#This is an attempt at it with others based off it

[bueckets]

Thin Walls

Pairing: roommate!Paige x reader

Genre: roommates to lovers, kinda funny?, smut, unbearable sexual tension, petty revenge, paper-thin walls, psychological warfare via moaning, paige bueckers menace era, girl failure x girl who never fails, competitive pining, mutual obsession, doomed from the start but in a fun way, vibrators n SEX, almost all ssmut

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time. 

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets. 

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

And you—God help you—you might actually say yes.

[flock-of-cassowaries]

Bestie and I watch those rapid-fire compilation videos where people fall off logs / ziplines / balance beams etc., and whenever someone (of any gender) collides with a dude, he shouts “MPREG!”

(He also sings “Lost at SEA!!!” whenever someone falls into any size body of water, and “Paltrowed!” whenever there is a ski- or snowboard-based mishap. It’s a good time.)

The other day, the people overestimating their athletic prowess were two female-presenting individuals, whose attempt at a two-person yoga pose ended in spectacular failure and spilled popcorn, and he yelled “MPREG!”

And I was like “Bestie, there are no M’s.”

So now whenever two women smash into each other, he yells “LPREG!”

"you don't like mpreg?" i don't even like fpreg

[zephyrchama]

Make barbatos fanfics pls

The memory of your recent mishap kept playing in your mind. It was a complete mistake - you hadn't intended to drench Barbatos in tea. Despite him being more than capable of protecting himself, you foolishly attempted to shield him from whatever toxic concoction Solomon was cooking up. One thing led to another, a massive pot fell over, there was an ear-deafening clang, and Barbatos was on the ground. Sopping wet.

He wasted no time in excusing himself to clean off, leaving you to bear the weight of your sins. Anyone could have easily cleaned the mess with magic, but Barbatos instead opted for a shower for some peace and quiet to calm down. Solomon was left to scrub the floor by hand since he started this issue in the first place.

As all of the castle's linens had been conveniently gathered in the laundry room to be inventoried, you took it upon yourself to grab a clean towel and deliver it to Barbatos.

You could hear the water running from down the hall. It was so loud, you weren't sure Barbatos could hear you. Wisps of steam escaped from the cracks around the bathroom door. You knocked. There was no answer.

"Barbatos?" you called, knocking again. There was no answer. Only the running of water. He was probably already in the shower. You could take this opportunity to grab his soiled uniform and clean it before the stains permanently set in.

With that plan of action, you opened the door. Barbatos was not in the shower, despite the running faucet. In fact, Barbatos was stark naked in the middle of the room. A washcloth in his hand indicated he had already obtained his own towels. He had his back to the door, as if he was just about to enter the tub. He made eye contact with you over his shoulder, eyes wide.

That one second felt like an hour.

His posture was superb. A mix of tea and condensation from the muggy bathroom air trailed down the curve of his spine, fine enough to be in a medical textbook. Your eyes followed, down to the base of his tail and the derriere behind it. Two fabulous, firm full moons. A sight rarer than anything else in all the three realms.

"Did you need something?"

Barbatos' usual polite tone was punctuated with umbrage. He placed a hand on his chest, as though shielding his visage.

"I'm sorry!" were the first words you spat out, on reflex. Coherent thinking failed you in the face of such art. Sentences started falling out of your mouth and you hoped they made sense. "I thought you might need a towel, so I got one from the laundry and came to give it to you. I knocked! I did, I knocked, but you didn't answer so I came in to leave this."

You held the towel forward with both hands as an offering. "And I was gonna collect your clothes so I could wash them. As an apology for, ah, that other thing I did. Sorry."

You stared at the ground. Even Barbatos' ankles were pristine. A little bony, tapering down at the sides that led to his slender feet. You watched his weight shift as his tail curled closer to his body.

"How thoughtful. I'd appreciate if you could hang it on the towel bar. I will handle my clothes myself, later."

"Right, of course." You swiveled and diligently hung the towel up. The dirty clothes in question were on the ground, still soaking wet, neatly folded in a square. You looked from them back to Barbatos. He was rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. One wrong move, and who knew how much you'd see?

More than the current eyeful, that's for sure. More than the slope of his shoulders. More than the rise and fall of his upper body with each fresh breath. More than the sight of his wet hair clinging to the curve of his jawbone and the tenseness in his arm when his painted fingernails wrapped around the tiny washcloth.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked. An obvious cue for you to leave.

"I'm good," you said. It was hard not to ogle at the size of his waist fully unobscured by clothing, and its ratio to his hips. "Do you... need any help?"

"I am fine. I will be taking my shower now." His voice echoed around the bathroom as you finally left. It echoed around your head, too, when he said, "be good and wait for me."

[rabotimagines]

"New tricks" GN BOT READER × Sunstreaker + Sideswipe

Summary: Sunstreaker catchs reader slipping during a spar and doesn't hesitate to jump at the opportunity to get one over on them.

Warnings: Dubious consent (but reader is horny and 100% willing), MDNI 🔞

G1 characters: Sunstreaker and Sideswipe

Genre/Theme: Smut! 🔞 Scenario

Notes: This is based off of older reader who uses petnames which you can find here. Reader bottoms and gets their valve used. The twins think Reader is fragging the other autobot officers. (They aren't)

Pronouns: You, your, yours, they, their, them.

Sunstreaker was trying for the frag he didn't even know what attempt to get one over on you in a spar.

And then it happened. Sunstreaker found an opening. You'd already knocked him onto the floor a good ten separate times today so maybe you got sloppy- but Sunstreaker wasn't going to miss the opportunity. He knocked you to the ground and wrestled until he had you pinned on your front. Him leaning over the back of you using his frames weight to keep you still. Both your arms were pinned to your own back by one of Sunstreakers servos.

You only chuckled even with your faceplate resting against the floor. "Wow Sunny, guess you finally won huh?" Sunstreaker clicked his glossia, the warmth having long bubbled into an actual fire and into a burning inferno of frustration. Every little smile, every little glance, every little stupid repetition of "Sunshine" from you- Sunstreaker was sick of it. And now he had you pinned and at his mercy and you still. Wouldn't. Say. His. Designation.

Sunstreaker was going to frag his frustrations right into you.

Sunstreakers digits dug into the edges of your modesty plate trying to find the manual release. Sunstreaker was going to get you to call him his designation- he's shoving your helm harsher against the ground, "Hey now-" You squirmed against his hold "You saying you're interested in my valve? A fossil like me? Sunny you're a pervert!" You laughed again and it's still so light and it only makes Sunstreaker more heated because that's not his designation on your glossia yet. You still aren't taking him seriously-! But you allow your modesty panel to pull back before he can claw at it again leaving your array open for Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker takes a quick look at your valve before shoving two digits into you. He crooks them and next slide forward he's knuckle deep in you. You're wet- so wet that your opening up further for him fast. "You calling me the pervert?" Sunstreaker crooks his digits deeper and then scissors them watching how your valve opens easily under the action. "You're the one already getting off on this." Sunstreaker hisses out, ignoring his own spike that was currently throbbing hard against his own modesty panel.

"What- Ha- ah-" Sunstreaker pulled at the rim of your hole with his digits and bit his bottom derma when your valve obediently stretched with his light insistence. "What can I say? Ha- been a while since I've overloaded- Can't blame a bot for being bent up? Can you?- Agh-" Sunstreaker pulled his digits out and his servo curled around your spike instead and jerked twice languidly.

Your spike immediately started spilling pre lubricant all over itself. Sunstreaker scoffed "What-? like you expect me to believe you're not bending over for any of the other officers? Jazz? Ironhide? Optimus?" It was only a rumor based on your own flirtatious nature but the fact that you don't respond to him only makes Sunstreakers spike press harder against his panel. So Sunstreaker let's it open and his spike pressurizes properly.

Sunstreaker huffs and puts his full weight on your back again, and he lines his spike up against your valve. The head of his spike kissing your valve entrance "Say it." Sunstreaker grounds out against your audial his one free servo gripping the metal of your hip hard. His other still pinning your wrists to your back.

You're quiet for a moment, as if considering your options and then you start again. "Sunny-" Wrong! Sunstreaker snapped his hips and buried his spike inside you in one solid motion. You coughed a vent and clenched around his length. Sunstreaker didn't wait to start slamming into your valve, every snap of his hips hitting your aft caused an audible sound.

You hadn't given up yet! You were still fighting him! "Say it- say it!" Sunstreaker hissed through his clenched denta. Sunstreaker working harder to pound you into the training room floor. He pushed his chasiss down on your back, forcing you against the floor even further. You're grunting and groaning while Sunstreaker continued to pound your valve. "Fragging say it!"

"Sunstreaker-" Frag! There it is! There it is-! Sunstreaker only growled his engine revving of its own accord. His servo released your wrists and moved to grip your hips tighter. Sunstreaker began physically dragging you backwards to meet him harder when he bottomed out inside you. You groaned and apparently accepting your lose, you continued rewarding him. "Sunstreaker- Sunstreaker! Sunstreaker-" Frag! Frag- your valve was squeezing his spike just right and your taking him and taking him- Sunstreaker was going to overload right in your valve- he's gonna stuff you full right here on the training room floor-

"Sunstreaker!" Frag yes- Sunstreaker bottomed out and pressed you harder against the floor. His hips rocking forward through every rolling wave of his overload with a heavy groan. The heat behind his helm slowly shimmered down the more transfluid he pumped into you. Sunstreaker eventually relaxed his jaw with gasping vents. The aftermath of his own overload trickling up his shivering plating.

The only sounds in the training room were both your rapid vents.

Then you laughed the way you did when you were teasing one of them. "Primus, Sunshine... was that worth it?"

Your words only light that fire back into his chassis. Sunstreaker slowly pulled back like he was going to pull out. Only to bottom back out aggressively, reveling in the choked gasp you gave in response. Sunstreakers servos tightened back on your hips with a scowl. He was gonna get it through your thick helm what his designation was!

Even if he had to frag right into you!

-

Sideswipe was minding his own business when Sunstreaker simply Commed him "Help me." To which Sideswipe obviously asked "With what?" And then their bond, which was tight for the whole day, opened wide. And Sideswipe almost tripped when the hot charge of arousal and another frame running along his plating was felt distantly. Which only made Sideswipe deadly curious on who was Sunstreaker fragging- Sideswipe demanded "Who? And where?" Only to get the where, and now he was booking it to the training room In his alt mode. He was a bit too hot and bothered to care about the tire tracks he'd left on the ark floor from peeling out.

Sideswipe barreled into the training room in root mode, the door sliding shut behind him and he saw Sunstreaker on top of a familiar frame.

Oh frag yes it was you. Sideswipes optics brightened just a bit in excitement.

Sideswipe grinned and wondered over. "Well, well Sunny. Finally got one over on 'em?" Sunstreaker pulled back and sat on his aft, dragging you along with him as he moved. Your back was against Sunstreakers chassis and you were huffing in vents. Your optics were brighter then Sideswipe had ever seen them before. And it made Sideswipe want to see if he could make them even brighter.

"They got sloppy." Sunstreaker remarked before hooking his servos under your knees. Sunstreaker then pulled your legs open from behind. Fully exposing your interface array for Sideswipes optics. Your spike was still hard against your own plating and twitching occasionally. Your own transfluid was splattered on your own front, while your valve was dripping Sunstreakers transfluid onto the training room floor.

"Definitely not the only thing sloppy huh? Sloppy seconds?" Sideswipe knelt down between your thighs, his servos immediately trailing along your legs.

"Sloppy thirds actually." You muttered, leaning your helm back against Sunstreakers pauldron. "Hi, Sides'" you smiled rather lazily at him and it made Sideswipes optics brighten a bit more.

Sideswipe glanced at the transfluid still spilling out of your valve. Yeah Sunstreaker definitely stuffed you twice. ...How about Sideswipe stuffed you a third time? "Hey- So feel like playing nice, old timer?" Sideswipe could tell that's what Sunstreaker wanted help with. Seeing if they could maybe "break you in" and have you so well fragged you'd be more... inclined to listen to them. Since it was after Sunstreakers spar attempt Sideswipe could only assume it was about the obvious. You're little pet names for them.

You only huffed in amusement. "Can't say I am... What can I say? it's a bit hard to teach an old cyberhound new tricks."

"Hm- Hear that Sunstreaker? Gonna have to break them in a bit more to make 'em listen." Sideswipe let his modesty panel pull back and his spike pressurize.

Sunstreaker just pulled your legs open further giving Sideswipe better access. "Help train 'em then Sides."

Sideswipe lined his spike up and pushed forward. His spike slid inside you effortlessly after two rounds with Sunstreaker. Your own valve lubricant and Sunstreakers transfluid only made it slicker. "Slag-" Sideswipe cursed when you clenched around him, his pelvis pressing against your own when he bottomed out. "Nice valve- What? You used to taking spike like this?"

"Sorry a bit out of- ha-" You gasped when Sideswipe pulled back and started lazily rolling his hips. "Bit out of practice actually."

What so you weren't actually fragging any of the other officers? That was... surprising? But Sideswipe just buried himself back inside you and his servos found your frame. Servos running over your chassis. Sunstreaker leaned over your pauldron, making you tilt your helm to see and he locked derma with you. His brother hadn't hesitated to shove his glossia into your mouth and start making out with you.

"Sunny! You said you'd help me get them to call me something else!" You couldn't exactly do that with Sunstreakers glossia in your mouth!

Sunstreaker broke the kiss to huff out "Never said that." Only to shove his glossia back into your mouth. Sideswipe could hear you chuckling against Sunstreakers mouth, your chassis lightly shaking in laughter.

"You implied it!" Sideswipe scowled and curled his servos around your waist to pull you down to meet his thrusts. Sideswipe looked back up to watch you kiss Sunstreaker. You easily kept up with Sunstreakers enthusiasm even while Sideswipe was fragging you. Sunstreaker actually pulled back a touch when you tilted your helm at an angle and nipped at his bottom derma. Sunstreakers groan caught in your mouth and you chased him as he pulled back only forcing your glossia back into Sunstreakers mouth. Oral lubricant spilled down the side of Sunstreakers jaw. Out of practice Sideswipes aft... you could say you used to be a part time pleasure bot and Sideswipe wouldn't even reset his optics.

Sideswipe stopped thrusting and instead stayed where he was buried inside your valve. While one of his servos wrapped around your spike. You twitched at the touch and Sideswipe started stroking you off slow but steady with his servo. The longer Sideswipe jerked your spike off the more you slowly started to squirm under his touch. Your hips finally bucked against his and Sideswipe smirked as he watched your plating start to twitch.

You finally broke the kiss with Sunstreaker to turn to Sideswipe "What- c'mon babe give it to me."

Sideswipes engine jumped and he pulled out and thrust back in you and smiled again. "What was that?"

You huffed, one servo digging into Sunstreakers thigh while the other was on Sideswipes waist. "C'mon baby give it to me-" your optics half shuttered and you bit your bottom derma lightly as you stared at Sideswipe. Your optics were oh so bright- yeah this memory was gonna be Sideswipes go to self servicing material for a long time.

