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yandere-kokeshi · 9 months ago

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We need to know how separate TF-141 would be as house-husbands!!! Please!!!

— Yandere headcanons of TF-141 as house-husbands

Warnings: Yandere behavior, older! characters, male gender roles, NSFW, slight delusional behaviors.

A/N: Anon, you are SO, so smart. I love you /a.

Captain “Price” John:

The type of house-husband nobody expected for him to be– not even himself. John had partially agreed to it, and now he’s a stay-at-home dad for your cats. When he wedded you, he never thought of it this way; and now, he had promised to always care for you, did he not?

Price is well over-tired, pretty hairy and massive; beard scratchy and face all squishy; he’s a chubby man. But that doesn’t stop him at all.

John loves waking you up in the mornings. Before even shaking you awake, he loves to admire you. Watching your different breathing patterns, some dribbles of drool, and the obvious bed marks staining your face makes him smirk. But of course, it ends too short when he realizes you need to get up.

John is so, oh gentle, when waking you up. Scarred hands rubbing at your hips as he rubs his beard into your shoulder, prepping kisses and telling you to get a move on. However, if you ignore him, he’s more than happy to leave some permanent marks, yes?

He always makes your breakfast and lunch the night before, chopping the meat, fruits, and vegetables into the correct order so he can easily sleep in with you till you leave. So, when your alarm goes off, he detaches himself from you, getting up with only his red boxers– turning on the oven to preheat the food yet again and leaving them on the table for you to enjoy when you get out of the shower.

And with that, he takes your health seriously, mentally and physically, which means most foods in the house are pretty healthy. All types of fruits, veggies, protein, and fiber nourishment is given with each meal, and he expects you to eat it all.

When shopping, he takes everything seriously. He hates getting off track, only sticking to what’s on the list, and cashiers who take too long on talking– especially if they openly flirt with him. Can’t you see I'm taken? He snarks out, showing off his wedding ring before fast walking out towards his car with his hands full.

Chores are chores. They need to be done. Dishes are easy, laundry, and vacuuming are a piece of cake. But cleaning the bathroom? Oh, that’s a bit difficult. Especially with the hidden camera he’s put out of your sight, and at times, he gets distracted; watching the many films, seeing you all naked and wet, makes Price feel... a sudden urge. How are you just so gorgeous, hm?

John is the definition of a “Pro Loyalty Card”. For all those stores he visits, he has cards for each and every single one of them, including the convenience store. They always come in handy.

Routines are his specialty; he knows everything about your schedule, to the time you leave for work, to when you call him at your lunch break, come home and collapse in his lap, all the way to sleeping in the bed naked. He’s memorized it all.

After the long antagonizing and stressful week, John always sits you down for a long bath. He massages your shoulders, using a special lotion to rub on you after the bath. But, that’s not the only gift he's giving. Before gently and lovingly pushing you to the bed, he slowly fucks the stress and irritation of you; teeth makes ensuring you stay loyal to your man.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon is quick and sleek with shopping, getting and seeking foods that have high nutrition because you only deserve the best. Most foods he picks out are healthy, getting many baskets of fruits to ensure you enjoy your lunches. But when passing by the sugar aisle, he can’t help but choose a few sweets for you.

A type of house-husband you’d never expect. He’s brooding, shoulders kept tight, wearing a black mask and hoodie as he sulks in the grocery aisles, holding the colored basket. You’d think he’s stealing with a gun hidden in his back pocket. However, when in reality, he’s taking his house duties extremely seriously as he eyes for the cereal aisle.

He wakes up way early, even before you start to stir awake, even before the sun rises and goals himself to get a good workout in. Even though he’s not the same lieutenant as he was years ago– he’s not lazy, and still picks up his pace whilst jogging down the street and doing push-ups in the open garage.

At times, he wishes you could join him, and it would be fun, would it not? Having you down below, as his chest presses against yours and your flushed face being the main goal for him to continue? Or maybe, him guiding you through pull-ups, and you need his help? Oh, that’s how to make him very desperate for you in the early mornings.

Speaking of early mornings, when you rise with his gentle shaking, whispers of “good mornin’”, and his rough stubble rubbing your neck, you realize just how lucky you are. Especially with how Riley joins in, when he notices his second favorite human is up and awake.

Though, if you decide to ignore these two, covering your face and mumbling away, Simon will crawl over you, prep your face with sloppy kisses, and murmur hot and dirty words. His hand instinctively crawling down, snapping the band of your underwear, nails barely scratching at your skin whilst promising to get you all hot and messy, before forcing you out of bed.

When you leave out of that door, regardless of the morning, he ensures the house is spotless before you come home. He doesn’t listen to any music, only the occasional barks from Riley as he sprays the leather couches, doing the dishes the “old-fashioned way”, and folding laundry like it’s a race.

Most are scared of him– except for that one lady down the road. Her eyes follow Simon as if he’s a god, but he scoffs at that when she twirls her hair. You’re the real deity, he openly thinks. Of course, he shows off his pretty wedding ring, the one you got him; and somehow, Simon wishes you’d just make out with him in public, show her that he’s off limits and that he’s yours.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

The type of househusband who immediately recognized that you needed to be cared for, and went forth with that promise between the marriage. You work so hard to make money for the both of you. And he’s devoted to doing whatever he can to be helpful too.

Kyle is a clean freak, which means the house is nearly spotless when you come home. Every scratch at the couch has him grunting and hands vigorously trying to rub it off. Shoes inside the house are immediately put up, and he hates rainy days; looking at you with glaring pupils as you step inside with soaked coverings. But, he loves you.

The chores in the house are easily done before the afternoon, dishes cleaned with shiny marks and the floors vacuumed. Dusting and sweeping the house with headphones on, face flushed whilst… listening to among things he’d never want you to find out.

Laundry is always last in line, as he tends to “borrow” a good deal of dirty underwear of yours, smelling them intensely. Don’t worry though, he returns them at some point.

Kyle is the definition of “wifey material food”. Every breakfast consists of incredible fried eggs, mixed with bacon and fluffy pancakes; lunch and dinner being different every day, which is nice. He usually sticks with foods you’re comfortable with, never going out of your zone, and tries his hardest to make different sizes of hearts out of the food.

Though, you never seem to notice the secret ingredient, the divine particular part where the two of you are bonded stronger. Such shame, he utters. Sometimes he wishes you’d come home early– catch him desperately adding it within the dish with utter lewd excitement.

Having you come home is the best time of the day. Waiting by the door, wearing the cactus green apron you got him years ago, with a giant smile and dinner laid out, waiting for you. By the end of dinner, you’re full; both of love, and much suffocation of affection.

All the other housewives in the area love him. They often invite him for yoga, or work-out sessions. But, he usually uses the excuse that you need him. You do, don't you?

Every Friday, he wears and shows off certain gifts he feels that you’ll love. You work so hard for the both of you, so he should show his appreciation, should he not? Wearing all types of risqué clothing, leaving desperate messages, and having lingerie hidden underneath his black vest, coloring his skin and outlining his scars, stretch marks, and moles. Sooner or later, it leads to a heavy cuddle-sex session that he knows you’ll love.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

The type of househusband who uses his pretty eyes and sculpted body, to get his way. Everything from seeing you at your working office and past your lunch break, to getting free food samples, all the way to a book full of coupons and all types of gifts for half the percentage.

He’s amazing at picking food at the grocery outlet, picking up the correct portions of proper protein, vegetables, and iron. And sometimes, sneaking a few donuts, pops, and tubs of ice cream he knows you love.

Johnny always wakes you up, the alarm rarely shaking you as your beloved husband knows your schedule by heart. He ensures your breakfast and lunch are ready by 7am, smirking at the added secret ingredients that he only knows.

He’s more lenient with waking you up. Knowing how you like to sleep, beauty sleep he corrects, Johnny tries to let you snooze in as far as you can, before gently stirring you up as the sun rises in the opened window.

His arms snake around your waist, cuddling up behind you whilst pulling you into his warm chest, as he nibbles on your ear and tells you to start getting up; breakfast is served on the table with awaited love. Though, if his sweet honey voice doesn’t work at this time, maybe some extremely sloppy oral will help, no?

Johnny ensures that everybody knows you’re lovingly taken. Those hickeys and bruises on your arms, and neck show just how loveable he is. He boasts about you all the time, to his then-team, cashiers and ladies on the streets. It’s only expected you do the same, yes?

