#THE REST IS ALL ME BAYBEE

[xx-w0lf13-xx]

CLIP: DARKEST DUNGEON EDITION

[bondagebimbo]

💅🏻 real hot girl shit 💅🏻

(posting selfies that basically look the same at 3am for attention)

[sugarsnappeases]

thank you for the tag @fxreflyes this is so cute, except the format is trying to hinder my propensity to ramble, so i’ve rectified this in the tags lmao

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

no pressure tags for @static-radio-ao3 @inevitablestars @itsjaywalkers @carniferous @orbitfalls @transsexualpriest @futurequibblerjournalist <333

[softranswolves]

Multiamory May (with ships from a generator):

The boys who carry guilt and love equally

[myleftpinkytoe]

“I actually finished all of today’s work by noon, so I spent the afternoon making a nice dinner!”

“You only worked until noon?”

“...No, I was finished working at noon!”

“Why didn’t you find more work to do in the afternoon?”

“...because I was finished and I instead worked on a nice dinner.”

[honeyed-hedonist]

Parings: Jason Todd x afab!Reader Word Count: 4.4k Warnings: SMUT—MINORS DNI. mentions of blood, gore, and violence, oral (f & m receiving), lots of teasing, degradation (jason todd is a big meanie), a lil bit of a size kink if you squint (hims a big, big boy), an obscene amount of dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex, jason has multiple orgasms (he’s got stamina, baybee), creampie, cum swapping, and, as always, declarations of love (barf). A/N: I wrote this for my sweet baby angel @heli0s-writes in a little fic swap we’re having because we like to scream at each other about all the fictional men we want to rail us into a pulp. I love you! I hope this makes your brain melt. Tehe 😈 (Reposting from my former blog)

IF YOU LIKE THIS STORY, PLEASE REBLOG IT.

Jason Todd is a menace. The absolute bane of your existence. 

Who does he think he is banging on your door at 3:45 in the morning? As if your neighbors needed another reason to gossip about you. Nevermind all the probing questions that were poorly masked as casual conversation when you were using the on-site laundry room or grabbing your mail. If you had to hear “So, you and Red Hood, huh?” one more time, you were going to rip your hair out. 

But Jason has always been brazen—not much has changed since the day you found him bleeding out in an alley between your apartment building and the pet shelter next door. He had a gunshot wound, lacerations over damn near every square inch of him, his mask all but shattered and exposing most of his face to you as you did your best to haul his massive frame up from the ground to drag him inside and patch him up. He had grinned at you the entire time, flirted with you while you fished the bullet out, asked you to dinner as you wiped the grit and grime off of his neck and chest. He hasn’t left you alone since.

You love him, of course. How can you not? He’s 6’4” of muscled steel, all wrapped up in a handsome, roguish bow with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind. Any woman alive would be hard-pressed to resist his charms and you’re no exception, but it’s difficult to remember those warm, fuzzy feelings when he’s pounding on your door hard enough to wake the dead.

With bleary eyes, you unlatch the locks and yank it open, hissing at him as you fist your hand into the lapel of his jacket and tug him inside, ignoring the wide-eyed look on your neighbor’s face from across the hall. Your annoyance is overshadowing the rest of your senses, so you don’t see the tent in his pants, don’t notice his lust-blown pupils when he shucks his helmet off and throws it aside. Instead, you whirl on him, an accusatory finger pointed squarely at his chest in preparation to scold him.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Why couldn’t you just come in through the window? I keep it unlocked for this exact reason, Jason! You stubborn fucking ass—mmph!” His mouth is on you instantly—demanding and desperate as he crashes his lips into yours, uninterested in hearing your lecture. His gloved hands lift you off the floor in one fluid motion that has you instinctively wrapping your legs around his hips. You feel it then, the heavy, hard length of him trapped between your bodies and you gasp, an action that he capitalizes on by shoving his tongue past your teeth and into the back of your throat.

The tang of coppery blood fills your mouth and has you retreating, pushing back on his chest to look at him, but he’s right there chasing your mouth, walking blindly towards your kitchen table to set you down. “Jay—honey, wait. Are you—fuck!” His teeth are sharp against your throat, silencing your protest with the harsh sting of pain, grunting as he grinds his hips between your spread thighs. 

“Shut up,” He growls, voice low and dangerous, sending your synapses into overdrive, drowning out what little restraint you have left. “Need to be inside you. Need to hear those sweet sounds, baby, just—let me.”  Jason’s fingers are shaking when he moves to peel your shirt off, and you know it’s the adrenaline, that he’s high from the violence of his nightly patrol, teetering on the edge of losing control. These nights, you think, are the ones he needs you the most—seeking salvation with your body, tunneling his way to absolution with powerful thrusts of his hips, because if you can love all the fucked up parts of him, can love him even after all of his mistakes, then maybe, in his mind, he’s worth something afterall. 

So you nod, your own hands making quick work of the kevlar and leather he’s covered in, helping him shed layer after layer of it off until he’s bare chested and heaving with labored breaths. It’s then that you notice the gashes that cut diagonally across his collarbone, the skin ripped in a way that makes you shudder. Claws? A serrated knife? You can only imagine the kind of monsters he grappled with tonight. His chest is smeared with congealed, drying blood, a trail of it leading down his stomach, seeping into his briefs and tactical pants, staining the tuft of coarse, dark hair that leads to his pubic bone an ugly shade of rust.  

His eyes have turned shark-like—a depthless obsidian that makes him look possessed, the usual crystalline blue almost completely eclipsed by his blown out pupils. You should be terrified by the sight, the danger lurking within that endless dark, but your demons have always called to his, so all it does is stoke the flames now licking their way down your spine to pool between your legs. His gaze shifts the second your hands fall to your panties, exhaling a shaky breath as you try to wiggle out of them, to grant him access to the part of you that only he gets to explore.   

Jason snarls then, swatting your hands away to rip the flimsy strip of cotton clean off, tossing it over his shoulder where it floats delicately to the floor in shredded ribbons of fabric. And then he’s on his knees, dropping to your floor with a loud thud that has the knick knacks hanging on your walls tinkling with vibration from the force of his herculean frame hitting the laminate. He scoots closer, boots scuffing your floor, the heat of his stare now focused on your puffy slit. Every exhale is a rumbling growl, hot breath fanning out against your pussy as he inches closer and you bite your lip, ready to muffle the sound you know he’s going to tear from your throat the second he puts his mouth on you.

Warm, calloused hands skate up the insides of your thighs, throwing them open even wider to accommodate the width of his shoulders when he leans in. Jason’s nose settles against your slit and he inhales, breathing in the musky scent of your arousal. It leaves you frozen in place, barely breathing when you watch his eyes roll back with pleasure. It sends your pulse straight to your clit and you whimper, the sound acting as a catalyst for him to dive in tongue-first and lick a wet stripe through your folds. He moans at the taste of you, a deep, salacious vibration of sound that rattles your bones. It has you hooking your hands around the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip, mouth slack when Jason’s deft tongue and plush lips begin to work you over.

He’s precise and purposeful when he eats you out—applying just the right amount of pressure, finding the perfect moments to snag that bundle of nerves with his teeth, gumming at your velvety cunt with his mouth, his tongue attuned to your every need. It takes him no time at all until you’re whining, begging like a god damn harlot, your fingers wound harshly into the roots of his hair, pulling him in, fucking yourself on his face. His girl. Perfect and needy, just the way he likes you.

But, again, Jason Todd is a fucking menace, glancing up at you with that wild look in his eyes, clocking the way your eyebrows are knitted together, the way you’ve got him pressed so deeply between your legs that he can barely breathe—he knows you’re close, can feel your thighs trembling against his ears. He waits, feasts on you until your eyes roll back into your skull, until he knows you’re about to rocket into a release—and then he stops, withdraws his mouth—a mouth that’s glistening with evidence of your pleasure, and offers you a sadistic smile.

“You thought I was gonna let you cum, princess?” He goads, swatting at your pussy hard enough that it sends you reeling, your body jerking with a yelp. “Nah…Tonight you cum on my cock and nowhere else.” Jason rocks back on his heels and stands, towering over you, crowding your space as he takes your jaw in his hand, his grip hard and unforgiving. “Do you understand me?” 

There’s a war happening in your mind, because you know he needs this control, know he’s standing on a very dangerous ledge and you have to tread carefully, but fuck if you don’t want to cop an attitude, push him right off that cliff just to see what he’ll do. Seconds tick by like minutes, his eyes bouncing between yours, expectancy evident on his handsome face while you contemplate how much you value the use of your legs and whether you’ll need them tomorrow. 

“I don’t take orders from you, Todd,” You spit, jerking your chin free from his hold. Curiosity has clearly gotten the better of you, and the fire your response sets ablaze in Jason’s eyes has your stomach flipping. His mouth curls into a wicked little smirk, and then you feel that same hand of his wrap around your throat and squeeze; hard. 

He bends forward, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear, tongue tracing the edge of the cartilage. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, hmm?” Your breath hitches at the gravel in his tone, and now you know without a doubt that you won’t be doing any walking tomorrow, let alone moving. Thank god you have some PTO saved up. 

Jason’s spine straightens when he yanks you off the table, the movement so fast you don’t have enough time to process what’s happening until your ass hits the floor and you wince. “Well, would ya lookit that.” He mocks, palm slapping against your cheek before he’s hooking two fingers into your mouth to suppress your tongue. “Since you’re down there already—might as well make yourself useful, yeah?” 

Fuck. Sometimes you forget the cruelty he’s capable of, the way he can talk so mean, degrade and embarrass you for the sake of your shared pleasure. It’s exactly what you asked for, and he always delivers. With blush stained cheeks, your face pinched in a glare, you reach for his pants, popping the button open, tugging the zipper down, and shucking the blood-stained bottoms and cotton briefs to his knees. What you’re met with has your jaw working, saliva pooling behind your teeth because goddamn is he hung. 

Jason is fucking massive everywhere, so it goes without saying that his dick would carry some weight, but it still astonishes you every single time you see it. Bobbing invitingly in your face, angry red at the tip and oozing precum, veins prominent and pulsing along the shaft just begging for attention, his cock sits proudly above an even heftier set of balls, and you clench remembering just how good they feel smacking your sensitive clit when he pounds you out from behind.

His fingers are still playing against your tongue, sliding over the wet muscle until he breaches the back of your throat and you choke. There’s drool seeping past his knuckles, dribbling onto your chest, and he hums his approval, eyes glittering with the promise of what’s to come. One last pass of his calloused digits before he’s angling his tip and pushing his length into the wet heat of your mouth with a grunt. “This is a much better use for that mouth of yours, don’t you agree, princess?” Jason coos at you, pressing forward until your eyes screw shut, tears trickling down your cheeks when his cock seats itself deep in your esophagus. “That’s a good girl—open up that throat for me. Yeah, just like that—fuck.”

Soggy, spit covered fingers curl against the crown of your head as Jason begins to thrust, fucking your mouth. Your eyes are blurry, crossing each time he bottoms out, breathing harshly through your nose with every withdrawal, your palms digging into the meat of his thighs to keep you steady, to keep you rooted enough to take his assault. Over and over again he drives his hips forward, the slippery sound of the suction of your lips is so fucking obscene it makes you moan. That filthy, wet squelch ringing out as more saliva trickles from the corners of your mouth, bubbling up in sloppy arcs that web between your chin and his cock, matting into his pubic hair, commingling with the remnants of his blood. 

You’re sure your face is stained pink from it by now, and you couldn’t care less, not when Jason’s face is twisted so beautifully above you—jaw slack and cheeks red, sweat marring his brow, hair curling at his temples and the nape of his neck. He looks so goddamn pretty when he loses himself in you like this that it makes the ache in your throat worth it, makes tomorrow’s hoarseness a welcome battlescar if only for the vision of him lost in the throes of violent passion above you right now. “Shit—m’gonna cum, princess. S’too good, I can’t—”

You slip your hand beneath your chin, between your bodies, cupping his balls, teasing them, rolling them in your palm, and he roars, bottoming out to cum down your throat. His cock pulses against your tongue and you wiggle it against his length appreciatively, humming while you swallow down spurt after spurt of milky semen until he’s pulling out with a hiss. Jason’s big hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up while he huffs. “Best little cocksucker, baby, but I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”

Before you can blink. Jason hauls you up and deposits you right back onto the kitchen table, throwing your legs open. Letting out a low whistle, he drags the pad of his thumb up through your folds, swiping over your throbbing clit with a chuckle. “Such a pretty little pussy, hm? So eager, so fuckin’ desperate, clenching around nothing at all. You just wanna be full, don’t you?” He goads, slotting his hips between your thighs, letting the heavy weight of his dick slap against your sensitive pearl until you’re mewling, fingernails biting into his forearms.

“Jay—please,” You whine, your voice scratchy and rough, and he shakes his head, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth while his eyes make a slow trek up to meet yours. 

“After your little performance? Not a chance, sweetheart. I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready, but for now? For now you’re gonna put on a show for me. Let me see how you stuff that needy cunt when I’m not here.” He smirks viciously down at you, wrapping his fist around his length, pumping slow and languid while your face heats with embarrassment. 

The weight of his stare presses down on you, hot and heavy, as you guide a trembling hand between your legs, fingers dipping through your slick, peeling your lower lips apart with a breathy sigh. Despite his bravado, you know how bad he wants to be buried in your heat, cock shoved so deep that the tip batters against your cervix. It’s that thought alone that spurs you on, two fingers pushing into that wet, hungry hole with a moan. You hook them upwards, seeking, pressing against that tender little spot that makes your back arch, fucking yourself while he watches, his muscles coiled in waiting like a predator about to strike. It’s maddening—no matter how fast or how hard your fingers work into your pussy, it’s not enough, it’s never enough and he knows it.

“Feels good, huh, princess?” Jason huffs, pumping his dick while he watches you, taunting you with his words. “But you want more—can see it on that pretty face. Those little fingers just don’t cut it, do they? Course not, you need more. Need this fat cock, don’t you?” The whine that pours out of your throat is meek and pathetic, because he’s right and you can’t hide from him—not when you’re splayed out so beautifully like this. 

