#high security number plate

[votermood]

HSRP Number Plate, HSRP is also known as High Security Number Plates. Now it will be necessary to install high security registration number plates on 5-year-old vehicles in the state. 

[saekkas]

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

summary: in which someone flirts with them, but they're only looking at you.

includes: isagi, nagi, reo, yukimiya, rin, sae, kunigami, kaiser, karasu, bachira, aiku.

notes: this one's shorter than the one before but still, go wild my loves <3

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐘 who values you very much. is the type to be very secure in the relationship; doesn't like any unnecessary drama and is definitely ready to move onto the next stage. wouldn't really care about the other person but will not tolerate having his boundaries crossed. especially when it's clear that he's yours and yours only.

isagi, yukimiya, bachira, nagi.

his eyes are on his phone, feet tapping against the tiles of the cafe. it's a hole in the wall that he's used to frequenting with you, so much that the staff know your orders by heart. the line is short, seats mostly empty, as the rush hour has passed. the rain is pouring against the window beside him, and he taps his finger on the table to their rhythm.

tilting his head, his eyes find you in the middle of the line. you're focused on the menu, your bottom lip between your teeth as you scan the list of food and beverages. it makes him smile, chuckling under his breath because he knows you'll end up getting what you usually do. he gets onto his feet, wallet in hand, when you're finally set to order.

"hi. good morning, how are you?" your sweet voice tickles his ear as he approaches, his heart warm and sated as you go through your usual routine.

"hey." he presses a kiss to your head, wrapping a hand around your waist. his lips trail down, stopping at your cheek, a smile pressed against the skin as he hears you giggle. "what's taking so long?"

the cashier smiles, amused at the sight. "mornin' i'm great. how about you two lovebirds?"

"we're good," he answers for you both, an easy-going expression on his face. he looks down, scrunching his nose at you while you giggle at his answer. "just waiting for this angel to finish ordering."

"we'll have matcha latte, caramel macchiato, and a blueberry cheesecake please. the usual." he tilts his head, looking for your confirmation. he smiles proudly, chest puffing when you nod your head.

"i'll pay," you say as you show your card to the cashier, smiling at her. he chuckles, letting you take the bill this time. "how much will it be?"

the drinks are out in a second, the green and brown a contrast against each other. there are two pairs of utensils on the plate, and he thanks the staff for their work, taking the tray into his hand. "i'll take these to our table first, okay?" he looks over his shoulder, a gentle look in his eye as he processes just how... domestic this all feels.

"yeah, i'll be there in a minute. i need to go to the bathroom." you smile at the cashier one last time, tucking your purse into your bag. you glare playfully, poking your tongue at him. "don't you dare finish the cheesecake before i'm back."

he pokes his tongue back, a laugh breaking loose from his chest. "no promises."

he sits back down, placing the food on the table as he goes back to drumming his fingers. the rain doesn't look as if it'll be stopping any time soon, wind combining with water to shower the earth clean. he looks at his watch, mentally thinking about making dinner later with you. a smile grows at the thought.

there's a shadow in the corner of his eye that he assumes is you. he smiles, ready to lean over and press a kiss, only to stop when his eyes meet a stranger instead. "sorry." he backs away, a furrow in his eyebrow as he looks around, searching for you. "you've got the wrong table."

"no. it's okay. i've definitely got the right table." the stranger lays it thick with a high-pitched tone, and fluttering eyelashes. "hi, handsome. here's my number."

he watches as she slips a piece of paper onto the table, confusion blending into annoyance when she leans over to take his hand. "look," he says with a frown, pushing his hands into his pockets. he's very obviously looking in the direction you went off in. "you've got the wrong table and i'm already with someone."

"ah but i don't see this someone?" the smile on her face is pushing at his limits. his jaw ticks when she moves to sit beside him. "c'mon, handsome. give me a chance."

the bathroom door by the end opens with a creak, and his head snaps at the sound. before she has time to reach over once again, he's quick to swerve away to your side. you're already eyeing the girl at your table with curiosity, your head tilted in question. "hey, who's that? one of your frien-"

he doesn't let you finish. he's quick to reach for your waist, tugging you into a kiss with a hand cupping your cheek. all negative feelings drain from his limbs, turning him into a puddle of love as you thread your fingers into his hair.

"as much as i love your kisses," you say with a gasp of breath as you look up into his eyes, finding love looking back at you through the orbs. "that was a bit sudden. did something happen?"

"not at all." he shakes his head, nuzzling into your nose. his hands are on the side of your neck, lovingly stroking the skin. "not now that you're here."

you look back at your table, seeing it empty, and the girl from before nowhere in sight.

"shall we enjoy our drinks?" he pushes you with the hand he has on your waist. he sits down first before pulling you to sit right beside him, your hands intertwined under the table. "can't wait to eat dinner with you later."

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. he won't say no to playful flirting since it feeds his ego but will only respond if you're somewhere near or in his field of vision. he won't give the other person any of his attention if you aren't. will think it's funny that they're trying their best but will either shoot them down in a way that crushes their pride or brush them off as if they don't exist.

reo, aiku, karasu, kaiser.

the bass is thrumming against his skull, a tune that doesn't fit the mall's calm and serene energy. he's sitting on one of those plush sofas in a clothing store outlet, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waits for you to finish changing. he feels the warning glare the manager's sending, and he snorts as if trying to go into the dressing room with you is a crime. he would be so much more satisfied with you between four cramped walls than in the wide space where people are obviously gawking at him.

"excuse me." someone calls his name timidly, and he cocks his head towards them, wanting to see where this goes. they send him a smile, one that's too teethy and falsely sweet but hey he can't fault them for not flashing his favorite smile; they aren't you after all.

"yes?" his reply is short and blunt, but he sighs when the girl flinches away. you've always said that his resting face looked too mean. he chuckles at the thought.

shaking himself out of his daydream, he shows his best smile. he leans back, arm stretched out against the back of the couch as he adjusts his pose, manspreading. a peacock, you'd once muse when he first did it in front of you. he watches with thinly veiled boredom in his eyes, a juxtaposition to the sickeningly sweet smile on his lips. "can i help you with something?"

the girl flushes, biting her lip and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. being coy, he realizes with an amused scoff.

"sorry to bother you. it's just- you looked so bored. i thought i could entertain you."

his eyebrow quirks at the word entertain, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "and how would you do that, hm?" he takes her in, taking in her choice of clothing and hairstyle. cute he'd give that much to her. nothing like you, though. she couldn't compare.

he realizes belatedly that the once over was seen differently than what he meant for it to come across. amusement flickers in his eyes when she flushes a bright red, fidgeting on her spot. "you do this often?" he tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, trying to gauge her reaction. "flirting with random strangers in the mall of a hobby, eh?"

"just the handsome ones," she says with a giggle. he watches as she points a finger to the row of clothes, her interest clear as day. "how about we look around? buy some clothes or jewelry so we match."

he chuckles, shaking his head at the thought. he can't wait to tell you about this. right on cue, the door to your dressing room opens, and you step out. his breath gets stuck in his throat, his eyes widening, and a grin making its way to his lips.

the black dress you have on is nothing short of stunning. it tapers off to your knees, the material hugging your curves. he sends you an eager look, one which you giggle at. you turn, showing him the back of the dress, keeping eye contact as you do. his mouth falls and thoughts short circuit as his eyes rake down your bare back, stopping just before your bum.

oh the things he'll do to you in that dress. no wonder the manager was so adamant on not letting him join in on the fun.

"nah," he says distractedly at the girl still waiting for his response. he sends you a wink and a flirty smile, mouthing one moment, before turning back to her. "see that gorgeous specimen right there? yeah i'm hers."

"she and i, we match." his eyes are filled with mischief as he tugs his shirt down, showing off the collection of marks you left on him last night. the skin around his collarbone is red, purple, and bruised. littered with love bites. a symbol of your love he thinks smugly. "see?"

there's pride blooming in his chest, a smug smile forming on his face the moment her eyes widen and the color drains from her face. "i'm not interested in anyone who's not her. so scram." he's quick to wave her away, skipping over to tug you back into the fitting room, this time with him in it.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐂𝐄, the type to literally not care at all. will not give them time of day and will appear hostile if necessary. but he'll mostly just look at them, expressionless with dead eyes.

sae, rin, kunigami

there are so many options to choose from, he frowns, glaring at the row of refrigerators stacked next to each other as if they've done something wrong. the supermarket is relatively busy, customers ranging from middle schoolers to elderly. he's in the drink section, passing one fridge to another, looking for your favorite drink from outside the glass, his frowning reflection looking back at him.

you're somewhere in the dairy section, picking out pints of ice cream, and who knows what else. he checks his phone, checking for any new messages from you. i'll head over soon, after i find the popcorn, it reads along with multiple hearts and photos of you smiling beside the ice cream. he shakes his head, tapping a finger against the screen to save the photos.

he pockets his phone, ready to move on to the next isle when he bumps into someone. he huffs, his eyes looking at the girl that's staring right back at him.

"really?" she says with a flirty giggle after she gets a clear look at his face. he remains stoic, hands in his pocket, even as she nudges him on the shoulder as if a longtime friend. "you're handsome but if you don't say sorry when you bump into someone, they'll lose interest. but maybe that's your charm."

he moves to slight past her, not at all caring about her presence, but before he knows it, she's stuck a hand into his back pocket, sending a kiss playfully before bounding over somewhere he doesn't give a damn about. the frown on his lips deepens, but before he has the chance to look into his pocket, you pop up right beside him.

"hey, i can't find the drinks but i've got everything else." he hears you say as you show him your basket full of things, smiling up at him. there are all kinds of things in the basket, ranging from chocolate, popcorn, ice cream, sausages, and many more. tonight is monthly movie night and he tries to shake off the weird encounter from his mind, not wanting to dampen the mood.

he smiles back, leaning down to take the basket from you. the hoodie you have on is his, and it dwarves you. the hem reaches your knees, and he can't see your hands which makes him chuckle all the while more. you told him that you were cold, he knows it's just another excuse to wear his hoodie.

"let's go home." he ruffles a hand through your hair, affection getting the best of him, before taking your hand with his other.

he drops the basket on the self-checkout counter, and helps you scan all the necessary items. he eyes the chupa-chups by the counter and grabs two, strawberry and cola, scanning both and handing them for you to choose. he chuckles when you brighten, choosing the strawberry for yourself.

"i'll take the bags." he takes both bags into his left hand, the other placing itself on your back. he leads you out, shaking his head in amusement when he feels you slip your hand into his back pocket.

"hey what's this?" the tone of your voice has him frowning. "i didn't know you smoke. it's bad for you, ya know?"

looking down at the cigarette in your hand, he eyes the scribble of numbers surrounding the stick. ah that's what she slipped in, he sighs. taking the cigarette from you, he's quick to throw it to the ground, crushing it with his foot.

"i don't," he chuckles at the look of disbelief on your face. leaning in, he plucks the candy from your mouth, pressing a kiss and pushing his tongue in. you taste sweet from the candy he notes, you smell like ice cream too. he's quick to pull back, chuckling when he realizes just how flustered you've become.

"i prefer sweets," he says with a smug smile before popping the candy into his own mouth.

[mactavishwritings]

how would the 141 + konig and vaqueros react to reader (not part of the military,just a civvy) randomly having connections with a bid deal military person like someone on a higher rank💀 imagine them being "oh general ___? we had dinner at his house last week. i met him while I'm on a coffee run" or someone from 141 mentioning that they need something and reader is just like "hmm i might have someone for that"

this is so funny to me

ghost: he needed access to some computer data from a big law firm, but they refused to cooperate with him or the team. at dinner one night, you two were talking about your days when he mentioned his frustration with this law firm. “what firm is it?” you asked curiously and he told you it was a group called ‘Henson and co Law’. you started laughing and when he looked confused, you smiled. “i know their mom. i use to babysit them for her after their dad left the picture. let me see if i can get their mother to talk some sense into those brothers.” the next day, the law firm quickly gave ghost what he needed and asked him to give you their love.

soap: you two were laying in bed together, him having just return from a recon mission. “you know, this mission is being over complicated just because no one knows how to get into this gala. every time we try and get invites, they reject us!” he let out his frustration and you looked up from your book. “you talking about the Mason Gala? i can get you in. Helen Mason is my godmother!” soap immediately whipped his head towards you, desperately grabbing at your arm. “please doll! also your godmother is a multi millionaire?” you shook your head, getting your phone out to text the women and ended up securing the whole team and yourself tickets.

gaz: you two were on a facetime call while he was on a mission. the homecoming date kept being pushed back because one of the guys they were supposed to get intel from kept flaking. gaz was expressing his frustration with the whole thing when he mentioned a name to you that was super familiar. “wait a minute…you don’t mean Ben Klark? i went to high school with him!” you laughed when gaz lurched forward. “please tell me you still have contact with him! we need tech!” you nodded, grabbing your laptop to message him. the next day, three boxes showed up full with the Klark tech the team needed.

price: he hosted a bbq at your guy’s house every other weekend. you were bringing out trays of food to the boys at the backyard table. they were deep in work talk when you joined. “we just need to somehow get the Jacobsons sisters to agree to go undercover.” price shook his head, knowing the two girls would never agree. “you mean Vanessa and Amelia Jacobsons? their mom does my nails.” you mentioned causally, setting the tray of food in front of soap and gaz. “wait you know them?” price looked at you confused. “yeah the girls come into the shop whenever i’m in to gossip. i think i have Vanessa’s number. i can try and convince her if it’ll help.” you looked at the boys, confused as to why this was groundbreaking to them. the boys immediately started begging you to ask the girls and you giggled as you went back into the kitchen, grabbing your phone to text the two girls.

alejandro: you happened to be sitting in his office, waiting for him to take you to lunch when him and two other officers walked in. “what do you mean we don’t have a pilot? no one on this base can fly?” he sounded frustrated as the two officers shook their heads. “you need a pilot?” you asked, catching the three men’s attention. “why? do you know one?” one of the officers asked. “yeah my brother. he’s overseas in america but i’m sure he’ll be able to do it. he’s air force.” you grabbed your phone to text him. alejandro crouched in front of you, kissing your head. “you’re my favorite, did you know that? i’ll contact his C.O. and get him down here.” you smiled, squeezing his hand. “you still owe me lunch.”

rudy: he was working in his home office when you entered, a plate of food in your hands. “rudy honey? you gotta eat.” you placed the plate down on top of the stack of papers he had buried his face into. “i will once i can get a reputable translator for when we go to russia in a few days.” he groaned, softly pushing the plate to the side. “i think i have a guy for that.” you pulled your phone out and started texting. rudy looked up at you, the look of hope in his eyes. “i’m desperate. everyone i reach out to is so sketchy.” he rubbed his eyes and you nodded. “Mikael Petrov. i studied with him in college. great guy.” you handed your phone to him with the contact pulled up. “you are a blessing.” he stood before kissing you gently.

könig: you were folding laundry in the family room when könig came home. he kicked his boots off before collapsing in his favorite chair next to you. “rough day?” you asked, not looking up from your task. “ja. everyone is busting my ass to find a hacker that can decode this transmission we intercepted.” you chuckled at the very militaristic sentence. “you could’ve just asked me baby. i know so many people.” you placed his pile of laundry on his lap before kissing his head. “you know someone? a hacker?” he looked concerned at first. “don’t ask. college roommate for all 4 years.” you laughed before getting your phone out. “Emila Davenport.” you gave him her number before taking the laundry basket full of clothes back upstairs to your room. “i’m gonna marry you someday, maus!” könig called out and you laughed loudly in return.

