#because I have tabletop brain rot

[shhh-secret-time]

Yeah so this is in fact going to be a two part fic! This request came from AO3 and we were able to hash out more on this fic! I pitched the idea of making it a cowboy AU and they seemed to really like that idea! So here we are! Please enjoy and look forward to part 2!

Warning: Strong-Language, Gun Violence, Blood (Minor), Writer doesn't know how guns work!

Pairing: Gunslinger!Kyle x Fem!Reader

Colorado was an untamed lawless wasteland, at least that's what most people out East would tell you. Between talks of untapped land and the rumors of gold mines out that way, people were scrambling to find out there. But not all men had fortune and discovery in their hearts. Some had things to hide, pasts they intend to bury deep in the desert sands.

You were one of those people. As an heir to your family's printing press, it was only natural that from the time you were born a target would be painted on your back. Distant family members, friends of the family, hell even the butler once thought if they got their hands on you, they could use you as leverage. Kidnapping, attempted murder, blackmail, and threats all before the age of sixteen. You'd seen and heard it all. And every time it got harder and harder to want to stick around.

Now here you were twenty something and unwed. Parents long buried having left you everything as they always said they would. You were alone with all the money one person could ever need, and it was so incredibly lonely.

After a while you just kind of became desensitized to the attempt at your life. But no one really gets used to being so alone. How were you supposed to make a connection with people, when all that ever came up was the talk of marriage or your money.

Truly you were grateful for your parents, and you did love them! After all they were good to you, they protected and loved you. That protection morphed and twisted into an overbearing relationship. Up until now you weren't allowed to go out on your own, they decided who you interacted with. Your tutor you had known for years had to go through a background check by the Pinkertons every few months just to remain employed.

So, again, when they passed it was like being thrown out into the ocean and told to swim. If the business was to stay afloat you would have to learn to be sociable and professional. Learn to swim in the shark infested waters of a male dominated field.

Or you could sell the company to the highest bidder and bounce. Which is what you decided to do. Auction out your family’s printing company and try to retire in the lap of luxury. Maybe start your own book using all that tutoring your parents got you.

But it could never be that easy, could it? Once word got out about your plans to sell it all, certain people started plotting against you. It all came ahead one night when you were getting ready for bed. You blew out the candles that kept your bedroom lit, closed your windows, and locked your doors. Double checked them a few times before finally deciding to lay your head down for the night.

A lot of good that did. As soon as you close your eyes, a gloved hand cups your mouth. Another pair goes for your arms and legs, you feel the coarse hemp rope across your skin. Another night, another attempt at your life.

Your attackers must've not heard that the heir to the printing press was no damsel in distress. Quick as they came, your hands shot under the pillow next to you, the side of your bed that lay bare. Except for the .38 derringer that you slept with; two shots loaded in the chamber. Two intruders and still two shots were all you needed.

Click. Bang.

You stand there watching the sheriff and his posse drag the intruders off in their wagon, a blanket thrown over your shoulders by said sheriff. He sits next to you with his badge gleaning off the dull light from the city’s lampposts, a cigar tucked in between his teeth.

"You know this is the third attempted break in this month." He says puffing on the brown tobacco.

"I know." You mumble, bringing the blanket closer to your form.

"And the third time my men had to take in men with bullets in their chests. You're lucky you're a fine shot or I'd have to take you in for murder." He doesn't look at you, but you can hear the danger in his voice. See the way he inspects the cigar, holding it between his fingers.

"Sheriff?" You look up at him with furrowed brows.

A chill runs down your spine when he finally meets your eyes. The smirk that slowly creeps up his lips says it all.

"Now that's not to say I don't believe you. From what I've heard you got quite the record when it comes to things like this." He gestures vaguely with the tip of the cigar before continuing, "just find it kinda odd it keeps happening to you."

"You think I ask for this?" You ask back with a little more frustration in your voice than you should. Could you really be blamed for it though? The sheriff who was supposed to protect you, keep you safe from things like this, was sitting here blaming for the actions of stupid men.

"I don't think you do anything to prevent it. Just strange that a lady in her prime lives alone and isn't going about means of protection besides what...a gun under her pillow?" He blows out smoke that illuminates under the same light that touches his badge, the heavy white smoke lifts from his lips towards the night sky.

You honestly couldn't believe what you were hearing. That shiver that went down your spine spread throughout your body, making your blood run cold. Men breaking into your home you could handle, but a person with actual power? This was a battle you couldn't fight, not alone anyway.

"I'm sorry sheriff." You bite your tongue until you taste blood. "You're right. I should do something about this."

That was the best advice that asshole could have given you. To find someone in your corner. To find someone who can smuggle you out of the state and across the country. Finding someone who you could trust to not immediately shoot you in the back or run off with your money.

After searching around and pushing the word out there as subtly as you could, you finally catch wind of someone who fits the bill. You'd have to push a few dollar bills into the right hands, greasy palms, and all that, but you eventually get a name.

Kyle Broflovski.

That name carried weight, made your tongue feel heavy when you said it. The kind of reputation that he had wasn't one to take lightly. Over thirty bounties turned in alive and done by hand. While the number of bounties he brought in may not have been the largest out there, it was the fact he took down only the worst of the worst. The number on the bounty poster meant nothing to him, it was all about what the target had done. He was exactly what you were looking for, a man who could see past the money.

Now it all came down to arranging a meeting with him. Even a shut in like yourself knew the best place to find what you were looking for was the local saloon. The only thing left to do was dress down and try to convince the famous gunslinger that you desperately needed his help.

The smell of cigarettes and cheap booze was the first to greet you and you hadn't even opened the door yet. You could see boot prints made in the sawdust scattering across the floor. The cheery show tunes being played behind the door almost drowned out the sound of laughter. Before you could push open the door, a man came flying out being thrown by another gentleman. He hits the stairs and slumps down next to your foot. The poor man hit his head pretty hard, enough for it to put him to sleep.

With a little gulp you ignore the shaky feeling in your legs and push the dark wooden doors open. Maybe the thick brown cloak thrown over your form wasn't doing the best job at helping you blend it, but on the other hand most of the people here seemed to be enthralled by the women playing upstage to even care that you walked in. The girls dressed in flashy clothing were dolled up in the brightest makeup you've ever seen. They were gorgeous and the performance they put on brought life to this place, it was no wonder why people could lose themselves.

Your eyes scan the room as you scurry away from the door. People coming in and out, pushing past you like you weren't even there. The entire situation made your anxiety spike, being in such an unfamiliar place.

Somehow your legs carry you over to the bar. Taking a seat at the scuffed wooden counter, you note just how many empty shot glasses are covering the surface. Empty plates that looked like they were dipped in grease. Stained glasses that had thick amber liquid, the kind that burned your throat just looking at it. You tried not to look at the bar too much when you caught sight of faded red stains.

You take a deep breath and steady yourself before trying to flag down the bartender’s attention. A woman with tan skin and dark red hair. The bags under her eyes are so dark you don't think she understands the concept of sleep. Two cross tattoos just under her amber looking eyes lead your own down to her outfit. The light blue vest she's wearing makes her skin pop, somehow her nail polish isn't chipped or scratched in anyway. You watch as she takes a bottle of liquor by slotting it between her index finger and her middle finger.

She must have sensed your eyes on her because she side eyes you for a moment. The woman flips the bottle over and pours a clear liquid into a small shot glass. Once the drink is poured, she slides it down the bar and it lands in the hand of another patron. It takes her but a second to put the bottle down, wipe her hands off, and then approach you with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

"You're new here, aren't you?" She asks like she already knows the answer to that question.

"I... I am. I was just...looking for a drink." Not a complete lie, at this point a drink would help calm your nerves.

"Is that so?" Her brow shoots up. The bartender takes the cigarette from her lips and blows out a thin wisp of smoke. She crosses her arm under her chest and gestures for you to continue.

You look up towards the various brown and orange glass bottles behind her. Brands and names you've never heard of before lined the shelf. It isn't until you get to the higher up shelves that you find something you recognize. A bourbon, darker than most. Something your father used to have from time to time.

You lift your finger and gesture to the bottle. She follows it and lets out a little hum.

"The bourbon? Hm. Color me shocked. Alright."

"Two shots...please."

She stops and looks back at you with the bottle in her hand. A small smirk plays on her lips. "See that's how I know you're not from around here. Most people don't say please. Much less recognize a good brand. Most of these assholes just drink rotgut like it's the end of the world."

"I am a bit out of my element." You run your fingers over the wood, brushing your fingertips over the carvings. Wondering what the story was behind each little chip and groove.

Like before she takes two shot glasses between her fingers and places them down on the bar. The bottle is uncorked with a satisfying thoonk. You watch as the liquid catches the bright lights of the bar, making the amber shimmer with the candlelight.

"No kidding. What brings you here?" Once she's finished pouring your drinks she puts the bottle back under the counter. Her hands make themselves busy by collecting the dirty glasses, putting them off to the side.

"I'm looking for someone. Someone said I could find him here."

Like something straight out of one of your penny and dime novels, she begins cleaning the inside of the glass with a rag. When she doesn't say anything, it makes you shift nervously in your seat, but she eventually nods expecting you to continue.

"He's a gunslinger. Tall from what I've heard. Bright red hair?" You do your best to describe a man you've never met. You make a gesture with your hands by your head of his rumored fluffy red hair.

Before you could continue the woman stops cleaning the crystal-clear glass. She puts it down with a loud thud making the men next to you jump and look away. You hadn't even noticed your conversation was garnering attention. She lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah, you really aren't from around here. Let me give you a little advice. The man you're describing has a bit of a reputation around here. Only comes around when he's intending to collect."

You blink up at her.

"Bounties sweetheart." She snuffs out the cigarette with a little chuckle. You must have looked like a newborn dear the way you looked at her. Blushing a bit at the thought, you try to push it down. Suddenly the little glass of alcohol in front of you looks far more interesting.

"But my contact said he'd he here."

"Your contact isn't wrong." She pauses for a moment. "Man at your six- don't look." She hisses as you go to turn your head.

"Sorry." You squeak out, snapping your head back towards her.

"Man at your six is wanted in four different states. Highway robbing, harassment, nasty attitude...a perfect blend of asshole."

"Oh..."

"Men like that bring the gunslinger. Now I don't know what you want with someone like him, and I don't want to know. But if you want his attention, when he gets here you had better work fast." She looks down at you as she rubs her neck.

"Wh... why?"

"Because he'll drag that idiot out to the streets and probably duel him. Win. Tie him up and take him into the sheriff's office. Collect his bounty and move on."

"You talk like you know him." It was time for that liquid courage. You knock back the drink and grimace at the taste. It burns and claws its way down your throat.

The bartender lets out a little laugh at your reaction, or maybe it's your question. "I've been around for a while."

"She's also full of shit. She talks like I'm a gun lovin' nut." The low whispering voice next to you makes you turn in your seat.

He's a bit shorter than described but still pretty tall. His hair is exactly as you imagined it to be, curls sticking out from under his usual green cowboy hat. The way his emerald, green eyes peer down at you makes you shrink in your seat. They widen a bit as you squirm away, so he decides to move his head up towards the bartender who's got a smirk on her face.

"You gonna tell me I'm wrong?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

"No, no just that you make me sound much more dangerous than I am. Just a simple man tryin' to earn enough to eat." He says with a chuckle.

And when he smiles at her, lips curled up so softly. Every part of this man looks so gentle. Even the green tattered sarape around his body looks warm and inviting. It was hard to believe someone so soft looking had a reputation. On the other hand, it made it easier to approach him, maybe this wouldn't be so hard.

The drink you bought for him would probably help too. You recall all the times your father would pour his business partners a drink before pitching a new idea. So, you take the shot glass and scoot it towards him. He blinks down at it before letting out a little chuckle.

"You've got this backwards ma'am. S'pose to be the other way 'round. Man's supposed to buy a pretty woman a drink." Despite it all he takes the shot, and in his hands, it looks too small. He holds it up to you and downs it without blinking. The corners of his lips twitch and his hooked nose wrinkles a bit, looks like he wasn't expecting the stronger stuff.

His compliment makes your cheeks burn; you twist the material of your cloak in your hands. "Well...nothing says a lady can't buy a gentleman a drink, does it?"

"I reckon not. Just ain't used to it s'all." He puts the glass down with a gentle tap. "But you're sittin' in this here bar all by your lonesome askin' for me. So... here I am. Somethin' I can help ya with?"

How much of your conversation with the bartender had he heard? Enough to make you nervous that other people were listening in. Your hands lowered to the derringer strapped to your thigh, under the long skirt no one knew it was there. You palmed the handle and took a deep breath. There was no real plan to use it, but it brought you a little comfort. Just a reminder that it was there.

"Yes I-"

You're cut off by the sound of screams. From a few of the waitresses and working ladies to be exact. You look over your shoulder, it's coming from your six. Where the bartender told you not to look.

 A burly man stands up and when he does, he looms over most of the men in this establishment. Slicked back short black hair tucked inside a crumpled up old bowler. For all the grime and dirt on the man the one thing you could give was that his handlebar mustache looked nice. The rest of him, not so much.

His voice bellows out, bringing an end to upbeat show tunes. "Broflovski! Yous here fer my head ain't ya!"

The man grins like he's proud of the fact that he's garnered such attention. The way he carries himself almost has you fooled if it wasn't for the bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.

"Not at the moment, no. I was in the middle of havin' a conversation. Rather rude to interrupt a lady Knucklehead." You don't know if Kyle is calling the man a knucklehead or that's just some stupid bandit name.

Either way he sneers and with a flick of his wrist he tosses the gamblers table to the side. Chips and cards go flying up in the air, the poor dealer scrambles to get out of the way.

"I don't care if you was havin' breakfast with the fuckin' Queen of England! You shoulda know better than ta come in 'ere without a lil' backup. See I ain't one fer duelin' so we're gonna have ta do this the ol' fashion way. With yous layin' face down in the dirt bleedin' out ta death!" He whistles and a few more men sitting at other tables stand up.

