#i really gotta carve it out with my own two hands and post it on the internet

[queercodedvillains]

Wake up babes, new chapter of mallrats just dropped <3

Mallrats (23114 words) by QueerCodedVillains Chapters: 3/9 Fandom: Naruto, Naruto (Anime & Manga) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Deidara/Sasori (Naruto), background kakuzu/hidan Characters: Sasori (Naruto), Deidara (Naruto), Hidan (Naruto), Kakuzu (Naruto) Additional Tags: SasoDei Week 2023 (Naruto), 90'S, Akatsuki - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Claire's AU, Mafia AU, If You Squint - Freeform, we are taking liberties translating the akatsuki into a modern setting here, Drug Use, Drug Dealing, Blood and Violence, POV Alternating, Bottom Deidara (Naruto), Top Sasori, BDSM, Impact Play, Praise Kink, Edging, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Sasori is still a puppet master but only in the loosest terms, if you catch my drift, Shibari, Suspension, Fucking Machines, Porn With Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Bratting, brat taming, Dom/sub Series: Part 1 of Mallrats Cinematic Universe Summary: In which the Akatsuki are 90's mallrats by day, crime syndicate by night. All the best criminals have a day job to launder their rent money, but the real fun only starts once they're off the clock.

[couldsewyouastitch]

The Spaces Between [Joel Miller]

pairings: no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

wordcount: 3.5K ish

cw: toxic relationship, implied sexual content, mentions of deceased spouse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mild profanity, themes of loneliness and emotional pain, brief mentions of blood and violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to financial hardship, alternate universe

a/n: it started as a blurb and ended up being 3K. wasn’t planning on posting this as i’m working on the secret santa story, but i changed my mind. hope you enjoy it, tell me what you think. reblog and heart, leave a comment or slide into my dms.

main blog: savedyounine | discord: saveyouanine

masterlist

Autumn arrives overnight, like someone flipped a switch and the whole world changed from green to gold while no one was looking.

Joel drives home with the windows down, breathing air that smells like wood smoke and wet leaves. The stop sign looms red and he slows, braking harder than strictly necessary, just to feel the truck respond to his hand; just to impose his will on something in this world.

His thoughts drift to you, as they always do in the in-between—those restless spaces caught between day and night, between the world and the small, stolen corners you’ve carved out together.

You’ll be clocking out right about now, peeling off that ugly brown polyester dress like it’s a second skin you’ve been dying to shed. He knows how much you hate it. He’s seen the way you claw at the collar when you think no one’s watching, like it’s some cruel, small thing choking the air out of you. You’ll then give Glenda that tired smile—thin, practiced, the kind that doesn’t even bother trying to touch your eyes—before slipping out the back door.

That door sticks, you told him once. You’d laughed when he asked why you always smelled faintly of coffee grounds and fryer grease. "Gotta shove it with my hip to get it loose," you’d said, and then you showed him—with that little twist of your body that nearly made him grab you right there in the parking lot.

There’s probably some kind of metaphor in that door, he thinks as he navigates these dark, empty streets. Something about how you’re always pushing, always forcing your way through things that don’t want to give. Always fighting against some invisible weight, something tethering you to this small, tired life you’re stuck living. It’s like you’ve been shoving at it so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like to walk through a door that opens without a fight.

What a pair you make, he thinks, almost bitterly. Him with his calloused hands and the bullet scar on his thigh, you with your night shifts and your secret cigarettes. His nightmares smell like blood and metal. Yours probably smell like scorched bacon grease and the sour stink of other people’s messes.

And Joel doesn’t know, not really, if this thing between you, if it’s just a habit or something more—two broken things that fit together because they don’t fit anywhere else. For love, for him, has always felt like a sharp edge—something to be gripped carefully, bled on quietly. He wonders if you feel it too, the way it cuts. Maybe that’s why you never ask him to stay. Maybe that’s why he never does.

And tonight, just like any other time, you’ll be waiting for him. But there's no rush. It's not like the early days, all frantic hands and panting breaths in the cab of his truck, trying to work a leg free of your jeans without concussing yourself on the steering wheel.

Now it’s a slower kind of hunger, deeper, heavier—an ache that settles in your chest, the way an old break throbs before the storm hits. And yet, he never stays over, even though he knows the curve of your spine better than his own heartbeat.

Old dog, new tricks, all that bullshit. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Like a goddamn cliché.

—

Winter hits like a gut punch. It always does. Joel wakes to the dull, gray light slipping through the crack in his blackout curtains and the distant grind of city plows against asphalt. From the bed, all he can see is white. The radiator clatters and hisses like it’s falling apart, but it’s warm, so he doesn’t bother kicking it. He didn’t dream last night. Small mercies.

It's a bad day for driving, road crews already behind on salting and sanding, but he goes anyway. Tells himself it's just to get out of the house. Not that he's got anyone to convince. It's been twelve years and he still puts on his ring every morning like a reflex. Dead woman's jewelry. He doesn't know why he bothers except that he always has.

The highway twists and coils under his tires, a snake waiting to strike, and his truck is just another poor, dumb creature trapped in its grip. Every overpass is a test, another betrayal waiting to happen, the rear tires threatening to slip, to skid, to send him spinning off the edge. His hands cramp, locked at ten and two like rigor mortis has already set in. Yet he keeps going, some animal part of his brain needing to see you, needing to reassure himself that you exist as more than a ghost of stale cigarette smoke and the memory of soft thighs.

You don’t look surprised to see him when he shows up on your doorstep, snowflakes clinging to his boots and his shoulders. It’s your day off. He can tell by the ratty bathrobe tied haphazardly around you, one slipper dangling from your foot, the other abandoned somewhere out of sight.

“Figured that rust bucket of yours wouldn’t make it this far,” you say. A smile flickers at the corner of your mouth before dying out like a struck match.

You look at him the way you always do, cutting through him like it’s easy, like you’ve been reading him since the day he was born. It should terrify him. Instead, he’s just too damn tired of flinching.

"Ain't nothing wrong with my truck that a little elbow grease can't fix." He goes to push past you into the narrow foyer but you just pull your robe tighter around yourself. “You gonna let me in, or are we doing this out in the snow?” It comes out rougher than he means it to, all sharp edges and too little patience, but you don’t call him on it.

Resigned, you step aside. “By all means.”

Your living room feels smaller every time he comes here. Not because of the space itself but because your life exists in the detritus of other people's cast offs. It hits him that he’s never asked you for the story behind the framed quote embroidery that reads "Bless this mess."

Thrift store chic and all that, he thinks. It fits, though.

You don’t offer him coffee. Don’t bother with small talk or pleasantries. You never do. You both know why he’s here.

An old dog after all.

—

The cold digs in and refuses to let go, clawing through March with frozen fingers. The snowbanks are shrinking, but not without a fight, revealing a winter's worth of garbage and dogshit and gray grass beaten flat.

It's a nothing season. An in-between. Something that’s caught halfway between dead and alive. Joel tries not to see himself in it, but the thought sticks anyway.

It’s been weeks since he’s seen you, and the ache of you has sunk into his bones, wedging itself into the spaces between his ribs. You still don’t talk about it, whatever this is. Whatever it isn’t. Labels are for the living and neither of you has qualified for years.

"You look like shit." That’s the first thing out of your mouth when you open the door. No hesitation, no soft landing. He doesn’t even blink, just pushes past you, shrugging off his coat and letting his boots fall wherever they want, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading nowhere good.

"Thanks," he mutters. His voice feels cracked and rusty, like something left out too long in the rain.

When was the last time he even said anything out loud? Nodded at the checkout girl maybe, grunted a thanks at the gas pump. But stringing a sentence together for someone else's ears is a lot fucking harder than he remembered.

You drag a hand down your face, fingers lingering at the corner of one tired eye. “You want a drink or something? Got beer. Or some expired orange juice if you’re feeling adventurous, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

It’s more kindness than he deserves. Hell, more than he knows what to do with. He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in your space, cluttered and worn down by yard sale finds and third-hand paperbacks.

"Beer's good."

He sidesteps a laundry pile—clean, dirty, who the hell knows—and watches as you reach into the fridge, grabbing two bottles. The caps clatter into the sink, and you hand him one without looking, like this is just what you do.

He tips the bottle back and drains half of it in two long swallows. It’s warm, a little stale, but it scratches down his throat just fine. He lets it burn, lets it bubble up like something familiar.

Your eyes are on him, too steady to be anything but a challenge.

"So."

It hangs there, pointed and waiting.

"So."

He drains the rest of the bottle. He doesn't know how to do this, this living. Doesn't know how to carve out space for himself in a world that keeps spinning. All he's got are his hands and the sour ache in his gut.

With a rueful shake of his head, he sets the empty bottle on the counter with an anticlimactic clink.

And then he's reaching for you, fingers finding the belt of your robe, dragging you against him. Your beer sloshes, dribbling foam, but he's already got his mouth on your neck, your pulse rabbit quick under his tongue. You make a noise, halfway between a sigh and a curse, and your head falls back. Surrendering.

And fuck, he doesn't deserve this either, the easy way you give and give. The way you fold into him like it costs you nothing. Like there isn’t a price for this, for the way he takes and takes and takes.

All that’s left is the hard press of the countertop against his hip, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet way you let him ruin you.

This is how it goes. How it always goes.

Until there’s nothing left.

—

Spring creeps in slow, almost shy, before it barrels in all at once. The crocuses you planted last fall push up through the half-frozen muck of the flower bed, fragile purple petals reaching for a sun that doesn’t quite remember how to warm anything yet. You’re out on the back porch sitting with your hair curling into the damp air while he rummages through your cabinets, stiff and slow, looking for coffee filters.

He didn’t sleep well. He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes, but there’s a blanket tangled at his feet now that wasn’t there when the two of you collapsed on your bed last night. He doesn’t ask.

"You don't have to stay, you know." Your voice floats into the kitchen, carried by the whine of the screen door snapping shut behind you. "Wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important."

A handful of answers rise like bile but he swallows them down. The thing between you is too fragile for words, a soap bubble balanced on a fingertip and he is already so goddamn tired of being the one who always pops it.

"I'm good." It's a day for small honesties.

You appear in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, one hip tilted just so. The faded Metallica shirt you’re wearing as a nightgown barely reaches your thighs. He drags his eyes away from all that bare skin. Reaches for a mug instead.

Your eyebrows do something complicated. "Alright then."

You watch as he pours coffee for you both, the pot shaking slightly in his grip. If you notice, you don't comment. Just take the chipped mug emblazoned with "Carpe the fuck out of this diem" he offers. Your fingers don't touch and he tells himself he isn't disappointed.

"Milk’s in the fridge if you’re into that," you say, blowing softly across the surface of your coffee before taking a tentative sip. You wince. "Sugar in the—"

"I know where the sugar is." The words come out too fast, too sharp, cutting through the room like shrapnel. He didn’t mean it to sound like that. Hell, he doesn’t mean anything anymore, not the way it comes out.

The mug hits the counter harder than he intends, coffee sloshing up over the rim, spilling into the butter dish you forgot to put away after last night’s dinner. A droplet scalds his thumb.

You don’t flinch, don’t snap back. You just stand there, looking at him with that same maddening expression you always wear—half annoyed, half something softer. He doesn’t know what to do with it, that mix of exasperation and patience, like you know exactly who he is and still haven’t shoved him out of your life yet.

And this is it, he realizes. This is all the two of you will ever be. Two broken people, held together by duct tape and scar tissue, stuck in the same tired loop of half-measures and almosts. It’s almost funny. Almost.

Something heavy presses behind his eyes, an ache that rises fast and chokes him before he can think about it too hard. He needs to move. Needs to be anywhere but here.

He's dressed and out the door in under a minute, laces trailing, the screen door slamming behind him. You don't call out and he doesn't look back. That bubble between you, it's popped, shards of soap and air drifting in the pale morning.

He leaves his coffee on the counter, untouched. It’ll sit there, cooling to nothing. Just like everything else.

—

Summer settles heavy and dense, humidity pressing like a physical weight. The air hangs heavy, still, every breath a labor. Joel's shirt clings to his back, to the indent of his spine where sweat collects. He's got the windows down but the breeze brings no relief, heated air billowing useless and limp. A fly buzzes lazy loops around his ear and he smacks at it, palm colliding with his stubbled cheek. Three days’ growth. He keeps meaning to shave. Keeps meaning to do a lot of things.

The streetlights flicker on as he turns into your driveway, their dim yellow glow bleeding together in the thick twilight. The crunch of his tires on gravel feels deafening, like an intrusion, too loud for this quiet, empty hour. The porch is dark. The windows are dark. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His hand stays on the gearshift, and his foot hovers over the pedal.

He could leave. He could put this rusted out hunk of metal in reverse and pretend he was never here. You would understand. You always do. It's what you’re good at, understanding and accepting and never pushing for more. And maybe that's why he keeps coming back, keeps sinking into your softness. Because he's a selfish fuck. And isn't that the worst truth.

He cuts the engine.

The porch creaks under his boots, a floorboard whining a warning, and he pauses with his fist poised to knock. When was the last time he even knocked? When had he decided that your space, your life, was just his to walk into? The thought sours in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself step back. He raps once. Twice. The sound echoes dully in the muggy stillness.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just silence and the weight of the heat pressing down on him. And he thinks wildly, fearfully, that maybe he waited too long. Maybe this is it. Maybe the universe is fresh out of second chances.

But then there’s the click of the lock turning, the soft creak of hinges, and there you are.

The light spilling out from the kitchen frames you in a weak halo, more shadow than glow. You’re barefoot, wearing cut-off sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Your hair is sticking to your damp temples, to the curve of your neck, and there’s a faint crease from your pillow etched into your cheek.

"Joel?" you say, voice scratchy from sleep. There’s something else in it, though—something sharper, something awake and alive. "What are you doing here?"

And there it is, a million dollar question. Why is he here? Why does he keep coming back to you, to this place, to the fragile thread of a connection that feels too thin to hold either of you? What is he hoping to find in the spaces between your heartbeats?

He swallows and it hurts.

"I don’t know," he says finally, his voice scraping out of him raw. "I just…"

His hand lifts, drops. He can’t finish the sentence, doesn’t even know how to start it.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you until you’re right there in front of him. He can smell the sleep still clinging to you, the faint metallic tang of the diner that never quite washes off. He braces himself for what’s coming—for the slap, the curse, the moment when you finally shove him back and tell him to stay gone. He deserves all of it. He deserves worse.

But you don’t shove him. Your hand comes up, and it’s gentle as it rests against his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of bone like it’s something worth touching.

"You’re allowed to want something. You know that, right?"

His throat burns. His whole body feels like it’s cracking open under the weight of your words, like they’re carving through the hollow places inside him, the ones he’s spent so long trying to ignore. You make it sound so simple, like breathing, like wanting something—someone—isn’t the hardest goddamn thing in the world.

His voice shakes when it finally comes out, barely more than a rasp. "I want you."

And for a moment, he’s sure he’s ruined it. That he’s ruined you. This person who has already cracked themselves open for him a hundred times in a hundred quiet ways. But then you smile, just barely, just at the corners of your mouth.

"Okay," you say. "Okay."

You step back, your fingers catching briefly at the fabric of his shirt, tugging him into the dark of the house. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you inside this strange, fragile thing you keep building together. His hands find you—your waist, your hair, the damp curve of your neck—and you come easily, rising onto your toes as your mouth meets his.

It’s slow. Careful. He kisses you like he’s afraid to break you, like he’s afraid of breaking himself. Like maybe this moment could last forever if he just holds it still long enough. You taste like sleep and sweat and something familiar he doesn’t have a name for, something that feels like home even though he’s never believed in such a thing.

Tomorrow, the leaves will start to change. The world will keep turning, and the mess between you won’t magically fix itself. It never does. But tonight, it’s enough.

You’re enough.

Even if he never quite finds the words to tell you.

[viasdreams]

🖌️🎨✧˖°❀˖°⋆｡˚꩜🖼️

museum date with johnny (turned criminal) !!

wc: 700

request: girl johnnys post got me thinking …. museum date with him 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

a/n: "via what is this???" SHHHHH dont ask questions

"why is it a triangle" you questioned, gazing at the peculiar museum entrance.

"it's a pyramid, and im not sure actually," johnny said, grabbing your hand as he led you through the crowd.

the louvre was packed. you're not too surprised though, you came on a saturday in the middle of fashion week. of course it's busy.

"do you want to do the guided tour or just wander around," johhny asked, looking at a map he grabbed as you walked in.

"um let's just wander around, those tours are boring anyway."

"but they give you cool a 3DS" johnny pointed toward a passing group who sure enough had Nintendo 3DSs hanging from their necks.

"okay you can grab one and just tell me any interesting information."

once johhny got his tour all set up, the two of you weaved your way through the sea of people, doing your best to look at the art as you passed.

"johhny look at that statue," you pointed at the back side of a marble carving across the room, "why he kinda caked up."

"oh my god he is," johhny gaped at the figure's butt, gabbing his own for comparison.

"wait can you take my picture with it please," he asked, not waiting for a response, shoving his phone into your hand and running over to the statue.

"whatever you want weirdo" you mumbled, taking a few pictures for your boyfriend.

"that guy's ass was almost as big as marks, im lowkey impressed", johnny mused.

"why do you know how big mark's ass is?"

"next time you see him, just look and you'll understand."

"you want me to look at your friend's ass?"

"hey not in a pervy way. his ass is just", johnny paused seemingly lost in the thought of marks butt, "special."

"damn, i gotta see this magical ass."

you continued the tour, stopping occasionally to gawk at the paintings, until you came up on a room filled with people.

"oh i think that's for the mona lisa. there's so many people in line, we won't be able to get a good look for hours." you had been really excited to see the famous painting, so the thought of not getting to really disappointed you.

"okay, crazy idea." johnny leaned close to your ear, his breath tickling you.

"let's steal it."

you gave him a confused look. what did he mean by "steal it"?

"look ill cause a commotion, and you go up and take it. then we'll run." he pulled back from you, an excited expression painting his face.

"why would we do that johnny?"

"to see if we can", he shrugged. "im going to post something real quick, we'll wait like thirty minutes, and then you should be good to take it."

you didn't get a chance to question him further before he was quickly typing on his phone.

"now we wait," he sighed, putting his arm around your shoulder.

sure enough, within half an hour, nctzens were pouring into the louvre. they circled around johnny, causing a major distrubance in the walkway.

johnny motioned with his eyes for you to enter the mona lisa exhibition room as he started signing albums and photocards. you slipped past the group, making your way towards the painting.

the room was relatively empty at this point, with the other patrons and security guards occupied investigating the ruckus outside.

you hesitantly stood in front of the smiling woman. were you actually about to steal the most nortious painting in the world?

"fuck it."

grabbing the frame on both sides, you pulled her off the wall, lowered her to the ground, unlatched the frame, rolled up the painting, and ran.

"JOHNNY I GOT IT!" you yelled as you ran to the exit.

"CEZENNIE WE'RE GONNA MOVE THIS OUTSIDE AND THE FIRST FIVE PEOPLE OUT THE DOOR GET A PIECE OF MY CLOTHING!"

the mob rushed outside, desperate to be one of the lucky few. you managed to get lost in the crowd, avoiding security.

once outside, johnny stripped down to his underwear, throwing them haphazardous to the wolves. in the issuing chaos, both of you were able to safely get the car undetected.

once you were at a safe distance, your boyfriend turned to you, "knew we could get it." he smiled, patting your thigh.

fake text m.list ☁︎⋅

[amyispxnk]

Zig-zags and cats

Welcome to.. a week of Halloweeny drabbles with Joel Miller!

25/10: pumpkin carving

This one might be a little rushed because I literally had the idea the night I had to post it 😭

Joel Miller X gn!reader

Word count: 460

Warnings: none, just fluff. Some pet names (sweetheart, baby). Mention of a knife/cutting a pumpkin??

Do not copy this work or anything like that PLS and ty

----------------------------------------------------------

The door swung open and in came Joel holding 2 gigantic pumpkins, trying his best not to drop either as he called out to you.

"Sweetheart? I got your pumpkins and.. stuff!"

You raced down the stairs excitedly and helped him get the pumpkins onto the kitchen counter, thanking him for getting the exact tools you wanted - of course he drove for almost an hour to find a store which had what you needed - and getting started.

You got started.. and then immediately got stuck. You couldn't even cut the top off the damn pumpkin to clean the inside.

"Joel..?" You murmured tentatively, embarrassed at how difficult you were finding it to cut a pumpkin.

"Mmhm?" He was reclined on the couch, reading glasses on as he read some book about woodwork. You couldn't help but stare for a moment, he looked so damn adorable in those rectangular glasses of his and you couldn't get enough of it.

"D'ya need somethin'?" He said a moment later after you still hadn't replied.

"Right! Yeah- um, the pumpkin won't cut."

He raised his eyebrows at you.

"The pumpkin won't cut, or you can't cut the pumpkin?" Joel walked over after setting his glasses down, seemingly inspecting the pumpkin now.

"Can't cut the pumpkin." You murmured, handing him the knife quickly.

He chuckled softly before cutting the top open for you and handing the knife back.

"That good? Or ya want help with the whole thing?"

You knew you'd need help with the rest and so did he, so you just gave him the knife back again and told him where to cut.

After Joel had helped you with your pumpkin, you told him he had to do his now.

"Well, I helped ya with the whole pumpkin, it was basically a collaborative effort so do I really gotta make another-"

"Yes, Joel. Stop bein' lazy." You teased, pushing the pumpkin towards him and going off to get a tealight for your own.

By the evening, two pumpkins were on your porch. One had a squiggly line for a mouth and some triangle eyes, and the other had a cat design on it that took (Joel) way too long to do (for you).

"I think my one's better." You commented as you looked out the window at them.

Joel stood behind you, wrapping his arms around you and whispering in your ear. "Think you mean my pumpkin, baby."

"Yours is just a zigzag and two triangles with a tealight you didn't even know how to turn on inside it."

"Yeah, and who carved the entire cat into yours?"

"Not my fault the pumpkin wouldn't cut." You retorted.

"Right, the pumpkin wouldn't cut." He scoffed, before kissing your cheek. "Fine, your pumpkin is better."

----------------------------------------------------------

Sorry if it's a little shit but I hope you found it cute! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated 💞

Requests are open 🫶

[pkmntrainersquid]

[off screen post]

Fire on the Mountain, Lightnin' in the Air

[Non-Canon]

"Thanks, Chessie." Squid said, recalling the massive pokémon into its ball before sliding in through the window. Flicking on the light of her charger, he scanned this level of Dragonspiral Tower. The stairs upward are on the opposite side of the floor.

Despite being in better shape than the present-day tower, the thousands of years since its construction are evident in the rubble and wear throughout the site. Several columns have collapsed, littering the floor with chunks of the floor above.

Picking their way across the floor, he stops when one step pushes into the floor. Yellow eyes gleam from all around as the pressure plate activates the ancient guardians of the tower.

"Ope, that's not good." Squid calls Remmi out of her pokéball, the fish suctioning onto her trainer's forearm to keep their hands free. Absently testing the mobility of his ankle, Squid thinks up a strategy as the Golett close in.

Alright, Golett are not good at fighting ranged, so as long as I can keep out of reach... The upper floors should be safe, they aren't dexterous enough to get around the crumbling floor.

Deep breath in, and run. Dashing up a toppled column, they aim Remmi at the nearest guard pokémon to douse them with a Water Pulse. Alright, just keep 'er moving.

A small cluster of Golett block the bottom of the stairs. "Remmi! Aqua Jet, clear a path!" The water type detaches herself from Squid's arm, shooting off into the obstructive pokémon.

Squid retrieves her partner, climbing the stairs as fast as he could. The horde of Golett followed, their shorter legs slowing them down. Reaching the top, they take a leap across a gap to another platform. Leaning against the support pillar, she looks at the Golett staring at her from the top of the stairs. "Sorry boys, but I gotta go." He carefully makes his way across the third floor, wary of the edges of the platforms.

Other than the Golett, the only other pokémon they saw as he climbed were a few swoobat that kept to the dark ceilings of the middle floors. Soon she was climbing the last staircase to the seventh floor, an intense energy pushing back on every step.

The room Squid entered was beautiful. Ornate carvings across every wall and column, faded tapestries almost untouched by the hand of time. Two pedestals stand in the center of the room, round stones atop them seem to be the source of the powerful aura.

You have traveled far, wanderer. Farther through Time and Space than you should have.

It echoed through Squid's mind. The voice came from the stone on the left - the Light Stone, if her memory of Unovan history was accurate. It was stern, calculated. It reminds Squid of her flight instructor, all business so long as the engine's running.

We called you here as a test of character. To determine what shall be done. What it is that you seek.

The second voice, that of the Dark Stone, was rougher than its counterpart, with a passion, a pride underneath. It calls to mind how her grandpa's friends would tell their tales of braving the Lakes' heavy storms in ships laden with iron.

"I... I want to go home. Back to my own world." Squid had to put everything she has into not letting the fear slip into his voice. Not that it was effective.

