#like the head gaskets are fixed

[lookninjas]

2240.

and once again on Friday to smell dryer sheets in my car starting somewhere just outside of Pellston and all the way to the soccer fields and maybe this is just how it goes for me now with no real explanation why

[flammenxci]

🚙: Hey.

Me: Yeah beastie.

🚙: I know I haven't been much of a bother this year.

Me with sense of impending doom: I have an idea where this is going.

🚙: But I'm gonna do it again.

Me: By doing what? 😬

🚙: This. 🌫️

Me: Sonova- why?

🚙: Merry Christmas. 🙂

[vixensp1ce]

them as japanese p rn tropes

fem!reader / pt. 2 (jing yuan and aventurine)

childe

he's the sleazy coworker, the one who ogles your boobs whenever you bend over and thinks pencil skirts are a gift to humanity (his dick).

of course, accepting his invitation to hang out and drink at his place is a sure sign that you're not as innocent as you look.

and when he has you on the carpet, legs folded up to your chest, looking so sweet and breedable just for him, he realises you're not wearing underwear. just stockings. and a gasket blows in his mind.

there's an adult movie playing on the tv, but he's muted it. he wants to hear your voice and your voice only, after all.

he fucks you slowly at first, relishing the way your boobs ripple with the movement in your tight office blouse. you might be wearing a smaller one today, because the buttons are straining and he can see a peek of your lacey bra underneath.

your walls squeeze and flutter around him, betraying your need, but childe ignores it for now.

"so pretty, so, so pretty, all for me..." he mutters, still rocking his hips, grinding gently into you. the buttons come open with ease, revealing a scrap of red lace, transparent so he can see your hardened nipples.

he pauses. you seem to know what's coming next and squeeze around his dick in anticipation.

"you little slut," he growls in delight, slamming into your g-spot with such accuracy that you cry his name.

he sets a frightening pace, his dick scraping against every inch of your ribbed walls you've never been able to reach on your own, and you wonder, did he just get bigger?

"gonna cum inside, fill you up, inside inside inside," he chants, lost in his pleasure and tugging down your bra. your boobs spring free, now rippling freely like a wave. he ducks his head, suckling on one nipple, a hand coming up to tease the other one.

"ajax! oh, please, please, i'm so close," you moan, the pressure in your lower tummy building.

"with me," he mumbles, switching to your other nipple. "cum with me, baby, together..."

your rapidly contracting walls betray how close you are, and his dick twitches and twitches inside of you. childe grabs your leg, slinging it over his shoulder so his dick reaches even deeper into you, and the new position is just what you need for the dam to break.

you scream his name. you clamp down on him, hard, your back arching taut, pushing your breast further into his mouth. he cums at the same time, ropes of thick, hot cum filling you up in a place you hadn't even known was empty.

he's still pistoning into you at a violent pace, fucking you both through your first orgasm of the night.

blade

funny guy has funny tastes. if you'd known that one of his favourite things to do was to have you tied up and restrained, you would have... well, nothing, seeing as you enjoyed it just as much as he.

you were under the dining table, draped over the support crossbars and trying to clear out a particularly stubborn cobweb. blade eyes you hungrily, feeling his cock just begin to strain at his pants. he can see the outline of your panties through your clothes, the lucious curve of your ass tempting him to do something only in his fantasies.

then you pull back and stop.

"um, blade? a little help?"

his patience snaps. striding up to you, he lands a glancing blow on your behind. you yelp, your back arching. "hey, what was that for?"

he doesn't care. blade gives himself a moment to fix the image of your ass in his mind, then pulls down your clothes and underwear in one smooth movement.

"you little bitch," he snarls. a string of your arousal stretches from your pussy to your underwear. "fucking slut."

he slides his dick back and forth in your inner lips, coating it in slick and the tip rubbing aginst your clit. you moan, your back arching, grinding against him to try and get more friction.

blade reaches under the table and tugs you free, hoisting you up into his arms and carrying you to the couch.

another slap. you whimper, trying to turn back to get a look at him, but he grabs your head and forces it down.

"a slut like you shouldn't even be looking at me," he growls.

he spreads your asscheeks with his thumbs. the movement has your pussy weeping a few drops of cum onto his slick, wet dick.

"slut," he mutters again, half to himself, and slams himself into you.

you gasp, back arching, the fabric of the couch crinkling under your grip. "bla~ade," you moan angelically.

"shut up," he commands, pulling you roughly into him again. your shut up obediently. the flesh of your ass ripples up your body, and he can just see your boobs swaying to his rhythm.

he leans over you to whisper into your ear. "does my naughty little slut wanna cum?" he whispers, his gravelly voice sending sparks into your lower tummy.

you can feel his dick, thick and rock-hard, weighing down inside of you, and you can almost imagine the outline of it showing through your tummy. you nod.

he pistons his hips into yours, humping like an animal in heat, aiming right for the most sensitive gummy spot within you. you whimper and moan, your back arching in pleasure, and then you feel his hand clasp your boob to stimulate your nipple roughly.

"no-!" you squirm against his hold, but blade has you completely pinned. his other hand snakes down to where the two of you are connected, flesh smacking together and ringing through the room.

"if you want to cum, then cum." you can hear the smile in his voice as his hand finds your sensitive little nub and rubs it fiercely.

the pressure in your lower tummy spikes, and you claw at the couch as you cum, looking for something to hold onto. "bladebladeblade, ah, harder, please~"

[peachsukii]

₊✩‧₊ ⎯ after hours Another midnight stuck in the office, paperwork and tech piling up by the second. Sometimes, all it takes is a kick in the ass to take a break and remind yourself that you're only human.

content // late nights at work, just some fluff and fun behind the scenes of the hero world. reader’s support tech alias is Mechanica. wc // 0.9k

『 k.bakugo masterlist | caramel & champagne series 』

It’s been a long, exhausting month at the Dynamight Agency. Bakugo’s been on back to back emergency calls and scheduled patrols while you’ve been pulling double shifts to stay caught up with all of the repairs needed from said emergencies. It was a constant stream of issues popping up the second you’d finish fixing the last gadget of the bunch.

“Mechanica! My suit’s on the fritz. Can you check the wiring you installed?”

“Mecha, how’s it going? Sorry to bother you, but I’m out of the electro-bombs you made for me last week. Could you spare a few more?”

“Hey! You’re the top support tech here, right? Red Riot told me to come find ya. I busted my helmet last night and the visor doesn’t work anymore. Can you fix it? The infrared tech seems to have been fried."

Using your quirk for extended periods of time was draining as hell, as helpful as it was. Your fixes typically require a tool or two, or a quick recharge to a piece of gear you’ve created in the past, not three weeks of back-to-back quirk usage. A vacation sounds real nice, but alas, a heroes work is never truly done.

A familiar set of footsteps comes trudging toward the workshop as you’re inspecting a piece of circuitry - you know those boots anywhere.

“Peach, I thought ya went home?” Bakugo asks you while placing a broken gauntlet on one of the open work tables. “Like...hours ago.”

Sarcastically, you wave your hand to the piles of items next to you.

“I was when I messaged you earlier, and then everyone in the damn agency suddenly needed repairs.”

You peer around him to the bracer he placed on one of the other tables. Son of a bitch, you fixed that yesterday!

“Katsuki…you didn’t.”

You don’t mean for your tone to sound accusatory, but you’re grumpy and want to go home. Bakugo huffs under his breath and waves you off.

“Relax sweets, s’just a backup that’s busted. Villain stabbed right through it and it cracked one of the gaskets inside. Still got my good set in the office.”

“Every one is a good set, ‘Ki. I’ll get to it tomorrow, maybe I should build you a third set for when you smash the good pair.”

He knew the bite in your tone wasn’t aimed at him, it’s was just a result of your exhaustion and didn’t hold it against you.

“Why don’t we go home together? Leave all that for tomorrow. S’late,” Bakugo suggests, taking the tools out of your hands and laying them on the table. “Have your team do the dirty work. You’re gonna run yourself into the ground.”

“You have absolutely no room to talk, Mr. Running on Four Hours of Sleep.” You playfully smack him in the bicep before rearranging the tools on the table. “You didn’t even come to bed last night, you passed out on the couch in your hero gear.”

He shakes his head before grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Katsuki! Put me down!” You squeal, half annoyed and half giddy.

“Nah, cause if I do, you’ll be glued to this station for god knows how long." Bakugo smacks your ass to get you to sit still, a grin plastered on his face. "It’s past midnight, peaches. Takin’ you home and throwin’ us both in the shower. And we’re stayin’ home tomorrow, boss’s orders.”

There's no force in the world that could stop Katsuki Bakugo once his mind is made up - no use in fighting the inevitable.

