#there's more but now I'm angry that I'm always fucking dismissed when I say there's problems

[bad-at-metaphors]

Say what you want i have such a history of being right when i feel like something is wrong and nobody ever believes me until the conses have quenced

We could have avoided so many unfortunate events if motherfuckers would listen to me when I say "hey I know I'm not a professional but something here ain't sitting right, can someone with more knowledge on the subject investigate?"

[darlingdaisyfarm]

₊˚ʚ Rain in the woods (Ford Pines x fem!reader) ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

part 2 | part 1 | part 3

author note: hey friends, so im sorry for taking so long, i wanted to post it this Saturday but i got lots of work, it's not proofread so I'm so so so sorry for any mistakes, i promise ill fix them a bit later!

also im working on some pre portal stan x reader x ford fic and it's filled with what we love the most - glass and angst (smut included!!), i know i always say it, but im so excited to share it with you guys <3

nsfw, minors dni

Stanford Pines — the enigmatic genius who’s always just beyond your reach, a mind so vast, it feels like trying to grasp the stars. You should be focused, but your gaze keeps flicking back to him. You’re utterly captivated, heart racing, mind spinning.

And then it happens. One moment, you're holding the mug, your fingers curled around it and the next it slips. No! The mug tumbles from your grasp, its ceramic form hitting the floor with a sharp, brutal crack that echoes through the room. You watch in helpless horror as it shatters into a thousand pieces, each fragment piercing the silence like a blade through your chest.

Your heart skips, thundering in your ears, and your face goes hot with embarrassment, an awful flush spreading across your skin as you turn your wide, panicked eyes toward Ford. His gaze meets yours, a mix of surprise and concern, but it’s his calm that gets you. 

“Oh shit—” your voice cracks and you curse yourself silently, mortified. Of course, you would screw up right now, in front of him. Stanford fucking Pines, the man whose brilliance makes your own thoughts feel clumsy, an intellectual giant, and here you are, tripping over a damn mug. The pieces of it seem to scatter in slow motion, like a dream you can’t wake up from. You’re so stupid. You feel so stupid.

“I’m sorry— I'm so sorry,” you ramble, desperate to somehow undo the mess, your hands trembling at your sides. You want to sink into the floor, disappear, fade away. How could you be this careless?

But then Ford takes a step forward, and everything inside you freezes. His eyes are soft, so much softer than you expected, softer than anyone else’s gaze ever could be. He’s not angry, not even irritated. Instead, he’s. . . calm. “Hey, it’s alright,” he says, a chuckle escaping him, as though the whole situation is laughable, as though you’re not standing there, mortified in front of him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with worse. Trust me.”

For one second, everything really seems to slow down as his words sinks into you like a balm. You believe him. It’s impossible to not. He’s seen everything and here you are, worrying over a broken mug.

“Im really sorry,” you stammer again, caught off guard by the softness in his tone, the tenderness in his gaze. What did you expect? That he’d scold you, dismiss you? But no. He’s calm, like this minor catastrophe is nothing. As if nothing could rattle him, as if you, standing there like a fool, didn’t matter at all.

Stanford laughs. “You know, after all I’ve been through, interdimensional beasts, curses, that damn triangle demon, a shattered mug would be nothing. So don’t apologize.” his eyes meet yours. “Im not made of glass. It takes more than a broken cup to rattle me.”

And then his voice lowers with that quiet authority. “Sit down,” he commands softly. “I’ll handle this. Don’t want you getting hurt.”

You can’t help it. His voice sounds so low, commanding, yet laced with something so tender it makes your skin tingle. The words come easy from his lips, but when they’re aimed at you, they tear through you. They make you feel like you’re something precious, something to be cared for, protected. But more than that, a part of you craves to be held by him, right now, right in this moment. To be pressed back into the cushions of the sofa, feeling the strength of his arms, making you feel like you’re the only one in his world.

You’re not just obeying his words, you’re aching to obey. 

That’s why without thinking, you sink into the soft cushions. And shit, there he is — bending down, his bare chest covered with scars still glistening from the rain, droplets make you ache. They fucking shimmer on his skin, taunting you, daring you to touch him, taste him, make him yours. Every inch of him is fucking perfect. God, how are you even supposed to think straight when he looks like that? Your body is screaming for him, for his touch, for everything. 

You try to look away. You can’t. His broad shoulders, his strong fucking arms, his hard chest. It’s too much. He’s a fucking masterpiece and all you want is for him to paint you in ways you can’t even process yet. Your body betrays you, again, that warmth spreading low in your belly, growing. You cross your legs, trying to hide the desperate need that’s already pooling between them. Fuck, how are you supposed to calm this down? It only gets worse.

He’s everything you’ve ever wanted and it’s all laid out in front of you, impossible to ignore. His every movement is so natural, so fucking sexy, it makes your pulse race. You just know he can make you feel things you didn’t even know your body was capable of.

You’re trying to calm yourself, really, you are. 

You cross and uncross your legs again, desperate to release some of the tension building between your thighs, but it only makes it worse. Fuck, why is this so hard? Every thought you have is consumed with him, with what he could do to you, what he should do to you. And the more you try to control it, the more your body betrays you.

You need to touch yourself, but you’re stuck, just waiting, consumed by the need for him.

And then, the thoughts take over completely.

You’re delusional to the point where you feel his hands on your legs, parting them, spreading you wide. You imagine him on his knees, lowering his head, his lips tracing the inside of your thighs, so fucking gentle, so goddamn slow, as he watches you with those eyes, sharp, hungry, possessive. And then, he presses his tongue to your clit, licks you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, making you whine for him.

You bite down on your lip, trying to hold it back, but it’s impossible. You need him. You want him between your legs, fucking you so deep you can’t think straight, making you beg for it. Fuck, what would he say? “That’s it, baby. . . just like that… good girl, taking what I give you. . .” the words seeping into your skin like a drug you can’t quit.

You bite down hard on your lip, desperate to keep quiet, but your body is louder than you’ll ever be. Fuck, your body’s soaking through, your pussy throbbing for his touch, and all you can do is stare at him, mesmerised. His body is a goddamn work of art, and you want to trace every inch of it, feel it on top of you, pushing inside you, taking you.

It’s so fucking embarrassing, but you can’t stop it. Your body’s so ready for him, for his hands, for his cock. You can almost taste him, can almost feel his cock sliding inside you, filling you so nice.

Fuck, any writer of erotic novels would envy your imagination. The thought of him getting rough with you, pushing you down into the cushions, fucking you into the sofa until you can’t think, can’t breathe. “You’re mine now, sweetheart. Mine to fuck whenever I want. You belong to me.”

The thought of him pounding into you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer, makes you want to lose your mind. You just want to hear him growl your name as he fucks you like you’re the only thing that matters.

And you know you’ll let him. Let him claim you, take you apart, until you’re nothing but a mess of pleasure, a good girl begging for more.

“Hey,” Ford’s voice drags you back into reality, unwantedly. Your heart stutters in your chest as you blink, trying to focus on anything other than the way your body’s still burning, aching for him. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, the concern on his face so fucking intense it almost makes you want to tell him everything you’re feeling, right here, right now. But you can’t. God, you can’t. Not when the way he looks at you like that.

“Are you alright? You don’t look too well.” his voice is full of worry, but there’s that edge of guilt creeping in as he mutters, “I really should’ve checked the forecast before dragging you out in this mess. . . feels like a bit of a fool for that.” his fingers are rubbing the back of his neck in that shy way he does, that little sign of guilt that makes your stomach clench in a way that’s too much to handle.

But it’s his fucking proximity that’s driving you wild. He’s so close now, standing there shirtless, looking like some goddamn wet dream come to life. You can’t focus on anything but his body, the way the rainwater trails down his skin, glistening so beautifully. Fucking fuck. 

“No, Ford, im absolutely okay, I swear—”

“Hold still,” Ford commands and that’s when you feel his hand so damn warm against your forehead, sending a shockwave of need straight through you. His touch is too fucking soft and yet it feels like it’s scorching you. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re so goddamn horny your body’s reacting to the smallest contact.

You try to calm yourself, try to act normal, but it’s too fucking hard. You force a weak smile. “I told you, I— I’m fine,” you answer, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. It’s all you can do to not let the truth slip. You want to scream it, how much you need him, how much you ache for him right now, but you don’t. Not yet. Never probably.

Ford’s brows knit tighter together and his eyes lock onto yours. He’s not fooled, not for a second. “You’re lying. Don’t try to brush it off. If you’re not feeling well, you need to tell me.”

The urge to confess everything is unbearable. You want to tell him you’re not sick, you’re just fucking drenched in need, that’s all! Aching for him to pull you into his arms, to kiss you until you can’t breathe. But instead, you do the only thing you can do: you force a nervous laugh, a weak attempt to play it off.

“No, I swear I’m fine! I could go on a thousand more anomaly hunts with you!” the words spill out with a little too much enthusiasm, a little too much frenzy and you pray to whatever god is listening that it’s enough to get him off your case.

Ford’s eyes narrow and he crosses his arms, still towering over you, still so close

Man, just step back or I'll pounce on you and eat you.

“Cold rain can do a lot more damage than you think. You could’ve caught something serious, and ignoring it won’t help. Do you have any idea how quickly a fever can develop if you’re already run down?”

Oh no, his voice shifts into that familiar, lecturing tone, the kind that makes you want to both roll your eyes and lean in closer to hear more. 

When he says something about cold exposure affecting the immune system, you should be paying attention. You try to focus on his words, but it’s hard when he’s standing there — half naked, with his chest on full display, his messy hair slightly wet from the rain. God, he's just so fucking handsome. The serious, worried look in his eyes makes you weak and you can’t help but sink a little deeper into the sofa.

Just as Ford’s lecture hits a peak, the door swings open with a loud bang and Stanley Pines strolls in, halting mid-step as his eyes zero in on the scene before him. Ford, half-naked, standing too close for comfort, and you, perched on the sofa with that nervous smile plastered across your face.

Stan’s grin stretches wide, clearly loving the situation as he leans casually against the doorway. His eyes flick between you and Ford, then he gives Ford an exaggerated once-over, raising an eyebrow at his lack of turtleneck. “Well, ain’t this cozy,” he drawls sarcastically, giving a smirk that only widens when he spots Ford’s obvious discomfort. “Ya know, Sixer, when I said ‘show the girl a good time,’ I didn’t mean literally strip down to do it.”

Ford’s eyes snap toward his brother, his mouth twitching in a way that’s almost a grimace. His posture straightens, arms crossing defensively as he glares at Stan. “Stanley, really? Must you always reduce everything to your level? She dropped a mug and I was helping her avoid a mess. You wouldn’t understand, but maybe try acting your age for once.”

“Hey, all I’m sayin’ is, if ya plan on gettin' cozy, maybe take it to a couch that ain’t mine.” Stanley’s gaze slides over to you, flashing a wink. “But if you’re lookin' for company, darlin’, I’m more than happy to—“

Before you can let the awkwardness spread more, you spring into the conversation, desperate to steer it somewhere less humiliating. “Stan, actually, Ford was just helping me to—” you force a friendly smile, trying to make light of the situation.

Stan laughs like he’s heard it all before. “Sure thing, toots. But between you and me. . . you’re doin’ a hell of a job of keepin’ my brother here on his toes. Haven’t seen him all riled up like this since. . . well, ever.” your heart thump so loudly in your chest, you’re sure everyone can hear it.

Ford’s jaw clenches so tight, you can practically hear his teeth grinding, but he doesn’t look away from Stan. The vein in his neck starts to twitch.God, it’s almost painful how much he wants to just end this conversation, end this moment, and pull you somewhere private, somewhere safe, where he can have you all to himself, but he doesn’t. “Stan, enough. We have an anomaly to inspect. Something I’d actually prefer not to delay any longer.”

Stan lets out a low whistle, clearly enjoying every second of Ford’s discomfort. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, Sixer, run off to your little projects. Just don’t forget there’s a real world out here, alright?” he gives you a quick nod, still smirking. “and you, don’t let him lock you in his lab too long, sweetheart.”

***

Grumpy Ford. The kind of irritated, scowling Ford you never realized you’d find so irresistibly enticing. That brooding frustration, that laser-sharp focus, you can’t help but imagine all that intensity turned on you, directed into every inch of your body.

God, if he just shoved you back onto that workbench right now, you’d let him. You wouldn’t care if his precious equipment went crashing to the floor, wouldn’t even flinch at the thought of papers and tools scattering everywhere. All you want is him, his body pinning you down, hands gripping you like you’re the anomaly he’s desperate to dissect, figure out, devour. 

Holy shit, you want him to push you up against that wall, pin you down until you’re writhing underneath him, his body grinding against yours, every bit of that frustration poured right into you.

Slick heat building between your thighs as you watch him, the way he moves around his lab, muttering in frustration as he punches numbers into some device, brows knitted in that fierce focus. And all you can do is want his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, his cock driving into you like you’re all he’s thinking about.

“The rain seems to have masked the anomaly’s energy signature. I suspect it might be due to ionization in the— are you even listening?”

His voice snaps you back, he’s tearing right through your flimsy attempts at focus with that intense gaze of his, as if seeing everything you’re thinking. You offer him a small, sheepish smile. “Of course I am! Gravity, paranormal. . . s-signatures, right?” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your eyes keep drifting over his body, your ache throbbing inside, thighs pressing together as he stands there, so close you could reach out, slip your fingers through the fabric of his clothes, feel the warmth of his skin.

Ford lets out a soft, exasperated sigh. “Honestly, you’re as distractible as Stan.” 

He turns away, but your eyes don’t leave him. Instead, you let your gaze slide over the room, until something catches your eye. A strange, helmet-like device bristling with wires and so, without thinking, you ask, “Hey, what’s that thing?”

