#except giving him a new alt

[orangetintedglasses]

( this is the first thing I've lined in literal months-- I wanted to draw Mana! Give her a lil profile since I'm very fond of her (she is another upcycled OC but she's from like. 2014)

Mana is around 10-12, making her one of the older kids on Ship 3. She mostly hangs out with adults (her mom, mainly, but she's decently attached to Vash (and now Mothwood) which is where she picked up the pout) and is a bit of an outcast for a few reasons (including her attitude), but she doesn't really care.

About her ASL! Her hearing and vocal ability are actually perfectly fine; her mother, however, lost her hearing in an accident during a mission outside the ship-- an explosion that also took the life of her father. Ever since she and her mom both learned how to sign, she's refused to communicate any other way.

her real name is Mariel but she hates it )

[lollitree]

I did the maths on how many characters and unique alts there are in pokemas and there's DEFINITELY a Unova bias there for alts sdkfjhs

[lets-try-some-writing]

Since you said Jack sometimes does a whistle to purposely get Arcee’s attention and Miko would try to, would these two take advantage of other human things bots don’t yet understand how it works? Like Jack telling Arcee that if Arcee don’t take him on a drive he might start aging much faster from being upset, and Miko telling Bulkhead that her brain will downgrade and go numb if she don’t get enough stimulation.

Oh heck yeah. The kids would absolutely abuse the bots relative lack of education and make the best of it.

Jack is by far one of the nicest in his manipulations and generally keeps it to things such as having Arcee take him to see cool new places with the groundbridge because, quote: "A human adolescent who doesn't travel and experience new things will have their brains begin to rot and turn into creatures we call ghouls."

Arcee has no clue what a human ghoul is, but she knows the stories of ghouls back on Cybertron. Flesh eating creatures that devour not only energon, but also organs and pieces of the frame. The idea that a young human may turn into something like that absolutely terrifies her, at least if that human were to be Jack. She makes it a point to take Jack out once a week with her on patrols around the globe in order to protect him from that fate. Ratchet and Optimus are fully aware of the fact that Jack is full of slag when it comes to that particular tidbit, but they let it be since it gets Arcee out of the base.

Miko abuses the ever loving crap out of the bots ignorance. She has firmly made Bulkhead believe that if she isn't allowed to fight, her instincts will deteriorate and she will become braindead. Bulkhead, terrified of that outcome, has now been forced to set up sparring sessions for Miko to compensate for lack of actual combat. Wheeljack for his part has been roped into believing that if Miko isn't allowed to use weaponry and train with it, she will quite literally become thin as a reed since humans need tools to grow (her words, not the wreckers). Smokescreen has also reached a point of fanaticism when it comes to one of Miko's ploys. She told him one time that if she doesn't get at least one lollipop a day, her blood sugar will drop and she will fall into a coma. Smokescreen carries around a bag of candy just to be safe.

Rafael is a little nicer, but he will fight for more screen time by making it clear to Bumblebee that computer lights actually help improve his vision. The more computer light he gets, the better his vision will be temporarily. Bumblebee doesn't know how that is supposed to work, but humans are weird. So he just kinda... lets Rafael abuse his computer rights in base since it supposedly does good things for his eyes. Ratchet hasn't caught on yet. Ratchet also hasn't figured out that Rafael is totally playing him when he asks Ratchet for stories in order to help him retain his memory. Rafael has woven quite that tale that essentially boils down to him needing stories in order to keep his memory top notch. Ratchet hasn't figured out its a bunch of slag yet.

Optimus is one of the few bots no one can pull any fast ones on...

Except Fowler

Fowler has convinced Optimus that he should be allowed to drive Optimus's alt-mode at least once a month in order to keep his joints from withering away. Optimus has wondered why Fowler can't use another vehicle to work his joints, but Fowler always says its easier with Optimus just because if his joints give out, Optimus will be there to help him out.

Optimus questions this logic more and more when Fowler urges him to drive FAR over the speed limit on back roads.

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Different Universes (Hannibal)

Description: Y/N ends up in the Hannibal universe and Hannibal falls for her

Warning: Smut, Cheating (sorta)

Word Count: 2,526k

Request: could you write a fanfic where the reader is a big fan of the Hannibal series, just goes about her day normaly,falls asleep and then wakes up in the Hannibal universe. She tries to figure out where she is (without knowing that she is in an alt. universe) and witnesses an actual murder, but manages to escaped unscathed with her knowledge of the Hannibal universe. After that she is contacted by the FBI, who want to interrogate her and this is how she ultimatly meets Dr.Lecter, who will be her therapist.(with her realising who he is).He quickly gets intrigued with her and wants to get to kniw her. Would it be possible to end it with some smut? Sorry, if this a really odd request.

Author’s note: I changed some things up but I really like these sort of requests. Also I work all day tomorrow so I will post two fics today.

Being married to a celebrity had it’s pros and cons. Cons being that fans were everywhere and so was paparazzi. You could never get a break. But the fans are what made Y/N’s husband who he is today and his talent of course. Pros being that the one person everyone thirst for on the internet you have. They love you and that it makes you feel like the luckiest person in the world. And of course when you see them on TV it’s like watching your husband. Oh wait, it is. Y/N and Mads have been together for 5 years, married for 1. They were 20 years apart but that didn’t mean anything to them. Y/N is a fan of Hannibal and watches it all the time, like right now.

She always wondered what it would be like to be in the show. It was something that crossed her mind often. She even read fanfic about her husband’s character. She would give anything to be in that universe even for a day. So When she wakes up outside Hannibal’s house, she isn’t too upset. At first she didn’t realize where she was, but it looked familiar. It took a minute but she gasped so hard she started choking once she realized it. She was outside Hannibal Lecter’s house. She looked around in awe, she couldn’t believe that she was here.

She walked around his house for a little bit, exploring the place. “Can I help you?” She heard it was her husband’s accent. She turned towards the voice and gasped. It was Mads except it wasn’t, it was Hannibal. “You look lost.” He stated as she looked at him in awe. She couldn’t say anything, too shocked. “Can you talk?” He asked after a while of silence. “Yeah I uh yes.” She said, making the man chuckle. “Are you okay?” He asked. “I don’t know.” She answered, she really didn’t. “Come inside. I’ll make you something to eat.” She got excited at first but realized that Hannibal was a cannibal.

“Uh I’ll just take some tea.” She said as they walked in his house. His house looked like it did on the show. He poured the tea and she watched him. “Can you tell me why you were outside my house?” He asked as he handed her the tea. “I actually don’t know. One minute I’m on the couch in my house watching TV, the next I’m here.” He hummed at her words. “So you sleep walk?” He asked. She shook her head, “No.” He looked at her as she drank from the cup. She was beautiful and he felt like he knew her. “I feel like you do and don’t realize it. Have you ever woken up in a weird place before?” He asked, she shook her head. “No. This is a first.” She said.

He got up and walked upstairs leaving her there in her thoughts. Moments later he returned with a notebook. “I thought I recognized you. You’re my new patient. Y/N.” She looked at him confused. “Patient?” She asked. “Jack Crawford assigned you to me after you witnessed a murder.” She had no memory of this. “Um okay.” She said still confused but realized that she had woken up in this universe and this wasn’t a dream. She was a part of this show. Though she had no memory prior to waking up outside his house. “Right. Sorry I just forgot.” She lied. He nodded and opened the notebook. “I guess we can start our session now. Wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.” He said. She looked at him as he wrote some things down. “Okay Ms. Y/N tell me what you remember about the murder.” She was fucked.

After the session was over she realized that she probably couldn’t stay here even though she hadn’t had a place to go. “I will see you next week.” He told her as she walked out of his house. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She had no memory of anything that he said. So she certainly doesn’t remember where her home would be. As she left his house she thought of what she could do. Thought of going back and falling asleep by his house but what would she do for a week? She huffed as she walked back to his house and rang the door bell. He answered and she sighed, “Can I stay the night?” 

It was beyond her why he agreed without explanation. She sat in the bed that he gave her and just thought. Thought about how crazy this was and how apart of her wants to go back to her universe. As she sat on the bed thinking she heard a knock. “Come in.” She said and Hannibal walked into the room. He saw how distraught she looked and he sat by her. “You okay?” He asked, concerned in his eyes. She looked at him, god he looked so much like her husband. She knew that he basically was but he wasn’t. “I don’t know.” She whispered. “Is this about not having any memory at first?” She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him the truth, that she wasn’t from this universe and that she’s married to his actor but he would probably think she’s nuts. But she couldn’t live in this world alone.