How many nights have you spent lying on your sheets chasing an unsatisfying release at your own hands. It’s never as good as it is with him, because Jason knows you. Knows all the ways to make you keen and writhe and burst. “Go on,” He says, “let me hear you say it. Beg me real nice and I might give you what you want.”

God damn him, you think, because he never makes it easy, not on nights like this when the battle is still fresh in his mind, when the adrenaline is still plowing through his veins. And god damn you if it doesn’t light you right up, heating the already charged air between you both. Your head falls back with a thud against the table and he tuts at you, pulling your gaze back where he wants it—on him. There’s a lump in your throat despite your fingers still working your cunt, the shame of having to beg both igniting your desire and stoking the fire of your petulance. Gritting your teeth, you spit the words he wants to hear at him with indignant venom. “Please, Jason. Want—need your cock. Fuck me, baby, just—” He chuckles darkly, free hand moving to grip your chin, his thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw.

 “Oh, I think you can do better than that.” Jason sucks a breath in through his teeth, his handsome face scrunched up with pleasure, and you catch sight of his other thumb swabbing over the tip of his cock, still rock hard and leaking between his clenched fist. “Try again.” 

“Fuck!” You spit, fingers soaked as they dive in and out of your pussy with delicious friction. Swallowing what remains of your stubborn pride, you gaze at Jason from beneath your lashes, your eyebrows furrowing, features turning soft and pleading. “Please, baby,” Your voice lifts an octave higher—whiney, simpering—and it works. Jason groans, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Fuck me, baby. Please fuck me. Need you, need that cock—please? M’so empty without it. Wanna cum all over you, Jason. Please!”

“That’s my girl,” He croons, tilting his head to capture your mouth in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else, distracting you enough that you cling to him, fingers carding through his hair while the head of his cock prods through your slit until it catches on your opening and he drives his hips forward, stretching you apart in one powerful, rough thrust.

It forces a scream from your throat that he swallows, bottoming out until his pelvis rests flat against the pocket of fat above your pussy. “Fuck—give me your fingers, baby. Put ‘em in my mouth.” Jason commands, and you know exactly what he wants, bringing your damp middle fingers up to his face, letting him suck the remnants of your efforts from your skin. You watch, hypnotized, as his eyes roll back and he starts to move, his teeth sinking into the digits while he fucks you. 

There’s nothing quite like having a cunt full of Jason Todd. The sting that comes from the sheer size of his dick, the way it stretches you to your very limits, those gummy walls forced open wide to accept every angry stab of his length. He bullies his cock into you, pounds hard enough that your kitchen table slides across the floor with each stroke. But he follows right along with it, hammering into you while his tongue slides between your fingers, sucking on them like a damn pacifier. It’s sinful, filthy, and raw—makes you absolutely feral, crying out for him over and over again, free hand dragging harsh lines down his muscled back so hard you’re certain you’ve broken the skin. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, letting your fingers fall from his mouth. “I know, baby. I fucking know—swear to god you were made for me. Take my cock so fucking well—shit!” He growls, righting his posture and reaching for your ankles. Jason locks both of them in one hand, closing your thighs together, making you even tighter, the fat lips of your pussy peeking out between your legs. The sight has Jason grunting like a wild animal. “That’s my pussy, huh?” He asks and you nod, completely lost to the mind-numbing pleasure he’s supplying. “Know it is. Always gonna be mine, baby. Gonna ruin this little cunt for anyone else. Gonna wreck it.” 

The world shrinks until it’s just you and Jason, no concern for your neighbors who can undoubtedly hear the way your kitchen table knocks against the wall every time he pounds his dick into your pussy, not a single care other than him and the way he loves you—the brutal way he fucks you. Resting both of your legs against the side of his chest that isn’t cut open, he hugs them close, looks down at you, and god, you’ve never seen him quite like this. It’s mesmerizing. 

And then he’s spreading your legs, pushing your shins up and into your chest, folding you in half. The new angle sends his cock even deeper, and you let out another rapturous cry, each stroke pummeling your cervix. He shushes you, fingers mashing your cheeks together in a tight grip. “Eyes on me, princess. Wanna see you fall apart.” 

So you watch, helpless and at his mercy, when his free hand wedges between your legs, fingers seeking out the place where you’re stretched around his dick, stroking it lovingly before moving his attention to your stiff, aching bud. Jason tilts his head, dropping his chin to his chest, letting a drizzle of spit cascade down between you. It hits its mark, splashing against the hood of your clit and rolling down until he catches it with his thumb, sluicing it up and over your pearl. 

“Don’t you dare hold back.” He commands, and all you can do is nod, tits practically tucked under your chin, body jolting from his incessant, endless assault. And then his fingers start to move and you wail. The friction is a welcome respite from the brutal way he’s handling you. Jason plays your clit like he knows what you’re feeling, flicking and tugging, applying enough pressure that the heat beginning to bloom in your belly burns hotter, a blazing inferno that’s about to consume you. “That’s it, let it out. Come on, angel, give it to me. Soak my fucking thighs.”

There’s always this brief moment before you cum—the universe stilling for the tiniest of seconds right before you unravel. You lock eyes with Jason in that instant, lip pinched between your teeth to try and muffle the noise you’re making. He nods at you, encourages you to let it go, tells you that he’s got you with just the look in his eyes, and it’s the truth. When time catches up to you in the next blink of your eyes, you fucking explode. Your back arches, knees slamming into your chest while you scream and quake beneath him. Jason wrangles you through your convulsions, pins your limbs to the table, coos and hushes you, lavishes you with praise while your cunt gushes around the intrusion of his cock. And what a fucking mess you’ve made. 

His teeth grit when he feels your cum wet his stomach and thighs, dribbling down his balls, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for Jason. With a roar of your name, he pumps into you a final time before he, too, loses himself. Jason cums hard—so hard that he damn near goes blind and deaf, vision whiting out, ears ringing as he empties himself into your swollen, fucked out pussy. It’s endless, the thick ropes of spend that now paint your insides. So much that you can’t contain it, a few errant, creamy strands dripping out of the place your bodies are joined. 

When he blinks his eyes open again, he catches as much as he can on his fingers, licks it into his mouth, and yanks you into his arms to kiss you. You’re barely conscious, but you kiss him back anyways, and Jason can’t stop the smile that curls his lips as he feeds you his cum from the tip of his tongue. Brushing your sweat matted hair off your forehead, his smile widens, peppering your reddened face with kisses. “You still with me, baby? Or have I fucked you stupid again?”

A halfhearted swat to the side of his head is your answer, and he laughs, the sound warm and infectious. There’s something so sweet about his laugh, it’s always made your chest swell, deep and gruff and perfect—just like him. You both stay locked together, his arms around you in a tight embrace, until your mind finally floats back into your body enough for you to remember how to be a person again. “Hey—as incredible as that was, and don’t you dare get an ego about it—you’re still very fucking injured, Jason.” 

Another laugh, his lips smacking against yours in a final peck that has you grinning right back at him. “Yeah, alright, I hear you, boss.” Jason teases, right before easing his softening cock from inside you. There are wounds that need tending, but he’s not quite ready to let go of this moment, feeling whole with your body wrapped up in his arms. He presses his forehead to yours once more, warm breath fanning out against your heated skin. “I love you, baby.” He whispers it, soft and sweet, your heart melting at the declaration. 

It’s a sentiment you return without hesitation, arms moving to cup his face—your whole world now held between the palms of your hands—and tilt his face back to level him with your stare. “I love you,” you answer, conviction heavy in your voice as you brush your nose against his “always.” Jason’s breath hitches in his chest, because nothing on this earth could have ever prepared him for the peace, the utter tranquility that loving you and being loved by you has brought him. Despite the lump in his throat, the tears misting his gaze, he echoes “always,” right back to you, kissing you tenderly until you’re both dizzy, until the world around you fades once again, until all that’s left is you and him. Just the way you like it.

[somehow-a-human]

Whose POV is it Anyway?

The End?

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

We're here. We did it. We made it to the final episode. I'm so proud of us.

For reference & context, I recommend reading these posts:

Whose POV is it Anyway? - Introduction

POV "Your 'Something's Wrong' Voice"

POV a Trip to Hell and a 25 Lazarii Miracle

POV a Companion to Owls

POV The Dirty Donkey & I think I Found a *Clue*!

POV Bodysnatchers & Cosplaying a bookseller

POV 1941

POV The Ball

Lens Filters

Lets fuckin go baybee.

Up until the demons are accidentally allowed into the bookshop, the filter is clearly still the warm and hazy Bronze Glimmerglass of Aziraphale's POV. This is clearly visible after the demons enter and Aziraphale activates the portal. When viewing the top down shots, Aziraphale/Maggie/Nina's side is warm and golden toned, and the demons side is cold and green.

As the bookshop battle commences the lighting gets cooler and cooler toned as the demons move farther into the bookshop. The lighting is still warm around Aziraphale when he removes his halo, but once it's blown up, we've instantly lost the warm glow and everything is now cool and dark toned.

Throughout Crowley's entire stint in heaven with Muriel, the lighting is cool and bright, and Crowley's sideburns are long. I'm going to give this an inconclusive POV.

When Crowley comes back to the bookshop with the archangels the lighting is still cooler, I would say its most similar to the Black Diffusion FX (BDFX) filter, however there is a fair bit of haziness so it may also be the Black Pro Mist (BPM) filter, and his sideburns are still long.

Gabriel then recovers his memories. And I think this next bit is key when we think of the filters.

The first memory we see is the Tadfield aribase. I did go back and compare this scene to season 1 and it is a fair bit more saturated and warmer toned than it was graded in season 1. I would say that's because Gabriel is now remembering this memory through his lens of how he now views Beelzebub.

The Russian Cafe memory is next, and the scene is very green toned, dark and cool. It reminds me clearly of the Black Pro Mist filter often used for Hell.

The American Bar memory is not nearly as dark, but still a bit cool toned and saturated. I'd say this one uses the Black Diffusion FX filter.

The Resurrectionist Pub is warm, golden, and hazy with fuzzy halos around the lights & I believe we're seeing it through the Bronze Glimmerglass filter.

3 stages of their relationship. Strangers at odds, then cautiously on the same page, then optimistically absorbed in their love for one another.

We return to present day scenes in the bookshop and these are all cool toned, and I would say in the BDFX filter.

... and I'm pretty sure the filter doesn't change the entire rest of the episode. The debate about Gabriel and Beelzebub, the conversation with the Metatron, the final 15. It stays the same, and Crowley's sideburns remain long. And I'm also going to give it an inconclusive POV label. We've reached some sort of equilibrium?

Don't worry, I'm ending this post here, but I'm following it up with my conclusion, and you don't even have to wait to read it! There's too much to summarize my feelings after writing these analysis at the end of this one post, it deserves it's own thing!

NEXT Whose POV is it Anyway - a Conclusion

[aqua-the-smiter]

Part 5 baybee. I am the Harbinger of Justice for Cato Sicarius Despite everything, he is still needed. And he won't fail. Cato Sicarius x female reader Divider by @squishyowl

Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TOzkCIaXjI , https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znsUh6vBWLI

"Could you at least tell me why he's so important? Can you at least grant me that little?"

Guilliman sighed, and leaned back in his chair. Melor was resting in his arms, happily nursing off a bottle that his uncle held for him. Cato had come in as soon as he'd had a spare moment, looking about as bad as he'd ever seen him when it wasn't directly after combat.

The Primarch felt a stab of guilt at that. He'd been mulling over what to do with him the whole way to Medusa, but afterwards things had slipped his mind. He did have the little one to look after. Now that he was back, the problem was also back in his periphery.

He wondered if giving Cato this assignment had been the best idea after all. He trusted the captain, knew just how strong and capable he was. The reason he'd given the duty to Sicarius was because he wholeheartedly believed that Melor would be safe with him. The old ego had long since been tempered. Cato was a good warrior and a good man.

But now when Guilliman looked at him he could see the damage. The emptiness in his eyes, the tension in his arms and shoulders. The breakdown from the previous day. He didn't doubt Cato now because of his skills, he doubted him because Cato expected himself to fail. Expectations often were part of breeding the results. Which was why now he was willing to offer a few more answers than he'd given before. Maybe if he understood, knew what exactly what he was dealing with, he'd realize just how much he was actually trusted.

Of course, it might also backfire completely. Knowing just how much was at stake could potentially send him down a spiral of thinking just how astronomical the consequences would be if he did fail. Which would shatter his confidence.

There was nothing for it but to try anyway.

"I will tell you. But understand this." He paused, adjusting the angle of the bottle as Melor drained it. "You are not breath a word of this to anyone. I am telling you this because I trust you, and you are correct. If you are going to guard him, you may as well know who exactly it is you're guarding."

Or, most of it anyway. There were still some things he didn't need to know.

"I will not." He thought that should have been a given, but the look in the Primarch's eyes was oddly intense. "You have my word."

"Good. Now-" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "-how do I start this? Alright. His full name is Melor Manus. He is Ferrus's son. Ferrus had a wife that none of us knew about, and they had a child, him. He was born shortly after Ferrus died, a few months I think, and then was put into stasis for safety. Which is why he's still practically a newborn."

Cato had assumed as much, but to hear the whole tale laid out was an entirely different thing. "How did that happen?"

"The usual way, Cato."

He frowned. "That is not what I mean. How did Lord Manus get a wife? From what I know of him, he doesn't seem like the type."

"He loved her." Guilliman replied quietly. "That is all he told me. I don't know how he he kept her secret. But I did not know him very well. He often liked to say that nobody knew him, and I believe he was right. Fulgrim certainly didn't know him as well as he liked to think he did, that much was plain. Her name was Argena."

He closed his eyes for a moment. Remembering watching the two walking hand in hand back into the Warp. It was a bittersweet thing to witness. He had never known Ferrus could have such a deep warmth in him. There was much he had never known about his brother. It was truly a shame that his reunion with his wife had to take place in the afterlife.

And he felt like an idiot. How could he have wept for Fulgrim's state when Fulgrim did it to himself? When here was Ferrus, eternally loyal, with a broken family and an orphan child. He was not perfect, far from it, but he deserved more of a due than what he had been given. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Knowing that he would never get the chance to truly know his brother. Ferrus had been one of his Dauntless Few. He should have known him better.

