#and some metallic crayons

[cattun]

Dunes upon dunes of sparkling blue dust in the caustic wastes. Churned into foamy clouds by the slightest breeze, it clings to cloth, burns exposed skin and easily fills nose and mouth with sour rot.

[qoppybirdie]

boy this is no time for love at first sight she is about to kill you boy

[safyresky]

Scrimbly Jacquelines 23/52: tfw you're stuck in an au where you are DEAD and you miss your wife and your brother has shit timing

So idk if you guys know this about me, but I am absolutely in love with @kscribbs's one shot "The Forgiven", which was her sequel to "The Jacqueline Dies AU", which will one day have a better name (how are we all feeling about "The One Where Jacqueline Dies" as a title? Yay? Nay? Should I go back to the drawing board? I'll go back to the drawing board). In fact, I'd go so far as to say I am OBSESSED with it.

SO MUCH SO that one of my fave pass times is spamming her on any and all platforms about a what if scenario in which Lucy and Jacqueline from ML/CS get stuck IN The Forgiven Universe for really cool badass stuff and what SHENANIGANS ensue??

This is one of them. Deffs a classic crack idea. Loosely inspired by this. I imagine it goes something like this:

"That's a lot of sprinkles, Winnie. That's more sprinkles than ice cream. Lacking a bit of sugar in your life? A little bit of sweetness, perhaps?" Winnie looked up from her sugary ice cream sundae, eyes hard, face haggard. "I miss my wife, Jack," she said, adding more sprinkles to her ice cream. "I miss her a lot." Unsure how to reply (an apology? Condolences?), Jack decided it'd be best to disengage, slowly backing out of the kitchen and quite glad to look for Lucy elsewhere in the Willow as the can of sprinkles (by far a Costco sized jar) trickled out of the lid, landing on top of the rest of the jar of sprinkles that now topped the ice cream.

She's in a glamour! Disguised herself as a more summery sprite and is going by Winnie, short for Winifred (Winter, actually, it's her middle name, but best not be giving away who she is—Father Time hadn't said she couldn't, but he did specify that it'd be best to not to while she and Lucy worked to complete their goal!), hence the thawed hair and red tones, lol. Fun fact: my dark brown prisma colour is NOT dark brown. source: I have dark brown hair and it does NOT match the pencil crayon!

ANYWAY, now that the scrimble is up (I drafted this post Thursday night but only got around to doodling it towards the end of the night--was way too focused on sweeping CS) some general art musings:

Man. That dark brown prisma. NOT dark brown. hhhhh

Something is wonk with her left arm (our right) and I can't stop thinking about it!!

The weird smudges are sprinkles lol

The table is a tree trunk! every time I picture the willow it's got tree furniture for some reason lmao

Her hair has like 5 layers of different browns and reds lmao

I can't remember how I did her thawed hair a couple scrimbles ago!! But I will find a way! Ah!

But yeah she's having a time in this timeline. Fun fact! Jacqueline does not like "Jacqueline Dies" timelines. They skeeve her out, man

[blendereels]

crayons are fun

[ramonathinks]

RAISE THE STAKES.

being a therapist was hard enough without the leader of an infamous group becoming your patient or to answer your questions, sylus has a few requests.

(18+, no minors! no blank accounts!) inappropriate relationships, patient!slyus, therapist!reader, munch slyus, oral and female masturbation, slight pussy inspection, dirty talk. exhibitionism, dry humping, word count: 3k... short and sweet

tagging: @xmiisuki @sunasbon @sugugasm <3

There was something clinical and plain about your office — though technically you were a type of doctor — the decor screamed hospital more than a comfortable place to tell your deepest darkest secrets. Faint pale blue walls with littered old stickers from the previous child therapist and even the stench of crayons … not to mention the floor tiles, squared with an iced blue paint that made the room both childish and clinical. Something fitting for a child hospital or even a former child psych ward.

That was the reason you decided for this particular appointment you’d switch rooms to somewhere more adult and that hopefully your boss would let you stay there. The pristine polished marble floors and white walls, two empty lush chairs and a small brown wooden table with magazines with two waters sitting on top. This was your dream room and one you felt you deserved. You were the most decorated person on your floor — top of your class in your undergrad and graduate class, internships at major places, yet you settled for here. Settled. It was smack dabbed in the middle of a city that needed you most. A dangerous city… but somewhere you felt like you could actually make a difference. 

Sitting in the chair towards the window you awaited for Sylus Qin – a name that sent more than enough shivers up your spine but who’s name spiked your curiosity, especially seeing it written for a first appointment directly with you. 

He walked in, his presence loud and alarming from the moment he stepped into the door, looking at you before he sat down in the seat closest to the door. You inhaled, the deep smell of metallic and what you must’ve guessed was gunpowder filled your nostrils. “You’re late,” You told him with a small smile. “And for your first appointment nevertheless.” Your tone is light and playful, you only hoped that he understood that. 

He arches a white brow and slouches back on the couch, it was obviously too small for his broad body and long legs but he still stretched them so they were nearing yours. “A meeting held me up.” He waited for some form of reaction before he looked away from you, probably now disappointed when your face remained blank.

You cleared your throat, “I’m quite sure that you didn’t come here on your own volition, so why are you here? I know that you of all people couldn’t have been forced.” You crossed your legs, watching his eyes glance at them.

“Two nuisances…” He grumbles, his face scrunched into a deadly scowl but his crimson eyes remain gentle as he looks at you. “It seems that I’ve been even more aggressive as of late.” He shrugs his shoulders as if he disagrees with the diagnosis. 

“Well… what made them come to that conclusion?” You watched him open his mouth to answer before he paused, thinking something. It takes a while before he speaks again and when he does he shocks you.

“What do I get if I answer any of your silly little questions…?” There’s a huskiness to his voice, a rough edge as he speaks. His eyes are trained on you, following you as your body sways a bit. 

You quirk a brow, “You want a reward for being…compliant?” You straighten your posture, looking at him with slightly wide eyes, it was the first time someone asked for something so ridiculous. “You tell me what you want—” You start before he interrupts you.

“Your panties.” Curt. Simple. Straightforward. You blinked, staring at this man and questioning how you managed to get yourself in this position. 

 Was the money worth it? That was the question roaming around your head as you just stared at him. How could he ask you such a thing with a serious face expression. “My panties? That would tempt you to answer the questions truthfully?” The skirt you were wearing felt a thousand times shorter and the room felt too warm for you to ignore the wetness you felt between your —

Your eyes twitched. A conversation alone, brief… and your panties were drenched, sticky to your folds. It would do wonders for your career to have gotten the man himself… the big leader of a malicious group to be less violence. So you sigh, “You want them now—”

“As an act of good faith,” He says smoothly. “Let’s put all our cards out on the table…How about you at least take them off so I know you’re being truthful to me.” 

You sucked your teeth, debating with yourself on if you really should do this or not. Your career is on the line regardless of each decision. You could just deny him, tell him off and force him out of your office. But your body seemed to be screaming at you to just do it. You hadn’t had sex nor a true orgasm in more than a year… possibly two and yet with him sitting in front of you, you felt as if you were close.

Your mouth no longer produces saliva and your throat dry as you slide them down your legs; you held them and watched a smirk take over his face. You couldn’t believe yourself honestly, this wasn’t something you’d ever expect yourself to do. While you weren’t exactly a good girl, you had standards… you couldn’t believe you were being so trashy. Yet the excitement in your body spilled out of your center and with his eyes glued there while you removed your underwear, your body shook.

“Already the air smells so better in here.” He chuckles and you feel embarrassment cloud your mind. “To answer your question from before… Apparently they believe I’m in a foul mood since I’ve been less tolerant on certain things that in the past, I was more passive on. They’ve expressed to me that with the rough ways I’ve been handling business has grown rather…impulsive.”

“Do you agree with that?” You recross your legs. “I’ve always heard that you were impulsive and honestly, I never heard anyone say you were passive… Do you think you’ve ever been passive? Do you think you can paint me a picture of yourself?”

He reaches out his hand and for a moment you’re confused before you realize he’s asking for his reward. Handing him the panties, you see him sniff them and it makes your insides quiver. This man… he was too much for you. 

“I see myself as…” He thinks, his eyebrows furrowed, he taps his foot on the ground. “I often find myself bored and find myself indulging in self destructive behavior... taking on more than I can and getting myself injured.” He scoffs. “I guess this particular time they're talking about is when I knew I was being set up but still decided to go alone without informing them - Luke and Kieran, I mean.”

“So they care about you?” You ask, mentally taking notes of every word and ever ounce of movement and even taking account of his voice and tone.

“Sure.” His voice has a slight tremble to it. “We’ve been together for longer than I can remember being without them…” Then he’s closed off again, acting as if he revealed too much to you. His crimson eyes trace up your legs again, he bites his lips.

You recrossed your legs. “Anyway…” You cough. “Is there a thrill in putting yourself in these situations? Or is there a need to demonstrate that your reputation is correct… to stop or limit people from defying you?” You are met with silence and a sinister glint in Sylus’ eyes. “Sylus? Do you need me to repeat the question?”

“I answered some for your panties. For this next question, you’ll have to do something else for me to answer it… unless you want a lie…or more silence.” His roaming eyes told you all that you needed to know, this request would be more.

A scowl on your face, “My panties weren’t enough?” You’re close to rolling your eyes at him, you want to hate him but it’s something in those eyes that keeps you from it. After this you knew that you’d decline any other visits from him, you might as well entertain him— no, you want to slap yourself for even thinking that thought. 

“I wanna see you cum, pet that pretty pussy and put a show on for me.” He says and you gasp, full blown as you stare at him. “C’mon kitten, don’t be so coy.” His eyes darkened but still his tone remained playful; slick gathered at your thighs and it’s almost as if he scented it with how quick his eyes snapped to your skirt.

“Sylus, the panties were already inappropriate enough. I can lose my license—” You stammer, your voice small and timid as you speak. This man… would be the death of you.

“I won’t let that happen.” 

You swallow, staring hard in his eyes. Looking in his eyes made you want to bend to his every whim and to continue. Your thighs spread a bit because honestly, you wanted this. “Fine.” You relinquished every ounce of self respect you had for yourself and spread your legs completely apart. A slap of cool air brushes against your bare skin, your shutter but spread your folds. You rub at your clit, staring in those addicting eyes. 

He drinks in the sight of you — dripping and oozing out spilling to the chair, he straightens himself, his eyes now locked between your thighs. Your clit is hard and throbbing knowing that his eyes are on your most delicate parts. You circle your entrance, collecting the slick that sits there before you dip it inside – teasing both you and him. You feel the warmth of yourself as you stroke your finger in and out of your walls, sloppy noises echoing around the room. Your thighs tremble and breathing heavy, he briefly glances at your face and back to the dripping sight below.  Your face scrunched up in a sense of pure ecstasy, you pop your finger out of your cunt and you put a finger in your mouth before rubbing your clit again, your thighs bucking and your hips humping upwards. 

His feet tap against the floor watching another finger join the one already knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers twitch looking at how wet and creamy your fingers are pumping in and out. “There’s a thrill… and excitement that comes with doing dangerous things…” His voice trails off, your mouth agape spilling little moans. “It feels good… it’s never a sense of pride, it’s more of a –” Using your other hand, you rub fast at your clit at the same time your fingers thrust inside deeper, hitting another spot that makes a bit of cream drip under you. “It’s more of a simple pleasure, just something to take the edge off of life. It’s a high… c’mon kitten, you’re killing me there. Need to see your face when you cum.” 

Your stomach sucks in at the words and you whine, leaking with a deep orgasm and deep breathing. “Ohhhhh!” Cream continues to spill out, you milk yourself more – curling your fingers before you pull them out with a drawn out moan. “Oh, mmm…” You feel so tired, your eyes dropping and a fuzzy brain when you turn your attention back on him. 

“What’s your next request for answering this last question?” You huff, your face flushed and your body trembling. You still tried to cover yourself but he just laughed, full and heartily. 

“I want you to sit on my face.” He’s hard, tapping his foot against the floor again still looking at your creamy pussy. “That’s all.”

“What?” But it shouldn’t surprise you anymore, no matter how much you fought on his demands… you knew you’d give in and you knew how badly you wanted him.

“I want you to sit on my face.” He said again, nonchalantly with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“But… why? Are you trying to make me lose my job? Or are you just insane and don’t care about my livelihood or my dignity?” But really, it didn’t matter, with all you did now… your license was already revoked. 

