#i lob her v much

[yudol-skorbi]

kk

[desperateknot]

It will take a long while for me to fill all of this out.

I can exclude a few that I don't want to do (yet). That being: Edgar Family Butler and Zwei West for being almost the same as Ishmael's; Solemn Lament because I didn't play Lob Corp and thus can't write its uptie story; NCorp for having very similar flavour of despair to Middle and Bloodfiend Queequeg and I don't feel like it right now; Pequod for being the same as her canon self (people already know what happens); Yurodiviye for being too hard to write; Fluid Sac for being a bit boring to draw; Snagharpoon for the voiceline contains a bit of spoiler to my own fic; Pursuance is still pending (although I think with the direction I am going with her, I will keep it).

So we have:

Dieci Association ID already has an uptie story written. It's very wholesome and contains a tiny bit of Rodya/Queequeg.

I have ideas for Hex Nail's corrosion animation a while ago, and I think Hex Nail Queequeg is really smart in general. However, its smartness won't be understood until I write that Canto V for the swap AU. But I also posted the Middle Queequeg ID already, so it will be fine.

The idea of Yearning-Mircalla Queequeg is very simple, straightforward, and obvious to me. Lesbian vampire yearner and obligatory red flowers. That's it. That is her.

You may notice that Blind Obsession is not there :]

I might ditch it. I just might. Let her seasonal E.G.O be Garden of Thorns or something. This mirror world is my oyster. I can throw a random Sign of Roses in the Canto V dungeon if I want. Obsession just isn't that much of her thing in the direction I am going with her, but sins very much is.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Updates and Round V of Excerpts from The One True School Master of Vault 41

Draft 0 of TOTSMOV41 is at 171 pages or 54,527 words! (A lot of it is just notes, not actual story, so my bet is that it will turn out shorter than I may've led you to believe (still could be wrong though) but it's getting somewhere since I've last done some transferring of my notes into one, cohesive document.)

Not-so-fun fact about it: Rafal temporarily goes blind and deaf.

These contextless excerpts are shorter than usual, but I just realized I had written a trope I like in which couples indirectly, unintentionally clash, which I find funny and ironic.

Another fun fact: The song on my TOTSMOV41 playlist that vaguely fits the vibes around the time of these moments would be "All That Glitters" by Earl. I just discovered the song today! (Eventually, probably after I publish the fic, I'll post the fic's playlist.)

⸻

Should she have gone for something even harsher than what she'd written in a flourished, calligraphic hand?

I would snub my date if he ever dared have rotten breath. It would be pure humiliation. In fact, I'd address it directly, as an announcement to all, so I could gain in my social standing while I simultaneously lower his. No man with poor hygiene deserves me.

No, not Evil enough of a response, Sophie scrutinized. Just petty. Back to square one. She sighed.

⸻

Rafal thought he should change his shirt before their tower meeting tonight, but he was out of clean laundry and the spell to steam the blood out of his clothes would be too taxing on him in this state. Agatha wouldn't care and besides, they had work to do. But Sophie...

He took his black shirt to the sink and tried to scrub out as much of the blood as he could with a stiff brush. By the time he was done, there was one, even darker, rusted patch of blood blooming on his shirt and some flecks on the sleeves.

More mess—if only he weren't useless without his sorcery!

He clenched his fists in frustration, suddenly aware of his raw, cramped fingers and ragged, poorly groomed nails, ready to lob the bloody shirt out the tower window entirely, but no shirt with "Aggie darling" and her heightened suspicions around would be worse by about a thousandfold. He'd be a dead man walking as if he weren't one already.

Thus, he picked up the balled-up cloth from the sink in defeat. Wet shirt it was then. What other options did he have?

⸻

Incidentally, Agatha turned up with a waterlogged crystal ball that overshadowed the sorry sight of his stained and torn shirt.

⸻

If anyone wants to know the symbolism behind this, I'll gladly explain it! Also, if anyone wants to, I invite you to guess at it.

[synnthamonsugar]

DESTINYTOBER: Day 29 - Salvation's Edge

Read it on AO3

Dramatis Personae:

Yilwren . . . . . . . .@flowers-of-io

Euphea-7 . . . . . .@euxiom

Chirraek . . . . . . .@xivu-arath

Damascus-12 . . .@endivinity

Kass . . . . . . . . . . .@phthalology

I.

It appeared before Lilith as it had in the Black Garden. A mirror copy of herself in every regard except for the eyes, fathomless black ringed with an accretion disk of blinding white. It could take her face, but it couldn't hide its soul.

— In Light, there is only death. —

Lilith didn't let it corner her like she had in the Garden. Wordlessly she turned away, but it remained in her field of view.

— In your attempts to harness both, ruin. —

She attempted to walk past it, but it stayed impossibly just a few steps in front of her. 

— What happened to her is a prelude. There is still a chance for you —

Instantaneously combusting with Solar Light, she drew forth her sword hurtling an arc of fire toward it. 

Just as quickly, it was gone. 

II.

Yilwren didn't have time to think when he heard the dawnblade cast. Drawing his sidearm, he ran toward Lilith's position, ready for a fight. 

Instead, he found her standing alone, sword in hand, black scorch marks in a hieroglyphed wall beyond her. 

"Is everything okay?" he asked. Startling, she pivoted on her heel to face him.

"I don't . . . it came to me." Despite the lack of imminent danger, Yilwran's heartbeat spiked. "It looked . . ."  

She let the sword disintegrate into sparks. Brushed off her hands against her robes.

". . . Never mind. I'll sound crazy if I say."

Yilwran felt the blue drain from his face. Leaned in close enough to not be heard by their approaching teammates, and whispered: "Is it copying you, too?"  

III.

A hand the size of a fallen skiff poised above the passageway like the head of a serpent, impossibly many fingers fanning open around a central palm in threat display. It gesticulated as if it was a flipbook animation, a collection of snapshots in time rather than something moving in it.

Maybe that's what it was. Maybe it only gave the impression of living in reality, but skipped between potentials like pages. If so, how could they ever beat it?

Euphea-7 held onto the hope that it was surmountable. Zavala's words, relayed from the dissenters, rang through her mind: What was made can be unmade.

The hand struck, catapulting blocks of stone as the ground quaked violently enough to throw her off balance. She lobbed a volley of grenades, and it flinched away —

IV.

When the massive hand withdrew into nothingness and cleared the path ahead, the exomind crossed the destroyed floor with the effortless leap of a hunter and a lightbearer's disregard for danger. 

Chirraek hesitated. They didn't have the privilege of a talkative mobile oversoul, and while they were willing to risk their life to defeat the Witness, they didn't want to jump into a trap either.

The crater was deeper than they're tall, much wider than the wingspan of their robes. They were reminded that their ancestors were once the smallest things in the universe. For all the world-ending power of the Hive, they were still a minuscule speck, lives robbed of meaning by its dire machinations. 

Euphea waved for them to follow. 'Safe to cross,' they make out from her speech, 'gone now'.

Chirraek hadn't been sure how they'd be received by the human lightbearers, and was relieved to find them amiable despite steep language and steeper culture barriers. It seemed they all spoke the universal tongue of grievance.

Trusting in their team-mate, they glide across safely, both moving to catch up with the rest of their team.

V. 

It appeared as a sphinx the size of a city block, massive faceted onyx body tapering upward to a long, wide neck, downward to thin digitigrade legs. It walked silently on slender fingertips, and peered groundward with a blank white face, empty black eyes.

If it'd wanted the team dead, they'd be dead, Damascus-12 reasoned. Instead it circled and watched. Damascus watched back, even as the others retreated to the presumed safety of the narrow hallways beneath.

"Do you have a riddle to give me?" she asked aloud, thinking about the old world stories she'd heard. Sphinxes guarded, and they challenged, and those clever enough to solve their puzzles were granted passage. The unclever were eaten, which was not a fear she had being both smart and thoroughly indigestible.

"Are you trying to get us killed?!" hissed Lilith, locking Damascus by the arms and dragging her bodily toward the exit. She wasn't sure it heard until it looked in her direction and said to her alone:

— Have I not already? —

VI. 

At this altitude, the fractal repetitions of its form spiraled and looped over itself, becoming a visually inexplicable bramble of body and arms and tendrils and tines, pieces of rubble embedded throughout. This was the roadway the team found themselves on, climbing inexorably upward. 

The Light was everywhere, in everything. Perhaps this is why The Witness didn't notice a team of Guardians summiting its stony carapace. Or, perhaps, they were simply too small a unit of life to react to — germs who hadn't yet been detected by the immune system. 

Kass wished she could be as oblivious to it. The portion of her face scarred over with silver-white tree bark throbbed with pressure. Proximity to paracausal extremes had produced physical reactions before, but never to this extent.

She wondered what it would have been like to experience the Traveler's awakening in this form. Would exposure to pure Light have been as painful as Darkness?

"Eyes up," Yilwran spoke in a hushed tone to the team as they approached a clearing in the tangle. Looming overhead, the forebody of the Witness, arms fanned around, eyes closed, statue-still except for the endless swirling plumes wafting from its head. 

Anticipation buzzed as palpable as Arc as she followed her teammates toward their final confrontation.

[the12thnightproject]

This is my flash exchange gift for @venulus

Character: Mitsuhide (& most of the Azuchi warlords)

Prompt: Cold Hands/Warm Touches

Title: Snow Daze

Word Count: 700

Warnings: None

Even in winter, it rarely snows in Azuchi. Too warm. Too dry. So when an unseasonable cold spell married the gales of Lake Biwa and they birthed a knee-high accumulation of snow, everyone went a little crazy.

Is it a surprise that a suggestion of a snowball fight was met with cheers?

Is it a surprise that Hideyoshi forbade that dangerous activity?

Is it a surprise that his edict was ignored?

Finally, is it a surprise that this minor rebellion was instigated by Mitsuhide? True, nobody could prove he’d fired the first snowball, the one that hit Ranmaru. Had Mitsuhide realized that Ranmaru would immediately seek revenge? Even if he couldn’t predict what would happen next (and let’s be honest… he knew), he must have been aware that there would be snowballs lobbed in retaliation.

The next one hit Keiji.

He’d whooped in appreciation and pitched a Keiji-sized snowball at Masamune…

By the end of the first day of what would go down in history as the Great Fluff Campaign of ’83, everyone in Azuchi had been walloped at least once. Some more often than that. Some (Hideyoshi), after changing clothes three times in one afternoon, gave up on the idea of dryness entirely.

In this midst of these sneak attacks, Mitsuhide mysteriously avoided becoming a victim. It was almost unnatural, a maid remarked to Mai on Day Three of the siege, how he strode through the corridors, hair completely dry, crisp haori fluttering behind him, while everyone else (even Nobunaga) had telltale damp splotches on their clothes. “He must be a yokai! He shapeshifts out of the way as soon as he senses danger. I wonder if he shapeshifts other times, too?”

That… was something that Mai was also curious about, but it was further down on the list after, “can he really read minds?” “why does he tease me so much?” and “what would it be like to kiss-.” Never mind.

By the fifth day, when the storm showed no sign of stopping, she speculated that Mitsuhide was not only a yokai, but also one who could control the weather. What else would explain the fact that no matter how often the snow was trampled into the ground or hurled through the air, it always magically replenished itself overnight?

She might not have confronted him, had it not been for the fact that they lost Mitsunari in the snow for a day (Mitsunari was none the worse for his adventure, and hadn’t realized he was lost, but even Ieyasu had been worried). Determined to put a stop to the madness, she wrapped herself in her warmest cloak, marched over to Mitsuhide’s manor and pounded on the door.

Though she had practiced many speeches on her way over, Mai lost her train of thought when he opened the door, then stood smirking down at her. “Dear me, Mouse. To what do I owe the honor?”

She’d never seen him in his informal kimono before, and the sight of that deep v neck hovering open over his sculpted abs was … don’t go there. When she finally regained her voice, it was only to say, “Stop it.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be substantially less cryptic.” He stood aside as she stomped into his manor.

Mai waved her hand in the air. “The snow. Make it stop.”

“I’m flattered that you think it, but I cannot control the weather. Had I that ability, Nobunaga would have already unified Japan twice over.” He set a kettle on the irori. “Tea?”

She felt a bit silly as she watched him prepare tea like a perfectly normal human. Then he handed her a cup, his fingers touching hers. “Wait! Your hand is cold.” She sandwiched his fingers between hers. “You’ve been inside, just made tea, and your hands are cold.”

“My dear if you want to hold my hands, you only need to ask.” He picked up her other hand, and pressed both against his chest. “I am often cold. Would you be interested in warming me with your touch?”

