#i upped the dose recently so. its to be expected

[wuntrum]

t causing house of leaves experiences in my body (my throat is sore, but not in a sick way, in a "the inside feels its larger than the outside" way)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for poisoning a child over mountain dew?

For context, I (17) have a developed a slight addiction to mountain dew over quarantine. it's one of my favorite soft drinks. Every month I buy a case of it with my own money when my parents do their monthly grocery shopping and that is my allotted stashe for the month. However, I've noticed for about two years now that my stashe is running out sooner than I expected, the first few times I've simply thought I miss calculated but later I suspected it was being stolen after I kept rigorous track of how much I drank. I told my parents but they said I shouldn't get so worked up over it, and if I really wanted to keep it safe I should keep it locked up somewhere. So I did. Afterwards, almost weekly I've had our maid/housekeeper(a distant cousin of my mom's- we do pay her) ask me for my soda. I suspected that she might've been the soda stealer so out of spite I refused to give her from "my" stashe, instead offering to buy some/give her the money and she refused. Even after that, a couple months later I've noticed it running out sooner again. I pointed it out to my parents and they did nothing still. I hid my keys. It stopped the stealing for a few weeks but then it started again. I've confronted her about it but she denies it and blames me for for suspecting her when she does so much for us. And my mom refuses to discuss it with her either, saying I'm making such a big deal out of something like soda and that I probably miscalculated anyways. I've taken photographic evidence of my shit going missing (taking a photo before going to school and coming home with a bottle missing) and still she say to "let it go". At this point, it's not even about the soda for me. It's about the fact I brought this shit with my own money and it's being stolen EVEN AFTER I TRIED EVERYTHING TO PREVENT IT and its been going on for TWO YEARS. And I can't help but feel paranoid and suspect her whenever any of my other possessions start disappearing.

Here comes the poisoning part. I've recently developed some gastrointestinal issues, so I have to take prescribed laxatives. I've had enough of my shit being stolen and I've decided whoever steals it needs to shit themselves and maybe then they'll stop. I marked out a few bottles and carefully opened them and mixed in the laxative(About half dose per bottle) before resealing them thoroughly. I put them in front of all the other non-laced drinks so they're the easiest ones to grab. Sure enough, they've been stolen. And a few days later she comes to my mom complaining that her grandson keeps getting diarrhea and she has no idea why. I told her maybe she shouldn't feed a <10 yr old mountain dew and she was like, "How do you know it was the dew that caused it?" I just shrugged and told her I had a hunch, but with the way she stared at me I think she understood what I had did. Later on my mom yelled at me for pulling that stunt, and I was honestly sick of her shit and told her next time I'm mixing in rat poison and I wont even be labeling the laced ones. like. stop taking my shit without asking. especially shit i brought with my own money.

What are these acronyms?

[thepartyresponsible]

prompt fill! someone asked for jason todd and truth serum. this was also supposed to fill the request for "who did this to you?" with phil/jason, but i didn't make it to "who did this to you?" part. sorry! i'm trying to keep these under 1k.

anyway, this one's a bit bleak, but educational. here, jason learns an important life lesson: if you go undercover as a criminal, sometimes people believe you. and phil learns to reorder his interrogation questions.

warnings for drugging people without their consent. the drug in question is a fictional truth serum.

- - -

Using this particular drug on a nonconsenting person is a crime in most of the world. A recent amendment to the Geneva Convention marked its use on prisoners of war as a war crime. There’s a blanket ban on its production and use in the European Union. In the United States, administration by law enforcement personnel was ruled a violation of the Fifth and Eighth Amendments.

But SHIELD is not at war. Nor is it a law enforcement agency. And Phil Coulson is not in territory controlled by the United States or the European Union. The man in SHIELD custody undoubtedly has rights of some kind, but the extent of those rights – and who might be obligated to protect them – is currently unknown.

“It’s messy,” he says, to Fury.

“It’s a mess,” Fury replies. “Clean it up.”

- - -

He’s younger than Phil expected. But he has no right to judge anyone for sending their young to die. After all, he looks older than Natasha, possibly older than Clint.

And Natasha and Clint might be dead. In some ways, SHIELD’s no better.

“Your name, please,” Phil says.

“Jason,” the man says, a slow, sleepy mumble, and then his eyes open, and the panic hits.

Phil’s grown familiar with panic. He’s seen it in civilians and soldiers, in diplomats and dictators. He’s seen it every time he’s encountered this drug.

When it was first developed, early adopters trotted out the old lie: if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. But everyone has something to hide. Everyone has a secret they would swallow their own tongue to protect, and here’s a substance that takes that choice away, a wonder drug that retains awareness while negating will. A life-saving torture device.

“Fuck you,” the man says, which is far more spirit than most manage.

“Jason,” Phil says, “my agents are missing.”

“Fuck you,” Jason says, again. “That’s what happens.” He’s double-blinking, struggling to focus. Phil’s done this six times. No one's ever managed this level of control. Usually, they’re drooling by now, spilling secrets and saliva into the collar of their shirts.

Something’s wrong.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Phil says. “We must have miscalculated your dosage.”

- - -

Medical reports back half an hour later. There was no miscalculation. The man has a tolerance they assure him should not be possible.

“We gave him a second dose. He should be amenable now,” the doctor says. “If he doesn’t stop breathing.”

Amenable, Phil thinks. He explores the hollow inside him where the horror should’ve been. It’s a terrible thing they’re doing. He knows that.

But his agents are missing.

“Thank you,” he says. And he goes back to work.

- - -

“You know,” Jason tells him, glassy-eyed, barely looking Phil’s direction, “if you ask the wrong questions, I have to kill you."

It’s an interesting threat from a man who cannot lie.

“And what are you afraid you’ll tell me?” Phil asks.

“Identities,” he answers, chest rising slower than a sleeper’s.

“Ah,” Phil says. “Yes, we’ll get to that.”

“Batman,” he adds, unexpectedly. “Nightwing.” He swallows, clumsily. When he breathes in, he chokes. Phil watches him almost drown for a moment and then he reaches across the table and tugs Jason’s head forward so he can breathe.

He barely has the coordination to breathe, but the contact makes him flinch hard enough to shake the table. Phil wonders who made a creature like him.

“Who do you work for?” he asks.

“Nobody.” And then, almost smiling, voice dropping into a guttural growl, “Justice.��

Which could be good news. Killers with a mission are predictable, once you understand their cause. “And who decides justice? Who gives you orders?”

“Nobody.”

Interesting. Most freelancers don’t work at this level, and the ones who do should have extensive SHIELD files. “Who’s been signing your checks lately?”

“Checks,” Jason says, and laughs. “Fucking checks.”

He’s been thoroughly dosed with a drug designed to make him highly suggestible and meekly compliant. Phil’s starting to understand why capturing him was such a costly undertaking.

“Whose money is in your accounts right now?”

Jason makes a noise, some gusty grumble of complaint, and then lists off a dozen or so of the very worst people alive. The most interesting names are the ones Phil doesn’t recognize, but he’ll have to get to those later. The window is short; his time is running out.

A single dose is risky. Some people never fully recover their independence. They’re rendered permanently docile, suffering from a kind of chemical lobotomy that good people across the globe have outlawed. A second dose doubles the odds of permanent damage. After the third, some people won't even breathe without orders.

They’ve given him two already.

“These people who’ve been paying you,” Phil says, “which of them is paying you right now?”

Jason sighs. “Nobody pays me. I stole that money.”

“You---” Phil pauses, looks at his notes. He re-reads the names, marvels at the insanity of stealing from any of them. “You stole from those people?”

“Stole from ‘em,” he says, “killed ‘em. Well, killed some. Gonna kill the others. It’s, you know. A to-do list. I’ve been busy.”

Phil wonders if he’s been wasting his time, if he’s drugged a delusional man. “You don’t steal from people like that before you kill them.”

Jason tilts his head so he can look up him, furrows his brow in something that is almost a coherent expression of disdain. “You never have any fun, huh?”

Phil might be dealing with someone far more dangerous than he’d predicted. “You do this for fun?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “And for justice.”

Justice, right. Of course. “And who taught you about justice?”

“My dad,” Jason says.

Which is good. Which might be helpful. Truth has its uses, but, in Phil’s experience, leverage gets more accomplished.

“And who,” Phil says, “is your father?”

Jason’s eyes track his direction but don’t quite land. His mouth closes and then opens again. “Batman,” he says.

“Oh,” Phil says. “Shit.”

[waynes-multiverse]

Polaris – Chapter 12

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, a heavy dose of angst, kidnapping, violence, injuries, serial killers, death, an awful cliffhanger

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! 🥳 We jump straight into 2025 with an angsty banger 👀

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 12: Through

On one of the sunniest mornings Helena had seen in recent days, the peaceful quiet of the early risers in the Sheriff’s Department was disturbed by one restless sheriff.

Beau was taking his office apart – bit by bit, nail by nail, panel by panel, brick by brick.

The search for you had gone on all night and yielded zero results. You were nowhere to be found. For all Beau knew, you could be dead by now and buried in the vast woods of Montana.

A computer mouse flung against the wall and only missed Jenny’s head by an inch as the blonde peeked inside his office. The rest of the station had selected her to talk to the big boss, his outbursts even being heard from miles away.

“You okay?” Jenny checked carefully.

“I’m tryna find that stupid camera!”

“Thought you already found that hours ago,” Jenny noted with a raised brow.

“Can’t be too careful…” the sheriff murmured, his focus landing on the pile of pens on his desk. The silver one – had that always been there? He picked it up. “Does this look normal to you?”

Jenny only offered a shrug.

“Never mind,” Beau muttered and reduced the pen down to its individual parts. Nothing. Just a plain, old pen.

“Did you get some sleep?”

“What d’you think?”

At five in the morning, Beau had promised Jenny he’d snooze for half an hour on the couch in his office. He did lie down, stared at the suspended ceiling tiles for about a minute, and then remembered the damn camera.

It wasn’t just about what he had done in there but also about he’d said. No wonder Diane had gotten so easily under his skin. She probably had heard every insecurity he had ever uttered. To you. And to imaginary Randy.

How was he supposed to sleep in a place where he felt exploited, exposed, and unsafe?

“Well, uh, I just wanted to tell you that Randy went into Interrogation Room 2 with Diane…”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah…” Jenny exhaled a deep sigh and leaned against the door frame. “He said you’d deputized him and authorized it, but I had a feeling that wasn’t true.”

Beau ran a hand across his face, rubbing his beard.

Rule #3: She’s my wife. I get to decide how we proceed.

Rule #4: You’re not the boss of me.

“Well, I did deputize him,” Beau admitted. He had given his former partner a long leash, not expecting he’d bolt through the backyard.

“Beau…” Jenny clearly didn’t approve.

“He left me no choice, alright?!”

Well, no choice his guilt could deal with.

The sheriff then left his destroyed office and thundered into Interrogation Room 2 down the hall. Randy wouldn’t get to do this alone. Beau knew there was an ulterior motive – if only Randy saved you, he could also miraculously save his marriage. Randy was a persistent motherfucker. He wouldn’t give up.

And if the roles were reversed, Beau wouldn’t either. He’d probably be even more annoyingly persistent than Randy.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Beau charged in with steam coming out of his ears. For a moment, his anger was so focused on his friend, he didn’t even notice the rising smile on Diane’s lips.

“Good morning, Sheriff Arlen.” Even if Diane’s voice sounded melodious, to Beau it was still chalk on board. “Remodeling the office, are we?”

“You mind?” Randy prompted stand-offishly, glancing up at the sheriff. “Kinda in the middle of something here.”

“Outside. Now,” was all Beau said.

Defiantly and miffed by the authoritative tone, Randy followed him to the hall.

“Play nice, boys!” Diane’s voice echoed through before the door fell into its lock.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You can’t just talk to our prime suspect without my presence!” Beau roared.

Randy rolled his eyes back. “Didn’t know I needed a babysitter…”

“This isn’t a game, Randy! We need to find Y/N before it’s too late,” Beau argued furiously. They didn’t have time for petty competitions.

“Yeah, which is why I’m talking to the only lead we have! That bitch knows where she is,” Randy countered with an equal amount of fury.

“She’s not gonna tell you!”

Randy only shrugged – cocky in nature and completely unlike him. And Beau then realized something that had changed: His friend wouldn’t back down anymore and bend. Those days were over, and it was probably Beau’s own fault.

“We’ll see,” Randy said stubbornly, his hand wandering back to the door handle. “You comin’?”

Beau inhaled and exhaled a deep breath before nodding – and back into the lion’s den they went.

Diane welcomed them with a sneer. “All made up?”

“Tell us where Turner took her,” Randy demanded with a stern expression and firm voice.

If Randy wanted to play bad cop, the role of good cop fell to Beau by default. And although they had never ever played it that way before, Beau figured Randy carried more anger than even him right now. He might as well let him make good use of it.

“Can’t.” Diane twitched her shoulders. “Hal doesn’t tell me.”

“Oh, and we’re just supposed to believe that?” Beau lifted a brow in mock. “C’mon, Diane…”

“It’s true,” she said, smiling. “Call it an insurance policy in case one of you Neanderthals decides to go rogue on me – looking at you specifically, Sheriff Arlen. If you leave your own partner to die in a filthy warehouse, I don’t wanna know what you do to your enemies.” She then looked at Randy, whispering behind her palm, “You know, I think he did it on purpose.”

Beau clicked his tongue and snorted humorlessly. “Alright, Diane, you’ve had your fun. You’ve wreaked havoc… You’ve won, okay? Fair and square. Just give up your partner, tell us where Y/N is, and end this once and for all. Might even get a better deal if you do. Think about it. Murdering an FBI agent doesn’t look good in front of a judge and jury. We have iron-clad proof you killed at least five people in Texas. Capital murder, death penalty… See where I’m going with this?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, Sheriff. And I’ve told you: I don’t know where she is now,” Diane reiterated with the same infuriating smile. Her gray eyes then wandered to a wall clock behind the men. “At least not yet.”

Randy and Beau both followed her gaze and stared at that same clock. Their eyes widened.

“Then when?” Randy prompted.

“Don’t worry. You’ll see her soon.” Diane smirked. “If she makes it out alive, she can tell you in person she’s choosing the rugged sheriff here over you, Detective Nichols.”

Randy’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching under the metal table.

“I gave her a fighting chance.”

“Oh, you mean like the others?” Beau had known from the start that it would be useless talking to her.

“They all could’ve gotten out,” said Diane as if she blamed the victims for not being smarter and more durable. “‘Sides, why would I give up my favorite part? I’ve waited a while for this one. Killing her? While you two idiots watch helplessly and throw feces at each other like monkeys in a zoo? Gotta say, it’s better than killing twenty-four people combined. Ever since I met Deputy Popcorn, I’ve been actually craving a snack.” Upon Beau’s facial twitch, Diane leaned closer and whispered with a smirk, “Yeah, I know about the cute little nicknames for your deputies too, Sheriff. I wonder how many bugs you’ve found yet in your office. Sure it can’t be all of them. Maybe I’ve bugged the whole station. Who’s to say? Have you checked your trailer yet? The lovely agent’s motel room? No?”

