#either he's not the one or it's not the right time or i'm supposed to be forever alone but what's meant to be will be!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

motorsportbarbie13 · 1 day ago

Text

A Package Deal - epilogue 1

In which Lando has doubts about his worth.

warnings: angst and talk of parental death. fluff at the end tho. pairing: lando norris x singlemom!reader word count...idk like 2k? maybe less!

A Package Deal - A Package Deal - Part 2 - A Package Deal - Part 3 - A Package Deal - Part 4 - A Package Deal - Part 5 - A Package Deal - Part 6

"Today was...a lot." You sigh, collapsing into bed beside an already tucked in Lando.

"Mhm." Lando's reply is quick, a sound devoid of any emotion that has your head swinging over to where he sits beside you.

You, Lando, Stella and the rest of your family had spent most of the day moving things from your old house into the house you and Lando had purchased a few weeks after returning home from Switzerland. Both of you had wanted a fresh start as a new family and this home was supposed to be your new beginning. Something about his demeanor right now though had alarm bells ringing in your head.

"Everything okay my love?"

At this point in your relationship, you and Lando could pretty much communicate solely with an exchanged look across a room and a change in posture. You could tell when something was off with your fiance.

"Are we sure Stella should be calling me dad?"

If you had been asked to predict what was bothering Lando before he had opened his mouth, the question he asked you as he sat avoiding your stunned look was simply not even in the top 1,000 things that could have been on that list.

"I'm sorry, come again?" You try so hard to keep your anxiety and anger in check at the absolute audacity of his question, hoping that he has a good reason to be questioning his role in Stella's life.

The same heavy weight of anxiety sits on Lando's shoulders, unable to look you in the eyes. "I mean, I'm not." He says softly. "She has a dad. He died but I can't replace him. I shouldn't want to replace him."

You stare at Lando for several moments trying to come up with a response. This was certainly not the conversation you had anticpated having tonight, not after spending nearly 12 hours moving house but, here you were. Lando and you hadn't talked much about your ex. There wasn't much to say. You had dated when you were teenagers, got pregnant by accident as teenagers sometimes do, and by the time you had Stella you had gone your separate ways. He had been a good dad to Stella in those eight months before the accident, of course, but he had never connected with Stella the way you had when she was a baby.

Gingerly moving over so you're shoulder to shoulder with Lando, you lay your head on his shoulder. Relief that washes over you when he drops his head onto yours and takes your hand in his, playing with your engagement ring while he sits quietly.

Lando wasn't having second thoughts about you and Stella, about his commitment to either of you. Absolutely not. He was insecure and worried about stepping into a role that he thought he didn't deserve.

"Lan, Stella was eight months old when Chris died. You're not trying to replace him but you're the only dad she's ever known, baby. Where is all this coming from?"

If you know Lando like you think you do, you're pretty sure somethings got his anxiety up and he's worried himself into a spiral where he's convinced himself that he's not good enough or worthy of the family that he's got now.

And when he opens his mouth to explain, your suspecisons are confirmed.

"When I was packing up Stella's room today, I came across a few pictures of Chris holding Stella in the hospital." A bright shock of pain slices through Lando's chest at the thought of that picture and the feelings of jealousy that had come with seeing it for the first time. He couldn't believe how jealous he had felt knowing that he had missed that with Stella. With you. How he'd missed seeing you pregnant for the first time, how even when you started a family together like you'd talked about countless amounts of times, he'd never truly be the first one to have a family with you. He had spent the rest of the day thinking about how maybe he didn't deserve to have Stella call him dad anymore, how he hadn't earned it because there had been someone before him.

"I just don't want her to grow up thinking I'm trying to take his place. She has a dad already and what if resents me for stepping into that dad role when she's older? What if I don't deserve to be her dad?"

The pain in Lando's voice has your chest squeezing so painfully it becomes difficult for you to breathe. "Lando." You whisper, interlocking your fingers with his as you nuzzle deeper into his neck. "Baby, I need you to listen to me right now, okay? Can you do that for me?"

You pause, waiting for him to at least confirm he's going to try. When you feel him nod against your head, a small humm emanating from his throat, you continue. "Stella was eight months old when Chris died, she has no memories of him. You are the only dad she's ever known, okay? You. Do you understand me?"

"But what if..."

"No." You interrupt, tone a bit harsher than you intended. "Nope, you need to stop right there with the 'what ifs', Lan. Chris and I were friends for a very long time before we even started dating. I knew him very well and I need you to trust me when I tell you that he would be very much on board with Stella calling you dad."

Lando lifts his head before tilting your chin up so you can finally look at him in the eyes. His brows are furrowed and he's looking down at you like he can't quite believe what you're saying. Like he doesn't have the confidence in himself to believe what you're saying is true.

When he doesn't say anything further, you continue. "That little girl that I just finished tucking into bed adores you. She thinks the absolute world of you, my love. She was the one to call you dad in the first place, and if there's one thing i've learned since becoming a mom its that sometimes you have to trust that what your kid is saying is the truth. They're little humans with feelings and thoughts and beliefs of their own. Stella wouldn't call you dad if she didn't want to."

Your chest rises and falls faster at the end of your little speech, eyes searching Lando's for some kind of hint that you're getting through to him.

And you are. Lando's chest aches with the truth that he knows you're telling him. "I just don't think I could stand knowing I screwed something up with her. That I was a bad dad to her because I'm not really her parent."

You can't help but laugh at that and Lando's brow tugs together in confusion. "Baby, you're more of a parent than you realize."

"What do you mean?"

You reach down and capture Lando's hand in yours before giving it a squeeze. "You're not a true parent until you spend a majority of your time wondering if everything that comes out of your mouth or every decision you make is going to somehow screw up your kid. It's natural and it doesn't mean you're a bad parent."

You take Lando's face in your hands, pulling him towards you. When your nose is a breath away from his and you can almost feel his lips dusting over yours, you grin. "That makes you a good parent, Lando. And an even better one because you're helping raise a baby you didn't make. Stella is as much your baby as she is mine or Chris', do you understand me?"

Tears sting at the back of Lando's eyes. He hadn't realized how much seeing that picture of Chris and Stella in the hospital had bothered him. He felt guilty for ever being jealous of Chris, for being cold to you, for questioning Stella's judgement of her own feelings. All of it comes welling up in his chest, this feeling of overwhelming guilt threatening to drown him for a moment. You can see it happening, the panic attack coming on that you've witnessed before. You know how hard he is on himself, how much he wants to be perfect for everyone else because letting anyone down is akin to a waking nightmare.

"Listen to me." You beg, willing him to open his eyes so he can see how serious you are right now. "Lando, look at me."

Lando's eyes flutter open after a moment and you smile at him. "You are a good dad. The perfect dad for Stella, I swear to you. The first thing she asks me when I pick her up from school is always 'Is Lando home yet?' but since we came home from Switzerland, it's always 'is dad home yet?' Dad. That little girl sees you as her dad and that's the best gift you've ever given me. Do you remember what you told that horrendous PR girl last year?" You pause and Lando chuckles, that day last year in Miami flashing before his eyes.

"You told her Stella and I were the center of your world but you know what? You're the center of mine and Stella's world. I don't think you realize how important you are to other people, to us. Neither of us could survive without you, and that alone makes you worthy of being my husband and my little girl's father, okay?"

Tears stream down both of your faces as the words you've just said hang in the air between you, heavy and silent. You stay quiet, the reverberation of your words etching themselves into Lando's bones. He knows you're right, of course you are. But knowing you're right and beginning to believe it by himself? That was proving to be a little bit harder. But your words help him realize that he's doing a better job than he might think he is.

"Okay." He rasps out before covering your lips with yours, deperatly trying to show you just how much he loves you.

yourusername (private) posted

128 likes liked by lando, BFFSarah, yourdad and others yourusername loves of my life. (tagged: lando) lando prettiest girls i know >>>yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

Tag list: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland @chlmtfilms @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @glitteryturtledeer @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @ash-88yep @myescapefromthislife

#f1 #formula 1 #lando norris #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #ln4 #lando norris x female reader #lando norris x you #lando norris angst #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x singlemom!reader #Lando Norris x reader #lando norris imagine

358 notes · View notes

floralscented · 2 days ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ˗ˏˋ 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟔𝟕.ᐟ ˎˊ˗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ───── SEASON ONE, ───── ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ───────── PART THREE ─────────

────────────────────────────────────────────

summary. phi kappa psi throws a party to honor the first cardinal win of the season, and the past sneaks up with a phone call.

ㅤword count ! ㅤㅤ 3.8k ㅤㅤ content warnings ! ㅤㅤ john winchester hate. alcohol mentions. pining? taylor king! sam! ㅤㅤ track the season !

starting quarterback; two words that dean hadn't expected to hear in the starts of his freshman year. but suddenly, there he was, sat on one of the locker room benches, as coach greene gripped him by the faceguard of his helmet and shouted them in his face.

along with a few less nice words. idiot, he'd exclaimed, though without the biting, flippant tones that usually came along with his father's insults, i give you a play, you do the play! that's how football works! teamwork!

dean wasn't used to being on a team. he wasn't used to being anything besides a lone wolf, scampering through the woods to kill the bad guys with nothing but a blade for company.

he'd work on it.

"you have to trust me, too!" he'd said back to the coach, and had to resist the urge to physically wince when he did. standing his ground was engrained in who he was; even when john winchester tried to beat it out of him, it still rang true.

coach greene, though, simply stood toe to toe with dean, towering over him only now in this instance where dean was sat down and bent over himself. "alright, kid." his palm was heavy when it patted dean's shoulder. "you and i are going t'have to get t'know each other real quick this season."

and that was it. there was no scolding for speaking out of line, and certainly no other disappointment than what dean caused by stepping out of the team's trust and calling his own shots. this was how teams were supposed to work, he realized; not one person dictating everything, but a perfect harmony.

huh.

taylor king was less humble about the winnings. dean had barely pulled a pair of sweatpants on before he was being dragged by a larger hand toward the locker room's door. "whoa, whoa, wh─"

"frat party," he says in answer, giving dean a good shake by the grip on his bare shoulder, "in your honor."

dean snags his hoodie out of his locker with a strangled noise, too far away to get to shut it. at least he'd left his dagger at home, after weighing the options a couple of times. how would he explain a knife in his locker to people whose biggest concerns were if the moon landing was faked?

"i didn't ask the frat to do that."

taylor snorts, ruffling up dean's hair with his fingers. "so, you save the game, steal a w for the team, and you expect to go back to your room and, what, mope? sleep?"

dean's shoulders lift in a shrug. "why is that unreasonable?"

"i'm so damn excited to corrupt you."

truthfully, dean didn't need corrupting. his head was already a little messed up from all of the shit he'd seen at his ripe age of too young, and not to mention that parties after games weren't exactly a new concept to him, either. once he buckled down and got serious about wanting to get out of kansas, he stopped fussing over invites and started to actually study.

he liked it a lot that the image he presented so far at stanford was nothing like how he used to be, and what he would have become. dean must have been doing something right, even if it meant letting his friend think he was introducing him to the more fun sides of college.

"is this the frat that you've been kissing the ass of since the bonfire?" dean asks, conceding to taylor's physical pushing. he breaks free from his grip enough to slide the hoodie over his shoulders.

taylor's answering cackle is confirmation enough, but he never misses a chance to run his mouth. "yes, bro. phi kappa psi." he circles around dean to pat his hands down on his shoulders. "i'd kiss 'em all on the mouth if they asked."

"i'm sure they wouldn't."

"cameron wyatt's in there, you know?" taylor hums, his fingers drumming on the sliver of skin peeking free from dean's hoodie. "m'sure he'd love someone to kiss him better after his accident."

dean balks for a second, and then squeezes his lips shut. too many things to unpack at once. "i'm sure," he repeats, picking one of the slew of comments to address, "he's gonna have a couple of cheerleaders licking his wounds for him. and that you don't have to kiss them to get selected? taylor."

taylor laughs aloud. "yeah. sorry. had a little wine 'fore i snuck back in here to get your ass."

dean can't help his laughter, either. it's so ridiculous of a conversation that he almost relaxes into it. but something else nags at him. "you think wyatt's gonna be out of the hospital tonight?"

taylor gives dean a last slap on the shoulder before moving to walk beside him. they pass officials and crew and lingering teammates as they walk, all of them offering dean grins, or passing comments. he was a little overwhelmed by the prospect of his sudden popularity, but it was made easier by taylor there, practically basking in it all.

"if he does," taylor answers finally, words drawling slowly out of his mouth, "i don't think he's gonna be anything but bedridden for a while. why?"

dean chews on his inner lip, pushing the stadium's back door open and holding it for taylor, who slips out with a duck of his head to avoid knocking his skull into the frame. "no reason," he mumbles, the blast of fall wind whistling in his ears, "just hope he won't be pissed i've taken his spot on the team."

"wyatt's a junior with middle-of-the-line stats," taylor huffs, crooking a smile at a scantily clad girl passing by. dean blinks a couple of times when he realizes he'd been staring, too, as she circled around them and walked ahead of them. christ. "i doubt he's gonna be pissed that the next generation of cardinal players is in good hands, or that you won us a game tonight."

dean didn't think of it like that. he was often finding himself doing that; assuming that his successes would be downplayed, or made into unnecessary competition. he grits his teeth together. but nods, because taylor wasn't wrong. when was he ever wrong when it came to the inner workings of frat boys' minds?

"hey, wait!" a familiar voice calls from behind the both of them, and dean finds himself drawn into the sound of it, turning to meet the eyes he knew he'd find. you, chasing behind them in heels too tall to logically run as quick as you were, a skin-tight long sleeve cherry red dress draped over your frame. you were so damn gorgeous. "oh, hi," you stumble out, spinning on the thin balance of your heel to face them as you pass by.

"hey, cherry," dean traces his eyes down your outfit and back up, a flicker of a smile on his mouth, "you changed quickly."

you give him a look that could only be described as dumbfounded. "it's the first official frat party of the season. i'm not missing it because i'm caught in a locker room." your heels echo on the sidewalk as you walk backwards, sparing a glance over your shoulder. "i'm guessing i'll see you there?"

dean grins this time, giving into it. "yeah. we'll be there."

"cool." you turn again, facing forward as you break into a little jog, fixing the strap of your heel in hobbling steps. "wait, kristen─"

taylor's hand slaps hard into dean's ribs, forcing a scoff out of his mouth. "who the hell was that?"

dean's smile softens. it's one thing to have you to himself, it's another for his friends to learn about you.

"a friend."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ────

the party must have started during the last quarter of the game, because it was already in full swing once taylor pushed open the doors. the thick smell of hot sweat and alcohol wafted out the space, music shaking the doorframe and rattling the open windows.

he clears his throat, raising a hand in gesture to the crowded space. "ladies first."

dean elbows taylor in the stomach as he passes. "shut the hell up."

taylor's shoulders lift in a shrug, one hand coming up to rub the spot between his ribs where dean had dug in. "you're right. that's my bad."

dean gets only a couple of steps in before taylor bends and launches, rearing his head in between dean's legs, his hands going to his shins as he lifts him into the air. dean's hands flail before they grasp into the thick black strands of taylor's hair, his surprised laugh loud in comparison to the grunge on the speakers.

"ladies and gentleman," taylor announces, steady on his feet even with a full-grown guy on his shoulders, "your new fucking quarterback's arrived!"

dean yanks hard on taylor's hair. "shut the hell─"

"someone pour this shithead a drink!" taylor interrupts, his grin widening on his mouth. he'd grown up in a house of six; the oldest of four kids, all of his younger siblings below double digits. taylor king was more than a little used to showboating and acting out so long as it brought a smile to everyone else's faces.

dean, he could tell, was grinning. he acted nonchalant, closed off, but taylor knew an older sibling who wasn't used to the attention when he saw one. if there was one thing dean winchester wouldn't be with taylor around, that was looked over.

slowly, taylor lowers him to the floor, anticipating the punch to the shoulder before it comes. "what we're not gonna do," he says with a stern expression, arms firmly crossing over his chest to punctuate his serious tone, "is act like you're just some dude at a frat party."

dean blinks at him. they're only a couple of inches off from being the same height, but taylor uses those couple inches in his favor now. "i played for one minute of one game."

"and now you're gonna be playing every minute of every game," taylor answers, turning at the tap that comes to his shoulder. he flashes a dazzling grin at the girl and the cups she holds out ─ cropped cardinal red jersey, the stanford logo emblazed on her breast, a white skirt... kristen, dean's friend had called her. he couldn't wait to hear kristen's voice. "bottoms up, winchester. welcome to the hall of fame."

taylor grabs both cups from her, purposeful when his fingers brush against kristen's, and lifts them out of her grip, extending one of them to dean. "here's to the new backbone of the team," taylor hums before he takes a long drink, barely wincing at the burn in his throat. smells like rubbing alcohol, tastes like it, too. "don't fuck it up."

dean tentatively raises the cup to his mouth, and it's enough to make taylor grin. he's like a little southern puppy playing where he shouldn't. taylor wants to take him everywhere and see what he gets up to.

kristen's fingers curl around taylor's bicep, and he's afraid to leave dean, but the thought of not taking advantage of his given opportunities makes his stomach feel knotted up. "will you show me which room is yours?" she asks, her dark eyelashes fluttering up at him.

taylor could have bust right there.

"oh, i don't have a room here yet, honey," he drawls, his hand moving to trace his fingertips over her cheekbone, "but we can go test out all the beds. y'know, so i know which one i want when i do move in. how about that?"

dean audibly groans behind him. it's not taylor's fault that girls fall at his feet. who would he be to turn them away from what they want?

"go run off n' find your pretty little friend," taylor says, reaching up to pinch dean's cheek between his fingers, "cherry, right? go hang out with her and leave big daddy king to handle all your lovely new fans. as a favor for winning for us, yeah?"

dean doesn't blink, doesn't smile. his lips somehow flatten even more. taylor grins. "as a favor."

"you're welcome, by the way," taylor adds, letting himself be dragged through the sea of sticky people toward the staircase, "and tell cherry her friend's in great hands!"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ────

maybe there was another frat party that night, and that's where you'd run off to. this may have been the biggest one, but maybe you didn't fuck with crowds either, like he didn't; picked one of the smaller houses blaring music and snuck inside.

dean was considering it.

every step he took, someone said something to him about the game, about his save, or tried to drag him away upstairs like kristen had with taylor. as appealing as the idea was, he was curious about where you'd gone, and wasn't about to give into his desires on the very first celebratory frat party.

you were always so easy to find.

you had this light about you that dean had yet to find in another person on campus. you, somehow, were always where the laughter came from, or just so happened to be the source of it.

and there you were, in the center of the expansive living space of phi kappa psi, like a red beacon.

it wasn't as graceful as taylor had been, shoving past the clustered student body to get to where he wanted. taylor was a big, tall guy, and people seemed to dip out of his way the moment they saw his head over of the crowd. dean was tall, too, but he didn't carry the same over-the-top attitude. there could only be one taylor king, after all.

he's two steps away from you when his pocket starts buzzing. dean's eyebrows furrow. all of the people he keeps in contact are here. he knows; has already spoken to them, and their friends, and their friends' friends. unless it's─

dread pools in his lower stomach. he's in the eye of the storm, about to drop out of it and back into the chaos, as the crowd shifts and squeezes around him. any moment, he'll get swept away from you. any moment, his phone will stop ringing.

he manages to pull it out without it being knocked out of his fingers, flipping it open to read the caller id. even more dread fills him. sammy.

"sam?" he asks once he presses the green answer button, though even he can barely hear his voice with the buzz of laughter and chatter, and the music blaring through the speakers pressed straight ahead against the wall. "sammy?"

impatience and frustration flutter through his stomach. he can't hear shit on the other side of the line. he clicks the volume button up as high as he can, and still nothing.

dean's eyes catch on yours, and his heart pangs at the beginnings of concern etched into your expression. "hang on, sammy, let me get outside─"

he turns his back to you. it's even harder now to get out of the house with how full it'd gotten since dean and taylor showed up, the rest of the football team and cheer team and whoever else having made their way over.

breaking out of the crowd and finding the front door is a breath of fresh air all of in itself. finally, he can hear something on the other side of the line.