She… was interested.

…

…

…

Later that afternoon, the snow turned to rain.

Everyone complained about the mud.

[lakegelid]

She was named Violet. The V was for Vision.

Later, she became Scarlet. Her opposite in visible light, but so close around the span of the wheel. Just a single step’s difference, really. Hardly different at all, she could tell herself.

—

He told me that every man and every woman is a star. Said we are all a universe unto ourselves. I told him it sounded like he was quoting something.

“Ninety years hence,” he muttered between flat lips while lighting a joint.

Voice-tinged-metal with smoke, he said in that moment I reminded him of the goddess Astraea, said she was the last truly immortal thing to walk this earth. Cast out for the sake of the paradigm, those were his words. She became a constellation.

Virgo.

V. For Vision.

—

I sat there, eyes shut, running my fingers idly through the shag-carpeted interior of Hunter’s 1971 Dodge Tradesman, which he had some time that last summer dubbed the ‘Nim-rod’. I tried very hard to pretend I didn’t have a body, to pretend that I was just an unconscious mind unmoored across space and time, and not twenty-two and very sick on mushrooms in a smelly van out in the north woods, being lectured about the ‘hologram nature’ of reality by a guy I knew better than to like as much as I did.

“Hit?”, Hunter asked in my direction, equal parts concern and amusement in his voice.

I sucked air in through my teeth, not sure if my stomach was reporting lizard-brained hunger or the leaden weight of nauseatic urgency. I decided to let it ride. “Keep working on it,” I said, studying the dome light through my eyelids, “I’ll let you know if I wanna polish it off.”

Hunter made a sort of harsh consonant noise in affirmation, and I heard a soft cherry sizzle as he sucked away at his dubois. I let go of the carpet, the plush impression lingered on my fingertips for what became an uncomfortably long time.

“Mm,” I grunted, clearing my nose with a hard sniff, then wheezed. “Smells nice. What’s this one called? Don’t tell me if it’s gross.”

Hunter sat silent for a moment. “Cheetah piss,” he said, holding an inhale, the play of a lying smile in his voice. “And I put the last of the chief in it, that’s why it’s so, uh, floral.”

“I said don’t tell me!”, one eye slitting open just brave enough that I could lob a kick at him, and miss.

“Anyway, I got it from the Reverend. I’m surprised you don’t recognize it. Your place must reek of the stuff, what with his, uh—”.

I cut him off, warning, “Hunter.”

“What?”, he complained flatly, but decided it wasn’t worth the retread. “Okay, whatever. I got it from him. Says a guy from a place I don’t remember grew it. Sounded like — who was that scientist — ‘Avogadro’, maybe.”

“From Alla-Gadda?”, I asked, sitting upright, squinting intently.

“Bingo,” he said, taking another drag. “Hey, you want any of this? It’ll be down to the dregs soon.”

Fuck.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching out, hoping the shakiness in my voice sounded like it was drug-induced. “Lemme finish it.”

“Atta girl. I knew you’d feel better.”

—

Within thirty minutes I was back on I-39, sending the Nim-rod complaining into the red zone, which it did at around 65 miles per hour. If what I thought was happening was, in fact, happening, there was precious little time. If not, well, I could tell Hunter I bugged out. I’d probably tell him that, anyway. He’d forgive me.

I had lifted the keys when he went off to relieve himself in the camp outhouse. Of course, I didn’t leave him totally out of sorts. It was a beautiful night, and I dumped his sleeping bag and other effects before heading out. In the morning he could use the office’s phone, and one of his friends or coworkers could be out to get him by noon.

Really, he’d be fine. He’d have a funny story about being stranded in the woods by a girl on a bad shroom trip, and win some sympathy from his buds in the process.

I clicked on the dome light, unfolding over the wheel a road map of Wisconsin that probably came with the van. Fucking podunk town was always so hard to find. The Lake made sure of that.

My eyes were swimming and struggling to focus as they darted between the map and the weak beams illuminating the road ahead, so it was a gut-punch when I finally noticed my vision changing. It had shifted in its subtle totality into a four-color pallet, stark and horrible, matching the ink of the map.

Black. Yellow. Red. White.

The Humors of Alla-Gadda.

This was bad. Oh, this was so very bad.

I tossed the map onto the bucket seat, in turns swearing, hyperventilating, and pounding the wheel with my palm. I got halfway through a set of Hail Marys before I had to slam on the brakes and throw up out the window.

It only made me feel worse.

[muses0fgracie]

Since I've gotten off my butt to work on drafts at the time of writing this.... Here are some Canon-Divergent things I want to state about all three of my Murder Drones muses seeing as how it's been a while since the show's finale, and because frankly I am disappointed with the direction it all went in. So consider this a big ol' hearty "Fuck You!" to canon.

Below the cut because I wanna spare you all how long this is.

For Uzi:

To start; she is NOT in any kind relationship with N, on account of her being disgusted by romance in general. In fact, N's "We Kinda Hang Out idk" message was to trigger her gag reflex, as well as to get Nori to do the slap that would bring her back to reality.

She's since lobbed off her tail (which contains the Solver), and keeps it in a terrarium in her, Khan and Nori's home. She is now essentially a snake owner lol. Of course, a new, non-sentient one did eventually grow back, but separating herself and the Solver (leaving it in a powerless worm form) FREAKING HURT.

To add to the above fact, following her removing and thus trapping the solver in her old and severed tail, her Solver powers have almost kind of just... been very nerfed. She can move non-solver objects around and no longer has to worry about being controlled anymore, but that's just about it. On the plus side though, she's now got a cool new railgun again! but shes pissed that she can never learn to teleport now.

For V:

Despite the above info about Uzi's relationship status, V and N (@musesofthesun) are not together either. While they're very close, they both acknowledge that there has been a lot of stuff going on (from the solver's interference to both of their own poor choices), and they're both not ready to have what they used to again. But they're taking baby steps to talking and being more open with each other, so they can properly rekindle what they have both lost.

She and Lizzy have... begun talking a lot less, due to the latter deciding to focus on helping Doll (see Lizzy's section below). But they're still on good terms. They'll chat, and Lizzy will inform V of important events going on at the colony, and V is the former's go-to when disposing of students she doesn't like.

She's pretty much tamed and made a big scary puppy out of the Red Sentinel, who she has affectionately named "Sparky". She managed to win them over after defeating them in battle and killing the other sentinels, but unfortunately she's the only one they listen to.

She now has a hobby of exploring Copper 9 in search of other oil sources. Because as much as she misses slaughtering prey all the time, she knows that she can't do that anymore now that she's a part of the colony.

For Lizzy:

She's pretty much gone back to living a normal life now that it's all over, nothing much else to say.

She is the only one besides Uzi who can visit Doll (@handfulofmuses) following the latter being repaired and living as a hermit now, as while she doesn't know what Doll experienced before the Solver killed her, she wants to be there for her even-more-traumatized bestie until thee latter is ready to come back to the colony... even if the chances of that are slim.

She is 12% less mean than she used to be before the series began.

[peachymun-messages]

Epiphanies I Had Over The Last Hour-ish

This is where I’d put a read more label… if HAD ONE KNEW THE CURRENT ONE. Tumblr just keeps changing it for no goddamned reason.

From the discord messages I sent first (indented text incoming):

THEORY THAT JUST OCCURRED TO ME

Don gets into trouble so fast because she has a high Justice stat

Facts about Don:

- EXTREME sense of Justice™️, nothing will get in her way of enacting JUSTICE

- gets into trouble VERY QUICKLY, like you can take your eyes off her for a minute and she’s off “enacting justice”

Facts about the lobotomy corporation Justice stat

- makes you very speedy!!!!

Like we see throughout the game Don is very quick to jump into trouble in the name of Justice, and it’s highly implied if not outright stated that your agents’ stats are directly correlated to their personal virtues (which implies things about Level V agents that makes their dialogue. make a lot of sense actually?)

Going into the implications of Level V agents and their dialogue: maybe their dialogue is Like That because they’re kind of. Exalted, in a way?

I mean, for one thing if you’re a Level V agent you can probably best even the cruelest and most murderous creatures in the facility. And for another it’s correlated to your stats being really fucking high, like usually humans aren’t so fortuitous, nor so temperate, nor so insightful, not even having as strong of a sense of justice as a Level V agent.

Level V agents are leagues above the average human being. Not just physically, but mentally.

This is actually kind of demonstrated with new agents usually being hired at Level I, or if you have Hod’s upgrade, Level III (which implies they go through training probably sped up by TT2, likely a lot like using lob to up an employee’s stats)

So this brings their dialogue into context

They’re Like That because they’re pretty much demigods, albeit demigods shaped by our human hands

Yes they’re still mortal, but god damn if they aren’t strong as hell.

Okay, with those out of the way, from this point onwards it is solely text typed in tumblr’s post editor.

Now that I’ve thought about it, do you guys think Yuri may of noticed Don’s supernatural speed and strong sense of Justice and correlated it to L Corp’s virtues? I think so. That’d be fun. Maybe a bit fucked up, but fun.

Also there’s a possibility that we may get LCorp Remnant Don Quixote, which may play into the Justice-related speed even more, which opens fun and new possibilities!

TL;DR: Don is probably open-secretly harboring a large Justice stat. From this, I somehow derailed into Level V agents, and came to the conclusion Level V agents are pretty much demigods created by managerial hubris, and that’s probably why they’re Like That. Also, maybe Yuri might’ve noticed Don’s supernatural speed and sense of Justice and correlated it to the lobotomy corporation virtues. Plus, one day we might get LCorp Don, which may play into the Justice speed stuff.

[obigem]

After Leanne had appeared, he couldn't remember much of anything. The glow of her green LEDs, the crispness of Valerian's silver irises.

He groaned as he came to. There was a severe pounding in his head and he felt so wet and cold he was trembling.

"Ugh, wha—" He tried to speak.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Fletcher." He could hear the voice of his host. And when he finally opened his eyes, he was acosted with the most frightening sight.

"Mr. V!" He half shrieked.

"Please, my friends call me Valerian, my enemies call me Vexus. You aren't really either, but—"

"You'll be dead soon anyway, so take your pick on which monicker tickles your fancy more. It's my final gift to you."

"Final—wait! Please, you don't want to do this. You're better than this."

"Mmm, no, I don't think I am."

"But you can be! Please! I have a family."

"I have a wife, and kids, and—Cordelia! Please, my daughter, tell me she's OK!"

"Upon freezing you with the simray, Leanne did apprehend a small child and android. The child was mouthy, but powerless, but that android…tell me, who sent you?"

"Sent me? what—"

"Listen, Mr. Fletcher, There's an extremely slow moving lazer aimed squarely at your manhood. Eventually, it will lob it off resulting in a death just as slow, but agonizingly painful. I can let that happen, or you can tell me what I need to know."

"And then you'll let me go?"

"Oh, Watcher no. But I can promise to make it quick and relatively painless. You've been practicing your head shots, haven't you, HANSEL?"

"Oh, sir, please don't make me!" HANSEL chirped. "He's naive and kind of cute like a puppy. Like the lost dog"

"HANSEL, please, we've talked about this. Everything is not like the lost dog."

"But it feels so wrong."

"We must be professional, HANSEL. So ready the headshot in 3-2—"

"No, please!" Cam pleaded. "I'll tell you anything you want. Just spare me, or at least spare my daughter!"

[lucimimari]

Lore for the Halloween special that Idk if I'll ever be able to talk about on stream or in videos:

The vampire me at the end is an alt version of me, her lore is v diff from the main lore.

The random guy in the video is basically just my generic boy that I draw just with spiky sideburns.

I named him Kyle bc I kept hearing Kyle in cartmans voice bouncing in my head when I was drawing him.

Vampire!Luci started out normal, she was a normal uni student who was invited to the club by her roommate, and decided to go bc she had never been there before.

Turns out her roommate was a vampire, and was part of a group of vampires who ran the club.

They drugged her and told her she was "drunk" and brought her back to an abandoned building to feed off of her and turn her.

She was knocked out after getting bitten and woke up in a car with them.

She had no idea she had been turned and thought they were going to finish her off, and got into a scuffle trying to escape the car.

The driver swerved the car bc of the commotion, resulting in her head being lobbed off by a telephone pole a la hereditary.

She then died, however because she had been turned she wasn't fully dead her soul was stuck in an inbetween place and her memories prior to the night she died were completely wiped.

Even then the night she died is repressed she can't remember it unless something triggers her to remember it.

Her soul returned to her grave after all the memories were wiped so approximately a week after the funeral, she attached herself to the first person who went to visit her grave.