[morbidology]

On June 4, 1991, a security guard at the Super 8 Motel on Central Avenue, Albuquerque, New Mexico, made a grim discovery. When a female guest failed to check out at the designated time, the guard entered the room using a screwdriver after finding the door locked from the inside. Inside, he found the lifeless body of a young woman hanging from a metal showerhead by a suitcase strap.

The room was orderly, with no signs of a struggle, and the windows were securely locked from the inside. The woman had been dead for some time, as indicated by the advanced state of decomposition accelerated by the June heat and lack of air conditioning.

The woman, later referred to as "Becca" by investigators, was estimated to be between 25 and 35 years old, standing about 5’7″ tall and weighing approximately 140 pounds. She had curly red hair, likely permed, pale skin, and freckles. She was dressed in a pink and white tie-dye swirl shirt, white denim pants, 3-inch silver hoop earrings, and medium bikini underwear. The only photograph found in the room depicted her with an unidentified man, offering the sole visual clue to her identity.

Becca had checked into the motel two days earlier with a Hispanic man who signed the check-in slip as "Eduardo Colin" and provided a false license plate number. While the staff confirmed that the woman in the photo was indeed the deceased, the man who had accompanied her had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a few beer bottles, a blue suede purse, some women’s clothing, a scale with the name "George Martinez" scrawled on it, and $500 in cash.

The scene was perplexing. There was no evidence of foul play; the room was undisturbed, and the cause of death was officially ruled a suicide by hanging. An autopsy revealed a significant amount of heroin in her system, though she had not overdosed—a finding consistent with the high tolerance often seen in heroin addicts. Despite the heroin in her system, there were no signs of a struggle or external trauma, save for some light abrasions on her face and leg, which were healing at the time of her death.

As the investigation unfolded, speculation grew. The strong suspicion was that "Becca" might have been a sex worker, and that "Eduardo Colin" could have been a client. They may have checked into the motel for drugs and sex, after which he left, and she, perhaps overcome with despair, took her own life. Another theory was that he had killed her and then staged the scene.

A tip later emerged suggesting that the woman was named Rebecca or "Becca," and that she was from Reseda or Sylmar, California. It was also suggested that she had flown to Albuquerque from Los Angeles or Burbank shortly before her death. Despite these leads, she has yet to be positively identified.

Efforts to trace "Eduardo Colin" eventually led police to a man by that name, who had lived in Albuquerque and worked as a truck driver. However, by the time they found him, he had already passed away from natural causes. When shown the photo of Becca and the unidentified man, Colin's family denied knowing either individual and insisted the handwriting on the check-in slip did not match his. This raised doubts about whether the man who checked in with Becca was actually Colin or if he had used a stolen identity.

The true identity of Becca still remains a mystery today.

[whatwooshkai]

Gonna put in my lucky number; 4!

Heatwave can't sleep.

It's not his roommates, no, he's long gotten used to their various recharge quirks. And it's not the homesickness either, that was the worst in the beginning and he was sleeping just fine.

But he just can't sleep. No particular reason.

And that's the annoying part- if there's no discernible problem, there can't really be a solution. That's something Chase would say.

Heatwave considering waking one of them up to entertain him. That'd probably only go over well with Boulder, who's too soft sparked to get angry at him. But then again, Heatwave has never woken them up in the middle of the night, so how is he supposed to know anything?

I'm not a sparkling anymore, he tells himself as he gets down from his bunk, optics trained on Chase's doorwings. They don't flick. I need other ways of dealing with this than bothering my friends.

Their door opens quietly enough to not alert any of the others, and Heatwave is slipping out into the hallway.

He's never been out here in the middle of the night. The hallway is empty, cold and unwelcoming, even with the little personalized name tags on every door. Heatwave's steps barely make a sound on the floor-

-nothing compared to the footsteps pounding down the hall behind him. Shit.

"Hey!"

Heatwave whirls around to see a- a security guard? Why do they have security guards?

"Back in your room, now!" the guard orders, coming up on Heatwave too quickly, grabbing him by the collar plating and lifting him a little off the ground. "Designation. Then room number. You're getting written up for this-"

Heatwave panics, sinking his fangs into the guard's hand.

He yelps and drops him, and Heatwave dives out the nearest open window.

Bailout training kicks in not a second too soon, Heatwave just managing to get his hook into the wall before his weight drops onto the system. He lets himself down faster than he normally would, because there's too high of a chance that guard could fuck with his system.

As soon as he's on the ground he disengages himself from the bailout system, leaving it dangling from the window. He can go steal another one from the supply closet tomorrow, probably.

Right now, he has to try not to think about how much trouble he's in.

It was really dark and there's a lot of firetrucks at the Academy. And Heatwave didn't speak, either... no proper identifying marks beyond a standard bailout system. He's fine.

He's fine.

Heatwave takes a deep vent and looks out in front of him. Several bots mill around, many drunk, others looking like they just want to go home.

He's never actually been out in Iacon by himself, he realizes. Especially not at night.

Heatwave can take care of himself.

He'll just make sure to use the window in his room, next time.

[dominiquelucalover]

"Touching" blurbs, can I ask for number 47 with Street.

Recharge | Jim Street x GN!Reader

Prompt: touching their elbow to get their attention

CW: reader has some social anxiety in this one.

It was a S.W.A.T. fundraiser at HQ, the department rallying together to raise money for the children's hospital by hosting guests in the parking lot, bringing the community together with games, prizes, and a tour of some of S.W.A.T.'s finest, including Black Betty. There were people all over the place, parents with kids, couples who ranked high in society, teens just looking for something to do that day. The event was open to everyone, including the press and anyone who just wanted to drop by.

You were among those there to help with the event. The partner of Jim Street, you were invited because S.W.A.T. was a family. Even if you couldn't financially contribute, you were assured that there were plenty of ways for you to chip in. You were paired up with Deacon's wife Annie to run the snack stand, giving people cupcakes and cookies she'd made at home while her kids ran around and had fun with the other children who'd shown up. It was nice, but you were felt a little awkward and out of place. But what were you going to say? No to helping the fundraiser? As if.

You'd only been dating Street for a few months and had only recently met his team. Today was the first day you met Annie, and though she was really nice, you found it hard to stay on one topic with her. You were in totally different stages of your lives, so it made sense, but you wished you could just talk to her like a normal person. Hell, you wished you could talk to anyone normally.

You were brought out of your thoughts by a teen asking you a question. "Do you work here?"

You blinked and shook your head, smiling. "No, my boyfriend does. Why do ask?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I've never seen a lady S.W.A.T. person before."

You gave her a cupcake on a plate and smiled. "There are totally badass ladies in S.W.A.T.," you told her and pointed across the parking lot Chris. "That woman over there, she's on the best squad in the city."

"Really?" the teen asked, her eyes lighting up.

"Really," she said and watched the teen quickly thank you to hurry over to Chris.

You sighed heavily once she was gone though, feeling drained. You looked around the place, feeling a little nervous. It wasn't that you didn't like being there to help, but you wished you didn't have to talk to so many people. Kids and teens were fine, you'd never not talk to them, but it was getting harder to want to stand there and smile at everyone when all you wanted to do was hide.

"Do you need a break?" Annie asked, making you turn to look at her.

You bit you lip and nodded. "If that's okay."

"That's perfectly fine," she assured you with a smile, that motherly look about her.

"Thanks. I won't take long, I promise," you said softly and slipped away.

It didn't take long for you to find your boyfriend, who always knew how to make you feel better in these types of situation. He recharged your social battery just by letting you be and at that moment, you needed that.

He was talking to Hondo and Luca about something you couldn't bring yourself to care about at that moment. All you cared about was getting to him. So, you approached from behind and waited patiently for him to finish, but when it went on for longer than you could wait, you reached out and gently touched his elbow.

He looked at you, still talking and opened his arm to you, immediately noticing your closed off body language and bland expression. You went straight into his side and hid your face in his shirt, and he kept going like it was normal. He didn't make a big deal out of it and carried on business as usual. He held you close and securely, letting you breath in the smell of his freshly washed shirt and his body spray, listening to his voice as you took all the time you needed. That's what he was there for, after all, and he was more than happy to be there for you.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Herding Cats

Day #23 - Up and Coming | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Talk of Previous Sex, Brief Teasing about Daddy Kink, Minor Appearance by Billy | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie, Platonic Stobin, Minor Others | Tags: Road Manager Steve Harrington, Having to Herd These Assholes, Like Cats, Famous Corroded Coffin, The Morning After a Show

1 Night, 4 Rooms The morning after. Is also standalone, but everything is is below.

Eddie | Goodie | Gareth | Jeff | Steve (Bonus morning after!)

Steve walks down the hotel hallway, knocking on each door of their block, giving them each a shave and a haircut, two bits so they know it's him, but that he doesn't need them to actually come to the door, just get up and at 'em if they aren't already.

There's a hotel security guard watching him work, which he's pretty sure they didn't request. For better or worse, they've got their own security now.

And speak of the devil, and the devil appears, walking towards him from the elevator is Billy, and Steve pulls the daily schedule from his binder, and hands it off as they pass each other. Not stopping, not saying a word. It's easier this way. They can work together, but decidedly apart.

In the private dining room, Steve does a loose headcount. Crew is all over, filling tables, and Eddie's sitting with Gareth and Di, his plate already piled high. Jeff's at the buffet now, but Goodie's nowhere to be seen.

Steve catches Billy's eye, taps his watch, holds up the number three, and rotates his hands in a well? motion.

Billy gives him the three back, then points upwards. Then switches his extended finger to his middle one, flipping Steve off. Fucker.

The baseball-style hand signals work well, but there are downsides, unfortunately. Steve's given them each a number: Eddie's one, Jeff's two, Goodie's three and Gareth's four. 

And three's missing.

If Steve doesn't see him in ten minutes, he'll go do an in-person wake up call.

Still no Goodie.

Goddamnit.

Steve lets himself into room 1013, and Jesus Christ. It looks like a tornado hit it. The condom wrappers alone.

At least he was safe.

On the bed, Goodie is facedown, bare-assed. Scratches all up and down his back.

"Goods!" Steve yells, banging on the dresser with his fist.

Goodie jumps, startled awake.

"Morning, Casanova. Breakfast, ballroom seven," Steve says.

He's still not moving.

"Charles!" Steve yells, and Goodie growls in response. Steve'll pay for that later, but at least Goodie's responding. 

"And put something on your back, it looks awful," Steve says, only staying long enough to make sure Goodie is moving.

It's like herding fucking cats. Feral, maybe a touch rabid, cats.

Back at breakfast, Eddie's clearly looking for him.

"Steve," Eddie says, and pats the empty chair next to him, "Come. Sit. Eat."

Steve looks at his watch. Yeah, he better do that if he's gonna before they go.

Standing at the buffet, Robin comes up and hip checks him, "Hey, dingus. You look tired," she says, and he feels tired. It's gonna be a long fucking summer, no matter how this all shakes out. "Let me pick up some of the slack. Put me to work."

He leans down and kisses her head. He just may have to, for his own sanity.

Goodie eventually blunders in, looking a little worse for wear. 

"Hey, Daddy. Long, hard night?" Gareth says, and everyone that had been within earshot last night laughs, while everyone else is just confused. Steve hadn't actually heard any of this himself, he was long asleep by then, but Gareth made sure to relay all the dirty details to anyone that would listen. 

Apparently whatever hellcat Goodie brought home last night had a daddy kink that they all loudly got to experience. They didn't even have to pay extra for the show.

Steve's shocked Eddie didn't call the hotel to complain about the noise. Goodie did that to them once, and he knows Eddie would love to repay the favor, just for fun.

Goodie reaches down and squeezes Gareth's neck from behind, but he's laughing. Steve's already seen the scratches on his back, and now he can see the marks all up and down his neck, so he must have really caught himself a wild one.

Good for him.

"They can call me anything they want, as long as they fuck like that," Goodie says, reaching over Gareth's head, pulling all the bacon off Gareth's plate. There are complaints, of course there are when it comes to Gareth and Goodie, but Jeff is walking by and just takes bacon from his plate and drops it on Gareth's.

Keeping the peace.

It's not like there isn't an unlimited supply. They paid for it, they can eat all they want before the bus leaves in, Steve checks his watch, forty-six minutes.

It's a day off, and they don't have far to go, but they still have a schedule to keep, and playing catch up is a pain in the ass. It's so much easier to stick to it, even if he has to strong-arm them to get them anywhere on time.

Steve stands by the steps of the bus, marking everyone off as they get on. The crew bus already situated, and long gone. But Goodie's been on and off their bus twice, as everyone else was settling in for an on-time departure. Steve looks up at Saul, the bus driver, "We're waiting on Goodie to get on again. And then we're ready."