"are you at a party?" sammy's voice still sounds weak. the cell reception was the problem this time, not the overstimulation of sounds. dean takes a couple of steps down the sidewalk leading up to the house, in the direction of the mailbox planted by the winding road. "sorry, you can go back, i'll─"

"shut up, sammy," dean says without any malice behind it. "i haven't talked to you in a week. you're not interruptin' anything."

"i just wanted to know how it was going."

dean smiles a little despite himself. he wishes more than anything that he could drive the twenty seven hours back home and bring him back with him, even if sam was still just a sophomore in high school.

"there was a football game today," dean says, resting his elbow on the bricked in mailbox, "and, uh, we were losing. not by a lot, but it was tense. the quarterback, his name's cameron wyatt, he... he got injured, and i─"

sammy's line cuts in again. "─what was that? i don't think dad paid the phone bill again, i think my minutes are about─"

the line goes dead. in his ear instead of sam's voice is the incessant beep of a dropped call.

dean tries to ignore the pang in his chest. he doesn't move the phone from his ear yet, as if his sheer will could force the call to go through again. "i won, sammy. i got put in and i won it for us."

us. for the team. for himself. for sam. even if sam wasn't capable of being there.

dean sighs, scrubbing one hand over his face as the other shoves his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants.

"the connection's really shitty out here."

dean blinks in surprise, glancing over his shoulder to find you there. the moon highlights the vibrant red of your dress, and the jewelry around your neck. his eyes trace over you in your entirety, his bad mood slipping away like water through his fingertips.

"sorry, didn't mean to..." you trail off, your arms wrapping around your chest, fingertips tapping along your inner elbows. "interrupt. i just wanted to see if... if you were okay. you looked a little─"

"i'm good," dean cuts you off, forcing an easy smile onto his mouth. "just... my brother called, is all. call dropped."

you look like you don't believe him, and your lingering silence only adds onto that theory. dean doesn't know if he hates you for it, or wants you to stick around.

"like i said," you say finally on a short, dramatic sigh, "this area's got the worst cell connection. i guess that's why every room, basically, in alpha phi─"

"no way," dean interjects again, this time with a laugh. "you joined a sorority?"

to your credit, it takes you a few seconds to blush. under the pale moonlight and the golden streetlight, you look the same color as your dress. his smile widens. "i just wanna know the whole college experience, you know?"

"hm." dean shoves both hands in the deep middle pocket of his hoodie. "i figured frat parties, microwave dinners, and failing exams was the college experience. not that i'm judging, of course."

you laugh then, too. "sounds a little like you are," you hum, and then your face twists up in some sort of recognition, eyes glimmering, "i told you i was rushing sororities! why do you sound so surprised? think i wouldn't get in?"

dean rolls his eyes, his expression warm, his heart feeling lighter already. "no. i figured you'd get in."

"oh, so you just forgot?" you tsk, starting to walk the sidewalk up to him. "fame's already gotten to your head."

"fame─" dean gives you the same flat look he'd given taylor earlier. "there's no fame. and i didn't forget. don't be ridiculous. i can't forget anything about you."

again, the silence afterwards feels heavy, this time with something other than disbelief. then, you nod toward the street behind him. "hopefully you aren't too distracted with college popularity to walk me home?"

dean watches you for a few seconds. the wind tossles your bouncy hair, gloss glitters on your mouth, your heels tap against your arm. he hadn't even realized you weren't wearing them. maybe he should have. you were back to being a good bit shorter than him.

"sure," dean concedes, reaching out to steal the heels out of your hand by their straps, "after you, cherry red."

you scoff, but don't say anything back for a while. the silence isn't awkward, at least to dean. it feels peaceful, almost. the wind whistles through the scattering leaves, making your hair flutter behind you as you walk, and you look utterly enchanting because of it.

"it's just a couple of houses down," you say eventually, lifting a red-nailed finger to point at one of the big buildings.

dean nods. "thought there'd be pink bows all around it. or flowers. both."

"don't be ridiculous," your eyes roll, the corners of your mouth tilting up when your gaze is back on him, "they're inside."

dean lifts his hands in surrender, your heels bouncing off of his forearms. "rookie mistake."

your laugh is like music to his ears. he can't take his eyes off of you. it's only when you slow to a stop that he realizes you've reached your destination. the prickling on his skin from your gaze is almost enough to make him flush.

"thank you, 67," you say with noticeable sincerity. "i know it probably took time out of your busy schedule to fit walking me home in, but─"

"please," dean shakes his head, holding his hand up to stop you, "don't bring it up. i swear to god. taylor's already gotten it in his head i'm some campus celebrity now."

your fingers close around his as you take your shoes from his hand. "just don't forget about me when everyone else starts to realize you're a pretty cool guy, okay?"

dean shakes his head, his smile soft and molten, and somehow a little sad, too. that you could think you were so easy to forget was a joke in of itself. "promise i won't." he nods toward the building behind you. "get some sleep. it's late."

you start down the sidewalk, and dean's seconds from taking a step back to walk back to his dorm building when you speak again. "goodnight, 67. you were great tonight."

dean had endured a lot of flattery that night. none of it felt on the same level as those few simple words you'd said to him did. didn't even come close. "goodnight, cherry," he calls back to you, and doesn't look back again, because he doesn't think he'd leave if he did, and that was a dangerous thought.

always such dangerous, ridiculous thoughts when it came to you.

the walk back to his dorm room is quiet. the wind doesn't sound the same when it's not whistling through your hair, flipping the strands around your face.

he should call taylor, make sure he was alright, even if dean knew in his heart that he was doing as he promised and making sure all of the girls looking to celebrate that night were getting taken care of. he should message sam, see if everything was alright.

and he will. but for some reason, he's drawn to the boxy computer monitor on one end of his and taylor's shared room. he wiggles the mouse to pull it out of sleep mode, and realizes why he felt the need to look.

tens of hundreds of friend requests to his aol account, probably because of the win he'd secured. and right at the very top, the newest one, was cherrypie.

special features !

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤget to know WINCHESTER ! ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤget to know READER ! ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsend in FANMAIL ! ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwanna know when a new episode drops ? join the WATCHLIST !

────────────────────────────────────────────

watchlist !

@whyyouegg @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4jackles @cosmicanakin @bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023 @im-bili @ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon @deansbite @lyarr24 @psyches-reid @reynas13 @momoewn @deanswidow @jasvtsc @figthoughts @beausling @frosttbitessam @aileenunfiltered @samslvrgirl @taeists @globetrotter28 @urfavpisces95 @rubyvhs @jackleslvr @hollywoodxrose @imsiriuslyreal @bluemerakis

────────────────────────────────────────────

FLORALSCENTED © i do NOT give permission for my work or ideas to be used, rewritten, or reposted!

#──★ dahlia's jrnl #──★ number 67 #stanford!dean #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fic #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #supernatural fic #spn fic

91 notes · View notes

siri-ike · 2 days ago

Text

A little crime, as a treat

chapter 2

"%!&#%@/×/@^#&×%^ %@&× %@^×!" Jason shouted from his ofice window. "Was that a #^!&@ carriage? A !%@^ Carriage just drove into the !%&@ ground with my best %^@ assistant?!?!? My right-hand man!? My %!& %@^# %!^#@ for a %@&@: %@^ and @%&@:?!?!" He jumped out, landing on the ground three floors lower.

That $@% brainless, $@%#, @%#; hot pice of $@^@ better not have gotten himself $@%#^, or some other eaqualy $@^ up version of %#^!^. Not on Jason's payroll.

《~~~~~~》

Danny couldn't believe it. He came to the ghost zone expecting to get arrested, proposed to, or challenged to a duel of some sort.

Not this.

"I, I can't be ghost king." Danny pleaded. "I'm not even fully a ghost." The giant hands around him felt less comforting by the second.

"You defeated Pariah Dark. That alone makes you worthy." Frostbite beamed with approval.

"But, but I'm too young. Wouldn't it be better to have someone older?" Danny's breath quickened.

"Pariah was old, and you saw how that worked out. Perhaps it is time for a more modern view."

"But I, I can't, I," He struggled.

"Sir, the people await," the short ghost from before got their attention before opening another large pair of doors, revealing what looked like some kind of giant opposite church. A hundred rows of ghosts on either side of a clear aisle. And at the end stood Clockwork, the observants and,

A sword in a pumpkin.

《~~~~~~》

As soon as the call ended, Constantine hurriedly grabbed everything of importance or value in his apparent. There was no way he'd stick around to see what $@%^* the red hood wants from him. Best case, sinario, he wants some magic devilry. Worst case? John does not have the imagination for that. He rushed out the door, only to be intercepted by gang members wearing red. Bollocks. How's he meant to bull^!%^ his way out of this one?

《~~~~~~》

"No excuses," Frostbite lifted Danny's face up by his chin. "My boy, the title is largely symbolic. The ghost zone has run without a ruler for longer than most of us can remember."

That was at least a little reassuring. Not enough to let go of his death grip on Frostbites arm.

"Now go, I'll be right here." He beamed. "Remember to let out the cold."

Danny looked down at his hands. He was shaking.

OK, just like they'd trained. Breathe in, breathe out.

《~~~~~~》

Jason's usually a safer driver. Not a safe driver. Mind you, just safer than this.

《~~~~~~》

His first step, the carpet leading to the alter, froze. Delicate embroidery is obscured through a thick layer of ice. Icicles grow behind him and quickly melt into slush. In front of both Frostbite and Clockwork. And other people he supposes.

As he walks down the aisle, alone, he notices some familiar faces. Ghosts he'd fought, ghosts he'd helped, ghosts who had helped him. Whith varying degrees of satisfaction on their faces.

Had any of them even tried to challenge him for the crown? He searched his memory and couldn't find a significant ghost attack, even for other reasons in the past 10 years. Might they actually want him to be king?

《~~~~~~》

"Better not be trying to leave." Red Hood was plenty scary over the phone. He simply had no business being scarier in person.

"Who, me? Never." Constantine lied.

"This morning, a horse-drawn carriage appeared out of nothing, took my assistant, and disappeared into the ground. Know anything about that?"

"That sounds like relms business, I had nothing to do with it." He stuttered.

"I know you didn't take him. You know better than to take what's mine." Hood reassured? Threatened? "Tell me who took him."

Constantine breathed a sigh of relief.

#fanfic #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc au #danny phantom #jason todd #red hood #ghost king danny #john constantine

111 notes · View notes

tales-from-the-blu-team · 2 days ago

Note

Mac scoffed, harsher than he'd meant and it was supposed to be more of a laugh.

"Well, I don't like seeing myself die either. Or most other people but thats not a luxury I get to choose. I'm in the wrong damn field of work, but....someones got to do it." His voice trailed off at the end.

Mac turned his head to look at Cy seriously.

"Cy, you do know that..that Spy's disguises disappear once he's hurt right? You only needed to hurt me a little, you didn't have to-" Mac trailed off once again, looking away. He's trying not to relive that moment again. It's visited him too many times the night before already.

"It's..." he wanted to say it's ok. It's the polite thing to do.

But was it the right thing to do?

"..Its not alright. Not now, it's all...its all still to fresh in my head. I came out of respawn after everyone else yesterday and....and...." Mac decided to skip over the part where he froze up, unable to speak to anyone.

Barely hearing anything except the echoes of his own screams, his bones breaking and bodily injuries.

Cy didn't need the extra guilt.

"..Doc took me to the medbay immediately. Everyone knew something was up. It's...its not the first time. I think the others know Something happened. They...dont need to know the details.

I..I think...maybe that can stay between us. Just...take it to our graves.

Our final ones not..." Mac trailed off.

Mac's attention came back to the task at hand.

"Right..right. That..thatd be mighty swell of ya." Mac said trying to sound cheerful, mind halfway somewhere else.

He undid the apron part of his overalls, letting them fall to his lap. His shirt and undershirt were both stained red in varying degrees of size and darkness. Gingerly, he undid those shirts to let Cy get to his wounds.

They may have been healed but he still shied away from being touched around his ribs.

This patch job didn't need to be perfect. It needed to hold him over until he got to his own dispenser and get some healing in.

"Look, Cy.. I'm gonna need time to deal with what happened..but I don't hate you. I don't want to hate you. There's too much Hate. Too much fighting and grudges and petty hogwash. I ain't looking to contribute to that."

( tales-from-the-blu-team) Blu engineer, who would rather be known as Mac and back in his old life, came across the cyborg. Eyes taking in the details of this strange figure, he could not help but remark.

" I've never seen you around before? Are..are you a new class? Are we supposed to be getting a tenth teammate?"

Scout. Soldier. Pyro. .. engineer. Heavy. Demoman. Medic. Spy. Sniper. .these were the classes he had grown up knowing and was always destined to work with.

The idea of a new class was...something to get used to

They shrug.

“How am I supposed to know any of that? I’m just here to kill people. Used to be an assassin until I joined RED and my Engie worked his magic on me. Now I’m an assassin but even better. It’s pretty sweet you should try it out.”

He spins around, showing Mac every part of his body, as if to prove his point.

“I mean, if you want your own cyborg, you’re probably gonna have to make em yourself.”

#mac and the metal man #meet-the-cyborg

176 notes · View notes

buddiekinard · 2 days ago

Text

a thing because i keep thinking about lou's naked body and i can't stop thinking about mpreg .....don't look at me..... This is just in my head and sometimes it's gotta get out. I am not starting another wip on tumblr. I am not.

Tommy turns off his truck outside of Eddie's house. He'd gone by the station first, but Evan is apparently off today. He wasn't at the loft either. Tommy could just call him, but this isn't a phone call conversation. This is a face to face in person conversation.

He sees Evan's jeep in the drive way, so at least he won't have to ask Eddie where Evan is. He hasn't talked to Eddie in over a month either.

He wonders if Eddie's decorated for Christmas. He doesn't know what's going on with Eddie and Christopher. He supposes that's what happens when you break up with your friend's best friend. They kind of aren't your friend anymore. (Not that Tommy had tried to contact him, either, even though he had texted him, once, the morning after he'd broken up with Evan.)

He grips the steering wheel and lets out a slow breath before getting out of his truck. He passes Evan's jeep on his walk up the drive and almost turns and runs back to his truck. Evan would never know he was here. He could keep his secret, figure out what to do on his own. Evan would never have to know.

Evan probably doesn't want anything to do with Tommy, and Tommy can't blame him. He'd run instead of talking, but then. Evan had jumped head first in to move in with me without talking, too. So he's trying not to blame himself too much.

He's just about to ring the buzzer when the door swings open and Evan is standing in front of him, box in his hand.

"Tommy? Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Would you believe me if I said looking for you?"

"How did you know I was here?"

"Well, you weren't at the station or at home, so I thought I'd try Eddie's." Tommy tries to remind himself why he's here, so he doesn't cut and run again. He knows this man has the power to break his heart, and it's a hart power for him to give up.

"You could have called me instead of driving all over the city?"

He pushes past Tommy with the box in hand and drops it in the back of Eddie's truck.

"This isn't a phone conversation."

"I spent two weeks doing nothing but try to talk to you." Evan turns to go back inside and then Eddie walks past with a duffle and tosses it in the passenger seat.

"Tommy? Hey, what are you doing here?" Eddie looks between them, raises an eyebrow at Evan in question, and then turns to give Tommy a skeptical look.

"It's fine, Eddie. I'm fine." Evan looks back at Tommy. "If you want to talk to me you can follow me inside. I have another suitcase to bring out.

"Is Eddie leaving?"

"No, but he's going to El Paso for a while." Evan picks up a suitcase. "You have really great timing."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for your timing? Sorry for breaking my heart to save your own? Which one is it?"

"Evan, can you stop for two seconds?"

Evan stops walk and drops his shoulders to look at Tommy. His face crumbles a bit, and Tommy can see he's not angry. There's something behind his eyes that says he's trying not to break. Tommy understands. He's felt that way for a month.

"I've stopped what do you need?"

"Maybe not here."

"Look, this is where we are, and Eddie is leaving today, so I'm not going anywhere, so you can talk to me here or we can meet later."

"Evan - "

"I miss you." Evan says. "I'm glad you're calling me Evan. It felt like a knife to the gut when you called me Buck." He sits down on Eddie's couch, slumping into it a little. "Sit."

Tommy does as Evan says.

"What's going on, Tommy? I'll listen." "Evan, I have to tell you something."

"I get that. What is it, Tommy?"

"I - " Tommy feels like he should run. Maybe running was always the right choice.

"Tommy." Evan rests his hand on Tommy's thigh. It's just a soft gesture. Tommy missed touching Evan. He's not mad at it. "What is it? You're not dying, are you?"

"I'm pregnant, Evan."

"Uh - " Their heads snap behind them to find Eddie standing there. "Right, I'm going to just, uh. I'm gonna go to the kitchen. Right. Coffee for the road."

Eddie disappears into the next room.

Tommy looks over at Evan, and he's just staring, not saying anything.

#buck x tommy #mpreg #a little fic thing or something #tommy is the pregnant one #my fic #tpreg fic

59 notes · View notes

thewertsearch · 2 days ago

Text

Ask Comp 9/1

Anonymous asked: has sally been introduced to cursed tavros yet?

[ cursed tavros jumpscare :D ]

Cursed indeed - but mind you, I don't think I could do much better. My handcraft skills are nonexistent!

Anonymous asked: ol tavvy is down with the clown ;o) Anonymous asked: Please, if you will, imagine if when Vriska kissed Tavros, he told her that he was already dating Gamzee.

Heh. I really do think Gamzee x Tavros could have worked out, at least until Gamzee lost his shit. Hell, even if Gamzee did lose his shit, he'd probably still be less of a threat to Tavros than Vriska was.

Anonymous asked: Did you notice Gamzee referenced Earth in his rap? ("6 trillion hemos all up on one rock bleeding as equals") How do you think he learned about it? Some weird pre-game precognition or just his stoned mind being accidentally right?

This isn't necessarily a reference to Earth - but it wouldn't surprise me if it was, because Gamzee's cult seems fully aware of the existence of Earth.

The 'paradise planet' referenced in Gamzee's intro is stated to not exist yet, which is exactly how the narration refereed to Earth in Hivebent's intro. I believe that the 'rowdy minstrels' he's talking about are literally ICP, although he clearly isn't aware of that fact.

@wizardlyghost asked:

A sentiment shared by Eggman, every Space Player, and the villain of Muppets Most Wanted.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've passed where fedorafreak's gray, serviceable hand-held computing device's battery has died, you might appreciate the following short piece of fan art: www tumblr com/vastderp-placeholder/7741061457/savior-of-the-texting-world-rise-up

The fucking implication that the phone is the Player in this scenario is obliterating me.

Also, its God Tier form has wings. Was it a troll all along, or are wings a symbol of divine apotheosis in phone culture, too?

@clueless-rarito asked: Heeey paranatural reference! Hell yeah!

Is anyone else totally stoked to see Eightfold again? I know I am!

Anonymous asked: bilious sick 😭

English's trick made our Bilious sick. :(

Anonymous asked: One of, if not my absolute favorite, quotes/moments in Homestuck is Karkat’s speech to Jade about his failed frog breeding here. Just such a wonderfully tragic moment that stuck with me since the first time I read it.

In a comic chock-full of great lines, that last one might just be the best so far. This was one of the last scenes before Act 5's true finale, and it was an excellent pick.

