#Wave Yarn Suit

[leisurelife]

Wave Yarn Flying Sleeves Summer Suit Suspenders Shorts Home Clothes Suit Chest Pad Suspenders Shorts Set Beautiful Wave Yarn Summer Trousers Suit

Embrace the warmth of summer with this chic Wave Yarn Flying Sleeves Summer Suit. This suit is perfect for those relaxed days at home or lounging by the beach, featuring a stunning set with suspenders, chest pad for added comfort, and airy flying sleeves. The Wave Yarn fabric has a unique textured finish, while the flowy summer shorts keep you cool and stylish. Whether you're enjoying a sunny afternoon or winding down at home, this summer set will keep you feeling light and free.

[inkdrinkerworld]

mornings

synopsis: sunshine!reader is not sunshine-y early in the morning, and miguel finds it very cute

cw: fluff, i think that's it, gn!reader [i think i only use they but no gendered pronouns]

It’s amusing to Miguel- this little portion of your personality.

He’d been surprised the first time he was over at your apartment and it was time to wake up- but now, a little over three weeks after that initial day, you’re at his apartment and he’s come to realise that this is your ‘allotted grumpy time.’

He’s been fiddling with some sketches for new suits and new transportation centres for the anomalies that you find as the sun rises. 

Miguel’s an early riser- something he’s sure you’ve attributed to his grumpy disposition. Always telling him, ‘It’s because you don’t let your body rest so you get grumpy halfway through the morning’.

Your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes and he finds that he’s eagerly awaiting it. 

The soft tunes of waves crashing comes from your phone; your groan follows it immediately. Miguel bites back a smile. 

You’re facing the halfway opened curtains, little streams of light pouring through the window as the sun stretches to the top of the sky. Miguel suspects that doesn’t help you fall back asleep as you try burying your face back into your pillows. 

“Sol,” he whispers, pencil in one hand as the other scratches at the nape of your neck. “Es hora de despertar.” 

Your hand finds his at the back of your head and you remove it with a little more force than he had been expecting. 

“No,” simple and final.

He leaves you be, knowing you’ve another alarm in five minutes that usually does the trick. As Miguel waits for it, he moves to his kitchen, setting the kettle to boil. 

Your grumbles find him in the kitchen and he smiles at how annoyed you sound. 

You stomp your way to the bathroom, and ten minutes later you emerge wrapped in your towel, your face is glossy so Miguel can only assume you’ve showered and done your skincare routine. 

Your frown doesn’t go away though.

“You alright there, grumpy?” he asks as he catches a glimpse of you getting dressed. 

“M’not grumpy,” you deny as you put on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top- as a second thought you pull a sweater off the hanger and drape it over your arm. You don’t have much tactical training today, so you’re opting for comfort. “S’early.” 

Miguel meets you in the living room with a mug of tea for you and one of coffee for himself. “You set your alarm, Sol.” he reminds you and you cast a scathing glare at him. He wants to laugh because you look the exact opposite of scary.

No one would believe him if he even muttered the words, ‘Oh they're not a morning person,’ or if he even insinuated that you could be grumpy. Not even Lyla. 

“How are you not grumpy?” you ask him as you take the mug from him and take a sip. 

Miguel shrugs, setting his coffee down as he gets a pair of socks and your shoes for you. 

“Maybe we’ve swapped places for the day,” it’s unnatural even for him to say but it pulls a snort from you and that makes him feel a sense of accomplishment.

“Or maybe you’re an anomaly,” you joke, reaching a finger to pinch and poke at his cheek as he fits your socks and shoes on for you. Miguel bites the tip of your finger as it comes close to his lips, smiling when you let out a gasp that turns to a giggle. 

“Ready?” He finishes off his coffee with a couple sips as he waits for you to pack your tote bag- it’s filled with mostly tactile stuff, like your crochet needles and yarn, a sketchbook and one of the little cubes that Miguel had designed to help with your thinking, and then your tablet with all your notes on it. 

“Miguel?” 

“Yes?” He holds the door open for you. 

“Do you think you could help me with the new design for the web shooters? Something’s off, but I’m not sure what.” 

He grabs his own tablet and a yoghurt freezie and hands it to you. 

“I can, amor. Will you come have lunch with me or will you be with Jess and Margo?” 

You laugh at how offended he sounds, “No I’ll have lunch with you. You missed me too much yesterday. Lyla told me how you were even grumpier than usual.” you’ve already eaten half of the freezie when you reach the elevator. Miguel only shakes his head, plotting to figure out a way to get Lyla to not tell you everything about him.

[stariikis]

𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡 | 𝐧.𝐫𝐤

royal flush ; (noun) a straight flush including ace, king, queen, jack, and ten all in the same suit, which is the hand of the highest possible value when wild cards are not in use. synopsis ; on your anniversary date with riki, he gets you thinking about how a deck of cards and a red string of fate bonded you forever.

pairing ; nishimura riki x reader genre ; fluff, romance, established r/s warnings ; mild cursing wc ; 1543

“You think we were fated to be together?” 

As you let the words settle into the darkness, the weight of them simmer around you. It’s almost as if you’re speaking to, perhaps, a figment of your imagination, a ghost of a body you want to be present, but isn’t. But Riki’s fingers, slender and rough with calluses, (he’s recently picked up the peculiar hobby of monkey barring) slide through yours. Like a confirmation that he’s here. 

Like a promise. 

He likes to associate you both with the tied knot of the red strings of fate. Every gift you receive is tied to perfection with a red ribbon. He likes to decorate printed pictures of you and him with scarlet-licked ribbons, a string of yarn weaved through punched-out holes. You’ve never been much of an artistic person yourself, but Riki gladly takes care of the aesthetics himself. 

“You’re my royal flush. Of course we were fated to be together.” 

What on earth does he mean? 

The night sky envelopes you in a cool breeze. Riki’s canvas, like a mirror, reflects the stars dotting it on the black background. A female figure, meant to be you, is sketched neatly in the middle of the portrait. However, your boyfriend has seemed to temporarily forget about the painting he’s working on. 

He leans in closer, one hand supporting himself on the grassy field. The other squeezes yours in a tight reassurance. The grin he’s flaunting is one that makes you want to smile with him. But it’s hard to focus on him when your mind is running through everything it took for you to get here. 

“Hey, yn, come here!” 

Minji’s voice rings out loud and clear across the room the moment you walk in. In a circle with a few boys, along with Haerin, there’s a deck of cards laid out on the marble floor. 

You walk over hesitantly, blinking at the unshuffled pile. ‘I’m not very good at playing cards.” 

Your friend and roommate huffs in exasperation, grabbing your wrist and sitting you down in the empty spot beside her. Your new roommates stare at you expectantly, and it’s only then when you realise they’re waiting for an introduction. Hastily and half embarrassed, you nod your head and introduce yourself. 

The boy beside you, his hair bleached and long enough to be considered a mullet, smiles amiably and greets you. “Hi, I’m Riki.” 

The boy opposite flashes a smile somehow even brighter than Riki’s. “I’m Sunoo! Welcome to the dorm.” 

Shyly, you wave and proceed to receive your share of the cards Haerin has silently been dealing amidst the introductions. 

“I don’t know, guys…” you murmur lightly, trying to start conversation. “I don’t really play big 2 that often.” 

“But do you know how?” Minji tilts her head. Her playful expression is difficult to read. You look through your cards and nod in response. “Who knows, you might be the next prodigy, like Riki beside you. He wins every time! Why do we even play with him anymore?” 

Riki laughs boyishly, winking at you charmingly. “Nobody comes even close to beating me!” 

… It’s only your first day at university. You should not be finding boys cute yet. 

“Sure, sure. Maybe I’ll be the one to change that.” 

The game begins, and true to his word, Riki starts off strong. He’s either the luckiest man on earth or has the skills of a professional gambler, because everytime he places down a set, everybody lets out a gasp. As expected, nobody in the circle is able to beat his high value cards, and they skip their turns. 

You’re doing better than you expected though. Head to head with Riki, you both have six cards in your hands. Minji sends you a teasing glance, as if signaling for you to destroy him. The chances are pretty low. When Riki places down a full house, you have a feeling you’re pretty screwed. And since you’re his main competition, Riki quirks an eyebrow challengingly at you when he places down three 6s and two 8s. 

One card remaining in his hand, he looks your way and giggles. Giggles. It, like, kind of alters your brain chemistry a little. 

However, you’re lucky (and smart) enough to have saved your flush, and so you place down your ten, jack, queen, king and ace. As you do so, the whole room goes silent. Haerin is the first to break it, with the first sentence you’ve heard her say that day. 

“You had a royal flush?! Now Riki’s definitely going to lose.” 

“A royal flush?” You echo, unfamiliar to this term in the world of gambling. Riki’s smug expression has turned into an awe-struck one, and he’s ogling at the five cards you have just placed down. 

“Look,” Minji spreads your cards and points at the suit. “They’re all hearts, right? A flush, with all the same suit, is called a royal flush. It’s the best set of five you can place down in this game.” 

Sunoo gasps, all nine of his cards spread like a peacock’s tail in his two hands. He uses it to fan himself, shaking his head all the while. “Damn, I never expected anyone to beat Riki.” 

Of course, everyone passes, even a begrudging Riki. He hangs his head low, and you don’t know whether to rub salt in the wound or comfort him with a bullshitted, “oh, don’t worry! Haha! Beginner’s luck!” 

You toss your last card, a 7, onto the pile before excusing yourself. You don’t want to stay and risk being assaulted by a potentially extremely competitive 18-year-old. 

However, that isn’t the case. After a while, you meet him in the dorm’s shared kitchen, stumbling upon him making himself a cup of coffee. At first, you’re nervous and avoid his gaze, because who knows what he could do to your social status if he’s truly upset. You’re slightly traumatised from high school’s notorious group of popular girls. 

But instead of giving you a shit-eating glare like you thought he would, he taps your shoulder. It sends tingles through your body, and you almost physically reach up and smack yourself. 

“I challenge you to another game,” he beams at you almost innocently. “Tonight, my room.” 

As the days go by, these demanding three words leave Riki’s lips more and more often. Soon it is a tradition for you to knock on his door and be greeted with a deck of cards shoved in your face. You truly do somehow have a talent for playing cards, reigning above Riki – and you win him every single time. 

It’s his life goal to beat you someday. 

To this day, he still hasn’t been able to beat you. But when he confessed to you, his eyes glazed over with a nervousness you’ve never seen before, even during your heated matches. He shyly gifted you with a fresh new deck of cards, tied up with the red string of fate. 

He claims to love the colour red because it reminds him of you. 

“Look,” he whispered, in the middle of the dark and empty room. Minji, Haerin and Sunoo were all out late in class, and Riki had pulled you in with such a look of desperation and eagerness that you didn’t know how to respond. “It’s red, like the hearts on the royal flush you put down the first day we met. It’s red like the colour of your favourite flowers.” 

“Roses,” he turns around and retrieves a bouquet of the prick-studded flowers from next to his nightstand. He sounds a little breathless when he returns to you, and the adoration in his eyes makes you want to break down into tears. “You love roses.” 

The boy that you’ve liked since the moment you met him. Why would you not accept such a thoughtful, clumsy confession that is his? 

“I like you so, so much!” 

A royal flush. So that’s what he means. 

“Happy anniversary,” Riki sighs, a little too dizzyingly happy when he leans in to kiss your cheek. “I got you yet another deck of cards because I didn’t know what you would want.” 

He whips out a box with intricate lines and swirls, and the design is a little too familiar for your liking. 

“Is this…” you reach out to touch it, your fingers connecting once more in the process. Riki nods enthusiastically, lips pursed proudly. “The deck of cards we played with at the very beginning.” 

Something’s special, though, when you turn the box around and look at the bottom, you see that he’s engraved both your names there, in his very own handwriting. Your heart swells with pure love for the boy sitting before you. He may be clueless on what to get you, but at the same time he’s the best ever at giving gifts.

“Let me finish up this painting,” he sighs, and scoots back to scan you. His hands imitate a picture frame and he winks to get a clearer picture of you in his mind. “Pretty.”

He turns back to the painting, skilled hands picking up his paintbrush again. “After this, we can go home. I challenge you to another game of cards. Tonight, my room. And this time, I’ll win.”

thank you for reading !

more of my works >

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Sonny Carisi: Knitting 

This is pure indulgent domestic fluff. 

You were deeply absorbed in the cheesy Rom-Com and the rhythmical motion of the knitting needles and yarn wrapping. It was soft sliding through your fingers. Ryan Gosling was standing shirtless in front of Emma Stone. Her hand ran up and down his muscled chest. You bite your lip tracing the movement with your eyes. “Really?” A thick Staten Island accent deadpanned. 