Enter Kyle lmao

Kyle was a childhood friend of hers, they were very close and he was secretly in love with her.

Kyle moved far away to go to a different school from her in the hopes that with the distance he could grow into someone who she could fall for.

He ended up getting a well paying job almost right off the bat and was planning to reach out when his family called to tell him she had died.

He was unable to make it to the funeral bc of the distance but he was able to convince his job to let him work remote and rushed to move back to their hometown at least to comfort her mother as her mother had no one else to rely on.

He moved into the first apartment he could in the city and almost as soon as he moved in her visited her grave.

Meets her ghost and decides he'll bring her back to life bc he can't deal with the grief.

Problem is that she doesn't remember him or anyone or anything.

She's living entirely off vampiric instinct.

She sees photos of herself in his apartment and assumes it's a doppelganger, and does not recognize old pictures of herself as "her".

He realizes too late what she is and that she isn't "her", that she's not the girl he was in love with she just looks, sounds, and acts like her.

A monster in the shape of the woman he loved but missing the heart that he wanted in the first place.

Things spiral from there, as Kyle goes through the horrors, both emotionally and physically unable to get rid of what's essentially a ghost living in his apartment with him.

Meanwhile she just wants to figure out what this nagging feeling is that she's forgetting something important.

He let's her feed off him in the beginning because he's terrified of her going out and people recognizing her, but it gets to be too much and he doesn't have enough blood.

He's forced to either steal blood for her, bring people back for her to feed off of, or kill people for her to feed if he doesn't want her going out.

Naturally she gets restless and wants out, she's bored and hungry and just wants to try to figure out why her ghost was stuck there.

She has no intention of killing him as she feels she owes him for bringing her back.

She will not regain any of her memories with him back.

She will never fall in love with him.

He is stuck in his own personal hell that he made to try to escape from the original pain he had

He struggles with being overjoyed that she's there but also the knowledge that it's not "her".

When she shows "affection" its not genuine, it's either for her to get something she wants, or to manipulate him into staying bc she knows she isn't strong enough to be alone yet.

He accepts all that she gives him and tries to tell himself it's because she's remembering herself, it's because deep inside she's still in there. That if he tries hard enough she'll remember and that the real "her" will be back.

She not in there, and she's never coming back.

He beats himself up for wanting to get rid of her and kill her again but he also just can't bring himself to do it, and he knows he never will, that whether he likes it or not he's stuck with her until either he dies, gets turned, or she eats him.

Anyway that's all the ideas for the lore I had lmao. I'm planning to tell the story over the course of various halloween specials. This is like an alternate timeline of events. It's not canon to any of my main stuff or self it's just like a mini movie sidequest lmao.

Anyways thanks for reading all this mess it was just me throwing up all the stuff knocking in my head :)) lololol

[primevein]

The Prime of His Youth: Book V: Where There's Smoke: Ch09: Deafening Silence

Moose Runner tossed Landslide a lob as the 18 wheelers drove up.

Smokescreen waited for Landslide to catch the lob before speaking, "Well, fun's over."

"To be fair," Downshift firmly stated, "we're finally on the road. Not to complain, because working beside a Prime has been an honour, but..."

"This is slagging awesome!" Golden Hind exclaimed.

"Careful, Doe." Sierra said. Golden Hind looked down at her, seeing her raised her arms in the air. Without thinking she picked her up. Doe gave her a questioning look. "Our leader might see you being unladylike."

"Oh, slag off."

"I am quite comfortable." Sierra simply replied.

"As soon as they are in custody, we'll roll out to New Kalis." Smokescreen stated.

"Is that the best way?" Cinderstream asked.

"It's honestly the worst."

"Then why the slag are we doing it?!" Golden Hind exclaimed.

"Doe." Sierra admonished.

"What?!" she asked.

"This can't be good for your blood pressure." Sierra said with glee.

Golden Hind seemed to deflate. She then stood back up, looking down at Sierra, and then over to Downshift, "Do we even have blood pressure?" Downshift didn't have the answer, and so she turned to Smokescreen.

"Hm?" he asked, as he caught her gaze, turning back towards her, "Well, yeah, I guess. Our Energon pressure is carefully controlled, but unlike Humans, we don't have to worry about it going haywire. Unless you are bleeding out."

* * *

"We're approaching Moon Base Beta." Wheeljack said to Dodge on the Phthia's bridge, "They'll likely attack once we pass it."

"It's what I would do." Dodge stated. "Was this why you weren't included in Smokescreen's reports?

"What can I say, we're shy." Wheeljack sardonically stated.

"I'll go and setup." Moonracer stated, and transformed. Her drag bag split in two and turned into saddle bags almost as long as she was before driving to the nearest door, and then through once it opened.

"It's pretty simple." Bulkhead stated.

"False intel?" Dodge asked.

"That's the spirit." Wheeljack stated.

* * * The Decepticons opened the outer hatch, and stepped inside. As they looked about they saw the place surrounded in walkways for much smaller creatures. "You think they have pets?" one of them asked the others.

"I think you should keep quiet." another replied.

"The ship is abandoned?" another asked.

"It's not abandoned." the second stated, "Unguarded. There's one flyer left."

* * *

Eurawind looked back from the monitor, "The fuck?"

Zephawind rolled her eyes, "We were not included in the ship's roll before we left for Master."

"Yeah, but still." a petulant Eurawind uttered. "We did..."

"It's a secret, remember?" Zephawind asked.

"Now I really want to bash their heads in." Eurawind replied.

Zephawind looked at another moniter. "It looks like the last one's in."

"Let's go and fuck them up." Eurawind stated.

"You've spent too much time with Humans."

"To be fair," Eurawind replied, and paused, "it's pretty much impossible to spend too much time with Humans."

Zephawind sighed.

* * *

The moment the last of the Decepticons moved into the wide open hold, the first one was shot. It penetrated his backplate and struck his spark chambre. His eyes dimmed as he fell forward. The last three of the Decepticons tried to turn back to the door, only for Bulkhead to fill the space up to his shoulders. A black form jumped up to his shoulders. It turned out to be Phantom Rider, his face hidden behind the black of his visor. He leapt off of Bulkhead's shoulders as two other Decepticons were taken out with Seaspray's harpoons as another was shot with Moonracer's rifle. A loud clash was heard as Wheeljack jumped into the fray. This was quickly followed by the sounds of slamming as Phantom Rider used his chains to smash the Decepticons about.

* * *

Three Decepticons climbed out of the open hatch. They gravitized to the hull before leaping towards Moon Base Beta off in the distance. One of them transformed into a flyer, only to be shot from behind by the Battle Sisters. The other two completely vulnerable and alone as they were shot.

* * *

The Femme medic looked close at the Decepticon burnt by Cinderstream. She glared at him before looking at Ultra Magnus. "Was this really necessary?"

"I am not going to second guess a battlefield decision." Ultra Magnus stated.

"Just look at him!" the medic shouted, while pointing at the burnt Decepticon.

"I will remind you that Smokescreen is not just a war hero, who literally fought Megatron himself, and survived, but was also able to achieve all military objectives on Master without a single fatality." The medic then glared at Smokescreen, then Cinderstream, before looking back to her patient. "Even when fighting alongside Dinobots, he was able to achieve minimal casualties."

"This doesn't mean?!.." she exclaimed.

"It does." Ultra Magnus stated, and then paused, "But your objection will be noted in the records."

"Thank you." the medic strongly uttered.

* * *

Smokescreen's squadron drove down the road.

"Shouldn't we get a medic?" Golden Hind asked.

"Elite Guard." Smokescreen stated.

"We can just call them in?" Golden Hind asked.

"Hm?" Smokescreen asked, "The Elite Guard is non-regional. Our purview is all of Cybertron."

"Alright, but?.." Golden Hind asked.

"We have to coordinate with local forces." Smokescreen uttered, and paused, "It's mandatory. We are not here to oppress anyone, or inflict Iacon's will."

"He's saying we have to ask for help." Landslide stated.

"Then why the slag didn't he just say that?" Golden Hind asked, and got silence in reply. The silence felt more and more palpable, and more and more oppressive until she finally spoke up. "Why am I the only one talking?" Again, she got silence in reply. "If I wasn't talking, would everyone just not talk?"

Another great pause followed, until Sierra finally spoke up, "One thing you need to learn about boys, Doe, is that they can enjoy the quiet." Another great quiet followed.

* * *

Golden Hind pulled up to the gates of New Kalis, slowed down, and transformed, looking up at the conspicuous sign. She lifted her right hand to her right ear and opened the comm. channel, "Golden Hind here."

"Doe." Sierra quickly said in reply, following by dead air as Golden Hind seathed.

"There's no way that I'm going to..."

"Doe." Sierra quickly replied, followed by another pause.

"Oh, come on!" Golden Hind exclaimed, "Why am I the only one with a nickname?"

"Because it's cute." Sierra quickly stated.

"What about Moose Runner?" Golden Hind pleaded.

"Moose." Moose Runner stated, followed by another moment of dead air, as Golden Hind could not react. When she finally did, she nearly keeled over.

"Not funny."

"I thought it was supposed to be cute?" Moose Runner asked, and Golden Hind once again could not move, nevermind speak.

"How about Broken Crown?" Downshift asked, followed by a pause, "Because I'm a Crown. And I break things."

This time Golden Time actually fell down. She struggled to stand up. "That's not even cute."

"I'm basically a rooster." Cinderstream stated, and paused, "So, Flaming Cock?"

"No - SLAGGING - WAY!" Golden Hind shouted through the comms.

"Didn't she have something to tell us?" Landslide asked.

"She's at the gate in New Kalis." Smokescreen stated. "And she's too shy to go in."

"What?!" Golden Hind exclaimed, "I'm not shy!"

"Don't worry, Doe." Sierra supportingly said over the comms. "We'll be there soon enough."

Golden Hind screamed out loud, and then transformed, leaning onto her kickstand.

* * *

Smokescreen pulled up to Golden Hind, and opened up his passenger door. Sierra climbed out, and without missing a beat slipped onto Golden Hind's seat. Sierra gently pet her gas tank. "You ready to go?" she gently asked.

"Th... thank you..." Golden Hind stated.

"I will trust you to stop me from being stepped on." Sierra stated.

"You promise not to tell anyone how fucked I am socially?" Golden Hind asked.

"Can I call you Doe?" Sierra asked.

"You are really dedicated to this, aren't you?" Golden Hind asked.

"It's cute." Sierra stated, "As cute as you are."

"Doesn't being 15 feet tall stop me from being cute?"

"Not in the least." Sierra simply replied.

"You girls enjoy yourself." Smokescreen stated, and drove off. The others in the squadron followed behind him.

"And what are you boys up to?" Golden Hind asked.

"I'm going to pay the big guy a visit." Smokescreen stated.

"And the others?" Golden Hind asked.

"Going to have fun in New Kalis." Cinderstream replied.

"Isn't it a violent hell hole?" Golden Hind asked.

"Violent?" Downshift asked, "Definitely."

"There is a hellhole." Smokescreen said over the comms. "It's called the Pit, and everyone is to stay out of it without my approval."

"Roger." Downshift, Cinderstream, Landslide, and Moose Runner said at the same time.

"Doe?" Smokescreen asked.

"Yeah-yeah?" she replied.

"What's the plan?"

"Uh?.." Golden Hind said out loud, "What is the plan?"

"The lab." Sierra said over the comms.

"Call me when you arrive, and if you leave." Smokescreen stated.

"Yes, sir." Golden Hind stated.

"Yes, daddy." Sierra replied.

"Dude?" Golden Hind asked.

"Dudette." Sierra corrected.

"You call him daddy?"

Sierra sighed, "How have you not heard me do it?"

"Okay, alright, I mean..." Golden Hind uttered.

"You weren't paying attention." Sierra stated.

"I mean, I'm sorry, I..."

"I'm not mad at you." Sierra stated.

"You're not?" Golden Hind asked.

"You are so comfortable with me that you do not need to worry when I'm around." Sierra stated, and Golden Hind stayed quiet, but Sierra could feel how she relaxed.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Do you know me? [Stephen]

In All My Reverie || -

What’s their full name?:

"What are you doing, kid?" Doctor Strange. Doctor Stephen Strange. Doctor Stephen V. Strange. Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange. Beth looks up from the notebook, the glittery purple ink convicting her by a jury of her peer. "Not'ing," she says as an anaemic defense. Jay is quicker than Beth is, and has a good eye. "You know signing his name would subject you both to malpractice right? Identity theft?" "But I'd have you for my lawyer," Beth quips a little too brightly and snatches the notebook close to her chest. "Are you kidding? I'm going to be a prosecutor, and eventually DA." Mercifully Jay doesn't see the tiny scrawl in the margin of the page, or she'd never hear the end of it.

