#might take a stab at posting some opens but

[arolesbianism]

I'm abt to go to bed and artbook madness is continuing to consume me but on a non artbook note I am considering redesigning Dodie and Raiden maybe 👍

[just-some-random-blogger]

Double Dutch

The twins walk in on you as you talk about your stupid, fit neighbor. Wonder who that is.

George Weasley x Reader (x Fred Weasley) | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, fred lives stfu, harry potter lore noob, fluff, rizzler!Georgie, typos, etc.

A/N: this is a continuation to Sweets & Sweeties but both can be read individually for the most part. GUYS IDK MUCH ABOUT HARRY POTTER LORE SO PLEASE KEEP CALLING ME OUT IF YOU NEED TO COS WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERES AN UNLOCKING SPELL HAHAHAHAHAH | cross posted on ao3

"And they didn't just use Alohomora?"

You giggle as you momentarily lean on your mop to turn to your phone, "that's what I'm saying!"

Your friend snorts from the other side of the line.

"But," you continue mopping, "to be fair, even I didn't think of it in the moment. I was just glad they helped me get back in my shop when it felt like I'd be locked in forever."

Your friend groans, "you can be so dramatic. Why would you be locked forever from your shop?"

"Stop it. I was seriously debating throwing rocks at my window to get in."

"Wow," your friend laughs, just as the bell on your front door rings, "you're just as stupid as your neighbor."

You look over your shoulder mid-mopping, "sorry, shop's not..."

You grip your mop tightly as the tall man raises a hand, "mornin'."

"... open yet."

His smirk is lopsided as he raises a brow, "not even for your stupid neighbor?"

Your stomach drops and blood rushes up your neck.

"Bloody hell," your friend's voice on loud speaker reverberates in your empty bake shop, "did your fit neighbor walk in?"

The said man chuckles and you nearly whack your phone with your mop. You quickly end the call and grit your teeth in embarrassment, unable to turn back to the red haired man that was laughing yet again.

"Fit neighbor, huh?"

You clear your throat as you decide to put a brave face on and feign ignorance. You turn to him with a dramatic hair flip and shrug.

Fred or George Weasely smiles then hums, crossing his arms. Which one he was, you couldn't tell. "Glad to know you find me fit, love."

"I-" you clear your throat, "that wasn't about you."

His brows quirk and his lips part. He scoffs in offence but his smile is still visible, "don't tell me you think I'm stupid and my brother's fit." He walks over, shaking his head, clicking his tongue, "you have terrible taste in men."

You snort to mask the feel of your face burning, then pretend mopping is more exciting you really think it is, "I-" you clear your throat as you clean the tiles in front of your cake display, "don't even know which one you are."

The sheer dramatics of his gasp forces you to look back at him. The Weasley has a fist on his chest, pretending he was stabbed. He grunts in faux pain, "you're telling me I look exactly like Fred?" He rests the back of his hand on his forehead and turns away, "the horrors."

The laugh he pulls out from you is dangerous. It's full and giddy. It's more than amusement, it's full blown endearment that makes your belly roll. You stifle your laughter with your sleeve, feeling warmth linger on your cheeks. Your heart races as he, as George, saunters in front of you, hands smoothly sliding into his pockets. He tilts his head with a sigh, "might have to get even for that terrible remark, my..." he looks around the shop, "sweet neighbor."

You look up at him, pursing your lips to withhold your smile. You shrug, "I doubt a boy named Georgie can do so much damage."

He snorts and shakes his head, "cheeky bugger."

You tense when he leans forward.

"Did you just dare me to do you some damage, sweetheart?"

You open your mouth, but a strangled gasp is all that leaves you because he places his hands atop yours as he takes your mop from you.

"I feel like you don't need anymore damage, considering you did just break a mug."

You stare at him as he haphazardly starts mopping around. Your belly reacts to how he circles around the mop and shoots you a grin. You gulp, "how did you know I broke a mug?"

"Pfft," he scoffs, straightening up, resting his elbow on the top of the mop. Damn, he was tall. "I heard it break. Why do you think I came over here? To check on you!"

Your brows furrow as he puts the mop aside, "how'd you know it was a mug though?"

Georgie shrugs, "well, cause I'm a genius."

You give him a look.

He mirrors your look, then slowly begins to lean forward again, "d'ya want me to prove it?"

Your heart races as you slowly lean back, "w-what? No?"

"Wicked," he grins, straightening up, "you think I'm a genius, do ya?"

"W-What?"

"I just called myself a genius and you agreed," he puts his hands in his pockets and moves towards your cake display. He points, "that looks really good."

You compose yourself by brushing your hair back, "shop's not open yet, genius."

Georgie turns to you with a grin. He breaks into a chuckle, "why not?"

"I'm still cleaning."

He looks around the room and pulls out his wand from his pocket, "I-"

"No!" you raise your hands, "I like cleaning!"

He lowers his wand.

"I don't have anything to do before opening, and cleaning, you know..." you trail off and look away.

"No, I don't actually," he tilts his head in interest, "cleaning what?"

You shrug as you look back at him, "it gives me something to do."

He purses his lips and raises his brows, "wouldn't you rather do something fun?"

You chuckle and shake your head, "that's easy for you to say. You own Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

Georgie shakes his head and raises his hands, "that's ex-"

"And you have your twin brother."

"... so?"

"You have someone to have fun with. I bet you never get homesick at all."

"Oh," he lowers his hands, "distraction for the loneliness, is it?"

You purse your lips and shrug, "yeah."

He offers you a soft smile, "I'm not a genius actually," he points his thumb over his shoulder, "your broken mug pieces are on your counter."

You turn to said object and counter, feeling bashful that you forgot about it, "oh, that's-"

"And I didn't come here because I heard you break it," he buzzes his lips then rubs his ear, "I don't think my ears are good enough for that."

You raise your brows, "I mean, I figured. I don't think anyone's ears are good enough for that."

"I did come here because I wanted to spend time with you."

You freeze.

"Want," he corrects, "I want to."

You feel blood rush up your face.

"That is," he motions vaguely and shrugs, "only if you want to take back what you said about me being the stupid one and Fred being the fit one."

"You think I'm fit?"

You both turn to the front door, only realizing now the bell had rung. Your face was burning, "I-"

"This isn't about you!"

Fred walks in, "oh, ho, ho, I do beg to differ."

Overwhelmed by the two Weasley men who begin to bicker in front of you, you step back unable to do anything but watch for a moment. That is until George says:

"No, I told you I think she's cute."

Fred scoffs, "I totally said she was cute first!"

"Keep lying, you liar."

"I literally told you the moment she w—"

"SHOP'S STILL CLOSED!" you blurt, making them turn to you. You gulp as they turn to you, and exaggeratedly clear your throat, "though I appreciate you both," cough, "think I'm cute, I have to prepare things."

"What things?" they ask in unison.

You stutter, "t-things!"

"I can help," they say at once, turning to each other, "Jinx. Double jinx. TRIPLE J-"

"GET OUT!" you point to the door, "respectfully."

The twins visibly deflate. George smacks Fred on the chest, "this is all your fault."

"Mine?" Fred scoffs, "you're the one that-"

You cut their bickering off short by pushing them towards the door. They begin to protest but do not try to overpower you to stay inside. You huff once you manage to kick them out and wave them goodbye.

"I thought we could drop by at any time for a cuppa?!" George calls out.

Fred huffs and cups the sides of his mouth, "liar!"

You chuckle softly under your breath, face warm as ever as you give them a look, "later! Once I open!"

They both huff and turn to each other. Fred says, "that's not any time, now is it."

"No, it isn't," George agrees.

[meliciousmel13]

̗̗̀̀➛ killer!billie headcannons

paring: killer!billie x bimbo!reader warnings: smut, obsessive behavior, face sitting, stalking? (kind of), billie kills someone here, grinding, i think thats it tell me if you find any more please!

wc: 1,487

SYNOPSIS: headcannons of killer!billie x bimbo!reader

taglist: @chrissv4mp, if your not a part of this list but want to be comment under my tag list post, which is on my masterlist.

an: i wrote this today 💀 IM ON MY PERIODDD and kind of horny ngl

at first, she didn’t think much of you. she thought you were just another co-worker at her boring office job that sometimes brought everyone coffee, like the angel you were.

until she saw her co-worker, oliver, flirt with you. she knew he was flirting with you because he was touching you. he was touching your shoulder, and touching your hair. and touching, and touching. he would stop fucking touching you.

she hated that it irritated her. hated the way you wore things that made people look, like that skimpy top you wore last week, everyone was looking.

the first time you talked to her, you smiled, gave her a tissue wrapped doughnut and black coffee with one sugar cube. said it was nice to meet her and that you were new here.

it’s either you knew her, or just guessed her coffee preference. but you were so thoughtful.

she unknowingly started to follow you to the empty parking lot and find you fumbling with your keys with papers stacked on one arm.

she imagined helping you, taking those papers from you and handing you her number, maybe you call her and invite her to diner or something, anything.

but she never did anything. only savored the way her hand brushes yours whenever you were handing her the breakfast she relied on.

sometimes she skips meals so she can talk to you.

she didn’t even have to ask. just subtly hint that she forgot her lunch at home—and, oh, whatever will she do?

“you can have some of mine.” you smiled softly, pushing half of your sandwich into her hands.

“oh, i can’t take your food. it’s fine, i can go a day without lunch.” billie said, shaking her head. knowing that you would deny her not eating.

“what? no. half already fills me up you can take it.”

“if you insist.” she smiled.

it wasn’t her fault she followed oliver home. it was his fault, for flirting with what was hers. you.

she imagined stabbing oliver in the neck. hiding the body, and comforting you when you run to her, talking about how awful it is for someone to stab such a nice person.

until she actually killed him.

billie prepared her rubber gloves, the sharpened knife and various things. she thought of her plan. would she just knock on his door and stab him? no. that was too dangerous. someone might see her.

so she decided to sneak in his backyard. he lived alone, with 2 cats and 2 woman constantly coming in and out. great, he was even a cheater. see? he deserved it.

and he even screamed like a pussy. wearing his stupid shark boxers and still had his work button up on.

the next day the police came to see the crime. one of the girls he was cheating on knocked on his door to find his dick severed and his throat slit.

and guess who you came to cry to? her. you cried over someone you barely knew.

“i can’t—” hic. “i can’t believe someone s—” hic.

“shh.” she rubbed your back, while you were crying into her shoulder, you were wearing a light pink skirt on and a pretty top that left nothing for the imagination, “maybe i can come over? bake everyone cookies?”

“mhmm,” you sniffle, wiping your tears and snot on her shirt, “m’ sorry bout' your shirt.” you breathe.

“it’s okay, you can make it up to me. give me two cookies instead of one.” billie said, smiling, hiding her satisfaction.

“i’ll give you four.” you giggle. angel.

so she came over. she walked into your house invited. and she didn’t even stalk you to find out where you live—she was being good.

you opened the door with smallest fucking shorts she’s ever seen, and a tiny pink top, with no bra. which means that your nipples were leaving a small print on the fabric.

she’s in heaven. the whole house was lathered in your perfume and natural scent. and the walls were decorated with paintings and little trinkets. she knew your house wouldn’t be boring, like olivers. she sat on your couch and it was so soft.

she thought of fucking you on it. how your moans would ricochet off the pretty walls and how her cock would pump in your pretty pussy. how you would be too afraid to touch her back in case your accidentally scratched at it and hurt her. you could never hurt her.

how she would convince you to sit on her lap, naked, and whine and whimper, begging her to just fuck you already, like you couldn’t wait any longer.

she imagined convincing you to sit on her face. how you’d be too cautious, afraid to break her nose or neck. you would still do it though, sitting on her pretty face that was filled with a satisfied smile.

she would have her head almost falling off the edge of your bed, offering you to just get off her face if it was too much, it would first start off slow, you hover over her face not even siting. holding and gripping her hands, how she would leave small kisses on your thighs before extending her tongue and tasting you.

you would ‘mhph’ at that, left breathless and feeling your knees go weak, she would take her other hand and guide you to fully sit, she would feel the weight of you on her mouth. how she would shove her long pink tongue into you.

you would moan, still holding her hand and gripping her hair, bucking your hips. actually riding her. how your pouty lips let out the prettiest noises. how would let go of her hand and hold her head with both your hands and squeeze her head between your thighs.

she didn’t do any of that, obviously. just helped you with making your cookies.

you were putting in the chocolate chips now, and billie was holding your waist and watching. in reality, she didn’t do shit to help. only preparing the ingredients and keeping you company.

“now we bake them forr, i think 20 minutes.” you said, pushing the tray into the oven and bending, to reveal your striped panties. she was behind you, could feel your ass pushing against her pelvis.

“your really good at baking.” she complemented.

“thank you.” you blush, and smile.

she realized you were an angel ages ago. but when you offered for her to sleep over? oh.

she entered your room and saw the mess, the thrown dirty underwear and your “work” clothes throw in the corner of the room.

your face was flushed and you apologized for the mess. billie didn’t mind though, even helped you clean, she always treated you well, your mom would love her.

you thought about billie meeting your parents, they would think she was the best person you’ve brought them to meet, since all your other boyfriends only wanted you for your body. their personality was horrible too, they all treated your mom awfully.

but billie would never, she’d probably help your mom in the kitchen when she’s preparing the dinner. and your dad would talk about how he needed a helping hand in his mechanic company. noticing how well she was with her hands.

you imagined how the sweat would roll off her forehead—and now that’s dangerous territory, let’s not think of that.

you let billie sleep in your bed, since you didn’t want her to sleep on the floor with a pillow. that would hurt her back.

you didn’t even think of why her knee was between your thighs, she didn’t mean to push herself behind you and do that

you woke up with billie’s knee between your thighs, she adjusted her position and unconsciously moved her knee upward, causing it to hit your pussy, and you sniffled a moan, putting a hand over her knee and grinding subtly.

you were dirty. even moved your shorts and panties to the side to feel the rough fabric of her sweatpants on your bare pussy, feeling her knee hitting your clit at the perfect angle. almost like she was awake.

you slid your hand under the pillow and gripped, digging your head into the pillow and sniffling your whines.

you felt billie shuffle, and stiffen.

“good morning, angel.” she whispered in your ear, putting your shorts and panties back to their designated spot, not before brushing your clit with her middle finger, “were you busy there? sorry, your whining woke me up.”

you apologized a million times, couldn’t stop thinking of her deep, raspy morning voice in your ears. and her knee.

billie left soon after. she didn’t leave empty handed though, she left your house with a box of chocolate chip cookies and two pairs of your dirty underwear stuffed in her pockets. and a little lip gloss stain on her cheek.

[distortedheart]

mutual 1: i could get him pregnant [picture of random anime man]

mutual 2: guys i think i huave autiusm

mutual 3: spending time with my beautiful wife :) i love him

mutual 4: [1000 posts about a single character] i want to put him in a very elaborate trap of sorts in which i shoot him three times in the chest, run him over with a car, drop a piano on him, hit him with a brick, tie him to something heavy and drown him in the sea, drop him from the eiffel tower, and then nurse him back to health so i can start all over again

mutual 5: [picture of a very sweet cute creature of some sort] now see her joyous whimsy ♡

mutual 6: anyone want to stab and kill me sexual style?

mutual 7: just got back from walmart. i love shoplifting #hunting #gathering

mutual 8: does anyone else hear weird noises in your walls sometimes...

mutual 9: [reblogs many cute aesthetic posts] To be honest i think ripping someone apart with my bare hands and being covered in blood and gore could fix me ^_^

mutual 10: in this guy's walls rn!!!! should i chase and kill him with a knife yes/no [poll, "yes" result is winning by a lot]

mutual 11: who up thinking about triangles rn?

mutual 12: we could all stand to be a little kinder every day.. caring about other people and showing compassion to those around you is one of the most beautiful things you can do. you never know who you might affect with just a small act of kindness. maybe your compliment about someone's dyed hair was the highlight of their day. maybe the person you held the door for has been exhausted taking caring of other people and you reminded them that they need to care for themselves, too. i hope we all can both give and receive a little compassion today :)

mutual 13: honestly my dad NEEDS to kill himself

mutual 14: [375 posts reblogged with #queue can't kill me #c: milbo meegus #you are my angel #fandom you've never heard of in your life #open up your heart like the gates of hell #me]

mutual 15: fuuuuck i just told the waiter "you too" when they said enjoy your meal. i need to change my identity and flee the country now

mutual 16: Sorry I haven't been active my apartment building burned down and my car exploded last week, luckily only breaking two of my bones in the process! but honestly it's not even that bad so im taking the bus to work right now. Here's to hoping this one doesn't crash this time!

mutual 17: i deserve to kill bad drivers with my mind powers. reblog if you agree

mutual 18: MY PENUIS FELL OF?F????

[thanoskin]

FLICKERS OF YOU

( first post..kinda nervous… Enjoy! )

Pairing: Thanos x Nam-gyu

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

SFW

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

— It was lights out, there was a faint light down the hall of the large room, the remaining players, exhausted from the day’s game, sat in silence, no one dared to sleep after what just happened. Thanos leaned against the wall, his purple hair catching whatever small light there was. His hands were shaking, he needed to calm the fuck down.

Nam-gyu peered down at him from his bunk, the sharp click-click of the lighter was infuriatingly steady, like a clock counting down the moments to the next game. Nam-gyu clenched his fists, his nerves on high.

“Would you stop that?”

Thanos looked up at him, a grin plastered across his stupid, cute face. “What? Nervous, friend?”

“Big day tomorrow, could be your last.”

Nam-gyu scowled. “You think everythings a joke, don’t you?”

Thanos stood, pocketing his lighter as he stretched. “Not everything, just you.”

Nam-gyu glared at him, but Thanos just smirked, leaning against the bunk’s frame. “Relax,” Thanos said casually. “I’ve got a way to take the edge off. Come on.”

Nam-gyu scrambled off the bed, quickly following his lead like a lost puppy.

“where are we going?”

Thanos gestured toward the door. “The bathroom. I’ve got some cigs. Thought you might want one before… well, you know.”

