#i want to be a fly on the wall for all of it

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

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You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[occamstfs]

Man-Candle

Under the guise of a gag-gift Chad gives his bookish friend a candle based on his own b.o. Little does Stephen know, as soon as he lights the wick he sets off to join the jock in sweaty abandon.

Very musk forward Jock TF! Hope you enjoy this story of Stephen's scent-based (new)self-discovery, Best! -Occam

His ears ring with tinnitus as he opens the gift. It’s as if an explosion has gone off as he tries to process the pancake in his hands. Everything in him says to laugh, it’s clearly a gag gift, a Man-Candle? His mouth is dry and all the blood in his head rushes to its other epicenter as Stephen looks up, eyes wide, to the man who by all appearances has given him a candle of his own musk, Chad.

His cocky grin is a perfect likeness of the one on the candle’s label staring up from Stephen’s lap. Chad’s expression grows even smarmier as he winks and raises an arm to smell his pit. Stephen’s face burns red as he sees the clear patch of grey that must have been fermenting all morning, his cock bumps against the package.

Chad’s eyes shoot immediately to the sound and his smirk shifts and an eyebrow’s raised in curiosity, excited that his friend must quite like the gift. Stephen speaks up quickly, lest the two brain cells bouncing around the jock’s skull stumble across any ideas, “What the fuck?” The first volley, bounces off Chad’s steel confidence. The second “what the fuck,” causes an eye narrow as the idea that this may be a misstep finally occurs to him, the third repetition of Stephen’s new mantra apparent gets through through Chad’s thick skull.

The jock’s arm remains raised to scratch his back and Stephen’s cock is more than happy to see the grey patch return and his mind must remain focused on not staring directly at the few pit hairs sneaking above his sleeve. Chad clears his throat awkwardly, “I mean bro… Chicks are always talking about how they love, huh- y’know,” he gestures to the air around him, “my aura. Just thought, you know, uhhh- a dude like you might too?”

The jock braces as he sees Stephen’s eyes narrow as he clearly winds up to somehow lash out. Unfortunately for the twink he takes a deep breath to start and is hit with the full force of the man’s ‘aura,’ it catches him off guard and underneath the package his cock pushes again. Stephen grits his teeth and averts his eyes as he tries to hide his desire, “Chad! Those are people you’re sleeping with! I’m just- This is-” Stephen does everything in his power to quiet his lust as he finishes, “Why would I want this?” 

Chad tongues his cheek and juts his stubbled jaw. Scratching his meaty stomach in thought, Stephen can hear the hairs dragged underneath the jock’s tight shirt. Making up his mind Chad decides to speak on the elephant, or moreover the trunk, in the room. Nodding to the gift poorly hiding Stpehen’s erection, Chad shrugs “I mean bro, seems like you’re enjoying it just fine.” 

“Jesus Christ, fucking straight men!” As unfortunately turned on as Stephen is from the gift and the hunk he has long tried to not be attracted to, at the highlighting of his out of control cock he finds the will to defend his paltry dignity. Though instead of speaking up as his mind is not running on all cylinders, his hands instead reach for anything not breakable to hurl at the man still smirking.

Pillows fly at the man as he continues to try and explain his thoughts, “Yo bro! Watch it-” he grabs one to use as a shield against the continued volley, “I mean I can take it back if you want!” Stephen’s dreams of salvaging dignity perhaps fall to the wayside as this remark causes the hardest throw yet. Chad smirks behind the pillow and finally gets to the door, “Whatever dude! I’ll see ya later! Once you’ve cooled off a bit-” 

Chad stands behind the closed door with a shit-eating grin on his face, straight men huh. Awfully dismissive of the bi jock’s identity but whatever. He listens to Stephen huff and unbox the candle through the wall, unaware that the real gift is to come when he finally lights that bad boy up. Whenever the pair get drunk enough it always devolves into Stephen wishing he’d hit the gym more and Chad begging for his friend to join him. He’d love nothing more than a gym bro he can fuck, and soon enough, unless Stephen has the strength to nip his blue balls in the bud, both wishes are to be granted.

It does not take long for already riled-up Stephen to give in to his curious urges. As soon as the scent of Chad in the air dissipates and he hears the front door of his apartment close, the countdown begins. Stephen stares at the obnoxiously smug photo of Chad on the candle and narrows his eyes, “I mean surely it’s a bit? It can’t actually smell like him specifically? Seems hm, expensive to do.” 

He bites his lip as he shakily goes to remove the lid, driven by a mind less than conscious and more than hungry. Mouth on the precipice of watering, as soon as the seal is cracked the scent washes over him like a tidal wave. Somehow more powerful, more alluring than the real thing. Rich and grimy, and indisputably the essence of Chad distilled into waxen form.

His eyes are glazed over and his mouth is now pooling with drool. It's anyone’s guess as to how the candle gets lit, but so it does. Stephen falls back onto the couch as his hands struggle to free his cock quick enough from pants that force it down at an awkward angle. It finally bounces free, flinging more pre than he’s ever produced upward. Droplets land just shy of his own face as his mouth falls wantonly open and his hands begin their gleeful work.

The creation of Eau De Chad was not light work, the boiling down of man into a single candle is quite the ask. Perhaps even more so than the transformative magic that it is to instill in Stephen. Within the candle are notes from every musky epicenter of Chad’s being, more than powerful enough to distract Stephen as he begins his journey into a musky jock’s shoes himself.

Foremost of the mind-numbing notes that the lost man is bathing himself in is perhaps the one he’s smelled the least. As strong as in his jock after a workout, sweaty pubes and dripping pre. The medley of scents from Chad’s crotch is so powerful that even without clearly even knowing the source it’s on the tip of Stephen’s tongue, much like he would dream to have on his tongue in reality.

Each breath pulling him deeper than the last, Stephen continues to paw at his cock now free to the open, musky air. With each kneading thrust his hands struggle to encompass his dick as it begins to change. Years of pushing down primal desires for his friend, the Adonis, evaporate into the air as he pictures himself working Chad’s cock. Breathing and licking the heady swear straight from the source.

He imagines working the larger man’s spit-covered cock and with each new image in his mind his own beast begins to reform. Dripping more pre than he’s produced in his life up to this point, his hips thrust into wanting hands as his dick thickens and spears high into the air. Lengthening to press against his sternum, veins bulge and criss-cross across its length as its head regrows a foreskin he never had the chance to enjoy.

When his smaller hands, unable to truly satisfy or encompass his new rod, shift down to try and cup balls bulging larger and pumping him full of masculinity, he hears them scratch against the new jungle of growing pubes. Though the jock tries to keep his chest relatively hairless, under the belt hair growth is wild enough to more than make up for it, and as Stephen begins changing into his new musky lover, he seems to be of the same persuasion.

The candle wick flickers as a new scent begins to rise in prominence. This one Stephen recognizes all too well, though usually poorly masked under cheap deodorant, the scent of Chad’s pits could never be truly hidden. His mouth waters as the scent washes through him and his whole body contorts in pleasure. When his own pits begin to itch he gasps and for the first time opens his eyes to find an impossibly large cock hanging over his thin thighs. His mouth quivers into a smile as the line between dream and reality shifts muddy.

For now though, for the pit fiend there is only one thing to do. He raises his arm and gasps as he sees his few pit hairs lengthening, while in between each one a few darker curls make themselves at home. Stephen forces his head into the sweaty spot and hungrily sniffs. Nose tickled by the growing jungle he moans as he encounters his own changing scent, currently overcoming his own, usually superfluous, deodorant it is but a pale imitation of Chad’s. Though it races to be something equivalent, no, greater. 

He continues taking deep breaths, switching between the candle burning strong and his own pit as his musk continues to heighten and shift. With each needy sniff it becomes clear that his odor is not the only part of him shifting. Previously undeveloped arms cramp as muscle begins to pile on. Veins pulse down their center as biceps that have scarcely known strain burn as muscle fibers break and reform to create an impressive peak.

Stephven’s face suddenly contracts into a smirk that he never quite understood before now as his arms force themselves into a pose. Flexing and exposing his newly hairy pits in what he now knows as a front lat spread, he almost laughs as his heady powerful musk begins to overpower the scent burning off the candle. 

Having not actually left the apartment, Chad puts an ear to the door as Stephven’s laughter and moans rise in volume and deepen in tone. He creaks open the door and is almost physically hit with the wave of musk as it pours out like a fog from Steven’s bedroom. His own brand mixing with the steam of sweat seeping from his new bros pits is almost more than he can handle. With every step his mind strains to not just give into his own hunger to pounce on his half-formed bro sitting in the chair. 

Hearing Steven’s socks fray and tear as a subtle note of foot funk rises to the top of the candle. Seeing his new partner’s legs fill his young-professional pants to their limit, bulging thighs pushing at and swiftly bursting the strained seams. Chad bites his lip almost to the point of drawing blood as he feels his own thighs cramp. He doesn’t know if he’s somehow growing as his new gym bro continues to edge larger or if he’s simply overwhelmed, if his own mind is too clouded from the hunger and musk.

Chad shambles towards Steven, mouth falling open as he sees the shimmering sweaty traps that have torn his shirt open. His eyes can’t look away from the newly heavy pecs that hang over his defined abs, he fights the urge to lean down and lap at the muscle as Steven delights in bouncing them. Sending cascading shadows across his sweaty core, and gaining more mass with every dancing flex.

 Instead, Chad leans in close to Steven’s delirium painted face. “Looks like ya liked my gift after all, huh Steve?” His breath mists across Steve’s face. Its heavy humidity barely overcomes the sweaty atmosphere but the sharp mint and undercurrent of musty breath underneath call to his nose like smelling salts. 

His jaw cracks and widens as the changes that have overtaken him finally begin their work on the final frontier. Unable to control himself Chad licks the man’s face as it prickles with stubble. Steve’s nose breaks then reforms, his brows thicken and cast a shadow over his eyes as they lose both their color and clarity. Deepening to brown as their default state becomes glazed and thoughtless.

Feeling Chad’s sticky tongue drag on his cheek, it’s like he was struck by lightning. Every new bulging muscle in Steve’s body flexes at once and he stands to his new height, able to make direct eye contact with the man staring at him, just inches away.

Steve tackles him onto the bed, knocking over the candle and sending wax flying through the air. The pair are sparingly coated in the Chad scented candle as they begin heavily exploring Steve’s new form. As their mouths that have always been left wanting find new delight, whatever shreds of the old Stephen that are left begin to vacate.

The anxieties and priorities of a small meek man who never let his id loose disappear as he positions himself over Chad. He bites his bro’s lip and thrusts downward as he pins the massive man’s hands above his head. Masked by the pleasure of true release, he doesn’t care as his old self washes away. Memories evaporate like the sweat pouring off his form. He delights in maneuvering across Chad’s form and enjoying his musk from the source.