Yet you know the Truth is that that is beyond your power.

Doubts and fear fill your mind. If you had the choice to fulfill your Dream, would you?

Squid paused, the words of the legends cutting deep. He had never been one to look to the future, and so hadn't given much thought to what leaving would look like.

"I really do want to go home, but I'm worried about my new friends. My world doesn't have the wild space for a pokémon as large as Chessie, and I can't separate Orpheus from his family."

These fears must be pushed aside if you truly wish to seize your Ideal path. Else you shall freeze at the moment of realization and it will slip from your fingers.

Maybe it's to be expected that the embodiments of Truth and Ideals also carry the negatives of each. Still, the callousness to suggest abandoning his partners enrages Squid.

"I'm not gonna just turn my back on them! Do you know how painful it is, knowing that in 40 years there won't be any Migratory Pidove anymore? That the swamp out there'll be drained damn near all the way down?" Squid pulls out her phone, taking a step towards the dormant dragons. "Seein' my friends go through all sorts of shit and being unable to help?"

The air becomes charged with ozone, pulses of energy emitting from the Dark Stone. Managing to stay upright, Squid unclips his shovel and takes a defensive stance. Suddenly the energy dissipates, silence returning to the vault.

I like this one. They carry their own Ideals and have the willpower to challenge any who oppose them.

They cloak themself in too many half-Truths for my taste. But I'll defer to you on this one.

Squid held his stance as the adrenaline fades, confused as to why the Dragons were sparing them. Her backpack opened slightly, a trinket floating out to hang in the air in front of him. A harmonica, bought from a little shop in Castelia as a gift for when she gets home. It becomes enveloped in lightning, etching designs reminiscent of the Black Dragon of Legend.

Although I cannot take you as my Hero, I can gift you with this. Your partners will be able to hear and understand the meanings behind its music. Use it to seek an Ideal relationship with pokémon.

Taking the instrument, Squid thanks the Dragons and starts making their way down the tower. The Golett don't attack, having been called off by their charges. Chessie brings her back to the spot they'd camped the night before, giving a concerned screech and nuzzling as lightly as he could against his trainer.

[cryptidinspace]

Dangerous Waters, Ch 2

Warning for actual vore in this chapter! As well as mentions of death and digestion, though none of either actually happen

Also, I might have called them high school students in the previous chapter? That’s my bad, these are actually meant to be university aged kids

———

United Oceans University. It looked like something out of a movie, vast and carved out of stone. Bright coral decorated every nook and cranny. Colored Seaweed was twisted into ropes and banners that swayed in the current.

The hallways were lit with glow fish swimming in lazy circles. Massive stained glass windows depicted various scenes, probably historical, with glistening eyes that seemed to follow the students.

“Looks more like a cathedral than a school. Like Saint Ruby’s back home.” Lacey was swimming just ahead of Irridesse, running her fingertips along the textured glass. “I bet the rooms are massive! And the food is gonna be amazing-“

They really were excited about this, huh? Irridesse followed just behind, fins bristled, watching the crowded corridor they swam through. On the way over, her plan had been solidified; she would find the biggest sea monster in this school, and put the fear of herself in them. They’d likely laugh her off at first, or even try taking a bite out of her…but she’d soon show them how unafraid she was.

“Found it!” At Lacey’s beckoning tail, she swam over. It was the door to her room, with two other names beside hers posted on the door. “It’s too bad we don’t get to share, huh?” Lacey gave her a playful pout, before looking at their own schedule. “Gotta go find my own r-“

“Yeah sure, but-“ Irridesse grabbed their shoulder, cutting them off. “Remember what I said. Tell me if you end up rooming with any sea monsters.”

Lacey’s eyebrows knitted together. “They wouldn’t do that, right? Put Mers and sea monsters together? Even a siren would be better…um, not that I’m afraid of sea monsters-“ They glanced nervously at Irridesse’s annoyed expression. “Uh, you know what, it’s fine.” They gave her a sunny smile, before darting away. “I’ll let you know!”

Once they were gone, Irridesse straightened their back and gave the names another once over. Magna Esprit and…Atlantic Mura.

Her face twisted into a scowl. Lovely. The most obnoxious little manchild she had ever met. Hopefully, he’d manage to stay out of the way. If she could just ignore him, her plan could go off without a hitch.

So she shoved the door open, creating a cloud of bubbles as she darted into the room. Three different beds, one considerably larger than the other, with kelp rugs placed on the floor, and stony desks. And not a person in sight.

Irridesse took her pack, dumping it on the bed, scanning the room. Why was one bed bigger? Were they a sea monster? The other normal sized bed was a bit of a mess, with the blankets thrown everywhere, and a very expensive suitcase half open on the floor.

That must be Atlantic’s. She swam over slowly, eyeing the flowing shirts and shimmering jewelry. But a heartbeat later, a hand wrapped around her tail, yanking her violently to the floor.

“SONOVA-“ A hand slapped over her mouth, as she was tugged beneath the bed. Turning her head, she saw Atlantic’s eyes staring at her through the dark. He looked positively terrified, and she could feel his trembling through the water. “Atlantic, what the hell are you doing?” She hissed.

“There’s a…s-sea monster.” He whimpered in gasping breaths. “In our r-room. She tried-d to eat me!” His voice reached a panicked whimper, just as a door slammed open.

Irridesse peered from beneath the bed, feeling an unwanted sense of unease crawl up her spine. No fear. This is what she had waited for. Her nails dug into the packed sand floors. It’s time to take your chance. Show this beast that you are not to be trifled with! She glanced at her quivering companion. And Atlantic can watch, I guess.

Bright blue tentacles dragged across the ground, just inches away. She could hear a growling, rumbling noise nearby, and for some reason, her body wanted to flatten to the ground and stay in the shadows…But I’m not scared.

Ignoring Atlantic’s panicked scrambling, Irridesse flung herself into the open. She slammed straight into a taller woman, and felt squishy tendrils push her back a bit. Looking up, she looked into a masked face. She was odd looking, right off the bat…the mask covered her mouth, but her eyes were a piercing dark blue, and her skin a soft purple color. And looking down, she saw tentacles, the length of her entire body, bright and supple.

“Hey there!” The woman boomed, arms folded over her wide stomach. There was something slightly off about her voice, something Irridesse couldn’t place. Something other than the sheer depth and volume. “You must be Irridesse, hm?” Her eyes strayed to the bed that she had darted from under. “Is blondy hiding under there?” She could imagine a wicked grin on the sea monster’s face, as one tentacle snuck toward the shadows.

She’s actually going to eat him. Irridesse clenched her fists, fighting back to instinctual urge to run. “Hey!” She barked. “Sea Monster! Get your tentacles away from him.”

The limb retracted, and the woman looked back at her with curious eyes. “Hey now, no need to be so uptight…how abouts we get a little better acquainted?” Her arms unfurled, and Irridesse looked down at her stomach in shock. Her mouth was on her belly. It was massive, wider than Irridesse’s shoulders were, fully of pointed teeth, with a bright blue tongue that lolled out hungrily. She heard a low growling noise coming from the maw, and her tail lashed, pushing her backward. “Don’t act like that…geez, you little fishies are so unfriendly.”

“And you sea monsters are all the same!” Irridesse scowled, her tail fins puffing out into a storm of blue. She had never met another sea monster, of course, this ravenous stranger was the first. But she matched the descriptions that she had been given her whole life…hungry and insane. “Might as well give up now, I’m not going to be lunch. And I won’t let you devour Atlantic either!”

“Loosen up!” Her voice was both commanding and playful…did she see them as nothing but toys? Rage boiled in Irridesse’s chest, overcoming the fear churning in her stomach. She burst forward, crashing into the woman’s chest at full force.

She grunted and spun backward, tentacles flailing in the air. “Well now you’re just being eager!” She was teasing Irridesse now, and her blue eyes narrowed to slits. She scrambled for purchase on the woman’s smooth and slick skin, trying vaguely to do some kind of damage, then gasped as a tentacle wrapped around her waist.

“Just chill…” The woman purred. She looked amused. “Just gonna have a taste, don’t be such a stiff.” Irridesse thrashed furiously, letting out a hiss of anger at the sight of her belly-mouth opening. That bright blue tongue came out, pressing against her hips. It was a bit like a soggy, twitching cushion, tasting her slowly. Saliva clung to her, making her skin slick. It slid upward, to her stomach, onto her chest, until it enveloped her face. Irridesse let out a screech and bucked her tail up and down. Where the fuck was Atlantic?? Maybe he couldn’t exactly save her, but he could try to do something.

Coward.

The tongue pulled away from her face, and Irridesse gasped in air. “Unhand me…” She croaked, aiming a faltering punch at the woman’s ribs. “Now!”

“Later.” Later? There was no later, she was about to be digested and turned into fat on the woman’s belly! But just as she had been told about sea monsters, there was nothing that could be done. She was so much weaker than she had thought, and now, she couldn’t stop the tentacle pushing her toward the brightly-colored maw…instead, her eyes dropped to her final resting place. It was a massive mouth, bright cyan in color, each wall padded with squishy slippering flesh. Another loud grumble rang through the air, as the walls of the woman’s stomach pulsed with anticipation.

The tongue lifted and slid under Irridesse’s body, guiding her downward as her head passed the massive fangs…was the sea monster going to chew her up first? Or just let her sit here, slowly digesting until her mind was burned away?

At that thought, she let another strangled roar and attempted to pull away, even as the tentacles gathered to squish her further into the stomach lining. It squeezed around her, conforming to the shape of her head. And before she could fight any longer, the jaws shut behind her with a snap of finality.

Irridesse froze, breathing in short, ragged gasps. Her body was folded in on itself, tightly enclosed in this squishy, wet chamber. Strange fluids coated her arms and tail, and she shuddered. She could still see…the inside of this mouth-stomach was glowing softly, shedding blue-green light, over everything.

Another growl rang out, and the tongue lifted her body, pressing her against the roof of the woman’s mouth. Irridesse continued to thrash, her fists and tail thumping painfully against the stomach lining. The monster didn’t seem to be bothered, and she heard a chuckle from above, loud and unnaturally encompassing. She was tasting Irridesse, wasn’t she? Her tongue flipped the young woman around, sliding down her spine, coating her in more saliva. The water in here was growing thick with her juices, and beginning to taste faintly like lime.

A loud gurgling began all around her, as the walls began to knead her body roughly. Fuck…this is it. I failed, before I could even really try. This probably wasn’t even the biggest sea monster here.

Feeling the stony chill of defeat, Irridesse slowly went limp, settling into the soft tongue beneath her. It twitched reactively, twisting up to coat her face in another film of drool. Now that she was quiet, she could hear a lot more…the sound of the sea monster's heartbeat, for one. A steady, thundering pulse somewhere above her. And the soft whooshing of her gills filtering water. And she noted, this stomach really couldn’t fit another person. If nothing else, this meant Atlantic would be spared a bit longer…

A moment later, the world suddenly tilted. She must be moving again, swimming, as her belly swayed from side to side, rocking Irridesse gently. Another turn, and she felt as though she was now resting on top of something. The woman must be on her back now, with the weight of her full stomach pressing down on her.

“So.” Irridesse’s eyes widened at the sound of the sea monster’s voice. It was loud and clear, and all around her. She heard a strange noise from above, and suddenly the stomach constricted firmly around her. Her face was pushed further into the soft stomach lining, and she grunted faintly. “Now that we’re chilled out, you’re Irridesse, right? My new roommate? Not gonna lie, I haven't seen a Mer before today. Glad you’re so bite sized!” A loud chuckle made her belly tremble and shake. “And you fill me up so nicely…lucky, huh?”

Lucky?! For you, I guess. She squirmed around, covering her face with her tail fins. Not that the sea monster could see her anyway, but still. There was another squeeze and another gurgle, and the stomach walls pressed into her skin once again. She let out an angry groan. “Quit toying with me, okay!” She felt a growing pressure behind her eyes, and squeezed them shut. She would not cry about this. “If you’re gonna eat me, at least let me die in peace. So shut up!”

There was a long pause, as the woman shifted her weight. “Die…?” She sounded genuinely confused, then chuckled again, her insides bouncing Irridesse. “Fishie, you aren’t gonna die. Drama queen.” The walls squeezed around her again, and Irridesse realized that she was being prodded from outside by tentacles.

“But you…you’re going to digest me. Do you not know how your own organs work??” Her tone was scornful, mingled with confusion.

“Course I do.” The woman snorted slightly. “We’re sea monsters. We decide if we digest what we swallow.” There was a moment of silence. “Don’t Mers do that too?”

“Um…no.” Her fast breathing had begun to slow, and she very cautiously relaxed. “We don’t.”

“Weird…”

“What’s weird, is trapping a stranger in your stomach!” Her fins flared up, along with her temper. Now that she wasn’t in immediate danger, Irridesse’s indignation had returned tenfold. “Let me out of here, right now!”

“Not where I’m from.” The woman answered mildly. “That’s just watcha do, when you’re gonna be spending a whole year with someone. About as friendly a greeting as you can get.”

“Don’t care, let me out now.”

The woman let out a long sigh, carrying Irridesse up and down with the motion of her body. “Oh alright.” The cursed jaws finally eased open, and Irridesse shot out from between them.

She was covered in saliva, clinging to her skin and refusing to float away. Her face felt hot with anger, as she stared down the woman who had just eaten her up. “Never do that again.”

“Most Sea Monsters your size love it.” She said, twisting a loc of blue and purple hair around her finger. Her stomach mouth appeared to be smirking, as if it found this whole situation amusing. “But okay…unless I get hungry~” Irridesse shot her a glare, and she rolled her eyes. “You have my word.”

She got up from her bed, tentacles fanning out in a spiral, and held her much larger hand out. “I’ll introduce myself the boring way then. Magna Esprit, I major in communications.”

“Well, you’re bad at it,” Irridesse replied flatly. Though she took Magna’s hand, shaking it as briefly as possible. “Irridesse Azraq. Political science.”

“You and I are gonna be good friends.” Magna glanced back at the bed. “Now to get your friend out of hiding.”

“He’s really not my friend…” She protested, though followed Magna to the bed. Already, she could hear the boy’s panicked wheezing. An interesting start. A lot to think about. And even more potential

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring deep in the soul (a katsuki bakugo/reader fic)

Summary: Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. He'd worked hard to achieve his position, his fame. And now it was all going down the damn drain, along with his hearing.

~*~*

Bakugo is suffering from hearing loss as a side effect of his quirk, and he struggles with how to face this new challenge. Enter Reader with a healing quirk.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo/Reader; Katsuki Bakugo/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood & violence. 

A/N: No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.” 

Ao3 Link: Here 

*****A/N Part 2: This post has now been updated to include the links to Ch 2

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here 

Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. Actually, he’d argue he was tied for first place with the current Symbol of Peace, Shitty Deku. Their victory statistics were basically the fucking same, the only difference was the freckled idiot was made of smiles and sunshine and stupid fucking sugar or something. The whole world ate out of his scarred, fucked up hand, and Darling Deku ate up all the media’s attention in return. 

In contrast, Bakugo wasn’t a “people person,” as Deku loved to put it, but… he also wasn’t the same fifteen-year-old brat who got muzzled on live national television. Pro Hero Dynamight was known for his crass, blunt language, his vicious streak of justice when it came to villains, but people also looked up to him. Extras cheered for him in the streets as he exploded past mid-battle. Children ran up to him on patrol and asked him to sign their books, their photos, their Dynamight merch. On one memorable occasion, that he may or may not have saved on his computer, a national news channel ran a live clip from a disaster site, a villain attack turned rescue mission after a building collapsed. The soundbite was only thirty seconds, a close up of a pale, dusty woman with a shallow cut on her brow. The splash of crimson and her bloodshot blue eyes were the only spots of color on her, everything else washed out in white plaster and cement dust, tear tracks carving grooves down her cheeks. 

But the smile on her face could have lit up goddamn Tokyo. 

“Dynamight saved us,” the woman had said to the news reporter, her voice full of awe and tears. “I-I got stuck under some debris, but I heard the moment Dynamight arrived, and I just knew we were safe. The battle was over a minute later, and then he just… pulled me out of the wreckage. He pulled us all out. He’s… the greatest hero I’ve ever seen.” 

That was a nice stroke to his ego. And the dazed woman had been right. He had pulled everyone out of that building, and not a single person died that day, which only confirmed what he already knew: 

Katsuki Bakugo was the best of the best. Deku might have been the better show pony, but Dynamight was an undefeated hero, fierce, fearless, ferocious. 

Except right now… he was fucking scared out of his mind. 

This couldn’t be happening. 

“What?” he snarled at the extra in the white coat standing before him. 

The man flinched and visibly recoiled, shuffling back a step and partially ducking behind his tablet device. When he spoke again, he’d raised his voice an entire fucking octave. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the doctor stammered, but then he seemed to regain his composure and lowered his voice a little. “I… I wish I had better news for you, Dynamight, but…” 

He trailed off and swallowed, the jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thin skin of his throat. 

“But what?” Bakugo spat, something like magma roiling in his veins, pops of heat crackling against his palms like splatters of hot oil from a stove. 

“B-But this… can’t come as a complete shock to you,” the doctor said as he glanced back at his tablet. “Other physicians before myself must have warned you of the risks.” 

The risks. Bakugo bared his teeth in a silent snarl. What did this fucking extra, with his soft hands and softer body, know about risks? The heat in his palms grew until he could see their red-hot glow out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well, who and how much do I gotta pay to fix it?” Bakugo demanded as he shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“That depends,” the doctor hedged and adjusted the square black glasses perched on his stupid face. “There are a variety of aid types—” 

“I don’t want fuckin’ support gear or aids,” Bakugo sneered. “I want mine fixed.” 

Now, the doctor’s face grew pitying. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, given a number of factors, most importantly your current occupation.” 

“My current occupation?” the hero seethed, teeth bared again like a wounded dog, a cornered wolf, snapping at the world. “Are you fucking KIDDING—” 

A hint of fear sparked in the doctor’s eyes, but he suddenly raised a hand, palm out in the universal symbol for stop. “Dynamight, sir, I know this is distressing, but there are other sick patients in these walls, so please refrain from using your quirk.” 

“I’m not usin’ shit,” Bakugo snapped, but then the doctor’s eyes flicked downward, and Bakugo followed them to his hands, wreathed in sparks and flares of flames, lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

The breath stuttered in Bakugo’s lungs. 

He hadn’t even felt himself call upon his quirk. 

Even worse… he hadn’t heard it when he did. 

He dropped his hands quickly, shoving them back in his pockets. Bile rose in his throat, but he washed it down with blood as he bit through his tongue. 

“There has to be… something,” he gritted out, curling his hands into fists in their confines. “A healer—” 

“Healers are rarer than you think,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “And what’s more, they’re usually specific and limited. Their abilities are tied to blood types or restricted to relatives or even limbs. One nurse here can only heal femur bones.” 

“Bullshit they’re rare, I’ve met at least two goddamn healers just this month,” Bakugo spat. “These paramedics—” 

“And how strong where they?” the doctor cut him off again, raising an eyebrow. “You said paramedics, so I’m going to assume their talents mostly lie in the superficial and basic: triage, stopping the bleeding, knitting skin back together, etc.” 

“What’s your fucking point?” He was this close to punching the asshole right in the glasses. 

“My point is the inner workings of your ear are much more delicate than a broken rib or lacerated arm,” the doctor said in a really condescending tone that Bakugo did not appreciate. “But let’s say you do find a healer specific enough and skilled enough to restore the hearing you have already lost without damaging anything else in the process. What then? I don’t imagine Japan’s Number Two Hero retiring less than ten years after his debut and hanging up his quirk.” 

Bakugo scowled, heart kick-starting in his chest, his gut tying itself in a knot. 

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Katsuki Bakugo was a hero, the best of the best. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he would be damned if it was taken from him. 

The doctor must have seen as much on the blond’s face because he sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Exactly. Which means you’re just going to keep destroying your ears again and again, and even if say Recovery Girl was still alive, the repetitive healing sessions would destroy your own body’s healing factor, and after a while, you would still lose you’re hearing.” 

“Tch.” Bakugo looked away and gritted his teeth so hard they ached. 

The doctor sighed. “You’re already at moderate hearing loss, Dynamight, so while we do still have some options, they are limited. Honestly… I’m surprised you didn’t come in sooner.” 

He should have. He fucking should have. He’d been noticing little things for years, but he just brushed it off, yelled at Deku to speak the fuck up and stop mumbling, told himself his phone must be a piece of shit and that’s why he didn’t hear a call or message. The low persistent ringing he’d been experiencing since UA was harder to write off, but after a while, it was also easier to ignore. 

Then, on his last mission, Bakugo was shoving some weak ass villain at a couple of cops. The battle had lasted less than five minutes, and he was still itching for a fight, his quirk burning just beneath the surface of his skin, like embers waiting to explode back into flame. In the next moment, a hand had suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind, and he’d reacted out of reflex, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and nearly blasting them in the gut for good measure. 

“Whoa! Fuck, dude, it’s me!” Kirishima had yelped, his skin rippling and hardening in an instant. Wide, red eyes gaped up at him, and Japan’s Number Three Hero even looked a little worried. “Didn’t you hear me? I called your name like five times.” 

Bakugo had dropped Red Riot like he was on fire. No. No, Dynamight hadn’t heard his patrol partner. In fact, all he could hear in the moment was the muted wailing of sirens, the low murmur of shouting extras, and the blood roaring in his head. 

Now, two days later he was standing in front of a doctor who was telling him there was nothing more they could do. 

But that was fucking unacceptable. He couldn’t lose his hearing. What kind of shitty hero would he be if he couldn’t hear where the villains were in battle or where stupid extras in need of saving were in rescue situations? 

He wouldn’t be a hero at all, just a fucking liability. 

Bakugo tried to imagine having to retire, to hang up his hero costume, to leave Shitty Hair in charge of their joint agency. What would he do? He’d wanted, and planned, to be a hero since he was five years old. He had no other skills, not really. It wasn’t like he could work a damn desk job. Well, UA might throw him a bone, offer him a pity faculty position. 

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“What… are my options?” he asked haltingly as he snapped his eyes up and locked gazes with the doctor. “You said I still had some.” 

The man in the white coat blinked in surprise, but then he straightened up and tapped at his tablet. “Currently, you have a few options, but you’d receive the best outcome if we did them all together. First, we can get you fitted for some hearing aids for you to wear while you are off duty. They would significantly increase your hearing capacity in your normal day-to-day life.” 

Bakugo felt his face pull into a scowl. “Off duty? I need them while I’m on duty!” 

“If you wear them while using your quirk, you’ll ruin the rest of your hearing in one blow,” the doctor said with a straight face. “Hearing aids amplify sounds. Amplifying your explosions is the last thing we want.” 

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” the hero snapped, heat flaring through his body with a supernova. 

“Since I assume you’re going to continue your hero work, I would recommend contacting a support gear company.” The doctor made a note on his tablet. “We’ll email you the contact information for several companies the hospital has connections with, and once you chose one, we can send them your file. There are numerous noise-cancelling devices out there, but given your situation, you will probably need to collaborate with them for something custom. The goal is to having something to protect your ears-- a helmet, headphones, anything really—while you are using your quirk. Between such a device and the hearing aids, I hope we can preserve what’s left of your hearing and maybe give you a little bit back. But I will warn you… you’re hearing will never be as it was. You should know that now.” 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

The words cycloned through Bakugo’s head, round and round and round, destroying every other thought in their path. He felt detached from himself, the doctor’s voice fizzling out into a muffled drone. His vision seemed to narrow and darken, like he was viewing the world at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. One minute, he was standing there in that examine room, and then he blinked and was on the street, people rushing past him like a river unbothered by the boulder in its current. 

He glanced down at his hand, at the paperwork for his follow up appointment and his fitting for the hearing aids. Heat squirmed under his skin, in his veins, like something living, something that wanted to get out. 

Bakugo bared his teeth, crumpled the paper in his fist, and let the heat rush through his body, down through his arm, and into his hand. He didn’t hear the crackle, but he saw the flares of light, trapped between his palm and the paperwork like fireflies. 

Then he opened his hand, and he watched the wind catch the ash and carry if off down the street, out of sight. 

He needed a fucking drink. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Several hours later, Bakugo stumbled out of his usual dive bar, the taste of whisky still burning a hole through the back of his throat. The night was colder than he anticipated, colder than it should be for the beginning of autumn, and he grumbled and cursed as he hunched against the wind. He squinted at his phone, debating on whether to call a car, but in the end it was too much trouble. He was less than a half an hour’s walk from his apartment, and it was late, so he wouldn’t have to worry about extras coming up to him for photos or goddamn autographs. 

Besides, the whisky hadn’t helped to quench the heat writhing through his veins, in fact the alcohol only made it worse. Bakugo felt restless, all pins and needles and ants, so maybe the brisk walk would burn off some of that energy. 

