#i was so in awe of the absolute size of this unit i had to buy it for my taco prep

[pierogi-png]

THIS BIG AS FUCK ONION I JUST BOUGHT AT THE EMART

[scaryscarecrows]

Tim is absolutely concerned that a Jokerized Batman is roaming Gotham. He’s a little more concerned that a literal army is invading Gotham. But right now, he’s just. Awkwardly sitting here.

Barbara’s alive, he keeps telling himself. Babs is okay. It’s a great feeling. Not that it’s helping him at all. He’s still stuck here, with nothing to do besides fiddle, for the thousandth time, with his communication unit and exchange steadily more commiserating glances with Harley Quinn.

“Hey, birdie. Wanna play pat-a-cake?” She grins at him, broken, and starts clapping slowly, sometimes putting her hands flat against the glass where he’s supposed to mimic her. “Aw, c’mon, Robin! We’re stuck ‘ere ‘til Bats comes to let us out.”

“He’s not letting you out,” he reminds her. She shrugs.

“Yeah…probably not. Oh, well…I could get used to Mistah J with bigger shoulders.”

Tim shudders. He doesn’t want this conversation. He’ll fix this. Bruce might have to spend some time-a lot of time-locked away, but he’ll fix this. He’s not really showing symptoms, there’s still time, he can—

BAM!

Oh no.

“Secure the area,” someone growls. “Get those doors locked down, fix the voice recognition lock. I don’t want him getting back in here if he gets loose.”

Well. Shit.

“Yessir.”

Tim’s fingers tighten around the little canister in his hand. The Arkham Knight was here before, God knows why, and he…took pity, is Tim’s best guess, tossed him a thing of mace. Held him at gunpoint the whole time, but still. Him-or his men, anyway, Tim hasn’t heard the man himself-being back here can only be bad.

But he’s not going down without a fight.

“Aww, miss me?” Harley calls, leaning against the glass. A second later, one of the soldiers enters the room. “Didn’t yer mama ever tell ya to take yer hat off to a lady?”

He ignores her in favor of nudging Henry’s bloody corpse and calling, “Hey, boss, you want me to move these outta the middle of the floor?”

Presumably the Knight is here, then. But he doesn’t answer.

“He says yeah!” somebody shouts from the elevator.

Okay?

This isn’t weird, not to the guy, because he leans down, grabs Henry’s wrists with a grimace, and starts pulling.

“Hey, Robin,” he says. “You, uh, you need food or anything? You’re not gonna die of dehydration in there, are you?”

No. These cells have the sad ‘healthy’ energy bars Bruce hands over if anyone dares to say, ‘hey, B, I’m hungry, how about Goth-King?’ They also have water bottles.

“You could let me out,” he says flatly. The guy stops mid-drag and fixes him with an exasperated expression.

“How stupid do you think I am.”

“Most thugs in this city are pretty damn dumb.”

“You know what, that’s fair.”

He doesn’t even try to move Albert King. He looks at him, sure, but then he calls over, “Trent! Come move this guy!”

“Chihuahua,” a voice rumbles in amusement. The other man holds up a middle finger.

“You’re just a freak. I’m not moving him when I can make you do it, so c’mere.”

Another man, this one around Albert’s size, enters. He laughs at the first one before leaning down, grabbing the ankles, and pulling the big man’s remains off towards the side.

Others file in, now. A man with some kind of computer and an antennae strapped to his back, a medic, a—

Holy shit.

Tim blinks, hoping he’s having a moment of…of…tired. Stress. Something. He’s not. Jason Todd is still standing not ten feet away. He’s older, obviously, but even without the brand on his face, he’s still recognizable.

It makes sense, in a horrible sort of way. They never found him, not even a…a likely match. The only thing they had was that tape, and Robin’s burned, bloody cape. Sure, Tim wouldn’t have thought he could do something like this–Jason was reckless and impulsive, this seems way too calculated–but he has the motive, and…well…

Oh my God.

Jason’s (??????) holding an ice pack to his throat, and the medic’s hissing at him like an angry goose.

“—talk, I said, keep your mouth shut, I said! You pay me to know this shit! That is my job! You are making it very hard for me to do my job, and so help me, if you make so much as a peep before I clear you—”

They’re just…completely ignoring him. He guesses it’s better than killing him, but. What do they want? What is going on around here?

Jason starts coughing and an older man thumps Medic between the shoulders.

“Good going. You broke him.” Then a gentler, “Maybe siddown, sir. You don’t look so good.”

No. No, he doesn’t. Ice pack aside, scars aside, he’s swaying on his feet and he looks green. He doesn’t fight, either, when the older man guides him to the examination table and gives him a nudge to make him sit down.

“There we go…you good? You’re not gonna pass out or anything?”

Jason shakes his head and adjusts the pack against his throat before flopping onto his back and rasping, “Gimme a minute.”

“No talking!” Medic shouts from across the room. He is ignored.

“Drouot.” First Man-okay, so he has a name now-is there in seconds. “Bring Robin up to speed, I can’t—”

“You got it, boss.”

Tim is so confused. They don’t seem to be here to hurt him, but they’ve been trying to kill Bruce all night, and Jason isn’t as dead as they thought and—

Drouot comes over to stand in front of the glass. He makes no move to let Tim out, but he does seem to be doing his best to look non-threatening. Well. As non-threatening as possible, being armed to the teeth and all.

“You doing okay in there?”

“Spare me the good cop routine.”

“You try to be nice…fine.” He straightens up and clasps his hands behind his back. “Our understanding is that Batman’s ability to fight the effects of the TITAN disease is shaky at best, and we have secured him to prevent him from harming others. Namely us.” He gives Tim a chilly smile and Tim wonders, then, how much these guys know. “Scarecrow’s Cloudburst was probably the catalyst—” What. “—but in hindsight, he’s been, uh. Not okay for most of the night—”

He’s cut off by Harley pounding her fists on the glass and screaming, “He’s takin’ afta my puddin’, and he’s gonna be perfect! You leave him alone, ya big meanie!”

Everybody cringes, and the big guy, Trent, twists around and steps over to her cell.

“Zip it, clown.”

Harley peers around him and lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Baby boy!” Huh-oh. This can’t be good. “Where have you been?”

Jason lifts a hand to flip her off before letting it dangle off the table. Trent smacks his palm against the glass and growls, “I said, zip it.”

“Make me.”

He looks tempted. Instead, he looks down at the keypad, pushes a button, and the soundproof panes slide into place. Harley isn’t happy about this. Drouot rubs his temples and mutters, “Too many freaks in this town…should’ve just blown it up from the sea and picked through the rubble for the bastard’s remains…anyways. I don’t like this situation any more than you do—”

“You took Gotham hostage!”

Drouot’s eye twitches. Behind him, the computer flashes red as somebody types on the keyboard. Harley’s blurry shape continues pounding on the glass. A Riddler trophy glows sickly green in the vents. (That had been wild-a bunch of robots had just…come in, placed the trophies, and left. Except for a few of them that went deeper into the studio and never came back.)

“I was going to let you out to try and stop Scarecrow.”

“He’s your boss.”

There’s a burst of offended chatter. Drouot looks like he wants to bang his head against the nearest wall.

“He’s a client, and that contract has been terminated at our discretion due to. Ah. Creative differences.” There’s laughter behind him. “And also a critical lack of communication, and unnecessary endangerment.” That’s their problem. It’s not like Scarecrow’s ever made an effort to hide his motivations. Well. Unless he has a bigger, more horrible plan to unveil. “And he creeps me out, so I don’t feel too bad.”

Does Tim recognize that as an attempt to convince him that they’re friendly? Yeah. Does he care? Only a little.

“That’s sort of his thing.”

“Really. I had no idea.” He looks at the keypad. “Are you going to leap at me and try to bash my head against the floor if I let you out?”

Honestly, probably not. He could get this one. He could feasibly take one more before the others start shooting, but if they’ve locked down the front door, who knows what else they’ve done. The odds of him getting out of here alive after mounting an attack are slim at best. For now, playing along is his best option.

“No.”

“Want me to open the cell, sir?”

Jason’s sitting up again, slumped forward with his free hand steadying himself against the side of the table. For a minute, Tim thinks he’ll say no-expects him to, even-but he nods, just once, and rasps, “He tries anything, put a bullet through his head.”

Ouch.

“Yessir.”

Drouot taps at the keypad until the door opens and steps back. The computer is no longer flashing red, which is disturbing, given the circumstances. But it’ll alert Barbara, if she hasn’t been already. Who knows what she’ll be able to do, with Bruce…somewhere…, but he’ll take it.

Jason looks at him and Tim…Tim doesn’t know what to say, if anything. How, exactly, do you make amends for…for…everything, basically. All of it. He hadn’t really expected, or wanted, to be Robin. He’d wanted Batman to stop half-murdering people, to help find Robin.

Something tells him that’s not going to go over well with Jason, or his little bodyguards. Uh. Big bodyguards. Minions.

“Thank you,” he finally forces out. Jason shrugs.

“I don’t like this any more than you do.”

That’s not surprising. This is one of the top five most awkward moments of Tim’s life, right after telling Bruce Wayne, ‘you’re Batman’ and having a horrible stare-off for two whole minutes.

“We’re sure he’s not, like, Joker Junior or anything, right?” Drouot says from behind him. Oh, that is it—

“Yeah. I mean, I’m all for bludgeoning him over the head and taking a blood saaaaample—”

“Stop. Talking.”

“—but I think Batman did that already, because his file’s clean.”

Of course Jason’s seen his file. Tim doesn’t think he likes this tidbit of knowledge.

“I’m standing right here.”

“That’s good.” He just said-! “What now, boss?”

Jason eyes Harley’s cell and swallows a few times before saying, “Sweep the whole building. You see any jack-in-the-boxes, shoot them from a distance, they’re explosive. Leave Riddler’s bullshit alone.”

“Yessir. You, uh, you coming with?”

“No. Robin and I are going to have a talk--no. I do not need a babysitter. Get going.”

They go, but none of them look too pleased. When the doors are shut, he stands up and makes his way to the computers to bring up the cameras. Tim wonders what to do.

“I thought about killing you, you know.” Where’s his staff. Bruce took it from him earlier and he would like it back. “Thought maybe I’d send your corpse back to B in a bird cage.”

Well. This is awkward.

“I’m…sorry?”

Jason snorts.

“Been hearing that a lot tonight.” He frowns and taps the intercom button. “There’s a back entrance behind the haunted house set. Seal it off.” Somebody throws a salute at the camera. Jason stumbles back onto the examination table and drops the half-thawed ice pack down next to him. “I’m not telling you where we left him,” he continues. “He’s out of control. He won’t stop laughing.”

Brr. Tim’s grateful, a little, that he’s been spared that sight. Bruce laughs, it’s not that. But his laugh is…warm. Deep and easy to miss if you’re not listening. Something tells him that’s not what was happening.

“What are you doing?”

“You didn’t really think I went into this without having a ‘ruin Scarecrow’s life’ plan.”

“I thought you were friends now.”

“You thought wrong.”

Maybe.

Tim considers trying to knock Jason out; there’s sedatives in that fridge, fast-acting ones. But he doesn’t know where Bruce is, Scarecrow is at large, and he’s not sure about, like allergies. The last thing he wants is to accidentally kill Jason for real this time.

Or for those sedatives to take a little too long, thus giving Jason the opportunity to kill Tim. That’s not good, either.

“Don’t get any ideas, Drake.” Damn. “You’re out of that cell because this is an all-hands-on-deck situation. Try anything, and I will put you down.” The or my men will is very much implied. “Scarecrow has Gordon.”

Somebody always has Gordon. Tim likes the man, but...but...honestly, over the years, he’s been kidnapped more than all three Robins combined.

His face must say as much, because Jason shrugs and says, “I know. Shocker, right? We know where he is, we’re going to handle it. But as much as it pains me to admit it, you can make yourself useful.”

[neverchecking]

Day 1: Macro- With Fierce Deity

Kicking it off hot~ This one was so fun to write and I'm rather happy with how it turned out!

Smut so Minors Do Not Interact. If I find out a minor has interacted with my blog, I will block you.. Thank you!

Smut CW: Size difference, Fierce being a BIG BOY, there is penetration, but I tried to keep it pretty gender neutral! Let me know if I missed anything or accidently gendered it and I'll fix it!

This is Day one of My Kinktober so be sure to come back and check out the other days! Friendly Reminder that all of my smut is tagged 'Cindersins' including this, but this will also be tagged as 'Cinder's happy halloween' along with the run of the mill smut tags.

Kinktober Masterlist <<< >>> Day 2

“There you go.” His voice rumbled in his chest, low and deep, rolling in dark purrs along your back. 

If there was one thing everyone knew about the deity behind you, it was that he, simply put, was big. An absolute unit of a being. Bringer of wars and harbinger of conflict. More blood than you could fathom had stained his fingers, drowning his soul until it had flickered from the once hopeful light to a fiery inferno of rage and hatred. He had sat upon a throne of bones and skulls, torn from the very enemies he laid to rest. 

Until he had met you.

You were a direct contrast to him. Soft and naive. A being so untainted by the remains of life and the cruel corners of it, you had no choice but to shine. To push back any shadows daring to marr your own soul. To remain as untouchable as you were untouched. To remain cleansed and pure. As if plucked right from the monastery's doorstep. An unwept tear shimmering in the moonlight. 

His precious jewel designed just for him. 

You had awed over every little thing he was capable of. Every tale of gore and horror spun about his capabilities had others regarding him much in the same way he did himself. Like a monster capable of snapping at any given point. But you? You never held any animosity or ill will towards him. No, you remained as open and caring as you always had. Asking in the sweetly unimpeachable tone for him to lean down, only for you to bestow upon him a crown of chain linked daisies and other flowers. Pleading with him to reach a fruit too high for your delicate hands to even brush and thanking him with a press of your lips to his cheeks. Even when crossing bogs and swamps, while you had been hesitant at first, you now happily climbed onto his shoulder, perched there like a little bird while he effortlessly carried you across. 

If you allowed him the privilege he’d be your chariot for as long as you desired. To feel the heat of your skin, with blood coursing through your veins, was something so startlingly beautiful to him. It was a complete contrast to the flash of heat he’d get when slashing through an enemy and their own blood would slick against his cheeks and jaw. Every part of you that made you alive was something he held near and dear. Counting your breaths while you slept and nearly panicking when you missed one or it was delayed by a mere half a second, hearing the pounding of your heart while you went on about what type of butterfly you saw that day or how many deer crossed the paths behind you. Even just the patter of your footsteps beside his, three of yours for every one of his, was such a reliable beat to him. 

Even the pulsing of your walls as you clung to him, whimpering out in either pain or overwhelmed lust as you continued letting your hips fall. He had expressed his worry for you, that he would be too big for someone of your stature, but you had brushed him off, calling him ‘Silly’ for even implying such a thing. He didn’t see the connection, as it wasn’t an attempt at being humorous, but allowed you to think that way. 

You had explained that it was all about muscle work. About relaxing them and stretching them, making them used to the intrusion before it happened. It just so happened that he had the fingers necessary to do it. You had taken three, which had pumped in and out of your twitchy little hole with great difficulty at first, before they were soon sliding in and out easily. Then you had become impatient, pushing his hand out and instead moving to straddle him. His cock bounced against your ass as you gently cupped his cheek. With your free hand you moved the head of his cock to prod against you, locking his lips with your own as you moved to sit down. It was a struggle with the same muscles that were so accommodating before now clenching, refusing him entry as you tried so desperately to force them to relax. When that didn’t work, he let the first praises slip past his tongue, which was so suddenly weak willed when pitted against your fiery determination.  

To his surprise it had worked. Inch by inch disappeared into you before you were sitting on his lap, panting in heavy breaths as you leaned into him. He rubbed your back with a heavy hand. 

“Guess you were right. It did fit.” 

[brockgold]

The Golden Key: Unlocking Evan’s Destiny Part 1

The Invitation and Training A Collaboration between @brockgold and @stefan-gold80

The day of the open training arrived, a golden opportunity to bring new talent into the team and showcase the brilliance of the Golden Army. The field was immaculate, the air buzzing with energy, and Stefan Gold (#80, Defender) and I were ready. Together, we set the stage for what would be an unforgettable experience.

"All set, Stefan?" I asked as we finalized the drills. From agility courses to precision-passing exercises, the session was designed to challenge and inspire. Around us, PDU units efficiently prepared the training space, their sleek black rubber uniforms glinting under the sun. The golden bros were already in motion, leading by example as they warmed up and demonstrated perfect technique. Stefan nodded, adjusting his gleaming golden kit. "Let’s show them what the Golden Army is all about, Brock."

