming from behind you. It's a small elderly woman with her own shopping cart. You glance down at your stomach and realize that it's poking through your white buttoned-down shirt. Although your stomach isn't that big yet it's finally noticeable that a bump is there. Or maybe it’s because you aren’t wearing an oversized shirt this time around. But just 2 days ago it wasn't like this at all, it wasn't this big. You swear your stomach grew overnight. Well, it was only a matter of time before you could no longer hide it.

You slowly nod and give her a small smile patting your belly affectionately. "Yeah I don't know I've just been craving cream cheese and pickles lately" 

The elderly lady smiles pushing her shopping cart forward. "When I was pregnant with my 3rd I wanted to eat nothing but cheese and pretzels" You tilt your head at her words that don't sound bad at all you eat cheese and pretzels all the time.

You let out a small laugh. "That's something I eat on a regular" The lady shakes her head "I'm lactose intolerant and at the time I haven't eaten a slice of cheese in years"

"Oh," She laughs at your reaction before walking a little further ahead.

"Cherish them when they are small. I think that's one of the best stages when they can't speak" You laugh at her words as you rub small circles on your belly. "I'll keep that in mind" You bid your farewell to the old woman and finally decide on getting both cream cheeses. Placing them down into the shopping cart you walk away in search of where the pickles are located.

While walking your feet slowly come to a stop when you feel the ground beginning to shake. Pausing for a second it isn't until things on the shelves all around begin falling off and the shakes become more violent that fear begins to settle deep within your bones. Earthquakes in Nueva York are unheard of. You begin to slowly back away clutching your stomach as the sounds of panic fill the air. What's going on? You turn around making your way to find cover when all of a sudden a big boom fills the air causing your ears to ring. Turning your attention to the direction of the sound more than half of the wall on the right side of the supermarket is gone. Bits and pieces of the ceiling are falling along with it.

No no no this can't be happening.

You walk with hurried steps to the semi-secluded corner of the supermarket. You place a hand over your ear trying to cancel out the sounds of panic and one hand holding your stomach protectively. However you stop mid-way when you see another pregnant woman who seems to be further along in her pregnancy trying to help the elderly lady you were talking to moments ago. Glancing back and forth between them and the safe corner you begin to make your way over to the women.

•°~°•

"Lyla, what's the stats?" Miguel, Ben, Jess Peter, and a few other spiders from HQ are swinging their way to where the anomaly is currently wreaking havoc.

"An anomaly is currently attacking the supermarket downtown so far there aren't any casualties"

"And which dimension does he belong to?"

"Earth-616B" Miguel grunts in response as he lands in the parking lot of the supermarket. Half of the supermarket walls are gone and the ceiling is slowly crumbling. If they don't act soon a lot of casualties are going to happen. Miguel barks out orders for the rest of the group before doing his own thing. Miguel begins to gather up some of the civilians using his webs to get them out of the way and to safety.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone walking further into the building where the ceiling is unsteady and small chunks of it are landing on the floor. What is wrong with them? Do they have a death wish?

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING MAN GET OUT" Miguel yells at them while he's swinging in the air knocking some of the debris out of the way while some spiders deal with the anomaly. When he realizes that they aren't stopping he angrily scoffs to himself as he begins to run towards them. The closer he gets he realizes that it's a woman who looks oddly familiar.

Of course, it's you.

You said that you don't need to be on suicide watch but now he's thinking otherwise. The closer he gets to you he sees that you have one hand clutching your stomach while helping a pregnant woman help an elderly lady. His eyes dart from the women to you he can't carry all 3. He takes a moment on who he's going to get first and he decides on you. He doesn't need another death on his conscience…..

While running he darts the falling debris using his webs to break them in half. The minute he reaches you he quickly guides the pregnant and the elderly woman to a secluded spot using his webs to give them a temporary shield. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Ben running towards him. Miguel points to the woman he’s hidden in a corner and Ben nods immediately. He then dashes over to you picking you up bridal style.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you purposely run into-" A large rock begins hurtling straight at the two of you. With little to no time to react Miguel turns his back to take the blow. He grunts on impact stumbling a bit as your high-pitched scream causes his ear to ring he then continues his journey out of the fallen supermarket.