“I’m gonna say something and it’s going to sound crazy but I need you to bare with me.” He nods. She lets out a sigh and looks away from him. “I’m not from here.” She says. He looks at her confused, “What do you mean?” “Like this universe. I’m from a different one and in that universe this is a tv show called Hannibal. If i’m not mistaken given what you’re wearing this is season two and Will Graham is in prison for crimes he did not commit. You committed them but don’t worry I won’t tell. And your actor is my husband Mads Mikkelsen.” His jaw dropped and he looked at her in shock. He wasn’t quite sure he believed her. But how did she know that he was the killer? “Mads Mikkelsen?” He asked. She raised an eyebrow at him.

That’s really what he got out of all of that. “Yes that’s my husband, that’s you just in a different universe.” He didn’t know what to say, she sounded crazy. “I know I sound crazy.” “Well I wouldn’t say that.” He tried, she rolled her eyes. “But i’m telling the truth. That’s why I don’t remember anything from here like the murder or the FBI.” “But you told me the story.” “I lied.” He nodded. “I’m sorry Hannibal. I know this is a lot to hear.” “I’m a TV Show character and my actor is married to you and you are well aware that i’m the killer.” He summed up what he could.

She looked at her hands, “You have to believe me.” He looked at her. She had to be crazy, none of it made sense. Though he could read people very well and she didn’t seem like she was lying. “Do I ever get caught?” He asked. She looked at him, “Yes but you escape.” He nodded. “With Will. I mean you two are basically in love.” He gave her a weird look. “I’m not in love with Will.” She looked at him with a “really?” look. “I’m not.” He said. She shook her head, “yeah whatever you say.” “Does he love me?” She chuckled at the question but nodded. “One might say he does but you guys don’t get together. You almost kiss but that’s it. You might be together after the show ends. There isn’t a fourth season.” She tells him. “This is unique.” He told her and she laughed. “I know but it’s all true.” “So since the man you call Mads? Plays me do you find me attractive?” He asked. She looked at him, red in the face.

“I mean yeah. Of course I do.” She said. “So then if I kissed you, you’d be okay with it?” Her jaw was on the floor. “I uh I mean yeah. Yes, I would like that.” She said. He leaned in and kissed her. She was shocked that it came down to this moment but she wasn’t complaining. She kissed him back and cupped his face. Their lips moved in sync as thoughts were racing through both of their minds. This was all crazy. She got up and straddled him, pulling him closer. His hands were placed on her hips as she deepened the kiss. Her hands ran through his hair. “Have you always wanted to do this?” He asked against her lips. She nodded out of breath. “Yes.” He smirked and ran his fingers over her lips. “Have you thought about having sex with me?” She nodded and pushed him down so he was laying on the bed. His hands went under her shirt and she pulled it off her body revealing a red lace bra that she had on. His hands immediately went to her boobs. “You’re so beautiful.” He tells her and removes the bra.

She lets it fall off her before she throws it with her shirt. Her hands travel down his white shirt that he was in. He looked so good in PJ’s. “Take this off.” She tells him. He leans up and takes the shirt off, throwing it with her things. He didn’t have abs per say but he was still the hottest man she’s ever seen. She gets off him to remove her panties and he removes his PJ pants and boxers. She straddles him again and looks down at him. He looked up at her like she was his whole world, in her universe she was. His hands pulled her hips closer to where she was almost lined up with him. She looked down and saw his hard dick. Same size and thickness as her husband. He watched her as she lined herself up and slowly sat on his dick. He felt her walls taking him in like they were made for each other. She let out little moans until he was all the way in her.

His hands held her hips again and she began riding him. She went slow at first building up the pleasure. They didn’t break eye contact as her jaw dropped. It felt so good. He could feel her walls clenching him and it made him groan. How was he supposed to be in love with Will when she was here? Her hips started moving faster and faster making the pleasure more intense. Both of them making noise now, enjoying the moment. She leaned down and kissed him, silencing her moans. Their lips moved together in a sloppy kiss. It wasn’t a neat kiss, it was tongue and teeth and everything was put into it. Hannibal’s hands gripped her back as he felt himself getting closer. She gasped into his mouth as she felt her high near. Her eyes rolled back as her hips went faster.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face, it was like a pretty painting that he longed to see. She was so close she could taste it. “Are you going to cum, pretty girl?” He asked her. That’s all it took. She was cumming all over him with whines of his name. Seeing her cum, made him cum even harder. With a groan of her name he released inside of her. Her hips slowly move to ride out their orgasms. Her moans die down and her hips stop. She looks down at the man still shock that he’s Hannibal fucking Lecter. He stares back at her with a look in his eyes she knows all too well. It’s the same look her husband gives her. Is this man in love with her? 

She had to get back to her universe. This was so nice but she didn’t belong here. She belonged with Mads not Hannibal but since Mads plays Hannibal she does love him. But the time she has spent with him has been amazing and she didn’t wanna leave but she also wanted to get back to her life. Hannibal was a killer after all. She knows how this story ends and she truly thinks Will and him are meant to be.

As much as she loves him she doesn’t wanna change that. But these past few weeks have been amazing. She laid her on Hannibal’s chest as they just talked. “Is your universe different from this one?” He asked. It kinda was in a sense that the issues going on in this universe were the only focus and in her universe they aren’t just main focuses like that. Everyone has got their own problems. “It feels the same but from watching it on TV no.” Will’s powers that he has as well. “And Will’s visions.” “Now I definitely believe you.” He joked and they both laughed. This was nice. Not having any actual problems besides to get back to her universe. “When does Will get out of prison?” He asked. She shouldn’t tell him. “Soon.” Was all she said. 

She sat at the table as she watched him make dinner. It was like a routine. She loved doing it but as she watched them cook, she realized that this was the stuff that her and Mads did. They had a life together and this reflected that. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together, Hannibal.” She said with a smile as she drank from her wine glass. He smiled and gave her a plate. “I have to.” Her smile dropped slightly as she looked up at him. “I uh wish I could stay.” She said. “You can.” He told her. “I can’t though. I have a husband and life to get back to.” She told him. “I’m your husband though. I mean technically.” She looks at him and sighs, “You are but you aren’t. My husband isn’t a cannibal. He just plays one on TV.” “So I’m just a TV character to you.” That knocked the wind right out of her.

That was something she never thought she’d ever hear. She loved fictional characters so much and they were so much more than that but hearing that question made her sick. “No Hanni you’re not you’re so much more than that but you gotta look at it from my perspective this wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t even know how it happened.” She told him. “To you it wasn’t. But this to me was a blessing.” He took her hands. She looked up at him from her seat. “Stay with me, Y/N. I can give you all he can.” But he couldn’t and they both have different endings that don’t include each other. “Hannibal you’re amazing but we aren’t meant to be together.” She said. “Then how come you’re here?” She didn’t have an answer for that. She truly didn’t know. Luck? She didn’t have an answer to his question but all she knew was that she had to get back to her universe

[ladykailitha]

I have decided today I am giving out my Steve Harrington headcanons, because I love him so much.

His parents are very rich. His dad is new money, self made. His mom is old money.

His father is Indiana born and bred, but his mother is from Kentucky. She doesn't have her accent anymore because she trained herself out of it. Though it does show up when she's drunk or angry.

I know everyone does Richard (Dick) for his dad mainly for the lols, which I respect, but I think his name is Clint. It's just rich dude bro enough, you know? And then for the mom I go back and forth between Maureen and Allison. Allison because that's Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club and I often use her looks as bases for Mrs. Harrington.

They were never meant to be parents. They had the one because that's what was expected of them, but no. They don't like kids.

I don't know if his dad is only verbally abusive, but he is some kind of shit. Steve was so scared of him finding out that there was alcohol the night Barb vanished that that was all that consumed his thoughts. And even in season 3 Steve tells Dustin (thinking he was his dad) that he doesn't do drugs, just marijuana. Meaning that's something they've fought about a lot.

Kids of good parents rarely smoke, drink, smoke pot, and have wild parties all the time as an under-aged teenager. There are no doubt exceptions, but most of the time it's kids who are neglected and abused that are the ones that act out like that.

Steve had nannies and baby-sitters growing up that he saw more than his parents. But he would still be taken on actual vacations with them. Mostly to show off that they do have a son.

He was in baseball in middle school but quit when he got into high school. His parents put him in as many after school activities as they could. He was taught piano. Went to swimming and was so good at it, he joined the team in high school. Played basketball throughout both middle and high school. But he was forced to dropout due to the concussion Billy gave him his senior year. It's why he sneers at Brenda at the game when she says it would ironic if they won the championship the year after he graduated. Because he wasn't even on the team his last year.

When he turned sixteen they gave him his BMW. No, he did not get to pick the car or the color, but he takes very good care of it. Does a lot of the maintenance himself. One of the few things his dad taught him, but because you needed to know enough to make sure your mechanic wasn't ripping you off.

He can cook. But only if he has a recipe to follow and will get upset if it doesn't look like the picture. Is a consummate baker though. Because everything has a reason it's done like that and it makes sense.