Decided, Bakugo turned in the direction of home and began the long, stumbling journey through the midnight streets. 

Time passed as sluggishly as his feet, which he made sure to stare down at so he didn’t trip over them. Like he anticipated, he passed no one on the sidewalks, and few cars rumbled past him. It wasn’t surprising, this neighborhood was mostly shops that closed by sundown and a few residences. The dive bar he’d left was a holdover from past decades when this side of town was rougher, but Bakugo suspected the old man who owned the joint would live on for at least another decade, if only to spite the development companies that kept trying to buy him out. The ornery bastard was half the reason Bakugo loved that bar, the other half being their decent whisky and usually empty stools. 

“Shit,” he mumbled as he suddenly slipped, tittering on the edge of the curb. 

He shook his head and managed to regain his balance, but when he took another step, he wobbled again. 

“Come on, you drunk idiot,” he hissed at himself as he stumbled once more. 

Except… he’d been standing still that time. 

“Hah?” Bakugo squinted down at his feet. 

The pebbles around his shoes rattled and jumped. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but he slapped his cheek with a bit of heat to his palm. The snap of warmth and pain woke him up a little, but when he glanced back down at the ground, everything was still moving. 

“What the fu—” 

Then the road undulated under his feet like a living thing, and the shockwave hit him a moment later. 

Bakugo barked a curse as he was bucked several feet into the air, twin explosions blooming from his palms so he could right himself and land on his feet. He snapped his head up as he skidded to a stop, and the breath stilled in his lungs. 

Up ahead, a man stood in the middle of the intersection, staring down the road to Bakugo’s left. Black rubble and goo floated around him like asteroids trapped in a planet’s orbit, and even from a distance, Bakugo could see the crazed smile on the man’s pale, black-streaked face. 

A moment later, several heroes lunged out from around the corner and barreled straight for the villain, only to be blasted backwards as the villain flung out his hands and commanded the black debris and goo to slam into the idiots. 

The villain threw back his head and seemed to laugh maniacally. Bakugo couldn’t hear it, but that didn’t matter. Lava was starting to boil in his veins, burning off the last of the whisky, and Dynamight felt an equally crazed smile stretch across his mouth. 

This idiot had chosen the wrong road to fuck up tonight. 

Heat condensed in his palms like collapsing stars, and then he was exploding forward, the taste of ozone and nitroglycerin on his tongue. 

Within moments, Bakugo was able to determine the villain’s quirk revolved around asphalt. The bastard was able to pull large chunks of it out of the road and then liquify parts of them until they were scalding and sticky. 

The other heroes—whoever they were, Bakugo didn’t even care to check—struggled to evade the villain’s attacks, but evasion wasn’t Dynamight’s style. He came at the bastard head on, exploding every rock and tar puddle in his way. 

Of course, asphalt was flammable, so flames were flaring up all around the street now, but Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to get burned. If the other heroes were, that was on them. 

Dynamight was here to get the job done. 

“Come here, ya sonvabitch,” Bakugo snarled as he blasted apart a chunk of asphalt aimed for his head. 

The villain shrieked out something high-pitched that Bakugo didn’t catch, and then the fucker was swinging out his arm, a blob of black tar following the arc. 

Bakugo let out a controlled burst toward his feet and backflipped through the air, crunching down on the roof of a parked car. He could see some of the other heroes waving at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the wailing of the car alarm below him. 

The villain’s sneer was a white slash on his black, goo-streaked face, and Bakugo bared his teeth back in an expression halfway between a feral grin and a beast’s snarl. He could feel the heat crackling along his palms as he contemplated his next move, but then the villain shouted something, and all the asphalt floating in the air rocketed back towards him like the fucker was a magnet. 

As Bakugo watched, the debris and goo coalesced into a singular shape, liquifying and hardening in turns until a giant black arm the size of a semi was hovering over the road. The fingers wiggled in a jaunty little wave as the villain shouted something again that was lost to the car’s still wailing alarm, and then the giant hand curled into a fist and dropped down on Bakugo like the hammer of some god. 

He exploded out of the way and up into the air right before the fist smashed into the car he’d been standing on, and the siren cut out with a muffled crunch. 

Bakugo had barely landed before the arm was shooting out again, but this time it wasn’t aimed for him. 

A stupid fucking extra had stumbled out of one of the buildings and stood gaping like a goddamn moron on the sidewalk. Several of the on-scene heroes rushed forward, but the hand swatted them aside like annoying flies. The idiot civilian was still just standing there, though, and Bakugo found himself airborne before he could even process the thought. 

“Run!” he roared as he reached the extra and shoved him out of the way, but an instant later, he felt stony fingers wrap around his torso and squeeze. 

Bakugo wheezed out a curse as the giant hand lifted him into the sky, the pressure around his ribs increasing with every second. The asphalt was hot in some places, too, scalding the skin of his left arm where it was pinned against his hip. He wrenched his right arm around and tried to aim at the wrist of the asphalt appendage, but the angle was off, and the few chunks he was able to blast were quickly replaced by more rubble and boiling tar. 

“Fuck!” Bakugo screamed as the fist clenched down around him. His ribs strained, his lungs unable to expand, pain licking at him like the flames flickering in his peripherals. 

Distantly, he heard the villain’s laughter below him, and as the arm swayed to the side, Bakugo realized he was right above the bastard. His vision swam, his ribs screaming, his arm burning, but Bakugo gritted his teeth as he aimed his right palm down. He concentrated every ounce of his quirk into his hand until it glowed white-hot, and the asphalt around him began to liquefy again. 

The villain’s eyes widened as he realized what the hero was doing, and the fucker wildly swung out his arm in a last-ditch effort. The giant asphalt limb responded in kind, but Bakugo unleashed his quirk right before the arm flung him through the air. 

A massive explosion rocked the street an instant later, and the subsequent shockwave slammed into his back and propelled him through a window. 

He felt the impact and pain as he struck the glass, and then… 

Nothing. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ouch, fuck!” you cursed as your pricked yourself for the millionth time. 

A red drop of blood beaded up on the pad of your index finger, and you scowled before you sucked the smarting appendage into your mouth. It was more of a reflex than anything, since by the time you pulled your finger out, the pinprick of a wound was already healed. Healing such a small injury would usually barely even register to you, but the clock above your desk was inching closer and closer to midnight, and you’d been up since 6am. You also skipped dinner so you could finish altering the dress you were currently working on, which didn’t help your energy levels, but you were just a few stitches away from completing your task, so you hunched back over and powered through the next five minutes. 

When you were finally done, you sat back in your chair with a sigh and threw down your needle and thread. The sewing table before you swam and doubled as your vision struggled to focus on something, and you rubbed at your tired, burning eyes. You always tried to work reasonable hours, have a healthy work-life balance, but somehow you always found yourself slaving away into the dark hours of the night. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault. You’d lived here less than a year, so you didn’t know many people beyond your few neighbors and the old ladies who frequented your alterations shop. 

You were also trying very hard to keep your grandparents’ business afloat. 

Your grandfather had been a tailor, your grandmother a seamstress. They’d opened a shop together over fifty years ago, and if your parents hadn’t moved to America before you were born, you were sure you father would have taken over the family business. In the end, though, after your grandparents passed, you were the one to take up the needle and pull up your roots. You’d always loved making your own clothes, and you’d always felt… disconnected in America. Nothing had ever felt… right, no matter how many jobs you hopped around to. The US had been the only home you’d ever known, but when you and your parents spoke Japanese together, it had made something ache deep in the center of you, something you couldn’t name or place. 

So, when your father said he was taking a trip to the homeland to sell his parents’ shop, you’d gone with him and somehow convinced him to sign everything over to you. Which was more than just a little insane. Your prior work history had been in food service and clothing retail, and your degree was in linguistics for fuck’s sake. You had no idea how to run a business, let alone in another country. Thankfully, you spoke Japanese fluently, so that had been one less hurtle to overcome, but everything else had been a dramatic learning curve. Getting to know the new city, figuring out the currency, hell even navigating the vastly different social norms of Japanese culture was daunting, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t have numerous fumbles along the way. 

It, everything, had definitely taken some getting used to. 

Now, a year later, things were just starting to really look up. You had used most of the money your grandparents left you to renovate the shop, get new equipment, and fix the upstairs apartment you lived in. About two dozen loyal customers helped to pay your bills and keep you afloat, and one-to-two new customers walked into your shop each month just on word of mouth. You weren’t rich by any means, but you weren’t struggling like you did in America. You felt… happy here, if a little tired. Fulfilled. 

That might also have had something to do with your little… side business. 

You bit your lip as your eyes shot to your window guiltily, like someone was watching you. You weren’t doing anything wrong—right now, anyways—but for the last six months, it’s been hard to shake off your paranoia. 

And your guilt. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t hurting anyone. In fact, you were doing the exact opposite. 

But it was still against the law. Here in Japan, at least. 

That was another thing that took some getting used to. The Japanese government had strict laws on quirk usage, unlike in America where everything was about individualistic rights. In Japan, only heroes were given almost free reign, but even they had some restrictions on when and how they could use their powers. 

For the rest of the Japanese populace, using quirks in day-to-day life, without official permission, was frowned upon at best and illegal at worst. 

Because of your specific quirk, you leaned more toward the illegal side of things. 

Healing quirks were rare. That’s what you’d been told all your life. Your mother’s quirk was the ability to lower fevers by somehow using her own body to regulate the temperature. Nothing super special or powerful, but she’d gone on to become a pediatric nurse, so she had used her quirk to its fullest and made a long, happy career for herself. 

When you were young and your quirk manifested, you thought you would follow in your mother’s footsteps. 

But as a teenager, you’d come to some hard realizations about yourself. 

One, you weren’t strong enough to be a hero. You’d tried to get into a hero course in the States, several in fact. One course rejected you solely on your application, and then you failed two entrance exams. It had been a devastating blow to your youthful dreams and self-esteem, but your mother encouraged you, said being a hero wasn’t the only way to use your quirk for good. 

So, you turned your focus to medicine… and quickly discovered that wasn’t right for you, either. Your mother hated when you said this but… you just weren’t smart enough. You had tried, really did, but everything was such a struggle, like Sisyphus slogging uphill through the mud. It just didn’t click for you like it did for your mom. You also hated to admit it, but you were a little squeamish. You were fine with small stuff, cuts and bruises, broken fingers, but once you had to dissect a large pig in an anatomy class, and the smell and weight of the pig’s slippery organs in your hands made your lunch rise up into the back of your throat. You somehow managed to make it through the class, but directly after you ran to the bathroom and emptied your own guts into the toilet. 

With your dreams of being a hero and doctor dashed, you’d been a little aimless in college, taking random courses to fill your time and see if anything spoke to you. Then, during an 8am linguistics lecture you signed up for on a whim, something ignited inside you. Languages spoke to you like science and medicine never did. So, you’d changed your major to linguistics, minored in Japanese to feel closer to your parents, and took ever other language credit you could get your hands on. In between classes, you’d taken up sewing again while you listened to your audio assignments. It was just something to keep your hands busy at first, a skill your father taught you as a child until you abandoned it, but then your roommates complimented your work and started asking you to hem their jeans or take in their skirts. They offered to pay you, but you always declined, saying it was no trouble, you liked the work, and you liked being able to help. 

At some point, you realized that was all you had ever wanted to do. Help people. And if you couldn’t save them as a hero, you would find some other way to make yourself useful. 

So, you studied languages in the hopes of being able to help others communicate. You altered your friends’ clothes and made them small things like a monogrammed scarf or mittens. And, occasionally, you healed your roommates’ hangovers or food poisoning, stopped the bleeding when they cut their fingers making dinner, pushing through their pain to make them whole again. It wasn’t a lot, nothing really, but it was something, and it made you feel purposeful. 

When you moved to Japan, you mourned the loss of being able to use your quirk on others, but you shoved the thought aside and focused on your work and the shop and figuring out how to settle down in your first home on your own. 

Then, six months after you took over the shop, Mrs. Kojima, a little old lady in her seventies, had brought in her grandchildren’s uniforms to be patched and altered. She’d known your grandparents for many years, so she was always kind and had a story to share with you about your father in his youth or the gorgeous dresses your grandmother used to make. You always looked forward to Mrs. Kojima’s visits, and she always had a way of making you feel younger than you were, but not in a bad way. She just made you feel… nostalgic and safe, like you were listening to your late grandma talk over the phone. 

This was probably why, when Mrs. Kojima slipped and fell in front of your counter, you reacted without thinking. The old lady barely had time to hit the floor and cry out before you were hovering over her, a green aura illuminating your hands. Her pain hit you a moment later, like a heated slap to the face, a bone-deep ache in your leg, but you gritted your teeth and pushed through the discomfort. Then you moved your fingers over to the hip Mrs. Kojima was clutching, and a moment later you felt the drain as your energy siphoned into the elderly woman’s body. Thankfully, it had only been a fracture, not a full break, so you barely even felt the difference in your strength, but as Mrs. Kojima gaped up at you, realization struck you like a freight train. 

You had used your quirk, without a license, without permission, hell without the consent of Mrs. Kojima. Healing quirks were illegal for a reason, so many things could go wrong, and you weren’t properly trained. Your breathing hitched as panic seized your heart, squeezing like a vise, and your entire world had just begun to crash down around your ears when Mrs. Kojima sat up and threw her arms around you. 

“Thank you,” she’d sniffled into your hair in Japanese. “Thank you so much.” 

After the initial shock wore off, you had helped Mrs. Kojima into a chair, and she’d continued to thank you over and over again, saying how money was tight and she would have hated to be a burden to her children with hospital bills and a long recovery. She talked about how a lot of her elderly friends were in similar positions, dealing with perpetual aches and pains but having no way to pay for treatment or seek relief. 

The sadness in her face had twisted something in your chest, an ache you were all too familiar with. It was the one you felt after you failed the hero course entrance exams. The ache you felt when you realized you could never be a doctor. The ache of being helpless in the face of suffering. 

Your mouth had opened without your permission, and you told Mrs. Kojima that you would help her, and her friends, whenever they needed it. The elderly Japanese woman tried to wave you off, saying she didn’t want to get you in any trouble, but you had just smiled and said, “I’m fine with making a little good trouble.” 

You didn’t know where your courage had come from, but you let it carry you past your fears and doubts. 

So, for the last six months, Mrs. Kojima had brought all of her friends, and sometimes their children and grandchildren, to you when they were in need of healing. They always brought dresses or pants or blouses for you to fix as a cover, and you did do alterations work for them, but you also eased flaring arthritis, cataracts, fevers, and scrapped knees in the backroom. You refused to take payment for these secret services, it just felt wrong, but the little old ladies somehow always snuck large “tips” into your register when you weren’t looking. 

Mrs. Kojima and every one of her friends and family members swore to their ancestors to keep your secret, and you trusted them, but you still couldn’t help proverbially looking over your shoulder, holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the police to barge in and take you away. 

It hadn’t happened yet, but the worry of it kept you up most nights, which was maybe another reason why you threw yourself into your work until you were so tired you just passed out. 

You sighed again as you stretched and felt your back pop, releasing some of the tension in your spine. Glancing at the clock, you saw it was just past midnight, and you winced. You had to be up at five tomorrow—today, now—because Mr. Akane wanted to come in early before you opened the shop. His bad knee was giving him trouble again, an old injury he’d obtained as a boy. You were unable to fully reconstruct the joint—that took more strength and stamina than you currently possessed—but you were able to soothe his pain for weeks at a time, which he was immensely grateful for. He always brought you fresh fish when he came by, “gifts” he’d emphasized when you reminded him you didn’t take payment, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. You weren’t exactly hurting for money, but you also didn’t normally splurge on fish caught just that morning, and you told yourself you deserved the small treat. Besides, the protein helped boost your energy and stamina levels, which meant you could heal more people, so really Mr. Akane was merely investing in his future treatments. 

Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and you dragged yourself out of your chair before picking your way across your messy apartment to the kitchen. The apartment wasn’t very large, one large space for kitchen, dining, and living room, with one small bedroom and one bathroom down a hallway to the right when you walked in the front door. But it had been your grandparent’s home for many years before they bought a larger house after having your father, and it sat right above the shop, so you never had to worry about running late for work.

Bolts of fabric, some client pieces, and a few of your own personal sewing projects were strewn over every available surface of the main room, but you had the cleared path through the chaos memorized, so you were tossing leftovers in the microwave barely thirty seconds later. The warmed-up curry and rice—another “gift” from Mrs. Kojima—tasted as good as it had the last several days, and you hummed as the spiced meat slid down your throat and settled in your belly. After the first bite, your hunger seemed to hit you in full force, and you scarfed down every last bite in a matter of minutes. When you were done, the minor headache that had been pulsing behind your eyes abated, and you yawned as you rinsed off the dishes. 

You set the damp plate on the edge of the counter as you reached for a towel, but then a sudden tremor, followed by a loud boom, seemed to shake the building, and the plate tittered on the counter’s edge for a moment before it crashed to the floor. 

“Fuck!” you gasped as you jumped back and away from the ceramic shards, but another tremor-boom combo had you stumbling, and you scrambled to grab the back of the couch so you didn’t fall on your ass. 

Your wide eyes took in the broken plate scattered at your feet before they jumped to the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sky was dark beyond, cut only by the dim street light just beyond the window’s view. You held your breath as your heart hammered in your ears, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, sweat slicking your palms. 

What the fuck was that? Your first thought was earthquake—you hadn’t experienced one yet, but you knew they were common in Japan—but then you remembered the booms. 

Maybe… maybe an electrical box blew? But no, the lights were still working. A car crash? 

Then another boom vibrated you down to your very bones, and you fell to one knee as the breath hitched in your lungs. 

That sounded… closer. 

With your heart in your throat, you half scrambled, half crawled the last few feet to your window, and you peeked your head over the sill just as a flash off white-hot light lit up the night sky. 

“Shit!” You squinted your eyes against the glare as you leaned back from the window, but then you saw a shadow streak through the air before it crashed into a car just at the edge of your peripherals. 

You had the distant thought that Mr. Takeyoshi’s vehicle was very obviously totaled before you realized the thing that had crashed into the car was a person. 

Your jaw gaped open as a hero pulled himself from the wreckage and shook his head groggily. The shadows—only broken by more flares of light as more explosions and fire seemed to erupt along the street—made it difficult to tell how injured the hero was. You didn’t recognize their yellow and teal costume, but you saw patches of blood along the hero’s bulky frame, and bile burned at the back of your teeth. 

Holy shit. This wasn’t an accident. It was a villain attack. 

Just as you had the thought, another explosion rattled your windows, making your ears ring, and you snapped your head to the side to see a man standing in the middle of the road about half a block down. 

The man—villain, you realized quickly—swung his arms around like a conductor of an orchestra, but his instruments seemed to be the black rocks and liquid swirling around him. The debris glistened like an oil slick in the light of the flames, and as you watched, the villain shouted something and slashed his arm through the air. 

Then a figure suddenly exploded onto the scene, lunging out from the shadows in a flare of white-hot light. It moved too fast for you to track, but the villain swung his arm again, and rocks and viscous black goo shot toward the figure still in mid-air. 

A futile scream of warning caught in your throat, but then the figure seemed to explode and backflip through the air, landing on his feet but crushing the roof of a car beneath his boots. The wailing of the car’s alarm split the air, and you clenched your teeth until they ached. 

The flames illuminated this new man’s face, a snarl of white teeth against the flames and smoke, but only the barest hint of recognition flared through you before everything exploded into chaos again. Another shout from the villain had all the rocks and black slime streaking back towards him, and you watched in horror as a stony black arm fifty feet long formed above the ruined street. 

You knew you should be running, trying to find cover, calling the police, but you were glued there, on your knees before the window, you fingers digging grooves into the sill. 

The next fifteen seconds seemed to simultaneously happen in slow motion and at hyper speed. 

The giant rocky hand wiggled its fingers before it curled into a fist and slammed down on the wailing car and the man atop it. 

The man—hero, you distantly thought, although your chaotic thoughts still couldn’t place him—launched up into the air with another explosion that rattled your windows, the car alarm cutting off as the vehicle was crushed an instant later. 

The blond skidded into a landing half a dozen yards away, but then you suddenly saw Mr. Takeyoshi standing on the street, a ghostly apparition framed by smoke and flames. 

You blinked, and the giant hand shot toward Mr. Takeyoshi, batting away several more heroes who tried to intervene. 

Then the explosive hero was just there, pushing Mr. Takeyoshi out of the way, right before the hand wrapped around him. 

You could hear the hero’s anguished scream through your window as he was crushed in the fist’s grip, and the sound hit you right in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of you, bruising your insides, the pain settling into the familiar ache of being helpless in the face of suffering. 

You watched uselessly as the hero was lifted up into the sky, struggling, setting off explosions left and right. Then the massive arm seemed to pause in the middle of the road, right above the villain, and your eyes locked onto the hero, his pale hair and skin stark against the black, rocky hand that held him trapped. 

In the next instant, a white light, like a star going supernova, bloomed to life around the hero, illuminating the white slash of his snarling teeth before it became too bright for you to take. You slammed your eyes shut against the burning light, and the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, like the moment before lightning struck, as you dropped to the floor below your window. 

Then the world exploded, the building shaking to its foundations, right before the window burst into a million shards of glass.

[pigeonflavouredcake]

I'm an adult now take my advice

(or don't i'm not your dad)

Idk how old my followers are overall but i want to make this post in case any of you are actually teens... I am Officially 20 now. I am no longer a teenager so here are some things I learned as a poor teenager that helped me as a poor adult. Some are witchy, some are just about life, most are food related. Buckle up this will get pretty long.

Write as much down as you can bc puberty can really fuck with your memory.

Staying up late because you simply can't sleep is not something to be worried about unless you want to change that. It's pretty much all your natural body clock.

Get a big folder. Like a massive accordion folder and put all your personal documents in, birth/adoption certificates, bank statements, prescription receipts, diplomas, etc. So if you're ever in a dangerous situation at home you can make your escape a lot easier.

Now is a good time to learn new things that aren't school related. Practice cooking your favourite meals, learn how to properly clean a bathroom, if cleaning is overwhelming there are methods online that can help with that. Like playing a spot the difference game.

NO, tarot is not a closed practice, tarot is a tool for everyone and NO, tarot decks do not have to be gifted to you, you can buy one for yourself. I don't even know where that came from but it's complete bs.

Save the little gift baggies you get when you buy jewellery and use them as spell bags.

Stay away from any woman who calls her vag a yoni. it's weird.

You may want to be seen as smart and mature because it's better than being treated like a kid but you are still a kid. Your safety matters more than how mature and responsible you are. An older person should NOT be talking to you in a romantic/flirtatious setting and if they say it's because you're mature for your age or they can't wait until you're legal fucking bully the living shit out of them then block them and warn your friends. that attitude is creepy as hell bc they want someone they have power over. Same with any friends that brag about their partner being 15/16/17 when they're 18. BULLY THEM THEY'RE GROSS AND THEY DESERVE IT.

If you're in a country with the NHS USE IT NOW WHILE IT'S FREE. The first 6-8 weeks of therapy is free from the NHS. Eye tests and dentist check ups and medication are free untill you're 19 GET THEM NOW.

You can make your own oat milk by blending up oats and water. You don't need to cook with oil, there's enough of it in processed food and fresh veg have enough water in them to cook straight in a pan. You don't need the seasoning packet in ramen you can make your own. Tamari sauce has less sodium than soy sauce. Food always tastes better when it's in season. Try to find space for two food wastes, one for processed/cooked food one for raw. The raw food can be composted and given back to the earth

Best healthiest dinner option I can think of is steamed veggies. Here's my recipe: Heat up a pan on high, pour a bit of water in and then your veggies, stir frequently until all the water is gone. Turn heat down to low. Coat with something like balsamic vinegar and add any seasoning you like. Cover and steam for 10 minutes ish and you're good. You can serve that with a grain or some noodles.

Locally sourced meat and fish is WAY better for the environment than supermarket because there's less preservatives and they're more resourceful with their products.

A standard pie dough is one of the easiest things you can make and the trick is in the amount. Half the flour equals the fat, half the fat equals the sugar. so if you have 200g of flour you need 100g of fat and 50g of sugar. Just throw them in a bowl and mix together and add some cold water to bind together into a dough. It should be solid and little sticky, if it's crumbling add more water, if it's not holding it's shape add more flour. then just fridge it for a few hours to set and you're good.

You made your own soup/stew/pot thingy and you got left overs for the next day? Put it back on the cooker and bring to the boil on high, once it's bubbling take the heat down to low and simmer for 10 minutes (keep stirring if it keeps bubbling). This will help kill any bacteria that developed overnight that might make you sick.

Foraging is good but wear gloves, don't take all from one place and don't eat anything you pick until it's been thoroughly washed. Don't be afraid to go hog wild on things like blackberries, dandelions, or nettles. those things are an invasive species.

Deer are bigger than you think they are.

Air drying takes longer but it will help your clothes last. You can also hand wash with a bowl of hot water and about a teaspoon of washing up powder. Air drying also goes for your hair too.