Couldn't have been more than five or six, every single one of them equipped with some kind of weapon. Rusty nails pushed into wooden boards. Chains being spun around so fast it creates a little breeze. The sounds of their spurs jangling as they start to step closer.

Kyle puts his hands up defensively, the laid-back smile he had on his face falls when they get closer. "Now come on, can't we talk this out. Like I said, I ain't finished my conversation. It'd do you well to learn some manners. Call your men off."

He's not asking. The way he narrows that dark greens at the man makes the room feel cold. For a minute you think you see a spark in those eyes, a glint of something dangerous.

"God damn it..." You almost don't catch the bartender behind you mumbling, but you do hear the rack of a gun clear as day.

It's quiet all except for the way Knucklehead growls, deep and low in his chest. Despite having all these men, he still somehow looks like an animal backed into a corner. The bead of sweat trailing down his face travels lower. Down his cheek, towards his jawline where it hangs. Then...it falls. Drips onto the sawdust covered floor.

Plip

Click. Bang.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling someone's hands on your shoulder. You're hoisted in the air and thrown over the bar, you can hear the way glass shatters. Another collection of screams, and then nothing but groaning. When you open your eyes, you're in the arms of the bartender, the woman has the both of you pulled down and tucked behind the bar. Safe certainly isn't the word you'd use here, but it was better than being in the crossfire.

She's got another cigarette lit in her mouth; a shot gun pointed up towards the ceiling. You strain your ears, but you think you can hear her counting in Spanish. You can smell the gunpowder in the air, it's almost as thick as the tension. Then there's a different sound. A grunt of pain and the sound of a chair being broken.

"Thought you could really take us all on?! You're fucking daft!"

The gunslinger lets out a strained laugh, wiping the blood off the corner of his mouth. Splinters of the wooden chair catch in his curls. The man took a hit from the gorilla and is still standing. Well, more like leaning over the side of the bar for support, but nevertheless his eyes are still open.

"Daft is a big word for you Knucklehead. Gotta give it to you!" His voice sounds strained and broken. You catch the way he's struggling to breathe yet still has it in him to snap back.

Without thinking you take the shotgun from the bartender and before she can protest you lower the barrel towards the man. He seems surprised to see you jump up from behind the bar, he must have really not cared that you were there. But a loaded gun that can shoot slugs the size of an acorn sings a different tune.

"Now missy...this ain't got nothin' ta do with you. Yous don't wanna get yourself wrapped up in somethin' I don't think you can handle." Knucklehead's eyes lower to the gun in your hand, the gravity of the situation sinks in. Not enough for him to let the gunslinger’s throat go, but enough to where he's contemplating backing away.

"Let him go. Let him go and back away." You keep your voice steady, that nervous air about you slips away and a different mask comes on.

That mask you've had to wear every time you look danger in the eyes. You don't see a man choking a bounty hunter to death, you see a large target. A light you could snuff out with a twitch of your index finger. You can see it in his eyes, the way he looks down at Kyle, whose smirk has returned. Then back up at you, staring down the barrel of the shot gun. It's cold double barrel unblinking eyes.

"Whattya say Knucklehead... feelin' lucky?" Kyle is able to put a little distance between Knucklehead's hands and his throat. Enough to take another gasp of air and spout some cocky one-liner.

It must have pushed the brute over the edge because he went to move again. If you had to guess it would be to lift Kyle up and use him as a shield. But he doesn't get that far. Doesn't even make it past a muscle twitch because your trigger finger is faster. For the second time that night shots ring out, but this time it's only the bandits scream that fill the air. He goes flying back letting the red head go.

If it wasn't for the bartender, you would have gone flying back as well. The force of a shotgun wasn't something you were used to. Compared to your derringer’s little kicks, the shot gun was in a league all on its own. Her hands keep your body steady, holding you by the waist. She lets out a puff of smoke and sighs.

"Nice shot." Once she realizes you're okay to stand on your own, she breaks the silence with praise and lets you go.

"O-oh...um thanks." It makes your face flare up; the fact the entire bar’s attention is now on you. The wondering eyes make you squirm and want to shrink back down behind the bar.

"Shoot a man dead in his chest and ya get a little flustered over a compliment." Kyle laughs in between trying to catch his breath, his coughs sound painful.

You avert your eyes from him, like it will do your blushing face any favors. Trying to ignore the way his laugh makes your body burn. Something about it makes you feel a bit tingly. It's either that or the adrenaline coursing through your veins. They land on the man bleeding out on the floor. He's clutching his sides spouting so much profanity you feel like you need to confess at the church just hearing it.

Just as Kyle finally gets the ability to breath properly again, the sheriff and his men come bursting through the door. The same sheriff who you had a problem with. The same one who put you on this crazy path. Once again, things could never just be simple. Every little fucking thing had to get in your way.

His eyes fall on the man first, then on you. Then on the gun in your hands and you immediately groan. Of course, he had to come in just as you slugged a man. With a scoff, he gestures to his men to round up the other bleeding bandits. Kyle was able to take down the other group by himself. Their leader using the men as bait so he could close the distance.

You push the shotgun back into the bartenders’ hand and sigh. Kyle watches as you lift your skirt and put your foot on the counter. Without a second thought he offers you his hand and helps you down off the bar. You take it and allow yourself a quick smile. One the sheriff is quick to wipe away.

"It's always you. I guess I didn't make myself very clear." He says with a sneer. "I thought you were smarter than this, seems I was the one mistaken."

You shoot him a look, brows furrowed in confusion. "Sheriff, I didn't start this! I was just defending my um..."

Friend? Soon to be employee? Guy I just bought a drink for. Shot another man for?

"I wasn't talking to you woman!" He snaps, eyes flickering between yours and Kyle's. When they land on the man his eyes narrow. "Was talkin' about this one! Coming into my town, causing trouble! Think just because your daddy was a lawyer you're above the law!"

The look the red head gives him would be enough to kill. Death himself would answer that call. You watch a vein pop out from the side of his temple, his hat and hair barely covering it. Kyle didn't even show that much anger towards the man who threatened his life and interrupted his conversation.

"Sheriff Cartman I wouldn't have to come to this town and clean up your mess if you and your men did your fucking job!" Kyle hisses through gritted teeth, emphasizing the word this like he's reminding the sheriff the town doesn't belong to him.

"I should've known better than to think you could be anything but trouble! I should haul you in with the rest of 'em!" Cartman's voice is dangerous, completely immune to the looks he's getting from Kyle.

"On what grounds?!"

"On the grounds that I'm the fucking sheriff and I'm sick and tired of your bullshit!"

"That ain't enough to bring me in you fat son of a bitch!"

"Let's go ahead and tack on threatenin’ a man of the law to that too! Wanna keep going Kyle?!"

Cartman uses his first name so casually. The air grows heavy again as the two men get into each other space. Neither go for their weapons instead fingers curl around the collar of each other's shirt. Kyle looks like a lit fuse ready to blow and Cartman is just adding fuel to an already dangerous fire.

"A-Actually Sheriff! If I may!" You don't know what compelled you to put yourself in between the two bickering men. Guess there was a little left in the old adrenaline tank, taking down a man twice your size will do that to you.

"What?! Get in my way and I'll make sure to slap you with a fine as well! Helping a criminal won't look good on your record!"

"Criminal!?"

"Gentleman! I believe the lady is trying to talk! Now you either let her talk, or you take this shit outside!" The bartender cuts them both off by slamming her hands on her bar. Her voice isn't loud but it's enough to make both men stop.

The sheriff mumbles something under his breath that makes the bartender narrow her eyes. He turns to you giving you the floor.

"Sheriff just...please hear me out." You've dealt with men like the sheriff before. Men who think they're the smartest man in the room, so it's best to just make them think they're right.

"Fine. Go ahead."

"Thank you. Y-you see...I was just following your advice! You told me to find some help and that's what I did!" As you explain yourself Kyle's brows furrow in confusion. "I was looking to hire Mr. Broflovski here."

"Didn't realize you were selling yourself out now Kyle. Bounty hunting too hard for you?" The sound Kyle's teeth makes as they grind together makes your breath hitch.

"If Mr. Broflovski here agrees, I'd like for him to take me out west. If you think about it this is the best outcome. You wouldn't have to deal with me anymore and I'd be taking him with me."

"Now hold on-"

Cartman cuts him off like he's not even there, at this point Kyle's face matches his hair. "You're leaving? Jesus christ why didn't you lead with that!"

"Yeah..." You smile and let out a little sigh, the whole situation would be a lot funnier if it wasn’t you.

"I tell you what...you leave tonight. You and that ginger fuck get out of my town, my state, my side of the country! I'll give you an hour and if you're not out of here. I'll run you down like dogs!" Sheriff Cartman looks pleased with himself and the whole idea, but the more he speaks the more it comes through gritted teeth.

"Two hours."

"One and a half, only because I'm in a good mood." He clicks his tongue and turns on his heel. "Plus, however long it takes for my useless deputy to book these assholes." Cartman turns his back on both of you and walks towards his posse.

Great. You had an hour and a half to get out of town and you hadn't even asked the famous gunslinger if he was even willing to do this.

"Well, I reckon we outta be on our way." Kyle breaks your thoughts with the sound of his voice.

You look up at him with your eyes widened. He smiles down at you and flicks up his hat, moving the brim out of his face.

"No need to look at me like that. You told the Sheriff we'd be outta here so let's get a move on." He speaks.

Kyle makes his way towards the double doors without so much as a goodbye. You go to follow him but stop, turning back towards the woman behind the bar who is just picking up the broken glass scattered around the bar.

"Um...ma'am." When you call out for her, she turns and looks in your direction.

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

".... You’re welcome, now get outta here. You wouldn't last a day behind bars, so go on. Get."

A soft smile plays on your lips. She was right, you had a long road ahead of you.

The bartender looks back over her shoulder when she hears the double doors close again. She let out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. As she stands up with the metal pan filled with broken glass, her head lulls to the side.

"What I wouldn't give to be a tumbleweed following them. Ya got your work cut out for you Broflovski." A smirk plays on her lips.

Kyle leads you out towards the stables where he kept his horse. She was a pretty horse, a blend of brown and whites painting down her back. She doesn't stir much until Kyle gets closer, when he's within reach she bends down and presses her head against his hand.

He smiles and touches the side of her face, petting the sides gently. There was that soft and warm feeling you got when he first sat down next to you. Even after the bar fight and the whirlwind of events that happened, he found a way to go back to being so gentle. When he turns to look back at you, you quickly find something else to look at. Suddenly the saddle on the back of his horse looks so very interesting.

"I don't s'pose you got your own horse, do ya?" he asks as he unhitches his horse from the post.

"No, I don't. I... wouldn’t even know how to go about riding one." That seems to catch him off guard.

"Hm... We’ll have plenty of time to fix that. For now." Kyle walks over to you and whispers a, ‘pardon me'. His gloved hands cup your hips and lift you up. He lifts you like a child would their doll, like you weigh nothing. He sets you down on the back of his horse, guiding your legs over the side of the large creature.

It feels so strange, the way something so powerful just stands there letting him do it. You cling to the saddle for dear life as it takes a few steps forward and then back. If you had to guess she was just as surprised as you were.

Kyle swings himself up onto the horse shortly after. He puts his arms around your waist, being oh so careful on where he lets his arms rest. His hands find the reigns and it forces him to get closer. Close enough to where you can feel his chest against your back.

You can feel his heart beating against his chest, it makes you feel a little better knowing he seems to be just as nervous as you. At the very least that's what you're telling yourself. You can't see his face, unable to move any part of your body out of fear of falling off.

No, you can't see the blush that’s creeping across his freckled face. Can't see the way it trails down his neck, disappearing behind the layers of his clothes. You would never know how much he's mentally screaming at himself to get a grip.

"Gonna be a little uncomfortable at first. Just bear with me for a while. As soon as we hit the next town, we'll see what we can do about gettin' you your own horse." With that he clicks his tongue and snaps the reigns.

You let out the smallest squeak as the horse goes from a gentle little trot to a full-on sprint. Your hands fly out to grab onto Kyle's arms using the cowboy to steady yourself. A part of you thinks about asking him to just go ahead and drop you off at the holding cell. At least then you could die behind bars and never make such embarrassing noises again. The other part of you felt a twinge of excitement when you heard him chuckle. Feeling the way it made his chest vibrate low. It kept you warm against the cold wind that rushed past you.

It doesn't take long before Kyle feels your body go slack. He peers down at you and feels his heart leap up in his throat. You were tucked up against his chest, arms wrapped around your frame fast asleep. He only wishes that he could slow down so he can take off his sarape and bundle you up in it. Instead, he settles for pulling you closer, caging you in his arms. He'd do everything in his power to make sure the ride was at least a smooth one and by the time you'd wake up, hopefully, he'd have you out of town. And hopefully then he can get more details about this job he blindly accepted from you.

For now, he'd let you sleep as he rode out towards the moon. Nothing but the wind at his back and the large pale light to his front.

Next Chapter ->

[seonghwaddict]

ateez’s favourite positions — masterlist

requested by anon. genre. hc, smut rating. mature. warnings. sexual content mdni, various sex positions, nicknames n stuff. wc. 768.

[ lilo’s notes . . . ] thank you for requesting~ i had to do research for this and like… why are there so many names for the same positions??? and some of these are such weird obscure names i genuinely stared at my screen so blankly cuz who came up with these- not only that but some of the positions i saw looked SO UNCOMFORTABLE??? anyways, moving on and if you aren’t familiar with these position… i suggest looking them up because i will NOTTTTT be providing any links 😁

hongjoong

face sitting. when he says sit on his face he means sit on it. he likes how his mouths drives you wild and how you have to stop yourself from just grinding on his face—he’d lift you for like two seconds to encourage you to do just that. and you see that couch in his studio? yeah i’m not gonna elaborate.

