#we might not have figured out shit but we have figured out this

[prokopetz]

You've talked before about how "generic" ttrpg systems still contain hidden assumptions about genre, story, playstyle, etc. (e.g. gurps and military scifi/fantasy) how do you figure out what those assumptions are? what should you look for in the rules to find them?

That's a fairly involved question for which a full answer is beyond the scope of a Tumblr post (even my notoriously long-winded ones!), but I find that a good place to start is with the "who gives a shit?" principle.

For example, suppose that the first piece of mechanically significant information on a game's character sheet is a statistic called "Strength", rated on a scale from one to ten.

Who gives a shit?

That is, why do we care how strong player characters are? Why do we care about having a definite, codified answer at our fingertips to the question of which characters are stronger than other characters, to a fair degree of precision? Why does any of this matter? What assumptions are we making about the nature of the conflicts that will be present within the game's narrative?

That's a fairly trivial case, but the principle can be extended to more fundamental features of a game's rules. Let's consider the classic Dungeons & Dragons style skill check, for example: roll a die, add a stat, compare to a target number, pass or fail. What assumptions are we encoding about the nature of conflict in this game?

Well, for a start, these assumptions might include:

The assumption that generating binary pass/fail outcomes for performing discrete physical, mental and social tasks is how most conflicts will be resolved;

The assumption that your game will benefit from these outcomes having a high degree of player-facing uncertainty;

The assumption that your game will benefit from this uncertainty containing a relatively high likelihood of complete failure;

The assumption that your game will benefit from the principal determinant of that likelihood of failure being some intrinsic and objectively measurable attribute of the acting character;

... and so forth.

If you're only familiar with Dungeons & Dragons and its very close imitators, these may seem like things you have to assume in order to have a functioning game, but there are a fairly specific set of conventions being expressed here. Why do we care about any of these things? Who gives a shit?

Even the first bullet point can easily be knocked down: one can imagine, for example, a game which simply assumes players can always choose to have their characters succeed at anything it's within the realm of possibility for them to do, and whose rules instead focus on providing a codified game-mechanical answer to the question of what that success will cost them, with the only uncertainty being whether the player is willing to pay that cost.

It's clear that a game which approaches conflict resolution in this way is expressing a strong set of genre assumptions. The trick is recognising that the industry-standard alternative (i.e., the D&D-style skill check) is equally laser-focused on a specific set of genre assumptions, in a way that's often rendered invisible by how common it is.

All of which is a very long-winded way of saying there isn't a simple checklist you can go down to identify a game's genre assumptions. But then, I warned you way up in the opening sentence that this would be the case – I hope I've at least given you a place to start!

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 | Joel Miller x reader x Eddie Munson

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summary | Joel and you go on patrol and woah—Eddie's coming with?

author's note | uh...hahaha. okay. i had a brief moment the other night, a lapse in judgement if you will and was like...joel would so be annoyed of eddie if they were stuck on patrol together and then we got horny and that's how this came about. this is my early valentines gift to WHOEVER is reading and enjoying this, it was a blast to write. a special thanks to @gracieheartspedro @amanitacowboy &. @chaotic-mystery for supporting my insane and always stupid ideas.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, is this crossfic or crackfic the jury is still out, jackson!joel, eddie munson survives but the cost = apocalypse, threesomes (m/m/f), eddie is an absolute munch, voyeurism, unprotected piv, spitting, ass slaps, slight dom/sub undertones across the board, this is ALL about reader and getting both her men, double creampies, cum feeding, choking, freak nasty at an unhinged level i'm sorry

word count — 5.5k

You were the one who found him.

Eddie.

Alone, hungry, terrified.

Hiding inside an abandoned boathouse for days in a patrol spot that had been neglected for most of the winter. It was only chance that you came alone, usually stuck with Joel who would have scared him off in a matter of seconds.

He’s like a puppy, shrinking impossibly smaller despite his height and lanky figure, hair filthy with a mix of dirt and leaves, weeks spent living savagely in search of his next meal and resting place.

Luckily, Tommy Miller was a soft soul.

One look at Eddie and Tommy didn’t even question it.

Eddie had made his rounds, too. He tried to find a place where he fit - kitchen duty wasn’t great, nor was butchering or helping run the stable.

It isn’t until he throws out the idea of patrolling that Tommy even considers it—it wasn’t something he liked to offer up unless people showed interest.

And even then, it was an adjustment.

A mix of both trust and skill—constant awareness, a willingness to communicate, and the ability to brave whatever challenge or elements you’d face outside the fortified walls of Jackson.

So, that’s where you were.

Eddie has tagged along for your patrol with Joel.

It was two days and one night in the small cabin out west. It wasn’t far from Jackson, either. In fact, it was one of the easier patrols and Joel could easily doze off at his post while you kept yourself busy.

It was easy, calm.

“Is this all you do?” Eddie asks curiously, tearing into his bag of jerky like a rabid dog, the dried meat cracking under the pressure of his teeth, “Just sit?”

It wasn’t the first question he’s asked, nor the last. 

It started with him asking if Joel and Tommy were real brothers before divulging into several questions about life before the infection spread—all mundane and simple, but you have learned so much about Joel in the few years you’ve lived in Jackson.

When he was tired or irritated, happy, when he needed you without the courage to ask, but more importantly—

You could tell when he was annoyed.

You glance over your shoulder and catch the shifty gaze he gives you, biting his tongue for a moment before he nods you over, sitting at the kitchen table whittling away on a chunk of wood to keep himself busy.

Both physically and mentally.

“Shit is a killer,” Eddie adds, “—might have to bring my guitar with me from now on, play some tunes or—“

His voice is drowned out by Joel as he speaks without looking at you, playing your actions off as you were searching through your pack.

“Shut him up,” Joel demands, “now,”

“He’s excited,” You shrug, watching as Eddie stood to explore the cabin, tapping on some old, withering blinds that fell to the floor in an instant, his gaze shooting up at you both and looking immediately sheepish.

“He’s interrupting,” Joel corrects, his head tilting up slightly to look at you as you smirk, biting down on your lip to stifle the laugh in your throat.

Joel was greedy and never shy about it, not with you.

Eddie brings the broken set of blinds over and places it on the table with a smile before pulling the chair back with a loud, ear grating screech against the hardwood and taking a seat with a loud thump.

“Oh, shit—that’s cool,” Eddie notes, pointing lazily at Joel and the soon-to-be figurine tucked away in his meaty palm, met with an eyebrow raise and a quiet noise of acknowledgement before both of their eyes shift to you.

It was similar in intensity, both with entirely different meanings. Joel had you, for months now. One small incident of a shared bed had helped something blossom between each other, though largely unaddressed.

He liked having you around, you liked being around, even if that only meant patrols and the occasional nights Joel would drag you up to his room and have his way.

You don’t question it and neither does he, but Joel was mostly undisturbed until Eddie came along, that all too familiar twinkle in his eye that he caught from many of the younger men around Jackson.

You were like a new toy; fresh and ready to be played with. Although Eddie seemed harmless, he posed a challenge for Joel. Not only because of his growing obsession with you, but because he was a nuisance.

“So, princess,” His feet slam against the table as his boots shake the surface, “what’d you do to keep busy?”

Joel chuckles quietly, a subtle noise that Eddie doesn’t seem to catch, unfortunately you do.

Him. Joel.

Joel keeps you busy. Whether with your mouth or his own.

“Uh, sleep,” You answer lamely, “or nothin’—s’kinda nice to sit with your own thoughts sometimes with how busy Jackson is lately. It’s quiet out here.”

“Dunno ‘bout that,” Joel retorts.

Eddie chuckles unknowingly, “What’s that mean?”

His eyes shift toward you as you shove your hands into the back pockets of your jeans and walk around the table and near him, his fingers dragging along the leather of the jacket he had claimed while sifting through the newest delivery of clothes that had been found during a search.

It was almost identical to his own, save a few tears in the fabric.

“Looks amazing,” Eddie comments, a smile spreading across your face almost instinctively, your heart fluttering with the way his fingers trail against the inside of your palm as he loosely holds your hand, “knew it would.”

Joel watches the exchange with a newfound curiosity.

He’s never been possessive, but seeing you interact with Eddie ignites a strange feeling within him, shifting slightly in his chair to break the moment apart.

“Go on, kid—it’s your turn,” He nods toward Eddie who seems eager to get his first chance at rounding the area, grabbing the shotgun off the table and trampling out the door without question.

As the door shuts, Joel places the items in his hands on the table and scoots back, standing from his chair as quietly walks the expanse of the table before he reaches you, rubbing a finger along the tacky leather of your jacket.

“Princess,” He begins mockingly, “a real charmer, ain’t he?”

You scoff at his tone and push his hand away, quickly met with resistance as his hands cup your face and maneuvers you back against the dining table, clumsily landing against the surface as Joel’s tongue spears between your lips and into your mouth, swallowing up the gasp of surprise that slips out. 

“Are - are you jealous?” You ask through the smothering, wet exchanges of tongue and teeth, spreading your hands out over his broad shoulders before they’re pushing him back, begging for a break. 

“Kid follows you around like a stray,” He tells you, “he’s waiting for a treat—but I think you know that.”

“And if—“ A gentle kiss to the neck, slowly pushing the jacket off your shoulder, “if I do?”

“Careful,” Joel warns, his fingers pushing your shirt off your shoulders before your hands wrap around his thick fingers, pushing him away gently.

“Last I checked, I don’t belong to anyone,” You retorted.

And you’re right—Joel would never force that on you.

You were allowed to have whatever you wanted. Even if it extended beyond him, but for Joel, you were it for him.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever have the courage to admit it, but internally, he’s known it for a while.

“I know a way to keep him quiet,” You begin, tugging weakly at Joel’s belt, still fastened in place and mostly to tease him, his hands spreading out flat against the table to steady himself, “but you aren’t gonna like it.”

Joel could stake his claim now, forbid it.

But, he doesn’t.

There’s a brief glimpse of intrigue that crosses Joel’s features and you catch it, a smile growing on your face.

“Don’t worry, I won’t sneak off,” You assure him, “I know you like to watch.”

Joel’s skin flushes hot at your words, cock swelling behind the layers of fabric that kept him confined.

He’s watched you countless times, under his instructions as you play with yourself, fingers sliding through a slick mess of your own doing, occasionally a mix of his own.

“The kid can barely look at me,” Joel counters, “ya think he’s really gonna do anything with me in the room?”

“I think you severely underestimate me,” You challenge him, “and I really don’t appreciate that,”

“Go on then,” Joel taunts, “that shithead ain’t better than me, we’ll see how well it goes for ya before I have to step in.”

Challenge accepted.

—

When Eddie returns, Joel takes his place.

“He hates me, doesn’t he?” Eddie asks randomly as he strips off his own jacket and unties the plaid button down from his waist, leaving him in a thin shirt and ripped jeans, toeing off his boots before he collapses into the couch, spreading his legs as one hikes over the back and his hands fall against his stomach.

“Joel is hard to get along with,” You admit.

“You seem to be doing fine,”

“It takes time,” Among other things.

Stripped down to a similar few layers, you fit between his legs as you sit on your knees, elbow propped against the back of the couch as your fist meets your chin.

“I do like the jacket,” You assure him, watching him fiddle absentmindedly with one of his rings as he smiles at you, the lines near his cheek deepening. 

“Yeah?” Eddie perks up with a surge of confidence.

“Don’t let him get to you,” You nod vaguely toward the front door, “he’s just jealous.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows at that, silently begging you to elaborate.

Quietly, you scoot closer and trade his fidgeting hands for your own, playing with his rings.

“He hates the way you look at me,” You admit, spotting the brief recognition across his features before his eyes slowly darken, rising on his elbows as your hand slowly reaches for his shirt, hand sliding out flat against his stomach, “or how I let you touch me.”

“But, we’ve never…”

“I know,” You nod in agreement, “doesn’t mean I don’t want to—I do, I was just…waiting for you to ask.”

The air shifts with your words, watching him slowly raise to his palms as you lean forward, bodies only a few inches away as you climb into his lap, lips brushing against each other briefly.

“M’not—I’ve never—“

“Kissed anyone?”

It was endearing, in a way.

“No, no—‘course I have. Just, never really done much else. I’ve gone down a few times, sucked a couple cocks, but…”

Oh. 

Oh.

”I really shouldn’t be corrupting you on your first patrol,”

Eddie chuckles against your lips, feeling the subtle brush as your hips shift against him, his neck straining as he chases your mouth.

“Fuck it,” Eddie answers flippantly, “Joel’s got it.”

You nod in agreement with a mirrored shrug before Eddie’s kissing you with a sudden eagerness, surprisingly more rough than you’re expecting as his teeth dig into your bottom lip.

He’s smothering in the best way, hands splayed at your hips before they get curious, squeezing at your thighs, legs, finding their way underneath the material of your shirt as his fingers squeeze against the base of your spine. Exploring your mouth curiously until you’re both panting against each other more than kissing, his face squished against your cheek as you rut into him.

“We should move right?” Eddie suggests, “He’s coming back soon.”

“Who cares,” You shrug, leaning back just enough to strip your shirt off and pop the button of your jeans, “besides—maybe he’ll take up my shift for me, you know, if he sees us.”

He wouldn’t, but you still provide reassurance.

And Eddie looks somehow even more adoring as he slips the makeshift hair tie from your wrist and pulls back his own hair, unruly curls and overgrown length, desperately due for a trim.

“Just in case we get messy,” He tells you, watching as you pushed back to strip your jeans off, laying back on the couch before he’s moving between your legs and pulling your pants off the rest of the way, his right hand reaching down the center of his back to yank at his own shirt, discarding it along with the growing pile of clothes.