Saul gives him the thumbs up. 

Goodie comes walking back across the parking lot, six-pack of beer under his arm. Hair of the dog, Steve supposes. 

"That it? We're good?" Steve asks, and Goodie nods behind his sunglasses, shuffling up the steps and crashing onto the open spot on the couch next to Jeff.

"Wild night, huh?" Jeff asks Goodie.

"I'm fucking sore. Everywhere," Goodie moans, and Steve chuckles as he does the final headcount. 

He thinks they're all here, but he doesn't want to get fifty miles down the road and realize Gareth isn't anywhere to be found.

Not again.

Eddie's in his bunk, reading. 

Billy's foot is dangling out of his, blocking the aisle.

Steve steps over it, and knocks on the back bedroom, getting responses from both Gareth and Diana. That's everyone. All here.

"Saul, it's all yours," Steve says, sliding into the jump seat, as the bus finally pulls away. 

Next stop, Jacksonville.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

[kcsplace]

I love the attention to little details in TBITB As a cox, Bobby would have to keep his weight down. George Pocock designed his shells for a 120lb max weight of a cox with them preferably being a bit lighter, and Bobby Moch was 119, so about perfect. But while he'd not have had the same conditioning regime as the crew, he'd have been running, sweating in saunas, and generally eating as little as possible to keep small. He literally wouldn't be pulling his weight, so he had to be light.

So while his boyfriend crew were piling their plates high in Poughkeepsie with meats and potatoes and eggs, fats and carbs, Bobby's plate was tomatoes, steamed veggies and was small even then.

For contrast - Don and Joe tucking in vs Bobby's plate

Just a little background moment, but a character moment. Joe and Don in particular (alongside another couple of the crew) were grindingly poor and always hungry. Joe was infamously able to eat and eat and eat, always hungry and never full. That Joe and Don have their plates full isn't just a moment that informs their place as athletes - rowers, esp olympic rowers, consume an insane number of calories, to the point where it can be a literal chore to eat that much to get the nutrients they need - but also their place in society, during The Depression. Never enough anything. Never enough money, never enough food, never enough heat, never enough security. Make hay while the sun shines - the party has food? Eat until you can't anymore because who knows when it's gonna be this good again

Little details, man, they make a movie.

[whitherwanderer]

Hochsicherheits Belegschaft Techniker (High-security Workforce Technician Replika 'Hawk') or Habicht are Generation 4 Protection Force Replikas designed to guard high-security assets, including people of interest, areas, and objects.

Overview:

High-security Workforce Technicians, or Hawks are solitary workers that require little oversight. Trained in de-escalation and incapacitation, Hawks have a wide range of combat capabilities and will not hesitate to act when the safety of their assignment is threatened. They are staunch, watchful protectors of whatever assignment they're given and readily innovate in high-stress situations, making them well-suited for work as bodyguards and security personnel in any environment, be it an isolated research station or an active combat zone.

Features:

Biomechanical frame, 184cm (6'0")

Polyethylene Shell

Bullet-Resistant Armor Plating

Proficiency with small arms, rifles, close quarters and hand-to-hand combat

HBTR Known Issues:

Solitary and reticent, Hawks are most content when they feel they have a purpose and are performing their work to their exacting standards. However, this means they can conflict with Replikas possessing more boisterous or chaotic neural patterns, and they can become so consumed with their assignment that they neglect to care for themselves. Hawks are stabilized by preventing boredom and providing a place, person, or object to guard, and thus these assignments also serve as Fetish objects. A Hawk who fails an assignment may begin to show signs of instability and rapid destabilization wherein she assumes her assignment is lost and will search endlessly for it/them, perceiving an increasing number of threats and leaving destruction in her wake, particularly if her assignment was to a person or persons. It is recommended to decommission Hawk units who fail their assignments immediately to eliminate the possibility of Persona degradation, intel leaks, and security risks.

Bonus boss card!!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Wilfred Reilly

Published: Nov 27, 2023

Why do respected institutions continue to propound verifiably wrong conspiracy theories about how dangerous America is?

It is around 35 times more dangerous to be black than to be transgender in America — and at least an order of magnitude more dangerous to be a young and working-class white guy, a Southerner, or a Yank of Hispanic origin.

This seems relevant given that a national event titled “Transgender Day of Remembrance” took place just a few days ago. White House press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre took the occasion to mount the podium for a formal press briefing attended by many national media outlets — during which she declared that the United States “grieves” for the all of 26 transgender Americans killed in 2023. These victims, Jean-Pierre went on to emphasize, were no mere Dead White Males but “disproportionately black women and women of color.”

Jean-Pierre’s statistics came from the Human Rights Campaign, an influential pro-LGBT lobbying group that organizes Trans Remembrance Day (as part of the broader Transgender Awareness Week) on an annual basis and frequently publishes reports on anti-transgender brutality with titles like “An Epidemic of Violence.” The visibility of such content has apparently had an effect: A Google search for the phrase “trans genocide” turns up an online-encyclopedia article that prints out to five closely spaced pages and defines that term as “the elevated level of systemic violence and discrimination that exists against trans people” in the West.

The only catch is that no such systemic violence exists. According to Jean-Pierre herself — and, presumably, to an LGBT-rights group with every interest in magnifying the phenomenon — the total number of trans-identified Americans known to have been killed in 2023 is 26. If we round that up to 30 (to account for December) and assume that just 1 percent of the U.S. population is trans (given that, as one very limited survey shows, around 3 percent of young Americans are), we obtain an annual transgender-murder rate of 30 in 3.32 million, or just 0.9 people per 100,000 people. Even if we, alternatively, assume an American trans population of just 1.6 million — to gel with one high-quality but conservative recent estimate — the resulting murder rate would be merely 1.9 per 100,000 people.

To put that in context, the murder rate for blacks in the U.S. is currently 30–33 per 100,000 people. The African-American community is an outlier but not necessarily a remarkable one: In a representative recent year, 4.5 percent of black-male deaths were the results of homicide, versus 2.3 percent for American Indians, 2.2 percent for Hispanics, 2 percent for Hawaiians and other Pacific Islanders . . . and 4.9 percent for all whites under full majority. To say the obvious, all of these groups are currently living far more dangerously than “trans women.”

Further, almost none of the small number of murders of trans people recorded in 2023 were due to “transphobia” from the MAGA-hat set. According to an excellent breakdown posted to social media by writer Pi Campbell, the “victims” highlighted by the Human Rights Campaign included such citizens as Banko Brown (the San Francisco thief/robber shot during a confrontation with a security guard), Manuel “Tortuguita” Terán (an armed environmental activist killed during a shootout with Atlanta police during the violent Stop Cop City protests), and DéVonnie J’Rae Johnson (a trans woman who attacked a security officer with a fire extinguisher).

Others on the list were Maria Jose Rivera — killed in a tragic and widely publicized murder-suicide involving her boyfriend — Camdyn Rider (murder-suicide with husband), Thomas “Tom-Tom” Robertson (victim of a shooting targeting someone else), and a black trans fashion plate called “YOKO” (hit by an SUV while piloting a small scooter). So far as I can tell, not one proven or even seriously alleged hate crime appears anywhere on the Human Rights Campaign’s list.

Also, few of the murders of these (mostly) trans-identified males seem to have occurred anywhere near MAGA country. Per my analysis of the list, which I ran by a research associate and a friend in law enforcement, only four of the 26 victims, and three or four of their killers, were white. Sixteen victims were black and five were Hispanic, while seven murderers were identified as black, at least two were Hispanic, and seven were unknown (most of the remaining killers were police or security guards of various races).

I will note that this point has been made previously by the skilled gonzo journalist Andy Ngo, who earned a few weeks of internet infamy in 2019 for digging into a series of anti-trans attacks and summing up his resulting data set as: “Who is behind the murders? Mostly Black men.” That year, I made some of the same points detailed above for the magazine Quillette: pointing out that the annual number of trans fatalities was around 29, and that this broke down to a grand total of one killing for every 67,690 transgender Americans.

The “trans genocide” hysteria, wholly untethered from reality, does not stand alone. Over the past decade or so, American discourse has fallen prey to what often seems like a constant stream of stupid and baseless panics. At one point during the Black Lives Matter mania, one of the nation’s top attorneys — Ben Crump — penned a best-selling book that unironically argues that white cops and vigilantes are committing “genocide” against black people. When the highly respected Skeptic Research Center conducted large-n polling on the issue of police violence just two years later, it found that one of the most common answers given by both black and Caucasian leftists to the question of how many unarmed blacks they thought were shot annually by cops was “about 10,000.” The real number, per last year’s data from the not-much-right-of-Lenin Washington Post, was “twelve.”

On some level, the real question here is “Why?” Why do powerful figures and respected institutions — the president of the United States and his spox, from behind the White House podium! — continue to propound insanely and verifiably wrong conspiracy theories about how dangerous the country is? I think that the answer is because, to paraphrase Larry Elder, there is a Narrative to save.

For both “ethical” and strategic reasons — Crump made his millions by suing police officers involved in racialized cases — many members of the American elite have publicly committed themselves to the belief that racism and other forms of bias explain all disparities in group outcomes. Publicly advancing this narrative requires having at least some examples of extreme racism, sexism, and so forth on hand to display. The problem is that, in modern upper-middle-class American life, these things rarely exist. The demand for horrors far exceeds their supply, and it may sometimes become . . . strategically necessary to invent some.

This reality, I believe, accounts for a pattern with which we have all become increasingly familiar. First, a horrific claim of bias is made (Jussie Smollett, Covington Catholic High School, Duke University lacrosse, Michael Brown, Jacob Blake, Canadian mass graves, Black Lives Matter, Stop Asian Hate). Next, major social changes are made based on the claim and its implications. Third and finally, the unsupported claim collapses.

When we see social movements like the Trans Day of Remembrance, it is important that we all — well — remember this cycle.

[ Via: https://archive.today/AyJJr ]

==

When activists use this kind of histrionic language, it's a sure sign that it's fake.

[votermood]

High Security number plate online apply This guide explains how to obtain high security registration number plates. Ensure your vehicle complies with safety regulations by following these instructions.

[rotworld]

14: Again and Again

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the stray night lords who joined your eccentric warband mostly keep to themselves. their sudden interest in your new mutations and ability to recover from grievous injuries is worrisome, but as always, you'll do anything for your warband.

->warhammer 40k. original chaos space marines (night lords)/reader. explicit; contains graphic descriptions of violence, sexual violence, mild/mentioned body horror, consensual but not safe or sane, consensual non-con/non-con roleplay, mentions of slavery and general disregard for human life.

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The Night Lords are absent again. 

Siarotha tells you this isn’t unusual. It doesn’t matter that there’s little else to do on this nameless, empty world you share and no way to leave without the warp gate. They’ll show up when they feel like it and not a moment earlier. You wonder if it’s the venue. The manufactorum’s maze of narrow corridors and machinery-stuffed assembly rooms are claustrophobic even for you. The cavernous hall the warband favors for meetings once housed a crisscrossing labyrinth of cogitators, conveyor belts and metal walkways until Erghol did some defenestrative redecorating. The only furniture left is an enormous stone slab, roughly circular and wide enough to make a decent Astares-sized table where no one has to stand too close to each other. You worry that the space might be too open.

Dagger and Claw remind you of feral cats. They like enclosed spaces; walls at their backs, a clear view of exits and entrances. No matter how many times they threaten desertion, vanishing in the midst of raids and battles, they always seem to come slinking back. It’s the security, you think. Safety in numbers, the promise of food and a roof over their heads. They hiss and bristle but they know where shelter is.

It could also be that they haven't figured out a convenient way to steal the warband's entire cache of supplies and carry it with them, but you prefer to be optimistic.

“What we need,” Kyloteknis says, “is the support of a Forge World. Our logistics are nonexistent. Access to ground transport should be our first priority so we can stop hauling our spoils one crate at a time. Armor repair is a close second.” He needs it more than anyone, the plates and panels protecting his limbs gradually becoming a singed, dented mangling of metal. The beveled dome of his helmet swivels back and forth, scrutinizing the rest of the warband. 

“Seconding,” Grigori says on his left. The star of Chaos on his shoulder pauldron has been nearly obliterated from all the hits he takes on that side, the paint scuffed and the embossed surface chipped and uneven. 

“And what exactly do we have to offer them in exchange for access to their resources?” Zonaras asks dryly. He’s one of the few who forgoes his helm, comfortable enough to reveal his shaved head and small, scribbling facial tattoos. 

Kyloteknis makes a rumbling sound of consideration. “They’ll want a favor. Something too dangerous for them to do themselves.” 

“Likely too dangerous for us, as well.” 

“A garrison, perhaps?” Siarotha suggests. He looms beside you in his full armor but he’s left his helmet off, long hair tucked over one shoulder in a loose braid. “Why incur a debt we can’t pay when we could simply repurpose a vehicle we come across?” 

On your other side, Erghol grunts in agreement. “Seconding a garrison. Can’t afford any weapons breaking until we have a proper armory. Better to take whatever we can get our hands on.”

Zonaras nods. “A garrison will have maintenance personnel, as well.”

“Hm. True,” Kyloteknis says. “We could really use some slaves—”

“Serfs,” Siarotha says quickly, glancing at you nervously. Kyloteknis turns, probably glaring under his helmet at the interruption. “We could easily obtain some serfs from Kheralath. They would adjust well, I think. My warband was there not long ago and discontent towards Imperial authorities was quite high.” 

“I’m not terribly concerned with how well our manual labor ‘adjusts.’”

“Maybe you should be,” you say. “Humans are most efficient when they’re happy. I’m a good example.” 

“No. You are deranged. You are not a standard model for human behavior.” 

“Either way,” Siarotha says firmly, “it’s within the system. Calibrating the gate would be simple.”

“Kheralath?” Zonaras asks, suddenly animated. “I’ve been there as well. Yes, they were extremely dedicated, although I’m afraid the populace won’t be of much use to us anymore.”

Siarotha’s eyes rapidly change colors like a startled chameleon. The air around him grows chilled with anger. “How many of them did you kill?”