Stock up on your favourite scented candles any size is ok and use them for spells and rituals.

You got a ghost in your house? Leave them be they're usually just passing through.

If you can't focus on work without music but it needs to be specifically wordless and needs to be easy to fill your brain so you don't focus on every noise other people make listen to animal crossing music that shit got me through two years worth of academic reading.

Bus is late or can't find your keys? Stop looking and start complaining. They'll turn up as soon as you give up.

Piercings are a medical procedure and are safer when they're done with a needle because they're hollow, so they're carving out the skin and cartilage instead of just pushing jewellery through like a gun does. Go to a tattoo parlour that also does piercings bc they're likely to be a lot stricter with rules and customer care.

Life is gonna kick us all in the but so we gotta be there to help eachother out however we can. It definitely feels like it's everyone for themselves but it doesn't have to be.

[neonponders]

Here’s a prologue for my The Mummy AU!

This all started because of the moodboards above, created by @memes-saved-me and @harringrove000 . I just couldn’t help myself.

Here’s my original post about this au (it includes links to the moodboards) ~

And @hoegrove I know you wanted to see this so 🌹

Read on ao3 ~

• • • • • • •

The overhead bulbs and candlelight cast harsh shadows and warm light throughout the grimy bar. Everyone glistened with sweat from the desert heat. The night brought with it gentle, cool breezes over the Nile, but in this packed place, the occasional thworp of paper and silk fans being thrown open could be heard. Even the swish of luxurious ostrich feathers swayed to cool people off.

Steve moved his legs to cross his knees, the papyrus green trousers brushing against the military beige breeches of the man sitting opposite him at their small, round, gambling table. They had gathered quite an audience; the messy pile of money had long since included bets beyond Steve and this man’s wagers. Steve hadn’t caught his name, but he felt the heat of his body through their trouser fabrics, and more than once caught himself staring at how the light gleamed in that dark blond, honeyed hair.

“You trying to distract me?”

“No,” Steve smirked, “I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“Stressed?” the man crooned.

Steve removed his gaze from those pin-made waves of his hair. They had long since given up their shape to the day’s heat, but a tress outright curled over this handsome bastard’s forehead. Steve dared to think he looked better unkempt. “Not one bit. Play your cards. You’re dressed like you have somewhere to be.”

“I’m in no rush,” he replied lethargically, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

Steve let his eyes wander him a little more. “You sure? You look like a military man.”

“Honorably discharged.”

“Congratulations.”

Steve knew his eyes were blue, but in this lighting they looked like clear glass over onyx pupils when he tilted his head to look at Steve curiously. The latter retaliated before he even spoke. “Is that a strange thing to say?”

The blond shrugged with a gentle shake of his head as he plucked at his cards, rearranging them in his hand. “Only if you worship at the alter of hyper patriotism and military imperialism.”

Some chuckles sounded around them as harlots shared long, cigarette filter stems with their johns, and the barkeeps made glass clatter. Steve exhaled in a huff. “Whatever that means. I’d like to win, already. Play your cards.”

“You first, dear.”

He did, laying down his fan of cards underneath the row of cards from the dealer. The Madame of the place listened to their exchanges with amusement but kept it professional as she narrated, “Full house. Always something to brag about. And you, Mr. Hargrove?”

Hargrove, huh? Steve mused as he watched for any amount of discomfort on the man’s face. He didn’t get it.

“Straight flush,” the Madame said, aligning the winning cards with those from Steve’s and her own line. Steve had practically given him that win. And more of his father’s allowance than he would ever admit.

Hargrove moved a stack of chips to the Madame’s side of the table for a substantial tip, and then offered that hand to Steve. “Good game, Mr…?”

His eyes lolled under a slow blink before he accepted the hand. “Just Steve. It’s what I get for losing.”

“Let me top off your drink, at least, Steve.”

He took his loss with grace and stood to follow Hargrove to the bar. The crowd separated for him apart from a random slap on the back and long fingers stroking his hair in consolation. Hargrove reached the bar first, and watched all this while leaning back on his elbow. A light overhead moved across the exposed skin of his chest, just as honeyed as the rest of him, and the sparse hair there. Steve discretely lowered his gaze as if to not trip over the tiled stair raising the bar from the regular floor.

“Do you come here often?”

Steve snorted a quiet laugh and lifted his gaze. “You’ve already got me here. Ask me a real question.”

Hargrove smiled as the barkeep approached. “A bottle of red, please. Two glasses. It is a real question. People respond to you as if they know you here.”

Steve mirrored his stance and leaned into his elbow on the bar. “My sister and I come here sometimes. When we want to get away from…all of it.”

Hargrove hummed deep in his chest as the sound of a cork popping briefly diverted their attention. “Sister?”

“Stepsister, if you want to get specific, but she’s not here. You’ve only got little ol’ me.”

The barman poured two glasses without stopping, holding the vessels together with a practiced hand before he set them and the bottle on the bar. Hargrove paid him as he replied, “I have one of those. A stepsister, I mean. Although I don’t know how much it counts if you haven’t seen your so-called family in years.”

Steve reached for his wine and asked before he meant to, “Do you miss her?”

It was a bit too personal of a conversation between strangers. Hargrove’s pause made him quickly add, “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’ll miss you, depending on how the rest of this night goes.”

Steve coughed on his wine. Hargrove chuckled as he offered a pale blue handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Are you always this generous to people who’ve lost money to you?”

“Only the ones who are pretty enough to be a prize themselves.”

Steve’s eyes lolled in his head despite the rouge blooming in his cheeks and dusting across this throat. “If I’d known you were so used to winning I might’ve spent my money better.”

Hargrove’s eyes held steadily on him. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

* * *

Steve’s back pressed hard enough against the wall to break the kiss with a huff. He craned his face towards the sky as Hargrove made him shudder with soft lips and prickling stubble on his throat. They could hear the bar’s goings-on just on the other side of the exterior wall, but leaving the humid interior was refreshing on their wine-flushed skin. The darkness of the Cairo alleyway freed Hargrove’s hands to massage Steve’s backside.

As Steve caught his breath, he managed to slip his own hand between them, feeling the muscle of that chest for himself before he ducked to taste Hargrove’s skin. Salt and the neutral sweetness of a man’s skin. He liked the little sounds that Hargrove hummed while making a mess of Steve’s hair.

“I want this hair all over me. Better than silk.”

Steve lifted back up to frame Hargrove’s head in his hands, claiming and tasting and licking into his mouth. The way Hargrove kissed—like Steve was an oasis and honeycomb. Delicious and all his. It made Steve want to have him right here. Better than wine and cigars—intoxicating, having this kind of attention all to himself.

Hargrove hummed again, this time to get Steve’s attention. “Put your arms around me. I’ll do the rest.”

He didn’t fully understand until his trouser buttons slid free with ease. Steve openly moaned in the wake of Hargrove’s hand massaging his front, finding which direction his erection stood and easing it out into the night air. As his warm palm pumped him to aching readiness, Steve’s hands continued to wander Hargrove’s body. The man kissed him in a rush, almost brutally plundering his mouth before releasing to latch onto Steve’s collarbone.

One of Steve’s arms remained anchored around Hargrove’s shoulders. The rest of him rocked gently against the man intent to take him apart in a back alley—not that Steve minded one bit. His other hand pushed aside that half-open shirt to squeeze a nipple. Hargrove groaned deliciously and lifted his head to give Steve’s ear the same tantalizing attention—

Steve frowned a little at the hard and heavy rock of a thing knocking against his hand. It didn’t take much to pry the thing out of Hargrove’s jacket breast pocket. Steve didn’t have the time or the lighting to see what it really was. He had half a mind to hold onto it just out of petty spite. A token for taking so much out of his own wallet.

A reason for Hargrove to find him the next day.

Except a voice made Steve chirp, “Huh?”

And then Hargrove faced him with the same curiosity. They realized together that neither of them had spoken. Gas and oil lanterns were quickly moving through the alleyway, held aloft by harsh voices.

“Shit!” Steve hissed, rapidly putting himself back in his trousers. He yelped a choked sound as Hargrove yanked him out of the alley by his arm.

“We gotta go!”

“No shit!”

“Split up!”

“What?”

“GO.”

With that, Hargrove shoved him right into the vaporous air of a crowded hookah restaurant. Steve could only dodge and duck around rapidly standing patrons as the police flooded inside. The kitchen staff only reacted after he’d already dashed through the room, and by then, the police were too held up to catch up with him. Steve didn’t stop running. He heard yelling and whistles in the streets behind him, but he kept going—Hargrove’s strange stone clutched tight in his hand.

Only once he’d finished a very round-about path back to his lodgings, did he sneak quietly past his sister’s room and light a lamp to see his prize. The octagonal…thing…fit well in his palm. On one face, jagged lines had been finely carved, but all around its edges were familiar hieroglyphics.

“Oh. What the hell—better yet, what is a handsome American in Egypt doing with you in his pocket?”

Steve went over to his writing desk to find his glasses in a drawer. He popped them on and recognized a cartouche when he saw one. “Seti. Pharaoh Seti, huh? Well, Robin’s going to be all over this when she sees it.”

A shrill whistle outside startled him enough to drop it heavily on his floor. The whistle sounded far away, but he remained very still in case the wrath of a woman awoken before dawn barged into his room.

If Robin woke up, Steve remained blissfully unaware. He quickly undressed, washed as much of himself as he was able with the washbasin, and collapsed onto the bed. With Hargrove’s fancy artifact on his bedside table, Steve let the memory of sharp beard stubble and firm hands guide his own down to his cock. He got himself back to standing and finished what Hargrove started quickly.

But it was soft lips, open arms, and steady eyes that eased Steve to longing sleep. A slumber so deep that had his stepsister threw a pillow at him the next morning for oversleeping on her way to work at the National Library.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

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

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

*

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

*

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

[betawooper]

rating every demon fight in kny bc i can

non-biased, completely objective rating (more or less) of every significant demon fight in kny based on a number of factors, including:

cleverness of fighting tactics

placement in the story’s timeline

integration of character backstories

cohesive themes between characters

etc

by non-biased and objective i mean i’m not skewing the rating if a death felt fair or whatever

everything past where the anime ended will be under a read more so anime onlys who havent watched mugen train, youre safe lol

oh and i reread the manga like 20+ times (reread the latter arcs at least 40 times, haha hyperfixations am i right?) so be rest assured im not pulling these ratings out of my ass

also ill randomly be bolding certain phrases just to improve readability

anyways let’s gooooo

VS NEZUKO

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kamado Tanjirou and Nezuko. Tanjirou is fending her off by putting the axe handle in her mouth, keeping her from eating him. End Image Description.]

10/10

i like how realistic it is, because yeah tanjirou would react the way to he did with zero fighting skills against a demon

very clear why tanjirou is fighting nezuko and shows a bit of worldbuilding on how normal people react to their family becoming demons

always nice to see worldbuilding

giyuu is the perfect example of a seasoned demon slayer who’s good at his job, and he juxtaposes tanjirou very well in that aspect

my only complaint is not directly in this fight itself but how nezuko is handled throughout the story as a whole

like bro, it is literally never explained why nezuko is different from demons

could have been easily explained if maybe her family’s ghosts like slapped her hand every time she wanted to eat a person but nope

she’s just built different lol

so yeah youll see future ratings get points docked off bc nezuko unlocks some secret power with no prior explanation other than she angy >:3

VS TEMPLE DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of a demon. The demon has a sharp-nailed hand over his neck and there are four text bubbles around him saying “But a wound like this... will heal in no time! See? The bleeding already stopped!” End Image Description.]

10/10

may be more forgettable compared to like rui but still good

tanjirou did exceptionally well in this fight and his ability to think on his feet is once again beautifully illustrated here (trapping this dude’s head against the tree trunk with the axe)

very clever

again, establishes more demon worldbuilding regarding regeneration and still being able to move without their head

and the demons burning in the sunlight thing since nezuko wasn’t able to show that

the ending where tanjirou hesitates to kill the demon also serves to show his sympathetic nature towards demons that will last throughout the entirety of the first 60-ish chapters

:)

we’ll talk about what the hell happens to tanjirou after that

or not, it could honestly be its own post

VS HAND DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of a many-handed demon. He has six hands around him, three of them covering his mouth while he chuckles, two of them grabbing his cheeks, and one holding on to the top of his head. There are two text bubbles saying “That’s how many of Urokodaki’s students I have eaten! I’ve decided to kill all of his students!” End Image Description.]

10/10

ooooh probably the first big fight against a demon in the series

oh yeah not doing the two random demons tanjirou one shot in a single blow bc eh

anyways hand demon’s pretty goddamn scary, considering the fact that this is the 5th demon or whatever tanjirou has had to face so far

very nice way to show us how much tanjirou’s innate intuition and all his other random abilities (sense of smell, hard forehead) can come together and help him decapitate this guy

i liked the mini history with urokodaki this dude had and why he had beef with our favorite mentor figure, it establishes that urokodaki was in fact a super good demon slayer and its cool to see that actually shown

i also liked that small moment of compassion tanjirou gave this demon, staying consistent with tanjirou’s established kindness

the demon’s sad tale with killing his own brother very much humanizes him when all the reader has seen up to this point is that this guy is a monster who eats people

sets up the theme of demons just being humans but being victims of circumstance that unfortunately doesn’t hold up as well in arcs past mugen train

VS SWAMP DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kamado Tanjirou fighting off three horned demons as they appear from below. There is a spiky text bubble saying “Three of them!!!” End Image Description.]

10/10

not my most favorite fight but it still portrays everything alright and im not allowed to let my personal opinions mess with the rating so

i like how tanjirou mentioned the fact that he trained in conditions similar to the bog and explains how he pulled off the whirlpool form

using past experiences to aid him in the present, nice nice

tanjirou and nezuko dont quite work together very well but its yknow the first mission so ill chalk it up to simple inexperience

also the way the muzan curse thingie was hinted at here? fantastic way of showing that little bit of demon worldbuilding

...

oh god, it mentions nezuko being stronger than normal demons

ok its not a problem here per say since i can still suspend my disbelief, but later on it just becomes a glaring problem that gets worse over time

VS SUSAMARU AND YAHABA

[Image Description: Manga panels of Susamaru and Yahaba. The first one is a joyful Susamaru about to throw a temari ball. There is floating text saying “Is she one of Kibutsuji’s minions?!” The second image is an annoyed Yahaba, holding one of his eye-hands to cover himself. There are two text bubbles around him saying “My kimono got all dusty. Tch!” End Image Description.]

9/10

why dont these bitches have a good looking panel together dammit

anyways amazing entrance, the way yahaba used his hand eyes to track down tanjirou is really neat

the synergy yahaba and susamaru have is incredible, its awesome dude, they work extremely well together and it shows

tanjirou actually mixing his water breathing forms together is a god tier move and i absolutely love how he can show off his ability to think on his feet once again

establishing how yushiro’s bda works early on is really well done

establishing tamayo as a fugitive this early on is also super well done

not to get into spoiler territory but both these things pay off

how tamayo ended up defeating susamaru is literally awesome in so many ways

shows off both how smart she is by exploiting the muzan curse

and speaking of the muzan curse, we actually get to see what happens to demons who even say his name, back when it was hinted with the swamp demon

tamayo is amazing dude, and we get some real evidence of the horrible suffering demons go through if they even accidentally attempt to betray muzan :D

...

now heres what keeps this fight from being perfect

nezuko somehow grew stronger against susamaru’s temari

with no explanation

which could have been easily explained if tamayo was like “oh yeah the drug also boosts a demon’s strength temporarily”

but nope

god, i just dont like how gotouge handles nezuko’s power boosts throughout the series bc like i said before

no explanation is given anywhere

this is a huge issue, this isnt a pokemon game, you cant just kill demons and get exp at the end of every battle, level up, get some sweet stat bonuses and move on

(actually if gotouge established that this is how nezuko grew in power, than all my complaints about this would be gone, im not even joking)

anyways i get that nezuko is supposed to be “special” but thats too vague of a descriptor

how the hell is she special? ya gotta be more specific and stick with that explanation or that suspension of disbelief is going to disappear

VS TONGUE DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of a four-eyed demon with horns and a long tongue. He is crawling in an awkward position, one foot in front of his tilted head. There are two text bubbles around him saying “Heh, heh! I’ll slurpy slurp your brains out through you ear!” End Image Description.]

10/10

not much to say, showcases zenitsu’s true abilities really well

nicely done

VS HORNED DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of a big, single-horned demon. There are three text bubbles saying “You dodged! You’re awfully lively for a human! It’ll be a treat to carve away your flesh!” End Image Description.]

10/10

would have ignored this fight if not for the fact we havent seen inosuke fight before

it definitely shows how very fast-paced and wild inosuke is

no complaints here lol

VS KYOGAI

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kyogai, a demon with tsuzumi drums attached to his shoulders. There are four text bubbles around him saying “Why?! Why does everyone keep sneaking through my house? It’s so aggravating. It’s my prey! It’s my prey! Found in my territory!” End Image Description.]

10/10

establishes marechi blood pretty early on, once again expanding the worldbuilding of kny which is always cool

interesting terrain where it’s always shifting, tanjirou once again proves his ability to adapt really quickly by altering one of his forms to work with the turning room

(man, i wish the form mixing/form modification thing carried on throughout the rest of the story, but it really didnt which is just a shame)

the injuries tanjirou had prior to this mission actually affecting him was a nice touch

oh yeah, kyogai gives us more worldbuilding (which is always nice) regarding the 12 kizuki, and the aspect of him being cast out due to being weak shows a lot about muzan’s indifference towards his own demons if they arent strong

his backstory being a failed writer once again humanizes kyogai as a former human being and not just a monster

tanjirou shows his sympathy and compassion again by not stepping on his written work and complimenting his bda

well, tbh tanjirou’s actions kinda came out of nowhere but its a very minor thing and not enough to dock a point off, like it didnt affect the outcome of the fight that much if at all

(so if you see future battles where points are docked off for things not logically making sense, its bc whatever nonsensical concepts were integrated into the fight actually turned the tide of the battle and thats a big no-no)

very good fight and if you remember how kinda bad tanjirou was at accurately slicing the swamp demon, you can see that he’s already improved leaps and bounds

im so proud of him

VS MOTHER SPIDER DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kamado Tanjirou and the Mother Spider Demon. There is a light shining down from the top right on to the demon as Tanjirou slices her head off, rain following in his wake. There is floating text saying “Water Breathing: Fifth Form - Blessed Rain After the Drought!” around them. End Image Description.]

10/10

i mean does anyone disagree?

all the demon slayers getting their necks snapped by her threads was pretty horrific, probably more horrifying than anything else we have seen in the entire series if im gonna be honest

the death scene is probably the most beautiful one in the series

it reveals a water breathing form that we havent seen before thats the 5th form

as far as i know, no other breathing style has this merciful sword stroke so it shows a lot about the original water breather and what they might have been like

but enough about them, really the focus is on tanjirou bc this is like the best example by far of how kind and sympathetic he is to demons

dunno what else to say, its perfect

VS SON SPIDER DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of Agatsuma Zenitsu performing Thunder Breathing 1st Form: Sixfold on a spider-like demon. Zenitsu is crashing through the roof of a shed, and a zig-zag path is left behind. There are sound effects all over the panel, saying “Bam!” in large font. End Image Description.]

10/10

chose a picture without a huge spider on it bc i would like to not scare myself half to death

anyways extremely amazing fight, showcases zenitsu’s immense talent and skill, adapting the 1st form of thunder breathing to be a more versatile move

theres a moment where his backstory with kuwajima and kaigaku were revealed and his hidden insecurities are out in the open which is super nice and further develops a character weve only considered as comedic relief until now

the anime made the backstory scenes and the killing scene so much cooler

while there is no thematic connection between zenitsu and the demon, it really isnt necessary to keep this fight interesting

anyways another pretty much perfect fight

VS FATHER SPIDER DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kamado Tanjirou and Inosuke slashing at the Father Spider Demon. The demon has blocked Tanjirou’s sword with his arm, and Inosuke is slamming both his blades down on the demon’s other hand. End Image Description.]

10/10

again, not my most favorite fight but it does everything right

i do have to say it was excellent how gotouge hyped up the father spider demon to be the big bad, only just so the plot twist later takes the readers by surprise

nicely done

VS DAUGHTER SPIDER DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kochou Shinobu and the Daughter Spider Demon. Shinobu’s back is seen and her haori looks like a butterfly’s wings keeping her afloat as she holds her stinger blade out to the side. The demon looks surprised as blood gushes from her side, arm, shoulder, chest, neck, and forehead. There is floating text on the panel, saying “Insect Breathing - Butterfly Dance - Caprice!” End Image Description.]

10/10

first time weve seen shinobu and her fighting style

what i love most about this is how much it shows her true character, appearing as a carefree and naive individual so she seems underwhelming

then bam, reveals exactly how dangerous and uncaring she is of demons, listing out the specific ways she would torture the daughter spider demon in grotesque detail

her using poison to take demons by surprise is also super clever and brings back the worldbuilding established way earlier about wisteria being poisonous to demons

amazing integration of that concept

anyways this fight really encapsulates who shinobu is as a character and thats why it gets a perfect score

VS RUI

[Image Description: Manga panel of Rui holding his hand out directly towards the viewer. There are two text bubbles around him, saying “Give me your sister. If you hand her over quietly, I’ll spare your life.” End Image Description.]

8/10

not only is it a super scary fight but there is a deeper conflict between rui and tanjirou, what it means to be family

they are opposites in the sense that while tanjirou believes love is what makes a family, rui’s subconscious desperation for an unbreakable bond drives him to use fear to keep his “family” together

excellent juxtaposition of their values, and this is only further emphasized when rui expresses out loud what he was going to do to nezuko

i also like the symbolism regarding rui’s bda, how he uses threads or the “familial” bonds to cut up his fake family with it if they act out of turn or annoy him

super neat detail

alright what i dont like about this fight is nezuko (again)

mostly her unlocking her bda to turn the tide of the battle bc her mom was like “yo, wake up, your brother is going to be killed”

feels... forced ig

her bda in general is confusing and not consistent

man, i wish i could make a stronger argument for this but i do believe the problem stems from the fact that we dont ever know what nezuko is thinking, and what she thinks of tanjirou specifically

if she even cares for him as a sibling or if shes only going along with what her family is saying to her, things like that which would have been fixed if gotouge actually gave her thoughts some screen time

so the action feels pretty shallow

im also conflicted over tanjirou somehow remembering how dance of the fire god works

on one hand, hes using past information and applying it in the current setting so he doesnt die, which is understandable

but on the other hand, this was a teeny bit random?

i think what could have fixed this is if there was a scene in the beginning of the series where tanjirou was performing it himself, like practicing before he actually had to do it for new years

so that when the rui fight rolls around, it would have felt less like throwing dry spaghetti at a wall

but yeah

overall super good fight, giyuu ending up having to kill rui instead of tanjirou was super good in that tanjirou didnt become a pillar this early in the series and to show how strong giyuu is

there are some odd bits regarding the ultimate “beheading” of rui using nezuko and tanjirous supposed bonds but it doesnt kill the fight entirely so it deserves its pretty high score

***under read more is manga-only fights so beware***

VS ENMU

[Image Description: Manga panel of Enmu holding his hand out directly at the viewer, with a mouth on the back of it. There is floating text to the top right of Enmu that says “Whispers of Forced Unconscious Hypnosis!” End Image Description.]

9/10

id say this fight is definitely overshadowed by the dream stuff prior to this but its pretty good in its own right

enmu fusing with the train was kinda confusing, like when was it established that demons could fuse with objects?

this worldbuilding element doesnt even appear again so yeah thats why it loses a point

how the kmbk gang end up defeating enmu is pretty sweet though, tanjirou using dance of the fire god to sever the neck bone was really nice and shows that him using the breathing style in the rui fight wasnt a one time thing

while kyojuro’s role was smaller in this part, the next part makes up for it so i cant complain

anyways ye, almost perfect score but its pretty good

VS AKAZA (MUGEN TRAIN)

[Image Description: Manga panel of Akaza holding his hand out to the viewer’s left. There is a text bubble saying “Why don’t you become a demon?” End Image Description.]

10/10

this encounter is literally amazing okay?

after the crew kills the big bad, it seems like everything is fine

but plot twist, upper moon 3 appears out of nowhere

this is the first time the reader has seen an upper moon, let alone the 3rd/4th strongest demon in existence and the way gotouge handled this twist is fucking amazing

kyojuro’s death scene really shows just how human even the strongest pillars are against demons with incredible power

its just

amazing

VS OBI DEMON

[Image Description: Manga panels of the obi-like demon. The first image shows the obi hung in the air and strung over each other like decorations, with women-shaped patterns in its folds. The second image is Hashibira Inosuke fighting the Obi demon which now has lips and eyes. There is floating text in that panel saying “Breath of the Beast: Sixth Fang - Jagged Gnaw!!” End Image Description.]

