#i dunno its just gonna be pretty soon

[luvring]

i think ill archive or delete main at the end of this year .

[fudanshiatlas]

olnf mc info dump in the tagsssss-uh

[phagodyke]

only took half my meds today bc I slept in rly late this morning and didn't want to take the full dose in case it keeps me awake tn but good grief I'm feeling them wear off.. my heaud hurts

[sanguineterrain]

crushin' | jason todd

Summary: Barbara invites you to dinner with the Bats. She's done so before, and you've always declined, but this time, you agree because the Bat you've had a crush on for ages will be there. Little do you know, the only reason he's staying for dinner is because of you.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings/tags: batfam shenanigans, dick is a good meddling brother and deserves a fruit basket, fluff and humor, kissing, crushes, love confessions. just wanted to write something sweet and light :)

the divider

"So you're gonna press this," Barbara says, demonstrating on her own screen.

You follow along, clicking and typing. She nods.

"Good. Then you're gonna do this."

You open the file. A video of what looks to be Bruce drunkenly hula-hooping pops up. Your eyes widen.

"And that's how you keep Bruce in check," Barbara says, patting your shoulder. "Use sparingly. Only when he's getting on your last nerve."

"Wow," you say. "Babs, I... I don't know if I should have this kind of power."

"No, it's cool. I have dirt on everyone in this family, so really, it's my power. You're the only one who gets to see the vault."

You look at her. "You scare me."

She grins. "Thanks! Anyway, you're free to go. They'll be back from the mission soon, so our job is pretty much over."

The computer beeps. She checks the notification and types back. Then she hums.

"Or, you can, y'know, join us for dinner. Alfred keeps wondering when you'll do so."

You press your lips together. "I dunno, Babs... are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"You're not. Seriously. And you know what I just found out? Jason will be here too."

Well. That does certainly stop your refusal in its tracks. You haven't seen Jason properly since he returned. You feel a pang of guilt at that; true, he's never at the Manor, at least not when you're around. But you could've reached out by now.

Still, being able to see him again properly is a wonderful opportunity. One you can't pass up.

"Okay," you say. "I'll join you all. As long as Alfred's okay with it."

She rolls her eyes, smiles. "Don't be ridiculous. C'mon."

You follow her to the elevator Bruce got installed for her. In the Manor, most of the family are sitting down to dinner. Damian and Cass are on one side of the table. Bruce is at the head. Alfred is still bustling in the kitchen.

You start to pull out the chair next to Cass, but Barbara startles you.

"That's Dick's chair!" She smiles sympathetically. "Sorry. He's particular. Isn't he, guys?"

"Yes," Cass says. "He's comfortable here."

"I've no idea what you're referring to, Gordon," says Damian. He nods at you. "Hello."

You smile. "Hey, Damian. That's fine. I'll sit next to you, Babs." You sit in the middle of three chairs, with Barbara on your right and an empty chair on your left.

"Hi, Cass. Hello, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," he reminds you. That's not happening. It feels way too weird to call him Bruce, even though you've known him since Jason was Robin. Just, no.

Cass smiles. "Hello. Glad to have you."

"Where's Tim and Duke?" you ask.

"Thomas is at university," Damian says. "Drake is probably with that idiot clone he calls a boyfriend."

Bruce looks up. "Tim and Connor are dating?"

"Good God," Barbara mumbles.

"Well, yes, Father. They've been dating for quite some time, even shared a room together. Last month, Drake went undercover in Atlantic City and the clone—"

"Old man! Where are you?"

"Jason, just—"

"Shut it, Dickhead."

The grandfather clock swings open, revealing the Cave entrance. Up stomps Jason, followed by Dick. Jason has a smear of purple goo on his forehead, but otherwise is clean. His back is to you.

Jason points an accusing gloved finger at Bruce. "You owe me a new bike, new guns, new gear, new phone, new—"

"Jason, slow down. Why exactly do I owe you new things?" Bruce asks.

"Because Tweedle-Dum here didn't scan the fuckin' spaceship that landed in Syracuse and melted my bike with purple goo!"

"It said it was empty," Dick says tiredly. "How was I supposed to know an abandoned ship would spit goo?"

"Okay, alright, boys, don't fight. Yes, Jason, I'll compensate everything you lost in Syracuse."

"Yeah, you will. And a new fridge." Jason thinks. "And a new TV."

"Master Jason," Alfred begins, walking into the dining room with a dish of roasted potatoes. "You may continue your bargaining with Master Bruce after dinner. Wipe that alien sludge off your face and have a seat."

Jason sighs. "Alf, I appreciate the invite, but you know I don't dine with most of the folks at this table. Gets real fuckin' crowded."

"Master Jason, watch your language," Alfred says sternly. "We have a guest. Behave like the young man I raised you to be."

Jason scoffs. "Who, Barbie? She doesn't—" He turns and stops, staring at you.

You smile, suddenly self-conscious. "Hi."

He swallows, eyes wide. "Hi. Hey."

"Aren't you staying for dinner?" you ask, confused. "Barbara said you were."

"I—" He glances at Barbara, then looks at you. "Uh. Well. I don't really..."

"C'mon, Jay, you guys should catch up!" Dick says brightly, already seated.

Jason's mouth sours as he turns to Dick. You pull out the chair next to you and tap the seat.

"You can sit next to me," you say, looking up at Jason.

He immediately turns back to you, lips parted. "Oh. I—y-yeah. Sure. Thanks."

"Master Jason. The goo," Alfred reminds, raising a brow. "And hang up your jacket."

Jason quickly backs up and bumps into the table corner. He winces.

"Right. I'm gonna... yeah. Be right back."

Jason disappears down the hall. Dick grins wolfishly at Barbara.

"You're amazing," he says.

"I know," she says, shrugging.

Alfred serves the last tray of vegetables, then sits. Jason soon returns, gloves and jacket away and goo-free.

"Did you style your hair, Todd?" Damian asks.

"No. Shut it." Jason scoots in his chair, glaring at his brother. But when you pass him the tray of roast, his expression softens. He smiles at you.

"Thanks," he says, and puts three slices on his plate. "Great roast, Alf."

"You haven't tried it," Alfred says, but looks very pleased.

"Don't need to."

"We're very glad you're here, Jason," Bruce says. "All things considered—"

Jason holds up a hand. "Ah-ah. I'm not here for you, old man. Save the speech for another day."

"And who are you here for, Jason?" Dick asks, propping his chin on his hands.

"None of your beeswax, Dick."

Dick shrugs. Damian begins to talk about an art project in school. You pay the appropriate amount of attention until Jason nudges your arm.

"Hey," he says, nodding at your empty glass. "Didja get something to drink?"

"Oh." Heat creeps up your neck. "Um, no. Sorry. I didn't know where to get the drinks."

"'S okay. Alf doesn't put out drinks anymore 'cause everybody drinks something different. You just help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. I'll get it for ya."

"Jason, you don't have to—"

He holds up a hand, smiling. "C'mon, none of that. You're a guest. Orange Fanta, right?"

You blink. "You remembered."

"Uh." His cheeks go pink. "I mean, yeah. No biggie. I'll be back."

Jason stands. Immediately, the others pounce.

"Are you going to the kitchen?" Dick asks.

"No," Jason says.

"Can you get me another Diet Coke?"

"Todd, if you're going to the kitchen, I would like another lemonade, please," Damian says.

"I just said I'm not going to the—"

"Master Jason, will you please bring this into the kitchen?" Alfred asks, holding up an empty tray.

Jason heaves a sigh. You wince.

"Sorry," you whisper.

He shakes his head and winks. "Nah, 's not you."

Obediently, Jason takes the tray and goes to the kitchen. He returns with a Diet Coke, which he tosses at Dick, who catches it with one hand, and a bottle of lemonade, which he throws to Damian who also catches it with one hand and a scowl. Finally, Jason opens the Orange Fanta for you and gently pours it into your glass, then sets the half-full can next to your plate. He sits down.

"Of course they get special treatment," Dick mumbles into his drink.

The table rattles, and Dick winces, squinting at Jason. The table rattles again, and Jason hisses.

"Boys," Bruce says wearily. "Enough."

"Yeah, Jason," Dick says, sticking his nose up. "Y'know it's my birthday soon. I deserve a brother who doesn't kick me."

"Oh, I'll tell ya what you deserve," Jason begins.

"Are we doing laser tag?" Cass pipes up from the end.

"'Course we are! Everybody's gonna be there." Dick looks pointedly at Jason. "Except my own brother. He refused."

You look at Jason, who's got a nasty glower aimed at Dick.

"You're not coming?" you ask.

Jason's expression melts away when he turns to you. "Uh, I mean—"

"No, he's not," Dick says, pulling the saddest pout you've ever seen. "He said he wanted nothing to do with my stupid birthday."

"Those weren't my exact words."

"They were very close," Damian says.

"Shut—"

"Jason, I can't believe you aren't going to Dick's birthday," Barbara says, shaking her head.

Jason's mouth falls open. "Et tu, Barbie?"

"You should come," you say, touching Jason's arm.

He immediately looks at your hand. You slowly remove it, smiling sheepishly.

"Then we can be a team," you say. "We're playing doubles. I'm horrendously bad at laser tag, but I bet we'd win together. I'd watch your six."

"Leaving them in the lurch, Jason?" Barbara tuts. "So unlike you."

Jason heaves a sigh. "For God—okay. Alright, brother mine. You win."

You beam. "So you'll come?"

"'Long as you and I are a team," Jason says, a little shy.

You bump his shoulder with yours. "Of course."

Dick looks at you. "You should join us for dinner every night."

You laugh bashfully. "Thanks, Dick."

Dinner goes on. Bruce excuses himself early, as do Cass and Damian. Soon, it's the four of you plus Alfred cleaning up after dinner. You and Jason are loading the dishwasher when Jason hisses. He pulls out his hand, revealing a thin red cut on his palm.

"Are you okay?" you ask, hovering worriedly.

"Yeah, 'm fine. I'll take the tray—"

"Jason, no," Dick says, herding him away from the dishwasher. "You have to get that wrapped immediately."

"What are you—dude, it's a tiny cut—"

"Yeah, but there was food on there, and you have no idea what can get into the wound and make you sick," Barbara says seriously. "You need to get it cleaned right now."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. There's a first aid kit in the closet."

"There isn't!" Dick says, shooing Jason toward you. "Alfred hasn't restocked it. You have to go to the Cave. You should both go."

"Yes, great idea," Barbara says, looking at you. "You have medical experience, don't you?"

"I mean, a little, but—"

"More than us!" Dick says, shoving you both towards the hallway.

"I don't think so..."

"You take care of Jaybird here, he needs that hand," Dick says cheerily, opening the Cave entrance. "Go on, go."

"Christ on a bike," Jason mumbles, and heads down the stairs.

You follow, confused and concerned. The entrance slides closed. Jason goes to the medbay, muttering under his breath as he digs through one of the drawers with one hand. You join him, searching the top drawer for the antiseptic spray.

"Is the cut really bad?" you ask, trying to get a better look.

"No. My brother's just an idiot. Nothin' new."

You pull out the spray, some gauze, and a bandaid. Jason nods in thanks and goes to take it.

"I can do it," you say. "I do have medical experience, after all."

He snorts. "Fine by me."

You both sit on the edge of a cot. You turn to Jason and pull his hand into your lap. He inhales sharply. You stop.

"Is this okay?" you ask.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Sorry. I don't get touched a lot." Jason's mouth screws up. "Ugh. That sounded weird."

You laugh. "It's fine, I know what you meant."

He scratches the back of his neck while you clean his hand. He has big hands. Bigger than you remember. They're deeply scarred and calloused. You rub your thumbs over the pads of his fingers without thinking.

"You got soft hands," Jason says quietly.

"Heh. Thanks. The computer life."

He hums. "I didn't know you were working with Babs."

The guilt swims back full force.

"I know. I'm sorry. I should've reached out, Jason. I-I basically ignored you. Not on purpose! I just... I guess I wasn't sure where we stood and I thought maybe you'd be mad I was working for Batman after everything and I was afraid that we wouldn't—"

"Hey, whoa. 'M not mad." Jason finds your gaze. You frown. "I'm serious. I don't mind that you're working for Bruce. I mean, hell, I do too, on occasion. Mostly I just bitch at him."

You giggle. He smiles. You're still holding his hand. You don't really want to let go. Jason doesn't seem to want to pull away either.

"Well, even so, I'm sorry for not reaching out. I did miss you, Jason. And I'm glad you're back."

He clears his throat, ducking his head. "Huh. Well, I missed you too. And y'got nothin' to apologize for. I could've asked about you."

"Well—"

"Uh-uh, no, I'm the king of self-deprication. Y'can't take that from me," Jason says, eyes dancing with mirth.

You sigh dramatically. "Fine, fine. Can we say that we both could've reached out?"

"That's agreeable. And, uh, while we're clearing the air, I'm so terribly sorry 'bout my dumbass brother."

You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, huh. Hm. Well, funny thing. I kinda had a, um, crush on you, before. And Dick has it in his head that I... that I have a chance now. So... yeah."

"Before?" you ask.

You don't know why you're disappointed. It's not like you knew. Except maybe if you had, you wouldn't have missed out. Maybe you wouldn't have lost so much time.

Jason glances at you. "What... why are you sayin' it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you wish... that I..." He shakes his head. "Forget it."

"Jason," you say, barely a whisper.

He looks at you. His eyes flick to your lips, just for a millisecond. "Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A beat. Your heart falls.

"Yeah." Jason nods. "Yeah, kiss me."

You heart soars.

You hold Jason's face, still holding his hand. He gingerly touches your neck with his uninjured hand, strokes behind your ear with his thumb. Every nerve alights. You're kissing Jason Todd. The boy you've loved since you were thirteen.

"They did it! They're kissing!"

Jason growls against your mouth. You know it's not aimed at you, but it makes lightning shoot down your spine. Wow.

"'M gonna kill 'im," Jason mumbles.

You smile and pull back, just an inch. "It's nearly his birthday. At least wait till next week."

"Hm." Jason kisses the corner of your mouth. You like him so much. "Fine. Y'know you can convince me of pretty much anything? Wield that power carefully."

You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason braces you with a hand on the small of your back.

"I'm very flattered, but I think you're confused, Jay." A kiss to his jaw. "It's you who has a hold on me."

[ddejavvu]

ok this one may be a little off putting BUT

Spencer, going out with the bau clubbing and bau!reader is getting absolutely hammered throughout the night bc of em and jj, and eventually it leads to the responsibility of him taking the reader home but the reader is trashed and feels gross so she wants to take a shower and basically begs spencer to get in the shower with her to wash her hair.

love u have a great dayyyyyyy 🤍🦆

Spencer the germaphobe would have never thought he'd have his nails raking through unwashed hair that was not his own. He takes solace in the bubbles frothing at his fingertips, an assurance that he's cleaning your hair, not just spreading the filth from the club through its strands, but it's still several steps to the left of his comfort zone.

If it were anyone else, he would have said a very firm, but kind, no, and he may have gagged as soon as they were out of earshot. But it was you, and you looked at him with your pretty eyes, your pretty sad eyes, your pretty tired eyes, and asked him to please help you clean yourself up before bed, because you'd just washed your sheets and you didn't want to dirty them with the remnants of a night out.

He reasons that designated driver duties included walking you to your door, getting you a glass of water for the morning, and locking your apartment behind him, but he hadn't planned on helping you shower. That he had only agreed to under extreme stress (those pretty, sad, tired eyes he can't stop thinking about) and it's how he finds himself now crouched on the lid of your toilet, scrubbing suds through your hair.

"Thanks, Spence," You groan, feeling his nails rake across your scalp, "I was- I dunno how I was gonna do this without you. I'm dizzy."

It's a concerning observation to be made while cross-legged on the ground and not tired with the effort of standing up, but Spencer reasons that you'll feel better after a night's sleep. A night that he's not sure he can let you spend alone for fear of you choking on your own sick.

You've taken to resting your flushed forehead against Spencer's calf, and it's leaving a soapy stain on his poor excuse for social wear. The only two types of pants that he owns are slacks and pajama pants, and he's not sure he'll be able to properly clean this pair anymore. But he doesn't push you off - in fact, he takes note of the feeling of your touch against his leg.

"I'm cold," You shiver in place, despite the warm water flowing around you, as well as the clothes still on your body, now soaked. Thankfully you'd retained enough of your brainpower to know not to strip in front of Spencer, and he's grateful that he didn't need to enforce the matter.

"You're still dressed," He muses, taking the showerhead and rinsing his hands, then turning it on the mass of bubbles atop your head, "You'll be in pajamas soon."

"M'kay," You accept, even though Spencer can still see goosebumps on your exposed forearms from the cold, "Will you help me change?"

Perhaps you had not retained as much of your brainpower as Spencer thought you had.

"Uh," He stammers, "focused on a patch of suds near the nape of your neck, "Do you think you could- um, do it yourself?"

"I guess. Maybe. I don't know," You laugh at the absurdity of your own statements, "What, you don't wanna see me naked?"

"Y/N!" He gushes, cheeks burning hotter than the water that's pooling around your form on the floor of your shower, "No, I- I mean not while- not now! You're drunk."

"I only got drunk so I'd finally man up and make a move," You grumble against his calf, and Spencer's previously racing heart stops beating altogether, "Just- tell me I said that tomorrow, okay Spence? I'm gonna be pissed at- uh, at me if I forgot."

Spencer agrees with all the niceties that he's learned in dealing with the public, an empty promise falling from his lips when all else fails him, "Okay, I will."

"Liar," You accuse, your nose still nestled snugly against his leg, "This sucks. We're both too scared to make a move. Maybe we should both get shitfaced, and just buy a Plan B the next morning."

Spencer is well and truly speechless. He has several options as to his next response, if he can ever muster up the courage to enact them: an awkward laugh, a strained chuckle, prolonged silence. Instead of choosing any of those he swallows, the action almost hurting his now-dry throat, "Uh- Plan B can interfere with your next menstrual cycle, and there's a host of other side effects that aren't ideal for you."

"Fine." You snort, "We'll keep the baby."

[unsolvedjarin]

Thinking about a kimi x fem! Driver! Reader who is basically the female version of Sebastian, where the fic is kimi and the reader doing a challenge for Ferraris channel, the reader being a bit of a know it all, and kimi just not caring

You can choose if it’s romantic or platonic:) thank you!

FERRARI AND CHINESE FOOD

pairing: (kimi raikkonen x ferrari driver! reader)

summary: ferrari has a sunshine driver and an iceman driver partake in a challenge for their youtube channel. thankfully, the sun can melt ice.

note: its 1am sorry i have no comprehensive thoughts this is a bit bad but have it anyways i am proud i made this with less than 5 hours of sleep. okay enjoy anon!!!!

content warning: my grammar at 1am

“Another one,” Kimi groans, throwing himself onto the couch in his room.

“Oh come on it’s not that bad,” you say with a grin, closing the door behind the both of you so no one could come in. You’re sure if Kimi had to talk to another person from the media he might explode. “Besides, this next one is the last one for today.”

“For today,” he emphasizes, groaning into a throw pillow once more. You’d both been doing media duties for Ferrari all day, and while it was tiring, you would say some of them had been fun and enjoyable. Although, evidently not for your teammate.

“Cheer up Kimi, it’ll be over soon,” you smile, sitting on the edge of the couch where he was laying down. You sigh, knowing the one thing that would get him to cooperate. “Dinner will be on me after.”

That grabs his attention, slightly pulling himself up and looking at you. “You mean that?”

“God you’re like a child I have to bribe,” you tease, yet with no malice. “Yes, I mean that.” You loved spending time with Kimi, and whenever there were media duties you both always had food afterwards. It was like a reward of sorts.

