#at least we’re all in the same fucking boat at this rate

[game-grumped]

Game Grumps quotes that really mental my illness

“Everything is going great with me mentally.” -Arin

“Maybe I shouldn’t just let my brain take the wheel from now on.” -Dan

“All you do is care about things that matter to you!” -Arin

“I wish my lunch had been only fentanyl.” -Dan

“That’s what life’s all about man. I just want to die young.” -Arin

“I mean, sometimes I think I am a genius and other times I think I need to be in a hospital.” -Dan

“I’m so full of anger and farts.”- Arin

[pengychan]

[Our Flag Means Death] The Lost Unicorn, Pt. 1

Title: The Lost Unicorn Summary: Weakened by the gunshot wound, Izzy falls behind during the escape and is captured. The good news is that the navy surgeon can keep him alive. The bad one is that he's now live bait for the crew of the Revenge. Characters: Izzy Hands, Ed Teach, Stede Bonnet, Crew of the Revenge, Ricky Barnes Rating: T All chapters are tagged as 'lost unicorn' on my blog.

Do I already have WIPs I should be working on? Yes. Do I know exactly where this is going? No. And yet here we are.

***

Looking back later on, Izzy Hands wouldn't quite be able to recall the moment he’d collapsed. 

It must have been close enough to the beach because he could almost smell it, the sea and salt in the air. He’d tried to focus on that and ignore everything else - the searing pain in his side, the slickness of blood seeping through his fingers, the cobwebs of darkness starting to cloud the edges of his vision.

He was going to die, he’d been certain that the second the shot had rang out and he’d felt the burn of hot lead in his gut - but please, he’d thought, please, let it be on the Revenge. Let it be at sea. 

But if there was a God anywhere - the one his mother had taught him about, or any other - he’d never been much inclined to listen to his pleas. Today was no exception: next thing he knew he was on the ground, leaves beneath him and trees around him. He felt very heavy and very light at the same time, none of his limbs responding as they should, and he was so very cold.

He’d managed to look up, and he’d seen someone’s back - Ed, it was Ed - but he hadn’t seen him collapse, and Izzy did not call out. He’d turn back for him if he did, or at least Izzy wanted to believe he would, and if he did… if he did…

I’d slow him down. They’d get us both, he’d thought, and let his head drop back on the ground with a groan. The darkness in his vision grew, blotting out everything else. He heard steps, and voices - ‘We got one of them!’ - but it was all so very distant. When someone grabbed him to yank him up, he’d gone cold all over and even pain couldn’t reach him anymore. His head lolled back as someone shook him. Quite rudely, too.

“In the name of King George--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Izzy grunted, and everything went dark.

***

“WE DID IT!”

Blood rushing in his ears, Stede Bonnet wasn’t sure whose voice cried that out; all he knew was that the next second more voices were joining in, a collective wordless cry of triumph, which he joined the second he clambered aboard the Revenge. 

He almost fell on his face in the process, really, but Ed caught him before that happened and no one noticed, busy as they were hugging and cheering. Jim was also kissing Archie fully on the mouth, and Stede turned to Ed to suggest they did that too, only for Ed to wordlessly turn, cup his cheek and, indeed, do that. 

It made Stede just a little weak on the knees, particularly when Ed pulled back and smiled. “That,” he said, “was the best fuckery I’ve ever seen.”

Stede grinned back and leaned in for another kiss. Unfortunately, it was not to be. 

“We’re not out of danger yet!” Auntie snapped, causing the cheering to die down a little. “We’re still within firing range, get this ship moving!”

Ah, right, that. Stede sighed, and turned from Ed. The sooner they were well away from the British navy, the sooner he and Ed could resume… interrupted business. “We’ll be off right away. Izzy, will you-- Izzy?”

Stede’s eyes scanned the deck and so did the crew’s, the cheering now definitely gone as they looked at each other in confusion and then - as they counted each other and came up one short, as Lucius rushed to the side to look back at the rowboats they’d arrived in only to find them empty - there was quiet, dawning comprehension. 

“Izzy?”

“No, it can’t--”

“Where is he?”

“He wasn’t on your boat?”

“I saw him just before we got to the beach…!”

“He must have fallen behind, with that leg--”

Something very heavy and very cold sank into Stede’s stomach. He turned to see Ed looking back at him, eyes wide, jaw slack. “They got him,” Ed said, as though trying out words in a foreign language. “They got Izzy.”

There were shouts on the shore, and navy officers were storming the beach, just a few minutes too late. The crew had left no rowboats for them to follow, but several were already taking aim with their rifles and a few more were running back, surely to get to one of the warships anchored at the arbor. 

As shots rang out, none of them hitting the ship, Ed turned fully to look back and scowled, anger looming behind his eyes like a thunderstorm. 

“I’ll go get him back,” he growled, and stepped towards the ladder like he fully intended to get in the water, swim his way to the beach, and mow down half an army of navy officers. Which to be honest was probably his plan. 

“What-- no, we need to get away now,” Stede spoke up, rushing to put a hand on his shoulder. “Ed, it would be suicide--”

Ed turned to look at him, and Stede trailed off. The anger was still there, but most of all he looked haunted. “Stede, if they got him it was my fault.”

“How would it--”

“I fucked his leg up, that’s got to be why he fell behind. I have to--”

More shots, and this time one whizzed past them to hit the mast. It got the paralyzed crew to move at last, getting the ship ready to lift anchor and move out of reach. Ed swallowed, looking around. “No. Please, I can’t leave--”

“We’ll get him back,” Stede cut him off, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll think of something, Ed. No one on this ship is going to just leave Izzy in their grasp. Isn’t that right?” he called to the crew over his shoulder, getting back a lot of grim gazes, some nods, and Jim’s voice. 

“Of course we’re getting our unicorn back,” they said, to more nods and mutters of agreement from the others, and that was it.

… Well, there was the Swede loudly asking since when was Izzy an unicorn and what had he missed, but Stede supposed the crew could fill him in later. And him too, really, since he had no idea what this unicorn thing was all about. For now, however, he focused on Ed.

“We’ll lose them and then go right back for him. I promise. And then we’ll be regretting it because he’s going to be absolutely insufferable,” he added. Ed made a brave attempt at a smile. It came out more of a grimace.

“What if they didn’t catch him alive?” he whispered, and Stede’s grip on his shoulder tightened again. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. 

“From what I’ve seen, Izzy is good at many things,” he said. “But staying dead is not one of them.”

***

“Oh, look. It lives.”

The words didn’t register right away, not with his own grasp on consciousness fragile as a dry leaf. He could tell he was laying on his back, that there was a ceiling above him, and little else. It told him he was no longer laying face down in the dirt, which was an improvement. 

It also told him that the British Navy got him, which was an absolute pain in the ass and not the kind he enjoyed, either.

… Speaking of actual pain, how come he was not feeling any? His head felt light, thoughts disjointed, and when he tried to move he seemed unable to.

“You’re quite lucky, you know.” 

The voice came again, and this time it did register. That twat, of course. Ricky something, minor prince of the Kingdom of Fucking Off. Maybe he should have been happy with laying face down in the dirt after all. Beat being in the hands of the navy and having to listen to fucking Pinocchio’s drivel.

“Our ship surgeon was not among the good men your friends poisoned,” Prince Whathisface continued, like anyone had fucking asked. “I felt generous enough to have him use his skills on you. Etiquette demands you utter two little words for it, I believe.”

Izzy’s mouth felt dry as bone, but not so much he couldn’t graciously offer those two little words. Let no one say Israel Hands did not follow proper etiquette.  “Fuck you.”

“... You got one of them wrong.”

“Fuck off.”

A sigh, like a long-suffering parent. “I suppose I served you that one on a silver platter, didn’t I? And to think I was going to offer some water,” he commented. Suddenly he was gripping Izzy’s chin, forcing him to turn. Vision slowly clearing, he could see the noseless fuck sitting on a chair by a cot he’d been laid onto, likely in one of the rooms at Spanish Jackie’s. 

He could see his wooden leg against the opposite wall, too, and feel the cold of a mental manacle around one wrist as well as the tightness of bandages around his stomach.

He was going absolutely nowhere, that was for sure. 

“Waste of your fucking time,” Izzy spat. “Patching up someone you’re going to-- hang either way.”

A shrug, and Prince Syphilis stood. “Yes, well. I never said we ought to hang you right away. You know, I thought long and hard about what you told me today. You remember your moving speech, I am sure?”

“That you’re a rancid, syphilitic cunt?”

“... What you said before that.”

Izzy bared his teeth in a sneer. Or at least he hoped that was what showed on his face. None of his muscles felt like it responded as it should. “Dressed in puffy, blue nighties.”

“Before that.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m not playing games with a rich little boy.”

A scowl. “I ought to warn you, it’s quite unwise to provoke someone who single-handedly destroyed the Republic of--”

“What the fuck did you destroy? A few ships, some shacks. But you let the best crew that’s ever sailed these waters slip between your fingers.” Because you’re a fucking moron, Izzy wanted to add, but his dry throat refused to cooperate further. 

He licked his lips and it was a mistake, because the next moment Prince Noseless was pouring water from a pitcher and drinking from the glass, making direct eye contact. The absolute cunt.

“Ah, refreshing. I did need that.” A smile fake as his nose, and he put the glass down. “But yes, the crew. That’s what I was thinking about. A moving spiel, that. About belonging, and… a family to kill for, I believe you said. An interesting perspective on piracy. Although it doesn’t seem any of them stopped to help you up.”

With the mind’s eye, Izzy saw it again: Ed’s back retreating as he kept running towards the sea. He had not seen him fall; of course he had not stopped. But had he called out, would he have come back for him?

“So, it got me thinking. This is a good chance to find out if your inspired little speech was true, or only the delusion of an old pirate in a dying world.” Prince Cunt sat again, and the fake smile curled his lips once more. “You’re not alive out of the kindness of my heart, of course.”

A scoff. “If you’re trying to scare me--”

“You’re live bait, Israel Hands. If what you said is true, then your precious crew will be back for you. Of course we will be ready for them in turn, and hang them to the last man. And woman. And… whatever else is there. We’ll hang you too, obviously, but you’ll get a first-row seat to watch them go first.”

Something cold squeezed Izzy’s gut, worse than the bullet, and suddenly he didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he was scared. He tried to keep his expression steady, but something had to show. The fucking cunt’s smile widened, ugly as they come. 

“But if you were wrong, and no one comes to your rescue… then we’ll take you to Kingston to make a proper spectacle out of your execution when you pay the price for all of them. And you’ll die knowing none of them came back for you.” The scrape of a chair being pushed back, and the bastard stood. “This pirate’s tale ends with your death either way. But it will be fun, won’t it? To find out if you were right.” Steps to the door, the creak of hinges. “... And to find out which ending you fear most.”

Anger made a comeback, and it was a relief: he could handle anger far better than dread. Izzy ground his teeth, and lifted his head with a grunt of effort. “Fuck o--”

Another creak and the door was shut, a key turned into the lock. Shackled to the bed, a barely healing hole in his gut and a leg short, Izzy Hands closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out, and he couldn’t keep his voice from trembling.

***

[On to Part 2]

[pannpann0]

untitled xiaoyang fic #2, ~900 words, rated T

gender/sex swap au (barely), ranma 1/2 inspired (barely .) au where yy would have c cups. very silly

For all things considered, Yangyang thought he had kind of gotten the sweet end of the deal.

Bro’s trip to the countryside: cheap booze (sweet), cheaper weed (SWEET), beautiful scenery and the strengthening bond between him and the homie Guanheng (nice, or whatever), and Guanheng even let him drive his car the entire way over.

Then there was the whole falling into the cursed hot springs on a tour thing (it’s over).

But neither of them had drowned at least, so they shook it off well enough until back at the inn, where Yangyang took the shower first and discovered the cursed part of the whole thing.

“Okay, wait,” Guanheng stammered out, eyes covered very gentlemanly, actually. “Lemme go find out what I got then real quick.” And in the timespan between this and a mid-sized panda floundering out of the bathroom, Yangyang checked out his new “cursed” form in the mirror and came to the conclusion: Girl-him was kind of hot (we’re so back?).

-

His internal gloating only lasted until the end of the trip however. The two of them got back home to the city and Guanheng almost immediately flipped the whole turning-into-a-panda-with-cold-water thing into a lucrative at-home photo-op business while Yangyang got slapped with an ultimatum from his parents— reduced rent on an apartment, courtesy of them, on the following conditions:

1) 3.0 GPA at uni minimum.

2) Part-time job on top of that.

3) Dad’s old college roommate’s son’s gotta be his roommate now.

That’s how he got stuck living with Xiao Dejun, who, for someone who’s apparently stuck in the same boat as Yangyang with limited housing options outside of this, has acted like he’d rather die than ever have to interact with his new roomie beyond Venmo-ing his half of rent every end of the month.

Yet even then, it could be worse. Having something of a near-death experience on vacation opened Yangyang’s eyes to a new lease on life. He’s got to get his shit together. He’s pulled his GPA up already from library and study hall stints in-between his not one, but two part-time jobs: the guy taking Guanheng Panda’s pics for Instagram, and the girl passing out club promo flyers at the mall.

He even passed out a flier to Dejun today, to which Dejun turned up his nose and narrowed his eyes, pointedly away from Yangyang’s exposed cleavage. What a gentleman.

“Don’t do that again,” Dejun says in lieu of hey, or how are you even, when he gets back to the apartment later in the evening.

“God Dejun, you’re so— sex-negative or whatever,” Yangyang swings his legs up off the back of the couch, long as they are in guy-form too. He stifles back the giggle when Dejun pointedly looks away again and sits up-right for the lecture he’ll take in stride as penance. It is way too fun to fuck around with Dejun in this way. “See, I pay attention in Gender and Sexuality studies too.” Yangyang grins.

“I am not,” Dejun puffs out his chest— he’s very proud of the steady B he has in that class. “I just know you only approached me to mess around with me. Quit it.”

“I think you wouldn’t even be this bothered by it to begin with if you just gave in to the tension you have with her.” Yangyang shrugs.

“With you.”

“Me?” Yangyang gasps, a demure hand on his chest.

“That’s not— there’s no tension, and she is you—!” Yangyang reaches over with a pat on Dejun’s shoulder as a truce. No more messing with him tonight. Dejun’s red-face and sputtering still but he seems to accept it once he quiets down.

Dejun actually letting Yangyang touch him in any way at all has been a recent development, an improvement on things. It’s clearly not dependent on whatever form either, as Yangyang had once suspected. Dejun had just seemed so…put off by Yangyang essence entirely, from the get-go.

Yangyang can’t say it didn’t hurt his feelings a bit. He wasn’t too thrilled with the living arrangement thrust upon them three months ago either. But there had been something about Dejun anyway, that didn’t make Yangyang want to retreat into an introverted little corner, tail between his legs.

When Yangyang comes out of the shower a little later, back in boy-form, to a steaming bowl of stew left on the kitchen table, the feeling squeezes somewhere in his chest, just a little.

“Dejun, let’s play something together,” Yangyang calls out from the kitchen sink, washing up.

“Don’t get me wet— stop.” Dejun grumbles at Yangyang’s ever-widening grin, shaking out his shaggy wet hair. He hands him a Switch controller anyway. This is definitely the closest Yangyang gets to Dejun, at this point, a quivering little space between their shoulders as they play Mario Kart together now on the couch, occasionally.

It’s been weighing on Yangyang a bit lately, the physicality of that space. Guy or girl, Dejun’s eyes flick away. From annoyance at first, he knew. But now, from just barely catching dark eyes, framed with heavy lashes, skimming across damp skin, the flushed column of Yangyang’s neck?

-

“Dude, you’re actually doing me such a solid right now.” Yangyang jumps a little, just to let them jiggle, just a little. There’s certain things shifting between them lately in their small little apartment, he knows, but. Old habits die hard, what can he say? “They check the trashcans to see if I’ve been dumping these things out.”

“Shut up,” Dejun responds, red-faced, taking the flyer anyway.

[ina-nis]

I started reading about Schema Therapy again and, as any CBT-based approach, it does overlook external factors in the name of individualizing issues.

“Is your lifetrap (schema) true, or are you just validating it because you’re resisting change, since change is a long and painful process?”

It assumes issues started and stopped in someone’s childhood, when, for many people, trauma, neglect and more, are an ongoing, life-long process.

The lifetraps of marginalized people, for example, don’t stop after they reach adulthood, they may continue indefinitely.

Well, by all means, shove your head up your ass and blame yourself for not being able to cope. I still think it’s not your fault and even if you manage to, somehow, “change” these lifetraps, you’ll still have to deal with them out there - it’s just how you react to it that will be different.

Who are these many authors of these books and studies, the people who invented these theories and therapies? Modern psychotherapy was founded by white cis men. Psychology as a field is extremely fatphobic, queerphobic and racist, among other things. You don’t even have to dig too deep to find anything.

I am... mad at myself because, on one hand, yes, this is yet another way to throw sand and bury any resemblance of healing just to prove my brain “right”, and in the other hand, all of those things are true too!

“If your lifetrap is true even after you assessed pros and cons, what can you do to change it?”

That is a very good question actually.

It brings me back to one of my first questions: when is society fixing itself?

Because it’s very “easy” for me to “blame” myself for not being able to withstand “perceived” suffering and harm caused by other individuals or by society, or by a system in which I was born and put on against my will. Yeah, yeah, I’m blaming society instead of taking the blame myself - it does make me take part of the blame, since I am part of society.

What’s really infuriating is that me and others like me, and any other person who suffers under whatever the fuck is going on, are the ones that have the burden of “fixing” themselves to be able to “fit in” - believe me, we wouldn’t need to fix anything if we weren’t treated as second-rate humans, or not human at all. I could go on, honestly.

Of course, other people won’t lift a finger or do anything - they’re not the ones suffering, they’re benefiting from the system (until they aren’t, and then, we’re all on the same sinking boat).

I would’ve not developed a PD if I had an well-adjusted family, if I didn’t grow up and lived in poverty, if I haven’t had experienced so much rejection in so many aspects of my life ever since I can remember, and much more.

How many stories just like mine out there?

How many people fell under the cracks and could never see themselves out?

Even if we manage to “fix” or change our circumstances, doesn’t that just mean we’re more resilient to suffering? Or more numb?

No amount of focus on good experiences will make the bad go away. Even if you manage to stop focusing on the bad ones, it doesn’t mean they’ll stop hurting you - it’s likely they never will, you just “cope”.

Is it me being overly pessimistic or negative about good outcomes when I know these outcomes are very much conditional and require a lot of luck?

Is it really me being “treatment-resistant” when I’m able to rationalize my symptoms and being unable to fool my brain by gaslighting myself into seeing the “gooder good out there in spit of the bad”?

If anything, at least I know this is better than avoidance, so I’ll take it but... it’s still really hard to keep on going in blind. I still don’t know what to do or where to go. I sit here in my suffering and I write about it more and more, because I hope I’ll find a solution or an answer or anything that can change my life.

[applebandito]

100% Kingdom Hearts 1 (Day 8)

Current Target: Proud Player

I awoke in darkness once again. In game this time. I chose shield and gave up magic once again. I also chose all of the answers that allowed me to leave for my journey at dawn which gave me maximum XP gain. One thing I noticed about Proud Mode off the bat is that Sora appears to be incredibly fragile. Like a strong wind would blow him over.

The heartless in the beginning gave him a gentle back scratch and I thought he was going to disintegrate. Sadly I don’t get to juice up like on Fisher Price difficulty. I didn’t die to the beginning heartless, however. That would’ve been truly tragic. No, I saved death for later. Instead I blazed through the opening as fast as I could while keeping up with cutscenes.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say the opening of this game does pique my interest still to this day. It gives the idea of something more grandiose on the horizon. Something bigger than me that’s happening. But before we know it we’re waking up on Destiny Island and being called a layabout by Kairi, a character that seems to do next to nothing for the entire series. She wants to see other worlds along with Sora and Sora’s hetero life mate Riku.

You’re also on an island with Wakka and Tidus from Final Fantasy 10 and Selphie from Final Fantasy 8. Something I strangely realized is how these three don’t have the same clown shoes our three main characters have. Also, the amount of sand on that beach means those shoes have to be uncomfortable.

Another thing I noticed while watching the cutscenes is how decent the game still looks. Sure it’s been uprezed and smoothed out for the remaster, but even watching old PS2 footage, the game has a charm about it that feels timeless. At any rate, the scamps talk about Kairi showing up one day and making them want to leave their home which I’d forgotten about. Then Riku throws fruit at Sora and talks about it being a destiny snack that he wanted to feed Kairi in order to...I dunno, date? Sora, please, consider getting a personality. That’s better than any cantaloupe.

Now we’re hurled at breakneck speed without warning into the magical Disney castle where Donald Duck goes to greet King Mickey only to find that his majesty fucked off and left a note with his dog. Donald goes to tell Goofy, clearly the most reliable person he could find to tell him about this letter. Unfortunately Minnie and Daisy overhear things and there’s an awkward moment.

Speaking of awkward moments, while hunting for Mushrooms, Sora runs into a creeper in a cave while he’s scribbling his fantasies onto a rock. He starts talking about worlds being connected and doors and has a really rad voice. He’s super cryptic about things and definitely in no way shape or form our primary antagonist for this game.

We finish getting shit for our raft after racing Riku to name the boat, which I happily named “Porkchop” after everyone’s favored cartoon dog. Kairi talks about charms that she’s making and also tries to get Sora to leave Riku behind. I also legitimately forgot that Sora had parents in this one. Or at the very least, guardians. I forgot someone had called him down for dinner but of course he’s gone because Destiny Island is getting it’s shit rocked by Heartless.

Also Donald and Goofy are trying to find someone called a keymaster as well as some dude named Leon. Sora gets a key then goes to a door and ends up in Traverse Town. All in all, the story so far is fairly basic but despite the campiness of these two vastly different art styles existing on the same disk, it’s still a fairly interesting start that I didn’t remember. So far, Proud Mode is also offering a bit more of a challenge, though it’s feeling a little skewed towards “difficult for difficulties sake” but it could be me.

At any rate, the exhaustion from all this attention needing to be paid has left me in a fatigue so now it’s time to rot my brain with pornography and sugary drinks.

[radioactive-mouse]

last life members ranked on how likely i’d be to get in a car with them as someone who cannot drive

jimmy: extremely nervous driver. he’s overly cautious to the point of putting other people in danger. we’d probably be fine but it would take 30 times longer than it should to get to wherever we’re going. 4/10

mumbo: ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE -12/10

skizz: i feel like he’s a good driver but he gets distracted easily. great at conversation but i feel like if there’s more than 2 people in the car we’re swerving into a river. 6/10

impulse: yeah thinking about it he’s probably the most competent driver here. sure. would be fun and c’mon it’s impulse :D he could drive us into a ravine and i’d still probably give him at least a 4 star uber rating. 10/10

lizzie: very adamant that she can drive. she cannot. 3/10

bdubs: here’s the thing right? i think bdubs would be a good driver. not as prone to road rage as you might think, but he’ll curse someone out if they really deserve it. probably plays music a little too loud but that’s like, the only major downside. 7/10

tango: okay, tango on the other hand— yeah no we would end up tailspinning in the middle of a highway. 3/10

bigb: same boat as jimmy i think, but like, slightly less so. the thing is that jimmy’s afraid of his own bad driving, bigb is afraid of other people’s bad driving. fundamental difference. 6/10

scar: fine at driving provided he can remember that he is, in fact, driving. the second he starts a conversation with someone he would turn fully around into the back seat and stop looking at the road at all. i don’t think i could resist talking to him long enough for us to not crash. 2/10

cleo: hmmm yeah this would be fine. she’d get us where we need to go. 8/10

grian: depends how much he hates the other people in the car. i feel like if he were just driving on his own he would be an exceedingly average driver but the second anyone starts annoying him he’s pushing the pedal to the floor just to get this ride over with. i think a solid 7/10 at a baseline but if scar is also in the car his score automatically drops to zero.

etho: for some reason i cannot imagine etho driving. he feels like he just teleports everywhere with his naruto powers or something. ???/10

joel: in his default state? he’s a fine driver. perfectly reasonable. but the second you go “hey. hey joel. wouldnt it be funny if you—“ and he is already wildly swerving the car for fun. 6/10 but don’t encourage him.

pearl: i feel like she speeds for the thrill. i would get in the car anyway tho. 7/10 but not because we wouldn’t crash, i just wouldn’t mind if we did

martyn: he’s a decent driver provided he knows where he’s going already. in terms of safety he’d be fine but requires frequent intervention if we’re going somewhere new. i would have to tell him we missed a turn 3 blocks ago and this would happen several times over the course of the trip. 7/10 for safety, 3/10 for emotional turmoil.

rendog: is a perfectly sane driver if he’s driving other people somewhere. the second you leave him alone in the car he drops all pretenses of trying to seem like a good driver and just slams the gas pedal with reckless abandon while playing dad rock full blast. we would be fine tho. 8/10

scott: he has the common sense to just walk at this point. 10/10

[privateanxieties]

you sure you don’t have superpowers? Part 2 (final)

Synopsis: On the matter of restraint, Peter would place himself on the god tier, except when it comes to her. He’s never dealt with it before, this feeling, but what he can’t deny is that they’re both in the same boat. After all, she did just say she wants to eat him.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (she/her pronouns); fluff, friends to lovers, romance, just a tiny bit steamy but no overtly sexual content.

