#i need to be fucked until i’m legally braindead

[xpupslxtx]

wanna be fucked in doggy so bad rn. wanna get on my hands and knees and present so pretty for him, feel his fingers tease my wet cunt before i feel his hands grab my waist to start pushing into me, wanna be fucked so hard i go limp and he has to hold me up by my hips, wanna be white-knuckling the sheets and having my head forced into a pillow to stifle all my pathetic moans, wanna have my cunt absolutely leaking with his and my cum when he’s finally done with me

[whatiwillsay]

Harris/Waltz lost me at allowing children to decide gender altering surgery without their parents, signing bills adding pedophilia to the definition of sexual orientation, and abortion for healthy women and babies up to birth.

the only thing in that brain worm invested weirdo nonsense you just vomited into my inbox that has any kernel of truth to it is that in mn abortion is between a woman and her healthcare provider and the state doesn’t get to step in and make decisions about a woman’s body. in practice no healthy women get late term abortions but leaving it legal is necessary because any ban, even with exceptions carved out, in practice stops everyone needing it from getting them. see the texas lawsuits. all those women’s lives were in danger and they still couldn’t access care because the doctors were scared of going to jail. abortion has to be legal at all times.

but late term abortions are not a thing and anyone who believes they are is stupid:

there is no law that makes pedophilia a sexual orientation in fact the law you’re referring to removed language from the law linking pedophilia to sexual orientation.

the only way a minor can have surgery without parental or a guardians consent is if there is an extreme emergency like they’re dying of a heart attack or something. in fact in minnesota you can’t even get hormone therapy until you’re 18 unless you have parental consent.

https://www.plannedparenthood.org/planned-parenthood-north-central-states/campaigns/gender-affirming-care#:~:text=Can%20I%20still%20receive%20hormone,a%20health%20center%20in%20Minnesota

i can’t believe people like you who can’t take 5 seconds to fact check all this weird alt right conspiracy nonsense are allowed to vote like genuinely it’s so fucked up that dumdums like you have a say in the direction of our country.

are you embarrassed to be this stupid? does it feel bad? or is this a dunning-kruger situation where you don’t even know how braindead you are?

anyway now that i’ve debunked all your stupid right wing delusions i’m sure you’ll be voting for harris/walz now right?

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @azothel donated $50, and requested ‘jealous Sam with implied Dean/John.’ Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Summer in Arizona. Sam thinks it might actually be hell. He’s laying spread eagle on his bed, stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, and this absolute dump of a motel only has an evaporative cooler and so the whole place smells like wet dust. He’s got his eyes closed, concentrated on not moving, and if he doesn’t move then he can pretend like it’s damp instead of sticky--cool, instead of muggy--but unfortunately it doesn’t stop his ears from working, because Dean’s on the phone with Dad. Again.

“Yessir,” Dean says, quiet. Corded phone up near the door and he’s got it pulled all the way over by the mini-fridge. Like if he’s far enough away somehow Sam won’t notice. “Yeah, we got it taken care of. When do you think you’ll--”

Be back, cut off. That’s what Dean always wants--Dad, back, the three of them faking at happy families. Sam opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling fan, slow its only speed. They aren’t exactly a Norman Rockwell painting. Sam doesn’t know why Dean pretends otherwise.

“Yeah,” Dean says, soft, and it’s nasty the way Sam’s gut immediately takes a downward turn. He draws up on his elbows, looking past the screen into the tiny kitchenette. Dean, leaning against the wall with his shoulders hunched in, the cord tangled in his fingers. Chick from a movie talking to her crush, Sam thinks, and his second thought is--worse. “Yeah, Dad. See you.”

He hangs up and sighs. When he turns around he’s surprised for some reason, seeing Sam watching him. “Dad’s gonna be another week,” Dean says, and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. He’s still wearing jeans, and that Ozzy tour t-shirt they found at the thrift mart. Overdressed, to Sam’s mind. Dean flaps his shirt, his white belly showing. “How do people live here. It’s so frickin’ hot, man.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding braindead. How do they live.

