#especially when it's such a clear cover-up for being scrapped for time

[undead-potatoes]

I think if we stop putting certain companies on pedestals for being "better" or "different" from the rest, we'll stop being surprised when they do things just like everyone else

[karlachismylife]

Masochistic Kid With a Split Lip

CW: gn!sergeant!reader, descriptions of injuries and violence, brief descriptions of hospitals and medication, hurt/comfort.

(Title from Ren's song "Suic*de" , although I'm not sure the asterisk is by author's design. There is nothing about this theme in the fic itself!! Just a really good song with a fitting lyric.)

Also I wrote the fic first, then saw this art and it's kinda fitting. Beware, depiction of injuriess!! Go support the artist, it's beautiful work.

Usually you didn't have a single complaint about staying on a sniper position, providing cover and watching the main action unfold through a well-tuned scope or a pair of binoculars. Keeping your head clear, hands steady and ready to shoot whenever an order came in or the situation demanded.

However, this meant a lot of things escaped your attention, only coming through the comms as a radio play - and as any radio play, it relied heavily on your own imagination painting the picture, often much more saturated and vivid than reality turned out to be whenever you were re-told the events by your fellow teammates.

Close combat and buildings infiltration stayed outside your sight. And you were content with not witnessing someone's heroics firsthand - up until today.

Today you cursed the order that held you in your place.

Now, looking at Soap's face, beaten to a pulp, blood literally gushing down like a full-water river from his split eyebrow and nose that got almost evened out into a flat surface - that must've been that horrifying wet crack you heard before his microphone got torn off and trampled - you could put every hit, groan and thud to a visual aftermath. Limping and nursing a hand with a wrist that should have never been able to take that angle, he hung off Ghost's shoulder like a flabby, ratted scrap of cloth, but even as his inhumanely bloodshot eye struggled to focus or simply stay open, he still looked at you and tried to grin, teeth painted red behind painfully stretching split lips.

You held his one good hand that didn't get shattered into pieces after being repeatedly stomped on all the way back to the base.

"Get some sleep. You look exhausted," told you your Captain, his big supportive hand squeezing your stiff shoulder. You tried to voice a protest, sitting upright in the uncomfortable chair across from the infirmary bed, where Soap was already out like a light on the generous painkillers cocktail, but Price shoot you a warning, stern glare and furrowed his brows. "That's an order, Sergeant. Soap's gonna sleep for hours straight, and he'll need ya fresh and awake by the time he comes back, not a barely coherent sleep-deprived mess. Take a shower. Grab a bite to eat. Drink a cuppa. Have some sleep."

"Go. I'll stay in case he wakes early, I'll shoot you a message." You nearly snapped your neck as you turned to the source of the gruff voice - how long had Ghost been standing there, arms crossed, hunched back supporting the bleak medical green wall, eyes with some black still clinging around even after a shower glued to what could barely be recognized as Johnny's face.

Leaving this little room reeking of hospital seemed terrifying, but arguing with both your superior officers was a losing game - especially when they were right.

You still could barely sleep, waking up twice to the phantom feeling of blood from a broken nose filling your sinuses and throat, thick, viscous irony mass preventing you from breathing. Your sheets sticked to the wet patch of cold sweat between your shoulderblades, heart racing as you tried to push away the invasive thought of Johnny silently choking on his own blood in a closed off medical wing.

Morning found you with a warm thermos of sweet black tea - liquid energy - clutched in hands hanging between your knees on the same chair you were banished from mere hours ago. Ghost left an hour later after you sat down and showed no intention to move, probably satisfied with the bare minimum of rest you took and unwilling to argue with you when your eyes had that crazed glint of desperation deep inside pulsing pupils.

The first sound Soap produced sent a shockwave down your spine, jolting your whole body and immediately forcing you close to his bedside with the power of a gravity field of the sun that Johnny was.

"Well, good morning to you too," you smiled at him weakly, gripping the healthy hand he outstretched towards you and bringing it to your lips. "You're still handsome, you know?"

"LT said Ah looked lik' shite yesterday, " his own smile was timid, small, constricted by the pain of fresh wounds - his pouty lips were a swollen mess with dried blood stuck in the deep cut in the middle. "Dinnae ken whom tae believe oot of ye two."

Even the softest chuckle, successfully elicited from you, made Johnny's eyes sparkle brighter - beaten or not, he still charged off other people's energy, and now you were grateful to your Captain and Lieutenant for the fact that you weren't an exhusted knot of naked wires ready to shortcircuit and burst into tears due to plain emotional exhaustion.

"So you'll take Simon's word over mine, huh?" An unsaid I'm glad you're alive and laughing fell onto the stale sheet, barely avoiding Johnny's fucked up hand, put together like a puzzle in the course of several hours yesterday. "I want to kiss you, you know."

"I wanntae kiss ye too, bonnie," he rasped, licking his dry, bruised lips and glancing at yours. "Doc didnae say we cannae, ye ken? Gonnae kiss me a'right and Ah'll be good as new, aye?"

"Are you sure I'm not gonna hurt you, sunshine?" Oh how tempting he was, even lying with a broken nose and stitches in random patches of skin - still victorious. Ye shoulda seen th' other guy, bonnie - he told you in his dazed state yesterday. Ghost chuckled darkly and muttered there wasn't anything left to see under his nose.

"Ah'm sure. C'mere, Ah missed ye." Johnny's good hand gripped you almost desperately, barely a shiver of pain in fingers weakened by huge doses of whatever they pumped into him to keep his shocked body stable. He tugged on your wrist insistently, and you gave in, leaning down carefully and timidly touching his lips with yours.

Of course it wouldn't do, it was Johnny you kissed.

He pressed his mouth into yours greedily, breath stuttering with a poorly muffled grunt - startled, you tried to pull away and check on him, stop causing him pain and soothe the wounds you disturbed, but he already cupped the back of your head, digging his fingers into your scalp harshly, and showed no intent of stopping.

"Mmph, Johnny, you're- hurt... mmh!"

No chance. Wincing and grunting like an old man with a broken back, Soap kept kissing you, giggling into your worried mouth like a little troublemaker.

You decided, you were going to tell Ghost.

[kaylatoonz]

This was originally a scrapped Movie Amy AU but I’m bringing it back for funzies.

I think this AU was inspired by strange things to some extent (which might be one of the reasons I scrapped it).

Context

What if that farmer in Green Hills from the first movie took Amy in.. and failed to tell the Wachowski family?

There is not much known about the farmer from the first movie so I’m just gonna make stuff up🤷🏾‍♀️😋. Also don’t remember if the farmer had a name so I’ll call him Rob for now.

-Rob doesn’t always know when to ask for help or when to tell someone something important. It’s not that he doesn’t want any help or is incapable of saying things that need to be said. He just has horrible timing when it comes to these things. It was a thing that he was working at. Unfortunately for Rob fate was never on his side when it came to this habit evidently when a certain pink hedgehog found her way into his barn.

-Amy Rose is a hedgehog echidna hybrid who resided in Knuckles’ old tribe. She was born from a fortune teller hedgehog and a “traitorous“ echidna warrior. When the tribe learned of their comrade’s treachery both he and the hedgehog were deposed of. Amy would have met the same fate that day if it weren’t for the gift she inherited from her mother. So She was hidden by the chief and elders of the tribe to use for their own gain. Not many of the tribe members outside of the chief and the elders knew of Rose’s existence, though their whispers of her presence. Those whispers never held enough weight to investigate or challenge their respected leader or wise elders.

-Amy was mistreated and used by the tribe for most of her captivity until one of her fortune tellings led to the tribe’s end.

-When she finally realized her captors were no longer there she escaped to the outside world. For a while she fought, hid, and survived in the sometimes unforgiving worlds she traversed until she arrived in Rob’s barn.

-Since the pink hedgehog’s arrival, Rob has been trying to find the right time to tell Tom about her. Unfortunately, it was never the right time or place. First, it was cuz the Wachowski family was adjusting to Sonic then tails and knuckles, and then the shadow incident ( this AU is assuming Ames isn’t in 3). He just couldn’t bring himself to unload another situation on them while the fam was adjusting or handling new problems.

-Eventually, Rob does tell Tom but he unfortunately didn’t consider that it wasn’t the right time for Amy, Especially when a certain blue hedgehog overheard the conversation. Leading said hedgehog to excitedly rush over to the barn where an unprepared, skittish, and slightly feral pink hedgehog resided. Oops.

Bonus:

-Amy arrived a couple after the events of the first movie.

-Knuckles was not aware of Amy’s existence, though he might’ve had an encounter with Rose in his youth that he suppressed.

-Due to her upbringing Amy is feral and very skittish. Despite being wary of newcomers she’ll fight if she feels backed in a corner or if she feels something/someone she cares for is being threatened. She’ll run or hide first then fight and defend if necessary. (Don’t worry this version of Amy still grows into the bubbly girly hothead that we all know and love. I’ll just take a while to get there).

- I’m not sure if I want it to be intentional or not that Amy led the echidnas and Longclaw to their demise. Either way, Amy would feel extremely guilty about her actions once it becomes clear what her final reading to the tribe had caused.

- Amy has most of the appearance of a hedgehog but she has red hands and feet, clawed knuckles, and a longer tail from her echidna side.

- Amy has central heterochromia.

- due to her hands and feet appearing like they're stained with blood she becomes self-conscious of these features. So she later wears gloves and boots to cover it.

-Rob or Sonic (maybe both) got Amy her first dress while Sonic made her a flower crown.

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2023: October 7th

Day 7: Anonymous Sex, Nonconsensual, Somnophilia

Tim Rockford x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: Sex clubs, offers of blowjobs, voyeurism, masturbation, anonymous sex, protected sex, riding, slight tit play

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The case had sent him down a rabbit hole of sex, drugs, money and murder. Taking him to the seediest places in town and talking to some of the most disreputable types. Following lead after lead, casing any scrap of information down so he can put the criminal behind bars. 

The club had intrigued him. It scared him how much, although he had pretended to not be interested when scantily clad women jiggled their tits in front of him and asked him if he wanted a blow job. They weren’t hookers, he wasn’t going to bust them for solicitation. This was a sex club. 

Sitting hunched over his desk, Tim stubs out another cigarette and reaches for his pack. Last one. The smokey din of the office irritates his eyes, but he needs the nicotine. Or maybe he just needs to sleep. 

Not that he would get any. The case would be playing in his mind, over and over again, like a silent record on repeat as he subconsciously looks for any clue that he might have missed on first glance. It’s why he runs on stale coffee and bad bodega sandwiches. 

Lighting up the cool menthol cigarette, he takes a drag as he stares at the card propped up against his desk phone. He should have thrown it away, or refused it in the first place, but he had shoved it in his jacket pocket, telling himself he would never use it. It was a pass. A card for one visit without a membership. A test drive, as the owner had told him, the smirk on his face one that had made Tim shuffle uncomfortably. Like the guy could see through the detective’s professional exterior and  see what he had really wanted to do while he was asking routine questions. 

Sighing, he rolls his head, feeling his neck pop and lets out a quiet groan. The clock on the wall says that it’s too late to get anything decent to eat, and yet it was still too early for Tim to go pass out on his little bachelor apartment sofa. The bed was too big and lonely since Babs had left him. Or, more accurately, kicked him out. 

Flicking the ashes into the nearly overflowing tray, Tim puts the cigarette between his lips and picks up the card, looking at it carefully as if it were a clue itself. The shiny gold lettering is pretty, professional. Even if what is for wouldn’t be considered that in some circles. 

A test drive, a trial run in a sex club where the only thing that matters is that someone consent. Everything was apparently on the table if the other party was down. He had cleared his throat several times when he had walked by the glory hole stations, the prim suit and tie types on their knees with cocks in their mouths. Nothing wrong with it, especially since the best part of the club was that it was anonymous. No names, no faces. Everyone wears a mask. 

Jumping when the filter starts to burn his lips, Tim realizes he’s been staring at the card for so long the cigarette has completely burned down. Crushing it out and shaking his head as he licks his lips, the jolt to reality makes up his mind. Pushing away from his desk and standing straight, reaching for his jacket and tucking the card into his pants pocket. He’ll leave the badge and the gun in the car when he gets to the club. Tired of the idea of being alone, he wants to see what it’s like to experience it as a visitor, telling himself he might find another lead. 

****

It’s a nondescript building that looks even gloomier during the nighttime is now in front of him. The covered door mocking him and he heard the faintest sound of music. Wondering if they turn the music up to cover the moans and sometimes screams of the members. 

Once he’s inside, the card is taken away and he is shown to the locker room so he can strip down to nothing and put on the demi-mask that had been provided. Plenty of members brought their own, but there were plain black ones like the one provided. 

It’s jarring, slightly embarrassing to be naked except for a mask, but it’s also freeing. He can be whoever he wants tonight, do whatever he wants. Walking out of the room into the main area of the club, he can feel eyes on him. Assessing, perhaps speculating on who he is, or what he’s there for. 

****

You spot him from across the room. Lazily lounging as you rub your clit, watching the couple beside you as they pleasure each other with their mouths. Catching your attention as he adjusts his mask and then reaches down to adjust his hardening cock, only to remember that he wasn’t wearing any clothes to adjust. A newbie. 

You smirk as you pull your fingers away, sliding them into your mouth as you stand and your left hand slides along the woman’s hip and you tap it appreciatively as you move away and start to slowly walk up to the man as he looks out over the small weekday crowd. 

“Hey, handsome.” You watch as he turns towards you, apparently distracted as you walk up. Eyes widening behind the mask as he looks you up and down, shuffling his feet slightly and the fact that he is just as naked as you are means he can’t hide the way his cock twitches and bobs as he takes you in. “Me? Uh, I mean, hi.” 

Oh he’s sweet. You smirk slightly as you reach out and touch his arm. “Are you looking for something special or just taking it all in?” You ask, wondering what he thinks of this. He’s obviously here for the first time, and you want to guide him if you aren’t the person he would be interested in. 

“I don’t - I’ve never-” He shakes his head and gestures around. It’s endearing and you can see that he’s truly overwhelmed. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” You ask, giving him a simple question to answer, yes or no. 

“Yes.” His answer is rushed out, almost incredulous as if he couldn’t believe that you would even ask that question. 

“Perfect.” Your hand slides down to his and you take it to guide him towards the couches. “Do you want to be alone, or do you want others to watch?” 

HIs hand squeezes yours as he contemplates before he clears his throat. “Out here is good.” 

Leading him over to the black leather sofa, you urge him to sit down, moving to straddle him as he leans back. “So, is there anything that you really want?” You ask quietly. “Or do you just want to cum?” 

“I want you to cum too.” His hands are slightly unsure, light on your hips and he slides them up your back experimentally. “I - uh, regular sex I guess?” He gives a self deprecating laugh. “Do you - would you want to ride?” 

His cock is thick and gorgeous, laying trapped between his body and your cunt. The head of it mushroomed perfectly and you would love to suck it one day. “I would love to ride that cock, handsome.” You hum, leaning in to kiss his chin and then slowly work your way towards his mouth. Some have rules about not kissing and you don’t want to rush him if that’s not something that he would like. 

Instead of turning his head away, Tim turns into the kiss, desperate for the physical contact that he has been missing for such a long time. He doesn’t know your name, but it doesn’t matter right now when his lips are pressed against yours. 

When initial contact is broken, it never takes long to get to the sex. The bowls of condoms are on every table that isn’t occupied by a body. Always within read and you snag one even while the man’s tongue slips into your mouth to tear open. Doesn’t matter how handsome he is, you aren’t willing to risk your health. He groans when you take his cock, rolling the rubber down his length and pumping it a few times. 

You’re still kissing when you lift your hips, sliding his cock into position to sink down on it. Both of you moan as you take him deep into your body. Groaning when your ass touches his thighs and you circle your hips a few times experimentally. 

“Oh shit.” He pants, breaking off the kiss and starting to move his mouth down your neck and over your chest. 

He likes it, if the way that he’s twitching deep inside you is anything to go by. Both of you adjust to the feeling before you start to ride him. It’s slow to start, up and down and grinding down on him, squeezing him when you do. His hands start to become a little bolder. Racing over your spin and hips, squeezing your ass and then up to your breasts. 

That’s when you get a little quicker, bouncing on his cock. It’s such a good cock, you enjoy the way it stretches you out and fills you every time you fall onto it. Making you moan out wordlessly. It’s not like you have a name you can call out. 

“Oh fuck, it’s so- fuck, you’re so hot.” He starts to ramble right before he leans down and takes your nipple into his mouth. Making you whine since you love when attention is given to your tits. 

“So are you.” You pant out, enjoying how he is biting and sucking on your nipple, taking cues from your reactions and pulling away from things you don’t react as strongly as the other things you obviously like. “Fuck, I love your cock. It’s so thick.” 

He twitches inside you, groaning at the praise and he starts to rock his hips up to meet your thrusts. Both of you chase your pleasure with increasingly unbridled enthusiasm. 