Then his lips quirked up in a rueful smile. "It's funny to me. I remember Ferrus and Fulgrim, during the Crusade. I remember how proud Fulgrim was of his physical appearance. He would boast of it often, and he landed Ferrus with the nickname of 'The Gorgon'. But he was married multiple times for political gain. Ferrus married once, for love."

Now that was truly unusual. The Primarch didn't like to talk about the Great Crusade very often, and Cato couldn't blame him. The memories were bitter, painful.

"Alright. Melor is Lord Manus's son, and he asked you to take care of him. That much is understandable. What I still cannot figure out is why you asked me to be his bodyguard. Why me?"

Roboute sighed. "I chose you because you are one of my best, Cato. I know about what is going on with you. Titus came to talk to me. Others have too. I know there are things chewing holes in your mind. I know you are in pain. But the fact remains, you are one of my best. I gave you the task because I trust you."

He had hoped to reassure his son, but Cato just withered. Looking profoundly ashamed. "I am sorry, my lord. That it has become such a problem that even you have taken notice. I have done a poor job of controlling myself." "No!" Roboute would've slammed his hand on the desk if that wouldn't have disturbed Melor. "Do not think like that. It's not something you can go on burying like this. I don't know how deep it goes, but you need help. It will rot you from the inside out, if it hasn't started to already."

"You have more important things occupying your time, my lord."

"Are my own sons not to be counted as important as well?" Guilliman retorted quietly. "Moreover, I understand it. Do you think I have never once thought to myself how some of this was my fault? That if I had only done something or other, the Imperium wouldn't be in this state? That some of my brothers would still be here? It is a wretched path to tread. And one best avoided."

Cato was stunned for a moment. All this time, he would have never imagined a Primarch, his Primarch, carrying the kind of haunting thoughts that he did. He couldn't find the words, so merely nodded.

"I know you're hurting. But I also know your record. I know you are a brilliant warrior, and you still have much untapped potential. I took you under my wing because you remind me of another of my sons. His name was Aeonid Thiel. Just as stubborn, just as willful. But he was tempered like any good blade. The best ones often take a very long time to make."

"I...thank you, my lord." He dipped his head.

"I trust you will do this duty, then?"

He stared at Melor for a moment. Since the boy was awake, he could see his eyes now. They were beautiful, a bright, brilliant gold with an odd metallic sheen. Ferrus's eyes had always been described as silver, so he guessed those eyes were his mother's.

"I will guard him with my life." Cato said finally.

Guilliman smiled. "I trust he'll be safe then." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was dark. The smell of incense and human pain laced the air. Blood ran in rivulets off the low altar into the channels, filling them and highlighting the design of the eight pointed Chaos wheel. Candles guttered and acolytes chanted.

The terminator Choroathe knelt in the center, free of his armor, and neck deep in his trace. He could hear them, the whispers of the Warp. The voices of the gods. And oh they had things to tell him. Secrets of the future. Secrets that the servants of the Corpse Emperor would love to keep buried.

They would be brought to light, rest assured.

Something was tickling the edges of his mind. Blurry at first, but the image was growing clearer. He felt dizzy, lightheaded. Like his soul was holding onto his body by a thread. It was euphoric.

His body stiffed. Some power ran through him like an electric current, and the visions coalesced. The whispering became legible, and told him it's secrets.

Iron seed Son of iron Lord of iron! Do not let him Go to Macragge Macragge, Macragge! Heart of Ultramar Slay him Slay the Iron Son Do not let this seed grow!

His head snapped back with a gasp, and his eyes flung open. He knelt there for a moment, his whole body shaking in almost orgasmic aftershocks. A prophecy...how long had it been since he received one? The Word Bearer struggled to contain his glee.

"My lord?"

He stood shakily, and turned around to face one of his squadmates.

"What did you see?"

"Macragge." Choroathe whispered. "The gods have granted me sight. We must go to Macragge. The seed must not grow."

A few of the others muttered among themselves. Another stepped forward. "What seed, my lord?"

"Ferrus Manus is dead, but his progeny lives. Roboute Guilliman has him now. The gods have sent me a warning. He cannot be allowed to live."

The other Word Bearer looked...uncomfortable at that.

"Is there a problem, Robavam?"

"Well...I don't mean to question the judgement of the divine, but to butcher an infant in his cradle feels...cruel." He said slowly.

"How dare you question the will of the gods!" One of his brothers snapped, and others took up similar cries.

Choroathe held up his hands for silence. "We do not always understand the will of those above us. But I have no doubt it is for the greater good. It may be difficult to comprehend, but we follow their will, not our own. If they thought he could be turned to our side, they would have told us so. But his father was unshakably loyal, and his father's blood is bound to his veins. As the father was, so the son shall be as well. He must be removed."

Robavam nodded, falling to his knees. "Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."

"It is cruel, but this galaxy is cruel. And sometimes cruel things must be done, to spare worse later on."

"I understand. Please, forgive my ignorance."

"Stand up, brother. All is forgiven if only one accepts his wrongdoing." Choroathe put a hand on his pauldron, briefly, before turning to the rest. "Now make ready, brothers! We carry out the will of the gods!"

But first, some weakening of the defenses would not hurt. He had been shown many things in his visions. One of those had been a particular Ultramarine. His armor was elaborate, and his helmet crested with a red and white plume.

Cato Sicarius. The broken one. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It had been around two weeks since the little one had come to the Fortress of Hera. And two weeks since he'd been assigned to the boy. It was, at the moment at least, the easiest job he'd ever had. The Primarch handled his day to day care, so all he had to do was stay in the room with the boy and guard his crib. Even that wasn't daily. As much as Guilliman had talked it up, it was clear he would rather be the one protecting his nephew. Cato couldn't blame him for that.

Melor's presence had become, if not normal, at least accepted. By now everyone had pretty much figured out what the Primarch hadn't said, that the boy was Ferrus Manus's son he had somehow been roped into caring for. If his swaddling hadn't been a dead giveaway, and it was largely agreed upon that Guilliman had refrained from saying anything out loud for safety reasons rather than because he thought his sons wouldn't be able to figure it out.

Cato had heard all kinds of ridiculous speculation about Melor's sire, however. Some of the younger Astartes and neophytes weren't content with the simplest answer, and were throwing out any and every Primarch with black hair, loyalist or not. Corvus Corax (the kid was pale but not that pale), Konrad Curze (no), Perturabo (had his hair even been black?), all the way to Horus himself (now you're asking to be smacked). It was absurd, and anyone he overheard spreading those particular rumors weren't let in to see the little one.

Because despite everything he'd garnered a good deal of fondness from the Ultramarines. Even with the (stupid) discourse on his parentage, the ones who didn't interact with that kind of ridiculousness still found themselves curious, and inevitably came to see him.

Marneus Calgar was one of the ones brave enough to hold him. He'd held the little boy up to his face, and Melor had responded by smacking him in the nose with a tiny baby hand. The Chapter Master's usually concrete face had broken into a delighted grin and he laughed aloud. Severus outright refused, and got relentlessly made fun of by the other officers. Uriel held him and seemed to get a bit emotional, wiping his thumb over his eyes. Not openly weeping or anything so dramatic, but definitely misty eyed. When Titus held him, Melor seemed to get it into his head to copy the Primaris lieutenant's usually stoic expression with remarkable accuracy.

Even the xenos wasn't immune. Yvraine was in more often than not, cuddling the little one and cooing to him. Melor seemed to enjoy the lavishing of affection, and Roboute didn't seem to mind, so Cato let it slide.

You came in too. Since he was on guard duty, it was an easy decision to have you handle the rest of Melor's needs when Guilliman was unavailable, much as you could tell he didn't like it. You felt your respect for the Primarch growing as you noted his willingness to do whatever was needed for his nephew. It wasn't always a pleasant job, but you enjoyed it regardless. It let you spend more time with Cato, and it gave him more of an opportunity to vent.

"Are you alright?" You asked him quietly, so as to not wake Melor. He was peacefully asleep in your arms. "You haven't been very talkative today."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

You fell silent, and he didn't reply. But you could hear the sound of his gauntlets tightening around the hilt of his sword. There was something bothering him.

"Please Cato. You can tell me. Are you worried about the job again?" You knew he had a habit of thinking himself into ruts over his doubts.

"No, it isn't that."

"Is it your dreams again?"

He sighed, and didn't answer for a moment. You were worried you were going to get the silent treatment from him, when he finally replied, "One dream."

You looked up from Melor. "What?"

"It's on dream. A reoccurring nightmare. I have been having it whenever I sleep."

"You've only slept a couple of times."

"Exactly." He said, nodding. "Only twice, but I had the same nightmare."

You held out a hand to him. After a moment, he took it and squeezed it. "Maybe it's just your subconscious bringing your stress into your sleep. What are you dreaming about?"

"I..." He squeezed his blue eyes shut for a moment.

He'd never felt sick at the smell of blood, but now it made him want to vomit. The coppery tang was think in his nose, the scent of rich, not-quite-human blood in a place it shouldn't have been. This place was supposed to be safe. It should have been safe. It would have been safe if not for him.

Blood dripped between the nalwood slats of the crib and pooled on the floor. Widening, starting to stain his boots in gore. Such a small child to have so much lifeblood ebbing from him. Maybe that's why there was so much. It was all the life he would not live now.

Because he had failed. As he had known he would. He always failed when he was needed the most.

His hands gripped the wooden railing so hard it was beginning to splinter. He didn't want to look down. Look at the consequences of his action. The price of his failure. But something forced his head down. Made him look.

Amidst the scarlet soaked bedding, there was swaddling draped over a bloody form in the middle. Curled up like he was just asleep. Cato felt his jaw clench. The boy was even smaller in death than he had been in life. One tiny, pale hand stuck out.

How had this happened? He swore he had done his duty. He hadn't left the boy's side.

"I'm sorry." He rasped, falling to his knees. Feeling something wet and coppery begin to drip from his eyes.

As he knelt there, he felt a huge pair of hands grab his neck from behind and start to squeeze. They were cold, and hard. Like they were coated in metal.

If you hadn't been holding Melor you would have run up to Cato and squeezed him until your arms were sore. As it was the best you could do at the moment was meet his gaze. His expression was twisted and pained.

"None of it's real, Cato." You said softly. "It was just a dream. Just your subconscious manifesting your fears."

He shook his head sadly. "I wish I could believe it was that simple."

"...Do you think they're prophetic?"

"No. But it was the very same nightmare. The same details and all. I cannot believe it is only my subconscious."

He turned away with a clank of ceramite.

"You know it's all lies anyway, right? Whatever these dreams are." You told him finally.

He stiffened, but didn't turn around.

"I mean it. I know you. You're strong and brave and clever. You're one of the best the Adeptus Astartes has. The Primarch wouldn't have had you do this if he didn't believe you could. And...I believe in you too. As much as that sounds like a platitude, I know."

You stood up and carefully walked over to him. Thankfully Melor continued to snooze. You reached up and placed a hand on Sicarius's cheek.

"But it's the truth. When you're needed, you'll pull through. I know you will."

He turned to look at you, his expression softening. Your eyes were wide and earnest, full of concern and the love you held for him. One armored gauntlet rested over your hand, briefly. Then he removed it, and placed a kiss on your knuckles.

"Fear not. Whatever my feelings, I will do my duty." he said, stroking Melor's forehead with an armored finger.

"I know you will." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The night was quieter than it should have been.

It was snowing outside. Nearly a blizzard, coming down in huge, fluffy flakes that joined and became even larger as they fell. The Fortess of Hera was already blanketed in it, and it sparkled in the lights from lamps and windows.

Snow and howling wind swallowed up the sounds outside. It overpowered even Cato's sensitive ears. The noises in the hallway were muffled. It was black as pitch outside because of the storm too. Which in turn made it feel darker inside, no matter how many lights were on.

It was dark in this room anyway. Melor was once again fast asleep. He seemed to do that more than anything else. Either sleeping or eating. Then again, most of the time he was in the Primarch's care.

The hair on the back of his neck had been prickling all night, and he wasn't sure why. Everything had been just fine. There was nothing for him to be worried about, but he was anyway, and he found himself wishing for dawn to hurry up and break already. He checked the chronograph on a small table.

Nope, not even close. it was barely passed 11:30. Not even midnight yet.

His hands curled around the hilt of the Tempest Blade. Something felt wrong, although he couldn't place his finger on what. He turned around, and walked over to where the boy lay, resting a hand on the railing.

He looked peaceful like that, and rather cute. Cato felt a pang of brotherly affection for the little one, even if he was only a cousin. Reaching down, he stroked the fuzzy black skullcap of baby hair he was growing with armored fingers before turning back to his post.

And froze.

The door was ajar.

Just a crack, just a hair's breadth.

When he knew for a fact it had been locked, because he had locked it himself.

His acute sense of paranoia was screaming. He didn't move. Didn't even twitch. The most important thing right now was to not let them know he was onto them. Let them come to him. He couldn't leave anyway to check it out, even if he'd wanted to. He was almost certain the door was nothing but a distraction. Something to lure him away from his post. Leaving Melor vulnerable and defenseless. And now, he understood why the Primarch had given him this job. Who else would have noted something so small and given it credence?

He could feels his hearts begin to speed up, and willed himself to be calm. If he wanted any edge over whatever enemy lurked outside that door, they couldn't know that he knew.

There was a flicker under the door. He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Was that shadows moving outside, or was his vision playing tricks on him? Was that whispering he could hear, or just the wind?

It couldn't be anything in here. The room was sparse, since it was Melor's only temporarily. And there wasn't a window. The only light came from what was now filtering through the cracks in the door. Or, that had been.

The weight of the Tempest Blade in his hands was comforting. His plasma pistol was a reassuring drag at his belt.

His internal display relayed a rapid, sudden drop in temperature. Over ten degrees, and it wasn't just outside either. He could feel it in his armor, under his body glove even. The cold stung his cheeks and nose even though his helmet was on.

And then his vision went black.

