#There goes the time continuum

[skillzissue]

Master Leonardo (Sensei, Leon)

HEY WASSUPPPP IM BACKKK

School just started and I swear to pizza supreme in the sky-

Aaaaanywhizzle~ This is Leon’s Introduction page thingie for my little AU cuz I’m mentally insane <33

Casey Jr is neXT LETS GET IT!!!

And click here to see the prev intro thingie old man Mike <33

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — 24-hour scientific services.

SEPTEMBER 15, 1983

“Listen, Mrs. Springer, I’m fine. Promise.”

He knows his English teacher probably isn’t going to appreciate the ‘cross my heart’ gesture, but he feels it’s necessary to really convey how totally, completely, one hundred percent fine he is. 

“We’re almost to the office,” is all she says in response. Her expression is gentle, so’s her voice, but by her tone Marty recognizes that she means business. She almost looks… angry?

“Are you… mad at me?” he asks, eyes squinting to try to get a better look at her.

“What? Oh, honey, no,” she’s quick to reassure, and he feels so shitty that he almost doesn’t mind how she’s talking to him like he’s still in elementary school. “No, of course I’m not mad at you. You’re sick!”

That, he’s not going to argue with. 

“But, y’know, I-I can stay, really–” he tries to protest. He’s totally okay to just sit and listen to everyone talk about… whatever book they were reading. To Kill A Mockingbird, probably? Or Inherit the Wind. Something about some trial or whatever. Yeah, he was totally getting it, even if he did kind of almost fall trying to get up and use the pencil sharpener. But it was no big deal.  

“No, you’re going home to bed,” Mrs. Springer says definitively, sitting him down on a chair that’s in the hallway for some reason? No, they’re in the office now, he recognizes the big desk and the lady behind it. Mrs. Springer puts her hands on his shoulders. “Now, I have to go back to class, but Marjorie’s here and she’ll take good care of you. She’ll get someone to come and pick you up, okay? And if you need a ride, I can take you back home after school, but I don’t want you waiting that–”

“No, it’s… it’s okay, Mrs. S. Thanks.” He offers a half smile her way. It’s nice that she cares so much, but he’d be okay just to skate home, really. He didn’t want anybody to bother Mom and Dad or Dave but he also didn’t want them to freak out if he climbed into bed and didn’t climb back out for a solid two weeks.

Mrs. Springer and the desk lady– Marjorie, he guesses– exchange a look before Mrs. Springer goes back down the hall. Marjorie smiles at him. 

“Hang tight, Marty,” she assures, cheerfully, “let me just call home for you, okay?”

He nods, letting his eyes shut for just a second–

“--Hi, sweetheart.”

Marty starts. Since when was Marjorie right in front of him? 

“Nobody’s picking up at home,” she continues, “is there someone else we could try?”

He nods. 

“Can I do it?” he asks.

“Sure, honey, go ahead.”

He stands, scuffing his shoes on the floor the way Mom always hates. He doesn’t mean to do it, but he’s pretty sure somebody tied weights around his legs while he wasn’t looking. 

He squints again, trying to make sense of the jumble of letters, numbers, and squares. Eventually, he manages to punch in the right number, hearing @doctorbrown ‘s voice at the other end. 

“Yo, Doc,” Marty begins. “Wait… you’re not your answering machine, right?... You’re you?... ‘Cause I, um, I kinda need a favor…” He rubs the back of his neck, his hair damp, fighting for words to describe his situation that just aren’t coming. “... I don’t feel good,” he eventually settles on, barely registering a wince at how babyish it sounds.  “They’re sendin’ me home but Mom and Dad aren’t, uh, aren’t home, so is it okay if you pick me up?... I keep telling ‘em I’m cool and I’ll be good to skate back but…”

[samskaterguy]

I think there should be more Future Casey and Casey Jr stuff out there, like come on, that's his MOM!

[bookwyrminspiration]

You can’t keep spreading the long California agenda they’re gonna put you in Area 51 for knowing too much

You mean Area 50? Because there are only 49 states in my America. Which is also your America. America in general.

There is no state of Oregon, there's only Long California and Thick Idaho, anything else is a lie. Washington shares a border with California. If you see any space in-between the two that is an alien void, a hallucination as a result of a rip in the space time continuum sent from waaaaay outer space and if you step in it you get space yoinked across the galaxy and fed to the black holes because they get realllllly hungry when they're sad, and as we all know black holes are always sad because they're always hungry. I'm telling you this for your safety Oregon is the cover for the black hole humgry program that feeds it silly humans who believe in Oregon. Don't let your trusting heart be your destruction, as far too many do. I'm just trying to look out for you :(

If it costs myself, it's a price I'm willing to pay

[unkownknowledge]

Trying to enjoy skyrim while the mods constantly fuck up for no reason is like those comic strip of someone trying to love a really angry cat.

[scoops-aboy86]

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Stranger Things

combine your first real fandom with your current one to create a terrible, terrible au

[breitzbachbea]

I still think it is funny that in the Phantom of the Opera AU, all the ingredients for SicIre and TurGre are there, but Harry is SO unsalvagable as murder gremlin that I just roll with the canon ships and we stay with GreSic. Also, Sadık is very happy to mind his own business. God, does he long to mind his own business.

[chaoticallyfluffy]

I’ve been forced into reading Danny phantom fanfics because I’m desperate for Billy Batson content and for some reason half the stuff on ao3 is crossover stuff so I guess I like Danny phantom now?? Kind of?? I haven’t watched it and I don’t plan on it but I really like the idea of it.

Anywho,

Billy has maintained a very delicate balance of half truths and lies of ommision over the years to protect his identity as a literal child. He uses facts he learned from his patrons and his interest and knowledge in history, specifically Ancient Greece, to convince people he’s ancient.

Then one day this ghost guy joins the league claiming to be incredibly old as well except he just goes around straight up lying about stuff, saying whatever the hell he feels like about the past if it’s convenient to him or just funny. Most of it contradicts with the story Billy has been delicately weaving over the years and he’s kind of panicking.

One day he confronts the ghost guy and is like “I know your not actually ancient but I’m not a snitch, how old are you?”

And Danny kind of feels bad about pretending to be ancient in front of someone who has literally been around since at least Ancient Greece and confesses that he’s 14. Captain Marvel stares at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a big grin and transforming into a 12 year old Billy. They instantly become inseparable.