10/10

on to red light district

this fight is admittedly super forgettable and not very interesting at least compared to the main fight with daki and gyutaro

but it wraps up the sub plot of the women and uzui’s wives going missing so it gets a perfect score for not messing that up

oh and it establishes the stretchy neck thing daki has going on which is very good

VS DAKI AND GYUTARO

[Image Description: Manga panel of Daki and Gyutaro. Daki is sitting on Gyutaro’s shoulders. There is a text bubble on the top right that says “The two of us are one, after all.” as well as floating text that reads “The power of the irregular siblings...!? Next issue lead color and the fight reaches its climax!!” End Image Description.]

8/10

love how this battle challenges tanjirou’s sympathy and kindness towards demons, just simply bc daki and gyutaro are horrible people

(too bad nothing came of this, which ill explain in the hantengu portion)

daki and gyutaro are very good villains and kept this fight super interesting from start to finish

uzui acting as a foil to gyutaro is nicely integrated and properly shown with how jealous gyutaro gets over seeing uzui’s perfect form and stature

tanjirou not only mixes forms but mixes breathing styles as well, which is so fucking awesome

(too bad it was only used like once throughout the entire series, its quite unfortunate)

the super high tension right after inosuke gets stabbed and tanjirou wakes up was expertly portrayed and handled, it felt like the kmbk gang and uzui were actually going to lose

super awesome

the tanjirou and gyutaro parallels are expertly portrayed, with how gyutaro taunts tanjirou over failing to protect his little sister, and the more visual thing where tanjirou imagined his own neck underneath his blade, that was super duper nice

the ending is extremely tense and emotionally gripping, gotouge did a really good job with that artistically too

the demon mark acquisition scene was surprisingly not frustrating, considering that it wasnt really explained prior to the battle

i do think it has to do with how it was explained later just exactly how they worked so its not just some random thing gotouge pulled out of their ass

so pretty good

/

what i dont like is nezuko and her full power demon form

first of all where the fuck did that come from? she just got angry and suddenly shes as powerful as an upper moon

like

how?

that doesnt make sense???

her extremely quick regeneration makes no sense

her ability to manipulate her blood’s properties makes no sense

and it doesnt even appear again so what was the point of that existing

none of this is even explained later which annoys me

that one part where tanjirou sings a lullaby to her to calm her down was alright ig but nezuko in this fight makes me extremely irritated and frustrated

just ugh

VS HANTENGU

[Image Description: Manga panel of Hantengu opening a shoji door. He is crawling inside, his hand in a gnarled, unnatural position. There is a text bubble saying “Eeeeeeek.” End Image Description.]

1/10

swordsmith village

this fight can go fuck itself /j

no but seriously it has so many problems that it would be shorter to name its redeeming qualities (which ill do later)

first off, the nezuko full power form thing again

i hate it so much with a passion

again, where did her ability to regenerate instantly even come from???? this is never explained, ever

and why did she cut herself on tanjirou’s sword anyway

did she somehow know that it was going to turn red if she burned it?

gotouge what the fuck, there is literally no reason why nezuko would do that and we cant even read her mind to see her thought process

gotouge hates nezuko, i swear

/

remember when i said uzui is meant to be a foil to gyutaro in the rld fight? its pretty obvious that those two are opposites, it was nicely done

... what the hell does mitsuri’s insecurities about strength have to do with whatever the fuck hantengu has going on (which is basically nothing)?

so no meaningful connection between mitsuri and hantengu

theres no meaningful connection between tanjirou and hantengu other than tanjirou getting pissed off for like the second time

also tanjirou’s thing with being kind and sympathetic to demons was entirely dropped at this point

but instead of it leading up to a corruption arc of some sorts, it just doesnt

like honestly if something actually came of that anger he exhibited in this arc and from red light district from this point forward story-wise, i would have counted this as an amazing writing decision

but it literally doesnt so who cares

(god, i really start to hate what happened to his character after this )

and genya’s revealed motivation also doesnt fit at all with hantengu’s thing, he’s not a foil, not a parallel, nothing, there is nothing

/

tanjirou being the catharsis for development for mitsuri and muichirou, who he has only talked to like twice

theres definitely a better way to handle those two’s developments without his help

like gotouge, you have a big cast of characters, use them lol

/

i want to kick hantengu in the face for being boring as fuck (at least his clones have cool looking weapons)

doesnt even have a proper backstory, just a single spread of him being blamed for shit as a human

like... thats it? this is upper moon 4 what the hell

/

theres no clever form mixing here at all (regarding tanjirou) which probably would have helped with foreshadowing the 13th form for dance of the fire god/sun breathing better

also gotouge established that as tanjirou’s thing and now he doesnt do that stuff anymore which sucks

/

oh hey remember when tanjirou actually learned how to do zenitsu’s speed boost thing?

if you didnt, i dont blame you bc it literally doesnt appear again, ever

you could argue that he adapted it into his “waltz flash” technique or whatever the fuck that is but the way it was integrated into this fight was like throwing dry spaghetti at a wall

which is just a shame bc its meant to be representative of how tanjirou and zenitsu are good pals but the way it was utilized is forgettable as hell

/

i absolutely loathe the crimson blade concept as a whole and im mentioning this now bc its going to come into play why future instances where this goddamn thing comes up again causes points to be lost

its inconsistent as fuck ill tell you that

/

at least some yoriichi stuff appeared here and not shoved into the final battle with everything else

so the yoriichi stuff later didnt come out of absolute nowhere

genya and mitsuri’s unique fighting styles expand the kny worldbuilding just a little more which is always nice

tanjirou got a cool sword out of this which would have been cooler if him and yoriichi had a deeper connection that was actually explored

but we didnt get shit so whatever

other people getting demon marks being revealed here is also okay so that again, the final battle isnt filled with absolutely everyone getting their marks at once

demon marks have their own slew of problems but its not as bad as the fucking crimson sword shit

god i hate the crimson sword shit

...

dude this section needs a tldr, even i cant sit and read through my shit

TL;DR - this fight sucks and crimson swords are bullshit (more on this later)

VS GYOKKO

[Image Description: Manga panel of Tokitou Muichirou and Gyokko. Muichirou is looking to the left while Gyokko is looking to the right, both with their backs to each other. There are mist clouds billowing in the foreground and background, as well as a slash mark going across Gyokko’s neck. End Image Description.]

7/10

this fight suffers from the same lack of cohesive themes through characters like the hantengu battle bc the antagonist is given nothing

but its better

we havent actually seen mui fight before so theres no consistencies that the reader has to keep track of for now

and there arent like 10 characters in the fight so this fight gets a lot of points just for being a lot more coherent

i do like that this fight shows just how good mui is that he can defeat an upper moon by himself

mui’s backstory is neat

gyokko’s bda is very interesting too

... thats pretty much it lol

ye, anyways not the best fight but not the worst fight either

VS KAIGAKU

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kaigaku holding the hilt of his blade with one hand. There is two text bubbles around him, saying “...As usual, you’re still shabby. It’s been a while, Zenitsu.” End Image Description.]

9/10

alright on to final battle arc

theres some good fights and then some really sucky ones, but this one was pretty incredible and very emotionally charged

theres a clear reason why zenitsu and kaigaku are battling each other (kai betrayed the corps and inadvertantly caused the only parental figure in zenitsu’s life to die, and zenitsu is rightfully pissed off about that)

the visual yin-yang symbolism is awesome too

zenitsu winning due to using the 7th form he created himself (which i have reason to believe was inspired by tanjirou) was the perfect ending to the fight, really couldnt ask for anything better and is a perfect example of how much of an effect tanjirou has had on zenitsu

the 7th form is what tanjirou’s waltz flash should have been lol

/

what keeps this fight from being absolutely perfect is lack of development prior to this conflict

(since the final battle arc is basically a culmination of all the hinted developments through the series, im going to actually factor in how much and how well these conflicts were foreshadowed)

anyways if we had actually seen zenitsu, kaigaku, and kuwajima actually interacting with each other and showing how they were essentially a family (not just through flashbacks), it would have made zenitsu placing the responsibility of killing kai onto himself a lot more tragic

but like, apart from brief flashbacks where zenitsu actually met kaigaku off screen and that one thing all the way back in natagumo where both kuwajima and kai were introduced, thats pretty much it in terms of thunder family development

so yeah its underdeveloped for sure

also one random thought, i personally think zenitsu should have gotten his demon mark in this fight, it would have been cool to see

VS AKAZA (INFINITY FORTRESS)

[Image Description: Manga panel of Akaza’s face. There are two text bubbles around him, saying “Okay, let’s get started. It’s time for the feast.” There is also floating text saying “The inspection of the strong has begun...” as well as a simple box on the lower left, denoting its the end of chapter 147. End Image Description.]

6/10

oh god please dont hate me for this

ill list the good things first how about that

this conflict was foreshadowed perfectly in mugen train, you bet the readers were expecting a tanjirou vs akaza battle after the death of kyojuro and gotouge delivered

akaza’s power is shown extremely well with how many close calls tanjirou and giyuu had while fighting him

akaza eventually giving up on his own volition was really nice and fit into the context of the battle very very well, like sure tanjirou and giyuu wouldnt understand why he gave up but us readers do know

akaza is a really good character and a good villain

/

now notice how im only mentioning akaza and not giyuu or tanjirou in the good aspects

bc those two are eh

no form mixing at all from either tanjirou and giyuu

i know i said form mixing was kind of tanjirou’s thing but you’d think giyuu would have gotten more creative with his moves once akaza said that he was getting predictable

(well he said he “ran out of water breathing forms” but same thing)

so its kinda bland lol

speaking of giyuu, his whole thing with his insecurities of being weak wasnt handled well (it was sort of immediately brushed off in pillar training, and its unclear what part of his character arc he was in)

like sure him announcing that he’s going to protect tanjirou is cool but it feels like he was haphazardly dropped into the tanjirou and akaza conflict

isnt he supposed to be both their foils? that wasnt really explored that well in this fight and theres no deep meaning behind him even being here just analyzing what he did in it

he could have been handled better or even given more focus is what im saying

the anatta state came out of nowhere, im sorry okay? just bc inosuke like barely hinted at not being able to sense grandma hisa bc she had no fighting spirit and tanjurou magically taught his son how to achieve this state doesnt mean it was properly integrated into the fight

if the anatta state was actually explored prior to this battle, i would have given it a pass but it just feels like a cheap and poorly developed trick to get around akaza’s technique development (which is overpowered as fuck might i add)

gotouge should have just given akaza a plausible weakness to his technique development instead, especially since they dont use or even mention the anatta state after this

the transparent world shit makes no sense but ill elaborate on that in the koku battle analysis

oh and this thing doesnt affect the score but why wasnt there a “yoriichi visage overlapping” moment when tanjirou was fighting akaza? hes an upper moon, he should have gotten those visions but he didnt

for some reason

anyways this battle was alright and has good set up but the middle and end parts didnt hold up as well bc random concepts were thrown at us without prior explanation or development

VS DOUMA

[Image Description: Manga panel of Douma licking Shinobu’s butterfly pin. There are two text bubbles around him saying “Anyway, tonight is a good night. Such fine feasts keep showing up one after another.” End Image Description.]

9/10

damn, such an amazing fight

the build up to this was properly foreshadowed

shinobu finally showing her true anger after hiding it for so long is amazing

douma is a super interesting character and fantastic villain

shinobu showing off her true power and determination against douma was sooooo nice

shinobu’s poisonous body plan is so clever and so interesting

if i was to rate the shinobu part of the fight alone, it would have gotten a 10/10 no question

the reason why its knocked down a point is because of the kanao and inosuke part

dont get me wrong, the way kanao is able to hold her own against douma by herself is pretty cool, how shes meant to parallel douma with their similar struggles surrounding human emotions and demonstrate how she has grown as a person, how she regains the ability to cry

that shit is cool, inosuke also getting in touch with his emotions after learning what happened to his mom was super neat as well

however

bc this battle takes place in the final arc with everything else, there wasnt proper build up regarding many things, the kotoha reveal especially

so inosuke feels kinda forced into the kanao shinobu and douma conflict, similar to how giyuu felt forced into the tanjirou and akaza conflict

its quite unfortunate bc if the kotoha stuff was actually explored prior to the confrontation, this “forced” feeling would have disappeared

i know some people have suggested that the douma fight should have just been its own arc, and i very much agree, it would have certainly helped fix this problem regarding inosuke and kotoha

last random thought, i wish shinobu, kanao, and inosuke got their demon marks

VS KOKUSHIBOU

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kokushibou looking directly at the viewer, holding the hilt of his blade as if he’s going to pull it out. There are text boxes around him saying “This... is Upper Moon One... He’s so different compared to the other Upper Moons. He looks so dignified and majestic.” The text boxes are narrated by Tokitou Muichirou. End Image Description.]

5/10

this fight is... mediocre

at least theres a more tangible connection between muichirou and kokushibou

even though that was handled kinda poorly

tbh there really was no point to revealing that mui is koku’s descendant like at all, it just had no significant bearing to the plot of the fight

sanemi’s backstory being here is... okay ig?

idk the whole shinazugawa conflict has fundamental problems that i just cant think of any other place to put it without changing the entirety of canon

the marechi blood concept coming back was nice though

genya is there

him getting his bda was cool and helped turn the tide of the battle in a satisfying way (before kicking the bucket but thats not the focus here)

gyomei is a hollow husk of a character who barely got anything at all

but his fighting style is extremely cool and conveys his immense power very well

oh and him and sanemi are amazing at working together, like better than giyuu and tanjirou, and better than kanao and inosuke

theyre that good yet pretty much nobody acknowledges it which is sad

koku himself is pretty interesting and pretty tragic, very nice villain

but everyone together?

gonna be honest but this is such a random collection of characters, there was basically no foreshadowing that these four were going to go up again kokushibou, they are not that connected very well

i know there was this one post that focused on the theme of family that was common in all 5 characters in the fight but its just not enough

it would have been more cohesive if gotouge emphasized gyomei, mui, sanemi, and genya being like different aspects of yoriichi coming together to kill kokushibou hundreds of years after yoriichi failed to kill him

lmao its not like the 4 of them defeated koku with the power of family or friendship, they just smacked him over and over with a flail, shot him with magical bullets, and stabbed a crimson sword into his abdomen

wouldnt have been too hard to switch over to koku’s pov and go “damn these bitches are like my stupid brother”

...

speaking of crimson swords

i fucking hate the crimson sword concept oh my god can i complain about it now? im gonna complain about it now

unlike demon marks, the crimson blades werent even given any proper conditions, you just hold the stupid thing hard enough and it somehow imbues it with magical properties with no logic behind those properties

what part of crimson swords completely destroys a demon’s body in an instant? even muzan didnt go through that process when he was almost killed by yoriichi so where in the goddamn fuck did it come from

it could be explained bc the sword was left in the same spot for a long time but this tactic doesnt even appear again in a meaningful way (didnt kill muzan when tanjirou and giyuu held the sword together) so what the fuck was the point of having this even exist

its so underdeveloped and confusing and i hate it

the transparent world stuff is also confusing as shit and its pretty much never explained how they work aside from the vague “close your mind” advice, like why did it exist, it did nothing to help the present day demon slayers

its just so... poorly integrated

yeah anyways this is around the same rating as the akaza fight but a little worse bc there wasnt that strong set up beforehand

VS KOKUSHIBOU (SENGOKU ERA)

[Image Description: Manga panel of a bag getting ripped open, pieces of a wooden flute tumbling out. End Image Description.]

10/10

easily 10/10

this fight shows the tragedy of kokushibou giving in to his envy and hatred, when yoriichi cries over seeing his own family commit terrible attrocities against the people he wanted to protect

and yoriichi dies, now carrying the fact that he couldnt even save his own brother from the influence of muzan on his conscious forever

what a sad ending for yoriichi

and after koku angrily slashes apart yoriichi’s corpse, having him find and keep the flute he gave to him when they were kids to the present day gives him a small shred of humanity in the midst of his monstrous anger

VS NAKIME

[Image Description: Manga panels of Nakime. The first one shows a low quality version of her playing her biwa. The second one is a close up of her eye. There are spiky text bubbles saying “It’s Upper Rank... 4!” End Image Description.]

0/10

no nakime backstory

not even a goddamn fight

forgettable

useless

VS MUZAN

[Image Description: Manga panel of Kibutsuji Muzan in his white-haired, mouth-covered form. There are text bubbles around him saying “Not a single one was of use to me. I will crush the demon hunters tonight. I’ll massacre them all right now.” End Image Description.]

1/10

._.

i have many complaints but ill try my best to not make this another hantengu rant section lol

first off, obanai deserved better

im serious, this poor dude was forgotten until pretty much the end when we finally get a backstory out of him

and then he died

what a waste of a potentially amazing character

mitsuri getting taken out early was ehhh

pretty sure someone else made a post about her supposedly being extremely strong but she was nerfed in this battle which i agree with

literally none of the pillars work together very well, like remember how i praised sanemi and gyomei for being super coordinated? lmao that doesnt exist anymore

you could say this is caused by desperation though and you wouldnt be wrong, its just boring to sit through

that causes issues bc this now basically requires the crimson sword and transparent world concepts to be there to spice things up

but in this fight, they do nothing in the long run (except for tanjirou using the crimson sword at the very very end)

youve already heard me talk about why those two things are super shittily integrated and i cant be bothered repeating myself so moving on

kanao, inosuke, and zenitsu

they... exist? they didnt do much tbh, which i guess is the point but like, now its boring again

nezuko could have been used as a potential way to raise the stakes and make things interesting again (like “ah shit, muzan might actually be unkillable if he gets nezuko but its okay bc shes not here- oh fuck shes here this is not good”)

but nothing came of her running off except confirmation that she became human again so whatever

uzui and shinjuro are useless, why werent they at the fight?

like they could have followed nezuko and contributed to the battle even a little but they just didnt and now theres literally no point to them appearing in this arc at all

wasted potential

tanjirou

i wish him going absolutely apeshit had actual substance behind it, like it being a part of his character arc or something

i remember having this one theory that he had a corruption arc (due to dropping his kindness thing towards demons) and i wanted this to be true so badly

but it doesnt exist

not with how the series ended

god

the only thing that saves this fight from being complete trash is tamayo’s poison thing being amazingly executed

and the part where everyone got blasted away, losing limbs and shit, that made things a little more interesting again

but thats it

VS MUZAN (SENGOKU ERA)

[Image Description: Manga panels of Kibutsuji Muzan, Tamayo, and Tsugikuni Yoriichi. The first one has Muzan and Tamayo, while the second one has Yoriichi pulling out his sword. There are text boxes saying “And the moment I met him, I understood that I was born into this world to defeat this man.” End Image Description.]

9/10

finally something good again

while short, that’s just the nature of all of yoriichi’s battles with demons

anyways pretty nice, theres a clear reason why this battle exists (shows the scenario that made the original breather get super close to defeating muzan in detail)

adding tamayo here was a nice touch

my only complaint is that it seemed extremely coincidental that yoriichi somehow developed a breathing style specifically countering muzan’s multiple organs without even knowing prior that he had all those brains and hearts floating around freely in his body

like thats kind of ridiculous, even for yoriichi whos supposed to be “blessed by the gods”

could just be me though

VS TANJIROU

[Image Description: Manga panels of Kamado Tanjirou in his demon form. The first image has his eyes closed. The second image has his eyes opened and the tumor on his face almost completely faded. There are text boxes around him saying “You will destroy the demon hunters in my stead.” End Image Description.]

1/10

hoo boy

ok first off, demon tanjirou lasted for 2 chapters

thats it

2 chapters

so thats already a problem

i am aware its meant to parallel the beginning of the series but also its ridiculous how completely vague and rushed this entire thing was

nezuko doesnt do shit through not just this battle but this entire arc which i already explained so not gonna go into it further

kanao magically having a demon cure on her made very little sense

the scene where tanjirou leaves muzan in purgatory is pretty but if you look at it in the context of everything else, its ambiguous and confusing

(if someone could explain it and see how it connects to the original theme of “demons just being victims of circumstance,” i would love to hear it)

/

actually you know what makes me so mad about this “fight” as a whole? there was so much potential to do more with this concept

and im not talking about him escaping and nezuko becoming a demon slayer roleswap au (even though its a pretty cool concept)

him becoming a demon could have been a metaphor for his lost kindness and sympathy towards demons halfway through the series

it could have been a punishment for letting his anger towards muzan cloud his judgement

it could have symbolized literally anything about him losing his humanity as he got stronger

but those three things are just scenarios from my head, they dont exist in this series just based off of what weve seen from these two chapters

its disappointing

the only thing keeping this from getting a 0 is the one part where inosuke couldnt chop off tanjirou’s head bc he cared about him too much

that at least shows inosuke had grown as a character

everything else is just meaningless and convoluted garbage and “convoluted” is not what you should be aiming for if this is supposed to be the ending of your series

IN SUMMARY

early kny is very good, later kny is questionable and the ending is just a mess of wasted potential and disappointment

i get why gotouge had to have the transparent world ability, crimson blade ability, and the demon marks appear before they all appeared on yoriichi but theyre all just so underdeveloped and terribly handled in the battles they are used, it makes me want to kick a wall

like lmao, i could literally think of so many ways they could have been properly integrated, hell, im even writing a whole goddamn rewrite using my ideas for these three things (link to that is in my pinned)

just, god

if you want to debate over these ratings, my ask box is open ig? idk

[feralnumberfive]

The Rewatch Academy: Episode 3 of Season 1

“Extra Ordinary”

I am in no way a good analyst so my little analysis and speculations probably sound a bit goofy or pretty wild and probably mean nothing at all. Everything I put into this post about each episode is purely what I noticed or thought, whether it's funny or serious. I will be making jokes, so please just leave it at that (in no way am I trying to make fun of an actor and or character!) I am also in no way saying I noticed this stuff first. This is just what I noticed while rewatching these episodes

☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ 

1x01 | 1x02 | 1x03 | 1x04 |

☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂

☂ First off I’d like to say that this is one of my favorite episodes of this season. It’s just soooo good

☂ The second comic book in the window features the Televator from the actual comics, so that has to be canon in the show! Also at the time that that second comic came out, Five had already left since we don’t see him on the cover

☂ It’d be cool if they actually printed Vanya’s book for fans to read

☂ Well Diego isn’t wrong when he called Hazel and Cha Cha animals because of their masks

☂ Honestly I feel Vanya’s struggle with chair placement. I’ve fortunately had the luck of playing in all three clarinet chair placements, but 1st chair is challenging. I personally found each placement very fun to play, especially 3rd, and I hope Vanya does too! (why am I talking like she’s real)

☂ Hazel talks about people living ordinary lives, but didn’t he live like that too at one point? How does The Commission recruit people? If they get ordinary people, do they wipe their memories of their previous lives?

☂ “Let’s see’em get out from behind their desks, get their hands dirty for once.” Well Hazel, Five does indeed do this even though he only had a desk job for a day. Still, he got to experience both worlds

☂ My mind is blanking on this, but how did Five get that cut on his arm? Was it from a bullet wound at Gimbel’s? 

☂ Five must have a high pain tolerance to stitch his own wound but his bandaid probably wouldn’t stick due to the wet blood he slapped it over. Five sweetie you need a cotton pad and gauze for that one

☂ Wait, you’re telling me that The Umbrella Academy boys’ top uniform consists of a tank top, a white dress shirt, a tie, a sweater vest, and then the blazer? Someone asked Reginald what he wanted for the uniforms and he just said “Yes.”

☂ Five: *puts hands in pockets only to immediately take them out*

☂ Aidan almost sounds like he has an accent when he says “I'm done funding your drug habit.” 

☂ Five’s so soft talking to his wife

☂ No Leonard, your bread and butter is being a creep

☂ Also, he thinks wood carving is embarrassing? If someone came up to me and showed me something they carved out of wood I would be so jealous cause it’s such a neat form of art

☂ Leonard saying that he carved wood, and in that case wooden figures, when he was a kid is a slight foreshadow of all of his tampering with his Umbrella Academy figures. He can make wooden figures but he’s also destroyed a handful of the Hargreeves figures 

☂ “Never really did like The Beatles.” Well sir you’ve made me dislike you even more

☂ Vanya asking Allison if her siblings wanted her at the family meeting bugs me a bit. I absolutely get that she was literally left out of anything and everything that had to do with her siblings when she was younger, but Allison just asked her to come back home for a family meeting. Allison wouldn't have walked around looking for Vanya only to tell her that they were having a family meeting and that she wasn’t actually invited. Allison is including her in on a family meeting but Vanya is just in a bit of disbelief that she’s being included

☂ Ah yes, the only PTSD flashback for Five we see in the show! He looks so scared when he snaps out of it. I believe it was somehow triggered by the kids (I could be wrong) but do you think Five sometimes panics when he looks at himself in the mirror now since his body is the same age it was when he got stuck? Also it’s very subtle but when Luther opens the door, Five slightly jerks/flinches back. I wish we would see more of this in the show since it’s one of his major traumas

☂ “Does it matter? It’s Klaus.” Ouch! Well Five I hope you know that your siblings are somewhat thinking the same thing since they believe that you’ve lost your mind and are practically an old man crying “Apocalypse!” 