He heard the door burst open and slam against the wall. Armored footsteps running up to him. Hot, searing pain in his chest. Something solid and sharp running him through. Cutting straight through ceramite. He collapsed to his knees. Clutching his chest with one hand.

Melor's shriek of fear shook the fog of pain away.

Whatever was clouding his eyes vanished. Without thinking, he turned, drew his pistol and snapped off a shot. The hot plasma burned through the power pack of the Chaos Astartes. One of Lorgar's bastard whelps.

He leapt to his feet. Grabbing the Word Bearer by the back of the head and shoving him forward. There was an ugly crack as he hit the wall. He slumped and lay still.

The scent of rich Astartes blood filled his noise and mouth. He could feel his twin hearts beating against the flat of the blade in his chest. Just barely scraping the edge with each throb.

He whipped around, his red cape flaring behind him. Just in time to cross sword to dagger with a second Word Bearer. The power field of his own blade easily overpowering the weaker weapon. The dagger was wrenched out of his grasp. Embedding itself in the wall.

The Word Bearer began to reach for his pistol. That was quickly stopped when Cato took his head off with enough force to send it flying.

The corpse was kicked aside with disdain as he made his way to the door. A third was trying to make his way in and blocked it, his bolter up. He got a crater blown in his face for his trouble.

Cato kicked the body into the legs of the next Word Bearer, who stumbled backwards. He got his bearings quickly, bringing his bolter up and firing a volley along with his companion.

The second one pulled out his own power dagger and charged. Sicarius met him with a thrust that sent the Tempest Blade straight through him. He spasmed. Blood bubbled out of his snarling vox grille with his death throes.

Briefly he was reminded of his own injury. Feeling the long blade deep in his flesh, his hearts beating again it. Blood trickling down his armor, in his bodyglove.

Melor's wails brought him back to the task at hand. He charged the other gunner, using his companion's corpse still impaled on his sword as a meat shield. His horned, mutated head was exploded by a bolter round. The Ultramarine launched the body at the shooter, knocking him to the ground. Finishing him off quickly with a sword through the eye.

Yet another quickly took his place. This one had a staff and a jagged, ritual dagger. Cato felt his heart sink. He was starting to really feel his wound now. And this one was clearly a psyker. With his poisonous, sticky aura.

He raised his pistol and snapped off another shot, but the sorcerer ducked it easily, bolting to the left.

Then let out a scream of pain.

The final Word Bearer had, at the last second, ran forward and stuck out his blade, which the sorcerer had impaled himself on. He pulled it out and shoved it through the underside of the psyker's jaw, up into his brain. His erstwhile brother slid to the floor.

Cato pointed his plasma pistol at the turncoat, who dropped his dagger and held up his hands.

"I will allow you to explain yourself before you die." Cato said, trying not to pant. He could feel blood bubble over his lips as he spoke.

The Word Bearer nodded. "Choroathe received a prophecy. The boy must die. But the thought of murdering an infant in his cradle did not sit well with me. It still doesn't."

"Honorable, for one like you."

Robavam gave a lopsided smile under his helmet. "Unusual, I'm aware."

Before either of them could say anything else, there was a thundering boom followed by the crackling of a power weapon charging up. Coming from Melor's room.

The Word Bearer joined Cato in his dash for the door, even getting there before him. Inside stood a hulking figure in terminator armor. A gray robe covered it, and a cowl was pulled up over his helmet. His Lighting Claws flickering and sparking with power. He glared at his brother.

"Traitor." He growled through his vox.

In a move that he should have been too heavy and slow to perform with such speed, he surged forward, stabbing his claws into the other Word Bearer's chest. He collapsed in a heap, wheezing through his one, undamaged lung.

Then he turned his attention to Cato, who had just finished sending out a distress call on all available channels of his vox. Hoping the whole Fortress wasn't swarming with Chaos Astartes.

"NO!"

Sicarius's first instinct was to get between Melor and the looming brute. He stepped into the room, feinting to the right, narrowly avoiding a set of claws in his gut. He ran around the terminator's left side, bringing his pistol to bear. Ducking another swipe of his lighting claws by milimeters.

His finger squeezed the trigger as if in slow motion.

The aim was perfect, hitting the monstrous Astartes in the back of the knee. Blowing the leg out from under him. Choroathe toppled over with an enormous crash.

Cato grabbed one of the spikes of the Terminator's trophy rack, his muscles screaming from holding up such a weight. Yanking him back. Quickly, he grabbed the Tempest Blade with both hands and shoved it with all his strength through Choroathe's helmet. Through skull, brain, until the sword came out of his vox grille. then he ripped it out and let the daemon worshiping bastard fall to the floor.

And then all was still.

He could feel his Larraman cells struggling to clot his wound. Hear the ragged breathing of the one Word Bearer in the galaxy who still had some humanity in him. Over all of it he could hear poor Melor's pitiful, terrified cries.

Slowly, he picked his way over the fallen Chaos marines. The boy's golden eyes were wide with fear and wet with tears. Carefully sheathing the Tempest Blade and replacing his pistol in his holster, he picked him up gently. He held Melor in one arm, rocking him slightly with it. With his free hand, he clutched a corner of his cape and held it in front of the babe like a curtain.

He pulled his helmet off, and maglocked it to his belt.

"Easy little one, easy." Cato said, trying his best to soothe the boy as he reached for the sword in his chest.

"Don't, brother Ultramarine." The turncoat wheezed. "That blade is keeping the rest of your blood where it belongs."

He nodded, and took his hand off the hilt. Turning his attention back to his little cousin. He was whimpering now, still crying but more quietly.

"Shh, shh." Cato soothed. "You'll be alright. I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. I will protect you."

Sicarius held Melor like that for a long, long time. It felt like hours as he stood there, comforting him as best as he could.

Eventually he heard footsteps outside. Ceramite on the marble floor, running at full tilt. Astartes, baseliners, and one huge set that could only be the Primarch's.

Cato limped his way to the doorway just as the group arrived. Going slowly and carefully. He leaned against the frame.

Roboute, the Ultramarines and auxilia saw Cato leaning weakly in the doorframe, holding Melor in one arm with his cape held up with the other. His face and hair were drenched with sweat. Blood leaked from his nose and the corner of his mouth, and his legs were starting to buckle. Stuck in his chest, straight through the ceramite, was a jagged old sword. More blood oozed from the wound.

All around him were the corpses of Word Bearers. The hallway was practically painted, splattered with gore and bolter impacts, strewn with bodies.

At their approach he looked up.

"Captain, what happened?"

"He's safe, my lord." Cato said to Guilliman. The wooziness setting in. "They tried to kill him, but he's safe. Just shaken."

His breath came in wheezing rasps. Slowly, he stepped forward and held out the little one to him. Gently, Roboute took him, holding him protectively. Melor cuddled against his uncle.

"Did you kill them all?" Guilliman asked, looking at the two dead marines and one dead terminator over his shoulder

Cato nodded. "Except for...one. The psyker. I had help from...a turncoat."

Robavam raised his arm weakly at that.

"Melor's safe." Cato said, his voice sounding far away. Everything felt so far away. He was conscious for just long enough to hear his gene father yelling for an apothecary before everything went black.

[gutwrenchflowerbomb]

Chuck Taylor. It still sucks that he had to retire (for now) from in-ring action, but he told Renee that he’s open to doing other things like commentary or managing.

Well, I say it’s time to make that shit happen. It’s time to revive “One of the Best” stables in wrestling history.

Chuck doesn’t have to wrestle. He can be the loud, hilarious mouth piece. Think Stokely, but he was doing it well before Stokely was even thought of. And for the rest of the group? The Conglomeration is already right there! Hear me out :

Orange is self-explanatory.

Gulak was the “real” wrestler of the group. The technical grappler. You know who is also a fantastic technical wrestler? Kyle O’Reilly.

And who else fits the bill for a wild, unpredictable creature just like Swampy more than Mark Briscoe?

That’s not all. Being a Gentleman has nothing to do with gender. It’s 2024, baybee. So Willow’s in as well.

Chuck Taylor. Tony Khan. I need you to hear my prayer. Check your mentions. Let’s make 2025 the year of the Gentleman!

[fatallyaddictedtofiction]

Im just gonna allow myself to yap about supernatural and see where destiny takes me. SIDENOTE IF U WANNA TALK ABOUT THIS WITH ME LITERALLY PLEASE I WANT TO PLEASE INTERACT WITH ME.

Okay first of all im starting with the start (s1+2). BEST LIGHTING TO MOOD EVER EVER EVER. Like you want dark scary monsters??? ITS THERE. I remember there being a reason they changed the lighting (smugly: yes i listen to the podcast) but i CANT REMEMBER. The characterisation of the macho eldest son coded scared eldest daughter Dean is unreal and parallel in epicness to repressed queer allegory something is inherently wrong with him little brother. The brief moments of emotional vulnerability. Dont get me STARTED on Dean's monologue in the s2 finale i'll start crying. It's crazy how rude john is to Dean like excuse me he raised your kid and now ur bitching about him? Try saying thank you for once. I think the only reason john actually said im proud of you was because he realised when azazel said it dean was like "ur not my dad" and to john it was a little "oh shit" moment. Sam has every right to be angry but every time he gets angry at dean something in me shatters a little because deans trying so hard for himself and sam and sam doesnt know who or how to lash out (emotional dysregulation baybee) so aims for deans jugular like nooo honeyyyy noooooo. This era was the best sam in my opinion.

Rest of the show down here:

Onto S3-5. Cant remember jack about season 3. Season 4 CASTIEL MY BELOVED MY LIGHT MY LIFE MY REASON FOR LIVING. Absolutely loved everything about Weird Cas and i wanted more of him why did they have to domesticate him. His and Deans dynamic was impeccable and yk something??? I wanted to see Dean in hell torturing people i wanted to see it on his face how much he hated that he enjoyed it and i wanted to see Cas' face at watching the righteous man lose. Like the best we got was Yellow Fever GOD I LOVED THAT bit when he was hallucinating the book and it said "you gonna cry?" Like so many people think thats a funny episode but it makes me so sad because he is DYING and from such a young age hes been told to stow it away, lock it down to the point hes HALLUCINATING IT. Cas falling for dean. Im sorry i just. They are the best love story. LUCIFER. He was scarier back then, but i do love later seasons lucy too. Something about the peeling skin and the "we will always end up right here" just slapped. ENDVERSE EPSIODE god so good can we just take a moment to think about it. Okay cool thanks okay. Demon blood Sam arc was fun but had unfulfilled potential. Cant give you specifcs rn its late and my brain needs to get this all out so if you know you know. The whole meta stuff with Chuck was eh until he was confirmed as god and then i was like duuude the faint strings of marionettes are glistening in the sunrise like how do we know --- im getting ahead of myself.

S6-11. I know, its a big chunk. But basically the whole thing could be renamed "Crowley's unrequited love story". Cas and crowley were the best duo i almost forgot like they are genuinely so funny together and i bet it would be great to be tortured by them UMM THE BETRAYAL i honestly loved Cas' episode the only thing i didn't like was how the reveal itself was done like... Idk just a bit... Kryptonite???? Anywho i Loved the tension between Dean and Cas DEAN LOOKED BACK. Um leviathans were my favourite monster but they became so dumbbbb after washing up liquid killed them. BOBBYS EPISODE ALWAYS MAKES ME SOB MY EYES OUT "i raised two boys and they became heroes" allow me to DIE. Also damn impressed a shot to the head didnt take him down but it was lovely to see Deans first world, first solid rock properly crumble around him (forgetting john okay he wasnt a healthy rock) . PURGATORY DEAN JDJSJDJDJD kill me please his fight or flight mode was SO. So sad we didnt get more of purgatory like i would pay to see more i would kill probably but we'll overlook that. Benny my beloved. They definitely all got together Cas included like who wouldnt at that point. Smth i didnt like is how wheneer they went back to purgatory, unlike how dean described it "360 battle 24/7" or some shit like that it was EMPTY. Like please,, i know the plot needs convenience BUT PURGATORY ISNT SUPPOSED TO BE CONVENIENT. But dean recrafting his own memories to make himself believe that he failed to save Cas rather than what he perceived as Cas giving up on him- hang on i dropped my jaw somewhere, gimme a sec i need to go find it-- LIKE. HHHH. The whole mind control shit going on with Cas because his ties to Dean had been severed (saw a post about that and loved it but cant rmb it) and HIM BEING THE ONE TO BREAK IT. The crypt scene mmmm i love. Want more. Mark of Cain dean was literally my favourite. A violent, mentally unstable man who also has bad mental health and is often covered in blood? Yes pls. Cas being with him every step of the way. I havent mentioned Sam in a while. Hes just kind of been there. Hate that he slowly became 2D. Far away in the background hes got his worried expression and is rocking, saying "Dean? Dean? Cas? Jack? Dean?" Like writers why did u strip his personality except for worry. Do Not get me started on the whole Amelia thing ill stab someone. But yeah cas saying he'll watch dean murder the world is my universe :). If someone said that to me id say "omg really?" And develop a huge fat crush (somehow). CHARLIE DYING WAS AN ABOMINATION When they brought back Eileen why not charlie like. Dont bring characters back at this point because theres all sorts of issues grr. Amara was cool af but i didnt like the whole amara x dean stuff because it was just weird. Luciferrrrr hes so girlypop i love him DEAN DIDNT KNOW IT WASNT CAS but thats only because lucy purposefully wore less clothes around him to distract him.

S12-14. Im running out of steam. MARYYY. It hurt to see Sam get along with Mary becsuse he never knew her as anything else while all dean wanted was a mom and that wasnt who she really was anymore. He loved her so much but couldnt break through that barrier of "it wasnt the perfect marriage until after she died" vibes. God that scene in s5 where its suggested dean saw +/ smelled what happened to Mary and he was literally backing himself into a corner BROKE me. Havent mentioned the Wayward sisters but please know they are so important to me they are my everything. Jack is also. Loved Kelly, very sad she had to die. Wanted Jack to be a baby but thats not good for television is it. But i love Jack so much hes such a sweetie who can kill with a thought. Alternate universe michael and Michael!Dean was epic af but michael dying like that was so anticlimactic gonna be honest i think they were just reaching for ways to lose Jacks soul. Garth GARTH!!! Hes so cute. I loved all those "hand recorded" episodes btw like ghostfacers and that one teen wolf type stuff. Dean hiding in his room is so me. Free Will Theory is so fucked up at this point ur sat there saying gods been pulling the strings this whole time and i supposed to be okay with it?? I so get why deans angry but i definitely think thats something Chuck emphasised (crappy excuse for crappy writing) to an extreme level because WHAT. Like dude. I cant even describe how out of character he felt at some times.