“Would you rather be a good girl and sit on my lap? Grind yourself on my cock?” It was an enticing offer and you had to mentally stop yourself from taking it up. “Just keep being an obedient little girl like you have been and come sit on my face.” He’s pulling himself from the chair to lie on the floor with a bright smile on his lips. He waited, both of you already knew that you were going to come. 

“First... put your fingers in my mouth.” It makes you jump when he says that but you swallow your nerves and pride, reaching over and letting his tongue work its way through your fingers, his tongue slimy wet and sticky all at once. He groans out at the taste. “Sit.” He says simply. You’d never did this before, your legs trembled just standing above his head and even more when you bent down. 

You hovered over him, a string of your slick dripping over his face before he moved his head to capture it between his tongue with a groan; swirling his tongue in a circular motion as he took in the taste. “So wet…tastes so good.” His voice deep and inviting; sticking his tongue inside then flicks his tongue against your clit and wraps his mouth around it — sucking it before he releases it with a plop sound.  “Sit.” He told you, rubbing his hands across your ass, spreading it so that your pussy would wink at him with a small gushy sound. He firmly sits completely on his face so that his face is covered with you. 

His tongue feels like a thousand tongues when you drip over his face, grinding your hips and circling them. Your knees digging into the floor when you slide forward and back against him.“Sy–lus!” The pad of his tongue licks up your slit, moving to your folds and up to suckle on your throbbing clit. You tug his hair and he buries his face impossibly more into your pussy. Grinding and shaking his face into you before gripping your hips to make you really grind against his mouth.

You squeal with every moment as he uses his tongue to curl deep inside of you – your legs shaking and he slurps. Your toes curl inside of your stuffy shoes and though you can’t see his face because of the skirt you wear, you can feel the devilish smirk against your flesh.

He pulls you up, holds you. A string of his salvia and your slick and cream mixed together on his lips. “Never did ask that question, sweetie.”

“Oh, fuck you Sylus.” He’s sitting you back down, your thighs squeezing his head. His mouth latched to your clit and doing deep sucks with his fingers pressed deep in your thighs. Opening his mouth wider to truly capture all of what he can of your cunt — there’s a deep hunger in every lick he gives, his tongue dragging down from your clit to your slit and back up again. He laps at your folds with nothing else but groans and soft moans that leave both of your mouths.

His tongue swirls on your clit before small soft kisses that make you flinch. Cream and slick trickling down your thighs, your hips continue to hump him — it was as if his face belonged there, his tongue glued to your core and eating up everything you had to offer. Lifting you again, he says, “Want to feel that pretty pussy soaking me… you’d like that won’t you?” He grins, showing all his teeth. You’re quick to nod your head, tears in your eyes… this man was turning you into his plaything and you could care less… there was a thrill to this.

He doesn’t take off his pants much to your disappointment but he helps you to sit on his lap, his lust filled scarlet eyes filled with nothing but desire as he rolls his hips against yours. A small gasp leaves your mouth, your bare cunt soaking his pants and his cock deliciously digging into your core. You wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him thrust up against your throbbing center. 

Throwing your head back – you rock your hips back and forth against his clothed cock – feeling him press himself harder into you, rubbing himself against your core with deep throaty groans of pleasure leaving his mouth. You try to match his movements, hips bouncing up and down against him with needy whines leaving your lips. You both hiss when his cockhead brushes up against your clit – he rubs himself back and forth repeatedly, slowly while you move faster – chasing that high and in that moment you knew of the pleasure and the high that Sylus mentioned earlier because your body was reveling in it. 

Your stomach swoops at the sticky sounds that come from your pussy and the soft noises he makes. Even with soundproof office spaces, you wouldn’t be surprised if someone heard you both. Lazy grinding becomes thrusting again before downright dirty gyrating of both of you against each other – so close, you were almost there yet again. Pathetic sinful whimpers falling out of your mouth, he presses openmouthed kisses up and down your neck, nibbling on your clavicle. Your back arches, tears falling from your eyes, your pussy sliding against him and his hips stuttering. But he stops, standing you both up. 

“W–why’d you stop?” You’re gasping for air on trembling legs, he holds you close. Small sniffles leaving your mouth, desperate to feel him.

“I believe our time is up, sweetie. Maybe another visit will help unpack more.” He chuckles, walking towards the door. “I’ll return these on my next visit.”

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[4k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 1 "The Savior"

Since the day you were born, there was something horribly wrong with you.

You had no immune system, your skin was paper-thin, you couldn’t exercise without collapsing, and every nerve in your body was in constant pain. There was no use for you aside from being a measly archive keeper and book transcriber. Your father was a weak man, despite your disabilities and how costly it was for the rest of your Vault, he kept you alive, consumed by the idea of finally finding a cure for his little girl.

Every single moment since your birth, you had spent in this squeaky clean, insanity-inducing, paper-ridden medical room. Everything was plagued by the stench of medicine and spirit, disinfected down to the core. The floor and walls and even the ceiling were covered in a leather cushioned layer to prevent any injuries, sparkling white, of course. Who needed color when the stench of new paint might cause you a migraine?

In honesty, you’d give away half of your miserable life just to see color outside of the packaged book covers stacked neatly on the floor. You built a makeshift city out of them, following the pictures drawn in an old magazine you’d read ages ago and kept hidden under your pillow. With time, you learned how to make paper flowers out of some stray files that nobody would miss. You had to find some solace, something to keep you from crying your delicate heart out every night because this was no way for anyone to live.

You weren’t just isolated from the world above, but from everything, only getting glimpses of the bright metal vault corridor and bustling dwellers whenever your father would open that wretched vacuum-sealed door to give you medicine. You knew people’s names and faces, everyone in your vault was memorized to the letter, but you’d never met them and probably never would.

You were never given your own Pip-boy, never assigned as a potential marriage candidate, and you’d never have children or any family once your parents passed away. A small part of you knew that you wouldn’t even outlive them, frail and genetically inferior as you were. You’d die within the next few years and you’d take the burden of your existence off the shoulders of everyone who worked tirelessly to find a solution to your illness.

You waited for that day with hope, dreaming of the end of the torture and solitude.

You had pleaded with your father that night with angry tears in your eyes to at least bring you coloring pencils or crayons or a radio to chat with the rest of the residents and make friends. But, as usual, he had refused gently while rocking you in his arms, cooing at you with a regretful tone and pain carving deep wrinkles in his features. Then he’d smiled at you, melting away your worry and frustration and misery, and he’d kissed your forehead tenderly. He still treated you like a little girl and to him, you’d always be one. He wiped your tears away and hope shone in his eyes, they looked exactly like yours, that was the only thing you’d taken from him. Everything else was a gift from your mother and you often looked in the mirror just to remember what she resembled.

She’d stopped visiting a long time ago, months, maybe even years, you weren’t sure. The passing of time was a fickle matter when you were caged in a cushioned prison every single day.

Your father hummed softly, lulling you while he gently tucked you into the nursing bed and secured the oxygen mask over your mouth. He was your angel, your only salvation, your only source of conversation and comfort and interaction and love. He adjusted the catheter back into your vein before fluffing up your pillow.

“This might be it, Sweetheart.” he whispered while watching you doze off slowly, his gaze held such affection for you. He placed a new IV bag to drain into your arm, one you’d not seen before, but you trusted him. This was nothing new. He came up with a new medicine recipe every month, without fail. “This might just be the cure. You’ll tell me how you feel tomorrow.”

You can only sigh and give your best smile, unable to share his enthusiasm after so many failed attempts. He rubbed a thumb over your sickly-colored cheek, his skin like sandpaper against yours, worn and calloused from spending a lifetime in the vault’s field.

“Have some faith in your old man.”

“I do, dad…I’m just so tired of this…”you bite into your tongue to keep more tears from spilling, and your bottom lip trembles despite your best efforts to tame it. Watching his face falter breaks your heart and you suck it up, push your tantrum down and pout instead. “And you’re not old.”

He laughs at your whiney remark, the first laugh he’d had in a long time, and he slicks back your hair, taking note that he needed to trim it soon before it got too long. Maybe when he had the energy, he’d sit down for more than a few minutes and braid it like he used to when you were just a child.

“I know you are, Baby girl, I know.” he shushes you with the utmost care and stands. “Just a little longer and you’ll be strong enough to help your pop pick out the tatoes. Get your pretty hands all dirty and then have a big plate of spam for a job well done.” he gazed at you, masking his sorrow and bitterness at the cruelty life had forced upon you. His hand hovered over the lamp switch and he glanced one last time at the brand-new IV bag slowly emptying in your bloodstream. “Night, Sweetheart. Love you.”

Too stricken with grief over your miserable lifestyle, you didn’t return his tender words, hoping he understood and knew that you loved him just as much if not more. When the lights went out, your eyelids closed, squeezing out a few lonely tears in the darkness before you begrudgingly drifted off to sleep. A dreamless slumber when you were gently rocked through the foggy confines of your subconsciousness.

Your one wish was to see the world outside, uncaring if it were a wasteland or a paradise, ignorant of the dangers and naïve towards the people who potentially lived up there. You just wanted to be free, even if it would cost you your life, you wanted to see the sky just once, wanted to prove to yourself that no, it looked better than any picture your father had shown you. You wanted to swim in the ocean and see fishes and see a whale, a creature so big it was unfathomable to imagine, you wanted to taste the salty sea water and become sick and just be happy to be alive for once. You wanted to feel the grass beneath your feet, to touch snow and dance in the rain until you slipped and fell in a puddle only to splash in it because you’d never seen or felt any nature.

You just wanted to live…

The hours ticked by in a hazy blur as you lay lifelessly on your bed. Your room was partly sound-proof, you heard nothing of the ruckus slowly brewing beyond your medicinal prison. Sleepy soundly, you didn’t hear the slaughter, the begging and pleading voice on the brink of crying before the sickening cracks of broken bones. You didn’t hear the crazed ramblings of the raiders stalking your fellow vault dwellers like it was a game of cat and mouse. Your vault was slowly succumbing to chaos and rampage and it was only when the electricity went out and your door unlatched that you were startled awake.

You bolt up with wide eyes and in a panic, gaze averting to the door and heart skipping a beat when you realize it’s open. With a small grunt and a relieved inhale once the oxygen mask is ripped from your face and tossed on your pillow, you scramble to stand. The IV is disconnected from your arm with an expert touch, replaced by a cotton ball to obscure any heavy bleeding from the open puncture wound. Your bare feet shuffle over the soft floor, slippery against the white leather because you’d unknowingly started to sweat from anticipation.

Was this just another cruel dream?

You walked to the exit with timid footsteps before opening the door wide enough to stick your head out. An incessant voice kept repeating how disappointed your father would be if he saw you sticking your nose out and potentially catching an infection from the unsterile air. That voice was dismissed promptly, this was your first chance at seeing anything beyond the medical room and you’d rather die than miss it.

Had the power gone out? But that was impossible. The power never went out, there had always been a steady flow of electricity for as long as you could remember.

The lights flickered, most were broken, letting the eerie darkness overwhelm all corridors except for one.

“Hello?” you call out hesitantly, shaky voice hoarse with sleep and anxiety both. Looking around, you couldn’t see much, there wasn’t a soul in sight and the silence was deafening. “Dad?”

Nothing. Nothing and no one.

A hand clutched at the door to support your buckling knees and you breathed deeply, encouraging yourself to be brave, that this was your chance. After dutifully gnawing on the inside of your cheek you stepped forth into the crossroads of corridors, letting go of the door and leaving everything familiar and safe behind. Your head whirled so much your neck popped multiple times as you frantically looked around in the scarce light and as terrifying as all of this was, it was also heaven unknown. You had never seen so many things – plant pots, plants, all bright green and juicy, you’d stuck your nail in a particular one only to feel a strange gooey discharge on your finger. It was a succulent, you’d read about those somewhere, very sturdy indeed, very pretty, but had no smell. You liked them already.

The further you went, the more a nagging thought kept creeping up your spine like a chill.

Where was everybody?

You kept looking, following the corridor and under the guidance of blinking lamps. You knew the Vault like the back of your hand after spending countless hours studying its diagrams, having nothing better to do. Now you were experiencing it in person. No longer needing to strain your imagination to picture every nook and cranny, you could see it with your own eyes. The floor was so cold under your feet, but you didn’t care, too high on adrenaline and pure joy to notice such a small inconvenience. A hand glided absentmindedly against the wall, tracing over pipes and posters and glass windows until you prickled your finger on a jagged edge and winced away.