“Let he who has never obliterated millions in the pursuit of infernal truths cast the first stone.” 

“I think I’m starting to see why you didn’t want me to come,” you say. 

The heavy drag of something moving over the rockcrete makes you jump. Nobody else seems surprised so you must be the last one to notice Claw sauntering closer—stormy, midnight blue, silver skulls and red wings. Red hands, too, you’ve always noticed. Strange. Dagger’s are the same blue as the rest of his armor. He’s extremely good at not making noise until he wants to be heard, which means he wants you to know he’s there. 

“You sound more like bureaucrats than soldiers, bickering like that,” he drawls. He’s pacing, circling like a cautious predator looking for the weakest link in a herd. It should be hard to tell with his helmet and the unblinking red lenses of the eyes, but you’re absolutely certain that he’s looking at you. “So. A garrison. Do we even know of a garrison we can take without too much trouble?” 

“We’re better off keeping this a hit-and-run operation,” Kyloteknis says. He tracks Claw’s movements around the room, unwilling to lose sight of him. “Isn’t that particular brand of cowardice your specialty? Maybe you have a suggestion.” 

“Hm. Maybe.” Claw slinks closer. He passes behind Grigori, then Zonaras, slowing when he reaches Erghol just to make him snarl. “Ah. I just thought of something,” he says. 

Your only warning is a crackle—a split second staticy sound as a white-hot, glowing sheath of energy engulfs his claws. Erghol and Siarotha are right next to you but they’re not fast enough. Four razor-sharp lengths of steel impale you with a burst of boiling blood, piercing your lungs and smashing through your ribs. Claw is close when he does it. You can hear the hum of his armor’s internal components, can hear the quiet chuckle just loud enough for his helmet’s vox to pick up. He withdraws his gauntlet in a sharp, vicious motion that sends you stumbling into the table, your fingers scrabbling over a puddle of your own blood and minced insides. 

All hell breaks loose.

Kyloteknis shatters the table when he vaults over it, lunging for Claw who narrowly avoids a swipe from a furious, roaring Erghol. The only reason you aren’t trampled is Siarotha, swept up in his arms and away from the chaos. You see them tumbling through steel guardrails and punching through the guts of dusty, long dead machines. Zonaras makes a half-hearted attempt to break it up until Claw barrels into him racing for cover, bolterfire scouring the ground behind him. 

“Surely it wouldn’t bother you if something unfortunate should befall Claw during the next raid?” Siarotha says quietly. You shake your head urgently. It hurts too much to talk. “You can’t be serious. He tried to kill you.” 

No, he didn’t. He knew you would heal. That didn’t feel serious, you think. It was personal, but not like a grudge. He wanted you to know he was coming. He wanted you on guard and anticipating. And he lingered just a moment after he did it, loose and relaxed behind you. That wasn’t anger, or aggression, or a threat. So what was it? You want to figure it out but the room is spinning and your chest is aching, and you’re starting to itch all the way down to your bones. 

By the time you’re finished molting, Claw has slipped away and Erghol is doing a bit of enthusiastic remodeling with the walls. Siarotha tells you the meeting has been rescheduled. You crawl out of the sticky wreckage of your old self and try to remember everything you know about domesticating strays. 

*

It takes a few days for Dagger to appear. 

It’s unusual, you think, to see them apart. As long as they’ve been here, they’ve been attached at the hip. Old friends? Lone survivors of their old warband? Mentor and newblood? You’re disappointed by how little you know about them. Everyone in the warband is tight-lipped about their previous lives but they’re opening up little by little, learning to begrudgingly trust one another. Kyloteknis has stopped hurriedly putting his helmet back on when someone finds him outside enjoying the wind on his face. Zonaras and Siarotha bicker with ever so slightly less menace in their voices. You’ve glimpsed Erghol and Grigori together with increasing frequency, training, talking, silently standing together atop an observation platform to watch the sky darken. 

You’re helping reorganize Kyloteknis’ workshop. This would be ridiculous ordinarily—anyone in the warband can lift an entire table one-handed—but he wants scrap metal and spare parts from the second floor of the manufactorum and he can’t cross the rickety grate-floored walkways without shattering their rusted frames. He did not ask for help so much as he vaguely mentioned his dilemma with the same grating reluctant tone one might use to report casualty estimates. He left immediately after, claiming he would return later when you’d completed the task. 

So here you are, elbow-deep in a dead cogitator’s wiring looking for the cogs and connectors Kyloteknis asked for, when you hear movement behind you. Dagger doesn’t risk stepping onto the flimsy walkway, standing on the more solid platform behind you and blocking the only way out of the room that isn’t a very long, painful drop. 

“Hello, Dagger,” you greet him. He’s not holding his namesake but you see the sheath at his hip, large enough that calling it a “dagger” feels a bit absurd. He stands at an angle—not so far that the weapon is completely hidden, but far enough that you just get a peek. 

“I heard you’re attending meetings now,” he says. 

“Did you hear what happened at that meeting?”

“Of course. Claw told me in excruciating detail.” His voice dips into a gravelly rumble that you’re tempted to identify as teasing. Mocking, or playful? You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be in on the joke or the butt of it. He leans against the railing at the edge of the platform casually. “What are you doing over there?” 

You shrug. “Scavenging. Kyloteknis wants some of this stuff.” 

“Mm. You like to be useful.” 

You look across the walkway at him. He looks back, you assume. Like Claw, you’ve never seen him without his skull-faced helmet. Astartes size is hard to estimate through the bulk of their armor, but you think he’s smaller than Claw if only by a little. Built to skulk in the shadows while Claw draws the enemy’s attention. 

“I do,” you say.

“That’s how it was in the Eighth. The weak ones are useful for the strong ones. That’s how they survive.” He turns, staring at the wall, but you think he must be seeing something else. “We don’t have the instinct to fawn over small, defenseless things. We want to torment them. A fledgling in midnight clad is better broken by his brothers than by an enemy. We know exactly how hard to push.” You pull your hands out of the cogitator and give Dagger your full attention and he follows the movement, helmet turning slowly, curious rather than tense and alert. “I guess,” he murmurs, “it’s all we know how to do.” 

There’s a dark, hungry edge to his words that sends a shiver down your spine. “Is that how it is?” you ask. You make your voice deliberately small and quiet. Weak. Just how he wants you. “You want to break me?” 

Dagger doesn’t answer for a minute. The ancient metal of the manufactorum groans and creaks quietly all around you. He rests his hand on the sheath at his waist. “You’re standing too far away,” he says in that same syrupy tone. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” 

Maybe Kyloteknis was right about you after all, because you start walking down the metal walkway. You don’t rush. Each step is slow and deliberate, just like how Claw circled you at the meeting. You never take your eyes away from the red lenses embedded in Dagger’s helmet and you can feel his gaze without seeing it, how it burns into your body. 

“Tease,” he purrs. “So you don’t just have eyes for your rabid dog and that sorcerer. Quite a collection you’ve started. Will you seduce Kyloteknis?” 

You laugh. “I’d probably have better luck with Zonaras.” You’re halfway there and your heart is pounding. This is a bad idea, isn’t it? This is definitely going to hurt. You’re not sure why you’re so excited. Maybe it’s the way Dagger’s started shifting slightly, like he can’t stand still anymore. His metal fingers close around the blade’s handle, squeezing impatiently.

“You would. Word Bearers and their needy idolatry.” He grabs you when you’re close enough. The movement is so swift you barely see it, just a passing shadow and then your forearm is caught in his crushing grip. He yanks you into him, straight onto the point of the knife you didn’t even see him unsheathe. The flesh of your throat parts around hard, serrated steel. An arterial splatter arcs as high as Dagger’s chestplate, dousing the winged skull emblazoned there in flecks of scarlet. You choke and sputter, coughing up reddened saliva. 

Dagger cups your jaw with his free hand. He wants to see the light leave your eyes. Your hands rake and scratch uselessly at his armor as another thick gush of blood oozes from your open throat and splatters on your feet. Dagger hisses something you don’t catch. A word you don’t know; a language you don’t speak. His exhale is full of satisfaction.

The knife comes out in horrible jerking motions, slow and sawing, blinding pain overwhelming your senses. Dagger leans in so you hear him right next to your ear. “There’s a statue of a saint straight ahead from the west entrance,” he says. “Half-toppled. Missing an upper body. Come tonight, alone.” 

He’s gone by the time you’ve made sense of the words, shriveled ribbons of flesh hanging through the grate of the walkway under you. Siarotha’s presence passes through your mind in brief glances, drawn by heightened emotion and racing thoughts. 

You think of a cat. A mangy, flea-bitten thing that arches its back and puffs up its tail. Two of them, for good measure. Siarotha sees them in your mind’s eye and you sense exasperation, and amusement, and fondness. And ultimately, agreement. 

*

You can see the saint from the manufactorum, but you hadn’t realized what it was. The figure has been cleaved nearly in two, the cut diagonal and crooked leaving jagged edges behind. It was carved from some sort of gray stone, dark-veined like marble, the surface detail still smooth and precise although it was only made yesterday. You see meticulously rendered folds of cloth, a tangle of vines and flowers frozen in eternal full bloom where the robe puddles upon a massive rectangular plinth. You wonder who it was meant to be.

Dagger never gave you a time but nightfall seems appropriate. The streetlamps don’t work but they don’t have to. The moon is a perfect silver circle, just bright enough for you to navigate the bumpy, uneven streets. Looming silhouettes of steel skeletons and decrepit stone form lattices of shadows against the starry sky. You don’t come this way often. The warband chose to settle in the region of the manufactorum where the structures are mostly intact and you rarely have time to wander the more distant ruins. It’s darker here, the trees more numerous and sprawling. You have to slow down so you don’t lose your footing, hands in front of you to feel for the edge of the statue’s base. 

The shadows shift in front of you. Something moves in the dark. You hear footsteps approaching from up ahead and behind you at the same time. Not the weighty, metallic crunch of space marine armor. Normal, if heavy, footsteps. Boots on stone. “Claw?” you ask. “Dagger?” 

A hand cups around your face, covering your mouth. You’re tugged against a warm body, frighteningly tall and thick with muscle. “Shhh,” he whispers. You don’t know which. A blindfold made of dark cloth is tied around your eyes and you’re dragged forward. 

You struggle to tell them apart. The vox in their helmets makes the whole warband sound the same, impossibly deep and rumbling, but there are peculiarities unique to each. Grigori sounds hoarse on those rare occasions he says anything. Erghol has the abrasive, gritty voice of a chemfactory laborer, damaged by centuries of ecstatic battle cries and screaming fury. Kyloteknis has a habit of using old High Gothic terms for machinery and weaponry. Claw and Dagger have spoken to you so much less so it’s hard to tell who’s who.

“Small, sweet thing like you, out here all on your own?” one of them purrs. “Dangerous. Do you want to get hurt?” 

“I think they do,” the other says. “I think they’re desperate for it.” 

You walk until the ground changes, evening out to smoother stone. You’re led around turns, down a flight of steps, shoved suddenly. You catch yourself and feel softness beneath your hands. Towels. Linen. Pillows. No mattress, but so many blankets that it doesn’t matter. You have no idea where you are when the blindfold comes off, but it’s as dark as a tomb. You no longer hear the breeze or feel the chill of the night air. You’re indoors somewhere. No windows and no light. 

Someone sits behind you and someone sits in front of you. Your arms are seized, held together behind your back. You hear the hiss of a blade being unsheathed.

“Do you know much about Astartes?” The words are murmured against your ear. “How it works? How they made us?”

“Not really,” you admit. “Siarotha has told me a little about being a neophyte but—ah!” You gasp when sharp, pointed steel slides down the center of your chest, splitting your clothes open with the slightest pressure. The room is cold. You’re undressed with precise cuts that whisper across your skin but never quite puncture.

“They put a lot of things into us. That means they have to take a lot out.” Whoever’s behind you leans in close, pressing himself against your back. He’s half-dressed and you can feel all the bumpy nodes and ports across his chest and arms where his armor hooks into his nervous system. “At least, that’s what they tell us. None of it’s really gone. Just twisted.”

“For the really unlucky ones, it untwists,” the other one says, chuckling. The tip of the knife drags down your chest, over your sternum, and stops at your belly. It presses just a little harder, a stinging pinch that makes a thin stream of blood trickle down your body.

“You like to be useful, right?” Teeth nip the shell of your ear and the body behind you shifts slightly. Your arms are released long enough for him to peel off the clothing on his lower half. You inhale sharply when he comes back and you feel everything, skin to skin. A monstrously large cock twitches against your lower back, already hard and leaking precum. “Then you can be useful for both of us.” 

It happens at the same time. The knife sinks in—is that Dagger? It doesn’t feel like him. He wasn’t steady like this. Steady like Claw with four massive blades in your chest, the perfect control and stillness. It’s a slow, shallow stab. Holding. Teasing. You can feel him watching you shake and whimper. The other one knocks your legs apart and nudges the head of his cock against your entrance. He prods and pushes once, twice, a third much more violent time that sinks past your resisting muscles. He’s far too big and you’re not prepared, the sheets bunching up beneath your fists. 

“Hold onto him,” Dagger whispers in your ear. His hands are on your hips, forcing you down and sheathing himself deeper. “He likes it. Scratch him. Try and fight.”

You hear a shaky exhale in the dark. Your hands find Claw’s shoulders—clothed. Wearing some kind of skin-tight shirt. He swallows audibly when you grab onto him tightly, digging your nails into him. He slips the knife in deeper, just a little. Another inch. Then he holds it there, and you feel his hot breath fanning across your face. Dagger rolls his hips under you and you tremble around the stinging thickness of his cock. He rewards you with a pleased sigh, squeezing and massaging your hips. He whispers in the same language you heard before and Claw answers him, sounding strained. Holding back, you think. But you want everything he can give. 

“No,” you whisper. Soft. Helpless. “Don’t. Please don’t.” 

Claw shudders. The knife suddenly tilts, angled up, tugging and ripping at your skin. Blood slicks his fingers and pours down your abdomen. “Beg me,” he mutters. “Beg me to stop.” 