They weren’t supposed to be here. California, Dad had promised, and Dean lit up with talking about going to the beach, cool breezes and girls in bikinis. Of course, when they stalled out here with five hundred miles to go, because Dad caught wind of weird deaths in the Chiricahua Mountains, Dean didn’t complain a peep. He went out with Dad one night--left Sam alone, in this same dumpy motel, to stew and worry--and then he came back by himself the next morning, fretful but loyal. Told Sam, Dad’s got it covered, don’t worry. Like that was what Sam was worried about. Dean had a bruise, on his shoulder, when he came back. Sam laid awake, wondering--knowing. Knowing. He’s always known.

The motel has a pool, if you can call it that. A crappy small kidney bean with no shade, carved out of bleached-white kool deck. It gets locked up at night but they figured out pretty quick that the motel manager’s a drunk and doesn’t give a damn what they do, and so it’s something to occupy them at night--a padlock Sam could’ve picked when he was nine, a six pack of beer they share because Dean can actually get it legally, now. “Not as fun that way,” Dean says, shrugging. Sam rolls his eyes and shoves water at his face, which makes Dean splutter predictable as ever--which makes him dive for Sam, predictable as ever--which means they wrestle, trying to dunk each other, and Sam’s got new height but Dean’s got more experience, and Sam wants to win but--but Dean’s skin is slick-silk, even in the over-chlorinated water, and he’s warm and weightless, and whoever wins Sam’s held right up close against his body and has Dean laughing and right here, right here, with him and nowhere else.

Nobody comes out this way. Not this time of year. There’s a tired hispanic family that checks in, one night, and they have a pretty daughter maybe Sam’s age--who smiles at Dean, shy but interested, and Dean grins at her, blows her a kiss, until her dad sees and she gets berated in a quiet barrage of Spanish. “Dude, I am an international man of mystery,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes and says, “Okay, Austin Powers,” and that was--shit, a mistake, because he knows that instantly Dean’s going to do his terrible Mike Myers impression--but then the phone rings in their room, and Dean’s face changes instantly, and he disappears inside while Sam bangs his head back against the stucco. He doesn’t need to hear to know Dean’s saying, obedient, yessir. Sam looks out at the fire-colored sunset and wonders, bitter, if Dean’s dick gets hard every time he does.

Sick. Not that Sam has room to throw stones. When they finally drag themselves out of the pool--one a.m., four beers under Dean’s belt and two under Sam’s--half the time Dean’ll just change right there, in the kitchenette on, making a puddle on the linoleum. “Dude,” Sam will always say, throwing up hands like it’s gross--because he knows he’s supposed to find it gross--and Dean always says, “Like you don’t love it,” smug. They hardly go out in the day, too damn hot, and so he’s pale, pale, everywhere, his back and the pretty curve of his ass and his legs, bowed out at the knee where Sam knows he’d fit, where he’d slide his hips between them and it’d feel--right. Cowboy legs, Dad called ‘em once, kind of drunk, and Dean had immediately darted a look at Sam and his ears had gone bright red--and Sam had looked away, thinking, yeah. Made for riding.

Seriously, sick. Sicker that he bets he wasn’t the only one in the room having that thought. Sicker, that when Dean tugs up dry boxers and turns around, Sam doesn’t look away fast enough, and Dean sees him and his face does--some strange thing, something Sam doesn’t know how to interpret. His amulet swings in the middle of his pale chest and Sam wants to get up, grab him by it, pull him in. Ask him--why not Sam? Why, if it was going to be anyone--

“Dude, earth to Samuel,” Dean says, and Sam blinks and refocuses. Dean frowns at him, kinda smiling-kinda not. “You gonna sleep in your wet trunks? Get a move on, weirdo.”

“You’re weird,” Sam says, automatic and dumb, and Dean rolls his eyes, throws himself back onto his own bed. Sam looks at him--his knees, spread--his nipples getting hard in the damp cool air--and then looks away. He has to, because if he doesn’t then he has to do something, and he just doesn’t know what to do.