You’d think that Billy would ask Danny to stop lying all the time because it’s gonna get them caught, but no, he thinks it’s hilarious. Now whenever Danny says something absurd or directly contradictory of the actual history that Billy told them, they’re just like “oh yeah both of those happened at the same time but all the scribes were at the same spot so no one wrote about the other one and it was lost to time” or “there was a time loop for a good few years back in good old Greece so a lot of weird things happened that just didn’t stick.” Or “that did happen but only ghosts could perceive it.” Or sometimes, if they absolutely cannot get away with any other explanation, “dang must have dreamt it!”

The league is hopelessly confused and 90% sure they’re being messed with but they have no proof and if they look at the history at least MOST of the stuff they say is true so there’s really no reason to doubt it when Danny claims he once fist fought the god of time while the entirety of Rome cheered for him and placed bets, especially when Billy nods sagely and says he remembers having to clean up the space time continuum after the fight and that he lost the modern equivalent of ten bucks in the bet (he still doesn’t lie, just doesn’t disagree with the blatant dishonesty. He honestly did have to clean up the space time continuum multiple times after Danny messes with time a bit too much thanks to Clockwork + shenanigans. They make bets all the time too lol)

I think the contrast between ‘never lies’ and ‘lies all the time for funsies’ with the same motivation of ‘do the funniest thing possible at all times’ can be extremely entertaining and interesting.

[clandestinegardenias]

The whole AI…debacle always makes me think of this thing we have in knitting communities called “process or product” where like, you’ll ask a knitter (or other fiber artist) if they are a Process Knitter or a Product Knitter.

The difference being, a Product Knitter’s primary goal and interest in knitting is the product they get at the end of it. They knit a sock because they want a nice knit sock.

A Process Knitter, by contrast, has the primary goal of enjoying the process of knitting something. They don’t necessarily care all that much about the resulting object, so much as they enjoy the planning and movement and steps to make it. Classic example, my best friend in high school crocheted the same blanket with the same yarn like 4 times—when she ran out of yarn she’d rip it all out and start over cause she didn’t even necessarily want the blanket, she just enjoyed the process (and yarn is expensive).

And obviously those are extremes and people tend to fall on a continuum blah blah blah, but I think ALL knitters to a certain extent value the process. The work and effort that goes into it is PART OF THE ENTIRE POINT. Yes, it can be hard! And time consuming! And sometimes frustrating and it takes a lot of mental energy and practice and creativity!

BUT THAT IS THE POINT.

That’s part of what makes it so enjoyable and rewarding, regardless of the outcome (though that’s great too! Love me a nice hand knit hat)

And idk, I think there’s something to say about AI and the desire for a product with no process. Maybe I’m just old and crotchety but I can’t help thinking that anything “created” by AI is missing at least half the point

[trashytracktales]

Drive me, clutch | LN⁴

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌none of my works are available for reposting on other platforms.

© trashy track tales, 2024

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𐙚 summary ──── He should be worn out after the night he's had. But Lando is insatiable, and one night is not nearly enough. His need has only been stoked by a few hours of sleep, giving him an endless supply of energy that matches his intensity on the track.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, descriptive language, mature/sexual content, unprotected sex, established relationship, fluff & smutt, bit of praising, swearing & a down bad Lando.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.8k

𐙚 date ──── Nov. 1, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I'm new on writerblr can y'all tell :')

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE MORNING LIGHT sneaks in through the curtains, creating a gentle glow and soft shadows all around the room.

He was always a deep sleeper, not easily disturbed by noise or movement. Over time, he conditioned himself to slip into catatonic slumbers, because in his line of work, it's vital to be fully rested. She, on the other hand, has always slept like a bunny, her ears picking up even the subtlest sound, amplified by the quiet of the morning.

With one arm stretched possessively over her waist and his face nestled into the curve of her neck, Lando is wrapping her like a second blanket, his warm breath fanning across her skin in steady, sleep-heavy sighs. His body radiates a deep warmth, a furnace that causes her to shift and almost run out of breath in the cocoon they've created.

It's way too hot.

She moves again, trying to get his arm off her waist while suppressing a quiet giggle when she realizes her attempts are futile — and that she made it all worse because now, Lando pulls her in, resting half of his body weight on her.

“Lan… ” she cries in a sleepy voice, lifting her hand to brush stray curls off his forehead. “Baby, you’re suffocating me,” she tries again, feeling Lando anchoring himself tighter around her waist.

His brows furrow in mild protest while he stirs slightly, as if he can already sense she's trying to get away. However, he gently presses his nose on her skin, muttering something incoherent in a sleepy, low voice. Even in his half-awake state, his thumb is making languid circles over her skin, just to remind himself that she's there, in his arms. There’s a spark in his touch, a warmth that seems to spread like wildfire, and she can feel it.

The girl decides to give it one more try, his name falling from her lips in a loving whisper.

“Mhm… ‘m heavy?” he asks.

She puffs out a chuckle, “A little, but the heat bothers me more.”

Lando lets out a soft chuckle, pushing the blanket off in a swift move, the air in the room immediately feeling cooler against their bare skin.

“Better?” his voice is a gritty, gravelly whisper that feels like sandpaper against her skin after being warmed by him.

The girl gasps in surprise, laughing at the sudden change in temperature, “Lando, we’re fucking naked. Put it back!”

“Oh, now you’re worried?” he asks, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder.

His eyes finally flutter open, sleepy yet filled with a familiar mischief. A lazy grin spreads across his face as he locks eyes with her, a quiet intensity lingering just beneath the surface. His fingers move along her body in a way that makes her shudder as his hand goes up her side. His gaze never leaves hers, glimmering with a glow of want and danger.

“Of course I am. We all get self-conscious in the daylight,” she admits, reaching for the blanket to put it back over them.

Lando stops her just in time, holding the velvety material out of the way. He leans over her on his forearms, loving how quickly she changed her mind just because she got shy from his intense staring session.

“I wanna see you.”

“No,” she protests, pullig him in, so his chest could cover hers.

“What do you mean no?” he chuckles. “I've had your thighs around my face last night, but now you're getting self-conscious?”

“It doesn't matter. I’m still shy,” she whispers.

The distance between them vanishes in an instant, his fingers running through her hair, while his lips are slightly brushing against hers, meaning to meet in a deep, tender kiss that is infused with the passion and hunger of the night before. But Lando has other plans. On one hand, he wants to kiss all the shyness away, to show her that there is nothing she should worry about, because she'll be beautiful in his eyes no matter what, day and night, and always.

On the other hand, he knows it's his job as a man and as her boyfriend to make her feel comfortable in her own body — a body that he worships with every chance he gets. He loves the constellations on her back, the softness of her legs, and the way she fits perfectly with him.

