#smart like tractor

[adnauseum11]

My ATV has a flat tire, which means I've got to get it off to get it fixed. It took all three of my socket sets to find the right size and then WD40 to get one of the lugs to finally break free. Now to find the best spot on the frame to jack it up and get the tire off.

It's been 0 days since I was crawling around in the dirt.

[i-am-a-small-hobbit]

I am sad. I've been growing my hair out for almost a year at this point, and up until recently I had no idea how much curl it has to it. I wish desperately to grow it out veeerrryyyyyy long, but unfortunately I don't think my job will allow that (not my employer, my job is just very dirty in nature and I have had cows shit directly on my head before and I just can't see myself dealing with waistlength hair in the agricultural/dairy industry). So I am sad. I will probably never get to see the full potential my hair has and that makes me sad

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[milkteabinniechan]

*⁠♡Happy Father's Day - Chan

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY membership // m.list

pairing: single dad! Chan x afab reader

warnings: fingering, lots of mouth sounds, angst (if you squint your eyes)

I’ll tell him about you.

Your friend had an adorable three year old. A loud, sticky, energetic three year old. But adorable nonetheless. You had a pretty regular babysitting gig going. A few people around your neighborhood had talked and heard about your services and now you were basically a seasoned vet when it came to entertaining toddlers.

But your friend was a full time stay-at-home mom now and could watch her own adorable, sticky three year old. And now you needed another spot to fill those last bit of monthly bills. So she said there was a new dad at the preschool that seemed like he was struggling. “Struggling”, she said in air quotes. You agreed and asked her to give this new dad your information. Even though you mostly worked with the mothers, money was money.

A few days passed and eventually your phone rang, an unknown number flashing on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi. This is Chan. The.. uh.. Dad from Sunnyvale Preschool? I was told you could help me out with babysitting?”

He sounded nervous, or maybe he was just a shy person. Maybe he hated talking on the phone. But did his voice sound sexy? There was a deep, velvety smoothness to the way he spoke. Even between the stutters and pauses. You lingered for a moment, lost in the thought of that voice of his.

“Are you still there?” His voice pierced through your eardrum.

“Shit. Sorry, yeah. I’m here. And yes, I am available. Do you have time this week to set up a meet and greet?” your voice quickly went into customer service mode, knowing exactly what to say, memorizing the script you had made for yourself months ago.

THe two of you agreed on a time and day and said your goodbyes. You took a deep breath and tried to forget the way the sound of his voice made you feel. And you prayed all night that he didn’t look as good as he sounded.

Soon, you found yourself at the front door of Chan’s house. An expansive four bedroom home with one of those driveways that was nearly at a ninety degree angle. The door itself was large with two thin lines of stained glass running vertically down the front. A wooden WELCOME sign layed lazily against the door. A novelty sign you could buy as a last minute purchase at a hardware store. The front door clicked open and Chan stood in the doorway, child on his hip.

“Come on in,” He said warmly, arm gesturing for you to walk inside, “Did you find the place okay?”

Inside was a long staircase leading up to the bedrooms, a chandelier hanging from the top floor and swinging down gracefully into the foyer where the three of you stood. Past the stairs was a long hallway that led to the living room and an open floor plan kitchen. Windows surrounded the rooms in a sunlit blanket that made the whole house seem as if it was holding its arms out to you, embracing you.

The three of you sat down on the sectional couch in the living room. You sat on one end, while Chan and the small child sat together on the other corner. Chan introduced the small girl as Lilly. She clung to Chan tightly, her small, chubby finger gripping onto his shirt as if it were a lifeline. You smiled at Lilly and introduced yourself to her. You held eye contact with only her and asked her about some of her favorite things. You had learned over the years that children appreciated when you spoke to them like you understood them. Like everything they said was important, because to you it was. Lilly lit up and talked excitedly about some of her favorite books, jumping at the opportunity to show you. She ran to her room and hastily returned with a few small books. One was about animals, another was about a tractor that made a new friend. You exclaimed in amazement at Lilly’s amazing books. She was smart and she was quiet, but you could tell she was very well loved.

Chan watched the two of you talk about books and the different noises that animals make. It had been a long time since he had seen Lilly open up to someone so quickly. It made his heart feel full to burst, seeing the way you interacted with his daughter.

“You’re hired.” Chan said as you started to walk out of the door. His sudden decision startled you, usually it took most parents to call a few days after the meet and greet. You smiled warmly at Chan, giving him a firm handshake. The two of you quickly made a schedule of the days you would be working and before you knew it, you were in the routine with him.

Months went by with the three of you falling into this routine. You knew exactly when Chan would get home, you knew the foods that Lilly liked to eat, with her tastes changing by the week. You knew when to have dinner on the table and when to have Lilly in bed. And there was comfort there. A comfort in Chan coming home, in making a meal for him. You loved Lilly, and you couldn’t ignore this role that you were easing into.

“Happy Father’s Day!”

Chan walked in the door to find you greeting him with balloons and a cake on the dining room table. Lilly ran to Chan and squeezed his leg. You stood by the balloons and cake, waiting for his reaction. But for a moment he just stood there. Then, he picked Lilly up, propping her on his hip and walked towards you, embracing you with his free arm. He pulled you in close and whispered a soft thank you against your neck. As he pulled back from the hug, the two of you lingered there for a moment, caught heavily in the tension building thick between you. Later that evening, you walked back downstairs from putting Lilly to bed. You entered the kitchen to see Chan cleaning off the rest of the plates and silverware, blue frosting speckled on forks and spoons alike.

“I hope the cake wasn’t too much,” You spoke softly, moving towards Chan at the sink, “It was Lilly’s idea, she really wanted a cake.”

Chan chuckled softly at the thought of his daughter begging for a cake, with only blue frosting, blue being her current favorite color.

“It was perfect,” Chan stopped washing dishes and turned towards you, “you’re perfect.” Chan slowly moved his hands from the warm sink water, to your waiting waist. His fingers crept along your stomach and landed flush along your back, pulling you close to his body. You gasped at the sudden movement, but your body reacted reflexively to his touch. He took you by the hips and propped you up on the kitchen counter. He moved in towards your legs, spreading them open, making room for him. He gripped your thigh with his large hand and pulled it up and around his waist. Your eyes burned bright at his brazen actions as you wrapped your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, possessive kiss. Chan forcefully glides his tongue into your mouth, letting it graze across your teeth. You let out a soft gasp as you feel his tongue slide inside, sending a shiver up your spine. You open your mouth wider for him, letting your tongues tangle together in a slow, sensual dance. You press against Chan, craving more of his touch, desperate for it.

He lets his hand fall lazily down your chest, then your stomach. He easily unclasps the button of your pants and lets his hand slip inside. The rush of warmth from his hand causes your head to fall back, your back arching at his every movement. A low growl escapes from inside Chan’s chest seeing how responsive you are to his touch. He lets his teeth graze lightly along the skin of your neck while his fingers trace hypnotic circles around the entrance of your cunt. He can feel how wet you already are for him and it causes something feral to happen in his brain. He buries his fingers deeper inside you, the sudden impact and pressure causing you to squirm and squeal pathetically in his strong arms.

A small, faint cry comes from the top of the stairs and suddenly the two of you snap back into parent mode. The sound of Lilly’s tiny voice pushing all other thoughts and feelings aside. The two of you run upstairs to find Lilly in her bed, crying from a nightmare.

Chan melts instantly at the sight of his daughter safely lying in her bed, instantly thinking the worst may have happened. He sits on the bed with her and holds her close. He consoles her and reminds her that dreams cannot hurt her, he reassures her that he is here to protect her. That he will always be here for her. But as he speaks, he looks at you too. He looks at you as if he wanted you to hear what he was saying as well, like he was speaking to you and Lilly. That you were both important to him. As if he wanted to protect you too. And love you too. You gave Chan a small nod, so he knew you understood. You loved him too. And you would protect both of them with your whole heart.

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo

[navybrat817]

Within You

Pairing: Soft!Dark Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky shows a different side of himself when you venture into a corn maze. Word Count: Over 3.2k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, DUBCON, unprotected vaginal sex, semi-public, breeding kink, spooky vibes, established relationship, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: Welcome to Navy's Trick or Treat Nonsense! Special thanks to @ghotifishreads who suggested soft!dark Bucky with a breeding kink and @tumblin-theworldaway for listening to me (s)cream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @vonalyn ​, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was your first Autumn with Bucky. The two of you had been dating for less than a year, but you were completely enamored with him. Not only was he doting and smart, but he was a man who made your heart flutter in your chest whenever he looked your way. Even thinking about him sets your heart ablaze. He was the one for you.

“Come on,” you smiled as you took his hand and pulled him toward the pumpkin patch entrance.

The two of you took turns regarding date nights and outings. Today, you chose a pumpkin patch. You told him it wouldn’t feel like Fall if you didn’t go and listed off the fun things to do. There was a hayride, pumpkins and apples to pick, a corn maze, and much more. He obliged since he knew it would make you happy. He even gave you a small smile when you told him the website claimed that the maze was tricky, but you knew he’d find his way out easily.

You stopped and inhaled the cool air, the scent of warm apple cider drifting your way from the stand nearby. The temperature dropped just enough that you were comfortable in a sweater and the sun peeked out through the clouds to greet you. It wasn't overly crowded and it was the perfect weather. Even better because you had the perfect man by your side.

It was going to be a good day.

“Where should we start?” You asked, smiling when a small group of kids headed toward one of the tractors. “Hayride? Pick a pumpkin to carve later?”