Dad swings by--middle of the night, the next night. Sam’s asleep until the door opens, and then his eyes slam open at the wall away from the door, listening to the low conversation happening behind his back. Everything okay? Yeah, kiddo. Just needed a resupply. Salt and a few other things. Gotta head back into the mountains but I think I’ve about got it cleaned out. Can I help? No--this is a stealth mission, can’t risk it. I’m just taking a shower before I head out. Wanted to stop by and make sure you boys were okay. We’re okay, Dad. Do you...

The bathroom door closes, very quietly. Sam breathes, twice, and sits up, and the room’s empty. He looks at the bathroom door, and the water rushes on, and he can’t hear talking--it’s not Dean sitting on the toilet giving a debrief while Dad cleans up blood and guts, not like they’ve done before--and it takes Sam a minute to realize that he’s chubbing up, his mouth dry because he’s just staring at the pale pink paintjob, and he’s imagining--cowboy legs. Fuck.

They don’t try to wake Sam up, before Dad leaves. The room door closes and Dean fixes up the locks again, and when Sam turns over he’s got his forehead pressed against the paint, his hair still wet and his boxers barely tugged on, and Sam--jesus, how’s he supposed to take it? There’s an engine sound--the peel-out of tires on gravel. Dad’s gone, again. “Good visit?” Sam says, and Dean jumps, looks at Sam over his shoulder.

“Shit, dude, nearly gave me a heart attack,” Dean says. Frowns, after a second. “You woke up?”

“I’ve been here the whole time, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean’s frown gets deeper before his eyes go wide. It’d be kind of funny if Sam weren’t pissed. “Like--I’m not deaf, you know?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam gets up, crosses the room, and Dean doesn’t say anything still until Sam’s right in front of him--both of them in their bare feet and Sam’s got half an inch on him, even if he’s still trying to get the muscle--and Dean says finally, “Sammy, what--” but it’s a little late because Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s arms--damp, warm--and presses him back, against the door.

This close, Sam can see a red mark--a circle, on Dean’s shoulder where normally it’d be covered by a t-shirt--and he thinks, sudden sick certainty, that soon it’ll turn into a bruise. “You let him,” Sam says, and Dean looks--actually panicked. Sam squeezes his arms, rocks him a little against the door. “You let him.”

He does. Eager, like a puppy thrilled that its master came home. Dean stares back and forth between Sam’s eyes, mouth half-open waiting for an excuse to come--but there’s no excuse, they both know it, because Sam’s not deaf and he’s not blind and Dean was just in the shower, too, and there’s a mark on his shoulder, and Sam leans forward in raw stupid hope and kisses Dean. Clumsy--too much force, and their teeth clack--but he pushes in, pins their hips together, holds Dean tight, and realigns their mouths right and licks in. Dean breathes shock, doesn’t participate, and Sam tastes inside--beer, but--whiskey, too--and they haven’t had whiskey, not for weeks, and that means--that means--

Dean flinches--licks at him, too--gets his hands up and pushes at Sam’s ribs and breaks their mouths apart. Sam pants at him, an inch away. Dean’s eyes are bright, wide, his lips wet. “Sammy, what are you doing?” he says, like that’s not fucking obvious.

Sam licks his lips, tastes that phantom flavor. He lets Dean’s arms go and slides down his sides, to his hips, and presses forward until his knee’s between Dean’s knees--that open space. Space that’s maybe already been filled tonight, and the thought makes Sam’s gut lurch. Sloppy seconds. “You gonna let me, too?” he says. Dean’s hand splays against his stomach, holding, while his face goes slowly and deeply red. Sam ducks in, kisses his mouth soft and brief. Dean inhales sharp and his face, when Sam pulls back again, looks somehow dazed. Like soft isn’t what he expected. “We’re supposed to take care of each other. You and me.”