~*~

When’s their birthday?:

18 November. The notification rang five times yesterday at intervals, though Beth has never forgotten a date in her entire life. Deliberately skipped certain appointments, yes. But never forgotten. It didn't matter as much as one would think. She'd bought his gift months ago, purchased at auction after she'd been completely taken by surprise. There'd been art pieces that the Admiral had been eyeing in the same way as lioness stares down a slow antelope. She'd used the distraction to escape his company and wandered amongst the other guests, champagne flute in hand but untouched. Made small talk when pressed though she would rather have been home in her pyjamas working on the slide presentation. Eventually she'd come across a small gathering of semi-familiar faces; ones she'd seen flitting by in passing, haunting record stores from here to Florida and back. People with the same avarice for vinyl as her brother. They were marvelling over some rare treasure and when Beth ducked behind a few of them to remove herself from the path of the Admiral's rage, she'd caught a glimpse of the item itself. The album is widely regarded as one of Dylan's best. Released in 1975 Blood on the Tracks is host to such incredible songs as Tangled Up in Blue, You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go, Shelter from the Storm, and Simple Twist of Fate. Finding a well-preserved copy can sometimes be more trouble than it's worth but this one, in particular, is in near mint condition. The nine-thousand current bid seems a lot for a record, no matter how good it is, but when she realises it's from the personal collection of Dylan's manager…and that it's signed by Bob himself, Beth puts down a bid of easily three times the going rate. She leaves it along with all of his notes transcribed and put into files and alphabetised by patient name on his desk. Perfectly wrapped in simple robin's egg blue paper, a festive and artistically arranged azotic citrine hued ribbon, and a small tag that simply reads: Happy Birthday, Doctor.

~*~

Where were they born?

Forty-five minutes into another interminable Sunday dinner and the Admiral has finally run out of personal slights and sneers to lob at her from his superior seat at the head of the table. Instead, he's forced to search for new ammunition. In this case, it happens to be indirectly insulting on two fronts. She sets down her fork. Carefully dabs at her lips ~the red stain too red for his taste, makes her look a…well, she doesn't even repeat the word inside her own head~ and is silent for almost a half minute. She doesn't actually know where he was born. He has all the breeding, manners, and tastes of the Manhattan elite which should have made the Admiral giddy. Would have, if he had been a friend of Andy's rather than her mentor. But every once in a while, something trips over his tongue. A slight difference in pronunciation, a particular inflection, something she is ill-equipped to put a finger on. Is it something in the deep timbre that hints at Pennsylvania smoke and steel? Maybe the shivers she sometimes gets is reminiscent of drying corn husks in a Nebraska autumn breeze. She tactfully retreats. "I am not exactly certain, Sir. Doctor Strange is my mentor so it would be highly unethical for us to have a relationship personal enough to ask him where his people are from."

~*~

What’s their favourite colour?

Black looks good on Stephen, matching his hair even when the venerable tarnish at his temples begins to show. Wine and forest green do the same, whether they're scrubs or tee-shirts or some other forgettable article of clothing. But she notices he is constant with blue. Midnight almost dark enough to be mistaken for something else and brings out the vividness of his eyes. Almost powder blue which shouldn't seem comfortable but is, in its own right, made paler still by the number of times its been through the wash. Even his day-to-day robes which are a shade she can't put a finger on, literally or figuratively. Even so, the darker shades tend to bring his diamond-sharp features into stark relief. "Mm. I t'ink…" She analyses the two ties he holds up. One is a textured slate blue neither wide nor narrow. The other is cream coloured, watered silk. The suit they are accenting is a deep charcoal grey, a three piece affaire with a suble pin-stripped vest. She rises and pads over to his tie rack just as she's done for her brother across their life together, and instead chooses a different one, one that hadn't to her knowledge come into his consideration. She takes it from it's place and brings it to him before relieving him of the other two. "Dis one." He considers her offering for a moment, then begins to lace it around his neck. "Excellent taste, Miss Riley." He might as well have named her the queen of the universe for all that she glows at the four words.

~*~

What’s their favourite perfume/cologne?

One of the most ridiculous things that the other girls do is make a betting pool. Drakar Noir. Obsession. Stetson of all things. The closest they come is Savauge. But Beth now understands why they wear such heavy things, the likes of which they'll never get to wear on the floor because they're triggering. Cloying enough to make a patient sick. Day to day though? Hints of clean laundry ~ginger, citrus, mint~ that wears away to crisp fruit. And finally a hint of musk, one of cedar. That's the Yves Saint Laurent's Y. Such a light cologne, he might not be wearing anything at all unless you're so close you can feel the heat of his skin. For those moments where he's centre-stage, accepting an award or presenting to the board and the backers, he digs a little deeper. Versace's Dylan Blue; something Mediterranean, with notes of fig, pepper, bergamont. Profoundly sensual but still…clean. And when he's out, socialising? Knowing that he's going to be the nightcap he offers? Oh it's all power fantasy and hawthorn wood. Warm, seductive sandalwood. Dior's Farenheit. Beth ignores them and doesn't put down her own knowledge. This is her secret.

Instead she merely sighs, changes the subject.

"Structural isomers can have drastically different roles in da body. Fur'dermore, only one of multiple optical isomers may be made by da body or be useful as a t'erapeutic agent. How many structural isomers of C3H6Br2 are capable of exhibiting optical activity?"

~*~

Do they like baths or showers best?

She follows him from room to room, hands full of her phone, a note application open and she types away as he dictates notes, discusses the plans for the week and what things he's got scheduled. She stops at the threshold of the bath while he pulls the glass door open and turns on the taps. Adjusts it until the spray is perfect warm to his tastes. Anyone else in her position would make the assumption that they were invited to join him. She might even have been given a pass if she thought the same given the number of times she'd helped him scrub up before and after surgery. But that's not her way, is it? As much as she might work herself down to skin and bones to be whatever he needs most in a moment, for as often as she seems alive only when she falls under his attention, Beth seems to have absolutely no interest in him beyond his intellect. Even now she turns crisply on her heels so as to turn her back to him. The phone is turned off and deposited in a pocket. She might as well be a door. "A cross-sectional study published in 2018 found that participants who took immersion baths in warm water each day experienced less fatigue, stress, and depression. Although this was a small, limited study with only 38 participants, the results were compelling. Of course, studies also show that showers that start at a lukewarm temperature and are adjusted to get gradually colder have been suggested to stimulate your nervous system, promote endorphins, and help improve symptoms of depression." If she were a bolder, more intrepid creature, she might have caught a glimpse of the fond smile he bestows her.

~*~

How do they sleep?

The more things change, the more some remain the same. Before they parted ways what seems a lifetime ago, she would often find him asleep in his office chair, draped over his desk. If he was being truly indulgent with himself, he'd stretch out on the cot shoved behind bookcases and file cabinets. Not exactly a suite in the Plaza but such is the life of a surgeon. She fell into the habit of of draping his lab coat over his shoulders, and one year gifted him a knitted throw blanket. Cold stymies the growth of bacteria and slows disease progression; hospitals are intentionally chilly. Sometimes in winter, for comfort they would occasionally put things in the warmers used for patient blankets. She doesn't know how he slept in Kamar Taj, but even now more often than not she finds him draped over books in the library or dozed off in the wing-back chair in his seating room. His bed is a beautiful four-poster affair with perhaps the best queen-size mattress on the market, hung with heavy drapes and augmented with a number of pillows that rival her own, incredible thread-count sheets, and now? Now his cloak covers him on its own when he avoids laying down. For months she tries to ignore hearing him wake up abruptly, pushes down the feelings in the pit of her belly when she hears those sometimes muffled outcries. But if there's one thing she can understand, it's night terrors. She can almost smell the cold sweat, feel his shaky breath before she hears him pace the floor, turn on his laptop or turn to one of the heavy tomes. In her mind's eye, she can see him rising from his back. It always sends a little shiver of pain deep into her chest; they'd not allowed her to see him in the hospital, but Beth's imagination has always been fertile. She can envision what he must have looked like, healing cuts and the bruises. God, the bruises. His arms and hands struck through with pins, held in traction. IVs and machines and… And she winces as her feet hit the floor. Cold, cold, cold. She takes up her bathrobe and slips it over the thin oversized Air Force tee-shirt that suffices as a nightgown and belts it around her waist. The five feet between her door and his might have been the Grand Canyon for how long it takes for her to gather her nerve and step across. She doesn't really knock so much as she places her palm on the door. "Doctah?"

~*~

Do they snore?

He doesn't actually answer her and maybe….maybe she thinks in the moment that it is easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. She opens the door just enough to slip inside. She takes a breath, the sound a full-blown gasp muffled by her own hand. His eyes are closed but his breath is ragged. His brow and his chest ~not the first time she's seen it bare~ are faintly damp with sweat. She can almost choke over the feel of his tachycardia. He doesn't snore. There's no deep or rhythmic…anything. Later, she will swear she only intended to reach toward the middle of the bed and give him a light shake. Draw him back to wakefulness, hopefully banishing the plaguing dream. Instead she drapes her robe on the foot of the bed then lifts the covers. She slips in beside him. Beth is small. The mattress doesn't really transfer motion and as she settles in, on her side which is most comfortable for her, she places her hand on his chest. If she were any less concerned about him, she'd almost be horrified by her actions. Instead she simply curls up and offers him the steadiness of her presence. Let him take whatever solace he might. She only intends to stay until he's settled. She isn't sure what time it is when his voice intones her name. "Thought you'd like some coffee."

~*~

What’s their favourite flower?

They don't really talk about that night. In fact the only time it comes up again happens two weeks later. Once she's settled into the Sanctum as more than a simple guest and he decides to show her the garden. He tells her that it's sectioned, herbs for the kitchen and for remedies, and ornamental. She laughs softly and shakes her head. "I nevah imagine you as da flower type, Doct-" "Don't you think 'Stephen' is easier?" That sardonic brow rises and his eyes crinkle at the corners though his smile is more an idea than a reality. Still enough to send a swath of pink through her cheeks and she starts to look away. He stops her with a trembling hand, the scars of which brush ever so lightly against her jaw. Beth reaches up and takes hold of his wrapped wrist and pulls his arm down, looping hers through his. She knows prolonged contact can have an impact on his neuralgia. A few moments later and the surprise ~a moment of pure delight~ has Beth giving his bicep a squeeze. Her shoulders straighten, her chin rises and she lifts her face. Her eyes gleam and her lips part in earnestness, nose scrunching at the corners of her eyes. She is so taken with the sight that she doesn't seem to notice her teeth showing and she doesn't bother to hide that smile. One corner of the garden is a cascade of purple cone flowers, asters and the unmistakable clusters of orange flowers atop their reclining stems. "Asclepius tuberosa-" He nods. "Butterfly weed." Butterfly weed had once been used for mitigating pain and relieving the difficulty of breathing in illnesses such as pleurisy, asthma, and bronchitis. But more than that, the little flowers served as a nectar source and larval host for butterflies, moths, bees. A host for pollinators. "And you're right, I'm not. But I do remember how you used to talk up the multiple uses of certain plants."

~*~

Do they drive? If so how’s their drivers license picture?

Between the windows to the world that probably have some pedigree name based off some eldritch incident or ancient creating sorcerer ~a very Hermetic thing of course, to try to give name and reason to every wonder in the universe~ and the ability to make portals to literally anywhere he could imagine, Beth doesn't know why Stephen would even need his license. Maybe the longer she thinks about it the more horrible she feels, her belly clenching in knots. In her hands, the little card bears a thumbnail of his face. Handsome as ever ~he was always that, even someone like her could see it~ Hair a little longer. A little greyer at the temples. But now that sardonic smile has lost a little of it's sharpness. There's a warmth now that rises to his eyes which even in laminated plastic shine like beacons. Lighthouses for the soul, if she were to ever say it aloud. But she won't. Not with how her teeth grit, not with the way she rubs her thumb pad over it. Not with- The way Stephen's hand envelopes hers with room to spare. Wrist to wrist her elbow falls well shy of his. Shoulder to shoulder. Back to chest. Though Stephen is foot taller than she is, Beth feels the warmth of his breath near the back of her neck. She can feel the beat of his heart behind her. Without a word, Stephen can make her knees weak and… well. Other physiological responses. "Y-you don' need it." "I know." It's a reminder. Which is exactly why he does. Talismans are a powerful focus.

~*~

Do they like reading? If so guess how many books they have?