“Where d’ya wanna go?” Kimi mumbles, laying down on his side and resting his head on his hand. He was staring straight at you, waiting for a response. You think he looked pretty like this.

Smiling at him, you take your hand and run it through his hair softly, unable to help yourself. You would never normally do this, but you barely got moments alone during media week. Kimi grumbles but doesn’t stop you, you knew he always secretly liked it. “I dunno, what’re you up for?”

“Mmm…” he nuzzles into your hand a bit more, “Maybe chinese. I would enjoy some dumplings right now.”

“We can get Chinese then.”

Before you could have another moment of peace, however, a PR agent walked in the room to remind you that your next shoot was in ten minutes. You quickly pulled your hand away and Kimi sat up hastily, trying to fix up his hair. You give the agent an awkward thumbs up, hoping he got the message to leave.

“Okay, you’re right, this incessant filming is a bit tiring,” you say the second the door closes.

“Told you,” he simply replies. You pout in return, slumping your form beside him. He thought you looked so cute like this. Holding your cheek, he kisses your forehead, your nose, then your mouth, making you scrunch up your face. He chuckles, at least he made you feel a bit better.

“I should probably get ready for the shoot. You good here?” You ask, getting up from the couch. Kimi hums a yes, but doesn’t let go of your hand. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, Kimi, but you will have to let go of my hand so I can get to my room.”

He looks at you with puppy eyes for a second before reluctantly letting go, deciding to lay back down on the couch.

“You’re not gonna get ready?”

Kimi shakes his head, eyes already closed ready for a five minute nap. You scoff softly at him, before heading for the door. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he mumbles. Kimi was not a man of many words by any means, but he would always utter those back to you. Smiling to yourself, you shut the door and get ready for the shoot.

“So this is how the challenge goes: you have to compete with each other on who knows your fellow drivers and each other the best, and of course, most points win. You’ll write your answers on a whiteboard so there’ll be no cheating.” The interviewer behind the camera explains. You nod, giving her a signal that you were ready for them to start filming. Kimi sat beside you on a couch, his face not showing any emotions whatsoever. Looks like you would be doing the heavy lifting on this shoot today.

They snap the check in front of the camera, and the interviewer asks the first question. “Starting with something simple, who on the grid has the most wins?”

“Oh, easy.” you mumble, writing your answer down on your board. Kimi wrote his answer in silence, not talking even when he finished.

“Done?”

You nod, both you and Kimi showing your boards. Lewis Hamilton.

“Easy enough, next question! Who was Y/N’s idol growing up?”

“Aha! You should know this, I told you about it before!” you exclaim, poking Kimi. He grunts, “Not fair, she knows her own idol of course.”

“Sorry, the question wasn’t finished. For Y/N, who was Kimi's idol growing up?” The girl adds.

Oh. Your smile drops as you look to the man beside you who, for the first time in any of the shoots you did today, showed emotion by grinning wickedly at you. “You should get this, I told you about it before,” he teases, echoing your own words. You think for a second before writing down a guess of an answer.

“Time’s up! Can you both please show your boards.”

You reveal yours first, the words Ayrton Senna scribbled down on it. Looking at the man beside you for confirmation, he shakes his head.

“Awh no way! Who’s your idol then?”

Kimi shrugs his shoulders, not answering your question. He didn’t even give Ferrari an answer for that one. He looks at his own empty board for a second before jotting down an answer he’s sure is wrong, but he’s also sure as hell is funny.

Turning his board around, you see Kimi Raikkonen written down with a smiley face beside it. You snigger loudly before replying, “Sure it is bud. In your dreams, maybe.”

“Unfortunately, that is incorrect, Kimi.” The interviewer calls out.

“Go figure,” he mumbles wryly, making you grin even wider.

“No, his answer is correct.” You joke, trying to tease him even more. He gives you a look but you simply keep your sly grin. He decides to drop it, after all he at least made you smile. That in itself deserves a point.

The questions went on for a while, before they got to the harder ones. “Okay, amping it up a notch, who won the 1985 World Championship?”

“Woah, that escalated quickly,” you exclaim, pausing to think for a second.

So far the score was 4-1 for you and Kimi respectively, as he really wasn’t trying at all. You’re pretty sure he could’ve gotten the question about what year Fernando Alonso came into F1 right if he cared. Jotting your answer down to the current question, you see Kimi from your peripheral vision trying to take a peek of your board.

“Hey!” you smack him lightly with your board, “Cheater.”

He smirks, trying to block your second hit. “Wasn’t cheating.”

You continue writing your answer but this time hiding it from Kimi, keeping it as close to your chest as possible. He looks at you for a second as if planning something before going back to write on his own board. Well– he pretends to write something, but you can see him just drawing a star in the corner of his board.

“What’re you planning?” You mumble. Kimi simply shrugs his shoulders, but you can see the slight grin playing on his lips. Locking in your answer, you feel the couch shift slightly to your left. Kimi inched a little closer without you sensing it. He notices your side eye and realizes it’s now or never, and tries to tackle you to see your board.

You shriek, attempting to hide your board from him by sliding down the sofa, to no avail. Your reaction was too slow and he was already on your side of the couch. You were giggling helplessly at this point, unable to contain your joy. Opening your eyes that you didn’t notice you closed, you’re met with a large smile, your teammate proud of himself.

“Get off of me Raikkonen!” You exclaim, using his last name for emphasis. You try to shove him off but he stays solid slightly on top of you, still pretending to try and take a peek of your board. You knew he didn’t give a damn about those answers anymore.

“Say please,” he mutters, still smirking. You truly didn’t know what had gotten into him.

“Please get off of me, you bastard.”

In truth Kimi didn’t want to, he enjoyed seeing your face scrunch up under him with a laugh. He had forgotten about the cameras a long time ago– they weren’t important to him. He just liked seeing you smile. Still, he knew the faster they finished this challenge the faster he could get some alone time with you.

He finally concedes and moves back to his spot on the couch, fixing his hair and going back to writing his answer as if nothing happened. You sit up straight, fix your shirt, and do the same. The crew looked confused, feeling like they saw something that they shouldn’t have. You didn’t care, though. If anyone asked you would just say what you always did, that physical touch was your love language with friends. It wasn’t necessarily a lie, except for the fact that Kimi wasn’t just a friend.

The interviewer clears her throat before speaking up again, “Okay– uh– answers?”

“Prost, of course.” You answer with a smile. You loved studying the history of Formula One. Even though you couldn’t see, Kimi gave you the softest look he has in a while. He loved how you genuinely lit up whenever something you liked came up.

“And you, Kimi?” The interviewer asks, making the man snap out of his moment of adoration.

Kimi flips his board, a Lewis Hamilton written on it. The interviewer shakes her head but continues, “I’m sure that’s a gag answer b—”

“Is it?” Kimi butts in.

“I’m sorry?”

“Is it a gag answer?”

You shove Kimi softly on his side, “Don’t mess with her like that!”

He chuckles, before raising his hands in defeat. “Whatever you say.”

The rest of the game moves pretty quick, save for a quick argument between you and Kimi on what Sebastian’s favorite track was. As you both leave the set, you give Kimi a sneaky grin. “Bold move earlier.”

“Hmm?”

“Doing all that tackling in front of the camera. I thought you were the one who said we should be discreet. You definitely gave Ferrari a lot of bonus content. I’m sure they’ll cut it out though.”

“Ehh,” Kimi shrugs, not replying for a good while as you both walk out the Ferrari building and out into the night streets. You knew he was trying to find the right words, trying to figure out how to articulate his thoughts. It was part of the reason why he didn’t like talking so much.

Once outside he wraps his arms around you, a sign that he was finally back in the present and ready to talk. “I just wanted people to know, you know?”

“Know what? That you have a quarterback tackle?”

He chuckles at the recent memory before replying, “No, that I love you.”

You blush, hoping Kimi didn’t see it. He did. You carry on your conversation, “And how exactly did you plan to convey that message when they don’t even know we’re in a relationship?”

“Hey, Sebastian knows.” He argues.

“Seb hardly counts, he practically forced his way into figuring it out.”

Kimi shakes his head, his arms still around you. “And he walked into a room at the wrong time.”

His comment makes you laugh, a soft smile on your face as you turn to face him. “I love you, you know that?”

“Mhm. Love you too. Even if I don’t say it much.”

Your grin grows even larger, leaning up to kiss him. “You don’t have to say, I know.” He kissed you back, and he could feel your smile as he did. He thinks it’s crazy that he’s hidden such a blessing from the world. How you ever loved someone like him, he didn’t know, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Pulling away, he gives you a smile that only you get to see. The softest in the world, looking at you as if you were the world. He breaks eye contact to hold your hand, headed towards the chinese restaurant down the road. “Okay, now dumplings.”

[occamstfs]

Tailgating

Uptight Benji tries to force his way though rowdy tailgaters to get to work. How was he supposed to know the stupid game was such a big deal? Seems he’ll be learning in short order after having a beer or two to take the edge off.

Spin on one of my favorite older stories on here, also named Tailgating! Slightly shorter fratification, burps and personality changing sunglasses ahead! Also only a few days left to vote for the Talismen finale, there's a clear favorite but anything can happen! Enjoy this little ode to sweaty bodies and hoppy breath! -Occam

The roads around the campus library are closed for the big game, but Benjamin was still determined to host his Office hours. He knew there was some kind of football thing today but had no idea it was apparently the biggest of the year. Some bowl game or massive rivalry or something, He didn’t care- doesn’t and will never care, in fact . He’s done good work avoiding the jeering crowds of drunkards so far as he sneaks across campus. Nearing the home stretch however it’s clear there is no way around. He must somehow power through the horde.

Benji makes it a few good yards into the festivities unassailed, dodging elbows and spilled drinks like the best of them. Unfortunately the prudish academic takes time to grimace and sneer when one of the behemoths burps loud enough to make him flinch, pausing just long enough to become irrevocably caught in the chaos. 

Like an animal held by the scruff of its neck, Benjamin finds himself in the clutches of Bruiser, president of the school’s new Beta Delta Alpha chapter. “Yooo lil bro! What’s up? Looks like you’re not havin’ a good time?” Stuck in a meaty hand and between instincts of snide remarks and swift flight he opts for smarmy sarcasm, “Nono you bovine brute I’m having the time of my life on this commute.” Bruiser narrows his eyes, “hmmmm I dunno dude.”

Feeling the man’s sweaty, surely beer-covered palm soaking through his shirt he swats at it, “Ugh, the idea of work foreign to you hedonistic morons?” Bruiser’s lip twitches into a smile as he reaches to grab something with his free hand, “ohhh you’ve got work lil bro?” The hairs on the back of Benji’s neck stand on end as he feels something shift in the man’s expression and he tries to bolt away, Too Late.

Bruiser forces a massive mirrored visor onto Benji’s eyes and the prude freezes. His vision is shaded a dark burnt orange and his eyes scramble, the only remaining part he seems able to move himself. Bruiser releases his shoulder and pats his back, “Welcome to the party bro hahah!” Benji cannot see the man’s own eyes glimmering through his new visor, though as he leans in close all his senses are overwhelmed by how powerful the scent of beer is on his breath, “Here lil bro, let me help you chill out.” Despite disgust, despite fear, despite everything in him begging him to flee, the scent of beer on Bruiser’s thick breath fills him with an overwhelming thirst.

Benjamin doesn’t know how a tall boy ends up in his hand, but he can guess what is soon to happen when Bruiser turns to shout, “Yo bros! Lil Benj over here is gonna kill a tall boy in one gulp!” Through his tinted visor he sees the can raise to his lips, no one can see his eyes widen from fear as beer begins to pour into his mouth. Try as he might to slow the flow, to close his mouth, to not swallow he is totally unable to move. And then, his eyes lose focus for half as second, why would he want to stop drinking it?Did he like beer? As it continues to flow into his mouth he can’t imagine not liking it? ‘S pretty good. Despite his body willing itself through the can, in its paltry state he could never manage to drink this quickly. Rivulets of the swill spill out of his cheeks and down his jaw, staining the recently shaved upper lip and cheeks darker, a mustache never given the chance to thrive begins to sprout. Benji’s throat burns from the effort of racing to down the drink, through with each gasping swallow it becomes easier, more adept at performative drinking competitions, tight to the can his mouth widens into something cruder, made to be loud. And then he’s done

Tossing the can to the ground without a care Benjamin stands, swaying back slightly despite having only had the one drink. His hand pats his stomach and it jiggles slightly, the tall boy must be expanding in his stomach or something. He grimaces as it grumbles, his neck reflexively tenses as he feels a burp coming up. He can’t, no surely not- the glasses squeeze tighter on his head and he laughs once, wouldn’t it be funny though?

Bruiser watches with as smile as he sees the meek man’s torso begin to fill out as he fights the urge to burp. Beneath the visor his eyes surely go glassy as his midriff is exposed and soon enough covered by a treasure trail climbing up towards his chest. Buttons begin to pop from the beer-stained collar of his shirt as something a little less defined than pecs begin to hang on his chest. Impatient with the nerd’s hesitation, Bruiser steps in and pats the man on the back. 

With the slightest encouragement from his bro, er- from this frat bro, Benji lets loose. *BRGURRRP* It lasts a few seconds, it’s not alone *BUURRP* Immediately Benji’s mind returns and he again tries to take control of piloting the machine that is his body. His arms feel heavier as they hang limp from his shoulders, his neck falls back as from another back pat and the shouting of Bruiser he burps again, *BURRP* shorter, deeper. He feels his arms straining his sleeves and a gut that shouldn’t be there pushing against the buttons of his shirt.

Stains begin to make themselves clear in his pits as he grows sweaty from the effort of, drinking? Growing? Struggling to keep his mind? His declining mind accelerates as the smell of his own musk begins to assail his nose. He’s unable to fight the urge to laugh as a hand unfamiliar, clumsy and thick scratches into his pits. He has the clear memory of putting deodorant on his almost hairless pits this morning before leaving the house for, uh- surely not to come here right? 

No no, he had something to do. It’s Saturday. Usually on Saturdays he has work? “YO BENJ!” Bruiser shouts into his ear, “YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” Benji nods wordlessly as whatever shred of himself is left in his mind tries to remember. Yeah he had work, it’s why he’s wearing this button up- He looks down to see a stained shirt, skin clearly peaking through a litany of tears through. He grumbles as his head hurts, he scratches at his itchy chest as it begins to pattern with hair. Suddenly his nose twitches as he smells something. 

Grimacing at the stink he moves to smell his own pits and laughs once more, unaware he’s caught himself in some perverse feedback loop. Man though, he would’ve sworn he sprayed some axe before heading out? He scratches his chin with his pit-sweat covered fingers as he remembers sniffing them at the house and flinching before spraying the forests with at least a few coats. Yeah he’d never leave for, uhh- looking down he sees the shirt has now completely shredded off, leaving him topless as his beer gut continues to fill out and shift 

His once waifish treasure trail spreads to cover his thickening waist as he grows a beer belly that makes it clear this is not his first rodeo. Looking down at his meatier torso his mouth falls open as his struggling mind grinds slower, he’s not- this isn’t him. His body rocks as Bruiser returns and throws an arm around him, “Sorry it took so long BJ- You know how it be huhuh! Had to show a couple bitches who was boss!” 

Benj reflexively raises a fist to bump his bro, discarding a bottle he can’t remember downing to do so, nor does he realize that he seems to be in control of his body once more. Scratching at his crotch he goes to grab the drink Bruiser brought him and he remembers he can always ask his main bro what’s up, “Yo uhhhh, Bruise? Did I have somethin’ tah do today?” Bruiser smirks as he hears the man’s plodding, clearly thoughtless voice, “Fuckin’ yeah bro! You had to show those fuckers who’s boss!”

BJ stares mouth ajar for a few seconds as his existence recontextualizes itself. Sure he’s a student but C’s get degrees huhuh, Bruise’ll have a job for him at his dad’s firm when he graduates anyway. The new tank’s mouth grows into a wide smirk as he remembers that the only thing college is about is having a blast. “YEAH DUDE!” All eyes turn as the man’s new voice tears through the tailgate party, “LET’S SHOW THOSE BITCHES WHAT A REAL FOOTBALL TEAM LOOKS LIKE!” Foam sloshes out of his cup as he raises it in the air, before pouring it on himself and shouting some more.

His resounding cheers are echoed by the crowd of people around him, many almost spitting images of himself and Bruiser. Burly beer soaked men guffawing and toned men only concerned with vanity muscles, all drowning themselves in jungle juice until the game starts. Most frats on campus have sororities over for the shindigs but not the ΒΔΑ guys, no their quarry is all those fuckers who think they’re too good to have a good time. BJ smirks as any prior desires are completely paved over by the idea of molding some pansy little fucker into a real man, just like him, just like his pres.

Indeed he and Bruiser go about the crowd like predators, hungrily seeking out people who were harangued to come to the game. Offering wallflowers drinks and watching as their hair bleaches platinum, pecs bursting through newly bought faux jersey’s. Giving frat-thirsty twinks a chance to become their quarry sweat stained sunglasses and delighting as they fill crop tops to bursting, new furry bellies and hairy below the belt bulges making their intentions clear for all.

 In no time at all Bruiser has a platoon of brother’s behind him, all suddenly excited for the game and otherwise finding the newly stubbled mouths of their fellow brothers. The president’s eyes scan the rowdy crowd around him with glee, excited to sample his new brothers after the game, but none is he more excited to ravish than his new number two, BJ.

When kick off nears he bumps his new brother on the shoulder, the same he clutched when the fucker thought his prissy little job was important. “Yo bro, game’s about to start- Let’s head on in-” BJ’s glassy eyes wrinkle with a smile as he begins to stumble alongside his bro, excited to watch his team stomp. Excited to just watch another game. “LET’S FUCKIN’ GO BRO!” His drunken voice dull and louder than he could dream to near before meeting Bruiser

Even as Brusier clutches his ass his mind stays focused on the upcoming game, though his cock bulges in his shorts either way. His own hand clutches at his bro’s defined waist. God it’s been like a decade since the last rivalry game, and to watch it right by his Bruiser. Man, BJ wouldn't miss this for the world. 

[fizzy-blood]

Okay but how would the creeps react to a like feral s/o (biting scratching growling barking meowing) the whole nine yards?

(sfw and nsfw plz)

Creeps with a Feral!S/O🦷🥩

Hi! I didn't really know which creeps you wanted me to write so I just wrote for all the characters I've written for before (not Ben though because I don't write smut for him and not Tim/Masky bc MH and Creepypasta are different) I also wrote for Jane bc I love her and I just want to start writing things for her ^_^ (also Fem!S/O for Jane but the rest are Gn!S/O)

WARNING:18+/NSFW content ahead!! If you are a minor and want to read the SFW content then go ahead but please do not read through the NSFW headcanons. I know I can't stop you but please-

[Biting, scratching, bondage, I think that's all?]

Ticci Toby🪓🌲

(SFW)

HE'S GONNA MATCH YOUR FREAK /hj

But seriously, he really won't mind how you act...

Actually least likely to get upset with you over it!

He can't feel pain so biting and scratching is fine with him (he thinks it's cute when you bite him and will probably bite you back)

And with any weird sounds like hissing or barking or meowing.. Whatever you do... He's fine with it.. (Unless he's overstimulated, he won't be able to handle it so... 😞)

He might end up with those sounds as some form of tic... (That's actually kinda cute wait-)

Overall I'd give it an 8/10.

(NSFW)

REMEMBER HOW I SAID HE LIKES BITING AND SCRATCHING YOU??

PLEASE DO THE SAME TO HIM. DO IT.

