#it has such good bones but its gonna be a long road to being done with it

[che-bur-ashka]

simplicity in design is a virtue, you cretins

i'm rereading Avery Alder & Ben Rosenbaum's Dream Askew / Dream Apart in preparation to finally do some serious editing of my game of intimacy, liberation, and faggots at sea Beneath Pirate Flags. among the billion other small things i'm reconsidering as i go over the bob/ndnm fundamentals, i'm really struck by how simple both these games are — elegant in a way i think i really failed to capture in the first public versions of bpf.

i have a theory about this, and it has to do with why i think the sprawling "always another sourcebook" approach taken by a lot of dungeons & drasprawling, commercially successful ttrpgs is fundamentally weak design — but first, here's one of them fancy 'keep reading' buttons you can click on to keep this post from being six and a half miles long.

hey, welcome back. lets get into the details:

bpf makes a critical break from the original ndnm games in the way its environmental playbooks work. mine are things like "the fort" and "the map" (see images) — individual iterations of broader concepts, much like the character playbooks ("legend", "dandy", "monkey" etc) are iterations of common pirate types. there are, almost certainly, multiple "monkeys" in one world — much as there are almost certainly multiple forts.

this contrasts with Askew / Apart's setting books — things like "varied scarcities," "society intact," and "goyishe world." these are intentionally broad environmental pressures. although "society intact" may be encountered different times in different places — with different names and different faces — it is, fundamentally, the same force.

2. this isn't necessarily a thing i want to change (although there are tweaks i'll be making to just about all the playbooks) but it is real interesting to think about how bpf got here, from a design perspective. the story is simple: bpf didn't start from playing either dream. it started with me reading wanderhome, and this design is borrowed (nearly) directly from there.

wanderhome, like bpf, has players create new environmental elements again and again over the course of a campaign — from the smallest kith to the largest citadel, you might be doing generation multiple times in a single session. wanderhome handles this by simplifying, simplifying, simplifying — a trait has one picklist, a nature two, and so the process of generation is quick and nondisruptive, and you're quickly able to create a populated world without losing yourself in any particular moment of generation.

(che, i hear you shouting, you baited us in with an inflammatory claim about d&d's bad design. get to the point already. ok. i will)

one of the things i like most about possum creek games as a whole (ha, got you again) is the way they can become sprawling without ever overwhelming players. this has been talked about a lot in advance of the yazeba's release — but it's true for wanderhome, too.

where both dream askew and dream apart have just six setting elements, wanderhome has (even if you disregard the seasons and holidays) a whopping forty-eight traits and thirty-six natures. it is — despite seeming small in the shadow of yazeba's — a sprawling game, and it's only through a tremendous efficiency and elegance in design that the whole thing doesn't come bursting apart at the seams. some of that is thanks to the ndnm token economy as a whole and some of it is good writing specific to wanderhome, but none of it is possible without an ethic that prioritizes simplicity — cutting the building blocks into their smallest fundamentals, so they can fit into something huge and, more importantly, comprehensible.

this all stands in sharp contrast to what seems to be the tendency in dice- and percentage- based games (told you i'd get there eventually), who — out of a need for a bespoke, simulationist tool for every situation, maybe — have a tendency towards appendices, supplemental books, and a proliferation of minutiae. i am talking about d&d here, although i don't think it's the worst offender — i still have nightmares about the hand-to-hand system from top secret, a game my dad only recently admitted he was "basically only pretending to understand the rules of" when he ran it for my friends and i when we were kids. i'm not saying all crunchy game design is like this — honestly, i think crunchiness is a totally different spectrum from rules-complexity — but i do think that, sometimes, in an effort to feel sprawling and more importantly substantial, games become inefficient and more or less illegible. it is hard to play d&d. it is hard to hold all those rules in your head. by comparison, dream askew, dream apart, and wanderhome can held pretty easily in your head. you could probably even reconstruct some of the playbooks from the design fundamentals (act weak = gain token, act strong = spend token, evocative picklist). the most important thing about these games is that the rules are evocative and they let you stay in the fun part of play for as long as possible, interrupted as little as possible.

let me make this totally clear: the fun part of a game can absolutely be tallying numbers and consulting armor ratings, but i don't think that's the reason some of these games get so big. the real answer is: cutting shit is hard! eliminating systems is hard! saying "this is not helpful, let it go" is really tough, especially when you're left with a design document that was shorter (and by extension, whispers the awful voice in the back of your head, worth less) than you were expecting. still, it's important to remember: 'good system design' is not the same thing as 'filling as many pages as possible.', even if that's hard to accept in an industry that feels like it has to be prices and paid by the page.

how does all this affect beneath pirate flags? well, that's simple — pretty quickly in my recent playtesting, i realized that pausing mid-session to create new maps, forts, ships, and so on sucks ass. it's fun to brainstorm with friends, but the environmental generation throws off the pacing of sessions in a way the wanderhome kith stuff just doesn't. why? there's too much shit in my environmental playbooks! wanderhome has two picklists per nature and one per trait. askew & apart have just one per setting element — and you only have to do it once per campaign. beneath pirate flags has five. five! it sucks! and cutting out that unecessary shit — even if i do want to straddle the middleground between dream askew & dream apart's simplicity and wanderhome's sprawling growth — is going to be the hard first step on the long road to getting this game where it ought to be.

#ttrpg #ttrpg design #wanderhome #dream askew #dream apart #beneath pirate flags #gay pirates #rant aside i am really eager to get back to working on this game #it has such good bones but its gonna be a long road to being done with it #no dice no masters #belonging outside belonging

[rizahcwkeye]

Royai fic recommendations in honor of Royai Week 2023!

Just wanted to share some of my all-time favorite complete M and E-rated Royai fics on AO3 ever since getting into the fandom last May 2021. I have a very specific taste (??) in how I envision Royai’s dynamic when they get together, and these fics personally just NAILED it. Like I cannot stress enough how every Royai fan should read these! Without further ado...

Starve the Ego, Feed the Soul by onthearrow (95k words, E)

“Something has changed between them since the Promised Day.”

This has to be my all-time favorite. Like it’s a bit insane how good this fic is. Roy and Riza pining for each other ... in the most pathetic horny manner. Also the smut here... will leave you a bit gagged, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever read before. The author definitely did not hold back LMAO. So many moments in this fic where I had to put my phone down a bit just because I was so 😳😳😳 They have two complete Royai fics (including this one) and there’s one on the way for Royai Week 2023. I recommend to read all of it.

morning sun by hot_girl_burner_account (7.5k words, E)

“Roy walks Riza home after a wedding, and she's wearing this dress, and he might as well come up for some tea, and it's getting late, and the roads are icy, and they both run out of excuses.”

OH MY GOD if you’re looking for a fic set sometime after the promised day where Roy and Riza are just waiting for the ball to drop and immediately give in, this is it. The buildup, the context of being after a wedding.. the amount of flirting beforehand..like I know they were gonna fuck but the banter actually made me say OMG JUST FUCK!!! A sweet lil’ one shot that makes you want more.

the secret is to swallow / without expecting hunger to disappear by lantur (45k words, M)

“The fact that Hawkeye is Roy's subordinate is actually the least of his concerns. The least of the reasons why Roy keeps his distance, outside of their working relationship. It is difficult to keep his Lieutenant at arm’s length when all he wants to do is drag her closer and closer to him, pull her deeper into his orbit, but it has to be done.”

Am I the only one who loves it when Roy is pining and jealous and pathetic and he thinks his feelings are one-sided? Well, if you do too, this fic is perfect. Like... omg you’re so dumb Riza loves u !! Also I love that this is written in Roy’s POV

Once by TheFledglingDM (73k words, M)

“It was a longing like obsession, like madness, a yearning down to the bones. Once, he pleaded. Once, she prayed. Just once and I can move on. _ or - riza and roy's relationship over the years. covers childhood, ishval, the series, and post-promised day.”

HHHHHHHHH oh my god.... this fic... I read its entirety in one night! It’s basically a faster retelling of the events of FMAB except it’s entirely in Royai POV where they’re crushing and horny for each other (to specifically TASTE each other). This fic also would have an award if I gave out an award for Most Reread First Kiss, because yes it was THAT good.

First by TheFledglingDM (4.4k, E)

““So, Roy, I was thinking.” Riza said, as straightforward as if this were just another day at the office. Roy tried to speak but could barely produce volume. All he could manage was, “Uh-huh?” “We should have sex now,” Riza told him.”

Set immediately after Once by the same author. This is just sooo... exquisite I fear... Roy is so eager to please and honestly I get him! This can be read as a separate one-shot but honestly the 73k buildup in Once just makes the reading experience for this fic just 100x better

darker than the ocean, deeper than the sea by yourendlessblue (8.9k, E)

She looks up, and meets his eyes, blinking wide at him and demurely smiles, putting on a silent show. There’s power in this, she thinks, that she can affect him practically just by existing.

“Sir?”

“Havoc’s going to pick you up to our room,” he says, perfectly composed and prim. “I’ll see you.”

Roy is a sugar daddy. They both have feelings but they don’t talk about it they just have sex LOL. The way I wish this had a prequel and a sequel!! One of those rare AUs that just makes you want more!!! I WAS LEFT HANGING!! (not really but you get my point)

let’s fantasize from the other end of the line by lantur (10.8k, M)

“Riza receives a late-night phone call from Roy.”

This fic is soooo sensual. They both know what they’re doing is wrong on so many levels but neither of them ever address it so they CAN’T seem to stop. Also the work that lantur has done for the Royai community should be applauded LMAO if I wasn’t trying to keep this list short I would link all of their fics here. 

can we always be this close by lantur (10.9k, M)

“Roy sits in the spot Riza remembers as his favorite, too - in the armchair facing the entrance. He rises as soon as she walks in, striding toward her. “Thanks for joining me tonight, Lieutenant.”

It is silly, but Riza’s heart leaps at the sight of him. He looks pleased to see her, too. “Reginald?” She raises an eyebrow. “Really, Colonel. Could you have picked a stuffier alias?”

Roy and Riza have a rendezvous, or two, during the months of separation leading up to the Promised Day.”

OK LAST LANTUR REC (and last fic for this list) but oh god... this is so sweet and tender and UGH... that first kiss made me feel so warm!!! this fic is more emotional than horny.. but it’s so well done!

HOPE YALL ENJOY AS MUCH AS I DID !

#royai #royai week 2023 #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #royai fic #fmab #fma

[toonpunk-game]

So what happens next?

So.

Toonpunk Second Edition is out. While I have stories to tell in the Saskatoon setting, that part of my endeavor - creating the game and establishing the baseline for what its fiction and gameplay looks like - is, broadly speaking, “behind me”. I’m still going to fund and add more illustrations to fill out some missing spaces - that’s gonna take time, that’s gonna take multiple revisions of the PDF, but it’s all fairly easily done.

So here we arrive at the question: what’s “Next” for Toonpunk? 

Well, at risk of sounding a little like a carnie...you ain’t seen nothin yet. Toonpunk, as you know of it, has only ever been a preamble. The Saskatoon setting is just a foundation. For years I’ve known what I wanted to do next, but I just had to get this right. 

Before I can answer that question in detail, I gotta tell you about a tiny patch of land in central Alabama. 

The bounded area here - that weird little polygon - is where I’m from. I was born here. I’ve lived my entire life here. I’ve spent less than a cumulative two months of my life anywhere else. More than 99% of my life has been spent in this unremarkable subrural sprawl. I’ve watched the city expand and contract; I’ve watched the farmlands get shaved away and I’ve seen the buildings grow tall and then become rubble again. I’ve seen people come here seeking fortune and leave to seek it again. And I’ve come to live it all, as anyone loves their home. I love the long hot nights and the obstreperous Summer storms; I love the strange people and their bizarre customs; I love the rich forests and the undulating hills, where the roads wind so circuitously they at times seem noneuclidean. 

There’s between two and three hundred thousand people in this red polygon.

We, and it, are being erased.

We’re being erased by inches, the same way most people like us are. Year after year the thermometers keep rising and our politicians keep enacting more and more brutality against us. We, a hopeless people, prostrate ourselves before a system that we know hates us. Some of us have families that have been here since the time of our ancestors - when they were dragged here in iron to make some plantation owner rich. The rest of the country pretends not to see us; and when the rest of the world does look at us, it’s with disgust. It is commonly reproduced in everyday conversation that this is a land of hopelessly backwards racists, whose impending annihilation will do the world some measure of good.

And let’s not make any bones about it: there’s some real rotten goddamn people in this place. But no more than anywhere else. Here you find a world of kind souls, who tend a needy neighbor; noble outlaws who bring charity wherever they walk; people of the forest and the swamp, who love every creature under the sun as they love their own family; punk rockers, hopeful artists; a robust queer scene; decent people who were born here, and never gave up the ship. All clapped in irons by the rule of law, as my ancestors were before us, so that we may never take our freedom nor give our kindness.

And one day - one day soon - we will all be erased. Either the heat will go up so high we can’t live here, or the sea will rise and swallow us, or the fascist genocide crusade will liquidate every one of these decent souls. And when this happens, the news will be received in Denver and Sacramento and New York City with indifference; but more than that, with relief. A great many souls will hear that Alabama and Georgia and Louisiana and Mississippi are no more, and they will mutter “good”. And that shall be the end of that.

I don’t really think it’s in my power to change that. But I won’t let it happen quietly.

All of this is to say that my next project is Toonpunk: Hellsouth. A toonpunk expansion, and setting, that takes place in and around my home state of Alabama - a monument to the strange people, beautiful places, and idiosyncratic culture that brought me to this point.

As a game, it’s a near-complete overhaul of the toonpunk core mechanics that turn it into a tense resource-management survival-horror game, where the stakes get even higher and the fights get even uglier. I’ve got some incredible things to show you already: Movie-monster inspired abilities, which players can level up by forging pacts with the creatures of the deep black; a wholly retooled damage model, where even one bullet can be deadly; expanded mechanics built around bluffing and standoffs; weather simulations and long distance travel - all wrapped up in a unique cartoon/cyberpunk setting that didn’t “fall” through the cracks so much as it was “pushed”. This is a great labor of love that I’ve been working on for years; and, regrettably - it won’t be done for a long, long time to come.

Unlike the original Toonpunk, I intend this book to feature many stories from people who live in this part of the country, from many different storytellers. It is in some ways a cairn for my homeland, erected while it’s still mostly-intact. 

I don’t know if this book will really be for everyone. But if you feel like it might be for you, and you have a story about some place in Dixieland that’s near and dear to your heart - shoot me a DM.

Stay tooned. 

#cartoon #cyberpunk #Tabletop RPG #alabama

[get-shiggy-with-it]

collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

#hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami x reader #villain!au #bnha fanfiction #tw blood #tw dubcon #hawks angst #hawks smut #bnha smut #mha smut #bee.writes

[tillidontneedfantasy]

A Track-by-Track Breakdown of Taylor Swift’s 9th Studio Album: ‘evermore’

“My collaborators and I are proud to announce that my 9th studio album and folklore’s sister record is here. It’s called evermore,” is how Taylor Swift introduces us to this album in its foreword. One might assume a “sister record” would entail b-sides, or tracks that didn’t quite make the cut for folklore, despite Taylor’s explanation that “we just couldn’t stop writing songs.” evermore’s release came at a strange time, upon the heels of the Folklore: Long Pond Studio Sessions film on Disney+, as well as 5 Grammy nominations for folklore. The world still captivated by folklore, it’s understandable why one might not consume evermore as critically. Even as a die-hard fan, I felt some whiplash by this announcement; I am still processing folklore! Hell, I’m still processing reputation!

If this was the Taylor from two years ago, this may have been a big enough fear of hers to hold off on releasing evermore. But as she explained upon folklore’s surprise release, life is too unpredictable now, and there are zero givens or guarantees. So she followed the same path this time (although making sure it fell in line with her birthday weekend). But it’s not just the strategic timing of the release that she’s thrown out the window for now, but also her mindset whilst making records. As she explains in the evermore album foreword,

“I’ve never done this before. In the past I’ve always treated albums as one-off eras and moved onto planning the next one as soon as an album was released. There was something different with folklore. In making it, I felt less like I was departing and more like I was returning. I loved the escapism I found in these imaginary/not imaginary tales. I loved the ways you welcomed the dreamscapes and tragedies and epic tales of love lost and found. So I just kept writing them.”

This is a revelation for Swift, to let the music lead her into artistic freedom, which is what makes evermore such a triumphant return. Truly folklore’s sister record, Taylor wrote evermore with the same creative team: Aaron Dessner of The National (Swift’s favorite band), long-time pal and collaborator Jack Antonoff, Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, and William Bowery aka Swift’s boyfriend, Joe Alwyn (as officially revealed in the Long Pond Studio Sessions). Additionally, former 1989 tour openers and close friends of Taylor, the HAIM sisters, join the crew, along with Marcus Mumford for some dreamy backup vocals.

The production is just as wistful and mesmerizing as it was on folklore, yet the storytelling on evermore is kicked up a notch, expanding on the topics and worldbuilding established in its sister record, with even sharper lyrics and an effective and elaborate use of alliteration. The best thing about Taylor is that no matter what she does, her masterful lyricism is always at the heart of her art, and somehow, she keeps getting better. Once again, I wanted to explore the rich stories she’s crafted in this woodsy universe. This is how I’ve interpreted the album, but I hope you find your own meaning in the songs as well.

1. willow It is fitting that the opening track to folklore’s sister album, where we wade further into the forest that is Taylor Swift’s imagination and storytelling, would center on the type of tree that is a symbol of hope, belonging, safety, stability, and healing. “willow,” one of the few more obviously autobiographical tracks on the album, is a hymn of gratitude for her man (as she wants you to know, yes, thirteen times), Joe Alwyn, and how the invisible string tethering them together pulled her to him in a time when everyone else was counting her out. Though not as present on many of the other songs later to come on this record, you can feel the lightness in her heart on this song as she embraces the way in which the willow has bent, wrecking her plans, throwing her into the water and leaving her happily lost and afloat in his current. The downward key modulation throughout the last two repetitions of the chorus is beautiful and very fitting for Swift vocally, but also sounds like the feeling of finding your comfort and settling into it, basking it in while you wait for the next place the wind pulls you. Best lyric: “Now this is an open/shut case / I guess I should’ve known from the look on your face / Every bait and switch was a work of art.”

2. champagne problems On the second track of the album, Taylor dives back into the fictional worldbuilding she began to explore on folklore. While on folklore high school relationships and dramatics took center-stage, evermore graduates from adolescence to young adulthood, not that it is any easier emotionally on the listener’s heart. “champagne problems” chronicles a rejected marriage proposal between two college sweethearts at their old dorm building. Taylor sings as the narrator, a reflective, self-deprecating young woman who jokes about belonging in a madhouse and dismisses all her turmoil as champagne problems. The term ‘champagne problems’ itself could have various meanings here: their trivial concerns, the fact that their “sister splashed out on the bottle” of champagne that they will not be using to celebrate as they had hoped, or perhaps it could even hint that excessive drinking is a piece of all the ways the narrator is “fucked in the head,” as they said. Although the person she is singing to is the one who got hurt in the story, the hurt in the narrator’s heart is just as palpable and relatable, because you only have yourself to blame when you self-destruct. Best lyric: “’She would’ve made such a lovely bride, / what a shame she’s fucked in the head,’ they said / but you’ll find the real thing instead / she’ll patch up your tapestry that I shred.”

3. gold rush On her YouTube live chat prior to the album’s release, Taylor explained that this song “takes place inside a single daydream where you get lost in thought for a minute and then snap out of it.” The daydream consists of a love story so pure that the town had never seen such a thing; it could only happen in a fantasy for the narrator. How could she possibly have the gall to call them out on their contrarian shit, or end up with her Eagles t-shirt hanging from their door, when they are so coveted by all, and when she cannot withstand the thought of even competing? She sings, “My mind turns your life into folklore / I can’t dare to dream about you anymore,” a sweet little connecting piece to this album’s older sister, effectively convincing herself out of the idea of jumping into the chaos of the gold rush because even inside her own imagination it’s too dangerous. Best lyric: “I don’t like that falling feels like flying ‘till the bone crush.”

4. ‘tis the damn season According to Aaron Dessner, Taylor had written the lyrics for “’tis the damn season” in the middle of the night amidst their Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions recording after a long night of chatting and drinking with their co-conspirator, Jack Antonoff. The lyrics perfectly encapsulate the guttural ache the track evokes. It is a tale of two people who always find their way back to one another in their hometown, which acts as the ever-returning fork in the road. The path taken, back to L.A. in pursuit of her dreams, is the one she chose and continues to choose, but whenever she returns home, she takes a ride down the road not taken, just to get a taste of what could have been, even if just for the weekend. What starts off as an icy homecoming always transforms into the warmest intimacy. The success of this track is aligned with the success of Taylor’s entire career; even with such specific details, it feels so deeply personal to the listener. You know the street you’d drive along late at night laughing, the spot you’d park the car, the person who stars in every what-if. You will never really know if the road not taken is as good as it seems, but that might be ok; sometimes, the fantasy is better than the reality, anyway. Best lyric: “It’s the kind of cold / fogs up windshield glass, but I felt it when I passed you / There’s an ache in you / put there by the ache in me.”