“baby, sit.”

seonghwa

missionary. when he’s not torturing you with his tongue, he likes to fuck you deep and slow. missionary may sound very plain, but occasionally he’ll throw in a blindfold or some restraints. almost if the time, though, he wants it to be just you and him. he likes this position so he can see your face clearly, watching the way you unravel with each frustratingly slow grind of his hips.

“hm, look at you… so pretty and all for me.”

yunho

backseat driver. he’s not very picky about positions, but he does like having you in his lap while he’s gaming. whether it’s him ending a game badly and needing relief right there or you wanting to tease and distract him, he will always revel in the subtle arch of your back and bounce of your tits, having to keep both you and himself quiet when he’s on a call and playing with his friends.

“keep it down, yeah? we don’t want everyone to hear you like this, now do we?”

yeosang

leap frog. he’s an ass guy idc what ANYONE says. if you’re telling me he won’t stare at the way your ass bounces against pelvis, you’re dead wrong. he likes to reach over and give your clit some attention too. yeosang also leans down to kiss your back sweetly while also fucking you like his life depends on it. guys i am DEEP in yeosang brain rot rn if i continue i fear i won’t be able to stop.

“get your face out of that pillow, pretty girl. let me hear you.”

san

spooning. i think that, yes, occasionally he’d like to be rough, but i will NEVER back down from my soft dom!san agenda. in this position, he’s able to hold you and keep you warm and make you feel good all over. the technicalities(?) of spooning you feels good for the two of you—your thighs pressed together making your walls hug him tighter. this is also a good position for him to gently fuck you to sleep at the end of the day. also: comforting kisses all over your shoulders and the back of your neck… he just wants to make you feel nice and comfortable and keep you safe in his arms :(

“just relax, baby… you know i’ll take care of you.”

mingi

tabletop. if no one’s around, he’ll risk taking you right on the kitchen counter. if that’s not possible, he’ll lick the bedroom door and sweep any items off his desk and take you there. there’s something about seeing you say somewhere and being the one standing between your legs and coaxing orgasm after orgasm out you that makes his insides feel all hot and tingly. this also give the two of you good access to kiss each other all over your torsos.

“i’ve got you, doll, just give me one more, i know you can do it.”

wooyoung

ballet dancer. specifically against a wall, or door, or window, or- you get the point. any vertical surface will do. one hand on your waist or breast or neck and the other hitching your thigh around his hips. sometimes he’ll be fucking you so well, your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders or chest—he really likes that.

“does that feel good, jagi? yeah? i’ll keep doing that then, but make sure i can hear those pretty sounds, hm?”

jongho

cowgirl. don’t be fooled, though you may be on top, he’s still in control. he lets you fuck yourself on his dick for a bit and when you close, he’ll flip you over so quickly you get whiplash. but that’s on days where he’s feeling like a menace. other than that, he does actually love the sight of you on top of him, claiming him as yours. he doesn’t have a preference for sitting or laying down, he’s perfectly happy as long he can see your fucked out and desperate face.

“there you go… you take me so well…”

　　[ networks ... ] @cromernet @wonderlandnet

　　[ perm taglist — open ... ] @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl @likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo

[dawnrider]

@brain-rot-hour was working on a piece for today's @inukag-week prompt of Personal Space and the conversation evolved to writing about the scenario they created and here we are!

Have a citrus-scented canon universe vignette to go with brain-rot-hour's piece which you will not want to miss. 😏

“Damn monkeys," he growled.   Rolling her eyes, Kagome sighed. "You always let them get to you when they aren't even youkai.” She shook her head with a wry smile. "I can't just kill ‘em. You'd make me feel all guilty.” His face was twisted in a pout, his ears laid back in frustration.  “Pretty sure you'd manage to make yourself feel guilty without my help.”  “Keh.” Deny it though he might, she knew she was right. He was much more of a softy than he liked to admit. “Let’s get that scratch looked at. Don’t want it getting infected.” He nudged her shoulder where his kosode draped down her arm. It was too big, but it was better than her own clothes which were in tatters from the attack. 

She shut the door to the abandoned hut they’d found after herself, waiting for Inuyasha to pass one last inspection and give the nod of approval that it was safe. “Last time I let Shippou rummage through my bag unsupervised,” she grumbled, dropping said bag onto the floor.  The monkeys had been attracted to the smell of fruit soaked into her clothes which the kitsune had spilled when trying to get his crayons from the bottom of her backpack. Needless to say they didn’t understand “no” and “stop that.” Kagome felt lucky that a few small scratches was all she had to show for it. Inuyasha was unfortunate enough to get bitten in the side, so they were taking the time to get cleaned up. Clean water and bandages set aside, Kagome settled herself on the edge of the table so she could get a good look at the bloodied bite just to the left of Inuyasha’s navel. His suikan had been dropped to the floor and she was met with the entire expanse of his torso. A very nice torso that has a bite in it… Swallowing, she used a soft damp cloth to clean the wound, then apologized profusely as she prepared to press the alcohol-soaked cloth to it. She flinched at the same moment he did, but not because of the sting. His large hands, previously pressed onto the tabletop on either side of her, had drifted to her knees and reflexively squeezed when he tensed. He hadn’t caused more pain. In fact… “Sorry,” he murmured. Kagome bit her lip, then went about putting the gauze and tape over his wound. “That scratch… It needs disinfected.” “I can reach it.” “Probably. What if there’s another?” Kagome sucked in a breath as his hands oh-so-carefully brushed aside the length of his kosode, baring her up to her thighs. His nose twitched. “They got your middle too, didn’t they?” “I-I can reach that.” He hummed, his face next to hers so that she couldn’t see his eyes. Kagome felt her heart racing. A shiver went through her when air hit her midriff. “Let me check.” Long warm fingers traced up across her thigh until they met her belly, which tightened at the brush. She struggled not to recoil in surprise, biting her lower lip. “Anything hurt?” A quick shake of her head. His hands returned to her legs, thumbs lightly pushing against the softer skin of her inner thighs until they parted to allow his hips between. “What about here?” he breathed, cheek brushing against hers as he spoke. “Anything stinging?” She murmured that she was fine. “Aching?” She gasped lightly in response. How did he know? She could hear the smirk in his breathy laugh. His hand brushed against the outer side of her knee, fingers curling under and lightly pressing his claws into the soft underneath. “Inuyasha?” she questioned, unable to resist the pull of his soft cheek against her own, the tiniest brush of his lips against her ear. He huffed another laugh at the way she arched into his space. “I’ll make sure there’s not a mark on you.” He paused, pressing a much more intentional kiss to the space just in front of her ear as his thumb pressed a little more into her thigh, claw providing just the slightest prick along the nerve endings. “Not from the monkeys anyway,” he promised. Kagome smiled softly.

[txttletale]

Could you try to explain what you mean by your post about only engaging with one specific cross section of a medium in a bit more detail? It sounds interesting but I'm not sure I quite understand what precisely you mean by it. Only if you want to and have enough time of course <3

the archetypal example is fanfic writers who only read other fanfiction (specifically a certain milleu of shippy, fannish fanfiction) -- but i don't like using that example in isolation because it's usually accompanied by a load of silliness about how That Damn Ao3 Is Rotting Kid's Brains or whatever. and it's not a phenomenon unique to fanfiction, which is why i was so broad in my original post -- off the top of my head some prevalent examples are shonen anime made by people who only watch shonen anime, or prestige iowa-workshop literary fiction made by people who only read contemporary literary fiction, or tabletop RPG stuff made by people who have only played dungeons & dragons.

& again because these kinds of statements are often included with this sort of judgemetnal moralizing tone i want to be clear that i don't think that these type of media engagement habits are moral failings or intellectually degenerative or whatever. but nihil sub sole novum--all art is recombination. i am a strict materialist--i do not believe that 'ideas' can come from anywhere but your influences--i do not think there is such a thing as autocthonous self-generated 'originality'. and the more ideas and influences and concepts you have in your mental and artistic toolbox to recombine, the easier it is to create something good and interesting and powerful. and if you have a very narrow and blinkered field of media interest, that toolbox is going to just be dozens upon dozens of the same tools combined in the same way--often producing copies of copies of copies of an idea that have lost any impact or intent the original idea had.

[libras-interactives]

Do you have any OC’s for Lackadaisy who didn’t make it into the fic or who were made after you started writing? I love hearing about all of them so much

;v; wagh

So 2~3 of these kitties are connected to Devil's Moon characters but probably won't show up (or at least, will only be mentioned), and two arent related to it at all.

Viviana Carmina Holst - Slyvester's wife, who Ive thought so much about but may not even show up "on camera" LOL. A calico with auburn hair she keeps in a fairly old-fashioned style, to match her more modest dress. She's thin and has big, bright green-brown eyes.

She's quite sociable, observant, easygoing and a terrible cardshark. She loves company and doesn't get it nearly as much as she'd like; they live in a modest yet well-decorated home outside St. Louis city limits. Carmina comes from a large Italian family. She was the first of her siblings to be born in America. She's always been known as Carmina to them (there were already three Vivianas in the extended family), and Vivi to her husband.

Because she and Slyvester could not have children, they adopted three nephews after the boys' parents passed (Carmina's side). The boys are now grown and the two oldest are quite successful. The youngest still lives with them to help his mother, as Carmina is disabled and Slyvester works a lot, and they've yet to find a live-in nurse that suits them.

Carmina and Slyvester grew up together in the same Italian-majority neighborhood; his family is Danish and was one of the few non Italians on the block. Carmina's parents approved of him bc he agreed to convert, they knew he wasn't a drinker, and they were relieved their sickly daughter was able to get married and have someone take care of her for the rest of her life.

Flynn's Family - I've thought a lot about them but I don't think they'll be super relevant or come up, alas. His older brother Seamus is fairly important to the business, but rarely makes himself known. He has some pretty bad physical and mental damage from the war, so tends to be anti-social, plus years of Flynn's emotional manipulation have taken their toll. Tomas was the youngest and the golden child, died in the war. Flynn couldn't stand him. Sorcha was older than Tomas but younger than Flynn, I'm still unsure what happened exactly, but she's not around her parents anymore. They didn't really dote on her like they did the boys, or Tomas.

Their mother was tall and slender, while the father was more stout and broad, and a little shorter - only Seamus had his build and coloring, the rest of the children were looked and were built like their mama. All of them had orange and black markings but the Flynn we know is the only chimera.

I keep wanting to think of more for the family - their history, and appearances and whatnot, but then I pull back because it "won't be relevant" in Devil's Moon ... well, might do it anyway bc I just like writing family dynamics and drama, lol. I already wrote a ton about Carmina so might as well.

Okay these two are 100% not UTDM related and from an Arkham Horror board game/kinda tabletop bc we rp'd it a ton. The setting is 1920s anyway, and I forced my friends to play and make lackadaisy OCs (it was my birthday damn it 😂). These two characters rotted a crater in my brain for 2 weeks straight and I still like em a ton. Sister Marguerite was mine and Father Elijah was initially my partner's but I have since stolen him haha.

Sister Marguerite, formerly Adelaide Whitaker. Wheeww... so much to say here but I'll condense it. Originally from a wealthy East Coast family, she was forcefully sent to a "wellness and manners" sort of school for "esteemed ladies" that was really just a ruse to hide her pregnancy. It wasn't a Magdalene asylum/laundry, though. She lost the child, but a handful of nuns showed her such kindness (and she'd had religious-fixated OCD for years that her family actively made worse anyway) that she converted to Catholicism and began the process of becoming a nun once she was old enough. She's happy with her current life, enough that her OCD has lessened somewhat, but ofc there are still bad days. She often fixates on physical purity, baptism and "healing water"; most of her sisters chalk her "peculiarities" up to her extreme devotion and are willing to overlook her bad, spiraling days bc shes v dear to them. She's a good-hearted woman, quiet, and doesn't scare easily. Puts others before herself again and again.

As a cat, she's white with unsettling sectorial heterochromia, big slender ears, and an odd face. Lackadaisy cats are generally pretty cute but she's meant to be more "homely". Her eyes are more unnerving than striking. This is the photo that was the first inspiration for her, though this kitty is very cute, haha. If she were human I think she'd have bright eyes and a very plain face. I've drawn her but my art is pretty oof! I need to keep practicing bc her face and headshape in particular are kinda different.

Actually considered reworking her backstory to be one of Jack's many siblings; he did have a sister who ran off, but thats kinda irrelevant in UTDM rn. If anything itd be mentioned in an epilogue.

Father Elijah - A handsome man from a good Midwestern family. They were disappointed when Elijah joined the church, feeling like he was wasting his potential. He's always felt close to God and wanted to help others, but he's also a deeply scholarly person and loves theology, even if some things he studies would be considered heretical. This doesn't necessarily mean he's open minded, especially to those he considers "irredeemable", but he's always polite, protective of his flock and usually a pretty affable guy.

Elijah certainly has some kind of mental stuff rolling around in his noggin; I don't want to call it disorder or illness, especially since he doesn't really have a name for it at the time period (like Marguerite with her OCD). In the tabletop, they came to Arkham together as allies and quickly became rather ... obsessed with each other. He's very fixated with Marguerite, believing her to be a pinnacle of what a godly person should be, and later believing she can actually speak to angels (or is one??). He wants so much of her attention, to hear her opinions and interpretations of faith. To say he puts her on a pedestal is an understatement. Calling it "romantic" interest isnt the whole picture, and too simple for... whatever the hell he's got going on. Marguerite admires him deeply but in a more "inspired" way. Platonic is also too simple for what she's feeling, but her attachment certainly isn't as deep as his.

As a cat he's an orange tabby with pretty blue eyes. Meant to be a really tall good looking dude, a contrast to Sister Margy. Maaany women in the church have admired him but he's never considered or indulged in feelings like that until Marguerite; he doesn't even consider his appearance much. Just tries to keep tidy. I also terribly drew him real quick for the tabletop. I think his ears should have kind of a cute shape and he's got extra fur around his face :3 Still not sure on what sort of tail he'd have, though.