“Where do you want to start?” Bucky replied, a small breeze blowing some of his dark brown hair back.

Your answer died in your throat as you gazed at him. His hair was the third thing you noticed about him, long enough that it almost touched his shoulders and soft to the touch. You loved running your fingers through it, whether it was to soothe him and pull it when he was between your thighs. The second thing you took notice of was the massive size of your now boyfriend. Over 6’4” with broad shoulders, a puffed out chest, and thighs made for riding, he intimated most while he excited you.

His cool blue eyes, of course, were the first thing. Gazing into them was like swimming in a private sea, ready to ride a gentle wave or get swept away in a storm depending on his mood. You could handle the entire range of emotions because you were his girl. It was that simple.

“You’re staring, doll,” he smiled, your cheeks warm at being caught. If any other guy called you "doll", it would've sounded silly. It was endearing coming from him.

“Well, I can't help it. You’re gorgeous,” you said.

“You are gorgeous,” he argued, the compliment sending more heat to your cheeks.

“You said that this morning,” you teased. The two of you moved in together recently and you had a hard time getting out of bed some days. Waking up beside him was like a dream, but it was your reality.

“And I'll say it again,” he smiled before a girl stopped in front of the two of you with a tray.

“Hi,” she greeted with an ear-to-ear smile. “Would either of you care for a sample of cider? We have warm and chilled.”

“Ooh,” you smiled, glancing between the cups. You loved apple cider. “I'll take warm, please.”

“Same. Thanks,” Bucky said, selecting cups for each of you. He blew on his before he drank it, a weird look crossing his face as he swallowed. “Is something on the bottom of my cup?”

“Nothing on mine,” you said, glancing at his cup once you tried your cider. “I think it's a sticker. Is it a cauldron?”

“Oh! You got the lucky, special sample!” the girl grinned as you and Bucky shared a confused look. She balanced the tray in one hand as she handed your boyfriend an orange coupon and took the empty cups from you. “Free cider for two. Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” Bucky said before she went to give samples to others.

“Lucky guy,” you smiled, raising an eyebrow as he slowly licked his lips. “You okay?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yeah. Was just warmer than I expected.”

“You didn't burn your tongue, did you?”

“No, but you should massage your tongue with mine anyway,” he half joked.

You smiled and nodded toward the maze. “Why don’t we check that out first?”

“So, you’d rather check out a maze instead of soothing your boyfriend's tongue?”

You giggled as you made your way to the start, grabbing a small sheet of paper. There were different sets of “animal tracks” to find throughout the maze. Anyone who found them all got a prize. “Why check out a maze when I can check you out?” You asked, unable to keep a straight face. “That was cheesy.”

“It wasn’t cheesy,” he said before his smile widened. “It was corny.”

“Oh, my god,” you laughed more. One thing about your boyfriend, he could always bring a smile to your face. “You think you’re so…”

A little boy ran out of the maze with a smile before he lost his footing and pitched forward, his sheet of paper floating to the ground as it flew from his hand. You rushed over to help when he began to cry, carefully helping the poor child sit up. “Ouch,” he sniffled.

“Hey. You okay?” you gently asked, making sure to keep your demeanor calm as you brushed some of the dirt away. You also grabbed his sheet before it could blow away. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He wiped his face and pointed to his knee once he rolled up his pant leg. “Right here.”

“Okay. Let’s take a look,” you nodded as Bucky joined you, crouching down on the other side of the boy. He looked worried, too. Minus the small scrape, he looked fine overall. “Poor little guy. Scrapes are no fun. But you know what? You’re a strong little boy.”

“I am?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yeah. Very strong,” Bucky agreed. "My girl wouldn't lie to you."

It was sweet how he spoke of you. “And you found all the animals, so you get a prize,” you smiled, showing him his paper where all of them were shaded. “You’re strong and smart,” you added, which brought a smile to his face, too.

“Timmy!” a woman shouted as she jogged out to the maze. “I told you not to run off. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he replied, taking your hand so you could get him to his feet. “Hurts, but I’m strong and smart.”

Timmy’s mom bent down to inspect his knee herself before she gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you for helping him. How can I repay you?”

“That's not necessary. We're glad we could help,” you said, making sure he had his sheet. “You enjoy your prize and listen to your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded, waving as he went with his mom. “Thanks!”

“Cute little guy,” you smiled as Bucky slowly stood up. Your boyfriend had a few expressions that you were used to seeing, but you couldn’t read the current look he gave you. It was as if he was seeing you in a different light. “What?”

“Why haven't I knocked you up yet?"

You opened your mouth to say something, a feverish and unexpected heat moving through your body. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard what I said,” he said, his piercing gaze rooting you to the spot. “Just wondering why I haven't."

Though you knew Bucky was the man for you, the topic of kids hadn’t come up much. Partially because you hadn’t been together a year yet. Wouldn’t it be too soon to have a little one running around when you weren’t even engaged? Not that the two of you had to get married to have kids.

Maybe him seeing me comfort Timmy brought it to the front of his mind.

“I don’t know, Bucky. Why haven’t you knocked me up yet?” you teased. You almost shrank under his gaze a moment later when he didn’t laugh or crack a smile.

“Maybe I should. We can go home and get started right now,” he said. There was no hint of a joke in his tone. “This would be a fun place to bring our kids one day. Don't you think?"

“Why don’t we talk about it after the maze?”

He looked hurt for a split second and you almost assured you weren’t blowing him off. You wouldn't do that. It was merely a serious talk for another time. “Sure. After the maze,” he agreed, taking your hand as you made your way back over.

A chill ran down your spine when you walked through the entrance. It was strange. You weren’t afraid, especially since it wasn’t dark outside. So where did the unexpected chill come from?

“You okay?” Bucky asked, his voice a little rougher than usual as his grip tightened on your hand. Did he feel weird being in here, too? “I didn't freak you out, did I?”

“I'm fine and you didn't freak me out. You know you can tell me anything,” you replied, shaking it off the chill as the two of you began to walk through. The maze took up almost a third of the entire place, the stalks high enough that neither of you could see over them. “I think we should find the werewolf tracks first. Because they're one of your favorite animals.”

Before you could turn right down one of the paths, he brought his mouth close to your face. “That and I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth in and leaving my mark on you.”

The breath rushed out of your lungs when you turned your head and caught the darkness in his eyes. His pupils were larger than normal as he stepped closer, almost backing you into the corn. “Is that right?”

“And you’ll let me,” he said, your heart racing as he leaned in. His kisses stole the breath from your lungs and your eyes slipped shut just before his lips touched yours. “Won’t you?”

“After we find the first set of tracks,” you whispered, pressing your hands to his chest so he’d back away.

He didn’t budge.

“Seriously, doll. Why haven’t I knocked you up yet?”

This again?

“I thought we were going to talk about that after we got out of here,” you reminded him, stepping to the side to go further down the path. “Where is this coming from anyway?”

“Been thinking about it for some time. I just haven’t said so,” he answered as he followed close behind. Was he afraid to say something before because it was too soon? That admitting it would scare you off? “Now that I'm talking about it, I can't stop.”

You were tempted to make a joke that there was something in his special cider sample making him talk. “You're serious about this?”

“You moved in with me. We love each other. I want a life with you. Of course, I'm serious.”

Glancing over your shoulder to find him watching you, you couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you promised before you focused on the path again. You weren’t sure just how far the two of you had walked through. “But something like that is-”

You shrieked when Bucky spun you around by the shoulder, a wild look in his eyes before his mouth met yours in a persistent kiss. Compelling desire moved through you, but it didn’t matter how much you wanted him. The two of you were still in public. There were families around.

This wasn’t the time or place for this.

He broke the kiss before he shoved you almost painfully to your knees. He was never that forceful. “I’ll lose my mind if I’m not inside you.”

“Bucky, what the hell?!” you asked as he moved behind you and dropped to his knees, too. He yanked your pants and underwear down before you could stop him. Did you want to stop him? “We’re in a maze. What if someone catches us?”

He scoffed as he pushed you forward, forcing you to brace yourself with your hands. The cool breeze touched your exposed pussy, sending another chill down your spine. “You think I care if anyone catches us? I need you and they can’t stop me. They'll see that you're mine.”

The corn seemed to move in closer as you heard him unbuckle his belt, as if to give you some privacy. It had to be your mind playing tricks on you. “I'm already yours. Can you just slow down for a second?”

“I’m sorry, doll,” he swore, clamping a heavy hand over your mouth. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Bucky sheathed you in one hard thrust, your cry smothered by his hand. You admitted to him once that he was the largest you’d ever had, which he both loved and hated. While it made him feel good that your ex-boyfriends weren’t as big as him, could never stretch you the way he could, he hated thinking of anyone else being inside you. He liked to remind you that no one else ever would be. And because of his size, he usually took great care in prepping you.

His need must’ve clouded him, the burn from the stretch more intense than usual.

“I’m sorry, doll. I don't know what's come over me. I can’t help myself,” he apologized again as if he sensed your discomfort, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice as you breathed through your nose. “But it’s okay. I’ll make you feel good. Just take me.”

You whined as he nearly pulled out completely and shoved himself back in as deep as he could go. That was your only warning before he set a steady pace, your hands fisting the dirt and your ears ringing as blood surged through your veins. It wasn’t long before your wetness coated his cock, the burn fading to pleasure from the friction. He fucked you before, but it was nothing like this. Bucky was like a man possessed. No, not even a man. More like a wild animal rutting into you, claiming you.

Where anyone could stumble along and find you.

