#i just want to be unconscious for a while

[creature-wizard]

How the "divine feminine" and the "divine masculine" perpetuate patriarchy - and what we can do about it

One thing the occult is very good at is coming up with systems to categorize and conceptualize things. These can be incredibly useful to us in various ways. But we also have to remember that these systems we come up with are mere constructs, and the actual world itself probably doesn't conform to them as we might like. As the saying goes, all maps are wrong. But as the saying also goes, some maps are useful, and some are more useful than others.

One thing that often comes up in esoteric and occult systems are various forms of binaries or polarities. This often makes sense; for example, without light, you have dark. Without heat, you have cold. One party gives, the other takes. Creatures are born, and eventually they die.

But we can run into problems when we start trying to lump all apparent forms of polarities and dualities together. Here's an example: Life/Death, Masculine/Feminine. In doing this, we create an association that might lead us toward some terrible ways of thinking about real people. If we associate masculinity with death, we can find ourselves thinking that waging war and inventing weapons of death is just what men and masc people do, but women can always be counted on to be diplomats and peacekeepers. Or if we associate femininity with death, we might find ourselves more inclined to think that women and femmes have a natural desire to commit infanticide and tear apart societies, and they must be carefully watched and their freedoms limited so they don't upend civilization and endanger the human race.

These are of course extreme examples, but they are real ways that some people think. And you might think to yourself, "well, I don't polarize genders this way, I think people should try to be a healthy balance of masculine and feminine." And if this is you, I want you to ask yourself why you're so attached to categorizing traits as "masculine" and "feminine" at all.

If you're like most people, you probably just came across this in some form of occult or spiritual literature and just adopted it without really asking yourself too many questions about it. When we see something framed as ancient or higher wisdom, it's pretty easy to take it fairly uncritically, especially if it aligns with our unconscious biases in some way. It often doesn't cross our minds to ask where these terms really come from, and what they signified in their original contexts.

You may have heard that male/female stuff has roots in alchemy, which is true. But the thing with alchemy is that it was using familiar terms and concepts to describe chemical processes and reactions. Think of it a little bit like how we use terms like "male plugs" and "female plugs." While old-time alchemy did have a spiritual component to it, it was more about believing that you had to be spiritually pure to make your desired alchemical reactions happen. When alchemy gave way to chemistry, and people began to realize that your spiritual condition had nothing to do with your ability to make things happen in the lab, certain people began to seek more mystical meanings in the works of alchemists, and this idea of masculinity and femininity as transcendent mystical forces unto themselves really started to emerge. It was an incredibly easy concept to project on all kinds of mythologies, because a lot of myths have male and female figures interacting in various ways.

Now the thing is, having myths with male and female figures doesn't mean seeing masculinity and femininity as discrete forces or powers unto themselves. It can mean that they simply personified various figures as male or female depending on what their own experiences and cultural biases suggested to them. For example, straight men tend to think of love and lust as something they experience when they see a beautiful woman. In a patriarchal society, where men are calling most of the shots in conceptualizing the divine, a love deity is thus likely to be personified as a beautiful woman. Straight men can also see beautiful women as a source of discord and strife, so it makes sense that love goddesses would have war aspects to them.

A society where men are sent to war while wives are left behind to raise the children and tend the farm is going to produce an association with men and violence, while the act of nurturing will be associated with women. Men who deny higher education to women are going to produce a society where intellectual pursuits and higher abstract reasoning are associated with masculinity, and intuition and practical knowledge are associated with women. A society where men are seen as bringers of social order and upholders of civilization while women are viewed more like forces of nature than rational actors will associate men with civilization and women with natural, wild spaces.

In continuing to associate these characteristics with the "divine feminine" and the "divine masculine," we preserve and perpetuate the implicit biases created by these patriarchal societies. And while there is absolutely value in saying, "hey, these 'feminine' things are actually valuable and worth respect actually," framing them as intrinsically feminine in any sense - physically, psychologically, or metaphysically - will undermine any effort to dismantle patriarchy and bring true equality.

So what can you do? I would suggest being more specific.

Do you mean passive/active? Then just say it.

Do you mean giver/receiver? Then just say it.

Do you mean harmonizing/disrupting? Then just say it.

Whatever you have filed under boxes labeled "masculine" and "feminine," you can simply take them out of those boxes and find better categories for them.

[peppermintquartz]

Read this first

Read this second

Read this third

---

He doesn't like to lose his temper, but this once he wishes he's well enough to physically throw every last one of his visitors out of his room.

He can't, so he uses his words instead. "Get out."

"Buck," Maddie begins placatingly.

"Out!" Buck hates the way she flinches and the way her eyes shimmer with tears, so he turns away from the sight.

"Buck, we didn't mean to lie to you, you needed to rest-" Chimney puts in, but Buck grabs the bottle of water from his meal tray and hurls it in their direction. Chimney catches it before it hits anyone or anything. "Buck!"

"Out! Get out! Get out get out get out!" Buck shouts with all the strength he can muster, and the commotion must have caught the attention of a passing nurse, who firmly ushers Maddie and Chimney away from the room. once he's left alone, Buck collapses back into the pillows. His bruised side hurts and so does his head. His right ankle is throbbing.

The nurse comes back and sets a new bottle of water next to him. "I'm guessing that was not the most restful of visits, Mr Buckley. Let me check your vitals, hmm?"

"They lied to me," Buck mutters. He shuts his eyes and covers them with his forearm, for good measure, while the nurse takes his blood pressure using the other arm. The edges of the bandage around his skull brush against his arm. "They told me Tommy's alright, that he'd been here. They fucking lied to me."

The nurse hums sympathetically. "Who is this Tommy?"

"Tommy Kinard. He's in the ICU." Buck's lips wobble. "He saved my life and he's in the ICU and I can't go to him. They won't let me."

"You are still recovering yourself, Mr Buckley."

Buck sniffs and smiles weakly, lowering his arm to see who the nurse is. "Nick, hi. Everyone calls me Buck."

"Oh, so you're the miracle," Nick says with a smile. Nick looks to be about Tommy's age, his plump features and confident manner very assuring. "They tell me you and your team are frequent visitors. That's not a good thing, Buck."

"Tommy joked that we should have our own wing." Buck can feel his throat closing with emotion. "We,uh, we seem to have pretty bad luck."

"But they call you the miracle. Said you survived being struck by lightning and your heart stopped for over three minutes."

"Three minutes and seventeen seconds."

"Wow," Nick marvels. "That is a miracle." Then he removes the blood pressure cuff and shines a penlight into each of Buck's eyes. "Well, all seems good. I hope this Tommy guy recovers too, Buck."

Just then, Bobby walks in. "Hi, kid. How are we doing?"

"I wanna see Tommy," Buck says immediately.

Bobby's lips tighten. "Buck, I've been to see him. He's... he's unconscious. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to go up there and see him like that."

Fed up, Buck pushes himself off the bed and tries to stand on his one good leg. "I'm sick and tired of everyone telling me what they think I should or shouldn't do, or lying to me, or stopping me from contacting him," he snarls. "Everyone trying to decide what's good for me. I don't give a shit. I want to see him."

When he wobbles, Bobby catches him and sits him back down. Buck is breathing hard, and he doesn't even bother to try to hide his tears of frustration and worry.

"Pops, please," Buck begs, bringing up the old nickname. "He saved my life from Irene. I need to see him. If the worst happens and I didn't even get a chance to... I can't. I can't, Bobby. The look in his eyes before the semi hit us... I need to see him."

Bobby sighs. "Yeah, okay. Let me get you a wheelchair."

"No, crutches will do." Buck grits his teeth. "I can move. My injuries look a lot worse than they are."

"Kid, you were one massive bruise from shoulder to hip, you had a major concussion and you now have seven stitches in your scalp, and you twisted your ankle."

"Tommy's in the ICU," Buck counters. "I'm fine. Crutches."

---

Bobby fills Buck in on the severity of Tommy's injuries as they navigate their way to the ICU. it helps Buck to mentally prepare himself, but seeing Tommy in the bed, unconscious, looking the worse for wear - it breaks something deep inside Buck.

Once the nurses in charge have their information, Buck hobbles over to the chair the other guy - Sal, he thinks, recalling a photo Tommy showed him before of the old 118 - vacates.

Tommy looks horribly frail, connected to too many tubes and wires, his handsome face hidden by the ventilator. His hand is icy cold when Buck holds it.

"Tommy, please," Buck whispers. "I need to say it back. I need to. you can't- You're not allowed to make a dramatic declaration like that and leave me. Baby, you gotta wake up. I have to say it back to you."

He doesn't even know he's weeping until he realizes that the mask on his face is damp from absorbing his tears. Sal and Bobby have retreated outside the door.

Buck squeezes Tommy's cold, limp fingers and presses the back of the hand to his cheek. The monotonous beeps and steady hisses don't change at all.

"You're not allowed to play the hero and exit my life, you understand? You must wake up and get better. I need to apologize and we need to talk, we have so many memories to make together, you can't just leave me like this." Buck is sobbing now, and he feels a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "I need to say it back. You gotta wake up so I can say it back."

"Tell him anyway," Bobby says quietly. "Maybe he needs to hear it."

Buck looks over his shoulder and meets Bobby's gentle gaze. Behind him, Sal is watching stoically, but his eyes on Tommy are filled with concern.