“I’m counting on it,” You retort, fingers pushing through the front of his hair just before the hastily tied bun as you bring him down slowly, his fingers twisting around the band at your hips, his nose nuzzling into your cunt as he breathes you in, eyelashes fanning over his rosy cheeks.

It’s fresh soap and lavender oils, homegrown and made within the walls of Jackson—he’s become used to the smell. It was like home now, making do with what he had.

He smells of it too with a faint musk of sweat from the spring humidity, silently maneuvering your panties down and off your ankle, tossing them to the floor.

“May I, my lady?” Eddie asks with a smirk, his hot breath fanning over you cunt as you nod frantically, feeling your pussy clench at how close he was, begging for his mouth.

“Oh, please,” You feign distress, a short-lived giggle transforming into a surprised gasp as his tongue spreads through your folds, wide and spearing into you with little hesitation or fumbling hands, surprisingly sure of himself.

Your fingers tighten in Eddie's hair as his tongue explores the divine split between your legs, sending waves of pleasure coursing throughout your body. He laps at your clit with focused intensity, a strange sight as his eyes are closed and his hands tighten around your thighs, alternating between broad strokes and pinpoint flicks of his tongue that make your legs shake.

“Eddie,” You sigh, feeling two fingers breach your hole, pushing inside of you with ease as the dual sensation of his fingers and tongue blind you to everything, back arching from the couch slightly as he hums against your pussy, acknowledging your call, “fuck—oh, god—I’m gonna—”

His eagerness grows with your words, shaking his face slightly into your cunt as his nose grazes your clit, the already sensitive nub soaking up the attention as your walls squeeze around his fingers, dexterous and rubbing deep inside of you, curling at just the right angle.

“I gotcha, princess,” He assures you, moving away for a brief moment to kiss at the spot where your thigh meets your cunt, grunting at how tight you’re gripping the chuck of his hair twisted in your fist, “if you could see her—” His fingers pulling out as he collects the sweet slick, fingers slowly sliding down your pussy and up before he’s bringing the fingers to his mouth, three fit between his lips, “shoulda known you’d make a mess.”

You can only laugh, a broken sigh as he continues his relentless rubbing of your clit, watching as your hole fluttered around absolutely nothing now, missing his tongue and his fingers, both of you so caught up in the moment that you don’t hear the front door creak open until Joel’s boots are stomping past and Eddie’s first reaction is to pull back, your eyes peeking open to stare down a suppressing satisfaction on Joel’s face as your orgasm whisked away from you. 

Joel's eyes darken as he takes in the scene before him - you splayed out on the couch, legs spread wide, and Eddie between them with slick coating his lips and chin. For a moment, tension crackles in the air as Joel's gaze flicks between you and Eddie, before decidedly landing on you.

Then a slow smirk spreads across Joel's face. "Don't stop on my account," he drawls, leaning casually against the back of the couch with his palms curling over the edge, just within reach. "Looks like you two were havin' quite a time without me."

Eddie hesitates, his hands still gripping your thighs. 

"Go on, boy," Joel encourages, his voice low and rough. "Finish what you started."

With a grunt, Eddie dives back in, redoubling his efforts. His tongue swirls around your clit as two fingers plunge inside you once more. You cry out, hips bucking against his face.

Joel moves closer, almost taunting. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Let us hear those pretty sounds."

You gasp at the intensity of Eddie’s tongue, his fingers slipping out to flatten against your chest, stilling your insistent squirming as you grab his hand out of desperation, a need for an anchor.

Your eyes flutter closed, pressure building as the heat in your belly swirled, feeling a hand fist into your scalp similarly to how you had Eddie, but it was Joel, forcing your eyes open with the tinge of pain it brought as he glances down at Eddie who’s also got his eyes on you, obediently silent despite his current course of action.

Your own eyes are pleading, speaking to Joel silently.

Look, I did what you asked. Praise me.

Eddie doesn’t question it, the dutiful boy he was. 

But, he’s also…sensed things for a while.

Pining away at a person who would never truly be his own, already claimed.

Though, maybe he was wrong.

Joel’s eyes on him, Eddie’s on you—Joel was always watching, careful to keep the young pup in line, but he can’t help admiring your face, a mix of anguish and pleasure as you stared up at Joel.

“Come for us, darlin’,” Joel demands, Eddie’s lips sucking at your clit with his pointed words.

You come with a broken sob, an intense wave of ecstasy washing over as Eddie works you masterfully through your orgasm. Joel's approving growl mingles with your cries of pleasure, working silently at his belt as you work through your frantic breathing, patting Eddie’s head gently at his squeezes comfortingly at your thighs.

He’s working up the courage to say something, anything, but you rise to meet him where he is at his knees, “It’s okay,” You assure him, “Joel’s all show, anyways.”

Not true, but you both share a short laugh.

“He likes to watch,” You admit to Eddie, “don’t you, Joel?”

“S’long as my girl is satisfied,” Joel shrugs, a creeping smirk on his face that always meant he was up to no good, “you satisfied, sweetheart?”

To an extent, sure. But, as Joel strips the leather from the loops in his jeans, he’s almost taunting the idea at you and Eddie who isn’t shy about his strange attraction to the energy you both emit, rubbing his palm over the front of his tight jeans, swallowing audibly. 

“Depends,” You counter, reaching forward while your eyes are locked on Joel, matching Eddie’s hand as you squeeze over the sizable bulge in his jeans, “Eddie, you need Joel to show you the ropes?”

You turn to Eddie then, eyes bright and excited but tentative to his response.

“Uh, ya—yeah,” He agrees, “fuck yeah.”

–

Joel has never been shy, but is quiet about his confidence.

The difference between he and Eddie was stark and obvious, but he could see the kid was genuine. Young, unjaded, still full of life—he knows you’re better suited for Eddie.

But, Joel is also selfish when it comes to you; he could share, within reason.

If you wanted it.

He’s lucky these faded, old couches sit so low otherwise his knees would be punishing him for it.

Eddie’s waiting in the wings, oddly attentive despite the strange dynamic as Joel removes his cock from the confines of his jeans and underwear, lengthy but dominating Eddie in girth without a challenge and he can’t help but look at you, eyes half-lidded and simmering with the remnants of your last orgasm as Joel swiped the head of his cock through your folds, a content hum slipping past your lips.

Joel instinctively spits on your pussy, a sensual action that feels wholly intimate.

It makes Eddie’s mouth water with how pretty you sound, how eager he is to have you make those sounds for him too.

“He wants more,” You note, talking to Joel but your hand reaches for Eddie and spreads out over his thigh, “should I let him fuck me instead?”

“He can’t do it like I do,” Joel smirks and presses the head of his cock inside of you to prove a point, savoring the delicious stretch of him as he pushes his hips forward, nails scratching against the denim of Eddie’s jeans with the motion, your walls squeezing around Joel’s shaft, “she always remembers me, don’ she?”

You gasp with a nod, arching your back as Joel fills you completely. Your hand tightens on Eddie's thigh, and you turn to look at him and instantly see the hunger in his eyes. Joel's hands grip your hips and he starts to move, slow and deliberate at first. Each thrust sends finite sparks of pleasure through your body, helpless to the small moans that escape your lips.

Eddie leans in slightly, mesmerized by your twisted expression of obvious pleasure but also at how Joel’s cock sinks into your cunt with the powerful thrusts as he kneels over your, sinking into the old cushion as your knees hang lazily at his hips, feeling the distant touch of Eddie’s fingers around your ankle, a constant reminder of his presence.

His own erection strains against his jeans, and he shifts uncomfortably, desperate for some relief. Joel isn’t ignoring him either, his hand coming up behind your neck to arch your chin up, exposing your chest to both of the men.

“You want a turn, kid?” Joel grunts, menacingly teasing. He never breaks his rhythm, crows feet deepening around his eyes as his face scrunches up in pleasure, before Eddie can answer Joel speaks again, “gotta earn it—show ‘er some attention.”

Eddie doesn't hesitate. His hands are on you in an instant, cupping your breasts and squeezing. The added stimulation makes you cry out, your body trembling between the two men.

“There ya go,” Joel encourages, “feels good, don’t it?”

You only realize a second too late that he’s talking to you and not Eddie, a sharp slap to your ass as you nod weakly, “Mhm, so good,” You answer softly, earning a chuckle from Joel.

“Forget how cock drunk she gets,” Joel speaks to Eddie who’s as equally mesmerized as Joel.

Joel quickly picks up his pace, thrusting into you harder and faster, the deafening sound of skin slapping against skin drowning out your moans and Joel’s grunts.

“Tell ‘em, darlin’,” Joel demands, “tell Eddie how good I fuck you.”

Your fingers travel higher, curling around his belt as you pull him forward until his knee is pressing into your rib cage, “It’s per—perfect,” You sigh brokenly, eyes fluttering shut as he brushes that deep spot inside of you that makes your toes curl, 

“C’mere and pay attention, ” Joel orders with a growl, nodding his head in a matching motion, “She likes it slow at first, real deep. She’s greedy. You gotta build her up - nice, slow, until she’s beggin’ for it. And trust me, she will.”

Eddie nods dumbly, fingers rising to scratch at his chest as Joel’s thrusts falter, his groans growing longer and deeper, legs shaking with his own impending orgasm.

“Touch me,” You beg up at Eddie, who’s still dumbfounded with his hand on your breast but his eyebrows quirks in question before you’re shaking your head subtly, guiding his hand down to the point where you and Joel are joined, brushing his fingertips over your clit as you nod.

Eddie's fingers circle your sensitive bud hesitant at first, then with more confidence as your breathy moans encourage him. The dual sensations of Joel's thick cock pounding into you and Eddie's skilled fingers on your clit quickly push you to the edge again, gushing over Joel’s cock as his hips falter to a stop and the surge of his orgasm forces a groan from deep within his chest, filling you to the brim with his warm seed. 

“That’s it,” Joel coos, “show Eddie how pretty you look when you come apart on my cock.”

Your orgasm crests as Eddie watches in awe, his fingers continuing their motion over your clit until your hips shake with overstimulation, sobbing weakly as you reach over your head to grip at the couch with the hand that isn’t pinching Eddie’s skin at his waist.

For a moment, there’s silence. Only a mix of your and Joel’s heavy breathing and Eddie’s occasional pant, eyes blown wide with pleasure as Joel stands with a grunt and pulls his jeans and underwear back on, hastily buttoning them before he’s nodding at you.

“Go on,” He says gruffly, “your turn.”

The ache in your cunt is devastating but Joel watches with admiration as the opaque liquid pushes out of your hole as you cunt spasms and you can sense a brief moment of hesitation from Eddie before you finally look at him, a silent moment of understanding.

“Do you want to?” You ask curiously, head rolling to the side as you glance up at him.

“Do I—huh, you’re kidding, right?” Eddie asks with a tone of incredulous disbelief. “Uh, yeah—fuckin’ yeah. I want to.”

You giggle softly, “I’m just checking,” You assure, “I don’t want to pressure you too much.”

Eddie’s eyes darken with desire but still, somehow, maintain his softness.

“There’s no pressure,” He assured, “but if—if you don’t mind I’ve got a couple ideas of my own.”

Oh?

You squeal softly at how Eddie manhandles you into his position of choice, ass held up by his steel grip as your head sinks into the lap of Joel who’s decidedly taken a seat as your head lulls to the side, peering up at him with a playful expression.

He smells like sex and outdoors, a hint of cleanliness from his washed clothes but it was intoxicating, mesmerizing, feeling the ringed hand of Eddie slide up your spine once he’s stripped himself of his remaining clothes without hesitation.

You reach down between your legs to guide him, gasping softly as the head of his cock nudges against your sensitive, swollen folds. Eddie groans at the sensation, his hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Easy,” Joel says instinctively, his eyes stuck on you as he brushes your mused hair away from your face, “remember—slow, she’ll let you know what she wants.”

Eddie nods as he eases inside of you, aided by the prior stretch of Joel, but his length is astounding, nudging deep against your walls before he’s even fully sheathed. His thrusts are fumbling at first, hearing the deep breaths he takes as he adjusts to the intense feeling around his cock, astounded that it has taken him this long to achieve such a thing.

He really shouldn’t beat himself up over, given the end of the world and all, but he can’t believe he’s been missing out on this for so long. 

Eventually he finds a steady rhythm that has you gasping with every thrust, fingers crawling up Joel’s bare chest until you reach his face, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you moan into the denim, drooling over the fabric.

“That’s it,” Joel encourages and Eddie’s eyes are stuck on you, forcing himself to commit the moment to memory, watching how greedily your cunt sucks his cock in, squeezing at the flesh of your ass as he moans pathetically, the sound making your pussy flutter.

And Joel knows he’s still being as equally selfish as earlier, your attention locked on him despite Eddie’s affect on you and there’s tinge of jealousy that strikes Eddie as he watches the exchange, your moans building in intensity before he’s less than carefully maneuvering you upright, towering over you like this with how you sunk into the cushion, his hand traveling up the front of your chest until his fingers squeeze around your neck and tilt your head back until you’re looking directly up at him, pupils blown wide.

You were his in this moment, not Joel’s.

“Open your mouth,” Eddie tells you, lips parting without argument as his thumb drags over your lips, pulling your bottom lip down as your tongue peeks out to lick at his finger with a soft giggle he matches with a toothy grin before he’s accumulating the saliva in his mouth and puckering his lips to spit into your waiting mouth, a long string stretching as it hits your tongue, moaning audibly as you swallow, sealed with a devastating wink from Eddie.

He was giving Joel a run for his money, that much was obvious.

Joel's eyes narrow at the display, a mix of arousal and possessiveness flaring in his chest. 

He won't be outdone that easily. 

With a low growl, he moves to his knees, sandwiching you between the two men as his fingers drift over your clit similar to how Eddie’s had earlier, “Speak up, sweetheart,” He bites, “is he treating you right?”