He likes it when you leave marks on his body..

Actually... Likes is an understatement...

HE NEEDS YOU DO BITE HIM.

It's actually kinda cute how pathetic it is

I also feel like he'd be more submissive with someone more feral... Have fun!!

Eyeless Jack🫘🩻

(SFW)

Finds it a bit odd at first but gets used to it after a while..

But please give him a heads up before you bite him, he doesn't like it when you do it out of nowhere..

But he does find it cute when you make weird sounds (just please don't be too loud)

Probably won't bite you back if you're human.. But if you're some sort of creature? Probably will...

Like... 7/10? It has its ups and downs but it's still nice 🥰

(NSFW)

NGH- I WANT HIM...

OMG WHO SAID THAT⁉️

But if you being feral makes you bratty with him? He'll get you to shut up soon...

He'll also probably cover your mouth (if you try to bite his hand he'll just ignore it)

But if he doesn't ignore it he'll probably just briefly mention it.

Just kinda... Makes you go mindless (BTW I'M GONNA RE-WRITE MY GENERAL NSFW HEADCANONS FOR HIM AT SOME POINT SO-)

Laughing Jack🍬🎪

(SFW)

I think he'd actually be good at dealing with any bullshit-

Like... He does get bothered sometimes but he does know how to entertain you so you stop what you're doing..

Also if you bark at him he'll just bark back.

It's just normal to him??

I dunno man, the way he acts is just odd in general so 🤷‍♂️

Anyways... 8/10. Actually knows how to deal with everything pretty effectively and is fine with you biting or scratching him up (it really doesn't do anything to him, not even leaving a mark)

(NSFW)

My LJ doesn't really feel sexual attraction and I doubt he feels any sexual desires (he doesn't even have a dick so...)

I dunno what to write about this.. Like.. He's fine with sex if you want it but it wouldn't be much different from my normal NSFW headcanons for him..

Jeff the Killer🔪🩸

(SFW)

You know how middle school boys bark at people? He does that to you.

Is it meant to be affectionate? Who knows... But he does it if you meow or bark at him.

He just thinks it's weird tbh.

He also pushes you off of him or away from him if you try to bite him.

You hiss every time and he just makes fun of you for it (that part is sorta meant to be lovingly but it can come across as just plain mean).

6/10 in my opinion!

(NSFW)

He actually likes it when you bite or scratch him during sex?

I think he might have that masochistic sadist mix in him (HE GOT THAT DAWG IN HIM‼️🗣️💥💥/j)

But go crazy! He's fine with it during this time so feel free to do whatever.

Nina the Killer🔪💖

(SFW)

She thinks it's really funny, also kinda cute!

She isn't a huge fan of the scratching though...

Biting is fine but please give her a heads up (like with EJ)

She does really like the meowing and barking, also finds the hissing to be funny most of the time!

But the hissing can also tell her if she's aggravating you (she sucks with boundaries, please be patient with her😣)

ALSO IF YOU LIKE BEING PET SHE'D PROBABLY DO THAT WHILE YOU SLEEP SO-

Mmmmm.... 8.5/10

(NSFW)

I actually don't have a lot of NSFW related headcanons for her in general so... Oops?

I'll probably come back and post some general headcanons when I'm done but... Idk🤷‍♂️

But.... I think she'd be really sweet and loving, like?

The thing with the petting, she'd do that to keep you calm during sex (AGAIN, WHY IS THAT ACTUALLY ADORABLE TO ME??)

I'll get back to you when I figure out more stuff.

Jane the Killer🔪🖤

(SFW)

She found it so annoying when you first met, but she's just used to it now... She actually kinda finds it endearing now!

Specific things like more soft meowing or just generally softer and quieter sounds-

(It makes her experience cuteness aggression)

She doesn't really like scratching or biting in any context so...

But she'd probably find something for you to chew on or maybe make you some sort of scratching post.

Sometimes she feels like you're just a big fucking cat... (She's a cat person so it doesn't bother her that much)

9/10 (I want to be held by her)

(NSFW)

She puts a gag in your mouth and will probably tie you up... This is probably so you won't scratch or bite her-

(But let's be real here... You both kinda got a bit too into it)

Like Nina, she's normally pretty sweet and is also normally very gentle...

But other days?... I'll just say that she gets kinda... Intense? I'll probably go more in depth in a separate post but you get the general idea (I think)

BUT MMM

She's good at making sure you don't slip out of your restraints... very good.

DONE! YAY! YIPPEE! I hope you enjoyed this and I hope this is what you asked for? If you want more of this feel free to send another ask with some different characters or even just ask for more stuff with a character I already wrote for. My ask box is open so feel free to send some requests if you want! Again, I hope you enjoyed it!

-Fizz

(Cryptidcore dividers are by @sister-lucifer)

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Had a terribly great thought! The Ghoul and reader traveling together. She's a brat but loyal as a dog to that man. They get into a pretty bad fight and she storms off and he's too proud to follow after her, struggling with coming to terms that he's actually soft for her even though he's mean as hell. She finds him some days later, with her tail tucked between her legs. He's not surprised, comparing her to a female dog often. 👀 still, he's going to make sure she's sorry. Lots of groveling on her part, maybe some face slapping, boot licking, he gets off, she doesn't. Ends with her in his lap. Hair petting and praise for coming back to who she belongs to.

As A Dog

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,085

Warnings: smut (18+), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Jealous!Cooper, canon-typical violence, intimacy issues, angst, insecurity, slightly fucked conceptions of love and loyalty, pet play-ish activity, hard drug use, forced intoxication, shotgunning, slapping, boot licking, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, rough sex, riding, cannibalistic thoughts, orgasm denial (female), breeding kink, creampie.

Notes: I had several pieces in line in front of this one and then this prompt reached through my screen, sunk its teeth into my brain, and shook me until this came out. It really is a terribly great thought. Tagging heavy, since the themes/Cooper's mentality may be triggering for some. It is what it says on the can, folks.

I dunno what unholy demon you've unleashed on me here, Anon. But bless you for it. Another Coop POV because I have a problem. Thanks for the patience on this one; I've been doing some admin stuff the last few days, including setting up an AO3 that you can find here, where I'll be uploading all the long-form stuff. Enjoy!

Cooper's trigger finger was itchier today than it had been for a long time.

He was fully aware that he'd never be able to stop every man left in the world from talking to his little vaultie companion, but boy, he sure would love to try. On an average day, he struggled to hold his tongue as she drove away her own sun-baked suitors, standing silently aside until called up to defend her, no matter how badly he wanted to reduce whomever was bothering her to nothing.

Today was a worse-than-average day, and the girl wasn't helping anything, herself.

"Are you gonna be ready to go any time soon, princess?" he asked her acerbically as she passed by him for the millionth time, tossing his current cigarette down to the ground.

He'd intended to stop at this shitty little settlement, little more than a dingy bighorner ranch at first glance, for a few minutes at most, just long enough to unload some things and check to see if they had any vials on hand. Here it was, nearly four hours of glad-handing and chit-chatting and unnecessary gun repairs later, and he was still leaning against the same crumbing wall, still angrily smoking. She was pushing it.

"Oh, be patient." she shot back, rolling her eyes as she turned to saunter back to the little ramshackle counter. "I'm waiting for my gun back and I was having a nice chat with the mechanic. Try to be pleasant for five minutes, would you?"

She was so full of shit, he thought as he snuffed the still-glowing smoke butt out beneath the toe of his boot with just a little more force than necessary. Typically, she shied away from male attention at her most demure, refusing to acknowledge most advances, playing innocent, playing dumb. The big doe eyes and soft voice didn't hurt on that front, but usually didn't deter the more steadfast predators.

He preferred the days where she had a little extra spitfire, when she told them clearly and loudly to fuck off, no doubt emboldened by having the rather intimidating ghoul hanging over her shoulder, silently encouraging her as she did it. In the past, she had proven that she wasn't above evoking his capacity for violence as a threat when the desert trash was persistent, and it gave him a thrill he couldn't identify, one that ruminated deep in his gut.

That same gut feeling was burning him now, eating a hole in his patience as he watched her listening attentively to the third scrawny young man who'd approached her as she waited around the repair hutch to yap her ear off. She nodded and smiled politely, even laughed from time to time (the sound of which made him want to shoot he kid between the eyes just for that), but kept a respectful distance. Clearly, she'd finally learned that the sort of over-friendliness that she'd been raised with in the vaults could be read differently up here. The young buck, however, continued to try and dance into her space as he spoke animatedly, and, eventually, she reached out and quickly touched his chest.

The old cowboy was stomping across the sand to her before he was even aware he was moving.

His logical brain could see very clearly what had happened: the boy had advanced into her space for the half-dozenth time and she'd put her palm out to gently rebuke him, distracting him from the rejection with a laugh at whatever he'd said. But that part of his brain was rather quiet after a long afternoon of watching her rather blatantly flirt with the asshole she was having repair her plasma pistol (something that she would typically have him do, since it wouldn't cost her anything, and he almost certainly could do with equal or superior adequacy), and letting every other little piss-ant farmhand in the next mile radius chat her up.

"We're hitting the road in five. Get your shit and let's go." he hissed to her, ignoring the little scowl she shot him as he interrupted her newest conversation with the willowy, greasy mechanic, who was sliding her her pistol back across the knotted wood of the semi-exposed countertop. Flashing him that brilliant smile, the one that he wanted to be only for him, she checked the thing over before tucking it back into the holster she kept on her hip, pushing a stash of caps in a metal tin back his way. The old cowboy watched with inflamed indignation as the fucker opened the box, dug out a massive handful, and tucked them back into her hands, letting his own linger across her skin as he placed them back into her palms.

Frankly, he was impressed he was able to let her drop the things back into her bag before he grabbed her by the arm, none too gently, and wordlessly began to yank her back down the road, back in the direction they'd originally been heading in. He could've shoved the damn things in himself and just dragged her along; it wasn't like he was unfamiliar with where she put them. The long, sleepless nights could be boring, and early on, he'd been curious enough about her to nose through her things once or thrice. That, like this, had been quite illuminating.

"Oh, you're being such a prick today!" she yelled, yanking at his grip in an attempt to free herself. He humored her, dropping her arm and turning to face her, unpleasantly surprised as the last farmhand she'd been chatting with, the one she'd touched, came running up.

"Hey, leave her alone!" he yelled. Or, he would have, if he'd had a chance to finish.

The sound of Cooper's rifle butt cracking into the kid's face was incredibly satisfying, collapsing him into a limp, useless pile on the ground, deep crimson pooling around where he lie face-down in the dirt. The girl didn't scream, probably surprised that he hadn't outright shot him, but her hands did fly to her mouth in a quick moment of silent shock before she kneeled to quickly check his pulse, rolling his ugly mug to face the sun. Blood poured from his obviously broken nose, leaving the old ghoul wiping at his face to cover the smirk it sent twitching across his lips.

"What did you do that for?!" she demanded, frustration clear in her voice.

"Oh, my apologies, sweetheart. Your little boyfriend there was trying to join a party he wasn't invited to." he replied, though she was clearly ignoring him in favor of turning the boy onto his side and examining him.

His little companion let out a huff, casting a look between the body on the ground and the little cluster of buildings they'd just left. After a moment, she grabbed him by the fabric of his shirt the best she could and began to drag him back towards where he'd come from. The ghoul watched her pull him about five feet, red and huffing by the time she made it there, rolling his eyes deeply.

"Leave him. He'll be fine."

"He won't be if no one comes over to collect him soon, and you know it." she snarled, and her tone sent him seething, snatching the kid up over his shoulder like a sack of spuds and stomping ahead of her, depositing him unceremoniously against the ranch's handmade sign before yanking her along with him once again.

"Y'know, if you'd have just gotten in and out like I told you, that wouldn't have happened." he said eventually, dropping her arm once more.

"Oh, fuck you!" she hissed. "I was trying to see if I could talk him down on the price. And sometimes people know useful things, you know!" she yelled, exasperation clear in her tone as she threw her arms up in the air.

She pretended to be ignorant, but clearly knew what he was upset about before he specified. Interesting.

"Oh, I'm sure. Y'know, I'd wondered how long it was gonna take you to start sellin' that little ass of yours. Figured it would be for something nicer than a pistol repair or some bad intel, at least." he sneered. He could feel himself slipping further from rationality.

"What are you talking about? It wasn't even like that!" she insisted, an edge of something more worrisome creeping into her voice.

"Quit playin' dumb, doll. You make it seem too easy." he said, watching her entire face light up bright red in frustration. She was tersely quiet for a minute, the gears in her head clearly turning hard and fast as she worked to contain herself and formulate a response at the same time.

"I'm sick of you getting pissed off and treating me like I'm the stupidest person you've ever met." she spat, eventually, madder than he'd ever seen her. "I'm sorry that I haven't spent enough bitter fucking years walking around the desert and killing things and being an asshole to know everything like you do, Coop. I'm sorry I still have human emotions and desires. My sincerest fucking apologies."

That was it: the argument had officially become about...something else.

Honestly, he'd assumed that she was going to leave him a few days back, when they'd stayed in a rare hotel room waiting for a bad dust storm to settle, the little thing getting just a tad too tipsy on some whiskey he'd given her before trying to kiss him. He'd rebuffed her, though not as gently as he wished he had, and, feeling bold, she'd pushed back with surprising fervor, basically demanding to know why he wouldn't kiss her more, why he wouldn't sleep with her.

True, he felt closer to her than he'd felt to anyone or anything in a long while, and he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but, as embarrassing as it was, the idea of being expected to perform sexually so suddenly made him feel a seizing sense of panic that he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before.

What he'd wanted to say was "I care about you so much, but I'm not sure I'm ready to take that step." Instead, what had come out was "Why are you buggin' me about this? I said no. Fuck off." followed by him storming out to spend several hours smoking in the decrepit, junk-walled-in parking lot.

When he'd returned, she'd been asleep, her poor face tear-swollen and red. He'd waited for her to rouse and hash it out with him, but she'd slept through the night, and, the next morning, didn't bring it up or seem amenable to discussing it. She hadn't seemed angry, necessarily, perhaps a little sad, but in the few days that had passed since, she had definitely been colder, poutier than usual.

It seemed, to him, that she was punishing him now for not doing what she'd wanted, and it was pissing him off.

It didn't matter that he hadn't fucked her yet, that he didn't feel ready to expose the most vulnerable parts of him, inside and out, so openly. She was his; she belonged to him and she knew it as much as he did. The fact that she was even still traveling with him after all this time, after what happened at the hotel that night, was proof. She proved it every single time she came back from one of her little stomp-offs every time he ticked her off, lacking the wherewithal to ever even move fully out of sight before slinking down to pout awhile, inevitably peeking out from whatever she was hiding behind to see if he was still there. Despite her lack of proper training, she was a loyal little bitch.

The fact that she suddenly didn't want to act accordingly sat entirely wrong in his mind, wriggled under his skin like when his stash ran low.

"All's I'm saying, princess," he growled, throwing out the nickname he knew she loathed once more, "is that you're too fucking friendly for your own good, and you shouldn't be shocked when it gets people hurt."

"Why would you give a shit who I'm friendly to, anyway?" she spat, suddenly pushing her way right into his bubble and sending him baring his teeth.

"I wouldn't. Didn't I made that clear enough the other night?"

He knew that this particular barb would hurt her, but he genuinely didn't expect what she did next.

"Alright, then." she said; her voice was trembling noticeably, as was her lower lip. With that, she snatched her backpack up from the ground, jammed her arms into the straps, turned, and began to walk back towards the way they'd come from. He watched her silently, waiting for her to duck back into the ranch, but she didn't; instead, she kept walking, as long as he could watch her, until she disappeared over the hill that fed into the horizon.

The old man watched her go, dumbfounded as she actually continued to walk instead of stopping as she always did. For a while, he hung around, waiting for her to come huffing back, but she still hadn't by the time the sun had fully sunk out of the sky. Eventually, he resumed moving himself, stopping after about a mile in their original planned direction, settling down for a grating night of looking out over the road at every little noise.

She'd never even looked back. He couldn't shake that thought from his mind as he sat there resting overnight. It was basically the only thought he had for hours, plaguing him as he puffed his inhaler and watched the world around him brighten with the rising sun.

When the next day started in full, he'd resolved to hit the road, to resume his travels as he would be resuming his existence before the girl had come along. Compared to how long he'd been exploring the desert solo, she'd been but a brief blip in his life, and there was no reason to fret so much over where she'd gone or what could happen to her without him around.

For some reason, he only covered about half the ground he would typically cover on a day like this, and he found himself beyond unreasonably frustrated...with himself. Nothing about the conditions was slowing him down; he didn't run into more trouble than usual, and he was fine on supplies, vials, but for some reason he found himself hypervigilant, looking for any excuse to move up high and scan the road with his binoculars.

By the time it was too dark to safely continue, he was seething once again, but at his weakness, at his cowardice. After he chose a tucked away little corner to settle down in for a few hours, he quite literally couldn't dig into his stash fast enough, doing line after line, hit after hit of whatever he had on him, until the horrible pain he felt behind his breastbone melted away into a familiar, soothing numbness.

But his numb mind liked to wander, and soon he found himself thinking about the softness of her voice, her skin, her lips against his that night...

And, quickly, he was back to pain and anger, but an irrational anger fueled by a far-more than reasonable dose of basically every kind of stimulant known to Wasteland man. This pain, too, was chased away with more and more chems, until he was so fucked up that he could barely keep his eyes focused and open.

She truly did plague him now, just as she had all the months she'd traveled with him. She plagued his thoughts at all points in the day, plagued his worries about the future, and even as he attempted to snort and huff himself free of the thought of her, she plagued him, dancing up along beside him in a quiet, stalking creep, watching him daintily from the end of the rotted log he sagged himself on, his back wedged against the large rock cluster behind him. At some point, he'd tugged his gloves off and shucked them somewhere nearby, leaving him feeling quite naked as his hands fretted with themselves absentmindedly. Against his will, he thought about running them through her hair like he'd wanted to for so long, and the unpleasant flip his stomach did made him sigh.

"I'm sorry." came a voice on the breeze, so much like hers. The visions of her were persistent, annoyingly so, the one staring hauntingly at him from the side really starting to unsettle him. He was no stranger to visual and auditory hallucinations when he was this far gone, but she was so solid-looking out of the corner of his eye, watching him so close. Judging him and what a fuck-up he was.

He squeezed his eyes shut hard, willing her away, willing himself to go back a few days and redo this entire thing differently.

"Aren't you...gonna say anything?" came the soft, timid voice once more, this time from beside him. Firmer, realer.

He narrowed his eyes in her ghostly direction, focusing as best as he could on her blurry, swimming visage.

"Huh. Didn't know that was really you."

When had she arrived, exactly? Fuck, he was dangerously gone if she'd been able to sneak up on him like that.

She frowned at that, leaning close and sizing him up with worrying eyes. Gingerly, she placed her palm on the back of his bare hand.

"Jeez, Cooper. How fucked up are you?" she asked, her tone sincere, almost apologetic.

Her glaring worry burned into him as judgment, harsh and stinging, and he struck out in response, yanking his hand away.

"Mind your fuckin' business." he slurred, forcing himself to sit up straight enough to point his full anger in her direction, growing with each passing moment. "Think you're better'n me? Hmm?"

He'd fully expected this to ignite another yelling match between the two of them, but she didn't scream back; instead, she quietly dropped her head, avoiding his eyes as she gazed around where he'd chosen to bed down. Truly, he was quite impressed she'd managed to find him at all, let alone in the dark. Turns out he was rubbing off on her even more than he'd thought. The idea left him bitter.

