#this somehow got even nastier but . . . anyways . .

[hvrtbroken]

he hears the stutter in her tone , isn't surprised by the way she goes red and seems almost like she wants to refuse . his eyes watch her carefully , scanning her features , her bright eyes , flushed cheeks , dainty nose and hair that's slightly mussed up but not nearly enough ( not yet ) . her fingers pause in their movements and nico gently brushes his nose against her , silently telling her to keep going . HE DIDN'T TELL HER TO STOP . he likes watching her do this for him . he wants to learn every single way she does it . he doesn't think he'd ever get tired of seeing her messy , filled with his cum and coming undone . NEVER . finally , when she says the words , it's with an bashfull-ness that makes nico's smile turn slightly bigger , even brighter . " good job , baby . " he murmurs the words out , as dear and solid and real as ever . there's something within him that pulsates at the unsureness within star . everytime she looks at him , flustered , eyelashes fanned out , mouth ajar . . . it makes him feel like he might go crazy . it makes him want to cover her mouth with his and lift her off her feet . she's seen so much yet not that much at all . when it comes to sex , he likes seeing what she knows , what she doesn't . how eagerly she'll try anything . how she'll have her own ideas and thoughts . NICO WANTS EVERY PART OF HER SO BADLY , he isn't sure where she begins and he ends anymore . he's always liked sex , but he's never felt this insatiable and desperate and hungry before . " you're incredible . " he repeats , before leaning back again . his hand falls from her knee to apply some pressure on his hardening cock . he can feel himself stirring up for her again , half-mast and wanting more . she always makes him get like this . he feels like he's in his 20s all over again , with impossibly high stamina and a determination to keep going .

when nico looks at her dainty fingers disappearing inside of her , squelching and wet , he wonders how the hell she manages him . his fingers are at least double the size of hers . he doesn't want to brag , but his cock is definitely bigger . and she takes it all . yet here she is , fingers and knuckles inside of herself and she's whimpering as if she's never taken more . THIS INNOCENCE . the unwavering trust . he drinks it down . " you use only two ? " he repeats , other hand on her thigh , thumb gently rubbing circles on her , every temptation within him trying not to knock her fingers away so he can go to work on her . " but you'd let me . . . " his mind shutters off , goes blissfully blank . four . or all of them . nico's breath exhales within him in a giant whoosh , uncontrolled , filling the room outside of his whimpers and ministrations . when he reopens his eyes , he knows his gaze is hungry , devouring her spread open wide for him , legs kicked out , cum dripping out of her , looking so filthy and beautiful all at once . " — so you've never tried three fingers on yourself before ? " it seems INCORRECT , but he loves that star saved this for him . let him get her this way . let HIM do things to her that she wouldn't even do to herself . and she does . . . she sinks in another finger , squirming , whimpering , but the fourth finger slides in and nico's teeth wear into his bottom lip , watching carefully as she does . the four fingers look snug . her opening looks filled , and he can't understand it . can't understand HER , although he wants to . " you're close , huh ? i can tell . i can see it . " he whispers it out , soothing and encouraged , wanting nothing more then for his own fingers to take place , to fill the gap she's left , to touch what's left untouched . he presses a few more kisses on her knees , using his head to keep her legs apart , as her hips jut up . " you're so good at following instructions , baby . " nico's voice is warm , impressed . his hand glides closer . closer . the temptation is too much . his eyes lift to hers , just as his thumb glides over her clit . not enough to add any pressure , but to provide the sensation , the fuzz , the VIBRATION and static of his thumb touching her . he moves it quickly , trying to keep himself as restrained as he can because this is her time and he's trying so hard to not be greedy with it .

his cock aches now , fully hard and expectant . hungry to fill her again , cum inside her again . he feels himself tremble as she rolls her eyes back , his thumb resuming encouraging circles on the inside of her thigh , pretending it's where he really wants his fingers to be . his other hand tightens on her knee , and he reminds himself to loosen up , not scar or bruise her with his grip . " star . . . " words leave him , breathless , as he watches the orgasm take over her entirely . her body pulsates . she seems to almost not be herself at all as she fucks herself onto her fingers , twisting , groaning , messy , voice strained as she shakes , back arching off the bed . HOLY FUCK . his eyes are wide , drinking her in , hands twitching to touch her , but instead continuing to graze her legs , gently hold her through the orgasm as it pulsates through her . her words are nonsensical . he doesn't care . as her body shakes with the aftershocks of it , nico climbs up the bed immediately and finds her mouth . he seals it over with his own , breathing hot and heavy , cock brushing up against her as he does . " you looked so fucking good . " he licks it into her mouth , his hand finally going between her legs and gently knocks two of her fingers out . they feel slippery and hot , trembling , but nico can't think straight . instead, he plunges two of his own fingers deep inside of her , right alongside her other two fingers . " i didn't stay stop yet . " he whispers, guttural and strained . his hips press against her body , cock taut and harder than before , desperate for friction . " help me get you to the second one , baby . "

star shivers when nico kisses the tender inside of her knee. once untouched, now a place that's been brushed against in an intimacy that would have made her cry if she wasn't fingering herself stupid right now. he seems to do this a lot, touch her in places she never thought to ask, placing intense emotions she'd never imagined she'd been able to experience. it intensifies when he keeps going along her skin, words egging her on more and more. but then he's asking her to say it back to him — that she's incredible — and even her fingers pause for a long second. she can call herself filthy things for him any day, does it willingly now, the action making her clench and writhe every time. but the prospect of calling herself a good thing, a genuine praise has her stunted. her eyes widen as she feels her cheeks flush from embarrassment, the words dancing on the tip of her tongue but unable to form properly. incredible. was she really? she never thought of herself that way, at least in any serious manner. "i'm–" she's almost tempted to refuse, to say she can't. the word is too hard, too heavy. carries implications beyond this little world they've built on her bed. but then star is reminded of the terseness from before. the firmness he showed her, what he's capable of, pulling away and only touching her if he's pleased. it terrifies her, alas, and she's always been terribly terribly obedient for him. "i'm incredible," she says, tone soft and unsure, but still loud enough for him to hear.

nico's smiling now, a full one, one that reaches his eyes; and it's a sight to behold. it's something anyone could recognize if they saw him instead of his usual small ones. but no one else is privy to this side of him and she's sick with satisfaction from the fact. her's, only her's. "two. two fingers," star answers, breathy and stunted. ( her index and middle finger usually being the one to help herself find release, though they don't ever compare to his now. ) nico's next question catches her off guard immediately, suddenly turning right around back on it. the truth is that she'd take any and all of him that he'd give her, would happily be stretched wide for him. as long as it's him. so after swallowing hard, she continues. "four . . . or- or all of them." she feels like she's losing her breath now, arm beginning to ache, her three fingers pushing and tucking into herself, brushing and pushing into that fleshy bit near her opening.

'and i'm all yours.' the comfort that statement brings her is indescribable. there's something to it, him reaffirming it, calling her 'my girl'. the ownership of it, the unstated devotion. how much it fills her with that overwhelming emotion again, pulling her away into some place as beautiful as it is scary. byeol pushes her hips up as he hoists her for him to see, to show him clearly what he's making her do. what she's eager to accomplish for him. she's his own private show. she adds the other finger in as per instruction, doing her best to focus on his words despite the way the added stretch is making her whimper. but star doesn't slow down. the way nico is watching her spurs something deep in her, makes her even wetter somehow. "okay," she replies to his instruction, unable to say anything else because she's stretching herself wide now, four digits in. fingers herself dutifully under his keen watch, dark bleary eyes glued to him, hips jerking and tight. hears the wet squelch of herself that's so comically loud, that she feels like it isn't even her making those noises right now. it feels like she's watching some exaggerated porn video, the volume turned up high. but no, it's all her. her fingers and soaked pussy, fucking into herself hard and fast, chasing the high that she can feel just past the corner.

"ni- nico. fuck. yes, i– i'mso– s'close." her words slur together, eyes shiny with tears, looking at him desperately. she'd been iron-hot when she continued at his instruction just now, kick-started by nico's furious fucking in the elevator earlier. star can't even recognize her own voice either right now; moans and keens ebbing and flowing, coming deep from her chest one moment and then going high and tight from the top of her scalp. "cum– cumming–" her eyes roll back, free hand grabbing her own wrist to help with the ache that builds in her forearm, helping herself twist in and out of herself furiously. and while it's nothing compared to his cock — the hot, solid velvet of it, the way it reaches parts of herself she struggles to feel for right now — she's hurtling straight down into release, pushed into the sweet spot at the thought that nico would be taking over the moment she does. "nico!" star comes, and she doesn't know where anything starts and stops anymore. the one thing she can comprehend is nico's touch, keeping her grounded to their bed. keeping her here, barely sane and yet still devastatingly ready for him.

[doorrobloxstuff]

Doors at a party: how does everyone act and what does everyone do

Oooo! This one’s interesting.

Jack:

The life of the party!! The one who provides the drinks and the food and the entertainment all in one package!

..and the drugs. Dear god. Where the world did it get that much!!???

Definitely a party animal, that Jack.

Probably breaks a few things.

Ends up in a drinking contest with Rush. Everyone surrounds them and starts going “CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!”

Rush wins lmao

Ends up passed out, one half of it hanging out of a closet and the other half hanging out with a bottle of hooch still in its hand.

Worth it.

Eyes:

Took all the drugs and literally disappeared.

Didn’t reappear until a week after the party.

Doesn’t remember where they went. Only that they did go.

Halt:

Halt hates parties! Super duper loud and annoying, according to it.

..well..maybe it can have one glass of wine.

Ooo! That tasted good! It’ll have another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another

And ano- oh you get the point.

And then somehow it finds itself wearing a lampshade.

Just kinda floats around the party aimlessly bumping into walls at that point. 

Ambush:

Partying off it’s ass.

Ends up drunk, high or both.

Cheers Rush on during the drinking contest.

Cheers even louder when it wins.

Rescues Sally from the punch bowl.

Tosses a few darts at Gobby.

Got into a drunken fist fight with hide.

Drags Rush to a nearby bed were it tucks it in before blacking out on the sheets.

Remembers none of it.

Hide:

Didn’t want to come to the party but ehh.. food!

Got drunk really fast and is a sick drunk.

Was eating the scattered table snacks when Ambush drunkenly hobbled over and started making chit-chat.

It wasn’t listening because it was in a different universe entirely.

Ambush got confused and shook it, gave it a little tug and Hide, confused and dazed threw a punch.

And then the two got into a huge fist fight that ended in Figure being forced to break it up.

Broke a window attempting to throw Ambush out of it.

Melted on the table and had to be scraped off with a spatula the morning after.

Rush:

Got into a drinking contest with Jack. Did it to impress Ambush.

It won. :)

Drank itself into a coma.

Literally drank two barrels of wine before speeding to the floor.

Blacked out. Didn’t know it won the contest until the next morning while bent over a toilet dry heaving.

“Honey, do you remember the party last night?” “What party?”

Seek:

The “I’m too fancy for parties” guy.

Proceeds to come anyways.

Literally spent time in the corner being a nasty little cretin.

The wine makes it an even nastier little cretin.

Literally spends the whole time doing that.

Figure:

Was hidden curled up in a fetal position nearby until Seek dragged it out and informed there was going to be a party.

It made deserts :)

Nobody tried them. :(

Shared a bit of alcohol with Seek but not too much.

Watched the fight with Hide go down and broke it up.

Just lurked in the corner with Seek and listened to it gossip about things both pleasant and unpleasant. Snarky and genuine.

Had a good time being with Seek. :)

A-90:

Plays uno at a table with its siblings.

It lost.

Nearly rage quit.

Watched its parent drink two entire barrels of wine and cheered its name the whole time.

Didn’t drink much, surprisingly.

Captured Gobby and turned him into target practice.

Passed out under the couch with half of its head peeking out.

Briefly remembers being hit over the head with something.

A-120:

Played uno with 90 and 60. Won the game somehow.

Probably ate the cards while nobody was looking.

Had fun, didn’t drink.

Cleaned up the mess everyone else made afterwards. :)

A-60:

Lost the uno game to 120 and was completely destroyed.

Went to grab some punch and ended up with a cup full of Sally’s hair and just started screaming.

Ambush had to briefly stop its fist fight to go calm down ‘60 and then fish poor Sally out of the punch.

Carefully hauled the Soggy Sally back to the Rooms.

No more parties for it. Never again.

Curious light:

Ate all the chips.

Left before the party got too crazy.

Still had a good time.

Jeff:

Wasn’t invited, but came to rescue Gobby.

Sneakily Grabbed him, decked A-90 over the head with a vase and ran away.

El-Goblino:

Snuck in to steal some food.

Got caught.

Ends up getting used as a dart target.

He did not like that and screamed the whole time they were throwing darts at him.

Gets rescued by Jeff, whilst also simultaneously stealing an entire bowl of Cheetos.

Sally:

Drowned in the punch bowl.

Had to be given CPR.

Screech:

Was not invited to the party, but came anyways.

Ate half a brick of crack.

Walks into the party while ‘party rockers’ is playing and just vomits right infront of everyone.

Ruins everything for everyone.

Dupe:

Wasn’t invited.

Didn’t show up, too busy taking a nap.

Guiding light:

Wasn’t invited.

Didn’t show up.

It’s sword somehow ended up in the chips and salsa anyways.

“Goddamn it not again.”

[thefvrious]

@prettytm:

Through a veil of noise he hears him, as if he's swimming through choppy waves, but the words don't make any sense to him. So he doesn't even force himself to listen to them. His focus is elsewhere. Like the blood coating his arms, splashed over his face and the tremor in hands that were usually so steady. There's so much blood. It's everywhere. He couldn't remember the last time they had been this tainted by acts of war committed in the name of country. It's probably better that he couldn't. It'd just add to.. Whatever this crushing feeling moving throughout him. If he didn't know any better he'd think it was a heart attack but that's impossible. Much later he'd find out what he was experiencing and scoff.. But that's how it all starts. The panic, the PTSD. But in the moment.. All he knows is it's been a very bad night. He's slowly regaining some sense of calm and after a moment he finally seems to respond to his words. He lifts his hands in Frank's direction and waits.

"Russo." Frank's voice is hoarse but soft at the same time, a juxtaposition -- like the scratch of the woolen blanket the military gives you when they throw you overseas; somehow abrasive and comforting at the same time. "Billy... Bill?" Obviously, he's not getting through. The other man's just staring straight forward; lost. Frank's been here before, has seen Billy and others like this before -- knows it's just a matter of time before he snaps out of it, partially or all the way.

This is their life now, it's what's been their life for so long but Frank swears now? Now it's bloodier, it's worse. It's nastier. But who is he anymore if not the killing machine the military has turned him into? He knows more ways to kill a person than he cares to admit, and he takes pride in being good at it. He always comes back, anyway, has made a career of it. Sure, he's got a family, but it's more like Maria and the kids are his job -- the desert, the marines, Russo are his family; his life.

"You hear me?" He says, grabbing those hands when they are offered up to him. He's so gentle it's almost jarring. Frank cleans the blood off with a wet, warm cloth, uses his fingers to check each digit then the wrists, up to the elbows -- checking for damage. "Look at me, Bill." He's crouching now, eye-level with the seated man, forcing their gazes to meet and Frank's is filled with concern. "I'm right here, Blackbird."

[ameliora-j]

happier than ever // hp x reader

words: 1.7k

warnings: breakup, talk of the war, angsty asf, i think that’s all but as always lmk loves! :)

a/n: based on happier than ever by billie eilish,, italics are flashback/song lyrics

a/n ii: i do NOT like nor do i promote billie eilish in any way at all. but the song is trending on tiktok and i thought it’d be a good fic idea

it was the biggest argument the two of you had ever had. the one that resulted in the end of your relationship. you regretted every single second of it. you knew that he was trying. that he just wanted to help. he was trying to make a better world for himself. for everyone. for you. for both of you. so you could have the future you always talked about.

but lately he wasn’t around. he had a lot of responsibilities, you understood that. but you were his girlfriend. and lately he wasn’t being much of a boyfriend. you tried to push it away when he called rain checks on your dates. or when he was late because it “slipped his mind.” or when, sometimes… he didn’t even show at all.

it was your final straw when he showed up three hours late for your anniversary dinner. it wasn’t even your true anniversary… that was two weeks ago. but he had missed that because he was at hagrid’s hut with ron and hermione. you pushed it off with a shrug and a small smile. no more than a “it’s okay harry, i promise. i know you have a lot on your plate right now,” as you kissed his cheek and retreated to your dorm for the night.

but that night… that night you just had so much pent up anger. you were sick of it, truthfully. and you flipped out. “why’re you so dressed up, love?” the question would usually have made your heart sink. but by now you were used to it. now you just scoffed. you were numb to the hurt of him forgetting.

“had an anniversary dinner with my boyfriend. but it seems like he forgot… again,” you spoke plainly.

“darling i’m so sorry you have to believe me,” he implored.

“it’s fine harry. really,” you shrugged as you blinked back your angry tears.

“we can… we can reschedule. tomorrow i promise,” he bit his lip hopefully.

“no. it’s fine,” you shrugged.

“okay. if tomorrow doesn’t work, we can try next week maybe?” he tried again. you shook your head again. “okay well if not next week then i’m not sure. i’ve got army meetings and ron, mione, and i have plans with hagrid. plus we’ve got the end of years coming up so i have to study. when do you want to reschedule for?”

“i don’t harry,” you answered, finally letting the dam break. two tears fell slowly down your cheeks. “i don’t want to reschedule. or try a different day because there won’t be one. it’ll just be the same thing all over again. you’ll be late. if you even care to remember that we have a date at all,” you spat bitterly.

“yn, i’m trying,” harry quickly became defensive at the venom spitting from your tongue. “i’m doing my best really, can’t you see that? i’m trying to save the world here, you’re not making it easy by being so clingy,” he spat ruthlessly.

“then let me make it easier on you, harry. you never have to worry about me again,” you offered a sad smile as you turned and began to walk away.

“you’re breaking up with me?” the sea-eyed boy was dumbfounded.