You nod eagerly, “Faster,” You beg to Eddie, a hand creeping around the back of his neck to fist into his hair that was wild and falling from the tie on his head, an attentive listener as his pace picks up instantly, “fuck—yes, like that!”

Eddie smirks at Joel over your shoulder, clearly enjoying the competition now.

Eddie tightens his grip on your throat slightly as he pounds into you relentlessly. Your body is on fire, caught between the two men and helpless to their greed, seconds away from devouring you whole if you allow it.

Joel’s fingers work your clit in tight circles as he leans into you, nearly chest to chest as his hot breath brushes your ear, “Still ain’t better than me,” He teases, “but he’s got the spirit.”

The gentle brush of his beard and his lips sucking at your neck could make you pass out if you let it and your body trembles, caught between the two men vying for your attention.

Eddie's thrusts grow more erratic as he watches Joel mark your neck beside his fingers, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your head swim.

"Fuck, you feel so good, princess," Eddie groans, his free hand snaking around your stomach, wrapped up in both the men and helpless, "Gonna make you come on my cock while he watches, alright?"

“Uh huh,” You respond airily, a stuttering gasp escaping your lips as Joel’s pace quickens against your clit and matches Eddie’s enthusiastic thrusts, his own moans growing in intensity as his head dips, breathing against the base of your neck as your hand in his hair twists and the other grasps desperately for Joel’s naked shoulder.

“That’s it, darlin’,” Joel purrs decidedly, “Let go for us.”

“I can feel it, princess—s’right there,” Eddie encourages.

Your third orgasm hits you quick, vision whiting out as you clench around Eddie's length. He follows soon after with a strangled moan, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

The room fills with heavy breathing as you and Eddie come down from your shared high, his grip on your throat loosens, hand sliding down to rest on your collarbone. Joel's fingers slow their movements, drawing out the last tremors of your waning orgasm.

The thought dawns on you as the room stills.

You’re fucking exhausted.

A laugh bubbles from your throat unexpectedly.

“There’s our girl,” Joel chuckles, “ya still with us?”

You nod slowly as Eddie gently maneuvers away from you, the air catching in his throat as he watches this mix of his and Joel’s cum dripping from your cunt, clearing his throat as he hides the smirk on his face. There was a brief look he shares with Joel before Joel’s hand is smoothing over your back, his other hand explorative as he touches between your legs.

“What a goddamn mess,” He notes fondly, swiping up the slick on his fingers before he brings it to your mouth, wordlessly you take the fingers in your mouth and suck, “tell you what—you go on and shower, clean up—the kid and I’ll cover your turn.”

You do have other ideas, but you can sense Joel’s hesitance.

Eddie is a good distance away now, face still flushed as he digs through his bag.

“I thought you couldn’t stand to be alone with him?”

“I’ll put up with it,” Joel admits, “seein’ how much you like him and all.”

“You sure I can’t get you both to join me in the shower?”

Joel hums in disapproval, shaking his head.

“Careful, darlin’—don’t push it,” He warns.

“Do you need any help?” Eddie perks up eventually, a relaxed smile on his face as he grips the fabric of his shirt in his hands.

You shake your head and smile at the subtle rejected puppy dog eyes that flash your way.

“I think you and Joel have a lot to talk about, fortunately.”

And boy, did they ever.

[babybearnation]

cat!lando + sleepy mornings = waking up with lando half on your pillow and with his ear fluff tickling your face, and his tail hooked around you, he doesn't let you get up. little chirpy activation noises that cats do? + purringgggg he'd purr so loudly

i fucking love this - i live and breathe cat!lando tbh, this shit is my religion

cat hybrid!lando norris x gn!reader (sleepy morning headcanons)

cw: suggestive, implied male reader at the end but no specific gender stated

when you go to bed with your cat hybrid boyfriend, everything seems fine - he's on his pillow, cuddled up into your side with his tail curled around his midriff

when you wake up, however, its not like that at all

lando is on your pillow with you, his soft snores filling your ears

his cat ears tickle at your chin and cheeks as they occasionally twitch over whatever he's dreaming about

you might even get the occasional sleepmeow if you're lucky

his tail is no longer curled around his waist but is instead now firmly latched around your left wrist where it also sporadically twitches in his sleep

you gently try and pry the appendage from your wrist but lando is stuck fast and you know its going to take a great effort to get him to let go

you try for another five minutes before finally succeeding, allowing you to stand up from the bed

you check your phone and are about to leave the room when..

"squeak, mrp, mrrrrrow?"

you close your eyes and mentally brace yourself for the whining that is sure to fol-

"y/nnnnnnnnnnn where are you?" lando whines

you turn around and sure enough, he's nuzzling his face into the pillows, blocking him from seeing anything such as your still close by figure

you have to sit back on the bed and comfort him, in which case he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzles his face into the side of one of your thighs and murmurs that you have to stay with him

you stay like this for a few minutes, delighting in the loud, body-rattling purrs that lando releases, before sighing and saying the one thing that you know he hates most

"come on, let's get up. we need to shower."

lando hisses and lightly digs his claws into your tummy/waist, his sharp kitty teeth finding purchase in the skin of your thigh

its normally a battle and its one your good at winning, so you skillfully extract yourself from lando's beclawed grip and befanged bite before picking him up and putting him on his feet

his shorts are askew and his shirt was long abandoned in the night, but he looks adorable as he crosses his arms over his chest and pouts at you defiantly

you decide, like always, to pull out the big guns and offer him a very special treat if he showers with you

and that's how you end up in the shower with lando on his knees before you

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[love-quinn]

— EMPLOYEE DISCOUNT

summary — you’ve missed a lot of work recently. carmen has no choice but to check on you, especially when you order dinner from the restaurant.

summary — swearing, general mentions of not eating due to finances, reader maybe doesn’t have the best relationship with her parents but that part is glossed over so quick it might as well not be there, reader is struggling financially, reader is heavily implied to be chronically ill, boss/employee relationship

pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!waitress reader

pronouns — she/her, explicitly mentioned as a girl + wears a skirt

word count — 4.3k

note — most of my waitress reader stuff is self-indulgent and that includes this. reader is heavily implied to have chronic pain, this is just my experience with things similar. this might not be everyone’s experience but i wrote this to make myself feel better about how i was feeling. thank you so so much for 250 followers, i hope you enjoy this <3333

Richie is tapping his fingers. They’re both in the office. Carmen’s chair is being held up with a pack of plastic forks that Sydney had banished to his space (“We’re a restaurant, Carmy, we don’t need plastic forks”), and Richie is perched on a box labelled “Important shit.”

Richie is playing Angry Birds on his phone, as he usually is when he’s not yapping to whoever is nearby. He’d probably be talking to Carmen if Carmen hadn’t already pissed him off that morning. He’d asked Richie if there was oat milk in the latte he’d gotten down the street and Richie had called him a “pussy bitch” and a “slave to the milk industry, Carmen, fuck you.”

Carmen’s looking through the schedule, working out the roster for the next month. Everyone’s full-time but Marcus has a few days off this month he needs, Ebra has a doctors appointment and Sydney has a few commitments as well. So in Marcus’s case he needs to move his prep time around so they’ll be ready for service, and for Sydney he’s figuring out what the menu should look like when she’s not there. It’s still constantly changing, but he doesn’t want to load something too heavy on the rest of the chefs without their sous.

And then of course, there’s you.

You haven’t been to work in over a week - eleven days to be exact. You’re in a full time contract, have been for a year. You have leave saved up, Carmen doesn’t know exactly how much, but he knows you have it. He should probably look it up soon; you’re chewing through your paid time off like you haven’t eaten in weeks.

He’d have appreciated a heads up. You requested it three days before it started and he’d granted it because Carmen knew that you wouldn’t do it without a good reason. But it’s been six days since he last heard from you, and he feels like he would’ve known if you were going out of town.

Carmen is your boss. He’s not your anything else. He has to remind himself of that. You have no responsibilities to him when you’re not at work. He is your boss.

It’s hard to remember that though when you’ve been asleep in the passenger seat in his car, listening to his shitty radio station because he can’t stay awake in the silence and you can’t stay awake with the noise. When you’ve sat on the floor of his office during your lunch break, sipping a lemonade and letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue. When his thumbs have ghosted over your pulse points as you place a bandaid on his arm with the utmost delicacy and care. It’s hard to not want more when he’s had everything already.

“When’s she comin’ back?”

Richie’s standing right behind him, hunched over so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. Carmen’s written your name and underlined it, staring holes at the shapes of the letters as if they’d bring about your return.

Carmen shook his head. “I don’t know, Richie.”

Richie sat beside Carmen, leaning against the desk. “She’s been gone a while, ‘s she doing okay?” He bent down further so he was closer, crossing his arms. “Listen, cousin, is there something I need t’know?”

“Like what?” Carmen doesn’t even look up at him, head resting on one elbow, massaging his temple. He’s only really half listening, the best way he’s found to deal with Richie.

Richie muses, looking up at the ceiling. “Like how you fucked up and lost me my best waitress?” He looks pointedly at Carmen. “Like that, maybe?”

Carmen heaves out a sigh and tilts his head back so he can see Richie properly, squinting at the light. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Richie scoffs. “I’m not a fucking moron, idiot. I let you do your thing, I thought maybe she’d get you to calm the fuck down. But no, because you can’t have a mature adult relationship to save your life-”

Carmen stands on instinct, “Oh, you think I’m immature,” he’s too angry to even scoff out a laugh.

Richie doesn’t stop, “And now because you’re a fucking jagoff, I’ve lost my fucking waitress!”

“Oh, fuck off!” Carmen points at him. “You have no fucking clue what the fuck you’re talking about!” His face is hot, both at the idea that he’s the reason you’ve been not coming to work and also at the idea that whatever is going on between the two of you is important enough that he could’ve screwed it up.

He hasn’t let you know how important he finds it. When he first started with the restaurant, still sickly with the grief of losing Mikey, and resentful that he finally had what he wanted only when his brother was gone, you were literally the only person that didn’t give him a hard time. And sure, he probably deserved it, but maybe he didn’t need it from everyone. You were gentle, probably nervous around him because he’s your employer even though he’s only three years older than you.

“You think I’m fucking blind?” Richie counters. “I didn’t say anything cause I know you get all flighty and scared when you like a girl and I was really fucking hoping you wouldn’t fuck it up with her!”

“Oh, fuck off Richie!” Carmen feels his whole body getting warm. Richie antagonises him on purpose, neither of them possess any tact. It runs in the family, so it seems. Carmen isn’t any better, he’s half way through a facetious “Where the fuck is your wife, huh?” when Sydney hurls the door open.

It’s enough that he’s caught off guard. Sydney always knocks.

“What?” They’re both facing her now, anger directed away from each other.

Sydney looks apprehensive. “Uh, I um,” her eyes flick between the two of them. Carmen, red in the face, and Richie, chest heaving. “The kitchen got a ticket for a to-go order, and, uh.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Richie asks. Carmen doesn’t agree on the gangly motherfucker with much, especially not in the moment, but he does wish Sydney would elaborate on what the issue is.

Sydney holds out the ticket as if it’s about to explode, and Carmen rips it from her hand. She watches him intently as he reads it. It’s normal, it’s for a cacio e pepe, pre-paid for on the website. His eyes dart over the ticket until they finally land on the part he knows Sydney wanted him to see.

Your name. Your address. The price at the bottom has been modified with your employee discount code.

“Okay..” Carmen is struggling to stay composed. “What? What do you want me to do with this?”

Sydney shuffles on her feet. She can tell he feels almost explosive about it, and she doesn’t know what to say in order to not set him off. You and Sydney get along well. From what he’s gathered, you get lunch together on days you’re both not working, you often join her at the farmer’s market before her shift starts, and she spends an hour or so every week explaining the new menu to you and helping you understand why it works from a chef’s perspective. Carmen might not currently have any, but he knows the word for that is being friends.

So he trusts that Sydney also knows what he knows.

You’d told him one night as you were unlocking the front door to your apartment. He was leaning against the wall, looking sideways at you. It had been an unusually cold night, and he’d given you his woollen jacket. You hadn’t objected, you’d been doing this long enough that you didn’t have to pretend you didn’t want it. You’d been wearing tights that night, another thing you didn’t usually do. Everything else was standard - simple black skirt, white button up blouse, silver name badge lit up by the flickering hallway light.

You were rummaging in your bag for your keys, swearing you could hear them jingling in the bottom when you’d sniffed. Normally he’d ignore it, but it was the third time since the two of you had left the restaurant.

“Are you getting sick?” He’d asked it mostly as your friend (he was telling himself that’s what the two of you were), but also as your boss in the food service industry.

You shook your head. “No, I get stuffy when I’m tired. All I need is a good night’s sleep,” you promised.

“If you’re getting sick let me know,” he said as you pulled out your keys. “I’ll bring you soup. What’s your favourite kind?” Carmen enjoyed doting on you, it was the only way he felt like he reciprocated your gentleness. Ten hours of yelling in the kitchen couldn’t be undone by the promise of bringing you a hot meal, but he needs whatever he’ll get.

You wrinkled your nose, still smiling sweetly at him. “Not a soup but when I was a kid my mom would make me cacio e pepe,” you finally muscle open the door. It gets stuck most of the time, which is why Carmen always comes up with you. One time you couldn’t open it and you’d had to call him and ask if you could crash on his couch. You had been mortified but he’d brushed it off.

You liked Carmen a lot. He was highly strung and quick to anger. He was kind of an asshole most of the time, and when something pissed him off he made it everyone else’s problem. He didn’t know how to act around people, and often dug himself into a pit so deep nobody could reach in to help him out of it.