Housewives and other househusbands either love him, or envy him. He’s pretty– too alluring to just be at home and caring for duties. Most women, and men constantly flaunt at his grown-out mohawk, often slicked back into a small bun and a few scars, especially one on his head, that prominent his face.

He’s still in shape, working out in the early mornings and doing yoga with the other moms; who he regularly drinks coffee with. They love how sweet and handsome the man is, especially towards his spouse.

Anyone would be lucky to have him, and many would trade a lifetime for him. But, he’s not going anywhere, not without you or your yummy neck anytime soon.

—

Masterlist || Please support me as a writer by reblogging or commenting <3

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keepthedelta · 4 months ago

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thinking about the rosberg family and how a kardashian or dts style documentary about them would be amazing.

you have keke rosberg, a hard racing cigar smoking legend of motorsport from one of it's most dangerous eras, whose name literally means pixie rose mountain. the man who basically invented formula one in finland but was hated by his own media for being too cosmopolitan and when they tried to recognise his achievements refused to let them put his face on a postage stamp because he wouldn't make money off of it. studied to be a dentist but missed the entrance exam and became a racing driver instead. got out of having to take german in school by persuading the master that he would never need it but as soon as he met a hot older german woman went so insane over her that he proposed just months after meeting her and agreed to make it their primary language at home. set a record for the fastest lap in f1 history that lasted until 2004, won his first f1 race and then won a world championship before he won his second. known as a crazy racer who would go through you if you didn't let him past. also the softest dad who loves his baby boy more than anything else.

then there's sina, the coolest person in the rosberg family. was so hot and smart and talented that a man willingly sacrificed his cultural identity to be her husband. professional interpreter who knows a bunch of languages and taught them to her polyglot son. married a f1 world champion but hated his driving so much that she drove herself everywhere, even to events that she attended with him. showed up finland's independence day ball in a suit and bow tie against all dress customs. planned to give birth on her own because it's basically the same thing as going to the dentist, and she doesn't need a man for that. has an f1 champion husband and son and still banned f1 talk in her house for nico's entire career. got so nervous watching her baby race that she vacuumed the entire apartment each time. ditched her husband in dubai so that she could make it to the track to see nico become world champion in person. got drunk and talked about keke's sperm on live television.

nico rosberg, the saddest wettest kitten who ever lived. the most beloved baby in the world. cried at everything as a child. cried when he lost at tennis and when he won. uber competitive. incredibly athletic, competing internationally in karting and tennis. total nerd who had no trouble with his schoolwork despite missing school constantly and got accepted into imperial college london to study engineering. at the time the youngest person to ever drive an f1 car. the biggest single cause of sexuality crises in motorsport since 2006. was once sponsored by the german version of mtv. nicknamed after a teen pop sensation. met the love of his life when he was four and hit her over the head with a bucket while they were making sandcastles. had an incredibly difficult incredibly public divorce from a man he was never legally married to. dropped the mic said thank u, next and is so so happy in his retirement. has stripped down to his underwear on television and done a river clean up in designer coats. boy mom to an orange cat, girl dad to human children. loves his daughters more than anything, the kind of man who will leave a 2 million dollar car on a hill to hitchhike, with his videographer, to his daughters's christmas party. can pinpoint the amount of time lost in a corner exactly and needs everyone to know about it. deeply annoying, absolutely hilarious, incredibly kind.

and of course, vivian. ceo of the rosberg family. still planning the long game revenge on nico for hitting her with a bucket when they were children, born in germany, studied design in milan, can party harder than f1 drivers. has done the interior design for private jets, because apparently that's a thing. owner, creator and namesake of the best rated ice cream shop in the balearics. makes her daughters matching outfits for a taylor swift concert and publicly teases her husband for not being a fan. stages elaborate christmas photos with a different colour theme every year. wore a white dress with turquoise louboutins and chanel bag to match nico's race suit in one of the most iconic and yet deeply underappreciated wag moments in f1 history. ruined them with champagne but didn't care. wants her children to be happy. definitely pegs her husband.

most interesting motorsport family of all time. forget dts, i just want to know about them

#the chances of this happening are less than zero #but. i want it #rosberg family #keke rosberg #nico rosberg #sina rosberg #vivian rosberg

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laswells-ashtray · 4 days ago

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(You don't have to answer instantly, don't burn yourself out)

MacMillan and MacTavish having a very Scottish bonding moment that confused the ever loving daylights out of poor Nik/everyone

(I apologize for the potential spam lol)

I'm so sorry but I'm blind as shit even with my glasses on because they're two years old and I need new ones so I have to ask. What is your pfp because I cannot for the life of me figure it out but it's funky and I love it.

Anyway, *cracks knuckles* you're about to watch me tear into different parts of Scotland with no context other than I'm Scottish and allowed to

"Now, lad. Wit bit of Scotland are ye fae exactly?"

John instantly knows that letting MacMillan and Soap drink together is a dangerous choice because the two get on like a house on fire but that's not what worries John. What worries John is this. The Scotland talk because he'd sat through more than enough rants from Mac back in the day about the best parts of Scotland and [in Mac's own words] the "shite" parts.

"Glasgow, sir. Pollockshaw, if ye ken it?" There's a brief moment of silence between the Englishmen at the table and Nik as they await the older Scot's reaction. Is that a good place? Fuck if John knows.

"Aye, aye. I get ye, I'm Stewarton myself." Mac looks amused, as does Soap. That has to be a good sign, surely.

"Oh, you're a hard man then. Dinnae tell me you went tae school there anaw?" It takes one glance around the table to know that he isn't the only one needing a written translation. Simon is mouthing half of the words that Soap says under his breath to try and follow along with him, Kyle looks positively befuddled and Nik looks two seconds away from seeing if he can lift both arms properly.

"Aye, fuckin' shitehole and I wis quick tae get my arse oot of that fuckin' school. Could've been worse, I could've been fae Cumnock. Or ye could've been fae Maryhill."

"My da's side is fae Maryhill."

Oh fuck. John doesn't try to hide his wince. Leave it up to Mac to commit some cardinal sin when discussing Scotland.

"Even he'd agree with ye, it's a soulless vacuum of dugshite, empty needles and misery."

Nevermind then?! John is confused, deeply confused. Why the hatred for Maryhill? And better question, where the fuck is Maryhill?

Mac and Soap share a laugh between themselves that only furthers the confusion between the non-Scots of the table.

"Better than Govan." They both crack up at that, loud laughter waving over the table. Is it possible for someone to laugh Scottish because both of them seem to be doing so.

Kyle nudges him with a light elbow to the ribs, cheeky bugger.

"You catch what any of that meant?"

"Not a fucking word, sergeant. Not a fucking word."

Eventually, they leave the two men to chatter between themselves. None of them have the ears nor dictionary to translate whatever the fuck those two are spitting at each other. That is until John hears a question that has him demanding silence from his end of the table.

Leave it to Mac to ask the dreaded question of the night.

"So, son. Ye a Rangers boy or a Celtic boy?"

Even Simon and Kyle look over with wary expressions, Nik might not understand the significance of such a thing but the lads do. Mac asks with such a casual demeanour, you'd almost think it was a friendly query. It is not.

"Rangers, sir."

"Smart choice, son."

A shared sentiment passes through them all.

Thank fuck.

#john soap mactavish #cod macmillan #captain john price #john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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BAD FOR BUSINESS: THE BONUS LEVEL

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+

It was the first shift you’d had with Steve since you’d made each other come in the front seat of his car.

It had been as you expected: a little awkward, a little nerve wracking. Gazes meeting across the arcade, dim lights hiding Steve’s pink cheeks, your frantic, wide eyes, the hitched breaths every time the other came a little too close.

You stayed away for the most part, hidden behind the cash desk while Steve helped Mike Wheeler and his friends with the jerky controller on Space Invaders. But then the eight o’clock was rolling round and the customers left, Robin vacuumed the floors and Murray was hurrying out the door and telling you that you were in charge of locking up. The rain came when Robin left, her jacket stretched over her head as she ran to her mom’s car and then it was just Steve, watching you from across the desk.

The weather outside was a roar above your head, a deafening din of water of rain on the roof and with the machines powered down for the night, it was the only thing you could hear. Maybe, if you listened hard enough, you would’ve been able to hear your own heartbeat under it all, matching the erratic beat.

“You gonna help?” You asked Steve, just to break the tension. You gestured to the stack of receipts and tickets and coins on the desk that still needed counted. “Or are you just gonna gawk?”