Ford’s gaze follows yours, his expression changes as he considers whether to answer. “That’s a thought-reading device. Designed to access certain mental frequencies,” he explains, stepping closer to it and closer to you. “It can pick up surface thoughts. . . theoretically, anyway. I was working on it before I. . . uhm, it’s meant to strengthen and protect someone’s mental processes. Block out. . . certain entities from gaining access to their mind.”

A mind-protective device. Of course, he’d build something like that. It’s so him, his beautiful mix of intellect, caution, that underlying fear of what he’s seen, what he’s had to fight.

“So, it could let me peek into that brilliant mind of yours?” it’s a playful a tease, mostly. But inside you just ache to know, to wonder, to feel his thoughts. Would he think about you. even once, in the same filthy, breathless way you think about him?

Stanford grins. “In theory, yes, but it’s hardly necessary. My mind is. . . complex, too complicated for most people to understand."

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Ford lifts the machine, his grin is bigger. “Why don’t you try it on?”

Your heart slams against your chest and panic sears through you, cutting under your carefully held composure. Oh god. No. No, no, no. Every filthy thought, every desperate image of him, of those long, deft fingers tracing down your skin, of his mouth, his hands, of him pinning you down and splitting you open on his cock, of moaning his name until you can’t breathe. All of it, laid bare, displayed for him to see? 

You choke down the crazy urge to run, instead forcing yourself to laugh. “Why, Professor Pines, are you doubting my integrity?” you counter, flashing him a daring smirk, praying it’s enough to distract him from the heat that’s burning its way up your cheeks.

Ford chuckles in response. “Integrity?” he repeats, his tone mocking. “No. But curiosity? Oh, absolutely. I think it would be enlightening to see what actually goes on behind that amused little expression of yours.”

“There’s nothing interesting in my mind,” but your words barely sound convincing to you, let alone to him.

Ford tilts his head, arching his brow in that all-too-familiar, skeptical way that makes you want to simultaneously squirm and melt. “Oh really? You know, most people would be thrilled to test out new technology. But you. . . you’re avoiding it like it’s some kind of torture device.”

“Oh, yeah, you know,” a poor attempt at casual. “I just. . . don’t wanna risk, you know, brain cells or something.” you resist the urge to roll your eyes. God, please just buy it. . . 

Ford’s laughter rumbles and by the look on his face, you know he doesn’t quite believe you. But, mercifully, he lets it slide. “Alright, alright,” he relents. “I’ll spare you. This time.”

***

The rest of the evening is a haze of Ford’s intense meticulous rambling as you both sit tucked away in the quiet of his lab, soft lamp light casting warm shadows that stretch over the various gadgets, books, and uncharted maps sprawled out on every available surface, his domain, the world he’s always losing himself in.

He’s explaining again, his words so precise about the anomaly you saw earlier today. His voice rises with each detail, the way the rain altered it, how it vanished before either of you could even think to grab it. You should be focused, but his beautiful voice turns into a lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy, your body sinking deeper into the chair. 

And Ford notices.

The way your head tilts too far, your eyes fluttering closed just a little too long. He’s not as lost in his thoughts as he likes to think. His gaze sharpens, flicking to you with that careful, assessing precision he’s always had. He sees that quiet exhaustion in the way your posture slumps, the way your breath catches unevenly as your body fights against the pull of sleep.

His voice softens. “You’re exhausted,” he murmurs. “Of course you are. . . It’s too late. Go, get some rest. This. . . all of this will still be here tomorrow.”

A sigh tries to escape your chest before you can stop it. You want to protest, to stay longer, to pass just little bit more time with him. But the way he looks at you makes the words die before they can leave your lips. There's something unspoken in his eyes, a quiet concern mixed with that stubborn, unyielding sense of responsibility.

You try to stifle a yawn, your hand reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve, as if the touch might change his mind. “Maybe. . . maybe just a bit longer?” however even your own voice sounds tired.

His answer is gentle but final. “No. You need to sleep. I’ll be here, as always.”

You don’t argue. When you step away, you catch one last glimpse of him, standing amidst the piles of notebooks, the soft light casting shadows along the lines of his face, catching the silver in his hair in a way that’s so painfully beautiful so you let yourself stay a little longer before you close the door.

***

The silence that reigns in the room after you leave feels like a huge, endless void that stretches to all corners of the laboratory and suffocates in its stillness. Ford exhales slowly, a sigh caught between frustration and something deeper he can’t quite name. His gaze lingers on the door, where you disappeared through just moments ago, soft sound of your footsteps still echoing in his mind. God, he’s such a fool, he thinks, fingers pressing to the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the ache that’s been building inside him ever since you spoke those soft words, just a little longer.

He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t ignore it. The way you leaned in, hanging onto his every word, as if he were something more than he really was, something beyond the man who hides behind his work, behind his mind. The weight of your trust presses on him and with it comes the unbearable pressure of knowing he doesn’t deserve it.

And God, he tries to keep himself restrained. He tells himself that this is madness, that you’re too young, that every second he spends watching you, wanting you, is a betrayal of everything he’s tried to build.

But you’re gone now and his lab feels emptier than ever. Even as he reaches for his journal, his thoughts are still tangled with you, with the way you looked at him, the way your sleepy eyes followed his every move, the way you seemed to hang on to every word, every breath he took. Did you even realise what you were doing to him?

And as he opens his journal, he knows there will be no more notes on anomalies tonight. No theories, nothing but the restless, fevered words he can never, ever say aloud. Ford knows that if these thoughts ever slipped past his lips, they’d destroy you. You’d never look at him the same again. And he can’t lose you. He couldn’t bear to watch that disgust fill your eyes, that revulsion as you saw him for what he truly is: a man with a heart full of shame, but aching for you all the same.

He writes with a fever, the words coming too quickly for him to even think them through. He’s confessing things he’ll never have the courage to say to you. The way you make him ache, how wrong it feels, how unnatural it is to want you this way. You’re so young, so vibrant, so full of life. How could someone like him, an old man, a man of logic and reason, ever think he could want someone like you?

And yet, it’s all he can think about. It’s all he does think about.

God help him, he wants you.

Stanford’s hand trembles as he writes fast.

“The way she seems to lean closer with every word I speak, as if I’m some kind of god to her. I can’t breathe when she’s near, but I can’t stand being away from her either.”

He’s sickened by it, disgusted by the way his hands ache for you, by how his thoughts run into places he can’t control. But even so, he thinks, I can’t stop. I can’t stop wanting you.

“If only she knew what I was dreaming about, how I want to erase all layers of distance between us. I want to melt into her, touch every inch of her skin, as if she was made to belong to me, only to me.“

Ford can’t let you know how deeply he feels, how far he’s fallen for someone like you, someone so out of reach, someone who might never look at him the way he looks at you. Because if he did, if he let those words slip from his lips it would ruin you. It would break you.

And he can’t do that.

Not to you.

So, he writes. He writes because it’s the only way he can make sense of the mess inside of him. The only way he can be close to you without breaking everything.

“God, if she knew, she'd never see me as anything but the perverted old man I am.”

“God help me. . . I want her breathless. I want her shaking, clinging to me as I bury myself inside her, feeling every inch of her wrap around me like she was made for this. I want her to be mine. The years between us be damned—”

One sentence, scribbled with shaking hands: “if she knew how much I want to make her come on my cock while explaining the fundamental laws of interdimensional, she’d never look at me same way again”

“I want her shaking, spent, marked by me, by the man twice her age who should know better but can’t help himself.”

“I picture teaching her how to harness interdimensional energy, but my mind twists it, images shifting until it’s my body pressed to hers, whispering “concentrate sweetheart,” while I trust into her from behind. Her breath would stutter as I correct her technique with my hands on her hips.”

“I shouldnt crave her, not with the years that separates us like an unyielding chasm. Yet when she laughs, carefree and obvious, I imagine making her cry my name, hands guiding her hips as I thrust inside up into her, showing her exactly what an older man can do. Showing her why age doesn’t matter when she’s trembling and breathless beneath me.”

“She's got no idea, does she? I want her bent over my desk, books and notes scattered beneath her, while I thrust into her like some animal in heat, filling her over and over until there's nothing left of her but soft, pleading sounds and the way her body pulls me back in with every move. I’d guide her, make her feel exactly what it means to be touched by a man who’s twice her age and twice as obsessed.”

Meanwhile, now, alone in your room, you’re haunted by the memory of your lovely scientist, pulsing between your legs, leaving a needy ache that’s impossible to ignore. Just thinking about him, the strong lines of his hands, those six fingers that could make you see stars. . . it all sends a jolt straight through your body and suddenly, you’re melting, undone, utterly helpless to this craving for him.

You let yourself fall back into your bed, eyes closed, his presence wrapping around you like a ghost you can’t shake off. You can’t even catch a steady breath now, the dampness pooling between your thighs, every inch of you begging to be touched — not by yourself, no. You need him, his skilled, explorative touch, those six clever fingers. The memory of every stolen glance, every careful brush of his hand, it all coils up inside, a slow, delicious torment, and now it’s throbbing there, heavy with need.

You drag your fingers down the length of your body, tracing where his hands might go as you imagine him, his fingers slipping lower, finding that sweet, drenched ache and grazing it with a delicate touch that he’d know so damn well. 'Fuck,' you’d gasp, his name like a prayer on your lips as his six fingers roam, rough and relentless, pressing right against that needy opening, filling you up until you’re nothing but breathless whimpers and cries for more.

“God, sweetheart,” you hear his voice, “I’ve wanted this for so damn long. Do you feel that? How hard you make me?” and then he’d press his cock between your legs, hot veins throbbing against your entrance, and you can feel his breath on your neck as he tells you what a beautiful mess you’ve become for him.

Your fingertips brush over your clit as you imagine his hand there, gentle but insistent, exploring you with that scientist's curiosity, his six fingers pressing slow, circling that sensitive bud, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. “Let me feel you. Take it slow, sweetheart. Let me make you mine.” but even as you touch yourself now, imagining his fingers in place of yours, it’s still not enough

You arch from own hand, fingers gliding through the wetness now slick and ready, you press a little harder on your clit, circling it faster, imagining the way his hands would dig into your skin, his strong arms wrapped around you as he thrusts into you, “take it all, darling. Every inch of me.”

And by some lucky chance, Ford stands outside your door, his pulse slamming hard against his ribs, a wreck of a man just clinging to sanity. The sound of you — all gasping, breathy moans slipping through the thin wood, whispering his name in that desperate little voice — he can’t help himself as his hand flies up to the doorframe, his fingers digging in so hard they’re going white, knuckles taut, trying to keep himself together. 

But the universe is laughing at him, at his pathetic attempt at control, at the sheer uselessness of his restraint, because fuck, every gasp you make sinks its teeth into him.

Something hot runs through him, then it sinks low, thickening in his chest, then spreads down between his legs. His cock twitches, rock-hard and aching, straining against the fabric, pressing hard, begging for the attention he keeps denying it. He shouldn’t be here — hell, he should be miles away by now, somewhere that isn’t two inches from falling apart at the sound of you! But he’s not. He’s a goddamn mess, held hostage to the way you’re sighing his name.

“Fuck, sweetheart. . .” he’s going insane out here.

Ford knows how you look right now, imagined it thousands of times, laid out on your bed with those soft thighs parted, hands trailing down, fingertips grazing over warm, damp skin, teasing yourself open, getting yourself wet just for him. Fuck, he thinks, I shouldn’t be this fucking desperate.

Ford lets his hand slip down, pressing hard against the hardness straining in his trousers, feeling himself throb against his own palm. There’s no relief, just that painful, growing ache that has him grinding his teeth, biting back the low, broken sound that wants to rip free from his throat. He’s a man undone, ruined just by the thought of you, the image of you with your legs open, your body calling out for him like he’s the only one you need.

“Jesus, fuck. . .” his free hand reaches down, trembling as he slides it beneath his waistband, wrapping around the throbbing heat of his cock, feeling himself swell, hard and pulsing against his palm. It’s wrong, so wrong to be here, touching himself to the sound of your little whimpers, but fuck if he can stop.

The sounds coming from your room grow louder and it’s too much for him. He’s already so fucking close as he imagines himself on top of you, sinking inside you, feeling your cunt wrapped tight and hot around him, your body arching, your hands clawing at his back, those delicate fingers pulling him close, begging him not to stop. 

Ford’s back collides with the lab door as he stumbles in, chest heaving, adrenaline of hearing his name on your lips. He locks the door behind him.

Fumbling hands tug at his belt, fingers clumsy, impatient, tearing at the fabric as it’s the only thing standing between him and relief. Finally, the belt slides free, and he wraps a shaky hand around his cock, swallowing down a low hiss as the raw heat of his own skin meets his grip. 

He strokes himself roughly and desperately, letting his thumb graze the sensitive tip with a ragged groan that he’s helpless to contain. His mind runs further, and he pictures you, perfect and pliant, sinking to your knees before him with eyes so innocent, with lips parting as you take him into your mouth. As you let him fuck your throat.

A shiver runs through him and he leans his head back, sighing, groaning and grunting louder as he loses himself in the fantasy. God, if you only knew. If you could see him like that, a desperate moaning and trembling mess with his hand wrapped around his leaking cock. 

“Ahh— ffuck,” hell, just how much he wants to hear you make those sounds too, moan for him, he wants to feel you beneath him, warm and soft, clinging to him, legs tangled around his waist as he sinks into you. His strokes become faster. Ford imagines pressing you down onto the lab table, your dripping pussy welcoming him as he thrusts deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper until there’s no part of you he hasn’t claimed. His breath hitches, hips bucking into his hand as he imagines the way your walls would tighten around him, clenching, pulling him in. 

He’s shaking now, barely able to hold himself together, his free hand clutches at the edge of the workbench, knuckles white, as he lets himself sink fully into the fantasy. You’d look so damn perfect spread out for him. Ford’s hand moves faster, tighter, fueled by the image of you writhing beneath him, helpless, pleading, so sweet and open, absolutely his, his beautiful girl, sweetest thing. 