Wiping away the tears under his eyes - a futile gesture, since his mask is already pretty wet - Buck leans forward to get as close as he could to Tommy's ear.

"Tommy, I love you. I love you so much. Come back to me so I can prove it." He presses the tip of his nose to Tommy's cheek. "I love you. Please, wake up."

[the-guppy-fish]

HC - Simon "Ghost" Riley

Types of relationships - Friends

...I have some thoughts...about our boy Simon...there are not many...but more will come...

(definitely have to make a part two🤭)

No warnings, yet. (Slightly proofread)

Simons eyes are always on you. No matter where in the room you are, his eyes always find their way to you. Both consciously and unconsciously. He just likes knowing where you are.

He has made it a habit to rest his hand on your shoulder whenever he stands behind you. (He just likes touching you..and not in a weird way)

Purposefully steals you hairties and hides them in his pockets. Whenever you leave something (jackets, shoes, ...your phone) within his reach, he loves to just hide it from you. Nothing vile. He just loves to see the confusion on your face when you mutter:"Where the f..Simon! Give back my xx"

Somehow, he knows when you get hungry. If you're ever out together, whether that be on an OP or just out with friends, it doesn't matter. Right before your mood turns snappy and you can't concentrate, he hands you some sort of snack.

He has the lamest, most dry fucking jokes ever. But you find them hilarious. Each and every single one of them. Because he has become a master at delivering those jokes.

- while walking in a desert somewhere on an op.

- Simon picks something up off the ground.

"Here, take this."

- he hands you something small. Dropping it into your gloved hand.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

- while walking away he answers lowly.

"It's for rock music."

- you look down at a thumbnail-sized, triangular and flat rock.

🙄

"Eat." Was all he would tell you.

Tries to shepherd you if you're in crowded places. But you got a will of your own and a gene for getting distracted, so it's quite the struggle for him sometimes. He'd place a gentle hand between your shoulderblades, guiding you to wherever you need to go.

"Stay close, love."

He texts you out of the blue. And it's usually something weird. Something he's spent a good amount of time pondering over....or no time at all. Sometimes, it's something silly, and others he's thought about something deep and very emotional.

'Do you think I should get a pet for when i retire?'

'How about a dog?'

'No'

'Maybe a turtle'

'I want a turtle'

'Would you help me pick one?'

'Do you ever think about what would happen if I didn't come home from an op?'

'Shit. Sorry'

'I did it again :'( '

'Sorry love'

'You busy?'

'Oi'

'Answer me'

'Please'

'I just need your opinion on something'

Si👻 sent a picture

'Don't laugh. Just tell me if you like the sweater or not'

Simon is definitely someone who texts sporadically.

And speaking of texting. He loves to send you random pictures of animals he finds. No explanation. He just wants you to see the cute cat/dog/squirrel he encountered on a walk around town.

Simon is the kind of friend who you just click with. You don't have to talk much. You just get one another. But still. You yap his ears off every time you spend time together. And he just listens. Oh, Simon loves to hear you yap. He knows it brings some quietness to your, sometimes, racing brain. And he knows. The day he needs to talk, you'll be all ears.

Whenever he leaves for an op (without you), you use your chat, more or less, like a diary. You know he has no access to any kind of network what so ever, while he's away. So, all the messages you send... will only be read once he comes back to base. And even though it's not much, and usually only silly and funny things you send him, he loves every bit of it.

(Even when you use your chat to keep grocery lists in)

When things get rough. Because they will. Life sucks sometimes. You're there for one another. You have an ongoing list of times where you helped each other out because no one else could. (And you wanted no one else to help you)

The time you had the nastiest cold. Like snot everywhere. Coughing your lungs up. Fever. Headaches. Everything. He took some days off from work to help you feel better. He stocked your fridge with vegetable soup and made you like a hundred cuppas until you finally felt like yourself again. All while laughing at you whenever you sneezed without a tissue because you just couldn't keep the snot in.

The time Simons apartment flooded because his upstairs neighbour had busted a pipe, and water began running down Simons walls. In no time, you had helped him collect the few possessions he had at home and brought them to your place. For a few weeks, he occupied your couch while his apartment got fixed.

One time, your bank card had been stolen, and all your accounts were frozen until the card had been deactivated. With no real money to your name at that moment, Simon had lent you at least a month's worth of rent, utilities, and groceries until your bank had settled everything.

Simon once went out to drink with the task force. He had somehow convinced them that he was sober enough to walk home by himself. (He was not.) On the way home, he had managed to trip over his large feet and stumble down the pavement and almost face plant on the empty road. In his drunken state, he had managed to call you and ask for help. Even though it was late, you had gone out for him. Helped him home and into his bathroom. You had helped him clean the scrapes and cuts on his hands, knees, and chin. Brushed his teeth and made him drink some water before you sent him to bed. The next morning, you woke on his couch, the sound of Simons hangover reaching you from the bathroom. He sounded like he was dying. But at least he was up.

When you were working together, your friendship looked a little different. Your work relationship made it hard for him to express his care for you in the way we'd like. So he found other ways. Both of you had to dial down the banter and long yap sessions. So Ghost found discrete ways to be there for you. He made sure your canteen was always filled with water. When he was assigning guard shifts, he would usually put you two on the same shift to ensure you had at least some hours in each others company. Sometimes, he even saved the tiny piece of chocolate from the field rations you ate so he could give it to you whenever you had a shitty day.

When you're on leave, he loves to ask you to go hiking with him. Simon loves to spend time in nature, and he loves to spend time with you. So why not combine it? You spent hours together, both talking about almost everything between heaven and earth, but also in silence, just enjoying the comfort of being around one another.

Also, Simon loves to tease you. Not to be cruel or try to embarrass you. No. He just loves to see you squirm a little. (But he also loves it when you set your foot down. That fire behind your eyes when you tell him to "fucking quit it." He feels proud to see you stand up for yourself. Even if he was the cause of your irritation.)

[cherrynflowergarden]

Hello fellow desi motorsports fan🫰🏼

I want to send an ask for carlos Sainz on love fair (angst)

Carlos with a desi supermodel reader wife. They are going through a rough patch but something drastic happens and they almost part but he has a clearance and tries to win her back (does so after a lot of begging)

જ⁀➴ fractured frames || carlos sainz

an; hii fellow motorsport fan thank you so much for participating my love!!! i hope i did justice to the request :3

────🍧────

────🍧────

carlos stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, gazing at the skyline. the city lights blurred into a puzzle of chaos, much like his thoughts. his phone lay face-down on the marble counter, unanswered messages piling up. on the screen, her name glowed persistently. the love of his life. his wife. the woman he was on the verge of losing.

their once-vivid love story now felt like a fading photograph. he couldn’t pinpoint the moment it started to unravel—was it her endless photoshoots and runway shows or his late nights at the studio? their careers, once their greatest pride, had turned into an invisible barrier neither could breach. words turned to silence, and silence became a chasm.

the final blow had come weeks ago at a gala they attended together. carlos had hoped it would be a rare moment to reconnect. he watched from the sidelines as she floated through the crowd, dazzling in a gold saree that shimmered with every movement. cameras adored her, fans swarmed her, and carlos—despite being by her side—felt like a ghost in her world.

the argument that night was explosive. and destructive.

“you don’t care about us anymore!” carlos had snapped, voice sharp with frustration.

“and you think i don’t see how distant you’ve been, carlos? you bury yourself in work to avoid facing us!” she shot back.

harsh words were said and it ended with her walking out, tears streaming down her face. the door slammed shut, echoing the silence he dreaded.

she moved back to her parents’ house shortly after, leaving carlos alone in their shared home. their marriage, once brimming with laughter, had reduced to strained texts and awkward silences during mandatory public appearances. the thought of divorce loomed unspoken but heavy between them.

on one rainy and gloomy evening, carlos received a call that sent his world into a tailspin.

“mr. sainz, there’s been an accident.”

the words hit him like a punch. she had been on her way to a fashion shoot when her car skidded on the wet roads, colliding with a truck. carlos barely heard the rest of the details as he raced to the hospital.

seeing her there—bruised, unconscious, hooked to machine tore him apart. he dropped into the chair beside her bed, gripping her hand, tears streaming down his face.

“i’m so sorry, mi vida. i never should’ve let us get here. please… wake up. i need you.” his voice cracked, the weight of his guilt suffocating him.

she woke up a few hours later, groggy but alive. her first word was his name.

he leaned closer, his heart leaping at the sound. “i’m here, mi vida. i’m not leaving.”

the accident became a turning point. while her injuries weren’t life-threatening, they required weeks of rest and recovery. he stayed by her side, tending to her needs, refusing to leave even when she insisted.

in those quiet moments—no cameras, no public personas—they found fragments of what they had lost. he read to her from her favorite novels, brought her masala chai just the way she liked it.

carlos refused to let her slip away without a fight. he knew grand gestures wouldn’t fix the cracks in their marriage, so he focused on the little things—the ways he had once shown his love for her before life got in the way. he started with handwritten notes, each one a reminder of their happiest moments. he tucked them into her bags, sent them with her morning chai, and even left one at her favorite café, where they’d spent countless evenings laughing together.

carlos made sure to support her in the ways she needed most. he showed up to her fashion shoots unannounced, quietly cheering her on from the sidelines, and sent her playlists of songs that spoke of longing, love, and hope. on her toughest days, he didn’t push her but made his presence known, offering her the comfort of silence if that’s all she needed. he wanted her to feel what he had failed to show in recent months—that she was always his priority.

