#three jet engine

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 5 (part two)

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 3.8k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

Years later, you’d still wonder if Topper did it all on purpose. 

When you asked him, he’d just wink and say “bet you’d like to know.” 

As your group walked down the dock towards the rental kiosk, Topper pulled out his phone, grinning down at the screen.

“What’s funny?” Carter tried to read over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” he tucked his phone in his pocket quickly, failing to hide the cheeky look in his eyes, zero poker face. “Kelce is coming.”

The guy Carter had haggled with brought your group over to the three jet skis and gave you a demonstration on how to drive them. You weren’t paying very close attention, more focused on the uneven pairing of the five of you and how to ensure you didn’t end up on the same jet ski as Tom. His rudeness this morning was the final nail in the coffin of your crush.

The guy gave Carter three keys, and you met her eyes, knowing she was thinking the same thing. 

Topper looked at Carter hopefully, his big puppy dog eyes watching her with anticipation. You felt for him, the two of you really weren’t all that different. Sure, he’d gotten to hook up with Carter plenty of times, his crush not totally unrequited, but she’d never given him what he really wanted. At the end of the day, you were just two people who were really good at loving people who didn’t love you back. Still, you knew in your heart of hearts that Carter did love him back, even if she wouldn’t admit it. Maybe you would never get your dream, but you could make sure that two people you cared about got theirs, and that might be the only thing that made this all worth it.

You planned it out quick, knowing Carter was seconds from asking you to ride with her so you wouldn’t be with Tom, and also knowing that what she really wanted was an afternoon alone with Topper.

“I told Kelce I’d ride with him,” you blurted out. 

“Did you?” Carter asked skeptically, trying to figure you out.

“Yeah, I think he’s still worried I’m mad at him,” you made up off the top of your head. “Thought I’d throw him a bone.”

Carter watched you the whole time she boarded the back of Topper’s jet ski, telling him to wait up so they didn’t leave you alone. Tom and Sabrina didn’t seem to care about leaving you, speeding off the second they climbed on their jet ski, Sabrina’s over-the-top shrieks echoing through the air.

“That bother you?” Topper asked when he caught you scowling in their direction.

“Actually, I’m thinking they might be made for each other,” you concluded.

“So you’re not, like, into him?” Topper asked hopefully.

“Not anymore. That ship sailed so quick,” you snorted.

“Ah,” he tried to play it cool, “good to know.” 

“Don’t get any fucking ideas,” Carter warned him.

“I didn’t say anything!” He insisted.

“You don’t have to, you have zero poker face,” Carter said. “No Tom does not equal yes Rafe.”

“I’m just saying it’s good to know. Am I not allowed to know things?” 

You rolled your eyes at their bickering, less than surprised they were having this conversation right in front of you.

“Y’know, you guys can just take off, I’ll be fine waiting for Kelce,” you offered, desperate to move this conversation about your love life out to sea and away from you.

“Right, Kelce,” Topper nodded. “Kelce is coming.”

“Why are you being so weird?!” Carter squinted at him.

“I’m not! I just wanna go!” Topper revved the engine of the jet ski.

Carter looked at you one more time, checking that you were okay with this.

“Have fun!” You said to reassure her.

That’s all Topper needed to hear, he hit the throttle and pulled away from the dock as fast as he could. Carter’s laughter filled the air, she grabbed him tight and tucked her chin in the crook of his shoulder as he drove. She was happy, so you were happy. Your whole life, that’s really all it took, and you knew she felt the same way about you.

With that lovely thought, you climbed on the jet ski so you’d be ready to go as soon as Kelce arrived. 

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Rafe held the keys a little too tight, Kelce struggling to pry them from his hands.

“You gotta take it easy on the clutch, she’s sensitive.”

“I know how to drive, man,” Kelce wriggled the keys from his grip as he climbed into the driver’s seat of Rafe’s truck.

Rafe stalled by the door for a minute, his feet suddenly feeling very heavy. He looked around the marina, scanning for the group. His heart skipped a beat when he found only you, bobbing in the water on your jet ski all alone.

He’d texted Topper a head’s up that he was coming and asked him to let you know. He didn’t want you to think he was in on Topper’s dumbass scheme to get you two together. If he was gonna do this he was gonna do it right, not try to trick you into it.

Now you were waiting for him, looking so gorgeous with your legs on either side of the seat and your hair blowing gently in the wind. 

Usually, he didn’t call girls beautiful, typically opting for hot, or sometimes pretty if he was drunk. But the only word for you right now, and always, was beautiful.

“You gonna let me leave, man?” Kelce asked, gesturing to Rafe’s hands, still clutching the handle of the door.

“Yeah, sorry,” Rafe pulled away, wiping his hand against his board shorts when he realized it was clammy, the sight of you making him nervous in a way he had never been before.

“What’s got you so worried? Are you scared of her or something?” Kelce mocked him.

Rafe was surprised that Kelce had actually caught on to who he was looking at, giving him an annoyed eye roll.

“I’m not scared of her,” he defended himself.

“Don’t even worry about it man, I bet she’s still wrapped around your finger.”

Rafe shot Kelce a steely warning look he’d given him a thousand times.

“I’m just saying, you don’t need to worry,” Kelce explained. “You’re the man.”

Kelce was an idiot, and he spent a good ninety percent of their friendship pissing Rafe off, but he always tried to hype Rafe up. Usually he was annoyed by it, but right now, he actually needed it.

You used to talk about him that way, too. Oh, the money he would pay for you to see him in a good light again. He’d swim across this entire bay just to hear one kind word about him coming from your lips. 

“Nah, I’m really not,” he shook his head slightly, looking back toward you. “But I think with her I could be.”

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The audacity, the fucking nerve of him to come strolling down the dock looking that good. The sun actually broke through the crowds at his arrival, like he’d bribed the gods. He strolled towards you so casually, his grin easy, like he didn’t know he was the most attractive man you’d ever seen in real life. It pissed you off.

“What are you doing here?” You snapped at him when he reached you.

His grin faltered, like he was the one surprised to see you.

“Didn’t Topper tell you I was coming?” He asked.

“No, of course he didn’t,” you said, finally understanding the reason for Topper’s strangeness earlier.

“I asked him to,” Rafe swore. “I didn’t want to make you think I was trying to-”

“I think I’m just gonna go alone,” you cut him off, turning the key in the engine of the jet ski, desperate to put an ocean between you and him before he said another considerate thing that he’d just undo later. “You can rent your own.”

“No can do,” said the owner, arriving to hand Rafe a lifejacket. “This is our last one. You better take your boyfriend with you, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes at the situation and the misogynistic comment. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you mumbled. 

Rafe felt the correction was unnecessary, but you didn’t seem to be in the mood for constructive feedback at the moment.

“Is it cool if I, uh, can I come with you?” He wasn’t walking back down this dock without trying.

“Fine,” you agreed reluctantly. “But I’m driving.”

“Good with me,” he climbed on quickly before you could change your mind.

With a kick that sent you both lurching forward, the jet ski roared as you tightened your hand on the throttle. Instinctually, Rafe’s hands landed on your side, holding you both in place. You only had a second to feel the pads of his fingers clinging to the soft skin of your waist before he pulled them away.

“Shit, sorry,” he said.

The guy on the dock leaned forward to push the jet ski from the dock, redirecting you out toward the bay.

“No, actually you should hold on,” he instructed. “These babies go fast and it’s a little choppy out there today. Take it real easy out of the marina and then you can kick it up when you’re in open water.”

You could feel Rafe’s hands twitch with hesitancy before they rested on your sides again, so lightly you wondered if he was actually touching you at all.

With a push, you drifted out to sea, slowly picking up speed with the turn of the throttle.

“Do you want me to let go?” He asked, leaning in so you could hear him over the roar of the motor.

Somehow, you thought two completely conflicting thoughts at the exact same time:

Yes, now.

and

No, never.

You settled on, “whatever.”

Rafe started to let go, but the jet ski hit the wake of a nearby boat, and you both nearly flew off the seat. His grip tightened protectively, practically pinning your body down. With his strong hands on you so firmly, it felt like you could hit a tidal wave and he’d still have you in his grasp. You needed more of whatever that was.

Your laughter filled the salty air as you purposefully drove you and Rafe over the choppiest patches of the water, hair whipping behind you into his face, and he didn’t even care. He watched you in the side view mirror on the front of the jet ski, memorizing every inch of your smile like he’d never see it again.

“Jesus, are you trying to kill us?” He teased, yelling over the woosh of the wind.

“It’d be a fun way to go!” You yelled back, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Rafe’s hands still on your waist, you felt him lean in slightly. Even with two lifejackets between you, the proximity of your bodies was electrifying. You could feel his strong thighs on either side of your hips, closing you in everytime you hit a bump, securing you in place. You wondered if he was doing it on purpose or if it was just his instinct, you didn’t know which was hotter.

The water rushed behind you, a foamy wake marking your path as you continued driving as fast as you could. The others must’ve gone a different way out of the marina, because they were nowhere in sight. The sky was darkening slightly, the shift in weather causing most boats to drive the opposite way, back to the docks. But you just kept going, and Rafe didn’t tell you to turn around, both drunk on the adrenaline of the speed and the feeling of each other’s skin.

After a particularly jostling bump, the engine sputtered slightly.

“Fuck, what was that?” You puzzled, turning the throttle harder but gaining no speed.

“Here, you gotta twist it like this,” Rafe’s arms wrapped around you, his hands covering yours as he guided you to turn the throttle in the exact way you just were.

“That’s exactly what I was doing,” you bickered. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe I should drive?”

“It’s not my driving, something’s wrong with the jet ski,” you argued, swatting his hands away. 

“Can you just let me try?” He argued back.

“No, you’re making it worse!” 

The engine continued to sputter until it cut completely, causing both your bodies to lunge forward as it came to an abrupt halt.

“Rafe what did you do?” You accused him.

“What did I do? You wouldn’t even let me touch it!” He snapped.

You turned the key in the ignition over and over. The jet ski growled a few times but never started back up. Eventually, you gave up with a frustrated huff.

“I think we’re out of gas,” you conceded.

“Well, did you ask the guy if it was filled before you left?” Rafe questioned.

“Oh, so now this is my fault?” You craned your neck to see him, anger in your eyes.

“No, that’s not-”

“I’m so tired of this, Rafe.”

“We’ve only been out here for like a minute.”

“No, not this,” you motioned toward the water, “this,” you motioned between you and him.

“Oh. Me?” He tried and failed to hide his hurt feelings.

“Not you, just, all this back and forth. One second we’re having a good time and the next you’re pulling away or snapping at me. I have fucking whiplash.”

“Are you sure it’s not just from the jet ski?” He attempted a joke, it only half worked.

“How are we gonna get back?” You redirected the conversation before he could see you were smirking.

“A boat will come by,” he said confidently. “We’ll be fine.”

No boats came by in the following minute, or the following five. You sat in tense silence, your previous words still hanging between you. Your head hurt from the wind and trying to figure this man out.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, almost inaudible. “I know I’m…difficult.”

You turned your neck, not quite far enough to see him, but enough to let him know you were listening, that he should go on.

“I don’t know how to act around you,” he admitted. “One second I feel like I’ve fucked it up so bad that there’s not even a point in trying to fix it and the next…”

This time, you do turn, twisting your torso so you could look him intently in the eyes, imploring him to say something right for once, begging him not to let you fall off this cliff alone again.

“…you look at me like that,” he almost whispered. “And then I think fuck it, I’d try forever if you let me.”

For the first time ever, he was with you on the way down, finally jumping together.

“Can I?” He asked, voice low.

“Can you what?” you blinked at him slowly, the moment so surreal you worried it wasn’t happening, that you’d wake up in Carter’s bed, all of this day just one long fever dream.

“Fix things…with you?”

“I don’t know.”

It was the most honest answer you could give him.

“Can I try?” His voice broke slightly when he said it, and you could feel the vulnerability leaking through the cracks.

“Yeah,” you gave in.

“I miss you,” he breathed, and your heart felt heavy with longing and resentment at the same time.

“I don’t think you ever really knew me, Rafe,” you said, turning to face forward again, sad eyes scanning the horizon. “You never paid close enough attention.”

He thought over your words, and you could feel that there was something brewing in his mind, a decision he was making. When he finally spoke again, it wasn’t the words you expected.

“What’s your favorite color?”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you said, “huh?”

“Just tell me,” he smiled back, even though you weren’t looking, you could hear it in his voice.

You answered him, and he followed that question up with another, and another, and they kept rolling off his tongue and you kept answering, until the strangeness of it faded and the two of you were just talking.

For over an hour, you drifted, leaning forward on the handlebars with your back to him as Rafe asked you questions and listened intently to your long, detailed answers. You were hesitant, just at first. No one had ever let you talk this long without interrupting you. No one had ever wanted so badly to hear what you had to say. He nodded along to everything, responding with thoughtful mhms and carefully worded follow up questions.