☂ Five does an ever so slight huff and smirk when Luther tells him that the meeting at the Academy is important. He finds it a little funny but so frustrating in his mind that Luther doesn’t know what’s truly important

☂ Also I love that Aidan has to turn to the side so that he can keep it together after Klaus talks about his chocolate pudding waxing. Either that or he’s portraying Five as being frustrated and in disbelief. Also this is the first time I’ve noticed that he says “Ay, ay ay...” 

☂ “We’re all you have. And you know it.” Oh Luther, you’re failing to see that that’s why he’s acting like this right now. He’s all frantic and crazed about trying to stop the apocalypse so that he can protect and save all that he has

☂ Five certainly is mad at Luther during his mini lecture. He’s clenching his jaw tightly and when he first speaks he hisses out the words through gritted teeth. He even called Luther by his number. He’s very impatient at this point and doesn’t care for Luther’s act of attempting to be a leader

☂ This is their first, and certainly not last, time watching Klaus go by in front of them doing something he shouldn’t be doing

☂ “You haven’t been home in a long time, Vanya.” Sir you were also just on the moon for four years. Yeah Vanya was away for a long time but Grace easily could have changed too during the four years you were gone

☂ How sweet, even though Five hasn’t really been home they want to include him in on the family vote :]

☂ I’ve noticed that in S1 that David really mumbles his lines. A lot

☂ I wish we got more flashbacks of the younger Umbrellas

☂ Diego my beloved mama’s boy ♥️

☂ It’s confusing as to which country TUA takes place in, but it’s really not supposed to be a specific one. It’s portrayed as being in North America, but you can see behind Cha Cha when she gets out of the car at the Academy the flag of the RAF, which Canada would have at a monument since it’s a Commonwealth country. At the same time though Delores came from Gimbels, which was a department store chain across the U.S

☂ The light above Five’s portrait is slightly crooked, which probably means no one has really been paying attention to it

☂ It makes me nervous that Klaus wipes bubbles onto his face. It looks like he got some in his eyes

☂ Ugh I love the whole scene of Hazel and Cha Cha walking around the Academy with “We’re Through” playing

☂ Diego: *has knives but instead chooses to punch and hit Hazel to try to make him let go of Allison”

☂ A rope-a-dope is a boxing tactic of pretending to be trapped against the ropes, goading an opponent to throw tiring ineffective punches. Diego sweetie Hazel wasn’t even trying to get you off of him all he was doing was choking Allison. The only person who got tired was probably you

☂ What’s the point in Diego yelling “Luther, go!” if he’s already going 💀

☂ Luther was there immediately when Hazel attacked Vanya. That means that Luther heard Vanya and was going to go get her to safety

☂ I will never stop signing my praise for the entirety of the “Sinnerman” fight scene(s). It gives me chills every single time. Easily one of the best scenes in all of the show

☂ Klaus must really have his music blasting if he can’t hear the gun shots right next to him

☂ I’ve always wondered if Allison actually registered in her mind that “The boy” is Five when Cha Cha says that’s who they’re looking for. Either she does realize that’s Five, is simply just angry that those two are looking for a boy, or registers in her mind that it’s Five through his superhero codename even though Cha Cha’s not referring to him in that way

☂ Diego is full on just standing in the background watching Allison get beat up by Cha Cha 🕴

☂ I love Diego’s little hand flap when he gets hit in the hand fighting Cha Cha

☂ Okay so I make everything about Five, but the whole Cha Cha fight scene with Allison and then Diego kind of scares me. Cha Cha and Hazel are both amazing assassins (they’re both probably right below Five) and neither Allison nor Diego could stop her by themselves. Could you imagine Five fighting one of his siblings? Especially with his spatial jumps? We already got a glimpse of his true combat skills when he fights Lila in S2. What a scary little old man

☂ “Vanya, get out of here!” Again, wanting to make sure that Vanya is safe and gets away. He even tried to go look for her

☂ Something I don’t really get about the Hazel and Luther fight is why doesn’t Luther just overpower him? Luther has super strength and on top of that he has giant muscles due to the gorilla DNA. Shouldn’t he be able to beat Hazel to a pulp? Maybe we have to consider that Hazel might have been altered by The Commission to be stronger and more durable, but they haven’t mentioned that in the show

☂ “Ah, you gotta cut down on that fast food, soldier.” What are you talking about Diego he literally just got off the moon two days ago aflksjfdk

☂ So Luther was too injured to jump out of the way of the chandelier but was able to push it up off of himself? 🤔

☂ I personally think that Luther’s body design adaptation for the show is really cool and that they gave him the perfect amount of bulk without making him look ridiculous

☂ This has been pointed out before, but cross-stitch foreshadowing, baby 

☂ Again, Diego my beloved mama’s boy ♥️

☂ Well at least Diego thought about Vanya dying before thinking about his siblings dying because of her. The latter is ironic!

☂ The clock above Luther’s mirror reads approximately 1:30 am. Hazel and Cha Cha didn’t want to wait until morning

☂ I wonder how different it would be if Five was present at the Academy when Hazel and Cha Cha attacked. He probably would have surrendered himself to them, but it's fun to entertain the idea that he would go apeshit if he knew that they were harming his family in order to find him

☂☂☂☂☂☂☂

Feel free to comment or reblog with things you have noticed too!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Marital Discord

Warnings: noncon/dubcon (rough sex, toy, fingering).

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader finds her marriage falling apart; Bucky’s never home and when he is, he’s not really there, but he’s not as aloof as he seems to be.

Note: Alright, we finished Summertime Sadness, I gotta figure out HSB and my other few series that need to be tied up. Hopefully by my one year mark we have some new ones in swing. Thank you. Love you guys!

Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3

The front door clicked and you lifted your head. You scrolled up quickly on the tablet and hit sign out. You locked it and pushed it against the wall in hopes it would go unnoticed. You grabbed the oven mitt and rushed over to the stove. You opened it and pretended to check on the roast inside, lifting the lid of the pan to glance over the darkening meat.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice was dull as you heard him enter the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Thanks,” You stood and removed the glove and tossed it on the counter. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He narrowed his eyes but the tension quickly left his face. “Skipped training,” He shrugged. “Just wanted to… relax.”

“Oh,” You nodded.

Relax. Alone. He didn’t need to say it. That was just how things were these days. He was monotone, bored. So were you. He came home late most nights. You were already in bed. He didn’t bother to wake you. Didn’t think to. And when you were awake, he barely spoke to you. Even when he was right beside you, it was as if he wasn’t there. How had it come to this?

Three years of marriage and the ring chafed on your finger. Your relationship had begun when he started talking and it would look to end as his words turned again to silence. He no longer told you about his day, just grumbled when you asked about it. He kissed your cheek diligently but not out of love. And he hadn’t fucked you in months.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. You were sweet to him. Tried to be. But he echoed your ‘love yous’ like a child reciting their homework. And he bristled when you touched him. And so you stopped. You let him be. Small talk and tense silences. That was all that remained between you.

“Hungry?” You asked. 

You leaned on the island between you as your thighs rubbed together. You were wet. You had been halfway through a particularly fiery fic when he arrived. You hoped you could find it again later.

“Sure,” He said. “Is it almost ready?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” You replied.

“Ok,” He stretched his shoulders. “Let me know.”

“Of course, babe,” You smiled. He didn’t.

You watched him disappear into the living room and the tv flicked on. Baseball commentators sounded over the drone of the crowd. You sighed and turned back to the counter. He’d eat his dinner in front of the screen again. His eyes would cling to it as if you weren’t even there. You took out two plates and some cutler. You looked to the stove timer and the seconds ticked by slowly.

You reached for the tablet again. You peeked at the door though you knew he wouldn’t appear again. You punched in your code and reopened the app. You signed in and scrolled through your dashboard until you found it again. You found your spot and leaned in the crook of the counter as you began to read.

‘He held her. No, clung to her. She was everything he needed and his love was laced with that inherent fear, the knowing, that one day, she would be gone. He kissed her like it was their first, like it was their last. Her touch left fire across his skin as she traced the line of hair that led to his--”

The fridge opened and you looked up with wide eyes. You hit lock on the tablet and set it down softly as you turned to watch Bucky pull a beer out from the fridge. He popped the cap off with his vibranium thumb and tossed it in the bin. He barely looked at you but his eyes didn’t miss the tablet face down beside you. You turned before he could see your guilt.

You listened to him retreat back to the living room. You shook your head; at him, at yourself. Why should you feel guilty? He was neglecting you. You weren’t his wife anymore, you were a burden. So why shouldn’t you find solace in words? That’s all they were. Why shouldn’t you pull out that buzzing toy when he was gone and grasp at that fleeting release? Why should you try when he wouldn’t?

The timer beeped three times and you shoved the tablet back against the wall. You turned off the oven and opened it up. You lifted out the large roasting pan and set it on the stove. You focused on the aroma. You were suddenly very hungry. You took a carving knife and set to work.

Just another night alone.

💍

Bucky knew she was lonely. He was too. And he tried to try but he couldn’t. Not since that night. Not since…

He didn’t even want to think about it. It was the last time he touched her on his own accord. He was too embarrassed to try again. He could blame it on the stress, on the lingering scars of the past, on all that he felt mounted on his shoulders, but he couldn’t help but feel it was just him. His own inadequacy. The fear that he could never truly make her happy. That he could never truly be happy.

She had said goodnight twenty minutes ago. He echoed her words and glanced over at her briefly. She had her phone in her hand, the screen black, though she held it tightly. He waited for her to kiss his cheek as she did every night. She didn’t. He watched her go and his chest tightened. It was over. It was really over.

He flipped through the channels absently as his mind returned to that night. They were on the very couch he sat on. She was atop him, her mouth on his, her hips rocked as she teased him through his jeans. A whole hour of fooling around like teenagers and he was still soft. He wanted her but his body just wouldn’t respond. 

When she tried to undo his fly, he pushed her away. He didn’t mean to be so abrupt but he also didn’t know how to say it. It’s not you, it’s me. He hated that empty cliche. He apologized but was otherwise speechless. He’d left her there and waited until she went to bed to come out of hiding. He slept in the recliner.

He sat forward and held his head as he thought back on it He just couldn’t find the courage to talk to her about it. To fix this thing. He was a coward. And he let her down just like he had everyone else. 

He slid his metal fingers along his bottom lip as he thought. He closed his eyes and saw that peculiar expression on her face. The way she had looked at him in the kitchen earlier. He knew guilt when he saw it. Recognized the shame he felt so deeply. And more. She had a secret. She’d never had secrets before.

His mind strayed to the tablet, to the phone gripped in her fingers. That had to be it. She was talking to someone else. Could he blame her? Well, yeah. She was his wife, his love, but hadn’t he pushed her to it? It didn’t matter. She was his. 

His blood boiled and he sat up as he thought about it. About this other faceless guy. The man taking her from him. His own shame, his own regret, slaked away and he was overwhelmed by his anger. He let out a growl and stood.

He went to the kitchen. The tablet was gone but she hadn’t had it with her. Maybe she’d already put it in the bedroom. He shook his head and paced the tiled floor. He returned to the living room but couldn’t sit. Well, maybe she was already asleep. He could sneak in and grab it.

He went to the hallway and listened. He didn’t hear anything. His eyes were drawn to a cord as he slowly began across the carpet. Her tablet was on the side table charging. He should’ve remembered. She always kept it there at night. She’d wake and take it with her on her way to the kitchen. She’d pore over the news as she drank her morning coffee. It had been a long time since he’d shared it with her.

His fingers grazed over the screen. He held his breath as he peeked over at the bedroom door. It was closed. He hesitated before he picked it up. He exhaled slowly and turned to stand with his back against the wall. He hit the button and the screen lit up. He typed in the four digit code; she hadn’t changed it. Was it careless or was it a sign of her innocence?

He looked down the hall again before he began to swipe through the apps. Her messenger was almost dead; a conversation with her mother, several with her friends, but nothing recent or suspicious. He opened the browser and checked the history; a few recipes, some articles, but again, nothing untoward. 

Then a notification popped up. ‘We found something you might like, sugar-plum-17.’ That was what he called her; sugar plum. She always cringed at the pet name but he adored that crinkle in her forehead. He blinked and hit the bubble before it could disappear.

He frowned as he scrolled through the post that came up. It was some story or another. He hit the back arrow and found her page. He dragged his finger up the screen. He read the comment she’d left on her last reblog. 

‘This was so hot. I’d love a rough ride, if you know what I mean? Can’t wait to see how dark this gets.’

His heart was racing. He swiped back up and hit keep reading on the original post. His eyes glossed over until they caught on a particular passage.

‘This stranger knew her and yet she knew nothing of him. Not his face, not his voice, not his scent, only his touch. Rough and demanding. He held her hands in one of his as he pinned her beneath him. The mask hid all but a pair of bright blue eyes. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and moved up her body to keep her arms in place. He wrapped the black fabric around her eyes.’

He stopped and looked up at the wall. The words were burned into his mind. He was stunned. She liked this? He looked back to the tablet and continued to read. The scene was graphic and he found the heat crawling up his spine and into his cheeks. When he got to the end, he was hard. And shocked.

He hadn’t had an erection since before that last time. He had tried anything and everything but nothing. And now he was so hard it hurt. He wanted her. Too bad, she didn’t want him.

He closed out of the app and set the tablet back down. He braced himself as he walked down the hall. Maybe he could apologize. He’d wake her up and explain it all. His fear, his embarrassment, his stupidity. He stopped by the door and leaned against it, his hand on the knob. He couldn’t turn it as a noise from the other side held him in place.

There was a low buzz mingled with her heady breaths. Soft moans muffled and strained. He knew what she was doing. His cock twitched and he pressed his hand to the front of his jeans. He listened intently through the wood. She was getting close. He rubbed himself through the denim and she squeaked and gasped. She had cum but he couldn’t. No, he had to wait.

He drew away from the door as the buzzing stopped and quickly retreated down the hall. He went to the living room and grasped the back of the couch as he hung his head and thought. This had to end. This interminable stalemate. And he knew just how to draw out a truce.

💍

The house was terribly empty. Having Bucky home, even as a shell, was preferable to not at all. He texted you earlier to tell you he would be away for a couple days. Last minute mission in Prague. There wasn’t much you could say. It was a good excuse for him not to face you. His work was always a convenient out.

You made sure to lock up the house before you settled down in bed. The usual; alone, snuggled up with your pillow against the headboard as you scrolled through your dashboard. A good fic and you’d be ready to sleep. Your bedtime work-out made sure of that.

You clicked on the newest fic by your favourite author. Another part in her twisted tale of a robber and his mark. The way her antagonist taunted her main character was chilling but delectable. The man behind the mask stalked her towards the line of insanity. His desires were more than monetary and entirely arousing.

You reached for the toy nestled against your leg atop the blanket. You were getting to the good part. You bit your lip and your thumb hovered over the button. You kept yourself from clicking it as you heard a creak. You sat up and set your phone aside, the vibe clutched in your hand. You listened; silence.

You laid back and reached for your phone. As you picked it up, you heard the familiar groan of the floorboard near the front door. You shot up and hit the phone icon. No signal, no wifi. You tried to reconnect, checked that you hadn’t hit airplane mode unknowingly, but nothing. It had been working a minute ago.

You didn’t hear anything else. You hung your legs over the edge of the bed and assured yourself it was all in your head. You stood and neared the door. You’d go out and confirm your paranoia then sleep before it got the best of you.

You stepped out into the hall. You peered down the living room than to the bathroom. You slowly made your way to the former and looked around. Just the shadows of furniture and dim glare of street lights through the window. You shook your head at yourself and turned back.

As you did, a darkness suddenly enshrouded you from behind. You barely had time to react as strong arms surrounded you. You thrashed out and yelped as you were dragged backwards. Your phone slipped from your hand and the vibe clicked on in your panic. You kicked and flailed as you struggled to escape the intruder.

His hand wrapped around yours as his arm tightened around your waist. He turned you with him and dragged you around the couch. He pried your fingers from the toy and took it in his own. He chuckled and spun you away from him. He shoved you roughly and you fell onto the cushions.

“Please--” You begged. Was this your karma? Maybe a nightmare all too vivid to escape? It couldn’t be… real.

“Shut up,” His voice was gristly beneath his mask. “This what you like?”

He held up the you, still buzzing, and you tried to stand. He caught your shoulder and pushed you back down. His hand slid to your throat and he bent over you, his breath seeped through his mask and against your temple.

“Stay.” He snarled. “Or I’ll hogtie you with your own panties.”

You whimpered and his other hand pressed the vibe along your chest and rolled it down your stomach. He slid his fingers beneath the elastic of your pajamas and forced his hand between your legs. The toy glided too easily between your folds. You gasped.

“Ah…” He snickered at your lack of underwear. “Well, I can always figure something out.”

“What do you want?” You breathed.

“What do you want?” He countered as he angled the vibe against your clit. “I think I can guess actually.”

“There’s a safe--”

“We’ll get to that… once I’ve had my fun,” He snarled. “Doesn’t seem like you need much help.”

The toy was slippery in his gloved hand and you trembled as his fingers squeezed your throat and he pushed you harder against the couch. He cradled the toy with his palm and slipped a finger inside you. You squeaked and he shoved another past your entrance. He moved his hand steadily as he pressed his masked cheek to yours.

“That’s it,” He purred. “You like that?”

You tried to shake your head and sobbed. You did. To your disgust, you did.

“Where’s your husband, hmm?” He asked. “Leaving a thing like you all alone.”

“My husband?” You wisped.

“A lot of shoes for one man.” He remarked. “Lined so neatly by the door. Was that you? Such a sweet little housewife.”

You nodded and gulped. Your thighs were tingling and your core glowing. You thoughtlessly grabbed the wrist of the hand at your throat and tilted your hips. You panted. His touch felt familiar and strange all at once. It had been so long that even the roughest touch could make you shudder.

“Cum for me,” He growled against your cheek. “You can try to fight it but we both know… you can’t.”

Your thighs closed around his hand and you spasmed. Your moan was strangled by his hand. You slapped at his shoulder as you orgasmed and pushed against the cushion behind you. He released you suddenly and you sank into the couch as he pulled his hand away.

“So…” He undid his fly. “You gonna play along or do I need to go find one of your husband’s belts? Wouldn’t that be hot?”

You shook and hung your head. He pushed his fly apart. “Get undressed.” He ordered.

You sniffed and stood carefully, afraid to provoke him. You pulled your tank top over your head and shimmied out of your pajama pants, the remnants of your arousal dampened the fabric. You gulped as you looked up at the stranger. His hand was in his pants, stroking himself.

“Turn around,” He sneered. “Up on the couch… on your knees.” You glanced around and he stepped closer. “Try it.” He challenged. 

You blanched at him and turned reluctantly. You neared the couch and climbed up. You braced the back of it and closed your eyes. You sensed him behind you. His gloved hand caressed your neck and tickled along your shoulder. He trailed down your back and his fingers hooked around your hip. He pulled you back until your knees were at the edge of the couch and you were slightly bent.

He slapped your ass and pinched it sharply. You cried out. “Shut up!” He growled. “You don’t want the neighbours to hear, do you?” He spanked you again. “Gossip travels quickly.”

You gritted your teeth and hissed. His cock touched your ass and he rubbed it along your skin. A line of precum left across your cheek. You dug your nails into the couch as he guided his tip lower and squeezed your hip until you arched your back. He slickened himself with your juices and lingered at your entrance.

He bent over you as his hand slipped from your hip and he felt around for your clit. As he teased you with his fingertips, he sank into you, his stomach firm against your back. You moaned and slapped your hand over your mouth. He hummed.

“That’s right. Nice and quiet,” He nuzzled your hair as he began to thrust. “Fuck…”

He groaned and continued to play with your bud. The sharp teeth of his zipper dug unto you with each thrust. Your breath hitched and you moved your body in tandem with his. You didn’t realize you were doing it until you were biting down on your knuckles and the sounds of fucking filled your ears. 

His other hand returned to your throat. He stood and pulled you back. You grasped at his hand as he sped up. He jolted your whole body as you balanced precariously on your knees. His grunts swirled around you and your moans were barely stifled by your own hand. 

You were carried away by the sheer pleasure. It was as if your body couldn’t handle it. Your mind was smokey and your vision a blur. The snarls sounded more and more familiar as they grew louder. You reached back and gripped the man’s thigh as you met your peak suddenly. You swallowed back the whine and your walls twitched around him.

“That’s it,” He purred.

He pushed you up against the back of the couch and climbed up behind you, his knees between yours. He pounded into you and his hand left your clit as he reached up. He didn’t waver as he pulled off his mask and held it out before you. He swore as the gristle left his voice and he came in you.

He leaned against you as he stilled and nibbled at your ear. He kissed your cheek and his hand fell from your throat. He dragged his nose along your temple and chuckled.

“Is that what you like, sugar plum?” Bucky’s voice cut through the haze of your thoughts.

[isuspectyouhavefantheories]

Search for the Sun 🌞

So this is Part 2 of “the Sun” series.

Part 1 found : https://isuspectyouhavefantheories.tumblr.com/post/640838971892662272/the-crossroads-to-the-sun here!

Ok so, NSFW, I can’t figure out how to make this appear shorter or have it appear under the cut cus mobile Tumblr sucks eggs. You heard me.

Takemura/Female V fic

Rated MA, for mature, sexual themes, read at own risk.

—————————————-

Somewhere in the Mojave....

“We need a new carburettor for this thing V and someone’s gonna have to re-solder this whole board before we can even do that! We aren’t going to be getting our cargo vans very far like.” Saul sighed, closing the hood of the large van with a heavy thud as he wiped the grease and dust from his hands. His expression was his usual deeply worried frown and she noticed how even as he wiped his hands clean they remained oil stained and grubby. He’d been toiling over engines all day, putting one fire out after another.

“I’ll see what Mitch and I can do but it’s gonna take a little while. We’re already trying to get a handle on repairs to the solar panels and honestly that’s the thing I want to make sure we have fixed before night fall. We can stop for the night, recuperate.” She gave him a pointed look that he only waived off. “I’ll fix up the vans in the morning and we can get going after. We have some time before the next storm, quit your worrying.” V offered, punching his arm lightly, Saul only smiled in return.

“How’d you end up being my second in command? I thought that was supposed to be Panam?” He chuckled.

“She’s got her hands full at the moment.”

“With?”

“Dick.”

Saul balked at her and V only waggled her eyebrows, nodding her head in the direction of a lightly rocking AV on the outskirts of camp.

“Incidentally, his name is also Dick.” She chuckled.

“God damnit, PANAM!” She watched in mild amusement as Saul stormed away toward the aforementioned vehicle to reprimand his second for her blatant public fornication. So she heaved herself forward, ignoring the mild ache in her body and forcing her legs and arms to continue obeying her. V decided that she would save herself the mental anguish of tangling with the solar grid and get out of camp for an hour at the least. Evidently fighting burning migraines and muscle spasms was trying at the best of times, especially when attempting to keep up with her duties to the clan.

She didn’t want to sit around and be a burden on them, regardless of Saul and Panam’s insistence on her getting more rest. In truth, she loathed inactivity, too much time to start thinking, or worse, listening to Johnny, who was still holding out the hope she was going to turn the clan around and storm Mikoshi instead of this slow shicide she had carved out for herself instead. The twilight hours were the worst, because there was nothing she could do, hours she had spent staring at her tent roof, only to give up and lay under the stars, at least then she had something to occupy her. It had been especially hard the last few nights and she had more than once woken to Saul staring down at her with a worried look she would wave off and tell him that really, she was fine, dusting the sand from her and continuing on with her day at camp.

She admired the location for what it was, they had chosen a decent spot for the camp and they had some useful vantage points. Any Raffen trying to get the jump on them would be in for a surprise, they’d see their asses a mile wide.

She pulled Evelyn’s cigarette case from her utility belt pocket, igniting it with a match she then shook out to extinguish as she breathed a long drag.

“Fuuuck.” Johnny groaned appreciatively.

“You’re welcome.” She laughed as she gazed at the expanse of the desert. It’s wild beauty marred by burnt out car wrecks and pile upon pile of garbage. Her eyes landed on yet another old ruined petrol station. She couldn’t help but let her mind wander back to the week previous. Her night with Takemura had been everything to her. Laying there in his arms, basking in the beautiful aftermath listening to him breath as he slept, watching the steady rise and fall of his partially plated chest. She had wanted nothing more in the world than to just stay there in that abandoned truck stop, for the rest of their lives they could be there and she’d have been the happiest woman alive. But as she stared down at his sleeping face she knew she was living a pipe dream.