Shoutout to tabletop!Father Elijah who dual wielded a pistol and giant crucifix on the regular, constantly threw himself into danger to save Margie and slowly became twisted by the dark powers he was trying so hard to stop 👍🏽 One of my favorite scenes was both of them jumping into a portal together, then getting separated bc we rolled poorly and they both got HP/Sanity down to 0. Elijah woke up in the hospital in extreme pain, left without fully restoring HP and ran all the way back to the church to find Marguerite. They held each other at the altar for a while and she gave him her rosary bc he lost his crucifix in the void. and they promised to never leave each other again and stayed attached at the hip in spite of the usual eldritch horrors. normal arkham horror things. I'd love to make Arkham LCG cards for them; theyve already got custom cards for the 2nd edition board game (but now my other fixations and nerdness is showing so ill stop here).

(shoutout to that poor eldritch-corrupted NPC who sister marguerite believed needed a baptism to restore him, so father elijah held the dude down while he almost drowned and margeurte prayed over him and one party member witnessed all this and told the others so EVERYONE avoided "those catholic freaks" for the whole session sdkdskfs)

[cyberdragoninfinity]

hi yeah i have a little more i want to add on to the Duel Links AI Characters thing. This kinda blurs the line between Headcanon and Theory tho

A really weird thing that is either brilliant subtext or me just reading in to things too hard is the progression of the AI Duelists. Not like, the release of duel worlds and stuff, or powercreep, or anything like that. I mean theres two real, defined types of AIs in Duel Links.

If you look at a lot of the DM characters... theyre fairly flat. Like yeah I know thats also true of Téa/Anzu and Mai and stuff in the show, but it applies to pretty much the entire starting roster. The most odd yet obvious example of this is, oddly enough, Yami Yugi. My mans got Nothing. Hardly shows up in events, any place he would its usually Yugi(DM) instead, and he had very few gate interactions.

Now, think about that from a lore perspective. Yami Yugi is the whole fuckin' point of this. This is the AI Kaiba set out and tried to make, wanted to fill the gay ass void in his heart see again, and he's so... bland. Uninteresting. Why?

Turns out, its because of that very reason. He was the First, of course hes gonna be worse than the others. As time went on, Kaiba got better at making the AIs. And at first, it really was him making the AIs. Let me explain.

Again, looking at the earlier characters again, something becomes obvious. These characters are bland because theyre almost... missing something. If you look at everything they say, everything they do, something clicks. Its all stuff Kaiba either heard about secondhand, or was physically present for. He made the best approximation he could, on his own, but theyre just that: approximations. Easy best example is the first ever event character, Yami Bakura. A fascinating character in Duel Links lore, simply because he's the first Self Aware AI. A big question that comes out of this is Why, and the answer I believe is rlly cool: hes not Yami Bakura. Not even close. Like yeah obviously hes an AI clone, but thats not even what I mean. Kaiba knows so little about Bakura that he couldnt even make a complete personality. He just put a kinda mischevious personality in a Bakura Costume, gave it an interest in occult and Tabletop RPG games, and told it to do its best.

But this is Seto Fucking Kaiba. He doesnt settle for that. So, he got to work on a new, better system. A System that lets him use [insert bullshit explanation here, I like "uses the collective memories of players"] to truly copy people down to their very souls. And the first few times, it goes well. It really is an exact replica... and maybe, maybe thats an issue.

Pegasus J. Crawford has been dead for years at that point, but his impact on the game and large presence make it almost obvious in hindsight. If it were anyone but Seto Kaiba, this might have been the cue to say "hey maybe this is a little fucked up and I need more control over who gets added."

However, Seto 'As the owner of a major corporation I have to do that everyday' Kaiba dont roll like that, so he just leaves the Soul Printer on to do whatever the fuck it wants, and... yeah. After that point, every other AI, along with the duel worlds, is a result of the soul printer. Maybe he should have at least limited the scope to this dimension and the egyptian afterlife tho.

Theres also an argument that its not that the soul printer wasnt ready, its that he needed a playerbase to steal the brain power off of to run said soul printer, so he whipped up the first few to get started.

...sorry i forgot just how much brain rot this game caused me and ur earlier posts got me going again ;-;

OOOHOHOHOHOO THIS IS SUPERRR SUPER GOOD STUFF and I definitely think this is picking at what's really under the hood here. Transcend Game was all about Kaiba using people's (many of which being CHILDREN'S) brainwaves to create images and experiences, so it really would not be out of his ballpark to get the system running and just leave it to do its thing while he goes off and obsesses over shit like Why Isn't The Atem AI Right. It's Not Perfect. Why Isn't It Perfect.

and now you've got the AIs themselves producing 'brainwaves' and feeding memories into the system, and that's popping More AIs into the world in turn (i.e. Yuto's and Yuya's memories being the catalyst for Shay showing up, etc.) and they're...uh. starting to get self aware!!!! SO THAT'S FUN. It's like an ouroboros feedback loop of fake memories creating fake memories creating copies of what was once someone's memories.

All cuz SOMEBODY wanted to be king of a virtual reality even though he has more money than god and better things he could be doing 🙄

[shrodingersbox]

hiiiiiii there hi i'm so sorry for the disturbance, but i'm in the process of putting together a personal reference document on early ( to be precise, late pleistocene in europe ) humans, and their way of life, starting from the smallest domestic things to necessities for surviving their native climate - including the way they would prepare and utilize animal parts for clothing, bedding, shelter etc.

i need to disclaim that it's not some serious thing! it's not for academia or anything else, i am just-- god this is shameful --- putting together a tabletop campaign with a hilarious amount of research for an ice age setting that also incorporates magic and dinosaurs 😭

so, the specific reason i'm here ( and in a couple other inboxes, you might see me ) is because i am looking for resources on how one could prepare animal parts - skin, hair, bone, antlers - without relying on any modern tools, chemicals, etc.. and how such prepared products would differ from those you'd see today.

fun things i've been told so far, but which might not be accurate, is that large anthills could be used to clean bones over the span of a month or so ( paired with cooking the bones, but i'm not sure if that'd be before or after? ) and that the process of tanning in some cultures includes smearing the hide with a mixture of animal brain, liver and salt. if you live by the sea, very resourceful!

unfortunately i have basically zero practical experience with 'natural' tanning methods because i'll be honest, they're super hit and miss and most people these days who try them either quit or go to a synth tan because it's actually reliable.

that being said, the options you have are, generally: brain, egg, and leaf tanning (from what i understand.) the hides still need to be scraped out, usually on a rack with a knife or ulu-like tool to remove flesh, fat, and to thin the skin, and then painted with the fat or soaked in the tannins. then the hides will need to be broken as it dries and smoked - the smoke is actually one of the most important parts as this is what actually finalises the tanning process. it's difficult to keep the fire at a good temp for smoking and not burning and it takes several hours to do. if you don't smoke the hide it won't be waterproof and thus not useful for garments or furniture :)

i am assuming, at least, that these hides won't be as soft as a modern tan, but will be usable as evidenced by, uh, well, our ancestors using them for millennia haha.

what i do have more experience with "natural" methods is bone cleaning! i have tried the anthill method and personally it was better for cleaning off skulls that already are mostly clean, but it still wasn't that great imo. dermestids, as you've probably heard, are the best for the job but in the wild they aren't as reliably available and prefer dried-out/jerkeyed meat. so great in the desert, not so much if you're in the fantasy equivalent of the american pacific northwest :')

i use flies - just normal ass flies, since maggots like wet/rotting meat - and a combo of that + maceration (soaking the skulls in water so bacteria help eat the flesh) can get a skull clean in about a week if the weather is warm. this is, of course, the stinky way to do it, and there's usually some gross cleanup afterwards in the form of picking your bones/teeth out of the meat and hair soup, but the maceration water helps to degrease the skull as it rots. if you cook a skull it can damage the bone and make it brittle, as well as cook grease into the bone and make it really gross, stinky, and it will leach grease for eternity. if your characters have watertight containers that flies have access to and don't mind smelling rotting meat for a week, that's the way i would go.

hopefully that helped! and don't be ashamed of writing for ttrpgs, i spend every other saturday of my life playing dnd (now to be pathfinder as soon as the dm gets the system figured out) and yes, i have played a guy obsessed with bones (rip kip carrol you were my favourite). of course, he could magically clean bones, but y'know.

[quicklyscribbledpoems]

“Burnout”

Fires on both sides of the country like walls closing me in

Sepia toned domes painting the sky orange

Mirroring the fires in my brain

Isn’t it funny how we do that, burning from the inside and the outside at once?

But my brain, unlike the forest, is young and will grow back every day after burning itself down

The skies will flash orange and blue in a never ending timeloop

Sometimes slowing, sometimes speeding by, sunrise and sunset as fast as a strobe light, but always looping

Time is a circle in the mind

And life is not a path but an endless landscape of rolling hills

And we are on a hike until we die

Just trying to enjoy the view enough to lose track of time

Try not to notice the flickering sky

I have only now realised my ambitious nature at once feeds on praise like a fire on paper and denies it, saying “no, you are mistaken. I am not good enough. Not yet.”

Two pairs of hands tapping on a tabletop, inching closer together but never touching, not even knowing if they want to touch, not even knowing what it will feel like

The sun streams in ribbons through the clouds and I want to drink the light it offers

I worry with every second I don’t work that I am wasting my life

That I am watching myself rot and die in slow motion with every second I rest

And all people have to say to that is “I wish I had your work ethic”

My work ethic is admirable until it comes to forming emotional connections

I go from a worker and a fighter to last year’s autumn leaf, a weak and crumbling mess

The thought of illustrating my feelings with this voice, not quite my own, is agonizing

In every picture, every mirror, I don’t see myself

Not because I don’t look like myself but because I think

“He is too happy, too handsome, too successful to be me”

I am aching to see the forest for more than the trees

To get to a hill high enough to see the rest of the landscape laid out before me

I think if I just get to the highest point I could see the ends of the earth

But the hill we climb is not that simple, by the time

we reach the end of the foothills and arrive at the foot of the mountain

we die, gasping for breath

And only when the wind carries our frail and lifeless bodies up above can we see there is no end to the earth

Nothing has inherent meaning, only the meaning we give it

Our lives are entirely what we make them and that terrifies us

And there’s only a few things that terrify me more

And those are

Fires on both sides of the country like walls closing me in

Two pairs of hands tapping on a tabletop, inching closer together but never touching, not even knowing if they want to touch, not even knowing what it will feel like

[middlestman]

1. Are you named after anybody?

Irl, I think my name has some sort of religious reference? Online, it's merely a reference to the Concept of The Middle Man.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Last week or so? I'm not the most frequent with that.

3. Do you have kids?

I am the kid.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

I dunno, do I? >:3c

5. What's the first thing you notice about someone?

If they're a lot taller than me that's the first thing I notice, then I see generally what kind of gender/queer vibe I might be getting off of them, and then I see if they're put together or exhibit nerodivergent traits. I try to evaluate what kind of person they are to match it. (And also see if they are safer)

6. What's your eye color

I have an aqua-gray color with Central Heterochromia. Basically, they have yellow/brown rings near the middle of them. I've been complimented on them a lot uwu

7. Scary movies or Happy Endings?

If it makes me laugh I like it, if it makes me cry I Love it.

In that sense both of them are fine.

8. Any Special Skills?

I've been told that I'm able to come up with elaborate story telling elements on the fly so that's poggers. I got them creative juices pumping 24/7

I'm also able to tell the differences between colors pretty well, but I'm fairly certain that's just cause I'm an artist.

9. Where were you born?

Utah. Yes, I am from the state that Wilbur Soots God damn minecraft character is from it haunts my dreams and makes me feel especially targeted

10. What are your hobbies?

Art. I also do video games and tabletop roleplay as well

11. Pets?

I don't have any but I do live with an orange tabby cat. He is cute but also grumpy uwu

12. What kind of sports do/did you play?

I played volleyball a bit just cause I needed the extra curricular and that was the most appealing because of anime brain rot (Haikyuu!!). I was also briefly into baseball but that didn't last long. Basically, I've never been a big sports guy

13. How tall are you?

5'8" although I might be off

14. Favorite Subject in school?

History purely because the teacher was cool- but I liked most of my classes. Technical classes like Chemistry or Math were always easier for me, and I also liked Art to cause I'm an artist for life. Basically, the main issues came with having to write because of Executive Dysfunction

15. Dream Job?

I want to make something that inspires people and changes them fundamentally. That's all I can really fully ask for.

Respond with your own answers if you want I will not stop u uwu

well this has gotten long so i made my own post. thanks for tagging me @beenovel!

Thank you for the tag!!

1. Are you named after anyone?

im named after my mom's favourite student ^_^ she was a schoolteacher for a couple of years and she named me after her dearest student. online names are just nicknames given to me lol

2. When was the last time you cried?

today.....

3. Do you have kids?

nope!

4. Do you use sarcasm

not all that much? like i don't understand sarcasm all that well so i try not to use it.

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

im usually trying to focus on what they're saying and not zone out lmao

6. What's your eye color?

dark brown!

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings.

8. Any special skills?

im good with computers and cracking problems apart! science problem, real life problem, math problem, doesn't matter i'm your gal

9. Where were you born

in >REDACTED<

10. What are your hobbies?

coding, robotics, watercolor, piano, painting, graphic design, listening to music..... there's a lot lol

11. do you have any pets?

no :(((

12. What sports do/have you played?

i can waveboard! its like a modified skateboard and i was really into that for a bit before the Illness hit. i can swim too!

13. How tall are you?

5'0

14. Favorite subject in school?

math physics chem and compsci!

15. Dream job?

astrophysicist or computational physicist

i'm tagging @solardrink @isomorbism @rlydsntmttr @kairoscelrosis @casketparty @gero-froggy and @meowsonyou!