You stuck the winger in your mouth with a pained scowl and glared up, searching for the source of your misfortune.

You froze.

Blood, everywhere, oozing down the wide hole in the window and silently gushing out of the disemboweled corpse of a human being, still warm. And even through the liters of blood and the sickening feeling of nausea that had your eyes dart to the floor, you immediately noticed the dark blue suit they were wearing. A dead vault dweller tossed through the window so hard they’d broken through and gotten impaled on the glass.

A vault dweller.

Dead…

DEAD!!!

You stumbled back and wretched, stuffing your mouth in the crook of your elbow and sputtering saliva as your stomach churned with bile. You bumped into a metal cabinet in your stupor, scraping for purchase as your legs lost all function, knocking over a clock and a radio that came to life as soon as it hit the floor. The sound echoed through the Vault, like a haunting melody to the arrival of a new victim, lured out and ready for slaughter. You.

Horror. A massacre, as the light flickered your eyes feasted on more marred flesh and ripped skin and so much blood. Crimson splatter and trails of handprints were strewn over the walls, the echoes of an dire struggle which ended in vein, trails of violence were etched into the hallway. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, you threw up, clutching at your stomach as you let out the traumatizing sight the only way your body knew how. Doubled over and twitching as the shock was replaced by such a raw feeling that you nearly lost your mind.

Corpses littered the floor beyond, caked in their own entrails, skulls bashed in, unrecognizable and still and…

“Hi there, Princess.”

A chill went up your spine as you realized that the frilly white dress you wore wasn’t enough to keep you warm beyond your room. Your skin littered with goosebumps, thin hairs standing up in fear as you stiffly craned your neck and looked back to the other end of the corridor. What little color was left in your face dissipated at the sight.

A man, disfigured and disgusting, with wild hair and wilder eyes and a grin that shook you to the bone stood there. He was shirtless, showing off a large hairy belly and covered in stick-poke tattoos, one of his legs was replaced by what you made out was a metal stick of sorts. He was three times your size…and he looked at you with such perverse intent that you nearly screamed. A vile creature, not even human anymore.

“Don’t be scared, Pretty.” he leered, chapped lips and rotting teeth and a foul blackened tongue, and raised a large palm in front of him to halt you from moving. “It’s okay…Come here. Come to me.”

Instinct took over and you automatically stepped back, not daring to take your eyes off him.

“Ah, don’t do that now.” he warned sweetly and slowly began walking towards you, creeping closer every time the lights flickered off. “You’ll just make this harder for you, yeah? Come to Eddie, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Everything about him screamed evil. He looked deranged and capable of things you’d never even begin to imagine.

A surface dweller. A survivor. A killer. A monster.

The moment his boot sunk in a pool of blood and squeaked against the floor realization hit you like a speeding truck. The grim expression should have been his sign to catch you, but you were already leaping over corpses with a blood-curdling screech. Your mind raced as you tried to orientate yourself through the corridors, bolting over shattered glass and spoiled food and so many dead bodies.

You needed to get out. Leave. Escape.

OUT!

His hollars bellowed behind you, alerting the rest of his friends because of course there were more and now they were aware of you and hunting you down like a deer in the forest. You let the tears run down your cheeks, forced the questions of your parents’ whereabouts and health because you already knew the answers, but you let them sink you’d end up like them or worse.

A horde of footsteps nipped at your bare heels and you sprinted and begged your weak little legs to go faster. Sucking in air as adrenaline pumped through your veins like poison, you jumped and ducked and whirled and assured yourself that you had the upper hand here, you knew the vault better than them. You stood a chance, you’d survive.

When the elevator came into view after you rounded a corner you nearly cried out in delirium. A roar nearly deafened you and you flinched, but your pace only increased as you pleaded and struggled not to trip over your feet. They were desperate, clawing at the air to try and reach you before it was too late. Your lungs burned with strain, your muscles felt like they’d tear any moment, but you kept pushing, high on horror and anger and a newfound zest for self-preservation

Salvation. Your only chance to live.

Your shoulder screamed in pain when you slammed against the metal walls of the elevator and thrusted your fist against the button vigorously.

“Come on. Come on. COME ON!”

“Get back here you little whore!”

“Please!” you wailed, screaming and stumbling back when a rusty axe collided with the shutting doors and made sparks fly with an ear-piercing screech. A hand flew up to cover your squinted eyes, sneering and sobbing as the raiders banged on the outside of the elevator and shot conniving curses at your crumbling form. You were slammed down on your arse by gravity as the elevator finally moved, taking you away from certain death as a slew of grim promises were expelled at you from below.

They’d find you, rip you apart, and make you wish you’d just died like the rest of your pathetic vault dwellers. You balled your eyes out, choking on spit and tears and gulping down air as your body shook violently. Clutching at your face, you stared down at your bloody feet with wide, unblinking eyes.

What was this nightmare…

When the elevator came to a halt and the doors reopened you barely managed to stand, the numbness in your limbs proving too much to handle and your upset stomach only contributing. But you had to keep moving, you had to run.

“Daddy…”

With ugly sobs and meek noises of strain and discomfort and utter distaste for your cruel fate, you tumbled towards the ajar vault entrance. Pressing down the button timidly before taking the discarded Pip-boy from the severed hand, you lock your tormentors into their grave and hurriedly tread towards the slowly closing vault exit.

The sun nearly blinds you and the hot desert sun knocks you to your knees as your hands sink to the wrists in sand. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking rapidly and shielding your sensitive pupils from the blaring light.

It’s…barren.

A desert, stretching as far as your sight could reach, heated enough for the air to wiggle and dance in the distance, a decrepit city can be seen nestled not too far. A plethora of buildings crumbled to their bases hide away the sealed entrance to your vault, bones are scattered through the coarse sand, human shapes frozen in time, hinting towards a previous era of life on Earth, an era you’d only read about. Again, there wasn’t a soul around no matter how many times you circled your vision.

A wasteland. Painted yellow and orange and contrasting so beautifully with the clear blue sky.

You wanted to marvel and swoon and you would have given any other circumstance, but now, after everything you’d seen, after your mind had been so brutally defiled with images of slaughter, you were incapable. You stood, resisting the harsh breeze and angry sun, clad in nothing but a Pip-boy and a thin summer dress that was everything but white.

You had to walk, seek help, do…something. Anything.

And so you did. Trudging through the sea of sand and stepping hastily as the heat beneath your delicate feet nipped uncomfortably at your skin. Sweat clung to you like a protective layer, washing away any trace of the sensitive lavender shampoo you had used the previous night. Strands of hair clung to your flushed face as you fought a silent and unfair battle against the burning sunrays, one step at a time, with the wind as your only companion. Your nostrils struggled to breathe in enough air, but you didn’t dare open your mouth despite the temptation, fearing dehydration and death as it loomed over you like a shadow.

You walked for what felt like miles, accompanied by your thoughts and nothing else, until the Vault was hidden behind the golden dunes and your feet felt raw. The city was so close now, yet you were so tired, sucked dry by a heat you’d never experienced before, if it hadn’t been for your Pip-boy crackling to life you would have collapsed, too burdened and weak to continue.

You raised your wrist and looked down and were met by a familiar meter.

Radiation.

Something around you was radioactive enough for the device to pick up easily, but there was nothing but waves of yellow hell and you doubted the ground itself was emitting it. Then you heard it. That strange, high-pitched chirping, an alien sound that made your skin crawl and scraped at the back of your head tauntingly.

A scream loud enough to shatter glass ripped through your throat as a sharp sting pierced your ankle. You hit the soft sand with a whimper and rushed to turn on your back before kicking blindly at your assaultant. An ambush from below. Blood trickled from the gash, painting your skin a deep ruby red and spilling over the ground, luring out your predators like moths to a flame.

Insects, roaches too big to be real and too much for your fickle mind to comprehend crawled out of the sand. You’d fallen right into their trap, an unsuspecting victim, a banquet they’d probably not seen since they’d hatched.

Your heart pounded frantically, pulse thumping in the side of your neck as you flailed and screeched, chucking sand at them as they circled you. You wanted to run, every cell in your body fought for you to stand, but you couldn’t, you had no fight left. You’d die here, alone in this decrepit desert and eaten by giant cockroaches and this was going to be the story of your life. You sobbed so pitifully, so angry and bitter and bratty that after everything, this was to be your end. The world spun painfully fast and you wanted to vomit, but your stomach was empty and you only gagged.

With one last scream, you curled in a ball, covering your head with your arms and your legs protecting your belly, as one of the insects lunged forward.

When the gunshot rang in your ears you froze in place and time stopped. The roach flew back, slimy green entrails covering your form like a canvas. The other two hissed and you revolted at the noise, but they were shot a second later, blown to bits, dainty skittish legs twitching as the last few beats of life escaped them. The shadow of your savior dwarfed you completely, giving you respite from the cruel sun.

You roll over and sit up on your knees within a blink only to be met with the barrel of a gun too ratchet and rusted to belong to anyone but a wastelander. You recoil and blink through tear-heavy lashes before roughly adjusting your dress to try and cover your bare thighs from what you presumed was another man. The tip of the gun slid under your chin and guided your eyes up to feast upon your hero. You gulped and whimpered.

He was grotesque, like a man skinned alive and somehow survived, melted skin deformed his features and you’d bet your dinner there wasn’t a strand of hair under that worn cowboy hat. He had no nose, no eyebrows or even lashes, not a spec of hair. He grinned something awful down at you, looking at you like you were a fresh piece of meat, a delicacy among a table covered with rotten food. His stance was wide, torn dark cloth swaying dangerously in the breeze, he seemed almost aetherial in his own twisted and rugged way. You mewled softly as he turned your head from side to side with his gun, gently, mockingly, drinking you in from every angle as if you’d disappear if he so much as blinked.

Your hands clutched at the edge of your dress when he finally spoke and his voice made you inhale sharply and clench your jaw in anticipation.

“Well…Aren’t you a pretty little thing…”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

(Listen, it's 7AM and I need sleep, but this mother trucker didn't want to leave me alone so have a chapter from my hastily strewn-together upcoming story. I'll post it on AO3 and probably here if it even happens. I'll fix mistakes later, don't eat me please.)

Chapter 2 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

[fanaticsnail]

Where is it, Heat?

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 560+

Synopsis: Heat visits your office after a day docked at port. His posture is awkward, his motions careful, and he's trying his best to be polite. That only means one thing. Something is stuck.

Warnings: suggestive themes, sfw but kinks suggested, surgery suggested, exhausted doc, gn!reader x platonic!Heat.

Notes: This is the first drabble for Doc, gn!reader and doctor of the Kid-Pirates.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

Edit to add: inspiration link here, Georgie Carroll. @feral-artistry sent me the link and we both just said "this is so Kid-Pirates." 💀💀💀

“Hey Doc,” a soft knock rapped at your metal office door, “Can I come in?”

Hunched over your desk, studying over the latest medical article released by the marines your captain stole for you, you wave in your crewmate. Heat entered your office slowly and cautiously, clicking the door lightly shut behind him.

You snapped your eyes up, looking to the wall in front of you with tired, exhausted eyes. When your crew acted this kindly, quietly, and carefully, it only meant one thing. With a soft groan in your tone, you asked your pointed question lazily and monotonously.

“Where is it, Heat?”

A soft gulp was audibly heard from the fire breather. You swiveled your chair to face him, leaning back on the backrest and eyeing him cautiously. His thighs were pressed together, his back was lightly hunched, his stitched lips pressed into a thin line.

“We've been docked at port for all of a day,” you eye him through narrowed lenses, “I swear if I see another object stuck inside someone's digestive tract from the exit hole, I'll scream.” A magenta flush rose to Heat’s tanned cheeks as he angled his chin to the floor and eyed you through his sunken lashes.

Taking a pen from your desk, you point it at his head and begin to draw it down his body slowly in front of him.

You halt at his ear and he shakes his head. You halt it at his nose, another head shake as his bashful face flushes further. He shakes his head all the way down his chest to his belly button, prompting you to stop your pen and inhale a deep breath through your nose.

“I swear Heat,” you murmur with your exhale, “If I see another object sucked up someone's butt-” Heat's blush darkens and he sucks in a shaken breath.

“-It's not there, Doc.”

After a few moments of silence, you clap your hands together and bring your fingertips to your nose. You look from his eyes, to his belt buckle, and back up to his eyes again.