Beau couldn’t pinpoint the exact feeling that clutched his heart and twisted it like a boa constrictor. Pain, fear, anger, sadness – a deadly cocktail for anyone. Was this throbbing sting in his chest what a heart attack felt like? Only recently, he’d read an article in the paper about a guy his age who just dropped dead. Was this it for him?

Would it mean he'd get to see you again, though?

“Enough of that!”

Randy’s voice rang in his ears, but Beau couldn’t refocus. He needed fresh air to breathe, his lungs dried up and clinging to every molecule like he’d been deprived of oxygen for days. The small room felt suddenly suffocating as the monster across from him sneered joyfully.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re saying all that horseshit ‘cause you wanna hurt him or me,” Randy said, his voice laced with a darkness Beau had never seen before.

“Little bit of both,” Diane teased with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, I don’t care either way,” Randy huffed, the deep creases in his brow casting threatening shadows on his face. “Do your worst to me or him. Hell, burn us at the stake if it makes you feel any better, sweetheart, but all I wanna know is where that bunker is. Where is she? Your beef’s clearly with us. Men, right? You know she doesn’t deserve this. Just let her go.”

Diane seemed unamused by the suggestion, leaning back in the metal chair. “You’re right. She doesn’t deserve this. I actually like her. She reminds me of me. But you two did this to her. It’s out of my hands at this point. You don’t deserve her, sheriff,” she said and looked at Beau before her cold eyes shifted to Randy. “Neither do you, detective. I know a lot of things – and not just about the sheriff here. I know what you did to her, too.”

Randy forced a tight smile. “You’re bluffing. I didn’t do anything.”

“Am I?” Diane quirked a brow and then sent him an innocent smile. “About four years ago, she wrote a rather lengthy email to her sister Sophia in Seattle. She seemed very upset. Said there was a little something you wouldn’t give her. Ring any bells?”

With a thick swallow and a glare swimming in his hazel eyes, Randy nodded. “We’re done here.”

Diane let out a long, suspenseful sigh, not bothering to engage further. Her icy heart wouldn’t melt. Her eyes flickered around the bleak, depressing room. “I miss windows. Haven’t seen the outside for days.”

“Yeah, and you ain’t gonna,” Beau huffed. He had quietly listened, his heart rate slowing down as his head started spinning with questions. You had never told him anything. He had never asked. It had been an unspoken rule to not talk about your marriage. Beau always figured knowing too much would only make it worse.

“Too bad. I always liked the autumn sunsets. When it gets dark sooner…” Diane then stretched out her neck. “Anyways, nice chatting with you boys, but it’s time for my beauty nap now. Which one of you two cowboys is gonna accompany me back to my cell, hm?”

The men shared a look and then wordlessly rose, leaving the room. In the safety of the hallway, Beau ran a hand over his face and took his first deep breath.

Air. Lungs. Brain. Without toxicity, he could finally think straight again.

“Well, this was pointless and a waste of our time. Happy now?” Beau huffed with his newfound lung capacity.

But Randy’s brow was furrowed. He was thinking. “Actually, yeah… Didn’t you hear what she said?”

“Yeah, bunch of narcissistic bullshit. She’s not gonna tell us where Y/N is,” Beau muttered bitterly. If possible, he wished to never converse with that psychotic witch again. There was only so much he could handle before snapping her neck.

“She said that she doesn’t know where Y/N is now,” Randy pointed out. “Maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe Y/N’s not in the bunker yet. Turner might keep her somewhere else and wait till he can move her.”

“At sundown,” Beau mused, Diane’s words haunting his mind. “He’ll move her when it’s dark.”

“Which means we still have a couple hours to find her,” Randy finished the thought.

“Popcorn!” Beau yelled down the hallway. The sheriff found himself in better spirits. He hadn’t used a silly name for his most loyal deputy in days, although it ached a tiny bit to say it now. “Any properties in Newton’s name?”

“Yes, sir, several,” Mo replied.

“I need a list of all in the area. Get a team together and search ‘em. One by one,” Beau ordered. “Warehouses, cabins… Take it all apart. I don’t care.”

“And also see if any properties are in Hal Turner’s name and add them to the list,” Randy suggested.

Poppernak shot Beau a look, and only when the latter gave his agreement, did the deputy nod. “Yes, Sheriff Arlen.”

The obnoxiously loud sound of birds woke you from a deep slumber. Groggily, you pried your eyes open and found the first few beams of sunlight warming your face. For a peaceful moment of dazed bliss, you had no clue where you were or how you got here.

There was a thumping, searing pain in your skull, hammering away at your sanity like the ticks of a clock. Your neck and shoulders hurt from tension till you realized you were bound to an old wooden chair, a harsh and creaking surface underneath you. Your behind felt both sore and numb.

Glancing around the room, you noticed you were in the living quarters of a small cabin. A fireplace sat to your right. Above it, a cuckoo clock that showed shortly past noon, and you realized that must’ve produced the bird noise that woke you. The stinging sunlight reached your eyes and filled you with hope.

Hal Turner hadn’t locked you into a bunker yet.

“You’re awake. Good.” Turner entered the room with a bottle of water and a sandwich, throwing the items unceremoniously onto your lap. “You need to eat. We’ll leave soon.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where they all went,” he said and came up behind you. Turner wasn’t a man of tall stature. Small, middle-aged, nervous. Non-threatening.

Diane’s little ant.

He cut your ties, and you could tell his hands were shaking. They didn’t treat the others like that. Entertaining a victim had never been his job before.

Sedated, dumped, marooned.

That had been the pattern, and you hoped this little off-course adventure would pay off with your freedom. Your gaze drifted down to a lonely brown belt buckle.

Unarmed.

With free hands and Turner still vulnerably behind you, your arms shot up and wrapped around his neck. Fortunately, he wasn’t as heavy as Beau in training when you jolted him forward, jumped up, and rammed his face straight into your knee.

Unconscious for the moment, Turner tumbled to the ground, and you sprinted through the front door. You hoped it would give you enough time to find an exit.

But all you found was a vast sea of trees – towering pines that reached heavenward with no neighboring houses or roads in sight.

There was a shed to your left. Tools. You needed weapons.

And, most of all, you needed more goddamn time to think your way out of this one.

It wasn’t long till you heard the front door of the cabin slam open, heavy and angry footsteps aimlessly searching before they slowly circled closer to the shed.

Fortunately, your little hide-out had proved itself useful – and fully stocked. Turner had arranged his tools in a neatly organized manner. Nothing seemed to be out of place, screwdrivers hanging on the wall from small to big, pliers, drills, hacksaws… Your weapons of choice, however, fell on a hammer and the heaviest, biggest wrench.

Lurking behind the small barn door, you lay in wait till the old door creaked open and Hal Turner walked through. He only blinked at you wide-eyed before your first hit with the wrench landed across his right cheek. It was hard enough for blood to spew out of his mouth, and as he tumbled forward, you delivered your second blow – the hammer, this time, slamming against the back of his head.

Dropping the tools, you decided to take your chances and make a run through the woods for it. You still had a few fleeting hours till dark. If you just kept going, maybe you’d make it to a road or a town somewhere before you froze to death.

What a great outlook…

However, you didn’t even get farther than a few yards from the house before a sharp pain seared from your ankle throughout your entire body. Falling harshly and bracing yourself on the cold, wet leaves, you screamed out and looked down at the culprit – a bear trap.

Well, points for Hufflepuff!

Apparently, you had underestimated Turner. Ahead of you, you also spied some tripwire. Great. This place was a giant death trap – and you had already hated the woods before all of this.

Getting back onto your feet was not only hindered by the giant claws in your flesh but also the iron chain attached to the trap that tethered you to the ground. So, with your freezing hands, you dug out the metal stake that served as your anchor.

Then, the fucking bear trap – you knew this one would hurt like a son of a bitch. Carefully, you inspected the oozing wound, the razor sharp edges deeply clutching your skin at your lower calf and ankle. For a moment, you even swore you could feel the tips of their pointed teeth drilling into your bone. You tried to pry them apart with your hands but gave up on that idea rather quickly once the jaws cut your fingers.

Glancing at the shed, you saw the door was still ajar. It was quiet in there. Either Hal Turner was gone, solely unconscious, or currently bleeding to death. The shed was your Schrödinger’s cat. As long as you didn’t know which one it was, you still had time.

Taking several deep breaths, you closed your eyes and remembered the trip you took with Beau when you were back in Houston. The two of you drove camping in Piney Woods. For a few days, you were gone and unknown to everyone around you. You could just be you and him. No one had to hide anything. No one had to feel guilty. In those short days, you realized you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

“Did you know bear traps are actually pretty easy to get out of?” Beau babbles a random fact in his usual manner when neither of you has said anything in a minute. He glances at you, a happy smile on his face as he intertwines his fingers with yours during a stroll through the green and lush forest.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, all you gotta do is not panic, get up on your feet, and press your weight down on the springs at the bottom. Just pops open and you can pull your leg out,” he explains with a popping sound, turning the little lesson into a show-and-tell.

“Don’t panic…” you mumbled to yourself and sat up. “Get up…” With a strained groan and your palms supportively on the ground, you heaved yourself to your feet. You winced as you put pressure on your injured leg and, therefore, tried to shift your weight to your good one. The main problem was the next step: “Press down.”

Mentally, you braced yourself before you slowly started to put pressure on the leg again. The jaws moved and wiggled in your flesh, but the pain was too much too bear. You bit down on your tongue as tears strangled your eyes.

Alright, next try.

If slow was too painful, then maybe the bandaid method was the way to go. Quick and painless, as they say. You inhaled and exhaled through your nose as you raised your foot a few inches above ground, making sure the springs would hit the uneven surface properly. Then, you kicked down.

The trap sprung open, you pulled your foot out, and released a primal scream that echoed through the quiet woods, surely disturbing whatever lived there.

And then, suddenly, Hal Turner stood in front of you with a shovel.

Diane’s listed properties came up empty. There was still no sign of you. Turner, on the other hand, had only booked a motel room in his name but hadn’t been seen there in weeks. So, Beau figured he had to be staying somewhere if he wasn’t sleeping in his room.

At four o’clock, the sheriff was close to a breakdown when all leads petered out and the daylight was almost gone. But then Cassie and Denise stormed the station, both out of breath, and brought forth a document that showed a property north of Helena in the name of a Diane Turner. It was a remote cabin in the middle of the woods, which also happened to be close to the location where the ambulance had picked up Randy.

Ding, ding, ding!

Beau gathered the whole cavalry and raced there as fast as he could. By the time he was ten minutes out, the sky had grown dark, the woods pitch-black around him. Switching on the Jeep’s headlights only added to the uneasiness in his stomach. His passenger was quiet next to him, but Beau could tell how worried Randy was by the way his left leg anxiously drummed against the floor mat.

Both of them thought it was too late to save you.

An access road, all dirt, led up behind the cabin, only making it a short hike. Turner’s vehicle had been parked at the fork where it reached pavement. They seemed to be on the right track. After all, if Turner was here, then hopefully so were you.

Beau and Randy were the first to arrive, the cabin inside dark without a single light on, not even a candle burning in the smudged windows. Carefully, the men stepped on the porch, the property around them quiet and undisturbed, but the front door was an inch ajar. Pulling out their weapons, the two shared a look without speaking a word before entering the house, a feeling of familiarity rising in Beau’s chest.

They were still partners, somewhere deep down.

The floorboards creaked under Beau’s boots as he treaded down the hallway. The cabin was small, only consisting of one bedroom, a living area, a kitchen and bath. While the men checked each room, Beau already knew you weren’t here anymore – if you’d ever been here to begin with. Maybe Diane had sent them on a wild goose-chase, another sick game created by the mind of psychopath, while you had been locked in a bunker all along, waiting for him to find you.

How much air did you still have left? Would he get to you in time?

“Beau!”

His partner’s voice drew him from the bedroom to the living space, his mind still rattling with the unspoken fear of losing you. His green eyes then focused on the beam of Randy’s flashlight as it shone on a wooden chair in the middle of the room, a set of cut plastic ties on the floor next to it. There was also an uneaten sandwich and an unopened bottle of water scattered on the ground.

And then, there were the trails, the little drops, and the sheer pools of blood everywhere that made his gut churn. Was it all yours?

“We need to get forensics here,” Beau said with a thick swallow, already pulling out his phone to call Jenny.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Randy said with a lump in his throat, his eyes transfixed on the little red pond by the tips of his feet. And although it was dark, Beau could see the color drain from his partner’s face.

“I know.” Beau bobbed his head quietly, gently clasping his friend’s shoulder as he held his phone to his ear.

The sheriff then informed Jenny of their findings, telling her to hurry any lab results along. The sooner they knew whose blood it was, the better. As he hung up, he noticed Randy following a trail of blood to the door, leading further outside. He shone his flashlight through the dense foliage before it landed on a little working shed to the right.

As Randy creaked the door of the shed open, with Beau behind him, both thought there was a high probability they’d stumble upon a body in there – if not two.

Instead, the shed was disappointingly empty.

Beau whistled lowly as the light hit the neatly arranged wall of tools. “Well, that’s some freak level organization.”

But Randy’s brow furrowed as his light landed on the ground behind the door. “There’s a hammer and wrench on the ground.” He knelt down to inspect it closer. “Got blood on it. Lot of it.”

Beau chuckled lightly and ran a palm over his face to keep the stinging tears of hope inside, which only confused Randy.

“What’s so funny? Y/N might be dead,” Randy said sourly.

“That’s not Turner’s doing,” Beau argued and gestured at the tools on the ground, his heart flooding with a tiny bit of relief. “Look at the wall. Why would he kill her with tools? It’s way too bloody. Guy like this can’t handle the mess. He had a perfectly fine gun. Would’ve been way cleaner if he wanted to.”

“So, you think this was Y/N?” Randy thought for a moment before nodding. “The ties inside were cut. The food and water on the floor… Maybe he cut her loose and she took advantage of it? I mean, it does sound like her.”

“Yeah…” Beau’s eyes then musingly drifted back to the wall. “Is there a screwdriver on the ground somewhere? There’s one missing here.”

“Nope, nothing on the ground,” Randy replied once his flashlight search was complete. “You think she took it with her?”

“Let’s hope so…”

“But if Y/N managed to overpower Turner, why isn’t she here? And where’s Turner? And if it happened out here, why is there so much blood inside?”

Beau licked his chapped lips, his brow returning to their initially creased position. “Maybe she didn’t take him out for good.”

“You thinkin’ she knocked him out and escaped?”

“Yeah, and then Turner woke up, went back into the house before taking off after her through those woods,” Beau shared his theory. It would explain the vast amounts of blood inside.

“So, your theory is she’s lost and being hunted?” Randy cocked a brow.