5. tolerate it Inspired by the novel Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, “tolerate it” is an agonizing track from the perspective of a devoted wife who polishes plates and paints portraits and waits by the door for her husband with a battle hero’s welcome, who at best tolerates all her adoration. There are few things as painful as idolization being met with indifference, when you have all this love to give to someone who just leaves it there untouched. “tolerate it” captures that desperation for the approval you know will never arrive, but you sit and watch, waiting for it just in case you’re wrong, but you know you’re not. Best lyric: “I made you my temple, my mural, my sky / now I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life / drawing hearts in the byline”

6. no body, no crime feat. HAIM “no body, no crime,” the one evermore song solo-written by Taylor, has the clearest plot from beginning to end. In the same vein as the female powerhouse country classic “Goodbye Earl” by The Chicks, Taylor is out for blood to avenge her friend, Este (named for one of the HAIM sisters). The story goes as such: Este’s husband kills her for calling him out on his infidelity, and then Taylor kills the husband and frames his mistress. The HAIM girls, who are long-time friends of Taylor’s and former touring mates, lend their vocals to reinforce the accusation on the husband and to provide Taylor’s alibi. “no body, no crime” is so far the closest we’ve gotten to a return to “country Taylor,” proving that she is still the master of a killer country tune (yes, pun intended, it had to be done I’m sorry). Best lyric: “Good thing Este’s sister’s gonna swear she was with me / (she was with me, dude) / Good thing his mistress took out a big life insurance policy”

7. happiness Written a week before the album’s release, “happiness” is one of Swift’s strongest and most reflective breakup songs. Although she writes it as though it is recent, there’s a lot of power in knowing that she’s been happily in love for four years, and that she is even better now at doing the thing that has always been best at. She is finally “above the trees,” as she sings, and is able to see it all for what it is, but her character is still in the heat of it all, trying to navigate the stages of grief when a relationship ends. We see the narrator grapple with many of those stages throughout the song. Most striking is the anger displayed in the second verse when she sings: “I hope she’ll be a beautiful fool who takes my spot next to you / No, I didn’t mean that, / sorry, I can’t see facts through all of my fury.” That section is jarring and feels like one of the most honest moments in a Taylor song, the insanely difficult emotional balancing act when we are grieving a relationship. The devastation of loss can distort our perception, and a part of that is the difficulty of understanding how multiple seemingly opposing things can co-exist in our hearts, such as happiness because of someone and happiness after them. But when you leave it all behind and finally find your place above the trees, you can find happiness after someone and also look back and appreciate the happiness they once provided. Both of these things can be true. Best lyric: “Showed you all of my hiding spots / I was dancing when the music stopped.”

8. dorothea Taylor Swift has the uncanny ability to create such developed and well-rounded characters with such little information, which is what makes her storytelling so compelling. In “dorothea,” we learn much about the title character through the narrator’s eyes, and the relationship they once had. The lyric “skipping the prom just to piss off your mom and her pageant schemes” alone tells an entire story in itself. “dorothea” is also the companion song to “’tis the damn season,” just from the other person’s perspective, which helps shine even more light on the story. The narrator of “dorothea” reveres her but wonders if she’s still the same soul in L.A. as she was back in their never-changing town. Whatever the answer, they’re still willing to support her no matter where she is, but she’s always welcome back in Tupelo by her hometown love’s side if she ever just wants to be herself rather than someone known for who they know. Besides, they’re the only soul who can tell which smiles she’s faking. And you can always return to the road not taken. Best lyric: “They all wanna be ya / but are you still the same soul I met under the bleachers? / Well, I guess I’ll never know / and you’ll go on with the show.”

9. coney island feat. The National What really started the folklore / evermore journey was Taylor’s love for The National. Taylor has cited them as one of her favorite bands for many years, and as we know, this led to her beautiful new collaborative relationship with Aaron Dessner. So it would make sense for the track written with the intention of this duet to be so well executed; you can feel the love and care Taylor put into writing this song. In her press for these sister albums, she has spoken about trying to channel frontman Matt Berninger’s writing style. But what actually happened was she just produced her own signature lyricism at its sharpest. “We were like the mall before the internet, it was the one place to be / the mischief, the gift-wrapped suburban dreams / sorry for not winning you an arcade ring over and over,” is a hall of famer Swift-ian lyric. “coney island” explores the confusion, hurt, and self-reflection when a passionate affair burns out fast because you did not prioritize that person. And to top it off, Swift and Berninger’s harmonies are achingly beautiful, transporting you right there in the story, on the bench, wondering, over and over. Best lyric: “Do you miss the rogue who coaxed you into paradise and left you there? / Will you forgive my soul when you’re too wise to trust me and too old to care?”

10. ivy Leave it to Taylor Swift to make a song about an affair sound so romantic, and so sympathetic to the narrator, that you’re rooting for adultery. “ivy” tells the tale of a woman in a lifeless marriage, likening her home with him to the tombstone that the widow in town visits each day. I like to think this is the same wife whose husband was out there building other worlds without her in “tolerate it,” because then that means she found someone who celebrates her love, who holds her pain for her, who blooms all over her; they started it, but she’s fighting for it all the way to the end, nonetheless. “ivy” showcases Swift’s gorgeous vocals and her sharp lyrics, with a melody so infectious it is bound to permanently plant its roots in your dreamland. Best lyric: “Oh, I can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland / my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I’m covered in you.”

11. cowboy like me With the beautifully blended backing vocals of Marcus Mumford, “cowboy like me” is an entrancing love story of two con artists who lost at their own game and got conned into forever with each other. She’d gone from swindling old men for their money and fancy cars to falling victim to the danger of dancing with someone who only has eyes full of stars, and she knows she’ll pay for it. “cowboy like me” is one of the most romantic tracks on the record, proving that life never plays out quite as we plan. Best lyric: “Now you hang from my lips like the gardens of Babylon / with your boots beneath my bed / Forever is the sweetest con.”

12. long story short One of the more pop-sounding tracks on evermore, “long story short” is pretty much a summary of the long story behind reputation (2017). The song is filled with various metaphors for her reputation crumbling around her, and then finally putting her defenses down to be with her lover, someone as “rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky.” It is a sweet ode to her boyfriend, and a gentle comfort to her past self that it will all work out. But it is also an oddly relatable example of how we shrug off our struggles and minimize them to just a “bad time,” when the time she is singing about was obviously something that deeply affected her (as will be further explored in the title track); but sometimes it actually feels good to just shrug it off as just a blip in your life, because at the end of the day, you survived, and that’s what counts- even if you’re not keeping score anymore. Best lyric: “Pushed from the precipice / clung to the nearest lips / long story short, it was the wrong guy. / Now I’m all about you.”

13. marjorie Whereas track 13 on folklore was a tribute to Swift’s paternal grandfather, evermore’s track 13 is a tribute to her maternal grandmother, Marjorie Finlay, who was an opera singer in the 50s, and passed away in 2003 when Taylor was 13 years old. “marjorie” is quite possibly the most touching track Taylor has ever written thus far in her career. Grief is one of the most difficult topics to tackle in a song; the genius of “marjorie” is that it is simple, yet not understated. Swift reflects on the profound lessons she learned from her grandmother, about the difficult balances of kindness and cleverness, and politeness and power. She curses herself for not cherishing the moments she had with her, for complaining rather than understanding in the moment how admirable her spirit was, for all the amber skies she’d love but will never see. The chorus, blunt and hard-hitting, reminds us that someone does not have to be living to be alive, to be all around, to be with us. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing to me now,” Taylor sings towards the end of the song, right before you hear a sample of Finlay’s opera singing in the background, a truly eye-swelling moment. It is clear that Finlay played a pivotal role in Swift’s own ambitions, as she sings, “all your closets of backlogged dreams, and how you left them all to me.” Marjorie knew she was leaving them in good hands. If you haven’t yet, check out the moving lyric video for the song, where you can see photos and video clips of Marjorie, both throughout her career and in her time with Taylor. Best lyric: “Never be so polite you forget your power, / never wield such power you forget to be polite.”

14. closure On the most experimental track musically on the record, Taylor writes off her need for closure from a relationship of some sort, whether it be romantic or platonic or business, all of which can cause hurt of equal intensity. The subject of the song is trying to make nice with Taylor, and she is just not having it, as it is not coming from a genuine place, but rather to ensure that their life remains picture perfect, or to clear their guilty conscience, or to preserve their own ego. This is a deeply relatable sentiment; as valuable as forgiveness can be, sometimes the person who hurt you just doesn’t deserve it, and all you can do is forgive yourself for blocking their number or shredding their letters. Best lyric: “I know I’m just a wrinkle in your new life / staying friends would iron it out so nice.”

15. evermore feat. Bon Iver To close out the standard edition of the album, Taylor joins forces once again with Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, with whom she collaborated on the Grammy-nominated duet, “exile” for folklore. However, Swift leads most of the track this time, lamenting the difficult time she went through in 2016. The piano and Swift’s vocals are haunting, particularly when she describes this time in her life as “catching my death,” consumed by a pain that she feels will never end. If you’ve ever been depressed, you know what that feels like, and the dark places it leads you. Although she is singing about a time four years prior, it sounds so present, and it is heartbreaking to hear her in such a state. When Bon Iver comes in, the tempo of the song picks up, the piano riff becomes more erratic, like a winter storm hitting you in the face, and he voices all the anxieties of the cost of such a downfall. But through those anxieties, Taylor finds not a cure, but an anchor in love, and then the tempo slows back down. By the end of the song, Taylor has the foresight to understand that although it may not feel like it now, the pain she is experiencing is not permanent (a sentiment my therapist has been trying to instill in me for years). In her Apple Music interview with Zane Lowe, Taylor explained how the lyrics parallel the times we are in currently, and so it feels really special to have the album end with someone who knows how it feels to be imprisoned by your pain gently comfort us with the wisdom that “this pain wouldn’t be for evermore.” I hope one day soon, as we leave 2020 far behind, we can all truly believe her. Best lyric: “I was catching my breath / barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death.”

16. right where you left me (bonus track) The first bonus track on evermore, “right where you left me,” captures a moment so earth-crushing, a piece of you is trapped in it forever. In this song specifically, the narrator finds herself stuck in the same corner of a restaurant where she was told by someone she loved that they had met someone else. “Glass shattered on the white cloth, everybody moved on,” she sings in mourning. We have all experienced those moments that we could teleport back to if we just closed our eyes; the scenery, what you wore, the smell and taste of the season, the very point in your body where it felt like your insides were collapsing. Or that one particular person, who is long-gone from your life but seeing them is like time-travelling back to that person you once were, ready to pick up where you left off. But as much as you want to stay in that moment forever, just in case it changes in your favor, the cold reality is that the world stops for no one. Best lyric: “If our love died young, I can’t bear witness / And it’s been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong / I’m right where you left me.”

17. it’s time to go (bonus track) “right where you left me” was Taylor’s cry for help to get out of restaurant, and “it’s time to go” is the answer to the call, as she sings in the first line, “when the dinner gets cold, and the chatter gets old / you ask for the tab.” This song is about gathering the strength to leave situations and relationships behind that no longer serve you. She grieves the betrayal of someone she thought to be a twin from her dreams (almost definitely referring to former friend, Karlie Kloss), acknowledges that keeping a marriage together for the sake of the kids often actually has the opposite intended effect (possibly- but not certainly- something she and her brother experienced), and recounts attempting to bargain with someone consumed by greed, only able to leave with herself (absolutely referring to the end of her fifteen-year long business relationship with Scott Borchetta, her former record-label owner). But as painful as leaving all of those situations was, Taylor has gained the wisdom to understand that walking away sometimes takes as much strength as persevering. You can’t stay at the restaurant, or at the mercy of someone else forever; you have to forge your own path, even if it’s in the opposite direction of what you envisioned for so long. And even with all her past success behind her, as folklore and evermore have proved, there is so much more ahead of her. Best lyric: “That old familiar body ache, the snaps from the same little breaks in your soul / You know when it’s time to go.”

In a time where we are all trapped in our homes and in our heads, the folklore/evermore experience has been the sweetest escape. If anything, the creation of these wonderful sister records has taught me that our most powerful tool in times of distress is our own imagination. Even just the ability to close my eyes while listening to one of these tracks and feel the character’s story is a gift. The way I’ve always been able to pick up Harry Potter and escape to Hogwarts when I’ve felt alone and friendless, I can listen to folklore and evermore when I feel scared or hopeless and escape into this enchanted forest Taylor has built, where I can climb above the trees and see it all for what it is. I feel so lucky to watch Taylor’s imaginative world unravel around me. I can’t wait to see what she creates next.

DISCLAIMER – REVIEWER’S BIAS: I would literally die for this bitch.  

#evermore #folklore #review #album review #track by track breakdown #pop #folk #taylor swift #the national #aaron dessner #matt berninger #bon iver #justin vernon #haim #este haim #alana haim #danielle haim #swift #taylor #tswift #jack antonoff #marcus mumford #mumford and sons #joe alwyn #william bowery #music #music review

[insaneoldme]

Can you rec buddie fics? Pretty please?

OMG it's my time to shine, bitches!!!

Sorry if I went a little nuts, but this fandom has some of the best writers I've ever seen. I have 186 Buddie fics bookmarked in my AO3,

I'll link here if you are interested in taking a look cause if I put them all here it would be too long. Also, I tried to show here some fics I very rarely see recced, and a little bit o the classics. This fandom has some very underrated authors, everyone in my bookmarks is worth taking a look really.

Please take a look at the warnings before reading, enjoy!!!

I Hate Accidents (Except When We Went From Friends to This) by morganofthefairies (Rated E )

Buck and Eddie had always been unconventional. Neither of them gave it much thought – they were just them. Buck and Eddie - partners, best friends, co-parents – just as entangled in each other’s lives as any actual couple in the 118.

Or, the story of how Buck and Eddie went about their relationship in entirely the wrong order.

My Heart's Been Borrowed by ElvenSorceress (Rated E)

aka the one where Taylor gives Buck his ultimate fantasy and uncovers far more than either of them expected, forcing him to confront his long held feelings for Eddie

Half Awake in Our Fake Empire by HMSLusitania (Rated E)

Buck 1.0 fathered a child and Buck 4.0 comes into custody.

Love and Bullets Both Shatter Hearts (But Only One Can Put You Back Together) (Rated E)

Agent [Redacted] Diaz is the best at what he does. Usually. But lately there's this real pain in the ass* who's been ruining his missions: Code Name "Buck."

Keep It On by R_E_R6 (Rated E)

When Eddie walks in on Buck, bent over in nothing but a hoodie, their plans for the night immediately change. Buck's outfit though? Well, Eddie requests that it stays the same...for reasons.

Heart of Flowers / Heart of Gold by ElvenSorceress (Rated T)

Buck nearly loses everything and Eddie has to follow his heart

hungry for your love by evcndiaz (Rated G)

prompt: "who’s gonna write a fanfic where chris is not cooperating with buck and eddie accidentally says “listen to your dad”?"

or; breadsticks are a metaphor for love and boning

keep your eyes on the road by iriswests (Rated M)

A glimpse into buck and eddie’s developing relationship, told through ten moments stopped at a traffic light

when things fall into place by woodchoc_magnum (Rated M)

In which Eddie asks Buck to move in with them during lockdown to help look after Christopher, which leads to certain unresolved feelings being resolved.

Carbon Date Me, Excavate Me by extasiswings, letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Rated E)

Evan "Buck" Buckley has made a name for himself as the independent bad boy of archaeology. At least, until Professor Eddie Diaz shows up with his fedora and good looks and starts beating Buck to the punch more often than not.

Buck hates his stupid six-pack covered guts.

Except for how... he might not.

Objects in the Mirror by SevenSoulmates (Rated E)

The voice had always been around, Eddie remembers it, like a stream of consciousness that babbled incoherently to the point where Eddie just tuned it out.

But then the voice started speaking directly to him. Conversing like he was a whole person standing right in front of him. Like he could see what was happening around Eddie.

Eddie shook his head. No one was talking to him, and Eddie most certainly was not talking back.

He wouldn’t talk to the boy in his head ever again. There was no boy in his head.

ripples all the way down by iriswests (Rated M)

christopher partakes in some parent trapping

dream of some epiphany by extasiswings (Rated M)

Evan Buckley is lost.

It’s happenstance that he wanders into the navy recruiting center—he’s been in San Diego for a few weeks, bartending late nights and weekends, living in a house with three other guys not because he needs the roommates but because he doesn’t want to be alone, and the military is…respectable. Stable. So Buck thinks maybe and opens the door.

Buck leaves ten minutes later with a set of printed instructions for sending his first letter, assured that he can drop it off whenever he’s ready, and a name.

Staff Sergeant Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz.

Relationship Advice from Complete Strangers Online by HMSLusitania (Rated T)

Hi, I’ve never made a Reddit post before and I’m not 100% sure what I’m doing but I need advice and can’t ask anyone in my real life. So, I [30M] have this best friend [34M]…

Leading with the Left by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Rated E)

When Buck said he was a "bartender" in "South America" what he actually meant was "stripper" in "Mexico."

And when Eddie said, "What's your problem?" what he actually meant was, "Is this about the time you gave me a lap dance?"

In other words, there's a few things the 118 doesn't know about Buck. Or Eddie. Or Buck and Eddie's relationship.

fireflies where my caution should be by littlesnowpea (Rated M)

“You never talk about your parents,” Eddie says, which is not even remotely what Buck expects Eddie to say. He frowns, tilts his head, but it isn’t a question, as evidenced by Eddie charging on. “I never asked because I figured it was your business, but the look on your face any time they’re brought up tells me you don’t get along.”

Buck swallows hard, against a lump in his throat. His parents? Eddie’s right, he never talks about them, for good reason. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, not sure what he’s even going to say.

Eddie takes it as the answer Buck is trying to make it out to be. He squeezes Buck’s wrist again, takes a deep breath, like he’s on a call with someone who’s panicking. Buck finds his breathing slowing to match Eddie’s, and Eddie nods as Buck gets it under control.

“There are people on the porch,” Eddie says, voice even. “Saying they want to meet their grandchild.”

Asked, Offered, Given, (He's) Taken by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Rated E)

People like to flirt with Buck on calls. It kind of makes Buck uncomfortable.

And that makes Eddie frustrated.

I Hit the Accelerator (But the Car was in Reverse) by extasiswings, letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Rated E)

When Buck is forced to confront the truth about his breakup with Abby, having casual sex with his hot new coworker seems like the best rebound idea.

Unfortunately, that hot new coworker turns into his best friend. But best friends can keep having sex with each other, right?

There's no way this could possibly go wrong.

Memorable by JessicaMDawn (Rated T)

Six times Buck got recognized by people he saved during the tsunami, and how his team realized he was a hero.

All Bets are Off by NobodyKnows_U (Not Rated)

Or, the five times the firefam realized Buck and Eddie were in love, and the one-time Eddie finally did something about it.

fire on fire by extasiswings (Rated T)

Or: Buck and Eddie get in the habit of sharing a bed while living together during quarantine. It's platonic until it isn't.

Better Together by Randomfandombloggs09 (Not Rated)

5 times Eddie sees Buck wearing his last name and 1 time its not just his

Daddy and Pops by EdithBlake (Rated M)

When Christopher calls Buck 'Pops' things get a bit confusing. Buck and Eddie have a talk with Christopher that ends up with both of them being even more confused by how right it sounds.

the meaning of the words you see by florenceandthemachine (Rated E)

unknown sender: Hi!

unknown sender: Just wanted to say thanks for letting me buy you a drink, and for your number. Sorry I had to run.

unknown sender: I’m Eddie by the way.

sent: hey um

sent: i don’t want 2 be this guy but

sent: i think u mayb put the wrong # in ur phone

the dream you wish will come true by woodchoc_magnum (Rated M)

In which Christopher Diaz cannot understand why his father would want to date his former teacher when Evan Buckley is right there.

vienna waits for you by mottainai (Not Rated)

Eddie doesn't deserve a soulmate.

Work Husband by hideeho (Rated T)

“What...what have you done with Buck?” Eddie is going to kill him for messing with his phone. No, that’s too extreme. He’s going to maim him. Just a little.

“Check under H,” Chim offers helpfully, shooting a look over to Hen with a smirk.

Why the hell would he be under—

Then he sees it.

Husband.

Bad Neighbors by firstdegreefangirl (Rated E)

Eddie's new neighbors are keeping him up all night. He calls on his best friend for a little taste of their own medicine.

Cross the Line by Sirencalls (Rated E)

Eddie laughs, short and quiet and almost to himself. “No. If you want to learn, then I’m gonna be the one to teach you.”

Buck is pretty sure his brain stops working. “What? Why?”

Eddie turns to look at him and steps closer, their chests only a few inches apart. “Because there are people out there who will take advantage of how naïve you are. They’ll hurt you, and I won’t.” Eddie’s eyes are so intense that Buck doesn’t have any choice but to believe him. “If you want someone to do this for you, to—to dominate you, it has to be me. I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.”

pretty in pink by dykeevans (Rated E)

Buck forgets that he and Eddie made plans to hang out until Eddie shows up and Buck's in the middle of laundry day.

His laundry day outfit consists of a small pink crop top and grey sweatpants.

Eddie loses his damn mind. Me too, though, me too.

the distance to the stars by cloudydaisies (Rated G)

“Didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

Buck just laughs. Like, honest to god giggles. Eddie is stuck fighting off doubly massive waves of butterflies and confusion, all while Buck just gazes down at him.