As locals began to arrive, curiosity lit up their faces. They had heard whispers about the discipline, coordination, and undeniable allure of the Golden Army, but now they were about to experience it firsthand. Guys of all shapes, sizes, and skill levels gathered, their interest growing as they watched us perform synchronized drills, our golden kits shining like beacons.

Stefan and I kicked things off with an introduction, outlining the purpose of the session. “Today, you’ll train like we train. You’ll push your limits and see what it takes to be part of something extraordinary,” I said, my voice steady with conviction.

The drills began, and Stefan and I took turns leading groups, pushing them to improve with each repetition. Some struggled at first, but others started to catch on, fueled by the energy and camaraderie on display. Among them, one individual stood out—Evan Marks.

Evan wasn’t the fastest or the strongest, but there was something about him. His determination was palpable as he sprinted through the agility course, his focus unwavering as he executed precise passes during the drills. He absorbed every piece of advice Stefan and I offered, adjusting his movements and improving with each round.

Between guiding the groups, Stefan leaned over to me and said, “That guy—Evan. He’s got the spark. You see it too, right?” I nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s keep an eye on him.”

As the session continued, the golden bros joined in, demonstrating the standard of excellence we expected. They worked seamlessly with the trainees, encouraging them and showing what true teamwork looked like. Even the PDU units contributed by maintaining order and ensuring the session flowed perfectly.

Finally, we gathered everyone together. Stefan and I exchanged a look, and I stepped forward. “Evan Marks, step up.”

Evan’s eyes widened as he approached, sweat dripping from his brow but his posture firm. “Yes, sir?”

“You’ve shown something special today,” Stefan said, his voice filled with approval. “Dedication. Focus. Potential. Qualities we look for in the Golden Army.”

I held up a gleaming golden kit, the sunlight catching on its mirror-like surface. “This is for you, Evan. Your journey begins now.”

Evan accepted the kit, his hands trembling slightly as he looked at it in awe. Around us, the other trainees clapped, their admiration evident. Stefan and I exchanged a satisfied nod—this was what the Golden Army was all about: recognizing potential and transforming it into greatness. As Evan held the golden kit against his chest, I knew this was only the beginning. His story, like so many others, would unfold under the bright, shining light of gold. And Stefan and I were ready to guide him every step of the way.

Do you have what it takes to join the ranks of greatness? The path isn’t easy, but the reward is undeniable—discipline, unity, and the brilliance of gold. Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001

Part 2 here https://www.tumblr.com/stefan-gold80/773035344183558144/the-golden-key-evans-destiny-unlocked-part-2?source=share

[adhdo5]

Okay ykw I’m making a post. Very sorry about this because a) the adhdo5 blog is where I sit on the porch and shoot the shit and you shouldn’t come to me for news and b) I am very tired right now and can’t think very well so you’ll have to bear with me. I am NOT editing this shit so if it has typos or I sound incoherent very sorry again maybe you can like decipher it with your comrades or w/e

Long post; tl;dr at bottom

So I’ve seen posts going around about the Ohio train derailment. This is good and fine in itself. This is a serious issue that should be discussed and absolutely an environmental disaster, BUT there r some serious framing issues going on and while there’s other posts that discuss this better than I can or am interested in doing, I’d like to address one specific thing as kind of a microcosm/example

So there’s a version of the post going around where a commenter links some articles and pulls relevant quotes from them. Most seriously they pull this quote

While vinyl chloride itself is a carcinogen, the burning of the chemical, which releases hydrogen chloride and phosgene, can be immediately lethal. Phosgene, a highly toxic, colorless gas with a strong odor, was notoriously used as a weapon during World War I. 

Now, that’s a scary fucking quote. That shit is frightening and it is a true assessment of the risk of vinyl chloride leaks. Put it in context of the earlier post, which is going on about a supposed media blackout and claims of mass death of pets etc., and claims that police blew up the tanks, and it evokes a truly terrifying image of these tanks being detonated carelessly and possibly leading to deaths.

But try on for size the literal first sentence of this article: (emphasis added)

The toxins that burned in the wreckage of the train derailment in Ohio had the potential to be deadly if officials did not order evacuations in the region, experts told ABC News.

And from an article from CNN: (emphasis added)

The wreckage burned for days, threatening a widespread, deadly explosion before crews Monday managed controlled detonations [...]

Workers used small charges to blow a tiny hole in five rail cars carrying vinyl chloride. The hazardous substance spilled into a trench, where it was burned away. [...]

Analysts have been conducting air monitoring and sampling over the last 24 hours in the East Palestine area, James Justice, a representative of the United States Environmental Protection Agency said Wednesday. "All of the readings we've been recording in the community have been at normal concentrations, normal backgrounds, which you find in almost any community," he said, and that's "what led to the fire chief lifting the evacuations today."

And a few paragraphs down in the very article the first quote is from:

A release from a vinyl chloride tank car creates a dangerous situation. The chemical, which is a gas at ambient temperature, is shipped in pressurized tank cars. “If you have a release, it vaporizes and it’s extremely flammable,” Kreuz says.

This is a completely different picture. Don’t get me wrong -- shit is still awful. It’s a dangerous situation that DID kill some beasts this IS a bad thing this IS a policy failure that it happened

But the tanks were detonated by professionals so that the fumes would be concentrated in one area that they could give evac orders for, and those evac orders have since been lifted because said controlled burn went off as planned. If they’d let it escape or explode by itself, the phosphene etc would likely still have been released, but in a way that would be way harder to Give Evac Orders For

Officials etc can still suck and be bad. It’s not like this is over or a solved issue. But this was not the cops. This was the EPA. This was people whose job is to deal with environmental catastrophes (which AGAIN this WAS). There are people who are trying to get third party tests done! Fair enough! But this is NOT something that people are left completely alone with 

So what IS an issue here specifically? Where do we point scrutiny?

This is my biggest issue with that first quote pull; the text block immediately after it is possibly the most widely relevant thing in the article. Here’s a slightly longer quote: (emphasis added)

While vinyl chloride itself is a carcinogen, the burning of the chemical, which releases hydrogen chloride and phosgene, can be immediately lethal. Phosgene, a highly toxic, colorless gas with a strong odor, was notoriously used as a weapon during World War I.

The accident raises questions about safe rail transportation of vinyl chloride, a chemical that is predominantly converted to polyvinyl chloride on the site where it is produced. It also shines a light on general rail safety—the accident was the third freight train derailment in Ohio since last October.

I mean, in hindsight it’s clear -- this was a rail accident. But losing oneself in panic about the chemical spill itself being not dealt with or dealt with worse can cause one to lose focus. I know I certainly did until I looked .2mm further into the situation and found that paragraph, and then the focus Did become clear: remember the rail strikes? Hey, how are those going?

It’s extremely easy to get lost in panic and conspiracy-adjacent thought, especially because officials are extremely frequently bad at their jobs, because cops DO do stupid shit like this, because these are extant problems. But it’s also easy to get paralyzed by a nebulous fear of bad actors in the government and lose sight of the immediate issue that these chemical spills happen in general, that they happen because of something wrong with our rail system, etc.

This probably isn’t the One Secret Key to this, either, and there’s probably uglier nuances to the response, but it’s important to keep an eye out for this propensity in ourselves for panic, for catastrophizing, and to think about what and whom that benefits, to get a clearer view to see how one can genuinely help and if this is a thing to which you can afford to lend your concern, what you can do about it yourself. Be careful. Be conscientious about what you allow to take space in your brain and how much good it does you and the world really. Watch out for these kinds of nasty rhetorical traps, these kinds of framing subtleties that can vastly color how you see a situation

Now I am NOT trying to say that OP or commenter did that on purpose or out of malice. I think it’s very likely that they themselves panicked to some degree, quoted and reported on what caught their eye, etc.. I’m ALSO absolutely not saying that they or people who saw these quotes are stupid or gullible. I am Thirdly not trying to say at all I’m an authority on this part of the situation. My intent with this and what I hope anyone who read this far takes away from this is that this was, intentionally or more likely not, there’s been a rhetorical issue in how people are discussing this situation, and it’s one that can vastly increase distress and decrease efficacy of diagnosing the problem for people who ARE involved

Anyway

TL;DR (because god do I talk so much it’s the ADHD)

train carrying some very toxic shit derailed in Ohio

posts going around rn where OP talks about the tanks being exploded in a way that misleads people about the operation

some additions feature a commenter pulling a very frightening quote about those fumes

the truth is that it was a controlled burn done by professionals so the toxic shit wouldn’t catch fire and release horrible fumes in random residential areas 

it was under evac order

it was successful and the evac order was since lifted 

this is really bad but catastrophizing helps no one

REHAUL THE US RAIL SYSTEM NOW

support rail workers and if you have some dollars to spare maybe go see if anyone affected by the evacuations has a Ko-fi

[sevenstevearmy]

It's definitely some of both. I know they teach PEMDAS more than people remember it for example. But I also know that the high school I went to was in a different district than where I went to previous grades and the difference in curriculum was massive. Our high school got a lot of kids from different districts bc of all the programs it had and there were some things that were the same (mostly propaganda) but a lot of it was different, and everyone who was originally in that district had a vastly different understanding of most topics if their previous grades had a addressed them at all. Part of it was I lived in a rich white people town with lots of funding so the teachers were able to care and take their time but the high school I went to was inner city with a budget of two paperclips and a broken pencil and the teachers wanted to do more but it was significantly harder for them. Up until high school I was also in smaller class sizes and the teachers frequently went off curriculum and a lot more different classes were offered than to the kids just one district over. And even then both of those districts are very left leaning but a lot of the stuff people say I should have learned in school I absolutely didn't.

In college I made friends from all over the country and every single person had a different experience with what curriculum was taught in school and even within the same districts I know they change things every so often bc my oldest sibling is 9 years older than me and my youngest is two years younger and there's three of us in between there. And I can guarantee anyone in accelerated or deccelerated programs are learning different things from each other too. I was in special advanced programs for my whole schooling career and my younger brother was in several remedial classes. If they think you're incapable of learning they don't teach you shit and if they think you're smart they think you already know a ton of stuff and don't teach you, at least in my experience. Of course we were both undiagnosed for adhd and autism at the time so... yk.

I thought I wrote something in this post about it but I can't find it so I'll loop back around to the example you gave: American colonialism.

We had a small I think three day unit I remember bc one of the people on my group put on a super offensive racist accent and refused to pronounce the names of peoples correctly. We didn't talk about companies, but we did talk about why it was actually so cool that we colonized Hawaii and were horrible and awful but no don't worry bc now it's a state and that totally makes up for it (sarcasm). We were not taught about anywhere becoming independent from the US. I didn't know that about the Philippines, actually.

And to be clear I am super trustful of my memory of history classes bc while I struggle to remember specific dates, I absorb the stories like nobody's business and for a long time history was one of my special interests. I can pretty much tell you if something specific was taught in any of the classes I took across all subjects.

However I do agree that there is a lot of people just not caring bc there were times I would go to class and one period later I would bring something up from that class and some people would have no clue what I was talking about despite the fact that they were literally two seats away from me. (I have a vivid example of this as well and I remember bc she was wearing a striped shirt. The way my memory functions is so bizarre.)

The amount of times I’ve heard someone ask “Why don’t we learn about this in school” about something I learned in school. It just goes to show either how different everyone’s school experiences are or how much we don’t pay attention in school. Possibly both.

[hi-i-love-u-bitch]

Feral AU

A Rottmnt AU where everything is the same except the turtle boys turn out a little more animalistic then usual because Draxum wanted warriors not children. They’re a bit more reminiscent of the turtle species they once were; adding in sharper teeth and claws, and a much more limited range of speech.

Like Splinter is still able to save them and raise them in the sewers and they’re still much more intelligent than an average turtle but they heavily rely more on instinct. Splinter tried teaching them to talk and they can a little but their main form of communication is a series of chirps, clicks, and growls. Which is fine, the most important part is that they UNDERSTAND and are aware of what Splinter is saying. He had a better time teaching them sign language as they seem to better excel in things involving physical movement and motor skills.

SPEAKING OF WHICH!! They are able to learn and pick up Ninjutsu much faster than average and were able to access their Ninpo at an early age. It should be noted that Splinter did NOT teach them Ninjutsu as a means to train them in the ways of the Hamoto clan life mission but as a way to expel all the restless energy those boys had. Draxum had designed them to be warriors so they can’t be idle for too long or they’ll get bored and wreck the den. Splinter needed something physical enough to tire them out as well as something to focus on instead of just mindless destruction.

They are proficient in BOTH hand to hand combat and combat with their weapons.

The boys themselves behave a lot more animalistic, though they still keep some of their distinct personalities:

Raphael

He is an ABSOLUTE UNIT of a boy! You thought he was big before but now he’s an absolute MONSTER of a guy reaching at about 9ft by the time he’s 16yrs! And he’s still growing!

Communicates mainly in growls and deep rumbling churrs, sounds like a fucking motor enginee.

Obviously since he’s the biggest he is the self appointed guardian of the family and he takes his job VERY seriously! Super over protective! Nobody will ever hurt his family on his watch!

He is still very sweet though and a total cuddle bug! Basically the mind set of those HUGE dogs that think they’re a lap dog. Kind of sort of behaves like one as well not gunna lie. His favorite place to nap is atop Splinter’s lap but poor boy is too big so only his head can rest comfortably. Which is fine, Papa still coos and awes at him anyways, always making sure to give him some nice scratchies under his chin.

The best way to know what he’s feeling is to look at his tail, a large scaley, spiky thing that wags when he’s happy!

Still has his stuffed animal collection and enjoys being surrounded by warm soft things. He’s still a little rough when playing with his toys so most often than not they have to be patched up or fixed. He doesn't have as delicate a touch as Mikey does to be able to sew his own things back together so he usually asks Splinter to do it. He has been trying to learn knitting though, it’s a bit slow going due to his massive hands trying to hold regular size knitting needles but he’s getting the hang of it.

Despite that he is very self aware of how big he is and always makes sure to be extra careful when roughhousing with his brothers, especially Donnie.

If any of his brothers get too rowdy and wander off where they’re not supposed to he’ll pick them up like a mama cat with her kittens by the lids of their shells.

He is not above biting people when in a fight, and trust me when I say you do NOT want to be anywhere near those chompers. But he also gives affectionate little nips when playing with others.

The back of his shell is THE best spot to lie atop of when sunbathing! All his brothers plus Splinter can nap atop his shell comfortably and he quite enjoys the comfortable weight they provide as he sleeps.

Not adverse to wearing clothes but then again not a lot can fit his enormous frame and when it does it gets torn up fairly quickly by how rough and clumsy he is. He absolutely loves to wear ribbons though and has an extensive collection of them he keeps in a shoe box. They’re a bit dirty as he’s found them all in the sewers but still quite colorful and pretty. He let’s Mikey and Splinter tie them around his wrists, tail, and neck in cute bows.

As an alligator snapping turtle he is mainly carnivorous but he’ll eat mostly anything really. His favorite being, ironically, fresh fruit especially watermelon.

Still absolutely HATES Miss. Cuddles!

Donatello

The second largest of the group though that’s mainly by height then by build, almost 7ft tall. Long and slender with a thin whip-like tail he can use similar to Splinter when fighting.

Second most protective next to Raph but definitely much more ruthless. If you are not part of his immediate family/clan he could care less of what happens to you.

Also not above biting people, especially his brothers. Though he definatlly has the weakest bite force when compared to the rest of his brothers it still hurts like a mother fucker.

A Lot more cat-like in nature compared to Raph. The key to Donnie's mood is in his body language, seemingly ever calculated and graceful, and in his eyes. All the turtles have slit-like pupils that can narrow and expand depending on their environment but Donnie's seem to function a lot more with his emotions as well.

He’s definitely still the smartest amongst his brothers, ever curious about the world around him and is the only one Splinter was able to teach how to read successfully. Though quite like Raph, Donnie prefers to communicate through clicks and chirps, though he’s more fluent in ASL then the rest of his siblings.

He’s still quite a talented engineer though his inventions tend to look quite rough as they are mainly scraped together using whatever junk he finds laying around. He isn’t all that bothered by how things look so long as they work how they’re supposed to.

Unfortunately, safety in science is not his first priority which has led to quite a lot of injury. Burns scars form electricity and harsh chemicals as well as cuts from shap tools and raw metal edges. Splinter had to practically force him into wearing at least gloves and goggles while he worked by threatening to take away his tool box.

He hissed and growled and snapped at Splinter for a full week and a half but eventually caved.

(Still just as stubborn and hardheaded)

His favorite thing to make is bombs because we all know that every iteration of Donnie ever is a pyromaniac.