He was loyal to the bone to Arasaka. She would never be enough, she could never pry those chains from him. Even knowing what she had told him, about Hanako and Saburo, she imagined he had dusted himself off the next morning and returned to his master tail between his legs like the well trained guard dog they made him into. Why wait until morning to watch him fumble and ruin a perfectly good fuck, one for the history books, by seeing him slink back to the clutches of the Emperor’s family? Just to feel the raw sting of his departure, the rejection in his blind obedience to the people that saw him only as a pawn to be played. No. She decided to rip the proverbial band aid off. She was a quiet and stealthy thief, expertly manoeuvring around him in silence and then pushing her thorton far enough out of ear shot from him then just... driving away. She had to admit, it was shitty. To just leave him there without so much as a goodbye. But she knew if she had waited it would have been another day of trying to convince him to let her go.

Or he might have even managed to convince you to go back to Arasaka.

Johnny’s interjection to her train of thought startled her and she watched him materialise, cigarette in hand, perching with his legs dangling from a delapidated hoodoo rock a few yards in front of her.

“I wouldn’t have gone with him Johnny. I wasn’t going to just let them shred you into bits, fuck man, gotta give me more credit than that.” She was annoyed he could even insinuate such a thing, especially given where they now stood.

“You didn’t take your blockers during your little roll around with Mr Miyagi.” He groaned and her cheeks immediately flushed a deep crimson. “I know you were thinking it for a moment there in the... aftermath.” He sighed, looking down at her from his perch.

He took off his aviators and pursed his lips as if he was about to say something pivotal to the narrative but more than likely just as irritating as his previous comment so he decidedly closed his mouth, thinking better of it and returning his gaze to the endless desert plains. The fact that she could read him so well now was not lost on her.

“I wasn’t going to let them hurt you. Believe it or not you’re my friend, Johnny.” He glanced down at her again and a smile attempted to tug at the corner of his lips but he put his shades back on and coughed into his closed fist to cover it up.

“Well thanks. I guess. Doesn’t matter now anyway. We’re done for as is I suppose.” He breathed out a plume of holographic smoke that seemed to float off into the desert. “But you’re still thinking about him.” He deadpanned, making her sigh in irritation.

“Look.. it just kills me because... Goro was my friend too. And now he’s...” she smoothed her hair back from her face, letting her hand slide to the nape of her neck and head drooping down to look at her weathered and scuffed steel toe boots, her tool belt slung across her hips, held together by the tied sleeves of her blue net running jumpsuit she had to wear half down due to being in the beating sun while working all day. She could see her skin was already blistered with another light sunburn but also some sun freckles newly blooming. Her hands, more calloused and rough now than in her entire career as an amateur merc. She frowned. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m here now Johnny. I know that I shouldn’t keep living in the past but... let me at least mourn. Please?”

“Alright, alright. I get it. Here, just take some advice from a guy who’s had to... leave behind a few broken hearts in his day. Get drunk. Get fucked. Get angry. Get over it. Always worked for me anyhow.” She rolled her eyes at the rocker boy, letting her hand fall to her side, taking the last drag of her cigarette wasn’t even appealing to her so she quickly flicked it away.

“Aw.” Johnny grumbled. “The cherry is the best bit!” He whined but she ignored him. V made to turn back to the camp but some faint movement along the horizon caught her eye. She pulled out her binoculars and got as close as she could to the slightly glimmering and fast approaching object. Upon closer inspection she realised it was a car. And not just any car.

His car.

She froze, glued to the vehicle rapidly approaching the camp.

What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

-———

He admitted to a small amount of apprehension about this move to approach head on as he pulled up alongside the Basilisk, giving it a long stare and praying silently to whatever gods were out there watching over him that he had found the right Nomad camp this time. He had already had to blast his way out of two raffen pits as of yesterday and wasn’t thrilled about the possibility of having to do so again.

A tap on his car window brought him from his thoughts and he rolled it down.

“What brings you here, friend?” Mitch asked, Saul and Panam on the sidelines, iron at the ready.

“I apologise for the intrusion. I mean you no harm, I am simply attempting to locate someone. A friend.” He explained.

“Who’s your friend?” Saul called after him.

“Her name is V.” The Nomads grew quiet, looking between each other. “Perhaps she has passed by here? Stopped for supplies?”

“Excuse me?” Panam sputtered.

“V doesn’t have ties to Arasaka anymore. Suggest you move on.” Saul moved closer to the car window, pushing past Mitch.

He leaned his arm against the top of the car door frame, letting his revolver rest against it in a menacing if threatening show of dominance. This here was the Aldecaldos stomping ground. And he’d be dead in the ground before he let some corpo asshole get their hands on V. Takemura’s eyes hardened a moment on the large nomad, his hands righting on the wheel now as he internally scanned the area with what limited tech he still had to work with. She searched for her signature but either his implants were all now truly offline or she wasn’t here.

“I am not with Arasaka.” Takemura thought he would feel pain at uttering those words, but if anything, each word made him feel lighter.

“Yeah sure. Just covered in Arasaka cyberware, driving around on Arasaka wheels, wearing a full on uniform for their security detail. Totally.” Panam quipped.

Takemura sighed.

“Anymore.” He amended, but the trio still eyed him sceptically, he felt it best he stayed in the car for now.

“Is she here?” He questioned, quickly surveying the camp to try and find her himself, a small kernel of hope planting in his chest as he looked through the small crowd that had gathered by them, hopeful to catch a glimpse of her but Saul’s hand reached out for him roughly, pulling him up to the open window by the front of his shirt with a resounding clunk.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at here but if you think for a second I’m just gonna let you-.”

“Saul. Stop. It’s cool.” Takemura’s head whipped over Saul’s shoulder to the source of the voice. His heart clenched painfully upon seeing V finally.

She was a vision. Almost like a beautiful mirage that had been conjured up by the desert heat and his possible dehydration but upon closer inspection he knew it had to be her. Her every freckle and scar burned into his memory, he would know here anywhere, even caked in soot and sand.

“V, come on, we don’t even know if he’s got people tailing him. We’ve already got our hands full with Militech for Christ’s sake, let’s not go adding to that pile.” Saul glared down, unconvinced by Takemura’s own words.

“I wouldn’t be saying this if I thought he was a danger. He’s not. Please just let me talk to him.” Saul groaned but he made the mistake of meeting her gaze and knew there was no telling her no so he released Goro and opened the door to the car.

“Out. Follow her.” Saul grumbled, hand still leaning against the top of the door, but before Takemura could step out funny a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Try and pull any funny shit though and I’ll drop your ass myself. No hesitation.” Takemura hadn’t realised just how big Saul was before but did not let that deter him.

“I will be sure to keep it in mind.” Goro responded in an uninterested tone, not really registering him, only focusing on V, before quickly making his way to her side. He reached out for her but she had already turned away and was walking up to a trailer, ascending a small flight of stairs before reaching the screen door. She threw him a look over her shoulder and motioned with her head for him to follow.

—————-

Once inside the privacy of the trailer V rounded on him, her eyes filled with confusion and anger.

“What the fuck, Goro?” She hissed. “Why are you here?”

He swallowed thickly, never realising that even through all his fighting to get back to her side, he had never even put his reasoning into words. And he had always had a defined reason for everything he did, it was something he was fucking known for. But now, standing here he couldn’t even begin to rationalise any of his actions, only that being here now already felt more right than anything in his life ever had. He opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish. She noticed his silence but was quickly distracted by his haggard appearance. Her eyes widened however at the lack of the dim lights on his cybernetics.

She reached for him cautiously, her fingertips brushing against the red outer wiring of his throat that no longer glowed with the hum of electronics and now simply shined in the dim light, essentially now just useless plastic.

“Your implants...” she whispered, tracing her finger down the line of the metal overlay of his neck and to the edge of his jaw, Goro watching her every motion with laser focus. “Why are they..?”

“They were deactivated when I failed to return a few days ago.” he wanted to reach for her, to touch her, that’s all he’s thought about day and night since she left him. “I was starting to think I was going to die out there before I found you.” He chuckled softly yet he inwardly savoured how close she was, her scent, near unchanged since their night together. The scent was now infused with a small background of motor oil now that clingged to her hands but it was strangely fitting for her.

“Why?” She whispered angrily at him, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

He raised his own hand now to weave with hers, holding it to his heart as he stared down at her with so much sureness, so much care and devotion that she felt unworthy.

“I defected, V.” Her eyes widened at him but still she said nothing. “I am... I can’t go back. If you only have a short time left, then... there isn’t anywhere else I want to be. I want to be here with you, I don’t want to miss a second of you ever again. I-.” He closed his eyes, terrified to see her reaction but was nearly sent spinning as she thrust herself without warning at him, her arms suddenly wrapping around his shoulders. His own arms instinctively wrapped around her, returning the embrace yet part of him still feared the worst.

Did she pity him? Is that why she said nothing? Was this her letting him down gently? She was always too kind for her own good.

“Goro... oh my god.” She breathed against him and he tightened his grip around her burying his face in her neck, breathing her in deeply. Feelings of peace, serenity, a meaning in his life he had been searching for ever since he escaped the slaughter house of Chiba-11. He thought that meaning was to serve those who had uplifted him from that barbaric place. But they didn’t save him. They used him.

It was this tiny trembling powerhouse of a woman that barrel assed her way into his life and irrevocably entangled herself with him, she had been the one who reignited his purpose. Opened his eyes and never lied to him. She had never left him behind. Only when she thought he was truly beyond her reach did she finally resign herself to letting him go.

But now, in the security of her arms, he knew he was never going to let that happen again.

“I can’t believe I finally found you...” he breathed, letting the feeling of her arms around him be engraved deeply in his heart, the lines on his face began slowly relaxing as he stroked the dip of her back gently.

V finally looked up at him and he swiped away some stray tears from her slightly flushed cheeks with a curled finger before caressing them in his hand fully. He stared down at her with an adoration she had never imagined him capable of, it felt to her as though she had never been truly seen before now and could only grasp his outstretched arm and reach for the back of his head pulling his face closer to hers when he finally moved forward, reuniting her lips with his in a passionate kiss. Her fingertips grazed over his jaw lightly, drawing a sigh from him and letting it meld into the kiss as he tried desperately to hold her closer.

She pulled back from him but his lips trailed after hers again, loathed to be parted from her just yet, but she placed two fingers on his lips to halt his pursuit and worry shot through him again.

“I think we should explain to the clan before Saul comes in here and decks you.” She chuckled, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek sweetly and he leaned into her touch, the sudden panic receeding, before smiling back at her and nodding. She made to move to the door, hand already pulling the handle open when his own grasped her free one and interlaced their fingers, grinning like a cat down at her.

“So they don’t shoot me on sight.” He joked, V could only huff lightly but her own smirk betrayed her feigned annoyance.

“Hush. Be nice.” She snipped.

They stepped out of the trailer and at the bottom of the stairs to the trailer was the holy Aldecaldos trinity themselves. Panam looked between the two and their interlock hands with mild confusion first before realisation dawned on her and she mouthed ‘that’s him?’ rather more obviously than she thought she had but never the less winked at friend.

Goro looked down at her curiously but V just shook her head.

“She’ll tell you herself at some point.” V whispered, leaving him far more confounded than before.

“So? What’s this about?” Saul stood in front of them now arms crossed but glaring heatedly at Takemura.

“Drop the tough guy act Saul come on.” She shoved him playfully but Saul only scowled deeper. “He defected.” Saul’s eyebrows rose in surprise for a moment but suspicion reaffirmed itself at the forefront of his mind once more.

“Bullshit.” Saul spat.

“I left Arasaka because I no longer believe in them.�� He looked down at V’s hand in his and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I believe in V. And she has put her trust in you and your clan. I wish to stay with her. You know that... she does not have long.” She squeezed him

back at this, hearing the slight waiver in his voice at that but he continued. “I will work, I will do whatever is needed of me in order to stay by her side.” He bowed his head politely and Saul was at a loss for words, casting his gaze back to Panam and Mitch but only receiving a tired sigh and a shrug from Mitch and a rather heated scowl from Panam that said ‘if you don’t let the ninja stay I’m going go get an emp and blast an AV out of the sky again’, and Saul could only sigh tiredly. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm in a gesture of defeat but his eyes spoke an understanding and no inherent objection to the arrangement.

“Alright. You work, like the rest of us. We all pull our own weight here and there’s plenty to do.” Panam fist pumped in the air and squealed with glee, making V laugh at her antics but Saul gave her an exhausted look before grinning devilishly. “ Since there’s another mouth to feed and person to arm, we’re gonna need to do a recount on inventory. Thanks for offering to do it Panam.” Saul rounded on his heel, making for his own tent as the orange pink swash of dusk settled over the desert. Mitch followed after while Panam gave her a quick pat on the shoulder before departing to her new hell, inventory.

“Look at you guys, just the picturesque happy couple living on the edge of the law, running with nomads, being all in love and shit. Warms my cold dead pixilated heart.” Johnny drawled as he leaned up against the trailer.

V chose to ignore him but grinned Takemura wrapped his free arm around her and rested his head atop hers as he rubbed loving circles into the small of her back, she sighed into his chest and grinned like a fool. Nothing was going to bring her mood down. Not raffen, not Johnny, not the broken to shit solar panels.

She groaned suddenly at the memory of her ever growing list of chores left.

“V?” He questioned, straining his neck down to see her.

“Fucking solar grid.” She hissed ruefully into his shoulder before pulling away.

“I’ve got some solar panels to fix and a carburettor to solder before the day is over.” She groaned, but Takemura squeezed her reassuringly.

“Lead the way.” He chuckled.

“You want to help?” She asked incredulously.

He brushed his hand through her soft chocolate brown coloured locks, twirling the tail ends around her shoulders between his thumb and index. He had a feeling his new unconscious obsession was going to be her hair.

“I’m going to have to learn aren’t I?” He chuckled. “And I have a feeling I’m going to like being your student. Lead on, sensei.”

She giggled before pulling away from him, hands still interlaced as she tugged him towards the solar panels on the far side of camp.

—————

“Welcome to solar grid maintenance 101, class is in session.” She announced.

Goro sat on a rock beside the van, next to the start of the solar grid that went from the back of the van to the further reaches of the edge of their camp, with a small group of four guarding the grid perimeter at all times. He noticed a few of them giving him wary or curious looks but did his best to ignore them. He was sure in time he would seem less threatening but he knew he would only achieve this through time, example and not relying only on shows of good faith. He leaned forward, arms resting against his knees, watching as she peeled back a flexible plastic covering over the front of the panel, uncovering a plated and wired grid he assumed is what absorbed power from the Sun.

“Ok, so. You need a fully wired and calibrated solar panel, batteries, a charge controller and an inverter.” She gestured to each item in front of her. “Once you have these it’s just a matter of following instructions. Then you gotta figure out what your output is gonna be, simply calculate watt hours by using each of the electric tools and machinery’s power ratings, multiplied by the time in hours it will be running...” He continued to listen to her intently, taking mental notes as she went on and was pleasantly surprised by how much she knew. The woman was practically a walking, talking encyclopaedia for off grid living.

He imagined she had learned this with her original nomad clan.

“And... vóila!” The grid hummed to life, the electrical tickering and slight glow from the panels confirmed this. “And tomorrow you’re gonna help me dismantle, clean and stow them.” She slowly rose from her kneeling position but wobbled a bit, Takemura’s lightning fast reflexes kicked into action and he reached out to stabilise her. She gave him a sheepish yet thankful smile.

“Are you-?”

“Just light headed, I stood up to fast.” His levelled gaze cut through her, narrowed eyes studying her intently. “And we’ve been sitting in the sun for an hour. I’d say I could go for something to eat though. Haven’t had anything since last night come to think of it.” She pulled away, attempting to move away from the subject of her health as quickly as she could, but her hand stayed resting open palmed against his chest as she stared almost through him. She still couldn’t believe he was here. Standing next to her in the flesh. She couldn’t even really fathom eating right now but she knew she had to at least try to keep her strength up. But fucking damn. Of all the ways this day was going to go, this was certainly not one of them, not that she was complaining.

His finger captured her chin and tilted her gaze to his, pulling her from her thoughts as if he could sense her inner turmoil.

“What is the expression, ‘I am here for the...’ ah.” He looked up to think an moment as if the phrase was written in the sky before seemingly finding it among the clouds and looking back down at her, grinning from ear to ear. “‘I am... ‘In this for the long haul’, as you say.” She snorted a laugh at him letting her head fall foreword against him as he pulled her further into his embrace. “So stop looking at me as if I’m going to suddenly disappear.” Her fingers squeezed his in response and she looked up resting her chin on his shoulder now.

“Promise?” She whispered, making his chest rumble in laughter.

“Yakusoku.” He affirmed before kissing her forehead loving.

————————————

They had eaten their fill of some synth beef chilli at the camps mess tent and Goro wasn’t about to disclose how much he had actually enjoyed the hot meal. Wandering around in the desert for a week he had been living off of whatever least expired protein bars and soda cans he could find, which had been almost as awful as the scop burgers and noodles in night city, but at least they had been some way warm.

They had made their way to V’s tent which was set up next to her Thorton and some work benches and a trailer with two bikes standing in it. He recognise one to be her beloved Arch and the other a gold and silver heavy terrain 700cc bike with the clans name spray painted boldly along the side of it.

“Here we are. Home sweet home I guess. For now.” She sighed, flopping down into her large sleeping cot with a heavy plop. Takemura stood awkwardly for a moment before fastening the entrance flap closed. There was a fold up chair and two electric lamps illuminating the small space. He suddenly felt out of place but V was quick to pick up on his uncharacteristic fidgeting, giving him an inquisitive glance.

“Cot’s a bit small but we can manage for tonight. Or there’s another cot in storage we can go and-.” Takemura shook his head.

“We can manage.” He grinned sheepishly and she giggled at him, taking a seat on the edge of the cot, patting the spot next to her as an invitation to join her. He took two long strides and he was at her side once again, his hand snaking around her waist as he leaned his head gently on her shoulder. Leaning into him, V interlaced their free hands together, marvelling at how well they fit together.

“You must be exhausted.” She sighed, extending her hand to his face where she swiped away a errant few strands of silver hair that escaped his otherwise well kept topknot, her cool fingers a welcome sensation against his forehead.

“Not really.” He stifled a yawn and she looked up at him pointedly, his own gaze eluding her.

“Evidently.” She chuckled, but a sudden flash of inspiration hit her and she grinned up at him.

“What are you doing?” He asked warily as she began to slink herself around to kneel in front of him, her hands running up and down his thighs in a firm yet teasing trail.

“Well we do have a lot to do in the morning and you require a good nights sleep for what’s coming.” He eyed her suspiciously but couldn’t help the small grin threatening to tug at the corner of his lips. “Couldn’t possibly let you lie awake all night and screw yourself over tomorrow.” She ran her hand over the growing bulge at the apex of his legs, which he opened wider as she settled between them.

“V...” he breathed his head beginning to loll back and eyes flutter closed, his breath hitching she she unzipped him and pulled him of the confines of his suit pants, his member springing free, already fully hard. She gave him some light pumps, enclosing her fist around as much of him as she could. He wasn’t a monster in size, but impressive.

“Speaking of impressive cocks.” Johnny’s voice pierced her mind and she wanted to scream. “Can we leave mine out of this. Please, if yourself gonna fuck the corpo grandpa just take a fucking omega blocker so I don’t have to as well.” She shook her head and sighed, pulling away from Goro.

His eyes fluttered open.

“Is something wrong?” He breathed.

“Just gotta take something before I forget.” She smiled back at him reassuringly before popping two of the red pills.

She turned back to him and something about seeing him sitting there, disheveled clothes, cock standing to attention, lips parted and panting lightly in anticipation, sent a rush of some indescribable feeling through her system. He watched her hungrily but patient in his pining, she couldn’t help the heat between her own legs beginning to rise. She locked their gaze, lips still curved into her signature teasing grin and she began to pull off her tank top painfully slowly, dragging it up to her chest. He watched her relieve her body of the sweat and dirt stained cloth throwing it over her head and groaned lowly when he saw she wasn’t wearing anything underneath save for her tattooed flesh. Lotus flowers bloomed colourfully at her shoulders, and just between her pert little breasts. He traced them with his eyes and felt his body tense in suspense as she saunter toward him, a sultry sway in her hips saying she knew exactly what she was doing to him. She sank down to her knees again before him, her fingers wrapping around his still hard manhood making him hiss at the contact before a strangled gasp tore from his throat as she resumed pumping him again. He reached out his hand to touch her but she slapped him away lightly.

“Ah, ah, ah.” She wagged her finger tauntingly at him, then running them down his chest back down to curl back around his member, giving him a tug that made him groan once more. “Look. Don’t touch.” She then began to lower her lips to him, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as she encased him in her warm pink lips, her devilish tongue flicking along the sensitive underside of his cock. He moaned louder as she moved against him but forced his hand over his mouth to stifle himself. They weren’t alone out here so he had to remember to control his vocalisations but she was not making it easy.

He leaned back further down on his elbows watching her intently through hooded eyes as she devoured him, her mouth sinking down slowly, taking him all the way to the hilt letting him hit the back of her throat with an audible gag that made him whine in need then gliding back up, dragging her lips back to the tip, letting her tongue swirl around him a few times before swallowing him once again. He struggled against his urge to fist his hands into her hair as she kept up her ministrations, fearing she’d stop what she was doing, because what she was doing was so fucking good he thought he was going to die if she didn’t finish.

“V... please I’m going to....” he gasped, one hand stretched out behind him as he bit the knuckle of his other hand to surpress his cries.

He felt her chuckle against him, his end so close he could practically taste it as she continued to bob energetically against him. A few more pumps and he had to bite his knuckle so hard he drew blood so as not to roar from the force of his climax, blowing his load in her mouth which she swallowed it readily. He swore he saw stars for a moment, a blinding light show all of his own as he rode the high for as long as he could until he fell back against the cot, attempting to catch his breath as V released him from her mouth with a faint pop.

She pulled herself up and crawled over him, resting her chin against his chest that now rose and fell erratically from his ragged breathing, waiting there patiently for it to even. He lifted his head to look at her, small beads of sweat clinging to his forehead but a stupidly pleased grin now plastered his face as he lifted a hand to caress her cheek and stroked her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb tenderly. He held her there for a moment, unsure if it was the aftermath of his climax or the low lighting of the tent, but to him, right now in all her dishevelment, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. He dragged her up to him, lips meeting hers at last, tasting her felt like home, regardless of the lingering taste of himself on her lips. Goro pulled her closer to deepen the kiss before pulling away to gaze at her agin. She was the one panting now, her full pink lips, that had only a few moments been driving him to near insanity were parting enough for him so see her devilishly nimble tongue and the flush dusting her cheeks was starting to do things he didn’t know could be done, his member already twitching to life again, slowly but surely.

“You feeling more relaxed then?” Her laugh, like a tinkling bell, brought his attention back into the room and he could only smirk down at her slyly.

“Partially.” He lifted himself up fully wrapping his arms around her then flipping them so she was trapped underneath him. “But I’m afraid I’m more awake now than I was before.” He whispered, lowering his lips to suckled at her collarbone where he began to trail a searing line of bites and kisses down her chest, stopping to tease her nipples as he lavished them thoroughly, leaving her shivering and gasping uncontrollably beneath him. “The opposite of the desired effect I think.” He chuckled lowly, lifting his hand to her mouth and clamping firmly over it to quieten her mewls while he began to drag the fingers of his other hand up to the bottom half of her netrunner jumpsuit. Untying the sleeves he pulled the zipper further down to the end. It reached just above her mound, a few more inches on the zip and he’d have been able to access her. Shame, he though but immediately tugged the skintight nano plastic material down over her hips, her purple thong coming with it. He didn’t pull it all the way down, allowing the material to bunch at her knees before pulling back, letting both her legs stretch up to rest against his shoulder as he stared down at her, a shit eating grin breaking over his lips as he soaked in the sight of her, trapped in his web. She huffed at him in mild displeasure at the loss of control but her eyes widened when she felt his fingers trace her slit softly. His arm curled around her legs, anchoring them against him as he continued to tease her.

“What are you-?” He silenced her with two fingers plunging inside her, making her arch her back as she barely managed to stifle a moan. He thrust his fingers into her wetness again and again, all while his gaze fixed on her face, contorted by pleasure as he took delight in her every twitch and convulsion.

He let another finger enter her, curling them, tickling a sensitive collection of nerves inside her. Her juices dripped down his hand, his attention switching down to where his fingers pumped relentlessly and he felt himself moan at the sight of her absolutely soaking his hand. He felt his cock strain against her thigh but he ignored his growing need. He had work to do. She nearly cried out when he stopped, her eyes finally fluttered open to see him gazing down at her, smirking triumphantly above her.

“Hey.” She pouted, wiggling against him only making him chuckle quietly.

He pulled her legs free finally, tossing the jumpsuit to the far corner of the tent but trailing his hands from the underside of her thighs, to the under side of her ankles, yanking up sharply which pulled her further down the cot so her ass now rested on his lap. Her ground himself against her, his free member brushing against her slit as he draped each of her legs against either shoulder. He leaned foreword her legs stretching to rest nearly by her ears with how flexible she was. Without warning he entered her, both of them gasping quietly. He filled her so completely, V let the feeling wash over her until he began moving at an achingly slow pace. He found purchase at the head of the cot, using it to drive himself harder and harder into her. Reaching up she caressed his head in her hands, his eyes closing at the contact, savouring it, then opening again to see her.