Dagger encourages you. He runs his hands over your shoulders, rubbing, teasing out knots and sore spots. You’d melt against him if you weren’t in so much pain. “Don’t do this,” you whimper. “Don’t hurt me, please. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t—”

You choke on the words when Claw drags the knife all the way up your chest in one quick, violent movement that rips you open. Your trembling, clawing grip on his shoulders isn’t an act. A blood-slicked hand cups your cheek and your gaze is lifted, your eyes gazing into darkness. You can’t see anything more than the faintest outline of a person, but you know he sees you. You hear his breath growing faster and shakier, feel it in hot puffs against your face. Then he’s kissing you, and his hands plunge into the wound. 

Dagger starts to fuck you in earnest and you can’t tell what hurts worse. The slap of his thigh, muscular thighs against your ass is humiliatingly loud in the otherwise silent room. He uses you, impales you on his length over and over. You feel raw and skinned inside by the time he brings you down fully, seated in his lap with his entire cock gripped by your tense, agonized muscles. You can feel Claw where he shouldn’t be, his touch like fire fondling the inside of your skin. He kisses furiously, nipping and biting at your lips. He pulls away to run his tongue along your cheek and moans at the taste of your tears. You hear the sickening squelch of your organs as he gropes and squeezes them. 

Everything starts to sound muffled and distant. Your heart is pounding. You can feel your pulse behind your ears, a constant throbbing. And there’s the itch again all over everything, the molt coming. It makes them ravenous. Dagger grabs you around the middle and fucks you like he’s trying to kill you, hard and impossibly deep. Claw kisses your forehead. There’s blood on his lips. Blood in your mouth. Blood trickling from your open belly, and slippery, meaty organs flopping out of you to splatter wetly on the floor, and—

*

You wake up clean, whole and comfortable. And warm; almost too warm. Blankets are piled on top of you so heavily that you can barely move. You blink blearily, trying to get your bearings. Siarotha’s faint amusement tickles the corner of your mind. You wonder how long he’s been there. How much he saw. Heat curls through your body and phantom sensations prickle across your skin. 

All of it, apparently. 

“Hungry?” Claw asks. 

You still can’t see anything. Is it still night? Do they cover the windows? You wonder where this place is, how they found out. Where all the blankets came from. Someone peels off several layers of bedsheets until they find your arm. Your wrist is grabbed, hand pried open. A plastic wrapper is placed in your palm.

“It’s chocolate,” Dagger says.

“Chocolate?” you echo. Intrigued, you fumble with the wrapping, trying to find a way to tear it open.

“Expensive chocolate, by the looks of it. Found it when we sacked a governor’s estate. Here.” The wrapper is plucked from your hand. You hear an abrupt ripping sound, and then something softer and warmer is set in your hand.

Your first bite is small and testing, barely a nibble. “Whoa,” you say. One of them laughs. He sounds far away. “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”

“No,” Claw says. “Don’t you want to go back?” 

“You want me to walk all that way, after everything I did for you?” 

“You want someone to carry you?” Dagger says dryly.

“I could stay here for a while,” you suggest. “You could, too.” 

Neither of them say something for a moment. You wonder if you pushed too far, too fast. But after a while, you hear movement in the dark. The blanket nest dips on your left, and then on your right. They don’t touch you. They don’t even talk. But they sit there while you finish the chocolate bar, watching, quiet and content.

“What are you grinning about?” Dagger asks.

“Nothing,” you say. A bad lie that makes them chuckle. 

You’re thinking about feral cats, of course. And how with enough persistence, and patience, and gentle touches, they will walk right up and eat out of your hand.

[fandomwritingbit]

Caught out pt.2

William afton x fem reader x henry emily

A/n: Hiii, this is a part two of this fic I did a while ago. It's really long ngl over 7,000 words. To the person that requested a part two to this that focused more on the relationship between Henry and Will, I took some inspiration from that so thank you very muchly. I hope this reads well, I'll be editing it over the next few days because writer's block is shagging me hard rn.

Warnings: smut, oral, unprotected sex, inappropriate relationships, sexual tension between henry and william, y/n is absolute filth.

The day after Henry had debased himself, started off pretty shit. The restaurant was fully booked all day and it felt like there were over a million kids tearing through the building and creating havoc, along with many other reasons for the two co-owners to stay back after hours. They were so understaffed, two waiters and an entertainer had called in sick, forcing Henry and Will to step up a bit. Well, Henry stepped up, running plates, hosting, the works; William, though he was present, just cracked the whip on the employees that were there. Both had contemplated getting you out of the security office to help out, but the plethora of legal challenges they’d seen in the previous few weeks dissuaded them.

“Who’s fault is this?” William caught Henry’s arm, his expression as fumingly stoic as it had been so far all day. It was this side of William that initially drove Henry into merging with him, the no-nonsense, no-bullshit, pragmatic approach that he was too nice to use. When they were newly joined, grabbing his arm like this would have made Henry shit scared, just the sheer height of the man alone would’ve done it; now though, Henry just looked from his hand to Will’s face, scoffing. 

“Tiff was on bookings, I’m gonna have a word with her.” He pulled his arm free, “You do know, William, that we can’t have high numbers and easy service.”  

William sniggered, slightly surprised by Henry’s attitude, “Functional service would be nice, though.” 

~

All shit hit the fan about midday. 

And it hit the fan big time. A party of thirty and one of seventeen at the same time had all hands on deck, waiters sweating making sure patrons had everything they needed, bar staff making so many drinks that there wasn’t a gap left on the bar, and Henry and William were trying to cope with everything in between. Namely, trying to keep kids out of staff-only areas or from running full pelt into the servers carrying food and drinks, and keeping feuding chefs calm in the kitchen. The latter Henry’s domain, for obvious reasons. So when the shifty looking fellow slipped inside the building, it went unnoticed. 

“Excuse me?” a woman’s shrill voice called to William, obligating him to approach the table. He didn’t smile at her because the look on her face said this wasn’t a ‘compliments to the chef’ kind of thing. 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“There’s plastic in my son’s pizza.” She pointed a thickly painted nail at the slice, showing the cling film sticking out underneath. Fuck’s sake.

He nodded, “Right. I’ll get you a new one.” As he spoke, he picked up the plate and the one with the rest of the pizza on it, cursing this whole fucking operation. 

“Got anything that doesn’t come out of a freezer?” she snapped, looking at him with such disapproval he felt a kid again. 

He just laughed at her. God, it was a £5 meal, she’s lucky they even heated it up for that. Neglecting to answer her, he gave a half-arsed apology and went towards the back kitchen to sort her out. 

Whilst this took place, a man with black gloves waited for the boy on the till to leave before wrenching the till open, shoving his hand inside to grab a fist-full of today’s earnings. The staff were too distracted to cop on, and alarm was only raised when the thief knocked into a server. 

“Hey what are you-” shoving her out the way, the figure moved towards the exit. The young lady got the attention of other staff who called out to the man but didn’t physically intervene, forcing the waitress to run to the kitchen and drag William out by his arm, babbling about what was happening.

He gave chase, following the thief out of the swinging doorway while the staff and patrons watched on in awe. It was at this point Henry burst out the kitchen as well, his face a mask of exasperation as he asked around to try and figure out what was going on. It seemed like no one really knew anything. No one knew where the day security guard was or how much money the thief had grabbed before bolting. 

“Fucking useless.” He mumbled under his breath, immediately kicking himself for how much he sounded like William.

It must have only been a couple of minutes before William walked back in, though it felt much longer. Henry looked to catch Will’s eye, quickly realising that he’d failed in the pursuit both the thief and the money by the slouching of his posture and the cut above his brow. He dabbed it with the side of his hand, smearing blood on his forehead. It was a sight and a half.

“You didn’t get him?” he kept his voice cautious, not wanting to send William over the edge.

He laughed, “Course I did. Fucker hit me and jumped in a car. I will say, he were well organised.” William winced again as he touched his cut, a streak of stark red trailing down the side of his face. Henry watched the movement thoughtfully, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen William like this, though usually he wasn’t sober. There was just something about it that made him feel deeply troubled and guilty. William Afton was powerful and scary. Handsome as the devil, everyone said it and the blood on his face tickled a part of Henry that he kept close to his chest and had done for years. 

Henry sighed, “You alright?” it’s asked nonchalantly but there is a tint of kindness on it. 

“Yeah. It’s going to keep bleeding though, you know what cuts to the face are like.” He again wiped the gash, the blood darkly pretty on his fingers. 

“No, no I don’t.” He shakes his head, he had too much sense to go about getting into fights. William just laughed, Henry's judgement always amused him. But his laughter died when Henry bluntly asked, “Don’t suppose you got a licence plate or anything?”

William’s face went stony, “Shit.” he muttered, feeling a little stupid but in fairness he was busy trying to catch the guy. The two were silent for a moment, the quiet awkward between them. Thankfully, it was broken when William again spoke, the idea hitting him out of nowhere, “The cameras. It wasn’t too far from the back doors, we might be able to get the plate on them.” 

Henry nodded, “Yeah I’ll go and check with y/n.” An odd weighty feeling fills the air at the mention of your name, a bizarre and new-found knowledge on the former’s part and gross pride on the other’s. He turns but stops still, “You should uh try and see how much they took. You know, look at the tickets and-”

“Yeah, I know how to do it, mate. Jesus.” he sniggers, not moving an inch out of principle, since when the fuck did Henry give him orders.

Exhaling through his nose, the sensible owner decides not to pursue what he’d asked him to do, hoping he’d comply without an argument, though what was more likely is that Henry would have to do that himself. He heads out the main restaurant and down the staff corridor, a growing feeling of anticipation at seeing you. He’s sure neither you or William know what he did, but the fear of discovery made him tense. 

Outside the security office door, he takes a breath before knocking, hating himself for being like this, if anyone should be ashamed it’s William, but as always he’s the one compensating. 

You open the door and are greeted by the pensive expression of Mr Emily, you knew exactly what he was going to ask and had been reviewing the footage yourself already. 

“Uh hey, y/n, can you show me the footage of the incident?” You step aside and let him into the cramped space, it’s a horrible office really, no windows and the monitor casting a grainy artificial light against the viewer. He would rather have you serving on the front but you insisted this was better because you, quote, ‘don’t want to deal with all the shit out there.’ End quote. 

“Yeah, sure. I had a look…” you speak whilst getting up the recording of the robbery, “but the fella has a hood up, you can’t see anything uh identifiable.” He glances at your face and is surprised to see you smiling, as you wind it back and play the recording for him. 

Your grin is pretty contagious and makes it hard to focus on the footage, “You find this funny?” His brow is narrowed, it’s not asked nastily more curiously. 

“The thieving? No, sir.” You try to disguise your snigger as you skip it forward a few seconds, to show William pulling the waitress off his arm and booking it out the door. “It’s uh that I find funny.”

He snickers himself, god this was a shit show. “Yes, I can see why.” 

“When I clip it for the police, I’ll leave that bit out… might be hard to explain what he was trying to do there.” You watch your boss nod his approval, an understanding between you to try and keep William out of the copper’s eye-lines.  

Henry then recalls what he said about the outside footage. “What about outside? William said that we might be able to see something on the cameras round the back.” 

“Ah yeah, good idea.” You go off the restaurant recordings, and on to the outside ones. They record a little differently in blocks of footage that display in a huge camera roll, you go to the section he means but scroll down too far, clicking on the wrong block. The two of you are met with yesterday’s footage of the bins and it takes you a fair few seconds to realise. 

“Oh this is yesterday’s.” Henry says the moment he clocks on and you blink trying to read the time and date stamp. 

“Oh sorry.” you rush to go back off that recording, hitting the wrong button and instead going to the rear interior cameras in the same block. The intake of breath from Mr Emily, makes you jump. 

“Ah- no. That’s ah-” The time it takes him to speak is enough for you to gauge the reason for his reaction. Though the footage isn't brilliant you can tell it’s him standing just outside William’s office, his back to the wall. It’s too grainy to see precisely but the movement is clear and pitifully familiar to you. You look at Henry for a moment, lips pursed in confusion, then it occurs to you to look at the timestamp: yesterday around 1:30pm, you were on your ‘lunch break’ then with Will- oh sweet lord. 

“Oh my God.” you say out loud, and Henry swears that this must be what a heart attack feels like. The dawning realisation on your face left him no room to lie his way out of it, sure it was muddy but shit, you can still tell he’s wanking. A disturbed and defeated noise escaped from his throat, “Mr Emily, is that-”

“God, just turn it off.” He speaks hoarsely, a little blunter than he meant, but when he pulls the courage to look at you he sees blatant amusement on your face. 

“Like Hell I will. You saw me and Will- Mr Afton in his office yesterday?” you enquire, smirk not budging an inch. 

“Yes.'' His voice is small as his eyes flicker between you and the footage, which is now reaching its literal and metaphorical climax. Your eyes go wide as you take it in, how he bites on his hand his back lifting off the wall, fucking his fist and letting himself spill on the floor.

“And you uh-”

“Yes.” Now he looks at you, his face red before he tries to grab the mouse, futile really, you’d already seen everything. The whole vile, carnal activity. Something so beneath him, it had been on his mind all day. He internally interrogated himself as to how he didn't think about the cameras, the stupid horny bastard he was. Couldn’t wait to get back to the privacy of his office- no he didn’t want to because the sounds of his co-worker and employee screwing was what was getting him off. 

You move it out of his grasp, your eyes sharp scrutiny on his shame. “God, Mr Emily.” you giggle, a sudden giddiness surging through your veins. If you had known that he was there he could have come in and gotten a better view, the mere thought of that made arousal twitch between your legs. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you finally speak again. 

Confusion again twists his features, “What?” He looks handsome like that, you muse. 

“Do you… fancy me, Mr Emily?” A flash of something foreign crosses his face, he just looks at you until you prompt him again, “Well?”

He scoffs, “I- well, you’re attractive, yes. What do you want me to say?” His tone is tinged with disbelief, he can’t believe you’re still in here with him, talking to him, not running into the restaurant to tell William, disgust etched on your face. 