You startle your head whipping around. Sonny stood behind you. You hadn’t even heard him come in. He was still fully dressed in his suit, his badge on one hip, gun on the other. You smile slightly guilty, “Hey baby,” You twist putting your hands on the back of the couch to push up and request a kiss by pursing your lips.  

Sonny raised an eyebrow, “You're eyeing up another man then trying to distract me to get out of it?” You hold the pursed lips for a few more seconds before kissing the air and turning back around with a huff. 

“If you don’t want to kiss me that’s fine. All you had to do was say you don’t love me any-” Your head is pulled back with his hand under your chin. His lips find yours in an upside-down kiss. You pull back with a giggle and he redirects you to his lips. Pressing sloppy kisses against your lips and cheeks. You laugh even harder as he slides over the back of the couch not slowing his assault. You fall back into the arm of the couch and his kisses go down your throat following down until he hits your tank top and then leans down to blow a raspberry on your stomach. “Are you satisfied?” You tease trying to suppress your giggles and failing. He seems to think about it for a prolonged moment before pouncing again. Grabbing your face to plant a few more kisses. 

“Now I am.” You roll your eyes before leaning up pursing your lips again to give him a second chance. It’s a fast peck this time. You push gently at his chest to ease him back. “Aw, you can’t still be upset. You know I love you.” 

“I love you too but your gun is digging into my hip,” Then you raise an eyebrow at him, “That is your gun, right?”  

“You know I’m always up for a round with you.” Sonny teased easing himself into a sitting position releasing the gun on his belt and setting it on the coffee table. His eyes roved over you like you were the sexist thing he had ever seen even if your hair was in a hardly messy bun and in his Fordham sweat shirt and gray sweatpants. Honesty even the socks on your feet were Sonny’s. You had wanted to snuggle up and be warm and comfortable for your night at home.  

“What’s that?” Sonny inclined his head to your lap removing his badge, wallet, loose change, and keys from his pockets. Disassembling his polished detective persona to get back to the comfort of his home. You looked down and saw the barely started blanket on your knitting needles. You hadn’t thought about the fact that he had never seen you make anything before. It was a hobby that came and went in waves. You would make stuff for months then up and quit for no apparent reason- the hyper fixation broken.  

Sonny’s cousin Elana had announced she was pregnant at one of the big Carisi get-togethers. You had thought it was the perfect reason to pick your needles back up. She was having a little girl and you found a soft cotton candy variegated yarn with soft pinks, blues, yellows greens, and purples. “A blanket, or it will be.” 

Sonny looked a little uncomfortable looking at the small bit of woven yarn. You raised an eyebrow at him urging him to speak his mind. He cleared his throat, his voice filled with trepidation. “Um, don’t you think that looks a bit...well-a little small for a blanket?” You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. He clearly thought you didn’t know what you were doing and was trying to be polite about it. 

“It’s a corner-to-corner blanket.” At his blank stare, you amend, “It’s going to get bigger as I move to the center, then get smaller as I go to the other corner.” 

“Oh,” He leans down to untie his shoes. “You’re doing great then.” You smile at him shaking your head. “I didn’t know you knew how to crochet.”  

“I don’t.” His brow furrows as he looks back down at your work. “I’m knitting. Crochet is with the hook.” You slide your stitches up the needles to start the next row. Your hands now itching to do something. “I go through stages.” You offer simply. 

“Right,” He undoes his watch setting it with his growing pile on the coffee table. “What got you going again?” You smile brightly at him unable to hide your excitement at the thought of another baby filling the Carisi house. 

“It’s for Elana’s baby.” Sonny’s jaw tightens as he scrubs his hand across his jaw. Your excitement dies as you look down at the blanket, “You think she won’t like it? Clash with the nursery. I thought this was a pretty safe choice considering-” 

“No, it’s not that. I think she will love it. The Carisi’s go crazy for homemade gifts.” 

“Okay,” You drag out waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. “Then what’s with that look?” He smiles a little sheepishly. 

“It’s just if you make one for Elana...” Understanding washes over you. 

“Then I would have to make one for everyone.” You finish for him. It takes commitment but it’s a pretty easy choice. Baby blankets were fairly small and on the easier side to make. If you watched TV and knitted it wouldn’t take long for you to complete. “I’m okay with that.” He sets his hands on your thighs massaging them with his strong hands. 

“There are usually six or seven Carisi babies born a year.” Your mouth parts in an oh of surprise. You knew that his family was big. They were Italian and Catholic. But that was a lot of babies. He nods and tucks a loose tress of hair behind your ear. “And that’s leaning on the smaller side.”  

You lean back into the couch cushions letting that information absorb. You mentally calculated the time it would take you to do that many blankets. It would be a lot but... You always made baby blankets when your friends and family had babies. Could you really give up doing it? Usually, you make them on the bigger side. That way the rugrats could grow into them and still use them comfortably through their toddler years and up into early childhood if they wanted. Something they could have and hold to know they are loved.  

“Then I better get ahead of the game and start a stash.” Sonny looked at you incredulously. “I’m going to need some more yarn. Boy colors, girl color, neutral colors.” You smile widely at him, “That means you get to take me shopping tomorrow. And you do have to come. You know your family better than I do and I’d actually like to make something they like. I wouldn’t doubt Isabella getting pregnant again soon. You might want to bring a coffee we will be there awhile.”  

“Coffee and my credit card. Got it.” You smile brightly at him leaning forward and peck a kiss on his lips. You lean back against the couch cushion and pick up your needles again. You laugh when he grabs your legs swinging them up and into his lap. 

[its-in-the-woods]

Knife's Edge - Part 1 Johnny's Bar

~* @dichromaniac co-writer/editor *~

Chapter is 8.9k long!

Minors exit/block. Neither of us are responsible for you being here/reading this.

Pairing: Boyd Crowder/Raylan Givens, Ava Crowder/Boyd Crowder

Warnings?: Dinking/alcohol, knife kink, Blood/injury, hand job, blow job, alternative universe, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Canon Divergence, Closeted,

Summary: Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”

Please note... Tag will not spoil anything.. so you've been pre-warned. Canon typical violence/alcohol/swearing/sex etc. Also Canon divergence as this AU.

There will be multiple different ships not mentioned in tags, canon and not canon. As well as various characters from the seasons. Much love <3

The wheels of Raylan's black Lincoln screech to a stop, digging divots into the parking lot, shrouded by plumes of dust. He doesn't waste the time to take the keys out of the ignition, slamming the car door and striding to the weather-beaten porch of Johnny's Place. Raylan throws open the door and the bar is momentarily illuminated around Raylan's stretched shadow before plunging back into a timeless, weary yellow. 

“Boyd,” his shout half covered by the slam of the door back into its shaky jamb. “I know you're in here. You and I are due for a conversation.”

From out of a recessed hallway, Boyd appears, hands raised by his ears, and a well practiced mask of polite pleasantness gracing his face. “Well Raylan Givens, normally I'd suppose you're here to accuse me of involvement in some malfeasance, but seeing how you've recently seen all my sins laid bare, one does wonder to what purpose you darken my doorstep.”

Raylan rolls his eyes at the thesaurus of bullshit coming out of Boyd’s mouth. ‘You know, if you used that mouth for something other than horse shit. You might actually make something out of yourself.”

Boyd lets out a small huff of laughter, as he slides onto one of the bar stools. One hand on his thigh and the other resting against the polished bar. “May I interest you in some of our finest brew?” 

Raylan snorts but he moves his hand off his gun, walking over to stand closer to Boyd. The spiky haired man looked much too relaxed for his liking. “I know what you did Boyd.” 

“Oh? And what may I ask, are you accusing me of now, Raylan?” Boyd puts particular emphasis on his name, his fingers swirling along the bar. 

Raylan groans, finally giving in and leaning against the bar. Briefly pondering the thought of having something to drink, but no, this was a business call after all and he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever yarn Boyd was spinning. “Boyd, you know full well that Arlo didn’t do half the things he said he did.” 

The anger bubbles up now, he can feel it pulling on the collar of his button up. Why he doesn’t just shoot Boyd right where that smug asshole sits is beyond him. 

The corners of Boyd's eyes and mouth twitch before falling slack. The rest of his body follows suit, his rigid posture giving way to a slumped exhaustion. Raylan's eyes follow the disappearing tension in Boyd's neck until it disappears under the collar of his white shirt. Raylan wonders what it would look like to see that wave of motion unobscured. He's struck with the image of a snake shedding its skin. 

“Raylan,” Boyd's voice is barely above a whisper and Raylan tilts his head as Boyd stalks closer, “my opinions on the matter don't hold a candle to Uncle Sam's facts.” Shifting mercurially, Boyd claps his hands, loudly and deliberately next to Raylan's ear. In a flash, he jumps up on the bartop, swings his legs towards the tap wall and leaps down, narrowly missing the well, landing with more agility than Raylan would have given him credit for. 

Raylan feels his right eyebrow betraying him, cocking upwards in interested appreciation. “This ain't between you and the Marshals, the Feds, the locals, the goddamn Dixie Mafia nor Wayne Duffy neither.” Raylan turns and slams both hands onto the bartop, framing Boyd's distant figure.”This is between you and me.” Raylan moves one hand off the polished, warping wood and brings it to his belt.

Boyd’s eyes widen and he reaches for the small of his back. The shiny flash of metal in Raylan's hand hits the counter before Boyd can get a grip on the handle of his .45. Raylan's a quick draw, but Boyd's eyes are faster and when he sees the hateful familiar shape of a Marshal’s star, he turns towards his right, as if the attempt to pull his weapon was only a twist of his body to reach a fresh bottle of bourbon. 

“Seriously Boyd?” Raylan's anger shifts to exasperation and he rolls his eyes. “You thought you were gonna fool me with that little dance move? You're better than that.”  Raylan's voice drops, weighted by the anger he brought in with him, the anger he carries always. “Put it on the bar, son. I'm not in a mood to ask you twice.”

Boyd scoffs, neck tilted back so far the tips of his hair brush his spine. He reaches for two glasses with his free hand and sets them along with the bottle next to Raylan. “I do still believe we have a second amendment right here in Kentucky, and seeing as how you're here officially as a private citizen, one who has aggressively and persistently threatened not only my body, but the well being of those whom I deem near-and-dear, you'll understand my apprehension at being unarmed in your presence.”

“You're infuriating, you know that, right?” Raylan sighs. There's a bottle of Jim at his left elbow, a Colt on his right hip and Boyd Crowder standing between the two. Raylan is paralyzed between the paths that lay before him, a literal fork in the road he can no longer delay. “Have you ever, even once, considered living a life that means you don't have to conceal a weapon on you at all times?”

“I don't know Raylan, have you?” Boyd quips, sharp and quick. He takes advantage of Raylan's surge of anger to walk the short distance through the back bar door back to the stools where Raylan is perched. He takes in the stretched skin around Raylan's eyes where they're threatening to bulge out of his skull, his body weight dropping off the left side of the stool, ready to stand at a moment's notice. Raylan may be able to fool everyone else, but Boyd recognizes the anxiety in his form, unchanged over the long years since he first recognized the signs.

“A show of good faith then.” Boyd reaches for his gun a second time, slowly. Raylan's eyes track every movement, Raylan's eyes grow impossibly wider the closer Boyd's hand get to his belt. Boyd draws the gun out of his waistband and immediately empties the mag and the chamber in fluid, practiced movements before setting it on the counter between them.

Raylan shifts slightly in his seat as he watches the man unload his weapon. The twinge in his stomach making him sit up a little straighter, “If you’re asking me to do the same-”

“I am not asking for anything Raylan,” Boyd cuts him off pouring them both three fingers of Jim. “I am showing you I am not looking for a fight. At least not one where we end up with holes in us, not that you've ever shown any withhold in regards to shooting me.”

Raylan’s tongue pushes at the inside of his mouth, jaw clenching at being cut off. He takes a sip of the drink, the burn warming him as much as his boiling anger. His eyes fixate on the man standing beside him, unloaded gun between them. The silence hangs in the room like coal dust, both fine and thick.

“I was fully prepared to go back into the cell that you love to see me in,” Boyd speaks, looking at the neon sign behind the bar. “I would never have asked Arlo to take the fall for anything that had been done by my hand. But, as you know full well, Arlo isn’t one to be argued with. Your father has treated me better than anyone has right too.”

Raylan takes another sip of the drink, the thought of decking Boyd over his words flickering over his mind. He remembers seeing the man with blood dripping down his nose, him spitting on the ground. Raylan swallows at the twitch in his stomach, his hands itching to grab something, anything that will stop the spiral from creeping over him, dragging him down. 