His tongue dances across sweaty pecs that match his own as his collection of classics on a bookshelf disappear to be replaced by free weights. Steve’s nose finally shoves its way into Chad’s pits as his extensive collection of hygiene and beauty products down the hall clatter to the floor and disappear as they’re replaced by a single bar of clinical deodorant only used for special occasions. Sleeves fall off his wardrobe of cardigans and button ups as sweat stains yellow every garment. The tops throw themselves from hangers while musty shorts and jockstraps heap into a pile on the floor.

Sweat drips from his brow as with each thrust into Chad his mind gives up the ghost. Each impossible wave of pleasure erodes his old self, each drop of sweat an idea gone, each rivulet of pre dripping down his veiny cock a sign of his intelligence drained to increase the muscle mass of his new form. After all besides pleasure nothing matters to him nearly as much as his fucking hot bod.

He feels his balls pulse as every remaining aspect of Stephen’s self shoots down and is quickly converted. His eyes roll back as he cums the few specks of self remaining in a massive load onto Chad’s sweaty abs. After a few moments of total mindlessness from the jubilee of release, Steve awakens to find himself atop his bro and simply laughs, “Huhuh woah dude that’s a fuckin’ fat load huh?” He scratches at his hairy chest and grimaces as he imagines how that’s going to hide his gains.

Seeing the thoughts on his face as the two are evermore on the same wavelength Chad pauses rubbing Steve’s cum onto his abs and offers, “Lookin’ a little rough there bro, wanna go top up and then hit the gym?” Steve smirks as his bro basically reads his mind, “Yoooo totally let’s hit it!” He punches down into his bro as he stands, smirking as he watches Chad’s cock bounce before sprinting into the restroom and prepping to get pumped.

The gym starts to clear out as the pair arrive, judging by the musk already following in their wake no one dares risk having to smell what it’s like once they actually start going. Stopping in the locker room the pair stop publicly groping and sniffing each other long enough to take a pre-workout photo, tongues out as ever. When they see some poor soul who didn’t escape the gym quick enough covering his nose they eye each other up.

“Yo dude, looks like lil’ bro over there’s gotta problem with your stink.” Steve performatively sniffs his pit and shakes his head, “Nahnah bro. It’s definitely yours, check it.” They continue to talk up eachothers musk while the young man can’t help but sit there, stunned into silence. With each new statement the pair swagger closer until their sweat may as well be dripping on the man.

Gasping as he regains awareness just as the pair are almost standing over him, the sharp intake fills his lungs with their musk as a smile creeps over his face. “Looks like lil bro’s likin’ it after all Chad.” Throwing a sweaty arm over his bro, the man who can scarcely recall that his bro hasn’t always been like this laughs, “Huhuh, well obviously bro, no shot anyone’ll be able to resist us soon.” The pair help the hazy man up and begin ushering him through the ropes, eager to have another musky jock in their image and excited to see how far their little group will grow.

[justhereforsubsevika]

can you write spanking with sevika please 🙏 preferably sub!sev 🫶🫶

This not gonna be written properly sozsoz but like a sub!sevi braindump i think yes

Contains: Spanking, brat!Sevika, use of flail, pussy spanking, ass spanking, use of the traffic-light system for consent (because checking in is importantttt), clit torture, denied orgasm :P

See because a lot of subs get thought about as fems a lot of public teasing is like

wearing a short skirt and bending over so your ass shows

wearing a low cut top and purposefully pushing your cleavage together

sevika is a butch. she does a butch version of public teasing

she'll look you in the eye while she pins a girl to wall between her elbows, flexing her biceps

she'll ask girls to spot her in the gym while she does squats just so you can watch as her spotter's eyes get trained on her ass

she'll even lift girls up just to see you seething when they giggle and grab onto sevis shoulders

(switching to proper writing)

so , what do you do about sevika teasing you all day?

She gasps at the way you force her down, acting all confused like she wasn't getting you worked up on purpose. "Baby-" she'll splutter as you pull her joggers from under her ass, grunting when you see the cotton of her boxers is damp. You see red, hand flying down onto her pussy before she can even begin to splutter out some bullshit excuse. She yelps and chucks her head back, her back arching as she grabs on to the armrest of the sofa you've laid her on.

"You think you can act like a slut and get away with it?" You seethe, harshly thumbing at her clit. She's soaked, you know she gets off on disobedience, you know how much of a fucking brat she is. She tucks her chin into her chest and looks up at you through her eyebrows, that dumbass smirk curling at her lip. "Mhmm, because I know it'll end up like this. With you p-punishing my pussy like I wanted."

You cease your movements entirely. What the fuck had gotten into her? She was no good girl by any means, but she was never this much of a brat. She clucks her tongue when you stare at her, heart racing, blood turning to flame. "Come on," and she grabs your wrist, grabs your fucking wrist, and starts making circles on her clit with your thumb. You're frozen. If you saw red before, you could only see the blood behind your eyes now.

You pinch hard on her clit, smiling sadistically when her teeth clench, seeing how her hand retreats to grab onto any part of the sofa. "You want to play it like this?" You slap her across the face and grab her up from under her chin, forcing her to look at you. "Fine, we'll do things your way. Flip over, ass up."

That smirk is wiped right off her face. She nods, her pupils wide and obedient, getting into position. You've never had to go this far with a punishment before, never had to concentrate pain onto her ass instead of stinging pleasure onto her pussy. But her behaviour warrants it.

"Do you need me to co-?"

"No I don't need you to count. I need you to shut up and take it."

You bring your hand down harshly onto her ass, the pain doubled since she'd hit her glutes hard at the gym to flaunt to whichever slut she picked out to taunt you with. That image pulses in your brain, both of your hands simultaneously coming down to spank either cheek of her ass. You grab at her flesh, pinching, squishing, whatever you please, before bringing down another harsh slap. One of her legs is bent up, her toes curling in the air. She grips at the pillows of the couch, crying out little "tch's" and "gah's" from between her teeth. You don't finish until her scarred ass is burning a deep shade of crimson.

But you don't stop there! No no, how could you when she disobeyed you so intensely, so purposefully, actually mocked your punishment?

Her head is fallen against the plush of the pillow, and, when you grab at her hair to pick up her face, you see where tears have wet the gray fabric. She looks up at you, sniffling, lip trembling, and you pout at her. "Poor baby," you deride, making her gasp out a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I was bad," she chokes, grabbing at the grip you have on her hair. Concern hits you at her signs of distress.

"Sevi baby, colour?"

"Oh, green," she chuckles, "just hurts really fucking bad." You smile and rub your hand soothingly over her bruising skin. "Wait here."

****

You return with a toy you haven't yet used on Sevika. She's waiting, laid out on the sofa, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "What's that?" she asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "It's a flail. Give me your palm."

You place a few good hits onto Sevi's hand, watching as her eyes re-light with excitement. "Hurts..." she murmurs, seeing how her hand gets streaks of red drawn across it. "Mhm. It'll be worse on your ass." You sit beside her and drag the tails of the flail across her raw flesh, giggling when her muscles tense, when her breath hitches. "Poor baby. Shouldn't have acted like such a little bitch, should you?" You bring the flail down, making Sevika shriek in pain. Her crying picks up again, her whole body shaking. "No, no I should've been good," she stammers, her limbs limp against the fabric of the couch. "Mm," you hum, bringing the toy down, revelling in the way little lines cut across her ruined skin. You don't do this for long, just enough to get her really weak.

"Aw Sevi," you coo, bringing your fingertips to her face. Her cheeks are burning hot. She nestles against you, kissing your knuckles. "'m sorry.." she whimpers, "'m so so sorry."

"It's okay, sweet girl." You slide your thumb down between her legs and bite your lip at how wet she's gotten. "Love it when I hurt you, don't you baby?"

Her hand comes behind her back, folding it across herself, willing you to pin her down. She wants to feel like she can't escape the pleasure you give her even if she tried. "Love it so much," she chokes, moaning when you grab her forearm and pin her down. You thumb at her clit for a while. You know she'll be easy, she's soaked from her punishment, and she's pulsing hard against your thumb. "Need...please?" Is all she manages. You go a little longer, until she's really moaning, really whining, breathing hot and heavy.

And then you pull away.

She damn near screams at the loss of contact, and you can't help but laugh at the hyperbolic response. "Just edging me right?" She asks, a hint of panic in her voice. Poor Sevi, she's so far gone. "Nuh uh princess. Bad girls don't get to cum."

She flips over, immediately regretting her decision when her ass brushes your knees. "Ow, fuck- baby please, please I took everything so well," and she's weeping again, begging you with the biggest puppy dog eyes she can muster. "Yeah you did. Too bad you misbehaved all day, huh?" She shakes her head, kneeling over your lap and grabbing at your shirt. "Please?" You smirk and look away.

"No, Sevi, that's final."

She nods solemnly, like you just told her she has 3 minutes to live, sinking down onto your lap. You feel how messy she's making you, her wetness painting your thighs. But she's good, she doesn't even make a half-assed attempt to grind into you. Just sits.

And then, of course, you slather her ass in aloe vera, make her lay down on her stomach while you clean her pussy off. You take off her tank top, now drenched in sweat and tears, and remove her joggers and boxers. You leave her in her socks (her feet get cold </3) and massage her back, telling her softly what a good girl she is for taking her punishment so well.