You know people are watching, you enjoy the idea but your focus is on this stranger that is currently starting to rearrange your insides with every rough thrust up into you. Bracing his feet on the ground and using that leverage to make sure you feel every inch of him. 

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh fuck!” Your eyes blow wide behind the mask, body locking up in his arms as your cunt clenches down around him. Feeling the ultimate bliss as pleasure courses through you. Taking your breath away and making you collapse against his chest and press your lips to his. 

For him, apparently your orgasm triggers his own. Only thrusting into you, pulling your hips once more before he is groaning into your kiss. You feel the heat of the condom being filled inside you as he throbs deliciously against your wall while he rides out his orgasm. 

Catching your breath after a moment, you lean back and smile at him. “See you next time, handsome.” You hum, placing a soft kiss on his hips and lifting off his cock so you can make your way to the restroom to clean up. You have a feeling as you look over at your shoulder at his slumped, dazed posture, this man would be back. 

[cyanidas]

🃏 Kokichi Ouma Age-up Timeline 🍇

Here, I've used his initial designs as inspiration! I like looking back at older designs cause for a lot of them, it's like watching them grow up!

Headcanons under cut (HUUUGE SPOILER WARNING FOR DRV3)

(Content Warning for child abuse, mental illness and disorder, self harm, generally dark and unsettling topics ahead)

-=-

First off, I'm firm in my take that Tsumugi was lying about everyone being fictional. There's a lot that doesn't match up, and the local V3 fandom celebrity responsible for the Amalgamate fic has helped me tremendously in solidifying my stance. I think they absolutely do belong to the DR universe, but the memories they get that aren't part of their backstory are completely fabricated.

If there's any additional input on V3 in Raincode, don't let me know because I haven't played yet ;w;

That said, there's many things I, like Kokichi, will refuse to clarify or elaborate on. His character demands mystery, and it would be a trivialization of his writing to just. lay it all out there. I think approaching his writing with the mindset of knowing the whole truth would be to bastardize his integrity and simplify him in a distasteful way - so all my headcanons here will be written and are intended to be seen as broad strokes as opposed to finely tuned detail.

-=-

I like to think of his past as muddy and confusing, even to him. There's not a lot he can remember clearly, and constantly confuses different takes on his memories. To me, it's clear that lying is a huge trauma thing to him - I would assume multiple sources would be responsible, like authority, family, and peers.

He's been lying as a means of survival, with multiple layers of how he feels about it - despite what he says, there's not actually one truth. Multiple truths exist for one single thing, and I think that mindset is something that scares him tremendously - he'd probably say that reality is just a lie you tell yourself, in order to justify trivializing and minimizing both feelings/emotion and trauma.

In his head, there's so much wrong with him that he can't even begin to unravel himself and understand everything that's happened to him, why he does what he does, why he feels what he feels... so on. He feels multiple things that often contradict each other, and he doesn't know how to understand that, so he often switches his justifications to suit whatever narrative he needs to cope.

In general, however, he claims he's just lying. There are in fact, genuine times he does actually lie... but rather than being a true compulsive liar, he is actually a compulsive method actor. He's so empathetic to everything and everyone, that he can easily switch his masking techniques to suit whatever he or others need, and does so involuntarily most of the time, though he does know how to "switch it on" purposefully.

In his earlier ages, he may have suffered from a guardianship similar to what those who have DID had gone through (not me projecting lol /hj). He's been bred and born into tragedy, not unlike Komaeda but absolutely distinct from him in that I do not believe this boy has had any good luck with anything in his life - not family, not friends, not money, nothing. I might even go so far as to assume that, similar to Yasuhiro having an unnaturally high good luck, Kokichi is suffering from unnaturally high bad luck.

I noticed that, on a lot of his designs, he seems to have always had *something* covering at least one of his hands - and even on his final design, though it could just be a design fluke or something weird with perspective I misunderstood, you can see the smallest scrap of fabric underneath his right sleeve that could be seen as another hand/wrist covering. When lined up with the other designs, it could very easily be taken as a wrist bandage - at least by my eyes. So, I (and a lot of others it seems, especially those who identify with him) have taken this to mean he may in fact be self-harming, and has been for a long while. Anyone who hyperfixates on this guy wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if that turned out to be true.

I think that age 11 is probably what Kokichi himself would think of as his 'turning point', just going off of my little chart here; something tremendously awful happened to him, then. To fuel speculation and abide by his character rules, all I'm going to definitively say is... he likely wouldn't even trust doctors with a needle, let alone his life.

So, the hardest year of any modern kid's life... 12 years old. In my family especially, it's the worst year you'll ever face, and my god was that true for me. So I think this year fits him for gaining his... as the creators put it, 'otherworldly' expressive nature. This is the year he completely stops putting effort into trying to understand the truth, and fully embraces the chaos that is his reality. He's fine!!!!!! :)))))

He mellows out around 15, and I like to think of this year as his cringe-fail-iest year to date. This motherfucker would likely be seen in Hot Topic, jamming to MCR, glomping his friends, verbally roleplaying, so forth. His phone signature is a series of kaomojis. Idk if there's a similar equivalent of being a cringe baby weeb for Japanese who are my age, so I'm really just basing this on my own experience of being 15 in 2011. But whatever the equivalent is, he is absolutely it. 15 year old Kokichi is current Kokichi's most embarrassing time ever.

However, it's also likely the age he started his talent's namesake - of becoming the Ultimate Supreme Leader. Which, I choose to believe is, much like Kokichi in general, both true and false. Same for his actual group, DICE. Both is good ;o)

Following his talent, he has a natural command to his voice that feels as though you're forced to hear him speak. No one can really talk over him unless their ability to do so demands it - say for example, Sonia, the SHSL Princess. Due to the nature of their talents, I think Sonia's voice and ability to command would absolutely trump Kokichi's. However, due to the aforementioned bad luck, people are compelled to not trust him - even if what he's saying is true. (Kokichi voice: oh pythia we're really in it now)

Also, you can't really tell because of all the scarring, but 15 and 19 are the ages where he stopped going outside so he's paler and paler, lol

And my last one, I love to imagine that due to his talent, he's actually intensely adept at fighting, especially dodging. In fact, I think he's even way smarter than he'd like to believe!

[real-jane]

new year, new steve

[steve rogers x f!reader]

summary: a stranger kisses steve at a new year's party and it ignites something in him that he never lets himself have.

words: 4.5k

notes/warnings: smut, no use of y/n.

a/n: i'm back, baby! please enjoy one of the most unhinged things i've ever written. written especially for @fandoms-writings for her neon party! <3

***

The door banged against the wall. Steve turned around fast enough to see a panicked woman rush into the room and leap at him–arms akimbo, lips persistent… she kissed him. 

Steve loved kissing. He just didn’t do it very often. Not since his notoriety became a burden, and being attached to Captain America meant more attention than most women were willing to put up with when it came with questions like how’s it feel to suck America’s dick? shouted at you coming out of his apartment building. Natasha Romanov had never once seen an inkling of Steve’s private quarters, but she had come up with a ready answer for nosy paparazzo anyhow–“Patriotic. Now fuck off.” 

Steve liked women, but by nature of his role in the world, he never got within ten feet of a woman who might really know what the country’s preeminent ass looked like outta spandex or khakis.

But this woman clung to his lapels like his tux was made of crepe paper, and kissed him within an inch of his life, and… despite all his assertions to Nat that he wasn’t interested in dating, he sure slipped his fingers into the velvet of this woman’s dress like it was gonna melt in his palms.

“Shit–sorry, Cap–” a surprised man said behind them.

“We didn’t know!” another man piped up.

The woman pulled away enough that Steve could see her aghast expression, but his body shielded her from the view of the men. He cleared his throat, and nodded at her faintly, as if to say… I’ll take it from here.

“Now you know,” Steve said evenly. Lowly. It was the only way his voice would come out after being kissed like he was a CPR dummy in a high school health class. He turned around. 

“We were just talkin’--”

“I’d say she made it pretty clear she wasn’t interested. Or do you make a habit of ignoring basic social cues, such as–say–actively trying to get away from you? Because where I stand… that kinda behavior is about as low as a guy can get. Wouldn’t you agree?” Steve crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands from shaking. The fury rising in him seemed to come from another time, another era of his life… when soldiers choked out excuses for pursuing the dancers from his USO act, when the suit he wore was sewn from what fabric could be scrapped together in the middle of a world war and not finely woven wool.

He knew the two men before him, but not well enough to have an established rapport. They were both SHIELD recruits from the Air Force who hadn’t been around long enough for Tony to coach the bravado out of them. 

“You’re still standing here, for what?” Steve asked. Neither men had moved an inch; instead, they were both flushed and at a loss for an explanation. The taller of the two looked angry, but not enough to test Steve’s patience. Which was for the best: when it came to bullies, Steve’s patience had been worn to the bone approximately eighty years prior. 

Steved nodded to the door. “You fellas are going home. Aren’t you?” It wasn’t optional.

The angrier man pressed his lips in a thin line and yanked his buddy out of the room by the elbow.

“Cap’s old lady–Jesus, Benny…” one of the men muttered to the other as they beat a hasty retreat back down the hallway, towards the lively sounds of the SHIELD New Year’s bash. The mahogany door shut forcefully, leaving Steve and his new acquaintance alone.

He turned back to the stranger who had kissed the life out of him, and she stepped back. Her hands rose to cover her mouth, and all the anger and frustration fled from his body.

“Shit–I’m sorry–”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly.

“No, I just… they were bothering me and I couldn’t find my sister, and I didn’t realize this place dead-ended back here… you’re–oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

Steve couldn’t help but smile as she dissolved into embarrassment. “No, don’t be. Not every day a lady kisses me for no reason. Well, I suppose you had one–but it doesn’t happen much. These days. So. Happy New Year to me.” He rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands in his pockets to pretend nonchalance. The woman wasn’t someone he recognized from the roster of agents he worked with, but… she was beautiful. And so very soft and good at kissing. Too good, maybe. Was he even any good at it anymore? Steve didn’t know. 

“Not every day Captain America comes to my rescue, so.”

“I got carried away,” he cringed.

“Agree to disagree. Should’ve heard the shit they were saying out there.”

Steve thumbed at the door. “I can drag ‘em back here for another round–”

“Don’t waste your time. I think the tall guy pissed himself. I’m satisfied.”

Steve covered a smile with a light cough into his fist. 

“You’re hiding in here,” she said softly, less a judgment than an observation. 

Steve toed the ground. “I’m not a party guy. If this wasn’t the penthouse, I probably would’ve crawled out the window.”

“No… but you’re The Guy–”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed. “Hate being looked at.”

“Hate it,” she echoed with a gentle nod. “Looking at you is torture.”

He chuckled. “Sorry to offend, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”

“Nice lips, though.” 

They smiled at one another as if neither was really sure if the other was serious, or if they ought to play it off as a silly mistake. Instead… Steve spied a sideboard with a carafe of some kind of liquor and a set of crystal tumblers. He nodded to it and raised an eyebrow in silent offering. 

“A double?” she asked.

“How about I pour and you tell me when to stop,” he said, pulling the cork from the bottle. 

“Pour it the length of the kiss.”

He peered at her over his shoulder in surprise and something like… amusement, at her candor. But she was sheepish, and just as uncomfortable with reveling in something done in haste. She twisted her hands. Rather than prolong her torture (or his), he handed her over a glass (with a matching amount of whiskey to his own), and clinked them together.

“Steve.”

“I know.” She sipped the whiskey and studied him over the rim of the glass.

“It is customary to provide your name in exchange, I believe.” He leaned against the large desk which occupied most of the center of the room.

“Everybody knows you.”

“Your sister works for SHIELD?” he pressed.

She sat in the chair at his knee, crossing her own, which allowed her hem to creep up her leg. Steve definitely didn’t choke on whiskey over a peek of ink on her thigh. 

“We’re not related. Just—my friend didn’t want to come alone so it was the only way to get me on the list. We don’t even look alike, but it worked.”

“These events are a minefield, especially solo. As our two friends demonstrated.”

“No date?”

Steve shook his head. “Not a lot of women lining up to do the song and dance.”

“Which is…?”

“Shaking hands. Kissing babies.”

“Being good enough for Captain America,” she murmured. Her brow furrowed as she studied him. 

“I’m just a guy,” he chuckled. “Put my pants on one leg at a time.”

“Huh. Who’d have thought? I can’t get a bite on any dating app because I don’t hike or take soul-searching trips for enlightenment, and Steve Rogers can’t get a date because he’s too famous.”

“Pathetic,” he said, but it made her throw her head back and laugh warmly. He felt his cheeks flush.

“I’m hungry,” she said, “want to brave the buffet line for some scraps?”

“There’s a new food truck set to arrive every hour on the hour, so. Probably still more than enough for two.”

“Can you bear being seen with me?” 

His head snapped up again at the thought of making her worry, but her face was sanguine. “Be my date?” He countered.

The pleased moue of her lips said it all. Except— “don’t usually kiss a guy until the third date.”

“All the more reason.”

“And… then what?”

Steve shrugged and cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“You might want to, um. Adjust yourself. First.”

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t notice,” Steve cringed. His dick was straining in his briefs like he was fresh outta cryosleep seeing a woman for the first time in eighty years.

“I mean. If you wanna walk out into that party like that—“

“No, that’s good, keep it up; the embarrassment will make it go down,” he said, turning his back to her in mortification.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I’m nervous.”

“You, sweetheart?” Steve huffed, downing the rest of his whiskey. “You got me on the verge of making a fool of myself. I don’t know your name, but my dignity just doesn’t seem to care.”

“You must think I’m desperate,” she said softly. 

Steve shook his head. “Such a thought from me at this moment might be hypocritical.”

Her mouth twisted like she was trying not to laugh, but she looked mortified.

“I’m gonna go. Out there. I’ll meet you. Um. You’re—I haven’t had enough booze to be saying this. You’re uh, a good kisser, Steve Rogers.”

“Love to do it again sometime,” he murmured, once he was alone in the room again. Still didn’t know her name, but he sure as hell was going to follow her to figure it out. Once his trigger-happy awareness cooled down. As long as he didn’t dwell on how good it felt to grasp her waist, to feel her surprised huff of a breath against his mouth when he returned her first kiss, or how good she smelled, or the curve of her calf when she crossed her legs, or… or… or anything. Think of this nameless succubus like an amorphous blob, and not like someone who seemed to map herself to his chest like she was as tailor-made to fit him as his suit.

Which… Steve didn’t remember the last time he let himself indulge in a woman. Maybe he was starved for touch, or some such thing. Regardless, he had to get out of that office, and she was a pretty enticing reason to do so. And everyone at that party had signed an NDA at the door, so he could let himself loose a little. Maybe undo the top button of his shirt. Go wild.

He downed the rest of his drink and hastened out of the haven of Tony’s office.

The hallway was blessedly deserted. Twenty strides to the mouth of the beast, and leaning against the wall on the verge of being swallowed by the throng… a familiar woman waited. He admired her figure, the way she was soft and soft and soft, and–Steve sighed. At that rate, he’d walk into a crowd with dick a-waving, and all for this woman whose name he didn’t know. He calmed his breathing and stepped up beside her. Without peering at her, he brushed his knuckles against the hand which hung at her side. She jumped, and then looped her fingertips with his. Loosely, so he’d have to be diligent about staying beside her if he wanted to keep holding on to her. 

Steve couldn’t think of many things he wanted more than that. 

Someone did catch his eye from across the room, and Steve couldn’t stop what followed. 

“Enjoying the party, Rogers?” Tony patted his shoulder harder than necessary and smiled too brightly at the woman on his arm.

“You know I love your parties.”

“He’s a terrible liar,” Tony mock-whispered to the woman.

“One of his better qualities, I think,” she replied with a tone that made Steve squeeze her fingers to… what, warn her? Stop saying nice things about me, it’s torture! She squeezed back. “I heard talk of a Cubano truck. I hope you aren’t going to let me down, Mr. Stark.”

“Cubanos await you in the front drive, along with just about any cuisine you can think of, other than the pierogis. Gone in ten minutes! I blame Banner. ‘M Tony, by the way,” he said, offering a hand. 

“I know,” she laughed, shaking his hand.

“And you are?”

“You gotta earn it. C’mon, Rogers.” She tugged Steve towards the elevator.

Once they were alone in the lift, Steve wiggled his fingers further into her grasp. She looked up at him. “I haven’t earned it, huh?” he murmured.

“Oh you have. I just like to see you squirm.” Her eyes glinted in amusement. 