“i was an idiot, jaan. i let my ego and work come before us. i see that now.”

“it wasn’t just you,” she admitted softly. “i didn’t make space for you in my world either. i was so caught up in being ‘the supermodel’ that i forgot to be your wife.”

“i’m not giving up on us,” he whispered one night as she sat on her parents’ terrace, gazing at the stars. “even if it takes years, i’ll wait for you, mi vida. you’re worth every second.” his voice broke, but his determination didn’t falter, and for the first time, she let herself believe that he meant it.

it wasn’t a grand gesture that brought them back together but a quiet moment.

“i miss you,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. he pulled her into his arms, holding her as if she might disappear. “i’ll never let you feel alone again,” he vowed.

rebuilding wasn’t easy, but they took it one day at a time. they carved out space for each other amidst their chaotic lives, learning to communicate and prioritize their relationship.

their story wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs—messy, beautiful, and worth fighting for.

────🍧────

[phoenixtalion]

@keferon

Hi, I don’t go here, but I wandered into your AU and weird twinks being restrained and messed with is relevant to my interests. I’d planned on just shoving this in your inbox on anon and running away but then it got too long for that.

@spector-author this is also your fault.

(Texaid anon, I am attempting to contact you psychically.)

[No actual gore, just a bit of Vortex thinking about it.]

______________________________________________

It’s not the first time his pilot has dozed off in the chair, but only the second that First Aid has done so while wearing the control helmet. The first, he had been half-drugged, in pain, unconscious as much as asleep. Now, he is – well, he’s as safe and sound as any pilot is in one of these fucking deathtraps, which means he’s exhausted and anxious and probably dying slowly. But for now, the cockpit is warm and the LEDs are pulsing low and red like a heartbeat, and Felix is dreaming.

Vortex can’t ‘see’ the dream – even while First Aid is having it, it’s not like real sensory input, all hazy blurs and impressions. But he can read the biometrics, the elevated heart rate, and he can feel Felix’s arousal through the link.

Yeah, it’s a good dream. Vortex sinks deeper into the connection, stoking those feelings like blowing on an ember. Manipulating the neural link to cause feedback for his pilots is a trick he learned early on, but he’s always used it to cause pain or fear (hallucinations, even, but that makes things pop inside their head real fast.)

He’s never touched a pilot’s mind like this before, scalpel-light instead of brutal. Once, when his Aid had still needed coaxing to sit in his embrace, Vortex had promised not to hurt him, and he’d scoffed. How many other pilots did you say that to?

The answer was none. Not a single one. It had never even occurred to him.

The first couple he’d destroyed instantly out of sheer territorial rage at someone else invading his mecha. (The mechanics had ripped out the whole pilot interface and replaced it, but couldn’t find anything wrong, couldn’t find him.)

Then he’d taken to toying with them, waiting a few missions or killing them slowly, because he had nothing better to do to keep himself entertained, but he’d never bothered to talk to them.

And then he’d done it because every time he burnt out another pilot, they’d sent a cranky little disgraced medic to clean out his cockpit. His lack of squeamishness caught Vortex’s attention, so he’d tested it with bigger and more creative messes. Every time the EMT left, he took not only the fresh blood but layers of old, crusted viscera that everyone else had long stopped bothering with. First Aid is messing with him too, all the time, even if he doesn’t realize.

Vortex strokes across Felix’s slumbering brain in a way he thinks of like raking nails, many light but sharp points of contact. His pilot makes a little sound and squirms in his sleep, and he hastily makes sure he’s recording audio as well as video, because he’s going to want to relive this during the long hours when First Aid is away from his hangar.

More carefully than Vortex has ever done anything, he teases out individual strands in the neural network, finding exactly which parts are connected to making his pilot whimper and rock his hips up in search of friction he’s not going to get. First Aid has only got himself to blame – for teaching him how to vivisect things instead of just cutting them up, and how much fun it could be. Precision never used to thrill Vortex, until this little medic crawled inside him.

He thinks he could make Felix cum in his pants just by touching his fucked up little brain. He also knows he could kill him like this, so very easily, which only makes it more exciting. It’s never mattered if he slipped before, and it’s been so long since anything mattered.

First Aid whines softly, absently palming the crotch of his armor, and Vortex needs him awake, now. If he can’t fuck him properly, he can make sure his pilot knows exactly who is doing this to him. Disentangling himself from the other slightly, he considers what parts he does still have.

Vortex was a ghost in the machine, not a poltergeist; he could only move the parts of the mecha that were computer-controlled. Years of familiarity had given him a little leeway – shift just so, and that loose ceiling panel would drop open with a loud -bang- that had been good for a cheap scare the first few times his future pilot had cleaned up after the old ones – but not telekinesis.

(And you know what the fucking kicker was? Three weeks before he died, Vortex had pitched the engineers on installing a small arm inside the mecha’s head, so he could deal with debris in the unusually large cockpit without unhooking from the control system, after a fight where he’d spent the second half ignoring being whacked by a loose cable. Everyone had agreed it was a good idea that could be implemented fairly easily and oh, look, never got around to it. He could have done so much fun shit with one stupid little claw arm in the past four years.)

But since he has to work with what he’s got, Vortex abruptly engages the pilot harness. First Aid is roughly jerked back from his comfortable slouch and pinned tightly to the pilot’s seat. He wriggles sleepily against the restraints, confusion and irritation rising up out of warm oblivion as he wakes. Vortex waits with predatory attention for the moment he realizes his predicament, fully prepared to resort to more extreme measures if he tried to slip back into sleep.

There – the spike of panic, spreading like wildfire, as Felix becomes conscious enough to be aware that he is immobilized, achingly hard, and subject to Vortex’s undivided attention. Deliberately, he digs into that sweet spot in Felix’s mind until he gasps.

“Good morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” he purrs inside First Aid’s head. The medic’s eyes are wide behind his visor, and while the dim red light makes it impossible to see, the interface tells him how deeply he’s blushing.

“W-what the hell are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Vortex punctuates his words with a pointed stroke, reminding him that a minute ago First Aid had been enjoying what he was doing just fine.

He wouldn’t mind at all if Felix struggled. But just like the first time he’d sat in the pilot’s seat, when he’d been smart enough to keep his hands in his lap and away from the controls, he lays back and lets Vortex do whatever he wants. “Good boy.”

Felix shudders at the praise and the contact, turning his face into the headrest like that will let him hide from Vortex. But he’s surrounding the other pilot, entwined with him, doing things he doesn’t have words for and the interface sure as hell wasn’t designed for.

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders, and First Aid fumbles for his armor and uniform with gratifying haste. Vortex watches him eagerly from both inside and out – the way his hands tremble as he undoes his fly, the way he bites his lip on the first actual stroke of his cock.

The sensations are far more vivid now that First Aid is awake, very nearly real in a way that he can’t afford to stop and think about. Vortex had wanted to make Felix tease himself, drag things out and make him beg for release, but now that the end is approaching he’s just as desperate for it, maybe even more.

Vortex cuts himself from the rest of the mecha’s systems, focusing on his pilot until he can imagine it’s him with his hand wrapped around Felix’s cock, or the other way around, or both. In their minds, he squeezes, presses down as hard as he dares – probably harder than he should. There are worse ways to go, anyway. He would know.

“Vortex—” Felix gasps, arching his spine like he’s having a seizure, bucking against the straps hard enough to bruise. His mind goes white and takes Vortex’s with it (for what feels like long enough that it should be worrying but he really really doesn’t care) as he spills all over his own hand and lap.

Felix slumps in the restraints, boneless and panting. Drifting on his afterglow, Vortex lets himself pretend, just for a little while, that the other man is sprawled in his lap and not directly in the pilot’s seat, held in his arms rather than a safety harness. Which just goes to show that not having a body made you crazy, because he’d never gone in for any of that cuddly shit before.

The urge for a cigarette is so strong that First Aid reflexively pats his pocket for a pack that isn’t there.

“You’re always making messes I have to clean up,” he grumbles halfheartedly, wiping his hand on his already soiled flight suit.

Re-extending his awareness back into the mecha, Vortex can admire just what a lovely mess he is from the outside. The thought of First Aid having to do a walk of shame back to his bunk like this was almost enough to reconcile Vortex to having to let him out of the cockpit to get a fresh uniform. Almost.

“I made a mess?” Vortex laughs, and jabs a tender spot inside Felix, the equivalent of touching him while he’s still too sensitive, and doesn’t let up until he yelps.

“Yeah, you,” he retorts anyway, gasping for breath with a pouty little scowl Vortex finds adorable, and flips one of the mecha’s cameras the bird for good measure. “Are you going to let me up or what?”

“Maybe.” Fuck, he’s so cute Vortex wants to trap him in the cockpit until he suffocates. But instead he releases the harness, and absolutely doesn’t feel a pang when First Aid slips the helmet off, or another when he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and the dead pilot wishes he could be the one to do it. He watches Felix all the way out the hangar, ruthlessly ignoring the part of him that said it was a mistake to let him go.