“Why would you purposefully run further into a collapsing building? Do you have a death wish?”

“I-I was trying to help-” 

“Help yourself before helping others” Miguel continues to navigate his way out of the building, careful not to trip over anything. Finally making it out he places you down where the police cars and ambulances are located. He watches as you clumsily try to steady yourself holding onto his forearm for support.

Once you're steady he removes your hand from his arm getting ready to jump back into action. "If you're hurt the ambulance is right-" You let out a sharp gasp as you put both hands on your stomach and you feel a sharp pain in your abdomen.

"Oh no….I think….I think-"

"Listen I don't have time for this if you're hurt, the ambulance is right there they'll help you" Miguel rolls his eyes as he glances back to where the chaos is currently happening. He doesn't have time to babysit the longer the anomaly is here the harder it's going to be to put them back.

"No no no c-can you check for me I think something's wrong with the baby" You begin to feel your eyes fill with tears the moment you feel another sharp pain in your stomach.

"What baby are you talking about? Listen I need to go" Miguel takes a step back to observe you from head to toe. Trying to find any signs of injury. His eyes stop on your stomach that you're cradling. He finally takes notice of how big it is…

Fuck… you're pregnant?

"Spider-Man please can you check I think something's wrong….it hurts" The minute your eyes meet his breath hitches in his throat. He gets flashbacks of when his late "wife" expressed her discomfort with the baby that she was carrying. He lets out a deep sigh as he decides on what to do.

"Lyla scan her to see if anything is wrong" Lyla appears in front of him and gives him a salute. Turning around to face you she fazes in and out to get closer to you.

"Hey, pretty lady can you stand straight for me pretty please" He watches as you wipe your eyes before standing straight with one hand under your stomach. Lyla scans you from head to toe twice before going closer to you.

"You're baby is fine their right under your ribcage so that's why your feeling some pain. Your vitals are normal for someone who was just saved from a collapsing building but you need to take it easy maybe lie down for a bit"

"So they're okay?"

"They're okay" Lyla turns to Miguel and gives him a look. "Maybe you should take her-"

"You're dismissed"

"Thank you so so much I really appreciate it I-" Miguel cuts you off raising his right hand to stop you.

"I have to go….go over to the EMTs to double-check things" He watches as you nod before he runs off going back to help the others. Amidst the chaos he goes to deal with the anomaly subtly glancing over his shoulder to make sure you followed his orders.

•°~°•

It's been 5 hours since you’ve been discharged from the hospital the doctors said it was fine for you to leave. To say you were scared would be an understatement. If anything happened to your baby…..Sighing you place a gentle hand on your stomach blinking rapidly to keep your tears from falling. Crying won’t do you or your baby girl any good. Since you were already at the hospital it only made sense that you'd have your ultrasound appointment early and you found out you are having a baby girl. You cried the moment you heard the news you’ll do whatever it takes to give your baby girl the childhood you never had. A childhood filled with love and support from everyone around her. 

Forcing yourself out of your thoughts you walk over to your kitchen to get yourself something to drink. Since this grocery run was a complete disaster you’ll have to do it again tomorrow. Pouring yourself a glass of water you stare straight ahead at the clock. In about 45 minutes you’ll have to get ready for work. Since you came home you have done nothing but focus on making sure you stayed calm. For your sake and the baby’s. You’ve played calming music, cleared your thoughts, and done self-care you did it all. You know the little hologram told you to rest but you need the money. Since it’s a Monday night the bar shouldn’t be that packed. Maybe you’ll take a day off on Friday so you’ll have a long weekend. You quickly wash and put away your glass cup before making your way into your bedroom to get ready.

•°~°•

You should've known that it was going to be packed tonight. It’s a full house not a free chair in sight. You're convinced that the bar has turned into a club. People are dancing 3 fights have already broken out and you are only 4 hours into your shift and you unfortunately have 5 more to go. Your curls are pulled back into a low ponytail as you feel sweat dripping down the nape of your neck down your back. You're wearing a simple black top with a low v-neck paired with a black pleated skirt. Thankfully your top is loose so your bump isn’t visible plus 

An hour later your feet are aching and you’re really hungry. You need to take a break maybe sit down for a few have a drink of water or something.  You stare at the clock sighing as you read the time. It’s 2 am and you won't get off till six you won't make it that long. Grabbing a rag to wipe your hands you call for another bartender to take over while you take a break.