“That’s cute,” he hears Buck mumble, just before climbing into the truck, calling Eddie after him.

-or, everyone knows eddie is dating buck except for eddie, literally.

Something Old, Something New by dumbhuman (Rated E)

“Damn, I love weddings!” Buck’s face lit up as he closed the door.

If asked later, Eddie wouldn’t have been able to explain what came over him in that moment to make him ask the question. Or, at least, he wouldn’t have wanted to explain. The exhaustion was an easy excuse, but he knew deep down that it wasn’t a real one.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

one of the few things by thatnerdemryn (Rated G)

five times that Eddie tells someone else that Buck is Christopher's legal guardian plus one time he finally tells Buck.

I Didn't Know I Was Lonely 'Til I Saw Your Face by HMSLusitania (Rated T)

Total strangers Buck and Eddie go to couple's therapy together to get out of the therapy requirements their captains have placed on them.

things we shouldn't do by Ingu (Rated T)

“Why is everybody taking my relationship status so personally? Can’t I be fine with being single?” Buck said.

“Hey, you don’t have to say yes, be sad and alone if that’s what you want,” Josh replied. “But, I’m just saying. I’ve seen photos and this guy is volcanic levels of hot. Also, single dad, super cute kid. Saves lives for a living like you. I think you should give it a go.”

(the one where Buck and Eddie accidentally get set up on a blind date with each other, and everything snowballs from there)

Keeping It In The Family by Wolves_of_Innistrad (Rated T)

A young man shows up at the firehouse looking for Buck. Turns out Javier was a Bartender with Buck in Mexico. He’s back in LA, looking to reconnect and very flirty. Cue Eddie realizing Buck is not as straight as he thought.

kiss me (like your ex is in the room) by rebeccaofsbfarm (Rated E)

Eddie Diaz gets drunk and protective and signs up for a fake double date to get back at his friend's ex.

Leave the Light On (I'll Be Coming Home) by HMSLusitania (Rated M)

An accident on a call leaves Buck with custody of Chris after Eddie is… missing presumed.

While they navigate their new family circumstances -- and fight to stay together, despite Eddie's parents' best efforts -- a John Doe wakes up in a coma ward with no memory of his own life beyond the knowledge he has a son named Christopher and, somehow, he needs to get home

All my Buddie AO3 bookmarks

As I said this fandom has some very talented people, some of my favorite Authors's Tumblrs below, I recommend all the things they wrote and their blogs are very good.

@elvensorceress, @hmslusitania, @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels, @extasiswings

For gifs:

@arrenemris, @skylessnights (very lovely AU gifsets)

@from-nova(good gifs & content)

For Podfics: @mistmarauder everything she ever read is amazing, her podfics are high quality and she has a very lovely voice and her presence calms me down lol I recommend it

I'm sorry there are a lot more people but I'm kinda in a rush haha most of the people I follow are amazing, but the ones I mentioned here are enough to get you started or entertained for a while.

Buddie fics are amazing, this pairing has spoiled me so much, everyone I met because of it is nice and so active and talented.

Sorry mutuals if I forgot someone! 

I hope I helped Anon, have fun!

(Tell me if any link is wrong please, thanks)

#buddie #buddie recs #recs #fic recs #911 on fox #911fox #911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #ao3

[spencers-renaissance]

a touch that never hurts

Summary: a rewrite of the Tobias Hankel aftermath, in which Spencer gets plenty of cuddles and physical affection from his father figure

Tags: aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, platonic cuddling, whump, protective hotch, dad hotch, fluff, angst TW: brief mention of the non-con drug use that occurs in the Hankel arc, as well as the physical torture Spencer underwent

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid; Platonic

Word Count: 1.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Happy bonus fic Thursday :) I wrote this because I noticed how gentle and kind Hotch always is to the victims he rescues, and I was in the mood for some good, mushy Dad Hotch fluff. Title from Charles Dickens' Hard Times: "Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

When Spencer Reid falls into Aaron Hotchner’s arms — his feet whipped and bleeding, his veins throbbing with dilaudid, his body bruised and aching — he decides that he never wants to let go.

He’s spent countless hours at the mercy of three different personalities, only one of them even close to resembling something kind, and all he could think while he was tied up in that chair was how much he ached to be held and comforted by the man he trusts most in this world.

So when Hotch saves him — and he does; he sent that message directly to him and it was heard loud and clear — he can’t help that he breaks down, that he cries into his shoulder in front of the entire rescue party, that he falls apart in the most painful way possible, until he’s not sure he can ever be put back together again. But when Hotch speaks soothingly into his ear, caressing his hair with the gentle touch of a father, he thinks that maybe he can be. Maybe he’ll somehow make it out of this in one piece.

He’s driven promptly to the hospital, of course. He���d anticipated an ambulance, but apparently it’s harder than you’d think to get an ambulance to a crime scene at 3am with absolutely no notice in deep, rural Georgia.

Derek drives, eyeing him anxiously in the rearview mirror, and Spencer sits glued to Hotch, refusing to be separated from him for even a second. He considers vaguely that he should probably be embarrassed of that fact, but he can’t find the energy. Not when Hotch is sitting just as closely; seemingly matching his need to be comforted with his own need to protect.

“It’s gonna be okay, Spencer,” Hotch murmurs, a little too quiet for Derek to hear over the noise of the car engine. “I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s not entirely sure he believes him. Instead, he just burrows closer into Hotch and hides his face from the soft illumination of passing car lights and the sporadic street lights of rural Georgian roads.

He accepts the wheelchair Derek runs in to grab from the hospital because his feet are suddenly screaming in agony. When he’d had to stumble through the graveyard behind Tobias Hankel’s cabin, the adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the true extent of his injuries, but now, with the adrenaline seeping out of him like a river through a broken dam, he can feel every single fractured bone, bruised patch of skin, abused and broken tendon.

Panic immediately arises when he sits down in the chair, though. All of a sudden, he doesn’t have that connection he’s had to Hotch since he was rescued, and he’s almost instantly on the verge of hyperventilation until Hotch crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, Spence,” he says gently, patient and soothing in a way the team doesn’t often get to see. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. How about I hold your hand?”

Spencer nods, and Hotch smiles at him encouragingly before giving the nod for Derek to push the chair towards the Emergency entrance. Hotch’s hand clutches tightly at Spencer’s, and he squeezes his eyes closed against the panic, against the memories, against the fear of what’s to come, and focuses all his energy on the firm, unwavering connection he has to Hotch.

It makes the minutes that it takes them to cross the parking lot bearable, and he’s grateful for that much.

As soon as Hotch explains the situation to the ER doctor that greets them at the door, Spencer is rushed into an examination room.

“I’ll wait outside, Spence,” Derek promises. “I’ll be right here.”

Hotch doesn’t let go of his hand.

They examine his feet first, using a portable x-ray machine to find three broken bones overall. Spencer cries when he hears that. Knowing they’re broken doesn’t change how much they hurt or how scary the situation feels, but it is a tangible acknowledgement of the torture he’s just been put through, and he thinks that that’s probably enough to make most people cry.

“It’s alright, Spencer,” Hotch soothes him, laying his palm on his forehead and smoothing it over his hair gently, slowly. “I’m right here. The doctors are going to help you out.”

“The good news is that most of the fractures are fairly minor,” the doctor explains. “You’ll need a cast for your right foot since the damage to the metatarsal bones is much more significant, but most of the damage overall appears to be torn tendons and bruised muscles, which means plenty of rest and a simple brace or boot on the left foot should do the trick.”

She smiles encouragingly at him, but he barely reacts. He’s so tired. It feels like he’s not even in the room; the only tether to reality being the soothing hand in his hair and the occasional whispers of support.

They treat his feet before sending him off to a CT scanner to check that the rest of his injuries are minor enough to heal on their own, and rule out internal bleeding. Spencer cries the whole twenty two minutes, because this time Hotch can’t hold his hand. He’s stuck watching through the observation window, trying not to cry himself as he listens to Spencer’s sobs over the intercom.

Thankfully, he manages to stay still enough to ensure clear enough images of his body to confirm that rest and pain medication should take care of the rest of his injuries.

A specialist comes round to talk to him about withdrawal. He’s been moved to a room on the assessment ward, which is at least a little more comfortable than the bay in the Emergency Room, but it still feels foreign and frightening, and he’s had quite enough of that in the last few days, thank you very much. At least Derek’s been allowed to join them now. He feels safer with both of them as close to him as humanly possible.

“The good news,” the doctor starts — and God, Spencer wishes they would stop associating any of this with the word ‘good’ — “is that you haven’t taken enough doses to become truly dependent on the drug, which should make your withdrawal easier. I’m prescribing buprenorphine, clonidine, acetaminophen, and ondansetron, which when combined, should make your symptoms significantly more bearable. We do advise that you stay with somebody—”

“He’ll be staying with me,” Hotch interrupts firmly, both of his hands clasped warmly around Spencer’s as he eyes the doctor with an unwavering gaze.

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” the doctor says cheerily. It feels grossly misplaced. “You’ll need to prepare for the coming symptoms and ensure that he has no way to get his hands on more dilaudid.”

Spencer resents the doctor for saying that. He has no desire to inject more of that poison into his veins: it might have been a pleasant distraction when he was being whipped and beaten and forced to choose someone to die, but now that he’s back with his family, now that he’s safe, the last thing he wants is to keep reminding himself of that god-awful man in that god-awful cabin.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just closes his eyes to try and smother the turbulent emotions threatening to show on his face.

“That won’t be a problem,” Hotch confirms.

They wait for an hour in relative silence, Spencer enjoying the solace of a safe, quiet room with the people he considers protectors both holding his hands and soothing him when panic threatens to overwhelm him, before the discharge doctor comes round. She checks him over one last time, before helping him into a wheelchair, handing him his medication, and wheeling him towards the entrance.

Derek goes ahead once they reach the airstrip where everybody’s been waiting to go home and herds them onto the jet first to give Spencer some privacy going up the stairs.

“Are you okay for me to carry you?” Hotch asks as he climbs out of the car first, speaking gently as he has done since he rescued him.

Spencer nods. Of course he is. It means he’s even closer to Hotch.

Hotch carries him the short distance between the parked jeep and the jet before ascending the stairs as carefully as possible, making sure Spencer’s feet don’t so much as brush the railing. He sets him down on the sofa, but Spencer clings to his hand, looking at him desperately as he tries to get him to understand what he needs. Thankfully, he’s obvious enough that Hotch simply smiles and sits down on the sofa with him.

They get settled in a horizontal position, Spencer resting his head on Hotch’s chest as he revels in the feeling of safety that having both of his arms wrapped around him provides. A gentle hand finds its way to Spencer’s hair again, and he closes his eyes against the relaxing feeling, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

He vaguely hears some quiet laughter in the background, and he’s been with the team long enough to predict the raised eyebrows and teasing expressions on their faces.

“You’ve gone soft,” Derek accuses warmly, making sure to keep his voice down, and the others chuckle in agreement.

“Wait until Penelope hears about this,” JJ teases quietly.

Hotch laughs, and Spencer feels the pleasant vibrations against his cheek. It makes him feel even warmer inside than he did before. “You wouldn’t dare.” Spencer imagines the smile on his face and burrows closer to him.

“It’s a good thing, Hotch,” Emily chimes in, her voice bright and easy. Spencer really likes her. “It’s nice to see this side of you.”

“Well, you’d better savour the moment because it won’t happen again.”

He must feel Spencer’s panicked tensing, the way his muscles go rigid and his breath hitches, because he rushes to add, “unless Spencer needs it of course.” His hands resume their gentle caresses of his back.

“I’d do anything if Spencer needed it,” he murmurs, and the team might hear, but the words aren’t for them.

Spencer hears them loud and clear, and somehow — when he thought only hours ago that he might never be put back together — he falls asleep feeling calm and safe, with a small, hopeful little smile on his face.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley (add yourself to my taglist here!)

#my writing #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #cm #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #dad hotch #criminal minds gen fic #aaron hotchner & spencer reid

[rainywritingsx]

hcs: kirishima, shinsou & bakugou holding out an umbrella for reader

Request: Could i ask for hcs for Kirishima, Shinsou and Bakugou x reader where she is standing outside drenched to the bone in the rain. He runs up behind her with an umbrella that is technically built for one. To conserve space, He pulls her as close to him as possible. 💐🕊

oh my gosh this is so adorable and soft, I caaanttt, this is too much for my poor heart to handle :(((((( also sorry that this request took so long, but first I wrote it thinking you wanted scenarios, only to find out you wanted hcs when I was about to post it lol. Hope you still like it tho! Have fun reading!

xxxx rainbow

If you enjy my writing and would like to give a little tip, you can buy me a coffee!! ^^

Words:1406

Warnings: Only some slight swearing

Kirishima Eijirou

Of course, the one day that you didn’t have enough time to check the weather for the day, it just has to be pouring outside.

You had studied at school for a bit with Uraraka, who left once she was done but you wanted to stay

and of course you forgot your umbrella

you have to go home tho, so the only option now was walking through the rain

however, after a while you’re already soaked from head to toe, maybe even getting sick tomorrow

After a while there is a stoplight, so you have to stop for a moment. Can’ that damn thing hurry up?

Suddenly, you don’t feel droplets falling on you anymore. With a small frown you lift your gaze, only to see an umbrella above your head

the heck?

that’s when, in the corner of your eye, you finally notice Kirishima

who sends you the sweetest smile once your eyes meet UWU

and this baby thinks you are just the most beautiful woman on earth, even when you’re totally soaked

but then you realise he’s getting wet now

“don’t do that, you’ll get sick!”

“Y/n, you’re the one who’s completely soaked at the moment.”

damn yeah he was right

“A true man wouldn’t let a lady he knows get sick instead of helping her”

stop it or i’ll melt

btw now that kiri was getting wet too, his hair fell down, his bangs sticking to his forehead

and you almost squealed at the sight bc he looks so cute!!!!

would be better if you weren’t outside where it was raining cats and dogs rn

“What if we share the umbrella?”

“it’s too small”

well dangit he can’t get sick either

so you pout and cross your arms as you take a step so that now you aren’t under the umbrella anymore

“If you aren’t standing under it i won’t either”

this boi cannot help but smile at how cute you are right now

he’s even blushing a little

after a small silence he gets an idea finally

it can go two ways but he will still try

bc he’s brave!!

so

he grabs your hand pulls you closer

not too close, you two aren’t standing against each other but still pretty close

and you become a blushing and stuttering mess

“now the both of us will be dry!” he smiles, almost resembling a puppy

well, it’s not like you mind being this close to him

so you nod

but actually, you aren’t completely dry, your back is still outside of the umbrella

and ofc best boy notices because he cares!!!!!

“Y/n, is it okay if I pull you a bit closer?”

“YES THAT’S MORE THAN OKAY.” you blurt out when he barely finishes your sentence

can you be any more cute to him?

he couldn’t help but cutely chuckle at your answer, but he was more than happy to hold you close

Hitoshi Shinsou

okay, tbh, the fact that you are now on your own outside, where it’s raining cats and dogs, is your own fault.

I mean, you decided to stop on your way home to pet some cute kittens

Not feeling like waiting, you choose to walk through the rain

curse those adorable kittens… their eyes were literally begging you to pet them

now because of that, you are cold, wet and tired because your clothes have become really heavy at this point

after a long silence, from the distance you can hear the sound of a car

when you look up, you see a car on the road, speeding into your direction

before you know it, its tires go through a giant puddke of water

as if you aren’t wet enough

as a reflex, you flinch and squeeze your eyes closed.

you hear the water splash, but you feel nothing?

you open your eyes, and are met with an umbrella that was held out in front of you

huh?

when you look behind you you see your crush, Shinsou standing behind you

though his action was almost heroic, his expression didn’t show that at all

“I see you’ve forgotten your umbrella again.”

jeez, okay,,,

“Well, it isn’t a long walk anyway. I can handle it.” you shrug nonchalantly

uhu, like you didn’t have an inner tantrum earlier

“yeah, you seem more than happy to walk through the rain.” he says, the sarcasm dripping in his voice

this jerk-

“fine, i guess I’ll just go.” he says after receiving no response

okay no an umbrella does sound nice

so you stop him

and well, he doesn’t leave

however, it catches your attention that shinsou isn't fully dry, so you tell him that

“why does that matter?”

“It’s your umbrella, silly!”

he’s a little lost on what to do at first

bc this boi kind of likes you and ashido kind of tolld him that but he did not believe it

but i guess our boy is feeling brave today

so he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him

to say that you are flustered is an understatement.

“w-what are you doing, shinsou?”

“You need to go home, and this the only way we will fit. Why, do you mind?”

“....no.”

maybe it was the fact that shinsou pulled you closer out of nowhere, but you decided to kiss his cheek before saying you two had to go now

and you bet he has this adorable small smile on his face the whole time

Bakugou Katsuki

as you walk through the rain, you can practically hear bakugou scolding you for not listening to him already

he told you it would rain today

out of frustration, you kick away a small rock that was on the pavement

but that was a bad idea

because it ends up on a puddle, causing you to get even more wet

I mean, does it matter? you’re already soaked

however, after a moment you realise the rain isn’t falling on you anymore

but you can still hear it ticking?

“What am I going to do with you….” oh, hehe, it’s bakugou

“Okay, maaaybe I should’ve listened to you.”

“You damn right should've, dumbass” he says and shakes his head in disappointment

without even saying anything else, he holds you against him

“I’m not going to get sick because you decided to be a complete idiot today.”

you can feel your whole body heating up, meanwhile his face isn’t showing a hint of emotion

is this really doing nothing to him?

little do you know bakugou is great at hiding his feelings

to an extent

he has a breaking point >:)

you can’t  tell his heart is pounding in his chest, or that right now he wants to do nothing but kiss you

and feeling you this close to him gives him butterflies, he’s struggling to keep his cool

you move a little closer to bakugou and gently hold onto his arm

now this

this startled him

he’s about to curse at you until his eyes make contact with yours

“we’re gonna walk, aren’t we? I don’t want to fall.”

right

bakugou shook his head to think clearly again, and without saying a word he just started walking

now that you aren’t getting more wet, it’s actually nice to be in the rain

it was a little romantic even

also

of course bakugou’s reaction earlier didn’t go unnoticed by you

but still, jumping to conclusions isn’t always a good idea

it could’ve been anything else, right?

maybe you should do something to be sure

your gaze goes to bakugou, who’s looking straight ahead right now, not noticing you at all. or maybe he pretended not to

feeling bold, you stop him for a small moment and ever so lightly press your lips against his cheek

this boi

he almost drops the umbrella

now his cheeks were clearly red, and his ears seemed to turn a little pinkish

you cannot help but laugh at that cute reaction

but he didn’t say anything

so you feel bad again

“I-i’m sor-”

“Dammit, I wanted to take the first step.” he grumbles. oh. wait what?

you look at him, but for a moment he says nothing

“Let’s just go.” he mumbles as he pulls you a little closer uwu

and you bet he will make up for not taking the first step :D

even if you don’t care, he still does

be prepared for 10/10 boyfriend material :)

#bnha x reader #bnha #mha #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #shinsou x reader #kirishima x reader #bakugou kasuki x reader #hitoshi shinsou x reader #kirishima eijirou x reader #bakugou headcanons #shinsou headcanons #kirishima headcanon #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha headcanons

[help-im-a-gay-fish]

It's A Long Road to Recovery.

(post Dark-Cream story)

"How's the water my Love? " Cross asked, dipping the tips of his fingers into the bath.

"perfect" Dream replied sinking slightly deeper into the water. The warmth wrapped around his bones and felt amazing on all the aches and pains.

"you got it just perfect"

The guard smiled wide "I'm glad to hear that, soak as long as you want, you deserve it"

The two had returned to the place they called home and Cross had drawn his beloved a bath. If Cross had it his way, he would have attempted to create a full spar treatment to pamper the bruised guardian. However, Dream had been more then happy to have something simple and the way he sighed as he relaxed in the water filled Cross with warmth.

It was so good to be home, even if it was mostly just a void with some rooms and things, it felt like home now. Though Cross wondered, with no anti sanses did that mean that him and Dream could settle down? They were engaged after all.

That thought make him smile wider. it had definitely been a long journey, but now that it was over him and Dream could finally be together. A family.

The gloopy mass had mostly washed off him now, though his joints where not completely free of it. Sadly, the lack of gloop now revealed just how damaged Dreams body was. There where huge cracks running across many of his bones and many bruised and stained areas. Then there was his eye.

Cross was trying hard not to look at it, but he didn't want Dream to know he was. Of course Dream was still beautiful, he always would be, but that didn't make it easy.

The wound was large and caused Cross to think about how it must have felt for him during the transformation. He hadn't seen the whole thing, but the sounds of Dreams bones splitting and his cries of agony became present in his mind whenever he looked at the eye.

It made him shudder to think of the pain he must have, and still was in.

"how's the" he started glancing away "the.... Eye?"

Dream sat up a bit.

"it's fine.... Mostly numb really"

He could sense his partners concern and didn't want to tell him the whole truth. It was painful and throbbed slowly, especially when touched. It threaten to hurt for a long time, not that it was a punishment he didn't deserve.

As soon as he was done in the bath he'd have to bind it.