The pressure building until he can’t take it anymore. His hips jerk, a loud needy moan spilling from his lips as he cums, his body shuddering with release. For a few long, breathless seconds, everything fades: his mind, his shame, everything but the overwhelming, blinding wave of pleasure.

***

The morning breaks, a new day arriving, one that promises to be spent with Ford close by— and, isn’t that something to look forward to?

When you meet Stanford the first thing you hear is, “Did you not learn anything from last time?“

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, but before you can protest, Ford is stepping closer, his coat swishing around him. The wool of his scarf unravels with practiced ease, and in a smooth motion, it’s over your shoulders, the warmth of it spreads around your neck. You want to say something, but all you can focus on is the way Ford’s thumb traces the edge of the scarf, his touch so delicate it feels too intimate for something so simple.

This shouldn’t feel like it does, you think, but your body screaming what your mind refuses to admit.

“There,” Ford says, stepping back. “you’ll thank me later.”

“I thought you checked the forecast this time,” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t today supposed to be sunny?”

Ford crosses his arms with a smile. “Yes, well. . . One can never be too cautious. After all, last time—“

“—last time, I nearly froze my ass off,” you finish, the laughter bubbling up between you and Ford shoots you a look that’s equal parts exasperated and fond, like he’s about to scold you but can’t help himself.

“I wasn’t going to put it quite so crudely,” he says, but that reluctant chuckle escapes him before he can hide it.

When the sun climbs higher, the forest around you changes in hues of gold, the leaves thinning just enough to let the light filter through in soft rays. You walk side by side, close enough to hear the rhythmic crunch of your footsteps in the fallen leaves and Ford’s murmured observations, but it’s all you can do not to lose yourself in him. His words float past, about terrain, weather, anomalies and predictions, but your mind doesn’t follow, not when your eyes keep straying to him.

You can’t help but wonder if there’s any room left for you in his head, if he ever thinks about anything other than those damned anomalies. A piece of you wants to shake him, to pull him from his thoughts, to remind him that life is more than equations and mathematics. But, god, there’s something so cute about him when he’s like this, so fully consumed by his world, and you can’t look away.

“You’re thinking about something,” Stanford starts, pulling you out of your trance. “Is it the anomaly, or. . .?”

“Just wondering what it is we’re actually tracking. I mean, last time it disappeared before we could even get a good look, so. . . what’s the plan if it shows up again?”

Ford’s face lights up with approval at your question. “It’s an elusive creature, no doubt,” and again, his voice slips into that familiar lecture tone, one you’ve learned to love despite yourself. “But this time, I have a better understanding of its behaviour. The rain threw it off last time, but if my theory is correct, today’s dry weather should keep it on course! And if we can corner it near the ravine, there’s a chance we might get a clear reading on its—”

“Ford,” you interrupt, he stops talking, his brow lifting slightly. “I mean, yes— corner it near the ravine,” you repeat. Wait, what did you just say? 

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Ford asks, smiling at you. “If you’re still tired from yesterday, I can handle this on my own.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, crossing your arms as you look at him defiantly. "Oh, please. I said I could do this a thousand times over with you and still keep up,” you challenge.

He laughs again and his laughter is so damn cute. “That, I don’t doubt.”

Time pass and as you walk beside Ford, your mind drifts, you're not really thinking about the anomaly or the hunt anymore. No, your thoughts are elsewhere. Again. Somewhere they shouldn’t be, but there they are. You can’t help but notice the way the sun highlights the strands of silver in Ford's hair, the curve of his shoulders as he walks, his posture so effortlessly confident and strong. And you think about how much you liked the way his body looked in the rain yesterday, when the wetness clung to his clothes and made every line stand out even more. 

You sigh inwardly, watching him from the corner of your eye. The weather, as perfect as it is, only makes you feel a bit wistful. Why did it have to be sunny today? You had been hoping for more rain. The kind of rain that soaked him through and made his clothes cling to his skin, the droplets tracing the curves of his chest. That was a sight you’d never forget. But today sun is too bright, too cheerful.

The soft breeze brushes your hair against your face, and you snap out of your thoughts just as you see the clearing ahead. Ford slows his pace, his gaze scanning the area with his usual calculated precision. And just as yesterday, air here feels different. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the unease settling in. This is it, the spot where the anomaly was last seen.

But, of course, there's nothing. The clearing is quiet, calm, completely empty.

Ford steps forward, looking around with a frown, muttering something under his breath. You stand there for a moment, waiting, listening to the wind rustle through the branches and the distant call of a bird. But there's nothing. 

“Where is it?” you ask and Ford turns to you, his expression calm but with that familiar hint of worry in his eyes, the kind that usually only surfaces when he’s feeling frustrated. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, though his voice sounds more like he’s trying to reassure himself than you. He straightens up, adjusting his glasses. “The anomaly will show itself. We’ve got all day to catch it.” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

All day with Ford? 

Your heart skips a beat and you have to fight to keep your expression neutral. What could be better than spending the entire day with him, just the two of you in this quiet, secluded place? No distractions, just you and Ford, and the anomaly that might never show up.

It takes a little more time while you and Ford are waiting for the anomaly to appear and so, a dialogue ensues.

“I’ve seen some more strange things. In all my years of research, there have been anomalies of all shapes and sizes. Creatures from dimensions we can’t even begin to understand. Some are harmless, just curious things that wander around, never meaning to cause harm. Others. . . Others are far more dangerous. I've seen creatures that could tear through steel without breaking a sweat. Their behavior is— well, unpredictable.”

“What about the really dangerous ones?”

“There's one anomaly, one creature that I’ve encountered that still haunts me, to this day.” he looks away for a moment, as if weighing the decision to tell you more. “a beast unlike any other. Its skin is like iron, nearly impenetrable. And its mind is relentless. It doesn’t think like us. It doesn’t have the ability to reason, only the ability to kill and survive.”

Wow, you already can see it in your imagination, a massive, hulking creature, covered in jagged, metallic plates, with eyes wild like an animalistic hunger.

“And you’ve seen it?”

Ford nods slowly. “Yes, once. And it wasn’t an experience I care to repeat.” and then he calls you by your name. “Listen, if we encounter anything dangerous, you stay behind me. Don’t try to be a hero, don’t try to ‘help out.’ I’ve trained for this. I know these creatures; I know their instincts and behaviours. You. . . you don’t. It’s crucial that you follow my lead.”

“I’m not helpless, you know,” you mumble, folding your arms. “I can handle myself.”

But Ford only smirks, oh how cute you are. “And if you ever find yourself lost between dimensions, the key is to stay calm. Panicking is a surefire way to make yourself vulnerable. Reality in those places doesn’t play by the same rules. Your mind can trick you, distort what you’re seeing” 

You stare at him, a mixture of awe and confusion washing over you. “Well, thanks, Ford, for the guide on how to travel through dimensions and fight the monsters that live in them.”

“Years of experience. Sometimes the hard way. But you don’t need to worry about that, alright? Just stick close, keep your wits about you, and we’ll make it out just fine.” he smiles.

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to the forest floor. “You’re. . . you’re Stanford Pines. You’re used to dealing with this kind of thing. Me? I’d probably end up wandering off into some other dimension if I so much as blink wrong.”

He chuckles softly, and you feel his hand gently rest on your shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. To make sure you don’t.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then— crack. A twig snaps somewhere in the trees to your left. The sound is sharp, distinct, echoing through the quiet forest.

Your heart skips a beat and you instinctively grip Ford’s arm, eyes widening. He tenses, immediately going on alert as his gaze darts toward the source of the noise. “Stay behind me.”

You swallow, nodding as you press yourself close to him. Ford moves slowly, keeping himself between you and the sound, his shoulders squared, every muscle tense and ready.

Another rustle, this time from the other side. You bite your lip, feeling the cold prickling sensation of fear clawing up your spine. This doesn’t sound like a bunny, not in the slightest.

The sounds grow louder, surrounding you both. Ford’s posture tightens, his gaze focused and determined, while you hover close behind him, whatever lurks in the shadows isn’t friendly, and Ford, as always, stands ready to protect you at any cost.

Suddenly, Ford raises a hand, signaling for you to stay still. One. . . two. . . three

A small, furry creature darts out of the bushes, a pudgy raccoon, more plump and inquisitive than fearsome. It scampers out, blinking innocently at you both and you feel sigh with a relief.

You slip out from behind Ford, who’s still standing rigidly and eyeing the raccoon with disbelief. “Well, would you look at that,” you say, glancing up at him with a slight grin. “Our terrifying forest intruder was just looking for a snack, huh?”

“Don’t get too close,” Stanford warns, still frowning. “These things are rarely alone.”

You laugh softly, crouching down and letting the raccoon sniff at your hand. “Oh, come on, Ford. You really think this little guy is hiding—”

The words die in your throat as you catch the look on his face, his eyes wide with sudden horror, mouth open as he shouts, “behind you!” and you whip around just in time to see something that makes your heart freeze, a hulking mass with matted fur and claws like daggers, looming in the shadows. Its eyes flash like yellow lanterns and a rank smell hits you, earthy and rotten all at once. You barely manage a step back before it lets out a furious roar, its maw wide enough to fit a head and then some. The sound is so loud it rattles through you and a splatter of spit flies from its jaws, landing on your clothes. You go stock-still.

“Th-that’s. . .” you stammer, but Ford’s voice interrupts you.

“Stay calm. It’s eyesight’s weak, but sound-sensitive. Just— slowly step back.”

You barely have time to take in his words before the beast’s head snaps toward you again, snarling with an intensity that shakes the trees. Immediately, Ford pulls out his gun, aiming directly at the creature, he fires off a round that echoes through the forest, hitting the beast and it lets out a howl of pain that sends birds scattering from the treetops. But it’s still very much alive, and now it looks angry, furiously angry. The monster's gaze is fixed on Ford with a vengeful glare, and he rushes towards him with a blood-curdling growl.

Ford stands firm, taking careful aim as he readies to fire again. But just as he steadies his grip, a branch underfoot shifts, making him stumble. The gun slips from his hand, landing somewhere in the tangle of roots and leaves and suddenly, he’s weaponless, the monster mere feet away.

Panic flares in your chest as you see the creature, claws poised, ready to strike. Ford scrambles back, but it’s too close, and something snaps inside you. Without thinking, you dart forward, adrenaline flooding through you and you grab a thick branch from the ground. With a yell that’s as much out of fear as it is determination, you swing it at the creature with everything you have, landing a blow that momentarily distracts it from Ford.

But that monster retaliates, slashing out in a blind fury and suddenly you feel the sting of claws raking across your leg. Pain flares sharp and hot, but you grit your teeth, ignoring it, keeping yourself steady enough to stay upright.

Ford seizes the moment, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and fear as he snatches his gun from the ground, turning back to the creature. His voice is hoarse but resolute, “what are you doing?” he shouts irritably, calling your name again. “I told you to listen to me!”

With a final, controlled shot, he fires, the bullet hitting its mark. The monster lets out an agonized cry, staggering back before it turns and lumbers off into the dense woods, its snarl fading into the distance.

The adrenaline ebbs, leaving you and Ford alone in the sudden silence. His gaze finds yours, mad and worried all at once, his hand reaching out to steady you as your breathing finally starts to slow.

Ford’s face twists with frustration, jaw clenched tight and when he speaks, his voice is seething with barely controlled anger. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed, charging in like that! I told you to stay back!”

You swallow, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks, not out of embarrassment or fear, but because, god, he’s hot when he’s angry, with that fire in his eyes and his tone like a damn storm. You force yourself to stay upright, despite the dull ache pulsing in your leg. “Ford, it’s fine. I just wanted to—”

But he’s already looking at you, really looking, his gaze flicking from your face to the way you’re leaning on your uninjured leg. “You’re hurt,” his tone dips from anger to something softer and worried. “Damn it, I should’ve never brought you out here. I’m such an idiot—“

“No, Ford, it’s just a little—” you try to brush him off, waving your hand dismissively, but as you shift your weight, a sharp bolt of pain shoots through your leg. You bite back a wince, forcing a smile. “Just a scratch, really.”

“Don’t even think about hiding this from me,” Ford turns annoyed and dead serious again, he steps closer as he assesses you, and there’s something really fierce in the way he insists, “Let me take a look. Now.”

For a moment, you think about arguing. But the pain flares again and you realise there's no winning against that look in his eyes. With a sigh, you give in, nodding reluctantly as you show him your new wound, from where the blood has already soaked into the fabric, turning it dark red.

Ford’s face changes instantly. “Damn it,” his hand hovers uncertainly like he wants to reach out, to touch, but doesn’t quite know where to begin. “This is— this isn’t just a scratch.”

His fingers finally settle gently around your calf, supporting you, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he examines the wound. You can feel his pulse under his fingertips, it’s obvious he’s anxious, and for a second, he doesn’t look like the Ford who always has the answers.

“This was my fault, I shouldn’t have— damn it, I should’ve kept you safe.”

***

The journey back to the shack feels agonizingly silent. Ford has one arm around your waist, nearly carrying you as you limp along, every step makes the wound throb in your leg. The sting, the ache, it’s all mingling with a sick sense of regret. You feel it settling in your chest. The whole day had been a disaster. You both went out to catch that anomaly, that one lead he was so excited about. . . and instead, you ended up facing something brutal. The monster had nearly killed you both.

Ford hasn’t spoken a word since the forest and with each passing second, it gnaws at you more. The thought appears in your mind, he must regret it. Bringing you along, letting you be there, yeah. . . he’s mad and not in the way you find hot. He’s distant, still supporting you, guiding you with a firm hand, but it’s as though he’s somewhere else entirely.

When you finally make it to the Shack, you find it blessedly empty. No Stan’s loud jokes or questions to break the heavy silence between you. Ford helps you to walk, still wordless and the whole way, you’re trying to find something to say. Some excuse, some apology, but every time you look over at him, you just see that grim look and you stop yourself.