Nam-gyu immediately got defensive as he continued to follow Thanos. “Why would I need….”

Thanos smirked again. “Because you need it. Or are you too scared to be alone with me?”

Nam-gyu brought his hand to his face to hide his blush as he followed Thanos, the tracksuit sleeve snug against his cheek.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Thanos kicked open the door and leaned against the wall by the sinks, pulling a slightly crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. He took a long drag before holding the pack out to Nam-gyu.

“Here.” Thanos held out the pack, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Nam-gyu hesitated before shaking his head. “I don’t really smoke like that.”

"Figured,” Thanos said, flicking ash onto the floor. "You're too much of a good boy for that."

Nam-gyu bristled. "I'm not a 'good boy.”

Thanos chuckled, stepping closer.

“Oh, i know you’re not. But you sure like pretending to be.”

Nam-gyu's breath hitched as Thanos stopped just a step away, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of smoke.

Nam-gyu crossed his arms, leaning against the opposite wall. “You dragged me all the way here for this? You could’ve just smoked alone.”

Thanos chuckled, tapping ash onto the floor. “And miss the chance to see you squirm? Nah.”

Nam-gyu blushed again. “I’m not squirming.”

“Sure you’re not,” Thanos said, his tone amused.

“You’ve been on edge since the first game. Always looking over your shoulder, like you’re waiting for someone to stab you in the back.” He took another drag, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Let me guess, you think that someone is me, huh?”

Nam-gyu’s silence was answer enough. He loved Thanos to death, he’d do anything for him. His partner in crime, he couldn’t stand the thought of being abandoned and kicked out of his sight.

Nam-gyu’s pulse raced, his mouth dry. “Maybe you should focus on yourself instead of trying to analyze me.”

Thanos leaned in slightly, “Maybe I’d rather focus on you.”

Nam-gyu’s breath caught, his stomach twisting with anxiety and something else he didn’t want to name.

“Why are you doing this?”

Thanos hesitated for the first time.

“Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t care,” he admitted, his voice softer. “You drive me crazy. And not in the way this place does. I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Nam-gyu stared at him, his heart pounding. “You’re serious?” he felt as if Thanos was joking.

Thanos gave a lopsided grin. “Serious enough to tell you here, in the worst place imaginable.” He stepped back, giving Nam-gyu space. “I’m not expecting anything. Just thought you should know, okay?”

Nam-gyu swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. “You’re still an ass,” he muttered, his cheeks visibly burning. He covered his hands with his sleeves nervously.

Thanos smiled, flicking the cigarette into the sink. “Yeah, but you’re blushing.”

Nam-gyu looked up, scowling. “I’m not.”

“Sure you’re not,” Thanos teased, stepping past him toward the door. “Come on, let’s get back before these guards thinks we’re up to something.” he wiggled his eyebrows.

Nam-gyu hesitated, the warmth in his stomach refusing to fade. With a sharp sigh, he followed, though he couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at his lips.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Hi!! Saw your post🤭 What about reader tending to Bucky's wounds? And being all soft with him😭 It could be fluffy and ending with something else👀🫣

Thank you for the request! I've been wanting to write for bucky for a while lol I really hope you like it <3 I kind of have a part two in my head that I might do for this

He stumbled through the hall, trying to get to his apartment before passing out. He didn't mean to lean against your door. He didn't want you to know he just got home. Hell, he didn't even want you to know he had gotten hurt tonight. You were the sweetest person to ever come into his life, his cute, sweet, caring neighbor. Thinking of you made his heart skip a beat lately. He met you when you first moved into the building, and he felt drawn to you ever since. You asked him to help you build a bookshelf, and you repaid him with homemade bread. How could he not be drawn to you after that?

He groans both in pain and at hearing your footsteps walking towards your front door. He was still leaning against the door when you opened it. You weren't expecting someone to fall into your arms when you opened your door, but looking down at Bucky, you were grateful that you caught him.

"Bucky!?" Your voice was filled with confusion and concern. Bucky was clearly bleeding heavily, the side of his white shirt was turning bright red, and through a groan, he gave a guilty smile, "Hi doll." He cringed at your scoff, "Don't doll me when you're bleeding in my arms. " You helped him get to your bathroom and helped him sit on the edge of your bathtub.

"I'm really sorry, doll." He mumbled while trying to take off his shirt to make your job easier. His eyes followed your figure as it bounced around, trying to find your first aid kit. You finally calmed down once you do find the first aid kit, and you settle between his legs to clean his wounds.

"Do I want to know what happened?" You whispers break the uneasy silence that was settling in. He winced at the thought of telling you what he had to do earlier. "We don't have to talk about it," you assured him as you bandaged the wound in his side, "We can just get you cleaned up, and I can make something to eat? Maybe we can watch a movie that's on your list. " He smiled softly, hearing your assurance.

"I have been wanting to watch a movie, I think Sam said it's about some pretty lady." You giggled at the misprounced movie title, "pretty women?" You asked, already knowing what he meant. He nodded sheepishly, making you nod with him while you pushed his hair back to start washing the blood off of his forehead. "You got it sergeant." A blush dusted his face quickly when you leaned down and kissed his now clean forehead. "Come on, let's get you more comfy. You can stay over tonight." You showed him to your bedroom as you ramble about ordering a pizza so you can watch more movies. You turned to ask him what he thought, but you were taken back when he was already watching you.

"What? Is everything ok?" You asked worried that he was in pain, he shook his head with a goofy smile forming, "nothings wrong doll."

Nothing was wrong. He may have been stabbed earlier that day, but he just realized he may be falling in love again. Nothing could be wrong with that happening.

A/n: I don't have a taglist for bucky, but lmk if i should make one! Request for bucky and Logan howlett are still open. Please send more ideas. I love getting them, and it really helps with my motivation. <3 If you did like my work, please reblog and comment. I really appreciate it. I'm going to start working on a bucky masterlist, so keep an eye out for that

[unclewaynemunson]

Something nameless is growing between Steve and Eddie. Steve wonders how long it'll take until this thing has a name, but for now, it's enough that it's just something. Something good. Something just for them. A secret of the most delicious kind.

He doesn't necessarily want to lie to Dustin, of course, but he doesn't really know what else to do. Not as long as this thing between him and Eddie is still nameless and Dustin is basically cornering him in the Hawkins High parking lot, way too enthusiastic about the fact that he's there to pick up Nancy.

'No, it's not a date, you little shrimp,' he repeats for what feels like the millionth time. And that statement couldn't be more true: he and Nancy are long past their weird post-breakup-end-of-the-world confusion. It's been good to reconnect with her and he's glad that they can truly be good friends, now.

Dustin shoots him an unimpressed glare and Steve groans in frustration when the boy opens his mouth to retort.

'I'm actually seeing someone else,' he says before Dustin can speak again. If he has to hear him say one more time that he should date either Nancy or Robin, he might actually punch him in the face. And he doesn't want to do that. Not really.

Dustin gasps.

'Why didn't you tell me?!'

'Because you're being annoying as shit about my love life,' Steve shoots back.

Dustin already opens his mouth for some smartass reply, but they get interrupted by a high-pitched scream. Steve whips his head only to find Eddie dramatically running towards them, limbs flailing and a huge grin on his face.

'Stevie!' he shouts out while crashing into Steve like a cannonball. Steve huffs, but is all too happy to catch him in his arms. He knows he shouldn't let his touch linger too long, not with Dustin right there, but it's really fucking difficult to pull back within an appropriate timeframe.

'What are you doing here?' Eddie looks hopeful, like he's suspecting that Steve came to the school for him.

'I'm meeting Nancy,' he admits, feeling almost guilty about it.

'He was just telling me about this girl he's seeing!' Dustin exclaims. 'Can you believe he didn't tell me? Did you know about this, Eddie?'

Eddie's smile falls off his face within a split second, and he takes a stumbling step backwards.

'You're seeing a girl?' His voice has gone cold. Betrayal shines from his big brown eyes.

'Eddie,' Steve starts, but he doesn't know what else to say – not with Dustin standing right there and hearing every word of their conversation.

'Go fuck yourself, Harrington.' He spits the words out and turns around, leaving Steve frozen and Dustin open-mouthed.

'Eddie, wait!' Steve calls out behind him, but Eddie only throws his arm up to flip him off, without looking back.

'Shit, fuck, damnit,' Steve mumbles under his breath as he runs after Eddie.

'Eddie, listen.' He grabs his leather-clad arm, but Eddie breaks himself free from Steve's grip with force. He finally looks at Steve again, tears in his eyes.

'I don't wanna hear it,' he says with a trembling voice as he reaches his van and climbs inside.

'But Dustin was–'

'Dustin was pretty damn clear.'

'No, it's all a –'

But Eddie slams the door shut while the word misunderstanding dies on Steve's tongue unheard. Steve watches helplessly how Eddie roughly wipes a hand over his face, puts his keys in the ignition as if he's stabbing someone, and drives off.

'Steve, what the fuck,' Dustin's voice says; when Steve looks to his right, he sees that Dustin has appeared next to him. 'He thought you were his friend! Why didn't you tell him about your girl?' It sounds accusatory, and Steve can't fucking deal with this right now.

'Why didn't you shut your goddamned big mouth for once in your life?' he snaps at him.

Dustin's eyes go wide with the surprise of Steve talking to him with that much venom in his voice; it's clear that he finally realizes he did something wrong.

'Steve, I – I didn't mean to – I didn't know he'd get mad!'

Steve sighs, long and heavy.

'Go home, Henderson,' he says stiffly.

He wishes that the genuinely apologetic look on Dustin's face would be enough to make it all good, but it isn't. Not as long as he still has the look in Eddie's eyes when he drove away burnt on his retina.

'I'm sorry, Steve.' And with slumped shoulders, Dustin turns around and trudges towards the bike racks.

Update: you can read pt2 here

[frutigerfischl]

*Slides into the askbox*

Yo, saw your post about wanting some requests, and I've got one in mind for you if you're still up for it! So, Cait taking care of an injured reader? Say they got stabbed/shot, it's fairly bad, and they come limping to Cait for aid?

Cheers mate!

I'M BEGGING YOU TO STAY WITH ME

⌗ SONG���stay with me ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ TAGS┆gn!reader, descriptions of violence/injury (slightly more graphic than I usually write), Cait might be slightly ooc sorry, not proofread ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ NOTE┆tysm for requesting it's appreciated 💙 my request status is always in my pinned post, and it is as a matter of fact still open :3 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

It was supposed to be a simple walk back from the market.

The moon hung high, pouring its pallid light onto the soot-stained streets of Piltover, sharpening the corners of every shadow. The evening air had a bite, though it wasn’t the kind of cold that pricked the skin—this chill seeped in, soaked through. You’d tucked your hands into your coat pockets for warmth as you threaded your way through dim alleys, the quickest route to Caitlyn’s apartment. She always scolded you for taking shortcuts, but after the day you’d had, her voice echoing in your head wasn’t quite enough to dissuade you. Not that time.

You regretted it the moment you heard footsteps behind you.

You had always prided yourself on being careful. You weren’t a reckless hero or a street brawler, not like the kinds of people Caitlyn dealt with in her line of work. But no amount of caution could account for the sharp crack of glass behind you, the lurch of your heart as you turned too late, too slow. A figure in a torn coat lunged from the shadows, their face a blur of desperation. The blade caught you just below the ribs.

It didn’t feel like much at first—just a sharp sting and the sickening wet slide of metal. The real pain came when they twisted it, ripped it free, and shoved you back against the alley wall. Their hand was already darting toward your pocket for coin, but adrenaline surged through you, and you lashed out—a kick, a punch, you couldn’t even remember. The next thing you knew, they were running, disappearing into the dark.

And you were left there, blood soaking through your coat, the pulse of it hot and nauseating. Your legs trembled as you braced a hand against the wall to steady yourself, chest heaving with a dry, panicked rhythm.

You couldn’t stay here. The words echoed, sharp and practical, inside your head. You couldn’t just die in some filthy back alley—not like this. Not when Caitlyn had been waiting for you to bring back her tea leaves and that little bundle of sweet pastries she liked but would never admit to liking.

Caitlyn.

You pushed off the wall, hand clutching your side. The world wavered for a moment, a spinning blur of gas lamps and smog-streaked buildings. But you set one foot in front of the other and limped toward her door.

By the time you reached it, your knuckles were slick with blood, smearing faint smudges on the painted wood as you rapped twice. Once. Twice again. Weak. You could barely keep yourself upright, sagging into the frame. The knife had taken more than just blood; it had stolen the strength from your knees, the heat from your fingers.

The door flew open so fast you barely registered it. Caitlyn’s face appeared, her wide blue eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was pulled back into its usual braid, but the loose strands around her face were damp, and you caught the faint smell of lavender—she’d been winding down for the night.

“Y/N?” Her voice, usually so measured, was a sharp note of alarm. Her gaze dropped to the dark stain spreading across your coat, and her hand shot out, catching you by the arm before you could crumple entirely.

“I—” Your voice broke, hoarse and thin. “It’s not… that bad.”

That was a lie. A stupid one, given the way your legs buckled the moment she tried to guide you inside.

“Not that bad?” Caitlyn hissed, though the sharpness in her voice was tempered by the careful way she steered you to her worn leather sofa. She was already reaching for the lamp on the side table, its flickering light illuminating your pale face. “Y/N, you’re bleeding out. Saints, what happened?”

You hissed as she pulled your coat open, her delicate fingers stained red as she peeled back the fabric to assess the wound. It was worse than she’d feared, if the tightening of her jaw was any indication.

“Some… someone jumped me,” you managed, your voice slurring as the adrenaline began to drain away, leaving you a trembling wreck. “I scared them off. Got your… tea, though.”

“Damn the tea.” Caitlyn’s tone was brisk, but her hands betrayed her. They were gentle, steady as she moved to fetch the first aid kit she always kept stocked in her apartment. Piltover’s finest might have had access to the Enforcers’ medical ward, but Caitlyn had learned long ago that quick, efficient first aid could mean the difference between life and death.

“Keep pressure on it,” she ordered, tossing you a folded towel before disappearing into the kitchen.

You tried. Saints, you tried. But your hands were shaking too much, slipping in the blood, and by the time Caitlyn returned, you were slumped forward, head drooping. She clicked her tongue in disapproval, though there was no real anger in it, just worry—a deep, aching worry that she wore like a second skin.

“You’re lucky you made it here.” She knelt in front of you, prying your hands away from the wound and replacing them with her own. Her grip was firm, almost painfully so. “This could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”

Her words blurred as you blinked against the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision. All you could focus on was the brush of her fingers against your skin, the faint tremor she tried to hide as she cleaned the wound with ruthless efficiency. You wanted to say something—to reassure her, to thank her—but your throat felt too dry, the words too far away.

It wasn’t until she’d finished stitching you up—quick, practiced movements that belied just how often she’d done this before—that she let out a slow, shuddering breath and leaned back on her heels. Her hands were red, her sleeves stained, but her eyes… they were softer now, her brows drawn with something you could only describe as tenderness.

“Y/N,” she murmured, her voice low. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You managed a faint smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Didn’t… mean to.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t scold you. Not this time. Instead, she helped you ease back against the sofa, tucking a blanket around your shoulders before settling beside you. Her hand lingered on yours, her fingers lacing with yours in a way that made your chest ache—but in a different way than before.

“Rest,” she said, her voice firmer now, though still soft around the edges. “I’ll keep watch.”

[inkandstardusts]

honey i laugh when it sinks in

part i of ii

summary: Patrols with Joel are usually always the same. He leads and you follow. It's what works. Until one night when you confess far too much and it opens up a can of worms that neither of you can seem to put away.

word count: 3.9k

rating: mature

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, mentions of guys being creeps (not Joel), age gap (Joel is 54 and reader is 26), reader is AFAB but no overt descriptions otherwise, no smut (YET) but there are allusions to it

a/n: i'm going to be so real with you - i don't go here. this writing blog is something i created years ago as a teenager to write about medici, masters of florence and i really haven't used it since except to reblog random good luck posts in the hopes that it might work. what can i say, i'm superstitious sometimes. anyways, i've recently been devouring joel fics on here and have missed writing so i decided to take a stab at this. please let me know what you think! i love feedback. thank you for reading!

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You’re not sure how you reached this point. Discussing sex with Joel Miller of all people. You’ve never been friends, not even acquaintances really. You get along with him well enough during patrols mostly because you stay silent and follow exactly what he says. He doesn’t take well to people not following instructions and you’re fine with that. You’re not the biggest fan of how grumpy he can be, how easily irritable he is when people don’t listen to him. But you cut him some slack, given he’s twice your age and all burly muscle and perpetual gowns. Life has been hard on everyone, and you’ve heard whispers of what happened to him so you’re always kind and gracious. When you were a little girl, your mother had told you that it was your biggest strength. You have to remind yourself of that sometimes though, when you’re on patrol with Joel Miller and he’s barking orders. 

Your second biggest strength, at least right now, might be your big mouth. You had no intention of talking about sex tips from a shitty magazine with Joel Miller. Truly. You had woken up from your afternoon nap and gotten ready for your shift before you had met Joel at the gates. He had nodded at you, mouth slightly twitching in what you assumed was a greeting before leading the way. You hadn’t even had a chance to nod back. You had followed him silently, trudging through the fresh bed of snow that blanketed the ground. It softened your steps, and you allowed your shoulders to relax, not having to worry about walking as silently as possible. The snow however, had gone from gentle flurries to a violent outburst. Your eyes had been squinting, trying to make out Joel’s hulking figure as he cut through the snow. You had been too far out to go back and there was no way you would be able to camp out. You followed him until you finally saw a faint outline of something, far ahead. 

“What’s that?” you had asked and he hadn’t said anything. A few moments later you had found yourself in a cabin. It was cold and smelled sort of stale but it was shelter and you weren’t one to complain about being out of the snow. Joel had handed you a quilt, worn and fraying, and you had stripped out of your wet jacket. You had watched as he walked around, inspecting the windows and locks before he had finally settled across from you, a similar quilt around his own shoulders. 