[zorcskhakis]

Because I've spent way too much time thinking about this here's how the Ryou/YB dynamic has played out in my head

I know everyone likes Bakura as a malevolent entity who fucks up Ryou's life on purpose BUT consider: he's not exactly trying to do that. There's a couple things that are abundantly clear about Bakura which are foundational to my headcanon about his relationship with Ryou and those are:

1. He's kind of constantly operating on lizard brain levels. He acts on impulse most of the time without considering consequences, and there's plenty of evidence for this in the source material (stabbing himself when plotting with Marik despite there being zero reason to, his duel with Yami Marik where he fails to consider pretty much every long term implication of the moves he's making... etc etc etc.) He's not trying actively to ruin Ryou's life. He's got his own goals and he's following his basest instincts to realize them, without considering any long term impacts to either himself or his host.

2. In his own fucked up little way, he likes Ryou! As his reincarnation Ryou might be the closest thing he's ever had to family. We've watched him reject other hosts and specifically choose Ryou. Of course Bakura is still... Bakura so when Ryou is actively getting in the way of his goals he does lash out at him, sometimes pretty harshly. But we also see him act protectively towards Ryou, attacking someone who threatened him and ofc later on shielding him from Slifer. Also, if he wanted to hurt Ryou, he could let him see all the terrible things he's doing, but he doesn't, possibly because he knows it upsets him.

Keeping these things in mind, we can then consider that Bakura has... a laundry list of issues. He's still bitter about Kul Elna, VERY understandably so, and he's also dealing with 3000-5000 years of brain rot which has driven him even more crazy than he already was and also killed pretty much every last brain cell he had. Modern Bakura is demonstrably very stupid compared to Thief King. Make no mistake, Ryou is ABSOLUTELY the one holding all the brain cells in this equation.

The first time we see Bakura in the manga he's having a grand old time tormenting Yugi and his friends. I've seen a lot of people interpreting this as him making some kind of jab at Ryou, or lording his power over him, but...he didn't even realize Ryou was aware of what was going on until Ryou took over his hand. Is everyone forgetting the massive 5000 year grudge he's holding? The tabletop shit was personal, yes, but 100% directed at Atem.

I like to think that Ryou and Bakura had a talk after all that happened where Bakura probably explained why he's so angry at Atem and what happened in his past, and Ryou being categorically disturbed by it is probably the first time anyone has so much as remotely validated Bakura's genuine hurt over the trauma he went through. When we next see Ryou in the manga he's still got the Ring but tells everyone "don't worry, it's not going to control me anymore" which leads me to think he worked something out with Bakura and convinced him to leave his friends alone. Notably, after this, we do not see Bakura behaving aggressively toward *any* of the Yugang, except Atem. He's even pretty friendly to Yugi, in his own way! He does still control Ryou all the time, but he just can't help himself.

Which brings me to my next foundational piece, Bakura caves like a wet paper bag when Ryou genuinely stands up to him. Ryou is good in that he both validates that Bakura has genuine reasons to be pissed at the world but also that he cannot just go wild and ruin Ryou's life in the process of getting his revenge. Bakura... tries, from here on out, not to have Ryou be in the path of his chaos anymore, but of course it happens anyway because he is fucking stupid.

From here on out its basically Ryou trying desperately to control this feral goblin living in his brain and very often just throwing up his hands and saying fuck it. Bakura thinks they're best friends (which, lbr, they are.) and he will constantly leave shoplifted gaming paraphernalia around Ryou's apartment like a cat leaving dead mice. He sees Ryou like a little brother. Ryou largely doesn't try to stop Bakura from enacting his evil plans anymore, figuring he's too stupid to get anywhere anyway. Once Marik comes into the picture there's even less chance of him getting anywhere cause now he's distracted by a raging full five-alarm-mushy crush. Ryou is probably a little leery of Marik and the baggage HE'S bringing to the table but hey.... at least Bakura is happy.

Anyway I just think the Bakura Bros are neat, thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[citrineghost]

Struggling to stay organized because you have ADHD?

Well, I have a fantastic solution for you! There’s this bitchin site called Trello and I’m gonna tell you all about it

This is not sponsored, I just really like organization and Trello is awesome. And, as always, no readmore because this is targeted at ADHD people and y’all ain’t gonna click it

[ID: a picture of a website with many columns/lists. Behind the lists, there is a customized background. To the right is a sidebar showing that you can search Unsplash for backgrounds right from the site. Each column/list has a bunch of ‘cards’ on it. The cards each have a title and color coded label(s) /end ID)

Here’s a picture of my to-do board

There are some things blacked out, mostly just my avatar, name, and some original creative stuff I don’t feel like broadcasting.

So, Trello is broken up into different levels of organization. Let’s start with the most important level: boards.

Boards

A board is what’s pictured above. Think of it like a corkboard where you pin your notes. You can make as many of these as you want. You can title them, invite people to them, automate certain parts of them, and more.

On your board, you can make

Lists

Lists are those columns you can see on my board. You can title each list, click and drag them around to reorder them, set them to automatically label the things on them, and so on.

My lists on my to do board are titled with a time period for when I aim to do something. The time periods are large and vague, which makes them great for my ADHD. I can move things between them as I need, which is also great for my ever shifting brain thoughts. 

But! What makes it great is that whatever I put in the left list, titled Next, I know is what I need to be focusing on at the moment. It makes it easier to ignore what’s to the right of it and let’s me relax knowing I won’t just forget everything I’m not prioritizing.

Lists are used for holding

Cards

(ID: A picture of a small window that opens after clicking on a card. It contains the title, the labels (with their names now visible), and a functioning checklist. There is also a place to type a description, a place to add comments, and a list of buttons on the side for managing the card and its place on the board /end ID)

Each card can be as simple as containing just a title (making it a simple entry on your list), or as complicated as housing photos, descriptions, checklists, labels, and comments. You just click the card and it opens the window shown above.

My card is for a tabletop I’m working on, nicknamed TAP. I have it labeled with all of the things pertaining to what it involves (world building, writing, in progress, spreadsheeting, and art/creative). These color coded labels make it easy to see what kind of cards I’m looking at when looking at the overall board and lists.

As I do things on the checklist, I can mark them off. You can even set it to hide completed items on the checklist.

When I’m done with an item on my to do list, I click and drag the card to the Done list (which is offscreen on the far right). If you don’t want a visible Done list, you can also just archive a card and it will disappear from the board.

You can also set due dates on cards, which will notify you when they’re almost due or when the due date arrives.

Customization

One of my favorite things about Trello is that you can customize the appearance of your boards! My ADHD brain can’t stand looking at the same thing constantly, so it’s great that I can change things up. Each board can have its own design too, so you can match the vibes of the board with the appearance.

You can pick from a bunch of solid colors for your board or you can use the connection Trello has with Unsplash to search and select free stock images provided by photographers.

Other Parts of Organization

Not only do you have boards, lists, and cards, you can also make Workspaces, which are basically categories to sort your boards into. If you use Trello for projects, and have a board for each project, you can sort your boards into a Projects workspace.

There is also a function called Butler, which you can use to automate boards. For example, you can set it to automatically create a card called “Pay Rent” at the start of each month.

On the right, in the same sidebar where you can see the background options, there’s also an activity feed, tracking every time a card is moved, commented on, added, archived, and so on.

Team Work

Not only is Trello great for keeping private boards, you can also invite people to them! That makes it incredible for household management, group projects, or even friend groups who feel like storing plans and personalized memes. You can literally use it for whatever you want and in whatever way you want!

ADHD Applications

So, now let’s get down into the specifics of how this is great for people with ADHD.

You can make as many boards, lists, and cards as you want.

This is a big one for me, because I really struggle with websites that limit how much you can do with one account and force you to make multiples and then juggle multiple logins and so on. Start a new project? Make a new board. Follow your heart. Be free. If you end up giving up on it, just delete it, or store it for later. You can Star the boards you actively use and just use the Star list to access the boards you need, so if you star all your active ones and then ignore the unstarred, failed projects, you can leave them to rot or abandon them until the mood strikes again.

You can organize in a way that works for you.

So many organization applications are made to work one way and that can be really difficult to navigate as someone with ADHD. So many people with ADHD have such specific needs in regards to how they organize that it can be really hard to find something that works. Half the time we end up just scrambling around from application to application, cursing them as we go because one has one thing we like, but it doesn’t have the thing this other one has that we like and nothing ever seems to just work.

Trello makes it possible to personalize how you organize and even change how you organize halfway through. I keep my to do list organized in 4 priority levels with the addition of a Pin list and a Done list. You could also:

Keep a list that works as a calendar, with a card for each entry, organized in order of date

Keep a list of reminders where automated weekly/monthly/yearly responsibilities pop up

Jot down reminders as you think of them

Keep lists of school assignments in the order they’re due

Use descriptions and photo uploads on cards to collect information or resources needed for said assignments

Keep lists of information that’s easy to forget or lose track of on paper like address history, work history, references, contact information, and so on (like I’ve done on my ‘Pin’ list)

Use boards for projects, to keep track of things like resources, due dates, meeting times, sending files between classmates or project partners, and so on

Use boards for planning events like weddings, parties, conferences, school dances, or whatever else you’re into

Collect resources, references, or recreational to-dos (like links to fanfiction you want to read)

Literally anything

You can separate everything onto different boards, making everything visible from the titles of cards, or combine it all into one, with lots of information available on a click

The sky’s the limit

You can automate repeat tasks.

ADHD comes with a lot of forgetfulness when it comes to regular tasks, such as weekly appointments, medication reminders, and a yearly charge for your Nintendo membership. You can put that stuff into your calendar, but that can also be tricky because then you have information spread across multiple platforms.

Just as easily, you can set Butler to make new cards with reminders on them.

There’s probably more but I have ADHD and I forgot

Just think of the possibilities!!

I used to get debilitatingly stressed out because I would have 10 things floating around in my head because I was simultaneously trying not to forget them and also stressing about them and I would make what I call “spaghetti lists” where I would list all the things I’m thinking of, just as a way to calm down and know that I won’t forget them, so that my brain could quiet down.

Since starting this board, I haven’t had to do that once because all of the things I’m afraid of forgetting are already listed, even if they’re on the list titled ‘ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ‘ because idk if they’re ever actually gonna happen.

It can be incredibly stressful to see all of your to do items in one place, but since starting this, I have been less stressed overall, because I now know I can find them all in that one place. Learning to manage and cope with the stress of knowing I have a lot to do is easier than forgetting things and then realizing I’m late on something or things just never happening because I never remember them when I’m in a place where I can work on them.

And when you have everything in one place to reference when you have some executive energy, you can suddenly just start doing things. I have them labeled by type so I can go, “I’m in the mood to draw,” and then check all the dark blue labels for creative projects. It makes everything so much easier.

Anyway, I hope this is helpful to some of you, it’s genuinely been life changing for me

[pointed-beetle]

Troublesome Scientist (R'ka x Jeremy)

This is based in the universe that my friend @wthtorke has made with his character R'ka shipped with my human character Jeremy, I've had some brain rot of these two since I've talked about it with him and I expect this to drown and die (as well as a VERY briefly mentioned Kjuhte and Kaail)

TL;DR Torke owns everything but Jeremy

Word count: 1874

Warnings: Workplace abuse, stressful work conditions, mild glass inflicted wounds not described, mild blood, swearing

The hallways were silent and darkened, most of the life ceasing along the corridors that lead to and from this department of the ship. A singular station in the lab lit with a lamp, littered with notes and empty or broken test tubes, drops of blood trailing along the top of the counter before ceasing altogether before the very edge. Some laughter echoed through the metal hallway from the few departments run by shift exchanges. A man with a long white cover-up coat bunched up at his elbows stands in front of a cabinet thrown open, his heavy and tired eyes staring at the mess he was making by letting his hand bleed onto the once sterile floor, a frustrated noise escaping him in the form of a sigh before he grabs the necessary materials. He walks back to his table, clearing off the shards of glass before sitting down and tending to his hand, very carefully pulling chips from the side of his hand, a bored look on his face as he drops the blood-stained shards into the biohazard bin by his station. He quickly scrubs and covers his hand by the sink, looking back at the mess he made, and clenching his jaw, an exhausted yawn pulling him back to the reality where he needed to clean, not stare at it in anger.

Finally, he sits back at his seat, shoving his hand into his short curls and pulling at them as he takes notes, a heavyweight sitting on the top of his back as he translates the alien language that many of the humans on his team could not read. He sighs, rubbing at the side of his face with his injured hand in a frustrated manner. Eventually, he drops his coat onto the ground and adjusts his posture to push through the remaining translations. A whole cycle had passed before he had the chance to finish, his co-workers slowly filing in a few surprised at how early the man had been. He sends them a forced smile, sipping at the bitter energy drink he managed to find in the food fridge. “Jeremy did you finish the tests that Kj-” Jeremy cuts them off with a sip of his drink while he sifts through the paper that littered his area, handing them over and waving them off and going back to writing. His hand hurt, the muscle having locked up multiple times in the hours that he had been writing. He glares up from the edge of his glasses when another person approaches his desk, a swell of frustration and rage flowing through him before he takes a deep breath and carefully sets his pen down, entirely looking up at the Yautja that stood patiently in front of his desk. “Jeremy, we need those notes. Have you even been working on them? They should’ve been done long before now.” The male breathes in slowly, the breath shaky as he stands up carefully from his chair, taking a moment to organise his documents, wetting his lips before he speaks. “This is above 40 hours of notes taken, in a language that I have only been learning for the past five years, and that was given to me at the supposed end of my shift.” He pauses, taking a sip from the aluminium can before he smiles dangerously at the creature in front of him, tapping the drink down aggressively. “I have been awake for well over 12 hours, and I would like to request you fuck off until they are ready because you refuse to request classes for the other humans to learn your blasted language.” At this point, he was sneering his teeth at the creature in front of him. Hands pressed firmly into the tabletop, a stern, exhausted glare fixed into the other’s eyes. The alien looks at him incredulously, a snarl escaping him as he gets up in Jeremy’s face, causing the drink to spill over the male’s front. “You will NOT speak to me that way, or I will have your ass washing the bolts that the engineers use for the rest of your LIFE, you meat bag. So get the fucking notes done.” Jeremy barks out a laugh, flicking at his shirt and pulling it away from his skin, his jaw trembling from how hard he was clenching it at this point. “I’d like to see you try to get rid of me.” He snaps back, backing up from the table and shoving the notes towards the alien, “If you want them done so bad, why don’t YOU translate them.” He smiles at the creature and walks out after snatching up his coat from the floor, kicking the now empty can into a wall and down the corridors to a new open spot, his breathing heavy and shaky as he rushes past the morning shift, slowly making their way to their sections.