Dream felt no shame in Cross being there while he bathed. He knew he wanted to stay in the water for a few hours, and those where hours that he wanted to spend with Cross. So therefore he'd asked Cross to join him.

The guardian stretched, wincing slightly as his back bones slid together. It ached and probably would for quite a while.

He pressed his fingers into the crook of his elbow joint, sighing in relief as more of the gloop stuck there gave way. The slime had dried and jammed up most of his joints, making him feel stiff and useless. It would take hours to clean, but it seemed like the warm water was helping it give way.

Taking a breath, he ducked his whole head and body under the water. Laying there under it for a few moments to soak, before resurfacing for air.

There was a trickle as Cross continued to flick the surface of the water with his fingers. Dream lent forward to shake the water from his skull and felt a sharp pain in his back. It didn't last very long but it was quite a surprise so it caused him to suck in air quickly through his teeth. Cross looked up straight away.

"Dream!?"

Dream took a breath and slowly moved his body back so he was lent against the bath again. The pain stopped.

"j-just moved to fast.... It will be fine, Nightmare said the first day was the most painful"

"right" Cross said, still concerned but with a slightly harder tone. "Rest...."

"I will Crossy, if Night was able to run, I'll be able to take care of myself" Dream replied, trying to sound reassuring.

He scooped up some of the bubbly foam from the waters surface in his hand and blew it in Cross' direction. Cross batted it with his hand in a playful cat-like fashion.

Dream smiled, seeing Cross acting playfully with him, it had been a long time since they'd been able to just exist as a couple. He would have continued to blow bubbles at him, but an intrusive thought ruined the momentary joy and it made him freeze.

" ¿Estaba él en este dolor?" he asked quietly. Cross glance sideways at him.

"hm?"

"Nightmare..." Dream clarified "......was he....is he in this pain?" Cross sighed.

"Dreamboat, you need to focus on your own recovery" he said, once again flicking the bath water with his fingers, though slightly more aggressively.

His tone was firm and slightly bitter "I know you worry, but he has Killer"

Shifting his legs around a bit, Dream sighed. He knew his partner was right, he shouldn't let himself worry about Nightmare to much, they would be in contact in a few days.

Yet he just couldn't help it. If he was in this bad of shape after a few months, then how bad would it be for Night after hundreds of years.

"but what if he-

-just drop it!"

Startled at Cross' tone, Dream flinched slightly. He wasn't used to Cross speaking to him like that and he didn't like it.

He narrowed his good eye at him and the soldier sheepishly looked away. Dream sensed shame from him, but also anger. His emotions were a mess.

"sorry i just meant-

-You're still thinking about what he did to you....."

Cross' shoulders tensing confirmed to Dream that he was right. His expression softened.

"Cross..."

"it's not just what he put me through" he said, still avoiding Dreams gaze "it's what he did to you... And heaven....." his voice trailed off and his eyes watered slightly.

Dream felt his soul twist as the memories flooded in. Feeling suddenly very cold, he lowered his legs deeper in the water.

Cross squeezed his eyes shut and shook the tears away. Before opening his mouth to keep speaking, but closing it again.

"oh.. Cross" Dream said, reaching forward in an effort to comfort him. But he soon lowered his arm when Cross continued to speak.

"I know he's your brother... And I know you want to reconnect with him...." he swallowed and turned back to his lover. "I'm not gonna stop you... And I'm not going to hold a grudge, I just need.....

".... time" Dream said finishing Cross' sentence. Cross nodded in response.

He felt selfish just saying it

Even if Dream seemed to understand he still felt bad.

The reality of everything was still catching up with him and it was a slightly rough reality.

He'd been on happy to see his beloved gloop free and happy, that he'd completely pushed aside any kind of confrontation he'd had in mind for Killer or Nightmare.

Both had serious partaking in his pain and he hadn't realised how much he resented them until now.

But the reality that had just hit him was that Dream was going to reconnect with with his brother and if Cross was going to be Dreams husband then Nightmare was going to be a part of his.... Family.

"........"

That thought hurt.

Dream stared at his partner for a long time, as Cross watched the water flicking under his fingers. Cross' emotions were very negative, Dream knew he needed to say something.

"it's ok Mi Soldado, you aren't the only one. .."

Cross looked up at him again.

"I may have forgiven him in my head, but I still need to forgive him in my heart". He struggled to keep his voice steady.

"I-it's been so many years"

he bent over his knees and hugged his legs tightly.

"just like my face, there are a lot of cracks to heal..." he'd sighed "it's not just you"

Cross' emotions calmed slightly and he relaxed at Dream's reassurance.

"Its going to be a long road to recovery Crossy, for all of us"

Cross gave him a soft smile, and reached forward to cup his soapy cheek.

"I'll be here every step of the way" he said in a gentle tone.

Dream melted.

He leaned over to catch Cross in a kiss and the soldier happy obliged. It was a soft and affectionate kiss. Something that they had both been needing in that moment.

After pulling away Dream sank back into the water with a sigh. For the first time in a long time, he felt that things were going to be OK.

So here I am was another little bonus Dark-Cream scene. I came up with this recently and sketched it out. I wasn't originally gonna finish it but @zu-is-here asked me to so I did. I'm not really 100% satisfied with it you know? The bubbles was horrible to draw, I'm proud of the water and the bones though. The writing was just a cute Scene I came up with. Because it can't just be all fine and dandy can it? Nightmare put them both through hell and everyone needs time to heal. Idk if that makes sense? But I hope you enjoyed.

Original cross and dream belong to jakei95 and jokublog

Original shattered dream belongs to @galacii-gallery

Based off the Dark-Cream ship by @zu-is-here and the comic by @zu-is-here

#undertale au #my art #undertale multiverse #So please enjoy some post dark cream #Originally I came up with the idea of dream asking cross to get into the bath with him #While being playful #Cross is embarrassed but decides to #But he does it fully clothed #Both of them share a laugh about that #And then a kiss #It's a PG bath scene people #Keep it cleab #shipping #sansest #cross x dream #dream x cross #dark cream #Post Dark-Cream #cross x shattered dream #Hope you enjoyed

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @romancewritingandwinchesters donated $20, and requested Sam and Dean waiting out a Texas storm with no electricity. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

When the snow starts coming down, Dean's not yet worried. He's driven the whole country at least five times; he can handle snow. It's when the temperature starts dropping fast that he pulls up, at the closest gas station, and fills the tank, and sends Sam inside for a few gallons of water and whatever food they don't have to cook. "I told you," Sam says, which frankly Dean thinks is a very smug and unattractive way of looking at the situation. "Remember, that front I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, but who thought it'd get this cold in Texas," Dean says, watching the numbers tick up on the pump. Shit, this is gonna be expensive.

"Oh, you know," Sam says, arms folded tight over his chest, stamping his feet by the car's rear door. "Meteorologists. Climatologists. Just that level."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's turned away luckily and can't see it. Turns out Sam gets a little bitchy when it's this cold. They didn't really pack for it—this was supposed to be a low swing south to check a few harmless jobs, stuff that'd take Sam's mind off the whole soulless thing, a couple of easy wins and some weather a little better than February in South Dakota, but it's not working out that way. Fourteen degrees, according to the display on the Shell sign above their heads, and it's only nine at night.

The snow's already piling up, on the parking lot and in the street, making the nice local El Paso people drive under ten miles per hour and making the world seem—not-right. Alien. A cactus planted in the median glints with ice and Dean sucks his teeth, shivers hard. When the car's full up he recaps the tank and sets the nozzle back in place and then looks out at the frosted world. The black shine on the asphalt. "I don't like the look of that road," he says, after a second, and Sam follows his gaze and nods, immediately. "Tonight's not the night to get out of town."

"Texas blizzard on the highway?" Sam says, a little sarcastic, but shakes his head, more serious. "Yeah, it's gonna get a lot worse." His nose is pink from the cold. "Too cold for the car. Even if we still had that—remember, that awful pink blanket?"

"The one you totally ruined?" Dean says, and Sam grins, even if he shudders after. Sam ruined it by getting clawed up by a ghoul when he was twenty-three and trying to protect Dean from something he didn't need protecting from and then bleeding all over the damn blanket when Dean put him in the backseat to race him to the ER. Dumbass, Dean had called him then, but honestly not much has changed. Dean shoves Sam's side, shaking his head. "Why are we standing around here in the cold? Get in the car, let's go."

"You're the one who took forever with the gas," Sam argues back, but he gets in the car, so. Win for Dean. Beyond the win of having this Sam, this right good Sam, in the car in the first place—whole again, with the soul to make a context for the memories that make him Dean's brother.

They're not far off the highway so there'll be motels. The issue hits when they're driving—slow, painfully slow, crawling behind snow-caked Texas plates that don't know how to handle the weather—and the street goes suddenly dark, the lights crashing off in the fast food places and gas stations lining the road. "Shit," Dean says, checking the rearview, but luckily the truck behind him hasn't slammed its brakes and they're not about to be involved in a black-ice skid.

"You think—" Sam says, but cranes around and it's obvious. Some part of the grid, failing, and that's going to mean some panic and it's going to mean some accidents and it's also going to mean finding a place to stay just got a hell of a lot harder.

The kid at the motel they pick clearly has no idea what to do. It's a shithole, which is why Dean pulled in, and clearly there weren't too many customers to begin with. The lobby's dark other than a flashlight the kid's waving around while he explains in a panic that their electricity is out—"I can see that," Dean says, trying to be patient—and Sam finally leans over the counter, takes the flashlight out of the kid's hand, and sets it upright on the counter so it acts like a shitty lantern, filling the room with grey.

"Oh," the kid says, eyes gleaming big in the suddenly stable light. The kid—the boy. He looks barely older than Ben.

"Look," Sam says, while Dean's trying to shake off that thought. "We get that there won't be cable. We just need somewhere to weather it out."

"My register doesn't even work," the boy says, and Dean reaches into his wallet and peels out two hundred bucks and lays it fanned out on the counter. More big eyes—the room rate on the sign outside is forty-nine a night. "Oh," he says, again.

"Just give us keys, okay?" Dean says. "You can explain to your manager in the morning. How these weirdos paid a hundred, cash."

A blink. Maybe he's too young to realize he's being bribed. Sam sighs, and leans over the counter again. "We're taking room 13," he says, coming up with a key in hand. A physical key—Dean was right about the kind of dump this is. The boy opens his mouth and closes it, and Sam jerks his head at Dean before he gives the boy a half-smile, fake as hell. "Try to stay warm in here, okay?"

The Impala's already inch-thick with snow, outside. "Why the hell did that take so long," Sam mutters.

Dean snorts. "Thirteen?" he says, and Sam nods, folding himself back into the passenger seat for the short drive over—"Center room, more insulation," he says—and when they pull around to the odds side of the building he's right. The city's blanketed in dark and weirdly quiet, with the muffling of the snow, so it feels almost like opening up some hidden hunter's cabin as they unlock the room, unpack the car inside. Sam bought jerky, chips, iffy-looking gas station fruit, and Dean still has one lantern and two spare d-cells and a bottle of whiskey that's almost entirely full, and the water, thank god, is still running. "For how long, though," Sam says, so Dean drags a hand over his face and zips his jacket closed and goes down the row of rooms in the freezing dark to the one that's marked PRIVATE, and breaks in to find cleaning supplies that… clearly haven't been used in that long. Buckets, though, that he rinses out and then fills in the utility sink. Spare bedding on shelves above the laundry machine and he picks out two blankets, the shitty supersoft microfleece kind that have always been his favorite.

When he gets back, burdened like a mule, he finds the room—weirdly sort of homey. Sam's got the lantern on the rickety little desk and it's blasting white light up that wall, but he's lit their spare ritual candles, too, and put them on the nightstand, on top of the blank TV, the minifridge crammed up in the corner by the bathroom. It's warm inside, especially once Dean's got the door kicked closed behind him again, but it won't stay that way for long. "Laundry?" Sam says, and at Dean's nod he disappears outside too, and comes back with a pile of the thin towels in his arms, and packs them in against the bottom of the door, the base of the single-pane windows. The water heaters might be gas but they might be electric, too, and with no way of knowing they take turns in the shower, cleaning up fast. The water's still hot when it's Dean's turn and he luxuriates, for a minute that he counts off in his head, letting the weak stream melt over his shoulders and put heat into his bones, where hopefully it'll stay a while.

The bathroom's steamy when he gets out but it's already cooling fast. Not much insulation in the walls. He dries off scrupulously, trying to get off every bit of damp he can, and redresses by candlelight. Smells like beeswax, the hippie natural candles Sam always picks when they restock their kit. His soulless self didn't bother with that. What a weird thing to turn out to miss.

Back in the room, Sam's made a pile of their food on the desk by the lantern, and lined up the buckets of water by the door. Dean checks his watch: ten o'clock, and they're packed into this room like a bunker. Safe, as warm as they can be, clean and healthy and food to hand. Now there is, truly, nothing at all to do but wait.

"Not even wi-fi," Sam says, under his breath like he had the same thought. Dean huffs. Sam's mouth lifts on one side, wry. He sits on the end of one bed, hands folded between his knees, and gives a shrug. "Well. We got a night off."

They did. About time, too, with how they've been running lately. Sam making up for every bad thing his soulless self ever might've done, and Dean just trying to hold onto the bar so he won't fly off. First time in weeks that Dean's had Sam to himself without Sam searching for another job or trying to pin down his own sad timeline or his brain melting out his ear, and he almost doesn't know what to do with it. A bit of silence, between them, that stretches. Dean licks his lips. "Wanna play charades?"

Sam snorts. "You'd cheat," he says, and Dean smiles his most honest smile, and that makes Sam roll his eyes but smile a little, too. "How long do you think we have until it gets really cold?"

Dean tips his head back and forth, thinking. "It's—what, fifty degrees in here?" Sam shrugs. "I don't know. It'll be friggin' cold in the morning, but we won't freeze."

"Guess not," Sam says, but he's still just sitting there. His eyes on Dean, his body quiet. Dean pours them both cups of the whiskey and sits on the other bed, and Sam rotates to face him, and they toast each other with a rasping papery excuse for a clink and take a swallow each, and it sinks down to Dean's gut like fire, welcome with how chilly it is in here, and Sam's just… still looking at him. Like he's something worth looking at. Dean feels his face go warm and wonders if he can blame the whiskey.

"Hey," Sam says, cup held easy between his knees. "Tell me something."

Dean leans back. "What, truth or dare? We're a little old for that, don't you think?"

His legs are kicked out into the space between the beds. Sam shifts and their boots knock together. "Maybe you are," Sam says, and Dean makes a face at him. Sam smiles and takes another sip, watching Dean over the top of his cup, and after the slight pull at the sting he's still smiling, small. "This last year. Did you ever think about…" He shakes his head, looks down at his cup. Dean nudges his ankle to get him to keep going and Sam looks back up, his hair hanging a little in his eyes. "Did you ever want to sleep with—him?"

Dean's lips part but nothing comes out. He's genuinely surprised. Sam's eyes tighten, a tiny shift that's almost not visible in the dim combination of candle-and-lantern light. "No," Dean says, after a pause that's too long. Sam's head tips back, assessing. "No," Dean repeats, firmer. "It wasn't—right."

Sam hmms and Dean takes a drink. Truth or dare, he really ought to do his forfeit. It's not a lie, not really, but it's not—completely true. Robo-Sam never seemed interested and Dean was still half-caught with Lisa and Dean's a lot of things but a cheater's not one of them, and he'd thought—he didn't know. That Sam didn't want it anymore. Whatever fumbling they'd gotten up to, their drunken stupidity, the almost violent way it'd get sometimes, the way Dean would sink his nails into Sam's back and Sam would bite his throat and then the way, after, sometimes, Sam would look at him in the dark and Dean would think, god—

His cheeks are flushed, hot enough to feel in the cool air. "So," Sam says, after the moment's stretched out, "we never—even when I came back—"

"Not exactly trying to make it with my long-lost brother when my creepy resurrected grandpa's breathing down my neck, no," Dean says, and Sam grimaces but then laughs, and then bites his bottom lip. Still looking at Dean and Dean takes a breath, deep, and thinks, jesus. Eighteen months, more, since the last time, most of it with Sam walking around with no soul, and Dean caught up in a relationship that crashed and burned, and it feels—different. They're both different. Happened somehow when Dean wasn't looking but here's the evidence, in how calm Sam is, in how they're just—quiet, here, together. Something building slow, in the cold, with the snow sifting down outside.

Sam lets his lip go, slow, his teeth dragging white. His eyes drop to Dean's mouth, and lower. "I've got lube," he says. Dean blinks. Sam lifts a shoulder, almost apologetic. "Don't know from what, but it's in my duffle. I've been—wondering."

"Jeez, Sammy," Dean says, and has to laugh, too, kind of breathless. It's hot. Jesus, it's hot, hotter than it should be, to just have Sam say it flat out like that. Asking. "What, you want to huddle for warmth?"

Sam raises his eyebrows, glances sidelong at his bed. "I mean," he says, and Dean has to laugh again. "If there were ever an opportunity—"

Dean leans in and gets Sam's jacket in one hand, and pulls. Sam scoots forward easy, his knee sliding up against Dean's inseam, and it's—easy, weirdly easy, easy in a way it never was, to lean in and press his mouth to Sam's and have Sam just—kiss back, pressing Dean's mouth open right away and brushing his tongue over Dean's lip, slick and hot, his breath warm on Dean's cool skin. "Damn," Dean says, soft.

Sam smiles against his mouth and kisses him again, puts his chilly fingertips against Dean's exposed throat. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, right?" he says, pulling back an inch.

Dean rolls his eyes and says, "You really gotta learn some better lines."

Sam presses in, kisses him again soft on the mouth. God, Sam's mouth. "I don't think I do," Sam says, hanging there, and Dean groans, pushes Sam's face away, thinks: yes. Yes.

He goes to the bathroom. Takes his time. The toilet, thank god, is still flushing, so the water lines haven't yet gone down. He runs the sink and wets a washrag and cleans up, and washes his hands, and then he licks his mouth wet and looks at himself, in the spotty mirror, the candlelight flickery and making his face strange. When he comes out Sam's stripped the bed closer to the door and the other one is spread with that bedding, the blankets Dean stole, and Sam's in the middle of taking off his belt, standing in his socks with his shirt off and his chest bare and his hair a little ruffled, and he looks up at Dean in the bathroom doorway and smiles, and lays his belt on the bare bed, and says, "C'mere," and Dean comes.

Sam's hands are cold and Dean bitches about that, immediately. "Shut up," Sam advises, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone needs to—" and Sam kisses him, like Dean knew he would, so that's okay. Together they get Dean's jacket off, his flannel, his t-shirt, and he shivers but Sam's hands drag down his arms and that's so warm Dean can hardly stand it. He drags his fingers through Sam's chest hair—hair, when Sam had been so sleek before—and Sam kisses the top of his ear, weirdly affectionate in a way that makes Dean's chest hot—and then his fingers go for Dean's belt, his jeans, and Dean pushes him away an inch, then, taking a second to breathe.

Sam's—christ. Hot. His nipples pebbled up tight and his cheeks a little pink, even in the candlelight. "Gotta get my boots off, man," Dean says, and Sam looks down like he's surprised that an impediment to getting in Dean's pants might exist, and Dean grins, sits back on the bed. Okay, so. Sam's not suddenly a pure sex god. Somehow that's as much of a relief as the breathing room was.

He works at the knot of his laces. Sam takes the opportunity to strip off his jeans, and then there's his bare long legs, his boxer-briefs. His dick's thick in them, obvious, but while Dean's tugging off his second boot Sam skims them off and down and then he's just—naked, nearly all the way except his stupid black socks he always wears, and Dean huffs and says, "Sexy," dry, but then Sam's kneeling down in front of him, sliding his hands up Dean's thighs, and—well. Truth or dare. Dean wouldn't have to take a drink, this time.

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts and he unzips Dean's jeans, and then tucks his fingers into the waistband, and Dean lifts his ass up and lets Sam pull and Sam—takes his time about it, damn him, pulling down Dean's underwear too so the cold air ripples up goosebumps all the way down Dean's legs, freezing. Sam kisses Dean's chest, his nipple—Dean grabs Sam's head, surprised—and then ducks down, kisses the root of his dick and then sucks in the head, soft and warm, slick, so abrupt that Dean slams a hand down onto the edge of the mattress and his head falls back, his hips lifting. Christ, Sammy. A big hand circles around Dean's calf and Sam sucks, soft, while Dean's dick rises so fast he gets dizzy—and then Sam pulls away, the cold air hitting like a hammer, and lifts up with his mouth pinked-wet and says, "Get in bed," and Dean stares at him like a lunatic for a second and then, jesus, scrambles to obey.

He scooches in to the middle. The blankets are ridiculous, double-weight and heavy, but the sheets are chilly even through his socked feet. Sam climbs in after him and pushes right up against his back, his dick swelling up against Dean's ass, his body a hot shock among the cold. "You're a friggin' furnace," Dean says, and Sam snorts, bites soft at Dean's bare shoulder. There's a second of separation—Sam stretching away—and then Sam's back, under the blankets, kisses under Dean's ear, slides his hand over Dean's hip, down. Dean's breath hitches and he slides his leg forward. "Yeah?" Sam says, the idiot, and Dean says, "Duh, bitch," and there's a huff and then a muffled click and then Sam's fingers are slick, sliding up against his ass, pushing in.