@drakethedeep asked: One theory I've heard about the Denizen's Choice that tend to headcanon, Is that the choice is to be happy/free or to matter. That much as how God-tiers only grants survival by never having an impact, the denizens have thier playes coose between seeking their happiness and survival, or to struggle to achieve things that while objevtivly monumental, might not be worth the sacrifices needed to achieve it. I like this theory because of how it themes to fit the themes of Sburb.

I really like the space you're playing in, but I'm not so sure if all the Choices we've seen would necessarily fit this interpretation. After all, Davesprite implicitly chose the 'survival' option when he first met Hephaestus, and he's not exactly a happy camper. He didn't end up particularly free, either, since he was almost immediately bound to a Sprite, and later to the Battlefield.

I guess you could say he 'mattered', because he is he reason the Alpha Timeline exists the way it does - but, technically, everyone's actions contribute to the Alpha Timeline being the way it is. I definitely think there's something to this theory.

Anonymous asked: Without the Door to actually enter the universe, all you've done is make a really big frog.

I guess, when you think about it, there's not really anything they can do with their universe without that door. I suppose they could just fly towards their frog and hope for the best, but somehow, I don't think that'll achieve much.

@morganwick asked: Of course, even though he wasn't fooled by Gamzee using Terezi's "voice", Karkat still showed up on the roof anyway. Perhaps he decided he couldn't take the risk that Terezi was actually there and Gamzee might catch her unawares.

Gamzee's been having a lot of fun 'impersonating' Terezi lately. Just like before, I don't think he ever intended to fool Karkat with his transparent ruse - he just wanted to unsettle the guy. It worked.

@morganwick asked: If Typheus is the mailman, does that make him PM's favorite Denizen?

Maybe it makes him the head of her mail service!

We never saw any other mail Carapacians, and I kind of love the idea that they were operating out of a Denizen's Palace the whole time.

@bladekindeyewear asked: You said: "Mind you, I don’t know if it’s necessarily always a good or heroic thing to allow a Sburb Player full agency over their actions, nor is it necessarily a bad thing to restrict them, in certain cases." Oh I'm completely with you there. In fact, you might DEFINE Heroism as denying agency to those who would do ill, in part. This would make both "Heroic" and "Just" deaths result from trying to stamp your own intentions upon reality, halted by others. Neutrality would be ineffectual.

That's certainly part of heroism - but to me, it's not even close to all of it. A firefighter, for example, is heroic in ways which don't involve another person, as their only real 'opponent' is nature itself.

I personally define heroism as the will to do good, in situations where doing good requires bravery. 'Good', of course, is a fairly slippery concept, though, so that definition is just as ambiguous as any other.

Anonymous asked: Doctor Who anon here. Doctor Who has no canon for purely practical reasons. It's so massive - there's the show, but there's also the Big Finish audio dramas, the DW magazine comics, the Radio Times comics, the IDW comics, the Titan comics, the Virgin novels and short stories, the BBC novels and short stories. And no one owns all of it. The BBC don't even own the daleks or K9. And each piece of media will freely contradict others. No one has the right to decide what's canon, so they just don't. It's also because the people running Doctor Who the show have a deep respect for the extended media. In the 90s, it was the non-BBC licensed, fan-led projects which kept DW alive. Russell T. Davies, first showrunner of the modern era, wrote Virgin novels, so did Mark Gatiss. Nick Briggs, modern voice of the daleks, is the head of Big Finish. So they didn't want to decanonise that stuff, but they also don't want to be beholden to it when writing their own stories. So the fanbase tends to operate on tiers of canon. Basically something can be assumed to still be part of the show's continiuity until the show contradicts it. Big Finish would generally be considered the next highest "tier" of canon. The Doctor Who magazine comics probably wouldn't contradict the show, but the show could contradict them any time. The old books and comics are dubious. But that's all just fan categorisation. Officially, nothing has been deemed canon or not. In fact, rather amusingly, the only thing that has been explicitly deemed "canon" by the BBC is the Doctor Who: Battles in Time card game. That's officially canon. Nothing else. Not even the show.

I think I've heard of 'canon tiers' before, in the context of the Star Wars fandom. I think it's a good way to delineate how 'true' a given event is considered to be, especially in a large, complex shared universe - but at the same time, being consciously aware of these tiers might hurt your investment a little.

You'll never be able to escape the fact that your favourite stories or characters are effectively fanfiction, at least from the perspective of higher tiers. They have no influence whatsoever over the more ''real'' part of the story, unless they're promoted its tier some day.

I do like the idea that all the other Doctor Who stories are fanfiction of the card game, though. That's definitely going to be my canon, from now on.

@morganwick asked: Well, back in Act 4 you said that John and Dave would make S-Tier if and when "John [threw] aside his passivity to do something heroic, and…Dave [would] finally drop that poker face and do something sincere", which is why I pegged the suicide mission conversation as when Dave might make the jump.

I think, on reflection, it's almost always a heartwarming event that catapults a character into S-Tier.

In my opinion, that's one of the most impressive feelings that a work of fiction can inspire in you, mostly because it's really hard to get you invested enough for it to hit properly. Homestuck's pulled it off an extremely impressive number of times already, and we're only halfway finished!

Anonymous asked: It is so fucking awesome to see a new reader in the year of our lord 2024 2025 who's actually like. Engaging with the themes of the story. Lotta people just see it for the memes or the "totally random" plot but some of the shit you're reading into what's happening is like. Eerily similar to actual Hussie commentary. Gold star for reading comprehension, you do not piss on the poor Anonymous asked: Your homestuck liveblogs are lovely and insightful and make me remember a lot of details of the comic that have been lost to time. You will comment on something and I'll go "oh huh homestuck was better than I remember it being." Thank you <3 @honestlyvan asked: Truly your liveblog is the best kind of re-experiencing the experience. I'm surprised at how much your thoughts and reads parallel mine, it's kind of fun to see someone else's deductions go along the same routes. I can't wait for you to get to the Truly Horseshit portions of the plot (and I say this lovingly, I think you're in a great position to give us a real raw read on them without having to deal with the various Mega and Gigapauses) Also -- you keep pointing out a shitton of foreshadowing I didn't catch until my second readthrough. I can't wait for you to get to the bits where it applies and be like "son of a bitch", I think where I'm in the reading of your backlog and where you're in the reading of the comic you've passed at least one of those bits already :D @worldweary-walker asked: The liveblog is so cool. It's a lot of fun seeing you put things together, and the posts where you come up with three completely right conclusions and two wrong ones always amaze me. Impressive work!

Thank you so much! I know I say this a lot, but a lot of these sentiments are exactly why I like reading liveblogs myself. I'm just really glad I can do that for others.

I can totally understand why someone would just read Homestuck for the memes. I wouldn't have been nearly as analytical if I'd read it as a schoolgirl, and a lot of the 2010s fandom were even younger than that!

@divineerdrick asked: Now we have multiple explanations for what is wrong with the kid's session. Vriska has made herself responsible for Jack's rise to power, Karkat believes he gave Bilious Slick cancer, and Gamzee created the harlequin doll that would torment John and prompt Jack's rage-fueled act of rebellion. You've already suspected that Doc Scratch probably has multiple plans in play at once, and we can see that here. It seems he insured, through multiple causes, the kid's universe has always been doomed. Gamzee, as usual, seems to be the wild card. But he's acting out during a crisis of faith, a faith tied to Alternia's twisted social structure, which Scratch seems to have had a hand in. So despite how random Gamzee's actions appear to be, it's possible Scratch managed to seed even this seemingly unpredictable action.

I think Scratch probably did 90% of the work in making Gamzee go ballistic, from multiple directions at once. Looking back, it's shocking just how much of the comic was Scratch's doing.

'Caused' is a loaded phrase in Paradox Space, but what's happening is definitely what he planned.

Anonymous asked: It kind of seems like Rage as an aspect is evil, no? Do you think an aspect can carry an inherent moral weight? If not, what are the neutral meanings of aspects that seem to, and if so, how do you feel about it?

Personally, I doubt that any of the Aspects have a moral alignment - not even the scary-sounding ones. After all, you can Rage against tyranny, or bring Doom to a corrupt institution. Yeah, Gamzee is using Rage for evil, but his perception-shielding could just as easily be used to hide an innocent bystander from an aggressive Underling.

I think that more or less any ability can be used for both good or evil. The only real exception would be a power that's deliberately designed to be irreparably, comically evil. 'The ability to torture everyone for all eternity' would be one of those powers, but Homestuck's Aspect abilities would not.

@worldweary-walker asked: have you read Kill Six Billion Demons?

I have not! It's on my long and constantly growing list, which means I'll get to it between now and, uh, 2096.

Anonymous asked: re: the ancestors' story. WHAT IF WE ALL JUST CRIED like. the sheer transition from inane antics to the. that @corporalotherbear asked: There's a very popular fanmade version of the sufferer's final sermon and following vast expletive, voiced by a man that would go on to be the english voice actor of Izuku Midoriya. I can't add links to asks but if it's spoiler-friendly then your vetter can probably send you "The sufferer's last sermon"

Oh, I kind of love this interpretation. It really sells just how unwinnable the Sufferer's rebellion truly was.

@wolygan asked: I forgot how she is so happy when she is running away. This Girl is still able to believe that good is coming. Except Lord English won't let that happen, no matter what. @wickedsick asked:

That was possibly the fastest you have ever been proven wrong about something

That poor girl. She suffered just as much as the Signless did, but she'll only be known to Alternia as a monster - and unlike Troll Jesus, no one will ever mourn the Handmaid.

Anonymous asked: the sufferer cult is definitely independent of the juggalos! the use of the word sectarian to describe the war waged against the signless's beliefs is not a coincidence, imo. (we also see that highblood is most often used to specifically describe purplebloods). they're just two different religious organizations. given that the grand highblood was a juggalo man/subjuggulator and occupied significant power it seems to suggest that clown religion was a Big Thing among the purplebloods, which would not truck with the signless' cult being so small and secretive. there's one theory that part of the reason the neophyte was sent on mindfang's case was bc the GHB (given that mindfang mentions the neophyte was sent by subjuggulators specifically) knew she was a secret sufferite and wanted to get rid of her. mindfang does talk about how it seemed like they were giving up on her case entirely by sending just one neophyte (granted this is partially bc she underestimated her). it would track that while they definitely wanted to get rid of mindfang, they also were fine with the neophyte dying. this also follows with the fact that after mindfang gets out of that trial, she manages to persist without being caught right up until her death at the hands of the summoner. were they happy that the neophyte got killed, enough to stop putting much effort into mindfang's capture?

I think the Highbloods probably did set Redglare up. I speculated that it was possible when we first heard about her death, and that was before we knew she was a Signless cultist.

Also: lmao, do you remember when Hussie told us that the Juggalo Cult was 'obscure'? That's starting to feel like something that was quietly retconned offscreen.

@clueless-rarito asked: In case you like to know, "Dolorosa" is meant to evoke the spanish word "Doloroso" meaning painful but changing the O for an A turn it feminine.

Dolorosa; in other words, the woman in pain.

Fucking hell, she deserved so much better. It's amazing how much bleaker the Ancestors' lives were, compared to their descendants. Modern Alternia is bad enough as it is!

@lon-kasi asked: Fanwork recommendation: The same guy who did the EoA5 reanimation just did Intermission 2 as well. Like, less than six hours before I sent this ask. It's incredible.

Yessss! These are amazing.

My favorite parts are all the extra touches that weren't in the original animation, such as Rose beginning to realizing how badly she was tricked - or Jade, unused to her own powers, almost knocking John on his ass while she teleports him.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've seen what a Reckoning on Skaia looks like, you can see why Karkat was rushing Kanaya to get their frog done. Despite jumping the gun, skipping the lore elements and just killing their way to the end, the troll kids never had enough time. Especially since, now that I'm thinking about it, if it wasn't the Reckoning then it probably would have been Jack as the "time's up, now turn in your work" event. @marinerofthestars asked: With the revelation that Alternia was built to and ended up speedrunning an Sgrub/Sburb session to catastrophic effect (great job reading this far, btw), how long would you expect a “standard” session to take?

We've got two different asks here - one saying that normal sessions are meant to be shorter than Hivebent's, and the other saying they're meant to be longer.

I honestly don't know which I believe. It feels unrealistic for a Sburb session to take months, but Scratch really did seem to be saying that the trolls were extremely effective Players, implying most sessions take longer to beat. Maybe the reboot session will clue us in a little?

Anonymous asked: “How do you expect to out run me, When I Am Already Here.” Is such a hard line, and it’s completely missable in the alt text for the site banner. I know a lot of people missed it when these panels dropped. I remember HS being considered super unique because of how much the comic messes with formatting things like that.

I was super close to missing some of that scene, even though I'd already been warned about the alt text. There was just so much going on at the time, I almost didn't think to look at the banners.

@royalvorpal asked: "I thought words would be exchanged" How do you expect them to talk when they are in person?

pffffffffffffffffffft

Alright, that one fucking got me.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "But no, apparently not, because it took Karkat zero words and sixty seconds to completely shut Gamzee down. Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s incredibly impressive - but what did he actually do?" If you look back IN RETROSPECT at some of what Gamzee has been telling Karkat, it almost looks like pale flirting, like he was actually WANTING him to do this behind his threats. p3361: "FTC: i wonder if you can all be at with me in time and make me get my reconsider on?" Anonymous asked: You may not like it, but this is what peak moirallegience looks like.

Yeah, this really does make that exchange read as a little flirtatious.

Still, is this really how a moirallegiance is meant to work? Are moirails really expected to risk their lives to halt their prospective partner's rampage? This is starting to sound more dangerous than a kismesissitude!

@bladekindeyewear asked: I'm not sure how well it applies to the revised Homestuck website and it's probably impossible in the collection, but you could view any past/future page in any CSS format the site gave you with a keyword, like the black-on-green Doc Scratch format. So when Andrew did the "SNOP" to SBAHJ-mode, he was intentionally giving us a tool to view the ENTIRE SITE in SBAHJ mode.

There's a 'theme override' button, but I need to finish Homestuck to unlock it. I guess the comic's theme will change in more spoilery ways, later on.

Anonymous asked: Dolorosa/Mindfang is the true kicker of the “vriska keeps ending up in mirror relationships to her ancestor” belief, bc its the one where there is NO way vriska could know that shes in a mirror relationship. Eridan- orphaner dualscar and mindfangs romance was in the journal. Tavros- she knew about the summoner. But while there are hints to the dolorosas identity- sharp teeth, lower blood color, and a very vague if you stretch it hint about horn shape- no way vriska could have put those pieces together!!!

Man, it's still so fucked up that the Dolorosa went out like that. I still think it's at least remotely possible that she revived as a vampire, but I'm not gonna kid myself - her story is over. We're not gonna see her.

Anonymous asked: You've mentioned "ratfic" and something called "the Methods" before, is that something you've read?

If I could write an essay about Steven Moffat, I could write an entire thesis about Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality - but it'd be radioactively critical, and it feels mean-spirited to just post a rant about something unprompted.

If people want my thoughts in detail, I might stick them on the sideblog later - but for now, I'll just tell you that if it wasn't for that fic, XAE A-12 Musk would never have been born. Not a joke.

Anonymous asked: i love the complete about face on gamzee lol. "clearly the fact that he's gone nuts is something wrong with the timeline" gamzee is revealed to be responsible for lil cal "actually fuck this guy"

If we do ever recover the original Gamzee, it's going to really suck for him to face his friends. After everything he's done, will anyone ever really trust him again?

@elkian asked: Love the Exiles. So glad nothing bad happens to them, ever, (I assume the pause before the third s175 post is bc you, like me, took a break to cry over AR hesitating to kill his friend :,(

I was so bummed, guys. Carapacians don't have ghosts, I assume - so the Exiles, sans PM and maybe WV, are gone forever.

The Red Miles will probably have obliterated their corpses, so we can't even prototype most of them - but I'm holding out hope for Waywardsprite.

Anonymous asked: heh, you aren't alone in preferring god tier dave without his hood. i was around for when cascade dropped and wasnt able to watch it straight away due to the various troubles, but one of the first things i heard about it was people talking about how stupid they thought dave's hood looked.

I know, right? Like, yeah, it definitely says 'knight', but Dave's got great hair, and it feels like a shame to cover it.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "PCG: SHE WAS CONSTANTLY FIXING MY FUCKUPS. PCG: ROBOTS FROM THE FUTURE ALWAYS COMING BACK TO TELL ME HOW SOME HASTY SHIT I DID WITH FROG BREEDING OR WHATEVER WOULD MAKE IT BE IMPOSSIBLE TO WIN. PCG: MY OWN PERSONAL MISTAKES PROBABLY ACCOUNTED FOR MORE DOOMED ARADIABOTS THAN ANYTHING ELSE." Now that the Tumor's revealed for the precision device it was, it's also clear that Aradia, likely following the Horrorterrors' instructions, FORCED them to breed the frog JUST RIGHT to create the Sun.

Yeah, the existence of that precision device really fucking threw me. Whatever it did, the frog cancer probably was deliberately engineered to cause it - and I think it was engineered by Scratch, rather than the Horrorterrors. He was also talking to Aradia during the session, and this event was key to his plan.

Anonymous asked: (And one more ask from the person without a tumblr. -DJ) The thing is, Scratch could have just said "you must create the Green Sun, it is essential for the existence of the multiverse, not doing so will create a paradox". But either he chose to trick them, by only but saying "true words", just for fun…or there is some reason telling them about their true mission wouldn't work - RM

Either is possible, and it's pretty much impossible to say. That said, the Vast Glub is proof that he does just like messing with people, so I'm going with the former answer.

Anonymous asked: (forwarding another ask from the person without a Tumblr account -DJ) Do you think there are interesting parallels between Scratch and Tarquin from OOTS? - RM

Well, they are both meta-aware villains with extremely wide-reaching plans, and they're both pretty weird about women. Hopefully this means that Scratch's much cooler son will kick his ass in a later Act.

@bladekindeyewear asked: One tiny cute detail in Cascade I love is how when the Green Sun lights up in the distance for the trolls, Terezi tries to point at it, and Karkat gently takes her arm and re-points it in the right direction. XD

Shoulda brought the Smelloscope, Terezi!

Anonymous asked: The first time i read homestuck my shit bugged out and I literally just missed the entire scrapbook section and cascade. The SECOND time I read homestuck cascade gave me such a neuron firing high that only harrow the ninth has ever gotten close to

That's exactly how to describe it. Cascade blasted my neurons, in exactly the same way that part of Harrow the Ninth did.

@rwbypro asked: Ngl one of my favorite parts about homestuck is the fact that Doc Scratch Won, like he got Exactly what he wanted, and he played everyone like fiddles, one of my all time favorite villains in anything!

He did, the bastard! Scratch managed to pull it off without a hitch.

These are the exact kind of convoluted masterstrokes you want to see in a time-travel story, and I think English's machinations will only grow more intricate, going forward.

@sanctferum asked: The juggalo cult believes in a pair of mirthful messiahs rather than just the one, so if English is one of the messiahs, that's only half the equation. Presumably, the other messiah would be Scratch.

That works! I originally thought that the Messiahs were the two members of ICP, but let's be honest, they still could be. I absolutely would not put it past this comic to reveal that Lord English was Shaggy 2 Dope the whole time.

@sanctferum asked: So now that you've seen Lord English's true appearance: he's got a peg leg, and that peg leg is a golden cuestick, filling in the last missing piece of the Felt analogy - the one that moves the billiards around in the first place. For good measure, English's peg leg, single golden tooth and his garish coat give him a stereotypical pimp appearance, which is fitting given his treatment of his female servants so far (not to mention Scratch's own treatment of both the Handmaid and whichever female player he is manipulating at any given moment. He even explicitly uses the word grooming to describe raising Handmaid!). If there was ever a pimp for Dave to lock in his own crib while dropping it like it was hot, this would be him.

Ayy, you're right! I've been waiting for the Felt's cuestick since the Intermission days!