Beau only offered him a shrug. “Best possible scenario.”

“Great.” Randy scoffed. “What’s the worst possible scenario then?”

Beau’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I think we both know.” Licking his lips, he patted Randy’s shoulder. “But let’s not think about the worst right now. I’ll get a team going to search these woods. We’ll find her. You’re not losing her again, alright?”

Randy could only nod and hope, but a little tug on his heart told him something different as he glanced at his former friend.

“It’s been three hours,” Randy huffed frustratedly as they passed the same street sign to Helena down the mountain once more, driving up and down the roads around the cabin in an endless loop, hoping and praying a miracle would happen. “Don’t you think we would’ve found her by now? If she’s hurt and inside those woods, we should be in there looking for her.”

Beau passed another sigh between his lips. There had been three hours of that, too. Patience was a not only an eight-letter word but a bitch as well.

“Neither of us is any help there. We don’t know those woods. You don’t even a phone, Randy,” Beau said with a bit more firmness in his voice, causing his partner’s frown to deepen. Saved by the bell, Beau’s phone chimed in his pocket with Jenny’s angelic name popping up on the screen. He pulled over on the side of the road before picking up.

“What you got? Uh-huh… You sure? What did they say about the cabin? Okay… Both of ‘em? How far? Which direction? Alright… We’re close. Driving back up there now.”

Randy held his breath till Beau hung up, trying to guess the content of the phone call by the various facial expressions of the sheriff. Then, he asked, “Good news or bad news?”

“Hard to say,” Beau replied, his eyes fixed on his hands gripping the steering wheel. He swallowed the lump in his throat, gave himself an encouraging nod, and started the engine, trying to sink every bad theory that surfaced in his mind. “Forensics came back. Our theory was partially correct. The blood inside the cabin was mostly Turner’s.”

Randy raised a brow, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. “Mostly?”

“Evidence points to her not escaping. Turner might have gotten to her before she could even leave the property. They found a bear trap with her blood on it,” Beau explained slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening. “Dogs picked up a trail, leading into the woods. Forensics confirmed both of their blood on that trail.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve followed her. She still could’ve escaped,” Randy replied and knew full well it was only sugarcoating the truth swimming in the lower pits of his belly.

“Could’ve…” Beau nodded and swallowed heavily. “But then again, if she did manage to escape, how did her blood end up inside the cabin?”

Defeated, Randy licked his lips, expelling a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, guess my hopes are little too high. I mean, how the hell would you get out of a bear trap?”

Beau knew the question was mostly rhetorical, but true to himself, he still answered, “It’s actually pretty easy. Just press down on the springs, and the thing opens right up.” A smile formed on his lips as a memory popped back into his mind. “I told Y/N that once when we took a camping trip back in Houston. She probably didn’t remember it. I mean, honestly, I doubt she was even listening. I was kinda ramblin’, you know?”

“Uh-huh. I remember. I’ve spent a lot of time with you…” Randy smacked his lips, fingers tapping his thigh. “You guys went on a trip together?”

Beau’s mouth opened on reflex, but he stopped himself from replying, shooting a scrutinizing look at his partner. “Yeah, uh, just the one, really. Shoulda been more…”

Regrets seeped to the surface. If Beau had known he had only a finite amount of time with you, he would’ve enjoyed and appreciated every last second of it. He should’ve spent less time in his head. He should’ve taken you out on more dates. He should’ve been the best he could be. Instead, he wasted so much time and couldn’t even remember why in retrospect.

“What makes you say that?” Randy’s question rang both with curiosity and pain. His brown eyes stared stubbornly ahead and focused on the dark road.

Beau blew a long sigh. “Well, I wasn’t always the best–,” he hesitated a moment before saying the word, “–boyfriend, I guess.”

If Randy was upset by the term, he didn’t let it show. Maybe he was sticking to Rule #2. He quirked a brow and glanced at Beau in the driver’s seat. “So, on top of stealing my wife, you’re telling me you didn’t even treat her right?”

“Guess so,” Beau admitted quietly, poking the inside of his cheeks with his tongue and ignoring the subtle jab. “And I didn’t treat her badly, by the way. Just could’ve tried harder. Felt guilty because she was your-, well, you know… And the divorce got kinda messy, too. I just wanted to stay clear of complications.”

Exasperated, Randy scoffed, shaking his head. “This is not really making me want to give you my blessing…”

Beau huffed a chuckle. “Didn’t know that was an option.”

“Well, it’s not. You don’t deserve her.” Randy clicked his tongue, pensively bobbing his head. He then finally admitted, the words sounding almost sour, “Neither do I. You might be as big of an idiot as me.”

Beau’s eyes widened in surprise, his focus briefly swaying from the road. “What d’you mean? You guys were perfect together. Is this about what Newton said?”

Randy’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “Y/N never told you?”

“Told me what?”

Randy chewed on his lower lip before pushing out the words that had plagued him for three years. “She wanted to leave me.”

Beau shook his head. “Nah, I don’t buy it. She loved you. You should’ve seen her after she thought you’d died.”

Randy inhaled sharply, his head spinning with regret and heart filling with hope. For the past years, he had wondered if he’d ever get another chance to fix things with you.

“Yeah, well, it’s true,” he said, his gaze cast downward as if he were confessing his sins to a priest. “She wanted kids, and I told her I didn’t. Neither of us was backing down. The night the cartel kidnapped me, we were supposed to have dinner and talk about it when I got home. Part of me already knew where it was headed.”

Beau listened and nodded. He remembered the set dinner table, the lovingly prepared food, the candles – it didn’t seem like something one would do if they planned on leaving.

“No, I don’t think she would’ve left you,” Beau noted, although his heart stung when he said it out loud.

“I overheard her asking Carla for a divorce lawyer. Pretty sure she was,” Randy retorted. “Seems silly now. She was already out of my league. I should’ve just given her what she wanted. I don’t even know why I didn’t. I should’ve just shut up and been grateful.”

“That’s what I would’ve told you to do,” Beau muttered, his brain trying to keep track and process everything. Why had you never told him any of this? And more importantly: “Why have you never told me?”

“Guess I was embarrassed.” Randy shrugged. “And I already knew what you would’ve said.”

Secretly amused, Beau cocked a brow. “What? That you’re an idiot?”

“Exactly.”

“And Carla knew?”

“I guess.” Randy gave another shrug of his shoulders. “I mean, they talked all the time. Well, mostly it was Carla complaining about you, but still…”

Beau’s brow furrowed into deep lines. He should’ve been more surprised than he was. The only thing that really baffled him was the fact you had still agreed to date him after hearing all of that. What else didn’t he know?

“I thought they met once a week for book club?”

Randy shot him a pitying look. “Dude, there was no book club. Only three bottles of wine.” He then exhaled a long sigh, stretching back into his seat. “Maybe it’s good she didn’t pick anyone. She deserves someone who can give her what she wants.”

“What makes you think I can’t?” A little offended, Beau raised his brow. “You know, when she came back a few weeks ago, I swore I’d make things right. I wouldn’t let her go this time.”

But Beau broke that promise. He pushed you away to stay clear of complications. His heart twinged.

“And you think she wanted to live in a trailer in the woods of Montana?”

“Doesn’t matter. I would’ve given her anything she wanted. No questions asked,” Beau stated simply. “I was happy when I was with her. Didn’t matter where we were or what we were doing.”

“So, what? You planned on marrying her? Kids?”

Beau twitched his shoulders, his eyes not drifting from the street. If he glanced at Randy only for a beat, he couldn’t ignore his friend’s reactions any longer and still remain honest. “We never talked about it, but... If that’s what she wants, then yeah. Don’t even have to think about it. You really were an idiot, you know?”

“I know that. Thank you,” Randy huffed sarcastically and rolled his eyes. “Still not getting my blessing, though.”

“Good thing you’re not her father,” Beau snapped. He could only muster so much patience. “You don’t really have a say in who she’s datin’.”

“You’re one to talk.” Randy scoffed mockingly. “I met your friend Denise at the station. We had a long chat. She almost talks as much as you. Sounded like you tried to have a say in who Carla should marry. Little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“That’s different,” Beau retorted defensively. “We have a kid together. Whoever Carla’s seeing is also gonna be in Emily’s life.”

“So, you don’t even care a little about Carla’s well-being? ‘Cause Denise said you killed her new husband,” Randy countered cleverly.

“Of course I care,” Beau admitted frustratedly. What did Randy want to hear? That he was right about everything? Well, except one thing: “And I didn’t kill Avery, by the way. Might have been slightly responsible for his death, sure, but I didn’t kill the idiot.”

“Seems to be a pattern for you. Maybe Diane was right,” Randy muttered wryly.

Beau licked his lips and sighed. “Listen, I know that devil woman is good at getting into someone’s head, but you gotta believe me, man. I did not leave you to die. If I had known–”

“Whoa, I know,” Randy interrupted him with an amused chuckle and two placating hands. “I was just joking. I knew you didn’t hand me over to the cartel on purpose in some evil ploy to get with my wife. That would be insane.”

Beau gave a nod, accepting his answer with relief. “Well, good.”

“Look, I’m not delusional, contrary to what everyone’s thinking. I know things happened while I was away,” Randy admitted. “I figured she had moved on. For three years, I actually hoped she did. I wanted her to be happy. Just didn’t think it be you, I guess. Probably shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I kinda knew you always liked her. Just didn’t think any more of it, you know?”

“And there wasn’t more, alright? I promise,” Beau assured him, his cheeks reddening from embarrassment. He never thought Randy would’ve suspected anything – not that there really ever was anything. But had his tiny crush really been that obvious? “One of those things, you know? Just ‘cause I find Michelle Rodriguez attractive doesn’t mean I seriously expect to date her. I didn’t know it was more than that till I spent some time with her.”

“Good to know,” was all Randy said, crossing his arms with an uncomfortable clear of his throat. “Definitely surprised Y/N likes you, though. She always had a pretty low opinion of you. Said you were doing shitty police work and I should be more careful. Guess she was right..." Beau shot him a darkened look but refrained from taking the bait. Randy pursed his lips. "Look, I know I’m a pain in your ass right now. You’d probably love to get rid of me.”

“Well, hey, that’s not–”

“What, true?” Knowingly, Randy lifted a brow. “I would if I were you.”

Beau only nodded, not admitting out loud the thought had certainly crossed his mind. “So, what are you thinking now?”

“Still want her to be happy,” Randy said quietly.

All of a sudden, Beau then slammed on the brakes, both men jolting forward into their seatbelts. A loud thud echoed through the car as something heavy hit the Jeep’s hood. For a moment, the sheriff thought he’d run into a deer before blinking his eyes at the bloodied and muddied image of Hal Turner.

“What the hell?!”

Turner was in rough shape, pantingly and deliriously stumbling around the car and onto the road, shielding his eyes from the blinding headlights with his palm. Blood dripped from various places from his head and body before Beau’s eyes narrowed on the metal tool stuck inside his neck.

“Guess we found our missing screwdriver,” Randy noted as the two men jumped out of the car, guns drawn.

“Where is she, Turner?” Beau prompted sternly, his finger itching to pull the trigger for everything he’d done to you. But knowing where you were was more important than a vendetta. Turner could only speak while he was alive.

And the man seemed to know it, too. Before the sheriff could call for back-up and an ambulance, Turner sneered and raised a hand, gripping the screwdriver tightly.

“No, don’t!”

Beau’s plea came too late. Hal Turner pulled the makeshift weapon out of his throat and collapsed to the ground, bleeding out within seconds.

Randy’s fingers landed on the man’s pulse point. He glanced up at his partner with a shake of his head. “He’s gone.”

Throwing his gun angrily into the rustling brushes, Beau gripped his temples and screamed into the void of the dark woods. Desperation clawed on his mind and heart. The fear of losing you for good took him prisoner. With labored breaths, he squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and rubbed his tired eyes. Turner had been his last lead. He knew more wouldn’t be coming.

What now?

A sanctimonious beep of his phone drew his attention. A small part of him prayed it was Jenny, informing him you’d emerged a few miles up the road – bloody like Turner, but otherwise fine. Alive.

But his green eyes only found an email and darkened at the sender’s name. “Diane just sent me a link.”

Randy, caught in his own spiral, suddenly glanced up. “To what?”

“Livestream.”

Chapter 13: Sure And Certain

Another cliffhanger, and it looks like Diane's still having the last laugh 🙈

What did you think of this part? Were you surprised by Randy's revelation? He might've changed his mind on a few things 😉

See ya next week for the freaking finale 🤍

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Polaris Series: @corruptedcruiser

[sgt-tombstone]

Polaris

This is my secret santa gift for @gorsime/@farahfriday! I hope you like it!!

----

When Simon was a kid, he stole a book about space from his local library. Not his finest moment, to be sure, but the guilt of it was vastly outweighed by the comfort of scrambling up onto the roof of his house—the only place where his dad couldn't reach him—with nothing but a flashlight and his pilfered book. He'd sit up there for hours, naming the stars and tracing the constellations, until the sun rose and hid the tiny pinpricks of light once more.

The hazy glow of Manchester hid all but the brightest of stars, so many of his favorites remained little more than pictures on a page, but he glutted himself on Arcturus and Gaia, Cassiopeia and Andromeda. On good days, he challenged himself to find as many of the zodiac constellations as possible. On bad days, he stared at the North Star for so long that his eyes blurred and his chest ached. He didn't know why it called to him so strongly—its brightness, maybe, or its stubborn persistence—but he knew, with an inexplicable yet unshakable confidence, that home for him wasn't the building beneath him. Home was due north, somewhere along the longitude pointing true north.

When he joined the military, he assumed that his true north was a long-lost dream. Officer training had briefly reawakened the dormant sparks when he'd had to sit through a seminar on astronavigation, but the embers were snuffed just as quickly. Dead men had graves, not homes, and he didn't feel the pull of Polaris deep in his chest for a long time. Not until recently. Not until Johnny.

----

Ghost didn't give the universe credit for much—it had screwed him over more times and in more ways than he could count—but he had to admit that, at present, things weren't as bad as they could be.

He'd long since stopped expecting missions to go smoothly, because life didn't work that way and apparently neither did the 141. Being an optimist in the military was a recipe for disaster, so most soldiers maintained a healthy dose of realism, but Ghost had fully swan-dived into pure pessimism years ago and hadn't ever really breached the surface, despite Soap's consistent and concerted efforts to sway him towards some sort of sustained positivity.

At the current moment, though, the tables had turned. For once, he wasn't being the pessimistic one.

“Just our fuckin' luck," Soap spat, kicking at his gear bag before continuing his rampage around the small cabin. "Stuck all the way out here in this god forsaken forest, fuckin' middle of nowhere, piece of shite safe house-"

The mission had been easy, almost suspiciously easy, but Ghost wasn't in the habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth; he'd turned himself into a well-rounded veterinarian, capable of handling whatever inevitably, predictably went wrong. And in the grand scheme of things, this particular gift horse was barely limping. Sure, he and Soap had been separated from the rest of the 141, forced to retreat to the only safe house in four hundred square miles, all communication cut, but it could have been worse.