You beam, he really did, it was written on his face. Circumstantial or not, the idea of having two fit older men interested in you, burned your blood. “Then you could’ve said something… I feel guilty if you felt, you know, left out.” 

He’s so speechless he might as well be a statue, so you fill the silence again, “It’s good to know.” He’s just mesmerised by your reaction, you’re almost flirting with him, unperturbed by that god-awful footage, no, engaged by it.

“I’m sorry.” He manages finally, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from his hands. 

“Don’t be.” You shake your head, still smiling. “I’ll sort the recordings. Check for a number plate and clip it for a report.” You slowly place a hand on his arm, stroking up and down, captivated by the effect you were having on him, you felt powerful almost. “So you don’t have to worry. You can go.” 

And he does. He leaves the room without saying a word, shell-shocked into silence. Your reaction wasn’t what he would have thought, but it still scared him because he knew he was going to be the next topic of conversation between you and William, and if he were to confront him, that heart attack probably would materialise. God, if you only knew the half of who he fancied.

~

The next time you see William, is again during your contracted hours, this time leaving the door purposely open despite his protests, a secret hope that Henry might again come down the corridor, no pun intended. You’d rode William to oblivion in his office chair, taking exactly what you wanted from the man in the form of his huge cock stretching your little hole open. 

Now you remain sat on his lap, watching his hand toy with the mess both of you had made between your legs, his fingers pushing his release back inside, thinking to himself how pretty you looked fuck open like that, full of him just how you wanted. 

“I want to talk to you.” You say through a grin, pulling his hand away and towards your lips, where you suck the mixture of the two of you from his fingers, your tongue swirling reminding him of something else you’re more than good at. A low noise from his chest at the sight makes you smile again. 

He smirks, “This is the bit where you ask me for something, huh?” 

“Nothing you won’t like.” You bite the tips of his fingers, holding them for just a moment between your teeth, making him groan. “Do you know about Mr Emily?” The second you ask it he pulls his hand away, cupping under your jaw. 

“What about him?” 

“He saw us the other day. You know on your desk.” You don’t need to jog his memory, he recalls that in explicit detail. 

“Yeah, got quite the eyeful I imagine. Looked mortified.”

“Oh my god, He didn’t tell you.” You laugh, “Not that I blame him.” adjusting yourself before sliding from his knee. You pull up your panties and then the trousers you were wearing, scanning the room for wherever the hell your shoes have gone. When you look back to him, his brow is furrowed. 

“Don’t tease me, sweetheart, what’s this about?” You can tell that despite the casualness of his tone he really wants to know and your cocky expression was grating on him already. Clearly you talking about Henry was of great interest to him. 

So you smile, taking a moment to enjoy the look on his face before giving him the story, in as much detail as you can. You describe the footage you’d found, how even through the pixels you could tell he touched himself desperately, his pace rushed either due to fear of discovery or simple greediness. You tell him how his coworker was so thoughtless as to let his release fall on the floor, and dirty enough to leave it there. 

William looked at you with a grin, he could taste the second-hand embarrassment on his partner's behalf, thinking to himself that Henry must feel like shit right now. When you finish with some clear glee on your face he chuckles, “Dirty bastard.” He paused, an expression flashing across his face that you’d never seen before. “...Did he delete the footage?”

You laugh, “Why? You want to see it?” You half expected his face to fall at that accusation but a grin just cut wide on his face. “I deleted it.” you shoot him down.

“Well then, that’s a wasted opportunity. You never know when that kind of thing can be of use.” He spoke whilst standing up, pulling the lever under his chair up to return it to the height he needed it, not the one you did to ride him. He moved to begin sorting his desk out but his hands stuttered, not sure where to even begin with how behind on work he was. 

“Cold, Afton.” You grin. “You didn’t actually let me finish.” That caught his attention again and he turned to face you, leaning back on his desk before gesturing at you to continue. 

“I said I deleted it. Only fair, I wouldn’t want Mr Emily to feel… slighted.” You sigh, watching him look at you expectantly. You make him wait a fair while before you dig in your back pocket and clack a USB down on the desk next to him. The blooming smile on his face motivates you to ask him for a ‘favour’. 

Clearly there is something of a tension between the two co-owners. And that can be toxic to a business’ success. Though that’s probably not the real reason for you wanting to relieve it.

William moves to pick it up, but you quickly snatch it from the table, holding it between two fingers you drag it up under his chin. “You can have it… for whatever pervers reasons you really want it.”

“But?”

The saccharine look on your face as you speak is like hypnotism at its finest. “I like the idea of two men wanting me. Like I really like it.” you draw out your words for maximum effect.

He tilts his head back in laughter, “Of course you do.”

You’re not entirely happy with the implications of that. “Hey, at least I’m brave enough to ask for what I want.” 

“And you want to fuck him?” The words are quick and harsh off his tongue. “And you’re what, asking for my permission?” 

A short laugh escapes you. “No. But I do want to fuck him. But I don’t want to make you jealous, so maybe there’s a middle ground. If you get me?” He evidently does, judging by that delicious pinch between his brows. For a moment you think you’ve pushed things a little too far, maybe hit a nerve even, so you just blink at him prettily, hoping that that will nudge him in the direction you want. 

Finally, he sniggers, “... You’re asking me… If I will tag-team you. With a bloke I've known for nearly twenty years?” He laughs incredulously before running his tongue over his teeth. The emphasis of the last part makes you resign yourself to the no, you think you’re about to hear.

“Uh yeah..?” Your tone is as cautious as you can make it, whilst your eyes rake over his face for some read of his opinion on the matter. 

But he just leaves you hanging, sniggering away. Clearly he’s made a decision and you won’t get to know until he thinks you need to. 

~

Later that evening after grabbing his old and dusty but trusty jacket off the hook in his office, Henry checks the pocket for his car keys and wallet. Sighing as the events of the day caught up to him, he finally clocks off just after 11pm, and he’s more than ready to fall into bed. 

He pokes his head around the door of William’s office just to give him the polite goodnight that was expected but is greeted by pitch black emptiness. He tries not to be pissed off that the bastard has gone home already and left him working away without a word exchanged. But it's largely unsuccessful, and he finds himself huffing and puffing as he goes to the front of the building to check everythings been locked up properly.

The restaurant always hits different after hours, an unacquainted person would probably find it creepy what with the children’s play area all shrouded in darkness and the curtains drawn on the stage blowing just a little from the ventilation. Hell, he was beginning to find it unnerving himself. 

The interior doors were locked and bolted and the shutters were down, making this whole thing a little pointless, but if he hadn’t checked he’d be halfway home itching with uncertainty. Especially with the robbery that just happened. 

“You know you could have just checked from outside?” A voice says in the dark of the restaurant, making Henry turn like a gunshot towards it. It takes him a minute in his surprise to clap his eyes on William sitting in a corner booth with his feet on the table. In the complete fucking dark. 

“Jesus, William.” He snaps, moving to the wall to flick the lights back on. When he does, the lurker winces in the bright artificial light. “What are you doing?” 

In response, he slides a bottle of whiskey across the table, one that he’d drunk nearly half of already. “Drinking.” His words are a little slurred so he clears his throat. “Drink with me, Henry.” 

Henry scoffs, “Drinking alone in the dark. New low, even for you.” 

Cackling, William puts his hand over his heart, “Ouch. Well, I'm not alone now, am I? Sit down.” He gestures in line with his words, nodding towards the other side of the booth. 

“It’s late, I should-” He begins his protest but is immediately cut off by an overexaggerated reaction from his counterpart. 

“Oh for the love of god, man. Fucking sit down.” He rolls his eyes, still not moving his feet from the table, even when Henry obeys and sits down opposite him. In Henry’s experience it’s best not to argue with William when he’s half-cut, the man could be persuasive, bordering on naggy.  

It’s only when he’s already sat down that he realises the drunk has only got one glass, he pours it for Henry and then takes a swig directly from the bottle. 

“Thought you were saving this for a special occasion?” He asks, twisting the bottle to read the label and humming approval to himself that this was good shit. Truth be told he hasn’t drunk with William for what must be a couple of years, so this proposal mixed with his posh whiskey stank of an ulterior motive. 

“I’m sick of looking at it.” He answered, slowly leaning his head backwards to rest it against the wall and close his eyes. Henry watched the movement over the brim of his glass. He spent many years working with this man, but it only dawned on him once in a while how handsome he was. Not a hallmark prince kind of handsome, but in a rugged, sleazy, scary sort of way, no wonder you’d trotted so happily to bed with him- or rather to his office on your lunch break. He almost laughed as that thought occurred to him. God, he was jealous, and he hated himself for it. 

Suddenly, William shook his head and sat up straighter. “Fuck, I’m nearly mortal.” He snickered, before taking another swig from the bottle, then pouring more in Henry's glass. "Away, mate. You've got catching up to do." 

Although he tried, Henry would have needed another bottle to make it to William’s level of pissed. Still though, a little over an hour later his head was swimming and even just sitting in this booth was testing his balance. 

He shifts in his place, instantly regretting it “Shit. God… I need to stop. Gonna fucki-” He felt like he was going to hit the deck, yet William seemed to have gone the other way, leaning with his head in his hands giggling at nothing. 

“Language, Emily!” He chastised, “Never known you to have such a dirty mouth.” Looking over at the other man, William could tell he’d drunk well too much. He never could handle it that well, it showed immediately in his eyes, that kind of glassy look that was undeniably due to intoxication; many times the two of them had gotten denied service from pubs for exactly that reason. 

His words made Henry look up properly, a bit taken aback by his coworker. Obviously, he was joking, hardly a sentence from William could go by without some flavour of profanity, but that ‘dirty mouth’ comment was like ice down his spine. He said something like that to you when he eavesdropped on the two of you, in such a darkly aroused way that it stuck with him, practically haunting him. “Just shut up, man.” He mumbled, unhappy with the half a smile crossing his face.

William scoffed, leaning forward across the table to snatch the glasses off Henry’s face. He tried to grab them back, but as always, Will was too quick. 

“What the hell are you-”

He laughed, putting the glasses on himself and blinking quickly in pantomime, “God, you’re really fucking blind, huh?” 

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Henry leans to again try and take them back. He's met with William tilting his head to allow him to pluck them from his face, chuckling like a schoolboy. 

Henry feels his face heat up more than he would have liked. “Yeah, that’s why I wear them. Fuck’s sake.” 

“I forgot you’re so moody on the drink, lighten up, dickhead.”

For a moment Henry just laughed in disbelief, thinking to himself that he can’t be serious. “At least it’s only when I’m drinking, you’re a stormy bastard all the time.” Will’s eyebrows raised in response, he didn’t have a lot to say to that, largely because it’s true. His mood could sway the whole staff’s, his bad day was everyone’s problem, most of all Henry’s. 

William hummed for a beat, taking the time to think if he really wanted to say what he was about to. Your words from earlier echoing in his mind. “You’re right, you know.” He smirked then, a proper conniving expression that almost bordered on sinister. “I’ll have to make it up to you then… Call in on me tomorrow. I have something for you.” 

~

And now is the waiting game. Your shift went relatively quickly and painlessly. Bookings have been strictly limited after yesterday's fiasco that led to the thief digging around the cash register, so it was almost quiet. And now you sit on your boss’s very familiar knee, practically vibrating with excitement. You lean your head back to rest on his shoulder, slowly grinding your hips back and forth on his lap, knowing how much it wound him up. 

“You really can’t wait, can you?” His voice is low and teasing like always, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tap against the top of the desk: he’s nervous. 

You smile, “What? I’m excited.” You roll your hip particularly hard, pleasure jolts through your system when you feel that William is pretty excited himself. “I can’t believe he agreed to this. I’ve always wanted to have two blokes fight over me.” You punctuate your point by pressing your lips against the underside of his jaw. 

He snickers from just above you, “Can I tell you something?” A large hand comes up from your ribs to grab a handful of your breast which you arch your back into. “He didn’t exactly agree.” The second the sentence leaves him, you sit upright, turning to face him. 

Your eyes narrow. “What are you saying?” 

“I told him I have something for him, not that-” Your scoffing cuts him off .

“You- he doesn’t know that I’m here to… You’re such a fucking arsehole!” You could almost hit him, if Henry has no idea what this is all about, it’s not going to happen is it? Disappointment courses through you. “I can’t believe you-” You go to stand and grab your shit and leave, but he catches your hips and pulls you back down on top of him. 

He holds you firm, just grinning at the angry line between your brows. “Calm down, sweetheart. Alright? Just bat your eyes at him like you’re so good at and you’ll get what you want.”

Just as you open your mouth to give Will your grievances, the two of you hear polite knocking from the office door which then slowly cracks open showing a tentative looking Henry. 

The second he claps eyes on not only William but you too, the man feels anxiety prickle all over him as a million thoughts cross his mind. Seriously, what the fuck is this? Some kind of gang up on Henry, make him feel like shit for what he did the other day, situation? Fuck, the shame around him was not only tangible but so thick it was practically visible. 

But not wanting to draw attention to his hallway activity, he elects for a “Oh hey, y/n.” Before he focuses his gaze on William, “What is this then?” 

He laughs, “I said I had something for you…” William then takes his hands off your hips, freeing you to move as you’d like. But before you do, he whispers something unintelligible to Henry in your ear. Something that makes the hard line of your mouth soften considerably. 

“Well, love. You still want to play?” The words caress your skin and it dawns on you that you do. Fuck, you really want to play. And you’ve already gone to all this effort… it would be a shame to waste such an opportunity. You nod at William and slide off his lap, then walking over to Henry who still stood awkwardly a pace away from the door. 

You walk right up to him, standing a little too close to him, so close he feels an automatic blush spread across his cheeks. “I uh…” you begin but falter immediately. The confusion on his face was crystal clear. “I can’t get that image of you out of my head. You know, the footage?... I think I enjoyed that more than a normal person should. I thought maybe we could have some fun- if that’s what you want, obviously.” You keep your voice down instinctively, maybe hoping internally it’d be out of William’s earshot. 

He killed that thought with, “Careful, y/n. His glasses will steam up.” The cockiness coating the words made the other man scowl, which in turn just made Will laugh. 