Words: 5.5K

Part 1

---------------------------------

In all the years he's been alive, Peter's never known a spider to be capable of holding one's gaze.

Except this one seems to be fucking blinking at him, almost in challenge.

Or that's what it looks like from the glass jar in which they encased the little beast, anyway.

There they were, back at his place to figure this entire mess out, when she very visibly froze in the middle of the conversation, eyes fixed on a spot behind him.

He doesn't want to linger on how the creature made a fool out of every one of his reflexes; it's enough that the endeavor of catching it took the greater part of an hour to finalize.

The first major problem is that this spider has not died like the one that bit him did mere hours, maybe less, after injecting its venom into his bloodstream.

And now? Now he's subtly trying to conceal a mind stretched thin by the disturbing implications of this entire affair.

His best friend. Another genetically engineered spider. The uncertain future.

Peter doesn't know how to calm her. He tried explaining things, starting from the very beginning, but that only accentuated the sense of doom. He recognizes the stress on her face as a type he hasn't felt in a long time: oversensitivity is kicking in.

He doesn't understand the delay between the bite and the appearance of mutations, but he isn't ruling out differences in gene manipulation. After all, he got bit over six years ago. Oscorp has had time to reorganize and improve.

The biggest problem of all is that they seem to have figured out a way to replicate his dad's spiders without making use of Parker DNA.

He hopes they have. Because if it isn't the case, then the situation is much worse than he even dares to think.

It's why he can't reveal the entire truth to her - the possibility of her DNA disintegrating from incompatibility with the spider gene is just not something he wants to consider, let alone inform her about.

Still, she looks fine. She looks healthy, especially to his eyes. He's noticing changes in her appearance the same way he noticed them in his own: strengthened muscles beneath smooth skin, an increased heart rate, and better dexterity.

Shinier hair. Sparkling eyes. An intoxicating scent whenever she walks by.

In short, the odds are stacked against him in every way. He can't fix this, he definitely couldn't prevent it, and now he can barely think his way through their options with her standing so close.

Why is she standing so close? And why does he like her exactly where she is?

She hid behind him minutes ago, using him as a human shield against the spider, but she has yet to leave his side as he looks through his father's old papers. He knows there's nothing of use in there, but he has no other avenues to explore.

Well, not any he can reasonably propose.

"Anything?"

Her voice is soft. It, too, has changed a bit in the past few hours. She hasn't said much in a normal tone, and he fears it's because she's getting a little lost in her thoughts. He knows how she is - once something has gone wrong, she believes everything else in a series of events will too. He can't imagine what her mind might be weaving -

Fuck's sake. Get it together Parker. Weaving? Really?

He shakes the thoughts out of focus, and it doubles as an answer to her question.

"Oh"

He sighs.

"Look, bud… I'm sorry. This is my mess. I never thought you'd get tangled up in it. I'm sor -"

"Peter… stop. You've apologized a million times already. There's nothing to forgive. I don't think there is, and if I'm saying it's ok, then you can at least believe me. We're ok, right? We'll figure this out. You're my best friend; if you can't help me through this, then who can?", she says. There's kindness infused in every word, but also fatigue.

He allows a smile to form, momentarily abandoning the documents he's sifting through in favor of taking her hands in his. They're on the floor of his bedroom, not face to face but side by side. It's reminiscent of ancient times, only, their challenges back then were things like passing P.E.

It's weird to think that both of them could now run the dreaded mile in a minute.

In theory. He's only going off of his own tested abilities, and he'd be a really bad scientist if he just assumed hers are the same.

"I'm here for you, you know that. We're gonna figure it out. Just wish it didn't happen to you.", he confesses.

If he had been more thorough, and if he had pushed further when Oscorp advanced its experiments, they wouldn't be here. He let them get away from him, and now she's suffering the consequences of inaction.

"Hey… look at me."

A hand comes to rest on his cheek, and he leans into her touch without thinking, eyes closed and breath slowing. Still, he decides to grant her request.

She shuffles even closer, left knee touching his right and her other hand finding its way to the side of his neck. He doesn't think it should feel this compelling, her touch. It's almost mesmerizing, how alert to her presence he is.

Her eyes search his insistently, but they're as soft and comforting as ever.

"It's not the end of the world. Whatever this is, you're gonna teach me and I'm gonna learn. Just like school, yeah? Get your tutoring cap back on.", she jokes.

When he replies, his words are muffled into her palm.

"Doin' pretty well already."

"Yeah?", she lights up at his assessment.

"Yeah. My first day, I broke so many things. I freaked out at every noise. You're holding up great.", he speaks quietly, bringing his hand up to cover her own on his cheek. He feels calm, almost serene.

"Well, I did break some stuff. And I freaked out earlier.", she points out.

"Mmhm… you did. Never heard you scream like that."

She bumps his knee with her own in admonishment.

"Don't make fun of the underdog. I'm extremely vulnerable right now.", she pouts.

"I could throw a car at you and you'd be ok."

She blinks once or twice, head tilting to the side in thought. He hopes she isn't getting any ideas, because he's seen that look many times in his life, and never have things ended well for either of them.

"You've had cars thrown at you.", is what she says however.

"Yeah?"

"Peter!"

"What?"

"You're in mortal danger. All the time. Oh my god… I just realized - that time Spider-Man had a building dropped on him? Or when he caught the tail end of that helicopter - oh my god, Peter!"

A forced huff escapes when she tackles him, and compared to her other hugs, this one feels… a little tight. Somewhat bone-crushing, he's even say. He suspects that her bursts of strength might be emotion-triggered.

"It's alright - I'm super durable, I promise.", he manages, though breathing isn't as easy as it was before.

She responds by burrowing further into his shoulder, and it strikes him without notice: a strange sensation, but irresistibly powerful. His arms come up to wrap around her, maybe tighter than they usually would. His nostrils are filled with her scent. He can smell nothing other than her, warm and familiar.

A surge of intense possessiveness takes hold of his brain the instant he catches the scent from the crook of her neck. His entire body feels electrified, eyes closing in foggy bliss.

Terrible mistake.

Too abruptly for it to be a normal reaction, his thoughts veer into scandalous territory. Her touch is so vivid over every inch of his skin that it's covering, but the worst of it is centered in his shoulder. His shirt has somewhat scrunched up, allowing a faint trace of her cheek and lips to come into direct contact with bare skin.

It feels like fire.

"Pete?"

Her voice vibrates through his entire body, bringing every nerve to attention. He realizes with half a brain working that he'd do anything she asked in that moment. Anything.

That should be enough to shock him out of his stupor, but it isn't. He's completely at the mercy of whatever she chooses to do next.

"I don't think I can let go.", come her uncertain words, driving another dagger into his every vein.

It's perfectly fine if she can't let go from his perspective.

"I think I'm stuck… to you. I don't know what I did. I'm sorry."

She sounds adorable. His mind is dancing on a cloud made of the same stuff as her sweet voice. He's losing his grip on sanity with every passing moment. What is happening to him?

"Please don't be mad. I really don't know how to let go. Help me."

Tires screech in his brain. He's just been dunked into a freezing pool. He moves with purpose he's never felt this strongly.

"You need to relax. Think of something that makes you feel safe, yeah? Let your muscles loosen up.", he instructs gently.

His voice is rougher than he's ever heard it, and the shiver that runs through her replicates throughout himself. It takes a few tries of her squirming and sighing, but she does eventually remove herself from him limb by limb. Moving back to her own spot on the floor, she sighs a final time.

"Whew… that was wild. I felt like a magnet. Is that how you feel?"

He feels… cold. Uncomfortable. Empty.

"Peter?"

He gets up with a jolt, backing away until he can't feel her scent pervading the air in his immediate vicinity. Moments pass in uncertainty, but little by little, he comes back to himself. Somewhat.

He's so fucked.

"Is everything ok? Talk to me."

No. No, no, no. This isn't happening. His eyes can't look away from her.

"Something's wrong. This… there's this - you can't feel anything?", he asks, fumbling over his words and feeling like ripping his hair out just to be able to concentrate.

Every single one of her gestures is picked up on and registered in his mind, but he isn't processing anything. He just knows how she's feeling without wondering or deciphering body language. What is this?!

She raises both brows, but soon breaks eye contact with a tisk.

"Um… I mean, there's a lot going on, right?", she asks, and he knows she's dodging the question. He knows she noticed something too.

"No. No, sweetheart - I need you to be honest with me. How are you feeling?", he presses, already losing his patience. All the possibilities are torturing his analytic mind.

She seems to ponder his desperate request, looking anywhere but at him and chewing on her bottom lip. She's restless too, he can tell.

"Well, um… When I hugged you just now? And I couldn't - let go? I think I…", she begins, pausing and frowning.

"Yes?", Peter urges.

When she looks at him abruptly, his heart freezes at what he sees in her eyes.

"I felt like I wanted to eat you."

A forced laugh escapes his lips unbidden, and he's just a little closer to insanity.

"What?!", he exclaims, shock coloring every letter of the word. It doesn't resemble a sound a human might make. He can see that she isn't joking, and nor is she smiling. She is one hundred percent serious.

"I don't know what's happening. I promise it wasn't like, a conscious decision. I just felt so weird, like it - like you - pff. I was so close to you, and you smell like nothing I've ever smelled before, and I just had this urge to bite -"

She doesn't finish, clamping a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and unblinking.

Whining starts a fraction of a second later.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Peter, I am so sorry, I don't know what's going on with me. I don't know why I said that! Hmph, this is so bad… so bad.", she rambles, and he notices that her pulse is through the roof without even paying attention to it. He's automatically, at some point, tuned in to her every signal of distress.

He's going to burn Oscorp to the ground.

Well. After he's made sure this situation is under control.

He doesn't know how to go about doing that, however, except for one way that may or may not have just occurred to him. With decisive steps, he heads back to the kitchen, where the spider has been isolated per her request. He hears her follow after him some seconds later, and he wonders if it's due to the same ludicrous urge to not be too far away. He's actively fighting that urge right now.

There it is.

The worst creature to grace the earth since the very one that bit him. Little shit devil.

It rests unassuming on the bottom of the glass jar, though to Peter's great surprise, it does turn when he approaches and goes to grab the clear cylinder. Holding it up to eye level, he glares with all his might, as if that is somehow going to fix the problem they're facing. Well, at the very least, he hopes there's some unknown communication pathway between arachnids, and he hopes he can access it so as to direct many expletives at this particular spider.

Funnily enough, the spider doesn't seem to understand when death is wished upon it.

No matter. Death will be coming all the same, when Peter dissects its insides and makes an antidote from whatever he finds in there. Grabbing a knife from a nearby drawer, he punches a small hole through the aluminum lid of the jar before heading over to the sink.

"What are you doing?", she asks from the doorway.

He pauses, turning to look over his shoulder with annoyance. It isn't meant for her, but he can't help it.

"Drowning it. I need to open it up and figure out if there's something to reverse this - "

"No.", she interrupts, but he isn't sure he heard her correctly.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, no. You're not drowning her."

"Excuse me? Her?"

Has she lost her mind, or has he? Is this real?

Why is she coming towards him like that? Why - why is the hair on his arms standing up?

She stops only half a foot away, arms crossed and expression harsh.

"You heard me, Peter. You're not drowning her. Give her here."

Oh no. No… this - she isn't herself. This is beyond his understanding. Not an hour ago, she wouldn't even look at the fucking thing, and now she's asking to hold it? This is something else, something terrifying.

And he's still fighting against himself to resist giving her what she asks for. Just like earlier, whatever she says in the imperative, he feels he has to accomplish.

It's horrific, the thought that Oscorp may have engineered something of this sort. Mind control.

But it isn't just mind control, is it? No, because it doesn't seem to work the other way around. It's only her, having this effect on him.

"Look, if you don't want to see, that's fine. You can go back to my room, but I need to figure this out. You said it yourself, this is bad, yeah? Look at what's happening to us. I feel like you're a second away from hitting me. You just called a spider whose species we don't even know a she. How do you know the gender of the spider, sweetheart? Think about it!", he tries, but when her face falls even further into determination, he knows the battle is already lost. He isn't reasoning his way out of this with her.

"You can figure this out without hurting anyone. You're brilliant, and I trust you, but I'm not letting you do that."

They're locked in a stalemate for what feels like hours, staring each other down with increasing intensity.

She lunges for the jar he's still holding above the sink.

Dodging proves harder than he's used to anticipating from her, because her movements are lightning quick and even, dare he say, more nimble than his. He hates to admit, but it makes sense, in a very traditional sort of way. Are they really reverting to baser instincts now, where males are stronger but females more agile?

Way to make this even worse.

Although, his theory of mind control is proven correct: no amount of demanding that she stop pursuing him around the kitchen deters her, yet her own exclamations that he give it here and stop moving have a really terrible effect on his psyche. He's playing this on hard mode, a game of tug-o-war unfolding in his brain between what he knows is best and his desire to just do whatever she says.

It's that acute struggle that distracts him for just a second, but alas, a second is all it takes.

When she lunges forward again, it's with considerable strength behind it, spotting an opening in his concentration and seizing it. Peter doesn't move away in time, but he does attempt to switch hands, throwing the jar in the air from right to left and lifting his arm up high to catch it.

It's a futile attempt, because her reflexes counter it. Midway through her jump, she reaches an outstretched hand for the jar, managing to divert its path before it can reach Peter's left hand.

It goes flying somewhere behind him, and she attempts to catch it, forgetting that she also needs to catch herself.

There's a clash of broken glass, and a grunt from the force with which she barrels into him. Still, he's fast on his feet, sticking to the floor before she can topple them. His arms come around her waist, chin lifting to avoid collision with her forehead.

What happens next is a chain reaction.

Her harsh breaths resound in his ears, and her scent is once again all around him. When moments pass with no inclination to separate, despite the obvious disaster that just occurred a couple feet away from them, he heaves a sigh into her hair.

It's comfortable here. It's also scorching.

With her palms spread out on his chest and her face hiding between them, he's beginning to feel another surge like the one from before, only this time, it's tinged with something more than possessiveness.

Gulping discreetly when she lifts her head, he steels himself in order to meet her gaze. It's an unnecessary action, because her eyes hold no anger, nor do they regard him with disappointment.

No, the way she's looking at him subconsciously works his brain into a frenzy, albeit a vague one. He can't pinpoint any specific feeling, only an instinct brought about by her sparkling orbs.

Kiss her.

He falls prey to the command.

Peter's lips crash onto hers with passion he's never shown before, moving over the soft flesh with fervor that consumes every inch of his mind. His arms pull her impossibly closer, molding her to him and stealing a gasp from her chest. Her arms come up to lock around his neck, a tiny whimper escaping that he swallows greedily, tilting his head for better access. It isn't enough. He needs more, and his body moves of its own accord, tongue peeking out to lick her top lip, moaning in contentment when she parts them.

He'd suck the air from her lungs if he could, he realizes with detached horror, but he's too far gone to stop himself. He's never felt anything of this magnitude, and it doesn't help that a fantasy he's had for years turns out to crumble next to the real thing.

Her lips moving in tandem with his sends pulses of electricity down his back, or maybe it's her nails scratching at the nape of his neck and stirring trouble in other places. When he sucks on her bottom lip and plunges his tongue back into her mouth without warning, her moan ends him.

She's pressed against him, everywhere. Her skin is searing hot even through her clothes; it's worse beneath, he finds, one hand from her back moving under the thin blouse she's wearing.

He notes with delight that her lower back is extremely sensitive, because the noises that singular touch produces make him want to do more.

More, more, more.

He needs -

"Ow!", she exclaims, parting from his lips but moving no further.

Peter feels like crawling over broken glass.

"What is it? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, baby."

She shakes her head, but she isn't looking at him. Rather, she's staring down at their feet, and what he can see of her face doesn't reassure him. Neither do her next words.

"I think the fucking thing bit me again."

----------------------------------

The spider is dead.

It is most definitely, one hundred percent deceased, belly up on the kitchen floor, where it's been forgotten in favor of another crisis.

Over on the couch, she's having full body shivers like she's just been dunked into a frozen river. The three blankets he swaddled her in do nothing to help, and neither does the tea, because she can't stop vibrating for long enough to sip any.

At least she's fully conscious this time, because he cannot bring her to the hospital again. Twice in under 48 hours is cause for suspicion, and it's not like they could do anything for her anyway, just like last time.

Still, it doesn't mean Peter is any less inclined to panic. He's asked about seventeen questions with regard to her state already, and she's only answered eight or nine, pointedly looking away when they veered into the realm of ridiculousness.

Now, he doesn't know what to do or how to help, watching her like one might watch a wounded puppy they can't assist in any way.

"I'm not - dying. Stop looking at me - like that.", she asks, but the chattering of her teeth is severe enough to impede her speech. Thankfully, he's right next to her on the couch.

"What am I supposed to do? Look at you! I feel useless. How could I let this happen twice? It's my fault you're like this, and now who knows what'll happen? This is serious!", he defends, wanting to impress upon her just how fucked the situation is.

"I know that, P-Parker. What do you think, that this - is a picnic for me?", she glares, holding the blankets even tighter when another bout of violent shivers travels her body.

"No! That's the opposite of what I think!"

"Then - make y-yourself useful and - hold me.", she whines.

Peter does nothing.

He's shocked that he does nothing, but mostly he's shocked that there is no more ringing in his mind at her words.

"Say that again.", he asks. His serious face doesn't get the point across, but he doesn't blame her in her state.

"What, you want me to beg? Classy.", she scowls.

"Sweetheart, I'll hold you all night if you want, but I really need you to ask again. Trust me. It's important.", Peter explains, eyes boring into hers. She rolls them once before doing as he said.

Nothing. There is nothing happening anywhere in the corners of his subconscious, and for the first time since yesterday, he feels a glimmer of hope, even if she doesn't appear happy at his smile.

"Come here"

Two of the blankets need to be removed in order to make room in his arms, but the shivering doesn't amplify - another good sign. He isn't even sure she's entirely cold; rather, this might be more than a somatic symptom. Nudging her to stretch her legs out on the sofa, he tightens his arms around her upper body as she lays across his thighs.

Some shuffling later, she's finally comfortable, and she blinks up at him, leaning her head against his stomach.

"Better?"

"Mmhm. A little."

She's still shivering, although now it's less hypothermia and more… wet cat.

"What's gonna happen to me?"

The question pulls at his heart none too gently, and he struggles to put together an adequate response. He doesn't know, and he can't lie to her.

"I'll fix this. I promise. Even if I have to web up every scientist at Oscorp, I'll make this right.", he vows, running a hand over hers.

"You can't leave me here."

He wouldn't. Not in a million years. As long as she's in pain, or distressed, or even just in mildly low spirits, Peter isn't going anywhere, and he says as much. His promise curls her lips upwards in a gentle smile, and she nuzzles the side of her face into his shirt. The action doesn't provoke the same response out of him; there's no more electrifying prickles all along his spine. At least… not any more than usual.

He's back to being regularly flustered at her touch.

The realization does nothing for his nerves, however, when he thinks of the conversation they'll inevitably have. For now, though, he stays focused on the present so he can keep an eye on the progression of her condition.

They remain like that until her trembling subsides, and it isn't long before a yawn has her blinking slow and disoriented. He can't resist mirroring her, contagious sleepiness infecting him, but he shakes it off in favor of a check-in. He has hope for improvement.

Before her eyes fall shut, he wakes her with a squeeze of his arms and pulls her to sit up, drawing yet another yawn from her lips.

"What is it?", she mumbles.

He shifts in order to face her better, bringing up an arm between them - his left, just in case he's wrong about this.

"I need you to grip my arm, as hard as you can."

She's nonplussed.

"Grip your arm… for reasons?"

"It's called the scientific method.", he corrects, seeing a smile corrupting her composure.

"The science of stupid, you mean. What good is a broken arm? You saw what I did to the TV. You bragged about bench pressing police cars.”

"Just trust me. I have a feeling. I'm 83 percent sure you're back to normal.", he assures.

"That's still a giant margin of error. I'm not doing it.", she shakes her head.

"Ok, well - how about this: just start easy, and increase pressure gradually. I'll stop you if it's too much."

She considers it with a full pout, and he's endeared by the fact that she's so hesitant to hurt him. Earlier, she was just about ready to impale him over the attempted murder of a spider.

Removing the blanket from her shoulders, she lets it fall around her waist and takes his arm in both hands, one near the other in the middle of his forearm. Checking one more time by looking into his eyes, she starts squeezing with great concentration.

It's adorable.

That, and her touch is feather-like, a smirk forming on Peter's lips when he sees the realization slowly dawn on her face.

"You don't feel fluffy anymore!"

He sputters, caught off guard by her surprised remark.

"Excuse me? I'm not fluffy."

"I never said you were, I said you felt fluffy. Now you're back to… rock, or steel or whatever tickles your ego more.", she teases. Maybe he was too obvious when he puffed up his chest.

Tone it down, Parker.

He makes a face in response, and in a moment of childishness, she sticks her tongue out at him, but it's not the right move. It's not the right move, because he remembers that he now knows what she tastes like. What it feels like to kiss her. He knows exactly what that tongue can do, and he looks away in embarrassment. Maybe a good amount of shame, too.

He feels like he took advantage of her, because she wasn't herself earlier. It's quite obvious he wasn’t himself either, but between the two of them, the experience fell on his shoulders. He is the one who should've known better, who should've exercised more caution and not let himself lose his mind to the rhythm of her lips.

However delightful they may be.

He kissed his best friend. The woman he cares about more than he'll admit to her, and more than he even should, now knows that he isn't perfectly innocent or as gentlemanly as she always accuses him of being. No, Peter Parker had a moment of weakness and now -

"I'm sorry I kissed you… you know, earlier. It's uhm - it was on instinct, really. It's just that… that feeling came back and I couldn't stop, but I understand if you feel uncomfortable."

He's shaking his head before she's even finished talking.

"Sweetheart. I kissed you. I promise you this, that was on me. And if you were feeling out of control, then I definitely shouldn’t have been kissing you. The only one here who has reason to be uncomfortable is you. I'm sorry."

Hey eyes are fixed on his as if looking for a flaw in his words or maybe his entire being; he isn't sure, because he can't tell what she's thinking at all. He doesn't recognize this new honesty in her, if that's even what it is. She just seems to be regarding him with unprecedented openness, her body completely angled towards him, arms resting on either side of her thighs.