You dramatically let your body rag doll in his hold. "Fine, but you have to carry me all the way home."

“I’d carry you to the edge of the world, sweetheart.”

How does this man one up himself every single day and steal your heart all over again?

“You’re so mushy when you’re tired,” you tease, reaching down to squeeze at his side to tickle him. “If only everyone else could see the big bad Dynamight right now, carrying his exhausted wife home. That would be a hell of a headline.”

Bakugo feigns dropping you in retaliation, catching you at the last second and shifting you back on his shoulder like you were weightless.

“Shut it or I’ll drop you in a puddle on the way home,” he cackles while pinching your thigh. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m lettin’ those paparazzi jackasses catch a glimpse of your ass.”

He makes a fair point. You were already in the spotlight recently, no need to add any more fuel to that fire.

The two of you exit the workshop, turning the lights off and heading to the rooftop to blast home. Bakugo’s version of flying never fails to fill you with adrenaline, a personalized rollercoaster ride all the way from the agency to your shared apartment. When you get home, Phoenix lovingly jumps off the couch and trots over to you two, rubbing between your legs and chirping happily.

“Can you feed Nix, babe?“ you ask as you’re stripping out of your workshop clothes and nodding toward the begging kitty at your feet. “I’ll start the shower. Leave your suit out here, too. We can toss them in the wash tomorrow.”

The domestic routine kicks in for the Bakugo household, just delayed by a few hours. After your shower, the two of you relax together in the bath, enjoying the silence of each other’s company. The alarm clock reads 2:13AM by the time you’re crawling under the sheets, tucked under Bakugo’s arm and cradled against his chest. He turns off the “work” alarm for the both of you, solidifying his decision for a much needed day off.

It’s little moments like these that remind you how human the two of you are in the midst of it all - even heroes need breaks.

⇢ subscribers; @sunflowers-4 @sweetloveandaffection

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[luveline]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it. 

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused. 

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out. 

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say. 

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes. 

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello. 

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart. 

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it. 

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers. 

"Hey," Eddie says. 

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance. 

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?" 

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them. 

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad." 

"It was accidental." 

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart. 

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare. 

"I'm the sorry one." 

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding. 

He's in a mood. 

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips. 

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks. 

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again. 

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up." 

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing." 

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch. 

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect,  if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer." 

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first. 

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs. 

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?" 

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk. 

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap. 

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye. 

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay. 

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask. 

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?" 

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them." 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in. 

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain. 

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse. 

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table. 

"Dick," you say. 

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age." 

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back. 

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you. 

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind. 

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask. 

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan. 

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says. 

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused. 

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford." 

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things." 

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it." 

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind." 

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. 

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else. 

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray. 

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry. 

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown. 

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?" 

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose. 

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner. 

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs. 

"What are you thinking about?" you ask. 

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you. 

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you. 

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous. 

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird. 

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve. 

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are." 

"Oh, I have to know." 

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot. 

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.   

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty." 

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today." 

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed. 

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual). 

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?" 

"Nothing." 

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it. 

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe." 

"Oh." 

"I got gum though, if you want it." 

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up." 

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip. 

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost. 

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair. 

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…" 

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?" 

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me." 

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward. 

You pull back. "Wait–" 

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks. 

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to." 

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?" 

"But you haven't, today." 

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen. 

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will. 

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss." 

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle. 

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say. 

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you. 

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation. 

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer. 

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly. 

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye. 

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next. 

"Would you wanna move in with me?" 

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side. 

"I… what?" 

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be." 

"You'd really want me to?" you ask. 

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready." 

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud. 

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?" 

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–" 

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders. 

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time. 

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you." 

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head. 

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back. 

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks. 

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask. 

"For the rest of time, if I get my way." 

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic. 

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time. 

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile. 

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss. 

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to). 

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you." 

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."  

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation? 

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love). 

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep. 

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss. 

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer." 

"Very funny," you murmur. 

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him. 

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?" 

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough." 

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured. 

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

[creator1mpersonator]

Through the Mirror

00. Prologue

Inspired by Coraline, reader is gender-neutral, no use of Y/N.

This new home was painfully dreary. Based on the copper-colored bricks that built up the walls and the immensely overgrown shrubbery around it, you assumed this was a pre-war building. There were neighboring houses, but they all looked as copper, lifeless, and boring as yours. As you assisted your parents unload the U-Haul, you saw a little girl ride past on her little bike with the expression of a Victorian child—poor thing, so young and living in a place with the mental stimulation of the color beige. Your father procured the key from one of his pockets, slotting it into the rusty doorknob and turning it. The door simply opened by itself, and you heard him mumble something about fixing it to himself before entering. Your mother followed, waving away cobwebs with her hand. You remained outside for a moment, and it wasn’t until you heard your mother shriek your name that you picked up a box and scampered inside.

The inside of the home was, predictably, as depressing as its exterior. Dusty, with cobwebs along walls like terrible little decorations. You screamed when you saw a cockroach scuttle past your feet, its wretched antenna going this way and that before fleeing out the open front door.

“Bugs, great. Just what I need.” Your mother muttered in a rather disgruntled tone, arms crossed over her chest. She seemed even more upset by this move than you were, even if it was supposed to be good for her and your father’s job. Not that you even knew what it was that they did.

“Nothing an exterminator can’t fix, honey.” Your father said in a cheerful tone, ever the optimist.

“Exterminators cost money. Money we don’t have.” Your mother retorted, killing another roach beneath her shoe with a rather cruel stomp that sounded throughout the empty house.

“You’ll see,” your father began, “things will be just fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

Your father sighed, and you gave him a sympathetic smile before setting the box you were holding down on the dusty hardwood floors.

“___” your mother called out, “go pick out your room.”

You nodded, walking past your at-odds parents and heading up the stairs. There was an old carpet that lined the hallway, like in picture books. It was a faded blue and you think there were once flowers printed on the fabric. You decided to walk on the regular hardwood instead when the carpet began to squish under your feet. You don’t think the carpet was supposed to do that. 

You peered into different rooms, making keen observations about each one that would help you pick out the least worst one. One room had a hole in the floor, your mother was gonna blow a gasket when she saw it. The next room sent you running out of it when you saw the cockroaches gathered around like a council of terrible little things. The third room you saw was the one you picked. Compared to the last two, it wasn’t in a state of disrepair nor did it make your skin crawl. It was bland because of course it was, but you figured some paint, furniture, and decorations could fix it right up. Two windows let natural light inside your bedroom, there was a closet with bi-fold doors, and a mirror.

The mirror caught your attention the most. It was undoubtedly an antique, the glass of the mirror surrounded by a golden border with swirling decals carved into it. It was beautiful and vaguely reminded you of the Evil Queen’s mirror in Snow White. 

“Mom!” You called out, “Come up here!”

You heard footsteps come up the stairs, a disgusted sound when the carpet squished beneath her foot, an angry sigh at the hole in the floor, and a shriek when she found the council of roaches before she finally found your room.

“Couldn’t have told me what room you were in?” She sighed, arms still crossed.

“Sorry.” You said, before quickly changing focus, “check out this mirror.”

Your mother glanced at the mirror briefly, eyebrow raised.

“It’s creepy”

“I think it looks pretty.” You defended.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t wanna get rid of that one and just get a new mirror?” Your mother asked.

“I’m sure.”

She sighed.

“As long as you’re happy, bug.”

You wouldn’t begin to understand the trouble that mirror would get you into until that night.

[francixoxoxo]

˚✧ ₊Something ˚. ʚ

Billy the Kid x Reader

You’re pregnant with Billy’s baby, and it’s taking a bit of a toll on you. You have a breakdown, and Billy soothes you.

TW: reader is pregnant, weight insecurity, mentions of miscarriage

Basically pure angst and comfort, sorryyyyy (not sorry)

It was times like these that you wished God made you a man.

Not to say you weren’t in awe of yourself. You were carrying a human life— wasn’t that something? Your mother was insistent on specific teas and herbs to help the baby. Your friends were giddy with excitement, you being the first of them all to have a baby. Your husband? You didn’t think Billy could be more protective than if he locked you in a safe.

He argued his way into plenty of late-start workdays to take care of you when you felt sick. He was wary of you going out on particularly hot days, as if you’d melt. When he was with you, in public or not, he tucked you to his side and kept an iron grip on you. You were his sweetest girl, and now that you were pregnant? Oh, if he could hide you from every danger, he would. He certainly tried.