"How the fuck are we supposed tae get out o' here?" Soap growled, ripping his earpiece out and hurling it to the floor with a wordless scream of frustration. "Comms doon, no radio, fuckin' smoke signals or catch the nearest fucking pigeon-“

Ghost was leaned against the wall next to the only door, his arms crossed over his chest, enjoying the show with a single raised eyebrow. He knew that most of Soap's anger wasn't really anger; their separation from the rest of the 141 had come in the form of several very close calls with stray bullets, followed by over an hour of climbing up a forest-blanketed mountain to their one-room hideout. Adrenaline, fear, and exhaustion warred in Soap's blood, erupting as righteous, turbulent rage. Ghost's eyes tracked Soap's movement around the room, letting the artificial anger flow around him like water in a stream.

"Dinnae ken how long it'll be before they find us," Soap ranted, pulling his tac vest over his head, sending a mag pouch skittering across the floor. "Fuckin' sitting ducks out here, we are, waitin' for some bampot to pull their heid out o' their-"

“Thought you'd be happier to be stuck in a safe house with me, sergeant. Weren’t you the one who mentioned cohabitation recently?” Ghost asked, cutting his sergeant off, and he regretted the words as soon as he said them, his joking tone doing nothing to soften the way they landed like a mortar shell in the middle of the room.

Soap had brought up the topic of moving in together just before loading out three days ago, a half-finished conversation, and Ghost hadn't had the chance to answer one way or the other before they'd had to board the transport for infil. He could tell that the lack of response had weighed on his partner in the days since. Joking about it now was probably a bit too much, too soon. Soap spun in place and fixed Ghost with a withering glare, every muscle held taut with barely-contained rage.

“Tha's no' what I meant and you fuckin' know it, Simon.”

“I know, Johnny, I'm sorry," Simon said gently, his entire body softening on an exhale. He took his mask off and opened his arms slightly, an invitation. "Come here, love."

Johnny needed his boyfriend right now, not his CO, and despite Price’s grumbling on the subject, the two of them did a bang up job of keeping the two facets of their lives, the two aspects of their relationship, separate. He watched as Johnny sloughed off the tension in his shoulders and trudged the short distance between them to press his forehead to the ridge of Simon's collarbone. Simon wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, glad that he'd had the foresight to doff his own plate carrier when they'd entered the safe house half an hour earlier; the only thing separating the two men were their shirts and several layers of dried sweat, and he could feel Johnny's heartbeat against his ribs.

“We’re going to be okay, sweet'eart,” Simon murmured, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s temple and burrowing his nose in the dent that Johnny's headphones left in his mohawk. He swept a hand down Johnny's spine, coaxing him to relax against him. “We always are when we’re together."

He felt Johnny heave a deep breath and nod before his arms came up to wrap around Simon's back, gripping the fabric of his shirt in his fists.

"Don't terrorists know tomorrow's Christmas?" Johnny muttered, and now they were getting to the crux of the issue. "Don't they know I'm supposed tae be in Glasgow with my boyfriend right now?"

"I don't think they care, love," Simon rumbled with a smile. He was helpless against it, his chest constricting with awe and affection every time Johnny called him his boyfriend; such a simple thing, but it meant everything. His free hand wrapped around the back of Johnny's neck, gently massaging out some of the tightness in the muscles at his nape. They stood like that for several moments, swaying slightly in place as the adrenaline of the mission eased and their heartbeats softened to a synchronized thrum.

"We’re safe," Simon continued lowly, dropping his head to speak in Johnny's ear, his lips moving against the shaved portion of his head. "No one’s shooting at us, neither of us are injured. We have a well-stocked safe house in a very defensible position. It's the only safe house in the area, so Price'll get Nik out here by tomorrow, comms or not, no messenger pigeon required. We're gonna be okay."

"I know," Johnny said. His voice was muffled by Simon's chest and he drew back just enough to look him in the eyes, blinking slowly like a cat.

"We can spend New Years in Scotland instead," Simon said, his lips brushing against Johnny's forehead. It wouldn't be the same, he knew—Johnny loved Christmas, had been so excited to bring Simon home for the holidays for the first time—but it was something.

"Lookin' tae get a New Years kiss outta me, Simon Riley?" Johnny grinned, wiggling his eyebrows salaciously, like Simon needed a special occasion to kiss him. He rolled his eyes and pressed his lips against Johnny's in a chaste peck, just to prove the point.

"Every year, for the rest of my life, Johnny," he said, then took a step backwards and caught one of Johnny's hands in his, tugging him towards the door before he could fully process what Simon had said. "Now, come on, come outside with me.”

“Why?”

“It’s a beautiful night," he smiled. "We’re going stargazing.”

And it was; this close to the equator, December temperatures rarely dropped below 20 degrees Celsius, and the sun had set a few hours ago, leaving the mid-winter air just shy of too cold. The trees had already lost most of their leaves, granting them a good view of the night sky, undisturbed by light pollution.

Simon led them to the roof of the safe house, tucking themselves and their guns between two dormers; they were several dozen miles from the warehouse they'd raided hours before, but Simon didn't want to take any further unnecessary risks. He braced his feet on the gentle slope of the roof, his arse already protesting the rough shingles, and tugged Johnny to sit between his bent knees, back to his chest. The warmth of Johnny in his arms chased away the slight chill and any remaining tension that clung to their bones.

"Tha's gotta be a planet," Johnny murmured as they settled, pointing to a point in the distant sky. "Look how bright it is."

"Hm," Simon hummed in agreement, glancing up to get his bearings among the stars. "'S Mars." He laid his palm over the back of Johnny's hand, entwining their fingers. "There's Cancer, just behind it." He swept their joined hands to the left in a slow arc, sweeping above their heads. "There's Gemini, Taurus, Aries, Pisces, and Aquarius, just above the horizon. But look, see Capella, right there? 'S the brightest star in its constellation, Auriga, but it's actually four stars all bunched together. I don't remember their names, but it's two pairs of stars orbiting each other."

"How do ye ken all this?"

"Looked at the stars a lot as a kid," Simon shrugged, knowing that Johnny would understand what went unspoken in the mundane statement. "You should always be able to find the North Star, Johnny. Find the North Star and you can find your way home."

"Awright," Johnny said, leaning his head against Simon's. "How do ye find the North Star?"

"You see Ursa Major, there?" Simon asked, bringing their extended arms back to the right. "'S one of the most recognizable constellations. The two stars on top, Merak and Dubhe, form a line, and if you follow it up," he traced the invisible line with Johnny's fingertip until it hit, "Polaris. The North Star. As long as you're in the Northern hemisphere, that's true north."

"What if I'm in the Southern hemisphere?"

"Then you're fucked," Simon said, deadpan, and Johnny snorted a laugh.

"No, I'm serious," Simon protested, prodding Johnny lightly in the side in chastisement, but he was chuckling too. "Polaris is a pole star, it's aligned with the Earth's axis of rotation in the Northern hemisphere, but the Southern pole star—Sigma Octantis, I think—is barely visible, even on a clear night. You have to use two other constellations , the Southern Cross and two stars of Centaurus, to find approximate true south. It's a pain in the arse. Stick to the Northern hemisphere."

"What aboot that star?" Johnny asked, pointing to another bright spot, and Simon easily obliged.

They spent the next hour or so curled around each other on the roof, Simon pointing out every constellation he knew, along with fun facts about the stars in them. Anyone else would've thought Johnny to be uncharacteristically quiet, but Simon knew the man was a sponge; the fastest way to get him to shut up was to teach him something new. Finally, Simon exhausted his knowledge of the visible stars, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

This, he thought, was the closest to heaven he'd ever get. Johnny, safe and warm in his arms, spread out beneath the stars, the only two human beings for miles. He'd never given thought to his retirement, never thought he'd get that far, but if he did, he wanted it to look something like this. Johnny would hate it, he knew; the man was too social to live the rest of his life in the middle of nowhere, but maybe they could find a happy medium. If anyone could, it was the two of them. Their entire relationship was a game of balance; sunlight and shadow, passion and duty, pleasure and pain.

"We could do it, you know," Simon murmured after a few minutes, his voice nearly lost among the sounds of unfamiliar birds and bugs settling down or revving up for the night.

Johnny hummed in question, and Simon realized he had continued a conversation that had happened only in his head.

"This," he elaborated. "Us. We could retire, spend our days just like this."

"Ye dinnae have to retire, Simon, I ken how much ye love yer job," Johnny said, tilting his head to knock gently against Simon's temple. "When I was talkin' aboot movin' in together, I only meant off base." He caught one of Simon's hands in both of his own, kneading idly—almost nervously—at his palm with his thumbs.

"I'd love to move off base with you, Johnny," Simon said earnestly, forfeiting his hand easily to his boyfriend's ministrations. "But… We've been in the game for a long time, love. Reckon we've earned ourselves a nice retirement. Get away somewhere, just us and whatever slice of nature we land in."

"Are ye sayin' ye want tae retire?" There was no judgment in Johnny's voice, just curiosity, and Simon didn't blame him. The military was all either of them had ever known; retirement had never been in the cards for them. They lived 141, and they'd always expected to die 141, too.

"I'm saying that I'd follow you wherever you wanted to go, Johnny."

"It's a hell of an idea," Johnny said with a chuckle, nestling even further back against Simon's chest and laying his head back to rest on his shoulder. He finally released Simon's hand and Simon immediately laid it on Johnny's chest, right over his heart. "The Ghost playin' domestic."

"Here's an even better idea," Simon rumbled in his ear. "Simon MacTavish waking up every morning next to his husband."

"Oh," Johnny breathed, all amusement gone in an instant, and Simon could feel the trembling of his chest as he stuttered an exhale. "Oh, aye, I like that idea."

"Thought you might," Simon murmured. At that moment, his watch, set to local time, beeped softly. "Happy Christmas, Johnny."

Johnny sat up slightly, turning in Simon's arms to catch his gaze, and Simon brought a hand up to give him a place to rest his head, cradling the side of his face in his palm. He ran his thumb in a sweeping arc, pressing into the divot of Johnny's temple, feeling the smooth scar tissue against his calloused fingertip.

He'd almost lost him, that day in the tunnel; if Makarov's aim had been any better, Simon would've been spreading Johnny's ashes instead of making a bedside confession in the hospital. Every time he caught a glimpse of the starburst scar, he thought of Polaris and thanked whatever higher power that bothered to listen for giving them a second chance. He didn't intend to waste it.

"Happy Christmas, Simon," Johnny said with a sad smile that Simon hated; he'd pluck all of the stars out of the sky to keep Johnny from ever looking like that. "I'm sorry we couldn't spend it at my family's."

"Johnny," Simon breathed, hand still cupping Johnny's face. "I don't care about one holiday when I know we'll spend a hundred more together. When I know that we'll be able to invite your family over to ours one day to celebrate. You're it for me, love. I'm not sayin' we have to retire tomorrow, but… If it came down to you or the job, The Ghost would disappear in a heartbeat. You brought Simon Riley back to life, sweet'eart, and I'll spend the rest of it loving you."

For a long moment, Johnny gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing noiselessly as he struggled to form a response. Simon let him process, using the time to get lost in his eyes; the endless, glacial blue that had become the brightest star in his sky, his North Star, his guiding light. They were filled with unshed tears and unwavering love, and he would never understand what he'd done in his life to deserve such devotion, but he'd spend every day of his life trying to prove himself worthy of it.

"Yer no' proposin' to me right now, are ye?" Johnny finally asked, and it was obvious that he was trying to keep his voice light, joking to ease the suffocating sincerity, but his accent was thick with emotion.

"Hm," Simon hummed with a smile, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he pretended to think it over before tilting his head decisively. "Not yet. Trust me, John MacTavish, when I propose to you, you'll know it."

"I dinnae ken how you'll top tha' little speech," Johnny chuckled wetly, still sounding breathless, and Simon was helpless to do anything but kiss him.

It was innocent, relatively speaking, their lips staying closed even as Simon leaned back against the angled roof, tugging Johnny to follow him down. He let himself be consumed by the feeling of Johnny's lips on his, soft and plush and slightly chapped. He'd never get used to his partner's easy adoration, the way one of his hands found its way to Simon's cheek, then up into his hair, not tugging, just… Holding. Holding them close. His other hand was braced against the rough shingles, holding him up so he didn't smash their skulls together.

It would be so easy to turn it into something more, just a brush of Simon's free hand down Johnny's flank, a peek of tongue against his lips, a thigh raised to wrap around Johnny's hips. But neither of them pushed, content to bask in the moment, the easy intimacy of being together, being alive.

They did, however, need to breathe, so Johnny pulled away an indeterminate amount of time later, but he didn't go far. He hovered above Simon as they caught their breath, panting each other's air.

"I'll find a way," Simon rasped, not missing the way Johnny shivered at the husk in his voice just from kissing.

"What?" Johnny asked, and god, he didn't sound much better. Simon at least suppressed the chills that ran down his spine better than Johnny had.

"I'll find a way to top that speech," he whispered, reminding his boyfriend what they'd been talking about before making out like teenagers hiding from their parents. As close as they were, he saw the joke light in Johnny's eyes, taking a breath between smirking lips—

"Don't," Simon said, eliciting a yelp of outrage.

"Ye dinnae even ken what I was gonnae say!"

"Yes, I do," Simon said, but he couldn't hide his grin, especially when Johnny collapsed against him in a fit of giggles, forcing the breath from his lungs with a whoosh. "You're too predictable, Johnny. Saw it comin' a mile away- Don't!"

Simon didn't know how long they laughed, each lull sparking another bout of giggles. They clutched each other to keep from falling off the roof as much as they did for warmth, and he couldn't remember ever feeling happier. It was a strange thought to have in the middle of the woods, stuck until Price could find a clearing big enough for Nik to land, clinging to the roof of a safe house on the side of a random mountain halfway around the world from home, but…

Home, for Simon, wasn't a building. It wasn't Manchester or Credenhill. It wasn't his bunk on base or his shitty, off-base flat that only saw his presence when Price forced him on leave. Home wasn't a place.

Home was in his arms, huffing laughter against the side of his neck, stupid mohawk tickling his jaw, a bundle of blazing heat across his chest. His North Star, his true north, his guiding light. Home was wherever Johnny was; a fixed point in Simon's life, the center of his sky. He'd follow Johnny anywhere, called to his brightness, his stubborn persistence, and he knew that he'd never get lost as long as he could find Polaris; it would lead him home.

----

Read it here on AO3!