Maybe you let her cum eventually, because you feel bad. Maybe.

ok maybe i did want to write this properly then lmfao

also PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE IF THE DIALOGUE IS CRINGY PLEASE+ not properly spell/grammar/ "does this definitely make sense" checked

[aupea]

breeding kink carmy thoughts down below! (minors, if you managed to stumble here this is an 18+ blog only, love you but please go bye bye) also, this is kind of afab/fem!reader based ?!?

okaayyy, so hear me out on this one y'all

carmy before you had never really been one for kids. he was always so busy between culinary school and trying to maintain relationships that he never had time to think about what he wanted once he had his dreams achieved. he only knew how to focus on the present, and even that was hard.

then, of course, he met you. the sunshine to his cloudy exterior, the one he felt himself being most sane and comfortable around. he had never been so in love- he actually found himself missing you if you had to work late or travel somewhere. like, hugging the pillow imaging its you missing.

but, then nat had her baby. her sweet little girl who looked just like nat, and you got to play the role of auntie alongside his star role of favorite uncle. and when he sees you holding her, her little hand wrapped around your finger, her eyes beaming up at you-- it almost awakens something in him. yeah, he was a goner! by the time you get home, he'd been fighting the urge to drag you into some hospital storage closet. he needed you- craved you, even. he needed to feel you. you and him step off the elevator in the hallway of your worn down apartment building, though you'd made a habit to ignore the cracks in the wall and the missing paint patches. once you two are fully off the elevator, you begin. "so, that was fun, right? i mean, baby rooms in hospitals are always-" your words are cut short by carmen's lips instantly clashing with yours, his hands coming to find your waist desperately.

of course, you don't protest. you never would, but you are a bit confused by the suddenness of it all. he grabs your hands, pulling you towards the apartment, his hands fighting to just unlock the door, much less pull you inside and push it against it.

hands fly, clothes are being pulled off and disregarded. by the time he has you into the bedroom and your back hitting the plush mattress, he's tossing his pants aside. he'll probably complain in the morning about not being able to find them. he kisses you like he loves to do, taking his time with it of course. like you'd slip away and just disappear. hands roaming your body, desperate for you, desperate for it all. he doesn't even know what he wants right now, but he knows it isn't anything but you.

and before either of you know it, he's deep in your pathetic, wet cunt. the sounds are filthy, but what's worse is his mumbling in your ear.

i've said this before, saying it again: carmy would 100% be a dirty talker without realizing. the pleasure takes its way into his verbal cortex and doesn't let go. this time, it's more. "gotta get nice and deep in there - shit - that's it baby. taking it so well, doing so good f'me." he'd say, desperately sucking at skin on your exposed neck, hands cupping your breasts or your waist, stretching you out so well. "gotta make sure it all gets in there, huh?" "need to get you all filled up-"

"gotta get you all nice and filled up with me, yeah? you like that- shit, shit, keep squeezin' like that-" your complaints were nonexistent, after all. you could barely get words out, too cock drunk to do anything but let out a heavenly moan he adored and moan his name, your fingers digging into skin. he loves those marks, btw, and if he could he'd probably preserve them just to get them tattooed where you squeeze his shoulders (AND HE PROBABLY WOULD CANT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE)

and when his climax hits at the same time yours does, he's pressing his forehead against yours, angling to hit every spot. after he spills inside of you - he'd be giddy just to do that anyway, he pulls out, pushing whatever spilled out back in. "there we go. my pretty girl." he'd murmur, talking more so to your pussy than to you.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Kidnapped

Lemme just give my baby boi Bucky all the headpats in the world

Summary: You get kidnapped and Bucky has to rescue you

Your head hurts. Badly. And for once it's not because you drank too much the previous night. Lights begin to focus and the muted voices start to become clearer, unveiling the fact that you're currently tied to a chair and the deep cut on your forehead is currently dripping blood into your eyes.

"Look who's awake. About time." One of the masked people yanks your head upwards by your hair and you grunt at the sudden stab of pain.

"Missed me?" You grin, laughter punched out of your system when a fist strikes your stomach hard. Still, you manage to wheeze a laugh out, even as a fist strikes the back of your head hard, causing your vision to spin. "Missed you all too."

"Shut up and tell us where the Winter Soldier is!" The one whom you assume is their leader based on his mask's unique marking grabs your chin, lifting your head so that your gaze meets theirs.

"You want me to shut up or tell you where he is? You've gotta choose one —" You're flung to the side along with your chair, the floor slamming into your already injured side. Blood splatters onto the concrete floor from your coughing and you hear heavy footsteps stomping nearby.

Amateurs. They're terrible at extracting information and it's making you laugh at how pathetic they are. Unfortunately you can't enjoy the show as much as you'd like to because of all the pain you're in but at least there's some show to alleviate it. You focus on your breathing, centering yourself. You have to keep a clear mind, backup will be here soon so all you have to do is buy time. Even without your earpiece, you know that reinforcements will show up at some point. Hopefully before you actually die from your injuries.

You know that Bucky will come storming to your rescue. Probably.

It is rather ironic that your kidnappers only need to continue holding you hostage to find the person they're looking for instead of trying to beat his whereabouts out of you. The pain is getting rather annoying, especially considering how long your injuries will take to heal. This is going to put you out of commission for about a month, and the thought of being stuck in the house for a month is scaring you far more than your kidnappers could ever do.

The floor is rather cold, freezing to the touch really and you would like to not be in contact with the floor, but your kidnappers don't seem to share your sentiment since they keep squatting down to yell at you.

"It's better for your knees if you put my chair upright so you don't have to keep squatting down to talk to me. Also do keep your voice down, I'm not deaf you know." There are times where you curse your witty tongue, this is one of those times.

One moment you're on your side, lying on the floor. The next moment you're sent flying into a wall, the chair nothing but splinters in a pile underneath you. Fingers dig into the soft flesh of your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs. You kick the air, struggling instinctively and dig your fingernails into the arm as hard as you can. which is not very hard considering how much air and blood you're losing. Black spots begin to crowd your vision and you're about to send an apology to your boyfriend for being the sassy idiot that you are when suddenly your body collapses to the floor, lungs heaving as they gulp down as much oxygen as they possibly can.

Coughing, you massage your throat. The bruises are going to be ugly, and Bucky is probably going to explode upon seeing your injuries. You would feel bad for your kidnappers if it wasn't for the fact that they nearly killed you and ruined your nice little record of not getting kidnapped.

"I will not ask again. Where is the Winter Soldier?" The leader roars, slamming you against the wall.

"You know, it's a bit hard to talk when it's kinda hard to breathe." You hit his arm. "Also, I believe he's right behind you."

A loud thud echoes in the now empty room as a metal fist collides with flesh and the leader crumples to the floor at the feet of a furious super soldier. You lean against the wall, panting as you push your hair out of your eyes, wincing when you accidentally touch the wound on your forehead.

"Took you…long enough." You huff, looking up at Bucky.

"Maybe I wouldn't have to do this if you didn't get captured." He scowls, kicking the leader's now unconscious body.

"Try intentionally walking into an ambush by yourself and let me know if you get out alive." You grit your teeth, using the wall to stand up despite all the ringing in your ears and the blurriness in your vision. Your head is starting to hurt worse, and all the blood you're spilling onto the floor probably isn't helping either.

"Well, you're alive right now aren't you?" Bucky scoops you up. "So don't go dying on me or I'll have to clean up your messes too."

"Don't recall having too many messes for you to clean," you tiredly mumble into his chest. Your eyelids feel heavy, black starting to cloud your vision and you want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep forever but Bucky keeps jostling you, snapping you awake with every step he takes. "You make a terrible groom, can't even carry your bride properly."

"My bride needs to stay awake or they'll die." He frowns, purposely shaking you. "I mean it."

"Try not to sound like you actually care about me or I might start believing it."

Bucky simply grunts, definitely out of annoyance and continues the way too long walk out of the building, jostling you all the way. Your fingers clutch at his shirt tightly as you take in the sights before you, realising that Bucky had single-handedly fought his way in just to get to you.

"Can't believe you didn't invite me for this party. Seemed fun." You groan.

"Wasn't so fun knowing the only person I can tolerate on missions could die before I reached them." He murmurs, worry sparking in his ice blue eyes.

"Tolerate? Pretty sure I make for better company than that." You weakly poke him in the shoulder, giving him a glare that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"Dream on, doll." The sound of a jet landing drowns out the rest of his words and he carries you inside, laying you out on a stretcher so that the doctor can tend to your wounds. You give him the finger as he turns to leave and he throws one back over his shoulder.

"Don't miss me too much while I'm gone, doll." With that, he disappears into the cockpit and leaves you with the doctor.

"As if I'd miss that bastard," you mutter to yourself, finally closing your eyes and drift off to sleep, ignoring the way your heart clenches at the thought of Bucky fighting his way through the base just to rescue you.

When you wake, you're back somewhere in Avengers Tower, bandages decorating your head and chest. You partially recall this place being the medbay, and judging from the look on Bruce's face your wounds aren't that bad, at least not now.

"Hey," you croak.

"Welcome back," Bruce smiles. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got slammed into a wall multiple times."

"That's not far off. You'll be back in the field in give or take one month, don't worry." He hands you a glass of water which you accept gratefully.

"Where's Bucky?" The question slips out before you can stop yourself.

"Missed me that much, doll?" Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The brunette walks in with the largest smirk you've seem him make, automatic door sliding close behind him.

"Was asking so I could avoid seeing your ugly mug so soon." You bury yourself back underneath the blanket, ensuring that the fabric covered your face.

"How unfortunate that I chose to walk in now." He takes a seat next to your bed, quietly signalling to Bruce for time alone with you. Bruce nods, slipping out of the room and Bucky lets out a sigh. "Doll?"

You make not a single peep, not even when Bucky pokes you through the blanket so he takes matters into his own hands and yanks the blanket off you. You yelp, hands scrambling to pull the blanket back but the super solider is faster and tosses the blanket onto the table behind him before folding his arms over his chest.

"What?" You scowl, mimicking his actions.

"I didn't know your idiocy had no limits." His brows furrow. "What were you thinking, springing that trap with no escape plan? Were you looking to die?"

"If I was, it was a very unsuccessful attempt." You roll your eyes, turning over so that your back faces him.

"Be honest with me." He turns you over, grip softening when he realises how much he's hurting you but he doesn't let go.

"I wasn't trying to die, okay? But if I did, well…" You look away, hating at how your chest constricts when you see the pain in his eyes. "Would've been fine."

"It wouldn't have been!" He snaps. "It's not fine if you just go off and die!"

"Right," you mutter, playing with the sheets. Tears are beginning to form in the corners of your eyes, and you refuse to let him see your weakness. Biting down hard on your bottom lip, you try to push your emotions down before they can overwhelm you but the tears keep coming anyways. Dammit.

"Doll I —" He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to see you to die, alright? Or at least I don't want to see you die before me."

You lie there in silence, tears still streaming down your face and staining the pillow beneath. Fist clenching, you stifle a sob. Shit, you really don't want to crumble in front of Bucky of all people.

"You…matter. A lot. To me." Bucky forces the words out, but his gaze is soft, and so is his touch. His fingertips gently press against your skin, little spots of warmth amidst the sudden chill that has set in. "So don't go dying on me, alright?"

"Only if you make the same promise." You mumble and his eyes brighten. Giving you a genuine smile, he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead.

"Deal. Now get all the rest you need, I'll always be here."

"If you're expecting a 'thank you', I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed." You give his cheek a poke.

"You're welcome." He grins, ruffling your hair. He grabs the blanket, tucking you in with it. "Heal up, or I'll have to go on missions by myself and that would be boring."

"Well, can't have a bored super soldier now, can we?" You smile back at him, grabbing his hand. "Hold on."

He huffs in annoyance, but his eyes say otherwise. "Won't be letting go any time soon, doll."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

If Logan heard that Bubbly was being sent out on a mission, what would he do?

Glimmer of Doubt

Sequel to this, this, and this

"What do you think you're doing?" Logan stomps into the room, cutting a line between the mutants in their flightsuits and gear.