Donnie does have a battle shell (made out of scrap metal and memory foam to cushion the inside) but he rarely ever wears it, unless absolutely necessary. Splinter has always been wary of Donnie and his most vulnerable area but aside from keeping his middle child constantly wrapped in bubble wrap the only other thing Splinter could think to do was teach Donnie how to defend himself as a regular human would.

Though they aren’t completely cold blooded Donnie HATES being cold and is usually wearing either large hoodies or sweaters. But he absolutely despises pants!

He still loves to dance! Especially to groovy 80s jams and electro pop!

He’ll eat about almost anything you put in front of him though he seems to enjoy more soft and mushy foods as well as any kind of seafood.

Still terrified of beach balls.

Leonardo

He’s a little more normal in height though that still leaves him at 6ft and growing. A stockier built around the shoulders with long sturdy legs that can deal pretty powerful blows.

His tail is pretty thin, almost boney in texture, flat too, and only about 10in long. It moves a lot like Raph’s tail does, wags when happy, tucked between when scared, and droopy when tired.

He talks the most out of all his brothers though it's quite choppy and sounds a lot more like warbling chirps then words. His “turtle speak” involves a lot more clicks and high pitched chirps, almost sounding quite bird like.

He and Raph are neck in neck when it comes to their skills in ninjutsu, though Raph excels more in defense while Leo is obviously more offensive.

He’s not much of a biter but he will claw a mother fucker’s eyes out if need be.

Though he is a lot more easily distracted and can be quite lazy at times, preferring much more to play than train. Splinter has to constantly find ways to keep Leo focused on the task at hand which usually involves turning things into puzzle games.

Donatello may be the smartest among them but Leo is a scarily good stradagest when given proper motivation.

Definitely still the most confident and charismatic. He’s always the leader of things whenever mischief is afoot. That usually involves reckless stunts Leo wants to try out after seeing it on tv or during one of their many Lou Jitsu marathons.

His ability to create portals does not help Splinter in his endeavor to stop Leo’s trouble making.

He and Donnie spend the most time in water, to the point where Splinter had to build a large shallow pool in the middle of the lair for the boys to soak in. It isn’t a bad thing if they’re dry but if they so happend to get sick it’s best to keep them in water to help them heal faster.

He has slept in the pool before and it scared the shit out of Splinter the first few times it happened because he thought Leo had drowned.

Is the most adversed to wearing clothes, it restricts him too much and he doesn’t like that. The only “clothing” he tolerates are the straps for his weapons and a blue cloth he uses as a bandana for his head. He’s okay with certain hats and neckerchiefs so long as they don’t get in the way.

Again, will eat literally anything though he likes a lot of water based veggies or anything with a good crunch to it.

Not a lot seems to frighten Leo though Splinter isn’t sure if that’s due to bravery or naivety on Leo’s part. That boy seems to not have any self preservation skills what so ever.

Michelangelo

The smallest amongst his brothers though that’s mainly due to him being the runt of the clutch he originally hatched from. Has more of a lean and limber build which makes him a great climber and the fastest out of all of them.

Has the sharpest claws of the group, which really help out a lot with the whole climbing aspect. Mikey is always atop of something, swinging down from seemingly out of nowhere. His favorite perch however is atop of his brothers’ is shoulders, especially Raph since he’s the biggest.

You’d think with the claws he’d be more prone to scratching but that is not entirely true. Either way once he latches on there is very little you can do to get him off unless he wants to.

The cutest little stubby tail you’ve ever seen! It wags like a little bunny rabbit!

He and Leo are the most hyper and energetic of the four, with Raph and Donnie being a bit more low energy. If they don’t have something to focus on they’ll cause all kinds of mayhem, running around all over the lair causing chaos and destruction.

He’s just as fluent in ASL as Donnie is and also just as talkative as Leo is, though still choppy due to limited range in vocal cords. His chirps and clicks in “turtle speak” sound a lot more monkey like though less high pitched “ooo’s” and more tenor based trills.

Definitely the most empathetic amongst his brothers when it comes to outsiders. He’s still weary, don’t get him wrong, but he’s a lot more curious. Even in this universe Mikey still very much wants to make friends!

Still the very creative; loves to draw and paint, and is very messy about it. His favorite place to paint is on his brothers’ shells! They don’t mind of course and they really do enjoy how colorful and bright Mikey decorates them. (Always make sure to use washable, hypoallergenic paints kids!)

Mikey LOVE clothing! He thinks it's so fun to dress up and will sometimes even make his own clothes out of cloth scraps that he finds. Has delicate enough motor skills that Splinter was able to teach him how to crudely sew and stitch things together.

Is the most picky eater out of all of them, though that happened after he learned how to cook. Once he figured out that food could actually taste GOOD when you put effort into it he could never go back to just eating whatever. This was both a blessing and curse with Splinter because on one hand they couldn’t exactly be picky about what they ate with their circumstances. But on the other hand they had a lot more variety and nutrition when Mikey was in charge of cooking.

Before meeting April and her mom (more on them later) as they could not exactly go out shoping for beef and chicken, a lot of the turtles’ protein came from bugs. And as picky an eater Mikey is now he still actually prefers eating bugs over regular meat. His favorites are grasshoppers and earthworms.

He is afraid of the dark and does not like sleeping alone.

Splinter/Lou Jitsu/Hamato Yoshi

Splinter has obviously gone through the most change out of everyone, going from human to mutant rat overnight is definitely not good for your mental health. To physically lose your humanity is one thing but psychologically as well is just a whole other can of worms.

He’s still himself, mentally and personality wise, but sometimes he gets these “episodes”. They usually happen when he’s under stress or backed into a corner (both physically or emotionally). He’ll revert into a more animalistic and primative mental state, somewhat like his boys if a little more “savage”. He’s hostile and aggressive, he can’t talk or even properly communicate at all, possibly not even understanding how to do so. Thankfully he’s never hurt his boys in that state, as even then he still sees them as his children who he must protect.

Has a chunk missing from his left ear courtesy of Raph from when he was a baby and teething. He has a lot of bits and scratch marks from his kids, mainly from rough housing and temper tantrums.

If he had the funding he would absolutely spoil these boys rotten, though as it is the boys aren’t very materialistic and hardly even understand the concept of money.

He’s kept every single gift his sons have made for him. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

Out of all of his boys Donnie is the clingiest, even as a teen. Splinter doesn’t mind though he insists that one day Donnie will grow out of it eventually. (He won’t, he’s a complete daddy’s boy!)

Though all the turtles are bipedal, more often than not they’ll be running around on all fours, which is fine, whatever makes them comfortable. What Splinter does mind though is that he’ll catch himself doing the same thing, like if his body is unconsciously mirroring what is “natural” to him. He doesn’t like to think about the implications of what that means.

As a rat, Splinter has a lot anxiety and awareness of his surroundings do to his heightened senses. Perhaps its from the fact that he is naturally considered prey in the food chain of the animal kingdom. Either way, sometimes he’ll have really bad days of extreme anxiety. He’ll feel like he’s in danger and needs to hide himself and his boys someplace safe. They cannot leave the lair at all during those days and the boys need to stay within Splinter’s line of sight at all times or he will absolutly freak the fuck out.

He lives in constant perpetual fear that either Draxum is still alive (Spoiler: he is) and looking for them or that Big Mama will discover them and force them to fight in the Battle Nexus.

Splinter is face blind. He already had ATROCIOUS eyesight when he was a human, it got even worse when he became a rat. Which is why he color codes the boys cuz if not they’d all just be green blobs. This is also an excuse for cutesy nicknames!

Leo: Baby blue, Little blue moon, My tiny Blueberry boy, Blue Jay/Blue bird

Raph: Little Robin, Rose bud, Big Red, My precious little flame

Donnie: Little violet, My brilliant amethyst, Tiny storm cloud, Sweet plum

Mikey: Sunshine, My shining star, Baby tangerine, Little goldfish

All: My Precious Treasures, My beautiful boys, Little ones

[[Let me know if you guys wanna know more about this AU]]

[[To be Continued….]]

[hops-hunny]

Yo-yo’s Girl

Pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Black!Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.6k

Request: N/A

Summary: Kyoya’s girlfriend is a lot a bit different than what they expected.

Warnings: None, could be read as a chubby or plus size reader!

A/N: This was self indulgent. I wrote this at like 2 AM and didn’t know until I woke up.

"Do you really think this is going to work?" Haruhi asked, already done with Tamaki's antics. She knew this was a bad idea but with the promise of some of her debt being removed, she couldn't find herself to do anything but go along with the blonde's crazy scheme.

"Why of course it will! When have you ever known of my plans to go wrong?" He responded, placing a hand over his heart as he swooned around dramatically. Hikaru and Kaoru exchanged looks with each other before looking back at Tamaki.

"Do you really want us to answer that?" They chimed, causing Tamaki to deflate with a defeated look. He looked over at Haruhi with puppy dog eyes, hoping the girl would agree with him. She offered him a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen senpai, don't get me wrong, sometimes your ideas are great but isn't this...a bit much? I mean why can't we just ask Kyoya about his love life? Do we really need this elaborate plan?" She asked, hoping he would budge. She looked down as Honey hung off her arm, Mori trailing behind him.

"Don't be silly, Haru-chan! Kyoya senpai is a private guy. He wouldn't trust us with anything like that." He said, climbing off the girl and back onto Mori. She let her eyes drift to Mori in hopes he'd help but he just let out a grunt of agreement. She sighed in defeat knowing she wasn't going to get through to them. How had they gotten into this dumb plan in the first place?

It all started when Tamaki overheard Kyoya on the phone with someone and from the tone in the raven haired boy's voice, he assumed it was a girl. More specifically, his girlfriend. However, any other time Tamaki didn't wanna intrude so to avoid doing so, he decided they would all follow him after school to see if that's where he was going!

As they saw a familiar head of black hair walk towards the school gates, they all began to walk behind him, attempting to be as quiet as possible. They had been following him for a few blocks, leading to a nice but unfamiliar part of town; however as he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, they all began to hide behind a bush but halted their motions when they heard him speak.

"Do you honestly think I didn't see any of you?" He questioned, not even turning around. They all stayed quiet in hopes that he would assume himself as crazy and continue to make his way down the street. But, as he turned around, parting the bushes, that idea flew out the window.

"Hey Kyoya! My dearest friend, I'd even go as far as to call you my bro-"

"Cut the bullshit Tamaki. Let me guess." He pushed his glasses up his nose before clearing his throat. "You thought that if you followed me you'd get to see my girlfriend, correct?" He asked, their wide eyes answering his question. However, where was the fun in that?

"That's exactly what we were doing! We wanna meet your girlfriend, Kyo-chan!" Honey piped up. The twins glared at him for his willingness to comply with Kyoya's questions so easily. Meanwhile Haruhi just sighed, slumping down even further.

"If you wanted to meet my girlfriend, you all could've just asked. I expected more from you, Haruhi. You should've known better." He chastised, watching the girl who's left eye was currently twitching. Without another word, Kyoya kept down his path towards the airport, leaving his companions to fight amongst each other.

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

It was Friday of the same week and the rest of the hosts were beginning to grow hopeless about meeting Kyoya's girlfriend. Was she even real? Perhaps Tamaki's senses had been wrong and the conversation that played out earlier that week was simply meant to teach them a lesson. However, as the hosts were shutting things down for the day, slowly gathering there things to go home, Kyoya cleared his throat. They all turned to him, curious to what he had to say.

"Leaving so soon? And to think (Y/n) was coming to visit today. Oh well, I'll tell her you all said hi." Kyoya started, turning around to face the window. 3, 2,.. a chorus of hot fire questions started around him causing him to chuckle under his breath. "One at a time, I can't answer you all at once."

"Why doesn't (Y/n)-chan go to school with us?" Honey started, staring up at the tall boy. Kyoya turned to face the group, brushing off his blazer as he did so.

"She does during a portion of the year. Due to her parent's line of business, (Y/n) does one semester in the United States and one here in Japan. However, she is originally from America. Next question?"

"What do her parents do?" The twins said, angry with each other that they had asked the same question. "I thought my question was original.."

"I'm sure you've heard of the (L/n)'s before. They specialize in state of the art technology of all forms. Best selling in all of Japan. However, (Y/n) also has her own business under her parents that deals with unbreakable fine china, some of the best of it's kind but I'm afraid I'm biased." He smiled at the thought of his girlfriend, catching the other host off guard. Who was this girl who was able to make Kyoya smile?

"What's she like, senpai? I'm sure she must be special to catch your attention." Haruhi inquired. Kyoya felt his cheeks heat up as he thought of the many things he enjoyed about his girlfriend. He turned back to the window, looking out it once again.

"She makes me laugh and she's beautiful. Don't tell her that though. She always gets a big head when you do." He muttered, checking his watch for the time. She should've been here by now.

"She sounds absolutely radiant, Kyoya! When is she going to show?" Tamaki asked, sighing dreamily at the thought of his closest friend in love with a beautiful girl. Kyoya looked at the clock across the room before frowning slightly.

"She was supposed to.." he trailed off at the sound of his name being screamed continuously and the sound of loud footsteps growing closer. All of a sudden a blur of brown skin and thick thighs stormed in, jumping onto the man. Mori put Honey down, ready to fight if need be but stopped once he saw Kyoya wrap his arms around the girl, embracing her tightly.

"Darling! I'm sorry I'm late, I got hungry and stopped by that little bakery you showed me the other day!" The girl said, looking up at the boy who had an uncharacteristically warm smile. Everyone was even more shocked as he let out a laugh, stroking some of the girl's braids behind her back. She was a short girl, full of curves and rolls in all the right places. Her outfit was very casual compared to the things Kyoya wore on his free time. She had on a jean skirt and a form fitting striped shirt that made the undertones of her soft brown skin pop.

"I told you to let me know if you plan on going places beforehand. You know how sidetracked you get. You easily could've gotten lost." He lectured causing the girl to roll her eyes. She pouted, crossing her arms around her chest.

"Okay and? Clearly I didn't. Lay off 4 eyes. I'm here now aren't I? That's all that matters!" She jumped out of the boys arms finally before turning to face the rest of them. They all had the same question: 'How could such an energetic girl be with Kyoya?' "You're definitely Tamaki." She said, pointing to the blonde. He had a flattered look on as he began to say something but she cut him off. "You look just as annoying as Yo-yo said." She finished. Hikaru began to comfort their boss in the corner as Kaoru began to laugh.

"Yo-yo?" He choked out, laughing a bit more. Kyoya's face began to heat up more as he looked down at the short girl, a pissed expression on his face.

"(Y/n) I told you not to call me that in public." He said in an angry tone, looking away from the girl. She pouted some more, bringing a soft hand up to his face. As she stroked his cheek, hot tears began to form in the corner of her (e/c) eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kyoya! I forgot. You know me, I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of your friends." He leaned into the girl's touch, looking down at her sad expression. How could he ever stay mad at that? He sighed quickly, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead. She squeaked, unused to him initiating any sort of physical affection in public.

"Forgive me darling, I hate to see you so sad. How about I take you to one of those," his face turned slightly green as he grimaced some, "Commoner malls that you adore so much. I'll buy you anything you want. Hm?" The girl instantly perked, throwing her pudgy arms around her lanky boyfriend. He tensed a bit before hugging her back warmly, glaring at the twins who looked like they may say something to ruin the sweet moment. Haruhi watched in awe, feeling even herself grow emotional at how clearly in love her senpai was.

"Really? Let's go Kyo! What are we waiting for?" (Y/n) asked as she grabbed her boyfriend's hand, beginning to drag him towards the door forcefully. Once they were out she quickly peaked her head back in looking at the others.

"Well? Are you coming?"

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Aaagh I'm in awe at this comment!

Your knowledge in mythology never ceases to amaze me, and I'm so moved by this review because I used the myth of Mars & Venus intentionally in Man-sized & Love is a Heavy Weapon... But I had no idea it had sneaked its way in here as well! I guess Simon will always be the god of war in my eyes, and everything you said makes perfect sense because he absolutely longs for Venus/Aphrodite, at the very least he seeks a release (first through death and then through love), uniting with the sea which is a metaphor for both the womb & the tomb. We see medic only through Simon's eyes, but despite her civil "facade" it's more than obvious that she is completely smitten with war and death (aka Ghost). They are both in love with each other's Otherness.

Thank you so much for your love and support, you are such an inspiration in many ways 🩷 (and I can't wait for the next chapter of Cat/Mouse/Den!!!)

Immortal (Ghost x Medic!Reader Pt. 3)

"The path to paradise begins in hell."