“yeah. i’m making saving the world easier on you. you won’t have to worry about a clingy girlfriend anymore. go do what you need to do and save the world harry,” you told him. “too bad you couldn’t save your relationship as well,” you sniffled as you retreated to your dorm.

it hurt you to leave harry. but you both needed it. two years of dating and an even longer relationship… and it just all went to shit. it exploded right before your eyes.

you spent the following weeks buried under your covers. sobbing your little heart out, when you weren’t in class. you knew what would come of breaking up with hogwarts’ golden boy and the savior of the world. the dirty looks. the whispers. however, what you didn’t expect… was for the whole wizarding world to hear about it.

what you didn’t expect was for the front page of the daily prophet to read in big, bold lettering: “THE BOY WHO LIVED: HEARTBROKEN.” you read through the article by rita skeeter and you were fuming. she had called you “cold” and “heartless.” and much, much nastier words that you couldn’t even repeat, all of which were completely untrue.

harry had made you out to be the bad guy, of course. the golden boy could never do anything wrong. you scoffed as you picked up the paper and stormed your way to the great hall. all conversation at the gryffindor had died down as their eyes locked on you, storming over to harry. “you LIAR!” you screamed as you roughly shoved his chest, throwing the paper down in front of him.

he raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the article. “i see no lies here,” he shrugged, causing ron, ginny, and hermione to stifle a laugh. you rolled your eyes at this. “you’re nothing but a cold. heartless. bitch,” he spat ruthlessly.

“as if! harry that’s you! you’re cold and you’re heartless! you don’t care about anyone but yourself, oh chosen one,” you spit right back.

“cold and heartless when i’m saving the world?” he raised an eyebrow as he scoffed.

“please cut your little bullshit ‘i the chosen one am saving the world’ ploy. it’s nothing but bullshit! neville could save the world just as well as you can,” you shook your head. “you’re nothing without your title harry. absolutely nothing,” you growled. you saw red. nothing but red. you were positively pissed. anger was the only thought processing in your brain. “you’re an entitled brat harry. who never sees himself in the wrong even when you break hearts.”

“then i guess we’re one in the same, aren’t we, yn?” he snarked.

“oh please. you wish harry. i don’t relate to you. i could never relate to you. cus i would’ve never treated me as shitty as you did,” you shook your head as you spoke. crossing your arms defensively as you prepared to tell the chosen one all about himself.

“i treated you so shitty and yet, i still work my ass off to continue to save your life along with everyone else on the planet. right,” he scoffed.

“cut your bullshit harry. stop with the savior of the world shit. you scared me half to death with all of the dangerous shit you did. you stick your neck out and swim oceans for people who wouldn’t even step over a fucking puddle for you! you think these people care about you? they don’t! you’re a pawn in their little war. that’s all you’ll ever be!” you scoffed again. “i don’t even know why i’m wasting my breath. you only ever listen to your fucking ‘friends’ anyway,” you put air quotes around the word as you forced yourself to keep your tears at bay.

“so what if i’m a pawn! i’m helping! you’ve had everything handed to you on a silver fucking platter you’re entire life! you’d never know what this life feels like!” he shouted back.

“that’s your problem harry! you never see anyone’s problems but your own! you weren’t even aware of the fact that you made me miserable! for weeks you made me miserable. i couldn’t even tell if i still had a boyfriend or not!” you harshly rubbed your nose on the sleeve of your robe. “i wish it wasn’t true, but now that i’m away from you, i’m somehow happier. at least i know you don’t love me anymore instead of having to wonder every night,” you shook your head.

“we’re done yn! you made that very clear when you left me after forgetting one date! why do you care so much!” he yelled.

“because it wasn’t one date harry it was multiple! hogwarts was my home harry! and you made me hate this school!” you shouted.

“so what?! we’re over yn, i’m moving on and handling it in my own way! you should too!” his face was red and the vein in his neck was protruding. all eyes in the great hall—including those of the professors’—were on the two of you.

“no! cus i don’t talk shit about you all over the daily prophet or in school for that matter! i’ve never said anything bad about you!” you yelled at him.

“well why not? apparently you have every right to since i was such a horrible boyfriend for trying to make a better world for the two of us to have a future in,” he scoffed.

you rolled your eyes and decided upon not wasting your breath at his use of that defense yet again. “cause that shit’s embarrassing harry! you were my everything and all you ever did was make me fucking sad!” you rubbed at your nose again, nearly positive that the tip of it was now rubbed raw.

“i’m sorry that you feel like i was so terrible to you. i’m sorry that i couldn’t save our relationship like i saved the world like you said,” he shook his head.

“oh don’t try to make me feel bad harry! i have a whole laundry list of good and bad things about you. but at some point the good stopped outweighing the bad,” by now the inevitable had happened and tears had begun to spill slowly over your lash line.

“really? cus it sounds like you have nothing but bad things to say,” he snarked with a small scoff.

“i mean i could list all the times you showed up on time, but it’d be empty because you never did. you ruined everything good in my life, harry. and you always say you’re so misunderstood but you’re not! you’re just a heartless, selfish, asshole!” you shoved his chest roughly. “just fucking leave me alone! and keep my name out of your mouth,” you rolled your waterlogged eyes as you walked away.

once you were in the safety of your dorm, you let it all out. you slid slowly down the closed door and pulled your knees to your chest, releasing all the sobs you held in during your screaming match. your heart broke for the second time in less than a month. you choked over sobs as your stomach twisted in pained knots, matching the feeling of your heart thumping behind your ribcage.

your everything was gone. but somehow… you were happier than ever without him.

[consumeconstantly]

Lady Cross (first aid)

Summary: Somehow, Marinette always ends up biting off more than she can chew. It started off with a kid and a nasty gash on their knee. The sudden escalation to treating the new head of Gotham’s underworld? It can only be explained by the fact that she’s catnip for trouble. 

_____________________________________________

Marinette supposed she should have expected something like this to happen eventually.

Really, she patches up a few street kids and offers a meal and some resources and suddenly she's made a name for herself in the slums of Gotham. It’s not like she’s doing anything revolutionary. Well, okay, maybe she does cheat a little bit and uses her healing powers on a few of the tougher cases that really should have been out of her realm of expertise, but she’s living near the slums of Gotham for a reason. That reason being Marinette is just a little broke and can’t really afford to send everyone she comes across to the hospital, and the people who are injured certainly can’t. It’s not like she can leave them to die. That would be heartless.

When she stopped treating scrapes and cuts for kids on the streets as she came across them and instead found her apartment balcony frequented by families who needed her help, she couldn’t just say no. And so, more and more serious wounds started coming in. Kids brought their parents and friends. The parents and friends brought... well, if the police stopped by her apartment any time soon, she’s fairly certain they’d have a field day.

But again, it’s not like she’s going to turn these people into the police when they’ve come to her for help and have a small army of people who swear up and down that they’re good people and only doing what they have to do in order to get by.

Morality comes in such a variety of shades, who was she to judge? Ladybug and Marinette have both certainly had their fair share of mistakes that they’d gladly go back in time to rectify, and her hands weren’t clean of blood either. Sure, the Miraculous Cure may have brought people back, but their deaths were still on her. And Hawkmoth? Yeah, he’s alive now, but she hammered him into the pavement after dropping him from the top of the Eiffel tower, and she’s not going to pretend that she didn’t take a bit of morbid joy in that moment.

But back to the matter at hand. Which was, the notorious Red Hood—responsible for a coup amongst Gotham’s drug dealers and responsible for taking down a man whose morality truly vanished with the wind, Black Mask himself— was currently bleeding out on her second floor balcony, smoking a cigarette and lounging against the rail like he owned the place. 

“Lady Cross,” he inclined his head.

“Red Hood,” Marinette returned his greeting.

God, she really didn’t want to get involved with Red Hood. She wasn’t opposed to helping out street thugs and criminals, but Red Hood was a different league. He seemed to be a fairly decent guy, ensuring that kids weren’t dealt drugs and tried to keep them out of the circuit as much as possible. He took down plenty of worse criminals while he was at it. In fact, Marinette would go so far to say the Red Hood as one the good guys.

But the issue was, once she started treating people of a certain level, she’d be open game. And that didn’t seem very enticing to her. Not at all. Everyone knew that Red Hood had beef with the Bat Family for some reason or other, and also made enemies with almost every single rogue in Gotham, and a good number of enemies outside of it as well. Basically, Red Hood was a universal enemy of both the vigilantes and rogues. Someone she shouldn’t get involved with while she was trying to investigate the darkness surrounding Gotham whole running her online boutique and going to college at Gotham University.

Unfortunately, Tom and Sabine and her own stint as Ladybug taught her that she could never ignore someone in need. Marinette sighed and slid the mesh open, leading Red Hood to her living room. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Real nice place you got here,” he said.

With the mask covering the whole of his face, Marinette had no facial expressions to figure out whether he was poking fun at her current living situation or not. His voice sounded genuine, but vocal emotions were easy to fake.

The apartment she was living in was not on the nice side of town. There were three bullet holes in the wall between her living room and bedroom that she just didn’t have time to patch up, some pretty nasty looking stains on the ceiling near her kitchen, and a huge, spray painted red cross on one of her walls, which was where her street name derived from. Her floor and coffee table were also in states of disarray; she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to clean up after working on two commissions and the last guest whose wounds were heavy enough to warrant several rolls of gauze, which was now half stuffed into a garbage can sitting next to rolls of fabric. Perhaps not the neatest or most sanitary situation, but she didn’t have time to clean up before every single one of her unexpected guests came in.

Look, it wasn’t her fault that she didn’t have time to fix things up real nice and neat. She’d only been living in the apartment for a month and a half, and most times, she barely spent any time in it other than to sleep, cram last minute projects for her design course, or to help heal people. Her living situation wasn’t the biggest of worries.

“Sit,” Marinette gestured to the one of the few pieces of furniture that she specifically bought for the apartment. She didn’t mind the stained, half broken, and extremely creaky couch the last owners left behind for the first week, but after she started bringing back her first… visitors, it seemed important that the couch was comfortable, sturdy, and most crucially, cleanable.

Rummaging through a cabinet, she pulled out a tattered briefcase she thrifted a while back to keep all of her medical supplies in. Not the prettiest of things, but she tried not to keep expensive looking items in her apartment because she wasn’t a fan of getting mugged. The medicine she kept was already expensive enough, she didn’t need to attract everyone’s attention by owning one of those metal containers used in hospitals. Even though most of the people who dropped by her apartment were thankful to be treated, she had a few instances where people tried to steal things from her.

“What’s the damage, doc?” Red Hood’s voice came through rather tinny through his helmet. 

Marinette grimaced. The helmet must have awful air circulation. It looked like some sort of metal, and wet and metal never smelled good together. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Thought you were supposed to be some mystic healer who came from the far east.”

She paused and looked at the man, trying to judge whether he was racist as well as rude. “That’s rather insulting.” 

Red Hood shrugged. Marinette applauded the man for showing no outward sign of pain at that, even though there was a bullet embedded in his shoulder, and shrugging had to bite. “That’s what the word on the street is, though you sound French to me. Thought I’d come and check out who’s healing Gotham’s criminals. What’re you planning?”

“Sorry to foil your plans, but I’m not planning anything other than getting my college degree and not pissing off the people I live near.” She paused, flipping the lock on the briefcase upwards. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use me as your go to healer from now on. You’re going to bring trouble my way.”

“Trouble? Me? Perish the thought.” His hand rested comfortably on the holister of his gun, ready to shoot if the girl pulled out a weapon from the briefcase. “We’ll talk about repeat appearances after I see how you do today.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Any wounds other than the obvious?”

“Just need the bullet out, and some stitches on the gash.” His shoulder and his abdomen, respectively. The gash looked nastier than the bullet; no shrapnel, but the cut on his stomach was jagged and wide. Not a normal, sharp blade. Probably needed a good cleaning.

She grabbed the tweezers, a sterilized needle, and medical thread. “That’s fine. Now are you going to undress, or am I going to have to cut your… costume… up?”

“Getting me naked already? We haven’t even had our first date yet.”

“Very funny, little Red Riding Hood. Now hop to it. I have class at 9 tomorrow and projects to finish tonight.” Somehow, trouble always seemed to find her when she least wanted it to. Not that she wanted to have trouble find her at all, but luck was a two way street, and for all that being Ladybug granted her good luck, she attracted criminals like catnip. 

“And here my informants had me thinking you were a regular Florence Nightingale.”

Marinette snorted. “They wish. I’ve got to ask who told you, because everybody should know the rules. You know, the ones where they don’t speak of my existence to their higher ups?”

“I’m not a rat,” Red Hood said, taking the top part of his outfit off. “And it’s not like you would have gone unnoticed anyways. You might be treating small timers now, but people catch on to healers pretty easy.”

“Because some gauze and sewing skills make me such a prime target.”

“No, your magic does.”

Shit. Marinette never told anyone she was using magic, and she rarely used it unless it was a dire situation. If she could patch them up using regular skills, she did. 

“Yeah right, if I had magic healing powers, do you think I’d be shoving my fingers into your shoulder to get a bullet out?”

“Not a very good liar, Lady Cross. You have this deer-caught-in-the-headlights look about you.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I’m also the deer that tramples through your windshield and takes a dump on the driver’s seat.” She maneuvered the tweezers a little rougher, hoping to make Red Hood hiss in pain. He just chuckled, amused. His high pain tolerance was getting rather annoying. She had half a mind to pour hydrogen peroxide over the wound just to see if that would make him show he was in pain, but thought better of it. Even though she didn’t like the man, she also didn’t want to piss him off. Or worse, have him come back and make her fix him up again. 

Threading the needle, she made quick, small stitches on his shoulder, sewing the bullet hole up, then put some petroleum jelly to speed up the healing process and reduce scarring. At least the wound was in a position that didn’t require a lot of gauze. She needed to go out and buy some more soon. She barely had enough to wrap around Red Hood’s waist.

“So, the magic,” Red Hood started. “Is it a conditional thing? Can you not use it all the time?”

“Again, I don’t have magic.” Marinette did have to use some antibacterial on the knife wound. He would need to take good care of that one to make sure it didn’t get infected. 

“So a meta, then. What are you doing in Gotham? Everybody knows Batman hates metas.”

“Not a meta, either, sorry to disappoint.” She tied off the gauze, then stood to wash her hands. “Make sure to clean the stomach wound well. Hope you have your tetanus shot, otherwise you should look into getting one.”

“Surprisingly, I’m inclined to believe you on the not-a-meta thing. Back to the first thing, then. Magic. Why don’t you show me the old razzle dazzle? Do you have to say one of those weird spells like the godmother in Cinderella? Bibbity bobbity boo?”

“You’re hilarious,” Marinette dead panned. 

“How’s this for magic? Bibbity bobbity boo, kindly leave. Shoo.” She followed his suggestion, made a show of jazz hands as well. “Pity I don’t use magic otherwise you’d be gone now. Anyways, it’s time for you to make your exit. It would be great if you didn't visit me again. Ever. Thanks.”

She ushered him out onto her patio, then slammed the sliding door. He saluted her before dropping off the side of the building. She could imagine the man under the helmet smirking.

Marinette ran a hand through her loose hair. “He’s going to come back, isn’t he.”

@jasonette-july-2k20

[gentlemancrow]

jonmartin, pre-romance, #15/28??

I did manage to get BOTH of these in! So we have a combo of "You called me, remember?" and "It's too early for this". Much like the others, the MINUTE I read this prompt an idea popped into my head that I just HAD to go with! This is actually based off a real life incident I had with a friend (They know who they are...) but it fit both Jmart and the prompt PERFECTLY! The names have been changed to fictional characters to protect the innocent. (Hint I was the Martin in this situation) Anyway this was super fun and cute to write and I made myself all squishy a lot. HOPE YOU ENJOY! <3

There were precious few reasons why Martin’s mobile should be ringing at exactly 5:47 am on a Tuesday, and precisely none of them were good. Still, the anxiety inducing sound alerting him to something ominously, ambiguously amiss struggled to worm its way through a rather lovely dream of his acceptance speech after being awarded poet laureate. The poem he had prepared for the occasion was marrow-deep and hauntingly beautiful, or at least he remembered it that way until suddenly he was reciting the lyrics to Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ instead and sweating profusely as the audience began to murmur in disgust amongst themselves. Waterloo was indeed blaring, but from the ringtone of his phone, not from his lips, and his stomach performed a cold somersault with the force of the wave of anxiety that had begun in his dream and crested up to lap at the base of his barely functional brain. The few synapses he needed for basic motor function and reading comprehension crackled to life as he clumsily batted the buzzing device on his nightstand into his hand and squinted blearily at the name.

It was small. That was an immediate relief. If the care home had been calling about an incident with his mother, either her health or the staff’s as a result of her, it would have been the full moniker of ‘Sunrise Acres Care Home’ ticking across the caller ID. Yet small implied a name, a person, someone he had in his phone and not just a random spam call, and anxiety spiked again as Martin scrubbed at his eyes until ‘Jon’ appeared in white hot letters on the screen. Sleep dissolved from him in an instant and he sat bolt upright in a tangle of covers as he smashed the green answer icon with his thumb and threw the receiver to his ear.

“Hullo?! Jon? R’you okay? What’s happened?” he demanded, voice still slumbery thick and groggy.

“Martin!” Jon’s silky, prim voice, thinned out to a tin can vibrato over airwaves, answered, “Good, you’re awake. I need your help. Urgently.”

Martin was already out of bed by the time ‘need’ reached his ears, yanking on the first pair of jeans he spotted in the laundry heap on the floor and hopping on his free leg to the en suite with his phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder.

“I’m on it!” he assured him despite having no clue what ‘it’ was, exactly, “I’m coming to you as soon as I can. Where are you? Are you hurt? Should I bring a first aid kit? I don’t think I have a first aid kit… should I buy a first aid kit? There’s a Boots just down the block from my flat, I could-“

“Martin, stop! What the hell are you on about?” Jon’s annoyed tone cut through his panic like a scalpel.

Martin stopped in the doorframe of the bathroom, brows knitted, jeans puddling around the one leg he’d managed to get through and left once again in naught but his boxers as he gripped his phone back into his hand.

“Huh? What are you on about? You said you needed help!” he snapped.

“I do! But not like… not like THAT. What kind of mortal peril do you imagine I would find myself in at a quarter to six in the morning?”

The initial surge of adrenaline fizzling out uselessly in his veins the more Jon talked, Martin sagged against the doorway and pinched his temples as he strained his words through a colander of civility.

“I don’t know, Jon. You called me, remember?”

“Right, right…”

A terse, lowly hissing silence of dead satellite replaced Jon’s voice, twisting Martin’s nerves as acrobatically as he twisted to avoid the point. He kicked off his jeans and stalked grouchily back to bed where he threw himself face down and unmoving.