[ineffabildaddy]

ineffabildaddy fic masterlist

all my fics are aziraphale/crowley🩵

you can read @bowtiepastabitch's analysis on some of the ways i explore queerness in my fics, with an excellent addition by @lalalunamoth, here!

i'm humbled to say that a few of my works have been recced by @fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic - you can read those posts here!

i have a ko-fi account where you can leave a tip here, if you're so inclined🩵

CURRENT WIPS

long time listener, first time caller (E, 22k so far, 4/7 chapters posted) - crowley is in love with the voice of aziraphale fell, late-night radio host, and the face of the handsome stranger he passes in the park every day. what will happen when he introduces himself, and when he has to choose between them? 📻 fic post here

wouldn't it be a lovely headline? (E, 17k so far, 5/? chapters posted) - close friends anthony j. crowley and azira fell are attending their first awards show for the film they recently co-starred in, whose sequel will only be made if they get enough public attention over the course of the weekend... how to garner this attention? why, pretend they're a couple, of course.🎬 fic post here

COMPLETED FICS

crosseyed and painless (E, 4.1k) - dom!az and fem!crowley pwp in which crowley has asked aziraphale to help her relax after a long day, and the results are not at all what she expects💦

take me as your wife (E, 7.1k) - a chance romantic meeting between crowley and aziraphale in a country inn in the 1750s sets off a chain of chases and surrenders🍷fic post here

complementary colours (T, 5.7k) - post-canon. aziraphale moves into crowley's cottage in the south downs and decides to do a little detective work to learn something he's never known about the former demon - his favourite colour🔎🌈 fic post here

angel and ash (E, 5k) - with art by @wasleichtesart! crowley begins to frequent queer bars in london, presenting as a trans woman under the name ash. one night, she stumbles upon a trans man known as angel, whom she recognises immediately...🪩 fic post here

creature of mine (E, 21k) - with art by @omens-for-ophelia! aziraphale buys crowley a snake plant as a gift, whose scent triggers a naga transformation. big dick aziraphale gets stuck in🌺🎁 fic post here

you're a mirror i cannot avoid (E, 1k) - south downs domestic, erotic softness as aziraphale reassesses what it means to be himself🪞 Tumblr | AO3

in your own time (E, 33k) - human priest au set in tadfield, in which crowley and aziraphale are childhood best friends finally reunited. catholic school, apple trees, hogback wood, holy sex, and more⛪️ fic post here

Just Up The Stairs (E, 39k) - cowrite with @foolishlovers, art by @omens-for-ophelia! quiet, gentle and romantic neighbours human au featuring lots of music and harry the rabbit🐇 fic post here

close (well, you couldn't get much closer) (E, 1.4k) - post-ineffable divorce shenanigans featuring crowley using a replica model of aziraphale's penis, through which aziraphale can feel... well, everything❗️

I'm Beginning to See the Light (E, 22k) - gentle enemies to ardent lovers office christmas party human au which quickly devolves into body worship and gender-affirming sex - transmasc az, service top crowley🎄⚧ fic tag here

Despite Knowing Better... (E, 10.9k) - aziraphale and fem!crowley deal with the ineffable divorce by meeting in the bookshop once a week to fuck, while attempting to hold each other at arm's length. things get messy in the process...💔

Strawberry Scripture (E, 6.5k) - pwp oneshot. aziraphale and fem!crowley celebrate averting the apocalypse by playing with food, and with crowley's scales...🍰🐍

ON HIATUS

golly what a spirit (you can only hear it down on whickber street) (E, 5k so far, 1/2 chapters posted) - it's almost christmas eve, and aziraphale has been a total humbug all month long. crowley buys a potion from anathema that promises to get its users in the christmas spirit, and doses their bedtime tea with it. when they wake up the next morning, they have undergone some very magical and very festive transformations...🎅🏻🧝🏼

Many Different Ways to Eat an Oyster (E, 6.5k) - aziraphale and crowley meet in ancient rome, where crowley admits that he's a virgin. aziraphale sets about putting this to rights immediately🦪

FICLETS, POEMS ETC.

i have waited (M, 0.4k) - poem in which crowley ponders how he has waited for aziraphale over the millennia🕰 Tumblr | AO3

core of a clementine (E, 0,5k) - touch-starved crowley explores the sweet torture of aziraphale's seemingly innocent, mundane actions🍊 Tumblr | AO3

you're so golden (E, 0.9k) - while coupling under cover of night in the garden of eden, crowley discovers that aziraphale has golden stretch-marks. and they aren't the only part of him that's golden...✨ Tumblr | AO3

Only in Dreams (E, 0.5k) - post-season 2 aziraphale pov musings, as he hopes to visit his lover in dreams, if not in the waking world🌫 Tumblr | AO3

Blasphemy (E, 0,4k) - crowley muses about holiness, blasphemy, and how they interact with sex with aziraphale✝️ Tumblr | AO3

Do You Remember? (E, 0.8k) - aziraphale reflects on his first time with crowley - a time in which "they aren't talking" post-season 2💘

Flecks of Stardust (G, 0,2k) - a love poem from aziraphale to crowley🖋 Tumblr | AO3

I Know (E, 0.7k) - crowley reckons he knows exactly how aziraphale wants him... 🌅 Tumblr | AO3

Solitude (G, 0,4k) - supreme archangel aziraphale reminisces on his encounters with crowley through the ages ⌛️ Tumblr | AO3

Please Touch Me (E, 0,5k) - touch-starved crowley reflects on the kind of connection he wants with aziraphale 💭 Tumblr | AO3

[signedeclipse]

Do you have any NSFW hc's for Hantengu and Gyokko? These guys deserve more love 😤

Gyokko | Hantengu [X Reader]

In which they get steamy with their s/o.

Gyokko

I put this in my recent oneshot, but I believe he either has snake dicks (so two) or 5-7 tentacled of varying sizes instead of a dick and wanted to get that out of the way now

Two mouths = perfect for people with breasts

He is also amazing at eating out with those beautiful lips and the fact that he really doesn't need to breathe

Long tongue too? Oh my

Gyokko is very intimate with his craft, he loves feeling out his s/o and using their body as inspiration for his pots, a lot of which follow your shape

None are perfect enough, so he'll always be handsy, trying to figure you out

He loves teasing, not in a patience kind of way but in a word kind of way

Expect degrading, always about how much you depend on him to feel so good, about how your expression changes when he does something

He is able to secrete a poison, and I imagine in very small doses he can use it as a relaxant so you can just melt into the bed or his arms

Maybe even...aphrodisiac if I may suggest

Very slimy so no need for lube, he'll slip into you with so much ease you'll barely notice till youre red hot with pleasure

Hantengu

He is everything you could ever want

With so many sides to him, anything you desire is achievable; kinks, scenes, how they treat you, how they fit into you

Very needy, though, it's not often that you can get away with fucking just one of them- once another finds out, you're bound to be bouncing on everyone at least once that evening

Usually goes from toughest to softest, but you'll always end up with one or two cleaning you up and getting you in bed so you can rest after

Surprisingly Urogi is very protective over you due to a sort of nesting behaviour he has so it's usually him cuddling up with you

If not him then Hantengu or Aizetsu will care for you, both having extreme empathy for their s/o

A lot of them Sekido and Urogi have extreme breeding kinks, despite the fact that they cannot reproduce, but they'll talk about impregnating you all the time

One thing they won't do is impact play, or anything that hurts you...surprisingly they aren't very sadistic

Except for Sekido, he does like electricity play a bit, but only to your comfort zone

Each of them has a favourite place to mark you!

Hantengu prefers your collarbones and chest, where its soft and makes you gasp a lot

Karaku adores the inside of your thighs, right up by your heat

Sekido goes for the neck, somewhere everyone can see it and dark enough that no make up helps

Urogi likes your stomach, but he's gentle about it and usually goes towards the hips so you aren't wincing

Aizetsu kisses all up your arms, and some leave small marks, usually near the back of your hand or on your shoulders

Authors Note - They do!! Honestly best part of the new season is all the Gyokko & Hantengu requests im getting because ive loved them for yearssss and it is finally THEIR TIME!!

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#370

“Here we are boy, once again.  The last time we met, you ran screaming like a nellie girl.  I haven’t changed.  I’m still the sadistic asshole I was two years ago when we reconnected.  If anything, I now demand more.  I told you before that I ain’t changing who or what I am nor what I want and expect from a faggot bitch cunt toilet.  I have to ask, what’s different about you?...

“Oh, you have embraced chastity.  Well that’s a start.  You wearing the cage now?...  Let me see….  Faggot!  Do you really think I want to see it hanging out of a zipper?  Don’t be so stupid.  Get the fuck naked.  The cool spring morning doesn’t bother me.  That means it doesn’t bother you. 

“…Wait.  Stop.  Did you shave your chest?...  No, you had your hair removed.  Continue stripping….  Faggot, I have to say, I’m surprised with that.  Pleasantly surprised…  Take all your clothes and place them in the bed of the truck.  Fold them first.  Place your phone, keys, ID, and any money on top of your clothes. 

“Good Faggot.  Now, bring that pee pee in a cage to me. 

“Where’s the key?  At home?  Faggot, you are going to get beat for denying me access to my toys.  The cage is one of those cheap assed ones that slaves can pull out of.  With a yank, I got the shaft out.  And if I squeeze these balls.  Shut up!  I don’t want to hear a cunt scream this early in the morning.  You know these balls are going to be in perpetual pain from this point on.  Finish stripping and let me get my bag….

“…Hold this.  What you are holding is a proper cage for a faggot bitch.  Notice how there’s virtually no room at all for your pee pee shaft?  As small as your thing is, this cage will keep it from wanting to get hard.  Here, take this water bottle.  That’s my morning piss, nice and cold.  Before you chug it down—and yes you will—take these two pills.  One keeps you limp, and one keeps your horniness down.  I own a urologist slave in Memphis. who told me about how to administer them.  I order it to take them daily to negate its own pee pee as well.  It hasn’t had a hard-on for years.  In fact, each of my long-distance slave properties takes them.  When I return back home to Denver and you are here alone, I expect you to send me a video text of you swallowing your daily dose.  Slaves are not entitled to sexual gratification unless I say so.  That ain’t happening…. Ever.  Drink up. 

“The only time a slave is permitted to cum without permission is if it does it hands free while being beaten by me.  I’ve only seen it happen with one property.  It was from Miami.  Its pee pee was soft in the cage the entire time.  It was great.  I even kept on beating it after its climax.  Its almost lost all interest in serving me in that moment.  That’s why no cumming for any of my property.

“You are shivering.  Let’s get you some heat.  Remember this tiny bottle?  No?  I never used this on you?  For the longest time, I couldn't find it in any drug store. Recently I found it on-line. It’s called Heet, and it’s an old school pain reliever for arthritis.  Stand still.  I need to wipe this dauber along your pee pee shaft, and around the head.  Your ball sack should be covered too.  Turn around and pull your cheeks apart.  Let me see your cunt.  Nice.  And a swipe up the crack, and a double swipe along the cunt lips.  Now stand up and face me.

“Now I wait a few moments…  There it is!  What?  Does your pee pee and balls feel like a thousand hot needles are being shoved in?  Your cunt too?  You are in excruciating pain?  Well let me see.  The instructions say, ‘Do not apply to sensitive areas.’  I thought it said, ‘Do apply…’  Oops.  My bad. 

“Ha ha ha.  I’ve been using this on faggot bitches for years.  I’m surprised I hadn’t used it on you on one of my visits here.  Well I need to make up for that.  Quit fidgeting.  It’s only temporary, about three or four hours of nonstop pain.

“Focus on me.  Quit thinking of the burning sensation in your crotch.  That’s nothing compared to the hell I have in store for you this weekend.  The last time you tried to submit to me you had an issue with eating my shithole.  I have a test for you.  You fail it, I will drive off, leaving you buck naked out here at this dead-end road.  I’ll throw your car keys out of my window as I drive off. 

“It’s time for you to eat my ass.  Here, help me get out of these jeans and briefs.

“There is no act that a slave can do to accept its role as my property more than sticking its tongue into my shithole for an extended period.  If I remember, this is what made you run last time.  Don’t worry, I already had my morning dump.  Oh wow, look at my skid marks.  It’s going to be nasty for you.  The hotel I’m staying at has the worst toilet paper.  I do prefer the tongue of a faggot slave to clean me up. 

“I want to feel those hands pulling apart my cheeks, followed by the wetness from your tongue on my hole….  I’m only feeling hands.  Fag, if you balk on this, I’m out of here.  I know you hate the idea.  That’s what makes me want to do it more.  You want to be a slave to a sadistic cruel master, that means doing nasty shit.  If I don’t feel a tongue in the next…

“There you go….  No fucking retching.  You told me that you want this life as a total faggot toilet cunt slave, you accept your role and its responsibilities.  You yearn to serve me with your disgust.  Your revulsion gets me hard.  If I find out you like to do something, I lose interest in doing it.  You want to stop doing toilet duties, then love it.  You have to really mean it.  I can recognize when a faggot bitch is trying to manipulate me.  It’s obvious, and it never ends well for the cunt toilet.

“This is what, my fifth time with you?  You ever wonder why I keep coming back and giving you a try?  I mean, each time you put up limits for me.  I should just dump you.  But I don’t.  One could say it’s pity.  Another could say that it’s hard to find a cunt bitch when I come to town.  While both of those reasons contribute, no there is another reason.

“Stick your tongue in my shithole.  Clean what you can on the inside, toilet cunt.

“Do you remember your ad on Craig’s List that got me to contact you?  I do.  ‘Oversexed 23-year-old seeks dominant top to expand kinky limits.’  That was about ten years ago.  When I walked into your apartment, I encountered something I don’t encounter that often, truly.  I have said that I don’t care to piss off 99% of the population to get that 1%.  Not only did you have the demeanor, you craved to serve me.  Back then you didn’t have that much experience in anything.  You had that hunger.  You took my beatings.  You suffered with every lash.  I could tell that you wanted it to end, but you saw that I was enjoying it, and you pushed through.  With each visit, I saw your growth.  Hell, I tell you to get your hair removed last time, and you went ahead and did it,… permanently.  It took a long time to get you to this place in your head.  I’m here to take advantage of it.

“You can take a beating, but it’s the extra raunch that bothers you.  I told you that if I came back this time, that you will either make the commitment to me or that I will be done with you.  On this visit, you will become a full-fledged toilet, my toilet.  That won’t happen unto Thursday night.  You have three days to put your head in the right spot.  Normally I wouldn’t dream of telling a faggot bitch slave what I had planned, but for you, I need for it to stew in your head. 

“For the next three days, you will be my urinal, drinking every drop.  You will give me a blumpkin and be my toilet paper, just like you are doing now.  You will stay with me at my hotel, sleeping on the bathroom floor chained to the toilet.  I’m gonna beat the fuck out of you.  I may even fuck you.  The next three days is going to be hell.

“You done back there?  Pull back.  Your face is a mess.  Good keep it that way.  I want you to smell me throughout the day.  While I am planning on taking you around with me to the sites I need to hit, you will probably remain in my truck.  You did pass this test.

“Stay there kneeling on the gravel.