"There you are." Neither an indictment nor a question. If anything, there seems to be a touch of pride in his voice as he watches her prowl through his shelves. Of course she'd find herself in this particular section, the ones that are now his personal duty as it was the Ancient One's before him. Behind her glasses bright eyes flicker toward him but where as they often linger on him like a caress, like something that could with the slightest encouragement devour him whole, this one is fleeting. She turns back to the tomes and make a note in her little book. He can see the glitter of the purple ink. A throw-back to when she was a very different kind of student. "Any of them interest you, Beth?" Another pause and the pen gets tucked behind her ear before she fully addresses him. "On da contrary, I'm a little disappointed." He tilts his head, brow raised. "Dere is a curious…lack. I see..Book of Invisible Sun, but not da Kitab-Alacir, written purportedly by Aretus, fleein' da House of Ixion an' da Fall of Troy. Contains an extensive discussion of science and da cosmology of da universe. Maxim's primer, but not Mushaf al-Isra ~Great Book of Passage T'rough Night.~ Not a copy of da Fragile Pa'd. Easily a million books alla 'round us…an yet… Do da Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj not acknowledge oddah Traditions, Doctah?"

~*~

Public or state school? Did they attend university? If so which one and what is their degree?

He takes the stairs easily, sneakers sure and maybe a little bounce to his step, a give to his knees. In his hoodie, no doubt a pressed tee shirt beneath, and jeans, he could be anyone. A particularly striking anyone. For a moment she feels a deep sweeping sense of nostalgia and she laughs over the sharp quip and shakes her head. Once they reach the sidewalk, he shifts behind her to be on the street-side of the walk and then, hand still in his pocket, he offers her his arm, chivalrously. She doesn't have the length of arm to just graze his with her fingertips and not seem awkward or take up more room than strictly necessary. So she closes the distance. Weaves her arm through the opening and wraps her fingers close to his wrist. Almost instantly her warmth envelopes him, soothing waves as comfortable as the autumn sunlight on his back. Her touch is always like that. They meander down the block toward a little bistro they've both heard good reviews on. "Always wan aks you," she murmurs, her brow brushing the spot just above his elbow. "You find it harder bein' wha' ya are now, or when you were a' Columbia as a student? I mean I know I was chasin' ya record… pre-med to residency, don' t'ink I would have quite caught ya but I came close. Kinda like t' t'ink you knew more dan ya fellow interns, more dan ya instructors, an' were a heck of a lot brighter an' more talent dan jus' about everyone around you. Highest grades undergrad at Empire State, perfect 528 on da MCAT…you do remembah, I only score 520. I mean…you kept on operatin' durin' da Battle of New York. So yeah, question stand. Learnin' an' grow strong in ya mana harder dan med school, or….?" She isn't really jealous, but there is a reason why he was always one of her highest hung stars.

~*~

Who’s the chef and who’s the taster?

"Close your eyes." His voice is low. Dark. Sinuous. It creeps into places wherever it can find room and raises a rush of goosebumps, makes the small hairs at the nape of her neck. Beth obeys his instruction without hesitation. That has never changed between them. Although in fairness, there's a sliver of space between her lashes, she's never fully closed them, at least not in wakefulness. His fingertips graze the corner of her mouth. "Open." Her heart thunders and she hopes he can't hear it. The air ~or the man~ is too close for there to be anything else. She can smell his cologne, and under it, the smell of his skin. It differs, the scars from unmarred flesh, each layer of him calls to her in different ways. She leans slightly toward him though that's wholly a subconscious reaction. Thin. Salty. Warm. Crisp not hard, the leanest hint of sea salt. The first thing her tongue picks up is the pita chip and a moment later, a ribbon of earthy green then brine. Soft and lush. A touch of garlic. Creamy, rich. Blends of cheese. Spinach artichoke dip. Quite possibly, the best she's ever had. The cool pads of her fingertips rise to her lips as she takes her time chewing and savouring the morsel. When she eventually swallows, her lashes flutter and she fixes him with perhaps the most viscerally potent gaze that he's ever seen on her face. It's a wonder that the kitchen doesn't catch fire, that the very clothes he is wearing do not turn to ash. "Dat absolutely…broke da mout'. I wan…I wan more."

~*~

Do they like wine? If so róse, red, or white? Beer? Whiskey?

They move from the kitchen to one of the sitting areas and make themselves comfortable. Sharing the artichoke dip and olives, the dolmas ~she hasn't asked yet how and where he learned to cook Greek~ they talk. Not about the mystic threats of the world or even really their disparate practices, they don't talk about the good old days which weren't always, and they very much do not talk about the subtle but shifting currents between them. "Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling." Her lips twitch. "Omar Khayyam." "Just a fancy way of asking if you wanted some-" "Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one." She too remembers the Rubaiyat, it had been one of her favourite things and with a fragment of the next quatrain on her lips, she rises. Crosses the way toward one cabinet. Like arraying surgical tools, she's precise in her methods. A glass. Chilled without ice from a brush of her hand until it's frosty. Into a shaker she pours two and a half ounces Grey Goose. Half an ounce of dry vermouth. A dash of orange bitters before sealing it and shaking. It slides crystalline into the glass and she adds a twist of lemon. He'll take it dirty if it's on offer but Stephen didn't enjoy the cocktail onions or the olives in general. He surprises her when she's about to turn. She looks up into his face, not noting the advantage he has looming over her. No, all of her exists in the slightest upturn of one corner of his mouth. The slightest flicker of his fingers and a different glass is full now. Amon-Ra, she can smell it a room away. A moment where chemistry and alchemy are one and the same.

~*~

Any favourite items of clothes?

"Hmmm…nah-ah."

A few moments later, she scrunches her face as if she's caught whiff of the trash taken out the night before now that it's had time to percolate under the sun. She sticks out her tongue. He hardly moves a finger before she's cutting him off. "Yeah, no. Jus' no." His shoulders rise and fall with the breath he takes, the slow count to ten that happens internally. When he turns on a heel to face her, his arms are held mid-chest and his hands are locked into fists. It makes her wince knowing the sort of pressure he's exerting on his hands in what is clearly frustration. "Do you not have anything better you could be doing?" The five points of her fingers splay across her chest and connect with it at varying degrees. "Makin' sure you're lookin' your best? High-high priority on my list. Now..dat dark dark navy is nice but pockets too high, you'll keep ya hands in ya trousers an' might shorten your line. Which…good. You're all long limb already. Now da lighter blue? Still dark but wi' white shirt an' pattern tie. Or…oooh. I…I no can let you out of house in dat all black: sharp cut jacket, black shirt wi' almos' Mandarin collar…only real hint of colour would be silvah wash…" "Wash?" "Yeah…wash. You know…tick tick tick, tell you time…" It takes a few seconds for her to get that he's now just teasing her. "Oh, ha-ha, you so funny. Jus' f' dat, pick out your own clothes." "Well, what are you going to wear?" "Absolutely not'ing." The imperious tilt of her chin is caught between his thumb and his index. He descends from on high, a low growl at her ear. "While I'm sure you'd be stunning, this is supposed to be a charitable endeavour." "…'Charity star' at home'… dat's what dey often say. So you could stay home, wear absolutely no kine eiddah, an' we jus' send one really big check."

~*~

Anything you like of theirs that makes you smile when they wear it?

His hands twist, contort. She can feel the eldritch energies manifest around her. Sees them in vibrant sunsets and virulent bio hazard greens, in soft sweeping purples. She will be unmoved by man…and magick both. "Nu-uh. Stole it fair an' square." Triumphant. Arrogant. She turns her back on him. His hands twist and contort again. Around a narrow span of torso. Gliding down to shapely hips. When they slide up, and they do…slide… she can feel the graze of his scars along her ribs. Her arms. She can feel the very soul of her pouring out of her body in the form of chicken skin, even her pores rising up to maintain contact. "False logic, criminal activity does not legitimise anything." Her name is just a breath of his at her ear as he claims victory. She turns to see him pull the ancient Columbia hoodie down his chest. She swears he also sniffs it, because the lingering scent of her ~warm and sweet~ remains in the fabric. Even if she does have to tuck her hands under the pits of her arms and scan the room for something that she can cover up with, she smiles. She loves their hoodie.

~*~

What do they wear on holiday?

"Dis. Dis is how I die, Jay." "What are you talking about now, kid?" "Took him home. Biggest mistake I evah make." "Including the time that you-" "EY! You said you would nevah bring dat back up again!" "Okay, okay. So tell me, what was it Doctor Sexy did this time?" Beth sends her the picture she took. A few minutes later, after Jay was done laughing at her, and catches her breath, Beth can almost hear her best friend nod. "Yep, stick a fork in her, girl's done for. Nice watch, though."

~*~

What do they wear if they’re just around the house?

A tee shirt and jeans. The very picture of Americana. What draws her eye isn't the crisp lines or even how utterly…normal… Stephen looks. Weirdly, she can't help but to take note of his long, bony feet as he stretches his toes toward the fire. He lounges almost leonine in his arm chair. Devouring the book in his hands, not even stopping when he lifts up his coffee mug to take a sip. Beth knows these are moments that must be savoured. There's no telling when the world is going to fall apart from some abhorrent threat from beyond. When one of his colleagues might come crashing literally through the roof with a reality shattering tragedy. When Wong will inform them that the dish-washer is on the fritz. Again. If her Achilles' Heel is elevators, his is kitchen appliances. But no. Now is serene. It's normal. It's comfortable. And so she allows it to soak into her, leaving an indelible impression of the scene in her soul, something she can't lose. And maybe, just maybe, he's aware of it, too…and has done the same thing.

~*~

Who’s the holiday planner and who isn’t allowed to hold the passports?

Stephen feels better with an itinerary and she knows why. He prefers to know down to the minute what might happen if they step away from the Sanctum and their practice. He also knows that kind of thing drives her absolutely insane, so they compromise. Seven days…well, six in which they trade off… He with guide books, maps, things of culture he'd like to immerse himself in, Her with adventures off the map, almost literally blending in with the neighbours, be they people, plants, or animals. That spare day is a time for connection and unwinding. Portals are not a thing Beth finds pleasant, though she does confess it is a vast improvement over flying. She's tried to explain before that she can't see the way threads of reality come together with what she calls correspondence. She says it's also the reason no one would ever see her pull a rabbit out of a hat. Something cute but inane. He lets her have it and doesn't explain that it's safer than any mod of travel they might otherwise {not} enjoy. She insists on passport pictures and creatively convincing stamps, except when they go to Wakanda. For whatever reason that she won't give, she insists they employ traditional means. He doesn't have a problem with it, it's a negligible inconvenience. "Can we go back t' Diagon Alley one more time, try an' mahalo?!" One more butterbeer and cauldron cake lunch and it's going to get ugly all over their shoes. It's bared teeth rather than a smile. "Sure."

~*~ Which type of phone do they have?

If she's being honest with herself, Beth is almost a little jealous.

Huawei Industries' Honor x9b is a gorgeous phone. Thin as a whisper with an incredible camera, storage, three day battery life and a host of other perks? It's honestly better than her Galaxy. She could go on about the vegan 'leather' they use for the outer case, too, but Beth honestly believes that the primary reason for it is the internal stabilisation of the camera and video as well as the drop proof screen. The various touch points. The….it all accommodates the tremble in his hands. The blue-light and optic protection also doesn't hurt. None of it at ALL has to do with the OS being named 'magic' either. Not even a little bit. He reaches over her shoulder and plucks it out of her hand. "Still not doing a tik-tok, Beth." "But you said-"

~*~

What music do they like? Be specific if you know.

"And dis is…." A painfully abrupt pause and course-correction. "…Was my braddah's collection." It's everything Stephen could truly admire, in precise order: each genre broken down by dates and then alphabetised by the musician or band name. One of Andy's prized recordings is Cross Road Blues, by Rober Johnson, recorded in a Texas hotel in November of 1936 and then released the following May by Vocalian. Each shelf stands six feet tall and wraps around the room. The surrounding audio equipment gets updated whenever a new sound-quality breakthrough occurs, but the two things Beth doesn't change is the actual record player itself, nor has she ever rearranged the sitting spot. His leather back reclining chair and ottoman remain where he'd placed them ~for the perfect sound! Just listen!~ a small end table beside it with drawers. One drawer contains a bottle of unopened single malt and a tumbler. There's another shallower one where her one concession lies; a clean glass ashtray, an unopened pack of Marlboro shorts that are by now probably excruciatingly stale if not turned to dust. Refilling liquid for the Zippo he always carried. And of course, another pair for his headset and the associated remotes. Her slow backing up steps are nearly soundless regardless of whether she's on thick, lush Turkish carpets or the polish oak floor they rest atop. "I'll let ya peruse t' ya heart's content. Mebbe pick out somet'ing to lissen to wit' supper while I go set table an' put it out. Aftah, we should talk about Connecticut. Got a two-proposal request dat seems to be right up our alley. Mansfield Trainin' School an' Hospital in Storrs an' Seaside Asylum in Waterford. Firs' one had lawsuit filed aftah it bein' found out dat patients were subject t' 'inhumane an' unconstitutional conditions' and da oddah was heavily used for children durin' a tuberculosis outbreak sometime in da early part of da Nineteen hundreds. Gov'nor offer us one-point-two million if we can clear it all up an' stay hush-hush." Another pause. "Pretty sure David "Fathead" Newman ‎-- Keep Da Dream Alive…won' set da right mood or tone. I hate f' break ya disco heart."