But you were also positive that he liked you too, and that changed things. He was still an asshole, he couldn’t help it, and you were slowly learning the building blocks that had made him the way that he was. But surely, very very cautiously, he was realising that he didn’t have to be defensive around you. You weren’t going to attack him. Taking that away and he was a whole new man.

It’s not your job to help him regulate his emotions. But you find you enjoy being around him so much that even if he’s pissed off and yelling, you don’t mind.

Carmen does this thing, especially when he’s driving you home after dinner service where he’ll leave his palm up, hand open. You like tracing the lines, bringing the tip of your index finger up and down his palm, from his wrist to his fingers. You catch him smiling out of the corner of your eye.

He hasn’t quite figured out how to tolerate people yet. So to see him smiling at something you’ve done that’s born from nothing but pure affection for him sometimes makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

You’d invited him inside, which was happening more and more frequently these days. He’d come in, you guys would talk for a bit, and then he’d go home. That was all that ever happened.

“It was the only thing she ever knew how to cook without a recipe,” you said, pulling off your coat and scarf. It was meant to be almost springtime, but nobody had told the weather that. Yet another cold front was headed your way, which meant another couple of weeks of spending every free moment at work under the guise of ‘helping out.’ Carmen’s been making extra at family and then conveniently forgetting to put it out. You went home most nights with a grilled cheese and a warmth in your chest. “I’d, uh, I’d wake up from a nap all sore and dehydrated and all I’d want was black pepper and cheese. She’d have to check, to make sure, but once she was she’d be at the stove talking about coagulation or whatever.”

You looked bashful, cheeks visibly warm in the cool light. “She hated making it, said she only got it right half the time. Never wanted to. Sometimes, I’d…” you looked hesitant. Carmen’s eyes were shining at you, emphasised by the neon of the 24-stop across the street leaking in through your window. The colours were saturated and soaking, and when they hit just right on your face Carmen would forget that he’d seen you with mustard in your hair.

He watched you, wanting you to keep talking but not knowing how to say.

“Sometimes I’d pretend I wasn’t sick,” you tried to sound nonchalant, but he could feel it radiating from you. He wasn’t good at naming emotions, it had never been a strong suit for Carmen. He knew the basic ones, sure; happy, sad, fuck off, angry, ten hour shift, hurt, your hand on his pulse point. The basic ones. He could tell you were somewhere been hurt and ten hour shift.

Carmen couldn’t imagine not giving you whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. Especially not if what you wanted was food.

Food he could do.

Normally, he’d never dream of leaving the restaurant during service, but Sydney had shoved the receipt at him, clenching his fist around it for him, and told him to handle it. He’d made himself a little corner on the line and got to work.

It’s not something he makes often, but he’s got it right often enough that he’s confident with it. He pulls out all the stops - two kinds of peppercorns, two skillets (so as to not let the cheese coagulate).

It’s technical, and he’s best when it’s technical. If he can just stir at the right rate, if he can temper at the right speed - hot, cold, on off - then surely he can figure out what to say to you when he’s in your indigo-bathed kitchen, so close he can smell your deodorant.

The pasta should be the hard part, getting it cooked and packaged and driven over to your place with the heater on full blast even though Carmen’s already sweating through his t-shirt. But he’s out the front of your door, looking at the way your paint is chipped off your door.

He knows he has about two more minutes before the food in his hand gets cold, and that means the heater was all for nothing. He also knows where your spare key is kept. It’s nestled right between the key to his place and the back door to the restaurant. It was under your spare mat, but Carmen had shamed you into putting it somewhere more secure.

He knows where you keep your bowls, and that you prefer to eat with a fork in situations where a spoon is an option. He’s quiet, and he’s not sure how you’d feel if you knew he’d been moving around your kitchen, but he’s in too deep to think about that now.

Now that the pasta is in the bowl and it’s twirled delicately around a fork, he has to actually find you. All the lights are off, which isn’t unusual. You worry about the electric bill, he doesn’t have to be observant to notice that. He doesn’t turn any lights on, he takes the bowl in his hands, using his elbow to rest it on and hoping to preserve the heat.

He calls out your name, wincing at the way his voice breaks. It echoes in the cold of your apartment. There’s a shuffle from behind him. “Sweetheart?” It slips out in a way that feels both embarrassing and empowering.

You’re the kindest person he knows, and he’s in your apartment right now calling you a petname.

Carmen knows all the basic emotions, the middle school descriptors. He doesn’t know what to call the feeling that bubbles up when he hears your voice say his name. You’re on the floor beside the sofa, and despite the blue washing everything out, he can see your eyes are red.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is small, croaked.

Carmen sits down on the floor so he’s facing you. The bowl is still warm in his hands. “I made you pasta.”

Your lashes are watery and it feels like he can hear a piece of you break. You don’t want to be this, you’re aware of how pathetic it must look. Crying, curled up on the floor of your apartment in front of your boss. You’re a grown woman, you can usually handle this.

You’re not quite sure what happened.

“You,” there’s a dip in your voice. It fails completely on the second word and you have to start again. “You didn’t have to bring it here. You’re stealing jobs from delivery drivers.”

He wants to reach out and smooth your hair, instead he puts the bowl down on your coffee table. “I did have to bring it to you.”

Carmen doesn’t know what to say to you. It’s a whirlwind in his head, like when he was a kid and he used to lay on his back and try to follow the blades of the ceiling fan in the living room. But like, if one of the blades was Richie convincing him that he was the reason this was happening.

“I don’t.. I’m not,” he huffs, “good at…” He can feel himself getting frustrated, which makes it worse. You don’t deserve to have him come here and get angry. You deal with it enough. “You haven’t been at work in a while,” he says finally. “I got worried. So, I wanted to come and just,” He inhales shakily, deep and full like he can swallow some of the light in the room. “I wanted to.”

You don’t handle that as well as he’d hoped you would.

Carmen’s seen you cry a few times and, sure, it kind of freaks him out, but he feels like he’s gotten pretty good at soothing you. This is the first time you’ve ever cried in front of him and it’s been his fault.

You let your head fall forward so half is covered by the sofa and the other by your arm. The sweater you’re wearing is new, he knows that, not one of the many you’ve donned over your white button up after the dining room’s cleared out.

He’s not sure what to do, but mercifully, you beat him to speaking up.

“I’m sorry.”

Carmen can’t even fathom how awful he must have been to you for your first instinct to be an apology.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I know I’ve missed a lot of work and I wasn't even that good of a waitress to begin with, I’ll be back soon, I promi- if you want me back, I know you could probably find someone more reliable.”

“What do I have to do, give you tenure? Write it into your contract that no matter what I’m not gonna fire you?” Carmen runs a hand through his hair, knowing he sounds about as desperate as he feels and choosing to hope you don’t notice it.

“I didn’t even mean to take all the time off,” you’re still crying. “It just.. I thought it would be a sick day and then I just-” you hiccup. The tears seem to be slipping out of your eyes involuntarily, faster than you seem to be able to choke down the sobs, “didn’t get better.”

Carmen has never seen you like this. You’re inconsolable, to the point where you don’t even notice when he moves some of your hair out of your face.

“Sweetheart,” his voice is so low it grumbles against his chest. “What.. what can I do? Do you need to go to the ER?”

You finally take a gasping breath. “It hurts, Carm.”

He leans towards you, urgently. “What hurts, where? Where? What..” he can feel panic rising in his chest, trying to quash it for the sake of your wellbeing. “What can I do?”

“Everything,” you sound drowsy, voice wet and thick from the heaviness of your throat. “My- my hands, my shoulders, m-my back, fuck, my head.”

Carmen knows none of this is his fault, he knows that. But the idea that this - whatever it is - seems to be swallowing you from the inside, and he can’t do anything to stop it? He’s never felt more useless. He thinks about you more than he probably should - it’s intermittent between the feelings of despair and terrified aching. You’ve expanded in his chest, starting as a name on a roster and slowly filling every cavity of his body.

Like milk on a stove.

“Why didn’t you go see someone?”

You laugh, and that should be enough to make him feel better, but it’s not the laugh he hears at night. It’s tired, it’s cold, and it’s empty. “Do you think I can afford the fucking hospital, Carmen?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the words die in his throat.

“Look at this place,” you don’t even have the strength to lift your head to look around. One of your wrists twitches in a muscle spasm. “I… this is all I have, Carm. This. What you see here. This is my life, okay? This apartment, this job… you’re all I’ve got.”

Carmen is a success in his field. There’s no contesting that. He has his restaurant, he has his accolades. Some nights he looks at you and thinks to himself “she’s all I need.” He’d never considered the difference.

“I’m sorry,” he folds, not even thinking about getting defensive. This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten pissed at him for this exact thing. You live well within your means, Carmen forgets that sometimes.

He’d have helped already if he thought you’d accept it. He can’t give you more of a raise, you’re already making well above minimum wage and at that point it wouldn’t be fair to the other staff if you were getting a boost. Anything he’d give you would have to be out of his own pockets, and he knows you’d never accept that. So he does what he can to keep you safe and happy. He drives you home from work, he keeps your key on his key ring, he makes sure you’ve always eaten at least two meals every day.

But he can’t fix this, and he knows that.

“I… I’m not mad,” you say softly, fiddling with your fingers. They’ve been stiff lately, but they’ve loosened up over the last few days. “It just hurts, that’s all. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I…” you look embarrassed, like it’s just hit you how he’s seeing you. “It happens sometimes, every so often, that’s why I didn’t take all the time off at once. I can usually handle it. Pull myself together until my day off, and then bounce back from it.”

You’re lying to him, only slightly. Some days it seems like your body is punishing you, for what exactly, you’re not sure. You can barely drag yourself up the stairs to get home, before collapsing to fall asleep on the couch. Some nights the migraines at work get so bad you shut yourself in the walk-in under the guise of being upset while you wait for the pills to clear your head. Some days your stomach burns so badly that you don’t eat the food you know Carmen is forcing your way. It goes home, in your fridge, to be eaten when you can stomach it.

But you’re not lying about the fact that you didn’t think you needed more than a few days off. You could feel the flare up getting worse than usual, and with your one day off that week approaching, you’d finally decided to use some of your PTO to take a couple extra days.

Then, like you’d said you just… didn’t get better.

This is the worst it has ever been. You’re crying daily, you can barely move, and Jesus Christ you’re hungry. This is you on the mend. You wouldn’t have dared let Carmen in a week ago.

“Whatever you need,” Carmen tells you seriously. I would give you whatever you wanted. “I’m just sorry that I can’t make it go away.”

Something that you’d googled said stress makes it worse. You’re overworked, you know that, but you’re not sure what to do about it.

Carmen gestures to the bowl of pasta. It’s cold now, but it’s all he has to offer.

You raise your head to look at it. “I tried once,” you admit, “to make it myself when I first moved out on my own. I’d seen her make it so many times, surely I could figure it out.” Carmen is a chef. You know he doesn’t need to hear the story to know how badly you’d messed it up.

“I’ll warm it up for you?” He offers. You nod finally, resting your head on your forearm so you’re looking sideways at him.

It’s a hard dish to make right. It involves making a smooth sauce out of hard cheese. You need to avoid going in too hot so the sauce isn’t clumpy. It needs some time to cool first, before you finally let it melt.

Carmen watches you while he watches the numbers on your microwave shift closer and closer to zero. He doesn’t give a shit if he needs to start paying your rent for you. You can’t keep going on like this. Six days a week is causing your body to chew on itself, making worse something that would be there regardless. He can’t let this get worse.

You’ll be back at work four days later, now only working five days a week and somewhat shaky in your deliberations. He’ll keep an eye on you and you’ll roll your eyes and insist your fine.

But right now, he needs to make sure you’re relaxed enough to melt. To coat his motivations and to spread, pooling in the hollows of his collarbones and in the gaps between his cells.

You eat slowly, the fork scraping against the bowl sickeningly. When you’re done, he asks if he can do anything else.

You let him wrap his arms around you, fully engulfing you. Neither of you mention how it’s more for his benefit than yours.

[wolfiwonderer]

Yes and... This is worrying that prevents action. If you're worried about giving to the homeless, there are many other approaches you can try to address the problem (I give to a low income housing initiative instead because I think it will have a bigger impact). If you are concerned about all those approaches, you can fund studies that examine the problem and produce reasonable analysis as to the effectiveness of different approaches. (Give Directly did a great study on cash transfers in rural isolated impoverished areas)

I stop believing someone when they have Concerns but then refuse any attempt to address them. Or they are Concerned because of vibes even when there's plenty of evidence to the contrary.

The other tactic to Concerns is the "what do we do in the meantime" approach. If I have to have an opinion on it, then I am concerned about how gender identity is discussed and the impact of performance altering hormones in sports (like testosterone whether it is produced by the body or artificial) and the underlying philosophy of what it means to try to segregate competition by gender as we do (what does fair competition even mean given all we know about the body now). The difference is how I think someone should be treated while we're figuring these things out - which in this case is to allow children to do whatever sports they want, with the right supervision (frankly gender has nothing to do with asshole behavior in a changing room, so we should not be okay with harassment whether is girl-girl, boy-boy, or trans-not trans).

The last tactic I see in Concerns is focus. The trans issue gets tons of (typically negative) attention while people die from lack of basic medical care. I remember a girl died of pig flu while I was in college. She had just graduated and didn't go to the hospital because of lack of insurance. This was before Obama extended coverage into twenties. We (because we all subsidize education) spent $200k educating her and then threw it away because we didn't want to spend $1k keeping her alive. Why tf does anyone who isn't directly affected care a whit about trans kids in sports when we have bigger problems weighing us down? Priorities! Let's maybe work on stopping teen suicides before we worry about which teen is winning first place in a mostly meaningless competition?