“Raylan, I know you don’t have many kind words for me. But I am hoping we can converse over this problem without guns,” Boyd says, turning to look at Raylan holding the glass loosely in his hand. He sets it down, moving slightly closer to Raylan, his eyes watching the other man intensely. 

Raylan isn't focused, maybe it’s the alcohol dulling his senses, or the fact Boyd was close enough he can smell stale cigarette smoke and fresh bourbon on the man. He's distracted by the way Boyd’s ever shifting eyes locked on his, his tongue wetting his lips. Then the knife is on his throat, a blade that Boyd keeps tucked under the bar for ease of use, now up against Raylan's neck. 

Each galloping thrum of Raylan's pulse in his carotid threatens to pull the sharp steel deeper into the soft flesh and muscle of his neck. Subconsciously, Raylan twitches into the blade, daring Boyd to finish this never ending waltz between them. It would be fitting to die here, under Boyd's steady hands, throat slit open like the first hog of the season. 

Boyd tsks, eyes spinning under the spell of Raylan's exposed underbelly. Boyd drags his eyes up from the blade to meet Raylan's, his gaze dark with anger, the first warm notes of alcoholic intoxication and familiar challenge. “I told you I was loathe to be unarmed in your presence, Raylan Givens.” His mouth wraps around the name like melting chocolate. “If I was a betting man, I'd say you were slipping.” Boyd drags the knife up, microscopic flakes of dead skin and prickly tips of five o’clock shadow falling like snowflakes onto the shoulder of Raylan's suit jacket.

“Are you happy now? Feel like you've won something?” Raylan’s tongue stumbles over the words as Boyd’s knife wedges into the hollow under his jaw. “You have it all, don't you? Your daddy's little drug empire, your brother's wife, your… My… Arlo’s approval.” Raylan moves, quick-draw reflexes crackling to wrap long fingers around Boyd's wrist, pressing the knife in deeper. “There ain't a damn thing in this world you have, Boyd, that didn't belong to someone else first.”

Raylan pulls the blade away, a single thread of crimson gilding the edge. Raylan twists his grip, Boyd's wrist bending almost to the breaking point and he catches the falling knife with his other hand before it can clatter to the floor. He spins the handle between his fingers, not as familiar as the weight of a gun, but an old habit, easy to fall back into. He presses the steel against Boyd's face, tip of the blade centimeters below the outside of Boyd's eye, resting against the prominence of his cheekbone. Raylan reaches for his bourbon, takes another heavy pull from the glass. 

Boyd’s eyes whirl, always assessing. “There was one thing, once,” he whispers. “And if everything else I came across is a hand-me-down, well that seems fitting for a place like Harlan. She never lets anything go, after all.” He leans forward into the edge, his skin splitting, threads of blood binding together, a mockery of a sacred pact. “Just like you.”

Raylan's face sets in a hard line, the pop of his jaw visible as he sets his glass down. The small drop of blood slides down Boyd’s face, and Raylan wonders what it tastes like. His eyes follow it down along Boyd’s cheek. Raylan’s free hand pulls his gun out quick enough that Boyd tenses, eyes fluttering closed for a second as he places it down on the counter. 

“You think I haven’t let you go?” Raylan spits out at him, trying his damndest not to let his voice crack. “You, Boyd Crowder, the thorn in my side, I can’t let you go ‘cause you keep crawling back.”

He leans the blade in, dragging slightly down around Boyd’s cheek along the five o’clock shadow, coarse hairs pushing out of tanned skin. Raylan's eyes track the small drop of blood running down the indent the steel made. The two of them a breath away, a sharp edge kissing Boyd’s face and a gun thrust against Raylan’s side. 

“You are getting sloppy, Lawman,” Boyd grins, his tongue running over his teeth, the click of the gun echoing against Raylan’s ears. Raylan moves back a hair to see his own gun pressing into his guts. “Are you getting sloppy Raylan, or did you want to be here? Wanted to see if I would put a gun against you and pull the trigger. Give you an actual reason to shoot me, that’s what you want Raylan? This isn’t about your Daddy. This is about you, you and me. It always was Raylan, ever since we dug coal together. You saying I crawled back? You left Raylan Givens. You left all of this. And you could leave any time, go back to Florida. But now you’re standing in my bar, on my turf, trying to threaten me.”

Raylan grinds his teeth looking right at the man who was holding the gun, the knife seeming impotent. He could be fast, take a swipe at Boyd's face, maybe he would drop the gun, but chances are Raylan would end up with the hole in his side. Instead he steps forward leaning his body in against Boyd’s.   

Raylan’s breath echoes across Boyd's skin, reverberating back into his lungs, bourbon and guilt with the added flavors of fresh copper and stale coal dust that lives in the hollow spaces of Boyd's bones that Raylan has never been able to shake the flavor of from his memory. “You’re the one with a gun diggin’ into my guts, after you demanded a civilized conversation. You're a liar, Boyd, always have been, and I'm done expecting you to change.” 

Raylan moves closer, the knife opening the wound another fraction of depth, digging in deeper. “You promised me you'd changed, but here we are, filling this god forsaken bar with more bloodshed.”

Boyd moves his gun hand with Raylan's step, the barrel notched tight into the space between his ribs. “What would you have me be, Raylan? Another one of your pretty damsels, waiting for a knight in shining Stetson and boots that have never kicked shit?” Boyd turns his face, the knife sliding to the edge of his ear. “It's not in my nature to wait to be rescued. I'm going to get what's mine and you and I both know that'll never be found in the bottom of a mine shaft.” He matches Raylan's step, moving forward, their chests pressing together, Boyd’s knee slides between Raylan's thighs, their waltz morphing into a dangerous tango. 

“I could've helped you.” Raylan shifts uncomfortably at Boyd's intrusion into his space. Heat that has nothing to do with bourbon or rage flushes his face. “We could've left together, all those years ago. You could've been free of this mess. Be someone…”

Raylan trails off. For all the words they exchange, there's some that stick in Raylan's heart, never able to escape out into his throat. He wonders if the shape of them died the day the mine collapsed around them, buried under tonnes of grief and fear. 

“Be what, Raylan?” Boyd digs the gun in deeper. “College boy like you should use your words,” Boyd’s volume rises steadily until he's shouting, pressing his thigh in deeper, their hip bones clanging together like shell and clapper of a shift change bell. “We weren't ever going to be anything or anyone but what we are. I thought for a time I could change, but I've wisened up to the notion that no one ever changes, and that includes you.”

Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”

The pressure behind Raylan's eyes breaks, he's unable to hold back the thunderstorm that's been building for years. “Fuck you, Boyd,” Raylan hisses and brings the knife to the edge of his tightly buttoned collar, sliding the edge against the thread holding the top button fast to the white starched fabric. “You don't know everything about me.”

Raylan hears Boyd’s jaw click as the button clatters to the floor. His eyes flash down at the sound of it giving Raylan a moment to use his free hand to twist the gun out from his ribs, and move his body, pinning Boyd to the counter. The gun hits the floor with a clatter and Boyd’s breath knocks out of him with a whoosh. Raylan moves the knife with practiced ease, popping another button. Boyd shifts his weight so that they are pressed together, the thin edge of the knife the only distance between them. 

“I don’t know you?” Boyd smiles, the same smile that caught Raylan’s attention when they were both just kids. Boyd’s hands wrap around Raylan’s wrist holding the knife. “If I don’t know you, why are you here, desecrating the floor of my bar with my shirt buttons?

Raylan tips his head down trying not to meet the man’s eyes as the knife flicks another button off the starched stiff white shirt. 

“Don’t you fuckin dare hide behind your oversized hat.” Boyd tsks, his free hand pushes the hat up so he can look right at Raylan. They're frozen, looking at each other. Their faces may now have lines, gray hair popping out here and there, but underneath the accumulated years, they are still those two teenagers stuck down a mine shaft, alone in the dark with only each other's company against the warm call of death. 

Boyd is taken aback when Raylan moves first, their lips cracking together as the knife clatters to the floor. Boyd’s frozen in place as he feels the other man’s body push hard against his. How many times has he thought about this exact moment? How many times has he wanted to cross this line since Raylan's ignominious return? A line they’d only crossed once when they thought they were dead and buried under their mother soil. Something neither of them had spoken of since, a sin left unspoken in her bosom.

Then Boyd moves, hand coming up to rub against the scruffy stubble that made his stomach twitch. Heat building as he kisses Raylan, tongue pushing against lips and teeth. It's a rough scramble, they are both trying to take the upper hand and unrelenting to let the other in. Raylan has a slight advantage having pinned Boyd to the counter, but Boyd shifts, pulling at the bottom of Raylan’s shirt. 

There's little difference, Boyd understands from his position under Raylan, between the clatter of teeth and straining muscle of tongues from their usual violent confrontations. At least now they're being honest with each other. Boyd tugs at Raylan's shirt hem, desperately grasping at the layers Raylan wears like a mask, he should know. If anyone knows how to wear clothes like armor and expectation, it's Boyd.

Raylan pulls away first, resting his forehead against Boyd's, the sides of their noses pressed together, breath and blood surging together. Boyd's fingers dance along the skin he's exposed above Raylan's belt. He forgives his hands their walk, a path he's never forgotten, over the tight muscle and soft indents of Raylan's torso and wonders if Raylan's skin still tastes the same, like gun oil, adrenaline and rage. Boyd moves his hands up to Raylan's shoulders, pushing his jacket up and off, letting it drift down to the dusty bar floor. 

Raylan's hands are on the surviving buttons of Boyd's shirt, working each one open, his mouth licking the stripe of blood from Boyd's cheek before trailing down, following the path of exposed skin, inch by inch. He wants to take Boyd apart, peel him open and raw. He needs to prove to Boyd that he isn't just a criminal, or his father's son, that the expectations the world settled onto his shoulders are not the man he is, not the only version of himself he could only become. Raylan burns with the desire for Boyd to see the man Raylan knows he could've been if both of them had been brave enough years ago.

Boyd tilts his head forward and growls when all he can see is the top of Raylan's hat. “Goddamn it Raylan,” he snarks, “I told you not to hide.” His fingers twist into the soft material of the Stetson and grins sharper than the knife on the floor when Raylan meets his eyes to see Boyd set the item on top of his own head.

“Well now, I think this just might fit,” Boyd smirks, darkly. “But I can't rightfully say it's my color.”

Raylan growls back, a mix of anger at Boyd's audacity, frustration with the damn waistcoat keeping Boyd armored, and unexpected lust at the vision of him wearing his hat. Raylan drops to his knees, and when Boyd hisses at the sight, his face mirrors Boyd's same wicked grin. Raylan presses his face back into Boyd's neck, the knife sliding up against the dark fabric of his woolen waistcoat, pressing into the flesh of his stomach.

Boyd lets out a small huff, “In any other situation I would consider this teasing the height of rudeness.” 

Raylan slips the knife through the fabric, the soft pop of woven fibers tearing making Boyd's mouth fall open. That same wicked grin falls across Raylan's lips as the knife’s work finally reveals the flesh of Boyd's torso. His mouth follows the small red trail from Boyd’s collarbone down to just above his belt. Boyd’s hands slip into Raylan’s hair as his mouth burns with the taste of copper and coal. Raylan muses that it’s the quietest the other man has been the whole evening, maybe his entire existence, save a few precious exceptions.

Raylan bites the skin right above Boyd’s belt buckle, and he stifles a moan, which pisses off Raylan. He takes the blade and runs it across one side of the V of the man’s hips. small red lines raise, like the mountain borders of a holler, and Boyd’s hips twitch. Raylan has him on edge so easily. 

“If I’d known this would shut you up I’d have done it sooner,” Raylan growls, moving back up to push the remnants of Boyd’s clothes off his shoulders.

Boyd’s hands are under Raylan’s shirt pulling it up and over the man’s head, eyes blown wide as he takes him in.

The door bangs open and both men are frozen in place. Boyd pressed against the bar top, Raylan’s hands on Boyd’s stomach. Johnny’s framed in the sunlight of the doorway. His eyes would be comically wide if it weren’t for the situation he's found himself witnessing.

“The fuck is going on Boyd?” Johnny stutters, rolling into the bar, closing the door behind him. 

Raylan has already grabbed Boyd’s pistol and loaded it, leveling it at Johnny’s head. Boyd glares at Johnny from under the hat, and grabs Raylan's gun off the ground. 

“You walked in at the wrong time, Cousin Johnny,” Boyd spits out, twirling the gun in his hand. 

“Oh, whoa, hold on now,” Johnny stammers, his hands going up, his mouth doing him no favors, as he takes in Boyd’s current state of dress. “Look, I didn’t see anything.”

Raylan’s jaw clicks, as loud as the click of the gun's safety, his shirtless body a tense line. Boyd couldn’t help the flicker of a grin as he watched the man level the pistol at his cousin.