You're also right about the comic's villains. Scratch and English aren't just screwing over female Players - they've also been fucking with Mindfang, the Handmaid, the Condesce, and even Snowman. It's absolutely a pattern.

These guys aren't just cosmic villains, they're misogynist cosmic villains. Mundane evil and supernatural evil, all together in one convenient package of shit.

Anonymous asked: Now that we've gotten past this point in the comic- I just wanted to say I forgot Expatri8 was ever a name used to refer to Darkleer- mainly because all I ever see people refering to him as is Darkleer. And at first it kinda threw me for a loop when you called him that even though it's the only name you knew for him- Anyhows- You probably noted this at some point but only upper middle class to high blood colors seem to have name names, with some exceptions. Like, they're weird, but Mindfang, Redglare, and Dualscar are all fesable names. Meanwhile the lower bloods just have titles.

It is absolutely in character of Alternia not to allow lowbloods to have names.

Anonymous asked: Just read your liveblog over the last two days. I adore your analysis! I second that one person’s reccomendation of In Stars And Time. Also I reccomend the Blue Lips homestuck video, it’s lived in my head for ages. I’m 99% sure it’s safe to watch now? It’s about the events of murderstuck and I don’t THINK it references anything you don’t know. Anyhoot! I know you mentioned vriska being like Azula when you first started getting to know her. Now that you’re as far as you are, I’d like to argue… Vriska is more like Zuko, in a way? Like. The way she wants to wipe things clean, the way he wants to restore his honor. The way they both have a “parent” that leads them to how things are, and for a while they cling to that as “right” and how things should be… One time I saw a post that Vriska is girl Zuko and Eridan is boy Azula and all the comments were arguing that no, vriska is Azula, but lowkey that post changed my brain chemistry and idk why people were SO vehemently against changing the genders of the characters in the comparison

I think Vriska works well as girl Zuko. You're right - they both started off under the thumb of an abusive parent, and they both try to 'fix' their past mistakes without understanding the wider context behind why they made them. Now, does this mean Vriska will also be getting a kickass redemption arc, which turns her into one of the comic's most straightforwardly heroic characters? Possibly, but I ain't holding my breath.

It's a little harder for me to see the second comparison, though. Like her brother, Azula was made into what she is by her horrible father, whereas Eridan became what he is on his own, with some assistance from Alternian culture.

Perhaps there are layers here that I'm just not seeing. I haven't read the Avatar sequel comics yet, so they might do more with Azula's character that I don't know about.

@mrjocrafter asked: I was trying to think about what the characters' moon alignment means in terms of their characterization, thought "Prospit dreamers are relatively passive while Derse dreamers are relatively active", then realized that's only true for the humans, the Post-Scratch Trolls' 6 Prospit dreamers (excluding Sollux, as his 'official' alignment, according to the Extended Zodiac, is Derse) are the more active characters. Then I realized that on Earth darkness and dark-associated characters are edgy and countercultural, while on Alternia light and light-associated characters are countercultural instead! Goddamn this comic just keeps coming back for more themes Also, I know you've compared Taylor to Vriska in the past, but she really strikes me as more of a Terezi. Beyond the surface level stuff (like going blind and then relying on a supernatural sense), Taylor, like Terezi has a strong moral compass but will twist it into pretzels to do the most horrific shit and there's a 50/50 chance she even regrets it afterwards. Meanwhile, Amy, who I think makes a much better Vriska, does her atrocities either under manipulation (like Vriska) or just does it without thinking about it and feels bad about it later (hey, also like Vriska). Also, Taylor Hebert and Amelia Dallon are coincidentally both valid troll names.

Yup! Which means Kanaya is a troll goth, which is still amazing.

And... hmm, I'm not sure whether I'd call Dave active or passive. He certainly acts more on his own initiative than John, but he also spends a lot of time getting bossed around by Terezi. He's kind of in the middle, really.

I do think Terezi's reframing of her violence as 'justice' is very Taylor-coded - and Amy is absolutely a Vriska, if we're working off the 'female, controversial, and morally ambiguous' definition given by a previous asker. Plus, well...

...yeah. And let's not even talk about Ward. (Because I haven't read it.)

Really, all these characters are multifaceted, and you can draw many different parallels in many different directions. If I had the time, I could probably draw lines from each of the trolls to a different cape in the Wormverse - but for now, we must continue!

@morganwick asked: Bec's influence on Jack is so strong that not only is he reduced to following Jade around like a puppy, he kills CD for completing the mission he gave him and leaves Jade, one of the players he's supposed to be killing, on her quest bed, the nature of which he didn't seem to know about when it came to John. Bec = absolute king.

Bec is a king.

It really does seem like his influence over Jack is increasing as time passes. Is Davesprite going to get more birdlike, as well? Or is Bec just a special case because he's a First Guardian?

Anonymous asked: oh my god you really just cleaned the board with the last minute Dave+Rose quest slab guess??? Like. You were going on about other things and then you just casually mention "oh I guess this could happen too" like okay!!! Seer!!!!

Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that one. I was just thinking about how Aradia might help the Derse kids, once she'd met them at the Sun, and then it hit me: she's been in exactly the same situation, in exactly the same place, because of exactly the same sun!

Anonymous asked: dogtier IS in fact what the entire fandom calls her, if you came up with that yourself congrats on the authentic 2011 homestuck experience, move over carcinisation this is the new big thing in convergent evolution

I did, but come on. That pun makes itself.

Anonymous asked: Fun fact: the music used in [S] Begin Intermission 2, "English", is the same when reversed. It is an EXTREMELY excellent detail. And another example of Toby Fox being a brilliant composer. @sanctferum asked: English by Toby Fox is a really cool song in that its a musical palindrome, playing the same both forwards and backwards, as befits the titular entity. The whole Felt album it's from is based around creating songs with time gimmicks in them, so it serves as a very good semifinal track to almost close the album out. @emotionallyglued asked: You finally got to the part where our big bad man appears! Simple question to ask but I'm looking forward towards the answer: what do you think of Lord English's theme? Grandiose enough to fit a villain of his caliber or did you expect something more/else?

Oh, shit, that's cool!

I liked the song a lot. Sure, it's not as bombastic as the boss theme I went with myself, but it is much, much scarier. It was the perfect way to remind us that this wasn't really a victory - that English's plan went off without a hitch. Our heroes are still in terrible, terrible danger.

@morganwick asked: post/756751870755733504 Still think of Doc Scratch as "Big Cal"? @sanctferum asked: You've heard of Lil' Cal and Big Cal, now get ready for the deadliest and dastardliest villain of all: Biggest Cal. Anonymous asked: you've seen lil cal, now get ready for BIG CAL @lon-kasi asked: finally, Big Ca- well. actually. Scratch was Big Cal, wasn't he? so finally, Bigger Cal

This is the real reason Scratch wouldn't tell Rose his boss's name - because if she'd known her manipulator worked for Bigger Cal, she'd have been too god damn scared to go grimdark.

Anonymous asked: T1ck T0ck goes the God Tier Clock. Its chime signals the Br8k of Scratch's H34D. And with the arrival of Lord English, he lets loose two great, Vast honk HONKS. Anonymous asked: Did you notice something about the English sequence? First, we see Scratch's clock. t1ck, t0ck. Then, his head breaks. 8r8k H34DS. He releases the Vast Honk. honk HONK.

This motherfucker died to the very words that birthed him.

I guarantee you that this was deliberate on Scratch's part. He didn't need to foreshadow his plan so blatantly - but this horrible little troll knew that nobody would get the joke until it was too late.

bladekindeyewear asked: "S u c k e r s ." The bioorganic-looking Tumor opening up to reveal a precision device. Twice the mass of a universe. Doc Scratch fucking played EVERYONE SO HARD. We couldn't believe THEY CREATED THE GREEN SUN, so hard many of us watched without REALIZING IT. If you reread the talk Doc and Rose had from p3627 onward, the amount of TRANSPARENT DODGES AND WEASELING he did in that conversation to mislead Rose and the entire readership is so blatant and shameless, oh my fucking god!!! Anonymous asked: Not only did Scratch never said the tumor would destroy the green sun, he also specifically said they would travel to the green sun LOCATION, not to the green sun itself.

God damn it!

Scratch may have been stoic on the outside, but you mark my words: he was absolutely roaring with laughter on the inside.

@sunbluethinking asked: Regarding 'a dozen or two sweeps,' you do have to remember that it seems like one sweep is roughly equivalent to two human years? (See Terezi's and Dave's 'I'm six' conversation, or whatever it was.) So my impression is that a dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 24 years and two dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 48 years. Still really short, but not quite as absurdly short. (Which actually reminds me of the question of the problem of rate of maturation in fictional races with different lifespans. (Dungeon Meshi touches on this, but) in the case of Homestuck, I think it seems like the trolls mature to adulthood at about the same rate. It's just their adult lifespans that are different.) @bellcarved asked: If my math is correct, "a dozen or two sweeps" is a range of 26 to 52 years. Still not great, but 26 would be the low end of the life expectancy, while they tend to live around half as long as a human.

So either Aradia was about to die, or she wasn't - but either way, she was always going to die young.

We still don't know whether God Tier stops you aging, do we? I have to assume so, because death by old age isn't really Heroic or Just, but I'd feel a lot better if it was 100% confirmed.

Anonymous asked: And here we learn the story of Jesus and the second coming- @bellcarved asked: Now you know the truth: Karkat Vantas is the second coming of Troll Jegus Christ. Anonymous asked: I doubt I'm the first to say this but, the story of the Signless is undeniably based off the story of Jesus Christ. @skelekingfeddy asked: you do realise that the sufferer is Troll Jegus right. the irons/cancer symbol is the crucifix. his method of execution turned into the main symbol of a religion. the dolorosa is mary. karkat is the second coming. hes literally just Troll Jegus lmao @sanctferum asked: turns out, Terezi was right all along. troll jegus was real after all, and he was indeed the best jegus. shame on you for not believing, Dave

God damn it, Karkat. You hate yourself so much, even though you're literally the second coming of Christ.

And really does add weight to Terezi's claim that Alternia had the 'best' Jesus. Sure, says she's joking here, but... well, her Ancestor was a follower of the Signless, wasn't she? Could Terezi have inherited more of Redglare's legacy than we thought?

Anonymous asked: now that you know about the signless i recommend you take another read of karkat's long password on page 3972

...huh.

It almost makes it seem like Karkat's vaguely cognizant of the Sufferer's life, the same way the Sufferer was cognizant of his pre-Scratch incarnation. Funny, that.

@morganwick asked: "For a bisexual alien, his shipping is awfully straight, isn't it?" Well, consider that when he drew that he was trying to adhere to the human model of reproduction with its explicit requirement of one person of each sex, as best he could from his alien perspective. Note that in the same conversation he's struggling to understand the "human taboo of incest". @manorinthewoods asked: Karkat's humanshipping is straight because John told him he wasn't gay, and presumably, he extrapolated. ~LOSS (28/12/24) Anonymous asked: Karkat's very straight shipping chart is the way it is because John's Not A Homosexual:tm:

I totally forgot I came to the same conclusion, back in that legendary group chat.

Man, Rose x Kanaya is really going to throw Karkat for a loop. He'll probably think that John was just bullshitting him.

@skelekingfeddy asked: steven moffat is a valid troll name Anonymous asked: You've brought it up too much not to ask, what did Moffat do that pissed you off so badly?

Once more, I am very tempted to make this a full essay, but I'll save time by just pointing to Hbomberguy's famous Sherlock video, which I agree with, like, 80% of - particularly the Doctor Who segment that I've timestamped.

In a nutshell, Moffat was always really good at generating intrigue, and building hype for future events - but as a showrunner, he never really delivered on his promises, and was very fond of handwaving established canon to the side. Pet peeve of mine, as you can imagine.

@rwbypro asked: We warned you bro, we warned you about the most important character @skelekingfeddy asked: carcinoGeneticist may have engineered the cancer…but terminallyCapricious was the one who made it terminal. ;o) @capribornio asked: Honk, honk :0) Heyyyy you reached the part where Gamzee became my favorite enemy. Forget Vriska, Jack and Doc Scratch - Gamzee may have his buttons pushed by the good ol' Doc, but he managed to make things worse than even Vriska got to (and killed more main characters, too!). Anonymous asked:Congratulations on reaching this point. So, Gamzee chucklefucked the universe. Crazy, right? @bellcarved asked: Gamzee's "Bard of Rage" title is looking more accurate than ever, now. His own rage lead him to put the clowns in John's dreams, which ended up inspiring the rage that made Jack Noir go to the lengths he did. Bardic inspiration, if you will. …also, this makes Perfect Jack a collaborative effort between Vriska and Gamzee. @capribornio asked: I feel like you get Gamzee much better than most livebloggers (and a part of the fandom, too). Gamzee is an orchestrator, on a much bigger level than any could have predicted. The silly little troll dissappeared once he got off the slime, got his religion destroyed, and got Lil Cal.

I told you, guys! I told you Bards were overpowered!

Yeah, he's already getting pretty crafty, isn't he? Maybe, instead of manipulating Gamzee like he did the girls, Scratch has actually been coaching him. After all, his own manipulating days are over, so maybe he saw fit to train a successor...

Anonymous asked: if vriska was presented with a choice about the creation of bec noir, it would have had to be before the veil because the trolls only flee into the veil AFTER bec shows up and wrecks their reward- and that's their first introduction to him. any choice she could have made about bec/jack after that would result in a doomed timeline, because it would break the loop. that's why it has to be before the veil. @manorinthewoods asked: What I mean is that the Choice that would have prevented Bec Noir is something that would have made Vriska change who she was, in such a way that she wouldn't later make Bec. Vriska's Choice that made Bec can't have occurred in the Veil, because there wasn't a Denizen to give it, so whatever it was, it must have been something to do with character growth that she failed to do. ~LOSS (28/12/24)

Oh, right, that makes sense!

Yeah, poor Vriska simply wasn't self-aware enough to make such a Choice before the Veil. It's interesting what-if, though.

@flambeaufelid asked: ICP albums liveblog maybe??? (Do people liveblog music reactions? They should.) Anonymous asked: Since you mentioned the possibility of having to listen to ICP albums to understand Gamzee better, I figured I’d better let you know that while reading a bit about juggalos, ICP, and ICP’s music does help with understanding Gamzee better if you’re unfamiliar with them (though I wouldn’t say it’s crucial), I don’t recommend listening to their music unless you’re comfortable with graphic depictions of gore, murder, and other forms of violence. (Speaking from personal experience here; I tried listening to them because Gamzee’s my favorite character and quickly realized I didn’t enjoy that.) Anonymous asked: I would say listening to icp is not necessary… I tried myself and failed not even half way through one album so I admittedly could be wrong but… I think it was never intended to be THAT serious

I checked out Miracles, back when ICP was first brought up, but I haven't seen any of their other music. It's probably not actually necessary to listen to the band to understand Gamzee, but I might still do it for fun, since the graphic content wouldn't bother me much.

@skelekingfeddy asked: according to hussie the fifth wall is what divides two narrators/authors @sanctferum asked: According to Hussie's comments, if the fourth wall is the wall between the character and the author/their audience, then the fifth wall is specifically the wall dividing omniscient narrators from each other. or something like that

I, uh, guess that makes sense. Presumably Scratch would be our second 'author' in this scenario, even though he's not literally another author of Homestuck.

#asks #full liveblog #act 5.2

80 notes · View notes

lanalosty0uu · 1 day ago

Text

⋆.˚ chapter ii: girls on film ᝰ.ᐟ

previously on: 🕰️ BACK TO THE FUTURE 🕰️

“Ma'am, are you sure you’re okay? or do i need to call a doctor?” His face is fully concerned of your well being right now. Instead of answering him, your eyes travelled from the television back to the man's direction.

“What year is it now?"

“it’s 1985? duh..?”

And that's the moment when you knew.

You are doomed.

⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗

warning: slight cussing

main masterlist

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗ ⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.⊹₊ˎˊ˗ ⋆.˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊

“You’re kidding, right?” A chuckle slipped out of your mouth, starting to feel nervous of your own uncertainty.

He shakes his head. "Nope. Do I look like I'm kidding?" He asks, wondering what was so funny. He looks at you, now beginning to get a bad feeling about you.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asks once more, in a more concerned tone this time. He leans across the counter a little, wanting to get a better look at you. You on the other hand, let your eyes wandered around the room once again, noticing a calendar that says 20th of July 1985.

“Shit, it is the 80s.”

"You seriously just figured out what year it was?" He asks. "Did you just wake up from a coma? Hit your head too hard on something?" He asks, now feeling a mix of confusion, annoyance, and concern.

"What? No! Did she put you up to this?" You asked, wondering if this is all Mrs. Byers doing, due to your birthday is gonna be in a week, and all you can think is maybe she's putting up a surprise or a prank... a week before your birthday maybe?

"Who put up to what again?" He started to get even more confused. You noticed the other lady from the counter was also looking at us and you can clearly see this man is also getting annoyed.

"Mrs. Byers! Don't you know here?" Hawkins is a pretty small town, so you assumed people must know more than who their neighbors are here.

"You mean Joyce? Joyce Byers?"

"Who the hell is Joyce Byers? No, it's Nancy Byers!"

The man squinted his eyes out of irritation. "There's no Nancy Byers here, lady. There's only either Nancy Wheeler or Joyce Byers, so pick one. Wait, are you even from around?"

You thought of the two names he mentioned, but you don't seem to recognize any of them. You just recognize the name "Nancy" and "Byers", but not "Wheeler" or "Joyce".

"No, actually not. I'm just an exchange student here in Hawkins High School, and I stayed at the big house on North Ave Street."

Once you mentioned your address, he slightly widened his eyes, you can read his emotions as shocked or confused.

"Ma'am... Nobody lives on that house..."

Well, no shit. You thought. Remembering that the house looks abandoned the second you woke up on that dirty bed, surrounded by flying all over your head. "Yeah, obviously. But, it wasn't! The house wasn't suppose to look like that! It looks nothing like that before."

"Well, but it looks like that now, ma'am. Are you sure you're not a runaway patient from any asylum?"

You gasped dramatically on the mention of 'asylum', placing a hand on top of your chest, offended by his words. "First of all, stop calling me ma'am, wil ya? Second of all, I'm not a fucking asylum patient! I'm completely fine, You're all just being crazy! Thinking that this is year 1985."

You continue bickering with the man, which it's starting to feel like you made the man's day much more worse then it was before. You noticed all along he seemed to hate his job, and now he has to face an annoying customer, not believing that this is year 1985. You finally gave up after some long bickering session with the man and you accepted the fact that this is reality. The reality is you just time travelled or went through some time portal, transferring you from your present in 2025, to the past in 1985, you went 40 years back way before you were born.

“Look, this sounds impossible, but I might’ve come from the future.” You confessed, hoping that he'd believe you.

There was an uncomfrtable silence between the two of you before he started laughing. The laugh sounds... mocking. Of course he wouldn't believe you. Just imagine, this is your average day of working, and suddenly there's a customer, coming up to you just to claim that they're from the future.

"Yeah, no. I'm not buying that. You're probably just drunk or high or something," he says, trying to come up with a reasonable answer.

"You're not seriously trying to believe you're from the future, right?" He asks, letting out a small disbelieving chuckle.

You let out a scoff, feeling so done with all of this. This... This just feels like you're in the movies, like you're some sort of main girl character on films, time travel films... Back to the Future! You haven't actually seen that movie, but you're pretty sure that what you gotta do.

You gotta go back to the future.

༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ ° ⊹ ˚.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

"Hey, dingus! Is that one of your kids that you're babysitting?" A short, dirty blonde haired lady opened the window behind the counter, glancing at me before she turned her head to this man.

"No, idiot. This girl... She... She claims that she's from the future..."

"You've gotta be shitting me."