If he wouldn't know better, he'd say they were made for each other, in every aspect.

Lando watches her as she closes her eyes, knowing she's expecting him to kiss her. Instead, he chooses to study her face, closely, like he's never done it before, taking in every detail, from the tiny mole under her left eye and her rose lips that can do so much damage to him, to the marks he left over her neck and shoulders the night before.

Without thinking twice, he traces his finger over some of the darkened spots, taking in every part of her that he’s made his own — an artist admiring his own work.

“You’re mesmerizing.”

It's the last thing she expects him to say. Usually, he'd call her beautiful or breathtaking, but this time the compliment goes behind the surface. He knows he could look at her for hours, without getting bored. It means that, in the daylight, he is finally able to see something more profound.

She can’t help but let out a sigh in protest, but still smiles in return, “Shut up.”

“And all mine, yes?” he adds, letting his eyes slide down her bare chest, following each line and curve.

She nods, “You know it.”

It’s making him crazy — the way her body lays out under him, and the way he can clearly see the result of his need, desire and hunger on her skin. He’s speechless for a while, his mind filled with one lonely thought: her.

Her eyes snap open the moment she feels his hand gently squeezing one of her breasts, caressing her nipple with his thumb.

“Did I hurt you, baby?” he asks softly, pressing a finger into one of the hickeys that ended up looking like a little, weirdly shaped heart.

Her soft wince takes them both by surprise, a sudden wave of guilt washing over Lando at the thought that he could hurt her unintentionally.

“I’m fine,” the girl tries to assure him, but he frowns, already beating himself up for losing control like that.

He can't help it, though.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don't,” she cuts him off, “You didn’t hurt me, I promise. Plus, I got you good, too,” she says, running the pads of her fingers over the crimson fingernail marks left on his shoulders.

He can hear the sweetness in her voice, all the guilt melting away in an instant. From there, Lando moves with an intensity and skill that is all too familiar — as if he were on the track, determined to put together the perfect lap.

He presses his lips on her silky skin, desperately wanting to soothe her. To continue to worship her. To thank her for existing and choosing him to share herself with.

“If it hurts later...” Lando begins, raising his head to look at his girlfriend.

Her hand glides up to cup his chin in her palm, “It'll be a reminder of how good you make me feel every single time,” she finishes his sentence, finally pulling him in for a kiss.

At the sound of her words, a low moan slips from his throat into her mouth, the simple affirmation enough to make Lando lose it. Her hands land on his shoulders, pulling him as close to her as possible. The eagerness is making him so desperate, wanting to feel the connection in every vital point of his body.

She wraps her legs around his waist, while Lando's hand travels up to hold the side of her neck, his tongue delving into her mouth into a messy kiss. Another moan escapes through her lips this time, the second she feels his hand slightly squeezing her.

As he deepens the kiss with a smile on his lips, she tries to speak, hardly able to form more words, her voice vanishing into a gentle moan.

This time, the race is different, and he is not in a haste to finish, enjoying every turn with an air of confidence that is unmistakably Lando. He seems to be able to read her so easily, even when she goes non-verbal, because it feels so good to have him on top.

With every touch and every inch of him, they fall into harmony. With each heartbeat and kiss, the low hum of energy between them intensifies until the world beyond their entwined bodies disappears into a fuzzy, faraway blur.

It's just them and the need to crawl under each other's skin.

His palm moves to cradle her face as he brings her closer, causing her to catch her breath and quiver. Her senses are sharpened, each gentle touch and soft sound more vivid than the previous, and she feels herself immersing herself in the present. In him. Entirely.

Lando feels her body arching up against his, a reflex reaction when he puts a little pressure between her legs. His tongue pushes deeper into her mouth, his hips rolling against hers, a low moan coming from the back of his throat.

“Your mouth…,” she exhales breathlessly, raising her hips to meet his halfway.

As a result of countless nights spent together, Lando gets the memo without her needing to elaborate. He became a pro at reading her body language like it's an open book, which makes him smirk, so proud he manages to understand her needs from a simple movement.

His lips are traveling south, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When she feels his hot breath hoovering above her thighs, her fingers find home in his hair, guiding Lando where she needs him most. His mind goes blank as soon as he feels her warmth, the taste of her flooding his senses.

He buries his face further, his tongue lapping at her intently, wanting to feel more of her. Much, much more. One of his hands moves down to her hips, anchoring them to the bed as he smiles at the sound of her soft whining — his favorite melody.

As soon as she starts to wiggle under his touch, his tongue begins circling, delving deeper than before. Her taste drives him wild while his mouth is making little wet noises against her.

“So sweet and warm f'me, aren't you?” he asks rhetorically, bringing his free hand between her thighs. “Fucking hell,” he lets out a breathy exhale, his thumb moving to rub against her clit, while two of his fingers push slowly inside.

She uses a hand to grip the sheets just as Lando pulls back a little, keeping his fingers thrusting in and out at an increasing pace that make her toes curl.

“Baby…,” she sucks in a breath, feeling the pressure building slowly, but surely.

“I know, baby,” he whispers, rolling back on top of her to muffle her moans with a furtive kiss. “You're so pretty, you know that? So pretty, taking my fingers so well.”

“Lando, please,” she whines, moving her hips in unison with his hand, trying to catch the wave that she's been chasing ever since she felt his tongue on her pussy.

Lando bites his lower lip in an attempt to hide his smile; he loves to see her losing herself like that only from his fingers.

“Mhm, you take what you need, yeah? Fuck my fingers, that's it.”

She arches against his hand harder, bringing her arms around Lando's neck for more stability. He lets his forehead drop on hers, their breaths blending together while she pants at his encouragements. Their lips come in contact once more, as Lando slows her down with the other hand on her hip, gripping her tightly to gently pull out his fingers.

The sudden emptiness forces her to let a cry out, her pussy clenching down hard on nothing.

“Don't piss me off,” she warns, wrapping her fingers around his neck, bringing his mouth to hers with the aggression of a needy woman that knows what she wants.

The kiss hits like a turbocharger at peak RPM, fast and powerful, leaving them breathless in its wake, their minds spinning wildly like they are racing against time.

“Need to be inside you,” he chuckles ar her eagerness, pumping himself in his hand a few times before rubbing the head of his cock over her needy core to spread the wetness.

The feeling leaves her almost breathless, her thighs wanting to press together instinctively, until Lando stops them with a firm grip.