At some point, he finds a spot he can decompress, a dry sob erupting from him at his still wet and now sticky shirt as Jeremy pulls it as far away from his body as he can, his fingers trembling. He hated his job. He hated the people. Why couldn’t he go back to a nobody on Earth where he could disappear into the dirt and rot.

It was hard not to overhear conversations in the cockpit of the ship, they weren’t shoulder to shoulder, but the area was small enough to where unless you were speaking in whispers, everyone could hear everyone’s business. R’ka hadn’t meant to hear the complaint discussed with the Captain. His job was to figure out where they were according to the nearby satellites and direct the best path for the pilot to follow, but the area was just so tiny, and his hearing was oh so good. “He CAN NOT work in my lab anymore. He starts fights with the other scientists and doesn’t cooperate with anyone, refusing any help.” The Yautja’s tusks click together in an aggravated manner as he crosses his arms in front of the elite, the elder Yautja humming as he looks the male over for a moment. “Jeremy Morrison is allowed on this ship because he was an exceptional scientist on Earth with an even more impressive comprehension of our language. He worked fine on Earth, and his breakthroughs there is what led to his place on this ship.” The captain pauses to adjust his cape, a calm look to his demeanour, “From what both my pilots have viewed after doing their routine inspection for camera malfunction Mister Morrison was sat at his desk since all of you had walked out till about an hour ago, I think he listens very well to orders and even sacrifices his health for it. So perhaps you should be the one redirected for the lower levels of the ship that you deem so worthy of punishment.” The pilot lets out a loud snort as he types away at a keyboard, sending a report to another part of the ship, not at all hiding his eavesdropping. The scientist leaves, exasperated and like he’s about to pass out from anger, his cape flapping behind him in a sort of added demeaning way. R’ka is quick to excuse himself, mumbling to his partner about how he would be right back before making his way to the current pilot. Kaail’s mandibles spread in an amused manner when R’ka asks about the scientist that the Captain was speaking of, something in him buzzing with excitement as Kaail plays a clip of Jeremy getting in the other Yautja’s face. His mandibles click together in a sort of frustrated manner when he watches the drink soak into his clothes. Kaail chuckles at him, crossing his arms over his chest plate and leaning back into his chair, leaning his arm forward to flick through the cameras and aiming them at R’ka once more. “He’s in corridor E if you want to go help him out.” His tone is teasing and snarky as he turns the monitor away and gets back to work, the alien snickering when R’ka pivots and walks out, contacting his human partner to ask to borrow a shirt from their quarters.

“You made your head scientist almost blow a blood vessel.” R’ka chuckles behind the human, amused when he jumps and spins his head around from his seating spot, gripping onto his still wet shirt before a shaky sigh escapes him. “Navigator... You shouldn’t sneak up on people to tell them that they’re fired.” He chuckles a bit, turning back and staring out the viewing glass, sighing at the planet that they were closely passing. “From the conversation I listened to, I think your boss is more on the outs than you are.” He reassures, taking the spot next to Jeremy when the man offers it by shifting to the side to make room for the giant creature. R’ka passes him the shirt, and Jeremy gratefully takes it. The man is quick to peel off his shirt and slap it onto the floor after using it to try to rub off what was left of the wetness on his skin, pulling on the new fabric and sighing at the more comfortable feeling. “Your skin is gorgeous...” R’ka speaks softly, rubbing his thumb into his palm and tilting his head to get a better view of the other’s face, following the shapes of lighter skin colour that littered his otherwise dark cheeks. Jeremy's a little startled by the compliment, an uncomfortable chuckle escaping him though he’s quick to cut off R’ka’s apology. “No, you did nothing wrong, Navigator; people usually try not to point it out, so the compliment startled me. Thank you, though; it’s an autoimmune disorder. My immune system attacks my melanocytes, making my usually brown skin white. The doctors on Earth call it Vitiligo. It used to just be on my hands...” He mumbles the last part, looking down at his hands and showing off the backs of them; R’ka wanted so badly to reach over and grab them. The Navigator nods along, gesturing instead of verbally asking to touch his hand and internally celebrating when Jeremy holds out his hand to take. The human’s body temperature rises when R’ka rubs over the splotches, carefully tracing his claw along the edges. “I suppose you should get used to the compliments then because as your new friend, I’m not going to stop.” R’ka boldly claims a nervous sort of tremor to his heart and a joyous expression quickly pulling at his tusks when Jeremy responds positively. “I suppose I could get used to someone so nice being my friend...” Jeremy hums, carefully taking his hand away and looking out the window in front of them once more, leaning back into the seat. “So, Navigator, I suppose you know my name, I assume through swears. I think I should learn yours, no?” R’ka is a little surprised by the offhand comment. Did the lead scientist complain that much about Jeremy? “R’ka.” He firmly says, holding out his hand and warming when Jeremy quickly puts his comparably small one into his hand. “Nice to meet you, R’ka, and thank you for the shirt.”

[7spaceace7]

Secrets (A Donatello x Reader)

This is incredibly self-indulgent and was really just a fic for me to obsess over tesla coils, but my girlfriend convinced me to post it- so here it is! It got kind of long too, but I hope you enjoy! 

Word Count: 3236

Reader is given feminine terms in this one

Mild cursing (thank you Raph)

Absolute fluff attack, the sweetness will rot your teeth

Singing was your greatest passion. From a young age, you had been roped into music, the emotions it could represent with just a few notes and some relatable lyrics. It was happiness, it was sadness, it was anger and excitement, and it was everything you couldn’t express well enough with just words. Being a writer, sometimes that would get frustrating, but music helped you overcome the most challenging spots in a new piece or story. This is why you would constantly have earbuds in as you sang along to every song you’d memorized on your Spotify shuffle. 

And Donnie noticed this. Every time you would enter the turtles’ lair, he would see you unplug and pack-up your headphones. Hell, he was even able to detect your singing from the sounds of the sewer tunnels echoing with every step you took closer. He’d hear you talk about the music or soundtracks of your favorite games and movies, analyzing what every slight twinge or reprise would allude to. And he loved every part of it. He loved getting to see those moments where music was all you could focus on. Your heart rate rose exponentially in anticipation and excitement. Your eyes would screw shut while you broke into a grin. Your hands would mimic motions to the beat as you played on invisible drums, or strummed a nonexistent guitar. 

It was adorable to him, to say the least. But he never told you so. He never said a word, in case this might scare you off for coming across as “creepy” or weird. He knew most people probably didn’t pay this close attention to little things like that, but then again, he also knew that most people weren’t madly in love with you. 

Which Donatello was. 

He couldn’t tell you, because once he started rambling about you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. And if he didn’t stop, then he’d run the 89.07% chance risk of telling you how he’d been in love with you since the day they met you. That was way too high for him to be comfortable. No, he couldn’t tell you, no matter how badly he wanted you to know.

“Okay, so what if you just show ‘er you’re interested instead?” Raph asked, half paying attention to his brother’s predicament, half pounding the punching bag before him into the ground. Leo was in the dojo meditating, and Mikey was playing video games in the living room, which left the two middle brothers to their own devices. For Donnie, this was literally. His three-fingered hands fiddled with his latest electrical circuit. It was bound for sending the right amount of voltage into his inventions without needing four power strips and a generator all on their own. Unfortunately, he was too distracted to actually delve into its components, and settled for breaking and piecing it back together again.

“Show her? How would I do that?” Donnie’s voice trembled at the thought.

“I dunno, you’re the genius here,” Raph huffed, “There’s gotta be somethin’ in this place that you think she’d find cool. She loves music, right?”

“Yeah, like a lot, she even-”

“Rhetorical question, Don, heard the rant plenty,” His brother cut him off. Pausing his violent onslaught of the dummy, he turned to face him. “You’re nervous ‘cause you ain’t ever done somethin’ for a pretty girl before, I get it. So do somethin’ you know you’re good at. That’ll take the nerves off, your plan works, and then I won’ have to listen to you babbling about whatever new fuckin’ thing she did today. Win win.”

The younger turtle paused. “That was...actually pretty sound advice, thank you, Raph.”

“Anytime,” Raph nodded, a smug smile tugging at his lips from being able to help. Problem was, now he was invested. He’d listened to his brother’s rants and rambles and failed plans of possibly confessing for weeks now, what was gonna happen once he finally did it? Raph plopped onto one of Donnie’s bean bag chairs. He didn’t bother to pick up the training dummy. “So what ya gonna do, smart guy?”

Donnie blinked a few times, glasses twitching on his nose as he pushed them up. He didn’t know it, but you coined this his “brainstorming face”. He fiddled with the circuits once again.

“Uh...I’m not sure,” His tongue went dry. A million ideas fly through his brain each minute, and this decides to be the time that he can’t think of a single one good enough. Figures. “I could build her something? Maybe a new stereo, or upgrade the one she has.”

Raph made a noise of disapproval. “You can do better, any old fix-it guy could do that.”

“Fair. Maybe I could- ow!”

A short buzz of the air cut him off as his fiddling paid off. To the world’s great irony, a light bulb several inches away lit up.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good, I…” Donnie trailed off. The purple-clad turtle’s eyes widened as he registered what happened. “I’m better than good, I just had an epiphany!”

“Epipha-what?”

“An epiphany, sudden realization, an idea!” Donnie flicked his goggles back down, enhancing his vision with the magnifier on it. Wires were tugged in and out, and a transmitter was displaced. With a snort of triumph, he raised it to the air for his brother to see. “This is the answer!” 

“A tiny board thing. Just what she’s always wanted,” Raph rolled his eyes, but Donnie was prepared for this.

“Not just a tiny board, a tiny board with this!-” With great haste, Donnie was next to Raph, holding the board out properly. “My side-side project, this little thing, look at the coil here, this is it! This is a tesla coil, capable of transmitting thousands and thousands of volts of energy surging through the air, powering anything within its radius, which is perfect and exactly why I needed to reconfigure it to power my lab and this one new machine I’m working on, but that’s not why this is the perfect idea!”

“Wow, please continue, professor, I’m dyin’ to know.”

“Glad you asked! Watch this!” One aux cord, T-Phone connection, and light-dimming later, the lab went dark in anticipation. And suddenly, with the press of a play button on Donnie’s shuffle, music started to fill the air. But it wasn’t coming from his phone. It was coming from the coils, surging and creating not only electric energy that was visible to the human eye as it sparked, but music. Sound. The beats and notes of the song playing sprouted out in the form of electricity.

Raph’s green eyes became transfixed on the sparks flying out. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right!” Came the squeals of utter nerding out, “This is only a tabletop version of an SGTC circuit, my own type of it anyway based on Tesla’s original designs, but if I reworked it, made it bigger, made it lifelike and maybe four or five of them, I could create the most advanced musical performance this city has ever seen!”

“I’m gonna pretend I know everything you just said because clearly this is your nerd thing,” Raph started, utterly confused. Even still, a reassuring smile framed his features. “But this looks pretty damn cool. This right here? Exactly what ‘m sayin’, Don.  This is you.”

“Do you think she’ll like it...?” Donnie asked in a hopeful voice. He wasn’t just asking about the invention. 

“Course she will.”

~x~

A couple weeks had passed since that fateful conversation with Raph. He’d been in and out of the lab since then, but between patrols and the mandatory bathroom breaks, there was hardly a time he wasn’t working on his great new project. You weren’t even allowed to go into the lab, per his request, for all his time there.

However, he always made sure to make at least one movie whenever you’d come hang out at the lair from work.

Finally, one Friday night, the set up was complete. Pride swelled in Donnie’s chest as he looked at his creation: six symmetrically placed tesla coils sprung up from the ground and walls all around his lab space. The coilings wrapped around metal frames, spiraling into a beautiful arrangement of engineering, if he did say so himself. Mikey said it looked like the lasers out of a DC comic, which was also not a bad thing to be. He just hoped that you would like it. All of it was for you, of course, but over the weeks that he’d been preparing it, he found more beauty in the music of tesla coils than he ever had appreciated before. 

Donnie thought he might thank you for that, if he could get his nerves around it.

God, he was so nervous. Anxiety rushed through his body like the electric pulses he was perfecting. They were already done, but it was all he could do to distract himself while waiting for you to arrive. Maybe the frequencies weren’t in the right key. What if they sounded better this way? Or maybe the firing power wasn’t enough? Trajectory looked alright, maybe it just-

“Donnie?”

“Gh! Y/N, hey!” Stammered the surprised terrapin after knocking his head against the top of a coil. His goggles were on the setting of night-vision, but that didn’t account for night-spatial-awareness, it seemed.

“I got your text to come,” You tried to smile at him, but the dark laboratory proved to make that difficult. “How come it’s so dark in here?”

“Uh, well, that’s p-part of the surprise! Eheh. Gimme just a second-”

You waited patiently outside of his lab, vision still applicable, but grew concerned the more strange noises and clangs you heard coming from inside. This was definitely a whole new level of “Donnie Surprises” just by how nervous he seemed about it.

You yelped when his hand grabbed your arm and dragged you back inside the darkness.