S15. Currently rewatching and cant rmb much of it. 3 characters dead in the first 3 episodes. They either kill off all side characters or we dont hear from them at all to tie up or shove away loose ends. I cant even talk abiut the finale please i cant rn im way too tired. It straight up didnt need to exist, it could've only been 19 eps. Cas. Castiel. He did want you my darling.

[moongreenlight]

U already KNOW what time it is baybee!!!! WIP WEDNESDAY!

Been riding the Gaz high and this has been in the works recently (I wrote 2k words yesterday) so here's this!

Director!Gaz x Actress!Reader

Summary: It’s the mid-1970’s and you’ve recently made the unshocking discovery that it’s difficult to find good work acting. Lucky you stumble on the wrong opportunity at the right time!

You’re not dumb enough to fall for the advertisements in the papers looking for actors in ‘up and coming independent films.’ Not anymore.

After being burned so many times by ‘pay to audition’ schemes and sleazy directors only looking to collect videotapes of girls doing porno auditions, you gave up on that front.

But what’s the stipulation on extenuating circumstances? Like when you’re working at a bar a few blocks away from the community theater and a man comes up and sits at the counter all by himself.

He’s gorgeous and a sweet talker. Seems intent on chatting with you even though you really should be polishing glassware. And once he’s finally caught you in his snare, he drops a bomb that up until this point you’d only ever heard stories about.

He says he’s a small-time director and he saw you in the last production the theatre put on. He laughs and makes a lighthearted self-deprecating joke about being “one of those wankers in the paper” to which you wrinkle your nose and give him a weary smile.

But, Jesus, if he can’t make a bad thing good. He’s got all the makings of a politician the way he’s able to talk circles around you until you agree to show up to an audition for his latest project. ‘Trouble in paradise’ or something to that tune.

He tips you twenty pounds and his business card on a coke he barely touches. Uses your pen to write your audition time on the back of the card.

Wednesday at 11a. x

He doesn’t give back the pen.

Your roommates do no good talking you out of it. Hushing your half-arsed arguments about scams and serial killers and all kinds of things. It ends with the four of you in a pile on the couch, wine-drunk and giggling yourselves into hysterics.

So two days later you go. Forcing your roommates to promise no less than five times that if you’re not heard from in an hour that they’ll send in the authorities.

You find your way to the address on the card that now looks tired in comparison to when you first got it. The edges are fussy and dog-eared from your worrying with it and passing it around to prove its legitimacy.

It doesn’t look like any studio or office you’ve seen. Far from. And that should have been the final nail in the coffin. Should have been the reason you turned tail and went back home. But something pulled you up the worn steps of the house. That same something, now cowering a bit at the looming possibility, brought you to rap your knuckles sharply on the part of the door with a few different layers of paint chipped away to expose the cheap metal underneath.

You’re left standing on the stoop for a few moments too long with no answer. And just as you were about to come to your senses and return home with some sliver of your dignity still intact; the door swung inward and exposed the same man from the bar - Kyle - with his horrible, beautiful, toothy smile.

“Thought you were going to stand me up. Wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.”

You catch yourself thinking it’s a shame that he’s directing and not starring in movies. His devastating good-looks and all. Must be a terrible read.

There’s a card table set up in the living room. Two folding chairs behind it that look flimsy at best. Three thick packets that have been three-hole punched on the side, but held together by a binder clip in the top center.

The rest of the furniture is pushed up against the wall. A hodge-podge of mismatched chairs and a sofa that very well could have been your grandmothers and a few banged-up side tables.

He offers water. Offers to take your purse. You decline both. Opt to stand a bit stiffly on the faded rug in the center of the room with your bag tucked snugly under your arm.

Maybe you should make a run for it. Maybe you were stupid to come at all. He’s a total stranger for Christ sake.

Before you can will your feet to move, there’s s bang from behind you. A screen door slamming shut and rattling on its hinges. It startles you almost a foot into the air.

“Nervous?”

Kyle is cool as ever, sliding into one of the chairs, waggling his eyebrows at you. It whines under his weight and you’re suddenly very aware of just how bulky he is. Doesn’t look it on passing glance, but when all you’ve got to look at is the way his shirt fits it becomes glaringly obvious.

“Easily startled.”

You correct, trying to decide whether or not it’s passé to turn over your shoulder to find the source of the heavy footsteps behind you.

He hums and grabs one of the packets, taking off the clip and leafing through it. Pulling out a few odd pages and setting them on the table.

The footsteps reveal their maker when he rounds the corner into the room and shuffles behind the table. If you thought Kyle was big, this man is properly a behemoth. A bit taller, broader in the shoulders, a layer of fat packed on over his muscles. He looks to be older by a few years. He gets crows feet when he nods and smiles at you before taking his seat.

The chair looks as though it would be happier pulling its own legs out from underneath itself.

“Cap’.”

Kyle doesn’t look up from his papers when he addresses the man.

You get no formal introduction to ‘Cap’ though he doesn’t seem to be truly involved in the audition process. He barely glances up from his packet. Content to nurse a fresh cigar and lean further back in the chair than you think should be plausible.

You read from the stack of pulled-out papers with sloppily highlighted lines and try not to shy away from meeting Kyle’s watchful eye.

The audition goes normally, all things considered. You’re instructed to read three different scenes. Without the time to read the blurb on the project, you draw the conclusion that “Trouble in Paradise” is some sort of short suspense film centered around a woman living, shockingly, in paradise.

The writing isn’t first-rate, but you suppose that’s to be expected. You have a hard time piecing together how the scenes flow, but that’s not your largest concern.

“Lovely. Really, darl’.”

Kyle stands when he talks. Commands the attention even of such a small audience. Takes up space in the room like he’s owed it.

You smile, feeling a bit more at-ease now that things seem to be wrapping up.

“N’ how do you look in a bathing suit?”

The question takes you entirely off-guard. It makes your jaw fall far enough open that you’re left looking like a fish out of water.

“I- sorry?”

Kyle’s face doesn’t change. Fantastic at keeping up appearances. He’s still casting that warm smile over you. The focus of it makes you feel like you’re sunbathing.

“Bathing suit, love. How d’you look?”

Disappointment drops like a stone in your belly. Heavy and fast. It’s another scam. Of course it is.

“Oh. I don’t- I don’t do dirty movies.”

It must be palpable on your face even more than it is in your voice.

‘Cap’ glances up at Kyle when he ashes his cigar. The smell is nauseating. He seems to be chewing on a smile. Kyle meets his eye for only a moment, amusement painfully evident on his face.

“You’ve just read the pool scene. Hardly anything dirty about costuming.”

[cemeterygrace]

MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN MY BELOVED

🍾🎉🥂

🇳🇱🇳🇱🇳🇱

current vibe:

jail account:

@cemeterygrace-is-jailed

name: noa

age: 18

pronouns: any and all. whatever floats your boat. heck, make up some new ones.

gender: formless blob idc

sexuality: humans are neat 🤷

relationship status: dating @ghastguy77

i run @phan-resources.

member of the grape medicine haters cult

if you’re here for a specific fandom, i’m sorry for your loss

asks are always open just don’t be gross

feel free to tag me and message me anytime!

i yap so the rest is under the read more!

fandoms: there’s a lot so have a list (or multiple)

music (these are all apple music links i’m sorry)

mcr

fall out boy

twenty one pilots

muna

boygenius

against me!

something corporate

ball park music

bears in trees

bleach lab

chappell roan

dead sara

ethel cain

ezra furman

flor

idkhow

linkin park

the killers

ls dunes

laura jane grace

nxdia

paramore

sophian

sophie

waterparks

the young veins

other

dan and phil (my wives)

f1

daniel thrasher

nate bargatze

kim stanley robinson

brandon sanderson

charlie jane anders

markiplier

unus annus

jacksepticeye

nerdforge

f1

mclaren and red bull baybee

other stuff

i’m an mcr5 truther

i’m a no but seriously imagine it truther (and it happened what the fuck)

i am a specialty root beer connoisseur (abita root beer hell yeah)

i’m on the hunt for the best fettuccine alfredo ever send me recs

i’m a freshman history major

i am a band kid do with that what you will

i have a dog she’s a mini englishdoodle named piper and she’s precious

i am a lactose intolerant cheese enjoyer

i have hella disabilities/chronic illnesses/diseases it’s a Time™️

i am a midwestern hoe

i play cymbals in marching band

instruments i play because this post needs another list

piano

flute

bass guitar

drums

mallet percussion

cymbals

violin

saxophone (a bit)

disabilities and such

juvenile idiopathic polyarticular arthritis (they can’t agree on a fucking name)

adhd (primarily inattentive type)

enthesitis

scheuermann’s disease

extreme hypermobility

lactose intolerant af

my tags!

damn you’re all the way down here? neat! good job for reading all of that lmao <3 as a treat here are some fun facts

i have entirely too many books in my room send help they’ve taken over

went to tit tour and clancy minneapolis!

i am a minnesota bitch what about it

i had chai and ube ice cream once and it was absolutely life changing

i’ve been to 30 states if we’re counting washington dc

i’ve been to 6 countries including the 3 main north american ones (america cause i live there, canada, and mexico)

i’ve been at the summit of the second tallest mountain east of the mississippi (mount washington)

tysm for reading you’re my favorite <3

dni: fascists, shitheads and bigots, israel supporters, terfs, ableists, etc. if you’re a dick about other people existing, this ain’t the place for you.

[meyerlansky]

Something I think is interesting about the punch on the wing scene in MOTA is that Bucky says “I order you to hit me,” and then immediately after (I’m 90% sure it’s his next line after Curt speaks) says “ranks off.” Like… you can’t order someone to punch you (effectively pulling rank) and then say no more ranks. I mean you can, because he did, but yeah

Y E A H! IT DRIVES ME CRAZY ACTUALLY!!!

like you can take bucky's "that's an order" as a wink-wink nudge-nudge crack at the fact that uhhh neither of them really give a shit about rank on the ground: if curt did he wouldn't step up to gale about the RAF captains, and if any of the four majors in the scene did they'd have stopped a lieutenant from taking a hit his commanding officer stepped up for. i don't even really think curt cares about bucky ordering him to hit him, not in the sense of "i am a good little soldier, i can't disobey an order 🫡" anyway. when curt brings the ranks up, he's really REALLY obviously using it as a soft no, both to give bucky an opportunity to laugh it off and save face AND to try and get out of being made to do something he does NOT want to do even though his friend asked him for it. and even after that, he has to be pushed EVEN MORE into actually swinging. he gives bucky two very obvious soft no's, and only throws the punch after bucky physically pushes him into it. that's what we in the know call "coerced consent," baybee!

and then, boy i wish i wasn't at work so i could post caps, but AFTER THAT they have this little exchange that just feels fucking awful to watch: curt is watching bucky reel from the hit looking very concerned, and when bucky stands up he kind of backs away and puts his hands up like he thinks bucky's gonna swing back. bucky kind of sidles up to him and pats him on the shoulder—very "big dog who wants to play-fight with someone smaller" body language, as a note 😳—and it looks like everything's fine, but then as he walks over to the edge of the wing he shoots curt this look that's... a little resentful? maybe? like he wasn't expecting curt to hit him THAT hard? and curt turns away AFTER that look, so i think he caught it, and he looks SO FUCKING MISERABLE for the rest of the scene, even after bucky grins at him and i want to rip my own throat out about it actually

tangent ahead, my meta-writer roots are showing, i cannot help myself: bucky's relationship to his rank and authority is fascinating to me, actually. he really only wants it when it's convenient and it gets him what he wants. he doesn't want air exec because he feels left out of the fighting and guilty for being safe when everyone else is up, which is not THE most selfish on the surface, but it is still him prioritizing his feelings over doing the job he was given and thereby keeping the ENTIRE GROUP safe. he's buddy-buddy with the other pilots until he wants curt to hit him or crank to stop saying shit he doesn't want to hear [which imo is worse, even though i agree with bucky wrt Fuck 'Em; at least he was alone with curt on the wing, but making crank say "yes sir" in front of his ENTIRE CREW? ouch. ouch!]. he plays favorites in the air, with curt AND gale, and puts MULTIPLE FORTS FULL OF MEN in danger to get them out of tight spots. he basically abdicates all leadership responsibility in the stalag and puts it all on gale, up to and including only really discussing escape for the two of them, not their crews.

and like, i get it! i 100% understand why he's as selfish as he is, and in particular i wouldn't expect his internal logic to be consistent while he's White Girl Wasted as a—very bad, but really his Only Available—coping method for very deep trauma and grief. but he's SO self-centered, basically all the time, and it is such an interesting trait in contrast to the rest of his character, which is: he's fundamentally a good guy. i buy what he says to paulina, that he signed up because he wanted to help right nazi germany's wrongs. he's the one who says "maybe we should think about them" when the tuskeegee airmen roll in, and you can take that a couple of ways, but i personally don't think gale would've talked to alex without that push from bucky. he gets bitter about lil and dye for a hot minute [again, while drinking] but then gets over it REAL quick to reassure her dye'll be fine. he writes the letters to the families of the guys they lose over bremen even though it's not his responsibility As Of Five Minutes Ago. he SNAPS after the mustang fires on the march column, because simoleit put his men in danger with the night marches. he was absolutely NEVER going to shoot the german kids in westphalia, vs gale who is SO OBVIOUSLY talking himself OUT of murdering a child. he does actually care about people! even people he doesn't know! and i don't actually think he'd shrug off his abuses of rank and skirting authority, if it was pointed out to him and it impacted people he didn't want to hurt. which is why i wrote 2.6k of navel-gazy fic about it, even though he only finds out curt's hurt because of him at the end of the fic but shhh

[thumpypuppy]

hi! i really love your isat stuff, especially all the drumset parts. do you have any tips for writing drumset parts? like in "i wont let you go home" and "how can you help me stardust"?