Steve straightened so he loomed over her, but she lifted her chin defiantly. And then she leaned against the corner of the lift, and pulled his hand until he shadowed her from the ambient elevator lighting. But it was Steve who felt cornered. By the sweet smile on her lips, and the tug of the plush pink softness between her teeth as she watched the wheels turn in his head, and by his own desperate desire to hold a woman again, to be touched and teased–they were sharing air when he came to, a breath passing between them like it was the last air on earth, and he studied her irises… how her pupils dilated, and slyness dropped from her expression to reveal something like curiosity. She tilted her head as if to say ‘what’s wrong?’ Steve shook his head on floor fifteen, and leaned in on fourteen, and kissed her on thirteen. And twelve. And on down, but never once letting his hands do more than squeeze hers. She was peachy, and sweet like the whiskey they had shared.

She gasped when he ground himself against her, and raised their joined hands to her sides. She arched into the warmth of his fingers. Nipples pebbled. Steve couldn’t decide whether to map her body with his hands or his lips, so he chose both–nipping at the soft skin of her neck and teasing one strap of her dress over the curve of her shoulder until it slid of its own volition. God love a woman, he thought. This one, with her breast exposed to the chilled air and heat of his breath. He wouldn’t let goosebumps go unkissed, or nipples for that matter. The moan at the back of her throat when he fastened his lips around her nipple was his triumph. How much more could he find victory in her pleasure? Was there a limit to such things?

“Kiss me again?” she pleaded. Steve cupped her cheeks like an apology. The drag of her tongue against the seam of his mouth had him cursing inwardly, in language he’d never let himself utter out loud. He wanted to fuck her, but if all he could do for her was kiss her sweet mouth, that might be enough. He’d wrap a hand around his dick driving home, he could take care of himself and not put that pressure on her. She didn’t have to do a thing more than kiss him, but he wanted her to. If she wanted to. If she wanted him, too.

She smiled against his lips when the elevator dinged at their destination. Steve groaned. 

“I–there’s no excuse, I’m so sorry,” he began, but she stopped his words with gentle fingers over his lips.

“Please tell me you’re not drunk,” she whispered, straightening her dress to conceal her body, much to his chagrin.

He chuckled. “Only drink I've had tonight I shared with you, sweetheart.”

“Not one woman in your life?”

Steve shook his head. His answer seemed to satisfy her greatly, if her grin was any indication. She pulled him through the lobby, but on the front drive (despite the fact that the sidewalk was choc-full of agents and party-goers making food selections from a cadre of trucks and mingling), Steve looped her hand through his arm and made a choice. 

She kept stride with him. Away from the party, through the lot, to the over-fancy car Natasha had talked him into buying. She leaned against the passenger door, preventing him from opening it. 

“What do you want?” she whispered. “Hm?” Steve looked down at his shoes sheepishly, but she touched his cheek. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, I–I hope it’s obvious that I want you, Steve. We could go to mine. Nobody even has to know, honestly. I won’t tell. I mean, I’ll tell myself sometimes, but I won’t believe me.”

He chuckled, and then shook his head. “We’ll go to my place.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?”

“Yes. What about your friend?”

“I’ll text her.” She whipped a phone from god-knows-where and shot off a quick text. When she looked up at him again, she was flushed. “I don’t do this–”

“Me neither.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“About that…” Steve levels his eyes with hers. “I gotta know what name I’m supposed to use.”

“Oh? You a talker?”

“A woman gives me the honor of touching her, I’ve got an obligation to a little veneration.”

“Fuck–”

“Only if you give me your name,” Steve murmured against her neck, making her shiver. 

“Then you’ll fuck me?”

“I’ll fuck you.” 

“Cap’s got a dirty mouth, huh?”

Steve cringed. “Please���if you wanna fuck Captain America, then I can’t do this–”

“No, no.” She grasped his lapels so he wouldn’t step away. “It’s not like that. You’re Steve to me. Okay? I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m–shit, sweetheart. People are going to give you so much guff.”

“Who’s ‘people’?”

“Anybody who knows. I don’t wanna hide you, but you gotta know that. There’s usually a paparazzo outside my apartment, and we’re just asking for a billion stories about ‘Cap’s New Girlfriend’, blah blah blah. You’ll have people dogging you about it–”

“Okay.” 

Steve blinked. She smiled at him softly.

“You done thinking of reasons why I shouldn’t want you? Because I’m feeling a little jerked around, here–”

“‘M done,” he said. “I just. Want you to know.” She sought the buttons of his coat and undid them so she could snake her hands inside. Steve stepped into the embrace. 

“I’ve seen what you do to bullies, Rogers. I’m not afraid.”

Steve opened the back passenger door and kept eye contact with her as he slid inside. It took her a split second to follow. The moment the door shut behind her, he hit the lock and tossed the keys somewhere and pulled her to straddle him. She nipped his ear lobe and then whispered her name in his ear. Steve rolled the letters around on his tongue and found it most satisfying to see the way her eyes fluttered as he repeated it back to her. And again when he pressed her hips to his.

“N-nice car.”

“I just bought it,” he muttered.

“Happy to help you christen it.”

“Panties off.”

He regretted that it was too dark to see the color of the panties that she shimmied to the floor, but he had every intention of offering her his laundry if they ever made it to his place, so he was confident he’d get to enjoy them on and off her body more than once, god willing. Steve forgot what it was like to slip his fingers between a woman’s thighs and find her wet, and warm–he cursed himself for depriving himself of such things as this beautiful woman shuddered at his touch. Her bundle of nerves swelled as he worried it with gentle circles, and he was in heaven.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. So wet–I’d have no problem working my dick into you and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Kissing–god, kissing makes me so fucking wet,” she breathed. “And you did suck on my nipple in the elevator. You an exhibitionist, Rogers?”

“Maybe I am. Should I roll down the windows so everybody can see you come?”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“I want your fingers. Finger me.”

“I don’t know, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Ugh–crack the windows.”

“You want them to see you.”

“I want you to make me come so hard that I might give us away.”

“Fucking hell, woman.” Steve unzipped his pants in haste. “Roll them down how much you want them, then I’ll make you come.”

As she leaned over to the passenger side window, Steve rucked her skirt up over her hips and moved behind her so her face was inches from the glass. “What’s wrong?” he asked, but his hands made quick work of touching her exactly how he had been dying to since she first kissed him. He sank one finger into her heat as she depressed the window a few inches. 

“Someone might see,” she moaned breathlessly, sitting back to fuck herself on his meaty finger. 

“I hope they do. You’re a goddess.” He stroked her until she was turned on enough to take a second finger, and then he poised her to take them–but only if she sat on them. She worked herself down slowly, head thrown back. Her mouth was open but all coherent words fled from her tongue. Steve yanked her straps off and exposed her breasts. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

“Fuck me, please, please–”

“Soak my hand, sweetheart.” He pushed her shoulders so she had to brace herself on the door. He thrust his fingers into her pussy, taking great care not to touch her clit to prolong her climax. She whined.

“Ruin my suit. Come on. You’re squeezing me like a vice, I know you wanna come.”

“Can’t, can’t.”

“Listen to me. You can.”

“Touch my clit.”

“What do you say?”

“Please?” she breathed.

Steve crowded behind her, pushing his hips against his hand to fuck her harder into his fingers, and then he found the swollen clit again, begging to be touched. Her orgasm hit like a wave; her head fell back against his shoulder, and she keened. Loud enough to be heard from outside, and like it came from guttural pleasure. Steve reveled in the rush of cum which flooded his hand and soaked his cuff. He pressed the window button down again, releasing the glass a few more inches. Their position was shielded by a cadre of SUV’s, but if someone came for the black car beside them, they’d see her tits flushed with a sheen of sweat while she heaved with breaths of relief. Steve flicked her nipple with his free hand and she jolted, but she grinned up at him. 

“Too tired to take my dick?” he growled in her ear. She shook her head.

“Wanna see you,” she said. 

Steve helped her turn to face him, not bothering to wipe his hand or bother with any such thing. How could he think of such things when her soft hands had crept inside his waistband to cup him through his briefs? He rolled his hips as she stroked him through the fabric.

“You’re beautiful.” She bit her lip. “I need you.” She pushed him until he sat back against the seat, and tapped his hip so he’d lift up enough to let her strip his pants down to his ankles. For just a moment, Steve floated out of his body to watch from above as the gorgeous woman who had just come all over his fingers released his dick from his underwear and rubbed his tip between her folds. How lucky–the thought dissipated. She sank down, taking him slowly to savor the stretch. 

Steve blanched. “Fuck–condom–”

“Don’t need it. Birth control.” She rolled her hips and Steve saw stars. It occurred to him how long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s warmth around his dick, but this one was velvet and he didn’t care if he never fucked another woman again. But maybe he could fuck this woman a few more times. Or a lot more. 

“Oh my god, don’t… I’ll come too fast–”

“My bad,” she giggled. She fully seated herself over him and clasped her hands behind his neck with an innocent smile. “Wouldn’t want you to come, would we?” Steve glared at her.

“You think you’re so cute,” he grumbled, nipping her bottom lip.

“Big talk, I can feel you twitching inside me like you wanna come right this second.”

“Keep it up and I might not let you outta my bed for a week.”

“Promise?” 

She contracted her inner muscles and Steve bit his lip. “You asked for it. Gonna have to fuck that sass right out of you.”

“You can try, big guy.” She rolled her hips and impaled herself on him, riding him hard. She didn’t seem to care if all the world heard them, or saw her, or if he came in three seconds–and for his part, Steve didn’t see a downside. He curled his fingers into her hips and gave her back as good as she gave him. It was fucking, most certainly, but it also felt like time had ceased to tick since he felt her lips touch his for the first time. Maybe the new year wouldn’t come until he did, he thought, but boy if he wasn’t on the verge.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, slowly canting her hips. “You’re allowed to give in.”

“Am I?” His eyes searched her soft gaze, and she nodded. “I don’t get these things, sweetheart.”

“Says who? Who’s been lying to you? You don’t get to be fucked silly in the back of a car like a teenager?” She smiled. “You of all people.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Steve touched her cheek, almost like he didn’t mean to, but he felt suddenly bashful.

“I’m gonna fuck every doubt outta your head.”

She made good on that promise. When he came, he saw pure light behind his eyelids, like heat through his eyelids on a sunny morning. With every contraction of her inner muscles, he thrust up into her, even though he had nothing left to give. Her second orgasm was his final triumph. Her nails clasped his shoulders, and she moaned into his mouth, and Steve rubbed her clit until she couldn’t take any more. When her fingers found his wrist to pull his hand away, she linked their fingers. They breathed the same air again, foreheads pressed together, and both of them smiled.

“What am I going to tell the dry cleaner?” he murmured.

She laughed, head thrown back in delight. She rolled the window back up and kissed him sweetly. Nobody saw them, that they knew of, and nobody could hear them over the countdown to the New Year, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t the sexiest moment of his very long life.

Some days or weeks later, when time began to tick again, Steve emerged from his apartment one morning with a woman on his arm. They both wore sunglasses, and they didn’t shy away from smiling at one another like they shared a secret. As promised, there was a paparazzo waiting with indiscreet flashes and even raunchier questions for the woman, but she paused to pose with Steve so the man could get a good photo of them. Then, she dragged her glasses down her nose.

“America can fight me for his dick,” she said brightly to the reporter. Steve shook his head, but he laughed and followed his girlfriend to the car. Try as he might, he just couldn’t fuck the sass out of her.

Sure was fun trying, though.

***

thanks for reading!

my masterlist - my marvel masterlist

[buttermander]

Buttermander's Craft Sibling Headcanon Masterpost

Goob and Scraps are two of my fav toons and now I'm going to unleash my headcanons so everyone can use them.

Goob's fur will stand on end if you startle or or scare him. It looks ridiculous to behold

When she was first made Scraps had a habit of investigating random inanimate objects around Gardenview by clawing them

If presented with cardboard boxes the craft siblings will attempt to fit themselves into them due to instincts they claim they cannot control.

Scraps enjoys all sorts of arts and crafts projects in her spare time, although having claws means she has to be extremely careful to not tear things up on accident.

Given that goob's hands seem too heavy for him and his arms are literal cables, it is likely Deliliah Keen had to get specially made artifical arms for the craft

Goob originally spent several weeks with no arms after he was made until he was considered healthy enough to get the custom set attached to his body.

Adding onto the previous Headcanon Shelly gave Goob the nickname " G. Rex " during this time.

Goob and Scraps cannot resist the call of the ALMIGHTY RED DOT ( a laser pointer )

Both of the craft siblings are capable of purring when happy and it's adorable.

Scraps has to ensure her brother doesn't ingest too much caffeine in one sitting or else he will go nuts and his arms will get caught in everything in his warpath.

Trace amounts of DNA of actual house cats were used in the creation process of the siblings. Goob lacks a tail due to the Manx breed being his genetic source. Scraps meanwhile, has the genetic material component of a Domestic Shorthair. Only around 15 percent cat DNA makes up the crafts.

Without regular maintenance the craft siblings' claws can become " deadly weapons "

Goob and Pebble actually get along pretty well since the rock dog knows he can get a lot of attention from the younger of the two siblings

Goob used to have biting related issues that got worked out with time

Shrimpo can only really mess with Goob when Scraps is occupied because if he tries it she WILL claw his face.

Goob's fur has historically been a nightmare to maintain. Its required weekly brushing and he constantly ends up getting crumbs caught on his own fluff, especially in the large tuft around his neck.

Scraps' tail will wag around at hyper speed if she's really excited about something, the paper cup will make a lot of noise if she's standing near something by while doing this.

The siblings really enjoy the taste of fish, when Gardenview was still open sometimes they were caught raiding the freezer for an entire box of fish sticks.

Scraps has an entire hidden stash of yarn balls in the siblings' shared room, even if you manage to clear out her side of the room it's going to be covered in yarn again in a matter of minutes.

If you want more headcanons tell me what toon I should do next in the replies, I got some fun ones lying around. I just started with these two because they're my favorites. Also let me know which of my headcanons are your favorites I wanna know which ones the public likes the most.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Grains of Sand

Season Two Episode Four

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader (Aaron Hotchner’s Sister)

Words: 4039

Series Masterlist

Summary: The team drums up ideas to help Spencer and Y/N celebrate their one-year anniversary.

Notes: Oh my god, I can’t believe I accidentally skipped this episode! No wonder my numbers were off. Anyway, this is the actual episode four. I’m so sorry! I promise, I’m really trying to give you guys some fluff this season, but there’s just so much angst haha. 

Warnings: Mild sexual content, alcholism 

-

You were getting better. Each day, Spence noticed that you smiled a little more than the last, you laughed more, and you resembled the woman he met again. He was right. 

You were the strong one. 

“What are you working on?” He asked, pouring you both your morning coffee. You had your nose in a file, hand scribbling away in your notebook.

“I’m putting together a possible study,” you said. 

“Oh?” He set your mug in front of you and kissed your temple before taking the seat across the table. 

“It’s just an idea,” you shrugged. “I’ll tell you about it when I figure out a little more.” 

“Oh.” He tried not to sound too dejected. You usually couldn’t wait to share your projects with him. 

You put your notes aside and gave him a bright smile. “So, there’s a classic horror marathon on TV this weekend and I was thinking- fingers crossed you’re here- that we can make a big deal out of it. We can get cheap Halloween candy, stay in our pajamas, and have a cozy, creepy weekend all to ourselves.”

Spence grinned. Having already made his own plans for the weekend, this was a good cover to make sure his stayed a surprise. Plus, he was always up for classic monster movies, especially with you. 

You always laughed when he did the voices along with the actors. Everyone else thought it was weird. 

Now he just needed the time to actually plan his plans. With absolutely no idea where to start. No big deal. 

Spencer got up to clear the table and you slurped down the rest of your coffee. 

“I’ll get it,” you blurted, hurriedly grabbing his plate and yours and walking over to the trash. You dumped the food scraps and used napkins on top of the empty bottle at the bottom of the bag. 

That was close.

You made a mental note to take it out as soon as he left for work. 

Spence noted your odd reaction, but decided not to say anything about it. He checked his watch and finished his coffee. 

“I have to get going, but maybe we can get lunch?”

“Actually, I’m getting lunch with JJ today,” you said, making your way back to the table to give him a kiss. “How about I bring you coffee in the afternoon, hm? Sonia wants to meet with SES Strauss anyway, so I can stop by her office and set up a meeting.” 

“She lets you do that?” He asked, surprised. To be completely honest, he had always been just a little afraid of the Section Chief. 

You snickered. “I’m pretty sure she likes me more than my brother, so I should be fine.”

“Strauss really doesn’t seem to like him, does she?” He chuckled and shook his head. You watched him as he left, keeping a sunny grin on your face until the door closed behind him. You fell against the table, face in your hands and shoulders slumped. 

Two weeks had passed since Colorado. Two weeks of splitting yourself in half. One side smiled and laughed and planned fun date weekends. The side that was genuinely getting better. The side that felt normal again. Then there was the other half- the empty one that could only be filled by that numbing liquid. The side that had to suffer in order for the other to recover, like your own personal Omelas. 

But if it meant keeping Spencer and Aaron from worrying- on top of everything else in their lives- then it was worth it. Spence was already dealing with so much after what happened with Ben Cyrus, you couldn’t stand being an added thing. So you learned how to keep the two sides separate, which was exhausting, but in the span of everything, what harm could a few nights a week really do? 