Definitely a fall baby. That's why he was able to lifeguard for three years even if he didn't lifeguard after his senior year due to him working at Scoops Ahoy.

He's bad at math and science which is why the Party teases him all the time, but he's great at English and history.

Only applied at the schools his dad thought were "appropriate" and didn't get in. But to be fair, he was still suffering from a concussion when those applications went out and he wasn't really at his best. Just above his worst if he was honest.

He likes his preppy clothes and while he laughs it off, it upsets him when he's made fun for it.

Alt rock fan all the way. Depeche Mode, The Cure, New Order.

Has a list of the Party's likes and dislikes for food and other things, so he is the best gift giver. He doesn't spend a lot of money, though he has been accused of that a couple of times. But he prefers well thought out gifts over expensive ones. It's why Max, Eddie, and the Byers boys love Steve gifts. They never feel pressured to one up him.

Complete romantic. Loves being in love, but it was hard to pick up the pieces of his broken heart after what happened with Nancy.

Loves Robin, but even though it is sometimes weird, it never veers into creepy or obsessive. Robin is absolutely the vodka aunt of the party to Steve's mom.

When Eddie comes into the group, they tease him that's he's the dad to Steve's mom. Because as goofy as Eddie is he absolutely wouldn't let the kids get into real trouble.

Steve the romantic gets absolutely wooed by Eddie and never is made to feel wrong footed when showers Eddie with the affection he would for a girl. It's nice for a guy to receive flowers sometimes too.

Steve favorite flower is sunflowers. But his favorite color is blue.

He absolutely keeps the vest. Refuses to give it back. Which Eddie is surprisingly okay with.

I could go on forever, but I'll stop there for now and if I come up with more I'll add them later.

[disgustingtwitches]

hello! <3 your writings are phenomenal, i’m so happy to have stumbled across your page 🙏. i have a little idea, but i suck at writing. feel free to ignore this request if they’re closed!!

but, i haven’t seen really any cod writings of a reader who’s moreso on the alternative side! like colored hair, decked out in piercings, tattoos etc., etc. i was wondering how you think the 141 boys (any one of them, or all!) would react to reader either piercing herself, dying her hair, or something along the sort? (safely, of course. we are prepped in this household.)

have a wonderful rest of your day/night! :3

Ok so when it comes to alt girls obviously Ghost and Soap have more exposure to them. So I'd like to think when it comes to certain things they'd be more comfortable with it. And I think all of the boys would help dye your hair!

Gaz- I've noticed guys who don't have tattoos or only have one will be OBSESSED with girls who have tattoos! He'll want to know the story and meaning behind each one (even the ones that are like...just a frog with a cowboy hat or some shit LMAO). Very insistent on keeping new piercings and tattoos clean! He'll be the one to clean piercings with salt water and remind you to put sunscreen on tattoos. He's very meticulous when it comes to help dying your hair. Wants you to use the best thing for your hair and makes sure you won't melt your hair with bleach!

"Don't use 40 vol please, it'll melt your hair...Don't use Splat, it's literally fabric dye babes..."

Buys colored conditioner to keep your color longer.

Price- He loves helping you DIY stuff, everything except tattoos and piercings. He thinks that's too much of a risk no matter how much you tell him you know what you're doing,

"If it's about the cost, I'll pay for it."

And he does. Makes sure to read the reviews for the place too. He stays away from dyes and bleach because the old man is sensitive to those smells :/ He offers to pay for that too but you're particular about your hair and he respects that.

Ghost- My man knows the alt scene through and through. He'll help you pierce anything but only because he thinks knows he can do better than you. He won't let you do stick and pokes unless you're using a proper tattoo needle and ink. He'll actually let you tattoo your initials on him and he'll tattoo his on you,

"Make sure you don't go too deep, that'll give me blowout alright?"

Soap- Wild boy Johnny will do any and everything. You want to pierce your own ear? He'll do it too! Matching ripped fishnet and jeans and colored hair and nails. He'll sew patches on your jacket and help you make your own pins. He's so crafty he LOVES to do things with his hands. Sometimes date night would just be staying inside drinking, listening to deathgrind, and DIYing clothes.

[beatboxing-puppy]

saw some posts on this website discussing what sort of videogames the dunmeshi characters would play and i think everyone is wrong. everyone is wrong except for me so im going to spell out exactly who plays what. putting it under a read more because im going on a damn tangent.

Laios: He's not a gamer he does not play games on purpose he will only ever play video games when his friends ask him to join them in their multiplayer things. One day tho Falin told him about Monster Hunter and now thats the only thing he plays aside from Spore and he has sunk countless hours into that damn game. Also he probably has played Some pokemon but he doesnt like PLAYING it he just likes it in concept he knows the name of all the pokemon

marcille: people keep saying she would be a cosy gamer playing animal crossing and stardew and other cute games ^-^ its so lalalaaaa NO!!!!!!! no she does not. Marcille plays games that stress her out on purpose marcille plays overwhelming micromanagey games like lobotomy corporation and rimworld and etc. She also likes games with deep lore and mysteries to discover. The only thing that doesn't fit in this category that she plays is Minecraft shes always in there CREATIVE MODE building virtual dungeons and other crazy shit. Also she plays on her work laptop with trackpad ok

Chilchuck: This one is for me. This one im just basing off my own dad ok. Chilchuck used to be a hardcore gamer in his youth but specifically he was playing stuff like world of warcraft and old school runescape he had really big setups so he could run several instances of the game at once on all his alt accounts so he could beat a boss by himself and he was really good at it. But then he had kids and didnt have time for this sort of thing so he stopped playing videogames aside from occasionally helping his daughters beat a super hard mario level. Later in life he probably discovered some shitty little low-commitment phone game like pokemon go or pikmin bloom or some daily sudoku puzzle thing and he plays it every day but its not that big a deal. He has been pressured by his friends and daughters to make a roblox account but he hasnt played it at all.

Senshi: THIS guy is the one that plays animal crossing. He logs in when he can but hes not on that every day grind. Also he doesnt play the newest one he doesnt play horizons he plays one of the DS ones. Wild world probably. He either doesn't like or doesn't know about the nintendo switch. Whenever one of his villagers say that they want to leave he'll nod solemnly and say smth like "Well... I suppose it'd be selfish to ask ye to stay, friend... Just promise me you'll stay safe and never forget me... Go and explore the world. Wish ye the best." Plus his island would be covered in weeds. He also has some mobile games he enjoys angry birds and candy crush and crosswords (gotta keep the brain in shape!) but other than that he doesn't videogame much because he prefers board games and tabletop stuff he isnt too jazzed about all this modern technology plus a console or a laptop and all that gaming equipment is a lot to lug around and hes a nomad he would NOT have that shit

Falin: Now FALIN is the cosy gamer. kind of. Falin plays animal crossing new horizons sometimes and has fun making a bad island on purpose. Very mildly "bad" tho the worst she'll do is use the drawing feature to hide a giant penis on the beach or whatever. Or she'll give her villagers silly outfits. She also plays minecraft (either skyblock or she makes a new world and explores and builds a couple houses and then forgets about it and makes another new world) and roblox (likes 'trolling' strangers by dressing up funny and acting kind of strange in roleplay servers but she's never actually mean or anything.) But the big thing she likes is story-driven indie rpgmaker games. She's the person who will say shit like "Yeah I played Blums Booglies the quest for Big Dinners and it was so good I cried for 9 hours" completely unironically.

kabru: social gamer like laios but the games he plays on purpose are the sims (he likes to cause them problems) and online multiplayer games (he likes to peoplewatch). I can also see him doing absurd and tortrous challenge runs of games like No items no pokecenter one type hardcore nuzlockes. im correct

izutsumi: ACTUALLY trolls people on roblox. And she plays needlessly gory flash games. Maybe she calls people dumbfucks over valorant voice chat sometimes

[mysadcorner]

Can I please request Wally West, Batman, Aqualad and Jason todd dating a grunge/Goth reader pls

DC Characters x Alt!Reader Headcanons

-Credit to the gifs owner - Please be specific about characters wanted in headcanons -

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Wally west

Wally would be very supportive of someone who dressed alternatively or goth, especially as it doesn't bother him in the slightest. He's friendly to everyone as much as he can be and for you, he isn't going to behave any differently, except if you start to make your style your whole personality and start to push it on others.

Wally wouldn't be bothered at all by the way you dress and would even encourage it on days you might not feel very confident. If you wanted him to join in and try dressing in a similar style that you do then he will try it out a little bit but he probably wouldn't go all the way and would stick to being subtle in his style change.

More than anything, he would end up wearing accessories due to your influence, maybe some rings, maybe even some other types of jewellery if you encouraged him enough. He wouldn't wear anything that would get in the way too much, but he's the type of guy who would match items with you once he does start trying them out.