Inside, he lets you sit on the couch. You clear your throat, forcing yourself to speak, to try to lift that heavy cloud around you. “Ford, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for things to go that way. I didn’t mean to—”

But Ford cuts you off. “No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault. I should never have let you come along, I put you in danger.”

That serious tone. . . You nod, saying nothing more and after a beat of silence, you get up slowly, mumbling something about heading to your room. Ford doesn’t stop you, and he watches you go, still worried as fuck, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s rooted there, expression tight as he watches you limp down the hall.

When you get to your room, you close the door softly behind you, but the pain in your leg has started pulsing heavier, sharper, demanding your attention. You look down and finally decide, you’re going to check it, even if just to prove to yourself that Ford’s look wasn’t warranted, that maybe you’re not as bad as he seemed to think.

You settle on the edge of your bed, carefully and slowly taking your pants off, but as you pull the fabric, the sight that greets you isn’t reassuring in the slightest. The cut on your thigh is deep, seeping a fresh, dark line of blood that’s begun to smear against your skin. “Fuck. . .” you curse, tilting your head to get a better look, your fingers hovering over the edges of the wound. Just as you’re mentally preparing to find the first aid kit, a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“No, please, just— let me help still. I won’t be calm until I—”

In the midst of your concentration, you hear the faintest creak of the door, and before you can even react, it opens. 

You barely have a moment to react, still sitting on the edge of your bed, the bloody gash on full display as Ford steps inside, eyes widening as he looks at you. He freezes and for a moment, you both just stare at each other in silence. You’re sitting there in your panties and a t-shirt, and you don’t know if to be happy or not, realising how exposed you must look. Ford’s gaze flickers to your bare legs, to the wound on your inner thigh.

You cross your legs in shock and embarrassment. “Ford, what—” you start, but he quickly raises a hand, cutting you off.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ Ford approaches, he kneels beside the bed, looking up into your eyes. “I— I can’t just leave you like this,” he pleads. “Please. . . let me help.”

“Ford—“

Ford’s hands hover over your leg. “You need to stop the bleeding, disinfect it, make sure it doesn’t get infected. It’s going to hurt, but, I can help. I’ll be gentle. Just let me. . . please.”

His eyes search yours, a quiet desperation in them that seems to say more than just his words ever could. Ford may be brilliant when it comes to the unknown, but in moments like this, when it’s you that’s hurt, he’s lost, even if he tries to sounds smart. He doesn’t want to mess this up, doesn’t want to fail you.

Slowly, you nod, the vulnerability in his gaze too much for you to ignore.

“Alright,” you whisper. “but be careful, okay?”

[dr-spectre]

Ok... is it safe to talk about Sonic Movie 3 spoilers yet? The movie is out on digital and it's been over a month.

Idk. Anyways.

I am both curious and utterly terrified on how they are gonna write Metal Sonic and Amy for Sonic Movie 4.

I will start off with my boy Metal first.

Metal Sonic to me is a very interesting character due to his goals and motivation. His goal to prove that he is the REAL Sonic and that he's better than the "fake" one. The way that he acts is a near perfect replication of Sonic's attitude, from the finger wagging to the poses he does in Sonic CD and the OVA, he is all about proving that he is Sonic the Hedgehog.

Metal Sonic is just not a simple robotic clone, he has depth to him and they expand upon GREATLY when he becomes Neo Metal Sonic and becomes SO OBSESSED with proving that he's the real Sonic by turning into a monster and trying to rule over everything, just so he can finally kill Sonic.

EVEN EGGMAN IS LIKE "Yeah naw dude we're fucked, we NEED the chaos emeralds to have a chance at beating him."

After his Heroes appearance, he became nothing more than a robotic clone used in spinoff games and in terrible mainline games like Sonic 4 and Forces. He only had splashes of depth to him in the IDW comics with this phenomenal scene.

So when i see Metal Sonic and a whole army of him in the post credit scene of Sonic Movie 3, i can't help but feel VERY WORRIED on what they are gonna do with him.

I mean don't get me wrong, the design is nearly on par with the game version, aside that fucking mouth piece thing, it looks AWFUL!!!! I HATE ITTTT!!

WHAT IS THIS!?!? WHY DOES HE HAVE AN ANGRY MOUTH!? ITS NOT SCARY AT ALL LMAO!

But now I'm just wondering, will they give Metal Sonic that depth he used to have? Will we actually see Neo Metal Sonic or will the main Metal Sonic be the coloured one we saw?

I don't want Metal Sonic to be like his appearances in Sonic 4 Episode 2 and Forces. I want it to rival his appearance in the OVA and Heroes dude. I want a fucking great antagonist, not a cheap robot that shoots out energy blasts.

I want a god damn intimidating robot Sonic.

Now... Amy Rose.

As some of you probably know, i like a character wrapped in pink, is hyperactive, wields a giant melee weapon and is always mischaracterized in the fandom they are from. When i was younger, i used to dismiss her or think she was just funny and move on. But as i've gotten older, i've actually grown to really like the character, especially in the older 3D games and with retranslation mods. Her story with Gamma was beautiful, her speech to Shadow, her jokes, her flirty/fangirl attitude towards Sonic. It's really fun to watch. Most media has a boy fall in love with the girl, but with Amy and Sonic, it's the opposite. Their dynamic is unique.

I also love how in some stories, Amy can get REAL PISSED OFF and have anger issues. Even roses has thorns.

However... in more recent stories like Frontiers, her personality has been mellowed out by a lot and her crush for Sonic is pretty much gone now. She's all about "sharing love with the world" now and her anger issues are gone.

Some say she's grown up and "oh she changed!" But we actually don't see this character growth at all. It's one thing to tell a story about how Amy learns that maybe her love for Sonic is too much and she learns to just be a good friend to Sonic. But it's another when the character has a MASSIVE personality change between Lost World, Forces and Frontiers. AND THEN THEY CHANGED GENERATIONS TO MAKE AMY LESS FLIRTY AND ANGRY LIKE.... HUH!?!? WHY!?!?!? THAT'S NOT HOW YOU WRITE A CHARACTER ARC!!!!! YOU GOTTA SHOW IT!!!! (A lot of Sonic characters have this issue too so it's not just an Amy problem.)

And them also doing the whole "Amy is no longer a damsel in distress anymore and her love for Sonic is over" is just... no dude. Amy was a damsel a couple of times and they never lasted that long. She's not on the same level as Peach. And the IDW comics tried to make her a Sally Acorn type character for some reason as well at first. Which was REALLY WEIRD! But maybe it's changed idk, i haven't kept up with the comics these days.

The only Amy that i really like in more modern stories is the one from The Murder of Sonic The Hedgehog. Now THAT'S how you write Amy.

So now, when i see Amy come in with a hood on and destroying Metal Sonics with ease, I'm left wondering, "oh no... how are they gonna write her?"

Will they actually show Amy's crush on Sonic? Will Amy just have Sally's personality? Will they give her some damn thorns? Will they make it to where SONIC IS THE ONE WITH THE CRUSH!?!? PLEASE DON'T DO THAT! DO NOT GO THE GENERIC ROUTE PLEASE!!

If they make it to where when Amy takes off her hood in Sonic Movie 4 and immediately falls for Sonic I'll eat all of my words, but i doubt that would happen....

Anyhow, those were my thoughts, i know that it's too early to make a definitive statement on things but i just wanna voice my concerns due to other recent Sonic stories not landing in the characterisation department for me.

[warblogs17282]

Still thinking about the Truth Seekers line where Loona said,

"Blitzo was using a total of zero euphemisms, innuendos, or swears. That means it was serious, which means I don't open it until--"

And now, I'm thinking about all the different emotional and heavy-hitting moments from Blitz, but from the lens of that statement, and I'd like to explore that in a little more depth.

Because I feel like looking through some key moments of Blitz through the lens of that statement helps to add another layer of depth to what Blitz has been saying.

S2 E9:

Blitzo: No, I just- This was the final stop on the apology tour I've been on today.

Stolas: Oh, yes, I recall. Everyone but me is getting your cheap apologies tonight, hm? Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you.

Blitzo: Look, how I acted this morning... It was fucked, okay?

Stolas: This morning? Ugh, why did you show up there? Why'd you show up here?

Blitzo: You already asked that, but look, I-I just really need to... To talk to you, to- to explain.

Stolas: Oh?

Blitzo: I've always been real shit at sorries, 'kay? They're for pussies and no one fuckin' deserves them anyway, but I felt maybe you actually needed one.

Stolas: Ooh, lucky me!

Blitzo: Oh, shit. Okay, what I mean is, I said sorry a lot today and, honestly, didn't really mean any of it. Because the only one I wanted to say it to... Was you, Stolas. I just... This whole thing we had going... I'm- I mean you're a fucking prince. How could you ever actually care for an imp... Me? How could anybody?

Stolas: Blitzo. There is a crowd full of people here, who cared so much, they'd throw an entire fucking party about hating you, every year! Do you know how much you have to care to do something as stupid as that?

Blitzo: Stolas, you are better off without me. 'Kay? You deserve so much... I don't even know why you would want to be with me.

'I mean you're a fucking prince.' Blitz is technically correct here, but if we consider the Truth Seekers statement, I believe it tells us that Blitz, at least subconsciously, sees Stolas as more than just a prince during this scene, he sees Stolas the man here, not just Stolas the prince. And honestly, that probably makes it hurt more to Blitz, since he's still in disbelief/denial that Stolas has these feelings for him at this point.

Especially considering what it's followed up with, which I'd like to mention doesn't have a single swear word in it whatsoever, telling us even more just how sincere Blitz is when he said that final line.

Verosika: How do you think I felt? When the fun guy I was dating decided to just bail on me because I made the shitty mistake of saying I love... Ugh! It was the most embarrassing feeling. To be vulnerable for once and... you really just know how to send a message in the shittiest, fucking way.

Verosika: The worst part is you still make me feel like a bad person for being angry at you now.

Verosika: But, hosting this party, for everyone else you've dicked over? At least I can help others cope with the shit you did. What? No snarky comeback?

Blitzo: No. You're right. I actually am, ya' know... sorry. I-I don't want to be this way. Not forever.

Verosika: Looks like Stolas is having a good time.

Blitzo: Yeah, well. He needs it.

Again, just pay attention to the fact that Blitz didn't swear once during the part of the conversation I just showed, showing once again even more just how sincere Blitz is being here, to not be the way he is forever, to let Stolas have his good time at the party.

S2 E8:

Blitzo: What?! FUCK you, Stolas! You spring this feelings bullshit on me, are you fucking kidding? Can I get a FUCKING minute to think after everything you put me through, you pompous, rich ASSHOLE?!

Blitzo: Treat me like one of your little butler imps?! You can't just dismiss me like that! I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this EVERY TIME, like you can just play with our feelings because we're smaller and not as IMPORTANT! Well, I'm not letting you, BITCH! LET'S GO!

Stolas: Blitzo... I think so very highly of you... I didn't realize you think so low of me...

Blitzo: Stolas, wait! I'm s-

You know, the amount of swearing in that part of the episode tells me something, that what Blitz said during the peak of his outburst was exaggerated a little. Does Blitz make some completely valid points during that outburst? Yes. Is what Blitz said during said outburst a bit exaggerated because he was in the heat of the moment? Yes. Both of these can coexist, and I do completely understand why Blitz said what he said during that argument. (I'm not choosing a side on who was in the wrong in the full moon argument here, btw)

And, the lack of swearing when the realisation hits to Blitz of what he's just done, right as he tries to apologise to Stolas just further tells me that Blitz did genuinely mean that 'I'm sorry', he said right before Stolas teleported Blitz out.

S1 E8:

Blitzo: Fuck, Fizz was right. I'm gonna die alone, aren't I? Just a wrinkly, old, withered, waste. Will you be there, Loonie?

Loona: Be...where?

Blitzo: I dunno, jus- ...lonely... Die alone...

Loona: I'll be there, Dad.

Loona: Now go the fuck to sleep... okay?

Blitzo: Millie... Moxxie... Stolas...

Again, pay attention to the lack of swearing in that part of the conversation, minus one 'fuck' at the start of it, it just adds to showing us just how raw and genuine Blitz's emotions are during this scene, showing us that Blitz genuinely believes that he's gonna die alone, and also showing us just how much Blitz still cares about Fizzarolli, Loona, Millie, Moxxie and Syolas.

S1 E7:

Stolas: You know, I have some more wine in the house. Octavia's with her mother this weekend. So, we could--

Blitzo: I'm not fucking you tonight, okay? I'm really just I'm really not in the mood, Stolas.

Stolas: We could talk, or... watch a movie, or... maybe cuddle?

Blitzo: Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay? You make that really clear all the time. But, I just, I-I can't do it tonight, okay?

Blitzo: I'm sorry.

Stolas: Okay. Goodnight, Blitzo.

Blitzo: Night.

What I find interesting here is that the two times the word 'fuck' is used throughout this scene, it's used to replace the word 'sex', so thinking about this scene through the lens of that statement, it shows us even more just how much Blitz believes in what he's saying, especially when he says "Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay? You make that really clear all the time."

Finally, S1 E6:

Moxxie: Do you remember what you said to me after my first day with the company?

Blitzo: ...Not really.

Moxxie: I remember. You told me I did a good job and that you were proud to work with me. I feel like you wanted to say something more judgmental, but... you said that because I needed it... And it helped.

Blitzo: Look, I'm hard on you, because I know what you're capable of, Mox. You care too much about what everyone thinks except for... me, because, y'know, my opinion is correct, but just... keep doing a good job. 'Kay? You shoot 'n kill good, you escape things easy... you can be strategic and cold-blooded when you need to, aaaand don't expect any more compliments; I'm maxed out.

Moxxie: Thank you, sir.

Blitzo: You know my name... Use it.

Moxxie: Thanks, Blitzo.

No euphemisms, innuendos or swears, showing us that when Blitz was talking to Moxxie in this scene, that he was 100% being serious in what he said.