He lets out a noisy moan into her neck, her body making him feel like he's sinking, the feeling of her walls squeezing him bringing up all the memories from last night. Lando buries his face in her chest, trying to steady himself, but it's a losing game.

He's already a goner.

“How are you always this tight around me, baby, fuck,” he pants, breathing wetly against her skin.

Every cell in her body feels like it's on fire, his words far from being registered in her head. Instead, she spreads her legs wider, making more room for him to fill her up completely, inch by inch.

“Shit, it feels so good. You feel so good, please,” she continues begging, because there's nothing else she can do. Except raising her hips to push back against his thrusts as he finally starts moving.

The sound of skin on skin reverberates around the quiet room, peppered with occasional whimpers and Lando's low moans. It's almost too much, but that doesn't stop her from meeting her boyfriend halfway. Quite the opposite. She's aware she's ruining the sheets with how wet she is, her pussy dripping with both their juices. But seeing the look on his face while he drives her it's enough to simply not care about the mess they're making.

“Fuck, that's it, baby. Like that,” he moans, gripping her thighs, partially to hit her with hard, long strokes, that he knows it drives her wild. But mostly because he needs something to hold on to.

Soon enough, Lando's breath starts coming out in quick, hot pants, his free hand clutching at the sheets by her head. His body is on fire, being able to feel her raw and see her face change with pleasure every time he hits her sweet spot. His eyes squeeze shut, the build-up almost too much for him to not lose it.

“Fuck, baby, you're killing me. Squeezing me so tight, I'm not. Gonna. Last,” he admits, accentuating the words with each hard thrust.

“Don't hold back, please. Please, don't stop…,” her words fade at the intensity of the warm knot that forms in her stomach, her legs tightening more around him.

“Yeah? You want to come, baby?” he asks, fucking his cock deeply into her, making her squeeze her eyes shut at the feeling, while her nails are slowly digging into his back.

She doesn't have time to feel bad for causing new scratches on top of his old ones as pleasure meets pain at its sweetest level. He's not bothered in the slightest, too preocupied to enjoy her, his focus on how every inch of his length gets hugged by her walls so tightly.

“I'm… Oh, yes! Fuck. I'm so close,” she moans, her mind going numb, letting her breath out in short spasms.

He hears the desperation in her voice, which makes him picking up the pace, bringing his hand between their bodies so he could rub her clit in a ferm, circular motion.

With that, it's enough for her to let out a string of moans as she comes hard around his cock. Her mind wanders through spaces filled with pure pleasure, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

The sight of her drives him crazy, determined to reach his release while she still has that satisfied look on her face. Lando starts fucking her harder, pressing their bodies roughly into the mattress as he mumbles filthy words in her ear, that she's too dizzy to decipher.

“So fucking pretty when you come, my baby.”

His baby.

“Yours,” she agrees, her mouth parting slightly at the feeling of his hands roaming everywhere on her body.

She knows he's close, judging by the sloppy thrusts he's struggling to keep under control. But control is overrated, anyway. And it only takes a couple more until hot shots are spilling deep inside, filling her up.

“Fucking hell,” Lando exhales, collapsing on top of her, his cock throbbing against her walls, too sensitive to pull out right away.

She wraps her arms around her boyfriend, kissing his forehead, his cheek, and shoulder, their heavy breaths echoing throughout the bedroom.

He swallows hard, completely spent, running his arm up and down her side, while her hand ends up in his hair, pushing his curls out of the way so she could look at him.

“Should we go get coffee?” she asks matter-of-factly, her genuinely curious tone making Lando laugh.

“After I take you from behind?”

thank you for reading!

reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

[skillzissue]

He’s eepy <3

[timechange]

"What's he like?" Martin asks despite himself. "Does he play fetch? Y'know, I always wanted a dog but nobody's allowed to ha--" He pauses. "Wait. You said you arrived here, Doctor Brown?... But... how? The only possible way to manipulate spacetime is the manipulation of mass. I guess it's possible that enough frame dragging would generate the spatial distortion needed to create some kind of tear or-or weaken the fabric of spacetime between the two worlds, but... the amount of mass would have to be immense."

While the contemplation of this problem is a welcome distraction from everything else that's happened that morning, the hand squeezing his shoulder and the soft apology brings him back into himself immediately. The burning sensation behind his eyes comes back with a vengeance and he nods, the lump in his throat too thick to try to speak around. He doesn't want to cry in front of Cit--Doctor Brown, but he's getting very close.

"Nobody can drive. It's not safe so it's not allowed," he explains after a moment, allowing himself to regroup. "Nobody goes outside the city anyway, so people use carts. You have the only car because you're First Citizen, and it's armored because you're First Citizen. I... nobody's needed any more justification than that before." Martin considers this, before adding, "...I don't think it was your idea."

He hesitates before answering, letting the idea that Doctor Brown trusts him, that he takes his word for things, sink in. That, and he doesn't want to hurt his feelings further. He's starting to look a little overwhelmed.

"...No, he doesn't." Martin shoots him a guilty, apologetic look. "I-I didn't even know you could. I know the way, but Mr. Wilson drives you everywhere. He's nice. I like him. He's... you two are friends, or almost."

Judging by that reaction, if asked, Marty is either going to tell him he hates dogs in this reality or something equally as impossible, such as nobody has a dog in Hill Valley because those, too, are not allowed. ❝Of course I have a dog. I love dogs. I've had Einstein since, oh, 1979. I need to find him soon; he was in the ti—ah, I mean, he ran off somewhere after we arrived and I haven't seen him yet...❞

It's possible one of these cameras caught Einie's presence on-tape, but he doesn't have the time to sit and look through hours of footage across the town with only a hope to go off of.

The look of concern on his face only deepens as Marty continues, prompting him to offer a gesture of comfort by squeezing the boy's shoulder gently. He almost asks why his elder siblings didn't take him with them—if they had the good sense to get out of this place, why would they leave Marty here alone to deal with the fragments of what used to be a family, however disjointed—but changes his mind at the last second, deciding it best to let the matter drop.

❝I'm sorry, Marty,❞ he says instead, as if he himself is to blame for this entire situation and not his alternate temporal counterpart. He certainly didn't make the reality of the situation any easier, not with the unfortunately necessary steps needed to convince him that what he was saying was the truth, not some elaborate falsehood concocted by a runaway imagination.

He's not ready to admit he's crazy yet, not by a long shot.

He would have liked to avoid rocking the foundation of the young man's world as much as possible, even if—

❝You can't drive?❞ Momentary surprise flickers across his face—he can't imagine Marty not being able to drive, not when it was almost all he would talk about in the days and weeks leading up to his driver's test—before the implications of Marty's words set in.