When the two of you go shopping together he will happily follow you around and look at all of the new stores or places you drag him too, and you know for certain that he'll volunteer to carry as many bags as he can while you look around. He doesn't complain about how long you're taking unless he's doing it on purpose to be sarcastic, but this is only if you keep him happy with some food on the way.

Wally will instantly defend you from anyone who has anything negative to say about the style of clothes you wear. You'll never have to worry about him not taking your side, but you may need to calm him down due to him getting a bit too loud at times.

Bruce Wayne

We all know what Bruce's type is, so he definitely isn't going to be put off by the way you dress. He will however, try his best to stay professional, so you won't see a noticeable reaction from him at first when you meet him.

Bruce really doesn’t care about lot about different types of fashion, and he won’t really bother knowing much about different types or keeping up to date with trends unless they’re for business or publicity reasons, so don’t expect him to know places that you can get any accessories or clothes himself. He will have plenty of people he can get in contact with though if you are looking to experiment with anything or get deeper into a style.

He naturally leans towards the darker side of things, but outside of being Batman he usually keeps himself pretty simple and clean cut, so you won’t really see him trying anything you usually wear. He may own a few band shirts for his extremely lazy days from when he was younger, but nothing he really keeps up with and is rare you’ll see him wear them.

He isn’t embarrassed to be seen with you, so he’ll have no problem with following you around on shopping trips, and when he’s comfortable with you he can be quite outspoken so he’ll definitely give you his opinion on items if you ask for it. If you don’t want his opinion then he’ll keep his mouth shut and accept anything you like, although you may be able to tell when he seriously hates something by the look in his eyes.

Bruce always knows what to say and how to say it in the heat of the moment, no matter who it is he’s talking to, so he’s always pretty good at defending you before the situation gets out if hand. He always prefers not to use violence, but he can certainly defends you if any idiots try to pull something on you.

Jason Todd

Our sweet boy Jason definitely likes them a little scary or mysterious so having a darker vibe to your outfits or personality will be something he happily accepts just as much as any other style. It may even give him more of a reason to pay attention to you when you first meet him if you don’t immediately express an interest similar to his own, so it’s a good way to get his attention if you don’t have anything to talk about at first.

He understand that you like certain things, but he my really like it when people take too long to get ready or too long to settle down with at the end of the day, so having a long routine while getting ready for the day or getting ready to bed might bother him slightly, although not too much for him to complain a lot about it. He doesn’t really care what you wear in general as long as you like it.

He’ll definitely take an interest in rings when he isn’t out on patrol, and it definitely helps make his already attention drawing hands become more noticeable. He’s only become more inclined to dress the way you do after a long time, but he’ll still keep to his own style mostly, more so taking tiny bits of inspiration from you whenever he feels like changing things up a bit.

Jason doesn’t like long shopping trips, but he does like to spoil you whenever he can, so he’ll go shopping with you but he won’t enjoy it the majority of the time. Not that he would outwardly complain, he’d just sulk behind you and make sarcastic comments until you got the hint that he can’t be bothered to tail around any more stores. Maybe shopping trips in small bursts would be better for Jason to tag along to.

Any comment about you from someone who doesn’t really have a nice thing to say Will get a reaction out of Jason immediately. He isn’t that good at holding him self back when someone says something bad or insults you about how you dress, so he will snap at first. Holding himself back from seriously hurting the person in public will be slightly easier to prevent himself from doing, but that is something he’ll wish he did do for a while afterwards.

Aqualad

He’ll be corps about the way you dress, after all it’s not exactly how the majority of people are seen to dress, so he will look you over and look at the different aspects of your outfit. Overall though he wont give a huge reaction to how you dress, but he’s certainly respectful of it.

Fashion isn’t something he really pays attention to, so you can tell him about as much as you want about the way you dress and different aspects of your style and it’s probably going to be the first time he’s hearing about those things. He will remember everything you say though, and always keeps an eye out for anything you might be interested in just because he knows you like that kind of thing.

He probably would have an interest in dressing like you do, but there’s no problem with that. He’s more than fine with the two of you being completely different people. As long as you’re okay with it too, and don’t try to convince him to change what he wears then there will be absolutely no problem.

If he ends up going shopping with you then he’s going to be looking very closely at all the stuff he sees, usually brace he doesn’t go to the places you buy your clothes so it’s a new experience seeing all the different types of clothes or things related to your style. You may have to drag him away from something after a while if he doesn’t have any intention of going to the next store.

He’s typically a pretty calm person so he won’t be too rowdy if someone makes a negative comment about the way you dress, but he will do his best to defend you and have that person leave you alone before too much trouble can be caused. He may even just lead you away from that person because it isn’t worth the time to deal with meaningless comments from someone you may not even know out in public.

[mrinafria]

Night on the balcony, OG vs ALT Seon Jae

[tw: death/killing]

It's a given that OG Seon Jae was murdered by the taxi driver but I've always been more curious about the how of it, because it was never shown to us. I really thought they'd shed some light near the end of the series but oh well. I won't complain because I got the epic rom-com ending of all times. But I think we can all agree that they deliberately left so many things out to give us the cutest fluffiest ending known to mankind lol.

A couple things that clicked as I was rewatching the ALT 2023 episodes recently, *coughs* for the 19th or so time *coughs*. There's this scene:

You see Seon Jae struggling with the taxi driver, who is trying to sedate him using that hanky since the moment he barges in. Of course there's something on it, which happens to be:

In the 2009 timeline, Tae Sung's dad and his partner at work talk about how the Taxi Driver's modus operandi is using animal anesthetics on his victims. We'll come back to this shortly.

A couple things to remember:

1. OG Seon Jae was already physically unwell when we see him post-concert. It was most likely a panic attack (was it because he saw the taxi driver? We'll never know why T-T). It's very likely he took medicines to calm his nerves. Some of these anti-anxiety/nerve-calming medicines can have the same ingredients as anti-depressants based on my experience, and one of the things they do is make you slightly drowsy, as a consequence of relaxing your nerves [disclaimer: please remember this is just based on my own experience and opinions I've seen people share. Medically there might be more to it.]

2. OG Seon Jae did not jump off on his own (because he is Seon Jae). However, that doesn't necessarily mean he didn't have depression. Im Sol's incident and him blaming himself ALL through 15 years is enough for anyone to spiral into it. Whatever little we saw, there were telltale signs of it, so it is possible he was under medication in the OG timeline (BUT he didn't jump off the balcony).

3. Basically, he was not in the best frame of mind when we see him in 2023, lost in thoughts of Im Sol and their unexpected meeting on the bridge, and then checking up on her secretly, as she gets back to her apartment. I won't get into details because I promised myself this was not going to be another one of my OG Seon Jae eulogies.

He was basically preoccupied with other thoughts and physically not in a good shape to put up a fight. Heck, he didn't even bother to pick up the call from his agency CEO or react to the doorbell right away.

UNLIKE THE ALT 2023 SEON JAE.

4. ALT 2023 Seon Jae had met Im Sol without any of the guilt and pain of OG Seon Jae.

5. ALT 2023 was already "in a relationship" with Im Sol (*giggles*) when we see him in the hotel room.

6. Unlike his OG self, he never seemed to have any panic attacks/mental health issues. He confirmed it himself when Im Sol kept asking about medicines/depression. He longed for Im Sol, but he wasn't in anguish, torturing himself for 14 years over something that never happened in that timeline. So he is perfectly well and capable of not going down without some struggle or fight when the taxi driver attacks him.

Now, going back to animal anesthetics.

[Disclaimer: I'm no professional and this is just something I learned. If any of you have a professional opinion about it, please let me know!]

I initially wrote off the chloroform trope for OG Seon Jae because it's detectable during autopsy. And according to the news, nothing suspicious showed up in OG Seon Jae's autopsy except for medicines.

Some animal anesthetics, however, are undetectable in human bodies, unless you're conducting specific toxicology tests if you are suspicious of something other than chloroform. I assume nobody did this specifically because no signs of struggle were found, giving no reason to suspect the cause of his death (again, we'll never know the specifics of toxicology tests done for Seon Jae's autopsy -_-)

If this progression of thought is right, something like this might have unfolded in the OG 2023 timeline:

7. Similar to ALT 2023, the taxi driver breaks into Seon Jae's hotel room. Seon Jae probably tries to fight him but he's not able to because of ^^^1-3 reasons. Taxi driver sedates him comparatively easily.

8. Once Seon Jae is unconscious (wow it's difficult to type this because my brain won't stop playing out this scene), taxi driver fixes the room so no signs of struggle can be found later.