So in conclusion: I have shown multiple examples where if you think about them through the lens of the statement "Blitzo was using a total of zero euphemisms, innuendos, or swears. That means it was serious, which means I don't open it until--", you start to see more depth within those examples I have shown in this post.

[penumbra-mayhem]

Beautiful

David/Angel fic (t4t)

————————————

Angel groaned in frustration. It was useless, she wasn’t going to get it right. She slammed her hand down onto the bathroom counter, her bangles clinking in agreement.

Maybe it was sign. Maybe she shouldn't go. She aggressively wiped at her forehead, then groaned again as she could feel tears prick her eyes, threatening to ruin the makeup she’d spent so long perfecting.

"Angel?" David called from the living room, "Are you okay?"

She took a breath and brightened her tone, "Yep, I'm fine, just finishing up!" That tone was not bright. It was abysmally sad. And pathetic. And David could tell.

A moment later, he was marching into their bathroom. He looked dashing, decked in an all-black velvet suit, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, wedding band gleaming on his finger.

The sight of him just made Angel more self-conscious. She fixed a smile on her face; he saw through it immediately.

"Beautiful, what's wrong?" he asked.

The pet name brought a flood of tears to her eyes. "Shit," Angel muttered as she threw her head back, willing the tears to stay put and not run down her cheeks.

"Angel?" David moved towards her, placing his hands on her waist.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Angel stammered, hanging her head once she got the tears under control, "Ugh, this is so stupid."

"What is?"

"Nothing,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

"Angel..." David urged.

She huffed and looked anywhere but at him. "I just...I can't get this bindi right and I've tried like three fucking times and I don't want to wear a sticker one cause I hate how they feel on my skin but this shit is being uncooperative!" Angel ranted, shaking the bottle of liquid bindi in her angry fist, "And now I'm starting to think that maybe it's not the bindi that looks wrong and it's just my face!"

David watched as Angel caught her breath, his stare dark and unrelenting. She could hear a restrained growl rumbling in his chest.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm being stupid—"

"Angel," David cut her off, his voice like water rushing over stones, "look at me."

She sighed and raised her eyes to meet David's gaze. He looked at her like an artist looks at their muse—taking note of each detail of her skin, following the flow of her bone structure, noticing where the light hit her nose and cheeks and lips. Had it been anyone else, Angel would have felt studied and scrutinized. But with David, she just felt seen. And when he spoke, it was like being serenaded:

"Now, you know I don't say things flippantly. I mean what I say. So, hear me when I say this. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. —Ah, ah—" David interjected, cutting Angel off as she opened her mouth to argue, "The most beautiful woman. You look radiant. You look luxurious. You're breathtaking—always. With and without your makeup. With and without your bindi. No matter where you are, what you're wearing, what you're doing. You are the most beautiful. You hear me?"

Angel would have done anything to stay held in his gaze. "Yeah, I hear you,” she mumbled, not entirely convinced.

"Good. Now can I give you a kiss, or will that mess with your makeup?"

"No, you can give me a kiss."

David smirked and gingerly pressed a kiss to Angel's glossy lips. "Now give it here," he muttered.

"What?"

"The bottle," David replied, "Give it."

Angel passed him the liquid bindi and watched silently as he unscrewed it and pulled out the applicator.

"Hold still," David murmured, placing a delicate finger under her chin and tilting her head up. He held the applicator with a steady hand and dabbed her forehead with it once, then twice for good measure.

"Does that work?" David asked as he stepped back, putting the applicator back in the bottle.

Angel blinked from her love-induced stupor before turning to face the mirror. The angles of her figure that she had been agonizing over now appeared…softer. The royal blue fabric of her saree flowed over her curves just as she had been intending. Her jhumka earrings framed her jaw, the light reflecting off the gold bells and dancing playfully across her smooth skin. And the maroon bindi, placed precisely where she’d wanted it, brought the entire ensemble together. Angel started to see what David had been talking about. Radiant. Luxurious. Beautiful.

“It’s perfect,” she exhaled, before turning back around to face him, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” David said, giving her another small kiss, “anything for my angel. Now come on, let’s go.”

————————————

thanks for reading! i'm putting my thoughts here cause there are too many for the tags :P

I’ve been feeling like my fics have been a bit too dialogue-heavy, so I wrote this to practice my descriptive writing. (There still ended up being quite a bit of dialogue but oh well.)

I also kinda wanted to explore the struggle of dressing formally as a trans person. I often will have a cool formal outfit in mind for an event, but when I put it on everything looks wrong on my body and I end up not wanting to go to the event at all.

Also please note, I am not South Asian. I tried my best to do research and write accurately/respectfully, but if I wrote anything wrong feel free to correct me and please know it was not done maliciously. <3

tag: @angel-shaw

[fangsandfeels]

Bioware had continuity issues before...

...but with Veiguard, I feel like this time it just didn't care and was in a hurry to bury the DA world as fast as possible, so it could proceed to finishing Mass Effect off the same way.

Spoiler-y nitpicks and thoughts below

Once again, I'm all for the premise of almost none of the higher beings and deities of Thedas being kind or benevolent - and all of them turning out to be not what they seemed or were promised to be.

It fits the undergoing theme of every group in Thedas subtly believing that their true gods will come and fix everything, and every atrocity, every bloodbath, every sacrifice will be worth it. For the plot to take away that hope and expose how deep the wounds go, how absolutely wrecked this world is (and you can never un-wreck it , would have been absolutely logical and very in tune with the general tone of the series.

The Old Gods

If Archdemons contain not the souls of the Old Gods, but the key to the Evanuris mortality, why was Solas mad at the Grey Wardens for killing them? Why did Mythal/Flemeth needed to preserve the soul of an Old God? Wouldn't she, a betrayed and angry goddess, want to sever her traitors' connection to immortality? Instead, she wanted it "a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness". Something, that meant to be saved from corruption and destruction. But now Solas dismisses it by saying that Old Gods were never a thing, it has always been the Evanuris using dragons as their conduits and immortality placeholders?

Then why did you give Grey Wardens so much crap for killing these dragons, Solas?!

Yeah, we can argue that Solas was worrying about the Evanuris not being able to sustain the Veil due to losing their immortality, but he was going to bring it down anyways? So what difference would it have made anyways?

Something doesn't add up.

I think, the most logical thing would have been to leave the Old Gods as the raw magic incarnate - truly a relict from the world back when magic was everywhere. So, it would have make sense for Flemeth, Morrigan and Solas want to preserve it - despite all the destructive potential, it has always belonged to this world. It would have also explained why darkspawn need to infect the slumbering Old Gods - as ancient magical beings, they are attuned to the world, and the taint means to exploit that connection.

2. The taint and the Blight

If the taint is the product of the Titan's anger and desire for vengeance...why can Ghila'nain use it like her own personal Play-Doh? I'd imagine, the pure concentration of wrath and anger should be particularly deadly for the Evanuris - because it's directed against them, first and foremost. I don't mind the Titans being as the general source of the plague - it would explain the Deep Roads and darkspawn behavior. A twisted wish to be whole again, an unfulfilled desire to keep fighting - a constant, never-ending call to arms. It also would have been a nice callback to the state of the Mother from Awakening: she woke up only to realize and remember what has been done to her, which broke her mind and made her desperate to either die or return to that mindless state of rage and destruction. So do the Titans feel, knowing they were mutilated and plundered, broken apart, and are in too much pain to ever forgive or know peace.

If Titans were so connected to the physical world, the taint changing everything it touches would have made sense: life itself twisting and contorting into a weapon, against an attacker it can't see or find. This is truly tragic, horrifying and realistic - taint as a wound that cannot heal, that festers, and rots but never closes. It's a very accurate depiction of trauma caused by a genocidal war.

Therefore, it would have made more sense if the Evanuris were fucking terrified of the taint and the darkspawn because of how devastating it was to them and because they had no clue how to destroy it - they could only contain it and hope it works.

Maybe Ghila'nain tried to master it but barely survived and went mad, modifying her body and "perfecting" herself as a result. It would still have been possible to keep her obsessed with taint - mostly out of pure denial that something can be beyond her control as she believes herself to be the Goddess of Creation.

Also, you can still have your scarier version of more active and virulent taint - just make it change in response to the gods appearing in the physical world. Make it spread more actively, make the darkspawn go into frenzy, make it look like the new Blight is starting - but now it's as if blindly searching for something or someone. Wouldn't that be fucking creepy?

Maybe, for the first time in a long while, the South of Thedas isn't the one to take a hit - instead, the darkspawn are flocking to where the gods are.

(Of course, the question is, why the taint doesn't target the elves specifically? Because of them losing their immortality - the taint isn't exactly sentient, so it perceives them as part of physical world)

It would have posed such an interesting and controversial option for the player: to weaponize the Blight to end the gods.

3. Maker

I remember that the developers mentioned that the Maker never meant to be real. It was meant to represent the humanity's ability to believe in a symbol. But the Veilguard's "the legend about the Maker was actually about magister's breaking into the prison made by Solas and accidentally blighting all around the place" is such an underwhelming conclusion. After all, the Ashes of Andraste meant to imply that there is something. That it's not just a collective gaslighting - but something else.

I feel like they could have made so much with it:

In the context of the taint's connection to the Titans, what if Maker has always been somewhat of an emissary of the taint? It was cut off from the dwarves and locked away - but it needed a way out, right? Even subconsciously, it knew that it has to get out. It was the music that kept playing, the song that called. So, it reached out to other beings of the physical world, whispering to them and beckoning them. Andraste, due to probably being a Dream Walker or extremely sensitive to the Fade, caught a glimpse of that events, but was never able to make sense of it, which led her to fill in the gaps, which led to the creation of andrastianism. Therefore, Maker didn't leave the Golden City - once the taint was released, it fulfilled its purpose.

What if Andraste willed the Maker into existence? Since Fade is attuned to people's dreams, thoughts, and inner worlds, maybe Andraste's connection to it was so strong, it channeled her pain, her wish for justice and salvation into a figure that she believed to be the Maker? What if she was even able to perform miracles with the Maker as her avatar, turning people into believers? So, logically, when she died, the Maker stopped responding: she was no longer there to sustain him. No amount of prayers and sermons, of repressions and murders, of crusades and chats would have made the Maker return - because the only person actually capable of that was burned and killed long ago. This would have also explained why some spirits believe in Maker because they saw him in people's dreams - the Maker never existed in any other shape and it couldn't manifest completely because his image differed based on individual person's imagination and convictions.

After all, the true horror of living is realizing that nobody is control. Nobody is coming to fix things for you. There is no hope - only the consequences you are forced to live in.

[crushculture03]

please do a vinnie imagine about her girlfriend taking off her promise ring after an argument

No Promises

Summary : Vinnie and you get into a fight, which escalates into your taking of your promise ring he gave you

Pairing : Vinnie Hacker x Fem!Reader

Warnings : Cursing, fighting

Notes: Hope you enjoy anon! i’m sorry it’s so short

"Vinnie, where are you?" you shout as you walk up the stairs, anger courses through your veins at each step. This wasn't the first time something like this happened, he had forgotten to pick you up before, but this time was even worse since it was currently pouring outside and you had forgotten an umbrella, so now you trudged up the stairs angry and soaking wet.

You swing his gaming room door open, "Hey baby what's wrong?" he asks, not even taking his eyes away from the screen. "What's wrong?! What's wrong is my boyfriend rather play video games then pick me up from work" you shout. Vinnies eyes go wide, he immediately pauses the game and turns toward you, finally taking in your appearance. "Fuck baby I'm so sorry, I was streaming and time got away from me" he says. You roll your eyes "This is the 3rd time this has happened! And this time I was stood in the pouring rain" you yell, gesturing to your water soaked clothes. "I know I'm sorry baby please I'm sorry it won't happen again" he pleads. "Thats what you said the first two times" you shout back, still in shock that he had forgotten to pick you up again.

"You know what? It's fine really it's fine" you scoff, before turning on your heel and walking to the bathroom so you could change and take a hot shower after being stuck in the pouring rain. Once you were changed and freshly showered, you made your way down to the kitchen to get something warm to drink. You see your boyfriend out of the corner of your eye, but decide to ignore him, as you were still incredibly upset with him.

"Have you calmed down now?" he asks, which infuriates you, he still seems to not be taking anything seriously. "Fuck off Vin" you say, before stomping out of the kitchen and into the living room. "Come on baby you know it was a honest mistake" he says, starting to feel himself get upset at the fact you won't just accept his apology. "Yeah a mistake that happened 3 times" you say back, "Come on you know how important it is to get these streams in, it's what makes money so we can live here!" he snaps. "More important than your girlfriend?" you yell back, in disbelief, "I didn't say that and you know it" he responds back, "Yeah but you implied it" you sneer. "Look if the streams and games are more important, maybe you should give this to your computer" you shout as you pull the promise ring he gave you off your finger and throw it at him, before storming out of the living room and into the guest bedroom.

You slam the door behind you, quickly locking it, before crawling onto the bed and crying. You didn't care if he thought you were overreacting, you knew you had a valid reason to be upset. "Baby please open up" you hear him say as he knocks on the door, but you refuse to move. "Go away Vinnie" you shout back, not wanting to see him.  "Please Y/N can we talk" he begged, "Please just go away" you yell back, before breaking into a sob.

You knew deep down you needed to tell him how you were feeling, not just about this incident, but about your guys relationship. You felt like he started to ignore you lately, you would try to do things with him but he would always say he couldn't because he had to stream. Today was just your breaking point, and when you realized that his games seemed to mean more to him then you.

Vinnie slid down against the locked door, throwing his head in his hands and sighing out of frustration. He knew he fucked up big time, and hoped he could find a away to fix it. "I'm sorry y/n, I know i've been dismissive towards you lately, fuck i'm so stupid. I guess sometimes I get so in the zone I forget what's going on around me, which I know is a shitty excuse but its true. You have every right to be pissed at me. I've been such a shitty boyfriend lately, just know things are going to be different now I promise." he says, before standing up.