•°~°•

Miguel doesn’t know how he allowed them to talk him into this. After a long day of doing his job instead of being at HQ Ben and a few of the spiders that were working on the supermarket mission dragged him to a bar. Out of all the places they could’ve dragged him to they chose a bar…..He’s not really a fan of loud and crowded places he never has been. He doesn’t even know why they invited him he has nothing to add to the conversation. Staring at his drink menu he reluctantly looks over the options as he decides on what to get. It isn’t until he hears a few low whistles that he peeks over his menu. His eyes almost bug out his head when he sees you. 

What the hell are you doing here?

No matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to shake you off. It’s like everywhere he goes you’re there. His eyes follow your movements as you make your way to the customers. He watches as you move exceptionally fast taking orders while making drinks. You should not be working as a bartender as a pregnant woman. What in the world are you thinking? When he got back to HQ after dealing with the anomaly he asked Lyla to pull up any information she got from you when she scanned you for injuries. Not because he was curious only and only because he wanted to know who he was living next to. He found out your age, the school you attended, and the schools you attended before that. However, the most surprising information of all was that you’re married. You’ve been married for 5 years now. It’s weird because he’s never noticed a ring on your finger even now there’s still nothing he couldn’t even find out anything about your fiance. No name, no pictures, nothing. Even when he was brought inside your place against his will there were no signs of a man living with you. In fact, your place almost looked bare with only one 2 seater couch in the living room, and from the look of it, there was no TV either. 

But what kind of man would allow his pregnant wife to work as a bartender? Anyone should know that you shouldn’t be on your feet for long. Well…. you're another man's responsibility another man's problem so that has nothing to do with him. He is pulled out of his thoughts when he sees you making your way over to him. Turning his attention back to the menu he doesn't even bother to respond when you ask him for his choice of drink. 

When you don't hear him answer you move on to the next person which happens to be Ben.

“And what can I get you”

“You're too pretty to be working as a bartender” Miguel rolls his eyes at his comment. You tilt your head at the man before opening your mouth to speak.

“Sir what can I get you” 

“A Long Island iced tea” Miguel watches as you immediately begin making his drink.

“What are you doing after this pretty, are you going straight home?” 

“Yes I am….and here's your Long Island iced tea”

“Say you got a man to go back to?”

“No” You make your way past the guy to take another drink order.

“A boyfriend, husband?”

“No and double no”

“Great so you're-”

“Ben enough” You're eyes snap to meet the face of the voice and you wait patiently as they lower the drink menu. He stares Ben down in order to “tell” him to stand down. It isn't until Ben sighs and mumbles “Yes Dad” under his breath that Miguel turns his attention back to you. He stares at you for a moment before telling you his drink order.

“Whiskey” You give him a quick nod before you move to make his order. When you hand him his drink you don't bother looking at him. Miguel has to turn all his attention to the dark liquid in his glass if he doesn't he'll accidentally end up staring at you the whole time.

•°~°•

You feel a hole burning in the back of your neck. Why would someone ever stare at you like that? His gaze never wavers you feel his eyes on you as you move around the bar, take orders slide glasses down the bar, and as you ignore some men's advances. His glares make you uncomfortable you hate working when you know someone is actively judging you. Truthfully you almost dropped your glass in hand when he lowered the menu. The last time you saw him was when you accidentally thought he was going to hit you in the lobby. To say you are embarrassed would be an understatement and plus he's been rude to you since the very beginning. He's just weird….or more so you can't get a read on him.

It's now the end of your shift and you're currently wiping the bar down and washing the last of the glasses to get it ready for the next bartender. But yet he's still here you walk over to him to tell him that the bar will be closed for the next 5 hours when he slaps down a $50 dollar bill. You close up the register and walk in the back to get your bag. 

When you walk back out you let out a sigh of relief when you realize he's no longer at the bar. You walk outside and begin to walk home thankfully it's only a few blocks away. You could use your car but you only use it when you have to get groceries. You want to stay active with your baby. As you walk home you hear heavy footsteps behind you it's 6 in the morning and the sun isn't up yet however you can see the sky beginning to take a lighter shade.

