#it feels like it's made for kids but with swearing

[calebsmuse]

not me haunting your asks in every single blog you own 😈 sooo, do you write parents!au? bc I wanted to request some scenario abt how sylus, caleb and xavier would react to their kids telling u to shut up. I KNOW ITS WEIRD BUT ITS A OLD TREND I THINK?? anyway, love ya babe 💘💋💋

੭⠀ A little prank.

⋆⠀AUTHOR'S NOTES: I love parents!au so much 😭

⋆⠀FEATURING: Xavier, Sylus, Caleb.

⋆⠀WARNING: English is not my first language, so it may contain some mistakes.

Your son’s favorite pastime was annoying his father, and he was certainly better at it than anyone else. Not only that, but he also managed to convince you to help with yet another one of his… pranks.

The boy smiled when he saw his father heading to the kitchen and turned back to his video game. Not long after, you walked into the room with something in hand. “Sweetheart, could you take this—”

“Shut up, mom,” he tried to say in an irritated tone, but a smile was plastered across his face.

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀XAVIER

Not even five seconds had passed before your son was groaning in pain, Xavier’s slipper lying on the couch beside him after hitting the back of his head squarely. “Dad—”

Xavier raised the other slipper, pointing it at the boy. “Apologize. Now,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?”

“But I was busy, and she—” Once again, the boy didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, the other slipper flying straight at him. Xavier crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on his son.

You widened your eyes and placed a hand on your husband’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Okay, okay, it was a… joke, just a prank.”

Xavier gave a faint smirk, glancing at you. “…Yeah, I knew that.” He pulled you into a hug, sticking his tongue out at your son. “You think I’d stop at that if I saw him disrespecting you like that?”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀SYLUS

Sylus prided himself on being an exemplary father. He was patient, fun—or so he thought—and wealthy. I mean, surely his son was already having a better childhood than most people who came from the same place Sylus had, right?

And perhaps it was exactly that freedom and comfort in his presence that made the boy feel confident enough to make that kind of joke.

“I must’ve misheard. Definitely,” Sylus said loud enough for both of you to hear. You turned away so he wouldn’t see your expression, while your son simply grimaced.

“Dad, she could’ve just asked one of my uncles to go—or, I don’t know, gone herself!” the boy said, spinning the pieces of a pistol between his fingers.

Sylus’s steps were almost inaudible; it was as if he had teleported to his son’s side. He crossed his arms, an irritated expression on his face. His son had never seen that look before—at least, not directed at him.

“Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that under this roof,” he said. “I don’t care if she could’ve asked someone else—if she tells you to do something, you do it. She brought you into this world.”

The boy couldn’t hold back his laughter, bursting out in hysterics. Your husband opened his mouth to say something but stopped when he saw you laughing as well. He let out a sigh, rubbing his face. “You too now?”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀CALEB

Honestly, your son was expecting Caleb to yell at him or chase after him, but it was even more terrifying to see him stay silent, slowly turning to face the boy.

He froze, setting the video game controller down on the coffee table. Caleb’s eyes stayed fixed on him, and his silence lingered just long enough to make the boy shift uncomfortably under the stare.

When Caleb finally spoke, his voice was strangely calm—and that wasn’t exactly a good thing. “You have five seconds to do as your mother said and come back here, and another five to apologize and explain yourself.”

You let out an awkward laugh before wrapping your arms around your husband. “It was just a joke, I swear.” Caleb glanced at you, slipping a hand under your shirt to give you a pinch. “Ouch! It was his idea!”

He rolled his eyes but let out a relieved laugh, despite his irritation with your newfound way of spending free time. “I should’ve known.”

[lukolathoughts]

Nicola loves the girls, the gays, and Luke Newton.

Dearest gentle readers,

Well! What an interesting few days. I'm not sure where to even start. I just want to let Jakeholes know, this isn't the blog for you, so it's best you move along now before you start foaming at the mouth.

In my first blog, I touched on subtext and reading between the lines. This is something I teach to my students and encourage their critical thinking skills. I will give out a photo and ask my students to 'infer' from what they can see in the photograph. 'Inference is a process of deriving logical conclusions from premises known or assumed to be true. It is also a guess or an opinion that is formed based on the information that you have.' In an exam, if I gave the students a photograph and they simply told me that all they could see was that the sky was blue, the grass was green, the lady is wearing a green coat and the man a hoodie and a baseball hat, they would not get very many marks.

However, if they described what they could 'infer' from the photo, such as that handhold does not look genuine and his fingers are stiff, their laughter seems over the top, the man isn't wearing a coat in January. They seem to be looking directly at the photographer, they never make eye contact in any of the photos. This would get them some more marks. Then if they went that one step further and asked WHY to all these points and backed it up with a statement explaining why - they would get even more marks. For example, why isn't the man wearing a coat in January? This could suggest the weather is not that cold in London at the moment, or the this picture might be from an earlier time period. They could look at the shop displays for evidence. Why does the lady never make eye contact with the man, could it infer that she is uncomfortable doing so or the thought never occurred to her? Why are they looking directly at the photographer? Could it possibly indicate they knew the paparazzi were there? And why would they want the paparazzi to take their photo's? What do you say to that class? Are they a couple happily in love? Write me a story on it, one, two, three go! They say a picture paints a thousand words.

Now since Deux Moi dropped the photos just as I was cooking the kid's tea (British slang for dinner) I have once again been glued to Twitter. I had to take a break for a bit and ensure my offspring didn't starve, but I thought oh god another shitshow and the day isn't even over. But I open Instagram and I swear I had the best laugh I have had all day really. I'm not sure when these photos were taken. The weather does look mild to be January and Jake is wearing a hoodie, but my husband is stupid like this and walks around in board shorts. In January. In Wales. When I tell you it's baltic cold, I mean it. But men apparently don't feel the cold especially if you're 24 and plastered to the side of your bestie or PR girlfriend, however you prefer. Us Brits love analysing the weather, probably because it's so shit here. So the timing is not really the issue for me. What made me laugh was was those two belly-laughing in some London alleyway looking like, 'look at us, we're so funny, everything is hilarious haha.' This was quite surprising to me as I genuinely did not realise Jake had a sense of humour, especially around Nic. What did she say that was so funny? We know she has the ability to make Luke belly laugh just by scratching her nose really. It was almost as if it was all a bit orchestrated for the cameras they were staring directly at. 'Smile and laugh for the camera Jake! You've been framed!'

So what was this? A PR set up that Nic and Jake were clearly aware of? Call me sceptical, but I've never seen anything so obviously fake and staged in all my life. Well except the motorbike segment on Graham Norton on the 13th of December last year. I have thought a lot about this and I know I might get some hate, but it's my opinion and I'm sorry Nic if you ever read this. Another thing us English teachers like to do is DESCRIBE things. Describe it to me Peter, or it didn't happen. Touch, smell, sound, taste, sight. Those are the five senses and if you write me a story, you bet your ass they better be in it or it's an F for you. So Nicola, describe to me how it felt racing through London on the back of a motorbike driven by a geriatric, Guinness drinking granddad (do you like my use of alliteration here fellow English teachers?). Graham Norton - 'we have a picture of you on the bike!' Erm, no you have a picture of Nicola stood next to the bike with her thumbs up. There was a video released by her PR company simultaneously that shows Nicola in a STUDIO sitting on the bike and it moving very, very slowly. We do not see her whizzing away up the road on the back of said bike into oblivion, screaming like Michelle Phieffer in Grease 2, clutching on to cool rider Guinness granddad for dear life. In fact, when asked about the experience she recalls literally nothing. If it was me, I'd have been like OMG Graham I almost died! The wind was howling, I was freezing, all I could hear was the rush of wind and the honking horns of cars. All I could see was the glare of lights and traffic and I tasted my own tears through fear.

Watch it if you don't believe me. There was nothing. Am I positive it didn't happen? Actually yes, show me the footage and I'll believe. Why did she go through this elaborate scheme? I have my theories and I will not share them here. I have said enough. But I did get an image in my mind of Luke in Rome rubbing his forehead and thinking, what is she up to now? He was probably secretly a bit proud.

Ok back to tonight's debacle. After the shit show that was Luke's disastrous family weekend than had more taps dripping than the Leaky Cauldron in Harry Potter, I find it highly convenient these photos drop today of all days. I know that Nicola HATES Deux Moi and the feeling I believe is mutual. Wouldn't DM have looked at these photos logically and thought, well these two look like besties out for a stroll? I suppose she does not care, whatever sells right? Was this to yet again spite Nicola?

Or was this Nicola who saw everything that Luke endured this weekend, and quietly told her PR team to 'drop' the photos of me with Jake to divert some attention away. Did she come charging in on her white horse (motorbike) to save the day? There is also the highly suspicious tanned photo of Nic at the WT premiere and then Luke's photo from the funeral, (I do not condone this by the way and I was upset for him this morning and his invasion of privacy) which also shows a bit of a red, sunburned face. Did Nicola once again panic and try to control the narrative? I am lately still picking up on her nervous, scared energy in my readings. She is very nine of swords in her head. Losing sleep etc.

I do love a good mystery and folks, I guess if you are reading this and nodding and not screaming obscenities at me through your screen, I guess you are stuck here with me on the ship for the long haul. I actually loved these photos tonight as it gave me a good laugh and and it proved to me even further that Jake is to Nic what Kurt Hummel is to Rachel Berry. Besties. It is also quite ironic that the first pap pics of them last October dropped the week his trailer for WT dropped and these photos land the week his film is released! What are the chances! Coincidence, Sherlock?

PS. No I do NOT believe Antonia was at Luke's family member's funeral. We have to stop treating this girl like the bogeyman. Let her go and live her life. Luke is living his I have no doubt.

PPS. It is not homophobic to recognise someone is gay. I INFER this from his own Instagram and his friends and partner's posts. I am fed up of being called homophobic when I have a lot of gay friends and two gay cousins.

PPPS. Luke and Nic sitting in a tree, KISSSING. I see you Nic, you savvy little mamma ;,)

[ylangelegy]

like a python 🧊 jihoon x reader.

jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him.

★ rockstar!jihoon x reader. ★ word count: 2.5k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol. jihoon-centric, childhood friends, yearning... so much yearning, young k makes a cameo, jihoon is a bit lame (affectionately), cussing/swearing. mentions of alcohol, food. ★ footnotes: got7 dropped winter heptagon and it's all i can think about. wrote this in one sitting as a show of gratitude to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for introducing me to these boys. haven't done a song fic in a hot minute, but for lee jihoon and got7? anything. shoutout to igot7_MarKP on twitter for the english translation of the lyrics.

🎧 now playing: python by got7 — i know i'm an icon, watch me with the lights on; but she got a hold on me like a python.

▸ MUSIC IS HOW I'VE BEEN VENTING NOW... OVERSEAS, I'M SELLING OUT.

It’s pretty surreal to Jihoon, being in a room with some of the biggest names in rock.

In the past hour alone, he’s met Alex Turner, Dave Grohl, and— holy shit, is that Hayley Williams? Jihoon is getting dizzy, and it’s not only because of all the secondhand smoke he’s inhaled since he got to the Rolling Stones afterparty. 

The best of the best. That’s what the invitation had boasted. It was the scene’s most coveted event, and Jihoon somehow made it to the guest list. 

Unbidden, your voice nags from somewhere in the back of his mind. You’re the best, Jihoon-ah. 

He shakes his head, like he’s physically trying to get away from the thought of you. This had been happening a lot more as of late. Fleeting moments wherein he’d imagine how you would react, what you’d say. 

But Jihoon always catches himself. He snaps himself out of it and goes back to recording, goes back to performing. 

God, he needs to get it together. He’s starting to regret saying ‘no’ to the cigarette Ely Buendia was offering him earlier. 

(In Jihoon’s defense, he didn’t smoke often. He didn’t want to fuck up his vocal chords. He had a one-cigarette-a-year rule, and he wasn’t about to use it now. It was only January; who knew what else the year would throw him?) 

Jihoon is contemplating some other vice— maybe he can go grab another beer— when he feels a tap on his shoulder. At the sight of who came up to him, Jihoon immediately folds into a bow. 

“There’s no need for that,” Younghyun says, equal parts amused and embarrassed. “We’re all the same here, yeah?” 

Jihoon pulls himself to his full height. “Not… really,” he says lamely, and then he immediately launches into mumbled apologies when he realizes how he might have sounded. 

It wasn’t that Jihoon thought he was better than his peers. Hell, he knew that he was the least important person in the room. That’s what he meant; they were not all the same, because Jihoon still had a long ways to go. 

Especially when compared to rock icon Young K, who is— gracefully— taking Jihoon’s awkwardness in stride. 

“You’re holding up a lot better than me,” Younghyun muses. “At my first afterparty, I threw up on Rupam Islam.” 

“No.” 

“Yes, unfortunately. He was very nice about it, though.” 

Jihoon lets out a stutter of a laugh. He’s never been a fan of small talk, but he clings to it now like a lifeline. “Does it get easier?” he asks. 

Younghyun’s eyebrows raise. “Throwing up on rockstars?” 

“No, no–”

“I was kidding,” Younghyun says in between chuckles. His expression is a little more pensive when he goes on, “I can’t say for sure that it gets easier, but you learn to deal with it.” 

You learn to deal with it. Jihoon can almost laugh at just how accurate that is. It seems applicable to every aspect of his life— including missing you. 

Jihoon winces. Younghyun notices. 

The older man doesn’t comment on it, probably thinks it’s something else entirely. Younghyun doesn’t flinch away, either, when Jihoon nervously says, “Can I ask you another question?” 

“Ask away,” says Younghyun. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” 

What is Jihoon doing? He doesn’t know either, but it’s either this or fight off the urge to run through a pack of Marlboros. “How do you cope,” he starts slowly, “with… feelings?” 

A beat. Crap. Jihoon realizes he definitely could have phrased that better, because Younghyun is now looking at him with an expression of mild confusion. 

Jihoon backtracks. “You— we— go through a lot in this field of work. Like, a lot. And you— fuck, fine, I’m— grateful for it, really, I swear. But there’s just… so much other things, too, aside from the gratitude. How do you cope with those?”

Jihoon knows he probably looks and sounds like a trainwreck in his bid to be deliberately vague. By some miracle, Younghyun at least seems to understand what Jihoon is trying to say.

Younghyun’s lip quirks to one side as he thinks of his response. The silence stretches uncomfortably long, but then he gives an answer that’s the last thing Jihoon could have expected. 

“I write,” Younghyun says. 

Jihoon blinks once. Then twice. 

“You write,” he repeats, and the former nods. 