— Dante Alighieri

Word count: 5.5 k

Summary: He knows now why he always returns to her. It's because he was injured. Badly, severely, life-threateningly injured – no, he was already deceased. What kind of a medic has the power to resurrect the dead? (Last part of Ghost stories.)

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Angst, fluff, smut. Protective!Simon Ghost Riley. Graphic depictions of PTSD, suicidal thoughts and depression, mild violence. Emotional sex, love confessions, happy ending. Ghost POV.

"You can't come here, lieutenant. Not unless you're injured."

No one has ever scolded him.

He's the one who whips people into shape, who makes them recall who and where they are, that Task Force 141 is no place for fuckery. Now he's the one being reminded of his place. 

Somehow it's ok to bring her flowers before dinner, but ever since he started to bring her coffee to get an excuse to see her at work, she began to shut down. He can fuck her doggy style at her place, but if he so much as lifts his mask to kiss the back of her neck at her office, she bats him away like an annoying fly.

And he's fucking confused.

He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought that women like to be courted. Now he's standing in the middle of her apartment, waiting for… he doesn't even know what. Pardon, perhaps.

"Why do you always call me lieutenant?"

"Well I can't call you Simon at work, can I?"

She's chaste and decent. Has been like that for a while now, retreating back to her role of a distant professional. 

Something's troubling her, and he tries to get to the bottom of it. Tries his best to cheer her up, even if it's absurd that someone like him attempts to do that.

"Y'could use the alias."

"I'm not going to call you that."

She reads Virgil while making it clear that he's quite ridiculous. A ghost. It must remind her of a children's book rather than something stealthy and fatal; to her, it's a grown man's sad attempt to play a superhero.

"Did you come up with the name yourself?" Her voice has a whiff of irony as she finally spares him a glance from her hard-cover poetry.

"...No," he lies, too soon. Far too soon. She catches him on it, pants down.

"You're a silly, silly man." She shakes her head slowly and returns to her book. Last week, it was Dante who had better things to offer, far better things compared to him – such as a more poetic depiction of hell.

But even with the distant aura he can't quite pierce, she gives him a concept of what it would be like to have a home. A real home where you don't have to dread the evening and everything it brings out in people. Even when he was doing the SAS Fan Dance and lying on the cold ground to have a compulsory 2-hour shut-eye, he never missed home. The weather-beaten trail and a flapping tarp were still a cosier place than the one he'd left behind. 

The closest thing to an actual home was always solitude. A few days without routine. A cold shower in the morning to wake him, but not frigid enough to kill the erection. A good, unhurried fap and some stale spit circling down the drain. No one giving him a pitiful eye for tossing old takeaway in the bin and opening the cupboard only to be met with some canned food and table salt.

Now, the first thing in the morning is the sensation of her. Fingertips sneaking their way under his arm and ghosting his stomach, stirring him so softly he doesn't quite know if he's gone to heaven. Home is a sleepy nest and slow kisses followed by the sounds of brewing coffee. Home has become a place of mundane tasks: helping her water the plants and tasting whether the vanilla pudding she made has enough sugar. Changing sheets together, listening to the fitful sea as it breaks upon the shore. Watching how she reads of the Trojan War.

When he just stands there, admiring how her manicured nails glide over the pages, she talks to him again without raising her lashes from the book. 

"Did you need something?"

…You. All of you. 

Now and forever.

"Ya wanna go out to eat tonight?"

Finally, he grabs her attention. The distance between them is sewn up so fast even a jerk like him can understand he finally made the right fucking move.

"What about your… The mask?"

He shrugs.

"I thought you liked my cooking," she gives him a smile. Sly… Foxy.

"I do. But let me feed you for a change."

He sees in that stare and the way she purses her lips that she's trying to prevent a dirty joke from coming out of her pretty little mouth. As much as he appreciates that little cunning look, as much as he loves when that mouth gets a little dirty, he's more than serious now.

"Come on. Let me take you out."

"Well. If you insist," she smiles, shuts the book, and flies to her closet to pull out a stunner of a dress.

…..…..…..

Her fingertips always make his cock stir. They were supposed to go to sleep – a rare thing, to not slip inside her after a nice lil evening. To his surprise she starts to trace the few hairs on his stomach, threading through them as they thicken below. 

He can feel how she gets tense upon seeing that he's hard and heavy before she even reaches there. But she's not tense from anticipation.

"I overheard some of the guys talking about us. Or, well, me."

His cock gives a tug, and she still doesn't touch it.

"How I'm your luxury whore."

The curtain shifts as the wind plays with it: softly, while he's ripped out of the dark safety of the womb.

"Luxury…" She laughs, but it's bitter and thick. "Isn't it funny?"

He's hard now mainly because of the fury that rises. It ripples through his chest and pulls his stomach taut.

"Was it the rookie?"

He hears his voice from far away, from under the sea, but luckily, her hand brings him back. It's placed on him again, this time further up. She likes to trace the cavity between his pecs, pet the hair she finds there, too. Sometimes, she buries her face there and inhales his sweat, then uses that spot as her pillow. It's that very moment when he finds peace if he already hasn't by then.

"You don't have to defend my honour," the night speaks softly.

So, it was the rookie.

Nothing but a boy, younger than Soap and cockier than he was when he left Manchester with nothing but a duffel bag on his shoulder. Nothing but a boy, and she knows how boys are. She knows how boys talk. She wouldn't be in the Force if she took filthy quips seriously. 

But this is fucking different. The fantasies of what he'll do to the fucker when he gets back get sicker and more beautiful by the second.

"Just… don't come there anymore unless you're injured. Ok?"

He can't hear her because the vile word overrides even the gorgeous visions of torture. It gathers up his throat as bile, and he barely has time to take a deep breath to force it down before it's too late.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." 

"At this hour…?"

"Can't sleep anyway."

He reaches the bathroom just in time before the vomit flies. The power of it forces him on his knees, forces him to take hold of the door frame. Everything he fed to her shoots up, like it was only a dream that he could make her happy.

…Are you just here for sex?

Her shy question echoes from the tiles as another retch pulls the rest of his love out. 

He's sweating worse than the time they had to operate him in the field, back when a bullet had worked its way through the naked spot between the straps of his plate carrier. The shower washes some of it away, but the stench stays, the foul word and the insolence, all the shallow things he has given her coat the insides of his mouth no matter how many times he tries to spit it away. The water only does so much, and she's still not asleep by the time he returns to her. 

The luxury is waiting for him, silky and sweet. 

Wet, even, if he wants.

"Baby… Honey?"

Baby.

Baby.

He feels his guts in his throat again but swallows them down. She's beautiful, even when sad and sorry. Sorry, and for what? For him, instead of herself and what she's been called, the spite she has had to suffer simply for lying down in the filth with him. 

"Are you okay...?"

"Yeah."

He goes to her, pulls her in his arms, and hopes he doesn't smell of puke.

"They're just words. Right?"

I'm more than just your whore, right?

Her hand doesn't shy away from the sweat that breaks through his back. She's not afraid of him, even when he's the monster she never asked for. He can respect that kind of fearlessness. 

"You're awfully quiet," she tries. 

Baby, please don't go berserk, is what he hears.

"Go to sleep, pet," he calls forth his softest voice, relieved to notice it sounds more like a lullaby than a command. He allows her to kiss him, wondering if she can taste the grave. 

"Yes, sir," she breathes a soft smile in his mouth. Then she turns and coats herself with his arm. It must feel heavy around her, but she only gives a happy sigh. "I always sleep better with you. You feel so good… Safe."

He wonders how strange it is that love sometimes feels like pain. Her words come close to a knife slowly being pushed to his insides. They're still burning when she mutters the last essential thing, already half-asleep in his arms.

"They're just words, Simon…"

…..…..…..

He doesn't know much about poetry, but perhaps Dante was right. 

The heart of hell is not a fiery lake of torment but an icy, cold, stagnant place. There's nothing there. Everything is frozen: screams, thoughts, even dreams. 

He's walked through grey rubble and drenched asphalt, through alleyways of havoc and debris, he's trekked through desolate woodland and marsh. He's run through life like it's a day-to-day race to not get killed, but the worst of it isn't the bullets or the cold or the wind or the rain. It's the sleepless nights, the inertia. His soul in chains. On those nights, he wanted to get killed. 

And yet, he's not the only one who has suffered the unfortunate event of being dragged through every plane of hell. He's not the first man to go through the funnel, nor is he the last. It only looks bad in a society where he's supposed to own a credit card and a house. It only tastes like shit when someone asks "How does it make you feel?" 

People like him shouldn't go to therapy at all. His solution was to quit playing a modern man the minute he realized he's no longer fit for that role. He's simply a dead body, reanimated to serve a purpose. He's a sharp tool, a weapon. (A zombie.)

He serves the greater good, but everyone knows the greater good is propaganda too. There's no grand fight between light and darkness. Good and evil only conduct people's choices: even his old man must've thought he was making the world a better place by playing the rebel. He told him he served the Queen just to piss that sodded bastard off, but the truth is he never served anyone. Not even himself.

Now, there's an odd purpose to his task. Now, every cell in his body is full of animus. 

He's an animated corpse, perhaps, but they forgot to bury the wrath.

"Where's the rookie?"

"Getting stapled."

"Where?"

Which room? 

Which fucking room?

He doesn't stay to heed directions. He doesn't need them; his instinct tells him enough. He doesn't even bother to knock, simply barges in, only to see that the boy sits on the bed he used to sit on, in the exact same position as him. And he knows it's not just the blood loss that makes the fucker look so drowsy and smug. 

The fury is pierced with an ice-tinged sword as he sees her gentle touch – she's tending to the wounds of an ungrateful kid with the same compassion she gives to all her patients, and the first thing on his mind is that she would make a good mother.

"What're you doing here?" 

His voice is soaked in ash, but the boy only looks up from the bed with pure, trouble-seeking gall.

"What are you doing here…? Sir."

She's looking at him too. She's pleading with those eyes. Silently, desperately. 

"You can't come here, lieutenant. Not unless you're injured."

Her request only now makes sense as he sees how the boy looks him up and down and sees there's not a scratch on him. There's no reason for him to be here other than to relieve the pain in his loins.

"Well… Have fun," the rookie jumps from the table, and the rage threatens to pull him underwater like a tide. He never needed anything but his voice to stop a man in his tracks. Not size, not rank, not even his reputation, just voice. 

"My office. Five minutes."

The boy dares to give him another foul look.

"Is that all you need? Just five minutes?"

He even detects admiration in that stare – like he's some stallion, a prized old stud who receives fine mares to rut. Like the celestial woman standing behind this… boy is just some slag thrown to him like they threw to gladiators of old. His luxury whore.

The rookie finally catches the impending wrath that must swell and roil like sea inside the sockets of the skull. 

Yes, boy.

Death is coming.

"Sir," the boy swallows with an arduous blob, then walks out of the goddess's domain, finally with some humility upon those shoulders. 

The torture has already begun, and it shoots him full of sweet adrenaline. He tries to mask the rising war from her, but she sees enough just before he leaves her as well. Her words follow him but cannot penetrate the cloak of fury that shrouds him as he goes to prepare for carnage.

"Simon. I just stitched him together..."

…..…..…..

He doesn't solve the problem with a gun or a cock this time. 

He uses his fists and a knife.

It should disgust him; how much he enjoys it. It's one of those rare occasions when he almost loses himself in the riptide of blood. The things he imagines are far worse than what he finally allows himself to do. When the boy has a split lip and half his face swollen so bad he can't even see from the bruise, when the wetness dampens the crotch area and threatens to stain the carpet, he lets him go.

"Get out."

He's a different man when he rises from beside that broken boy; from next to the knife he plunged to the floor an inch away from his face to make his intentions clear. The boy is stripped of all arrogance and probably regrets the day he got the splendid idea to insult a woman. 

He doesn't have to get his hands deep into paperwork to have the rookie transferred; the boy does it for him. He leaves the base quietly as a shadow and with a face that looks like it has been forced through a waffle maker.

After that, everyone salutes him feet away.

His orders are obeyed without question, without a second's delay on missions. He has never pursued to be loved, but neither has he worked on making people fear him. Now he's not only a source of mystery and intrigue but also fear and wonder.

Soap isn't scared quite as shitless as the rest of them, but neither is he as friendly as he used to be. Price says nothing but he gets a few looks that tell him he has gone too far.

"You shouldn't have," she whispers when they're alone, stopping him in the quiet hallway. She's the only one who doesn't have fear and avoidance in her stare. If anything, the adoration in her eyes has deepened.

He has avoided her strictly, this time obeying her request not to go to her unless he has business there. He doesn't defend himself; he doesn't have the luxury to decide what should or shouldn't be done. He's not a saint nor a judge. He is territorial, though.

"You must be the craziest man I've ever met." 

She talks to his shadow as he's standing only a few feet away, unable to touch her.

"Good."

"...and the most incredible."

His sharp intake of air hisses between them as the artificial light casts shadows in electric blue. She tries to thank him for bashing a face in, all her noble Hippocratic Oaths forgotten.

She takes a step – just one, to make it perfectly clear she wants to touch him too.

"You're a brute, Simon."

The woman's eyes are a deep sea of gratitude. He wonders if she's equally as wet between those legs. Her voice says it all: she likes brutes.

The worship in her stare makes him understand why wars have been waged – this is the reason why crusaders sloshed through rivers of crimson blood, why whole civilizations were destroyed. This is why swords are forged and guns are fired. He draws another breath to swear his allegiance, an oath bound in blood.

"No one's gonna call you a–"

She crosses the final breadth of air between them and lifts his mask.

…..…..…..

The waves crash on the shore like clockwork. To him, it's the sound of limbo. 

The sea used to pull him in like a seductive pit, especially at night, during the sleepless shifts when he walked to the beach with nothing but the ghosts of all the people he had lost to keep him company. Watching all the futures and should have been's slowly drowning in the sea. 

Now he’s here with a living being, and the cold, dead sea has turned into blooming fireworks of crimson and coral. The amnesia has turned into bliss; all the treasures lost in the depths suddenly wash up on the shore like a sunken hoard.

She takes her shoes off the minute they reach the shore, then descends the sands with laughter. She could be from a movie or a magazine, gliding through bleached gold with sunbeams in her hair, sandals dangling from the crook of her fingers, heathers kissing her feet as she dives down the path. Her smile eclipses even the setting sun, and for the first time ever, he thinks it might've been a stupid idea to enlist. 

If there’s an opposite to ice and inertia, it's this. 

It's her. 

"You lied to me," she turns around but doesn't stop walking. "You have been to the beach."

She tilts her head as if reprimanding him, but he knows she's just laughing at his expense. She laughs at his name… She laughs at his broodings, she laughs at his shadows and his hubris. 

"Does anyone else know about this place?"

"No."

There's no soul out here but theirs; even the seagulls have withdrawn to rest. She stops to admire the sun, features turning soft as she takes in her counterpart. Apparently, she likes his humble tribute, the scarcity he has to offer. Some hollow bones, his opinion of a beach. Emptiness… A day coming to an end.

"I have no words for this."

"It's just a beach," he offers, and swallows when she turns. When the fuck has he ever felt embarrassed? His mask is gone, so she can see him swallow again as she approaches. It's the strangest thing how she can still cause his heart to hammer in his chest. He's used to stepping into a hail of bullets, driving a truck through a wall, waiting for that last unaware step to lunge forth and slit a man's throat. The organ never wailed then.

Her eyes take in his every flaw and scar, the rotten work on his skin before she wraps her hands around his neck. 

"No. No it's not. This is paradise."

She has to rise on her toes to kiss him, and he's glad he got rid of the mask. There's nothing between him and the taste of summer anymore – she reminds him of some bright tropical drink, something pure and sweet and innocent, pure fucking fun, something he has come to understand and define only through movies and tv. 

And he knows now why he always comes back to her. It's because he was injured. Badly, severely, life-threateningly injured – no, he was already deceased.  

She has introduced him back to the world: the sun, the birdsong, the simple, good life. How it feels like to have curtains, or bake just because it's Thursday, or walk barefoot on the beach in order to feel the burning sand on your skin. 

What kind of a medic has the power to resurrect the dead?

"Simon," she shivers into his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't want people to think that… That we're just…"

"Pet. I know."

"They said you didn't trouble yourself with relationships."

Years of instinct and training make his spine tingle. He's holding another future in his arms and hopes it's not possible for a sea to swallow a sun.

"They?"

"Well, John. Captain." 

Her lashes hide what's going through her mind, but he can tell she's feeling shy from the way she shifts in his embrace.

"I asked about you. In the spring. If there's someone… waiting for you."

He wrestles down a bitter laugh. The only lover ever waiting for him was nothingness in that chair; the only wife he came home to was shades, shadows, and dust. 