Sideswipes engine revved and he pulled back and started fragging you how he had wanted to. Fast and deep. You arched up when Sideswipe started jerking your spike again in time with his own thrusts. You clenched down on him every time Sideswipe bottomed out inside you- frag you were too good at this. You were totally sleeping with the other officers- you had to be! Sunstreaker locked derma with you again and pressed his glossia back against your own. You groaned against him and your spike started throbbing in Sideswipes grip- frag- Sideswipe was gonna overload right in you. Gonna stuff you even more-! "Frag!" Sideswipe grit his denta when his overload rocked into him. He kept jerking his servo and watched as you arched up and started shooting heavy ropes onto your own chassis. You clenched down on Sideswipes spike and practically milked his overload out of him. Sideswipe could only laugh at the dirty haze of it all.

Sunstreaker kept kissing you through your own overload and even while you were winding down. Eventually Sunstreaker pulled back, a string of oral lubricant spilt down your own throat and both your derma were a touch swollen from the heavy make out session. You were venting harsh, optics still very bright. Slag it all, Sideswipe kinda wanted to go again. But he started pulling out because he wanted to see his own transfluid spilling out of you.

You only grunted when Sideswipe pulled out. "Who said you can't teach old cyberhounds new tricks? Huh Sunny?" Sideswipe asked. The wet squelch of your transfluid stuffed valve sounded when it started pouring out of your fragged open hole. Sideswipe smirked at the sight, satisfaction running deep in him.

Only for the sound of the training room door opening making Sideswipe tense all over. "What in the- Get up!" Ironhide biting out an order had Sideswipe cringing and slowly lowering your thighs, closing his array, before standing. Sunstreaker did the same after untangling his frame from you as well. You however stayed on the floor, huffing in vents with your array still wide open for anyone to see with their transfluid still spilling out of you.

You just waved a servo at Ironhide dismissively and continued to vent. "Give- give me a klick Ironhide... still recovering from three back to back stuffings of transfluid."

"Three?" Ironhide looked up from you to both of them and sighed "Who went twice?"

Sideswipe immediately pointed a thumb at Sunstreaker and Sunstreaker slammed his pede into the back of Sideswipes knee making him almost fall over. Sideswipe cursed and turned ready to latch onto Sunstreaker but Ironhide just latched onto both of them instead, each servo around one of their arms. "None of that! You done fragged your superior officer on the training room floor! Cafeteria duty for a week! Starting now!"

"Wha- but!- They-" Sideswipe tried to object- you'd let them frag you after all! Well- maybe it was the fact they did it in the middle of the training room... in the middle of the day... when sideswipe was supposed to be not here. ...yeah that was probably it actually. Sunstreaker hadn't even bothered to say anything so he knew it too. Sideswipe finally just sighed and rolled his optics. "Fine. Later-" Sideswipe waved to you and you just saluted him with two fingers. Ironhide released them and they both headed out the door.

Once the training room door closed behind them Sideswipe crossed his arms over his chassis. "So- Now we're fragging them?" Sideswipe asked aloud.

Sunstreaker just hummed. "If they call me 'Sunshine' again I'm gonna drag them somewhere and spike them till they remember my designation."

Oh hot. That was definitely a fun little idea. Sideswipe had only used your valve... Maybe Sideswipe could ride your spike next time you tried to call him "Pookie". Sideswipe grinned at the thought.

They were definitely gonna have some more fun with you.

[astermagnolia]

Danny and Peter run into Jason: one-shot based on my most recent post

\/\/\/\/

Danny sighed as he shivered, still trying to get used to the spider-sense. From what he and Peter could tell it's barely only been a month since their situation and by far Spider sense has been the most annoying ability to try and learn.

"Peter tingle sucks, man," Danny mutters under his breath lest he get confused stares.

"Please for the love of everything, stop calling it peter tingle." Peter begged. If he was in control of his body at the moment he's sure his head would be on his head.

Danny's... housemate? Body...mate? Ew, no not that one. Headmate. Yeah, headmate, tried his best to explain how his sixth sense worked and how to deal with it but Danny still gets freaked out by it. Even when he's not driving the body

"Well, maybe if i didn't get tingles and shivers every time i would call it accordingly."

"It's just warning you of danger."

"Dude, we're currently staying in an area called crime alley near a place called the narrows in a city where crime is rampant. Gotham is ranked number one for 'one of the most crime-ridden cities'," Danny ranted, trying to keep his voice low and head down.

That little nugget of information was great to learn when they were doing their research. On top of learning that aliens exist and the police were corrupt. Though that last one wasn't too surprising.

"I mean, if we moved..."

"We barely have enough to feed ourselves plus your crazy metabolism. We can't move and then struggle to find a good place to bunk." Danny sighed again.

Trying to find a job is the most difficult thing at the moment considering they didn't have any ID—or any proof of existence in this world—and the fact they looked so young.

Danny took stealing from people, much to chagrin if Peter. He swore up and down he was stealing from wealthy people.

Peter on the other hand, when he was in control of his body, would try and fix anything from anyone within the area. People have started calling him 'tinkerer' and. Funnily enough, the guy who buys the stuff Danny steals calls him 'furittus'.

"Hey, look." Peter grabbed Danny's attention to what's ahead of them.

In front of them is a nice red motorcycle, the glossy coat reflecting the soft glow of the nighttime city. It was just sitting idle and unattended with no one near it or in sight.

Danny whistled appreciatively and walked closer to it. "D'ya recognize it, Pete?"

"Hmm, I think it's a Honda CB750 but...it looks heavily modified. That would cost a lot." Peter noted with a hint of admiration in his voice.

Danny hummed in thought, a playful smile growing in his face.

"Think i could steal it?" He joked.

"No!"

Danny blinked as the word practically echoed in his head, "Ow."

Pete huffed. If he had his body he would cross them and he would have a frown on his face. "Sorry for yelling, but also, that's a horrible idea. It would have cost the person so much time and money to modify the bike."

Danny rolled his eyes, "If it meant so much they wouldn't have left it here in the middle of crime alley. Just the wheels at least."

Peter sighed, "You don't even have any tools. How are you going to take the wheels?"

Danny smirked as he lifted their hand and turned it intangible. At least, that was the attempt. Their whole arm turned intangible instead.

Peter huffed, "I'll try to keep a lookout as you take the wheels then. Just like to say again, this is a horrible idea."

Danny grinned as he quietly worked to get the wheels off the rest of the bike and carefully left the bolts near the bike. It's the least he could. He has one wheel off when he pauses his work to get a better look at the engine.

"This sure is a nice looking bike." Danny says absentmindedly. "I'm really curious who it belongs to."

"I would say thank you but it looks like I'm being robbed." The gravel behind them makes noise.

Danny gasps—blue mist leaves his mouth—spinning to face the man behind them and some of the bolts fall out of his hand.

"i found it like that." Danny blurts out.

"Oh for the love–I can't even be mad, i would say the same thing. But i told you it would be a bad idea! Do you see him?? Look how huge he is!" peter ranted and hoped that Danny could feel him disappointment.

The man in front of them is huge, built like a tank and wearing a leather jacket. He has black hair with some of the front part being white. He definitely knows how to fight.

The man crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Why does this feel like deja vu?" He mutters. "Alright, wanna explain yourself, kid?"

Danny tries not to pout as he's called a kid, "...I just needed some money for some food." He says instead, hoping the man will take some pity.

The man stares at him, scrutinizing him and trying to come to some conclusion.

"What if he kills us?" Peter whispers.

"Welp, sorry pete but you would have erased yourself for nothing." Danny dryly replies as quiet as he can.

"Dude! Uncalled for."

"Alright, come on, follow me." The man suddenly says.

Danny jumps, his mouth dropping open "huh?"

"Food. I know a good place. The names' Jason, by the way." The man, Jason, simply says. He puts his hands in his jacket and starts heading in a direction.

"We're not actually following him, right? That's like, stranger danger one-oh-one and–nope we're just following him. That's great. That's cool. Lets just follow the guy we were stealing from."

Danny shrugged. "Free food."

Peter sighs and can only watch as Danny follows the guy. He would take control if he could, but if he forced a switch, that would only cause extreme dizziness, and it would be hard to explain their physical change, too. Peter and Danny still haven't figured out how to safely switch who is in control of the body. They just wake up and whoever is in control of the body is in control for the rest of the day, unless they're knocked out. Once, Danny was in control for three whole days.

Jason led to a fast food place called Bat Burger.

Once at the register, Jason tilted his head, "Order whatever you like and however much you like."

Danny and Peter are stunned hearing what Jason just said.

"However much I like?" Danny slowly repeated still trying to make sure he heard right.

"no way he's serious, right?"

"Yup, however much you like." Jason confirmed as he finished his order. "I'm using my old man's credit card anyway."

"...Alright, what do we want," Danny mutters and decides not to question Jason's odd decision. If they can order however much they want then they'll be able to take whatever they don't finish back to their little base, though he doubts they'll leave much.

Peter rattles off what his order, which Danny repeats and then he orders what he wants.

One thing Peter is grateful for, despite their circumstances, is that when he is stuck in his head, he can still taste whatever Danny is eating and vice versa.

The cashier stares in horror but then deeply sighs. They ring up their order, gives them their cups, and tell them to sit anywhere.

They grab their drinks and the two sit in the corner booth.

Jason places his hands on the table, "So, kid, what can i call ya?'

Danny jumps at the sudden question and stutters out, "Uh, our name is–I mean, my, my name is Danny."

The rest of the night goes by strangely but nicely. Jason asks one too many questions—about their non-existent home life which is nice—and that leads Danny to tell Jason to shove them, much to Peter's horror.

Danny does pretty much eat everything and as much as he wants to ask Jason about his strange ecto signature, he lets it go in favor of being left alone.

"That guy was weird. My spider sense didn't, you know, sense him." Peter admits, suspicion and weariness oozing from his voice.

Danny shrugs, "It's a big city. I doubt we'll run into him again."

\/\/\/\/

Peter luck strikes again.

If peter ever got the chance, he'll hang Danny up by his feet. He will find some way to neutralize his abilities and web him up.

"Hey, you're welcome to try, pete!" Danny says through his laughing.

In front of Peter is Jason, the man that fed them just a few weeks ago.

And is currently staring down at Peter with an intense stare.

Next to Jason is another man with tanned skin, black hair, and blue eyes. He's smiling widely, coming off as friendly.

"Do you two know each other?" The man tilted his head, trying to start a conversation.

"Uh, no, sorry, it's my first time seeing him...and you," Peter replies and looks down at the watches he's holding. He'd been told to fix them and the people they belonged too were loyal customers. He didn't think one of them would be Jason.

"Nah, i don't know 'em. He just looks familiar." Jason replies. He squints, scowling in thought. "You don't happen to have a twin do you? One with Black hair and blue eyes."

Peter wants to shrivel up and die.

Danny definitely isn't helping as he wheezes, laughing at Peter's misfortune.

Danny, what do I say?!

"Tell them yes and that we've been separated and you have been living with your uncle!"

By some miracle, Peter was able to sell his grief and ask Jason if he'd seen him. He's not sure how he did it since his lying pretty subpar most days. He was still baffled about lying to Aunt May for as long as he did.

"Oh, that's so sad," The man, Dick Grayson, stated with empathy in his eyes. "Why don't you file a missing person report? They could help..." He weakly says.

Jason sighs, placing a hand on his forehead. "Dick i swear to god..."

Peter stares baffled. Did this man not know Gotham police? How does he explain why going to the police is not a good idea, for one, the corruption, and two because Danny—by extension Peter as well—do not exist. So he cant file a missing person report.

"ACAB, bitch!"

"ACAB, bitch!" Peter blurts out the only thing in his mind and slaps a hand over his mouth. Danny's loud voice was the only thing on his mind. He couldn't think of anything else.

Danny was laughing hysterically about the situation Peter found himself in.

Dicks mouth dropped open, shocked by the sudden exclaim.

Jason begins to snicker which turns into a full blown belly aching laughter. He leaned on the counter and slapped Dick's shoulder.

"He–HAHAHH! Ohhh man. Kid I just met, you're incredible. heehe–" Jason erupted into another fit of laughter.

Peter stands in embarrassment and tired of this whole thing. He just wants the world to open up and swallow him. Saves him from the embarrassment.

"You're stuck with me Peter, whether you like it or not!" Danny exclaims through laughter.

At the very least, Peter isn't alone.

\/\/\/\/\/

This is all i had running through my head. I cannot promise any part 2 or anything

Some notes:

Jason's personal bike and red hood bike are different. And obviously hard to find an exact model since they change with different iterations and, ya know, trademark law and all. The bike i mentioned is one iteration that seemed the most obvious since someone was able to name it.

I think the earliest spiderman gave peter Parker a bike. I haven't seen anyone put an exact name on it but, funnily enough, its also a Honda

I hope I did the characters justice <3

[pearlescentparade]

could you make a fic or HCs for 1x1x1x1 but the Betrayed 1x1x1x1 skin if you could :3 maybe something to do with his hair but its up to you :D

im not even gonna lie ive been basing 1x's personality off of his betrayed skin's bc those voicelines are the only hints i get at knowing how this dude acts so the only difference is that she's got hair 💔💔

❎betrayed 1x1x1x1 x reader fluff💝

"y0u just c4n't g3t 3n0ugh 0f m3~" 1x1x1x1 boldly claims as you run your fingers through their luscious white hair, watching the strands seamlessly part as you comb through. you roll your eyes, "ever the narcissist, aren't you? in any case, it's your hair i'm obsessed with, not you. just how do you get it to be so smooth...?" taking a small lock in your hand, you observe it in awe. seriously, no knots or tangles? they could star in a pantene commercial if he didn't look so damn scary. a devious snicker escapes from them, and you're already mentally preparing yourself to hear what she has to say next.

"1 w4sh w1th th3 b100d 0f my v1ct1ms- AUGH!" with the piece of hair that's already in your hand, you firmly pull it as a way to scold them. "ew! whatever, edgelord." 1x1x1x1 turns back to look at you when they feel you withdraw your hands to dig in your bag, perturbed by the loss of contact. the chains that sit around their body clink from the movement. "1 d0n't r3m3mb3r s4y1ng y0u c0u1d st0p." "oh, be patient! i only stopped so i could get these." after scolding her gently, you emerge from your bag, revealing a brush, some hairties, and a few cutesy clips. the face 1x1x1x1 makes at the objects could be described as something akin to disgust yet intrigue. she slightly backs away, letting out a hiss, "y0u w4nt t0 d3c0r4t3 m3 l1ke 1'm s0m3 k1nd 0f p3t? hhhh.. 1 w0n't 4110w 1t." you step forward, closing the distance he attempted to create. "don't be dramatic, it's only a few accessories! you have all that nice hair, you ought do something fun with it every now and then." the being of hatred starts to retort, but completely gives up when you begin brushing, losing himself in the pleasant feeling. you swear you can hear them faintly purring.

after a bit of brushing out, you split the back of their hair down the middle, sectioning it into two. then, collecting all of the hair on one side, you pull it into a hairtie and start tying a pigtail. the same goes for the other side. finally, to top it all off, you fasten some clips on their bangs. 1x1x1x1 suspects something is up when she hears you giggling, and confronts you when you've finished. "i don't even want to know what you've done with me."