"I don't feel uncomfortable."

A pause. He doesn't catch his breath when he has the chance.

"If you kissed me, then I kissed you back. And I wasn't as out of control as you make it seem."

Her whisper reaches the deepest parts of his heart to ravage whatever the words find there. Desperation, shock�� hope? They all envelop him at once. She is still holding his gaze captive.

"I wanted to kiss you, Peter. And… I wanted you to want to kiss me."

His lungs are burning, but he dares not give them relief. Not until…

"And I still do."

Some things are difficult, especially when one meanders about, wallowing for years in feelings they can't or won't rid themselves of. Some things take more than they give, and it's only when one breaks that the other finally stops. Some things… take time to blossom.

Nothing is easier, or more equal, or more beautifully complete than the union of their lips.

Slow and soft, it moves them to their core: a passion far superior to the one experienced in their hazy spell.

Yet, Peter has trouble giving himself completely to it.

"You mean that?", he mumbles, out of breath against her mouth, feeling her nod fervently.

"You want me?"

"I want you.", she confirms, barely finishing before he takes her lips again.

His kisses are short and frantic, unable to stop himself from uttering the things he's kept bottled up for years. They come spilling into her mouth, the most intimate place he could confess them.

"God, I love you."

"I was so worried."

"Thought you'd - mmpf - thought you'd hate me"

With a gentle push against his chest, she looks into his eyes, lips swollen and breath uneven.

"Why would I hate you?", she asks, allowing him one more kiss when he doesn't immediately calm. Peter leans his forehead against hers tenderly, caressing her cheekbone with the knuckles of his right hand.

"Because I put you through this. Because I lied about who I am. Because I kissed you when you were vulnerable."

There's a spark in her eye.

"Well first, I bought the berries. The spider was in my crate, that I bought, for a pie I wanted to make with you. Second, mm, yeah - that one's on you, but I'm not holding it against you. I understand, and I support you through it, as long as we promise to not hide things from each other from now on."

 It’s his turn to nod like a madman.

"Good. Promise. And third, I don't think this point needs refuting, does it? But if you'd like more peace of mind, I'm giving you permission to kiss me whenever you'd like, because I love you too."

With that, Peter can finally let himself be swept off his feet by the culmination of their attachment, moving back into what was quickly becoming his favorite spot to be.

It's unclear to either of them how long they spend in each other's embrace, or how many more kisses are shared, but it's alright, because they have years of pining to make up for.

Strange, that the most unlikely of events would lead them here. While there are more details to investigate and a meddlesome corporation to topple, Peter can do all that in due time.

For now, he has his favorite girl, and a back catalog of questions he'd like to find the answer to.

She recites them for him all night, bringing both of them just a little closer to enlightenment.

- fin -

A/N: Here it is, the much requested part two. Hope you enjoy! As usual, I welcome your feedback however it may arrive. Thank you for reading, and I hope you all have a great week ahead.

Taglist: @ifilwtmfc ; @edgycatx

[rafescoke]

All I Ask ; Rafe Cameron (Part 2)

masterlist

#Part 2

#Part 1

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: Reader finds herself in the arms of her best friend’s brother after finding her boyfriend cheating on her

Warnings: Swearing, cheating, hella angst, JJ being an extreme asshole

A/N: you guys are truly amazing. thank you so much for the countless amount of love & support for my last works, i love you! 

p.s, my request box is always open! go ahead and drop any ideas bae

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re okay?”

(Y/N) emitted a laugh, her eyes focusing on the road, but her mind was somewhere else. She cleared her throat, “Um, I don’t think so.”

“Want to talk about it?” he said, and she noticed the grogginess behind his voice. She felt bad now, knowing that she had woken him up, but she was desperate for someone.

She couldn’t go to the pogues; her only friends, not when they knew. They knew all along about Kie and JJ but they didn’t try to talk to her. She thought about Pope, how he had looked so nervous around her since a month ago and how she had thought of it as nothing more than anxiety for his new upcoming scholarship application.

(Y/N) groaned, tightening her fingers around the steering wheel. Why had she been so naive? Why couldn’t she realize the signs sooner?

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked, suddenly jolting up from his bed when he realized how quiet she has gotten. Ever since they got close 4 years ago, there was never a long silence between them as (Y/N) always has a random topic to discuss about. He would tell her that he doesn’t care, but he truly likes the new information she’ll give him.

Like how the word ‘who’ is the oldest English word in the world. 

“Like, the owl?” he asked, scrunching his face. (Y/N) rolled her eyes, licking the slowly melting ice cream, and Rafe had a sudden thought of stealing her snack.

“No. God, you’re stupid. It’s who.”

“Yeah, the owl,” he grunted, thinking hard. (Y/N) looked at him with her bored eyes again, and Rafe took a quick glance at the dripping ice cream.

“No, Rafe, that’s woo. I’m talking about who.”

“You should write it.”

Rafe watched as she used her pointer to write the word ‘who’ on the table using her ice cream. Rafe laughed, finally understanding the joke, and he smiled wider when she returned a grin.

“No,” her voice croaked, and she could feel her tears slowly rolling down her red cheeks. God, she felt stupid. Why would she cry over stupid stuff like this? She had told Rafe before that she couldn’t understand why Bella Swan was too sad over Edward’s flight, saying how Bella had Jacob all along to help her get over him. Rafe rolled his eyes at this statement, muttering something along the words of ‘this is a movie’, ‘Edward is hotter’, and ‘Jacob look like that cashier guy at the hardware store’.

But she understood everything clearly now because she too, felt like staying in her room for the rest of her life. 

“What happened? Do you need me to pick you up?” Rafe asked again, finally standing up from his bed and walking towards his bedside table to retrieve his car keys. He rubbed his eyes, still so tired, but he wanted to make sure she was safe.

“It’s alright, Rafe, you don’t have to pick me up, it’s just, um-” she took a deep breath, “Can I come over?”

Rafe stopped in his tracks, not sure if he had heard her right. He waited for a few seconds, “Huh?”

“Can I come over?” (Y/N) bit her lips, making a turn towards the road heading to Figure 8 from the Cut. The road was deserted, and she looked at the dashboard to check on the time.

2.43 a.m.

“Yeah, sure, um, when are you coming? I just have to wait for you, so you know the new passcode of the backdoor.”

“You guys changed it already?” she asked, and she was surprised to find a smile creeping onto her face. “When was the last time I came over? 2 months ago?”

“9,” Rafe muttered, “But it’s okay. I’ll wait for you, okay?”

“Okay,” she released a breath, “Thank you, Rafe.”

“Yeah,” was all he said before ending the line.

Maybe she did missed him. 

When she arrived before the white building of the Camerons’ household, she could see a figure sitting on the front porch, bending over something that (Y/N) assumed to be a phone.

Rafe was mindlessly playing Candy Crush, just starting on his third level when he heard a car door being shut. He jumped to his feet, ready to greet the girl, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the state of her.

She was still in her party clothes, her (H/C) hair in a messy ponytail and her makeup all smudged. He tried to think of a joke, wanting to lighten up the mood, but his deed was interrupted when she finally had him in a tight hug.

“Whoa,” Rafe exclaimed, putting his arms around her waist. He let her stayed in that position for a few more seconds, liking the warmth, and finally parted after he cleared his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“I, um-” she sighed, not looking into his eyes. “I got cheated on.”

Rafe was glued to his spot as he watched her wiped her tears with her sleeve, looking down to her glittery blue slippers. He couldn’t remember the amount of times he had prayed for his (Y/N) and JJ to call it off, but he didn’t hope for any kind of cheating to occur.

“I’m so sorry,” Rafe said, pulling her into a hug again. He rested his chin against the top of her head, letting the scent of strawberry wafted into his nostrils. (Y/N) cried against his chest, her face all scrunched up, and when she pulled away for the second time, she noticed the tear stains on his shirt.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she rushed, trying to remove the stain using her fingers even though she knew it was impossible. She was too tired to think logically; she felt like laying in bed and watching Love Island until the day she dies.

“You’re still stupid, even when you’re all fucked up,” Rafe sighed, but he watched her from the corners of his eyes in case his words had struck her, but she looked like she understood the joke. She smiled weakly, pulling on the hem of her dress that had rode up down.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, pulling her by her wrist as he guided her through the backdoor to his room. He showed her the new passcode proudly, mouthing how it was his birthday date this time, and (Y/N) had emitted a small laugh.

Screw maybe, she did missed him.

“And still a mess,” she sighed, plopping onto Rafe’s blue bedsheet as she took a look around the room. The painting of a random boat in the middle of an ocean was still askewed, and his trash can were piling up. She made a face, pointing at the cause of disturbance.

“You have to clean that.”

“Sorry I couldn’t let you stay in our five stars suite, ma’am,” he said, finding an old t-shirt in his cupboard. “You know, since you barged in this hotel at this time, all there’s left is the 3 stars suite.”

“You’re calling this a 3 stars suite?” she laughed, tilting her head to one side. “Rafe, this room can’t even be rated.”

“Whatever,” he pulled out a yellow t-shirt, putting it aside before looking for a new pair of boxers. “Is your room still pink with that weird strawberry pound cake smell?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, crossing her legs. She was glad there were no crumbs on the bed, or else she would rather sleep in her car. “And that smell’s great. My sensory organs are blocked by all the dust you’re collecting in here.”

Rafe grinned, liking how she was back to her old self, and handed her the pair of boxers and the yellow t-shirt. (Y/N) muttered a quick thanks, her feet lightly padding against the carpeted floor towards his bathroom. She closed the door, leaning against the sink, watching her reflection in the mirror.

She did look miserable, and her eyes were all red and puffy. She always hate how puffy her eyes would get after a nice session of crying, having to endure the pain of soothing it down again. 

She shook her head, not wanting to spend anymore time thinking about JJ or Kie or the pogues who had betrayed her, and tried to reach for the zip of her dress. After a few good tries she sighed, relaxing her cramped arms. The familiar yet uneasy pain coursed through her veins, and without wanting to abuse herself anymore, she turned the doorknob.

“Rafe? Can you help me?”

“Huh? Yeah,” he came to the door, closing his eyes before he halted right in front of the object. “Are you naked?”

“No, can’t seem to be, too. Can you help me unzip?”

Rafe opened his eyes, feeling his heartbeat quickening, and with trembling hands, slowly unzipped her dress and stopping directly at the curve of her bottoms, silently admiring the view. 

He cleared his throat, shaking his head at the childish behaviour he just found himself in. “Yeah, done.”

“Thanks, Rafe,” she smiled, and turned to close the door again. Rafe listened to her breathing in the bathroom for a few more seconds, knowing how hard she was trying to ignore the aching feeling eating off of her. He wished he could take her pain away an make it his, knowing that at least he’ll have an excuse to snort more coke to ‘forget the pain’. 

When she got out of the bathroom, Rafe had to stop himself from drooling over her in his shirt and boxers. She always look good, but she had never looked better in nothing but his yellow shirt and his boxers. 

Rafe closed the light, remembering how she hates sleeping with any form of light either it’s tiny or big, and settled himself on the sofa. He wanted to give her space, not wanting to rush anything, knowing how tired she must felt from all the things she had to endure today.

“Rafe, we’re not 10. You can sleep on the same bed as I am,” she sighed, turning to face the other side. Rafe stood up, thanking the gods above, and settled for his new room.

“We never sleep in the same bed before,” he said, pulling the covers to shield himself from the cold. (Y/N) snorted at this statement, still not looking at him or even turning to face him.

The closest thing they have done to sleep right next to each other was in the car during a road trip, and when they woke up, they were both throwing disgusted faces and pretending to vomit.

“Stop it, you guys look stupid,” Sarah groaned, giving them a quick look over her shoulder. Rafe pulled his middle finger from under the blanket he was sharing with (Y/N), causing her to snort and struggling to hide her laugh.

. . .

“So yeah, that’s how you hit it.”

“You’re bluffing,” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, taking over the club and watching the small hole in the distance, squinting her eyes. She took a step back, licked her teeth, and gave Topper the club back.

“See? I told you I’m right!” he exclaimed happily, clasping his hands together. He returned to the game, focusing on his goal, and hit the golf ball.

“That’s fine, I guess,” (Y/N) announced when he came back to the resting area, “For beginners.”

Rafe snorted, downing his mineral water before handing Topper the same bottle. Topper grunted at him, muttering how it’s unhygienic, but he took a full swing of it anyways, being so thirsty after sitting under the sun for hours long.

“We’re glad you’re back with us, (Y/N),” Topper smiled, removing his cap and fanning himself with the clothing. He opened his mouth to say something, but when he looked at Rafe’s expression, he quickly shut his mouth.

He wanted to ask her if she ever missed their old clique when she was with the pogues, but Rafe knew better. It had been 3 weeks since the incidence, and she had been doing so well in coping with the situation. They had been inseparable ever since, always attached to the hips everywhere they go; he couldn’t let one tiny mistake slip that can cause her another breakdown.

“Hey,” Kelce jogged to them, smiling apologetically at Rafe and Topper before placing a quick kiss on (Y/N) ‘s cheeks. (Y/N) smiled, knowing how sweet and gentle Kelce is, almost glad he still does the same thing to her even after they had not been hanging out for a year.

“You’re not dressed for the occasion,” Topper rolled his eyes, “And late. We’re already packing up, man.”

“I know, but I’m wondering if you guys would like to listen to Cage The Elephant this evening by the beach,” he explained, still heaving from his previous activity. He had drove straight from his home to the country club after getting 4 tickets to the show, excited to show his friends what he had gotten for her.

(Y/N) snorted, throwing her arms into the air. “Fuck off, Kelce. There’s no way they’re coming down to Obx.”

Kelce sighed, taking out his phone before showing her the proof in his photos. (Y/N) grinned, trying to contain herself, and looked at Rafe who seemed to be smiling as well.

“Thanks, Kelce,” she laughed, pulling him into a hug. They made her happy, and all the negative thoughts she had about them during her brief friendship with the pogues suddenly evaporating into the air. She squealed, jumping wildly, and she swore she has never felt this happy before.

Just them four. Like the old times.

Four hours later, (Y/N) took a step back when they arrived at the beach, the memory of what happened three weeks ago suddenly rewinding in her head. Rafe noticed how quiet she had been, and pulled her aside while Topper and Kelce went to check on the stage.

“Are you okay?”

(Y/N) bit her lips, nodding. She ran her fingers over the penguin charm Rafe had gotten her a week prior, saying how it resembles him when he sees her. (Y/N) rolled her eyes at him during that surprising moment, touched yet confused at the story behind the penguin charm.

“Okay. Do you need a drink?” he asked again, staring into her eyes. She shook her head, wetting her lips and putting on her usual smile. Rafe grinned at her, muttering how she’s doing so good, all while guiding her towards their two other friends.

“(Y/N)?”

(Y/N) turned to look at the source, not thinking much. She almost fell to the ground when she saw the person responsible, but Rafe still had his arms around her. He turned to check on her again, but followed her gaze when he noticed she was staring at the opposite direction.

“What the fuck?” Rafe yelled, pushing JJ’s chest with so much anger that he toppled over to John B. Sarah yelped, pulling Kie to her side, watching as her brother walked towards them furiously. 

“Chill, man, I just want to talk to her,” he said, taking a deep breath. He noticed the crowd starting to notice them, and his eyes landed on a certain girl who was held up by Topper and Kelce, both asking if she was okay.

“Fuck off, pogue,” Rafe said, his eyes stern as he stared over JJ and his group of friends. “You have nothing to say to her.”

As he turned to return to his friends, his chest heaving from the near-fight he almost encounter with JJ, he bended to (Y/N)’s height to check on her state. Her eyes were glassy, her face red.

“So you’re fucking them all now like a whore?” JJ shouted, loud enough for everyone else around them to gasp, and some already had their phones out. (Y/N) was shocked at this statement, frozen on her feet, not knowing what on earth would make JJ say that to her.

He was never mean to her, even when they had a fight. He yelled at her sometimes, sure, but she had been the one yelling first. He never called her anything of that sort, not even during sex, where she had given him her full consent.

“You’re crazy,” she muttered, her lips trembling. “Go to hell.”

“No, no, because it has always been easy for you, right? You broke up with me, got on with Rafe, leave your own friends and come back to the country clubs?” he laughed, and she flinched at his words. If JJ had meant the pogues as her friends, then he was totally wrong.

“Fuck off, pogue,” Topper stepped out, and before he could finish his sentence, JJ landed a full punch on his face, causing him to fall onto the ground with a thud.

(Y/N) screamed, getting to his side as Rafe returned JJ’s gesture. Topper laid on the ground with his nose starting to bleed, causing (Y/N) to panic while she rummaged through Rafe’s backpack he had left on the ground for clean tissues.

Topper groaned, keep wanting to get up, but (Y/N) held him in place, not letting her friend go and hurt himself more just for her. She cried while she tried to wipe the blood, hearing the fight behind her.

“Fuck you! You stupid pogue! You should be in jail like your dad!”

Something cracked in JJ as he yelled something back in pure anger. He punched, kicked, slapped and hit Rafe who was already on the ground, spitting blood.

“JJ! That’s enough,” Pope pulled him back, trying to contain the wild animal as he thrashed to escape. He yelled more curses at Rafe while Pope tried his best to pull him away, obviously not done with hitting the boy laying on the ground.

(Y/N) cried, running towards Rafe’s side, cupping his face and looking into his swollen eyes. She groaned when Rafe’s laugh filled the air, not believing how he was still joking in a state like this.

“I’m okay,” he said, his breath ragged. “Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

Rafe stood up slowly and looked at the direction of the still thrasing JJ, hearing his muffled shouts with his arms around (Y/N) ‘s waist. He held her close as she sobbed into his shoulder, still trembling.

“Let’s go home?” he asked, and (Y/N) didn’t need to be told twice to follow him into his car. As disappointed as she was that she didn’t get the chance to see her favourite band, she wanted to take care of Rafe, who had been there since the day she found out about Kie and JJ.

The clock struck 12 in the morning and the grandfather clock in the living room chimed as Rafe groaned, feeling a certain girl with trembling hands and tired eyes gently wiping a cotton pad across his cut. 

“Fuck! I said slowly,” he grunted, closing his eyes to decrease the pain. (Y/N) bit her lips, trying to concentrate all the while trying to contain her laugh. He hissed again when she dabbed on his cut, this time with his fingers gripping tightly around her wrist.

“I said slowly.”

“I’m doing it slow, asshole,” she smiled, and felt him softened when she finally threw the last cotton pad. She pulled the covers to his chin, fixing the front part of hair before going to the bathroom to wash her hands. When she came back, she found him still awake with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

“I really need you to sleep,” she sighed, “To heal your pretty face.”

Rafe grinned and though (Y/N) tried her hardest not to smile back, she couldn’t deny the warm feeling settling in the pits of her stomach. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

There was no use denying it anymore.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, getting into the space beside him. “Even when you are all fucked up.”

(Y/N) could sense his smile even when she didn’t look at him, knowing how soft he usually end up being when she compliments him. She turned to look at him.

“Are you serious about not wanting a girlfriend?”

Rafe turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised. His insides exclaimed happily, liking the way his words had struck her. He meant what he said, but that statement didn’t apply to (Y/N). 

“Why?”

“Just asking,” she shrugged, and made a move to touch his cut. He hissed, feeling a sharp pain soaring in him, but she looked so peaceful trying to figure out his wound.

“You can kiss them to make them feel better,” he grinned, and watched as she groaned, trying to hide her face against the pillow. Rafe laughed, and turned the lamp beside him off, knowing that he shouldn’t push it and leave her be.

Just as he was about to drift into a peaceful sleep, he felt her soft lips against his, to which it was quick and gentle before she pulled away, giggling.

“4 years.”

“Huh?” (Y/N) questioned, still smiling from the kiss she just initiated a few seconds ago. She couldn’t contain herself; he looked so peaceful, so sweet, and so handsome. She didn’t know why she hadn’t kissed him sooner.

“I waited for that since 4 years ago.”

“Now you’re just pushing it, Rafe.”

Rafe grinned against the darkness, and felt his heart soaring. “Can we kiss again?”

“Tomorrow,” she stated, and Rafe laughed.

Tomorrrow. The next day. Next week. 

He didn’t care - as long as he will finally have her by his side. 

-

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[popculturebuffet]

Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck Retrospective Chapter 9: The Billionare of Dismal Downs!: “These Ancient Customs and Traditions have Made Me Realize How Little I Belong Here Anymore”

Hello all you happy people! Jake here, I review comics and animation and we return to life and times... which I’m determined to actually finish this year. The main story anyway, I will be doing the B-Sides but i’ve decided to just do them when I feel like instead of dedicating a spot on the schedule for them like the main story. Unlike the main 12 part epic, these stories are suplements: stories Barks did later to fill in gaps he didn’t get to in SCrooge’s history or just have fun with a younger scrooge at a certain time in his history.  There’s also a prologue, epilogue, and two related tales that aren’t flashbacks but still are important to scrooge’s history: Last Sled to Dawson, which i’ll get to next week, and A Letter From Home/The Old Castle’s Other Secret, which not only brings Matilda into present day to follow up on where she’s been since she left Scrooge’s life (We’ll get to that), but follows up two other stories i’d need to cover first: The Old Castle’s Secret and The Crown of the Crusader Kings, both of which the stories a sequel to. Yes the stories a sequel to THREE diffrent stories, and still manages to work if you’ve only read one of the three (which I had when I read it years ago). So yeah I won’t techincally be done, i’m just gonig to take my time finishing it out is all. 

It’s a fitting time to talk about the series close as we’re in the final act. The first was a young naive Scrooge at the start of things, learning valuable lessons that’d shape who he’d become. The second act is more about hard lessons doing the same as he FINALLY achieves his goal of wealth.. and the third act is about the harder lessons that come from having wealth and the true cost of it. This is something that was hinted at brilliantly all the way back in chapter 4: As Rockerduck imparted on Scrooge having wealth isolates you from people. “you’ll have their respect but not their love”. And we first see that happen here as Scrooge learns the age old lesson “You can’t go home again”. We’ll get more into what that means under the cut as Scrooge learns this lesson the hard way... via slapstick. 

So we open as usual with Matilda’s scrapbook, though this time instead of a detached narrator Scrooge HIMSELF tells us what’s happened since the last chapter. As expected the Goose Egg made him rich and the White Agony Claim only made him richer from there. So naturally given who we’re dealing with Scrooge’s first priority... was visiting Slick to pay off his loan. Slick tries not to sign it as proof despite taking the money.. forgetting this is the same guy who, you know, TORE A RIVER BOAT IN HALF WITH PURE RAGE just a year or so ago. And still likelky remembers you LAUGHED over his mothers death, which again....

 CAUSED HIM TO TEAR A RIVER BOAT IN HALF WITH HIS BARE HANDS AND PURE FUCKING RAGE!

Just.. how stupid do you have to be to try pissing this guy off a SECOND time? and given how canon plays out he does it AGAIN trying to collect on his loan.  I’ll give Slick this is while he’s a VERY stupid and borderline suicidal man.. he’s determined at least. 

Slick is lucky to get away with a gut check... a 24 karat gut check as scrooge keps gold in his mittens to offset their softness. The results are what you’d expect

So with that debt monkey off his back for a few decades till he has to produce that loan slip, Scrooge continues to work hard, play never and eventually reaches a million dollars. “That’s all the Money in the world!” 

By that time the claim had mostly petered out, so after... things happened with Goldie we’ll get to someday and thus settling down was out of the question, Scrooge became a business man with a buisness plan gonna make people money in buisness land. 