Steve turned pinker under the lights, ultraviolet and fuschia, neon aquamarine from the glow of the games and Steve was too pretty under it all, prettier with his flushed cheeks. It gave you a little piece of normality back when he narrowed his eyes at you, brows furrowed, gaze bored. But his nose was still tinted pink when he reached your side and when his arm brushed yours, you hated and loved how close he was.

Your stomach flipped, tumbled, an endless fall into something you couldn’t make out. Not yet.

You stood in silence for minutes, maybe ten, maybe fifteen. Maybe it had only been one. But the tension was too much, it was splitting at the seams, it was cracking you open, a yawning, stretching ache in your chest, beating at your bones and—

“You’re not doing that right,” is what you said. And then you just shut up, lips sealed, features pinched as if in pain because it was taking you everything you had to not talk about the kiss. Both kisses. The two fucking kisses you’d shared with Steve fucking Harrington.

And it was easier to fight about it than anything else.

Steve scoffed like you knew he would, eyes rolling, lips curling. “How the fuck can I be doing it wrong?” He bit. “I’m counting tickets, princess, not balancing million dollar cheques.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was side by side with hand brushing yours every time you both reached across the desk and he was warm, he was solid and he was wearing the same cologne from the Photo Booth and if you were going to put your smart mouth to use again, it was going to be against Steve’s.

It was too hot and suddenly the rain above wasn’t the loudest thing in the room. You swallowed hard and tried to block out the best of your heart against your ribcage. It was so loud, you wondered if Steve could hear it too.

“What? No argument?” Steve glanced at you from the side of his eyes, frowning. You weren’t sure what gave it away, maybe your tensed shoulders, your blown out pupils. Whatever it was, it made the boy too bold. “You’re lookin’ a little warm, princess, you okay there?”

Smug. Steve sounded smug and it was fucking infuriating.

And then you were on him.

Or maybe it was the other way around, you were sure. It happened seconds ago, but you couldn’t remember. You couldn’t remember anything. All that mattered now was that your lips were fused to Steve’s and he was crowding you against the counter, his hands splayed against your sides, fingers slipping up over your ribs and making your shirt slide with it, bare skin exposed for him to touch, a gasp wrenched from his throat at the feel of you, your hands grabbing at his hair and pulling hard.

He was moaning, but maybe you were too, gasping into each others patted mouths and swallowing each others noises, noses smashed to cheeks and hands roaming, bodies pressed together in a desperate bid to get as close as possible with your clothes still on and you’d never been so glad that Murray never bothered with working security cameras.

Steve was saying your name, whispers of it between curses, making it sound like a prayer, like you were something holy, that you were gonna save him but you decided then and there you’d do whatever it took to make Steve sound the way he did - even if you went to hell with him.

But then he was pushing you away, panting, big hands curling around the backs of your knees and you were on the desk, tickets and coins scattering, sitting in a pool of neon lights and the silk of your splayed skirt.

Steve sucked in a breath, wrecked sounding. He’d never looked prettier. Swollen lips, pink cheeks, hair a riot from your teasing fingers, his eyes darker than they were supposed to be.

“I wanna go down on you, so fuckin’ badly.”

You swore out loud, brain glitching for a second, stuttering over the words that had gotten stuck in your throat and you were nodding, frantic, head bobbing and jaw hanging loose because Steve was dropping to his knees and sliding his palms up your thighs.

“M’gonna need some confirmation here, princess,” Steve urged, kissing across your knee, his hair tickling at the insides of your thighs.

You were tingling, an electric kind of buzz running under your skin, your body a livewire and you hadn’t felt this turned on since god knows fucking when. It was a filthy, pretty thing, dirty and wrong and in an inappropriate place with a beautiful boy who you’d tricked yourself into hating.

Supposedly.

So you let some sounds rip from your throat and thankfully they made words, desperate pleas of agreement and Steve was grinning, looking like he’d had all his wishes granted as he mouthed his way between your thighs. He didn’t hesitate and there was no shame from you either as he dragged up your skirt, fingers hooking into the cotton of your underwear so he could pull it to the side. He groaned, a breath punching from him as his lips parted at the sight of you, pretty and wet and waiting.

He made you squeal, smiling against you as he leaned in to kiss at your folds, delicate little things against your slick skin, nose nudging at your clit and then you moaned his name and he lost all sense of control.

“Steve, oh— ohmygod, fuck!” You lurched forward, body curling over him as you grabbed at the boy’s hair and Steve just answered in kind, hands curling around the tops of your thighs to pull you closer to him, your ass perched precariously on the edge of the counter, toes skimming the floor and you were almost riding his face, hips rolling as he held you up and licked broad stripes over your cunt.

He only moved back to press a surprisingly sweet kiss to the juncture of your thigh but he had your eyes rolling when he looked up at your from under his lashes, lips pink and wet from you. “M’so goddamn hard right now, you have no idea.”

You were crying out, an awfully loud moan ripping from your lips and you were putty, you were a mess. And for the next fifteen minutes, you were entirely Steve’s. He took you apart with his tongue and his lips and you let him, his blunt fingernails leaving half moon markings in your hips that’d you stare at in the mirror later.

And when you came, hard, grinding down onto Steve’s mouth, his chin, his nose, you let go of your manic grip on his hair and smoothed a hand over his temple instead, coaxing him closer before you gasped out his name, breathless.

The next morning, nobody could answer why there were tickets scattered over the floor, hidden under machines and stuck to forgotten bubblegum. And when the rest of the team looked to you and Steve for answers, you both just walked in opposite directions, matching smiles hidden in the shadows between the neon lights.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader smut

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chronicbeans · 9 months ago

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hi I saw your masterpost and was wondering if you could write Micah Yujin x reader who suffers from asthma?? I don’t know if requests are open and I’m so sorry if they aren’t, no pressure at all

Sure! I personally don't have asthma, so I'm sorry if these aren't necessarily the most accurate. Most of my research for these things comes from Mayo Clinic and the NIH. I also went to the ACAAI for this one. These will be headcanons because they weren't specified, but if you want a short fic you can ask!

TW: Asthma Attacks, Hacking, Invasion of Privacy/Stalking

Micah Yujin with a Reader who has Asthma:

• He's a smart man. I mean, he literally found your address by hacking into your personal information. So, the chances are, he probably knows that you have asthma. Not only that, but what type of asthma you have, any allergies you have, what medication you take... you get the gist. The only problem he may have is knowing what exactly your condition may cause.

• Yes, most everybody knows asthma can cause shortness of breath and asthma attacks, but not everybody really knows the less noticable symptoms, or what to do during an asthma attack. That's not going to stop him from trying his best to learn! He's pretty internet savvy, so he knows where to look. Though, those pesky research papers have a bunch of medical terms he doesn't understand... What the hell is an etiology, or a toxicokinetic? He's probably looking at papers that are high above his medical knowledge or reading level.

• When the two of you finally end up meeting face to face, he's absolutely ecstatic! He also tries his best to accommodate for you in certain scenarios. If the two of you decide to go on a hike or walk, he'll try to go slower for you so you don't overexert yourself. If your asthma is triggered by certain dusts or allergens, he'll be keeping a sharp eye out for them to steer you away from it. He may seem to be extremely overprotective and worried about it, and he really is! He wants to protect you, but he's also painfully aware that he can't really do so when it's a chronic illness...

• If you ever end up having an asthma attack with him nearby, his first step is to internally panic. Yes, he knows what to do, but he's also terrified that it might not work. However, he'll help you sit down, use your inhaler if you have one, and get you to a safe place. All while he's internally telling himself stupid jokes to keep himself calm, and telling you words of affirmation to keep you calm. As much as he'd love to tell you the jokes he thinks of, he doesn't want to make you laugh or frustrate you while you're having difficulties breathing. Humor tends to calm him down when upset, but he knows others might get angry and think he's not taking the situation seriously. He'll tell you them after your attack passes, and you've calmed down, if you want.

• Micah is going to let you cuddle one of his dinosaurs, afterwards. If you aren't allergic to cats, he'll also let you cuddle Skrunkly. If you are, though, he'll put her into a different room for you, and vacuum the room after she's out.