“So soft. So warm,” he groaned, leaving sloppy kisses along your neck. “So fucking good.”

You tried to push yourself higher on your hands and knees for better support, but the force of his thrusts surged you forward. Removing his hand from your mouth, he placed it on the back of your neck as your cheek hit the dirt. The hold gave him leverage to fuck you deeper with your ass in the air. The soil felt cool in contrast to the hot palm against your skin.

“Better keep quiet,” he warned you, even as the angle sparked ecstasy within you. All you could do was bite your lip to try and keep the sounds in as much as possible. “Or do you want someone to catch me breeding you?”

“What?” you gasped, unable to lift your head as a new sensation hit you.

“You heard me,” he growled, draping himself over your back and maintaining his harsh pace as he breathed against your ear. “Gonna breed you. Gonna fucking drown your womb with my seed. ‘Cause you’re mine. All. Fucking. Mine.”

The sweet doting boyfriend you were used to was nowhere to be found as his cock wrecked your cunt. Was there something unexplainable causing him to act this way or had he been holding back? You would question him later. For now, you could only go limp as he fucked you into the dirt with vigor. And it felt good. You couldn't deny it.

“Gonna be so full of me. Fuck, you’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby,” he grunted, barely able to make out his words his thrusts increased in speed and strength. The slap of skin on skin filled the air and you almost had to cover your mouth yourself to stop your mewls. “Your belly round. Your tits nice and full. Might keep you knocked up so you remember who you belong to.”

The image of Bucky with his hand on your belly filled your mind, sending jolts of unexpected pleasure down to your toes. “I can’t take it, Bucky,” you gasped, even as you felt the tug of your building climax ready to snap. “It’s too much.”

With a deceptively soft kiss to your neck, followed by a small nuzzle, Bucky let out a deep moan. “You can take it. You always do ‘cause you’re mine. My good girl,” he rambled on as you whined, the wet slide of your pussy squeezing him tighter as you got closer. “Need to pump you full. Need your cunt to milk every drop from me. You want it. I know it. Come.”

You couldn’t hold on any longer, your fingers curling in the dirt again as you came with a cry. You were overwhelmed by the pure bliss, shocked at just how powerful your orgasm was. He hadn’t teased your clit, yet you gushed around him like he had. The squelching sound blended in with your whimpers as he fucked you through it.

Maybe you liked the idea of him breeding you more than you realized.

“That’s it, doll,” he groaned as he chased his release. “Take it. Every. Fucking. Drop.”

Bucky's rhythm faltered as his cock pulsed, spilling inside you with a growl. He kept his hips flush against yours as he breathed raggedly against your neck, keeping your bodies joined together for as long as he could. He didn’t move until he began to soften, making a whimper spill from your lips when he pulled out of you. His fingers quickly replaced his cock to keep his spend from sliding out of you.

“You okay, doll?” he asked, his voice still a touch of gruff mixed with softness. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

“Mmm,” was the only response you could give him.

It was like a switch had gone off as he helped you up, keeping you from collapsing as he got your underwear and pants up. He wiped as much of the dirt away with his hands as he could, softness in his eyes once again. Minus his disheveled hair, he looked fine. Like he hadn't just fucked you in the corn maze.

You two were lucky you hadn't gotten caught.

He hugged you as close as he could while you tried to make sense of his behavior. Whatever raging beast was inside him was satisfied for the time being. But what came over him?

Large hands framed your face as you tried to get your shaking under control. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” you mumbled.

“I’ll draw us a bath when we get home, okay? Get you cleaned up and make sure you aren't too sore,” he offered with a tender kiss to your lips. “After I throw out your birth control pills. You won’t need those anymore.”

So, how are we feeling? What do we think? Love and thanks for reading! 🧡

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[boolger]

A lapdog at a farm - chapter 1

AO3 link. next chapter -> Call of duty. Explicit, 18+, minors do not interact. read the tags. wc: 4,147

Farmer!John Price x Hybrid!Reader, hybrid! Kyle Gaz Garrick x hybrid! Johnny Soap MacTavish x hybrid! Simon Ghost, John Price x Nikolai.

Summary: When Price was young and left his childhood home, a farm in the middle of nowhere in England, he didn’t enter the military. Instead he moved to London, got a degree and a good career, earning good money. He got you, a human dog hybrid as a pet, after feeling lonely - and you lived your best life for years, spoiled and pampered, Price’s lapdog who got praised at every party. Loved and fucked every night. That was until Price decided to return to his roots and go back to farming - dragging you along to the middle of nowhere, away from all the wonders of the big city. Expecting you to accept this sudden change in lifestyle and pretend to be a farm dog. Bad luck however, because you fucking hated it, and became more and more unruly. In hopes of getting you to calm down and to keep his live-stock and farm safe, Price then got three working dog hybrids - and all at once, your life was even worse than before.

tags: Rape/non-con elements, dub-con, dog!hybrid!people being kept as pets, alternative universe - farm, dark, farmer!John Price, working-dogs, punishments, mating cycles/rut/heat (no omegaverse), the dove isn't dead but its dying, reader is a brat, knotting, animal tails and ears, mentions of trauma, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, collars, rough sex, breeding kink, biting, threesome, foursome, everyone is fucking your honor, enemies to lovers, chubby reader, reader has a pussy

author's note: Hi sinners <33 Just a heads up; the reader is gonna be a spoiled brat. If you want a smart and sweet reader who isn’t mean at times, well. Bad news. This ain’t it.🥰The reader is she / her and has a pussy and is chubby. I tried my best to keep the descriptions somewhat vague otherwise. Reader is a cocker spaniel hybrid. I will tell the others along the way. In this universe, hybrids have ears, tail, claws beneath nails and canine fangs. There will be heats and ruts but there is no omegaverse. They will have personality traits of their dog breed and so on. Now. I know there aren’t wild wolves in the UK… but in this fic there is, ok? mwah.

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The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the absence of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was indescribable.

Out here, at the new farm, the noises only came from animals that lived in the stables and barn or the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind caressed the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

The stress here wasn’t the same kind as in the city. Sure , there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, so much was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - Johnhad gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath the suits, ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much content.

It was like the farm had truly made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours in bed with him, being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears, taking all the heat with him. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here. The foxes’ screams in the night, the wolves howling, and the cows occasionally mooing sounded like creatures stepping out of nightmares.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure , legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work. 

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this! You had grown up being trained to be a lapdog, not a working-dog like you felt like John expected you to act like now.

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked somwwhat the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried . You really had. 

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road. 

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid . The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking his neighbours.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed .

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined in distress, upset with yourself as well, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate .

You fucking hated the dog crate. 

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive. 

But the dog crate? You hated that thing with a burning passion. 

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left. 

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, KAte Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look. 

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you. Fears of never getting to see John again or being loved again by him made you cling onto him as he kissed away your tears, gently fucking you.

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It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach. 

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you ,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another. 

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything. 

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction. 

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The auction hall was filled to the brim with humans and hybrids alike. Every owned hybrid followed their respective owners, all wearing mandatory leashes so no pets would be confused with the ones that were being sold. You wore your own pink one with pride, gem stones sparkling. A matching leash connected to the D-ring on it, that also bore your tags. You were convinced yours were the most beautiful in this entire place.

“They’re bonded,” Laswell pointed out, pointing to the papers that hung nearby, showing off general information about them, “gotta get all three.”

You dared to look at the little board with the informations about the three hybrids they were looking at.

“Ah, we don't have space for three, mi amor.”

“eso es una pena,” Rodolfo answered, while you looked over at John - who kept looking at the three hybrids. You dared to peek over at them.

All three of them were enormous .

Two of them wore muzzles, meaning they were biters. At least at the auction. You shouldn’t judge then, not really, but you did... Even though you had worn a muzzle five years ago, when Price had chosen you. You hadn’t tried biting people out of malice; you had been scared and angry at the world. Angry for being abandoned once more, over the fact that you were most likely being passed on to another abusive master. You leaned a little closer to Price, taking in his scent.

Even from the start, despite all the problems and your attitude problems, he had been sweet. Strict at times — probably not enough — but kind.

The biggest one looked like a Great Pyrenees breed, most likely. The fur on his ears and tail looked shorter, badly cut. Probably due to matting or if he refused to get it cut. His hair, a dark blonde almost brown, was in a buzz cut. He had scars, all over - unable to hide because of the lack of clothes most hybrids were given, only underwear. There was a lot in his face, though you suspected a bunch were hidden by the muzzle. He stared into nothing, his ears curled back, though they moved now and again, listening to different sounds.

“Hard to get sold,” Laswell commented and you looked over at her in synchronicity with John, “they’re ex-military.”

Like he had been called to them, a man who wore one of the seller badges appeared.

“They’re obedient once they fall into place,” he happily explained, going full seller-mode, “they’re just not too fond of the auctions - too many people.”

“Makes sense,” Price mused, clearly interested - much to your annoyance. The fact that he asked follow up questions made you frown, fingers tightening in his shirt. He was here to look. To help Alejandro and Rodolfo, who both had continued their walk. You dared to look over at the hybrids again. All three were staring at you and John. 

“How come they were discharged?”

“One of them got a hearing loss -“ he nodded towards them, “the one with the mohawk. And they’re a bonded pack.”

“So only retiring him was out of the question,” John concluded once more looking over at them.

You felt your tail go in between your legs. He couldn’t be seriously considering those three . you couldn’t help but let out a small whine. Price gave your leash a little tug.

“They’re working dogs,” the seller continued, his eyes flickering to you, making you huff, “so they’ll need something to do, not just be pets.”