9. Once he is done, he takes Seon Jae and throws him off *okay breathe*

10. Seon Jae's eyes are shut when we see him underwater. He is likely unconscious because of the animal anesthetics so obviously he can't swim or save himself.

That's a lot of conjecture going on in here lol but this at least helps me not to overthink this anymore. The only thing that's still bugging me: Everyone is busy checking out what happened with Seon Jae, so it may be possible the Taxi Driver manages to sneak in to delete the cctv footage somehow, but I'm not convinced myself. Why do I have a feeling the script actually had a different plan with the whole OG Seon Jae incident thing, and they just edited ALL of the other stuff out to make it more romcom-y? Again, no complaints, I LOVE they made it more romcomy, but I've already rewatched the series so many times, it's very hard to pass off all these things as nothing when I see they were trying to form a connection underlying the main plot.

Anyway.

[orphiclovers]

ahem ahem. What if sp x 1863 hsy!? Can you see the toxic vision!?

I want to so BAD you have no IDEA. SP and 1863!HSY are my favourite characters, yoohan is my favourite ship, this should be perfectly tailored to me, right? And YET, I've never gotten farther than "someone should make this a thing...."

But I'll try for you.

They do have some canon interactions going for them. Namely, we know that SP made a covenant with her to do some unspecified thing in the 1863rd regression.

It's not certain how many of the messages he sent to KDJ's channel were actually him personally, and how many one of his kkomas, and while I think a couple of them in the important moments was actually him, I headcanon he spent most of his time watching the alt-1863rd round. For Han Sooyoung I imagine he was a cold and distant figure who sent few indirect messages but whose attention was always hanging over her head. She had to rely on his satisfaction with the way she ran the world for him to hold up his part of the deal and give her a new worldline.

And we know he wasn't satisfied, because when he sent KDJ there, he said "I hope you're not as disappointing as the last one." So clearly there was some kind of disagreement between them.

Despite all this fun context, I don't think they have many strong feelings about each other other than mutual dislike. Neither of them spend time thinking of the other except for when they have to interact for the sake of the covenant. They're relationship is purely business, and they don't leave a huge impression on the other's psyche or change the trajectory of their lives forever. (Unlike, for example, 1863 Yoo Joonghyuk does for the both of them.)

Only thing they have going for them is their love triangle with 1863 YJH. It's the kind that doesn't end in a thruple for once, but where they both stay feeling entirely neutral about the other corner.

The Big Issue for them is that SP gives HSY a task he doesn't actually wish to be achieved, but HSY has no choice but to do her best to attempt anyway. And when she does come up with a perfect plan to achieve the death of Yoo Joonghyuk, the thing SP supposedly wants, he gets cold feet and sends KDJ in last minute, saying he's 'dissapointed' in her. Why? The plan would have worked. But he didn't want Yoo Joonghyuk to die at that point.

What he actually wanted her to do was fight radically change the world like Kim Dokja did. (This comes up in the SP/999 fight or sometime around then.) She never could have lived up to that expectation.

And in the aftermath of Kim Dokja's visit to the 1863rd round, all their plans were ruined anyway. Maybe she neutrally told him she 'wouldn't be leaving this round' and that their deal was off. SP said nothing, since obviously everything had fallen apart at that point. I think Secretive Plotter, much like Kim Dokja, doesn't care for a world without Yoo Joonghyuk in it. That was probably the last time they spoke to each other. The 1863rd round became completely irrelevant to him, including the Han Sooyoung left there to pick up the pieces. And she was obsessively fixated on Kim Dokja and didn't have time to think about SP. That was all over and done with.

But I'm very willing to hear anyone out if they have a HSY/SP vision. I want to be persuaded on this!

[floralcyanidee]

ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ - ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ᴄʀᴀɴᴇ

Jonathan Crane x GN/AFAB!Reader Headcanons

Headcanons about Jonathan Crane and his life with an alt (emo/ goth) partner.

warnings: mentions of taxidermy, mentions of witchcraft, mentions of religion, mentions of animal remains, theft, innuendo, mature themes, mentions of body modifications

word count: 696

author's note: as ya'll know I'm a slut for Jonathan so I decided to do some headcanons about him with an alt partner (I'm alt soo it was warranted) I based these headcanons on universal and well known characteristics of alt peeps as well some based on me and my friends. i hope everyone enjoys! (:

main masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

＊ Jonathan is obviously a criminal, so nothing is stopping him from stealing. this includes him stealing things from inbound patients at Arkham Asylum. He often finds things that remind him of you and will give them to you. You know where they come from, obviously, because you know who Jonathan is, but you find it endearing and romantic that he thinks of you.

＊ You and Jonathan live on the outskirts of the city, where there’s plenty of woodland to explore. Jonathan enjoys it because it gives him peace from work and being a villain, you enjoy it because there are oodles of animal bones and plants to scavenge. 

＊ Keeping that in mind, you often use the plants or bones or even still-fresh remains you find for your spells/ rituals/ altars/ taxidermy/ crafts. Sometimes, Jonathan will also find things when he’s out exploring or getting away from things. Every now and then, he’ll try different plants for new toxins, so he’s out scouring the woods. He’s always thinking of you, of course, so whenever Jonathan comes across a cool-looking plant or the skull of an animal, he snatches it up immediately.

＊ He admires your belief system. Whether it’s Witchcraft, Hellenism, etc., he appreciates the art and dedication you put into it. Jonathan sees it as equivalent to science in a way- creating spells and mixtures and getting something new from it. Sometimes, he asks for your help with his experiments simply because of your knowledge of apothecaries and spells.

＊  Black is your color. Jonathan knows this and doesn’t mind that you’re clad in all black whenever he has to make an appearance in Gotham. You get plenty of stares, sure, but he doesn’t care about that. Jonathan doesn’t really care about anything except his experiments and you.

＊ Jonathan finds your body mods (tattoos, piercings, etc.) intriguing. When you first met, he had a ton of questions about them. Did they hurt? What do they mean? He loves the different jewelry you wear as well. 

＊ Your obsession with horror is one of Jonathan’s favorite things about you. He finds it adorable that you can quote numerous horror movies and even recite lines as they’re being said. When Halloween comes around, it’s always a treat (non pun intended.) You love cosplaying various horror characters from movies, shows, and video games. Jonathan adores it and sometimes plays along.

＊ Speaking of Halloween, one year, he dressed as a priest, and you dressed as an undead nun. This year, you’re becoming a crow, and he’s dressing as you guessed it- a scarecrow. You’re already planning next year’s costumes.

＊ You’ll drag Jonathan to concerts and cons all the time. At first, he was hesitant to go to them, but the more you’ve taken him, the more he’s grown interested. Your favorite bands are now his favorite bands. He’s found himself humming the heaviest of songs you introduced him to. You used to beg him to dress for the cons, but now you don’t have to. Jonathan already has ideas for the next con, even.

＊ You and Jonathan surprisingly have a lot in common. You had rough childhoods, you have a genuine disdain for other people most of the time, cats are interesting to both of you, and you have some mental illness as well, and so does he, obviously. You also have a mutual hatred for Batman. You think he’s overrated, and Jonathan, well, why he hates him is obvious, too.

＊ Did someone say fishnets? Jonathan has bought you so many pairs of those and knee socks because he’ll literally rip them off you. He gets you a bunch of fishnets in different colors to match the lingerie sets he buys you. Jonathan thinks you look the hottest in red.

＊ Jonathan’s favorite intimate thing to do is dye your roots or paint your nails. At first, he hated doing your hair, but now he does it without a problem, plus he’ll even touch up your layers. He’s delicate when painting your nails, holding your hands softly but firmly. Jonathan is very intricate in nature, so he does them flawlessly every time.

taglist:

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[rosypenguins]

Day 13! Jomies Headcanons! (I got quite a few!)

Jake:

💛Unironically listens to boy bands.

💛Has Spotify open 24/7. Is always looking for new artists and songs, and probably has over 3000 songs liked.

💛He’ll listen to any song of any genre, but tends to lean more towards alt-rock.

💛Used to listen to Billie Eilish in Middle School.

💛Whenever it’s too quiet, he’ll either hum to himself or make random noises with his mouth.

💛Physically incapable of standing still.

💛Probably ate an eraser as a kid.

💛Does not believe in closets. Keeps his clothes either on the floor or in his chair. (If it’s in his closet he’ll genuinely forget he even owns the item.)

💛”Processing your emotions? What the hell’s that?”

💛Oh yeah, he definitely has ADHD.

Drew:

🖤Really likes FPS games.

🖤Always has to have his weight shifted on one leg. He cannot stand up straight to save his life. (Heh cuz he’s gay-)

🖤Small waist. (He’s a twink in my eyes.)

🖤Could probably be picked up by the other Jomies. (Has yet to be tested due to safety concerns.) (The concerns being Drew beating the shit out of them.