After a while, you forgot about the surrealness of it all, where you were, who you were with. It was just you and your old friend, sharing your lives with each other. 

I could do this for a long time, you thought, like maybe forever.

Everytime you thought he must be bored by now, he just kept asking, hanging on every word like he was collecting them for some secret project.

“What do you want to do after you graduate?” and “Who’s your closest friend?” and “Are you still into that one band?” and eventually, when he was running low on ideas, “what’s the last movie you saw?”

You laughed. 

“What?” He asked with a timidness that squeezed your heart.

“The last movie I saw was the last movie you saw,” you reminded him.

“Oh, right,” he chuckled, but there was an edge to it.

“It’s a good movie, though,” you leaned back toward him a little, trying to pull him from whatever thoughts were causing his spirit to fall. “My favorite.”

He nodded, “Tom did a nice job putting together that little shindig.”

“I guess so,” you said, not sure how to proceed.

“You know he plays football for U of F?” He said. “Or did I guess, before he graduated.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, he was All American,” he nodded. You’d give all the money you had for one glimpse of what was going on in his head.

“He’s an impressive guy,” he admitted. “I can see why you’d end up in his room.”

“Rafe, oh my god,” you huffed, standing suddenly. Your body rose above him, his eyes tracking every movement. You swung your leg over the seat, flipping around so you were facing him, sitting back down so you could look him in the eyes when you said, “I didn’t sleep in Tom’s room.”

“Oh.”

It was all he could muster up, his throat going dry from both the embarrassment he felt for being wrong and the sudden proximity of your bodies. He willed himself not to let his eyes travel down to the way your lifejacket was pushing your chest together, or the soft skin of your bare thighs, now spread open in front of him as you straddled the seat. He kept his eyes on yours, the most respectful option, though it didn’t help his speechlessness. The uninterrupted contact with your beautiful irises nearly put him over the edge. He almost hoped no boats would come by after all so he could look into your eyes for hours.

“Is that why you got up and left last night?” You questioned, not missing the way his eyes were trained intensely on yours.

“The floor was uncomfortable,” he mumbled.

“The floor,” you nodded, “the floor was uncomfortable. Got it.”

“You're mad at me again,” he surmised.

“When was I ever not mad at you?” 

“I dunno,” he shrugged sarcastically, “somewhere between the movie and your panties hitting the floor.”

You wanted to slap him. And kiss him. He could tell, teasing you with a sideways smirk. You tried to channel the newfound confidence you’d had last night, addicted to the taste of power.

You leaned forward, hands on the leather seat between you, looking up at him with hooded eyes.

“Did you like that?” 

“You know I did.” 

He responded so fast and his voice was so low you couldn’t tell if he was pissed off or turned on. Either way, he wasn’t fucking around anymore.

“Then why didn’t you stay?” 

It felt like that one question held so many questions, and based on the look on his face, you knew he could hear it too. You weren’t just asking about last night, you weren’t just asking why he went to sleep on the couch. You were asking about years of him coming up short, why he’d failed you so many times, why he never, ever seemed to pick you.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

As he said it, the wind kicked up, and the jet ski began to rock even harder as waves rose and fell beneath you. One particularly choppy wave had you tilting a little too far off the seat, and Rafe’s hands landed on your waist again. This time, there was nothing hesitant about it. When you didn’t push him away, his thumb brushed an experimental circle into your skin.

“Do you want me to let go?”

In lieu of answering, your hands came to rest over his. He assumed you were gonna pull them off of you, and for a moment you thought you might too, but then his words echoed in your mind: he didn’t know you wanted him to.

You could do this. You could lean into it and just let it happen. You were supposed to fight it, make him grovel more, make him pay you back for the years you’d waited. It’s what everyone expected. You were only a few hundred yards off shore, but the rest of the world felt lightyears away, and out here, there was nothing stopping you letting him touch you, kiss you, have you. You could just let it happen, and no one would have to know.

But before you could decide if you wanted to, a deep rumble of thunder broke out across the sky.

“Shit,” you jumped. 

“We gotta get out of here,” Rafe looked up at the darkening sky nervously.

“But how?” 

“How well can you swim?”

That’s how Rafe ended up in the water, gripping the back of the jet ski as the waves rocked it harshly, water splashing up and landing on your feet. You tightened your lifejacket, feeling apprehensive about the whole thing.

“I can just push us if you want to stay on,” Rafe offered.

“No, it’ll go faster if it’s both of us.”

You stepped to the edge, hesitating, wanting to rip the bandaid and just jump in but not wanting to jump too far off and get separated. Your indecision cost you, your foot slipped and you dropped into the water, your leg scraping against the edge of the jet ski as you fell. 

Blinded by pain, you reached for Rafe as your head slipped under the surface, but your hands came up empty.

(Chapter 6: part one)

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a/n: please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[xo100]

Airport - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: Lando Norris offers a woman, who missed her flight, a ride on his private jet to Monaco. They bond over light conversation and flirting, leaving with the possibility of seeing each other again.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1323

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The race weekend had been long, grueling, and filled with adrenaline. Lando Norris was ready to head back to Monaco, to the comfort of his own home where the sound of engines could be swapped for the quiet of the Mediterranean breeze. As he made his way through the airport, sunglasses perched on his nose and his cap pulled low, he weaved his way through the flow of people without drawing too much attention to himself.

It wasn’t until he neared the private terminal that he noticed something out of the ordinary: a young woman standing near the gate of a commercial flight to Monaco, her expression a mix of frustration and panic. Lando slowed his steps, curiosity piqued. She stood there, gazing hopelessly at the closed gate, gripping her passport tightly. Her bags were tossed haphazardly by her feet as though she’d raced through the airport only to fall seconds short of making it to her flight.

The sharpness of disappointment etched on her face was all too familiar. He’d been in similar situations before, dashing through airports, missing flights by mere moments. Only, she didn’t seem to have the luxury of a private jet waiting just down the hall like he did.

Lando hesitated. He didn’t know her story, but something about the way she stood there, looking so defeated, tugged at him. He glanced at his watch. His jet was leaving soon, but he still had time. And, well, maybe this wouldn’t be the worst idea. What was the harm in offering a bit of help?

He pulled his cap down a little further and crossed the distance between them, moving casually as though he were just another traveler making his way to his flight.

“Missed your flight?” he asked, his voice light but laced with concern.

She turned to look at him, startled at first, then quickly took him in—cap, sunglasses, and all. Recognition flickered in her eyes, but it wasn’t overwhelming. Just a flicker.

“Yeah,” she breathed out with a weak chuckle. “By about three minutes. They wouldn’t let me through even though the plane is still sitting there.”

“That’s tough,” Lando said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Where you heading?”

“Monaco,” she said with a shrug, though it seemed like a more resigned gesture. “Guess I’ll have to wait for the next one.”

Lando nodded, glancing around the terminal. The airport was buzzing with the usual chaos, and he could see the stress rolling off her shoulders. He thought for a second, then made a split decision. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I’m heading there too,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a private jet leaving soon. If you want, you can take the flight with me.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and her lips parted slightly, a mixture of surprise and hesitation crossing her features.

“A private jet?” she asked, a little skeptical. “Isn’t that...a bit much?”

Lando laughed softly. “Maybe, but I’ve got plenty of room. Plus, you look like you could use a break from airport stress. I promise it’s less chaotic than commercial flights.”

She blinked, clearly processing his offer. The idea of getting onto a private jet with a guy she just met—even if he was Lando Norris—probably wasn’t something she had expected when she woke up that morning.

“That’s...really kind of you,” she said after a moment, her voice soft. “But I couldn’t—“

“Sure you can,” he interrupted, his tone teasing but warm. “Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You miss your flight, and instead of waiting around, you get to fly in style. How often does that happen?”

She laughed at that, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “When you put it like that…”

Lando grinned, taking her hesitation as a positive sign. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? You get to Monaco an hour earlier, and we both get some company for the flight. No need to sit around waiting for the next one.”

She looked at him again, weighing her options. He could see the internal debate playing out in her eyes—logic versus the sheer spontaneity of his offer. Finally, she sighed, her lips curling into a tentative smile.

“Alright,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “Why not? But I’ll warn you, I might be a terrible conversationalist after the day I’ve had.”

“That’s okay,” Lando replied with a wink. “I’m known to talk enough for two.”

With that, he grabbed one of her bags effortlessly, motioning for her to follow him toward the private terminal. She trailed behind, still looking a little shell-shocked, but there was something about the ease of his manner that made her feel less anxious about the whole thing.

As they walked, Lando kept the conversation light, asking her about her trip and how she ended up almost missing her flight. She shared a story about how her taxi had gotten stuck in traffic, the minutes ticking away as she helplessly watched the airport get closer and closer. Lando laughed, offering a few of his own travel horror stories in return. By the time they reached the sleek jet waiting on the tarmac, the mood between them was light and comfortable.

-

“You weren’t kidding,” she muttered as they approached the aircraft, eyes wide as she took it all in. “This is...wow.”

Lando chuckled and waved a hand. “It’s not bad, right?”

They climbed aboard, and soon enough, they were airborne. The hum of the engines was soothing, and the view of the clouds stretching out below them was a peaceful contrast to the chaos of the airport they’d left behind.

“You know,” she said after a while, leaning back in her plush seat, “I still can’t believe I’m on a private jet with you. This feels surreal.”

Lando smirked, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Trust me, I’ve been in a lot of surreal situations lately. This one’s pretty tame.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess that’s fair. Monaco, huh? Do you live there?”

“Yeah, for a while now,” he replied, glancing out the window. “It’s a nice place to unwind after the craziness of race weekends.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve been through a few times, but never really had a chance to stay.”

“Well, maybe this is your chance,” he said, eyes twinkling. “What’s your plan once we get there?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend,” she said with a sigh. “But it’s not set in stone. What about you?”

“Just heading home,” Lando said, then added with a teasing grin, “But if you need a tour guide while you’re there, I might be available.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Are you offering to show me around Monaco, Lando?”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “Depends if you’re up for it.”

She laughed softly, glancing out the window again. “I might take you up on that.”

For the rest of the flight, the conversation flowed easily, peppered with light flirtation and comfortable silences. There was something so natural about it—like they’d known each other for longer than just a chance meeting in an airport.

As the jet began its descent toward Monaco, Lando glanced over at her, feeling a strange sense of contentment.

“Guess we’re almost there,” he said.

”Yeah,” she replied, though her tone held a hint of reluctance. “Thanks again for this, Lando. You really saved my day.”

He flashed her a playful grin. “Anytime. Maybe I’ll see you around Monaco.”

“Maybe,” she said with a smirk of her own. “But next time, let’s hope it’s under more normal circumstances.”

“Deal,” he replied with a wink.

As they stepped off the jet and into the warm Monaco air, Lando couldn’t help but think that maybe missing her flight had been the best thing that could’ve happened to either of them that day.

୨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, I hope y’all enjoyed! Remember requests are open if you would like to request something. Also question for you guys, is there someone who can help me with the link of the requests so I could put it in my masterlist? I don’t know where to find that link, DM me if you know.

[pangur-and-grim]

I was thinking about how long it takes to build a relationship with an animal.

like when I first got Tallgeese, she'd run in fear if I tried to approach her. and now three years later it's hard to walk through the backyard, because she's following me about like a puppy and placing herself directly beneath my descending feet.

meanwhile Grim was standoffish for the first few years of me having her, and would act all offended if I tried to scritch her ears. and now, in year eleven, she keeps me up at night by forcing herself under my arm and purring like a jet engine.

it makes me emotional. like here are my little guys, we've spent years figuring out how to love eachother, no big deal or anything.

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 16 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Your expectations are absolutely shattered when you get to North Island with your class and find out you're going on the field trip of your dreams. Bradley pulled all the stops, and if he wasn't already, he was about to become an absolute legend in your classroom.

Warnings: Fluff, adult banter, Bradley in love, 18+

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

You took Bradley's breath away every time he saw you. Even when he was standing tall between Maverick and Cyclone, it made no difference. He was reduced to a lovesick wreck when you walked down the stairs of the school bus with your students in tow.

"Well done," Maverick muttered, and Bradley felt his cheeks grow a little warm. You looked incredible in a pair of jeans and a plain top, but the look was really completed by the lanyard around your neck with the visitor's pass with your name on it. He'd work on getting you a permanent pass so you could stop by whenever you wanted. God, he was a mess every time he thought about the future.

When you smiled directly at him, he knew he'd take the reprimand if it came; you wanted him to kiss you right now, so he was going to. "Welcome to North Island," he told your kids with a grin. Then he looped one arm around your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you in front of everyone. "I can't wait to show you everything."