Oh—god. It's been—since the last time. Dean turns his face against the pillow and pulls his leg higher, makes room. Sam's fingers, wet-thick, and the strange uncertain feeling of being broken open, how it pulls and worries, his body barely remembering what to do. Long time. Sweat breaks out at his temples, the middle of his back. He drops a hand to his dick and squeezes, letting it know something better's coming.

"You're tight," Sam says. Unnecessarily, in Dean's opinion. "You really, you never—?"

"Some things should be kept between a man and his hour-long showers, Sammy," Dean says, light, and it's not really true but Sam huffs another little laugh and kisses his ear, and Dean pops his leg up instead even though that makes a cool cavern of air under the covers, giving Sam the room to work him. He pushes back, pulls at his dick, works it fat, and against his ass Sam's dick feels full, ready. He always liked this part, the part where he made Dean want it. He turns his head and says, "Sam," and Sam lifts up and kisses him just like he wanted, his chest warm against Dean's shoulder and his fingers spreading deep, pushing the slick inside where they need it, and while he's kissing Dean and relearning every molar Dean feels the fingers slip out, rubbing instead at Dean's hole where it's hot now, wet, flexing. He drags in air through his nose and reaches behind himself, finding Sam fat and heavy. Thick. Jesus, he could never forget how thick.

"Ready?" Sam says and that's a stupid question. Dean tugs the blankets higher with his free hand, covering his shoulder against the cold, snubs Sam up against himself and then lets go, finds Sam's hip, pulls—and Sam takes over, holding Dean's belly as he pushes inside, and Dean tries to contain the flinch but can't and Sam kisses his temple, soft, and his ear, and his neck, and doesn't stop, bulling open that place for himself, splitting Dean wide. His pubes press against Dean's ass. Dean grips the pillow and lets his knee sink down and immediately what's already tight is tighter, closer. Sam grunts against him, slides his hand down to find Dean's half-wilted dick. "You feel—" Sam starts, but he squeezes Dean's dick instead of saying, and Dean's fine with that, he doesn't need compliments when he just needs Sam to—

"Move," he says, and Sam moves.

It's slow, from being on their sides. No real force behind it. Dean knocks Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam squeezes his balls instead, and then slips a hand to the inside of his thigh and keeps him close that way, locking Dean in place to be fucked. He's still tight but he's loosening up, from the thick rocking churn of Sam inside him, buried up to the root half the time, flexing in and making Dean stretch for him, forcing in that deep good ache of being open, slick for it. With the underhand grip on Dean's thigh his thumb slots in right at the base of Dean's dick, a soft dragging pressure every time Sam squeezes, and Dean can hardly think for how good it all feels. For how much he missed it and pretended for so long he wasn't missing it. Sam's other arm is tucked under the pillow, under his head, and he manages to shove the pillow away enough that he gets bare skin and bites there, soft in Sam's bicep, and Sam drags in air through his teeth and pushes in harder, the wet drag enough that Dean shudders, shoulders to hips, and Sam squeezes his thigh so hard that it hurts.

If it weren't so damn cold Dean would want to throw the blankets off—get on his back with Sam between his legs—lift up, ride, to remember the way Sam's eyes went so dark and hot and intense from seeing Dean get off on him. As it is he feels it building slow, the sweat between them starting to get oppressive, his throat a little abraded from the way Sam keeps dragging his teeth over it, his breath hot there where Dean's skin's so wet. He clenches inside, as much as he can when he's split wide like this, and Sam grunts, warm burst of air against the back of his ear. "Fuck," Dean says, squirming back. He presses his knees together and Sam feels even thicker, his hand caught between Dean's thighs. "Fuck, Sammy—"

"God, I want to come," Sam says, and Dean jerks, caught against him, his dick spitting. Sam worms his hand out and cups Dean's nuts, rubs warm at the root of his dick, his lips smearing against Dean's neck. "God, you're—are you close?"

"Out of practice," Dean says, breathily light, like that's even fucking remotely true. "Can't you tell?" Sam's hand pulls up, fisting his dick, and Dean arches as much as he can, shoving down onto Sam, his teeth floating on this feeling. His gut's molten. "Fuck—Sam, if you—"

"I have to," Sam says, thin, and pushes—Dean tips over and Sam slides, god, out, but in a second he's covering Dean's back and Dean's spreading as wide as he can and Sam slots right back inside, hard, and Dean drags in air against the mattress but doesn't really care, doesn't need it. Sam's pumping inside, fast and deep, the jolting drag of it sliding all over exactly where Dean wants him, and Sam's hands slip from Dean's sides to his hip to his shoulders, holding him in place, and Dean worms a hand between the bed and his dick and lets Sam shove him into his own grip, the rhythm perfect, perfect—Sam's mouth hot against the knob of his spine—and Dean comes pulsing into his own hand, his toes curling and his lips spread against the sheet and his whole body locking up, it feels like, tense, unloading—and Sam groans, shoves his hand between them to feel the mess Dean's making, says, "Fuck, you're—fuck, you're so hot, Dean, the hottest I ever—" and gets a hand on Dean's ass and pulls it wider, shoves in harder, for a shocking minute where it almost hurts except that Dean's so floaty and satisfied he'd take a knife in his flesh and wouldn't mind—and when Sam finally comes he presses right up inside and pumps it deep, forcing it in, and Dean sighs against the bed, overheated and wet, and lets go of his own dick enough that he can tangle his fingers with Sam's, slick, crumpled, bone to bone.

Sam's a deadweight on his back. Dean turns his face against the sheet and gets a pocket of slightly cooler air, content to take it. He squeezes Sam's fingers and in response Sam squeezes his hip, and then slowly, slowly, his lips brush the back of Dean's ear, and then Dean's cheek. "Wow," Sam says, quiet, and Dean snorts. A shift, inside, that makes Dean open his eyes wide—oh, he's open now but it feels—and one of Sam's knees slips over to the outside of Dean's, different leverage, as he pushes in again on all the wet he made, and in again, still thick. Dean licks his lips and it's so quiet he can hear the wet noise it makes—match, to when Sam pulls out—a spill, trickling down over Dean's balls—and then the squelch as he pushes back in and makes Dean grip the pillow, makes his nuts pulse in heated shock.

"I could go again right now," Sam says, low against his ear, entirely honest.

Dean has to take a deep breath. "Don't press your luck," he says, raw, and Sam laughs quiet, drags out again—still hard, christ above—and tugs at Dean's shoulder, and turns him over in a messy sheet-tangling pull, and gets them the right way around to kiss, full, open, Dean's hands on Sam's waist and the bed smeary and disgusting, between them.

When Dean pulls away, Sam's got his fingers curled around the back of his ear, his dick warm and full up against Dean's hip. He smiles, looking back at Dean in the barely-light. Dean smiles back, kind of helpless. "We really wrecked this bed," Dean says. Just for something to say.

Sam's shoulder lifts. "Heated it up, though," he says, and, well. He's not wrong.

The candles are still lit, and they'll have to take care of those so they don't burn the damn room down. The lantern, too—they shouldn't waste the batteries. There's a slit in the blankets somewhere, cool air pouring in over Dean's back, and he tugs, and Sam gets it and helps him smooth them out, making a cocoon for the two of them. The discarded lube bottle ends up under Dean's back and he slides it up under the pillow, for hopeful future use. Their socked toes bump together. Sam's nose is cold, where it bumps Dean's cheek, but that's all right. Dean's not in a state to mind.

"It's gonna suck to dig out the car in the morning," Sam says, out of nowhere.

Dean closes his eyes and pulls at Sam's waist, getting him closer. Sam's knee slides between his thighs. "That's what I missed about you, man," he says, drowsy. "You always know what to say to get me hot."

Sam snorts. His knuckles drag over Dean's jaw, safe and warm.

#ffcc #wincest #bedsharing #huddling for warmth #my writing

[anthropwashere]

deadfic: Bang Babies got nothin’ on the Ghost Kid

More deadfic for @goodintentionswipfest! There was a post circulating on here once upon a time riffing on how OP Danny is compared to regular superheroes, so here’s about 4k of a Static Shock/Danny Phantom crossover that didn’t end up going anywhere.

=

The first time they see him, he’s just a black and white streak that nearly knocks them both out of the sky.

“Who—what was that?” Static gapes once he’s regained his balance. Green data splashes across Gear’s visor, obscuring his own incredulous expression.

“No idea, but they just clocked 154 miles per hour.”

“Well the speed limit here is only 45. Wanna pull ‘em over?”

Gear snorts. “If we can catch ‘em, sure.”

But whoever or whatever it was is long gone. After a week with no other sightings of ‘Flash Noir’ as they call the stranger, they let it go. Whatever it is will turn up, or it won’t. So long as no one’s getting hurt by it, it’s not really their problem, right?

=

The second time they see him is a week after that, and he’s hovering over the school roof just… watching. Other people see him too, and they all point and stare at the figure all in stark black and white, a teenage boy from the waist up and a ribbon of black from the waist down. 

Virgil and Richie share a mutual look of relief. They’d started to think they’d imagined him, never mind what Backpack had recorded. But when they look up at the roof again the kid is gone.

=

The third time they see him, he’s just a black speck barely glimpsed in the streaky post-rain evening sky. They only realize it’s him—and that he’s there at all—because Backpack catches him on the edge of its radar. He’s too high up, way too high up. The air’s just too thin for normal people—or normal bang babies, for what that’s worth. They try to get as close as they can anyway, but he blinks out of existence long before they can make out any details.

=

The fourth time they see him, he’s got a minivan and a corolla balanced in each hand like gravity’s got better things to do than pay him any mind. He’s holding them by the bumpers. Gear promptly loses his mind trying to figure out the physics behind such a feat, so it’s only Static that sees the guy toss a grin their way as he sets the two vehicles down on a stretch of road aways away from the car accident he’d apparently saved them from joining.

The strange kid waves at the families he’d saved, then takes off before Static and Gear can get near him. Backpack helpfully informs Gear that this mysterious guy encroaching on their hero turf clocked 60 miles in two seconds flat.

=

The fifth time they see him, he’s waiting for them in the junkyard looking infuriatingly smug. Static and Gear gape, then jump for him. It’s been starting to feel like chasing a mirage, but this time the guy stays put.

“Relax,” he tells them with a laugh and a lazy grin. “I’m not a bad guy.”

This close they can see he’s not any older than they are. He’d look like any normal kid, except for the glowing green eyes and shock of white hair fluttering in a breeze that isn’t there. 

“Then why are you stalkin’ us?” Static challenges.

“I wouldn’t say ‘stalk,’” the guy replies, defensive. “I’ve just never seen any other superheroes before. I was curious, that’s all.”

“I guess you don’t watch the news much,” Gear says, unimpressed. “You can go a day without hearing about a super making headlines somewhere.”

The kid’s grin turns uneasy. “I’m, uh, not actually from around here. Superheroes are a bit thin on the ground, where I’m from.”

“And where’s that, the North Pole?” Static asks.

The kid rolls his eyes. “Through an interdimensional rift in space four blocks from here. Hang a right past the Lovecraft reference and straight on ‘til morning.”

Static and Gear share an exasperated look.

“Look, kid,” Gear begins heatedly, only to be cut off.

“Oh no, no fair. You guys look like you’re still in high school too, so cut it out with the ‘kid’ stuff. The name is Phantom.”

Gear huffs. “Fine, Phantom. Point is we appreciate the help. You’re doing good work. But the superhero thing’s dangerous. You can’t just, y’know, jump into it.”

As if the two of them hadn’t done just that. But, y’know. It felt right to warn the guy, at least.

“It’s not a matter of ‘if’ you’ll get hurt if you stick with it,” Static adds. “And, okay, you might be new in town, so maybe you don’t know, but the two of us have got Dakota covered just fine.”

Phantom rolls his eyes, bouncing into the air. Gravity really doesn’t pay him any mind at all. How does he fly? Telekinesis? He does it like he’s so used to it the switch from standing to hovering is as natural as breathing. “Trust me, this city’s a walk in the park compared to what I deal with. Forgive me for seeing a chance to lend a hand to a couple of kids who clearly needed the help.”

“Now wait a minute—”

He drifts higher. “Oh, and by the way, there’s a guy calling himself Hotstreak waiting for you on ice by the community center. You’re welcome.”

“Wait—!”

But he blinks out of sight just like his name would suggest he could. There’s a pause as they both stare stupidly at thin air, then Gear swears. “‘On ice?’ Don’t tell me he’s got ice powers too.”

Phantom does, in fact, have ice powers too. Talk about overkill.

=

The sixth time Phantom makes an appearance, Virgil Hawkins is eating dinner with his dad and sister. He happens to glance out the window only to see a pair of neon green eyes staring back at him. Virgil drops his glass, yelping when milk splashes his mostly empty plate and spills into his lap.

“What’s the matter with you?” His sister asks.

“Uh. I—nothing! Nothing at all! I just—remembered that I, uh. Book report! I left my book report at Richie’s and I need to go get it!”

“Can’t it wait until school tomorrow?” His dad asks.

“No—no, it can’t, because I, uh, I still need to type it up and—and it’s due first period!” 

He runs out of the kitchen and out the front door before either of them can yell at him to clean up the mess he’d made. He stands on the stoop, panting and trying not to panic, and Phantom swoops into view upside down with that smug grin on his face again.

“Well hey there, sparky,” he says.

Virgil thinks he maybe has a heart attack, a little bit, before he finds the strength to speak. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” He yells in a furious stage whisper, grabbing the kid out of the air to drag him closer. “The first rule of superheroes is minding the secret identity thing, especially around family, and you just blew that right out of the water!”

Virgil’s hand goes briefly numb and Phantom slips out of his grasp. “I wouldn’t say ‘just,’” he replies, looking guilty.

Virgil’s gonna strangle him, he really is. “How long have you known who I am?”

“Wwwwwell, a couple weeks back I saw local heroes Static and Gear walk into an abandoned gas station and two normal teenagers walk out. I don’t know your real names and I didn’t know you lived here, I swear. I was just flying by and recognized your hair out of the corner of my eye. I swear,” he repeats hastily at Virgil’s murderous expression.

Virgil counts to five, then back down again, and is still just as pissed. “Fine. Okay. C’mon.”

He starts walking towards Richie’s house, because no way is he doing this on his own. Behind him Phantom asks, “Uh, where are you going?”

“We are going to R—Gear’s place. The three of us are gonna sort this out, and don’t you even think of pulling another one of your disappearing acts to get out of it!”

Phantom scoffs. “Oh yeah, because I’m so inconspicuous otherwise. Here, hold still.” He grabs Virgil’s shoulder and a chill washes over him. He startles, trying to pull away, but Phantom may as well have steel rebar for bones. Virgil looks down and yelps even louder than when he’d spilled milk all over himself; the ground has fallen away without even a rusty, trusty trash can lid underfoot. And speaking of feet, where are his feet?

“Augh, what? Whoa, no, let me go!”

“Quit squirming.”

Oh, no. He’s not getting the evil grunt orders fifty feet in the air. He grabs the hand he can’t see and sends a warning bolt. Phantom grunts, twitching. 

“Augh, easy sparky! Which way is Gear’s house?”

“How is this less inconspicuous you maniac? Put me down—and don’t drop me!”

“Oh, for—you’re invisible right now.” He looks up and there’s nobody above him, but he can hear Phantom all the same. “I pulled a disappearing act and brought you along. Seriously, man, I know I’ve been goofing off and setting you on edge, but I really didn’t mean to spy. You wanna talk to Gear about the blown cover thing—I really don’t know your names still, by the way—and I wanna come to an agreement.”

Virgil sighs. These bang babies all gotta stop being so crazy. But hey, at least this one doesn’t seem like he’s about to rob any banks. “Hang a right at this light.”

=

It is officially too weird to watch your own body reappear before your own eyes. Virgil shudders.

“First time with invisibility?” Phantom waggles his eyebrows. “How do you feel?”

“...Tingly. Warn me before you do that again, alright?”

“You just gave me blanket permission to do it again basically whenever, you realize that, right?” 

“Wh—I did not!”

Phantom rolls his eyes and phases through the roof. Seriously, there’s got to be a limit to how many spooky ooky poltergeist powers a guy can have, right? A moment later Virgil hears Richie yowling, and Phantom reappears with Richie in tow. He sets Richie down, gentle as you please, then promptly explodes.

Virgil recoils, blinking white light out of his vision. When he can see clearly again, Phantom is gone and there’s a regular teenager standing in his place, black-haired and fresh out of glowing green eyes. One forearm is bandaged from wrist to elbow.

“Wh-what?” Richie asks for the both of them.

The kid smiles, waving his uninjured hand. “Danny Fenton. It’s nice to see you without the visor.”

=

Turns out, Danny wasn’t kidding about being from a different dimension. He shows them the door he pops in and out of and everything. It’s an emergency exit of an old theater downtown, perfectly normal to Virgil’s eyes. Richie opens it. Rusty hinges squeal and Virgil can glimpse the vague suggestion of chairs in the dark.

“It only works if you’re focusing on the Ghost Zone,” Danny says.

“The what now?”

Richie shakes his head. “Oh no, no way. Please don’t tell me I’m talking to a dead guy.”

Danny laughs. “Nah, I’m basically as normal as either of you when I’m like this.”

Considering Virgil can do exactly as much damage as he can wearing his superhero gear, that’s not exactly comforting.

Danny nudges Richie aside, shuts the door and opens it up again. Just like that the theater’s interior is gone. There’s a hole in the world instead, bleeding radioactive green into the alleyway. There are hundreds—no, thousands—of violet doors floating in a green void that twists in dizzying shapes before his eyes. There’s no ground, no sky, it goes on forever in all directions.

“That—” Richie swallows. “That’s where you’re from?”

Danny shuts the door. Virgil tries to ignore the relief that makes jelly out of his knees, but dang, that really needed a better warning. “No, of course not. I’m from Earth, same as you. Just a, well, a slightly different one, I guess. A parallel one. That place is where ghosts come from. I only ended up here by mistake.”

“Take a left at the Lovecraft reference?” Virgil asks, rubbing his eyes. 

“Ha, pretty much. I was trying to escape the Lovecraft reference. That’s, uh, not what it’s name probably is? My friend Sam called it that and I can’t understand it, so, that’s kind of stuck. It’s got enough teeth to deserve being called ‘Lovecraft reference,’ anyway.”

“Sam?” Richie asks. “Is that someone else, uh, on your team?”

“It’s not really a team. She doesn’t have super powers or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s right, you said superheroes are thin on the ground where you’re from,” Virgil says. “So I guess it’s just you dealing with the big and toothy?” 

“Basically, yeah. Not a lot of opportunity to do what I did to get my powers.”

“What’d you—”

Danny holds up both hands. “Nope, nuh-uh. You’ve got your secrets, I’ve got mine.”

=

The seventh time they see Phantom, they finally see him in proper action. Ebon’s gang has struck a bank—Virgil’s big mouth and bad luck strikes a home run, as usual—and by the time Static and Gear arrive on the scene they’ve stolen a truck and are two blocks from the bank. Talon is flying overhead, keeping an eye out for cops or goody-good superheroes, while the rest of the gang’s inside.

They don’t stop to see who’s hurt. They’d passed an ambulance on the way, and it’s not like either of them are good for more than getting the injured to emergency care. They take chase, and the armored truck doesn’t make it another block before Gear’s knocked Talon out of the sky and Static has netted the truck in a web of electricity. It’s heavy though, too heavy for him to do more than keep its tires squealing in place and hoping Gear can gimmick up something to slow it down a little more. Ebon’s smart though. He’s not gonna pick a fight here, and Static will burn himself out long before the tires do.

“Gear!” He yells desperately.

“Working on it!”

But it’s Phantom that swoops in from nowhere, soaring down in front of the truck. He, impossibly, lifts the wheels off the street one-handed. It’s enough help to let Static focus his attention on popping the wheels off before releasing his net. He sinks to his knees, disc wobbling dangerously beneath him, catching his breath.

“I—hate—armored trucks,” he wheezes.

“Static!” Phantom calls out, startled, which means breaktime is over. He stretches his hand out and ties Shiv up with a nearby stop sign before he gets to his feet again. Phantom’s rushed off to help Gear with Talon who’s back in the air, which just leaves Ebon to Static.

Ebon slides out of the truck, an inky, glowering smear. “Who’s the new guy?”

“Friend from out of town. Why, you feelin’ like we’re not bondin’ like we used to?”

Ebon doesn’t reply, just slaps Static away. The air gets knocked out of him and he lands in a sprawl halfway down the street. Before he can recover he hears Talon scream. He slams his hands to his ears reflexively, but luckily she wasn’t aiming at him. Not so luckily, Gear and Phantom hit asphalt a few yards away.

“You okay?” Static calls out.

“I hate when she does that,” Gear complains too loudly, shaking his head like a dog and looking nauseous. Yeah, Static hates it too. He’d take getting slapped around by Ebon over having his hearing scrambled any day. 

Phantom springs up quicker than either of them, grinning madly. “She wants a screaming match, huh?” 

Gear looks as aggrieved as Static feels. “Do not tell me you can do that too.”

Phantom’s grin widens, eyes blazing, as Talon rejoins Ebon and Shiv at the armored truck. Shiv must’ve cut himself free of the stop sign at some point. Static makes a mental note to use two stop signs next time. The three of them are hauling bags out of the back, clearly planning on Ebon’s easy getaway trick to get at least some of the cash they’d stolen.