He sees her. Bubbly plays with the tab of her zipper as she turns. She blanched as he marched toward her, but he doesn't address her.

"Orora, what're ya doin' taking her off?" He growls.

"Huh? Logan? Jean's fine. She says the baby doesn't slow her down."

"Jean?" He snips, "she's none of my business. I'm talking about--" he stops himself and looks at Bubbly. The shock is clear in her face. He looks around, self-aware, and lowers his voice, "Storm," he steps closer, "she's not really... made for it."

"You know everyone has to go once. She's just on observation--"

"Not made for it?" Bubbly comes closer. "I can do it, Mr. Wolverine. Just like anyone else."

"I'm not saying ya can't but... it's not for everyone," he rubs his neck.

"Standard flyover," Storm assures him. "I'll keep her close."

"No! I don't want special treatment," Bubbly whines. "I..." she blinks past Logan, "everyone's watching. They must all think--" her voice cracks. "I want to go with everyone else!"

Bubbles rise around her, they smell like cinder as they pop and fizzle hotly. Logan hesitates. He's never seen her angry. Her eyes are almost black and steam radiates off of her.

"Logan, you're welcome to join the senior team but all the new comers are to accompany," Orora declares.

Bubbly nods in agreement then glares at Logan, "don't come."

She struts past him and head for the jet ramp. He turns to watch her then looks back at Storm. She's almost smiling.

"Don't," he warns.

"Well, are you coming?" She asks.

He grumbles and stalks off. He'll stay and wait in penance. He didn't mean anything by it. He knows Bubbly is tougher than she looks but why didn't he know first?

He watches the jet fly off from the east den. He'll wait there. It's a listless torture. He doesn't know what to do with himself. Usually she's there, yapping or bubbling or making him watch something he's never heard of.

He hears their return. He's too uptight to look out the window. It's dark.

He waits. He wonders if he should go to her room. Is she still mad? Is she okay?

He goes to the door but she's there first. She enters in a cluster of bubbles. She sweeps past him and falls onto the couch with a yawn. He's quiet. Nervous.

"You embarrassed me... you're the only person I never expected to do so," she says at last.

"I didn't mean to--"

"But you did," her bubbles swirl around erratically.

"I did," he admits.

"You don't think I'm tough enough."

"That's not it," he inches closer. Her bubbles cling to him, annoyingly so.

"Then what do you think? I'm defective? I don't have fire or ice or mind control so I'm useless?" She accuses.

"Now bub--" he pauses as he feels the shell forming around him. Her bubbles join together, covering him to his chin. "Bub--" he extends his claws but her bubbles don't pop. Instead, the gloss coccoon encases him and he's taken off his feet. "What--"

He spins, the room smearing beyond the bubble's walls and he's left dizzy as she lets him drop. He lands on his knees. She is casually reclined on the couch, eyes closed.

"I'm not as soft as I look. Neither are my bubbles." She turns rolls her back to him as she stretches across the couch, "I thought you knew that."

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 20

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19

• ··········· • ············ •

Alena's amused chuckle made you feel a little at ease when she placed her hands on the sheets and pulled them away after adding a mint medical mask on her face.

“So…” She started talking at the same time her gloved hands touched skin, and you took a deep breath. “...you go from wanted criminal to the heir of an up-and-coming minor house. And if that's not enough, you are buddies with the great founders of Hextech, one of whom is a councillor.”

"You forgot that I am also the center of a lot of gossip." You kept your eyes on her hands, almost willing them to keep being human.

"I know!" Her eyes squinted in delight, and she let her hands stay there for a moment. "Rags to riches!"

“What can I say?” You relaxed as the weight, warmth, and feel of her hand became normal against you.

She subtly nodded, her eyes becoming soft and then shifting to a more jovial and casual gaze. Her hands slowly made their way towards the bandages on your wounds. 

“Mmm…How about... how's the view from up there?” She joked, and you felt her slowly peel off one of the bandages.

“Heh...Not particularly exciting. A lot of egos and dinner parties." You rolled your eyes, and Alena inspected the wounds, poking at the one she had unbandaged. 

You nodded, signaling you were alright, and she kept going.

"I would love to be a fly on the wall." She stopped prodding and looked straight at you, eyes swimming with humor.

"Trust me...It's not that thrilling. You go to one, you go all. After a few of those, even the gossip becomes stale."

"I don't believe that." She pushed a small wheeled tray that one left next to the bedside table and started to clean the wound. You flinched at the sting, and she looked at you. 

Alena grabbed a new sterile bandage and glued it in place, moving towards another. It didn't hurt or make your mind jump through the hoops of panic, but it was uncomfortable, mostly because the wounds felt foreign. Like when you'd discover a paper cut that you didn't know you had. 

"I've heard the story that I am the illegitimate daughter of my mother about a hundred times. Or that I am only here for her money."

"They tell you that to your face?" She sounded shocked.

"Nah...but they say it to Mel's face, who then tells it to Jayce, who then tells it to Viktor, who then tells it to me." You rolled your eyes. "Sometimes, Jayce just skips the Viktor part and goes straight to me."

"Imagine that... Having the councilors of this great city doing your dirty work." You both laughed at her tone. 

“Sky Young.” You looked up at Alena. “Do you know how she is? Viktor told me she was a little shocked with what happened, but nothing more.”

“Miss Young is a little shaken up, yes, but other than that, healthy. The doctors are advising her to stay at home for a couple of days." Alenas restarted her wound inspections, her hands no longer feeling strange to your skin. "I believe that seeing someone get shot by three bolts is not exactly in her job description. She was brought in with you. According to the two hex-heads, she fainted." 

Alena started on the last wound and took a deep breath, and you noticed she was looking at the last wound with curiosity and doubt.

"Hex-heads?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The heads of Hextech." She winked at you, and you shook your head.

"Ah! I gotta keep that one for next time."

"I'll be here all night." 

“Well, whatever they got in the water over on the top Topside, it got you healing fast." You moved your neck to try and peek at the wounds, Alena moving her hand to let you see. "When they admitted you, you were on the straight and narrow to get a blood transfusion ASAP."

They looked like ugly brown holes in your skin, scabby and slightly angry. The edges were still red, but they looked healthy from where you sat. Your eyes shifted to her questioning.

"They look like they were healing for a week; it's been 2 days. You should start selling whatever they have been giving you to eat or drink." She sounded like she was laughing, but something in her voice told you there was something there, a little ping in her tone that gave it a twang of suspicion. You've heard it in Viktor's accent before; it was unmistakable.

“I felt them go through me.” You lied easily with one hand pointing to the back, and Alena nodded.

"Those are healing just as well, if not faster." There it was, the little hint that there was something she wasn't telling you. "I saw them before you woke up when your knight in a shining cane went to the cafeteria."

She resumes her ministrations, cleaning and redressing the remaining wound. Her fingers were gentle but efficient, not lingering more than needed.

“They look almost cauterized." She poked one harder, and you flinched. "Sorry."

You shook your head, dismissing it, now more interested in what she was thinking than the discomfort. There was a glint in her eyes, and you were the best friend of two scientists; some of their curiosity was bound to rub off on you.

She sighed and redressed the last wound, then she looked at the clock in the room and leaned a hip on your bed.

"Is that one special?" You joked when she took more time on that one than the rest.

"Oh. No... Sorry." She straightened up, and you raised both your eyebrows.

"Oh come on now, don't keep me in suspense here. What's going on?"

Uh-oh.

“Councilor Tallis...Jayce...says it was in did cauterized by the bolt because he was working on some crystals."

“You don’t sound very convinced.” She gave you a one-shoulder shrug very similar to those that Viktor gave when he knew something and he wanted to tell you, but you had to fish it out of him. “Go on…”

“What do you know of magic?” She asked, looking at the last wound and refreshing it with the whitest bandage you’ve ever seen. 

“Well, my Babička…Grandmother…Knew someone who had magic. He had come to Zaun when my grandmother was still a child, and he was already very old, and that’s how she knew he had to be magic.”

“That's not a type of medicine you study in nursing school.” You tried to make a joke, quickly hiding your shock at her question.

"Well, you wanted to know." She shrugged and started to clean up the tray, taking off her mask in the process.

"Alright. I don't know much." You lied, flexing your scarred hand under the sheets. "I know fairytales and old stories.”

Alena looked at you, her eyes bright with excitement over telling this story to someone. With every word, her accent became closer and closer to the Zaunite lilt. You noticed her tidying up task became more of an excuse to be here than anything else. 

 “Your grandmother knew someone was a mage because he was old?” You hit the button to bring your bed head upwards slightly, your neck already in pain from craning it up.

“No…Well, yes. Because every time she saw him, he was always old.” She grabbed a small cotton ball and embedded it with alcohol, slowly cleaning anything she could find on that tray. “She would talk to him sometimes, and he never denied he was magic.”

“Did he ask her for money? Because that sounds like a scam to me.” You grinned at her.

“That’s because you are a topsider…” She joked, and you nodded after a while, recognizing the jab as true. “Anyway, he wandered around Zaun for a while carving strange symbols into the stone of certain places in the Undercity. Not just stone. Some people say they saw him write things in the air. Sometimes he would disappear for years at a time and then reappear, carve another symbol, and puff…gone.”

“Sounds like an asshole…leaving your grandmother hanging like that.” You joked, and she snorted, shrugging nonchalantly.

It amused you to no end that her accent became deeper and more pronounced with each word, and at the same time you were apprehensive about the old man.

“Yes, but one time she says she asked him what the symbols were, and he just said ‘kouzelnictví’...magic...”

“He answered that with that exact word? He was a Zaunite?!”

“Well, I’m sure Zaun is not the only place in Runeterra with that tongue. Besides, if he is magic, I suppose he can talk in any language, no?"

"Anyway, she asked him what the last symbol he had carved was, and he said 'oheň'...fire.” She became more excited, leaving the tools on the tray and starting to talk with her hands. “And my grandmother got scared. Most of Zaun at the time was very flammable. But he told her that fire is not always bad. It is what people in a snowstorm desire the most, the warmth of a fire. It could destroy but also be used to weld and create beautiful, perfect things.” 

“...Fire heals more than it destroys.” She said with finality and showed you the skin on her wrist. "Grandmother opened an apothecary not long after, and after that everyone in the family became a healer."

You frowned, pensive, your eyes unfocusing on her for a moment. 

The ceiling in red tones, the soft boiling sound, the black cracks, the burning sensation in your abdomen. All fire-related.

Your eyes focused on her exposed wrist and widened, a single breath caught in your throat.

Tattooed on her wrist was a familiar shape. In bright reds and oranges was a mirrored and smaller version of the rune that had appeared on the ceiling of the lab. You wanted to touch it but were afraid you would unwillingly speak it, making it jump out of her skin and do something.