You made a soft sound when he released you, and your eyes darted from Maverick on his right to Cyclone on his left. "Thank you for having us today," you said a little breathlessly, biting your lip. You were flustered. He made you that way, and he loved hearing it in your voice.

"Fourth graders," Bradley called out. "This is Captain Mitchell and Admiral Simpson. They both outrank me. By a lot. Let's all give Admiral Simpson our attention."

"Welcome," bellowed Cyclone in his stern voice, and Bradley watched the kids fall in line silently. "This is an active military base. It is important that you remember that fact while you're visiting today." Half of them looked scared while the other half looked excited beyond belief as he said, "The last thing we want is an injury, or worse. Stay with your group. Stay near your teacher. Never go off alone." A very stiff smile appeared on his face as he said, "But have fun."

Bradley cleared his throat. "Thank you, Admiral Simpson," he told the other man, saluting him. Then he addressed you and your class again. "Does anyone have any questions before we get started?"

When Violet's hand shot up into the air, Bradley pointed to her with a smile. "Lieutenant Bradshaw, how many different kinds of jets are we going to see today? And do they all fly at the same speed? And can you help me solve a math problem that I thought of on the bus?"

"Well," Cyclone said, looking pleasantly surprised. "These children sound like aviation experts."

Bradley noticed how your smile grew as he said, "That's because their teacher is incredible." He kept his hands at his side instead of flinging his arm around your shoulders like he wanted to as he nodded toward the hangar. "To answer Violet's question, we will see three different kinds of aircrafts and get to sit in one of them."

"No way!" Oliver said in excitement. "Do we get to sit in your jet?"

Bradley winked and said, "You'll just have to wait and see."

He and Maverick led the group into the busy hangar, the kids trailing along single file as the chaperones brought up the rear. He positioned you in the middle of the group, because nothing was more important today than keeping everyone safe. He pointed out the EA-18 Growler and the E-2 Hawkeye before some Super Hornets came into view.

"Who wants to see Marty work some of his mechanical magic?" Bradley asked as soon as he saw the tarp on the ground where there were engine parts lined up like a surgical procedure was about to take place. Every child's hand shot up into the air, and he chuckled as you and the three chaperones all enthusiastically raised yours as well. "I have some good news. We get to watch while he rebuilds the engine mount and part of the intake manifold on my colleague's jet."

"Phoenix," Jayden read, pointing to the name emblazoned on the side. "That's a cool call sign."

"It's an even cooler pilot," said Natasha as she peeked around the workstation in her flight suit. "You must be the pen pals," she said with a smile. Bradley watched her wave to you, and he'd have to remember to make a comment later about how his best friend finally saw you with pants on.

"It's a woman," Violet said in complete awe. "She's a pilot."

"The best of the best," Nat replied. "You can all call me Lieutenant Trace or Phoenix. Oh! Here's my backseater, Lieutenant Floyd."

When Bob strolled around the workstation and waved to the kids with a smile, he said, "I'm Lieutenant Floyd, but my call sign is Bob."

"He has glasses!" gasped Henry. "Like me!"

Bob gave him a fist bump on his way to the rec room. "I sure do. You can fly with glasses."

"Wow."

Bradley watched all of the kids staring at him, Nat and Bob like they were the absolute coolest adults to ever exist, and maybe they weren't wrong. But they had to know they were in the presence of someone just as fascinating on a daily basis. "You all have your teacher to thank for sparking such an avid interest in aviation in your minds. She probably knows just as much as we do."

Your eyes went wide. "I'm sure I don't," you muttered glaring at him playfully. "Is that Marty? I recognize him from your deployment videos."

When you nodded past Bradley, he turned to see his favorite mechanic stroll back into the hangar with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Hey! It's the fourth graders!" he greeted. "And their teacher who I heard so much about when I was deployed with Lieutenant Bradshaw."

"Did he now?" you asked softly as Bradley gestured for everyone to move in a little closer to Marty's tarp. The mechanic was showing the kids where they could sit on the floor while he grabbed some folding chairs for the chaperones, but Bradley discreetly wrapped his fingers around your hand to keep you next to him.

"Come on, Gorgeous," he whispered, keeping his eyes on Marty as he leaned a little closer to you. "I was smitten with you right away, and I was very lonely. That man heard more than his fair share about my crush on the fourth grade teacher from Mira Mesa Elementary School, that's for certain."

You let your fingers tangle with his as you said, "You're too charming for your own good."

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

Other than Marty talking his way through the repair he was working on, you could have heard a pin drop. Your students were sitting with rapt attention, and so were the chaperones. You were standing a little bit off to the side, trying to hold Bradley's hand without anyone noticing, but you were pretty sure Captain Mitchell was onto you.

"Who wants to feel how heavy the crankshaft is?" Marty asked before he started passing it around to your excited students.

"Mine's heavier," Bradley whispered next to your ear, and you tried to fight the smile that threatened your lips. "But you already know that."

You elbowed him in the side as you watched everyone around you having the time of their life. Marty let everyone try their hand at tightening a bolt to Naval standards, then he laughed and pulled out a hydraulic machine to take care of it. Once the engine components were all in place, he let your kids try to pick it up before he informed them that everything put together weighed over five hundred pounds. He lifted the engine using a huge hook while everyone cheered like he was performing a magic trick, and then he posed for a photo with everyone.

"I can't thank you enough," you told him, shaking his dirty hand after he tried to wipe it on his jumpsuit. "My kids were just as excited to meet you today as they were to see all the jets. You're a bit of a celebrity in my classroom."

The older man blushed and smiled down at the tarp at his feet. "Well, ma'am, that's just the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

You hadn't even mentioned it to Bradley let, but as you released Marty's hand,  you asked, "Is there any chance you would consider visiting my school for career day to give a five to ten minute presentation?"

"Oh," he grunted, his blush deepening. "The stuff I do isn't as interesting as the aviators."

"It is," you insisted. "My kids were hanging on your every word. I could pass the information to you through Lieutenant Bradshaw?"

He kind of shrugged and grinned at you. "I'll think about it."

When you nodded and turned away from him, you found that Bradley had lined your class up again, and then he started leading them to the cafeteria for lunch. "I need you to help me make a definitive ranking of all the menu options," he told them. "This is some very scientific stuff."

"Is there meatloaf?" Nia asked. 

"Every day," Bradley promised. 

"What about the cabbage rolls that you said were yucky?" said Oliver as he bounced along. 

"Only on the aircraft carriers," Bradley informed him. "You all lucked out on that one."

He had each of you scan into the cafeteria with your visitor's badge, and then he nodded toward a long table with RESERVED signs on it. "Is that where we're all sitting?" you asked in surprise.

"Absolutely, Gorgeous. And you better sit by me."

He handed you a tray and pointed you toward the end of the line of officers getting their meals. "It's almost like a date, Lieutenant Bradshaw."

He smirked as he handed trays out to your kids. "They do have some Thai options on the menu. I will warn you and say the pasta is terrible compared to Salvatore's."

You were smiling nonstop as you selected a few different options, including some Thai curry, and made your way to the long table which was now lined with juice boxes and water bottles. Somehow Bradley thought of everything, and if he thought the last blowjob you gave him was a nice thank you, he was definitely in for another one. 

When he slipped into the seat next to yours, he asked, "Do you think everyone is having a good time?"

"This is better than anything I could have imagined," you promised.

Soon your kids were all poking at and sampling the foods on their trays, calling out opinion after opinion as Bradley pulled a small notepad and pencil from his pocket. "Okay, okay. We all hate the baked ziti?" he asked, giving you side eye. "I told you the pasta was terrible." He made a note and said, "But we all like the meatloaf and the breaded chicken?"

"Yes!" shouted Jayden.

"The chicken is so good!" called Violet.

"So is the macaroni and cheese," said Oliver.

Bradley was actually taking real notes which made you want to push him down onto the table and climb on top. 

"It's like you're really in the Navy now. You have opinions on the cafeteria food," he said with a salute. "Ready to earn your wings?"

Eighteen pairs of eyes went wide. "We get wings?" Henry asked Bradley, lunch completely forgotten.

"Only if you're brave enough to sit in the cockpit of my Super Hornet."

The table erupted in cheers.

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

"It's huge," you gasped. "It's so much bigger than I could have ever imagined."

Bradley led everyone outside to the tarmac near the hangar where his F/A-18 was parked with the ladder down. Natasha was sitting in the cockpit with Bradley's helmet in her hand, waving down at everyone.

"Why don't you go first and show everyone how it's done," he said, and you looked up at his smiling face.

"Alright," you agreed, still clearly surprised by the sheer size of the jet.

There was something about seeing a military aircraft in person for the first time that nothing could prepare you for. Some of the kids were looking at it with their mouths hanging open, and Violet looked like she was on the verge of happy tears.

With one hand in the middle of your back, Bradley helped you start to climb the ladder. The fantastic view of your ass was a perk, but he really was trying to make sure you got up safely. When you were standing on the last rung, Nat helped you climb inside, and she plopped his helmet on your head. It was comically large, and you were laughing as you waved down at everyone from the seat.

"This is incredible!" you shouted.

"You just earned yourself some wings," Bradley promised, and you pumped your fist in the air while the kids all cheered. He took his phone out to get a picture of you and Nat up there with his name on the side of the jet, and then it was time for you to climb back down. You probably didn't need the extra help, but his hands ended up on your hips anyway, and you looked back at him over your shoulder once you were on the ground.

"Thank you," came your breathless voice, and he had to remind himself that he was at work and not allowed to push you against the ladder and make out with you like he wanted to.

"Who's next?" he asked, prying his hands away from your body. The chaperones sent Jackie up to the ladder first, and Bradley held her hand until she was securely on the ladder. "Be careful on the rungs. Phoenix still slips on them all the time."

"I do not!" Nat called down from the cockpit. "I never slip on them, ever. But Rooster always does."

"You got me there, Phoenix," he said with a laugh as Jackie scaled her way up to the top. 

Each kid got a turn. Oliver told him that his jet was probably fast enough to feel like you were slam dunking off the back of a dragon after all. And Violet looked at him as she climbed down and said, "I'm really sorry Lieutenant Bradshaw, but Phoenix might be even cooler than you."

He laughed as he said, "You're breaking my heart, kiddo," and she nodded somberly. "That's okay. I'd probably agree with you most days. Go line up with everyone else so you can get your wings."

Maverick and Nat helped you and Bradley pin some replica golden wings on each lanyard, and then Bradley pinned one on yours as you grinned. "What if I want to wear the real thing?" you whispered as the kids all gushed over their little treats.

Bradley glanced down at the insignia pins on his khaki uniform. "You want to wear my shirt around, Gorgeous?"

"Maybe," you told him softly, and he could already picture it.

His nostrils flared, taking in your sweet scent over the jet fuel. "You sleeping over tonight?"

"I don't see how I could possibly stay away after you gave us the perfect day."

He swallowed hard, once again wishing you just lived there with him. Then he wouldn't have to ask or invite or assume. He would just know you'd be with him after work. "Then I'll make sure my shirt is ready for you."

"Rooster."

Bradley released your lanyard and turned toward Maverick. "Sir?" he asked as Mav nodded toward the air traffic control tower.

"They're ready for us."

"Excellent," he replied as Nat folded up the ladder next to him. "We have one more thing for you to learn about. Naval aviation wouldn't be possible without skilled air traffic controllers making sure we have safe flight paths. If you promise to be quiet, we can all climb the tower stairs and listen in."

The kids were bouncing around excitedly again as Bradley and Maverick led the troops across the tarmac with you and Nat bringing up the rear this time. "You look like you're having as much fun as they are," Mav remarked.

"I think I might be," Bradley replied with a chuckle. "Their love of aviation is pretty infectious."

Mav was quiet for a beat before he said, "That's true. But there's something else." He glanced at Bradley over his sunglasses with a very serious look on his face. "You remind me of your dad today."

"I do?"

"Yeah. Absolutely," he promised. "And I think it's because the love of your life back there reminds me a bit of your mom."

Bradley stumbled, his boot skidding along the ground, but he managed to stay upright as Maverick reached for his bicep. "Really?" he asked his dad's best friend, voice hoarse as he thought about how his mom mourned his dad for the rest of her life.

"Yes. Make sure you treat her well."

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

The tower wasn't large, and all of you had to really cram in there. But as soon as your kids saw all of the instrumentation panels and the line of officers in uniforms wearing headsets, they started asking questions.

"Quiet," you reminded them. "We promised we would be very quiet."

Bradley squeezed through the group until he was facing everyone, and he waved so everyone's attention was on him. "We have two pilots who are out over the desert and in position for you to give them some flight commands. Their call signs are Coyote and Hangman, and each of you are about to be tasked with telling them how and where to fly."

You gasped, heart beating a little faster. "Is that safe?" you asked, looking from Bradley to Natasha.