“Sam,” Dean says, rougher, and Sam cups his face in both hands and kisses him, soft, and again, and on the third Dean makes a weird small noise and holds Sam’s waist, fingers digging in, clutching and desperate. Yes, Sam thinks, groaning--yes, Dean touching him--yes, he thinks, at the car driving off into the night--because he’s Dean’s but Dean is his, and maybe with this, finally, he won’t be anyone else’s.

[johnathan-parsons]

GLASGOW MEADOWS | A JUXTAPOSITION.

Author’s note: It would’ve been easier if he had been too young to remember her. Content warning: Death, stroke, coma, Johnathan’s general existence.

“Are you Johnathan?”

Fuck, Johnathan wanted to deck him right in his face.

The urgency in his voice when he’d called had left no room for long explanations. Not that he was too talkative, anyways––Johnathan had had so many questions, but the fucker had known to not answer any of them in a clever effort to lure him to Glasgow. And, despite Johnathan’s fucking annoyance about it, it’d worked. Perhaps being a cunt was genetic? After all, that was exactly what Johnathan would have done if their positions were reversed. If he wasn’t as livid as he was, chewing on his own anger even now as they spoke, he would’ve applauded the man for this. But, as it were, Johnathan was a ticking time bomb and were it not for the laws of this land, the man in front of him would be beaten into the ground. They were already in a hospital; he’d be fine.

They stood in front of the door the nurse at the reception had directed him to. Once they saw him approach, they rose from their seats, both of them clearly tensed, though the woman more so. “Yeah,” Johnathan said as he came to a halt in front of them. “I am.”

The man nodded and held out a hand in a polite greeting. “I’m Robert. This is my sister, Maggie.” Robert waited a moment longer for Johnathan to shake his hand until he realized it wasn’t happening. Then, with a clearing of his throat, his hand fell back to his side to rub at his thighs. Sweaty palms, Johnathan guessed. “Thanks for coming.”

Silence. Johnathan looked between them, taking them in. Studying their features, so oddly familiar despite never having met them before. He found a little bit of himself in their faces, and it repulsed him. When he’d spotted them down the hall, he knew who they were, that they were the people he was looking for. They looked so much like her...

It made him sick.

The silence persisted. Once it had become awkward enough––for them, mind you, not Johnathan, who kept staring them down––Maggie turned to the door they were waiting in front of, then back to Johnathan. “Would you like to see her?”

...Right. Here, Johnathan found himself asking himself for the umpteenth time just why the fuck he had come here, exactly. All Robert had said on the phone was that they needed him for some legal purposes, which Johnathan assumed was some sort of inheritance issue. Had she left him something they needed him to relinquish to them? Happily. Consider it done. He didn’t want anything from her, not a single fucking penny. The other explanation was that they didn’t have money and were going to beg him to pay for the funeral. He’d figured it’d be better to go oblige and then make sure to never hear from them again, but this––this was too fucking much. Whatever paper it was that he was here for, he was going to sign it and be back on his way to London to go home and get piss drunk and repress this bullshit for the rest of his days. “No. I don’t.”

Maggie hesitated. She glanced at her brother, then back to Johnathan, clearly trying to keep this as civilized as possible. “Are you sure? She’s our mother...”

Sweet Mary and Jesus.

“No.” He snapped. He fucking snapped, because how dare she. The fucking audacity to even call her that, when she’d been anything but a mother to Johnathan. He didn’t raise his voice when he pointed a finger at his half-siblings, but his words were hissed through his teeth. “She’s your mother. Your mum. She left me to go pop out you two and clearly, she cared enough to actually raise you. She’s not my mother.” As if her being his mother absolved her of all the things she fucked up, of all the pain, the misery, the trauma she caused. Trauma Johnathan lived with to this day, even if he’d rather choke on his own tongue than to admit it. “Her having had a stroke and being in a coma and declared braindead doesn’t make me like her all of a sudden.”