You took a moment to collect yourself and walked to your desk. The little table calendar was decorated with little ghosts and pumpkins that Spencer drew and every time you saw it, you couldn’t help but grin. This year, Halloween meant more than just a holiday of spooks and treats. 

In just over a week it would be you and Spencer’s one year anniversary. 

And that was reason enough to put on a smile. 

-

Reid had an unusual pep coming into the office that morning and it did not go unnoticed. Morgan watched him set his bag down and then rush off to Garcia’s office with this goofy glow on his face. 

“What’s that about?” Prentiss asked. While the injuries on her face were barely visible, Reid still had a hard time looking her in the eye since they got back. Seeing him excited made her heart happy. 

Morgan stood up with a curious smirk. “I’m gonna go find out.” 

Garcia was setting a new knick knack on her desk when the sweet genius knocked on her door. 

“Vault of the All Knowing, you may enter,” she proclaimed. 

Reid stepped in tentatively, “Hey Garcia,” he said, “you consider yourself to be a romantic, right?” 

She spun around so quickly she almost fell out of her chair. “Are you asking me for love advice?” 

The wild excitement in her eyes was enough to frighten him a little. “Yes?” 

Garcia squealed. “Oh my God, come in, sit down. I have been preparing for this.” She pulled two mugs out from a drawer. “What kind of tea do you like?”

“I really don’t need any-”

“Do you want my help?” She snipped. He nodded, wide eyed. “Then we are doing this the right way.” She picked out two bags and sashayed out to get some hot water. Reid sat awkwardly and waited, toying with one of Garcia’s desk-pets. 

“I am hurt.” The voice from the doorway made him jump. Reid whirled around and felt an embarrassed blush rush to his face as he saw Morgan’s smug grin. “I am deeply offended that you would go to Garcia for advice with the ladies and not me. Sorry, lady. Singular.” 

“It’s not really that I need advice, I just-” 

It was too late. Morgan took the chair across from him. Garcia returned. 

“Yay, now it’s a party,” she beamed, handing Reid the mugful of earl gray. “Okay, ask away my beautiful, brilliant friend.”

The room fell into silence. Reid shrunk under the stares of the two agents before him and nervously sipped the warm tea. 

“I-um- I was just hoping you would have some ideas to help me with- uh-” He stammered. “Okay, I need you both to stop looking at me like you’re my parents and I’m going on my first date.” 

“Alright then, Lover Boy, what do you need help with?” 

Garcia smacked Morgan’s arm. “This is why you weren’t invited.” 

“I’m just trying to get this moving,” he said. “He clearly needs help with something.” 

“Our anniversary is coming up,” Reid finally blurted. The two bickering friends turned back to him. “And I need help figuring out what to do. I don’t really know how to be… romantic, I guess.”

They looked at him, then at each other, then back at him and wide grins spread across their faces. 

“A year already, huh?” Morgan asked.

“That is so sweet!” Garcia cheered. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, there’s so many possibilities. Okay, brainstorm. What are the things that make you think of Y/N?”

Reid answered with little need to think. “Books. Coffee. Research. Homicide. Criminal Psychology. ABBA.”  

“Whoa, slow down, sweetie.”

Morgan held up a hand. “Hold up,” he leaned forward on his elbows. “ABBA?” 

Reid took another sip and shrugged. “She used to put them on and dance around the apartment when she thought I wasn’t home. Now she sometimes gets me to dance with her. It’s actually pretty fun. ABBA’s upbeat tempo and lyrics are quite nice for stress dancing. Plus, it’s really cute when Y/N sings along.” 

He smiled into his mug and Garcia put a hand on her chest, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. 

“That is adorable.” 

Reid set the mug down and let his hands fall helplessly to his lap. “But I still don’t know what to do to make this day special. I mean, so much has happened, and with everything that happened in Colorado, I think she’s been trying really hard to make everything feel normal and I want to do something that would mean a lot.” 

“I think you’re selling yourself a little short, Reid,” Morgan said. “You took the woman to London less than a month ago. That was romantic, right?” 

Reid’s blush returned, his mind conjuring images and feelings of you and nights spent not sleeping. Sheets and skin and sighs…

 He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Morgan smirked, sensing the younger agent’s shift in thought. “See? You know what you’re doing. You just have to get out of your head to do it, you know?”

“Follow your heart,” Garcia added. 

Spencer took this in and felt a flurry of ideas pop up in the back of his mind. It wasn’t much, but it might be something to go off of. He stood and smiled. 

“Thanks guys.” 

He bounded out the door with new determination, leaving the other two to sit in satisfied silence. 

Morgan chuckled. “They grow up so fast.” 

-

The waitress filled your waters and you gazed over the menu. 

JJ wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I can actually stomach any of this.” She laughed lightly and put the menu aside, committing to her drink instead. “Thanks for being able to do this, by the way. I feel like I haven’t seen you at all lately.” 

“Are you kidding? Your schedule is busier than mine. I’m always happy to see you guys. I barely see the one I live with as it is,” you said. After ordering, you both talked about work and the London trip and other things you’d been meaning to catch up on. “You’re due in just a couple of weeks, right?” 

She nodded. “Yes, and then this will finally be over!” She laid a hand on her middle, laughing. “I gotta say, as excited as I am to have this baby, I’m just as excited to not throw up and waddle and cry from hormones all the time.” 

The both of you snickered for a moment and you looked down at your silverware, twisting your fork back and forth on the table. JJ read you like a book. 

“You and Spence’s anniversary is next week right?” She asked. 

You perked up again. “Yeah. October 30th. It’s kinda crazy to think it’s been a year. I mean… so much has happened.” 

“You two have been through a lot together, that’s for sure,” she said. “But I’ve never seen him happier.” Another few quiet moments passed. JJ watched your gaze dart between her belly and her face, and each time you would take another long gulp of water. There was something in your eyes that she recognized. “Have you thought about it?” 

“Hmm?” You snapped back to the table, having been lost in your thoughts. 

“Have you ever thought about having kids?” She wondered. “If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“No, I don’t mind.” You took another drink. “If I’m being honest, I never have before. When the things that happened to me happen, I don’t know, it doesn’t exactly fuel a maternal drive. Plus the only serious relationship I had after that, the guy twice my age and using me. No, I’ve never really seen myself as a mother.” You got that look in your eye again. A kind of dreaminess. Hope. “But Spence would be such a great dad, wouldn’t he?” 

JJ smiled, but there was almost a sadness in her eyes. A kind of sympathy that you didn’t understand the origin of. But she could tell how heart broken you were at the thought of never being good enough to be a mom because of your past. She wanted to tell you that you would both make great parents, that any kid would be lucky to have you for a mother. But she knew that now wasn’t the right moment. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “That kid would have the best bedtime stories.” 

Both of you hardly touched your food and Jennifer picked up on other little things throughout the meal. She may not be a profiler, but she could tell that you were on edge, but doing a damn good job of hiding it. Maybe it was nerves about your anniversary or still recovering from Spence almost getting killed in Colorado, but something was definitely up. She just hoped her bringing up having kids hadn’t upset you. 

“We should probably get going,” you said, forcing yourself to have a few more bites despite not being hungry. “I told Spence I’d bring him some coffee this afternoon when I go to talk to Strauss.” 

“You should stop by your brother’s too,” JJ suggested. “I know he would love to see you.” 

“Are we talking about the same Aaron?” You chuckled. While progress had been made concerning your odd connections to his job, he still always seemed very uncomfortable to see you at the BAU. Besides, you still had reason for keeping off your big brother’s radar. “I’ll see you in a bit, I guess?”

She smiled and nodded, wanting to say more but knowing how. Jennifer watched you walk away with an ache in her chest. There was something wrong- something you were desperately trying to hide- but she just didn’t know what.

-

“Well look who’s decided to grace us with her presence,” Morgan said, getting up from his desk to hug you. 

“It’s good to see you too, Derek,” you laughed, stretching out your arm so the cupholder full of coffee cups wouldn’t fall. “And, I bring gifts.” 

“Oh my god, you’re an angel,” Emily exclaimed, taking her coffee with a grin. 

Derek patted your shoulder. “Professor Hot Stuff strikes again.” He spoke pointedly at Reid, chuckling at the jealous tint in the younger agent’s cheeks. It was all brotherly fun, of course.They both knew that Derek would never cross that line- he only saw you as a good friend. But it was good for the team’s genius to get his blood boiling every once in a while. 

You set a cup on Spencer’s desk and ran a hand through his hair. He gave you a small smile, putting a hand on the small of your back as he set his paperwork aside. 

“How was lunch?” 

You thought of your conversation with JJ and couldn’t help the creeping images of Spence with some little boy or girl, reading to them before bed and helping with their math homework. You pushed the thoughts aside. 

“Good,” you said. “I’ve been craving a little girl-talk.” 

“Which is why we have plans to get coffee next week,” Emily chimed. 

Derek held up his hand. “Alright, now I just feel left out.” 

“From what I hear you get plenty of company,” you teased. His jaw dropped in mock offense. Spencer had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing too loud. “Don’t worry, Muscle Man, I’m sure I can work you into my busy schedule sometime.” 

The four of you conversed merrily for a while before a looming, serious presence appeared over the bullpen. You gave your brother a wide, hiding smile. 

“Aaron, hey. I brought coffee.” You held up the last cup as a peace offering. 

“Hey,” he said. He didn't seem angry or annoyed. He seemed genuinely glad to see you. Still, you knew how to recognize the concern in his gaze. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You gulped. “Actually, I’m here to see SES Strauss for my boss-”

“It’ll just take a second.” 

Any more resistance would raise questions so you just agreed with a shrug. You gave Spence a parting smile and walked up to Aaron’s office. With every step, you evaluated all of your motions, every tell he would be able to catch. 

“You know, you should really work on your entrance,” you joked as he closed the door. “I mean, every time I’m here, you just appear like the Phantom of the Opera-”

“Why are you avoiding me?” He interrupted. 

Your brows drew together to imitate confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You haven’t taken my calls, you’ve canceled dinner plans twice, and you stopped staying with Haley when we’re on a case.” 

“I stopped sleepwalking,” you shrugged. “I didn’t want to keep being an inconvenience. Hell, I’m even sleeping through the night now. How does that mean I’m avoiding you?”

“We haven’t spoken since Reid got trapped in the compound.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Aaron, we’re both incredibly busy people,” you said. You crossed your arms. “Work has been going really well. I enjoy what I do. Spencer finally doesn’t walk on eggshells around me. Things have started to feel normal. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to believe that I could actually be doing better.”

“You’re overcompensating,” he argued. He narrowed his eyes. It was clear how hard you were trying to put everything to the way it was before your birthday, but it was more than just not wanting to deal with the trauma. There was something else you were hiding. 

“And you aren’t?” You fired back, turning this ridiculous inquiry on him. “You were back in the field before you were even really cleared. You’ve been burying yourself in your work ever since what happened in New York.” 

“This isn’t about me-”

“Maybe it should be.” 

“The explosion was months ago,” he started, but again you interrupted him.

“So was the anniversary.” You took steps towards him. “You aren’t the only one who’s worried, Aaron. Maybe you should figure out yourself before you jump on me.” 

You started for the door, but he put a hand on your arm. 

“Wait,” he sighed and pulled you into his arms. 

The embrace, at first, made your body go rigid. You wanted to crumble and cry and tell him everything. Inside, you were screaming to tell him about the bar. The bottle at the bottom of the trash can. The burning in your throat you were feeling even now. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter. “I just… I just wish you would talk to me.” 

A crack of guilt shot through your heart. Still, you kept your demon buried, if only to protect him from him. 

“I’m doing better, Aaron. Really,” you smiled, pulling away. “And I worry about you too, you know? You have to take care of yourself every once in a while or you’re going to fall apart.” You hugged him again, hiding your teary eyes from his gaze. “I love you, big brother.” 

His hand cupped the back of your head like you were a little kid and his arms were the one thing protecting you from the monsters. Even if you wouldn’t let him see what the monsters were. 

“I love you too.” 

You pushed away again, putting on a brave face and giving him a small smile. “I’d better get to Strauss’ office before she finds a way to blame you for my tardiness.” 

He chuckled and opened the door. 

You went back to Spencer’s desk to retrieve your cup of coffee. He hooked his finger through your belt loop. 

“Is everything okay?” He asked. 

You nodded and cleared your throat. “Oh that? Yeah. He was just asking if I wanted to come to a late birthday dinner for Jack.” You leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

“Okay,” he hesitated. You seemed fine enough, but there was something you weren’t telling him. Before you could go, he pulled you down for one more kiss, to which you both came away beaming. 

As you left, he could sense Morgan’s teasing gaze on him. Reid just smirked and opened a new file. 

“Shut up.” 

-

Something shifted after the day you came to the BAU. Spencer noticed you working a little harder to be cheery when he came home from a case or to comfort him when he was stressed. It seemed every time he had a nightmare- which were more frequent recently- you were already awake and ready to hold him until he fell asleep again. You were a pillar of strength when he wanted to be one for you. 

All the more reason he wanted to do something extra special when the day of your anniversary finally came.  

He got Garcia to help him go shopping and made sure that dinner was ready by the time you got home. He filled ornate chalices with fruit punch and carefully lit dozens of candles around the table and kitchen until the apartment somewhat resembled the gothic manor he was going for. 

You heard the music before you even reached the door. The low classical sound beckoned your curiosity. You snapped your gum- the minty aroma masking your breath- and continued towards it. 

You opened the door, expecting to see your regular apartment, but instead you were greeted by candlelight and a red carpet leading to the dinner table. 

“What the hell-” You started, mouth agape with surprise. 

“Wait wait wait!” Spence exclaimed, sticking his head out from the kitchen. “You’re home early, just… just give me a second.” 

“Okay?” You spit your gum into the trash and closed the door. Spencer hurried back out, a long black cloak hung around his shoulders. 

“Velcome to o-our an-an-ani,” he sighed. “Hold on.” He took out a pair of plastic fangs. “Welcome to our anniversary dinner.” He held out his hands, displaying the table setting behind him with a bright, goofy grin. 

You laughed, taking in everything. The chalices, the pasta, the candles. “Is this supposed to be… Dracula?” 

He beamed. “‘How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.’ It’s the book you talked about on our first date and I thought, with it being so close to Halloween and all, it would be fitting. I don’t know, I know it seems silly, but it made me think of you and Garcia and Morgan told me to just follow my heart so-”

“I love it,” you blurted before he could get too far in his own head. “But Spence,”Your smile was sweetly surprised, but still confused. “Our anniversary isn’t until next week.” 

“The anniversary of our first date is next week,” he corrected, his eyes filling with such love it made your chest ache. “But today- a year ago today- at 3:35 P.M., I helped a beautiful, brilliant, incredible woman reach Anna Karenina from the top shelf.” He took your hand in both of his and held it up to his lips. He kissed each knuckle gently, helping him focus through his overwhelming emotions. “Y/N, to me, today is our anniversary because I knew from the moment I met you that I wanted to be with you.” 

Your heart swelled and the lump in your throat made it impossible to speak. “Spencer…”

“I love you, Y/N. And I know things are hard right now and I know I haven’t been able to be with you through it all like I want to, but I need you to know how much I love you and how much you’ve changed my life and made this year the best of my life.” 

He pulled you into his arms, wrapping the cape around the both of you and closed the space between your lips. 

You were breathless, overwhelming happiness and surprise still making your chest fill with warmth. The stress of the day melted away quicker than it had when you tried using your flask to forget everything. 

“Happy anniversary, Y/N,” Spencer grinned, pulling away to look at your face. 

You gazed back into the loving, hazel eyes and let yourself drink in his presence. “Happy anniversary, Spencer. I love you.”

-

The In-Betweens series: @amywright; shesoperfectt;  hereforsmutbcicantgetenough;  violetbossler;  hyper-half-blood;  i-bitch-you-bitch; xcastawayherosx; preciousbabypeter; @jori21; @sol-48;  @murdermornings ; @ staygoldsquatchling02; @ ara-a-bird

[prima-materia-ttrpg]

Shooting for gold and falling flat on your face or How I failed miserably at writing ranged combat.

Not every mechanic is a winner, and designing a ttrpg is hard. First drafts, playtesting, modification, second draft, playtesting, modification. So far all of the systems I've written, while they absolutely needed extensive work, had solid cores. Sometimes, though, like when I wrote Ranged Combat last week, the base it's built upon is faulty and the whole thing needs to be gutted and scrapped for anything salvageable.

After playtesting and modifying melee combat, its core seemed solid and I decided to move on to ranged combat. One of the core principles involves not missing, or missing being rare. This is why when someone comes at you with a melee weapon, you can dodge or block to mitigate some or all of the damage. Armor, while not yet written, will also play an important roll in damage mitigation.