"Well, it's just Coyote and Hangman, so if anything happens, it's not such a big deal," Natasha said, earning a bland look from Bradley while she laughed at her own joke.

"It's perfectly safe," Bradley said, holding up a stack of papers. "I'm going to have everyone read off of one of these sheets." He started handing them out to the kids. "Once Lieutenant Maxwell here gives us the go ahead, she's going to turn on the speakers so we can communicate with Coyote and Hangman without a headset. And that way everyone will be able to hear the transmissions. Sound good?"

It sounded too good to be true to you, but you nodded silently. A minute later, the woman sitting in the chair at the end, removed her headset and flicked some switches. "It's all yours, Lieutenant Bradshaw."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Maxwell." He raised his voice a little louder. Coyote. Hangman. Do you copy?"

"We hear you loud and clear, control," came a voice with a southern drawl.

"Copy," came a second man's voice. "Ready at the throttle."

Bradley pointed to the paper in Oliver's hand and nodded. "Go ahead and read it," he whispered.

Oliver cleared his throat and practically shouted, "Hangman, break right. Coyote, breach the hard deck."

"Copy tower," came the immediate response.

"See it on the screens?" Bradley asked, pointing to where there was some sort of radar output of the placement of two aircrafts dipping and diving. "Nia, your turn."

She read, "Hangman, bank down to five o'clock low," and sure enough, one of the jets changed position on the screen. The children were taking this entire mission very seriously, and you were almost shaking with excitement from everything that happened. This was literally the best field trip in the history of field trips. 

Jayden was the last one to go, and after he shouted out the commands, he said, "Hangman is kind of a dumb call sign, isn't it?"

"I resent that!" drawled the first voice.

"I mean, it's just not as cool as Coyote," Jayden told him while Bradley stifled his laughter.

"He's not wrong," came the second voice. "Please tell your teacher you earned a bonus point for being so smart, courtesy of Coyote."

"Copy that!" you said, and Bradley handed the reigns back over to Lieutenant Maxwell. As quietly as could be expected, the group headed back down the stairs and onto the tarmac where apparently there was another surprise. 

Bob was waiting with a crate full of noise canceling headphones. "Hangman and Coyote are on their way to land their jets on the runway!" he said, passing out the headphones to everyone. "With proper ear protection, we can stand here and watch them come in, but we need to keep our ears covered at all times."

The kids were all reaching for a pair, and Bradley walked around to adjust them and make sure they fit nice and snug. When he got to you, he took some extra time, letting his thumb tease your cheek before moving on. Bob stood ahead of everyone with a radio to his ear, then he turned and gave a thumbs up before stepping to the side and securing his own ear protection. 

Off in the distance, you could see two dots rapidly growing in size, and even though you knew what was coming, you still jumped a bit at the noise they made as they screeched through the air and touched down on the runway. You were overwhelmed. Your heart was full. It was hard to believe that your aviation lessons in your classroom led all nineteen of you here.

You'd never be able to top this day for the rest of the school year, and you were okay with that. As long as Bradley would visit you again. And again. And again. If he hadn't already reached legend status, he definitely had after this, and you were certain an hour wouldn't go by for the foreseeable future where the kids weren't asking about him.

"Can I walk you all back to your bus?" he asked after collecting the headphones with Bob.

You let your knuckles bump against his. "Please do, Lieutenant Bradshaw. And on the way there, please tell us how we're your favorite field trip group of all time."

"I can do that with an abundance of detail."

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

Legendary. I want to go on the same field trip a million times with Bradley as my tour guide. I've started to think about what I'm going to include in the rest of this fic, so let me know if there's something you're dying to read about these two! Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 17

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[you-have-a-metal-arm]

‘Til The End of The Line

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of blood, shooting and getting hurt

Summary: You get injured in a mission, and Bucky cannot bear to see you in such state.

Author's Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. English is not my first language, so please understand grammar or spelling mistakes.

I am so sorry for being gone (school’s been killing me)

I appreciate every feedback! Thank you for reading, enjoy!

“Ready to kick some ass, kiddo?” Steve’s voice was calm, almost soothing, but you could hear the adrenaline beneath his words as the two of you adjusted your parachutes. The jet engines hummed around you, a subtle reminder of the mission ahead.

You grinned, giving your suit one last check and tightening your grip on the gun in your hand. “Yeah, I’m gonna beat the shit out of them.”

Steve smiled, not bothering to correct your language. With him, you were always an exception.

Moments later, the wind was whipping against your face as you both jumped from the jet, splitting off into the night sky. Steve took the left wing—the more dangerous side—leaving you the right. Tony had assured you it was safer, but as you slid through the narrow gap in the door, the freezing cold hit you like a wall. The air inside was frigid, bitterly reminding you of Bucky’s stories about the winters he hated so much.

“As far as I can see, it’s clear here. How’s the situation there?” Steve’s voice crackled through the comms, full of concern. You knew he cared for you deeply, saw you as the daughter he never had, and would have taken a bullet to ensure your safety.

“It’s clear here too, Cap,” you replied, trying to ease his worry.

“Let’s stick to the plan: I’ll draw out the agents while you head straight to the operations room and grab their file IV data.”

“Copy that. Be safe, Cap—and I mean it. If you need help, just call me.”

“I will, kiddo. Be safe yourself. And promise to call me if you need anything.”

“I promise. Let’s fucking go.”

You raced through the deserted corridors of the right wing, a dagger in one hand and a fully loaded gun tucked into your suit for emergencies. The cold air bit at your skin, the silence amplifying every footstep. Suddenly, a loud, thunderous noise echoed behind you. Instinctively, you thought it was Steve, but it wasn’t. The sound was coming from your side of the building.

Before you could react, you were ambushed by over twenty armed agents.

On the other side of the wing, Steve was facing his own battle. He tossed a grenade down a hallway, expecting a swarm of enemies, but only three agents rushed at him. Something was wrong. There should have been more.

“Shit,” you hissed into the comms, struggling against the overwhelming odds. Steve heard the panic in your voice, but he couldn’t respond—one of the agents had him in a chokehold. His grip tightened on the comms as he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, followed by a loud thud that made his blood run cold.

“Kiddo, you okay?” Steve managed to gasp out, but all he got in return was a pained groan.

“I’ll get to you in less than a minute, I promise,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. He could hear your labored breathing through the comms, and it was tearing him apart.

“Steve…” Your voice was faint, each word a struggle.

“Hmm?” he replied, trying to sound reassuring despite the dread clawing at his chest.

“Are the comms… still being recorded?”

Steve’s heart sank. He knew what you were doing, and he hated it. “Yes, kiddo, if there weren’t any changes to the plans, it’s on record.”

You exhaled shakily, the breath catching in your throat. There was only one person you needed to reach out to. “Buck…”

As soon as Steve heard the name, he knew the weight of what you were about to say. Even after four years of being together, Bucky’s name still brought shivers to your spine, thick with emotion.

“If by any chance you get to listen to this, Buck—”

“Y/N, kiddo, no, you’re not dying. I won’t let that happen.”

“You don’t know that…” Your voice was helpless, a reflection of your dwindling strength.

“Just stay there. I’m on my way. Please, don’t give up on us.”

But a part of Steve knew this might be your last moment. It was an instinct, a gut-wrenching feeling that he couldn’t shake. So he didn’t stop you from saying what you needed to.

“If you get a chance to listen to this…” You fought to keep your eyes open, tears mingling with the blood on the cold metal floor. Your mind flashed with the future you had imagined—a life with Bucky, growing old together, watching your children grow up. “In another life, we might—maybe we could have grown old together.”

Steve’s heart clenched as your voice wavered. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, but he knew there was nothing he could do except listen.

“I wish I could have given you babies,” you continued, your voice cracking with emotion. “Watched them grow in our backyard… I’m sorry that I can’t be the one to give you that life.”

Your vision blurred as sleepiness started to consume you. You fought against it with everything you had, but the darkness was closing in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry that this is how it ends for us… I’m really sorry.”

“And if this is how it really ends… Promise me you’ll find someone else to love, to open up to. Find someone else… Call someone else ‘doll.’ And don’t grieve too much.”

The darkness was overwhelming now. You felt it pulling you under, felt the life draining from your body as blood poured from your wounds. “You deserve to be happy… And the past doesn’t—doesn’t define you.”

Your last words were barely a whisper. “I… Love you, Buck. And I’m sorry I couldn’t say that more often.”

And then… silence. The darkness consumed you, and Steve heard nothing but the empty static of the comms. He refused to believe it, refused to accept that you were gone. He sprinted through the hallways, throwing open every door until he found you, lying motionless on the floor, your suit stained crimson with blood.

He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, his legs pumping with every ounce of energy he had left. The jet’s engines hummed steadily, but inside the cabin, chaos reigned. Steve knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he assessed your injuries. The bullets had done their damage—one near your heart, another through your stomach, and the last through your left arm. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking through your suit.

“Kiddo, hang in there, please,” Steve murmured, his voice tight with fear. He grabbed the medical kit from the overhead compartment, spilling its contents across the floor. His hands worked quickly, tearing open a pack of gauze and pressing it firmly against the wounds. The bleeding was relentless, and he knew he needed to act fast to save your life.

You were pale, your breathing shallow and irregular. It was a miracle you were still breathing at all. Steve knew he had to stabilize you before they landed, or you wouldn’t make it. His mind raced through the limited medical training he had received—enough to get through emergencies, but nothing like this.

He fumbled with an IV kit, his hands shaking as he tried to insert the needle into your arm. Your veins were fragile, but after what felt like an eternity, he got it in. He attached a bag of saline solution, knowing it was only a temporary measure.

“Stay with me, kiddo. Buck won’t be so happy about this,” Steve whispered, his voice trembling. Your pulse was faint, but still there. He applied more pressure to the wound, checking if you were breathing again. It was labored, but there were no signs of a collapsed lung, thank God.

He grabbed the portable oxygen mask and gently placed it over your mouth and nose, adjusting the flow to give you the support you desperately needed. Your chest rose and fell slightly more steadily—a small victory amid the chaos.

With one hand still applying pressure to the wound, Steve fumbled with the jet’s communications system. “Friday, please check if the team is ready for immediate surgery.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Stark has everything prepared, and Dr. Cho is on standby.”

“Can you connect me directly to Tony?”

“Connecting now, sir.”

“Cap, how is she?” Tony’s voice crackled through, tense with concern.

“I think I stabilized her. We’re landing in three minutes, max. Thank God this jet has autopilot, or else… she wouldn’t have made it.”

Tony was silent for a moment. It wasn’t the time for pride or self-congratulation. He was kicking himself for not being more cautious, for not having medics onboard, for underestimating the mission. You were the youngest, the brightest member of the Avengers, and he couldn’t bear to lose you.

Steve checked the wound again. The bleeding had slowed, but it hadn’t stopped. He packed the wound with more gauze, securing it tightly. You needed a blood transfusion, surgery—everything he couldn’t provide here. All he could do was keep you stable until they landed.

“Tony, do me one favor,” Steve said, his voice thick as he wiped the blood from your cheeks. “Please… Don’t let Bucky see her like this. He won’t be able to handle it.”

But Tony’s response was firm. “Sorry, Cap. James already knows. He’s waiting at the airbase. And he has the right to see her.”

Steve nodded, though his heart ached at the thought. “Okay, Tony, thanks… We’re almost there.”

The jet descended, the lights of the airbase coming into view. Steve cradled you close, whispering words of comfort that he wasn’t sure you could hear. “We’re going to make it, kiddo. Just hold on a little longer.”

As the jet landed, the hatch opened to reveal Tony, Dr. Cho, and Bucky. Bucky’s face was ashen, his eyes wide with fear as he took in the sight of you. Steve gently handed you over to Dr. Cho and her team, who rushed you to the medical bay. Bucky stood frozen, staring at the blood that covered Steve’s hands and suit.

“She’s alive, Buck,” Steve said softly, his voice raw with exhaustion. “But she needs you now more than ever. Don’t lose hope.”

Bucky nodded, swallowing hard. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think beyond the sight of you lying there so still. He followed the team as they wheeled you into surgery, praying with everything he had left that you would survive this.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

THERE’S GOING TO BE A PART 2 by Sunday

Part 2 is up y’all

[revelboo]

It Had to Be You

Megatron x Reader-spark

• It’s amazing that something so precious can even be taken for granted. It’s just there, that sense of connection. Of Cybertron, a living Cybertron, being so much a part of Megatron that he never thought about it. Didn’t understand the extent. None of them had until it was too late.

• How long had it taken to feel that loss after Cybertron was dead, ravaged by their war? A spark-deep ache that echoed through them all with Cybertron’s fall. They'd all lost something they hadn't even realized could be lost. Cybertron wasn't just home- they needed that connection to their source to stabilize their sparks. Consigned to slowly fade away, growing accustomed to the loss. It becomes an old, familiar hurt. But it doesn't stop the fighting, it only fuels the hate.