Robert raised his hands in a defensive manner, trying to calm Johnathan’s ire. “Please. We just wanted to offer, in case you wanted to say goodbye.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Maggie and Robert looked at each other again. Johnathan guessed this was what silent communication between siblings looked like. 

God, he fucking hated both of them.

With a sigh, Johnathan rubbed a hand over his face, feeling his pulse thrum in the base of his throat. Okay, okay. He could do this. All he had to do was whatever they wanted, then get the fuck out of there. He could keep it together for five more minutes. They’d thrust a manila folder into his hand sooner or later. “Right. What do you need from me? You want me to turn down some stupid inheritance? Write a check for the funeral? Cremate her my-fucking-self? Because I will...” That last part, he mumbled to himself.

Just, please. Be quick about it. His anger, his near uncontrollable rage pounded in his temples, making his head ache, and his heart hurt. He hated everything––being here, talking to them, knowing that beyond that door, she was clinically dead, and she’d gotten away with everything she’d done. To his father, to her son. Maggie reached down and into her purse she’d placed on the floor next to her chair and pulled out the expected manila folder. Finally. Johnathan reached into the pocket on the inside of his jacket, fumbling for a pen. “This is mum’s last will and testament,” Maggie explained as she opened up the folder and pulled out one specific page. 

Johnathan had been prepared for the alternatives. For possibilities that would be unhealthy for his blood pressure, but those that could be fixed with a wad of cash thrown at it. What came next, though, was a kick in dick he had never seen coming.

“She wants us three to decide whether to cease life support or not.”

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: X (I / II / III / IV / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210, David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Church | Alpha, Frank DuFresne | Doc, Epsilon Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Church hated to admit it but he stopped functioning the minute David slumped sideways into unconsciousness. It felt like everything that made Church into Church up and crashed, completely, incapable of comprehending that David could be that far gone. The thought of another death—of another loss—became too much. His brain blue screened—and wasn’t that fucking hilarious?—and when everything rebooted Church felt—

—felt—

everythingandnothingandsomuchbeyond

It felt like a film covered everything. Church worked quickly, quietly, and settled David into a position that wouldn’t fuck up his neck even further. He categorized what he could see—the suit said unstable; pinpoint where, what is broken—there. The implant. How? Jammed; has to be jammed. Fix?—and then with a thought Church manipulated the radio waves until he reached the one frequency he knew could direct him further.

“Field Medic Frank DuFresne, speaking!”

“I need everything on repairing a jammed implant against the spinal column, now,” Church said shortly.

“Wha—Church?! How did you—why do you need to know that?!” Doc sounded so horrified.

Church slid his gaze off of David for a brief moment and over to Caboose. He made a quick gesture, a twitch of his fingers in a manner that he knew the other man would recognize if only because it’d been so deeply ingrained into him. A second later Church jerked his head back toward the smoke that rose in the distance, where their crashed jeep was, and Caboose climbed to his feet in silence.

“You don’t need to know,” Church said hollowly. “You just need to provide me the information.”

“But—there is a lot about implants, Church! They’re—one wrong step and you could leave someone braindead for life! I can’t have that—”

“You tell me what I need to do,” Church narrowed his eyes, “or I hunt you down and put a bullet in your head. Now.”

For a moment Doc said nothing, and then quietly, “When did you get so mean?”

Church shuddered, then bent forward and buried his face into his knees. He fought down the twisted confusion that warred inside him—memories and thoughts and everythingandanythingandtheuniverseathisfingertips—and said lowly, “Wouldn’t you do anything for family, Doc?”

“I…” Doc seemed to fumble for words. “I’m sorry. I just…don’t feel comfortable with this, Church.”

Church closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t you do anything for your own child, Doc?” Church whispered, like he admitted to something so forbidden and wrong—but wasn’t he, in some respects? Wasn’t he?

He heard a faint, “Oh dear,” and then a sigh. “I—alright. Alright. But if this doesn’t work…”

Church clenched his fists. “It will work,” he said. His hands trembled.

“But if it doesn’t—”

“It will work,” Church ground out.