❝Marty...why am I the only one who has a car? And what do you mean it's armoured? Has my counterpart been going around in a Lincoln Continental afraid that he's going to end up like JFK?❞ It's the only image he can conjure up in his mind when he thinks armoured vehicle; sombre black, a single panel on the roof of an entirely enclosed vehicle, the drastic redesign of the Presidential convoy after a very depressing date in history that did away with the open and inviting image the leadership aimed to project in favour of a vehicle equipped to take into battle.

Either he has made far too many enemies with his controlling and restrictive social experimentation, in which case, the drastic measures become slightly more reasonable—even if that doesn't explain why he is the only one allowed a car in Hill Valley—or he is gripped by paranoia and delusion and unable to see anything but monsters around him.

Emmett steps back, pulling his hand off Marty's shoulder to walk back over to the opposite side of the imposing desk. Frowning, he switches off the monitors flicking through a live feed of the streets just in time to miss Lorraine walking down the block carrying something in her hands.

❝That's better.❞ He looks down at the squawk box on his counterpart's desk and then back up to Marty, uncertain. ❝No—no, I'd rather not get anyone else involved right now, at least not until I've learned more about how my counterpart behaves to reasonably imitate him if necessary. You noticed something was different the moment you walked through those doors. Even if we can trust Ma—Mr. Wilson, which I believe we can because you've just told me we can, I'd rather not involve him just yet. The less he knows, the less complicated things will be for him.❞ And the less time he needs to spend explaining everything to somebody else.

❝If you can guide us to the precise location, I'll drive us there.❞ A pause. ❝My counterpart does drive himself places, doesn't he?❞

[hotheadedhero]

Ok.. so this is for rise. Imagine, like future reader having comed back with CJ, but they only appears after the fight. And reader is just f/caked up, compared to the current reader. Idk if I’m making sense.

This could be platonic, or romantic but it’s just basically. How would the present turtles react to their future best friend/SO from future looking so scard and mentally and physically exhausted and so “out of character”, their personality has completely changed, they are just, grieving, and grumpy.

Sorry if this doesn’t make sense 😭

AN: I think I just puked from excitement, holy cheese. I've wanted to write something related to the movie but wasn't sure what, so thank you Anon 🙏 I hope I got the right idea. I've also only seen the movie once so apologies for any inaccuracies :')

Past Days, Future Pain

Rise Turtles x Reader

Warnings: contains spoilers for the ROTTMNT Movie, angst

Premise: 

You knew that Michelangelo opening a portal into the past would be a gamble. You knew there was a chance that there would be complications. You just didn't expect to get separated from Casey Jr upon entry. In actuality, you hadn't anticipated to be joining him in his journey at all. The fight with the Kraang was meant to continue with you in it but Leonardo just had to push you into the portal. There's no telling what negative developments could arise with you being here and bumping into your old friends and, more importantly, your younger self. A worn laugh breaches your lips in a huff. Donatello would have a field day with this last-minute decision made by his brother. 

From atop a building, you gaze over the pristine city, untouched by the nearing destruction you have grown so used to. It would be nice to say that everything is just as you remember it but this peace is a luxury you have long forgotten. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in. The air is so clean - a statement you never thought you would use to describe New York of all places. Voices dance all around, engaging in their idle chatter, obliviously free. 

You frown. No time. There's no time to get nostalgic. Doomsday is just around the corner and there's no telling if that ball's already running in motion. Casey may have been born in ruin but you'll be damned if he witnesses apocalypse's birth.

Hours later, you would find out that, yes, doomsday is ripening into a poisonous fruit. Kraang minions are littered around the city, gravitating around the tall building where, just above it, Pandora’s box is open. It's too late, isn't it? The one chance you had. Gone. Your bleak reality is returning to fruition. As monstrous beings come at you left and right, your world darkens in tandem with all around you. Hope is lost for a second time. All the same, you continue to fight. Every breath, every swing, could be your last but still, you fight in the hope of at least finding Casey. You need to find him. 

By the time you do, all is vanquished. You could cry from joy if part of you didn’t believe it was all a dream. There, you see all your old friends. Some you would have seen just hours ago, others you haven’t seen in many years. You pull the goggles from your face and rest them on your head for a better look. 

“Sorry, I’m late. Did I miss the grand finale?”

They all turn when they hear the new voice and each goes wide-eyed. The turtles look between you and… you! Present you. Future you. Young. Old. The space-time continuum isn’t going to like this one. It’s one thing to meet the son of Cassandra but a future (Y/n)? Wild. Looks like they’ll be getting to know you. Again.

There's no way to return home. Your home is gone. Now that the timeline has changed, the only thing to do is to get comfortable. It'll be difficult. The only comfort you know is terrorised screams and running for your life. Adjusting to the world from which you came is going to be no easy feat and the turtles adjusting to this version of you is… well…

Raphael

The Wounded Warrior

To a fault, it’s always been Raph’s mission to protect you, ever since you first met. It saddens him to know that his future self couldn’t do that for you. From head to toe, you’re practically littered with scars. He doesn’t want to seem rude by staring but he can’t help it. He’s ridden with guilt for events that haven’t even happened. Events that won’t happen now thanks to them but that doesn’t change the fact that they’ve still happened to you. He notices how you avoid mirrors, how you avoid reflective surfaces altogether.

His fingers absentmindedly glide beneath his right eye. To an extent, he can understand what you’re going through. His experience doesn’t dare compare to what nightmares you’ve endured but it’s the ownership of a wound from said experiences. The memory associated with it and being reminded of those horrors every time you so much as look at yourself. It’s tiring. You look so tired; worn, broken, and beat.

Raphael frowns at himself. It would be hypocritical of him to preach tribute to your valour when he struggles to acknowledge his own. He could try all he wants to make you feel better but you’d likely call him out on the irony. That doesn’t stop Casey Jr and his brothers from psyching you both up when they recount stories from your ventures. It lumps the two of you into a corner but a corner you share nonetheless. As the others share their tales, he looks down at you, noting the way you fidget and avoid the praise. When he pulls you in for a side hug, you look up at him and he flashes a coy smile, making you do the same. There’s not much he can do for your physical scars but he can be there to share in the mild awkwardness of being glorified at least. 