“Size and shape?” you ask him with no sense of curiosity, “What’s it made of, and how long has it been in there?” Heat laces his fingers together and hangs it in front of him.

“It's a crayon,” he admits in defeat, his embarrassment depicted in the hang of his head and slump of his shoulders, "Stuck there for about two hours."

“Paraffin or beeswax?” you ask, opening your desk drawer and pulling out some latex gloves. Tugging them up your arms, they snap against your wrists in a sickening clap. Heat’s eyes widen at your question.

“Beeswax, I think,” he admitted with a soft stutter in his voice. You groan, picking up your pliers and readying them in your hands by clicking them thrice in your fingers and thumb.

“Let me get this straight,” you gesture to his belt and instruct him wordlessly to drop his pants, “You have a beeswax, drawing crayon stuck inside your urethra?” Heat undid his belt, nodding slowly in confirmation, and eyeing you to sense your rise in temper.

You groan, shaking your head and scrunching your eyes shut. Murmuring out defeatedly, you inch yourself closer to his pelvis and click on your desk light: pointing it at Heat's pelvis.

“I don't get paid enough for this shit.”

[thecapricunt1616]

Daddy! Carmy on Fathers Day

Happy Fathers day everyone! I of course could not get Daddy Carmy out of my head today, so heres a drabble!!!

ʚ ═══･୨ ꕤ ୧･═══ ɞ

You’re woken up by the feeling of something small and firm poking your cheek, you opened your eyes to see your 4 year old son and his twin sister smiling big. You couldn’t help the smile that grew on your face and sit up, rubbing your eyes “Hey guys-” 

“Shhhh!” Ivy, your daughter pressed her fingers to her lips and hushed you, “Daddy’s sweepin- come mama” she whispered, but a child whisper that was more like just barely quieter than her regular talking voice. Thankfully, over the past year or so since the kids weren’t breastfeeding anymore and Carmy wasn’t carrying them back and forth from their bedroom to you in the night, he had become more accustomed to sleeping through more noise instead of waking and jumping to check on them at every little fuss. 

You nodded and sit up, stretching a bit before carefully taking off your covers and grabbing your bathrobe after sliding into your slippers and holding their hands as you went off to the living room. “You guys remember what today is mm?” you ask and Levi giggles 

“Thats why we woke you! We gotta make special breakfast for daddy and- and I’m gonna draw him a picture! Can you get my crayons mommy please please?” he asked and went to grab his construction paper pad he left at their little craft table. 

“And I’m gonna help you with daddys breakfast mommy we can do pretty sparkle pancakes we can use my glitter my special glitter from my birthday!” Ivy dragged her little cooking tower to the counter as Levi whizzed around grabbing glitters and glue sticks and colored pencils.

“Crayons, Mommy! Need’a special sparkle blue” he sat on his knees in front of the coffee table and pushed up the sleeves of his toy story pajamas. 

“Yes- yes yes cubs theres one mommy and two requests, please, patience” That was one thing about these two, no patience, and all the fire you could imagine for two tiny Berzatto children. You wished they could have gotten the patience from their father - but, instead they got their fiery passion and drive from you, and your husbands ‘I want the best, so I'll be the best and everyone will agree that I'm the best’ attitudes. 

Both of them were already in the talented and gifted program in their preschool, and they were both already reading and writing at least at a second or third grade level. This was simply because you had been determined from the moment they were born to do absolutely all of the head start childhood education you could with them, that you never got the opportunity for in your childhood that you had to pay for later.

“For you - no eating it with a spoon missy” you place the edible glitter down in front of her and she giggled. You had Carmy bring home some of the glitter from the restaurant for her birthday cupcakes last year (yes they both got their own cakes or cupcakes, the two of you agreed when you found out you were having twins they would always feel like their own person) and the day after, Carmy came into your bedroom and asked if you forgot to close the pantry as you were doing your eyeliner for a night out, you asked why and when his response was 

“Please look at your daughter” with an air of amusement to his tone, and you looked up to see him holding your hot pink metallic glitter mouthed babygirl, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“Aw no! Thats all daddy- shes just a natural born taste tester huh?”  You smiled at the memory as you plop down the 164 massive pack of crayons that Levi had suckered Carmy into buying for him when they went to Target together. Carmy swore he just went into the store for a new phone charger, but Levi just had to see the craft section, and with his big blue puppy eyes he just couldn’t say no when he asked to get them so they could ‘color pictures together with Ivy and Mommy’ He often fell prey to Levi’s begging, and he was much worse with it than Ivy. 

It was likely because his dad was so hard on he and his siblings when they were younger, he had told you alot of stories about his dad while you were pregnant. It was likely because he was so afraid to turn out like him. But Carmy had become very proactive which is a big change from his 20’s. He used to put things off, especially hard things until he physically could not avoid them anymore - but since he had learned about your pregnancy he had started going to therapy consistently to work out his feelings at the very least and understand them so he wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father made with him.

“Thats right angel two eggs” you encourage as Ivy took another egg out of the carton and carefully tapped it on the counter like her dad had been teaching her basically since she had come home from the hospital. “Wow look at that huh- you been practicing with daddy without me?” you joked, kissing the side of her curly blonde hair sweetly and taking the shells to throw away.

“I been cracking them for daddy! I wanna learn how to do one hand like him” she said, carefully mixing together the batter with the child sized whisk you had gotten for her from her special drawer of cooking tools. When she was about two, Carmy had done a whole bunch of research into Montessori parenting, and how children when taught are way more capable of things then we give them credit for. He quickly started teaching them age appropriate things, and they even had a tiny little functioning fridge and sink at their height to prepare veggies and small things like bowls of cereal as he had taught them how to do those things by themself. Hopefully he said, by the time they were 7 or 8 they could safely use the stove, which it seemed like that was going to be the case because they were already able to use it fully safely while being supervised directly.

“An’ you gotta be careful mommy, ‘cause it’s hot you’ll get ouchie” she instructs as she holds her had a (very, likely overly cautious - but you preferred it that way) ways away from the pan that had the bubbling pancake batter in it, and drops 3 blueberries before clapping for herself with a proud smile and you do the same. “See! Good job!” she said happily and you rubbed her back gently 

“Thats right princess- a very good job! Mommy is gonna flip it now, okay, i’ll be super careful cause its hot right?” you repeat her words from earlier and she mutters a little ‘right’ as you flipped the pancakes over in the pan to reveal the perfect golden brown bottom. She always reminded you of her dad that way, getting all quiet and staring intently with her lip drawn between her teeth as she focused. 

“Mommy look! See thats Levi and thats Ivy and Mommy and Daddy and Auntie Sugar and Uncle Richie and Eva! And - and uncle Pete is at work I guess cause I forgot him- and here it says I love you daddy!” he shoves it in your hands and you take it gasping and smiling big at the colorful work.

“Wow baby!” You picked him up, holding him on your hip as you looked, “So pretty- daddy is gonna love this!” you kiss his cheek and set him back down and he took it, running off likely to make another picture and Ivy tugs your robe

“Mommy!! Take it off take it off!!” She said urgently and pointed. You grabbed the plate and the spatula, taking off the pancakes to reveal perfectly brown bottoms.  “See! All is well princess, now - how about some eggs for these pancakes, mm? You got out a bowl and a fork. It wasnt long until your pancake egg bacon coffee shindig had been assembled on a tray, as well as 2 pictures and a ‘Happy Fater Fathers Day Daddy We ❤ you!' Card.

You nudged open your bedroom door with your hip and your little carbon copies of your husband go racing in and jump on the bed, Ivy plops on Carmys chest and Levi snuggled into his side happily, ever the daddys boy, it was something that made Carmys heart melt since he never felt comfortable asking for love or attention from his own father, he was more then happy to give it to him.

He was up then, with a big bear yawn and a dramatic groan to make the kids laugh. "Do I know you two clowns? Honey- who let these little bedheads in our room?" he teases making them giggle harder.

"Its fathers day daddy! We made you breakfast!" Ivy said as if he could forget and he gasps

"You did?! No way whats on the menu this morning, Chef?" he kissed her cheek with a smooch before giving levi the same and they each snuggled into a side of him as he sat up, the comforter falling down to reveal a bare and much softer chest now, since fatherhood had definitely cut down on his free time that used to be spent at the gym. You loved it all the same, some days even more.

"Blueberry pancakes! Mommy helped and they have unicorn dust" she said and you smiled as you set the tray in his lap, taking your cup of coffee and sitting at his feet. His smile grew as he saw the drawings Levi made as well as the card.

"And what are these, mm?" he looks over at Levi and he smiled proudly and began going on a tangent to his dad about each little detail. Just simply because of the joy that came to your husband with being showered with all the love and attention he deserved -

Fathers Day was one of your favorite days of the year.

[obriengf]

24 Crayons || Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Summary: A boy met a girl in the midst of innocence, and formed a friendship that would last the ages. Words: 1.1k Warnings: omg just cuteness to the max Notes: written in third person, remaining chapters set in first person!

part one of TWENTY FOUR - a stiles stilinski series (masterlist)

Innocence was the simplicity of a sunny day; the way the light warmed skin and caught reflections in a twinkling gleam. It was the gentle hum of a small Californian town, filled with buzzing townsfolk in suburban settings and singing birds that found sanctuary in the surrounding wilderness. It was the floral scent of garden-lined sidewalks that was encapsulated within a plethora of beautiful flowers. But most of all, on this very particular day, innocence was the budding friendship between two children on their first day of kindergarten. Brown, doe-like eyes, peered upward as lips jutted out in a pout. They belonged to a young boy as nerves overtook his small body, worried about being alone and away from his parents. His hands were small as they gripped onto the pant legs of his father before cementing his little feet to the pavement below. He was refusing to move; head shaking, frown quivering, cheek rubbing against khaki-coloured material. "Stiles, honey..." A tender voice cooed, a woman with dark brown hair and the sweetest of smiles now moving to crouch to his level. She was among the shining light of the sun, ethereal glows highlighting her frame before a hand with a loving touch cupped the young boy's face. "You'll have the best time, I promise. Once you make some friends, you will love it here." "B-but you and dad are my friends!"

The woman's gaze saddened as they flickered up toward her husband, a mutual conversation of silent expressions and empathy. With a tender pat to her shoulder, the woman stood, instead replaced by a man with kind eyes and a gold badge that glimmered in the light. Stiles' focus moved to the word 'Deputy' as his small finger dragged over the engraving on the golden metal, his sobs quietening only in the slightest.

"Do you want to see the special big boy present we got for your first day, bud?" The man spoke with a gentle tone before being met with a sniffle and hesitant head nod from his son. He was careful as he dug through the spiderman backpack in front of him, his facial features contorting with funny expressions to make Stiles laugh. The sound of happiness made the man sigh with contentment as he pulled out a yellow box - colours, one of every rainbow shade, were lined up perfectly and ready for a creative imagination.

"Crayons!" Any prior sense of despair had dissipated as the boy's eyes grew, childlike wonder and jovial sounds now becoming his persona in the way his parents had always known him. The box was grasped with delicate fingers before small arms were thrown behind the father's neck, holding him in a loving embrace.

The man smiled. All surroundings slowly faded as this family of three stood within their bubble of perfection - of love, and purity. Everything was right in the world, and nothing could stand in their way.

Stiles stood off to the side; his senses were on alert, nervousness working through his small frame as he overlooked the large classroom and the many bodies that took up its space. He was too shy to speak to anyone, and he felt as if the room began to close in on him the longer he isolated himself. He dreamed of being back in the arms of his father, to be looking up at his mother's graceful smile that made all the scary moments go away. Everybody seemed to have someone and Stiles had never felt so alone.

It wasn't until he looked across to the far side of the room - past the children playing with their toys, and his new teacher talking to other adults that he didn't know - that he spotted another that seemed as lonely as he did. She had her back turned to him, but he could tell that she was sad by the way her pencil moved slowly over the page in front of her.

Little feet padded with caution as Stiles made his way toward her, the box his father gave him clutched tightly to his chest as a reminder that he was a big boy now and that alone was enough to give him some courage.

He cleared his throat, voice quiet as he peered over her shoulder, "Can I sit with you?"

Her head shot up with surprise to hear another voice, body turning quickly to see a young boy with the biggest brown eyes she'd ever seen. She nodded eagerly, pushing the chair beside her out for him to drop beside her. Stiles felt relief, his smile wide with anticipation as he stuck his hand out - something his father taught him when saying hello to new people. The girl looked at him funny before she smiled too, her hand sliding against his easily.