So he set up shop in Alaska, where another gold rush had hit, and ironically ended up financing other people’s claims like Slick. That said unlike Slick and the Loan Industry he dosen’t abuse this power.. mostly. While his rates are high, he’s still honest as demonstrated by a great scene of him doing buisness: 

It shows that while Scrooge is buisness minded and frugal as always he hasn’t yet let go of his morals: 50% of the profits IS very high.. but this guy is clearly working the claim himself, so i’ts only split between two people, and Scrooge isn’t screwing the guy over to try and sue him for backpay later: he checked the claim and knowing his shit about that, knows this guy will get plenty too. He’s simply doing what most honest investors do all two of them: putting money in and expecting a fair ROI for how much he’s putting in. 

In contrast he screws over the next guy.... but the next guy wanted to exploit workers, not remotely get his hands dirty and expected to get away with it. So Scrooge giving the guy 5%, taking his 50 and giving the rest to the workers is MORE than fair. And he’s likely only paying this guy because he legally HAS to.  And it’s REALLy sad when a buisness duck working in the early 1900′s whose greedy as shit.. is STILL more honest than a lot of investors and loan people NOW. 

So with two more panels, 5 years pass. Thanks to his globetrotting exploits Scrooge kills it at every industry he invested in after this, and after 5 years is finally ready to come home a bonafied billionare, cleverly revealing his narration was a letter to his sisters and dad. 

So Scrooge’s Family and the townsfolk have gathered to greet him.. only for the carriage to speed by.. naturally Scrooge is driving his own carriage to both save money and carry his cargo.

So Scrooge tries to make a grand entrance..

So after the 1900′s version of internet fandom, Fergus and Matilda are takenaback by Scrooge’s behavior.. despite the fact he just got pelted for existing and not say underpaying his workers. You know like the real reason you should pelt a billionare with produce, among many other reasons i’ll write in my book “Jeff Bezos is Going to Kill Me WIth His Vintage 1960′s Death Ray For This”. 

While the contrast of the people yelling at scrooge then having the gall to be confused as to why he’s suddenly mad is funny, this moment is key as it contrasts the last time Scrooge was turned on by people just for getting rich: last time he was more hurt and confused than anything, before breifly pivitoing to reveling in his wealth. Here he’s angry and resentful: tired of people hating him just for being rich and feeling their just jealous.. instead of you know mad he dosen’t pay his employees a living wage. Which they should be but again early 1900′s. 

As for his slick Duds Scrooge only wanted the best.. and got it for free from a designer looking to show it off. But soon he takes on his signature coat as he gets it in scotland, trading it for his fancy duds once the guy agrees to throw in 5 bucks. You may laugh but 5 bucks carries a lot of weight. It’s why I let a goblin break into my room at night and wreck up the place. 

So Scrooge settles down and prepares to head back.. with one small stop first

A truly powerful, amazing piece of artwork. And the detail on everything, the true emotoin despite everyone being far away.... genius. 

We get another world building bit as the barrles Scrooge had.. are his money, and he swims around in it. While his family questions his santiy they also talk about Quackly’s ghost breifly, with Scrooge wondering if he is there since you know, near death experince and all that. 

The next day Scrooge grumbles into town to set up shop as he intends for Dismal Downs to be the center of his empire. He’s still dealing with locals hating him but finds a sidekick in Scotty McTerrier, a dogface boy who gladly takes the billionare and who lets him know the highland games are going on. Scrooge sees this ancient noble tradition as a way.. to get people to like him. Okay NOW he’s sounding more like a modern billionare. 

And thus we come to the bulk of this chapter and i’ts.. a mixed bag. On one hand it deftly illustrates what Scrooge is going through.. but other hand it is reall repetivie. This next bit is “Scrooge does a game, something about how he does it either dosen’t match tradition or plain fails, no points”. It’s not a TERRIBLE idea, but it’s just not funny. Scrooge may be a dick.. but he hasn’t done anything that wrong. Sure he wants to make doing buisness easier.. but really at his heart it’s clear he also wants to be accepted and just isn’t. There are some good bits: scrooge throwing the caber well only for the judges to be absent and him sining a bawdy tune from his working life are great, but otherwise it’s just “scrooge does geninely well but it’s not scottish enough so no points”. It’s not.. funny to see a character get his ass kicked and it’s played for laughs instead of pathos till this whole mess is over. I don’t mind gags or slapstick, I loves em to bits, but it just dosen’t work here. If you find it funny good on you but I just don’t find it all that interesting compared to the rest of the chapters. There’s godo character stuff here.. but instead of trimming down an event or two and focusing on how this makes scrooge FEEL, we just get more jokes that again just don’t land for me. I COULD see someone liking this part, I could.. but it’s not for me. 

Things do snap back to being the series standard though with what it makes scrooge realize about himself:

It’s a sad hard truth and clearly pains scrooge a bit to realize. His dream all these decades was to go home, build up there, to become a king.. but he realizes now this isolated community.. simply isn’t who he is any more. He wants to keep going forward and simply wasn’t around long enough to care about scottish traditions. The culture and history sure, he’ll always love that. But Scrooge will always put the march of progress and his wallet over that and that’s just not who the people of Dismal Downs are. 

It’s why I trotted out the well worn “You can’t go home again”.. because this is one of the most accurate illustrations of that. You can go back where you once belonged (or an aproximation since scrooge never lived in dismal downs but hey), but it’s not going to be the same. And as it’s clear from that first relization.. it hurts to relaize that.. but as Scrooge’s expressions show as much as leaving hurts.. he knows he has to to continue growing as a billionare..and as a person. 

The scene that follows is also fantastic as Scrooge reveals his plan: he brought his safe deposit box from white horse with him in the small treasure chest he perched atop his barrels. In it is a deed that will change both Scrooge and one small one horse town in callisota forever, the deed to one Killmotor hill in duckburg. But before that of course Scrooges sisters are more occupied by his lock of hair from goldies they tease him over. His sheer frustration, his fumbling of words calling nit goldieberg, and his ending cry of SHUT UP is all just pure comic gold. I would’ve prefered more of Hortense and Matilda instead of highland slapstick. I just prefer character based comedy or slapstick rooted over a character over kafka comedy. 

So the bottom line is he wants to move to the states where he can invest better, and the girls are incredibly excited for the land of skyscrapeers and cowboys.  As for how Scotty’s involved, Scrooge hires him to be caretaker as he trusts the kid and Scotty figures getting to live in a historic castle is worth it.. even for what scrooge pays. 

But one McDuck.. isn’t joining them. Fergus has chosen to stay, as he feels too old to move now, Scotty will be there to protect him.. and it’s what’s best for his kids. Going to a land of progress and oportunity where they can be whatever the choose.. that’s what he wants for them. It’s what he wanted when he let Scrooge go... and now he’s letting ALL his children go. So they can live their dreams.. and so he can rest. 

And that rest. .is final. As the rest of the family leaves for goldieberg duckburg the next day, they wave goodbye to fergus who stands for them.. and we get one of the most heartbreaking and heartwarming reveals in all of comics

It’s a truly POWERFUL ending. The kids mention Fergus having slept peacefully.. meaning he died happily in his sleep, and moves on into the next world, confident in his son, and to be with his loving wife at last. It’s why I have mixed feelings about him being around in 2017. Getting to see more of the two is good, with Downy getting fleshed out and it’s a nice take.. but this scene is just so damn good, so joyous and sad all in one.. that’s it’s hard to give up for Fergus just being a dick you know? Anyway easily one of the most iconic scenes in this entire comic and in duck history. Truly powerful stuff

Final Thoughts:

This chapter.. is a bit of a mixed bag as you can tell. The last few pages are REALLY something specail.. but most of it is just wacky nonsense.. and not the GOOD kind of wacky nonsense I live off of. It’s not terrible, but it feels like Rosa upped the highland stuff because he had nothing else for the story when there’s so much he coudl’ve done to sell scrooge’s isolation better. This only escapes being the weakest chapter because unlike Chapter 2 it has way more high spots, but it’s still a close second. It, much like chapter 2 isn’t a BAD comic either just a flawed one compared to how tight most of these stories are. It REALLY dosen’t help it’s sandwitched between the climactic and boat ripping in half chapter 8 and the best chapter in the entire story, which itself is followed by the stories most devistating chapter and it’s triumphant climax. As such this one isn’t bad.. but it’s very transitional and dosen’t have the impact of the other two visits to dismal downs. 

Next Time: Donald’s Parents meet as Scrooge takes on the US Army due to some woodchucks stupidity. 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this review follow for more nonsense and join me in the links bellow to join my patreon and help me not only hit my stretch goals but keep the lights on in this blog, my discord where I talk about stuff like this, and my twitter where I ramble about shirtless kyle mclaughlin playing tennis. Thanks for reading.

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[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 4/5 - AO3 - Previous - Next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

CW: Mentions of sex and implied sexual content

_______

“What?!” Geralt stared at Jaskier, who had one hand on his hips and the other flailing through the air like a wet fish. The last hour had been a whirlwind of emotions and Geralt was struggling to keep up. First, Eskel and Lambert’s teasing over Jaskier, which had practically given away his true feelings, and then Jaskier running off to his room, stinking of fear and regret… now this? Whatever this was supposed to be.

“We’ll tell the others that I was just being dramatic, I’m a bard after all,” Jaskier explained, a picture of nonchalance as he flicked his hand in the air, seemingly oblivious to Geralt’s inner crisis.

They stared at each other, both stubborn as mules, neither willing to back down, until Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have got to be joking.”

“Nope!” Jaskier trilled, popping the ‘p’ and winking at Geralt as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The bard’s mood swings were difficult to keep up with on the best of days but Geralt felt like he was stuck in a storm, not too dissimilar to the burst of magic that Pavetta had created all those years ago. He couldn’t move forward. He couldn’t move back. No, he was just a boat on the waves, being pulled by the currents of Jaskier’s tide.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled, not quite believing that he was about to agree to this. “Fine. How do we do this?”

Jaskier glanced at the bed. “Is it squeaky?”

“What?”

“The bed? Is it squeaky?”

This was ridiculous, but it was too late to back out now. He’d started this after all, dragging Jaskier all the way up this godforsaken mountain, to a crumbly keep in the middle of a harsh winter. The least he could do was let Jaskier have his fun. He would just have to hope that he didn’t get aroused and make it awkward for both of them. Well, Geralt supposed he could just blame it on the circumstances and weather the inevitable teasing from the bard. “No,” he admitted.

“So… how much will they be able to hear?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head, his hand still resting on his hip in a way that was just so entirely Jaskier.

“What?”

“Gods, Geralt. It’s like blood from a stone! Vesemir said witchers have good hearing. So our conversation now? Is that safe from prying ears?”

Geralt frowned, focussing his witcher senses. The extra set of mutagens had given him an edge over the others and from their room he could just about hear a faint murmur of voices but he couldn’t make out any words, or even who was talking. So he nodded. “We’re fine.”

“And what if we start shouting?”

“Less fine.”

Jaskier smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his tongue flicked out between his teeth, dragging along his lips slowly. Geralt was entranced. The air grew heavy between them and Geralt felt as if Jaskier was trying to seduce him for real, not for some silly game to trick the other witchers. A heat pooled in his core as Jaskier’s eyes roamed over his body, the same way they did when Jaskier was trying to lure some unexpecting fool into his bed.

Only now Geralt was the fool.

And it was working.

“What about moaning?” Jaskier purred, closing the gap between them, his hands splayed on Geralt’s chest. The bard’s gaze kept flicking down to Geralt’s lips, his fingers trailing along the crevices of Geralt’s heavy jumper.

Geralt swallowed, his mouth feeling too dry. What the fuck was Jaskier trying to acheive? The idiot had definitely said pretend to have sex… hadn’t he?

“Jask,” he murmured, a low warning. This had gone on long enough, and Geralt’s control was beginning to crumble. He wanted nothing more than to take the bard into his arms, to kiss that stupid grin off his face. To wreck those pretty lips that had teased him with every lick for years, with no idea of how badly it was affecting him.

“Yes, darling?” Jaskier whispered, standing so close that his breath was tickling, warm against Geralt’s skin.

The sweet scent of arousal was wafting off of the bard in waves, making Geralt feel heady, and the world seemed to fade around them until it was just the pair of them. It reminded him of their first kiss, a trial unlike any other in Geralt’s life, one to see whether they’d even have a chance of pulling off this crazy scheme, just because they hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter.

Because Geralt hadn’t wanted to be parted for winter. Every year they separated, Geralt felt like he was leaving a little more of his soul behind until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Rather than admitting the truth to Jaskier, and actually confessing his feelings, he’d been a coward. So they were pretending to be in love. Chaste kisses, fake touches, lies.

It was all lies.

By gods, he wanted it to be real.

He took a deep breath through his mouth, trying to clear his head of Jaskier’s scent. “How do we fake it?”

Jaskier’s flirtatious facade dropped, for barely a second but Geralt still saw it. He knew the bard too well to miss the subtle change in his expression, but Jaskier was an expert, a trained actor, and he masked his mistake well. For anyone else it would have worked. He plastered a grin on his face, clearing his throat as he stood back away from Geralt. Ringed fingers patted awkwardly on Geralt’s chest as the distance grew between them. “Fake it, yes. Well, I was. I was thinking some jumping on the bed, moaning, grunting, maybe some dirty talk,” Jaskier laughed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that was completely ridiculous but unbearably endearing, and Geralt wanted Jaskier back in his space. The distance was too much.

And then an idea struck him. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, tilting his head and smirking at the bard. “Won’t work.”

“Oh yeah, and how would you know?”

“I told you, we can smell it.”

“Smell… sex?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide, a bright pink flush colouring his cheeks. His mouth dropped open as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Ah. Right then… well, umm. We don’t. We don’t have to…”

“They’ll wonder why, you said yourself,” Geralt murmured, once again closing the gap between them, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and running his thumb through the bristles of stubble on his jaw. The bard seemed to freeze under his touch, staring back at Geralt, his mouth dropped open, and that crackling spark between them was back, licking across Geralt’s skin. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat, a flicker of anxiety squeezing in his chest. It would be hard to explain this as just friendly banter should Jaskier reject him now.

“You want to?”

Geralt tilted his head. “Do you want to?”

Jaskier barked a laugh, his fingers flexing and coming back to gripped at Geralt’s clothes. “Only if you want to. Oh for Melitele’s sake!”

The bard crashed their lips together in a kiss, his fingers cupping the nape of Geralt’s neck, holding him close. Geralt moaned into Jaskier’s mouth as his lips parted, allowing Geralt’s tongue to slip against his. One of Jaskier’s hands trailed down Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until the bard’s fingers gripped Geralt’s arse, pressing their bodies together. Arousal and lust filled the air around them in a cloud, sweet and intoxicating, more addictive than any drug. Geralt groaned into the kiss, breaking their lips apart so Jaskier could breathe, but never letting his lips leave Jaskier’s skin that was warm and salty on his tongue. He pressed kisses along Jaskier’s jaw, nuzzling his nose into the bard’s neck as he breathed in that delicious scent, sweet chamomile and an underlying musk. Jaskier whimpered, the sound creating a quiver of vibrations in his throat, tingling against Geralt’s lips.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, the name; a prayer as it rolled off his tongue, a whisper in the otherwise silent room. Geralt had never heard his name said in such a reverent manner, like he was all that mattered in the world. It was almost too much.

Witchers don’t feel.

Witchers can’t feel.

Witchers can’t fall in love.

Well, it seemed Geralt hadn’t gotten that memo when he was going through the trials. He loved, and he was so in love with this idiot that was in his arms.

Love.

Sweeter than honey.

Jaskier’s scent.

Geralt pulled back with a start, staring frantically at the bard as if he could figure everything out just by looking in those gorgeous cornflower blue eyes. It was no use, Jaskier was pouting up at him, confused and a little hurt, but there was no trace of love… not that Geralt knew what he was looking for. People looked at him with horror, fear, occasionally lust but never love. Would he even be able to tell?

“Geralt?”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier cupped his cheek, blue eyes searching and panicked. “Geralt, what’s going on? I’m not Yennefer, I can’t… I can’t read your mind. You need to talk to me, please.”

After taking a long breath, Geralt closed his eyes. “I-I… fuck.”

Jaskier’s fingers on his cheek moved, brushing a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ears, and there was a soft press of lips against his, gentle and grounding. Before it could get heated, Jaskier pulled away, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, and Geralt covered Jaskier’s hand with his own. The mood shifting from something hot and burning to something all the more intense, intimate. “It’s okay, dear heart, I understand.”

“But--”

“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, his breath hot against Geralt’s lips, and he said it so confidently, without any fear. There was no way those words could be taken any other way. Jaskier was in love with him.

Jaskier was in love with him.

Actually in love with him.

They were alone, no need to pretend or act or lie. This was all real, and Geralt suddenly understood why people said they were on top of the world. He felt invincible, with this delicate flower, so mortal and breakable, by his side. He could take on the most fearsome of monsters and be absolutely fine, as long as Jaskier loved him.

And that made him feel unreasonably angry. All the lies he’d been fed as a child. Love was a weakness to be exploited.

No.

Love was his strength, his greatest weapon.

“Geralt, darling…” Jaskier’s voice, low and warm like a summer’s day, snapped him from his thoughts. “I adore you but, but… can you let go?”

Geralt growled, blinking as he focussed back into the room. His fingers were digging into Jaskier’s hips, and judging by the look on the bard’s face, he was hurting him. “Shit, sorry.”

Thankfully, Jaskier just laughed, a beautiful musical sound that made warmth blossom in Geralt’s chest. “Oh darling, what is going on in there?” A long finger tapped Geralt right in the middle of his forehead, and then Jaskier placed a hand on his hip and cocked his head, a pout playing on his lips.

“Hmm, pondering on the subject of love.”

“Oh, ho, ho!” Jaskier giggled. “We shall make a poet out of you yet, witcher! And what is it about love that has got you all grumpy and scary face?”

“Witchers don’t love,” Geralt repeated the familiar words, though now they felt empty and bitter on his tongue.

Jaskier scoffed. “And yet… only significant others are allowed to Kaer Morhen? That’s still a load of bollocks, you know. As if our decades-long friendship isn’t more important than a quick summer fling.”

“But you love me.”

“Ah yes, but… oh shush. You know what I mean, Geralt!”

Geralt chuckled. “Hmm.”

“You. are. Terrible!” Jaskier snapped, clearly starting to spiral into one of his moods, but Geralt had a better idea. He scooped Jaskier up into his arms and over his shoulder in one swift movement. “Oi!”

“You talk too much.”

“And yet, you love me,” Jaskier trilled happily “Now, take me to bed, witcher. I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

Geralt chuckled, throwing Jaskier down onto the bed. The bard squeaked as he bounced on the mattress but soon regained his composure, tongue slipping between his lips as he gazed up at Geralt with a smirk. He looked beautiful, clothes already a mess and his hair tousled from their kisses and his own habit of messing it up when he got anxious. His cheeks were still a little blotchy from the earlier tears but there was no denying his beauty… almost elf like in his elegance. Geralt felt like he could stare at his bard for hours and never grow bored of the sight, but he was allowed to touch now, and that was just too tempting. Years of restraint, and now the chains were broken. He crawled onto the bed, resting between Jaskier’s spread legs and pressed their lips together, slow and lazy.

They had all night after all.

[teacupfulofstarshine]

LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP: CHAPTER 9

cw: anxiety, swearing, panic attack, injuries/scars

chapter 1 // chapter 2 // chapter 3 // chapter 4 // chapter 5 // chapter 6 // chapter 7 // chapter 8 // read it on ao3! 

wordcount: 8909

Thomas does not get paid enough to deal with this. 

Realistically speaking, he’s the one in control of his own salary. He makes the budgets for the house, he decides what Virgil’s rate of pay is (at least for the work he does in the lab; his art commissions are something else), he decides how the grant money they receive is dispersed. He’s the only one he has to answer to in terms of payment. 

Statement revised: Thomas does not pay himself enough to deal with this. 

Roman stares expectantly at him, gesturing at the mound of smoking, sparking, stuttering metal Patton has just dropped at Thomas’s feet. Thomas nudges it hesitantly with his foot, and it throws up a shower of sparks that has him and Roman leaning back quickly. 

“What is it?” Roman asks. 

“It looks like a piece of trash.” 

“It’s not a piece of trash!” Roman snaps indignantly. “Well - I mean, it’s trash now , but it‘s not actually trash! It’s some weird metal fish that was stalking us, so we killed it! So tell us what it is!”

“How the hell should I know?” 

“It’s human technology! You’re a human!” “Not all humans can identify every single piece of technology on sight, Roman! Especially when it’s just been destroyed by a merman with a vengeance!” Roman frowns at him in apparent disappointment, but Thomas just rolls his eyes. “It’s essentially a piece of garbage right now.” 

“It’s important garbage, though!” Roman’s tail spines poke out a little indignantly. “It almost attacked me and Dad!” 

Patton’s voice echoes from the ocean and a curve of iridescent blue arches up alongside the boat. “Okay, okay, it didn’t outright attack us. But it was clearly planning to! Look at it!” 

“It just looks like a mangled pile of scrap.” 

“But it’s important!” Roman stresses again. Thomas resists the urge to facepalm and roll his eyes. Roman does have a point; finding something like this roaming around the open ocean is abnormal. It doesn’t look like any aquatic research drone Thomas has ever seen, but there’s nothing else it could be. 

Is there? 

“We have to go home now,” Thomas says. “We have to get this fish back to Logan so he can eat, and we have to analyze this whatever-it-is and figure out what it wanted from you. Are you riding home or swimming?” 

“Swimming,” Roman says. He looks offended that Thomas would even consider him riding on the boat. Like an eel, he slithers over the railing and disappears into the ocean. Thomas sighs, kicking at the hunk of smoking metal on his deck, and then disappears into the cab. He pulls the radio off the wall and clicks it. 

“Doctor Sanders paging Virgil. Come in, Virgil.”

The radio crackles, squeals out a harsh blip of static, and then Virgil’s voice comes in, worried. “Doc? What’s wrong, are you okay? Is everything okay with Roman and Patton?” Thomas can hear Logan making an assortment of strange noises in the background that he assumes is some sort of concern for his family. 

“Roman and Patton are fine, don’t worry. We found something disturbing while they were hunting, so we’re on our way home. We have plenty of fish, it’s gonna be okay, but . . . but there’s going to be a lot of work to do when we come home.” 

Virgil exhales heavily. Thomas can picture the way his hand is shaking, the way he’s gripping the hem of his shirt and twisting it around to try and calm his nerves. “I . . . okay, okay, Doc. I’ll get Logan situated and prep the tanks to move Roman and Patton into the lab.”

“Prep a large sample bag, too.”

“How large?” 

Thomas squints at the smoking pile of wreckage on his deck. “I’d say . . . leatherback sea turtle or bigger.” 

“What the fuck did you all find out there?!”

“Nothing good. We’re on our way back - meet me on the docks.” 

Virgil disconnects from the radio, presumably to go and have a panic attack while ranting anxiously to Logan and pushing large carts around the lab, and Thomas makes his way over to the controls. A long, iridescent blue half-moon of tail curves up out of the water, followed by a few more as Patton circles around the boat before settling on the left side. Thomas revs the boat engine and makes his way home. 

He stares out over the open water, watching as the fuzzy stretch of mainland on the horizon begins to gain clarity, letting his mind wander. If Roman and Patton hadn’t found that robot and destroyed it, would it have followed them home? Did it come from the same source as the net that trapped Logan on their beach? Would it have found its way into the lab and attacked Logan? Attacked Virgil? 

Thomas’s fists clench tightly on the wheel of the boat. He takes a deep breath in, lets the stinging salty air filter in and out and take all the negativity roiling in his brain with it. There’s no point in speculating on what-ifs, as he’s so quick to remind Virgil. Roman and Patton did sense the danger of the robot, and they did dismantle it before it could attack. They’re safe, for now, and Thomas will do his damnedest to make sure they stay that way. 