• He's the type to completely forget about your asthma until you actually have a problem. Not necessarily in the sense that he'd forget to avoid your triggers. No, he'll remember them, and help you avoid them. It's more like it is second nature to him, now, and he doesn't think of your asthma as being "asthma". It's almost like he's forgotten that not everyone has the "smaller" symptoms, like coughing or slight wheezing while laughing... And that may or may not be because you're one of the few people he actually talks to. So, any small symptoms are seen as just normal, then whenever you have bigger, more serious problems related to your asthma, he'll suddenly remember that "Oh, yeah, you have asthma- OH SHIT-!" and begin panicking, because said "more serious problems" that most likely will make him actively think about your asthma are probably asthma attacks or extreme coughing fits.

• He's probably going to have a miniature checklist written down on things to bring with him whenever he's going somewhere with you. He's already been bringing a mini first aid kit with him just because it's useful, but now he's bringing a separate kit with your emergency inhaler and any medications you might need to take in an emergency, as well as a thermos of a warm, caffeinated beverage to drink if you don't have or use an inhaler. He saw somewhere online that caffeinated, warm drinks can help open the airways a little bit, so it wouldn't hurt to try.

• He's going to obsessively check in on the latest news considering research regarding asthma. Any new, scientifically backed tips and tricks on how to help ease the symptoms will be relayed to you.

• Also, is your medication too expensive? How about he just pays for it! He'll find a way to get the money! He can hack into a few places to... "borrow" a few dollars for it. Or a few thousand... Or million... No price is too high for your comfort!

• If you couldn't tell, Micah probably will be a bit overly anxious, at first. However, once he calms down and actually gets used to living or being around someone who has asthma, he calms down. It's all second nature for him at some point, and he's no longer actively thinking about it. From then on, it's all just a regular relationship! Or, at least, as regular of a relationship as you can have with an obsessive hacker that is probably stalking you... It's to protect you, he promises.

#error 143 #micah yujin #error143 #Error 143 x Reader #micah yujin x reader

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literaticat · 7 months ago

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Hi, Jenn. I think I’m freaking out. My debut will be traditionally published in a few months, and I suddenly have this feeling everyone’s going to hate it. It’s too immature. It sounds more like MG than YA. It’s sad and repetitive. No one’s going to want to read anything else I write. WHAT DO I DO? How I deal with this??

Well if it helps, I KNOW you are freaking out. :-)

Listen, you didn't get to this place in a vacuum, right? You have an agent, and an editor, and an entire team of people at the publisher -- ALL OF WHOM had to see something good / enjoyable / sellable about your book in order for them to want to spend time and money on it and for it to get published.

Do you think all those people have bad taste and are stupid? (If so: RUDE!) If not, well then, clearly your book is already liked by many smart people with good taste and years of experience in the field. That's a start, yeah?

I know often it's hard to even hear praise, whereas criticism rings loudly. I can't tell you how many times a book it has happened that a book has gotten a STARRED REVIEW, and the author can only focus on the one faint criticism within the glowing praise!

So just remember: It's out of your hands now. You can't control how readers react to your book; that's actually none of your beeswax. Some readers will probably hate it, tbh, and there's absolutely nothing (legal or advisable) that you can do about that besides just move on, let go and let God!

For other readers, maybe this is a book that changes their life, makes them think about something in a new way, makes them love reading. Maybe they will think about it 30 years from now when they are an adult... or, maybe it just brings them enjoyment for a few hours, that's fine, too.

Good books inspire strong feelings in readers, and the more readers you have, the more different kinds of feelings there will be. It's better for a book to have lots of people talking about it than for it to be utterly ignored, that's for sure.

Think about the books that impacted you, that you loved, that mean the world to you. Go and read the one-star reviews of them, and see that even the best, most beloved, most acclaimed books have haters, and there's something hilarious and comforting about that, actually. Humanity: What a rich and varied tapestry!

Feel better. You're doing amazing, sweetie!

#writer pep talks

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yourplaywright · 1 month ago

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Thinking about who would succeed Megatron as Decepticon leader

Like, okay, I have two very specific scenarios in mind: one where Megatron and Optimus are basically teleported away and locked away somewhere and their respective teams have to rescue them (alive!! They all know they’re alive because that changes the scenario a lot) and so someone must lead. The second scenario would be a proper passing of the torch, which I’ll get to later. These both take place in the Generation One Cartoon continuity, also before the 86 movie. No one is dying lol

But…. yeah, who would?

Before we can get to that, we do have to ask: what makes a good Decepticon leader? Like, why does Megatron lead?

My short answer is the fact that Megatron has been the defacto leader for so long now, plus the ideals he embodies. The Decepticons are less like an organised team in the cartoon and are more akin to a pretty dysfunctional military family bitter rivals… who also have space guns. Yeah. As we can see in many episodes, Megatron’s leadership tends to default to ‘Yell And Threaten And Hit’ which works! Some of the time! <Cue One!Starscream saying his bit about strength over another, yada yada.> Megatron pretty much just hits anyone who tries to overthrow him.

… which leads to a pretty nasty power vacuum, like what we saw in the 86 movie, though less intense due to how he’s still There.

Obviously, Starscream tries to swoop in immediately with his ‘MEGATRON HAS FALLEN’ spiel. Cue Shockwave hitting him.

Starscream fails as a Decepticon leader because, despite the fact he’s wickedly smart and does have the firepower and a few followers to back him up, he’s very shortsighted. His flaws lie in how impatient he is, really. Screamer is smart but doesn’t have the (semi) wisdom in leading that Megatron has acquired. Short term gain vs long term consequences hasn’t clicked in his mind yet, and it probably won’t for a while. I believe in one continuity Megatron specifically stated that he was kind of training Starscream to take over as leader for the qualities I mentioned but that he wasn’t ready yet, as evidenced by everything. He has a long way to go before he can lead bots like the Decepticons, even if he won’t admit it.

So, Soundwave, yeah? Dude’s the glue holding this army together, whenever he leaves it all goes to scrap, he’s probably puppeteering Megatron behind the scenes. While very funny, I honestly doubt he’d ever take full control in the cartoon world. He did have a bid for power in the 86 movie IIRC but was content enough to follow behind Starscream when he won. What gives? Soundwave works best as a spymaster/communications guy. He’s in Megatron’s ear as a trusted advisor and someone to fall back on, but he never takes full control. Soundwave flourishes when he’s not in the limelight like Megatron does, dude goes on whole stakeouts where he just chills in altmode until someone gets curious and picks him up (or the infamous lamp transformation). Laserbeak is also a very specific spying tool. Considering how it seems like he has to go at least partially AFK during those sessions, it’s best he works in the shadows to help out the leader behind the scenes. He also strikes me as the kind of guy to really believe in the Decepticon cause beyond Megatron, so he would be forthcoming to a leader who can actually lead (looking at you, Screamer).

Then… Shockwave? Absolutely not, I love my guy but he’s a bit of a joke (CARTOON ONLY. I’m aware he’s actually scary in the comics). My mans got relegated to guard duty on Cybertron, which he fails at REPEATEDLY all the time once the space bridge is open and also those female Autobots kept stealing from him. Dude can’t shoot to save his life, he tries to bid for power and goes down after Astrotrain and Blitzwing make a 5-klick treaty to beat him up a bit. In the situation where Megatron is still alive, I suspect he might even split off from the main ‘Cons to stage his own rescue mission, because half the guys are arguing and the other half are scheming to get rid of Megatron. My favourite girlfailure probably gets captured almost immediately, but it’s the thought that counts.

So who leads the Decepticons? Ahah, clickbait, because I’m saving that for tomorrow. Though a quickfire:

Astrotrain does not get very far, I’m sorry. We saw how he turned out.

Blitzwing, if he had the opportunity, might be somewhat competent accidentally. With his SIC the former coach, he interrupts some Autobot plans and has a basic outline for rescuing Megatron before he’s stopped, either by another ‘Con or the Autobots.

The Constructicons self-destruct. They’re barely functional together and now they have to compete for leadership? Done for, over with. They’re saved by the fact that they form Devastator and can wreck the competition, but Hook complains about the state of the Decepticons, Long Haul wants to best up Autobots, and Scavenger’s best isn’t good enough.

Skywarp and Thundercracker don’t really have personalities ): My boys follow Starscream, being terrible advisors (one moreso than the other).

Waahoo. More to come tomorrow, might mess around and do the Autobots too, who knows!

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auroravictorium · 2 years ago

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still in love and half alive (k.b.)

can't say we didn't try. baby, we're a bad idea. - bad idea by dove cameron

Summary: kaz and reader have a job: take out the leader of one of the newest up-and-coming gangs in the barrel that hope to fill the vacuum left by pekka rollins's departure. said job requires reader to utilize her skills from her days as a showgirl; despite the unpleasant reminders of her past, she completes the job and helps other showgirls and the low grunts of the new gang in the process.