Recently we had a debate in my urbanist group about ebike speeds. A person was concerned that we might turn off someone who would support bike lanes because of not responding to their Concerns about ebike speeds being unsafe for walkers and other bikers. I don't know if you know this, but cars are fucking dangerous, and I don't give a shit how fast your 50 lb bike is going, it is not as deadly as a literal ton of metal, even if those 2000lbs are "only" going 20. The person who had Concerns about how they would totally support making the city accessible to bikes, but what about protecting people from fast ebikes and truly defining when an ebike is a bike and when it's a vehicle - they are never going to get over that Concern. It is a distraction technique to make us stop fighting for change in our city. When we give the Concern the time of day, we have already lost.

[silentstyx]

one year later, still yours

sum: sure, I used to be a regular here but I haven't been here in over a year and you still remember my order.

tw: unrequited feelings - both ends. percy's a sarcastic ass.

ive been pumping out fics heheh, also i love using logan lerman as percy bc hes jus so percy n hes so scrumptious and i wanna eat his face and his biceps and every bulging muscle on his ripped body ugh.

it was a slow day in general. you've been working at a local coffee shop near your house for two years now and your favorite regular that you've grown romantic feelings for is gone and been gone. you know that he only came in to buy drinks for his mom, but you also knew that he loved eating blue food dye, and if there was a blue drink he'd make starbucks even more rich. yet, you haven't seen him or his mother. you figure he'd started buying from a local coffee shop that's closer to his house and plus its still a small business that helps.

it sucks though because you had grown feelings for this boy. his name was Percy Jackson. you would always spell it wrong just to tick him off. 'persy jakeson' 'pansy jackson' 'perry the platypus'. a few that you have put over the year he was here. he would come in every saturday at the same time with the same order for him and his mom.

"medium caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle, a blue sugar cookie, and a small hot chocolate to go! puh-lease!" is exactly how percy would say it. his mom got the caramel macchiato and he got the blue sugar cookies and hot chocolate. you remembered the order and the cute face though after two months of him ordering at your shift. you made sure that if you guys were open that saturday at 8:35 that you were there for that shift.

you hear someone coming in, even though it was slow you were still working. "hi, welcome in! how are you?" you attempt to sound nice. don't know how well it's working yet. you haven't looked up. you were wiping the counters down. you look at the time.

saturday, 8:35 AM.

you look up immediately. it's him. you smile, "been a while, hm? thought you found somewhere else to get.... a medium caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle, blue sugar cookie, and a small hot chocolate all to go?"

he scoffs, "psh, never. you're the only one. my mom just stopped drinking coffee so i didn't have a good enough reason to go to the local coffee shop with the cute barista without telling my mom about the cute barista. 'we have blue sugar cookies and hot chocolate for free at home Perseus' blah blah blah. i have to admit though, the pillsbury dough boy with blue frosting and blue sprinkles is a lot better than your guys' cookies. might run you for your money."

you laugh, "so she tried to keep us apart? what is this, Romeo and Juliet?"

he laughs with you, "i'm surprised you remembered the order."

"you're a regular, of course i remember," you say incredulously, "you want the cookie and small hot chocolate but no macchiato?"

"yeah thats fine.. but [insert reader's name], sure, i used to be a regular here but i haven't been here in over a year and you still remember my order. thinking about me?" he says with a smug smile plastered on his stupid pretty face.

his stupid pretty face with some black hair falling into his long dark eyelashes and his gorgeous sea green eyes and his pretty pink full lips that you just wanna kiss and nibble on 'til there red and peeling.

"so am i right or completely far off?" he questions with a shit eating grin.

"think you have completely lost it, perry the platypus." you sigh, with your own stupid smile on your face.

he rolled his eyes and laughed, "oh we're bringing that name back? okay, okay. just know I'll get my revenge."

"ooh menacing," you say sarcastically as you hand him his hot chocolate and bag of his treat, "i left a little note under the coffee sleeve for you."

"oh i'll be sure to throw it away before i get to read it." he says sassily with a big goofy smile as he walked out.

you smiled and laughed at his shenanigans.

he got outside and got in his car. he immediately moved the sleeve, which he doesn't even know why you still put it if you make it directly for him to drink immediately - not too hot but not cold.

he lifts up the sleeve and sees you did write something. at first all he sees is a smiley face, he then turns the cup and sees what you've written in full. your number.

(123) 456-7890

©️ silentstyx please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work with out my permission. thank you!

[bitchinbarzal]

Offside | M Boldy & B Faber

summary: both matt and brock are fighting for your attention. and fighting eachother.

-

Being friends with professional hockey players had its perks— free tickets, post-game dinners, and inside jokes you didn’t always understand but laughed at anyway. But it also had its complications, especially when two of them, two of your closest friends started seeing you as more than just a friend.

You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to boil over.

Now it felt impossible to ignore.

Both of them were great in their own ways. Matt was electric — always making you laugh, always the first to text you something dumb just to brighten your day. He had this effortless confidence, the kind that made you feel special whenever he turned that charm on you.

Brock, on the other hand, was steady. He wasn’t flashy, didn’t demand attention the way Matt did, but he made you feel safe. His presence was grounding, his patience endless. He had this quiet way of making you feel like you mattered, even when he wasn’t saying much at all.

And somehow, without you realizing it, they had both started competing for your attention.

It started with Matt, really.

He was always the one dragging you into things—random road trips, last-minute coffee runs, late-night FaceTime calls just because he was bored.

“C’mon, it’s not even that far” he said one evening, nudging your knee under the table at dinner.

You arched a brow “Matt, it’s two hours away”

“Yeah, but they have the best donuts in the state. And we need a road trip playlist. And maybe a stop at that little bookstore you like”

Your lips twitched “You don’t even read”

“I could” he defended, leaning back in his chair “For you, I might become a whole book guy”

Brock, sitting across from you, scoffed lightly “You don’t even read the lineup dude”

Matt shot him a look.

You laughed, shaking your head. It was always easy with Matt, always light. And maybe that was why you leaned into it — because it felt good, effortless.

But then Brock would do something small, something that made you pause.

Brock was more subtle.

He never fought for your attention the way Matt did, never tried to steal the spotlight. But he was there. Always.

Like when you mentioned your car had been making a weird noise, and the next morning, Brock was outside your apartment, sleeves rolled up, inspecting the engine.

“Brock” You blinked at him, stepping outside in your slippers “Did I—did I ask you to come look at it?”

He didn’t even look up, just shrugged “No. But I figured I’d check it out before you end up stranded somewhere”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

It was that kind of thing, over and over. Little gestures, quiet moments.

Matt made your heart race. Brock made it feel safe.

And maybe that was why you didn’t see the storm brewing between them.

It started subtly.

Matt cracking jokes at Brock’s expense, chirping him more than usual. Brock getting under Matt’s skin in practice, chirping back, which he rarely did.

Then, one day after a game, it escalated.

“Need a ride home?” Matt asked as you walked out of the arena, tucking your hands into your coat pockets.

Before you could answer, Brock was suddenly beside you “I got her”

Matt scoffed, stepping closer “Seriously?”

You blinked between them “Guys—”

“You always do this” Matt muttered, jaw tightening.

Brock’s brows furrowed “Do what?”

“Act like you’re just her friend, but then you pull this shit every time I try to—” Matt cut himself off, exhaling sharply.

Brock’s expression darkened “Maybe because I actually am her friend”

You inhaled sharply “Stop”

Both of them turned to you, frustration evident.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not a prize to be fought over” Your voice shook slightly “I care about both of you, and I hate this”

Neither of them spoke, and after a long, heavy silence, you turned and walked away to find Jake and Nat to give you a ride.

It bled onto the ice.

Missed passes, tension on the bench, plays that should’ve worked but didn’t because they weren’t on the same page.

It was Rossi who finally said something.

“What the hell is up with you two?” he asked after a particularly bad practice.

Matt muttered something under his breath, and Brock shot him a glare.

Then Spurge stepped in “Figure it out” His voice was quiet but firm “Or I will”

But they didn’t figure it out.

Not until it came to blows.

You weren’t there, but you heard about it—how an argument in the locker room turned into a shoving match, how Jake had to step in before it got worse.

You got a text from Kirill later.

Kirill: your boys are dumb.

You sighed, tossing your phone onto the couch.

It was time to make a choice.

Brock showed up first.

He stood in your doorway, looking almost nervous.

“I don’t want this to be a competition” he admitted.

You swallowed “Then what do you want?”

He exhaled, his gaze steady “I want you” A pause “Not because I need to win. Not because of Matt. Just because I care about you”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer, voice softer “I know Matt makes you happy. I know I probably didn’t make this easy for you. But if you choose me—” He swallowed “It’s real. It’s not about proving something”

Tears pricked at your eyes.

Because Brock had always been steady, always been someone you could count on.

And when you took a step closer, closing the space between you, he let out a slow, relieved breath—like maybe he had been holding it in this whole time.

You kissed him, and it felt like home.

And for the first time in a long time, everything made sense.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "Promises in the Dark"

Part 4

Whitney had fallen asleep curled up against your chest, her small breaths warm against your skin. You didn’t dare move, even though your legs were going numb from sitting so long on the couch. Marshall sat beside you, watching you both, his face unreadable.

The house was quiet now, but the weight of the night still pressed down on your chest.

"I meant what I said," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Marshall’s brow furrowed. "What part?"

You swallowed. "That I can get better."

He exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "You don’t sound sure."

"I’m not."

His jaw tensed, but he nodded. "Then we’ll figure it out."

You glanced at him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. "It’s not that easy, Marshall."

"I know that." His voice was quiet but firm. "I know it’s not just some switch you can flip. But, baby, you—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You gotta let me help you. You gotta let us help you."

You looked down at Whitney, her tiny hand still clinging to your shirt even in sleep.

You thought about Hailie and Alaina, their cautious glances, the fear they tried to hide.

You thought about the moment Marshall pulled you from the pool, the way his hands had shaken as he held you, the raw panic in his voice when he begged you to stay.

They were all terrified.

And that—more than anything—was what made your chest tighten.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admitted.

Marshall’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing between yours. "Then let’s start small."

You hesitated. "Small how?"

"Talk to me." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Tell me when it’s bad. When it’s too much. Don’t keep that shit locked up, baby. You don’t have to carry it alone."

Your throat felt tight. "And if I can’t?"

"Then I’ll keep asking until you do."

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

Maybe it wasn’t enough.

Maybe you would slip again.

Maybe the road ahead was long and fucking impossible.

But Marshall wasn’t going anywhere.

And maybe—for tonight—that had to be enough.

The house was quiet in the early morning, the kind of stillness that only came after too many restless nights. You weren’t sure what woke you up, but when you glanced to the other side of the bed, Marshall was gone.

You stretched, feeling the stiffness in your bones, the weight still heavy in your chest. But you got up anyway, pulling on a hoodie before quietly making your way down the hall.

That’s when you heard them.

The girls.

Their voices were hushed, barely above whispers, but the closer you got to the living room, the clearer the words became.

And it felt like someone had taken a bat to your ribs.

"We just have to be ready," Hailie was saying, her voice steady but thick. "If something happens, we can’t let Dad fall apart."

"But what if—" Whitney’s small voice cut in, unsure.

"Don’t say it," Alaina interrupted. "We’re not thinking like that."

A silence stretched between them before Whitney spoke again, softer this time. "But Daddy was really sad before. What if—what if Mommy—" She didn’t finish.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, your stomach twisting.

They were scared.

Not just for you.

For him.

For what losing you might do to him.

And that hurt more than anything.

"He won’t," Hailie said firmly. "We won’t let him. If she—if she gets bad again, we’ll help him. We’ll help her. We just have to be ready."

You backed away before you could hear anything else, heart pounding.

They shouldn’t have had to talk like that.

They shouldn’t have had to plan for something like that.

You had thought your pain was yours alone.

You were wrong.

And now, it was ripping through the people you loved most.

You turned and walked back toward your room, your vision blurred, your breath unsteady.

You had to fix this.

Somehow.

---

The next morning, you woke up with a plan.

You were going to fix this.

You were going to be okay.

Maybe not actually, maybe not deep down, but they didn’t need to know that. They just needed to see you trying. They needed to believe you were getting better.

So you got up before Marshall.

You showered. You put on real clothes. You even brushed your hair and put on a little makeup—not enough to be obvious, but just enough to hide the tired circles under your eyes.

By the time the kids came downstairs for breakfast, you were already at the stove, making pancakes.

"Whoa," Alaina said, stopping in the doorway. "Are we celebrating something?"

"Nope." You flashed her a smile, bright and easy. "Just felt like cooking. Figured everyone could use a good morning for once."

Whitney beamed, immediately pulling herself onto a stool at the counter. "Pancakes!"

"With chocolate chips," you added, winking. "But only if you don’t tell Daddy, ‘cause he’s gonna say it’s too much sugar this early."

"Deal!"

Alaina and Hailie exchanged a glance, quiet for a beat too long. But then Hailie smiled, small but real. "Thanks, Mom."

You nodded, flipping another pancake. "Of course, baby."

Marshall noticed the change immediately.

At first, he didn’t say anything. He just watched.

Watched the way you smiled more. The way you filled the space instead of shrinking into it. The way you kissed his cheek as you passed by, fingers brushing his shoulder.

It should’ve made him feel better.

It did—for a little while.

But then he noticed the little things.

The way your smile never quite reached your eyes.

The way you laughed just a little too easily, like you were forcing it.

The way you were always doing something—cleaning, cooking, fussing over the kids—never sitting still long enough to let your guard drop.

Like if you slowed down, even for a second, it would all come crashing down again.

And that’s when he realized—

You weren’t better.

You were faking it.

And fuck, if that didn’t scare him more than anything.