“Oh I know. I have a farm. Need some work dogs - this one isn’t guarding much.”

They all laughed, your tail going even further between your legs with embarrassment.

“You can’t be serious,” you whined in a whisper to John, not caring that you sounded needy - spoiled would Laswell had said and you ignored her as she rolled her eyes.

“Hush, Princess.” John didn’t even look at you.

“You have animals there?” The seller asked, “one of them is a herding dog - the border collie.”

“I do - several. That’s why there's a need for guarding dogs as well, bloody wolves have been terrorizing us.”

You knew he was telling the truth; he had muttered about dead sheeps and goats several times - even a calf had lost its life to the wolves in the area, despite he and Laswell having shot two already. Even foxes had gotten into the coop, despite the fences.

“They’re good at that too, with their training,” the seller offered, clearly interested in selling them or at least getting John to bid on them. “The one with the mohawk, Soap , will have hearing aids with him, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

You looked over at this “Soap”, scrunching your nose. They were still staring, the biggest one bending down to listen to the third one, a beautiful black man, whisper in his ear. No doubt judging you.

“It says here they don’t do well with others,” you muttered, in a desperate attempt to sway John, pointing to the board with their papers. It did indeed say so, to which you wanted to argue that YOU should be his main focus in this whole thing - how would he even consider adding them to your household if these dogs could get a hold of you?

“It’s in the sense that they’re not really housetrained to be social family pets,” the seller swooped in, pushing your argument away, annoying you even more, “they’ve had missions all their lives. They need to have something to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll get along with them, sweetheart,” Price answered, giving you a small scratch beneath your chin as he finally looked over at you, a glint in his eyes, “some company will do you good.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. Hardly . Price’s smile told you that he thought this was a great idea however. You dared to look at the men again. Still staring, fucking bastards.

The black man seemed like a mix of some breeds, German shepherd and… you looked shortly at the board. Belgian malinois. Fancy. He wasn’t as tall as the big one, but broad and with scars as well. There was a more slender look to him, but his six pack proved he was strong. His curly hair wasn’t too long, probably cut not too long ago. He was looking at you curiously, making you raise your upper lip a little, as if to warn him.

The one with the hearing loss looked like some sort of border collie - covered in scars as well, some of his skin looking like it had been too close to fire. He was broad like the two others, his upper arms the size of your head. He even sent you a cheeky grin, even daring to wink at you. You just looked away, tipping your chin up a little.

“You can look closer if you want, sir?”

You were pulled back into the conversation at once and before you could argue, John had already passed on your leash to Laswell and walked towards the men with the seller. You whined, distressed that he was really, actually considering this.

“You’ll be fine,” Laswell commented calmly, with empathy in her voice for once, though she didn’t look at you, merely at John and the others.

“He is gonna lose interest in me,” you whined, perhaps a little dramatically, bottom lip wobbling a little as you could feel tears welling up in your eyes, “then he’ll leave me in the crate all day and only care about them an—“

“Calm down,” Laswell said, “you’ll work yourself into a fuss.”

“He can’t do this to me,” you argued in a sullen voice, already imagining John forgetting all about you, focusing on these three hybrids for the rest of his life, leaving you cold and lonely inside the dog crate - maybe even rehoming you, “he promised he wouldn’t get rid of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Laswell answered just as calmly as before, “John loves you too much, you’re just being spoiled. Hanging out with some working dogs will do you good.”

“They probably have fleas,” you said, your prejudices seeping into your words, knowing you’re being mean, judgmental against your own kind, “they’ll kill me and eat my dead body.”

Laswell laughed. “No they won’t. Worst thing they’ll do, is probably knock you up.”

A high pitched, scandalized sound left you, despite knowing you had an implant. Laswell laughed again, giving your leash a little yank and then scratching you behind your long ears.

“Settle, Princess. That won’t happen without John’s permission.”

You almost cried at the sight of John shaking the seller’s hand.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

They all met up again for the actual auction part and you sat at John’s feet, sniffling a little. Crying hadn’t helped, in fact John had just petted and kissed you, calling you sensitive. Alejandro had gotten a hybrid earlier that they didn’t need to bid on - she was for sale for a certain price. Something about being too intense without enough space to roam, having attacked others before.

Fucking great. Beasts all around you.

John won the bidding on the three working dog hybrids he had been interested in - because of course he did. He spent way too much money on them too, according to you.

One more - or well, three more fucking things to hate about this “farming life” that had been forced upon you.

Maybe John had gone mad.

next chapter ->

[seat-safety-switch]

When I was a kid, I got chased by a cow for a little while. We were on a camping trip, I had wandered away from the campsite for some childlike reason, up towards the train tracks, and I got between the cow and her calf. Even after the two were reunited, the cow continued to chase me for about two kilometres, but at at a disinterested, low-speed kind of clip-clop fuming instead of actually mad. No doubt she was also bored. Eventually, I decided to jump over the train tracks and head back the long way, and the cow went back to her beefly business.

This memory is on my mind a lot lately, mostly because I've had to take up a job at the local dairy farm. Why? I need money. And the proprietor doesn't care if I use my real name on the government forms or not. Turns out that some guy in the graveyard down the highway is gonna owe a couple hundred bucks in back taxes this year, and I wish the revenuers every kind of luck in collecting from him.

Because the farm is so far from my house, and also because I can't return to my house right now until the police search team and TV news dissipates from the neighbourhood, I've been staying in the workhouse. It's not so bad. A little chicken-y, sure, but it's got a septic toilet and the other workers don't frown at me too much when it becomes obvious I don't know the first thing about how to milk a cow. What I do know how to do is fix broken-ass tractors, which I immediately set about doing when I realize that milking things is dull as hell.

Unfortunately for me, this sudden display of competence arouses the kindly farmer's interest. He immediately notices that it's not particularly normal for someone to be able to repair a cloudfallen "smart" John Deere using two pieces of copper wire, a nine-volt battery and a chunk of spray paint can that I found behind the shed. He begins to follow me, demanding that I fix everything else on the property. Panicking, I take off for the open road, but of course my decrepit Plymouth is not especially capable of doing thrilling stunts like "the speed limit." To the farmer's credit, he held on a lot longer than the cow before getting bored and going home: I got to jump two railroad trestles before his Dodge Ram threw a code.

[noel-fielding-web-page]

‘The fact that I’m still here is amazing’: Noel Fielding on Bake Off, booze and the Boosh

He has gone from cult niche to smash hit and he still can’t believe it. As Bake Off returns, the comic talks about his ‘feral’ upbringing, his party years – and the day Hammond fell out of a hammock

Noel Fielding’s highlight of the new series of The Great British Bake Off wasn’t a show-stopping cake. In fact, it wasn’t any type of baked goods. It wasn’t even a shot of a squirrel with outsized testicles. It was his co-host Alison Hammond falling out of a hammock.

“I’ll never be able to unsee it,” he says. “What I love about Alison – and I mean this with the greatest of respect – is that she’s an absolute klutz. If anyone’s going to fall out of a hammock, it’ll be her. She also fell backwards off one of the workbenches while showing off. Don’t worry, she was OK. No Hammonds were harmed in the making of this series.”

As the autumnal fixture returns to our screens, Fielding promises a 15th series on peak form. “It’s a belter,” he says. “There are some very special bakers in the tent this year. Somehow the standard keeps getting higher. These unbelievable young bakers are way better than they should be for their age. It’s a vintage year. One of the best yet.”

By stealth, the surrealist goth has become a Bake Off veteran. This is Fielding’s eighth series at the helm, meaning he’s now served a longer stint than original hosts Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins. “Who knew that was going to happen?” he marvels. “Maybe Paul Hollywood’s hypnotised me. I can’t escape the tractor beam of those blue eyes. I loved that original lineup, with Mary [Berry], Mel and Sue, as much as anyone. When me and Sandi [Toksvig] took over, we were terrified. We knew it was a massive risk. We said: ‘Let’s see if we can last one series.’ The fact that I’m still here is amazing.”

A family affair? … (from left) Fielding, Alison Hammond, Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith. Photograph: Mark Bourdillon/Channel 4

Toksvig later admitted “I felt my brain atrophying” after three series of glazes and ganaches. How does Fielding keep it fresh? “Sandi, as we know, is a massive brain. She went to Cambridge, she’s super-smart, she writes, she does politics, she needs to be stimulated. She never stays anywhere too long, except QI which is the perfect show for her. The difference between us is that I’ve always really enjoyed hanging out with the bakers. I befriend them and get them to open up. Nobody expected that to be my strength. I assumed it’d be the sketches and banter. In fact, I’m fascinated by the people. I feel protective of them. If Paul and Prue [Leith] are hard on them, I’m absolutely livid. It’s devastating when they leave. This year I was particularly fond of one baker. When I had to send them home, I cried.”

Hammond is his third co-host. “It feels like I’ve done three different shows,” he says. “First with Sandi, under enormous pressure but we pulled it off. Then with Matt [Lucas], which was a privilege because he’s a comedy genius. Now I’m enjoying it more than ever. Alison’s not a comedian, so she’s not as neurotic about jokes as I am, but she’s a brilliant improviser and instinctively funny. She slotted right in. Paul and Prue are very fond of her. Even my kids adore her. We’re having a blast.”

Judges and presenters refer to “the Bake Off stone” – a tendency to gain weight during each 10-week run. In her sophomore series, Hammond valiantly attempted to resist. “She tried to eat less this year but Alison’s quite childlike. She said: ‘Noel, stop me eating cake, I want to be good.’ The next time I saw her, she was literally like [he mimes shovelling in cake]. Alison has a good time all the time. You don’t want her to not be eating the cakes.”