“Shut it, Will.” You interject, your eyes not moving from Henry as you read him for reaction. 

“...This really isn’t a good idea.” He speaks slowly, voice cracking on the first word, making him have to clear his throat to continue. This was baffling, and he couldn’t tell if it was some sick joke between you and William, something designed to cripple him emotionally. But looking closer, from your small smile to his set jaw made him think that maybe, maybe this was a real proposal. 

“Respectfully,” you take another step forward, so close to Henry that you could smell his aftershave. “I disagree.” Your hand rises up to rest on his chest, a finger prying under the lapel of his jacket.  

He chuckles in complete disbelief, flicking his eyes over to William, who still sat cock-sure as hell in his office chair.  “Don’t look at me, mate. This is all her.” He waves a calculatedly dismissive hand as he speaks, trying to disguise the tension he was wrapped in.   

“Yeah but…” The words fail Henry when you continue touching him, stroking his chest in just the right way to get the physical reaction from him that you wanted. “If I do something, are you going to rough me up?” He attempts some level of nonchalance, but it doesn’t carry at all. 

William sniggers then, “I think she’ll do a good enough job of that on her own.” You giggle, curling your fingers under the lapel and pulling Henry so close that your lips are only an inch away from his making him groan slightly. 

“So what do you say, Henry?” You breathe, already knowing the answer but wanting to make sure that this is something that he wanted. He doesn’t respond verbally, only closing the gap between the two of you with a surprisingly firm kiss. You reciprocate, excitement bubbling in your core, this was insane, not only was it two handsome men here with you at once, but both your bosses, this was certainly going to bollocks up your professional relationships. 

You take both Henry’s hands and place them on your hips, giving him all the cues to deepen this kiss, which he does by sliding his tongue into your mouth and twirling it alongside yours. You let out a light moan, if he kept hitting you with all these surprises this was going to be even more fun than you initially thought. When you press yourself flush against him, it strikes him out of nowhere that this is real, you, pretty little you, were kissing him, pressing against him hungrily, eager for him. It excites him enough for his hands to rake over you, one cupping your tit and the other pinching your arse in such a way that makes you briefly rise to your toes. 

You mouth the word ‘fuck’ against his lips before he puls away slightly and buries his head in the crook of your neck, kissing along your skin until he found your sweet spot. Your hand tangles itself in his hair, encouraging him to keep pulling these cute noises from you. One particularly pretty gasp for you makes him look up, instantly catching William’s eye, his stomach twisting when he sees him chuckling and shaking his head. You grab under his chin, forcing him to put his attention back on you. 

You look over your shoulder, “Have you got a confused jealousy boner, Will?” 

He laughs at your meanness, “If I have to watch, at least put on a show.” You grin before turning back to Henry, intending to follow his advice. You lightly push Henry back until his back catches a side table, there you trail your hand down his body before taking the tent in his trousers in your hand, making him groan again, the sound vibrating through his chest. 

You begin to stroke him slowly over the fabric, grinning up at him, “Fuck, that security footage was so hot, Henry.” You bite your bottom lip and he swears he’s going to melt. “Will you show me in person?”

You feel his cock twitch and it spurs on the wetness now seeping between your legs and collecting in your panties. His hands replace yours, moving to slowly undo his belt, the clinking sound all too revealing, then his fly underneath. You dive in then, helping him pull his trousers down. Flicking your gaze between his eyes and his cock, you trail your finger over the bulge, stopping just at the waistband of his boxers and making him wait in anticipation before you hook your fingers under the fabric and pull them down, letting his hardness spring between your bodies. 

The look on your face is so damn dirty, your pupils so huge that he just blinks at you, gasping when you grab hold of him, feeling his length. He’s thick and you just know he’s going to feel so fucking right inside you. Spitting in your hand, you start a slow pace of stroking him, all teasing, really making him feel every little thing you give him, his twisting expression motivating you to keep it nice and easy. 

“This enough of a show for you?” You say to William, and Henry turns to look at him like he forgot he’s there. 

“Please, sweetheart. I know you can do better than that.” He makes a point of looking the two of you up and down before glancing at Henry and flashing the most wolfish smirk going, making his stomach twist with something absolutely filthy. 

William watches as you grin, his hand taking hold of himself over his trousers. You look such a pretty thing sliding down to your knees, still pumping Henry, though now it was becoming a more substantial pace. His breath audibly hitched when he looked down at the sight of you stroking his cock like that, looking so needy for it. You open your mouth, placing the head of his cock on your tongue for a moment before wrapping your lips around him. You suck him just as tantalisingly, hollowing your cheeks to take as much of him as you could, working your tongue perfectly on the underside of his length. His head was completely empty, soft grunts escaping him when you took him deep in your throat. How the fuck was this even happening? How the fuck was William okay with it? 

From across the room, you both hear the shifting of him standing up, your eyes move to what you could see of him in your peripheral but you don’t stop, if anything you start bobbing your head with more gusto, your hands taking his base and softly stroking him to your rhythm. Henry just stares at William, his hands white knuckling against the table in an effort not to cry out- god, you’re too fucking good at this. No wonder he’s so fond of you. 

William stands behind you, his frame casting an imposing shadow over you on the floor, you can’t help but smile- well, smile as much as you can. He looks between the two of you, watching you give Henry probably the best blowjob of his life, before looking back to Henry’s reddened face, he could tell he’s biting the inside of his cheek, which makes him snigger. He grabs hold of your hair, taking a firm grip of it and following your movement. 

Henry moans and the shame that accompanies it is almost instant. What the hell was he doing? His scrutiny was fucking awful and maybe would’ve made him want to stop, if you weren’t taking him so well. 

“She’s such a good girl, huh?” His voice makes your skin pucker with goosebumps, fuck he sounds so good when he’s horny. 

Henry would have agreed, but all words are absent when Will uses your hair to control your movement. A sudden emerging urge to hear what kind of sounds Henry can make taking over him. You moan, hand reaching in reflex around his wrist, though you let him do as he wishes. He pushed your head further down on Henry’s cock, making tears spring at the corners of your eyes. And then moves you back and forth, forcing you to keep up with it. Something about it is so dirty you can’t help but shift your position so your pussy is rubbing against your heel, the small sensation absolute bliss.   

William catches on quickly and pulls your head back so Henry’s cock pops lewdly from your mouth. You speak immediately, your voice breathy, “Feeling left out?” 

Henry watches in something close to awe as William tilts your head all the way back so you’re looking up at him, his finger rubbing over your lips, the smirk on his face mean. “I agreed to share, not witness.” He leans down and pulls your shirt up, somehow managing to manoeuvre it over your head easily, despite the carnage. He waits, unsure of what to do, his cock glistening with your spit when he takes it in his hand, looking to see your bra being unhooked and the sight of your perfect tits. 

William hooks under your arms and lifts you up, in quite the show of strength, onto the side table. You giggle, “You’re not very good at sharing then.” as you look between the two men, your legs spreading automatically to let William pull your trousers off, your wet panties exposed, he runs his fingers over the damp fabric eliciting a pleased sound from both you and Henry who now touched himself at the view in front of him. 

“You really liked sucking his dick, didn’t you?” His tone is all mocking, though you pick up on a hint of something else. You just nod and lift your hips up against his hand, he obeys your silent ask, quickly sliding your knickers down to your knees and placing his thumb on that needy clit of yours. He gives you just what you need, drawing circles over your bundle of nerves, glancing at Henry whilst he does so, catching his gaze as it flicks from somewhere else, embarrassment written on his face.   

He shakes his head at him before placing his hands on your thighs to keep you open for him as he bends down and replaces the stimulation with his tongue. You grab him instantly, and your want for him makes Henry stroke his cock again, he almost wants to laugh at this attempt to show off, but there’s no denying the look on your face as you roll your hips against him, incoherent moans fleeing your lips. Clearly, William is good at that because when he adjusts his position to press his fingers inside you, you cry out, the sound insanely pornographic. He presses his digits inside you just right, playing you like a fucking violin and you’re close, just the sight of Henry watching could have got you there, but the angle of his fingers pressed against the part of you that made coming undone inevitable. 

William grunts into your pussy, when your hand in his hair lets him know you’re going to cum. You’re a bad one for that, grabbing onto him in your fretful wave, when you’re scared he’s not going to let you get there, his back is covered in scratches from you for precisely that reason. He grabs at himself, palming his erection to the rhythm of your noises and not entirely succeeding. Henry notices immediately, unable to decide what he wants to watch more, you gagging for it, begging to cum, or Will getting off on it.

“Fuck. Will, please.” You choke out, the fucking of his fingers shoving you closer and closer to your end, so quick its near unbearable. He doesn’t stop, curling his fingers more to get you there, still sucking mercilessly on your clit. It hits you hard, your back arching as you cum, your walls clenching tightly around his fingers, fluttering in such a way that it makes it impossible not to bust inside you.

William pulls away from you when your waves begin to die out, to enjoy the sight of you, grinning when he sees Henry looking ragged. 

You see it too, the furrowed brow, sweat lingering on his forehead showing that he’d enjoyed that nearly as much as you had, edging himself helplessly to your pleasure. You can see the precum leaking from his tip and even though you’ve just cum you want more. You want to make him cry. 

“Henry…” The second you say his name he quivers, he remembers your voice sounding like that from before, but the glazed over, fucked out look on your face is new. “Can you fuck me?” You’re sitting up on the table as you speak, your cunt flushed and shining. And you certainly don’t need to ask twice. 

You stand and push him down so he’s sitting in William’s chair, not missing the pissed off look on Will’s face that screams ‘what about me?’.

You straddle Henry facing out towards William, blinking pretty at him whilst rubbing your slick pussy against the other’s cock. Hoping he gets the practicality of this position. Reading your mind, he steps forward, taking your chin in his grip as his foot reaches under the chair to push the lever up, causing you and Henry to drop down roughly to a much more useful height. Henry moans, the jolting movement making him drag against your cunt in the most desperate way. 

It’s not long before you’re lost in the obliteration of two fellas at once. Henry’s thick cock deep inside you, stretching you around him. His hands cup under your behind to give him the space he needs to fuck up into you. You’re whining from it, loving the feeling of his pace, or you would be, if not for your lips being wrapped around William’s cock stifling the sound.

If anyone was outside the door in the former's previous position, they might fall victim to the same impulse he did. The lewd sounds of one using your mouth like his fucktoy and the other fucking out your dripping pussy, no doubt very obvious. As is the mixture of grunts and moans. You can't help but be so thankful for coming across that footage.

[whatwooshkai]

number three :D

Blades is hiding.

Yeah, he's not afraid to admit it. He'll hide all he fucking wants.

The only summons he's been giving over the past vorn have been either for random medical check-ups or more interrogations by the enforcers. And they're still having him train on a strict schedule, even though his "team" has been reduced to a solo endeavor.

A voice crackles to life over the P.A. system. "Someone find Blades, please." The voice sounds resigned and more tired than anything, lacking the usual professionalism but keeping the conciseness.

Blades curls closer to the crates he's hunched behind, knees-to-chassis, doing his best to angle his rotors so they're not visible.

They stick out so far behind his back.

The scar between them aches when he twists. Stupid rotors, stupid alt mode. He misses his wings, even though he barely had them. Helicopter is a stupid alt mode anyways, with stupid fragile rotors that could break at a moment's notice.

An odd, aching part of Blades- the one that lives in the gaping hole in his spark- desperately wants to go home.

But he is home. Or at least, the only living quarters he's ever known.

Unless home is with his gestalt... in which, he doesn't need that many more reasons to be convinced to go join them.

"Found ya."

Blades looks up from his hiding spot to meet the tired optics of one of the security-for-hires, who's doing his best to offer an inviting smile. His field brushes Blades', so he snaps it close to his frame.

Blades can't remember his name, they cycle through guards too often. Or at least more often when they used to, after a top secret government project turned into a glorified sparkling-sitting job.

The guard taps a beat on the crate he's leaning on. "You comin'?"

Blades just glares at him.

The guard sighs heavily, before walking around and reaching out a hand. "I don't wanna fight you, kiddo. Let's make it easier on both of us, alright?"

Blades doesn't move, but he lets the guard grab his arm and haul him to his pedes, then lead him down the hallway towards the Supervisor's office.

The Supervisor is an intimidating mech- black and gray plating, purple optics, and a faceplate twisted in a perpetual scowl. He must be three time the size of Blades.

Streetwise used to guess that the reason he went by the Supervisor is because he had a really stupid or embarrassing name that wasn't intimidating at all, instead of just being "classified" like he claimed.

Doesn't matter what Streetwise thinks now, though.

Blades squares his shoulders and walks into the office with his helm held high, keeping his rotors tucked close to his frame to hide their minute shaking.

"Blades," the Supervisor greets in his dark, intimidating voice. Blades frowns at him. "You're hardly a sparkling anymore, I thought you would have outgrown being a nuisance by now."

Blades, wisely, does not say anything. The less of a fuss he makes, the sooner he gets out of here.

"As you know, the Defensor project has been discontinued," the Supervisor continues, shifting slightly in his seat. "And therefore our funding for it has stopped. More specifically, our funding for you has stopped. So you are no longer of use to us."

Blades' tanks drop to his pedes. He knew this would happen eventually, but he thought they'd at least wait until the enforcers found out who- who- who's responsible for Blades no longer having brothers.

He's not even that being that much of a nuisance! He's following directions, goes to the places they order him to, shows up to training, all the stuff they need him to. He doesn't even hide half the time!

"You have three options," the Supervisor says, pulling Blades from his thoughts. "You can attempt to fend for yourself on the streets of Protihex, but you will not receive any help from us, financial or otherwise. You may join the military, which we do encourage. Minimal paperwork and it keeps you in the system."

Blades is going for the streets. He is not joining the military, he is not-

"Or," the Supervisor adds, "you can attend the Rescue Bots Academy."

Oh. That actually... that actually might not be so bad. That's a few vorns of schooling, and by that point, he could get a job and fend for himself, right? He wouldn't even half to finish. Just live there long enough to get himself on his pedes and to make sure he can get as far away from this Primus-forsaken facility as possible.