“So, what is it then? Wi-Fi gone tits up? Forgot how long to steep Darjeeling?” he hissed into his rumpled duvet, a little nastier than he would have liked given the deadly combination of interrupted slumber and primordial biological survival instinct.

“I uh…” Jon’s voice deflated over the speaker, “I have a… problem.”

“Yes, we’ve so very, very clearly established that. What kind of a problem, exactly…?”

“A problem of an upsettingly… Arachnid nature.”

“A spider…?”

“…Yes.”

Martin propped himself up on one elbow, eyes narrowed with genuine and curious concern.

“Wait like a… like a spooky spooky spider? Or just an ordinary kind of spooky spider?” he inquired with as much levity as he could muster, given one of the likely options.

“Stop saying spooky. And the ordinary kind. I think. No, I’m sure of it. It’s merely the sitting on my kitchen wall like it owns the place and staring at me rudely with all eight eyes, judging me for skipping breakfast again, kind,” Jon answered with clinical pointedness.

“O… kay…?” Martin drawled, suppressing a giggle, “So, what’s the problem then?”

“What do I do?”

Martin opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again as he doubted that he had actually heard Jonathan Sims, the irascible, pompous, only capable of truly looking at him down his nose Head Archivist Jonathan Sims, ask him, a lowly assistant, what to do. With a spider. It would have been almost adorable, had he not scared the life out of him initially, but even that knocked it only down a single peg to helplessly charming.

“I-I mean, the normal thing one does when encountering a spider in one’s home? You kind of only have the usual two options? Er well, three, if you count just leaving it be, but I doubt you’re amenable to that one.”

“No, absolutely not, out of the question,” Jon declared swiftly.

“Didn’t think so,” Martin chuckled, rolling onto his back and sagging in relief into the mattress.

“So?” came the impatient invitation to continue.

“So what?”

“So, then what do I do?” Jon repeated brusquely.

“Well, you either kill it or let it go, of course! What else is there to do? Invite it to brunch?”

“I know that! I’m not an idiot!” Jon erupted furiously, “Good lord, Martin! Do you really think I would have called you because I didn’t know the only two options for dealing with an eight-legged criminal invading my home were kill it or let it go? Really?! Did you suppose this was the very first spider I ever encountered in my life? Is that what you thought? Or perhaps I had my own personal valet to attend to all of my insectoid tribulations, hmm? Just call the bug butler, he’ll attend to it straightaway! Do you ever stop to think before you open your mouth? Or do you customarily just air out whatever inane notions blow through your ears, no matter how puerile? Christ!”

Martin let the phone drop onto the bed beside him, away from the verbal darts hurled directly into his eardrum and taxing the output matrix of the speaker, as Jon launched into an affronted, mortified tirade, smirking and shaking his head.

“It’s too early for this…” he mused to himself ruefully, rubbing both hands over his face and eyes.

Once the phone stopped humming and glowing white hot with remote rage, Martin scooped it back up and yawned into the receiver.

“You alright there, Jon?” he asked in a gentle tone.

A ragged sigh crackled into a blip of feedback from lips too close on the other end of the phone.

“…Not really?” came Jon’s tremulous reply, “Listen, I’m sorry I went off on you. That was unfair of me. I-I just… I really… really hate spiders.”

Something squeezed in Martin’s chest, something about the confident bass flayed neatly out of Jon’s usually assertively solid mannerisms, leaving it abnormally thin and rickety. He sat up on the bed, cradling the phone much more gently to his cheek.

“Hey hey, it’s okay,” he assured him, “If anybody sympathizes about being afraid, you definitely called the right person. Need me to stay on the line with you while you whack it? A good heavy book will probably do the trick, or if you need speed and agility a rolled-up newspaper or a magazine might be better?”

“No! I wasn’t calling because I needed advice on how to murder the damn thing! I’m quite capable of doing that on my own. Frankly, I’ve taken rather a vested interest in honing my spider termination methodology over the years. I called you because… well you were going on about how you thought they were…” Jon trailed off in a series of garbled sounds of disgust, “Cute… of all things.”

Martin grinned and had to put the phone on his bare chest a moment, as if Jon might somehow perceive his giddy glee through the receiver.

“To be fair I’m a little odd that way. Most people feel much the same as you do about them,” he commented as he picked it back up.

“True, but that’s not even the whole of it!” Jon went on exasperatedly, “I also overheard you talking… must have been to Tim or Sasha but… you were explaining about how helpful they are to the ecosystem and what a vital role they play in that natural order of things, and how we always see images of them eating butterflies and beautiful things that make them look sinister, but how really they mostly control pests and the like… how you thought they got kind of a bad rap?”

“Wow I uh… I can’t believe you remembered all that,” Martin muttered, freckled cheeks dusting a light pink, “But what does that have to do with your unwanted houseguest in particular?”

“It was the last part, mainly. That’s what got me. The part about fear. That they’re afraid, too… You said there had been studies that showed a clear fear response in spiders… to us. They’re afraid of us, demonstrably more so than we are of them…”

One word of all of those slipped between Martin’s ribs and into his heart. Too. They were afraid, too. His thumb stroked and consoled the edge of his phone unconsciously as Jon blustered on, unbothered by his own unconscious admission.

“And now I can’t do it! Now I have to set this bloody spider free because you think it’s cute and want to make friends with it, and I can’t make it an innocent victim of my fear and I have no idea how!”

Martin couldn’t help but smile, imagining how Jon must be in his flat on the other end, scrunched in a corner all hunched up shoulders and furrowed brow with hackles bristling, squaring off with a creature who was possessed of no knowledge of the fear she symbolized, or the grace to understand the iconographical divorce to her salvation. Only Jon, quivering and still bed-rumpled and frazzled, could understand the magnitude of cupping that fear in the palm of his hand while reaching out to him with the other. And now Martin understood it, too.

“Hey alright, I’ve got you. Steady on Jon, we’re gonna get through this together. I’ll talk you through the steps, you just follow what I say, okay?” he instructed in his best 999 operator performance.

A beat of silence ensued, followed by a much more robust and emboldened, “Okay.”

“So, what you want to do first is get a glass.”

“A glass?”

“Yeah, like a water glass. And a stiff piece of paper or cardboard or something. If you’ve got a bit of post lying about, flyers and coupons and the like, those usually work well.”

There was a period of distant shuffling, clattering, and indecipherable muttering as Jon gathered his weapons, then sucked in an audible breath through his teeth.

“Alright I’ve got them, now what?” he asked, sounding a bit winded.

“Now you very carefully put the glass over the spider, then slide the paper under the glass so you trap it inside. Then you can take it out without touching it or worrying about it scuttling off on you and set it free wherever you think it’ll be happy!” Martin answered sweetly.

“Okay, okay. I think I can do that,” Jon chanted for steadiness, “I’m putting the phone down so I don’t louse it up, but d-don’t hang up, stay on with me, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. You’re okay.”

“O-Okay… Okay… Okay…!”

Martin listened as Jon’s voice grew distant, but somehow stronger, more like a war cry, with the soft pad of socked feet on tile, then a short stretch of silence, and then a chorus of oaths and yelping, rising to the crescendo of a door being messily flung open, shut, then opened and shut again. A drumbeat of returning feet rolled mutely close and melded into the scratchy rustle of the phone being picked back up.

“I’m back,” Jon announced.

“Is it done?”

“The deed is done… your little friend is enjoying some lovely pink dahlias out front as we speak.”

“I’m pleased for her! And… for you, too,” Martin said, voice melting into lilting tenderness, “I’m honestly really proud of you, I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“I… Ah… No, it wasn’t. Thank you, Martin,” came the sheepishly measured rejoinder.

“You’re very welcome.”

Martin smiled privately to himself, and ran a loving thumb down the edge of his phone once more.

“So then may I rightly assume I have permission to come in an hour or so late today so I can go back to sleep?” he continued, already knowing the answer as he flopped back down on his pillows and rolled up into the covers.

He was relieved to hear a husky chuckle rumble through the phone.

“Yes, yes. I think you’ve more than earned it.”

“Brilliant, see you in a bit then? And for lunch?” he added hopefully.

The brief silence as Jon calculated his response hung thick and palpable in the digital airwaves.

“Lunch sounds good,” he replied at length, “See you then.”

“G-Great! Great! See you!”

Their phones clicked mutually off without the awkward jumble of sign-offs, pleasantries, and accidentally stumbling over each other’s words. Martin thought glimmeringly of the spider hunting free in plush pink petals, none the wiser, and of Jon, with new and irrefutable proof that not everything ugly or quietly cunning in the world lurked behind to cast its shadow over him. A spider could be just a spider, and Martin back asleep with both hands still clutching his phone to his chest, dreaming of singing Waterloo again, but this time to a rapt audience and thunderous applause.

[cyberrat]

54th Batch Of Fics: 4th Fill

Angelo Solo – Milky AU – Part 44 – same as last part! the evening goes on and on... Gabriel slowly gets into Schaefer's head :)

---

“Holy shit this hole is so good… I love getting to fuck the ones that get sent back. They get so nice and desperate…”

He is grabbing the corners of the box, head tilting back as he fucks loose hipped and without a care in the world that a bunch of guys are standing around and waiting for their turn.

They’re patient about it, too; just waiting to use the hole like they would for any other facility.

One has moved over to the side of the box to play with the cow’s cock out of simple boredom, fingertips pinching the foreskin and pulling down on it idly.

Nobody takes any notice of the sobbing coming from inside the crate, or that the cow is trying to form words, begging them for… who even knew what.

He is too far gone to really form words anyway; just instinctively sobbing and whining as he gets fucked by cock… after cock… after cock…

“Hey… can’t you put the stream on that big screen? Kinda wanna see the face…”

“No! What the fuck? Go into the observation room for that…”

“Just want to fuck a whole, if I’m being honest.”

“It’s the best part, man. You only got to pump a load out and don’t have to worry about a single thing…”

The guy rolls his eyes and grumbles something, crossing his arms. “Yeah whatever. You guys don’t know what’s good. Schaefer got the best seat in the house anyway. As always.”

.o.

“It’s always kind of funny when someone like you gets all hot and bothered for a cow.”

Schaefer’s shoulders stiffen slightly, moving up to his ears a little. He clears his throat and throws Gabriel a disgruntled look. He had been trying to dissuade him from going along this interrogation path with little success.

He seems intent on getting some answers out of him, even if he has to resort to dirty tactics.

“Someone like me?” he asks despite knowing better. He throws Gabriel a very brief glance but quickly looks out again toward the group reaming Angelo and making him slowly but surely lose his mind.

Part of Reyes reminds him of Jesse, somehow. They’re both so… cheeky and have no shame.

“The uptight types. The ones that would rather fill out a bunch of forms before they get down and dirty.”

That does make him huff, hand automatically going up to play with the top button of his collar that he has obviously closed primly.

“I do not see any harm in making sure a partner is fully consenting to any eventualities that could come up. I do acknowledge that the main opinion is that these more… racy scenarios are more ‘exciting’ or something-” here, he nods toward the observation room where one stud is changing out for another right now, “-but there is beauty and sensuality in a calm and collected encounter as well.”

“Tell that to the young, virile cow on your hands,” Reyes croons.

Schaefer can only see him from the corner of his eyes but he seems to be moving closer bit by bit.

“You know as well as I do that they want to fuck and fuck and fuck. The nastier the better. He’ll have a field day in whatever farm he’ll end up in. Probably won’t see him for a few days once you drop him off like he’s at a damn daycare.”

Gabriel is watching his reaction intently, and probably is not prepared for Schaefer to nod and relax again.

“In all honesty… I think I would be having a field day as well. I have to admit that I have been thinking of the day that Jesse will leave us both with dread and anticipation.”

“The fuck?” His response comes so deadpan, that even Schaefer has to smile, ducking his head, if only for a moment before his eyes are drawn back to the readings Angelo gives them while he is being fucked again and again, nobody paying attention to him having his orgasms and begging for mercy.

“I admit… it is selfish of me to want him here forever. His progress has simply been… absolutely astounding. The way his body and mind adapts to the changes – it is awe inspiring, really. A true natural cow. I wish I… that is… we… could spend more time with him. Study him just a little more…

But… I know that he will be very happy on a farm. He isn’t the only one of our patients that is craving for ‘the real thing’, but I believe he will really find his calling there which he doesn’t even know yet.”

“...You kind of sound like Jack, really.”

Schaefer looks to him in surprise, unsure whether he should feel pleased or disturbed. He still very much likes to think of himself as someone who is not… falling for a patient.

“Yeah. In a… really nerdy ‘stick-up-my-ass’ kinda way. But still pretty close.”

That… doesn’t make it easier to discern whether it is an insult or noth, so he just throws him a weird glance and looks back into the observation room, thoughts far away.

.o.

He’s used like an object, and Angelo knows it. There’s no thought in his head other than how many cocks might still be lined up to use him like some kind of public toilet, fucking his stretched-out hole and dumping yet another load of warm, slippery cum in his intestines.

His belly feels heavy and swollen with it though that can’t be possible… can it? He doesn’t know. It feels too hard to make himself think about it. He’s just coasting on the feeling, awkwardly spreading his knees so his thighs won’t press against his stomach any longer.

A next stud is sliding their cock in nice and easy. No resistance, no hesitation. Nobody has asked him in ages how he is doing and that’s good and fine… he’s just a hole right now. Just a hole in a box ready to be fucked and fucked and fucked.

Every now and then the pleasure in his body will crest and his face will go slack, eyes rolling into his head while he shoots his own load, insides trying to clench around whatever they have stuffed into him at the time.

He is kind of sure that it’s not always cocks… or is he? Are they all cocks or are they starting to fuck him with random objects they found standing around? The thing punch fucking him right now could be a cock… or an arm…? Or a bottle of water?

Everything gets muddied up in his overheated brain. He hasn’t struggled against his headphones in a while. A voice keeps telling him what a good cow he is in irregular intervals, shattering all his thoughts and making him relax again and again… and again…

Whoever is being fucked on the video they show him, he can’t stop watching. There’s a puddle of fluids surrounding the bottom of the crate. They’ve gotten fucked so often, their hole is obscenely swollen, looking more like a donut than anything else.

Wow… lucky.

[neil-neil-orange-peel]

Alan went from delightfully wicked evil to actually quite scary post Serbia betrayel I reckon. The head in the bed was really next level to me.

YES s4e1 features Alan at his most psychopathic, I think, because he's fully out for revenge. He's been betrayed and humiliated, had almost everything taken from him, and you do not do that to Alan B'Stard without any consequences. Even the way the theme tune plays when he enters the Westminster office, stalking Piers like a bat, is incredibly sinister. And then he nearly murders a baby!

The bloody decapitated head in the bed is possibly the most graphic scene in TNS. Somehow, people were more bothered by Alan torturing Piers' teddy. 😂

Sarah really has always been longing for someone who isn't Alan to share her life with. In series 1 she's got Beatrice, then she spends her time committing adultery with whoever she can (not dissimilarly from Alan), and then at the start of series 4 she's got Otto. We're not given any reason to think that she didn't genuinely love Beatrice or Otto, and in fact she doesn't appear to be sleeping around when she's with either of them. Sarah is not a nice person (and she knows this), she's snobby and spoilt and apathetic, but Alan made her worse. The Sarah of series 1 would never have allowed Alan to pimp her out around the big knobs of Europe. As she says in s4e2, there is psychopathic revenge lust going on by that point.

As for Alan... I've talked before about why I think he had to be mostly unaffected by his time in Siberia (for the sitcom format, to avoid making him sympathetic, for plot, for "ooh isn't he indestructible" vibes), but I do actually think there are shifts in Alan's character across the show. You've got series 1, which TV Tropes identifies as featuring a slightly softer Alan. Apart from getting a little nastier in series 2, I don't think he really changes that much until series 3. I think, after his hanging, he changes a bit. It's probably a reflection of Marks & Gran having to shift a little after Thatcher resigned, but he seems little less stroppy and bratty. He's more established as an MP (Prince Andrew and Fergie come to visit the B'Stards in s3e4) and he's a little closer to the levers of power via his acquaintanceship with Sir Grevel McDonald. I don't know, he just seems to have matured ever so slightly, grown wiser.

Then, in series 4, this has happened again. Obviously, Alan's in different circumstances, being in Europe as an MEP. In some ways, series 4 feels like it had more potential than 6 episodes gave it - it's almost like a different show - but it's also true that TNS felt a little lost without Thatcher. Not only have they let Rik's grey come through around the temples, but Alan seems somehow even more self assured than usual. It's really difficult to explain. It's not that he's nicer, because he's not, but he's not as defensive? Sometimes? Because he doesn't need to be. He's still rude and sadistic, but he seems to be better at having conversations with people without getting bored and impatient like a school boy. He's still impatient, he's just not as obvious about it.

Paradoxically, or maybe not, the more Alan matures into his evilness, the more sadistic pleasure he seems to get from torturing Piers. 😂

He gets involved in some shady shit in series 4 - pretending he wants to lead the Neo Nazis just so he can get his hands on Hitler's jewels being a prime example - but he's also got clearer ambitions than before. Previously, he's just making money wherever he can, keeping his job as an MP and feathering his own nest while indulging in whatever he wants. When he's an MEP, he is working bit by bit to undermine British trust in the EEC (today known as the EU), which culminates in the last episode where he manages to cause rifts in both the Conservative and Labour parties and become Lord Protector. It would be seriously impressive if it wasn't so real. 😂

Anyway, yes, Alan has his scary moments. Arguably, the one time we see him lose it the most and surrender to his dark urges more completely is actually in s2e7, when he's torturing Piers' bear. He does many horrible things - like poisoning everyone at Piers' wedding just an episode earlier - but he'd never been as insanely unravelled as then. It seems he genuinely believed the bear was sentient in that scene, it was more than just something for him to take his frustrations out on, it was a culmination of his fury and confusion and jealousy at Piers' being made a junior minister.

Hmm. It seems I like talking about Alan B'Stard a lot. 😂 Oh well.

Thanks for the ask!

[ubemango]

a nascent thing (m)

note: I wrote this on my birthday, tipsy off multiple screwdrivers 🤩🤩🤩🤩 Remember how badly I wanted to write mating press!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Lol Anyway enjoy, happy new year’s eve! 💕💕

PAIRING. namjoon/reader GENRE. romance, smut. part of the pups series RATED. M WORD COUNT. 2.7k WARNINGS. pregnancy talk, breeding kink, size kink, mating press!!!!!!!!!!, oral (f receiving), creampie EXCERPT. You pick a movie. Settle into the couch. Then one of you will proposition the other, and the credits will roll to your bouncing, or Namjoon absolutely drilling into your guts. 