“Like, whatever man.” He shrugs his shoulders against the back of his wheelchair, “Not like we didn’t know in high school.” Johnny stutters out, eyes rolling to focus anywhere but them. Unable to avoid the situation, he glances back at Boyd, eyes shadowed by the wide brim of Raylan's hat, then back to Raylan’s unobscured face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Raylan spits, mirrorring Boyd, he moves in front of the main in the chair, gun hand steady.

Johnny swallows, looking at Boyd almost pleading, then back to Raylan, shaking where he sits. Raylan reaches down and pulls him to standing by the scruff of his dingy tee shirt.

“L-l-look just pretend I didn’t say anything,” Johnny stumbles over his words.

Boyd wanders over, Raylan's service weapon  in hand. “Think it’s a little late, Johnny. But, and this is big but for you now, why don’t we back up a little, take a second to rethink what’s going on here.” He’s talking to Raylan as much as he's addressing his cousin, attempting to diffuse the violence crackling in the air.

Raylan shoves Johnny back into his chair, turning to look at Boyd, brows raised, “You trust this man, Boyd?”

He shifts one eye away from his cousin, up to Raylan. Boyd lowers his borrowed weapon as he goes through infinite calculations, scenarios of “what then,” in a fraction of second before he loosens his grip and holds his hands up, gun balancing on his pointer finger. He sighs, deeply, turning his full attention to Raylan, ignoring the man whose fate they're discussing.

Boyd considers the weapons at his disposal now that he's talked Raylan down from shooting yet another man: Threats, guilt, ultimatums, bribery, guarantees of power, all resting ready at his fingertips. “Well of course I trust my dear cousin Johnny to be the pinnacle of discretion as he always has been when it comes to my affairs,” he turns to Johnny, the unspoken threat clear from his intonation, "he is family after all.”

Johnny almost loses it as he watches the hat nearly slide off his cousin’s head, but chokes his laughter back under a scoff.  He studies Raylan's hard set face, more interested in the man he doesn't know, than the cousin he understands. “Yeah Boyd.” Johnny hocks a loogie into the floor, eyes never leaving Raylan’s, the chamber of Boyd's gun in his hand an abyss in his periphery. “I see you have your priorities. Hat and all. And they don't seem to include family.” Johnny injects venom into the word cousin. He holds his gaze with Raylan for as long as his neck will allow, and wheels himself out of the bar that bears his name, business unheard.

Dewey's at the car waiting for him, and without instruction, wheels Johnny to the passenger side. “That was quick, what happened? What's he gonna do?” Dewey’s mouth runs a mile a minute, never waiting for an answer before asking the next question. He lets Johnny make the transfer between chair and car, puts the chair away and flips into the driver's seat. Johnny has yet to speak. 

“Well hell, Johnny,” Dewey drawls, turning the ignition. “What happened in there? Is Boyd dead or something and you're trying to be all noble and not tell me? Or is he like doing something really bad and you want to protect me from knowing about it?” 

Dewey jumps at Johnny's reaction, a loud raucous laugh that shakes the paneling on the late 80s sedan. Tears stream from Johnny's face, and he grabs the lapels of Dewey's jacket. Instinctively, Dewey turns the steering wheel, the car fishtailing and sputtering across the dirt and gravel. 

“Yeah, Dewey, you absolutely do not want to know what our asshole boss has deemed more important than taking my meeting. “ Johnny lights a cigarette, cranking down the window. “But he's definitely going to regret it. Turn, right, here,” Johnny points to the upcoming unmarked intersection, the first turn on the path towards Ava Crowder's.

Boyd clicks the lock at the front door, Raylan’s gone to take care of the back. Boyd can't stop the wide grin from splitting his face when Raylan returns. His hard lines and smooth movements strike Boyd as something predatory and feline, as Raylan walks back over to the bar to grab his shirt off the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Boyd slithers between Raylan and the bar, eyes tinged with worry.

“Getting dressed and leaving before you go and do whatever you're planning on doing to Johnny. What does it look like?” Raylan huffs, pulling an arm through a sleeve.

Boyd isn’t having any of it, pushes the man back against the bar and pulls the shirt back off, long fingers dragging against Raylan's exposed arm. He looks at Boyd with confusion crossing his face. “We ain't doing this.” 

In a flash, Boyd has the gun up off the bar and in his hand. “We aren’t? You were on your knees in front of me just moments before and I fail to see how the situation has changed, other than you threatening yet another member of my family as is your nature.” 

Raylan’s tongue comes out and licks at his lips, “You know you're still wearing my hat.” 

Boyd’s eyebrows furrow, the realization crossing his face, his mouth opens and closes a couple of times. He grits his teeth, “No, Raylan Givens.” His mouth splits from tight denial to seductive opportunity. “Though I think the saying goes, ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy.’ And if my memory serves me right, that means I'm owed a debt.”

Raylan laughs, truly and deeply with no hint of sarcasm or exasperation. “Now who's getting sloppy, Boyd? I figured you'd come up with something more original than that.”

Boyd’s manic grin falters into a look of mock wounded pride, wide hazel eyes looking up to Raylan. “Explain to me, Deputy US Marshal, why,” Boyd wraps his hand around Raylan's right hip and presses the barrel of the gun into his left, “you went and locked the back door if your intention was not to finish what you started?” 

Boyd surges up, lips and tongue bristling against the stubble under Raylan's jaw as he licks open the fine knife wound. He hums with satisfaction against Raylan's skin; he was right, Raylan still tastes like he remembered, adrenaline and gun oil, but less like Mag's moonshine and more like bourbon. The gun presses deeper into Raylan's jeans, and Boyd moves his hand to the back of Raylan's neck. 

Boyd’s tongue lazily flows up to the edge of Raylan's ear, gathering salt and skin. He wants to burn the taste into his memory, store it in the part of his brain next to where he keeps the images of Raylan at nineteen. “I can keep the hat and the gun if that makes it easier for you.”

Raylan, always fast, disarms Boyd, places the gun on the counter. Both of them weaponless, the tension in the bar shifts from violence to anticipation. Raylan’s hands slip along Boyd’s belt, looking at him with blown out eyes, like if he stares hard enough he can parse through Boyd’s bullshit and read his mind. 

“You can keep the hat, for now. I want it back after,” Raylan teases, his fingers finding the belt buckle and pooping it open with a click. Boyd licks his lips and looks down at Raylan's deft fingers, releasing a small breath. Raylan takes the moment to snatch the pocket watch out of the tatters of Boyd’s waist coat. In one smooth motion, Raylan flips him around so his chest is against the bar, the chain of the watch wrapping around one hand before slipping it over the other. Boyd grunts trying to push back, but Raylan has him pinned.

“Am I being arrested, Deputy Marshal? Or is this some unusually kinky foreplay?” Boyd chuckles as he strains against the chain, deliberately wriggling against Raylan's jeans. He could easily break the chain. Years down a mine shaft left him strong, but he was uncharacteristically attached to the watch. So he allows Raylan the illusion of dominance, for now.

Raylan flips him back around, eyes watching Boyd, dark with a peeking wickedness as if he was getting to unwrap a Christmas present early without permission. “Something like that,” not one to give up the game easily.

Raylan finds the knife again, twirls it around in his fingers. A crooked grin gracing his face as he runs along the seams of the man's vest. Boyd grumbles, “I would have divested myself of my clearly criminal sartorial choices  if you had bothered to ask politely. But something tells me you much prefer watching me bleed a little, Raylan.” Boyd wriggles again lasciviously, pressing his cock into Raylan's through their jeans.

Raylan avoids Boyd's eyes and manic teeth, focusing on each thread snapping against the inevitable bite of honed steel as he drags the blade, ruining what's left of Boyd's precious waistcoat. “And you would know so much about that, being an outlaw and all.” Raylan tugs the metal chain around Boyd's wrists above his head, stretching him out like an animal on a rack, pressing himself into Boyd's deliberant movements. “But I'm supposed to be the lawman, remember?” He ducks his face under the brim of Boyd’s hat, <i>his</i> hat and licks across the shallow cut along Boyd's cheek. 

Boyd squirms, intentionally dragging himself against Raylan, enjoying the way Raylan's breath hitches and his eyelashes flutter. “Oh, you the lawman now? Is that really who you want to be? Right now? Because your badge is on the bar, your gun is on the floor and your hat is on my head.” 

“I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you walked into this bar.” Boyd tugs his hands against Raylan's grip on the metal chain around his wrist. He whispers, “I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you stepped off the flight from Miami.”

Boyd kisses him then, fierce and explosive, like a thousand pounds of emulex all set off at once. One of Raylan’s hands keeps the chain twisted around Boyd’s wrist, the other finds the side of his face. Boyd’s tongue delves into Raylan's mouth, hot against his palate, soft against the sharp edges of his teeth. Boyd moans, and Raylan takes the opportunity to lay his own claim into Boyd's mouth, pressing himself against every surface his own tongue can find. The two men were tasting each other more than kissing. A long stifled fire now burns in the bar between them as they move against each other. Boyd can’t help himself, he wants to be inside this man’s skin, wants to consume Raylan so he can remember every bit of this, in case he never gets to again.

Raylan pulls away, cheeks flushed red, as he rests his forehead against Boyd’s, breath speeding up as he looks for air. “You never shut up do you?” He states,  before he pushes the vest off to the floor. The shirt follows next, sleeves catching on Boyd's wrists, but exposing his chest and shoulders. He purposefully lets the knife dip into the skin along Boyd’s bicep, blood welling up against the black ink of Boyd’s previous poor decisions, chasing after it with his tongue, the iron making him groan. Something about Boyd’s squirming against him, blood dripping down his shoulder, makes Raylan examine his own past choices, following Boyd’s accusations. Had he truly ever wanted to be a lawman? Had he done it to spite Arlo? To spite Boyd?

He tugs the shirt off Boyd’s wrists, and someone he had once considered a friend stands before him shirtless. Mouth open, eyes shadowed by the hat but always on Raylan. Raylan moves back his tongue, licking up more of the blood, going back up and biting at his neck. A strangled hiss escapes Boyd, hips moving slowly against the press of Raylan's body. Raylan groans, grinding back just as hard, <i>Fuck</i>. The room feels hazy, like it's filled with smoke, and the only clear point in his vision is Boyd. 

Raylan picks up the chain and wraps it around Boyd's wrists again. Boyd struggles against the gold metal, trying to get more friction against his own aching need. “Should have known you’d be a tease. Been back for almost three years and it took you this long to be here -” Boyd gasps as Raylan bites into Boyd’s chest. “Keep on like that, you're gonna leave marks that require explanation, not like I am going to be able to direct the accusations at you, Raylan. I have a feeling this could be considered prisoner abuse.”

Raylan lifts his face up from Boyd’s chest, the indents of his teeth blooming red across Boyd’s skin. His jaw clenches and he looks at the unstoppable force that is Boyd. Did he even hear half the stuff that came out of his mouth? Raylan tugs on the chain pulling him from the counter, his other hand applying pressure to Boyd’s shoulder, drawing out a fresh stream of blood.

“And so what?” Raylan pulls again, relishing the small noises he elicits from Boyd in response to the makeshift bondage. “I’m sure you can find a perfectly reasonable explanation for these marks on your chest. Or are those harder to justify than this?” Raylan twists his hand, bringing the edge of the knife against the hateful ink on Boyd’s bicep, etching a second cut into his arm. Unable to resist the thick welling of Boyd’s life seeping out between the layers of flesh, Raylan laps at the split skin. He flicks his eyes back up to Boyd's, “Besides, this wouldn't be the first time you've made excuses for my presence in your life.”

Boyd growls and shivers, unable to resist the effect Raylan has over his physical body, but unwilling to concede any ground in the war they've been waging since birth. “Your marks have always been deeper and less superficial, except for one notable occasion. And while I must admit I don't hate…,” Raylan bites into the dark ink, stuttering Boyd's monologue, “your inventiveness, I do have my current promises and obligations to consider.”

Raylan stops cold, removes the knife, but keeps his grip on the chain. “You mean Ava.” His eyes drill like diamond tipped bits into Boyd's gaze. “You think Johnny is gonna tell? Blow up every lie you've told to that poor woman?” 

Boyd glares at him, his mouth thin lipped, “I never lied to her, unlike you.” The words are short and to the point. “At least I wasn’t sleeping with my ex-wife while stringing her along.”

Raylan slaps Boyd across the face with an open hand. Boyd snaps the chain and is pushing Raylan backwards onto a table. He topples backwards, boots slipping, legs akimbo. Boyd slides into the gap between Raylan's legs, fist clenched at his side, and he glares down at the dazed man. 