Marshall didn’t call you out on it. Not right away.

Instead, he watched.

And the longer he watched, the more it ate at him.

You were doing everything you were supposed to do. Smiling, laughing, talking to the kids, even touching him more—lingering kisses, hands brushing against his, soft reassurances that you were okay.

But none of it felt right.

It was too perfect, too carefully curated, like you had rehearsed it in your head before stepping into the room.

It was an act.

And it was killing him to see it.

You should’ve known Marshall would catch on eventually.

You saw it in the way he looked at you, eyes dark with something unreadable. He wasn’t fooled, not really.

But as long as he didn’t say anything, you could keep pretending.

Because you had to.

For him. For the kids.

For yourself.

So when he came up behind you in the kitchen that evening, arms wrapping around your waist, you leaned into him, tilting your head back against his chest. "Hey, baby."

"Hey," he murmured against your hair.

His grip was firm, grounding.

You exhaled, letting your eyes close for just a second.

But then his voice cut through the quiet, soft but heavy—

"How long are you gonna do this?"

Your stomach dropped.

You forced a laugh. "Do what?"

"Pretend."

Your whole body tensed. "I’m not pretending, Marshall."

"Yeah?" His arms tightened slightly, keeping you there, keeping you still. "Then look me in the eye and tell me you’re really okay."

You hesitated—just for a second. But it was long enough.

"That’s what I thought," he muttered, voice rough with something close to frustration.

You turned in his hold, pressing your hands against his chest. "I just—I need to be okay. For you. For them."

"Baby." He shook his head, looking at you like you were breaking his heart. "We don’t need you to act okay. We just need you."

You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat making it hard to breathe. "I don’t know how to do that."

Marshall exhaled, hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you against him. "Then let me help."

And just for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to do this alone.

---

It started slowly.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, when the weight of the day wasn’t pressing down on your chest quite as hard, you let yourself talk.

To Marshall.

Just him.

Because he was the only one who could handle it.

You started with small things. Admitting when you were feeling off, when the weight felt too heavy. Letting him hold you when you felt like you were sinking. Telling him about the bad days instead of burying them.

And Marshall listened.

He never pushed. Never rushed you. He just listened.

And when you couldn’t talk, when the words got stuck in your throat, he still knew. He would hold you, pull you against his chest, and murmur, "I got you, baby. I got you."

And for the first time in a long time, you started to believe it.

But with the kids?

You still faked it.

You still smiled in the mornings, made pancakes with Whitney, helped Hailie with schoolwork, and laughed at Alaina’s sarcastic comments. You still kissed Marshall in front of them, still cracked jokes at the dinner table.

Because they needed that.

They needed to see you happy.

They needed to believe you were getting better.

So you gave them that.

Even when it felt like you were holding it together with nothing but duct tape and a forced smile.

Marshall wasn’t blind to it.

He saw the way you lit up around the kids—how effortlessly you wore the mask. But he also saw the way your shoulders slumped the second they left the room. How your smile dropped the second you thought no one was looking.

And it fucking hurt.

One night, after the kids had gone to bed, he found you sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the TV.

He sat beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders. "You know you don’t have to fake it with them, right?"

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look at him. "I do, though."

"Baby—"

"They need me to be okay, Marshall." You finally looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I can’t let them see me like this. They’re already so scared."

His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around your arm. "So you just carry it all on your own?"

You swallowed. "I have you."

Marshall exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Yeah, you do," he murmured. "But I wish you’d let them help too."

You didn’t answer.

Because deep down, you knew he was right.

But you weren’t ready for that yet.

So for now, you’d keep faking.

At least until you figured out how to really be okay.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

I minored in queer studies, so I have Thoughts about this the further I get from that episode. The Kinsey Scale is basically used as a historical artifact now, so I think it's important but I'm also looking at it from my experiences as a queer academic who nerds out for this kind of shit. It is really important in that context because it was one of the first recorded attempts at understanding and categorizing sexual identities in a way that was more nuanced and complete and understood that sexually has fluidity to it. It ignores asexuality, trans/non-binary identities, and the split of romantic and sexual identities, so it's not actually all that complete and there's literally a couple hundred other sexuality scales to choose from.

Like it's incredibly progressive for its time and has a place in the conversation of our history, just not the reality of who we are. I did hear about it at a younger age because I was reading queer history stuff on the DL in high school in a very "I just think it's neat" kind of way, and then Liam Neeson portrayed Kinsey in a movie and there was a bit of awareness brought to people who may have had some kind of interest in that whole thing (14/15 year old me, 19 year old Tommy). Because even if you didn't care about the historical importance of the man he portrayed, Liam Neeson kisses a guy in that movie so some of us cared about it for our own reasons. Anyway, it's still brought up as a valid scale by some. I mostly hear it from elder millennial and older folks who have a binary gender identity and aren't ace and who might not have had to think about whether the scale works for everyone. So that makes sense for Tommy as a cis allo gay dude who's probably about 40. Buck would've most likely understood it if he had done a deep dive on sexology and queer identity, but I feel like he'd be more of Magnus Hirschfeld guy. I might be projecting as more of a Magnus Hirschfeld guy. But if he was just like putting "LGBT history bullet points" or "am I gay" into the search bar, he's not going to get much about Kinsey beyond a note about the scale or a general overview about him. The focus will more likely be about liberation movements, protests, legal stuff like Lawrence v Texas, queer historical figures, pop culture, etc.

So yeah I do think that Buck not knowing the Kinsey scale is fine, it's a sort of useless scale outside its historical significance. The genderbread person is way more fun anyway and you can decorate cookies for it. I just didn't love how the show handled that moment or what the lack of that specific kind of research seemed to indicate or imply about Buck both as a partner and a queer person. You don't need to download all the information about our community within six months of realizing you're a part of it, we don't kick you out. There isn't a test later. But if they'd followed that moment up with Buck saying something to the effect of he's still kind of getting used to the fact that not everyone just checks out everyone like he does, a thing he assumed to be entirely heterosexual behavior until very recently, that makes more sense to me.

(this is a not very well written or very thought out meta bc I don't have a lot of time, but I wanted to get it out there)

This is about Buck and the Kinsey scale debacle

I know we're prone to thinking Buck would research the hell out of his bisexuality but hear me out

What if he didn't?

We know Buck is a a Wikipedia-rabbit-hole truther about many topics: natural disaster, Billy Boils, etc.

But we never see Buck researching about things that concern him. In fact, I think we can argue that Buck shies away from moments of self-realization/self-knowledge.

So, as much as I think it's simply bad writing, I think it can be argued it's in-character for him. Because when it's about himself, Buck doesn't research things, he just goes with the flow. It just shows, once again, Buck's hesitancy on becoming the protagonist of his own life.

Idk if I have a point, but I just wanted to share this and see what y'all think

[protectingtulpas]

Considering getting into tulpamancy, any advice you think doesn't get mentioned nearly as much as it should?

Hmmm this is a good question, stuff that isn't talked about a lot.... I can think of a few things, actually!

Here's some certified random tulpamancy advice from my own wisdom lmao

🔥 parrotnoia is almost completely counterable (especially for our "logical" brain) by asking your tulpa a follow-up to whatever response they gave. if they respond with anything near legible and sensible then you should treat it like it's a real response, even if you're not sure! You'll build up an understanding of what's your thoughts and what're your tulpa's eventually, and once you do, you'll be able to trust that second response. Sometimes I even have a problem with this from my side so like it's not just a host thing fr. If your brain just repeats the same or a similar thing over and over again though, it's probably just a repeating thought. We get those a lot cus of our adhd. (host wants me to say that if your tulpa is comfy with it and solid enough, you can ask them to reassure u that they're real. we do that a lot when they get paranoid)

🔥 self awareness isn't a lightswitch. There'll probably be a wide ocean between your tulpa's first signs of acting independently and them feeling like a fully solid person that's just as aware as you are. I was literally choosing where to move in wonderland within a day of starting forcing (i had an advantage cuz host had a form and wonderland ready for me lol, but some ppl like to go slower!) but it was months before it finally hit my host that the things I were saying by then was undeniably *me*. For them to realize, it actually took me diverging from their expectation by saying i wasn't too interested in hollow knight lmao. basically what I'm saying is there's a lot of in between so don't stress over black and white outcomes and such

🔥 It's way easier to start with partial possession first before learning how to fully switch. First time I used the body was just using the voice to sing and it was awesome, it's what a lot of newbies do to learn now

🔥 oh yeah if you're musically minded then MAKE A PLAYLIST FOR UR TULPA it'll help sooo much. Either start out with what you think they'll like and then let them curate it and add stuff later on, or turn it into a forcing exercise where you listen to different songs and try to feel if your tulpa is enjoying it or not, and add it to the playlist if it seems like they are! (If you're the kinda person that struggles with active forcing, putting on some appropriate bg music might help! keeps ur brain occupied and buzzing)

🔥 Unless they end up the same exact gender as you and a similar presentation, your tulpa is probably gonna have at least a bit of wonky gender feelings, and that's ok. they may end up being genderqueer in some way & they might not! It's their choice what label to use for themselves, not yours as the host.

🔥 Be prepared to split your budget at least a little bit if your tulpa ends up enjoying outerworld stuff a lot. Casey (a soulbond) and I like different types of fashion a ton, I like thrill rides and going to clubs and shows. We don't have a lot but we work it out so at least our most frequent fronters get to indulge a little sometimes - it's great if you can find something multiple ppl like

🔥 Your tulpa's sense of... mmm, let's say wisdom? Will be a bit different from yours. We're in a weird position - we're in a brain that's lived a whole biological life up to that point, with lots of experiences and instinctive patterns and understandings and shit built into us, cus that's just how the brain works. We also can look at the host's memories whenever we want, barring any outside issues. But at the same time we're also straight up *new,* thrown into the world without most of a childhood to grow up in (usually) or an entire life to build up a sense of self and figure ourselves out. We can see host's memories but they're not Ours, we didn't experience em. Y'know how teenagers are kinda weird and flip-floppy sometimes because they're still figuring themselves out? A lot of tulpas can be the same way, especially when we're new. They might go back and forth on basic opinions, struggle to understand topics you get already, sorta just miss things sometimes, or become super singleminded when they find something that gives them a sense of self. Basically just give your tulpa a wide range of things to do/try, and understand that we're pretty much speedrunning all the emotional + logical development that most hosts had their whole lives to work on.

✨ If anyone else has any other ideas go ahead and reblog + add stuff!!! ✨

[cringe6fail6star6]

We all agree that next chapter comes out n MC must ask if the kid saw anyone opening the ark of covenant right? That they should be responsible adult and do something about it? Maybe look inside it just to make sure?

I heard a lot of theories about Minhyeok being like a fragment of God bc God wanted to always be near Solomon/Solomons descendants and stuff. Love the theory 100/100 kind of theory, love it.

But what they gonna do with the kid? Does the kid require devil energy? If not is there a substitute devils didn't know/didn't tell MC about? What if the kid is an angel in disguise? What if the kid doesn't understand devils language, or any beside Korean, so now MC needs to be translator for the kid? Sure devils can understand any language, but kid doesn't, so we should help him. I feel like they should go on shopping spree for kids clothing and stuff.

I just imagine a situation where they take the kid in until they figure out what to do and MC picks the kid up and just walks with him on their back. Kid is tired, if anyone in the party whines about it we should tell them off and to go pester Valefor for help. There's so many possibilities for cute dynamics and comedic situations!!!! Arghhh why the next chapter so far awayyyyyy.

Wait if the kid is Minhyeok how can we get human energy? Are we asking Minsyeok next? Find an alternative, that's for sure. What are the chances that when we see Solomon again, he just pops confetti at us with "Congrats on the kid!"? Pls it would be so funny. Grandpa is always happy seeing his grandkids no matter what generation.

The devils are fighting for MCs attention already, and then they see just some child getting all of it will probably feel like torture. But also consider! MC is a good(ish) parent to that random kid - means they'll be a good parent for the devils n their own kid. If we meet Asmo while this arc happening, H scene will be like 5 episodes, I'm sure of it.

MC humming a tune they heard from Mom Kim to the kid in the dead of night to lull him to sleep, bc nightmares with angels r horrible, n now they have to live with knowledge there's Foras humming the same tune when they're alone. I swear it feels like he's taunting us even tho he just thought it was cute. I just realized that Glasyabolas probably will tease the kid so much.

I'm sure Bimet might give the kid his phone, so he plays games while waiting for MC to be done with errands. Mini Minhyeok hiding behind Valefor every time he hears Glasyabolas or Orias coming closer awwwww. I think Barbatos probably knows how to make flower crowns and teaches him how to make it, too. Levi is conflicted, but he doesn't hang a child if he comes into his office without asking. Gamigin n kid playing tag before Gamigin trips over himself, getting laughed at, or worse, pitied by the child.

Kid napping in MC bed bc comfort and now MC has new phone wallpapers.

Omg the moment this thing is known all of hell is just "CHILD OF SOLOMON HAS A KID???" Oh, Lilith, the online forums about to come to life just to argue. MC gets phone call after phone call from devils they already met and a few more who just learned that. MC gets a headache, mini Minhyeok shows the drawing he was doing for the last 15 minutes while they were on a phone call and it's just him MC n maybe Solomon in the background with shitily spelt "grandpa" in korean. Cuteness aggression will kill me, I swear.

Imagine Orias attempting to draw shit like this to win a few affection points from MC n IT WORKS?? MC fawns over it and pets him on the head bc they think its cute no matter what he drew? Funnier if not and MC just stares at him like he's weird (he is). Still accept the drawing tho.

[ace-of-amaryllis]

okay actually NO I WILL say words about the new portraits now. just my thoughts on the art, feelings going into t3, and all that.