Yooooo you summoned the black sheep (or I guess crow, more accurately?) of the studio, your very own Sandra Baker!

Let me start off by saying this: Rule of Three, baybee! Don't repeat stuff more than three times. It's not hard-and-fast, but it'll get you there. So like…

A A A B

A A A B

A A A B

C A B D

See? So like on the fourth measure play something different, and then in the scope of four blocks of four measures play that last set of four in a totally different way. It breaks up the monotony and keeps it fresh.

Okay so let's jump into the songs and break some things down.

I won't let you go home is fully unhinged so… we start on some thrash/punk drums, some late 80s metal drum fills, throw in some spicy rides, it's really about carrying the energy of the piece because drums set the tone. Go listen to some 80s metal, listen to the old punk scene, figure out what people were doing when they were reinventing how drums were played, and then take some time studying where all that came from in the first place, from early jazz into the bebop scene, into psychedelic funk and jazz fusion and prog and… you gotta study your music history.

From there we launch into a chill single time beat, we're keeping time real simple on the hat and snare, but there's still a groove in the kicks. It's SO important to keep the groove, especially when you're working with your weird sister who is allergic to writing things in 4/4 most of the time. This part is pretty straight-forward, so the kicks are doing most of the work here adding weird stutters and triplets, and we have some crashes punctuating a few important parts in the music.

At about a minute twenty we drop into some tight punk drums, so very in-the-pocket, closed hats, this time the kick and snare are keeping the obvious time, so we put a little stank on the hat until we open up full-tilt and head into the next section.

Okay the next part I'm sorry not sorry it's just free jazz and I can't explain that. Go listen to like… Weather Report or KoenjiHyakkei or something… because sometimes it's okay to be weird, just have some care and intentionality behind it, like know what you're doing so you can do it wrong the right way, yeah?

Okay next section, the breakdown… so it's like… half-time feel, put an obvious hat smack on the off-beat so we know where that is, and then just kinda go full prog? Big drums, lots of stadium rock fills, but keep that beat so we know when to headbang, right?

Then like leading into ~2:50 we gotta pick it back up, go full classic punk for a minute, so we keep that half-time feel but imply we're ramping with the snare, and then the classic crash mute and a bar of silence before we're back to OY OY OY.

Then we hit a kind of slower fill that drops into this silly blastbeat breakdown where we're doing these nutty kick fills and gravity bomb blastbeat whatever they are snare rolls while keeping the breakdown feel with big crashes.

OKAY so that was a lot. The big takeaway here is this: Go study the history of rock music starting from like… maybe the mid-1930s… and go from there. Also, make sure you keep the groove. You can be weird, just make sure it's obvious when you're supposed to headbang.

As for "How can you help me, Stardust?", I am so sorry not sorry about this. 🤣

So in the first section you'll kinda hear that I played around with the snare placement and almost gave it like a reggaeton or bossa nova feel? You can do that… you just set up this expectation that we're going full punk and then you can drop a samba beat in your metal and like what is anyone gonna do about that? Dance? Enjoy it? Exactly.

Honestly the rest of this song I got nothing to say that I didn't say for the last song, so the takeaway here is just like… you can kinda do whatever if it grooves.

So like… if you're programming drums instead of playing them, picture the kit and how it is or isn't physically possible to play it, etc. Generally speaking you only have a stick in each hand and two feet, so be mindful of that kind of stuff and don't hit like… a snare and a crash and a china all at once…

Also like… a really fun thing I got to do in DOOMTROID was come up with kick patterns for djent sections, so like… maybe we're playing a section in 7/8, so I'd write a kick pattern in 5/8 and let it drift until it came back around, because it makes a fun dynamic pattern, and then we're playing 7/8 but we still gotta groove, so if you play 4 over 7 you get a measure of four hats on the downbeat, but the next measure has three hats on the off beat, so you have this one regular element that keeps a simple beat, you have the snare showing up to tell you that we're in 7/8, but then you have a 5/8 pattern repeating under all of that… and so it's hella fun to just goof around on stuff like that.

So like… even if you're just playing in 4/4 you can do fun stuff like… let's just talk about the snare for a second.

1 & *2* & 3 & *4* &

Basic stuff, snare on the 2 and 4, but can we get spicy?

1 e & a *2* e & *a* 3 e & a *4* e & a

1 e & a 2 *e* & a 3 e & a *4* e *&* a

See? You can do weird stuff, especially if you just play the hat on 1 2 3 4. Play around and make your stuff sound different.

Your homework for this week is to go listen to at least three songs from each decade starting from 1930, make sure you get plenty of bebop, jazz, and prog in there, and then take a song you've already written and change the feel/genre by only changing the drums, and then share it with the class because we all wanna see how great you are.

(The last part is optional based on your comfort level but I'm still gonna low-key bully you into sharing your music because visibility and networking is important in this industry and I definitely wanna give folks a hand up where I can.)

This whole thing would probably better as a video, so if I can catch a minute to stop by the studio maybe I'll stream all this with audio examples.

[foxilayde]

Half of You (part 5) [Santiago x Fem!Reader]

Summary: the Baby Daddy Santi chronicles are back, baybee!

Warnings: a little angst, a little fluff.

Rating: 18+ ONLY. minors DNI.

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: I KNOW IT'S BEEN FOREVER (see: "definition of "forever"", meaning: 107 days). thank you for being so patient. As always reblogs are rewarded with a virtual hug if you're into that sorta thing. And if you're not on the taglist and you distinctly remember asking me to add you to the taglist, pls lmk, I'm dreadful at keeping that stuff organized. Much love to you all.

Fish disembarks with a playful nudge of your woodpile with the toe of his boot. “Good luck with your project, hermosa.” 

“You can come check it out on Thrusday, bring me a little housewarming plant for it, huh? Something pretty.”

He gives you a lazy salute and wink. You don’t watch as he pulls out of Santi’s driveway. You zone out, staring at the clean vertical lines of your freshly shorn lawn. You can hear Santi still wrenching and clanking around in the kitchen. You didn’t hear their whole conversation, just bits and pieces, the fucking window was open and it wasn’t like you were trying to give them privacy anyway. You feel a bout of nausea swell in your throat and you can’t tell if its guilt, or if it’s morning sickness, or if its from the ungodly heat or a bodily reaction to the fertility hormones, but you feel on the edge of vomiting. You rest a palm over your lower abdomen. It could be in there right now. Jay’s face pops into your head and you want to cry. You take a deep breath and rest your head against the slatted outer wall of your craftsman home. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring out at the lawn with the echos of Fish’s words humming against the insides of your skull when the clanking stops and Santi comes to join you on the porch.

“Filters all set up, I’m letting the water run. The booklet said it has to go for an hour until it’s good to drink.”

You don’t respond, so he continues,

“I put the five gal under it though, so it catches all the water… I googled it and it said that the filtration test water is safe for plants, so maybe you can use it on some—“

You cover your face with your hands to hide the tears that well up in your eyes.

“Hey!” Santi crouches down to your level quickly with his popping knees and puts a reassuring arm around your shoulder. “What’s wrong?” You shake your head, still hiding your eyes and you laugh incredulously. 

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Thank you, Santi.” You sniff a sob and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Could’ve fooled me with the waterworks, I— what’s this pile of… stickers?”

You wipe your eyes to see that Santi’s brow is scrunched, investigating the clump of alphabet’d small stickers in between his fingers.

“It’s… I thought…” you hiccup. Dammit. 

Santi laughs. “Don’t tell me, Vin. Did the little earthquake I caused make the stickers fall off?” 

You sniff the snot back into your nose and you nod. “You know what? That’s exactly how it happened.”

“And then they all banded together in a pile to hide from the aftershocks?” 

“Nailed it. Two for two. You’re on a roll.”

You take a deep breath, hiccuping despite your best composed efforts, and Santi fully lowers himself beside you, arm still around your shoulders. He squeezes you close to his side. He smells like sweat and basil, lemons and lawn clippings.

Santi follows your line of vision to the freshly manicured lawn. “Are you crying about the hedges? I know I did them a little bit short this time, but—“

“I heard Fish.”

Santi’s grip loosens almost imperceptibly and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Vin. Love the guy to death but he’s been a martyr since recovery. ”

You nod in reluctant agreement. 

“Hey….People are going to think what they’re going to think. It won’t stop with Frank.”

“Yeah I know it’s…”

The lawn is pretty. You hone in on a bee writhing on a violet blossom.

“It’s the hormones, I think.”

You know its a lie, even as it leaves your mouth. It doesn’t convince you and you sure as shit know it doesn’t convince Santiago. 

“Hormones, huh? Sorry about that.”

You hiccup and laugh, “not your fault. No need to apologize.”

Santi stretches his legs out from under himself and sighs. “Well if the turkey basting did it’s job, I think it’s only fair I share partial blame, don’t you think?” His grip tightens on you once more and you laugh through a fresh bout of tears, you rest your head on his sweat dampened cotton shirt, wriggling your nose to alleviate the itch.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper as a fresh flood of tears escape.

“C’mon, Vin. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” He kisses the top of your forehead casually and rubs your shoulder, letting you shift closer to him, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“But I do. I really really do.” You bury your face into his cotton clothed chest. “Even fucking now, I can help myself… I cosign you to all my bullshit. You’ve been picking up my broken pieces, letting me cry into your t-shirts since day one, since ground zero. It’s not fair to you.”

“This shirt is filthy anyway.”

You shake your head against his chest.

“This is the hormones talking. That ovulation injection is no joke.”

“Maybe you should go lie down.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Delusional and stubborn, huh?”

You smack his chest lightly.

“Go take a nap, Vin. Lie down. I’ll get you some water… some fresh reverse osmosis water… in an hour.”

It’s hard to move, to leave this spot on the sweltering porch, it’s not exactly comfortable on the floor, but your face is resting on the soft cotton of Santi’s t-shirt. He’s content to let you, just like he’s always been; content to let you call the shots, to dictate the direction, no matter what fucking storm you decide to steer the ship towards. 

You eventually concede to a nap and Santi walks you upstairs. He takes off your shoes, and tucks you into your bed, clothes and all. He leaves for a while and in your in-between-states-of-consciousness, Santi sets a glass of water on your nightstand. He’s certainly thinking you’re fast asleep as he pulls your duvet snugly to your ears. You fall asleep totally after he softly closes your bedroom door and when you wake up two hours later, there’s a fully constructed plant shelf on your front porch. 

The next few days pass like any other. Every morning you arise to bake something new, forgoing the oven on Tuesday’s sweltering morning temperatures to concoct some no-bake oatmeal cookies that cause Santiago to outright hoard the batch in his fridge, making you promise not to give them out. You’re too cranky and tired on a novel lack of caffeine to put up much of a fight. 

You never mention the plant shelf to Santiago, but on Wednesday morning there’s a large pot of vibrant green basil on the shelf which you’re certain is his doing. 

On Thursday morning you head to the fertility clinic to test to see if the initial ‘turkey basting’ was successful. They take your urine sample and you twiddle your thumbs, seated with your bare ass on the butcher paper in the empty exam room… they tell you it has. 

You’re pregnant. Pregnant. Your heart rate picks up and you have to lie down, the paper crinkling under your back and behind your hair as you cup your mouth with your hands and begin to cry… again. Fucking hormones. 

The usual surly nurse congratulates you and tells you to come back in eight weeks for the ultrasound. Ultrasound. 

You don’t trust yourself to drive home straight away. You wonder around the neighboring shopping complex and people-watch families. Families on evening walks, families out to dinner, families smiling, families bickering… You hold your abdomen and laugh to yourself. And cry. Again.

By the time you get home, the sun has already gone down. Santi’s driveway holds additional cars, like most Thursday evenings. the boys are over to watch the game. You quietly exit your car, you sit in the dark on your porch swing and watch Santi, Will, Benny, Frank, and Tom through Santi’s dining room window. They clap shoulders, hold cans of beer and shout playfully at one another. The noises are an unintelligible hum that swells in your heart. After about 30 minutes, Fish drags Santi to the front window and points to the street. Santiago cups his hands against the blaring light of his living room to peer out into the darkness. He’s looking at your car. 

In a matter of moments, Santiago is walking down his driveway and up yours. (he never jumps the hedges. Fastidious, that one.) you smile to yourself as he fixes he hair and squares his shoulders, preparing to ring your doorbell when he spots you in the dark on the swing. 

“Vin!” He takes a step towards you and pauses.

“Hey” You don’t know if he can see your face in the shadows or not, but something keeps him from advancing, from joining you on the two-person swing.

“Why aren’t you over there? You didn’t even tell me where you were going today, but, that’s, that’s okay. Everyone’s been asking about you. Ben brought that dip you like and Fish swore up and down that he hasn’t told anyone, besides Rach, obviously. So it’s not as if you have to explain anything. If you don’t want to.” 

Santi scratches the back of his neck and takes one more shuffling step closer to the swing. Hesitant. “Vin?”

“I have to tell you something.”

Even in the dim lighting you can see Santi’s demeanor sobering up. He crosses his arms and immediately responds, “Okay, yeah, I have to tell you something too.”

“I— huh?” You weren’t expecting any new information. 

“You first.” You can’t see his face but you know him so well that you know by his tone of voice the exact face he’s making. That defensive clenched jaw thing that he does with the upwards chin tilt. You’d bet a million dollars that his chin is high in the air.

“Come sit.”

It takes a few beats before Santiago joins you on the porch swing, but he eventually does. The chains creak, his knees pop and he exhales expectantly.

You don’t want to keep him from the game, god only knows what important plays he might be missing, so you decide to come out with it.

“I went to the clinic today and—“

“You did?! Why didn’t you tell me? I could have—“

“I wanted to go alone, just in case, I—“

“What’d they—“

“I’m pregnant.”

You’re grateful for the darkness of the porch which keeps Santiago’s expression a mystery. Beyond the hedges, through the glow of Santiago’s living room window, a muffled cheer erupts. Shouting, clapping. Must’ve been an impressive score. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Been crying like crazy. Not sad crying. Just lots of crying. Crying for no reason. At sunsets. At families holding hands. At life insurance commercials… At my best friends watching a football game one house away…”

Santi sits there in silence. You can’t even hear him breathing. You continue. 