He still remembers what Virgil was like when he first came, all sharp edges and spite wrapped like a spiky cocoon around a curious, intelligent, artistic mind to protect it. Thomas had taken one look at him, hanging back after the rest of his class to ask questions and correct an error that no one else had spotted, and known that he would do anything to protect him. Seeing the way he’s grown now, matured into an intelligent scientist in his own right, Thomas couldn’t be prouder than if Virgil was his biological son. 

He won’t let anything happen to Virgil, or to any of the mer. He refuses. 

The rest of the journey passes in a blur of seawater and suspicion, until Thomas is pulling the boat up just shy of the rocks that guard the entrance of the grotto. Roman pulls up alongside the boat, poking his head out. “Dad wants to know what the plan is.” 

“Head into the grotto with your dad. I’ll dock the boat and come down with Virgil to bring the two of you into the lab with Logan, okay?” Roman squints suspiciously at him but nods, disappearing back into the water. Thomas waits for the squiggles of Roman and Patton beneath the water to disappear into the distance before pulling towards the dock. A purple splotch waits on the docks, pacing anxiously back and forth along the edge. Thomas glides easily into port, killing the engine and throwing the mooring lines towards the dock. 

Virgil ties the boat off anxiously, darting aboard before Thomas has even lowered the gangway properly. “What happened?” he demands. Before Thomas can answer, his gaze lands on the pile of metal wreckage Thomas had hoped to hide between the piles of fish. “What the fuck?!” 

“It was following Roman and Patton around when they were hunting. Roman got suspicious and stabbed it, and then it started smoking. They asked me what it was, but I don’t know, not without further testing.” 

“I don’t like this,” Virgil mutters, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet. “I don’t like this at all. I don’t like this, Doc, this whole thing just reeks of someone looking for something they lost - I bet they’re looking for the net, since we deactivated the GPS, which means that they’re looking for Logan, too -”

Thomas reaches out and grasps Virgil’s shoulder. “Breathe,” he says. “Roman took the robot out quickly, so even if it was transmitting somewhere, they got very little evidence. The GPS was disabled when Roman took it out. The closest they got is a general location somewhere close to where the net they lost was originally deployed.” 

“That’s still close to us, though,” Virgil says. “It’s close to our stretch of beach - they know we’re around these waters frequently, they have to, and this is just another nail in our coffin -”

“Virgil!” Thomas grabs both shoulders and wrenches him around to look at him. “You’re catastrophizing. You have to take a deep breath and count for me, okay? Come on. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m right here. Nothing is going to happen as long as I’m around to prevent it, so take a deep breath. Come on, here we go . . .”

It takes longer than normal to get Virgil’s breathing back under control, but Thomas waits patiently until he’s breathing regularly. “There we go.” 

“Sorry,” Virgil croaks. 

“No need to apologize, or I’ll have to shove you into the sea. Come on, we gotta get this fish back to Logan so we can get Roman and Patton out of the grotto.” 

They decide eventually that Virgil will go and fetch Roman and Patton while Thomas brings the fish and the robot remnants back into the lab. Virgil disappears down the docks, and Thomas begins loading as much fish as he can reasonably manage into a cart. The robot parts he loads into a separate bag, slinging it over his shoulder before leaning against the cart and grunting until it starts to move. 

When it finally grinds to a halt inside the lab, Logan jerks his head up from where he’s apparently been falling asleep on the table. “Virgil?” he calls, squinting in confusion. 

“Not quite,” Thomas laughs. “He’s gone to get your pod from the grotto. I did bring you food, though! I’ll be over there in just - nngh! - a sec -”

Thomas likes to think that he has a decent about of muscle on his frame. He’s not built, by any means, but he’s decently strong from hauling lab equipment around and working the boat machinery. He’s beginning to question his own strength as he struggles with the fish cart. 

He drops the bag of machine parts on a nearby table as Logan sniffs at the air, leaning forward and snatching a fish off the cart. Thomas watches the flash of bone-white teeth as Logan leans forward and sinks his teeth into the fish’s flesh. He looks ravenous, tearing through one, two, three fish rapidly before finally slowing down around his fourth. Thomas opens the bag and starts laying out shards of metal and circuitry, inspecting them critically. 

“What’s that?” Logan asks. “More fish?” 

“No,” Thomas says, too distracted to pay much attention to Logan. 

“Something’s wrong,” Logan says, setting down his half-eaten fish. “What is it?” 

“Your pod,” Thomas says, turning away from the scraps. “While they were hunting -”

“What happened? Dad, Roman, are they okay? Where are they?” Logan bristles, and little lines of blue electricity begin to crackle along his arms. 

“They’re fine,” Thomas says, raising his arms to calm Logan. “Virgil is bringing them in from the grotto right now. While they were out hunting, there was a fish that aroused Roman’s suspicions. He stabbed it with his spines, and it turned out to be a robot. Virgil and I have to analyze it more, but it’s suspicious, certainly. Especially given where and how we found you.” 

Logan frowns. “But they’re alright?” 

“Yes, Logan. Everyone is fine.” 

“Logan!” Roman calls. Virgil staggers into the lab, Roman draped around him like the world’s heaviest, bitchiest scarf, and Logan relaxes instantly when he hears his brother’s voice. Virgil unceremoniously dumps Roman into the tank set up near Roman’s lab table and turns around to go and retrieve Patton. Roman reaches up and takes Logan’s hand, pressing his wet head against Logan’s upper arm. 

“Thomas says that you encountered a strange and unusual creature in the water?” 

“I killed it before it could hurt me or Dad, don’t worry.” 

“You can’t kill something that isn’t alive,” Thomas says. 

“What do you mean, isn’t alive?” 

“I mean, this is a robot. It’s not a living thing. A human made it, using metal and computer circuits. They programmed it to do what they wanted. It’s not a real fish, it’s not really alive. I am glad you destroyed it when you did, though. From what I can tell, it has a transmitter on it, for audio and video feed.”

“None of those words mean anything to me,” Roman says, reaching for a fish of his own. 

“It means,” Thomas says, “that there’s someone out there who could see what this thing saw and hear what this thing heard. And since it saw and heard you -”

“The other person did as well.” Horror dawns on Logan’s face. 

“Don’t worry, Logan. Roman destroyed it well before anything significant or identifying could be transmitted. They got a glimpse of Roman, if anything, before he destroyed it.” 

Logan and Roman don’t look particularly convinced, but luckily Virgil chooses that moment to begin complaining loudly about how he’s not strong enough for this as he wheels Patton’s cart into the lab. Thomas abandons the robot to help lift Patton up into the tank with Roman. The very tip of his long, light blue tail arcs up out of the water to gently stroke Logan’s back. Logan smiles weakly and leans into it. 

While the pod eats their fill, Thomas and Virgil pull on gloves and goggles and set about examining the remains of the robot. Thomas is no expert in robotics or computers, but he knows enough to keep up with the advances being made in the fields of prosthetics and other such machinery useful for marine biology. He’s been doing more research, since Logan washed up on their beach, and what he finds makes his blood run cold. 

“Luckily,” Thomas says quietly, “it seems that Roman managed to short out the GPS and transmissions systems when he took out the robot, which is good.” Virgil nods, frowning at something before sliding it under a microscope. “What is it?” 

“There’s something engraved on this piece, but I can’t see what it is . . . I can feel it under my fingers . . .”

Virgil frowns into the microscope, and then he stands up abruptly, darting off to another corner of the lab. “What is it?” Thomas asks. The fact that Virgil is so flagrantly disregarding lab safety is ample cause for Thomas’s concern. 

Virgil doesn’t answer him, scrambling frantically through a pile of something on one of the other tables before hurrying back to slide something else under the microscope. “I hate being right,” he mutters. “Fuck! Shit fuck god fucking damn it fuck -”

“What? What is it?” 

“There’s an insignia engraved on this piece of shit machinery, and I thought it looked familiar. I was right. The same thing was engraved on one of the little barbs of the net that captured Logan. Which means -”

“They were made by the same person.” Thomas looks over at the small pod of mer assembled on his lab tables, sharing a meal, and feels ice cold fear strike through him like a knife in his heart. 

He also hates being right - they are in danger, all of them.

*~*~*~*~*

“Is everything quite alright?” 

Virgil isn’t looking at him. To be more precise, he isn’t looking at Logan’s face. His gaze flits from Logan’s knee to his shoulder to his chest to his neck to his hair, but never his eyes. 

“Virgil,” Logan says. He reaches out to where Virgil is drumming his fingers nervously along the lab table, a rapid staccato taptaptaptap of anxiety, and takes his hand. “Are you alright?” Virgil’s hand shakes in his grasp, and Logan shifts to push his fingers between Virgil’s to help calm him. “You are shaking.” 

Virgil doesn’t respond to him, but his entire face lights up pink. Logan squints at him, leaning in to try and gain more clarity regarding Virgil’s facial expressions, but it only increases the pinkness. “Roman and Dad found something, didn’t they? What was it? Did something happen?” 

Virgil exhales shakily. His hand tightens around Logan’s, and Logan squeezes back to try and communicate that he cares about how Virgil is doing. “I . . . Roman found a robot in the water. It has a mark on it that’s the same as the mark we found on the net. We’re worried that it’s from the same person who tried to trap you, which means -”

“They are attempting to track me down,” Logan says. 

“Yeah. Obviously, we’re not gonna let that happen, but it does mean that they know Roman’s here, at the very least, because they saw him on the video feed before he destroyed it. They won’t have gotten more than a glimpse of him, though.” 

“Why are you distressed?” Logan asks. “Are you worried that they will attack you or Thomas to get to myself and my pod?” 

“No! Well, yeah, kind of, but - I’m worried because I don’t want anything to happen to you. I l - I care about you, a lot, and I don’t want anything bad happening to you. Or to your pod, for that matter, but I - I just mean -”

The pinkness grows brighter and brighter still, and Logan squeezes his hand again. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I know it is an . . . imposition, caring for me and my pod the way that you do, but -”

“You’re not imposing,” Virgil says. “Taking care of wounded sea creatures is our job, and - and even if it wasn’t, I would be happy to do it for you. I would be happy to do just about anything for you.” Virgil slaps his free hand over his mouth, like he hadn’t meant for the last bit to come out, but Logan just smiles and squeezes his hand even tighter. 

“Thank you, Virgil. I appreciate you, and everything that you have done for me and my pod.” 

Virgil reaches up and gently tucks Logan’s hair behind his ear, sweeping his bangs away from his eyes. “Logan?” Logan feels his heart stutter and skip a beat, and he leans his head up, looking at Virgil’s face. Virgil is finally looking at him properly, and Logan can’t look away from his eyes. They’re like nothing he’s ever seen before, truly. How beautiful, Logan thinks, before nearly throwing himself backwards off the table because what in the seven seas is he thinking what is Virgil thinking -

“Yes?” Logan whispers. He can’t bring himself to speak any louder, worrying that whatever is happening between himself and Virgil right now will shatter like a fragile piece of sea glass if he speaks too loudly. He’s aware of Roman and Patton still eating next to him, aware of Thomas muttering to himself and making noises doing whatever he’s doing across the lab, but the only thing he can hold his focus on is Virgil. 

“I - um - it’s time to change your bandages,” Virgil says, reaching out and tenderly touching one of the white patches on Logan’s neck. “Are you done eating yet?” 

“Wh - I - yes,” Logan stammers. Virgil smiles at him, and Logan swears that the entire room spins and lightens. 

“I’ll go get the bandages, okay? You good to wait here?” 

“It is not as though there are many other places that I am capable of getting right now.” Logan means for it to be a serious remark, but Virgil snorts and smiles and laughs, eyes crinkling up and hair flopping into his face and Logan can barely stop himself from reaching for Virgil and demanding some form of affection. 

He does, though, and Virgil heads off across the lab. Logan wonders what the primary expressions of human affection are, compared to his customs. He wonders how Virgil would respond if, when he gets his tail back, he curls it around Virgil’s legs and winds it in and around, different than the way he curls with his pod. He wonders how Virgil would respond if Logan spent hours, days even, combing the sea floor for a single perfect gift - an unmarred shell, a weathered stone, a piece of glass smoothed by the sea into an absolutely beautiful texture - and presented it to him as a token of affection, of his intentions. He wonders how Thomas would react if Logan brought him a heap of fish, proving his worth as a hunter and a mate, and asked for permission to - to - 

To what? Is there any way, realistically, for Virgil and Logan to court? Logan may have legs now, but they are a temporary feature, and Virgil doesn’t have a tail at all. Even if Virgil is interested (which is still a pretty big if, in Logan’s opinion), is there any possibility of a serious courtship between them? 

Logan decides that he isn’t going to worry about this right now and turns his attention back to Virgil, who’s returning with another roll of the white patches he uses to help bind Logan’s injury, as well as a few other things. “This is probably going to hurt,” Virgil says apologetically. 

“You’re not doing anything that might hurt him!” Roman says. Logan wishes he still had his tail so that he could slap Roman across the face with it. 

“It’s not a serious hurt,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes. Logan had been ashamed to hear that Roman threatened Virgil and Thomas, after all they’ve done for him, but Virgil seems to have taken Roman’s personality in stride recently, which Logan is eternally grateful for. “I have to pull off the old bandages, and since they’re sticky against the skin it can sting a little. Then I have to disinfect the wounds, and that stings a little too, and then I apply new bandages. It hurts a hell of a lot less than what caused these injuries in the first place, I can tell you that for certain.” 

“It is not the first time I have had these changed,” Logan says softly. “I am used to the sting, Roman. It will not hurt me badly.” Roman snarls suspiciously, but he sinks back into the tank and lets Virgil get to work pulling off Logan’s shirt and rolling up the sleeves of his pants to reveal the injured areas.

Virgil’s fingers are long, although not as long as Logan’s, and his claws are blunted and short. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, carefully brushing the tips of his fingers over Logan’s skin as he peels off the old bandages. Logan winces and lets out a short, sharp puff of air, but does his best not to react too badly. Virgil won’t startle, but if Roman thinks Virgil was lying about the pain of the process he’ll lose his mind. 

“What’s this from?” Virgil asks, drawing Logan’s attention from his wandering thoughts. Logan’s focus returns in time to notice Virgil’s fingers gently stroking over a silvery patch of skin on his arm. “It’s a scar, right? An old one, given by how well it’s healed.” 

Logan takes a moment to find his voice. “I - yes,” he finally stammers out. “It’s - um - hunting incident. Back when I first joined the pod, while we were getting used to each other, Roman was practicing with his spines and he stabbed me.” 

Virgil whirls around to glare sharply at Roman. “Some brother you are!” 

“It was an accident!” 

“It healed well, all things considered.” 

Virgil’s fingers trace up Logan’s arm, lingering on another set of scars that swirl around his arms. “And these?” 

“I fought off a squid.” Virgil’s eyes widen, and Logan senses an opportunity. “It was quite an adventure - I was separated from Roman and Dad, and before I knew what was happening, the squid was upon me. It wrapped itself around me, and -” 

Generally speaking, Roman is the fanciful one, the one telling stories of grandeur and regaling others with his hunting exploits. Logan calls on every memory he has of Roman showing off as he speaks. Virgil sits on the lab table next to him, eyes wide and shiny, fingers always touching some part of Logan. They skate from injury to injury, peeling off the bandages and disinfecting the fresh wounds while tracing questions along the healed silvery scars. Logan tells story after story, and Virgil appears completely enraptured. 

“Trying to impress the pretty human, are you, Sharkbait?” Roman snarks. Dad’s laughter echoes musically from the tank as well. 

“Shut up, Roman!” 

“Brotherly disputes?” Virgil teases, gently dabbing a damp cotton ball at Logan’s wounds. Logan hisses a little at the sting, but he keeps his body still to allow VIrgil to work. The rest of the wounds are treated and re-bandaged relatively quickly. “It’s interesting, you know.” 

“What is?” 

“Hearing your hunting stories. They’re really interesting. I love hearing about your way of life and how it differs from ours up on land. Any customs that you have, feel free to share them with me.” Virgil smiles broadly, and Logan smiles back. If he still had his tail, he would make a very rude gesture at Roman for snickering in the background. 

“Are you finished, Virgil?” 

“Yeah. Do you wanna practice walking for a little bit before I turn in for the night?” 

“Turn into what?” Virgil laughs softly; Logan’s entire being melts, just a little. 

“It’s a human expression, Lo. It means before I fall asleep.” 

“Yes, I would like to practice walking, then.” 

Logan is unashamed to admit that he has a very strong tail. He’s much faster than Roman is, and although Patton can travel more distance in a shorter amount of time due to his size, Logan is still faster relatively. He’d assumed that the strength of his tail would translate to his new legs. 

That does not appear to be the case. 

“You’ve got a whole new set of muscles in there,” Virgil tells him, wrapping his hands around Logan’s - what had he called them? Ankles , that was it - and sliding them off the table to the floor. “Swimming and walking are two completely different sets of motions, even for someone like me who uses their legs for both activities. You’ve got to strengthen yourself. It might take some time.” 

“I’m sorry,” Logan says. “I should not need you to hold my hands like this.” I want you to hold my hands, he thinks. I want you to hold my hands and my arms and my all of me. I want you to hold me close and press your face into my hair and let me bring you courtship gifts.

“It’s okay, Lo. It’s no skin off my back. I like doing this, I like helping you.” Virgil carefully wraps one of Logan’s arms around his shoulders and takes Logan’s other hand, taking a few steps backwards and pulling Logan with him. Logan wobbles shakily as Virgil helps him onto his new feet, and Virgil smiles, and the entire world is okay again. There’s no mysterious force out there, trying to net him or his pod, there’s no fresh scars forming under the bandages all over his body. There is just Virgil, smiling at him like he arranged the Upper Oceans, and nothing else matters. 

Virgil slides his hands down to grip Logan’s forearms, careful to avoid any areas with bandages on them. “One step back, one step forward, okay? We can do it. You can do it.” Logan nods. He’s determined not to let Virgil down. He can’t - he won’t.

Virgil pushes himself up onto the front part of his feet - his toes, Logan thinks he called them - and takes a step backward. Logan concentrates and lifts one foot, taking a single clunky step forward. It’s far more graceless than Virgil, who moves elegantly even when he’s in a frazzled rush, but Virgil still grins at him. “Fantastic! One more, okay? One step back, one step forward.” Virgil takes another step back with his other foot, and Logan shifts to follow him. They continue like this for quite a while, across the lab, and when they reach the far wall, Virgil slowly turns them around so they can go back across the lab. His hands slide down to take Logan’s, as opposed to gripping his arms. 

“Less support for you, so you have to rely more on your own muscles,” Virgil says. “But I’ll still be here to catch you, no matter what. I believe in you. Two steps at a time now, alright?” 

Logan nods, and when Virgil steps backwards, one-two, Logan attempts to step forward, one-two. Unfortunately, Virgil and Logan both overestimate Logan’s strength, and he pitches forward with a startled shriek. 

“I gotcha!” Virgil says, surging forward and throwing his arms around Logan as he collapses into Virgil’s chest. Logan grunts as his face collides with Virgil, looking up to see the pinkness returning to his cheeks. It takes Logan a few moments to realize that he never put his shirt back on after Virgil changed his bandages, and now his bare chest is pressed against Virgil. Virgil’s face is open and pink, and Logan can feel his own face growing warm and pink as they stare at each other.

“Oh,” Logan says, softly. 

“Oh,” Virgil agrees, equally soft. 

“How long are you going to make penguin eyes at him before you give him a courtship gift?” Roman calls. 

“I’m going to stab you with your own spines,” Logan snarls, struggling to try and right himself. Virgil’s hands quickly slide from his waist to his elbows, pulling him upright again. Logan slides his hands around to grab Virgil’s arms as well so that he won’t let go again.

“Everything okay with you and your brother?” 

Logan sighs. “He is being abnormally stubborn and rude, at the moment.”

“Am not! You’re just useless and pining over the pretty human!” 

“Ignore him,” Virgil says. “He’s just jealous because you get to spend time walking around staring at me and he doesn’t.” Judging by Virgil’s tone, he’s being sarcastic, but Logan knows that he’d be jealous if he were in Roman’s position. He’d be jealous of anyone who got to spend an extended amount of their time up close and personal with Virgil. 

They walk a little more, and Logan only almost falls three or four more times. It’s not great, but it’s better than the last time he tried. Eventually, he grows tired, and his feet and legs begin to ache. Virgil helps him back to the table he’d been sitting on. “Hang on - I gotcha -”

Virgil bends at the knees and scoops Logan up, draping him across his arms and carefully arranging him on the table. “There you go, L. Sitting comfortably?” Logan is too stunned at his abrupt proximity to answer properly for a moment, but eventually he manages to answer. 

“Yes, I - thank you, Virgil.” 

Thomas and Virgil sit down to eat in the laboratory, at a cleared-off and cleaned table near Logan and his pod. They normally don’t eat in here, but apparently it doesn’t make sense to keep moving up and down and up and down repeatedly from the house proper to the laboratory. Logan lets his eyes slide closed as the conversation washes over him, soft like the gentle waves on a clear day. He tunes back in sharply when he hears his name. 

“What are we going to do about Logan?” Thomas says. Virgil puts down his eat stick and frowns. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, Patton said he won’t get his tail back until tomorrow, right? So there’s no way that he can sleep in the tank with Patton and Roman like he’s been doing. What are we gonna do about that?” 

“He could always come and sleep in the house with us,” Virgil offers. 

“No way, absolutely the hell not, there is no way I’m letting Logan spend the night alone with you humans -” Roman spits, spines puffing out like a sea urchin. 

“It’s not your decision, Ro,” Patton says gently. “Logan, it’s your call. Thomas is right, you can’t sleep in the tank with us without working gills, you’ll drown.” 

“What did Patton say?” Virgil asks. 

“That Roman is overreacting, as usual -”

“Hey!” 

“- and that I cannot sleep with them without my gills, which I will not regain until tomorrow at the earliest.” Logan looks at Virgil and Thomas, watching the way Virgil watches him - cautious, hesitant, but hopeful as well. “What do you suggest, Virgil?” 

Virgil exhales shakily. “I have a room in the house, where I sleep. It’s big enough that you could sleep there as well, if you want. We can come back down to the lab first thing in the morning after breakfast, let Patton and Roman see that I haven’t done anything untoward to you in the middle of the night.” 

“I would greatly enjoy sleeping with you,” Logan says, just a touch too eagerly. Virgil chokes on his food. Thomas makes a very strange face at him over the table; it reminds Logan of the way Roman and Patton have been teasing him recently. Logan decides to ignore it; he’s got plenty to think about in regards to his own entanglements with Virgil. 

Patton and Roman are both teasing him about the anticipation in his voice. Logan decides to ignore them as well.

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil is not particularly looking forward to trying to maneuver Roman back into his tank. Roman is a bit snappish with him at the best of times, and while Virgil understands his disdain for humans after all he’s been through, he likes to think that he’s earned enough goodwill for Roman to drop some of his suspicions. 

Still, Thomas has already wound the majority of Patton’s long, flexible tail around himself and braced his arms under his torso, shuffling his way up the stairs around the tank. Patton had reared up out of the tank to press his forehead against Logan’s, letting out a strident chirp of mer before pulling back into the water and forming his customary travel bubble. 

“Can you please stop looking at me like that?” Virgil sighs. 

“Like what, human?” 

“Like you’re contemplating how many spines it would take for you to murder me.” 

“Maybe I am contemplating how many spines it would take to murder you.” 

“I have a name, Roman. You know my name. You’ve used my name before.” 

“That was before I realized you had designs on my brother.” 

“Yes, designs to keep him from drowning in the middle of the night since he can’t breathe water right now,” Virgil says dryly. Logan suppresses a soft, wheezing laugh, and Virgil feels his chest grow lighter. “Come on, Pincushion, into the tank with you.” 