~*~

Any favourite movie/TV shows?

"What…what are they doing?" Maia asks one of the other students while furtively watching Masters Strange and Beth curled up on the sofa together. Watching some old show and pausing the stream every few minutes to either laugh uproariously ~a frightening concept to begin with~ or maybe worse, they start making gestures and murmur together in anger or disbelief. "Oh, it's just some old show about a brilliant but douchy doctor, his long suffering bff and a hospital. I don't get it either. But you know the Olds." Stephen insists that House is based on Sherlock Holmes. Beth is equally certain that they stole some of his case files. They tear through several episodes at a time. Next time it'll be Scrubs before they do ER. Sometimes Stephen has to pull hurricane popcorn out of his hair. Sometimes Beth falls asleep with the taste of vermouth in her mouth.

~*~

Do you see yourself being with them for a long time?

Beth sits at her vanity ~mirrorless~ and brushes her hair. Her earrings are resting in her jewellery box. Behind her the bed is turned down, Stephen already in it and reading. These are private moments. No rush, no pressure. A contentedness that neither has felt in so very long a time. Beth has always believed they were meant to be though a decade or more ago she wouldn't have been able to really put her finger on how it would be. She could have been happy to be his surgical partner. She never dreamed he'd Awaken to the knowledge that reality is malleable if one has the will and knowledge on how to bend it to their whim. So while their methods differ, they stand shoulder to shoulder against threats that the sleepers might never know. Sometimes when she treats a patient, he's willing to consult or at least talk her through diagnosis and treatment plan, often agreeing with her initial assessment. She's still nervous about sharing the room, the bed. If some of those delicious purrs and waking to find his arms around her is any indication, Stephen has no complaint about choosing her. She hasn't any either, and loves to wake up with her face pressed into his spine, leg tangled up with his. It's the optics she's concerned about. Their students are a priority. Wong understands just how deep their connection goes, and sometimes she swears she sees the master smile at them when he thinks they won't notice but Stephen's reputation has always been a priority to her. She'll sacrifice anything for him, even if that thing is her. She puts down the silver brush and makes her way to the bed. There's a genteel sort of modesty as she unties the robe of her belt, slides the satin off her shoulders, the rest of her. She's all gorgeous glowing skin and shy smiles as she slips into the space he made for her. He closes the book and invites her head to his chest. She takes up the offer but places a sideways kiss near his heart. "Read t' me." "Since you asked so nicely…" he returns the kiss to the crown of her head. Beth has never been happier, and can't imagine the rest of her life any differently.

~*~

Do you share a home? If not why not?

Sweat pours down her back as the New York sun glares down on the Sanctum gardens. Students are transplanting seedlings with the same care she might have transplanted an organ. From his window he can see her close her eyes and by very slow degrees raise her arms. She is an earth goddess in that moment ~her lesson is what she calls mālama 'aina: caring for and honouring the land~ and it had been part of the lesson plans she'd submitted to him earlier in the year. Her mana and that of her students are encouraging roots to take hold in the rich loam they've composted from fall through the winter, letting it ripen until spring. She tells them that there can be no growth or respect in the people if it first is not given to the earth that supports them, houses them, feeds them. Most of the harvest will fill the sanctum kitchens, the rest will go to the local food-banks throughout the five Burroughs. She even made a point of saying the top of the list is for Peter Parker and the FEAST centre. Stephen ignores the twitch and dull ache of his hands as he watches from the window, stroking his chin. He knows he owes Wong for finding her. Bringing her back to him. She isn't a hurricane, though she could be, but rather a gentle rain that moves everything around it by chipping away a bit at a time. Nourishing. Nurturing. Sometimes that sharp little bite. Whatever it is, he's glad she's come….home.

~*~

What quirk do they have that you love?

Stephen smiles. It pulls the corner of his mouth to the left and up, creases the corners of his eyes and when wide enough displays the long line of the dimples he doesn't claim to have. It never fails to set her stomach aflutter with a rush of butterfly wings that has nothing to do with the dip down in their dance. Her lips part with a sigh and if he looks closely enough he can count her heartbeats in her throat. She might not find it easy to say the words that glow in the heart of her eyes, but they are palpable as he brings her back upright. "There's stars in your eyes, Miss Riley," he murmurs at her ears. No, she doesn't say. Only you. "You gonna steal dem?" "On the contrary, I intend to put even more in them." Beth can't help the dreamy little sigh that escapes her. This award ceremony is going to be the second longest three hours of her life.

~*~

Lastly what do you like watching them do?

Beth hates that there is so very little she can do against vampires, not having the proper mana to combat the parts of them that are dead, and thus are creatures of matter. She can, however, offer Stephen the best of her protection by channelling the quintessential lifeblood of the universe into the intricate circle around them, inscribed with a host of mystical sigils. If the creature tries to cross the boundaries, regardless of what it is, it will catch fire that might closest resemble the heart of nuclear fission. Panting from exertion, she has a moment to glance up. She couldn't quite catch all the words of his incantations but it doesn't matter. Stephen stands like a righteous beacon. A general on a battlefield he controls. His hands twist as he forms his mudras, elegant and beautiful. Seductive in a way she shouldn't find him in such a dire moment but she can't help herself. Beth is all but biologically programmed to be fascinated by his hands. The scars he bears hold no hideousness. The only pain for her is that she'd not been able to reach him in time, been able to heal him to wholeness. Unfortunately that fascination draws a moan that gets bitten before it makes it into the open air and causes one of the rarest things in the world; her eyes fully close as she flinches back. The warehouse goes from guttering safety lights to midday as all around them the Seven Suns of Cinnibus dispels the darkness the blood-thirsty creature had summoned. It reacts even more poorly from the beams of light filling the space from a multitude of directions, burns at the kiss of Helios where Beth only feels its warmth. When she finally cracks open her lids and blinks to erase the after-burn images that light is gone, leaving them only in dimness. Beyond him is a pile of suspicious ash.

She smiles even if it's shaky, her voice trembling too. "I s'pose I should be t'anking you." "We're a team, Beth." "Oh, you t'ink I meant regardin' Twilight ovahdere? No. I meant for…" She doesn't have to finish the sentence. "You're a very weird little witch." "I know." "Let's get you home." His hands encircle her arms, helps her get to her feet. Neither of them care about the grime, the blood, the sweat. "I already am."

[kit-kat-jo]

oh episode four how i LOOOVE you. not only do we see one of the best freakiest murder-vampire transformations for Uzi but we also get the first time we see this extreme perspective shift for V.

i wanna branch off what you said abt her realizing how much Uzi means to N because i am SOOO normal about it. notice how quickly she goes from it being her main directive to kill her immediately as soon as she sees her transformation, ignoring N’s blatant plea to leave her alone because theyre all kids, even after looking so upset and conflicted from his words. as much as it still hurts her she ignores what he wants once again, going off to kill Uzi because that’s what’s going to save their own skins. keep him safe. she’s so terrified of Cyn that she was so willing to do this no hesitation. she’s just another drone she was made to kill. if she thinks about it that way, itll be easier.

Uzi comes out of it sometimes, she’s trying so hard to fight it, trying to gain control back, and she does a little bit when she sees V. before realizing she’s in danger because of her, only going back into kill mode when V threatens her after she begs to let her see N. i don’t think V realizes this until after the fact, after he lobs her into the sky, that he is able to get through to her and able to calm her down. as much as the scene of her pouting on the ground with “UGH, you always take her side!” is funny, i think she starts thinking here, and starts realizing how much Uzi is starting to mean to her. not to say she still doesn’t threaten her after this, aka waving a chainsaw hand in her face after she hacked into their systems to save their memories, but i beleive that her threats have no real weight anymore. after she lies to the teacher to cover up Uzi’s kill count, there’s no going back. all up until she straight up SACRIFICES HERSELF FOR HER.

ugh. they make me ill.

Talk of Murder Drones Ep. 7 for new watchers if you find yourself on my page!!

Alrighty Tumblr user kit-kat-jo, your wish is my command.

You're exactly right - the only thing I think could PROPERLY redeem J is the realization that she was wrong and she has been duped, that that is not her Tessa; that's not the girl she thinks she loves. And J does love Tessa, I will die on this hill. The only person we've ever seen J soften around is Tessa back at the mansion - Tessa is the ONLY PERSON that we've ever seen J look concerned about. And that's totally valid - the only reason J was even in the mansion (the way we saw her anyway) is because Tessa saved her. She was marked for disassembly; whatever last strike she could have had was already done. And we all already know any drone with a "marked for disassembly" band is one that Tessa saved from the scrapyard.

If J realizes that this isn't her (it would be even better if she realized that she's the one who killed her), that it isn't the company she's been serving and it never has been, then JUST MAYBE we'll see that spark - the 180 we need to finally root for her as a character. Now knowing the truth, she'll reject the Solver and her old ways in hopes of blowing the bastard to smithereens - and finally avenging her fallen sister, whom she hadn't realized she'd lost.

And I do genuinely hope I get to see that for her. I WANT to like J, I WANT to want to see her succeed, but right now? She has no character. And I'm sorry to say it (no I'm not), but literally all J has done for the series is antagonize N, antagonize Uzi, become Solver Lite™️, Die, and serve as a minor plot device via the arrival of the ship that N will likely hijack in episode 8 since he now has the keys; and serve as a teeny bit of comic relief via Equity Partnership. She is a Literal Corporate Drone, and while that's hilarious, it has little to no effect on my feelings for her as a character (or lack thereof).

I beg and I pray that J will realize the truth one way or another, and we finally get to see her for who she could be. We know she cared about Tessa, there's a fucked up little heart in there somewhere. And that's not even an edgy teen hyperbole a joke, y'all remember episode 2.

Anyway. Yeah. I really don't like J right now but if Episode 8 finally lets J realize all that's happened, all that she's done and been forced to do, that will likely change in a... Heartbeat-

Okay sorry I'm done-

[nieouni]

I forgor to post this here but yeh ;;

it da birb child

[say-al0e]

Ride

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: No plot, just road head/car sex with Benny. I wrote this for me but you can read it.

Warnings: Road head, car sex, semi-public (well, it’s public but the road is empty), unprotected p in v, mentions of past public experiences, some sad birthday talk, Benny looks like the gif (which is a warning in and of itself).

Pairing: Benny x fem!Reader

Word Count: 6k (it’s my birthday, don’t @ me)

General Masterlist | General Taglist | Shameless Plug: Cowboy!Benny Masterlist

Birthdays were never a big deal growing up.

There were no parties in your family, no cake or outrageous presents, no pomp and circumstance - nothing like birthdays in movies or on TV. There was an acknowledgement, a card if you were lucky (though, even those seemed to stop appearing as you grew older), and that was that.

The older you got, the more mundane birthdays became. As a teenager, you spent them with friends, had sleepovers where you made baked goods for yourself - usually with their help and, almost always, to less than edible results. As an adult, you went out for dinner and drinks, just as long as everyone had time to spare. It was never a priority and it never really bothered you. Most of the time,  you didn’t even stop to spare it a second thought before you moved on with the rest of the year.

As far as you were concerned, your birthday was just another day.

Benny, however, was aghast when you shared this philosophy with him.

In the Miller family, birthdays were special. In their eyes, your birthday was the one day a year that you could expect coddling, pampering, and uninterrupted attention. Benny’s parents - his mom, mostly; his dad just followed her lead - did what they could to make the day special and, though he hadn’t spent a birthday with his parents in nearly a decade, the distance never really seemed to matter. His birthday was still celebrated, he still got gifts and attention and was made to feel loved beyond what you, Will, and the ragtag bunch of friends you shared could accomplish in Florida.

It was for that reason - the way his family treated birthdays, combined with the years he spent wondering if he’d make it to the next birthday - that Benny was determined to make you feel as special as he always felt on your birthday.