The man gave her an 'I know, right?' look, agreeing with her confused expression. I noticed there were other customers showing up, a group of girls with funky hairstyles and bright colored clothes. I quickly stepped away, realizing that I'll be holding up the line if I keep standing there.

"Please... Steve, was it? You really gotta believe me, man..."

He glanced at the customers next to you before turning back his attention to you.

“Go to the back, Robin’s there, just tell her I told you to get inside.” He simply said before fully turning his attention back to the customers.

note: hey guys! here’s a pretty short chapter hehe.. i figured i should post more and keeping it a cliffhanger to make you guys wait :p really hope you enjoy this first interaction between the reader and steve! stay tuned guys <3

taglist: @xprloki @pupwrites @gorlillaglue25 @lovestrucklyuniverse @keerysfolklore @www-interludeshadow-com @pleasantsoulcolor @mochminnie @steviespookie @damon-loves-pie @imjustdreamingig @starkleila

#steve harrington #steve harrington au #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n fluff #steve harrington x you #stranger things au #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine #stranger things angst #stranger things fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things

48 notes · View notes

lokisprettygirl · 2 days ago

Text

Right Person, Right Time (Modern Daemon x Female Reader) (18+) (Non Canon Au)

Read chapter 1 here

Chapter 2

Summary : Daemon takes you to his bed, in the way you wanted and didn't want at the same time.

Warning: 18+ , Mention of infidelity, death, smut in later chapters, reader has self deprecating attitude

If it was possible to die from embarrassment, you would have been dead by now, perhaps you were overreacting because it has been barely 5 seconds since you had uttered those god awful words --

“Good take me to your bed then.. i don't want to be alone tonight "

Yeah you did that and the man next to you, the man that you had the audacity to insult just a few moments ago, the man whose last name wasn't something you had bothered to ask, the man who had heard you very clearly just now and had gone completely quiet on you, so quiet that you could hear your heartbeat.

He was not even giving you a moment of grace towards your undignified manner, you'd have preferred to hear a sharp no instead of the awkward silence that had clouded the compact space of the elevator and it was suffocating you... suffocating -

And Thank Goodness your floor had arrived.

Now all you had to do was move out of this building and never see him again. Perhaps get out of the city and then the country while you were onto that.

As you were about to step out, his arm came in front of you and he pressed the close door button so you looked up at his face. God he was close, too close, you could smell him and he didn't smell awful. On the contrary, he smelled fucking fantastic but then his manly scent reminded you of Marco and you wanted to disappear again.

“That's not my floor lady” He said to you so you gulped in response, his mouth curved into a smile before he stepped away from you.

“So you heard me huh?” you asked as you crossed your arms.

“You were too loud and too clear” you huffed internally as he responded in that smug manner.

You could just say no right, though you asked for it, there was still time to get out of this situation, why get him involved in your tangled mess of a life?

You wanted to say something but as you watched the elevator moving up you didn't really say anything, you didn't want to go back to your apartment. Too many memories, too many imprints of Marco over there. You had to survive the night somehow and you found yourself unable to do it all alone. He had made you so weak and so non fucntional.

“Ummm don't take this the wrong way but what I said just now- ” you chuckled to hide your embarrassment so he raised his brow “What I'm saying is that...I just..i ummm..i .. when I said that i –”

“Ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh” you turned your head to look at him as he shushed you, his lips formed a pout when he dragged the sound of the shushing as if he was speaking to a petulant child. Okay he had a nice set of lips, pink, and they looked soft and..well at least you weren't rebounding with some junkie hobo you thought. Not that there was anything right with this situation either.

As the elevator stopped finally at the top most floor and the door opened, you noticed another door and he stepped forward to enter the passkey, that door then opened straight into a -

“Lobby? You have a Lobby of your own?” You asked him as you followed him and looked around in wonderment, he smiled as he noticed the wide eyed look on your face.

“Perks of the penthouse”

The lobby had a narrow corridor on the other end that lead towards the main area of the penthouse, he guided you to his supposed living room and you stared at him as he took his leather jacket off and dumped it on the couch before he unhooked the glasses from the collar of his white t-shirt and placed it on a side table, he then disappeared into one of the rooms and came back shortly after.

“You're ruining my carpet, dry yourself up” He threw the towel in your direction so you caught it swiftly before it could hit his shiny expensive carpet.

“Thanks..I guess” as you dried the dripping water from your hair you watched him strut his way behind the bar in the corner of the room, a part of you still wanted to run but then the thought of going back to the apartment and being all alone with nothing but the memories of you and Marco felt dreadful.

Two years and it meant nothing to him, you meant nothing to him, of course you didn't, you wanted to take out your phone and check if he had called or messaged but then again, every thought of yours circled back to the moment of him fucking someone else behind your back. Someone very hot and attractive.

“What's your choice of poison, love?” You heard Daemon's voice so you sighed and walked towards his couch to sit down.

“Anything would do in this moment” you answered him but had to grimace internally as he returned with two glasses of scotch on the rocks. When you said anything, you didn't mean a literal shot of gasoline. He offered you the glass so you took it and sipped on it because you had no other choice, the couch sank in as he sat down next to you so you scooted a little farther away from him..

“So ummm how do you afford all this.. generational wealth?” he smirked as you questioned him, you were so judgemental and assuming but for some reason this trait of yours didn't annoy him as much it would have if it was attached to someone else.

“Yeah, sort of, but I also work for it” he told you honestly so you chuckled in what seemed to be a very condescending manner.

“But you're home, at 5 in the afternoon?” you said to him as a matter of fact.

“I mostly work at nights..”

“Doing..what exactly?”

“I own businesses..clubs, bars, pubs, hotels, that sort of thing” he answered in a way that made you feel as if he was trying to sound humble about it but it didn't help his case, he was bragging and he was bragging hard.

“Anything you own that I might have heard of?” you asked him so he gave you a smile. That's what he had been waiting for.

“Dark Sister..the nightclub”

You almost spat out your drink as he said that, that stupid fucking place, that place was important to you, that's where you had met Marco for the first time, and he often took you there to unwind after a long week.

“You own that.. like the whole club?” you asked him, surprise evident in your voice.

“No I just own one sofa in there..ofcourse i own the whole thing”

“Ohhh ..i ..i didn't know that..i have been there..quite a few times.. never saw you there..do you even go there?”

“All the time. There's a world outside your hot lover's arms you know? You never really got out of it did you?” you glared at him as he said that. What was this developing energy between you two? It definitely wasn't positive to say the least but it didn't seem completely negative either. Up until this moment and for so long you two had been only nice with each other or polite would be a better suited term but this passive aggressive conversation didn't seem that way.

“Well.. He does have great arms, big.. manly arms, comforting arms…warmmmmm” your voice choked on your tears as you thought of him and as much as he despised hearing the praises of your cheating ex he understood what you were going through in the moment and he didn't want to add to your misery so he grabbed the tissue box from the coffee table and passed one to you.

“Thank you” you mumbled as you grabbed the tissue to wipe your dripping tears. Fucking Marco, he had ruined your life forever.

“Look i.. when I said I wanted you to get me into your bed-”

And he interrupted you.

“I have a great bed, wanna see?” He spoke so you opened your mouth to say something offensive but you did want to see the bed after seeing that carpet.

“Fine..I'll see YOUR bed” you gestured to him with your fingers, air quoting the term dramatically to come across as uninterested.

As he led you towards his bedroom you looked around and sighed, you wanted to find something to complain about, perhaps messy clothes all around or dirt in the corner but it was squeaky clean thoroughly. You didn't know why you were behaving this way with him, what was this? Couldn't have been sexual tension.

And the king sized bed did look amazing, almost made you want to lie down but then the bed reminded you of Marco, everything reminded you of Marco.

You sighed as you walked towards the bed and then turned to look at him.

“Okay let's do this ..no expectations..no promises..no attachment..no strings whatever right? It's just one night” you blinked your eyes to affirm your point so he chuckled and stepped towards you.

“You're a strange kind of woman, you know that?” he said as caressed his own chin as if he was assessing an anomaly.

“Way to compliment a woman you're about to fuck”

“I’m not going to fuck you sweetheart..just sit down and relax” he said as he grumbled.

Okay you took that as an offense.

“Why ? Why can't you fuck me..am I so unfuckable? Would you rather fuck a hot stripper from your club or something? Would you fuck me if I was hot? Or a stripper? Or a hot stripper? What is wrong with me? Do tell me” His brows furrowed as you blabbed nonsensically. Now that you were focusing on it, his brows didn't really have.. brow hair ..his head was a different story though. Way too much hair. Thick and bushy, and curls at the bottom -

He suddenly walked towards you so you took a step back and hit the foot of the bed which made you sit down involuntarily.

“I do not own a strip club FYI, but if I did I'd hire you and you're right given the chance I'd certainly fuck this very hot, very fuckable stripper” he leaned down and placed his palms on the bed around you on as he spoke. Hazel eyes, he has hazel eyes mixed with green, you had never really noticed before.

He had a way, strange way of .. complimenting you and insulting you at the same time. So different from Marco, honey dripped from his mouth whenever he spoke to you.

“Then why won't you do it?” you asked him, your voice soft and vulnerable so he looked down for a moment and then looked right into your eyes again.

“I want to.. don't get it twisted but I’m not going to fuck a grieving woman, when I have a woman like you in my bed i like to think that I'm all she's thinking about in the moment. I'm not going to be inside you and have you wishing it was that lothario instead” he said to you before he stepped away, your eyes welled up and you didn't even try to control it this time. That lothario was the love of your life, it was just your luck that you weren't his.

“Why did you bring me here then?’ you asked him as you stood up so he crossed his arms.

“Because you didn't want to be alone.. and you're not alone right now, are you?” he mumbled in a no nonsense tone and you didn't know what it was, it wasn't as if he had said anything profound or magical but the kindness in his tone made you break down right then, you sat down on his bed and wept as hard as you could. It was sinking in finally, you'd never find a man to love you again and you'd definitely never find anyone like Marco.

He watched you for a moment, well a few moments before he walked towards the bed and laid down next to you, though maintaining an ample amount of distance from you. This morning when he woke up he definitely didn't imagine in his wildest thoughts that the pretty girl from his building would be crying profusely in his bed by the end of the day. A small part of him that he had killed long ago wanted to scoot closer and comfort you but he restrained himself.

No expectations, no promises, he had to live by that. For his own sake.

After what felt like hours when your sniffling died down you propped yourself on your elbows and stared at him,

“Well ..you were right about one thing..this is a mighty good bed” he couldn't help but smile as you said that, as if you weren't bawling your eyes out just a minute ago..

“I only do the best darling”

“Okay ummm..i.. would like to just keep my head down here and close my eyes for a moment -”

You said to him so he immediately got up and grabbed your arms to pull yourself up as well.

“Change up first, you can't sleep in wet clothes and especially not in my bed you dummy” he said to you as if he was your father so you crossed your arms, you were just starting to find him tolerable.

“I'll just go to my apartment” you said to him so he sighed and walked towards his closet to grab a comfy tee and shorts that he hardly ever wears.

“Change and you can go” he commanded. Who did he think he was? A kind and known stranger who worried about you getting sick in your drenched clothes? Well fuck his kindness.

“I'll change when I'm home” you argued, at this point you were just arguing for the sake of it.

“No you won't..you'd collapse on your door, won't even make it to the bedroom” he argued further.

“If I change I'm sleeping in your bed ..you can find another..bed somewhere in this huge penthouse of yours”

“Fine with me”

You huffed as you grabbed the clothes from him and went to the bathroom to change quickly, you were glad the shirt was loose enough so he wouldn't notice that you weren't wearing your bra.

As you came out he stared at you, you wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

“You find this funny?”

“No..You just look so silly is all”

“Blame your stupid clothes”

He brought his hands up as if surrendering and accepting defeat finally so you decided to not say anything further.

As you sat down next to him you turned your head to look at him.

“Thank you ..for the clothes and the bed and your company and everything else” you said to him as politely as you could amd you really meant it this time. He tilted his head as he noticed the hint of tears in your eyes.

He could tell you were going to be a trouble for him.

“Okay” he mumbled before he got up and walked towards the couch to lie down.

You didn't want to be alone so he wasn't going to leave you alone.

As your head hit the pillow and eyes closed you only saw the image of Marco fucking that hot brunette with fervent passion. It was burned in your memory now and you knew you'd never be able to unsee it no matter how much you wanted it but you could worry about that tomorrow, tonight you weren't alone so you didn't have to wallow in self pity.

“Daemon?” You called out his name so he hummed in response.

“What is your full name? I never asked -”

You heard the sound of faint chuckling coming from him before he answered.

“Targaryen..Daemon Targaryen”

Targaryen.. Targaryen... Targaryen..where had you heard that name before, you had heard it somewhere and then suddenly it dawned on you.

You knew him. No that wasn't right, you knew about him.

😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏😏

Note : What does she know?

Taglist @unofficialavenger90 @kimberleyneko-blog @m-riaa @anukulee @erebus-et-eigengrau @littledark11 @silhouetteofher

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x reader fluff #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen x reader angst #non canon au #modern daemon targaryen

39 notes · View notes

gullemec · 2 days ago

Text

Cross the Line

Golden Cage - Chapter Five

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Truth or Dare, Murder, and Sex. Or, you and Butcher go on a road trip.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ mdni), oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, nipple play, dirty talk, creampie, discussions of previous murders, language, unsafe driving, attempted flashing, One Bed Trope™️, reader has poor self esteem and is Going Through It, straight up vehicular manslaughter, brief description of dead bodies

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.7k

A/N: Here she is!! My first ever f/m smut scene! Please be kind. Also a very action-packed chapter. Please read the tags before diving in because there's a LOT happening here.

Monday morning rolls around with an alarming speed, the pace of your days having taken a decided turn toward the speed of light.

It had nothing to do with your apprehension around being with Butcher again, you were sure.

Certain.

The plan, not unlike the last plan, is supposedly simple. As the CytoGenix van carrying the vials of V2 makes its way upstate, you and Butcher will tail it at a distance, waiting until the time is right to strike and run the van offroad using a spike strip.

You've thought up about two thousand ways this could go wrong. You could probably think of a thousand more, but your brain started to hurt when you tried.

You pull your bag over your shoulder, every step to Butcher’s van downstairs weighed down by a strange mix of adrenaline and dread. He’s waiting for you, leaned against the driver’s side door with his usual cocky smirk, dark aviators shielding his expression.

“Look alive, sunshine,” he says as you climb in. “Big day ahead.”

You settle into the passenger seat, forcing yourself to play it cool. The hum of the engine fills the silence as you pull away, but within moments, the tension in the van feels as suffocating as the thick summer air.

The first two hours crawl by. Small talk feels like dragging a boulder uphill, each attempt to bridge the gap between you met with curt, monosyllabic responses. Weather. Traffic. A half-hearted quip about a roadside diner that doesn’t even earn a smirk from Butcher.

It’s maddening. Days ago, this man had kissed you like the world was ending. Now, he's talking about the possibility of impending rain. You feel insane.

Eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

“Truth or dare,” you say, throwing it out like a grenade

Butcher glances at you, his brow furrowing beneath his sunglasses. “The fuck did you just say?”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath about it being a child's game. “And how exactly do you suppose we play truth or dare in a moving vehicle, hm?” He asks.

“I don't know, but what I do know is that we have a four and a half hour drive ahead of us and if this awkward silence is going to continue, I'm going to jump out of the window right now.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “What are you, twelve? What’s next, a round of bloody ‘I Spy’?” He shoots you a look of bemusement before returning to the road, ignoring your request.

He's not getting away that easy.

“Look, it's either truth or dare, or we talk about the k—”

“Jesus Christ, alright I'll play your fucking game,” he relents.

Success.

You nod toward him expectedly.

“What?” He asks

“Truth or dare? You have to pick, it's kind of how the game is played.”

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Fine. Truth.”

You pause to think for a second, racking your brain for a good question. You could, of course, go straight for the jugular, asking him why he pulled away from the kiss, why he didn't push you down on the couch and take everything you were willing to give him right then and there. But you think that might be a little intense for a first question, so you settle on something easier.

“How many people have you killed?”

His reaction is instant, an incredulous laugh that’s more bark than humor. “Straight for the jugular, eh? You don’t muck about.”

“I’m curious,” you say, holding his gaze. “Isn’t that the whole point of the game?

“Sweetheart, if knowing how many people I've kidnapped is a second date question, this has gotta be a fifth date question.”

“Okay,” you say thoughtfully. “Well, if you count all the late night stake outs, and if you count our first date, the one where you kidnapped, me as three dates, which I do, I think we're well past the fifth date by now.” You raise your eyebrows at him, laughing.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs. The smirk on his face betrays the fact that he kind of wants to play, but his tough facade necessitates that he put up a valiant fight about it first.

But once your laughing subsides, his grin falls, and you realize that this was perhaps not the best question to ask. His eyes are fixed on the road when he answers you.

He exhales sharply, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I lost count. Got to twenty-five, maybe thirty, last time I bothered to keep track.” His voice is calm, almost too calm, but there’s no pride in it. “You happy now?”

His admission is like a shock to your system. You knew that he'd killed before, having tossed the idea around in your mind, considering the things you knew about the man you were unquestionably attracted to. He has killed, yes, but he has also lost. He has lost everything, and he has helped, and he has been kind, too. And yet, hearing the words from his mouth, putting a number, if only estimated, on the amount of times a life has been lost at the same hands that were wrapped tenderly around your body only days ago, sends a painful jolt to your heart.

“I know what you might think,” he starts, his voice faltering. “You think I'm cold and evil, or whatever.” His fingers readjust around the steering wheel, an anxious tic you're picking up on. “But I had to do it. I believed it was for some… greater purpose, I guess. I believe that, but maybe because I have to.”

You're speechless. You weren't expecting this sudden moment of vulnerability in Butcher, this emotional nakedness. If you're honest, it scares you, because it causes the sand beneath the already unsteady foundation of your relationship with him to shake. You have to say something, anything.

“How do you feel about potentially killing two more people today? Does it make you nervous?” You ask. You're vaguely aware of the van driving ahead of you, a pinprick dot of white on the endlessly winding highway.

He sighs, then smirks, looking entirely too pleased in comparison to his somber expression only moments ago. “Uh–uh, your turn now.”

He's got you there.

“Truth,” you say, and it's only fair that he throws you a hardball too. But he doesn't.

“What’s your favorite memory with your mum?”

The question throws you for a moment, its tenderness blindsiding you. You have so many, you could almost argue that this isn't an easy question at all. All the same, your mind wanders to the same memory that always pops up when you ask yourself this question.

“My seventh birthday,” you begin, your voice tinged with nostalgia. “Dad was off in the Bahamas for some meeting, and I didn’t have any friends because we’d just moved. So it was just me and her. She took me to Coney Island, and we spent the whole day there. Rides, games, cotton candy. It was the best.” A tear twinkles in your eye, but you wipe it away before it comes to fruition.

He looks like he's about to say something, maybe offer some comfort or ask a follow up, but you're too quick for him.

“Now you, truth or dare?”

He picks dare, following your lead and ignoring what you shared about your mom. You appreciate his ability to pick up on your nonverbal cues.

You resist the urge to reach across the console and brush your fingers through his wild, wind-tousled hair. You let yourself imagine for a moment a scenario in which the two of you are out for a drive on a beautiful day for pleasure rather than business, where you might entwine your fingers with his on the center console. But these thoughts are dangerous, and you need a distraction.

“Drive in the oncoming lane for ten seconds.”

“Are you bloody mental?” he snaps, glaring at you. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, and you want me to pull a stunt like that?”

You shrug, and you relish in the utter frustration that Butcher exudes, the way his accent comes out in full-force when he's this worked up.

“You said dare,” you counter, your tone teasing. “A dare’s a dare.”

He groans, muttering a string of expletives as he slows the van. “You’re a bloody pain in my arse, you know that?”