His breath hitched in his throat, not just at the majesty of her wild curls fanned out and framing her so perfectly. Not at her being stretched and splayed out for him, like a cover pin up they used to sneak into the army barracks, back when he did foolish brazen things like that, no. The trust in her eyes. She was letting him take control, letting him take her, however he wanted. She wasn’t scanning the room for the nearest viable exit like she did in every room or so far away in her mind he wondered if she could even hear him above the noise of the engram erasing her. She was right here, willing and ready for him. He wasn’t going to last long, not after already climaxing earlier but he refused to leave her hanging, letting his thumb roll her clit firmly, over and over. He leaned forward to swallow her cries as she came undone beneath him, his own release coming not to far behind her.

He leaned back, letting her legs down on either side of his hips, but stayed connect with her. He leaned back into her, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose then her lips, making her smile sleepily against him.

“You’re still in your clothes.” She taunted against his shoulder as he chuckled.

“It’s hard to think about anything clearly with you around.” He mumbled against her neck.

“Hey, don’t you dare fall asleep on me dickhead.” She snorted, poking him enough to make him groan then move to the side, allowing her to stand up from the cot. She walked over to a duffel bag where she pulled a loose white shirt from and threw it on. The fabric reached her knees and he scoffed at how small she was.

“Oi, no sand in my bed, get those dusters off.” She ordered and he sighed, pulling himself from his bliss to shed his coat and other garments leaving him only in his boxers. He fell back into the cot heavily, rubbing his eyes as a yawn escaped his lips. She rejoined him, crawling and moulding herself into his side while his arms immediately snaked around her as he buried her face into the crook of her neck, V stroking his hair soothingly.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he went to sleep without knowing where he was going to be tomorrow and not caring in the slightest.

[365days365movies]

January 29-31, 2021: The Mad Max Franchise

Now that I’ve finished watching all of the Mad Max films, I can confidently say that I am indeed a fan! The journeys of the ex-cop through a post-apocalyptic landscape that just gets increasingly worse and worse. Yeah, I can dig it.

And so, I thought it’d be fitting to talk about all of these movies at once, rather than just talk about them one at a time. And I mean ALL of these movies. After all, I started this month by saying the Fury Road was my favorite action film; might as well end it talking about the movie!

Recap

Mad Max: 78%

Mad Max was a great movie, honestly. It’s also HANDS-DOWN the weakest of the quadrilogy. I think that, since this is Miller’s first film, as well as being the first in this franchise in general, this is Miller carving out this universe on screen for the first time, so it doesn’t feel as fleshed out and as stylistically unique as the succeeding films. So, it’s hard to hold that against this film. Anyway, let’s break it down a little.

Cast and Acting: It’s legitimately nice to see Mel Gibson before he became...well, Mel Gibson, at least from a cinematic standpoint. And yes, Hugh Keays-Byrne is certainly memorable as Toecutter, and is a fitting first villain to the franchise. But, uh...that’s it for standout performances. Yeah, Joanne Samuel is endearing as Jess, and I like Steve Bisley as Goose, of course. But they don’t take the spotlight in my memory as much as our main two players. Which, obviously, is fine, but I like me a good supporting character in there as well. Still, this is getting a good 8/10 from me.

Plot and Writing: Plot’s you’re pretty standard cop story. Cop is awesome, cop wants to quit to spend time with family, cop’s family is killed by the villain, cop destroys villain. Not much outside of that. The biggest thing to praise to story for is the mild universe-building given to us. And even then, there isn’t a whole lot. Not, of course, that there needs to be. Credit goes to George Miller, Byron Kennedy, and James McCausland for this 7/10.

Directing and Action: George Miller’s cutting his teeth on the celluloid for the first time, and it’s awesome...for a first-time director, anyway. As for the action: yes, please. It doesn’t have the same pageant s future entries in this franchise, but it’s certainly great at the same time. Overall, 8/10 here.

Production and Art Design: It’s beginning, even though it’s not there yet. This universe hasn’t become the post-apocalyptic hellscape that it’s going to become, but the beginnings are there. Because of this, leather might be a dominating fashion choice, but...not as much as its gonna be. But, OK, let’s stop comparing this to the rest of the franchise. On its own merits, this film looks good! Doesn’t stand out too harshly from the crowd, but it still looks quite good. So, 8/10 here, too!

Music and Editing: Tony Patterson and, yes, George Miller were the editors for this mad boy, and they sought to make an Australian film with a fast-editing style, and in a way that the film could work without sound, as well as with. They way they incorporated sound and music (by Brian May, but not the one you’re thinking) into the film would actually be incorporated as industry standard practice in general! Wow! So for all that...8/10. It’s good, but this is early in their careers, so it can be a teensy bt choppy at time. And the music’s recognizable, but not particularly memorable after the fact. But still, 8/10.

Mad Max 2 AKA The Road Warrior: 92%

This is where I start to fall in love with the franchise. The Road Warrior is where the franchise really begins for me, and it’s EXTREMELY high up on my favorite action films list for this month. Obviously not the highest, but it’s up there for sure.

Cast and Acting: Gibson’s starting to come into his own and own this character, and I think this film is where he’s at his finest as Max. Definitely the most memorable and noteworthy. Antagonists, both Vernon Wells and Wez, and Kjell Nilsson as Lord Humungus, are fanTAStic, and I love them both. Supporting cast also ain’t no slouch this time! Bruce Spence’s Gyro is a wonderful character, and extremely fun to watch. Even the settlers, like Michael Preston’s noble portrayal of Papagallo, were memorable to me. Great cast all around, and they’re getting a 9/10 from me. Why not a 10? Well, for all of those performances, there’s also Feral Kid and Toadie...so, it’s not perfect

Plot and Writing: Plot’s definitely more interesting this time around! We’ve gone into the deep end of apocalypse, as compared to the first film, and we instead get an enforcer storyline for Max. And, yeah, I love that. This movie would carve out the tone of the rest of the franchise, and there’s a reason for that: it’s great. Terry Hayes, Brian Hannant, and of course, George Miller, you guys get a 9/10 for this one, too!

Directing and Action: Right off the bat 10/10. Action is AMAZING IN THIS MOVIE, and George Miller is doing a great job with directing. Not much to say here, other than the fact that this movie looks fantastic, all the way through.

Production and Art Design: A 9/10. This is where the franchise comes into its own, and it does that with a HELL of a lot of leather and metal studs. And yeah, the villains of this movie have a BDSM vibe about them, but it’s still iconic. Not to mention that the vehicles are now taking their true, metal-modded forms. Again, 9/10.

Music and Editing: Brian May turned it UP this time, and the music here is iconic and great. Editing’s pretty good, too, although I did notice some spotty sound editing areas, like in Mad Max. For this one, 9/10 as well.

Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome: 86%

I honestly wish this was rated higher for me, but there are a few issues that I did have with it. However, I gotta say, this one might be the second-highest in my heart. You know what the number one is. Still, I wanna talk about this one, because it’s what made be fall in love with the universe of this franchise.

Cast and Acting: By the time we get here, Mel Gibson is, well...Mel Gibson. He kind of stops inhabiting the role of Max at this point, and becomes the ‘80s and ‘90s action star that we’re all familiar with. So instead, the focus should be on the villains. Tina Turner! WHOOOOOO, Aunty Entity! Look, I love Lord Humungus, but Tina Turner definitely beats him in terms of character. And I might like Wez, but I love MasterBlaster, and...well, mostly Angelo Rossitto. Paul Larsson’s good too, even though there isn’t much acting in the role. And then, there’s Helen Buday, Tom Jennings, and the rest of the desert kids. And let’s not forget Bruce Spence or Edwin Hodgeman! Yeah, this one earns its 9/10 for some memorable performances. Might not have been Oscar-worthy, but they have a special place in my heart.

Plot and Writing: Intricate plot this time! It does seem like George Miller and Terry Hayes get better and better with each movie. Real talk, the universe-building in this one is INTENSE, and well-done for that matter. And the writing’s good as well. This one gets another 8/10, because it’s not perfect in the writing department, but it’s still damn good!

Directing and Action: Y’know, weirdly, 8/10 on this one. Yeah, the action’s pretty damn light here, as compared to the previous two films. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I love me some good character development and story. But if I’m judging it for action, it’s a bit less. Still, direction’s fantastic; definitely George Miller’s best effort so far. So, 8/10.

Production and Art Design: No surprise, but it’s a 10/10 here. The style of these films is evolve WAY FURTHER with this one, as we get the sense that the world has gotten worse, just by pure physical comparison. And yet, everything is starting to return to some kind of rudimentary order, with places such as Bartertown. Yeah, this one RULES visually, and I would say it’s arguably the best yet.

Music and Editing: Well, music’s still good, but the tone shift from rock instrumentals is a little jarring. Still, for the score, Maurice Jarre does good. And, yeah, Turner’s power ballad, “We Don’t Need Another Hero”, is more well-remembered than the movie itself by many. Hell, I had NO IDEA that this song came from this movie. But for all of that (and for great editing), an 8/10 is going here.

Mad Max Fury Road: 94%

Need I say anything? Let’s get into this one.

Cast and Acting: Well, Tom Hardy’s Max Rocktansky is fine, and definitely takes off of Gibson’s earlier portrayals, but I can’t really say he’s the absolute star. No, that’s the Atomic Blonde herself, Charlize Theron. Furiosa is FAR more memorable than Max here, and that’s pretty obviously on purpose. And hey, Hugh Keays-Byrne is back for a FAR more memorable villain in Immortan Joe. GOD, I love Joe; he’s great. And again, supporting cast aren’t slouching a BIT. Nicholas Hoult, Rose Huntington-Whiteley, and of course...iOTA. You know, the Doof Warrior. Yeah. The dude who plays the blind flamethrower guitarist on the back of a truck is called the Doof Warrior, and is played by a dude who calls himself iOTA. I LOVE THIS GODDAMN MOVIE. 10/10!

Plot and Writing: OK, I’l freely admit that this is the weakest element of an otherwise amazing movie. Because, yeah, it’s basically one long chase with some background plot. Not bad, but not great at the same time. While it’s certainly engaging, and the writing is overly memorable, I’m still giving this one an 8/10.

Directing and Action: I mean...c’mon. 10/10.

Production and Art Design: I mean...COME ON. 10/10!

Music and Editing: MUUUUUUSIC. Junkie XL is the composer this time, and he’s put to excellent usage. Yeah, this is the most memorable music in the franchise, bar none. And the editing is also great, as per usual. While it’s not on my playlist (yet), it deserves to be, just for pump-up music. Although, if I listen to that while driving...eh, maybe not. 9/10!

And the winner is Mad Max Fury Road, at a...94%.

Wait...94%? OH. OH NO.

That means...it’s been dethroned? I, uh...I’m gonna have to figure that out. End-of-month summary?

End-of-month summary. See you later today, people.

[chandelier-s-notebook]

MCYT AUgust by me and @ghostofsilas Day 13: Post-Apocalyptic AU

Tagging @sleepysnails

Ao3 Link

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Wilbur was in charge of rekindling the fire for breakfast.

The sound of Techno’s hatchet splitting logs for the fire filled the camp site. Phil was poking around their bags to find enough food suitable for a five person breakfast, while keeping their current supply in mind. Being a band of nomads in a post-apocalyptic environment didn’t really provide anyone with a stable food source.

Tommy and Tubbo were sitting in the hammock chatting away in the early dawn, watching the sun rise through the trees. It was a beautiful sight, the oranges peaking through the greenery.

It was a quiet routine that the five of them had fallen into since the Fallout. Granted, that was only three years ago, but they felt like they’d been traveling together for centuries. They knew each other’s ins and outs; deepest fears and greatest desires; dreams and wishes; prior families and love languages.

“Can we play manhunt?” Techno asked after tossing Wilbur some wood chunks. “I feel like doing a bit of running.”

“Yeah no problem.” Wilbur waved him off. “We’ll come looking in five minutes. What are the boundaries?”

“Stay in the woods, no crossing any roads.”

“Got it.” Wilbur shot Techno a thumbs up. “See you later.”

“Wait up mate!” Phil called, quickly standing. “I’m coming with you, two versus two.”

Techno paused. “You are?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Wilbur watched the two of them leave out of the corner of his eye, most of his focus still on the fire in front of him. “Tubbo? I assume you don’t want to go out and search.”

“No thanks!” Tubbo said, smiling wide. “Besides, someone needs to watch the fire! You and Tommy can go searching.”

Wilbur smiled. “I’ll just get the fire properly started, then we can go after them.”

It took a few tries and a few minutes, but Wilbur eventually got the fire properly started and stabilized. “Tubbo! Come sit!”

Tubbo hopped out of the hammock, leaving Tommy all alone with the blankets. He skipped over and plopped himself down on one of the bigger seating logs.

Tommy grumbled at being left behind, but he dutifully balled the blankets up and tossed them down with the rest of their supplies.

Wilbur grabbed a water bottle for Tubbo, “In case the fire gets out of hand.”

Tommy then followed Wilbur out into the woods to find the other two. Wilbur was very used to rough terrain, even from before the Fallout, whereas Tommy was used to tiled floors and never really got the hang of physical activity out in the wild. He didn’t slow the group down by any means, but he wasn’t always the best at keeping up when they weren’t walking on old eroding asphalt roads.

Wilbur took Tommy through the bush, following old trails that he and Techno had marked out the day prior. He took one of them and then started carving his own, walking around trees and stepping on low lying plants to flatten a path forward.

Once they reached a clearing, Wilbur sent Tommy forwards a little. “I’m just gonna climb up this tree. Get a higher viewpoint to see if I can stop them.”

“Okay! I’m not catching you if you fall!”

Wilbur chuckled and grabbed onto the thin trunk of the tree. He climbed up it, losing his footing a couple times, but never falling down.

Wilbur got himself situated a couple branches up and looked around the clearing. It didn’t look like much of a clearing to Tommy. All he could see was tall grass that reached his nose, he’d most likely need to get Tubbo to check him for tics later.

“I see them! They’re at the other end of the clearing,” Wilbur said. “I just don’t know how they got there. I can’t see their path.” Wilbur then turned to Tommy. “I’m coming down.”

He swung down from his branch and he grabbed onto a chunk of tall grass. Using it to break his fall, he grabbed onto it but still fell backwards to the side of the path.

Tommy started laughing a little at Wilbur, he didn’t offer to help him of course. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s go find another way to them.” Wilbur then beckoned Tommy forward back down their path.

Here’s the thing. It’s much easier to walk when stuff gets flattened in front of you, with the tips facing away, but when you gotta go backwards it’s easier to trip on something. Tommy fell forward, needing to grab onto a  tree for stability.

“You good Tommy?”

“Yeah. I’ll let out a proper shriek if something is really wrong.”

“I thought Tommy Innit didn’t shriek,” Wilbur teased.

“Exactly. Meaning if I do something is really wrong,” he joked back at Wilbur. “I’m good though.” Tommy shook his foot to get out of the grass. “I’m fine, go on.”

Wilbur led Tommy around the trees to another entrance point to the clearing. “I’m gonna go over there and climb that tree. Techno and Phil might have seen me and moved.”

He took off quickly, leaving Tommy to run after him.

When Tommy reached Wilbur, he was crouched at the edge of the clearing trying to spot them. “Do you see them?”

“Yeah. They’re right there. On the other side. I can see the white stripes on Phil’s hat.”

“Where?”

“By that bush over there. Can you see?”

“Nope.” Tommy stepped to where Wilbur was and tried to look, but he still couldn’t see. “That’s okay. I’ll just follow you.”

Wilbur chuckled and stepped forwards into the tall grass. He went slowly, so as to not make too much sound and alert the other two of his presence. Tommy was just following behind trying to keep his footing and enjoying the atmosphere.

None of them ever let Tommy go hunting with them, so this was the closest to it that he’d ever be getting. Tommy didn’t really want to go hunting either, he mostly just wanted to hang out with Wilbur, Techno, or Phil. He adored hanging out with Tubbo back in camp, but they knew each other pre-Fallout. Plus, they both agreed that the other people in their group were super interesting and fun to be around.

Wilbur froze. “They’re going back into the trees.” He took off to the woods. “I’ll be back for you!”

Tommy ran after Wilbur, but the other was much faster than him; Tommy lost him when he dipped into the tree line. Tommy could hear Wilbur chasing Techno and Phil towards the left, but he didn't have enough confidence to follow him into the bush.

Tommy had his communicator on hand if he did get lost, but he knew that the three of them would come back for him. Plus, they all know how to find ‘north,’ so they’ll be able to come back and find him.

Tommy heard the three of them running around and he smiled. This was good for them. They were always so concerned with Tommy and Tubbo getting to have the last of their childhood--they were teens thank you very much--that they never had fun themselves. But even before the Fallout, Tommy found it weird that adults never seemed to play.

“Is he still behind us?” Phil’s voice broke out through the trees.

Tommy smiled and turned back to camp. If he wanted to, he could try to get back on his own, but he had no confidence and couldn’t even remember how to get back to the path Wilbur had carved.

Tommy then heard loud laughter from Techno.

He wasn’t quite sure, but he figured that Wilbur had caught them from the sounds of the woods. He waited around a little longer, then to his left he saw Techno and Phil coming through the tall grass.

“Hi!”

The two of them were still laughing and Phil raised a hand to wave. Phil carved the path forward and on the second to last step, he tripped over himself and fell to his face. Techno doubled over in laughter, and Tommy giggled--still looking around for Wilbur.

When Techno and Phil reached Tommy, a smiling Wilbur came out of the woods on Tommy’s right.

He ruffled Tommy’s hair and the four of them started to make their way back to the camp and Tubbo.

“You know,” Wilbur said. “When you asked if I was still behind you, I was about an arms length away. If I just reached out my arms I would have caught you.”

“But you didn’t,” Techno taunted lightly. “You know we were on our back in the trees when you spotted us. If we were in the trees you would have never caught us.”

“But you weren’t,” Wilbur sang back.

Tommy laughed, and lagged behind, walking the path behind them. It wasn’t fair to them, but the dynamic was very much split into Tommy and Tubbo; and Techno, Wilbur, and Phil; but that didn’t matter because it worked, and they never had any problems crossing over.

“Tubbo!”

“Tommy!”

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

“Who’s hungry?” Phil asked, walking around them to grab the pan and lard. “I’m going to cook something up.”

Phil occupied himself making dinner while Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy all piled into the hammock and made faces at Tubbo, who was taking pictures with the Polaroid camera they’d found and sourced film for. It had cost them a lot back then, but everyone was in agreement that it was worth it just to keep the memories.

They all gathered around the campfire to eat. It was tradition, a little family dinner thing that they couldn’t help continue even in the warm months when they didn’t need to huddle for warmth.

The movies had lied in that regard. When the Fallout happened, it was the middle of winter. The dead of winter. When everything was at its coldest and wouldn’t be warming up anytime soon. Just as many people died from the Fallout itself as they did from the heavy winter coating the majority of the world in the northern hemisphere.

“We should get moving,” Techno said once everyone was done eating. “Starting packing up.”

Tommy and Tubbo worked on taking down the hammock and putting it in a bag with the blankets. The two of them organized and zipped up all the bags, while Phil and Wilbur grabbed their hatchets and other items spread around their site from five days of comfortable use.

Then Techno froze.

Wilbur walked up to him in concern and heard him counting under his breath.

“Stop,” Techno muttered, still counting.

Wilbur froze as well.

“Pack up faster.” With that, Techno was moving forward towards whatever it was that he saw. One handed hatched in his hand, pocket knife in his pocket.

Wilbur turned back to the others with urgency. He trusted Techno with his life, if Techno said he had it covered, then he had it covered.

Phil on the other hand was way more concerned. He was immediately ready to go after hand. Hand instantly going to the knife holder on his belt. “I’m going after him.”

“No,” Wilbur shut him down. “No you aren’t. He wants us to leave. Techno can handle himself.”

“I know, but--”

“He told us to wait.”

“Okay,” Phil acquiesced.

There was a nervous energy in the air. Phil was pacing back and forth, looking in the direction that Techno ran off to. Wilbur was less lax about cleaning up the site. Tommy and Tubbo awkwardly bristled and waited to be told what to do.

“Should we leave and wait on the road?” Tommy asked, grabbing his designated bag and tying it around his waist.

“Yeah,” Wilbur said. “Wait no!” he corrected after Tubbo took a step towards the road. “No. You guys can’t defend yourselves. We don’t know how many there are, stay with the group.”

“Ok.”

The tension lasted a couple more seconds and then Techno was darting back towards them. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he muttered running past them down the path.

“Go!” Wilbur said.

Tommy and Tubbo ran after Techno upon command. If Techno was cursing then something was horribly wrong.

Once they were sufficiently in the middle between the campsite and the road, Techno stopped. “One armed. One not. Twenty feet,” he muttered to himself.

Tommy and Tubbo stopped next to him and waited for Techno to do whatever mental math he was doing. They both waited silently, both aware that things were not okay.

Wilbur and Phil appeared to their right with most of the stuff and dropped it on the ground next to the three of them, standing in the middle of the forest.

“Techno?” Wilbur asked.

“Shh, he’s thinking,” Tommy said.

“One armed. One not. Twenty feet. Ten split.” Techno took a deep breath and finally noticed his friends. “Let’s get out. There’s that farm house down the road we noticed. I checked it out last night. It’s empty. We’ll stay there for a while. Lay low. Did you get all the stuff?”

“No, there are a few things left. Like your cape,” Wilbur said.

“Shit. I need that. We need to go back for it.”

Tommy grabbed Techno’s bag and moved out of the way for Techno to pass him.

“Phil, you stay with Tommy and Tubbo, wait for us.”

“Got it.”

Techno and Wilbur went back to the campsite. Tubbo grabbed Tommy's arm and dragged him forward. Tommy tripped slightly, as Tubbo was walking a little quickly for him, but Tommy knew better than to fight it.

Phil stood guard outside of the forest entrance, hand on his sheath. Tommy and Tubbo sat nervously where Phil had dumped his stuff down yet again. They had an idea, but hadn’t explicitly been told what was going on, and they honestly didn’t want the answer.

“We’re gonna be fine right?” Tommy asked.

“Of course,” Phil answered easily. “You’ve got Techno and I.”

Tommy nodded, mind eased for the time being.

Techno and Wilbur jogged out of the forest with everything else.

“One armed. One not,” Techno continued to mutter.

“Techno?”

“It’s nothing Tommy. It’s fine. I just saw two other people.” He took a calming breath, handing Phil the larger axe that they had.

Tommy took that as his cue to grab Phil’s bag and throw it over his free shoulder.

“They were walking through the woods. Followed Phil’s path. Saw us and got scared--same as me--wondered what other people were doing there.”

“We should get out of the open,” Wilbur advised.

“Yeah. Good idea. Tommy, you don’t mind carrying my bag?”

“Nope.”

“Tubbo, could you grab the pan? The three of us will stay back. You two get to the farm house.”

Tubbo nodded, as if he was pulled back into the moment by being addressed directly. He grabbed the pan and turned abruptly, making his way back to the building they’d seen five days ago.

Wilbur had kept his stuff, holding a hatchet.

Tubbo walked very quickly as far away as possible; Tommy was slower, but still was walking at a brisk pace. It’s a little hard to be quick when you’ve got three bags, but adrenaline is one hell of a drug.

Tubbo and Tommy reached the house first and dropped everything on the porch. Tubbo wrapped his arms around Tommy and took deep breaths.

Tommy didn’t quite know what to do, but he was perfectly happy to receive hugs.

Wilbur passed them to go source some water for everybody. Techno scouted the house one more time. Phil sat on the porch silently.

“Is everything okay?” Tommy asked once more

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. We’re safe.”

Tommy nodded, his heartbeat calming down. When he grabbed his water bottle from Wilbur, he was weirded out to see it shaking in his hand. That’s not something he ever remembered happening before. It was honestly probably impossible that he’d never gotten an adrenaline rush in his life, but this was the first time he remembered.

“My hand is shaking,” he noted.

“Yeah. That’ll happen,” Techno reassured. “Gimme your wrist.”

“I’m fine.”

“Give.”

Tommy decided to not fight it and presented his wrist.

Techno grabbed it and pressed his thumb into Tommy’s pressure point. “Yeah. Adrenaline. Normally you’d have five milligrams, but you’ve got twenty right now.”

“Oh shit.”

“Don’t worry. It’s normal.”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Tommy somehow got Tubbo to bring their hug to a seated position on the porch.

“We’re okay,” he said.

“We’re okay,” Tubbo agreed, quieter.

Everyone came around for a group hug on the wooden deck, warm arms and bodies bring the cuddle pile down to the floor.

“We’re okay.”