"aww, c'mon, you don't, heh, you don't wanna see what you look like? not even a liiiittle?" teasingly, you hold your handmirror out to her and invite her to take a look as you struggle to stifle your laughter. if 1x1x1x1 could destroy objects with his glare, that mirror would've shattered in your hands. they growl as they snatch it from you, hesitantly lifting it to behold themself in the glass.

safe to say, he absolutely hates it. the cutesy pastel clips with bows and small animals appear alien alongside 1x1x1x1's harsh and saturated color palette, and don't even get her started on the dumb pigtails. "..th1s 1s 4WFUL! 1 l00k utt3r1y stup1d--hurry 4nd t4ke 1t 0ff!" in a fit of embarrassment, she violently shuts the mirror with a loud clap, and hurls it at you. you're barely able to catch it through your laughter. "but--snrk--but 1x, you look so cute! keep them on, pleaaseeee?" "4bs0lut41y n0t. th3s3 4r3 c0m1ng 0ff." one by one, 1x1x1x1 yanks the clips out of his hair and discards them onto the ground. before they can take out the pigtails, you stop them by gently grabbing her wrist. "at least keep the pigtails in... think about it like the ponytail you always have, just on both sides of your head." he narrows their sharp red eyes, elf ears twitching in annoyance as you attempt to convince them to keep any evidence of your mini makeover. after a long and gravelly exhale from him, he resigns, "f1n3. but d0n't th1nk y0u'll g3t 4w4y w1th th1s.. 1'll g3t b4ck 4t y0u!"

when the next round rolls around, 1x1x1x1 targets you heavily, stopping at nothing to ensure you lose. despite the other survivors' valiant efforts to protect you, she gets you. but damn, you'd be lying if you said it wasn't worth it seeing 1x1x1x1 in cutesy pigtails, even if they were enraged and chasing you.

(parade postscript: i think i'll have 1x1x1x1 talk with leetspeak bc i see a lot of ppl make him do that so why not teehee im afraid itll make her rlly similar to griefer but i think i can write them to be different enough......)

[generalluxun]

The OG Five were still the best Miraculous team imo.

The OG Five had all the appearances of a carefully crafted team. 5 is a classic sentai number. All the members had interesting established interpersonal dynamics. None of the powers overlapped, or were narrative problems. It would have been an excellent base to develop from.

Instead they expanded the team to 17! members which no show can properly flesh out or explore. You don't fault ML for not executing it. You fault them for even attempting it m when there is tons of research material on hand for them to use.

I still say the larger class would have worked better purely as civilian 'heroes' with the occasional one off. Utilizing the other miraculous could have been done via fusions.

From a merchandizing standpoint it just makes sense too. You're not dropping 17 different hero models into the market, that's just begging for dead stock. (Yes some franchises get away with it, but TF is in a fairly unique position. Heck even DC/Marvel don't dump all their heroes out there)

Having an OG5 would have let them built up those 5 civilian characters and the fusions/use of different miraculous would let you still make many different toys. A kid won't care about having 10 different heroes, but 10 different *Ladybugs*? 'Mommy mommy I neeeeeeeeeed it' 😂

OG5 lets them explore a broader range of topics, because you can always do things 'Marinette adjacent' while never making it feel like the show would 'lose sight' of her.

The list goes on.

[dani-does-stuff]

Tango was sitting on an oak long in front of Skizz's base, shoving handfuls of popcorn in his mouth when Zedaph landed next to him.

"What in voids name are they doing"

"This is such a dumb idea," Impulse sighed as he worked on balancing himself on one of Doc's shoulders.

"No, it's not; it's an amazing idea, Dipple dop," Skizz practically yells well, trying to get on Doc's other shoulder.

"You know that trope of the angle and devil on your shoulders," Tango says to Zed, not looking away from the chaos unfolding in front of them. Zed nods, also not taking his eyes off of Imp,skizz, and Doc.

"Ok, so that explains that," he gestures forward, "but what happened to Scar?" Both Zed and Tango look down at Scar, who is lying face down in the grass, finney consciously sniffing Scar's nose while Katy Bee curls up and lays down on his back.

"Scar was attempted number two," Tangos says, his gazes shifting back in front of him as Scar groans, reaching an arm out to pet Finney.

"Oh.. two?" Zed question.

"Xisuma didn't make it," Tango says

"That explains how he was squashed to death," Zed says, reviewing the world chat.

"Ok on the count of three" as skizz says this tango gently hits zeds arm with the back of his hand. Both men watch as Skizz counts down and Doc stands up. As soon as Doc gets fully on his feet, he starts stumbling, and as a result of the sudden movement, skizz grabs onto Doc's head.

"VERDAMMT, SKIZZ, NIMM DEINE HÄNDE VON MEINEN AUGEN, ICH KANN NICHTS SEHEN" (damn it skizz, get your hands off my eyes I can't see) Doc yells as he starts stumbling backward at an alarming speed and before anyone could do or say anything more doc fell backward into the cave skizz's base was settled in.

Zed looks at his world chat.

Docm77 hit the ground too hard

Skizzleman hit the ground too hard

ImpulseSV hit the ground too hard

Tango and Zed explode into laughter as Impulse and Skizz respond at a nearby bed.

Skizz grabs a book, crosses something out and scribbles something down then getting up and moving the couple of block they were using to help climb onto doc with forward. After resetting his pile of blocks he takes out his communicator and starts typing.

Skizzleman: hey mumbo you free?

Mumbo: I am

Skizzleman: mind coming over to the crack ally, I need help with a project

Mumbo: sure, on my way.

Zed sets down a block of pink wool next to the tango and sits down; tango holds out the bowl of popcorn to him. Zed takes a handful as Mumbo lands next to Impulse and Skizz.

[solarsturniolo]

the difference between the pedophile’s version of cannibalism and @bernardsbendystraws version is that Rose’s isn’t a literal cannibal. Cannibalism has often been used metaphorically to symbolise deep romance and a need to feel as close to someone as possible. That’s why, when it is used, it’s worded in a way for the reader to know that the characters are not actually consuming each other. writing about a literal cannibal and attempting to make a love story / smut about ACTUAL cannibalism is psych ward behavior lmfao. Not to mention talking about it in front of your fucking toddler like you would talk about a baseball game.

Anyways, Rose’s idea was not BASED off of Bri’s because using cannibalism as a metaphor is fairly popular in romantic works of fiction. She is not the first and will not be the last to use it in such a way. Writing about actual cannibalism and attempting to romanticise it is fucking weird.

you’re also crazy to think anyone is that obsessed with you that they would copy your work out of spite lmfao. Nobody gives a fuck about you, we just want you to stay away from the fanbase, especially the younger audience.

[bwat5-blog]

Continuing The Cycle

**Spoilers For Arcane**

Let me say to begin with, that nothing in this post is to downplay or brush off Piltover's oppression of Zaun. There will be some who read that and still scream at me, that's okay. I just want to be clear.

Many people on here more insightful and intelligent than I have spoken on this already, but it has been sticking with me lately so I wanted to get my thoughts out.

I have been quite free with dismantling some of the inane attempts at criticism of Arcane in this space. But, I promise I do actually understand everyone is entitled to their opinion. After all, how we connect with and understand art on an individual level is one of the things that make it so special. I have never, and will never come for someone who is simply stating their honest opinion based on the actual content in a respectful manner.

Where my issues come in, have to do with these wide-spread critiques/takes/stances that so directly undermine the meaning of the narrative they are best ignorant and at worst malicious. And more often than not rely on omission of details that negates their stance, or fabrication of details to support them. To that end, what I am discussing today is the black and white thinking that has permeated the fandom, poisoning understanding and appreciation of all corners of that narrative.

LET'S JUST GET IT OUT OF THE WAY:

*Before we get into the Arcane content, we need to discuss where a lot of this is coming from. I am just gonna get this out here right now, and there are some people who are gonna keel over reading it but if you are one of those folks I might as well not waste your time*

Arcane is not the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.

It could not be more clear that this is where a lot of this is coming from. Let me be explicitly clear, this is NOT a deep-dive or analysis of this conflict. This thing is immensely complicated . If you comment here with a "IT IS NOT COMPLICATED ITS" sort of comment I'm sorry to tell you but you are wrong. The modern phase of this has origins as far back as the late nineteenth century and there is more going back even further. I don't care if its a straight fucking line. Something going back that far has more to it than the average nerd like me is qualified to speak on. Now, that being said, I do understand to a degree why this is happening. Not like this conflict has ever really been settled but in the last few years especially things have really been active and generating a degree of media content I don't remember seeing this level of in my short 32 years. So in a world where everyone (myself included) is so plugged in and enveloped by social media, a lot of us are getting a more direct look at this than we really ever have. And we analyze and connect with art through the lens of the world around us to a point. But we CANNOT do so exclusively. Trying to force a narrative into a one-to-one comparison robs it of a tremendous amount of meaning. Because no matter how complex and intricate this story actually can be. IT IS NOT REALITY. I'm not getting into it here, that would be pages and pages of writing and I'm here to talk about Arcane. But I'm going to say this because it applies to real life and the show both and will take us into my actual point today.

The idea that anyone on one side must always be good and justified simply because they are the oppressed, while the other must always be evil, is juvenile, naïve, and fails to grasp even a fraction of the complexity of human nature

Some of you are going to have an absolute seizure reading me say that that statement applies to real life as well. I don't care. It takes time, maturity, and meeting people from all walks of life to understand things are not so simple.

BACK TO ARCANE:

But, that being said time to get back to business. How does this all apply to Arcane?

"The show should have ended with a civil war between Zaun and Piltover!"

"When Zaun arrived during the last battle Jinx should have unloaded on the Enforcers and the Noxians both!"

"They ruined Jinx's character! WTF do you mean she apologized for killing Caitlyn's mother? Her mom was part of the oppressive system that ruined Jinx's life and brought it on herself!"

"Silco did bad things but it was all to gain power to protect Zaun!"

"Poor little rich girl lost her mom and acts like it's a reason to punish an entire city with warcrimes. The people of Zaun have been suffering worse for their entire history"

"Rebel Vi I miss you! How dare they make you care about people in Piltover!"

"The coward show runners made Zaunites into boot-lickers fighting for Piltover wearing Enforcer armor at the end!"

You get the idea. I have seen variations of these and many more time and time again. Zaun should have let Piltover fall or even attacked themselves. Caitlyn deserved everything done to her because she's of the Piltovan elite. Every terrible thing Jinx or Silco did was totally and completely justified because of Piltovan oppression.

Now there are many angles I could come at this from. My usual one is simply addressing the astounding lack of logic in most of these sorts of arguments. For example, I can rope all of the people saying Zaun should have let Piltover fall into one category. People who forgot about this guy:

Like he was just gonna "evolve" Piltover than call it a day and zoot off into space with his new buddies. Obviously not and the idea that he wouldn't immediately take Zaun as well then keep moving is completely laughable. But this sort of thing isn't my issue today. My issue is that those so zealously insisting the the show should have continued on a path of hate, death and destruction are completely missing the point.

I titled this continuing the cycle for a reason. So much of this show, revolves around this concept of the cycle of violence. Those who keep it going, those who suffer from it, and those who break it. And the issue I'm finding is that a tremendous amount of people have seemingly decided that anything people from Zaun do is justified, and anything people from Piltover do is not. When in fact, where they are born is irrelevant in this context. Because each and everyone of them has the choice to further the cycle, or to walk away.

Silco & Vander:

Vander continued the cycle when instead of forgiving Silco for his part (whatever it may have been, we never really get the whole story) in Felicia's death he tried to kill him. And Silco did the same when he took his revenge instead of walking away ending not only the life of the man who wronged him, but causing the deaths of two teenage boys, trying to have Vi killed and causing her imprisonment altering her life forever, and taking Powder as his own after obliterating her second family altering her life and the lives of all those she would hurt through her actions as well.

Caitlyn:

In Caitlyn we see all three. She was an admittedly naïve but well-meaning young woman who was victimized terribly by cycle of violence around all for thinking she could help. We then watch her heart-breaking transformation into being a part of it allowing her hate and pain to warp her into someone dark and vengeful. Then finally we see her laying down the hate for her mothers killer in favor of her love for the woman who means everything to her. Stepping outside of it and turning her back on that violence.

There are of course other examples. Jinx walking away, Ambessa choosing to continue the bloodshed even with her last child begging her to stop. the list goes on. My point in discussing this is that it doesn't matter where they come from. Characters from all over this story play a part both good and bad in the events that occur. And to properly appreciate and understand this tale and what it is saying we MUST recognize that.

Yes Silco was a Zaunite. No Silco was not justified in unleashing Shimmer on his own people. He was a revolutionary once, but he lost his way. In the end he died a violent drug lord who exploited his people for his own gain. He was not a hero.

Yes Jinx is a Zaunite. No, Jinx attacking the council was not a noble strike for her people against oppression. She was a terrified, mentally ill, grieving and angry young woman who lashed out in a moment of awful pain. And in doing guaranteed Piltovan oppression against her people. .

Yes, Heimerdinger was the father of Piltover and his neglect caused terrible problems for everyone. He also gave his life for a Zaunite rebel commander to help get him home. (I understand in the lore he's probably alive but we haven't seen that yet and they have for sure diverged so it isn't a guarantee)

Yes, Caitlyn Kiramman is the daughter of one of the high houses of Piltover, and played a part of the people of Zaun suffering under Ambessa's manipulations and cruelty. She also gave the leader of the Firelights the gemstone she was so determined to return, stood side-by-side with Vi and told the council to their faces they failed Zaun, and put her own body on the line to make things right against Ambessa.

And that isn't to say that any of those characters were all good or all bad. It's to say that they all are capable of both. Just like every character. To slap a Zaun sticker on Silco and a Piltover (or cop as so many of you are fond of) sticker on Caitlyn and give them a pass or not for everything they do based on that is simplistic and ignorant. These characters have so much to them that to reduce them to these easily digestible bite-sized pieces is to deprive yourself of that true weight of this story.

All that said, lets take another look at a few items from that list from earlier:

"The show should have ended with a civil war between Zaun and Piltover!"// At the moment where all of humanity was at stake, people came together and fought side by side to quite literally save the world

"They ruined Jinx's character! WTF do you mean she apologized for killing Caitlyn's mother? Her mom was part of the oppressive system that ruined Jinx's life and brought it on herself!"// In a moment of pain and clarity Jinx found herself speaking to someone she realized she horribly wronged. Someone who had been twisted into something dark and violent by pain and grief, a feeling Jinx knew all too well. So she said the most she could, it isn't a direct apology. But her remorse is clear. "

"When Zaun arrived during the last battle Jinx should have unloaded on the Enforcers and the Noxians both!"// Jinx went from someone hated and feared, who felt like she had nothing to offer anyone, who felt like she had failed or killed everyone who loved her, to riding into battle leading her people and bearing symbols of her loved ones into the war for all mankind. And although I and most agree she's alive, the last act we know she for sure that she took was to save the life of the older sister who loved her so much in her most dire moment. If she did die, Jinx died a hero.

CLOSING WORDS:

Arcane is many things. But it's humanity is its heart. I've said it many times and many ways, but good stories... in this case great stories matter. They stick with us. Because long after the giant battles, the wolf monsters, and shiny blue magic rocks have faded, its the humanity you remember. The sisters fighting desperately to hold on to each-other in a world determined to rip them apart. The lovers from different worlds finding hope in each-others arms. Brothers betraying one another, a daughter having to take her mothers life, the list goes on. But when we rob these characters and this story of all of that, when the flash is gone, what's left?