Before he could walk away you opened the door. He turns to face you "Baby I'm so sorry" he says, and walks towards you. "I know vin" you say back, "It just feels like this relationship has been so one sided lately and I feel like I'm just not important to you anymore" you say as tears pour down your face. His heart breaks when he hears you say that. "Y/N, you're the most important thing In my life, I'm sorry that I ever made you doubt that" he says and pulls you into a tight embrace.

The two of you cry in eachothers arms for a few minutes before pulling away. "How about we watch movie together, then tomorrow go out on a date and just spend the whole day together, just you and me, no technology" he suggests. You nod your head "Sounds good Vin" you respond. You hope that what he promised would come true and knowing Vinnie it probably would.

"Do you have the ring?" you ask, as the two of you are curled up on the couch. "Yeah" he says, as he pulls the ring out of his pocket. You put your hand out for him, signaling for him to slid it back on your finger. He finally takes the hint and slowly slides the promise ring back on your finger. "I love you" he says, "I love you too" you respond, before pulling him in for a kiss.

[wyldblunt]

Hi, it is 6 AM here and I have to sleep but I'm writing to you to let you know that I'm very concerned about what I've been reading in the past day.

I heard of the gwg/Logan incident on the day of it happening, but that's not really what I'm worried about. What concerns me is what seems like a consistent & long term systematic marginalization of POC in GW2 fan spaces. To be honest I'm not that surprised, I've had my suspicions since 2020.

I'm not active on GW2 tumblr or any social media at all, other than posting the Tyria Pride announcements once a year, so I don't have much impact outside of the Tyria Pride discord, but I still want to do something. I have some ideas, and am also always open to suggestions.

I would love to chat at some point (it doesn't have to be now, and I totally get it if you're not interested). The Tyria Pride discord isn't huge but it isn't small either, and maybe I have some influence that I can use for good.

Lelling

Tyria Pride Lead

P.S.: I know this can be a source of exhaustion so please do not worry about tone policing yourself or rewording your reply for ages to be "just right", if you do reply to me. (I just spent an hour doing that so I get it, it is now 7 AM). I'm on your side. I'll meet you where you're at.

hey — i hope you don't mind that i'm posting this publicly, but i want to because waking up to this message was a huge relief to me. and as i've tried to explain in other conversations about this, i KNOW there are LOTS of people who have been really uncomfortable through this entire convo but have not felt willing or able to speak up publicly (bc of open threats of ostracization for "being mean" AND observed behavior towards those of us who have said anything) and i hope that reading this will be a relief to them too.

thank you not only for reaching out but also for GETTING what our actual concerns are, bc one of my biggest frustrations through all of this has been people repeatedly twisting the issue so they can dismiss it as squabbling about fiction and then they don't actually have to address the broader patterns we're talking about here; thank you for the assurance that i won't be tone policed, because that's been repeatedly used against us as well ("okay i guess you guys are making some good points but you're being so ANGRY"); and thank you for acknowledging how tiring this is, because i've been made to feel like if i don't keep showing up and being vocal about this, leaving behind mostly the white allies who have been sticking up for us and using their privilege to make corrections and take some of the brunt of the ridicule and backlash, the whole thing will be dismissed as a non-issue anyway. and frankly i don't fucking want to anymore! i'm tired lol!

but i also wanted to springboard off this really kind and reassuring message from you to say it isn't the only one i've received, and that as angry and exhausted as i am, i want to highlight and acknowledge that i have NOT been alone in this. people have been checking in on me, listening to what i and others have to say about it and boosting our statements, changing their minds if they jumped to conclusions earlier, and offering private support and conversation among those of us who still don't feel comfortable braving the environment out here on tumblr — obviously the bad experiences i've had through this are sticking in my head and are really demoralizing, but honestly in terms of quantity and quality i have had MORE experiences of people supporting me and making sure i'm okay. this fandom has massive problems but it also has more of a solid, positive core than i was willing to hope for in the beginning.

i spoke up initially because it was horrible how isolated i felt when this all kicked off; the wider problem is absolutely not fixed, but i can confidently say i don't feel alone or abandoned anymore, and that gives me a ton of hope for figuring this out.

[beanxiv]

be there for you ; katsuki bakugou

summary: katsuki always takes care of you, it's time to return the favor for your beloved!

word count: 1k

note: i'm finally transferring all of my old work to this acc, you can applaud

warnings: cussing, use of petnames, sick katsuki :(

katsuki took pride in keeping himself fit and healthy. you knew this better than anyone else. he slept early, dressed according to the weather, and ate only what was best for his body (most of the time.) but the one day he left the dorms for his early sunday morning jog, wearing nothing but a tank top and sweats, was the day the sky almost split apart in thundering lightning and rain.

so when katsuki came back to the dorms angry and swearing on everything under the sun-- or, rain?--, dripping wet, and shivering, you were sent to a panic.

he swore he was fine and waved off your worries. he'd just dry off and continue with his day like normal. a little rain wouldn't faze the katsuki bakugou; future number one hero!

yeah, more like number one stubborn shit. (lovingly ofc 🥰)

within the next day he wasn't even able to leave his room for classes. bedridden and extremely unhappy about it.

you weren't allowed to skip classes unless it was an emergency (in your opinion, this was most definitely an emergency), so you settled on waking up early to leave a loving feel better note on his nightstand and some medicine before you left for classes.

to say it was a long day for both of you was an understatement.

for katsuki, he missed you and cursed himself for getting sick and missing school. now he'd be behind all his classmates and forced to catch up when he got back to school.

for you, you also missed your boyfriend and worried about his health. wondering if he took the medicine you left for him. you knew he wouldn't want you to worry about him, but you couldn't help it.

the school day lingered far longer than it usually felt. but as soon as the last dismissal bell rang, you were sprinting to the dorms. you didn't bother knocking when you reached katsuki's door, there was the possibility he was asleep, and you didn't want to bother him.

he was very much awake when you opened the door, and the creak of the hinges made him jump.

"katsuki! what the hell are you doing?"

"fuck.." katsuki stood up from his desk like he just got caught committing a crime. "uh, 'm not doin' anythin'."

his words were tired and slurred. so were his movements.

"you little shit, were you studying??" your words were scolding, but not harsh.

"uh, no." katsuki's eyes darted to the textbook that laid open on his desk, that he was definitely not pouring over two seconds before you walked in.

"i can't believe you-- well actually i can. but that doesn't make this any better!" you moved towards his desk, shutting the notebook and turning back to your workaholic boyfriend. "you didn't rest at all today did you?"

katsuki coughed, unable to blatantly lie to you again. you shook your head and sighed. "did you at least take the medicine i left you?" when he nodded you continued. "good. now, get in bed, i'll change out of my uniform and be back soon."

katsuki knew better than to defy you now. he climbed into his bed with half-hearted grumbles about you bossing him around, and how he's totally fine, doesn't need you to look after him at all.

when you arrive again, katsuki sees that you've brought with you more medicine, a bottle of water water, an extra blanket, and— is that a bowl of ramen? when you noticed katsuki eyeing the steaming bowl you giggled.

"you probably haven't eaten yet, and i know how much you like ramen. although, this one isn't spicy, it'll warm you up just fine."

"thanks, baby..." katsuki mumbled as you placed the meds and blanket on his desk, then settled into bed next to him with the water and ramen.

"i'll get ya sick," katsuki gently shoved you away from his burning body.

you shrugged, "i'd rather be sick with you than for you to be sick alone."

katsuki smiled at the thought of your affection until you placed the water on his night-stand and tried to feed him the ramen.

"what, no i can feed myself, idiot." he turned his face from the spoon of broth you were trying to give him.

at that you frowned, "you're allowed to accept help from others katsuki, especially me. i just wanna be there for you and if you don't let me... then i've failed at my duty as a significant other," you half-joked, placing a dramatic palm to your chest.

katsuki rolled his eyes, "fine." he let you spoon a few bites into his mouth to your delight.

"mm, 's good." katsuki's attitude had deflated and he leaned against your side as you fed him the warm broth. once he'd finished the entire bowl of ramen you settled under the covers with him, they were insanely warm. it made you want to curl up under his chest, wrapped in his arms and the sheets.

as if it was second nature, katsuki did just that-- tucked you under his chin; arms circling around you. he gave you a squeeze and sighed. it was like all his problems went away when you were cuddled into him.

"baby, 'm gonna get you sick." katsuki mumbled against your head.

"but you'll be there to take care of me too, yeah?" you kissed his jaw and katsuki could've sworn his fever increased by a few degrees.

" f'course i will." he returned your kiss, maneuvering his head to place it on your head, right between your eyebrows. no matter how many times katsuki did it-- giving you sweet, innocent kisses would never not give you butterflies that fluttered around your lungs and tickled your stomach.

you giggled against his neck, "well, then. maybe getting sick doesn't sound so bad."

like and rblg if you enjoyed!

© beanxiv — all rights reserved. copying, reposting, translating, and modifying in any platform or by any means is not allowed.

[madlittlecriminal]

[05] Secret Ingredient⥓ Mafia!Miguel O'Hara × Female!Baker!Reader

Warnings: miles makes another appearance because i said so, miguel being a bit possessive, carmen is an oc, my spanish is a mix of Mexican & Puerto Rican spanish (it's a warning because the dialogue here is the spanish i use with my mom), the english translations are rough since it is me translating them, mention of dana, mention of choking on water

do i know how many parts will be in this series? no. not yet. you are all going with the flow with me lol. we're in this together

series masterlist | miguel o'hara masterlist

The glare that Miles was currently receiving made the boy chuckle nervously.

"So you went there, saw her with another man and said 'I'm not going to get desserts for the team'? Is that what really went through your mind?"

Miles gulps with nod. "You said you always wanted updates on her, so I came running back. I'm sorry."

While Miguel had a sweet tooth, he wasn't angry at the teen intern.

He nods, dismissing Miles while staring at his monitor, his leg bouncing as he takes a deep breath. He didn't care who that man was that was with you, but he wanted to throw him across the room.

Woah.

He shakes his head and gets up, going to the window and looking down at the city to calm himself down. Why was he getting so worked up? You were a free woman! Free to do what you wanted, be with who you wanted. It was your life, your choice to make.

But fuck, did he want you to want him.

Okay, maybe he's a bit obsessed and possessive over you. He's going to have to work on that, but in his defense, you made him feel things he's never felt before.

First woman to make him shy, first woman he's wanted all to himself.

"Me estas volviendo loco, muñeca." (You're driving me crazy, doll/doll face.)

He runs a hand through his hair before buttoning his blazer and leaving his office, deciding to get some actual food and not sweets.

His stomach agreed with a growl, Miguel mumbling for it to 'shut up' as he walks out of the building and heads to a nearby food truck.

"¿Ahora quieres comida, Miguelito? Y yo aquí pensando que nunca ibas a venir a visitarme para tan si quiera una platica como siempre." (Now you want food, Miguelito? And here I was thinking you'd never come to visit me to at least have a chat like always.)

"Discúlpame, Carmen. Te prometo, voy a venir mas seguido." (Forgive me, Carmen. I promise, I'll come more often.)

"Ya pasaron dos semanas que te vi, muchachito. No me mientes." (Two weeks have passed since I saw you, young man. Don't lie to me.)

Miguel pulls his pinky out, making Carmen laugh and hooking her pinky with his.

"Por lo menos una vez a la semana." (At least once a week.)

Miguel nods. "Una vez a la semana." (Once a week.)

She smiles before unhooking her pinky from hers.

"¿Quieres lo de siempre?" (Want the usual?)

Miguel nods and watches as Carmen gathers what she needs before pulling out his phone to check his email.

Then he heard it.

Your laugh.

He looked up and around, but didn't see you.

Was he that hungry that he was imaging it?

No.

He walked behind the food truck to see you across the street with the man he assumed Miles mentioned.

'Breathe.'

He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly as he shut his eyes.

Miguel had to calm down. You two weren't anything! If that was your boyfriend, it was fine!

Right?

He headed back to wait for his food, hoping you didn't see him.

"Miguel!"

His eyes widen before his head practically snapped from how hard he turned it to face Lyla running towards him.

'Please tell me by some miracle she didn't hear that.' Miguel thought to himself.

"Oh snap! Hey (Y/N)!"

'Are you fucking kidding me?!' To say Miguel wanted to crawl into a hole was an understatement. Could he chill at the bottom of the Grand Canyon? He made a mental note to look up a ticket when he had the chance.

"¿Miguelito? ¿Estas bien?" (Miguelito? Are you okay?)

He nods at Carmen's question.

She poked her head out a bit and chuckled.

"Si estabas con ella en los últimos dos semanas, no te preocupes." She teased. (If you were with her these past two weeks, don't worry.)

Miguel's cheeks burned red. "¡Carmen!"

She snorts before laughing and shaking her head before going back to cooking. "Te quiero, Miguelito." (I love you, Miguelito.)

"You haven't been here in two weeks." Lyla says, nearly out of breath.

"Carmen gave me piece, I don't need yours. Can I know why you came running in your heels?" He asks, tilting his head to the side.

"That meeting for uh...later? Yeah, they actually want to do it now."

Miguel raised a brow before he saw you standing three feet away with the man.

"Did they say why?"

"Because they have another option."

He furrowed his brows.

"What's the other option?"

"You're not gonna like it."

Carmen handed him his food, he gave her a quick thank you and turned back to Lyla.

"Don't worry about me not liking it or not. What's the other option." He demanded, no longer asking.

Lyla took a deep breath. "They have the option to work with a new family, so they're thinking about helping them out instead of getting help from you."

Miguel snorted before opening his water. "How the hell does that make sense?"

"The meeting is to convince you to join them so the new family can join you."

"Who's the new family?" He asks before drinking his water.

"D'Angelo's. As in Dana D'Angelo."