“We can wait out the storm in here,” he had said. You had nodded. It was silent after that and you didn’t do well with silence so you had reached for a worn magazine you found stuffed between the couch cushions. It was a worn, torn issue of Cosmopolitan. You were fairly sure your mother used to buy a copy once a month when she’d take you grocery shopping with her but you had been far too young to actually read them. When you had looked up at Joel, his head had been tilted back against the armchair he had settled in, his eyes closed. As you had perused the pages you came across a column about sex tips. You had glanced up at Joel, making sure his eyes were still closed before you started reading. 

“Slip a donut around his penis, and slowly eat it off.”

Before you had realized what you were doing, you had snorted, quite loudly if you were being honest. Joel’s head had snapped up, eyes blinking open. His eyebrows had furrowed as he had looked at you.

“What?” he had asked, not angry, but somewhat annoyed at being disturbed. 

Which is how you had found yourself here, in this moment. Your eyes widen and your brain is suddenly blank. 

“Nothing,” you say, far too quickly. You can feel the heat in your face, and you know you must look guilty although you have no reason to be. Joel raises a brow, still looking unamused. His eyes shift to the magazine in your hands and something like recognition flashes across his face. 

“S’all bullshit,” he says, presumably referring to the magazine. “Those magazines never made sense.”

Now you were sort of curious. Had he read magazines like this before? Maybe when he was standing at the checkout aisles. Then again, you can’t imagine Joel Miller of all people reading a Cosmo in front of other people.

“So you’ve read them?” you ask, voice quiet. 

“No,” he says. Maybe a bit too quickly but you won’t call him out on it. “Just heard of ‘em is all.”

“Right,” you say, not at all convinced. It goes silent after that, but Joel doesn’t close his eyes. You blame the silence on your big fucking mouth. You’ve never been good with quietness. You always feel the need to say something, make it less awkward, at least in your mind. It’s the people pleaser in you. Which is why you feel the need to fill the silence. And since the only thing in your mind is apparently donuts and penises, the next words out of your mouth are exactly that.

“This one’s talking about putting a donut around a man’s dick.”

If a clicker came at you right at this moment, you wouldn’t even fight it. Death would be easier than the thick silence that follows. Your eyes widen right as the words leave your mouth and you cannot believe you’ve just said this. Joel seems just as surprised. He opens his mouth and then shuts it. You want the couch to swallow you, make you disappear. You’ve done it now. Whatever fragile dynamic you and Joel had created during your patrols is clearly gone. He’ll probably ask Tommy to never pair you up again. And it’s not like you’re dying to be his patrol partner but he’s good at what he does and he takes charge which means you can turn your brain off for a bit. You hate patrols, they make you anxious and on edge. But with Joel, it’s a little less. It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome either, all golden skin, grey curls and pouty mouth. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

“S’fine,” Joel says, shifting. He looks uncomfortable.

“Really,” you continue going on, trying to make it better but probably digging yourself deeper. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about. It’s not like I’ve ever had sex. Or even been in a relationship. I just didn’t know that that’s what people did back then. I mean I guess it makes sense. If food wasn’t scarce, surely people would be curious to, like, try stuff with it. It’s sort of funny.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying at this point. All you know is that Joel’s expression is something you’ve never seen before. He looks perplexed, still grumpy and there’s something else there that you can’t put your finger on. 

“Right,” Joel says. His shoulders are tense. 

“Sorry,” you say again. “Just pretend I said nothing.”

You put the magazine down, ready to pretend to fall asleep so you can brood in your embarrassment. You’re pretty sure Joel is going to ignore you until you get back to Jackson which is fine with you. Less opportunities to stick your foot in your mouth. Which is why you’re surprised when you hear his low drawl.

“Wasn’t like that,” he says. Your head snaps in his direction. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“The stuff,” he says, still uncomfortable. He points vaguely in the direction of the magazine on the ground. “Those magazines were always talkin’ shit. Dunno anyone who ever actually listened to them.”

“Oh,” you say. “So women weren’t putting donuts on penises?”

You mean it as a joke. You hope it lands. When Joel cracks half a smile, you slump in relief. 

“Well maybe,” he says. “Seems like a waste of a donut.”

“Agreed,” you say. The last time you had a donut, a real donut, you had probably been seven. It’s been almost nineteen years since. “I would kill for a donut.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then Joel clears his throat.

“So you’ve really never…” he starts and then tapers off, watching you carefully. You feel your cheeks warm. 

“No,” you say, quickly. You’re not embarrassed. You’re not. You know you could if you really wanted to. It just never felt right. And relationships are too much effort and the guys your age in Jackson are immature. Your friends don’t seem to mind but you do. 

“Alright,” he says. There’s no judgement in his tone but you feel the need to defend yourself. 

“It’s just stressful,” you say. “And guys my age are awful. They think they’re hot shit because they know how to shoot. Or fight.”

“Alright,” he says again. “None of my business anyways.”

“Well you asked,” you say.

“Right,” he says. Is that all he can say? You think about it some more, as the silence settles over you both. Maybe you should just get it over with. You live in a post apocalyptic world, it’s not like romance will be easy to come by. You’ve killed zombies but you haven’t had sex because you’re holding out for…whatever it is you’re looking for. At this point, you don’t even know what yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve already spoken far too much about things Joel has no business knowing but you might as well voice your thoughts. Maybe he’ll have an opinion. Older people have good advice. Sometimes. 

“Maybe I should just get it over with,” you say and you turn your head to look at Joel. 

His eyes are closed but you see him stiffen. Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe now you’ve really crossed a line. 

“Don’t know if I’m the one you should be talkin’ to about this,” he says, finally. 

“Right,” you say, echoing him from earlier. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologisin’,” he says. “You do it far too much.”

“Sorr -” you start saying before you close your mouth.

“There’s no rush,” he finally says. “It’s whatever you want. Shouldn’t make y’self do something you don’t want to do.”

It’s good advice. A sweet sentiment, really. You hum in response. 

“Thanks Joel.”

He grunts in response and that’s the end of the conversation. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

It’s as if your conversation with Joel opened up a can of worms. You can’t stop thinking about sex. Not even just sex. But sex with Joel. And yeah, maybe you’re a bit tipsy right now but it plagues your sober mind too. You’re not even sure how it began. One minute, you and Joel were returning back to Jackson and then a few hours later you had woken up from a dream so vivid, of you on his lap in the exact cabin you had been in earlier, squirming against him. Your subconscious is clearly trying to tell you something. And that something is that you need to get laid. Your mind had just decided to imprint on Joel because of recency bias. Or something. And okay, maybe it isn’t that far fetched since Joel is handsome, all big arms and brown eyes but it’s still insane. You can’t act on it. He’d probably have a stroke. Hell, you’d probably have a stroke trying to instigate something. That is, if Joel didn’t tell you off first. And get you kicked off of patrols. And maybe out of Jackson. Maria would probably not allow it to happen. She’s always had a soft spot for you. And if there’s one person that Joel listens to, it’s Maria. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a pint glass being placed in front of you. When you look up, Maya is smiling at you, a twinkle in her eye.

“You’re thinking about something,” she says, sliding into the seat across from you. You could play it off but she’s your best friend. She would know. Instead you take a sip, allowing the warmth of the beer to settle in your gut. It’s your third one and you can feel the tips of your fingers beginning to tingle. It feels nice. 

“I am,” you finally say. She leans forward, waiting for you to say more. You look around, making sure no one is listening. The lights of The Tipsy Bison cast the whole room in a warm glow. “I had a sex dream.”

“Oh?” Maya says. “Do tell.” 

“It was about,” you start, before taking a deep breath. You look around once more, just to make sure. “Joel Miller.”

Maya’s eyes widen, almost comically. She lets out a squawk, almost like a bird. 

“Joel Miller?” she repeats, much louder than you. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. “You want everyone to know?”

“Sorry,” she says, quickly. “But babe, everyone in here is drunk as a skunk and the music’s way too loud. If anyone’s listening to us, they’re being creepers.”

Then, “so what was it like?” 

Your face warms at the memory. You can barely remember it except for how you had woken up with sticky thighs. That and how he had you in his lap, fingers curled inside you and whispering something filthy in your ear. You had woken up and shoved your hands into your underwear. It had barely taken anything before you fell apart. You tell her as much and she grins. 

“You dirty girl,” she says and you blush. “You’ve got the hots for an old man.”

“He’s not that old,” you say, but it’s weak to your own ears. 

“He’s like sixty,” Maya says. 

“Fifty-four,” you quickly correct her, and she grins. 

“Whatever floats your boat,” she says. “I’m just happy you’re finally into someone. I’ve been waiting for this day.”

You scoff. “Yeah, because now I can tell him and we can live happily ever after.”

Maya raises a brow. “You’re not even going to try?”

You laugh. She can’t be serious. But the look on her face tells you otherwise.

“Maya,” you start. “Have you met him? He’s grumpy and intimidating.”

“And it makes you all hot and bothered,” she says and you swat at her from across the table. She laughs and you can’t help but smile. 

“I regret telling you this,” you say. She wiggles her eyebrows. 

“Nah you don’t,” she says. “Drink up.”

A few other people join your booth, courtesy of Maya. At some point, you’re given a shot, which you gladly take, and in your state of drunkenness, you get another beer. It’s the most you’ve drunk in a long while but it’s Friday and you don’t have patrol until Monday so you allow it. All the drinking does get to you and at some point, you excuse yourself and make your way to the bathroom. You’re not stumbling, but you’re definitely holding onto chairs as you meander past people. The bar is busy today and you feel content at the chatter of voices and the strum of music that fills the room. When you get to the bathroom it’s occupied, so you wait outside, impatiently tapping your foot against the ground. You really have to pee and the more you think about it the worse it gets. When the door opens, you’re about ready to run in until you look up to find Joel Miller staring at you.

The first thought in your mind is that he looks good. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a flannel but the sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. His shoulders look extra broad in this light. Or maybe it’s the shot of tequila you just had. Either way, you stand up straighter, swaying slightly. He reaches out, steadying you with a hand on your arm. 

“Joel,” you say. “Hi.”

“Evenin’,” he greets. His hand is still on your arm. It’s so warm. You don’t realize that you’ve said this out loud until he moves it away.

“You alright?” he asks, and you nod.

“Yeah!” you say, with much more enthusiasm than you would if you were sober. “I’m so good. How are you?”

He nods. “Well I should head back. Let you use the bathroom n’all.”

You don’t want him to leave. You want him to talk to you. Your drunk brain is needy, apparently. And an even bigger blabbermouth than sober you was at the cabin which is why you end up saying what you say.

“I had a dream about you,” you say. His eyes widen, and his shoulders tense. “It was nice.”

He clears his throat. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and maybe it’s you, but his voice sounds deeper. 

“Yeah,” you say, nodding back. Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Joel will do something now that you’ve gotten the ball rolling. 

Joel looks like he’s about to say something else but then he stiffens again, standing up straight. 

“I’ll tell your friend to get you some water,” he says. “Go use the bathroom. You’re drunk.”

He sounds annoyed now, like an angry parent. It irritates you. You’re not some kid. You’re twenty-six. You don’t need him treating you like one. 

“I’m fine,” you say, pushing past him and into the bathroom. You don’t look at him when you shut the door. You pee, before you wash your hands and splash some water on your face. Everything’s still hazy and the alcohol is still heavy in your bloodstream but you start to feel some embarrassment about what you’ve just said to Joel. Clearly for some reason your subconscious is yet to tell you, you have some sort of agenda of making things awkward with him. 

When you come out of the bathroom, you walk straight into someone. When you pull away, you look up to see a familiar face. It’s one of the guys that had been sitting at your booth. Michael? Mitch? Something with an M but you couldn’t for the life of you remember. 

“Sorry,” you say. You try to side-step him but his arm comes up, blocking you.

“Hey, no worries. You’re all good,” he says and you smile, nodding. “I was actually hoping to catch you alone.”

“Oh,” you say. He smiles at you, sort of bashful.

“Yeah,” he says. “Wanted to see if you wanted another drink. Maybe we could talk somewhere quieter.”

Perhaps it’s all the sex you’ve been thinking about but your mind is suddenly telling you to just do it. Go with not-Michael or maybe-Mitch and get some and then perhaps you’ll stop fantasizing about Joel Miller. 

“Okay,” you find yourself agreeing and he looks relieved. He places a hand at the small of your back, guiding you towards the bar. He orders you a pint of beer and leans closer to you, whispering something in your ear that you don’t catch because there’s suddenly a shadow to your left. When you look, it’s Joel Miller. Once again. 

You don’t really believe in God but you wonder if someone is bored up there and playing some sort of prank on you. 

Not-Michael turns to look at Joel too. There’s a scowl on Joel’s face, subtle but there. His eyebrows are furrowed.

“She’s drunk enough already,” he says to maybe-Mitch. Maya is behind him, looking at you with a glint in her eyes. She’s holding a glass of water. Faintly, you wonder how Joel knew to find her. But your mind is far too preoccupied with what’s going on. 

“I’m fine,” you bite back. 

“Didn’t seem fine when you were swayin’ in front of the bathroom,” Joel counters, jaw clenched.

“She said she’s fine man,” whatever-his-name says. “You can fuck off.”

You stiffen, shifting away from him.

“Actually, maybe he’s right. I am pretty drunk,” you say. Maya steps towards you. 

“I was gonna head out,” she says. “Wanna come with?” 

You nod. You turn to the guy in front of you, who now looks angry. His jaw is clenched. 

“Sorry,” you say, not feeling sorry at all. You think of Joel telling you to stop apologizing. Before he can say anything, you turn to Joel and nod.

“Goodnight,” you say and he nods. He walks away right after but you can feel his gaze on you as you and Maya leave arm in arm. 

When you’re both outside, Maya giggles.

“I’m not even saying this because I’m kinda buzzed but there’s something there,” she says. Usually you would scoff, brush it off. But you think of Joel, how he had looked at you in front of the bathroom, how he had found Maya for you and made sure you were okay. And you wonder if maybe she’s right. 

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You’re woken up by knocking on your door. It’s not that early but it’s still quiet out. It can’t be Maya since she’s definitely still asleep. Maybe it’s your neighbour, you think, as you make your way downstairs. Mrs. Alvarez sometimes brings by fresh bread if she has extra. But she usually waits until later in the day. When you open the door, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. Joel Miller is standing on your porch, coat on and face red from the chilled morning air. He looks like he can’t believe he’s here either. 

“Joel?” you say, sounding as confused as you feel. 

“Just wanted to make sure you were doin’ alright,” he says. 

“Oh,” you say. “M’fine. Just tired.”

“Right,” he says. He steps back and then speaks again. “And I wanted to apologize. Not my place to tell you what to do.”

You feel something warm settle in your chest.

“It isn’t,” you agree. “But you were looking out for me. I appreciate it.”

He nods. He hesitates before he speaks. 

“Guys like Mason aren’t good news,” he says. “He’s always trying to get with drunk girls. Not that I’m sayin’ you’re vulnerable or anything, just that I’ve seen the way he is. He’s on probation with the council.”

Your eyes widen. You feel foolish. The one time you entertain a guy and he ends up being a grade-A creep. 

“I’m an idiot,” you say and Joel shakes his head.

“Nah, you’re not. He’s the creep. Not your fault,” he says, voice warm. You laugh, weakly.

“Thanks,” you say. Joel hesitates. And then he steps forward. You’re pretty sure your heart stutters.

“If you wanted,” he begins and then stops. He runs a hand through his hair. “If you’re curious about all that stuff we were talkin’ about on patrol. I could,” he hesitates here. You’re fairly sure this is a dream. Some elaborate fantasy your mind has concocted. Still, you speak.

“You could what?” you ask, voice quiet. He looks directly at you now.

“I could help you out,” he says. “I could show you.”

As soon as he says it, he’s stepping away, heading back down the steps of your porch. 

He turns back, looking at you. “You don’t have to answer now,” he says. “I want you to think about it.”

He leaves you there, stunned. When you shut your door, you make sure to lock it before you head to your coach and lay down. You don’t need to think about it. You already know what your answer will be. 

[lilgoblinbitch]

Gossip 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

rick grimes x fem!reader

part two here

a/n: i based this fic on this post here! i might make a part 2 because i have some ideas in the back of my head of how i think this story could end up going eventually, but idk if i will write it yet. we'll see! also i made up the two random alexandrians in this story :)

summary: rick overhears you and some alexandrian women gossiping, and he decides to confront you.

warnings: 18+, alcohol consumption (reader gets drunk).

wc: 1.5k

MDNI

“Spencer does not like me, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You scoffed, taking another sip of the pinot. This was your second glass, and your head was starting to buzz.

Two Alexandrian women became well acquainted with you, offering you a bottle of wine and some dinner after your first week in Alexandria. You decided “why the hell not.” You never really had great friends before the apocalypse and the only ones you had were the group you came in with, so it wouldn’t harm you to make more.

“Oh honey, did you not notice the way he was ogling you at Deanna’s party?” One of them asked — her name was Shannon. The other woman, Vivian, slightly chuckled, taking one last swig from her glass. She nodded, muttering something in agreement.

You sighed. “Even if he was checking me out, it’s not like I care anyway...”

The two women paused simultaneously, looking up at you with ‘bitch, HUH?’ written on their faces. “Y/n, Spencer is a beautiful man! He’s tall, handsome, and he’s around your age I believe,” Vivian gushed. You scowled, displeased at the comment.

You took another gulp from your glass, emptying the contents down your gullet and then setting it on the kitchen island. After licking your lips clean, you said, “Well, frankly, I don't really care if I’m being quite honest.” Your mind swirled with inebriated thoughts; you sort of had a love-hate relationship when it came to alcohol — it either made you perfectly giddy and sociable or very angsty and erratic. But that’s what it did to most people, anyway. Right now, it was making you angsty. “I have someone else on my mind.”

“Oh, my! Okay, who is it?” Shannon asked, her and Vivian both on the edge of their chairs anticipating what you were about to say — well, what they expected you to tell them, that is.