“Other than that, I’m good, I— it still feels unreal, you know? But I feel good about it. It was so quick, too. Wasn’t it? I don’t know why, but for some reason because of all the rigamarole the clinic put me through I thought this process was going to take months or years or something. But, first try, and bam. Which sounds about right when I think about it. It’s you, after all. Mister tactical soap. Of course your swimmers would get into formation and attack at dawn. No survivors.”

“Those ovaries didn’t stand a chance.”

“No they did not.” 

“You don’t have to come over if you don’t want to— I can give you some space.” 

“No. I want to. I want to see everyone. I know its only been a few weeks but I miss those idiots.”

“Lets do it then.” Santi rises and you hook your arm through his offered elbow. Once you step out into the illuminating glow of the street lamps you see the way his mouth is quirked up in an easy smile. His eyes are slightly glassy from the lagers and the texture of his stubble, the way it folds in at his barely visible smile line… without thinking you run the tip of your finger from the corner of his mouth, up to his ear. 

“I like it when you smile, old man.” 

The lines deepen around his mouth when his smile expands. 

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

- - - - - - - - - 

The get together is a typical Thursday evening fare. The only difference being your abstinence from alcohol and general lack of interest in football has relegated you to maidly duties of replenishing drinks and snacks while the testosterone crew shouts at Santiago’s flatscreen. 

The boys are invested the game, but you enjoy watching them watch the game. Benny is by far the most into it, which makes him the star player of the crew. He throws his poor worn ball cap to the ground when the play doesn’t go his way, stands up when he shouts. He claps and hollers when his preferred team scores and paces around during time outs. You might blame his passion on his proximal youth, but you don’t believe time will be capable of stripping him of his fervent fanaticism. 

By the time you get there it’s past halftime and the “games a dead horse anyway” according to Will (Benny disagrees). You collect your hugs from each of the boys. The hug from Frankie is longer and tighter than usual. 

After the game is over, the boys play some low-stakes poker and one by one each of the crew retreats to the living room to ‘rest their eyes’, the place is a mess, the boys are sloshed and and passed out on the various soft surfaces of Santiago’s living room. You help Santiago clear away the detritus of a night well spent and just before midnight Santiago offers to walk you back home. 

“Would you? I wouldn’t want to get lost on my way in the dark, and this sure is a bad neighborhood. Just last week someone stole the Grossman kid’s skateboard off the front lawn. These streets are dangerous.”

“Pipe down, you’ll wake up Tom.”

You glance down at a particular patch of cozy carpet on the living room floor where Tom’s long body is splayed out, snoring like a logging factory. You roll your eyes and stage whisper to Santiago, “Yeah seems like a real Princess and The Pea situation. Better slip out quietly.” You exaggeratedly tiptoe out of the front door and put your finger up to your lips and whisper-yell at Santiago, “Close the door GENTLY!!” 

Santiago shakes his head, shuts the door, and joins you on the driveway. 

“Oh! Look at the moon!” Its a full one, slightly yellow and impossibly big this evening. “So pretty.” 

You don’t know it but Santiago isn’t looking at the moon. He’s looking at you look at the moon. The way your eyes are all big and glittery. That awestruck smile you have. At something as simple and as constant as the fucking moon. ‘Look at the moon she says, how could I possibly look at the fucking moon when she’s so… So what, Yago? What is she?’

Santiago stuffs his hands in is pockets and looks up at the moon. It is pretty. 

You grab him by the elbow. “Lets lay on the driveway and look at the sky for a little bit?”

“What? Right now?”

“No. Not right now. How horribly convenient would that be? Lets meet back here at oh three-hundred hours when we’re too sleepy to enjoy it.” 

“Fine, wait here.”

Santiago turns to go back in the house.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m not laying on the driveway without a blanket.”

“Good idea… oh, Santi, while you’re in there can you make me a cup of tea?”

Santi raises his eyebrows. “Herbal tea?”

“Yes. I’ve come around. Matured. One herbal tea please.”

“Coming right up.”

You lay out on the driveway in the warm summer evening, stretching out with your hands behind your head. You get lost in time for a bit, staring at the beautiful clear sky. 

Santiago stares at you from the porch. Blanket and tea in hand and admires you quietly, bathed in moonlight. Content. Pregnant. Pregnant with his child. Not his. Yours. Dios. 

Santiago spreads out the blanket next to you after handing you the steaming mug. You set it down and scoot over till you’re on the flannel fabric. He lays down next to you, mimicking your hands-behind-head position. 

You don’t turn your head to look at him when he speaks. You continue to stare up at the full moon, the clear sky, terrified that he might not be looking up at all.

“You hoping for a boy, or a girl?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know… I guess I’ve always wanted a girl. But after taking care of these dopes for so long, I feel finely attuned to caring for dudes… I’ll be happy either way. How about you Santi, do you have a preference?”

“Do I have a preference? No… no.. I mean. I know you’ll be great no matter what.”

“Yeah, thats a given.” You laugh and nudge his elbow with your own, “but have you had your heart set on either?” 

Santi shakes his head, staring at the sky, “I haven’t had my heart set on anything, Vin.”

“I think the gender is the least of my concerns anyway.”

“What’s the most of your concerns?”

“Raising it as a single parent… if I’m co-signing them to a doomed life…”

“You’re gunna do great Vin. Don’t be nervous. I’m here for you.”

“I know. I know you are. You don’t have to be.”

“I know I don’t HAVE to be but I want t—“

“Why though? Why do you feel endebted to me? Why did you do this, let me walk all over your life without a fight? Is it guilt? Guilt I can understand. I’m well acquainted with guilt. Is that what it is? Or is it pity?”

“Pity? For what?”

“For the Widow next door that you have to entertain, the sad girl you invite to your get togethers. The crazy plant lady who can’t hold a screwdriver.” Your hands drift to your stomach.

Santi huffs with incredulity and shakes his head. “It’s not pity. I want to help because… that’s just who I am. I don’t know Vin, I see you, you’re there, you need help, I help. It’s not that complicated.”

“Not that complicated? You’d call this ‘not that complicated’?” Hot tears betray you, you hardly even try to stop them. Not here, in the open blanket of night, Santiago tilting his head in concern towards you. 

“Don’t cry. Please Vin. You’ve been crying to much lately, what’s wrong?”

“I miss him. I miss Jay every fucking day. I wake up and his photo is right fucking there. I think about putting it away… I did put it away for a while, but I even missed THAT… so I put it back. On the nightstand.”

“What would you say to him?”

“Huh?”

“If Jay was here…. Not alive, but a spirit or ghost or something… what would you say to him? If he materialized right now?”

You wipe your eyes. “I’d ask if he was happy. If he was safe… I’d probably ask him if heaven is real. If he’s in heaven. If he met Elvis…” You laugh.

“And what else?”

“And then I’d say… I… I needed you Jay. I needed you. I’d say that sometimes I’m still so angry that you’re not here that it makes me scream. I’m angry that we never went to that stupid ‘Party Time Taco’ restaurant we kept getting flyers for, just to see how bad it was. I’m angry that you didn’t have a fucking last will and testament, so it was on me to guess at everything you would have wanted. I’m angry that you left me alone. And I think sometimes I get so angry, because if I felt sad instead, I’d fall apart.”

You don’t know at what point in your sobbing rant that Santiago’s arm came over your shoulders, but you’re grateful for his steadying embrace as your tears slow down to faint hiccups. 

“You wanna know what I’d think he’d say?”

“What?”

“That he’s proud of you. He’s proud of how strong you are. He’s proud of you for getting out of bed every morning. He knows how hard it must be. And that he couldn’t imagine anyone being a better mother… and how badass he thinks it is that you’re doing this on your own.”

“Thanks, Santi.”

“He also says you shouldn’t be watering the backyard for fifteen minutes in the evening. Do five in the morning and 10 at night”

“Oh he said all that did he?”

“Yep. don’t shoot the messenger.”

“What was the thing you had to tell me?”

“Hmm?”

“The thing. When you were on the porch you said you had something…”

“Yeah. I… I’m taking a job in South America.”

“Where at?”

“Can’t say.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I know.”

“Ohhh… one of those.”

“Yep.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know at all?”

“Not really.”

“Not even a guess?”

“Vin. C’mon you know I can’t tell you.”

“A week? A month?… longer? Blink twice if it’s longer than a month.”

“I don’t know.”

Your hand drifts to your stomach.

Santi breathes out, “Are you upset?”

“No! Why would I be upset?” Your voice squeaks defensively.

“Because I won’t be around while you’re…”

“I said I’m fine! I’m doing this alone and I meant that!”

“Yeah I know. I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Oh I don’t know Vin, If something happens to you and you can’t get in contact with me.”

“If I were you I’d be much more concerned with doing some sort of clandestine mission in a foreign country.”

Santi is silent.

“Will you call?” You ask softly.

“If I can.” He replies at the same quiet level.

“Send a postcard?”

Santi barks out a laugh, “Yeah I’ll send you a postcard. Greetings from redacted! With all incriminating details blacked out in sharpie.”

“You going alone?”

“No. The guys are going with me.”

“All of them?”

“The whole gang.”

“Must be a big job.”

“You could say that.”

“When do you leave?”

Santi takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?! As in, like, today-tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m all packed. Tonight was a last hurrah stateside.”

“How long have you known about this job??”

“A while.”

"And when the fuck pray tell were you planning on telling me?"

“Fuck I don’t know Vin, I didn’t want to stress you out. I kept trying to find the right moment to tell you but, I don’t know, I didn’t want you to worry and you’ve started crying again and..”

“Hormones!”

“Right, hormones. I didn’t want to stress you out.”

“Well I’m considerably less stressed now, learning that you were so worried about this trip yourself that you decided it was better to keep me in the dark and wait till the last possible second to clue me in rather than just tell me. Did you tell the guys to keep it a secret from me too? A last hurrah party and not one of them mentioned the international travel plans the whole night?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It is. You don’t have to tell me everything, right? That’s… you’re not… it’s fine.” You pat his back “Sorry for freaking out. If you say you’re going to be fine then I should trust you, right? You know what you’re doing.”

Santi nods and is tight-lipped when he mutters, “Right.”

“You need me to water your plants or anything while you’re gone? Get your mail?”

“Already taken care of.”

You nod and click your tongue, “Well, it’s getting late.” You dump the contents of your herbal tea onto the lawn and hand Santi the mug. “Will I see you before you leave?”

“We leave in, Santi checks his watch. 5 and a half hours.” He says with tight apologetic eyes.

“Five and a half hours,” you mutter under your breath. “You need a ride to the airport?” You ask more loudly, already deciding that if he says ‘yeah that’d be great’ you’ll laugh in his stupid chiseled face.

“We have a shuttle coming… but thanks.” He looks so tired. But so what if he is, it’s his own fault if he isn’t well rested for his trip.

“Well then, you better get your beauty rest. Those boys are going to have raging headaches tomorrow.”

You get up and rock back and forth on your feet facing Santi. His knees are bent, one hand clasping his wrist, eyebrows downturned with concern.

“I’ll see you in… well… when you get back.”

“Vin—“

“Goodnight, Pope.”

He doesn’t rise to chase you. Doesn’t grab your wrist and force you to hug him goodbye. Doesn’t wipe away your tears with his thumbs. He remains sitting on the driveway when you get inside your home. And when you lay down in your bed, tears soaking your pillow, he’s still out there, staring at the fucking moon.

You have a nightmare. Not the usual horror of Jay collapsing in the middle of highway 1, the recurring playback panic of the last two years. No, in this nightmare you’re sitting on your porch in a rocking chair, holding a potted plant, one so big it crushes your thighs. Santi’s house, usually pristine and well kept, is condemned, paint chipped, windows smashed, lawn overgrown. You rock faster and faster out of control until the ceramic pot falls off your lap and crashes to the floor.

You wake with a gasp and leap out of bed. You nearly trip over the sheet still caught on your foot when you rush over to the window. It’s still dark outside. Santi isn’t out there any longer, neither is the blanket or your mug. You look at the clock. 4:30. You sigh in relief. They haven’t left yet.

You throw on a robe over your nightgown and go downstairs. You turn on the kettle before getting the ingredients out to make biscuits. Those idiots really shouldn’t have drank so much last night. You figure the least you can do is make them some breakfast sandwiches they can take with them. It’s not like you’ll be able to get back to sleep.

You’re wrapping up the last of the sandwiches (seven in total, one for Santi, Fish, and Redfly. Two for each of the voracious Miller brothers) when you see a blue shuttle van pull up in Santiago’s driveway. The sun has barely risen and the muffler steams as the driver beeps twice. You put the sandwiches in a paper bag and forget your slippers in a hurry, meeting the boys with their pack laden arms as they unload their bags into the van.

“Morning, Vin!” Fish greets you, causing Santiago to nearly snap his neck when he turns around in surprise. You hand the bag of breakfast goods to Fish.

“Mmm what’s this?” Frank pokes his nose into the bag and breathes deeply.

“Just a little something to soak up any remaining tequila.”

“Ugh, please don’t say tequila” Benny groans, shuffling off his pack into the trunk before he wraps you up in a hug. “Take care, Vin.”

“I will.”

In turn, each of the boys hugs you and thanks you. You tell them all to “be safe” and that the “welcome home party will be at casa de Vinita. With plenty of tequila.” Benny groans again. Santi watches you, arms folded leaning against the passenger door of the running shuttle. The boys load in and buckle up. Benny is already ripping into the parchment paper of his breakfast and will snatches the bag with a gravelly, “you’re an animal, Ben.”

You lock eyes with Santi, a strange anticipation tingling in your fingers. You both jump slightly when the shuttle driver beeps his horn. Santi glares at the driver who points at his watch.

“Pinche… give me a minute, Kay?”

You take two barefooted steps towards Santi and wrap your arms around his middle, resting your head on his chest. He holds you close, like he’s giving you a concentrated dose of hugs, giving you a full month’s worth of embraces in one sitting.