Miguel choked on his water.

~~~~

tags:

@deputy-videogamer @barbiecrocs @deepinballs @faimmm @wakeupr41 @bubblegumfanfictions @smartyren @kimmis-stuff @latenightcravingz @youcantseem3 @corpsebridenightamare @thedevax @cicithemess @diannana @itsameclinicaldepresssion @hwasoup @migueloharasbbm @vkumi

[iamhereonlytobeanunstableshipper]

Ok so. I just saw a Reddit comment (idk why I get on reddit fandom cause it always ends up making me mad) saying that the Alastor and Husk scene was probably the first time Alastor was that violent towards Husk because of him talking back to Al in the first place.

Aka, Alastor isn't abusive to Husk, except for that one time. And ISTG that comment made me want to crawl into the darkest pit of hell (ha, get it?).

SO, let's explain why Alastor's treatment of Husk isn't a one time thing.

Husk and abuse: a character analysis.

First of all, let's explain Husk's personality and why he acts the way he does.

Husk's character is presented to us as a grumpy old alcoholic who only wants people to leave him the fuck alone. He doesn't care about the hotel, about any of its members, or about Alastor's plans. He doesn't want to collaborate, he doesn't want to be there, and he doesn't care enough to act as though he does.

But, reality is:

Husk cares. Way more than he wishes he did.

He doesn't show it often, but he cares. He shows it when he calls Sir Pentious, Charlie, Vaggie and Angel out at the beginning of Masquerade, and ofc, he shows it with Angel throughout this whole chapter.

(I find the heart motif on Husk's demon form to be very interesting, actually. I like to think that one of the things Husk hates the most about himself is that, as much as he wants to fake otherwise, as much as he sees it as a weakness, as much as it just complicates everything, he cares. And death taunts him with that, displaying for everyone to see the heart he so desperately wants to hide.)

Also, Husk is very good at reading people. He hates fakeness, he hates lies, he hates people being dense because they're trying to ignore a reality about themselves.

All of these things get on his nerves enough to show that he, in fact, cares.

And he sure as fuck loves (maybe a bit too much) winning an argument against someone who's pissing him off.

So, let's go to Alastor.

A while ago I saw an amazing post (that now i cant find aaaa if someone finds it pls let me know) that talked about how this isn't the expression of someone who's just been beaten at poker, but it's an expression of sadness and betrayal.

This post implied, therefore, that Husk and Alastor had built a previous relationship of trust before the betrayal, either platonic or romantic (which had been just manipulation from Alastor's side, just like he's now doing with Charlie)

If we take this into account, it makes more sense why Husk would care about Mimzy being trouble. Not only for the safety of the rest at the hotel, but also just a tiny little bit, for Alastor's own safety.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very sure that Husk hates Alastor, but there's this tiny, annoying part of him that can't help but care.

So, let's cut to the infamous scene.

Husk didn't confront Alastor because he had never been violent towards him before. Husk confronted Alastor because he cares, and because people being stupid gets on his nerves, and because he finds it hard to hold back when he knows he's right.

Also, it had been 7 years since he had seen Alastor. It's normal that he's gained more confidence to confront him.

AND, despite all of this, he was reluctant in the beggining.

In the first screenshot, Husk gets visibly angry at Alastor because of his dismissive attitude while his back is turned at him. But when Husk speaks again, you can see him visibly holding back, choosing his words carefully with that "I mean".

(Go rewatch the scene if you wanna, it's way more clear that way than via screenshots ksdldf)

Compare this to the much more accusatory way Husk was calling out Chaggie, Sir Pentious and Angel in back chapter 4. Husk is being careful with Alastor.

Despite all we know about Husk's personality that leads him to warn Alastor about Mimzy in the first place, Husk still holds all of that back.

Why? Cause he knows better than to say something that might anger him.

It's only when Alastor touches Husk and calls him his pet that Husk loses his temper.

As we know, Husk has VERY strong personal boundaries (probably some of them come from Alastor's touch itself)

Alastor trespassing his boundaries is what makes Husk stop thinking logically. He's pissed, and he hates Alastor, and he hates how he makes him feel so powerless, so insignificant, like less of a human.

And he bites back.

The comment I saw implied that Husk said the "big talk for someone who's also on a leash" because he thought it wouldn't have any major effect on Alastor, and he unknowingly touched a touchy subject.

But this is even slightly out of character for Husk. He didn't say it because he didn't think it would make Alastor mad, he said it because he knew it would make him mad.

Husk is fucking amazing at reading people. He knew it was a touchy subject. He wasn't thinking about consequences, he was thinking about pissing Alastor off, about regaining control.

(He's a gambler, cmon. Searching for control and power without minding the consequences is his thing.)

This is NOT a "what the fuck is he doing?" face. It's an "oh no, not again" face.

And immediately, he tries to take it back. The rush of making Alastor mad passes away the moment he pulls out the chain, and Husk knows what's coming.

Alastor has done that before. Judging by Husk's body language, there's NO way on earth he hasn't.

One VERY important thing to take into account is: victims have personalities.

Of course, victims tend to have unifying factors in their trauma responses due to similar experiences, but overall: a victim isn't an archetype, it's a person.

There are different types of abuse. Everyone reacts differently towards abuse.

Saying that Husk isn't being abused by Alastor just because he talks back is. Well. Kinda weird, isn't it?

(Maybe I'm exaggerating but doesn't it sound like victim blaming a bit??)

The important thing is that this is how Valentino and Alastor treat Angel and Husk:

Yes, they are different types of abuse. Yes, Angel and Husk's reactions to it are different.

But this doesn't make one kind less valid than the other. And just because Alastor isn't sexually abusive to Husk, that doesn't mean Husk's abuse is "less important" (this isn't a competition, ffs)

Husk's personality, Husk's hatred of stupidity, Husk's reactive nature, Husk's strong boundaries, don't automatically disappear when he's talking with his abuser. He's still Husk.

And yet, we can still see the signs of abuse, such as Husk holding back at the beginning because he knows what Alastor may do if he's mad, or him flinching away slightly when Alastor turns suddenly to look at him, or him trying to take back what he just said immediately because he's scared of the consequences.

And, let's be serious. Alastor is a serial killer. He enjoys watching people suffer. He enjoys knowing that people fear him.

And, since he's on a "leash", as Husk said, I'm very sure this hurts his ego a whole lot. So, it makes sense that he loves feeling that he has control over the souls he owns, that they fear him, to forget he's not completely free himself.

It's not so far fetched to assume that Alastor gets a quick and an ego boost out of seeing Husk like that, terrified and shivering on the ground. So I don't believe he hasn't done it before.

(And I mean, even if this only happened the one time we see it in the show, it would still be abusive?? It would be Alastor using his power to physically and psychologically torment Husk, which is abuse, even if it's only once ((which i highly doubt)))

In conclusion: Alastor is an abuser. There's no way around it. And Husk is a victim of abuse.

Sorry this got long SLKDS

Tbh I think everything I said here is pretty obvious?? Like to me that scene always read as a way of the show telling us Alastor's true colors once no one's watching, and the way he treats Husk. Like, it didn't even cross my mind that it might have been an isolated occurrence.

But the comment had around 50 upvotes so?? Idk I just wanted to rant about this lmao

[eddiestightywhities]

okay the birthday scene utterly destroyed me because WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS THAT HORRENDOUSNESS??

this is gonna be long and heated so i'm sticking it under a cut…

i've only watched the ep once, so could be forgetting things, and therefore might be back to say more once i've watched it again!

helena (and ramón by proxy) perpetuating the emotional child abuse by flipping the parentification of eddie sideways and morphing it into ‘you're not here for me (helena) anymore so i'm punishing you in the same (perceived) way you punished me by literally and now also emotionally taking your child away from you’ is so fucked up and vile that i can't even think straight.

chris is angry with his dad, which—fair. BUT! would he really still be in the exact same emotionally fragile place AFTER THREE FUCKING MONTHS if his abuelos were doing what they should be doing by speaking to him about it and trying their damnedest to help out eddie—THEIR FUCKING SON—on his path to reconciling with his son? I THINK FUCKING NOT. instead of being a magnanimous go-between, as they should be, they (she) are clearly actively encouraging a young teen to shun his doting father (who, granted, fucked-up royally, but in his defence was kind of losing his mind at the time and did nothing to directly nor intentionally hurt his child), shun his best friend (and let's be real: other parent), shun his whole life in LA (his other abuela and his tia/his peers/school life/carla etc), shun the loving home EDDIE has made for him, while selfishly manipulating him by giving him ‘everything’ a kid could want to entice him to stay there (omg the fucking “he loves the water!”—do they even understand what it took for eddie and buck to help chris get over his fear of water after the tsunami? do they even know?!), in texas, the very place eddie wanted to remove his son from, thus enabling him to live it up as only a spoilt rotten grandchild can, with them (her), so that they (she) can get a second chance at feeling like Good Parents, because they know they got it wrong with (at least) eddie. helena, in her very messed-up head, has never forgiven her son for leaving her for shannon, and has spent years punishing eddie for that, yet hasn't really ever felt the satisfaction she craves—until now.

because now, finally, helena has what she has wanted for so long, and so the emotional abuse continues, just in a different form.

and poor, poor, loving eddie, knowing that he badly screwed up, tried to show his kid that he understood he made a mistake, and that he sees his pain, and decided to give chris the space he needed—and by doing so gave his mother the one thing he never wanted to allow to happen, the thing she has always wanted ever since he ‘left’ her: helena's revenge.

eddie decorating his living room with a banner with christopher's name and buying party hats and balloons etc (which, sure, is now too childish a thing for chris to enjoy, but goddammit eddie is trying), having chris's buck there for him, and inviting tommy over (and who knows how he actually felt about that) because he knows chris thinks he's a cool guy, was eddie trying so, so hard to let his boy know just how much he is wanted and loved and missed.

chris is (just!) fourteen, though, and unless all of this effort is pointed out to him, of course he wouldn't care and would be sullen and unappreciative—that's teenagers for you! and of course his grandparents (helena) absolutely did not prime him for the zoom chat with his dad (ON HIS FUCKING BIRTHDAY), as they should've; of course they (she) let him take the reins with this and be dismissive of his father's attempts at healing his relationship with his boy; of course, of course, of course. ramón obviously goes along with whatever the fuck helena wants because of the guilt he has over not being there for her or his kids when they were growing up, giving helena permission to revel in her ‘justified’ reprisal.

i think that if eddie didn't understand that he needs to hold it together, now more than ever—he has to be okay, to be in a place where he can get his son back—he'd be smashing up the entire state of california, never mind just his bedroom. thankfully—LIKE, THANK FUCKING FUCK—he has has his real family, the 118, and his partner in life, buck, and his new moustache lol, to keep him going. honestly though, the guy deserves more than a silver star for his herculean efforts with this shit-show.

christopher will forgive eddie, because shannon and eddie raised a bright and empathetic human being who will eventually see that his dad never in a million years meant to hurt him. and eddie will forgive his parents, whether they deserve it or not, because he is historically a selfless and kind human being who absolutely would not want to teach his son resentment.

but istfg there better be some sort of resolution (if only one sided, although i'd love helena and ramón—more helena, as we've already had a scene of ramón expressing his regrets and being almost tender with his son—show a little humility and see them make room for recognising and taking responsibility for their mistakes) for eddie diaz and the continuous psychological torment inflicted on him by his parents (helena). OR ELSE!

jfc, this silly show does not have the right to get me this riled up lol.

[oakleyyz]

Stupid rant about how ppl talk about Stanford and stuff- kinda like- how the Return To the Bunker wrote him and how that's how alot of ppl see him.

The amount of folks that think "Ford should've just trusted Stanley and Mabel! And everyone else!" Is like- sad.

Fords a victim of abuse and manipulation, and considering how him and Stan grew up, I wouldn't be surprised if Filbrick Pines contributed to both the twins childhood being shitty.

Ford, growing up, was always bullied and teased because of his six fingers, Stan (by accident) ruined Fords chance at becoming 'something' and not just a freak who had six fingers.

and IMO I think Ford had every right to be pissed when Stan said, "But hey! Treasure hunting??" Just completely dismissing Fords feelings.

Yes this was all caused by miscommunication which does happen, and it sucks that they had such a big fallout, Ford shouldn't have ignored his brother, but he was angry.

Now in the future wise, Ford most likely trusted Dipper more because he reminded him of himself when he was young.

But anyways, Ford was manipulated for fucking years by Bill, he trusted Bill and thought of him as a friend (untill ofc he realized what Bill's true intentions were) Bill than used Fords body WITHOUT his permission to do shit/mess with him, Ford was scared to fucking sleep. SLEEP.

Heck, Bill changed some words that Ford would use to something else.

Stan didn't mean to shove him into the portal but he did, Ford was mad that the portal was reopened bc of the threat of bill hanging around (Also in Journal three its said that he was about to kill Bill, which is why he was also pissed.)

Uhhhh, I kinda lost my train of thought, but Fords is not a bad guy. Has he made a lot of mistakes? Yes, but people change, heck one fucking line he says in weridmaggdion is-

"I'm sorry, Stanley, I know, just help me fix it, please!"

Like he knew he fucked up, and bro was also tortured.

[hanasnx]

Hop hop 🐇 what's the mood today indybug? Because I'm thinking about cheating on Brian with ya. He's got a couple years on me, you know, at least 7, doesn't fucking take me seriously and he's always looking at other girls at the meets. Sometimes, when it's just me and him in a big group of his friends, he'll put his hands all over me but won't even acknowledge me when I speak, it makes me so angry I could scream. It's been happening more and more and you're my friend, I can always go to you to complain when my boyfriend's pissing me off, so I do. I even know what you'd say, you've said it before, "I don't like you with guys like that."