Doc was silent. For a moment Church just stared at David, stared at the face drawn with stress and gaunt from nightmares and from the other man pushing himself beyond his limits like an idiot. Church’s hands trembled.

(he had no right to David anyway)

(that man)

(not after how he threw him away)

Doc sighed. “Alright,” the medic mumbled. “Alright. Here’s what you need to do.”

(he had no right to David)

(David was Alpha’s now)

(would always be…)

(he had no right to David anymore)

Church’s hands trembled.

Wash woke back up and felt like his head went through a blender or two in three different ways. His neck ached something fierce and his implant honest-to-god burned. Wash blinked bleary eyes and for a moment he saw—he saw—

—pale and blue and cackling laughter with bright eyes filled with madness and hate.

“Don’t you get it yet? Don’t you? Don’t you?”—

—regulation “blue” and a concerned face of Caboose. The young man blinked back at Wash and then smiled.

“Church! Church! He’s awake!” Caboose shouted and Wash winced as the noise seemed to jam straight into his implants.

Wash hissed, “Fuck,” under his breath because that was honestly a new feeling. The next thing he knew before he could even try to push himself up was Church right in his face.

“Follow my finger,” Church said sharply and Wash tracked the finger in a sort of daze. “Good,” Church mumbled. “Recite your name for me.”

“What—why?” Wash questioned. What had even happened?

“I need to make sure everything’s working right, dammit,” Church snapped out, then turned his head to the side with a frown. “Yes I’m asking him the damn questions shut up Doc I’m focusing,” Church hissed and then turned back. “Recite your name,” Church repeated shortly.

“Agent Washington?” Wash mumbled and blinked.

“Great, now your legal name?” Church sighed tiredly.

“I—what? How would you even know that?” Wash frowned.

“Just…just recite it, please,” Church sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. Wash frowned and then mumbled his name, but Church seemed to accept it readily enough all the same. With a tired sigh Church continued to have Washington recite random facts back, and then told the other man not to move as he shifted over to check at—

“What the fuck!?” Wash shrieked and quickly jerked to shy away from the touch at his implants, but Caboose suddenly held him steady. “Why are you—get away, don’t touch that, fuck stop—”

“I need to make sure the damn thing is adjusted properly, goddamn it David!” Church snapped back. “Stop trying to struggle, fuck, you piece of shit. I need to—ugh Caboose hold him steady!”

Wash canted a litany of no over and over and fought hard against Caboose—the man had strength and it bothered him something fierce, reminded him of another behemoth that he worked with and cared for and—David couldn’t take it. No one touched his implants, no one got close—it was wrong and dangerous and Epsilon—

“Since when did you have autonomy?” he cackled, and cackled, and madness spread like a disease through every pore and orifice and—

“Good, good it’s back into place. Shit you gave me a scare,” Church mumbled and pulled back. Caboose let go and Wash scrambled. He breathed and twitched and one hand reached back to protectively shield his implants for the world around him as he stared. Church stared back as Wash panted and hyperventilated and kept distance between them.

“You damaged it in the crash,” Church said plainly. “It wasn’t obvious at first, not until you passed out. The import jammed back into your spinal column and cut off some of the blood vessels and the flow of spinal fluid.”

“What?” Wash rasped.

“The jeep?” Church said carefully. “You crashed, remember?”

“Yes, but? My—”

“Your implant, yeah,” Church nodded with a sigh. “The whiplash? Or just the impact of the crash or something it smashed your implant, the AI port, straight into your spine. Didn’t see the damage until after you passed out—thought it was fine, had the pry the fucking thing back into place.” Church grimaced. “Your suit readout says its all good now, though,” he mumbled. “Vitals stable and shit.”

“We thought you just scrambled,” Caboose said, and his voice was so chipper it hurt. “Like me! I threw up. Again. And things were very fuzzy and strange and Church said not to sleep but you slept which was wrong.”