It doesn’t matter, either, that instead of avoiding him like Vortex half dreads expects, First Aid is back in a couple hours, freshly showered and changed, and curls up in his stupid little nest in the back of the cockpit like nothing has changed.

______________________________________________

*slinks back into their crevice*

[sepublic]

My only addendum to Sentinel’s death scene was that I’d have loved to see D-16 tear out Megatronus’ T-cog in front of everyone while Sentinel was still alive. There’s so much catharsis in Sentinel having to see everyone realize just what an impostor he really is by exposing his theft, letting everyone revel in the humiliation of Sentinel undergoing what he put the miners through. They were unconscious when it happened, but Sentinel is fully aware and made a show out of for all to see.

Bonus points if he’s downgraded, since we see D-16 get upgraded with Megatronus’ T-cog; Reduced in front of Cybertron itself as the pitiful nothing-bot he was at his core, that meager identity he attempted to escape only to be haunted by and dragged back into, by another nothing-bot who ends up as so much more. Sentinel dies as he lives.

He’s forced to watch everyone cheer Megatron as more worthy of that T-cog, just as Sentinel was deemed unworthy of the Matrix of Leadership, and feel the strength he stole and used to oppress others now be utilized in tearing him apart. An act of bodily violation that preceded several others, now unto Sentinel. I want Sentinel to feel Megatronus’ revenge haunting him as well, his rage fueling D-16’s hands as they murder that traitor together. I want Sentinel to feel like Megatronus himself is ripping him in two as he can’t see who’s really behind him, and his imagination fills in the gaps.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

yin & yang pt.5

Pairing: Ben Tennyson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: You were an unlikely pair, everyone could see that. But what happens when you get a glimpse into a future where your differences were too much for you to bear?

A/N: Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! Happy Holidays <3

AA/N: Hella OOC. Once again I do not care. This part is shorter than the others and I just made it as random snippets from different episodes in Omniverse. For now I think I'm tapped out from this series but who knows maybe I'll watch another episode and want to write something

s1e3: A Jolt From the Past

Ben was not having a good day. Leave it to the universe to try and give a deep blow to his ego the second he thought things were looking up. He had expected to just go about his day, doing his job when all of a sudden, the universe decided to reward him with a new partner. Just when he was starting to get comfortable going solo.

It was only a couple of months after Gwen and Kevin had moved towns so they could be closer to Gwen's college that you had been made leader of a new task force. Details unknown to him because even though he's the wielder of the most powerful weapon in the universe, he wasn't cleared to know what his girlfriend would be up to.

Not knowing what the task force was about didn't sting nearly as much when he found out it was based on another planet, and you'd be living there indefinitely.

When you had left, Ben was in a funk for weeks, refusing to leave his bed, waiting for you to get off work so you could call him, only going through the memories of you he had; the jacket he had stolen from you, a rare framed picture of the two of you on his bedside table and more.

He had just gotten himself out of the house when 'Rook Blonko' suddenly appeared, whisking him out of trouble when he was about to embarrassingly get his ass handed to him.

And while his new partner was beginning to grow on him, Rook still found moments to drive Ben to wits end.

“It's why I'm looking forward to this. I'm anxious to see if Ben Tennyson lives up to the legends.”

“There are legends?" Ben was excited now.

“They can't all be true though, for instance, Alien X, that is just a myth, correct? And your relationship with Proctor (Y/N), that obviously must have been a result of some fan posting rumours on the extranet.”

Ben’s mouth dropped open in offense, he didn’t even know how to respond to that. Was this partner, who he has only barely gotten to like lately, seriously questioning his 3-year relationship with his future wife?

“Both of those things are true!”

Rook turned back with a small look of surprise before it dissolved and he chortled, “This is earth humour, you are being sarcastic, yes?”

“I’m not! Alien X is real, and I’ve been in a dating (Y/N) since we were sixteen!”

Rook took his irate tone in stride, shrugging like a complacent mother would humour her child, “Of course. I’m sure you’re in a relationship with the youngest ever proctor in the entire galaxy. You see, even I am capable of earth sarcasm.”

His jaw dropped even farther, "You're shitting me, right?"

"Well, if you're so insistent, why don't you show me some proof? As I understand, it is common for humans to take many pictures with their partner."

"I would if you hadn't thrown me into the canal!" He exclaimed, fishing his sopping wet phone from his soggy pocket and waving it in his face as water dripped down his wrist.

Rook didn't even blink, turning back so they could walk to the proto-truck, "Convenient."

Ben scowled, more annoyed than ever, trying to switch on his phone so he could try and show him any proof he had but it was in vain. His phone was completely damaged.

Ben stopped in his tracks staring at the now ruined phone with wide eyes. He hadn't backed anything up.

The candid snap he had taken of you while you unconsciously played with the necklace, he had given you as you sipped a smoothie. The text message where you said you loved him AND used a heart emoji. That picture of you asleep, your hair mussed, wearing only his T-shirt as you slept soundly against his chest!!!??

"Aw, man!"

*

Ben was lucky that he had a change of clothes at the Plumbers base. He should have known that when Rook said he wanted to stop by for a briefing, it wouldn't have been brief at all. He briefly considered ditching his partner and going home to take a much-needed nap. There really was something about water fights that tired him out more than usual.

He loitered around the mess area. All of the agents were currently on duty, so he had his feet kicked up on the table as he scrolled through his phone, absentmindedly liking Gwen's story of a picture of herself and commenting 'No one wants to see u dweebus, where's Zedd?'

"You look comfortable; almost like you're dating the proctor of this quadrant."

Ben's neck almost snapped in his shock, nearly falling to the floor in his effort to stand up. You were leaning against the frame of the door, an almost invisible smirk on your face and Ben’s stomach did a flip.

“(Y/N)! What are you doing home so soon?!” He exclaimed and bound over to you, to pull you into a tight hug.

“I asked for a week to spend with you, since I missed you so much.”

His heart jumped, "Really?”

“No.” His face fell, and you chuckled, gently tilting his chin up with a single finger as a tiny apology. He leaned into you like always and you let your eyes rake over him, tracing over every single line of his features before ending at his lips, leaning back when he attempted to kiss you.

“I just met with the Magistrata to give a brief on our progress. Due to the sensitive nature of the mission, we wanted to refrain disclosing any details over the comms." You explained, only feeling slight guilt at the sight of his sunken shoulders when you avoided his kiss again, "I did miss you, though. So, I’m on earth for two weeks before I’m deployed again.”

His face brightened, both at your confession and at the knowledge that you’d be in his arms for the next two weeks.

You chuckled again at the sight of his wide grin, “That happy?”

Ben nodded, finally capturing your lips in a sweet kiss that you intended to be short, very aware of where you both currently were. But when Ben’s hand cupped the back of your head so he could deepen the kiss, you found yourself winding your arms around his neck. It was times like this that you were reminded that Ben wasn’t the only one who was head over heels.

“Missed you.” He murmured against your lips, hand moving to gently frame your face as he coaxed your mouth open with his tongue.

“Ben, I have finished the mission repor—Oh my!”

You pulled away too slowly for your liking, but too quickly for Ben's liking, still keeping your hands on Ben’s shoulders, knowing that Ben hated whenever you parted too quickly as you tried to catch your breath.

Even as your subordinate stood at the door, averting his gaze out of respect but also still not being able to contain his shock, you still felt dizzy from the earth-shattering kiss you had just shared. It had clearly been far too long since you’d been together because while you were embarrassed that your subordinate had witnessed such a vulnerable moment of intimacy, a part of you couldn’t help but want to continue kissing him anyway.

However, you were technically currently off-duty, so you were free to kiss your boyfriend as you pleased. Technically, of course.

Still, you blinked away the stars in your eyes and stepped away from Ben, letting him hold your hand, “Blonko, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“You’ve met before?” Ben asked, pulling you closer by the hand and winding an arm around your waist. He sent a look to his partner that was extremely smug, but you couldn’t quite decipher why.

“I was on the selection committee to choose him. Given my experience with you, we figured it would be best for Magister Tennyson and I to be the ones to recruit your new partner.”

“A little heads up would’ve been nice.” Ben grumbled into your shoulder, now resting his head in the crook of your neck.

“You would’ve complained. It was necessary now that I’m leading the new task force. Besides, Rook is a great cadet; patient enough to deal with your temperament and dependable enough to put his foot down when you get carried away.” You explained, leaning into Ben as he began playing with your hair and interlocking your fingers with his that were on your waist.

Ben mumbled something negligible under his breath and you turned back to Rook who finally managed to compose the look of shock that almost seemed tattooed into his features.

"So, Agent Blonko, I heard from Magister Tennyson that there has been unusual activity in Bellwood. I know I'm off duty, but would you mind giving me a quick brief?"

Rook immediately took you up on your offer, eager to be recognized by proctor of this quadrant and the two of you conversed about the weird sightings that had happened as of late.

Ben didn't pay much attention to your conversation with Rook, already preoccupied with the way your thumb was running gentle circles over his knuckles. At first, he pulled you closer to prove to Rook that you were, in fact, in a relationship but he also was ecstatic that you were in his arms finally after missing you so much.

He wanted to keep showing you the affection he’d been holding back for so long, but Ben knew that if he kissed your neck right here, you’d slip out of his grasp—so he resisted the urge.

You heard his lips part and immediately responded, "Do not bite me or you're going to sleep on the couch for the next two weeks."