🖤Doesn’t like black coffee but drinks it anyways. (Why? We don’t know.)

🖤TERRIBLE eating habits. He’ll literally just have a piece of toast and be like “welp that’ll last me for the next 48 hours.”

🖤Those hot-pink girly desserts are his guilty pleasure.

🖤Listens to a lot of rap music. Mostly emo rap. He says it’s cuz it sounds cooler but it’s actually because he finds the lyrics relatable.

🖤Stalks Jake’s instagram for purely platonic reasons.

🖤Doesn’t know how to show affection so he’ll sometimes just randomly punch Jake in the arm. No warning, no explanation.

🖤Cat person. Doesn’t really like dogs. (Terrified of Oreo but would rather die than admit it.)

🖤Bullies cats relentlessly, but will also meow back at them if he thinks no one’s around.

🖤Likes being cuddled way more than he’d like to admit.

🖤Having his hair played with puts him right to sleep.

🖤Struggled to make friends in Elementary school due to his temper. (His lack of attention at home led to him lashing out a lot.) Other kids found him to be intimidating so Drew didn’t really have any friends until Middle School.

🖤Was put in time-out a LOT in Kindergarten so it basically just became Drew’s Corner.

🖤IPad kid. Definitely had a mascot-horror phase when he was 10.

🖤“Processing your emotions? What the hell’s that?”

🖤Oh yeah, BPD. He has BPD.

Liam:

❤️Hands are always fucking clammy it cannot be helped.

❤️Definitely listens to Breakcore.

❤️Has a bunch of those weird, perverted anime stickers somewhere in his desk drawer because he thinks they’re funny. (They were included in a random anime sticker pack Henry bought online.)

❤️Had a super edgy werewolf OC back in Middle School. Drawings of it still exist in that same drawer.

❤️Lets Henry play with his hair when they’re alone together.

❤️Refuses to use chairs properly.

❤️Has so many 0.5 photos of the Jomies. (Except Drew because Drew threatened to break his phone if he ever took one of him. But Liam still managed to sneak a few bad photos of Drew as well.)

❤️Type of guy to moan when someone’s on the phone with their parent.

❤️Knows how to drive a manual. (I imagine his mom’s car is an older one soooooo if Liam wanted to drive around he had to learn.)

Henry:

💚Baby face. (Liam likes to hold his face.)

💚Wears anime merch with pride.

💚Pretends to be a girl online sometimes so people give him free shit.

💚Almost always hits Drew with the 🤓 emoji anytime he says something smart/logical in their group chat.

💚Would definitely like matcha because it tastes like g r a s s.

💚He ate grass as a kid. And leaves. And dirt.

💚The type of kid that always had to be the dog in any game he played.

💚Really likes bunnies. He held one once and felt his life was complete.

💚Oh, and frogs too. He loves frogs.

💚Typically takes the role of mediator during fights, even if he has no context on the situation.

💚Relies way too much on being funny. If a joke doesn’t land he genuinely hates himself for a couple seconds.

💚Sensitive to loud noise. (Unless the loud noise is on his terms.) (Like, he’ll have his music on full blast and shout at his friends standing right next to him and be completely fine, but if a balloon were to suddenly pop right beside him, it’d startle him quite a bit.)

💚Drew glaring at him and telling him to shut up hurts a little more than he’d like to admit.

💚Probably also has ADHD.

Zoey:

🩷This bitch knows how to steal shit. You got a necklace she likes she will find a way to take it.

🩷Can and will find a way to make everything said against her about her gender.

🩷“Oh my God, I am LITERALLY just a girl.”

🩷Definitely took dance for a P.E credit.

🩷Almost everything she owns is covered in flowers.

🩷Everything has to be aesthetic.

🩷Always had to initiate any sort of affection between her and Drew. She was always the one asking him out. Always the one to kiss him first, or reach for his hand. (Whereas Drew never really thought about that sort of stuff.)

🩷Her views on relationships were also very different from Drew’s. She wanted excitement and fun. She wanted to go out and do things. And whenever they were home alone, she wanted to make out with him and stuff, meanwhile, all Drew wanted to do was cuddle and watch stupid videos on his phone with her. (But she just found that boring.)

🩷Honestly, their best dates were their at-home ones. Where they’d watch movies together and Zoey would bring some face masks and they’d pamper each other and cuddle and whatnot. (Fun for Zoey and relaxing for Drew.)

🩷And because of their height difference, Zoey would sometimes grab Drew’s collar and pull him down to her level to kiss him. (And this definitely never once flustered Drew.)

🩷Probably knew Drew cared more about Jake than he did her and that pissed her off.

Lia:

💜Big fan of Olivia Rodrigo. (And one time, while her and Drew were waiting for the others after school, she was listening to one of her songs and singing along, and Drew ended up correcting her on a lyric, causing her to realize he ALSO listens to her music, and he was super embarrassed about it afterwards and made her promise not to tell anyone.)

💜So anyways Lia now wants to take Drew to an Olivia Rodrigo concert.

💜She’s also a big fan of Nessa Barrett.

💜Surprisingly really good at singing. She never took lessons or anything, she just sings in the shower a lot.

💜Sprays perfume on herself like 50 times in a day.

💜Always comparing herself to people online.

💜“Self-esteem? What’s that?”

💜Genuinely could not describe herself if she was asked to. She’s so used to changing herself for others she doesn’t even know who she is or what she wants to be.

💜Imposter Syndrome 100%

💜Had a huge crush on Hailey in Middle School but didn’t even know being gay was a thing so she didn’t really know how to explain her feelings at all.

@31days-of-freakblr

[cozzzynook]

Hurt/Comfort Involving Predacon Bumblebee and Predabee

Bumblebee sluggishly opens is optics finding himself in the same dark cell since his capture. He groans as he slowly shifts his aching plating that's riddled with surgery welds and fresh scars, letting out hiss he is finally able to stand on shaky peds before slowly walking up to the bars of his cell. Outside his cage he can see the see the many machines and tools of the mad scientist lab, the sickly buzzing of the lights made Bee's helm rattle with a ponding headache. He then turned his attention to look down at his now clawed servos, it seemed little by little Bee found his frame changing slightly and considering that he was constantly given energon rich with medical grade it seemed the mad scientist wasn't snuffing his spark any time soon.

Slowly Bee turns and with his new talons carefully carves a new tally mark on the wall. It has been 3 months since his capture and it seems his own team have either forgotten about him or assumed he was one with All Spark but it didn't stop the hurting in his spark. Feeling tears starting to well up in his optics Bee then sits on the cold floor and pulls his knees as tight to his chest as he can before burying his face in his servos before quietly sobbing to himself. Bee had long cried himself dry when he heard someone approach his cell, letting out a faint snarl the yellow mech turns to face the visitor only for his optics to grow wide. Predaking stood outside the cell holding what seemed to be a old blanket. Carefully he larger mech slipped the blanket through the bars before giving a little smile, Predaking has been the only company Bumblebee has had in these past months and ever day little by little the yellow mech finds himself growing closer to the predacon.

Quickly picking up the blanket and hiding it in the darkest corner of the cell Bee walked over back towards the bars and slipped his servos through the bars to hold Predaking's own servos. They hold each other closely as they can while Predaking softly whisperers promises that he will find a way out for Bee and make sure they will never have to deal with the Decepitcons again. Bumblebee gives a soft purr nuzzling his helm into the larger mechs chest enjoying the warmth and comforting scent, he knew escape would be risky especially when he is so weak from the constant changes to his frame. Just then the sound of heavy footsteps grew closer making Predaking pull away sharply and leave the lab but not before giving a soft longing gaze at the yellow mech. Bumblebee then sulks back deeper into his cell letting out a snarl as purple scientist returns to his lab ready to finish his latest "Project".

It was late into the night when Bumblebee awoke from his latest "surgery", his frame was sore and tired as he slowly pulled himself back onto his pedes. He quickly scanned over his frame looking for what has been changed this time only to discover strange weld markings around where his T-Cog was. Panicking he quickly transforms his Alt-Mode excepting his T-Cog to have been removed or tampered with but he soon finds himself easily shifting into his other mode only to find that his prison cell was suddenly too small. Confused Bee looks at his reflection in the energon left just outside his cell, letting out a startled yelp Bumblebee finds no longer as a muscle car but a large yellow and black predacon. Finally understanding the strange changes to his frame Bee allows himself to transform back into root-mode so he is longer cramped in his cell, he then begins pacing back and forth unsure if it was worth the risk trying to escape and return to his team in this new mode.