But he's starting to understand what she's trying to say. How, without even thinking about it, he just made the strongest possible declaration of not being here just for sex. He couldn't have sent a louder message with that boy.

Because not only Jonathan Price know that she's his. Soap knows too. Gaz knows too. Everyone working in Task Force 141 knows, even the fucking scrubbers and accountants know what's going on. Everyone knows that Ghost is real, and alive, and troubles himself with a relationship.

"I dreamed of you, you know." Her lashes flutter open, and he's met with the perfect example of total surrender. She's more than happy with the outcome, and why the hell shouldn't she be? Actions speak louder than words. He of all people should know that.

"Love–"

"Do you remember the day I found out you were a smoker?"

"...Sure."

She laughs, taking him back to the odd meeting in the yard when she was prying her suffocating latex gloves off, and he was trying to find some solace in a cigarette because he couldn't have her. 

"I was so angry at you. Playing with death at every turn..." 

"Yeah. Not the perfect man."

"But you were. You are." 

"Pet. If someone's perfect, it's you."

"No… I'm a hypocrite. I wanted you to just–just take me against the wall. After your stupid smoke."

He always wondered if she was suffocating too. In her gloves, in her beauty, in her sterile, medical, professional chasteness.

But he had no fucking clue that she–

"Or during, I don't care…"

Even the thought of her wanting him to tear apart her facades shatters the last sane thought in his head. He has tried to be civil, tried to suffocate the longing, but apparently, he doesn't have to. The image of burying himself inside her cunt while taking a drag from the thing she despises even more than his name or his mask or his guns is too fucking much. The fact that she views a dog like him as a perfect man makes his cock answer her call like a good, stout soldier. 

"Is that so?"

She stops breathing for a moment as he takes a drag from her now. She's raw whiskey straight to an empty stomach, the way his mind goes blank from sliding his mouth over the column of her throat. She tastes of sea there, and it's not pulling him in; it's pulling him under. The open-mouthed kisses make her jolt, he even draws out a moan or two; they swell between his legs. 

"You like that…?"

She answers to him with a soft whine. A soft nib of her ear, and her hips reply with a roll. The woman tries to latch onto him by gripping his shirt, threatening to do permanent damage to the fabric.

"No walls here, pet. Gotta take you on the sand," he gruffs in her ear, cock hard and ready from her tight little breaths. He could bet half his money that she's wetter than November down there. He could drag his cockhead across her cunt and the sound would be divine. 

"Simon–"

"I'll light a cig first."

"Stop teasing," she laughs, voice thick with hunger.

"...Roger that."

His hand is on his belt before he knows it. It's pathetic how much patience he has if he needs to crouch in a downpour and wait for a kill, but at the sight and smell and taste of her, he can't stop himself from wrenching his belt and pants open like a starved dog. It's a rush born of fear - that any time could be the last time.

She seems to shiver from his stare only when she lays herself upon the warm sand, naked as can be. She's like a vision on that beach: leaning on her elbows, thighs slowly parting, revealing the glistening sex between her legs. And she's fucking dripping, like an overripe peach. He could've safely bet all his money on her.

"How do you want me?"

Fucking fuck… 

He's walking in a dream: the most beautiful woman in the world is lying naked before his feet, bathing in gold, asking how he would prefer to take her. He doesn't even bother to get out of his clothes; he merely tugs his pants down and crawls between her legs, relishing the tight gasp he gets from being so crude.

Her eyes grow wide at the sight of him there, so close to her core, cock hanging heavy just an inch away from that tight cunt. She tries so hard to look composed while lying under his shadow, to not make it obvious that she wants that ugly thing inside. And it does feel like sin not to spread those legs and plough right in, especially when his fingers meet her silk and find that she's already throbbing.

"Want you just like this, pet," he rasps while dragging the pad of his thumb around her clit. Her back arches on the sand, forcing his fingers deeper into the dripping fruit.

It's different, her wetness; not thick and halfway there, but flowing, leaking, soaking good. The pussy is so glazed that he slips at the first attempt to slide a finger in. Her walls grip him the second he's seated deep, making it known how much she appreciates it that he's not here just for sex. 

"Someone's greedy," he's breathing rough, and she whines – he only gets to two fingers before she demands him to fuck her already.

"Want your–I need your cock…" 

She's begging, poor thing, almost crying on the sand, and he has no fucking choice but to remove his fingers and grab his cock instead.

"Have to go slow, love."

"Riley–for god's sake, now."

"F' fuck's sake…" He stumbles forward, all but gracefully, forces the tip on her soaked cunt as delicately as he can before pushing right in. She cries from the spread, fingers curling in the sand: a futile attempt to take him in without fainting.

"Tried to warn ya–"

"Don't you dare stop," she gasps, eyes full of love. As always, her wish is his command, and the tightness makes it an endless journey to bliss. The basest parts of him think about dying – having a heart attack on the same beach he almost drowned in, about ceasing to exist just for the sake of knowing that nothing is as good as this. 

He's deep as can fucking be, and it's still not enough – it's never enough. He collects her in his arms with a frustrated grunt, cock giving a tight pull only when she's finally safe and snug in his embrace. It's a tight cuddle that leaves them both breathless.

"Hold me tighter..." 

It's a soft order, but he can't get any closer: chest plastered on her skin and balls pressed against her ass, the sand grinding against her back as he makes love to her. She’s not made of twigs, but he’s far bigger than her, already threatening to crush her with his weight.

"Tighter…" she begs on his lips, tries to pull him closer with her whole being.

"Pet, I don't want to hurt you..."

"You won't," she sings, completely shieldless. Something warns him of danger, a reset far worse than drowning or being buried alive or shooting himself in a lonely apartment. He tries to calm her down with a kiss: he knows she loves kisses - but there are tears in her eyes, and his heart is hammering, hammering… 

"Simon, do you love me…?"

She asks that question right on his lips, and the first thing in his dog mind is that it's a stupid thing to ask when he's balls deep inside her and still trying to get closer.

"Yeah," he almost chokes on it, knowing it could be their wedding day and he would still choke on it because it doesn't taste like salt or metal or grave.

"I love you," she whispers. "Do you understand?"

No. No…

I fuckin' don't–

"And I'll always be here for you."

To his shock, there’s no sea water in his lungs, no dirt in his mouth. He’s not choking on anything, he's not in fact dying at all: he’s floating, somewhere between the sun and the sand and the sea. There's no more rush, no jaws of death snapping at his heels. He doesn't even long for heaven anymore. Not when there's a paradise on earth.

"Love, I need you to–need you to focus," he tries to stutter nonsense while she's pledging herself to him. Of course she only laughs at him: it hits him with the sweetest warmth.

"You're so silly…" 

"Yeah? I know." 

He's laughing too. It's just a few notes that get taken away by the sound of waves. It's just a breath from deep within, and still… Her gaze drops to his mouth, a flutter blinks back more tears.

"I love it when you laugh..." Her eyes shine brighter than the sun, riding the spine of the sea as one perfect tear rolls down her cheek. "Love it…"

The sun sets in tangerine, his new favourite colour. There's a whole bloom out there in the sky when she comes, fast and bright in his embrace. He comes right after, just from trying to stay inside her warmth, deep inside her, around her, and she says it, again and again and again… Until he breathes.

….….….

"Remember when I said I could've managed? Without you," she asks when they lie on the sand, skin on skin, watching the sun set beneath the onyx sea. The waves rise and break, but around them, the air is still. He's still inside her as she pulls his hand over her heart, entwining their fingers together: it's the softest little arrest, but her squeeze doesn't lack strength. 

"I lied too."

"I know."

She chuckles softly. "Is there something you don't know?"

"...Yeah. Why you're here out of all places."

She turns her head from the sunset into the falling darkness of him, and he wonders if that's why she's here... To be with his night. She said that people always get the dark wrong: that it's not supposed to be scary at all. That the purpose of darkness is safety, security, that there are tales where the day chases the night, and the night chases the day. She said it's because they're in love with each other.

"You really don't know…?" 

"You were smiling before we met and now you're crying all the time."

She looks up at him with trust and devotion, his daylight, his sun. There's none in the sky anymore, but it doesn't matter. It lives in her eyes.

"People cry from happiness too, Simon."

[shyvioletcat]

“oh, you’ve started stealing my socks now?” Rowaelin please

ROWAELIN MONTH: DAY 2

~ Collage Au ~

Bring this little au back from way back when. PART ONE HERE. Remember to check out @rowaelinscourt for more Rowaelin Month goodness.

~~~~~

Aelin preferred to do her washing at about 8pm in the evening on a Wednesday. It was slow during that time, it was after dinner and people were usually in their rooms doing other things, and mid week meant there wasn’t a mad rush for clean clothes for the weekend. While she waited for the washer and dryer to do their thing she allowed herself some recreational reading. A book that didn’t have to do with a single class, something she read for pure enjoyment.

She was just getting to the really juicy bit when the washing machine sang it’s little song and Aelin sighed as she slipped the bookmark in and closed the book. The sooner she got the clothes in the dryer the sooner she could get back to her book. Aelin started loading her wet washing into her laundry bag to take to the opposite wall of the room where the dryers were lined up. She was hauling out the last few pieces when she pulled out a sock that certainly didn’t belong to her.

It was dark green, but it wasn’t the colour that was unusual. It was the size. She suspected that if she tried it on it might just hit her knee. Whoever owned this must be a giant. Aelin was about to drop the item into the lost and found basket when she heard a voice behind her.

“Oh, you’ve started stealing my socks now?”

Aelin was already grinning when she turned around, she’d only met him the once but she remembered the sound of his voice and the smiles they had shared since their first run in. She had been correct in her assumption as she turned around and saw the Laundry Room guy standing there, looking amused and very pleased. The man was a giant, his feet needed to be big otherwise he’d be in risk of falling over.

“Rowan, right?” She asked, just to be polite. There was no way she’d be forgetting that name any time soon.

He pointed to her. “Aelin.”

“Guilty as charged,” she gave him her best smile. Maybe her book would have to wait a little bit longer.

~~~~~

Rowan couldn’t believe his luck. He was folding up his washing when he noticed one of his best socks missing and although he hated to do so, he walked all the way back down to the laundry to find it. Now he was presented with this serendipitous moment and he couldn’t be happier. All that the two of them had done was smile at each other since she had stumbled in on him handling her underwear, and now nearly the same thing had happened. At least Rowan got away with just a sock.

“Your feet are huge,” Aelin said, dropping his sock on top of her wet washing.

Rowan took a few steps forward, using his huge feet to get a little closer so they weren’t conversing across the length of the room. “I would say they’re proportional.”

“You know what they say about big feet,” she said, grinning to herself and gave him a wink. “Is everything proportional?”

Rowan choked as she cackled, carrying her bag of laundry to the dryer.

“I’m so sorry, that was awful. Please forgive me,” Aelin said as started loading in the wet clothes. “Really, so bad.”

Rowan just laughed, giving her what he hoped was a self assured shrug. “I gentleman never tells.”

Her laugh came out in a sudden burst, and Rowan’s heart did a thing he ignored for the moment. “Thank you for finding it funny and not reporting me to the RA.”

“Well, I might for you stealing my sock,” Rowan nodded to where it lay with her clothes.

“Oh, yeah.” She picked up the sock and threw it at him and he caught it easily. “Always a pleasure, Rowan. Enjoy your night.”

Rowan had wanted to stay, he really did. But he had a 500 word response to his weekly reading to upload before the night was out, and of course he hadn’t started. So instead he offered the stunning blonde a smile of his own.