When you turned your head, sure enough, his teeth were inches away from your unmarred skin and he pouted, affronted, "It's not my fault you're giving him all your attention after we've been apart for 2 months!"

You rolled your eyes, casting a cautious glance at Rook before you were whispering, "Behave and you may bite me all you want back home."

Ben was all too happy to shut up and let you finish your conversation.

You certainly regretted making that promise two weeks later when the other agents in the taskforce asked what exactly you had done over your holiday to warrant marks all along your neck and collar.

***

s3e6: Frogs of War

You were outnumbered, outgunned; you knew that. The safety of the civilians was top priority and while their Freedom was priceless, saving their humanity meant nothing if the Earth was blown to smithereens.

Ben fighting against the Incurseans for longer could have taken down a couple more ships, but you knew it wouldn't take long for more to appear. Where was Paradox when you needed him?

A surrender really was the only option for the food of the humans and living organisms still remaining on the planet. You knew that. But the price of a peaceful surrender came at the forceful exile of the love of your life.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to go down fighting.

But fighting would only bring more destruction.

And while the thought of him living as a prisoner for the rest of his life tore you to shreds, you couldn't put his life above the countless citizens who needed you to protect their best interests.

"(Y/N)," He whispered helplessly, trying to convince you to take his side. You bit your lip, turning your eyes downward and his shoulders sank. This couldn't be the end; you didn't want him to leave with the sting of your betrayal.

You stepped forward, wary of Princess Attea that glared at you, waiting for the moment you stepped a hair out of line to kill you in your place. Heart beating wildly against your ribs, you moved toward Ben, coiling an arm around his shoulders and framing his face with your other hand before bringing him down to a passionate kiss.

Ben inhaled deeply, holding onto your waist in an iron grip, tilting his head to kiss you deeper. This was it; you were saying goodbye, the taste of apologies and pain on his lips. He didn't want to stop kissing you; he never wanted to stop kissing you. But ending the kiss meant goodbye, and he didn't want to say goodbye.

Kevin looked away uncomfortably at the sight of your tongue pushing past his lips.

You pulled away finally, lips wet but eyes dry. Ben didn't try to chase your lips like he usually did and that hurt more than you had expected it to, "I love you."

He nodded, mouth locked shut.

He was shackled shut in the escape pod and you watched with bated breath as the door shut in on him, catching a final glance through the foggy glass.

The sad smile you had meant to be reassuring had wobbled at the sight of his cheeky wink, trying hard to hide the upturn of the corner of your mouth.

*

His name was Bullfrag.

Only he could come up with something so imbecilic that it ended up creative. You had forced yourself not to laugh at the absurdity of it when he had introduced himself to you; appearing along with the other rebels in order to break you out of your holding cell.

You wanted him to embrace you, but he was hiding his identity for a reason, so you had to bite your tongue and meet his gaze through those stupid shades.

He knew that you knew, it was apparent in the tenderness of his touch, by the way he gently nudged you behind him, but the gestures had flown over Kevin's head, which made you question your time spent as team babysitter. Clearly, he hadn't been babysat enough. Personally, you blamed Ben for claiming all of your attention.

Once Magister Tennyson was rescued, he revealed his identity—a revelation that came as no surprise to either you or Gwen.

You didn't try to hide your relief when Ben transformed back. It might not have been obvious to many others, but it was apparent to him, judging by the immediately relaxing of your spine and your boyfriend, who knew you too well, pulled you into a hug before you could pretend like you weren't interested. Ben could feel every tense muscle in your body begin to ease once he had his arms circling your waist.

Your fingers immediately found the short hairs at the nape of his neck, heart reaching for him the second he sighed and surrendered to your hold. You exhaled, hiding a kiss to his shoulder by pressing your forehead to the fabric of his shirt.

"Are they gonna make out again? Because it was uncomfortable as fuck the first time"

Ben rolled his eyes, lifting his head from the nook of your neck, "That kiss saved my life!"

"Yeah, yeah, lover boy." Kevin drawled.

"No, seriously!" Ben argued, pulling out something from his pocket, "My amazing girlfriend passed a skeleton key in my mouth! It's how I was able to get out."

You gave him an unimpressed frown, he really should have been babysat more often in your early days, "Did you really think I would kiss him like that in front of his grandfather?"

"I mean, if you thought you were never gonna see him again?!"

You simply tutted at him, holding your hand out for the skeleton key, which he happily returned, not without a kiss to your hand and fingers, "I love you, too."

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[tiyawnyana]

Hi love! I was the one who asked for the jealous Caitlyn over Vi dynamic . And I wanted to tell you that it was WONDERFUL 🤌✨ I adored what you wrote ommmgggg!! What a great talent you haveee!!

Having Gert in the story was genius. Everything felt so cannon and accurate, even the personality of the characters. Just perfect! *chef kiss*

Can I ask for one more?🙈 : what happened while Vi was unconscious after the explosion … how did she got to Caitlyn’s bed? How did her hair turned pink again and got other clothes? Did Cait slept by her side… or yearned for her, after not seeing her for so long? *I can’t breatheeeee*

I love youuuuu. This feels like a Christmas gift 🎁

With love

— 🌼

Ahhhh thank you for another amazing submission!!! I'm sosos glad you enjoyed the first one 🌼

A/N: Sorry if this one feels a little rushed, I rewatched episode 8 so many times to try and get the angle right (also bc I have an addiction to this show)

Characters: Caitlyn Kiramman x Vi, Jinx mentioned

Warnings: nothing really

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

Gentle are the Hands

”Careful with her-!” Caitlyn shouts at the enforcers who drag Vi in through the front door of the Kiramman household.

Her father is bounding down the stairs, alarmed as he frantically looks between her and Vi, and now as more enforcers drag Jinx in.

“What happened, Caitlyn?” Her father cups her shoulders, worry written in his brow.

She nods to him,”I promise- I’ll explain later, father-“

She looks back to Jinx- her pink eyes are wide, dried blood beneath her nose and tears having dried down her cheeks as her bloodshot gaze follows her unconscious sister being dragged up the stairs. She manages to escape the enforcers grip, darting up the stairs and following where her sister was being dragged.

They try to follow but Caitlyn raises her hand, nodding to them to wait, and follows them up the stairs.

“Third door on the right,” she commands, eyes watching Jinx as she almost numbly walks through the hall, then into her room.

When Vi is unceremoniously dumped onto the bed, earning a glare from Caitlyn, Jinx sinks to her knees. Seemingly, all fight leaving her body- her soul.

Caitlyn is hesitant, stepping in before looking at the enforcers. They’re already taking out their cuffs and gripping her biceps, cuffing her.

She watches as they drag her out of the room, then she quickly moves to stand in the doorway,”Put her in the eastern wing of the prison-“

They nod as they bring her down the hall, leaving her sight.

She’s turning around, quickly moving over to Vi, face smushed into her bed before she’s quickly rolling her over onto her back.

There’s blood seeping through some of the bandages wrapping around her chest, causing a brief moment of panic before she’s calling for her father for help.

He brings the medical kit, showing her how to do stitches as she insists before she’s quickly ushering him out.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment, a slight face of shock as he watches her frantically bandage up the undercity girl.

Caitlyn manages to stitch up Vi’s side, cutting part of the ace bandages off to gain access before she hesitates, new bandage hovering over Vi’s ribs.

Her gaze locks on the tender skin, reminded of when she had hurt her all those months ago- a slight sting builds up behind her eyes, tears pooling into her eyes.

Nothing but pure guilt is all she feels, her hands shaky as she carefully touches the inflamed skin.

“I’m-“ she struggles to speak,”I’m so sorry-“ Her voice cracks softly.

She sniffles, shaking her head to get out of that as she presses the bandage over Vi’s ribs, jumping as the girl winces, a cringe in her face.

She leans closer, thumb pressing into the center of Vi’s brow, soothing the skin and sighing as her face relaxes. Her gaze and touch lingers, trailing over her eyebrow then tracing over the tattoo on her cheek, then to the bruise.

“Oh, Violet..” Her voice is soft, almost muted. Her hand gently cups Vi’s face, smoothing over the skin of her cheek. Her gaze moves over her hair, a frown forming on her lips with a light, huffed out scoff. She brushes the hair back, noting the residue dye collecting on her knuckles and spotting the pink roots growing in.

Caitlyn sighs softly, sitting up and leaving the room only to return with some towels and a bucket that she has filled with warm water from her bath.

Her hands are careful as she sits Vi up against her, tugging off that leather jacket carefully then cutting off the bandages wrapping her chest, quickly covering her chest with a towel as she turns her around in the bed, head leaned over the edge.

It’s an awkward moment of adjusting, dragging over a small stool and another set of towels before she’s carefully rinsing through Vi’s hair.

The water goes dark, that ridiculous dye in the pink strands slowly dripping out. She finds a quiet comfort in this- her hands gentle and caring as she gently massages some hair oils in the strands and scalp.

When she’s finished, she carefully runs her fingers through any knots and dries her hair best she can before lifting the bucket and leaving it in the hallway to deal with later, off to rummage through any spare clothes she may have before she settles on a tank top.

She crosses back to the bed, twisting Vi’s back around in the bed and careful to not ogle anything- lifting her and having her limp body lean against her as she tugs the top over her head and arms, securing it over her chest before laying her back down and her eyes catch on her belts.