“Thursday night however, your suffering, your submission, your service, and your sacrifice will be tested.  If you pass, I will take ownership of you.  My urologist slave will come in from Memphis, as I want a doctor nearby.  We are going to an old friend’s ranch out of town.  He too has slaves.  He’s allowing me the privacy to take ownership of you.

“After a day of not eating, you will straddle a wooden sawhorse.  Your ankles will be secured stretched painfully apart, making the ability of pulling off of a very thick butt plug impossible.  After taking off your cage, I will drive a two-inch common nail through your dickhead into the sawhorse.  I will hit the nail on its side to bend it, to make removal quite painful.  I will hand you a plate with my dump from the day.  You will be expected to eat it all.  While that is happening, I will be using my favorite whips and belts to turn your back into hamburger.  I will only stop when the plate is licked clean.

“Help me get my pants on.  I can see the revulsion in your eyes.  Look at my dick.  I am rock hard and leaking.  You know that the next few days is going to make me horny and happy. 

“Your suffering will bring me satisfaction.  My gratification is your motivation. 

“But should that change, or should I feel you are not living up to your full potential, we can end this.  Either one.  All you have to say is you want out.  Disappointingly, I will say that I will be giving up on you.  I will pull over in the truck and let you out.  You’ll have to fend for yourself to get back home or here to your car.  You’ll be naked of course.

“Speaking of which, I’m going to pull out, leaving you and your locked car here.  I’m going to be waiting at the fork in the road, which was about a quarter mile back, or maybe it was a half mile.  I’m going to wait for about 20 minutes for you to come to me.  No, make it 30 minutes.  This is a dirt road, and you have no shoes.  During that stroll, I want you to think about what lies ahead of you.  If you decide to back out, no problem.  I’ll just pull away.  I’ll drop off your clothes, keys, phone, etc. on your front doorstep.  You still live in the same house?  Good. 

“Hey!  The sun is coming up.  That should help you to warm up.  It’s a beginning of a new day.”

[cozzzynook]

But what if cybertronians did have another way to reproduce besides hot spots that were far and few in between and cold constructs that often caused disabilities.

What if they had the typical reproduction of housing a spark in their chassis and the sire builds a protoform that the carrier of the spark has to approve. Thats the normal way things happen, all three of those.

But what if there was another one.

One they said didn’t exist and would “take care” of any bot caught with this “abnormality.”

A bot that could get sparked with transfluid from a spike and spark merging.

The spark starts in the chassis but goes down to whats called a forge tank and their frames make the body with the materials they have and outside sources from metals and energon they consume and transfluid from the sire.

If they don’t get sparked their forge tanks sheds and they bleed energon from their valve and even their spike at times.

Its seen as a disgusting and abnormal trait because it’s something organics do even if these bots don’t carry exactly like an organic.

Cybertronians have long lives and so carrying and building one to term is not the standard human nine months but a thousand years.

The bot has time to hide it but the hard part is staying hidden after realizing and leaving.

So maybe Rodimus is one of the unfortunate bots who is an “abnormal carrier,” with a spark condition called spark flutters that he’s had since emergence.

His spark was acting odd and thats why he went to see First aid.

He snuck in, late when bots would be in recharge and he didn’t have to explain why he was grasping at his bulging chassis and tanks.

He expected to hear he needed a new dose of spark medicine and that his forge flush was coming.

Not the screen display to show him a new spark within the dissent tube slowly making its way to his gestation tank.

He stared at the screen for so long he didn’t realize he stoped venting and First aid was trying to snap him out of shock.

He doesn’t know how or when but he woke up in the private room with First aid reading his vitals. He has no memory file of passing out and his processor has such a terrible time trying to think of anything more than getting a cup of energon for his dry cords.

“Please don’t panic again. It’s not good for you..or the new spark, should you choose to keep them.”

He snapped his optics in a daze trying to stabilize himself, his gyros were spinning and his frame was weak.

“I’ll have to excuse you from work today, your spark needs to rest and your frame needs help stabilizing. I don’t expect an answer now but in the mean time until you decide we’ll have to keep the sparkling healthy for your own sake. Okay?”

And he’s nodding even if he doesn’t know because he can’t get his voice box to work nor his helm on straight when its a few hours later Drift and Ratchet are barging through the medbay demanding to see him.

Of course First aid refuses without his consent and he’s told with a gentle tone when its still just the two of them and he’s blinking back tears because he never told them he could abnormally carry and they’ve only recently found out he had spark flutters.

They weren’t even in a relationship, they were just fragging almost daily and sometimes sharing habs when his forge wasn’t flushing.

How could he tell them this?

That he was carrying one of or both their sparklings and would be for the next thousand years?

“Frag,” his voice breaks and he covers his face plate in tears and First aid is telling them to leave which he’s grateful for.

“Frag, frag, frag,” he sobbed, tanks clenching and spark stuttering.

“What am I gonna do?”

[cuffmeinblack]

Helping Hand

Garreth Weasley x Andrew Larson

Tags: explicit | blowjobs | handjobs

3.7k words

Summary: When Andrew finds Garreth sneaking ingredients from the potions stores, he lets him go instead of throwing the Gryffindor in detention. That second's hesitation will be his undoing, to his great delight.

A/n: The smut nobody asked for. These two are fighting for supremacy in my brain so naturally I just want them to fuck. Expect school slut Garreth and uptight virgin Andrew.

⤍ Garreth Weasley masterlist | Andrew Larson masterlist ⤎

Andrew had seen enough of his classmates’ intimate areas to last him a lifetime. Everett had congratulated him repeatedly on glimpsing Samantha Dale's breasts (of course he did, the pervert), though at the time they were being fondled by a pair of very large hands belonging to Leander Prewett. A strange pairing by any standards, which might have been why Samantha had trailed Andrew the following day, begging him not to tell a soul. Everett had overheard and managed to get some of the more gruesome details from Andrew before he'd managed to escape into the safety of the prefects’ bathroom. Whilst he floated in the perfumed waters, inhaling deeply the scent of lavender and geranium, he tried not to think too much about yesterday's revellation that even Zenobia-bloody-Noke had a little boyfriend, and had been caught by Andrew whilst they snogged behind the greenhouses close to curfew. It seemed as if the whole castle was awash with hormones, like Garreth Weasley had dosed each of its occupants with amortentia. 

Truth be told, if he'd thought this head boy post involved mostly lecturing couples on discretion and telling them to put their clothes back on, he might have thought twice about the position. Some nights he felt like quite the voyeur, turning a corner and becoming flustered by the rhythmic grinding of bodies half hidden in shadow. He was ashamed to admit he'd watched these secret, steamy trysts in the castle corridors and empty classrooms for a few seconds before announcing his presence. It wasn't his fault he was so wound up these days, with no time to seek his own outlet for all this frustration. Exams were coming, tensions were high, and Andrew had only his hand for company on those nights where he'd collapse back on his bed and wish just once that he'd been the one to be caught in the dark with a handsome stranger. Or perhaps not a stranger at all.

His jealousy for his classmates might have been showing now, given the pouty mood he was in. He floated for a little while longer until his fingers resembled prunes before deciding to take matters into his own hands once again, quite literally. It would be a long night, and with any luck, it wouldn't involve any more sightings of nipples. Once dried and dressed, he made his way down to central hall, where those on patrol would be gathered before rounds began. They started half an hour before curfew and stayed well into the night, stumbling back to their dormitories for a less than satisfactory night’s sleep. The job could feel rather thankless, if it weren’t for the glowing recommendation he expected to receive from the Deputy Headmistress, a priceless addition to any student’s résumé.

A cluster of prefects soon came into view, all huddled near the fountain and chatting animatedly. Andrew’s footfalls announced his approach, and they turned and fell quiet.

“Alright, Andrew?” Eric asked, stifling a yawn.

“Fine, fine.” He was not fine, in fact he was so pent up he’d much rather be shut in his dormitory with the curtains around his bed drawn tight. Not even that bath had been enough to unwind the tension that seemed a constant companion these days. Andrew’s gaze drifted over the other faces as he tried not to linger too long on the shapely curve of Poppy Sweeting’s chest. “Eric, Cressida, you’ll be covering the bell tower wing tonight. There have been a few incidents recently along by the flying lawn—it seems some of the fifth year Herbology students enjoy smoking and flying, so see to it that you swing back around there a few times on patrol.”

Once all the assignments were given, the group parted and Poppy joined Andrew to patrol the library annex. It was one of the easier areas, unless Madam Scribner requested help to evacuate Peeves from the library, and Poppy was one of his favourite prefect partners. They chatted as they walked, mostly about schoolwork and beasts, but it was lighthearted and casual, never straying too far into personal territory. By the second turn about the annex, Andrew had loosened up slightly, though the same couldn’t be said for Poppy who was looking paler by the second.

“Are you okay, Poppy? You look a little peaky,” Andrew asked, reaching out a hand for her forehead but thinking better of it.

“Honestly? I feel quite sick. I think it might have been something I ate,” she said, clutching her stomach.

“Maybe you should get some rest, I can finish up here alone. Do you want me to take you to the hospital wing?”

“No, no, I don’t want to get stuck in there with Nurse Blainey all night. I think I should head back to my dormitory, though. Thank you, Andrew.”

“Of course. Take care, Poppy.”

Andrew watched her leave with a pang of regret, her brunette bob swinging lightly as she disappeared around a corner. Now he was alone, with nothing to distract him but the ghosts, most of whom preferred to keep their distance. With a sigh, he made his way along the corridor, occasionally stopping with his ear pricked for any sign of movement from the classrooms. All was quiet, suspiciously so. Only half an hour until the end of his patrol, he’d almost pegged it as his first uneventful night since becoming head boy, when he noticed the door to the potions classroom was slightly ajar. This wasn’t entirely unusual in itself, given Professor Sharp’s tendency to stay up late working, but instead of a warm glow of candlelight emanating from within, the room was almost pitch black.

Intrigued, Andrew pushed the door, wand raised just in case—he’d been on the receiving end of some nasty jinxes when catching students out of bed. A shuffle of footsteps halted him in his tracks, coming from the potions store room. This door was also open, though there was the distinctive hue of a Lumos charm spilling out of the crack.

“Professor Sharp?” he called.

“Shit!” The reply was quiet and muffled, preceding a smash of glass and the extinguishing of light.

“Who’s in here?” Andrew asked, casting his own charm to light the way and striding over to the storeroom. He shouldn’t have been surprised who greeted him when the door swung open, but the grin on his face was quite unexpected. “Garreth? What are you stealing this time?”

The redhead was standing in the middle of the room looking rather guilty, and Andrew couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his trousers. Not the kind he’d encountered on countless boys caught fraternising in the castle, but a suspiciously full pocket.

“I’m offended by the insinuation. I was just out for an evening stroll!”

Andrew cocked his head and gave him an exasperated look. “You can’t charm yourself out of this one.”

“Please, Andrew. I’ve already lost twenty house points this week and I’m not exactly in Sharp’s good books right now.”

“What else is new?”

Garreth gave him a look reminiscent of a wounded puffskein: head tilted down; green eyes wide and glittering; full lips turned into a pout… Andrew swallowed and dropped his wand to his side, hoping that Garreth wouldn’t catch the blush now crossing his cheeks. It really had been far too long since he’d had any action (never), but even Andrew had to admit that Garreth was devastatingly handsome, and had perhaps enjoyed the view of him bending over his cauldron once or twice (every single potions lesson).

“Fine, I won’t hand you in. You have to put back whatever you stole, though,” he said, pointedly looking at Garreth’s pocket, which was a mistake given his current condition. He almost groaned at the wand-lit curve of the boy's breeches.

“Really? I mean, I’m grateful…” Garreth pulled a handful of fwooper feathers out of his pocket and Andrew averted his gaze. “Got a soft spot for me?”

Garreth had clearly said it in jest, yet Andrew’s smile was somewhat awkward in return, his cheeks burning so hot he could have lit a candle on his skin. That damned freckled menace with his silky voice and bright smile might just be his downfall. 

“Do you?” Garreth persisted, abandoning the feathers on the table and stepping closer to Andrew. His tone was teasing yet his smile was earnest, the kind of smile that made Andrew want to admit to every lewd thought he’d ever had of him. 

“No, I’m just eager to finish my rounds and I don’t want to have to deal with the paperwork,” he muttered. He frowned and set his jaw, suddenly far too tense and far too aroused by the mere presence of Garreth.

“Merlin, you’re wound up. You work too hard, Andrew.”

“Yes, well, that does tend to happen when one is head boy,” he replied rather testily. 

Garreth stepped forward again, his gaze unnerving in its intensity. He seemed to be studying every inch of Andrew’s face. His nervous fingers twitched around his wand and the light extinguished quite unintentionally. 

“Garreth.”

Shit. It had meant to be a warning but had sounded like a…a whine. Andrew panicked, contemplated just running and leaving Garreth up to his mischief and hoped that Professor Sharp came back to a fully stocked storeroom come morning. He might have if his legs still worked.

When Garreth spoke, Andrew could hear the smile plastered on his face even if he could barely see it in the darkness. “I've always thought you were cute, you know.”

He felt Garreth's breath on his cheek and the warmth of his close proximity. Those calloused hands from hours of hard potion brewing were braced either side of Andrew, planted firmly on the rows of bottles and ingredients. He didn't dare think about what those dexterous fingers could achieve. Still, despite all the obvious signs, he wasn't prepared for the kiss. Garreth had aimed for his cheek but Andrew had turned at the last second and caught his lips, resulting in a sloppy sort of peck on his lower lip. Garreth chuckled and mortifyingly, pulled away. 

“Thanks for not ratting me out. I owe you.”

“No problem,” Andrew mumbled, his brain apparently reduced to mush. If he'd been able to think of anything but the feel of Garreth Weasley's lips and his cinnamon-scented skin, he might have taken fifty house points for having the gall to seduce the head boy. The fact of the matter was, Andrew was absolute putty in Garreth's hands. A fine job he was doing enforcing school rules, he thought bitterly.

Garreth hesitated just for a moment, as if  he too could sense the desperation radiating from Andrew's unbearably tense body. The opportunity had presented itself and Andrew took it, grabbing a fistful of fabric and pulling Garreth back towards him with unexpected force. Their lips found each other easily enough in the dim light, and Andrew opened his mouth at the first flick of tongue with a quiet moan that did nothing to assert his authority. Far from it, Andrew could have given Garreth a month's worth of detentions and he doubted the Gryffindor would have been deterred. If Andrew was hungry, Garreth seemed practically starving, all tongues and roaming hands. Garreth used his taller stature and a firm hold to manoeuvre Andrew away from the shelves until his thighs hit something hard behind him. He stumbled slightly, their lips still fused and tongues locked in an infinite caress. Fingers skimmed Andrew's hips and he shuddered, involuntarily arching his back in invitation. Garreth smiled against his mouth and hummed an approving sort of sound as his fingers found bare and heated skin. 