But Billy couldn’t keep you from every difficulty that came with pregnancy. He held your hair back from your face as you vomited, but he couldn’t keep your food down for you. He’d rub your feet before you fixed your lips to ask, as if to make up for not being able to carry you everywhere you needed.

“M’ sorry.” Billy cooed to you as you laid in bed one night, gently rubbing that spot in your hip you’d admitted was hurting. You shook your head, the dim moonlight filtering through the window gratefully letting him see your soft smile.

“Not your fault.” You murmured, nose-to-nose with him, your eyes flicking twixt his concerned blue ones. You couldn’t have found a better man’s baby to have.

Billy shook his head gently but with an adamant and dark expression. He pet some hair back from your face. “Well, I did this t’you, didn’t I?”

Your eyes smiled with your lips at his words. “And I’m glad you did.” You couldn’t resist moving in closer, your nose burying into his chest. His strong arms immediately wrapped around you to hold you close to him. Calloused fingertips lightly trailed along your ribs, you felt the faintest touch of his lips to your hairline.

It wasn’t a lie. You were happy to be a mother, really.

But that happiness tended to subside when you passed a mirror. Oh, you’d gained so much. You mentioned it once to Billy, but he shut it down quickly by assuring you how beautiful he found you. His words had stuck with you for perhaps a day before the self-hatred seeped in again.

Or when Billy came home late, a bassinet or a changing table in tow, grinning ear-to-ear, and you wouldn’t dare to but wanted to yell what a waste it would end up being. Self-hatred wasn’t simply for what was on the surface— you were certain your body would fail you, and more importantly that it would let down Billy. But you hadn’t dared breathe a word to him. Not when he smiled so brightly as he looked over his shoulder at you, setting the wooden cradle down in the small room dedicated as the nursery.

Billy had begged you to not go on horseback rides anymore, now that you were (according to him) fragile. You assured him you wouldn’t, soothing his already high-strung nerves over you.

Yet here you were, galloping about as fast as your horse could dash without his heart bursting a gasket. Tears were already stinging your eyes, the wind whipping your hair behind you. You were riding so furiously that you were standing on the stirrups, bent over and gripping the reins like a professional jockey.

Your mind was just swimming. You were seven months along by now, and you never felt worse. Perhaps it was just a day, or a week, or a month— but you couldn’t bottle it up. Billy wasn’t home, and you supposed it would be better to empty your rotten feelings in an empty field than onto your poor lover’s lap. Your heart clenched at the thought of what he’d say. Oh, you’d break his heart, surely.

And you weren’t keen on hurting Billy, not when he was the one thing holding you together. The thought of him now reminded you to breathe, you hadn’t realized the burn in your lungs. You even dared taking your hand off the reins to wipe the hot tears off your cheeks.

Eventually you found your spot. It’d been so long since you came here, just the sight of the sun-warmed rocks poking out from the river made your heart lighten. You tied your horse to a tree, discarding your boots at its roots. The grass was pleasantly warm under your bare feet, your eyes trained on the wildflowers blooming as the earth sloped down slightly to the riverbank. Here, tears slipped from you like nothing. You sank into the long grass, laying back and letting the fronds tickle the skin your chemise exposed.

If the river overflowed from the buckets of tears you cried, you would hardly be surprised. The breath was utterly stolen from your lungs as you wept, a hand over your heart and consequently the increased swell of your breast. Just the subtle reminder of the way your body had changed made you bawl harder. Oh, how you wanted it off you! You wanted it all to stop, for it all to go away. But that desperate want washed guilt over you.

How could you want your baby gone?

You didn’t! You didn’t, you told yourself, wiping at the tears that wouldn’t ebb. You loved this baby before you’d even met it. And now that fear was clawing at your heart again, threatening to rip it into strings, the fear that you never would meet it.

Perhaps it was your weeping that drew Billy to that creek, perhaps it pierced through to his heart like an arrow all the way from home. He hardly took a peek around your quaint house before hopping back on his horse. And at the perfect moment, when you thought you simply couldn’t bear such heavy feelings any longer, you heard the sound of boots on grass.

You lifted your head, catching your breath and peering over the overgrown, tall blades of glass to see Billy’s face looking back down at you. Wasn’t he the image of an angel? He immediately sunk to his knees beside you, that angelic face screwed up in concern as he cooed, “Oh, baby, my baby.. Hush, don’t cry, hon..”

Something about Billy’s strong arms practically scooping you up to lean against his broad chest had you sobbing mightily. You turned your cheek into him, wetting his work shirt and smelling deeply his musk, tinged with sweat. The low timbre of his voice willing you to calm down had mixed effects. In certain ways you felt safe. As though everything was suddenly all-right. And in other ways, you felt so unbelievably helpless.

Frankly? It terrified Billy. He clutched you tight, running his calloused palms up and down your arms, over the rise of your belly, stroking your wet cheeks. He can’t remember a time he’s seen you so distressed. It feels like years until your sobs delve into soft, shudders gasps and sighs, the skin ‘round your eyes rubbed raw. You’ve stopped trying to wipe the tears away, but Billy’s taken up the job, diligently swiping the wetness away from your pretty eyes and cheeks with his thumb.

after you calmed, you croaked a soft, “Sorry.” Billy shook his head adamantly, knitting his brows.

“Don’t apologize, baby. You ain’t done anything wrong.” He cooed gently, wrapping his arms around your front and pulling you even closer to his chest. Your heart was weary, your stomach heavy. But Billy made it all just a bit better. You could feel more than see his blue eyes flicking between your face and your belly. “What’s wrong?”

You pressed your lips nervously. You let your gaze fall on the running brook, the quiet rushing of water over rock soothing. Billy’s roughened hand came to lay over yours on your lap, giving to the strength to admit, “I’m miserable.”

Billy paused in nearly every way. You thought that his heart stopped a beat, and you were certain his breath hitched. “What d’you mean?” He squeezed your hand.

“I..” You caught yourself on the verge of admitting your darkest fear, silently reprimanding yourself and deciding to admit the less painful one. “I look so different. Not in a good way.. I’m so much fatter, Billy.” Your voice wavered as you spoke; even if it was vain, or the least of your problems, it still weighed on you. It still hurt.

“Oh, baby..” Billy sighed, nosing your hair and shaking his head a bit. “You aren’t fat. You’re so, so goddamn beautiful.”

Your lips pulled, threatening to part in a sob before you swallowed it down. Tears came back to your eyes. Why couldn’t you believe his words? “I’m not. Look at me! I’m a planet. I don’t know how you can stand to look at me.” Your voice cracked, much to your embarrassment. Your hands went to cover your eyes but Billy gently pulled them away. He tilted your chin to meet your eyes, his own peering at you like you were mad, or some poor creature. As if you’d offended him by talking so poorly about yourself.

Billy murmured your name and shook his head adamantly again. “You’re carryin’ a baby. My baby. A damn life.” He paused, eyes silently flicking twixt yours for a moment, trying to see if his words were sinking in. “Maybe your body’s a little different, but I think you look perfect. Might even be more attracted t’you, if that’s possible.” Billy cooed, his voice somehow gentle and firm at once. A smirk crept across his face at that last bit, only growing upon seeing your slight smile.

But his expression became concerned and serious again after a moment, he furrowed his brows. “Don’t talk bad ‘bout my girl like that, baby. You’re just as gorgeous as ever. Frankly, I like that you’re a little softer now. Just a little more of you t’hold.” Billy went on until your faint smile broadened, tightening his arms around you as he worked a blush out of you.

The insecurity didn’t leave you, but his words were enough to wash out the self-hatred. If Billy loved you, surely you could too. The way he was looking at you right now honestly had you believing he thought you an angel. Because he did, in every way. “Th-thank you..” You mumbled after a while, wiping your eyes and grimacing, nuzzling your cheek further against his chest. His warm, calloused palm rubbed up and down your arm. “I love you.”

“I love you more n’ anything.” Billy said it like it was the easiest thing. As if he was born knowing it, and you should’ve understood by now. Yet still, it eluded you just how he could adore you so much. Perhaps he could see that haze in your eyes as you averted your gaze to the grass, thinking on that. Would he still love you if your body killed his baby? Never mind the fact that it was your baby as well— it was Billy’s too, and he was so, so excited for it.. How would you live with yourself if Billy’s baby died?

“But that’s not the only thing, is it?” Billy murmured, snapping you out of your thoughts. When you looked up at him, you realized tears blurred his face. He wiped them away as you blinked them onto your cheeks.

You couldn’t keep a thing from him, not now. You shook your head, feeling a rock lodge in your throat when you opened your mouth to speak. He squeezed your arm gently, furrowing his brows and kissing your temple as reassurance. “Y’don’t have to—“

“—I’m afraid that I’ll kill the baby.”