Leonardo

The Tortured Trooper

He tries many times to get a laugh out of you, just as he would with the (Y/n) he’s grown to cherish but no dice. Nothing he does works and it’s such a harrowing disparity. He himself has had a life-changing revelation because of all that’s happened but he couldn’t imagine what 20 years of that could do to a person. Well, he doesn’t need to imagine it. The result is right in front of him and translated through your future self. When he isn’t trying to put on some show for your amusement, he watches you. He notices how you stare off into dead space. Your eyes pale and glass over and he doesn’t need to think hard about where you disappear off to. 

One night, he’s unable to sleep, pondering ways to get you out of your funk. His thinking would get cut short, however, when he hears a shrill cry come from your quarters. Sword in hand, he bolts for your room, expecting to find a threat but it’s just you. You’re hunched over, shaking and struggling for air, drenched in sweat. He carefully drops his sword and crawls out in front of you, trying to get you to calm down. You latch onto him with a deathly grip as if your life depended on it. 

"I saw you die b-before coming here,” you sob out in broken breaths.

These are rare moments for Leo but it’s the kind of time where he doesn’t know what to say. No quip, no bad joke, no charming motivation. Nothing. All he can think to do is hold you and let you cry into his shoulder. It’s not much but if he can at least be there for these dark hours, that’s enough.

Donatello

The Hateful Hero

He's so used to fighting your present self's hug attempts that your chosen isolation throws him off course. Any attempt to even breathe in your direction is met with a raised weapon and a second-nature standoffishness. The laser-focused glare in your eyes for the short second you’re ready for battle is enough to give Donnie chills. He knows you’ve been through a lot but himself and everyone else included are your friends, aren’t they? They’re the one group of people guaranteed that you’re safe around.

Hypothesis: you’re so used to fighting for your life, that your body doesn’t know how to readjust to a more peaceful setting. As peaceful as you can get in this place, anyway. Your fight or flight response must be fried, constantly geared in combat mode. He tries to make the lair as hospitable as possible, filling it with things he knows his version of you likes. This only enrages you further and he has to believe that his initial theory may have been slightly off. When he tries to get an answer as to why, you just sit back in your corner and scowl off.

“How do I know this won’t all go away, too?” you ask bitterly.

Donnie stares down at you and slowly joins your side with no response. He dislikes questions he can’t answer with his usual certainty but he doubts any reassurance could put you at ease right now. It’s clear to him now. You’re scared to get close in case you lose it all again. He can’t guarantee that another doomsday won’t arise but he can say that they’ll be ready, at least. Until you’re soothed of your worries, he’ll let that be known every day if he has to.

Michelangelo

The Sullen Soldier

Mikey has always valued togetherness with his family and friends. He’s always cherished the joy that comes with unity, the memories that you make together. That’s why it’s so heartbreaking to see you shy away from the entire group. The only person who can get more than a few words out of you is Casey Jr but that’s understandable given all of what you’ve been through together. What happened to his fun-loving (Y/n) to turn you into this husk of a person? In hindsight, he and his brothers only caught a glimpse of the disastrous future from whence you came and that’ll be enough to last him a lifetime.

That makes this all the more terrible in his eyes. The world has been saved, the threat vanquished, and everyone is happy except for you - the one person who, outside of his family, means the most to him. He knows that deep down inside that gloomy shell you want to be a part of the household. You just need a gentle push in the right direction. 

What’s the one thing that fixes everything? Pizza! That’ll do the trick for sure! It may not necessarily fix everything but it’ll get a smile out of you. That’s all he wants. You take that first bite and he sits at the ready. Even a little smirk would be good enough. Your lips move and then they start wobbling. Before he knows it, they’re scrunched up and silent tears run down your cheeks. He assumes he’s done more damage than good but, then, you smile up at him sadly with watery eyes and quietly thank him. Mikey can feel tears of his own blur his vision as he joins you. He’ll know the world is right when you can spend time together without crying over each other.

Bonus:

The Knowledgable Knight

You don’t even recognise the person you’re looking at despite it being you. This young dear, so bright-eyed and so unknowing to the terrors you carry with you. A version of you long bypassed from the two decades of war. They have so many questions they wish to ask - you can tell - but they hold back in fear of seeming insensitive. You almost find it funny given who they are.

When there is a moment alone, you only have one thing to say, “Life is precious, so lead yours reasonably and to the fullest, okay?” 

They smile sadly and nod in understanding. They don’t need to know all of what you’ve gone through to know that life shouldn’t be taken advantage of. It’s a lesson to learn from yourself and, funny enough, yourself.

“And one other thing,” you continue, playfulness hinted with the light smirk on your face. “For the love of God, just tell him how you feel already. You never know if you might end up losing your chance.”

Your younger self goes wide-eyed and there’s practically steam coming off their face but they give you their promise with a raised thumb. You do the same and wish them all the best. Even if you’ve had a life of lost opportunities and lost love, that doesn’t mean the same needs to be true for you again. You watch them run off and glance around the room. Whilst you hold the pain of a future no longer to be, you can take solace in the fact that it won’t be repeated. The apocalypse can’t lay its wretched hands on anyone else. You sit down and let your weary bones rest, well and truly for the first time in years. A long breath washes out of you and, finally, you feel a sense of ease. 

Maybe there is such a thing as second chances.

____________________

Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, you. Got a little message for ya!

There's no telling where life is going to go, what challenges it'll throw your way. We may be left with scars, or feeling hopeless. Sometimes our pain comes back to haunt us, or we lash out. Just know that it gets easier. We are all heroes of our own battles. We've lived to tell the tale and we are strong. Don't ever forget that. Keep your head held high and keep your loved ones close, whether that be family, friends, pets, or four awesome turtles <3

[awfulalignmentcharts]

what the f%#$ does ____ mean on that stupid ass ship chart

saw a few questions, so ask (the air) and ye shall receive.

top section

"describe their vibe" — you can interpret this at will. it's just a space to put whatever you think encapsulates the vibes of their dynamic/them as a relationship. it can be like a list of tropes, a dumb tweet screenshot, some other type of image, anything really.

everything else should be straightforward lmao.

rest of the shit below the cut so i don't take up your dash space.

continuums section

"repressed vs (sexually) open" — as it sounds. repressed as in like they're a prude or open as in they're down to bang on the regular.

"no libido vs terminally horny" — not horny to very horny lmao

"aggressively romantic vs allergic to PDA" — kinda like how private the character is/how embarrassed are they by the notion of displays of romance. do they prefer lowkey displays of romance or are they dramatic about it?

"(severely) mentally ill vs mentally stable" — fairly self-explanatory. are they full of mental problems or are they actually mentally sound?