“Slow down a bit, so they won't see us,” you suggest, your voice low to control the giggles that threaten to peek out. “Come on, Butcher.”

He hesitates. It's a sick kind of satisfaction knowing that, if it was anyone but you, Butcher would have probably just let you jump out the window at this point.

“One, twooo… Threeeee…” You exaggerate your words, giving him every opportunity to acquiesce to your demands.

Finally, you feel the van slow and dip to the left as Butcher careens into the oncoming lane.

This is getting too easy.

You count out the next ten seconds slowly, agonizingly.

Ten.

Nine

Eight. He shifts his eyes between you and the road, imploring you to call off the dare. Absolutely not.

Seven.

Six.

Five. A speck materializes on the horizon. An oncoming car.

Four. The speck transforms into a white sedan.

Three. “I'm switching lanes,” he yells. “Three more seconds!” You argue back.

Two. You can tell now that there are two passengers in the sedan. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”

One. The driver of the sedan lays on the horn, the loud bleat sending shockwaves through your system.

Butcher swerves back into the right lane, a chorus of curses spilling out, the sedan’s honking fading out behind you. Your laughter spills out, obnoxious and loud and absolutely drowning out Butcher’s string of profanities. Shortly after he course-corrects, the white van falls back into your line of sight.

No harm, no foul.

Butcher’s breathing evens. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” you retort, still grinning.

“You better pick dare this turn. I didn't realize we weren't playin' fair,” he smirks, and you're knocked back again. It's criminal how this man speaks, so deep and yet so melodic, his accent and charm breaking down whatever defenses you still had standing.

“Do your worst,” you dare, and he smiles widely. For a moment, you feel a real flare of heat in your chest. You don't want to think about what you'd realistically do for this man right now, but the thought crosses your mind, sending a pang to your core.

“Flash the next car that drives past us.”

Now it's your turn to blanch at the request, your face scrunching up in response.

“You can't be serious,” you say.

He simply nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead in feigned concentration.

Well, the best way out is always through.

You pull your seatbelt off, balancing on your seat and the console as you pull yourself through the van’s open sunroof. You pretend not to notice Butcher's right arm snaking protectively around your left leg.

You watch as a dark green truck materializes before you, a lone cowboy hat wearing man inside. You pinch your fingers around the edge of your shirt. The truck speeds by as you begin to lift it up. Suddenly, the arm wrapped around your leg pulls down, forcing you back into the van.

“Hey! What was that for?!” You exclaim, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion.

“You weren't seriously going to flash that truck, were you?” He asks.

You nod. “I mean, yeah? You dared me to do it. A dare’s a dare.”

He huffs and puffs, shaking his head intermittently. He's frustrated with you, and it's pissing you off.

Time to turn the tables.

“Okay, well it’s your turn now I guess. Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” he says smugly, and you laugh, because you know what you say next is going to shake him.

You take a second to stare at him, an unabashed good look at him. The way the breeze tousles his dark hair, the angle of his jaw catching the golden hour light. The warmth in the glow softens him somehow, makes him seem almost human, almost kind. You can't deny that you want him, and you can’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wants you too.

"Did you like it?" you ask abruptly, your voice low but clear.

Butcher furrows his brow, clearly puzzled. "Like what?"

"When you kissed me," you clarify, your heart pounding in your chest. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

The silence that follows is deafening. You hear him inhale sharply, see the slight hitch in his posture as the words settle between you. His face shifts, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. He stares straight ahead, jaw tightening, fingers curling around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

Your pulse quickens. Oh, God. Why did I say that? The weight of your own recklessness presses down on you. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity as he struggles with something unspoken, his lips parting as if to say something—

Your heart stops.

—and then, with a sharp gasp, his hand slams the horn and his foot hits the brake.

"Oi! Cunts!" he shouts, jerking the van to a sudden halt. Both of you lurch forward, your seatbelt biting into your shoulder.

Your head snaps toward the road just in time to see the CytoGenix van swerving off into the parking lot of a run-down motel.

The spell is broken. The tension you’d built up between you vanishes, replaced by adrenaline and a sinking sense of inevitability.

At least he'd stopped you before you'd shown your tits to some unsuspecting cowboy.

Butcher’s face hardens, his attention fully back on the road as he mutters a string of curses under his breath. He keeps driving for another mile, the air in the van heavy and stifling. It’s as though the cracks you’d glimpsed in his armor have sealed up entirely, leaving only the impenetrable man you met at the start.

Finally, he pulls off just past a mile marker, the van grinding to a halt on the side of the road. He throws it in park and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

"Out," he orders, his voice clipped.

You blink at him. "What?"

"Get out of the van," he repeats, this time more firmly.

Despite every instinct screaming at you not to trust him, you obey. He follows you out, slamming the door behind him, and gestures toward the dense line of trees. "Start walking. Don’t stop ‘til you’re deep enough in that you can’t see the road anymore."

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” you fight, “I want to be a part of this. You're not exiling me to the woods while you do the dirty work. I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not,” he snaps, his tone cold and final. “You don’t want this blood on your hands, love. Trust me.”

Your temper flares. "You’re such an asshole, you know that?" you spit, heat rushing to your face.

You're all bite, all fight, until you see the look on his face. The harsh lines of his face are softened, his eyes weighed down with something heavier than anger. Guilt? Regret? He doesn’t want to do this, you realize. He thinks he’s protecting you.

And maybe you just don't have much of a fight left in you anymore.

You swallow hard, clenching your fists. "Fine," you say through gritted teeth. "But don’t think for a second I’m letting this go."

Without waiting for a response, you storm off into the forest, branches snapping underfoot as you push past ferns and brush.

You find a mossy rock and sink down beside it, hugging your knees to your chest. The familiar ache of being abandoned washes over you, pulling you back into yourself. You wrap your arms tightly around your body, closing your eyes and imagining the comforting embrace of your mother. The memories come easily, like they always do. Her laugh, her warmth, the way her hand always found yours when you were scared.

You lose track of time sitting there, flipping through those memories like pages in a well-worn book. Hours could have passed, or maybe it’s only minutes. You don’t know, and for a while, you don’t care.

It’s the crunch of heavy footfalls that pulls you back to the present. You blink up to see Butcher looming over you, his expression grim and drawn.

"If a van crashes in the forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it even make a noise?" you quip, smirking despite yourself.

He scowls. "What the fuck are you on about now?"

"Either that was the quietest car crash in history, or you lost them," you say, crossing your arms.

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "They never came through. They’re holed up at the motel for the night. We’ll head back, stake it out, and wait for them to move on." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the road.

He extends a hand to help you up, but you ignore it, pushing yourself off the ground and brushing dirt from your clothes. Without a word, you start walking ahead of him, back toward the van.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, falling in step behind you.

The short drive back to the motel is silent, the energy between the two of you having soured considerably. You stare out the window, arms crossed, seething. You're pissed and you want him to know it, to feel it. The mission feels like a joke, like you’re a joke. No matter what you do, you’ll always be the inept kid getting in the way.

The Piney Point Motel comes into view just as the sun dips behind the pines, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges. You spot the CytoGenix van immediately, parked conspicuously by the entrance of the motel. As far as you can tell, it's empty.

“Did they really just… leave it there?” You ask, incredulous.

Butcher chuckles. “Your old man really should stop cuttin’ corners on security.”

A flurry of hope stirs in your chest. “So we could just break into the van and steal the vials, right? And then no one would have to get hurt?”

He gives you a look, one that’s half pity, half impatience, before gesturing to the motel’s facade. Security cameras dot the walls, floodlights primed for motion. “Sorry, sweetheart. Looks like your dad could learn a thing or two from Piney Point.”

And just like that, the spark fizzles.

Butcher pulls the van into a shadowed corner of the lot and kills the engine. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed.

You stare at him. “Well, are we going in?”

“Nah. You can crawl in the back if you wanna sleep. I'll take first watch.”

He can't be serious.

“You want me to sleep back there?!”

He shrugs. “Or up here, but I don’t reckon it’s any comfier.”

You shoot him an incredulous look. “Or—and hear me out—we could sleep in the motel right in front of us?”

“And risk losin’ ‘em? Yeah, no thanks.”

You argue back and forth but the man is an infuriating, unflinching wall of stubbornness. Eventually, you give up, arms crossed as you glare at the moonlit motel. You consider going and getting a room just for yourself, but you reason that Butcher won't hesitate when he sees the men leave and you'll be left behind. Sleep tugs at you, but you refuse to crawl into the cramped backseat. Not after this.

The moon begins its arc across the starlit sky. Stars scatter above you, brighter and clearer than anything you’ve seen in years. You step out of the van, stretching stiff legs, the cool night air brushing against your skin. For a moment, you forget your frustration, gazing up at the wide, sparkling sky. It reminds you of Muskoka, your last vacation with both parents—before the office bedroom became your dad’s permanent home.

The ache of the memory lingers as you climb back into the van, only to find Butcher slumped in the driver’s seat, snoring. His chin tucked into his chest, a low rumble filling the space. You burst into laughter before you can stop yourself.

Butcher jerks awake, eyes darting wildly until they land on you. His expression shifts to a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

“Alright, laugh it up,” he grumbles, voice gravelly from sleep. “Your turn to keep watch. Good luck stayin’ awake.”

You plant your hands on your hips, glaring at him. “I’m dead tired, and so are you. We need actual sleep, Butch. I’ll pay for the rooms. Final offer.”

He pretends to consider your offer like the thought of a bed, even a springy motel bed, doesn't sound downright heavenly right now. After a moment of feigned thoughtfulness, he pulls himself from the driver's seat and stalks toward the motel.

“Don't look so pleased,” he mutters as he stalks past you. “We’re up at 4:30, no later. Understand?”

You trail behind him, hiding your grin. Right now, you’d agree to anything.

~~~

The reception area of the Piney Point Motel looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s. The wood-paneled walls are warped in places, lined with crooked shelves cluttered with knick-knacks, miniature ceramic animals, a faded “World’s Best Grandma” mug, and a jar of mints that looks more like a trap than an offering.

Behind the counter sits a bespectacled woman in her sixties, a paperback romance novel in one hand and a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside her. The air smells like pine-scented cleaner and stale smoke. She looks up as you and Butcher enter, giving you both a thorough once-over.

“Hourly or overnight?” she asks flatly, like she’s heard every excuse in the book.

The question hits you like a slap. Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Butcher doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take two rooms for the night,” he says, ignoring your mortification.

The receptionist shakes her head with a lazy shrug. “Only got one room left. One bed. Last two-bed went to a couple of truckers about an hour ago. It’s that time of year.”

You and Butcher exchange a look, sharp and synchronized.

“No,” you and Butcher say in unison, your sharp tone and immediate refusal surprising the older woman.

But your mind wanders back to the van, it's aging leather upholstery and stiff cushions and lingering coffee smell. The weight of your eyelids expands tenfold at the thought. No way in hell are you going to be prepared for what tomorrow brings if you have to sleep in there.

“Fine,” you sigh, taking the key from the receptionist’s outstretched hand, replacing it with a stack of bills.

“What d’you mean, fine?” Butcher asks, trailing after you as you head to the room. His boots echo dully on the cracked linoleum floor. “We’re better off in the van. Safer, too.”

You ignore him, jamming the key into the lock and twisting hard. The door creaks open to reveal a shoebox-sized room with peeling wallpaper, a squeaky ceiling fan, and a bed that looks like it’s seen more fights than rest.

Still, it’s a bed.

Without a word, Butcher follows you inside, closing the door behind him. For a man so determined to sleep in the van, he seems strangely reluctant to leave now. You glance at him, confused but unwilling to ask.

“You’re not staying, are you?” you finally say, half-turning to face him.

“’Course I’m stayin’,” he replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not leavin’ you alone in some dodgy motel where the closest weapon’s probably that broken lamp in the corner.”

You blink at him, torn between irritation and a flicker of gratitude. Before you can respond, he smirks and brushes past you toward the bed.

“Dibs,” he declares, flopping onto the mattress with all the grace of a drunk elephant. The springs groan in protest, but he doesn’t care.

“No, no! Absolutely not!” You shout, but he's already stretched his arms behind his head, feet crossed. “You're not taking the bed, you didn't even want this room!”

“And yet, here I am,” he replies, tucking his hands behind his head. The smugness radiating off him is enough to set your teeth on edge.

“You're an asshole, you know that right?”

“Yeah, you keep remindin’ me,” he says with a grin. “Now are you gonna stand there gawkin’ all night, or are you gonna make yourself comfortable?”

You grab the pillow out from behind his head and secure it alongside yours down the middle of the bed, creating a makeshift wall between your bodies.

“What’s this, then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The Great Wall of Don’t-Touch-Me,” you deadpan, climbing onto your side of the bed and glaring at him over the makeshift divider.

He chuckles, low and amused. “You think I’m gonna bite?”

“More likely that I’d be the one biting you,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

The second the words leave your mouth, your cheeks flush hot. You busy yourself adjusting your pillow, pretending you don’t see the way his grin widens.

“Noted,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make you shiver.

You roll over, facing the wall. The bed creaks as Butcher shifts, and you’re hyper-aware of his presence. His scent, the warmth radiating off him, the way the air seems heavier when he’s near.

Neither of you bother crawling under the covers, facing away from each other to make it extra-clear that this is a no-nonsense, all-business sleepover.

“Goodnight, asshole,” you mutter, hoping the bite in your tone masks the thrum of nerves in your chest.

“’Night, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice softer than you expect.

You want to savour this moment, but you're out in seconds.

~~~

Suspended in a haze of warm sunlight, the cool edge of unreality covers you like a blanket of fresh snow. Strong arms wrap securely around your waist, across your chest, their weight pressing into you like a protective cocoon. The scratch of a beard grazes your neck, and the faint warmth of breath tickles your skin. Gentle snores vibrate against your back, a low, steady rhythm that lulls you further into the dreamlike state. You fight to stay there, curling deeper into the embrace, savoring the rare, fleeting serenity.

But serenity never lasts. A creeping discomfort nags at the edges of your mind, like an itch you can’t quite reach. The illusion splinters. The sunlight grows sharper, the weight around you heavier, the awkward press of something hard on your ass undeniable.

Your eyes snap open, reality crashing in. It’s blindingly bright, far too bright for what should be the early, predawn hours. Panic spikes through your system as you take in the scene, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You thrash instinctively, and Butcher’s grip loosens just in time for him to tumble unceremoniously off the bed.

“Bloody hell!” Butcher groans from the floor, rubbing the back of his head.

Your voice comes out in a frantic rasp. “Butcher, wake up! We slept in!”

The words are like a starter pistol. He’s up and moving in an instant, yanking on his boots while simultaneously reaching for the door.

“Shit! Goddamn it, move! Move!” he barks, his voice sharp and commanding.

The two of you are a blur of motion, grabbing, stumbling, swearing. Your bodies move on autopilot, faster than your sleep-addled minds can process. In seconds, you’re in the van, Butcher slamming the door shut and peeling out of the motel parking lot with reckless urgency.

Anxiety builds in your chest, each erratic swerve of the van feeding the dread coiling tighter inside you. As you glance back at the motel, the sight of an empty parking spot—a lone Mustang where the CytoGenix van had been—confirms your worst fears. They’re gone.

Butcher’s jaw tightens as he accelerates onto the highway, weaving through lanes with a focus that’s almost terrifying. The towering pines blur into streaks of green on either side of you as the van hurtles forward. You scan the horizon frantically, desperate for a glimpse of white metal that refuses to appear.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours before Butcher finally slows the van, pulling into a deserted roadside gas station. It’s eerily quiet, the pumps sitting idle, the building dark and lifeless.

“This is the last stop for miles,” Butcher says, his voice low and grim. “That's the last stop they would've made before going to the lab.”

The weight of his words slams into you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heart races, panic tightening its grip. This was it, the window of opportunity to intercept them had closed. It was all your fault. You’d fought tooth and nail for the motel room last night, insisting you both needed the rest, convincing yourself it was a small indulgence that wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.

You were wrong.

Maybe he was right, maybe your father was right, maybe they're all right, everyone who's ever doubted you. It's cruel, the way that the frayed threads of meaning in your life seem to continually fall from your grasp.

Shame and guilt crash over you in waves, heat rising in your face as your chest constricts painfully. You blink back tears, but they gather stubbornly at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Butcher, I’m so sorry,” you stammer, your voice trembling. “I—I screwed up. This is all my fault.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he stares out the windshield. The silence stretches, unbearable. Fear claws at you, the thought of him cutting you loose from the Boys—or worse, giving up on the mission entirely—hitting like a punch to the gut.

“Please,” you continue, desperation creeping into your tone. “I know I fucked up, but don’t… don’t give up on this. Don’t give up on me.”

Butcher’s head swivels toward you, his eyes softer than you expect. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost unrecognizably so.

“Hey,” he says, holding up a hand. “Breathe. It’s okay. Hold your apologies, yeah? We’re not done yet. I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve.”

You blink at him, stunned into silence. This wasn’t the reaction you were expecting, not the anger, the harsh words, the fury you thought you deserved. Instead, his calm confidence throws you off balance, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“Butcher…” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat.

“Just wait,” he says, lips quirking into a faint, reassuring smirk. “Keep it together. We’ve still got work to do.”

With that, his foot presses down on the gas pedal, the van lurching forward and pinning you back against the seat.

You're certain you've never driven this fast before, not even during those rare joyrides with your father in his Bugatti. The van rockets forward, moving like a bullet out of a gun, the world outside warping into a blur of trees and sky as the tires scream against the asphalt. Your grip on the door handle tightens with every jolt, the tension in the cabin as visceral as the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Despite the chaos of the day, the abrupt wake-up, the panic, and Butcher’s uncharacteristic gentleness, the unbridled anxiety screaming inside you speaks only of the lives of the two men in the CytoGenix van, unknowingly hurtling toward their end. Anxiety claws at your chest, raw and unrelenting. You shut your eyes and try to focus on breathing, but it’s no use.

“Oi, cunts!” Butcher’s voice explodes, and your eyes snap open.

Thirty feet ahead, the CytoGenix van comes into view, its white exterior glaring against the green blur of forest on either side. To your right, the trees abruptly fall away, leaving nothing but a battered guardrail and a steep ravine beyond.

“Hold on tight,” Butcher orders, his tone calm but edged with a manic sort of energy.

Before you can question him, he floors the gas pedal. The van lurches forward, barreling into the oncoming lane to overtake the other vehicle. Butcher twists the wheel expertly, positioning your van just ahead of the CytoGenix one. Then, in one brutal motion, he jerks back and rams into the side of it.

The impact is bone-rattling. Your body slams against the seatbelt, the van shuddering violently as both vehicles swerve erratically. For a moment, you lock eyes with the other driver, his face contorted in a mix of rage and confusion. But Butcher’s already at it again, pulling back just enough to ram the CytoGenix van a second time.

This hit sends the other van wobbling wildly, the driver fighting to regain control. Your ears ring, blood rushing so loudly that you’re not sure if the scream you hear is yours or simply imagined. And then, with a final, sickening crunch, the CytoGenix van plows through the guardrail and plunges down the ravine.

Butcher swerves hard, narrowly avoiding the gaping hole in the guardrail. The side of your van scrapes against what remains, metal shrieking as sparks fly. He brings the van to an abrupt stop on the shoulder a hundred yards ahead, slamming the gearshift into park. The engine dies, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing in the cabin.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Holy shit,” Butcher echoes, his grin wide and reckless.

You both sit there for a moment, staring straight ahead, before the tension breaks. Anxious laughter bubbles out of you, and to your surprise, Butcher joins in. The two of you volley expletives back and forth between bursts of laughter, the absurdity of the situation sinking in.

When the laughter subsides, Butcher reaches for the door handle. “Stay put,” he says firmly. “You’re not gonna want to see this.”