Billy’s eyes went buggy, and that rock in your throat settled into your stomach. Your word lingered in the air for a few agonizingly long, painful moments, before your lover nodded slightly, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You’re scared you’ll miscarry.” He rephrased, voice soft and subtly curious.

Tears flowed now like your body was dispelling every emotion it had ever experienced. Billy pulled you to him tighter, cooing soft words to you. “Hush, baby. You’re okay. You ain’t.. You’re healthy as a horse, sweetheart. What put that into your head?”

You’d been right. Your words broke his heart.

Your words came twixt sobs and needy gulps of air. “M-my momma— lost three, n’— Oh, I’m scared that—“ You were driving yourself hysterical. Billy hushed you, a hand on the back of your head pulling your face to his heartbeat. His lips were glued to your hair. “I know, baby, I know. I know.”

Oh, it felt like years ‘till you cried all the tears your eyes could make. You weren’t sure when Billy had pulled you more into his lap, your head tucked into his neck, his hand rubbing up and down your ribs while the other laid over your belly. He could feel subtle kicks now and then, but his heart was too heavy from seeing you so distraught that he couldn’t find it in him to be giddy at the feeling.

The fronds of long grass ticked your legs and bare feet, the sound of rushing water and Billy’s soothing voice filling your ears. “I feel like I’ll fail you.” You admitted softly, letting your eyes flutter closed as he smoothed a hand over your hair.

“Impossible.” Billy dismissed, his voice a firm murmur into your hair. “It wouldn’t happen. I won’t let y’entertain the idea.” His brows were pulled into a taught furrow, he blinked away the stinging in his eyes. “It wouldn’t be your fault.” He added. You nodded a bit, grimacing.

Whether it was the exhilarating lightness of simply having it off your chest or Billy’s loving assurance, your mind felt less murky. You felt ten tons lighter, tucked safely in your lovers arm, your skin tickled by warm grass and your eyes closed after a long bawl. “I’m sorry for all this fuss.” You mumble.

Billy pressed his slightly chapped lips to your hairline, his own eyes shutting. His stubble scratching your brow was a welcome reminder of his omnipresence. “Nothin’ to apologize for.”

The silence lingered a moment before you broke it again. “You’re my rock. Did I ever tell you that?” You lifted your face, craning your neck to look up at Billy. He was smiling sweetly, his lips just barely pulled over his teeth. His hand that wasn’t busy rubbing your belly was finding its way into your hair.

“You never had to.” Billy shook his head. his eyes dropped to your lips, which had found their way into a smile to mirror his, much to his delight. He pressed a kiss to them, relishing in your soft exhale. You hoped that he understood all your emotions as you out them into this kiss, all the love, the anguish, the appreciation.

He most definitely understood it all.

Billy held you for a long while after, in that sun-warmed clearing. Somehow you both came to lay in the grass on your backs, hands clasped in the gap twixt you. You stared up at the few clouds adorning the bright sky. Billy stared at you, bringing your clasped hands to your belly and flipping his to lay beside yours on the large expanse of it. His thumb brushed over the bump through the thin linen of your chemise.

Billy shook his head, smiling in that sweet way of his again and meeting your gaze. His own azure eyes glimmered with a kind of joy that you wouldn’t trade for anything.

“You’ll be a good mother.” He whispered, as if the brook wasn’t empty save for you two. “And you’re gonna make me a father, sweet thing.” Those words were breathed with reverence. Billy was simply in awe of you; of what your body was capable of. Of your soul, and your heart. Your sheer beauty, in every curve and edge. He made it clear to you with every move he made and every word he uttered. You couldn’t help a smile spreading over your cheeks, your swollen eyes turning into crescents along with your lips.

“I’m glad it’s you.” Your words were just as quiet and hushed as his. And they needed no explanation. Billy never needed one to understand you.

[storm-angel989]

Can I request a girl dad Vox where his teenage daughter is going through her emo phase. at the same time going through puberty, and she's just at that stage where she's like "I hate you all" and it really hurts Vox because she's always been her little girl and maybe it ends with them making up and just being goofy like watching her favorite movies. Like super daddy's girl esk until then and his world just stops when she starts pulling away. I LOVE GIRL DAD VOX.

This was such a fun request! Thanks for sending!! <3

The attitude shift came overnight. Vox couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his daughter changed her nail polish from pink to black, or when she started to wear only the black pieces from her wardrobe. But he could absolutely remember the first time she snapped at him over a simple question. As she left the breakfast table and slammed the door shut behind her, Vox looked to Valentino and Velvette for guidance. 

“She’s growing up,” Velvette said through sips of her coffee. “Just be patient. Let her come to you and give her space.”

And so, Vox tried. I mean, honestly, he really did try. He let every snarky response, every too loud blast of music pass. Hell, the morning she woke up and poured herself a cup of coffee he almost blew a gasket. She was sixteen, she didn’t need coffee, he started to say, but Valentino cut him off and guided reader back to the kitchen. 

“Cream and sugar, little princessa, will help you get used to the taste,” Valentino said gently. 

Vox heard her mutter something he couldn’t quite make out but her tone certainly sounded rude. He stood up to scold her but Velvette grabbed his hand. 

“Pick your battles, Vox. This isn’t it.” Velvette said. “It’s only a phase.”

And so he gave her as much freedom as he felt he could while still being an active, involved parent. He kept on top of her grades and gave her the space she demanded and he thought for sure that respecting her privacy would get at least an “I love you Daddy,” on occasion. The most he got from her was a slightly less intense look of disdain every time he asked a question or a task of her. It seemed to him Daddy’s Little Girl was no longer. 

The hair dye was the final straw. Pretty brunette turned box dye black in a matter of hours. A bathroom splattered with splotches of black and a sink stained so badly Vox was sure it would never come out. Her beautiful brunette hair was now an odd shade of gray. He felt his anger grow as he saw the remnants of her activities and with a yell, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her downstairs to Velvelettes studio. 

“Where did you even get this?” Vox asked in frustration as he watched Velvette’s assistant try to scrub the stains from behind her ears. “And why? You had such pretty hair!”

“Why does it matter?” She snapped. “I can do what I want with my body. You can’t stop me.”

“I never said you couldn’t! But you have an entire salon two floors below your bedroom, why didn’t you just say something?” He asked in exasperation as Velvette walked over. 

“Because it’s my body! I just wanted to do something on my own for once without everything questioning me!” She screamed. 

And then she burst into tears. Vox could feel his heart breaking at the sound and pushed the assistant away as he pulled her into his arms. He expected her to push him away, but instead she leaned into his shoulder and cried.

“And now I’m ugly, and my hair sucks and I just, I just…” she let out a hiccuping sob. 

Vox recognized that noise. Even in her teenage years, that cry hadn’t changed. He pressed his hand to the back of her head gently, ignoring the leftover streaks of dye that stained his hands. 

“Hey, hey baby girl. It’s alright, Auntie Vel will get your hair fixed up,” he said as soothingly as he could. 

Velvette glanced up from behind the counter and took her place behind the chair. She gave Vox an encouraging look. 

Vox took a deep breath. Pick my battles, he thought to himself as he held his not so little girl anymore. 

“And I’m sure she’ll dye it black if that’s what you really want,” he conceded finally. 

Another sniffle from the face tucked into his shoulder. 

“Really, you’d let me do that?” She asked as she leaned back and rubbed at her eyes. 

“Only if you promise never to use box dye again,” he replied lightly. “The bathroom is a mess. We might have to repaint the entire thing.” 

She let out a ghost of a smile and he gently dabbed her eyes.

 “There there. No more tears. It’s okay.”

“Daddy? Can I ask you something?” She asked as Velvette quietly took her place behind the chair and began to work her way through the half brunette streaks of hair. 

“Anything, sweetheart.”

“Can…can we redo my room? I don’t want it pink anymore.” She said softly. “Please don’t be mad.”

He could feel his heart breaking for the second time that day, this time for an entirely different reason. She thought he would be mad at her? He tried to think back to when she would get that idea and quickly concluded now wasn’t the best time to analyze his own behavior. Not when he had those pretty blue eyes watching him, waiting desperately for a response. 

“Sure baby girl,” he replied with a kiss to her forehead. “How about we get your hair fixed up and then you and I can do some shopping and redesign the whole thing together tonight? How’s that sound?” 

Her eyes lit up. “That would be amazing! Thank you, Dad!” She stood up from the chair threw her arms around him. 

Velvette gave Vox an approving smile.

“Alright then you two, let's get to work so you guys can go have some fun!” She said cheerfully. 

A few hours later, Vox watched as reader admired her reflection in the mirror. Somewhere, it pained him that she wanted to run so far in the opposite direction. He wondered what he had done to lose her trust.