I haven't done a long one in a bit and I feel like this is a bit rambling so I apologize. To those who take time out of their day to read anything I have to say I appreciate you more than you know. Feel free to share your thoughts! I love discussing this show. And in closing will leave you with one of my favorite quotes.

“It's like the great stories, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad has happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer. I know now folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something. That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for"

- JRR Tolkien

[sirenedeslily]

── 𝓢weetest 𝓣orture ( jackie taylor ) ּ 𓂅 ⋆

・❥・─── 𝓢𝗬𝗡. a sugar-coated ache, golden and cruel, where longing is worship and desire feels like ruin.

( pairing ) — jackie taylor x female!reader 𝜗𝒞 ; angst & fluff ℳ. this is based off of the song lacy by liv !! 𓂃 ( 2.8k )

there's something about jackie taylor that makes the air feel thick with divinity. not a girl, not yet a woman, but something celestial—a creature so exquisite that the gods themselves must weep with envy. her skin glows like sunlight spilling over pale morning clouds, soft and warm, with a delicate fragility that reminds me of pastry crumbling beneath careful hands. she moves through spaces like she's dancing through starlight, and i'm left breathless in her wake, collecting the stardust that falls from her shoulders.

and i, a mere mortal, am cursed to know her. to see her and want her and burn under the weight of my own longing until every breath feels like inhaling fire. some days, i think i might combust from the sheer intensity of it all.

we're not supposed to feel this way about other people, are we? this kind of worship, this feverish ache that wraps itself around my ribs and refuses to let go. i am caught, tangled in her web, and every attempt to free myself only draws me closer to her light. it's a magnetic pull that defies physics, defies reason, defies every attempt i make to break free.

i remember the first day i saw her on campus. august heat made the air shimmer, and there she was, golden hair catching the sunlight like a crown. my heart stopped, then started again with a different rhythm—a rhythm that spelled out her name with every beat. jackie. jackie. jackie.

she was helping her parents unload boxes from their car, laughing at something her father said. the sound carried across the parking lot like wind chimes in a summer breeze, and i nearly dropped my own box of belongings. of all the colleges in all the world, she had to choose this one. my fresh start was over before it began.

she doesn't know. how could she? jackie moves through the world like it was made for her—head held high, eyes bright as morning dew, wearing a smile that could cut down armies and heal wounds in the same breath. she is a starlet reborn, a modern brigitte bardot, all charm and grace and effortless beauty. the kind of person who doesn't have to try to be remarkable. and she doesn't.

that's the cruelest part of all.

college was supposed to be my fresh start. after years of being tethered to my past—my mistakes, my insecurities, my endless jealousy—it was supposed to be my chance to let go, to become someone new. someone who didn't spend their nights writing poetry about unrequited love, someone who didn't feel like their skin was too tight for their body, someone who could breathe without feeling like they were drowning in want.

but then jackie chose the same school, and my carefully constructed plans unraveled like a sweater caught on a nail, leaving me exposed and raw.

she is everywhere.

in the dorm hallways, her laughter echoing off the walls like a siren's call. i've memorized the sound of her footsteps, the way they fall light and quick against the linoleum. sometimes i wait in my room, ear pressed against the door, just to hear her pass by. it's pathetic, i know, but i can't help myself. i'm addicted to even the smallest pieces of her.

in the library, she's a vision of concentrated beauty. head bent over textbooks, bottom lip caught between her teeth, the curve of her neck so perfect it makes my stomach churn with want. she twirls a strand of hair around her finger when she's deep in thought, and i've filled entire pages of my notebook just describing that simple gesture. the way the gold catches the fluorescent lights, the graceful movement of her fingers, the slight furrow in her brow as she reads.

at parties, she's ethereal. spinning under string lights in the cramped living rooms of off-campus houses, her golden hair catching the glow like it was spun from sunbeams. she dances like nobody's watching, but everyone is. how could they not? she's magnetic, drawing every eye in the room without even trying. i watch her from corners, from doorways, from behind red solo cups that i pretend to sip from. i watch her, and i burn.

and in my literature class. of all the small mercies the universe could have granted me, it denied me this one. jackie taylor sits a row ahead of me, her notebook open to pages of perfect handwriting, her pen tapping softly against her desk in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. sometimes she wears her hair up, exposing the delicate nape of her neck, and i have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from reaching out to touch it.

she has no idea how much i hate her for it.

but hate is the wrong word.

hate implies anger, bitterness, something sharp and biting. this is different. this is the kind of loathing that curls inward, burrows into your chest, and eats you alive from the inside out. it's jealousy, yes, but more than that. it's admiration so intense it feels like a wound that refuses to heal, a constant ache that throbs with every glimpse of her.

i've started cataloging her outfits in my mind, creating a digital archive of every sweater, every skirt, every perfectly coordinated accessory. today it's a cream-colored cardigan that makes her look like she stepped out of a vintage photograph. the soft wool catches the light when she moves, creating halos around her shoulders. her hair is loose today, falling in gentle waves that make my fingers itch to run through them.

jackie is too kind, too sweet, too thoughtful in ways that make me feel like i'm unraveling thread by thread. she compliments me sometimes—offhandedly, casually, like she's not dropping bombs that explode in slow motion beneath my skin.

last week, she stopped me after class. "that point you made about symbolism in plath's work was brilliant," she said, and i nearly choked on my own tongue. she remembered something i said. she thought about it. she thought about me.

"your hair looks nice today," she'll say as we pass in the hallway, her voice carrying the warmth of summer afternoons.

and i'll nod, choking out a quick "thanks," while my pulse thrums in my throat and my stomach twists itself into elaborate nautical knots. her words shouldn't matter. they shouldn't burrow under my skin like splinters, shouldn't stay with me for hours, days, weeks. but they do. and it makes me hate her. it makes me hate myself even more.

at night, i lie awake and replay every interaction, every glimpse, every moment she's existed in my proximity. i imagine different scenarios, different endings. in some, i'm brave enough to tell her how i feel. in others, she confesses first. In most, i just watch her from afar, burning and burning and burning.

i write about her constantly. my notebooks are filled with half-finished poems and prose pieces that try to capture the essence of her. how do you describe someone who seems made of light? how do you put into words the way your chest aches when they smile? how do you explain that you're drowning in the ocean of your own wanting?

"write about longing," our professor says, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence of the classroom like a knife through butter.

the class groans collectively, a few students laughing nervously at the vulnerability the assignment demands. i barely hear them. my heart is already pounding against my ribcage like it's trying to escape, my palms slick with sweat. finally, an excuse to put this ache on a paper other than mine.

"desire," she continues, her eyes scanning the room. "the kind of want that keeps you up at night. the ache you can't ignore, even when you wish you could."

i glance at jackie before i can stop myself, a moth drawn to its inevitable destruction. she's sitting straight, her face calm, unbothered. of course she is. jackie taylor has never wanted for anything in her life. she's never had to learn to live with the kind of hunger that gnaws at your insides, that makes you forget what it feels like to be full.

but me? my longing has become a second skin, an ever-present ghost that wraps itself around my throat and pulls tight until breathing becomes an act of defiance.

the poem consumes me like wildfire.

i write it over three sleepless nights, the words pouring out of me like blood from a wound. my roommate finds me at 3 am, hunched over my desk, tears streaming down my face as i write. she asks if i’m okay. i lie and say it's just stress about midterms.

how do you explain that you're writing about the way someone's existence has become both your salvation and your destruction? how do you tell someone that you're crafting a confession that will either set you free or burn you alive?

i don't name her in the poem. i don't need to. instead, i write about angels. about cathedrals and sunlight and the soft cruelty of someone who doesn't know the damage they're causing. i write about jealousy, about the way it festers and rots and turns love into something ugly yet still beautiful in its devastation. i write about longing so deep it feels like drowning, and about the sweetness of surrendering to it anyway.

when i'm done, i sit back, my chest heaving, my eyes burning with unshed tears that refuse to fall. it's her. it's always been her. every word, every metaphor, every carefully crafted line is a love letter i never intended to send.

the day of the reading arrives, and i feel like i'm walking to my own execution, each step bringing me closer to a beautiful destruction of my own making.

our professor insists that poetry must be spoken aloud to be truly felt. i disagree. some feelings are too raw, too personal to be shared. some words are meant to stay hidden, buried in journals and password-protected files. but here i am, about to lay my soul bare in front of twenty pairs of eyes, including hers.

jackie sits in her usual seat, a row ahead of me. today, her golden hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail that catches the fluorescent lights like a halo. she's wearing that cream cardigan again, the one that makes her look like she belongs in a classical painting. she looks calm, relaxed, her notebook open in front of her like this is just another day, just another class.

my hands tremble as the professor calls my name.

i stand, clutching my notebook so tightly the pages crinkling under my fingers, and walk to the front of the room. my heart is racing, my stomach in knots, and i can't seem to catch my breath. but then i see her, and something shifts inside me. if this is my confession, my moment of truth, then let it be beautiful. let it be worthy of her.

the words pour out of me like a prayer,

the room is silent when i finish, the kind of silence that feels like holding your breath underwater. i keep my eyes fixed on the page, too afraid to look up, too afraid to see the faces of my classmates—or worse, jackie's. my hands are shaking so badly i can barely read the words anymore.

there's a polite smattering of applause, soft and distant, like i'm hearing it from underwater. i force myself to walk back to my seat, each step feeling like i'm moving through molasses. i sit down, my chest tight, my head spinning with the weight of what i've just done.

and then i feel it.

jackie's eyes on me, heavy as a physical touch.

i glance up, and she's turned completely around in her seat, staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. her lips are parted slightly, and there's something in her expression i've never seen before. recognition? understanding? horror? i can't tell, and before i can analyze it further, the professor calls the next name, and the moment shatters like glass.

the rest of class passes in a blur. i don't hear a single word anyone else reads. all i can focus on is the weight of jackie's presence in front of me, the way she keeps shifting in her seat, the way her hand trembles slightly as she writes in her notebook.

when class ends, i shove my things into my bag as quickly as possible, ready to flee, to hide, to pretend this never happened. but as i step into the hallway, i hear her voice.

"wait."

i freeze, my pulse racing, my breath catching in my throat like a butterfly in a net. slowly, i turn around.

jackie stands there, bathed in the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway, yet somehow still looking ethereal. her cheeks are flushed pink, and she's clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield.

"that was..." she trails off, searching for the right words, her eyes never leaving mine. "beautiful."

i don't know what to say. my throat is dry, my hands trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. years of longing and watching and wanting press against my ribcage, threatening to spill out.

jackie takes a step closer, then another, until she's close enough that i can smell her perfume—something light and floral that makes my head spin. her gaze is locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"was it..." she pauses, licks her lips nervously. "was it about someone you know?"

my heart stutters, trips, falls. for a moment, i think about lying, about brushing it off, about running until my lungs burn and my legs give out. but then i meet her eyes—those eyes that have haunted my dreams and nightmares alike—and something in me breaks wide open.

"yes," i whisper, the word falling from my lips like a prayer.

her breath hitches, a small sound that echoes in the space between us like thunder. and then, before i can think, before i can stop her, before i can do anything but exist in this moment, she steps forward and kisses me.

it’s soft at first, tentative, a question more than an answer. but then i make a small, desperate sound in the back of my throat, and something in her shifts. her hands come up to cup my face, gentle but sure, and she kisses me like she's been thinking about it as long as i have. like she's been burning too.

she tastes like cherry chapstick and possibility, and i feel myself melting into her touch like snow in spring. my hands find her waist, pulling her closer, needing to feel the solid reality of her against me. this can't be real. this has to be real.

when we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily. jackie rests her forehead against mine, her thumbs stroking softly over my cheekbones. when i open my eyes, she's already looking at me, and what i see in her gaze makes my heart stutter.

there's wonder there, and vulnerability, and something that looks remarkably like the longing I've been carrying around all this time. she's looking at me like i'm something precious, something worth wanting, something worth burning for.

"i didn't know," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "i didn't know you felt it too."

and in that moment, i realize that maybe we've both been haunted all along. maybe we've both been burning, both been yearning, both been writing poems in the dark about the agony of wanting something we thought we couldn't have.

i reach up and touch her face, tracing my fingers along her jaw like i've imagined doing a thousand times. she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and my heart feels too big for my chest.

"jackie," i breathe, and her name tastes like salvation on my tongue.

she smiles then, bright and beautiful and real, and kisses me again. and again. and again. until the fluorescent lights dim and the hallway empties and the world narrows down to just this: her lips on mine, her hands in my hair, her heart beating against my chest.

the sweetest torture has become the sweetest relief, and i surrender to it completely.

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @waitforyrlove @elizabebabe @ncm9696 @marrykisskilled @maggot3647 @ifwdominicfike @sweetestpoetic @ch6rm

[sheeezu]

Hey there lovely Sheezu 💚🩶❤️,

I am 🌌 anon,

You have recommended me a post for shifting beginners by @empyrealoasis and I am starting to understand the basics of shifting, so thank you for that‼️

Although, now I know about shifting, I realised that I can really be, do and have anything and it is giving me so much comfort and relaxation that nothing in my life has given me till now ☮️.

But my problem is I see so many people attempting to shift for so long but haven't succeeded.

Recently I read on Reddit about a person who just managed to mini-shift once in 26 years, and it is making me anxious that it will take a very long time for me to shift 😭.

I just really want to permashift to my Waiting Room/Base DR, and then explore the multiverse from there as fast as possible, but sometimes it just feels impossible or it feels like it will take a very long time :(

So love💜,

I just wanted to request you to guide me how can I do it as fast as possible, any tips or any post of yours that you can suggest that will help me out 🥹🙏🏾.

➕ and also can you give some Waiting Room ideas to me, like the home, surrounding, people, technology, or any other cool ideas you can share through your shifting experiences💫💫💫💫.

Thank you for being such a cool Shifting Blog and being a breath of fresh air in this community, we all love you 💚🩶❤️.

Hiii!!!

There is nothing, nothing in this reality which could extend your stay here!

If I were to explain it through LOA: think this, if you believe that your successful shift would be tonight, than there is not blockage there.

Second, shifting isn't a slow burn, in the middle of the night, affirming, sweating, no!

The way I see it, when you shift, you let yourself forget of your previous reality, and EVERYTHING associated with it, which also include the time period of shifting, and the fact that you were ever shifting realities- this makes it so, shifting isn't a graph, where your shift is rising up, but instead, an on and off switch- which is switched on by giving utmost importance to your dr, like the creator you are.

Waiting rooms, ideas below!

1. A familiar place:

My main wr is actually my grandparents house in this reality! It's nostalgic, and makes me feel warm and relaxed when I'm there, like once again I am a carefree toddler, just running around.

2. This lovely waiting room by @wonsters

Your wr could feature a vibe akin to this well put together paradise, also the mechanisms and needs of a waiting room are explained such nicely.

3. Other ideas:

Go on pinterest, dear.

You'll find lots of idea. And one pin after the other you'll fall into a rabbit hole and soon design your own scrapped together wr, which you'll get to experience as soon as you'd like.