It was mid-afternoon when the alarms of the Nemesis began blaring alerting everyone on bored. Both Predaking and Bumblebee ran down the halls causing havoc in their wake as they headed for the ships dock. It didn't take long for the pair of predacons to barge their way through a barricade of unfortunate Cons before finally landing on the open dock. Predaking nudges Bee to open his new wings and take to the air while he holds off the others, being unsure and not wanting to leave Predaking behind Bumblebee begs for him to follow. Letting out a stream of fire to block the main doors to the dock Predaking joins Bee's side before leaping off the dock and taking flight, Bee closely follows behind struggling at first but quickly gets the hang of it, together they head into the mountains hoping to lose the Decepticons there before making their way into a near by forest.

A Couple of weeks on the run Bee and Predaking spend a rather cold morning cuddled with each in a small make-shift den in the changing forest. Fall has turned the once bright green leaves into shades of red, orange and yellow for Predaking he can't help but stare in awe and wonder as he carefully watches the leaves fall around them. Bumblebee smiles burying his helm into the larger mechs side letting out a flirty purr before flashing a smirk as he carefully flutters his wings in a teasing manner. Predaking looks at Bee a bit shocked at first but he let outs his own purr as he carefully pulls the smaller mech into his lap before giving a gentle nip on Bee's scared neck while slowly allowing his servos explore his partners frame. They spend the morning just wrapped in each others warmth and love and for Bee its the first time he truly has felt alive and loved.

Sometime later in a dark cave Bumblebee is lying in a nest tending to a clutch of eggs while Predaking keeps watch over his growing family. Meanwhile in the Auto-bot base Ratchet nearly spits out his energon cube he was eating when the main monitor beings beeping. There on the screen is Bumblebee's spark signature showing that the yellow scout was alive and well. The medic hardly believes it hoping it was just a glitch since they lost contact with Bee after he was ambushed all those months ago, they sent a search party only to come up with nothing and have been quietly grieving the lose of the yellow mech. Ratchet suddenly stands up and runs towards Optimus hab to let Prime know of the good news while hoping Bumblebee was alright.

(Hope you enjoyed this little idea :D)

Oh my gosh this is so cute and sweet!!!!

Poor bee getting changed into a predacon but the change brought him the love of his life and a family aahhhhh!!!!

I just know Optimus is going to bear hug Bee when he sees him, predacon form and all 😂

[motherloads]

Right Side of My Neck

Pre! Identity Reveal. Alt. timeline of my first Tim Drake fic ◡̈

Me when me when I see readers fawn over my other fics, asking for pt. 2 but what I give is this: Tim Drake and Spider-Woman! Reader *cheering noises*

Summary: The reader is a new hero in Gotham City, known as Spider-Woman. Despite knowing of the no-meta rule, she continues to patrol the city in broad daylight.

What's to say that the bats are allowing this? At every meeting, they try and stop the unknown woman from fighting their battles. With no idea of who she is, they are struggling to maintain their no-meta rule.

Unknowingly, she forms a friendship with Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. Shameless flirting ensues when she starts to connect the identity of the bats.

Who is she but not a Spider who captures her prey?

-> Pairings: Tim Drake x Reader

-> Marvel/DC Crossover

->Warnings: None!

not proof read! oops,,,

⋆｡°✩

You looked back at me once.  But I looked back two times.

"At some point, you need to realize that maybe, just maybe, you need to start advertising the no meta rule?" Stephanie Brown questions Bruce Wayne. She taps her feet impatiently, watching the man skim through the news reports of Spider-Woman. His separate file regarding the woman is on his other monitor.

"I do not have a no meta-rule,"  Bruce grumbles as he cross referencing similar heroes who tried to debut in the past. None match up and it was as if Spider-Woman did not exist before. Not in any city, town, or country was she ever sighted. It was as if she was a ghost.  

"Technically you do," Duke shrugs, "You always growl about no meta's being allowed in Gotham. I was the exception, remember?"

"I do not growl," Bruce points a glare at Duke who shrugs shamelessly. "Aren't you supposed to be out patrolling? Go find the new hero, only god knows what she's up to."

Duke ignores his comment, deciding to suit up for patrol to escape Bruce's ongoing investigation. 

"I thought we agreed to not use feminine pronouns," Steph reprimands, "They haven't revealed their identity. We can't just assume they go by she and her." 

"I'm too old for this," Bruce sighs, "But fine. Can someone atleast try and follow their tale? I have meetings back to back today." 

"I'll get Tim on this," Stephanie agrees, "But, before that. I think Alfred sent us his grocery list for the week." Stephanie waves goodbye to Duke and Bruce. 

⋆｡°✩

"Spider-Woman is a menace!" Her coworker reads out loud, "A menace to society and for the vigilantes in black. God! Jameson is one hell of a woman to be blasting the new hero out this way." He throws the newspaper away, shaking his head in annoyance, "I think they're pretty cool! Their helmet matches perfectly with the Red Hood. I wonder if they have some sort of alliance."

"I don't think so." Another coworker pipes up, bagging the groceries for her customer, "I don't think they have the ability to kill villains the same way Red Hood does. They probably have some moral code? I think they'd match Nightwing the best."

"Definitely not Robin. He's too...aggressive for Spider-Woman to deal with. Plus, he's a kid, so they'd probably argue." Her final and third coworker shrugs, "I honestly like that they're a solo hero."

"What if there is more like them? Like a Spider-Society where they protect the multiverse," She spoke out against her coworkers, grinning shamelessly at her reveal, "Spider-Women in the Spider-Verse."

"Now where do you get that idea from?" A new voice muses. They all turn their heads to see Timothy Drake. His eyes, as tired as ever, make eye contact with the girl. He smiles at her in response to her staring, "Seems like a far-fetched idea." 

"I know them," She grins, leaning against her counter, looking at Tim from beneath her lashes. She senses him squirm in response to her look, "Might even know their identity." She teases. 

"Care to share? I'd love to know, for research purposes." 

Her grin widens at his response, cocking her head innocently at Tim who continued to squirm in her gaze. "Why? Want to ask them out on a date?" 

"No-No. I'm just curious! Does that mean you don't know?" 

She pushes herself off the counter, continuing to check Tim out. She noticed the array of coffee flavors and things that are normally on her customer's grocery list. She assumed he was doing his own for his butler, Alfred. 

"Of course not. I'm just a college student." She shrugs, "50.42. Will that be cash or card?"

Tim mumbles his answer, passing her his card for the transcation. His face still felt hot from her onslaught, but he decided to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Instead, he focused on her hands. Her hands were a light shade of purple as if she was healing from a bruise. 

"Hey wha-" He gets cut off when she passes his card back to him. She tilts her head at him, making his heart stop again. 

"What?" She asks.

"Nothing, Nothing. I-See you later?" She nods in response, watching Tim walk away from her counter quickly. She felt a laugh bubble up from inside of her.

"God, you're shameless." Her coworker sneered. She only laughs in response. 

⋆｡°✩

"If I were a villain, where would I be?" She hummed, moving across the rooftop she was on. Her helmet's eyes furrowed, zooming in on a robbery in a nearby bakery.

"Gotcha," She whispers, moving down to the bakery. She notices the baker being held at gunpoint as customers run out of the store. She paid no mind to the customers who tried to push her aside as she stepped foot into the scene.

"Hey! Mr. Big Bad Wolf! Has anyone ever told you not to huff and puff in a bakery before?!" She paused at her words, suddenly realizing her mistake, "Sorry, Sorry. I think I mixed up my fairytales."

The robber immediately drops his gun and himself to the ground. Shaking like a leaf, the robber immediately starts blabbing out an apology. "I swear I had no bullets! I swear- I just need money! My kid's in trouble! He's sick and I-" She cuts him off, webbing the gun and bringing it to her.

"The shelter across the streets offers monthly emergency grants to 20 lucky folks each month. Luckily, the application opens tomorrow. I'd recommend you apply to it instead and-" She pulls out her wallet, free from any sort of identification. Counting silently, she slides a hundred to the man. "This should cover the medicine until you receive the emergency grant. If not, just tell the clerk Spider-Woman sent you."

The man nods frantically, taking the hundred and running out of the bakery. The baker sighs in relief, sliding down the wall hazardously, "I thought today was my last day, genuinely..." "Not your time yet, I suppose," She begins to skim through the selection, humming to herself as she reads the items out loud, "Lemon Pie sounds good. I'll take a slice." The baker immediately stands, rinsing their own hands from the dirt on the floor. In the blink of an eye, they were packaging a whole lemon pie.

"I said one," Spider-Woman frowns as the baker pushes the box to her. She could smell the lemon wafting off of the pie from where she stood.

"It's a thank you. Also on the house," The baker responds instead, "I'm Felicia by the way. Felicia Hardy."

"Nice to meet you, Felicia," Spider-Woman nods as Felicia smiles warmly. Her smile disappeared when the door jiggled. A person came into the bakery.