“Don’t take it personally,” Velvette said softly to Vox as he watched reader run her fingers through her hair. “She’s just trying to find her place in the world.”

“What do I do about the bedroom? I can’t have it all black, it would look awful.” He replied, “but unless I give in…”

“Boundaries, Vox. It’s a reasonable give and take. Sure, painting her entire room back would look awful. And It’s okay to hold an expectation and come to a compromise. Some part of her still wants to know you care about her. She’s just testing her limits. All teenagers do.” Velvette added. “But I would start with designing together on one of you computers and go from there.”

Several hours, zero tears and one phone in pizza order later, Vox and reader sat on the couch. For the first time in a long time, reader was in hysterics as they watched her favorite movie together.

“Hey, Dad?” She asked once she collected herself enough to speak. “I love you.”

Vox tried to keep his cool, but his heart soared. “Love you too,” he replied. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “No matter what happens, I’ll always be your dad.”

[seat-safety-switch]

There's this super fancy steakhouse near my home, and I've always wanted to eat there. Their salad bar is beyond excellent, a friend informs me, and their grated cheese is actually from Italy. Expense aside, you'd think this would be an easy trip for me. You're wrong.

You see, this steakhouse is so fancy that they have a special employee whose job it is to park my car. As far as I can tell by watching their parking lot with high-powered binoculars, their "valet" will take your car from you at the entrance, park it for you, and retrieve it for you when you're done eating. This, presumably, saves you the dinner-ruining stress of gently turning your vehicle to place it into a parking space.

Personally, I don't mind parking. My own backyard is full of cars packed helter-skelter, with mere millimetres of space between them. I could probably park a bus in here, if I really had to, but it would take me a couple of hours to get it back out. That's not the problem. The problem is that the valet would have to drive my car, which means I'd have to explain how to drive my car to them.

In case you think that's not a problem, allow me to explain. Most carbureted cars have a single choke, which you pull out when the car is cold in order to help it breathe a little better. Mine has sixteen, which must be pulled, bagpipe-like, in a specific order as the engine is running in order to keep it from dying at the lights. Could I fix it? Not until they create a bottle of head-gasket fix that also cures giant holes in the block.

Sure, I could park a few blocks away and walk there, but the valet will smell the desperation on me. If I have a rusty, propane-spurting 1970s Chrysler product, maybe I'm an eccentric. There's fewer of those left than Ferrari 458s, which makes me a "vintage collector," at least in the eyes of the super-rich-people yacht-owning magazine I tricked into doing an interview with me last year. All that goes out the window if I show up on foot. Same goes for letting my dinner date drive me there: her Hyundai Tucson is, well, a Hyundai Tucson. Not eccentric at all. Practical. They hate that there.

Ultimately, I think I'm going to have to bite the bullet and do things the hard way. I've already applied for a job as their assistant valet. There's an employee discount, and I'm pretty sure that I'll be head valet once the bossman sees that I can fit like 700% as many cars in there as the old guy. It's just going to take a few weeks to get them back out again, which is even better for business.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 16)

They had done a decent job hiding this all from Khan until this point. The man had been busy fixing a malfunctioning main door and she had gotten quite good at hiding things from him. However that had to end when she was going to be forced to spend at least a couple of days staying in N's apartment, looking after his new daughter.

Khan decidedly did not need to know that her name was also on those adoption papers, and the longer she could keep that hidden the better, as much as N was someone she could let her guard down around, the same couldn't be said about the rest of the bunker, there were already rampant rumors flying around the bunker about her and N, not helped by them walking together with a baby to his apartment she was sure. She didn't need to give them any more fuel.

So now she was near the front of the bunker, looking for her dad to break the news that yes, N did end up adopting the baby they'd literally just told him he wasn't like… a few days ago.

She was sure that conversation was going to go well.

“Dad?” She called out, her voice echoing out in the much larger hall, absent of other people. At this hour, most sane people would be asleep, but not her, and it would likely be a little bit before her old man would want to stop working, that was one of the few things they shared; when a task needed to be done, neither of them stopped until their bodies demanded it.

“Here dronelette!” His voice came from above, and so her head turned towards it, only to find Khan awkwardly wrapped around a pipe, tightening a gasket on Door 2, honestly it almost looked like one of the weird ass positions she would take while writing something that caught her attention.

“How did you even get up there?” She asked, looking around for any evidence of a ladder or a stool and found neither.

“I scaled the pipes! What? Didn't think your old man could climb?” He chuckled lightly without loosing focus, tongue sticking out of his mouth as his eyelights scrunched up

“Uh no, actually.” Was all she said, watching as he worked for another minute before he wiped the nonexistent sweat of his brow and looked down.

Then with a semi-impressive level of balance and grace, jumped down from the rather high ceiling, using the other pipes as monkey bars before landing safely at her side.

Only to wince as his joints made a rather concerning noise.

“Agh, so it's been awhile…” He chuckled again, although this time a little sadly before turning to his daughter with a smile that seemed genuine.

“What did you need?” He asked, and Uzi shook off the strange feeling of awe watching her dad do something that was actually sort of risky like it was normal for him.

Only for it to be replaced by the nervousness of the reason she'd actually sought him out. Great…

“Uh yeah. I was just letting you know I need to stay over at N's tonight…”

Khan looked confused, but a smile still graced his face.

“Is that all? You normally wouldn't come find me for something small like that.”

“And… for possibly the next few days?” She finished, at which then Khan’s face fell, becoming more confused and a little concerned.

“Why's that? N's not sick is he? Can murder drones even get sick…?”

“No! He's fine, well mostly. It's just he needs my help with… uh something.” She was trying to avoid the inevitable. She knew playing the pronoun game with her dad was a habit, but one she'd only truly win if she had a door to slam in his face.

“Which is?” She winced, sweat appearing on her visor as she grinned warily, shifting her fingers together nervously.

“N ended up… adopting Tera. And he needs my help in taking care of her until he gets everything ready for her.”

Khan’s jaw was on the floor, put of all thing he'd expected out of his daughters mouth that was… not at the top of the list; along with “Bite me” or “Mind your freaking business.”

“He told me he wasn't going to.”

“He wasn't, but… Tera has an overheating issue and no one else seemed to want to deal with it.” She tried to explain without concerning him further.

Khan didn't say anything, so she felt the urge to continue impulsively.

“We talked about it, and we agreed that Mrs Rayn is a little too old to raise a baby. And We have a lot of experience with overheating… with him getting his new apartment, we thought…” She stopped suddenly. Realizing she had gone from talking about N to talking about them. As a unit.

“We?”

“I-uh yeah, he talked to me about it first and I talked him through it all to make sure he was serious about it. I-I'm not on the papers or anything!”

She probably could have omitted that last part, but the way Khan was looking at her was making the usually rather quiet part of her brain requiring his approval speak up slightly louder.

She wasn't sure Khan entirely believed her, squinting at her with extreme suspicion, she glanced to the side, eyeing the way she came as if she regreted the entire trek up here.

“If you're just doing it to help them settle in. Wouldn't that only take a few hours? Or a day?” He began again slowly, still processing the sudden information.

“Normally, and that was the plan. But uh, he lacks the hardware to take care of her properly.”

“Rayn should have given him the cable and the bottles, what do you-”

“He doesn't have a side panel.” She interrupted him blunty, pausing whatever he was about to say next

Khan was quiet.

“What?”

“No, you didnt mishear me. He doesn't have a side panel.”

“Everyone has one.”

“He doesn't.”

Khan blinked before he sighed heavily, thinking deeply on everything that was just discussed. He felt one of his hands start shaking, but he gripped it to make it stop.

“I had about the same reaction, but it makes sense, why would a disassembly drone ever need that kind of hardware?”

He nodded at that, before a different thought entered his head entirely.

“How do they raise their kids then?”

At that Uzi paused, she knew N's background, how he used to be a worker drone and had never been a pillbaby. So that thought had simply never entered her mind, but it did get her thinking…

Could N even pass down his code at all? Did it work the same way as with worker drones?

And if it did, what would his kids even look like? White eyelights? Yellow? Would they carry the same traits as a disassembly drone or would they just remain a worker drone?

“I don't think they do…” She answered, she didn't want to expose too much of N's past, that wasn't her story to tell, but her dad had been being… more tolerable as of late. “N was a worker drone before he became… what he is now. So I think all that hardware was removed.”

“He was? What did he used to do?” He asked, head tilted to the side.

“He…” She paused for a moment, deciding if N would mind if she said anything, he was pretty sensitive about his time at the manor; she decided giving him the very basics was enough. “He was a butler, he had white eyelights.”

“White. Huh.”