"I'll go to the Rescue Bots," Blades says, the static in his audials drowning out everything besides the Supervisor's, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Blades shutters his optics. "Send me to the Rescue Bots Academy."

[batsplat]

Catalunya 2008: The switch to the lighter 800cc bikes was generally expected to benefit Dani Pedrosa, who headed into his second season in the premier class with sky high expectations after already being an outside title contender for most of his rookie campaign. The perception that Honda had built a bike to Pedrosa's liking, rather than that of his world champion teammate Nicky Hayden, was a matter of no little controversy - but ultimately Honda's bike did not have enough power for either rider to keep up with runaway 2007 champion Ducati's Casey Stoner. Pedrosa did manage to snag an unlikely second place in the championship off Valentino Rossi at the very last race of the season, when Pedrosa's victory and Rossi's mechanical DNF gave the position to Pedrosa by a single point. His unusual choice to claim the number two plate the following year led to paddock speculation about whether he had done so to rub the championship standings in Rossi's face. More importantly, Honda opted to stick with the Michelin tyres that had been so thoroughly outshone by Stoner's Bridgestones that year, standing in contrast to Rossi's contentious switch away from the Michelins.

Pedrosa started 2008 well and was the only rider to make it to the podium in each of the first four races of the year. His early season was defined by his conflict with old enemy Jorge Lorenzo, who had felt slighted by Pedrosa not shaking his hand at the very first race of the year at Qatar. Pedrosa was clearly less than thrilled to finish behind Lorenzo upon the latter's debut in the premier class - and Lorenzo responded by criticising Pedrosa for the perceived lack of graciousness in the press. It made the stakes of their home race in Jerez all the higher, with Lorenzo securing his second straight pole before Pedrosa claimed a convincing victory on Sunday. When the Spanish king badgered the pair of them into shaking hands, Pedrosa could hardly have looked less enthusiastic. The hostilities continued into the third round at Estoril, with Lorenzo once again securing pole and this time a victory along with it, and Pedrosa once again looking aggrieved at having to exist in a ten mile radius of his compatriot. After that, however, Lorenzo's season quickly fell apart, with a series of dramatic crashes sabotaging both his body and his confidence. In the end, Pedrosa's title rivals were to be the same pair as in the year before.

After holding the championship lead early on, Pedrosa was forced to relinquish it to Rossi when the latter went on a three race win streak. Pedrosa lost a close contest for second to Stoner in Mugello, with Rossi beating both of them at his beloved home race - but now it was time for MotoGP to return to Pedrosa's turf. Qualifying in P2 with Stoner on pole, Pedrosa got one of his typically perfect launches off the line to lead Stoner from the start, while the in-form Rossi would have a lot of work to do from ninth on the grid. Stoner attempted to put pressure on Pedrosa early on, but a lap one error followed by getting embroiled in a lengthy tussle with Andrea Dovizioso allowed Pedrosa to put some critical daylight between himself and the chasing pack. Soon enough, Rossi caught up to Stoner - and the two of them took turns to let the other attempt to drag them closer to Pedrosa. Eventually they realised it was futile, having to instead contend themselves to hashing out second place between the pair of them. It was a repeat of the ferocious battle of the year before, which back then had involved all three top riders. In 2007, Stoner had emerged on top ahead of Rossi followed by Pedrosa - this time, Rossi bested Stoner, though well behind Pedrosa's dominant display out front. Before heading off to Donington, it was time for a post-race test, with Ducati hoping to finally fix some of their issues this season. If they managed to do so, they might still be able to provide Stoner with the tools he needed to enact a repeat of the crushing dominance of the previous year.

[123pixieaod]

Tried to write a fun little fic about why Daniel unfollowed on Instagram Zak, Michael, Fernando, and Nicki, the most random quartet possible, only to end up with this lol

Daniel finally answers a call at just gone 4.30am, Max's time. It's 5.30am, Daniel's time, which admittedly is only marginally better, but maybe the hospital he's in has some crazy Get-Up-And-Seize-The-Day sort of ethos. Although from what Christian has told him, Daniel might not be seizing anything, metaphorically or otherwise, for some time.

"Daniel," Max says as soon as he hears the line clicking through. "How are you? How do you feel? Is your wrist alright? Do the doctors and nurses take care of you, do they speak English, or did Red Bull send a Spanish translator and I hope I have not woken you up and-"

He cuts himself off. There's a sort of stunned silence on the other side of the line. Sometimes, Max thinks his need for Daniel is a bottomless pit, something that has hollowed him out and leaves an ache echoing through him.

"Max?" Daniel says, incredulous. High, drugged up, gone on pain medication. "How did you get into my phone?!"

Max squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth is twisted, making some shape. A smile, a frown? He doesn't know, nobody can see him in his old childhood bedroom.

He wants to be with Daniel. He wants to brush a hand through his curls and run his fingertips along the lines of his faded tattoos like how a child would first begin to trace letters and numbers.

I miss you, he wants to say

I want you

I need you

"I'm not in your phone," he says instead, tone light and soft. "I called you. I am in the Netherlands."

"Oh," Daniel says, as if the fact Max had not been magically transformed into his phone is mildly disappointing. "What are you doing there?"

"We had a race, remember?" Max says. He's stretched out on his old bed. His feet dangle just slightly off the edge, and each year, he's promised a new one, bigger and larger and finally a grown-up bed. But it never materialises and Max has stopped bringing it up now.

The room is unchanged. Around him, the faces of former racing legends watch him, tapped to his wall. Above, stars look down, stuck to his ceiling in haphazard patterns. The day his father got to play God and created universes and cosmos splayed above his head.

"Of course," Daniel huffs good naturedly. "You won, Maxy."

"I know," Max replies softly.

"It was your ninth consecutive win," Daniel continues, his tone strong and proud, as if it's Daniel who has achieved it. Maybe he's so high on meds he thinks it is, that him and Max are some sort of Jeckyl and Hyde being, two sides of the same life. Max doesn't know. A headache is building behind his eyes. He hasn't really slept since Friday, three days previous.

"You're now equalling Sebastian Vettle. If you win the next race, you'll beat the record." Daniel continues before pausing, as if realisation is only just dawning. "I don't think I'll be there."

"No," Max murmurs. "I don't think you will be either."

"My wrist is really fucked," Daniel goes back to his jubilant tone, like a child with the best show and tell in school. "I have a metal plate in it, isn't that neat?"

He laughs. Max closes his eyes, just listening to the sound. "Imagine if it goes off at every airport security, Maxy? How annoying with that be?" He laughs again, the prospect sounding delightful to him in that very moment.

Max hums softly, and then shifts on the bed, turning away from the stars his father hung up for him. Instead, he moves to his side, facing a giant poster of Micheal Schumacher celebrating one of his championships. At the bottom, Max, to great things! MS. He was six. It was one of the best Christmas presents his dad had ever gotten him.

"How do you feel?" He asks. Daniel is humming a tune under his breath, the theme song to some gameshome Max barely recognises. He stops at Max's question.

"Good," he says happily. "I have gained deep clarity."

That shocks a laugh out of Max, as only Daniel, even doped, drugged Daniel, can do. The longing feels physical, the hole never ending in his chest. He closes his eyes, blocking out the stars and racing legends whose shine has faded and whose records he's now beating.

In another life, he thinks, he would be there. He'd be the first face Daniel would see, the first hand he'd get to hold, the first for nearly everything, just like Daniel had been for Max.

But instead they're a time zone apart and Daniel is alone in a country where he can't even speak the language and Max is in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by his family who are fast sleep and utterly oblivious to the fact he's gay, let alone in a relationship with Daniel Ricciardo.

"Clarity," Max forces his mind back on track. "How so?"

"Oh you know," Daniel says with ease. "Cleared my mental space."

Max huffs another laugh. His chest aches, empty. He wonders does Daniel know how hollowed out he is without him.

"Go on."

"Well, I deleted a shit ton of apps. That wellness app you made me download last year? Sorry Maxy, but that went," Daniel makes a popping noise. "And the fertility tracking app Scotty downloaded at his bachelor's party."

"Presumably he just got his and your phones mixed up, right?"

"No Maxy, it was a prank because I -" Daniel breaks away, finally understanding, laughing as if Max has made the funniest joke possible.

"Okay so you cleared up some space on your phone," Max prompts him.

"Oh yes, and then deleted twitter and went to WhatsApp and left about a billion groups and then I went to Instagram, and went through who I followed, and unfollowed tons of people."

"Oh? Did I make the cut?"

Daniel tutts as if Max is being purposefully dense.

"Naturally Maxy. In fact, I sort of debated unfollowing everyone except you, but then figured you might've been pissed at me."

Max can't tell if Daniel is joking or not. He doesn't know which he wants it to be.

"So firstly I unfollowed a bunch of people I had met years ago at business deals and stuff, and then Craig and Rebecca from school because I never really liked them anyway and they definitely never liked me and then Zak because the vibes were Not It and then my high-school teacher who I definitely only ended up following on a dare and -"

"Zak," Max says, picking out the familiar name in the sea of chatter. "As in Zak Brown?"

Daniel hums. "Yeah, the vibes were Not It. And then I also unfollowed Fernando -"

"Alonso?" Max splutters out another laugh of disbelief. "What on earth did he do to you?"

"I don't like how he acts around you."

"Me?!" Max voice goes up an octave. "What? But he's always nice to me Daniel. I like him."

"I know Max, that's the point," Daniel says, and before Max can even begin to comprehend what he means, he's continuing. "And then also Richard, from McLaren because I swear he used to tell Zak everything I did and then Michael, and then Sam, this old hookup, and -"

"Michael," Max cuts in, sure he's mistaken, "as in ..."

"Yeah," Daniel says after a beat. "That Michael."

Max swallows. Michael has been a constant strain on their relationship, the fly in the otherwise smooth ointment. Max had told Daniel he wasn't good for him, he wasn't looking after him. That friendship and business rarely mixed, and that in this case, it had congealed into something of neither, a strange, interdependent relationship which drained them both.

Daniel had said Max hadn't understood it, hadn't gotten how much Michael helped him, how good it was to have a physico who was also his mate. Max replied by saying that as far as he was concerned, Michael was proving himself to be neither.

Jealousy. That was what Daniel had pinned to him, had washed all rationality away with. Max was jealous.

He remembers feeling like he had been slapped. Jealousy. Fucking jealousy.

He never mentioned Michael again.

"But," Max begins slowly, mind whirling. "You had lunch with him last week." Even though you never mentioned it, even though I had to find out through fans' blurry photos.

"Yeah," Daniel draws the syllable out. "But... the vibes were not immaculate."

"Right," Max says, hating how terse the single word sounds. And the vibes were fine when he encouraged you to do that fucked up intermittent fasting? When he recommended yoga and gym sessions instead of therapy?

"And then I unfollowed Nicky Latifi, because unfortunately, he's going to do a masters in London, and following him online will simply remind me of all the missed possibilities I had in the academic world," he goes on.

"Daniel," Max says, trying to force his mind to move on, Daniel has unfollowed Michael Daniel has unfollowed Michael. "You dropped out of school when you were seventeen. In the most loving of ways, I would hardly call you an up and coming scholar."

"Details, Maxy," he says, but then goes quiet, and so does Max. He opens his eyes. His room is painted in shadows, sunrise still distant. The trophies he won as a child are carefully displayed in neat rows, their plaques opaque with dust, now thick and heavy. He remembers winning them, young and already starving for more, remembers the weight of plastic, the way sugary pop soda dried sticky on his skin.

"I think you were right," Daniel says softly. Max nods, face pressed against his pillow.

"I mean about him. Michael."

"I know who you meant," Max murmurs.

"Okay good, because you're definitely not write about my academic prowess, I was one hundred percent on track to be this world's Stephen Hawkens."

Max laughs softly. "It's Hawking not Hawken."

"Once again Maxy, details."

There's another exhale of quiet between them, and outside Max hears the world beginning to rise. Birds waking, their whistles winding their way through the crack in his window.

"I miss you," he says softly, as if the words are barely permitted to be spoken aloud.

"I love you too Maxy," Daniel replies with ease. Then - "you should come. I think it would be nice. If you were here too."

"I think so too," Max says. The longing grows. The trophies are dusty on his shelf, forgotten. His feet hang off his childhood bed. Birds begin to sing.

"So will you?" Daniel persists. Max squeezes his eyes shut.

"I don't know. I do not think you would be saying this if you weren't off your head on pain meds," he tries to joke. His chest aches. Hollowed out, always wanting more than he's allowed.

"Of course I would," Daniel says confidently, even though he ends it with a yawn. "I anyways want you around."

Max keeps his eyes still tightly shut. He tucks his knees up, bringing them to his chest. When he was very young and his parents were still together, he'd do this. Curl up on the bed with his eyes squeezed closed. The door shut, their shouts muffled; as distant as the bird song is to him now.

"Maxy?"

His sister said the same. Maxy? Climbing on his bed, tugging at his arms. What are they talking about? Nothing, nothing, it doesn't matter.

"How's your wrist?" Max asks. He opens his eyes - the room has grown lighter, dawn finally creeping in.

"Good," Daniel says, already forgotten what he said. Like a butterfly, moving onto the next topic, nothing permanent. "Sore. I'm on some strong shit though." He laughs. It sounds so near.

Max imagines it. He could do it. Book the ticket to Spain. It wouldn't even be that bad. People know him and Daniel are mates, and mates visit each other in hospital. And that's if it even comes out, which it might not. Nobody has to know.

"I love you," he blurts out, cheeks warm. Daniel laughs again, soft and delighted.

"Good, because my right hand is currently out of action, so I might need help over the next few weeks with a few particular things."

Max laughs, cheeks warm. He's not being quiet any more. His family can probably hear him through the walls, just like he could hear his parents all those years ago.

He can imagine his sister asking him, echoing their childhood as she questions him on words she's grasped through walls. This time, though, he thinks he will tell her the truth.

"I've heard Spain is very beautiful at the end of August," he says.

Daniel hums, "I've heard something similar, Maxy."

Outside, birds sing. The dawn continues on, filling the emptiness of night.