She felt no reaction with her spider senses. No imminent danger was presented. When she looks, she is immediately face-to-face with Nightwing, "Funny seeing you here. I swore just yesterday you were at Bludhaven, Mr. Wing!"

"Had some business to take care of here," The man easily grins, nodding at the baker in return as she stares in awe. "A little bird told me you were sighted in a bakery. Wanted to see the situation." The minute he ended his sentence, she felt another presence in the bakery.

"Little Bird? Does it happen to be Robin?" She questions casually, leaning against the countertop. She rested her hand on the bag with her lemon pie.

"How do you always know," A younger voice scoffs. The occupants in the bakery turn to the corner shrouded in darkness. There, stood Robin in his little mighty glory.

"The spider in the corner told me so," She responds instead, "Now...are you both going to take me in?"

"That's the plan," Nightwing grins, "Want to put your lemon pie on the side?"

"No, it's fine," She tightens her grip on the bag, "Got places to be, Mr, Wing. You'd understand, right?"

"Answer our question first," Robin spits out, stepping forward into the light. His katana, held menacingly and glinting from the lights was pointed at her. "Why did you let the robber go? He could have been lying and you let a man go. He could kill someone!"

"Listen, kid," She sighs, "I don't have to tell you anything- We aren't teammates and in no way, do I want the Bats in my business." She pauses at her words, feeling her nose wrinkle from under her helmet. Stepping closer to Robin, she takes a long, deep breath.

"You have a dog?" Both Nightwing and Robin tense at her words, "A smell lingers from you. You live on a farm?" She turns her head to Nightwing and does the same to him, "Do you like swimming? You have chlorine in your hair." When both of the vigilantes stayed rooted in their spot, both from equal shock, she continued. "You smell like someone I see around here. Are you in contact with Tim Drake?"

With that, she shoots four simultaneous webs at the duo's feet. Rooting them to their spot, she salutes them and runs out of the bakery.

⋆｡°✩

At this point, the constant meetings with the Bat's made her realize the similarities they all hold with one another and a particular person she loved to tease. Nightwing and mini Robin were not the only ones who had that particular scent.

When she met Black Bat, she noticed how the smell was not as intense but still lingered on her person. Specifically to the gadgets she had on her self, they had a combination of metals that had created it and everything that screamed Tim.

When she met Signal, it wasn't the same. He had more of a scent on him compared to Black Bat. Specifically his hands and shoulders, although she wasn't sure why. When she began to do her research and find blurry photos of Signal and pictures she had taken of Tim, she realized Tim stood shorter than the vigilante.

Batman himself never strayed close enough to where she can smell him. He always maintained a distance, as if he knew what she had been researching. But he had no clue, right?

Tim's scent lingered on Red Hood and apparently they likely had many fist fights with one another because of how strong it stayed on the older man's fists. Hell, if she was near him close enough (which was almost always never) she can catch a hint of blood.

Spoiler had the second biggest scent out of all of the Bat's. Tim's scent was everywhere to her hair, skin, suit, and shoulder. This had made her go crazy, but don't tell anyone else that it was embarrassing when she had stumbled into Spoiler's arms to make sure there wasn't anything apparent on her face.

But doing so made her realize how similar she smelled to Stephanie.

Red Robin had been the one who easily dodged her efforts to get anything off of him. If she thought Red Hood was hard, then she was in for quite a shock when Red Robin kicked her helmet, knocking her back a notch.

"I know what you're trying to do!" He shouts at her, "The others have told me you have been taking big sniffs at them, what are you even planning?"

"I'm testing a hypothesis," She grits out, adjusting her helmet's lenses as Red Robin kicked them out of place, "I just need to confirm something, just hold still!"

"No!" He calls out, taking out his grappling hook in a quick motion. He makes no sound of a goodbye as he shoots away. Scoffing under her breath, she easily sticks a web onto the mans shoulder.

Pulling herself back, she launches herself onto the vigilante's back. He yelps in shock, not expecting her to latch on around his waist. Her arms wrap around his neck as she tilted his head back. Taking a hard sniff, her senses went into overdrive when she realized how familiar his smell was.

Sighing in relief, she leans her head further into his shoulder, she is interrupted from her thoughts as he lands on a rooftop. Trying to remove her, he grabs at the arms that would not budge. Then, he tried her legs. It was the same outcome.

"Come on!" He growls, "Get off!"

"No," She spits back, "You're an asshole!"

"I didn't even do anything! You're the one smelling the entirety of all the Bats! What next? Going to sniff Joker?!"

She steps one foot down but immediately goes to kick the back of his legs. Red Robin falters as he falls to the floor. Above him, she sits on his lap. They both stare at one another.

"I was wondering why every single Bat had this one recognizable scent," She begins, her frown masked by her helmet, "It drove me crazy, Red. Absolutely crazy that I thought the person I knew was being stalked."

She sees Red Robin's mask furrow in confusion. Still, he made no effort to move her off of him. "Even smelled the clothes he let me borrow. To see how similar it was."

Removing her helmet, Red Robin stares in shock as the spider's eyes were revealed. A familiar color he couldn't help but feel a blush rise from his face and around his ears. He noticed her eyes shift to his neck, that was most likely red as well.

He could not see her lower half, she had it covered with a mask the same color as her suit.

"Tim, did you know that cologne never truly washes out?" She leans close to his face, brushing a strand of his hair away from covering his mask. Tim felt his breath hitch at the name unroll from her tongue. One syllable and one identity reveal. "I think you need to prioritize washing the smell out." She tilts her head, her eyes crinkling as she smiled under the mask.

"How-" Now, Tim pushed her off of him. Doing his own move, which she made no effort to stop, he landed between her thighs. She was on the floor, staring up at him. He was on his knees as his breathing became uneven.

"Right side of my neck always smelled like you," She muses, "Whenever you gave me a hug, it would always linger. I liked it a lot."

Without a second thought, Tim pulls off the woman's mask.

He stares at a familiar face, who smiles at him. The cute smile he always felt shy about and guilty that he constantly lied to them. The cute smile that was apart of his profile picture of her.

The cute smile of the person who he would have never thought was the vigilante they were chasing after.

He breathes out her name.

"Hey, Tim."

[annabelle-creart]

A lil Blurr redesign for the Life of Rescue Bots Au because I wanted her to look femenine (I know in the show is male but Rescue bots don’t have enough women and I wanted some body angst for the Chase and Blurr plot, and by that I mean father and daughter plot)

I added the lil things that look like antenae cause of Chase’s moving fins of his head sides, that move when he hears something, and also I added an ambulance mode because they really need a real ambulance in the program, they don’t even have one in academy :v

In conclusion: i keep much of the body shape cause of her personal plot but also wanted her head to look femenine, and of course her character as well, added and alt mode ambulance and antennae so she would look physically more to Chase

In this Au she was an ilegal racer back on Velocitron before the war knock at the planet, she was one of the best but always get injured, the debts were higher and with the police getting out of control just as the people, she and Salvage decided to escape together to another planet near, but something went wrong and they both ended up crashing on earth and then into stasis, if they weren’t asleep so much time they would probably had Chase’s age but due to the stasis, they remain as teenagers, the day the sky turn red and green due to the battle between Mandroid and the autobots, the ship they were trapped into send a signal to Griffin Rock, because it was near, so the rescue team went into the rescue and awake them, becoming since then the two new members of the rescue team with Sissi. Even if sometimes acts like a kid she is really passionate and love people but is a little insecure in the moment of recieve and give care, she was orphan just like Salvage, they only learned to trust in each other, even when Blurr treat Salvage like less and lie to him too much times to count it or Salvage says things at her ear to annoying her and keep her away from the rest.

it’s actually something i want to talk about not here but in a comic but if Blurr and Salvage are teenagers who grew up alone and treated like scrap i would not be surprised that they depend too much into each other at the point of a toxic relationship where Blurr treats Salvage like less even if can’t do anything without him and Salvage makes her think no one is enough or secure for her except him, so, yeah, both have problems and need therapy… you know? I’m going to edit Salvage’s psychiatric disorder from ‘none’ to ‘emotional dependent’ I literally just thought in the idea and like, i didn’t even planned that Salvage and Blurr would be such a mother fraggers ajksjaksjs

But don’t think wrong, Blurr and Salvage are not bad, they are just hurted and don’t know how to deal with the situation, Blurr can be a little egotistical for all the years she had been thinking and taking care about herself and Salvage talk to her just like she wants because he knows her well, enough to be like a second conscience, they do what they think necesary to survive because what is now a toxic relationship was Salvage’s superhero who could keep him safe and sound and never allowed a night without energon, and Blurr’s family who cure her wounds and kept her faith in humanity (well, velocitranity?), they just were together too much time and started treating the other with more authority than they actually have.

I think sleep absence is making me do angst, night mfs, I need more sleep than Kade dreaming with gremlins