You thought for a moment; should you tell them? It seemed like they lived for that kind of gossip. But that could mean that they might spill your secret, and you weren't exactly ready for that. “I’ll tell you another time. I’m tired, gonna head to bed,” you stated, yawning as you got up from the stool you were seated on. The two women groaned in disappointment, like children who failed to convince their parents to take them to disney world.

After your friends left you strutted out of the kitchen, about to head upstairs when you heard a door open and shut. Instinctively you ran back to the kitchen to grab a knife to defend yourself from a possible intruder or walker, but before you could your body collided with something, or rather someone.

You cursed and looked up at the culprit; it was none other than Rick Grimes. “Rick, what the fuck! I could have stabbed you!” You scolded him, picking up the knife that clattered on the ground. 

“You forget we live together?” He teased, taking a step back to get a good look at you. Your eyes were glassy and eyelids heavy — a telltale sign that you were drunk. Rick had experience pulling over a few drunkards back in his day as a cop, so he knew immediately without even having to smell the alcohol oozing from your breath that you weren’t sober.

You pushed a strand of hair out of your face, swallowing the excess saliva forming in your mouth. You mentally scolded yourself for drooling over a man, but this one was just too beautiful to not gawk at. The sound of Rick clearing his throat snapped you out of your trance and brought you back to reality. “No, no. I didn’t forget. I just…”

“You’re just drunk, right?” He chuckled, turning his head to look at the empty bottle of wine sitting on the dining room table. You rolled your eyes, taking a bite of your lip while trying to think of a plausible excuse. 

“Look, I only had two glasses. Shannon and Vivian from a few houses down brought us a casserole and some pinot. Girls’ night. Sue me, Rick.” You slipped past him and headed to the kitchen, Rick hot on your tail. “There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you or Carl want any,” You said without turning around. When you got to the kitchen sink you started washing the dishes, but you frowned slightly, looking back up at Rick with worrying eyes. 

“Shit. Did I wake the kids? Is that why you’re down here?” You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands hastily on a dry towel. 

Rick shook his head. “No. Only I heard you. But you weren’t very quiet, and when I heard them leave that’s when I came down here,” he explained, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Your heart picked up its pace. ‘How much did he hear?’ You wondered. You pursed your lips and your eyes floated around the room, quite obviously avoiding his intense stare. He made you nervous. That sheriff always made you nervous, and part of the reason was because you were so utterly attracted to him. 

Finally you brought your eyes back to his icy ones, which were studying your body. You blushed and bit your lip again — it was a nervous habit you could never seem to break. “You got a stain–” Rick pointed to the red stain on your shirt, just below your breasts, “Right there.”

You looked down at the stain, it was wine — dark red wine, at that. And you were wearing a white tank top. How convenient.

You looked back up at him, snorting in slight amusement. “Guess I shouldn’t have worn white, huh?”

He let out a low chuckle, showcasing his pearly smile. God, he was pretty. “Thought you knew better than that, Y/n,” he joked, standing back up fully to make his way over to you. Okay, now your heart was really beating fast. 

When he was finally in front of you, face to face, you gulped. He smelled like the forest after a rainshower, and somehow he always did; it engulfed you like a tsunami. You berated yourself for getting so worked up over the smell of him, and just him in general. He was your leader, your friend. And he asked you to live with him and his children because he trusted you. Why were you acting like a cat in heat? ‘It’s the alcohol’, you convinced your mind, it had to be…

The silence was too loud. You had no idea what Rick was thinking right now; frankly, you never did. His poker face was always unreadable. But your tipsy brain gained a few confidence points, letting smugness wash over you.

“Whatcha thinking about, Grimes?” You shifted your weight to one leg and batted your lashes at the man in front of you. He only grinned, then glanced away momentarily only to stare back into your eyes. 

“Y’know, I overheard the conversation,” Rick started, his chest steadily moving up and down as he breathed. One of his hands gripped the counter while the other was glued to his hip. Your eyes trailed up and down his tanned veiny arms, taking in his manliness.

“Mhm. And?” You kept your composure, not wanting to let Rick taunt you; you knew you talked pretty loud when you were tipsy or drunk but it’s not like you said anything negative about him or anyone.

“You girls like to gossip, huh?”

“Well, yeah. We’re women,” you joked, cracking a smile and trying to ease the tension a bit. “What are you trying to get at?” Rick never bothered to indulge in any girl gossip you, Rosita, and Maggie used to partake in, so why was he so invested now?

Little did you know, he was always invested in literally anything you had to say.

Rick licked his lips and exhaled through his nose. “Heard you talking about liking someone. Is it anyone I know?”

He smirked when he noticed how red you turned. Your face would have matched the stain on your shirt if it was a few shades darker. “I– I don’t…” Of course now was the time to choke on your words, right when you were using every fiber of your being to keep your poise in check. But goddamnit, Rick just had to be a sly and cocky bastard.

“I don’t remember even saying anything about that, Rick.”

His smirk never faded. You wanted to slap it off his face, then kiss the hell out of him. 

He tilted his head to the side a bit, furrowing his brows as if to challenge your statement. “Really?”

You nodded and crossed your arms right over the stain. ‘Deny, deny, deny,’ You repeated in your head.

But he didn’t buy your bullshit. He brought his hand to your cheek, fingers barely grazing your skin as if he was afraid he’d scare you away. Your breath hitched in your throat and subsequently dropped your arms to your sides, separating your lips to say something. However, nothing came out.

“Well, I think I know your secret, Y/n. Answer seems pretty clear to me.” His voice almost came out as a growl from how low and raspy it was. Goosebumps awakened all across the surface of your body. You were tongue tied. 

“I’m the one on your mind, aren’t I?”

[sleepypanda01]

hm....

hmm...

hmmm...

hmmmmm......

hmmmmmmmm....🧐

Nox in the main story has been tied to the theme of trust and recently, loyalty, which if you think about it, trust and loyalty are two values that are connected to each other. Throughout the main story, it is heavily implied that Nox has been used by someone to the point he has developed trust issues that make it hard for him to be vulnerable around others and put his trust in them.

Nox has been warming up to Chase since the beach boys arc, and even in Cinderfella arc he showed subtle signs of kindness by providing guidance to Chase on how to follow the story and letting him know that fairy tale food is safe for him to consume. It is not though until the honour among thieves arc that he expresses his gratitude for the snacks and apologises to Chase for calling him underhanded all this time. Even if Nox was already forming some sort of attachment toward Chase, he still was not trusting him fully (which is understandable). Despite him sleeping in Chase's hoodie the night before returning it, that same night he went through what he thought was Chase's notebook in order to conclude whether Chase was actually trustworthy or not. It is not until the Requiem of the blood arc that he shows his trust toward Chase and it is in the same arc that he gets hurt after deciding to start opening up his heart to someone. Despite him being hurt by Chase's actions, we see that he was thinking of giving him the benefit of the doubt and he stayed with him in the damaged book until the end, showcasing his loyal nature, but even after all that, he still has not revealed his name to Chase, which could be the ultimate sign of trust that Nox can offer since it provides crucial info about him and his circumstances.

The reveal in the hiatus of his habit of putting others first and the fact that he is the protector of loyalty not only reinforce my theory that he was betrayed by someone close to him,but is also on par with his traits in the main story, where he displays his caring nature by not running away from a dangerous situation and actually staying to help someone he has come to care about, even if he is not ready to fully trust Chase yet. It is interesting though, that despite Nox's self-sacrificing tendencies and his kind and loyal nature, the first time Chase asks him to help someone else, he is confused as to why he should do that. At first, it might look like the concept of helping someone is foreign to him and can't quite grasp it,yet in that arc he had been following Chase around to make sure he is okay as if it was second nature to him. This leads me to believe that the idea of helping others might not have been confusing, but it rather was tied to a bad experience that involved helping someone out and resulting in something bad.

As I have suggested in other posts, taking his name into consideration and how unique it sounds,it is possible that someone took him in with the objective to use him later and gave him the name ''Nox'' cause he was always supposed to replace a key, unless he has forgotten his human name. However, his self-sacrificing tendencies also hint on that he might have tried to protect someone and that is how he ended up in the situation he is. What if someone else was supposed to be turned into a key and Nox took their place and got stabbed in the back by that person, leaving him alone to this fate? I am gonna get repetitive, but in the official art featuring Nox, where one of the cookies is in a perfect shape while the other is broken, feels like it symbolises his broken trust caused by the betrayal he experienced, he lent a hand only to lose an arm, and his cup is empty because he sacrificed so much,that now he himself is empty, while the person who most likely betrayed him did not suffer any damage. It is clear that whatever happened to him, left a deep scar within him.

This theory about Nox kind of reminds me of Meg from the Disney movie ''Hercules''. I think their circumstances might be similar. She tried to save her lover by selling her soul to Hades only to be left behind,just like Nox could have tried to protect someone by sacrificing himself, only to be abandoned. Then Meg uses Hercules to earn her freedom, just like Nox might be using Chase by possibly stealing his narratonin to turn human again.However, Meg ended up falling in love and self-sacrificing once again, only that this time her loyalty got returned and she was saved. Nox has fallen in love too and we have seen him putting himself in danger by staying in the damaged book to help Chase, and I can see him doing something similar again in the future if it is for Chase,only this time, instead of being betrayed,his sense of loyalty and commitment will be returned because this time it is Chase.

[radiance1]

Linked to this post about Billy, Danny, and Vlad meeting in a dream. Tagging @puppetmaster13u because I think they'd like this!

The world was being invaded, taking the chance that some of the core members of the Justice League were away off-world to take the world when it was down on its defenses.

Billy is fighting and saving as many people as he could along with the rest of the heroes presents, they just had to hold out for reinforcements, which is the last few members of the League off world to rejoin their ranks. Billy may have the magic of gods on his side, but he is severely outnumbered and, being one of the powerhouses, has been targeted consistently over and over and barely given any time to actually rest.

So, there he is, battered, bruised, and overall exhausted but still putting up a decent fight. He tries to lead them away from basically everyone else, attacking as he flew away to a secluded enough area but there's just too many to actually do any notable damage.

So, he pulls out one, final, Shazam.

It works. But it also doesn't.

Whatever damage that lightning did, more just flowed in to replace them and Billy knew that even if he fired off another one, the result would be the same.

This is where he will die.

And he accepted that.

He didn't, but what else was he supposed to do?

So, he screwed his eyes shut and hoped that being ripped apart wouldn't be too painful.

Only, nothing happened for a moment. Then another. And another. Until he finally opened his eyes to see the enemies stopped still in their tracks and, for some reason, everything seemed darker somehow.

They looked up in fear and apprehension, so Billy looked up too.

Something had risen from his shadow.

A being of never-ending black that towered over them, its head tilted at an angle that made Billy cringe with eyes that seemed to see through and at them all at once. Then, it lit up with red, and Billy, the closest to it, could suddenly see the stars upon stars inside of its body.

Like a Christmas tree. Billy thought, chuckling at his own joke. If he was going to die anyways, might as well have a bit of fun, right?

One of the invaders tried to make a dash and grab for him.

Then, the overwhelming sound of silence deafened him. Billy didn't even know that was a thing that could happen but as soon it screamed? Roared? Whatever it did, every other sound just... ceased to exist.

A tendril of darkness wrapped around him, and Billy accepted his fate.

Nothing happened.

Instead, the ones who tried to kill him were killed without mercy. Tendrils of darker yet darker lit up with red and containing stars that looked so much like too many eyes crushed, slashed, stabbed, consumed the waves upon waves of enemies that Billy struggled against from pure number alone.

It was swift, it was deadly, it was even brutally efficient but above all.

It was confusing.

This... being. Whatever it was, wasn't doing anything to him, the red glow it gave off just faded, leaving back the true darkness that was its body and shutting off the stars. It slowly, ever so slowly, shrunk itself down from its towering height, as if wary of another attack coming from somewhere.

Not for itself, but for him.

For Billy.

He didn't know how he could tell that, but somehow, he just did?

It was looking at him, curiously? He thinks? And with the adrenaline fading from his system, being replaced by confusion, it finally sets in just how tired he was. With a yawn forcing itself from his lips and his eyes trying to close on their own when his body apparently decided it was safe enough to just rest.

Before his mind jumpstarted itself as he suddenly remembered that they were in the middle of an invasion, and he need to leave. He tried too, at the very least, but another tendril, and another one, wrapped around him as soon as he tried.

He struggled to get himself out, but nothing he tried worked. He barely had the strength for another Shazam, but he was prepared to try-

A tendril wrapped itself around his mouth.

Well.

That was unfortunate.

Then, the world turned dark.

---

He was dreaming, again. Or at least he thinks he was. Usually, he wasn't aware of it most of the time, but this was also one of those weird dreams he's been having for a while.

There was no ground, there was no sky. There was only the vibrant colors of space with the 'ground' being rolling clouds of all sorts of colors that twinkled with stars and the 'sky' was just an endless expanse filled with constellations.

"Billy." A voice echoed his name, and Billy turned around to face a familiar sight he's always seen inside of his dreams. A large, large merman with scales and flowing hair akin to that of a galaxy that glimmered with stars and a large golden mask floating above his head stared down at him. Eyes filled with both concern and a overwhelming relief. "I'm so glad you're safe."

"Um, hey Danny!" Billy greeted, awkwardly waving at the large celestial being that has been occupying his dreams as of late. For some reason, he was a bit embarrassed? He really hopes he didn't see how he was getting jumped actually. "Yea I'm-I'm fine!" He struck a familiar pose that he always did as Shazam and flashed his signature smile as while.

Danny was, unfortunately, not amused.

"Child, you need to rest." Danny said, more like thought because his mouth wasn't moving at all. "You're exhausted, stay here and rest."

"But they need help!" Billy countered, dropping his pose to cross his arms and, well, scowl. He tried to imitate one of Batman's glares, when the celestial above him looked unimpressed he could tell he most likely failed.

"And help they shall receive." Danny inclined his head in a direction, clouds parting to reveal an inky blackness that had something instinctual in Billy's body shy away from it. He glanced down at his feet warily. He didn't even know that was there! "Vlad." Danny called out, and red eyes peered out from the void, before the familiar, towering body of complete and utter darkness rose from the pool of, well, emptiness. It looked at Danny curiously and, yep, Billy was still cringing from the way it angled its neck.

"A piece of him there," Danny said as Vlad shifted around him, wrapping its body around Danny's before resting its head on his shoulder and looking down at Billy too. "Unfortunately, I cannot help you, it is too far for me to make it there myself. But Vlad was able to send a piece of himself to help you and I believe that is more than enough to turn the tides in your favor."

Billy shrunk into himself as Danny's gaze turned into a stern glare, not too dissimilar to the way he's seen parents scolding their children and, what made it even worse, Vlad looked at him and mimicked him! How was he supposed to defend himself against that!?

"So rest." Danny's voice was stern, and he thinks Vlad chimed in as well, if these random feelings basically telling him the same thing were anything to go by. Billy still didn't know how he could tell that. Billy could fight against this; he could say no and try to wake himself up to back out there and help people, but looking at the stern, parental glares he's on the opposite end of he just huffed. "Fine."

---

When Billy woke up, everything seemed okay, thankfully. The sky wasn't filled with fleets anymore, so that was a plus. He was in the aftermath of a battle, corpses strewn about along with rubble and pieces of shattered armor.

Billy blinked.

'Vlad' was wrapped around him, in a protective sort of way he thinks, and Billy let the thought 'Okay, this is actually pretty comfortable' run across his mind. He was still pretty tired, actually, and-

Oh hey, he actually still had his communicator? He thought that fell off or was destroyed the lightning.

Billy turned it. He cringed a bit at the way it flashed with static, before letting out a small sigh of relief when it cleared up. He looked over the messages from -apparently the last few hours (and wasn't that crazy?)- the time he was asleep and slumped against Vlad's form seeing that, yes, nothing bad happened and everyone else was safe.

I'm alive! Was the first message he sent before he yawned and rubbed at his eyes. Instantly, messages exploded and caused a series of dings on his communicator, all of which were asking where he was, if he was okay, and if he knew what that creature that suddenly joined their battle was.

A friend! Was what he typed, muting his communicator while shutting it off. Did that answer anything? Nope! Did Billy feel like clearing that up right now? Also no!

That is a future Billy's problem! Present Billy is going to go back to sleep!

[delopsia]

Shiver |  Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count 13,000 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes: 18+ Minors DNI. AFAB!Reader. Post-biological apocalypse. Vaguely scientist!Bob, Infected!Rhett, Reader possesses inhuman qualities. Blood, arguing, vague body horror, guns, a fantasy virus with fantasy rules, switching dominance, traumatizing men for the narrative, anal sex (Rhett receiving), vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, threesome, sex-induced breakdowns, aftercare, loving on Rhett because he's the cutest little guy :( Synopsis subject to change. Writing it killed me. Synopsis: Regardless of whether it kills you with the fever or if you survive the worst of it with nothing but pure luck, the virus changes people. You will never be what you were before the infection. Until now, you thought you were the only person on earth suffering from these… alterations. But with the bite mark on Rhett's shoulder and Robert's determination to find a cure, suddenly, there might be two of your kind. How that is going to work out is another question entirely.

Frigid air bites at your lungs like the blaze of a fire. Wind basting against your cheeks as you round the corner. There's something sharp caught in your shoe, stabbing into the soft skin of your foot with every other step. Even sharper teeth snap at the air behind you. The body of something twice your size thundering up the staircase behind you. 

Your forearm slams against the half-open door. Rusted hinges shriek. The rooftop emerges in a cloud of gray mist, wrapping around you in a haze. You can't see where you're going, but you'll take the fall over the bloody maw that ghosts over the back of your leg. Memory guides you across the concrete, puddles splashing beneath your feet.

Knees bend. A bone in your ankle pops, giving way to the insistence of your muscles coiling like springs. Your lead foot slams against the ledge, surging forward. 

The silver abyss swallows you whole. You don't know if you've even jumped to another rooftop at all. Can't see anything more than your own nose and outstretched arms, but at least gravity is familiar with the concept of a merciful death. 