Fielding, now 51, had a “feral” upbringing in Croydon. Hammond was raised in a Birmingham council house. He relishes these “two working-class kids galloping around Welford Park”, the Grade I-listed Berkshire estate where the marquee is pitched each summer. “If you’ve grown up in a working-class environment and go to a stately home, you’re like: ‘Woah! This is like Willy Wonka’s factory.’ We’re like urchins in front of Dame Prue. I permanently feel like I’ve come to sweep Prue’s chimney.” He describes Bake Off’s star quartet as “a funny old family”. Who’s who? “Prue and Paul are Mum and Dad, obviously. Alison’s the wild daughter. I reckon I’m the cat. Or am I the dog? Paul would say I’m the teenage son who’s secretly a vampire.”

‘We knew it was a massive risk’ … Fielding with Sandi Toksvig on the 12th series of The Great British Bake Off. Photograph: Channel 4/Love Productions/Mark Bourdillon/PA

The last time we spoke, Fielding reflected on his 00s era as a hedonistic scenester. “I took partying to its logical conclusion,” he said. “When you’ve been partying with Kate Moss and Courtney Love, you’ve gone as far as you can go. A few friends ended up in rehab. I was sick of partying anyway and lucky enough to have my family at the right time [he has two daughters with wife Lliana Bird]. It was like: ‘This is what I was looking for!’”

He returns to the theme today, pondering how Bake Off arrived at the right time. “When I got this job, I’d just had my first child, I was painting a lot and had a different lifestyle. This show fitted that phase. You want to match your career to where you are in life. It’s mainstream, family-friendly and my kids love it, so it suits me. I love not partying – and I never thought I’d say that.”

A fellow comic turned artist provides career inspiration. “I’d love to concentrate on art more as I get older. I love what Vic Reeves [Jim Moir] is doing, making art documentaries and his Painting Birds series. Vic and Bob [Mortimer] were a big influence on me. Now he looks genuinely happy. I’d love to do something similar.”

Claudia Winkleman jokes that she gets mistaken for Fielding. Does it happen the other way round? “I did see a trailer for The Traitors out of the corner of my eye and go: ‘I swear I didn’t film that.’ But no, Claudia looks like a beautiful 60s model. I look like a melted candle. A wax model of Roy Orbison that’s been left too near the radiator. It’s flattering for me but harsh on her.”

Earlier this year, Fielding scored a streaming hit with The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin. After wrapping filming on Bake Off, he’s off to shoot the highwayman sitcom’s second series. Has he learned to ride a horse? “I can get on and off, that’s all I need. Luckily it’s a comedy, so I don’t need to look impressive. One thing I enjoyed was that it’s made by Apple, so there’s a bit of a budget. With The [Mighty] Boosh, it was always a financial struggle to bring your vision to life. If you do fantastical stuff, you’re forever going: ‘We want an underwater race with people riding porpoises but that’d be all the budget gone.’ We’d end up using bits of animation to work around it. With Apple, they go: ‘Yeah, we can do that. Fine, let’s blow up a carriage.’ I’m like: ‘What, really? It won’t be a model?’”

He has formed an unlikely double act with Hugh Bonneville, who plays Dick’s thief-catching nemesis. “You can never predict who you’ll have chemistry with. I’ve learned a lot from Hugh. He’s a really skilful comic actor. And Mark Heap, who plays my dad, has the best timing of anyone ever.” As well as starring, Fielding has a writing credit. In the pilot episode, Heap tells him: “You always were a bit weird. Drawing, coming up with funny ideas, wearing strange outfits.” Was that line autobiographical? “I did write that scene, yeah,” admits Fielding.

Slice of history … Fielding (left) with his Mighty Boosh co-star Julian Barratt Photograph: Martin Argles/The Guardian

He also drew the amusingly rubbish “Wanted” posters that appear in the show. “I’d send them to the director and he’d go: ‘No, not bad enough, do another, make it more ridiculous!’ I’d end up doing them left-handed in about 10 seconds.” There’s even a role for his brother Michael, who played Naboo in The Mighty Boosh: “I put my brother in everything I can. He’s not only very funny but it means I get to hang out with him all day.”

While we’re on the Boosh, was he aware that this year marks the 20th anniversary of the comedy troupe’s TV incarnation? “Does it? Oh wow. Me and Julian [Barratt, his comedy partner] were proud of everything the Boosh did – the live shows, radio series, TV show. We probably should have made a film. People wanted more and that would’ve been a nice way to finish. Julian’s the funniest person I’ve ever worked with, hands down.” Of today’s comedy crop, he rates James Acaster highly.

Would the duo ever reform? “What we had together was so special. Comedy double acts are such rare beasts, like unicorns. I’ll probably never meet anyone like that again but I loved it while it lasted. We stopped at the right time, before the quality dipped. The Boosh was all-consuming, like being in a band. It’s difficult to recreate that when you’re older. You don’t have the same drive and energy. As much as I’d love to get back together, I wouldn’t want to do something that wasn’t as good.”

Going from Boosh to Bake Off has been an unexpected journey. “When the Boosh ended, because it had been a cult hit, I wanted to make something more avant garde and experimental to satisfy my art school side. So I did [Channel 4 sketch series] Luxury Comedy. After that, I didn’t know what to do with myself, then Bake Off came along. It was a huge curveball for me. I love that it’s old-fashioned TV. Millions watch it weekly. People come up and talk to me about the latest episode. It feels like being part of British culture. There’s so much choice now, thousands of shows on streaming, but shows like Strictly, Gogglebox and Bake Off somehow still cut through.”

After dismal weather all series, the sun even came out for this year’s final. “It had been raining and storming but as soon as we went to announce the winner, sunshine started beaming down.” Fielding grins. “Bake Off’s like that. There’s something magical about it.”

Guardian, 14.09.2024

[cloudylovemuses]

McLaren needs to put their shit together, because this is getting out of hand!

Before I start my rant, I want to make clear that I absolutely Love both Lando and Oscar with all my heart. All this rant is a direct attack to the team and not them!

So let's start at the beginning of the race when Lando once again defends himself from Oscar leaving George open to attack. Oscar has to defend both the cars from George, which leads him leaving the track.

You know what's wrong with that? Lando felt the need to defend himself immediately from his teammate, because the team orders were so vague that he knew this was going to end bad for him.

Oscar instead of letting Lando and himself build a gap between the cars behind and them attacks Lando and takes the lead while pushing Lando to third.

You know what's wrong with that? Oscar thought that this is the chance of him to take the lead, so Lando would keep the Ferrari's behind, because team orders were so vague, that he knew if Lando was behind him he would have to help him.

But, the McLarens are fighting, their pit stops don't work right (shocking) and Suddenly the two Ferrari's are 1-2 with a 11second gap between them.

You know why? Because, the so called "papaya rules" strategy was SO shit that a tractor like Ferrari easily got past them. One didn't defend the other from the rest of the grid, they defend against each other.

Of course Ferrari's strategy wasn't perfect, but Thank God Charles is back on the game and him and Carlos (who only lost his position because his tires were dead) work so well together, that they were able to pull that miracle off.

Before I go to the post race shitshow, please check out what Will Buxton said on F1tv post race show. My guy said exactly what I was thinking. (I don't have a link right now, but I'll add it later.) Here's a quick screenshot, of a thread post about said interview:

So, we see the cool down room, Lando is completely disassociated and Oscar's trying play it cool. Because they know what they did today cost both of them good championship points and a Charles win was just a help for Max, not even Ferrari.

I don't even want to go on, about the video of the p2-3 photoshoot. Both boys look absolutely defeated and it's heartbreaking how McLaren was able to make a P2-3 feel like a P19-20.

These are the absolutely disappointing words of Andrea Stella over here:

Exhibit A

What the actual fuck you mean it's brutal to ask a driver to switch positions? You've already done it in Hungary. You made a mistake, Lando picked up his pace, while Oscar lost his? You prioritized Oscar for what? Lando is closer to winning YOU both championships and you actually decline him?

Exhibit B

What do you mean Oscar's the Future? Lando is supposed to be your present! You need to help HIM rise. Oscar has exactly that, the future, he just got here! You created unnecessary pressure for both of them.

And here's a thread post that goes with the previous text:

On the post race interview:

This is just heartbreaking. Also later on answering another question, they zoomed in a bit on him and he was indeed holding tears. So here's him, defending a team that won't defend him.

McLaren keeps saying that they are a Family and they support each other.

The only support I see is from Lando towards the rest of the team. Oscar is really smart for thinking for himself, he should and good for him. But, Lando needs to do the same if he wants to get HIS championship!

Team is a fucking mess, Oscar knows that and uses it at his advantage and at the wrong times, in my opinion, because he'll find that in front of him. And I don't say that as a judgment, but more like, Imagine what that team has put in his head that he believes that he has to literally kill himself, in order to meet THEIR standards.

Lando needs to be mean, needs to be selfish, needs to stop defending the team and defend himself.

Fuck what people will say, people will always find shit to say. Fuck what the team wants to say, they called you their future and now you're just their leftovers. It's stupid and ridiculous.

Anyways, it's 2:15am and that's all I can remember that I wanted to say. I'm mad, I'm sad, I'm disappointed and I have a headache. This was all I got, I'll come back to you with a couple of links in the morning

[bloodgulchblog]

What are the weirdest facts about Halo you know. Like just absurd stuff. I mean there’s the worm mechs but I wanna know if there’s more

ALRIGHT let's see what I can remember off the top of my head before I have to leave for the day:

Once upon a time in the most ancient space days before the Halos were fired, everyone in the galaxy thought the San'Shyuum were incredibly sexy.