When you began dating, you assured Benny that you didn’t expect a gift - or anything more than a few extra kisses and, maybe, some ice cream - on your birthday. That assurance, however, did little to stop him from doing everything in his power to celebrate you in a way that left no room for any kind doubt. 

Benny wasn’t officially your boyfriend on the first birthday you spent together. You were still dancing around one another, caught in an endless cycle of wondering where you stood, but he was determined. He sent you flowers - a pretty, bright bouquet that sat on the edge of your desk and drew too much attention from your coworkers - before taking you to the roller rink. Despite the fact that he couldn’t roller skate to save his life, he spent the night rolling around the rink - clutching your arm and, when you wanted to show off, the wall - and took the teasing you lobbed at him with an easy grin.

The second birthday you spent together, the first with Benny as your boyfriend, was spent at Disney. Though it was his idea, he cheerfully followed along as you took the reins and dragged him from attraction to attraction. When you decided that all you wanted from the day was to drink around the park, he happily followed along and chugged drinks with you, all while keeping you from getting too annoyed at the crowds. He also offered no rebuttal when you declared that the only material object you wanted was a pair of R2-D2 Minnie ears - and a photo with a Stormtrooper that he printed and stuck on the refrigerator.

Birthdays were slowly becoming more fun, days filled with the kind of excitement that only Benny seemed to offer you, and for the first time since childhood, you found yourself looking forward to the day.

Birthdays, yours and his, were usually spent with friends. There were bits and pieces of the day that you kept private, intimate - though, your friends loved to joke that nothing about you and Benny was private - but much of it was a group affair. You shared dinner, participated in group activities, and celebrated one another in a raucous, heart-warming way that made you ache for the version of yourself who spent birthdays alone.

To your surprise, however, Benny suggested a road trip.

He knew that work was taking its toll on you - it had you on edge, on the verge of burnout. Time alone was getting harder to come by and, as fun as it was to spent time with friends, he decided to be selfish and whisk you away. It was a way to spend time together, just the two of you, and a way for him to celebrate you, make you feel special, in the best way he knew how.

Though you’d gone on road trips before, trips alone - and purely for fun - were few and far between. Most of the trips you took were to out of state fights, shoved in the backseat of someone’s truck as Benny bounced a knee in anticipation or nursed an injury, or for the annual camping trip you all went on. So, when he announced that he’d booked a small AirBnB on the coast and told you to pack a bag, you were giddy with anticipation.

Despite their rarity and potential for disaster, Benny made road trips - just the two of you - fun.

There was never really a battle for the aux cord - his playlists were varied enough that he always seemed to have something you’d like on hand; whether that was by design or purely coincidental, you weren’t sure - and the music was always fun to dance or sing along to. He kept you entertained; talked to you, told you stories, made a game out of pretty much everything, and insisted on stopping for snacks far more often than you deemed necessary. Each stop was more fun than the last, though, and he had a knack for making even the most mundane things more exciting than they should’ve been.

Most importantly, though, road trips alone meant taking the Jeep.

Benny’s Jeep was older, something he bought used not long after coming home on his first leave, but he took good care of it. He’d restored bits and pieces of it, made a few changes - including a bench front seat that made it easy for you both to keep some kind of physical contact on longer drives; something everyone laughed at but you loved - with Will and Frankie’s help and really only broke it out in the summer. It still ran well, looked good for its age, and had a soft top and doors that made trips along the coast that much better.

He appreciated how much you loved it - he was fond of it but you begged him to break it out - and knew that you’d wanted one, once upon a time, before your parents scared you out of it. He offered up the keys any time you felt the urge to drive but, most days, you were content to settle into the passenger seat and observe as he drove. You were given so few opportunities to just watch him sit peacefully, calmly, that you cherished each one.

As the coastline rushed past in a blur of sand and sea, you turned your full attention to Benny. The song playing in the background was faded, melded with the crashing waves and rumble of the engine, as you took a moment to marvel at the man to your left. Though you never made it a secret just how beautiful you found him - you spent more time than you cared to admit admiring him, something that never failed to boost his ego, make him blush and beam as he teased you - his beauty still managed to catch you off-guard sometimes.

Getting older was a part of life, a fact neither of you really dwelled on, but Benny only seemed to get more beautiful with every year that passed. When he took you home to meet his parents, you saw photos of him as an awkward teenager - adorable, bright and excited with too much hair product and not a care in the world - and photos of him as a twenty-something with hair cropped short and the weight of the world on his shoulders. There were photos of him fresh out of the military, photos taken at the beginning of your relationship, photos taken only months ago, and he looked beautiful in them all.

Nothing compared to him now, though.

He’d let his hair grow - let it fall past his ears, brush his broad shoulders - and wore it half-up the majority of the time, dirty blonde strands pulled back just the way you’d shown him to keep it out of his eyes. He’d stopped shaving as often, stopped shaving as close, and let his facial hair grow into something a little fuller. Though the guys had a tendency to tease him about it all, it was a look he decided he liked - and one he knew you loved; he teased you for how often you had a hand in his hair or brushing his cheek - so he leaned into it.

Three years had passed in the blink of an eye - longer than anyone thought you would last, save for you and Benny, and maybe Will - but you still felt your heart flutter each time you looked at him. It was a giddy, soft kind of love that still knocked the air from your lungs occasionally and as you studied him, you hoped that it would never dull.

Your eyes raked over his face, traced his profile - the slope of his nose, the little patch of hair that got sparse near the corner of his mouth, the lines beginning to appear in the corners of his eyes, the smile lines that were getting more prominent - and smiled as he bobbed his head in time to the music.

The sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose slipped slightly with each movement and tendrils of hair fell from the half-bun he’d tossed his hair into before leaving home but there was a smile on his lips as the wind whipped around you both. He shoulders relaxed, tension melting with every mile you drove, and you could feel your own shoulders relax as you reached for your phone. He looked beautiful, etherial in the golden afternoon light, and you abandoned all hope of being discreet as you lifted the device to take a photo.

Benny was used to this - knew you had more than a handful of photos of him in your camera roll; thought it was cute, just how eager you were to document your life, even if you never posted them anywhere - and waited until you were satisfied with your photo before he laughed and tilted his head to glance at you.

“You still don’t have enough pictures of me, honey?” When you shrugged, bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning at the incredulity in his tone, he shook his head fondly. “Creep.”

Dark lenses hid the bright blue of his eyes but you could easily hear the amusement in his voice as he turned his attention back to the empty road that stretched ahead of you. Though he teased you for the amount of photos you took of him, you knew his camera roll looked similar - filled with photos of you, moments you’d spent together; only, his was not always quite as wholesome as yours.

“Shut up.” The directive was playful, filled with laughter as you tucked your phone back into your bag, and made Ben’s grin a bit brighter. You let your sunglasses slip down the bridge of your nose, no longer as necessary in the waning daylight, and fixed him with a knowing look. “You know you love it. Your ego’s fucking raging.”

His laughter carried over the wind, filled your ears and settled warm in your chest, but he made no effort to deny what you both knew to be the truth. Instead, he reached out for you. He placed a hand on your thigh, fingers dipping just beneath the hem of your dress, and squeezed. It was a simple gesture meant to playfully acknowledge your teasing as fact but it sent a jolt of heat straight to your core as he tapped his fingers in time to the song.

More often than not, Benny knew what he was doing. 

Little gestures - a hand on your thigh, fingers ghosting across your skin; a hand on the small of your back, heat of his palm bleeding into your skin and setting your body alight; a hand on your hip, fingers curling into your flesh in a way that instantly derailed your train of thought - were enough to make you yearn for him and he used that knowledge to his advantage. The vast majority of the time, when Benny touched you, he meant for it to fluster. He meant to get a rise out of you, watch you squirm, but in that moment you knew that he meant it more as a gesture of comfort. 

Despite how he meant the touch, however, when it was taken in combination with the yearning you’d been feeling for the past few miles, it lit a match and fanned the flames of desire. 

Off-season for tourists meant that the road was empty. It had been at least an hour since you’d seen another car and the realization sparked an idea as you tilted your head to glance at Benny. He was open to trying almost anything at least once and had taken to trying new things with you any time you so much as mentioned being interested. There was one thing you’d never really cared about but, in that moment, decided you wanted to know what the fuss was about.

Road head was an act your friends giggled about in high school and college, something daring that always seemed a touch too dangerous for you, but as you watched Benny, it seemed like the perfect time to give it a shot. 

Before him, blowjobs were just that - jobs. There was never really a desire, never really any fun in the act - and rarely any reciprocation of any kind - but with Benny, you could understand the appeal. Seeing the look on his face as you took him into your mouth, hearing the moans leave his lips, feeling his fingers tighten in your hair and his thighs tremble as he held himself back to make it easier for you, watching his lips part and eyes flutter shut as he barreled toward an orgasm; it made the entire experience worthwhile.

In that moment, nothing seemed more appealing than taking him in your mouth. He looked too beautiful not to touch - golden and warm, soft but rugged - and his hand on your thigh had a heat simmering in your lower belly. It warmed your entire body, pointed your thoughts in one singular direction, and you found yourself wanting more.

Benny could read you well, knew what the glimmer of mischief in your eyes meant, and could see that you were thinking about something as he spared you a glance out of the corner of his eye. He squeezed your thigh, tapped his fingers against your rapidly heating skin to capture your attention, and tilted his head in your direction.

“What?” There was an edge of suspicion to his tone, one that told you he knew you wanted something, and you laughed as you shifted in your seat to face him entirely. When you inched closer, hindered only by your seatbelt, his hand shifted a bit higher - fingers dipped further beneath the hem of your dress - and he squeezed as you exhaled sharply at the contact.

“Can I try something really stupid and probably dangerous?”

His sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, exposed his raised eyebrows, and you could see the pieces beginning to click into place as his eyes raked over you. He took in the way your chest rose and fell just a bit faster, the way you shifted in your seat to lean into his touch, and dragged his tongue along his bottom lip as he contemplated his answer.

Despite knowing where this conversation was headed, he couldn’t help but tease. His eyes narrowed as he asked, “Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” You were the levelheaded one, the one that tempered his bad ideas and reminded him that impulsivity had its consequences, but he liked to joke that he’d rubbed off on you - especially in moments like this. When you rolled your eyes, glanced away to keep from flustering, he laughed and nodded readily. “Sure, yeah,” he agreed with an easy grin. “It’s your birthday, honey. Go nuts.”

After a moment of hesitation, wondering whether you should give in to the urge to at least try it or request that he pull over, you nudged his hand away. He glanced between you and the road as you unbuckled your seatbelt and lifted the armrest to slide across the bench seat. Benny lifted his sunglasses, placed them atop his head, and you could see his eyes growing wider as you reached out to place a hand just above his knee. 

“Holy shit,” he exclaimed, voice pitching higher - excited, incredulous - as you glanced at him from beneath your lashes. “Not to assume anything, and it’s totally fine if you aren’t, but are you about to blow me?”

A huff of laughter escaped as you nodded at Benny’s rushed question. “I want to,” you confirmed, grinning as your hand drifted higher, fingers trailing over the sun-warmed fabric of his jeans. You spared him a glance, met his eyes - uncovered and beginning to darken with every inch higher your fingers drifted - and swiped your tongue along your bottom lip. “Can I?”

There was no trace of hesitation on his face as he nodded. “Fuck yeah. Please.”

One of the best things about Benny was how enthusiastic his consent always seemed to be. If he had any reservations, he made them known immediately and you were never left questioning if he wanted you as badly as you wanted him. His refusal was sometimes blunt - could sting a little, if he was in a mood - but his consent was always eager and never failed to make you feel desired.

As easily as you began to burn for him, Benny seemed to follow suit. When your hand drifted higher, fingers brushed the fabric covering him, his grip on the wheel grew tighter. A glance at his face told you that he was excited, nearly giddy with anticipation, and you could practically feel him vibrate beneath your touch.  

You rolled your eyes fondly as you palmed him, though your laughter was hard to hide when he grinned broadly. “You’d think you were getting a blowjob or something,” you teased as you reached over to pop the button on his jeans.

“Hey, who am I to deny the birthday girl? I’m just here for your amusement this weekend. Do with me what you wish,” he offered, eyes glittering as he he shot you an exaggerated wink. You could feel the Jeep slow slightly, as close to the speed limit as he could get, and shook your head.

“You say that like you aren’t down for this any other time.” Benny opened his mouth to reply, no doubt a witty response that would’ve made you laugh, but seemed to lose his train of thought the moment your hand dipped beneath the denim and found him bare, hardening beneath your touch. He swore beneath his breath and swallowed thickly as your fingers brushed the heated shaft of his cock.