Your wr could be themed around

• A tree house in the middle of a peaceful forest

• A grand, luxurious house, which has all your comfort characters

• A secret garden

• A realm made of clouds

• A wr based around your favorite aesthetic

• An infinite library

• A wr centered around a ethereal waterfall

• Heaven- tall fluffy grass, pleasant weather, wide fields to run around in, fresh air which gives you euphoria when you inhale in it

• A wr where along with other important utilities, features infinite portals, which all lead to your other realities.

Must have in wr:

The ability to manifest and shift on command, a LIFA app, and script that you are always satisfied.

[letupabit]

An alternative torment

A/N: This pic takes place during the Thanos/Myung-gi bathroom fight scene, but for story purposes I changed up the dialogue and scenario :) This was so much fun to write! I tried to keep the characters as accurate as possible, sorry if it goes off course a lil! Hope you enjoy my lovelies!

Summary: Based off of a request from @saturnzskyzz, Thanos and Nam-gyu discover and exploit an entertaining weakness of the very person who brought them to the games- 'MG coin'. Ler!Thanos and Nam-gyu, Lee!Myung-gi (player 333).

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Unlike previously hosted games, the latest bout had implemented a new feature- the ability for players to choose to cut the experience short and go home with the money accumulated thus far, split equally between them. They had this opportunity after every game, a small mercy for those not wanting to leave the facility in a gift-wrapped coffin. To somebody outside looking in, the prospect of being able to leave with your life as well as a sizeable cash prize sounded like the perfect way out; however, a lot of the players who actually had to live this nightmare weren’t convinced.  For most of them, the shared amount wouldn’t even have been close to paying off their debts, and they’d already gotten so far- why stop now?

After every game, the lucky contestants who had survived would approach a podium with a red X to leave, and a blue O to continue. Once the player had made their choice they would be given a Velcro badge with their corresponding group, and were then free to return to their beds.

Thanos and Nam-gyu, two friends who had voted to stay, glowered at their voting teammate as the red light of the ‘X’ button illuminated his face. Thanos intuitively felt his hand come up to his blue badge, thumbing the seamed fabric. 

‘I can’t believe Min-su betrayed us like that, man’ he muttered, half to himself and half to Nam-gyu, who was glaring daggers toward the other side of the room. 

‘You know he only did it because of that bitch, Se-mi. I knew she’d mess things up one way or another’ Nam-gyu scoffed without looking away from his former teammate, who was trying his best not to catch his eye.  The fact Min-su stood facing away from him got the black-haired man even angrier- did he think he was too good for them now or something?

The rest of the voting went as smoothly as one would expect with a few hundred debt-filled lives on the line. It ended in a draw, much to the ‘O’ side’s favour, as this meant the games carried on. Neither team had actually won, and yet it was undeniable that the players who voted ‘O’ felt as if they had anyway.

But this wasn’t good enough for Thanos and Nam-gyu. 

They knew that after the next game, the votes could very well change. It wouldn’t be unrealistic for even one more player to vote ‘X’ and sway the minds of the other players who had previously voted to stay. The majority of people in the games were just scared and unsure, and it was more than likely that they’d side with the majority- herd mentality was a powerful thing in times like these. 

At least, this is the conclusion Thanos came to. He made sure to spread this ideology to his remaining teammates, and Nam-gyu, being the suck-up he was, went along with it without question. Between the two, they decided the best course of action was to corner Min-su in the bathroom away from the prying eyes of the guards in an attempt to get him to change his mind.

‘I’m sorry, boy!’ Shouted Thanos as he banged his fists on the bathroom stall of which Min-su was occupying. ‘I know you don’t really want this, right? One more game and we’ll be set for life’  Meanwhile Nam-gyu was hanging halfway over the walls of said bathroom stall. ‘Come on, Min-su. Just one more game, okay?’ he said with false sincerity- and then when there was no reply, ‘c’mere!’ And Min-su felt his heart drop as Nam-gyu started to climb further over the wall, reaching out for him.

He went to rush out the door, only to be met by Thanos who’d been waiting for him. He felt himself forced back into the stall, the purple-haired man cornering him as his friend watched from above. 

‘Look, I’m sorry if you felt pressured- but you shouldn’t have betrayed us like that. It really hurt my feelings- I’m so fucking ANGRY, man!’

Min-su held his breath, not knowing what was to come next- until he heard a voice from outside the cubicle.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Trying to get more votes by force, huh?’ Thanos turned around at this, coming face to face with the very person who brought him here- Myung Gi. Or, as he knew him, MG coin.

Immediately Thanos felt his anger at Min-su redirected towards Myung-gi. He wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for him and his shitty advice. 

‘What’s made you so bold, huh?’ He sneered. Meanwhile Nam-gyu dropped from his position atop the cubicle wall and went to stand by his side. Thanos continued, his body language stiff and hostile. ‘Tryna scam me again?’

Myung-gi scoffed and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not my fault you’re here. Maybe if you didn’t rely so much on the words of others’ he cast his eyes toward Nam-gyu before looking back at Thanos, ‘you’d be in a better position right now’

Thanos seethed at this. How dare this poser insinuate anything about him? And the audacity to not even take responsibility for him having to play these games- which in his mind, was absolutely Player 333’s fault.

Min-su had slipped past the druggie pair, using the conflict as a distraction, making a quick escape completely unnoticed. Meanwhile, Thanos and Myung-gi were practically nose to nose, the tension rising by the minute. Nam-gyu stood behind his friend, prepared to jump into action; honestly, he’d been so bored despite the prospect of death at every corner. A fight that was practically a guaranteed win seemed appealing.

‘Come on, man. It’s two against one- and this time that old-timer isn’t here to save your ass’. Thanos remarked with a nasty smirk, feeling ten foot tall.  He’d been waiting to get his own back ever since he got here, and now there was nothing to get in his way.

Myung-gi felt a sense of unease and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, fear. As stupid as these two were, it was true that there was nobody else around to help him out, and he didn’t fancy his chances if it came to a 2-v-1. His eyes darted from Thanos to Nam-gyu, both looking at him the same way a fox would look at a bunny. He swallowed thickly, the gravity of the situation setting in. 

But he couldn’t show fear. Not to these two. They’d tear him apart for as long as he had to put up with them in these cruel games. 

So he decided to bluff. Fake it till you make it, right?

‘Tch, whatever. I’m not wasting anymore of my time with you morons’ he brushed past them, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief as they allowed him to do so with surprisingly little pushback. Maybe they were all bark and no bite? ‘Especially a moron who forgets his own lyrics’

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and span him round. Oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that…

‘That’s it, MG coin’ hissed Thanos sarcastically. ‘I am taking you out of these games myself’ Behind him Nam-gyu looked giddy with excitement, although stayed quiet. 

Thanos shoved Myung-gi until he was up against the tiled walls of the bathroom, his face twisted with undeniable rage. He felt a flash of satisfaction as he caught a glimpse of genuine panic on Myung-gi’s face. 

‘Get off me you asshole!’ Shouted the former cryptocurrency trader, his hands coming up to push the furious man away. Thanos went to grab Myung-gi’s wrists, but in the chaos of the pre-scuffle he missed, instead unintentionally grabbing his sides instead. On instinct he made a squeezing motion with his hands, determined not to let this weasel wriggle his way out of this, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him as he saw a wince of pain on his opponents fac- wait. That wasn’t pain, that was…a smile?

‘What the hell is so funny, MG coin? Are you really that arrogant as to smile at a time like this?’ He squeezed his hands even tighter in an attempt to intimidate him and reinforce the fact that he had no chance of escape- but was he smiling again? Even bigger than before?

‘Answer me you bastard!’ His grip on Myung-gi tightened even more and this time he actually heard something that resembled a giggle. 

And then it clicked.

Thanos, without removing or loosening his grip, barked out a laugh of disbelief. Nam-gyu, who had also connected the dots, raised his hand to his face and chuckled into his fist, his eyebrows raised. 

‘No way, man’ Thanos turned to Nam-gyu as they shared an excited look. He turned his head back to his victim, who was cursing his uncontrollable reaction. The rapper had a sickening look of pure exhilaration on his face. In Thanos’ head, he had hit a gold mine. This was going to be so much fun…

‘I can’t believe the savvy MG coin is ticklish’ Laughed Nam-gyu, his voice laced with malice. He wasn’t even trying to hide his excitement at this discovery. He went to stand directly to the side of Myung-gi, effectively boxing him in. 

‘Oh, MG, we’re about to have such a good time’ Thanos chuckled darkly. ‘Well, we are’  he used one hand to motion to himself and Nam-gyu, his other hand not moving from his victim’s waist. ‘You, on the other hand, probably not’

‘Why do you look so serious, huh? Go on dude, make him laugh again’ The black-haired man nudged his friend and watched in sadistic glee as Myung-gi’s attempt at a stone-faced disposition (although his anxiety was obvious) crumbled instantly under Thanos’ slender fingers.  The two pill-poppers couldn’t believe their eyes as Player 333 squealed and immediately grabbed at Thanos’ wrists.

‘Fuck, stohohop! STOP! Wahahaihit!’ Myung-gi felt his grasp of rational thought fall away as his panic went up a notch, resigning himself to the fact that these two psychopaths now knew about this embarrassing weakness. This was so humiliating.

Thanos narrowly missed as a flying kick came his way. ‘Aww, is that the best you can do?’ He buried his fingers deep inbetween Myung-gi’s ribs and clawed wildly, revelling in the frantic laughter of the younger man. This was far, far better than just plain old fighting. He was suddenly caught off guard as another kick came his way, this time very narrowly missing his shins. 

‘He’s tryna fight back, man. Can’t have him ruining the fun’ Thanos made eye contact with Nam-gyu, and although no words were spoken, he picked up on Thanos’ intentions immediately. 

Myung-gi laughed particularly hard as the purple-haired man hit an especially ticklish rib and that’s when Nam-gyu saw his opening. ‘down you go!’ He exclaimed playfully. 

The two druggies worked together to quickly incapacitate their opponent further, and before Player 333 knew what was happening, he was on his back looking up at the unhinged duo. The tickling had stopped for the time being and he finally had a chance to gasp in air, wrapping his arms around his midsection.

‘Alright, look, I’m sorry- no more, okay? Just let me go back to the dorm’

‘Awww, you’re not giving up that easily, right?’ Myung-gi felt his heart drop as the weight of Thanos straddled his waist, the purple-haired man grinning toothily down at him. 124 hoisted his arms above his head, his grip strong and unbreakable. Especially now that Myung-gi had been weakened by the tickling.

‘You’ve been a massive pain in my ass even before these damn games. We’re not stopping just yet’ 

‘Yeah man, you’ve fucked up’ Nam-gyu added, every fibre of his being flaring with excitement to take this guy apart in the most embarrassing way possible. ‘You really shouldn’t have let us find this out’ 

Myung-gi felt his panic renew, struggling under the two druggies as hard as he could. It was no use- he was utterly trapped, at the mercy of these hooligans. He wished as hard as he could that the floor would just swallow him up. Or that a guard would come to his rescue. Or literally ANYTHING that would get him out of here. When he realised strength wouldn’t work, he tried bargaining his way out.

‘I promise I’ll stay out of your way if you just let me go. My friends will be wondering where I am and they’ll come looking- so just save yourself the hassle and let me go now’ 

There was a moment of silence, and Thanos and Nam-gyu looked at each other with deadpan expressions. Almost like they were actually contemplating freeing him. Had he done it? Had he actually made them change his mind? 

However the silence only lasted a few seconds at most until they couldn’t keep a straight face anymore, and burst out laughing. Looking back down at Myung-gi, Thanos said- ‘Fine, let ‘em come. They’ll see you laughing your ass off like the ticklish little girl you are’ and then, with a shrug, ‘we can have fun until then’

And without any further chance of talking his way into freedom, Thanos slipped his hands under Myung-gi’s shirt and gently scratched at his lean stomach. MG coin attempted to hide his face in his shoulder, biting his lip to stop the inevitable giggles he felt making their way up his throat. The sounds forced out of him throughout this made his face even redder.

‘Look at him, trying not to laugh. Come on, MG coin! I’m not gonna stooop~’ taunted Thanos in a sing-songy voice. 

‘Try his ribs again, that really got him before’

‘Good thinking’ and with that, Myung-gi felt the light scratches travel teasingly slowly up his torso until they reached his ribs. He could feel the cold metal of Thanos’ rings scraping along his skin, which made the whole thing so much worse.

He couldn’t hold back his laughter after that, and his bullies grinned at each other triumphantly. 

‘Well, would you look at that! You were right, Nam-su’

‘Uh, it’s Nam-gyu’ 

‘Whatever’ 

The bickering pair went back and forth for a moment, as if Thanos wasn’t tickling a flustered Myung-gi into hysterics. He let out a high-pitched yelp as one of the rapper’s hands moved from scratching at his left set of ribs and up to the thin, sensitive skin of his armpit. 

‘awww, listen to him. Isn’t he just so pathetic? C’mon, MG coin, laugh for us!’ Thanos braced himself as Myung-gi kicked his legs, this time not in self-defence but as an outlet to relieve the overwhelming tickling sensations. 

‘Cute, isn’t he?’ Taunted Nam-gyu as he took hold of both 333’s wrists in one hand, using his other to knuckle his upper ribs. ‘Hey, I wonder if we can get him to beg?’

Myung-gi only just heard this exchange over his deafening laughter. He felt a wave of renowned frustration and anger. He wasn’t gonna beg these two idiots. Especially over something as childish as being tickled.

‘FUHUHUHUuhuhuCK YOHOHOHOU ASSHOHOHOHLES!’ His chest burned but he refused to show any further weakness than the embarrassing display he’d already performed. They weren’t gonna get the best of him.

Thanos and Nam-gyu gasped in pretend shock. ‘Did you hear that? Even in this position he still thinks he’s got the upper hand, huh?’ Thanos looked back down at Myung-gi, who’s eyes were screwed shut as he laughed uncontrollably. 

‘Shit, dude, looks like he needs some more’ declared Nam-gyu, now spidering his hand in the hollows of Myung-gi’s underarms. As if they had any intention to stop anyway. 

The spidering technique paired with the assault on his ribs was almost too much for Myung-gi as he felt hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes. Fuck, where WAS everyone? Usually the bathroom was privy to a revolving door of players coming in and out, and now- nobody? He didn’t know how much more he could take but his pride refused to allow him to beg.

That is, until the verbal teasing was taken up a notch. Myung-gi was usually a put together guy, but in his vulnerable state it didn’t take much to crumble his defences even more. 

‘A-tickletickletickletickle!’ Nam-gyu cooed in a high pitched tone, wreaking ticklish havoc on the former youtuber. He decided that MG coin had been sufficiently weakened and didn’t need his arms held down any longer, so he was now subjected to four lots of hands spidering and squeezing and scratching his most sensitive spots. ‘How much more are you going to be able to handle? You poor thing’ 

‘Don’t cry, dude. We’re not being that mean, right?’ Mocked Thanos in a sickly sweet voice, his hands rapidly squeezing up and down his victim’s sides. Occasionally he’d tweak at his hip bones which he found especially amusing as this would force a higher, more desperate laugh. 

‘AHAHAHAHAHA-FUHUHUHAHAHAHAHA! FAHAHAHAHACK!’ 333 was completely beside himself, his chest and stomach aching, cheeks burning from laughing so hard. He shook his head from side to side, trying his best to ignore the taunting. ‘Speak up, bro!’ 