Ranged combat as I wrote it does allow missing, but missing is rare (or so I thought) particularly at close ranges. It didn't make sense to me to be able to dodge projectiles or block them with a weapon, and I haven't written a cover system or put in shields which would be able to block projectiles, so the only real thing that mitigates getting hit by a ranged weapon is armor. This was a mistake.

Before we get into all of that though, let me get into the core of how I wrote the mechanic and how that was bad. I decided that because ranged damage was hard to mitigate, it should have a chance to miss, which means an attack roll to see if you hit. For some reason, I decided that the player should roll a d100 so the Hit Chance (the number you try to roll at or under when rolling the d100) would align with a percentage. In theory, this works, especially since I tied it to the Dexterity attribute on the character sheet. In practice, the very first playtest I ran with these mechanics saw characters with long guns and an 80% chance to hit miss most of the time, and a single Xente character (large amoeba thing - it will get its own species highlight later) nailed two player characters one after the other on one turn with a roughly 18% chance to hit with its revolver due to the distance. My players have dubbed this particular Xente Big Boss after the metal gear character, and it will be making a re-appearance.

The clear issue here, of course, is that rolling a d100 gives you as much a chance to roll a 1 as it does a 100, and even if you play with percentages like I did, weird stuff is going to happen at some point. Perhaps even often within the span of a session. There were other issues with this ranged system as well, one of my players said it felt like it came from a completely different game compared to how melee combat feels. Another player astutely pointed out that a class of weapons that can one-tap most characters with little effort and no real choice for the player to be able to get out of the way or otherwise mechanically try to save themselves, feels bad.

I got some good feedback, and I'm still trying to figure out how to move forward with the ranged mechanics. I have some ideas that will bring it more in-line with melee mechanics but I have to see how it hashes out, and then playtest that. All-in-all, this is a good experience. Not every mechanic is a winner, but failure is incredibly important.

If you read all this, thanks! I appreciate it very much. I'm trying to figure out what to do for the next blog post, it's a toss-up between another species highlight (humans - I promise it will be interesting) or how alchemy (magic) works in detail. This would be the history of alchemy as a field of study, animals that have evolved to use it, and what players will be able to do with it.

[dingbatnix]

Venture

Chapter 5

Yessss let's gooooo!!!!! Chapter five is a go!

So here, everything starts rolling, and I've got the beginnings of some plot! Yeee!

And thank you @da3dm for proofreading!! <3 u

Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 1

Chapter 6

Dream + Tommy reference

Word count: 6,271

Warnings: Mmmm, blood, gore, injuries, fear of death, cussing, fear of injury, death, ehhhh I think that covers it : D

They traveled through the forest for three days, a few uneventful mob attacks happening here and there. Dream chattered, not quite incessantly, about almost every little thing. The birds, the leaves, what types of plants were good to eat, the possible uses of other foliage, everything. Once Tommy had gotten him started, there was no shutting him up, it seemed. Tommy dimly noticed Dream avoided telling anything about himself, though he was willing to part with all sorts of information on other people.

Dream asked nearly thirty times a day if Tommy wanted out of the cage. The answer was always the same. No. Tommy always refused, flashes of the human’s huge hands clamping harshly down over his body plaguing his mind. No. Dream had smallfolk sized stuff. Tommy—Tommy didn't know where–how he managed to get it, and he maybe didn't want to know, but, one thing was for sure–he couldn’t trust Dream. Not when it was plainly clear to see that the human had held smallfolk captive before, and doubly clear what the man was when it was especially obvious that said smallfolk were no longer here.

Tommy wasn’t stupid. Dream was a trafficker of 'exotic beings,' not unlike the men who had caught him before. But, it was glaringly obvious that Dream was far more experienced than his previous captors. Why he wanted Tommy out of the cage, though, why he was asking if Tommy wanted out of the cage was something Tommy couldn’t fathom.

Maybe it was some sort of manipulation tactic, to try and get Tommy to trust him and not try to escape. He’d read about something like that once, in the library of the human’s house he had lived in. It was something about the functions of the mind, and how it responded to things outside of it. Unfortunately, Tommy had stopped reading it after the first page, because it had been so fucking boring. He was regretting that a little now.

Whether it was some kind of manipulation or not, Dream was being unreasonably nice to him, and Tommy didn’t know why. It left him feeling conflicted, especially after a conversation with the seemingly easy-going human. On the one hand, Dream was a human, and more importantly, he was a human holding Tommy captive. On the other hand, Dream made Tommy laugh harder than anyone else he’d ever met. He gave Tommy more food than he could ever hope to eat on his own, and he freely gave information on most of the things Tommy asked about. Dream talking about himself, apparently, was a no-go. No matter how many times Tommy had tried to direct a conversation towards the man’s life, Dream always somehow distracted the teen with something else.

Dream had set up camp for the night, and had a fresh slab of pork spitted over the merrily crackling fire. The smell was lovely, and Tommy was actually letting himself appreciate it. Dream hadn’t neglected feeding him, not even once, so Tommy was confident that he would get a small portion of food from the human.

Relatively small, anyway. Most of what Dream had given him was nearly as big as Tommy's entire arm, if not bigger. He'd even wheedled Dream into giving him a large scrap of cloth so that he could tie together all of the leftovers and not lose them. It was very considerate of the human.

Tommy tried his best not to get swept up in any conversations with Dream, feeling like it would be best if he stayed as distant as he possibly could. The human was so charismatic (even though he was a total bitch,) that in nearly every conversation the teen had with him, he found himself growing more and more attached. 

It wasn’t a good thing, not at all. It would only hurt Tommy more when Dream did whatever he was going to do to him. 

On top of everything, Tommy was mostly afraid of the future. He was dreading the day they arrived at wherever Dream was headed to, because that was the day that Tommy would get sold, or killed, or worse. He’d heard horror stories of what the bigfolk would do to inchlings if they got caught. The nightmares after his family explained to him what big people liked to do to smallfolk had been awful, and had persisted for weeks. The night terrors after his family was taken had been worse. 

Tommy tried not to dwell much on what would happen to him if he was ever caught, but now, with the reality of it looming ever closer, it was nearly all he could think about. The fear and dread had built up over the past few days, horrible ideas and theories spiraling through his head, until it all became too much that night, and it all burst out.

"Alright, fuck this!" Tommy spat suddenly. Dream glanced over to the teen, startled. "What are you gonna do with me?!" He sprang to his feet, angrily jabbing a finger in the human’s direction and propping his other fist on his hip.

“What?” Dream cocked his head curiously, peering down through the bars of the cage he was settled beside. The dancing of the firelight flickered over Tommy’s small frame, bathing him in shifting shadows. “What am I going to…do? With you?” He shifted, stretching his legs out in front of the fire and leaning against the tree.

“Yes,” Tommy yelled, angrily pacing the length of the cage. “You’re taking me somewhere, obviously, because you haven't let me go. You've obviously dealt with my kind before, cause you’re not loud or grabby, and cause you’re not shocked at all, and all of the things you have that are my size are meant for my people, were made by my people,” he paused, heaving in a shaking breath. “You have too much for just a passing find, you had to have caught tons of us before and since they're not here you had to have sold them or killed them or given them to a witch–” He grabbed at his hair, breathing heavily. “And I don't know what you're gonna do to me and I can't stop thinking about it so just tell me, please, so I can at least know what's gonna happen to me!” Tommy’s chest shuddered with each hitching heave of air as he stared pleadingly up at Dream. His eyes glistened with unshed tears which were rapidly blinked away, and his tiny hands were trembling from his outburst.

Dream winced, pushing himself up straighter. He turned more fully to the miniature teenager, considering. He hadn’t really explained what he was going to do with the teen, had he? He’d kinda just forgotten. And now, because of his negligence, Tommy seemed to be having a mental breakdown over things that wouldn’t transpire. 

Dream sighed, reaching down to tap at the bars of the cage. Tommy flinched, scrawny limbs tensing noticeably. “I’m not going to do anything with you, Tommy.” The teen scowled, opening his mouth. Dream held up a finger much larger than he was, cutting him off. “I am heading to Manberg here pretty soon though, so I figured that would be as good a place as any to drop you off at.”

Tommy’s words died in his throat. Manberg! That’s where he was taken from! Maybe he could find Tubbo, or contact Phil, or something! Maybe he’d be able to escape!

But then, the words really sank in. ‘Drop him off.’ The words reminded him of the way someone would talk about a package. Dream was probably taking him to be someone’s exotic pet. Tommy’s temper flared back up, and he snarled.

"Drop me off!? So you’re not even gonna sell me!? You’re just gonna give me to some clueless fuckwad as some sort of pet!?" Tommy balled his fists at his sides, gaze livid. 

Dream splayed his hands disarmingly at the teen’s outburst. “I’m not going to–”

“The fuck you aren’t! I know there’s a market for borrowers!” A snarl adorned Tommy’s face, and he was pressed right up against the mesh of the cage, hands trembling around the wires. “Why the fuck do you think I was kidnapped the first time?! I’m not fucking stupid, Dream!”

The smell of burning pork filled the air as they tore into each other, the air thick with a palpable, violent tension. The night critters that had surrounded the camp had long gone silent, the majority of the forest spectating the hot-tempered scene with a detached sort of interest.

"What?! No, you-!" The human's jawline twisted into a scowl as he leaned closer, looming over Tommy.

"You fucking lying bastard, I know your type, don't you try to trick me-" The teen snapped back face red in a combination of fury and indignation. Why the fuck would Dream try to deny it? Tommy knew the truth. He knew what Dream was going to do to him.

"Oh–you dumb fucking child—" Huge fists balled up from the human's sides, fingerless leather gloves literally creaking under the intense pressure.

Dream shot up abruptly, enormous boots absolutely demolishing the forest debris next to the cage. Tommy stumbled backwards until his bony shoulders hit the iron bars with a clang as the towering, light-blocking frame of Dream stood threateningly over him. 

Tommy’s heart started to pound as the human just stood there, hands twitching, the gaze of the smiling mask boring into his soul. Suddenly, Dream whirled around and stomped away through the underbrush.

What the hell? Why the hell would he just leave? Tommy was left gaping in a confused fury, anger left to steep as apprehension bubbled up. Why the fuck would Dream just run off like that? Surely Tommy hadn’t said anything too terribly offensive? He didn’t fucking know. He didn’t particularly care, either.

Part of Tommy was cheering victoriously. Ha! Stupid bitch boy human can't deal with the great Tommyinnit! He had just won in a verbal battle with Dream! He’d made the human leave, all through the force of his words. He was quick witted, yeah, but he’d never talked a human into running away!

But the most overpowering part of his brain was terrified. He'd just pissed Dream off. What if he stopped feeding him? What if he stopped being nice? What if Tommy had screwed all of this up?!

…He needed to go. He couldn’t stick around when Dream could come back, at any moment, pissed to all extremes. He didn’t know what the human would do to him, but every single thing his mind conjured up was terrifying. He’d never made someone mad without painful repercussions occurring soon after, and he doubted this time would be any different. Dream would hurt him this time, plain and simple, and Tommy needed to be gone before the human could come back and do so.

His first thought was trying to pick the lock of the cage. He’d nearly gotten it, a few days ago before Dream caught him, and now he had the opportunity to try again, but…no matter how he twisted and turned and angled his body, he just couldn’t reach the inside of the lock. Even with a stick he'd grabbed that was near his cage, he couldn’t angle it right. The stick had snapped off inside of the keyhole, trapping him permanently. He’d checked the corners and seams of the wires, and had even tried to squeeze through the gridded bars, but, like the last thirty attempts, he couldn’t find a way out. He was trapped, waiting until his inevitable punishment came in the form of one whole overly-large human, one that he had foolishly pissed off.

Tommy was very, very terrified. Dream was nice, and soon, that illusion would come crashing down on his head, and he didn’t think he was ready for that. Not at all.

°°°°°°°

Tommy was getting antsy. Dream had been gone for what, four hours now? 

And, even though he was relatively safe in the cage, (it wasn't like an animal could bust through it) the dark forest around him was creepy. He could hear things rustling around and the lonely, echoing calls of animals during their nightly hunting. He'd even heard the choked, gurgling rasp of a zombie once or twice. It made him feel edgy.

The night air was cool. Tommy shivered and wrapped his quilt more securely around his shoulders. The fire was still crackling merrily, but its heat didn’t quite reach Tommy’s cage. The pork that Dream had been cooking was a charred husk that smelled awful, but just the thought of it made Tommy’s stomach growl. 

Absently, he reached over to his stash of leftovers and broke off a piece of (stale, by now, but Tommy didn't really care) bread to munch on. It wasn't as good as meat cooked straight from the fire, but it would do its job.

He ran his fingers over one of the patterns embroidered on his quilt (some kind of brown-and-white spotted animal with four legs and horns on its head. Tommy didn't know what it was, but he really liked it.) He worried the soft stitches between his fingers, staring at the colorful patterns.

His mind was still circling on the possibilities of what would happen when Dream came back, but the sheer terror had dulled somewhat. It was boring, incredibly so, waiting for anticipated pain that hadn’t come yet. There was some lingering anxiety about what would happen after Dream punished him, about how things would be different, but he tried not to think about that. He’d take one thing at a time, and right now, he was just trying to focus on the details of his quilt. It was…soothing, in more ways than one, no matter how Dream had obtained the thing.

There was a sudden, distinct crunch of leaves behind him, and Tommy’s heart spiked. Oh shit. He was back. He whirled around, quilt clutched to his chest, to see a shadowed figure loom into sight. He squinted at it in slight confusion. He couldn’t see too well in the dark, his night vision had been spoiled by the fire, but something felt…off.

“...Dream…?" His voice was weak and wobbly, even to his own ears, and he cringed. The figure moved, then, without answering, and Tommy realized something awful. The approaching form wasn’t Dream. They were too thin, too short, and suddenly, all Tommy wanted was for Dream to come back. Dream was better than an unknown human. 

Dream would probably keep Tommy alive. 

The stranger spoke, voice low and smooth and delighted, and Tommy realized that he was completely and utterly fucked.

“I thought I’d never get the chance to grab you." The human drawled, reaching down and plucking Tommy’s cage into the air. The teen lost his balance and nearly fell at the sudden movement, dropping his quilt in shock and stumbling back until his shoulders hit cold metal. He felt his heel strike against something that clattered away and fell outside of the bars of the cage, but Tommy didn't have the presence of mind to care about it, not right now.

The only thing between him and this new human was the thin wire bars and the small, delicate lock on the cage door. Tommy pressed himself against the back of the cage, glaring distrustfully at the almost overwhelmingly large face. The human grinned, bright and triumphant, before reaching for the cage door. He poked curiously at the lock before frowning and deciding to just yank the door open.

The thin metal bars were snapped open with ease, the small hinges not made to withstand the strength of an entire human. Tommy tried to scramble back, away, as far as he could from the encroaching hand, but it was no use. 

The fingers pinched painfully around his left shin, grinding the bones together so hard they almost cracked. He was dragged screeching out of the cage despite his desperate hands clinging to anything they could grab and dangled upside-down in front of the human’s face.

“I’ve been looking for one of you for a loooong while,” the man grinned, reaching up with his other hand to tug at Tommy’s hair. Warm breath washed over him as he tried and failed to push away the massive, hurtful fingertips. The fingers rose away from his hair and instead moved to poke his stomach, shoving Tommy back and sending him swaying through the air.

He swung dizzily, the blurred ground far, far below him twisting in and out of focus as more foul breath wafted past him, making him gag.

“Get some breath mints, bitch!” Tommy spat, desperately holding back the queasy roiling of his stomach. His leg pinged painfully, calling forth another wave of nausea.

The human scowled, baring his teeth in an ugly snarl, and Tommy realized that he maybe should not have said that. The man plucked the teen’s right arm in a tight pinch and easily twisted it away from his body.

“Shut it,” the human snarled, holding Tommy's arm stretched below his head. “Unless I say otherwise, you don’t speak.” He tugged slightly at the teen’s arm, making him wince.

Tommy’s temper flared up in spite of the warning. “No! Fuck you, you twat! Put me the fuck down—!”

The man’s glower deepened, and suddenly, he pulled the two limbs in his grasp in opposite directions.

Tommy screamed. Pain lanced up and down the whole of his torso, and then some. He could feel it as both his shoulder and hip were slowly pulled from their sockets. His spine and ribs were gradually being drawn apart, and it hurt.

And then, suddenly it didn’t.

A nasty, meaty craak-krunch! sounded off below him as the fingers slipped from his arm. Something hot and viscous splattered all over Tommy’s aching body, and the human holding him wheezed out a wet, gurgling groan. 

Tommy blinked open eyes he didn’t even remember closing and immediately caught sight of the gorey sword-tip that appeared to have sprouted from the man’s chest. He yanked his gaze away, nauseated at the sight of all of the gooey little bits of blood and meat and bone shard glistening wetly in the light of the dying fire.