“It’s all in my discography. The anger, the heartbreak, the love.” Younghyun raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve written nearly 200 songs, and all of them are just— that. Questions. Answers to questions. Feelings and stories.” 

It’s so simple, so obvious. It’s like a glaring traffic sign, like something that every musician should know and do.

Put it in a song. Perform it for thousands and leave the muse none the wiser. Profit. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Jihoon had done it a fair amount of times, but never had he considered putting you to pen and paper. The prospect of it makes something in his chest thrum. 

“I—” He clears his throat. “I think I have to go, sunbaenim. It was nice seeing you.” 

A hint of humor glints in Younghyun’s eye, like he’s somewhat aware of the fact he’s witnessing something unravel. “‘Younghyun’ is fine,” he chirps. “And it was nice seeing you, too, Jihoon. Take care of yourself.” 

The words— take care of yourself— are supposed to be a platitude. To Jihoon, it feels like a tall ask. 

▸ I'M TOURING THE WORLD BUT I'M MISSING THE ONE WHO HELD IT DOWN.

Jihoon is exhausted. 

As much as he wants to say that he’s never been this tired in his life, it’d probably be a lie. He’d make the claim, hit the road, then end up crashing out saying the same damn thing. He’s seen this film before; he knows how it ends. 

He falls back on his hotel bed after his shower. A low groan escapes him, and he sends up a silent prayer to all the higher powers there are. Thank you for sheets with a 300-500 thread count. Thank you for air-conditioning. Thank you for warm showers and Listerine. 

Despite his fatigue, Jihoon can’t just go to sleep. Post-show adrenaline always took a couple of hours to wear off.

He briefly contemplates his options. Write a lyric or two? Watch a shitty Netflix movie? Stare out the hotel window until his eyes can’t stay open anymore? 

None of the above, it seems, as he reaches for his phone. 

Jihoon has never been active on SNS; he just couldn’t bring himself to care about things like TikTok trends or Twitter ‘beef’. It’s a constant thorn in his PR team’s side. There is one thing that he bothers to check, though, and God forbid he deny himself the simple pleasure of some good ol’ fashioned pining. 

He’s been on your Instagram page enough times that it’s the first thing that shows when he goes to the search bar. It’s the only thing that shows, really, which gives some pretty good sense of where his head is at. 

Your profile loads. There’s no new post, no recent story. Jihoon is both disappointed and relieved.

No news is good news, he thinks to himself as he leisurely scrolls through the photos he’s already seen a dozen times before. You, feeding sidewalk cats. You, sipping tea at a cafe. You, in all the places that were once Jihoon’s, too. The beaches, the hiking trails, the restaurant in your shared neighborhood. 

Jihoon opens that particular post. Even though he’s watched your life in squares for the better half of the past three years, this is the one photo that always has him feeling a pang of… something. 

Because Jihoon can imagine it— being at that restaurant with you. The two of you had discovered it together, had pooled your measly school allowances to afford the bokguk and ganjang gejang. 

He imagines being there with this older version of you, being the one snapping the picture that’d find a spot on your feed. He can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye that if he really, really tries, it begins to look more like a memory than a daydream.

But he’s not in Busan, not even in Korea. He’s in the United States instead, where he has ten stops before heading to Canada and Europe. 

Sold-out stadiums. Thousands upon thousands of adoring fans. 

All the food that he could possibly want, and yet it’s pufferfish soup and soy sauce crabs that he’s looking for. 

Every person that he could possibly have, and yet. And yet. 

Jihoon huffs out a frustrated exhale. He’s tired, which he swears makes him delusional. 

He casts his phone aside, blissfully ignorant to the way his finger double taps his screen as he does. 

Halfway across the world, your phone pings

woozi_universefactory ✓ liked your post. 

▸ I'VE BEEN RUNNING BACKWARDS, RUNNING BACKWARDS LIKE A MARATHON.

The push notification glaring up at Jihoon looks a lot like a bomb that’s about to explode.

Jihoon feels like it’s a bomb, because he refuses to believe that after over a year of absolutely nothing, you’ve messaged first. You’ve messaged first. 

He double, triple checks his calendar. It’s neither of your birthdays. It’s not a holiday, either. Is it Chuseok? No— that doesn’t make sense. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he chides himself under his breath. It’s a text. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jihoon opens the notification. 

And then his heart just. 

Stops. 

You’d sent two messages— the first, being the post that had him spiraling last night. It’s the proceeding message that has Jihoon hoping the ground will swallow him whole. 

Stalking me, Jihoon-ah? 

Holy shit.

Jihoon types out at least three different messages, from Are you a fly on my wall to Is there a new Instagram feature I don’t know about to What happened to “hello, how are you”? 

In the end, he only sends back a single question mark. When he opens the offending post, he immediately sees his transgression. 

Jihoon hadn’t liked the photo before last night. He didn’t like much posts to begin with. How— When— 

His phone pings. He’s never been so thankful that he mostly opts to get room service for breakfast, because the squeak that he lets out is definitely not very rockstar-like. Jihoon fumbles, and he ends up opening your DM before he can psych himself up for it. 

LOL. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, you say. 

Damn you and your ability to render him speechless. Jihoon wonders if he can get away with not responding, with getting back to you a couple of days later and blaming his work. 

Except. 

Jihoon’s fingers slowly move across his screen. 

It was a good post, he says. 

It was a post from a year ago, you answer. 

So? He throws in an emoji of a man shrugging for good measure. Jihoon never uses emojis, but he can make some exceptions. 

Your respond, So, stalking. You were stalking me. 

Jihoon knows he’s digging a hole for himself, knows he’s going to stay up several nights thinking of just how stupid he is. If he were a stronger man, he’d pull the plug on this conversation and that’d be it. You wouldn’t bug him. He would maybe write a song about this moment. The world would go on. 

But he can hear you. 

In the messages, in the words on his screen. He can hear your voice, the way you’d smile or laugh or tease. How you’d say his name in that sing-song tone he once pretended to hate. 

He hears you in your messages, and he’ll live with the secondhand shame if it means that he gets to keep on listening. 

Not stalking, he shoots back. Just checking in. 

Ah, you say. Because you missed me?~

Despite himself, he scoffs. You’ve always been so shameless. It didn’t matter to you that he was WOOZI the rockstar; to you, he would always be Jihoon who lived three houses down. 

As if, he says to your teasing.

You don’t respond anymore. You don’t even read the message, because Jihoon doesn’t see the little ‘Seen’ under his last message.

He waits for it for a minute. Then five minutes. Then seven minutes. He stops checking at the thirteen-minute mark, because he likes to believe he’s no longer a high schooler with a raging crush on the girl next door. 

He’s a grown man. He’s WOOZI, for Christ’s sake. 

He can’t keep coming back to you.

▸ I GAVE YOU MY TIME WHEN I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH; ALL OF MY FEELINGS, SWEPT UNDER THE RUG.

Except he does. 

WOOZI may not want to. WOOZI may be the bassist writing songs about the past in hopes of leaving things in the past, but Jihoon is a different story. 

Jihoon texts you the moment he lands in Gimhae International Airport. Jihoon stands outside your front door— definitely jetlagged, probably in need of a shower— with his luggage in one hand and his phone in the other. 

Jihoon acts like it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience when he tells you, “Come on, then.” 

The two of you get the crabs and soup. He refuses to talk about his time away; he contents himself with listening, like he always does, and you fill the silence with babble. Your desk job, your parents’ nagging, your hobbies and side hustles. 

“Probably not as interesting as your life,” you joke after a particularly long-winded anecdote about a delivery rider who got your address wrong. 

Jihoon neither confirms nor denies the statement. He only raises one eyebrow and gives you a wordless gesture with his hand. Go on anyway, he’s saying, and you take the cue. 

The meal ends. Jihoon invites you for coffee. Then ice cream. Then a walk. 

“This is very suspicious.” 

Jihoon can’t help it; a snort of laughter escapes him at your words. “Can’t a guy take a friend out to lunch?” he asks humorlessly. 

“And dinner,” you note. 

“And dinner, yes.” 

“And dessert.” 

“And dessert.” 

The two of you are taking the long way home. There’s something to be said about how Jihoon drags his feet, about how you walk like you’re not on borrowed time. Even your conversation moves like you’re beating around the bush.

There is an elephant in the room and Jihoon is done pretending that it’s not there. That it hasn’t been there since the day you two met in primary school, since the first time he held your hand as a teenager, since he became a musician and every song he performed became about you.

Jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him. 

“Are you dying?” 

Your blasé question draws a bark of laughter from him. “Jesus, no,” he says. “Do I have to be dying to want to see you?” 

You don’t answer right away. Jihoon once again has that feeling that he’s said something wrong, something loaded, but you save him from overthinking when you respond with, “You wanted to see me?” 

There it is. That teasing tone, that hint of a smile. 

You bump your shoulder against his. “You missed me, Jihoon-ah. Admit it.” 

And Jihoon is done, Jihoon is tired, Jihoon is still yours after all this time.

“Yeah,” he finally, finally says. “I missed you.” 

[slxt4chriss]

Route 66

Flat tire… *Blowjob, swearing, Nicknames (darlin’. Etc.), cum swallowing, Oral (M)*

•Thank you to @ariestrxsh for helping me with this, I love you to the moon, your the absolute sweetest•

"Damn!" You exclaimed when you got out of your old, red mustang to find that your left front tire was flat while you were in the middle of nowhere on Route 66. You reached into the pocket of your Daisy Duke cutoff shorts to retrieve your phone, which of course, had no service. You started rummaging through the trunk of your car, hoping to find the tools you needed to change it even though you hadn't the first clue on how to do so.

Right as you were about to give up, a Chevy whose blue paint was peeling off the frame pulled off in front of you, the tires kicking up the dry dust as it stopped. "Hey, little lady. You got car trouble?" The blue-eyed man asked as he got out of his pickup truck, a toothpick dangling from his lips. You were traveling alone on a long stretch of road where there was nothing but dirt for several miles, so you were relieved to see another person.

"Yeah, I've got a flat," you pouted. "Don't worry, kid. I can change it for ya, the man responded with a smile and a wink. "You'd do that for me?" You asked, batting your eyelashes in his direction. "Only if you tell me your name, darlin', he replied, his voice sounding sweet and inviting like warm honey as he reached into the back of his pickup truck for his jack. You told him your name. "What's yours?" You asked, tilting your head to the side. "I'm Matt,' he told you, extending his arm. You placed your hand in his, giving him a dainty handshake.

"Thanks, Matt, you answered, your gaze lingering on his. You found yourself holding your breath as he took off his flannel and tossed it over his shoulder, revealing his strong, tattooed arms underneath. He started to loosen each bolt, his eyebrows furrowed into a concentrated expression while he toyed with the toothpick in his mouth. He wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead before he started to jack up your car. You watched intently as he took the bolts off.

"Hold these for me, will ya?" He politely requested, handing you all five bolts to your tire. You reached out and took them from him, feeling the slight heat on the metal from the hot sun beating down overhead. You admired the definition in his bicep muscles as he pulled the tire off the axle with a grunt that made your stomach flutter. He wandered around to your trunk to retrieve the spare. "Still got those bolts on ya, baby?" He asked, gesturing for you come here with his fingers after he propped your spare in your wheel well. You swooned at him calling you baby. You nodded and sauntered over towards him with the bolts in hand. He half-tightened each individual one, lowered the jack, and finished securing the bolts once your tire was back on the ground. He put back his tools and threw your busted tire in the bed of his pickup truck. "I'll take care of that for ya," Matt replied, tipping his hat in your direction. It took him all of ten minutes to do something you didn't know how to.

"You have a nice day, darlin'. I'm glad I could help you out." He started to walk back off towards his truck. "Wait!" You called after him. He spun around, taking the toothpick from between his lips and pinching it between his two fingers. "Yeah?" He asked, flashing you his gorgeous smile. "Thanks again. I don't know what I would have done without you," you responded, nibbling on your lip. "Oh, shucks. You did the hard part. I'm always misplacing my bolts and screws, he winked at you before  turning away to get back into his truck. "Wait!" You called after him once more. He turned around with a smirk tugging on his lip. "Yeah?"

"I'd love to repay you, Seriously. You saved me so much time and money, and you just did it out of the kindness of your heart, you said, reaching for your wallet to realize all you had were some crumpled up $1 bills and some loose change in your cupholder. "Exactly, kid. Kindness of my heart. I don't need anything in return, he declined your offer.

"Well, I wanna do something out of the kindness of my heart for you," you replied, taking a few steps closer to him. "Like what?" He wondered, raising an eyebrow as he placed the toothpick back between his lips. "Somethin' that might be a little harder to say no to," you told him, falling to your knees in front of him. "Oh, baby. You don't have to," he murmured but he didn't stop you as you started to fiddle with his belt buckle. "It would be my pleasure, Matt," you seductively responded, flicking your eyes up to meet his as you slowly undid his zipper and his button.

The ground was hot and dusty, but you didn't mind. The only thing that mattered to you was the way Matt looked down at you with a softening expression and lust in his eyes. You reached into his boxers and pulled out his pretty cock that was already starting to harden as you gently stroked it. You wrapped your lips around his swollen tip, gently running your tongue along the underside as you started suckling on it.

His eyes fluttered into the back of his head, and he leaned back up against his truck as you worked your mouth on all his sensitive nerve endings. His hands flew up to your head as he started smoothing down your soft hair in a sweet and loving manner. His touch was so gentle, like everything else about him. You slowly moved your lips down his length, listening to pretty sounds he made. You pumped his cock back and forth in your head and repeated the same motion with your mouth, watching his intoxicating reactions. "Oh, that's it, baby. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?" He cooed, gently moving his hips back and forth and urging you to take a little more.

You gave him what he wanted, taking more of him behind your soft lips until his tip was in the back of your throat, eliciting a faint gagging sound. Your eyes started to water, but you kept going, bobbing your head up and down a bit faster. "You look so pretty, baby," Matt complimented you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face and caressing your cheek with his thumb as he watched the way your lips stretched around his cock.

You loved the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, and the way he tenderly touched you. His grip on your hair grew tighter as he screwed his eyes shut in a look of pleasure, a slew of moans spilling from his pretty lips. His body tightened as he filled your mouth with his sticky, white substance, his cock twitching against your tongue as he finished.

You graciously swallowed and pulled him out from behind your lips with a quiet pop. His eyes fluttered open, and his gaze darted back down to you, still on your knees as you wiped a bit of cum from the corner of your smile. "My goodness, darlin'. You'll never have to pay for car trouble again with a mouth like that."