“I had a nightmare about you last night.” You whisper so only he can hear. He inhales deeply and rubs his hands carefully up and down your back. You can feel the gripping dance of his fingers through the material of the robe and it makes you shiver. You grip him closer. “Be safe. Please.” You whisper, hoping you’re the only one who registers how desperate your plea really sounds.

Santiago’s hands skim up to the sides of your face and he gently pulls your head away from his chest. You choke back the makings of a whine. You don’t want the hug to be over, not yet, you’re going to miss him. He rubs his warm thumbs against your cheeks and there’s no warning at all, no hesitation, no eyes flicking to your lips, no sweep of tongue to wet his own, when he kisses you on the mouth.

It’s slow. Achingly slow. Your gasp of surprise is muffled by the insistent pressure of his mouth. You can’t be sure, but, if he he had been hugging you in prepayment of all the embraces you’d miss in the coming weeks, then this kiss is surely back payment, with interest, for all the times he’s stopped himself from kissing you in the past. Recompense, remuneration; a distilled unspoken passion. There’s nothing ‘first-kiss' about it, not clumsy, not awkward, not unsure. It feels practiced, steady, anticipated. The tingling in your fingers makes total sense and you use those same fingers to glide through his silvery thick curls when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him.

He twists your form in his broad arms, angling your faces away from the van, causing one of your bare feet to leave the ground and lift slightly like a wilting ballerina in swan lake or something out of an old movie.

There’s a romantic reverence in the way his tongue moves with yours, his nose pressed against your cheek, hot steady breath blowing comfortingly against your face.

You both jolt again and break apart your lip lock when the shuttle driver lays on the horn.

Santi doesn’t so much as furrow his brow at the driver when he steadies you back on two legs.

Frankie brushes the driver’s shoulder, and with a mouthful of biscuit says, “Pero qué coño! give him a minute, wéon.”

You blink rapidly and stare at your feet. What the fuck?

“I’ll be back soon.” Santi promises, squeezing your hand assuredly before climbing in the passenger seat and closing the door.

Frankie gives you a wide eyed smile before sliding the back door closed and you can hear the muffled admonitions of the driver as he hastily pulls out of the driveway and speeds off down the residential street. 

-------

taglist:

@miraclesabound : @reallystressedhoneybee : @blackberries45 : @plz-and-spank-you :  @bit-dodgy-innit :  @rnlaing : @stevenngrant : @sharin4readers : @hebelongstothestars : @stardustbells : @alwritey-aphrodite : @libraryreservations : @eroticandawkward : @tripleheartx : @johnny-simpfinger : @fangirlfreakingoutandscreaming : @jake-g-lockley : @lunawants : @andromeda-dear : @writefightandflightclub : @oscarsbabe : @marshmallow–3 : @luminescentlily : @laters-gators: @astroboots  : @lovely-cryptid : @nerdygirl0414 : @hot-mess-express1 : @spacecowboyhotch : @spector-marc : @runa-falls :  @arson-tm : @slymeriah : @geeficrecs: @bit-dodgy-innit : @mintpurplemnm : @snowinseptember24: @missanthr0pist : @romanarose : @dalia-corven : @gratefulstranger : @onlyferorder66 : @kandierteveilchen : @xbellaxcarolinax : @missmarmaladeth : @welcometostayingawake : @wand-erer5 : @ohnosy : @kingtwhiddleston : @eonnyx : @d-sav : @daughterofthequeen

[mammalsofaction]

Wedding Adventure, PART 1

Rating: T (swear words)

Ship: Heinz Doofenshmirtz/Perry the Platypus

Add tags: Human Perry, mute Perry, rewrite of Candace's Big Day, established relationship Perryshmirtz, marriage fic baybee, this was fun to write, all the Flynn-Fletchers and most of the Doofenshmirtzes are here.

Part 2 coming soon. (subscribe to this post)

A/N: The family knows they are OWCA agents, this is an AU where OWCA isn't a secret organisation, or at least not to family and loved ones. Heinz and Perry are both established OWCA agents, though Heinz still used to be an evil scientist. Perry's lore complies to the lore post I've made on him before.

---

"-weren't too angry about it, but a monkey was a monkey, and we are henceforth completely blacklisted from attending another political wedding in South India ever again."

The Flynn-Fletchers make appropriate ooh-and-ahhing noises, and Perry closes their large scrapbook album with some satisfying thump of finality, leaning back against the couch's backrest into his Heinz's embrace as Linda engages him in lighthearted discussions of grandeur wedding traditions and cultural holidays. Ferb struggles a bit with trying to properly peep the the front cover of the album from where he's standing on the carpet facing Perry, so Lawrence picks him up to put him on his lap, and Perry angles the book so the boy could enjoy touching it and appreciating all the details. He appreciates the boy's clear admiration; Perry deeply enjoys scrapbooking, and the album is a point of pride.

“Wow, Uncle Perry,” Phineas gushes, where he's practically sitting on Heinz's foot to for a closer look at the photos. “You and Dr. D has had so many cool adventures together!”

I know, huh? Perry signed, and ruffling the boy's hair. Ferb had boldly taken it upon himself to flip through the pages of the album to admire all the photos they had been showing before. He points a photo taken ground camera angle, looking up as they were jumping off a plane.

He remembers that one. Heinz had somehow gotten his parachute lines tangled then, jumping down the side of an active Volcano line in Indonesia. They reached the ground in one piece though, generally speaking.

“Yeah, you liked that one, kid?” Heinz asked, smiling. He always tried to be attentive to the boys' interests as possible, not least because he saw a lot of himself in them, and the childhood he could have had, had his own insatiable curiosity and intelligence was humored instead of scorned. Perry couldn't help himself from planting a kiss on his cheek, as Heinz turned the page to show them both the least blurry photo they could keep of a video as they escaped from man-eating piranha plants in the amazon.

Candace sighed wistfully at the sight. ”You guys are so cute together. I wish me and Jeremy are gonna grow up as close and affectionate you guys still are even after 5 years.”

Phineas clearly disagreed, at least from the confused scrunch of his nose by their blatant display of PDA, but he's way too polite-and distracted- to comment. Perry chortles, and ruffles his hair.

He wonders if their neighbour's kid from across the street- what was her name? Isabelle? -still had the blatant crush she had on Phineas since he had last seen her. Linda's boy still clearly had other priorities in mind, poor girl.

Ferb flips over to the back of the scrapbook to reveal empty pages, at which point he turns to face the both of them inquisitively.

“Ferb's right, Uncle Perry,” Phineas verbally agrees. “There's still some empty pages in your scrapbook. So many more adventures!”

“Good point, boys. Any plans for the rest of summer?” Lawrence asked.

”Well, we are going to go to the Galapagos tomorrow,“ Heinz muses, sending Perry a meaningful look. Perry blushes. "But we'll be back in America by Saturday for the reception."

”Reception?“ Linda asked in surprise. ”Who's gotten married?“

Perry and Heinz smile, and -as one- reveal the golden rings, hanging by subtle, durable chains around each their necks that had been hidden by the necklines of their shirts. The family gasps, the meaning of the gesture unmistakable; but Candace so loved putting it into words.

”You're engaged?“ She shrieks.

“Apparently it's why your uncle had been so insistent we come home between missions.” Heinz laughed, bumping into Perry's shoulder teasingly. Perry responds by rolling his eyes, and reaching for his fiance's hand, planting a sweet kiss on titanium knuckles. “He had this whole elaborate treasure hunt proposal planned by walking us through all our most meaningful locations of our first meeting, right here in Danville.”

Candace squealed. Perry started signing, picking up where Heinz had left off. We would have stayed to plan a full wedding too, and I really wanted the whole family to be there, but the Galapagos mission is a time-sensitive emergency. I managed to talk my boss into staying another night over so we could break the news to you, as well as Vanessa and Charlene, in person.

Linda coo-ed. "Oh, Perry this is so wonderful. I am so happy for you two. You're fantastic together."

"Does this mean you're going to have a wedding in the Galapagos?" Phineas asked.

Perry shrugs helplessly, then shakes his head.

"We might not have the time," Heinz elaborates regretfully. "Time-sensitive missions don't really give us much space for wedding planning, so we're planning to sign some documents, maybe find a church so we could at least be legally bound when we land, though neither of us are, hah, particularly religious…,“

"Like an elopement?" Linda blurts, surprised. Her husband chides her with a gentle “Honey-,”

“Well, not really.” Heinz says, scratching the back of his head. He tends to fidget, when he's nervous. “I mean-,”

“ELOPE?” Candace yelled, outraged. She's gotten to her feet, a look of wild panic in her eyes. Perry blinks. “Elope? No! You can't elope! That's so quick! Weddings are supposed to be this big, special thing! It's supposed to be the biggest, most momentous thing in your life, and you can't throw that away for some-some-,” she sputters. “Time-sensitive, life or death emergency on the other side of the globe!”

Perry and Heinz shares a quick, panicked look by her outburst. Candace, dear, Perry tries to sign, but she wasn't listening. She seemed to be on an absolute roll.

”Besides!“ She yells. ”Uncle Perry, if you get married in some church in the Galapagos, I can't be there!“ She stomps her foot for emphasis. ”When I was little, you promised me that I was going to be your bridesmaid. I can't be there in the Galapagos! What about my needs?!“

This time, Heinz throws away all pretence of subtlety, and turns to face Perry with a brief, but pointed, stare. Linda and Lawrence gasps. “Candace!” Her mother exclaims, scandalised.

“But mom-!”

Perry meets his fiance's gaze, embarrassed, but instead of something stern, Heinz has a calculating look in his eye, that thousand-yard stare he does when he's about to do something impulsive. He checks in with Perry just the once, a quick blink of his eyes full of meaning. Perry hesitates, but nods.

Heinz turns to the side, an uncharacteristically gentle touch to the back of Linda's hand that stops her as she is about to scold her daughter for her inappropriate outburst. “She's right, Linda,” he says quickly, with a chuckle. “I mean, for all our sins even Charlene and I had a proper wedding, for all the good that did. It's meant to signify something special, and I would love that for Perry and I.”

Heinz reached over to squeeze his hand, and Perry takes a deep breath as he turns towards his niece. Candace, I really am sorry. I know I made you a promise, but there's only so much we can do with the time we have, and what with how dangerous each of our missions are, Dr. D and I have long agreed to take every chance together we could get, and we want to start our very next mission and the next step of our lives living our truth. As spouses. Perry squeezes Heinz's hand right back, and the man smiles encouragingly as Candace visibly calms.

"We could go to the courthouse before we leave-,” Heinz suggests kindly, before he is once more interrupted.

“No! We need to have a real wedding!” She reiterates, then started to beam. Perry didn't trust that beam. “We could have it in the backyard!”

”What?“ said Heinz.

”What?“ Said Lawrence.

”Great idea, sis!“ Phineas enthused.

Linda pinches the bridge of her nose, likely keeping in mind that she was entertaining guests. Perry wants to give her a hug. She looks like she needs it. "Candace," she says delicately. "We can't plan a real wedding in a day.”

”Oh, duh.“ She says, before rushing up the stairs, presumeably to her own room. There is some loud noises of bumping, stumbling and rummaging as the rest of the family are left downstairs in various baffled emotional states.

“Boy,” Heinz muses, smacking his lips. “You weren't kidding when you told me she was high-strung.”

Perry really hadn't been, but he wasn't given the chance to respond. Candace returns in a rush, suddenly dressed in a beautiful layered purple tulled gown, and a delicate face of make-up. Her slippers match. She's got a tiara. She's also holding her own tome of a scrapbook, bursting at the seams with paper cut-outs and brochures, and filling Perry with the cold, creeping feeling of dread.

“I've been planning this since I was ten.” She chirps excitedly. Lawrence blinks. “I can set up a perfect wedding so that you two can marry in a way that you'll never forget, and-,” She pauses importantly, stepping forward to approach Perry and Heinz to flip open her own scrapbook and show them its contents. Heinz raises a brow in respect. "Still have you two on the plane straight to the Galapagos with time to spare."

Once again, Perry and Heinz turn to look at each other, this time to non-verbally communicate their stunned surprise. But the boys had gotten to their feet in excitement, and everything was happening so fast. Candace hands Perry and Lawrence a magazine cutout for an ad for a local tailor's, with a penmarked address, and begins pulling them to their feet, pushing them towards the front door. “Uncle Perry, you and Dad are going to go into town to get suits and fresh haircuts, while Mom and I are going to the Salon to get manicures and matching bridesmaid outfits. Dr D, I've called Vanessa over, and she's gonna bring Miss Charlene so you guys can discuss and arrange for friends and family contacts for the guest list, so long as it's under the 50-person range with a plus one limit, as well as find another pair of wedding rings.”

Heinz sputters, likely to the very last part. Their engagement rings are made with re-forged parts of old Inators, and likely he'll want their wedding rings to be made with much the same sentiment. But Candace was on a mission, and there was nought to stop her.

“Can we help?” Phineas asked excitedly. Ferb was vibrating on his feet.

Candace groans. “Fine, you can help me plan the grand entrance. But no funny business!”

Perry hears Phineas turn to his brother saying half of his usual catchphrase (“Ferb, I know what we're going to-,”) before the door is slammed shut behind him, leaving him and Lawrence standing confused on the front porch of the house and only partly dressed for town. Lawrence managed to grab his keys and wallet, at least, which was a small mercy.

“Well,” Lawrence says. “I suppose we're getting suits, eh, little brother?”

Perry was only Lawrence's brother through legal means, and he detests being called little. Lawrence knows this, the little shit, but Perry doesn't have the energy to fight him on this one. He sighs. Let's just leave before Vanessa and Charlene-

A beautifully sleek dark green and black Mercedes screeches to a halt in front of their house, and Perry hears Charlene scream for her daughter to be careful as the teenager lets herself out the passenger side door, manic and dishevelled. From the middle of the road, she stares and points at them, screaming: “You're getting married?”

Perry sighs again, and bumps Lawrence's shoulder.

“Yup, that's our cue.” He agrees. “First to the car gets the radio?”

Perry beats him to the station wagon, but he doesn't let Perry change the station anyway. Prick.