A scrapped enemy from the early Halos was a gigantic, lumbering one-eyed creature that they were thinking was a whole species the Covenant weaponized. The Sharquoi would later be used as a forgotten Forerunner weapon in a novel that are hive-mind controlled from this metal crown that will dig into your brain.

It's a kind of widely known fact about them, but the Forerunners as a species reached a point where they were not considered to be actual adults until their bodies had been extensively augmented, and it was a signifier of importance and status to go through multiple mutations over the course of their lives. (Which is why they are so radically different from one another in size/shape/appearance.)

The way the Librarian found out about how the Forerunners genocided the Precursors was by traveling out to where it happened and finding a planet where there was a population of Forerunners that had been surviving without technology for tons and tons and tons of generations. (They conveyed this information to her by biting her, so that the bacteria their ancestors had genetically engineered to contain memory and information could teach her about it.)

We have one canonical example of a smart AI living for a very long time... and it's because he was actually two AIs in a trenchcoat who would switch which personality was in charge while the other one went out to live in the internet-of-things between space tractors and cropdusters for a while to recharge.

Jiralhanae smell. They communicate tons of information through scent/pheromones, and are noted to stink noticeably when they're scared.

The Unggoy are a very musical people. They have a 42-storey high building in their capital city dedicated just to the musical arts.

The way the Covenant found the mech worms in the first place was that the Lek'golo worms were eating Forerunner technology and they did not like that, but then they figured out that SOME of them would just eat AROUND the technology so they had an Arbiter negotiate with them and get them to help kill off the other kinds. Normal Covenant stuff.

Huragok are actually living tools created by the Forerunners for building and maintaining stuff. There were once some Huragok that were used by Forerunner Lifeworkers that could work with living tissue the way other Huragok work with machines, but they were all wiped out. (...One does show up in a book but shshhhh I'm trying to keep this simple.)

Ideas of the "ideal female body" humans have are based on the Librarian's appearance because she messed around with genetically implanting stuff into humans so much.

The way you euphemistically talk about Sangheili groups that let their women fight more than is conventionally allowed is you say they have a "strong protector-of-eggs tradition."

The whole splinter population of Sangheili I mentioned recently that didn't want to joint he Covenant, so they went and hid in a Forerunner structure and succeeded for several thousand years.

The planet Onyx where the Spartan-IIIs were trained was actually secretly a Forerunner shield world. Now that it's been brought back into normal space, it takes up most of that solar system. The inner surface of the sphere will take generations of work to explore because it is so large.

[fiddlefordisms]

Canon Details and Analysis of Fiddleford McGucket Part 1

I'm writing a series of meta posts centering around everything we know about Fiddleford McGucket as well as what can be gleaned from those details and some theories of mine. At the very end of this series, I will also do a detailed look, analysis, and theorizing about Fiddauthor (a ship which I love) - however, this series of posts will be focusing mainly on what's actual canon (and thus written in terms of Fiddleford's friendship with Ford) and will be mainly focused on Fiddleford's character even as it stands outside of his relationship with Ford. Because he deserves to be his own character outside the context of a romantic relationship, and he deserves it in general.

Fiddleford was raised on his father's hog farm in Tennessee. We've received very few details about his family life other than that the hog farm belongs to his father, Fiddleford has a cousin named Thistlebert who believes in aliens, and Fiddleford's grandmother who does not approve of "coffee" (whatever that is). What we can glean from this is that Fiddleford is pretty familiar with his extended family. We also know he grew up "dirt-poor."

In Journal 3, Ford mentions that Fiddleford crosses himself while stepping over graves and chastises him for saying "what the devil." Tennessee is also located deep in the Bible Belt. This tells me Fiddleford was likely raised Christian and because of the "crosses himself" thing - likely Catholic. He's the first McGucket to ever go to college.

Fiddleford has anxiety issues, possibly an untreated disorder - a fact commented on by Ford in Journal 3 (knee-bouncing, a tendency towards pulling at his hair, his superstitious nature might lend to this as well, and the "SORRY" photograph mentions that he's "mighty nervous" about his first day, he also mentions having the hiccups that day - probably due to how nervous he is). Given how these things go, it's probably been with him since childhood, and he was probably belittled for it. Especially given the stigma around mental health issues, it would not surprise me if Fiddleford has been told multiple times "to get over his anxiety."

Before meeting Ford, Fiddleford had a low sense of self-confidence (and even after meeting Ford, it might still not have been the greatest). His very first day of college, after being laughed out of class, he's already arranging for a tractor (the joke is he's Southern and from a farm) to pick him up. He was going to drop out of college on his first day had it not been for Ford. This tells us that he was led to believe that he was "not right" or "not smart enough" for college. Because it's only his first day at college, he probably didn't get these ideas ingrained in him from the campus itself. Theories? A few. One: His father probably wanted him to stay and help out on the farm - maybe even take over the hog farm one day. Two: Fiddleford easily leaps to the idea that he "got his math wrong" and that his theory must be incorrect because everyone else thinks so. This tells us he does not consider himself "brilliant" despite the fact that he is HIGHLY intelligent. He's also at Backupsmore instead of a first-rate school. Because Fiddleford has a lot of anxiety, I think it's highly possible something that could have led him to believe this is test anxiety. Schools put so much importance on testing, and because of his anxiety, Fiddleford might not have been able to perform very well on tests. He probably really excelled at doing his homework, though, and probably already had a bit of an inventing streak. He might have been persuaded by a teacher to give college a try and probably had an interest in it due to his affinity for machines and likely a love of mathematics and physics (and possibly chemistry given that Old Man McGucket mixes up a voice-changing serum at one point). Fiddleford mentions in the "SORRY" photograph that he thought making a friend was more impossible than solving relativity. This is extremely sad and points to Fiddleford having been lonely through his childhood and school years up until college. It's not hard to imagine that he might have been bullied for being a "nerd" as well. People tend to look down on those who display Southern mannerisms and interests (Fiddleford plays the banjo, has a strong Southern accent, and was probably raised to take pride in his Southern upbringing) as "dumb hicks" - and this might be a cause for even more bullying while he's in Backupsmore and continued confidence difficulties.

[kwyw]

Like Swiffers aren't smart enough to understand the performance art of Taylor making the Meathead play the part of one the gross men that make her perform when she wants to die, I mean neither is the Meathead but that's not relevant right now, but like Swiffers aren't ever gonna understand the implications of that, all it's gonna do is make more of her fans turn on her if she ever comes out and it'll make all the fans who didn't turn away want to viciously lynch whoever she publicly dates after she gets rid of Tractor even harder than they already were gonna want to 💀

Aside from how embarrassing it is, and probably showing us that we’re probably going to get another gross WAG season, it’s really quite something that she’s playing both sides so much. It just doesn’t work when 99% of the fans are on one side and can’t see anything, even if it’s right in front of them.

FFS these people still vehemently argued about the grammar of the Hits Different bridge yet again the other night. 😂

[pendragonfics]

Contrast

Paring: Victor Creed/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader & GN pronouns, fights, conflict resolution, romantic fluff, triggers: alcohol abuse/alcholism and thunderstorms

Summary: After a tiff with Victor, Reader spends the night on the couch. It isn't until a storm comes over the farmhouse that they realise they need to be closer to him.

Word Count: 2070

Current Date: 2023-01-11

The hissing almost swallows his words beneath the just-pulled beer tab, but you catch it. It’s hard not to, as he barely opens his jaw these days to utter inhuman noises. You stare at Victor and wait for one of you to give way. The argument would not be made if he had listened to you, yet here you are.

His eyes are primal as he looks over the can, piercing your gaze.

“What?” he snaps.

“It’s nothing,” you retort. “If you even care.”

If you had dreamed that perhaps you’d be talking back to the Sabretooth himself a few years ago, you would have thought you were unwise, let alone asking for a shorter life span. Maybe that might be anyone else, but sometimes you could manage it. Not many people were this close to the man. Not many people shared this much with Victor Creed, yet you were still one of those he clashed with, albeit with his claws withdrawn.

“I’m too tired for this shit.” He barks.

“And I’m trying to communicate with a brick wall.” You throw your hands up in exhaustion and push your chair back to rise from the table. “But at least the wall would have something to say for itself!”

“Are you calling me an idiot, __________?” The can finds the table forcefully, making a harsh noise as it connects with the surface.

You can smell the drink wafting from his hot breath, yet you’re not in that proximity to your partner. It’s days like this when the liquor finds him that sets you off. It may wet his lips, but the stench of hops, of the acidic sting of bourbon that takes you back to the years of your childhood, when your lack of autonomy and the adults partaking would result disastrously for you.

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” You ball your fists, squint your eyes, and hold yourself in a tight embrace.

He grunts in response, but you feel your jaw tremor as sobs ricochet from your belly to the room. You can’t see well through the sting of tears, and stumbling backwards, you rush for the door. You’re smart enough to snatch the key fob and click the front door behind you. You don’t hear footsteps following, and you cross the snowy paddock to the detached garage.

Years ago, when you were shorter, younger, and impressionable, you lived under your father's roof. He was newly widowed, and with the agony of sadness that made its way into his heart, he drowned himself in the golden water from bars and bottle shops. You learned to take care of yourself young and distrust the drink. It left your father, a kind, intelligent, loving man, a vacant lot where once a palace stood.