The air was stifling, Andrew's clothes so damn suffocating. His face, if he were visible, must have been a shade of red resembling a beetroot. Never had he been so thoroughly aroused and so completely willing to throw away every deeply-ingrained sense of propriety as when Garreth reached around to grab his arse, pulling their bodies flush to reveal the hardness of his erection against his own. Andrew just whimpered and contemplated begging as he threaded his fingers in the boy's copper mane. Unbidden, a thought of Garreth's warm and inviting mouth wrapped around his cock made him twitch in anticipation.

“You really are wound tight,” Garreth said, moving his tongue to Andrew's pulse, teeth grazing lightly down his neck. His hands were busily working to release Andrew from the confines of his breeches. He helped him along the way, a sudden rush of nerves halting his breath as his knuckles brushed Garreth's hard length. This was really happening, Andrew thought somewhat giddily. His first sexual encounter was to be with Garreth in the potions storeroom—how unexpected, and completely wondrous. Another groan rumbled through his chest as his breeches finally fell open and Garreth wasted no time wrapping his fingers around his impossibly hard cock.

“Fuck Andrew, you're big.”

“Am I?” he replied breathlessly. Merlin, he wouldn't last long if all Garreth had to do was squeeze to make him squirm.

Garreth laughed again and whispered a ‘yeah’ against his skin as he delved back against the crook of his neck. Andrew's head fell back, his eyes closing to the semi-darkness as he lost himself in the rhythmic stroking. Garreth's grip was firm and sure, simultaneously offering Andrew much-needed relief and winding him tighter than ever. Every tug built him up to explode in what he would assume would be a most spectacular fashion. His hips rocked almost mindlessly, vaguely aware of the sting of Garreth's mouth against his neck, the trailing hand up his stomach. Andrew was mumbling some nonsense that made the other boy groan and next thing he knew the heavy weight against his chest was gone and a rush of cool air startled him from his stupor.

“Wait, wha-?”

“Well you did ask so nicely,” Garreth replied from somewhere on the floor. 

Apparently whatever he'd said had prompted Garreth to drop to his knees and without much warning, Andrew ascended to heaven. Wetness and blissful warmth enveloped him, just the tip at first with a teasing swipe of tongue that made him dizzy. He rolled his hips, seeking more, and Garreth took him all with an ear-splitting moan that had Andrew holding onto his hair for dear life. It took all his waning self control not to hold him in place, not to give into the temptation to thrust deep into his throat. Nothing had ever felt so good as Garreth's mouth; so often used to charm and joke in such a genial manner, it was hard to believe it being used in such a downright obscene way. Not to mention that tongue, currently swirling over his head like he was enjoying an Andrew-flavoured lollipop. For the first time since extinguishing his wand, Andrew wished he could see, just to admire the redhead’s lips wrapped around him for a second or two.

“Garreth…”

“Mmm…yeah?”

“So good,” Andrew sighed mindlessly.

The chuckle Garreth made vibrated through Andrew's cock and his fingers entwined in those luscious curls even deeper. Garreth moaned and Andrew tugged again, eliciting the same response. The realisation dawned that he liked being manhandled in such a way, hitting Andrew like a stampeding graphorn and damn near had him spilling into Garreth's mouth. He was standing on a precipice, before him an abyss that beckoned every fibre of his being. He could let himself fall, be consumed by that blissful oblivion, or he could turn and run. The latter might have been more sensible, given that he'd have to look Garreth in the face at some point over the subsequent days. The Gryffindor busy sucking him off apparently had other ideas.

“You can come in my mouth, you know.”

Andrew was stunned into silence by the way Garreth suggested that so blithely before returning the suction to his cock. There was no stopping the dizzying tightening in his abdomen as he reached his climax. Andrew succumbed to the inevitable with a cry and a tug of hair, his hot release exploding into Garreth's waiting mouth. Breathless, he rocked his hips in time to the pulses from his cock, the lips enveloping him keeping a tight seal until every last drop was spent. Andrew's arm was shaking from the force of his orgasm when he delved into his pocket to retrieve his wand. “L-Lumos.”

The room was cast into a steady white light, harsh shadows gathering from the obstruction of their bodies. Now he could finally see Garreth, knelt before him with fingers still curled around Andrew's length. He looked…sublime, quite frankly, despite or perhaps because of how dishevelled his hair now was, copper strands falling haphazardly over his forehead. His glistening lips struck Andrew as completely obscene, knowing that he'd been licking Andrew's spend from them only moments before. Garreth looked up at him with a smile and he thought he saw hunger in those mossy eyes. Heart still pounding, Andrew watched keenly as Garreth straightened up to full height—a couple of inches that felt like a whole foot more than Andrew—and pressed his lips on his. The insistent nudge of Garreth's erection brought Andrew's thoughts back into focus, and nerves almost threatened to overwhelm him. Garreth kissed him gently, though he felt an urgency simmering just below the surface in the twitch of his muscles and shuddering breaths—the next thing he knew, his hand had been guided to the stiff length straining against Garreth's trousers.

“It's just like touching yourself,” Garreth muttered against his lips, unbuttoning himself until there was nothing between them—the hot press of their lower bodies and subtle scent of musk flooded Andrew's senses. Andrew nodded, but he was nothing like him, really. Garreth was thicker, heavier, with a smattering of freckles covering his shaft that made Andrew salivate. His fingers wrapped firmly around the girth and Andrew began stroking slowly just as he would himself, his eyes on Garreth's face and attuned to every expression.

“Yes…faster…,” Garreth sighed.

Andrew picked up the pace, concentrating hard on the angle, the pressure, the rhythm. He knew he'd hit that sweet spot when Garreth's eyes rolled back into his head. Watching him lose himself by Andrew's hand whilst moaning softly into his mouth was exhilarating. What little remained of Garreth's composure shattered when Andrew began kissing his neck, using his teeth and sucking the skin just as Garreth had done to him. Even his skin tasted good, as if he'd bathed in spices. As soon as Andrew thought to himself that he didn't want this to end, it had, with a spurt of warmth over his hand and Garreth moaning his name. Shadows danced around the room as Andrew's wand hand shook with excess adrenaline and his head collapsed onto Garreth's shoulder. Then the panic set in.

“Fuck.”

“I didn't expect that sort of language from you,” Garreth chuckled. ”It was fantastic though, wasn't it?”

“No. I mean yes, but I need to get back on patrol.”

“Right, your uh…head boy duties. Shame.”

The two cleaned up and dressed in silence; not awkward, but comfortably hazy and content. Once they'd attempted to fix one another's hair, Andrew hastily turned to escape out of the door, hoping that nobody had noticed his absence. He hesitated at the handle, the brass cooling his sweaty palms as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

“You won't tell anyone, will you?” Andrew asked, turning to Garreth.

“Of course not. And you won't tell anyone that I was here?”

“I won't, just this one time.”

“If, hypothetically, you were to catch me here again, what would you do?” Garreth asked, smiling.

“Goodnight, Garreth.” Andrew chuckled and left the room, straightening his robes. He made it out into the corridor before his face broke into a bright grin.

-

Andrew had been worried that being in Garreth's vicinity would be unbearably awkward after what they'd done, but apart from the redhead tossing him a cheeky wink whenever he walked by, he was his usual cheery self, and didn't seem to avoid Andrew at all. If anything, they talked more often now. Andrew himself felt more comfortable, less awkwardly in-awe of the handsome Gryffindor, and dare he say he'd adopted a kind of quiet confidence in the days afterward. Garreth had thoroughly succeeded in unwinding him, or as Everett so colourfully put it, Andrew had ‘lost the stick up his arse’. 

For all Garreth's loudness, his garrulous manner, he'd been perfectly quiet about their little tryst just as he'd promised. Andrew was eternally grateful, of course; he couldn't fathom how furiously he'd be stripped of his title if Professor Weasley found out he'd been fondling her nephew in the potions storeroom. Strangely, Andrew didn't regret a single minute of what had transpired, rule breaking and all.

After their shared Charms lesson the following week, Andrew found Garreth jotting in his journal outside the classroom, satchel slung over his shoulder and leaning against a wall in his usual effortlessly handsome way. It seemed like a good a time as any for Andrew to muster the courage to give him the parcel stuffed in his robe pocket.

“Garreth?”

“Hm? Oh, hello Andrew!” Tucking his journal away, Garreth gave Andrew his full attention.

“I've got something for you,” Andrew said, holding the nondescript brown parcel out for him.

“What's this?” He ripped over the packaging right in front of Andrew, revealing a riot of pink and purple tufts. “Fwooper feathers?” Garreth smiled his bright and genuine smile, and Andrew was glad he'd spent a good few galleons on the lot.

“For your discretion.”

“You're paying me?”

“No!” Andrew gasped, paling.

“I'm joking,” Garreth laughed, placing a warm hand on his arm. “Thanks, Andrew. I'd never tell anyone, you know.”

Still recovering from the shock, Andrew smiled and turned to leave, but Garreth's hand was still firmly planted on his bicep.

“Hey, want to grab a drink at The Three Broomsticks?” the Gryffindor blurted out.

“Like a…” A date? Andrew wondered.

“Doesn't have to be, but yes.”

Andrew almost toppled over at the unexpected invitation. He'd never intended or expected for what had happened that night to lead to something more. Truthfully he'd hoped, but Garreth seemed content with various casual encounters; his conquests were no secret around the castle. Maybe Andrew had made more of an impression on him than he'd thought.

“I'd prefer a cup of tea at Steeply’s if it's all the same to you. I've never had a taste for butterbeer,” Andrew admitted.

“Really? Well then I retract the offer.”

Andrew smiled and shook his head. “Saturday?”

“See you on Saturday, if you don't catch me out of bounds before then.”

[smalltestaccount]

okay i think ive come to the conclusion that i dont really fit in with most other trans women, like personality wise, and thats okay. Like i think recently a lot of trans women, not just on tumblr, have been making me think i have to be kinky and bizarre or something, be blasé about transitioning or gender roles, or even just like be okay with some borderline harassing behavior. Its okay if that is you (except the harassing behavior some of yall need to work on that), but like thats not really me. Acting this way just makes me feel bad. Just ignoring that Im a total straightedge, that im like a 1 on the Kinsey scale now. Ever since i was like 11 my biggest desire is just like being a normal cis girl. I always am happiest embracing basic American femininity, and i only just re-realized this after after it helped me get out of a depressive episode (along with antidepressants and an increased estrogen dose). I don't care if im "enforcing gender roles", because i fucking love female gender roles (in modern American culture) cause they make me feel like not-a-piece-of-shit. Also i don't strictly adhere to many anyways. And i just don't think terfs would have any issues with cis girls who love the color pink, flowers, being boy crazy, and dreaming about being a mother. So like why should I feel like its wrong to like that stuff? I don't think there is anything wrong with it. And you know if you don't have that relationship with gender that is fine, you need to do what makes you happy, that's why feminism exists. I'm just saying I don't want to pretend like my personality is something that really just makes me uncomfortable.

I dont like when people here imply being a trans woman entails being sexual cause like i just want to be normal and that stereotype is harmful, especially to transgender children who are really likley to be targeted for some kind of sexual abuse because theyre trans and being trans is already sexualized more than it needs to be. Adults can navigate that to some extent, but not kids; I couldnt really navigate that when i started transitioning in middle school and im lucky it only stayed online. Trying to even somewhat fit in with tumblrs idea of trans women has made me encounter tranny porn on my dash and whenever i post images of myself I'm followed by gross accounts that just reblog that stuff . A lot of trans women don't hate it, because sex work is very much as part of the trans community. But honestly, seeing trans women be treated in those ways just makes me feel bad for the actresses and sick about myself and very dysphoric.

Im not saying that you cant express kinkiness and hyper-sexuality, because I dont want to dictate how you act any more than i want you to be dictated on how I act. But I also want to encourage thoughfulness in what you say. Saying you, yourself, is kinky and weird, is not that same as saying trans *girls* are kinky and weird. In the same way I'm not going to reblog tradwife content, I don't think its productive to make an "all tgirls be kinky" post. You shouldn't try to paint that image of other trans women.

As its the first day of june I'll just tie it up by saying that not all trans people fit into one personality and if you want to show support its best not to suggest trans women all act a certain way, and please don't think talking about "gock" is a good way to show support. This isn't a "kink at pride" discourse post in the very slightest cause I don't, and never have, given any shits about that, cause I've never been to pride. This is just me talking about how I fit into the trans community.

Im Alexa and I'm going to reblog and post shit i like, not what other people like or expect. That Includes not doing tummy tuesday cause i really only briefly did it out of fomo and peer pressure. And please don't say things about me that you wouldnt say about other women

[horizon-verizon]

Hi! You mentioned that you don't mind if we compare characters to other shows?

I kept thinking about why Rhaenys/Alicent/Rhaenyra don't work for me but I think Augusta/Agatha/Charlotte from Queen Charlotte does, even though both show have some of the same flaws.

If you're not in the Bridgerton fandom It is a multi-season show set in the Regency era with a colorblind cast. One might expect a bit of misogyny to thin out the tropes of the genre, but the show was infamous in Season 2 because it proved incapable of allowing female friendships and It has a good dose of racism that the producers and writers DON'T seem to notice and think they're being woke.

QC is in some ways worse on the racism part. The character with the darkest skin is shown being raped several times on screen and is the only one not allowed comfort in none of their relationships, whether romantic, friendly or family (which always drives me crazy, especially since her plot is used to help the white woman who is the only one who is an indisputably good mother).

Now, despite its flaws, this is my favorite season. First, I really enjoy the main romance, but I also really enjoy those three women, and I think QC succeeded where HotD failed.

The three women belong to the nobility having different roles within it, none is really friends with the other and all three have their own agendas that lead them to be allies or oppose each other. And that to me is what makes them fascinating, each one doing their own thing with their spheres colliding and each one fighting for their place and power.

Augusta is the king's mother. She is ruling alongside the cabinet and the chamber using her son's name and therefore his power to get her way. There are certain moments where she uses misogyny to her advantage to get more time or get her way.

Agatha has just recently won her title and has the most to lose because of how unstable her situation is. That means helping, manipulating, and getting in the good graces of the other two.Since it's a prequel we know that she ends up being an important figure in society.

Charlotte is a newly arrived princess who didn't want to get married at first and her struggles are mostly about her marriage and slowly grabbing and using her own power that her mother-in-law wants to take away from her.As long as Charlotte is not acting as queen, Augusta has more freedom as the king's mother.

All three also have complicated relationships with their children, what they expect from them and what they get from them.

QC allowed its women to be unapologetically ambitious, to go after what they wanted, to have complicated feelings about motherhood even if they are more implied than literal, and have complex relationships with each other and with how they gain and exercise power. Sometimes they are cruel, sometimes they are kind. Charlotte is allowed to be selfish, spoiled and self-absorbed.

HotD was afraid of making Rhaenyra really spoiled and entitled so it's all about the prophecy. Alicent does not know how to use the patriarchy and the rules of her society to her advantage, even though she presumably did so in her favor and against Rhaenyra for 20 years. Rhaenys lost all ambition after losing the crown. They are all involved in politics for the good of the kingdom and not for their ambitions and none of them has discovered how to not let themselves be trampled on for being women rather than the problems they face being due to political reasons.