“And how can you heal someone with fire?” Alena turned her sleeve back down, and you looked at her, eyes still wide. “Cauterizing. You can stop something as dangerous as a lost limb by burning the stump. Your body temperature flares up to fight infections.”

For a second you just blinked at her, your mind reeling at the thought of this old mage going around Zaun drawing runes. 

"You think I was healed by magic?" You managed to splurt out in your state of astonishment. 

"I don't know, but... I saw the wounds when you arrived; they were burned on the edges, and then the healing process? It's too quick to be natural." She came closer to you and whispered. "If you ask me, they were doing something with magic... real magic! The ancient kind, not their usual kind."

"A twelve-sided—" 

"What other runes... did your grandma know?"

"Oh..." She stopped for a while, her eyes searching for an answer. "She didn't mention it anymore, but as she got older, she got obsessed with dodecahedrons, and when we asked her about it, she always talked about the old man."

Your face dropped when a memory of a blackboard with twelve bullet points on it flashed into your brain. 

You laughed as naturally as you could, and she grinned back at you. The casual conversation was interrupted by someone calling Alena on the hospital speaker. You found out then she also didn't have a last name.

"Twelve facets of the arcane." You mumbled, and Alena's eyes narrowed. "The arcane has twelve basic facets, sides...like a dodecahedron..."

"So you do know about magic..."

"I only connected it now. They use it in hextech. Or tried to...I don't know..."

"Oh, spilling secrets now are we?" She joked, but when your face didn't accompany her humor, she paused. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Sorry." You tried to quickly put yourself together. "Viktor and I were talking about it the other day, and now you talked about it... I was just surprised by the coincidence."

"Oh! Well, maybe I am right and you were healed by it...You call on it, and it answered."

"Duty calls." She patted your knee. "I'll check back on you later. You should rest before visiting hours; I'm sure at least your mother will want to barrel in here."

You laughed softly and nodded.

Alena opened the door and waved back at you, clipboard in hand, and waved at you, completely oblivious to the running thoughts in your head.

“Oh... Wait..." You called when she reached the door. "Do you…Can you tell me where these symbols are?”

“Mmmm. Sorry. I wouldn't know. They probably built over them. If it's even true." She gave you a sad smile.

“Yeah, you're right.” 

You hadn't lied to her...not completely. You and Viktor had indeed talked about this. Just not in this dimension.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies @iamfandomnerd

[junplusone]

seventeen as engineering majors

notes: hi i have nothing to say for myself except this is partially @imujings's fault and also my self indulgence so here we go (can you tell what my major is..... lol)

warnings: ehh swearing, i namedrop companies, eng jargon

-

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL - civil engineering

if you know, you know

is very proud of his program despite all the jokes (he shouldn't be) sorry im biased

"we're better than the meches"

never had to take dynamics in his LIFE omg

100% has a poster of the golden gate bridge on his wall and gets made fun of for it

is convinced one day when he's making bank and jeonghan is jobless he'll finally be vindicated

YOON JEONGHAN - mechanical engineering

did have to take dynamics & almost failed it

(he's smart, he was just too lazy to submit any of the homework that was also worth 60% of his grade)

gets salty at career fairs when most of the employers are construction companies

competing with the 24853874534 other meches for class sections

leaning into the "jack of all trades master of ????"

has a superiority complex over the aeros

HONG JOSHUA - computer engineering

should have just been a cs major tbh

compe is the bottom of the engineering food chain

but nobody has the heart to tell him that bc he's too kind

hangs out with the likes of yoon jeonghan but still never skips class

wants to create his own video game

probably got an internship at a fortune 100 company

has hella connections and WILL ask them to nepo you too bc he's that nice

WEN JUNHUI - aerospace engineering

has had enough of the lockheed martin jokes

does NOT !!! wanna work in defense he's a sustainable fuel guy

spacecraft development companies pleaseeee hire him

lets the meches have beef w him bc he dgaf what they think, but gets annoyed when they start competing w him for jobs

sidequest king (double minor in math & ecology AND he wants to try his hand at law school???? wtf)

locks in so freaking hard when he has to but is just silly otherwise - he's that student you never see studying but then they ace the exam

KWON SOONYOUNG - chemical engineering

is the one making lockheed martin jokes in front of junhui

but definitely picked cheme because someone told him he can make bombs

had to retake orgo twice but then passed inorganic chemistry with flying colors

academic wild card #1

always ends up with 8:30s bc he never wakes up on time for class registration

#1 merck worshipper pls hire him omg

LEE JIHOON - computer engineering

is at the bottom of the engineering food chain, but unlike joshua he knows & owns it

is a cs minor so it's slightly more excusable

probably has hella shit on github

definitely following more companies on linkedin than he has connections

double major in music production & plays clarinet in the pep band

you will never see him without his headphones on

JEON WONWOO - electrical engineering

actually very strongly dislikes that electrical & comp are grouped together as ece

likes the versatility of his major

probably never had a single morning class in his life

def came into college proficient in a bunch of programming languages

sits at the back of the lecture hall

never ever studies outside of his dorm bc he likes using his huge desk monitor

KIM MINGYU - biomedical engineering

so sick of every single person he meets assuming he's a premed student

has definitely accidentally broken flasks in his bio lab

was so elated when he found out orgo isn't a graduation requirement

always ALWAYS studies w a whiteboard

is one of the only guys in bme

you can always find him cooking up some food in the dorm's communal kitchen, he's always down for a conversation

LEE SEOKMIN - environmental engineering

minor in sustainability, he's an environmentally conscious sweetie pie!

the dream project groupmate

is one of like 15 people in his graduating class

wants to research water treatment technologies

"did you know using chatgpt is harmful to the environment?"

and he's right !!!!

took organic chemistry for fun and aced it even though mingyu warned him it would tank his gpa

XU MINGHAO - chemical engineering

really wants to work in the fragrance industry

always smells good, you'll never catch him lacking

another one of those people where you don't see them study ever but they still coast through classes

gets distracted when he's drawing out chemical compounds bc he tries too hard to get the lines perfect

and then starts sketching something else

second most nastiest side eye

BOO SEUNGKWAN - industrial & systems engineering

y'all know this man did not wanna do any work (jk i love my ise majors)

business admin double major & he's reaaaally good at it

everyone's jealous of the way he charms all the employers at the career fair how do u even do that like???

very intelligent but hated every calc class he had to take

always studies in the business building

nastiest side eye EVERRRRRR do not say anything stupid in front of him please he will vaporize you

CHWE HANSOL - materials science & engineering

walter white in the making

declared a chemistry minor and then never took the required classes

really enjoyed crystal chem

profs have a hard time grading his hw cause his handwriting lowkey looks like chicken scratches

the absolute chillest during finals week but nobody knows if it's because he studied way in advance or because he didn't study at all

academic wild card #2

such an 'it is what it is' guy tbh...

LEE CHAN - packaging engineering

ppl look confused when he tells them his major

is in it for the near 100% job placement

has a great time in all of his classes because they're so fun and the class size is like 8 kids

doesn't fully know what he wants to do later in life but he'll figure it out later

carpe diem kinda guy

wants to intern at a cosmetics company really really bad so he can take sample products home to his mom

let me know if u enjoyed this hehe :)

[kultklassickiller]

Prada You Chapter 17

Summary:

In the summer of 1998, sparks fly between Nyeya and Jey.

Nyeya is an 18-year-old around the way girl. Jey is older, paid, and fine. He is also the leader of the infamous Prada Bois alongside his twin brother Jimmy.  The two have chemistry. However, Nyeya has plans outside of her attraction. With a birthday around the corner and dreams of living a good life, Nyeya sets her sights on enjoying the perks of Jey's money and hood celebrity.

But baby girl has no clue what it takes to really be down. Nyeya is about to learn some hard life lessons at the expense of her 'Prada' priced dreams.

Pairing: Jey Uso x Nyeya (Nye) Green (OC)

Author’s Note: This story is happening in an alternative universe. It features the current and original Bloodline members along with other WWE stars. So, the characters are themselves, but some things are switched around for the stories sake. This was originally written with all original characters, but I think it could work better this way. Hope you guys enjoy it and I actually finish it...

Warning: Please be advised that this chapter contains underage drinking, age gap relationships.

Disclaimer: This work of art is fictional in nature including the original characters created by me. I do not own any of the existing characters or lyrics from songs referenced in this story (if any). All rights belong to their respective owners with the exception of my original characters. This work is purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended to cause harm.

Chapter 17: Heavy

The room felt smaller, as if the argument had sucked all the air out of it. I leaned against the wall, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, while Jey paced the floor like a caged animal. His breaths were heavy, his movements restless.

“I’m sorry, Nyeya,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter now, no longer edged with anger but laced with something deeper—regret perhaps. “I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I just… I can’t stand the thought of someone trying to come between us. You know how I feel about you. You know how deep this shit is.”

I stayed silent, my heart still pounding from the intensity of it all. My thoughts raced, caught between wanting to believe him and knowing this wasn’t the first time he’d apologized like this. “Jey, you can’t keep doing this. It’s too much. I don’t… I don’t know how long I can keep dealing with you popping off on me.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face me. The hardness in his expression softened, and he closed the distance between us. “I know I messed up,” he admitted, his voice raw. “But you’re everything to me, Nye. I swear I’ll do better. Just… don’t walk away from me. Not tonight.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promises. I wanted to push back, to tell him words weren’t enough anymore, but the look in his eyes stopped me. Vulnerability wasn’t something Jey wore often, and seeing it now made it harder to hold onto my anger.

“You always say that. You always do this,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

“And I mean it this time,” he said quickly, his hand brushing against mine. His touch was light, hesitant, as if he was afraid I’d pull away. “Stay with me tonight. We’ll figure it out in the morning. Please, baby.”

I hesitated, the logical part of me screaming to leave, to go home and put space between us. But the vulnerability in his voice and the way he looked at me pulled at something deeper. Against my better judgment, I nodded. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

---

As we left the room, the heavy tension started to lift, though it didn’t disappear completely. My eyes scanned the crowded living room, spotting Kiyah near the kitchen with Jacob still close by her side. Natasha was laughing with Tama and Tonga, while Nataya and Jimmy were tucked into a quiet corner, her hand resting on his knee as they whispered to each other.

I hesitated, but Jey gave me a reassuring nod before stepping away to talk to Sami near the backyard.

Kiyah was the first to notice me approaching, her eyes narrowing with concern. “You okay, Nye? You look…” she paused, glancing behind me as if searching for Jey. “What happened?”

I shrugged, not trusting my voice to sound steady. “I’m fine. We just needed to talk some things out. It’s all good now.”