Familiar ground appears before you. 

It's too far. 

Your hands catch the raised edge. Bones in your right elbow separate. Nerves scream. But the muscles there already know what to do, unnaturally flexing, popping joints back into place before they can finish shrieking. The sensation makes your stomach churn, but you've got no choice but to let your body warp, giving way to strength that wasn't there before, begrudgingly pulling yourself up. 

From the opposite roof, the Gnasher snaps her teeth, her gangly, warped limbs perched on the very edge. The crystal rain wets the crimson sludge that clings to her skin, the old blood beginning to wash down the side of the building like some kind of fucked up watercolor painting.

"Vile," muttering under your breath. 

The bottles in your backpack clink together as you climb to your feet; whether or not any of them are broken, you have no idea, but you don't feel anything wet leaking against your back yet. Hopefully, it stays that way; you don't know how many more times you can do this before that Gnasher realizes she can jump across rooftops, too.

All too convenient, a beam of light pierces through the clouds, and with it, the crystal blue sky emerges through the cracks. It's so picturesque that you can almost convince yourself that the city itself is still alive. Blue skies and fresh air, the glass on the skyscrapers still glistens in the sun, perfectly intact and so clean that the cars reflect in them as they drive past. 

But the glass is broken, and the cars have sat in place so long that they've begun to sink into the road itself. Even as you drift past, you're not entirely sure what color they used to be, their frames drenched in deep red and black residue, blood so old and dry that the very stench could knock you off your feet if you dared get too close. Nothing quite like the nauseating handiwork of a Gnasher, always rubbing their weeping, bloody wounds against whatever surface they can find. 

One of the esteemed painters is tucked up against the side of a bus, the same one you saw when you traveled this route a few weeks ago. It's hardly moved, the fragile remains of its body in such a state of decay that it can no longer maintain a discernible form. Even as you squint, you can't fathom how this creature was once as human as you, with its own experiences, opinions, and goals. 

If you dared walk into the street for a closer look, maybe you could catch a remnant of what once was. A necklace or the faint outline of a tattoo, maybe even a wallet clinging to shredded pants, but your luck is already stretched thin. 

Rooftop to rooftop it is, traveling across haphazardly placed planks of wood and hopping over the gaps, following the same old path you've used ever since you arrived in this ruin of a city. Even as you navigate your well-worn route, your eyes remain fixated on the burnt apartment complex towering up ahead.

There's a small brick building nestled against the east side of it, the remnants of what you think used to be home to a law firm. Easy to miss. The kind of place that no survivor is going to break into looking for supplies or a cozy place to set up camp. Precisely what your little group had been looking for. 

The click of jaws snapping together echoes through the concrete husks that surround you, a strangled, gurgling moan chasing after it. Teeth. Clacking against each other in a messy rhythm, desperate to sink into something. 

Your ear twitches. It's coming from the alleyway up ahead. But if a Gnasher is biting at something, then...

Sight of the ground below answers your question before you can finish it. Bob, armed with the oversized saucer of a metal trashcan lid, pressed up against the fragile chest of the Gnasher as he blindly strikes the butt of his gun against the wall. Jammed. Another strike for Rhett's handmade bullets.

Lightning flickers as you swing your legs over the concrete barrier that surrounds the edge of the roof, aiming your feet like you would the crosshairs of a gun. It's like going down a slide. One moment, you're sitting. The next, you're midair, hurtling on a one-way path with your legs perfectly outstretched. 

Your feet connect with the center of the Gnasher's hunched back. Bone snaps. Pops. Dark blood splatters across the ground like a paintball striking its target. 

Fire arcs up your joints. Too hard of a fall. But you're on your feet, much like a bipedal cat, with the nine lives to boot. 

It's horrifying.

"You—!" Bobby's eyes squeeze shut with the slightest shake of his head, nose scrunching. 

"That's why we carry a backup," chirping, you slide the backpack from your shoulders, pushing it into his ill-prepared arms. 

Bob blinks, momentarily unable to tear his gaze away from what you've done. Then, glancing up to where you jumped from. "You should have broken something by doing that."

Should have. 

Would have if it weren't for...

"How is he?" The edge of your voice wavers, emotion stealing the reigns of control right out from under you. A chill ebbs at your lower belly again, twisting uncomfortably.

"About the same." It comes out a little more calculated than you were expecting from Bobby. Detached. Resigned to an outcome that hasn't happened yet. 

He's lying.

Bob's hand curls around your wrist, somehow already knew that you would make a break for the stairs. "Shower." It's more of a plea than a command. "Please. You might be immune to the virus, but you're still susceptible to common infections." 

A shower can wait. The lukewarm water will still be there tomorrow; Rhett might not be. But Bob's thick fingers have curled around your wrist, refusing to budge even as you try to pull your arm free of his grip, insistently tilting his head toward the bathroom as if to insist upon it once more. 

Your eyes dart to the scab on his index finger. If it were to open right now, your bloody forearm might infect him. 

It's the quickest shower you've taken since Bob engineered a new method to heat the water. Hurriedly scrubbing away the dirt you've picked up during your supply run and the speckles of Gnasher blood that has stained your skin. It's already begun to thicken, almost seeming to glue itself to your flesh, stubbornly clinging until it feels as if you've rubbed yourself raw. 

The usual shiver has set in before you make it to the basement laboratory. An uncomfortable chill despite the warm temperature, just enough to make your skin prickle and your hands waver as you try to open the door.

"You owe me a blanket and a jacket," mindlessly complaining if only to keep your mind off of what you're walking into. "I'm cold again."

"You're always cold," Rhett's muffled voice is the first thing to greet you, his deep, warm tone distorted by the panel of glass he rests behind, effectively sealed off from the rest of the world. A transparent prison strong enough to withstand a Gnasher's unnatural rage but visibly wavering when Rhett thunks his forehead against it.

"And you look like you're on fire," you don't remember him being this flushed when you left. Bob told you it wouldn't set in for at least another day, but you've hardly been gone for anything more than an hour or two. 

"Reckon I could warm ya up?" Rhett's wobbly smile disappears almost as quickly as he offers it. "Kiddin'. Don't come in here."

Your nails bite into the heel of your own palm, the thin skin burning as if it'll give way and split if you press any harder. "Is it a protective thing or have you both gone and forgotten that I can't get infected?" 

"Y' can still die if I turn ya into my next lunch," Rhett hums, wrinkling his nose to flash his teeth at you. The sight of them has something in the back of your head twitching, impulsively flaunting yours at him in return. 

"As if," it feels as if you were briefly possessed. Only coming back into control of your own body the moment that you start talking. "I just jumped off a roof, and I was perfectly fine."

"I wasn't," Bob mutters, hardly looking up from the vials that he's hunkered over. "'bout gave me a heart attack."

It's still a little bit strange to think about. You don't recall feeling anything more than the uncomfortable impact of hitting the ground and a brief stint of pain. Such a drop should have warranted a broken bone or, at the very least, some strained joints, but as you tentatively stretch and flex your legs, you don't find a whisper of pain. As if it never happened. 

"God, I wish I could put ya in the PBR," Rhett wouldn't be Rhett if he weren't constantly finding a way to bring bull riding into the conversation. "Y'd be a legend with that grip strength of yours."

"But if the PBR were still around, I wouldn't be a..." The words die in your throat, your half-formed sentence lost in an instant, dissolving into mist. You still don't know what to call yourself. Half human? Mutant? Part-time Gnasher? Some long-winded scientific term that only Bob can pronounce? 

Idle, your hand dips past the elastic of your waistband, fingertips drifting over the faint indent of a scar. It feels worse than it looks, the jagged slice from a piece of glass, your reward for not paying attention when you climbed through a broken window. 

Maybe it would have remained just that, an irritating cut, if you had the forethought to look at the window frame and realize that a Gnasher had been rubbing its blood all over it. You might as well have stuck your hand right into its mouth and politely asked for a bite. 

"You're still human," Bob hums, right on cue.

Here we go again. "But I'm not as human as I used to be."

"No, you're—"

"Robert," throwing your hands up, exasperated. This argument will never die. "I just jumped twenty-something feet and didn't suffer a scratch! It's okay to admit that I'm not exactly human." It's been evident from the day you were infected. If that weren't enough, then the discovery that your eyes reflect light in the dark should be. 

Rhett sucks in a sharp gasp. His head falls back and cracks against the wall behind him. The veins in the side of his neck have raised, visibly twitching with the spread of an infection so dark that you can see it beneath his thin skin. "How's that cure comin'?"

Bob doesn't answer, fluttering over scribbled notes in a water-warped notebook. He doesn't find what he's looking for, spinning around to flip through a loose stack of papers. Drawings and shorthand that you can't even begin to decipher. Months upon months of research, all skimmed through and tossed back onto the table in a matter of moments. Useless. 

"Bob?" You try. Maybe he didn't hear Rhett's question.

No reply. Stepping over to an accumulation of vials, some empty, others filled with fluids that he's explained to you a million and one times. Vaccine prototypes, blood mixtures, chemical experiments that weren't exactly legal back when the concept of law and order existed. 

He reaches for a nondescript glass jar filled with a clear liquid that could be absolutely anything under the sun. His empty hand disappears into a basket beneath the table. Then, returns empty. "I need to draw more blood." 

You don't need to ask which of you he's referring to; you're already beginning to present your arm to him. It's only been a few hours since the last batch he drew from you. Truthfully, you should probably be reminding him of what he told you mere moments after Rhett got bit; don't let him get so wrapped up in his work that he takes too much from you. 

Your head is starting to spin before the syringe is even filled halfway. Doing this standing was a mistake, your feet no longer feel steady beneath you, the corners of your vision growing a little blurrier than it was before. But the vial fills, somehow, and the moment Bob turns his back, you're stumbling over to Rhett and his glass enclosure. 

Bloodshot blue eyes follow the way your right foot seems to drag against the floor, but Rhett doesn't say anything. Maybe it looks like a poorly concealed injury to him. Not your sudden lack of strength to lift it properly. 

Whether you fall or the ground suddenly decides to rise a few feet, you don't know, but your ass hits the cold tile all the same. 

Rhett tilts his head, his face so close to the glass that it fogs with his labored breath. This close, you can almost deceive yourself into believing there isn't a barrier at all. That there's no bite mark mottling his shoulder; he's only sweating from another successful supply run, and you're leeching heat off of him while Bobby flutters over his experiments until his mind has run dry.

The faint rattle in his lungs shatters that daydream as quickly as it appeared.

"Don't," Rhett stops you before you realize that you're beginning to get up. "Just...just stay right there."

The room spins, splotches of black painting your vision. You couldn't pick your way through the lock if you wanted to. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock haphazardly hung on the wall is a lot louder than you recall it being. Why and how the batteries in it are still working, you don't know, but it would be nice if they would finally give it up and die. Stubborn as ever, the singular working hand continues its perpetual journey, punctuated with every passing second.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Rhett reaches over his shoulders, pinching the back of his shirt and pulling the sweat-drenched material past his head. Even your unfocused gaze catches the way it drips before he tosses it to the floor, looks more like he's just gone for a swim in the damn river again. An amoeba should have been his undoing, not...

You still don't understand how it happened. 

There weren't any Gnashers around. You knew there weren't. The room was entirely empty, not a sound aside from that of you and him rustling through old storage boxes. You should have smelled it, heard it, enter the room. 

Maybe replaying the memory one more time will undo the chunk of flesh missing from his shoulder. Or more it to an area that can actually be amputated, like an arm.

No arm is better than no Rhett at all.

But that bite is still there, no matter how perfectly you play out what you should have done in your mind. 

Tick. Tick. 

Tick.

Sudden, Rhett snaps forward. Burying his face between his bent knees. The muscles thinly stretched over his ribs begin to spasm. Convulsing. Spreading up into his shoulders and down into his thighs. One of his hands wraps around his own ankle. Squeezes so tight that his knuckles turn white.

This, you realize, must be why freshly turned Gnashers are always covered in gaping, bloody wounds. Their own muscles rip themselves apart.

Bob leaps from his chair and disappears into the storage room. 

Something hits the floor and shatters. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick.

Your eye twitches. 

Rhett falls backward.

You think he's dead.

But he cracks his skull against the wall just hard enough for him to visibly wince from it. Eyelashes fluttering. Can't remember how to keep his eyes open. Hair clinging to his drenched forehead and scruffy face. 

His heaving chest refuses to slow down. It only seems to speed up. 

He can't catch his breath. 

The closet door slams. You jump. 

Bob runs back to his cluttered table, empty-handed but reaching for a handful of discarded vials. The last of your blood disappears into another uncolored liquid. 

Tick. 

Tick.

tiCK.

Time warps around you. How long has it been? You can't tell without any windows. The overhead lights never waver. Outside, it could be morning. It could be night. The sky could have turned red. 

In here, it's perpetual day.

Tick. 

Tick.

TiCk.

There's a distance in Rhett's eyes that wasn't there before. 

His chest never stills. Rising and falling so quickly that you can hear the sound of his breath whistling through his throat. Darkened veins bubble beneath his skin. Rising. Strained. 

Bob has stopped looking under the microscope.

He doesn't move.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

TICK.

T

ICK.

Ti

CK.

T

I

C

k.

Rhett's breath isn't whistling anymore. It's ragged. Harsh. Sucking in air before he's even gotten the last bit out. Choking on his own saliva that he's losing the ability to swallow. Leaking out the corners of his mouth like a rabid dog. 

And Bob...

"You're starin' at a wall." Rhett. His nose wrinkling with a snarl. 

Bob doesn't reply. Doesn't even show the slightest sign that he hears what's being said to him. Keeps his head down. Hung so low that you're surprised it's even physically possible.

"I'm dyin' 'n you're starin' at a fuckin' wall?" 

No answer. 

Tilting to the left reveals that he's spinning an empty vial in his fingers. Twisting it around and around, a rhythmic trance that he can't stop now that it's started. 

Rhett's fist strikes the glass. "Robert!" 

NOTHING.

Your voice rises in your throat. "Bobby—"

"I don't know!"

It's quiet again.

Glassy eyes peer back at you, the bent frames of his glasses dotted with the fallen tears they've caught. Red cheeks and a shivering bottom lip. The vial slips from his grasp, shattering the moment it touches the tile floor. 

"I don't know," tears spill over his cheeks. One manages to stain his shirt when he stands, seeping into the white material and darkening it. 

His hand is unusually cold when it takes hold of yours, gently squeezing as he kneels down next to you. The other flattens against the glass. Rhett presses his hand against the other side. The closest they can get.

"What's the difference?" Bob's mind never seems to stop, delicately swiping his thumb over your skin, looking for an answer that you can't give. When he finds nothing, he turns your arm, watching the way it twists and flexes. "Every condition is identical except for...what?" 

Almost as quickly as he came to you, he retreats back to his notes. Old vaccine tests. Failed trials, documents of how the virus behaves, the many comparisons of your now warped DNA against his and Rhett's. The answer is there. Somewhere. Buried in the mystery of science and biology itself. 

What's so different about you? 

A shiver races up your spine. 

"My jacket's over there on the couch," Rhett's weak voice barely gets through the barrier, "can't guarantee it don't smell, though."

Your vision still swims when you stand, but you've walked this route so many times that you don't really need to see where you're going. One foot falls after the other, your eyes already trained on the old jean jacket that lies discarded on the floor, right next to a half-full glass of water. 

You remember this one. A prize from Amelia County Rodeo for a special event they held in the dead of a Wyoming winter; even the bulls didn't want to buck through that one. The left arm of it is still slightly ripped from that bar fight with Trevor Tillerson, the asshole who thought it was cute to fight with rings on and managed to send both of your boyfriends back to you with split lips.

But it's so warm. Easy to sling over your shoulders, making no real attempt to put your arms through it as you return to your spot on the floor. 

"If there really is a god, I'll try 'n ask 'em why he made you so damn cold for," Rhett's half-assed laugh dissolves into a wheeze, his unfocused eyes staring aimlessly in your general direction. 

"Be sure to haunt me after and tell me how to fix it," tucking your feet up underneath yourself, your toes so cold that they almost burn your slightly warmer thighs. "Scratch that, cuss him out for cursing me with a lifetime of always being on the verge of freezing."

In the corner of your eye, Bob lifts his head. 

"I never minded it," Rhett hums. 

You've got half the mind to walk in there and bite him yourself. "Of course, you didn't," eye roll. "You've always thought it was cute. I think it's a pain in the ass."

"'Cause y' always used me as a blanket," the corner of his lip turns upward with a grin that he shouldn't have the strength to produce. "'n then you'd go reachin' for Bobby because your back was still cold." 

"Temperature." 

You blink. "Huh?" 

Rhett echoes the same sentiment. 

An answer doesn't come to you right away; Bob shuffles through papers until he finds something with a remarkably well-drawn picture of you on it. His eyes sparkle at whatever he finds scribbled on it. The very answers to the universe might be on there. 

"Your body temperature." He repeats, slightly more specific. "It's always been significantly lower than the average, even before the outbreak. That's the variable." 

Words jumble in your throat, so thick that you may choke. That doesn't make any sense at all. The only notable difference between your infections is...body temperature? Not genetics, or a gene previously thought to be useless up until the outbreak began. It's not up to a perfect concoction of chemicals, but...the lack of heat produced by your body? 

"So your solution is what, freeze my ass?" It's hard to tell if Rhett's amused or genuinely out of it. You can't decide which option you would rather it be. 

The humor of Rhett's comment doesn't quite reach Bob like he likely intended it to because Bob just nods, his expression remaining serious. "Precisely."

Maybe you've all gone mad from the virus and are sharing a hallucination right now. 

But what other option do you have?

The excessive amount of ice stashed away in the old walk-in freezer sufficed for the three rounds of makeshift ice baths it took to get Rhett's temperature down to a point where he was bordering on hypothermia. Whether or not it worked, you're...not sure. 

He's breathing. His temperature is stable. His veins have returned to their normal state, and the last time Bob took his blood, he said it was all looking normal. The closest he's gotten to violence was when his nails bit into your wrist after falling into the bath for the first time, but you've got a feeling you would have done the same thing if you were plunged into your own personal, frozen hell. 