"kms'ing over being in love vs blushing giggling twirling hair" — pretty much their reaction to being in love, specifically with the other person. do they hate the fact they love the other person, or are they super giddy that they're in love?

"doomed by the narrative vs blessed by the narrative" — it's a little open to interpretation but my usage of it for individual use is like how fucked over by the canon events are they individually? (if the relationship's doomed, they're probably both on the doomed end; if the relationship ISN'T doomed but one was severely fucked over by the story's events, then they could be in the doomed section while the other one could be hovering elsewhere)

"big spoon vs little spoon" — self-explanatory. it's cuddle time. who's the big spoon, who's the little spoon.

"the weapon vs the wielder" — ngl, this continuum may not actually work too well for some healthier ships, but the general vibe of it is like the weapon is the one who tends to do things at the wielder's behest. the weapon is commonly more of a warrior type, more of the "protector" (and may also have self-worth issues), while the wielder is the one that typically gets protected, may have a great deal of importance for some reason, and is sort of the "user" of the weapon. you're more than welcome to make your own interpretations of it lmao

the pyjamas — based on this image: (who's the sleepy old man with the candle that goes snork mimimimi vs the beautiful wife who's likely also a damsel in distress)

"jealous vs chill" — should be fairly self-explanatory, but like is the person chill with their partner, or do they easily get jealous when the attention isn't on them?

"has zero game vs insane game" — are they bitchless or can they pull bitches? regardless of charisma (or lack thereof), can they actually get laid or not

"functional vs soggy loser" — are they a functional member of society with their shit together or are they born-in-a-wet-cardboard-box, perpetually soggy, capital P Pathetic?

the other shit

"what brings them together?" — what are some reasons that this ship actually has grounds? what do they have going for their relationship?

"what is keeping them/kept them apart?" — were/are there any reasons why they haven't just kissed yet? what are those reasons?

"poorly describe their meetcute" — describe how they met but be funny about it.

"list their reductive fandom tropes/fandom appeal" — reasons why people might ship them or like the ship. (e.g. enemies to lovers, angel and demon dichotomy, etc.)

"who's the armrest?" — two guys. one likes to turn the other into an armrest by sticking their arm on the other's shoulder (or something; done possibly with the intent to annoy). who's the one that's being used as the armrest more often?

"who's the headrest?" — two guys. one puts their head on the other more frequently. who's the one that's more often turned into a head rest?

"who fell first?" — who fell in love first?

"who fell harder?" — who fell in love harder?

"who cooks" — should be obvious lmao

"who cleans up more messes?" — can be literal messes, or who more often deals with the fallout of the bullshit one of them gets up to.

"who's the bigger yearner?" — who yearns more?

"who confessed first?" — should be literal.

touch

should be fairly self-explanatory, but it's kinda like what is or isn't off limits to contact of any form from the other person. say character A is entirely red while character B is entirely purple. A is allergic to any form of contact anywhere from B, while B fucking loves anything from A.

[kradogsrats]

I've been kind of hesitant to voice this analysis/theory because honestly even I find it hella depressing, but... here goes.

At the end of s6e5: "Moonless Night," we have this kind of cryptic sequence with Viren:

Now, this isn't exactly subtle. It starts with a callback to Aaravos's "the human mage, already tainted by darkness and destined to play right into my hands," line (and a nice Callum > fake pearl > real pearl > Viren cut sequence) and ends with the kind of spider-and-fly imagery you bust out when you want the audience to really get the point. This sequence tells us in no uncertain terms, Aaravos will inevitably use Viren again... at least one more time.

I say it's cryptic because the eventual payoff is a lot more subtle, particularly since everything escalates so rapidly and is actually presented as a crazy, unexpected twist. Basically, there's no follow-up until s6e8: "We All Fall Down," where we have a highly specific series of events:

Sol Regem, under Phaaravos's direction, attacks Katolis

Viren decides to make the sacrifice of both doing dark magic again and losing his own life to protect the people from Sol Regem's fire

Viren successfully casts the spell and the people are protected

Phaaravos does this:

Once Viren has cast the spell (and is probably dying), Aaravos is pleased and ends Sol Regem's attack.

Aaravos needs three things to free himself: the pearl, the staff, and a sympathetic mage. He can't just possess Callum and free himself at the start of the season, because—whether that would work or not—he doesn't have the staff. He knows, however, that Viren is going back to Katolis, so he can influence Callum to switch the real and fake pearls. Then, when Viren arrives, the pearl and the staff are lined up... but Viren is no longer sympathetic (and possessing him wouldn't really do any good because like, come on... he's in prison).

The way that the attack on Katolis plays out gives him everything: the pearl and staff are abandoned in the chaos, leaving them free for Claudia. Viren, being dead, is also now unable to influence Claudia directly—not to mention that, despite what he told her in s6e1, he chose to do dark magic again.

There are several reasons that could be behind Phaaravos's smarmy little smirk there—either he's satisfied that the staff is in play and will be easily accessible to Claudia instead of buried under a castle's worth of rubble, or he's satisfied that Viren is going to die and that removes what could actually have been a very serious obstacle to Claudia's persistence, or... he's pleased that Viren has caved and done dark magic again, whether because that's leverage he can use with Claudia, or for a more insidious reason.

We can stop here, because "Aaravos uses Viren's loyalty to his family and Katolis to manipulate him to his death and to set up his daughter for digging herself deeper in aiding his own return" is honestly plenty of payoff as far as Aaravos "using" Viren a final time. BUT just to get a little tinfoil-hat, here:

How exactly are we supposed to understand the pearl got from the subterranean secret dark magic workspace to outside in the ground-level courtyard... except by Aaravos walking the dying Viren down there to bring it back out, then neatly arranging pearl, staff, and Dad's dead body in close proximity for Claudia's homecoming? Which is pretty fucking grim.

As a counterpoint, the one thing this series sometimes plays extremely fast and loose with is the space-time continuum: like, working out travel times? Good fucking luck—it takes exactly as long to get somewhere as the plot demands, regardless of distance, terrain, or mode of transportation. So "how did the pearl get into the courtyard" could just be one of those "how did Soren and Claudia get up the Cursed Caldera without Lujanne knowing"-situations where the answer is "it's fine, don't think about it."

Sure, the staff, pearl, and Viren's body are all suspiciously accessible, but we also don't have screentime for Terry and Claudia to do an extensive search of the rubble overlaid with sad music and intercut with flashbacks. Sometimes shit just has to be convenient so we can move along... but I'll probably still always kind of wonder.