Sometimes he was loud. More often, he was violent.

One night, you ran from him and slipped into a snowbank at the lake near your house. You should have died. Somehow, you breathed the water and stayed dry despite being submerged. A neighbour clearing snow found you the following day, head above the ice and fully clothed, alive.

You stare at the keys and realise you snatched the wrong set. Unless you wished to use the tractor, nestled in the barn until the weather warmed, there would be no radio and heated seating to take your mind off Victor and the plague of memories. It wasn’t unpleasant to sit in the snow, knowing your ability. Just…not something you did for fun.

Your eyes grow heavy after some time, and you do not want to kip in the powder when there’s a warm hearth calling for you inside. At this point, the clear sky ahead shows off the smattering of silvery stars above, like a bejewelled midnight sash draped above. You kick the excess white from your boots before you enter and pause at the bedroom door.

No.

Behind you, there’s still half a log in the fireplace and enough decorative pillows on the sofa. You take a coat from the rack by the door and bunker down for the night.

Sleep takes you like an old friend meeting you for a stroll, and then, you are off.

---

He found himself near his home in the early hours of the night, a window of time when the daylight has not sprung, yet the night is a pale navy, traversable by nocturnal beings like himself. But he is recounting it too soon; yes, there is more to the story than his return. Sometime after the argument, he had fled the scene, shedding his cosy clothes for his white undershirt, and leapt from the screenless window frame to the snow below. It had been the tail end of a long slog at his last post, leaving him hollow and mindless. He had thoughts on Magneto and how his order of operations ran incongruent with his, yet he persisted.

Badly.

Victor took off running like an animal from a cage, yes. Yes! He is out, freed, and enraptured by the thrill of it all. He made for the forest and took to work on an oak’s thick, heather-brown trunk. With every slash of his fingers, he tried to release his anger, yet it left him aching and just as empty as before. Before him, the oak tree, perhaps several decades old, tottered in the breeze, its bark half-slain from his touch.

“Goddamned idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The wind had a bite to it, and only now he felt its sting. Not even his lupine traits could muffle the sensation. Now cold, angry, pissed thoroughly off and dissatisfied with his outburst, Victor stood in the snow, seething.

They had tried talking to him. It was better than he could do on his worst days. They had tried. And he hadn’t listened; worse, he glazed over their words. He stood in the snow-filled forest, thinking about what might have made them so worked up, what he had done to make them feel that way.

And then – it hit him.

He feels a jolt through his arm, energy. It snaps through his cells, poises his muscles, and before he can blink or stop himself, he has withdrawn his fist to dole a solid hit to the oak tree before him. It snaps, and like when a seasoned lumberjack fells a foe, the tree falls backward, away from him.

He exhales sharply, staring at the cracked stump where the tree just stood. It looked as if a bolt of lightning had invaded the wood and snapped its core, albeit without the burn marks, and the storm required to dole the hot, instant punishment. Victor now knows what he must do now. Later, he will take care of this outburst. But first, he must make things right with his partner. As he returns to the farmhouse, he notes the station wagon is under the carport, and the prints of his __________ appear old, buried a little under fresh powder. He makes it inside and sees their boots by the entrance, and then as he moves further in –

You are lying on the couch, wearing yesterday’s clothes beneath a snow coat, head crooked on a throw pillow and awkwardly lolled over the sofa’s surface. The last log of the fire has almost extinguished itself, the light very low in the room.

Victor should feel pity when he sees you. He should always feel it for someone with less skill to take care of themselves in the wilderness than himself, the Sabretooth. Yet now, and every time he sees you, there is something in him that expands in his chest that warms thoughts with a kind of emotion previously foreign to him. Silently, he opens the fireplace and lays kindling with some old newspaper balled up. It catches quickly, and deftly, Victor places a new log atop the smoulder of flames.

He looks to you, now bathed in the red-gold glow of firelight and feels that twinge turn in his stomach. He’ll make it right to you in the morning; he must. You look too peaceful to rouse in the ungodly hours of a Canadian morning. He secures the fireplace door and, with the prowess of a natural predator, sneaks his way past you to the bedroom.

He leaves the door ajar and trades his slacks for sweats, and as soon as his head finds the pillow, sleep finds him.

---

You wake in a sweat, but not from your dream. It was a pleasant dream where you and Vic appeared human and traded niceties over decadent coffees in fancy mugs in an arthouse tea shop. Perhaps that was you in another life, but it was amiable, nothing that could stir you from sleep. Your eyes focus and notice the fire still burning. Or is it a new log? You can’t remember, but the room is warmer than when you went to bed, so perhaps that accounts for the sweat.

A low, guttural reverberation rocks the tiles on the roof above your head. Thunder.

It seems quite a (not) fortuitous twenty-four hours for you as you feel yourself rock again. Alcohol is a standard trigger for those raised around it. Most children grow out of their fear of thunderstorms, but you shake along with the rafters with the noise of the storm above.

It doesn’t matter that you went to sleep angry. It would be best if you buried yourself in the bedsheets, or better, in the crook of Victor’s embrace so there could be no change that the storm could touch your awareness. You leave the coat on the couch and scurry to the bedroom. Usually, when a storm rolled in, you would already be in Victor’s arms. You try your best to make your way to the vacant side of the sheets as quietly as you can, but a loud floorboard beneath your toes leads to the amber-gold eyes of your boyfriend meeting yours.

“Storm,” you say.

“X’s, or the –” he’s interrupted.

Another rumble, rhythmically similar to the previous one. When the silver-haired weather girl was around, her thunder was asymmetrical. Not that you knew, from experience. You weren’t a fighter. Just…a mutant stuck in the middle of the war between Professor X and Magneto.

“C’mere,” his voice is low but a good kind of reverberation that makes you fold like origami into his arms. “You okay, __________?”

You wait for the pace of your heart to slow a little before you respond. You know he can hear it beating, and together, you lay in the embrace, quiet as the storm moves overhead.

“You work so hard for us,” you whisper to him, the words dissipating in the early morning air as soon as you say them. “I shouldn’t fuss when you take liberties with your liquor. But…”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I might not be the brightest bulb, but I remember what you told me.” His shoulders flex: you can feel his biceps behind you tense up as you realise what he’s saying. He remembered. “Don’t give that cretin the time; he deserves all hell for what he did.”

“Vic, you can’t kill my father.” You remind him.

“I want to,” he grits out. “…but besides. I was an asshole about it.” He pauses, and, after a beat, as if the words came from somewhere else, but in the intonation of his voice, you heard the words.  “M’sorry, __________.”

Your heart races. Never have you heard those words from him in the years of knowing, dating, and living with Victor Creed. You know how hard it is for him. You had always accepted his condolences in the form of his actions and as the blank air where he intended them to be translated as such. You turn in his embrace and bury your head into his chest. Your arms tighten around him, your legs intertwined with his. He bends his head toward you, and in the dark morning light, as the outskirts of Edmonton are waking, your lips meet.

“I ain’t perfect, __________, but I’m trying.” He says, his breath hot on your cheek. He peppers your face with measured, tiny kisses. You nuzzle into the scruff of his neck as another wave of thunder echoes, this time further away than before.

“Vic,” you tell him, speaking into his neck, where you are positioned, his jaw above your head, “You’re just about perfect to me.”

[estellardreams]

✨The Needlemouse Children Fun Facts/Info✨

Skitter - Age 10

Skitter did grow up in a forest, being abandoned as a baby and forced to fend for himself. He eventually broke into Maurice's lab and managed to upgrade his systems before escaping.

Skitter goes by Skit as well. It's a nickname.

Skitter cannot speak. Sayori did teach him sign language, which he manages to understand but sometimes certain words confuse him.

Skitter is actually really smart, almost rivaling Miles. He's just more of a... Feral version of him (like Mangey from Sonic Prime for reference).

Skitter loves sneaking into narrow or cramped places. He also sleeps in the vents. A lot.

Skitter is shockingly pretty responsible over the twins. If only they'd listen to him more often...

Skitter is actually a fire elemental, specifically a unique variation of a flight type. He can conjure up fire wings on his back to use as actual bird wings or a jetpack.

Skitter oftentimes upgrades the security system, badniks, and mechs around the base.

Skitter is meant to be in 5th grade, but in actuality he got moved up to 7th grade because of his intelligence.

Skitter is in speech counseling to teach him how to talk properly along with acting more civilized. (Skitter ignores the latter part of the lesson)

Skitter has very sharp teeth naturally. And also has a habit of gnawing on people.

Skitter has a few sensory issues. He's not fond of water at all, nor anything sticky or slimy. He'd prefer something either rough or soft to the skin for comfort.

Skitter also despises clothes but can put up with them. The only thing he actively enjoys wearing is goggles.

Skitter can understand English along with a few bits of another language. He just can't speak it.

Skitter often squeaks when he's anxious.

Skitter can control fire.

Charlie - Age 7 (Three minutes older than Marley)

Charlie is oftentimes the leader when the twins work together.

Charlie is very trigger happy when it comes to weapons. ESPECIALLY explosives.

Charlie is the only sibling who actively curses (an accident on Sayori's part for saying those words around her)

Charlie holds wind magic since her mother was a wind elemental. She is a speed type, granting her wind enhanced super speed.

Charlie took some inspiration from Maurice, making her start wearing a cape and getting into mechanical weaponry. Specifically bombs.

Charlie knows how to use a longsword. Don't ask me how, she just does.

Charlie constantly wants to bomb the resistance to help her father, even if it's dangerous.

Charlie often gets burnt. A lot.