There isn't the slightest sign of an infection lingering, but... 

He hasn't moved. 

Frankly, you haven't either. 

Poised in the corner of the room, led here by the jumbled mess of brain signals that you're supposed to call instincts. Sitting in the empty wall cut out that once held a television shouldn't count as high ground, but it was enough to silence the nagging voice in your head. 

Bobby tried to stay up with you; he really did, but it was only a matter of hours before he succumbed to the comfort of his spot on the couch. It wasn't as if he would be able to see anything once the candle burned out; your eyes handle the darkness significantly better than his human ones do, strange as that is to say. 

The air shifts. Rhett's eyes open. 

If you could growl, you would. 

You don't know what's gotten into you. Nerves standing on end, leaning into an unusual aggression that you're not sure what to make of quite yet. Something is setting you off, but you haven't the slightest clue of what. 

Slow, Rhett lifts his hand, holding it a few inches above his face as he moves his fingers back and forth as if to test if he's really alive or not. There's nothing off about his movement, even when he begins to sit up. Entirely normal. Identical to every other time you've seen him do this. 

See! Your reaction here is entirely unwarranted! There's no reason for you to be so damn—

"What are y' doin' up there?" Rhett's voice breaks the silence, the familiar gravel of his tone grinding away your thoughts until there's nothing left. 

Your face falls. "You can see me?"

"Clear as day?" His head tilts to the side, and for a second, his messy hair almost looks like puppy ears. "Why'm I not supposed to?"

A soft puff of air to your left temporarily draws your attention. Bob, rolling over onto his side, glasses askew on his pale face, doomed to fall and hit the floor like they do every other time he stubbornly tries to stay awake all night. They're already beginning to slide, but he's put himself into the spot you used to climb up here, trapping you up on your perch. 

"You...never saw me any other time I've hidden here in the dark," like the time a sudden thunderstorm set your senses off, and this was the space that irritated you the least. Rhett walked past you twice before you spoke up and gave yourself away.

...but now, he's looking directly at you. Your eyes so deeply locked that there isn't even the slightest chance that this is a coincidence. 

Rhett is almost too nonchalant about getting up and onto his feet, his body swaying as he re-adjusts. It's inhuman, but there's something familiar about the way one of his knees hyperextends, muscles visibly twitching as they try to correct the error. Almost as if they've forgotten the detailed rulebook that once kept them in order.

Whether or not he notices the irregularity, you're not sure, but he's already walking over to the couch, his bare feet thumping lazily against the tile. In the back of your head, you can hear Cecelia chiding him for stomping his feet and creating a ruckus, but there's no one around to tell him off for it. Bob might, if he were awake, but he's so gone that he doesn't so much as twitch when Rhett plucks the glasses off of his face.

As Rhett turns to place them on the table, you flash your teeth. 

His back twitches. Pearly whites baring themselves at you like an untrained dog who hasn't learned to control its instincts. Not at all intimidating. Albeit a bit surprising to witness. 

Before you can begin to react, his hand clamps over his mouth. "What the hell?" His voice is muffled beyond distortion, but it's hard to misunderstand that familiar rumble.

The drop to the floor is far enough for the impact of your landing to rattle the meaningless picture frames that hang on the wall. Louder than you anticipated, but Bob doesn't so much as stir, entirely unaware of you slinking past him, circling Rhett like a weary animal.

Your name falls off Rhett's tongue in the form of a question, as if he's the one afraid here. As if he's not the one who miraculously stood and walked away from death's door before it could open. As if...

You blow a puff of air at his back. 

He shivers. Could be a coincidence. Maybe he's just sensitive.

Your hand darts up to the back of his neck, pinching the loose skin there. Rhett's head whips around. Teeth grazing against the side of your retreating forearm. 

"The hell was that for?" His growl matches what you were anticipating, starting to spin with you. Doesn't seem to enjoy the sensation of you standing behind him, blindly giving to the instincts that scream at him to protect where he's most vulnerable. Again, the sound of your name crosses through the air. 

But he's not accustomed to the changes his body has gone through. You quicken your pace. He struggles to keep up. Spinning around faster and faster. One of his feet clumsily collides with the other, opening up the perfect opportunity for you to surge up behind him once more. Your teeth nip his shoulder. Not hard enough to leave a scratch, merely a giving pressure, some kind of animalistic correction that makes him gasp. 

A freight train barrels into your chest. The hardwood rises up to hit you with all of the force it can muster. 

"Your parents should have put you in football," groaning, with what little air is left in your lungs. Spots dance in your vision, the heavy weight of Rhett's body pinning you to the floor like a goddamn anchor.

Long brunette curls brush your cheeks as Rhett peels himself up enough to hover over you, his lips twisted up in a dumb grin that sparkles as much as his eyes. "The hell 're y' doin'?" Giggling. As if he didn't just whip around and pin you without much of an effort.  

"Testing a theory," and you're going to be testing more than one if the nagging sensation to flip your positions doesn't die down. Voiceless words chant in the back of your head, a broken record stuck on an eternal loop until you either die or give in to its demands. 

"I think the mad scientist is rubbin' off on—"

Rhett's teeth flash milliseconds after yours do. Automatic. No control over what he's doing until it's too late. A beat passes, and the uncertainty in his eye solidifies into understanding. 

"Oh." Blinking, dumbly. 

"Yeah." Good talk.

It's a little bit too quiet in this room now. Just you and your cowboy, staring blankly at one another, the silence broken apart by the faint purr of Bob's snores. You don't know how he hasn't woken up from all of the noise you've been making. The fall to the floor should have been more than enough to disturb him. 

And yet, he snores on. 

The voices in your head seem to be winning. You don't recall lifting your head, but you're acutely aware of the fact that you're getting closer to Rhett all of a sudden, tentatively grazing your lips against the side of his neck. 

A noise jumps out of him as if he didn't realize you were moving, either. There's no attempt to stop you, though, remaining still as your canines brush against his skin. You're moving on auto-pilot, guided by an instinct that seems to be making things up as it goes. You need to do this, but even your own fried DNA doesn't know why.

Rhett dips his head, his scruffy cheek brushing against yours as he dips down and mirrors your actions, his warm mouth greeting your sensitive neck. Air hitches in your throat. 

Why is it that you're taking this as a challenge?

And why are you already rising to it? Nipping at the hinge of Rhett's jaw, the dark hair there long enough to have grown soft, probably hasn't been shaved since he got bit five days ago. Or maybe it's been six, you're not sure. It's not as if you've got a calendar to go by or a phone to check. 

Noses bump. Unfocused eyes meet. He sees straight through you. The differences that have grown since the day you recovered from your bite are no longer there. You're no longer a mystery to him but instead a familiar companion in uncharted territory. 

"Rhett," you breathe, the closest thing you can get to a warning. You know where this might be headed. 

"Uhuh," he's on the same page as you.

Lips crash so shoddily that you nearly miss. Colliding with the corner of his mouth. Nose smashing against his cheekbone. His forehead thunks against yours, teeth scrape together with a jarring sensation that almost makes you nauseous; the grounding weight of his body on top of yours is the only thing that keeps you from shuddering out of your own skin.

The warmth of his mouth might be the first thing you've felt since all of this began. It must be the first thing he's felt, too, because it feels as if he's going to eat you alive. A frenzy that only a near-death experience can warrant, indulging in everything you can because there might not be a next time. 

Your hopeless entanglement is interrupted by the swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip. Pressing forward when you grant him access. Retreating when you reveal your ulterior motives and nip at him. The warmth of his hand on the side of your face had ought to melt you, lulled into a puddle that Bobby and all of his magic gadgets will never be able to reconstruct. 

It's one of those dreams where you're thrust into the backseat of your own body, helpless but to hang on for the ride as your body moves on its own. Your impatient hands are in his hair. No, one is in his hair, and the other is clinging to his shoulder, using it for leverage to draw yourself up. Chasing him before he can retreat too far. 

"You're not winning this," your declaration rides in on the coattails of a gasp. 

"And you are?" Cocky. 

Shoving him used to do something, but Rhett hardly moves this time, it's as if you didn't even do anything. Reeling back, your hands slam against his shoulders again. Harder. And this time, it pushes him far enough back for you to nearly sit up straight. 

The room spins. Your palms flatten against the cold floor. 

The tile kisses the tip of your nose, blood rushing to your face so quickly that you can hear it in your ears. The body hovering above yours is nothing but a well-built cage, thick arms barricading you in, a thigh slotting between yours. Teeth press into the juncture of your shoulder and arm. 

A growl rumbles out of your lower chest. 

...that's new.

Worse. Rhett grumbles right back at you. A huskier, choppier version of the noise you just made, so new to this changed body that some of the gears still need oiling and fine-tuning. Even so, the sound hooks around a trigger you never realized you had; you're growling at him again. Louder this time. Lips curl, no care for whether he can see it or not. 

"I don't know what 'm doin'," Rhett's breath fans out against the back of your neck, sounds as if he's just come up for air for the first time in hours. The tip of his nose brushes against the shell of your ear, tracing along the outline of it until he finds where it joins with the rest of your face.

It tickles. 

And before you can realize what you're doing, your weight shifts onto your knees, rocking your hips against his as you try to squirm away from the sensation. Right into...

"Rhett—"

"You started it," scruffy facial hair greets your sensitive cheek, a subtle distraction from the thick arm that coils around your chest, securing you to him like an anchor. There's a force behind it that you don't recall being there in the past, muscles surpassing the limits his subconscious brain once set upon them. 

But Rhett hasn't had time to adjust to this new strength of his. 

You have.

Digging your palms into the floor, you rock yourself backward, delighted to catch the gasp that leaves him when your ass presses into him. Two can play at this game. Your hips will forever be his undoing, swiveling in loose circles, vaguely able to feel the way his cock twitches to life in his pants. Sensitive. Hasn't been touched in over a week. 

Now that you think about it, you don't think he's gone this long without sex since the world fell apart. Even then, you're pretty sure he and Bobby were up to something the day the power grids collapsed...

"Shit," Rhett'shissing, already beginning to press back into you, meeting your devilish hips halfway. 

Chapped lips travel across the side of your neck, working their way to your nape. They pause somewhere just below your ear, sucking harshly on a patch of skin, punctuated by a loud wet pop when he departs, relocating mere centimeters away. Familiar heat blooms low in your belly, thighs hopelessly squeezing together. 

Did you mean for your ass to spontaneously jerk back into Rhett's groin? No.

Would you do it again simply to hear him moan out loud like that? Absolutely. 

Your eyes dart to the couch, already expecting to find Bob staring back at you with those sparkling, wide eyes of his. There's no way he's slept through all of this commotion, but...he's sound asleep. At some point and time, he's even rolled over onto his side, unwittingly facing the show that's going down just a few feet away from him. If you focus hard enough, you can faintly hear his light snores, purring like a kitten. 

"Do y' think he's gonna wake up?" Rhett's voice vibrates down your spine, drawing a shiver out of you.

"If we make enough noise," tilting your head to peer over your shoulder at him. You can hardly see him, neck strained to its limit, but even so, you can vaguely see his flushed face, the fluffy mess of his hair making him look something akin to a puppy. 

Your intent isn't to display your teeth at him; you're more or less just opening your mouth simply for the sake of doing so, but the message he receives is all the same. Entirely out of control, his nose wrinkling with the effort of pulling his upper lip up, white teeth like neon in the darkness. 

"Not so fun when you can't resist reacting to it, huh?" Grinning like a devil, there are so many things he doesn't know about yet. 

He huffs, and that seems to be the end of the conversation because he's leaning in and closing the gap between your mouths before the silence can encourage you to speak again. 

To call it a kiss would be an insult to every eloquent sentence to ever use the word, far from the delicate, dreamy melding of bodies that you've grown to associate with the term. It's nothing but a sloppy, sideways collision of mouths, galaxies merging into a cosmic explosion, teeth clacking, neck burning under the effort of keeping yourself twisted around like this. 

Rhett's trying his best to scoot closer, thigh slipping between yours as he molds his body around yours, his broad chest like a shield from the outside world. It's a valiant attempt, but the kiss breaks regardless; you physically can't keep your neck like that anymore, little spots decorating your vision as you drop your head down to the floor. With it, your body shifts, unwittingly pushing yourself against his thigh.

"You're killin' me," bursting out of him like a guilty confession, and you're vaguely aware of how his face rests against your neck. 

Air catches in your throat, stealing away the strength in your tone, but your strangled sentence still escapes. "Do something about it." 

That's enough for him. 

A hand flattens against your upper-belly, pushing until you get the message, leaning into his chest as you draw yourself up onto your knees. Another impatient hand lifts the bottom corner of your shirt, sloppily drawing it up and over your head before you can give it too much thought. 

"Huh," he breathes, suddenly still behind you.

"What?" 

"Didn't expect y' to have nothin' on under there," as quickly as it's said, he's on you again. Big, warm hands wasting no time as they curl around your breasts, his calloused fingertip rough as it twirls around your nipple, deliciously so. 

You swear that you're not usually this sensitive. Light touches like these shouldn't have you squeezing your eyes shut, but Rhett's soft mouth is pressing sloppy kisses down your spine, his tongue intermittently darting out to trace a trail in his wake, and you're already squeezing your thighs together again. 

His hands only leave you for a moment, but it's a moment too long, leaving your chest remarkably chilly while he tugs at the hem of your shorts. The soft material glides down your thighs, momentarily catching on your knees as you clumsily lift them one at a time, and then they're gone. 

He took your underwear with them, too, the sly bastard. 

It only takes him a handful of seconds to worm his way out of his clothes, half-assedly dropping his shirt on top of you as if he doesn't have room to place it anywhere else. A pair of sweatpants drape over Bobby's sleeping frame, and for such a light sleeper, the man still isn't waking up.

"Menace," you mutter, as if you're not gathering up his shirt and wedging it under your arms, a welcome barrier between sensitive joints and hard, unforgiving floor. 

"I can be worse," the tip of his nose traces up your naked back. Another ticklish thing that has you kicking your feet, trying to squirm away from it. 

There's only so far that you can wriggle before the familiar warmth of his body curls around you once more. Even so, the sensation of his cock sliding between your thighs is enough to melt every thought fluttering through your busy mind, subduing into something quiet. Nothing but the creak of floor tile, Rhett's breath, and Bob's distant snores to remind you that time continues to pass by.

You've danced this tune so many times that Rhett doesn't need any help, slipping between your folds with the slightest tilt of his pelvis. That talented part of his body that was once known for bull riding, all the awards he brought back to his beloved hometown, now adapted to something a bit more lewd. 

He could win a trophy for this, but it wouldn't be one he'd be able to show off to his family.

"Eager." His teasing observation is the only reason why you realize what you're doing. Rhythmically working yourself back and forth, so focused on the sensation of his cock gliding past your clit that you've effectively forgotten Rhett was even there in the first place, watching, feeling exactly what you're up to.

"Shut up," fire rises in your cheeks. It doesn't matter if he's a mile away or nose to nose with you, he's already caught the hint of embarrassment lurking within the crevices of your tone, jumping onto it like a bandwagon. Distant, a cap pops open, and he disappears from between your legs. 

You can hear his smile before he even opens his smug mouth. "Make me."

This isn't going to work anymore. Your head whips around. Borderline vicious. Swinging over to bite his arm. Slamming your back against his chest. Already prepared to flip your positions around and taunt him for a damn change.

Teeth pinch the scruff of your neck. Your body goes limp. 

What the hell? 

Even your jaw has gone slack. Not an ounce of tension or strength left in your body, awkwardly collapsing face-first into the floor like a ragdoll. Talking? You don't know if you remember how to move your mouth, never mind lift your tongue. Powerless to do nothing but hope that gravity doesn't make you fall any further forward as familiar pressure blooms between your legs.

...

Is this demeaning, or are you into this?

You're certainly making no effort to try and get out of this situation, a little distracted by the dull ache of his cock head slipping into you. Even when it's already spread over his length, the lube is still a bit chilly, such a sharp contrast to the warmth of your body, but nothing is quite as overwhelming as what's going on with the teeth in the back of your neck.

Rhett's bite eases, still there but not as harsh as it was when his teeth first sank in. Whether or not he's done this out of instinct or purely to bug you, you're not sure but it's doing...it's doing something to you. A wave of heat rushes down your belly as he inches inside, pussy helplessly clenching around him. 

Like clockwork, breathing melds into something of a chore. Consciously monitoring your shaky intakes of air, anything to steady yourself as he sinks deeper into you. It's a wonder how that stupid fat cock of his hasn't ruined you a long time ago. 

How is it that you're still having to bear down and force yourself to relax around him? Head spinning as the space in your lungs seems to decrease by the millisecond. Taking him inch by inch, sweat beading at your forehead, quietly wondering if you'll be waddling come morning. 

"Good lord." 

...that didn't come from you. 

And it certainly wasn't Rhett.

Unfocused blue eyes stare back at you from the couch, half-lidded yet already drinking up the sight that's laid out before him. The commotion of you trying to flip Rhett over must have been what finally woke him. 

You don't know Rhett has let go of your neck until your mouth finally opens, but nothing comes out. Shocked back into silence as he bottoms out, pushing against you hard enough to rock your bodies, like he's trying to make sure you've taken every inch of him. No regard for how thick and overwhelming his cock already is. 

"How did I die?" There's a depth to Bob's tone that isn't usually there, gravely with sleep, almost entirely washes out the genuine surprise in his tone. Then, his gaze focuses on you. "How did you die?"

Your giggle is so much louder than you anticipated it would be. Whether or not Bob is being serious or simply joking, you actually don't know, but that only adds to the humor you're finding in this awkward situation. 

"Your idea worked," is all that you can come up with, idly beginning to move on your own accord. Minuscule little back-and-forth motions to distract from the overwhelming stretch that is Rhett Abbott.

Bob blinks. "Is the sex a symptom of the cure, or is this some grand scheme to wake me up faster?"

"Is it workin'?" Rhett, with that stupid grin again. 