[its-all-papaya]

Can I hear more about your clingy landoscar idea pls 🧡

Yes!! Bonus snippet!! RICHES!! (I couldn’t decide which to write so I picked both). this is like... not necessarily the same tone as the first thing at all... but... they fit on the same continuum if you imagine some progression in the middle, idk. like i said. the word doc is calling to me.

read the first part

After Monaco, after Oscar’s moved to Monaco, Lando finally convinces him to come out for a night. Oscar has drinks, of course, but he stays on the conservative side of sloppy. Mostly because the way Lando’s handling him is not something he wants to risk forgetting even a second of. 

Oscar knew Lando was tactile, but it’s ratcheted up a notch when he’s drunk. It’s much different, much more overwhelming, when Lando is everywhere, demanding every one of Oscar’s senses, instead of confined to only a voice and only sometimes a face on a phone screen. He starts out with a hand on Oscar’s back to keep him near in the flow of the crowd, but that evolves into an arm around Oscar’s waist after the first round of shots. Soon it’s fingers around Oscar’s hips while Lando waits behind him at the bar, then a leg tossed over Oscar’s when they’re squished into a booth with Charles and Max. After midnight, it’s Lando’s head tipped back on Oscar’s shoulder, throat exposed obscenely so Oscar’s got no choice but to watch his adam’s apple bob as he drains the last of whatever Charles had ordered for the table. Not long after, it’s Lando in Oscar’s lap (“just making room, not a problem, right, Osc?”) and Lando’s arm hooked around his neck, curls tickling Oscar’s chin, fingers brushing back and forth where his sleeve meets his bicep. Oscar can’t tell if Lando’s doing it on purpose, or just sensory seeking in his half-dazed, half-coherent drunk state. He can’t tell if any of it’s on purpose, truthfully, even when Lando’s mouth is against his ear, asking “d’you ever dance? would you wanna? with me?” and his teeth catch a little on the lobe on the last few words.

Oscar doesn’t dance, but what he does do is almost anything Lando asks him to, so it’s in the middle of a crush of sweaty bodies where he first notices something a little different in the direction of Lando’s touch. He’d been dragged by the wrist to the center of the mess, and he’s still planning to stay mostly sober, but he wishes he’d saved one of his drinks for now to help dull the itch of discomfort in his brain and his limbs. Lando’s plastered to his front, his own fresh drink in one hand, the back of Oscar’s shirt scrunched up in the other. Oscar’s seen Lando on the dance floor before, has seen Lando on the dance floor with men before (if some of it was through shitty watermarked fan videos on twitter, that was for him alone to feel any kind of way about), so he can tell the tension in Lando’s back isn’t an all-the-time thing. His grip on Oscar is just north of casual, even when he releases the shirt and goes back to Oscar’s hip, pinky dipping under the hem to rest warm against Oscar’s side.

“Dancing,” he says, like Oscar might have forgotten why they’re here.

Oscar hedges. “Think I’m too sober for that, mate.”

Lando grimaces briefly, but then he’s lifting his own drink up between their chests and backing up just enough to leave space for it there, an offering. When Oscar moves to take it, though, Lando shakes his head and draws him back in, knocking the rim of the glass against Oscar’s chin. He’s smirking like it’s a joke, but Oscar’s missing the punchline as Lando nudges the glass closer again, straw bumping up under Oscar’s cheekbone.

“What,” Oscar says.

“Drink,” Lando says. Like it’s obvious. His pinky dips lower, tracing the top of Oscar’s jeans.

Every part of Oscar feels too warm, sticky with sweat. There’s a reason he doesn’t do clubs. But there’s a reason he’d said yes tonight, and it comes back to him when Lando abandons pretenses and sneaks his whole hand under Oscar’s shirt. It’s too hot, Oscar’s blinking sweat out of his eyes every other time his eyes close.

The ice clinks impossibly loudly against the sides of the glass when Oscar’s fingers close around Lando’s wrist. Condensation is dripping steadily, sliding down the meat of Lando’s hand and pooling where Oscar’s fingers meet his skin. Their eyes stay locked as Oscar guides Lando’s hand back up. They stay locked even as his lips close around the straw and Lando’s part around nothing. His cheeks hollow as he drinks. Lando’s pupils are blown wide, and Oscar spares a second to consider whether Lando’s been out of his sight long enough to have taken anything without him noticing.

“Thanks,” he says when he’s had his fill. The glass is mostly empty and the liquor burns pleasantly all the way down, adding to the fire already smoldering in his stomach.

“Whatever helps.” Lando’s tone is different than Oscar’s ever heard it, but he doesn’t have time to figure that out, because then Lando’s turning around, pressing his back to Oscar’s front, and reaching back to catch Oscar’s hand in his free one - the one that had been on the bare skin of his side a second ago. Everything is still hot and close and overwhelming, but the space under his ribs feels cool with the memory of Lando’s palm.

It’s a blur for awhile. Half of Lando’s drink isn’t really enough to move the needle for Oscar, but he feels drunk instead on the feel of Lando’s abdomen under his palm, the subtle shift of muscle as Lando moves. His head spins with the press of Lando’s hips back into his own, thoughts nebulous in the blue-green light. He catches the eye of a girl across the floor at one point, and her smile sharpens when she sees him looking. He’s not even, really; it’s neither here nor there to him when she starts moving across the floor. Lando’s been like an extension of Oscar’s own body for a bit already, tuned half out for his own sanity, but everything barrels back into focus when Lando’s head tips back again. Oscar recalls his adam’s apple, Charles’ neon shots. A lifetime ago.

“Having fun?” Lando mumbles. His mouth brushes Oscar’s skin. Oscar’s half-convinced it’s an accident, but when he tips his head down to read the words off Lando’s lips, they press more firmly to his jaw. They’re wet and cooler than the ambient air, like he’s just drained the ice from the bottom of his glass. Oscar’s eyes flick back up to clock the woman’s progress, but she’s paused steps away. Oscar feels caught out and guilty even though he hasn’t done anything at all.

“Always, with you,” is what he says. It must be the correct answer, because Lando’s head turns in even further and his lips brush Oscar’s neck in little closed-mouth passes.

When Lando speaks again, Oscar can feel the words spelled out against his skin, drawing goosebumps: “Wanna get out of here?”

Oscar does. Has since the minute he walked in, really. His arm around Lando tightens, drawing him in closer for a final moment, bidding farewell for now to this version of them on the dance floor.

Lando turns back around in his arms, then, not a centimeter further away than he’d started.

“Walk me home?” he asks into Oscar’s cheek.

And Oscar does.