• The battlefront has changed so many times. So many worlds suffering just because they arrive. He's lost track of all of the broken worlds. That first world, his, is the only one that mattered. And it had been stolen away by what had once been his friend. His brother. It didn't matter if the universe burns now. He can't stop, not when so much is already lost forever. What's one more world he won't remember?

• It’s so hot you can barely breathe, the wind whipping your hair into your face in little stinging lashes. Overhead, the sun bakes the desert, your truck, and the winding road. You'd never meant to end up here in the Midwest, but its where the money had run out in your bid for the coast. Staying hadn't been the plan, either. Everything had gone a bit sideways. You'd dreamed of the ocean, not scraggly nothingness that still somehow managed to catch on fire every year for sheer spite.

• The semitruck that overtakes you on the narrow ribbon of cracked asphalt is speeding, its engine roaring as it passes you in the left lane. In a hurry to be somewhere else. Something you could envy, but then another car, sleek and red is tearing by. And another. It's the weirdest convoy you've ever seen. A police car, several foreign cars, a couple of sports cars, an ambulance. All hellbent on keeping up with that big semi.

• You're speeding, but not nearly like they are. Maybe it's a shoot for a movie? But where are the cameras? Distracted in you musings, you still hear the screaming over your radio. A roaring shriek that makes your skin crawl, then there are jets tearing by overhead. You lean forward, staring up through the dusty windshield as the three fly by so low it’s frightening. It must be a movie. The nearest airbase is in the next state. Why hadn't they shut the road down to film, though? Unease spills through you as you ease up on the gas.

• They're running. It’s stop them now or they just go to ground again. Megatron’s played this game so many times on so many worlds and he’s so tired of it. Once Prime and his followers take alt modes, they disappear and then strike on their terms. Not this time. His Seekers tear after them, loosing a barrage of missiles as he draws near. There’s an almost giddy satisfaction in watching them swerve and dodge as he drops through the clouds, rotors humming. This form isn’t as cumbersome as his last, but it’s still new. It’s only when he releases his own missiles that he feels it.

• A flicker of something that feels like it should be familiar. Something he’s forgotten, but can almost recall. He sees it then, the truck swerving and bouncing off the road. Not an Autobot, but one of the squishy, little natives in the wrong place at the wrong time. Irrelevant, short-lived insects.

• Except, somehow he can feel their biofield pulsing in panic as they go careening. And his own spark constricts with something frightening and hungry. Responding. He’s aware of his Seekers engaging the Autobots. Transforming as he lands, he’s pulled toward that truck as it runs into the rocks and nearly goes sideways. There’s a battle around him, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside him. His spark aches. The metal roof of the truck comes away under his fingers as he stares at the little creature struggling with some sort of restraint. It’s biofield. His spark. He knows this feeling even if he can’t put a servo on it. It hurts. He needs it even as it hurts so much.

• There’s a monster. You can’t breathe and there’s a monster staring down at you from where the roof of your truck’s cab had been five minutes ago. Clawing at the seatbelt, it finally comes loose and you throw yourself at the door handle. Away. That’s all you can think of. Getting away. Things are exploding, there’s smoke, and yelling. And monsters with glowing red eyes. You fall out of the truck when the door opens and that thing is reaching for you, huge fingers snagging you as you finally catch your breath just so you can scream.

Next

[8lyme]

"Why do I have to lose you?" pt.2

Part 1 <-

Logan Howlett x Reader (afab pronouns used a few times)

Warnings: very sad, a little graphic, mentions of blood/gore, grown man brought to tears, TW didn't get to describe how sexy logan is sorry

a/n: ate my cheerios locked in to gossip girl and then wrote the saddest shit i could. also idk how to do a taglist but to my one fan heres ur shoutout xoxo @corvusmorte 🫶🏼

You tugged at the clips of your harness, trying not to hyperventilate. Sporadically swiping the heels of your hands across your eyes between each tug made your hands slick with tears. After a little bit, you couldn't even grip the buckles anymore.

Damn Logan's stupid metal bones, locking you into the chair.

You reached behind you to try and release the spring of the chair. If you could just pop it up, you would slide over to the console and could turn off the autopilot.

You hoped Logan survived the fall from the jet as you painfully leaned over the arm of the seat.

"Please, please, pleaseplease, please!" you whispered to yourself. The chair dug into your ribcage too much, and you couldn't reach the clip. You straightened up and let out a few panicked cries before trying to reach behind the chair from the other side.

You strained your neck to peak around the chair, shoulder straps tight to your chest. There has to be an emergency unlock or eject button on the chair for this harness, you thought before panickedly feeling all over the sides of the chair with your hands.

After running your hands over the metal to no avail, you resulted to sticking you legs out to try and reach the console. You groaned as you stretched your leg as far toward the controls as possible. When that didn't work, you tried to swing your legs behind the base of the seat. The straps and the curve of the seat prevented your foot from going very far, causing you to straighten with a frustrated cry.

You yanked again at the straps, somehow managing to get your heels onto the seat lip. You gripped the chair arms and pushed up in an attempt to snap the strap between your thighs. It was stuck fast.

You angrily swung your arms in an attempt to hit something. The straps under your shoulder shifted, and you immediately began to wiggle yourself out. Painstakingly, your right shoulder was freed.

You ripped your other arm out of the harness and again extended your hand to the clip behind the chair. Through the reflection of the windshield, your hand looked just close enough to the clip, but you couldn't feel it.

Readjusting, you took a deep breath. The cabin was nearly dark, and the loud sputtering of the engine made it hard to think. You couldn't turn the chair around and there was nothing in reach to grab.

Far from giving up, you tucked your ankles back to the chair lip and reached behind you again, still just barely too far away.

"Oh, yes!" you said, realizing your boots were high enough for you to take off and reach behind you with.

Boot one was undone and in your hands in seconds, dangling by the clip. You smack once, twice, and then three times before hitting the clip. The chair unlocked and started to slide forward, but a loud clang followed by the screech of tearing metal tipped the jet and locked you back in place. Your boot flew out of your hand to the back of the cabin.

Wind instantly roared behind you, and you turned to the hanger door falling open. Whatever hit you did damage. Realistically, this jet didn't have much more flying time left in it. You had half a heart to let the autopilot land.

However, you caught a glimpse of the army beginning to bunch itself up. If you could unclip the chair and turn off the autopilot, you could swing the jet around, steer towards towards the grouping troops, and ideally eject yourself out of the hangar before the jet exploded into the ground and took out the trucks and soldiers.

"Okay, okay" you reassured yourself, untying your other boot. You reached behind the seat. Before you could even think to hesitate, a glimpse of the school caught your attention.

The grounds were in flames and a large chunk of one corner had been blown off. You instantly smacked your shoe down, unclipping the chair's safety lock.

In an instant you shot forward to the controls. You smacked the autopilot switch and gripped the handles, jet dipping before you regained control. You angled the handles down and pushed the jet into a nose-dive. The ground came rushing at you fast and you felt your ears pop with the pressure change. Your vision blurred while you flailed for the eject button.

-

Logan hit the ground with a sickening crack. He blinked awake after a minute of regenerating, the familiar buzz of his limbs waking up starting to fade.

He unsheathed his claws before glancing up at the sky to watch the jet you were in begin to fly away. Relief was quickly replaced with urgency as the boom of a tank went off near him.

He stood just in time to watch a corner of the school crumble to dust. Rage bubbled up inside him, and he sprinted toward the source of the explosion.

Before he managed to get halfway to the clumping group of tanks and soldiers, the roar of the jet shoots over him. He skids to a halt as the jet barrels into the center of army.

The ricochet from impact knocks Logan onto his back. He groans while lifting himself off the grass, short circuiting at the sight of thick black smoke coiling from the crash.

He scours the sky for a sign of you, panic and anguish settling into him when he sees nothing. He clambors up and sprints to the smoldering jet.

Logan tries to shut his mind off as he rips away at the metal of the jet. The bay door is jammed shut awkwardly, and he can only slash through it so much.

He's able to get a grip of an opening, brute strength bending the metal away. He climbs through, sliding down the angled floor and into the crushed cockpit.

There's no sign of you inside. Logan has shredded through the controls and interior walls in panic. He doesn't want to hear himself say it, but he knows anything that happens to you is his fault.

"Logan!" He hears, and through the hole he ripped open in the jet is Scott.

"We found her."

-

When Hank had found you, you were gasping for air. You'd shot out of the back of the jet at the last second, flying through the smoke. The straps that clung to you may as well have saved your life, the metal of the chair breaking most of your impact.

Not all, however, as your landing caused you to roll harshly against the ground. You narrowly dodged a rock smacking you clear in the head, but the bounce of the seat slammed your leg into something very hard, and you felt it break.

The feeling of hands roused you from your daze, and you managed to blink your eyes open.

"Can you hear me?" You hear. "Hey, open your eyes. Can you hear me?"

You could blurrily make out Hank's face against the contrast of the trees. The warmth of his hand reaches your face, and you try to offer him a pained smile.

"Hey," you manage, not noticing the drop in Hank's expression when blood pools out of your mouth.

"Keep listening to me," He says to you, pulling on the straps of your harness. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

" 'Kay," you whisper, head lolling to the side when Hank lets go to rip the straps out from the back of the seat.

He slides his hand under your shoulders, pulling you up and tilting your head down against his chest.

"You still hear me, right?" He slides his other arm under your knees. "Still with me?"

"Uh-huh," you answer. Hank pulls up on you and begins to stand, but you cry out in pain. Your leg is on fire as it hangs loose in the air.

"What happened? Where are you hurt?" He panics, setting you flat onto the ground, arm still around your back.

"My leg," you gasp out, arms shaking violently as you bend to grip your calf. "Broken."

"Fuck," Hank says. "Hold on."

You hear a loud snap and feel pressure on both sides of your shin. He's taken two branches and braced your leg, using the broken straps of your harness to makeshift a splint.

"Best I can do," He says, moving to scoop you up again. "Ready?"

You nod, still trembling from the pain. He stands, and the pain in your leg makes you lightheaded. Hank is still talking to you, asking you questions that you can only answer with single syllables.

You're lucky you can't see his face. He isn't wearing his concern well. Blood outlined your teeth and cracked into your lips. The color had been drained from your face and your breaths were shallow. He wasn't sure if you were aware of your shredded uniform sleeves or the blood seeping from them staining his shirt.

Your breaths turned into wheezes, and Hank picked up his pace. The courtyard of the damaged school coming closer into view.

"Hey, keep talking to me. We're almost at the school, ok?" He shifts you gently, hoping the movement rouses you more.

"Huh," you wheeze, the whistling in your voice making Hank more nervous. Your ribs were definitely bruised if not broken. Your uncontrollable shakes alluded to a severe head injury - one he prayed wasn't worse than a bad concussion.

The two of you broke through the tree line. Surrounding sounds started to fade out of your hearing, but you tried hard to focus on Hank's voice.

He shouted out to someone, but you stopped making sense of voices.

"Hey, open your eyes," Hank says, careful not to jostle you too much as he scraps for your attention.

You tilt your head up slowly, trying desperately to keep your lidded eyes open.

"Can't," you mutter out. You feel sick and hot, each breath accompanied by an increase and then decrease of the dull pain in your chest. Everything hurt so much it almost began to cancel itself out. The effort you made trying to stay cognisant suckng the energy out of your body.

You don't hear him try to rouse you again, or the panic in his voice when he realizes you aren't responding.

You don't hear Ororo screaming across the grass at Scott to get Logan. You don't feel her hands against your neck as she checks your pulse.

You don't hear Jean shouting at Hank to take you to the lab. You don't hear Scott calling out to Logan. And you don't hear Logan calling out for you in a broken roar.

-

Logan stares at the floor outside of the lab. A dark cloud of fear and anguish settles over him. He has a way of thickening the air with negativity in these moments.

He can't look Hank in the eye knowing your blood is soaked through his shirt. Knowing he trapped you in that harness.

He counts himself lucky that he didn't find you crushed to the console of the jet, but that doesn't mean he isn't fighting off how very real that could have been.

Scott and Kurt had to hold him away from the doors when he raced after you. They later had to hold him up when he collapsed to his knees in despair.

He didn't look up when the hiss of the glass doors sounded or when Jean called Hank in to swap with her. They'd been at this for hours. Hank was terrified of you sustaining a significant brain injury, Jean more concerned about the hairline fractures in the ribs of your chest, caused by the harnesses Logan crushed to your body.

Jean sank in the seat next to him, letting out a shaky breath.