Once reaching the end of a sidewalk waiting for your light you subtly turn around to see if there's anyone behind you and you immediately lock eyes with your neighbor. Too embarrassed you turn straight ahead you thought he left already. He can't be following you because he's most likely coming back home like you are. Sighing you focus all your attention on walking back home. Now that you think about it you're really hungry you could kill for a toasted bagel with cream cheese right now maybe add some bacon and pickles and- 

Oh, she's moving.

You pause briefly to rest a hand on your stomach. Maybe she knew that you were thinking about food.

You lower your voice whispering to your stomach. “Did you know I was thinking about food?” A few seconds later you feel her move again followed by a small kick. You laugh to yourself as you continue your journey home.

Finally making it back home you're digging in your mailbox when you notice that your neighbor is standing a few feet behind you by the lobby doors. Is he waiting for you to go upstairs? He's making you feel uneasy. Before your brain can formulate something to say to him you're already facing him and you open your mouth to speak.

“You're making me feel uncomfortable”

………..

Oh God, why in the world would you say that?

“Sorry, I-”

“I’m waiting for you to move from the mailbox” You watch as he folds his arms across his chest while sending the same glare that he was giving you earlier.

You take a nervous step back. Dammit, you shouldn't have said anything. “O-Oh I'm sorry I didn't know-”

“Of course, you didn't know…I'm keeping my distance since you thought I was going to put my hands on you the other day”

“Oh right listen about that I didn't mean to it was just a reflex and I-” He puts up a hand to prevent you from going any further.

“You don't need to explain anything to me…can you move your taking up space and I have things to do” You watch as he points to your stomach and you immediately put a hand over it. Taking up space? You're not even that big yet….Eager to get out of there you immediately close your mailbox making sure to grab your keys as you start your journey upstairs wishing him a goodnight. Is it too early to say you hate your neighbor?

•°~°•

Taglist for now: @nxrdamp  @obsessedwithromance @kawaiibakadesign @dinuxia-bhm @mssbridgerton @timmytchalamalabingbong @brooklynscherry-z @youuuuuuuuuuu13 @botchedlove @shaldaar @serenity707 @miaasmf @v-justchilling @kittiowolf210 @thel0velykey190 @denzmallows @hyperfixationwhore @milkguzzlerr @thethundafromdownunda @megtheebimbo @beautifuleaglealpaca @promptly-mercy @freehentai @narutofan249277

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As always thank you so so much for reading I hope you guys like this one<3333

With Much Love,

Cece<333

hot artists don’t gatekeep

I’ve been resource gathering for YEARS so now I am going to share my dragons hoard

Floorplanner. Design and furnish a house for you to use for having a consistent background in your comic or anything! Free, you need an account, easy to use, and you can save multiple houses.

Comparing Heights. Input the heights of characters to see what the different is between them. Great for keeping consistency. Free.

Magma. Draw online with friends in real time. Great for practice or hanging out. Free, paid plan available, account preferred.

Smithsonian Open Access. Loads of free images. Free.

SketchDaily. Lots of pose references, massive library, is set on a timer so you can practice quick figure drawing. Free.

SculptGL. A sculpting tool which I am yet to master, but you should be able to make whatever 3d object you like with it. free.

Pexels. Free stock images. And the search engine is actually pretty good at pulling up what you want.

Figurosity. Great pose references, diverse body types, lots of “how to draw” videos directly on the site, the models are 3d and you can rotate the angle, but you can’t make custom poses or edit body proportions. Free, account option, paid plans available.

Line of Action. More drawing references, this one also has a focus on expressions, hands/feet, animals, landscapes. Free.

Animal Photo. You pose a 3d skull model and select an animal species, and they give you a bunch of photo references for that animal at that angle. Super handy. Free.

Height Weight Chart. You ever see an OC listed as having a certain weight but then they look Wildly different than the number suggests? Well here’s a site to avoid that! It shows real people at different weights and heights to give you a better idea of what these abstract numbers all look like. Free to use.

So... on my other account (where I post all my writing stuff) I can't comment, get no views (I averaged 100) and it's like super weird? I'm relatively new to tumblr. Someone help, what's happening.