QC ends up being a romantic story that coincidentally has complicated women and women with power. HotD ends up being a story about female suffering without catharsis.

Anon is talking about this post.

I think this is a good comparative analysis, too. I've watched Bridgerton and I've watched Queen Charlotte despite the weird thing it has about race--even on the premise of racism being "done" when these are not dealing with unreal characters, in a world where Queen Victoria doesn't exist, apparently colonization isn't happening?hmmm--and can confirm that they manage to write women pretty well and QC is where they shined.

I wouldn't say I'm a part of the fandom, because I don't engage with its fans at all. Like nothing.

[bomberqueen17]

liveblogging the Aubreyad: a snippet from book 3

I'm working on a more concise summary of book 3, HMS Surprise, and it's hard to cut some of these really great little subplots, but I must.

So here I'm going to put a couple of snippets from a subplot that is 1) fucking hilarious and 2) stands on its own.

The situation is that they are becalmed in the doldrums, and supplies are running short. The foremast jacks and midshipmen take to eating rats, euphemistically termed "millers".

'Millers,' said Jack, his mind roaming back to his famished youth. 'In the aftermost carline-culver of the larboard berth there is a hole where we used to put a piece of cheese and catch them in a noose as they poked their heads out on their way along the channel to the bread-room. Three or four a night in the middle watch we used to catch, on the Leeward Islands station. Heneage Dundas' - nodding to Stephen - 'used to eat the cheese afterwards.' 'Was you a midshipman in the Surprise, sir?' cried young Callow, amazed, amazed. If he had thought about it at all, he would have supposed that post-captains sprang fully armed from the forehead of the Admiralty. 'Indeed I was,' said Jack. 'Good heavens, sir, she must be very, very old. The oldest ship in the fleet, I dare say.”

Jack is prosaic about Callow's assessment of his antiquity.

Stephen has a cage full of pet rats which he is feeding madder as an experiment, to see if it will dye their bones.

An incident occurs that takes him out of the ship for a little time, and when he comes back, the cage door is standing open and the rats are gone. He immediately knows they have been stolen and eaten, and is coldly furious, resolving to in his turn dissect the rativores to see if their bones have been stained.

Meanwhile Jack calls young William Babbington, now one of his senior midshipmen, in for a chat, giving him praise for a recent event. Babbington is delighted, having expected that he was being called in to be yelled at, but then his conscience smites him, and he tearfully, sobbingly confesses to having eaten of the Doctor's rats. It wasn't his fault, he didn't mean to, they were already killed and cooked before he knew, but then he had eaten them so as not to let it be a waste. And the guilt is now terrible.

And in walks Stephen.

“I tell you what it is, Jack,' said Stephen, walking quickly in. 'Oh, I beg your pardon.' 'No, stay, Doctor. Stay, if you please,' cried Jack. Babbington looked wretchedly from one to the other, licked his lips and said, 'I ate your rat, sir. I am very sorry, and I ask your pardon.' 'Did you so?' said Stephen mildly. 'Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Listen, Jack, will you look at my list, now?' 'He only ate it when it was dead,' said Jack. 'It would have been a strangely hasty, agitated meal, had he ate it before,' said Stephen, looking attentively at his list. 'Tell me, sir, did you happen to keep any of the bones?' 'No, sir. I am very sorry, but we usually crunch 'em up, like larks. Some of the chaps said they looked uncommon dark, however.' 'Poor fellows, poor fellows,' said Stephen in a low, inward voice. 'Do you wish me to take notice of this theft, Dr Maturin?' asked Jack. 'No, my dear, none at all. Nature will take care of that, I am afraid.”

No, the madder will not actually poison them, but it suits his purposes to let them believe that it will. To assist in this, he administers laxatives to the members of the larboard midshipmen's berth, though I may note that in the softness of his heart he neglects to include Babbington, recently separated therefrom, in this dosing.

[covid-safer-hotties]

California COVID surge is surprisingly stronger, longer-lasting than experts had expected - Published Aug 5, 2024

California's summer COVID surge has proved to be particularly strong and enduring, surprising experts with its tenacity as it storms into a third month. The strength of this summer's COVID surge probably is largely related to the ever-more infectious subvariants that continue to emerge as the coronavirus evolves, said Dr. Elizabeth Hudson, regional chief of infectious disease at Kaiser Permanente Southern California. A dizzying number of related subvariants — collectively dubbed FLiRT — have emerged in recent months. One in particular, KP.3.1.1, has been picking up steam at a startling pace and has become the most common strain nationwide. \"KP.3.1.1 seems to be the most adept at transmission,\" said Dr. Peter Chin-Hong, an infectious diseases expert at UC San Francisco. \"And it's the one that people think will continue to take over, not only in the United States, but ... around the world.\"

Coronavirus levels in California wastewater have surpassed the peaks seen in each of the last two summers, according to data estimates released Friday by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which run through the week ending July 27. Coronavirus levels in sewage have been \"high\" or \"very high\" for eight consecutive weeks. \"This particular surge ... is fairly robust and long-lasting, lasting a little longer than I thought that it would. It's certainly very different from last summer,\" Hudson said. California is one of 43 states, as well as the District of Columbia, with \"high\" or \"very high\" coronavirus levels in wastewater. While hospitalizations overall remain a fraction of those seen during earlier COVID summertime spikes, hospitalizations and emergency room visits have been ticking up, and clinics are seeing high numbers of infected patients.

\"This is not a benign wave,\" wrote Dr. Eric Topol, director of the Scripps Research Translational Institute in La Jolla, in a blog post published Saturday. \"It's a major wave now ... we haven't yet reached the plateau.\"

In Los Angeles County, there were an average of 389 coronavirus-positive hospitalized patients per day for the week that ended July 27, roughly twice as high as a month ago. The latest number is about two-thirds of the peak from last summer and one-third the peak from the summer of 2022. \"We are seeing a lot of outpatient cases — it's been a much higher uptick over the last week, actually,\" Hudson said Friday. For the week that ended Saturday, the CDC estimated that KP.3.1.1 comprised 27.8% of coronavirus samples nationwide, an astonishing jump from its 7.2% share a month ago. Because the FLiRT subvariants are related, it's likely that being infected with one will provide some protection against the others — at least for a time. But if you're further removed from a brush with COVID, the rise of KP.3.1.1 heightens the risk of infection, as it has evolved to be even more contagious, Chin-Hong said.

Amid this ever-more-infectious backdrop, the number of people who have never had COVID-19 — the \"Novids\" — is dwindling. \"The proportion of 'Novids' is getting smaller and smaller,\" Chin-Hong said. \"I've heard so many stories in the last few weeks of people who didn't get any [COVID illness] until this point, now in our fifth year\" since COVID emerged. Though the newer subvariants are more easily spread, there are, generally speaking, no indications that they are more likely to put someone in the hospital. But some people have nevertheless expressed surprise at how awful they feel from their latest COVID-19 illness, complaining of sore throats so intense they feel as if they're swallowing razors or broken glass, and bouts of severe coughing that leave them winded. It may be that some people are years removed from their last infection or vaccine dose, making this summer's sickness feel especially terrible, doctors say.

If you can't jump the paywall, read the rest at the CovidSafeHotties link! I jumped it for you!

[thebunniesgrim]

Ok so wait  

So, the recent episode of Helluva Boss made me...  

Think.  

About something. 

I know, right? so scary  

But oops made me stop for a second (as much as I like one could say love the episode)  

Are the sinners worse than the literal 7 deathly sins?  

I know it's a little early to say this considering hazbin hotel hasn't come out yet and helluva boss hasn't shown us all the 7 deadly sins, yet you know?  

But considering our track record with Asmodeus not thinking lust should be forced and Beelzebub not encouraging overindulgence or overindulgence for the wrong reasons (when she tells Loona "like hey he a mess and killing the vibe k?”)  

(Also, I feel like the Asmodeus thing is a damned if you do damned if you don't thing honestly there was no winning with this one viv would have gotten flamed either way. I don’t have a gripe with it either way  )  

Are the sinners worse than them? Like Valentino is an abuser and uses angle dust and others for his body in more ways than one. Alastor is allegedly a cannibal (can that be seen as gluttony or some other sin? Other than it being morality wrong to eat people), angel overuses drugs, husk drink to an excess Yada Yada Yada  

....so, like who are the real demons?  

(That was the gotcha moment the whole time.)

Hazbin Hotel pitch: "Maybe the real demons (or redemption) were the friends we made along the way *rainbow emoji*"

You're telling me that Valentino can just sexually assault folks and get them doped up on magical cigar smoke, but Asmodeus doesn't believe that diddling people without consent is just too far?  

Ok yeah totally  

Because honestly what's next?  

Is Belphegor gonna recommend we get the daily recommended amount of sleep and to put healthy breaks in between tasks? (watch her be a doctor)  

Is mammon gonna vouch for ethical consumerism and hoarding money is bad?  

Wait no, let me guess!  

Leviathan is gonna tell us about that envy in small doses as motivation is healthy but too much and it's not?  

Is Lucifer gonna be like yo Dawgs being prideful in one's achievements is totally radical but don't be a dick about it  

Is satin gonna like to tell us getting angry is ok but pointing one's anger towards other is totally uncool?  

Because he'll doesn't seem like a doomed eternity it just seems like a playground, they aren't even being like damned for their sins  

It's like the purge but slightly more civil  

How is a sinner gonna be worst that a demon?  

I am very aware expecting Viv to give us correct demon mythos is a tall order and not realistic at all, but I don’t think we can stay any farther from the 7 deadly sins in their basic boiled down forms, you know? Like money, anger, ego, sex, food, lazy, and jealously.  

They are demons! You can have kind and sweet demons like minion from the Cuphead show he's a sweet heart but he still encourages the devil to be the devil  

Or even king dice (not a demons but a bad person he works for the devil) he has sympatric qualities but he's still a bad guy. Same with the devil too if you look hard enough  

They are still demons people have a negative connotation with them why not make them morally gray? Like “you can cut some guys arm off if both parties are into it, I don’t care just ask first” that would be kinda funny. But also, he values consent to a fault he doesn’t care about them being safe but as long as you asked its fine.

Asmodeus:

Or if like cheat days turn into cheat years idk  

It just seems like the 7 deadly sins are just guys and the sinners are just worse than them 

Like look at pilot of Hazbin and look all the non-sense they do then look at Helluva it’s so sanitized comparatively it's kinda funny ngl  

If the sinners, the worst of the worst of humans and this is how soft the demon royales are like pilot hazbin would bully the hell (heh) out of Helluva

Lol is the pride ring just a bunch of uncivilized edgy children when everyone else just kinda looks on in utter horror? Now that I wouldn’t mind  :)

small rant about the Hazbin hotel piolt

Why does Charlie call the sinners her people in the pilot?  

Like I feel like her people are the hell born like her, the deadly sins, the imps, the succubus and so on 

You know her people the demons and junk who are like her kin of sort?

Also why is over population such a problem? It seems like a fitting punishment to me if there's limited space seems like a good thing, no?  

Are they not here to suffer?  

Also why not just allow the sinners to wander the other rings? Why are they only in pride?  

What's the point of the other rings? Why are they named after sins if they aren't going to be used by the sinners? 

ok bye :)

[sapphos-darlings]

A certain strangeness has become obvious to me through detransitioning, and it's that for the first time, I'm well and truly aware that other people have very strong opinions about my body and who I am or should be and what that means for how I should be presenting myself.

At home, I have a wonderful bisexual partner who loves me for me, which includes the traits of me that are atypical for my birth sex. Particularly, they love the little facial hair I grow - and, to my surprise, got very sad when I shaved it for a trip to the capital. Of course I did, the same way I'll wear something that isn't my pyjamas when showing up in public for more than a trip to the store, but to them, this was a loss of something, and upsetting on a level that I hadn't expected. A silly thing, from both perspectives, they admit to this and there is no real pressure for me to show up as a caveman to the outside world, and in this case, it was a very positive and reassuring experience of someone having preferences for my body, because hair is something I grow naturally and my partner's reaction reinforced that this is not unwanted or ugly, which is a message I perhaps would expect from most people.

When I brought this up to my mother, however, she immediately reacted strongly in the opposite. She told me, very straightforwardly, that the facial hair that I grow is unsightly and I should get it plucked or lasered. I'm sorry, what? I spent four years of my life taking masculinising hormones so that I could grow facial hair and this is the best I could do and you'll tear it from my cold dead hands, thank you very much. She's also told me that my leg hair, as fine as it is, is horrible and I should shave it off. Why? Why should I? The only venue at which I present my hairy legs at is my own home. The hair that I grow hardly bothers anybody, and if she doesn't want to see it then maybe she shouldn't be looking when she comes over once every two months or so for a couple of days. She's entering my space, voluntarily - I'm not going to shave my legs for my own goddamn mother and if she can't deal with my body existing in its natural state then that seems like something she might need to go to therapy over, not my problem to deal with.

At a doctor's appointment, recently, as terrible as it was, I was trying to have changes made to my SSRI medication because the side-effects of it were driving me up the wall. Instead, this doctor diverted the discussion to her own personal problems with me.

"I was expecting a male patient. Are you changing your sex?"

No, ma'am, I am not. Sorry about the misleading name but that has nothing to do with my medication's array of side-effects. I had to explain to her that I am a born female, tried transitioning but it didn't work out because my body is extremely determined to stay female thank you very much, and that I am not male, never was, and I'm most definitely not MtF, not that it has any goddamn relevance to, again, my medication - which we never got around to discussing, because she did not care.

I ended up lowering my dose without supervision and dealing with the withdrawals to get rid of the worst of it, since clearly the psychiatric unit was not interested in helping me out with the issues I was having.

This is extremely jarring to me, because prior to detransitioning, I never faced issues like this. Now it feels like I'm questioned left and right about who I am and why I have a name like this and why I look like this and people feel entitled to opinions about my body and my appearance in ways that they never did before transition or during transition. When I was transitioning, I had few encounters in terms of people asking about my transition - but when they did, they were positive encounters. The most common one was chatty nurses during my million urgent care visits during that time, where they'd carefully sniff out how I felt about discussing my transition as a topic, and often fell into a casual, friendly conversation about how it all works, because I was never averse to talking about it and they were often dealing with the first trans patient of their careers, so it was the first time for them to be able to hear how it all worked and what it was like. It was never a negative experience, and nobody ever commented on how I looked, how I presented myself, etc.

And now it feels like that has been flipped on its head. Everyone has an opinion on my body, who I am, how I'm showing up. I should be doing this differently, I should look different, I should wear different clothes, I should have a different name.

I'm grateful to the people - my partner, my friends - who truly accept that I am who I am and I look the way I do and this is a positive thing for all of us. The rest of these people, I need them to, frankly, piss off about my body and identity. None of your fucking business how much hair I have on me or what my name is. Deal with it.