“Until next time.”

~~~~~

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[tobeckyweek]

Honey, Honey (how he thrills me)

Tobecky Week Day 2

Summary:  Becky has PLENTY of time before her date tonight, no matter what everyone is saying.

AO3 ink

cws: food, canon-typical action

“Uh, kid?  Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Dr. Two Brains, blinking in bewilderment, stared at WordWoman. 

“Nah, I’ve got plenty of time.”  She waved a hand airily.  “Besides, I gotta work off the nerves somehow.”

“O-kay,” he said, slowly, then shrugged.  “Your funeral!”  

He shot off his ray, but she dodged easily – the grocery store shelves behind her turning into green goop.  Nearby, the grocery store manager sighed and went to get a mop. 

“You’re fired!”  He called to Dr. Two Brains, but the mad scientist was busy cackling, rolling behind a nearby grocery cart before scampering over to the cheese display.

“Doc, you know we’re going to have cheese there, right?”  She circled towards him, eyes narrowed.

“‘Course I do!”  He said, indignantly.  “I just figured, you know, either I get away with cheese scot free, or I get to see you beforehand so…”

Her expression softened.  “If I didn’t know better, Doc, I’d almost call that sweet of you.”

“Good thing you know better then.”  He pulled a face, whiskers twitching.  “Especially because that was just a distraction.”

“Wha– oh!”

The arms of Dr. Two Brains’ henchmen seized around her, trapping her in place.  

“Hey, hey, watch the hair!”  She complained.  “I just got it done.”

“Oh, right!”  Meatloaf winced, grip slackening.  “Sorry.”

She grinned, wickedly.  “No, I’m sorry.”

With an elbow to the gut and a burst of superspeed, she was free – ripping a cart in half with her bare hands and twisting the metal around Dr. Two Brains and his hapless henchmen. 

“Ha,” she said, wiping her hands, “and I didn’t even break a sweat.”

  A frown creased her brow as she watched the police cuff the three villains, loading them into a patrol unit.

“You’re sure you can break out in time?”  She called, a tad anxiously. 

“Don’t sweat it, kid!”  Dr. Two-Brain’s round ears twitched, a grin revealing his elongated teeth.  “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“You’d better not!”  She called, as the door slammed shut. 

“WordWoman, you’ve saved the day again!”  The Mayor trundled by, beaming.  “I don’t suppose I can interest you in this key to the city, can I?”

“Oh, on any other day I would, but I’ve really gotta get ready!”  She zipped into the air, leaving him baffled in her wake.

“Ready?  Ready for what?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Becky muttered to herself, zipping through the sky in a golden blur.  “The dress is at home, the picnic is packed, the Bob is– Bob!”

She pressed a button on the side of her visor, LED display lighting up as she connected to her sidekick.  “Bob, how’s everything going on your end?  Decorations looking okay?”

He chirped, once in affirmation then again inquisitively.

“Doc was just messing around, don’t worry.  Can you tell Violet and Scoops I’ll be there soon?”

He hooted. 

“Aw, thanks, love you too!”

  Becky zipped through Violet’s window in record time, the various papers tacked up on her best friend’s walls rattling in the sudden breeze. 

“Becky, there you are!”  Violet exclaimed – as much as her wispy voice allowed – shuttling the other girl into her vanity chair.  “You’re running late!”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Becky insisted, detransforming.  She closed her eyes obediently as Violet began powdering her with golden eyeshadow.

“Art cannot be rushed,” Violet said, solemnly.  “And I swear that you will be a masterpiece, Becky.”

“Becks, I hate to break it to you, but I think you may have to cut some of this down.”  In the corner, what Becky had mistaken for a pile of discarded papers revealed itself to be Scoops, ink-smudged and frowning at a paperclipped stack the size of his head.  “Also, why did you say ‘inamorata’ and ‘verdure eyes’ so many times?”

“I… might have been a little overzealous.” Becky warily eyed the mascara wand Violet brandished at her.  “Do you have all your camera equipment ready, though?”

“Absolutely!”  He lit up, patting his heavy media bag.  “Also, what do you think about this for an announcement: breaking news! legendary adversaries turn paramours as–” 

“Honey, did you write the entire thing as a news briefing?”  Violet paused in the middle of roguing Becky’s cheek, turning a skeptical look on her boyfriend.

“I… I mean.”  He winced.  “Rose did the same thing!”

Becky snorted.  “This is what you get for being partners with two reporters, Violet.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Violet sighed, but her smile was dreamy.   “Now, Becky, red or pink lipstick?”

A flash of green eyes, unable to tear themselves away from her in red, destroying another robotic army.

She smiled, mischievous.  “I’ve been reliably informed that red is my color.” 

Humming, Violet swatched on the lipstick, tilting Becky’s head this way and that to make sure the application was even.

“How are you feeling?”  She asked, voice bubbling.  “Excited?  Nervous?  Scared?”

“Option D,” Scoops offered, chewing on the end of his pen, “all of the above?”

“Option E,” Becky countered, laughing.  “Effervescent.”

“I bet,” Violet cooed.  “But I think you are going to have to cut down your speech a little– Becky.  Don’t.”

“Don’t do what?”  Becky said, over innocent. 

“That’s your ‘I just heard an alarm bell’ face,” Violet said, dryly. 

“Becky.”  Scoops took her by the shoulders, shaking her gently.  “Don’t you have more important things to be worried about?”

“I’ve got time!”  She hovered midair, carefully peeling his hands off.  “Besides, it sounds like its coming from the jewelry store, and Reginald will be insufferable if I don't help.”

“If you’re late, don’t blame us!”  Scoops called, but Becky had already taken to the skies. 

The front window of Ye Olde Fancy Smancy Jewelry store was smashed in, a familiar, hulking frame rummaging through the display cases.

“Hold it right there, Butcher!” 

“WordWoman!”  He whipped around, falling into a fighting stance, before he straightened up, frowning.  “Hang on, shouldn’t you be getting ready right now?”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” she insisted.

“Eh, if you’re smertain.”  He shrugged before launching a giant ham at her. 

She dodged easily.  “You mean certain!  It’s when you’re absolutely sure about something.  Like I’m absolutely certain I’m not going to be late for tonight.” 

“You gettin’ excited?”  He smiled, launching a link of sausages at her.  “It’s all you’ve been talking about for weeks.” 

“I mean,” she laughed, a little sheepishly as she grabbed it and spun it around, hitting him in the chest.  “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Oh, you can say that again!”  He pulled himself up, swinging the sausages like nunchucks.  “I thought we all were going to go nuts watching you two dance around each other.” 

“I can’t believe how oblivious we were back then.”  She snorted, ducking around his attacks. 

“Eh, you were just kids.”  He darted past her, ruffling her hair along the way.  “But you’re always gonna be just kids to me.” 

“No no, by all means,” Reginald, tied up with sausage links in the corner, drawled.  “Continue your inane familial banter while my store’s being robbed.  The very store you so recently patroned, may I remind you.”

“We will, thanks!”  WordWoman chirped.

She and The Butcher sparred with an easy familiarity, Becky careful not to get any meatiness on her.  She huddled behind the counter, protecting herself from being pelted with hamburger patties and anxiously wondering if she had time for a shower when a familiar voice interrupted. 

“WordWoman!”  

She turned around, already beaming.  “Math Man!”

Her fellow superhero landed, punching a crater in the floor before he slowly rose, cracking his knuckles.  “This is adding up to a negative outcome for you, Butcher.”

“Aw, come on, guys,” The Butcher complained.  “I gotta get a gift for the regress-tree somehow.” 

“You mean registry,” WordWoman corrected.  “A type of official list containing information on people or things.  In this case, you’re looking for a gift registry – a list kept by a store containing information on things people want as a gift, often in celebration of a… a certain event.”  

She coughed, flushing, even as a smile slipped through her fingers. 

“Speaking of” – Math Man turned to his partner, an eyebrow raised – ”don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I’ve got plenty of time!”  She insisted.  “My makeup and nails are already done.”

“I like the nails!”  The Butcher commented, scrutinizing different diamond necklaces.  “Very shiny.  Hey, Reggie, which one did you say was the most valuable?”

“Never call me that again,” Reginald said, looking as disgruntled as WordWoman had ever seen him.  “And I’ll have you know I don’t appreciate my suit being smudged with this meaty residue.  I had it especially made for the event tonight.”

The Butcher paused for a moment, an anxious crease forming between his eyebrows.  “But we’re still goin’ together, right?”

“Well, that goes without saying.”  Reginald sniffed.  “The diamond necklace to your immediate left, by the way.”

“Thanks.”  The Butcher snatched it up in one meaty palm. 

“Hold it right there, Butcher!”  WordWoman rose in the air, pointing an impetuous finger at him.  “The only thing you’re taking is a nice long vacation… in jail!”

“Booo,” Math Man deadpanned. 

“Look, I’ve got a busy day, okay?”

“And it’s about to get a lot busier.”  The Butcher flung his hands forward.  “Hamalan– huh?”

Stomp stomp stomp

The clanging of metallic feet against the ground shook the city, and Becky lit up, zipping halfway outside before she caught herself and turned around.

“Hey, Math Man, do you mind…?”

“I calculate my odds of success are pretty good.”  He winked, hands lighting up with a blue glow.  “And don’t worry, I’ll drop him off at the bookstore for the real registry.”

“You’re the best!”  She zipped over, giving him and The Butcher both a quick hug.  “See you guys tonight!”

“See you, WW!”  The Butcher called, beaming, before turning with a fierce glower onto Math Man.  “Hamburger hurricane!”

But she was already halfway across the city, a grin exploding across her face as she saw three sixty-feet robots smashing their way through the streets.

She took out the first one without a second thought, smashing through its chest and tearing out circuitry along the way.   It fell to the ground in a rain of sparks, smoking.  She paused for a moment, frowning at a chip in one of her nails, before the shadow of another giant robot fell over her. 

“WordWoman,” a familiar voice drawled – dark and rich and low.  “Fancy seeing you here.”

“McCallister.”  Becky zipped up to his level, putting a hand on her hip just-so.  “Causing trouble?”

“Would you expect anything else from me, darling?”  He looked half-ready – hair slicked back in that way that always turned her stomach to water and coy green eyes lined with black.  “I must say, you are a ravishing sight.  I don’t suppose you’re doing anything later?”

She floated closer, walking two fingers up his shoulder and flicking off a speck of ash.  “I have a… prior engagement.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his hand finding her waist.  “I was hoping to have you all to myself.”

He leaned in, lips a breath away from hers, but she put a finger between them, eyes shining.  “Save it, lover boy.”

“Can you blame me for being excited, my darling?”

“No, but I can and will blame you if you show up covered in grease.”  She shoved him, lightly, biting back a laugh when he swooned dramatically.  “Go get ready, Tobey.”

“I could say the same thing about you, love.  From the looks of the news, you’ve had a busy day.”

“Oh, those clowns?  Just getting my energy up.”  She lidded her eyes.  “You know there’s only one archenemy for me.” 

“Oh, I know,” he murmured, and she had only the edge of a wicked grin to warn her before he leaned backwards and plummeted through the air.  He laughed wildly as he fell like the first sinning angel, carefree as his lab coat fluttered around him and his arms extended towards her.

Darting through the sky in a golden blur, she intercepted, cradling him firmly. 

“Tobey,” she chastised.  “You have got to stop doing that.”

“Oh, my darling,” he sighed, and rested his head against her shoulder.  “I know you’d never let me fall.”

She loved him so much she could hardly stand it, sometimes.

“Come on, nerd.”  She held him a little tighter before launching into the sky, hiding her smile at his gleeful whoop.  “I get the feeling your mommy is looking for you.” 

  Below, a woman with dyed-red hair rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone.  “Hey, I’m going to be late.  Yeah, those idiots were flirting and left a giant robot wandering around downtown again.”

“Oh, hello, dear!”  Mrs. McCallister turned a sunny beam on Becky when she landed Tobey outside his childhood home.

She flashed a smile back, looking smugly at Tobey.  “Hello, Mrs. McCallister.” 

“Honey, you know to call me Claire,” she chided, before turning on her son.  “And you, young man!  You are by no means ready–”

She dragged him inside as Becky blew him a kiss.  He caught it, pressing a hand to his chest and winking as the door slammed shut between them. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

Ms. Question floated by on her question mark, brow furrowed quizzically.  “Do you need a lift?”

“Hey, Ms. Question!”  WordWoman waved.  “I’m fine, don’t worry.  Just got a little side-tracked–”

But the villain had already zipped up to her, gasping in indignation. 

“How did you chip your nails already?  Didn’t I just paint them this morning?”

“It’s fine,” WordWoman assured her.  “Tobey and I were just… well.”

She cleared her throat, and Ms. Question rolled her eyes.  “Will I ever understand you kids?”

“We’re not kids anymore,” Becky laughed, gesturing to herself.

“Oh, I suppose you’re not, are you?”  Ms. Question cleared her throat, blinking away the mistiness in her eyes.  “Now, what are we waiting for?”

She grabbed Becky by the wrist, pulling her onto the question mark behind her, and taking off into the air.  “Did Leslie tell you I already dropped off the cupcakes?”

“Uh…” Becky pulled out her phone, parsing through the abundance of celebratory messages, until she found her group chat with Leslie and Mr. Big. 

Biggie: and don’t be nervous!!!  If anyone tries to interrupt you two, I’ll mind control them. 

Leslie: I don’t think you should confess your evil plans to a superhero in writing, sir. 

Leslie: Ms. Question delivered the cupcakes, so the after party should be all taken care of, by the way.

WW: Thank you both!

Biggie: AAAAH this is so exciting.  Leslie, remember how nervous I was when we did this?

Leslie:  You were so anxious you broke five of your squishy bunnies and nearly fainted in the middle of the restaurant.

Biggie: ah, good times :-)

“Well, are you just going to sit here all day?”  

Becky looked up with a start to see they had arrived. 

“Thank you!”  She hugged the villain before floating off.  “I’ll see you soon!”

She snorted.  “I suppose I’ll see your good friend Becky in a minute, won’t I?”

“Oops, right!  You’ll see her later.”  With a wink, WordWoman slipped through the door to her childhood home. 

  “You are late, tardy, and less than punctual!”  Beatrice Bixby and several of her copies swarmed Becky as soon as she stepped into the living room – one exclaiming over the state of her hair, two laying out her sundress and insisting she change as soon as possible, the others fussing over Becky’s superficial scrapes. 

“Oh, those idiotic, foolish, stupid men,” she complained.  “I told them at the last meeting that today was special, and what do they do?”

“It’s really not a big deal, Tía Bea,” Becky laughed, detransforming and wiping off her arms with a damp towel.  “I think they’re just being supportive… in their own way.”

“You can say that again!”  Sally ran in from the kitchen, beaming, and Becky ran into her arms, squeezing her tight.

“Mom!”

“Oh, my baby.”  Sally pulled back, cupping her daughter’s face.  “How do you feel?”

For the first time all day, Becky took a deep breath, assessing herself.  There was a tremble in her arms and butterflies in her stomach.  Her hands fluttered; she couldn’t stop smiling.  She wasn’t calm by any means, but her heart beat was steady, sure.  She was ready.

“Elated.”  She squeezed her mom’s hands.  “I’m so, so excited.”

“And I,” Beatrice interrupted, cantankerous, as a few of her clones pushed Becky towards her bedroom, “would be a lot more excited if we could stick to the schedule.”

“Right!”  Sally squealed.  “Go get dressed, mija, then we can fix your hair.”

Becky, windblown and sweaty after a day of fighting crime, blinked.  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  The sundress was perfect.

It was a deep navy, striking against her warm brown skin, speckled with orange and yellow stars.  She let out a shaking breath, skating her hands over her torso, tugging away imaginary wrinkles.  In her pocket, a small velvet box nestled, tapping her hip with every step.

The backyard was strung with lights, tables set out for a party.  But that would come later.

First, Becky had something very important to ask.

“Becky!”  A knock, then the door swung open to reveal her brother and his boyfriend, adorned with sly smiles.

“TJ.”  She eyed her brother warily.  “Not going to do anything, are you?”

“I’m good, Becks,” he said, far too innocently.

“Yeah!”  Johnson added.  “We already gave him the shovel talk!”

“Babe.”  TJ’s face fell into his palm.  “Remember how we talked about not telling my sister that part?”

“Oh.”  Johnson said.  “Ooohh.” 

“Why did I ever let TJ pull you to the darkside, Johnson?”  Becky sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t think you have any room to talk about someone’s partner drawing them to the dark side,” Johnson said, thoughtfully.

Becky rolled her eyes, even as she grabbed them into a hug.  “I love you dorks.”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the mushy stuff.”  TJ pulled a face, wiggling out of his sister’s grasp.  “Come on, superhero.  It’s time to get out there.”

“Right.”  Becky exhaled, slowly, smoothing her palms down the front of her dress.  “How do I look?”

“Lovely.”

Becky turned, beaming.  “Dad!”

He caught her in a hug, squeezing tight.  “Oh, look at my little girl.”  When he pulled back, his eyes were misty.  “All grown up.” 

“Daaad,” she complained, blinking.  “Violet would kill me if I smudged my eyeliner now.”

“Right.  Right!”  He bounced on his toes, shaking himself.  “Come on, Tim, you’ve got your danger pants on and everything.”  

He held out his arm.  “Ready, honey?”

She took it.  “Ready.” 

  Her parents dropped her off at the McCallisters’, Sally beaming while Tim quietly sobbed with joy into a napkin.

Becky took a deep breath, swinging the picnic basket in her hand, before taking those familiar steps to Tobey’s doorstep.  It was funny, how familiar something like this could get.  Becky knew the path to Tobey’s door almost as well as she knew the path to her childhood home, had walked it thousands of times before.

She’d gotten used to it as a little girl, storming up the path to argue with him about whatever havoc he’d wrecked this week, in the city or at school; gotten used to it as a teenager, trying so hard not to admit what it was, exactly, that had her coming up with the smallest excuses to see him; gotten used to it as a young adult, heart in her throat and sweat on her palms as she asked him to come outside please? There was something she needed to tell him.

But that flutter in her chest when the door swung open and Tobey stood before her – tall and slim and rakishly handsome – Becky doubted she would ever get used to that.

“You’re late.”

She smiled, a little sheepishly.  “I seem to recall you saying something about absence making the heart grow fonder.”

“Oh, darling.”  He found her hand, squeezed.  “I’ll love you more every day, no matter where you are.”

“In that case.”  She grinned, tugging him outside.  “Happy anniversary, Tobey McCallister.  I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  The picnic blanket was already laid out on a cliff overlooking the city, weighed down at the corners.  The sun hadn’t set quite yet, barely hanging on by its rosy fingers and casting a golden sheen over them as Becky touched down, gently lowering Tobey.

He glanced around, understanding dawning in his green eyes.  “Stargazing?”

She grinned, nudging his shoulder with her own.  “Our first date, six years ago today.”

“And here I thought I was a hopeless romantic.”

“You are a romantic, Tobey.”  Becky laid the picnic basket down, carefully unloading plates of fruit and sweets.  She looked up, at his sharp features turned to bronze in the dying light – the curved arch of his nose, the the freckles he always tried to hide, his slightly overgrown eyebrows.  “No hopeless about it.”