"yeah," I'd say, drawn out like a sigh, like I'm agreeing but it's clear I won't do a damn thing about it. So now here you are; there's a pretty girl on your couch crying about her boyfriend again, in the tiniest skirt you've ever seen, her bra peaking out from the neckline of her shirt, fat tits spilling out. It must be annoying, must be frustrating, this bitch is a tease, stupid too, the way she lets men treat her...

But at least I'm easy though, huh bug? It isn't hard to get me on my stomach, ass out while you fuck me good and hard and ask if this the attention I was looking for when I came over. "Brain just leaks outta those ears with a cock in you huh? Is it good? Yeah that dick got you fucked up, huh dons?"

"indyyyy," my voice is whiney and muffled into the cushion of the couch. "Feels so fucking good, want you deeper— ah!!." You give me a good thrust just to hear the way my sentence stops short with a moan.

"I know baby, don't fall on me, ass up c'mon. Fuck that pussy down on this dick, that's fucking right baby. Brian's not hittin' it right huh? I can tell, look how hungry this pussy is for me." Your thumb finds my pussy, rubbing against it to feel the stretch and movement of your big cock going in and out, and the way I twitch when I cum all over it.

You're sweet enough to let me cuddle up to you when we're done. Straddling your lap, arms wrapped around your neck and pressing kisses against your warm, damp skin. Your hands graze the curves of my body, squeezing the fat of my thighs, my ass my waist, and my tits press against your chest. But when I pull away and ask if I can kiss your lips, the scoff you give betrays your body language, a little mean, a little dismissive, you tell me "nah I don't kiss cheaters." It makes me blush with embarrassed but I laugh along anyway.

"you won't tell him right?" I've got gentle fingers rubbing your jaw, brushing your hair out of your face, laying it on thick and sweet now that I've got my fill of rough dick.

You laugh again and take your face outta my hands and give my ass a hard squeeze. You've got a half smile on your lips, "Yeah, yeah whatever." Knowing you mean it when you say you'll keep it a secret, i grin and kiss you on the cheek.

🐇Hop hop might have gone overboard

-donnieeeeeee

YOU FREAK. you fucking freak donnie.

"I don't like you with guys like that." ive literally told you that irl. "there's a pretty girl on your couch crying about her boyfriend again, in the tiniest skirt you've ever seen, her bra peaking out from the neckline of her shirt, fat tits spilling out" "this bitch is a tease, stupid too, the way she lets men treat her..." can you shut the fuck up. oh mygod. the fat tits bit.. you know just what i like donnie. calling yourself stupid <3 thats my fucking sweet spot. i just hate the way you let men treat you, i can treat you so much worse

im finding myself quoting whole paragraphs like this one: "But at least I'm easy though, huh bug? It isn't hard to get me on my stomach, ass out while you fuck me good and hard and ask if this the attention I was looking for when I came over. "Brain just leaks outta those ears with a cock in you huh? Is it good? Yeah that dick got you fucked up, huh dons?"" because its that good and i cant pick out individual lines. the use of dons especially bcos thats one of my fave nicknames i call you

""I know baby, don't fall on me, ass up c'mon. Fuck that pussy down on this dick, that's fucking right baby. Brian's not hittin' it right huh? I can tell, look how hungry this pussy is for me."" this dialogue piece sounds just fucking like me man we talk way too damn much. this couldve come right out of my own brain

the bit about the kiss, about how i dont kiss cheaters, taking my face outta your hands and grab your ass, "yea yea whatever" oh donnie you killed this

[infiniteeight8]

Ironstrange identity reveal? I was reading Spy x Family when I thought of this, so that's the background/setting I was thinking of initially, but it can definitely be a superhero thing too. Or whatever other idea pops into your head. I'm always excited to see what you come up with!

I read the top of the wikipedia entry for Spy x Family, but that setup is not working for me here, so instead we’re going with some classic “Iron Man is Tony Stark’s bodyguard” shenanigans. 😀

Uh, this got… more than a little out of hand. This has many themes in common with other drabbles, but now it’s 1360 words long. Enjoy?

Under the read more for length.

-

Tony stares stubbornly at Steve, who is rubbing his eyes with the kind of exhausted exasperation that has become his hallmark around Iron Man.

“Iron Man, you were unconscious,” Steve says. “After being electrocuted. You need a real medical check.”

“The armor has medical sensors,” Tony insists. “It says I’m fine. I can answer questions for a neurological exam. That’ll have to be good enough.”

Steve gets that stubborn look on his face. The one that no one wins against. Fuck. “You’re benched until you get a real medical check.”

“How about if I get checked out in my civilian identity?” Tony suggests.

“We have no way of verifying that you’ve done that,” Steve says. “And while I hate to say you’d lie, I can’t dismiss the possibility after this conversation. I understand your hesitation about revealing your identity, but your life is at stake.”

“It’s really not,” Tony mutters. He’s fine. But he can tell that Steve isn’t going to budge on this, and he wants to be off the bench sooner rather than later. “Fine. Call Strange, then.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “Doctor Strange? He’s not a practicing physician.”

“He’s kept his certifications, though.”

“And he hates you.”

Stephen hates Iron Man. He’s quite fond of Tony Stark, though. They’re… friends. He’s asked Tony on half a dozen dates, which Tony has been forced to turn down because he refuses to lie about something as important as Iron Man to someone he’s dating. It’s made for a lonely couple of years. At least if he has to reveal his identity to someone, he might get a date out of it. If Stephen forgives him for lying. If he can get past Tony Stark being an Avenger in general (apparently they make a lot of work for the sorcerers; something about the barriers between dimensions) and Iron Man in specific, who he’s always hated the most. 

“Then you’ll know he’s being honest when he clears me,” is all Tony says aloud.

Steve still looks baffled, but he makes the call.

Tony’s expecting Stephen to be angry when he arrives. He may keep his medical certifications up to date, but he doesn’t work as a doctor and he’s sure as hell not on call for the Avengers. But when he arrives he’s crisply professional, if frosty. He’s even wearing a lab coat over street clothes. He locks the exam room door behind him, which would be odd except that he follows it up with, “Armor off.” Tony hesitates. Stephen’s expression tightens. “Captain Rogers indicated you were willing to be examined,” he says sharply.

“This is kind of a big deal,” Tony snaps. “There is literally no one living that knows who I am.”

Stephen blinks. “Surely Tony knows.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah. About that.” He issues the command, and the helmet retracts. 

Stephen stares. And stares. And there it is. There’s the anger. “You utter fucking idiot!” He shouts. “What the hell are you doing risking your life in that goddamned tin can?! Don’t you know what a catastrophic loss it would be if you died out there?”

Okay, Stephen is yelling, but it seems like… good yelling? “I’m saving people,” Tony argues.

“You save plenty of people as Tony Stark!” Thank God the soundproofing in this place is spectacular; Stephen doesn’t lower his voice one bit. “So why do you insist on ruining your own life with this, this,” he waves his hand inarticulately at the armor still covering Tony to the neck, “bullshit.”

Okay, that’s enough. “Iron Man is not ruining my life! It’s the best thing I’ve ever done!”

Stephen's expression shifts from furious to incredulous. “The best thing?” he demands. “The best thing? What about the 100 million dollar donation to spinal cord research? The Foundation that helps people rebuild after things like alien invasions when their insurance won’t? What about the shield you invented that makes it possible for people with sensitive implants to get an MRI safely, or the modular smartphone that doesn’t need to be replaced every two years? What about the scholarships you’ve endowed?”

“Stephen—”

“Are those not big enough in scale?” Stephen demands. “How about the clean energy technology that looks like it might stop global warming in its tracks? Is that enough? Is one planet not enough? Do we need to talk about the international collaboration that you started to combine Earth’s resources with alien technology to turn us into an interstellar civilization before another interstellar civilization can dismiss us as barbarians—”

“I’m not the one who decided none of that counted!” Tony shouted over Stephen. It stops the tirade, at least. Tony blows out a hard breath. “The guy who donates the 100 million dollars isn’t the hero,” he goes on. “That’s the guy who makes the discovery. The Foundation isn’t celebrated for the people it helps, it’s critiqued for the ones it doesn’t. The MRI shield, the smartphone… people like them, but they’re advances that ‘were always coming’. Or maybe ‘were overdue’. That doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing. Of course they’re worth doing.” Tony retracts a gauntlet and rubs a hand over his face. God, he’s tired. “I just… I wanted to be the hero for once,” he admits. It sounds so fucking selfish. “Tony Stark could never do enough. It always had to be about the money for them, even when it really wasn’t about the money for me. But Iron Man… No one wonders what his ulterior motive is when he does something good. They just cheer.”

Stephen sighs and hitches himself up onto the medical bed next to Tony. “Do you know why I hated Iron Man so much?”

Tony grimaces. “I always figured he was just too… blunt instrument for you.”

Stephen snorts. “Hulk and Cap are far more blunt,” he says. “Iron Man at least has precision weapons to go with the punches. No. I hated Iron Man because when the suit failed somehow Tony got the blame, but when it worked, Iron Man got the credit. Iron Man made everything you just explained worse, not better.”

There’s not really a counter argument for that. It’s true. Except, “Nothing was going to make that better,” Tony says. “Nothing could. Not until I’m dead, anyway.” He half expects Stephen to go right back to haranguing him for risking his life. 

“Speaking of which, I’m meant to be making sure you’re not dying now,” Stephen says. He stands and moves to face Tony. “Come on. Get the rest of the armor off.”

Tony obliges, and they proceed with the rest of the exam in silence. 

Near the end, Tony looks over Stephen’s shoulder rather than meet his eyes and says, quietly, “I’m not going to stop.”

“My initial reaction aside,” Stephen answers, just as soft, “I never thought you would. I know as well as anyone how this life becomes a part of you.” When he finishes the exam, he steps back. “You’re fine.” 

Tony nods and puts the armor back on. It’s never been so quiet between them before. His chest aches.

When he’s got everything but the helmet back on, Stephen stops him. “Is this why you always said no when I asked you out?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Didn’t seem right to lie like that to my partner.”

“Right.” Stephen nods firmly. “So will you go out with me now?”

Tony perks up. “You still want to?”

Stephen gives him a look. “You have not had a personality transplant,” he says dryly. “So yes, I still want to.”

Do not push your luck, Tony tells himself. He says it anyway, “Thought the lying might be a bigger deal.”

“Everyone keeps secrets,” Stephen says. “But the secrets that a friend will accept are different from the secrets that a partner will accept. You’ve already demonstrated that you understand that.” Tony grins and Stephen shoots him a look. “We will, however, be having words about you assuming I’d react like anyone else in your life.”

Tony swallows a laugh. “Of course,” he says. “I should have known you’d be exceptional.” 

“And don’t forget it,” Stephen says, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

[podcastenthusiast]

First part of a Astarion/Karlach thing I'm writing. Basically a little rewrite of some Act 3 scenes. Could become something bigger, who knows.

--

"Well, at least you've met my family now," Astarion says. "Pity. You and Violet would get on quite well. Haha."

His tone is light and dismissive, especially for a midnight familial attempted kidnapping. But there's a desperate edge to it, too, like he's worried she might finally see sense and run for the hills.

Karlach's never been accused of being sensible. If Astarion burning his brother in a sunbeam while his sister screamed didn't scare her off, this little evening interruption sure won't.

Karlach does hope she will have a chance to meet his siblings properly, once they're all free.

"I wouldn't've let them take you anywhere," she vows, chest heaving, still very much caught up in protective Mama K mode.

"I know. Deep breaths, darling."

Astarion still looks wary, as if he's expecting the other shoe to drop. She can't cool down, she realizes, not yet, because she's still angry.

Angry at him.

"You lied to them. About the ritual. Like it was easy."

He scoffs. "It was easy. They aren't exactly the brightest candles in the chandelier, you know."

"You're really gonna sacrifice your own brothers and sisters? Betray their trust in you like--like they're nothing." Like Gortash did, she thinks but doesn't say. There are some words you can't take back. She loves this pasty bastard too much to actually believe he'd go through with it, anyway.

"What does it matter? They're just my...colleagues in suffering. Expendable. Pathetic." Oh, Astarion's giving her the old monster routine, one of his thinner disguises. She can see the aelf-loathing clesrly beneath without even really trying. "And let's not forget they are vampire spawn. Hardly innocent."

"Fuck, Astarion, none of us are! You only give a shit about yourself, huh?"

"Why not? No one ever looked out for me. No one ever said a kind thing to me. You're the only one," he insists, getting a bit heated himself now. "Other people don't have a heart like you."

"Damn right, soldier," she replies quietly, tapping a fist against her engine as it ticks and whirs her numbered days away. The rage fades. "Sort of the problem, isn't it."

"I-- shit, Karlach, I didn't mean--"

There he is.

"Hey. It's all right."

It isn't, not really. Nothing is all right anymore. But they will be.

Karlach just can't be the only good thing he sees in this world. It's not fair to either of them. Gods only know how much more time she even has left, besides; Astarion shouldnt be alone, not after everything he's been through. She needs him to be okay without her, selfish as it is.

"Scares me when you talk like that," she admits. "Like other people are just things to you."

"I'm sorry, Karlach," he says, miserably. "I don't know if I can be anything else, here."

Karlach's mother always told her to never go to bed angry. After ten years in the Hells, it felt pointless and silly, but tonight with his siblings' blood staining the floor, she thinks she might understand the wisdom in that advice.

"C'mere, Fangs."

She opens her arms. Always gives him a choice; touch is complicated for both of them in a lot of ways. And, yeah, there's her cuddly Astarion after all. Must be exhausting pretending to something he's not all the time. Thought so since she met him that day by the river. All those masks and yet none seems to fit quite right. She knows the feeling, more or less.

"You're loved, you hear me?" she tells him. "So fucking loved."

His skin is a pleasant balm; hers is still smoldering a little. They don't let go.

"You make things so difficult," he complains softly against her collarbone, affectionate despite the actual words.

"Knew this wasn't gonna be easy. But I swear, tomorrow we'll kick Cazador's ass," she murmurs, holding him tighter. "I've got you."

"Ugh. Get a room, you two," Shadowheart grumbles from her bed.

They have a room, though. This room. The others will simply have to deal with that.

It's gonna be okay.