Static gets to his feet, zapping his disc underfoot again as he considers a half dozen strategies to take them out and not liking any of them. Ebon’s always been too slippery; it’s likely he’ll get away no matter what—

A hand claps down on his shoulder. 

“Stay behind me,” Phantom says.

“What are you—”

But there’s no time to finish asking what because Phantom takes a deep breath and wails. There’s waves of concentric neon green energy bursting from his mouth, radiating out and down to Ebon’s gang. The armored car, down two tires, goes shrieking and sparking down the street. Two parked cars follow after, their windows shattering, their frames buckling. Ebon, Talon, and Shiv don’t even have time to grab at their ears; they go down like bowling pins, and don’t get up again.

The click of Phantom’s teeth when he finally stops wailing seems awfully loud. Static feels like he just walked out of a concert he’d been too near the speakers at for; his ears are ringing, his hands and feet are tingling, and his chest hurts vaguely. He swallows, looks back at Gear who’s just shaking his head a little. He looks at Phantom; the kid’s got beads of green on his forehead and he’s breathing hard.

“Sorry,” his voice cracks a little, “That one’s kinda hard to put a lid on.”

=

After sorting out things with the police—which Phantom vanished for, literally—they invite him back to the gas station for what is, in essence, dinner and an interrogation. Richie declares he’s had enough surprises and Virgil agrees. So they stop to grab a couple of pizzas and manhandle Danny to the gas station. Danny lets himself be manhandled with no shortage of eye rolling.

“Sit,” Richie orders, shoving a paper plate laden with three slices of pepperoni into Danny’s hands. “Explain.”

Danny sits obediently, raising his eyebrows like he’s trying not to grin. “Uh, explain what?”

“You! Your ridiculous collection of powers, where you come from, why you’re not strutting around your weird parallel Earth or whatever as Grand High Emperor of—of everything!”

Danny can’t help the grin. Virgil’s hiding one behind a can of soda too though, so he can’t judge. “Grand High—what? Do you have one of those here?”

“Danny.”

“C’mon. We agreed on no details, didn’t we? This wouldn’t even be a conversation we’d have if you were the ones coming to my city.”

“We agreed to that when it seemed like you were just another souped up Bang Baby,” Virgil cuts in, “but this is getting ridiculous. I’m not sure I like the idea of Superman’s ghost charging through Dakota any time he feels like it, especially since supers tend to bring their problems along with ‘em.”

“If you want me gone, I’ll leave. I was just trying to give you guys a hand when things were slow in Am—my city.”

“We never asked your overpowered butt for help in the first place!” Richie snaps.

Danny opens his mouth to snap something back but his phone goes off instead. He glares at them both as he pulls it out of his jeans pocket, flipping it open. His eyes widen at whatever the text reads, he fires off a quick reply, then drops his uneaten pizza on the table. “Look, here I am, going. All right?”

“Trouble in paradise?” Virgil quips.

Danny ignores it, but stops halfway to the door to look back over his shoulder. His eyes are bright green, which Virgil’s learning means more trouble than it’s worth. “You know what? How about you come visit Amity Park with me?”

=

The Ghost Zone is just as dizzying as Static thought it would be, and in no time at all he’s hopelessly lost and he has a monster of a headache. It’s like he’d put his face right up against a neon sign no matter where he looks; just bright green smears and the odd clutter of purple doors. “Man, you sure you’re not lost?”

Phantom throws a grin over his shoulder. “Relax, I’ve done this plenty of times.”

“Is it even safe for, uh, regular people to be here?” Richie asks nervously. “I’m getting some bizarre readings here that Backpack can’t make heads or tails of. I feel like I should have nabbed a HAZMAT suit too.”

“My parents and friends have been in and out of the Ghost Zone dozens of times, and they’re totally fine.”

“Radiation poisoning can take decades to affect people,” Gear points out.

“Eh, so maybe they’ll glow in the dark or something twenty years from now. Ectology is kind of in its infancy. Anyway, we’re here.”

There’s a circular hole of swirling green, lighter than the fog around them and suspended in a solid looking riveted steel frame. Phantom holds up one hand to stop them, sticking his head through. “We’re good,” he says when he’s popped back out. “C’mon.”

Gear and Static share one last nervous look before following after.

They find themselves in some kind of high-tech basement done all out in sleek chrome, like a mad scientist’s lab out of a Saturday morning cartoon. There are beakers and flasks bubbling with syrupy neon green stuff, barrels with CAUTION stamped on the sides, and the kind of tables that wouldn’t look out of place in a flashy investigation show morgue. Static breaks out in goosebumps and can’t even pretend to play it off on it being a little chilly in here. 

“My parents built the Ghost Portal,” Phantom says, pointing back at the circle of green light still swirling behind them. “But I’m the one who made it work.”

Seeing the Portal on this side makes Gear’s breath hitch, and Static breathes out a stunned, “Whoa.” It’s an octagon framed by fat black and yellow caution stripes, easily fifteen feet in diameter. The Portal itself is identical to how it appeared on the Ghost Zone’s side, a constant dizzying swirl of toxic greens staining the enormous lab like some kind of mutant aquarium.

“Is this thing open all the time?” Gear stutters. “How is your family not dead? Heck, the whole city? This thing’s pouring out energy on a—I need to invent a new scale to quantify these readings just so I can make sense of them!”

Phantom laughs, grabbing a chrome cylinder glittering with green designs. “Don’t worry about it, seriously. My mom would know if it was, like, properly dangerous. Now c’mon, I want you to meet a regular of mine.”

=

Two more teenagers are waiting for them outside an evacuated post office. The girl, white with a distinctly Goth taste in clothes, gives Phantom a look that plainly states she thinks he’s nuts. “You didn’t mention you’d be bringing them through,” she says flatly.

The guy, black with thick-rimmed glasses and dressed like he can’t decide if he’s going for ‘frequents Starbucks’ or ‘military surplus’, rolls his eyes and waves. “Hi, I’m Tucker. That’s Sam. Don’t mind her, she’s just pissed the Box Ghost got the jump on her.”

“The one time I leave the house without a Thermos,” she huffs, crossing her arms.

“Sorry about the wait.” Phantom says. “Guys, this is Static and Gear.”

“Charmed,” Static says automatically. Gear just grunts.

“Don’t need three guesses to guess who,” Tucker grins. “We can catch up later. You wanna do the honors, Danny?”

“Nah.” Phantom looks at Static and Gear, looking worryingly pleased. “I helped you out with the, what’s it, Ebon and Friends. Why don’t you take a crack at one of mine?”

#danny phantom #static shock #my writing #deadfic

[my-writings-and-musings]

Catch me immediately sneaking out of Medbay via vents and paying the brig a visit.

On one hand this idea is hilarious. You're bandaged in the medical bay, on bed rest for the sake of your broken body, but find yourself snapping back to consciousness in the dim stillness of the ship's artificial light. The medical bay is still, you're the only one awake and alert in the entire area, and there's no stimulus to explain your sudden wakefulness. Everything is silent, as if all noise has been eliminated in your vicinity by something more otherworldly than the medics trying to get you better.

Only your senses working in tandem allow you to understand why you are awake, and what you must do next, for the sake of universal balance. You can sense the ongoing injustice like a dog senses a tsunami. Pain matters little as you force your bruised body to act, hopping into the vents and limping at full speed to the source of the disturbance.

A bot is sad, and you refuse to let this crime against existence continue a moment longer, even if said bot is the reason you're as injured as you are now. God as your witness, he will be comforted, and you'd like to see anyone try to stop you. Fort Max is going to get a hug, and you're gonna give it to him, and then you'll get rest. But only then.

Cue your little body swan diving from the vent above Max for a tactical embrace that hits like a well aimed missile.

On the other hand this idea could be heartwarming and also tearjerking.

With all the advanced technology available to the medical staff, your life threatening injuries were stabilized in minutes, though there's still ample pain and a sizable road to recovery ahead. All present medics agree you should rest for a few days after your... "ordeal", to regain your strength before any visitors are allowed. In response to your requests to at least communicate with Fort Max, you're gently told that he can't receive prisoners or messages in the brig after his actions, especially from those who were most grievously injured by said actions. It's difficult to argue them as you are, and with Rung lying motionless on his own recovery slab, his head gone and his thumb still unattached...

But you know the big mech is hurting. Of course you're also in some considerable physical distress yourself, but unlike you, Max doesn't have anyone there for his pain. That bothers you even after everything he's put you through.

Maybe it's so easy to forgive because it all seems as unreal now as it did then. He'd burst in just as you were preparing to leave so Rung could have his session with a surprisingly early Whirl, and while you'd freely admit to having been terrified, the agony in his optics had made it clear he wasn't acting out of anything but trauma. The bot you'd befriended had obviously not been in a good place, his aura giving the sense of anything but a gentle giant whilst he tried to demand what his tormented mind thought would make the pain finally stop. You'd known he was acting from fear just as well as your fellow hostages, despite being far less experienced in the area than they. Perhaps it was because of their survivalist knowledge that it was just you who'd been caught off guard, as you hadn't known just how badly afflicted Max was until your tiny body had ended up in his trembling fist, your breaths coming in so shallow you couldn't even cry for help...

Residual fear made you shudder on the slab, but instead of deterring you, the resulting pain only made you want to act.

Being a human had a number of advantages on a ship designed for giants, and the first was that no one had bothered to secure anything against a being of your size. The hardest part of escaping the medbay was simply getting up and finding the least painful way to walk, which admittedly was far from easy with your multitude of healing ribs. Ratchet would be furious if he knew what you were doing... Come to think of it, he would probably be as angry as could possibly be once he inevitably figured out you'd been out of bed at all, so all things considered there was no point in trying to go back now. That realization was surprisingly freeing.

The vents were your obvious solution even before you laid eyes on the opening and recalled their network ran the length of the entire ship.

How ironic was it, that you'd been instructed to use these in the event of an emergency, and your first time doing so was to defy orders? If this little stunt of yours succeeded and word got out, some of the crew would probably be proud of you. The rest would vary between fury and shock at such an unexpected move from their little human.

With your all in one communication tool, map, remote control and social media device of a wristband you have no trouble plotting a route. The only trouble will be getting there in your current state, completely without detection, and then making it back with equal levels of success. Only your stubborn refusal to leave a bot suffering stops you from giving up as soon as you see the distance ahead of you. Thankfully quick thinking and planning gets you some shortcuts, namely by ducking into hallways and grabbing mercifully empty elevators, but the journey is still a long and painful one. That time unfortunately gives you ample opportunity to think about what you'll say, which leads to you recalling exactly what needs to be forgiven, and that replays a number of horrifyingly fresh memories each time.

Pressure like you'd never experienced had threatened to crush your body as those powerful digits had closed in, only stopping when a number of your bones collapsed under the strain with reverberating cracks as they broke, an experience so painful you could still see the stars it had sent bursting before your eyes. Everything afterwards had been a chaotic blur, save for an expression of horrified guilt on a familiar face and the grainy footage of Overlord beaming whilst committing his trademark butchering, then darkness as large hands had carried you to safety...

Wiping sweat from your brow, you resist the painful urge to cough as you close in on the brig, knowing that a few of the prisoners will be dangerous enough that caution will be required. It's hard not to be afraid of the very idea of being grabbed once again, but that fiery determination keeps you moving through all the pain and exhaustion and admittedly logical fear. Focusing on Max as you knew him was your primary source of strength as you moved into the much smaller vents that ran through the cells. While still roomy enough for a human, they were impossible for a bot to fit through, likely to prevent escape attempts. Hopefully that would make getting through much safer for you.

Thin slots in the airways became your windows of guidance, due to the map being more than a little vague about navigating the brig. It was mostly as big as it was to ensure each cell had ample room for its occupant, a standard right for Autobot prisoners of war you were delighted to see but found none too simple to traverse. Darkness you didn't dare illuminate also complicated your mission. Quick glances outside of your little vents revealed glowing biolights and occasional flashes of optics you didn't recognize, and while you were fairly confident you could identify Max even in the dark, you were hardly eager to do so.

Luck gave you a rare break not too far into your little spying operation, one that couldn't have come too soon with exhaustion weighing you down and aches growing ever harder to ignore in your bandaged body.

Though he was larger than any other prisoner, you recognized Max by something completely unrelated to his appearance, and it immediately made you certain your decision to come down had been the right one. There was a kind of weariness to the hulking body seated on the floor of the cell, even though they were obviously awake, as if gravity was being artificially strengthened only for them. Upon a closer look you realized there was more than just fatigue dragging the occupant down; their entire being radiated such unimaginable grief it all but choked the air around them, making you wobble as if teetering on the edge of a bottomless well. Your heart threatened to shatter at the sight of a being enduring so much suffering. Hesitation of any kind evaporated in the face of your revitalized determination to console the mech who'd endured so much, as you refused to let this go on a moment longer.

"Max? In the vents, above you, it's Y/N."

In an underwhelming touch of irony your injuries actually made hushing yourself rather easy. Max slowly roused from his fog with every word you spoke, looking back and forth before casting his optics upwards and becoming aware enough to be shocked by what he saw. His expression was like a bot beholding a ghost.

"Y/N?! You're alive?"

The exclamation makes you sad and angry at the same time; really, no one had even given him that basic piece of mind? Sure there'd been a great deal of chaos, but letting him know he hadn't murdered you seemed rather routine, even after everything he'd done.

"It's okay, big guy. I'm okay." You assured, not realizing it wasn't quite true until the pain of simply existing with your injuries hit again. Hiding a wince, you grabbed at the corners of the vent as he continued to gape, easily sliding your hands into the crevices built to keep out much larger servos. "Hold on, I know these can open from the inside..."

"I don't understand..." He said, watching you like one might watch a dream unfold, standing and raising his cupped servos to catch you as the vent swung open. Perhaps the exhaustion was making you delirious, but there was no fear as you dropped the short distance into his waiting palms, despite what had happened the last time you'd been in his grasp. Perhaps the look of restrained hope in his optics put you at ease, as he didn't yet appear willing to believe this was real. Holding you like a blessing dropped by Primus himself, the giant mech sat down on the berth pushed against the wall, unable to stand under the weight of everything seeing you was making him feel.

"I thought... I was so sure I'd... You weren't even moving." He said softly, looking away as if he didn't deserve to see you alive after what he'd done. Perhaps you just had the softest heart in the universe, but such guilt in a truly gentle giant hurt more than any of your actual injuries. It was so easy to see the full scope of his trauma in the aftermath of everything, and how he obviously had been so far out of his usual self in the fog of pain and fear he'd been unable to stifle a moment longer... You wanted to help him so badly.

"I was hurt, but I'm alive. I'm going to be just fine." You assured, words halting just a bit when you included the "going" for the sake of accuracy. Currently you had a load of internal supports holding broken bones together, but with human medicine you'd have been immobile in a brace and multiple casts, probably for weeks. Even your forgiveness couldn't simply make that all go away.

"I'm... I don't know what to say." Came his reply after a long silence, his optics finally rising to meet your eyes. Though you hadn't been amongst Cybertronians for too long, you knew straight away that he'd been crying, as the tell tale dimness of his optics and slight discoloration of the mesh around them were unmistakable. Seeing that broke your heart more as you settled into his palm. Finding his voice again, he tried and failed to manage a bitter smile, the weight of his guilt making it impossible to attempt such an expression. "A little "sorry" feels pretty pathetic right about now."

Holding back the urge to cry, as well as the urge to lie down as adrenaline failed you and exhaustion started creeping in, you tried to offer encouragement. "It's okay, Max. I know you're sorry-"

"I'm so much more than sorry, Y/N."

The interruption wasn't at all firm, but it still stopped you with its unexpected weight.

"I'm... I'm so ashamed... I took a vow to protect all life, especially organic life, and I nearly killed you just to send a message. You've been nothing but nice since I got here, and this is how I pay that back? Nothing that... that happened to me could make that okay. You didn't deserve any of this, and neither did... neither did Rung..." Fading off with a crack in his voice, he let the tears fall without a care, not even letting out a sob as they pattered onto his armored chest. "But because I can't do much else, I'm sorry. To you, to everyone, for everything... I hope that helps you a bit."

Sniffling and unable to stop yourself, you wondered how proud Rung would be of the big bot if he could see him now, and you had to emphasize to yourself that one day you were going to get a chance to tell him.

"It does, but I'm not mad, okay?" You said as you tried and failed to scoot closer, realizing that you were unable to move much at all from the pain and weariness of the injuries you'd unsettled by trekking here. Paying it little mind, you looked up into those big optics and tried to convey as much forgiveness and encouragement as physically possible. "I don't know everything, but after enduring what you did... Max, I'm just so glad you're here. We're all gonna be okay; you, me, and Ratchet says Rung will be too so long as we all put the work in. That's probably true for all of us, we just need to focus on getting better. I'll be taking care of myself, and I'll be here for you every step of the way."

"Heh, are all humans this forgiving?" He said, actually managing the tiniest hint of a smile as he spoke. "I... I don't... It's going to be a lot of work, but I'll try for you. For now I do need to stay down here though, what I did... I can't just walk. You know that, right?"

Though you were aware that things could never be so simple, you were still sad as you nodded. It seemed the truly evil bots of the galaxy were quite content to keep letting others endure the fallout of their cruelty while never facing any consequences themselves... Had Overlord ever been truly punished for all the torment he'd caused? You were entering a bit of a fog at the thought when a loud commotion at the entrance to the brig got your attention as well as Maximus's.

"-cannot BELIEVE this. I always thought they were at least somewhat responsible, but they're giving your most brainless stunts a challenge!"

Ratchet's very identifiable and very angry tone carried right to the cell you two were seated inside. Max actually gave you a full on smile in his cupped palms, something like a long forgotten feeling of mischievous delight twinkling in the back of his brightening optics.

"Guess you've been found out, eh jailbreaker?"

You'd have laughed if not for the pain and the sound of Rodimus closing in with a not at all reserved yawn of exhaustion.

"Relax, Ratchet, it's too early to be yelling... Besides the scanner says they're fine and right... here."

The two mechs appeared beyond the bars in the darkened brig, and while neither looked especially happy, one was far more actively angry than the other. Somehow you weren't intimidated in the slightest to be caught. Perhaps it was because you were completely fine going back to bed, not to mention that there weren't a whole lot of punishments the bots could really give you, but most likely you were just glad to have accomplished everything you came down here for. Well, everything but one...

"Fortress Maximus, if you would... just hand over Y/N... I need to get them back to the medical bay." Ratchet said firmly, caution evident in every syllable. Unnecessary as it may have been, Max didn't seem to take offense, likely because the medic had saved his own life after Whirl had put him down. Standing slowly from the berth, he approached the cell door with you held carefully in his servos. It was at that moment you realized the big bot was actually cuffed at the wrists. The sight combined with the fact that he'd be all alone after you left made you remember one more thing that needed to be done, which you recalled just as you were about to be handed over.

"Hold on, just let me..." In a hurry, you stood up on the bots palm and forced your legs to cooperate, hobbling the short distance to his chest that he held you so close to and throwing your arms open wide for a clumsy but genuine embrace. Barely able to talk between everything going on inside of your broken body and beyond, you croaked out a final bit of encouragement, looking up as you plopped down and were quickly but gently snatched up by the waiting medic. "See you later, Max. I promise."

"See you soon, Y/N."

#transformers #maccadam #idw #more than meets the eye #mtmte #lost light #tf #fort max #fortress maximus #human reader #self insert #my writing #my asks #requests

[nastybuckybarnes]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

Pairing: Cowboy!Bucky X Reader

Summary: During a summer away from school, you head back home to the small town you grew up in. You quickly resume your job on the Farm where you spent most of your teen years, reconnecting with people you thought you might never see again.

Warnings: Language, Smut, Fluff

Word Count: 3.7K

A/n: I like this idea. I like this title. I just like it. I hope y’all do too. 

~*~

Student loans most certainly don't pay themselves.

That's something people tell you but doesn't fully hit until you see the big bills in the mail. Instead of dwelling, you climb into your rusty old car and set out down the highway, heading back to the town where you grew up.

Your parents have been bugging you about coming to visit, and the town always has job openings somewhere, easily the best place to go to rake in some extra cash during your summer break.

And that's how you find yourself here, standing outside the big white farmhouse that's something straight out of a magazine.

Your dad dropped you off at the start of the long circular driveway, leaving you to walk to the front of the house in your old farm boots.

As you approach the house, you feel yourself getting nervous as you see the figure sitting on the yellow porch swing.

"My Goodness! (Y/n) (Y/l/n)! Is that you?!" You smile at the familiar voice, hurrying towards her as she gets off the swing and clomps down the stairs towards you.

"You've grown so much! We've missed you 'round these parts!" She exclaims, throwing her arms around you as soon as you're in range.

"Hi, Winnie! I've missed you too." She keeps an arm around your shoulders and walks you up the step and through the blue front door of the huge house. You toe off your boots and she does the same, not bothering to put them away properly in her haste to get you comfortable.

"I'll get you something to drink. We've got so much to catch up on. And the boys! Oh! They'll be dyin' to see ya. James 'specially. He just ain’t been the same since you left for the big city. But look at you now, a grown woman, a big city girl." You grin, eyes flittering around the house.

It's changed over the years, but it hasn't lost its homey feel. The walls of the entryway are the same yellow-orange as they always were, the floors, the same deep oak.