[©Slxt4chriss 2025 - You do not under any circumstance have the permission to copy the work I put out and must give credit if taken Inspo]

[aliwritex]

Heyy!! could you make a franco x reader where they are young parents fic?

a/n: this is short but super cute. some thoughts about dad!franco

Finding out you were going to be parents at 21 wasn’t exactly the greatest thing ever. You were scared and confused at first, not knowing what to do about anything, really. And it was a while till you finally figured out what to do about it.

After you told Franco about your suspicion, you took a test and cried yourself to sleep in his arms when it came out positive. That was not what you had planned. Having just finished your studies, you wanted to start working in your area, get married and then finally start thinking about kids.

He did his best throughout your entire pregnancy, of course that landing the Alpine seat meant he was working more but he always made sure you look after you. He suggested you moved in as soon as you found out, already planing to turn the empty room in his apartment into a nursery.

Franco’s excitement made things a lot easier, he loved kids and always wanted some of his own, surely not so early but he had to take what the universe offered. He showered you with attention and he was in love with your bump. When the baby started kicking he’d lay his head on your lap and stay there for hours, feeling all the movements — then telling the baby off for hurting you.

Your baby boy was born in the summer, little Mateo looked just like him, it almost made you mad. But with a face like that it was impossible.

You were convinced that he was the easiest baby ever, completely healthy, settled into a schedule quickly, quiet and not much work at all. That was until he started walking. The boy became impossible, baby proofing the house was needed the day after he stood for the first time. Your once quiet little boy was now a cheeky smiley toddler.

“¡Boludo, te va a dar um toque!” Franco exclaimed, quickly picking up the child from the floor “Did you see that, mi amor? He was pulling the tape from the outlet” he explained popping into the bathroom where you were getting ready

“Don’t swear around him, please”

Mateo was now a little over a year old and was attending his first race. What you didn’t realize about traveling with a curious toddler was how unsafe hotel rooms are. You had managed to tape all the outlets shut but the baby boy was a little too smart for his own good.

“I didn’t swear!”

“Was that not a bad word?” he shook his head and you rolled your eyes “Right. Need to remember to bring the plugs next time, he’s too smart for the tape.”

It’s not that Franco kept you a secret, you just had a private relationship and never posted about your son. So when you walked into the paddock together with a stroller it was a surprise to many people. You tried to keep a low profile but Teo was just too happy to be there, waving and smiling at everyone. He also did not want to be locked up in his dads room while an entire world for him to explore was right outside.

“He kept calling for Papa” you explained as you walked up to the garage.

It was still Friday morning so there wasn’t much happening around, just Franco talking somethings through with his engineer. So he was free to take your son.

“Vení acá, Teo.” the child smiled, slipping his hand away from yours to run to his dad “Wanna see Papa's car?”

Your son absolutely loved everything. You could see his eyes light up in excitement when Franco showed him anything. He picked him up to show him the inside of the car, Teo was giggling as he flipped him almost upside down to look at it. He even pulled out the steering wheel and the kid was perplexed with all the buttons. You took pictures of everything, so many of them both smiling and laughing at each other.

“Right, that’s enough exploring” you took the child from his arms “someone needs a bottle and a nap or they’ll be too cranky to watch Papa drive later. See you in a bit, okay?”

Franco nodded, stealing a quick kiss on your lips before you left. He couldn’t be happier that he had his family there for him.

[thethronezone]

If you do asks for Primarch dads, let me humbly offer Primarchs reacting to their kid sustaining pretty serious injury.

-Mortarion sometimes underestimated the intelligence of his child. They weren't stupid by any means, he simply did not expect much from them considering their young age. Not even a decade old, what could they do? So when they expressed an interest in his work, his lab, he had refused them without a second thought. He hadn't even considered the possibility that they might find another way into the room, even without his direct access. Mortarion had been careless. He should have used better locks.

His child weeps and trembles in his arms, small hands covering their burned face in a desperate effort to soothe the pain. Their cries pierce straight through his hearts and when Mortarion is forced to move their hands away from their face so the apothecary can get a look at the injuries, he apologizes, begs them for forgiveness. He's so sorry, little one, please forgive him. Because this was his fault. He should have been more careful. Mortarion will carry this guilt for the rest of his life.

-It's his child's birthday and like usual, Fulgrim is holding a big banquet to celebrate them. Everything is going according to plan. The guests are enjoying themselves, the music is splendid, the food and drink delicious and his child is being admired by all. Fulgrim feels like nothing can go wrong. So when his child approaches him, quietly admitting to not feeling too well, he initially waves it off. It's just nerves, dear. Have a bite to eat and you will feel better in no time. And for a few minutes, everything is fine. Then his child suddenly collapses onto the floor, clutching their mouth as a torrent of dark blood spews from between their lips.

Fulgrim is not really sure what happens next. He's by their side, holding their hand and he knows the guests are screaming, panicking, but he can't hear them. Can't even see them as anything more than moving blurs in his peripheral. He's too focused on the way his child, the way they are trembling, shaking and gasping for air, all while looking him in the eyes pleadingly. He can't look away because what if this is it? It's only when a team of apothecaries arrives and begin their life-saving efforts that Fulgrim snaps out of it, fear and anguished turning into overwhelming hatred. Immediately, he orders his men to apprehend all the guests and the servants, let no one escape. Someone has poisoned his child and he promises, oh he swears on his life and honor, that whoever did it will face a fate worse than death.

-It was an accident. Angron, despite all his faults, had never wanted to hurt his child. Even in his darkest moments, even when he had been overcome with senseless rage, this sentiment rang true. That's why he'd always kept his child at arm's length, so he wouldn't accidentally hurt them. And it had worked. Angron had not laid a single hand on his child in anger, had never made them bleed. Not until the day it finally happened, when he snapped. His child, who had never feared his temper, had given him an attitude and Angron, who had already been in a bad mood, had acted instinctively and... It hurt to just think about what he had done in that sudden fit of uncontrollable rage.

Once the red haze had left his mind, Angron had found himself standing above his child who laid sprawled out on the floor, eyes wide and full of fear while clutching their jaw with both hands. It was broken, the skin of their lips split and a few teeth knocked loose. Immediately, Angron felt his blood go cold as he realized what he had done. He wanted to reach out, to apologize and plead for forgiveness, to cradle them in his arms and take away the pain, make it his own, tear his own heart out and die and- and- Angron storms out the room, guilt tearing him apart on the inside and the nails screaming at him to shed even more blood.

-Magnus often forgot how young his child truly was. How inexperienced and vulnerable they were. It was too easy to see himself in them so when they pushed themself... he didn't stop them in time. And now they had to pay for it, for his lack of foresight. They were in a coma, caused by intense psychic backlash. They had just wanted to prove themself to him, to show their power as a psyker but it had been to much for them and... Magnus had seen them drop, like a puppet with all their strings cut off, and for a moment he had feared them dead and the palace had shook with his psychic scream of agony.

He spends a long time by his child's side as they recover. He tells them stories, tales full of wonder and hopes they provide his little one with pleasant dreams. Magnus could check for himself, could enter their mind and take a look but he does not dare to. Not after what happened. What if his psychic presence only makes it worse? So he sits on the edge of their bed, hands clasped and head hanging low, almost as if in prayer, and waits for his child to awaken.

-When the Iron Warrior approaches him, Perturabo knows it's about his child. He can see it on their face, as the astartes always have this expression when it comes to them. The space marine explains that his child hit their head pretty hard during a sparring session and now got a concussion. Perturabo sighs. Tells the astartes' to discipline whoever had been his child's sparring partner and then waves them away before going back to his work. He's not worried. His child is attended to by apothecaries and serfs, they are looked after and attended to. There's no need for him to work himself up over this.

It's only when Perturabo later goes to check up on his child, to see how well they are healing, that he feels... something. They are in bed and their chamber is dark, with only a few candles scattered though out the room to shed some dim light. They look at him, greet him like he expects them to, but Perturabo can see the sluggishness in their movements, their dazed expression. Seeing them so vulnerable is... unpleasant. He tells his child to rest well, to do as the apothecaries say and to recover swiftly before hurrying out of the chamber, desperate to get rid of the heavy feeling in his chest.

-As much as Alpharius and Omegon values intelligence and subterfuge, they are both very much aware that in this galaxy ravaged by conflict, some occasions required a more direct approach using brute force. As such, their child is taught how to fight from an early age. It starts with basic self defense. It pleases both of them to see that their child quickly takes to the lessons and excel in the training exercises. But even a prodigy can stumble and so, during one of their sparring lessons, things go wrong. There's a crack and a yelp of pain and suddenly there are tears in the child's eyes.

A broken rib, the twin Primarchs are informed. Easily treated, with some rest and ice applied to the swollen area. Alpharius and Omegon listen attentively, calm but serious. They are not worried, their minds put at ease by the apothecary's diagnosis and words. Instead, they try to frame the thing as something positive to their child, a learning opportunity. They want to make it clear that failure and pain does not mean everything is lost. A valuable lesson for the future.

-When Lorgar gets the message that his child is in the medical center, he does not hesitate to rush there, no matter what he's doing at the time. Nothing is more important to him than the wellbeing of his child. Lorgar arrives at the medical center to find them sitting on one of the medical cots, in the middle of getting attended to by an apothecary. Immediately, Lorgar is by their side, inspecting them for damage. He starts frowning and murmuring with concern when he sees the medical patch over their eye and his frown grows even larger when he's told that his child almost lost the eye.

Honestly, Lorgar is more concerned and worried than his kid is and they have to ease his nerves by promising to be more careful in the future. For the entirety of the time that his child wears the medical eyepatch, there will be a look of concern on his face, a soft frown that only goes away when the eye finishes healing and the patch is removed.

-It all happened so quickly. All Horus had wanted to do was show his child a planet that him and the Luna Wolves had recently inducted into Imperium after defeating the local forces. His pride had urged him to share this success with them, to bask in their admiration. Horus had assumed the area secure, all the opposition defeated... He had been wrong. One vengeful enemy soldier, unable to accept the fact that they had lost, laying in wait with their gun locked and loaded. A coward that, instead of going after Horus himself, had decided to target his child. One second they are laughing, smiling, and then there's the echo of gunfire and they are on the ground, bleeding. His child is bleeding.

Horus holds them in his arms, cradling them like a newborn as they weakly clutch at him and whimper in pain. He shushes them gently, smooths their hair out of their face and promises them everything will be alright. He's the picture of calm, of composure and comfort. Inside, however, he is raging, howling like a mindless beast thirsting for bloody vengeance. He's only holding back so he can soothe his child, keep them calm. But he knows that the moment he gets his hands on the one who did this, he will devolve into a savage and tear them apart in the most agonizingly painful way he can think of. That, he promises.

-Konrad is in the other end of fortress when hears the sudden scream of pain coming from his child. The reaction is instantaneous. Like a man possessed, he rushes through the hallways, roughly shoving aside whoever is too slow to get out of his way, astartes and serfs alike. He doesn't even notice them, mind busy conjuring up different scenarios of what might have happened, each worse than the last. Konrad arrives at his child's room to find them crouched on the floor, clutching their hand and whimpering. On the floor is a pool of blood, a knife, and a finger.

In less than a second, he's by their side, inspecting their hand and asking, rather brusquely, what happened. And his child cries, from both pain and shame, as they admit to having played with the weapon, wishing to be like their father. Konrad feels a million different emotions all at once but he can only express it with a tight expression and grit teeth as he picks his little one up, their severed finger in one hand, as he takes them to the Apothecary, hoping that they can reattach the digit. He silently blames himself for letting this happen because if he had not been the way he is, then his child would never have gotten the idea to play with deadly weapons.

-From the moment he had seen their little wings, Sanguinius had looked forward towards teaching his child how to fly. And to be fair, it had been going great! His child was brave and eager to learn, listening attentively to him as he explained how to spread their wings and watching as he demonstrated how to balance on the winds. They were getting more confident in the air, more daring. It was a good thing but Sanguinius still told them that they were only allowed to practice under his supervision. He should have known they would eventually disobey him. After all, he would have done the same.

Still, the result still ended up catching Sanguinius by surprise. A broken wing, caused by his child crash landing after they had tried to fly on their own. He holds them close as the apothecary tends to their broken limb, their forehead pressed against his sternum as they cry. Sanguinius combs through their hair with one hand and keeps them from moving around too much with the other so the apothecary can do their job. He mutters soft words of comfort, not just to make their pain more bearable but to prove to them that he is not angry at them. Upset at their injury, yes, but he could never stay mad at his child. Sanguinius will take care of them while they are healing, making sure that they remember they can always trust him.

-No. No ,no, no, no. It's the only thought that echoes inside Corvus's head when he sees his child fall from the rafters that they so love to play in. He acts on pure instinct, dashing forward to catch them, arms outstretched and practically throwing himself across the room. But he's too late. The sound they make when their small body hit the floor will haunt him to his dying days and the way they just lay on the floor, unmoving... If not for the soft rise and fall of their ribcage, Corvus would have feared them dead. Gently scooping his child up in his arms and cradling them close, Corvus runs to the apothecary, doing his best to shake their body as little as possibly to not make their injuries worse.

When he arrives at the apothecaries, his eyes are wide, panicked. "Help them". It's an order, a plea, a demand. Corvus practically hovers over the apothecary as they work. It's not that he does not trust them but there's this lingering fear that won't go away. In his mind's eye, he sees his child falling and hitting the floor, over and over again. He should never have let them play up there, what was he thinking? Blames himself for this happening and his guilt manifests as overprotectiveness.

-Ferrus was not meant to be a father. He knew this better than anyone else. Yet somehow, he still managed to disappoint himself. When his child had expressed an interest in his work, Ferrus had been happy. Proud. Eager to share his knowledge and passion. So eager that he momentarily forgot just how fragile children are. That's why he hadn't given them any protective gear when they entered his workshop. Ferrus certainly didn't need it so he didn't think to- Terra, he didn't think.

The stench of seared flesh, the sound of electricity, the feeling of static in the air. One second his child is standing beside him, eyes wide and shining with curiosity, and the next they are splayed out on the floor, spasming. What happens next is purely instinctual on Ferrus' part. Within moments, his child is in his arms and he's out of his workshop, sprinting at full speed down the halls to the apothecary. For a man so proud of his rationality, his reason, there's none to be found in this moment. Only pure, unfiltered panic. The only thing that matters is his child and their irregular, weak heartbeats.