“Who are you calling a pincushion?” Roman demands. He furrows his brow in confusion. “Also, what is a pincushion?” 

“It’s a soft little thing that you stick sharp pins into when you’re not using them so that you don’t stab yourself by accident, and as you’re full of sharp spines, you look and act very much like a pincushion.” 

“I think I’m supposed to be offended by that.” 

“Well, I’m offended that you keep trying to murder me for being nice to you and your brother and your dad. Life goes on. Put your spines down so I can put you into the god damned tank.” Roman hisses at him, puffing his spines up even more in protest. Virgil hisses right back, startling both Roman and Logan. “What? Did you think you were the only one who could hiss when they’re upset or threatened? Think again, Princey.” 

Roman’s spines all flatten at once. It’s probably more out of shock than anything else, but Virgil’s not complaining. Roman reaches out and squeezes Logan’s hand before turning back to Virgil and lifting his arms up dramatically. Virgil rolls his eyes and drapes Roman’s tail around himself before hoisting the merman up into his arms. “If you prick me, I will throw you down all of the stairs in this lab, so help me God.” 

“What is a god?” Roman asks crossly. Virgil huffs with the effort of going up the stairs and doesn’t respond. By the time he makes it to the top of the tank, Thomas has just finished lowering Patton down into the water. A curl of blue tail rises from the water and delicately curls around Thomas’s arm like a thank you before sinking back into the tank. Virgil drops Roman into the water with a good deal less delicacy. He gets splashed for his troubles, but he doesn’t care that much what Roman thinks of him. 

“I apologize again for Roman’s behavior,” Logan says. He reaches for Virgil’s hand, and Virgil lets him take it. Logan’s hands are surprisingly smooth, as though they, too have been weathered and worn by the ocean; they’re a little cooler than the average human skin, but Virgil runs a little cold himself, so he finds it comforting. “He has always been quite . . . protective of me. I suspect that my being taken has only amplified those feelings.” 

“I don’t have an older brother, but I understand where he’s coming from. As long as he doesn’t actually stab me, I’m not that upset about it.” Logan smiles, soft like the breaking dawn, and Virgil feels a tidal wave well up and drown him in overwhelming affection. It takes all his energy not to lean in and kiss Logan right then and there, to press his free palm up against Logan’s cheek and slide his fingers into Logan’s hair. 

“I am glad,” Logan says softly, “that my brother’s . . . concerns have not destroyed what we have with each other. We are . . . friends, are we not?” 

Virgil’s exuberance dims, just a little, but he nods. “Yeah, Logan. We’re friends.” Logan smiles again, squeezing Virgil’s hand. Virgil squeezes back. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you upstairs. Do you think you can walk over there if I help you?” 

“Is walking backwards dangerous?” Logan asks. 

“If you do it a lot and you’re not careful, it can be. You can’t see where you’re going when you do it, not unless you twist your head all the way around, and even then you have a limited field of vision.” 

“I don’t want you doing that if it’s dangerous for you,” Logan says, brow creasing in stress and worry. “I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.” 

“Aw, why not? Do you care about me?” Virgil teases. 

“Yes,” Logan says, so earnest and serious that Virgil’s breath catches in his throat a little. “I do care about you, very much. You - you are the first friend that I ever made, outside of my father and my brother. You are . . . important to me, and I do not wish to see you injured.” 

“There’s other ways to walk,” Virgil says, once he regains his voice. “We can go side-by-side, if you like.” 

“If there’s less chance of you injuring yourself, then that’s the option that I prefer.” Virgil carefully picks up Logan’s shirt and helps him tug it on, to prevent any repeats of the capital-i Incident from earlier. Logan shuffles around until his feet hang over the side of the table, and Virgil bends down to help him up. He carefully wraps an arm around Logan’s waist and Logan drapes his arm around Virgil’s shoulders. 

“Will you be okay putting the lab equipment away by yourself, Doc?” 

Thomas smirks. “You seem to have your hands full, Virge.” 

“We can wait to go upstairs if you need my help here,” Virgil says, pointedly ignoring Thomas’s insinuations. “Logan, you don’t mind waiting a few more minutes, do you?” 

“I do not have any opinions of the sort.” 

“See? We’ll be fine to wait.” 

Thomas rolls his eyes, smiling. “Don’t worry about it, Virgil. I cleaned up the lab by myself for years before I took you on as my live-in doctoral student, I can handle one night.” Virgil resists the urge to flip him off and sticks his tongue out instead. 

“What does that mean?” Logan asks as they slowly shuffle towards the door. 

“What, doctoral student? It means . . . well, essentially it means that I’m studying with the doc so that I can write a really really long, really really specific paper that’ll get analyzed and hopefully approved by a bunch of people with a fancy title so that I can also have a fancy title.” 

“Oh! Is that hard?” 

“It’s pretty difficult, yeah. Most people don’t do it. I’m a bit of a rare exception.” Virgil tries not to puff out his chest in pride. He’s pretty sure he fails. 

“That isn’t what I meant, though. What does . . . this mean?” Logan pokes his tongue out curiously. Instead of looking like a retort, like Virgil had meant it when he stuck his tongue out earlier, Logan looks adorable and confused. Every single cat video Virgil has ever seen involving a cat sticking its tongue out in a blep runs through his mind at once, and he nearly collapses from the sheer adorableness of the situation. 

“It’s . . . just a human thing,” Virgil says quickly. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I - oh. This might be an issue.” He hadn’t considered it before, given how often he traverses this path every day without any issue, but he’s never traversed it with an unstable merman with the footing of a newborn deer before. 

He has no idea how he’s going to get Logan up the stairs. 

Virgil’s initial thought is that he’ll just show Logan how to climb the stairs and help him up, the same way he’s been helping him walk across the floor. This plan is quickly derailed when Logan nearly faceplants across the very first low step. “Will it be alright if i just carry you?” Virgil says. “Like I do when you have a tail, or like I do for your brother.” 

“I hope you’re a bit gentler with me than you are with Roman,” Logan says. It takes Virgil a few moments to realize that Logan is actually joking, and then he snorts and laughs. 

“Don’t worry, Logan. I like you much better than Roman, I won’t drop you.” Logan laughs. 

“If Roman hears you say that, he very well might stab you.” 

“I’d like to see him try.” 

Logan loops his arms around Virgil’s neck as he’s hoisted up into his arms. Virgil fights very hard not to think about the fact that he has an arm very closely braced underneath Logan’s ass, or the way that Logan leans his face into Virgil’s shoulder with a soft, satisfied sigh, as though he trusts Virgil to protect him from any and all dangers in the world; he fights not to think about the way Logan’s lips look, still slightly wet from when he’d had his tongue poking out mere moments before, or the way his lower lip sticks out slightly, round and kissable; he fights not to think about the way Logan’s hair flops in his face and his eyes, or the way he wants to run his fingers through it and memorize the texture, memorize the way every curl, every lock, every individual strand feels slipping across his fingertips, along his palm, tangled up in his fingers and soft against his bare chest and tickling his nose if they fall asleep snuggled together and -

Virgil hurries up the stairs before he becomes so distracted that he drops Logan. 

They get waylaid in the kitchen so Virgil can get a drink before he goes to bed. Logan is fascinated by the house, asking questions about everything he sees. “What’s that?” 

“It’s called an oven. You put food in it, and it gets really really hot inside and it makes the food hot, too.” 

“What’s that?” 

“The stove. You put food on top of it to heat it up, kind of like the oven, but a little quicker.” 

“What’s that?” 

“The refrigerator; you put food in it to cool it down and keep it cold, to keep it from spoiling.”

“Humans are very obsessed with controlling the temperature of their foods, aren’t they?” Logan muses. 

“I guess we are. I never really thought about it before . . .” 

Finally, Virgil manages to get them up into his bedroom. It looks the way it normally does, but Virgil finds himself fixating on the mess - a few scattered piles of clothes, textbooks and other books strewn haphazardly around the room, random papers everywhere, pinned on the walls in patterns that wouldn’t make sense to a madman, most of them marked with thick streaks of marker and hastily scrawled three-am revelations. 

“Sorry it’s such a disaster, Lo.” Virgil carefully sets him down in the desk chair and throws open the curtains covering the glass door onto the balcony. The sun has set over the ocean, but some of the colors still linger in the sky, vibrant like strokes of paint on an Impressionist canvas. 

“I do not see a disaster here, Virgil. I see evidence of life. It is quite . . . fascinating. And I assure you, our regular sleeping grottos are just as messy.” Virgil still hurries to try and tidy up his room, kicking piles of clothes under the bed and throwing them into his often-neglected hamper. He stacks the books as best he can, assembles the papers into one large pile and pins them down with a loose seashell. 

“Still, the floor is gonna have to be cleared off if I’m gonna sleep on it.” 

“Why would you sleep on the floor?” Logan asks. “Is that not the point of that thing?” He points to Virgil’s bed. “Is that not a place for sleeping?” 

“It’s called a bed,” Virgil says, “and you’re going to be sleeping there. I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

“Why would you sleep on the floor?” 

“Because the bed’s really only big enough for one person, Logan. You can sleep on it, since you’re the guest, and I’ll sleep on the floor. Or I can go downstairs and sleep on the couch, it’ll be alright, but I thought I’d stay on the floor in case you needed something.” 

Logan frowns, looking almost heartbroken. “I . . . you will not be sleeping with me? You said you would . . .”

“Well yeah, I meant you were sleeping up here in my room, I didn’t necessarily mean - I didn’t know if you would be comfortable sleeping that close to me. I mean - I -”

“I always sleep with my pod,” Logan says. His voice is small and shaky, heartbroken. “I have not slept by myself - prior to the incident with the net, of course - for so long . . . please, do not make me sleep alone again.” 

Logan is going to kill him, Virgil is absolutely sure of it. “I . . . okay, L. I’ll sleep with you. Just let me get changed, okay? Let me get into my pajamas.” 

“What are pajamas?” 

“Clothes you sleep in.” 

“Do I need a pajamas?” 

“No, that’ll work just fine. You’re comfortable, right?” 

“Yes?” 

“Then you’ll be okay. Wait right there, okay? I’m gonna get ready for bed. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

Virgil quickly ducks into the adjoining bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face and tries to regain his composure. He never thought that inviting Logan to share his bedroom would entail sharing his bed, but he supposes he should have known better. In for a penny, in for a pound, et cetera, et cetera. Logan won’t read anything into it if he doesn’t act like there’s something to be read into it, so as long as he keeps himself together it’ll be alright. 

The rest of his bedtime routine is relatively swift - washing his face properly, brushing his teeth, changing into loose sweatpants and an oversized tank top, dragging a brush through his tangled messy hair, making sure he remembers to take his anti-anxiety medication, using the bathroom. He’s in and out in less than five minutes, plugging his phone in to charge on the desk and making sure that he sets his alarm for the morning. 

“It’ll just be a second while I make sure the bed’s ready, if you don’t mind waiting a little.” 

Logan yawns, waving a hand at Virgil. “Take your time.” 

Virgil piles all the clothes littering his bed into a corner, somewhat ashamed of the fact that he hadn’t been bothered to put them away properly, before digging out his nicest, softest blankets and pillows and piling up the bed to make it nice and comfortable. 

As he turns back to Logan, a thought occurs. “Do you brush your hair, underwater? Or your teeth?” 

“What is brush?” Logan asks. Virgil fetches his hairbrush from the bathroom and demonstrates how he drags it through his hair to make it smooth and neat. 

“There’s a different one of these, as well, smaller, that we use to clean our teeth because otherwise they can get diseases and fall out.” 

“We don’t have brush or whatever you call it, but there are small fish that swim around and eat the scraps that get stuck in our teeth. Dad likes to sit there with his mouth open for hours and let them swim in and out of his mouth.” 

“You guys use cleaner fish?” Virgil asks. 

“Is that what humans call them?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then yes, we do. But we have no such thing for our hair.” 

“I bet your hair is awfully tangled, after being in the ocean for so long. Do you want me to brush it?” 

“Will it hurt?” Logan sounds small and scared, reaching up to hesitantly touch his hair. 

“It may pull a little, especially if you have big knots or tangles, but I promise I’ll be as gentle as I possibly can.” Logan nods, hesitantly, and Virgil carefully lifts the brush to his hair. He expects it to be coarse and rough, since seawater dries out human hair, but it’s strangely slick. It sort of reminds Virgil of the way a duck’s feather repel water, but it’s smoother than that. It feels just as nice as he’d imagined beneath his fingers. Logan wince a little when Virgil pulls on a few particularly rough knots, but all in all he sits through it with a brave face. 

“All done,” he says ten minutes later. “Does that feel better?” 

“I do not know if I would say it feels better, per se, but my hair certainly feels nice and smooth.” Logan runs his fingers through his own hair, smiling. “I have never been able to do that before. It is quite wonderful.” 

“I’m glad I could make you happy,” Virgil says. Logan smiles, and Virgil would sacrifice the world, the universe, and everything in it if he could keep making Logan smile like that. 

Virgil puts Logan up against the wall so that he doesn’t accidentally fall out of the bed. It’s not really meant for two people, but Virgil thinks that as long as they’re careful he’ll be alright. He draws the curtains again, turns off the lights, and shuts the door. “Would you like a light o - oh.”

When he turns around, Logan is glowing softly - his eyes are bright blue, and every single freckle on his face and arms gleams like a little star. “Apologies,” Logan says, sounding embarrassed. “My scales and eyes glow in dark water - Dad’s and Roman’s are the same way. I didn’t think I would have the same effects while in this human guise, but . . . will this affect your ability to sleep?” 

“It - I - um - it shouldn’t, I mean - there’s usually some light or another coming in, it’s never pitch black here.”  Virgil shuffles across the room, finding it much easier to navigate now that he’s cleared the piles of clothes and books and other flotsam and jetsam from the floor. He carefully climbs into bed, settling under the covers and arranging them over Logan as well. He settles on his side, facing Logan, who blinks back at him with his eerily bioluminescent eyes. Virgil makes a note to test the bioluminescence of all three mer tomorrow. 

Logan lets his eyes slip closed, exhaling a soft puff of air across Virgil’s face. “Good night, Virgil.” 

“Night, Logan.” 

Logan drifts off fairly quickly, chest rising and falling evenly, and Virgil, for all his gay pining, isn’t far behind. He wakes up sharply in the middle of the night, gasping when he realizes that he’s not alone. Blue light filters into his sleep-fogged vision, and then he realizes exactly what position he’s in. 

Logan is slotted up against him, legs all tangled up together with his the way Virgil has seen his tail coiled in with his pod’s. His face is pressed up into Virgil’s chest, pillowed neatly on his shoulder, and his arms are tucked between them, hands curled in a delicate half-open shape. Virgil has one arm curled up around Logan’s head and the other thrown over his waist. He wants to move, to pull away before he wakes Logan up and makes him uncomfortable, but before he can do anything Logan stirs in his sleep. He shuffles, shifts closer to Virgil, and nuzzles into him, letting out a soft sigh and a soft trill of foreign language that sounds much more musical than any mer he’s heard before. 

Virgil can’t bring himself to pull away after that. He leans forward, shamelessly nuzzling into Logan’s hair, and Logan presses into the touch with another gentle trill. Virgil has no trouble falling back asleep with Logan securely in his arms. 

[millennialneopian]

Wednesday, May 18, 2022

Ultimate Riches

Truly unbelievable. I know why I quit playing the last two times: earning money at a significant rate was impossible for me. And let’s be real: it’s the ability to buy stamps or paint your pets neat colors that makes Neopets fun! I will never be driving the market and setting prices for rare items, but I think(?) I’m getting into the groove of what I’m enjoying. I understand that Neopets can be tons of fun with friends, but I think that being the majority went away after a few years. With the ability to communicate with folks offline and essentially break the game for others, it’s hard to feel like you’re part of a community anymore, even if you’re in a guild. I love seeing other folks from Reddit online as my Neofriends, but just for that old 2000s thrill that you got from MSN Messenger: MY FRIENDS ARE ONLINE HOLY SHIT it’s like we’re doing the same thing together. 2022 Neopets, at least for me, is a pseudo-solo project. 

Take, for example, the trophies. It’s super neat that I can finally try for trophies on games because there just aren’t as many people accessing them through older browsers. I thought that was fun! Enough to put myself at risk! But that damn Reddit discussion is sticking with me; one user said “’it’s never happened to me’ is a great attitude to have toward online safety” and I cannot get that out of my head. For what? Pixels!! Damn, damn pixels.

Restocking is another thing that comes to mind. I’m not very fast, and I genuinely feel my life slipping away with every refresh. For what? What are the two things I really want to do on here that I can? 1) Collect books for my library gallery. 2) Zap pets for ZYDP. I have a pet named after a dragon in a fantasy novel that I would love to paint Mutant Draik, and that’s kinda pushing the Maraquan one to the side. I love the Maraquan Draik colors, but the Mutant one is just fucking bomb.

I don’t know; it’s hard to explain, because clearly one of the facets I’m enjoying the most is granting pet wishes, but that feels like superficial “collaboration.” The folks who are rich enough to gift someone a spare magical Chia pop and Chia morphing potion when they accidentally fed it to their Moehog are awesome; I want to be like that. But that feels like lots of folks in their own boats, you know? Versus all of us in a ship together. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m writing this while I eat breakfast; it’s probably too early to be introspective.

Avatars

Oh hell yeah, man. That got an audible ‘Oh my GOD” out of me this morning. #230! And that book is 200K! wtf

Random Events

[captainsamwilsonbarnes]

Coping Mechanism

I wasn’t originally planning on posting this here, but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out actually. So here’s a short ficlet of Sam and Bucky, doing what they do best. 😍

Sam x Bucky (1.5K)

(Rated T, and no applicable warnings apply other than for TFATWS spoilers, since this is directly connected to the second episode.)

Note: this is set right after they agree to go find Zemo together. It’s just a short idea that popped into my head, so I ran with it. :)

~*~

"Steve wasn't wrong about you," Bucky says after a few minutes of companionable silence. "I didn't mean that, and I'm sorry," he pauses as he reaches out to stop Sam from going any further. "I really am. I'm sorry, Sam." For added measure, he places a tentative hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes it gently.

"Oh, are we rhyming now?" Sam smirks as he turns to face Bucky. "Do you like green eggs and ham? Do you eat them on a boat? Do you eat them with a goat? Well, yeah, you probably would, actually," he laughs.

"I should have known you'd be a jackass about this," Bucky mutters as he rolls his eyes and strides forward. "My mistake."

"We really need to work on your sense of humor," Sam says as he breaks into a light jog so he can catch up.

"Not everything is a goddamn joke, Sam," Bucky snaps while whipping around to face Sam and gesturing wildly around them. "Do you honestly find anything funny about all of this? Because I sure as hell don't."

"No," Sam agrees easily, "but I do like pushing your buttons," he admits as he digs his fingers into Bucky's side.

"Hey!" Bucky yelps as he quickly shoves Sam's hand away. "Can you not? Jesus Christ!"

"Oh my God," Sam stops dead in his tracks, delighted smile breaking out across his face. "Are you ticklish?"

"No," Bucky glares, "I just don't want your grubby hands all over me."

"Or," Sam murmurs as he steps closer and drags Bucky forward by the lapels of his jacket, "maybe that's exactly what you want."

"Oh, you think so?" Bucky counters as he glances down at Sam's hands which are still tightly gripping his jacket. "Maybe that's what you want, pal."

"Whatever," Sam says as he quickly lets go. They are on a public street after all, even though no one seems to be paying them any attention. "This is nice, by the way," he adds, while carefully smoothing out the creases he's made in Bucky's jacket. "It looks good on you."

"Thanks," Bucky mumbles as he stands there awkwardly, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"So, we're off to find Zemo then?" Sam asks. There's an icy edge to his voice that rubs Bucky the wrong way as Sam turns his back on him and keeps walking.

Yeah, I guess so," Bucky agrees as he tries to work out what the hell just happened. Sam seems pissed off all of a sudden, which makes no sense since he wasn't the one who was just practically groped in public.

"Are we not gonna talk about whatever the hell that just was?" Bucky asks as they fall into step alongside each other.

"That was nothing," Sam says, punctuated by a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nothing at all."

Bucky stops walking again as he grips Sam by the elbow and spins him around.

"That was not nothing, Sam. You know what, I don't get you at all. First, I tried apologizing to you, which you turned into a joke of course," he sneers. "Then what? Was that some sort of twisted attempt at flirting?"

"You wish," Sam scoffs. "If I was flirting with you, you wouldn't have to ask. You'd know, pal."

"Why are you so pissed at me?" Bucky asks, looking sad and confused as he releases Sam's arm. "I'm sorry, okay? I don't have all the answers, but I'm hoping we can figure this shit out together. Everything fucking sucks right now, Sam," he chokes out, voice trembling.

"Hey," Sam says softly as he steers Bucky into an empty alley. They probably shouldn't be having this conversation right now, much less where practically anyone can hear them. "I'm not pissed at you, I promise."

"Then what the hell is going on? I'm trying here, Sam. I really am. And if you make another Dr. Seuss joke, I'm going to punch you in the face with my vibranium arm."

"Something you need to know about me," Sam explains, "is that I often resort to humor as a coping mechanism. I know you've never heard of it before," he adds, which actually causes Bucky to crack a smile, "but it really gets me through serious shit, sometimes. It doesn't mean that I think anything about what we're going through is funny, it just helps me deal, that's all."

"I get that," Bucky nods. "Once upon a time, I actually did have a sense of humor, believe it or not."

"Oh yeah? What happened to it?" Sam asks.

"HYDRA cut it off," Bucky fake-pouts. "Turns out, it was in my left arm all along."

"You're a damn fool," Sam laughs as he pitches forward and buries his face against Bucky's shoulder.

"See, I can be funny too," Bucky grins as he reaches out with gentle fingers and tilts Sam's face up.

"Yeah, funny looking," Sam teases as he surges forward and boldly presses his lips against Bucky's.

"Seriously?" Bucky says when Sam pulls back. "You kiss me and insult me at the same time?"

"What can I say, I'm a man of many talents," Sam winks. "Oh, and that was flirting, by the way."

"What you are, is a royal pain in my ass and I wish I didn't like you so much," Bucky admits as he hooks his thumbs into Sam's belt loops and drags him forward.

"Yeah, I wish I didn't like you either," Sam agrees. "Guess we're in the same boat, then."

"Guess we are," Bucky shrugs as he cups Sam's jaw and kisses him softly. Sam opens up for him this time, the kiss deepening quickly as Bucky's hands drop down to Sam's waist to hold him steady.

"So, um," Sam says when they break apart, "I might kinda like you a lot, actually. More than I ever expected to, that's for damn sure. I realized it a while ago, and I guess I've just been fighting it," he adds.

"Mood," Bucky nods. "Wait, did I use that right?"

"Sort of," Sam smirks and kisses him again. "Don't try to be cool, okay? Stop looking shit up on the internet, and just be yourself."

"I feel like there's an insult in there somewhere," Bucky pouts, for real this time as he wraps his arms around Sam's neck.

"There's not, I promise," Sam smiles. "And just for the record, Steve wasn't wrong about you either."

"I'm not so sure about that," Bucky frowns, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

"He wasn't," Sam insists. "None of what happened to you was your fault, Buck. Bad shit happens to good people every single day, we both know that. We live in a fucked up world, baby. That's just how it is, sometimes."

"Thank you," Bucky smiles as he reaches up and rubs Sam's cheek. "It's still a struggle for me, especially with all of the amends I've been making. It's like, just when I was trying to put it all behind me - "

"It comes right back to haunt you," Sam nods. "Yeah, I know exactly what that's like."

"Jesus, we're a pair, aren't we?" Bucky laughs. "I wish Steve could see us now."

"Me too," Sam agrees. "He'd probably never believe it."

"On the contrary," Bucky says, "I think he would. Remember how he used to bitch at us every time we argued with each other?"