“You’re a real piece of work Raylan, carved out of stone like some golem figurehead. Would fuck anyone with two legs, but can’t admit when you’re wrong.” Boyd chides at him, fingers pulling the belt out of Raylan’s pants with a thwack. He loops it around Raylan’s neck and pulls the leather through the buckle, dragging the man up, metal digging into his skin. Then he's crashing into Raylan. He bites at Raylan’s lips tasting a small amount of blood coming out of them and tightens the belt around his throat. 

“All I wanted was you,” Boyd whispers in between frenzied kisses, “Even with all that rage you carry in your heart, even after you shot me, after you left. I hated that you came back, acting like you’d never left, like you didn’t leave me here.”

Words are tumbling out of him, the dam which he keeps secret truths behind finally broken. Raylan grabs at Boyd’s back, pulling their bodies together, even as he gasps for air around his own belt. His right arm is covered in Boyd’s blood from where he worked at the tattoo. The words burn like cuts from a blade, but he doesn’t care anymore. Heat from Boyd’s skin is making the ever pressing arousal more noticeable between them. 

“Please shut up,” Raylan groans, his hands trying to find Boyd’s pants. “Just shut up,” he begs. He doesn't want to think about the ways he's hurt Boyd under his skin. Not now when they're pressed together, Boyd holding his air hostage.

Boyd stands back and releases the belt from Raylan's neck to undo the buttons on his jeans. His fingers hesitate at the cool metal of the zipper and the insistent heat he can feel even through the heavy denim. Raylan sits up on his elbows, forehead wrinkled as he takes in Boyd’s mercifully silent figure.

Then, Raylan Givens smiles with all the brightness of the sun, branding another secret into the dingy wood paneling of the bar. Boyd laughs, weightlessly, in a way he hasn't since he was twenty years younger and pulls away to shimmy out of his black jeans and boxers. Boyd thinks Raylan's laugh as he stumbles out of his boots would best be described as a giggle. At that sound, Boyd doesn't miss the weaponry between them, so remains silent, only reflecting Raylan's smile back towards him, like the moon.

Naked and free of his shoes, Boyd crashes on top of Raylan, hands scrambling back for his button and zipper. Raylan wraps an arm around Boyd's waist and twists, switching their positions, Raylan standing and Boyd flat on his back. It's Raylan's turn to embarrass himself, ankles and knees uncooperative in his haste to match Boyd's state of undress.

Raylan and Boyd stare at each other, their eyes taking in the lifetime of changes since the last time they saw each other laid bare. Boyd’s eyes memorize the scars across Raylan's chest, some from knives, at least one a clear gunshot wound. An interesting constellation over one shoulder that Boyd knows from experience could only come from shotgun scatter shot. He stands, arm outstretched, and begins tracing across each silverskin mark on Raylan's torso. 

Raylan is certain he's having an asthma attack. The air is thick and heavy with nothing but Boyd. And he can't breathe in Boyd, he's not oxygen, he's suffocating. And without oxygen a fire can't burn and Raylan doesn't know who will be left in the shadows once the fire burns out. 

“Can I?” Boyd’s voice ripples across what's left of the air and shakes his head, “Would you turn your back to me, Raylan Givens?”

Raylan can feel the hesitation in Boyd's voice, the request for vulnerability more dangerous than blades or guns or sex. His better judgment balks at the request, but better judgment wouldn’t have him standing stark naked in this bar. Swallowing, he turns around, and kicks the piles of clothes away from them.

Boyd's warm palm and calloused fingers follow along the map of pain etched into Raylan's skin. He couldn't remember the last time someone he took to bed had paid them any attention. Of course Boyd would, Boyd thrives on details, needs them to breathe.

Boyd's hand trails down, stopping at a particularly raised scar on Raylan’s lower left side. He traces over it several times, trying to imprint the feeling into his memory, before moving to press his chest into the muscle of Raylan's back. Boyd lets his hands rest on Raylan's hips, gripping at the hard flesh there. It’s easy to push his body against Raylan's, hold him close enough he can feel Raylan's heartbeat quicken against his own. He tries to stifle a groan as his cock slides, dripping, between Raylan's ass cheeks. 

Raylan lets out his own strangled noise and wraps his fist around himself, unable to ignore his own need. Before Raylan can move against himself, Boyd’s hand is there, gripping at his cock as he thrusts slowly between Raylan's legs, the tip nudging against Raylan's balls. Curses fall from both of their lips at the sensations. Raylan bends under the pleasure, hands trying and failing to find purchase against the smooth surface of the table as his partner continues to rut against him.

It's slow at first, Boyd taking his time to feel the weight of the man’s penis in his hand, how his body bends under Boyd’s. Words stick in his throat, coherent thoughts lost, as Boyd holds onto him, unrelenting. How many times has he thought about Raylan over the years, and wondered what he looks like in this moment. His long held fantasies about it would feel like to draw pleasure and pull need out of him finally realized.

Boyd replaces his fingers with his tongue, mapping the shallow paths of scars along Raylan's back. He never stops moving his hand along Raylan's cock, swiping precum from the tip to ease the way. “I've never forgotten,” Boyd confesses into a constellation of scar tissue between Raylan's ribs and hip, the twin of the starburst scar on the front, “what you sound like when I last had you like this.”

Raylan moans again and Boyd almost wishes Johnny would burst in, guns blazing, through the back door and put a bullet in his head, so that the last sound he ever hears is Raylan making that noise for him. Boyd shifts, moving his hand off of Raylan’s back and between his legs to collect his own wetness before returning to grip Raylan tightly, all the easier with the additional lubrication.

Raylan's hips buck into Boyd's hand, the fire within him burns low, more smoke than flame. He wants to lose himself here, become nothing but the honed edge of a knife, valued and maintained, but only for a specific purpose, useful, for <i>him</i>.  “Boyd…” Raylan warns, the heat in his gut, the pressure behind his eyes threatening to break.

Boyd speeds up slightly, his own pleasure put on the back burner as he uses his other hand to cup Raylan’s balls. Rolling in his fingers as he focuses the twist of wrist at the head of the man’s cock. Boyd can feel every flex of Raylan's muscles, the pounding of his heart through his chest as he climbs closer to release. Boyd wants to swallow the grunts Raylan makes as his hips fuck into Boyd’s slick and heavy hand. Boyd’s in his own haze, trying to tattoo those sounds into the folds of his brain matter, wanting to hold onto every sensation so he might draw on them for the rest of his life. 

Raylan’s body is tense, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. He had thought about this for so long, on many lonely nights after Winnoa left, when nothing else managed to release his frustrations. Sitting there with one hand on his cell, and one hand on his cock. Wanting to hear Boyd’s voice but never actually calling. He’s unable to hold back the litany of whimpers, so close to the edge, but resisting the desire to tumble off, never wanting this sensation to end. 

“Boyd,” He grunts out again, the one time he wants the insufferable prick to speak and he’s silent, “Fuck,”

“Let it go Raylan,” Boyd’s voice is wrecked, begging, his hips pressing into the giving flesh of Raylan’s ass. “Want to - need to hear how you sound cumming under me.”

Raylan’s fingers grip into the edge of the table hard enough to splinter the plastic coating, howling as he releases into Boyd's hand, coating him in his thick spend. It’s too much, his eyes squeezing shut as Boyd keeps working him until he’s shivering, knees buckling. Boyd works him slowly until Raylan bucks, trying to pull away, oversensitive but trapped under Boyd’s body. He reluctantly removes his sticky hand as Raylan struggles to stay upright, stars dancing in front of his eyes. 

Boyd lets go of him, watching the usually always uptight man shudder as he leans heavily on the chair. Boyd strokes his own cock as he takes him in, remembering the sound Raylan made the heat in his stomach twisting in knots. Raylan slides to the floor turning towards him, eyes glazed from post orgasmic haze, mouth slightly open as he looks up at Boyd. Boyd smiles as he raises the hand covered in cum to his mouth and licks at it. 

Raylan turns to look at Boyd and can’t believe his eyes. Boyd stands there naked, tongue laving against the webbing of his fingers, sucking Raylan’s cum off his hand, stroking himself with his other. His eyes are half lidded under the hat as he stares down at Raylan's face. Raylan once again ignores his better judgment and gives into his impulses, shuffling over on his knees to settle between Boyd’s legs. Raylan drags Boyd’s hand away, replacing it with his own. His tongue darts out to lap at the free-flowing dribble at the head.  Boyd tastes expectedly salty and interestingly like moonshine. He doesn’t think about it much, choosing to focus on opening his mouth and taking him deeper. Boyd’s face is red, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration as he grips Raylans hair. 

“Fuck,” Boyd whispers as he moves himself in and out of the Raylan’s mouth, testing how much Raylan is willing to give. His eyes unfocus as he swallows Boyd down. Boyd thinks he may be dreaming, his brain challenging the vision of Raylan Fucking Givens on his knees, mouth wrapped like velvet around his dick. 

“Oh, Raylan,” Boyd whispers, as if he's praying, like he's found God again against Raylan's tongue, between his teeth. Boyd’s fingers tighten in Raylan's hair, knuckles turning white. “I would truly be the liar you believe me to be if I didn't admit I've imagined this more times than I can rightfully give number to.” 

Raylan hums and swallows, sucking Boyd in deeper as confessions fall from Boyd’s lips. His teeth scrape lightly against sensitive flesh and Boyd's hips thrust against his cheekbones. Raylan bites back the grin threatening to split his face wide and swirls his tongue, a silent demand for Boyd to repeat the motion. 

He loosens his grip, slides his hand down Raylan's skull to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the shorter hairs at the edges, before pressing bruises into the scar on Raylan's shoulder. Boyd’s toes curl against the wooden floor, splinters cracking into his feet, but his entire world narrows to the heat of Raylan's throat, the motion of his tongue, the graze of his teeth. Boyd answers Raylan's plea and repeats the motion of his hips, steadying Raylan by the shoulder and forces himself deeper down Raylan's willing throat. 

“You taste the same as I remembered, Raylan, did you know that? Some things never change.” Boyd strokes Raylan's cheek with his free hand, swiping away a single tear from Raylan's watering eyes and bringing it up to his lips. 

Raylan doesn't stop moving, the words wash over him, spurring him onwards, quickening his motions. He would say the same, the taste,the feel, the way he spoke, it all felt so familiar. It's as if he had never left, like the twenty years of lost time between them has also burned away. He pushes himself up, pressing his face into the flesh under Boyd’s belly button, nose brushing against the hair sprinkling his abdomen. Boyd’s mouth falls open and his eyes roll back as his hips stutter. Raylan pulls backwards, needing air and one hand works at the base, the other reaching to press teasingly against Boyd's hole. He can feel Boyd’s release splash against the back of his throat and takes down every drop. Boyd moans his name and Raylan gags slightly, hating that his eyes flutter, obscuring Boyd from his vision as he swallows. Boyd pulls himself out,  his thumb swiping over Raylan’s abused lips, the last of his cum dripping across his cheek. 

“Could you be any prettier,” Boyd said, tongue going over his lips. “Fuck, Raylan. Why did we wait so long?”

Raylan grins, feeling dizzy, the world fuzzy around the edges, and leans his head into Boyd’s hand. He knows the afterglow will fade momentarily and he will leave. Part of him wants to stay, kneeling at Boyd’s feet, forehead pressed into his thigh. But the weight of the world returns to Raylan's shoulders and the smoke in Raylan's chest turns back into flame.

Boyd frees his hands from Raylan's face and shoulder, and moves over to the pile of their ruined clothing. He sorts through the pieces, placing Raylan’s clothes beside him. Finally, he removes the hat, turning it in his hands with an unreadable expression on his face before setting it down beside Raylan. He cups Raylan's face with warm hands, tipping his chin up. 

“I’m gonna go find a shirt that isn't cut to shreds and open the doors before any more business associates start asking too many questions about why your car is outside and the door is locked,” Boyd says, hiding his thoughts behind his hundred watt smile. “Don’t go anywhere now Marshal, we aren't finished here yet.”

Raylan watches him leave, and is up on his feet. A twisted knot has crawled into this chest cavity and it’s trying to break out of his throat. He dresses like the place is on fire, grabbing his gun and badge before rushing to the door. He looks behind him at the pieces of Boyd’s clothes, , the two half empty glasses on the bar, the droplets of blood splattered on the bartop and floor. He grits his teeth, memorizes the scene and walks out into the daylight. 

Part two

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Please let us both know if you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Much more is coming😈 Each chapter will be spaced out as we write!

[slashingdisneypasta]

Dorothy Must Die (Danielle Paige):

A p p e a r e n c e s.