Your body jerks forward. 

Or, rather, Rhett slams his hips into yours and practically shoves you forward as if to get back at you for moving on your own accord. Aggravating black dots twinkle in the edges of your vision, a gasp masking whatever it is Bob replies with. Whatever. You've got a pretty good idea of what he said.

Strength returns to you in an instant, arms suddenly fully functioning appendages that push you back up in an instant, the floor cool against your clammy palms. Rhett's firm hands hook around your hips, forcing you to remain still—

"Shit," your elbows threaten to give, lights sparkling behind your eyelids. 

"There it is," Rhett's muttering, and just like that, he's doing it again. The fat head of his coc,k kissing oversensitive nerves, sends you fluttering around him, clenching and unclenching so tightly that you catch the way his eager pace stutters. 

Tiles creak as Bob eases himself onto the floor. He's already close enough to curl a careful hand around your cheek, the other smoothing down your shivering spine, fingertips tracing until he finds the swell of your ass. His touch disappears, chased by a soft clack of teeth, and you can only assume Rhett's trying to nip at him like a teething puppy. 

Rhett freezes in place.

...and Bob's chuckling.

You've got to pull him out of you and roll onto your back to even get the slightest idea of what's going on. Even with a crystal clear view, it takes a moment to put the pieces together. Bob's hand is somewhere behind Rhett's neck. Rhett's suddenly drooping jaw. The blankness in his eyes; the lights are on, but nobody is home. 

As simply as he pinched it, Bob releases the scruff of Rhett's neck. It's all you can do to stretch your arms out and stop all hundred seventy pounds of him from falling on top of you. His big, lax body sprawled out over yours, just barely managing to keep his head up. Those sweet blue eyes are open, but you're unfamiliar with their expression.

"How did you know that was gonna work on him?" You chirp, genuinely curious. Rhett seems to have the same question, his brow wrinkling as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees. You've got to look at the ceiling to avoid staring at his cock, hanging heavy and wet between plush thighs.  

"Wrinkling his nose and trying to bite me was a pretty good giveaway," but there's no resentment in his tone over it, instead fighting to contain his amusement as he places his hand in front of Rhett's mouth. Within an instant, Rhett's nipping at Bob's fingers, unable to resist temptation. "I don't remember you being this mouthy when you first recovered." 

"I think you're confusing Rhett's personality trait for a symptom," in fact, you could have predicted this even before the infection. 

Rhett doesn't have much to say on the matter, pacified by the world wonder that is Robert Floyd's right hand. In fact, he's so distracted that he doesn't realize what you're doing until your fist wraps around his cock. Still, he receives your message loud and clear, letting your legs curl around his waist and urge him closer until he brushes against your entrance once more.

You don't realize how empty you feel until you're being filled again, the heel of your foot pressing into the fat of his ass, giving him no option but to keep going until he bottoms out. And this time, he's docile, isn't overcome with the urge to bite you, even lets Bob withdraw his hand without too much of a fuss.

"I can't say this is what I'd expected us to be doing if you recovered," Bobby muses, leaning back onto his haunches as if to take it all in, regardless of his poor vision. "And here I thought you'd wait for me."

"Shoulda woke up then," Rhett's hardly pulled away before he snaps back into you. If it weren't for the sparkles dotting your vision, you'd kick him. 

"That's fine, that's fine," Something glints in Bob's eye. Then, muttering under his breath, "I can entertain myself." 

You can't see what he's up to. Frankly, you're not paying that much attention, distracted by the drag of Rhett's cock, falling into a lazy cadence that does nothing but target all of those little nerves. He doesn't seem to have the energy for anything more, and it's the only reason why your legs are still able to remain locked around his waist. 

A cap snaps. Something brushes into your foot, but it's there and gone so quickly that it doesn't cross your mind. Can't. Rhett's mouth is finding your neck and your hands are in his hair, and your body is rocking with every heavy thrust, a little bolt of heat racing up your belly.

"Ah—!"

You can feel the shiver race up Rhett's spine. Stuttering to a halt, his face smooshed into your collar. 

The view is half obscured by unruly brown curls that are now in your face and the literal hill that is Rhett Abbott's ass, but you've got a pretty good idea of what Bob's hand is doing between Rhett's legs. Muscles visibly tense and flex in his freckled forearm, working a finger or two back and forth in seamless tandem with the gasps that now pepper your skin.

"You don't waste any time," your own giggle is what shuts you up, unintentionally spasming around Rhett's cock. Lord, all of this stopping and starting is going to unwind you in the worst ways possible. 

Bob shakes his head as if he'd already known you were going to say that. "Neither do you." 

On their own, your fingers impatiently wiggle and tap against the floor. How one of your hands managed to get there, you're not sure, but it's not there for long, already being scooped up by Bob's bigger one, carefully peppering each digit with a chaste kiss. Compared to the faint, lewd squelch of his lubed fingers pumping into Rhett, it's almost too innocent of an act. 

"You're gonna...fuckin'..." Rhett's trying to talk, but his efforts are fruitless. Nothing strings into a comprehensible sentence, reduced to senseless babblings that gradually reduces into a resounding grumble.

"Hm?" Bobby. Taunting. 

The not-so-subtle wriggle of Rhett's hips is giving you a pretty good idea of how quickly Bob's opening him up. Jerking forward, only to try and push himself back a half-second later. Shallow motions that are just enough to shut you up. Can't quite focus on talking anymore, too preoccupied with focusing on the barely there sensation of his cock rubbing against those sweet little spots. 

A deep, grumbly whine greets your ear. 

Rhett's still again.

"That was awful fast," you muse, swallowing a giggle that would undoubtedly result in you getting bit by a moody cowboy. 

The lack of lighting does nothing to conceal the furrow of Bob's brow, a similar thought visibly crossing his mind. "...yeah, I think it—"

Rhett's foot kicks out. Hits Bobby somewhere in the upper thigh. Protest in its purest form, outside opinion be damned. And it's enough of an argument to shut you and Bob up, reduced to quiet smiles that Rhett can't see, whilst Bob fumbles around for the bottle of lube that has rolled away from the crime scene.

As if he didn't just violently object to any further prep, Rhett's trying to jump away from Bob pushing into him, jostling you up the floor. The only thing that stops you from sliding more than an inch is Rhett himself, face tucked into the side of your neck, grumbling something incoherent, a jumble of sounds that might not be words at all. 

"Easy, easy," Bobby's palm flattens against the base of Rhett's spine; it's times like these when you truly realize how big his hands are and how dainty Rhett's waist can be. It hardly looks real.

Sandwiched between you and Bob, there's nowhere Rhett can squirm off to, and you've been blessed with what might be the greatest view known to man. The lewd sight of Bob's thick cock sinking into him inch by inch, such an entrancing thing that you're holding your breath. Compared to this, oxygen is second rate.

But then Bob is bottoming out, and not one but three winded gasps shatter the silence. 

"Christ above," Bob's voice is so deep that you hardly recognize him. The only reason you know it's him is because of how far away he is compared to Rhett.

For once in his life, Rhett Abbott doesn't fire off any cute remarks. 

...however, silence doesn't mean submission. He's up to something. Bracing his hands on either side of your head and pushing himself upward, hair falling into his face, brows knit together with a determination that only comes about when he's planning something. 

Those pretty hips of his rock back and forth. Testing. Hell, it hardly even counts as movement, but now you're suddenly aware of how he's still deep inside of you, and you're just sensitive enough to get some kind of minuscule pleasure out of it. 

"Shit..." Rhett's head tilts back, eyes closed, adam's apple bobbing. Religions have been founded over views like these. There's no slowing down now, gradually moving more and more, sinking onto Bobby's cock, only to thrust up into you in jerky little motions. 

You don't know what you did to wind up on the receiving end of this, but you'd love to find out and do it again. 

"Just can't wait a damn second, can you?" Bob snaps forward. Simultaneously pushes Rhett back into you. Both of you are gasping. 

Rhett's head drops, mouth falling open in a pretty little 'o' shape, eyes flickering open only to snap shut once more, and you can feel his cock twitching in you. What little strength he had dissolves with that second thrust, collapsing back into your arms before he's even had time to fight the feeling. 

Bob's hands appear on your hips, fingertips digging into the flesh there as he uses you for leverage, pushing Rhett into you once more. Your vision blurs, a wet little squelching noise punctures every sharp thrust, your poor pussy fluttering around Rhett's length like you're being fucking paid to do it. 

You can't help yourself, sliding a hand down your belly and between your legs, well-practiced digits finding your clit that hasn't had any attention since this all started. And Rhett's cock head is rubbing against those special spots hidden along your walls, he's whining to high heaven, and your toes curl just from the fucking sound of him.  

"Rob—fuck!" Rhett's tone is rising in pitch, loud enough to cover up the senseless babble that falls out of your mouth. 

Bob laughs. The fucking devil. "Yeah? Tell me how that feels." He makes eye contact with you from over Rhett's shoulder and, and... 

Your back arches up off the floor. The angle shifts. Stars decorate your vision. There. There, there, there, there. Your free hand clamps around Rhett's bicep, clinging to him, need something to hold onto before you evaporate into thin air, and he's not doing much better, burying his face in the side of your neck, panting hard into your ear. 

"C'mon, one of ya's gotta talk eventually." Robert Floyd, menace of the fucking century. 

"You're insufferable," that's all he's getting out of you. It's all you can give him. 

Familiar heat settles into your lower belly, rushing down your inner thighs and up into your face with the ferocity of a wildfire. Smoke swirls around your head until your mind is so clouded that you can hardly focus on what is from Rhett and what's from Bob. All that you know for sure is that you're clamping down around Rhett's cock, he's groaning in your ear, and maybe some of those obscene noises are coming from you rather than him.

"Fuck, that's—" A shiver visibly ripples up Rhett's back. "Oh my god." 

There's just enough strength left in his body for him to push himself up, tongue lolling out of that pretty mouth like a dog burning up in the summer sunshine. His nose crashes into yours, mouths colliding in a sloppy kiss that hardly lasts a few milliseconds before its being broken apart, panting into each other's mouths instead. 

His body jerks between your legs, no coherent rhythm or pace to be found in the way he fucks into you. Jerky, uncontrolled motions that do nothing but push you further up the floor. Outright shoving a strangled noise out of your throat, eyes snapping shut as if to try and escape the echo it creates.

Rhett's glassy eyes meet yours. 

And it's all you need. 

Your back can't possibly arch any further, but the muscle there stubbornly tries to force it regardless. Chest pressing into Rhett's, nails biting into his bicep as you cum without so much as a warning, spasming around his still moving cock, working you through it in such a way that you almost worry it will never end. 

Almost.

Rhett's whimper is what pulls your head out of the clouds, your eyes hardly able to open, and glance between your shivering thighs just in time to watch his hips stall. Oh. Oh, you're so sensitive that you can feel the way he twitches inside of you, hot cum spilling into your poor cunt. It's such a barely there sensation, and yet it's got you jumping like a hot wire, some of it already beginning to spill out. 

Robert's warm hand greets your cheek. How long he's been still and how long he's been quietly drinking in the sight of you, you're not sure, but he smiles the moment you meet his eye. This time, there's not a lick of tension present to warp it.

The moment is there and gone in an instant. As quick as it started, Bob reaches for the curves of Rhett's hips, pulling hard enough to force the cowboy onto his knees, his spent cock slipping out of you with a sickening wet noise. 

"'m not done with you yet, sweetheart," Bob utters it like a warning. The calm before a storm that you're glad you're not a part of. 

Rhett tilts his head up to look at you, cheek smooshed against your belly as if he thinks you have the answer to what's going on here. Even if you did know, there's not enough time for you to share it. 

A sharp 'crack' of skin on skin splinters through the room. Rhett's poor body lurches forward, and he must clench pretty hard around Bob's cock because it's been a while since you've seen that man's eyes roll like that. And he does it again, pushing into Rhett so hard that he's got no choice but to fall forward with it.

You might be the dead one here. This might be heaven.  

This view is entrancing. Rhett's pale spine, the muscles that flex and shiver as Bob sets his pace. The only thing keeping Rhett somewhat upright are the hands that have cemented themselves to his hip bones, Bob's knuckles white from the effort of keeping him in place, dragging him to meet every thrust. 

"There," his body jerks as if struck by lightning. A spark of electricity lights up in his eyes as they roll back into his head. "Oh my god, right there."

Bob glances at you, a brief flicker of pride crossing his face, before his attention returns to Rhett's ass. The sight that finds him is enough to make his jaw twitch, eagerly fixating on the lewd sight of his thick cock disappearing into Rhett's ass, splitting him wide. Always so damn obsessed with watching how easily he ruins whoever he's fucking. 

Somewhere around here is a little pink photo album stocked full of blurry Polaroids of this exact thing. Cleverly sorted by date and the order they were taken, photo evidence of the way he's absolutely ruined his two favorite victims. Your favorite one used to be the night he accidentally consumed an aphrodisiac and fucked you and Rhett silly, but this right now is a good contender for first place.

"Please don't stop. Don't stop, don't stop, Robby—" Rhett babbles, and from this angle, you can almost see the oversensitivity in his eyes. Gradually losing their focus until he gives up on trying to look at you and buries his face into your stomach entirely. 

He's squirming, those plush thighs wriggling as if to try and pull himself off of Bob's dick, but it's hopeless. Bob's hand finds the back of his neck, pinning him further, and nothing short of his safe word is going to get him out of it. 

"No, no, no, you're not gettin' away from me that easy," the devilish grin on Bobby's face warps his speech, fully enjoying this power he's found himself holding. "Needy lil fuckin' thing." 

Hearing him swear might add a few years to your lifespan.

The bitemark on Rhett's shoulder is nothing but a pink scar now. A remnant of the thing that almost took him away from you. He shouldn't be here. There's no reason why some ice and a dream should have been enough to drag him off of death's door, but here he is. Alive. Whining high in his throat like a bitch in heat, clinging to you, wiggling like a little worm, his cute little ass struggling to take Bob's cock. 

You don't need to ask to know that Bobby's found his prostate because Rhett's feet are starting to kick against the floor, a cute little reaction that he can't prevent from happening, even when he isn't overstimulated. 

"Does that feel good?" Pushing your hand through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. His back shivers. The closest thing you're getting to a response. "Talk to us, baby."

The curls on the back of his neck bounce with his nod. There might be a small 'uhuh' veiled in there, you're not entirely sure, but he finds it in himself to try looking at you again. Glassy blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and a bitten bottom lip. He's warm under your touch, sweaty even, and fuck you can't believe he's still alive. 

Robby's breath is growing shaky, the red flush in his cheeks is dark enough to rival Rhett's. His head rolls, falling back to look at the ceiling, only to snap back and squint against the darkness to see Rhett again. 

"You're gonna have to talk better than that," he rasps, all authority lost in his tone. "Where do you want me to cum, cowboy?"

"In me!" Rhett blurts. "Inside, cum in me, please cum in—!" His mouth snaps shut as quickly as it opens, trying his best to stop from drooling, but it's a little bit late for that. He's already making a mess of your stomach. 

You don't know who's coming undone faster, him or Bob, but it doesn't seem to matter all that much. Bob's collapsing forward, wrapping an arm around Rhett's waist, kissing at the back of his neck, and Rhett's hardly even bothered by the teeth that pull at his skin. Warped instincts be damned, he doesn't have it in him to react. 

"Oh my—mmh." Bob stills with a resounding groan, pushing harder into Rhett despite having nothing else to give him. 

A muscle in his lower stomach visibly twitches in tandem with his orgasm, and Rhett's so content with the sensation of Bobby cumming in him that he falls entirely silent, mouth hanging open, not a sound leaving him. 

A moment passes. Bob drops his forehead against Rhett's heaving shoulders, almost struggling to keep it up as he peels himself back, gingerly pulling out of him. 

Silence shatters with a sob.

"No," blubbering, Rhett kicks his foot, trying to push himself up with his hands but getting nowhere, "no, no, no." 

Tears have secretly spilled over, rolling down his face and staining his cheeks. When they first escaped, you haven't the slightest clue, but you can't wipe them away quickly enough. As soon as your thumb swipes one off of his skin, another takes its place. It's a never-ending downpour, but you don't remember seeing a cloud in the sky. 

"What's the matter?" Your voice blends with Bob's, asking the same burning question at the same time. 

"I want, I'm—" A hiccup breaks the frenzy before it's even started. "You stopped." 

Robby already appears to have a vague idea of what's upset him because he's already reaching around. "We can still get you off, sweet thing," he whispers, freeing Rhett's weeping cock from where it's been trapped between his thighs. Already hard again, flushed such a deep red that even the darkness can't conceal. 

"No, no, I want...I want to..." Rhett's pushing back into nothing but air, his whine warbling into another sob. And he's trying to keep talking, you can see his mouth moving, but nothing else is coming out. There's something he's looking for, but he's not finding it. You're not sure what it could be. He seems fine until...

"I think he wants you back inside of him," as soon as you say it, your cowboy jerks his head. Frantic. Failing to fight off a hitching breath. 

It's enough. Bob's pulling himself up despite the visible waver of his exhausted frame, and you're replacing his hand on Rhett's cock with your own. Swiping your thumb across his drooling slit, his length still wet enough to calm your momentary worry about chafing him. 

"'s that better?" Bob's leaning down to whisper to him, his hips already flush with Rhett's ass again. There's not much he can do when he's soft like this, but he's trying, tenderly grinding into Rhett in slow, loose circles. 

Again, all you're getting is a wordless nod, but it's still enough. If it's what he wants, then that's what he'll get. Bob's mouth finds those pale shoulders, kissing over old rodeo scars. His big hands glide up and down those heaving sides, dragging across the indents of a rib cage that forever remains visible, regardless of how his weight may fluctuate.

It doesn't take much before those swollen eyes squeeze shut once more, his soft puffs of breath tickling your belly. One, two, three more strokes, and he cums with nothing but a faint whimper, two weak ropes of cum making a slight mess of your hand. You can see how his orgasm washes through him, the way he shudders from head to toe, a lone muscle twitching in his lower back. 