The fingers crushing his leg suddenly slackened, and Tommy screamed hoarsely when he immediately started to plummet down towards the very much solid ground.

“Oh, shit-” Dream shoved the dying man to the side and dove forward, arms outstretched. He very nearly missed, only just managing to clap his hands around the small teen before tripping and thudding harshly down onto his chest. He wheezed, half in pain, half in embarrassment, because whoops, that was an oversight on his part. Tommy was still belting out ear-piercing shouts and curses and wriggling violently between Dream’s gloved palms.

With another wheeze, Dream pushed himself up with his elbows and settled down onto his knees, bringing his hands up in front of his face. He unfolded them, gently curling his fingers to cup the gore-splattered teen in front of his eyes. He squinted behind his mask, trying to see if Tommy had any injuries with just the dim light of the moon filtering through the trees and the faint light of the campfire.

Tommy scrambled back, as far as he could, until his shoulders were crammed against Dream's curled fingers. Dream could feel the miniscule heart pounding frantically against his fingerpads while the teen’s thin chest heaved, drawing in great, heavy half-breaths.

Dream bit his lip, thinking, before dropping his hands and gently dumping the teen onto the ground maybe a foot from his knees. Tommy tumbled onto the dirt and laid there for barely a second before he shot up and tried to run.

As soon as Tommy tried to put weight on his left leg, he crumpled, a high-pitched yowl of pain escaping his lips. He didn’t manage to get his hands up in front of him in time and ended up skidding facefirst back onto the ground.

Dream winced. “Shit, Tommy, don’t move, okay?” He reached out for the small teen, gently brushing a finger over his thin shoulder blades. Tommy shrieked and flipped himself over, scrambling backwards on his elbows and one good leg. Dream jerked his hands back immediately, splaying them out in an attempt to reassure the boy.

“Hey, hey, hey, Tommy, it’s just me, it’s just me, Dream, okay?” He tried, voice gentle. Moving slowly, he scooted backwards, away from the shaking teen, until he was far enough to lay himself down on his front. He rested his hands on either side of his head, in clear view, and rested his chin on the ground in front of the teenager. From this new perspective, Dream got a closer look at the teen, the closest since he had first found him.

Tommy’s face was scraped up and bleeding, and there were tiny bits of dust and gravel clinging in his hair. A tiny plaster adorned his jawline, and his shirt looked worn, with many patches stitched in a haphazard pattern at nearly every seam. His beige shorts were heavily patched around his knees, and his shoes looked old and like they were about to fall apart. The most concerning of all, though, was how thin he looked. Dream could swear that he could count the boy’s ribs from behind his shirt, and his joints were so knobbly that they looked like legitimate twigs.

Blood was splattered up and down Tommy’s front, and Dream couldn’t help but feel a little guilty over the fact that it was his fault, technically. It was also kind of his fault that Tommy had gotten grabbed in the first place, because he had left the teen unattended, but he wasn’t going to think about that right now. Dwelling on guilt and regret had never gotten him anywhere before, and it wasn’t going to help him now, not when he was trying to calm down a miniature teenager that had just nearly been kidnapped (again) and had just witnessed Dream brutally murder someone.

The teen’s face screwed up in confusion as he watched Dream settle down onto his stomach just shy of two dozen inches away, his chest heaving in an alarmingly staccato rhythm, but the tension in his shoulders did ease up the tiniest bit. Dream had learned, years and years ago, that if he reduced himself in height and wasn’t towering so high over an inchling that was panicking, he would scare them less. It didn’t work all the time, of course, but it usually got the job done.

“Tommy, Tommy, hey, can you try and relax?” Dream asked, voice pushed down to the softest whisper he could manage. His voice could only go so low, though, and Tommy flinched back. Dream frowned, but tried again. “You’re okay, Tommy, you’re safe. That guy is gone, Tommy, he’s not gonna come back, And I won’t hurt you, alright?” The teenager didn’t look like he quite believed Dream, but his breathing had evened out. Dream counted that as a win, and pushed on.

“Can I take a look at you? So I can make sure you’re not hurt?” It took Tommy a long, long moment to reply, but when he did, his answer was a short, jerky nod of his head. Dream thought he heard the slightest whisper of an “okay,” but he couldn’t be sure. It was too breathy, too quiet. It might’ve been the trees.

“Alright,” Dream breathed, glad the teen was responding. That was a good sign, one that told him Tommy wasn’t too far gone into his panic.

"Here, hold on," Dream murmured, reaching back and sticking a hand into one of his many pockets. He dug around for just a moment before pulling out some flint, steel and an unlit torch. 

"Let me get some light here, okay?" Tommy didn't say anything as Dream lit the torch with a bright flare of sparks. The teen winced at the sudden light that burst forth, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear the dots that suddenly danced in his vision.

Dream stretched his arm out to the side and planted the end of the torch in the dirt with a firm hand, the action a bit awkward due to the odd position he was laying in, then turned back to Tommy.

In this light, Dream could see the teen much better, but that just made everything look so much worse. The assassin held back a pitying grimace as he scanned over Tommy’s battered, bloody form. The boy’s cradled right arm was a mottled yellowish green, and from what little Dream could see of his legs, they were scraped and bruised as well, the left leg in particular a nasty shade of violet. 

The human winced sympathetically. “Can I see your leg? It looks…bad.” 

Tommy sent him a scathing glare and shifted to stick his leg out. “Nn–no ff-fucking shit it looks bad, dumbass.” The miniature teen spat vehemently, voice weak and shaking. Dream was glad he decided to speak, though. He had learned, over the past few days, that silence was as natural for Tommy as it was for creepers to fly.

The teen stretched out his leg with a wince, gasping when he caught sight of the huge, deep purple-black bruises spanning the length of his shin and calf. Already his skin was starting to swell, and even the simple movement of moving his knee had his entire leg aching. Against his will, his eyes stung and watered. He scowled, and scrubbed at them with his wrist.

Dream leaned closer, whistling lowly. "That's a hell of a bruise, kid."

“Y-you fucking think?!”  Tommy half hissed, half growled. His face was pinched, and his fingers were twitching from where they were hovering around his shin. “I think–I think it’s fucking broken.” The words were a mix of fury, of pain, of fear, and Dream couldn’t help but pity the teen. A broken leg was practically a death sentence for any inchling, let alone one on his own. 

“Gimme just a second…” Dream trailed off, turning to dig around in his satchel. He knew he had it somewhere, he had just gotten one a few days ago, where’d… “Aha!” Triumphantly, he pulled out a glittering bottle about halfway full of a vibrant red liquid. He shook it gently, inspecting it as it sloshed against the glass walls. This was one of the potions he had pilfered from the five hunters that had Tommy, so he wasn’t entirely sure how effective it would be. It was the only health potion Dream currently had on him, though, so it would have to do.

He slowly propped himself up on his elbows, wary of spooking the teen, and popped open the cork on the bottle. Tommy was watching him, blue eyes absolutely drowning in suspicion, so Dream explained what he was doing.

“This is just a health potion, alright? It’s gonna fix your injuries, okay?” Dream gave the teen a small smile, even though it couldn’t be seen from behind his mask. “You’ll be as good as new in no time.”

Tommy gaped up at Dream, eyes widening in consternation. Dream was going to use a fucking health potion? On Tommy? Why the hell would he waste such a valuable item on him?

The cool magic of the potion splattered against his skin and absorbed into his bruises almost immediately as Dream poured it over his body, chasing out the spiking ache and leaving behind a cool numbness that Tommy appreciated very, very much. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders loosening as the pain rushing jaggedly through his leg washed away.

He'd only ever had a healing potion used on him once, and that had been when he'd broken his leg so badly that the bone had come out. The feeling was familiar, and Tommy found that he enjoyed the warm prickling that ran through his skin.

The remainder of the potion was whisked away into Dream's pockets, leaving Tommy to stare wistfully after it. If only he had a bottle on him. He could definitely use an emergency health potion.

"Here," Dream reached forward and gently curled his fingers around the teen. Tommy cursed with a violent flinch, shoulders hitting the ground from how far he went backwards. The assassin paused at the teen’s reaction, and thought better of just grabbing him. Instead, he pulled his hand back a couple inches and laid it flat on the ground. 

“C’mon,” Dream murmured, voice gentle. He tapped his knuckles against the dirt, indicating towards his hand. “Climb on. I’ve…we need to move the camp, alright?” He sent a meaningful glance towards the bleeding corpse sprawled next to the dim, dying fire and turned his gaze back down to Tommy.

The teen nodded reluctantly, unwilling to come into contact with Dream, much less climb into his hand, but much, much more adverse to spending any more time near a dead body. It would start stinking pretty soon, and Tommy absolutely did not want to be around for that. Dream was the lesser of the two evils, as much as that fact made Tommy's skin crawl.

He pushed himself up on still slightly numb legs and forced himself to walk the few inches over to Dream's splayed palm. There, he balked, body freezing of its own volition. 

Dream's hand was massive, the flat of his palm coming up to just a little below Tommy's waist. Each finger was as thick as Tommy himself was wide, and they were all much, much taller than he was, excluding the thumb, which was only a few centimeters or so higher than Tommy stood.

Tommy clenched his hands into fists, breathing deeply, and forced his legs to move. One step after the other, he climbed onto Dream's hand.

The leather of the glove wasn't very pliant, but Tommy still almost lost his balance. He threw his arms out, wobbling as he regained his footing. He crouched down as soon as he was in the center of the wide palm, balanced over a crease in the leather glove. He wasn't going to outright sit in Dream's hand, but god forbid he stay standing and inevitably fall over. 

Tommy breathed deeply, scrunching his eyes closed. Rarely did being in a human's hold ever lead to a good thing. Tommy had so much experience to back the fact up, and despite his desperate desire not to, all he could see were the bad things that could happen to him.

He saw himself being thrown, he saw himself being dropped, god, he could see himself being crushed between fingers stronger than any sort of struggle he could muster—

Tommy sucked in several breaths of air, more than a little frantically, and forced himself to calm down. Dream wouldn't hurt him so drastically, wouldn't kill him in such a violent manner. Tommy was too valuable whole and alive, and he was sure that Dream knew that, too.

"Ready?" Dream asked, and Tommy was surprised. Nobody'd ever asked him if he were prepared for a rapid ascent through the air via human hand, and Tommy expected it least of all from Dream. Not even the good humans Tommy knew had ever asked.

He sucked in more air and jerked a curt nod, pressing his hands against the leather surface of the glove to stabilize himself. He hated being carried by humans. It always made him nauseous.

"I'm gonna put you in my pocket for now, okay?" The hand started to raise as the words registered, and Tommy’s heart leaped with an enormous desire to just not.

Tommy's eyes snapped open, and he cut Dream off with a vicious shake of his head. “Fuck no! Don’t you dare, don’t you dare.” He hissed, face twisting into a hot glare as he jabbed a finger up at the human's gleaming white mask.

"It'd be safer for you, though…" Dream offered, pausing the hand's ascent. Tommy scowled, mouth forming a snarl, and spat, "I'm claustrophobic, you ass! You wanna give me a goddamn heart attack!?" 

Dream faltered. "...ah. Oh. Okay, okay, alright. I'll just…" He cleared his throat. "Shoulder it is, then." And then Tommy was moving again, up towards Dream's neck.

He was deposited gently onto Dream’s shoulder, underneath the human's hood. The shoulder he stood on was cast in shadow, and despite all of Tommy's reservations, it was…cozy. He could probably even jump down the back, into the pocket the base of the hood made, if he really wanted.

His hands latched onto the black fabric of Dream's raised shirt collar, and his face twisted. Dream was wearing a turtleneck, but his shoulders were bare. What kind of weird outfit was the human wearing?

As Dream kicked out the mostly-dead fire and gathered the few things that had been set out, Tommy’s gaze wandered to the corpse of the human that had attacked him. The corpse was laying on its side, facing away from Tommy, thankfully, but he could see the red, gooey crater in the human’s back, where Dream had stabbed him though.

The image brought a sick twist of nausea to his stomach, and Tommy was suddenly afraid for himself, of what Dream might be willing to do to him. He needed…he needed to convince the human that he didn’t need to punish Tommy. That he’d already…that he’d learned the lesson, or something. Tommy sucked in a steadying breath, fingers tightening in the thick fibers of Dream's shirt.

“I’m…I’m sorry for yelling at you.” Tommy blurted, shoulders hitching up and eyes scrunching shut. His breath shuddered as he exhaled, half convinced that the human would turn violent after being reminded of what had happened.

“Please don’t…don’t…” He trailed off, unable to find the words to beg Dream not to punish him for his (completely justified) anger. 

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was firm, and the tone made the teen flinch. Was he angry…? 

Dream continued, unaware of Tommy’s whirling thoughts. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? Not now, not ever, and especially not over something as stupid as an argument, alright?” Tommy seemed doubtful about that, but didn’t comment.

“Why’d you leave…?” The teen murmured, hesitant. The only reason Dream even heard him was because the teen was right next to his ear. 

“I got mad. I…I needed to go blow off some steam, before I did something stupid." The human admitted, voice low and…seemingly regretful. Tommy was perturbed by the remorse in Dream's tone. Why…why did he sound upset? Was he still angry at Tommy?

Dream sighed, a genuinely tired sound, and then, to Tommy's complete and utter shock, apologized.

"Sorry for leaving you for so long," Tommy saw the human's jawline tense in what seemed to be a grimace. Tommy's eyes widened. What the hell? 

Dream's voice came out a little grouchier, a little more strained. "I didn't realize we were being followed, so that's…that's my bad."

Tommy's eyes got wider, if that were at all possible, and his jaw slackened. A human was apologizing!? To him!? What the actual hell was going on!?

If Tommy didn't know any better, he'd say he was having a fever dream. 

Even still, he murmured a quick, confused acceptance of the man's apology and fell silent, contemplating as Dream started moving near-silently through the dark, whispering forest.

The human was so goddamn strange. At nearly every turn, he said or did something that contradicted everything Tommy knew about bigfolk, and the more time Tommy spent with the man, the more confused he became. Dream just didn't make any sense, whatsoever.

Eventually, they found a spot that would make a suitable camp for the remainder of the night. Dream didn't build a fire, instead pulling out some rabbit jerky for them to split for dinner.

Silently, Tommy mourned his stash of bread and meat. He understood why Dream hadn't grabbed it, it hadn't been a priority, but…Tommy felt wrong without some store of food. At least he could start over with the (still too large) chunk of rabbit jerky.

Dream had at least retrieved Tommy’s quilt, but made him sleep inside of his pack maybe a foot away from the man's own sleeping space. Tommy really wasn't complaining, though. If he tried sleeping out in the open like Dream did, any number of night critters could come crawling along to snatch him up for a midnight snack.

And God forbid if he actually tried to sleep with Dream. The human was a light sleeper, and he didn't move much, but even the slight chance that he could be crushed made Tommy cringe. Never mind the fact that he'd have to be in close proximity to the human for the whole night.

He’d tried searching for an exit, once he’d waited long enough for Dream to have fallen asleep, but no matter where he looked, no matter how thoroughly he scoured the walls and seams of the bag, Tommy couldn’t find a viable way out. Not even the top flap was an option, as it was sealed much too tightly for the teen to squeeze through. He was stuck in here, just as much as he had been in the cage. 

At least in the bag he was shielded from the wind, but the thought was little comfort when compared to the fact that he was still trapped, and still traveling to his uncertain future. 

It was slightly easier to sleep at night, though, when he was in a decently warm shelter.

Taglist: @brick-a-doodle-do @i-am-beckyu @da3dm @kayla-crazy-stuffs @local-squishmallow @skullsnbruises @munchkin1156 @jakersdaboss

[livewireprojects]

Nikki & Reala(Bootleg Sonadow)

I admit my addiction is bad but this isn't the first time I've made shit based on other interests/characters I like. So I decided to make some characters inspired by a ship I like along with AU ideas I saw in the past that I tried messing with before scrapping at one point or another.

This is Reala & Nikki who like the title jokes are inspired by Shadow & Sonic, it might not look like it(not helped by lack of color) especially if you have seen how I draw Shadow & Sonic but when I eventually work on showing their backstories it'll make more sense. Also yeah I named Reala after a certain nightmare clown, I'm not original. These two are also meant to be connected to my OCs Terry & Arthur(Nikki makes that kinda clear) which I'll talk about at another time.

Also these two aren't meant to be in the Sonic universe, they're in their own thing but you can joke that they're alternate Shadow & Sonic if you want cause I find that funny

Reala:

Reala is a bit of a distant person, he seems a lot like a loner with only some people managing to be around him but in reality he's just an introvert that isn't good with people especially given he's lost people he's cared about in the past. Reala was born in a lab on a space station, there were a few people he cared about & was sadly in two incidents that led to the lose of people important to him with one person's existence being erased from records & their partner's info being corrupted so no one could find anything on them. Though grieving the lose of his family/those close to him along with dealing with changes/the new world he now lives in Reala has slowly accepted he's in a better time & takes comfort in Nikki's help/companionship. He's slowly learning to live for himself & get into hobbies he hadn't gotten the chance to try in the past, he's also gotten help from Nikki to learn about the world they live on as Nikki knows more about it than he does.