Myung-gi swore internally (it’s not like he could speak coherently out loud, anyway) and knew what he had to do. The tickling wouldn’t stop until he buried his pride and…begged. Ugh, even the thought made him feel ill. But the fingers drawing firm circles in his sides were making him feel even worse.

‘PL-PLEAAHAHAHAHASE! PLehaahahahahahaAHAHA! PLEAAHAHAHASE! IHIHIHIHIM SOHOHOHOHORRY!’ The act of forming words was exhausting and felt impossible. His laughter became squeaky when he felt dull nails trace patterns into his neck and under his chin and he hoped that his pleas were enough to satisfy 230 and 124. 

‘One more time? Come on, give it all you’ve got or we’re not stopping!’

‘Hey, MG, what would your little girlfriend say if she saw you like this?’

God these two sucked. Like, really really sucked. It had already taken a lot for him to plead in a somewhat concise manner, and now he had to do it again? He took as deep a breath as was possible whilst being tickled out of his mind.

‘STOHOHOHOP! PLEAHAHahahahaAHAHSE! PLEASE PLE-AHAHAH-PLEAHAHAAHSE! FUHUHUHUHUHUCK! YOOHOhohoHOHUHU GOHAHAHATTA STOHOhohohOHOP!’

And then it was over. The tormenting hands stopped their assault yet didn’t move from his body. But the tickling had stopped. 

He didn’t even care that he was wheezing and gasping for air in front of the two maniacs- he was just grateful to be able to do so in the first place. He felt Thanos’ weight shift and he stood up, looking down at him still but now from an even greater height. Nam-gyu followed suit but not before another jab to 333’s armpits, making him yelp and curl up, earning a mean chuckle from the two. 

‘Wasn’t so hard, was it, MG?’ jeered Thanos. ‘And for the record, we didn’t have to do anything. We only stopped so we didn’t kill you- where would the fun in that be?’ With a sneer, 230 and 124 turned and left. Nam-gyu gave a sarcastic wave before disappearing round the corner, presumably to get high. What a pair of lowlives.

Myung-gi stayed laying down, still catching his breath. He listened as the smug chatter of Thanos and Nam-gyu became more and more distant. He’d have to keep even more of an eye out than usual after today.

Those bastards...

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Forty-Four

(AO3 counterpart here.)

“Cloudpaw?”

Of course Fireheart had to wake up to that.

“Cloudpaw!” Aspenpaw’s increasingly frightened voice, pitching further up with every word. “Cloudpaw, where are you?”

Fireheart started getting to his feet before his eyes opened. Half of him wanted to keep them squeezed shut forever, as if that would help avoid this situation.

Goldenflower’s voice came now. “What’s going on, dove?”

“Cloudpaw’s not in his nest!” Aspenpaw didn’t sound like she cared if she woke up the rest of camp. “An– and I checked the dirtplace, and he’s not there!”

Fireheart fought back uttering a curse as the cats deeper into the warrior’s den started mumbling and shifting, waking up at the terrified apprentice’s cries. Before anyone else could pass him, he stepped out of the den, shaking his fur of stray dead moss. His eyes opened just as Aspenpaw skidded to a stop in front of him, her own bulging with panic.

“Did you know where Cloudpaw is?�� she asked desperately.

Fireheart barely kept his tone in check when he said quietly, “I have an inkling.”

“He didn’t go after the dogs, did he?” Aspenpaw twisted around, pacing between Fireheart and Goldenflower. “Oh, stars, what if he did, an– and they found him, and—”

“They didn’t.” Fireheart felt curious eyes on him as more cats came out of their dens at the noise. “He’s fine.”

“Then where is he?!” Aspenpaw cried. Her legs splayed out as she turned to face Fireheart again, her claws sinking into the moist sand.

“Fireheart?” Whitecloud’s soft voice came up beside him. Fireheart only turned with his eyes to see the concern on the deputy’s face. “Is something wrong?”

You’ve got to tell them, his logical side said, gentle but firm. He’s pushed his luck too many times now. And you made it clear that he’d get in trouble if he ran off again. Don’t hide this anymore. Now is the time to be an adult and tell the truth.

How he hated that this side was right. With a deep inhale that came back out as a much heavier sigh than he intended, Fireheart looked properly over at Whitecloud and asked, “Is it okay if I call a meeting?”

Whitecloud blinked, his yellow eyes pale with confusion. “Is it important?”

Fireheart nodded. “It’s something I think everyone should have a voice in.”

More confusion, and a bit of disturbance, but Whitecloud flicked a paw at the stump. “Go ahead.”

By this time, the entire Clan was awake, all either leaving their dens or poking their heads out and speaking to each other. The general tone wavered with worry, not helped by Aspenpaw’s fur sticking out in all directions as she looked around desperately for her brother. Fireheart wasted no time, striding for the stump just as Yellowfang and Cinderpaw came to its base out of the remains of ferns behind it. As he passed them, Yellowfang grunted knowingly.

He stopped right below the stump, exposed roots beneath his feet. He wondered why it was only now that he hesitated to stand above his Clanmates, when he was to command their attention all on his own. He hadn’t felt this apprehension the last two times he had jumped onto it, and the most recent time was far worse than the topic he had to broach now.

“What’s he doing?” someone whispered close by.

Fireheart clenched his jaw as tight as he could, releasing some of his tension when he relaxed. He didn’t give himself any more time to hesitate—he simply bunched up and leaped, landing on the top with ease (shorter than a fence, he thought, but still harder) and turning to face his Clanmates. Most of them stared at him in bafflement, but they slowly clustered in as Whitecloud came to stand on one side of the stump.

Fireheart gathered his courage, sent a quick prayer to the Three for help, and spoke, attempting to speak as loudly and clearly as his leader and deputies always had.

“I know where Cloudpaw is,” he started. “I know where he’s been going. I wanted to handle this privately, and keep it between me and him, but he’s disobeyed too many times now, and put himself in too much danger. It’s time for me to tell you all so, hopefully, we can find a solution together.”

The cats on the ground exchanged puzzled faces, but a few of them seemed to have an idea of where this was going, judging by their narrowed eyes and turned-back ears.

With a faint flame of boldness in his chest, Fireheart continued. “He’s been sneaking off to see his birth-mother in the Houses.”

The air burst with shouts of shock and anger—even the apprentices looked outraged, Thornpaw especially. Ravenwing sat by Snowpaw, signing to him with a troubled face. Greystripe, Fireheart noticed, had an expression of something like sympathy; he was the only cat that didn’t look scandalized.

“You never told any of us about this?” Willowpelt asked sharply.

“Only Yellowfang,” Fireheart replied.

“And why didn’t you say anything, then?” Sandstorm growled at the old seer.

Yellowfang stuck her jaw out. “Would that it were my business. The boy’s the one to handle it.”

“Then he should have handled it sooner!” Darkstripe shouted. “He’s been betraying us all, letting his stupid apprentice break the law! I bet he’s been eating kittypet food and letting those humans touch him!”

Fireheart was not ruffled by this; really, he’d been expecting someone to say it. It might as well be the cat he could disregard entirely. He instead kept his attention on the rest of the Clan, who were slowly quieting down so he could speak.

“I brought him to meet her once myself, once we returned home from the Barn,” he said, and waited for another round of outrage to pass before continuing. “Since then, he’s been seeing her for the comfort of having a mother who lives in a safe place that he doesn’t have to look around in to avoid being eaten by dogs.”

Dustpelt glared up at him. “And you let—”

“I am not finished talking,” Fireheart said coolly. 

To his surprise, the last of the mutters and growls cut themselves off, everyone’s eyes back on him. He took the opportunity presented while he had it.

“I can understand his reasoning, but I don’t agree with it.” Fireheart’s ears folded back of their own accord. “I’ve told him repeatedly that he was only going to see her if I went with him—yes, I’m aware that’d be me breaking the law too, but family is family, as you all know better than anyone else.” By the uncomfortable shifting of paws and twitching of mouths, he had them pinned for that, at least. “The last time he went, I warned him that I would properly punish him if he did it again. And, well, he’s done it again. He doesn’t have any other reason to have completely disappeared this early in the night.” He looked down at Cloudpaw’s anxious sister. “When you looked for him outside, you didn’t smell any dogs nearby, did you?”

Aspenpaw shook her head, but she didn’t look any more relieved.

“He’s got a knack for getting through the territory without facing any trouble,” Fireheart said to the rest. “I could probably head to the Houses right now and bring him back.” He paused, a gnarled little root of negativity coiling around the flame of boldness. “Truthfully, though, I’m probably just going to let him come home on his own and face all of us as a Clan.” He drew in another breath, hoping for the ideal answer to his question. “So, I’m up here because I want to ask you all: what should be done to ensure he doesn’t do this again?”

“Exile, I say,” Darkstripe snapped. “He was a mistake to bring in from the beginning. He should’ve stayed a kittypet, like—”

“Oh, shut up,” Greystripe said casually, then raised his voice to be heard by everyone. “I get where Cloudpaw is coming from—I mean, he shouldn’t be doing this, but I get it. I think he should be properly punished once he gets home, just not too hard.”

“Has he been eating kittypet food?” Frostfur asked, her tone icy. Fireheart nodded and she spat. “Then maybe he could eat it for the rest of his life. We don’t need a traitor in our Clan.”

“He’s an apprentice!” Ravenwing said to her, surprisingly angry. “And a very young one at that! This is a stressful time for us adults, let alone a young cat who was made an apprentice too early and lost half of his family out here. I don’t blame him at all for wanting comfort, even when he knows he shouldn’t be doing it. He doesn’t need to be kicked out like he killed one of us.”

A lump formed in Fireheart’s throat. He swallowed it, noting that the aura radiating from Ravenwing outward cooled down the surrounding cats significantly.

“I mean…” Mousefur grimaced. “He’s definitely in trouble, but… maybe punishing him too hard would cause him to leave anyway.”

“It’s easier to run to safety than face an entire Clan,” Goldenflower agreed. She spoke to Fireheart now. “He’s just an apprentice. He still has the capacity to learn and grow. You were barely his age when you came to us.”

“He needs to stop regardless,” Halftail retorted curtly. “He’s betraying the code, no matter how old he is.”

Mutters of agreement followed this. Dustpelt and Whitecloud whispered something to each other before Whitecloud looked back up at Fireheart.

“He’s already restricted to camp when he’s alone,” he said. “And he enjoys his apprentice duties. What can you offer that will ensure he understands?”

Fireheart’s eyes unfocused as he thought. An idea he really didn’t like was forming in his head.

“He’ll already have to face all of us,” he said slowly. “It’d be as close to isolation as he could get without actually living outside. But…”

“He needs something stronger to set it in stone,” Willowpelt said, more contemplative than angry.

“He’ll have it.” Fireheart breathed in again, bracing himself for his own ruling. “He won’t be allowed to visit her again, whether or not I’m with him.”

“And if he does anyway?” Lizardtail asked.

Fireheart’s claws unconsciously dug into the stump. Even when forcing it out, his voice was soft. “Then I’ll personally ensure he stays there for the rest of his life.”

This was met with complete, stunned silence. Even Darkstripe stared at him in surprise.

Ravenwing hesitantly broke the quiet. “Are you positive you can do that?”

“More than I’d like to be,” Fireheart sighed out, grateful that the breath wasn’t as shaky as his innards were feeling. He looked down. “Whitecloud, Dustpelt, does that sound fair?”

Dustpelt blinked at the sudden attention, but recovered quickly. “It does to me.”

“That will solve the issue either way,” Whitecloud concurred. He gestured for Fireheart to move, then jumped onto the stump, standing by the young tom’s side as he spoke to the Clan. “We need to remember that Cloudpaw is very young and very misguided. Fireheart has done his best for him, and he has the chance to change, like Goldenflower said.” His eyes went to Fireheart. “But we can’t afford to have a cat with us who proves himself disloyal and selfish. If his uncle and mentor decrees it, he’ll be sent to live as a kittypet. Our task is to encourage him to stay with us, not give him more reason to run away. Speak sternly, but don’t scream and threaten. Let him know this is his home for as long as he’s loyal to it.”

The Clan gave spotted nods and murmurs of agreement. Whitecloud turned to Fireheart fully.

“We’ll wait for him to come home on his own tonight,” he said. “If he’s late by morning, you can go get him yourself. He can have this last meeting with his mother.”

“She didn’t even raise him,” someone grumbled. “Why should she be rewarded for giving him up?”

“This will be as much a loss for her as it is for him,” Whitecloud said calmly. “She will suffer the consequences of never seeing him again.” He added to Fireheart, “And you need to stay away from there, too. Let her understand how Clan society works.”

Fireheart said nothing. He simply nodded, a slithering unhappiness in his gut.

---

Cloudpaw did not come back in the morning.

Fireheart was allowed to go out and search for a bit, just to make sure there were no dead ginger-pointed apprentices sprawled out in the fading snow. He found nothing—no scent of dog, no scent of Cloudpaw, not even a piece of prey making itself known. Despite his protests, Whitecloud had him come back to camp and wait with the rest.

Cloudpaw did not return by the next evening.

Two patrols were sent out to try and find his trail, or him himself. The damp and cold smothered what little was on the way to the Houses. Fireheart led one of the patrols into the northern forest, just in case his nephew was hiding. He was not.

The morning came. Cloudpaw still wasn’t home.

Even the cats angry with the little apprentice began peering out of the camp entrance, coming back in with concerned headshakes. Another patrol, this time in the south, produced nothing of note besides the scent of dog.

Aspenpaw, by this point, hadn’t stopped shaking since she woke up, muttering about Cloudpaw’s disappearance as Goldenflower tried to soothe her. Brightpaw wasn’t much better, staring down at the ground with trembling whiskers, like she was imagining what state Cloudpaw’s body was in.

When the night finally arrived, Fireheart went to Whitecloud, very aware of all the anxious eyes on him.

“I’d like permission to search for him in the Houses,” he said. “With a patrol.”

Whitecloud simply nodded. “Take who you want.”

Fireheart only had to glance behind himself to see Greystripe and Ravenwing trotting up to him, eyes determined, if worried. “I’ll take them.”  

“You’ve got us,” Greystripe said.

Ravenwing turned to Snowpaw, who had started following him, and signed for him to stay home. Snowpaw looked downcast, but he agreeably blinked and returned to his sister’s side. Aspenpaw hurried up to Fireheart just as he was about to leave and pawed at his leg to get his attention.

“Please,” she whispered, “please bring him home.”

Fireheart met her eyes with a kind, reassuring gaze. “I’ll do my best. I know I’ll find him alive.”

Aspenpaw moved her mouth, but she said nothing in return and stepped back, watching the trio trot out of camp in silence. Fireheart could feel her eyes on him even outside in the woods.

He paused for a moment, just to look at his friends. They caught up to him, both resting their tails on his sides in silent companionship. Fireheart managed a purr, turned for the Houses, and started running.

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Back Forty View (On Our Piece Of Ground)

7 - You're What My World Spins Around

Pairings: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley-Owens, Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x OFC Samantha Kazansky

Rating: EXPLICIT (MDNI!)