  “Have you ever heard of des vu?”  Becky asked, once the grapes and strawberries were eaten, once the cupcakes were nothing but crumbs, once the sun was falling fast and hard – crashing into the endless horizon.

Tobey hummed in consideration, long fingers tapping against her knee.  “Is that like deja vu?”

“Similar, yes, but while deja vu is the feeling that you’ve experienced something before, des vu is the feeling that you’ll experience whatever is currently happening again.  That it’ll become a memory you’ll relive over and over.”

He grinned, revealing a crooked smile.  “Like how the first time you tried to kiss me, you went in too fast and chipped my tooth?”

“I was nervous!”   She defended, falling into the old argument as easy as breathing.  “You were being… you.”

“Eloquent as always, my dear.  Oh, don’t make that face.  It was worth every single emergency dental intervention.”

“Well how about when you tricked me into going on a date with you by insisting you had ‘oh absolutely no idea’ where the remote to your malfunctioning robots could possibly be?”

“Your impression of me has not gotten more flattering over the years.”  Tobey snorted, resting his head against hers.  “But, yes.  I knew then that was a day I’d always want to remember.  Why do you ask, by the way?  About des vu?”

“Because,” Becky said, heart in her throat as she gently pulled away, hand going to her pocket, “I have the strangest feeling we’re going to remember this moment.”

She pulled a small velvet box out, going down on one knee.

His hand flew to his mouth, eyes going huge as he stood, trembling.

She took a deep breath, looking up at him.  “Theodore Tobey McCalister the Third, I–” 

“Yes,” Tobey blurted.

“I– you haven’t even let me ask yet.”

“Right, right, I know.”  He nodded frantically.   “Go on.  The answer’s yes though.”

“Okay.”  She opened the box, revealing two perfectly identical golden rings, etched with stars.  “Theodore Tobey McCallister, will you –”

“Yes!  Right, shoot, sorry.  Shutting up.”

“Tobey, will you–  You want to say it again, don’t you?”

“Oh my God, so bad.”

“Tobey,” she said, laughing.  “You have to let me ask at least.  I had a whole speech!”

“Right, yes.”  He looked almost like a bobblehead at this point.  “Still yes.  Sorry.  Freaking out a little.  You can tell me later.”

“Tobey–”

“–yes–”

“–will you–”

“–yes–”

“–marry–”

“–yes, yes, yes–”

“–me?”

“Yes!”

He all but tackled her, long arms wrapping around her as they fell into the grass, shrieking with laughter.

“Rings, Tobey!”  Becky cried, scrambling for the box.

“Right!”  He jerked back, abashed, only for her to reach for his hand.

“May I?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice as she lifted his hand – so large compared to her own.  She ran her fingertips down the length of his palm, up his ring finger before sliding the golden hoop on.

A perfect fit.

“Your turn,” she said, softly.

He slid the ring on her finger with trembling, reverent hands.  He smoothed his thumb over the golden star, lifting her hand to kiss the ring.

“Becky.”

“Yes, Tobey.”

“You asked me to marry you.”

“I was there at the time, yes.”

“Ha,” he said, grinning wickedly.  “I win.  You’re stuck with me now.”

“Oh no,” she sighed, swooning dramatically against him.  “Whatever will I do now?”

She flopped over into his lap, and he grinned down at her, twirling the ring on his finger.  “You’ll have to live with me, I suppose.”

“Well,” she said, reaching up and running a finger down the curve of his forehead, the arch of his nose, the softness of his lips, the bump of his chin, “I suppose I can do that.

“By the way,” Becky said, “I should warn you that I told… literally everyone, and they’re waiting to throw us a party back at my house.”

“Nevermind.”  Tobey groaned, burying his face in her shoulder to hide a smile.  “I want a divorce.”

“We have to get married first, McCallister.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”  He kissed her forehead before pulling back, looking vaguely bashful.  “And, erm, actually… I think I’d prefer to be a Botsford.”

“Really?”  A slow smile bloomed across Becky’s face.  “You’d– wait.  Did you just agree to marry me because your last name will have ‘Bot’ in it?”

“That was one in a myriad of factors, yes.”

“Don’t think you can distract me with vocabulary words, Mr. Botsford.”

Tobey’s green eyes glowed; he was nearly smiling too hard to kiss her.

Nearly.

“Very well then, Mrs. Botsford,” he murmured once they pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.  His laugh was soft, quiet.  She could smell the sharp, clean mint on his breath.  “I’ll be recticient.  Although I do postulate that with this new development, it would be apropos to simply abscond while we can.” 

“Did I ever tell you that you’re ridiculous?”  She asked, winding her arms around his neck.

“At least five times a day.”  He grinned down at her.  “Did I ever tell you that I love you?”

“At least five times a day.” 

“Hm.  I think I could stand to say it more often.”

“Do you?”  She breathed, and every star in the sky was reflected in those brown eyes.

“Oh my darling,” Tobey said, and his hand cupped her cheek, the metal of his ring cool against her skin.  “I do.”

  Later, they would return to Becky’s childhood home, where their families – the ones they had been born into and the ones they had found – would be waiting with bated breath to congratulate them.  Later, they would endure small talk and catch each other’s eyes across a crowd, no matter where they were, no matter who they were talking to.  Later, there would be a fuss over floral arrangements and bridesmaid dresses and catering.  Later, there would be a tuxedo and a princess-cut dress, all white lace and silk.  

But that was later.

Now, a hero and her villain, two rivals turned friends turned everything, Becky and Tobey stood on a cliff with the most beautiful view anyone had ever ignored.  Now, they were light-headed with joy, incandescent.  Now, as they would always be, they were in love.

Now was a moment just for them.

And on their intertwined hands, two golden rings gently clinked.

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves]

what about some kup x springer? that old geezer needs to be plowed hard and good!! :3c

Ayyye I got you king, you fuckin' got it.

Kup has been around the block. He's seen monsters big and small, been in the coldest climates and under the most scaliding suns. But not ONCE has he seen such bullshit. He was in charge of making sure the new wrecker wannabes did their daily trainings, and of course, once mech had to ruin it for the rest of them.

And that mech was Springer. Kup had to head out to check on something (on request of Ultra Magnus), and instead of doing rounds, he caught his team looking at dirty magazines. Now don't get Kup wrong, he knew what was on a young mechs processor, and it was plenty healthy. When they were on their own time.

"But when it's distracting the rest of the team, that's when it is a problem. This is what you save for the barracks, kid."

Someone had snitched, revealing that they belonged to Springer. The hot shot triple changer who was easy on the optics, hard on the processor. It was why he was in his office, uninterested as Kup scolded him. Springer shrugged.

"What? You were gone, we were bored. And these are new! It's just mechs having fun."

"Training first, playtime later."

"Wow, prude much?"

"I don't give a scrap if you all have an orgy back there, I really don't. I need you-"

Springer threw his hands up, as if in disbelief.

"As if you give us enough time to HAVE an orgy back there. I think you're just so bitter that YOU don't get laid, you're spikeblocking the rest of us!"

Kup had to take a second to absorb all this bullshit. He pulled a cygar from his desk, lit it, then took a long inhale. There was no common sense in this kid, no reasoning with him. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill the immediate area.

"Alright. Alright. You wanna play this game, do ya kid? We'll play that game. You get to be transferred to Ultra Magnus-"

"His unit SUCKS! Kup come on, you're blowing this out of proportion!"

Kup scoffed. He knew kid was gonna play hard ball. He picked up the magazine, using it to lightly smack Springer on his forehead.

"Alright. Then ya aft gonna face some punishment."

He made him get up, and handed him the magazine in question. Springer looked confused as Kup laid his body on the desk.

"What...am I supposed to do?"

"Manual labor. And you are NOT gonna stop until I say so."

Springer had more questions, obviously, until Kup spread his legs, and popped open his valve panel. Kup thought this was a bad idea, as it might ruin his reputation, but when he felt Springer ran his hand up his back, Kup knew he'd definitely have worst ideas.

"I knew you were in need of a spike, but damn going so far as to take advantage of a lil' recruit? For shame, sir."

Kup felt him lean over and place that magazine in front of them, showing a rather lewd imagine of a fem, huge chasis, playing with her valve folds. Right, bisexual. More chances for this young mech to act like a turbo fox in heat. With his hands free, he held onto Kup's hips, grinding his panel against his aft. Kup laid there, letting him get a good feel for his frame, while he took another inhale of his cygar.

"Because I leave this kinda punishment for morons like you. Trust me, it's not easy as-"

He was silenced when he felt that spike rub against him. Springer was stupid, sure, but he was right about one thing; Kup REALLY needed a nice spike. And from the size that he felt pressed against him, he was about to get just that.

"Sir, with all due respect, shut up."

Maybe it was because Kup had been looking through the magazines earlier. Maybe it was because he was excited by the idea of a young, fit stud fucking him. Either way, his valve was wet enough for Springer to push himself in effortlessly. Springer seemed to like the somewhat tight fit, given the chuckle that escaped his throat. Springer moved himself back and forth, not to be nice, but because he wanted to get a nice feel for his new valve.

"Good fit, eh?"

Springer leaned over Kup, swiping the cygar from his lips, smirking as he held it in his teeth.

"Not bad, definitely not bad. Gonna feel better once I get you whimpering though, old man."

Springer leaned himself back up, slowly pushing himself back and forth, as if the motion was foreign to him. Just when Kup was about to complain, Springer finally picked things up a bit, grabbing his hips firmly to push and pull Kup onto his spike. Kup groaned in relief. This was more fucking like it.

"Was starting to think you were scared of hurtin' me there, kid."

"Pfft. Hurting YOU? You're like an old bridge. You can take a lot more pressure."

Kup was about to bark at him for calling him old, when he slammed himself fully inside, making Kup stiffen on the spot. Springer laughed, removing the cygar from his mouth in order to blow smoke in Kup's direction. Kup turned to look at that stupid, smug smile of his. Kid was so cocksure, it was precious.

"That right? Well, go ahead, see how much pressure I CAN take."

"As you command, sir."

He gave him a mock salute, and after putting the smoke back into his teeth, he dug his servos into his hips again, and started to move, properly. As in, he started to plow right into his valve, metal clanking against metal, fluids cascading from their legs and onto the floor. Kup was loving it, reaching one hand down to rub at his little node. Oh it had been ages since he had a young, strong stud to fuck his valve.

"Don't hear ya talkin' slag back there, kid."

What he WAS hearing was Springer panting behind him, exhaling smoke as if he were a freight train. Poor guy wasn't used to handling having a seasoned pussy to pound, and he was making it pretty fucking obvious.

"S-shut up. Primus shut up."

"Aw, am I too much for ya to handle? You like fragging this 'old bridge'? You wanna overload in me? Well,"

He stood up, pressing his back to the other's chest, and stole his cygar from his mouth.

"You overload, right inside of me."

Then he pressed his lips against his. Kup bought good smokes, but something about the way they came from a young mechs lips- made them taste even better. Springer grabbed onto Kup's massive thighs, and overloaded. Kup let himself be filled with overload, before he pushed Springer's lips away, even being sweet enough to wipe the drool free from his lip. Springer chuckled, patting his thighs.

"Slag old man...you ain't have bad. This was fun."

"Was? Kid, you're kiddin'. We're just starting."

Kup reached behind him, grabbed Springer's legs, and pulled. It sent Springer to the floor, right on his back. Then Kup helped himself to round two, sitting down right on that spike, and starting to bounce on him. Springer was writhing on the floor, trying to grab anything in hopes to have something to grip on.

"FUCK OLD MAN!-"

Springer wasn't handling his spike being abused like this. And primus was it cute. Kup groaned loudly in content, and a puff of smoke somehow only made it better. He didn't even bother looking behind him. Not yet.

"Aw, what's wrong? Thought I was just an old mech who needed some spike? Thought YOU were the young mech to give it to me, eh?"

"Y-you're going f-fast-"

Oh Springer's hips kept bucking against him, more out of reflex than his actual want for more stimulation. Was it a bit much for the mech? Sure, but Kup didn't care. Not when it felt SO good in his soaked, soiled valve.

"That's it. Twitch in me. Gimme another load, same you'd do for your little magazine gal."

Springer finally acted like a proper solider, and obeyed. His hips bucked up, and he overloaded yet again. Kup swore his optics rolled to the back of his head as he finally got his own overload. Oh his valve ached. And he wanted more. He spun around on his spike, hand pressed on Springer's hot chest. Poor Springer.

Drooling, steaming, absolutely soaked in condensation. His optics looked hazy, his mouth agape as he panted.

"S-shit Kup. I'm...I can't do anymore. Primus say we're done. Please."

"Not a chance. This is your punishment kid. You ain't leavin' till you've learned your lesson. And you know me,"

He pulled himself off his spike, only to SLAM himself back down, making Springer toss his helm back as he cried out. Kup tried not to chuckle, but he just couldn’t help himself.

"I'm a through teacher~"

[murmursdraconic]

"Thanks, you wouldn't believe she was a tiny, sickly runt twentyish years ago."

Asharas gave Red a gentle play bite on his arm as her form of greeting. He could make all the same sounds Shay could, and she practically squeaked in glee, giving Shay a nudge to make sure she was paying attention.

Then Red's Charizard came out.

Asharas was much larger than her typical species size, but Red the Charizard was even bigger than that. The trainer blinked at the titanic orange beast, then let her hands and wrists be sniffed as customary. Asharas chirruped and sniffed Red back, ending with a friendly thrumming. New friend?

Shay, who practically had Char as a second language, also did the typical friendly draconic sound off.

"Well that's an absolute unit." Shay was in awe of Red's... Red. "I've trained a good five or so 'Zards in my time, but they haven't gotten that big."

The woman looked over the dragon with a scrutinizing eye. The scars looked like some serious wounds, but the scales healed nicely. The scales would have reinforced themselves or the scar tissue would have likely made the dermal surfaces a bit more numb.

She was nodding along with the breeding explanations. "I can see that. Garchomps are a lot hardier than people think. Hmm... keeled scales are very likely, lookin' at 'em. Asharas has extremely smooth scales, which comes in part from some Tyranitar genes she has. Also she loves water so shedding was never a problem. Given how the scarring looks..."

There was a pause, some thought.

"So long as you keep the babies hydrated and give them a good bit of roughs and enrichment... it would definitely be patched shedding. That would also help with eye caps. If I had the run down of the Garchomp I could narrow down what you were looking at rather easily."

Hey gorgeous.

His grin reaches his eyes when Charizard pops out of her ball. Wow a shiny one too. He can't help but laugh at the sniffs and offer his forearms and hands to play with, bumping his palms against her lips to tussle in greeting. He clicks his teeth at her, trilling his tongue and chirping.

<< She's awesome. Wow. A S H A R A S. >>

He lifted a finger in 'wait' and unclipped an apricorn ball from his belt, tossing it some distance up before light spilled out of it.

And the largest Charizard erupted out of it, scarred as hell.

Charizard landed behind him with a titanic thud, looming forward on all fours and letting out a chattering, then a trilling whistle. The enormous beast was more than twice Red's standing height, and much, much longer. He raised his neck, and customarily sniffed Shay, and snuffled near Asharas as well.

<< We have the same name. Red. Why I picked him. -About the breeding issues. He does have problems. Lots of duds and failed clutches. Why I wanted to try Garchomp in the first place. Sturdy. >>

Red thumped Charizard's chest and he 'mrrrd'.

<< Terrible shedders probably. Hoping for less ridged scales or maybe smooth scale because easier to take eyecaps off without cutting self. >>

[rockheadcd]

@electrivolt​ said: The mismatched team Volkner had returned from the past with was a sight to behold, such odd 'mons between forms and sizes Lucario had been the only one that could've been considered normal— and yet it's no surprise when even between variants lost to time, it's the overgrown dino grabbing attention, aware of it or not. ( growlithe had hogged it for long enough, anyways— )

Rampardos doesn't seem to mind the stares he gets from miner and smaller fossil alike, long since used already to this human's particular awe for reasons he doesn't quite understand, but well. He's not being feared for once, and this human his own is so fond of keeps being an absolute enabler and bringing treats, so he doesn't mind. Certainly one of his favorite humans in this time. 

Hopefully this human's dino wouldn't mind as he happily grabbed all of his attention. He would be doing it anyways while his own human wasn't available. / roark hyperfixates in real time live in 4K HD | accepting.

Ramses only looks a little disgruntled, mostly because he himself is constantly in awe at the sheer size of his brethren. Of course, Roark’s first observations were... caveman-like: one, him big, and two, him red. How Volkner managed to get his hands on an alpha shiny Rampardos may have had something to do with the association—Roark wasn’t that dumb, and if the way they had so constantly spoken to one another had proven to him, it was that any reminder was rather all-consuming. 

It made it all the more endearing, really, and Roark had been more than happy to spoil Rampardos, assuming that he wasn’t terribly distracted by their beloved rock puppy.

“Ah, I’m glad you like what I bring you! Years of practice,” Roark babbles on, falling into the routine of taking care of the Cranidos line with a light scrub of a soft bristle brush. Even if this guy was an absolute unit, his arms, proportionally, were still pretty small. Even he needed help getting dusted off. Ramses settles himself by Roark’s side, and maybe he’s a little jealous, but that’s clearly because he isn’t the senior dinosaur in this arrangement anymore. Still, he’s benevolent with the alpha after having gotten used to the fact he could tower over him. Much of Roark’s living fossils had similar reactions upon seeing this particular specimen alive and well—they had never seen an abnormally large fossil in the flesh like this. “I never thought even fossils could be alpha-sized, too, which kind of sucks knowing that means the whole alpha thing died out within the last couple of centuries.”

A wistful sigh, but knowledge was knowledge, right? Gazing fondly at Rampardos, Roark sets down the brush to he can reach up and pull Rampardos’ head down by the spikes, gently and carefully bumping his head against the dino’s before letting go. “Thank you for protecting Volkner, by the way. I bet you did a pretty good job in my place, hehe.”

[mings]

Some context...

...in relation to that last post. This is a lo-o-o-o-ong read, so feel free to skip right by if catharsis bores you.

This starts way before I joined tumblr; in fact, long before tumblr was even a thing.

Twenty years ago, we lived in a huge house backing onto the English Channel. We moved there from Scotland, which turned out to be (probably) the biggest mistake of my life. 

Within nine months of buying the place, the company I’d moved to work for nearly folded. I and most of the workforce were made redundant. That set in motion an existential battle with our mortgage insurer, which refused to pay out because I “must have known” when taking out the insurance. (I didn’t, and they eventually caved in after destroying my credit record, but that’s another story.)