Point is: somehow he always ends up inside you.

When Jimin sets up a conversation it’s never in your favour. You should be used to it by now: he’s mean when he wants to be, and that’s all the time. Especially now that you’ve lived up the fantasy he so badly wanted to come true just so he could hold the satisfaction over your head. He’s prideful in a way you won’t smite him for because you’re satisfied too.

“So your college fantasy’s played out nicely,” Jimin teases. You’re sitting in the student centre again, waiting for Namjoon to finish his workshop for the day. And if you were being honest you would’ve waited it out in the library but Jimin’s too insistent for his own good. Says he doesn’t like being alone, wants the presence of his best friend, but you know it’s because most of his friends are in lecture right now. “Good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s so fucking tall.”

“Yep.” 

“Good for you,” he says again. “Really. I only say that because you’re nice to me way more than I am to you, so.”

You roll your eyes at the half-compliment. “You’re not wrong.”

“Say thank you,” Jimin corrects.

“Thanks,” you repeat.

The whir of people milling around lets you indulge in the stillness Jimin so sparingly provides. The dude doesn’t like shutting up. But his silence means he’s onto you, because being reserved means being subject to prying eyes. Jimin knows when you’re thinking hard.

“What’s going on in there?” He’s quick to flick at your forehead. He ignores your scowl with his own mirthful smile. “You’re not saying much.”

“You just make fun of me whenever I tell you stuff.”

“Not if it’s actually serious, I’m not that mean,” he explains. Completely ignoring his homework like he’s wont to do when he’s laid a trap for your gossip.

You shrug. “It’s not… that serious.”

“So tell me.”

“I woke up,” you begin slowly. “And I had a—weird dream.”

Jimin hums. “About what?”

You can still feel it. That unsettling mixture of the remnants of sleep and the fading whispers of whatever your brain conjured up the night before sitting low in your gut. Like you’re still dreaming and now you’re being punished for waking up.

You won’t even lie. It was a good dream.

“Iwaspregnant,” you murmur.

“What?” Jimin rests his weight on the table to catch it again. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I was… pregnant.”

“Wha—“

“Oh my god I was pregnant!”

“Yeah I heard you the first time, I’m just fucking with you,” Jimin snickers. Now you smite him, and he has the grace to accept it with only little complaint. “Ow. God, okay. So? Why was it weird?”

“Because!” You fidget under his scrutiny. “It… we both know who… the dad was.”

“Actually I don’t—“

“Stop fucking with me!”

Jimin huffs, twirls his pencil to save you from his attention. “Fine. So Namjoon was the dad. Now what?”

You don’t really know. Dreams are weird like that: short-lived, hard-hitting. And there wasn’t even a clear image of you and a baby. You’d felt it instead, the weight inside your womb. You shiver with what you think is need—for what, is unclear.

“Just feels different is all,” you conclude.

“How so?”

You repeat what he’d said earlier. “He’s so fucking tall.”

“Yep,” he mimics.

There’s something about Namjoon that makes him overwhelming. His height is one thing, but the way he uses it to crowd over you when he wants to is your newfound undoing. Like you can’t help but to succumb to his very being whenever he’s near. And now that you’ve dreamt of giving yourself to him like that—it’s another thing entirely. All things considered: Jimin doesn’t need to know. “It’s just. Yeah. It’s weird. And I feel weird.”

“Interesting,” Jimin says. “Well. I see your lover-man coming over. You good though, cum dump?”

You’re in the middle of multiple hard punches against his bicep when Namjoon makes his presence known with a call of: 

“What did Jimin say this time?”

You glower. Jimin beams. Your fist aches. “Nothing! Nothing at all. Come to whisk away the light of our lives?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. You turn to see him grinning down at you already, and this time you shiver knowing why. “Ready to go?”

“Mhm, yep. Please.”

Jimin doesn’t get another word in, but he smiles like he’s got the last word anyway.

Thursdays work this way. Neither of you have classes the next day, and Namjoon stakes his claim to the apartment for the night because his roommate sleeps at his girlfriend’s for an early lecture. You pick a movie. Settle into the couch. Then one of you will proposition the other, and the credits will roll to your bouncing, or Namjoon absolutely drilling into your guts. 

Point is: somehow he always ends up inside you.

You wanted to wait it out. Keep your head afloat, stop the intrusive thought of him creaming your insides to life. But you cave the second you plant yourself into him, and it really doesn’t help when he envelopes you with an armful of warmth. You’re dizzy now.

“Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet make a weird couple,” Namjoon whispers into your head. You shift with the tingle of his breath.

“It’s kinda cute.”

“But like it’s different.”

“I know what you mean,” you respond. “Do you like it so far?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

Namjoon accepts your burrowing with a squeeze around your shoulder. The movie continues a few minutes more to your inner turmoil, and you don’t even realize the Propositioning phase has begun because Namjoon cradles your cheek the way you love to settle in so quick. He’s kissing you now, and you are lost in the feeling.

Something’s already alight in you. Two warring instincts: the need to pull him in closer, the desperation to keep him away lest you say something entirely unwarranted (re: creaming your insides to life). And he’s probably getting frustrated with the way you won’t let up to his tongue, so he wrangles you till you’re straddling his lap.

“You okay?”

There’s an honest answer to that. One you won’t reveal just yet, so you answer, “Yep.”

Namjoon stirs with a laugh. “Cutie.”

He kisses you with conviction. A hard mouth this time, and you can’t not take him in with all you have. You fist his shirt with shaky hands.

“Joonie—“ he trails a fast path of love down your neck— “you’re—hard already?”

“You kinda make it hard not to be, pups,” he answers.

“O-Oh…”

“Mm.” He suckles heat into your skin before pressing up for your mouth again. “Sorry. Going too fast?”

“It’s fine.” 

“Good. Wanna lie down for me?”

You do. He makes room for you to settle on your back, reaching slow under your shirt to tease those sighs out. You close your eyes to his further wandering, down till he’s got your pants off, heat half-bare but you feel exposed anyway.

“I… I really like it when—uh. You’re on top of me,” you say. Testing waters, but really you’re just wired to say shit when you feel like you’re about to implode. Namjoon lights up with a smile that makes your tummy turn too much. 

“I really like it too, pups.”

He’s silent in his reverie. It’s a mutual exchange, laying yourself out for him just to see his eyes go round for your visual. He doesn’t hide his excitement. It’s evident where he won’t let you indulge, just below his waist.

Your panties come off with slow hands. “Spread, please.”

You don’t know what you feel first: his breath, or his tongue. All you know is his mouth servicing a wet stripe along your folds, and you curl into the heat with a low groan.

“Hah—! Mm…”

“Slower?”

You nod. Namjoon obeys.

He keeps a light touch on your legs, spreading you wide for his generous tongue. Hunched over for your own pleasure because he’ll do whatever it takes to get to your high.

It’s different today, though. The greed for your orgasm stays dormant in the nastier part of your brain, and something tells you to be good for Namjoon right now. The part that wants him to want you that way. You find his hand to squeeze when he slurps hard on your clit. 

You don’t risk rutting. You take it with shaky thighs, trembling breaths. Letting him lave along to the useless sounds of the movie in the background, and the wet slick of your core drowns it out altogether. 

Namjoon croons a soft tone, leaves a small kiss on your pussy like it’s that precious. “You’re quiet today.”

You heat with shyness. “Sorry…”

“Is something wrong?”

You could confess to it. And you know you’ve graduated from those early days of keeping a pillow on your stomach while he ate you out to the courage of seeing your face through wide legs, but you want to hide instead. “I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Because you’re shaking a lot, pups,” Namjoon informs. 

“I just…“ You taper to a moan when he bends down for one more slow slide along your hole. “I… Kinda wanna tell you something.”

He hums, trailing kisses over your shirt till he hovers close to your mouth. “Tell me.”

God. At least Jimin had the mind not to look you in the eye when you’d told him. Namjoon attends to you like you’re worth the trouble, and the attention makes you cling desperately to his shoulders. To ground the intensity of your fantasy that’s about to tip over into uncharted waters. “I had a dream last night.”

“About?”

“About you. And me. And…”

“And?”

“Something else,” you divert. When Namjoon smiles, you tighten your legs around him. A lame attempt to ease the throb in your groin, but he doesn’t catch it.

He kisses you. “What else?”

“I was… I was, uh.” You gulp down any inhibitions. “Pregnant.”

You expect him to freeze. Which, in hindsight, he does: one split second where he stares hard into your eyes, contemplating with an insistent gaze.

Then all he does is just hide more kisses along your throat. “Pregnant, huh.”

“Mhm,” you warble, closing your eyes to the heady feeling of his mouth. Namjoon slows to a deeper massage with his teeth this time. Suckling hard, sparing in his bite but it still shocks your nerves to quivering. 

The sigh that feathers along your skin is weak. “You have no idea how hard I am right now.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He laughs, and it’s tinged with what you think might be… shame? “You… really don’t know what you do to me, huh.”

You shake your head.

“Well.” Namjoon leans up again to spear you with another harsh stare. “If we’re being honest here, then I’m gonna say something equally as appalling.”

“O…kay?”

“I think you’d look really good stuffed full of my cum right now,” he confesses.

Your own eyes bulge. “You—mm!”

His tongue is quick on yours, doesn’t let so much as a mumble out of your throat because he’s literally trying to take your breath away. “Bedroom, please. I’ll—“ he pauses to laugh— “I’ll breed you.”

“Namjoon!”

“Or would you prefer I drill you on this couch, I don’t really have a preference.”

“You’re so lewd,” you accuse.

“I’m not the one who just asked for my babies, pups.”

“I didn’t ask—“

Namjoon tuts. “Same difference. Now pick!”

“Get off me then,” you answer, and that’s all he needs to know before he’s up and dragging you to his room. 

He doesn’t bother with his shirt. Neither do you, and the race to get under him is just as quick as his temptation to hover over you. It’s somewhere between feeling the sheets under your ass and Namjoon pulling his boxers off you’re reminded of the fact that you both shared in your follies. “So I’m not being delusional.”

“Hm?”

“I’m not—you. You’re into this?”

“Like I said, pups.” Namjoon slots himself between your legs, but this time he slows down to raise your calves on his shoulders. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You watch with a careful eye, the way he slides his dick along your cunt. The build-up of slick and spit perfect for that initial glide along your insides and you arch right into the feeling. “Ooh fuck.”

Namjoon laughs. “Your legs alright?”

“It’s—fine.” 

He fits you till his hips bump against your ass, revelling in the tiny groan he releases. You savour the sensation with a clench along his length, involuntary in doing so but you know you can’t help it.

Namjoon starts slow. Craving that build-up only desperation gives rise to, and you clutch at the pillow under your head to stave off the need for him to go faster. 

The potential to absolutely obliterate you is there. Untapped because he understands your limits, knows what gets your skin crawling. You stutter a gasp with every push back against your core. 

He heaves. “Fuck, I—can I go harder?”

“Please,” you urge.

Namjoon follows suit, establishes that hard piston you’ve both been waiting for. He keeps you pliant with taut arms, knees threatening to knock your head if you don’t position it right. You don’t focus on that anyway. 

It’s fast. The sound is every shade of lewd, hips tight with every slap against your ass, making you cry out with every come-down. He doesn’t need to grind up for that extra feeling on your clit; his thumb finds it for you, and you wail into the pillows. 

“J-Joonie—I—agh!”

“Feels good?”

“Yes—!” The strain of your neck trying not to scream is near torture. But with every thrust it threatens your throat even more, and you’re losing your breath. “Joon, please…”

“Mm. Y-Yeah?”

“Make me cum,” you cry. “Please! J-Just—I need—“

He doesn’t say anything, just drives his thumb with almost too much conviction. And you look up then: he’s sweating along his forehead, heeding to your desperation with his determined pace. Like all that power he’s using is for your sake only, and you cum with an earth-shattering flutter inside your core. Letting it ride out through your limbs till you’re shaking in his hold. “Oh my god. Oh fuck, yes—!”

The satisfaction won’t settle, though. It’s almost scary, feeling how needy you are for him to come, and it’s with that same feeling Namjoon picks up in a final rush to get that high your greed is calling for.

“Gonna come for you, pups,” he grunts. “Wanna see you full of my cum. You want that?”

“Nn—“

“Answer me.”

You stutter from his avid thrusts. “Y-Yes!”

Namjoon moans long. “Then take it,” he urges.

Your teeth chatter with every quick movement. Namjoon pulses through ten seconds of hard shoves along your walls, pounding deep for the shoots of cum he so badly wants you to have. And you take it, nearly bumping your head against the headboard from how hard he pushes against your pussy, voracious in his need to fill you up so good.

You’re sweating in your shirt. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah.” Namjoon gulps, helps your legs down onto the bed. Then, he collapses onto your chest. “Yeah, holy fuck.”

“I think… I think you broke me.” 

He snorts. “I did not.”

“I think you did.” Never mind the fact that his cum is slowly pooling around your folds, sliding slow along your ass. Some hollow part in you wants to drag it back up inside. “You just defiled me.”

“I did not!”

“It’s not a bad thing,” you retort. You hug him close, and he wraps you up just the same. “I said I wanted your baby, didn’t I.”

“Shut up,” Namjoon snaps. But it’s not threatening at all, he’s too loved-up for that tone. “Don’t say that anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Makes me wanna fuck you again. But I can’t feel my thighs.”

You snort, press a kiss to his ear. “Maybe next time don’t go so hard then.”

“See. That’s where you’re wrong, pups.” He settles further into your neck. “Like I said before. You’re so fuckable.”

“Well that’s unfortunate,” you say. 

“Maybe next time don’t tell me you want my babies, I was going to die. Right then and there.”

“Maybe I wanted that.”

Namjoon suckles on your skin, and sighs with defeat. “You’ve got me.”

Good, you want to say, but the quiet settles, and the warmth of him is all you want to bask in for now.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #21- Situations in Which it is Appropriate to Stab Your Roommate

You know what’s generally considered bad for your health?

Getting fingers stuck into your brain meat.

Tailgate reveals himself to be immune to Tyrest’s “fall down on the floor” signal, because his hearing’s gone to complete shit due to Cybercrosis. Tailgate then turns off the “fall down on the floor” signal, allowing everyone back up. Tyrest dislikes this turn of events every much- so much so, in fact, he’s turned into a Nazgûl out of sheer rage.

Rodimus, feeling a bit bolstered by the fact that he’s gotten his hands on one of the massive guns the Legislators dropped, tries to talk a big game at Tyrest, before being reminded that a lot of their party is still at risk of dying, by way of their souls cheese-wizzing out of their heads.

Tyrest, now using Tailgate as a hostage, tells everyone to back off so he can go hang out with the Guiding Hand, otherwise he’s gonna poke holes in Cyclonus’ morality pet. Tailgate screams for Rodimus to fire, finally revealing that he’s been dying this whole time. Rodimus has a weird moment where the plot overrides his knowledge of his situation as a character, as he claims shooting them both is unnecessary, as it looks like someone’s already working on it.

Not sure how he saw the gun and not the man it was being held by. And Minimus has some fucking explaining to do.

Outside, Star Saber is yelling about everyone being unworthy of God’s grace, save for himself, because Real Bastard Hours are 24-fucking-7 with him around. Cyclonus decides that he’s going to deal with the stress of not being able to find his dying roommate through violence, and agrees to a religiously-inclined sword fight.

Star Saber has a good start, sucker-punching Cyclonus in the chin, holier-than-thou as he goes. Cyclonus turns the tables however, when he uses his remaining helmet horn to gouge one of Star Saber’s eyes out, revealing his fashion statement to be a deadly weapon in its own right.

Then we get a taste of Cyclonus’ personal brand of faith.

That’s a mighty high opinion of Tailgate you got there, pal. Quite the jump from “I think you’re pathetic.”

Unfortunately, having this little character moment gives Star Saber enough time to warp the hell away from Cyclonus’ Nazgûlian wrath.

Back with Zombie Bullshit Part 3, we get some friggin’ answers.

Minimus looks super tiny here, but remember that he’s still at least ten feet tall. This is not a man you can invite inside your house for a tea party.

After Minimus’ head got crushed, he had to Alien chest-burst his tiniest self out, which allowed him to grab that gun that’s as big as he is and shoot Tyrest in half. Rodimus has to be reminded again that people are still dying, including Brainstorm, which is weird, because he made it seem like he was forged a few issues back. Perceptor runs off to try and parse the Killswitch, and Pharma offers to help, striking a weirdly sultry pose as he does. Everyone ignores him, because that’s just what happens when you become evil and cut your old coworker in half hotdog-style- you get ignored.

Off in the corner, Swerve is talking to Tailgate about the fact that he didn’t tell anyone he was dying, then makes a joke about his impending demise, because Swerve has a lot of trouble handling serious situations. No one has helped him pop his nose back into place, either. This entire team is just falling apart.

Skids stares blankly at Ratchet and First Aid as they check to make sure all the cold-constructed ‘bots are still dying- they are- then remembers that he’s supposed to be watching Pharma.

Prowl only hires the best, clearly.

Skids runs for the portal, with First Aid right on his tail because there’s a gotdang score to settle, and also Rung for some reason. They find Pharma chilling in the tunnel, completely unable to get through to the other side, not because he’s guilty, but because there’s a forcefield in place.

Of course, because Tyrest was an engineer, and you can always find a running theme with everyone’s work, Rung theorizes that the forcefield is working with Aequitas rules, and actually can sense guilt- not of the legal sense, but of the personal variety.

Which sort of implies some unfortunate things about the Aequitas trials as a whole.

Skids starts sinking through, whereas Rung is hitting a wall. Rung, the hell you got to feel guilty about? What sort of horrors have you inflicted upon the world, you skinny creamsicle of a man?

Skids, people are dying. Can your personal nirvana not wait until after this galactic-scale crisis is resolved?

While Skids fucks off into the portal, First Aid’s taking care of Pharma, as Rung watches and has a Nam flashback to issue #6 in the distance.

Sometimes I wonder if First Aid is somehow aware of how Eugenesis went for him, and that’s why he’s so aggressive all the time in MTMTE.

With his revenge exacted, First Aid finally has that breakdown that’s been a long time coming.

You know what we haven’t had in a while? Gratuitous religious imagery.

“They call it the Eugenesis Code. Has something to do with intellectual property, I dunno.”