Nikki:

Nikki is a friendly person that likes to run around & explore, he can often be seen sky gazing at night before bed staring out a the stars. He does his best to keep up with/understand his friends as he doesn't always understand what they're talking about, despite this he does his best to listen cause he knows it's important to have a shoulder to lean on or someone to talk to. Nikki in the past has struggled especially due to being alone for a long time but is slowly coming to terms with having people that care surround him, it also helps that Reala has been growing closer to him as Nikki use to feel like something was missing but now feels like that feeling is gone as if Reala was what was missing. Nikki can often be seen wearing star themed stuff along with his hat & hoodie poncho, he doesn't always but he's usually seen in them. Nikki isn't affected by temperature, he can feel it & can get hurt depending on what's going(like touching a heated stove or something) but it doesn't effect him much all of this is just to say he doesn't really need to wear these warm clothes. Nikki sometimes says that the poncho feels like someone is hugging him which might be due to being alone in the past. His hat & poncho often make it hard to tell what species of animal he is, not helped by Nikki kind of being unsure himself.

Drew this a little after drawing Reala & Nikki, here's Nikki with out his hat/poncho that usually cover him. I think I made a mistake drawing the hat in his hand cause I don't exactly like how it looks like that.

Like I mentioned in the first pic Nikki is often seen wandering around in a hat & poncho that make it hard to tell what species he is & makes it seem like he's not to sure either.(He's mostly hedgehog) Nikki has a few outfits he can put on but he usually is in tanks & sports shorts, he also has sports shoes on & some socks/stockings that are rolled at the ankles, I drew one of them slightly unrolled to show they're longer.(Was tempted to have the unrolled one be above the knee but I dunno what to put so it's just partly unrolled) Nikki has one large glove on & one normal sized glove, for some reason I got inspired by this one red ridding hood design I found once & can't find anymore.(Google Image Search failed) Probably doesn't help that I use to have an obsession with red riding hood themed stuff.

I was almost tempted to draw him without his shoes but meh. He also has a few markings on him like his ears, under his eyes, neck & legs.

[envihellbender]

Dbd Clown swallowing Felix or David whole during a trial

Rating: Explicit (gore)

Characters: The Clown (Kenneth Chase/Jeffery Hawk), Felix Richter, David King (briefly)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Content: vore, cannibalism, gore, death

Summary: Felix is the only living survivor trying to evade the Clown.

—

“Shit,” Felix whispered, wincing as he saw David be hooked a final time by the obese, horrific Clown. He didn’t have trials with David very often, and every time he heard him scream the noise pierced through his entire body like a bolt of lightening. He stood watching, blaming himself for not saving him in time when he felt a wet, rumbling belch fill his ears. He looked over his shoulder to see the shadow of a gigantic, lumbering beast. He ran past the hook, a twist of guilt in his stomach for not spending a moment longer with David as the Entity took him. He vaulted over the gap in the wall, and in a panic dove into a nearby locker.

Felix held his breath as the heavy footsteps became closer. He regretted his choice in hiding place, the Entity got angry if anyone in the trial was still for a long period of time making his hiding place obvious to the fucking Clown, he thought. Especially given the fact that Felix was so loud and quick getting into the thing that his chances of having been seen or heard increased massively. Felix tried to hold his breath, keeping as quiet as possible as it sounded as if the beast was throwing his entire weight behind each step causing the locker that housed Felix rattle and shake. He hoped that the Clown would simply become exhausted and Felix could make a break for the Hatch. But despite the fact that the beast was the fattest creature Felix had ever seen, and regardless of the wheezing, it seemed to simply keep going. It guzzled down so many gallons of beer and ate from cheeseburgers bigger than Felix’s torso as it did, feats it would be impossible to do without the blasted entity, Felix thought.

The footsteps and wheezes became louder, Felix held both gloved hands over his mouth desperate to keep as quiet as he could. That moment when the Clown stopped moving was the loudest of all. The heaving breaths, the slapping lips, and groaning from simply existing all screamed in Felix’s ears. The last time he’d faced the Clown the behemoth was simply five hundred pounds with a belly that spilled from underneath his shirt. Now he was an inhuman creature whose clothes had somehow stretched around him and had began tearing to shreds. The beasts gut completely covered his feet and dragged on the ground, had it not been lucky enough to be saved by the Entity it would have been killed by its own gluttony long ago.

“You think you can hide in there little rat?” The Clown sneered, Felix didn’t reply but instead wondered why the killer hadn’t opened the door. The beast let out a groaning noise, something which sounded to Felix like struggling. There was several loud footsteps that were more like thunder, and then a noise so strange and deafening Felix felt his head ache and his ears ring for some time afterwards. His locker shook violently as it had done as the Clown walked but eventually it settled down. The breathing, wheezing had quietened down, now accompanied by mumbling. Felix opened up the locker slightly, peeking out to see simply a huge mass of adipose and nothing else. He opened it further, surprised when this didn’t cause any movement. When he had a full view however it became clear as to why, the Clown had fallen backwards, his behind slammed against the filthy ground and the last scrap of shirt around his gut tore in two.

Felix hesitated, the gut was writhing, there was noise, but the Clown was like a turtle on its back. He needed to take the chance. He began to sprint, all of his energy being thrown into running away, but after the first few steps he felt rough, wet, soft digits grab at his leg. Felix fell forwards onto his front, and clenched his jaw trying not to scream as his front was dragged across the rocky ground. By the time the Clown had him hanging above him, his front was bloody and brutally scratched and cut open. He chuckled, Felix struggled and screamed out he didn’t think it possible for him to be saved now but it wasn’t about that. It was only about gaining a little more time. Even though he felt like a mouse being hung over a cat’s gaping maw.

“Aha, clever little kraut, aren’t you?” The Clown hummed, he licked his lips then dropped Felix. He desperately gripped onto the Clown’s lips, digging his nails in to drag himself out, only to find the Clown’s teeth could break his bones, cutting his torso in two. His family finally falling limp and giving up as he began blood, bones, and viscera. Agony filling him and the threat of death before he awoke sore and tired by the campfire.

[perce-jpg]

au lore infodump about temple of bhaal history + orin and haima dynamics

(this is all modified canon + under the cut per usual 💪)

after the events of the iron throne and serevok (+ serevoks subsequent death), there was a period of nearly 90 years in which the bhaal temple had no leadership or any stable ground whatsoever. it fell into relative obscurity, save for smaller groups scattered around faerûn

enter helena anchev (UNRELATED TO SEREVOK IN THIS. GLARES AT CANON), a changeling woman who began attempts to repair what had been fractured over the years, particularly within baldurs gate. she was as effective as she was charismatic, managing to reestablish Cult Business in the city’s underbelly, and eventually named de facto leader in ≈1450. helena broke an old tradition of bhaalspawn being the primary leaders of Bhaal Business, but her efforts and skill had earned her the favor of the murder bitch himself, so nobody minded

while helena was devout and damn good at what she did (which was mostly stabbing people, evidently), her repairs and rise to power was a big wake up call for bhaal himself- regardless of helena’s successes, his power and influence was dwindling. and since power and influence is quite literally All Gods Are, this was bad.

helena was the head of the current biggest temple (though it was still puny compared to the heights bhaal had fallen from), but there was one teensy flaw in her position: she couldn’t be controlled like bhaalspawn could. sure, she had the fanatical mind you’d expect from a Literal Cult Leader, but technically there was nothing stopping her from turning against bhaal. and when you’re a god teetering over the edge of obscurity, you get paranoid

clearly (/s) the reason other bhaalspawn had failed before was because they were still part mortal- more room for lame useless things like personality and opinions. so to cover all his bases (and eventually wrest control from helena) bhaal enacted a silly little plan to frankenstein create a bhaalspawn that had zero mortal blood whatsoever. just freaky god magic held together with magic duct tape and a prayer

1455 rolls around, and hooray haima is born! (well . “born”. again- freak ass frankenstein magic)

little durge baby is created then shipped off to norchapel, a little offshoot town near baldurs gate. totally normal and fine childhood ensues

cut back to helena: things are going great in the temple efforts. numbers and resources are growing, but not at a rate where she can get comfortable yet. she does the best she can in the early years of her leadership (especially after her god seemingly starts to ignore her prayers).

around nine years later, something unexpected happens- bhaal briefly loses track of the durge frankenstein kid. it’s a whole thing for another post, but once again fueled by paranoia and fear of losing grip on this resurgence, bhaal decides to start plan b. a failsafe, just in case this whole durge kid plan blows up and he needs a few years to make another one

in 1464, orin is born in the temple in baldurs gate to helena. classic demigod bhaalspawn child, and a changeling like her mother

with orins birth, for the first time in decades, the temple's path forward is clear: they will continue to grow their forces with orin as helena’s heir, and when she’s old enough, orin will lead them into a new prosperous era. an era of success, away from the days of hiding underground and fighting for scraps. orins birth is seen as a sign of hope; a bhaalspawn born after decades of silence, the sign of a better future and proof their god had not abandoned them. she is revered.

orin spends her childhood in the temple, dreaming of the throne her parents promised. bhaal has gone silent again (he had in fact found the kid he briefly lost), but orins existence is enough to keep people in high spirits. helena trains orin herself, telling her about all the glory and power she will wield, and how people look at her and see hope. the temple throne isn’t just something promised; it is made for orin. the task of ushering in new glory is placed upon orins shoulders- and she couldn’t be more excited to claim her crown.

dreams and promises are forced to a heel in 1475. orin is 11 when her mother is murdered. she is assassinated at the yearly tribunal by a newcomer who claims to be a scion of bhaal, sent to set things right. the people of the temple listen, and in one fell swoop, orin has lost everything. her throne is handed off to a stranger, and her mother- the one who promised her greatness and hope, the one who raised and trained her for those 11 years- is dead at the altar.

the stranger, the “scion” (haima, they call themselves), refuses to look at her.

instead of the spotlight she is accustomed to, orin reaches adulthood in shadow. she is admired for her unmatched talent, but she no longer holds authority. she insists she should be held higher because she is a daughter of bhaal (same as this “new temple head”, mind you!) but haima has told the others that they all stand on equal footing, and the measure of someone’s worth is in their actions, not their blood (hypocrite, she thinks).

orin is angry. she is mourning the life she lost, the promise that died along with her mother. she is meant to be revered- glorious promise of prosperity sitting on a throne- but she is cast aside. shut out. she could scream, make scenes, but they won’t listen. not while a snake is in power, poisoning everyone against her.

so orin bides her time. bites her tongue. if haima insists on shutting the door, she will tear it down. she will wait, and when the time is right, they will see. the temple will see. and she will claim what is hers.

haima is a difficult person to speak with. they spend their days holed up in some office at the back of the temple, refusing visitors and audiences. when the 1482 tribunal rolls around, orin (now 18) is able to become a proper initiate (the daughter of bhaal, having to prove herself among mortals? she finds this ridiculous!).

in the early days, helena’s duty as temple head was to oversee the tribunals, and although haima has yet to oversee a single tribunal, surely orin being among the initiates would draw them out. surely they would have the decency to face her, after all they’ve done- after all they’ve took. surely they would offer more than silence.

during the tribunal, orin puts on a display so dramatic it earns her the moniker of “orin the red”. like every year, haima does not oversee it. as if orin- despite all her talents and godly blood- is not worth their time. orin is beyond fury. but she cannot act. not yet.

it takes a few more years before orin is able to speak with them properly. an insult, she thinks, that orin the red must trot around like a mouse at the feet of their sibling, hoping for a moment to speak. when she is able to meet with them, she glimpses at the person who her father has placed so much alleged faith in. haima is no scion, no leader; they hide away among their jars and vials, dismissing her like she doesn’t have more talent in a pinky than they possess in their entire body. they make comments on her dramatics, like she’s some sniveling child instead of an artist. little sister, they call her once- the only acknowledgement of their kinship, used to undercut her. the dismissal is almost worse than the silence.

orin then sees haima for what they are. duty weighs too heavily on them; they take no pride in murder or leadership, hiding away, clinging to ��efficiency” and “order”. they are nothing like orin, with her talent and magics, and she knows they aren't fit like she is. she is bloody, she is brutal, she is an artist. they are dull, they are merciful, and they have the gall to look down on her.

her goal to take back the temple is inevitable. she spends years as their “right hand”, watching and waiting for the right moment (by now it’s 1492, and orin is 28). haima gets involved with the musings of a kelevmorite, and with the help of some risen chosen of myrkul associated with the stupid plan, orin finds a crack and tears down the wall. they never even saw it coming.

for a while, revenge- and the temple- is hers. orin wins in the end. yet when she prays to bhaal, there’s no response.

[electrikworm]

5 times Wrecker protected his siblings and 5 times they protected him: Chapter 1

During a mission, Wrecker keeps droids off of Crosshair's back.

--

Content warning: Blood and injury

This fic plays sometime during the Clone Wars before Echo joined the batch.

Read on Ao3

“My position's been compromised.” Crosshair hisses into his comlink, taking out three B1 battle droids approaching him in quick succession.

It had been the perfect location for Crosshair to work from, a cliff overlooking the entirety of the small outpost they're clearing out. Now he had droids marching at him up the slope he himself climbed only fifteen minutes ago. Moving behind a slight raise in the rocks for better cover, Crosshair sighs. It's always something.

“I can't cover your backs if mines being shot at.” he continues, firing shot after shot at the approaching hoard.

“On it!” Wrecker responds, far louder than necessary. Crosshair has half a mind to snap at him for it, not that doing so in the past had ever made Wrecker manage his volume.

“We can do without Wrecker if you thin their numbers from up there Crosshair.” Hunter says. “Contact us when he reaches you.”

Crosshair hears the distressed screams of droids meeting a violent end at Wreckers hands long before he sees the oversized clone come up the slope. He is a little surprised at how fast Wrecker got there. He must have ran the whole way.

“He's here, you can proceed.” Crosshair informs Hunter and Tech, turning his back on the fighting going on behind him. The droids have their hands full with Wrecker now.

He quickly spots Hunter and Tech through his scope, immediately starting on clearing hard to reach opponents in their path. He gets six shots, all perfect hits, in before Wrecker makes it all the way to him and for some kriffing reason decides that distracting Crosshair is a good idea.

“I've got you, kih'vod, don't worry!” Crosshair can hear the grin in his voice, just about catches the thumbs up Wrecker waves in his direction too when he snaps to look at his vod.

“Stow it.” Crosshair spits. “Do your job so I can do mine.”

Wrecker does listen, and although the sound of him fighting is still irritatingly loud, Crosshair can tune that out. A sense of calm overcomes him as he falls into the familiar rhythm of aiming and firing.

Hunter had pointed out before how Crosshairs heart rate and breathing even out when he's concentrating, saying you could almost mistake him for being asleep, were it not for the shots fired from his Firepuncher.

Tech occasionality calls out coordinates, Crosshair finding and eliminating the target there in fractions of seconds. Otherwise he just takes out any droid that would hinder Hunter and Techs progress. They clear the outpost at an efficient pace, especially with some of their forces diverted to Crosshair, and such, Wrecker.

Crosshair allows himself to say a slightly smug “T-1's down.” into their shared comm channel when he hits the tactical droid square in the head in the split second it stood a little too far away from its cover. After that, it's just picking off the stragglers.

Crosshair's doing a final sweep of the outpost when something hits him on the back.

A B1 battle droid's arm he discovers as he turns round. Wrecker's standing there with the rest of the droid in his hands, helmet propped on the top of his head, grinning. Crosshair glares at him, confident the large clone knows exactly how his vod is looking at him even with the helmet.

Wrecker steps over the piles of scrap that used to be droids to approach Crosshair, no doubt to offer him a hand up from where he's been laying on the floor for the past forty-five minutes. He refuses the hand offered to him, less out of spite, more because he noted how heavily Wrecker is limping and the fact he has his other hand firmly pressed to his side.

“Did you count how many clankers you destroyed?” Wrecker asks. A stupid question: Of course he counted. Crosshair choses to forgo answering that for now.

“Did you break something?” he asks, gesturing at the side Wrecker is clutching. Experimentally Wrecker pushes his fingers against his ribs, grimacing as he does so.

“Yeah, think so.”

“Are you okay to walk?” Crosshair continues, pointing at the leg Wrecker was hesitation to put weight on. From what Crosshair can see, Wrecker's right thigh plate has a dent on its side.

“Yeah.” Wrecker answers, taking a step to prove so. “Should be fine.”

Crosshair comms Hunter, informing him that he'll be heading back to the Marauder with Wrecker due to an injury.

They barely get two steps before Wrecker says: “I destroyed 42.”

Crosshair laughs. “That's cute. My counts at 64.” The way Wreckers grin drops makes Crosshair laugh again.