Natasha joined us, her brow furrowed. “Talk about what? We saw how he dragged you outta here. What’s going on, Nye? He trippin’ again?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Everything’s fine now. Really. I’m… I’m gonna stay with him tonight."

Kiyah’s expression turned skeptical. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Nataya, who had finally made her way over, looked between me and Jey from afar. “Girl, we’ll cover for you if your mama asks, but you need to make sure you’re good. I mean, really good. If you’re not sure, come home with us.”

I appreciated their concern, but I could feel Jey’s eyes on me from across the room, his posture relaxed yet watchful. “I’m sure,” I said, louder this time. “He’s�� he’s trying, y’all. I just need to give him a chance. We’ll work things out.”

Kiyah’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “Alright. But you call us if anything goes left. Promise me, Nye.”

“Promise,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

Satisfied, the girls let it go, but the worry in their eyes stayed with me as I walked back to Jey. He stood near the back door, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. His gaze softened when I approached.

“Everything good?” he asked, his tone low and calm.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Let’s go.”

---

The ride to Jey’s house was quiet, the city streets bathed in the glow of streetlights. I stared out the window, my thoughts tangled. Jey’s hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers tapping rhythmically, a small but noticeable sign of his lingering tension.

“I’ll get you home early,” he said, breaking the silence. “Before anyone notices you missing. You said mama don’t trip right if she think you with Kiyah.”

I nodded, my gaze still fixed on the passing buildings. The lies he had me telling sat uncomfortably in my chest, but I didn’t argue.

---

Morning light spilled through the blinds of Jey’s bedroom, casting soft shadows across the walls. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the distant hum of traffic outside. I woke to the weight of his arm draped over my waist, his body warm against mine. For a moment, I lay there, replaying the events of the night before. The fight. The apology. The lingering doubt that refused to leave.

Jey stirred beside me, his grip tightening slightly before he opened his eyes. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” I replied, shifting to sit up.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching me. “About last night… I meant what I said. I’m sorry. I know I need to do better. I don’t want to lose you.”

I looked down at my hands, tracing invisible patterns on the blanket. “Jey, you can’t keep saying that and then doing the same thing over and over. I… I need things to change.”

“And they will,” he said firmly, sitting up fully now. “Tonight, at the park if you come, it’s just gonna be good vibes. No drama. No fights. Just us having a good time. I promise, Nye. Let me make it up to you.”

I wanted to believe him. The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto my doubts. “Alright,” I said finally, my voice barely audible. “I’ll come.”

His face softened into a smile, and he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “That’s my girl.”

---

By the time Jey dropped me off at home, the morning was quiet, the street bathed in soft sunlight. He pulled the car to a stop in front of my house and turned to face me.

“I’ll see you around four. I got some business to handle before I get there,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Wear something cute for me. You know how I like it.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto my face. “Cool. I’ll see you later.”

He leaned in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was soft but lingering, his hand lightly brushing my cheek. When he pulled back, his grin was back in place. “Later, baby.”

I stepped out of the car, closing the door behind me. As he drove off, I stood there for a moment, the smile fading from my face. The warmth of his kiss lingered, but so did the knot in my stomach. Was I making the right choice? I shook my head, pushing the thought aside as I headed inside. For now, I’d let myself hope that today would be different.

---

The midday sun beamed down as I stepped out of the house, my swimsuit covered by a loose, sheer wrap. Natasha and Nataya were already waiting by the car, chattering excitedly about the park party. Kiyah walked up behind me, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "You good?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Yeah, I’m good," I replied, though my stomach twisted with unease.

We piled into the car Jimmy let Nataya borrow, the twins up front with Natasha driving. She was the best driver out of us. The ride to the park was filled with chatter and laughter, the excitement contagious despite my own lingering doubts. I stared out the window, trying to convince myself this would be a good day.

---

The park was alive with activity. Music blared from speakers set up near the pool, the beats vibrating through the warm summer air. Groups of people danced on the grass; their movements carefree. Others gathered around picnic tables piled high with food—burgers, hot dogs, aluminum pans of baked beans and mac and cheese. The pool glistened, a handful of kids splashing while some adults lounged on inflatable floats, their drinks held high above the water.

“Okay, let’s party,” Natasha said, clapping her hands together as she stepped out of the car. The twins wasted no time joining the festivities, leaving Kiyah and me standing by the lot.

Kiyah turned to me, her expression shifting from excitement to concern. “Alright, Nye, real talk. Are you okay? Like, really okay?"

I hesitated, caught off guard by her directness. “I… Yeah. I’m cool. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kiyah crossed her arms, giving me a look that said she wasn’t buying it. “You’ve been off lately. Last night wasn’t nothing. And I know how Jey can be especially with you.”

“He’s not that bad,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out before I could think them through. “He’s just… going through some stuff. You know how life gets. It’ll work out.”

“Uh-huh,” Kiyah said, unimpressed. “Listen, I get it. He’s got that whole charm thing going on, but nothing—and I mean nothing—is worth losing yourself over. Not even a Prada Boi.”

Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I forced a small smile, hoping to ease her concern. “I’m not losing myself, Kiyah. I’m good. I promise.”

She studied me for a moment before sighing. “Alright. Just… don’t let him drag you down, Nye. You’re better than that. And he not all that anyway.”

“I won’t,” I assured her, though the pit in my stomach said otherwise.

Satisfied, Kiyah grinned and bumped my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with Jacob. I think I can play step-mama for the right price.” She turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

---

I made my way to the pool, slipping off my wrap and sitting at the edge with my feet dangling in the water. The coolness was a welcome relief from the summer heat, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I glanced around, my heart skipping when I saw him.

Damian stood on the far side of the pool, leaning casually against a fence with a drink in his hand. His eyes were fixed on me, his gaze heavy and unrelenting. My breath hitched, and I felt suddenly exposed, the swimsuit clinging to my skin like a second layer.

I looked away quickly, my heart pounding. Why was he here? Why now?

The rumble of an engine broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see Jey’s car pulling into the parking lot. He stepped out, his walk slightly unsteady, a bottle of liquor dangling from one hand. He was shirtless, his tattoos on full display, the ink stretching across his chest and arms, a bold statement of who he was. His eyes were glassy, his grin lazy, and his shorts hung low on his hips, completing the effortless look. He looked good as hell.

I pushed myself up from the pool and walked toward him, meeting him halfway. “You’re late,” I said, trying to keep my tone light but unable to hide the edge of annoyance in my voice.

“I’m right on time, baby,” he replied, his arm slipping around my waist and pulling me closer. The smell of alcohol clung to him, sharp and undeniable, but his touch was steady, almost comforting. “You miss me?”

I hesitated for a moment, studying his glassy eyes and the way his grin tilted slightly to the side. “Maybe. Did you miss me?”

“More than you know,” he said, his voice dropping low. He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine in a featherlight tease before pulling back. “You been behaving without me?”

I hesitated before nodding. “Of course.”

His grin widened, and he held the bottle out to me. “Here,” he said, holding the bottle between us. “Take a sip. Loosen up. It’s a celebration, right?”

I took the bottle hesitantly, the liquor burning as it slid down my throat. Jey’s fingers danced on my hip, the touch intimate, almost claiming. He leaned in as I swallowed, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth. "That’s my girl," he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. I glanced toward the pool and caught Damian watching us, his expression unreadable. The intensity of his gaze made my skin prickle, and a surge of defiance rose in me.

Turning back to Jey, I slipped an arm around his neck, pulling him flush against me. "You’re in a real good mood today," I murmured, my lips brushing the edge of his jaw before trailing lightly to his ear. "What’s got you so happy?"

“Because I got you, mama,” he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “When you’re with me, it’s like everything’s right. Last night’s behind us, right?”

I nodded, even as my heart pounded. “Right.”

Jey’s grin widened before he kissed me again, this time deeper, his lips firm and insistent, as if he was staking a claim. The heat of the moment sent a rush through me, and I clung to him, my fingers running through his hair. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my skin.

“Let’s go join the party," he said, his voice low and full of promise. "Show everyone how good we look together."

---

The festivities were in full swing. Music blasted from the speakers, and the air was filled with the sound of laughter and splashing water. Jey stayed close, his arm never straying far from my waist.

Natasha and Tonga were dancing near the grill, their movements loose and carefree. Nataya and Jimmy were sitting together at a table, sharing a plate of food and laughing like they had no cares in the world. Kiyah and Jacob were by the pool, their heads close as they talked, their laughter carrying over the noise.

I tried to focus on the party, to lose myself in the energy around me. But every so often, I felt Damian’s gaze slicing through the crowd, his eyes heavy and unyielding. It was like he was reading every move I made, dissecting every touch Jey placed on me. No matter how much I laughed, danced, or clung to Jey, Damian’s presence was a reminder that nothing about today was simple—and nothing about this life ever would be.

---

The park party was electric, the kind of energy that could only come from summer heat and a crowd that seemed to double by the minute. The bass from the speakers thumped so hard it vibrated in my chest, mixing with the smell of charcoal, chlorine, and the tangy sweetness of someone’s perfume. Everywhere I turned, there was movement: people dancing on the grass, kids cannonballing into the pool, and adults balancing plates stacked with food.

Jey had me perched on his lap by one of the folding tables, his arm snug around my waist as I fed him bites of cake. His lips brushed against the fork with every bite, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I teased, wiping a smudge of frosting from the corner of his lips.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he shot back, his voice low and full of that easy confidence. “You’re spoiling me. You’re not gonna stop now, are you?”

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made my cheeks heat. “Don’t get used to it,” I warned, though the playful lilt in my voice made it clear I didn’t mean it.

Jey chuckled, leaning in to kiss my temple. His grip tightened slightly; a subtle reminder of the claim he had on me. “I will. You treat me like a king, baby. And I treat you like a queen.”

---

As the afternoon stretched into early evening, the crowd seemed to thicken. Natasha and Sami had drifted toward the grill, where Sami’s booming laughter carried over the music. Nataya and Jimmy were sitting under a tree, their hands intertwined, looking like they were in their own world. Kiyah had switched gears, chatting up Solo now, her easy laugh and quick wit drawing him in.

I let my eyes wander, hoping to absorb the carefree atmosphere. But then I saw him.

Damian was sitting against the fence near the pool, a beer bottle dangling loosely in his hand. A woman was perched on his lap, her legs draped over his as she toyed with the gold chain around his neck. She was gorgeous, with dark curls framing her face and a smile that lit up the space around her. Damian’s hand rested on her thigh, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns that made my stomach twist.

I tore my gaze away, the sight leaving a sour taste in my mouth. Why do you care? I scolded myself, but the question felt hollow. I tried to focus on Jey, who was cracking jokes with Jacob, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Damian.

---

Later, I stood and stretched. “I’m gonna put my stuff in your car,” I told Jey, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Be right back.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked, his tone teasing but laced with a protective edge.