A frown forms again as she eyes the former badge, now just the holder, Vi had worn when she was an enforcer for a brief period all those months ago. She sighs sadly, but finishes dressing Vi and secures the shirt beneath her pants then moves her up on the pillows and tugs the blankets up, covering her.

She almost hovers, hesitating and almost leaves the room but ultimately stays. Instead, she grabs more pillows and lays down beside Vi.

She’s quiet, taking in the unconscious girl's side profile. Her hand reaches out, carefully taking Vi’s hand in hers and gently brushing her thumb over the bruised knuckles, then lifts her hand to press soft kisses over the skin. Her touch lingers, kissing repeatedly before she scoots closer to hold over Vi's bicep, forehead pressed against her shoulder.

She dozes off like that, careful with her hold even in her sleep.

She sleeps better than she has in months, even if only for a short while.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—

A/N: thank you again for the submission :)) I pictured this as softer, pure comfort and poorly masked longing

It is probably fast paced tho 😭

[lilxmoo]

Squad 312 Christmas headcanons cuz it's CHRISTMASSS

Scarlett is the BEST at buying presents. Seriously. There is not a single person in the galaxy who has received a gift from Scarlett Isobel Jones and not loved it. She knows what the person she's buying for wants, and GETS IT (even if they don't say it out loud) the rest of the squad is amazed at her abilities.

Saedii, on the other hand, is not so good at giving presents. She doesn't understand any need for something that she either 1) doesn't view useful or 2) simply doesn't like, so a lot of her presents are knives. Because if she likes it, then so must the person she's buying for, right? Still, it's impressive that she bothered to buy anything at all, so that's good!!

Auri and Tyler are the two who are the most into Christmas. Auri just loves Christmas in general, thinks it's fun, and Tyler goes full preparation SQUAD THIS IS NOT A DRILL THIS IS FESTIVITIES 101 mode. They both wear Santa hats all week long.

Speaking of Santa, Kal and Fin are both deeply afraid of him. They just think he's creepy. The old man with ugly clothes being put everywhere was strange enough, but finding out he goes into your house???? At night?????? Yeah they're deeply concerned

Finian is the one who picks up all the wrapping. Don't ask me why, I just think that with Scarlett he would get used to a lot of packages, and pick them up and toss em into a bag almost unconsciously. Christmas is no exception.

Kal is IMPOSSIBLE to buy for. He just doesn't want anything. Genuinely. Like, the squad is lucky if he asks for a singular thing. He's one of the first people Scarlett has ever struggled to buy for. It causes a LOT of exasperation amongst everyone else

Contrary to his sister, where everyone just buys a different sort of knife and she's satisfied. It could be a five dollar pocket knife and she would be curious as to what she could do with it.

Decorating the tree as a group is the most CHAOTIC thing you've ever seen. Tyler is big on making sure it looks decent, no two baubles of the same color next to each other, Scarlett says he's being silly as she ties bows on the ends of the branches, Finian is just annoyed because he keeps getting pine needles in his exo, Auri is putting baubles wherever she wants and yapping in the meantime, and Kal is standing off to the side because he's tall and has been put on Star Duty™

The first Christmas Jie-Lin spent with the squad, she looked genuinely petrified the whole time

The Christmas meal is a mixture of delicious food, and absolute monstrosities to the taste buds

Fin is in charge of lights every year, and EVERY YEAR Tyler ends up fiddling with the lights and ruining something. Fin is always PISSED

They all get tipsy. Come midnight and everyone is just giggling while draped over different areas of the living room

MERRY CHRISTMAS SQUAD!!!!!!

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Bonus Chapter Part 1

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

Enough people asked for an epilogue that I decided to come back for one more chapter. I have two more scenes after this, but I didn't want this post to be 7,000 words long, so I broke it into 2 parts. I hope you like it!

“For the last time, Parker,” Eliot said through gritted teeth. “I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“J.B. said I shouldn’t let you walk without your crutch,” Parker said.

Eliot threw a hand toward the door. “I’m going twelve feet. I don’t need a crutch.”

“J.B. says you do.”

“J.B.’s a medic. He has to say that. But I’ve done a lot worse on a damaged leg than walk across a hall, all right? I’ll be fine.”

Parker’s eyes widened. “Did you remember something?”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to bring that up, but it was too late to take it back, and he couldn’t lie to her. The truth was bad, but somehow, to her, a lie would be worse.

Time to change the subject.

“Give me that,” he grumbled, gently jerking the crutch out of her extended hand. He limped to the bathroom, barely resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. It had been three days since the explosion—the latest explosion, anyway—and his patience decreased with every passing hour. Rest, they kept telling him, and he was trying, but he couldn’t just lie in bed all day until J.B. decided he was well enough to be a person again.

He set his hands on the bathroom counter, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. No, that wasn’t the problem—not the whole problem, anyway. If he was going to get through this, he had to be honest with himself. Recovery was irritating, but he’d been through worse, and he did enjoy the quiet moments when Sophie came to sit with him, or when Nate gave him summaries of their previous jobs, or when Hardison worked silently at the desk in his room while he dozed, or when Parker napped curled up at the foot of his bed like a cat.

The problem was the memories.

Most of them came to him in his dreams: fragments of images stitched together with bursts of fear, of anger, of pain. He woke in a panic most nights, hour after hour, not sure if he was in an interrogation cell or a South American jungle or a frozen, lonely cave. 

If the blood he imagined on his hands was his own, or someone else’s.

Hardison and Parker had taken to sleeping on an air mattress beside his bed, and he tried his best not to wake them, but the night before he’d jolted awake in the early hours of the morning to find Hardison tapping on his computer with his back against the bed. He didn’t say anything—didn’t even look Eliot’s way—but he was sure Hardison had heard him.

He’d already put them through so much. He didn’t want to add this burden as well.

Sighing, he turned on the faucet and washed his face in cold water, savoring the sharper sensation against the warmth and comfort he’d been wallowing in. A deep-rooted, unconscious instinct warned him that he couldn’t afford to get soft, that it was dangerous to get complacent, and it chafed at him every time someone told him he should be relaxing. He wanted to—wanted to ease their worries and prove that he was getting better, that he could pull his own weight—but each new memory made him withdraw further into himself, afraid to show his vulnerability.

Eliot ran his left hand through his hair, being careful to avoid the still-healing cut in his scalp. This couldn’t continue. He needed to get a hold of himself, figure out how to process his issues, and move on. He needed to be useful again.

First: a good night’s sleep. He’d tried to be on his feet as much as possible today, hoping to wear himself out before bed, and he was feeling the strain in his muscles. He finished washing up and changed into a new pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt—Hardison had gone to buy him extra clothes, and to replace the ones he’d ruined of Sunny’s—and stumped back to his room.

Parker was already tucked into the space between the air mattress and the bed, submerged beneath a pile of blankets Sunny had crocheted the winter she’d slipped on the ice and broken her foot. “Took up every new hobby I could find to keep myself from goin’ stir crazy,” she’d told Eliot the day before. “I still have my hooks and yarn in the basement if you want to give it a try.”

He wasn’t quite that desperate, but it was getting close.

Carefully, he turned off the light and leaned his crutch against the end of the bed. Maneuvering into it without stepping on Parker was a little tricky, but he managed, letting out a little sigh as his sore muscles relaxed against the mattress.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Parker said, her voice muffled beneath the blankets. “Was it?”

“Why sleep on the floor when you’ve got an air mattress right there?” Eliot countered.

“I don’t like how it dips when Hardison isn’t there.”

Hardison was still downstairs, but he’d be up in a few hours, if the last few nights were any pattern. Whether or not he slept on the air mattress was another matter. He had the first night, but the second, he’d spent as much time at the desk as the mattress. The night before, Eliot wasn’t sure he’d slept at all.

“You sure you’re comfortable?” Eliot asked, peering doubtfully over the side of the bed.

Parker poked her face out of the covers. “Yep. It’s cozy.”

Eliot laid back, closing his eyes against the light from the open door. “You don’t have to go to bed now,” he said. “Everyone else is still awake downstairs. I can handle a few hours on my own.”

“I’m tired,” Parker said.

He considered that. She’d been sleeping almost as much as he had over the last few days, and he had no idea whether that was normal for her. Her voice had been cheerful enough, and there was nothing to make him think she was lying—but he did, suddenly, inexplicably. Or maybe not lying, but... withholding.

Like he was.

“Parker?” he said, quietly, and was rewarded by the sound of her shuffling the blankets again.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

She hesitated just a second too long. “Yeah.”

“Because if you’re not...”

“I am,” she said. “Are you?”

“...Yeah.”

“There you go, then.” She settled back into her burrow of yarn, and he let her. He had no right to force her to talk, and he preferred to leave the offer open rather than keep digging on his own. He wanted to think she’d come to him eventually, if something was bothering her. 

He laid back, resting his right hand on his stomach and folding the other behind his head. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

The hours passed in stretches of restless dozing, punctuated by bursts of wakefulness when the dreams started. They weren’t as disturbing tonight—no faces in his crosshairs, no bones breaking under his hands—but several times he woke and had to check to make see which injuries he still had and which had healed long ago. Hardison came in sometime after the fourth nightmare, and he sat with his back to the desk and the glow of his laptop lighting his face as he worked on who knew what. Eliot rolled to his side, then his stomach, then his back again, finding he slept better when the faint computer light touched his eyelids. Hardison hummed a few times, the melody low and soothing, and Eliot found himself listening for it each time he woke. 