At that the conversation stagnated, and Uzi sighed, beginning to walk away.

“Now that you know, can I uh… go?” She gestured in the direction she was currently going, clearly not waiting for his answer as Khan seemed to be frozen, processing all of this information.

But he nodded, dumbly. And she took that as her que to book it, not stopping until she was certain that even if her dad wanted to catch up, she'd be long gone. Perfect for making an undetected journey back.

She didn't take the normal way back to N's apartment either, trying to avoid more stares from more judgemental faces, it was somehow worse now than it ever was, at least before they'd done it quietly, too scared to be noticed by her and be met with violence, but they seemed to sniff out her now softened edges, because now some drones didn't bother to hide it.

“Looks like the freak found a boy toy.”

“Of course she'd be freinds with a murder drone, she's all kinds of gross.”

“You think she let's him bite her? She's probably into it…”

One of those came from Lizzy, which was honestly so typical she barely even registered it. (Although she hadn't said anything in awhile, V probably had something to do with that.) But the other two, the one about N being a boy toy and her letting him bite her, were new, and came from a brand new mouth.

She wasn't sure if this particular girl had a thing for N, because both of those were rather strange places for someone's mind to default to, but whatever the case she'd made comments like that rather often, her name was… Chloe? That sounded right.

She was quiet before, Uzi thought, because she was a brand new face and voice for her, orange eyelights and rich black hair that went down to her shoulders. But that was literally the only thing Uzi could remember about her.

And the only reason she hadn't bitten back when she'd heard it was because N had been next to her, oblivious to it all, walking back to her place after the craziness that was prom. She'd also been tired, injured, and freaked out, but those things didn't stop her nearly as much as N's presence.

N didn't deserve that ridicule, not in the least. He was the sweetest guy on the entirety of Copper-9. And yet those comments were derogatory to him too, essentially calling him easy, for Uzi to be able to “get him.”

First. Ew, Not that Uzi wasn't attracted to him, she was. (Not like she was ever going to say anything.) But talking about anyone like that was gross, and this was N, Her best freind.

Second. How dare she drag his name in the dirt with her! She could drag Uzi's name around all she wanted, it would just be treading old ground. But N? He'd done nothing to Chloe, except maybe make her feel things? She didn't know, those comments were so weird and uncomfortable.

She pushed out the thoughts from her mind when she reached N's door, partly thankful for her switch to being a night owl, she rarely saw any of her classmates anymore, except Thad. And when she did it was incredibly brief, when she was turning in her work.

Because yes, she was still going to school. She just did all of her work at home. What else was she supposed to do after murdering half her class? V had taken the blame, but that didn't mean everyone else didn't know the real culprit.

The door swished open, revealing N still on the couch, watching Tera as she rolled around playing with her jingling roll toy, he smiled when he looked up at her, worry leaving his visor somewhat.

“What'd he say?” He asked, motioning her to sit across from him, which she did, her eyes going back to Tera, who rolled over to her, jingling all the way.

“I mean, he asked a bunch of questions. But he didn't stop me sooo…” She flashed him a smirk and he felt his eyes roll, even still his smile didn't leave, instead he tried to relax, keeping an eye on the pillbaby as Uzi picked her up, looking down at her with a small smile.

“She's getting sleepy… do you know where that charger went?” N looked over and noticed that Tera's eyes were substantially dimmer, as well as her normal rolling had slowed down.

He plucked the charger put of the bag and handed it to her, and Uzi began the process of lifting her hoodie and undershirt enough to plug it into herself, thankfully, this didn't time it didn't seem to be painful.

She plugged the normally excitable rolling machine into her side and her eyes immediately brightened, and Uzi's visor immediately filled with a warning, telling her a foreign entity was drawing her power.

She closed it instantly, old JCJenson warnings that no longer applied. The pop-ups were still annoying regardless.

“There you go, happy now?” She asked the infant as if she could respond, and she did, by rolling into Uzi's chest and yawning, before quickly falling into sleep mode.

N just watched, smile never once fading from his face. He'd known that he rather liked seeing Uzi interact with Tera, as she was normally at her softest. But with that added context that this was now his daughter she was interacting with left him with his core full of fuzzy cotton.

“You're really good at that.” He pointed out as Uzi tried to get get comfortable with a baby attached to her, though it was rather difficult, as the cord was quite short and didn't leave much room to menuver.

But she still looked up at him, a small blush on her face that he caught a glimpse of before she turned away.

“Just practice is all.” She waved off, finally giving up on being comfortable and just sitting awkwardly stuffed into the couch with Tera laying on her stomach.

“You're still amazing at this. I would be totally freaking put right now without you being here.” He admitted, trying to make her take the compliment without waving it off, it was probably never going to happen though.

“Your instincts would have kicked in, and you'd get all fatherly on her without my help.” She laughed, and put a hand over Tera to steady her, as the action disturbed her slightly.

“Seriously, you're way better at this then you think you are.” She hummed, presumably to get him to shush about it.

At that moment Tera became unplugged, starting her into a fall off Uzi, rolling off and beginning to plumet to the hardwood floor, N immediately rocketed forward, catching the little pill before she ever touched the ground, even if it left him in the rather awkward position of his legs still on the couch as the rest of him was on the floor.

Tera giggled sleepily before going back into sleep mode, satisfied with her mischief.

“See? You already have the reflexes.” Uzi pointed out and caused N to look back at the pillbaby with a smile.

Maybe he could be alright at this after all.

Next ->

[heartfullofleeches]

Incel, femcel, or themcel. We just need a greasy, chronically online mean person to be a yandere. Any ideas on how that would work?

(The best idea I could come up with is streamer reader)

Livestream began twelve minutes ago.

"Oh? Shit, is that V? What's up, buddy- welcome back."

You're so perfect. Near a quarter of an hour late, and you still grace them with a greeting. They knew you weren't like the others they wasted their time on. No, you're kind. Inviting. God they loved you so much.

V stumbled across your channel on night during a drunken relapse into pouring their hours into viewing the lives of random strangers online. It was all they had to do after work with none of the potential partners they messaged ever responding to their texts or calls. Their lost.

You were in the beginning period of streaming with only ten followers to your name; majority likely close friends and family. V planned on giving "light" critic of your performance, but something about the brightness in your eyes as they joined the stream sobered them up and glued them to their seat completely.

"Hi, welcome. Your name is actually too long to fix on the screen. Is it cool if I just call you V?"

And they were hooked on you ever since.

Little by little, your fanbase grew to the comfortable size it was today; your first real viewer front and center for each recording. Despite the boost in popularity, you never forgot those who gave it to you in the first place. V likes to think they're the most valued member with their donations and the equipment they sent once they had convinced you to open a p.o box. Shame they never pin pointed the location before you announced your move and had it closed.

"Since you're here. I can try on that jacket you sent me before I finish packing. It's so cute."

V wipes specks of drool off their screen as you sort through a cardboard box and slip the coat on. You were wearing something they touched. Fuck, you're so cute they could just devour you alive. With no roomates, they could get away with licking their phone unlike last time, but they refrained from said temptation for now. Cat ears sprout atop your head as you pull the hoodie on. You rub your shoulders as the jacket's interior snuggles your frame.

"Whoa, much warmer than I expected. I might wear it during my flight."

You better. Since you forced the thought into their head, if they see you with anything else in your photos they might blow a gasket. Just imagining random commentors wondering where you got the coat and you answering with a nod at their existence gave V the ego boost of a lifetime.

"It's getting kinda late. We'll do some more chatting then I gotta bounce for the night."

V watches the rest of your stream with the loudest voice of the crowd. They wait until it ends to begin their nightly routine of screenshotting their favorite moments of the stream. The highlight was a frame of you posing like a cat following another's chatters request. Having so many pests ruined some of their enjoyment, but times like this they'd let slide. For now.

-

V sits alone at the bus stop the following day. The prized picture taken previously was now their lockscreen photo. The fifth change in the last two days. A creature like you was bound to have unworthy trash throwing themselves at your feet daily, but they knew that with your history it would only take one hello for you to fall as madly in love with them as they were you. You're different like that. If only they could meet you.

V is pulled from their moment of bliss by a tap on their shoulder; scowl ready for whoever dragged them from heaven - until they see whose standing in front of them.

"Hi, I hope I'm not bothering you, but do you know if this bus goes to this street? My taxi didn't drive out that far apparently...."

The stranger blinks, cat ears shifting.

"Sorry- have we met before? You seem familiar. "

[writingquestionsanswered]

Not sure if this was asked before but... how do you get your *passion* back for writing - or any old hobbies at all? Maybe bc of ADHD, but I used to hyperfixate on writing, reading and other things. They were my world. Now, when I actually have time to write... my interest is meh. Mild. Barely exists. But I'm still interested. Just not passionate. My heart doesn't flutter at new OC ideas anymore - or ships. Or family dynamics. I'm bored... what gives?