Pairing(s): kaz x former showgirl!reader (established relationship) Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: alcohol consumption, men being creepy, poor treatment of women (nothing explicit, just allusions to men treating them like crap), allusions to past exploitation, kaz having non-explicit thoughts about reader, reader playing up the seduction factor, violence [cutting someone with a dagger, kaz choking someone, kaz hitting someone with his cane], mentions of past trauma, very quick mention of kaz's haphephobia Genre: action-ish, a little angst, fluff near the end Request? Yes! (@futurecorps3)

Author's Note: hello hello! so this is an absolute BEAST of a one-shot, but i couldn't figure out where to split it. i hope you all enjoy <3

Kaz sat in the far corner of the entertainment hall, nursing his drink and trying to keep his jealousy at bay. Patrons and dancers milled about, amusing themselves with conversation, cards, or propositions. A few disappeared up the rickety stairs to amuse themselves, laughing and stumbling with drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. The room reeked of smoke, liquor, and sweat.

He was only here for your sake. If he were smart, he would be anywhere else, certainly not in some up-and-coming gang's crumbling entertainment hall. If he could, he would leave you to play your part. You could hold your own just fine, no protection from Kaz needed; but jealousy had him rooted to his teetering stool in the corner, with his watered-down liquor in a gloved hand and a scowl on his face. He couldn't bring himself to leave. Not when three dozen men were staring at you in a tiny dress that hugged your waist.

You'd paid a hefty sum for the chance to dance on the stage; from your position, you could survey the bar for the man calling himself the leader of such an establishment. Armed with a description of the wannabe gang leader and three knives hidden under your sparkling red dress, you circled the shimmering pole in the center of the stage and traced your gaze over the people watching you.

There was no sign of the target, Pieter Gabel. It took every ounce of your self-control to resist a sigh, and you decided to do a lazy spin around the pole to amuse your audience. A few men whistled as you hooked your arm around the pole and spun, letting the light catch in the faux diamonds threaded in your hair. You settled on the ground again and tossed your hair over your shoulder, scanning the crowd for the only set of eyes that mattered.

You didn't find Kaz in the crowd. Not that you expected to. Instead, you caught his gaze from across the room, his icy blue eyes illuminated by a near-snuffed candle on his table. To anyone else, he looked as indifferent as ever, maybe vaguely interested in the spectacle on stage. But you saw the slant of his mouth, the clench of his jaw, how something dark glimmered in his eyes, perhaps a promise of violence. He didn't like all the attention on you.

So you offered a small smile, a look reserved for him and him alone. You'd apologize later, but he'd understand. You were doing what needed to be done. The stage gave you the best vantage point in the building, and Gabel had to be found and driven out of the city. The Barrel was tense enough while the remnants of the Dime Lions attempted to regroup; the Dregs needed to eliminate any rising threats as soon as possible.

You and Kaz both knew that. He'd forgive you once you were off that damn stage and by his side, helping him rule the Barrel.

For years, crowds of tourists and too-rich men waited at your feet, leering at you like you were nothing more than a pretty face and a body to buy, bed, or watch with predatory glints in their eyes. They didn't bother to see past the costume and see how sharp and dangerous you could be. To them, you were nothing more than a piece of entertainment.

But Kaz saw right through the ruse and saw every jagged scar your past had left. He saw how Ketterdam had sharpened you into a dangerous weapon, ready to wreak revenge on a city that had hurt you deeply.

Like called to like. Your similar tastes for vengeance pulled Kaz toward you, despite all attempts on his end to ignore the summons. For years after you joined the Dregs, he settled for admiring you from afar until you got sick of his shit and told him to either do something about his feelings or quit scaring off everyone who looked your way.

You didn't say it so kindly, of course, and Kaz reluctantly admitted you had a point, though he knew it was a bad idea to indulge his feelings and yours. But he had, and he couldn't bring himself to regret it. The year since had passed in stolen moments after jobs, in the shadowed corners of the Crow Club during the slow hours, and peaceful mornings and evenings in either of your rooms.

Your set was coming to an end, and there was still no sign of the target. After one final circle around the stage, one last attempt to entice more kruge to fall at your feet, you slipped through the moth-eaten curtains behind the poles and left the cheering audience behind you.

As soon as their eyes left your body, you shuddered, clasping your hands over your forearms and making a beeline for the back hallway leading to the dark, rotting dressing rooms. As soon as you could, you pulled on the coat Kaz had given you, an exact match to the one he usually wore but tailored to your size. It was fur-lined, and it covered you up. Exactly what you needed to battle the cold shame beginning to cling to your skin after your performance.

No matter how often you put on the ruse and brought your old life back from the dead for a night, it was a feeling you could never shake. Being with Kaz, knowing he was out there and he would never judge you for your past, helped. More often than not, he was the one telling you that you didn't have to do this; there were other ways to spot your targets, to bring them down. He made sure you knew you didn't need to be exploited anymore. All you needed to do was have your weapons and wit ready.

But using the sins and vices of Ketterdam against itself was the easiest way to do this. It gave you power, something you didn't have during your days as a showgirl. Before, you were a puppet. Now, you were the puppetmaster, fueled and encouraged by someone equally as dangerous as you. He would never allow Ketterdam to suck you back into that life again. You would never let yourself.

As you slipped back into the crowd, you were pleased by the anonymity of wearing a coat and removing your elaborate makeup. You crossed the entertainment hall to Kaz's shadowy table and settled on the stool across from Kaz.

His eyes turned toward you, landing on your freshly-bound hair and the grim expression on your face. "Are you alright?" he said quietly. Though his face didn't change, you knew he was concerned. He always was after you came off the stage.

Kaz passed you his drink, and you lifted it to your lips and took a sip. The liquid stung on its way down, and you wrinkled your nose. "I'm fine. But I understand why you look so miserable." You pushed the glass back toward him. "That's disgusting."

"But an excellent business tactic," Kaz muttered. "People buy more drinks." He knocked back the rest without flinching and set the glass down with a thump.

"Any sign of him?" you murmured, lowering your voice and leaning across the table so Kaz could hear. The hair on the back of your neck was prickling uncomfortably, and you felt the weight of unfamiliar eyes on you. "Someone's watching us." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear and made a show of placing your chin in your palm and peeking through your eyelashes up at Kaz. You needed to look as unbothered as possible by your audience's attention, which meant putting on your facade again.

For a moment, Kaz didn't realize that you had hinted for him to look around for Gabel. He was distracted by the dancing of the fading candlelight in your eyes, how it cast the shadow of your eyelashes upward, how it illuminated the curve of your lips. They looked soft and tinted red from the lipstick you wore on stage, and he imagined how warm they felt against his when he dared to kiss you.

There was nothing else in the hall but you and your lips and his thoughts spinning in a million directions.

He blinked, breaking from his trance. He blamed the sweltering heat of the building for the heat rising in his cheeks as he looked around for the eyes he could now feel on him. Nobody caught his attention at first, and then he saw a figure across the hall. The man was leaning against a dented, grimy wall and watching you too closely for your comfort.

You followed Kaz's icy, suddenly furious gaze to the man in a poorly-tailored suit that didn't match and was most likely stolen. His watch was clearly fake, and his jewelry had an artificial glimmer. His gang, if you could call it that, was barely above water; you could tell from his poor attempt at looking flashy and put together, as Per Haskell or Pekka Rollins had before being ousted.

"I'll get him alone," you whispered. You moved to slide from your seat, but Kaz's cane pressed against the top of your shoe to keep you still. Your eyes flicked to him, and you raised a brow. "Kaz?"

"No," Kaz said firmly. "You've done enough."

The mere thought of you being alone with him, even long enough for Kaz to trail the two of you and land a strike on Gabel, infuriated him. He knew why the man was looking at you and could guess what was running through his mind. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the man hoped he had a chance with you. Kaz didn't want to put you at risk.

"If you approach him, he'll bolt," you argued. You nudged Kaz's cane off your foot and turned to face him again. You plastered on a sweet smile like you weren't disagreeing with him about how best to neutralize the man practically salivating across the room. With luck, it would only appear that you were trying to convince him to pass over enough kruge for you to pay for another set of dances on stage. You hoped it was convincing.

"If you approach, he'll think it's his lucky night," Kaz ground out between his teeth. His fingers twitched around the top of his cane. What he would give to hit him hard enough to see stars. Or the Saints above. "You've done enough," he repeated, softer this time. He could see you itching to shed your act of seductive showgirl as soon as possible. He refused to ask for any more of it from you.