“Okay, uh,” He started, before clapping his hands together for the lights to switch back on, “This is what I wanted to show you.”

Your gaze spun all around the lab. After adjusting to the light, you could clearly see giant mechanism after mechanism placed strategically around in a dome-like setup. Coils that protruded like round-edged spikes circled you both, and in the center was a metal cage. 

“Oh my god…” You almost whispered. A large grin broke out onto your face as you stared in quiet marvel at the scene. His plan was working, and Donnie lit up with an outstretched arm in presentation.

“These bad boys are called tesla coils-”

“Tesla coils!” You squealed in imperfect unison to what you assumed was the start of an explanation. “You made tesla coils, Donnie, holy shit!”

“You’ve heard of them?!” Donnie exclaimed, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“YES!” Your hands began to wave around excitedly, “Oh my god I used to be OBSESSED with these things! I heard about when I was a kid from that old movie, oh what was it, it was like the apprentice’s-”

“Sorcerer’s Apprentice!”

“THAT! Yes!” 

“I haven’t seen that movie in years!”

“Me neither! All I remember is that Hiccup’s voice actor totally nerded out and programmed his giant tesla coils to play music for the girl he wanted to impress, and it was the coolest thing because these giant machines were playing music, music out of nothing but sparks of electricity at different frequencies, which to be honest probably would have caused more of an energy problem than the movie suggested because goddamn do they take up a lot of power, but I was like six and didn’t care!” You laughed  in an energetic burst of word association, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Donnie could have kissed you then and there for that alone. 

A grin crept onto his lips as he watched you ramble on about the movie, leaving all anxious thoughts to fall from his mind. For once, someone actually understood one of his passions. Better than that, she was explaining the process to him of all people! Sure, she was intuitive enough to know he didn’t need it, he literally had just built them after all. This was just out of pure excitement. Someone in his life was talking about science and technology like they were the most fascinating things on the planet, just as the purple-masked turtle believed it was. Well, second only to the ecstatic girl in front of him. 

“-And so, I randomly remembered it again not that long ago, so I looked it up and found so many videos on YouTube about it. I kid you not, I listened to tesla coils and tesla coils alone for a solid week.” 

You breathed heavily, a little winded after such an intense info-dump. God, he always loved when you got excited about something. 

“This is kind of surreal,” Donnie chuckled a bit, pushing up his glasses when they tumbled down his nose, “I had no idea you’d get what these were, much less have known so much about them.” Donnie’s eyes widened at his own panicked-fueled blabbering. “N-Not that I think you’re stupid! I just-- I mean it’s not-- common? It’s more of-”

“A niche interest, yeah. No worries,” You finished for him, signaling his stuttered words hadn’t fallen on offended ears. Donnie quietly sighed in relief. Time ticked by in seconds, but even that was much too fast for this martial artist to grasp. If he could have constructed a device to pause the fabrics of time, he would have long ago, simply to relish the moments with you that meant everything to him. It wasn’t your fault your eyes captivated him more than any element he’s worked with.

“So,” You began eagerly, startling him out of his thoughts, “Are we gonna listen to some zappy poles go brrr or what?”

Donnie snorted at your juvenile word choice. “Yeah, totally. Now, ah,” He walked over toward the large cage in the center, stepped inside, then poked his head out with a dorky grin. A large, green hand stood outstretched towards you. “I think you’d better step inside my cage.”

“If you keep quoting the damn movie like this, I am going to explode from excitement, and it will be your fault!” It was a wonder how you hadn’t caught onto his plan yet, honestly. You made no sense of hesitation before grabbing his offered hand (even though your hands were small enough that they hardly matched his palm’s size), and clambered into the cage in front of him. This was a great excuse for you to be close to him without it being weird. And now, with your back brushing up against his plastron, the butterflies in his chest told him it was totally a good call.

Donatello would take this secret to his grave, however.

“Put your hands on the rail here, yep just like that,” Donnie nodded after your hands found the safeguard rail. A couple buttons tapped into a laptop later, he settled his own hands next to yours. “Let the magic begin.”

Magic would have been the understatement of the year. A coil in front of you quickly shot out its first spark. Familiar music breached the sound barrier to your ears. The one behind you both caught it instantly. Spark after spark sent back and forth between the coils, soaring through the lab like the most incredible game of electric catch.

“Whoa!” You laughed when the sparks would bounce off the cage itself, pressing closer to the turtle behind you (much to his surprise every time). Your shining e/c eyes never left the electric bolts shooting out. “This is insane!”

“Heh, glad you like it!” Donnie watched you closely that entire time, more entranced by your excitement and wonderstruck self than anything he’d created. He could power up the tesla coils anytime of day, but this was a special moment he’d never be able to recreate in a controlled environment. This was no experiment, this was real and it was happening right now. 

The only thing left to do was tell you how he felt. 

“Y/N, I have to tell you something,” He began, stepping away to give you a bit of space. His heart rate was increasing by the second. The way you turned to look at him wasn’t helping, either. 

“What is it?” You spoke softly, somehow able to be heard over the music. Donnie could hardly meet your eyes, so he took your hands in his instead.

“I...I don’t know how to say this exactly,” He started, “I’ve been trying to do it for months, going over every possible conjuncture of words, something that would be heartfelt and honest, poetic even? But the truth is, words aren’t my thing, th-they never have been. I’m a science guy, I take things apart and put them back together again, I figure out what makes them work, I see life as a million tiny parts to analyze.”

He paused his quickened speech to take a breath. Your hands squeezed his larger ones as an offer to continue.

“And so, I’m...bad at feelings. I see it all as chemicals and components used by the brain to create action and reaction. But now I’m not so sure if that’s all they are, and really the only thing I am sure about is that it’s because of you that I’m questioning everything I ever thought I knew. Maybe, maybe life is more than atoms and chemicals, and instead it’s about..moments. Moments like this. Moments that...that I..that I really want to keep forever and play over and over again.”

“Donnie…” You spoke. This time he squeezed your hands.

“I know I’m rambling and I should really get to the point, so what I’m trying to say is,” He took another breath, steady this time. His gaze met yours again. “I want to live these moments with you every day. You’re special to me. You’re part of our family, but this is more than that, this feeling is-”

“Love.” You finished for him. Both of your eyes widened as you realized the other felt how you each did.  

Donatello nodded slowly, hesitant to be so certain, but knowing it was true. There were no more words to be exchanged after that, only actions, only movements so soft and gentle that the large terrapin was certain he’d break if they could fit in his hands. Your hands left his and instead reached up to grab the long ends of his mask, and tugged gently for him to reach you. He leaned down without a thought. A three-fingered hand found your waist this time. 

You kissed. Soft, human lips connected to his slightly chapped reptilian ones. The turtle had waited for this moment since he realized the attraction he felt towards you was not just powerful chemical reactions, but true feelings. It wasn’t biology, it was chance and fate and one-in-a-million all at once. As the sparks continued to (literally) fly, Donnie let his eyes close. This was the present. He was here, he was holding a great new adventure in his hands, and there was a brilliant future just around the corner. 

The song may have finished, but this is what would last forever. 

[instasiswetrust]

Bloodshot

Brown eyes stare into the void.

And the void stares right back.

Pitch-black and dark.

Dark, darker, and yet darker.

Vaguely, he registers liquid inside his mouth. His lungs. His chest. A part of his brain that's still working whispers that he's choking. Weird. He thought it would hurt more than this. Thought there would be more panic and flailing. Desperation to breathe.

Instead, all he feels is calm.

There's a sense of peace that instills in his body. Fills every crevice, nook, and cranny inside his flesh. Inside his bones.

Yes, he's dying, but he's accepted this as an immutable fact.

What use is there for panic when the croon of Miss Death is already so sweet in his ear? Why should he flail and claw to a life filled with heartache and pain, when instead he could stay in this calm embrace forever?

He's dying, and he's fine with this.

At first, he thinks he might be at the quarry. It would make sense. Maybe he was too drunk, tripped, and slipped off the ledge. Those kinds of things tend to happen to lonely people like him. Maybe others will think he jumped, instead. That's fine too.

But the liquid in his mouth tastes salty and coppery. A little too thick to be water.

Oh. Right.

Blood. He was choking on his own blood.

Things are coming back to him in slow increments. Flashes of scenes. He understands now where he is.

Or was.

Time is confusing when you're dying.

They had been in the tunnels. The demodogs had been close at their heels and the entrance just a few feet away. He had been so scared, utterly terrified, but not for himself. Never for himself. He needed to get the kids out first, all of them.

And he had.

Too bad it had been just a second too late for him.

Just as he was about to reach for the rope, a strong body had crashed into him and he had fallen on his back. Pain had jolted through his nerves as claws dug themselves into the skin of his chest. He remembers being vaguely concerned about the wetness spreading in his chest before that maw had bloomed into the most horrifying of flowers, and the petals wrapped themselves around his neck.

He thinks Dustin might've screamed. Steve felt bad that the kid had to see him like that.

But now the pain was no more and he was suspended in the void. Calm. Serene. Accepting.

Death was peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

---

The thing that crawled out of the earth, a whole week after the gate was closed, was not Steve Harrington.

At least not anymore.

Not in a way that mattered.

He still looked the same. Sounded the same. Moved the same. Felt the same.

He could think, and like, and long for things the same way he could when he had been alive.

But his mind was never quiet these days.

Hunt. Feed. Claw. Rip.

Blood.

A never-ending loop of words strung together until they sounded unrecognizable until they no longer made sense. And yet the feelings that came with the words would never go away.

Not when he started cooking his meat less and less to the point he resorted to just shoveling spoonfuls of raw hamburger meat into his mouth.

Not when he passed by the rotting corpse of a deer in the woods and had to take a moment to wipe the drool off his chin because for some reason the scent was appetizing.

Not when he gave in and hooked up with Nina Collins, and she let him bite her neck until he drew blood.

They never went away. Neither did the gnawing hunger inside of him.

And Steve could only be so dumb. He knew perfectly well what it was the voice in his head wanted. Could recognize it in the way his dreams had been filled with spiked bats hitting skin, breaking bones, and hands burying themselves in a mess of blood and guts.

He only wondered for how much longer he could hold himself back.

The answer came to him less than a week later.

---

First thing he notices when he wakes up, is that the hunger is blessedly gone.

For a single moment, he's glad. Happy and relieved. Until realization settles in and horror fills his chest.

Second thing he notices is that he's naked, sitting in a puddle of blood. The scent is strong.

And appetizing.

It makes him curl up onto his side and retch, but thankfully nothing comes up.

Quiet breathing is what clues him on the third thing. It also freezes him in place.

Somebody is looking at him. Saw what he did. Who he is. What he is.

Fuck.

Then they speak.

Double fuck.

"I knew you were fucked up, Harrington. Didn't think you were this fucked up though."

It's not the words that make him turn, eyes open wide. It's the voice. Because he knows that voice. Because it's Billy Hargrove's voice.

Ain't that just nice?

With the hunger and the voices gone, at least for the time being, it's much easier to try and recall the events of the night before. Steve almost wishes he couldn't though, because what he experiences -- not sees because those creatures don't have eyes -- is so repulsive that he can feel nausea clawing up his throat again.

"I killed your dad."

It's a fact, not a question. He doesn't need confirmation, his memories of the event are clear albeit fuzzy.

"And ate him. Yeah."

The fact that Hargrove doesn't sound horrified, or scared in the slightest, confuses Steve. He forces himself to ignore the panic, the nausea, and the embarrassment warring for his immediate attention and instead focuses on Hargrove's face.

Hargrove meets his gaze unflinchingly.

There's not a single ounce of remorse in those blue eyes but then again, why would there be?

After all, the bruises and cuts that litter his face and naked chest, speak enough about the type of man Neil Hargrove was.

"I did not... hurt you, right?"

Steve doesn't remember having approached Hargrove. The demodog hadn't wanted to hurt Hargrove, like at all. Still, he has to make sure. Just to put his mind at ease, of course. Not because he's worried about Hargrove or anything.

Hargrove shakes his head, frowning. The bruises must hurt pretty bad though because he winces. "You don't remember?"

"The memories are... fuzzy." Steve grimaces, pushing down another bout of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. "It's not- I'm not- I know what it looks like but I'm not that thing, okay? The dog- That's not me."

"And yet I watched that thing morph back into you. You are still lying in a pool of blood, you know?" He sounds unimpressed. Slightly annoyed too. "You just said you have memories of it. I'd say that counts as you being that thing, Harrington."

Yeah, okay. Steve can't really counter that logic. Doesn't help lessen the knot of guilt that sits heavy at the pit of his stomach, though.

"Fine. Okay. Yes. I just-" But the words die on his tongue because he's not sure how to even finish that sentence. He's just what? Horrified? Guilty? Considering taking a dive off the quarry or meet the bad end of Nancy's shotgun?

Hargrove must have read the indecisiveness on his expression because he huffs, crossing his arms. He winces again and Steve’s almost tempted to demand he take it easy.

"Here's what we are going to do, Harrington." His voice has an unexpected strength to it that commands all of Steve’s attention. “You're going to take a shower, borrow some clothes, then I'm going to clean off all this blood before Max and Susan get back, and then we're going to talk about Neil’s sudden disappearance. Understood?”

“Uh...”

Hargrove was... helping him. He was helping him cover up a murder. The murder of his own father. Hargrove watched as the demodog fucking ate his dad, morphed back into Steve, and now he was helping him.

Steve wasn't sure how he was feeling about this but grateful and confused came pretty close to explaining it.

“I asked if you understood, Harrington.”

“Yeah I uh, yeah. I understand.”

So that's how he found himself in Hargrove's kitchen half an hour later, clad in grey sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt that had seen better days. Hargrove sat in front of him, idly eating from a bowl of Lucky charms, his gaze not straying far from Steve.

The clank of the spoon as it fell back into the empty bowl was jarringly loud in the awkward silence.

"You really don't remember what happened last night, then?"