So this move they’re about to pull might kill Rodimus, and is for-sure going to annihilate the half of the Matrix they have. Bummer. Perceptor goes to finish setting up, leaving Rodimus and Minimus alone to discuss that thing Getaway brought up about Ultra Magnus luring the Lost Light to Luna 1.

Over on the floor, Tyrest isn’t dead, because of course he isn’t, and enacts the homophone game with Swerve and Tailgate as he relays an order to the Legislators.

Outside, all the Legislators stop whaling on Whirl with their swords and start parroting prime numbers at the sky.

Back with Rodimus and Minimus, it’s revealed that Magnus/Minimus/Miniminimus DID lure the Lost Light to the moon, but it was to have Tyrest yell at Rodimus for being a crappy captain. He didn’t know that Tyrest had gone completely bonkers.

The worst part is that Minimus doesn’t know the half of all the bullshit Rodimus has pulled since the end of the war.

No wonder Rodimus was so upset before the funeral- Overlord was partially his fault.

Prowl, prior to the Lost Light’s launch, had wormed his way into Rodimus’ brain, convincing him that an Autobot Phase Sixer was absolutely necessary for the safety of everyone. He, along with Drift, Brainstorm, the Duobots, and eventually Chromedome, assisted in what culminated in one hell of a bad day.

Rodimus would really prefer if this whole space-crucifixion didn’t kill him, because he’s feeling like he’s got a lot to make up for. Which, yeah. I’m guessing all of Tripodeca’s friends are going to be mighty sore about this whole thing once it comes to light.

And that’s a series wrap on Rodimus!

We get a brief intermission, as we find out where exactly Skids got to. It’s… somewhere. Not even he’s sure. He tries to ask for directions, but it would seem there’s a language barrier.

It really speaks volumes to Skids’ sense of self-confidence, that he’d see a giant ball of technicolor light and decide he’s gonna go try to talk to it.

Back at the current crisis at hand, Rodimus screams some more, the Matrix shatters alongside any hopes of finding the Knights of Cybertron, and Ratchet has himself a little smile, because that did the trick.

The reason we aren’t seeing Crankcase in this set of panels is because his head wound was also spewing oil, and he looks super nasty right now. Well, nastier than any of the Scavengers usually are on a day to day basis. They regularly drink corpse juice, they can’t NOT be nasty.

Unfortunately, we aren’t out of the woods yet, as that whole Legislator thing still needs to be taken care of. They pour into the room, throwing Swerve along with the steel door, as he shrieks in terror.

Back outside, Cyclonus and Whirl are having a little breather up on the edge of the smelting pool, since all the Legislators they were fighting went inside. Whirl, who is looking just awful, brings up that little deal he cooked up in issue #19, where Cyclonus would stop trying to murder him if they got through this fight. It’s important to remember that verbal contracts aren’t binding, and that Cyclonus didn’t agree to anything.

And that’s a series wrap on Whirl!

Actually, no, Cyclonus was just daydreaming. He agrees to put the past behind them, then shoots off to go find Tailgate.

Back in Legislator City, things are getting dicey, as Rung screams for Skids to come back, because if nothing else, he knows he can depend on Skids when the chips are down.

Skids, playing to Rung’s expectations, vaults over Pharma’s headless body out of the portal, and starts kicking ass. In the background, some creepy tentacle nonsense pulls Pharma through the portal. This, surely, will never come up again, nor will it be a major plot point down the road.

Because Tyrest decided he was going to play fast and loose with the law, Minimus has no idea what “one one” is meant to refer to. Tailgate decides that cram school did serve a purpose after all, and books it towards that massive computer off in the corner. After a bit of combing through the index, he finds what he’s looking for and makes a few choice edits to the Autobot Code. The Legislators freeze in place, and Tailgate reveals that he’s just completely voided a section of the law.

Just off panel, Minimus barely contains the urge to pop Tailgate’s cubic little head off of his neck. Not that he’d have much time to do it anyway.

Smash cut to the next day, where Tailgate’s laid out in a dark room, Cyclonus sitting by his side. Chromedome is also there for some reason. Rung is nowhere to be seen, despite him likely being a better fit for this situation than the guy whose husband died less than a week ago. Chromedome leaves, because this is a very intimate moment between these two guys who are roommates.

Tailgate, who has developed an honest-to-god “guy-who-is-going-to-die-by-the-end-of-the-movie” cough, tells Cyclonus that he made him something, and it’s waiting in their room for him. I’m going to guess it’s a macaroni art picture of the two of them fighting a dragon.

Tailgate has literal minutes to live, and Cyclonus just sits there, Nazgûling with grief, until Tailgate decides that NOW is the time to reveal his hand.

…Well, there’s the answer to the Babygate question.

Tailgate’s come to the conclusion that all his wanting to be important and a hero was a bit misguided, because as it turns out, it kind of sucks when it’s your final act in the world of the living. He really would have preferred to do just about anything else with his last days, even if it had been just chilling in his room with Cyclonus.

Tailgate asked Cyclonus off-panel to do him a solid and kill him before the Cybercrosis did, a plea which Cyclonus couldn’t agree to. Then he gets a call, and the tension of the scene is somewhat ruined by some goofy-ass cinematic parallels.

Where the hell is Tailgate, that Cyclonus has to book it down the hall to make it to the medibay? That isn’t clear, but what is is that Tailgate has the rottenest luck in the world; they figured out a cure for Cybercrosis, but his case is too advanced for treatment to be effective.

Cyclonus thinks that this is a major bummer, but thanks Ratchet for trying anyway. Whirl tries to talk to him, and he better watch out, before that little deal he made gets thrown out the friggin’ window.

Tailgate hits the final two minutes, as Cyclonus returns, sword in hand.

And that’s a series wrap on Tailgate!

…That was almost a sincere one, you know. Tailgate was supposed to die here, in an earlier draft of the story. He didn’t, because Roberts realized it would completely nerf Cyclonus’ character development. I can’t even begin to imagine who Cyclonus would have been if both the Rewind/Chromedome thing hadn’t gone over well, AND Tailgate got offed.

Later on, Ultra Magnus is back in action, Minimus Ambus having redonned the armor to reassume his position as S.I.C. of the Lost Light. He discusses the changes that have come about as a result of their time on Luna 1 with Rodimus, who’s pretty bummed about the whole situation. A quick rundown of all the nonsense that happened:

The mystical portal to the Guiding Hand no longer works

Hot Spot faded out and won’t come back on

Ambulon is dead

First Aid is very sad about Ambulon being dead

The ship is falling apart

The only person who seems to have had any sort of a positive experience is Brainstorm.

…James, did you put that baby inside that robot?

Anyway, so yeah. Luna 1 sucks butt. One star, would rate zero if I could, I don’t care if it has sweet rocket thrusters strapped to the back of it and is super mysterious, and might potentially be an idea pulled from the delightfully earnest Children of a Lesser Matrix.

Later on, Magnus makes his rounds, stopping by Cyclonus and Tailgate’s room to check the vibe. Turns out that stabbing sick people is considered medicine on Cybertron, at least when you’re using a Great Sword to do it.

Whirl had the awesome idea to slap Cyclonus’ weird spark energy into Tailgate’s frail body, so it could kickstart his heart and give him enough time to actually get treated for Cybercrosis.

Ultra Magnus is impressed, and perhaps a bit concerned with how easily Cyclonus was willing to risk dying so that Tailgate could potentially live. So much so, in fact, that Cyclonus gets an achivement- he’s finally collected enough good karma to be allowed to have friends!

Looking mighty fresh-faced there, Cyclonus. And is that a new horn? Someone’s got a plastic surgeon on speed-dial.

No, this is actually the gift that Tailgate made him, the one he was working on in Hoist’s workshop back in issue #15, just before the Overlord attack. The one we never got to actually see, probably because it would be very easy to tell what it was and who it was for if we had. The set up for our slowburn romance has to be just so, no shortcuts allowed.

[shakespeareanwannabe]

Heartbeats

Santiago Pope Garcia x F!OC/Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Rebecca Cooke

Summary: A first date at a Beer Garden shouldn’t be difficult to manage, especially with his team at his side, but Santi still has doubts.

Warnings: Drinking/Alcohol Consumption, Swearing, Benny being Benny, references to war time injuries, references to Anxiety if you squint

A/N: Hey y’all. Sorry it’s been a while. Some stuff came up, but I am so happy to finally have this chapter out to you all! Anyway, this is chapter 3. Please enjoy!

**********

Listening to his own heartbeat had become something that Santi was pretty comfortable with. When the Humvee had hit a landmine during his first deployment, sending him, Frankie, and Will sky high, he’d woken up in a military hospital in Germany, with only the steady beeping of his heart monitor to keep him company. Well, it kept him company until Will wandered in with a cup of coffee. The youngest member of the team had somehow managed to walk away with a couple of cracked ribs and some scarring on his back, whereas Pope had fractured his knee and given himself a pretty nasty concussion. At that point, Frankie was still out. He had broken a rib, punctured a lung, and fractured his hip, all on top of a nastier concussion than Pope’s. There was a harried moment when they thought he wouldn’t make it, but Fish was the toughest bastard out of any of them, and within nine months he was patrolling the desert with Santi once more.

After various near-misses, his multiple knee surgeries, and his so-called miracle neck surgery, Santi woke up to that same sound of his heart beating. It reminded him that he was alive. It was a comfort.

Now, his heart was beating so loudly in his ears he couldn’t think straight. And, the kicker was, he wasn’t even in country or recovering from a near miss. He wasn’t getting shot at or sneaking around an enemy compound. He wasn’t even sitting in the back of a helicopter while Fish tried to fly it over the fucking Andes while carrying too much weight and, fuck, he was an idiot. He hadn’t even been able to pull off a ‘sure thing’ mission. He hadn’t been able to pull of a relationship with a girl that everyone thought he was fucking anyway. Why the fuck did he think he would be able to pull off impressing this much younger woman who, for some god forsaken reason, thought he was worth her time?

Rebecca was a professional. She had a fucking Masters of Fine Arts that she used to lead tours and co-curate the art museum while also teaching art lessons to kids all across the state. And then there was him. Santiago Garcia. A washed up, beaten down, half-broken retired soldier who was living off his (not unsubstantial) savings and the kindness of friends, who had almost no prospects other than signing another damn contract and going off to shoot questionable people under the orders of even more questionable people until his knees gave out or he broke his fucking neck running around on favela rooftops. She was so far out of his league, he had no clue how to even find her league.

And yet, he found himself sitting outside her apartment in his truck, about to go and buzz up to let her know that he was there. Early. To pick her up. For their date. What was he thinking?

He was shaken out of his negative reverie when his phone buzzed four times in quick succession.

“I swear to god, if you’re sitting outside her apartment deliberating over actually picking her up or standing her up, I will drive there myself and beat some sense into you.”

“Hey man, Charlie’s had a little too much to drink (first weekend alone without Mateo) and she’s threatening your manhood if you stand up your date. Do not show up here alone, cabrón.”

“Dude, you’re bringing a date? Why haven’t I heard about this lovely lady?”

“Ignore him. He’s drunk.”

Pope could imagine his friends, his team, sitting around their reserved table at the beer garden, acting like millennials with their phones out, texting him and ignoring each other for a moment. They were insane…He loved them.

“Keep your shirts on, I’m coming.” He copied and pasted the message into the four separate threads and sent them off, ignoring when his phone buzzed again with what could only be a “That’s what she said” reply from Benny as he exited his truck and made his way to her lobby door.

He pressed the small white button next to her name and waited impatiently for her response.

“Hello?” the tinny machine garbled, but he had become accustomed to her voice. It was quickly becoming one of his favourite sounds, like the sound of the waves at the beach or the sound of his own heartbeat. Soothing.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, c’mon up! I’ll be ready to go in five!”

Santi gulped then shook his head and pulled the door open when the lock clicked, signalling that she had unlocked it for him. What was he nervous about? He was god damn Delta Force. Some girl should not be shaking him up this bad.

Santi took the short elevator ride up to the fifth floor, trying to calm his hammering heart, and knocked on her door.

When the door creaked open, he was reminded that Rebecca Cooke wasn’t just ‘some girl’. He had taken one look at her, sweaty and red faced and face distorted from pressing into a massage table and been smitten. Every conversation he had with her dragged him further in, until he was hooked.

Now, standing in front of him, dressed in a sapphire blue lace dress that swished around her knees, he was smacked in the face with the fact that she was, in fact, the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. The short sleeves showed off the smoothness of her arms and the V-neck had him having to drag his eyes away from her décolletage.

“Hey Santi,” she smiled gently at him, moving in to place her hands on his shoulders as she placed a hesitant kiss on his cheek.

“Um…hey,” he replied, mentally kicking himself for being so lame. “Uh, these are for you.” He handed her the bouquet of wildflowers he had bought on a whim on his drive over.

Rebecca smiled up at him, a slight glimmer in her eyes as though he had just made her the happiest person on the planet. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he blurted. She giggled, turning her back to him and he grimaced at the stupid cornball line.

“Let me put these in some water and grab my shoes, and we can go, okay?” she called back. He looked towards her retreating form and gulped at the sight of her bare back. Fuck, this was going to be a long night if he couldn’t get himself under control. If he was going to actively pursue Rebecca, he was going to do it properly.

“Uh, yeah. No worries.” He followed her a few steps into her home and peered around at the small space. It was a small apartment, cozy and warm. A suede sectional sofa overtook most of the living room, a soft looking throw blanket tossed over the side and brightly coloured patterned pillows were piled up on one end as though she had been searching for something. A variety of prints and pictures decorated her walls, everything from the infamous Kissing on VJ Day photo to a print of San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk by Monet, drawing his eye from one frame to another in rapid succession, drinking in the little details of the life she lived that he so desperately hoped to be a part of.

“Ready to go?”

His eyes were drawn back to her like magnets as she exited the small but spacious kitchen, glass vase in hand. She deposited the vase with the wildflowers on the side table next to the sofa, picked up her purse and held up her other hand, a pair of strappy sandals hanging from her finger.

“Uh…yeah. Sorry. It’s a, uh…it’s a nice place you’ve got here,” he managed to get out, cursing himself internally at his stupidity.

She smiled sweetly at him, that starry-eyed look still in her eyes as she clutched his arm to slide her sandals on.

“Thanks. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

She didn’t release his arm as they exited the apartment, clutching him close as she locked the door, as they rode the elevator, and exited the building. He shifted carefully to grip her hand and help her into his truck, closing the door softly behind her as he paced over to his door, silently coaching himself to not be a total idiot on this date.

She was into him. Holding onto his arm, looking at him the way she was. She liked him. All he had to do was not screw it up…and not let his friends screw it up.

He hauled himself up into the driver’s seat of the truck and let it idle for a minute as he double checked his mirrors. Finally, he pulled out of the parking lot and began the ten-minute drive to the Beer Garden.

“I, uh, I meant what I said. About your apartment. And about how beautiful you look. Because you do. Look beautiful, I mean. That dress is…nice.”

“Thanks.” An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and Santi fidgeted with the wheel. He was halfway to convincing himself that this whole thing had been a bad idea when she turned to him. “Are you as nervous as I am?”

“Fuck yes,” he breathed, causing her to giggle. “I swear to god, I’m not normally like this.”

“I know, that’s why I asked! I thought you were either really nervous or completely regretting asking me out,” she sighed, leaning back in her seat as the tension began to slowly dissipate.

He waited until he pulled up to a red light to turn and meet her gaze. “The only regret I’d have is if I didn’t ask you out at all and was left wondering what might have happened if I’d just gotten my balls up and asked.”

He watched her eyes widen as she looked down at her lap, jerking the car back into motion as someone honked behind him.

“Can I confess something to you?” She waited for his nod. “I had a shot before you got to my place to try to calm my nerves, but I don’t think it worked. I just…why are we nervous? We’ve been friends for a couple of months now, right?”

“Right!” he exclaimed, laughing as he risked another look at her. “I don’t know, Bex. Maybe that’s why we’re nervous?”

She shrugged delicately, pulling her legs up into the seat as she twisted to watch him drive. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just…I really want this to go well, you know?”

Santi took a hand off the wheel and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I know. I really know.”

She sighed, twisting her hand in his grip until she could interlace their fingers. “Okay. So. We’re two friends. Going on a date. We’ll just…see how it goes, okay? At the end of the night, if we decide we’re better off as friends, you drop me off, give me a high five, and we’ll see each other on Monday at the clinic.”

“But?” he asked anxiously because, like he said, he knew. He knew how badly she wanted things to go well because he desperately wanted the same thing. He’d been drowning in her for months, and he felt like he was just now being taught how to swim.

“But…” he heard her take a shuddery breath. “But if things do go well, and I really hope they do, Santi��If things go well, we agree to go on that coffee date before our sessions on Monday. Deal?”

He squeezed her hand again. “Deal.”

**********

The Beer Garden was a nice place. A solid first date choice. There was liquor to settle the nerves, incredible food to snack on over conversation, a live band to dance along to, mood lighting, and an outdoor patio with fairy lights that was pretty fucking magical, if Santi was allowed to say so.

He and the team had been there once or twice, usually after completing a room at Santi’s house, but this was the first time both Charlie and Frankie would be joining them, since Mateo was off for a sleepover at Grandma’s house. In a way, Santi was grateful. Rebecca knew Charlie, and Charlie was very protective of her patients both inside and outside of the clinic. Santi knew that Charlie and Frankie would help make her feel welcome. Will wouldn’t be an issue. But Benny…when the kid drank, he drank hard, and he was a loudmouth stone cold sober. Hopefully, Will would be able to keep his kid brother in line.

Santi slowed as he felt the distance between him and Rebecca grow, their arms growing taut until he was forced to stop and turn around, lest he let go of her hand.

“Hey, you okay?” he moved to stand in front of her, shielding her from the busy wait staff and slightly drunken customers who were milling around the door to the outdoor patio.

She offered him a distracted nod, her free hand coming up to smooth her hair behind her ear. “Uh, I’m just gonna…” her eyes widened slightly as she caught sight of Charlie sitting at a long picnic style table with a bunch of large men. She met his eyes urgently. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”

Again, Santi found himself watching her retreating form as he cursed his own actions. He thought that having a group hangout would be a good idea for a first date. It kept things loose and informal and, after their conversation in the truck, he thought it couldn’t hurt to have some people there to help things continue moving in the right direction. Besides, so many people had group first dates. It kept things light. Only, now Pope was seeing his mistake. He wasn’t just introducing Rebecca to his friends. He was introducing her to the most important people in his life. His closest friends. His team.