That sends your adrenaline spiking all over again. You throw your door open and stomp after him, slamming it behind you. “No. You’re not doing this. Not again.”

He turns to face you, brows furrowed. You jab a finger into his chest. “I’m capable of this, Butcher. And if I’m going to be part of the Boys, I need to prove it. No more babying me.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his hazel eyes searching yours. The tension between you is almost unbearable as you silently plead with him to understand. To let you have this. To understand just how important this is, how this transcends the circumstances you currently find yourselves in. Finally, his shoulders sag slightly, and he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But don’t make me regret it.”

Together, you make your way down the ravine, the incline steep and unforgiving. Butcher offers his arm to steady you when you stumble, and you grudgingly accept. At the bottom, the wreckage comes into view. The CytoGenix van lies on its side in a shallow creek bed, its back doors hanging open.

You rush to the driver’s side, heart hammering in your chest as you peer inside. For the past week, nightmares have plagued you—visions of Adam and Emily lying lifeless in the wreckage. But when you see the two men slumped in their seats, necks twisted at unnatural angles, neither is familiar. Relief washes over you, mingling uneasily with guilt.

“They’re nobodies,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Butcher. “Collateral damage.”

His hand falls heavy on your shoulder. “The hard part’s over,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It gets easier from here.”

You desperately want to believe him.

You both turn your attention to the back of the van. Butcher grips one of the broken doors and yanks it free with a grunt. Inside, a sleek black lockbox gleams ominously. Without hesitation, Butcher brings his boot down on it, cracking it open.

Inside are rows upon rows of vials, their green liquid glowing faintly in the fading light. You pick one up, holding it between your fingers and marveling at its beauty. The liquid seems alive, swirling and shimmering with an otherworldly energy.

And then, without thinking, you hurl the vial at a nearby tree. You watch in awe as the glass shatters, the glowing substance splattering across the bark and dripping onto the forest floor.

“Shit—I don’t know what came over me—” you start, but Butcher is already laughing, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

“Fuckin’ diabolical,” he says, grabbing a vial and smashing it under his boot. You both gape at the way it explodes under his foot, staining his boot like a glow stick, before you burst into shared laughter.

You both fall into a wild, unhinged rhythm, smashing vial after vial. The forest around you glows eerily, the remnants of V2 painting the trees and ground in streaks of neon green. Laughter bubbles out of you, uncontrollable and cathartic, as the absurdity of your destruction takes hold.

When only one vial remains, Butcher reaches for it, but you stop him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. We should keep one. For testing. Just in case.”

He looks at you, then smirks. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You keep me around for more than that.”

His smirk fades, replaced by something darker, more intense. The air shifts between you, the laughter forgotten as your proximity feels suddenly charged. Whatever force is behind the constant push and pull of your attraction to Butcher is now pushing in full force, the glowing green crime scene around you fading into nothing. It's just you and him and the screaming urge inside of you to untether.

Butcher advances toward you, pulling your face into his hands, crashing his mouth into yours. This time you get the chance to react, the opportunity to reciprocate. And you do, wholeheartedly. You pull at the lapels of his jacket, fingers fumbling for purchase in his wild hair. His hands move over your body, down your back and across your ass, squeezing you closer to him.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are wild. “Someone’s gonna notice the skid marks and the guardrail. We’re gonna have company soon if we don’t move.”

“Back to the motel?” you ask, bold and breathless.

His answer is immediate. “Yeah.”

Without another word, he grabs your hand, practically pulling you back up the ravine toward the van.

You had a taste of Butcher's penchant for speeding earlier, but something about the way he races down the road back to the motel now has butterflies erupting in your stomach. His right hand is placed firmly on your left thigh, your own hand keeping his there. You're ashamed to admit that his touch alone is driving you crazy.

Thank god you never had time to return the key this morning, because you both race back to the room, his mouth in your ear, arms encircling your waist as you fumble to unlock the door. The second the door closes behind you, he has you pushed up against the door, his tongue parting your lips and hands digging into your waist. You wrap your arms around his neck as he lets a hand fall to your ass, squeezing tightly. He lifts you up, wrapping both of your legs around his middle. You moan at the way his hands explore you, the closeness of your bodies.

“Do that again,” he instructs.

“Make me,” you dare.

He throws you down on the bed, both of you using the opportunity to work your shirts off. He spends an unabashed moment staring directly at your tits, chest heaving. Like you're a work of art he can't wait to defile. You unbutton your pants before Butcher pulls them off of you, leaving you bare before him, save for your underwear. He crawls up onto the bed, knees nudging your legs open, his imposing frame towering over you.

“You have no idea how goddamn much I've thought about this,” he admits. Your eyes search his face, hands combing through his hair. He kisses you deeply, tongue exploring your mouth, before moving down to place licks along your collarbone. He moves down to your nipples, your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your underwear. He looks up in silent request.

“Please,” you beg. “Don't stop.”

And, with your permission, he practically rips the soft cotton as he pulls them down, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders. You share a glance, both with bated breath, before he finally puts his mouth on you, eating you like a man starved.

Your head tilts back involuntarily as he licks at you, alternating between languid, savoring strokes, his wide tongue exploring deep inside of you, and quick, tight little circles over your clit. You've never been the kind of woman to be particularly loud or vocal in bed, a complaint you'd heard from lovers in the past. But now the moans fall freely as you fall apart on Butcher's tongue. Your sounds only serve to egg him on, his fingers digging deeply into your plush inner thighs, his growls reverberating through your pussy, matching your low moans. You barrel embarrassingly quickly toward the edge.

“‘m so close,” you whimper.

He doesn't stop, every determined movement a silent encouragement for you to chase your high.

Your hands reach down, tangling in his messy hair. He responds, deepening the push of his mouth against your core, rhythmically drawing his fingers back and forth against your inner thighs. Your fingers clench around the tendrils of his hair, pulling so hard you know it must hurt him. He doesn't seem to notice, his rhythm never stalling. Then, starbursts exploding behind your eyelids as you fall over the edge, legs clamping involuntarily around his head.

Dizzying, pure, unadulterated bliss.

Head falling back against the pillow, you're sure you've never come this hard before. Your limbs are absolutely weightless, cheeks flushed. A euphoric smile on your lips stretches so wide you're certain you look deranged.

But not to Butcher.

“You're so bloody beautiful,” he says from between your legs, and you can do nothing but laugh deliriously in response.

He gazes up at you, working his way back up between kisses to your stomach and swirling his tongue over your pert nipples. You grasp a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him up to kiss him on the mouth, your other hand reaching down to encircle his hard length.

You're pleasantly surprised at how much of him there is, pumping his thick length several times before you position him at your entrance.

You feel his body jolt involuntarily as his cock makes contact with the wetness he just created.

“You sure?” he asks, and you nod, words refusing to form on your lips.

He shifts his hips forward and you gasp sharply as he breaches you. You reach your other hand down to caress his ass cheek, pulling him in deeper, desperate for more.

“Fuck yes,” you moan. “Yes, Billy, just like that.”

That's all he needs before he's driving himself deep, stopping only when he's fully seated inside of you. You gasp as he stretches you out, like he's splitting you right down the middle. He pulls your knee up, hooking it over his shoulder, allowing him to go deeper. You whine at the fullness, earning a growl from him.

“You like this, baby?” he asks as he pulls back, looking down to where your bodies connect before plunging himself back into you. “Fuck, because I really like this.”

“R‒really like this,” you manage to sputter out. “P‒please, please, fuck me Billy.”

“I got you, love,” his voice is raw. He sets a punishing pace, his cock filling you over and over and over again, pushing you toward the brink of something you've never experienced before.

Your hands wander over him, tracing every scar, fumbling through his hair, squeezing his ass as you pull him in even deeper. You want to memorize everything about this, the sweet aroma of his sweat, the weight of him atop you, the stream of consciousness filth that flows from his lips as he falls more and more pussy drunk.

He reaches down, thumb on your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His mouth explores your chest, dividing his attention between your nipples and sensitive, open neck. You bound toward your release, fingers scraping down his broad back.

“Fuck, fuck, Billy, I'm gonna come,” you moan between huffs. He continues, pace unrelenting.

Then, stars.

Expanding blooms of light, full-body eruption. Sweet release, a dynamite stick in your core, exploding out your mouth in a silent scream. You heave around him, bucking your hips, impaling yourself deeper on his cock. He fucks you through it, half words falling from his lips into your mouth.

Tha's right.

Mm, baby.

You go’ it.

It's all too much, the soft moans escaping your mouth, the image of you in ecstasy before him, falling apart on his cock. He's too close behind you to stop now.

“Fuck, you're gonna make me come. Where d’you want it?” he asks frantically.

You can't help yourself. “Inside,” you beg.

He really doesn't try to make it a habit of denying you, and he certainly won't start now. He groans, spilling himself inside of you. You moan at the heat that grows between your legs.

He collapses atop you, the weight of him pushing you I to the cheap, springy mattress. You feel the wetness spill out onto the bed beneath you.

“Holy shit,” you manage to get out between gasps for air.

“Holy fuckin’ shit is right,” he agrees.

Over the next eight or so hours, you and Butcher acquaint yourselves with each other, very, very, closely. On the bed, on the floor, against the dresser, in the shower, on the bed, again. You speak only a few times in rushed half sentences, too preoccupied with finding out just how many orgasms you can achieve in one go to think about much else. All of the tension that has stewed since the day Butcher first laid eyes on your dazed face has been unleashed in Room 206 at the Piney Point Motel. You stop only long enough for Butcher to drive twenty minutes down the highway to retrieve a bag of greasy fast food, hastily devoured fuel to allow you both to continue at least a few more times.

By the time you both succumb to your utter exhaustion, you're sweat-sticky and bone-tired, with a soreness between your legs you know is going to have you walking funny tomorrow. You don't notice it though, because Butcher has you pulled in his arms, lips on your ear, your heart firmly in the palm of his hand.

@bluemerakis @mystic-writings @imherefordeanandbones

#billy butcher #fanfic #fanfiction #theboys #billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher smut #billy butcher x you #william butcher #the boys tv #the boys fanfic #the boys amazon #the boys #the boys series #smut #18+ mdni

38 notes · View notes

dreadnoughtus101 · 16 hours ago

Text

Fossilized

Tsukishima Kei

"Ooohhh I was thinking about reader! who works at the same museum as Kei (timeskip) and their coworkers and are forced to work together and were an annoying thorn in Kei’s side (obv pookie is in denial duh) 😒" -@livelovelaughgeto

______________________________________________________________

"I think the easiest thing is for everyone to pair off and work on different sections together, it'll go by faster."

The museum had just gotten a new shipment of decorations that needed to be up by the weekend. Your manager was pairing everyone off to work together so it would go by faster.

"Tsukishima and y/n, you guys can take over the herbivore exhibit."

You glanced at him to see him roll his eyes and nod silently.

You recalled your first day, where he was supposed to show you around and teach you everything. You two had hit it off at first, cracking jokes and having genuine conversation. You remembered how at first, it was his eyes that captivated you. The beautiful gold reflecting in the light was enough to make you smitten. His snarky comments that made you giggle, he was never explicitly mean to you. It was after the few weeks you two shared that he grew distant and cold, bitter towards you as if you had done something wrong.

It hurt at first, you longed to hear his voice again in a tone that didn't convey pure distaste towards you. Every time you walked past him, you waved, crackled a smile, tried anything to get his attention, but he never reciprocated anything, so you gave up.

You weren't sure what his problem was, but today was the day to find out.

· · ────────────────── ·𖥸· ────────────────── · ·

Walking side by side with the boxes of decorations in our hands, you were able to take in his height, he had to be at least six feet tall. It was quiet, only the sounds of feet shuffling, you trying to keep up with his pace as he walked ahead of you.

"Do you have any plans this weekend?" You were looking up at him, trying to break some of the ice. To nobodies surprise, he only side eyed you before responding with a sharp "No."

You nodded, "Me either," to which he said nothing. While you didn't expect him to immediately open up to you, you were waiting for some sort of explanation as to why he's been nothing but rude to you. He never bothered to say anything more than he had to, never speaking unless spoken to, he was never the type to ask how somebodies day was or what their plans were for the weekend.

· · ────────────────── ·𖥸· ────────────────── · ·

Unboxing all of the packages, you tried to figure out which one of you would do what. "Maybe I can put together the new fossils and you can hang up the wall art..?" You looked at all the fossils that had to be put together. He spared a glance in your direction, "Sure, you're too short anyways." His tone only showing annoyance, he picked up some of the paintings and walked off without a word, looking at where the best place to put it up would be.

Sitting alone on the floor, you stared at the instructions that made absolutely no sense, trying to figure out how to put the thing together.

"How is this supposed to go together?" You mumbled under your breath, you were still stuck on just the leg.

"What are you doing?" Tsukishima asked with that judgmental tone. The first time he's ever initiated a conversation with you. "I'm trying to put together the new Parasaurolophus we have." It felt humiliating to have to explain yourself.

"So why is it's leg attached to it's arm?"

Jaw hung open, you looked at the monstrosity you accidentally created, he was right.. you somehow put the arm into the leg. You were so caught up in your own daze that you didn't notice exactly how wrong it looked until someone else pointed it out.

"Move." He said, pushing you to the side and sitting down fixing it, taking it apart to put the right parts together. Now standing over him, you watched his face contort to what appeared to be only pure focus. He bit his lip while reading the instructions, "They're quite clear, how did you manage to screw it up so bad?" The utter confusion in his voice only hurt you even more.

"I-I don't know.." You were stumbling over your own words in shame by now, what was meant to be a time to put up simple decor turned out to be a moment of pure humiliation. He turned and looked up at you, his golden eyes meeting yours. It was as if he looked into your soul for only a second before turning back with a huff.

It instead seemed that now the roles were reversed, he was the one putting together the new displays while you put the decorations up. It was a nice silence, the warm kind that you don't ever seem to think twice about, before he spoke up, "Do you even know how to put those up correctly?" You sighed and looked at him from across the room. "Do you want to do everything?" There was a hint of sadness in your voice this time, something he hadn't picked up previously. "I'm just making sure I don't have to go behind everything you do to fix it." You looked at him with your arms crossed, "Why are you acting like I'm such a thorn in your side?"

He jumped a little by the frustration in your voice. "What are you talking about?"

You scoffed, looking at him in disbelief, except he didn't even notice because his back was still turned against you. "You won't even look at me," You felt a little edge in your voice now, unable to hide how frustrated you had been this whole time, "And all you do is criticize everything I do. Why don't you help me instead of judging me?"

He finally turned to look at you and realized your face had turned a slight tint of red and there were tears starting to cloud your eyes. "I've been nothing but nice to you, Tsukishima, yet every time you see me, all you do is act like I've done nothing but wronged you."

He felt too embarrassed to look you in the eyes, his head hung low and his ears were red. "I'm sorry." He mumbled.

"No, fuck you, Tsukishima."

You left, going home early, claiming to have a stomach bug.

He didn't see you again after that, he walked by your usual areas, the department you usually lingered around, but he never saw you.

Days turned to weeks, turned to months. He still hadn't seen you, until one day he briefly spotted you around the corner.

He ran to catch up to you, "Y/n." he called, his voice raised slightly higher than normal. You stopped in your tracks to look back at him, surprised he had managed to notice you this time. "Where have you been?" he was searching your eyes as if the answer lied beneath your surface.

"Around."

"Where? I've looked everywhere for you."

"Why were you looking for me?" Your brows furrowed.

"I just wanted to apologize."

"You already did."

Your voice was shallow, missing the usual friendly tone you always had. It was enough to make him wince as if your words caused him physical pain.

"Y/n, listen, I'm sorry." You could see he was genuine, something new for him. "I thought you were too busy ignoring me, now you're the one apologizing?" You knew your words were cutting deep, a part of you hoped they were. You wanted him to feel the hurt and confusion you did.

You didn't let him find a response before you walked off, letting him wallow in the heavy emotions in the air.

· · ────────────────── ·𖥸· ────────────────── · ·

You were walking home, the easier choice as opposed to taking the bus due to how crowded it would get, when you heard footsteps behind you. Turning around, you saw none other than Tsukishima, again.

"Are you following me home?" You looked at him with horror, "No, y/n, just let me explain." He let out a small laugh when he saw how horrified you were. "How did you know where I was going?"

He rolled his eyes, "You never noticed we always leave in the same direction after work?" a brow raised, genuinely surprised you hadn't.

You shook your head, embarrassed by your accusation.

"Y/n, please let me explain." He started, you only nodded while watching your feet as you walked.

"I was embarrassed." He spoke low, as if he was worried someone would hear. This is what caught your attention. "Of talking to me? Being my friend?" He shook his head, "It's hard to explain." It was your turn to roll your eyes now.

"Either explain or I go straight home." You felt annoyed by the constant circles you two were going in. He'd be nice and let you in, only to randomly shut down and ignore you. It was a loop that you weren't sure would end.

"I like you, y/n, and I don't know how to cope with that." There was a shake in your voice, his eyes refusing to meet yours. "What?"

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"What was the point? We're colleagues, it's awkward." He was trying to brush it off, play it off as if he didn't feel like his soul was being chipped away every minute that went on without you reciprocating it.

You took a deep breath before deciding how to respond, the sound if your inhale only made him more nervous, unsure if you were gonna tell him off and leave him standing alone on the sidewalk.

"What if I said I liked you too?" This felt silly to say, it felt like you were in high school again, confessing your crush to another boy. You knew your cheeks were red, blushed by how nervous you felt.

He stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to face you.

"Just because you like me doesn't mean you treat me like you hate me, Tsukishima." You faced him, looking up at him for any sort of window into his thoughts. His face was a similar shade to yours, was he just as nervous?

"I know, which is why I'm sorry. I want to make it right." He sounded formal, sincere, this was him trying to prove that he meant it.

"How?" You were curious as to what his plans were.

"Can I take you out tonight?"

"Where?"

"Wherever you want."

#haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #hq #haikyuu fic #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu x you #hq oneshots #tsukishima kei #hq tsukki #tsukishima kei x reader #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #angst with a happy ending #haikyuu angst

42 notes · View notes

emberunderscore · 2 days ago

Text

chat guess what . THATS RIGHT . EMBER'S DRAWING MORE TAROT CARDS

Nine of Wands - Sparrow (@sage-is-in-fact-very-tired) The Tower - Gilded (Me!)

I have perhaps poked a couple people already to draw their Queue56 characters as tarot cards, and when I run out of people that i can push myself to message i will be begging you lot to hand over your characters

Information on the cards below the cut!

Nine of Wands: Resiliance, grit, last stand This card depicts Sparrow in their potion cave from cycle 1, holding a blaze rod in one hand while 8 larger blaze rods (the wands) are around them. When looking at references for this card almost all of them have the subject holding one of the wands so I decided to use that. I chose to make blaze rods the "wands" because Sparrow is a little potion guy. If you look closely at the card, you can also see that there is smoke/steam rising from their hand as the blaze rod is burning them. This is supposed to tie into the meaning of the card being grit and resiliance which also gives me the vibes of like endurance. He's also wrapped in vines and flowers because last stand made me think of like . they've been there for a long time . and sunflowers and white tulips are their favorite flowers !!

The Tower: Sudden upheaval, broken pride, disaster This card depicts Gilded being exploded by the end crystal in the final fight, with their cycle 1 house (coincidentally a tower), behind them. I specifically picked this card for the broken pride keyword, as hubris is the reason Gilded died in the way they did. The symbol in their torso is one of the letters on end crystals, which are made to spell out "Mojang", so the symbol I used is the G - for Gilded

Note: this much thought will NOT go into every card I draw, Gilded and Sparrow are simply characters that I know well (Gilded obviously being my own guy) and I'm not picking out the cards for other people's guys either.