“How?” Wrecker exclaims, having stopped walking in his confusion.

Crosshair could go into detail, explain how the conditions were ideal and he had free reign to hit any droid he could see. But where's the fun in that?

“Guess I'm just better than you.” he says instead. Wrecker huffs in annoyance.

“You sure you're not cheating? You're not counting B2's twice or something, right? We agreed that all droids count once!”

“I don't cheat.” Crosshair scoffs.

“You cheat at cards.”

“I cheat at cards because it pisses Tech off.” Crosshair pauses for a moment, then continues with a smirk. “But, since you got shot in the leg to let me continue shooting, we can count this as an honorary win for you.”

The look of indignation of Wreckers face is possibly the funniest thing he's seen all year.

“Absolutely not! I'm not taking some pity win!” Wrecker shakes his head in annoyance and continues walking down the slope. Crosshair almost laughs again, but as Wrecker takes another step, he doubles over and grabs at his injured leg. Crosshair's caught up to him in a few steps.

“Kark.” Wrecker hisses under his breath, eyes pressed closed. “I think I'll take you up on your offer now...”

“What, the pity win?”

“No!” Wrecker exclaims, then continues quieter. “The 'helping me walk'”

If Crosshair wanted to be really irritating, he'd point out that he had never offered that, and had only asked about Wreckers ability to walk.

Rather than doing that, he simply moves close enough to Wreckers side for him to sling his arm across Crosshairs shoulder. The snipers knees almost give out at the sudden weight. He voices his annoyance with a sigh, but starts walking.

The steep incline leading to the cliffs edge is distinctly more challenging when you're acting as a crutch for a man twice your weight. Crosshair focuses entirely on keeping his footing.

The barely suppressed noises of pain coming from Wrecker are bothering Crosshair. They seem to get louder and harder to contain every step they take. When a slightly miscalculated step brushing their legs together causes Wrecker to struggle to bite back a scream, Crosshair's had enough.

“Sit down, I'm taking a look at that leg.” Crosshair says, tone setting it clear that he's not going to argue about this. Wrecker, predictable, still tries to do exactly that.

“It's fine.” he says, refusing to look at Crosshair.

“Sit your shebs down, or you can show me exactly how fine you are by crawling back to the Marauder on your own.” Crosshair hisses. This time, Wrecker listens, lowering himself to a rock. Crosshair crouches next to him.

Turns out, his thigh plate hasn't got a dent, it has a concave. The shot that hit and broke through the thigh plate bent the sharp edges of the armor piece inwards, digging them into Wreckers leg. Every bit of movement must have pushed the jagged duraplast deeper into the surrounding muscle. Crosshair curses. He should have known to check the injury earlier.

“You'll bleed out if we leave that. Give me your medkit.” Crosshair states, holding his hand out demandingly. The sheepish look on Wreckers face tells him everything he needs to know.

He kriffing forgot it again.

“You're unbelievable.” With a sigh, Crosshair pulls his own medkit out of his pack. Wrecker mutters a barely audible apology.

When Crosshair tries to unlatch Wreckers thigh plate, the large clone jerks his leg away.

“Can't we stop the bleeding without taking that off?” Wrecker tries. Crosshair's dealt with Wreckers aversion to medical procedures many times over the years.

“No.”

The thigh plate comes off with a sickening wet tear as the damaged edges slip from the wound. The barely suppressed cry from Wrecker is worse. Crosshair puts a hand on his arm in apology. Only for a second, the amount of blood soaked into Wreckers blacks urges him to hurry.

“You're bleeding kriffing everywhere.” Crosshair groans. Wrecker needs stitches. Those can't be done here. Not with Crosshairs limited med kit, not in these unsanitary conditions, not without painkillers. Covering the gaping wound with a bacta patch and bandaging it tightly is the best he can do for Wrecker right now.

The way Wreckers clenching and unclenching his hands, Crosshairs almost worried he'll break something.

Crosshair observes his work for a moment. When no blood stains the white fabric, he stands up, extending a hand to Wrecker. “Get up.”

Wrecker complies, voicing gratitude as he does so. Crosshair is unclear weather it is directed at the first aid, or the help with standing up.

The rest of the walk back to the Marauder is remarkably uneventful. Crosshair keeps an eye on Wrecker. Save for a slight shade of red seeping through the bandages when the ships already in sight and his pinched expression, Wreckers condition doesn't worsen. Tech and Hunter aren't back at the Marauder yet when they arrive.

Crosshair gets Wrecker to sit down on the lowest of the three wall mounted beds.

If available, Tech usually takes charge of any medical emergency, however every member of clone force 99 knows their way around a medkit. A medic was never a part of the squad, having basic medical knowledge became a necessity. It takes no more than a few seconds for the med scanner to display its verdict.

“None of your broken ribs are displaced, but stitching that leg up is going to be an absolute joy.” Crosshair snarks, making Wrecker huff in amusement. That in turn makes him pull a face, pressing his hand firmly to his injured side. Crosshair uses that distraction to get a hypo of painkillers in him before Wrecker can argue about it. With his free hand now at his neck, Wrecker shoots Crosshair a look, offended at his brothers deceit.

After disinfecting the injury, Crosshair is proven right: sewing the laceration on Wreckers thigh together is a pain, both for him and his vod. Despite the painkillers and numbing spray applied, Wrecker's in obvious agony as Crosshair pulls the jagged edges of the wound together. He manages to hold remarkably still, making Crosshair's tedious job easier.

Crosshair is only halfway through by the time Tech and Hunter return. Both linger near Crosshair and Wrecker for a moment, asking questions and standing in Crosshairs light.

Crosshair doesn't voice his annoyance. Them conversing with Wrecker is no doubt a welcome distraction from the pain for the large clone. After they've both looked at the med scanner, as well as asked Crosshair if he needs help, Tech and Hunter finally clear off.

Once the injury is closed up and re-bandaged, there's not much more he can do for Wrecker. He grabs a cold pack from the medkit, kneading it one handedly to activate the chemicals inside as he looks for Lula. Once the stuffed tooka is retrieved, Crosshair tosses both the items to Wrecker, who grins at the sight of the stuffed animal he's grown unbelievably attached to over the years.

Sitting down next to Wrecker on his uninjured side, Crosshair leans his head against his brothers shoulder. Saying the right thing to make his vode fell better isn't one of Crosshair's skills. But offering comfort through proximity, in a small way like this? That he can do.

Going off of Wreckers tired but content sigh, it's working.

Next to him, Wrecker's practising the breathing exercises Tech taught him to do when his ribs are broken. The first few times he sustained a similar injury, Tech had to constantly remind him to do them. Now, he does them automatically.

“Thanks for watching my back.” Crosshair says.

“It was nothing, Cross. If anything I should be thanking you. You had to drag me all the way to the Marauder!” Wrecker retorts, smile in his voice. Crosshair sighs. There's no point in trying to get Wrecker to accept gratitude for something like this.

They've been on mission after mission for two and a half weeks now. Crosshair hopes they'll be afforded a break. The whole squads tired, lack of sleep and constant combat stacking up over the rotations. Everyone's baring minor half healed injuries, and now with the state Wrecker's in, pushing on wouldn't be advisable.

Not that any of this would stop Wrecker. Crosshair knows that his ori'vod would keep on fighting if asked to, even if he'd have to do so fuelled solely by caf and pain meds.

At some point, Wrecker falls asleep leaning against Crosshair. He scoffs when he notices, but wouldn't dream of moving or waking his vod. Crosshair will most likely fall asleep himself some time soon. For now, he sits looking around the Marauder uninterestedly, studying the posters on the walls in detail, whilst his brother snores softly next to him.

[noaheadiegamedev]

Gasket

Species: Human

Homeworld: Asteroid L5R-7KJH

Pronouns: She/Her

“Learn to use yer tools - or yer tools will learn to use you.”

Backstory after the jump.

For three generations, Gasket's family defended Sprocket Gulch, a scrapyard-turned-village, against the killer robots that ravaged their world. When the war broke out eighty years ago, and the capital city fell, Gasket's grandfather used his Juggernaut class power armor - cutting edge technology in his time - to clear the city’s scrapyard of robots. He then founded the village and established and maintained its defense perimeter, which his son took up after his passing. When this successor  - Gasket’s father - was slain in an especially brutal robot attack, Gasket inherited her grandfather's Juggernaut suit, and with it the mantle of Sprocket Gulch's defender. She used the armor to protect her home, and was the closest thing the village had to a leader. Despite her tireless efforts and critical life-saving decisions, she alone took the blame for any tragedy that befell them. As a result, she was considered both the worst yet only possible person for the job. Nevertheless, she dutifully carried on.

By the time she was thirty, the soil was barren, all useful scrap metal was used up, and excursions to find the materials necessary to sustain the village had become increasingly perilous. Sprocket Gulch's resources were dwindling, and Gasket realized her world would soon collapse unless she took drastic action. Gasket gathered a group of twenty men for a mission through the capital city's ruins. Her plan: storm the military research base located deep within, where the robots' command servers were located. Destroy the servers, and the war would be over. A gruesome defeat was almost certain, but Gasket knew the alternative - being starved out by the robots - would be a far crueler fate.

During the week-long journey to the city, Gasket grew closer to her platoon, shedding her gruff exterior and gaining a sense of family she had never felt before. When they arrived at the city's gates, the group's newfound unity gave them the strength to venture forth - and begin a campaign far grislier than any of them could ever imagine.

The harsh reality: the robots sent only their weakest drones to attack the village. Those that defended the capital were at least ten times as deadly, and ten times as numerous. In a matter of hours, Gasket lost half her men. In spite of the hell they found themselves in, the surviving soldiers remained loyal to Gasket, as they charged through the streets and into the military base.

The robots roaming the base's halls were even deadlier than those that guarded the streets. Each was a unique warmachine unto itself. Gasket's platoon was simply no match for these super-killers. The siege devolved into a mad dash for the servers, with Gasket and her squad running more than fighting. By the time they reached the server room, they were reduced to only six warriors. Worse still, they were surrounded, outnumbered a million to one. Covered by her comrades, Gasket used her ion cannon to destroy the servers, with each one taking out ten thousand drones. She took to this with the righteous, systematic fervor of a woman fighting desperately for what remained of her crumbling world, shouting the name of a fallen soldier with each pull of the trigger. When the last server was destroyed, the war ended, and Gasket emerged victorious.

She and her squad - now only four strong - contacted Sprocket Gulch to start the exodus back to the capital. During the wait, the soldiers raided the base. They found a bounty of resources, including fifty years of rations, a thriving arboretum, a vast database of scientific knowledge, an army's worth of weapons and armaments - and a single rocketship with room for but one person. When the villagers arrived, they voted unanimously that Gasket was the most deserving to pilot the rocket and find help to rebuild the city. Initially, she refused, but her squadmates convinced her that they were well-equipped to defend themselves. Trusting her newfound family, Gasket said goodbye, and set off into space, still wearing her grandfather's armor.

Gasket traveled to distant worlds, spreading her grandfather's ashes and rediscovering the universe from which her people were cut off for nearly a century. During her travels, Gasket made it a priority to learn about sentient machines from across the cosmos, and differentiate them from the mindless drones that terrorized her people. In time, her story caught the attention of the Thrasher League. She accepted their offer to fight in the arena, and the League helped rebuild her homeworld by sending a small fleet of construction freighters.

Gasket is a thrasher who appears rough on the outside, but is approachable once you get to know her. She enjoys talking shop with other mechanics, and trading war stories with other veterans. She's always ready to defend her fellow thrashers, and more than once has gone to blows for them. 

Despite its obsolescence, Gasket refuses to modify her grandfather's suit with newer technology. She also will not replace its parts with those standard for Juggernaut suits, nor even repaint or refurbish it. She fixes it herself using scrap metal, believing that anything else would taint her grandfather's memory. She has repeatedly patched the suit back together from what many would consider total disrepair, and has sworn to retire from the League if the suit becomes truly wrecked beyond her expertise.

[hopetorun]

7, 10, 15, 18 please!

7. answered

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

a lot of writing sticks with me tbh! obviously i have now forgotten all of it due to being asked* but a few things that tend to leave me thinking about something constantly for days: a wrenching bittersweet ending where the protagonist is stuck with only imperfect choices, a scene where it’s so so clear what the non-pov character is going through and the pov character is totally missing it, really good metaphors especially ones involving bodies, great closing lines.

i consider something to be haunting me when i can’t get it out of my head! but i don’t really feel that way about my own stories because that’s so different. i cannot articulate it but it is.

*see previous response to this meme with a note about how i should be better at keeping track of snippets that stick with me

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

i wish i was a person who wrote in the margins but i very much am not, mostly because i get too distracted reading to take notes. i do sometimes scribble stuff in my notes app for book club books so i don’t forget my thoughts but not always. i don’t dog ear pages but i do read in the bath and i also read while eating and stain my books with food. i therefore cannot judge people who deface books in other ways, and would not want to. books are meant to be read and loved and used. my cheeto-fingerprinted copy of little women and my baby blanket that i slept with until it was literally just scraps of thread and the handmade quilt my uncle had on his bed until he died that was worn to bits are the same, actually. we are meant to use these things and love them and that’s its own way of treasuring a thing. if any one person wants to treasure their books by keeping them pristine that’s fine but i treasure mine by loving them to pieces and having to buy a whole new copy to love to pieces again. and covering them in cheese dust fingerprints

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

from home by now:

It works for Matthew, and it’s the most comfortable he’s felt around Draisaitl in literally years. Maybe since they collapsed from the shower onto a hotel bed in Edmonton during the playoff bubble, wrung out and relaxed and extremely pleased with themselves.

“I thought that was going to be hot when you suggested but I didn’t realize how hot it would be,” Matthew said in that hotel room. Leon dropped a hand heavily on his ass, patting him twice and then letting it rest there.

“We’re going to be out soon,” he said. Matthew couldn’t argue with him; the Oilers had been thoroughly outclassed in their first three games, and he didn’t think they were going to pull off a reverse sweep. “We can maybe win one but I doubt more than that will happen.”

Matthew nodded. “Sorry,” he said.

“You’re not,” Leon said, but he laughed roughly.

“Not very.” Matthew shrugged. “I’ll miss this.” He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth, but Leon seemed unfazed. If anything, he smiled faintly.

“Won’t miss having to sneak around whenever I want to do anything but watch TV in my room.”

There wasn’t a good answer to that; Matthew was willing to put up with it for hockey, but Leon was about to be on a plane back home. He shrugged, and a silence fell around them that felt heavy. Leon’s hand was still resting on his ass.

They were in Leon’s hotel. Matthew needed to leave soon, if he was going to be able to sneak back in and get enough sleep. It felt like breaking the moment would break something important.

Matthew did it anyway. He rolled himself out of the bed, patted Leon on the shoulder a couple of times and grabbed a towel from the bathroom to throw at him.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” he said before he opened the door. Leon grunted, and the noise was almost like one he made on the ice sometimes. Made it easier for Matthew to slip him back into the Draisaitl box, smirking at him from across the ice, looking terrible in orange.

In the present, he’s still Draisaitl, but somehow more comfortable than a few weeks ago. His shoulders are relaxed, which is probably the alcohol, and he’s not walking like he wants to leave Matthew in the dust.

Matthew didn’t think—well, he isn’t sure what he thought, anymore. He thought Draisaitl hated him, and then he thought Draisaitl liked him, and then everything got muddled for a while, with the playoffs and then Matthew’s concussion making everything worse and hazier. At the end of it he thought Draisaitl hated him, but differently than the first time. It felt like—like something changed. Like there was a different thread underlying the way that Draisaitl shoved him and whispered insults and generally refused to look at Matthew at all off the ice after everything that happened.

Above them, the moon is still high in the sky. It’s almost full, a sliver missing off the perfect circle.

“Full moon soon,” Matthew says, because he doesn’t like the silence.

thank you for your submission and for not making me pick 😂😂 excited to get to talk a bit about the sex scene flashbacks, some of the first bits of this story i wrote! i had all these scraps of them tucked at the bottom of my google doc waiting for the right place to fit into the story. early on in the writing process i did a bunch of sketching out timelines of the bubble playoffs and how many days they were both in edmonton and how many times i realistically thought they might have hooked up. it was not many at all, btw. but i stuck to it.

the line about the concussion was a fairly late add, because my trusty alpha and beta readers did tell me i needed to seed it better. it still has that like, oh you weren’t here all along feeling to me! even though i know that’s not how it works for readers.

i didn’t look up whether there’ll be a full moon around the right time in the summer of 2026 for this scene. which is weird for me because i normally look that kind of thing up (huge shoutout to my best friend time and date dot com) but i wanted the moon to be almost full so it is. why do i always look this kind of thing up? well i like to be accurate or at least plausible in descriptions of weather and seasonal changes and when it’s dark outside but also i once read a book where the sun came up before 7 am in scotland in late december and i shrieked aloud.