Charlie is very much into salads. She's not that fond of carb heavy foods since they hurt her stomach. (<- Actually can't have carbs in general. Unknowingly is Celiac)

Charlie has learnt how to drive Maurice's mechs through trial and error. She's also been trying to build her own mech in secret.

Marley - Age 7 (Three minutes younger than Charlie)

Marley somehow knows how to drive. Don't ask him how he knows, he just does.

Marley holds earth magic since his father was an earth elemental. He is also a power type, granting him super strength.

Marley has driven a tank and tractor before.

Marley's leg strength is surprisingly powerful, being able to kick up to 6 thousand pounds with ease. Anything more than that poses a struggle. But with his arms he can hold up to 4 thousand pounds.

Marley is a fan of using chainsaws as weapons, even if they're too massive for him.

Marley can easily swim in water and can hold his breath longer than his sister, which is by five minutes.

Marley is very much into fruits and berries, not so much on vegetables. He also indulges in a lot of carbs and proteins to keep up his strength.

Marley sews his own and his sister's clothes, surprisingly enough. He has a very delicate touch and is very meticulous over it.

Marley has very extensive knowledge over robotics and engineering. He's also been the one to tutor his sister on constructing machinery for them to use.

Both Twins

Charlie and Marley both grew up in a small village named Pine Grove. When they were both four, they saw Needlemouse on the news for the first time and became enamored. Ever since then they've idolized him and followed him around.

Charlie and Marley are partners in crime. They plan out everything together.

The twins are pretty inseparable unless they were forced apart.

Marley and Charlie are both supposed to be 2nd grade yet their intelligence would put them in 4th grade. They're the youngest students in their class and are on track to graduating high school when they're around 15 years old.

The twins do have their own villainous streak away from Needlemouse. Such as stealing and using anything at their disposal to cause havoc for the resistance.

The duo also know a lot about restraints, mostly thanks to Marley. If necessary they could easily capture someone.

The two are not... Exactly the most stable individuals. They care deeply for each other no matter what, though.

✨Bonus✨

Mars - Age 3 (Staurice Ship Child (Canon Undetermined))

Mars was created due to Sayori wanting a younger brother. This makes him a half-sibling to the trio.

Mars' holds a pink corruption type power, which combined with Maurice's speed means it accelerates extremely rapidly through negativity and it can be receded enough through positivity if necessary.

Mars' only way to recede the corruption so far is through forming a connection with those he corrupts. If not it'll make him upset and then make the situation worse.

Mars has both chaos energy and corruption magic. With the Chaos energy being a helpful stabilizer, he's much less likely to have his corruption spike due to his emotions once he's older.

Mars still needs new inhibitors, as the ones Sayori constructed are too primitive for a complex form of magic he possesses.

This is one of the first cases Star has seen and read about in documents of a corrupted state that is... Docile. Although she assumes it to be because of his age.

Star and Maurice are very... Ace. They had no interest of having a child at all, nor harbored any romantic feelings towards one another. So being shocked about Mars was... An understatement. Mars however was extremely clingy to both of his parents, regardless if they were together or not.

Shockingly, Mars doesn't perceive Sayori as his actual mother/creator unlike most babies. He just sees her as his older sibling. This is definitely a rare reaction for babies because they usually cling to the first person they see as a maternal figure.

Mars did get discovered when he managed to sneak away from Sayori and accidentally knock over a badnik in the process, getting Maurice's attention.

Mars is an incredibly fast learner, able to pick up words and mannerisms from others with ease.

Mars is very emotional over things, thanks to Star's tutoring and trying to avoid something in a similar situation to her from repressing their emotions.

✨Super Forms✨

Skitter has never used his Solar form before.

Marley has used his plant form and is really skilled with it, too.

Charlie has never used her Fae form.

Mars only got into his corrupted state on accident when he was a baby/toddler. Later when he was much older he figured out how to control it and shift on command.

[rainbowdaisy13]

Oh my God, look at the pictures from last night's concert of Tractor being all buddy-buddy with Tom Cruise, I'm laughing so hard I could cry, they look SO gay and infatuated with each other in these pictures, like Tractor legit looks like he was at the concert last night as Tom's gay date and not because Taylor wanted her "boyfriend" at all three of her June London concerts 😭💀

Being friends with TC is a dangerous game that tractor isn’t smart enough to understand I fear

[theowlgoesmoo]

Human AU for ABL/Silk and Stone

So, I recently realized that a lot of my human designs for my bugs... are kind of all over the place, outfit wise at least. So how do I make that work? Well, boredom at work is a beautiful thing, and so I've come up with a background to explain all that. (I'm definitely not going to turn this into a full-on Au because I've got my hands full already, but it's a fun experiment.) Anyways, here's what I got so far:

THE WORLD AT LARGE/ANT ISLAND

The world is set in a post-post apocalypse, a la “Nausicaa” or “Breath of the Wild.” There’s little in the way of advanced technology or large civilizations left, but people have done what people do, and have rebuilt. There are little pockets of humanity alive and well scattered throughout the healing world. 

Amber Isle is one such pocket. It is a small island nation ruled by a monarchy, and has been so ever since it was first settled centuries ago. The island kingdom consists of little more than a single city and a few scattered villages and farms, with a population barely topping ten-thousand people. It survived the apocalypse pretty much unscathed, as It was too tiny for anyone to notice or bother with.

Now it's doing quite well for itself, considering the state of the world, and is considered prosperous. It mostly subsists on farming, fishing, and mining, though its people have a flair for the artistic, and its capital (and only) city is a remarkably beautiful place.. Its culture is aggressively traditional, and even more so after the apocalypse. Anything new - especially in the way of technology -  is looked on with suspicion, seen as a waste of time or even a sign of arrogance. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” is the prevailing wisdom of many of the leaders, one they enforce.

Tech-wise, it’s hanging around the late 19th/early 20th century, and that’s being generous. There’s a decent amount of heavy machinery around (such as tractors), but most of it is slapped together or salvaged, often highly inefficient and far from reliable. 

HOPPER

The kingdom has been doing well for itself for maybe a century or two, until a gang of pirates/raiders land and pillage it regularly. Eventually the monarchy reached a deal with them, where they'd offer tribute every year to keep them away, consisting of food, money, booze, cloth, fuel, metal, and whatever else they demand. 

“Captain” Hopper leads a gang of cutthroats known as “The Swarm”, who get around using jerry rigged speedboats and jetskis. They sail out from their mothership (A likely stolen cargo ship turned floating pirates den) to collect tributes from the surrounding islands and coastal towns. Well, the smart ones who have struck a deal with the gang. The Swarm will pillage and loot the ones too stupid to not agree to their very reasonable terms.  

Most of the gang came from a small rural county far, far to the south of here, all leaving their homeland for one reason or another. Some had committed crimes terrible enough to earn them banishment. Some simply were lured by the promise of an easy life of hedonism and violence. And some, like Hopper’s young brother, simply had nowhere else to go. 

DOT

Dot is still adopted into the royal family. One night, a massive yacht/small cruise ship was caught in a horrible storm offshore of Amber Isle. A team was assembled to go out to it, including Flik. Best case scenario, they're a rescue party. Worst case...a salvage team.

When they reach it, they see the ship is practically destroyed. It's already sinking, and absolutely riddled with holes - and not all from the storm by the looks of it. This ship was attacked. The team moves fast to try and find any survivors, but all they find is death… save a single sailor. The man is delirious and yells at them to find the royal family. 

The royal family's cabin is easy to find, but it's been absolutely destroyed. Half the room is missing, blown away by what looks like the blast from a cannon. There’s no sign of the royal family, save for a small though elaborate empty crib in the in-tact corner of the cabin. It’s been tipped over on its side, likely by one of the crashing waves tossing the ship about.

But it looks like it only tipped over recently.

Flik is the first scout to enter the room. He hears crying from far below, and his heart sinks. A baby! She's fallen into the water! 

The water that is teeming with sharks, drawn here by the smell of death and the many sinking bodies of the late crew.

Disregarding all personal safety and sanity, Flik dives into the water, leaping from the hole in the cabin the child fell through. He swims out to her, adrenaline coursing through him as he thrashes through the raging waters. By a miracle, he manages to grab the tiny girl, before swimming to one of the small boats the scouting team used. With a herculean effort, he lifts the baby up to one of the men aboard, before he’s hauled in himself. He’s half-drowned, but alive, and so is she. A heavy tarp is tossed around both him and the child, the best the scouting party can do to 

Around the girl’s wrist is a tiny, golden bracelet, bearing a crest no one aboard recognized. They didn’t know what dynasty it represented, but it was obvious the girl was royalty. A tiny princess, saved from the sea, and likely the last member of her house.  

The ship shudders, and obviously there's no salvaging it. They've got minutes before it's fully taken under. The scouting party, the rescued sailor, and the baby princess are all loaded up, and return to shore, Flik holding the girl to his chest the whole while while keeping her wrapped up in his coat. 

The royal family takes her in as one of their own, adopting the little princess. As she had no name of her own, she was christened Dorothy by her adopted mother.  Her name was often shortened to Dot however, mostly due to the immense amount of freckles she had all over her - a trait almost unseen in Amber Isle, and one that earned the poor princess more than her fair share of bullying. Being different has its price.

For his bravery, Flik earns himself an accommodation from the queen, one that, among other things, grants him a high degree of trust when it comes to the little princess, and he becomes a part of her life, with her growing up and viewing him as an older brother or father figure - a role he is all too happy to play. (It’s the ending of “Seed”, let’s just cut to the chase =p)