#chat i have messaged so many cool people #i'm so brave #it's so scary #but i did it and i have more cards done and to draw #and some extra info these cards will be posted in groups of two #in order of when i finished them #i love drawing tarot cards #queue56 #q56 #sherbertquake56 #underscore.text #ember's art :]

25 notes · View notes

9haharharley1 · 2 days ago

Note

Bdsm prompt: experienced kinkster and first time actually doing anything kinkster. Bonus points if the dom is the newbie.

Take this messy thing away from me before I add more nonsense to it!

Featuring a Jack who has been part of a BDSM lifestyle in the past and Pitch who is very much curious.

---

"Is our sex life really so boring that we must submit to such base desires?" Pitch didn't so much as sneer as he said it, but he may as well have for how he turned his nose up at the riding crop laid out innocently on the bed.

Jack rolled his eyes. "It's not base," he said, barely holding back a groan of annoyance. He'd explained this a million times already. "And our sex life isn't boring. Far from it, and know it!" He crossed his arms, feeling a little self-conscious as Pitch held up the crop with one hand to better examine it. "It's just..." He couldn't look at the man, glancing at the closet door as he tried to avoid gold eyes that turned back to study him. "I just need something different every now and then, alright?"

"You want me to hit you," Pitch deadpanned. Jack held himself tighter.

"Yes." He chanced a look at the older man out of the corner of his eye. Pitch had an odd look on his face; one part repulsed, one part curious. He swung the crop down by his side, fast enough that Jack could hear the displacement of air on the other side of the room. It made his cheeks burn hot. "I'm not asking you to beat me, Pitch," he tried to explain once again. Pitch had expressed interest when Jack had first brought it up a week ago, but the tone of his lover's voice now was putting him off. "What I'm asking for is controlled. Methodical, almost. You like that kinda thing, right?"

"Yes, but I'm not interested in hurting you, Jack," Pitch stated firmly. He smacked the crop against the palm of his opposite hand as if to prove his point, but all it did was make Jack's pants feel awfully tight. He shifted in place.

"You're not supposed to put all your strength into it," he explained, rolling his eyes to hopefully mask his sudden arousal. He walked over, holding out his hand. Pitch handed over the crop. "It's a sensory thing." He tapped it gently against his lover's exposed chest. Pitch stood a little straighter, but otherwise, he didn't react save for the curiosity in his eyes. Jack ran the flat leather tip down the center of his chest, nudging his partially unbuttoned shirt out of the way to stroke it against a nipple. Pitch shuddered, pupils dilating a little, and Jack tapped the crop against it just to watch him squirm. "A few smacks is enough for me." He pulled the crop out of Pitch's shirt to run the leather down his stomach. Pitch stood very still, hands behind his back in parade rest. "Hard enough to sting and leave a mark." Jack ran pliable leather over the half-hard cock in Pitch's slacks. He couldn't help but smirk up at the man. "Just enough to know who's in charge."

Pitch's gaze was smoldering as he gazed down at Jack. "And who is in charge, Jack?"

Jack shrugged. He held the crop loose in one hand, looking away from his lover. "Don't know yet. But if you're really not interested, we don't have to do this. This is supposed to be something fun and new, but if you're just gonna be mean, then I'm not interested either." He flipped the crop in his hand, holding the braided handle out for his older lover. He stared hard up at Pitch from under his bangs. "I need you to be my Dom, not a dick."

Pitch slowly reached out to take the riding crop. Jack let him have it, crossing his arms back over his chest. Pitch's fingers flexed around the handle, and Jack had to look away. His face felt flush, and he really hoped Pitch had the good grace not to be a dick about all this later.

He jumped when thin leather smacked his arm. It wasn't enough to hurt, just enough to get his attention, the sound loud in the quiet room. Jack turned his head back to stare down at it, eyes wide. It then moved up, rustling the fabric of his shirt, until leather curled under his chin and urged him to lift his head. He did so as though commanded even though neither of them had spoken, and he was embarrassed by how red his face must be when he finally met Pitch's eyes. Pitch stared down at him, one arm still held behind his back, gaze almost impassive. Curiosity shone deep in gold eyes, studying Jack's reaction to the crop, and the younger man swallowed thickly.

"You seem to have forgotten who's is charge here," Pitch murmured, and Jack whimpered at the authoritative tone. He hated how quick Pitch caught on sometimes. Leather ran down his neck, but Pitch held his gaze. "Allow me to remind you." He tapped Jack's chest with the crop. "Strip for me. And get on the bed."

Jack couldn't get his clothes off fast enough.

He practically ripped his shirt off, throwing it across the room as he did. Pitch tutted, and Jack froze as he worked his pants down his legs.

"So eager," he murmured, and Jack shivered at the dark tone of his voice - the one that only came out when Pitch was particularly demanding in the bedroom, the tone that made Jack want to introduce him to this side of himself after all their time together. "Go slower for me, darling. Let me see you."

Jack swallowed nervously, but he obeyed, removing his pants at a slower pace. He put a playful little bounce to his movements, shaking his ass as he slid his underwear down, earning a soft groan of approval. When he stood back up, his cock stood at full attention, and he couldn't meet Pitch's eyes.

A firm tap of the crop met his thigh, and Jack jumped. He couldn't stop the moan that slipped past his lips.

"On the bed," Pitch reminded him, a warning in his tone. "Don't make me ask again."

Oh, that...

That was fucking perfect.

Jack was trembling as he stepped toward the bed, his face on fire as he knelt on the edge. He wanted to ask how Pitch wanted him, but he was too turned on and embarrassed to do so, so he simply climbed up on hands and knees, ass on display for his lover. It had been a long time since he had last been in such a position, and it was embarrassing to display himself so lewdly to Pitch of all people, but he trusted him; trusted him more than anyone he had ever met, so he swallowed down his shame and arched his back, leaning forward to rest his weight on his elbows. He wanted to share this side of himself with Pitch, and he was going to share every damn bit of it.

Pitch sucked in a sharp breath behind him, and Jack couldn't help the little grin that came to his lips at the noise. He breathed out a shaky breath and finally let himself sink into that blank space he had been craving for months now.

"Is this okay, Sir?" he asked quietly, peeking over his shoulder, and he was gratified by what he saw.

Pitch's mouth had fallen slack, brow hiked up. His eyes had glazed over some as he ran them over Jack's exposed body, the crop dangling uselessly from his fingers. His black slacks were tented with obvious arousal, and Jack bit back a laugh. He shook his ass, teasing his older lover.

"Sir?" he asked, a little louder. Pitch snapped his mouth shut.

"Oh, I was not ready for that..." he mumbled, still looking a little dazed. Jack snorted. He shook his ass again, earning a gentle smack from the crop. "Stop that."

Pitch was kind enough to wait for his laughter to die down. "Sorry, sorry!" He looked back again to see the older man just watching him, running his eyes over every inch of his body. He was equal parts admiring, dazed, and calculated, and Jack's blush returned. "Do you want to stop?"

Pitch's eyes darted up to meet his. "Do you?"

Jack slowly shook his head. He licked his lips. "Green."

He watched Pitch exhale shakily. "Safe words. Right." He swallowed but adjusted his grip on the crop. "Green." And Jack watched his whole demeanor change, going from his unsure and hesitant lover to the hardened military strategist he had met what felt like a lifetime ago now.

His fingers curled in the duvet under him as he shivered with anticipation.

Firm leather brushed his ass, making Jack trembled in place. It ran over first one cheek and then the other, ghosting down his center until it pushed against his hole. He whimpered.

"None of that," came Pitch's hardened voice, and Jack struggled to comply, but all he wanted was to fall face first into the bed and beg the man to touch him. "Needy little things like you don't get what they want, even if they do make such sweet sounds." He rubbed the crop more firmly over Jack's entrance, and he had to stifle his moan into the covers. "I don't think I appreciate such disrespect." He pulled the crop away to tap against a cheek gently. "Do you agree, darling?"

Jack nodded shakily. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"Hm." Pitch seemed to be struggling for dialogue, but Jack was so turned on by him playing along that he was willing to wait as long as he needed. It wasn't like they had hashed out a specific scenario to lead into this. He actually hadn't thought Pitch would want to jump right on in to begin with! Jack had thought they would need to ease into it all a little more, get his lover more comfortable taking charge like this, but Pitch was proving to be almost natural at it. Pitch's eyes on him alone was enough to keep him hard for hours, and, oh, they were going to have to talk about such a scenario at some point, weren't they?

Jack's cock was leaking between his legs, almost painful with how hard he was. He needed to move this along or he was going to have to safeword out, because this was almost too much too soon. "How can I make it up to you, Sir?" he murmured, glancing over his shoulder again.

Pitch was staring at him like he didn't know what he wanted to do to him first, and, fuck, Jack needed him to do something! He shook his ass, his arousal noticeably swaying between his legs, if Pitch's eyes dropping down to stare at it meant anything.

"I'm, uh..." Pitch swallowed, hands balling into fists at his sides, breath coming a little shaky. "Ye... Yellow."

Jack didn't move off the bed, but he sat up, turning his upper body toward his lover. His brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong?"

A shaky breath left Pitch, but his eyes remained glued to Jack's ass. Jack thought that might be a good sign. "I don't..." Pitch exhaled again. "I'm at a loss."

Jack pursed his lips. He turned around to face him. Pitch stifled a distressed noise at that, and he almost laughed at the older man. "OK. How so?"

"I-I don't..." Pitch ran a hand through his hair, scowling at the floor. "I don't know what I'm doing. I d-don't know how to segue into... hitting you." He sounded genuinely distressed.

"Do you want to stop?" Jack asked. His tone left no room for argument.

Pitch's brow furrowed. He remained quiet. Jack sighed quietly, and he tried not to feel disappointed.

"We can stop, Koz," he said quietly. He met Pitch's eyes when the older man finally looked back at him. He shrugged, offering a small grin. "It's really not that big a deal. I'm... kinda surprised you made it this far anyway." He chuckled a little.

"Jack..."

Jack hated how soft his voice sounded.

"Seriously, it's fine!" He forced a laugh, ignoring the tears that sprang to his eyes. "We don't have to go further! Just... come over here and give me some cuddles or something. I don't want you to feel like -"

"I want to bury my face in your arse," Pitch suddenly announced. Jack's face went scarlet, wide eyes darting up to meet blazing gold. Pitch's pupils were still blown so wide as he racked his eyes over Jack's body. "How I get to that point from here, I do not know, but this is... Frankly, this is torture. How do I get to that point?"

Jack almost spit for how sudden his laughter was. "You -"

"Jack, please," Pitch practically begged. "Am I allowed to touch you? Or does that come later?"

It took serious effort to stifle his giggles. They sounded near hysterical to his own ears, and he watched through watery eyes as Pitch stepped closer. "Pitch -" Jack cut himself off with more laughter, near doubled over. "Oh, my god, I can't -" he gasped in a breath, nearly losing it again when he caught sight of his lover's impatient face. "B-Babe, pfft - you're in control here! You can do whatever you want to me as long as I get the crop or unless I safeword out!" He reached out both hands for his lover, Pitch stepping in close until Jack could grab the collar of his partially open shirt and drag him closer. He shifted, lifting up on his knees so he could give the taller man a reassuring kiss, moaning when Pitch tried to follow him when he pulled away. Jack grinned. "The ass-whooping is my punishment; ass-eating is the reward."

"So it's to be a punishment, then," Pitch clarified. His voice went velvety dark as he said it, something in Jack's words seeming to click for the older man. It made Jack's face flush once again. Pitch grabbed one thin wrist in his free hand, pulling Jack away. "In that case -" he smirked wickedly " - green." He shoved Jack back onto the bed. Jack yelped.

Before he could catch his bearings and scramble back up, the crop came down on his chest - not enough to hurt, but enough to make an audible sound and leave a light mark on his pectoral. Jack gasped, dropping back down to his elbows, eyes clenched shut as tingles shot from the spot all the way to his groin. The crop dragged down to his belly.

"You are an absolute bloody menace." Another hit landed just under his ribs, Jack arching and crying out. He gaped up at the ceiling as Pitch dragged it even further down, tracing the seam of his hips. "And you think," Pitch ran the leather tip in a circle on the sensitive skin just below Jack's naval, "you can just tease me anyway you'd like?" He barely tapped it against Jack's weeping member, nearly making him sob when it bounced in place. He trembled. "I think making me wait is punishment enough. On your knees."

Jack couldn't move fast enough.

He scrambled back to his position from before, ass out and knees spread as he pressed his chest to the mattress, all but prostrating himself for his lover. Leather ran up from the back of his knee, tickling sensitive skin as Pitch dragged the crop up to his ass. He lay it flat to his skin, Jack shaking uncontrollably. He clutched the duvet in anticipation.

"How many do you think you deserve?" Pitch asked. He held the crop steady as Jack tried to wiggle his ass at him for more attention. Then he gave him a good swat.

"AH!" Jack's head shot up with the hit, the cry ripped from his throat in his shock. His cock was already dripping from how hard he was.

"None of that," Pitch ordered. He rested the crop on stinging flesh. "I think I've had enough teasing for one night. Answer my question, Jack."

Jack swallowed, burying his heated face in the cover. "F-Five..." he whispered. It was a number he had decided on before they started, something to ease them both into this. At the rate it was going, however, he might not even last that long.

Another swat stung his other cheek, and Jack nearly screeched, head jerking up in shock. His hips tried to rock uselessly forward.

"What was that, darling?" Pitch pulled the crop away. "I couldn't quite hear you."

Jack licked his lips, panting. "F-Five hits, S-Sir!" he stuttered a little louder. He couldn't bear to look over his shoulder at Pitch.

"Good boy, Jack. Five should do nicely. Are you ready?"

Jack didn't even get a chance to reply before the first real smack hit him just above where ass met thigh. A sound was ripped from him, somewhere between a screech and a moan, and he clutched the covers hard between his fingers. Tears stung his eyes, and euphoria threatened to consume him with the beautiful sting of pain.

"Is that what you wanted, Jack?" Pitch asked, voice gone dark with menace. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

Jack trembled where he lay. "Oh, god... Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir!"

"Don't you sound so pretty. Let's hear it again, hm?"

And he swatted Jack again, this time across the other cheek, and Jack squealed. His face was on fire, and he buried it in the duvet, tears soaking the fabric where he had his eyes clenched shut. "Oh, fuck, thank you, Sir!"

"This is a good look for you," he thought he heard Pitch say behind him. There was a fog rolling in, keeping him from paying attention to anything but the next hit. It came soon after, across the same cheek, Jack whining into the sheets. "Don't hide yourself, Jack. I'm doing this for you, after all."

"Y-Yes, Sir! Thank you!"

"So sweet." Was that a grin he could hear in Pitch's voice? Jack wasn't sure. He was too busy gasping for air as a sob threatened to escape his throat. "But I'm sure you can sound sweeter."

The next hit landed in the same sensitive spot as the first, where ass met thigh and lit up his nerves with fire. He screamed into the sheets, that sob ripped from his throat as his legs shook. His toes curled, back arching, and it took him longer than before to catch his breath again.

"Th-Thank you, Sir..." he hiccuped into the sheets. When Pitch didn't respond, Jack hesitantly shook his ass, and he heard a quiet groan somewhere behind him. "G-Green..." he sniffed.

"Gods, you're fucking gorgeous," Pitch suddenly growled. Jack jumped as the crop found his skin again, but all Pitch did was trail it gently along the painful spots on his ass - a mockery of a caress that made Jack's skin twitch and his muscles quiver. The crop dragged over his heavy sac to tap his member. "Look at you... You're dripping all over and I haven't even touched you yet." He continued to rub firm leather along sensitive flesh, letting pearly fluid catch on the end of the crop. Whimpering, Jack tried to thrust forward, to get even the slightest bit of friction on his cock, but Pitch pulled it away with a firm tap, making his length bounce and Jack nearly sob. "You don't get to come yet, Jack," he said darkly. The crop rubbed once more over his cheeks. Jack's back tensed. "I still owe you one more. Are you ready?"

Jack didn't even have time to respond or even just nod his head before he was screaming with the final hit across both his cheeks, rocking forward with the force of it, cock spurting with pre as unexpected pleasure ripped through him. He sobbed into the bed, fingers curled tight in the covers.

"Fuck!" he screamed, legs spreading even wider in an effort to rub himself on the bed. "Fuck, fuck, fu~uck! Thank you, Sir! Thank you - oh, god, I'm so close, please, Sir, I need it, I need you, I need - fuck!"

Two big, hot hands spread his stinging cheeks, thumbs pulling at his rim until hot breath and an even hotter tongue found his hole and plunged inside. Jack screamed, writhing on the bed as he tried to fuck back on that wonderful tongue, Pitch groaning obscenely loud compared to how quiet and controlled he had held himself until now.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get more inside him, all but sobbing when Pitch refused to give him what he needed. His tongue was searing in its heat, and Jack's tears soaked into the cover as he cried, shaking and desperate. He listened to Pitch's moans, feeling little vibrations of sensation shoot up his spine until he couldn't take it anymore, and he arched to try and catch a glance at the older man.

"P-Pitch," he sobbed, "Pitch, please, I can't - I need -"

That tongue was gone in the next instant, Jack gasping at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching around nothing. He sobbed again, frustration making him thrust his hips for some kind of friction until a hard smack to his ass made him gasp and jump. The sting of a hand on flesh had his eyes clenching shut. Big hands took a firm hold of his hips, yanking him back to the edge of the bed, and with no warning, Pitch's long, hard cock was forced inside in one hard shove.

A guttural scream ripped from Jack's throat, tears soaking his cheeks, and he came untouched almost immediately, forcing himself back on the long cock inside him with every near painful spurt. Pitch held him in place, groaning loud and deep, and it took only a few thrusts before warmth flooded Jack's insides. He whined at the sensation, trying to meet every twitch of Pitch's hips, until all at once, his legs seemed to give out, and all that held up his slumped form was Pitch's strength alone.

Minute tremors ran through lithe muscle as Jack was lowered back down on the bed. He shook, tears soaking into the sheets as his ass stung in the cool air and his face burned.

God, what must Pitch think of him?

He tried to lift himself up, but his arms shook so bad that he could barely move them, let alone support his weight, and he collapsed back to the bed. He tried to hide his face, only to moan when hot hands found his skin, slick with some kind of lotion, rubbing it gently into his tender flesh.

"You did so well, Jack..." Pitch murmured from behind him, voice achingly soft and gentle. "You were so very good for me; so beautiful and obedient."

Jack sniffled, peeking an eye over his shoulder to meet Pitch's adoring gaze. "I-I did good?"

Pitch smiled at him, gold eyes gleaming with love. "So good, Jack. You were such a good boy for me." He rubbed the last of the ointment into Jack's skin before crawling up the bed, picking Jack up easily as he went to rearrange them both more comfortably at the head of the bed. He held the younger man securely in warm arms, Jack burying his face in his exposed chest as he clutched at his shirt. Pitch moved a hand up to card his fingers through sweaty white hair. "Thank you for being so patient with me, love," he whispered, placing a kiss to Jack's hair.

When Jack's shaking finally died down and he felt like he could speak normally again, he pulled away to gaze up at his lover, filled with nothing but love and adoration for the man. He placed a soft kiss on his chin. "Next time, I think I might ask you to go harder on me," he murmured, voice hoarse from screaming.

Pitch kissed his brow in return, fingers gentle on his back. His smirk was wicked when he met Jack's gaze, however. "Next time, I'm going to fuck you with the handle of that crop until you can't speak anymore."

Arousal lit up Jack's spine with a shock, and he moaned, his length twitching half-heartedly against the thigh shoved between his legs. He grinned back, eyes going heavy with desire. "Oh, yes, Sir, please..."

It looked like Pitch really would have no trouble taking up the title as Jack's Dom after all.

---

I'll clean it up and add it to ao3 later!

#thank you for the ask!!#harley writes #my writing #blackice #rotg #fic #pitch black #jack frost #harley answers #asks

25 notes · View notes