"Hi, my name is Mieczyslaw!" He spoke quickly, the sound of his name amusing as it came from his young squeaky voice. It didn't make it any easier to understand with the tooth missing from his bottom row, either.

Her head tilted, lashes fluttering as she thought of what he said. The girl hummed, "Mich.. ca.. slor?"

Stiles laughed loudly, his grin growing wider, if even possible. The boy nodded, "Kinda, but it's okay, it's hard to say sometimes."

The girl giggled along with him, her body turning further in her seat until she was facing him front on. "That's a funny name!"

"It's my grampa's name.." He started, shuffling closer to the girl, "But you can call me Stiles! Erry'one calls me that."

"Okay, Stiles. That's a funny name too!" She followed his earlier sentiment as her small hand was thrown toward him, ready for another shake, "I'm Y/n."

He took it gladly, "I like that name, it's pretty. Y/n."

A red hue dusted her cheeks, a mix of excitement and happiness as she found someone to talk to. And he was someone that made her laugh, which she liked most of all.

Stiles wasn't afraid as he put his box of crayons on the table between them, a sense of pride filling him as he saw her eyes widen in amazement. He patted the top, "My dad and mom gave me these."

"Wow! And you got the big box too, with all the good colors!"

Stiles' smile never faltered, and he knew that he liked you straight away. You were going to be a good friend. "Yeah! I haven't opened 'em yet. Did you wanna color with me?!"

That was the beginning of an unbreakable friendship, the first chapter in the lives of you and Stiles Stilinski.

[soulgazingwithbucky]

Mr. Barnes, Teacher Aide of the Year (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader

Summary: Your brooding Avenger boyfriend becomes a regular visitor in your classroom.

Warnings: flufffffff

Word count: 1k

A/N: absolute self-indulgence - can you tell I miss being a teacher lmao? also Bucky with kids also grumpy bf/playful gf dynamic ugh my heart

When your first graders ask if you're bringing anything to the show-and-tell party, a lightbulb goes off

"I would be the coolest teacher ever if an Avenger came to visit!" "I dunno, doll..." "Come on, you're so good with Cass and AJ!" "That's different. They're family."

You try to convince him by telling him Steve has done a lot for schools. Bucky looks confused so you show him the Captain America Fitness Challenge and all of Steve's PSAs. This derails the conversation for at least 24 hours as Bucky descends into a record-breaking laughing fit. He laughs in bed with you, he laughs at the dinner table, he visits Steve's memorial to laugh with him there

Eventually, he agrees. You wake up to him ironing a henley and chinos. You tut at him and he shoots you a disbelieving look

"Ah, come on, love, cheer up," you tell him as you grab your work bag. He's waiting for you by the door, grumpy as ever in the black leather jacket and steel toe boots he wears on missions. You tighten the buckle across his chest as he scowls at you. "It's for the kids!"

You spend the car ride convincing Bucky that the kids will love him. He carries your bags into the building, but you stop him short at the entrance. He raises his eyebrow at you as you grip the leather sleeve on his left arm and pull. "Oh, come oooonnnn, doll!" he groans as you wave him into the building, detachable sleeve in tow. "Give the people what they want, babe!" you say.

You prepare your classroom for the day before the kids come in. Your room is suddenly the most popular in the building as staff filter in and out, hearing rumors that an Avenger would be in the building. Your principal insists that Bucky speak to the whole school next time. Your work best friend gives him a friendly hug- you all just had dinner the other night, after all. The entire third grade team comes and gets pictures, each of them marveling at a different muscle group on your boyfriend

Your students LOVE him. You eventually have to ask him to spend some time in the teacher's lounge so your class can focus on your lessons

After that, he becomes a monthly visitor. You create a makeshift "Mr. Barnes Day" on the class calendar. The kids count down the days till they see him again

You have to collect black and yellow crayons from the other classrooms. Your supply runs out too quickly because your kids can't stop drawing themselves with a metal arm

One of your students is having a particularly challenging day. Bucky thinks quickly and takes the rest of your kids outside for an impromptu recess. You help your student calm down, and then you both watch Bucky and the class through the window. The kids are absolutely piling on top of him. Your kids proudly declare that they defeated an Avenger when they go home to their families

It's clear one of your students favors Bucky over you, and only accepts help from Bucky when he visits. She asks Bucky for help with a math worksheet, and his eyes widen when he watches her try to solve it. "This is not how we learned it in the '20s," he whispers to you

Bucky comes home one day, proudly declaring that he has the perfect book to read aloud to the class. The cover is a cartoon drawing of an all-American man with a vibranium shield. He is so excited to read "The Hero from Brooklyn" to your students. The final pages even have drawings of him and Sam, "the best friends a hero could have." "Mr. Barnes, is that youuuu?!" your kids wonder.

You turn Bucky's age into the word problem of the day. "If Mr. Barnes is 25 + 83 years old, how old is he?" Your kids frantically calculate on their papers. "108?!?!" your kids yell. Lukas says that's older than his grandma. Nevaeh says that's older than her great-grandma. Raja gently begins to describe color to him, and you both realize she thinks Bucky sees in black and white

Your students beg Bucky to come in during spirit week. They've missed him dearly, as he has been gone for two months on assignment with Sam. Tuesday is Career Day, and he compliments all the little doctors and teachers as they step off the school bus. He is shocked to see a little kid in all black with their arm wrapped in foil. But more and more Buckies filter in, until he is surrounded by a sea of mini-mes. "We're gonna be superheroes when we grow up!!!" they yell, arms adorned in refashioned black tights, foil, and gold body paint. Bucky sheepishly asks if you can take a picture. Bucky usually hates taking pictures, and his request makes your whole year

You told your class that Bucky was just your friend, but your students are way too smart to believe that, especially after Bucky accidentally calls you "sweetheart" in front of them. Graham misses a day for his aunt's wedding; he comes back and asks if you two would invite the class to your wedding. The class loses their marbles over this, yelling, "Mrs. Barrnnessss!" at you. Bucky turns red. During snack, some of the kids draw pictures of what your ring should look like. You proudly hang it up on your fridge at home

At the end of the year, you invite your students' families to a class celebration. You do this every year, but this year has the best turnout (gee, you wonder why). You have a silly awards ceremony, with certificates celebrating "Most Dinosaur Facts Memorized" and "Best at Catching Their Teacher's Mistakes". Bucky is a puddle of pride and love in the corner until the kids demand he comes up. He's confused until they shove a certificate in his hand: "Mr. Barnes, Best Teacher Helper Ever"

[buckys-little-belle]

Chapter One - The Blue Crayon 

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SFW - Please keep all interactions with this post, and this blog, SFW. 

Warnings - Reader cries, first meeting jitters, brief talks of Bucky’s ‘old life’, mainly fluff 

Word Count - 1,836

Note - Releasing this is really scary, and nerve wracking. I'm worried people will hate my new writing style, or won't enjoy the slight changes to the plot/pace/overall creation. Please know that this means a lot to me, and has really given me back a piece of me I thought I lost. Enjoy, and I hope you love this as much as I do <3

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★ Prologue ★ 

After years of feeling out of place no matter where he went, and feeling like he didn’t belong no matter what he did to fit in, Bucky took a trip to a Cafe he remembered from his old days in Brooklyn. 

The interior looked the same as it had decades ago, the soft blue and green diner furniture was in pristine shape. The metal of the counter looked slightly more scratched and worn, but the whole place had the same feel it did when he first walked in years ago. 

While most cafes offered the same types of coffee and treats, none of them were anything like Cafe BigNSmall. Instead of being on a busy street open to just anyone, it was hidden away from prying eyes on a calm street, and was catered towards Littles and Caregivers. 

It was founded before Bucky was even born, a group of people looking for a place to meet up comfortably, but also create a safe space for other Littles and Caregivers that might also be in need of a community. 

Bucky had stumbled his way into a conversation years ago about Littles and Caregivers, at first he didn’t understand what the conversation was about, but after asking a few questions and being given the address to the hardly known, yet also famous, cafe his whole idea around the topic changed. And after a few visits with his best friend by his side the two of them realised that the community they had accidentally found was one they fit perfectly into. 

Bucky half expected the well hidden cafe to be gone, or at least moved to a different location after all these years, but as he walked along the familiar sidewalk and stopped in front of the building he used to visit weekly, a warm feeling spread along his chest. The feeling of finally finding someplace he knew, and some place that knew him, was the best feeling he had felt in a while. 

Even the ding of the welcome bell was the same, the coffee just as good as he remembered it, and the crunch of the leather covered diner booth sounded just as he had remembered it. 

The feeling of sitting at a table alone though was new, his days spent here were always spent with Steve and other people they had met along the way. But now he sat in his favourite booth with a bag full of activities, and a heart in need of a purpose. He realised that even though the building had stayed the same, he hadn’t. 

Weeks went by as he watched groups of Littles and Caregivers sit around tables and talk, colour, and laugh. He understood why people avoided him, if they knew who he was they had reason to walk away, and even if they didn’t know him as ‘The Winter Soldier” he was still dressed head to toe in black, stood at times a foot above everyone else, and always had an easily read as angry expression plastered on his face. 

It had been a month before anyone talked to him, and although he wished that he could have felt included sooner, he was happy that Y/n was the first person he met, even if it took weeks of waiting. 

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The sun was shining brightly through the wall of windows, Bucky’s booth drowning in light, the small plant that sat with a basket full of sugar and cream was no doubt enjoying the nice weather. 

Bucky’s coat sat next to him, his phone buzzing from time to time though he ignored it. Instead of calling Steve back, or making sure Sam didn’t need something he surveyed the room, making sure all exits were secure, and danger wasn’t present. 

He, in a way, had given up the idea that he would meet a Little, or even a friend, but decided that in the absence of someone he would spend his time as - unwanted, and unneeded, as well as unofficial - security for those who spent their days here with friends. 

As his eyes drifted to make sure his car parked on a side street was still in tack he heard a small shuffle next to him, then a small voice spoke. “Um, Mr?” He turned his head to see a girl with tear marks down her face staring at him. Her green shirt’s sleeves covered in wiped tears, her overalls slightly off her one shoulder. 

Bucky just stared at her for a second, waiting for her to fizzle away and reveal herself as a dream, or run in fear when she saw his face, but she didn’t. “Hi.” He cleared his throat, trying his best to put on a neutral tone and facial expression. “What’s wrong?” He asked, shuffling in his seat slightly, his nerves evident. 

“My, um.” Her left hand covered in her sleeve came back up to her face, rubbing her eye before she continued. “My crayon broke.” The girls lower lip wobbled now, bringing up what must have happened clearly causing her distress. “The nice cash lady said you, you migh’ have some crayons?” Her voiced lowered to a whisper now. 

Bucky smiled, the warmth he felt when he first stepped inside a month ago finally coming back. His backpack was filled with Little friendly activities and supplies for this reason exactly. “I do.” He answered, unzipping his backpack and pulling out his carton of 96 crayons. “What colour do you need, Bub?” The nickname slipped out on accident, but the girl in front of him didn’t seem to notice, too awe struck by the box of crayons in front of him. 

She sniffled before answering. “I need blue.” She said with a little more confidence. “Hold on.” She whispered, jogging back to what Bucky assumed was her table. “This one, please.” She pulled out two halves of a blue crayon from her box. Her crayon box was smaller than Bucky’s, only a handful of crayons inside, unlike his though her’s had a small sticker on it that read “Y/n.” 

“Y/n?” He asked, the girl snapping her head to him, her eyes wide. Bucky tapped the sticker on her box, Y/n flipping it over and realising how he now knew her name. “There’s too many blue crayons in this box to know what one you want.” He said, hoping it didn’t come off mean or like he was showing off his ‘better’ supplies. “Why don’t you take the box back to your table and use any of the crayons I have for the day.” He offers, hoping that his generosity could help earn Y/n’s trust over time. 

“Can I jus’ sit here?” Y/n asked, her hands fiddling with the box in her hands. 

“You want to sit here?” Bucky parrots her words back to her, hardly believing that she would want to sit with him. 

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” Her lower lip began to wobble again as she took a step back. “Unless, I’m sorry, I can go.” She said quickly, clearly taking Bucky’s surprise as anger. 

“You can sit here.” Bucky’s words were also spoken quickly, worried if he didn’t say anything right away she would run from him. “No one’s wanted to sit with me yet, I’m just surprised.” Y/n nodded her head and put her small box down on the table before walking back to hers. 