“Fuck…” he mumbled to himself as he watched her duck into the bathroom before nearly sprinting outside to the table. He dodged a few waiters and barbacks before slamming his hands down on the table, causing Benny to jump. “She’s in the bathroom, Chuck, don’t start,” he quickly stated, watching as Charlie’s eyes went from murderous to understanding in the space of a blink. He slowly met each and every one of their eyes. “If any one of you motherfuckers ruin this for me, I swear to god I’ll find a way to end you.”

“Hey, I like her already,” Charlie shrugged, tipping her glass back to swallow the last of the foam. “If you ruin this with her, I’ll be the one ending you.”

“Noted. Fish?” His best friend cocked an eyebrow at him and Santi nodded, communicating in that way that only best friends can. “Fair enough. Will?”

“Hey man, I just came out for a drink.”

“Yeah, I know,” he conceded, before fixing his eyes on the youngest member of the group. “Benny?”

“What? What am I gonna do?”

“Considering you’ve stared at every waitress’ ass as they walk by, and commented on two of the barbacks’ butts, I’d say you’re definitely the problem here, Ben,” Charlie commented lightly, leaning over to rest her head gently on Frankie’s shoulder, smiling softly when he planted a sweet kiss on her temple.

“Hey, I—”

“Shut up, she’s right,” Will growled into his glass.

“Fine, I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Charlie, did you collect on your little workplace bet?” She offered him a slightly drunken thumbs-up. “Good, you’re buying.” Pope considered the table before him before straightening and taking a few steps back towards the door. “Please, just be nice?”

“Hey, I’m always nice!” countered Benny, a cocksure grin on his face.

“Yeah, that’s what he’s afraid of, dipshit.”

The din of another Miller argument faded as Santi returned to his post just in time for Rebecca to emerge from the bathroom.

“Uh, sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” Santi wrapped his arm around her shoulder as he led her out onto the raised wooden patio. “You’re still nervous, huh?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Charlie’s fine, but the rest of your friends…”

Santi tugged her gently to the side and pulled her to a stop.

“Don’t worry about them, okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “Santi, you fought a war with them. That’s not something I can just not worry about.”

“Look, they’re gonna love you. Trust me…” he looked over his shoulder to peer at his friends, who were all surreptitiously trying to both look at them and look natural. “They’re idiots, but they’re my idiots. Look…see that blond guy? That’s Will. You could set a bomb off next to him and he wouldn’t flinch.”

“Oh, so that’s Will the Wise?” Santi smiled at the moniker. He’d found himself dropping some of Will’s more memorable motivational quotes during physio, and she had come up with the name for his quiet but forceful friend. “And the one who hasn’t stopped staring at my ass is Benny, I assume?” Santi whipped his head around to see Benny subtly trying to peer around him to get a glance at Bex’s profile. He quickly moved into his field of view and turned his back on him. Benny wanted to check out a nice ass? He could feel free. “And I know Charlie, which makes the quiet one…?”

Santi smiled softly. “That’s Frankie.”

“I like him already.”

His smile grew at the pronouncement. “I figured you would. Frankie’s good people. Easy to get along with. Now, please don’t worry?” he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before running his hands up and down her arms soothingly. “They’re gonna see exactly what I see.”

“Which is?”

He smiled. “A stunningly beautiful, intelligent woman who I somehow suckered into going out with me. Ready?”

She gripped his hand again and smiled up at him. “Ready.”

**********

Things were going…well. Better than Santi had dared to hope. He didn’t know what Will had said, but Benny was being a real gentleman and keeping his mouth shut other than asking polite and interested questions about Bex’s work. Bex and Frankie had taken off like two peas in a pod, which gave him a warm feeling in his chest that he dared not name. Not now, anyway. Instead of examining his feelings, he decided to go get another drink.

He stood slowly, squeezing her hand when the angle got too awkward to maintain contact, and leaned down to ask, “You want another one, Bex?”

She smiled and nodded, “Yeah, would you mind getting me a pale ale this time?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up!” Benny interrupted, leaning across the table towards them. “She got a nickname?”

Santi shot Will a look, but the older Miller just held his hands up in surrender, as if to say, “You brought it on yourself”.

“I-is that a problem?” Rebecca asked, looking around confused.

Frankie leaned forward, resting his free arm against the table and adjusting his grip around Charlie’s waist. “Every one of us has a nickname,” he explained quietly. “For us,” he gestured to the men. “It’s a military thing. Kind of like a right of passage.”

“I earned ‘Charlie’ after three months of seriously dating Frankie,” Charlie added, her voice only slightly muffled from her cheek resting on Frankie’s chest. “Chuck came three months after that, and then only Santi gets to call me that.”

“Oh…” Rebecca murmured, wrapping her arms around herself and looking around the table at the demolished plates of nachos, chicken wings, sliders, poutine, and potato wedges. Santi quickly retook his seat, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

It had been instinct, giving her a nickname. Rebecca was too formal for the spitfire who made him laugh so hard his abs hurt more than his knees after a physio session. Becca was cute but she had grimaced at the name, citing overuse in popular culture for her dislike. Rebbie made her snort, and Becky made him want to go find Douchebag Derek and give him a swift kick so there was no way his DNA would be reproduced.

She had loved the name Bex. It was rare, it was quick, it denoted her spark and her wit, and, best of all, he was the only one who used it. Now, it looked like she was feeling insecure in it.

“Frankie’s nickname is Catfish,” he piped up, not wanting her to think too much on the subject of him giving her a cute moniker so early in their relationship (week 3 to be exact).

It worked. Her head whipped around so quickly both Charlie and Santi winced.

“Really? Why?” she asked the man sitting next to her.

Frankie’s quick glare and microscope cock of the eyebrow went unnoticed by the entire table, except Santi, who gave him an apologetic half shrug.

“When we were in basic,” he began with a good-natured grumble. “We were all swapping stories one night, and the only good one I had was the one where my old man and I went out fishing together.” Rebecca watched as Charlie placed a small kiss on Frankie’s chest, just above the third highest button, where Frankie had evidently decided to quit, not that his fiancée was complaining about the excess skin on display. Clearly a sore subject, Rebecca filed away for later. “We went all day without catching a single fish, but just as we were about to call it quits, there’s a tug on my line. And I ended up reeling in a 17-pound catfish.”

“Last time you told the story it was 15 pounds,” Will muttered.

“I always heard 13,” Benny laughed.

“Eh, whatever. It was a big fish to 10-year-old me, okay?” Frankie downed the last of his beer. “Besides, it’s not as stupid as how Ironhead got his name.”

Santi laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one.” Will glared at him. “Hey man, Frankie told his story, now you’ve gotta tell yours.”

Will sighed as he sat forward, leaning in towards Rebecca. “So…I was probably the clumsiest private in basic training. Now, I could do push ups and sit ups like a champion, but the more complicated exercises…Well, let’s just say our drill sergeant didn’t know what the hell to do with me. Climbing a rope ladder? I’d get my foot twisted and end up hanging there like three-day old laundry on the line. Going on a march through the woods? I’d find the only rock in the road and trip over it. Field striping a rifle? I’d yank on something too quickly and give myself a black eye.” Rebecca giggled, bringing a smile to Santi’s face. “And inevitably, every time I screwed up, I’d end up smacking my head. One day, we were doing this exercise and I really got my bell rung. Our drill sergeant sent me to the infirmary because he knew there was no way in hell that I didn’t have a concussion. But I didn’t. Hell, I didn’t even pass out. When he found out, he was shocked. Said I must have the hardest skull on earth. Thus, Ironhead was born.”

“Pfft…” Benny snorted loudly, the sound breaking through Bex’s giggles and Charlie’s muffled chuckles. “It’s not even a good story, man! I coulda told your drill sergeant that you were clumsy as fuck the day you enlisted! Now, Pope’s…that’s a good fucking story,” he guffawed, leaning back as far as the bench seat would let him.

“Benny…” Will put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, which was quickly shrugged off. Santi fixed him with a glare, and Frankie was subtly drawing his hand over his neck, but Benny was too drunk to care.

“Pope?” Bex looked up at Santi confusedly, but he didn’t get the chance to explain before Benny’s crowing laughter boomed out once more.

“‘Oh god, oh god! Yes god! Yes! Please, god. Por favor, mi dios! Oh my god, oh my god!’,” Benny’s voice rang out in a poor imitation of a girlish squeal. He threw his head back and laughed drunkenly, almost falling off the bench seat. “We thought for sure that Corporal had to have the Pope himself in her room for her to be screaming for God that loudly. But no. Turned out to only be Santiago Garcia, known almost exclusively as Pope from then on out.”

Bex looked between the two men, eyes wide, before standing and squeezing out into the crowd, heading back towards the bathrooms.

“At least I got a nickname, jackass,” Santi hissed, kicking away from the table. “I didn’t spend my whole military career known only as ‘Will’s Little Brother Benny’.”

Santi turned and chased after Rebecca, praying she hadn’t gone too far.

“What? What did I say?” Benny asked, half a potato skin hanging out of his mouth.

“If this fucks them up, I’ll kick your ass for both of them,” Charlie groaned, unable to take her eyes away from where her two friends had just disappeared.

**********

He found her standing under the strings of lights that hung above the front door.

“Y-you weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?” he asked in a slightly trembling voice.

She turned to him, eyes bright, and chuckled. “No…I just needed some air. Well,” she looked around the darkened city street. “Some different air. Front fresh air instead of back fresh air. Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugged out of his jacket and gently placed it over her shoulders as she shivered. “I…I’m sorry about Benny. He’s an idiot most of the time, but when he drinks…”

“He could win the Nobel Prize for Darwinism?”

He chuckled, a soft smirk appearing on his face. “Yeah, something like that.” They stared up at the dark sky for a long moment, a hesitant peace falling between them. “That story he told…I’m not exactly proud of the way I used to be. I hope you know that.”

Rebecca shrugged delicately. “We all have a past. We all have things we’re not proud of. What matters is who we are today. And you want to know something?” she looked up at him with those eyes, and he pressed down the urge to kiss her.

“What?”

“I really like who you are today,” she whispered, bringing a smile to his face.

“I really like who you are every day,” he whispered back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his smile growing even larger when she leaned into him. “You ready to get out of here?”

She wrapped his jacket tighter around her body. “Yeah, it’s getting a little chilly.”

He nodded in agreement, gave her a quick squeeze and released her. “I’ll go grab my wallet and we can get going.”

Santi wove his way back through the crowded Beer Garden until he reached the table, quietly scooping up his wallet.

“Everything okay?” Frankie asked quietly as Charlie dozed on his chest.

“Yeah, tell your firecracker that she doesn’t have to kick any asses. See you tomorrow?” Frankie nodded as Santi pulled out a crisp twenty and threw it on the table. “Adios, hermano,” he murmured, bringing his hand gently down upon Frankie’s cap and giving his head a slight jiggle. “Will, can you get me that info on that electrician?” Will nodded as Santi clapped a hand down on his shoulder, bringing his hand up to gently clasp his buddy’s forearm before Santi removed it to give Benny a quick swat on the back of the head.

“Hey!” Santi fixed him with a glare. “Yeah, okay. I deserved that. Night man.”

Santi strolled out of the restaurant, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw Rebecca, wrapped in his jacket, staring at the restaurant doors, waiting for him. That warm feeling in the pit of his stomach came back full force, and, for the first time, he didn’t want it to go away.

**********

His truck quietly slid into a parking spot out front of her apartment building.

“Well…” she murmured. “I guess this is me.”

Santi nodded, a sigh building in his chest. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t want a simple dinner date to end, but he wanted it to continue. He wanted to keep talking to her, keep listening to her, keep touching her.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll walk you to the front door,” he stated, desperate to stretch their remaining few seconds as long as he could.

She smiled and waited as he made his way around the front of the truck, opening her door and offering her his hand. They strolled the maybe twenty paces to the front door and stopped, turning to face each other while their free hands sought each other out.

“I had a really nice time. Your friends are great. Frankie’s awesome.”

“He really is.”

“Well…uh…good night, Santi.”

“Bex?” he tugged slightly on her hands, so she remained facing him. “I…” That warm feeling in his stomach burst. “Oh, fuck it,” he pressed forward, planting his lips on hers the way he had been imaging since he had picked her up four hours previous. Sweet and tender, raw and full of something that would go unnamed for a while but had so much potential. He pulled back for the space of a breath, taking in her closed eyes and slightly parted lips. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

Finally, her eyes opened. “Don’t stop,” she quietly pled, freeing her hands to place them on either side of his face, tugging him back to her lips.

They stood there for what could have been minutes or hours, neither knew nor cared. It was like every moment of their friendship had been leading them to this moment, and they wanted to live in it forever.

It wasn’t until the nearby sound of a fire truck siren starting up broke the serene quiet that they broke apart.

“So, uh…coffee on Monday?” she asked, eyes slightly glazed over and lips plump.

“Definitely.”

**********

Tags list: @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @eternallyvenus, @rae-rae-patcha, @himbopoes, @sophoclese, @phoenixhalliwell, @buckstaposition, @who-talks-first

[collapsingintojupiter]

Sunshine and Stormclouds: Chapter 15

Catch up: Chapter 1  Chapter 1.5  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10   Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14

Summary:

It’s Roman’s birthday. Though his biological parents may not be there for him, his friends are. 

Characters: Roman Sanders, Emile Picani, Scout (oc), Virgil Sanders, Logan Sanders, (baby) Patton.

TW: This is little more than tooth-rotting fluff. You’re good (though of course, message me if you’d like me to put something here).

---

    It had been a long day; following an even longer night. Virgil slumped against the couch, eyes closed, his hoodie drawn up over his shoulders. Patton busied himself on the floor nearby, dressing up his bunny in a little blue doll’s dress. Several other stuffed animals that Remy had bought (though the pink bunny by far remained his favorite) lay scattered around him, and a few more assortments of doll’s clothing. 

    Remy said that Patton had a good fashion taste. Even Logan couldn’t disagree. 

    Virgil’s eyes were shut, but he was awake - unfortunate as that was - listening to Patton as he finished arranging the dress on his bunny. Once he was happy with it, he moved on to a puppy dog plush. This one he wrapped - awkwardly, with his chubby fingers - in a sparkly bit of pink cloth. Patton fiddled with that until he was content, talking to “Acha” as he arranged the scarf around the dog’s neck and body. 

    Then, a knock sounded at the door. 

    “Hrggyph,” Virgil muttered to nothing in particular, and slowly opened an eye. The bit of pale pink material he saw through part of the visible window was definitely not Roman’s, and Logan wouldn’t be caught dead in such a vibrant color. 

    So who...

    Wonder if they’ll go away, Virgil thought tiredly. A few seconds later, however, whoever it was knocked again. Dammit.  

He sighed. Slowly, he picked himself up from the couch, and Patton jumped up to grab his arm as he started for the door. 

    “Is Daddy home?” he asked, grabbing Virgil’s hand in one of his little ones. His dog plush dangled precariously from the other, the pink tip dragging on the floor.

    “I don’t think so, buddy,” Virgil said. Patton turned and held up his arms; his father smiled to himself as he picked the boy up. He opened the door. 

    “Oh, you’re home!” The excited voice belonged to somebody Virgil had seen before, but he wasn’t quite sure who. It was a younger boy, about Roman’s age, with crooked glasses, curly hair the color of rust, and soft brown eyes. He wore a pale pink sweater, black jeans, and a bright smile. Behind him stood another kid, though the last time Virgil saw them, he was pretty sure they’d been a pirate. Now however, they wore wearing a button-up covered in stars, ripped jeans, and converse that had been painted in a familiar style. Over all that, a too-big camo jacket that clashed with everything rested on their shoulder. 

    “Emile?” Virgil asked at last. “And...Scout?”

    “That’s us,” Scout answered with a nod. They nudged Emile, who started and blinked before nodding.

    “Right! Uh, Mr. Virgil, I think you remember us from that time we were at your house back on Halloween?” Virgil nodded, and his smile somehow got wider. “Awesome! Um, so...this might be a bit weird, but Roman’s birthday is tomorrow, and we’re...uh, we’re trying to plan something special for him. And he talks about you guys all the time, um...do you think you could help us?”

    ...forget sleep. Sleep could wait. 

    “Come on in,” Virgil said. He turned, gently setting Patton down so he could pull out his phone. Scout and Emile quickly knelt down, keeping his son busy as he placed a call to Remy. 

    “Hey, I need you over here stat,” he said as soon as the barista answered. 

    “Is something wrong?” he asked. 

    “Nothing bad, Rem,” Virgil assured. “Um, Emile and Scout are here; they told me Roman’s birthday is tomorrow. We’re gonna need your help.” 

    Remy’s response was instant.

    “Say no more, I’m on my way,” he said. Before Virgil could say anything else, he hung up. 

    “Who was that?” Scout asked as he put his phone back in his pocket. Virgil chuckled. 

    “You remember the Dragon Witch on Halloween?”

    “Yeah?”

    “He’s on his way now. Much better at this stuff than I am.” Virgil checked his watch, hid a yawn, then glanced at the two kids again. “My husband should be back in about an hour from school. He’ll also be more than willing to help. Don’t worry, we’ll get this figured out.”

    “Yes!” Emile grinned widely, wiggling in excitement. “We’re gonna make Roman so happy!”

    Virgil felt his heart warm as he sat down with the kids to wait, whereupon Patton came over and crawled into his lap. “Where is Roman now?” he asked, helping his son sit up. 

    “He said he had to help his mom with something,” Scout said. Their voice sounded tense; like they knew what he did - what he knew only because of the horrible nights he’d faced alone, with drunken laughter downstairs and his stomach cringing with hunger. Virgil shook his head violently, and a shiver twirled down his spine. He focused instead on staring at Scout’s shoes. They were black, spots of paint that looked like stars and planets. He bet it was Roman’s work.

    Soon enough, someone knocked at the door again.

    “The Dragon Witch!” Emile exclaimed, and jumped from his seat. The knock came again, before Remy flung the door open and strode inside with a grin and a wink. 

    “Well well well,” he said. “I hear there’s a birthday party we need to plan.”

    “Hell yeah,” Scout said, and Emile grinned. 

    “It’s Roman’s birthday tomorrow, and we wanna do something special for him,” he explained. Remy nodded. 

    “Good. He needs good friends like you,” he said. He looked at Virgil. “I think it’s time to go shopping. We’ll get the supplies…” he glanced at Scout and Emile, “...when you two get out of school tomorrow, I’ll pick you up. We’ll set everything up then for Roman.”