A big part of the anger he felt, the ugliest, most violent part, was the Jet; he knew this. The stuff had gotten him into more than his share of scuffles through the years, making him even meaner than usual, his sharp tongue exact and piercing. However, beneath the amphetamine fog, there was a nugget of true bitterness, an open wound of insecurity that pained him into lashing out when she tried to come close. He'd lashed out in such a way that night at the hotel, despite how hard he'd tried to hold back his sour words.

There was a fear there that he'd felt before, but never so strongly as when he'd watched her disappear over that hill. If she'd tried to leave over that relatively small argument, when would she try to leave again? He wasn't a pleasant man to be around, even when he actually tried to be, a lot of the time. Hell, he wasn't even pleasant to look at; if he'd been a giant prick in his old life, at the very least, he had been handsome.

Increasingly, since she'd come into his life, he tried to reach deep, deep into himself and pull out whatever remained of the old him, the one who was kind and hopeful and actually knew how to talk to women, but the process was infinitely more difficult and painful than he'd imagined.

She clearly wanted and needed intimacy from him, on more than one front, and the pressure of feeling like he couldn't give her what she needed was increasingly getting to him in a way that embarrassed him more than he could possibly say (not that he'd ever say it out loud). Centuries of time had passed, and yet, here he was, still dealing with the same anxieties and feelings of inadequacy that he had before, just dressed up in a new, uglier face.

When would he finally succeed in pushing her away, in frightening her away from him 'for her own good'? The walls around him had never failed him before, for better or worse.

Things were quiet between them as she fidgeted in her spot, the tension of an inescapable conversation in the air, but the desert's constant score, the hiss of sand across corroded asphalt, the soft rattle of the wind in the rocky hills, played on. His muddled ears played tricks on him, making him hear murmurs and distant gunshots and the crack of his rifle butt into that farmhand's face, but he tuned them out, focusing on her steadying, but increasingly heavy breathing, his eyes unable to leave her mouth..

He let himself drink in the fact that she really was there, sat on her knees in the dirt before him and already begging him for his forgiveness, for his acceptance; corporeal, flesh and blood and her sweet smell and that wet, warm place between her legs. Only in his drug-induced private fantasies had he felt it, but he knew he wanted to bury himself there, as deep as possible, and never let her pull away.

"I really am sorry, Coop." she whispered, those big, round eyes brimming with big, wet tears. It wasn't difficult to see her sincerity, even as he struggled to focus. But that hot coal of bitter anger still smoldered in his gut; not replaced by the lust he felt, but fed by it.

Slowly, his own movements labored under the weight of too many substances, he reached out and ran the thumb of his sullied glove along her smooth, smooth cheek. Smearing the trail of wetness there until he was tracing the outline of those pouty lips, he pushed it into her mouth.

"Prove it."

She let out a pitiful little retch, though whether it was from the taste of the incredibly filthy material, or because he was shoving her tongue back in her throat and gagging her with it, he didn't know. What he did know was that the sound made his cock twitch, which was already more blatant sexual desire than he'd felt in ages.

"How?" she asked, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand as he pulled his own away. The wetness that trailed from his thumb, from her lips, made him feel feverish, and he quickly knotted his hand into the thick, soft hair at the back of her head, yanking her so close that their noses would've been touching, had he still had one. When her wide eyes met his, not so much as a sound escaping her lips at the sensation in her scalp, he finally gave in and harshly mashed his mouth to hers, swallowing the sigh that escaped her as he did.

Cooper was unsure how long they kissed, how long he plundered her swollen, eager mouth with his tongue before she stumbled onto her knees, pulling back slightly to pull air into her lungs. As she hovered there, eyes closed as she attempted to gather herself, he dug deep into the pocket of his duster and withdrew a Jet container, giving it a shake to prime it as she righted her breathing. Once she was steady once more, he cupped the back of her head again, bringing her to him and lifting it to her mouth. There was hesitation in her eyes, then disgust as the chem filled her lungs. It touched him with a twinge of amusement, knowing how badly the stuff tasted, watching her retch harder than before. He let her cough for a few seconds, allowing her a few half-cocked breaths of air before shoving the thing back between her lips and holding it down even longer.

By the time she managed to stop sputtering and drooling, he'd had a hit of his inhaler and started stroking his increasingly hard cock through his pants, watching her closely as she raised her now bleary, glassy eyes towards him. He waited for her to mouth off, to complain, to remark on anything that had happened, but instead, she sat there, unmoving, waiting for his instructions. She was the picture of obedience, but nevertheless, he could still see that glint of outrage behind her gaze, waiting to argue with him the moment she sensed an opportunity.

It pissed him off more than he thought possible, and, before he could even think to stop himself, he lashed out and slapped her across the face, the blow landing squarely in the center of her cheek and making her head turn away from him slightly. Surprising him again, she didn't make a sound, but she also didn't correct her head to look back at him.

Pulling a long drag off of the Jet inhaler himself, he held it deep in his lungs as he grabbed her by her long hair to kiss her again, exhaling the stuff right down into her lungs. She kissed him back until she choked on the sensation, leaning away to spew and cough more.

"Wanna prove you're sorry?" he hissed, his brain buzzing with the fresh hit as she leaned against his knee. "Clean my boots, vaultie. Show a little humility for once in your life."

His words were mean, meaner than he should be right now, but she didn't seem to register their full weight as she struggled to focus her eyes on the boots in question. When she lifted those dark, glassy pools back to his, he could see she knew what he meant, a heavy blush staining her cheeks and neck. Of course she knew what he meant; she was a smart girl, and her brain worked so much like his, even if she wouldn't freely admit it.

She looked up at him so dreamily through those thick lashes, though whether it was real affection in her eyes or simply the haze from all the Jet he'd forced down into her lungs, he couldn't tell.

In truth, his boots weren't as filthy as they could've been, as he'd cleaned the farmhand's blood off of them the night she'd taken off to get rid of the smell. But it wasn't about cleanliness; no, she'd humiliated him, her and her spoiled, entitled vault-dweller attitude, when she ran off, and he wanted to see her humiliate herself a little in kind.

The woman kneeling before him didn't hesitate as much as he'd thought she would, the red outline of his palm and fingers seeming to glow on her cheek in the dying firelight as she cast a vaguely-seeing glance around her, measuring her space before pulling herself into a sort of downward dog position, her round ass in the air as her marred cheek rested softly on the sandy ground. There was a moment of quiet tension as she seemed to study it, planning her approach before rather timidly leaning forward and running her tongue along the side, swiping a clean stripe across the tarnished black material from ball to toe. She gagged at first, likely from the dryness of the dust, but, again, she didn't complain.

He didn't have to tell her to clean the other boot; she did it with no prompting as soon as the first was finished, gagging less as she ran her pretty pink tongue all along the sullied, scuffed leather, and he couldn't believe how much it turned him on while equally failing to quell his indignation, his disappointment. Before she'd really finished her work, he yanked her up by her hair again; this time, she let out a slight yelp of surprise as he dropped her onto her ass, gesturing to her shabby, scavenged armor with one hand as the other began to wrestle his ammo belt, then his actual belt, open.

"Take that shit off."

Again, she did as he asked with only a moment's pause, placing all the little pieces of boiled leather and metal off to the side, her eyes flitting to him for a heartbeat before she proceeded with the rest of her clothes, quickly exposing herself completely. He could see her well in the moonlight, but not as well as he'd have liked, leaving her standing there, vulnerable and shivering ever-so-slightly as he took a good, long look at her. He was painfully hard at this point, desperate to have at least some minor relief from the confines of his trousers, but he was also uncharacteristically nervous at the idea of exposing himself to her this way. Beckoning her forward, he used her distraction as she kneeled once more to pull his cock free, grateful for the darkness and her weaker eyes.

"Suck me." he growled.

While he wasn't exactly pleased at how entirely fucked up he'd been going into this, he was sort of grateful that he couldn't feel almost anything with any vivid detail across the expanse of his body; the visual of her wrapping her dainty little fingers around him and obediently leaning down to take him into her mouth alone would have been enough to finish him if he'd have been able to feel her properly.

The way she went about it also seemed to indicate she wasn't entirely experienced, simply sliding her mouth down over his cock and setting to finding a pace that she could handle, as everything was surely spinning for her. For a while, he let her do so, fingers knotting into her hair again, before his patience wore thin and he began to push her head downwards, the sound of her gagging once more sending a thrill up his spine. Even with the numbness from the most recent hit seeping through him, he wasn't able to keep it up long before he yanked her back, taking in the drool hanging down from her swollen lips.

Cooper gave his spit-slicked cock a few firm tugs, hissing from between his worn teeth at her as he sat back, making room for her on his lap.

"Now get up here and show me you know who you belong to."

She didn't even look towards her bag, towards the condoms he knew she kept tucked deep inside her little toiletry pocket, as she quickly and sloppily pulled herself up into his lap. A part of him knew that he'd have stopped her if she did try to put one on him.

He tried so hard to not think of Barb as the pretty young thing on top of him began to sink down and envelop his cock in her heat, tried so hard to not feel guilty for giving himself to another, and he failed miserably. She felt heavenly, tighter and warmer and sweeter than he could've ever imagined, and he hated himself for how much he loved it, for how alive it made him feel when for so long he'd simply been existing. The choked noise that left his dry throat as the aching head of him fully breached her wasn't a sob, but he wouldn't have known what to call it.

It must've seemed to her, he thought, that he was forcing her to do all the work out of anger, wanting her to fully prove that she wanted him, that she was his; this was true, but he was also terrified, deep down, of how he would react if he allowed himself to freely touch her the way he wanted. He feared he would literally rip her limb from limb in his intoxicated state, sink his teeth into her pillowy flesh until it bled, tear a chunk off of her and swallow it so that she could be part of him forever.

He couldn't tell if the way she huffed and whimpered her way down his length was because she was high and hypersensitive or because she'd never been with a man this way before. That thought was quickly and harshly banished from his brain, however, his hands finding the plush fat of her hips, fingertips digging hard into the soft, supple flesh.

"Good pup." he breathed out when he eventually felt her ass rest on his thighs, fully sheathing him inside her.

The whimper she let out in response, her tight little clasp quivering around him as she clumsily reached out and braced her hands on his shoulders, made him throb hard, leaving him at least slightly grateful for his intoxication once again. If his numbed brain and body had been able to feel her fully, he knew he would've absolutely shot his load already.

Cooper struggled to stay still as she moved experimentally on top of him, lifting and lowering and grinding herself a few different ways before she found a rhythm that made him let out a throaty moan, the ghost of a smile flashing across her sleepy face as she rode away at him for a while.

What he really wanted, deep beneath all the unwanted feelings and unanswered questions about things he didn't want to think about right now, was to knock her up. For so long now he'd thought of her as his, and now that he'd claimed her, he wanted nothing more than to see her round and full to the brim of him. He wanted her to need him, to be completely dependent on him to provide for her and keep her safe.

He wanted her too vulnerable to get away from him.

On top of him, her movements were rapidly losing all coordination as her glossy, heavy eyelids drifted shut, her head nodding violently as she struggled to maintain her pace. He'd given her too much for someone who didn't use regularly, someone her size, and she was crashing out, falling asleep against her will right there. Poor thing.

He slapped her again, the sound ringing out across the vast, empty desert, watching closely as she startled back into a fully upright posture, her hips stilling for a moment before slowly beginning to churn again, her gaze unfocused.

"Mmm." she murmured groggily, leaning forward and placing her forehead against his shoulder, her arms winding around his neck as she tried her best to keep in some sort of motion.

This gesture, the way she cuddled up to him and sought comfort, support from him, even after the way he'd treated her, the fact that he'd literally just slapped her awake, was the only thing she'd done thus far that truly quelled the ugly, raging anger inside him.

"Thought this stuff was s'posed to wake you up." she sighed into the crook of his neck. She was entering the peak of her high, her body pitifully liquid against his chest as she clearly struggled to stay upright.

Personally, Cooper was reaching the un-fun part of his comedown, where everything started to feel grating and the mind began to uncloud, providing an increasingly painful level of clarity, but the senses remained muddled in a way that provided more discomfort than relief.

"Usually does. You had too much, baby." he responded, the mild chastisement in his tone doing a poor job of hiding the guilt behind it. His naked hands stroked reverently at her back, at the long, wind-swept hair that flowed down it, mindful to hold her so that she wouldn't lilt too far to one side as he attempted to soothe her.

Familiar with the unpleasant swimming sensation too much Jet could give you, he let her relax fully against him, the small sigh she let out one of gratitude as her whole body sagged even further. But she didn't stop grinding against him, probably out of some sort of pleasure for herself, he figured as he could feel her greedy insides tugging around him. He hid his grin again, this time in the crook of her neck as his hands found her hips once more, easily lifting her a few inches before dropping her down again, bouncing her on his cock as she rested.

Things went on like that for a spell, him bobbing and rocking her naked, lax body on top of his as she curled up on his shoulder, cooing and nodding off from time to time. As his high wore off, the sensitivity in his body was returning, and it made her feel more and more overwhelming as he continued to fuck her, her hot, wet little cunt leaking all over him as he continued to use her body to get himself off.

She seemed to be more conscious now than before, though barely, jostled awake by the increasing force of his thrusts up into her, bare breasts heaving with the movement. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to trace his lips down her chest, sealing them around her puffy, erect nipple and swiping his tongue along her slightly salty flesh. In response, her arms tightened around his neck, holding him on her breast as she clenched around him hard.

"Cooper." she whimpered, and that single little sound pushed him right into what felt like the most powerful orgasm he'd ever had, his fingers digging into her hips far too hard as he dropped her full weight onto him, grinding her down onto his cock and yanking her against him. His head dropped back, dead weight as he let out a feral snarl, tapering off into a throaty moan.

As he throbbed his gift up inside her, she squirmed at the feeling, tucking her bright red face into the side of his neck in what read as slight embarrassment, giving little huffs and whimpers as he continued to fill her. Another, smaller wave of guilt nagged at him as she clung to him, as he held her as close as he possibly could, struggling to regain control of his breathing; even if she'd had sex before, she'd never done this.

He held her as long as she could tolerate, her grip around him loosening slowly as she moved closer to real sleep. His girl was exhausted through and through, lightly snoozing against his chest.

For a few minutes, he let her rest uninterrupted, scanning her over to assess how badly he'd fucked up. She seemed fairly intact, though certainly more bruised than before. Eventually, he went digging into her bag, knowing (hoping) that she would have Radaway somewhere, and letting out a small sigh of relief when he found some jammed into the bottom.

Only one dose; he would have to find her more, and soon. This would be enough to see her through the next day, though, and he was pleasantly surprised to note that she wasn't showing even minor signs of radiation sickness as he found a vein in her arm, starting up the intravenous line to administer the thick, yellowed solution. Surprisingly, she didn't rouse fully when he slid the included needle into place, but she did begin to stir and groan mildly as the stuff began to effuse. Dimly, he remembered being given it when he'd been in the service, and how shitty it could make you feel.

Softly, he stroked her cheek with the backs of his bare knuckles before setting to jabbing her with a Stimpak from his bag around where she'd stuck some staples in her belly, making a note to ask her what had given her the several inches-long laceration he saw there.

He hesitated, though, when he moved to give her a dose of Med-X he'd dug out from the depths of his saddlebag. Most of the Wasteland's mind-rotting and pain-soothing substances were on the table for him, and in great amounts, but he hated the way the opiate made him sluggish and sleepy, reducing his accuracy in a fight significantly. The pain relief it provided wasn't worth it if he ended up dead anyway.

Smoothskins loved it, though, so he usually kept a few syringes on him for bartering purposes. Never did he think he'd be happy to give so much of his stash away for free.

He knew she must be hurting, or, she would be when she woke up, whenever that was. But he was hesitant to give her anything else, both for fear of how she would react, and, somewhat selfishly, because he knew a proper dose would make her sleep even longer, and he was desperate to actually get to speak with her again.

If she asked for the stuff, he'd give it to her. But...tomorrow. After they'd gotten a chance to discuss everything that had happened with cooler, more sober heads. After he was sure she wouldn't wake up in the morning and hate him for what he'd done to her.

His fingers played softly in her mussed hair as the indigo cover of night faded into the periwinkle of twilight, washing her nearly grey in his arms. She slept hard awhile, undisturbed until the awkward angle of her neck made him gently resettle her into a more comfortable-seeming position, letting her slip down until she was curled up in a ball on her side in his lap, her head supported in the crook of his elbow. Lying this way, he'd have to hold her up while she slept, but he found himself strangely excited at the prospect.

"M'sorry I ran away." she murmured suddenly after a long period of silence, readjusting herself in his lap to curl closer.

"I know, kid. I forgive you." he replied after a moment of hesitation, the words soft and strange as they formed on his lips. He petted her hair as gently as he could manage. "Did a good job findin' your way back to me, pup. Proud of you."

"Mmm. Please don't be mad at me." she echoed his own thoughts softly, so slurred as she finally began into unconsciousness that it was barely intelligible, her face buried in his side.

"I'm not." he said, fully, completely honest for once in his long life. He let his eyelids rest, his hand on his gun, ready to stop anyone who would try to ruin this quiet moment under the fading stars. "I promise. Now, get some sleep, pup. I know you came a long way today."

She sighed at that, as if to say "You have no idea." before flopping loosely into his arms, and was snoring lightly within a minute. He allowed himself a small smile at this, at how earnest and adorable she was.

"Good girl." he murmured.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

@steddiemas week 2 - Lights, Mistletoe, Tradition, Red

rating: T | words: 1,649

wooo right in before the deadline lmao

<- back to previous part | next part ->

Steve knocks on the Munsons’ door at 10 the next morning. It’s only after he does, however, that he thinks that maybe Eddie won’t even be up yet, that he won’t be up for a couple more hours at least, despite what he said after dinner the night before;

“Gotta be up bright and early, Stevie dear, Wayne’s taking a double and someone’s gotta put up the tree.”

“You’re decorating already?”

“Sure am! It’s tradition to put the tree up the day after thanksgiving. Wanna come over and help?”

But, to his surprise, Eddie opens the door mere seconds after he’d knocked, the sounds of the local radio station’s Christmas music selections spilling out the door behind him.

“Finally,” he says, leaving the door open and turning to march back to an already open green tote in front of the couch.

“Sorry man, I honestly didn’t think you’d be up.” he laughs, following Eddie into the trailer. He kicks the snow off his boots in the doorway, toes them off, and closes the door behind him.

Looking around, Steve notices the already somewhat cramped space is more cramped now with the addition of a large cardboard box, a surprising number of rolls of wrapping paper in different stages of use, a pile of lights, and two plastic tubs, a green and a red, all spread out across the floor.

“What is all this stuff?”

“Our Christmas shit, duh.” Eddie says, bent in half over the tote and digging around at the bottom.

Steve takes the shortest moment to admire the view (A guy can have a crush on his relatively new, much-cooler-than-him friend if he wants to, alright?), then says, “Yeah Ed, I got that part, I mean, what is it all? What’s in the totes?” then walks over to the red tote and lifts off the lid.

A mess of ornaments awaits him under it; all of them loose, gold, green, red, and glittering.

“That one’s ornaments, this one’s garland, I think the tinsel’s in here too…?” more digging sounds.

“Why are they all just… loose?” Steve asks, picking up a green teardrop ornament. He’s used to his mother’s rigid everything has its place style of packing away the decorations every year, each fragile glass bauble having its own box or assigned spot in a big plastic tray… not like she’d been around to do the setup or take down the last couple years, but old habits die hard.

“Well it’s not like they’re gonna break, they’re all plastic.”

Steve scoffs a short laugh, shaking his head, “Alright, Munson, where do you wanna start?”