“I—did?” Wash glanced between them and tried to piece everything together. He took the bits that Church and Caboose threw out and puzzled them into place. It calmed him, to slot the facts and nonsense together until he got a semi-formed picture. “Oh.” It took a second more before the full situation hit him. “Wait, you performed brain surgery on me in a goddamn forest with no training?!”

Church waved a hand and glanced to Caboose. The sim soldier already began to gather up the supplies they’d retrieved from the wrecked remains of the jeep what seemed like so long ago. “Nothing so complex,” Church grumbled. “Just…pried it back into place. Had a walking, talking medical journal to help me out.”

“I resent that Church!” Doc said with a frown over the radio. “Although I gotta say, you did good for no medical training!”

“Like you’re any fucking better?” Church snapped back. “What’s a medic without any clue how to be a medic?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Doc replied sagely.

Wash watched them. “You are…all insane,” he rasped. “Just…shit.”

“Certifiable in certain sectors,” Doc agreed. “Now you’ll need to get that checked out by a professional. A jammed neural implant is no joke! Who knows what kind of brain damage that could cause?”

Wash stared at Church’s helmet, and then glanced to Church and Caboose. “That’s…great. Thanks.”

“No problem! Have a safe trip!” Doc said brightly. “Church I’m going to disconnect now. Sounds like you got shit well in hand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Church mumbled distractedly. He helped Caboose pile things back into place as the radio clicked off. Washington watched, mumbled about insanity again, before he gingerly climbed to his feet and helped with the pack up.

“How long was I out?” Washington questioned carefully.

“Two days,” Church replied. “What the hell was that anyway?”

Wash blinked. “What?”

“You crashed the fucking jeep, did the impossible and somehow got it caught on fire until it exploded which is…practically impossible. That’s not how shit works,” Church ground out. Wash winced.

“Ah…cars hate me.”

Church stared. “Lame.”

“Fuck you. The breaks didn’t work on the damn thing anyway,” Wash added. “And the gas pedal jammed.”

“Lame,” Church repeated, and he drew the word out slowly.

Wash rolled his eyes. “We’ve wasted enough time already,” he grumbled and took a step forward. Church caught him before he tumbled over and smashed into the ground. “Ugh, perfect.”

“Just take it easy,” Church said sharply. “I don’t want you to fucking fall unconscious again.”

Wash grimaced, but accepted the help. He reached for his helmet to tug it on and frowned when Church slapped his hand away.

“Not until the inflammation dies down,” Church said. “Doc’s orders.”

Wash stared, and then mumbled, “Lame,” back at Church. Church snorted.

“Sure, man, whatever,” he said. “You good to go Caboose?”

Caboose slauted and slung the crate of supplies onto his back. “Yessir Mr. Grumpypants Sir!” Church rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go then,” Church grumbled and supported Washington as they started off in a random direction. “Road’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Caboose nodded and turned. “Autobots transform and roll out!” he chirped and led the way with a bounce in his step. Caboose made the sound effects as if he transformed into a car as he moved and Washington blinked blearily.

“Does that make him Optimus?” Wash questioned, and then wondered why he even bothered to play into it. He had to be going crazy.

“Weren’t you already?”

“Shut up Epsilon,” Wash mumbled.

Church glanced to him, then shrugged. “I think he’s supposed to be Bumblebee,” Church said, and Wash felt at least relieved that the other man didn’t seem to notice his sudden slip over nothing. “I’m Optimus.”

Wash frowned. “What does that make me?”

“I don’t know. Our human sidekick?”

“Great,” Wash said dryly. “I’m the damsel in distress.” He paused, and then groaned. “Oh fuck I really am.”

“Bingo.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey I just saved your ass, be grateful!”

Somehow Church convinced Agent Washington to drop into civvies between the forest, the dirt road, and this small out-of-the-way refueling station. Caboose and himself followed the transformation and, in Church’s opinion it made travel less of a hassle. Also he had better access to glance over at Wash’s implants just to make sure everything was okay without actually tossing the man into another panic attack.