You take a left, through the dining room and past George's office, through the kitchen and finally into the sitting room.

You take your time, admiring all the renovations they've done in the years since you've last been in here.

All the cupboards and counters are a bright pristine white, but the beams across the ceiling give it a rustic feel. The appliances are all stainless steel, and the hardwoods have been darkened since the last time you saw them.

Winnifred pulls you to sit down on the soft beige couch across from the windows, smiling brightly at you.

"I'll grab you a drink. Wanda squeezed some orange juice fresh this mornin' so we're in for a treat." She pours you a glass and you smile as she hands it to you, her hospitality warming your heart.

"How's the big city treated ya?" She asks, plopping down on the couch next to you. You take a sip of orange juice then sigh.

"It's... different than out here, that's for sure. The people mind their business and they don't stick out for each other the way we do. But I think that that's helped me really grow and become independent." She nods, smiling at you.

"Look at you. Always know you'd be somethin' great. And here you are, on the road to being a doctor. Hope you don't forget us while you're out there savin' lives." You shake your head.

"I could never forget you guys. This place is my home. You guys... you're my family." She nods, "you're darn right."

"That's uh... one of the reasons why I cam here, actually. Ma was tellin' me that you guys are looking for some extra help over the summer. I may not be as good as I was before, but I still remember how to take care of the animals and run the place."

"Oh Darlin', you'll always have a job here, whenever you want. You can help with paperwork or you can help the boys with the animals if you want." You nod, mulling over your options.

"Or if you're really up for it, you can help with both." You nod, liking that idea more than just picking one.

"And you'll stay here during the week. It's gonna be early mornings and late nights, just like before. But weekends you can go home to your family." You nod again, taking another sip of your juice.

"You'll be staying in the guest house with James. I hope you don't mind. There are two bedrooms so you won't have to bunk together. He got it done all nice and pretty, I think you'll really like it. And if you don't, I'll see if Wanda'll stay with him for the summer." You wave her off.

"I'm sure James and I will be fine to live under one roof for the summer." She nods with a grin, happy that you're back home where, in her opinion, you belong.

"The boys should be finished in the field soon. I'm sure they're hungry. Wanna help me whip up some lunch? It's been a while since we've had those grilled sandwiches you make. I'm sure the boys'll love 'em as a surprise." You nod, getting up off the couch and walking into the kitchen, falling into the familiar task of making lunch for the farm boys.

You and Winifred talk about the growth of the farm and about the new girl, Wanda. "Her family's from Europe. She moved out here for school but got a job working on the farm. Decided to take a break from school and work with us for a couple years before going back to school. Isn't that so lovely? Everyone who gets a taste of this ol' farm just can't stay away. You're no exception, are ya?"

You shake your head, a grin on your lips as you plate the sandwiches.

Boots trudge against the stone by the door and your heart races in your chest. The door swings open and the conversation the two men are having comes to a halt when they see not one, but two pairs of women's boots at the door.

"Ma?" a familiar voice calls out. You hear them taking off their own shoes and then they're coming through the dining room and into the kitchen.

You're not sure what you were expecting, but this certainly isn't it.

The two scrawny boys you used to play on the tire swing with have grown into huge men. Steve, the boy that used to be so sick all the time, with nothing but skin on his bones, is easily six feet tall and over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. His head nearly hits the top of the doorway when he walks into the kitchen, eyes as blue as ever. And the accentuate his muscles, he's wearing a skintight blue shirt that shows off every single curve and crevice in his body.

His mouth opens in shock when he sees you before a grin spreads over his pink lips. He rushes to you and engulfs you in a tight and sweaty bear hug, squeezing you tight in his arms.

You giggle uncontrollably as he spins you around.

"God, it's been too long! What're you doing 'round these parts?" He sets you down on your feet, hands on your shoulders as he drinks in your figure.

Winifred answers before you have a chance to, and you take the moment to look around Steve's arm to where you know James is standing.

Standing in place of the lanky boy who stole your first kiss is a grown man. His hair's trimmed and slicked back, and he's got a short scruffy beard growing. He's almost as tall as Steve is, still several inches taller than you, and even thicker, biceps straining against the tight fabric of his flannel shirt. His thighs are sinfully thick in his dirty jeans, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You can't help but devour his figure with your eyes, greedy to drink up every detail of him.

He does the same to you, pink bottom lip tucked between his white teeth as his eyes rake over your figure.

From the tight white tank top that hugs your chest, to those damn jeans that hug your legs so perfectly, to the mismatched socks on your feet. He's missed you, that much he'll admit.

"...I just hope that the two of you get along like you used to." The two of you tune back in, turning to his mother as she continues speaking, oblivious to the moment you just shared.

"Wait what?" He asks, voice deep. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and it doesn't go unnoticed by him.

"You and (Y/n). I figured that you've got plenty of room for her to bunk with you. And with Wanda stayin' with us, there ain't a lotta room for her to stay." You glance over at the man in question and he swallows hard before nodding.

"Yeah. Of course." Winifred claps her hands together happily.

"Perfect. Now, you boys must be hungry. Eat up!" Steve grabs his plate of sandwiches and sits down on the couch, sighing and relaxing with ease. Bucky, on the other hand, doesn't move as quickly. He waits until his mother leaves to turn something on the tv before moving, and when he does he only moves towards you.

You lean back instinctively, inhaling sharply when you find yourself pinned against the countertop behind you.

He looks you up and down again, nodding to himself. He's so close that you can feel the familiar warmth of him through the few inches separating the two of you. He leans closer for a moment, lips just hovering over yours, and your eyelids fall closed. Until he pulls back.

A soft whine falls from your lips and he chuckles quietly, grabbing his plate of food and plopping down next to Steve on the couch. You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself before heading into the living room and sitting by Winnie.

"I suppose you'll need to go home and pick up some of your things, won't ya?" You nod, taking another sip of your orange juice. "I'll have my folks bring it over later on. If that's alright with you." She nods, grinning happily.

"You know what? I say we have a barbecue tonight. Invite your folks over, some old friends. Celebrate you comin' home for the summer." She's up and hurrying away before you can even say no.

It's silent for a painfully long moment before Steve clears his throat and speaks.

"So how's school been?" You almost roll your eyes. Same old awkward Steve.

"It's been good. I uh... finished my second year of med school. I've just got two years of clinical experience to go then I start my residency." He nods, leaning forward in interest.

"And you've chosen your specialty?" You nod, smiling as you talk about your passion.

"I'm going into Obstetrics and Gynaecology. So for my clinical I'll be pretty much just shadowing some doctors, delivering babies, helping and observing in the OR. Then it's a minimum of five years in residency before I can start my own practice." He nods thoughtfully, smiling suddenly.

"So in two years we'll be callin' ya 'Doctor (Y/l/n)'?" You nod, that fact scaring you more than it probably should.

"Yup." He shakes his head in disbelief. "You know, I have a hard time believing that the same girl who went to rodeo's with me and this punk when we were skinny little nobodies... can't believe she's a grown woman now, on her way to becoming a doctor. I've gotta say, (Y/n), I'm so proud of you. You've got no idea." Your eyes prickle and you blink furiously.

"Thank you, Steve. It feels so... surreal. Coming back here after all these years... it feels like nothing's really changed." He smiles, nodding.

"Yeah. Nothing's changed at all," Bucky mumbles, eyes on you. You look down at your lap, unsure what he means by that.

~*~

The first week of helping on the farm is exactly how you remembered it. Early mornings, heavy lifting, and the stench of animal crap that seems to stick to your hair even after you shower. But it feels like home. And spending time with your closest friends is worth it all.

You're walking through the tiny town's farmer's market, a list of groceries in your right hand, written by Winifred herself.

Just as you're paying for the last vegetables that you need, the sound of horse hooves on the gravel road makes you and everyone around you turn to the sound.

Sitting atop his prized mare is Bucky, a dark cowboy hat on his head and some fancy looking cowboy boots on his feet. He slows to a stop in front of you, grinning as you step closer.

"Well howdy," you tease. He chuckles and looks down for a moment.

"Ma wanted me to come pick you up. Says a storm's brewin'. She didn't want you walking home in it. Brought my pack so you can stash the groceries and we can ride back home." You purse your lips then nod, handing him the groceries so he can put them away.

"Now c'mon up. You remember how to ride?" The glimmer in his eyes makes you grin.

"As a matter of fact, James, I remember vividly how to ride." He chuckles softly and offers you his hand. You grab it with one hand and pull while bouncing to give yourself momentum. You grab onto his bicep with your other arm and swing your leg over the horse, pulling yourself up the rest of the way with ease.

"Huh, all that time in the big city hasn't made you forget," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at you while his mare starts a comfortable walk back to the house.

"I uh... I haven't had a chance to tell you, but your place looks great," you say awkwardly, hands twitching to reach for him.

He hums, his right hand reaching back and grabbing onto yours, pulling it around his waist. "You'd better hold on tight. Don't want you to fall." You bring your other hand around his waist and lean your head against his back.

The ride back home is quiet and peaceful, and gives you far too much to think about.

When you're finally back on the property, Bucky hops off of his mare then reaches up and grabs your waist instinctively. And you let him.

He helps you down and the two of you stand like that for a long moment, chests touching and eyes locked together, the tension palpable between the two of you.

Thunder booms in the distance and it snaps the two of you out of your moment. Bucky ducks his head and leads his mare to the stables and you make your way into the house that the two of you are sharing.

When Bucky finally comes inside, his hat damp with rain, you've got two mugs of tea waiting. You hand one to him then make your way into the sunroom to relax as the rain falls gently outside.

You're sipping your tea, watching the rain, when Bucky comes out and sits next to you on the worn old couch.

"I've missed you, (Y/n). I really have. It just.... it ain't the same without you here." You look over at him and smile sadly.

"I've missed you too, Buck. So much." He throws his arm over the back of the couch, eyes on you as he sets his mug down on the coffee table.

"When you left... I thought you'd come back and be too prissy for me. Thought you'd realize what you're worth and you wouldn't wanna speak to me again, that's assumin' you'd come back at all. And I know it's shallow of me, but I didn't know what to expect. But let me tell you that I'm so damn happy that you haven't changed. You've filled out a bit more, and you seem more confident, but you're still my (Y/n) in there."

You look over at him, see the vulnerability in his beautiful blue eyes, and find yourself falling head over heels all over again.

"Bucky, I'd never think myself 'too good' for you. Or for anyone here. You guys are my family... my friends.... and..." you trail off , eyes darting down to his lips for a long moment before finding his eyes again.

His arm slides from the couch to your shoulders, fingers squeezing your shoulder gently. You lean forward, setting your mug on the table beside his then nuzzle back against him, sighing softly.

"I'm glad you're home," he whispers, eyes finding your lips. You nod, instinctively shifting closer to him.

You lick your lips and his eyes dart down to the movement. He looks back up to your eyes, asking for permission. You grant it, leaning forward slightly. He meets you halfway, lips warm and slightly chapped.

You melt into it, moaning softly against his mouth. He takes advantage of your parted lips and gently lets his tongue explore, re-familiarizing himself with every inch of you.

His hands grip your waist and yanks you over to him, helping you situate yourself so that you're straddling his thighs. You cup his cheeks and kiss him harder, inhaling sharply when he grabs your ass.

"Let's get you outta these jeans, yeah?" He asks, his voice gravelly and deep with lust. You stand up, legs trembling slightly, and quickly rid yourself of your jeans. He does the same, kicking off his jeans and unbuttoning his flannel. You pull your t-shirt above your head, leaving you completely bare in front of him, except for your panties.

He has his hand down his boxers, stroking his hard length while his hooded eyes stay trained on you.

You drop to your knees between his legs and smile innocently up at him.

"Can I suck your cock, Bucky?" He moans at the way you say it, nodding his head furiously. You're quick to help him out of his boxers, your jaw dropping as his cock rests freely against his abdomen.

He's so much bigger than you remember. You take him in your dominant hand, stroking him slowly. He throws his head back, taking deep breaths as you continue to slowly torture him.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you lean forward and lick him from base to tip, then take him down your throat.

He lurches forward, hand grabbing onto your hair as you start bobbing your head up and down.

"Jesus fuck!" He watches you through hooded eyes as you give him what may be the best blowjob of his life.

"Fuck, stop." He pulls you off of his cock and takes a few shuddering breaths.

"As fucking fantastic as that feels, I wanna cum inside of you." You rub your thighs together as heat pools at your centre at his words.

He pulls you up onto his lap again and pulls at the flimsy lace of your panties, tearing them clean off of your body. He tosses them aside then pulls you closer to his chest, rutting his hips upwards to grind his cock against your folds. You moan and drop your head to his shoulder, the feeling of his hot length against your wet heat only adding to the intense pleasure coursing through your veins.

"You gonna let me fuck you hard? Huh? You gonna let me show you just how much I missed you?" You nod breathlessly, grinding your hips against his and moaning every time he bumps your clit.

He lifts you up slightly, just enough to snake his hand between your naked bodies, then lines his aching cock with your cunt.

He doesn't make any further move, allowing you to take the reins at your own pace, and for that you're more than grateful.

It takes a while, lowering on him slowly, before you can settle comfortably on his lap, and even then the two of you are straining.

"Fuck," he rasps, fingers digging into your waist, no doubt leaving bruises for tomorrow.

You give your hips an experimental rock and moan as he rubs right against your g-spot.

"God, you're tight," he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. You glance down to where the two of you are connected then back up to his blissed-out face and make a decision in your head.

With determination and a loud moan, you lift your hips then drop them back down. He lets out a guttural groan and you repeat the action, gradually speeding up until you're bouncing in his lap, his cock hitting every single good place inside of you.

"I-I'm gonna cum," he whispers, moaning softly when you clench around him. You can feel yourself approaching the edge too, and when he brings his hand between your legs to rub your swollen clit, you see stars.

A long drawn out moan leaves your lips as your release slams into you like a brick wall. You collapse against his chest, eyes rolling back into your head as he grips your hips and fucks up into you, drawing out your orgasm while finally reaching his own.

His hips stutter a few more times before he stills, arms wrapping around you and holding you tightly to his chest while the two of you stay locked together, his cock softening inside of you.

You push yourself up against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He hums happily and hugs you tighter. Two fingers flick the tip of his hat and he chuckles, cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

"Well, you know what they say," you whisper, grabbing his hat and plopping it onto your own head. He shakes his head with a laugh. "No, what do they say?"

You grin and bring your mouth down so that it's just hovering over his.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy."

#bucky x reader #cowboy!bucky x reader #cowboy au #cowboy!au #cowboy!Bucky Barnes x reader #cowboy bucky x reader #cowboy Steve x reader #Steve x reader #bucky x reader cowboy au

[lochrannn]

AU_gust: Guards! Guards!

Read on AO3

CW: Canon-typical violence

prompt no 23: Historical Fantasy

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves

-

Lila is unceremoniously shoved into a cell and as she whirls around to throw insults and maybe her fists at her captors - she’s been unfortunately relieved of her weapons - the cast iron bars are slammed in her face and the dungeon master sneers at her with blackened teeth, now that he’s no longer in danger of getting kneed in the balls. Again.

She slaps her hands against the bars anyway, making sure to hit them with the heels of her palms so the door rattles on its hinges as she shouts a string of threats about how she’ll carve every single one of them up and that they’d better let her out right the fuck now if they want to live.

In all honesty, she hasn’t the slightest idea why she is in this jail, for once.

She’d been making her way along a road through the forest, not on a mission, not even with any particular destination in mind, when she was jumped - completely taken by surprise - by five burly men, who knocked her half unconscious, took her weapons, bundled her up, and then dragged her to a fort and straight down into the dungeons.

And right now she’s far too furious at her captors, and a bit her own lack of wariness, to let the uncertainty of her fate get in the way of her anger.

“D’you mind keeping it down a little?” a voice behind her grumbles and Lila nearly jumps out of her skin as she whips around to see a figure sitting on a low bench in the far corner, half shrouded in the shadows.

She’d completely missed him when she was brought in.

Her fellow inmate seems to be a ranger like herself, she realises as her eyes adjust to the low lighting inside the cell proper. Long legs kicked out in front of him clad in practical leather trousers. A short leather tunic covers broad shoulders and an equally broad chest that he has his arms crossed over, only a bit of a linen shirt peeking out between leather gauntlets and empty knife straps, and Lila doesn’t think it’s a trick of the light that his skin seems darker than most people’s around here, but matching her own.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, at least doing a decent job of keeping the startled wobble that she feels out of her voice.

“Gods, you’re a charming one, aren’t you?” he asks sarcastically, pushing off from the bench and getting stiffly to his feet and Lila realises that he’s even bigger than she’d assumed he was sitting down.

She doesn’t let it show, but she is immediately on high alert as he moves. If she were armed she could probably take him, but if the scar she spots in his brow as he steps into the light is any indication, he knows how to fight just as much as her and Lila tries to push away the sudden fear of all number of terrible things he could do to her while none of the guards would bother to come to her aid.

Then she’s momentarily distracted when she sees his pointy ears stick out just a bit through the shaggy brown hair that frames his face, and she can’t hold in a surprised snort.

That is by far the bulkiest fucking elf she’s ever come across.

Indignation makes its way onto his face as he seems to realise that she’s laughing at him and he protests with a whine that really contrasts his earlier growly tones, “Hey, what the fuck are you laughing at me for?”

There’s an insecure vulnerability she might be able to exploit for her own safety if she plays her cards right, so Lila says, putting a brittle edge into her voice that comes a bit more easily than she cares to admit, “Not laughing at you, sorry! I’m just a tad stressed out about being locked up with someone who could be a brutal murderer for all I know!”

She’s surprised at how well her ploy works when there’s an instant shift in the elf’s energy and he actually takes a step back, giving her a lot more space, and his expression softens from irate to pensive.

“Uh, yeah… sorry,” he mumbles, fingers twitching at his sides as if he feels more uncomfortable than she does right now, “not gonna murder you. Promise…”

Oddly reassured by that, Lila stifles another laugh at his discomfort and instead asks conversationally, “What are you in her for, then?”

“Fuck if I know,” he replies exasperatedly, his frustration clearly not directed at her, though, “I was following a band of thieves through the forest hoping they’d lead me to their den and next thing I know, I wake up in this place with a headache and, I’m pretty certain, a crack in my skull. You?”

“More or less the same,” she answers with a shrug, then she goes on, hoping he’ll get what she’s offering, “Show me?”

It seems he does because he - tentatively, she notes - makes his way over to her and leans down a bit so that she can examine the right side of his head.

She hadn’t noticed it earlier, probably focussed a lot more on her own concerns, but now she sees the long gash that starts on his cheek and when she gently pushes strands of his hair out of the way, she sees that it’s matted with blood, originating from split skin that reaches all the way to above and behind his pointy ear, which is also a bit bloodied and swollen, clearly having been injured by the same blow.

The wound looks painful and like it will scar, but she doesn’t think it’s life-threatening as long as it doesn’t get infected.

“You’ll live,” she informs him tersely, but for some reason she can’t resist carding her fingers through his hair reassuringly before letting her hand drop. He grunts at her touch and blinks slowly and there’s suddenly an odd warm feeling in Lila’s chest.

She tries to dispel the tension developing in the cell, takes a step back, crosses her arms, and asks, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Diego,” he says neutrally. She hopes he hasn’t picked up on her sudden embarrassment.

“Well, Diego, I’m Lila,” she offers with a bit of a sigh and then brightens, “You wanna get out of here?”

Diego looks at her sceptially, “You got a plan?”

Lila grins at him, giving him a quizzical once over, “As a matter of fact, I do!”

-

“Uh, guard?” Diego calls out not loud enough, and entirely unconvincingly, seeing as he’s supposed to be distressed and Lila can’t help but press her face between his shoulder blades in fond exasperation.

She’s known him for all of ten minutes, how is she already fond of this hopeless fucking idiot? Gods, he can thank his lucky stars that he ended up being locked up with her or he’d never get out.

Lila is standing right behind Diego, hands fisted into the material of his leather tunic at his back, pressing as closely against his ridiculously solid body as she can, making herself practically invisible to anyone who might happen to be looking into the cell even if they came up close.

“Fuck, you’re a terrible actor,” she wispers and feels the muscles in his back tense.

“Shit, woman, stop nagging! You do your job, I do mine, if you don’t mind!” he grumbles out of the corner of his mouth and then takes a deep breath.

The next time he shouts, Lila has to stop herself from startling, because his voice echoes off the walls and there’s a decidedly dangerous edge to it. It’s a voice that will not be ignored.

“Guards! Guards! The fucking ranger’s escaped! She just disappeared from the cell!” He slams presumably his fists into the bars and makes them rattle loudly and the commotion has its desired effect, because Lila can hear hurried footsteps thundering down the hall towards them.

Good, it sounds like two of them, that’s what she was hoping. She was expecting at least two, but three would have already made her plan a bit more difficult to pull off.

She focuses intently on the task at hand, dragging her subconscious away from the warmth she feels radiating off Diego’s body and the not overpowering but decidedly distracting smell of his skin,

“What the fuck?!” she hears one of the guards shout as he arrives at the cell and can apparently indeed only find one occupant.

There’s a rattling of keys and the hinges of the cell door squeal as it is opened.

Diego’s muscles shift against her, it feels like he’s lifting his arms. “Careful where you point that thing,” he says evenly.