-Rogal watches with a calm expression as the apothecary tends to his child's injuries. He knows they are in good hands, that despite the severity of the injuries that they are going to recover. Yet he can't bring himself to leave. When his child had gotten injured, he had been filled with such a sense of urgency that now that things had calmed down, he didn't know what to do with the restless energy inside of him. Rogal is not worried, he's a logical man, but he's... concerned? He does not know how to describe it, the feeling that haunts him. Like all Primarchs, he has a perfect memory and while he normally views this as something positive, now he can't help but lament the fact that he can't get the image of his injured child out of his head.

On the outside, Rogal is his usual, stoic self but inside he's a whirlwind of emotions. He wants to protect his child from imaginary threats, wants to transfer all their pain over to himself so they won't have to bear with it. And isn't that shameful, to treat them like something frail, to fear a danger that is not present? Even more shameful is the fact that he can't stop his protectiveness from shoving. Rogal hovers around his child more than he usually does during their time of healing, though no one will comment upon it.

-Ever since they were a baby, Vulkan's little one had always been fascinated by fire. It had been charming at first, their excited little shouts when they saw the dancing flames, but as they learned how to walk it became... a concern, to say the least. Vulkan only had himself to blame for this, as his little one had seen him and the Salamanders work with fire with no fear and now held none of their own. As hard as he tried to protect them, it was only a matter of time until they got burned.

Still, when Vulkan finds his child clutching their hand close to their chest, crying, his hearts catch in his throat and he immediately scoops them up in his arms, offering them soft murmurs of concern and comfort. He inspects their hand and he holds them closer when he sees the nasty burns that stretch all the way to their wrist. With hurried steps he goes to the apothecary, knowing they have the tools to ease the pain and heal the blistered skin. Refuses to put his child down though, he holds them in his arms the entire time.

-It happens during training. Son or daughter, it does not matter, Lion will not allow his child to grow up without knowing how to fight. Usually, someone else is in charge of sparring with them but this day Lion decides that he's going to step in. Test them. He's pushing them to their limits, keeping them on their guard the whole time, critiquing their form and resolve when... he pushes them too far.

One second they are standing in front of him, defending from his attacks, and the next they are on the ground, clutching their arm and biting their lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out. Lion stops and his eyes widen as he realizes that he's just broken their arm. Immediately, he barks at the serfs to fetch an Apothecary, voice loud and harsh. While they do that, Lion kneels next to his child, hands awkwardly hovering above them, and tells them that he really didn't mean to do that. He does not apologize but he feels the intense need to make it clear he hadn't meant to go so far. His expression might be stern but inside, Lion is feeling an immense amount of guilt.

-Leman liked to watch as his kid played with the wolves, it reminded him of his own childhood. He chuckled as his little one wrested with one of the younger wolves, one that had only just transitioned from pup to adulthood. His laughter was cut short however when he suddenly heard his child cry out in pain and smelt the scent of blood. By the time he's made his way over to his child, the wolf have already released its hold on their arm and is backing away slowly, tail between its legs and looking guilty.

Kneeling, Leman turned his child this way and that way, checking them for injuries and hissing softly when he saw the bite-wound on their shoulder. Fairly deep, judging by the marks and amount of blood. He doesn't blame the wolf though, he can see that it didn't mean to hurt his child, that it had been an accident. Leman picks up his little one and tells them they are going to be alright as he brings them to the apothecary. And hey, if they're lucky then they'll get some nice battle scars from this! This makes his child laugh, momentarily forgetting the pain.

-Jaghatai is not there when it happens. He's in a far away system, fighting a campaign together with his White Scars. It's only when he returns back to Chogoris that he's informed that while he was away, his child tried to tame a wild horse and unfortunately fell off its back and broke their leg. Jaghatai asks the apothecary a couple of questions, mostly about the extent of the injury and how well it's healing, but he's very calm about it all. Except the broken leg, his child is apparently unharmed so there's no reason for him to fuss or overreact. Besides, this is a good lesson for them. This way, they are reminded that just because they are bigger and stronger than other children, they are not invincible.

Visits his child and can't help but smirk when he sees them sulking on their bed, arms crossed and glaring at their broken leg, which is surrounded by a cast. When they see his smile, his child throws a pillow at him, which Jaghatai dodges with no problem. He tells his child to use this time of healing to learn patience, at which they huff pout. It makes Jaghatai smile even wider and he ruffles their hair affectionately.

-Roboute thought his child would be safe in their home. Far away from the horrors of the galaxy, far away from war and bloodshed. He never would have expected it to follow him home. But here he is, cradling his child in his arms, applying pressure to a wound that just won't stop bleeding. The assassin lays dead a few feet away, head crushed by one of Roboute's large hands, but his focus is entirely on his child. Why won't the bleeding stop? Why is there so much blood? Why is it taking so long for help to arrive?

When the apothecaries take over, Roboutes hands are covered with the blood of his child. Even when he washes them, the feeling won't go away. As the apothecaries work hard to save the life of his child, Roboute works equally hard to track down who sent the assassin. It's the only thing he can do, the only thing that can distract him from the anguish and hatred deep inside of him. He can't allow himself to succumb to it or else his child won't recognize him if- when they wake up from surgery. They will make it, he know they will. They are strong, stronger than he could ever hope to be.

[deathbyathousandspiders]

death of a hero. ₂

mcu!peter parker x fem!stark!reader | boy in the bubble part two.

IN WHICH after getting attacked, you find out that your dad & peter have kept spider–man’s identity a secret.

author's note — highly recommend reading part one first!! this cured my writer's block !! part three coming soon!!! :)

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader [physically/emotionally], swearing, mentions of blood, a flashback to homecoming, lots & lots & lots of angst.

read part one here.

gif found here.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

Never in your life did you think you’d be targeted and attacked, then be smiling by the end of the night. You couldn’t fight the small grin touching your lips, couldn’t stop the butterflies that numbed each wound still scarring your body. 

Somehow, despite it all, Peter’s words gave you something to hold onto, something to keep you going—something hopeful. It gave you something to rewrite the painful narrative that your attacker had spat at you just an hour earlier. 

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

“You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak? Impossible.”

Once you finally got to the stairs to shower, you tried to swing your leg up, immediately met with a harsh reminder of how bad your bruises would be tomorrow. 

A wince parted your lips, sparking from the ache in your right hip and the direct strike it sent to the wound on your torso. 

Perhaps you needed Peter’s help after all. 

Taking a breath, you felt less hesitant than before to ask for help. It wasn’t like you had anything else to hide—you were tattered and torn up, topless and sticky with blood. 

Besides, you were used to walking with the weight of the wounds, at this point. You cut the distance to the kitchen in a matter of slow seconds. 

“Whoever attacked her tonight planned this.” Peter’s words made you pause just outside the entryway, hidden behind the wall just beyond. You blinked a bit, immediately feeling the weight of their conversation. “It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–” 

“You don’t know that—” Even as he cut Peter off, your dad’s response was cut short. 

“And you don’t either!” Both of the boys in the kitchen held something urgent to their words; the same sense of urgency that laced the undertones between them all evening. 

Whatever conversation you were overhearing, you knew in your bones that they didn’t want you to hear it. 

Sucks for them. 

Peter continued: “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened.” Your blood froze to ice at the sentence. “And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

Thick silence swelled in the room, and you suddenly feared that your racing heartbeat would interrupt it. You had to remind yourself to breathe, and remind yourself to be quiet. 

As tempted as you were to step in and ask questions, you knew that whatever they were keeping from you was more likely to be discovered from where you were. 

Somehow, this was something they wanted to hide from you. The secret, whatever it was, made the air around you feel slimmer and heavy all at once. It sent your thoughts into a spiral, and an urge to question the two people closest to you. 

“Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.” Tony took words from you that you hadn’t even known how to phrase to Peter yet. It sent a twinge to your heart, draped your panic in sympathy for him. 

“I know.” You could tell Peter needed to hear the words, even if he didn’t know how to admit it. 

“As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.” 

Something sunk in you, deflated your spirits. It hurt that they’d hid this from you—whatever it was—and had been lying for God knows how long. 

You could hear the jab in Peter’s own optimism when he spoke up again. “Then when do you plan to tell her?” At least, he was trying to come clean. 

“I don’t know..” Your dad was honest, and sullen about it. It only added to your confusion. 

Perhaps, they weren’t going to tell you ever. Maybe if you just revealed yourself and asked your own questions, you’d actually get somewhere. 

Peeling yourself off the wall and taking a few steps into frame, both Peter and your dad were completely oblivious to you. 

Despite how you stepped into view, they remained focused on the conversation, and your dad continued. “I’ll tell you what: you tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

The whole world stopped moving. 

“Peter’s what?”

You could’ve thrown up at the realization, at how cold and hollow the room suddenly became. The secret was out, and the quick and wide eyes that fell to you told you just how vital this secret was. 

Peter was Spider–Man. 

Even as you stared at him, eyes as wide as his, you couldn’t shake it. Your best friend was Spider–Man, working alongside your father and found family. 

The two of you held eye contact, trying to read the other. You could read the remorse and apology and panic swelling in his wide–eyed stare, but you hoped that some of the anger building in your own was silently translated regardless. 

Your dad tried to clear his throat, tried to slice through the rousing tension between the two of you, but you didn’t break from it in the slightest. 

“Dinner’s ready.” Tony tried to make a joke. To joke at a time like this, as if he wasn’t an accomplice. As if he wasn’t keeping this from you, arguably more than Peter had been. 

It was the last straw you’d been offering, swiped from your hands and dissipating with your patience. 

You scoffed, tears finally finding your eyes. The heat of them was boiled by rage, and you didn’t have the decency to hide it. “Fuck off.” 

The room was too hard to stand in. You walked away, reminded of why you were even standing in the kitchen in the first place. 

Pain itched its way up your priority list, but you didn’t care; finding a way up the stairs was the least of your worries. You were more concerned with how quickly you could get away. 

Especially as you could hear Peter calling after you, following the path you were carving between you. 

“Y/N!” He spoke your name like a plea, like it would somehow apologize for all the dirt you’d uncovered. The sound of his voice, however, only seemed to drive you further from him. 

It split your heart into more pieces than you knew how to count. 

You already battled the insecurity of being weak. A weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark. With all the time you spent in the compound, with your friends and family, you were one of the only powerless people among them. This whole time, you thought Peter understood. 

You thought the insecurity was shared, reciprocated. 

Clearly, you were wrong and an idiot. You were the only one powerless among them. 

It made you feel so stupid; to see all the inside jokes tossed over your head, to see every stupid excuse he made thrown back in your face, and he had the audacity to be sorry?

Damn right, he should be. 

Peter’s touch felt like sandpaper to your skin as he reached for your hand. You yanked it out, not bothering to turn around. 

You tried to be strong and suck up the pain, wanted more than anything to run up the stairs and lock yourself in your room—two quick steps up the stairwell and the adrenaline wore off. You slowed your pace, fighting off the wincing, and wanting anything but to ask for help from Spider–Man. 

“Y/N, please.” His voice broke, and you felt sinister to think him deserving of it. “Please, I– I wanted to tell you, I promise–“

He must’ve been surprised when you turned around, at the speed you pivoted, at how intense your expression came across, because he startled. 

Your eyes held no response to the hot tears flooding from them, only holding space for the anger and hurt you didn’t have the energy to hide from him. 

“Promise?” The word came out whispered, threatening to break just as his words did. “You promise, just like how we promised to tell each other everything?” You saw each stab of each word and exactly where it hit on him, especially as your voice grew in volume. “Just like how you promised I wasn’t weak, when clearly, you know damn well how ironic that is!”

Twin tears slid down the length of his face, and you caught the subtle tremble in his bottom lip that he tried so hard to hide. “Please..” Now he was the one whispering, and you wish it sounded as satisfying as you wanted it to. 

“Don’t fucking sit there and act like you’re the hero here, Peter..” You couldn’t help the growl, couldn’t help the distaste inking down your body. Sure, you’d been hit with a knife just an hour prior in the evening, but you didn’t feel stabbed in the gut until now. “Don’t act like you understand shit about how I’m feeling right now!”

From just beyond, Tony started walking over, stepping quickly. “Hang on, Kid.” He cut in, stopping just a few paces behind Peter. “Don’t blame Peter for this.” His words practically turned up the heat on your burning rage. It was an effort to keep from boiling over. “I was the one who told him to keep quiet.”

The shakiest breath you’d taken all night forced its way down your throat. You finally pulled your eyes from Peter, watching your own father flinch at just how hurt you were. “No, you were the one who decided to be selfish!”

The room had never been so quiet, even the walls and the city beyond hushed to listen. 

“I don’t care who you thought you were saving here, but it wasn’t me.” Perhaps rage wasn’t the word you should use to describe the venom dripping off your words. You were seething, a mixture of betrayal and downright distraught. 

“I am not useless.” You felt the need to emphasize; to you, or the two faulty in front of you, no one could tell. “I may be the only powerless person in the fuck ass Avengers, but at least I’m fucking honest.”

When you met Peter’s eyes again, you almost couldn’t keep your composure. Maybe he was breaking apart just as quickly as you were, but you didn’t put in effort to hold room for an apology for him. You didn’t see the need to give one at all. 

“I’m sorry..” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper, above the tremble shaking each breath he took. And watching the way your father’s posture craned in sympathy to it finally gave you a cue to leave. You couldn’t take it anymore. 

You glanced between both of them, still ignoring the consistent stream of tears dripping off your nose and chin. “You both fucking should be.”

Holding your head high, you made your way up the stairs, pausing three steps up your trek when you heard a singular step in your direction. 

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

And you didn’t look back. 

The second you shut and locked your bedroom door, unshakable sobs spilled from your throat and choked you dry. You had never felt so isolated, so alone, and so pained. 

Truly, you did not know how it would get better from here, and all you wanted was to be held. 

You didn’t even know who you'd talk to about this. This betrayal stretched across every person you trusted, further than your eyesight. 

It was stupid, and you blamed yourself, but all you wanted to do was talk to Peter. 

Maybe not about it or to confront it right then, but you suddenly missed him and his support. You felt like that had been stripped away from you. 

You weren't sure how to trust him anymore, let alone anyone else who hid this from you.

It didn’t help that you replayed countless upon countless interactions—with your father, with Ned, and with Peter Parker Spider–Man himself. 

It reminded you of the last time you were mad at Peter, three years prior. 

At the Washington Monument. 

You remember him flaking on the academic decathlon, and flaking the night before. You were upset because he was obviously hiding something and he wouldn’t tell you what. 

“You promised we’d hang out tonight.” You remember calling after him, walking half the length of the hotel hallway after him, too. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week!”

Peter was a pro at walking backwards, then and now, and as you always knew him to be. Even as you knew him as a klutz, even as it led him to keep walking away from you. “I’ll be back soon. I promise!”