ADHD: Interested in Writing, But Not Passionate

I really struggled with this. Mainly, because I have a hard time wrapping my head around, "My interest barely exists but I'm still interested." I can't make sense of that.

I've written three different versions of an answer, none of which I liked in the end, because I think the long and the short of it is this: you can be interested in writing generally, but stuck on a WIP or unable to get started generally. And there are all sorts of reasons why you can be stuck on a WIP or unable to get started generally (including executive dysfunction... thanks, ADHD!) However, at the end of the day, if writing was a hyperfixation for you, that may be all it ever was. Even if some part of you is still "interested."

Which brings me to a story from answer attempt #2, which I think is still worth sharing. Years ago, I hyperfixated for weeks on a particular historical topic. I couldn't get enough. I read about it, watched documentaries about it, subscribed to magazines about it, fell down topic-related rabbit holes for hours at a time. My brain needed to understand every single thing there was to know about the topic, which was troublesome because everything about this topic isn't known... even by those who study it.

One day, my attention shifted to something else, but I never really lost the "interest" in this topic. My ears still perk when I hear something about it. I still skim articles about it when they come up on social media. I would probably pause in my channel surfing if I happened on a documentary about it. But my interest isn't the same. It's not enough for me to dive in to the extent that I did when it was a hyperfixation. And this was tested by the fact that not long ago, I visited a museum with a whole wing dedicated to this topic. And I knew it was a big deal that I was there, and that hyperfixated me would have blown a gasket out of sheer joy, but I just wasn't able to engage with the exhibits the way I wanted to or felt I should. I was looking at the artifacts and absorbing the words on the exhibition labels, but I wasn't feeling anything about it. It all fell flat. Which was kind of depressing, to be honest.

So, I'm telling that story because I think there's a very real possibility that may be what's happening for you with writing. It may just be a hyperfixation that still interests you in some way, but which can never really inspire that same level of interest you once had--unless you become hyperfixated on it again, but there's no way to force that. And there's no way to know for sure if that's what's going on except to try some of the things suggested in the links below to see if you can troubleshoot a cause or kick start your motivation. If not, it may just be something you did once and may come back to again eventually. ♥

Guide: Filling Your Creative Well Guide: How to Rekindle Your Motivation to Write Getting Excited About Your Story Again Getting Unstuck: Motivation Beyond Mood Boards & Playlists 5 Reasons You Lost Interest in Your WIP, Plus Fixes! Feeling Unmotivated with WIP

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[themummersfolly]

Fuck it. Octoboss content

In the Wasteland, you went by what other people called you; that was your name. What did it matter what his mother had called him? She’d been dead almost as long as he’d been alive.

He figured he was almost twenty when he killed his first rival boss and took over his gang. When he killed his eighth, his men started calling him the Octoboss, having gotten the idea from one of the History Man’s wordburgers. He didn’t argue, and it stuck.

“Always searching the heavens,” the old man had said when they had known each other about a year. Perhaps he was. He had seen flying machines when he was young, heard stories of men who did air war like he did road war. He’d seen the old wrecks in the desert and knew they had once been as beautiful and dangerous as motorbikes, maybe even more so. He’d sat at the feet of the History Man and listened to words like “paragliding” and “Bernoulli’s Law.” And when trade with the Underdune had brought him vast amounts of parachute silk, he’d taken himself and his crew to the skies again.

So it wasn’t really a surprise that he was the first one to see it.

“Whatcha see, Boss- hey, what’sat?”

Any notion that there was something wrong with his eyes vanished. It was high up, higher than any of his gliders could go, and definitely not a bird. As they watched, it got either bigger or- no, no it was definitely getting lower. Over the course of a half-hour they watched it move across the sky, maneuvering westward and then coming back around in a broad, slow spiral. Its shape became clearer: a sturdy open frame, tan wings and tail fins. Fixed-wing aircraft. He couldn’t remember the rest of the wordburger. Finally it vanished, soundlessly, behind the ridge.

“Wanna go after it, Boss?”

It hadn’t made a sound; that was what puzzled him. Fixed-wings needed either a tow or an engine of their own to get in the air. He decided they’d claim it intact, and he’d have a good long look at it before his men stripped it for parts. The roar of a half-dozen motorbikes would have anyone in it hightailing, if they hadn’t died in the landing. If they hadn’t died in the wreck and they didn’t die in the desert, well, he’d have some questions for them.

The aircraft had scraped a ling, shallow furrow in the desert, not quite parallel to the ridge. To his surprise, the lone figure beside it stayed crouched in the open, apparently unperturbed by the approach of a raiding party of the Great Biker Horde. Only when he and his men stopped less than twenty yards away and trained their weapons on them did they rise, wiping grimy hands on equally grimy coveralls.

The woman- it was a woman- wore a flier’s cap and a pair of goggles over a wind-toughened face. A coat and gloves were cast aside over a strut. She was broad-shouldered and strong-looking; “well-fed” some people might say, and others, “great tits.” She eyed the raiding party warily but without fear.

Out front, Sketch and Brakeline looked back at him for direction. He looked down the length of the aircraft, the horns on his helmet exaggerating the movement and signaling his interest. Brakeline turned back to the woman and leaned on his handlebars.

“Whatcha got there?”

“A plane.” She had an accent he couldn’t place. Her hands hung at her sides, relaxed, ready. Ready to pick up the nearest weapon and bash someone’s head in with it.

“Why ain’t it in the air?”

“Gasket blew. You got a repair kit? Then I’ll be on my way.”

Sketch grinned. “You ain’t on your way anywhere now, sweetheart.” His hand was on the hilt of his bowie knife. Any reasonable person in the Wastelands would be petrified with fear by now; the woman just looked at Sketch like a water-seller might look at a preteen making piss jokes.

The two point-riders dismounted and started toward the woman. They had taken exactly one step when she moved, quick as a snake, and brought a derringer to bear not on Sketch or Brakeline, but between them, on the Octoboss himself. They froze.

There was a clatter behind him as Tyro, VW, and Huxley brought their own weapons up, but the way they were spread out it would have been hard to shoot at the woman without hitting their comrades. She kept her eyes on their leader, the little double-barreled pistol pointed between his eyes.

Smart bitch.

Not breaking eye contact, he put down his kickstand and tossed back his mesh sandscreen, then lifted the faceplate of his helmet. Neither the woman’s aim nor her expression changed.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Couple days north, by air. Dunno how long it takes on the ground.” The fact that she was surrounded by Wasteland bikers with nothing to hand but a derringer did not appear to faze her. He put his hands up where she could see they were empty, dismounted, and took a few slow steps forward, until he was close enough to reach out and touch one wing.

“You build this?”

“Nah. Just fly it.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Me pa.”

“He know you have it?”

“Hope so. He’s dead but he said I could have it.”

The frame of the little machine looked like hollow aluminum rods; the wings were covered in canvas. A propeller was mounted behind the wings, forward of the tail fins, and appeared to be powered by a twin-cylinder engine. Ahead of this was a seat, and ahead of that a bundle of gear was strapped to the very front of the frame. The whole thing couldn’t have weighed more than his bike.

A subtle motion of his head, back the way they had come.

“Dig in, boys. We’re camping in the rocks tonight.” He took a step back, hands still visible, a slight smirk on his face. The woman blinked, then, hesitantly, lifted her derringer away from him.

“What we gonna do with her?” Sketch had been itching to have some fun with the woman. A shrug of the Octoboss’s shoulders put those notions to rest.

“Nothing.” He took a few backward steps toward his bike and directed his next words to her. “You can join our fire if you want. Tell us about you plane.”

[wolfawaycamp]

🐼 write something for your fave rarepair?

🐼EMMALYN TIME

The campers were running late. Again. And it was all due to Emma’s insistence on providing a true, in-depth theatre experience for the kiddos. That was all fine and dandy, but Kaitlyn was gonna blow a gasket if she had to endure another one of Ryan’s passive-aggressive comments about them being behind schedule.

Normally, Kaitlyn was pretty patient and waited outside the lodge, but today she barged right in.

“Ah, perfect timing!” Emma smiled as Kaitlyn entered the room. The campers were already in the process of lining up to leave. Good. “Remember what I told you about teamwork when you go down to the boathouse! It’s all about communication and cooperation! Now fly free, my beautiful butterflies,” she finished with a flourish of her hands, imitating the fluttering of wings.

After the group of kids had been walked down to Ryan (he was in a good mood, which meant he’d live to see another day), Kaitlyn went back to visit Emma. They both had an early lunch on Thursdays, so they’d spend time chatting and catching up on counselor drama.