In a minute she had gathered all her things and made her way back to Bucky, her backpack now sitting on the other seat. “You sure that I can sit here?” Bucky noticed her slight change in speech, a clear sign of further regression. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” He smiled, Y/n sitting down but still holding her colouring book to her chest, her back straight as a pin. “I’m glad you came over.” He says in hopes to reassure her he wants her here. “It’s nice to have a friend.” Y/n smiles at that, placing her book down, showing a half done colouring page. 

“I agree, bein’ lonely is sad.” She frowns. “Do you wanna colour with me?” Her tone is hopeful, looking at Bucky with a smile. 

“I’d love to.” He smiled back, pushing his coffee to the side and accepting the page Y/n tore out for him. The two of them colouring their respective pages in silence for an hour before Y/n sat up straight with the biggest smile Bucky had seen so far. 

“Done!” She practically yelled. Bucky had been done for a while now, adding his own doodles around the actual lines of the drawing. “Look.” She slides the book towards him, a coloured picture of a princess and her wildlife friends surrounding her staring back up at him. 

“This is really good, Bub.” Bucky coos, surprised at her ability to stay mainly in the lines of the original lines. 

“You can keep it.” She quickly squiggles something on the bottom, Bucky assuming it’s her form of a signature. 

“Thank y-” His words are cut off by the shrill of an alarm, Y/n digging her phone out of her backpack to turn it off, frowning as she places the phone on the table. 

“I have to go home now.” She frowns as she starts to pack up her bag, pausing to turn to Bucky. “Will you, can you.” She stumbles over her words. “Are you coming here tomorrow?” She eventually asks, her eyes avoiding Bucky’s. 

“Are you?” He counter asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I’ll be here tomorrow.” She smiles and finally looks at him. 

Y/n spends a few more minutes packing up her things before she stands. “Thank you Mr.” She holds her hand out for a handshake, Bucky’s back straightening as he realises he’ll have to shake her hand with his left. Instead of doing so he grabs her left hand with his right and shakes that one, her giggles worth the awkward situation. “Bye Mr.” She says, turning to leave, but Bucky keeps a hold of her hand. 

“Why don’t you keep these?” He says, pushing the box of crayons closer to her near the edge of the table. 

“Borrow them?” She asks. 

“No, I want you to keep them.” He nudges them her way a little more. “I think you’ll get much more use out of them than I ever would.” He smiles as he watches her’s grow bigger. Picking them up she does a little jump, her backpack jingling as she does. 

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She spins before whispering a ‘thank you’. 

Before Bucky could say goodbye, or ask for her phone number, she had already walked out of the building, walking down the sidewalk looking at the box of crayons in awe. The broken blue crayon still sat on the table, he smiled, picking it up and placing it in his pocket. The small thing a reminder of the best day he’s had in a long time. 

[scoutsbabygirl]

I would like to see headcanons from you about how your favorite mercenaries realize that they fall in love with the reader :333

🎷🐛

my first request! hi my little meow meow! i wrote for all the mercs bc why not?! fluff below the cut! also written in headcannon form! idk how to write for soldier (i just don't see the appeal)

scout:

-why did ms. pauling have to be lesbian???

-when you came along he was immediately drawn to you, maybe it was because you were new and young

-he's way too cocky around you and acts like he doesn't care about you

-after a stern talking to by spy, jeremy decides to ask you out

-other than sports, jeremy loves to paint and draw and is surprisingly good at it. he asks you to make some art with him and of course he draws you

-this melts your heart and you've fallen for him. he's just waiting for the right time to confess and ask you to be his

soldier:

-man has zhanna

pyro:

-hearing you say "you're all good! no worries!" after he lights the hem of you shirt, almost burning you alive. he feels a spark...literally

-pyro slinks around you where ever you may be. in the kitchen baking? pyros throwing flour all over the kitchen. working out? pyros cheering you on. got some spare time? pyros got some crayons, colored pencils and a bunch of coloring books

-spending time with a masked man that the team fears has him drawn to you. the mercs warned you about him, you never felt intimated by pyro yet understood yet you could understand why he was treated differently

-if you're ever sad he will give you the best comfort. he's never shown himself to the mercs but once he sees you cry the mask is coming off and expect kisses to be planted over you

-its a very intimate moment and he just admits it then. he's never had anyone love him back, he's always been depicted as a monster.

heavy:

- won't approach you first. he waits for you to make a move. he knows his size is intimidating in itself and doesn't want to scare you away.

-he's a gentle giant. he's very careful with his words and movements. he's so paranoid that you'll view him as something he's not on the inside.

- one night you cooked with him and he told you all about his life back home, showed you photos of his sisters and taught you basic russian (assuming you don't know any already)

-if you speak russian he'll be over the moon or if you use the simple russian he's taught you he loves you just a little bit more. he adores your accent when you stumble over certain pronunciation. he knows you're the one for him

-when he decides to confess he handwrites you a long poem with an russian to english translation on two separate pages. after he signs his name he writes that he won't bring this up unless you do

-please don't break his heart. he's so sensitive

demo:

- when he confesses he's drunk as fuck. he doesn't even remember when you bring it up the next day.

-is so embarrassed. he's hungover and groggy. he plays it off by acting defensive. "i was just drunk! i meant nothing by it!"

-in the inside he's freaking out. he wanted to plan it out. it's only been 7 or 8 months since you've been at teufort but he fell so quick for you.

-3am outside pointing at the constellations, telling you about old celtic, scottish myths and folklore, shit talking the other mercs, and an accidental kiss on the lips he caught feeling for you right then and there.

- he's willing to give up scrumpy just to have you reciprocate the same feelings for him. 🤞

engineer:

-lord, he used so many pet names with you; "check this out, sweet pea", "you look beautiful, darling", "i made pancakes, you want any hon?"

-he knows his voice with a combination of his pet names do something to you. he loves when you call him those names back!

-compliment his cooking! bbq is his specialty! he'll gladly eat up anything you make. hungry boi :3

-he loves when you spend time with him in his workshop, working on his little metal trinkets warms his soul. he tries to teach you about the intricate parts of engineering. it's okay if you don't understand, he's more than willing to break it down for you and teach you a bite-sized version quantum mechanics

-friday night. a few beers in. a lot of work finished. "(y/n), i know i'm a bit older and dusty at the whole romance thing but" he pauses "you ain't seeing anyone right now, are you?"

medic:

-he either falls in love with you the second he lays his eyes on you or it takes many, many months for him to catch feelings for you. regardless, of how long the process takes his love for you becomes an obsession.

-you begin lingering around his office, inquiring about his tools and weapons. he finds it very interesting that you're not startled by him and his... unethical ways of "doctor assisted suicide"

-internal battles with his conscience. does he want to rip your organs out and shove them in the wrong places? he wants to slice your arteries one by one. yes, he wants to cut your jugular and see how much you bleed before dying. alas, he won't. you're too beautiful to be cut up into pieces. he doesn't want you to die by his hands, he doesn't know what he would do with himself.

-"guten morgen, wie gehts?!" has him weak. just a simple phrase you've rehearsed a few times. you though he would appreciate you taking time out of your day to learn his native tongue. he thinks this is your way of flirting with it (and perhaps it is).

-occasionally he'll call you into his office, not for a checkup by any means but rather just to chat (on company time). he removes the gloves and runs his hands over the scars on your face and neck. "schätzelein, i have been feeling some way for a while."

sniper:

-he is such a cunt. he's so rude and bitchy to you. his attitude causes you to avoid contact with mick at all costs and he avoids you like the plague. he spends a lot of time in his van anyways so staying away from you isn't too hard.

-seeing you hurt breaks his heart. he decides to visit you in medbay after your broke your arm. the baboo uterus experiment procedure wasn't finished by the time you got hurt. you notice how out of character it is but appreciate it regardless. he brings you a little necklace made with animal teeth (him making jewerly with animal bones is the most canon-noncanon headcanon.)

-after you get a cast you ask him to sign it. next to his name he writes a little heart. then scribbles it out. and draws a skull underneath it.

-butterflies in his stomach when he lays eyes on you. he hates that he's gotten feelings for you. you're his teammate, not his partner. not yet atleast. no? why is he thinking like this.

-it's obvious that mick is touch starved of attention, he want to be validated and appreciated. he's also getting shit from his teammates so when you begin to stand up for him and complimenting him he looses his mind.

"scout, you're being mean. no wonder you have no dad, i would leave too. " "he's not ugly at all. you're old and its evident enough in those wrinkles of yours."

-oh god. who knew a petite little thing like you could spit venom. he wants to tell you how he feels so badly but he doesn't want to loose you as a friend.

spy:

-he'll flirt with you before even developing feelings for you. always trying to court you, inviting you over at late hours. he just wants to get laid tbh.

-you're playing hard to get. it excites him a bit but he's much older now so if anything he's annoyed that you won't sleep with him. he tries being more romantic and pushes idea the idea of getting with you sexually and takes a different approach.

-smoking on his red velvet couch until the sun begins to rise, sharing cigs together. he has a small stash of weed (he stole it from scout) but coughs when he smokes it, earning a plethora of giggles from you. now he's smiling and laughing with you despite his lungs being filled with smoke.

-stacks of guy de maupassant on his table near the red couch, he reads the love poems to you and translates it to you. please snuggle up into his chest and try to read the french words yourself. your pronunciation is horrible and your accent is awful. you sound so cute yet so pathetic at the same time.

-he tries to keep his feelings hidden for as long as he can. of course, it slips out. he's stopped wearing the balaclava when around you (and only you, even his own son doesn't know what he truly looks like) so the bright red blush is evident on his face. he tries taking back what he said but there's no use as your already face first into his chest.

[toxictigertonic]

Hello it's me your number one fan: What's your headcannons for what the Main Three do in their spare time? Also, what do they do in their spare time with each other? Literally will pay you for these headcannons ISTG they give me life

I'm so glad people are enjoying my silly little headcanons about these weirdos (affectionate) I'm happy to say dumb shit about them.

COYLE

- Honestly he's a lil tough for me to figure out. He's so dedicated to his job of catching our asses that it feels like he's always patrolling.

- Then again. I wanna say this man is a secret soap opera enjoyer NOW HEAR ME OUT

- He sounds like he's on the verge of tears when he points out that Franco gets a gun but not him. That's dramatic. I think he secretly likes a little drama in his life.

- God help anyone who finds out though. Nobody can know about or interrupt his soaps.

- Also I could say the obvious answer for what I think he does in his spare time but uh. I think y'all can already guess with his quips.

- Other than that? He's making spicy chili to kill Franco with. Taste testing each pepper to make sure it's potent enough.

- Or collecting cool trinkets he finds laying around. Fun scraps of metal, nice rocks, anything he can steal from Franco.

MOTHER GOOSEBERRY

- This woman is constantly busy, never let's herself sit down and relax. She's gotta be doing SOMETHING with her hands.

- Baking, knitting, sewing, she's doing it all with a show in the background for noise.

- She likes to bake pies and such, she likes the effort that goes into making the crust and loves fruit filling. Futterman is a brat about getting flour on his beak though.

- Knitting is a little hard but she gets Futterman to hold one needle with his beak. He only agrees so she won't whine about it. She's knitted a stuffed animal for Franco once on request and he cried so hard he threw up.

- She also listens to the radio and dances to some songs. She likes to sway back and forth or side to side while working on things and listening.

FRANCO

- My lil baby man, of course he's gonna do some lil baby things.

- I think he'd have a lot of coloring books tbh. A pack of crayons spread out on the table, pacifier in mouth, cartoons on in the background, this man is living the dream.

- Speaking of cartoons, I guaranTEE this man has an hour set aside for when his favorite cartoon comes on. He's watching it whether he's busy or not. Do not interrupt cartoon time unless you want a tooth bullet to the shin.

- He'd love to have someone to watch cartoons with, not Coyle though that man doesn't deserve cartoon time. Gooseberry would be an okay option but Futterman talks shit about his cartoons. May have kidnapped a reagent to make them watch cartoons with him.

- If he had the option he'd spend most of his spare time in someone's lap (someone who isn't dead lol) because again, this man is so beyond starved for affection from actual people. My sad little creachure.

- For some not so baby things, he makes sure Lupara is absolutely spotless. He'll spend hours cleaning it and making sure it shines like new. Now, if only he'd take the same care with his suit...