They start, of course, with the big cardboard box that holds the Munsons’ tree.

“You have an aluminum tree?” Steve asks with barely-hidden awe as he reads the red and green Evergleam Stainless Aluminum Christmas Tree on the side of the box. He’d always thought they were pretty, but his mom refused to have one in her home, said they were tacky (not to mention not nearly tall enough).

Eddie sighs, “Yeah, not what I woulda picked but,” he shrugs, pulling what looks like the stem of the tree out of the box, “Beggars and choosers and all that.”

“I think they’re great.” Steve says, taking the pole from Eddie.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I dunno, they’re so… shiny. So Christmas-y, y’know?”

Eddie gives him a look, but smiles, “Sure, I can see that.”

The two get to work, snapping the base and column of the tree together, then placing each of the branches into the holes dotted up and down the stem.

Eddie starts to pull the paper sleeves off the branches as he goes, and Steve finds himself entranced by finagling the spindly aluminum strips to look more tree-like.

He doesn’t know how long he spends wearing circles into Wayne’s carpet, but soon, Eddie comes to his side and asks, “Ready for the lights, Stevie?”

“Hm? Oh yeah, yeah, sorry man.” he says, stepping back from the tree only to reach back out and fix the needles he brushed up against getting out of the way.

Eddie smiles, then drops to his hands and knees to crawl along the side of the couch to plug in the lights Steve now sees have been laid up and down the length of the living room and kitchen.

“You guys don’t have that spinny light thing?” He asks Eddie’s ass, then immediately regrets it. ‘Beggars and choosers and all that’. “I mean, uh..”

The warm white lights flicker on as Eddie shouts “Gotcha!” and shuffles backward, sitting up on his knees when finally free of the branches. Somehow, there’s tinsel in his hair now. Where’d that even come from??

“We do, actually, but it’s always been finicky. Pros of a ‘non-flammable’ tree means we don’t try to make things more flammable with untrustworthy motorized light doohickies, right?”

Steve blinks at him. “Did you just say ‘doohickies’?”

Eddie grins, “If I’m gonna quote Wayne, I’m gonna do it correctly.”

“Fair.” He laughs, holding out a hand for Eddie to take. Grabbing tight, Eddie heaves himself up off the floor.

“Alright big boy, you get to stringing those ones,” He says, pointing to the white lights, “While I untangle the other ones.” He picks up the other mess of lights triumphantly, a big grin still on his face.

It’s only then, when Eddie lets him go to pull at the lights, that Steve realizes he’d still been holding Eddie’s hand.

Steve gets the lights strung up around the little tree, and is rewarded with another good long look at Eddie’s backside while he plugs in the now untangled multicolored lights.

These ones are more familiar to him, “Hey, my grandma has these!” Steve says cheerily, examining the plastic petals around each light.

“Must be a grandma speciality, then.”

“Oh yeah? You a grandma, Ed?” Steve asks, carefully winding the lighted flowers back and forth across the tree.

Eddie snorts, “All this stuff was my grandma’s. Wayne got it when she died.”

Steve feels his face fall. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

He glances up to see Eddie shrug, “She was before my time, but thanks.”

Eddie lets Steve work while he starts to dig through the totes; he’s got half the tote of greenery spilled out onto the floor by the time Steve goes to the other and starts to pick out ornaments.

He figured with a shiny silver tree like this that the gold ones wouldn’t look quite right, but the combination of color from the lights somehow makes it so only the gold would look right.

He’s pulling out the different shaped gold baubles when Eddie finds something.

“Ooh mistletoe~, how ‘bout it Stevie, you gonna lay one on me?” he croons, sidling up to Steve with one arm stretched above them.

“Shut up man,” Steve laughs, pushing him away on instinct alone and going back to the tote of ornaments.

Immediately, Steve can hear Robin’s voice in his head; “No! What are you doing?? You could’ve had your first boy kiss before my first girl kiss and you said NO? To EDDIE??”

Unaware of his turmoil, Eddie cackles good-naturedly as Steve’s heart thumps achingly in his chest.

He can’t help but imagine it, what it would’ve been like to take Eddie up on the offer, to just grab him up and plant one on him like he’s been wanting to for what, a good eight months now?

He’d kiss him, he’d blush all pretty, Steve’d say something corny and flirty and endearing, and Eddie would grin that big stupid grin at him and—

“Steve!”

Spell broken, Steve looks around at Eddie, standing over the faded tote with the scraggly-looking sprig of greenery still hanging from one of his fingers.. “What?”

Eddie shakes his head almost disbelievingly, “Whatta you mean ‘What?’? You’re the one zoning out in the middle of my living room, man.” He laughs, but it and his eyes are strained.

“Oh sorry, yeah. Just zoned out, promise.”

That seems to loosen Eddie up, “Okay, good.” He sighs, drops the mistletoe onto a cushion of the couch, and dives back in for two armfuls of garland.

Steve hangs ornaments on the tree while Eddie does his best to scare the shit out of him at every moment; he climbs up and all over the counters, the couch, Wayne’s recliner, all just to hang the garland around the cabinets and along the front of the shelves packed with mugs.

Eventually, they’re done.

The tree is lit, the garland is pinned in place where it won’t send any mugs careening down onto the couch below, every inch of the Munsons’ space is decked out and the unused decorations are being packed away into their totes.

“Last chance, big boy,” Eddie says, wiggling the fake plastic plant and his eyebrows at Steve.

He barks a short laugh and shakes his head fondly, and Eddie goes back to packing away the rest of the garland that was wrapped up in his other hand.

For a split moment, as he snaps the lid back onto his own tote, Steve wonders over his options, but knows he’ll regret it if he doesn’t seize the moment.

He turns away from the red tote of ornaments, takes the three short steps to Eddie’s side, and plucks the mistletoe from Eddie’s hand.

Eddie, who turned automatically when he did, flushes beet red as Steve raises his hand and the little fake sprig of greenery above both their heads

Steve leans forward, and presses his lips to the warm apple of Eddie’s cheek.

He pulls back, and Eddie’s face is somehow redder. “Happy now, Munson?”

He’d meant for it to come out jokingly, willing to play it off if Eddie pushes back, but his voice comes out warm and low instead, with genuine curiosity colored through it.

Eddie gulps audibly, then breathes out a soft laugh, “Peachy.”

dividers from @steddiecameraroll-graphics!

[agaypanic]

My Babysitter's a Vampire Simp Headcanons

Masterlist

Request Something!

***

Benny

Casts spells all the time just to see you smile

FLOWERS!!! So many flowers, conjured at any moment

Your locker becomes a garden tbh

Would do anything for you

If you need help, he’s there in a heartbeat

If you have a problem that can’t be fixed with a spell, he’d probably try to create his own

Favorite pastime is playing games with you

Especially when you’re playing in his room because, more often than not, you’re sitting on his lap

Your guys’ favorite game to play is Minecraft

“Y/n, where are you?” Benny asked as he built a house for the two of you.

“I’m on the other side of the hill.”

“Why are you so far away? It’s gonna be dark soon.”

“This side has more flowers.” He looked at your screen, and sure enough, you were picking flowers in a field. “The house has to be pretty.”

“Y/n, I dunno how to make the house look like you.” Benny pinched your side with his teasing and you giggled, squirming around in his lap. He kissed your temple before going in to start putting structures inside the house. “Now get over here before I have to go get you.” 

Reluctantly, you left the field and made your way to the house. Making sure to close the door behind you, you ventured inside and found Benny’s character in the bedroom.

“Aww! You put the beds next to each other.”

Rory

BIGGEST SIMP OF ALL TIME I SWEAR

The second he sees you, he’s a goner

Benny and Ethan gotta pull him down bc he starts floating

Carries all your stuff without you asking

Walks you to class all the time, even if his class is on the other side of the school

Saves a seat for you at lunch even tho it’s your unassigned assigned seat at the table

Practically has heart eyes anytime he looks at you

Talks about you all the time to his friends

They could be talking about something completely different, but he’s determined to make you the topic of conversation whenever he can

“Oh my gosh, that reminds me of the time Y/n…” and the two things will be COMPLETELY unrelated

You immediately spotted your boyfriend and your friends by your locker when you got to school. Rory seemed to be going off on some tangent, and it must’ve been going on too long because the others looked like they were about to murder him or themselves. To spare your friends, you walked fast to meet them. Rory sensed you before you could speak, turning to look at you with vampire swiftness.

“Y/n!” He looked at you like a puppy who hadn’t seen its owner in hours. When you were close enough, he peppered your face in kisses, much to the group’s disgust.

“Hey, Rory.” You laughed when he eased up on the affection, moving to greet everyone else. “Hey, guys.” They replied with their own greetings while you opened your locker. With each book you took out, Rory immediately took it from you without saying a word. “Rory, baby, you don’t have to.”

“Oh, but I insist, honeybunch.” The warning bell rang, and everyone dispersed. Rory walked you to your first period, something he did every day without fail.

“Okay, you better go. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Don’t worry, sweet thing. That’s what superspeed is for.”

“Superspeed you shouldn’t be using in public.” You took your books from Rory and gave him a kiss to tide him over for the next hour. “See you after class?”

“Always, baby.”

Ethan

Soooo nervous about being around you

Whenever he touched you, he’d get visions of the two of you together

That just made him fall harder for you

Makes flirty remarks based on his powers

“I had a vision we made out” kinda stuff

Memorizes everything about you

He believes every detail is important

Whenever he’s around, don’t even think about paying

Even if he’s broke, he’s paying for your stuff

You and Ethan were in line at some fast food place, all he could afford. You would’ve offered to help pay but knew attempts would be futile. As nice as Ethan was, he was also stubborn. Soon it was your turn to order, and you didn’t even speak, Ethan relaying your regular order perfectly, down to what sauce you wanted. He then let you lead him to whatever booth you wanted.

“You know, I don’t mind paying one of these times.” You commented before taking a sip of your drink. Ethan shook his head, dismissing the thought.

“Y/n, for the thousandth time, it’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.” Your boyfriend grinned, reaching to take your hand. He looked down, watching his thumb rub back and forth over the back of your hand. You saw a slight smirk and knew what was coming. “I just had a vision.”

“Oh really?” You bit back a laugh, flipping your hand over to interlock your fingers. “What happened in this vision of yours?”

“Well, first of all, the food is very delicious.”

“Oh, good.”

“And second, I ask you something very important.” This piqued your interest very much.

“I think you should ask me now.”

“Sorry, babe, I ask you after we get our food.” As if waiting for the cue, your order number was called. Ethan grinned, kissing your hand as he stood from the booth seat. He left, and when he returned with a tray of food, you were impatient.

“Okay, ask me the question. I wanna know.”

“Okay, okay.” Ethan distributed the food between the two of you before looking at you expectantly. “Who gave you the right to be so pretty?”

“Oh my God, Ethan.”

[squatch-and-stretch]

Latrotoxin

Stanley Pines & Stanford Pines | 7,586 words | Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic

“He checks that Ford is still focused on Fiddleford— he is, completely and utterly— before he carefully rolls up one sleeve of his jacket to check the bite. There’s two messy holes in his arm, bleeding sluggishly. The skin around the wounds is flushed red.

Stan may be the idiot of the group, but even he knows this is bad news. Spiders are usually poisonous, right? Does that apply to alien spiders that are huge? Probably.

The small part of his brain that still cares about logic and being alive says he should tell the Fords immediately, before things get worse. The louder, larger part of his brain stomps it down and kicks its corpse for good measure.”

Warning for injury, poisoning, arachnophobia.

Fic under the cut.

It’s raining on Planet Boring. They’ve seen a lot of things in their short time wandering the multiverse together, but this planet’s pretty high up there in terms of ‘yeah, this is basically just Earth’. Ford is marveling at the size of the plants, but it all just looks like Central America to Stan. Besides, it’s raining.

“There’s a cave up ahead,” Fiddleford says, a hand cupped over his goggles to keep the rain off of them. “Le’s get outta this rain.”

“Sounds good,” Stan says, adjusting his hood to cover his face. It was going to take forever for the damn thing to dry.

Fiddleford leads the way, carefully weaving up the side of the hill until he can scramble up into the cave. Stan follows, once he makes sure Ford is doing the same.

“Well,” Fiddleford says, holding out his prosthetic to push the darkness back a bit further. “Reckon it’ll keep us dry, at least.”

Stan squints as he steps inside. Unlike the hill it’s carved into, the ground inside seems pretty flat. He wanders a bit further in, eyes catching against some white tangle woven across one of the walls.

“Hey, is that—“ Stan cuts himself off as his foot slips, only a small part of it landing on solid ground while the rest drops out from under him.

He stumbles slightly, ankle slamming painfully against rock as his foot lodges itself in the crevice. He reaches out to steady himself against the wall, but pulls away in disgust as soon as he feels it.

“Spider webs,” Fiddleford provides helpfully.

“Won’t you ever watch where you’re going?” Ford huffs, looking at the tangle of webs disdainfully.

“Oh yeah, Poindexter? Wanna tell Fidds here how many times I had to pull you out of traffic because you had your big ugly nose in a book?”

“We have the same nose! And besides—“

“He doesn’t need to tell me, I had to do the same thing for him in college,” Fiddleford chimes in with a smirk. Ford’s face flushes with indignation as Stanley barks out a laugh.

“It’s different when we’re in a potentially dangerous dimension that we know next to nothing about!” Ford huffs.

“Yeah yeah, I’m an idiot, just get me out of this shit,” Stan grumbles, tugging ineffectively at his trapped leg. It’s flexible, but at this point that really just means that it won’t break easy.

“I gotcha,” Fiddleford says, raising his prosthetic. Stan leans away.

“Woah, hey, I dunno if that’s really necessary!” Stan yelps, holding his hands up placatingly.

“The claws, Stanley,” Fiddleford reassures, but there’s a worrying glint of gleeful amusement in his eyes. “I ain’t gonna blast your foot off.”

“Yeah, obviously not,” Stan scoffs, folding his arms. He knew that.

“Hurry, won’t you? The cave opens up further in,” Ford calls, voice echoing. He's far enough away that Stan can barely see the shape of him in the dim light of the cave.

“Don’t you go wandering off!” Fiddleford snaps, and oh yeah, he really does have a kid, because that there’s a dad voice.

“I won’t go far!”

“Darn right you won’t, because you’re gonna turn right around and come back over here!”

Ford sighs, but he turns to face them and doesn’t go any further.

Fiddleford echoes the sigh with a shake of the head that looks pretty fond from where Stan is standing. With one foot in a crack full of spider webs. He directs his attention back to Stan and kneels in front of him.

“Woah, take me out to dinner first,” Stan jokes, hooking a thumb into his belt loop.

“Shut your mouth, Lee,” Fiddleford laughs, steadying his flesh hand against the floor.

Shit, he hasn’t been Lee in years. If Ford hadn’t all but called dibs already, Stan’d be all over that man like a seagull on the fries of an unsuspecting tourist. He laughed at his joke and everything!

What a guy. A guy currently clawing at the spider webs around his leg, even. His palm is a little too big to fit in the crack Stan had jammed his foot into, but he sure is trying his best. Stan sighs and resigns himself to standing there for a bit. For lack of anything better to do, he idly looks around the cave. For the most part, he can see the rough roof of it, but there’s some sections lost in shadow. There’s one pretty much right above them, in fact, the surrounding stone pulling upwards into a deep crevice.

It almost looks like something’s moving up there in the dark, but even Stan knows how much the human eye loves seeing things that aren’t there when you’re staring into pitch blackness.

It really does seem like something’s moving, though.

Stan squints.

“Hey, Fidds, give it a rest for a sec, would ya?” Stan says, wiggling his foot to get his attention. “Pro’lly just my eyes playing tricks on me, but is there something up there?”

Fiddleford hums, standing up. He lifts his arm above his head, and the dim light of his prosthetic pushes the darkness back just enough for Stan to make out what looks like eight dark eyes staring at them from the shadows.

“Huh,” Fiddleford says, voice pitching up slightly. “Yup, reckon you’re right.”

Just as he says that, the thing in the darkness skitters closer. With its head fully lit as Fiddleford rears around to face it, Stan knows it’s a spider, if the eight eyes weren’t enough to clue him in. It’s an ugly one too, eight eyes bulging grotesquely from a dark, shiny head. Two giant fangs protrude from the bottom of its face, with two little legs shifting as it stares at them. Little is a relative description, of course, because they’re about the length of his forearm which is far too large for any part of a spider to be, if you ask Stan.

“What are you waiting for, blast that thing!” Stan demands, and suddenly the spider lunges.

Fiddleford yelps, throwing out his prosthetic to catch it before those fangs can hit something more delicate. They clack against the metal, shifting as they try to dig into something with no give. The sudden weight of the spider knocks Fiddleford off his feet, sending him stumbling into Stan, who’s only there to catch him because his foot’s stuck. Luckily, their combined weight is enough to wrench his foot free, which, unluckily, means all three of them hit the floor.

Fiddleford rolls off of Stan, tugging the spider along with him. Considering the things got eight legs beneath it, the movement does nothing to knock it off balance. Its weird little legs prod at Fiddleford’s chest. Stan rolls to his feet, every muscle tensed.

The spider pulls away, finally getting wise to the fact that it can’t bite through metal. With his prosthetic now free, Fiddleford pulls back just far enough to claw it across the face, catching at least three of its gross eyes. It rears back, legs scrambling to get the threat away from itself, and oh shit, have spiders always had a nasty pair of little claws on the end of each leg?

Stan glances towards the entrance of the cave.

There’s not a lot of force behind the movement, not when it’s just trying to get away, but its claws scramble against the flimsy fabric of Fiddleford’s shirt and tear it with ease. Judging by Fiddleford’s pained yelp, they make it through more than that.

He’s spent a long-ass time looking out for nobody but himself, but there was a time before that when his brother was his first priority. Nothing much has changed, then. Ford would kill him if he let his boy get killed, and besides, Stan kinda likes the guy himself.

Leaving his typical taunting out just this once— it would be lost on a spider anyway— Stan threads his fingers through his brass knuckles and lunges. He doesn’t know what his good ol’ fists will do against a spider as big as he is, but the answer seems to be ‘enough’.

The spider lets out a wet noise as his fist cracks through its exoskeleton. He rears back on instinct, because gross, and that gives the beast enough time to turn itself towards him. Its five remaining eyes don’t have a shred of humanity to them, but Stan still gets the impression of a hateful glare. He pulls back for another blow, straight between those ugly eyes, but the spider lunges before he can. He steps to the side, but a person-sized spider is a lot wider than a person-sized person, and two of the legs catch him, bringing him towards that awful mouth. Those weird little mouth legs grab at his arm, and he struggles against its grip. He leans far enough away that its mouth lands far from his throat, but that’s the best of it. It still lands, fangs sinking into his arm.

Stan grunts against the sharp stab of pain, but the spider made a big mistake— it grabbed his non-dominant arm. He can’t throw his whole body into it like he should, but he can still punch this thing in the head, over and over and over until his arm is covered in bug blood and its legs stop twitching around him.

“Stanley! Fiddleford!” Ford shouts, suddenly deciding to show back up now that the action is over. “Fiddleford! What happened?”

“Big spider,” Fiddleford grunts, sitting up. He’s got a hand pressed over the worst of the wounds, and now that Stan’s looking, there sure is a lot of blood staining his shirt.

“I see that!” Ford says tightly, sparing the spider a glance. His eyes briefly spark with that bright-eyed nerd look, but it’s pretty quickly drowned out by concern. “Come on, there's a place deeper in where we can rest.”

“Are we sure this is the only spider here?” Stan asks, pulling his arm free of the fangs. It is not a graceful dismount, tearing at the skin around the punctures.