It felt unfair to him to get frustrated with him, but you were. You were upset. “What? So your promises mean nothing?” 

That got him to stop. 

“What? No!” Defense, immediately. His eyes displayed more apology than his lips did, taking steps towards you. “I just.. I have to go, and I can explain it later–”

Your head shook at him. Whatever sparked you to feel upset had been growing for a while. It had been growing since he started ditching you a few months prior. “That’s what you said last time.” There was hurt in your voice, and you know he heard it. 

“But I–”

“We promised to tell each other everything.” You recalled your childhood together, your friendship before you started growing up. The two of you had known each other since elementary school, so changes like this was inevitable. It wasn't fair to hold him to the same standards you used to. “But if you want to go, don’t expect me to be buddy-buddy when you get back.”

You remember how it felt to walk away, but you remembered how it felt to hear him leave even more. That was harmful. 

He was entitled to grow up, just as you were, but the shifty way he started growing distant from you got you overthinking. 

It got you nervous that maybe he was seeing someone, and that hurt more than anything else. Especially that he was hiding it from you. 

What sucked the most was that Peter wasn’t back soon, or even that night. 

In fact, he wasn’t even at the academic decathlon. 

Part of you was relieved to get space from him, seeing how difficult all these feelings were to process; another part worried about him, but every time your anxiety would fester, something would serve a reminder of why you were upset in the first place. 

You won the decathlon without him. As you should.

After that, your team went to the Washington Monument, and Ned swore that Peter would meet you all there. 

“Look!” Ned tried to convince you, tried to break your unamused expression. “His location says he’s almost here.” And the phone screen he flashed at you proved honesty. Peter was minutes away. 

Before you could muster a response, Ned’s screen changed, and Peter was calling him. 

There was an awkward exchange of glances between the two of you before Ned answered the call and you walked through the metal detectors. 

“Peter, are you okay?” You couldn’t help but eavesdrop. You missed a phrase or two while security patted down your blazer. All you caught was Ned muttering a subtle “I covered for you,” and then Liz Allen taking the phone from his hands. 

Something hollow carved into your stomach at the sight, and you began to speculate whether Liz was the girl he was sneaking off with or not. 

You didn’t wait to find out. You walked right into the elevator, joining the rest of your decathlon group. 

You didn’t remember much about the trip up the elevator, all you remember was light emitting out of Ned’s backpack and something radioactive blasting right into the roof of the cart. 

Suddenly, with trembling limbs and a newfound panic, your squabble with Peter Parker seemed more than minuscule. Regret was quick to fill that hollowing pit in your gut. 

You’d blacked out a lot of those scarce moments in the elevator. But you remembered when it was safe enough to move, the security guard began to open the hatch at the top of the elevator cart, and one by one help your classmates out. 

It wasn’t until there were four of you left in the elevator that it finally fell down the shaft towards your demise. There, in that Monument, you would die with Ned, Liz, and your teacher, Mister Harrington, you were sure of it. 

You’d never forget the relief you’d felt at the sight of red and blue rushing toward you, plummeting quicker than you were, and webbing your way to safety. 

It felt odd to look back on, knowing now that it was Peter who pulled that elevator up to your safety. How you were only concerned then with apologizing to Peter Parker, who glanced at you there from beneath that mask, completely unbeknownst to you. 

Once he’d gotten you up to the top of the Monument, Ned was the first to leap out to safety, then Mister Harrington. The two of them helped Liz get out, and to your luck, just as you took a step forward, the webs above you snapped. 

You and Spider–Man fell with a blood curdling scream breaking through you. 

“NO!!” He called after you, and quickly shot a web up to the roof again. His other arm reached out toward you, webbing your wrist rather quickly, keeping you from falling any further. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay– I got you. You're okay..” He told you, his tone as gentle and soft as you knew it to be; yet, not a single thought crossed your mind that it was Peter Parker. 

You shakily dangled beneath him as he tugged you up from that web. You fought to look up at him, to keep yourself from looking down; you fought to keep the tears at bay as the shock flooded from your system. 

The second your hands touched, he pulled you up and into him. You wasted no time before wrapping your arms around him, hugging him for dear life. And it made sense, now, why he felt so familiar—why his warmth was so comforting, and why his arm around your waist felt like it belonged there. 

He held you securely, lulling those reassurances to you, pulling the two of you up to safety at the top of that Monument. 

Just before he set you down, you held him tighter. “Pe–Peter!” You gasped, and felt every muscle beneath your hold tense. 

Now, you knew why. 

You pulled back from his arms, “Peter Parker, my– my best friend! He was on his way over here.” Your voice shook as you explained, but watching him carefully set you on the ground helped to steady yourself a little. “Can you make sure– Could you make sure that he’s okay?”

Looking back, the reason why Spider–Man gaped at you so long must’ve been Peter contemplating whether or not to tell you who he was right then and there. He stared at you, beneath that mask, for what felt like minutes. 

He gave a singular, upside down, nod. “I can do that, ma’am.” And his thick, Bronx, accent threw you off more than you wanted to admit. 

Then he fell down the empty shaft of the elevator. 

You’d never forget the moment he found you after that. 

You had just gotten out of the Monument. With a shaky hand, you went through your phone to track Peter’s location. It said he was a matter of meters from you, but you couldn’t spot him in the crowd. 

Just as you went to ask Ned, Peter’s voice hollered out, calling your name. 

Both of you turned in his direction, the crowd of people parting for him as he ran over to you, catching you in a bone–crushing hug. One of his hands cradled your head into his chest, and the other kept itself snug around your waist, just like Spider–Man had earlier. "I'm so glad you're okay.." He whispered it into your hairline, just for you to keep.

The world washed away in the arms of Peter Parker. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him effortlessly closer. Apologies from your argument the night before fell from your lips, and he also followed suit. 

You recalled that memory as something that defined how you and Peter operated—no matter what, you couldn’t stay mad at him. 

You would always find a way to forgive him. 

Now, remembering the incident was a bit more haunting. There was no telling how you and Peter would come back from this, nor just how long you’d go without each other.

And you didn't think Spider–Man would get you out of it, this time.

tag–list: @yourfavoritefangirl @inkedeye2345 @wxnterwidow333 @generalmoonpolice @elianamarie-blog

comment for the part three tag list;)

[maxdibert]

I don’t think Lily’s a particularly empathetic person tbh. Petunia’s a cow, but they were obviously close once and Lily doesn’t possess the sensitivity required to understand that it’s coming from a place of being made to feel less than. She flirts with James while her friend is choking on soap suds and throws Severus’ otherness right back in his face after he does the same to her, but only one of them thinks they behaved poorly in that situation. She’s fine with dating an abuser once he (publicly) calms down a bit, but doesn’t require evidence of him making amends to his victims. It’s an interesting character quirk, her self righteousness, but not one that tends to come with introspection. I wonder if people mature mentally in the afterlife? If she’s stuck at 21, forgiveness is probably off the table. If she’s 38, well, I think it’s totally reasonable to be angry at the prophecy debacle, but she also has decades of evidence of his genuine atonement.

Severus is so self-loathing and desperate for connection that he’s incapable of accepting he’s ever got a point when it comes to conflict with Lily, and Lily is a golden child unused to being held accountable for anything. It’s a toxic combination even when they’re children. Add in the fact that Severus’ mistakes indirectly got her killed, and I think they’d both end up feeling that her failures as a friend were so insignificant in comparison it’s not even worth discussing. Maybe the best case is that doing some more self-flagellating and her blessing him with forgiveness even with no reciprocal exchange allows him to move unburdened onto a Lily-free afterlife.

Yes, I think you’ve absolutely nailed it. Severus feels so terrible because he had a deep emotional dependence on Lily. And honestly, I get it—a marginalized kid from a conflict-ridden home, likely neglected by his parents, with zero social skills. I’ve always thought Lily was his attachment figure, which is pretty common among people with emotional deficits: they latch onto those who show them any affection in an exaggerated way, leading to dependency. And clearly, Lily didn’t see their friendship the same way, because she didn’t have those emotional needs.

I mean, as much as Petunia was conditioned to be resentful and we dislike her, we can probably credit her when she implies multiple times that Lily was the favorite child. It’s logical: Lily was the "magical" child. Plus, being the younger sibling likely meant she was spoiled by default, and being a witch added another layer of fascination for her parents. She was probably used to a lot of attention and praise, which only solidified during her school years as she became popular, well-liked by adults and peers, and widely considered very attractive. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a bit egocentric, which fits with her inability to put herself in someone else’s shoes or care about anything unless it affected her personally.

For instance, she didn’t care about Mary McDonald being bullied because Snape was her friend. But the moment Snape stopped being her friend, she suddenly brought it up. Like, what? It didn’t bother her before? Or did she not care because she didn’t need leverage against Severus? And isn’t it convenient that she "hated" James because of how he treated her friend, but once that friend wasn’t in the picture, she ended up dating him? What, did she suddenly forget everything James did, or was it just that she no longer needed to pretend to care? In my headcanon, she was all about appearances. She got involved in the war because it affected her directly; if it hadn’t, I think she wouldn’t have cared at all.

That said, I don’t think Severus owed anyone an apology. I mean, I understand why he felt guilty, and it’s commendable, but if I’d spent five years being bullied and harassed and then my ex-best friend—who witnessed all of it—started dating my bully? I swear I’d burn her hair off. I’d grab a lighter and make a bonfire right in the middle of class. And then I’d pluck her eyelashes out, one by one. Honestly, it’s like if your friend decided to date a guy who tried to assault you—what the actual fuck, girl? What are you even thinking? Let her mother apologize for raising her with no sense of ethics.

[artdcnaldson]

art! final girl x killer!patrick thoughts? please daddy 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

YESSSSS!!!!!

Art and Patrick as counselors at a summer camp in the Adirondacks <3 Art thinks they're just going to get high and do stupid shit all summer, and, hey, he actually likes being a camp counselor. The kids are sweet, and he's got a little collection of friendship bracelets that they've made him. He's the kids' favorite, and all the other counselors are in love with him.

The first one to die is Becky, a bubbly little rich girl who was getting handsy with Art at a counselors only bonfire to celebrate the kids finally being gone. It would be one week before the next batch arrived, which meant a whole 7 days to fuck around until then. She swore she heard something in the woods while she was jerking him off behind the arts and crafts building, but Art brushed it off as a deer, or something. The next morning, when she wasn't in her bunk, they found her practically gutted— slashed up with dozens of cuts and stabs.

The entire camp goes into a panic, but Patrick swears that he and Art will be fine, that he'd never let anything happen to him. Besides, didn't Art say Becky was annoying anyway? She was clingy and a total slut. He's lucky he didn't fuck her before she died, because she probably would've given him herpes or something.

If the crude way Patrick talks about the dead girl upsets him, he says nothing. He consoles Becky's friend Maddie when they all gather in the dining hall that morning, and he swears he feels Patrick just glaring at them, but he doesn't know why.

And maybe he starts to suspect when Maddie disappears when they're all supposed to be packing their bags. And Patrick comes by with hands rubbed raw, damp from washing them and scrubbing them clean. And there's a red spot on his sneakers, and a tear on his shirt collar, like someone had grabbed it and pulled.

Patrick grabs Art's pack of cigarettes and smiles over at him. "Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost, dude."

[littlejoyss]

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖊 (𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1)

Stray Kids - Non-Idol!Bang Chan x Reader

Warnings: Gore, violence, zombie apocalypse, g*ns, suggestive, blood, swearing, needles, death

Part 1 Total Word Count: 8.4k

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 3, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 4

Han led you down a narrow hallway towards a quieter section of the base. The dim light flickered overhead as you passed makeshift rooms. The base was functional, but it felt more like a patchwork of survival rather than any real comfort.

You decided scavenging was a good fit for you for now. The leaders made it clear you were able to switch teams once you got more settled into the group.

"This is where you'll be staying for now," Han said, pausing in front of a small, empty bunk in the corner of the room. "It's not much, but it's safe, and you've got a roof over your head."

You nodded, grateful for the space but still hesitant. The community was far bigger than you'd anticipated. Still, the room offered a sense of relief that you hadn't had in months.

"Appreciate it," you said, your voice quieter than you'd meant.

Han gave a small smile. "We're all in this together, for better or worse. You'll get used to it."

"Understood."

"Good. Now get some rest. The scavenging team leaves early in the morning. You'll need to be ready. And don't worry, Minho will make sure you know what's expected of you."

With that, Han turned and walked away, leaving you alone with the bunk. You sat down on the edge, your mind still racing with everything that had just happened. You had a place to sleep, food to eat, and a chance to prove yourself.

You lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. There were still so many unknowns here, but one thing was for sure, you had a higher chance of survival.

━━

The sharp sound of Minho's knock on the wall jolted you awake, and you sat up, disoriented for a moment before the reality of where you were came rushing back.

"Rise and shine," Minho's voice came through, unmistakable even through the thin wall. "Team's leaving in an hour. You better be ready."

You groggily rubbed your eyes, pulling yourself out of bed and quickly gathering your things. The room was still dim, and the distant sound of people moving around the base indicated that the rest of the group was already up and getting ready for their day.

After a few moments, you hurriedly dressed, throwing your pack over your shoulder, and made your way to the designated meeting area. Minho was already there, standing near the door with a clipboard in hand and a slightly impatient look on his face.

"You look like you barely got any sleep," he remarked, raising an eyebrow as you approached. "You won't make it long if you don't start sleeping better."

"Thanks for the advice," you muttered, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Minho ignored your sarcasm and handed you a small map. "We're hitting an old grocery store today. It's been cleared a couple of times, but there's always something left. Stay close, keep quiet, and don't wander off. Got it?"

You nodded, feeling the weight of the pack settle on your shoulders as you followed the group out of the building. The early morning air was cool, and the streets were eerily silent.

The grocery store wasn't far, but the walk felt like an eternity. Every creak of old buildings and every rustle of wind through the trees set your senses on high alert. You hadn't realized how much you'd grown used to solitude in the past few months and now you felt strange.

When you finally reached the grocery store, it was run down. The windows were cracked, the doors barely hanging on their hinges. Minho motioned for everyone to take cover.

"Scavenging team, we're in. Stick to the plan. We sweep through, find what we can, and get out fast. No heroics," Minho instructed, his voice low but commanding.

He handed you a pistol with a stern look. "You know how to use this?"

You hesitated for only a moment before taking the weapon from him. You'd never been the best with firearms, but you'd had enough encounters to know how to use them.

"I'll manage," you replied, gripping it firmly.

Minho nodded, satisfied. "Good. Stay alert. Chan will want a full report when we get back. We don't want to leave anything behind that could be useful."