"Rhett?" Smoothing your clean hand through his hair, peeling away the strands that have glued themselves to his skin. 

He opens his mouth, hesitating. 

A hitching sob is all that you get. 

Those tears aren't stopping, but this time, he isn't telling you why. Trying to move only causes him to slide off of you entirely, collapsing to your right in a messy pile of limbs. Bobby is already there, curling his body around him, wiping at the tears on one side of his face while you fuss over the other. 

"I'm sor—I'm sorry," Rhett wails, squeezing his eyes shut, tears spilling out the corners of them. "I'm sorry."

'Baby..." whispering, you reach to cradle his face, feeling the weight of it in your hands, "you didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes I, I did," his voice jumps in pitch, only stopped by his own mouth clamping shut before an even louder cry can bubble out of him. "I couldn't—I couldn't control my-myself. I...you. I bit you!" 

Bob glances at you as if to check for something, then back down to Rhett. "You didn't even leave a mark." 

"But it...what if it..." Rhett cranes his neck, trying his best to look up at you. Those red, swollen eyes are looking for something. "I change too much, and...?" 

And you don't like me anymore?

He doesn't say it out loud, doesn't dare to get that bold, but he doesn't need to speak for you to hear him. Your vision blurs with the embers of a memory. An old bathroom mirror, cracked and spattered with blood, lit up by an old flashlight. Unmoving eyes glistening back at you, still stiff with the aftertaste of death. The what-ifs in your head so real that they nearly crawl out of the shards and sink their teeth into you.

"It's okay," Bob shushes, voice soft as can be. He pauses, but only long enough to plant a ginger kiss on Rhett's temple. "It's okay." 

He's the only one in the room who remembers how to talk, cooing soft nothings into Rhett's ear. Action makes up for your silence. Rhett nuzzles into your arms the moment that they open for him, wedging into the space beneath your chin, and it's only a few seconds before Bobby slides closer, effectively cocooning Rhett between your bodies. 

You've no idea how much time passes. 

There's an ache in the joints that rest directly against the floor tiles, and your arm, trapped under Rhett's weight, has long since fallen asleep, but you're having a hard time focusing on anything other than what resides in your arms. He doesn't seem to mind the kisses you've begun peppering his forehead with, blissfully in tune with the ones Robert presses into the back of his neck and what little bits of collarbone he can reach.

If it weren't for the eyelashes that occasionally open to tickle your skin, you'd almost believe that Rhett has fallen asleep entirely. 

Quiet as a mouse, Bob begins to slide away, mouthing something to you that you can only interpret as 'I'm going to clean up.' 

Rhett's arm darts out. Turning his head, grumbling incoherently.

"I'm just getting a wet cloth," Bob justifies with a half-hearted laugh. "There's cum drying to your thigh, baby." 

The growl he gets in return is anything but impressed. And to Rhett's credit, he's never been one to see a problem with being dirty. That's entirely the preference of your beloved squeaky-clean nerd. 

Bob rolls his eyes, but he slides back into his place without much else of a fuss. The battle was lost before it even started. Now he's lost the chance to sneak off when Rhett actually falls asleep because the cowboy has gotten ahold of his arm, hugging it to his chest like a newly won prize. Fighting back includes tapping Rhett on the nose and getting nipped at for it.

"What if this changes somethin'?" Rhett doesn't seem to realize that he's gone a little cross-eyed, trying to look at Bob's finger as it wiggles through the air, seeking out a nose to maliciously tap on. 

"Hm?" Your own hum cracks, like your voice wasn't ready to be used yet. 

"Gnashers don't get along as it is," he continues, lifting his head to look at you. "If I...what if we can't...?" 

Careful, your lips find his forehead once more. This you're confident to answer. "If we were anything like them, we would have ripped each other to shreds a long time ago." You tap him on the nose, stealing Bob's plan right out from under him. "But we're still in one piece, aren't we?"

"You two have blended into one giant person, from my viewpoint," Bob deadpans. 

For the first time since the infection set in, the silence erupts into three sets of giggles. 

The so-called gentle breeze bites at your exposed skin with a ferocity that ought to make you bleed, burning away at already chapped skin and slipping beneath your shirt. Your jaw clenches, trying your best to prevent your teeth from chattering, but that only does so much before something else begins to shake and tremble.

"Find any lemon yet?" Bobby calls out, idly rubbing his thumb and index fingers together, spreading a scented oil between them. 

"Quit distractin' me!" Rhett yells. Even with the blindfold concealing his eyes, you can feel the glare he momentarily directs your way.

Six colorful strips of fabric hang in front of him, each with its own unique scents that, previously, only you were able to pick up on. Faint little notes like cardboard, wildflowers, rubbing alcohol, and the orange-scented essential oil that Bob swore he'd finally managed to wash out. Some remain effectively scentless; little decoys set up just to throw him off the trail. 

"I'm cold," you can't help but grumble.

Bob's arm winds around you, tugging you into his side. "I know." 

So far, Rhett has been pretty good at this; he found the lone clover that you hid in the storage room and the peppermint candy in the makeshift freezer. He's even figured out how to use that cute nose of his to find you and Bob when you both walked away without him. But this time, the scent Bob has picked out this time has effectively stumped him. 

He's focusing so hard that he hardly notices you and Bobby approaching, too busy nuzzling his nose into the different fabrics, the gears turning in his pretty little head. It's not until you're standing right next to him that he even glances in your direction.

"What do you smell?" Careful, you place your hand in front of him, watching him lean in. 

Without a word, Bob does the same, the oil on his fingertips glistening. 

Rhett's freshly shaved face breaks into a grin, yanking the blindfold off of his face. "You liar!" All but giggling, only a hint of malice behind his shout. "Y' didn't put any lemon on these. It's all over your damn hand!"

Laughter rises out of you before you can stop it, and you're bending down to where he kneels on the ground, pinching the fat of his cheek between your fingers. Rhett wiggles, trying to shake you free, but doing so only replaces your hand with your mouth, peppering him with kisses that Bobby rushes to mirror on the other side. 

"You're so damn cute," you can't help it. It's the only thing you can think of.

Rhett whines, "stop sayin' that." But his own body betrays him, lips twisting up into such a large grin that his eyes wrinkle and curve with it. 

"Cute so you're damn," Bob's inability to contain his laughter nearly ruins the delivery of his joke entirely.

"That's even worse!" 

But the kisses just don't stop, even as Rhett tries to scoot away from it, hopelessly trapped between you and Bob, his cheeks growing redder and redder with every smooch. So warm and giddy and alive. 

In the corner of your eye, you watch a shiver rush down his spine. 

[justporo]

Headcanons about Astarion pulling his partner out of a bad mood

I'm not feeling super great today so this is another very self indulgent headcanon post which is possibly a little unhinged but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Astarion himself is no stranger to feeling whimsical or even throwing full blown temper tantrums; that's also why he knows how much of a drag it can be

So granted he isn't in a massively bad mood himself, he'll keep nudging you until you are out of your current bad mood

If you're both annoyed at each other though (like after an unnecessary fight) it might be that you're both sitting around brooding - that is until you can't take it anymore; Astarion might act like he's still pissed, but when you come closer (still with a pout even) and wrap your arms around him, he can't resist (even though he will make a show out of it): "Do you mind? I'm still brooding!", Astarion says but lifts up his arms crossed over his chest so you can hug him better. "Still love you though, you rat arse", you reply furrowing your brows dramatically, you don't even feel that angry anymore. "Love you too, you idiot", Astarion answers and presses a kiss to your cheek - with a teasing eyeroll and grimace. Not shortly after the mood's a lot better, the fight forgotten.

This man shows as much mercy with you when you're feeling down and grumpy as on the battlefield: none!

"I like you in bed, my love. No - in fact: I love you in bed. But not like this - get up, my sweet, you can dissolve into a puddle of misery later when I'm done with you."

He will absolutely fuss if you don't go along with what he's doing to lighten your mood; and he will keep doing it until you're either punching him or are rolling on the floor laughing

This might involve the following: "Do you know what you look like right now, my heart?", Astarion asks and then makes the most excessive grimace. You're still scowling at him. "Love" he sighs then "furrowing your brows at me will just give you wrinkles. We don't want that, do we?" And he pinches your cheek with his long fingers until you're getting up to beat his ass. "See, wasn't it easy getting out of bed after all?" "You'd also be astonished how easy it is to be put IN A COMA!" (But you have to agree with him)

He will also shower you with praise, no matter what about, until you believe him (at least for the moment)

Or he'll be so disarmingly cute until you can't help but fall into his open arms for a comforting hug

If really nothing helps, Astarion just stays with you

Maybe just talking to you so you have something to focus on, massaging your shoulders, your neck, your hands

Or just cuddling with you, holding you, until his presence alone eases the knot of negative feelings in your chest (and then maybe nibbling a bit on your ear when he feels that you're doing better)

He's also masterful in just helping you let out any anger you might feel ("That BITCH!" "Yes love, how could she!? Honestly you should've just stabbed her right then and there." "RIGHT!?")

Other ways of coping might involve a bottle of wine and him handing you some stuff you can smash angrily ("You really showed that mug, love, impressive... Remind me to net get on your bad side, darling.")

In short: Astarion is as good with putting you in a bad mood sometimes as getting you out of it

I just need Astarion to tell me "Keep going, you beautiful thing" every day for the rest of my life, is that too much to ask?? We love a supportive king.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @azukiel

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[reasonandfaithinharmony]

2024 Gif Round-Up

Thank you for tagging me @heartstringsduet @thisbuildinghasfeelings @paperstorm @alrightbuckaroo

@carlos-in-glasses @guardian-angle22 and @reyesstrand!!

I’m very late to this because the holidays didn’t leave me any time to myself. But @herefortarlos tells me there’s no deadline for these things. So here we go.😅

This year was the first time I watched 911 Lone Star live, and it was actually the first time I’d ever made gifs for *any show* as we got new episodes. It's been a lot of fun, even if it makes me even more aware of just how long it takes me to finish a set. 🙈

Here’s to everyone who puts lovely content on my dash, whether it’s your own work, reblogs, or funny/heartfelt commentary and tags. I would be so lost without all of it.

Please consider this an open tag for anyone who would still like to do their own round-up!

January

Carlos smiling into kisses Parallel set with scenes from Yee-Haw (1x02)

“You asked me to feel safe with you.” Flashback set with scenes from Friends With Benefits (2x04) and Push (3x04)

When a new hyperfixation takes hold Dan Levy reaction gifs

February

TK and Carlos comforting each other Parallel set with scenes from Friends With Benefits (2x04) and A House Divided (4x16)

March

“I'll keep going with you.” An emotional entry for incorrect quotes/text post–gifs, with scenes from In the Unlikely Event of an Emergency (3x08) and In Sickness and in Health (4x18)

 “I am tryna be your home, your safe place, your go to person…” Back to the more humorous incorrect quotes/text post–gifs, with moments from Yee-Haw (1x02)

“there’s honestly a lot of things wrong with you but im kind of into it for some reason. Do you want to get married.” Incorrect quotes/text post–gifs, featuring the darts scene from Texas Proud (1x03)

April

Their last terrified moments in their first home. Their first brilliant and joyful moments in their new home. Parallel set with scenes from The Big Heat (2x12) and Push (3x04)

“Hey now those (your big brown eyes) are some dangerous weapons…” Incorrect quotes/text post–gif with a look at Carlos in Negative Space (3x12)

That lovely first tarlos scene in Riddle of the Sphynx (3x13), without the credits obstructing our view.

"just got diagnosed as your soulmate...". Incorrect quotes/text post–gif featuring scenes from Yee-Haw (1x02) and A House Divided (4x16)

Season 4: parallel statements of love and devotion Scenes from Abandoned (4x04), The New Hot Mess (4x02), Swipe Left (4x12), A House Divided (4x16), and In Sickness and in Health (4x18)

May through December are below the cut because things got very out of hand very quickly:

May

Husband, husband, husband Every instance of “husband” from In Sickness and in Health (4x18)

When there are clues that date night has been interrupted Adding some visual aids to the conversation about the state of Carlos' shirt at the end of This Is Not a Drill (4x06)

“I think that both of them like to be the little spoon and the big spoon” – Rafael Silva For @carlos-in-glasses who shared her amazing Cameo video with us

“I missed it so much, I took a stab at writing fanfiction.” A relatable moment from Modern Family

June

If that moment in the fire was Carlos' last chance to say anything, he was going to say everything. A flashback set inspired by @doublel27's post that lives in my head, rent-free. Features scenes from The Big Heat (2x12) and In Sickness and in Health (4x18)

“He might not understand TK's fixation with a lizard, but… Um, you know, Carlos loves TK. And if Carlos loves TK, then that's all that matters.” – Rafael Silva For @thisbuildinghasfeelings who generously shared not one, but two Cameo videos with us

Just taking the opportunity to look at the details of some intense moments from the fire in The Big Heat (2x12)

“It’s a meal, not a marriage proposal, TK. || “So, the wedding. It’s coming up.” A flashback set with TK and Carlos sitting across from each other at the dinner table in Yee-Haw (1x02) and This Is Not a Drill (4x06)

wedding planning → wedding ceremony Parallel set with scenes from Control Freaks (4x08) and In Sickness and in Health (4x18)

July

“And when did you figure that out?” / “The day I met you.” How long have you thought that?“ / “Since the first night I took you home.” A flashback *and* parallel set with scenes from the pilot (1x01), Yee-Haw (1x02), The New Hot Mess (4x02), and A House Divided (4x16). Made in collaboration with @paperstorm. (Check out the accompanying fic here.)

That sounds sexual. 😏 A Rafael Silva reaction gif for various situations here on tumblr dot com

Andrea with her husband and her son, both in their tuxes for the wedding. Parallel set featuring scenes from  Best of Men (4x17) and In Sickness and in Health deleted scene (4x18). (I blame this one on @goldenskykaysani 😭)

August

My best attempt at zooming in on the final shot of the proposal scene in A Bright and Cloudless Morning (3x18)

September

No more wasted moments. A collection of scenes from A Bright and Cloudless Morning (3x18), Swipe Left (4x12), Both Sides Now (5x01), and the promo for Thunderstruck (5x05). (I still need to update that last one to the version used in the episode. Oops.)

Carlos on the outside, looking in  ->  Carlos surrounded by the love of his friends, family, and husband Not sure if I should call this a parallel or a flashback set. Either way, we have scenes from the pilot (1x01) and In Sickness and in Health (4x18), and I'm so very normal about it.

Sweet moments where Carlos is grabbing TK’s sweater/jacket Parallel set of still images from Riddle of the Sphynx (3x13) and the Thunderstruck promo (5x05)

Reaching across the table Parallel set of still images from Austin, We Have a Problem (1x10) and Both Sides, Now (5x01, season 5 promo)

TK and Carlos:  "husband" A collection of scenes from A Bright and Cloudless Morning (3x18),  Swipe Left (4x12), In Sickness and in Health (4x18), and Both Sides Now (5x01)

The look on Carlos' face when his own love language is returned to him in kind Parallel set with scenes from Swipe Left (4x12) and Both Sides, Now (5x01)

October

“One of the most magical things about being in a committed relationship is learning to really open up your heart and hate one of your partner’s coworkers you’ve never met” Incorrect quotes/text post–gif  for Both Sides, Now (5x01)

The way Carlos walks into the 126 firehouse:  unwilling to move past the threshold -> strutting in with donuts for everyone, just because. A collection of scenes from Austin, We Have a Problem (1x10), Bad Call (2x08), Spring Cleaning (3x17), and Trainwrecks (5x02)

“You look like the night we met. Green t-shirt and short hair.” For @strandnreyes and @paperstorm, to accompany their coda for C12 (5x03), with parallel gifs from the pilot (1x01).  (Read the fic here.)

TK and Carlos are not on the same page Parallel set for Swipe Left (4x12) and the Thunderstruck promo (5x05)

kiss + hand + ✨ring✨ Parallel set of still images from In Sickness and in Health deleted scenes (4x18) and Thunderstruck promo photos (5x05)

I will never not be thinking about this kiss 🔥 Thunderstruck (5x05) sneak peek

Had to make a post with sexy scenes from three different episodes. As a treat. 🔥🔥🔥 Parallel set for Yee-Haw (1x02), The Big Heat (2x12), and Thunderstruck (5x05)

"…everybody has needs." Pairing moments from The Big Heat (2x12) and Thunderstruck (5x05) with Rafael Silva’s Cameo video (courtesy of @carlos-in-glasses)

November

TK, Carlos, and Jonah – with Gwyn and with Enzo Parallel set of still images from Push (3x04) and a Kiddos (5x07) promotional photo. A closer zoom of the Kiddos image can be found here.

“This is great. I’m going to get a good grade in therapy, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve” Incorrect quotes/text post–gif for Carlos in Thunderstruck (5x05)

TK and Carlos moving in sync during couples therapy Thunderstruck (5x05)

Carlos in his troublemaker era, egging on Owen and Enzo Kiddos (5x07)

TK, Carlos, and Jonah at the firehouse Parallel set with scenes from  Push (3x04) and Kiddos (5x07)

“Hi, big brother.” / “Hi, little brother.” TK and Jonah reunited in Kiddos (5x07) A longer version of this gif set can be found here

Just the tiniest bit of slightly different footage from TK's birthday party Kiddos (5x07)

“Who’s gonna take him to dim sum?” || “Who’s gonna hug him?” Parallel set with scenes from In the Unlikely Event of an Emergency (3x08) and The Quiet Ones (5x08)

A microsecond of behind-the-scenes footage from TK's party Kiddos (5x07)

December

TK and Carlos reaching for each other in their sleep Parallel set with scenes from Riddle of the Sphynx (3x13), In Sickness and in Health (4x18), and The Quiet Ones (5x08).

Our loved ones live on through us Parallel set with scenes from In the Unlikely Event of an Emergency (3x08) and Fall From Grace (5x09)

“You were my dad." Flashback set with scenes from Best of Men (4x17), In Sickness and in Health (4x18), and Fall From Grace (5x09)