    “How will we get him over here?” Virgil asked. 

    “He’s your babysitter, you tell me.”

    “That could work.” Virgil nodded, taking Patton in his arms as he stood up. “Alright, so…”

    “We need to divide and conquer,” Remy said. “Decorations and preparation, and gifts.”

    “Logan’s very good at that,” Virgil said. “-Decoration, I mean, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to do it for Roman.”

    “I’ll text him. Scout, Emile - what do you two want to help with?”

    “I’m good at decorations,” Emile said. Scout nodded. 

    “That he is. And I know what he likes.”

    Alright - so Emile, you’ll be with me, then, and Scout will go with Virgil. Sound good to you?”

    The two kids nodded. 

    “Excellent! Let’s get this boy of ours a birthday party!”

---

        What the hell was so special about a birthday, anyway? Roman sighed, burying his head in his arms. At the front of the classroom, a history teacher droned on about something he didn’t remember; wouldn’t remember. Recently his mother had gotten a job, somehow, and was now even nastier than usual when she wasn’t drunk. Roman didn’t want to go home; he was tired; and everything ached. 

    At least...at least, he got to babysit Patton again today. Roman stared at his fingernails; at the chipped edges, and ignored his classmates. The teacher continued to drone. The clock was getting closer to three, but it wasn’t there yet. 

    Finally, the bell rang. 

    Roman let out another sigh; he got his backpack and slung it around his shoulder, and started tiredly for the door. 

    Outside it was frigid, and though his jacket was warm it wasn’t warm enough. He’d forgotten his warmer one. Roman wondered how the puppy was; how Emile was. Briefly, the thought allowed him to smile. Maybe Remy would be at Virgil and Logan’s house, and let him see Prince. That would be nice. He reached up, tracing the embroidered letters with his finger. Prince. 

    He didn’t feel like a prince. 

    He couldn’t feel much of his hands or face by the time he came to the street where the Sanders lived, kicking at stones as he passed Mr. D’s house. He saw the older man in the window, staring at him. There was something unsettling about it, that he couldn’t put words to. Roman shivered and continued. 

    He stopped at the familiar blue door, adjusted his backpack straps, and knocked. 

    “SURPRISE!” The enthusiastic shout ripped him out of his thoughts with a force that nearly knocked him sideways; as it was Roman jumped, letting out a startled yelp. 

    “Happy birthday!” Emile and Scout shrieked in unison, sharing excited smiles as they rushed forward to greet him. Roman’s eyes widened, and he found himself laughing as they hugged him - Emile’s gentle touch, and Scout’s bone crushing grip.

    “You-you guys knew?” he asked at last, overwhelmed by the streamers and people, and Logan and Virgil smiling at him...and was Remy holding a cake?

    “Of course we did!” Scout laughed and punched his shoulder, then grabbed his hand and tugged him inside. “C’mon, you gotta try the cake we made. Well, Emile made it. Either way it’s good.”   

    Something small and furry ran up to him, barking and wagging its tail. 

    “PRINCE!” Roman yelped. He dropped to his knees by the puppy’s side, and it leapt into his lap to enthusiastically lick his face. He cradled the pup in his arms, gently running his hands along its soft black and brown fur. Prince was already bigger than it had been when he’d found it, with floppy ears and a goofy smile.

    “We think he’s a mutt,” Remy had said. Roman didn’t care - he loved the pup regardless.

    “Happy birthday to you…” his eyes widened as the others started singing to him, and he scrambled to his feet with Prince still in his arms--holy shit, he thought. How did they all have such beautiful voices? Logan, the stiff teacher and Virgil...their voices swelled in a perfectly complimenting harmony, leading the group in the song. Remy’s voice followed, a pure tenor; and Emile - though his voice was softer than the others, he sounded just like an angel to Roman. 

    He tried not to cry but he did, and as the others stopped singing Scout grabbed him in a hug, letting him bury his face in their sweatshirt. There they held him until he was breathing steadily again, and they let go; the others had gathered in the kitchen and smiled at him. 

    “Hope you’re hungry Roman!” Remy announced, and gestured to the dining room table where several boxes of pizza and tubs of ice cream had been lined up in a neat row. Roman’s jaw dropped, and the others grinned. 

    “Everybody get your fill; then we’ll meet in the living room. We got a movie ready to play and presents ready to open.”

    “Presents!?” Roman blurted, then slapped a hand over his mouth. Virgil chuckled good-naturedly, and even Logan smiled. 

    “That’s right!” Remy said. “Just for you, my boy!”

    “Let’s get pizza!” Emile took Roman’s hand, and he felt himself melting into the other boy’s embrace as he pulled him towards the table. “Look, see? We ordered your favorite!”

    “Olive pizza!” Roman’s face broke into an open-mouthed look of amazement, and after gently setting Prince down he reached out and piled several slices onto his plate. Scout and Emile joined him; Remy followed with a wide smile, and Virgil and Logan took up the line in the back. Balloons crowded against each other on the ceiling; their strings dangled down in front of him. Roman looked up, and shades of gold and white and red looked back. He smiled. 

    “Guess what movie we’re gonna watch?” Emile asked as they sat down. Roman raised an eyebrow at him, unable to contain the happy expression on his face. 

    “What movie?” he asked. Scout sat down on his other side, yawning and leaning against his shoulder. Emile leaned against his other side, and gave him a look to melt his heart all over again. 

    “Beauty and the Beast!” he giggled. “Your favorite!”

    “How did you-”

    “I told him,” Scout said, grinning at the look of dumbfoundment on his face. They took a bite out of their mushroom pizza (ew) as Virgil and Logan entered. They took the other sofa, seating Patton between them with his little slice of cheese pizza. Remy was the last to come in, pepperoni his choice of the evening. He sat down, and Virgil got the remote and started the movie. 

    It was better than Roman remembered. The colors seemed brighter, and better, and warmer. Maybe that was Scout and Emile, leaning against him as if to chase away the cold that had settled into his bones, or Emile’s laughter that was soft and sweet like bells; like sugar pastries and autumn mornings where the sun’s warmth is gentle on your back. Scout’s, on the other hand, was sharp, like dogs barking in the dead of night and icicles shattering on the sidewalk. 

    He loved them both. 

    Roman knew what Scout knew though, that he was hopelessly in love with the Picani boy. He loved everything about him - his soft curls, and big eyes, and round glasses that always sat crookedly on his nose no matter how many times he fiddled with the frames. He loved his smile, and his laugh, and his voice.

    And when the other boy leaned against him, and gently reached out to hold his hand...Roman felt like he knew what Heaven was. 

    Scout glanced at him, chuckled to themself at his happy expression, and turned back towards the TV. Together they watched the story play out, laughing and joking and sharing goofy smiles with each other as they discussed the scenes. They all booed at Gaston, and agreed that the candlestick and clock were very much gay. 

    And then, all too soon, it was over. The credits rolled and Roman let out a soft sigh, feeling Emile’s chest rise and fall as he breathed - fast asleep against his shoulder. Their paper plates were stacked on the coffee table - the pizza long gone - and Virgil held Patton. The little boy had also fallen asleep, and slept contentedly in his father’s arms. 

    “I’ll go put him in his room,” Virgil said at last, his voice soft. “Then you can open your presents, Roman.”

    The presents! Roman realized, suddenly, that he’d forgotten all about those. Remy noticed the look on his face and laughed, which startled Emile awake. He muttered something under his breath, yawned, and looked up into Roman’s eyes. 

    God he’s so cute. 

    Roman smiled at him, and Emile smiled back. Then he reached up, and lightly tapped his nose. 

    “Boop!” he giggled. Roman felt his face turn an embarrassing shade of red, and he ducked to try and hide it - which would’ve been fine, had Emile’s hand not gotten tangled up in his hair. The next thing he knew they were both doubled over with laughter, and Emile was attempting to squeak out an apology in between gasps for air. When they finally recovered Roman saw Scout, leaning back and shaking their head; they were laughing too, and Remy and Logan shared a look that was both amused and affectionate. Virgil came back into the room, saw the spectacle, and let out a sigh. He too, however, failed to hide a smile as he sat down. 

    Emile struggled to compose himself with the others, one hand clasping Roman’s shoulder. His glasses looked more crooked than ever; his messy curls tangled and dangling over the rims. Eventually, he pulled himself upright. 

    “Present time!” he yelped, and burst out laughing again. Roman and Scout joined in, as the adults brought out a small collection of somethings and set it on the floor and coffee table in front of him.

    Once he’d finally calmed himself, Roman slid off the couch to kneel in front of his presents. Remy set Prince down and the puppy ran over to join him - his heart felt so warm and full he thought it might burst, looking over the shiny wrapping paper and the kind expressions in Virgil and Logan’s eyes. Gingerly, he reached out and took the first gift. 

From Remy, it said. He gently pulled away the red and gold wrapping, and his eyes widened at the colors upon colors upon colors of nail polish he found packed neatly into a black and red nail kit bag. On the top of the bag, his name was embroidered: Roman, in swirling gold type. 

    “I love it!” he cried, and gently picked up one of the colors - a shimmering beetle green - before putting it back. He couldn’t wait to try it out.

    The next present was...well, he knew Scout had tried, at least. Paper wrapping wasn’t exactly their specialty. Nonetheless Roman unwrapped it gently, and hugged the new sketchpad that revealed itself to his chest. 

    “There’s also some stickers inside for you,” they said - were they nervous? What a strange thought; but Roman couldn’t deny the slight tremble; the tingle of anxiety in their voice. He smiled at them. 

    “I can’t wait to draw in it,” he said. “This is the perfect size.”

    From Logan, read the third gift, tagged neatly with a sharpie. The wrapping paper revealed something soft, and something not - new gloves, in his favorite shade of red, and a book. It claimed to be a fantasy book, and Roman felt tears stinging his eyes as he looked over the cover. He imagined Logan, standing in the fantasy section of a bookstore, with no idea of what any of the books contained. 

    “This one was rated very highly,” Logan explained matter-of-factly. “I do...hope that you enjoy it.”

    “Thank you,” Roman said softly, trying to blink away the tears. The gloves and book he gently set aside - somehow, Logan must have realized that his old ones were worn. 

    Two presents remained. He picked up one of them; From Virgil, it said. The paper presented a box when he pulled it away; inside the box was a soft puppy plush that was black and brown just like Prince, with a red bandana around its neck. The word Prince was hastily stitched onto it in yellow, and as he looked up at Virgil the father glanced aside. 

    “I...I’m sorry you can’t keep the real one,” was all he said, in a terribly soft voice. There were tears in his eyes too, Roman realized. “I hope this helps.”

    “It...it does,” he said. He hugged the plush dog close, and sniffled; with his other hand he gently petted the real dog. “Thank you, Virgil.”

    “Of course.”

    The last present was Emile’s. Roman hesitantly reached for it; he felt Emile tense as he pulled the paper away - it was a beanie. A soft one, with stripes of blue, yellow, and pink. Roman’s eyes widened, and he looked abruptly up at Emile. 

    “You...you made this?” he asked softly. 

    “Yeah. I hope it’s okay? I tried to make it as close to your flag as possible, and I-” he was cut off as Roman crashed into him, wrapping his arms around the other boy’s shoulders and hugging him tightly. 

    “I love it,” he whispered, and now he really was crying. “Thank you...thank you all so much.”

    He felt the warmth of another body beside him, and Roman opened one eye to see that Scout had joined the hug. Then Remy came over, followed by Virgil, and soon even Logan joined the group. Though Roman sort of expected it to be awkward...it felt really nice, surrounded by everybody he loved and who loved him in return. He felt himself smile 

    Thank you guys, for the best birthday ever.

[prophxtslash]

Slashers reaction to a s/o who doesn't get phased by the sight of guts and blood?

Thanks for the request! You didn't specify which one(s) so I'll just do the main ones I've written for! Also, since I will be going a bit into detail, I'll tag this as TW:Gore for those who want to blacklist appropriately. Sorry these got so long lmao

S/O who isn't squeamish at the sight of Gore

Jason

He had discovered your indifference to his occupation through one of the worst ways: right inside your home.

It had to be one survivor who had gotten away and bolted toward the cabin, Jason hot on their heels. He was determined to skewer this one alive, even if it did end up staining the wood.

Not even two seconds into the doorway, the survivor gurgled blood as a machete sliced through their throat, Jason twisting it to fully behead the poor victim.

He has had far nastier kills than this, but none stung quite so much as seeing you sitting a few feet away, observing the scene before you.

Before he could even move, you merely wrinkled your nose and turned your attention back to your book, flipping through the pages absentmindedly.

"Would you mind taking that out of the house? There's already enough blood to fill a bucket."

The sigh of relief that went through Jason would never top any of his kills.

Michael

Michael's discovery had been on a personal matter, as he had suffered a nasty bite from a equally nasty dog. It had torn up his hand to the point that some of the bone was visible.

Now, Michael's only thought was to get this treated as soon as possible, and you were the only person he could tolerate(I would say trust but...it is Michael).

To say you were expecting Michael to be standing ominously in the corner of your bedroom at 2 in the morning would be sort of lie. But then again, he was much like a stray cat who somehow was always able to find his way inside.

After a few minutes of trying to figure out what he wanted, you had led him to the bathroom, gathering supplies as to mend his wound.

Given that Michael rarely came by after a kill, let alone when he was hurt, he was a bit curious as to how you would react. Would you scream? Faint even? He was a bit amused at the possibility of the latter.

However, once you had taken his hand to inspect the damage, none of these reactions had came. In fact, you looked rather annoyed.

"This better not be a regular thing, Myers. I'll never be able to get the stains out of my towels."

Michael blinked owlishly down at you as you continued to work. He hadn't been expecting this.

Bubba

It had been a disaster of a day, Bubba had decided.

First, he couldn't finish up his breakfast. Second, he had gotten in trouble for something he didn't even do(he swore up and down to himself that he would get his revenge on Chop Top) And now? The latest victim had managed to escape for now. This really wasn't his day.

After a bit of hide and seek, Bubba managed to get the survivor out in open, now he could finally get them down this time.

In a somewhat clumsy lunge, Bubba swung the chainsaw at the survivor, lodging it into their chest.

The sounds of bones crushing and choking rang in Bubba's ears as the victim squirmed and writhed, trying to escape the saw in vain.

Footsteps caused him to turn around, and immediately, his heart sank.

Standing there with a sunhat on and a basket full of lemons, you smiled up at him, eyes crinkling with affection. Perhaps you hadn't seen the body yet, he thought.

When you flickered your eyes towards the mess, he held his breath. This had to be it.

Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go get this cleaned up."

You were a bit confused as to why Bubba had squealed with joy and lifted you up in the air, but you welcomed it anyway.

Brahms

It had been a freak accident. No one but you was supposed to come here.

Yet there they were, roaming and prowling about the mansion as if it were theirs. Brahms was not at all pleased with this intruder.

Silently following them behind the walls, Brahms observed the intruder to the best of his ability, making note of the height, weight, and how hard it would be to kill them.

Satisfied that he was more than prepared, Brahms lunged from the painting, crushing the intruder's throat with his thigh.

As they choked and writhed about, Brahms flexed the screwdriver in his hand before plunging it into their eye socket, blood pouring like a faucet and splattering all over Brahms' mask.

As the intruder's life faded away, Brahms breathing slowed, shoulders releasing from their previous tensed position. It was a good thing you hadn't been home; this could have been a ordeal.

Brahms stiffened at the sound of footsteps behind him. Why did he speak so soon?

After a few moments of silence, you clicked your tongue.

"Look at you. You're absolutely filthy. You're going to need a bath."

Much to your surprise, this had been the only time where Brahms practically scrambled towards the bathroom, ready for his bath.

[yenasmatik]

TMA 177

I don’t think I can fully explain how relieved this episode made me feel. (This post contains a lot of personal feelings about Basira and Jon, Basira stans, please don’t come and lynch me, okay?)

Basira is a character I haven’t been able to appreciate in a while. Some of the things she said to Jon after he woke up as a full avatar resonated very personally, in a really awful way. And it wasn’t something I felt allowed to talk about, because, well... Jon is a man, Basira is a woman of color, so ranting about how she upset me felt like a risky take on tumblr. Also, my friends who are into TMA were reblogging so much fanart of the show’s female characters or lesbian ships, and posting about how they loved the female characters and also reblogging those joke posts about Jon being trash. Which isn’t wrong. It just made me feel isolated in not enjoying this specific character, and in relating to Jon more than to any of the women, except maybe Daisy. Anyway, the point was, while I’ve never been a true addict, I have... some issues with food, and feeling unable to not stuff my face at times. Or, you know, most of the time, depending on how bored, alone and/or shitty I felt that week. Jon’s struggle with his addiction to statements resonated. And Basira’s comments about how he should never have woken up? They also resonated. Not with an actual person in my life, thank fuck, but with that nagging feeling of doubt whenever I think of the people I care about, that they all secretly wish I wasn’t there.

I’m not arguing that it’s bad characterization. It isn’t. I’m not even saying that Basira isn’t... right, in a purely rational vision of things. That made hearing it worse, actually. I’m saying that it made me feel awful, and that seeing all the posts fangirling about her made it worse. In the end, I trashed the rants I had about it, and black-listed the Magnus Archives on my dash. Because curating your fandom experience is your own responsibility, even though the very architecture or social media is not made for it (content comes to you, and you don’t get to chose when or how much or what kind exactly, because tumblr isn’t ao3 and nobody standardizes tags, because the content isn’t hidden behind a cut, and all those features I miss so much from fandom’s blog era). And I was in no state to deal with putting up negative opinions on female characters and dealing with either the debates or the lack of response and the feeling of isolation that comes with it.

Anyway. This episode resonated a lot. The statement itself felt familiar. This year I’ve had a couple weeks of constant anxiety, which at some points got bad enough to make me feel physically wrong. Crying, knots in my stomach, nothing too serious, but it was enough to fuck me up a lot. And I’ve been told by my doctor, when I asked her for care, that she thought I was “making a lot out of something not that big”. For years now I’ve lived with the constant nagging doubt that I am actually just lazy, and unlikable, and somehow always smell bad. That everyone actually hates me, and I deserve it. I’ve looked at my mother and thought “holy cow I’m quite sure she could be diagnosed with some sort of paranoia-related mental illness”. I’ve had the horrible epiphany that these things tend to run along genetics, and felt terrified as the nagging voice suddenly got even nastier. And this is the funny part, hearing it presented as a fear, as a statement, was cathartic. Because maybe it is a thing. A thing that happens for real, to other people, and not just me making up excuses. 