"Logan," She tried gently, knowing he wasn't capable of a response. "I know how you're feeling right now-"

"You don't," he cuts her off. The shake in his voice cuts through the air and he rubs at his eyes, hoping Jean can't tell that he's trying to rid the sensation of stinging behind his eyes.

"Logan, we know you crushed the buckles of her harness," she says gently. The breath he lets out is shaky and filled with a somber acknowledgement. He feels so guilty he might be sick.

"If you hadn't done that, she most likely would have died," Jean tells him, knowing this won't change anything besides offering him an ounce of peace of mind. "If she'd unclasped herself at any point, she would've flown out of the jet when the hangar was hit open. The clasps are designed to unhook on impact after ejection, and since her chute didn't activate she would've hit the ground much harder. I know you feel at fault here, but she's only bruised."

"If'd I'd just let her land the damn thing," he choked out, looking up to blink back the wetness in his eyes.

The door slid open again, Hank moving through slowly.

"Her eyes are open," he says, relief not present in his tone. "She might respond to you."

Logan meets Hank's eyes. He looks tired and defeated.

He looks away as he slowly pushes up from his chair, slowly and shakily passing Hank through the doors. Logan feels Hank's eyes burning into the back of his head. He gains no solace from knowing whatever Hank is thinking about him, Logan is thinking much worse.

He's afraid to step closer when he sees you. Your leg has been casted properly, resting over two white pillows. Your tattered uniform has been replaced with a grey t-shirt and shorts, a thin blanket laying over your one fully-exposed leg. He can see wires from EKG electrodes poking out from the bottom hem and collar of your shirt. An IV of saline is attached to the vein of your arm. Both have gause peaking out from your shirt sleeves, and Logan didn't have to see the blood soaking through them - he could smell it. A nasal cannula rested above your upper lip, blood still crusted between the cracks of your lips. You had two unbandaged scrapes on your face, one on your jaw and the other on your forehead.

You blinked and just barely turned your head to him. Immediately, he rushed over, gingerly touching your fingertips.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered to you, terrified to place his hands anywhere on your body. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

He covered his eyes with his hand, breathing in a sniffle as he turned his head away from you. His thumb stroked over one of your fingers.

He felt you move and quickly faced you, eyes rimmed with redness. He watched you blink slowly, opening your mouth to try and speak.

You said his name in a raspy whisper. Logan clenched his jaw and hung his head, slipping his palm under yours. He felt the gentle squeeze of your hand and sunk to his knees in pain, head resting against the side of the bed. Guilt was corroding away at his insides. He felt the crushing weight of his actions in his neck and shoulders. The inside of his body felt weak and his stomach churned.

You turned your hand and stretched your fingers back, gently stroking at his forehead. He squeezed your hand and stood back up, bringing his other hand to the side of your face.

"I don't know how to protect you," he whispered, voice breaking.

"That's okay," you say back, eyes beginning to close again. You pull his hand to your stomach and thread your fingers together, his pinkie resting between your middle and ring finger.

Logan gently threads his fingertips through your hair, wanting so desperately to hold you in his arms.

"Don't go," you mutter, eyes closed. Your breath evens as you fall back asleep. Logan's breath remains shaky, the stinging returning to his eyes.

"I won't," he says softly, voice raw. He slides the chair from the end of your bed over to himself, sitting down. He rests his head between his arms, looking up at the rise and fall of your chest.

He won't leave, not anytime soon. If you wake up and want him gone, then he'll disappear. For now, he'll allow himself to relish in the fact that you're still alive.

[livingdeadhorse]

idk what this is. i like robots. i’ll clean these up later. i think.

anyways while drawing these I started thinking abt like. idk does this count as an AU.

General shit:

I didn't make it clear, but the robots that have pupils were built without a hardcoded purpose. They've always been free to explore what they want to do. The robots with fully colored "scleras" were created with a purpose from the jump, so their creators didn't feel the need to make them appear more "human".

The more expensive a robot's parts are, the less clunky it is.

Right now, I'm going with "their human family built them" but that's liable to change.

The designs are also liable to change because uh. duh.

Celestia Ludenberg:

Viewed the robots with an imbued purpose as interesting and superior (something something humanity's advancement). She wants to be praised like that, so she emulates them

Her cat loves how much heat she radiates so it's always near her.

Most of her upgrades are cosmetic but if they aren't, they're stupid. She won't upgrade her CPU or her motherboard, but she'll load up with three 4090s that her other components can't even keep up with. Yes, she does it to flex.

She'll distract from bootleg, refurbished, or shoddily painted parts by turning on her RGB. It gets annoying.

She knows that she's fairly unsettling and she revels in it.

All things considered, her cable management is pretty good.

Her gambling skill is still just luck here, but she tells everyone it's because she has a never-seen-before GPU(& CPU) that does calculations at insane speeds.

Most don't believe her but have no way to disprove her lie.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru

I can't decide if he was built by his father or his grandfather.

Either way, he was built before Toranosuke's downfall, so his internals were all pretty expensive for the time. Luckily for him, that means he was slightly future-proof and has a viable upgrade path.

Unluckily for him, this means he's stuck with really old parts and his 8gb of RAM can barely keep up in a 32gb world sadge

His chassis is built from secondhand or scrap parts. It's why his joints are so ancient in comparison to the rest of him and why he has so much cabling that he can't seem to manage.

Shit chassis = shit airflow = he is always overheating

BUDDY IS YOUR CPU BURNING HOW IS THERE SMOKE

Older tech = LOUD AF. The class bought him new fans to avoid the loud ass whirring. It's not quiet but he used to sound like a jet engine.

He runs on Debian. It was originally going to be Arch since it's lightweight but Debian's whole "old but stable" reputation fits him more. I don't see him properly dealing with bleeding edge software anyways.

His room is filled with past HDDs that no longer have storage. He deems all educational material important so he refuses to delete any lessons. He doesn't have the money for SSDs.

Mukuro Ikusaba:

Is usually in reconnaissance mode, meaning she has a shit ton of hidden cameras in her chassis

This used to benefit Fenrir. Now it benefits Junko.

She can have her parts shifted around with no issue to make room for a better arsenal.

She’s durable in her reconnaissance mode but she’s nigh on untouchable in her combat mode. Her chassis gets 10x bulkier and she can split her attention to several different tasks on the battlefield.

Fenrir Mercenary Group doubles as a weapons company. Mukuro is the only model of her kind though.

They tried to give her reconnaissance model the look of a “normal girl” so she could gather info more efficiently. They failed real bad. They also didn’t account for the fact that Mukuro isn’t good at socializing.

She allocates a CPU core to a process dedicated to Junko. 24/7 365

She believes herself to be less capable of emotion than she actually is. She can’t seem to find the system process that triggers such painful emotions.

Chihiro Fujisaki

Each “fold” in her skirt doubles as a screen. Think of the skirt as having two layers: the top shell and the under shell. The top shell is what doubles as a screen.

Optimized her hardware to work on code as fast as possible (fingers, skirt, etc).

She tends to test out new software on herself regardless of their compatibility with her pre-existing shit. She constantly has to reinstall her OS, but it’s all fun for her.

Speaking of her OS, I was going to make her run on Gentoo but IDK cause of the compile times. It’d be faster if she used distcc but I can’t see her screwing over her classmates like that lol.

So I’m between Nix and Arch.

Insecure about the fact that she overhauled her original model so extensively. Got made fun of for being a ‘defective’ robot. Her father supports her modifications but she still feels bad about having ‘failed’ somehow.

Cue identity issues

She helps out her classmates when it comes to repairs.

Tendency to stay up programming leads to high uptimes. If her friends notice her lagging or crashing, they’ll try to get her to shut down. (In a computer sense lol, not an emotional shut down)

Do y’all remember the xz utils backdoor? Yeah that’s how extensively she combs through code.

Sayaka Maizono

I can’t decide if she was built to be an idol or was originally some other type of robot.

Loves to make kids smile, so she has a sort of candy mechanism in her arm.

Everything about her glows or spins. You will never get bored looking at her.

Her skirt isn’t actually see through I just didn’t feel like erasing the hip joints lmao.

If corpos give her manager enough money, she has to perform with literal ads on her.

State-of-the art facial recognition software. It makes her fans feel special to have their names remembered.

She has a regular sleep cycle due to how load-intensive her everyday life is. Has to shut down for a couple hours every week at least.

Her psychic ability is just her running a million calculations based on people’s behavior and sensing which one is most plausible. This feature is in place to avoid PR disasters during interviews or public appearances.

There really aren’t enough worker’s rights regulations in place for robots.

The company gets alerts whenever she freaks tf out, so she feels even more stifled and repressed. Chihiro helped remove this.

Kyoko Kirigiri

Can’t decide if she was built by her father or grandfather. Probably just built by Jin and he “left” her in Fuhito’s care.

Fuhito made her go through several modifications, hardcoding his own investigative skills into her system.

Her grandfather loves her but has fucked up ideas about her own autonomy.

The events of DR:K still happen. She chose not to replace her hands.

Fuhito doesn’t make much use of a backdoor in her system anymore. He used it a lot more when she was a child but he sees her as a viable heir of the Kirigiri clan now. Chihiro isolated the backdoor to a separate SSD anyhow.

Still complicated father-daughter issues

Everything about her (but her OS) is proprietary, probably commissioned from Towa Industries. Her OS is a fork of Mint. The Windows 7 UI is just because I imagine her grandfather is One of Those lmao.

Has way too many scanners and sensors. She can’t test any evidence herself but she can gather a fair bit of information. Has a vast database for cross-comparison anyways.

Same issues as Togami and Mukuro: sees herself as less capable of emotion than she actually is.

The ramen noodle incident called for actual repairs.

Byakuya Togami

His superiority complex is far worse because he was literally CREATED to be the perfect Togami. You can’t tell him shiiiiiiit.

Gold joints. Scoffs at those with unoptimized cable management or software.

He’s constantly streamlining his own processes. Brings up that he runs on his own OS when Nobody Asked.

Had a similar backdoor to Kyoko’s but Koji did check that one. Obsessively. Nobody would tell Byakuya but He Just Knew. The lack of privacy irritated him. Aloysius helped fix it once Togami finally took over.

Only trusts Aloysius with his repairs. Has a hard time admitting when he needs repairs in the first place so Aloysius hides it under “monthly maintenance”.

Does everything from the terminal even when he 1) shouldn’t and 2) can’t. Bragging rights. He has written a bunch of his own scripts though to speed things up.

Kernel and OS provided to him by Koji. (UNIX-based. Proprietary) Byakuya maintains and builds his own updates. Doesn’t trust cheapskate peasants to do it for him.

Anti-FOSS. For him at least.

Has glasses for the aesthetics. Doesn’t need them.

[saeist]

my personal touya headcanons (yes i will make full on fics n drabbles with these in mind):

CHRONIC manspreader. literally takes up a whole love couch with the way he spreads his legs

can drive but gets motion sick easily so counting on him for a 2+ hour roadtrip? yeah pull over we’re switching seats

damaged hair from the constant dyeing but that won’t stop this baddie from dyeing it jet black every 2 weeks

only runs on 4 separate hours of sleep and snores like a truck. (u’ll need earplugs)

surprisingly tidy in regards to his room only because rei comes and checks their rooms and if its all messy they’ll get their asses whooped

doesn’t smoke cigarettes BUT has a box of disposables/juuls hidden in his sock drawer (GOD FORBIDS rei finds his stash)

^ in addition to that, contrary to popular belief his plug is unironically natsuo..

loves icy berry related related flavors too LMFAO

is supposed to be a junior in college on paper but since he keeps dropping and switching majors, he’s technically still a freshman

^ is currently taking chemical engineering (took business ad, computer science, finance, nursing (💀) and literally god knows what. his college majors that he dropped is between him, endeavor and god now)

since he’s competitive as fuck and is a perfectionist, took up multiple sports and extra curriculars growing up

prefers soggy cereal

drinks a lot but lightweight as fuck. after one bottle he’s out 💡 but that won’t stop him from drinking more!

knows how to braid girls hair thanks to fuyumi

cats warm up to him on the street cus he’s warm n shit

prettiest resting face but makes the ugliest faces known to man just for the sake of it (still pulls)

doesn’t approach girls, girls approach him

scares them away when he’s all like 😐🧍🏻

hooded eyelids + long eyelshes (both top and bottom)

genuinely starts tweaking when people say he got endeavor’s eyes solely bc hes a momma’s boy..