His gut reaction was to say no. He didn't remember anything. That the memories were fuzzy and the thing wasn't him. But that would be lying, wouldn't it?

And he had to admit that being able to share this secret with somebody else, even if it was Billy Hargrove of all people, felt like a much-needed reprieve of all the bullshit life had been throwing at him lately.

"I do but as I said, it's fuzzy. Fragmented, I guess?" He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers on the worn tabletop. "This thing, it doesn't see things as we do. Doesn't have eyes."

Hargrove hums, and Steve can see the way he leans back on the chair. Feels those eyes on him, not moving. It should set him on edge but instead, it makes him feel grounded. Like this is the first time, since he crawled out of the earth that somebody bothers to truly look at him.

It makes him want to look up and meet that gaze.

So that's exactly what he does.

"It was you that I- that the demodog was hunting, not your dad." Steve is glad he doesn't look away because it allows him to see the shadow of regret that crosses those blue eyes. "But then I- it jumped through the window. Saw what was happening. So the prey changed."

"And you have lived with this thing for how long?"

"Technically speaking, I'm not alive. Haven't been since that night in November, a little after the whole thing at the Byers."

Hargrove blinks, taken aback by what must surely sound like nonsense considering Steve was sitting across from him, breathing and talking. He's not sure how to explain it either but he knows with unwavering certainty that he's not alive anymore.

Not like he should be.

Not completely.

Liminal spaces. Whatever. Fuck.

"One of those things bit me. Dustin saw it happen too. Or at least saw the blood. And I remember dying." He shrugs, drums his fingers again just to have something to do. Restlessness eats at him but he's still under Hargrove's gaze and the itch to run has settled for now. "A week later I apparently dug my way out of the earth and Hopper found me at the junkyard. I can't remember it at all."

The marred skin of his throat is evidence enough. These days he does his best to cover it up with makeup or turtlenecks, not wishing to deal with the unwanted questions that would undoubtedly come. Not to mention that Dustin can't see it without tearing up. Kid still has nightmares about Steve covered in blood with his throat ripped out.

"Shit, Harrington." Hargrove tangles a hand in his blond curls, pulling lightly on the strands. As if the pinpricks of pain could reassure him about all this being real. "This is what you and those snot-nosed brats were up to that night? Fighting these things? Are you insane?"

"Only a little." The self-deprecating grin that accompanied it really sold it.

Steve watched as Hargrove's hands formed into fists, a dangerous sort of fire lighting up in his eyes. It lasted for a second or two before the fight left his body in a rush, body slumping slightly into the chair. It was a little impressive.

"What even are these things?"

The thing is, Steve's not even sure what those creatures are. He says as much and spends the next fifteen minutes explaining what he knows -- and what he's theorized -- about Will Byers, the Upside Down, the Mindflayer, and Hawkins Lab. Surprisingly enough, Hargrove listens through it all without commentary.

"Nobody understood how I was alive but I didn't want to question it too much. Guess I already knew something was wrong with me but I didn't want to see it."

Hargrove's eyes have drifted down to his empty cereal bowl but it doesn't seem like he's really looking at it. After a moment, he nods. "Okay so what now, Harrington?"

Steve's taken aback by the question, not understanding what Hargrove is getting at. "What do you mean what now?"

If looks could kill, he's sure that he would be dead again. Hargrove heaves an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before facing Steve.

"Harrington, I knew you were an idiot but this is too much even for you." Steve makes a sound of protest but Hargrove throws him a look and he goes quiet again. "The demodog needs to eat people to live, meaning you need to eat people to live. So tell me, what are you going to do about that?"

"Oh."

Well fuck.

[remakethestars]

CABIN 4 — DEMETER

Headcanons.

❝Hell yeah, I’m a botanist! Fear my botany powers!❞

— Mark Watney, The Martian

Headcanon masterlist.

A lot of their dads/parents are farmers & gardeners.

Bonsai trees.

People expect them to be all save the bees!, but actually, honey bees in America are an invasive species brought over by the colonists & are slowly taking over the other polinators, so f*ck bees.

C4 works together with C10 (Aphrodite) kids, who can intuitively understand the language of flowers, to provide flowers for funterals & the like.

They maintain all the plants around camp & keep the grass growing short so they don’t need to mow it.

They're constantly stealing sediment, sand, & pebbles from the canoe lake for their jarrariums.

C4's also host to a number of ecosystem jars.

Legend has it the one by the stained glass window is from before the American Civil War & has never been opened or watered.

Some of them carry those leaf bags — you know, like the mini rucksacks with the leaf flap over the opening — that C20 kids spell with undetectable extension charms that make them bigger on the inside or able to hold whatever's placed inside & maintain a light weight.

If they go on a quest, they look like something out of a tabletop R.P.G.

Plants are more fun to be around than people. At least they don't judge you.

Some of the C4 kids are into pottery; they like making their own pots for their plants.

C4 has a moss roof & pristine flowerbeds.

Ivy climbs up the sides.

The cabin's on the ground, but it's like one big tree house.

There's a tree growing unperturbed directly in the center. The hardwood floor is cut around it to accommodate, & so is the roof. Limbs sprout through the walls.

I imagine it as a maple tree. I also think it's huge because it thrives off the C4 kids.

Two stories.

The second story has a giant, stained glass window that shows a wheat field & farm with a line of trees in the distance.

Both stories have a door on the back wall that leads to the green house (also two stories). On the bottom floor, the hardwood turns to brick, & on the top floor, the hardwood turns to rougher wood like what is used in the loft of a barn.

On either side of the door, there are shelves upon shelves of books on farming, plants, & critters.

While most of the cabins used footlockers & trunks, C4 is partial to chests. Usually from redwood.

Absolutely hate tree topping — you know, when the people that maintain the power lines come along & cut off the tops of the tree. Without bark on the top, water runs down inside the tree, causing it to rot &, well, die.

They came to my grandma's door once, like, Hey, is it cool if we top your tree? And she was like, No, but you can cut around your lines if you have to. And they were like, Why not? And they didn't believe her when she told them the tree would die, but it did anyway.

Now every time we drive past a topped tree, I can feel the silent judgement. Like, whelp, that’s not gonna be there much longer.

C4 used to grow all of C.H.B.'s vegetables & the like by way of aquaponics system.

You may be thinking — Demeter? Fish? But hear me out. Now, the reason I don’t believe in hydroponic systems is because they don't use fish, which just makes the vegetables taste like water. Aquaponic systems, to contrast, use fish waste to fertilize the soil, which makes the vegetables taste like vegetables (& presumably provide more nutrients).

You know my great grandma abhorred the idea of using cow manure to fertilize her garden because she didn’t want to eat poop-food? Well, I think poop-food tastes better.

Anyway, when you grow one crop over & over again in the same spot, it depletes the soil of the nutrients those crops need to grow — it’s called monocropping — & it forces the farmer to rely on putting things into the soil themselves — no one cares about that. To summarize, farmers rotate the crops to keep the soil rich (though I can never remember what goes in which field for how long).

After Percy came to camp (& had a conniption), C4 switched from aquaponics to crop rotation.

They also irrigate the soil with ollas.

Ollas are unglazed clay pots buried with the plants that can be filled with water. They're porous, so the water seeps into the soil over time & keeps your plants hydrated.

Farmers today use drip systems & such because they (& their "experts" — my grandma hates that word) think they know better than ancient peoples, but those systems clog & the water's more prone to evaporation.

Sorry for the agriculture brain-barf. I'm from a family of farmers; I like to think I know my sh¡t when it comes to plants. My grandma says I used to know the name of every plant & flower on our property when I was little. Maybe I should be from C4 instead of C7…

I fancast Alex Kingston as Demeter. She has that certain je ne sais quoi.

Visit my Demeter cabin Pinterest board or my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

[theawkwardterrier]

27 + 14 and dealers choice for the drabble meme :D

neither are you free to desist

Prompt: Seeing each other for the first time in a while/“Well geez, if you don’t like what I’m wearing, I can go and change.”

Summary: Undercover work wears more than expected.

She has already been there for hours, watching the square below from behind the gauzy curtain, before he finally arrives, exactly when she expected him. His head is bent a bit against the dreary drizzle, the collar of his jacket up, that same worn-out one he’s had for too many years and refuses to get rid of.

Although she does not close her eyes, Peggy can picture him ducking into the lobby, taking the stairs two at a time, walking down the hallway. She’s timed it to perfection; she knows she will hear the sound of the key sliding into the lock the second before she does.

Steve closes the door behind himself and bolts it again before turning to see her sitting in the armchair by the window, only the gray light from outside illuminating her.

With the pistol in her hand, she gestures for him to strip.

Voice low, he says, “Well geez, if you don’t like what I’m wearing, I can go and change.” The attempted humor of his comment is practically lost in the rustling as he removes his clothes, just as he had wanted it to be. She’s already placed the bag Stark provided just by the door. It is a bit of a tight fit for him to add his items to it on top of hers, but it will be worth it; their trackers are already being fed inaccurate data, and now the bag will ensure that any bugs they might have accidentally been carrying will simply pick up a loop of ambient noise. 

She takes a moment to admire him as he pulls on a new pair of jeans and the plain black sweater waiting for him. Recalling him in the privacy of her mind over these last months is nothing to the reality of him in front of her, the tease of his pale skin disappearing beneath the dark material, those light freckles whose placement she’s memorized, the settled grace of his movements as he takes a seat at the table.

Standing, she moves to sit opposite him, placing her gun on the tabletop. She always keeps it close now. Usually it is just in case. Sometimes it has not been.

The two of them reach out at the same moment so that she can cover his fingers with hers. It is nearly painful to pull away, to stop herself from savoring the contact - after all this time, someone good and gentle, whose goodness she can count on, someone who loves her, who knows her.

But they have business first.

“What have you found?” she asks, and at least that is some relief, hearing her own voice stripped of the husky New York accent she’s had to use for so long now. Sometimes she talks like that in her dreams and wakes with her lungs heavy and heart trembling.

When he begins to fill her in, he leans forward, keeps his words quiet despite the precautions they’ve taken. Everything is precaution these days. They’ve been able to reach out occasionally since she went under, information drops and burner phones carefully coordinated, but nothing like this. She once relied without thought on being able to listen to him speak at length, having the chance to ask him questions and immediately hear the answers, getting the whole picture. One day she hopes to be able to rely on it again.

If they’re right, that day might even be soon.

Their story has never been easy or conventional. It was unusual for two operatives in the Organization to be allowed not only to fall in love but to actually get married. The official word was that it was permitted because their work rarely intersected; that was true enough, but it was more truthful to say that they were two of the best and no one wanted to lose them.

As soon as Steve and Peggy had come to understand the rot which was creeping in all around them, they lost them anyway. Very few had been allowed to realize it yet. Steve still arrives for work on time every day, after all, only walks past formerly trusted colleagues who he knows to be dirty instead of reporting them. Peggy’s death had been extremely well-faked, her cover airtight as she integrated herself into the group which had been infiltrating for so long right beneath their noses.

She has been extremely effective at it. They knew that she would be, just as they knew that Steve would not have been able to manage it. Instead, he’s been invaluable at gathering information and subtly fighting back from within the Organization where possible. She knew parts of his success even before he had the chance to tell her all that he’s found.

She listens to him closely, committing it all to memory, but a part of her mind is focused on the hardness which he hears beneath his words. She wonders whether it was something she had not remembered, or if it was new. She had thought that she might come back to him as a stranger. Somehow she had not wondered if he might become so.

When it is her turn, she speaks for even longer than he did. His eyes do not leave her face the entire time, even through the worst of it, when she cannot pretend that the things she is speaking of happened to someone else, that she wasn’t there as a witness, or sometimes more. And despite the ways he is different from her memory of him, his regard of her is somehow unchanged. She does not feel judged. She already feels the strain of returning to a world without that gaze of his, which sees her so clearly and refuses to allow her to escape her own value in its light.

After she has finished too, they determine their next steps and she can feel how close they are, how soon they might end this all at last, just as she knows how much still depends on her, that she will have to leave this place and return to being someone else once again. And then there is no more to say. She wonders if she should shake his hand, congratulate him, say something bolstering before he has to go.

He speaks instead. “I miss you,” he tells her. “Our home is too empty without you in it.”

She would never have thought it would be anything that she would doubt. He loves her and she knows it as surely as she knows the ground beneath her feet. But still, to hear it, sweet and simple fact, after all these months of doubting everything, of having only her own hands to rely on and no safe place but her own mind, and even of beginning to doubt that...Pressing herself into his arms, reaching up and kissing him is instinct, one she thought left too far behind.

But she hasn’t, because she knows the soft strength of him when he holds her, remembers the feeling of his body stretched lean and solid against hers. Here is the taste of him against her mouth, and there is the tiny, three-stitch patch of raised flesh her fingers unthinkingly find on his back, and now the frantic, lovely pulse of his heart, beating its way toward hers.

The apartment has a bed, a twin with a metal frame. She had noted it when she arrived without even being conscious of doing so; it’s what her brain does now, seeks out weapons and escape routes and potential traps. She had never thought to use the bed for any more conventional purpose, but she is standing here and so is her husband and they will need to leave each other again soon.

His hands remember her just as easily as hers do him.

Afterward, they are glad for the small space as they hold each other close. His fingers seem to want to touch each strand as he runs them through her hair. He does not comment about the choppy cut or the dye job she has been renewing herself, the contact lenses she has not removed the entire time; these are not the things he recognizes about her, anyway.

“I miss you as well. So very much,” she says against his throat, and just the words are danger. When you let yourself realize that you are tired, the race is half lost, and there is still too much left to go.

But he does not admonish her for it, does not pull away and leave her without his warmth. “Then let’s finish it,” he says instead, “so we can come back to each other.”

Their time together is running short. There is more difficult work, more terrible work, to be done before they can meet again. But it’s important to gather strength for that, too, and so she allows herself the chance to close her eyes and rest against him and truly sleep, just for this brief now.