You sighed deeply. There was no arguing with Kaz. "What's your plan to approach him without scaring him off? Would you like to borrow my dress?"

Kaz glared at you. "Funny."

"Red's not your color anyway." Your lips twitched with a smile, and you turned your gaze to the stage. You thought back to your view of the entire building, a cramped, dilapidated theatre. The first floor was where the musicians used to sit and play; the second contained a semicircle of private boxes where the rich would sit, smoke, and indulge in their vices during the plays happening below.

It was the perfect place to go unnoticed or gather attention.

You leaned forward again, and Kaz raised a brow at your invasion of his space. "I have an idea," you murmured. You slipped your fingers into your hair and retrieved a sparkling pin. Leaning forward until your face was mere inches from Kaz's, you dropped it into his gloved palm. Shimmering, obvious bait you hoped the target would take. "There's an empty box upstairs," you whispered. Keenly aware of the unwelcome eyes on you, you looked up through your eyelashes again at Kaz. "Fourth door."

Kaz had to remind himself to keep breathing as you stood up and walked toward the stairs to the second floor. He could still smell your perfume and the product Nina had helped put in your hair before you left for the job; beneath that, something intoxicatingly you. His head spun, and he forced himself to stand and follow, closing his fingers around the hairpin you'd deposited in his palm.

Saints, this was a bad idea. He was too distracted to figure out what plan you were concocting. All he could think about was you. Your lips, your eyes, how you were thinking so quickly on your feet about how to eliminate Gabel. You were his match sculpted by some divine presence: his intellectual equal, a beautiful drug that appealed to every instinct he thought had drowned with Kaz Rietveld in the harbor.

Ketterdam had underestimated you, but it brought you to him. For once, he couldn't curse the city for something.

He followed you up the stairs and into the private box, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind muddled by the burning hairpin in his hand. Distantly, he sensed that the two of you were being followed. Your plan, no doubt.

Right, yes. The plan you had.

The private box was small, with a row of two seats in the front and a row of three on a step just above that. The upholstery was covered in grime and dirt from lack of maintenance since the theatre's abandonment, and the wooden arms of the chairs were rotten and crumbling.

You were perched on the step between the two rows of seats, tugging on a pair of boots you'd stashed earlier. You'd also pulled on trousers and tucked the short dress into them, making your outfit more comfortable and functional.

"Are we killing him or just scaring him?" you asked, pulling a knife from the hidden inner pocket of your coat as you tugged it back on over your new outfit. "I think roughing him up would get the point across nicely. I'd hate to get too much blood on this coat."

"That would be a shame," Kaz managed to answer. He handed you your pin and watched you slip it back into your hair. He took a position by the door, hoping the distance would help him focus. "Scare him first."

You nodded and settled in the least grimy seat. Slow footsteps creaked up the stairs, followed by long pauses between each step. The man hoped to go unnoticed and unheard, likely to ambush the two of you as you supposedly indulged in each other.

You twirled your knife across your knuckles, listening to the footsteps approach down the carpeted hall. Kaz gripped his cane tighter and pressed himself flat against the wall, using the shadows to his advantage. He adjusted his grip and raised it, ready to bring it down.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and you plastered on your sweetest smile. But your fingers were curled around the hilt of your blade, and it glittered with the promise of violence. Such a contrast from the sparkling, luxurious diamonds in your hair earlier, which promised only pleasure.

The door creaked open, and Pieter Gabel stepped into the trap. His lips curled into a smug smirk as he saw you all alone, and an oily strand of hair dropped onto his forehead. He reeked of alcohol and pride, but you maintained your facade as he leaned against the doorway. "Didn't take you up on your offer for a dance, did he?"

Kaz stiffened behind the door, his muscles coiled to strike.

You looked Gabel up and down as if seriously considering his presence as an alternative. Really, you were searching his form for weapons. But he was arrogant and unchallenged thus far; he didn't think the Dregs would come for him so soon.

He was making this too easy.

"He got a better offer from someone else," you said, lifting your shoulders in a delicate shrug. Behind the door, Kaz wrinkled his nose. There wasn't an offer in the world that could tempt him away from you.

You pretended not to notice Kaz's disgust and inspected your nails instead. "Hoping to take his place?" You felt as though you were about to vomit. On stage, it was easy enough to focus only on Kaz and pretend he was the only one watching. But with only this man's gaze crawling over your face, you felt like you were back to your showgirl days: exploited and barely scraping by.

Breathe.

"Perhaps." Pieter shrugged off his ill-fitting topcoat and tossed it to the floor. You nearly gagged on the smell of alcohol wafting off of it, and it took most of your self-control to stay unaffected as he prowled closer. "I'll pay for your next set." He nudged the door shut behind him.

In his inebriated state, he was unaware of the dangerous presence behind him, whose eyes lit up with fury as the target moved toward you. He was only a foot away.

I am not a puppet, you thought. I am in control. With one flick of your wrist, your dagger could be buried beneath his ribs. His blood would seep out, and he'd be nothing more than a man who failed to make Ketterdam know his name. In hours, the city would move on; the dancers would leave, and his followers would scatter and be absorbed into other gangs.

You held this man's fate in your palms, and he didn't even know it. The thought morbidly reassured you.

Kaz saw the decision flicker through your eyes and took a silent step forward. But he didn't strike, watching as you slipped out of your seat and rounded it, revealing the dangerous glimmer of your dagger.

"I have a better offer," you said, twirling the blade in your hand.

Gabel paled, and some semblance of understanding and fear passed through his bloodshot eyes. He stumbled back to put some distance between you, and Kaz was ready. He brought his cane down on the back of one of his knees, making the man grunt and fall forward.

You brought your foot down on his hand as he caught himself, and a wicked rush of satisfaction ran through you as the bones snapped beneath your weight. He cried out and went to grab your ankle with his unbroken hand, but you kicked it aside as Kaz swung the crow's head of his cane downward.

Gabel roared in pain and hunched forward, covering the gash in his temple with his crooked, bruising fingers. Blood seeped between them and down the side of his pale face, and it started to drip onto the carpeted floor.

A heartbeat later, Kaz shoved Gabel's hands away from his face and hooked his cane horizontally across the man's throat. Kaz hauled the man back so he was forced to look up at you. He choked on the wood pressing against his windpipe and fought against the gloved hands holding him in place, and Kaz pulled his cane back to cut off the rest of his air. Gabel's eyes bulged, and he tried to pull the weapon away from his throat; it was no use, and Kaz nodded for you to speak.

"It's my understanding that you think you have a chance at filling the power vacuum left by Pekka Rollins," you said. Gabel's eyes darted away from you as you advanced, and you positioned the tip of your blade against the corner of his eye. It nicked the skin, and blood dripped down his cheek like a gruesome red tear. His gaze turned back to you. "Unfortunately, you treaded too closely into the Dregs' territory and threatened our business. Kaz Brekker is willing to forgive it on three conditions. Wheeze if you're listening."

Gabel let out a barely audible noise of confirmation.

"Good," you said. You held up a finger. "One, you leave the Barrel. Two, you liquidate your possessions here before you leave. And three, you give that money to your dancers and your grunts." The last point was solely your idea; you hadn't discussed it with Kaz, but it was important enough that you would risk his anger at not being informed first.

You wanted to give the dancers and grunts the choice to get out. It would give them power over their fate you didn't have when you were on that stage.

You pressed the edge of your dagger against the underside of Gabel's chin, watching his lips turn blue. "Do we have a deal?

Kaz loosened his grip on his cane, and Gabel gasped for air. "Speak," he said quietly. There was no shortage of danger in his voice, and Kaz kept his cane braced just tight enough against the man's throat that he couldn't get out of this. There was only one answer available to Gabel if he wanted to live.

"Fuck you," Gabel wheezed.

It was a poor choice.

"I'm going to let you try that again," you hissed. Kaz tightened his grip on the cane again as your blade parted skin. Blood oozed down the metal, and you stopped when the cut was just deep enough for him to understand you were serious. Gabel writhed, trying to fight free. But you hadn't pulled your dagger away, and he only succeeded in cutting himself deeper. "Do. We. Have. A. Deal?"

Gabel finally nodded as best he could with the wooden cane in his way.

You pulled back. "Wonderful." You sheathed your knife inside your coat and met Kaz's gaze. "He's all yours."