But the part that filled me with relief was hearing Jon finally, finally talk back to Basira. Not to deny his responsibility, or any nonsense that I would have to blame him for. To point out that she’s been wrong, and complacent, too. And that he is allowed to put limits to her aggressiveness and the blame she puts on others. (Even though he would never actually defend himself, because contrary to what Basira likes to imply, Jon blames himself a lot, constantly, for things that were never truly in his control at all.)

[inkbun]

If you arenct busy, could you maybe do a (romantic)Roadhog x Fem!Reader angst? Maybe Roadie finds poor reader in a severe depression/anxiety episode(you decide how far it goes, I don't want to make you uncomfortable), and he tries to calm her down? Hurt/Comfort, Romance

Back at it again @ Krispy Kreme. Took a career change and a major move, but I’m back babeyyy. Anyways, this was more serious than I intended, but I like how it turned out. Enjoy! 🐷

(FYI- I’m in a completely different timezone than before so uploads may be random for a while until I figure out what works.)

Words: 1886

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Your back slammed the rusted wall, pocked surface snagging your well-worn henley. Clawing your chest, you tried to regulate your breaths: In for seven, out for eight... only to hyperventilate on the second exhale. Though the panic was an old foe, its trigger this time was wholly unfamiliar.

Living in Junkertown brought its fair share of terrors: thieves and the cowards who stab them in the — two-faced swindlers, and the head of it all, the ruthless Junker Queen. You were by no means a native, having spent most of your adult life in cities like Brisbane. Which while wild in their own right, were far from the barren wasteland that daily threatened your mortality.

Even so, you’d rather a cage match in the Junkertown arena than deal with the situation at hand.

“It’ll be f-fine,” you stammered, pulling the flimsy stick from your pocket. It was decidedly unremarkable—tapered white plastic with a tiny LCD screen in the middle. Funny how something so simple could remain unchanged for over a century since its invention.

Wish it was as simple to get one. Depsite its proclivity for debauchery, Junkertown dealers didn’t often traffic in women’s wellness. Diesel, angel dust, mech parts? Name your price. But a pregnancy test? Everyone loses their minds.

“Rightly so,” you muttered, hands tremoring as you clutched the device.

Your own carelessness had landed you here. Junkertown had a finite supply of...protection dealers and you’d exhausted their existing supply—not that it stopped you.

To be fair, Mako had egged you on—dragging you to the edge of pleasure, dangling you over while his solid arms clutched you close. Granted, you tried to warn him of the line he was toeing, the very real danger the two of you were toying with. The words came in sputtery, pleasure-choked breaths: “Mako p-please, not inside...it can’t...you can’t—”

Mako answered, voice so deep it murmured in your chest. “Don’t care, you’re mine. I want them to know...” At the time the words thrilled you, a sharp departure from his usual level head.

Your tryst with the infamous Roadhog began rather simply. You were an apprentice for Bruce, Junkertown’s master engineer; Mako occasionally brought his motorcycle in after hours for hush-hush repairs. For months you’d tried to figure him out, drawn to the man who always kept his mask on and relegated all responses to appropriately-timed grunts.

Though frightening at first, you grew to enjoy—no, crave—his presence, especially delighted when he brought shop presents from his exploits. They usually consisted of food, like Bruce’s favorite cinnamon vines and your own, powdered sugar donuts. Occasionially he brought trinkets, though you didn’t dare ask where from. The most expensive of these, a solid gold set of brass knuckles, served as a welcome supplement to your growing treasure stash.

Bruce ribbed you about the blossoming...something between you two, smile poorly hidden in his scraggly white beard. “I haven’t seen ‘Hog get excited over anyone in a long while. Hardly looks my way if you’re in the room.”

You waved him off, calling him a silly old man caught up in daydreams. But he was right, even if you only admitted it in your quiet moments. So, when Mako came by late one evening for repairs on a blown gasket and Bruce wasn’t around, you stepped in to help.

Tension-laden, you worked on the bike, doing your best to keep your mind from straying to his large hands, or your eyes from the plethora of tattoos and scars across his skin. Somehow you could feel his gaze, even beneath the mask, felt the curious intensity even though he said little.

“Thanks,” he said, once you were done, drawing just close enough for you to examine him up close.

Strange, you thought, taking in the hulking man before you. Mako’s wiry demolitionist sidekick had tried flirting with you, but on nights when your hand snaked beneath the band of your cargos, you dreamt of thick arms and a shock of white hair accompanying deep, pleasured growls. And that’s when you knew you were in trouble.

You flashed a sultry smile, not bothering to adjust the fallen strap of your denim overalls. “No bother at all. I know I’m not Bruce, but my touch ain’t half bad.”

“That so?” he chuckled, timbre-rich sound warming your bones. You nodded vigorously, dislodging the other strap in the process. Reason told you to pull it back up, act like nothing happened — for god’s sakes don’t fuck the outlaw.

You promptly did the opposite, drawing nearer until you hit his stomach, fingers boldly exploring the skin there. Mako went very still, strangled groan escaping him as you kept on. At last he stopped you, taking your arm gently in his large hand.

“I’m a bad man, ____.”

You snorted, spirit too consumed to let a little self-deprecation stop you. Gently you reached up, bracing on his stomach for balance as you tugged the bottom of his mask up. Mako flinched, grip on your hand tightening before at last giving a single nod: a silent “Continue.”

With some difficulty you unfastened it, fascinated with every inch of the face it revealed. He was younger than the white ponytail suggested, honey brown eyes alight with quiet mischief; his snub nose was adorned by a septum ring, with sharp cheekbones punctuated by stubble and facial scars. He was oddly handsome, despite the apprehension and want warring on his face.

Breathless, you stilled your thundering heart and braced both palms against him, fingers spanning in search of more. “Show me.”

That was nearly a year ago, the months since filled with snuck rendezvous in Bruce’s shop, your apartment, and a host of “we’ll be killed if we’re caught” locations. Neither of you publicly claimed the other, both of you citing op sec as the reason. Mako was wanted in far too many towns, and you didn’t need any of Junkertown’s nastier characters—including the Queen herself—knocking on Bruce’s door with questions.

Still, the past few months had seen a palpable...something growing between you. Mako had started staying the night instead of returning to his hideout with Jamison, clutching you in slumber like one of his beloved pachimaris. You began keeping apricot jam, his favorite, in the fridge and doubled your grocery order just in case he stopped by.

You were serious. Maybe not in love—Was that even possible in the Wasteland?—but definitely serious.

“And I’m about to fuck it all up,” you whispered, tears welling your eyes as you pondered taking off the cap. It’d been at least an hour since it chirped, announcing the results were in. Three times you gathered up the courage to look—three times you failed, panic robbing you of breath and vision blurring whenever you even considered the possibility of a positive result.

Your brain whirred, spitting questions with no good answers: Would he still want me? Would he blame me? Would he leave?

Would he, would he...on and on it went until you were queasy.

The swirling dread robbed you of awareness, so much so that you failed to hear your the click of your a door as someone unlocked it, or the thumpy footsteps on the stairs accompanied by inquisitive “hmms” as Mako searched the workshop for you.

You’d gone totally numb, shivering against the wall; just then, a familiar hand tapped your shoulder.

“Roadie!” you jumped, test stick clattering to the floor. You tried to rein your voice in, aware it likely teetered on hysterics. “What are you doing here?”

He had forgone the mask as you liked, tattered t-shirt straining against his tummy and large arms. His was hair out of its usual ponytail, gathered around his neck in a shaggy white crop. Every bit of it screamed relaxed, as did the takeaway boxes tucked under his arm. Mako had come for a date, and you were about to ruin it all.

“I was around,” he offered, watching you for a moment. Then, nodding at the ground. “What’s that for?”

Realizing the test was out in the open, you scrambled to snatch it up. “N-nothing! Silly business really, don’t worry about it, I just—”

“Don’t lie to me, ____,” he said, snatching up the test with deceptive speed.

The words were gentle, softer than anything you’d ever heard from him. Of course I can’t hide from him. He might be an internationally-wanted criminal, but Mako was one of the most perceptive people you’d ever met. Not that it’d take a savant to derive the source of your current meltdown.

He held the damning evidence in front of you. “This yours?”

You nodded, biting your lip to quell your tears. Mako nodded, face drained of emotion. He watched you a moment, eyes resting on your middle.

“Would it be mine?”

You nodded again, momentary incredulity granting you courage to speak. “Whose else’s?”

That got a slight chuckle, quickly replaced by the first instance of worry you’d ever seen on his face.

“You look yet?”

You shook your head no.

“Scared?” he asked, face full of comprehension.

You nodded, trembling progressed to sobbing tremors. Without another word Mako pulled you toward him, willing you still with his solid warmth. By degrees you stopped, reduced to sniffles and quiet babbling.

“I’m so sorry, I ruined everything. You came to have a good time and you face so much out there and I-I—“

Mako kissed your head, lips lingering against your clammy skin. “Stop. We’ll look at it together.”

It wasn’t a question and you had no will left to fight. Still, the unspeakable question prowled your thoughts, compelling you to ask.

“And if it’s...” you said, trailing off as you stared at him with welling eyes.

“Then it is,” Mako said, training his quiet, determined gaze on your frightened one. “But I’m yours, ____. No matter what.”

You cried out in relief, so flooded with happiness you could only hug him tighter. Mako laughed, sound soothing like summer rain on desert sand. Standing on your tippy toes, you kissed him, leaching every ounce of gratitude and affection you could into your lips. He answered ferverently, flicking his tongue across yours before pulling away.

“Ready?” he asked, holding the test up. Taking a deep breath, you nodded. With him by your side, you could do anything. Using his thumb, Mako slid the shutter covering the screen, both of you holding your breath as you uncovered the result: Negative.

The sound you made barely qualified as human, but Mako just laughed, ruffling your hair with his free hand. Crisis averted, turned your attention to the fragrant takeaway boxes, sure you detected the tang of greasy noodles.

“Hungry?” Mako asked, scarred cheek quirking as he smiled.

You stood, temporarily stunned by the pure affection on his face. He wouldn’t say it yet, and neither would you until you got good and ready, but right then you knew that Mako Rutledge, criminal extraordinaire, loved you.

Stomach grumbling, you answered with a smile. “For you? Always.”

[themoonismymuse]

boyfriend || part one

Part two

Masterlist

Summary: you have been dating King Steve Harrington for awhile now, but one party can change everything... 

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader and (eventually) Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1639 

Warnings: cursing? teen drinking, drama, angstttt and like two seconds of fluff :)

Song: boyfriend (with Social House) by Ariana Grande and Social House

A/N: ok so this went in a direction i did not intend for it to go… it was originally supposed to be super fluffy but whatever, i live for the angst. also i hate this

Steve walks beside you, his arm slung over your shoulders. It’s in the morning; first period hasn’t even started yet. Some girls watch you enviously, but mostly people just gawk. Apparently, it’s still weird that you and Steve are dating.

You reach your locker, but Steve doesn’t let go of you. “Steve, I have to get my-” you try to get out. Before you can finish, he swings you around so your back is against the lockers and he’s right in front of you. He smirks down at you, studying your features carefully. He wants to remember each feature of your face, each freckle, every golden fleck in your eyes. “Steve,” you say impatiently, tapping your toe on the linoleum tiles.

“But, babe. You’re so beautiful.”

Your heart flutters a bit as he dips down and captures your lips in his. These kisses never get old. “Okay, okay,” you say, even though you really wish you could stay there forever, with him.

He pouts but steps to the side, leaning on the lockers. You open yours and start pulling books out. “You know, school isn’t that important. We could skip today. Go somewhere secluded…”

You look at him sternly. “I have a test today. You know that.”

Steve grabs your waist as you try to walk away, pulling you back into him. He rests his chin on top of your head. “Stay with me,” he says in a baby voice.

“You’ll see me soon,” you try to wiggle out of his embrace.

“Please?”

You don’t give in. “Steve. I have to get to class.”

Steve lets go of you, but holds onto your wrist. “Love you, (Y/N/N).”

You smile lightly and say, “‘Bye, Steve.”

Later that evening, you find yourself in the same position as earlier. Tammy Thompson is throwing a Christmas party, so, of course, you had to go. Steve has his arm somewhere else this time, around your waist. You found this super unnecessary, but secretly loved it.

“You better not get drunk this time, Harrington. The last time that happened I had to drive you home and you vomited on me,” you say.

He rolls his eyes. “You didn’t have to drive me home.”

“Who else was going to if I didn’t?”

“Fair point.”

Inside Tammy’s house, the two of you find your way over to the host, handing your gifts in for the Secret Santa she organized. You had gotten Nancy Wheeler, which was a relief for you. Nancy is one of your closest friends.

Steve wouldn’t tell you who he got, which led you to believe it was you. “It is not you! Why would I give you a gift in secret if I could just give it to you out right. It doesn’t make sense,” he would respond.

You had forced Steve to wear a tacky Christmas sweater because he made you wear the red velvet dress you owned that you despised. “It’s so cute on you, though!”

“I hate you, Steve Harrington.”

“And I love you, Y/N Y/L/N.”

Music is booming all around you as you walk through the crowd. Steve tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to him. At the table for Secret Santa gifts, a pretty large pile was already there. You carefully place your beautifully wrapped present in the front of the pile. Steve drops his bag beside yours and says, loudly over the noise, “Let’s go get drinks!”

You sigh, knowing where this is going to end up going.

You follow him to a table surrounded by teens. Red punch is at the end of the table and  there are snacks in glass platters on the table. There’s a little sign that says: KEGS OUT ON BACK PORCH. You use the ladle to pour punch into two red cups for you and Steve. Steve is watching the crowd of people dancing, gazing in a bored manner. “Here,” you say as you thrust the cup into his hand.

He grins at you. “Thanks, baby.”

You stick your tongue out. “I hate it when you call me that.”

You walk off into the crowd, leaving Steve at the table. You hear a shout, “But you are my baby!”

The music playing has a bass that resonates in your heart. As you’re sipping your drink, you hear a voice. “(Y/N)!”

You turn around, searching for the owner of the voice. Nancy Wheeler approaches you, a joyful glint in her eye. Your entire mood lightens at the sight of her. The two of you embrace in a loving hug. When she pulls away, she hands a package to you. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she apologizes bashfully.

A gift. You sputter out a thanks. “Open it already!” She jumps up and down.

You open the little box, revealing a golden necklace. A little cherub charm dangles prettily from the chain. You feel your eyes begin to well up. She is so thoughtful. “Aw, don’t cry!”

“Thank you so much! It’s beautiful,” you choke. “I think this drink might’ve already made me a little loopy…” you laugh.

Nancy joins in the laughter. “Put it on!” She requests.

You unclasp the necklace and wrap it around your neck. The charm lays delicately on your chest, right above the neckline of your dress. “Thank you again. I love it.”

“I love it, too. That’s why I got it for you,” she laughs.

The two of you speak for a while, moving over to a couch that doesn’t have people draped over it. A familiar face appears over Nancy’s head by the front door; Jonathan Byers. You grin and say to Nancy, “Your boyfriend is looking a little lost, Nance.”

Nancy turns around and sees Jonathan. “Hey, Jonathan!” She shouts.

He walks over and you grin at him. “Exciting party, yeah?” You ask.

“Sure,” he sighs, sitting down. “I almost thought about not coming, but I realized Nancy would kill me if I didn’t.”

“You know I’m right here,” Nancy says.

You stand up, saying, “I’ll leave you two at it, then.”

Nancy grabs your arm. “But you have to stay. Jonathan just got here.”

You give her a wink. “Exactly. I have to go find Steve anyways. He’s probably already wasted.”

Somehow, the living room is even more packed than it was before, making it difficult to navigate. You push your way through, holding your drink high in the air so it won’t spill. There is a lot of grinding going on, which makes you slightly uncomfortable, but you keep walking through. In a second, someone topples into you, causing your cup to slip from your hand and the sticky red punch pouring straight over your head. You screech, sounding like a very loud baby bird. “What the fuck!”

The person who bumped into you was actually two people, a girl from your history class and some random guy. “Do you mind?” You say, seething with anger.

“Not really,” the girl says, going back to making out with the guy. The guy gives you a once over than returns to the girl.

The crowd parts for you now, the commotion gathering most everyone's attention. You pass through. “I guess Steve’s perfect princess isn’t so perfect,” a nasty voice sneers.

You turn quickly to see Carol draped over Tommy H., both dancing with no space between their bodies. “What did you just say?” You hiss. Carol has never spoken to you like this before. She’s normally friendly. Well, as friendly as she can be.

“You heard me, slut,” Carol sneers.

She’s only drunk. It’s fine. You tell yourself. “I-I-” you stutter to produce any words.

Carol looks over your shoulder and her smirk grows wider and nastier. “And maybe Steve is getting bored of our perfect princess,” she says and Tommy H. laughs.

You whip around quickly and your face falls. Steve is all over some girl. Blood rushes to your head and you feel a little woozy. There’s a pounding in your skull. You feel like crying. Screaming. Doing anything other than just standing there stupidly. You make a decision and stomp over to where Steve and the girl are. “What the fuck are you doing, Harrington?” You say, anger building up inside you. You’ve had enough shit tonight.

The girl jumps off of Steve. She spots you with a horrified look and makes a quick escape. Steve isn’t so lucky. You tower over him and say loudly, “Having fun?”

The noise has died down in the room so you can almost hear your heart break. “Y/N, Y/N, it’s not what you think.”

“Don’t lie to me. I trust you enough to know that you won’t cheat on me, but guess what? You did!”

He tries to sputter a response, but you cut him off. “Don’t fucking talk. You don’t get that freedom anymore. I’m so over this shit. You say you love me, but I find you here with some whore. What the hell?! I thought you had changed. I thought everything had changed. But you are just the same as you were a fucking year ago.”

You feel a hand on your shoulder and you turn to see Nancy and Jonathan. “Let’s go,” Nancy whispers.

You turn back to Steve, who looks like he’s about to cry. “Take my advice and stay the fuck away from me from now on,” you say icily. Nancy takes hold of your hand and begins to walk you towards the door.

“Please-” Steve tries to grab your hand, but you turn around quickly.

You lean forward so you’re inches from his face. “Fuck you,” you spit.

Before you can regret anything you said, you leave Tammy’s house and walk off into the chilly night. Your eyes sting, but not because of the cold.

Part two || Part three

A/N: pretty sure i’m going to make a part two because i already started writing it but please, enjoy this <3