With that, the team split into smaller groups, each taking a different section of the store.

You moved cautiously, your eyes scanning the surroundings rapidly. Every crinkle of plastic, every distant thud, made your heart race.

The first few minutes passed without any trouble, and you found yourself picking through dusty shelves, grabbing whatever seemed useful. A few cans of food, some bottled water, and a box of medical supplies. You didn't hesitate to take it all. Everything could be used.

But then you heard it. A low groan, distant but unmistakable.

You reached for the gun at your side.

You scanned the area, looking for the source of the sound. It came again, louder this time. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. There were also sounds of shuffling like footsteps dragging across the floor.

Definitely an infected.

Keeping to the shadows, you moved toward the source of the noise, your eyes darting around. The aisle stretched out before you, and as you rounded a corner, you saw it. An infected moving in the dim light. It was slow, but there were more groans coming from deeper within the store. More were nearby.

You cursed under your breath. You didn't know how many there were, but you couldn't take any chances. Your fingers tightened around the grip of the pistol, and you crouched low, moving into position.

The infected hadn't noticed you yet, but you didn't wait to find out how quickly they could. You had a job to do, and the last thing you wanted was to make noise.

With a deep breath, you aimed, your hand steadying.

Before you could pull the trigger, a voice whispering behind you broke the silence. "Don't shoot. You'll draw them all in."

You whirled around, startled. There, standing just a few feet behind you, was Minho. He motioned for you to lower the gun.

"Get down," he whispered urgently, ducking low and pulling you behind a nearby shelf.

Your heart was pounding, but you did as he said. You peered over the edge of the shelf, eyes widening at the sight. The infected were still moving aimlessly. There were too many for just the two of you to handle quietly.

He sounded angry, "You can't get too close. You need backup. I don't know what you were thinking."

You shot him a glance, "I've killed many of them myself."

"I'm sure you have. But this isn't a solo mission. You don't take risks like that here. Not without backup."

You swallowed hard, a mix of frustration and determination bubbling up inside you. The old instinct to fight, to survive on your own, was hard to shake off. But you knew Minho was right. There was no room for reckless behavior when you were part of a team.

"I know," you muttered, keeping your eyes on the infected, watching their movements carefully. "I'll wait for backup."

Minho gave you a quick nod before turning his attention back to the situation at hand. He motioned for you to stay low as he crept closer, signaling to the rest of the group.

The others began to quietly maneuver into position, each taking their places without making a sound. You could barely make out their silhouettes in the shadows of the store. They were all moving with practiced precision, like machines. You were starting to realize just how tightly knit this group was.

Minho gestured to you, signaling that it was time. You took a deep breath and nodded, following his lead. You crept forward, staying low and as silent as possible.

He moved with fluid precision, raising his weapon and taking out one of the infected before it could react. The rest of the team followed suit, picking off the others with their guns. You took out one more yourself, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt the weight of the gun steady in your hands.

Within seconds, it was over. The infected were all down, scattered across the floor like lifeless dolls.

Minho lowered his gun and glanced at you. "Good. You followed orders. That's all I needed to see."

You didn't reply right away, still processing everything. The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins, and you felt a strange mix of pride and relief. You were starting to get the hang of this team dynamic.

"Let's finish up," Minho said, turning back to the rest of the group. "We've got supplies to grab and a report to make."

━━

It was now evening time, and the team had changed into their casual clothes. As you change yourself, you realize you forgot to turn in your pistol to Minho. You groaned and set the gun on your nightstand as you finished dressing. You knew he was currently giving the mission report to Chan, and you could probably find him in the command room.

You grabbed the pistol, feeling the cold weight of it in your palm once more. With a sigh, you exited your room and made your way down the hallway toward the command room. You noticed that most of the team had already settled into their routines for the night.

You knocked gently on the door to the command room, not wanting to interrupt if they were in the middle of something important. After a moment, Chan's voice called out.

"Come in."

You pushed the door open, finding Minho sitting at a table with Chan. Maps were spread out in front of them, and the conversation seemed to be winding down. Minho glanced up, his eyes flicked to the pistol in your hand.

"You remember it?" He asked.

"Yeah," you said, walking over to the table and handing it to him. "I forgot to turn it in earlier. Sorry about that."

Minho took the pistol, his fingers brushing against the metal for a moment before he holstered it. He gave you a small nod. "No big deal. Just don't make it a habit."

You nodded, feeling a little awkward but relieved that he didn't make a bigger issue of it.

Chan looked up at you, "You should get some rest like the others." His tone was as monotone as always.

You nodded again, taking a small step back toward the door. "Yeah, you're right. I'll head to bed."

As you turned to leave, Minho's voice followed you. "Good work today," he said, his tone far softer than it had been earlier.

You turned back slightly, offering him a quick, appreciative smile. "Thanks, Minho."

He gave a small nod, his eyes already back on the maps in front of him, while Chan, still focused on his own work, didn't say anything more. It was clear they were finishing up their debrief.

[slasherwrites-lemonmilk]

𝓗𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝓻 𝓢𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓢𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓼 (𝓧 𝓕𝓮𝓶! 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻)

(Includes Freddy (1980-1990s), Jason (1980s/2009), Michael Myers (RZ!), Ghostface, Leatherface (1970's Bubba, 2000's Thomas Hewitt), Art the Clown, Pennywise (1990s and 2010s), and Pyramid Head)

Intro: Established Relationship: The boys walk in on their s/o wearing their clothes.

Jason Voorhees - 1980's

You were sitting on the couch of the familiar cabin you now called home, the air outside was nice--too nice. That meant your beloved camp-revenger boyfriend Jason was out more frequently dealing with the rogue college kids on break. To pass the day by you had decided to clean the cabin up a bit, make lunch, and mend some of Jason's torn clothing. You had noticed that he opted out of his usual tattered leather jacket--something he rarely goes without. Examining it further--you found a bunch of holes, and you had the perfect color thread. You spent the next few hours stitching the jacket carefully, afterwards you just had to try it on yourself.

Call it the Crystal Lake

Cause you're swimming in it.

Great timing--Jason's home!

This man can't take his eyes off of you, I mean--you're so small in his jacket. And it's his jacket, you're standing in the living room--in his jacket.

Immediately his large rough hands roam over your body, half an hour ago those very hands slaughtered unwanted trespassers, and now they held the same gentleness one would use with a baby. He didn't talk, but the way his hands roamed the jacket on your figure--and the way you smiled at him made his heart melt. He used little actions to show you how he felt, he'd slowly been learning sign language--but actions always get his point across.

He would proceed to cuddle you for the rest of the day, only letting you take his jacket off if you got too hot.

He'd scoop you into his arms, holding you close--you're still wearing his jacket--as you softly read a book out loud for the two of you.

2009 Jason Voorhees

This man had a long day--a group of rowdy college kids interrupting his evening with you. He had just just gotten home, his deep lumbering steps ringing throughout the under base of the campground. The underground tunnels were originally hard to navigate--but you learned overtime, countless lectures and reminders from Jason--but you learned.

When he reached the ending tunnel to your large shared bedroom, there you were--curled asleep on the bed swallowed up in his old tattered blue flannel. He just stood there for awhile, watching you with an overwhelming feeling of comfort, seeing how much you missed him while he was gone. Eventually he lumbered over to the mattress, crawling in beside you carefully and scooping you gently into his chest. His large calloused fingers gently running over your scalp and through your hair as you slept, deep rumble-like hums sounding softly through his broad chest.

Also doesn't talk either--so expect him to tell you you're adorable by cupping your cheeks, giving you so many more shirts and jackets you can wear too. He'll even dress you himself and mash together outfits he thinks you’ll look cute in!

Most of them are god awful--but some actually slay?

Okay fashion icon

What are you wearing? Jason Voorhees.

You give him fashion shows--and you swear his face goes red under his mask, even if he huffs and denies it silently.

He's actually so sassy for no reason.

Rob Zombie! Michael Myers

(Teehee I'm in love with Tyler Mane from 2009 istg--AND he's my favorite Michael and I love him--this one's lowkey a self-write)

Michael was a man of few words--most believe none, but rest assured he speaks when he finds it necessary. He didn't own a lot of clothes, so you never minded doing his laundry in his childhood home--(You bought the house and restored it--just for him)

But imagine this man's shock when he comes home to find his small little s/o dancing around cleaning the kitchen--in one of his shirts.

Feral.

Literally feral.

Foaming at the mouth at the sight.

Sure--it was just a plain old, white t-shirt that miraculously wasn't blood-stained, but on you? It was everything to him. The way it draped down your body, spilling past your skin like a waterfall.

Fuck.

He wanted you.

Michael Myers was a man of many things, he was The Shape, The Boogeyman, The Incarnation of Pure Evil--but a patient man he was not.

So of course he'd immediately have his way with you--but then of course he'd take care of you in his own weird way.

"You look divine." In that deep scratchy voice he only graces you with. That's all you would get out of him--probably for the next month or so. With actions--he'd gently rub circles around your back--he'd 'pick up' a few more clothes and shirts, just to share with you.

Overtime you notice his closet gets...fuller? Eventually you pick up on the reason why, and after that it's over for Mikey--Cause now you'll wear everything he owns. Coveralls, boxers, tanks, shirts--nothing's off the table.

Art the Clown

Another mute...

UGHHH-Yeah he won't talk to you.

Like man is genuinely committed to the bit 24/7

OH YEAH--Anyways~

Art would be coming back from washing up when he'd see you wearing his clothes--more specifically--trying on the man's clown costume. He'd stifle any laugh that might escape and watches as you strike pose after pose in the mirror. He'd carefully watch you with those mischievous dark eyes, watching the way his costume rolled off of your body, pooling on the floor in your smaller stature. After all--he was very tall (David is 6'2) and he tended to tower over you.

My goodness you were so stinkin' cute.

He'd finally let you know he was there with a small 'toot' of a horn--causing you to jump and spin around.

He'd make really dramatic gestures at you, practically shouting how cute you were without using words.

Lots of polaroid's are taken of you in his costume--you can't escape it. (I hc that he's a polaroid nut)

He steals shirts for himself that he thinks you would love to steal wear. Always in blacks and whites, its his brand after all.

He may not talk, but he makes sure that his actions speak volumes.

1970s Leatherface

Honestly, he'd be so flustered if he caught you in his clothes. His first thoughts about how cute and small you were compared to him--watching how his shirt practically drowns you.

He wouldn't let you go, not even for chores. How could he? You're too cute!

He'd dress you up in all of his clothes-and showing Luda Mae every single one of them. Hoyt would probably hurt sexist comments as you--or target an insecurity, and though Bubba never stands up for himself--he stands up for his s/o.

Bubba would tell off the whole family in angry and displeased grunts and whines, possibly breaking furniture as well just to prove his point.

2000's Thomas Hewitt

(Oh my god I'd climb this man)

Thomas would have been coming back from the slaughterhouse when he spots you--curled up on the couch beside Luda Mae, mending some of the family's clothes.

But what caught his attention--was the fact you were curled up--in one of his button ups and a blanket.

This poor man tripped and stumbled his way over to you, soft, loving, and excited grunts all leaving his throat as he thudded over to you.

He'd fall to his knees, sitting eye level with you, his large calloused and worked hands caressing your cheek softly. He doesn't talk very much--but he manages to croak out a few deep words for you in that moment.

"You're beautiful..."

Expect him to lend you a lot more clothes--and if you really want to work him up?

His apron.

Imagine him walking into your room, and all you're wearing is his large apron. It doesn't even cover your body--it's so big its slips right off.

Pray to God the family isn't at home-he wouldn't let you be quiet.

Freddy Krueger

He didn't notice when you managed to snag one of his infamous red and green sweaters-but he noticed when you started wearing it to sleep.

Appearing in his well-known boiler room, sitting there-waiting for him in his own large tattered sweater. He chuckled lightly when he sees you, his eyes tracking up your body and he can't help but call out.

"Sweetheart--you're too sneaky for your own good~"

He'll shower you in playful but sincere compliments, but he will not keep his hands to himself--so beware. Every touch will be gentle yet sensual, he does know how to take his time surprisingly.

He'll make you feel absolutely stunning in whatever you wear--actually.

He will not keep it PG-13.

So now--you only wear his clothes when you want dick.

Ghostface

He doesn't mind when you steal his clothes, actually, he looks forward to it. He loves watching his shirts slowly go missing, and he loves randomly walking in from a blood bath--to see you swimming in his favorite shirts on the couch, waiting for him to get home.

"Look at my pretty baby, all comfy on the couch~"

Of course he only wears scary movie fandom shirts.

You get bonus points if you can tell him facts about the movies he doesn't already know about--team that up with wearing his shirt?

Pregnant. (sorry lolz)

As a funny little haha joke--he actually starts taking some of your clothes.

You'll walk in to find him sporting one of your shirts--amazed he could fit in it at all.

He thinks it's the funniest shit ever.

Pyramid Head

He has hundreds of old-bloodstained-tattered white muscle tanks to choose from, if you don't mind that kind of thing that is. If you don't--great!

He's in the middle of lifting weights when he spots you walking past his in-home gym. Somehow--through the metal on the pyramid shaped helmet on your boyfriend's head--he can see exactly what you're wearing.

And the way it naturally hugs your body.

Well- he's done working out now.

He follows you back to bedroom, watching you sit in bed watching TV from the doorway. Eventually making his way over to you in long strong strides, his eyes raking your body--in his shirt. Look how tiny and fragile you looked.

Daddy Bear mode activated fr

You'd be off limits--not even the nurses can see you dressed like this. You're all his. His hands would roam your body over his shirt, or play lightly with your hair. You're his Princess afterall.

Pennywise (2017)

He came back from his sewer hideout back to your shared home, and walked in on you wearing the fluffy ruffles of his costume collar (which explains why he couldn't find it earlier) and you had done a recreation of his makeup.

Were you...

doing an impression of him in the mirror?

(nerd----me too)

This man did a silly little head tilt, watching you before he let out a string of amused giggles. Of course he's going to mock your impression of him--but then he'll help you master it. You're his s/o, if you're gonna do something--do it right.

He himself will be the one to force you into the entire costume, gushing about how cute you are all the while. He doesn't really own any other clothing, besides maybe an undershirt or two--so you don't have many options to steal borrow.

So instead he'll let you sleep in his costume's (washed) long sleeve undershirt. Petting your head and whispering compliments to you the whole time.

He's so whipped for you--but he'll never admit it.

Pennywise (1990)

Poor Penny

He's an old grump half the time--and an old whip with corny perverted dad jokes the other half.