grew up being SPOILED rotten amongst his siblings so he doesn’t take no for an answer and will actually start stomping his feet

once he opens his mouth however.. everyone is gonna know he’s endeavors son fr 😓

keigo is his closest irl friend but tomura is who he considers as his best friend even if they’re only internet friends

has a basic pc set up and plays valorant fortnite and roblox religiously

shits on children especially shoto and his two friends

once babysat the three of them in exchange for concert tickets

did i mention he has an indie rock emo band he formed when he was in high school? yeah

bassist obviously but sometimes he plays drums

will scare rei out of her wits when he would just magically appear on their couch when he’s supposed to be at his university

his room is in the attic

dresses like hes going to an opium concert but rei makes him change before they leave to go to church so ultimately he dresses up like a cottagecore mf but with piercings and box dye jet black hair

almost broke natsuo’s hand when he first got his nose piercing

embodies the trope of “best friends older brother”

has a soft spot for grandmas and will help them cross the road each time

picks up shoto from school with his beat up hand me down car. literally one slam on the break away from breaking (endeavor gave it to him as his 18th birthday present)

sometimes ends up driving shoto’s friends home too if shoto insists (more like demands)

will also intentionally go through a drive-thru and the kids in the backseat are expecting him to ask them what they want but touya just gets whatever the fuck he was craving, pays and leaves

“we got food at home!” - touya to a enraged shoto

also sometimes touya is shoto’s chaperone or the “parent” that goes to those parent teacher meetings when its time for get shotos report card and will deliberately say shoto has failing grades when shoto is part of the honor roll just to again, fuck with him

shamelessly flirts with the girls natsuo brings home just to fuck with him (he gets sucker punched later that night bc at the end of the day, natsuo is bigger than that man 😭)

when all the todosibs are fighting, nobody listens to him even if he’s the eldest. they all end up ganging up on him (fuyumi doesn’t stop shit, in fact she instigates further. she don’t play)

says he hates winter and likes summer more but whenever its summer time if he could he would live inside the freezer

hates the feeling of sweating 😮‍💨

sometimes goes on days without showering only popping a lil deodorant here and there so rei forces him to shower whenever he just so happened to pass by her

cooks decent meals but shoto hates it and intentionally makes gagging noises whenever he finds out touya was in charge of cooking that night

hates doing the dishes and fools shoto into doing it for him

when he goes on dates, he steals endeavors credit card and just pays for everything. will probably even take you to nobu just to do so

attempts to blame natsuo when endeavor caught on since his card decline at the supermarket but unfortunately touya cannot lie to save his own life even if he tried

OH! talks MAD game in bed but has never touched a woman in his life.. painfully a virgin. u have to teach this man PLEASEE 🙏

likes yeat and carti

basically teenager borderline adult core

[frost-queen]

Hot tub (Reader x JJ Maybank)

Requested by: @p0nycurtis, Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex--awesome--22  @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23 , @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr , @melsunshine , @panhoeofmanyfandoms , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic  , @eliscannotdance

“Look let’s just find JJ and get this over with.” – Kiara spoke, looking over her shoulder to Pope and you. The three of you walked up the driveway. Kiara furrowing her brows when she noticed lots of lights coming from his front yard. – “What the…” – she mumbled underneath her breath. Pope had an interesting view of it too.

Looking confused around to the decoration lights like it was Christmas. Kiara hurried a bit up once she saw the huge thing in his front yard. Unable to miss the hot tub taking up so much place. Inside sat JJ, enjoying the warm water.

You rushed after Pope to reach the hot tub. JJ took the sunglasses a bit down. Eyeing his friends that came standing before him with shock. – “JJ what did you do?” – Pope asked. Gawking at the hot tub in disbelieve. JJ chuckled drunkenly. – “I got a jet going straight up my butt right now.”

It was clear he had been drinking. Certainly to see from the bottles of champagne standing in a floaty around him. – “Ya’ll should get in quickly.” – he continued, bringing a floaty with a bottle closer to him.

Kiara couldn’t stop herself from staring in disbelieve at him. Watching a JJ poorly poured some champagne in two plastic glasses. – “Do you hear me?” – He spoke when no response came. – “Hello!” – calling out for any attention.

Holding a glass up. – “How much did this cost?” – was the only burning question on Pope’s mind. JJ pulled the bottle of champagne down with a drunk chuckle. – “Uhm… well… with the generator, express deliver…” – he explained pointing around.

Kiara couldn’t stop looking around, still trying to hold on to the thought it wasn’t real. That hopefully this was all just a bad dream. You had a sense of what was coming next. Slightly whispering to yourself that he could still prove you wrong. – “Pretty much everything.” – he ended as the final blow was taken.

Pope’s jaw dropped. – “All of it.” – he said trying to wrap his mind around it. – “You spend all of it in one day.” – he finished. – “Pope…” – you said touching his arm to go easy. Pope pulled his arm away, too upset to listen to reason.

“Yeah burned a hole right through my pocket.” – JJ answered, not helping one bit with his case. It made you look up to the heavens, pleadingly. – “But come on guys look at this.” – his voice shrieked a bit higher as he brought the floaties closer to him.

Kiara kept staring in disgust at him. Something he quickly caught up on that he was being judged. – “Kie come one!” – he called out. – “Can’t a man have some luxury in life?” – he pleaded with no success.

Kiara shook her head, crossing her arms. – “Come on, honest all this scraping and struggling…” – his behaviour changing trying to maintain control over not losing his mind.

You noticed it. Saw him struggle to keep himself strong. You knew JJ. He wouldn’t do something this reckless unless something had truly shaken him up. – “You… you only live once right? Enough of this emotional shit, get in.” – he finished toughening up.

“JJ.” – you said coming closer to the tub. – “Y/n come on in, I’ve saved a special spot for you.” – he replied shoving a floaty aside. – “Y/n don’t encourage him.” – Pope told you. You glanced over your shoulder to him with a glare. – “Oh I almost forgot.” – JJ cut through.

Pressing a button as lights flashed on. An engine making a sound as water started to spray from one side to another. – “Yeah I know, disco mode.” – JJ called out with so much happiness. – “Are you kidding me!” – Pope shouted as JJ’s smile faltered.

“You could’ve paid for restitution.” – Pope blamed him. – “Or literally given it to charity!” – Kiara shouted along. – “Just stop!” – you yelled, turning around to them. – “Don’t defend him now Y/n!” – Kiara called back to you.

“I’m not, but yelling at him isn’t going to do any good. It’s not going to change anything. Maybe you should take a second and actually act like a friend than parent him Kie!” – you fired back without any shame.

Having enough of their parental talk towards him like he is a child that needs scolding. Kiara scoffed loud, turning her posture a bit away. – “So what you just want to pat him on the back and tell him it’s okay that he spend all of our money on a stupid hot tub!” – Kiara shouted back.

Pope tried to interfere, maintain some decency. JJ was pinching his nose bridge, close to lose his temper with all this shouting. – “Okay well I didn’t do that!” – he shouted getting up.

Your eyes immediately fell on the bruises on his chest. Knowing what it meant. Luke hadn’t kept his hands to himself. – “I got a hot tub for my friends!” – he called out trying so hard not to breakdown.

“No… you know what screw friends… for my family.” – he corrected himself. You climbed into the hot tub, not caring that you were getting wet. – “JJ what happened?” – Kiara asked shockingly. – “Look at this! Look at this Y/n.” – he said looking around.

You pushed his arm down, coming nearer to him. Wrapping your arms around him. The moment your arms were around him, he started sobbing loud. Burying his face in the nook of your neck. Hugging him tighter, barely able to withhold your own tears.

“I’m going to kill him.” – you whispered to JJ. Letting him know you weren’t going to let Luke off the hook so easily. He sobbed even louder, holding on tight to you. The only lifeboat he had in an endless sea.

“I’m sorry…” – he cried out to you. Regretting his action with the money. – “It’s okay.” – you reassured him. Giving him a kiss in his neck to let him know you were here. That you were always here for him. You felt him shudder against your body, embracing you tighter.

Leaning a bit back with your head, you cupped his cheeks, letting him meet with your eye level. Moving some of his hair aside. Wiping his cheeks dry from the tears. – “You’ll stay with me from now on.” – you told him. – “Your mom…” -  he sputtered out with a sob, guessing what she would say.

“Would welcome you with open arms.” – you told him, wanting him to look you in the eye. He curled up a faint smile. You kissed his cheek, making him smile just that bit more. Taking his hand you guided him down.

Forcing him to sit in the hot tub with you. – “Now where was that jet going straight up your butt.” – you told him hearing him chuckle. He moved a bit away, allowing you to sit there.

You looked over at Pope, nodding to him that it was alright. That you had him. Pope nodded back, taking Kiara by the arm. – “Are you just going to leave them like this?” – Kiara called out. Pope kept pulling at her to give you some privacy. JJ sniffed loud, wiping some wetness of his face.

“I know you are trying to make me feel better Y/n.” – he said splashing some water away. – “Well you got us a hot tub, I might as well enjoy it.” – you answered looking up to him. JJ chuckled slowly turning his head. His smile freezing when his gaze entangled with yours.

Slowly fading and changing into adoration. Sensing what was going through you, probably was going through him as well. A desire to kiss each other. For unspoken feelings to be declared. JJ moved closer to you, lifting his hands up from the water to cup your face.

“I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” – he whispered to you. – “Then stay with me.�� – you whispered back. Eyes closing, you decreased the space between you. Allowing your lips to touch. To touch for the first time with such intensity it made your heart burst into a million butterflies.

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

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[nasa]

Let's Explore a Metal-Rich Asteroid 🤘

Between Mars and Jupiter, there lies a unique, metal-rich asteroid named Psyche. Psyche’s special because it looks like it is part or all of the metallic interior of a planetesimal—an early planetary building block of our solar system. For the first time, we have the chance to visit a planetary core and possibly learn more about the turbulent history that created terrestrial planets.

Here are six things to know about the mission that’s a journey into the past: Psyche.

1. Psyche could help us learn more about the origins of our solar system.

After studying data from Earth-based radar and optical telescopes, scientists believe that Psyche collided with other large bodies in space and lost its outer rocky shell. This leads scientists to think that Psyche could have a metal-rich interior, which is a building block of a rocky planet. Since we can’t pierce the core of rocky planets like Mercury, Venus, Mars, and our home planet, Earth, Psyche offers us a window into how other planets are formed.

2. Psyche might be different than other objects in the solar system.

Rocks on Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Earth contain iron oxides. From afar, Psyche doesn’t seem to feature these chemical compounds, so it might have a different history of formation than other planets.

If the Psyche asteroid is leftover material from a planetary formation, scientists are excited to learn about the similarities and differences from other rocky planets. The asteroid might instead prove to be a never-before-seen solar system object. Either way, we’re prepared for the possibility of the unexpected!

3. Three science instruments and a gravity science investigation will be aboard the spacecraft.

The three instruments aboard will be a magnetometer, a gamma-ray and neutron spectrometer, and a multispectral imager. Here’s what each of them will do:

Magnetometer: Detect evidence of a magnetic field, which will tell us whether the asteroid formed from a planetary body

Gamma-ray and neutron spectrometer: Help us figure out what chemical elements Psyche is made of, and how it was formed

Multispectral imager: Gather and share information about the topography and mineral composition of Psyche

The gravity science investigation will allow scientists to determine the asteroid’s rotation, mass, and gravity field and to gain insight into the interior by analyzing the radio waves it communicates with. Then, scientists can measure how Psyche affects the spacecraft’s orbit.

4. The Psyche spacecraft will use a super-efficient propulsion system.

Psyche’s solar electric propulsion system harnesses energy from large solar arrays that convert sunlight into electricity, creating thrust. For the first time ever, we will be using Hall-effect thrusters in deep space.

5. This mission runs on collaboration.

To make this mission happen, we work together with universities, and industry and NASA to draw in resources and expertise.

NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory manages the mission and is responsible for system engineering, integration, and mission operations, while NASA’s Kennedy Space Center’s Launch Services Program manages launch operations and procured the SpaceX Falcon Heavy rocket.

Working with Arizona State University (ASU) offers opportunities for students to train as future instrument or mission leads. Mission leader and Principal Investigator Lindy Elkins-Tanton is also based at ASU.

Finally, Maxar Technologies is a key commercial participant and delivered the main body of the spacecraft, as well as most of its engineering hardware systems.

6. You can be a part of the journey.

Everyone can find activities to get involved on the mission’s webpage. There's an annual internship to interpret the mission, capstone courses for undergraduate projects, and age-appropriate lessons, craft projects, and videos.

You can join us for a virtual launch experience, and, of course, you can watch the launch with us on Oct. 12, 2023, at 10:16 a.m. EDT!

For official news on the mission, follow us on social media and check out NASA’s and ASU’s Psyche websites.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[v6quewrlds]

With the bengals winning against steelers, it's only right we get a blurb/imagine of after-game activities...

imagine post-game shenanigans with joe.

author's note⠀⁎⠀suggestive but no smut because i wasn't feeling it lmao

"Fuck you!" Taylor jeered at a fired-up Steelers fan who had recognized you as Joe's girlfriend, his words slurred and aggressive. You rolled your eyes, scoffing at his audacity. The two of you were attempting to join the crowd leaving the bustling stadium, your plain hoodies and baseball caps failing to allow you the privilege of blending in once the home fans began to realize their team had just been defeated by the quarterback whose girlfriend was now in their midst.