When you raised a brow at his lack of underwear, he shrugged. “Easy access?”

Your laughter drifted out into the wind, melded with the sound of waves crashing and tires rolling across asphalt. Benny’s joined it, lost to the sounds around you, and that was the one downside to your otherwise masterful idea. You loved to hear him, loved to hear the not so quiet groans and moans he made - loved to hear just how good you made him feel - and decided that just this once, not being able to hear him as clearly as you liked would be worth it as you managed to free him from the confines of his jeans.

Benny shifted his arm, lifted it just enough for you to comfortably duck your head, and swore as you leaned in. As much as you wanted to, you knew that this wasn’t the time or place to tease. Something slower, something that tested his patience (and yours), would have to wait until later. For now, you both settled for leaning into the excitement - an adrenaline rush that you could share - as you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock and stroked.

There was an element of danger to the situation that you were beginning to realize you liked. The knowledge that someone could drive by at any moment, pass the pair of you and see exactly what you were doing - the lack of top and doors made privacy an impossibility - made your heart race and skin prickle with a warmth you’d never expected to feel. Benny seemed as thrilled by the moment as you and hardened nearly immediately beneath your touch. 

He exhaled heavily as your tongue darted out to lap at the precum that pearled at the tip and shifted beneath your touch. The hand not gripping the wheel fell to your head, fingers tangling in your hair - more for something to ground himself than to control your movements - and you moaned as his hand cradled the back of your head. 

His hand flexed, fingers curled a bit tighter in the strands of your hair, as you wrapped your lips around the tip and swirled your tongue. The music - a song you couldn’t have named if your life depended on it - faded into nothing. Everything outside of Benny - the rumble of a moan in his chest, the heavy exhale he released as you took more of him into your mouth, the sharp swear as he struggled to keep from lifting his hips - ceased to exist. It was an otherworldly experience, glancing up to see the way his lips parted and his throat bobbed with every moan he swallowed, and you could see his jaw clench as he fought the urge to give in completely and lose himself to the moment.

Heat pooled between your thighs and, were you not struggling to keep yourself balanced as the road rumbled beneath you, you would’ve slipped your hand beneath your underwear. You never really understood getting off on getting your partner off until Benny and now, seeing the pleasure on his face - feeling the effect you had on him - had you dripping and ready for whatever he would give you.

Though you would’ve been content to make him come, swallow his release and settle back into your seat with a grin before dipping your hand beneath the skirt of your dress, Benny seemed to have other plans. With every swipe of your tongue over the tip, with every bob of your head, you could feel his thighs tense beneath your touch. His entire body seemed to be strung tight, coiled and ready to snap as he fought the urge to lift his hips - chase your mouth like you both loved for him to do - and you felt no surprise when he finally gave into the urge and tugged at your hair.

“Shit, honey,” he groaned, voice tight when you moaned at the tension. “Fuck, ease up. ‘M gonna pull over. Don’t wanna come in your mouth,” he admitted. The words rang empty in your ears, directions unintelligible as you focused on the throbbing ache between your thighs. Your entire body felt too hot, glimmered with a thin sheen of sweat, and Benny could tell as he returned his hands to the wheel and turned.

You lifted your head in time to feel the Jeep slow and gravel crunch beneath the tires as he pulled into a small lot meant for beach access. It was empty, half-hidden by a dune, and you were grateful for the semblance of privacy as you realized where he intended to come instead. The thought pulled a whimper from deep in your chest, made your heart race and cheeks heat, and Benny only grinned as he threw the Jeep in park. He pulled the keys from the ignition - just in case - and pocketed them before reaching out to you.

“C’mere,” he urged, voice low and breathless as he wrapped a hand around your wrist and tugged. “It’s your birthday,” he reminded you as you slid across the seat before lifting your leg to settle across his lap. “Only fair you get off, too.”

His hands drifted beneath the fabric of your dress as you settled onto your knees, hovering just above his cock. He hissed at the feeling of the fabric, soft and light, brushing his cock but paid it little mind as he tilted his head to meet your eyes. His palms, calloused and warm as they dragged over your skin, left a trail of heat where they touched and you felt your eyes flutter as his fingers traced along your inner thighs. 

“This was totally selfish,” you admitted, grinning as his fingers brushed the band of your panties. “You looked too pretty not to touch.”

He preened at your praise, eyes brightening and shoulders straightening. Though he knew just how beautiful you found him, it never hurt to remind him. “So do you,” he returned. There was a hint of awe in his voice as his eyes raked over you, quickly shifting from proud to hungry as he took in the sight of the sundress he loved so much. “Fuck, knew we weren’t gonna make it all the way when you walked out in this fuckin’ dress. Makes me think of that barbecue at Pope’s,” he breathed, eyes darkening as his fingers brushed the small wet patch that had formed. “Looked so pretty, bent over the counter, beggin’ me to fuck you, even though all our friends were just outside.”

“What can I say? You’ve ruined me, Miller. I’m insatiable and I blame you.” Your breath hitched, caught in your throat, as he nudged the fabric to the side and pressed his fingers to the small bundle of nerves.

There was no time, you both knew that - any moment you spent out in the open was too much, too long - but neither of you really cared as you rocked your hips in search of more friction. He spent a moment watching your face, blue eyes blazing as they catalogued each flutter of your lashes and pinch of your brows, before he gathered the fabric of your skirt with his free hand. 

You raised a brow as Benny’s fingers dug into your hip, bunched the fabric of your sundress around your waist as he removed his hand from your center to line himself up with your entrance. “Thought we were gonna go to dinner when we got in, didn’t have time to change?”

Benny rolled his eyes at your teasing but smirked when you gasped at the feeling of his cock notching at your entrance. “Wouldn’t be the first time we went out with my come on your thighs,” he reminded you, grin teasing as you reached out to grip his shoulder for balance. “You love it when I make a mess of you, honey.”

It was a fact that you couldn’t deny. Before Benny, the idea made you squirm - made you wrinkle your nose and wonder why anyone would want that - but now, with the number of quickies the pair of you had in the car before dinner or in the bathroom or wherever you could find a moment alone, you understood the appeal. It was a sinful secret, something that reminded you of your escapade each time you shifted, and Benny grinned when you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Shut up and fuck me, Miller. Don’t wanna miss check-in,” you huffed, rolling your eyes playfully as he helped you lower yourself onto his cock. 

Benny mimed zipping his lips - though you knew it wouldn’t last - as you sank lower. When you’d taken him as deep as you could, felt the tip in the back of your throat, your eyes fluttered shut and your nails sank into his shoulders.

For a long moment, you focused on the feeling of him inside - every ridge and vein of his cock dragged along your walls, the thatch of hair that pressed to your clit, the firm press of his fingers into your hips - before you began to lift your hips. He let you control the pace, used the hands on your hips to help you move in the semi-confined space, and let his head fall back against the headrest as his moans joined yours.

All that mattered was Benny - the feeling of his fingers pressed into your skin, the drag of his cock along your walls, the rush of being so visible, yet so hidden - until the sound of tires crunching gravel made your heart feel as if it might stop.

As the sound broke through the haze of lust, Benny quickly released the fabric of your skirt, let it fall to cover you both, and glanced at the rearview mirror. There was a brief moment where you thought they might turn into the parking lot - might discover what you were doing - and you clenched around him as you imagined someone finding you like this. For a split second, you imagined it - thought about someone finding you like this, seeing you both so lost in your passion that you’d needed to pull off and have one another in such an open space - before it vanished into thin air and reality set in.

To your relief, however, the car kept driving - disappeared into the sunset - and you released a heavy breath as you began to shift your hips once more.

When the noise faded, disappeared over the horizon, you exhaled heavily and returned your eyes to Benny’s face. He was already watching you with a grin and raised a brow when you shifted your hips to begin moving once more.

“You like this,” he accused, grin teasing - bright - as his fingers dug into your hip. He studied you for a long moment, eyes raking over your face, and laughed as you clenched around him once more. Though fabric of your dress pooled over his lap, easily hid the physical evidence of what you were doing, anyone who looked closely would be able to tell. The shift of his hips, the grip he held on your waist, the press of his mouth against your skin, the disheveled state of you both - the markers were all there, and he was right. You did like the idea, did find it hot that he wanted you enough to take you in public, but you still rolled your eyes as he declared, “My girl’s an exhibitionist.”

The revelation was nothing new - it was a statement you both knew to be fact - but you still reminded him, “It’s not nice to tease me like this on my birthday.”

“I know,” he cooed, though you could see the amusement in his eyes as he leaned in to press a kiss to your jaw. “Forgive me, honey. Let me make it up to you.”

He used his grip to tug you forward, guided your hips in a slow grind, and hummed in content when your breath caught in your throat. The rough denim scraping your inner thighs, the press of his zipper biting at your skin, the thatch of hair nudging your clit with every drag of your hips - each sensation hit you square in the chest, compressed your lungs and made it difficult to breathe as he mouthed at the sensitive skin just beneath your ear.

“C’mon, honey,” he urged, voice low in your ear, breath fanning your skin - warm, sticky, a contrast to the cool air whipping around you. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine and you could feel his lips curl into a smirk as he nuzzled his face closer. “Wanna feel you come for me. Fuck, please. Wanna make you feel good, make you come as many times as you’ll let me this weekend. Gonna start now.”

The tone of his voice, low and warm in your ear - desperate, eager - combined with the drag of his cock and the press of his fingers had you on the edge. It was only when his hand dipped beneath your skirt, fingers pressed to your clit, that you finally fell over the edge with a whine of his name.

Benny held you close, fucked into you in search of his own release, and came with a deep moan that made you clench around him. He continued to tug, pulled you forward in a grind that made your thighs quiver with overstimulation, as you reached out to tug at his hair.

He allowed you to guide his face closer, met your mouth in a searing kiss, and grinned when you rested your forehead against his. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind for the ride,” he teased, voice breathless as he leaned in to press another kiss to your mouth. “But I’m not gonna complain. Though, that felt more like a gift for me than for you.”

“What can I say? I’m a giver,” you teased, grinning when he rolled his eyes fondly. “You’ve already made me feel special,” you admitted easily, voice softening just slightly as you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “I just wanted to spread the love. And, if you’re lucky,” you hummed, eyes narrowing as they met his, “we might try this again on the drive home. But we gotta actually make it there. Don’t wanna miss our check-in time.”

Benny laughed as you shifted, ready to climb off his lap, and hissed when you lifted yourself. The pair of you moaned at the loss and Benny huffed playfully as he zipped his jeans while you adjusted your clothing as best as you could. He reached out to stop you before you could slide back into the passenger seat, though. Instead, he kept you pressed to his side and reached across the seat to buckle the belt in the middle.

He tossed his arm over your shoulders, skin warm against yours, and ignored your pleased grin as you leaned into his side. A moment of silence settled as he returned the key to the ignition before he turned his head to glance at you. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” you confirmed, smiling softly as you tangled your fingers with his and squeezed his hand. “And I love you. I really do appreciate all the effort you’re putting in to make my birthday special and I did really just want to touch you.”

There was always a glimmer of doubt - a lingering question of whether you were deflecting or felt obligated - but Benny nodded, satisfied with your answer. He settled back into the driver’s seat as he pulled out of the small lot and leaned in to press a final kiss to your temple before creeping back out onto the road. “Happy birthday, honey.”

Before Benny, birthdays were never that special. Now, each birthday seemed to get better. And if the beginning of your trip was any indication, this birthday might be the best yet.

____________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: This gif haunts my dreams. I may revisit this scenario because Benny. But, like, I just wanted to write a little. I missed my Benny boy.

Tag List: @peoniarose, @karie-me-home, @rachelwritestuff, @stardust-galaxies, @deliciouslydisturbed365, @a-louise-juliane, @ben-is-a-hoe, @weasleywinchester, @crowfootwrites​, @winchestershiresauce​, @kesskirata​​, @lyr1ssa, @viyasstuff, @negansnympho89​, @im-just-a-mississippi-girl​,  @kirsteng42​, @balekanemohafe​, @avengers-fixation​, @buckybarneshairpullingkink​, @nintendhoe8​, @luciferiorbxtch​, @jettia​, @xoxabs88xox​

[startistdoodles]

AAAAA I LOB PRIMSMA 🥹🥹 Just read through all the posts you’ve made about her and now I really can’t wait till I get back to my uni dorm so I can revamp my old Kirby OCs!! Expect fanart soon 👀

AAA,, Thank you so much for the kind words 💖💕 I'm so happy you like her and are inspired, she is SO much fun to draw and write ;;v;;