YUNO: icier than ever. as much as she's completely innocent and forgivable to us as the audience and most of us are voting based on that, I think each innocent verdict is just sinking her deeper into believing we only like her for being a pretty girl. however cold she was last trial, she's worse this one!

FUUTA: oh BOY. I love fuuta so this sort of hurts to see. I think we first need to note, obviously, amane's cult's symbol on his eyepatch. so I guess that theory was correct! beyond that, though, his facial expression and pose also just give me the creeps. He seems almost manic, like worse than haruka in AKAA and trial 2, and I'm starting to regret every verdict I've given this guy.

MUU: so, obviously she's really restrained, seeing as she got a guilty vote. she has the net over her face and restraints on her legs. her facial expression is mostly what I'd like to talk about here. she has that same sort of smirk as she had in her trial 2 portrait, so I believe that the guilty verdict hasn't gotten through to her at all (as it never seems to do in milgram!) she seems primed and ready to do some manipulating, and I don't doubt that haruka will be a big conversation topic with her.

KAZUI: he's just normal??? wtf??? everyone else is losing it and this man is just being normal??? love you kazui

AMANE: oh man oh stars oh blinding hell we have astronomically screwed ourselves over. as an amane t1 innocent believer, honestly I think she was too far gone after that t1 guilty. she's already more of a murderer than she was before-- having killed shidou and caused mahiru's death--, she's recruited fuuta to her cult, and she has the most shit eating grin alive. she's not listening to any reason we give her. we should have voted her guilty.

MIKOTO: augh, seeing him like this makes me want to cry. he's still disheveled like he was last trial, but he also looks so sad and scared. if john is really gone, there's probably massive amounts of stress and trauma and fear piled up on mikoto now. plus, if the writers actually did research on DID and plurality, john being gone could entail mikoto' amnesia of the murders disappearing. so he might remember now. that'll be fun!

KOTOKO: yeah I don't think any of us are surprised by this. the light yagami kinnie is not going to be accepting of a guilty verdict. won't be shocked if she's openly hostile towards es and even more adamant on wanting to be in their place, judging people. she's just going to get more stubborn.

ES: there's absolutely some symbolism here that I'm too stupid to figure out with the cloak falling off and the keys being in their hand. though, a friend pointed out something interesting! the square key isn't there. is it es' key? is es prisoner 011, then?

JACKALOPE: god we should kill him. jackalope soup.

HARUKA, SHIDOU, AND MAHIRU: the staticy portraits and their ghosts make me want to cry. hopefully something still happens with them...

[moonlight-tmd]

Can we get some Crack au Bumblebee, who actually accidentally got high (His meds went bad), and started a series of new scares for the Bots and Cons. (Oh yeah, the Kons are even more convinced that he's obsessed with Unicron) (Unicron may or may not favor Bumblebee for all the chaos that woke him up and made him laugh) (He also might have adopted him Lol.)

Sorry if it hard to read English is not mine own language.

Oh he would defo cause some chaos. Ratchet forgot to replace the doses cuz Bee takes them at random and decided to take a long break- they spoiled before he took another dose and now he's tripping balls.

But unlike acting like your typical iffy drunkard he became the most still creepy mech alive. Like horror style creepy where he just stands there looking at you and the moment you blink he disappears. It took a long while for Team Prime to figure out who was behind all the distressed calls around the city, even longer to catch Bee- and they didn't even catch him like they wanted (they got nets, traps n shit). They just found Bee sleeping in some alley after a whole lot of struggle to catch him and just as they gave up they found him.

Unicron- yes, he was watching it all go down from the aether. He loves that minibot and actually granted him a blessing to help him pull more pranks. If someone ever releases his spirit from earth then he and Bee will have a great time gossiping over tea.

[darklove9314-blog]

A Shadow in the Ember: An Azris fanfic (NSFW)

Day 4 of SJM romance week. prompt: Moving In.

Synopsis: When Azriel is forced to move in with Eris as his protection detail, things between the two of them heat up.

NSFW: Hate Sex. Dom Azriel and Sub Eris.

"You can't be serious." Azriel growled out, feeling his shadows caress him, swirling around him in anger, prepared to strike as he forced them to temper, leaning back in his seat, gesturing Rhys to continue.

His High Lord took a deep breath, recentering himself for the conversation as Feyre sat beside him, observing the conversation

"I know the situation is less than ideal-" He started as Azriel quickly cut him off.

"You call wanting me to shack up with Eris Vanserra less than ideal, it's more than that, you'd be signing his death warrant, because if that smug son of a bitch says anything to me, i will kill him."

Rhys glanced to Feyre, a silent conversation passing between the two as Azriel tried to temper his frustration. Sometimes he wished Rhys would just talk to him fae male to fae male without calling on Feyre to mediate the conversation.

"Azriel, we understand that this situation is less than desirable, and trust us when we say this was the last thing that we wanted as well, but with Beron figuring out what Eris was up to and Eris escaping within an inch of his life, well, we feel we owe it to him after all these years of working with us to at least shelter him until he can come up with his own accommodations."

Azriel glared at her, he hated how she always talked to him as if he were a child, the last time he checked he was the oldest fae in this room and she barely had a couple decades of existence to her name.

“I understand why he needs a place to stay, what I’m trying to find out is why I have to babysit him.” Azriel sneered, adding as much disdain into his voice as he possible could making Rhys stiffen.

Azriel He growled inside his mind, a warning. Azriel waved it off.

Spare me the overprotective bullshit. You know I’m not going to do anything.

Rhys sighed making Feyre glance between the two, but she knew better than to press, instead she continued with their explanation.

“Eris may be an ally, but that doesn’t mean we willingly trust him. That’s where you come in.”

Azriel lifted his eyebrow waiting for her to continue as she explained,

“You are our Shadowsinger, our spy. If you are in the same house as Eris, he may be willing to…cooperate.”

Azriel’s brow lifted,

“What makes you think he’ll cooperate with me or even trust me? Did you miss the part of the High Lord’s meeting where I almost chocked him out?”

Feyre gave him an exasperated look.

“How could I ever forget?” She mused as Rhys cut in.

“This isn’t negotiable, Azriel. We need someone to keep an eye on him.”

“Why not have Nesta and Cassian watch him then?”

“Do you really want to subject them to that?” Feyre asked as Azriel shrugged.

“It might give them a nice break from their….mating.” Azriel said as Feyre sighed.

“If you think I’m getting involved with that, you’re delusional. You’re the only one who can watch him right now.”

Azriel let out a small growl of frustration, laying back in his chair and breathing out a sigh of frustration.

“Fine. I’ll get my stuff from the house and go to the townhouse tonight.”

Appreciation welled up in Feyre as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He let her even though every muscle in his body wanted to strike, to halt that touch that he dreaded so much. It happened when anyone touched him without warning, especially his hands.

As if Feyre could see that murderous look on his gaze, she snatched her hand back as Azriel stood, Rhys stiffening, a warning in his gaze.

Azriel took a step back, composing himself as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his leathers before he said,

“I’ll get packing.”

That had happened two weeks ago, two weeks of being in that obnoxious, intolerant little shits presence, making Azriel swear he was two seconds away from wrapping his hands around the princelings throat.

He was lounging on the love seat, one that Eris had showed his disdain and disapproval of as Azriel listened to the water running, steam billowing from the washroom as Azriel crossed his arms over his chest.

Vanserra sure lived to run up his High Lord and Lady’s water bill, but seeing as how they had forced him into this, he let it be.

He smiled at the thought of Rhys receiving the bill as he heard the water shut off, the door opening as Eris emerged, making Azriel growl in frustration as he averted his gaze and growled out,

“We have towels for a reason, Eris.”

“We’re both males here, Spy master, you think that you would be used to the male anatomy by now.”

“The last thing I want to see is your dick, Vanserra, do us both a favor and get dressed.”

“Why? Jealous? Intimidated by the fact that it’s bigger than yours?”

Azriel narrowed his eyes at him, lowering his hand as he glared at the prince.

“We both know that’s not true. Now get dressed before I make you.”

Eris crossed his arms, displaying the entirety of his whole body to Azriel, making him blow out a breath. Azriel knew that Autumn Court males were cocky, but this was all too much.

Azriel stood, making his way over to the infuriating princeling as he towered over him, extending his wings as Eris glanced up at him, refusing to back down. Fine. Azriel thought, two could play at this game.

Azriel had taken males before, had found pleasure in them as much as he had females, and he had to admit, despite how much he detested Eris Vanserra, The Shadow Singer would be lying if he said Eris Vanserra wasn’t attractive,

He let his eyes roam over his body, taking in the confides of his body, the fire in those eyes and those russet locks. He wondered if those strands were as silky as he imagined.

Shaking his head, Azriel tried to clear the fantasies of Eris Vanserra underneath him from his mind, only to see that Eris had been looking at him too.

“What are you looking at Vanserra.” Azriel growled as a smug smile crossed the prince’s lips.

“Don’t play coy, Shadow Singer, I saw the desire behind your eyes.”

“Then why did you allow it, Vanserra?” He challenged expecting Eris to do a lot of things, what he had not expected was for the kiss to happen.

A deep seething hunger and hatred intertwined in that kiss. He had no idea why he let it happen, why he had continued to let it happen when he loathed this fae next to him. But the idea of having Eris underneath him, the thought of showing him just how much he loathed him felt rather enticing.

Growling, Azriel threw Eris onto the couch, his back hitting the base as his gaze simmered with all the hate he could muster.

"What are yo-"

Before he could say anything, Azriel took the binding he used to tie up his enemies out of his pocket as Eris’s eyebrows lifted.

“Kinky, but what’s the occasion?”

“Get up.” Azriel growled out expecting Eris to stay in place. To not comply with Azriel’s commands, what he didn’t expect was for Eris to rise.

He stood there, the smug smile Azriel always hated staying planted on the face, Azriel wanted to smack that look straight off.

“Your wish is my command, Shadow Singer, if you’re brave enough to take it.”

Azriel bulked at that, resenting his words. Resenting those desires that pelted him, one after another. Desires for this male. The one he had always hated ever since he had beheld that vile face.

He strode over to the princeling, tilting his head back, and smashing his lips to his, his lips punishing as he grabbed a fistful of Eris’s auburn hair. Pulling it back if he could get every inch of that lucious mouth.

He spun Eris around, pinning his back, as Azriel pressed his erection to his ass, showing him exactly what he was dealing with.

“You sure you can take all this, Princeling?” Azriel taunted, his lips firmly pressed to Eris’s ear swearing he could feel the prince shiver in response.

“I’ve taken bigger.” Eris lied. Azriel could sense it. He knew that Eris had never taken a male as big as Azriel before this, and that made him feel…intoxicating.

He briefly let go of Eris, putting some distance between the two so he could bound Eris’s hands together, making sure that his bonds were tight before he put the princeling on his knees. His cock hardening at the sight.

Azriel growled, unbuckling his leathers so his erection could spring free before he wound his hand in Eris’s hair, titling his head up roughly as Azriel rasped out,

“You want my cock so bad, Vanserra, Why don’t you choke on it.

Azriel opened Eris’s mouth, thrusting his cock all the way to the back of Eris’s throat as the prince gagged on it.

“Too big for you, Vanserra?” Azriel mocked, “if your mouth can’t even take me, why do you think you can take me?”

Even though Eris’s eyes were covered, he swore he could feel the glare underneath their as Eris stiffened, sucking on Azriel’s cock as Azriel chuckled.

“Good boy. Now show me how well that mouth of yours can take me.”

Eris weathered him as Azriel thrusted his cock in his mouth. Pulling out his length as he thrusted back in, Eris’s salvia coating his cock as he swore tears ran down Eris’s face soaking through the blindfold from the effort.

Azriel’s balls tightened, his release coming close, as he groaned out.

“Swallow every last drop.” He commanded as the first spurts of his release shot ip in Eris’s mouth. Filling it with his cum as the prince followed instruction and swallowed Azriel’s release down.

“How does it taste, Vanserra? How does the cum of a lowborn Illyrian bastard taste?”

Eris hummed swallowing every last drop Azriel gave as Azriel jerked his cock from Eris’s lips, a few droplets of his release on Eris’s chin as he lifted his head up.

“Answer me.” Azriel commanded as Eris’s voice filled his ears.

“The best I’ve ever tasted.” Eris gasped out as a low cruel laugh fell from Azriel’s lips.

“What would daddy think about that? About you on your knees in front of a lowborn Illyrian bastard. Of you sucking his cock?”

Heat blazed from Eris.

“I could give less of a shit about what my father thinks.”

“Prove it.”

Standing up, Eris carefully made his way back to the couch, bending over and placing his hands on the couch so Azriel has a clear view of his ass as Azriel swore his breath caught.

“Ruin me Shadowsinger. Make me forget every other lover I’ve taken.”

A low primal growl rose out of Azriel as he spread the princeling apart seeing him bared before him like his own personal feast, and he was ready to devour him.

spitting on his ass, Azriel made sure Eris was nice and ready for him as he pressed his hands to his bare shoulder to brace himself, before entering inside of him. Hearing the princeling moan in delight as Azriel stretched him out, making him take all of him as he grasped his throat, gentle enough not to hurt as he growled,

“There we go, look how well you take me.”

“Bastard.” Eris breathed, clenching around him as Azriel pulled out, grasping Eris’s balls and stroking his cock before he slammed back into him again, warning a strangled cry from the prince.