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Tin Woodman:

He looked more like a machine that had been cobbled together out of spare parts, a hodgepodge of scrap metal and springs and machinery pieces all held together by screws and bolts. His long, spindly legs were a complex construction of rods and springs and joints, and bent backward at the ankles like a horses legs; his face was pinched and mean, with beady, flashing metal eyes and a thin, cylindrical nose that jutted out several inches from his face and ended in a nasty little point. His oversized jaw jutted out from the rest of his face in a nasty underbite, revealing a mess of little blades where his teeth should have been.

I half remembered the Tin Woodman's story. He had been a flesh-and-blood man until a witch had enchanted his ax to make him chop off pieces of his body one by one, and one by one he had replaced them with metal parts until that was all that was left of him. From what it looked like, he had been making improvements ever since. The only thing that was really familiar about him was the funnel-shaped hat he wore. I guess some things never change.

//

He had fingers like knives and needles, each one of them twisted into a slightly different shape. Like dentist tools.

Dorothy Gale:

This was not the same girl I'd read about. She was wearing the dress, but it wasn't the dress exactly- it was as if someone had cut her familiar blue-checked jumper into a million little pieces and then put it back together again, only better. Better and, okay, a little bit more revealing. Actually, more than a little bit. Not that I was judging.

Instead of farm-girl cotton it was silk and chiffon. The cut was somewhere between heaute couture and French hooker. The bodice nipped, tucked, and lifted. There was cleavage.

Lots of cleavage.

Dorothy's boobs were put to here, her legs up to there. Her face was smooth and unblemished and perfect: her mouth shellacked in a plasticky crimson, her eyes impeccably lined in silver and gold. Her eyelashes were so long and full that they probably created a breeze when she blinked. It was hard to tell how old she was. She looked like she could have been my age or years older. She looked immortal.

She had her hair pulled into two deep chestnut waves that cascaded down her shoulders, each tied with red ribbon. Her piercing blue eyes were trained right on me. I knew I was supposed to look down, like the Tin Woodman had instructed. Instead, I found myself falling into her gaze. I couldn't help it.

The Scarecrow:

At Ozma's side stood a tall thin man dressed in a baby-blue, one-size-too-small suit. Beneath a small hat, bits of straw and yarn stuck out in every direction. His face was a skein of tightly pulled burlap with two unnervingly lifelike buttons sewn on in place of eyes. His lips were thin lines of embroidery stitched in pinkish-brown yarn underneath a painted on red triangle for a nose. His buttons were fixed on me.

A chill shot through my body. It was the Scarecrow. Like the Tin Woodman, he had been twisted and warped into something I hardly recognised.

//

His head lolled over to his shoulder and a little felt tongue I didn't even know he had dangled limply from his mouth.

The Lion:

Or maybe like something was waiting them: at the front of the line, I saw the Lion himself for the first time in the flesh. He had been a vague, hazy shadow in Glamora's scrying pool, but now, in person, I realised exactly how terrifying he really was.

Really, he was barely recognisable as a lion at all. He looked like a monster, like some warped nightmare version of the king of the jungle. He was huge and golden, with bulging, grotesque muscles and a filthy, snarled mane. His lips were curled back, baring a mouth crowded with sharp, long, crooked fangs.

[lostonehero]

More of the new mech au

Because I'm thinking about it and I'm stuck at home with pneumonia

It's an absolute shitshow when the mechs (minus Nastya because she has her limits but did warn Martin beforehand because he made her a matching blanket and taught her how to get Jonny to drink tea) start working at the Institute

Jon is furious he was not informed of new assasitants he didn't approve of and he fucking hates Jonny to no end.

Martin blames himself but does appreciate GP Tim bringing in homemade bread pudding, saying it reminds him of home.

Jonny doesn't have his guns on him because he would never risk hurting Martin, but he is ready to grow out his horns to gorge Jon, and he despises growing his horns out.

Tim didn't realize GP last name was also Stoker, so he's very confused, and GP isn't helping anything by telling the truth. Tim honestly just thinks he's insane.

Sasha thinks this is hilarious but is also grateful to have other people to experience the weird things and maybe have someone check out that appearing yellow door. She has bo idea that they are aliens nor that they are immortal.

Martin only knows they are aliens.

......

New archive chat

Jonny D'ville has been added

Gunpowder Tim has been added

Jonny D'ville changed his name to Jonny

Gunpowder Tim changed his name to GP Tim

Jonny: the cooler Jon is finally here.

Jon: Why did you even get a job here? Why did Elias hire you?

Jonny: don't care

Martin: Jonny, please be nice. Also I brought your favorite mug don't steal Jon's.

Jonny: ok

GP Tim: Man, killed with kindness

Martin: Oh, right, Gp, I also baked a tray of biscuits as a thank you for the bread pudding. I'm almost done with the sleep Mas you requested.

Tim: dude don't tempt Martin. He got rid of all the starters shit in the breakroom when I accidently mentioned I was allergic.

Sasha: to be fair strawberries would actually kill you.

Tim: at least I can handle kindness I can see Gp and Jonny covering their faces. I think Jonny threw his phone.

Martin: he did. Although I didn't mean to embarrassed them. Oh, right, I do crochet and knit, so if you guys want anything, I have an overabundance of yarn from TS who doesn't understand what restraint means.

Sasha: can you teach me to knit?

Tim: Oh me too we can have a knitting club.

Jon: I know how to sew it, and it can't be much different. I shall join you.

Martin: I sure yeah that can be fun.

.....

Marius is sent down to check on everyone. He's in a posh suit, and his hair is barely able to cover his pointed ears.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Jonny raised his brow putting down a statement.

"Mr. Bouchard requested that I uh change my wardrobe. I'll be honest I don't enjoy it, and having my hair slick back is quite er.... unfortunate." Marius can see a small twinge of sympathy from Gp Tim, who knows he had nerve endings in his hair. He found out by accident giving him a surprised haircut as a prank, and there was a lot of blood and screaming. "He asked me to come down and observe how everyone is getting along. Raphella is in artifact storage, I don't know how she got there."

"Figures." Jonny rolls his eyes.

Marius waves at Jon, who heads out of his office. "Oh, Mr. Bouchard also asked me to tell you that TS in artifact storage needs to give a statement. It said that a ring master ripped their voice out, and it was uncomfortable to grow it back."

Gp Tim mumbles. "Why would someone steal a voice?"

Jon nods. "I will head over there."

Sasha raised her brow. "Who are you?"

Marius opened his mouth and then shut it. "Marius, I'm Mr. Bouchard new assistant. How are you doing with new coworkers?"

Sasha hums. "It's fine. Weird having two Tim's."

"I'm the original Tim. Thank you very much." Tim smirks tossing a crumpled ball of paper at Gp Tim.

"Just because that's true doesn't mean anything." Gp Tim smiles, catching the paper ball.

Sasha sighs. "Boys, please."

"An assistant?" Jonny snickers.

"You're one too, Jonny." Marius huffs. "Please try not to hurt your coworkers."

"I make you no promises." Jonny scoffs crossing his arms.

Martin smiles softly, handing Jonny a mug of tea. "Hello Marius, don't worry, I'm keeping an eye on him. And Jonny finish that you need to drink more fluids."

Jonny smiles softly sipping his tea the heat not bothering him.

Marius smiles. "Are you adjusting well, Martin?"

"Oh, it's quite nice having Jonny and Gp here. Although Jonny can get a bit jealous, which isn't bad but it wouldn't really matter if he didn't keep trying to fight Jon, our boss." Martin smiles sheepishly.

"You're word than Jonny." Gp raised his brow.

Tim slides his chair over to Gp. "Tell me everything."

Sasha does the same. "Our soft boy Martin, who couldn't hurt a fly, gets jealous?"

Martin covers his red face knowing damn well he would kill for Jonny if he asked.

Jonny matches the blush, hiding his blush with his mug.

[themcomicsofficial]

Transformers: BotBots Season 2

S2, EP 1:

Beyond the Mall...

It has now been two weeks since the aftermath of the Goldrush Games and Spud Muffin was exiled to the Dark Side of the Mall...

As the mall's lights begin to turn off, the inside goes quiet...As the candy store's doors open revealing a donut based BotBot, Sprinkleberry D'uhnut come out to say that the cost is clear...

"BotBots!"

As he said the opening call. A bunch of objects come out and start their fun and mischief! The top light change to party lights, as the small robots have their fun.

"Hit a homer, baby!!" says Dinger in his optimistic voice as he transforms to his baseball form.

"I'll hit it till it's home!!" Batsby transforms to her baseball form as she hits Dinger up across the mall.

As the bass music drops a beat. A bunch of shadowy figures appear from the lights...

"Hey look, it's Burgertron!" said Fottle Barts

As newly-added Lost Bots appear from the light. The triumphant Burgertron approaches forward...

"Alright then, Lost Bots! What should we start out fun-related things today?"

"OH, OH!! Arcade!!" Kikmee responded happily.

"Well, I kind of looking for those yarn stores, there kind of cosy!" Dimlit innocently said...

"I'm in the mood for meditating..." Bonz-Eye said

"I can showcase my dust ball collection!"

The four look at Clogstopper with disinterested looks...

"What??? People seen it!"

"Clogstopper, the people who only seen it is Dimlit and he's been coughing for two days!" Burgertron telling Clogstopper off.

"I-I think I stopped now" Dimlit said following with a cough of dust from his mouth

"Alright, Lost Bots let's make this the night we can NEVER forget!!!" Burgertron raised his voice in optimism as he spots a balloon floating as he grabs it by the string with the other Lost bots follow suit as they let go, slid on the railing of the escalator and jump out with Kikmee transforming into her soccer ball form leaving them to bounce on it.

As they reach the arcade where Kikmee reaches inside.

"Hit me up, 24K!!"

"OH YEAH!!! Kik-a-Mee is ready for some fun time!!" 24K-Bit comes out of his coin slot and to another arcade game for Kikmee to play on!

We cut to:

"Man...I obviously cannot believe Kikmee won all those games!" Dimlit happily said.

"And I can't believe she won all of those tickets" Bonz-eye, looking surprised from all those tickets Kikmee's carrying.

"Hey!! I won that last game fair and square." Kikmee responded

"Uh...You were just banging on that console because of that boss level..." Clogstopper said...

"HEY! I still got the last batch of tickets!!" Kikmee responded to Clogstopper's complement.

As the Lost Bots go further in the mall they spot an oddly familiar ride, the kiddie mall train ride they rode one year ago. Burgertron stops to look at it.

"Sir, sir is there something wrong?" Dimlit questioned his leader and friend.

"Oh hey! I remember that--that's the ride we took on our first day outside of the Lost and Found and it's where we--

"Broke the Sacred Rule of the Mall...I can I not forget that..." Bonz-Eye said somberly

"Man it's been a year already???" Clogstopper counts from his fingers...

"What comes after 2?"

"Burgertron, you okay there sir?" Dimlit asked his friend remembering those difficult times as he smiles back to him.

"I'm fine, Dimlit...C'mon let's go the Sugar Shocks are holding a competition in their store.

"A COMPETITION??? I'LL JOIN!!" Kikmee said happily and excited as she raised her hand, waving it.

As they go on as Dimlit looks back on the kiddie ride as a representation something to NEVER repeat the past mistakes EVER again...

As we cut to the Science Alliance's lab.

"Face Ace are the coordinates ready?" Dr. Flaskenstein said.

"Coordinates at the ready!" Face Ace said happily

"Right then!!! Ready and--NOW!!" Dr. Flaskenstein points are finger up as Eye-Goon pulls down on a lever as electricity surges toward an satellite dish like object.

"Fascinating! Well team, we did it! We finally built our own satellite tracker to track any intruders entering the mall!!" Dr. Flaskenstein applauds as the other cheer in success as they hear a knock.

"Hello? Science Alliance? I heard something..." Burgertron enters curiously.

"Ah! Salutations, Burgertron! What brings you here in this successful moment?" Dr. Flaskenstein said to him politely.

"I heard noises and yelling..." Burgertron said deadpan

"Oh! Sorry, excuse our behavior but we just developed the first ever mall-based tracker in the history of BotBot culture!" Star-Scope said triumphantly

"Are you saying you invented this?" Burgertron raised an eyebrow and pointed.

"Absolutely my red-meat friend! This will help us BotBots detect any enemies trying to expose our existence and using as flesh-being government prisoners!!" Face Ace described it well.

"So, try not to touch or tamper with it. We worked TO THE SERVO on this!!" Dr. Flaskenstein warned Burgertron as she walked to her team.

As Burgertron looks at it, out of curiosity he slowly raises his arm to feel the electrical humming of the tracker as he gives a small smile to it. Suddenly, he trips on a big wire making him trip and accidentally pushes it making the machine tip and fall back as it goes haywire.

"WHAT DID YOU DO???" Face Ace yelled

"I was feeling interested on it and--WHOA!" Burgertron dodges a lightning bolt.