“Well, the vast majority of spider species are incredibly asocial, many even resorting to cannibalism if other food sources are unavailable,” Ford says in that enthusiastic lecturer tone that Stan can’t help but roll his eyes at. “Judging by the size and web-building habits of this individual, I have no reason to believe it’s an exception.”

“Alright, pretty sure I caught most of that,” Stan says. “Lead the way, Poindexter.”

“I shall,” Ford agrees, helping Fiddleford to his feet. Fiddleford hisses against the movement, pressing his hand more firmly to the worst of his wounds as Ford swings his prosthetic over his shoulder. He slumps a bit beneath its weight. “I forgot how heavy this thing is. You really wear this every day?”

“Y’know I do,” Fiddleford says. His accent means he’s always shoving words together, but the slur is coming in hard and fast. He’s losing a lot of blood. How much space is between the surface of someone’s skin and the inside of their organs, and how long were those claws again?

Stan isn’t a doctor, and even though the Fords have like, a hundred doctorates between them, he’s pretty sure none of them are medical. Still, it’s not like Stan of all people will be any help.

Ford half-carries Fiddleford into the next room of the cave, even if it’s a bit of a squeeze to get through the narrow passageway. While it’s further from the entrance, there’s an opening in the roof letting the rain trickle down into a shallow pool. That natural skylight is the only opening other than the one they just came through, and the room is small enough that Stan can see all of it, even in the dim light filtering through the clouds and into the cave. It’s a little slice of paradise, other than the giant dead spider a few feet away and the guy bleeding out all over his brother.

Stan’s been in worse places.

Ford lowers Fiddleford to the ground as soon as they enter the room. Ford sits down with him, all but cradling that scrawny little mechanic in his lap.

“Y’kay, Lee?” Fiddleford mumbles, rolling his head towards Stan.

“Are you seriously asking that right now?” Ford sighs, exasperated, before Stan can answer. He was going to say just about the same thing, but it confirms that that’s definitely what he should do.

“You’re the one who got gored by a giant spider, Fidds,” Stan says, waving his uninjured hand dismissively. “You can worry about other people when your blood’s back where it’s supposed to be.”

“Precisely. Now where do you keep those gauze…” Ford’s voice fades out as Stan wanders off. There isn’t anywhere to go, really, so Stan washes off the worst of the bug blood in the pond, then meanders his way over to sit against the opposite wall. There’s a clear view of both the Fords and the entrance.

He checks that Ford is still focused on Fiddleford— he is, completely and utterly— before he carefully rolls up one sleeve of his jacket to check the bite. There’s two messy holes in his arm, still bleeding sluggishly. The skin around the wounds is flushed red.

Stan may be the idiot of the group, but even he knows this is bad news. Spiders are usually poisonous, right? Does that apply to alien spiders that are huge? Probably.

The small part of his brain that still cares about logic and being alive says he should tell the Fords immediately, before things get worse. The louder, larger part of his brain stomps it down and kicks its corpse for good measure.

Fiddleford looks like he’s got more blood outside of his body than in it. He is clearly the first priority for Ford, and with good reason, even if a small, childish part of Stan rankles at the idea. Besides, spider venom probably wasn’t the worst thing Stan’s had injected into his body, and he’s survived everything else.

It hurts, but not that badly. There’s a faint ache spreading up his arm, but it’s probably just from the way that damn thing had grabbed it. He’s fine.

He’ll sneak over and grab one of those awful bottles of whatever Fiddleford uses to keep wounds clean when Ford’s done fretting over all their medical shit. He can take care of it himself. With just a few exceptions, Stan’s been the only one taking care of Stan for the past ten years.

He watches Ford carefully remove Fiddleford’s prosthetic and cleans his wounds, holding him steady even as Fiddleford writhes against the pain of that awful antiseptic against torn flesh. Once Ford has a cap on the bottle and is blotting away the excess blood and liquid, Fiddleford slumps against him. Ford carefully maneuvers around him to bandage the wound properly, mumbling gently all the while. Stan can’t make out the words, but he can guess what he’s saying.

Ford had never been one for reassurances. When he used to patch Stan up all those years ago, he’d run through everything he was doing and why. If he ran out of things to say on that topic, he’d just start talking about whatever else was on his mind. It gave Stan something to focus on other than the pain, so he’d always appreciated that. He can’t tell if Fiddleford feels the same way, can’t read his expression or body language beyond ‘pained’ at this distance.

Once he’s taken care of, Ford leans against the opposite wall of the cave with a visible sigh. Fiddleford carefully maneuvers himself to curl into Ford’s lap, burying his face in his stomach and fisting his hand into the back of his shirt. Ford takes off his coat, and lays it over him. The cave is honestly pretty hot if you ask Stan, but the gesture is nice.

“I’ll take first watch,” Ford calls, loud enough to echo through the cave. Fiddleford flinches at the loud noise, and Stan does the same, quickly adjusting his leg to make sure his arm is hidden from view.

His attempt doesn’t matter, because Ford isn’t even looking. He runs a hand through Fiddleford’s hair as he burrows his face deeper into Ford’s stomach.

Stan scoffs quietly. He’s a grown man. Stan hasn’t looked for comfort in another person since he was like, ten.

It does look kind of nice, though. He hasn’t trusted anyone to look after him the way Ford is looking after Fiddleford in over a decade; even Ford got too busy to tend to his every bruise and scrape eventually, and Stan learned to stop bothering him. He learned to set his own nose at fifteen and never looked back.

Eventually, Ford will get tired and he’ll wake up Stan to get him to take watch. Once that happens, Stan will grab the bottle of antiseptic and the roll of bandages and patch himself up. Until then, Stanley rolls his sleeve back down, and tries to make himself comfortable.

•••

Stan wakes up to something jostling his shoulder. That never means anything good. Without even thinking, he scrambles away from the touch, kicking against the ground. His legs barely react, and a dull ache rages through his entire body at the movement.

Oh, he’s in a real bad way. Even more reason to get the fuck away. His eyelids feel thick as he forces them open. As expected, someone is looming over him.

His arm twitches towards his pocket, but that’s as far as he gets. His whole body hurts, but his arm’s definitely the worst of it, maybe followed by his chest. It’s hard to breathe. He has no idea how much of that is panic and how much of it is whatever happened to him.

Either way, he’s not about to let himself die here. He doesn’t even know where ‘here’ is. The ground is hard beneath him and the wall is hard behind him and it’s hot. He’s sweating like hell, but what else is new.

“Ge’way,” Stan slurs, raising his other, slightly less painful arm to defend himself.

“Stanley!” a voice scolds, and the hand releases him. Whoever’s looming over him even takes a step back. “What is the matter with you?”

The voice sounds familiar, but that barely even registers. This person called him by his actual name.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Stan says, words coming a bit easier now.

“It’s me, Stanford! Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

Oh, he got into some real bad stuff. As Stan continues to blink blearily at the person, their features resolve into something very similar to his own.

This isn’t the first time his addled mind has conjured up a vision of his twin, but it’s a punch in the gut every time. To make matters worse, there’s someone actually here, and his stupid brain is trying to convince him it’s Ford. It’s not Ford. It’s never been Ford and it never will be. The last thing he could remember is…

Shit.

“… Ford?”

He blinks a few more times. The face glaring down at him remains that of his twin brother.

“It’s morning,” Ford says. “Well, it’s midday, actually, but either way, the rain has stopped and we should be looking for a way out of here.”

“Shoul’ Fidds be movin’ around so soon?” Stan says. Personally, Stan doesn’t feel great about moving around so soon, but he’s not about to say anything for his own sake.

“I shoul’ be fine,” Fiddleford chimes in. “Not lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know the rest of the local wildlife here.”

“Yeah… yeah, le’s get outta here,” Stan agrees. He steadies himself with his uninjured hand and tries to use it to push himself up. He can’t get his legs underneath himself. That's no good.

“Come on, Stanley,” Ford says impatiently.

“I’m working on it,” Stan snaps, trying to sound irritated instead of panicked. “I’m not as young as I used to be, ya know.”

“We’re 27, that’s hardly an applicable excuse,” Ford scoffs.

“Myeh myeh myeh,” Stan mumbles mockingly.

“Y’alright, Stanley?” Fiddleford asks, supporting himself against Ford as he approaches.

“Tch, yeah, of course,” Stan grumbles, and tries again.

His entire body protests, but he manages to stand. His leg spasms beneath him, and he stumbles. He reaches out to steady himself, but his arm doesn’t react as quickly as he hopes, ends up just smacking his injured forearm against the cave wall. Sharp, sudden pain shoots through him, so intense that he feels his stomach lurch. He grits his teeth against the surge of nausea, cupping his other hand over his mouth and telling himself he is not going to vomit until it sticks.

“Stanley!” Fiddleford frets, leaving Ford’s side to reach for Stan. Stan smacks his hand away with a bleary glare. His eyelids still feel weird.

“I’m fine. Just a head rush, you know how it is,” Stan says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I…” Fiddleford glances between Stan and Ford. Without anyone to hold on to, his hand flutters down to his abdomen, gently cupping it over his bandaged wound. “Y’know, I said I’d be alright, but I’m already feelin’ a little…”

Ford looks to him with alarm. Fiddleford meets his eyes, and there’s something calculating in his expression. He’s aiming for a very specific reaction, and not even trying to hide his search. If Stan could think straight, he’d probably be able to catch onto his game, easy.

“Are you okay? Do you— should I check your stitches? Nothing tore, right?” Ford falls for it without a second thought.

“No, no, I think I just need another day of rest,” Fiddleford says, and there’s a caution to his expression that’s only half-faked. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Ford says softly. “I may not have been the most… considerate of your physical and mental limitations in the past, but I truly am trying my best to rectify such transgressions. If you want to rest, we shall rest.”

So that’s his game. Why, though? Is he just testing Ford, seeing how far he can push him until he stops playing nice? He might not be fully lying, it probably is too soon for him to be moving, but he was specifically gunning for this result for reasons beyond his own injury. He had a point, earlier, when he was talking about dangerous wildlife or whatever, so what changed?

He's missing something that’s staring him right in the face, he’s sure of it.

“Thank you, Stanford,” Fiddleford sighs. “Sorry to get you up for nothin’ Stanley.”

Stan grunts, and holds his arm as still as possible to avoid further irritation. Just to spite him, his arm twitches against his will. Pain pulses through him with each rapid beat of his heart. He's not actively panicking anymore, but his pulse is still racing. That's no good.

He tightens his grip on his upper arm. He could swear he feels the rush of toxic blood from the wound to his heart beneath his palm. Spiders have venom, and Stan’s been injected with it.

Spiders aren’t that dangerous, Ford told him that again and again. He was always sticking up for the weird little animals that everyone hates. Only two spiders in the US have venom that could kill a person. Bites are few and far between. Lethal ones being even fewer and farther between. None of that really applies to giant fuck-off big spider in an alternate dimension though. Do bigger spiders have stronger venom? Does that make sense? A bigger spider definitely has more venom, those fangs were as big as Stan’s hand.

How fucked is Stan, on a scale from one to ten? Being locked in a car trunk in the deserts of Nevada during a heatwave was probably a nine, so maybe he’d rank this at a seven. The uncertainty could probably boost it up to an eight, though.

When he ended up in that trunk, he’d already been in plenty of bad situations with a head injury and his hands tied behind his back. He’d even had heat stroke before, knew the symptoms and survived them once before. On some level, he knew what to do and what to expect, and he survived.

Right now, he didn’t know what to do or what to expect. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive.

Maybe it’s a nine.

“Lee?” Fiddleford asks gently. Despite his tone, Stan flinches away, sinking against the wall. He didn’t mean to do that. His legs feel so weak. It hurts. Everything hurts and it’s hard to breathe.

“Stanley, are you alright?” Ford asks, and it’s weird to have his concern again. It’s been over a decade. It was weird to see him fret over Fiddleford, but this is definitely weirder.

“Feel… not so good,” Stan admits. He doesn’t mean to, but most of his body isn’t listening to him, so why should his big dumb mouth?

“Oh, Stanley…” Fiddleford whispers. “What happened?”

“Bit. Nasty lil’… fucker… stupid fangs…”

“Chelicerae,” Ford corrects, seemingly without thinking. He kneels down in front of Stan, holding out a hand. Part of Stan wants to flinch away, but he counts the fingers and can’t bring himself to.

One two three four five, the thumb makes six. The thumb isn’t technically a finger. Is that true? Ford would know. He’s always been called a six-fingered freak, so it doesn’t really matter. One two three four five six.

“Where’d it get you, Lee?”

Lee. Stan wishes Ford still called him Lee. How long has it been?

Fiddleford is nice, but he’s not his brother. He missed his brother so much. He still misses him.

“Stanley, where did it get you?” Ford says, a bit more harshly. No, not harsh, just firm. Stan’s heart stutters anyway. He doesn’t want Ford to be mad at him anymore.

Ford is still holding out his hand. Oh, Stanley gets it now. Even though he really wants to lean forward and press his forehead to Ford’s hand, he extends his arm instead. It’s shaking.

“‘S hot in here,” he says.

“It’s really not, but we should get you outta that jacket anyhow,” Fiddleford says, reaching for Stan.

Fiddleford is nice, but he flinches away anyway, curling closer to Ford. Fiddleford doesn’t push the issue. He takes his hand back, holds it awkwardly in front of his chest. Ford used to do that too, before he got into the habit of hiding his hands. Made him look like a t-rex.

“D’you still like dinosaurs?” Stan tries to say. He’s pretty sure most of the noises come out, but Ford doesn’t respond to him either way. He just carefully starts rolling up Stan’s sleeve.

He didn’t want Ford to see his arm. He doesn’t exactly remember why, he’s having a hard time thinking that far back, but it seems important. He tries to pull away. He’s always been stronger than Ford, but it doesn’t work.

Is it Ford holding his arm?

One two three four five six. In all his time traveling, he’s never met someone like Ford.

It’s definitely Ford. The brush of cloth hurts and he doesn’t want Ford to see, but it’s Ford. He’s really good at secrets, but not when it comes to his brother.

“Shit,” Ford says sharply, hand tightening around his wrist. “Sweet Moses, Stanley, what were you thinking!?”

Oh, right, that’s why Stan didn’t want him to see. He’s mad.

“Tha’s your job…” Stan says, trying very hard to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ford continues.

He probably heard him, he just doesn’t care.

He misses when his brother cared about him. He misses his brother.

“Stanley!” he scolds, and Stan swallows back a pathetic noise. He sounds like Pa when he talks like that.

One two three four five six. The grip on his wrist is firm, steadying the shaking, but the fingers tracing the reddened skin around the bite are gentle.

Pa wasn’t always cruel, but he was never ever gentle.

Ma was. Her hands were bony and shook more often than not, but they were gentle.

He misses Ma too. He’ll probably never see her again. She’s getting old. She’ll die and only one son will attend her funeral.

Shermie keeps in touch with her. Stan calls when he can but he loses track of time so easily. Ford does too. How often does he call? Does he answer when she does? Despite everything, he always answered Stan’s calls, even though he never said anything. Because he never said anything, actually. How quickly would he have hung up if he knew who was on the other end?

Ford is talking. He sounds frantic. He can’t decide whether the fear is better or worse than the anger.

“I’m ‘kay,” Stan tries, flailing his injured hand in an attempt to pat Ford’s arm soothingly. His fingers brush against him, but that’s about it.

“No, you’re not,” Ford growls, returning his attention to Stan. It was off him, for a second, he was talking to… “that’s the problem, Stanley, how could you hide this from us?”

“I ain’t happy about it either, but now’s not the time for a lecture,” Fiddleford says, right, yeah, Fiddleford.

“What is it time for?” Ford says, more desperate than combative.

“It’s time to see what all’s goin’ on. If we get an idea as to the toxin, we can figure out how best to deal with it,” Fiddleford says, sitting down beside Ford. “Hey, Stanley, can you answer a few questions for me?”

Stan looks to Ford for guidance. He seems confused, but he nods.

“Please,” Ford requests.

“Mhm,” Stan says, nodding once.

“Alright, thank you,” Fiddleford says, reaching over to Ford and shoving a hand into his coat. He fishes out one of those journals he’s always carrying around, and surprisingly, Ford lets him. He flips to an empty page, clicks the pen a few times, and nods to himself.

“Can you describe your symptoms, or should I give you some yes or no questions?”

Stan shrugs one shoulder.

“I’s hot, and my stomach kinda hurts,” Stan says haltingly. “Everything kinda hurts, actually, feels stiff, an’ it’s a lil hard t’ breathe, an’ my eyes feel weird.”

Fiddleford scribbles this all down quickly. He doubts his notes will be legible to anyone other than himself later. He looks more and more troubled the more he writes, and the expression is mirrored by Ford.

“‘s not so bad,” Stan tries, and the grip on his wrist tightens. Fiddleford huffs unhappily, looking up at Stan.

“Lemme see those peepers,” Fiddleford says, not even acknowledging Stan’s attempt at reassurance.

He leans in close, and Stan leans away. Fiddleford isn’t particularly scary, but he’s got the capacity to be. Stan feels pretty frail right now.

If he’s feeling pretty frail, the last thing he should do is show it. He should push this guy back twice as hard as he’s pushed him.

His free fist curls weakly against the ground. That's about as far as it gets. A painful spasm jolts up his arm.

“Swollen,” Fiddleford says, and he leans away. “How’s his pulse?”

“Elevated,” Ford admits. He sounds scared.

“‘s not that bad,” Stan tries again.

“Stop saying that!” Ford snaps, loud and harsh.

Stan flinches, squeezing his eyes shut.

Fuck. They got into plenty of arguments as kids, but the last time Ford used that tone with him—

“Quit your barking, boy!” Fiddleford scolds, smacking Ford upside the head.

There's no real force to it, more of a pat than a smack. Stan jolts anyway, trying to pull Ford closer. His arm just twitches in his grip.

“Believe me when I say I ain’ happy ‘bout this either, not ‘bout Stanley getting hurt in the firs’ place, not ‘bout him hidin’ it, and not ‘bout his constant downplayin’ o’ somethin’ so serious,” Fiddleford says, accent so thick and words so fast Stan barely catches any of them. “But he’s in a real bad way right now, and you yellin’ at him ain’ helping!”

“I’m not yelling!” Ford yells.

Fiddleford just scoffs and turns away.

“Sounds ta me like a neurotoxin,” Fiddleford says, carefully calm now that his attention is on Stanley.

“Neuro, like, brain?”

That sounds bad. That sounds real bad.

“Neuro like neural tissue, the nervous system at large,” Fiddleford says, and then, a bit more quickly, like he doesn’t want Stan to hear it, “not just the brain, but certainly including it, yes.”

Well.

Shit.

That’s a new form of brain damage for him to blame his stupidity on. Assuming he even makes it out of this alive.

“If it makes ya feel better, I’ve gotten quite a hefty dose of neurotoxin m’self, and the only lastin’ damage was psychological!” Fiddleford says with a shaky grin.

Ford’s grip tightens around Stan’s wrist.

“Really?” Stan asks. He’s not sure if he’s curious or seeking reassurance. Probably a little bit of both.

“Spent a solid day barfin’ my guts out, so you’re doin’ better than me.”

“… that does kinda make me feel better, actually.”

“Happy t’ help,” Fiddleford says, faintly amused. “I’m gonna go get my bag. I know it’ll hurt, but we gotta clean out those wounds.”

Stan’s shoulder aches at the mere thought.

“It would have been easier and more effective if we cleaned it out when these wounds were first opened,” Ford mumbles angrily. The fingers poking around the wound get a bit harsher, and Stan’s arm jerks. His fingers go soft again, an apology he refuses to actually voice.