Work wasn’t immediately available; none that would at least cover the bills. We got inventive, wrote a business plan, obtained finance & bought a franchise. It went pretty well for the first three years, but we had to bust a gut to make the required income. It wasn’t easy. Eventually, the franchise operator messed up relations with several key players in our insurance market. Within three months, we lost 75% of our revenue. I had to close the workshop & find part time work to make ends meet. Ultimately, we decided to close the business, sell the house and downsize to something more manageable.

What’s the relevance of this? We tried hard to keep our precarious financial state form the kids. Maybe we didn’t do as well as we thought. Our son had already become withdrawn. He’d fallen in with a group of local lads about whom we had grave misgivings. Of course, there was no discussing it. We were “over-reacting” and unreasonable. It was around that time that he decided to jack in his education. I couldn’t criticise; I’d done the same. I pulled some strings and got him a job at our local Royal Mail delivery office.

We moved to our new place. It was a stressful move. Trying to fit into a house that was literally half the size was never going to be an easy task. One afternoon, our son came home from work and soon after announced he was going out. “See you later.” Only we didn’t. He didn’t come home that night. Nor did he turn up for work the next day. Nor the day after. And nor the day after that. Within a week he was written up for unauthorised absence. We had no way of contacting him. His case was heard in the following weeks. I could offer no mitigation. He was sacked for abandonment of duty. That tag that means he’ll never work for them again. 

We still had no idea where he was. We only knew he was alive because we met a couple of his friends who couldn’t believe he’d not been in touch. Still no word. My wife was in shreds; I suspect any of you who are parents can identify with that. I was alternating between trying to prop her up and stay on top of my job, all the while under a constant barrage of barracking (Oh, we don’t mean anything by it, it’s just banter....)

About three months in I’d had enough. Sleep was a scarce resource so I rose at the crack of dawn and started on a trip, rousting one after another of the friends and acquaintances that I knew, following leads until finally I tracked him down to a sordid bedsit several towns and 40 miles away. At least he answered the door and looked sheepish. He offered no explanation or apology, and has never done so to date. He refused to come back home, but promised to keep in touch. 

We know he bounced from one sofa to another in the next few months. He spent time in some of the worst areas in the county for drug abuse. He fell into a relationship with a girl that looked promising initially and subsequently fell apart. Later, he surfaced in another town with another girl whom he subsequently married. She often spoke of his irascible temperament and moods. Ultimately the marriage was doomed; she was younger than him, found a new interest and moved out. One wonders now how much of that was her and how much she’d put up with before voting with her feet.

He’s stumbled from one financial crisis to another. Money just evaporates. It’s as though adulting is a mystery beyond his reach. I’ve lost count of the times that we’ve thrown money at him and I don’t want to even think about how much. It’s literally thousands, always a loan, yet he never, ever pays back.

He left his job. That was inevitable too; he worked for his ex-father-in-law’s company. Heaven only knows how long the writing was on the wall; it was pretty swift once she left. He drifted again. He chose to live in a squalid flat with no heating rather than move back with us. Absolutely his choice, not ours. 

We moved to Scotland. That meant all his stuff had to go into storage. Quick rewind - he moved all his stuff to ours when he gave up the house he & his ex lived in, but refused to move back home. I had to rent a storage unit to make space for all his gear & when we moved I shifted all his gear into the store, gave him the key & told him I’d paid three months up front; after that it was his to deal with. Apparently, he surrendered the store and moved all his gear into the flat...

Fast forward to a couple of months back. He’d run out of options at the flat. His flatmate was “really difficult” to live with. His ex had moved away, taking their son with her. He had nothing left to stay for and, surprise, he’d lost his job again so he couldn’t afford the rent. 

My wife convinced me we should give him one last shot, citing his fragile mental health. I agreed on the strict understanding that we are simply no longer in a position to support him. He assured us he’d be applying for work as soon as he got here. We rarely see him before midday...

We agreed the end of the first week in March. We knew he’d arrive with a ton of stuff so we had (again) to create space. That’s infinitely more difficult now we’re running a B&B, but we set to the task. Suddenly, two weeks sooner than we’d agreed, he rented a van and was on his way. No discussion, no warning. We only found out because he put something on FB. 

Finally, after trying to reach him most of the day, he phoned. Whilst we should have been relieved, instead we were treated to a barrage of abuse because all the petrol stations were shut. Of course they were. It was in a national lockdown and why would they stay open when there was no one on the roads? JFC, who embarks on a journey in sub-zero temperatures across some of the most inhospitable country in the UK without enough fuel? With a six year old child. Yes, not only did he forget to tell us about his change of plans, he forgot to tell us he was bringing his son too.

We drove south through the night for two hours to find him somewhere in the Cairngorms where he’d run out of fuel. No fuel meant no heaters at 1500 feet in deep snow. The ambient temperature was -5ºC/23ºF & with wind chill that was probably around -10ºC/14ºF. We found him & refuelled his van. No thanks, just another barrage of abuse, because he was tired. We took his son into our car & drove the two hours back in near silence. I think we knew then that it was an awful predictor of what was to come.

We’ve had row after row. He accused me of being passive-aggressive in the last. He actually ticks all the boxes for passive-aggressive behaviour. I’ve never been tagged with that before; if anything I’m too forthright, blunt even. That’s a failing to which I will admit. If by that he meant that I don’t talk about the elephant in the room, it’s only because we fear it’ll lead to another explosion.

He never saw the damage that we sustained during our fostering years. He was never there. Yet here we are, experiencing flashbacks to those traumatic incidents; the parallels are exact. We have the benefit of years of training. We recognise manipulative behaviour when we see it - we were trained by some of the nations best exponents - and we know divisive tactics implicitly.  What he doesn’t know is that he will succeed only in pushing us closer together and alienating himself even further.

There are clear and well-documented links between cannabis and mental health issues. He is allowing the drug to determine his life choices. Although I may be wrong, I think he’s cultivating skunk, which is nothing like the weed that circulated in my youth. The smell that pervades our hallway is instantly evocative of high strength Afghan resin. It’s also going to be acutely difficult to eradicate before we’re due to open.

We’ve endured 20 years of this treatment. I know that even if we have a ritual burning, it will only be a matter of time before we’re back here again. We’re old. We’re tired. And we’ve worked our socks off (and still do) to achieve what we have. Maybe somewhere along the way we missed something. But I’m at a stage where I’m so far beyond this I just want it to stop.

[megthemewlingquim]

Could you write a thing where Loki makes love to the reader for the first time?

Leannan

Pairing: Husband!Loki x Virgin!Wife!Reader

Warnings: smut (lovemaking, oral (female receiving), loss of virginity, size kink), death by fluff, emotions. Loki speaking Gaelic and Old Norse. Love.

A/N: You get me, anon. You even said, "Make love". Hell to the yeah. Also, this is dramatic as hell.

You had never thought that you would spend the rest of your life with a god, but are you complaining? Absolutely not.

He has been your husband for... nine hours, three minutes, and... and you've lost track of the seconds. You doubt that he has, though. No, Loki can keep track of things like that.

You're standing in his — no, your — room, with your arms around yourself. Standing still, your eyes are fixed on the bed.

"And what has my wife so frightened, hmm?"

A caress against the back of your shoulder. Goosebumps break out at Loki’s touch, but there is no fear. Not here.

"Oh," you say, your voice betraying your emotions, "I'm — I'm not frightened." You smile. "It's just... newlyweds usually... "

"Seal the deal?"

"Ye— yeah. That."

"You don't seem frightened, but you are nervous, as most wives are on their wedding night." He comes into your field of vision, and you see his youthful face, so full of life and love. Love towards you. "A chagair, we don't have to do anything tonight... we don't have to do anything at all, if you don't want to. Now, or ever."

He has slipped in a Gaelic word — now you know this is something sincere. He's only ever spoken in Gaelic to you. That, and Norse. The Gaelic was laced into his wedding vows as well. You have yet to find out what any if it means, but he assured you after the wedding that you would find out in time.

"I do want to," you say. "I don't feel pressured or anything like that. You're my husband, Loki." The unfamiliar sentence makes its way past your lips and it slips out like a snake, curling with the tilt of your head and lifting its own head at your smile.

And with your smile comes his. He takes your hands in his, lifting them to his own lips and kissing your fingers, making his way up your hands, up to your arms. One arm drops to your side as his attention lingers on the other, but it comes back up again to run through Loki's hair, which is still one of the softest things you've ever touched.

"Say it," he mumbles into your skin. "Please, say that you want me."

"I love you."

There's meaning in that exchange, and you both know it. Loki pulls back, slowly, and looks up at you with that look, the one that tells you, I don't deserve you. "My—" he gasps, "my darling, I—"

Then he's up again, kissing you with more ferocity and passion than usual. The wedding kiss. He cups your face in his calloused hands, thumbs swiping over your cheeks.

"I love you so much, leannan," he whispers when he pulls his lips away from yours. His eyes are glistening. "How I ever ended up with you..." He interrupts himself with an overjoyed, choked up laugh.

"You doubt your own worth," you say with a smile. "You won't ever have to do that again. Not with me...not with anyone." You reach up and wipe his eyes.

He says nothing at that, but you know he's feeling so many things: denial, humility, adoration... He doesn't have to say anything. You don't want him to, anyway.

Gently, he moves you toward the bed. The door has been shut, and the lights have been dimmed. You can still see him, and that's all you need for you to feel safe.

He lays you down onto the bed, letting his eyes wander over your form. He notices the small rise and fall of your chest, the smoothness of your legs, the way you’re looking up at him, hope and love now betraying your own thoughts of nervousness and hesitation.

“I am going to ravish you tonight,” he says, and it is good and real and he loves you. Dear God, he loves you he loves you and he's gonna go to his grave with those words on his lips.

"Are you?" you ask and it's amiable and joking and you love him...

"Yes, my sweetness, I am. If you'll let me." Loki starts to caress you now, gentle hands making his way, almost hesitantly, up your legs, up your clothed torso. His right hand finds a breast, and he squeezes it, gently, thumb swiping over the hardened nipple there. And there's a sound he hears — a sigh, but it's different this time. It's not annoyed, it's not tired. It is relaxation, it is courage, it is acceptance.

"Yes," you sigh. He helps you out of your nightgown, slips it above your head. You wear nothing now except a white pair of lace underwear. Innocence, he thinks as he looks down at that part of you, that chaste and secret part of you that even you haven't explored too much.

He leaves it as he rises to meet your lips with his again. He has to be slow, gentle, patient. He must make this good and natural for you.

Your eyes flick all over him. You look at his chest, his muscular arms that are not holding you just yet, his emerald eyes that are darkened with lust... lust for you... and what surprises you the most is actually not that. It is, simply, how tall and big he seems, hanging over your small, delicate form.

"What is it?" Loki asks, and a smile makes its way to his face.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just... ah, how... how little I am compared to you. I feel very small. And... and I like it."

He hums. "You're my little one, aren't you?" He moves his head to your neck and slowly, slowly kisses there, and something about that makes you shiver.

Then, he makes his way down, looking up occasionally to see your reactions. He kisses and caresses your breasts, then your stomach. You gasp when he leaves a little love bite down near your hip.

The moment of truth comes as he looks at your covered sex. He can clearly see that you are ready for him. "May I take these off?" he asks, his voice so quiet you barely hear him. You nod, and he does. He slips your underwear off of you, the sound of the fabric on skin soothing to you in the oddest of ways. Then, he looks down at you.

You don't hide yourself, nor do you make a show of yourself. You are just there, all bare and naked in the dark before him. You don't quite know what to do with your hands, your legs, and you don't know what you should be looking at, either.

He says your name, in a voice that sounds so awed and overwhelmed. He glances briefly up at you. That smile has still not left his face. "My darling, you're stunning. Ethereal. Absolutely exquisite."

He goes lower, and your breath hitches as a green light surrounds him for a moment, ridding him of his clothes. Your hand finds his. "What are you doing?"

"I know you're already ready for me, pet, but... I just want to taste you."

Good God, how can he make such dirty words sound so shy and caring?

Though you have your doubts about whether he'll like it, you let him.

He takes his time, memorizing the taste and feel of every inch of you down there and it's wonderful. His tongue swipes through your lips and up to your clit, spreading warmth wherever it goes. Breathless, you gasp and quiver as he continues.

"My dear," Loki says, lifting his head to give you a way to catch your breath, but also to tease, "you've no idea how incredibly arousing it is to have you like this..." He seems very lost in thought. "Submitting to every ounce of pleasure I give you..."

You moan at his words. "Loki, I need you, please, I — ah—"

He interrupts you by licking up your folds and sucking on your clit again. "I know, sweetness. I know. And you shall have me. I guess this'll have to wait."

He moves, then, kissing his way back up to your face. And as his body lifts, you get a good look at him and your mind blanks.

Oh, he's beautiful...

Mostly pale skin, with some blush on his chest. He isn't overly muscular, but you can tell by his arms and his torso that he does have strength to him.

You look lower. It's the first time you've seen a penis up close like this, and you can somehow say that Loki's is very nice. A little bit on the slimmer side, but it is a little longer. And it is rock hard.

"Lítár þú," Loki mutters dreamily, his eyes scanning over your entire body. "Minn wife."

His voice sounds wonderful in English, and it sounds absolutely ethereal in Gaelic and Norse. It sounds so smooth, so foreign, oddly comforting.

He moves closer, so that your legs are beside his own and he is almost at that spot that you've dreamed about, prayed for, the place a husband and wife are connected, with him on top. "Are you ready?" He smiles, gently, carressing your left thigh.

"Yes," you say simply.

You lift your arms, like a toddler pleading to go up, and Loki falls on top of you, his arms on either side of your shoulders.

Time seems to stop.

You are face to face, breathing in each other's air, and your eyes are locked. All that you know in that moment is that the man you are looking at is your best friend, your lover, your husband. Your brand new husband, your only husband. Your joyful smile tells him everything he needs to know:

God Almighty, I love you.

And he answers with the same smile. "Leannan," he whispers. "That means beloved. "

Your eyes fill with tears.

A warning look comes over his face then, as he looks down at where the both of you are moments away from being united. "I will not deny that this will hurt. But I will do what I can to ease your pain. It will only hurt for a moment."

And, ever so slowly, he pushes in. He does it as if one wrong, badly timed movement will cause you to almost scream with pain — he does it carefully, never taking his eyes off of your face, never taking his arms away from where they keep him above you.

You gasp at the first flicker of pain you feel. Then, your gasps turn to little cries, little whimpers.

Loki shushes you, his tone so quiet you can barely hear him. "I know, I know it hurts. It'll be over soon."

A couple more seconds, and he is fully inside you. Your breath comes in little gasps as the dull pain fades. Loki himself releases one breath, one that is laced with lust. "There you go, it's over. Good job," he says, wiping your eyes with a hand, "Are you alright?"

You nod, weakly, offering him a smaller smile. "Yeah," you whisper, "yeah, I'm good."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He looks over you again, just to make sure he hasn't hurt you in any way. Then, his face becomes more determined.

"I am going to make love to you," he says, and your breath hitches. You've always loved that phrase.

What he does next surprises you. He moves, almost laying completely on top of you now, and wraps his arms around your shoulders. His head goes low to kiss at your neck again, and that is when you feel his length moving inside of you.

You lose your breath at the first thrust, suddenly consumed by an urge to wrap your own arms... and legs... around his warm body.

You've never been closer to him in your entire life.

"Yes," Loki murmurs into your ear, "yes, hold on to me." His lips graze your temple. "Let me take care of you now."

And you do. You let him move inside of you, thrusting slowly and gently, giving you pleasures you've never felt before. He moves with a firmness, but a passionate one. Every stroke he makes is long and slow, and he pushes back into you with a determination. The pleasure in your limbs grows with every stroke, from not being there at all to a low sensation in your groin to a fire that's burning you from the inside out.

You grip at him, sobbing with the force of it all. It's too much and it's perfect and it's too much and you're crying, begging for this passion to last. Loki notices, and though his hips don't stop their movements, he moves his torso back up to hover over yours. His own eyes now shine with tears, as well.

He kisses you, sharing that same feeling of seemingly unconditional love coming from the both of you.

This goes on for some time — you can only do so much in a situation like this — but once Loki's hips stutter and his breathing becomes more labored, you know it's almost over. You as well, are inching closer to your own end, and one shaky whimper lets him know.

"Oh —" He realizes what this means, and he sounds delighted. "My dear, I want you to come with me. Share this moment with me, come on."

"Loki, I —" you plead, your entire body warming rapidly. "Oh... oh God —"

"Come on, leannan, come with me."

And you do. You let go of everything in that moment, just reveling in the feeling of his arms around you and the immense pleasure you feel from your first real orgasm. You sob for him again, gripping his shoulders with trembling hands. He, after a few more seconds, comes inside you with a groan, and it takes a minute for the both of you to catch your breath.

Your heartbeats quieting, you practically melt into each other's embrace as Loki falls into bed beside you. You absorb this feeling into your memory, of how the air feels and smells, how the sweat on your skin is oddly comforting, the look in Loki's eyes...

"That..." you pant. "That was amazing..."

And Loki smiles. "I'm glad... I'm glad I could do that, my beautiful, wonderful wife..."

So ends your first night as husband and wife. One, you know, of many.