You tended to avoid attending road games due to Joe's insistence on keeping you safe. The risk of confrontation with die-hard fans was always high, especially when emotions were as raw as they are today.

When you had first told him that you had decided to go with Kia and Taylor, he had been hesitant, forcing the three of you to promise not to wear any Bengals' merchandise and to keep your heads down. No flashy game-day outfits, no screaming, and no arguing with fans. The tight game, however, had you all riled up, and you hadn't even made it through the first quarter before the excitement got the best of you.

As the crowd began to disperse, the hostility grew palpable. You noticed the glares and the muttered insults, but you ignored them. You were leaving victorious, and you weren't about to let a bunch of sour fans ruin the moment. The three of you made your way through the throng, Joe's instructions ringing in your ears: "Just get to the car and stay together."

The Uber ride back was a mix of elated chatter and nervous glances at your surroundings. Your heart raced with every honk and shout from the passing cars, but you made it without incident. Back in your hotel room, you gathered your bags and downed celebratory shots of tequila. You shuffled back to your ride to the airport, the adrenaline from the game still pumping through your veins.

The private jet was a welcome sight. A luxurious cabin in stark contrast to your economy flight into Pittsburgh last night, with its plush leather seats and the soothing hum of the engines. You felt your anxiety lift from your shoulders as you all climbed into your seats, leaving the tension of the city behind. You couldn't help but think of Joe, probably still in the locker room, dealing with the media circus that came with a victory of that magnitude.

Your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Joe just as you all settled into your seats, waiting for the pilot to step into the cabin to announce when you'd be taking off. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw his sweet, exhausted face fill the screen. "Hey, baby," he said, his voice hoarse from yelling throughout the game. "You guys get out okay?"

You grinned, your friends leaning in to say hello. "Yeah, we're all good. Just about to take off." You gestured to the plush interior. "Thanks for the upgrade," you teased, your eyes sparkling.

Joe chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Couldn't have my girl and her entourage flying coach in enemy territory," he quipped. His gaze lingered on your lips, the exhaustion giving way to something more heated. "You look good, babe, even through this screen."

Taylor and Kia giggled, making lewd gestures behind your head, egging Joe on. He rolled his eyes playfully and leaned closer to the screen, his voice dropping an octave. "You better be ready for me when I get home. We've got some celebrating to do," he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire.

You couldn't help but laugh as your friends gasped in faux shock at Joe's suggestive tone. "I saw that! You disgusting pervert!" Kia exclaimed dramatically, referencing the TikTok with a grin, and pointing at the screen. Joe's grin only widened, his shoulders shaking as he tried to keep his voice low.

"I'll be waiting," you said with a knowing smile, your voice thick with anticipation. You hung up as Joe was called for press duties and turned to your friends, who were speaking with the pilot.

By the time you touched down in Cincinnati and made it home, you had mentally decided on the perfect way to greet Joe. You changed into his favorite lingerie set, a black lace number that hugged your curves just right. The scent of vanilla and champagne filled the room as you popped the cork on the bottle and filled two flutes. The bubbles danced in the light as you set them on the kitchen island, waiting for the moment Joe walked through the door.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you heard the garage door open and the sound of Joe's footsteps echoing through the hallway. He looked exhausted, his jaw tight, but the sight of you dressed like that brought a lazy smile to his face. He dropped his bag and shrugged out of his coat protecting him from the falling snow. "Damn, you weren't kidding," he murmured, his eyes devouring you.

You walked over to him, placing a flute in his hand and whispering, "You told me to be ready, didn't you?" You balanced your flute in your other hand, lifting it to clink against his. The sound of your glasses meeting filled the room, a tiny promise of what the night would hold.

Joe took a sip, his eyes focused on yours. He could feel his body responding to you, the ache from the game's physicality forgotten. He took you in, his eyes tracing the curves of your lingerie-clad body, the way your skin seemed to glow against the black lace. "You're going to be the death of me," he muttered under his breath, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Do a spin for me, pretty girl."

You rolled your eyes, but the playful challenge in Joe's voice made you smile. You twirled around, the lingerie hugging you in all the right places, the flimsy material leaving little to the imagination. You felt a rush of power and excitement as Joe's eyes widened and he took a sharp breath in. You knew he liked what he saw.

He threw back the rest of his drink, the liquid sliding down his throat as he stepped closer to you, setting his empty glass aside. "Come here," he said, his voice gruff and low. You felt your heart flutter as you stepped into his embrace. The warmth of his body was a stark contrast to the cold air outside, his arms wrapping around you tightly. He kissed you deeply, his hands exploring your curves. The taste of victory and the promise of a night of passion mingled in the air, electrifying your every touch.

"I'm glad you like it," you said, your voice teasing, as Joe's hands roamed your body. You felt the heat between you build, his touch setting your skin on fire. "But first," you whispered, pulling away slightly, "I need to check on that head of yours."

Joe's smile immediately faded, and he sighed. "Babe, I'm fine." But you were insistent.

You had seen the hit replayed over and over on the screens in the stadium. The way he had been pancaked, face first, to the ground had made your heart stop for a moment. You were paralyzed from your seat, silently praying as the trainers rushed onto the field. When he finally stood up and walked off the field, you felt a mix of relief and anger. Relief that he wasn't seriously injured, anger that he was still so woefully under-protected years into his time with the Bengals.

"Just let me take a look," you said, taking his face in your hands and turning him so the light from the kitchen illuminated his skin. His eyes searched yours with an annoyed look that you ignored. You knew he was trying to gauge whether you were just worried or if you were about to turn into Meredith Grey.

He grumbled but allowed you to inspect his head, his hands resting gently on your hips, thumbs tracing the lines of the lace pressed against your skin. You felt a slight bump on his forehead, but there was no bruising to be seen. "It's just a little swollen," you said, your voice tight with concern. "Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"

"I'm fine, babe," Joe said firmly, his patience waning. He knew you meant well, but the adrenaline from winning had his body humming with need, and your gentle fussing was only making it harder to focus on claiming his reward. "They checked me out already."

Your eyes squinted skeptically. "Sure, the 'unaffiliated' neurological consultant who's hired by the NFL and defers to the team doctor," you quipped, unable to let go of your concern.

Joe huffed again, rolling his eyes. "Look, if there was something serious, they wouldn't have cleared me to finish the game," he said, trying to soothe your fears. "And you know the Players Association pays them too."

You pursed your lips, "Fine," you conceded, letting your hands drop to his chest. "But if you start feeling weird, or you get a headache, or anything, promise me you'll tell me. I'm serious about that, Joe."

"I promise," he said, leaning in to kiss you again. His hand slid down your back, caressing the soft skin above the lace. You felt the tension in your body start to dissolve as his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive flesh. His hands roamed lower, cupping your ass and pulling you closer to him.

"Someone's eager," you murmured, a hint of laughter in your voice as Joe's hands grew more insistent, obviously trying to ignore your fussing. You knew the game had taken a lot out of him, but you also knew the effect you had on him, and it was clear he wasn't going to let a little fear get in the way of celebrating. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the brief tension forgotten as your bodies met.

"I'm trying to fuck, and you want to give me a medical exam?" Joe chuckled against your skin, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck. His hands grew bolder, slipping beneath the lace to cup your breasts. Your laugh turned into a moan as his thumbs brushed over your nipples. The sound sent a jolt of desire straight to Joe's core, his cock thickening as he felt you respond.

"I can't help it," you murmured, your eyes fluttering closed as your hands drifted from his chest to the back of his head. You sighed softly as he nibbled tentatively at the edge of your jaw.

"You're my baby, and I want you to stay my baby." Your voice was filled with a mix of concern and desire that made Joe's heart swell. He kissed you again, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting the sweetness of the champagne. He could feel the urgency building between you, the need to celebrate his victory in the most intimate way possible.

[lactoseintolerentswag]

Donnie Tech Part 1/?

After many moons here are the promised observations of the cartoon shtick logic of Donnie's weapons for season one!! Will link a season two and movie version Eventually, but keep in mind I can't explain in depth how each bit of tech works, rather that I can pinpoint the functions for the visual bit. Keep in mind that Donnie's tech can pretty much do any ridiculous thing you can put your mind to, and that it can also backfire in any ridiculous way you can put your mind to.

Tech Bo:

Collapsible, can become a shorter version of itself easily stored

Shoot a grappling hook AND function as a zip line

Can form a rocket from either end (usually at the same time, resulting in the bo spinning)

Is equipped to be a fire extinguisher

Can shoot out lasers

Has a button that activates the "Shopping Cart Protocol" to lock the Turtle Tank if it goes outside a set perimeter

Top can turn into a rocket powered fist

Turn into a giant drill

Turn into a saw

Turn into a tranquilizer

Turn into a tennis ball shooter

Turn into a selfie stick

Top can turn into a disco ball of "multidimensional reflective orb neutralizer"

Battle Shell:

Has rotary engines (think jet turbine or computer fan) that help him fly around. He calls them "rotors" for short

Can transform into a seat so April can sit on his back

Can split up into a DJ set up in "music mode"

Jet Pack Shell:

His fastest mode of transportation

Not much is shown, but April had a significant difficulty controlling it

Spider Shell:

Has four arms with three fingers

Arms can turn into saws

Has a seemingly endless toolkit inside that includes basic things like hammers and wrenches, but also blowtorches

Goggles:

Has night vision

Can function as binoculars

Is able to summon is tech ("communicates with microwave transceiver with class c encryption protocols")

Read mystic energy signatures after adding the crystal they found in Draxum's lab

Gauntlet:

Has an app that can tap into every security camera in NY

Bug Slapper:

Has a green Mad Dogs sticker on the side

Compacts itself into a metal suitcase and then expand back into a vehicle

So far only uses Big Mama's webbing material as projectiles

Shelldon:

Began as an automated smart lair designed with the intent as a cleaning assistant

Has a "disposal unit" which unlocks several of Donnie's weapons such as: guns, pinchers, drills, and flamethrowers

Can carry at least two turtles (Mikey and Donnie)

Is nicknamed "Cyber Bishop" by Donnie

Uses surfer dude slang: “dude”, “gnarly”, “buzzkill”, “okey dokey”, “dawg”, “you beefed it”, “brohounds"

As a smart lair has clear favoritism towards Donnie until tampered with. As a drone they share more of a familial or pet like relationship, and Shelldon has room to sometimes poke at Donnie's faults as well

In conclusion there's not much to worry about breaking canon, the physics of our reality, or understanding complicated tech and science to write about Donnie's tech. He can do whatever he wants as long as it's silly, overly dramatic, and includes an unnecessary amount of purple guns. His tech bo is especially flexible with breaking the rules even before we get to his ninpo powers.

I'm keeping the Turtle Tank separate, because it also deserves its own post. Happy writing!

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[parasiterileymoon]

hi again okay relating to my last request/idea what about reader meeting cursed cat Alastor, luci cat, and cat Adam what would reader feel towards each of the three cats and how would the boys feel about the reader meeting their cat counterpart and maybe more headcannons avout the three cats please make specifically how they act around normal reader and cat reader? Sorry your description of cat Adam has my brain now thinking of all sorts of ideas hope you have a good rest of your day take care 😊 thanks again

Animequeen4 is back at it again with another banger

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•Cat Alastor•

He trots up to you with his tail up and rubs against your ankles. He then smacks and hisses at Lucipurr and catdam (you like my nicknames? Yeahhh I know you do ;] ). Every time one of them approaches he does the arched back sideways hop thing. He also sounds like the “ohhhh long Johnson” cat. Like he’s speaking in tongues. He’s casting an incantation on them. You on the other hand, he purrs like a jet engine.

•Cat Lucifer•

He will not shut up. The yappiest cat ever. Especially if you put him down. Scratches at the bathroom door. Will sit on the highest spot in the cat tower and hiss at anyone who approaches. Will kick Adam and Alastor off the little window hammock thing. Another jet engine purr. Biscuit making professional. He goes to WORK‼️ if your laying on your stomach he will make biscuits on your back. It feels incredible. He will then sprawls on your back and you’re legally not allowed to move.

•Cat Adam•

Attacks your legs. Jumps on your legs then bites them then licks them. When it comes to the other boys he’s either hoarding the catnip or knocking stuff onto them. He sits on top of the bookshelf or like the fridge or something and yells like an angry old man. “Get out of my territory you BITCH.” He also does the sideways hop arch back thing. He will make biscuits on you but his nails will dig into you and if you try to push him off he hisses and bites you.

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I love these fucking goobers. I need someone to draw them duking it out.