“But we didn’t,” Fiddleford says. “It’d be easier if none of us got hurt in the first place, but that didn’t happen either. We just gotta make the best of what we ended up with.”

“You’re being incredibly permissive,” Ford grumbles.

“I ain’t his dad,” Fiddleford scoffs, grabbing his bag. “I ain’t about to go lecture him when he’s already sufferin’ for his choices.”

Stan mumbles something about his own dad and insult to injury (further injury to injury?) and Fiddleford’s parenting, but even in his own head it doesn’t end up making any sense.

Fiddleford returns, and Stan is suddenly reminded of what they were doing in the first place. As Stan tries to shy away, Ford’s grip tightens around his wrist, and the other grips him at the elbow. One two three four five six fingers wrapped around his arm. Counting them is the only thing that keeps him from kicking away. Well, that and the stiff ache of every part of his dumb body, but he’s even less likely to admit to that.

“Sorry, Lee,” Fiddleford mumbles, carefully wiping away the dried blood with a damp cloth. “Shoot, it really did a number on ya, huh?”

“It’s…” Stan suddenly remembers Ford’s reaction to his earlier dismissals, and decides on, “yeah, guess so.”

Fiddleford starts to rub at the scabs, gently wiping away what little protection had formed there. It certainly hurts, but Stan knows it’s only going to get worse.

“So, we just clean it out and hope for the best?” Stan asks between gritted teeth.

“‘fraid so, ‘less we find a horse and a couple months of free time before you recover.”

“A horse?” Stan echoes, baffled.

“Yeup. You synthesize an antivenom by injecting a horse with a small dose of the relevant toxin over time,” Fiddleford explains, wiping away the blood that wells up to replace the scabs. “It builds up some antibodies that can be isolated and injected alongside an anti-inflammatory… which I suppose we also don’t have.”

“Why a horse?” Stan asks, watching wearily as Fiddleford rings the cloth out and soaks it again with the antibiotic. Antiseptic? Which was it? Was there a difference? There’s a topic to distract them with once they’re done talking.

“… y’know, I don’t rightly know.”

“I suppose it may work with any mammal,” Ford muses, glancing towards the way into the body of the cave.

“Don’t even think about it, fella,” Fiddleford snaps, and Stan feels himself lose track of the conversation. “Stanley’s gonna be just fine without you doin’ anythin’ stupid.”

“Obviously! It’s just… something to consider in the future.”

“It absolutely ain’t. If any of us get poisoned, none of the rest of us are gonna start poisoning ourselves to try an’ fix it!” Fiddleford insists. “And besides, if we did, I would be the one to do it since I’ve already been dosed with neurotoxins!”

“We have no idea how chemically similar this spider’s venom is to that of the Gremloblin, despite the somewhat similar symptoms!” Ford protests, releasing Stan’s arm like he’s about to start gesturing before he puts it back. “Any antibodies you developed, supposing that they haven’t already been lost, may be entirely irrelevant!”

“And besides, it’s a gradual process that wouldn’t be of any use to us now, we have no way to isolate the antibodies, and injection without an anti-inflammatory could cause an allergic response that’d only worsen the condition,” Fiddleford agrees. “So this ain’t a particularly useful line of thinkin’ at all.”

As the period to that particular conclusion, Fiddleford finally presses the wet cloth to Stan’s wounds. For a split second, he thinks, huh, that’s not so bad, before the pain sets in quickly and very, very intensely.

The bite has hurt like hell ever since he first got it, and it’s only been getting worse. The gradual increase in pain spikes, so intense and sudden that Stan can’t muffle a cry as his vision goes white. He tries to breathe in, but his chest locks up, his entire body seizing.

Oh fuck, Stan thinks, and that’s the only thing he can think for a long time. Maybe not so long. It could last anywhere between a few seconds to several hours, Stan has no idea.

Fiddleford and Ford are talking, but it’s just noise to him. Stan grits his teeth so hard he’s certain he can hear them creaking. He wonders if his partials or his actual teeth are tougher. He feels like both of them are seconds away from shattering. He’s seconds away from shattering. Ford’s grip on his arm is tight enough to hurt but it’s nothing in comparison to the white-hot agony between his hands.

He thinks he might hate Fiddleford, actually. He can’t keep getting away with this.

•••

He comes back to himself eventually. For some reason, he’s laying down now, no idea when that happened. His head in Ford’s lap and his arm propped up on a small stack of stones blanketed in Stan’s jacket. It still hurts like a bitch, but at least he can think straight. Straighter. Still not entirely straightly.

His arm is all bandaged up now, which is nice. As Stan glances around what little bits of the cave he can see without moving his neck, he realizes he can’t see Fiddleford. Stupidly, that’s a bit of a relief.

Ford has held him in place while Fiddleford poured white hot acid all over his wounds, but it’s Ford. Ford could dissect him alive without anything to help with the pain and he’d still trust him with his life. That’s his brother.

He blinks blearily up at Ford’s face. He’s not looking at him. He’s looking down at a book he’s got sitting on the ground next to Stan’s head, tapping a five-fingered rhythm against the pages.

Stan hums, just because he can. Ford jolts, and Stan hears the paper wrinkle beneath his fingers. Oops.

“Stanley! Hello, are you— how are you feeling?” Ford says, looking down at Stan like he’s a weird bug. A cool weird bug that he cares about, maybe, but there’s that bright-eyed scientific curiosity.

Bad. So so bad I feel terrible, part of him wants to respond, loud and stupid and childish. Do you remember how you used to run your fingers through my hair when I was sick, even though Ma and Pa told you to stay away so you wouldn’t get sick too? And then you would get sick, and I had to take care of you. I miss that, I miss you, I love you.

I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse, another says, practical and honest. Probably feeling a bit better than I was last time I was conscious.

Totally fine, another part insists. Let’s get outta here.

“Mmmgh,” he settles on. “Could be worse.”

“How would you rate your current pain on a scale from zero to ten, with zero being no pain at all, and ten being such severe pain that you can’t move, think, or speak?” Ford asks. “Well, I suppose it’s not a ten, since you’re speaking mostly coherently.”

Ten! Ten! We’re dying, you have to save us!

Maybe a seven. My brain’s a scrambled egg but most of it is saying ouch.

Zero, we’re fine, let’s go.

“Eh, a five I guess?” Stan says, rounding down.

“I see, so about a seven,” Ford muses, followed by the scrape of a pen against paper.

“Hey!” Stan barks.

He’s kind of mad that Ford doesn’t believe him, but the rest of him is so, so happy. His dumb genius of a brother remembers him, he knows him, they still speak the same language.

“You’ve always been this way, Lee,” Ford says, and his eyes return to Stan’s face.

Lee. Lee Lee Lee. Ford stopped calling him that in what, high school? Even earlier? The sudden return of their childhood nickname stirs such a flurry of emotions that he stops breathing. His chest hurts in general, but there’s suddenly a pleasant edge to that pain.

He huffs out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a whine. He’s embarrassed by how emotional he’s feeling, but he can’t stop staring up at Ford’s face, even as his vision starts to blur. He blinks to clear it, ignoring the wetness running down his cheek, and gets to watch as Ford’s eyes go wide.

He’s got dark circles. He always does. Bill can’t follow them everywhere, but Ford still avoids sleep whenever he can.

“Why are you crying?” Ford asks, then immediately winces. Stan huffs out a laugh. He’s so bad at being comforting.

“‘m not,” Stan scoffs, and he doesn’t even care if Ford believes him. “It’s cave dust, genius.”

Ford’s lips twitch, even as his brows remain furrowed.

“Yes, alright,” Ford says placatingly. “Do you think you can sit up?”

“Pfft, yeah, easy, done it a million times before,” Stan says, even as his stomach rolls in protest to the muscles flexing around it.

Ford helps him up anyway, one hand on his back, the other holding his arm steady as he props him up against the wall of the cave. Now that he’s up and able to see more than what’s directly above him, he can see Fiddleford tinkering with some scrap metal on the other side of the cave. He’s staring over at Stan, but as soon as their eyes meet he just gives him a tight smile and looks away. For all of his usual fretting, he stays where he is.

“Some water,” Ford says, drawing Stan’s attention.

He’s holding out a packet of water, the lid already twisted off. They’re running low, and Fiddleford hasn’t finished his water filter, hasn’t put together everything he needs for it.

Stan hesitates to take it, but Ford just shoves it into his hand. Stan doesn’t really have the energy to fight it. The moment the water hits his tongue, he realizes just how thirsty he is.

He hums appreciatively, slumping against the cave wall. Fiddleford told him something about drinking slowly at some point? Eh. If he’s going slow, it's only because holding up his arm for long enough to drain the packet is kinda a pain.

As soon as he’s done with the water, Ford exchanges the empty packet for a food bar.

Stan frowns down at it. His stomach rolls, but he can’t really tell if it’s hunger or nausea.

Moses, he’d kill for some plain crackers to test the water. Acid. Stomach acid.

He really does not want to eat this thing. He’s fairly sure the only thing that kept him from throwing up earlier (yesterday? He has no idea how long he’s been out) was his empty stomach. An empty stomach that’s only getting emptier. Stan should know better than to turn up his nose to a free meal.

Ugh.

Stan sighs, but tears it open and nibbles at one corner. His stomach tenses in anticipation, and a dull ache laces through his jaw. It tastes fine, and his stomach doesn’t hurt any worse, but he finds himself exhausted by the time he’s done.

It must be pretty bad, because even Ford seems to pick up on it. He eases him back down. He’s still sweating like a hog, but his skin has erupted into goosebumps and he misses the familiar comfort of his ratty jacket around him. He’s glad it’s nearby, at least. He means to run the fingers of his injured arm along the fabric of his jacket, but can’t manage much more than a twitch. So that’s still beyond his capabilities. Noted.

“Hey, Ford…?” he mumbles.

“Yes, Stanley?”

Thank you. I love you. Why are you being so nice to me?

“Shouldn’ we get a move on?”

“We will,” Ford says softly, and he runs his fingers through Stan’s hair. “As soon as you’re feeling better.”

[carolmunson]

carol’s at the laundromat — and a new character appears.

The sun is spilling in just right on the silver dryers on the back wall — whir, whir, whirring their spring cleaning drawl.

“Wait, stay juuusssst like that — perfect,” Robin encourages, pulling out her Polaroid camera while you’re bent over loading in her clothes. The flash glares bright in your eyes when snaps the picture and catches it right when the camera spits it out.

“Rob, my back isn’t built to hold this pose,” you laugh, “Also, why am I doing your laundry?”

“Cause you’re so pretty and the light was hitting you perfectly,” she shrugs, snapping another picture at your annoyed face, “Maybe not in that one.”

Her camera goes back around her neck and the half finished blow pop goes back in her mouth, stretching her freckled cheek. A breeze comes in when the door opens, a whoosh of a warm breeze with the promise of a long summer kisses you both — still in jean jackets and long pants.

“That doesn’t answer my question, why am I doing your laundry?” you ask, closing the door and leaning against dryer, feeling it heat up on your back.

She shrugs, “I dunno, you scooched me away when I didn’t separate my darks from my lights.”

“Well, Rob you can’t just—”

There’s a wrap on the front windows, sharp enough to know that its rings on glass. The sweat on your back from the dryer goes cold, you don’t look up when you hear Robin squeal.

“Finally,” she calls out, bounding out the front door that stays open on its hinge, “Took you forever.”

“Sorry, had to wait for Harrington for some wheels,” his voice sends a pit into your stomach, you stay staring at your sneakers on the dirty linoleum tile.

“Where’s my guy?” Robin’s raspy voice muses.

“Over a block or two,” he laughs, “Doesn’t wanna get in trouble or some shit.”

“Whatever,” you can hear her roll her eyes, but even worse, you can hear the crunch of his boots come into the laundromat, “Let me just grab my wallet.”

You look up to see her hold her hand out for her fanny pack which is tucked into her laundry bag still in your hand. You look down and back up with a quiet, “Oh! Sorry.”

The deal takes ten seconds total, but ten seconds is long enough to make your skin crawl. The scent of his cologne mixed with leather and weed fills your nose; he’s standing too close to you and he knows that.

“What, you don’t wanna say hi?” he drawls. Your gaze slowly rises up from his boots to his jeans to his chest to his chin — that smirk, those glittering eyes.

“Do I have to?” you retort, your body numb with uncertainty.

“Heh,” he lets out, grimacing, “Guess not. Figured you —”

“Eddie Munson!” a shrill voice calls from the back room, “Eddie Munson if you’re not here to do laundry I don’t wanna see your face in my business!”

“Aww Marj, you’re breakin’ my heart,” he teases, turning around to shout back at Ol’ Marj with both hands on dramatically holding his chest, “Can’t a guy come here and launder some cash?”

“OUT!” she yells, “Before I call the chief down here!”

He sucks his teeth, shoulders rounding when he drops his hands, “Welp, see ya later Rob.”

“Bye! Tell Steve I — we — said hi!” Robin waves with her Blow Pop in her hands, the click of it on her teeth obvious when she puts it back in her mouth. A final whiff of him lingers in your nose when he whisks out of the laundromat without a second thought, disappearing down the street to Steve’s car.

“You both really gotta talk things out,” Robin tuts, pulling her sandy hair up in a bun at the back of her head with a scrunchie, “It’s like pulling teeth watching you try to be civil.”

“We broke up,” you shrug, “It’s gonna be weird.”

“I dunno,” she shrugs back, “I feel like you guys either gotta fight it out or fuck it out — whatever happened. Just…I miss my friends being altogether.”

“I know,” you sigh, defeated, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Well you better do it soon,” she mumbles, looking over the baggies in her hand, “‘Cause he owes me another dime bag.”

[system-of-a-feather]

Full Integration, Final Fusion, Functional Multiplicitly, and General "Spirituality"

(Disclaimer: this is a very long post)

Heyyo, this is a bit of a hodgepodge of connected topics that I was thinking on this morning. For those that don't know, after like three months of being a really solid fused whole, we really decided that we needed to redivide back into our core parts to recenter, rebalance, and reorganize ourselves since our fused whole was loosing sight / vision of the "plot". We don't consider this "splitting" because we are still in - what we like to call "full integration" - and we don't really engage in much dissociation when we do this as the means of how we do this largely stems from the way we perceive, engage with, and view the concept of "self" and "identity." Our system highly values the mastery and art of a very fluid and ever changing sense of identity and self. This morning - thank you Chunn brain for batting our collective brain from the usual urge to get out of bed and get started with our day to give us time to really sit with our inner selves - we spent about an hour and a half and a small half hour nap just laying there thinking among ourselves and I wanted to share a few.

I think at the moment I am still mostly a fused whole and I had considered trying to go to Ray or Lin for them to write this, but it didn't feel right to go to Ray brain and Lin brain directly told me "Dude, this thought line started with Riku-dominant fused brain, trying to have someone else write it would be a disservice to the reflection. Let Riku or Riku-dominant fused brain do it, it's their thought." and you know, fair point. I think I'll use this post as a temporary "bye few thoughts" and love letter to our parts as a fused whole before leaving it to the individual specialists to do their things.

So introduction to this post aside, hello and temporary soon to be farewell before I choose to temporarily redivide into my main parts. Today is May 15, 2024 and I'm gonna document this a bit for when I come back whenever that is and kind of see if my fused-whole perspective and nature changes - mostly for myself. Online I go by Feathers, irl I just go by our chosen name.

I'm a (mostly, technically non-denominational independent, but most of my views and perspectives come from and align closely with) Zen Buddhist. I'm nonbinary vaguely transmasc (not really though?) intersex individual with the pronouns of they/them. I am extremely pro-endo and if I honestly felt like sticking around longer, I was thinking about writing a much more nuanced essay on tulpa-terminology discourse with my current reflections as a fused whole and as a pretty avid Buddhist but, unforunately, unless one of my parts still shares the same insight AND interest, that essay will have to wait for me to potentially be back (hey, Riku or Chunn might still want to who knows). I dunno what else to say, I love bird, Bleach, walking, driving, listening to music, video games, writing, art? I dunno man, I'm just me.

Documentation aside anyways, I gotta figure out where I want to start. I think I will actually piss my high-school English teachers off and start with the LAST thing in the title card. I might loose a lot of close minded white anti-endos here, but hey, if you are that close minded, then its your loss cause I'm just talking about late-stage recovery as a person with diagnosed DID that is considered polyfragmented. It's a fun conversation to have with other people with DID aiming for recovery so, if you're hell bent on hating people talking about plurality form a non-DID lens enough to disregard cool information, that's your loss. (Thank you XIV brain, crediting that to you for part of our goal today)

Buddhism, Spirituality, Plurality and Our Perspective of Full Integration

According to Buddhism, and one of the largest concepts and principles of Buddhism that we believe the most in and actively work to practice and cultivate the mindset of - is that the concept of "I" and the concept of a singular, distinct, and separate self from the world and others simply does not exist - only the experience and illusion of experience exists. I was talking about it with @quoigenicfromhell in DMs since they were interested in talking shop about Buddhism.

To save myself a whole effort of rewriting a discussion on how one can hold together the clear sensation of existing and being an individual with the idea and Buddhist understanding that the "self" does not exist, I'm going to copy a little bit of what I wrote in response to them. If it doesn't make sense cause its in a bit of Buddhist jargon, then oh well, I'm lazy, it's written for an audience that has done some reading and looking into Buddhist thought so RIP yall srry not srry (Thank you Chunn brain lol)

Honestly the development and understanding of holding those two things together (the non-self and non-existence with the clear experience of self and existence) is largely a lot of exploration on the understanding and respect for the experience without applying too much value or regard to said experience. Its kind of a hard thing to understand just based off of words alone and like all things Buddhism, its one of those sorts of things you really gotta sit on and explore in your own mental space, but like

The experience of self and personhood and existence is a denied concept in Buddhist thought, but its not a bad or incorrect thing, the experience of self and existence is kind of considered an inherent expression of life and the world and while its important to be cognicent that it is an illusion that can cause suffering and muddy an individuals ability to see Things As They Are, the experience and illusion of self is additionally an entirely natural thing to experience and is an important part of being able to, well, be

I kinda of personally perceive it kind of similarly to say a part in a system. Innately the part is not (at least in my experiences of systemhood) a literal entire separate being and thats an important thing to acknowledge for a number of reasons (life organization and direction, system accountability, etc) but its would also be incredibly foolish to completely ignore that the part operates, experiences themselves, and lives in the world (both inner and outer) as if they were an individual of their own

In the same sense that a part in a system can be seen both as an individual and a part of a whole / collective depending on what perspective and demands the moment needs. An individual can be seen both as the individual expression of a self informed by the arguably incorrect illusion of isolation OR as a part of the whole worlds expression depending on what serves the moment the best. I largely kind of see myself as part of a system that is the world much like I see my parts as part of a system that is "me". While the self may be an illusion, its not an experience that can be denied and it is an innate expression that in its own right can prove to be a great teacher So you deny the concept of a self but respect and revere the experience and innate natural expression of self

With that context in mind, while we do not believe in the concept of self and find that trying to seek out a concrete idea of a singular person and singular self in society is a source of extreme suffering, stress, and displeasure, we DEEPLY revere and honor the expression of self. As we see it, in a complete ideal and impossible the world would be in perfect harmony if we let the world express itself as it naturally does. We find that the experiences of self - in whatever form they take - are inherent and natural expressions of the world as a whole and to try to shape oneself to fit a specific image - may that be societally imposed or internally / personally imposed or a sense of envy or any sort of clinging or desire to a specific version / image of self - is a disrespect to the innate beauty found in the natural expression and a means of adding disharmony into the world.