ALL TOGETHER

- You know how bad they were when two of them were together? Adding the last one to the mix is like asking for something to catch fire. Whether it be Coyle's beard or Gooseberry's skirt depends on the day.

- Most of the time spent as a trio is Phyllis trying to make sure Coyle and Franco don't kill each other. She wants everyone to be friends and those two want bloodshed.

- She's bringing out board games and baked cookies for them to all hang out, turns around for two seconds, looks back and Franco has Coyle picked up by the collar.

- They talk the maddest shit to each other and eventually Futterman has to call a time out. They have to sit in opposite corners.

- Speaking of Futterman, they know it's time to calm down when the drill is brought into the picture. Phyllis will not stand for this behavior during friend time!

These ones were a little more difficult but I think I'm pretty spot on with Coyle and his soap operas. Keep em coming my merry little men, you can ask about all three or just one of them.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

What if the Unicorns returned? Not a request, I just think it would be funny that Eri’s human and god family members now have to worry about Unicorns trying to snatch her up if she’s out in the open (Or they dash and snatch Eri up)

-You were laying on your belly, humming a quiet tune, drawing pictures with the crayons Loki had gifted to you, using a rainbow of colors on your picture.

-Adam came over, hearing you humming, and he smiled, bending over lightly, “What are you working on Y/N?” you beamed, quickly rolling to your knees and you held up the drawing, showing him a picture of a unicorn.

-His eyelid twitched lightly, trying hard to force the smile to stay on his lips, “Oh- a unicorn… how nice.” While you didn’t have any trauma from your last meeting with some unicorns, your family sure did- as they had to chase those sparkly bastards all over the forest after they kidnapped you!!

-Raiden was walking by a large window before he froze, doing a double take and his eyes widened in shock before narrowing, “We’ve got a situation!! Y/N keep coloring and stay there!”

-You beamed, hearing your own order, as it made you feel like an adult as everyone gathered around the windows and doors, seeing the house surrounded by the unicorn herd, who fully believed your family had one of their own, you- and they wanted you back.

-You couldn’t go outside at all without at least two of your family members, as the unicorns were crafty, willing to take any opening to snatch you away to take you home.

-Several of your family members stayed inside to hold down the fort while others, mostly all the warriors, went out to deal with the unicorns. Hermes played his violin for you, drowning out the music of the battle outside so you wouldn’t go to investigate.

-These unicorns weren’t leaving without a fight and your family wasn’t going to let them take you- not unless if they were all dead, which wasn’t going to happen- so it was a battle of who was the most stubborn.

-All the while you were drawing a new unicorn, one you had seen out in the forest, that didn’t look like the others, it was mostly black and had white makeup and honestly looked like the loud music bands that Lu Bu and Thor liked to listen to- death metal is what they told you the name of the genre of music was.

-Your death metal unicorn went right onto the fridge, and you looked so proud of it as you and Hermes shared a pudding snack together.

[softly-sirius]

A little slice of heaven

sydney x fem! reader x carmen (they're all dating)

plot: syd and carm come home after a long day of work and find comfort in you. pure fluff!!

Warnings: Carmen is taller than the reader, reader wears a cropped top and panties. reader makes mac and cheese, but does not eat the mac and cheese herself! so ppl with dairy allergies don't feel left out

-

When Carmen gets home, all he can think about is sleeping.

Sydney is stood, at his side, hooking her puffer jacket onto the decorative coat stand that came with the apartment. It hadn’t been at the apartment on the initial viewing, but when they had moved in, there it was. Its brushed metallic paint shined gold in the sunlight. It wasn’t intended to be kept, but eventually, it felt like the apartment wouldn’t have been the same without it. 

Carmen felt like he had a lot in common with the coat rack. 

Sydney toed off her shoes in silence, pushing them neatly against the wall. He knew she was doing it for his sake. She did a lot of things she didn’t before, simply for his sake. 

They were both exhausted, too tired to talk. It was an established fact that talking with each other when they felt like this, still pent up from the day, could leave them more angry than not. So they stayed in comfortable silence. Sydney reflecting upon a fleeting day, Carmen brooding over what needs to be done on the next. 

Carmen goes to the kitchen, feeling like he would rather go anywhere but. He wants to shower, so he can scrub away the remains of the day. He wants to face plant into bed and sleep without setting an alarm. 

He knows he can’t though, while he would happily let himself go hungry, he wouldn’t let Syd. So he goes in with intentions to make a quick sandwich. A way to say thank you for not pushing him to talk even though he knows she so desperately wants to. He’s trying his best, but some days he still can’t handle it. 

Then he hears the sizzling of hot oil in a pan. 

He sees you, who should be long in bed, standing at the stove, spatula in hand. 

You’re barely wearing anything, a pair of panties and a cropped tank top. He and Sydney both have told you not to wear so little when cooking with hot oil. You never listen though. You’re wiggling your hips to a song that he can hear muffled, coming from your headphones. 

Carmen takes a moment to drink you, still getting used to the fact that this is real. That he isn’t alone anymore and he has two people to take care of, who in turn take care of him. 

Sydney wastes no time in making her way to you, arms wrapping around your waist, a kiss pressed to your cheek. Sydney has been used to your kindness far longer than Carmen. 

You squeal, at first from shock and then from affection. Giving Sydney two sticky kisses of her own. “Welcome home,” you greet, voice soft and silky. 

Not wanting your efforts to go to ruin, you squeeze Sydney tightly in one arm then use your other to stir a big pot, filled to the brim with Mac and Cheese. A simple meal, one you’re confident you can cook to edible standards. 

It’s still a little nerve-wracking, cooking for two people who are so talented. You feel like a child holding out a crayon drawing to Gustave Courbet. You’re not sure you’ll ever feel on equal footing with them in the kitchen, but you know, that your mac and cheese goes down well on nights like these.

Carmen is still awkward in his affections. “You didn’t need to do this,” He says timidly walking over to the stove. Carmen appreciates the tidiness of the kitchen, the pots already cleaned and drying on the rack. You’re stirring the mac and cheese around, waiting for the patties on the skillet to finish cooking. 

Syd’s head is resting against your shoulder, she’s completely lax against you. You have this magic about you that Carmen so clearly lacks, of making people feel calm. 

“I know,” You reply, a smug grin on your face as you lean up for a kiss. Carmen reciprocates, kissing you short and sweet.  Sydney pouts at being disrupted, half-asleep against you. You kiss her, to soothe her, but continue your doteing on Carmen. 

Your hand briefly leaves the wooden spoon, moving instead to run through Carmen's hair and scratch down the back of his neck. His shoulders relax a little, eyes closing at the brief feeling of bliss. 

He grimaces when your hand goes back to the spoon, in need of your tender touches.“Why don’t you go for a shower bear, it’ll be all ready when you’re done,” 

He nods, still not really up to talking if he doesn’t need to. He unhunches his back, going back to his full height but then hesitates, leaning down again to press a firm kiss to the side of your head. 

He leaves the room with pink staining his cheeks. You can’t help but grin, endeared by his little affections. 

Syd plays with your fingers, mumbling into your shoulder, now that Carmen has gone, about the stressors of the day. An asshole who kept sending food back, a delivery driver with no manors, a ruined pot of sauce. 

You nodd along, content to listen and let her burn off steam. 

“Is this ok?” You ask, holding out a spoon of pasta to her, hand cupped underneath. You know it is, but enjoy the act of feeding her too much to not ask for her opinions. 

She opens her mouth, letting you guide the spoon to her. You adore Sydney when she gets like this, like a tired baby, happy for you to dote on. Your tired baby. She likes to do things herself, used to being self-sufficient. You enjoy it when she lets do things for her.

She hums around the spoon, making no effort to open her eyes at any point. “Really good,”

You smile, unsure you can even feel more content. 

A few minutes later the shower cuts off, Carmen walks back into the kitchen, pyjamas resting low on his hips. Syd is almost asleep on your shoulder, drooling into your spaghetti straps. 

You couldn’t be more in love.

[rotworld]

27: Rumor Has It

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

there's an urban legend in your city about a gang of ghost bikers but no one can agree on what exactly they're like. one thing's for certain: they love the diner you work at and they're pretty fond of you, too.

->original work. explicit; contains graphic descriptions of violence, murder, children (very briefly) in peril, gun violence, spanking.

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You know those bikers? The nightriders with the big butterflies on the backs of their jackets? People say they’re ghosts. Not the fog and mist kind or an echo that never stops, but ones you can touch. They died in a bad way somewhere along the road, split second bad luck turning them into mangled metal and chunky red paste on the asphalt. Now they ride forever. Run drivers off the road, some say, or flash their lights when somebody’s nodding off. They’re a gang, some warn. They’re guardian angels, some insist. You don’t know about all that, but you know they don’t ride forever. 

They stop sometimes.

The Sugar Bowl is a last chance oasis before a long stretch of nothing, a little red-letter neon lighthouse just off the highway that’s open all night. It’s the 50’s forever inside; checkerboard floor, blocky leather booths and round counter stools, cherry-topped milkshakes so good you’ll think you dreamed it in the morning. Every type of person has been here on their way somewhere else. You get truckers mostly but also big city business types and gap year roadtrippers, shifty-eyed guys who come in twos and threes and talk all hunched together in whispers, families of five with squirmy children who rub the kid’s menu crayons down to nothing.

There’s a little bit of everyone here tonight plus a motorcycle gang—not your favorites, though. They showed up too early with their bikes rumbling too long in the parking lot, hooting and hollering before they finally sauntered inside and occupied a table in the back. They talk too loud and they keep looking around at everyone else, snickering. They order a few drinks and tell you to buzz off.

Yours don’t come until a little after midnight. The growl of engines dies to a purr and the spotlight shine of cyclopic headlights shuts off. The parents for the family of five are looking a little nervous at the prospect of more bikers but they’ve got nothing to worry about. The company man who’s been on the phone all night isn’t even paying attention. 

Nobody comes through the doors for a while but you see their silhouettes outside the windows, shifting down the concrete to look at the bikes already parked there. Communing with them, maybe. Some people say they’re like engine spirits. Tommyknockers of the road, patron saints of motorcycles. Then again, some people say they freeze your brakes and make airbags fail. Either way, they conclude their business, whatever it is. The doors creak open and clatter shut and they file in without a word.

People stare. They always do. They’re a contradiction, leather jackets and tall lace-up boots, fingerless gloves and helmets they don’t take off, scuffs and tears and oil stains—and butterflies on their backs. They’re not tiny, easy to miss patches but big designs that take up the whole space. The thread is colorful and glows in the dark. You know them that way. Not by names because they’ve never given any, but by the species they wear on their back. They always nod to whoever’s working the front that night when they pass by, claiming five spots all in a row at the counter. 

The other bikers stare extra hard. They get quiet, too, in a way that tells you there might be trouble tonight.

Monarch leads. He’s the first in, always, and the last to leave like he’s making sure nobody gets left behind. He’s the one who pays, too. You don’t know where the money comes from. The bills are old and crumpled like they’ve been wadded up in somebody’s pocket too long but they’re real. They don’t turn to dust at sunrise or anything. 

He sits in the middle and the others take the spots on either side. You don’t know if it means anything, if the ones who are closer are older, been dead longer, or if it’s just whoever gets there first. Swallowtail is always next to him on his right but the others could be anywhere.

You drift by with a friendly greeting and a stack of laminated menus. Monarch hands them down the line before he cracks his open. People say they don’t talk and that’s definitely true. Maybe their tongues rotted off, or maybe there’s no head at all underneath those helmets with dark, reflective visors. Maybe they just don’t want to. It’s all gestures and pointing mostly, but sometimes one of them gets a little bold and snatches your notepad if they have more to say. 

This is one of those nights, apparently. Swallowtail at least gestures for it first instead of grabbing it out of your hands, scribbling scrunched, borderline illegible cursive. “Long night,” he writes. “Real hungry.” 

“Big order incoming, huh?” you ask. 

Understatement. He wants an omelette loaded with just about everything you’ve got in the kitchen and hashbrowns and bacon. It’s burgers, fries and milkshakes for everybody else with the usual quirks—fried egg for Monarch, no onions for Brimstone, spicy aioli for Morpho. At the end of the line, you find the last one drumming his fingers on the counter. You had to look around online to figure out what to call him; broad blades for upper wings, striped black and green with leaves of gold on the bottom. A Goliath birdwing. 

“Hi, Goliath,” you say. “Need a minute?” 

He nods. True to his name, he’s by far the largest of the group, head shoulders above the others looking almost comical perched on the tiny diner stool.