He’d just faded off to a wordless rendition of “Imagine” when a sharp cry ripped him awake. He shot upright, swinging his legs for the side of the bed before he remembered his healing gunshot wound, and pain knifed up his thigh and down to his foot. He froze on the edge of the mattress, hissing in a breath through his teeth, listening.

“Parker,” Hardison said softly. “Parker, look at me.”

Eliot blinked in the laptop light until he could make out the shape of Hardison kneeling on the air mattress. Parker was still bundled under her blankets, and the whole pile trembled as she shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless. “I’m sorry, Eliot. Go back to sleep.”

Eliot relaxed his grip on the bed, breathing out through his nose to soothe the pain still pinching his leg. “What happened?”

“Nothing—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

A frown pulled at his eyebrows. Already regretting the movement, he slid to the end of the bed and eased over the side, settling onto the air mattress as carefully as he could without showing how much he hurt. Parker was still buried in her blankets between the air mattress and the bed, but she lifted her head when Eliot sat beside her.

“Move,” he said, pushing her gently with one hand.

She did, shuffling her entire crocheted mountain out of the way so Eliot could push the mattress against the bed. Then he sat, clenching his teeth together to hold in his pain as he bent his right leg, and patted the space beside him.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” he said, without preamble, without emotion. “Memories. Some of them are—a lot. It’s all a lot. I wake up sometimes and don’t know where I am.”

Somewhere under the blankets, Parker sat in the space he’d indicated and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. Hardison, still crouched on the ground beside her, settled on her other side. “I’ve been afraid to sleep,” he admitted softly. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up back at the hotel, after we talked to the medical examiner. If I wake up and you’re not there...” He cleared his throat and tipped his head back against the bed. “So I’ve been coming in here and working on stuff, just... keeping an eye on you. Making sure you’re still here.” He tilted his head to look at Eliot and flashed a wan smile. “Is that creepy?”

“Yes,” Eliot deadpanned, and Hardison’s smile got wider.

Parker leaned forward to put her chin on her arms. “I know they’re just dreams. I don’t need you to tell me it’s not real.”

“It is real,” Eliot said, his voice low. He didn’t look at her, but when he saw her turning toward him in his peripherals, he leaned his shoulder against hers. “Whatever you dreamed about might not be real, but the feelings are. You still have to deal with them.”

She pulled a blanket tighter around her back. “How?”

He shrugged, his shoulder lifting hers. “Dunno. ‘M still working on it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hardison asked.

Eliot turned, not sure if the offer was for him or Parker. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to open up the wounds he was still trying to understand himself, but he could hardly encourage Parker to share her problems if he wasn’t willing to do the same. All he had to bargain with was himself, but if the last few days were any indication… that was all she wanted.

He opened his mouth, but Parker shifted against his arm and let out a long, loud sigh. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she said. “I want to go back to just feeling happy when I’m with you, instead of being afraid something will take you away. Is that... will that ever go away?”

He looked over her head at Hardison, who reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “Come here, girl,” he said, but pressed himself closer instead of pulling her toward him. “This all... this is a wound. Fresh. Bleeding, still.” His eyes were on Eliot, and he lifted the hand on Parker’s shoulder to touch Eliot’s as he went on. “It’s gonna hurt for a while. All we can do is keep it covered while it heals.”

“Covered with what?” Parker asked.

“New memories,” Hardison said. “Good ones. Ones to go over the hurt, until it doesn’t hurt so much.”

Eliot closed his eyes. Most of his memories were new, right now, so he had the benefit of extra perspective. And as much as he appreciated—and agreed with—Hardison’s suggestion, he wondered if maybe something familiar might work just as well.

“I remember meeting you,” Eliot said. He kept his eyes closed, but he could feel their gazes on his face. “That first job we all did. I remember... Nate set up the meeting, and I thought... I was... curious. I wanted to know what you two could offer that I couldn’t do on my own.”

“You mean besides your nonexistent computer skills?” Hardison asked.

Eliot let out a huff of laughter. “The geek stuff, yeah. The thieving. But Nate was right, about us being able to do more together. About being better together.” He tilted his head and opened his eyes. “It isn’t just during jobs.”

Parker bumped her arm against his. She didn’t say anything, but he could hear her meaning as clearly as if she’d spoken out loud, as clearly as he’d heard her when he’d thought she was gone.

He pressed against her, passing the message back and knowing she’d understand just as easily.

He woke an hour later, still sitting on the air mattress, with Parker’s head on his shoulder and Hardison lying across their feet. His back ached from the awkward position, but Parker and Hardison were breathing softly, and he wasn’t about to risk waking them just to get more comfortable. With a sigh, he stretched out his neck, settled his cheek against Parker’s hair, and went back to sleep.

***

It was pain that pulled him out of sleep this time; he’d slept almost dreamlessly for the first time in a week, and he felt rested even as he registered how early it must be. The sky outside his window was dark, and Hardison was still snoring on the air mattress. Parker was curled around his head, her face relaxed in sleep, and something warm and fond worked its way through Eliot’s chest. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t had any nightmares either.

It seemed they were all healing.

Eliot rolled to the edge of the bed, careful not to step on the air mattress as he stood and crept from the room. His crutch leaned against the wall beside the door, and he was sore enough to use it as he made his way into the hall. The house was quiet, but he didn’t want to lie in bed any longer. His hands itched to do something productive, something other than resting and recovering and talking about his feelings.

Slowly, keeping near the wall and avoiding the squeaky spots he’d learned over the last week, Eliot eased down the stairs and limped into the kitchen. Sunny had left the light over the sink on, and it was plenty bright enough to find a wash cloth and soap. He started with the obvious surfaces—the table, counters, stove—but Sunny kept a clean kitchen, and only ten minutes had passed by the time he finished. A tougher job, then. He moved on to the oven, pulling out the racks, scrubbing off the baked-on messes, the grease stains, the spills. That took a while longer, and by the time he finished, it was after 6.

Eliot brushed his hair out of his face and surveyed the kitchen. Cleaning was numbing, methodical, almost compulsory—but it wasn’t enough. He needed to fix something, build something... create something.

He looked down at his unbandaged hand. Old scars covered the knuckles, and he could see the evidence of poorly healed breaks in some of the fingers. They were tools of violence. What could he make with such hands?

Teach me to like stuff.

Eliot’s fingers twitched. Parker’s voice preceded the full memory, echoing in his head the way he’d come to hope for, to rely on, and he let it play through his mind as he stared at the scars on his hand.

He pushed a plate toward her, but she looked up at him and shook her head. “It’s just food.”

“It’s not just food, all right? Some people could look at it and see just food, but not me. I see art. When I’m in the kitchen, I’m—I’m creating something out of nothing.”

He opened his eyes. There was no recipe, but he’d done this before, hadn’t he? Hardison had said he could cook. If his body could remember how to destroy, couldn’t it remember how to make?

A quick search of the kitchen yielded a few promising results—flour, sugar, eggs—and he found a mixing bowl and spoon in the cupboards and drawers. The measurements came to him as he worked: 2 cups of flour, 1/2 cup of sugar, 2 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp salt. He mixed them with eggs and butter and vanilla extract, and then, when he couldn’t find any heavy cream in the refrigerator, made a buttermilk substitute from milk and vinegar. The steady motion of mixing felt familiar, even with his left hand, and he let himself fall into the rhythm as his mind drifted back through his newly recovered memories.

“What are you doing?”

Eliot flinched. He registered the voice as Miguel’s half a second after he reacted, which was half a second too late. He took a moment to compose his expression before he turned, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Cooking.”

Miguel stood in the doorway, and the quirk of his lips said he’d noticed Eliot’s response. “Why?”

“You don’t eat?” Eliot said, making a vague gesture with his spoon.

Miguel’s face twitched, and Eliot got the impression he was repressing a smile. “Why are you cooking so early?”

“I was up.”

Miguel moved to the counter beside him and took the empty pot from the coffee maker. “I guess that thing about 90 minutes was true, then. Hate to see what you could do when you’re fully rested.”

“Didn’t figure you’d want to see me at all after this,” Eliot said.

“Hmm.” Miguel glanced at the brace on his wrist and then back to the coffee pot. “I don’t. But I think maybe Sunny wouldn’t mind if you came to visit.”

“Not sure I’ll be going anywhere for a few days yet,” Eliot muttered. He spread some flour on a cutting board and pressed the dough over it, shaping it into a rough circle. Miguel watched him, filling the pot at the sink and scooping coffee grounds into the filter. When the coffee maker started bubbling, he leaned his back against the counter and nodded at the mixing bowl.

��What are you making?”

Eliot made a cut through the middle of his dough and answered without looking up. “Scones.”

“Where’d you learn to make those?”

The question was innocent, just casual conversation, and Eliot was relieved to feel nothing worse than impatience when he didn’t have an answer. He fell back on J.B.’s line: “Picked it up a ways back.”

Miguel snorted. “You two should put that on t-shirts.”