"QUICK, TURN IT OFF!!" Dr. Flaskenstein commanded Eye-Goon

As Eye-Goon strains himself from holding a plug as the machine spouts out lightning and goes haywire as Eye-Goon pulls himself strongly, finally the plug comes out as the Science Alliance's recent creation is burned and filled with holes with wires coming out. Burgertron peeks out of a PC engine.

"D-did it work?" Burgertron said

"No...YOU OPEN AN SIGNAL FROM OUTSIDE THE MALL..." Dr. Flaskenstein furiously to him.

"Well at least, it stopped..." Burgertron responded.

"YOU OPEN SIGNAL, YOU DON'T DO THAT WE TOLD YOU AND THAT IS WHY!" Dr. Flaskenstein angrily said to Burgertron.

"If we haven't stopped it soon, more and more flesh beings would arrive!"

"Doc, I'm so sorry I--" Burgertron apologized as Dr. Flaskenstein sighed.

"Look, Burgertron you just got accepted back as a member of BotBot society and we can not let you repeat the same mistakes year ago...So, maybe it's best that you should leave and we'll figure this out--at the meantime you should be back with your squad."

"Alright..." Burgertron responded somberly

We cut to him Burgertron walking in shame in the mall...

"SIR, SIR!!" Dimlit said running toward him.

"Dimlit?"

"Come quick! Kikmee is dominating a competition!!" Dimlit pointed his finger while tugging Burgertron's arm.

We cut to the candy store where the Sugar Shocks reside where a bubblegum blowing competition is happening. They see Kikmee blowing a gigantic bubblegum bubble in the middle with Lolly Licks and Lady Macaron blowing medium sized bubbles while looking at Kikmee's, as her bubble explodes leaving pink goo all over.

"YES!!! 100 METERS!!! HA-HA!!!" Kikmee cheered with pink gum goo on her.

"Ew..." Burgertron said

"Hey! It'll do good in my used gum collection!!" Clogstopper responded.

"So, sir where have you been? We haven't seen you all day!" Dimlit questioned.

"Oh! Uh, um...I was just at--the furniture store! Heh-heh..." Burgertron making up a lie.

"You were at the furniture store?" Bonz-Eye raised an eyebrow

"YEAH! Ya know ya seen those lamps, there glowing...bright!" Burgertron gave a nervous smile as the other besides Kikmee who is trying to get gum out of her give suspicious looks.

"Where exactly were you?" Bonz-Eye walks up to him.

"Uh..." Burgertron sweated in nervousness.

Before he could say anything he heard bang sounds, and destruction noises from the distance in the mall.

"What was that?" Kikmee said.

"Oh! it's nothing, I'll just--I'll just GO THAT WAY!" Burgertron speeds off to investigate the noises leaving the Lost Bots concerned looks.

As Burgertron arrives to the South side of the Mall as he walks over the aftermath of it. As claw marks are shown on the walls, shattered windows from stores and craters on the ground. He looks around with shocked reaction as he hears cling-clang sound as a cylinder-explosive device with the Deception symbol, beeps rapidly. Burgertron jumps out of the way as it explodes. As the smoke clears, it reveals to be Soundwave's henchmen, Laserbeak...

"Hello little bot..." Laserbeak said sarcastically

"Uh, hi do I know you?" Burgertron said confused

"I got your signal now answer me this WHERE is Optimus Prime?" Laserbeak demanded

"I-I don't know what you're talking about!!"

"You want to play games?" Laserbeak sarcastically said as grabs a piece of debris.

"CATCH!!" Laserbeak throws it as Burgertron dodges as Laserbeak flies toward him as he tries to peak him and claw him with his beak and talons.

"It's quite fascinating you AUTOBOTS always make things worse for everyone else!--like you care about those around you..." Laserbeak mocked Burgertron in his verbally abusive tone.

"What did you just say?" Burgertron said in stern reaction

He jumps out of the way of a falling talon toward him as Laserbeak leaps up and activates his gatling guns as Burgertron runs away from the bullets to hide behind a pillar.

"Come on out!! I'm only making your fate quick and painful!" Laserbeak as marched to where Burgertron is as Laserbeak suddenly gets a shock behind his back as he goes unconscious and falls down.

"What the what?" Burgertron peeking out of the pillar "Face-Ace, Star-Scrope? How did you?--"

"We'll explain this later, follow us Burgertron!" Star-Scrope demanded Burgertron as he looks down at Laserbeak's unconscious body.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Transformers is owned by Hasbro and Takara Tomy

[agerefandom]

Dream-Bubble Diamonds

Fandom: Homestuck

Characters: regressor!Mituna, Caregiver!Kurloz, other dancestors mentioned but not present

Words: 1, 200

Summary: Kurloz gets a visit from his moirail, Mituna, and takes care of him for the afternoon.

Warnings: Canon-typical difficult to read dialogue from Mituna, also cussing from Mituna, seizures, difficulty communicating, references to both of their previous injuries but nothing graphic

Kurloz was lazily knitting against a wall, hands flitting over needles and purple yarn. Porrim had been happy to teach him, and it gave him something to do in the monotony of the dream bubbles. There was something satisfying about watching fabric coming together out of twisted cords of thread, and it was just as satisfying to pull apart at the end, each stitch coming apart with a little jolt.

Stab, twist, and tuck the needle through: a rhythm that Kurloz’s fingers were becoming quicker and quicker to carry out.

“Kulozzzz!!” The mangled version of his name was shouted from above him, and Kurloz looked up to see Mituna running along the top of the wall that Kurloz was leaning against.

Predictably, Mituna slipped just as Kurloz looked up at him, and went sideways with a little shriek.

Kurloz dropped the knitting and caught his moirail, who had curled up to try and minimize the fall.

Finding himself unharmed and in Kurloz’s lap, Mituna scrambled up. “Dnn touch now!!” he complained, brushing off his arms. Kurloz held up his hands, showing that he was no longer reaching for Mituna. His moirail could be picky about when and how he was touched, which Kurloz could understand. Mituna wasn’t wearing his helmet, and his hair was chaotic as usual.

HOW ARE YOU? Kurloz signed, raising his eyebrows to signify the question.

Mituna scowled, showing his little fangs, and plopped down cross-legged across from Kurloz.

“Fucked sll thought,” he said, grumpy. “Flcking toddler brainer.”

DO YOU WANT YOUR PACIFIER?

Kurloz had always enjoyed the sign for pacifier, as if he was placing it in his own mouth.

“Not a babybrains.”

Kurloz raised an eyebrow, making the sign for pacifier again. Mituna bared his teeth, a baby troll gesture of aggression from before their horns grew in properly. Kurloz waited, and sure enough, Mituna frowned and nodded after a few seconds.

“Stills not frcking baby,” Mituna declared, sticking out a hand.

Kurloz smiled, stitches tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dug Mituna’s pacifier out of his pocket. Between Mituna and Meulin, he always had a collection of baby gear in the pockets of his suit, making him think about adding a bag to his usual outfit. He wasn’t sure where he would find one here in the dream bubbles, but he could always tell Horuss to make him one.

Mituna snatched the pacifier from Kurloz’s hand and popped it into his mouth, still managing to pout with his whole body, even with his mouth covered by the yellow plastic guard. Kurloz nodded and flashed a thumbs-up, tapping his smiling mouth.

“Efrenv’sh,” Mituna said, his usually slurred speech utterly incomprehensible from behind the pacifier. Kurloz bobbed his head as if he’d made perfect sense. “Snnnf’rm?” Kurloz continued to smile as Mituna babbled, waving a hand this time as if to make a point. “Krlw’nrt!”

Catching on that Mituna was asking for something, Kurloz raised his hands and asked YOU WANT TO GO AWAY?, pointing back where Mituna had gone. COME? He added as a second option, gesturing to his open arms.

Mituna shook his head, vigorous enough to spin his hair into new tangled formations, then tried to get to his feet and fell over sideways. Clearly disoriented, Mituna managed to get back onto his knees and crawled over to Kurloz, poking his leg.

“Krlsnnfrm?”

SIGN? Kurloz asked.

Mituna made a series of gestures that did not remotely resemble sign language, most of them involving hitting himself in the side of the head. Although he understood Kurloz, Mituna’s own use of sign language was even more spotty than his speech capability.

Kurloz shrugged, showing Mituna that he’d not understood any of that.

Mituna sighed and dropped his head down on Kurloz’s leg, a familiar position from his regression. Kurloz twisted his gloved fingers in Mituna’s hair, so much finer than the yarn that had been abandoned beside him. Mituna made a happy moirail rattle in his throat and settled down, tension draining from his body. Kurloz felt himself relax as well, relieved to no longer be guessing what Mituna wanted from him.

The two of them sat there for a while, Mituna’s little purring rattles breaking the silence every so often. It was one of Kurloz’s favourite sounds, a troll at their most comfortable and trusting. If they had been back on their home planet, they would have needed to worry about the oncoming dawn, and finding shelter from the dangerous light. Here in the dream bubbles, there was no change of time unless you went from one area to another, and they could sit out in the peaceful evening light for as long as they wanted.

Lulled into a sense of peace, Kurloz took a second too long to realize that Mituna had gone unusually still.

Immediately, Kurloz twisted around and dragged Mituna away from the wall, as gently as he could while still moving quickly. Sure enough, he had barely moved his moirail when Mituna started to convulse, and Kurloz tugged the pacifier out of his mouth before retreating to a safe distance. Mituna’s full-body seizures weren’t unusual, and they weren’t dangerous if he wasn’t at risk of falling, but Kurloz still wanted to keep close. Kurloz crossed his legs, leaning forward to watch over him.

Count the seconds, keep his breathing controlled. Kurloz tapped his fingers against each other, keeping the rhythm of his own body steady even as he watched his moirail shake on the ground.

This one was a long one for Mituna, lasting over two minutes before he finally went limp. Kurloz moved over when he was sure it was safe, not directly touching Mituna but lying down beside him in easy reach. Mituna blinked his eyes open and touched his jaw, moving it in a way that made it clear he must have hurt it clenching down. Seeming to conclude it would get better soon, he looked around and beamed when he saw Kurloz.

“Kurloz!!!!” Mituna scooted over and rolled himself into his moirail’s arms, and Kurloz pulled him in. “Kurloz, sing fme?” He tapped Kurloz’s throat, making it even clearer what he was asking for.

Kurloz pressed his stitched lips to Mituna’s forehead in his version of a kiss, and obediently began to hum.

Back when the two of them were younger, and the game that ended the world had not yet begun, Mituna used to love Kurloz’s singing voice. It was one of his most common requests, whether he was sad or regressed or tired. “Kurloz, sing to me?” And Kurloz would curl up on the chair with his headset on, Mituna’s voice in his ear, and he would sing until he heard Mituna’s little rattling snores over their call.

Kurloz wasn’t used to making any vocalization anymore: he didn’t even make the subvocal rattles and clicks that were used for communication between partners. Mituna, however, was an exception. For the memory of all the nights they had fallen asleep at their computers, listening to each other’s voices, Kurloz hummed familiar songs as Mituna curled against his chest.

“Mml’v you,” Mituna whispered.

Kurloz’s arms were too full of his moirail to sign a response, so he traced a diamond on Mituna’s back and hoped he understood. I love you too, little miracle.

[sixisnotaprettynumber]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁    𝙰𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂 :

COLOR.       ——       red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal.  silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. magenta. pastels. bubblegum pink. blood red. ivory.

ELEMENTAL.      ——        fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

BODY.       ——       claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

WEAPONRY.        ——       fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

MATERIAL.        ——        gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds.  amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

NATURE.       ——       grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

ANIMALS.       ——       lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. centaurs.

FOOD & DRINK.      ——      sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

HOBBIES.       ——        music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

STYLE.       ——       lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar.

MISC.       ——        balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirror. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. drugs. kindness. love. embracing. [[Tagging: Anyone who is interested]]

[marblecarved]

your muse's aesthetics.

bold what applies to your muse and italicize what sometimes applies to them. please repost, don't reblog !

colour: red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. magenta. pastels. bubblegum pink. blood red. ivory.

elements: fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

body: claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

weaponry: fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

material: bronze. gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

nature: grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

animals: lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. centaurs.

foods and drinks: sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

hobbies: music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

style: lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar.

misc. balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

tagging: you ! if you see this on your dash and you would like to do it for your muse, feel free to steal this from me !

[brooklynislandgirl]

3-5 THINGS YOUR CHARACTER CAN BE IDENTIFIED BY.