Emma was cleaning up props that had been strewn about when Kaitlyn returned; she moved in a dance-like fashion, humming as she worked.

“Hey, Em.”

Kaitlyn almost felt rude interrupting, but Emma glanced up at her with that same enthusiastic grin. “Hey cutie. Come by to get a taste of today’s lesson?” She strode toward where Kaitlyn was standing.

“Something about teamwork, right? You teaching them to trust fall?”

“How did you know?” Emma purred.

“I did a bit of theatre in high school.” It wasn’t technically a lie, but the truth was that Kaitlyn had done summer pantomime workshops while Jacob was at football camp, or whatever they called it. She may have been a tad embarrassed about that little tidbit of Kaitlyn Lore.

Emma frowned. “Oh? And you didn’t pursue it in college?”

“Didn’t have time for it,” Kaitlyn stated plainly. Now this was a lie. College was a pipe dream for her, and she was content fixing cars and working at run-down summer camps to make ends meet for the time being.

“Well…you’ve got time now.”

Kaitlyn cocked her head to the side and smirked. “You want me to fall into your arms like a poor damsel in distress?”

A light giggle escaped from Emma’s mouth. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to that. Buuuut…” she pursed her lips and looked off to the side, “…we could try something different, since we’re alone.”

That didn’t sound ideal. “I didn’t take you for that kind of woman, Emma Mountebank,” Kaitlyn declared, feigning shock. Part of her was sure Emma was just being Emma, but another part of her knew that camp counselors were ticking time bombs of repressed sexual energy. Perhaps this was an extremely forward proposition. Don’t flatter yourself, bucko.

“Cute,” Emma remarked, “but I was thinking something more along the lines of…intimacy coordination. Basically, making sure two actors portraying a romantic duo are comfortable and have clearly set boundaries during the performance.”

“Oh, so like, kissing and things like that?” Kaitlyn sensed an odd thumping in her chest at that thought.

And because she’d uttered it, of course Emma pounced on the idea. “Precisely! Would you like to take this rare, once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity to learn how to ‘stage kiss’ from an expert?”

Stage…kiss? Now the thumping had gotten louder. It was at this point that Kaitlyn realized she and Emma were standing only about a foot apart now. She was close enough to smell Emma’s recently-washed hair; Kaitlyn couldn’t quite place the exact scent, but it was woodsy and comforting, appropriate for a camp counselor, she reckoned. “Better make it quick.”

Almost too obediently, Emma brought her hand up, holding it inches from Kaitlyn’s face. “Can I…?”

Kaitlyn nodded encouragingly. Was Emma really just going to straight-up kiss her?

As Emma leaned in, Kaitlyn closed her eyes in anticipation. She’d kissed plenty of girls in her time on this earth, but it had been a while since one had made her stomach do cartwheels like it was currently doing.

Emma’s hand cupped her face. Then, her thumb pressed gently on Kaitlyn’s lips…and she kissed it before pulling away. Kaitlyn tried not to feel a bit of disappointment. It was supposed to be a “safe” alternative, after all.

When Kaitlyn looked back up, Emma was staring at her, seemingly satisfied. Or perhaps amused by the awkwardness of it all. 

“Voila! Stage kiss.”

[blackberrywars]

🔀 Aiden/Lambert :)

Well. This song is basically begging for a blue-collar deep dive into Lambert's generational struggle with alcohol, as well as a sillier nod to the long-and-lean Aiden headcanon. She's a tall boy indeed. I'm also making it 70s americana because I personally deserve to imagine butch4butch laiden where Lambert wears nothing but a dirty boiler suit over a gray wifebeater and no bra, and Aiden is head to toe in disco menswear —burgundy flare pants and vest, with an outlandishly patterned green silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel.

Lambert is a mechanic, and has been since before she dropped out of high school, to the dismay of her chemistry teacher. She'd skipped town at 16 without a word to her or anyone else, taking nothing but her tools and her father's last 12-pack for the road —it was the only thing she couldn't leave behind. Everything and everyone else is gone, along with the hair clippings and bloodstains on the bathroom floor. She spends a few days sleeping in her shitbox rust bucket, making loops around the city before she moves on to the next. And the next. It's a good thing every gas station has a beer cooler, the way she drinks and drives her way to the east coast.

She makes it, though, and by the time some old bastard named Vesemir finally hires her after three shops turn her tits down, it's a habit. Ordering an irish coffee at 9am doesn't make the barista bat an eyelid in her neighborhood, and it tides her over until her break. A can there sits just right beside her coworkers', and really, they drink more than she does. No matter Vesemir's tuts, he never stops them, just scolds them for leaving the pop tabs everywhere. She's collected enough to make a curtain with them, hanging instead of her bedroom door.

It's a few years of this and Lambert is...... content. She's good at her job, and the only bruise on her body is from where she dropped a gasket scraper on her foot. If she drinks too much, then at least she has no one to take it out on, and really, she's just fine, really. Beer mellows her out, stops the lava under her skin, and the only drunken fights she's gotten in were well-deserved, in her opinion. She goes to sailor's bars with Eskel and Geralt, and goes to the dyke ones when she's not with them, but she never plays for keeps.

It's this Lambert that Aiden meets when her adorable yellow vespa calls it quits. Garage Morhen has a good word-of-mouth reputation with queers for never turning down a customer for the amount of glitter they put on their bodies. Rumor has it that the owner still vists the leather daddy clubs every now and again. Some other whispers say his second son's wife and boyfriend get along spectacularly. Even more say that the third son is the meanest dyke around.

So Aiden goes in all her glory, pushing her scooter in her five-inch boots, brown leather stained with grime. Looks up after five minutes to find Lambert leaned against her station, tall boy in hand and a scowl on her face. Her hands are dyed black up to the elbow, showing off her thick forearms, and her nipples poke through her wifebeater. Her eyes are a little yellow as they look up up up at Aiden, telling her it won't be a cheap or quick fix. And Aiden just smiles, because she's sure as hell not opposed to hanging around for a while.

EDIT: For anyone not aquainted with them, @whyzowl and @yolki-palki have drawn some GORGEOUS fem!laiden art, and the outfits described above are basically me using their designs like paper dolls. Art linked here, here, here, and here with my screeching commentary.

[detentiontrack]

The guy who took my car today was kind of a jerk and apparently thought I was a gullible idiot. He was SO nice to my stepdad and heard him out the last time my car was in, but today my stepdad is at work so I took my car in. My car DID NOT overheat, but the temperature gauge was going crazy high so I think it’s an electrical/wiring issue. My stepdad and I tested it, and even going uphill 70MPH with the air conditioner on, the engine wasn’t hot to the touch at all and you could put your entire hand on it, even though the temperature gauge was over the red section. I got there and the mechanic was like “how can you be sure your car didn’t overheat? Are you sure it’s just the gauge? Sometimes young girls like you overreact when their car has an issue.” And I’m not afraid of (most) men and I love arguing so I was like “yeah no, my temperature gauge was over the red area, but when I pulled over, my engine wasn’t hot at all. In fact, parts of it were cold. I only drove for 15 minutes. Before it was fixed, the last time my car overheated, I couldn’t even touch the engine to put coolant in for 30 minutes” and he was like “are you SURE the engine wasn’t hot? I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but sometimes young girls don’t understand their cars” and I was like (more respectfully) “dude. I own specialized thermoreceptors (nerve cells that detect changes in temperature) I know what heat feels like, and I’m telling you that my engine was NOT hot.” He then tried to scare me by telling me that it could be a blown head gasket and it would be a $4000 fix and I was like (again, more respectfully but still firmly) “you guys checked my head gasket when you fixed my car the first time and said it was fine. I HIGHLY doubt my head gasket blew between yesterday morning and yesterday afternoon when I was driving 15 minutes immediately after picking it up from y’all. My car simply did not overheat or break down, there is NOTHING to indicate that the head gasket blew. If the head gasket blew, my car would be difficult to drive, but it’s been running fine. It’s most likely an electrical or wiring issue, as my stepdad already confirmed (my stepdad worked on engines in the military for years and knows what he’s talking about + I talked to my grandpa who was a mechanic who confirmed the exact same thing). I just need you to confirm the diagnosis and fix the wiring so I know when my car is overheating for real. I don’t appreciate you trying to sell me a $4000 head gasket replacement when I know for a FACT that your auto shop charges $1000 for a head gasket replacement, and I very likely don’t need one.” And then I think he got tired of arguing with me and realized that I knew more than he thought I knew, so he sighed heavily and told me to park my car in their parking lot and leave my keys. Why do we let men go outside /j