“I can come back in a bit.” 

He shakes his head. Leaning back on the stool, he spreads his legs apart and pats his thigh in a very obvious invitation.

You laugh, a little embarrassed and a little flattered. They’re all very physical, often giving you a quick tap to get your attention, but Goliath is much bolder and distinctly flirtatious. It’s not like you’ve never stolen glances, either. All that muscle looks good stretching his jacket and dark wash jeans. “Sorry, big guy, I’m working right now.” 

He makes a show of sighing dramatically, shoulders visibly rising and falling, and goes back to poring over the menu.

Dave’s in the kitchen tonight, sighing heavily when you stick the order up for him. “They’re here, huh?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say. “This isn’t the whole thing, Goliath hasn’t ordered yet.”

“Don’t go thinking you’ve got them domesticated. They’re wild animals. They bite.”

You frown but you don’t argue. Dave’s a cynic. He’s got his own ideas about how the ghosts work, just like everyone does. Maybe they’re monsters. Maybe they’re revenants. Maybe they’re more like fairies and they’ve got their own strange rules. You don’t worry about it much. Of course they’re not domesticated, but they’re people—or might’ve been once, at least. You can be polite. And what does it hurt if you and Goliath grind like teenagers out behind the diner sometimes? Nobody has to know.

He smells like leather and the pavement when it rains. His hands are big and firm and warm through his gloves, nails blunt and fingers callused. It feels like you’re caught between two walls when he pins you against the back of the diner and shoves one of his legs between yours, and you ride his thick, muscled thigh like your life depends on it. 

Do ghosts have dicks? If they do, can they use them? Nobody seems to be asking the important questions. 

The family of five is heatedly debating the use of GPS or a road atlas. The guy on his phone is eyeing your bikers nervously. The other bikers are getting restless in their corner and you hope they’ll take off soon. You think you’ll get your wish when one of them goes to the pair of doors at the front but he doesn’t leave. He jams a crowbar through the handles so no one can open them from the other side and then he turns around, arms crossed in front of his chest, with a sick smile on his face.

A gunshot cracks like thunder, a bullet fired into the ceiling. The other bikers order everyone on the floor with their hands on their head. You’re next to the counter when it happens, between Goliath and a trucker at his own table. Goliath doesn’t even flinch. He and Monarch and all the rest just sit there, hardly moving except to turn towards the commotion. You look at him pleadingly while you sink to your knees but you can’t tell where he’s looking with the visor in the way. If he’s meeting your eyes. If he’s even paying attention. 

Some people say they’re demons and they ride back to Hell at the end of the night. And you can join them, leave everything behind to become a lawless wanderer with a butterfly at your back, if you can offer up some pain and death. Some say that’s how they all came to be. No tragedies but the ones they made, luring people to the side of the road and beating them so bad they looked like they’d been twisted up in a crash. 

Monarch rests his elbow on the counter and leans against it like something mildly interesting is going on. Morpho’s leg bounces on the stool like he’s restless or bored. Goliath flips the menu over and looks at the drinks.

“We don’t need all of you. Just a few,” the ringleader says, pistol held in a lazy, careless grip with his finger on the trigger. He has a shaved head and a bandana around his mouth, arms and chest bare under a leather vest. He sends someone into the kitchen to grab Dave and then he tells the rest of you, matter of factly, that either you can pick who’s dying or he will. “Six is a good number,” he says, eyeing the family. 

“You should ask them what they want,” you say. 

You come dangerously close to getting shot. He looks at you with wide, furious eyes but they’re right there behind you and his gaze shifts. “I know how this fucking works,” he says. One of the others comes back dragging Dave by the arm, kicking him to the floor. He’s got a black eye and a split lip. He gives you a look that you don’t acknowledge. 

The ringleader walks past you both, his movements slowing the closer he gets. He flinches when Monarch turns around to give him his full attention. “H…how many? And which ones?” he asks. 

They’re talking. You don’t hear anything but they’re looking at each other. Shrugging. Gesturing sharply. Morpho points insistently at the kids who are already inconsolable, sobbing louder into their parents’ shirts. Brimstone makes a slow, sweeping motion as if to indicate the entire diner, both hands raised as if to say, “And?” Swallowtail jerks his thumb towards the door, or maybe the guy standing in front of it. 

Monarch looks down the row at Goliath. He waves towards him. Swallowtail kicks him in the shin. Goliath slaps the menu down on the counter and looks irritated, then takes a look around. His helmet swivels one way and then the other, then dips. Now he’s looking at you. You can feel it. He looks up again, standing slowly from the counter.

He points at the family and the parents start begging. Then he points at the door. “Not those?” the other biker asks. Goliath nods. The ringleader shrugs but gestures with his gun sharply. The guy at the front snarls as he unbars the door. The kids are out first and the parents are right behind them, sprinting for the minivan parked just a few spaces down. “Which one?” Goliath points at him. Then at the guy at the door. Then at the other bikers scattered around. The ringleader laughs like it’s a joke until Monarch and the rest get to their feet.

They say the ghosts are just as fast on their feet as they are on their bikes. That one’s true.

You and the other unfortunates dart under tables and behind the counter when the first shots ring out, but the chaos is short-lived. You keep your head down but you can hear a fight turn into a one-sided slaughter, startled shouts strangled into gurgling whines. Bones snap like twigs. Skulls crunch and shatter, faces impacted by the stomp of heavy boots. Someone tries to wheeze through a crushed windpipe. 

The ringleader comes crawling over, trying to get behind the counter. He’s a blood-drenched wreck. He drags himself slowly, one arm over the other, blood dribbling from both nostrils of a broken nose and the corner of his mouth. He looks up and your eyes meet. You give him a smile and a wave. Something grabs him by the ankle and he screams when it drags him out of sight.

There’s a lot you don’t know and plenty that you might never learn. That’s just how urban legends are. But a lot of the things people say just aren’t true. There was a couple who came in one time and something clearly wasn’t right. The girl huddled against the window and kept pulling at her sleeves. She jumped every time the guy across from her scraped his fork against his plate. Swallowtail got up when they left, followed them both out to the parking lot. You heard yelling, the scuff of sneakers on pavement, someone hitting the ground hard. Then Swallowtail came back inside with just the girl and sat next to her while she called somebody. She hugged him before she left.

It’s over almost as suddenly as it started. Dead silence, except for a soft, steady dripping and the creak of leather. You peek over the counter and wish you hadn’t. There’s not much left of the other biker gang, but it’s all over the floor and walls. Dark red smears, spatters and dragging handprints stain checkerboard tile and leather upholstery. There are bits and pieces, vaguely recognizable—a leg severed at the knee, a torso flattened like roadkill, clumps of scattered hair and scalp. It’s the kind of high-impact shredding damage you expect to see at the end of some skid marks or past a dented guardrail, illuminated by headlights. The diner empties pretty quick. Nobody asks for to-go bags. 

“You knew,” he says, accusing. He nods to Monarch and the others who are going right back to their spots at the counter like nothing happened. “How the fuck did you know?” 

You shrug. “You feed something enough, you start to think you’ve got it figured out,” you say. He rolls his eyes but he goes back to the kitchen. Shift’s over, obviously, given the nasty clusterfuck in the front that’s already attracting flies, but you’ve got five loyal customers left to feed. Goliath’s getting an omelette with all the sides, too. Must’ve worked up an appetite. He’s covered in gore and that should be an immediate mood killer but he’s looking at you and you’re looking at him, and he’s tilting his head towards the door.

You go around back. Real hungry, Swallowtail said before. So is Goliath. He gets you up against the wall of the diner and his hands slide up and down your sides slow and sensual, kneading your figure through your clothes. You wish you could kiss him. Your breath fogs up his visor when he leans in and all you can see is yourself, shameless and needy, reflected in plexiglass. He’s got a death grip on your hips and he’s not using his knee this time. He wants you grinding on him, humping the hard, rigid bulge in his jeans. He squeezes your ass and pulls you into the frantic, rolling pace of his thrusts.

You’re not expecting more than that, but tonight’s different. Special, maybe. He’s still running on adrenaline. Do ghosts have adrenaline? His chest heaves like he’s breathing heavy but all you can hear is your own runaway train of a heart. He doesn’t stop grinding on you even when he struggles to get his belt unbuckled and his jeans unzipped, not wanting to be apart for even a second. You wrap your arms over his shoulders and press chaste kisses to his helmet. You almost wonder if he can feel it or if it’s just the thought that counts, because it makes him push against you harder. 

He undresses just enough to get his cock free. One mystery solved, you think. It’s big, the girth filling your palm when you wrap a hand around it. He thrusts into your fingers and the length from tip to base, the slide of those twitching veins and hot flesh against your skin, makes your pulse quicken in excitement. You sink to your knees and he spreads his legs to make room for you between them. He’s not in a patient mood. You don’t even get a chance to admire it before he’s pushing past your lips and filling your mouth.

For a second, you think he’s about to cum. He tenses up and his grip on your head gets harsh, fingers raking your scalp. He really likes this, you think. You look up at him and his fingers tangle in your hair appreciatively. His rhythm is leisurely, slow pumps that slide his cock over your tongue. You get him nice and wet with drool because you can feel him shaking. This is probably all the self-restraint he has left. He savors the tightness of your throat around him every time he slides all the way in. 

Eventually, he tugs you off. His cock slips out of your mouth jutting almost straight up, slick with spit and precum all the way down. He nods towards the wall. You feel like playing with a fire tonight so you’re a little slow getting your lower half undressed, hips shimmying as you get everything pulled down just far enough to expose your ass. Goliath spanks you, hard. You make a sound far louder and more embarrassing than you meant to. You don’t have to see his eyes to know gears are turning in his head as he looks back and forth from your flustered expression to your exposed skin. 

He has you brace yourself with your hands on the wall and pulls your hips back. He runs hot. You can feel his body heat through his clothes like there’s a fire trapped under that leather jacket, hungry flames just begging to lick your body. He grabs your hips and lines himself up. You get a couple prodding thrusts first. Then a harder one, forcing in the tip. Goliath isn’t exactly gentle but he pays attention when you hiss and claw at the wall. His palm cracks over your ass and you’re sure he can feel the way you shiver and tighten around him, because he does it again. The sting lingers, sharper with the hard material of his gloves.

“Fuck me, Goliath,” you beg him, pushing back against his movements. He squeezes your hip in warning. “I’m fine, don’t worry. I want you so bad.” You look back over your shoulder at him, tense, looming, dried blood spattered head to toe. “Maybe next time,” you say, “you can fuck me over the counter.” 

He’s thinking about it. You can tell because he swallows hard and you feel him twitch inside you. He pulls out halfway and then he slams back in. 

A ghost? A demon? Some kind of fae thing? Who cares? He fucks like a god. Goliath takes you so hard and fast it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t care when your arms get weak and your legs start to buckle, pushing your chest against the wall and plastering himself to your back. It’s rough, maddening and a little painful. He’s tall enough that your feet dangle slightly off the ground, impaled on his cock while he humps into your trembling body. Like this, he’s always inside you, his hips molded to yours as he fucks your tight heat. 

He slows when you cum but only a little bit. He doesn’t pull out. He folds himself against your back and stays hilted deep inside, grinding his hips in a circular motion. Your orgasm feels like it never stops because he doesn’t let it. One of his hands wraps around you and drips between your legs. You almost scream when he works you with his fingers, overstimulated into mindless ecstasy and finally into chafing soreness. It doesn’t take him long to follow you over the edge, at least. A few more of those deep rutting movements and you feel him go rigid all around you. He cums a lot. It froths around his length when he refuses to stop moving and starts trickling down your thighs. 

Goliath is careful when he pulls away, supporting your weight until he’s sure you can stand. You lean back against the wall to catch your breath. You spend a few moments just watching each other. He slides his hand down your side, tracing the marks of his nails in your hips. “I liked it,” you assure him. He leans in, gently pressing the visor of his helmet against your forehead. A kiss, you think. It makes you feel giddy.

You make yourself presentable the best you can. “Better get back inside. Don’t want your food to get cold,” you tell him. He nods. He follows you like a puppy and holds the door open for you. You thank him for being such a gentleman and give him a quick peck to the helmet. 

The diner will probably have to close for a few days. Maybe you can leave him your address. You’ve never seen them use phones or GPS but some say they don’t need things like that. They know how to get to all the places they love and the things they matter. It’s a rumor you’re inclined to believe.