01. EMOTIONS / FEELINGS.

I. Love II. Kindness III. Envy IV. Timidity V. Exhaustion

02. COLOURS. I. Purple II. Forest Green III. Garnet IV. Sea-glass blue V. Rust 03. SCENTS.

I. Sweet cinnamon II. Coconut and ʻawapuhi III. Brow sugar IV. Plumeria {Lei flower} V. Blood 04. FASHION. I. Scrubs and lab coat, crocks or sneakers II. broom skirts, knee length cardigans, tank-tops III. Designer gowns and heels IV. Whimsical earrings, stacked bangle bracelets, multiple rings V. Bikinis or wet suits, bare feet

05. OBJECTS. I. Variety of surfboards II. Knitting needles and yarn III. Emergency/Trauma kit IV. Coffee mug V. Knives

06.BODY LANGUAGE. I. Blinks that do not fully close, consistent eye contact/lip reading II. Shy smiles, sometimes hidden behind her hand III. Biting the corner of her lip IV. Gentle touches emphasising words V. Slight limp at the end of the day.

07. AESTHETICS.

I. Sea endlessly caressing the shore and swelling waves II. Wild growing old forests and bird song III. Candles, crystals, tarot cards, wands IV. Busy urban emergency room V. Bloody hands and mouths

~*~ Tagged by: my lovely friend @triicksters, mahalo!hun Tagging: Ride it like you stole it, and tag me back!

[scopostims]

mark meltzer stimboard for 🗺️ anon :•]

[ID: A 3x3 stimboard.

GIF 1: Black and white footage of someone turning the knob of an old radio.

GIF 2: Light-skinned hands casting on a knitting project using red yarn.

GIF 3: A wrinkled newspaper being unfolded under black light, the article talking about a "mistletoe killer".

GIF 4: A light skinned hand quickly sifting through papers in a filing cabinet, then closing the drawer.

Image: Mark Meltzer from Bioshock.

GIF 5: A light-skinned hand waving a magnifying glass over a book.

GIF 6: A pen being waved over and occasionally writing in a notebook filled with notes under black light, certain parts highlighted orange.

GIF 7: Light-skinned hands slowly knitting with red yarn.

GIF 8: Black and white footage of a light-skinned person wearing a black suit and hat peeking through window blinds.

End ID]

[godkilller]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁    𝙰𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂 :

COLOR.       ——     red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, black, white, teal, silver, gold, grey, lilac, metallic, matte, royal blue, strawberry red, charcoal grey, forest green, apple red, navy blue, crimson, cream, mint green, magenta, pastels, bubblegum pink, blood red, ivory.

ELEMENTAL.      ——        fire. ice. water. air. earth.  rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

BODY.       ——       claws. long fingers. fangs. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape-shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

WEAPONRY.        ——       fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. venom. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katana. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

MATERIAL.        ——        gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

NATURE.       ——       grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

ANIMALS.       ——       lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. pigeons. centaurs.

FOOD & DRINK.      ——      sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. pomegranate. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

HOBBIES.       ——        music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. fiddle . cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

STYLE.       ——       lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar. no makeup.

MISC.       ——        balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. ripe. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirror. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. laughter. screams. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. stories. drugs. kindness. love.

tagged by: i stole it tagging: @dokuhai, @keikakudori, @owabisuru, @madestars, and you!

[cultivators-loss]

Materials: Mo Ran

BOLD what applies to your muse.

Remember to REPOST.

Feel free to add to the list.

[ COLOR ] red. brown. orange.  yellow. green.  blue.  purple.  pink.  black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey.  lilac.  metallic. matte.  royal blue.  strawberry red. charcoal gray. forest green.apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream.  mint green. magenta. pastels. darks. bubblegum pink. blood red. ivory.

[ ELEMENTAL ] fire. ice. water.  air.  earth. rain.  snow. wind. moon.  stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight.  moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds.

[ BODY ] claws.  long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns.  spikes.  feathers. webs.  eyes.  hands. sweat.  tears. feline.  chubby. curvy.  short. tall.  normal height. muscular. slender. trained.  piercings. tattoos. strong. weak.  shapeshifting. Junoesque. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetics. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. tails. wolfish.    

[ WEAPONRY ] fists. sword. dagger. spear.  scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes.  whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays.  tasers. machine guns.  slingshots.  katanas.  maces. staffs.  wands.  powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader.  flamethrower.  metal rod. shotguns. needles.  

[ MATERIAL ] gold. silver. platinum. titanium.  diamonds.  pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron.  rust.  steel.  glass.  wood. porcelain.  paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet.  denim. linen.  cotton.  charcoal.  clay.  stone.  asphalt.  brick. marble.  dust. glitter. blood.  dirt.  mud. smoke.  ash.  shadow.  carbonate.  rubber.  synthetics. yarn.  slime. ivory.

[ NATURE ] grass. leaves. trees.  bark.  roses. daisies.  tulips. holly.  lavender. lilies.  petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay.  sand. rocks.  snow. ice. roots. flowers.  ocean.  river.  lake. meadow.  forest. desert.  tundra. savanna.  rain forest.  swamp. caves. underwater.  coral reef. beach.  waves.  space. stars. clouds. mountains.  fungi.  cliffs. sunlight.

[ ANIMALS ]  lions. wolves.  black panther. eagles. owls.  falcons. hawks.  swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs.  roaches.  spiders. birds.  whales. dolphins. fish.  sharks. horses. cats. dogs.  bunnies.  praying mantis. crows.  ravens.  mice. lizards.  frogs.  bears. werewolves. unicorns.  pegasus.  dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. centaurs.  

[ FOOD/DRINK ] sugar. salt. water. candy.  bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices.  herbs. apple. orange.  lemon.  cherry. strawberry.  watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies.  desserts. chocolate.  cream.  caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos.  pizza.  vanilla.  cookies.

[ HOBBIES ] music. art. piercing. watercolors. gardening.  knitting.  smithing. sculpting.  painting. sketching.  fighting.  fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing.  acting. singing. martial arts.  self-defense.  electronics. technology.  cameras.  video cameras.  video games. computer.  phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy.  cds. records. vinyls.  cassettes.  piano. violin.  cello.  guitar. electronic guitar.  bass guitar.  harmonica.  synthesizers. harp lyre. woodwinds.  brass. trumpet.  flute. drums.  bells. playing cards.  poker chips.  chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing.  tree climbing. running. vivisection.

[ STYLE ] lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest.  shirt.  boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry.  earrings. necklace.  bracelet. ring. pendant.  hat. crown. circlet. helmet.  scarf.  neck tie.   brocade. cloaks. corsets.  doublet. chest plate.  gorget. bracers. belt. sash.  coat. jacket. hood.  gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses.  sunglasses.  visor.  eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings.  thigh highs.

[ MISC ] balloons.  bubbles.  cityscape. landscape.  light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos.  mirrors. pets.  diary.  fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. family. friends .assistants.  co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty.  smoking. alcohol. drugs. kindness. love.  embracing.

Tagging: @vahalia-cress-ffxiv | @chioneeirwen | @theconstructsworld | @talion-graves | @simplysoriya

[katriniac]

IkeVamp OC Bio

Meet Katarina - Half human, half succubus.

All you see is a gorgeous woman with a big ol' tote bag of yarn and knitting needles. The horns and wings? She keeps those invisible. She decided to come back in time with le Comte and leave the 1980s because she couldn't stand all the synthetic fabric (No, really! That's the real reason! I promise it makes sense, LOL 😅)

Name: Katarina Koser

Gender: female

Race/Birthplace/Planet: Human female with Succubus bloodline, Hungary (ancestral home in Kiskunsagi Forest), Earth, 1890s

Current Home: Northern Italy, 1980s (but then she travels back in time with le Comte to 1890s Paris!)

Age (and how long does your race usually live?): 80-ish now. Lifespan varies. Because of her succubus lineage, the females of her family live much longer than humans, and therefore age more slowly. But they are not immortal. Their appearance will depend on the volume of life-force they recently absorbed. Some can retain the look of a young adult their entire life if they regularly take in adequate energy. They can always de-age from any elderly appearance if enough life-force is consumed, but they can never look younger than when puberty first hit them.

Build: voluptuous hourglass

Height: 5’8"

Hair: Deep reddish-mahogany. Long to mid-back, with slight wave/curl.

Eyes: Gray

Most Treasured Possessions: Thimble used by her grandmother, red headscarf with embroidery done by all her relatives.

Family: Two aunts, a sister, many cousins. Probably has male relatives but knows nothing of their existence.

Friend: Her cousin Lucia in Italy/Austria/Slovenia

Romantic Relationship History: In a rebellious streak at 17 eloped with her sweetheart Rolf. A mistake at that age, but she was revolting against the matriarchal rule and the anti-male mentality of the family. Divorced him two years later. Only dallies with men now when she’s feeling the urge for sex. Has come to accept that falling in love will only result in grief since she will outlive any man she chooses to stay with. Besides, she doesn't really need or want a partner; independence suits her globe-trotting lifestyle. (See *Deepest Secret* below)

Education/Training: communally raised so her basics were taught in an unorthodox manner, but as she traveled to more developed countries she was able to supplement/improve her education. Has a Masters of Fine Arts (just don’t ask to see what decade her degree was issued! LOL)

Things They’ve Done: Documented hundreds of diagrams/patterns/instructions for weaving/knitting/crocheting/embroidery techniques which had previously only been passed down through generations through oral tradition. Traveled to almost every country in Europe and South America, plus several key places in the Mediterranean, India, and North America. All for the sake of collecting artifacts, stories, and samples of the oldest thread-work. Once used her powers of charm to get unprecedented access to the 70-meter-long historial Bayeux Tapestry in a French museum.

Goals They Have: Preserve fiber craft traditions before they are lost.

What Motivates Them: Finding alternative ways of collecting/storing life-force without resorting to the traditional method of seduction and sex. And then somehow bringing that method to her clan and other succubi. So far she has developed a method that involves collecting and binding extra life force into plaits or knots to be used like batteries.

Favorite Entertainment (music, books, pastimes, etc.) : traditional European and Slavic folk music, music you can dance to. Sometimes has classical music records playing in the background while she knits. Doesn't watch much TV or film. Books are usually lace/knitting diagrams or research for weaving techniques. Reads some poetry. Loves to look through photo albums from world travels.

Favorite Food/Beverage: Enjoys cooking with lots of garlic and butter. Loves to eat berries and stone fruits of any kind, but raspberries and apricots are her favorites. Enjoys red licorice. Though she prefers cooking to baking, she is very proud of how her Paska bread and Sachertorte usually turn out perfect.

Personality: Confident, thoughtful listener, creative problem-solver, thinks outside the box, can appreciate the time/thought/skill that went into any effort (enthusiastically applauds her colleagues’ projects regardless of the size/scope), feminine/graceful, talks with her hands, cosmopolitan/worldly, unintentionally sensual in her mannerisms (unless she is deliberately mindful of maintaining a closed-off vibe), patient, is more likely to dive into deep discussions of how someone arrived at a decision/idea rather than be interested in the final decision itself, loves to travel, likes to help (is a bit of a “fixer”), can watch birds and spiders for hours at a time, can be a bit of a skeptic if a man begins “mansplaining”.

Note: At first glance she may appear kind and gregarious, but if watched closely over time you will see that she rarely offers any personal or private opinions/stories. She is friendly, but she doesn’t make friends. Katarina can be very invested in a person without letting that person get too close. This is an unconscious habit she has perfected over the decades while needing to move on from a place before they are suspicious of her not aging.

Deepest Secrets: Because Katarina rarely uses her power of seduction, she is out of practice. While she can usually keep it from seeping out, there is no way to put a cap on it 100%. Which means sometimes she will get VERY good service at a hotel or restaurant without even trying to charm them. The comedy starts when she actually DOES attempt to use her power for non-sexual purposes, such as getting through International check points quickly or convincing a cop to waive a parking ticket. In those instances, her inexperience often results in TOO MUCH power being used and the men throwing themselves at her or escaping with embarrassment at their sudden and unexplained erection (both predicaments are counter-productive to her reason for charming them in the first place!). Though she prefers to collect and absorb life-force that has been cast-off rather than feed off of a living human, she can perform seduction well and gets the job done quickly. However, this means she doesn’t have much experience enjoying sex inside the parameters of an established relationship. To elaborate even further: Katarina can’t recall the last time she was ever pampered or treated like a queen in bed. She is usually the one in control; just once it would be nice to feel treasured, to lie back and enjoy sex without having it feel like work. But that would mean having a lover she has a trusting connection with. She can’t have a normal relationship because she will outlive them. …Unless she finds someone worth giving up her immortality for. She doesn’t really believe there’s anyone out there like that. But that doesn’t stop her from wishing and fantasizing.