Warnings: Birth of a child, Mentions of death, swearing as every other chapter I don't even put it anymore hahah

A/N: I feel like this chapter is kinda crap? Idk, but anyway we are finally here, it's time for baby Jaycen to be born! Total disclaimer, I tried to do my research but I don't know shit about pregnancy or babies or any of that so I did my best with details. No, I did not go into full details of the labor and all that just kind of glanced over it. I just felt this this was a huge plot point that's been looming for so long that I need to just get it down. As always comments, reblogs, likes, and feedback is always appreciate 100%. Thank y'all for continuing reading! Pics from pinterests! Gifs by @kaizsche I hope you enjoy this one.

Tags: @mrsevans90 @djs8891 @gpsmississippihippie @dizzybee03 @coloraturadiva @kmc1989

Tyler and Jake were born in the very early morning and gave their mother hell. Well, Jake did more so than Tyler, but altogether her labor had been nearly forty hours. Tyler came into the word silent as the night and Jake came screeching like a fighter jet, his attempt to break the sound barrier at the first try. The joke became, as the boys got older that Tyler snuck into the world and Jake came in like he'd been left behind by Tyler, and that he was pissed about it. Their father, Randall Owens, was the proudest man on earth, and the most supportive too. He took as much time off as he could when Jeanie had the boys. He spent as much time as her, if not more sometimes, with the boys, getting to know their individual personalities and their quirks. In most ways the boys were the same, but in some they were totally opposite.

For a long time after Randall died, Jeanie was devastated. She didn’t know how to go on without him, but she figured it out. She raised up two wild little boys who were always getting in trouble, and always just like their father in the one way that carried them through life. Both of Jeanie Owens' boys had compassion for others. 

Both of her boys were lovers and fighters. She’d taught them to always give people a chance, but to be adamant when they wanted something and to not settle. She taught them to go after their dreams. That’s why Tyler worked his ass off becoming the best bull rider he could. That’s why Jake got top of his class at the Naval Academy and got into the Top Gun program. That’s why both boys were both book smart and street smart. That’s why both of Jeanie’s boys, when they wanted something, they went after it and didn’t give up until they got it. 

Nothing was handed to Tyler and Jake. Jeanie didn’t bend when it came to rules. She made them do chores from a young age to learn responsibility. She made them care for all the horses. They were driving before they were supposed to be. And when Jeanie met Kenneth Seresin, those boys gave him hell. The boys were respectful of course, but that didn’t mean they didn’t challenge Kenny. What they remembered of Randall was how he had been with Jeanie. Always gentle with her, always supportive, and even though at their young ages they didn’t quite understand all of it, they remembered it later in life. There had been so much love in the little ranch in Dardanelle, Arkansas and until Kenny showed them the same level of reverence for their mother, those boys gave him a run for his money.

Kenny did everything with Tyler and Jake that he could. It was as if he was trying to make up for lost time and the loss of their father. He tried to be the best replacement to Randall that he could. He took them to roping events and the high school rodeos to compete. He took them up in military helicopters and on base before he was honorably discharged due to an injury, He helped them fix old beat up trucks that the boys had bought with their own savings. He taught them that no matter when you meet a person, you can love them as if you’ve always loved them their entire life. Tyler and Jake knew he wasn't their father by blood, but because of how he was with them, they treated him all the same in the end. And Kenny was damn proud to call those boys his sons.

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Tyler and Dustin took turns caring for Ducati, but not without Georgia right there, on the outside of the pen. By Tyler’s rules, until Jaycen was born, she wasn’t allowed in the pen with the horse, just in case he spooked or charged at her. However, the mustang was proving more trustworthy each day. Each time Dustin went in, whether it was to scrub his waters and refill them, pick out his poop, give him hay, or throw him grain, Ducati followed him just like the puppies. When Tyler went in to do the same chores, Ducati only wanted Tyler to love on him. Tyler would rub the mustang’s forehead, and then his neck, and he’d even offer his belly and his back for scratches. After a week, Tyler was able to touch the horse all over. After two, he was able to pick up each of his feet, without a halter, and after three...well Georgia wanted Tyler to try and throw a saddle pad over his back.

“Gee, I don’t know. Seems kinda fast.” Tyler said, as Ducati pushed his neck toward Tyler, begging to be scratched. Tyler obliged readily and then he glanced at Georgia, who had thrown the saddle pad over the top bar of the panels.

“He trusts you. I trust you. Just give it a try.” Georgia said softly, reaching out to rub Ducati’s nose. Tyler slowly took the saddle pad from the top bar and held it out for the gelding to sniff. He was uninterested and just pushed his neck toward Tyler again. Tyler raised a brow and then touched the gelding with it. Again, uninterested. Tyler tilted his head and then gingerly placed the pad on Ducati’s back. The gelding glanced at him and licked his lips.

“She said he’d had a saddle on.” Georgia said, sneaking a piece of carrot from her pocket to the gelding’s awaiting mouth. He churches happily on it and then turned his nose toward Tyler. 

“Got nothin’ bud, sorry. Just a silly saddle pad.” Tyler chuckled as Ducati poked his nose toward Georgia’s belly. She smiled and Tyler spoke again. “He’s smart that’s for sure. I figured since she said he had been buckin’, he wouldn’t be too keen on the saddle pad at all.”

“I think he doesn’t care much about the equipment. She didn’t give us the full story. I’d put money on him spookin’ at somethin’ while she was ridin’ and he bucked, bolted, and got her off. She was too scared to get back on so he’s probably squirrelly under saddle, not on the ground. I think he was how he was at her place because she never got rid of any of that anxiety. She just left it in there. Here, he didn’t feel like he needed any anxiety because we were gentle and calm from the start. And you’re not afraid of anythin’ so.” Georgia explained, as Tyler’s gaze settled on Ducati. The gelding swished his tail and cocked a hip. 

“Can you get Jake?” He asked and Georgia nodded, going back into the barn. Jake had been helping to muck out the stalls and Georgia had put Sam in charge of brushing horses. Georgia was determined at some point to get Sam on one of their horses and see if she remembered how to ride. 

“Hey Jake, Tyler needs you.” Georgia said, just as Jake was pushing the wheelbarrow out of the stall he had been cleaning. He closed the door behind him and pushed the wheelbarrow out the front so that he could dump it after. Tyler, being ever ingenuitive, had come up with a dump trailer and manure spreader to use for the back fields, effectively fertilizing them so that when the summer came around, the horses would have beautiful grass to go out on.  

“Can you grab my saddle?” Tyler asked as Jake stepped out of the barn. He immediately doubled back and Georgia inhaled a sharp breath.

“Okay, now who’s pushing it?” She asked, as she hung her arms over the rail. Ducati once again, placed his nose gently at her belly. Jaycen kicked hard then and Georgia closed her eyes and groaned softly. 

“Did he just talk back for me ?” Tyler smirked, as he placed his hand on her belly.

“I think so. That hurt a bit.” She said and Tyler chuckled as Jake reappeared, Tyler’s huge roping saddle easily slung over one arm. 

“Seems like Jaycen wants his horse ready for when he comes out.” Tyler joked and Jake threw the saddle over the panel so Tyler could pull it down. Georgia kept her eyes on Ducati the whole time and the mustang barely moved. In fact, he looked bored. 

“Okay buddy, let’s try somethin’ huh?” Tyler said, stepping over to Ducati with the saddle. He gave an out loud count of one, two, three and then swung the saddle up and onto the horse’s back. Ducati flinched a little at the weight, but his expression stayed the same and he licked his lips again. Tyler reached under to grab the cinch and secure it, then the back cinch. He pulled the breastplate around and buckled that before stepping back. Ducati simply followed Tyler, seeming to not even notice the saddle that had been put on him.

“Do I dare?” Tyler asked, glancing at Georgia, then Jake.

“If you’re gettin’ on, I’m takin’ a video for Tiktok, you dumb sonofabitch.” Jake laughed and held up his phone. “Dumb ways to die!” He sung, which made Tyler laugh, but not Georgia. She glared at him.

“ Don’t be stupid, Tyler. ” She said. Tyler patted Ducati and then turned to Georgia with a small smile.

“Oh let me have a little fun, darlin’.” He mused as he reached over the gate to grab the rope halter they had been using for the gelding. It was old and tattered, but still solid. Ducati walked over, placing his nose through the halter and letting Tyler secure it. He rubbed the horse’s neck and then brought him to the middle of the pen. “Any advice before I ruin this horse, Peach?”

“If you get on and he bucks you off...well...you’re fixin’ it later, Arkansas .” Her tone was well on the way to annoyed. Tyler placed his foot in the stirrup, bouncing a few times and paying attention to the horse’s ears. They flicked back and forth and he blinked a few times, but stood remarkably still. Tyler jumped up and laid across the saddle, then hopped back down. He repeated this step a few times before finally swinging his leg over the other side. He felt Ducati go round and suck up his belly underneath the saddle. Tyler grabbed the horn and the back of his saddle, ready for whatever was about to happen. Everyone held their breath, except Tyler. He took a deep breath and as if he was back in the chute, he blew the breath out at the same time as Ducati exploded into the air.

He vaguely heard Georgia yell at him, he heard Jake whoop and shout and he saw Sam and Dustin run out of the barn from the corner of his eye. Tyler pulled himself tight to the saddle and as Ducati quite literally bronced underneath him, Tyler fought the urge to move his legs in a spurring motion like he used to do when he rode bulls. Even though it had been years, it was hard to quell something that had been so ingrained in his brain as a habit.

They made it about two times around the round pen before Ducati lost his balance and hit Tyler’s leg on the panel, scaring himself and making Tyler yelp. Georgia turned away, the nauseous dread creeping up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t watch. Jake was still filming and both Sam and Dustin’s mouths were ajar in awe as Tyler too lost his balance, lost his grip on the cheyenne roll on the back of the saddle, and scared Ducati even more as he tumbled from the mustang’s back onto the dirt. He landed with a loud thud, on his ass and Ducati immediately froze. 

“TYLER!” Georgia nearly screamed, knowing he’d fallen. The wind had been knocked out of him, but when she heard him laughing, she sighed heavily, relieved. “You fuckin’ idiot! I say it out of love and because you scared me, but you’re a dumb ass!”

“Ah, I never thought I’d be so turned on havin’ my pregnant wife reprimand me.” He chuckled and coughed, then shot her a flirty glance as he stood stiffly and rubbed his ass. If looks could kill, Tyler would be a dead man walking up to kiss his wife. She brushed the dust off of him and glanced around him. Ducati had walked up behind him, apologetically. Tyler rubbed the gelding’s nose. “Bud, not your fault. I pushed ya. I also fell off. Bad ridin’ on my part.”

“Well, now you have to do it again.” Georgia said, tugging at his shirt. He leaned down and kissed her again and then smirked. Jake was doubled over, laughing his ass off, and Sam smacked him gently. Jake stood and took a deep breath before leaning back on the panels.

“Yes ma’am. Anythin’ I could do different?” Tyler asked, as he was ready to mount up again. He was a little shaky and his hips were stiff, but he knew if he didn’t get back on it would be bad for both of them. Tyler had dissociated during the bucking fit, trying to block out any sort of fear or anxiety he had, although it didn’t feel the same as it did with the bulls. He felt like he could trust Ducati. He knew he couldn’t trust the bulls. And, he lost his balance and fell because he started thinking. He figured if he stayed on this time, Ducati might quit bucking on his own, knowing that his rider could stick it out and not be afraid.

“Just don’t fall off again. You’re gonna be sore as hell tomorrow.” Georgia said softly, placing her head on her hands on the panel rail. She blew out a long breath as Tyler climbed aboard again.

“That the first time you been bucked off since your accident?” Jake asked and Tyler nodded.

“Wasn’t that bad, He’s not trying to get me off, he’s just scared shitless. If I can stick it, he’ll quit.” Tyler said, looking to Georgia for guidance. He picked up the rope and not feeling Ducati ball up this time, he asked him to turn left. Ducati obliged, moving off softly. Tyler asked for a little more speed, clicking his tongue to get the horse to trot. He wiggled his legs a little as well, unsure of how much education the horse had. Ducati scooted forward and when Tyler didn’t tense up, the horse took a breath and let it out. 

Tyler asked for a little more again, urging the horse to canter. As soon as he stepped into it, Ducati became overwhelmed with worry and went to bucking again. He folded in two and Tyler quickly grabbed for the saddle. The bucking fit was shorter this time and Tyler stayed on successfully, letting Ducati come down to a trot again. He asked for canter, got a few crow hops, then Ducati slowed down. The little horse had a comfortable trot and an even canter that Tyler asked for once more. There was no broncing this time and as Ducati cantered around a little, Tyler realized what he had just done. He let Ducati come to a full halt, right by Georgia.

“How’d I do?” He asked, rubbing the horse all over, just making sure he was okay with everything that was going on. Georgia nodded.

“Not bad, Arkansas. You might get good at this if you keep at it.’ Georgia teased and Tyler leaned over the panels to kiss her. He dismounted and immediately removed the tack and handed it all to Jake to take back in the barn. Georgia turned and began to walk back into the barn, satisfied with her husband’s stupidity that actually worked out in the end. She threw a lascivious grin his way and waved as she spoke. “You might even get a surprise later on.”

Tyler’s eyes widened and he smiled. He glanced at Dustin, who pursed his lips and motioned for him to go follow Georgia. Jake and Sam had headed back into the barn to finish up what they had been doing. Tyler knew he'd be sore for a few days but it was worth it if he helped Ducati feel a little better, and made less work for Georgia once she could get back on and put some more time into him.

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Jake had taken to doing extra sessions with the puppies and he even helped Tyler with their dogs. Ryker had imparted upon Jake that it was imperative to be consistent with the dogs, so while down in Oklahoma, Jake spent at least two hours each day with each dog. One in the morning and one at night if he could, going through every aspect of training that he had learned so far. Sam spent about an hour with each dog as well, usually taking them as a group for a walk. They wanted the dogs well rounded in a pack and as individuals so doing this would only help and it made the bond between the three dogs stronger too. Jake had even taught Sam everything in the short amount of time that they’d been there. 

Ballast exceeded every expectation that Ryker had for the pup. Jake never had any, so Ballast surprised him at every turn. At just over eight months old, the dog was essentially a lanky, mini version of what he would be as an adult. The bite work was where Ballast really shined. Jake already had a competition ready focus heel available at any moment. Jake could out Ballast from any bite with just his voice command. And Ballast would take down anyone for Jake. A true protection dog in the making. Jake noticed something else though and that was that Ballast was also fiercely loyal to Samantha. That was ultimately what Jake wanted, so that when he wasn’t around, Samantha wouldn't have to worry about a thing. He knew Rocco would give his life for Sam, but Ballast would back him up and avenge that death if he had to, tenfold.

Muster on the other hand, was not what they expected. She excelled in all the obedience and protection work. Her bite work was great and she was a powerful little fur missile in her own right, but Muster wanted much more than anything to cuddle and hang out with Sam. Muster was absolutely Sam’s dog and while she liked Jake, she found solace in Samantha’s company. Muster also knew that Georgia was pregnant and if the cattle dogs and Ballast got too rambunctious around her, Muster would break it up. The female dog knew the importance of rest and recuperation for everyone. She wasn’t exactly a party pooper, but she did like her peace and quiet. She was a calming presence for the other dogs and that was an excellent thing to have with such a high drive, high energy pack.