As a result, our system and whole aims deeply, above almost all else to exist simply as we naturally would in any moment time to time. If we find that something we are doing with our sense of self is drawn and influenced too much on a "I should" or "I want" or "I wish" or "I hope" then we tend to pause, self reflect, and ask if we are actually existing in our natural state, or are we trying to fight against our natural state of self to fit into a self-imposed idea of what we "should be".

As a result of that, our system deeply values our flexibility, fluidity, and ability to change any aspect of ourselves, any opinion we hold, any identity label we consider, and our overall presentation in all ways and forms to a very high level. The desire to be consistent and predictable serves us little in simply practicing on "being" and finding the true and simply-run life that we want. That then results in why our system so casually flips around in system size, fusions, redivisions, how we refer to ourselves, etc. We find very little value in committing to labels and concepts and do whatever is natural for us.

Additionally, another large aspect of Buddhism our system deeply reveres and appreciates is the acknowledgement that there are "Buddhas" - or in less Jargon terms, potential for everything both internal and external to be teachers and guides into finding a sense of peace and simplicity in the world - and that it is deeply important to cultivating peace, happiness, and insight to actively always be seeking out the "Buddha" in everything and everyone. It's important to reflect, engage with, and talk with those "Buddhas" as they are the best and number one way to gain the insight that brings happiness and peace into life and removes excessive suffering and stress.

As many Buddhists agree (at least of the Mahayanan branches), everyone is inherently a Buddha because the world and everything is a Buddha. The only issue people have is that they can not connect, hear, and see clearly enough to be in that state due to a large number of human conditions - one large one being the aforementioned illusion of self.

Having lived my life as someone with DID and having gone through a lot of trauma therapy, self reflection, communication and coordination with my parts, and all that to the point we have reached functional multiplicity over a year plus ago and been able to hold a fully fused state for over three months, I feel like its a given to say that of ALL things in the world, the "Buddha nature" of my parts have been the best and most insightful teachers I've ever had. We revere each other's strengths and specialties greatly as each of us have taught the other great strengths, great understandings, great insights, and great appreciations that have collectively brought us so much peace and happiness. It's not to say any part is "enlightened" because each part is also deeply flawed and struggling in their own realms, but it is largely by working and talking and supporting one another and ACTIVELY looking to one another for insight and lessons about the world and our existence that we are able to reach a uniquely peaceful space.

For us, its an incredibly important practice - both for self care and in the art / spirituality of Buddhism - to regularly talk and engage with these specialized and uniquely-wise (and uniquely stupid - thank you XIV) parts of ourselves to gain deeper insight and overall understanding of ourselves and our place in the world.

In the same sense, it is why - despite being completely capable of operating as a fully fused whole - we regularly choose to INTENTIONALLY redivide into our parts. And no, its not us "splitting again" or even really throwing up any real level of dissociation / dissociative barriers. If anything, we usually do this through meditation and mindfulness.

It's a Buddhist practice, its not a mental disorder and its not stemming from the same mechanism's DID stems from. It might operate *based* on the foundation our history with DID stems from, but at this point in our healing, the way our system operates at functional multiplicity that is intentionally chosen to be that way AFTER reaching "final fusion" has a number of differences from how it operated before we reached general full integration.

Again, for those more familiar with the tulpa-terminology discussion, you might be able to see where I would have a long post delving into a highly nuanced and more middle-ground perspective of that syscourse from the paragraph above this one, but I'm gonna leave that cause I already know this post is long and it would detract from the purpose.

At this point, my system is mostly an "intentionally created one" to Western label standards. We personally do not see any significance or binary in plural VS singular people beyond it being a label some people identify with and not. Plural VS Singular is a false binary perpetuated in white, western, and european society and while I respect that perspective and view in a space that is primarily filled with white, western, and/or european individuals, I am going to firmly state that and expect you to give me that same respect. (and if you refuse to give me that same respect, then you are close minded and being very white / western lmao <- thank you XIV, again)

And so the other related but slightly different topic away from the more philosophical, esoteric, mysticism sounding topic of Buddhism...

Full Integration, Final Fusion, and Functional Multiplicitly

At this point, what we used to call "Wishiwashi Recovery" we kind of have taken to just calling "full integration" generally as a means of really breaking apart the suggested categorical and boxed binary of "final fusion" and "functional multiplicity" as our own experience and discussion with other systems at and near full integration have made us realize that the difference between functional multiplicity and final fusion is FAR more a spectrum than it is two seperate categories. Some systems stick to one end, some to the others, but the largest difference is in external and internal expression of the parts and less any fundamental or biological / clinical difference; at least not in terms of integration. (Note: Integration =/= Fusion; Integration is the general connectivity and accessibility of parts with less / limited / no dissociation)

It's a false binary to say Final Fusion or Functional Multiplicity and its why a lot of the "ones bad and ones good" syscourse is dumb. They're two heads of the same Doduo and they should be kissing. (JOKING, thank you Riku-Aya brain)

With that said, our system, as we've made clear, regularly and freely practices sliding and flying all over that spectrum as just how we like to engage with ourselves. We change between the two as we see fit and having spent probably like 9~ months in functional multiplicity and 3~ months in final fusion I wanted to share some pros and cons of both sides.

I would also like to put a disclaimer that this isn't meant to be "positives and why this side sucks" as much as it is the differences in life style according to our opinion and our experience. Both final fusion and functional multiplicity are absolutely WONDERFUL things overall and we love both states. If we got "stuck" in either, we would still be immensely happy. The purpose of this part is just to share certain differences in how we experience the two different ends. The Cons in these case are only "cons" relative to the "alternative" and not "to not ever reaching either"

Functional Multiplicity Pros:

A lot more clear and direct communication between parts internally that allows for a SHIT ton of internal banter, productive conversation about complex topic and perspectives from unique and diverse perspectives; the communication is a lot more intentional and a lot more in focus so its easier to properly sit and attend to the complex differences and sometimes conflicting directions

It's honestly just a lot of fun, not gonna lie. A lot more dramatic and extravagant expression + brain friends in a more overt sense

Easier to let certain parts of the brain take "breaks" - it's not the same as it is with not-fully-integrated DID but compared to Full Fusion, certain parts of the brain can "tune out" easier than not

More palatable to DID / OSDD spaces online

Easier to focus and use a wide variety of skills, interests, hobbies, and thinking patterns by simply just having a specialist part take their look at it

Generally easier to target specific boxes to look into as you process all the newly accessible memories and information from being highly / fully integrated

Final Fusion Pros:

Quick and a lot more inherent understanding of all parts on a general gut level without necessarily needing to fully think about everything and listen to every opinion and perspective; there is a lot more of an inherent understanding, trust, and awareness of the collective whole which makes decision making and seeing whats good for the system as a whole a lot easier

It's honestly way more calming, relaxing, and solid feeling. There is a unique sense of confidence, understanding, and trust within yourself and you have a HUGE arsenal of skills and interests that come from the combined parts that you've lived as

You are a lot more present and aware of your life and you actually get to live YOUR life and have all parts of yourself be engaged in life; no part feels really left behind or is caught off guard from having their brain partially turned off. The awareness is really present and engagement is so much more complete.

More palatable in real life and non-DID/OSDD spaces

Easier to simultaneously use skills from multiple parts at once; very much a jack of all trades all at once situation

Generally easier to integrate multiple complex and otherwise seemingly detatched boxes of memory and the past as you process all the newly accessible memories and information from being highly / fully integrated

Functional Multiplicity Cons:

Takes more intention, focus, and often time to get the same level of full understanding of the whole system when making decisions. It can be slow and it requires a lot more internal engagement which can make it harder to be fully present in life

Sometimes you can get what I call "lite" amnesia where a part was not paying attention and doesn't fully process what was going on / what is going on and so sometimes you get poor attention-driven "amnesia". It's small and easily recovered by simply going "hold up wait" and thinking back or asking another part

Harder to use skills from different parts at the same time; albeit definitely still possible and only "harder" relative to final fusion

Generally harder / requires intentional discussion between parts to integrate multiple complex boxes as you process all the newly accessible memories and information from being highly / fully integrated

Final Fusion Cons:

Less direct and overt bantering and discussion between parts (still present by the way, just less frequent and less overt). It can be a little less fun (still is fun cause they are sill there) and it can be a bit harder to fully see the extent of a more extreme perspective

It can be tiring and overwhelming to be aware and present so much for so long if you were accustomed to the breaks DID / OSDD tends to give parts

Easier to forget to use a lot of the skills and hobbies that may have been more niche to less-dominant and less-prominent parts; you don't "loose" the skills, you just aren't accustomed to using them as much so you can just kinda forget to use them

Harder to focus on a targetted recovered memory / information that you want to process and can sometimes be a bit overwhelming trying to connect a number of things at once

And this is all just to say that both are absolutely astonishing and great places to mentally be. The main point is that - for us - sometimes one state works better for us in the moment and another state works better for us later and that's completely cool cause - as aforementioned - the difference between plural vs singular is not a binary one for us anyways.

Anyways, I don't know how to wrap this up so I'mma just post it

Ideally today we will focus on cultivating our independent parts and return to Functional Multiplicity end of the spectrum so I guess tata for now

-Feathers

EDIT and PS: Anyone is allowed to add their thoughts to this so long it is in good faith.

[allwormdiet]

Sentinel 9.1

Weld's lucky he's endearing, bc oh my god the ways he manages to step in it this arc

Bro, the city has been kaiju'd to hell, everyone who could use the airports to get out has gotten out, no money is gonna be made any time soon so business isn't happening, and nobody is dumb enough to come to Brockton Bay for pleasure right now. No shit the airport is empty. I'm more surprised that you're surprised by that.

Hey Piggot, sorry your job has gotten like a million times more stressful, hope you're hanging in there

Is robbing part of an airport profitable? That doesn't sound right but I don't know enough about airports or robbery to dispute it.

Also it's interesting to see economics and class inequality come up again, especially in the context of disaster response and response to disasters. The gap between rich and poor only gets wider in times of crisis, and the gap was already pretty fucking wide.

So, finally the PRT power classifications get laid out, having been introduced in Interlude 6 and mentioned again in 8.7. And it's mentioned explicitly as something that was used to sort out villains before eventually getting applied to heroes as well. Presumably an effort to know how to respond in case a hero goes off the rails, or maybe just trying to find more justifications to use the system. Dunno. Don't think it matters a ton in the grand scheme of things, trying to shove every power into a neat labeled box seems unproductive after a certain point.

Also yeah "Brute" is a bit of an unfortunate choice, with the additional yikes factor that they were specifically using it to describe villains at first. Like oh, don't worry about dishing out the punishment, it's a Brute after all.

I think Armsmaster would sooner chew off his other arm than retire, so there's definitely a story there

Also yeah Flechette locked in, as expected

This is the only real thing I can ding Piggot's standing for, I don't think it's hard to tell that a friendly rivalry would mean nothing in this context, so the fact that she's coming down on it for even existing feels like an overreaction. Then again, she's trying to bail out a battleship with a bucket, being humorless is hardly the worst offense in a time like this

"They weren't strictly homeless because they were squatting in abandoned commercial and industrial buildings" is certainly a perspective. When they talk about the intentions of Leviathan, it almost makes me wonder if the Docks were targeted to exacerbate things, get more people pissed and hurting and desperate. Between this, being able to target cities based off of social instability and potential media coverage, and possibly trying to eat or free Noelle, that's a lot of different factors possibly urging this attack and its behavior during said attack, and it might just be all of them at once. That's fucking freaky.

Also I think there was a mild slip-up here, calling Moist a Shifter instead of, I'm assuming, a Changer.

Shaper instead of Changer again

Interesting that Hookwolf is the head of the second Empire successor group, wonder if Krieg just didn't have the drive for leadership or got killed after the Endbringer stuff (thus not showing up on the memorial). Also mildly surprised that he's got the biggest number of parahumans.

The fact that the Pure have been rejected "for the time being" raises my hackles though, I've gotta be real. If the Protectorate/PRT actually stoop low enough to cooperate with fucking Nazis I'm gonna start feeling a lot less charitable

So three Masters is Skitter, Bitch, and Regent. I would guess that Skitter is the one they're concerned about, knowing Shadow Stalker's face, and that the other two would be who they consider possible sociopaths.

"Faultline's Crew" is a terrible name honestly. Coil and Faultline both just suck at naming teams...

Also 12 is the highest number we see here, which I guess means Labyrinth is on paper the most busted cape in the city. Good for her.

That's gotta fucking suck, never having a moment away from prying eyes whenever you're in public. How much of this is Weld being a champ and how much of this is Weld being resigned to this being his life?

That. Is rough.

So, that's something interesting. There's an interesting dichotomy between how parahumans can utterly wipe the floor against regular human combatants, even facing 25-to-1 odds with no purely defensive abilities (Grue's darkness can't stop a lucky hit) and coming out of it totally clean, and now there's this concern. We know that the early independent heroes got their shit rocked, Vikare got killed by a blow to the head during a sports riot of all things, so is there an upper limit on how many humans a parahuman can face at once? Does it hinge on how many parahumans are working together to face the threat, like could Grue only take on ten guys on his own if Skitter and Gregor and Spitfire hadn't been there to watch his back?

I'm probably overthinking this, but Piggot apparently considers it worth worrying about, so I won't dismiss the topic out of hand. Parahumans seem to end up above, below, or otherwise apart from the rest of humanity, and that separation could prove troublesome.

Gotta be strange to have your boss act like your dad, but needs must when you don't even remember who you are.

Also yeah fingers crossed Piggot holds to principles here, she doesn't seem the type but I've been disappointed before

Jesus Christ that's a really long-term plan. They've been at this since what, the late 80s?

Also interesting that the terminology uses is stated in-universe to be dated

So what's the "core" Protectorate team in this context? Is that at or above the standing that Armsmaster had before he derailed his own career? Are we talking Triumvirate level, or is there a middle ground I'm not aware of?

I also really really want to know what the meme was involving Weld, that's such a specific thing to have happen

I'm shocked that this would be considered frivolous. That's the kind of opportunity you'd normally seize with both hands, the idea of waving it off seems bizarre. Do they need the Wards too much to fight homicidal supervillains and disarm megaton bombs to let them *checks notes* get more kinds of training in? That feels shortsighted.

Then again a lot of things in Brockton Bay seem shortsighted. The greatest threat against Coil's grand scheme is his own impulsiveness (although easy money says that Taylor will become his biggest problem down the line), the Empire for some reason bothered with petty street crime and protection rackets while being run by, really cannot overstate this, the CEO of a pharmaceutical corporation that was doing well enough to have an entire skyscraper, and Lung put in like 1% of the effort he could've given to running the city. Maybe nobody is coming up with five-year plans because nobody is confident they'll live another five years, or maybe it's something in the water supply.

This is funny but it's so fucking rude, oh my God

Oh Weld, Weld no, do not think about Shadow Stalker like that, she'd corrode your dick off your body with her personality.

Oh, Weld. You have put your foot in your mouth already.

This story takes a pretty dim view of humanity, honestly. Poisoning an entire apartment block with chlorine gas just so you can loot it and take over feels extreme; I'm not gonna say it could or would never happen, unfortunately people are just as capable of evil as they are of good and there's not really a limit to how far either of those things can go, but for me at least it's somewhat curious that we don't hear more about any altruists in the city outside of the Protectorate; there would have to be good Samaritans somewhere in the mix, and not even most of them would've already been stabbed or beaten to death by opportunists.

Maybe that's just the perspective the Wards are giving us, but call me crazy, I don't think Taylor is going to be any more optimistic about how things are going.

Also, Clockblocker is jumping down Weld's throat here, but he's not strictly wrong. He's coming into this fresh-faced, having not dealt with any of the aftermath of Leviathan. The strain being put on these kids is intense, not least with the losses that the Protectorate suffered and the teammates they're still grieving. Fifteen hour patrols, Jesus Christ.

Bro got owned by a thirteen-year-old.

How did he not get briefed on the dead Wards? How did he not already look them up for himself? Someone, I think multiple someones, dropped the ball there. I'm also surprised that Weld even asked the question instead of just drawing his own conclusions or looking into it when nobody could catch him being a fool.

Current Thoughts

I do not envy Weld for the situation he's being thrown into. Whatever happens in Boston is clearly a different kind of ballgame from what they're doing here in Brockton Bay, and he has not been read into it yet.

I don't envy any of the Wards, this might be the most thankless position anyone in the city might be stuck with, and none of them are even old enough to buy cigarettes or vote, but they have to fend off looters and wade through waters tainted with death and ruin for hours at a time.

How many rights do you sign away taking this job, getting your ass put on the line like this when not even the military takes kids this young into combat? I think Skitter was right, this whole arrangement blows chunks

[presidentbungus]

“I think you should kill Scout,” comes hissing, turning whispers by his armchair, as soon as he plunks down, settling in and flipping through his book to find the page he left off on.

Tavish ignores the voice, but it continues, that little nudge on the weakest part of the barrier around his mind. “Jus’ slide my blade through all that mushy stuff between his ribs, wouldn’t that be nice? Hear him gurgle, watch my tip come out shining red on the other side—“

“Eyelander,” Tavish firmly announces, defiantly licking his finger to turn a page because he’s sure Eyelander can damn well see it even though she’s five feet away on the floor. “Can a man nae sit down five bloody seconds before ye have to go start with this shite?”

There’s the ghostly equivalent of a heaving sigh, that Tavish almost feels across the back of his neck. “You haven’t taken me out in so long, Tavvy.” Two coughs, and a pathetic, rasping gasp, and Tavish starts wondering where he could find a big hammer and, just theoretically, really go to town on a, in this hypothetical, long thin piece of metal that thinks it’s a lot funnier than it is. “I’m practically dying. I dunno how much longer I can go on like this.”

“I was cuttin’ heads with ye four hours ago, you dull, butterknife, ugly, hackit, numpty fuckin’ butterknife.”

“You said butterknife twice.”

Tavish harrumphs, and says no more.

“Please, Tavvy. It would be so fun. Don’t you love mindless bloodshed? It used to be your favorite. Just think how fun it’d be. Doesn’t even have to be Scout, you know. What about Engie? He keeps pissing you off. You know between you and me I saw Sniper using your toothbrush since he couldn’t find his and if you had to ask my opinion—“

“I’m nae gonna stab somebody—what if I gave you a burrito, would that shut ye big barmy mouth?”

“… I can compromise.”

Tavish breathes a sigh of relief—that leftover half a burrito in the kitchen fridge has been sounding pretty good for a while now, and he supposes this is two birds with one stone. “Why don’t ye just ask for the burrito? It’s gotta be easier.”

“Killing’s just a little tiny bit tastier. I’ve got a good head for business, I know what I’m doing.”

Tavish puts down his book—he already knew that was a lost endeavor before he started, to be honest, and he quickly leans over and wraps his fingers around the hilt—and he feels something snap in his head as something other than him pushes through that barrier around his mind, forcing its way into his limbs, filling his veins like antifreeze, and all of a sudden he’s standing up as somebody else starts working his muscles and tendons.

A deep breath and he fights his way back into control, movements becoming impulses as all of a sudden he’s thinking for two.

Never gets old, comes a voice that’s now in his head, snickers cascading down his spine. Don’t suppose I can convince you to slam your foot in the door a few times?

“You’re already pushing yer luck—"

And all of a sudden his leg kicks to the side, hard, and the front of his foot hits the corner of a dresser and he yelps as a bolt of pain fires up his legs and his head’s filled with whoops and hollers. WOAH MAMA! That was a good one!

Tavish hisses: “You’re goin’ fucking back."

Sorry I’m sorry look I’m being so good now. And just like that, the other presence moves to the back of his head, receding from his limbs.

“That’s what I thought.”