"Yeah," Sam says fondly. "He said we fought just like an old married couple."

"We still do," Bucky points out. "So how about it, sweetheart? You wanna put a ring on it?" he asks, as he wiggles his vibranium fingers in front of Sam's face.

"There are lots of things I want to do with you," Sam leers as he reaches down and gives Bucky's hips a squeeze. "Although, we should at least go on an actual date first before we start planning our marriage."

"Probably," Bucky agrees. "I like sushi," he suggests as he sways forward and captures Sam's lips in another kiss.

"Raw fish? Of course you do," Sam sighs. "You couldn't like anything normal, right?"

"You're thinking of sashimi," Bucky corrects. "Not all sushi is raw, and in fact, a lot of it is cooked, actually."

"What I’m hearing is: blah blah, raw fish, you're a nerd, blah blah," Sam mocks. "If you want real seafood, you should come down to Louisiana with me, sometime. My sister Sarah makes a mean fish fry."

"Aw, you wanna bring me home to meet your family already?" Bucky winks.

"Yeah," Sam nods. "They'd love you. Especially my nephews, they'd be pretty fascinated by your robo arm."

"Let's do it then," Bucky grins. "After we sort out all of our current bullshit, of course. Do you think your sister would mind?"

"Nah," Sam shakes his head. "She'll put you to work, though. Unloading boats, scrubbing the docks, cleaning fish, falling for her brother, that sort of thing, so be prepared."

"Wait, what was that last part?" Bucky teases.

"Cleaning the fish," Sam wrinkles his nose. "It's a nasty job, but Sarah's fried catfish is totally worth it."

"Falling for her brother, huh?" Bucky interjects as he leans in close and nudges his nose against Sam's.

"Well," Sam pauses to steal a quick kiss, "if you get around to it. I know you'll be pretty busy and all."

"We can cross that one off the list, actually," Bucky smiles as he reaches for Sam's hand and laces their fingers together. "I'm already working on it."

~*~

[thedumpsterqueen]

Standards of Performance, Chapter 7: Hangovers and Confrontations

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

AO3 Link

I’ve been crazy busy this week, so this one is a bit short, I’m sorry! Thank you for your kind, complimentary, and h*rny thoughts in my messages this week. They truly keep me going. Big shoutout, also, to the few people that have messaged me angry about how long it’s taking Hotch and reader to get together - you had ample warning I was gonna drag this out ;) Final bit of business: there will be no chapter next Friday. I’m going to take the next two weeks to get ahead on writing so I’m not panicking when the content starts to get longer and more ~intense~. I’m sorry for that :( Thank you so much for your continued support, truly. You’re all amazing. Lastly - shoutout to @honeyshores for your advice on this one <3

Summary:  You’re the BAU’s newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?

Chapter Summary: You try to determine whether it's the hangover or Hotch causing more of your headache. 

Words: 2320

Rating: Explicit, 18+. Warnings on AO3.

Pairings: Hotch x Reader, Hotch x You

Your phone’s ringtone blared into your ear, waking you up from a dreamless sleep. Opening it to check the notification, you groaned at the bright light emitting from the screen. Upon seeing it was a text from Hotch, all traces of unconsciousness dissipated, and you sat up in bed, head pounding.

Ok, so you were really fucking hungover.

After Hotch freaked out on you last night and you ditched Cooper, you’d made it your mission to have fun with the rest of the team, which involved you buying everyone many more drinks. It worked - you didn’t leave until 2 am - but you were about to pay the price, because Hotch apparently wanted everyone at the office in 30 minutes. You checked the time.

7:00 am.

If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought he was doing this on purpose.

You showered and threw on a dress, praying the commute to the BAU would give the 3 ibuprofen currently digesting in your otherwise empty stomach time to work.

  It didn’t - in fact, it just provided ample time for the nausea to set in. But by the haggard looks everyone else was shooting as they settled into the meeting room, they seemed to be in the same boat. 

Garcia, wearing massive sunglasses and laying on the couch in the corner, spoke first. “I threw up in the shower this morning.”

Morgan raised his head out of his crossed arms on the table, probably about to make some quip about Garcia and showers, but seemed to think better of being upright and laid his head back down with a grunt. 

“I feel great,” Reid said with a smile, prompting groans out of everyone, including yourself.

“That’s because you had like, 3 drinks.” JJ said. “And 2 of them were beer.”

“It’s also because I drank an appropriate amount of water. Did you know if you consume 8 ounces of water with each alcoholic drink, you can reduce the incidence of hangovers by-”

“Kid,” Rossi interrupted, taking a break from gulping down a massive mug of coffee. “Know your audience.”

“Everyone here?” Hotch asked, walking in and flicking on the lights, which earned him a collective hiss from the rest of the team. His shock at the reaction quickly turned to faint amusement. “More importantly, is everyone capable of working today without throwing up in a trashcan?”

“I’ll do my best, Sir, but I make no promises,” said Garcia, who definitely looked the worst for wear.

“Well, good, because Internal Affairs requested the Use of Deadly Force reviews early this year.”

Another groan from everyone, with the exception of you, who had no idea what reports he was referring to. As if reading your mind, Hotch turned to you and explained, “Use of Deadly Force reviews are required reports we fill out annually in which we analyze and justify every situation where deadly force was used against a subject. I know you weren’t here for most of these, but you can still help type them up, and it’ll be helpful to go over the cases for your learning.”

You nodded, not thrilled to watch the team dredge up the worst moments of the past year, but thrilled that today’s task didn’t require you to move from your chair. Hotch slid a box of files onto the table, reminded you all that he’d be in his office if you needed anything, and took his leave.

“Doesn’t he have to go over these with us, seeing as…” you trailed off, unsure how to speculate that Hotch was probably the one to take the shot in at least half of these cases.

Morgan knew what you were trying to say. “He goes over them before we submit the reports to Internal Affairs.” He grabbed the top file from the box and grimaced. “The Toelle case, man, remember that one?”

Prentiss sighed and rubbed her temples. “Just when I thought I might get through the day without losing my breakfast.”

  ____________

  You pushed your laptop away and slouched back into your chair. “I need a break.”

It was a miracle you’d made it to this point, honestly - your headache was now raging despite pain relievers, and you’d spent half the day meticulously poring over the actions of some of the BAU’s most gruesome killers. (Prentiss was right - the Toelle file had been enough to make everyone, even Reid, turn a little green).

“You doing alright, kiddo?” Rossi asked, peering over the file he was reading.

“Just hungover. Went a little harder than I expected to, ya know?”

“What happened with Hotch last night?” Reid asked.

“Reid!” JJ admonished. 

Morgan shrugged. “Hey, we’re all thinking it. We saw him drag you outside, then he stormed back in and left. How’d you manage to piss him off so bad?”

“I’m surprised you noticed anything. You were pretty occupied,” Rossi said, raising his eyebrows towards Garcia, who flushed scarlet. 

You laughed and sent a silent thank you to Rossi for taking the heat off of you. 

“He just told me the guy I was dancing with was on coke and that I shouldn’t hang out with him.” You shrugged. “It was weird and I kinda freaked out on him at first, but I guess he was right.”

That didn’t get the nonchalant response you expected - everyone looked just as confused as you were when Hotch had initially approached you.

“Wait, hold on,” Prentiss said, sitting forward. “He told you not to dance with that guy because he was on drugs?”

“Yeah,” you replied, “He said after Garcia got attacked by that one man, everyone on the team needs to be more careful about who they associate with. Is that not… the case…?”

You trailed off, because judging by the looks the rest of the team were exchanging, it definitely wasn’t .

JJ shook her head. “Hotch has never really cared what we do in our private lives unless it affects our job.”

“Yeah, like remember that time you dated Will for a year without telling us and we had to pretend we didn’t know?” Prentiss asked, grinning.

“Or that time you hooked up with the mail guy and you made us sign for your packages for the next month?” Morgan ribbed back at Prentiss.

“I was drunk -”

“I think you should talk to Aaron,” Rossi suggested gently over what was quickly becoming a team debate over who had the craziest love life.

Still reeling over the knowledge that Hotch’s erratic behavior towards you wasn’t merely some standard attempt to keep the team safe, you nodded and stood.

It was time for some answers, god damn it.

  The righteous indignation that spurred you towards Hotch’s office was quickly being replaced by nervousness as you neared. You considered turning back, but you were sure he heard you stomping down the hall, and you weren’t trying to make a habit of awkwardly hesitating outside like you had at his apartment. Despite his door being ajar, you knocked gently, and he looked up from his standard mound of paperwork and nodded. 

“Come in.”

You obliged and sat down across the desk from him, twiddling your fingers. He waited for you to speak, never one to opt out of awkward silence.

“I think we should talk about what happened last night. Sir.”

He cocked his head slightly, setting down his pen and folding his hands in front of him.

“What are you referring to?”

You hated how he did this - it was an interrogation tactic, you knew that. He’d make the subject describe a situation with which both parties were clearly familiar to get their interpretation of events, which was usually very telling. And, more importantly, it made them uncomfortable.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m referring to you pulling me away from the group and telling me not to dance with that guy at the club.”

Hotch sighed and picked his pen back up, scanning his paperwork, making it very clear he felt this conversation wasn’t worth his time. “I explained my reasoning last night. If you take issue with the standards I expect of my team outside of the office-”

“But you don’t,” you blurted out, cutting him off.

“Don’t what?” he asked, now looking at you.

“Don’t expect that of your team,” you explained. “I talked to them about it just now. They said you’ve never acted that way before.”

“Their interpretation of events may be different-”

“It’s not their interpretation,” you interrupted for the second time. “They told me about all their dating escapades and you’ve never made it your business, not once. Why am I different to you?”

You hadn’t intended that last part to come out the way it did, and you cringed at the vulnerability in your tone. He was silent for one, two seconds, and you knew then he was making a decision, that the answer to your question wasn’t the simple truth he’d projected it to be.

“You’re the youngest member of the team, and the least experienced. I feel a responsibility to make sure you don’t make any decisions that you may regret. I’m sorry if you felt I was out of line.”

The detachment in his tone felt like a punch to the gut. Some part of you had been secretly wishing, you supposed, that his actions betrayed something deeper - that you were different to him, and not just because you were young and naive. And when the team had reacted the way they did, you’d gotten your hopes up that it had meant something. Just like him telling you about his past. Just like him killing Matthews. Just like… it didn’t matter . Even if he had been lying just now, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He wasn’t letting you in because he didn’t want to. You’d overestimated your significance in his life, but in reality, you were probably no more than a blip on his radar. Hotch was the sun, the central point to which everyone around him was drawn, and you were a lonely, distant planet that had somehow convinced yourself you were close enough to have gotten burned. 

Choking back undeserved tears, you left his office, fighting the bile that was finally rising from your stomach, realizing that this was about to be the second time in as many days that your feelings for him had made you puke.

  ____________

  When Matthews lunged at you, he hadn’t spared a thought, not a moment for consideration before breaking his neck. He knew, even as he felt the vertebra detach from its seat in the base of the skull, that there had been other paths - not that killing him was unrequited, of course, but it was a last-resort type of action, and Hotch had never been a last-resort type of man. Morgan hadn’t questioned it, not beyond a hushed, “You good?” after the whole thing went down, but he could sense his shock at the fact that Hotch was the one to go straight for lethality.

And your reaction - that was what kept him awake at night. Not killing the suspect; it was a sick truth, but he’d killed far too many people by now to have that same nauseous, horrified reaction he did the first few times. No, it was the way you looked at him afterwards. He’d expected shock, panic - hell, even complete disgust - but you’d looked at him like he was your hero. Like he was good, somehow. And he’d wanted to correct every day since, say, “No, you’ve got me wrong, I’m not what you think I am,” but he hadn’t mustered up the courage. He’d grown to need that look, if he was being honest with himself; needed someone to gaze upon him with the admiration and respect and doe-eyed awe that you did, because sometimes it was the only thing that kept him from going home alone to his apartment and shattering every mirror in the fucking place so he didn’t have to look at his reflection.

So when you’d asked him - all flushed face and halting words and twisting fingers - why he’d acted the way he did, he couldn’t be truthful with you. He’d answered with what should’ve been the truth, because he couldn’t tell you that he’d wanted to kick that boy’s teeth in from the minute he saw him touch you for daring to defile something so innocent and pure and good, even if you’d wanted it. Especially if you’d wanted it, if he was being honest with himself.

This was all twisted, of course. There were a million ways to profile a man in his 50’s who thought the way he did about someone your age (not to mention his employee, for fuck’s sake), none of them good. He’d deserved the raised eyebrow Rossi gave him before he stalked off to drag you from the dancefloor, and he’d more than deserved the constant, chiding internal voice scolding him whenever he paid too much attention to you, asked you an easy question just so he could see you light up at knowing the answer, divulged information he hadn’t talked about with anyone in years.

He saw how much his words affected you. You’d tried to hide it, but you were so endearingly bad at masking your feelings, and even though his stomach twisted to see you crushed, he felt a twinge of hope knowing you’d wanted a different answer. He could’ve given you one that would have made you happier:

“You’re important to me.”

“I was worried about you.”

Even, “I wanted to spend time with you last night, instead.”

But those were all too adjacent to a truth that he starkly refused to consider.

So he let you down, because letting people down was something with which Aaron Hotchner had plenty of goddamn practice. 

[atmilliways]

16 Murderface & Pickles; 19 Nathan & Toki! 🖤

I’ll probably write the Nathan and Toki one too, eventually, but for now here is some Pickleface for the prompt “defending each other.” This is set during Goingdownklok and, uh, probably the porniest thing I have ever written. 

Trans Pickles, Murderface’s internalized body issues, first time blow job, Pina Colada flavored lube because Pickles was drunk when he ordered it and thought he was asking Alexa for more drinks. 

If anyone can think of other tags that should be on this, or if it should be marked Explicit rather than just Mature, please let me know. I’ll reblog with the Ao3 link in a sec. 

~

This Might Just Stick

It had been hours. Maybe everybody had forgotten by now. . . . No, no one was going to forget that he’d tried to tackle and hump Toki in front of everybody. 

But he was getting hungry. . . . But what if he ran into any of his bandmates?

Murderface lurked in his quarters until the necessity of avoiding starvation drove him out and skulking towards the mess hall. By the time he arrived and saw from the hatch that someone was already in there, the lure of dinner was stronger than his shame. Maybe Pickles wouldn’t notice him. 

“Hey,” Pickles mumbled in greeting almost immediately. The drummer was presiding over a large plate piled high with iced cinnamon buns, glumly holding a half eaten one in his hand. 

“Uh . . . hey,” Murderface replied. Maybe if he kept walking the conversation would end there.

“I got shot down by Abigail,” Pickles continued, sounding positively morose. 

Murderface slowed, curious in spite of himself. He glanced towards the counter where a hooded servant waited to take his order, but hesitated. This was his chance to let the whole embarrassing incident start getting glossed over until no one ever brought it up again or even remembered it had ever happened. “. . . Schoundsch rough, pal.”

“I mean, I got all dressed up an’ everything, and nothin’.” With a sigh, Pickles took a bite of his cinnamon bun. He continued while chewing, “I figured she must be at least as hard up as the rest of us, y’know? Nope! Turns out, she thought to bring a vibrator!”

A vibrator. Huh. Now there was a thought. Murderface automatically pictured a naked female form, legs spread wantonly, a buzzing wand sinking into—

Well, this had been a mistake. He should’ve just kept walking and taken his food back to his room. Instead, before the sudden tent in his shorts had a chance to become too obvious, Murderface drifted casually over to Pickles’ table. It was one of those picnic style set-ups, except the benches weren’t bolted down, so there was a screech as he pulled it out to sit across from him. 

“Schuper rough! Schorry to hear that, pal. Hey, uh, mind if I eat one of thesche cshinnamon rollsch?” He didn’t wait for a reply, grabbing one and shoving half of it in his mouth. Maybe sugar and something to chew on would provide enough distraction to will his libido back to manageable levels. 

“Go ahead.” Pickles gave a deep sigh. “I thought I’d feel better if I had some rock n’ roll cinnamon buns, but I guess I’m not drunk enough for that yet.”

“Schorry man,” Murderface said again. “I don’t know why Nathan wasch scho bitchy about you going for her, it’sch not like we all wouldn’t hit that if we could.” He gulped down the second half of his cinnamon bun and reached for another. 

“I know, right?!” Pickles said, nodding. “And hey, for what it’s worth, I get why you went after Toki, too. I mean, your approach did lack some zazz, but I’m pretty sure we were all thinkin’ the same thing.”

They’d all taken part in mocking him after the incident, Pickles included, but Murderface still appreciated the small token of solidarity. His fingers already had a coating of sticky white icing on them which he was trying not to notice; the sight sent reflexive twinges of pain running up from his jerking-off wrist. But the mechanical motion of chewing and the fact that he was a born stress-eater just like his grandma made the texture of the bun richer, the nuance of spices more compelling, the fresh-out-of-the-oven warmth more soothing . . . so there was that. And anyway, he’d come here in the first place because he was hungry. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of bringin’ something,” Pickles continued, drifting back to his original train of thought. “I mean, I have tons of shit at home! But did I bring any of it? No, ‘cause Charles didn’t tell us about the no ladies thing until we’d already got here. I kinda want to break into her room and just use it, who fuckin’ cares if she catches me. Maybe she’ll see something she likes!”

“You could do that,” Murderface managed to say with his mouth full. God, he was lucky that Pickles was dressed in his usual black shirt and loose jeans, nothing tight or revealing like Toki, because all this talk about vibrators was really getting him going. Just the idea of turning the toy on and moving it teasingly against a stiff dick (he didn’t know what Pickles’ looked like so naturally he pictured his own)—

He stifled a whimper with yet another cinnamon roll. The pile on the plate was shrinking at an alarming rate. 

“Hey.” Pickles looked at him with wide eyes, a strange glint in them. “You could come with me. Come on, dood, let’s do it. Let’s break into her room!”

“I. . . . I don’t know, Picklesch. . . .”

“No, in case she doesn’t catch me! We can both—there’s ways we can both use it at the same time, no waitin’!”

Heat rising to his face, Murderface shook his head and reached for the cup on the table to wash the latest mouthful of sticky, sugary bun down. He grabbed it and gulped from it—ah yes, straight vodka. The Pickles special. “I’m, uh, not going to do that with you, Picklesch.”

“Why naht?” Pickles all but whined. “Come on, we’re all in the same boat here. Literally. What’s Toki got that I ain’t got?”

Murderface’s first instinct, which he insta-repressed, was to say An ass. But on further reflection, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? While Toki’s toned rear end looked great in those shrunken pink shorts, Pickles had slightly more of a bubble butt, better for grabbing a handful and really, unf—

And now he was thinking about Pickles’ ass. Great. Super. That was totally helping with the boner that wouldn’t quit. Murderface wanted to bury his head in his hands, but they were too sticky for that so he crammed another half a cinnamon bun in his mouth instead. He was, distantly, starting to feel rather full. 

“Look, I’m juscht not doing it!” he burst out, bringing one fist down on the table so hard it rattled the now empty cup and nearly empty plate. “Chrischt, you guysch were ragging on me earlier for the whole Toki thing, and now you’re, what? Trying to jump on my dick?! Uh-uh, I don’t think scho!”

Pickles put both of his hands up. “Dood, calm down! Flag on the play, okie? I’m naht trying anything!” He paused, then grinned sheepishly. “Alright, I am. But look, I’m askin’ first, so . . . there’s that. And hey, no strings attached, I promise. It’s just, you got rejected, and, and I got rejected. . . . I jest think we can help each other out, y’know? It doesn’t have to be that big a deal.”

Murderface narrowed his eyes. “It’sch a very big deal, Picklesch.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Pickles replied, leaning forward conspiratorially and dropping into a throaty whisper. “Dood, we could do it right here, nobody’d know. We’ve got this place to ourselves, all we gotta do is have the Klokateers shut things down for a while so we don’t get interrupted. And I could get you off first—fuck, I’ve been thinkin’ about going down on somebody ever since Abigail told me how she keeps from going crazy down here! Please?” Under the table, a sneakered foot bumped and rubbed suggestively up Murderface’s shin, making him shiver. “I’ll treat ya real nice.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a chick,” Murderface grumbled. 

“‘Kay.” Pickles smirked. “I’ll suck you off and make you come so hard you’ll be cross-eyed into next week.”

Biting his lip to stifle a groan, Murderface considered. 

. . . He picked up the last cinnamon bun and crammed it into his mouth, still considering. 

There were two options here. Option one: he could say fuck you, yell at the hood at the counter to send food to his quarters, and storm out with an angry boner to go hump his bedframe or some pillows or something until his meal arrived. His stomach was pretty full (he shifted slightly on the bench and let out a soft, cinnamon-scented burp in between chewing) but he knew how his body reacted to stress and depression, and knew he could eat again in maybe an hour. He’d need at least the next pants size up by the time they got back to the surface. Story of his fucking life. 

Or, option two: take Pickles’ offer. It wasn’t like it was any less gay for Pickles to offer than it was for him to accept, so they were both implicated here. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he’d already passed desperate a few stops back. 

“Scho, it’sch come to thisch.” Murderface swallowed the last of his mouthful and sighed. He looked at the empty plate instead of his bandmate, because the longer he entertained the idea of actually doing this the more confining his shorts felt. “If you make fun of me for thisch I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Right back at ya, dood. So . . . is theat a yes?” 

“. . . . Yesch,” he whispered, and—he couldn’t help it—palmed himself through his shorts despite his sticky hand and the twinge of pain from his still-tender wrist. 

As soon as he said the word, Pickles leapt up, knocking his bench over with a clatter, and spun to yell towards the mess kitchen: “Hey, guys! Take a break for like, an hour or something! Lock it up and get outta here!!”

“Yes sire,” someone called back, and the confirmation was quickly echoed by the clangs and bangs of cookware being put in order for the coming downtime. 

An hour, Murderface thought, twitching in stunned anticipation. He fingered the button on his shorts but didn’t unbutton it until the shutter over the counter window had been pulled down and one of the hoods ran to close the mess hall hatch for them from the outside—their servants were nothing if not efficient. 

He could’ve done without his full stomach forcing the zipper all the way down as soon as he unbuttoned, but hey, pobody’s nerfect. Now that he was committed to doing this he was practically vibrating to get started, spreading his legs as wide as he could. 

“Scho, uh. . . . How are we doing thisch? Should I turn around or schomething?”

“No, stay right there.” Pickles grabbed at a random dreadlock and used it to tie the rest back.Then he winked and ducked under the table. 

“Oh fuck,” Murderface whispered, and leaned back to get a partial view of Pickles kneeling in front of him. 

With a mischievous grin, the drummer slipped his fingers up the legs of Murderface’s shorts, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. “It’s sexier if you don’t look, dood.”

“Right, okay. Schure.” He sat forward again hastily and his lip as he felt Pickles’ hands move to his stomach, palms warm through his t-shirt and against the sliver of exposed skin peeking out at the bottom, and then—

“Ow,” Pickles muttered. 

Murderface looked down, hoping against hope that he hadn’t somehow fucked this up already. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my wrists, dood. I can’t . . . ugh.”

“Can’t what?” Murderface pressed. He felt bitter disappointment already welling up like bile in the back of his throat, and honestly if Pickles ditched him at this point he probably would throw up out of pure disgust and disappointment with himself for fucking up such a wonderful opportunity by being so utterly repugnant. 

Pickles groaned. “Fuck. Look, there’s no good way to say this, but you gotta hold yer stomach up outta the way. My wrists won’t bend that way right now and it’s kinda . . . blockin’ stuff.”

Murderface felt his face heat up to approximately one hundred degrees, but when he didn’t immediately reply Pickles gripped at his thighs and whined impatiently. With that encouragement, he slid his hands under his belly and hefted it up. At another wordless whine, he stood slightly so Pickles could tug them down to his ankles and plopped his bare ass back down on the warm metal bench. 