“Thanks,” Church mumbled to Caboose when the other man handed over the set of maps he’d quite happily purchased. Church commandeered the lone table in the very small food court—literally just a soda machine and a hotdog roller like you’d see in those gas stations back on Earth—and with barely any how-do-you-do unfolded the maps onto the table.

“What are you doing?” Wash questioned around the straw of his ridiculously sugary soda while he watched Church. He had to admit this moment to take a breather was much needed after hours and what felt like weeks of travel between nothing and a forest.

“Calculating,” Church said absentmindedly. Quickly Church began to scribble on the maps, a mix of calculations and notes that he remembered from his workroom back at High Ground. He interspaced what he recalled with additional information he’d gathered from their walk and observing the land, scowled, and scratched out several calculations.

Wash watched the entire work, how Church’s hand moved across the page quickly and smoothly. He sat up a bit straighter when he recognized the landmark for Valhalla, their destination, and how Church made several small circles around the location, and then further marks with increasing distance from Valhalla. He watched as the notes scribbled across several additional maps that noted roadways and flightpaths, and then a small canyon that actually wasn’t even named on the map to Wash’s surprise. He felt certain that had to be Blood Gulch the way Church scribbled directions and drew several short arrows in a northeasterly direction.

Once finished Church leaned back away from the maps, spun them around, until they rested in front of Wash.

“Additional potential wreckage sites,” Church said, and carefully pointed at the marked and scribbled circles. “Following Tex’s trajectory, the explosion, and accounting for weather plus the crash site discovered at Valhalla, these are the most likely impacts of any additional portions of the Pelican.” Church glanced to Wash. “Just in case Valhalla is a bust.”

Wash gaped. “I—how did you do that?” he squeaked.

Church shrugged. “I was always more of a scientist than a soldier,” he said tiredly. “Don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.” He gave Washington a glare at that, and the Agent nodded his head quickly as he pulled the map closer to study the information there. He traced a finger along the road, including the refueling station they were at now, and blinked.

“We’ll hit this before we hit Valhalla,” Washington said. He sipped his drink as he tapped one of Church’s marked locations. “It’ll put us out by a few days, but if you are right….”

Church cocked his head. “I’m right,” he said plainly and crossed his arms. Wash raised an eyebrow at the arrogance, and then leaned back in surprise when Caboose bopped Church on the head. Church twisted. “What the fuck Caboose?!”

Caboose frowned. “You were being rude again,” he said. “Stop it.”

Church gaped. “I was not!”

Caboose nodded his head. “Yes, Church. You were.”

Church couldn’t even formulate words. He just sort of squawked and made sharp, incoherent shrieks before he threw his hands up with a growl and a groan and turned his head away. Wash watched how Caboose smiled, almost devious like, and decided that he didn’t even want to know. Something about the interaction made him a little uncomfortable, and maybe it had to do with the way that Caboose was coherent and clear—and then that smile that wasn’t goofy at all.

Caboose glanced to Wash, and winked. Then he gathered up the maps and rolled them up. With a cheerful hum and his usual absence to the world around him Caboose piled everything into the crate and carefully replaced the lid. He hiked it back up onto his back just in time for Church to jerk to his feet with a scowl.

“We’ve wasted enough fucking time,” Church grumbled. He shot a glare to Wash when the other man slurped at his drink loudly, and with a huff Church stormed from the refueling station. Wash lamented the fact that he wouldn’t be able to finish his drink before with a sigh he too got up. At least they had a plan of action again now.

[dadhurtmemore]

Yes this please!

wanna be fucked in doggy so bad rn. wanna get on my hands and knees and present so pretty for him, feel his fingers tease my wet cunt before i feel his hands grab my waist to start pushing into me, wanna be fucked so hard i go limp and he has to hold me up by my hips, wanna be white-knuckling the sheets and having my head forced into a pillow to stifle all my pathetic moans, wanna have my cunt absolutely leaking with his and my cum when he’s finally done with me