Kaz released Gabel, who slumped to the side and clutched his throat. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, but it contracted sharply when Kaz brought the blunt end down on his ribcage. Gabel howled in pain and curled his legs to his chest. "You close today, and the dancers get their money by the end of the week," Kaz growled. "If my Dregs see your face on this side of the East Stave, she," he jerked his chin toward you, "will not be so kind again. And when she's finished with you, I'll ensure nobody finds your body."

He lifted his cane from Gabel's chest and held his hand out to you. You took it, and Kaz led you out of the trap you'd set, down the stairs, and out of the theatre, leaving the sultry music and spluttering excuse of a gang leader behind you.

The two of you moved quickly back into Dregs territory, and Kaz kept his hand around yours the whole time. You waited to speak until you were sure nobody was following, and your shoulders remained tense until your surroundings looked familiar again.

Once the Slat was in view, you glanced up at Kaz. "Do you think he'll actually do it?" you asked. You squinted in the early dawn light. Between the buildings, the sun was beginning to rise; you'd been gone longer than you thought.

"If he has any sense of self-preservation, he will," Kaz answered. He looked down at you, and he evaluated your face. He recognized the worried set of your lips, how you seemed to be waiting for something. "You didn't think I'd follow through on the conditions you set."

"I knew you'd follow through, but I thought you'd be upset I didn't discuss it first." You knew Kaz would never deny anyone their freedom. You just knew he didn't like being left in the dark.

You followed Kaz into the sleepy, abandoned Slat and up the long flights of stairs to his room. Along the way, you shed your coat and threw it over your arm, itching to get out of your dress as soon as possible. Now that you were out of the theatre and back in your domain, you were reminded that you were free. You had control. There was no reason you had to stay in the costume or wear one ever again.

Once in his attic room, you tossed your coat over the rickety chair in the corner and helped yourself to one of his spare undershirts while he sat on the edge of his bed and removed his gloves. You could feel his eyes on you as you untucked the short dress from your pants and pulled it over your head, revealing the skin of your back. Kaz saw the physical scars of years past, visible now in the yellow-orange of the sunrise. He wanted to trace them and kiss the ones along your spine.

He wanted to remind you that you were free and apologize for you playing this role, even though those days should be behind you.

Unaware of his thoughts, you pulled the shirt over your head to conceal most of your scars and turned to face Kaz. He dropped his gaze to his shoes, starting to loosen the laces.

You crossed the room and sat beside Kaz. For a moment, you were silent, figuring out what to say. How to tell him how much his support meant. "Thank you," you finally whispered. It felt as if your scars were floating to the surface of your skin for only him to see. Some bubbled up your throat and past your lips, making you flush as you spoke. "For a long time, I wished I had a choice. I hope that the money gives them a choice. I hope that the ones who want to get out can, and I hope the ones who stay use the money however they want. I don't want them to end up like how I was until I joined the Dregs."

A puppet controlled at the whims of others.

"Don't thank me," Kaz said quietly. "You helped them. You gave them what you didn't have in their position and finished the job. As long as the job is over and you're unharmed." He took your hand in his again and laced your fingers together. His gaze met yours, and you saw an unexpected seriousness in his eyes. "You're alright?"

"I'm alright," you said softly. There was residual coldness from being on stage, from having to step into those shoes for even one set of songs, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. You had given the dancers and grunts of the former gang the means to escape the Barrel if they chose, and you secured the Dregs for now.

Protecting the Dregs was a violent cycle of blood, ambushes, fighting, and temporary security. But if some good came out of it and the past you couldn't erase, maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world. You had some security. You had control over your future.

And you had Kaz, who would be damned if he let Ketterdam take either of those things from you. He'd reduce the city to rubble if it meant keeping the fire in your eyes that he had seen when you first joined the Dregs; then, it was a spark, a hint of what could be. Now, it was an inferno that Kaz would gladly let consume him.

Kaz leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Nausea twisted in his stomach, and Kaz had to pull his hand out of yours to bear the feeling of his lips on your skin. Still, you smiled and let your eyes slip shut as he somehow said exactly what you needed to hear, what soothed the aching in your chest as the painful memories of a few years ago threatened to make themselves at home.

"Get some rest," he murmured. "I'll get rid of the costume."

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt

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icaruskey · 1 year ago

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Hey @pillowspace I've been promising some whump and this is going to be the start of it.

I don't know how many parts it'll be, but I suspect I'll be able to post one snippet every day or two and finish it out by the end of the week.

I hope I do it justice. I've been hyping it up in my head a whole lot, especially since I'm writing more comfort for the clone au than here.

This is loop five. You're pretty sure of that. Sun is a little suspicious of you, the distance between you and the attendant growing ever wider as you prove to be more capable with the kids than him or Moon. It's not his fault, you want to explain, but you know that will only make things worse.

So you try to ignore instinct, let the children fall and need Sun, but he's the face of the daycare and he's needed all the time, so it becomes pain for pain's sake, and that of a child too! You can't stand it, and you know if he were in your shoes, if either of them were, they'd understand.

You still don't like the day they bring the generators in --- other humans with help from some of the animatronics, Freddy and Bonnie always eager to give their coworkers a helping hand. You don't like it because it means Moon won't be out anymore.

"Can we put some tape down? I'm worried the kids will trip over the cables." You stand at Sun's side, both of you watching the generators get placed. You with a furrowed brow, Sun with his rays retracted nearly entirely into his faceplate.

"That might be for the best." The strain in his voice is upsetting, and you reach to touch his arm in sympathy. It surprises him, and he slowly places a hand over yours. "Thank you for helping with the children. It's been... Difficult lately."

I know, you don't say. There's no movement from him, no wit or joke in his voice. Even his touch is limp.

"We're all set!" Freddy's voice is as full of life as Sun's is void of it. He walks over, the ground trembling ever so slightly with every step. "Everything going all right Sunny?"

Sun's grip on you tightens, painfully so with flesh trapped between metal. "Of course! Moon is just having some malfunctioning code, so we are putting him on pause until he gets better." The strain is audible, but Freddy is far too polite to bring it up.

"It's a shame," he says instead, clapping a paw on Sun's shoulder. "He's always good for a tune and a prank. Let us know if you need anything Sunny."

"Of course," Sun replies, but he's drowned out by Bonnie hop-jogging over to grab Freddy's arm.

"C'mon man. We got a set to practice with the girls. Chica's gonna murder us if we aren't on time."

"Ah right. See you Sun, Superstar." Freddy waves his goodbye, but you avoid looking at him. In a couple weeks, Freddy won't be the same. You wish you could warn them, but.

But instead, you watch as the two glamrocks leave, useless in comforting Sun, in saving Bonnie. Maybe if it wasn't for the fire... But you have to keep to your personal priorities right now, and you'd failed too many times already.

Sun signs, releasing you. "Let's get the daycare ready before the kids start showing up. Thank you for coming in early Starlight."

"It's not a problem Sun." You push as much love into your voice as possible. "If you get the art supplies and breakfast snacks ready, I can secure the electric cords."

"Oh of course. That's very smart." His rays remain retracted as he walks to the locked cabinets to prepare. You bum a roll of duct tape off a coworker and climb into the jungle gym, carefully taping the cables out of the way of little feet.

At least Sun brightened when the children started pouring in. You take over explaining the new naptime rules to the parents so he can fawn over the little ones, and the day passes quickly under the unforgiving glare of the lights.

You stay late to help clean, staking chairs out of the way to vacuum. Sun is humming as he pins the new drawings up, taking a few of the oldest ones down and stacking them neatly to the side.

"Will Moon get to come out after hours?" You ask, and Sun stops, arms full with little trays of crayons and markers. You notice there's a couple red hearts drawn on his cheek. Does he know about them?

"Oh, no. We aren't allowed to leave the daycare unless it's for maintenance, so he won't be coming out." Sun hands you the trays. "I'm going to take the old drawings up to our room. Can you finish things up down here?"

"Oh, yeah, of course." Even five loops in you're sticking your foot in your mouth. "Have a good night Sun."

"Thank you Starlight." He gathers the drawings, reaching up for the cord that he and Moon use to travel through the air. It descends and clips in place, and... He's gone.

It hurts to see him in pain like this. But, you will fix things this time. And Sun, very unintentionally, gave you the chance to do some after hours exploring.