“Thanks for freeballing, dood,” Pickles commented, and Murderface felt delicious chills from the drummer’s breath ghosting over his eager cock. “Saves valuable seconds in a sex emergency.”

He couldn’t see through the table, but Pickles sounded downright hungry for it. Just imagining the guy staring intently at him under there, maybe licking his lips, maybe already touching himself through his jeans in anticipation—

Then Pickles shocked him by enveloping him all at once, tongue sliding down the underside of his cock and lips closing possessively around the base as the head hit the back of Pickles’ throat and holy fucking shit. Murderface moaned so loud that he was worried the entire submarine could hear, but it wasn’t like his hands were free to stifle himself. He’d hold his fat belly out of the way for a million years without complaint if it meant being enveloped like this. Hands grabbed at his ass and tried to drag him forward greedily as Pickles began to bob expertly up and down his length with the perfect amount of suction, going from nose-buried-in-pubes to kissing-the-already-leaking-tip and back again, repeat and repeat and repeat, with an eagerness that Murderface had never once experienced before and zero hint of gag reflex. It was all Murderface could do to sit still and keep holding himself, biting his lip for dear life to keep his ragged breathing from turning into the breathy moans of the thoroughly fucked. 

Goddamn, this was going to ruin him for groupie blowjobs, wasn’t it? Fucking Pickles and his oral fixation, and his warm, wet, tight, talented mouth. 

It had been way, way too long, and Murderface was so hard up that he came embarrassingly quickly. He didn’t even have time to give a warning, but Pickles seemed to know. One hand stopped fondling his ass long enough to fondle his balls instead, massaging encouragingly as they tightened and tightened and—

Murderface couldn’t contain the wordless gush of sound that accompanied his orgasm, milked out of him without complaint as he bent over the table. 

His face was all but touching the empty, sticky plate before him when he finally managed to open his eyes again. “Fuck,” he breathed shakily. “Pickles. . . . That wasch. . . . Fuck, I don’t think I can schtand.”

“Push the bench back, then,” Pickles said urgently. Whatever he was doing down there, Murderface could hear shuffling and felt bare skin bumping against his hairy legs.”Cahm ahn, dood!”

It made him grin lazily to realize that Pickles’ accent must get stronger when he was horny, just like it did when he was super pissed or super wasted. He obliged, scooting the bench with a brief screech of metal scraping metal, and Pickles popped out from under the table like Jack out of his box. Murderface was half expecting him to sit on the table edge in front of him so he could return the favor, but instead the smaller man settled in his naked lap. 

Apparently Pickles had been shedding layers under the table, because he was equally naked from the waist down and grinding eagerly, wetly against the bassist’s middle, pushing his vest further open and his t-shirt further up. He grabbed Murderface by the hair and rammed their mouths together, eagerly licking his way in, the taste of spend on his tongue mingling quickly with the sweetness of cinnamon bun icing still on Murderface’s. 

There was something very unexpected about this that Murderface was too dazed and into it to quite pinpoint, but holy shit what Pickles was doing felt amazing. Like, fucking against his stomach? Which was kind of weird, but the force and desperation of it was blowing him away. 

Pickles whined in his mouth as though all this wasn’t enough, as though he wanted, needed more. His legs wrapped around Murderface and crossed at the ankles for leverage to grind even harder. Automatically, Murderface reached to support him—one hand splayed against the freckled back and another on his ass, where the muscles were already trembling with effort and eagerness for the building climax. 

And he was so wet. Had the guy come once already just from sucking him off? Murderface felt briefly lightheaded at the thought. Felt his spent cock twitch too, for all that he was still recovering from the number Pickles had done on him already.

Really . . . really wet. Not exactly leaking-dick wet. Not that Murderface had a lot of experience identifying that sort of thing rubbing on him, but still. 

. . . Huh. 

Pickles was still kissing and clutching at him, and Murderface was drowning in this unprecedented desire for this stupid body he’d always kind of hated. But Pickles didn’t seem to mind, did he? Really made it feel like he wouldn't have offered this to just anyone. 

A moment later Pickles shuddered, going rigid and squeezing him tight before relaxing completely, Murderface’s arms around him the only thing keeping him from falling back against the mess hall table. 

“Woo-oo,” Pickles mumbled, eyes unfocused and heavy-lidded. He patted the arm supporting his back. “That was fucking great, man. Ten outta ten, would ride again.” His tongue peeked out and wetted his kiss-redden lips. “Was it good for you?”

“Huh?” Murderface blinked, shook himself a little. He’d been staring intently at the tip of Pickles’ tongue. “Yeah! Yeah, that wasch. . . . I, we could do that again schometime. If you want.”

Pickles patted his arm again, eyes drifting shut. “Mmm, yeah, that album ain’t getting finished any time soon. . . .”

“Uh, Picklesch? Can I ashk you a perschional queschtion?”

“Heh, you just came down my throat, dood, Pretty sure personal questions are fair game.”

Murderface glanced uncertainly down between them, but with their lower halves still pressed together all he could really see was a bright red trail of hair leading downward and his own belly button. “Is there a. . . . Do you have. . . . Are you okay down there?”

Pickles laughed. “I’m more’n fine, dood, I’m great.” Then he cracked an eye open to study the other man’s face, one double-pierced eyebrow slowly rising. “What?” He followed where Murderface’s eyes were aimed. “. . . Don’t tell me ya never fucked a trans dood before.”

“I’ve never fucked any dudesch before,” Murderface retorted defensively. “And schince when are you transch?!”

“Dood, everybody knows. I thought you knew!” 

“Well I didn’t! No one tellsch me anything,” he whined, and in the strange clarity of his relaxed, post-orgasm state was entirely aware that the not being told part bothered him more than the trans part. Not that he knew much about what being trans meant, but . . . probably better to google it later than ask while they were still sitting junk to junk. He reached down to self-consciously tug his t-shirt down and felt wetness on his fingertips. After a moment’s hesitation, he brought his hand up to his nose and sniffed. “. . . Why doesch thisch schmell like pina colada?”

“It’s lube,” Pickles said with a chuckle. “I always keep it—” he absently patted at his own ass, then snorted “—in my pants, under the table. Back pocket. I don’t gaht a lahtta ‘natural lubrication’ so, y’know. Always be prepared or whatever. . . . I dunno, I was never a boy scout.” Stretching, he sat up and leaned in, resting his arms languidly over Murderface’s shoulders. Noses about an inch apart, he stared probingly into his eyes. “You weirded out?”

“Uh . . . no, I guescch not,” Murderface mumbled, going cross-eyed trying to return the stare. 

He felt . . . okay, actually. Wasn’t having sex with a bandmate supposed to feel like a mistake? Wasn’t he supposed to be having some sort of crisis right now? Because he’d definitely just had sex with a guy—he’d known Pickles for years, he was definitely a dude, trying think of him as anything else just didn’t compute. 

Pickles darted forward and gave him a wet snack on the nose, then pulled back with a pleased smirk. “Cool. ‘Cause we’ve got about, uh. . . .” He looked for a clock, finding one once he’d twisted almost all the way around—which just made Murderface think, Bendy, and then his brain fizzled a little at the possibilities. “About forty-five minutes left before anyone comes back. Whaddaya say we get some drinks and fuck some more? I’ve got a couple months of fantasies I still wanna try out.”

“Fa, fantasies?” Murderface stammered as the drummer slid off his lap (oh sweet friction) and bounded over to the counter to rustle up some bottles. His eyes were glued to that pale, freckled ass. “About me?”

“Yeah,” Pickles called. Regrettably, he and his ass had ducked out of sight for a moment. “I mean, fer pretty much everyone down here who has a face, to be honest.”

Oh, Murderface thought with a sigh.

“But hey!” Grinning, Pickles popped back into sight with a fifth of Irish whiskey held triumphantly in each upstretched hand. “Ta be honest, I’m glad this happened with you, dood. The ones with you in ‘em were my favorites.”

Murderface brightened immediately. “Really?” It almost didn’t even matter if that was true, he just appreciated Pickles going out of his way to say it. “Like  . . . like what?”

“Well, what we just did, fer one.” 

This had all happened because of curiosity (and a background level of horniness that defied physics and shit); Murderface saw now reason to change things up now. He asked, even as he drank in the sight of Pickles sauntering back towards him half naked, whatever secrets were hidden between his legs obscured by a thick forest of bright red pubes, “What elsche?” The words came out sounding breathless, and his cock was already stiffening again. 

After all, he’d come here in the first place because he was hungry. 

Smirking, Pickles came back around, moved the empty cinnamon bun plate down the table, and hopped up to take its place, legs spread. He handed Murderface one of the whiskey bottles, cracked open his own, and in between drinking and wantonly touching himself started listing every last, filthy little detail of things they could do to each other. 

It was going to be a very good rest of the hour. 

[snkpolls]

SnK Episode 68 Poll Results (for Manga Readers)

The poll closed with 146 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note that these are the results for the Manga Readers’ poll. If you wish to see the results for the Anime Only Watchers’ poll, click here.

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RATE THE EPISODE 140 Responses

The anime continues its positive streak with just over 90% of respondents rating the episode a 4 or 5. MAPPA appears to be blowing this season out of the water for most of us!

Noice

Good!

I liked it

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING MOMENTS WAS YOUR FAVORITE? 144 Responses

We got a pretty mixed pie chart this week. To be expected, given how many moments were in this episode. At a tie with the largest pieces of the pie were Hange’s eccentric attempt to greet the Marleyans and Eren’s gunshot figuratively hitting Sasha. Behind that two more options tied in each with 10.4% of the vote - EMA’s conversation at the shooting range and Sasha appreciating Nicolo’s cooking. This is followed closely by Eren’s mirror scene with 9.7% of the vote. Onyankopon explaining why he looks different when Sasha asks him about it took a solid 9% of the vote.

WHAT WAS THE MOST EMOTIONAL PART OF THE VISIT TO SASHA’S GRAVE? 144 Responses

This was almost too close to call, but Mikasa sitting alone managed to edge out just slightly over Connie’s “I’ve lost half of me” moment at Sasha’s grave. Trailing behind the two were Nicolo’s grief and the agreement between Papa Braus agreeing to a free meal from Nicolo.

AFTER SEVERAL TENSE AND ACTION PACKED EPISODES, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE TRANSITION TO SOMETHING MORE CALM? 138 Responses

The larger chunk of respondents are feeling relieved to get a break from the action for a few episodes. 21.7% prefer the action but don’t mind a break here and there, while 21% state that they enjoy the exposition more than the action anyway, so they are content. A small handful don’t care either way. 

We needed this for another build-up to more action

I like the action but it’s important to move the story along 

These just feel mandatory fillers to me.

I miss the warriors

I feel fine with it. I thought that was going to be some happy-go-me episode, but gladly it still had a serious tones.

This episode felt like a very welcome respite after the absolute shitshow that was spoilers week and....whatever the fuck chapter 137 was. 

Nice breather of sorts, I always like seeing characters from action-heavy series in their downtime.

WOULD YOU RATHER GET A SURPRISE GREETING FROM EREN & HANGE, OR ARMIN & LEVI? 141 Responses

The vast majority of respondents would prefer the slightly less lethal greeting given by Hange and Eren at the beginning of the episode. We’re not sure if the other 29.1% are masochists or just really love Levi and/or Armin that much more. Or perhaps they’re intrigued by the pig piss from the filthy island devils.

ON A SCALE OF 1-5, HOW HAPPY ARE YOU TO BE BACK ON PARADIS? 139 Responses

Overall, fans are happy to be back in familiar territory and put into the perspective of the Survey Corps again. Let’s get ready to rumble!

MAPPA HAS SPRINKLED IN ANIME-ONLY ADDITIONS THROUGHOUT THE EPISODE. AS A WHOLE, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THEM? 139 Responses

Though subtle, MAPPA did include some anime filler (such as Eren’s, erm, mouth breathing). 51.1% enjoyed the noticeable additions, while 37.4% are completely confused by the question and didn’t realize there were any. A handful generally don’t prefer additions but enjoyed what little ones we had this episode. A small sliver didn’t care for them.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE SCENES FROM CHAPTER 107 THAT WERE PEPPERED IN BETWEEN THE MOMENTS FROM CHAPTER 106? 139 Responses

MAPPA is shuffling things around to pick up the pacing of this arc, and 48.2% of respondents are feeling very positively about it. 38.8% also feel that both the order of events in the original manga and the anime work out just fine regardless. A couple of smaller groups either felt that things were a bit off from the manga, or didn’t really care either way. 

I think it's great because it allows an episode to start and end on the same chapter if mappa ever wanted it, allowing the right twists or cliffhangers to be in the right episodes, all WITHOUT having to slow down, which I wholly appreciate.

I'm fine with the changes. Mappa is doing good job.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE CHANGE OF GABI BITING HER NAIL AND ANGRILY SAYING EREN’S NAME IN HER JAIL CELL? 142 Responses

Nearly half of voters feel that both MAPPA’s take and Isayama’s original take work just fine for Gabi’s character. 28.9% prefer the anime’s take on Gabi’s reaction to all that happened, while 14.8% feel that her more defeated posture in the manga makes more sense for her character. 

I'm a mix of both? Her defeated posture implies that she's not happy with the way things worked out with them in jail and Zeke betraying them. On the other hand, her angry face is realistic to the scene too because it implies she really blames Eren for their current predicament.

She looks like some female version of young, angry Tarzan. This time Mappa should have kept the original postures, because the defeated Gabi feels to be more realistic, than the crazy anime one. 

I think they both work but the anime's take might be the anime team beating us over the head that she's just like Eren when he was young.

Makes it clear to the anime-onlies that she really is psychotic

Gabi sucks

HOW WELL DO YOU THINK MAPPA NAILED THE TRANSITION OF EREN SHOOTING THE GUN, TO SASHA TAKING THE HIT? 141 Responses

The response to MAPPA’s take on Eren’s shot inadvertently hitting Sasha was overwhelmingly positive, with only a few people saying that they could have done better with it. 

Eren shot linked to Sasha's death was awesome. Mappa is nailing it!

THE PART WHERE JEAN, SASHA AND CONNIE ARE TRYING TO GUESS WHAT A PORT IS WAS CUT OUT, WITH ARMIN’S NARRATION INSTEAD CUTTING INTO THE SCENE. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT IT? 140 Responses

Exactly 50% felt that while having that JSC characterization would have been very much welcome, they’re okay with that small detail missing from the manga (granted, it was at least acknowledged by one panel being animated). 25.7% have a more nonchalant response, stating that if it helps with the pacing, they’re fine with small cuts like this. 10.7% are just let down by JSC’s lack of characterization in the anime overall and didn’t appreciate even more being taken from their characterization in this episode. 

I was more so interested in our Paradis Peeps talking about newly discovered technology but I’m happy with what we got.

Not dissappointed since I understand you can't show everything but I love them so sad

Why was it animated then?! I’m so confused

Normally I don't like it when they cut corners like this, but I wasn't fond of that scene in the first place so it's okay.

If by "anime" you mean the entirety of it including the past 3 seasons, then option 3. I'm always going to be salty about how much they took out or changed for these three during the uprising arc. So far mappa has done okay with them, I guess. 

Would have been a funny JSC moment, but it was really absolutely pointless. In manga format it works as just background words on a panel. Animating it takes seconds of an episode that could be used elsewhere. So I'm fine with it being cut out.

SOME HAVE COMPLAINED THAT THE ENDING SCENE OF EREN REPEATING HIS MANTRA INTO THE MIRROR LACKED THE IMPACT IT HAD IN THE MANGA. HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT? 138 Responses

43.5% were receptive of the anime only shots, but favor the way the scene was portrayed in the manga more. 34.1% felt that both versions were done well, with only 9.4% feeling that the impact was largely the same (if not better). Based on the write-ins, the main complaint seems to be the lighting/color scheme of the scene not quite meeting expectations, or that MAPPA made Eren’s back look weird. 

theyll make up for it when eren screeches at hange next ep

Impact was there, art just felt a bit wonky and toned down the scene overall. 9/11

This goes into my criticism of the color palette and shading style mappa uses, which is far more subdued. The contrast is lowered and the scene is very dark, and there is little rim lighting, so while the actual lineart has far more detail, the detail in the lighting is reduced. Damn I really am writing a wall text aren't I? I prefer Wit Studio's art style a lot but Mappa has honestly been doing great so I couldn't care less, manbun Eren is hot.

I prefer the manga version. I think the anime version have weirds shadows in eren's back. Plus the mirror don't have the same energy, less impactful

Cool scene in the anime, an unforgettable blow to the brains in the manga

Idk

Most of the time seeing things for the first time is what's really impactful. Feel this way towards Armin's transformation in the boat as well. It was definitely less impactful than when you first read it in the manga.

I understand the fandom because this moment was very popular when the chapter was out. I think that in the anime Eren lacks the anger he had in the manga. His voice was too calm while repeating his mantra. .

WHY DOES HIS BACK LOOK LIKE THAT

I didn't care for it in the anime, it was really underwhelming. 

I think most people are annoyed about the lighting than the impact. It’s a bit too dim and the lamp hides Eren’s new hair.

Didn't like the anime version at all

The animation wasn't good and they totally fucked his hair, face, and body up. Although the added shots were definitely welcome.

Eren could've been sexier/animated better, I hope they do better next ep 😭

WE WILL ASK YOU AGAIN. HOW WILL THE ANIME DEAL WITH MIKASA’S HIZURU TATTOO/SYMBOL? 135 Responses

With Mikasa meeting Kiyomi presumably being inevitable in episode 69, we wondered if any opinions had changed on this. 34.1% feel hopeful that the tattoo will be retconned into the anime and that we will see this scene faithful to the manga. 28.9% think that Mikasa will happen to have some kind of embroidery on hand already. 25.9% don’t want to make a call either way, and a small handful think Mikasa’s going to just pull out an embroidery kit and go with it, lol.

The embroidery will be on the inside of her bandage.

Japanese are very taboo about tattoos because of the Yazuka... it will 100% be the embroidery.

I don't know but I hope it gets retconned. Never liked the embroidery thing.

It won't be included

Let’s just... ignore it..

I really really hope MAPPA retcons Mikasa's tattoo next episode. This will be the one retcon I will absolutely celebrate. Plus, it's not really a retcon if they're just amending Wit's changes.

WE WILL ASK YOU AGAIN, AGAIN. WITH THE PACING CURRENTLY UTILIZED BY MAPPA, WHERE WILL EPISODE 16 END? 137 Responses

Uncertainty continues to loom over exactly how far MAPPA will get into this (first half of the?) season. Nearly 40% don’t want to make predictions one way or another, while 23.4% feel that it won’t make it quite to chapter 122. The rest believe it will make it to chapter 122, with 17.5% feeling there will only be minor cuts, if any, and the remaining 13.1% feeling that there will be major cuts to make the feat to chapter 122. 

116 (?) when the allied force attack paradis

122 with the amount of cuts being somewhere in between. They can cut a lot of the Gabi and Falco plotline and still have the story remain intact.

See, I'm not sure buy I'm also worried and curious about it all. It brings up the question of will the story continue in a possible second half of the season? With the manga ending very soon now, it makes sense to have the story wrap up in its anime medium as well. Fees like there's some kind of uncertainty surrounding this, it's unnerving tbh. 

119 with Eren's head being blown off.

gabi no scoping eren, ending creds is eren entering paths and we see ymir standing behind him, s4p2 starts w the ymir backstory

121

No idea and I don't think about it. I just enjoy the show. 

Your guess is as good as mine, I'm still fearing major cuts.

119

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT NICOLO’S PORTRAYAL? 138 Responses

With Nicolo now formally introduced in the anime, we were curious how you felt about his portrayal. Overall the reaction was positive, with 48.6% agreeing that he’s a “cutie pie chef”, and another 45.7% feeling that his design and seiyuu are absolutely great! A small handful were less happy with the voice, but happy with the design, and a sliver went in the opposite direction, preferring voice over animation.

HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THE ADDED DETAIL OF THE FLOWER BOQUETS AND THEIR SYMBOLISM ON SASHA’S GRAVE? 140 Responses

Respondents vastly appreciated the flower symbolism from MAPPA with 82.9% of the pie. 12.9% aren’t really sure what symbolism there even was, and a small amount either don’t care or felt the effort could have been spent on something other than flowers for Sasha.

WHICH SCENE FROM THE PREVIEW ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 143 Responses

This pie chart wound up being almost eerily even. 42.7% are most looking forward to the 104th discussing Eren (hopeful for the train flashback?). 39.9% instead are looking more forward to Hange and Eren’s tense conversation at his jail cell. The remaining three preview moments were pretty evenly split as well.

DO YOU THINK WE’LL GET BLUSHING!104TH NEXT EPISODE? 130 Responses

71.5% feel that there is a chance we will get the train flashback of the 104th in this episode, but don’t want to say for absolutely certain. 18.5% feel that it is a guarantee based on what we saw in the preview. 10% feel it is instead guaranteed that we will NOT get the scene in 69.

WE WILL LIKELY SEE PREGNANT HISTORIA NEXT EPISODE. THOUGHTS? 140 Responses

The plotline that continues to be a frustrating mystery in the manga - Historia’s pregnancy. 34.3% aren’t particularly looking forward to seeing her in the rocking chair and aren’t very stoked about having to relive this plotline all over again. 33.6% mainly just care about seeing how the anime only fans react to the scene. 17.9% just miss Historia altogether and will take any scraps they can get. And a small handful, at 9.3%, are actually looking forward to seeing anime!Historia with a baby bump. 

Don't really care about historia

It's in MAPPA's hands now. I just hope they can add a little more of her screentime somehow.

I hope so. I want to see the design of her adult self. 

I honestly wouldn't mind if Historia's entire arc, which consists of equal parts pregnancy, irrelevance and uselessness, is just completely cut in the anime lol

not interest

I'm not interested 

I've hated this fucking plot line with all my being and what it's done to Historia since the leaks for this chapter were revealed years ago. So I'm not looking forward to anime-only people jumping in with their hot takes too. 🤮🤮

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODE?

mikasa was shown in sasha's grave in the morning/afternoon and then she was shown again at dusk. SHE SPENT THE WHOLE DAY THERE. and annie... what a queen. and hisu's few scenes? so pretty.

Really glad the pacing was well done

nicosasha ship just flew in and took the spotlight

fantastic!! maybe it's just because this isn't my first time going through this arc anymore, but i feel like the anime feels chronologically less confusing than the manga—I remember being very confused my first time reading these chapters.

The lack of score by Hiroyuki Sawamo is negatively impacting my relationship with the anime. The depth of the emotion that could have been evoked was not present. I also did not get the sense that Nicolo and Sasha were in love, which was a major disappoinment. There were other aspects that weren't so bad, though; specifically, Levi's portrayal and Onyankopon's philosophy.

It felt a bit all over the place, but just seeing things from the manga being animated, I ain’t even mad.

I think that the scene between Sasha and Nicolo was made better in the anime. Isayama has problems with writing romantic moments, so in the manga the whole moment looked like it was taken from some light romance. Mappa made this scene more serene. I liked it. 

I think MAPPA is doing so great tbh! I just need them to hurry up and explain if there will be a part two to this final season or what?! I need to know if we get more anime or they'll diverge into movies or.... just tell us! Lol! 

How DAREEEE they not give Levi his black steed!!!! .....Although knowing what happens ummm yeah maybe his pony gets to live another day this way lol

Here comes the train wreck, choo choo!

I'm really sad I didn't get to hear Sasha call Jean a perv. I was really looking forward to that. LOL I love them. When EMA were at the shooting range, it looked too much like Mikasa wasn't wearing any pants. 

VERY solid. Not the biggest fan of the War for Paradis arc but I'm here for the ride.

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 128 Responses

Thanks again to everyone who participated!