Jake had even taken to teaching Rocco some of the obedience training. Rocco actually took to it pretty well too, considering his breed. Dachshunds tended to be stubborn and difficult to work with if you didn’t know how to motivate them. Jake figured out that Rocco’s motivation was simply pleasing Samantha so any time he worked with Rocco, he made sure that Sam was there and she was ready to praise him. Jake had never thought he’d grow to love the little dog as much as he did, but there was a special spot in his heart for Rocco. One that he thought would be empty from Dixie forever, but he was certain that the little red dog might be able to fill that hole with his big, courageous personality. 

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Georgia firmly believed that just like the calves and foals that her father used to raise, it wasn't up to mom when the baby came. It was all up to when that baby wanted out. And at exactly nine months to the day, Jaycen Alexander Owens decided he was ready to see the world for the first time.

Georgia had been laying down for the majority of the day, not feeling particularly well. She’d been somewhat nauseous all day. She picked at the lunch that Tyler had made and when she decided she couldn’t lay down any longer, she elected to take a walk outside, ending up in the barn, which she had come to expect. She’d felt some pressure in her pelvis just after lunch. She mentioned it to Tyler and he’d been concerned, checking in on her every hour or so after that. She’d also felt like when she went back out around dinner time, that she was waddling like a penguin. Her steps felt particularly heavy the longer she stayed out there and she was nearly done feeding the horses. She just had to drop grain but she had an overwhelming feeling that something wasn’t right.

Tyler had been working on his truck, had gone in for a shower because he had oil and soot everywhere, and had come back out to help Georgia finish feeding the horses dinner. He’d assumed that was where she was when he didn’t find her in their bedroom or on the couch. Jake hadn’t noticed her step out either. When he walked into the barn, Georgia was standing frozen, looking down at the barn floor. Her water had broken and it was time.

“Gee? You okay?” Tyler placed a hand on her back, feeling her shaking.

“Tyler...we have to go to the hospital. Like now.” She said, glancing at him and he could see fear in her eyes, wide as she tried to breathe evenly.

“Wait why...oh..oh shit...baby's comin?” Tyler's eyes widened too and he took her hand and began to lead her to the front of the barn.

“Very much yes!” She exclaimed as they crossed the threshold of the barn.

“Got it hold on! I'll be back in a sec!” He said, letting her lean on the door frame. He called the dogs and swung the front door open, yelling to his brother.

“Jake! Start my truck! Gotta get to the hospital. Dogs! Inside!” Tyler yelled as he burst through the door, all six dogs bounding through the open space, nearly knocking him over in the process.

“Baby time?” Jake asked excitedly, leaping from the couch and grabbing his boots. Sam, who had been sitting next to him, got the dogs settled, and then grabbed her shoes as well.

“Baby time!” Tyler exclaimed, turning on his heels to go help Georgia the rest of the way to the truck. 

“Woohoo! I'm aboutta be an uncle! And you’re gonna be an aunt!” Jake hugged Sam, then kissed her hard, making her giggle as they headed out the door. Once they were all settled in the truck, they were off.

Tyler made the drive short, nearly getting pulled over, but the cop recognized them and knowing that Georgia was pregnant, realized why Tyler Owens, the Tornado Wrangler,  was speeding down Interstate 177. They took Georgia to a room immediately and got her prepped. Tyler helped her change into a hospital gown, his hands gentle as they then guided her into the open space of the room. Dr. Ginnie Halstead was going to be helping deliver, and she was the one they'd been seeing throughout all of their appointments, so they were comfortable with her. Then the waiting began.

Jake had made sure that the bag in the back of Tyler’s truck with everything that Georgia needed, including some extra clothes for them both, some of the onesies they’d gotten for Christmas, extra toiletries, and some snacks among other things, had made its way into the room. He and Sam were going to stay until Georgia was actively giving birth, then they would step out and let her and Tyler be with each other. 

“Tyler, this is too early.” Georgia said, as she paced back and forth. Her contractions were getting closer together, slowly but surely. 

“Doc said it’s fine. Everything’s been good so far. Sometimes they come a little early. We wanted this.” He said, finally sitting down after having followed her back and forth for the past thirty minutes. 

“I know but it feels too early .” She said softly, glancing over at Jake and Sam. They were curled on the small couch that was situated in the corner of the room. The room itself was nice, a little larger than a normal single bed, plenty of space to move around, a spot for the baby and a full bathroom with a shower. The lighting was softer than a normal hospital suite and it put Georgia at ease, slightly. 

“It feels too early because we were both freaking out about this like a month ago and now we're here. It’s actually happening.” Tyler said, reaching for her, stopping her. 

“Why are you so calm right now?” Georgia asked, pausing her pacing.

“Well one of us has to be and it sure as shit ain’t you. Respectfully darlin’, you’re supposed to be a little scared.” Tyler’s eyes were soft as he watched her from his seat on the bed. His hand lingered at her side and as soon as the next contraction came, she was off again, walking back and forth. She breathed in and out, slowly and carefully. They subsided and her eyes met his.

“You’re not scared?” She asked. Tyler stood, walking toward her slowly. He pulled her into his arms, his hands careful around her waist. 

“I’m terrified but I’m holding it together for you.” He admitted readily. This stirred Jake’s attention, just as Georgia began walking again. Even though Jake knew how to be with Sam, he was still taking notes from his brother. 

Several hours later, and lots of pacing, Georgia’s legs were starting to shake. She had been walking and pausing endlessly. She feared for when she needed to be still and that time was coming rapidly. Dr. Halstead had come in a few times to check on her and see how her pain was. They’d decided she was going to have an epidural as close as possible to when she needed to push, as sometimes the epidural could slow down the process.

Tyler had pulled her onto the bed, putting a halt to her pacing that was becoming slightly frantic. He situated her between his legs and began to massage her shoulders.

“Just breathe, mama. You got this.” He whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She leaned back against him and grinned. He'd removed his boots so that he could be on the bed with her, so for the past hour or so he'd been sliding around in his socks.

“At least your feet don't stink.” She murmured, taking a deep breath as another contraction steamrolled over her. He felt her shudder as she grabbed for his legs and leaned forward. His lips turned up as they met the back of her neck. 

“No, darlin’ they don't.” He chuckled softly as the doctor came in to let them know that the anesthesiologist would be along shortly to administer her epidural, so Tyler would have to scoot out from behind her, but he took up until the last second that he could to stay there. He had taken to massaging down her back and her sides until he had to get up. He took a hold of one of her hands and gently pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Gettin’ about that time. You ready?” He asked. She nodded and squeezed his hand as she felt pressure at her back where the doctor positioned the needle and administered the medication. It only took about twenty minutes for Georgia to feel some relief. 

Sam and Jake elected to leave the room then. Jake shook his brother's hand, hugged him, and kissed Georgia gently on the top of her head. Sam hugged Tyler and she rubbed her hand up and down Georgia's arm a few times. 

“Good luck!” Jake said as he and Sam marched out of the room and headed to the waiting area. The doctor and another nurse came in and prepared everything for the next stage. Georgia grabbed for Tyler then, nearly crushing his hand.

“Tyler. Don't go anywhere. Please.” She said, her eyes darting to his. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. He knew she was scared shitless right now. 

“No need to worry. I'm gonna be right here the whole time. No matter what.” He said softly. He stood to the side of the bed, as close as he could to her, his arm around her shoulders. Their doctor smiled as her and the nurse readied everything they needed in the event of complications. They had discussed what could go wrong and what they would do if something did happen, but they were hoping for an easy birth. 

“If it will help and you're comfortable with it, Tyler can sit behind you like he was earlier. I find especially with first time mothers, the more encouraging their birth partner is, the smoother it goes.” The doctor explained and without hesitation, Georgia scooted forward so that he could climb in behind her again. He locked her in with his legs on either side of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her cheek, then rested the side of his head against hers. Georgia shifted uncomfortably, and Dr. Halstead reassured her that everything looked good so far.

“Okay, Georgia, you're gonna push on my count, ready? One, two, three, push!” Dr. Halstead's voice was calm but somehow excited. Georgia bared down, and as she did her grip on Tyler's thighs tightened. He'd probably have bruises there, but it would all be worth it in the end. 

At 3:01 AM, on February 28th, Jaycen Alexander Owens was born quietly, giving his parents the single most terrifying reason to hold their breaths...and a million reasons to finally let them out in relief. 

Jaycen didn't cry at first. Just like his father, the boy was reserved from the moment his eyes opened and took his first breath. Georgia feared for the worst, but in hearing her son's little whine, she was overcome with emotion. She was exhausted, panting, sweating bullets but she was so relieved and tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the nurse take him and clean him up. 

Tyler was also crying. He wiped his tears on her shoulder as he waited for the nurse to bring their son to them. Now, it was all real. His dream had come true. After the nurse had dried him off, she wrapped Jaycen loosely in the blanket they brought, a sky blue one that was extra soft, and handed the little bundle to Georgia. She held him  gently to her chest, the first skin to skin contact sending a wave of happiness through her. He was slightly cooler than she'd anticipated, but Dr. Halstead reminded her that she just went through labor with nothing more than the epidural. Her body temperature and heart rate was up like she’d run a marathon from the incredible feat she’d accomplished.

Tyler stayed seated behind her and peered over her shoulder at the seven pounds, three ounces with sparse sandy brown hair atop his head. He looked tiny in Georgia's arms and Tyler was sure he'd look even smaller in his own. He reached around and ran a single finger over the soft hair on Jaycen's head. 

“That's our son, Gee. I'm so fuckin' proud of you, Peach.” He whispered, making her smile. She let out a sigh of relief as everyone else cleared the room. Dr. Halstead was going to let Jake and Sam know that Jaycen had arrived, but that Georgia needed to rest for a bit before they could go in and see her and the baby. The doctor gave Georgia a crash course on breastfeeding and helped her with the first time. When Jaycen took to it no problem, Dr. Halstead sighed.

“If only they could all be this easy!” She said and Tyler smirked.

“He’s an Owens. He’ll give us plenty of trouble later on.” He said and Dr. Halstead nodded. In order to make everything easiest for Georgia, they let her stay in the room she’d been in. As long as Jaycen remained healthy, they could take him home in the next couple of days, but for now, Tyler and Georgia would be staying there. 

After resting for a bit, Tyler asked Jake and Sam to enter the room. Jaycen was sleeping comfortably in Georgia’s arms so they were quiet. Jake actually cried. They were, of course, happy tears, congratulating his brother with a bear hug. Georgia offered for him to hold Jaycen and he readily accepted. Jake was so careful taking his nephew. Tyler, trying to not immediately be a helicopter parent in any sense of the word, left Jake to hold Jaycen, knowing his brother was more than responsible enough to hold a baby. Especially his own nephew. Sam was careful as she brushed her fingertips over Jaycen's little hairy head. She smiled wide and glanced up at Jake.

“You look pretty good with a baby in your arms.” She mused and Jake chuckled. 

“This is gonna be all I can think about, Sam.” He said softly, leaning over and pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

Over those couple of days, there had been an influx of people. Tyler and Jake’s parents were the first to show up, excited to meet their grandson with two legs. Then came all the Wranglers. Boone and Lily couldn’t wait to see the little bundle of joy. Javi came bearing gifts, some more clothes for Jaycen and he snuck away before Kate and Scott appeared. Kate was ecstatic, hugging Georgia and giving Tyler a punch on the arm. Scott was quiet and he simply congratulated them, but when Kate asked to hold Jaycen, it stirred something in Scott. Seeing the girl he’d developed feelings for with a baby in her arms, sent his mind to a far off place and he had no idea how to get his life there, or how to even begin the conversation he wanted to have with her. He wondered if it was even in his future. But that was all for another time. Dexter and Dani had popped in last, bringing some snacks for Tyler and Georgia and a little stuffed pony for Jaycen. 

Tyler and Georgia couldn’t wait to bring Jaycen home to meet the dogs and the horses. God knows especially Ducati would be waiting for him.

[valenteal]

Ok so I know we all wish there was more reaction in canon to the revelation of Dazai’s past. But I think there’s more of a reaction than people realize. It’s like the entire dynamic shifts after the meeting with the mafia. And it’s easy to attribute this to things getting more serious, more dangerous, because no one mentions Dazai being the reason for it. But I think it’s important to understand about these characters that the not saying anything is extremely indicative of their feelings on the matter. I think the tension is mostly glossed over because at the end of the day this is still Atsushi’s story and he’s kinda oblivious to it. But Dazai and Kunikida aren’t really partners after that, their interactions go way down, their banter is no longer a staple of the series. And Dazai wasn’t really close enough with anyone else to see major changes in his relationships with them, but we can guess based on what we do know.

For one thing, anyone thinking Fukuzawa already knew, sorry to burst your bubble but Taneda didn’t tell him jack. In fact Dazai made up a story about randomly meeting him at a bar and Taneda offering to find him a job if he won a bet or something. Dazai lied to Fukuzawa just as much as anyone else, he had elaborate cover stories. Fukuzawa told Kunikida to shoot him if he showed a hint of malicious intent but Dazai managed to worm his way out of that disguising it as his solution to the case/a suicide attempt. He pretended to be the bad guy to put on a show for the people listening in, and create an excuse for the listening device to be destroyed and gave Kunikida enough hints that he’d think twice about actually shooting him and pretended he wanted him to do it. It’s a very masterfully done scheme really, because Kunikida was so wrapped up in how it affected the case that he miss took Dazai’s innocence in the case for a lack of hidden evil. Kunikida definitely saw a side of Dazai that would make the President say “shoot him” but he didn’t even realize it because it was connected to solving the case. And when he lists off all the things he has problems with about Dazai it’s all about his unprofessional behavior and laziness and he doesn’t even mention that Dazai was so incredibly good at playing the bad guy that it didn’t feel fake. He didn’t mention the chilling aura. Dazai distracted him with all his other bad behavior.

But Ranpo must have known right? Well he certainly knew something was off about Dazai immediately after meeting him even without putting his glasses on. But I don’t think even he could have deduced Dazai’s past with the information he had. Because you have to remember that Dazai’s crimes were erased by Mushitaro’s ability and that Ranpo specializes in understanding crime scenes, not psychological profiling. Ranpo uses physical evidence for the most part and he needs knowledge of the crime to find the perpetrator. I don’t think it works the other way around. Not to mention that Fukuzawa trusts Kunikida and Kunikida said Dazai passed his entrance exam so Ranpo probably didn’t choose to look too closely at Dazai.

Anyway, the point is no one at the agency knew Dazai was in the mafia until the Guild arc. And Dazai’s interactions with the rest of the agency changed after that revelation. I think only Atsushi, Kyouka, and Kenji don’t change how they see him, because Atsushi is Atsushi, Kyouka probably already knew from when she captured him and his pep talk made her more comfortable with the idea, and Kenji is Kenji. Everyone else though? It’s a shock. And a lot of them probably just don’t know how to handle it. It helps that they got Kyouka around the same time it was revealed but Dazai had been lying to all their faces for two years at that point and he showed absolutely no remorse for that. Dazai doesn’t make a big deal of it, doesn’t try to make excuses for himself, doesn’t try to justify anything. Without him starting the conversation none of them have a way to comfortably bring up the subject. And because none of them (except Kenji) knows how to communicate in a healthy way, they just end up stewing with the information without fully processing it or acknowledging it. They’re stuck in this limbo of doubt and discomfort. It’s actually incredibly nuanced and I bet it’s all going to come to a head at some point in the near future and it’s going to be that much more satisfying for the wait.