I smiled. “I’ll be fine. Hold my spot.”

The parking lot was quieter, the distant hum of the party muted by the trees surrounding it. I opened the trunk of Jey’s car, placing my bag inside and closing it with a satisfying click.

“Leaving already?” a voice said behind me. I turned to see Damian standing by a car, his beer still in hand. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on mine for a moment too long.

“What do you want, Damian?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

“To talk,” he said simply, stepping closer. “You seemed… off earlier. I just want to make sure you’re okay, mami.”

“I’m fine,” I replied sharply. “You don’t need to worry about me. That’s Jey’s job.”

His jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose. “Is it bad that I care about you, Nyeya? More than you realize. More than I realized.”

His words threw me off balance, but I masked it with anger. “You have a funny way of showing it,” I snapped, glancing back toward the party. “Is that why you had some girl draped over you like a cheap coat? You worried about her, too?”

Damian’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Jealous?”

I scoffed. “Hardly.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I see it, Nye. You’re not happy. Not with him. But I told you that, mami. How long before you admit it?”

My chest tightened. “You don’t know anything about me or what I feel.”

“I know more than you think,” he said, his gaze holding mine. “And I know you deserve better.”

The silence between us was heavy, charged with unspoken things I wasn’t ready to confront. Finally, I shook my head and turned back toward the party. “I don’t have time for this, Damian.”

“Not much time left,” he called after me. “Think about it before it gets worse.”

---

Back at the party, Jey pulled me into his lap again, his arm wrapping securely around me as the card game at the table kicked off. His laughter was loud and easy, his confidence radiating as he placed his bets. I tried to focus on him, on the way his hand rested on my thigh, but I couldn’t shake the tension lingering from my conversation with Damian.

“Yo, Damian!” Jey called out, nodding toward an empty seat. “Get over here, uce. We need one more.”

Damian hesitated for a fraction of a second before approaching, his face carefully neutral. He took the seat without a word, his eyes flicking to me briefly before settling on his cards. The tension at the table was palpable, though no one else seemed to notice.

By the end of the game, I’d had enough. Leaning into Jey, I murmured, “I’m ready to go.”

He glanced at me, his expression softening. “Yeah? Alright, baby. Let’s get outta here.”

He helped me up, throwing an arm over my shoulders as we headed toward the parking lot. I felt Damian’s eyes on me as we walked away, but I didn’t look back. The weight of his gaze followed me long after we left.

---

Back at Jey’s house, the atmosphere shifted into something quieter, softer. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, blending with the occasional rustle of leaves outside the window. Jey dropped his keys on the counter and turned to me, his expression uncharacteristically gentle.

“You straight?” he asked, stepping closer, his hands sliding around my waist. His touch was familiar, steady, but his eyes searched mine like he was trying to read the thoughts I wasn’t saying. “You know you mean everything to me, right?”

I nodded, letting out a small breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Yeah. I’m good. And I know, babe.”

His thumb traced slow circles on my hip, and he leaned in, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “Thanks for sticking with me tonight,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I know I can mess up, Nye. I just… I can’t picture this life without you in it.”

“You think?” I teased, brushing my fingers along the faint stubble on his jaw. “You make it sound like I’m doing you a favor just being here.” My voice softened, my gaze meeting his. “But you know it’s because I care, right? You just gotta let yourself believe you’re worth it.”

He smirked, his lips brushing against my temple. “You keep me steady,” he murmured, his voice raw in a way that made my chest ache. “It’s not just needing you, Nye. You’re the only one who gets me. The only one I trust to really see me, all of me.”

The weight of his words hung between us, and for once, there wasn’t any tension behind them. It felt honest, raw in a way that made my chest tighten. I leaned up, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly. His hands slid up my back, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

“I’m glad you stayed down with me,” he murmured, his lips grazing mine. “I don’t say it enough, but I love you, Nyeya. You’ve got my heart, baby.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I just stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. “I love you too, Jey,” I whispered, my voice trembling but sure. And as his arms tightened around me, I let myself believe it. For now, it was enough to drown out the noise of everything else.

---

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[tobiasdrake]

How would you write Majin Boo and Yamcha in the Tournament of Power, instead of Roshi and 17?

Honestly, Buu would be pretty game-breaking. I can't really conceive of any reason why Buu wouldn't absorb Jiren and anticlimactically waste everybody else fighting in the tournament.

As the be-all end-all final villain of Dragon Ball, Buu's ability to just eat whoever's stronger than him and gain their power for himself is completely busted. It makes it very difficult to write him into scenarios where he is a struggling underdog trying to compete with a superior foe.

Which is probably why Super snubs him so much. This is a character who has near limitless regeneration on top of the ability to turn every single fighter in the tournament into candy and he can just absorb everybody who's stronger than him whenever he runs into a brick wall. That's great for an overpowered villain that we need to find some way to beat, but terrible for a protagonist who needs to be challenged.

Like. It cannot be understated how devastating Buu's Candy Beam would be here. He can spread it over a wide area. He could literally step out onto that stage and Gobstopper every fighter from every universe simultaneously.

And sure, some of them would be able to Universe's Strongest Jawbreaker that shit. But it's still kind of purpose-defeating if like 80% of the assembled fighters are KO'd in the first three seconds. Buu just waves his antenna and erases anyone who isn't Power Levels enough to compete with Vegetto? Okay, man. There go all the fun fights for the weaker characters. Buh-bye.

Even then, if they aren't allowed to fly, like... how are they supposed to fight now? Is Gobstopper Jiren just supposed to spend the rest of the arc rolling into other gobstoppers super hard to ping them off the field?

Actually, that sounds amazing. XD

But in an AU capacity, not in a "This is seriously the plot of the show" capacity.

I don't think Toriyama would have kept Buu around if he wasn't planning on closing the book on Dragon Ball shortly after. Buu joining the supporting cast is very much a "Fuck it, we're done anyway" decision that the series is now paying for, and its solution is to just... find ways to conveniently kick him out of the cast over and over again.

Going into the Tournament of Power... Like, right from the get-go, Buu is going to be nerfed by the rules of the tournament. He can't eat people. That would probably be how you get around the "Buu just deletes half the tournament roster" problem.

He's just. He's not allowed to use his powers. Sorry. Buu has to fight with one hand behind his back. Dem's the rules.

I don't know if he would actually abide by that rule. He might just end up disqualified after eating Toppo. Buu is a selfish, impulsive hedonist who reflexively lashes out at authority. He's just gonna do whatever he wants and let the chips fall where they may.

But if Mr. Satan tells him not to eat anyone, he... probably won't eat anyone? Might still Candy Beam them though. Turning them all into marbles and rolling them off the stage would technically be within the terms of a "NO EATING PEOPLE" restriction.

Buu's crowd control options are bad for the narrative integrity of a battle royale. Even right now, I'm trying to figure out how he could be involved and still having to write around his powerset rather than being able to incorporate and challenge it to its fullest.

I don't know. It's honestly difficult to incorporate him in a way that would be respectful and utilize him in interesting ways without letting him dominate and break the plot.

I think he could work as the villain of another universe's story. Have Buu take the field as the threat that's gonna carry us to victory until fighters from another universe find a way to team up and take him down.

But for the life of me, I can't get around, "Why doesn't he just Candy Beam the entire arena?"

...

As for Yamcha, I probably wouldn't write him into the Tournament of Power. Yamcha quit during the Cell arc and I'm entirely happy to let him. If I was writing Yamcha in Super, probably the only thing I'd do with him is properly introduce his new girlfriend from the end of the Cell Games.

Put an actual name and a face to her, so the fandom can stop ignoring her existence when they complain that Bulma condemned Yamcha to die alone and unloved.

I mean, I'd pick Yamcha over Roshi, to be sure. I feel like the series has forgotten that the Muten-Roshi isn't Goku's "One True Master" or anything like that. Goku has a lot of respect for the man who set him on his path, and he wears the Kame-senryu dogi out of that respect. But he learned everything Roshi had to teach him and left him in the dust long ago, a fact that made Roshi proud.

That story is over. The Muten-Roshi is a 300-year-old man who just wants to enjoy his retirement. Stop trying to make him relevant again! And also just. In general. Stop trying to make "Goku the wide-eyed pupil" happen again. It's done. He's a master now. Let him be a master.

Lotta beefs with DBS.

But yeah, while I agree with the criticism of "Why Roshi and not Yamcha", it's only to the extent that going with Yamcha is still kicking the can down the road. I cannot conceive of a single way that Yamcha's character or the story would be enriched by the Tournament of Power, that wouldn't just feel like hollow fanservice.

"Yamcha got to WIN A FIGHT AGAINST SOMEONE. This one's for you, Yamcha stans! Okay, he's done, someone punt this dipshit off the stage."

Which. To be fair. A lot of the ToP is hollow fanservice. I... did not like that arc very much. Or DBS as a whole, for that matter. So I'm probably not the guy to figure out the best way to utilize characters in it.

But for me, I'd be more interested in a proper Yamcha epilogue that closes out his character on a satisfying note and sends him off, than in desperately trying to drag Yamcha back into the game and shackling him into a status quo he already respectfully bowed out of.

[myuntoldstory]

i am so sorry. i have been away because of head and heart stuff (of the emotional kind, not the physical kind) and illness stuff (of the physical kind). but i'm just coming back to tumblr now and i saw your reblog, (which thank you by the way omg i don't think anyone would lksdjflsd) and it inspired me to write this little thing. just be warned this is my first ever, ever prongsfoot, so... you know. it will likely suck, lol. tw: mention of sexual harassment, dark themes, killing, violence, gore, blood, violence read on ao3 or under the cut

Running. Running. Running.

Feet stamping on the gravel, the crunch loud in the late evening air. Breaths—fast, short, stuttered but also easy, measured, and focused. A whimper of fear, panic, and prey preparing for its death rattle even without certainty over its own fate. Laughter, sniggers, predators playing—with their food, with the chase, with the addictive adrenaline only this kind of macabre game can bring. The swish of a cloak, the skidding of leather soles against stones as knees rattle and ankles weaken.

And the night. Ever so still. Inky. Forever a mere witness.

Three men. One barely ahead, the two close behind. The one stumbles and trips, clearly unable to be as fast as he wants to. The pair are easygoing in their strides, barely out of breath and not a hair out of place. If they run properly and put any serious effort in, they'll easily reach their quarry—but where is the fun in that? That's the question in their faint chuckles, in laughter as handsome as their faces. So they pace themselves, let their man run ahead—think that he has a chance when, in reality, his fate is sealed the moment he marked himself with his crimes.

A look. Quick. Knowing. And the one with the shaggy hair raises his wand.