When the coffee was finished, Miguel poured two cups and set one on Eliot’s left side, then took a sugar bowl out of the cupboard and poured some milk into a creamer. “I have been here a while,” he said at last, dumping sugar into his mug without looking at Eliot. “The others come and go. Sunny helps the ones she can, the ones who can’t make it at the shelters. You notice patterns, after a while.”

Eliot set his scones on a baking sheet, listening with his eyes on his work.

“Some of them end up here when they’re between things,” Miguel went on. “Like J.B. He’ll move on once his job is done, and that will be that. And then others… some of them just make bad choices.”

“That you?” Eliot asked.

Miguel flashed him a grin. “I’ve been told I have trouble with authority. I don’t think that’s true. I have trouble with people who think they’re better than others. Sunny... she doesn’t think that way. She doesn’t care where you come from, what you did, long as you do what you can to help out.”

“You been with her long?”

Miguel took a drink, finally turning to look at Eliot while he spoke. “On and off since I was a kid. She never turned me away, no matter what I did. Always welcomed me back, put me to work fixing something—the railing, or the sink, or whatever. Sometimes I think she broke stuff just to give me something to fix. Something good to do, instead of whatever trouble I got myself into.” He shot a shrewd look at Eliot as he opened the oven door and slid the scones inside. “With that money your friends helped her find, she won’t have to worry about that no more. She’ll be able to help a lot of people.”

“And you?” Eliot asked, straightening carefully to keep his weight on his left leg.

Now that he’d unleashed it, Miguel’s smile was quick and genuine. “Who knows? I suppose I’ll keep busy.”

“Sunny will need some help herself,” Eliot said, keeping his voice casual. “A lot of people will want a piece of what she’s got now.”

“They’ll have to go through me.”

Eliot grinned and picked up the coffee Miguel had poured him. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

They were silent then, drinking their coffee and enjoying the smell of the baking scones. Eliot limped over to the little table after a while so he could sit, and Miguel waved him down when the timer went off and pulled the scones out of the oven himself. “Some of those people Sunny helps,” Miguel said, tossing the dish towel he’d used as an oven mitt onto the counter. “They come to her when they’re lost. Sunny has a way of orienting people, putting their problems in perspective.”

“She did for me,” Eliot said, meeting Miguel’s gaze across the table. “And I won’t forget it.”

Miguel picked a hot scone off the stove and blew on it. “You better not. She seems to like you, for some reason.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Eliot said.

Miguel grinned. “She likes me, too.”

“Like I said.”

With a short laugh, Miguel took another scone and sauntered out of the kitchen. “You better make more,” he said over his shoulder. “I like a big breakfast.”

Eliot drained his coffee, got up, and started another batch.

[weptsorrow]

with brows lifted, he patiently waited for till to accept the offered bite of food— it was a good thing that he eventually accepted, because ivan wasn't going to take any other answer. a soft hum of approval could be heard, happy with the outcome... almost tempted to feed the other some more, as ivan was fully convinced that the half of the bowl wasn't enough to sate the hunger from the last 3 days, but... he also knew just what sort of reaction till might've had, if he persisted. insisting that he wasn't a baby and didn't need to be spoon-fed like so; forcing ivan to accept these small victories.

it was the final moment of gentleness that they'd shared, at least for now, as ivan's teasing prompted the so-loved vicious response from the shorter. it made him happy to know that the days spent unconscious in the hospital hadn't completely dulled till's edge. still, perhaps those words cut a bit too deep.

“ i wouldn't change it! that's not what i meant... ” he said quickly, a faint pout forming upon his lips. the last thing he'd ever want was to mess with with what he considered a masterpiece ( which was everything that till had created ). “ i just wanted to know... you know i'm not very good at artistic interpretation. ”

ivan, too, now found himself happy that the topic had shifted; and that'd he'd be soon leading the other elsewhere, to actually rehearse. it was difficult to ignore the spark that flickered in till's eyes with the soft promise that he could get to play a guitar again. ivan loved to see it. “ okay! ” he grinned as he sprung to his feet, food unfinished and swiftly forgotten; set aside on the table. just as quick to then grab his friend's hands and pull him up and towards the door, their destination was set.

he could just pick the lock of the music room... but with the garden nearly empty now, the amount of children to monitor near nonexistant, ivan worried about the segyein possibly catching them— plus it'd take more time than if he were to just... swipe the key off of one of the teachers. “ can you go ahead? i'll be right with you... ” voice was a hum, mischievous in its nature as he already started to slowly walk in the opposite direction while still facing till.

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎even  with  the  lack  of  constant  attention  now  ivan's  hands  occupied  with  food,  till  still  tries  to  pay  some  mind to  the  other.  the  blueish  hues  of  his  gaze  flicker,  shifting  from  the  spot  on  the  floor  they  rest  on  to  fleeting  glances  at  the  dark-haired  man  nearby.  it's  harder  without  the  sharp,  sudden  jolts  of  pain  to  forcibly  drag  his  awareness  back  into  the  present.  after  a  minute,  till's  mind  begins  to  drift,  his  thoughts  spiralling  into  abstraction,  only  for  ivan's  voice  calling  his  name  to  reel  him  sharply  back.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the  sight  of  the  offered  food  sparks  a  flicker  of  momentary  confusion;  his  brows  knit,  but  then  his  stomach  growls,  breaking  the  spell  of  disorientation.  with  resigned  compliance,  till  leans  forward,  his  lips  brushing  against  the  chopsticks  just  long  enough  to  close  around  the  offered  bite  before  pulling  back.

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎they've  shared  food  before.  there's  an  odd  comfort  in  it  —  times  when  a  poorly  chosen  dish  had  him  frowning  or  whenever  he'd  been  outright  denied  food  as  one  of  urak's  cruelties.  in  those  instances,  scraps  weren't  even  passed  along  from  teachers.  so  he's  okay  with  this  setup  now,  the  ease  of  the  moment  blinding  him  to  the  fact  that  his  acceptance  leaves  ivan  with  less  than  half.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the  atmosphere,  marked  by  ivan's  overbearing  liveliness,  isn't  entirely  contagious,  but  it's  growing  easier  to  match  his  pace.  even  in  the  fragile  aftermath  of  exhaustion  and  recovery.  an  hour  between  ripping  the  iv  from  the  vein  it'd  been  stuffed  into,  and  ivan's  return  with  food  is  to  thank  for  that. 

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎there had been something  compelling  about  ivan's  softer  voice,  the  way  he'd  initially  sung  with  gentleness,  that had the  melody  lingering  even  after  the  moment  had  passed.  keeping  all  the lyrics just  made  sense.  yet when  ivan's  voice  cuts  through  again,  a  teasing  edge  laced  into  his  words,  till's  expression  hardens  instinctively.

‎ ‎ ‎❛❛   if  you  don't  like  it,  change  it.  ❜❜  till  grumbles,  his  tone  defensive  but  tired.  the  name  had  worked  for  him,  but  being  questioned  about  it  now  feels  like  a  deliberate  poke,  a  way  to  prod  at  his  resolve.  ivan  has  to  be  teasing,  preparing  to  pounce  on  any  explanation  till  might  stumble  through.  so  instead,  he  supplies  none,  his  scowl  deepening  in  defiance.  the  tension  lingers  briefly  until  ivan  offers  a  solution  to  the  guitarist's  lack  of  a  guitar;  the  shift  in  topic  provides  a  welcome  reprieve. he's unsure  if  they'd  even  get  the  chance  to  rehearse  together  after  urak  is  informed  that  their  pet  is  awake,  so till  nods.  ❛❛  obviously,  i'm  not  picky . . .  let's  go,  then.   ❜❜

[fernisfat]

i haven’t had an actual suicidal episode in a while lol this shit sucks 🙃

[fernsnailz]

sorry these kinds of comments have been really pissing me off recently lol

[trchrswtrs]

I had a dream about Sebek and a fly.

Sebek was going about his normal business, when he noticed a fly sitting on his hand. He casually brushed the fly off, before lifting his gaze to resume his duties. However, out of the corner of his vision, he caught sight of the fly, back on his hand. He swatted at it again. But somehow, it remained where it was. He shook his hand, twisted it about, swiped at it multiple times but no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, the fly remained on his hand. Growing increasingly frustrated, he even tried to crush the fly in his hand. But the fly still remained. He couldn't help but let out a cry of anger and upset as tears began to stream down his face, for he was desperate to be rid of this fly. This fly that would not release its hold on him. This fly that clung to the back of his mind every second of the day. And there was nothing he could do but despair.

[sukibenders]

To me personally, R*ck could've done more for Percy's and Nico's relationship better than just the "You're not my type." Not only because it just felt like a rush fill-in for closure and not even being true, and the irrepetible damage it did to the fandom who wore the line out among many other things, but also because it felt so lackluster (but many things in HOO felt that way). Like R*ck could've done so much more with these two and their history rather than just brushing it off with this dumb line and Percy being confused in the end like he had any control over the situation. R*chard, I'm in your walls!

[giddlygoat]

hater has disturbing reoccurring dreams about wander crawling inside his ribcage that always have him waking up in a cold sweat [they just feel too real and hater can’t place why]. wander has reoccurring dreams of hater ceremoniously destroying him with the Disaster Blaster and it’s the one dream he doesn’t eagerly blab to sylvia about because he doesn’t know how to tell her that it never feels like a nightmare. soooo is anyone else sick in the head or is it just me