Also--are you trying to give him a heart attack?

I mean...

There he was--complaining about how you didn't finish the laundry and he couldn't find his suit--until his golden eyes locked onto your own, before trailing down at your outfit.

He thought his heart would stop right then and there-

There you were, taking pictures of yourself in the clown's costume--frozen in place as you both stare at each other. Pennywise taking a cautious step forward as his eyes remained fixed on his outfit--on your body.

"Penny?"

Your worried tone snapped him out of it--quickly scooping you into his big arms, he'll ruffle your hair playfully and pepper kisses over your face annoyingly.

"You look so itty bitty, love~"

I'll be so honest--he'd definitely take dirty pictures of you in his costume if you let him (or not)

[starmieknight]

Stars Align

Dipper Vs. Manliness

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker, Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2, The Inconveniencing (previous)

Special thank you to @disregardedblasphemy for beta reading! You're awesome <3

At one point, Stan had a bit of a crush on Lazy Susan. She’d been real cute and pretty sweet back when he first met her and she hadn’t been too upset about what happened to her eye. As the years passed, she was just one of the few single people left in his age range. That he actually liked, anyway.

Who knew so many people got married when you got old!

Now with his baby face in the way, Stan just didn’t feel right flirting with her like he normally did.

Using his ‘charming young man’ powers on her though―!

“You do split plates, right?” Stan asked, ducking his head shyly and peering up at Susan through his lashes. “We’re just poor, hungry kids on a budgeted allowance…”

Susan laughed and pinched his cheek.

“You’re just like your daddy, aren’t you? We always make an exception for Big Stan ― I can do it for Little Stan, too!”

Stan chuckled awkwardly, ignoring the ‘daddy’ comment, and offered the waitress a blinding smile.

Somewhere behind him, he heard a shutter sound and some muffled giggles.

“Tambry!” Mabel whispered, practically climbing over the back of the booth to speak to the girl on the other side. “Send me that for my scrapbook!”

Stan did his best to ignore that. And the fact that Tambry was still taking pictures of him when he wasn’t looking. Instead, he just pushed on with his order, ignoring Mabel’s protests that she wanted pancakes.

He could have made those himself if she'd wanted them so much!

Dipper, however, was more sympathetic to his sister’s plight.

“Don’t worry, guys!” he said confidently. “Pancakes are on me. I’m gonna win them by beating that manliness tester!”

“Manliness tester?” Stan asked blankly, remembering the machine that had been in the diner forever.

“Beating?” Mabel asked incredulously before bursting into laughter.

And Stan might have laughed with her if he hadn’t seen how scrappy the boy really was,  getting into fist fights with psychotic nine year olds and breaking into buildings. Still, the boy was built like a noodle and not in the typically stocky manner most Pines boys were. He didn’t even have their trademark nose, his mother’s genetics probably the cause for that. The color of it was right on point, though.

“Hold on there, sweetheart.” Stan put a hand on Mabel’s head to quiet her down, but wasn’t quite able to stop the snort that came with the mental image of Dipper beating the tester. “Your brother’s not as geeky as he seems, sometimes. I wanna see him try! Besides, it’ll be a good chance for me to see where he is before I start yous two on boxing lessons!”

“You’re going to teach us how to box?” Dipper asked skeptically.

Stan’s grin widened and he flexed his arms, thick cords of muscle visible even under his baby fat.

“You’re lookin’ at the best boxer from Glass Shard Beach! Goldmill Gym’s got all my old trophies lining the walls!”

At least, it had forty years ago. Old Man Nicky was surely dead now and probably had been pissed enough to throw out Stan’s medals when he’d disappeared into the night. Besides, the man had been friends with Pa ― Stan wouldn’t be surprised if the medals were melted down to make gold chains.

You’re a bum, Stanny. But you can take a hit and give ‘em back twice as hard.

Mabel latched onto Stan’s bicep, giggling wildly as he curled his arms a few times, threatening to drop her back into the booth.

“Hmmm,” Dipper hummed, eyeing Stan’s arms thoughtfully. “...okay. I mean, how different could it be from kickboxing?”

Stan grinned at him. “That’s the spirit, kiddo! Now ― go win us some pancakes!”

Dipper beamed at him.

It didn’t last long, however, the boy failing miserably and running out in the face of Manly Dan showing him up. Stan didn’t think the man meant anything by it. He probably just wanted more pancakes or was trying to feed what he thought was a bunch of hungry kids. He was just like that sometimes. Blunt and lacking tact.

Stan was the same.

He looked between his plate and the empty doorframe, conflicted.

Was he supposed to chase after the kid or give him space so he could lick his wounds?

Moses, he missed Old Nicky ― the man would already have a diet planned to help put muscle on the kid or have him chasing chickens and bench pressing hogs. He had a weird way of training his boxers, but he’d made Stan quick on his feet and able to find a weak spot on guys with more fat rolls than average.

“He’ll be fine,” Mabel rested her hand gently on Stan’s arm. Her smile was familiar, but it didn’t really meet her eyes. She almost looked guilty.

“Of course, he will.” Stan smiled back at her half-heartedly. “He’s a Pines. We always end up alright.”

Mabel didn’t look convinced, but she let it go for a moment. She began eating her pancakes, but some of her enthusiasm was lost.

“... do you think I shouldn’t have laughed at him?”

Stan winced, hearing the hurt in her voice. “Probably didn’t help…”

Mabel deflated, losing some of her usual vibrancy. “He’s really serious about becoming a man. Growing chest hair and wishing his voice would stop cracking…”

“People make it into a big deal.” Stan shrugged, remembering how he’d waited for those body changes a lifetime ago. There’d been the awkward days with acne and voice cracks, not to mention realizing he could have a crush on nearly anyone who showed him a smidgeon of positive attention. He could only sympathize with how Dipper was feeling, especially with Stan around in his current state. The kid was probably wondering when he was going to start shooting up and filling out like his uncle. Shermie and Alec were both built big as well. Dipper probably was feeling left out. “He’s gotta figure out his new place and his body’s going through some… changes. Speaking of, please tell me your mom has had The Talk with you…”

Mabel snorted, a gleam returning to her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Grunkle Stan.” she snickered. “Mom told me everything to expect last year.”

Stan sagged in relief. “Just let me know if you need… any feminine products. Or chocolate. Or just tell Wendy and I’ll give her the money.”

Moses, was it hot in here or were his ears on fire. He never expected to have this conversation. Why did it have to be so awkward?! He’d had a mother, for crying out loud ― and a girlfriend who’d been very vocal about what cramps and mood swings did to her.

Mabel just laughed at him again, bouncing back to her normal self with an ease he envied.

“Do you think he’ll be alright once he’s done with puberty?” she asked thoughtfully, trying her straw wrapper into a neat bow. “I mean, you seem alright going through it a second time.”

Stan snorted at that. “Nah, I was pretty much set as soon as I hit sixteen the first time. The only thing that stuck around for a while was the acne. That didn’t really go away until my thirties.”

“I thought that went away after you turned twenty!” Mabel exclaimed, her face twisting with horror.

“Nope!” Stan propped his chin up on his hand, leaning close to give her a good look at the bumps on his chin. “Maybe it won’t be so bad once you get over the hump of the hormone changes, but pimples’ll pop up at random forever! But your face thingies helped mine the other day.”

“We should get you some pimple patches for the little ones!” Mabel suggested, poking a red spot on Stan’s cheek. He hissed at the little jolt of pain it caused and she pulled her hand away, expression apologetic. “Ohh! We should do another spa day!”

“Spa day?” a somewhat familiar voice asked from behind them. Tambry popped up over the back of their seat, her eyes fixed on her phone. “Count me in.”

“Me, too!” Wendy announced, sliding into the booth across from them. “We should get Stan some better clothes, too. He’s been wearing the same pair of jeans for weeks.”

“I wash them!” he protested indignantly.

“You’re gonna wear them out like that.” the redhead pointed out easily. “Also, you smell like an old man. Switch your cologne.”

“I don’t wear cologne to work. That’s just aftershave.” He rubbed his chin with a grimace, resenting the fact that his facial hair had been so patchy as a teenager. It looked weird if he didn’t shave every morning. Back when he was old, his five-o’clock shadow had been fine enough for tours ― now he just looked stupid.

“We should get him a jacket that fits!” Mabel suggested, bouncing in her seat with her thoughts a million miles away. Probably lost in some mental mall. “And a comb!”

“I wouldn’t mind getting some gel,” Stan admitted, running a hand over his unruly curls. “S’how I used to wear it.”

Wendy tilted her head, considering his face. “I can see it. Like those guys in Grease.”

Stan snapped his fingers and pointed at her with a grin. “Exactly!”

“Let’s go to the mall!” Mabel shrieked, overcome with excitement. She shook Stan’s arm, moving her body more than his bicep and looking like she was being electrocuted as a result. Or like a fish flopping on the floor of his boat. “Mall Day! Mall Day!”

“I’m not getting out of this, am I?” Stan groaned.

“Nope!” Mabel and Wendy wore identical expressions, like lionesses about to pounce on some poor, old zebra. Tambry offered a thumbs up from the other side of the booth wall. ____________________________________________________________

“This was a terrible idea.”

Now, Stan was no stranger to shopping with a teenage girl. He’d dated Carla McCorkle for a while before she was stolen away by that mind-controlling musician. He was quite familiar with wandering from store-to-store while a girl ooh-ed and ahh-ed over things without making a single purchase.

He hated customers who did that and he hated being part of a group that did that.

“Grunkle Stan, this is an essential part of shopping!” Mabel punctuated her statement with a pointed slurp of her iced coffee. De-caf, of course. She was already energetic enough.

He responded with a pointed sip of his own, secretly conceding that iced coffee was good. Especially all dolled up with fancy syrups and whipped cream.

Way too expensive, though.

“C’mon, man.” Wendy rolled her eyes fondly and threw the jacket she and Tambry had been fawning over at his face. “Chill out and leave everything to us. All you gotta do is put on what we tell you and say if you like it or not.”

“I was promised hair gel.” Stan muttered petulantly. He felt the soft lining of the jacket, an old-styled bomber like the one Ford had worn as a kid, and noted that it was soft. “Can’t I just pick some jeans and go?”

“Grunkle Stan, you need to learn about style!” Mabel exclaimed, stars in her eyes. “Now that you’re not a gross old man, this is the perfect opportunity to work on my ‘Convince Dipper To Wear More Than One Outfit’ powerpoint!”

Stan stared at her blankly. “What’s that got to do with dressin’ me up?”

“Because!” Mabel exclaimed exasperatedly. “You guys look a lot alike now! Once he sees how good you look, he’ll be inspired to do the same!”

“She has a point.” Wendy shrugged. “You’ve had more women hitting on you these past few weeks than you’ve had my entire life.”

“You’re totally hot.” Tambry confirmed flatly, briefly moving her phone away from her face to show them some kind of website. There were a lot of pictures of him and it made his skin crawl. So did the comments, most filled with the little picture things from Mabel’s ‘motivational sticker pack’.

“Ugh!” Stan shuddered at the girl’s comment and threw his hands up defensively. “I― I don’t even know what to do with all that. It’s… It’s weird.”

His eyes darted around in search of an escape route and he bolted out the door with the jacket in tow. He liked it, but he’d never admit it. Or pay for it.

Stan yanked the tags off, casually dropping them in a nearby trashcan before shrugging the jacket on. Ooooh, it had nice big pockets. Perfect for shoplifting!

“Well, if it isn’t Stanley Pines.”

Stan stiffened at the voice behind him, mind racing as he tried to place it. 

Don’t panic, you’ve been introducing yourself as Stanley the Second for weeks! This is just the con beginning to pay off…

He turned, a conman’s smile curling his lip, before a shocked scream left him.

“My eyes! My poor eyes!”

It was improbable. It was impossible! It had been forty years!

But against all the odds, there was a familiar face from Glass Shard Beach in Gravity Falls.

Old Man Nicky stared at him, his expression as sour and unimpressed as ever, another generation’s worth of wrinkles making him look like a particularly grumpy bulldog. He was still wearing the same old red sweater over a gray tracksuit, thin wisps of white hair peeking out from beneath a black beanie.

It really was his old boxing coach. Really old boxing coach.

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” Stan asked before he could stop himself. A cane shot out and clocked him in the shin, making him yelp and topple over. Ugh, just like the old days.

“Shouldn’t you? Your ma told me you crashed your car into a ditch and burnt up. Guess you just got mixed up in some freaky magic shit out here. Probably somethin’ ta do with that brother of yours.”

Stan winced at the relatively spot-on observation, rubbing his leg as he looked up at Nicky. The man had shrunk over the years, but he never lost the ability to make Stan feel like some scrawny little kid.

“What’re you doin’ in Gravity Falls of all places?” he asked, not bothering with how the man knew about magic. You couldn’t live here without tripping over a gnome every other Tuesday.

“Got myself a grandson who married a selkie. Their kids like the cold and I’m mostly retired. Thought I’d spend the rest of my twilight years with them.” Nicky shrugged before piercing Stan with a stern look. “Thought about lookin’ ya up, but you were too busy runnin’ around and pretendin’ t’ be Stanford. You’re a bum, Stannie. Your impersonations suck.”

Stan straightened up with a frown, properly offended now.

“I’ll have you know,” he sniffed, tucking his hands behind his back and looking down his nose at the old man. His gruff voice smoothed into something more sophisticated and refined, the Jersey accent melting away like butter beneath a summer sun. “That I still do a fantastic impersonation of my brother… Hypothesis! Quantum physics! Exponential!”

Nicky chuckled at him, wrinkled face sagging as it softened fondly.

“That’s our Stanford.” he sighed, turning away. “Now, c’mon back to the gym and fill me in on what happened. Y’not doin’ this without good reason. Yous two hated being mixed up.”

Stan hesitated, looking over his shoulder for the girls. They were a few stores back and a few bags heavier, their eyes scanning the mall in search of him.

“I’ll have to raincheck ya on that, old man.” he hurried to say, voice returning to normal and pitched low. Secretive. “I got a couple of add-ons who aren’t exactly in on it. They can’t know.”

Nicky frowned at him, tilting his head so he could squint at the girls as they approached. Mabel had spotted them, her face lighting up as she rushed forward with a grin.

“Well,” Nicky chuckled as she caught up to them. “This one looks just like you. Braces ‘n all. She box any?”

“Grunkle Stan’s gonna teach me and my brother!” Mabel proclaimed proudly before blinking in confusion at the old man. She shrugged and offered Nicky her hand. “Hi, I’m Mabel! Are you one of my uncle’s old man friends?”