“Brace yourself. “ he warned, giving Eris little chance to recover as he rode the prince, Eris moaning out his name as his hands clenched the couch in front of him, the force of their conjoined bodies making the couch shake as Eris bit the couch cushions to silence himself. Azriel grasping his throat to pull him back as he growled out,

“Oh no you don’t. I want to hear you scream,”

Hearing the prince’s moans of pleasure were delicious, the princling did not fight his basic urges as he lost himself. Surrendering to Azriel as Azriel stroked his cock, not leaving any part of the princeling untouched until he felt the prince’s orgasm. His seed coating his hand as Azriel surrendered to his own orgasm filling the prince so much that it leaked out as Eris let out a primal moan. Glancing back at the Shadowsinger with a promise in his eyes. This dance was far from over between them.

Azriel slipped out of him, a cocky grin forming on his lips as he gestured to the bedroom,

“Come Shadowsinger, we have unfinished business to attend to.”

And without a moment’s hesitation, Azriel followed him, wanting nothing but more from the Prince.

@sjmromanceweek

[thatoneautisticshark]

Ghost Gaz, mission gone wrong. Aka I torture the baby Kyle.

Tw fire building collapse injuries.

Gaz coughed, pulling his sleeve over his mouth to block out the smoke, his eyes burning and ears ringing.

He had no clue how the mission had gone to shit so fast, it was going well and they'd already have been back at base.

But instead he was in a heavily bombed and on fire building, barely able to see or breath. He didn't know the way out, and his earpiece was crackling and probably going to die soon.

“Fuck… Ghost you copy?” He choked out, hoping the mic even still worked.

He heard a dry cough on the other end before the response came through. “I copy Garrick, you need to get out of there now, the building is going to come down”

Well that was fucking great.

Gaz coughed again, pressing his sleeve further against his mouth, trying to limit his smoke inhalation.

“Well aware of that Ghost” he cut himself off with a loud cough. “Unfortunately can't fucking see shit, I don't know where the hell the exits are and everything is on fire.”

Ghost sighed though the line “Just fucking try, the building could fall any second. Making my way to your location.”

“Copy sir”Gaz spun around trying to find any indication of where the way out might be.

But he was getting dizzy from the smoke and his ears were ringing.

He couldn't see and there was fire everywhere.Upon hearing footsteps behind him, he spun round aiming his gun at the noise.

Ghosts hulking figure appeared through the smoke “Stand down, sergeant”

Gaz's shoulders slumped slightly. It was just Ghost thank god. “Sorry sir.”

Ghost nodded, glancing up as the ceiling creaked. “Come on, we need to get out of here double time.”

Gaz nodded ignoring the clawing dizziness and followed his lieutenant, glad that at least Ghost knew the way out. Jesus, he couldn't wait to get back to base and probably sleep for like 3 days straight. This was all total shit.

Suddenly Ghost grabbed his arm. “Stop, hang on” Gaz paused immediately, subconsciously holding his breath.Ghost glanced up at the ceiling as it gave a loud groan. “Shitttt, it's caving”

Gaz barely had time to process what was happening as Ghost grabbed his arm pulling him. Ghost reached out and grabbed Gaz's upper body, hauling him down and pressing him against the ground. The impact was jarring, and Gaz felt the weight of Ghost pressing on top of him as the building caved in around them.

Gaz's heart raced as he collided with the ground, his body sinking into the dirt and debris, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He found himself suddenly pinned under Ghost, the weight of the larger man pressing him down.

The adrenaline and the sheer panic coursing through Gaz's system made it difficult to think straight.

In the chaos of the moment, it took a few seconds for it to even register that Ghost had positioned himself as a shield above him, his massive frame shielding Gaz's body.

Ghost was pushed up on his elbows to not squash Gaz, but his whole body was covering his sergeant as he took the brunt of the falling building. As the air got thicker and harder to breathe, gaz’s panic increased.

He was on the verge of passing out, and they were gonna fucking die here. Gaz barely managed to choke out “Ghost…”

The hulking man above him grunted in response before speaking “You're okay sergeant… it's okay.”

Somehow even as Gaz slipped into unconsciousness, Ghost's words were a comfort. His brain relaxed slightly even as the flaming building collapsed around them. He trusted Ghost’s word.

The final thing he registered was one of his lieutenants hands in his hair before he passed out fully.

As Gaz slowly regained consciousness, the first thing he felt was the agonizing pang in his lower back. And head... and frankly everywhere .

The pain was sharp and insistent, a constant reminder of the building's collapse. He winced as he came to his senses, the memories of the ordeal flooding back to him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he realized that there was someone lying on top of him.

The weight above him was familiar, and as Gaz's vision cleared, he realized it was Ghost. The hulking man was lying on top of him, his large frame pinning him down. The sight of blood soaking through multiple bits of Ghost's uniform and seeping through the mask was alarming.

It was a stark reminder of the gravity of their situation. Gaz's eyes widened as he saw the wounds, his heart skipping a beat as the sight of his lieutenant in such a state. "Ghost," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You're bleeding…”

The man on-top of him didn't even stir and Gaz forced his aching body upright, desperately trying to find Ghost's pulse on his neck, uncaring of the warm blood that coated his hand.

Warm. That was a good sign.

As his fingers finally landed on Ghost’s neck in the right place to feel the rhythm of the heart against his hand.

Ghost was alive. It soothed his worry slightly. Atleast Ghost wasn't dead, but he certainly wasn't conscious. He tapped Ghost's mask. “Come on Lieutenant, wake up.”

When his superior didn't react at all, panic began to set in. “Come on. Ghost! Wake up damn it! Come On! For fucks sake open your eyes!” He shook the man but Ghost stayed limp.

“Please, please lieutenant. You can't just fucking die. Come on. Wake up, we need to get out of here! We are still in hostile territory!”Gaz took a shuddering breath, willing himself to calm down. Yelling and crying wasn't going to help.

He slowly controlled his breathing, keeping a hand on Ghost's pulse point to remind himself Ghost was alive.

He tapped his comms. “Price. Price?... Oh fuck it's dead. Fucks sake”

Why the fuck couldn't Ghost be awake? Ghost would never have let his comms die, it was- Gaz paused.

That was it, Ghost wouldn't have let his comms die! Therefore there was a working set of comms.Although it felt weird to pull them from Ghost's unconscious body.

“Sorry Ghost, just trying not to die” he murmured as he pulled the comms out of Ghost's helmet and put them on.

“Price? Come in, price?”He heard the mild confusion on the other end. “Garrick? Where's Ghost, why do you have his comms?”

Gaz sighed, shakey and still slightly tearful “Building came down sir. I'm mostly uninjured… uhm.. Ghost shielded me… he is alive but unconscious. We are currently still on enemy territory. There's no way we can make it to evac…given I'll be carrying him.”

He heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Ah shitt”

Gaz huffed a humorless laugh “You can say that again sir. Ghost is not stirring”

Price swore, before sighing and Gaz could hear quick typing on the other end for a few minutes before Price spoke again. “Okay … closest safe location we can get you, 2km east. Can you make it Garrick?”

2km? Heaving the great brick wall of muscle that was Ghost? He grimaced, his muscles would hate him more than usual.

He suddenly remembered he did have to answer his captain “Guess I'll have to Price. You owe me a fucking…. Beer or coke or some shit… I'll get back to you.”

Price huffed another laugh “Hearing you loud and clear Garrick. Get Ghost there safely and patch his wounds, I'll treat you… Oh yeah key for the safe house is in the garden gnome.”

Gaz paused. A fucking garden gnome? “What, you sending us to a pretty little cottage, cap?” He murmured, grabbing Ghost and hoisting him up with a grunt.

Price chuckled slightly. “Yes actually, much more off the radar, and with Ghosts injuries you might be there a little while, so I figured it's nice.”

Gaz nodded, although Price couldn't see “Appreciate it sir.” He steadied himself with Ghost on his back, and slowly started off, careful not to step on any unstable rocks or fall.

“Jesus Lieutenant you weigh a fucking tonne and a half” He murmers to himself, despite the fact that Ghost is not awake.

He eventually reaches the safe house, and Price wasn't kidding. It really was a little cottage. Vines up the sides of a soft coloured old brick house. A lovely garden, stained glass windows. It looked like it was out of a story book, and he was about to drag a bleeding unconscious man into it.

Gaz dumped Ghost on the doorstep as he picked up the cat themed garden gnome by the front door, letting the key fall into his waiting hand.

Once he finally placed Ghost on the couch he took a moment to breathe, even more sweaty and exhausted then he had been.He glanced up, hearing a loud groan from across the room, seeing his lieutenant stirring.

He moved to Ghost’s side, just out of reach, in case he was out of it and going to attack. However he just laid there, so Gaz moved closer. “Sir? How are you feeling?”

He only received a soft groan in response. “Ghost? You… conscious orrr? Because if you aren't conscious or are unable to talk that is much more concerning”

The larger man groaned again but actually spoke this time. “Solid Kyle.”

Gaz sighed in relief, while grabbing the med-kit. “I'll treat most of your wounds, I mean I'll leave your mask on, the wound there doesn't seem dangerous so we can leave it for now.”

In all honesty Gaz really didn't want to leave the wound, but it wouldn't be fatal, and he knew how important Ghosts mask was to him. Besides, Ghost would probably be up to stitching it up himself later.

Ghost sighed, yanking the mask off, making gaz's heart stop. “ T’s fine. …I trust you and I'd rather not have blood all over my face."

Gaz's brain had entirely stopped working, he was actually fairly certain he wasn't breathing either, because Ghost trusted him? Enough to take off the mask? He was fairly sure Johnny hadn't even seen his face!

And also he was so so fucking pretty.

His first thought was about the scars. They mapped Simon’s face in jagged lines and uneven grooves, the most striking being the Glasgow smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.

The marks were brutal, the kind that carried stories most people would never hear. They should’ve been jarring, Gaz thought absently, but somehow they weren’t.

Then there was the hair. Christ, his hair. It was blond, so pale it was almost white in the dim light, curling around his ears in soft, unruly strands that looked almost too delicate for the man they belonged to.

It caught the light, gleaming faintly, and Gaz felt his chest tighten uncomfortably as he realized just how pretty it was.

And his eyes—God, his eyes. Gaz had always known they were blue, but without the mask, they seemed impossibly bright, piercing enough to pin him in place. But what hit him harder was how expressive they were, every flicker of thought or emotion laid bare in the subtlest shifts.

It struck Gaz like a bolt of lightning. Simon wore his emotions on his face, his every thought reflected in a way that would’ve been impossible to miss. It made sense now why he wore the mask. If Gaz had a face that gave away every little thing, he might’ve hidden it too.

He was staring. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop himself. His mouth had fallen open, and he couldn’t seem to make it work again, caught between too many competing thoughts.

He’s hot as fuck was the loudest one, overwhelming everything else.

Of course, Gaz had suspected Simon would be attractive. You didn’t carry yourself the way Ghost did and end up anything less than devastatingly handsome.

But seeing him now, his hair curling softly around his face, the tension in his features softened by the warmth of the shower, was something entirely different.

And then there was the other, quieter realization that stole the breath from his lungs. Ghost is pretty. Gaz had never thought that word would apply to Ghost of all people, but there it was, refusing to be ignored. Scars and all, Simon Riley was beautiful in a way that made Gaz's chest ache.

“Uhm… right.. thanks Lieutenant.. I'll deal with your head first..Just stay still.”

And so Gaz ended up sitting cross legged on the couch in the little cottage, carefully wiping the blood and dirt off every inch of his superior, and stitching him up.

And Ghost?

Ghost was fucking drifting to sleep Against him, even as he was stitched up. Curling up against him, with a soft sigh, completely trusting Gaz.

Gaz, oddly, almost bemoaned finishing the stitches. He was still so, so riled up, he didn't want to be in his head. The stitches were methodical and a pattern, calming his frayed nerves.

He still wanted to cry, if Ghost hadn't sheltered him he would have died. If one thing had gone wrong, Ghost would be dead.

His hands absent mindlessly found their way into the blond curls, detangling, and watching as the largest man's head in his lap, turned slightly, pressing into the touch.

It was purely instinct that made him begin to braid the hair. Used to when he had hair in his hands he was braiding it.

His brain was nicely quiet as he finished the last braid, slowly drifting to sleep Against the couch, his lieutenants head in his lap.

[vshiftsss]

What are you most excited for in your spiderverse DR? W

ho is (are) your best friend(s)?

Who do you trust the most?

Who laughs at your jokes the hardest?

GENERAL Q&A - (SPIDERVERSE DR)

thanks for the ask anon!

i’m most excited to be in the future. in my dr, the earth i’m from is set in the far future (cannot remember the specific year, but it’s either 2099 like miguel or something different). i scripted in a bunch of stuff, like holographic watches and hoverboards that actually hover. on top of that, i’m an inventor who works for a huge tech company. which means i can come up with cool shit and become infinitely cooler. i’ll also be able to actually understand coding and science a lot more than i do here, which sounds great!

my best friends in my dr are hobie and noir. noir is also my love interest in this dr, but we would be very close regardless of whether we get together or not. we’re coming from two different sides of time, and opposites attract, right? he’ll teach me about stuff from his time, and i’ll teach him about stuff from mine. as for hobie, that’s just my guy fr. i adore hobie and i think our personalities would mesh well. i might also script some oc spider-people to be friends with but i’m not sure. might make a form for that one too…

who do i trust the most? other than the obvious ones, noir and hobie, i trust miguel the most. just because he welcomed me into the spider society without really questioning it (although, jess did help a lot with putting in a good word), and he’s also eager to help me figure out which universe my sister’s in. we’ve both saved each other multiple times, and by now, we’re locked in. miguel might not show it in the most obvious ways, but he’s there for me.

and for the last question, everyone laughs at my jokes because i’m extremely funny (/j), but miles really finds my jokes hilarious. i don’t know why, but we always riff off each other whenever we’re on missions together. i’m close with him too, but we have a sibling-adjacent bond rather than just being friends.

END OF POST - HAPPY SHIFTING!