✴️✴️✴️

Even better, it turns out the daycare's vacuum cleaner is broken, the always frayed cord finally snapped. Weird that you hadn't noticed this before, but then again, you have been busy every loop. You drag the vacuum out the side door to the manager 's office so it could be thrown out by someone with actual authority. It's quiet, the music playing to softly to muffle your footsteps or rattly old contraption dragging behind you. It shouldn't be easy to sneak up on you, and yet

"Who are you?" A woman's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you jump, giving an inarticulate yell and promptly tripping over yourself as you turn.

She's a security guard you realize, spotting the badge and pseudo-cop attire even as you're blinded by her flashlight. You squint and shield your eyes, clumsily getting back to your feet.

"I'm the daycare assistant." You fumble for your badge, clipped on the inside of your sweater to show. "I'm still cleaning up. Sun's having a bit of a stressful day and it's a lot slower without his help." You're over explaining but, ah well. You're still startled.

"You're not supposed to stay after hours." She checks her watch, and you can finally make out her face. She's pretty, young. Not exactly what you'd think of when you think overnight security guard. "It's late."

"I know." There's an edge of irritation slipping in, even as you gather the broken vacuum again. "I need to finish cleaning."

The guard watches you, and you're uncomfortably aware of her apparent lack of blinking, fiddling with the busted cord instead. "And the daycare attendant is refusing to help?"

"He's had a bad day," you say, openly defensive. "He deserves a break, so I'm taking care of things. It's fine. You can even watch if you want to make sure I'm not stealing anything."

She's still frowning at you, shaking her head. She holsters the flashlight, taking the vacuum from you. "You go on home. I'll make sure the daycare gets cleaned."

"But---" You grimace as her already disgruntled expression turns hostile. "Okay, all right. Can I at least get my stuff?"

She sighs but nods, dropping the vacuum. "Come on then. I need to escort you. Someone's been sneaking around in here after hours already."

Oh? "They have?" Could they have messed with Moon? "Why hasn't the day shift been informed?"

"Everyone important has."

You give up trying to talk, frustrated with her stoney silence. The daycare is lit like a beacon in the pizzeria, and when you enter you cut off to the side, digging your bag out of your cubby. You start to call up to Sun, but the guard is at your shoulder, still watching you in her unnerving way. You swallow instead, gesturing vaguely. "Well, that's it."

"Good. Let's go then." And she takes the lead, leaving you scrambling to catch up. There's no lingering or trying to take the long way around. She leads you directly to the atrium and even watches as you clock out.

"Well, thank you," you say, attempting one more smile. She's unmoved. "Um, have a good night?"

"In the future, if you can't get everything done by the end of your shift, telephone it into the security office," she says, escorting you to the nearest door.

"I will." And you're leaving, confused and frustrated. You turn around when the door locks behind you. The guard is already leaving, her ponytail bouncing with her long steps. Just in case, you try the door, but nope. It's locked.

"Fine then. I'll try again tomorrow," you tell the door, drawing a hand down your face. Hopefully she didn't bully Sun for trying to take a break. You've already decided you do not like her. But how have you missed her the past few loops? You're the only one who knows what's happening, so you should've run into her before. What's changed?

#time loop au #time for the whump whump whump #this is still just setup rip

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fastlikealambo · 5 months ago

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seven devils all around you. || Oshamir Modern Royalty AU

Summary: After the assassination of Queen Mae-Ho Aniseya of Brendok, the world watches Verosha Aniseya, the spare the world forgot, return to her home country to lead it. Inexperienced with a royal target on her back, Osha must reach into the dark in order to save her home and her mysterious bodyguard Qimir is all too eager to guide her towards salvation or destruction.

Trigger Warnings: Death, violence, drugging, politics.

Thank you for reading! Don't forget to comment or reblogs if you can please!

Chapter One

“Where were you when Brendok was in need? How deep are the pockets of Coruscant that you willingly denied my country time and time again?”

When a black woman is angry, the whole world goes quiet.

From the dingy breakroom of a Best Buy in Minnesota, Princess Verosha Aniseya watched her twin sister slam governments across the globe for their sudden interest in Brendok, silence filling the crowded hall of the United Nations.

No one here gave a shit that the person selling them a smart vacuum shared a perfect likeness to the twentysomething queen of a country America once called “lifeless.”

“Brendok is not a member of this body, but a hostage. This is supposed to be a hall of peace but Brendok knows better and I will not govern in shackles.”

“Osha, the new guy made a mess in the tvs again. Help him get his shit together and you can head out early.” Her supervisor Harris said, popping his head in the door.

With a tired sigh, Osha shoved her phone in her pocket, making a mental note to actually answer Mae’s texts once her shift was over. It would more than likely be the last time before she changed her number and left Minnesota for Texas, then Texas for Alaska and so on and so forth.

Anywhere but Brendok.

Osha turned her attention to her co-worker of the last few months trying to lift two flat screens at once, dark hair flopping into his eyes, oversized blue polo matching her own. With a hint of a smile, she hurried over and took hold of the other tv, putting them back in place.

“You’re always saving me Osha.” He said, chipper as usual,wiping his hands on his cargo pants.

“It’s no problem, if Harris gives you shit again, ask him why he keeps a vape tapped under his desk. “ Osha said with an easy smile. Qimir had only been there for a short while or so but he was easy to talk to.

“Any plans for the weekend? You’re more than welcome to spend it with me.” Qimir said, attempting to lean on the doorframe only to miss it completely.

“As much fun as watching you play Sims and fight alcohol poisoning was the last time we hung out, I’m gonna have to pass.” Osha said, throwing her work keys in her locker and slamming her locker closed.

“We could do something you wanna do? You’re always reading, right? How about if I came over and watched you read?”

“You wanna watch me..read?”

Both their phones vibrated at the same time but Osha ignored hers in favor of clocking out with a yawn.

“I’ll text you.” Osha said over her shoulder, not waiting for Qimir. As she made her way into the empty parking lot her phone vibrated again, this time for longer.

Someone was calling her.

Nobody ever called her.

Osha dug her phone out of her pocket to decline the call, only to see a flood of text messages from an unknown number,. Unable to control the shaking in her hands, she tapped on the first one.

SHE GAVE ME HER. WILL YOU GIVE ME YOU?

Osha should have stopped right there, thrown the phone in the trash but she couldn’t help herself and played the video beneath the text.

And watched the person with her face take two bullets to the chest.

Osha couldn’t see, the video kept playing, Mae kept dying, and Osha could not see.

She didn’t know she was screaming until someone was shaking her. Qimir was on his hands and knees beside her, one hand on her back, the other shaking her shoulder.

“Osha! Osha, talk to me! Princess Verosha Aniseya!”

Her sister was dead.

“Osha, we need to go. We need to go, right now.” Qimir’s voice was different in her ear now, deeper, less chipper, more forceful.

Princess Verosha Aniseya.

Osha ripped herself from Qimir’s grasp, scooting back and haphazardly got to her feet, backing away from him.

It was as if the Qimir she had known had melted away in front of her eyes, a stranger in his place. The stranger towered over her, her phone in his hand.

“You called me Princess, how did you know to call me that?”

“We don’t have time for this, I’m sorry, I really am but we need to go.” Qimir said, hand outstretched but Osha did not move.

“Give me my phone. Now or I’ll scream.”

“So scream.”

Neither of them made any inclination to move for a minute before Qimir held her phone out to her.

Osha snatched the phone from Qimir’s hand but not as fast as she liked and within seconds, he had her restrained and she felt a thin prick in the side of her neck. Things started to go hazy quickly and her legs gave out first.

“I’m sorry Osha.” Qimir’s voice sounded like it was underwater and she had no choice but to let him cradle her in his arms.

“Fuck you.”

Osha’s eyes fluttered close and her final thoughts were not for the liar who carried her but for the other half she’d never see again.

The roar of an engine startled Osha into waking, mouth dry, ears ringing. For a good thirty seconds, Osha thought she had dreamed it all but the bandage on her neck brought it all back quickly.

“Look who’s awake.” Qimir said, taking the plane seat across from her. The work polo and dirty cargos had been replaced by a suit, tailored to perfection and the floppy hair she had once found charming was pulled away from his face.

“What is this? Where are we going?”Osha’s voice rose, eyes darting everywhere and she pulled herself into a seated position, the blanket that had been placed over her slipping to the ground.

“You tell me.”

Qimir reached around her, pulled the window shade up and the sight made Osha want to pass out all over again.

“No, please, no!”

“I’m afraid so. Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

#oshamir #qimir x osha #qimir #osha aniseya #oshamir fic #the acolyte fic

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