“More like his uncle.” Nicky clasped her hand gently. “You can call me Papa Nick.”

“Okay!” Mabel agreed before Stan could protest.

“Oh, c’mon old man!” he huffed. “You never let me call you Uncle Nick!”

The old man smacked him with the cane again. “That’s cause you’re a bum, Stannie. ‘Sides ― Filbrick woulda had kittens if he caught you boys goin’ soft on me.”

“Wait, you knew Grunkle Stan as a kid?!” Mabel gushed, her hands squishing her cheeks. “Oh Em Gee ― you’re like, super old! Do you have pictures of baby Stan?!”

“Course I do!” Nicky snorted. “And all’a his old trophies. Tell ya what ― yous guys come for dinner and I’ll dig ‘em out.”

“Nicky!” Stan hissed, panic seizing his chest.

The old man bopped him with the cane once more, gently this time.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, kid.” Nicky gave him a pointed look. “I’ll keep all your embarrassing secrets in storage. For now.”

Stan held his gaze a moment longer, praying that the old man would keep his word, before nodding stiffly.

“Fine. Where’re ya stayin’ these days?”

Nicky smirked, smug with victory, and shoved a business card into Stan’s hand.

“Six o’clock. Come to the back door and don’t be late or you’re washin’ towels.”

“I don’t work for you anymore, old man!” Stan shouted after him as he and Mabel rejoined the rest of the girls. “I ain’t washin’ nothin’!”

Nicky just laughed at him and continued on his way. ___________________________________________________________

“What happened to you, kid?” Stan asked in bewilderment as Dipper trudged into the house, twigs and leaves sticking out of his hair.

The boy sighed and flopped down on the floor by Stan’s armchair.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” the boy mumbled into the carpet.

“Good.” Stan said awkwardly, trying to think of a subject change to get out of another ‘feelings’ talk.

“It’s just these half-man, half-bull humanoids were hanging out with me…” Dipper blurted out suddenly, shooting up with an annoyed expression.

“Here we go.” Stan rolled his eyes. He frowned as the boy’s words reached his brain. “Wait, you talkin’ about those dumb Manotaurs? Those guys are jerks!”

“I know, right?!” Dipper threw his hands up, relieved to have another person on his side. “They wanted me to do this really tough, horrible thing ― but it just wasn’t right. So, I said no.”

The boy deflated, looking as lost as Stan felt after spending too long reading his brother’s journals.

Stan reached down, easily knocking Dipper’s hat off, and ruffled the boy’s tangled curls.

“You were your own man and you stood up for yourself.” he said firmly. Dipper looked up at him in surprise. Stan grinned at him. “You did what was right even though no one agreed with you. Sounds pretty manly to me, but whadda I know?”

Dipper smiled at him, regaining some of the life that he’d lost during his all-day workout. His brows raised as he took in Stan’s new jeans and T-shirt, the outfit capped off by his new bomber jacket.

“Hey, you look good. I like your jacket. And you finally got hair gel?”

“Thanks.” Stan thumbed the collar of his jacket, remembering the one Ford had worn when they were kids. Which, now that he was thinking about it…

“How’s about you go get ready?” Stan nudged the boy with his foot, toes digging into Dipper’s ribs and making him giggle. “We’re headin’ to a friend of mine’s for dinner and you stink.”

Dipper’s face fell. “Do we really have time for me to shower? I― I mean, is it really necessary?”

“Yep.” Stan said firmly, nudging the boy again. “Go ― use soap this time.”

The boy groaned dramatically, but headed upstairs anyway.

He could hear Mabel in the attic, singing along to some pop song at the top of her lungs. Once he heard the shower cut on, Stan bolted for the vending machine.

It was risky as hell, but he’d done worse lately.

All of Ford’s old things that might have given away his identity were stored in the basement. Six-fingered gloves, old home movies and pictures ― they all lived in boxes in the observation room. Along with a trunk of keepsakes that Ma had sent after Pa died and the pawnshop closed. She’d moved in with Shermie those last few years before her death and wanted ‘Stanford’ to have all of the twins’ old things. Probably in hopes he’d use them with a son of his own one day.

And in the trunk, there was a little old jacket with patched elbows that had seen the boys through many an adventure.

Ford’s bomber jacket.

Stan lifted it out of the trunk reverently, like one would a precious artifact. It was soft beneath his fingers, the fabric worn and the fur lining a bit matted. The elbow patches were fraying and it smelled of mothballs and old books.

He buried his face in the lining with a sniffle, wondering why he and Ford had ever drifted apart in the first place.

Stan knew he was a screw-up, but he still had no idea what he’d done to make Ford want to move across the country to get away from him.

“When did you stop liking me, Poindexter?” he sighed, tucking the jacket beneath his arm. He checked the security cameras before heading back upstairs. He’d had plenty of time to get the jacket and hide it in his room before Dipper and Mabel were ready for dinner.

No worries.

____________________________________________________________

“Uh, did you just see that, dude?” Soos whispered to Wendy, his eyes wide with shock.

“Secret door to a secret basement in the Mystery Shack?” Wendy confirmed, her normally cool facade beginning to crack. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Good to know.”

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

:D :D :D

So the (new) timeline goes like this: Severus Agemman -> Lucian Trajan (note the first name) -> Demetrian Titus -> Cato Sicarius -> Sevastus Acheran. Saul Invictus was the captain of 1st Company when the First Tyrannic War began, but got eaten DIED HEROICALLY along with the entirety of 1st Company while defending key fortresses on Macragge. After the war ended, Agemman was made captain of the reformed 1st Company. That's probably why you've mixed Saul in with all these 2nd Company guys--he was Agemman's predecessor.

Getting back to Acheran, I think it's worth considering who his predecessor was. Cato Sicarius is one of the big names in the Ultramarines, both in and out of universe. I swear I'm not saying that because I'm a fan of the character. As long as I can remember, Sicarius has been a prominent Ultramarine character, to the point that he actually caught a lot of grief back in the day from fans who thought he was waaaaaay overhyped (TTS Cato is a classic example of that ire, btw). In-universe, this hype translates to a list of titles and accomplishments a mile long. There's even proposals to make Sicarius Calgar's heir, which would break from Ultramarine traditions. Cato Sicarius is the kind of guy who gets his face slapped on propaganda posters and kids named after him.

And then Cato Thronedamned Sicarius vanishes into the Warp.

Keep in mind that Sicarius isn't the only one who disappears into the Warp. Guilliman had ordered Sicarius to return to Ultramar with Ultramarine reinforcements (both Firstborn and Primaris), but the fleet hits a massive Warp storm almost immediately. Sicarius orders the ships to make their way back to Ultramar individually and then gets cut off. The last broadcast his ship sends is, "They have breached the hull, they are here." WELP.

Okay, so 2nd Company's famous captain is gone, but at least the other reinforcement ships made it back, right? Here's the thing: Knights of Macragge places four 2nd Company sergeants on Sicarius's ship. Now, in Codex-compliant chapters, sergeants lead 10-man squads, which are then organized into 100-man companies led by captains; the captain also leads his own 10-man squad. 4 sergeants + 1 captain = 5 companies = 50 Astartes = half the strength of 2nd Company.

And that's how Acheran becomes captain of 2nd Company. Sicarius's successor was always going to have big shoes to fill, but Acheran's situation is worse than that. The company is in shreds. Oh, and the galaxy is on fire, due to the Great Rift opening, and everyone's gunning for Ultramar due to Guilliman's return.

(Sevastus Acheran's promotion to 2nd Company captain, circa We Don't Know The Year Because Time Itself Is Broken)

We don't know how 2nd Company fares during the first few years of Acheran's captaincy, because no one at GW bothered to write about it. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that it was probably a very stressful time for Acheran. But hey, at least he made it to captain, right?

Five years after the Warp ate Acheran's very famous, very popular predecessor, said predecessor comes home to Macragge. Sicarius was flying a strike cruiser chock full of Ultramarines, and that is a very useful thing to have when fighting a years-long daemon siege. And now they're back! Okay, most of the crew and passengers are dead, and Sicarius himself is dealing with some pretty bad PTSD, but they're back! What does that mean for Acheran?

Nothing, as it turns out. Calgar isn't the type to demote someone simply because their predecessor returned. Sicarius gets sent back to Guilliman's fleet, and Acheran remains captain. But put yourself in Acheran's shoes at this moment. On the one hand, your captain is alive, thank the Emperor, but on the other hand, you're sitting in his seat. And he's waaay more popular and accomplished than you. I feel like there had to be a moment where Acheran kinda went, "Welp, guess that's it." Which is a pretty fucky thing to think.

So now we're finally, finally caught up to the start of Space Marine 2. The 40k timeline has always been vague, so we don't know how much time has passed between Acheran's promotion and Titus's return. It could be only a few years, it could be a few decades, it could be both since time is literally broken right now. One thing's for certain, though: this is the second time a former 2nd Company captain has crashed into Acheran's captaincy.

With that established, let's take a look at Acheran's first few lines in the game, because there's a lot going on there:

Acheran: How are your wounds? Titus: Good enough. Acheran: I'll be straight with you, Titus. I have my reservations about your reinstatement. There could be questions, suspicions. I cannot afford discord among the men, not now. You're a lieutenant now. Will that be a problem? Titus: No, captain.

I think it's worth noting that Acheran's first line is a question about Titus's health, which--well, there's a lot of bosses today who couldn't be bothered to ask, much less in the grim darkness of the far future. But his next line is...actually, he makes a good point. Yeah, yeah, we all love Titus, but again, think about things from Acheran's point of view. He's in the middle of a desperate war, his forces are stretched thin, and yet another former captain has been dropped into his lap. Forget about Acheran's personal ambitions here; from a military standpoint, this situation could very easily turn into a disaster. A military force cannot function without a clear chain of command. Titus isn't an ambitious man, but Acheran is too young to have known him before his disappearance (note his single service stud). For all he knows, Titus will start fighting his orders because "That's not what I did when I was captain!" Not to mention, Titus's very existence is bizarre. This 200+ year veteran has just materialized out of nowhere and is appointed lieutenant on the Chapter Master's orders. It is raining Tyranids on multiple planets, Acheran is responsible for killing them all, he does not have time for this shit. But orders are orders. So Acheran finishes off by bluntly asserting his authority because he really really needs Titus to toe the line right now.

Here's the thing: Acheran is 100% right. Everything he mentions here does happen. Gadriel does start asking questions about his mysterious new lieutenant, and Imuran exploits his resulting suspicions, causing him to nearly shoot Titus.

And Titus does push back on Acheran's orders. Granted, he has a very good reason, using the Graia artifact is fucking insane--but Acheran also has a very good reason to say no:

There is so much goddamn lore packed into this one line. It's not super relevant to the plot of the game, which is probably why the game doesn't get into it, but as a lore nerd--holy shit. When I saw this scene, and then when I saw Squad Damocles go down into a NECRON TOMB, I lost my damn mind.

Let's rewind a little bit--say, 60-70 million years ago. Dinosaurs rule the world, humans are still at the small rodent stage of evolution, and two alien species are tearing the galaxy apart. That is not a metaphor. The War in Heaven literally tore a hole in the Materium that ripped the galaxy in two. After the war ends, the winning species, the Necrons, sew the galaxy back together by building pylons made of blackstone on planets near the giant hole. Blackstone is a funny substance; depending on how it's tuned, it can either amplify or suppress the Warp. Obviously, the Necrons' pylons are set to suppress the Warp, and they do a damn good job at it. In fact, they hold the galaxy together for the next 60 million years--until this jackass called Abbadon the Despoiler starts destroying them. And when he manages to destroy all of them...

WELP.

Guilliman knows this. Guilliman wants those pylons rebuilt yesterday. Guilliman has made reverse-engineering the pylons the #1 priority of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It's the only way he can sew the galaxy back together again.

Leuze sounds like a nut here, but that is literally the purpose of his project. Those big black pillars you see at the end of the game are human attempts at recreating pylons.

Note how the pillars can switch from supporting the Warp to suppressing it. Definitely blackstone.

I highly doubt that Acheran knows all these details. Notably, he seems to think that Aurora is a weapon, not an anti-Warp structure. But he does know that the project's approval comes straight from the Guilliman. Y'know, the effective ruler of the Imperium and the Ultramarines' genesire. And then here comes Titus, ex-captain of 2nd Company, barging into Acheran's strategic meeting to insist that he shut down the Aurora project. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. This shit cannot stand.

So that's the full timeline and context of Acheran's behavior during Space Marine 2. He doesn't always make the right call, but I think he has pretty good reasons for making them. It's just that the game is written entirely from Titus's perspective, who is missing a lot of information that Acheran has. The game takes place during Titus's first two weeks back with the Ultramarines, I doubt he's even had the time to catch up on 2nd Company's history, much less the highly classified Aurora project.

Some final opinions about Aurora:

I highly doubt Guilliman knew that Nozick and Leuze were using a powerful Warp artifact tied to a Chaos incursion. Guilliman does have his reckless moments, but they generally involve Leeroy Jenkins-ing his traitor brothers, not playing with Chaos artifacts. He is notably cautious around the Warp, though not outright hostile like Russ and (formerly) Mortarion. I suspect that Nozick and Leuze had general instructions to reverse-engineer the pylons, and Imurah then influenced them to use the Graia artifact.

Using the Graia artifact is a spectacularly stupid decision, but I kinda understand why Imurah was able to tempt Leuze. The fate of the galaxy literally depends on building those pylons. Without them, half of the Imperium is lost at least. Even without Imurah's influence, it's the kind of situation that would drive people to make desperate, dumb decisions.

The destruction of Aurora does not mean the end of blackstone research. Aurora isn't even the main branch of the project. Belisarius Cawl, the guy behind Primaris marines, is leading the blackstone research, and he definitely understands the pylons better than the Aurora guys do. Aurora is likely some offshoot of Cawl's research, or possibly a (bad) competitor.

You know what character in Space Marine 2 I genuinely don't like? Acheran. Cannot for the life of me get a solid read on that guy, and it does sort of drive me up a wall.

To me, he has like, passive-aggressive middle manager energy? He just spends so much of the game just vaguely making threats and second-guessing Damocles Squad it's almost ridiculous. And I do understand where he's coming from: having a guy who used to have your job reinstated under you could lead to internal strife in the company but it always seems like he's on the fence up to the moment Damocles Squad actually gets shit done and then he's all for whatever they're doing.

Am not too fond of him, is what I'm trying to say.

[chadillacboseman]

I really tried to give H*zbin Hotel a chance. I did. But it is so fucking corny omg

[front-facing-pokemon]

[dorizard-art]

markers are fun!