A crack—like a whip trying to tear the air apart. The man ahead of them yelps, ducking and almost tripping over his feet as the surface of the walls burst apart, crumbling brick and mortar across the grimy floor.

"Shit."

"Bad form, Padfoot."

Sirius shoots James an offended look as they slow to a stop.

"Oi, you try stunning a moving object while running yourself—"

An easy flick of a wand. A sharp slash—the air really falling apart this time. It stills, sucking in all sound in a vacuum and making the squelch of flesh splicing apart clearer, visceral. The inevitable cry of anguish comes after. In the alley is the silhouette of an ankle splitting open—of blood, black and tarry in the shadows, spurting out and spilling over. Reverberating is a heavy body's dull, pathetic crash against the concrete. The final resting place of the man who chose the wrong side.

Sirius watches the whole thing with a dumbstruck expression.

"You prick, that doesn't count," he immediately says after recovering, turning to James and planting his hands on his hips. "You were a Chaser. You shoot goals while moving."

James smirks, tucking his wand behind his ear. "While flying, you stupid shite."

Sirius rolls his eyes at the boast. "Same difference—"

Wordlessly, James grabs Sirius by the arm of his coat, yanking him close while leaning in, letting his lips brush against the shell of Sirius' ear. The subtle shiver makes his smirk more pronounced. Still, the words he whispers in his partner's ear are laced with a dark sort of impatience. It's a tone that carries a purposeful emptiness, of the game finally running its course, and nothing is left but the inevitable. All the excitement is gone—what is left is the mission. The punishments.

"Shut the fuck up and just go."

James bites at the lobe. Sirius gasps scandalously despite his shaky exhale.

"That's sexual harassment."

"Keep annoying me, and I will show you real sexual harassment."

Sirius turns slightly towards James, smiling vaguely. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

Their eyes meet and hold. Hazel and grey. A glade under the cover of stormy skies. The alley's darkness surrounds them, cloaking them and closing them in their own world. Sirius' eyes dart down towards James' lips before moving slowly back up. He finds James, eyes magnified by his glasses, running over his face, his expression unreadable. But Sirius doesn't need to read James' face to know, for his soul to recognise its counterpart within the man before him. There's a beat. A soft kind of tension. And Sirius leans in slightly, eyes lowering—

"I surrender! Please!"

The spell breaks.

James rolls his eyes and steps back, leaving Sirius to get on with it.

"Ah… you do, do you?" he says with an easygoing tone. With a small sigh, he lowers himself on his haunches. He shakes his shaggy hair back, combing his fingers through them to help it along. As he settles, he twirls his wand deftly between his fingers. "Pretty sure those Muggleborns you murdered begged the exact same way—what happened to them, James? Remind me."

A crunch of gravel—slow, almost menacing. Sirius watches on, tilting his head, his smile friendly, almost kind. It's a face one wears when watching over something they're fond of, something that entertains them. In front of him is their man, trying to crawl back, sweat pouring down his temples, eyes wide and teeth gritted. Behind Sirius, a shadow looms and comes closer, like a phantom. James' silhouette somehow looks confronting against the lights around him, covering him in shadow. With every shift, his glasses glint like the eyes of a creature.

"Murdered. Brutally."

"Murdered. Brutally," Sirius repeats with a sympathetic hiss, a pitiful tut. "Fair trade, no? Honestly, you're getting off easy."

"P-please… I was under orders. If I didn't do it, I'd be killed—my family—"

Sirius' smile widens a little, and his brow quirks. He turns to James.

"He's begging," he drawls amusedly. "Tugs at the heartstrings, doesn't it?"

James scowls and spits on the floor. Sirius laughs heartily at that.

"Tell you what, mate," he says, returning to their man. "If you sing for us we'll let you go."

A pause. Disbelief. Incredulity.

Sirius doesn't miss a beat, doesn't drop his friendly expression despite the stricken look directed at him.

"S-sing…?"

"Mhm." Sirius shifts, leaning back and sitting on the floor with a sharp sigh. "Make it good, though; James here is posh as fuck—like, his parents take him to the opera posh. If you want to impress him, you better hit the right notes."

Another pause. And then…

It fills the alleyway like tendrils of mist creeping in. At first, it's faint—hesitant, the embarrassment so palpable that anyone who hears it will inevitably cringe. Sirius almost does. The smile freezes on his face before the corners falter almost comedically. The space between his eyes furrows while his eyes do a noticeable wince. There's not even a chance to figure out what the bastard is singing. Still, that doesn't seem to stop him. Their man continues to sing with a fragile sort of determination on his pathetic face. Sirius sees this—sees how the pitiful thing futilely clings on to hope, trusting the bait of mercy Sirius dangled in front of him.

It's… hilariously wretched.

Sirius can't help but snort and snigger in amusement.

"Ahhh, those dulcet tones… what do you think?" Sirius manages to gasp out in between chortles. He tips his head and turns to James, who remains stoic in the face of humiliation. "I think it's pretty alright."

"No."

Splatter .

"Fuck. Oi. Watch the shirt!"

Not a flash of light. Not even the sound. A voice peaks to a panicked pitch as split-second realisation sets in. The next second, the whistle of a curse slicing through the air.

The singing distorts to gurgling. Airways try to clear as it floods. Gravel crunches and crushes and grinds under the weight of desperate survival—of trying to live and fight. The silhouette of a body seizing, twitching, grappling—doing everything it can, even in delirium. The fight goes on for about a minute or two. Anticipation fills the seconds ticking by, the wait for the inevitable tense. And then it stops. In an instant. A marionette free of its strings.

"Fuck's sake, Potter… fucking lucky we've got magic."

Sirius continues to grumble, siphoning the blood off his shirt. In the meantime, James snorts, walking around Sirius to give the body lying stock still a perfunctory kick. The body sways with the force but stops almost immediately. A slack and shocked expression, eyes wide and mouth ajar. Something blooms behind him—thick, syrupy. It spreads and stains, colouring the ground below with something not easily washed off.

James snorts. "I'll be ripping it off you later so what's the problem?"

He holds out his hand for Sirius to take.

"Do that and I'll rip something of yours off," Sirius retorts goodnaturedly as he takes James' hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

"Promise?"

Sirius' answer is to grab James' lapels and capture his lips. Excitement fuels this kiss and something more—dark, thick, corrosive. It fills them up, weighs down their breaths until there's nothing to do but chase, clamour after it as their lungs seize from the poison filling within. James reaches up to grip and tug fistfuls of Sirius' hair, pulling a grunt from him. He pulls the lapels closer, the fine fabric making the faintest creak against his tightly clenched fingers as he contemplates literally ripping it off here.

But no.

James pushes away. In the dark of the alley, their breaths are shallow. There's a glare as they look at each other. Darkness stretches their pupils wide, hazel and grey now just thin rings in a sea of white. Between the two, tension crackles—violent but also delightful, provocative. But neither of them do anything. In the end, James fixes himself, ruffles his hair until it's the right kind of messy. With an expectant look at Sirius, he turns his back and saunters off. Sirius stares after him before huffing a laugh. Shaking his head, he doesn't bother with looking presentable. Instead, he digs into his pocket.

By the corpse's feet are halves of a broken wand, tossed away carelessly.

thinking about that one post up here that said jegulus is just walmart prongsfoot and that we’re missing out by not exploring morally grey dark vigilantism justice prongsfoot/jilypad during the war…. making out with whoever said this when i find them. this fandom be so obsessed with evil bigoted death eaters but dont know when a REAL dark au concept hit them

[elshe]

I’m going to hop on the “what if Hiccstrid had Zephyr during rtte” bandwagon, and shamelessly contribute to what has caused my devastating brainrot these past few weeks, cause it’s just. so. good.

Can you imagine all the reactions and conflicts?!??

Not to mention the SCANDAL jk😩

my bebe boy Snotlout takes any opportunity to tease Hiccup about it, because, really, it is sooo funny.

might write a whole fic on it fr fr

That Hiccup angst is just— mmm… *chefs kiss* 🤌🏻

[virsancte]

as the clock strikes twelve 👀

look at how gorgeous angel looks with this hair!!!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH RAHH when i grabbed them into cas i legit teared up over how pretty they are. they're everything to me;-;

[chasedeys]

https://www.tumblr.com/chasedeys/76838058816408780

Sweet boy isn’t use to Joe even SLIGHTLY raise his voice or having a tone with him lmao so much that he vividly recalled the one time he did “ scream”😭💀

😭 joe probably didn't scream like idk it was probably like when he was yelling loud about that bug in his mouth but more serious idk. but ja'marr, babyyyy ja'marr who was like 19?? a sophomore!! who was still learning how to navigate life while being in such a spotlight!! probably had some reservations on how he interacts with joe the first few years of being together yk?? i've never actually watched their lsu games lmao just compilations of their highlights but the screenshots of joe's faceee during the ole miss game and the recounts of him being weirdly pissy that game is so 😭😭 like my guy what goes onnnn ja'marr probably had his hackles up in response to joe's hackles being up. ergo saying joe 'screamed'.

hearing ja'marr's recount on how joe touched him (🥰) and told him he won't throw him the ball at all (😔) and then looking down dejected as hell saying 'okay' and taking it off like JOE IS A BULLY??????? /joking ofc but wowww ja'marr was just COLD 😭 and joe told him to suck it up basically or he won't be playing 😭😭 god what the hell is wrong with these two. joe being his star qb and senior etc ja'marr couldn't even defend himself!! his little face when he said 'i was like okay'?? cuteeeeeee had a brief urge to fight joe burrow for an event years ago that was probably not as dramatic as ja'marr made it seem lmao.

edit: i wanted to add a bit more sorry :")) when he said 'it was cool' quietly with that face!! cute as helllll etc sorry extremely biased here but anyways was it like....not cool at first? like did he pout for ages about it and fridge joe out from the entire thing that joe had to quickly change up and grovel slightly or he was going to deal with an icy ja'marr throughout what's left of their schedule 😭 just extremely cute to think about hehe

[abyssal-ilk]

replaying dai and i've been thinking a lot about cullen and vivienne this time around. im not usually a cullen guy, either. huh.

[robo-dino-puppy]

there is a LOT of stuff out of bounds in the meridian area of the map! i wanted to compare some spots that exist in both games, but it's kinda long so there are timestamps if you want to skip around - the estate near the end is the most interesting imo :)

the map was clearly copy/pasted but there are updated and missing textures (and ones that weren't updated that say they need to be haha) - was this the start of the rumored hzd remaster? or are the assets just ones that happen to exist in both games and were carried over because we get close to them in the "legal" area of the spire? and it's a small itty bitty thing that will be in a future video, but there's something i came across that definitely doesn't exist anywhere in hfw's map that i remember... (spoiler: it's banuk T_T)

(why are all the handholds missing texture??? that's what i really want to know lol)