Right, so she assumes he’s being kept in check by one of the guards, but that’s ok, that’s part of the plan.

One set of footsteps tentatively enters and Lila readjusts ever so slightly, face still firmly pressed against Diego’s back but she can now see the guard as he passes them, gaze fixed on the far side of the cell, sword raised defensively, and he completely misses her as he edges past.

Lila spots the hilt of a knife sticking out of his belt and in a flash she slips away from Diego and up behind the guard, pulls the knife out of his belt, and slits his throat with it.

Confident enough in her skills that she doesn’t have to bother checking she’s done the job thoroughly enough, though she does register the thud as the guard’s body hits the stone floor, she twists around to assist Diego.

But there’s no need as she just catches him grabing the short spear, the tip of which is still resting against his chest, pulls it out of the other guard’s hands and slams the handle hard enough into the man’s face that Lila can hear the sickening crunch of multiple bones breaking.

She doubts he’s dead, but this guard will also not cause them any issues in the foreseeable future.

“Holy shit,” Diego breaths out in surprise, “I didn’t think that would work!”

“Oh thanks for the confidence!” she says, more exhilarated than miffed, really, and grabs his hand.

On some absolutely batshit impulse she interlaces her fingers with his, but then decides against just dropping his hand like it's a hot piece of coal, lest she make things even more awkward.

She ignores the wide eyed stare he gives her, though a part of her brain registers how he clasps her hand right back, and starts pulling him out of the cell, urgently saying, “Come on Diego, we need to go!”

#au_gust_2021 #fanfic #tua #the umbrella academy #diego hargreeves #lila pitts #dielila #diego x lila #diego/lila #lochrannn lxd au challenge

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 78: The Great Provider

Chapters: 78/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg 13

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),Thor(Marvel) Wanda Maximoff, vision, Bruce Banner

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time, Alarr Is A Little Bitch Now And Forever, Seriously Bull Cults Are Super Old, And Super Important

Summary:  You face the bull.

“There's a lot of people looking at me.” Your father whispered to you, fiddling nervously with a crumbling slice of dark buttered bread. “Your asshole beau got me good this time.”

Seated on the other side of you, Loki sighed. Of course he could hear, even with the din of the First Feast all around. You shook pepper onto a peeled, boiled egg.

“It wasn't planned like that.” You whispered back. “All of the humans are seated on this side, me included. The planners just thought you should be next to me.”

On the one hand, you were glad your father was acknowledging your relationship without major pushback. On the other hand, insulting a prince within earshot of that prince, and many of his vassals, was probably not such a good idea.

“I mean, I can ask them to change the seating order. Put you down at the farthest table, with a bunch of Asgardians you've never met.”

He shuddered. “You wouldn't. My own daughter wouldn't do that to me, her poor old father, who has so few years left to him. You wouldn't show such cruelty to a vulnerable old man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you've got one foot in the grave already. You could fall over dead any minute now. You're practically dust.”

“Well, that might be going a little far.” he huffed. “I've still got some vinegar in me.”

“You even talk like an old man.” you teased. “Besides, you don't get to pull the Old Man Card, and then complain because I play along. Make up your mind.”

You passed him a serving bowl full of bilberry porridge, and he dipped some out. One thing your father was always willing to do, was try new food.

“Speaking of, what counts as 'old' to these folks?” he asked. “You've been saying some stuff about that, but it seems unbelievable.”

“You gotta start believing this stuff, Dad.” you chided.” It's all real. I know it's hard. My head has been swimming for months. But it gets easier to accept the more you learn. Anyway, for an Asgardian, about five thousand puts someone firmly into the 'elderly' category, but for an Aesir, like the king, or Saga, or Loki, the sky is the limit. I can count the number of kings Asgard has had in it's whole history on one hand. They just live that long.”

“Five thousand? Damn. That's...That's like, pyramid building times, isn't it? Say...did they...?”

“No, they didn't build the pyramids. I already asked. And even if aliens did build them, it wouldn't have been Asgardians” you pointed out. “They would have been in the north, making, I dunno, runestones? Longships? Something like that. The people in the north never really did the large-scale monument building like they did in Egypt. But Asgardians sure did. You saw the paintings of the old palace?”

That thing that looked like a pipe organ? Yeah.”

“So, if they were building our monuments, they'd have looked like that, wouldn't they?”

“Okay, but what if it was different aliens? We know there's more than one kind of alien.” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but...I never found out if the other gods of the world were aliens or not. But even if they were, I'm pretty sure the pyramids were built by humans, even if they were built for their gods.”

“They were.” Loki interrupted. “But they also made for interesting sight-seeing expeditions for many peoples across Yggdrasil, so yes, aliens visited Earth quite often in your distant past.”

Your father clammed up and glared. After a few awkward moments, Loki turned back to his plate, passing along a crumbly cheese that turned out to be similar to feta. You added some to your grain salad.

Just get through dinner, you thought to yourself. Why did the men in your life always have to be so difficult?

Time was left between courses for the making of toasts, and there was a lot of back and forth-between the Icelandic dignitaries praising the Asgardians for being such gracious hosts, and the Asgardians praising them for hosting all of Asgard in the first place. There were toasts for the Avengers in attendance, though they were somewhat subdued; the Maximoff girl was still a fairly controversial figure, Dr. Banner continued to be visibly uncomfortable with the attention, and the Vision was simply not as well known. But they were dutifully honored nonetheless, and then the humans of Trolerkaerhalla turned their adoration on you.

'The People's Seidkona', they called you. 'The bridge', and 'the Huldra shield'. Even 'the Sapphire Brand', a kenning Loki had invented for you, which made you wonder what he had been discussing with his worshipers when he was out working on the longhouses.

The dessert course was mixed dried fruit, cooked down into a compote and served over bread.

It was also the last course before the slaughter of the bull, for tomorrow's Second Feast.

You'd told Tara and your father about it, to mixed reactions. Tara was repulsed, but your father, who presumably saw more dead animals along the side of the road than you would be comfortable with, seemed to take it in stride.

“Someone has to do it.” he'd said, “They gotta get to the plate somehow. Sucks, I know. There's no way out of it?”

“It's tradition.” you'd sullenly explained. “And it's really old. Like, Proto-Indo-European old. Back when kings used to be worshiped and held responsible for everything. If the crops failed, they sacrificed him. So it was in a ruler's best interests to make sure his people were provided for. I think, eventually, the bull became a stand-in for the king. I don't know if the Asgardians influenced us in this case, or if it was the other way around, but there's a whole deep layer cake of symbolism involved, and I really do have to participate.”

The bull and the ruler. Symbols of power, fertility, plenty, and prosperity. It was poetic, in an ancient, rustic kind of way.

You had thought that you had it all together, but when you heard the bellowing sound of the bull somewhere close, and your heart clenched in your chest.

Suddenly dessert didn't taste so good.

                                                                              ******

There had been an arena built between tables for the bull to be driven into, with a raised platform that you were currently perched on, holding a goad with a trail of ribbons at the end. You would be enticing the bull towards you with the movement of the ribbons, and once it was within range, Loki would strike.

Then the beast would be butchered on the spot, to prepare for the next nights festivities. It would be very educational.

The human guests had been informed of what was about to happen, and of course, the Asgardians already knew, but they still cheered you on anyway. Skaldic students picked up a slow drum beat, that pulsed like a heart.

How many thousands of years worth of rulers and seidkonas doing this? Odin and Frigga had done it. Bor and Bestla had done it. Buri and Audhumla had not-the holiday hadn't been declared until after Buri's passing. But one had to assume that they all gazed out from Valhalla, within it's great black hole, and saw what their descendants were doing. Presumably, Buri could now see that two people who had no true relation to him, were now the ones honoring him. How would he feel about that?

The bull bellowed behind the gates, the sound echoing and distorting strangely. Loki lurked next to the platform, waiting. This wasn't going to be like a matador facing down an angry beast. This was going to be an ambush.

The gates slowly begin to open, and your adrenaline spiked into the sky.

Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes

The bull entered the arena and you froze in shock, almost completely forgetting what you were supposed to be doing.

The bull was...wrong. It was completely still, standing on a board on wheels. It did not walk into the area, but was pushed. It's head was oddly textured, almost shiny, and strangely shaped. It bellowed again, weird and distorted, but did not open it's mouth.

Its strangeness blended into your anxiety, becoming a potent cocktail of revulsion and dread. Loki patted the platform next to you, and you started, jerking your ribbons to and fro. The bull bellowed one more time before Loki strode up to it, and, with one smooth and elegant swing, beheaded it.

There was no blood. The wound was hollow, and the head sprouted the legs of a child as soon as it hit the ground, running around and mooing irreverently to the amusement and obvious confusion of the audience.

It was fake. It was a fake bull. Loki had mentioned to you that you need not worry because he had taken care of her bull problem, but hadn't had time to elaborate before you'd had to scramble up the platform. You would have never guessed he meant this.

With a flourish, Loki whipped the tanned hide off the bull, revealing a hollow armature beneath, within which was an ice-covered table, piled up with cuts of meat, bowls of organs, piles of stew bones, and a bucket of blood. The bull reduced down to its edible parts, all ready for tomorrow's feast.

The drums stopped abruptly, the child who had been hiding in the paper-mache bulls head discarded it to the side and ran off into the cheering crowd, as people came forward to carry away the bits of bull.

Loki draped the bull's hide over his shoulders and helped you down from the platform.

“Did I not tell you?” he said smugly. “I took care of it for you. Truly, the symbolism is the most important part, and this speeds the process along so that we may get to the dancing all the sooner!”

“That was freaky as hell!” you scolded. “You shoulda told me it was gonna be a fake! I spent that whole time all bent out of shape because of it, ugh, what a lot of wasted sleep!”

“In my defense, I didn't find out that you were troubled about it until yesterday. I had only a limited time to come up with something.”

“And you decided to stuff a kid in a fake bull's head? That's what you came up with?”

“That's Beli's youngest great-great-great-grandson, and he volunteered! My dear, what's wrong? I thought you would prefer it this way?”

“I do!” you huffed, irritated. “But I need you to start telling me when you do things like this! How am I gonna do my job if you already make all the decisions by yourself? Stop trying to surprise me all the time. I froze out there because of it! What did that look like to everybody else, huh?”

“I think they were too captivated by the bull to take notice...” he didn't sound so sure. “But yes, you are right, of course. It is a bad habit. I will be better.”

Somewhat mollified, you took his arm and allowed him to lead you to the dances.

                                                                              *******

“It's an insult!” Alarr raged. “He reduces our history to mere spectacle!”

“It may have been for convenience.” his wife pointed out. “Our Midgardian guests need more frequent rest. It wouldn't do for his Highness' little seidkona to collapse from exhaustion.”

“Do not call her that!” he snapped. “She doesn't deserve the title! What part of her is a seidkona? The part that graces Loki's bed? Or the part that gets into cat fights with her betters? This is exactly what I am talking about though! The Midgardians are weak, but we are the ones expected to lower ourselves to their level? If they cannot keep up, they shouldn't be here! The prince is a fool, and the Allfather merely enables him. Together, they will reduce us to infants.”

“Watch your tone with me, Alarr. I tire of your temper.”

“And I tire of watching our culture and people be diminished for easier consumption by outsiders. When does it end? If even our holy days aren't exempt from foreign influence, then what part of us can we really expect to keep? How much can we be diluted, and still remain Asgard?”

“Alarr, this obsession has already cost you dearly. And not just you, the whole family has been impacted by it. You are so preoccupied with everything you're afraid we're going to lose, that you don't see the harm that you are doing to us yourself! Now you may sit here and let your rage rob you of your Buridag, but I'm going back out there to enjoy myself! Stars know, I've had precious few chances to do so lately!”

She stormed out, leaving him behind to seethe.

                                                                       ******

“That was so weird.” Todd said. “I thought it was going to be a real cow.”

“I'm glad it wasn't!” another camper exclaimed.

“Yeah, me too, but why did they go through all that rigmarole about what was going to happen, explaining the whole thing, telling us not to fear, and then wheel out a meat-filled piñata instead? Did they think we were gonna think it was real? Like, are we toddlers to them?”

“Maybe? They're all hundreds of years old, aren't they? Even the kids.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I feel like that's a problem though. I mean, think of the advantages they have over all the rest of us! I can't help but feel like they will eventually have a disproportionate amount of global influence, just because of the monumental projects that they can put together with that longevity. And like, I know the longhouse squad might not mind having alien overlords, but I'm sure not excited about it.”

“Global superpowers rise and fall. That's just history.” another camper said. “Are you sure you aren't just worried that yours might be overshadowed?”

“No need to be rude.” Todd chided. “People were rightly worried about super powered individuals before these guys even showed up. I mean, look at what happened to Sokovia! When I was a kid, that kind of thing was unthinkable! Now we've gotta worry about nukes, and terrorists, and school shootings, and climate change, and now alien invaders and supermen on top of all that? It's no wonder people are so worried. Did you know these people haven't even signed the Accords? What do you think that says about them?”

“Hey, I'm not disagreeing, man. I'm skeptical too. But they're refugees all the same, and it's only been a couple years. I figure they're just trying to get adjusted before they go committing themselves to anything big, you know?”

“And that's fair for the average Asgardian. As far as we know, they didn't do anything wrong. But Thor...you know, as much as I like him, he's been involved in some pretty destructive events. And the least, I mean, the very least he could have done to show some kind of good faith with Earth, would be to turn his brother over to some kind of justice. But he hasn't; he's just let Loki flaunt every authority. The man committed a felony, he kidnapped my girlfriend, and...nothing! He's not allowed on United States soil, but he did it anyway, and nothing has been done. I can't help but be resentful, who wouldn't be?”

“I know what you mean, but then why did you come to this shindig, anyway?”

Todd shrugged. “I just wanted to see that she was okay, you know? We weren't perfect, but we really had something, and I just want to make sure she's okay. She didn't look okay, up there with that fake bull, and I don't like it. I know her; she's kinda delicate. All this is gonna be too much for her.”

“You have a lot to say.” interrupted an unfamiliar, accented voice. The little knot of campers jerked to attention. A young man stood nearby, arms crossed, glaring.

“Uh, yeah...” Todd said. “To my friends. Who are you?”

“Fritjof.” the stranger said shortly.

“That's the mutant.” one of the campers whispered urgently. “We saw him out in that fight, remember? He throws fire!”

“Oh.” Todd held his hands up in front of him. “Hey man, we don't have any beef with you. No need to lose our tempers or anything...”

Fritjof snorted. “Somehow, I doubt this.” he sneered.

“Frit!” A woman cried, then rattled off a quick sentence Todd could not understand. Fritjofs intimidating stance softened, and he answered back.

“I'm going to dance now.” He told Todd. “Be a more gracious guest.”

Several of the campers let out the breaths they'd been holding, as he left.

“What a freak.” One of them muttered.

“Don't know what his problem is, but I think he could use a class on minding his own business.” Todd said.

“So, you wanna go dance?”

“Not really, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to go see what it's like.”

                                                                              ******

The dancing was energized and frenetic; stomping, clapping, twirling, leaping. It was full of laughter and celebration, messy and unchecked. The commoner's dances were danced by all, and you had thrown yourself into them with relish. From arm to arm you passed, jumping and shouting in time with everyone else.

You danced, and spun, and bounced, finally ending up panting back in Loki's arms.

“Come, sit with me.” he said. “You need a breather.”

He sat you down in one of the covered seats, wrapped you in his cloak for extra warmth, and pressed a cup of hot cider into your hands. The community continued to dance, some breaking off to rest, some jumping back in. You simply watched, sipping your cider as Loki twirled Sjofn, Thor kicked with Wanda, and a very tall Asgardian lady tried to entice an increasingly uncomfortable looking Dr. Banner. Even Gloa seemed to be having a good time, though you noticed Alarr was nowhere to be seen. Andsvarr, however, was dancing for all he was worth, and rarely let Saldis out of his grasp. It was cute, but not as cute as Tara, slightly drunk off buttered rum, flirting openly with several very confused Asgardians, or your father, trying hard to avoid Dr. Banner's fate.

Loki whirled his way back to your side, and plopped down next to you, but must have noticed you were fading.

“It has certainly been a long day, hasn't it?” he asked. “Would you prefer to return to our rooms?”

“Yeah. As much as I'd like to stick around, I'd really need some sleep.” you admitted. “Gotta be up bright and early tomorrow too.”

“Then shall we?” He offered his arm, and somehow the two of you slipped away without much notice.

“Are you going back out?” you asked, as he tucked you comfortably into his bed.

“Yes, for a little while longer. It's best that my brother and I be seen out among the people for as long as possible. I'll be back later. Sleep soundly, my dear.”

The rigors of the day caught up to you quickly, and you had no inkling of how much time had passed when you finally felt him slip into bed next to you, smelling of sweet crystal mead.

#lasabrjotr #loki (marvel) #loki x reader

[ghostpeblewrite]

Paradoxical - Chapter 5

~~~~~~

Ghost knew deep down that walking out on Toast right then was a bad idea. However, he didn’t know how bad of an idea it actually was.

Only now he realizes that, his head pounding and his wrists tied behind his back. As he comes to his senses more, he realizes he has a blindfold over his eyes. He’s also tied to a chair.

And he can also hear sound in the room he’s in. Quiet whispering to his left. The voices almost sound familiar to him. Hey, maybe if he knows them, they won’t kill him!

“Hello?” he groans. Maybe he can talk his way out of this.

He can hear a gasp followed by a quick, shrill, “He’s awake!!” Two sets of footsteps approach him. One stops to his left, the other directly in front of him.

“Oh, please let me take his blindfold off!!” the shrill voice says, sounding almost like a begging kid.

“I’m not letting you do it,” a deep voice says. It has a weird accent, almost like a mix of southern and British- Wait a fucking minute.

“Oh, you mother FUCKER!” Ghost exclaims. He’d know that fucking voice anywhere. “Gavin you piece of shit!”

The man, correctly identified as Gavin, chuckles. The shrill voice laughs as well, a disturbing cackle that chills Ghost to his bones. “Long time no see, Ghostie.”

Ghost’s blindfold is taken off his head, and he’s face to face with the twin brother of his best friend.

Despite being identical twins, many things help differentiate the two brothers. First of all, Gavin doesn’t have the same baby blue eyes as Toast. His eyes are instead an abnormally vibrant green colour.

Another thing is the scar on the left side of Gavin’s face, stretching from his jaw up to the corner of his eyebrow. Gavin also has a few face piercings, one of them being on his eyebrow, another on his lip. He also does his hair differently than his brother’s.

The easiest way to tell though, is Gavin is a total dickhead, and Toast isn’t.

“What was even the point of the blindfold??” Ghost huffs, glaring at him.

“So you didn’t see him,” Gavin says, backing away from Ghost as he motions to the other guy in the room, presumably the owner of the shrill voice. Ghost freezes when he sees him.

The man looks a lot like Ghost, like he could be his brother or something. However, the man has shaggy nearly black hair that hangs into his face, red eyes, and more scars than a tortured war hostage. The guy’s face splits into an eerie smile, his cracked and scarred lips twisting, forming into something almost inhuman. He has sharp canines.

Everything about the man unsettles Ghost, and he hates to say he knows exactly why.

“We meet again, Ghost!!” The guy says, then lets out a chilling cackle, the effort from it shaking his entire body.

Ghost squeezes his eyes shut. He thought he was finally rid of this parasite, but his cackle drives its way deep into his brain again. He hasn’t seen him since the incident. He never wanted to see him again.

Yet there he stood, in front of him. His parasite. The thing he got ripped from his skull.

Jimmy Casket.

---

“Good morning,” Toast greets. His voice is tense, and he looks like a complete mess.

Spooker, who had just woken up after staying the night at the HQ by accident, blinks in surprise at Toast’s appearance. Toast never looks like this.

“Hi…” Spooker says slowly, “did you sleep?”

“Er, no,” Toast admits, seeming to shake a bit as he goes to grab his mug off the table. “But it’s fine. Have you seen Ghost?”

“Not since yesterday morning. Why?” Spooker raises an eyebrow. “Is he not here?”

“No. He’s not. And he didn’t bring his phone with him. And this isn’t like him,” Toast says quickly, shaking a bit as he takes a sip of whatever’s in his mug.

“Well, I’m sure he’s alright!” Spooker says, putting a hand on Toast’s shoulder. Toast just sighs.

“I don’t know. What with all this … Paranormal stuff going on, I’m worried. This isn’t like him! He always comes back- It’s been 24 hours maybe I should report him as missing?”

“Cmon, Toast! He’s a 30-year-old man, he can spend 24 hours on his own, right?” Spooker says, smiling at him. Toast thinks about that.

“I… I suppose you’re right,” Toast sighs, looking down.

“Yeah!” Spooker nods. “Anyway, Colon and I are gonna go somewhere today. You’ll be okay alone, right?”

Toast looks at him, in such a state that he is most definitely not good to be alone. He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”

“We will!!” Spooker says as the two head out the door.

Toast watches them go quietly. As soon as the door closes, he feels the weight of being alone settle on him. He can’t stand being alone. It reminds him too much of that dark time of his life.

He can barely remember any of it, really. Just the feelings he had. He remembered the apartment he and … she used to share, once a bright place full of laughter and love, turned to a dark blur in Toast’s memory. He still hasn’t quite forgiven himself for it, but he’s moved past it with Ghost’s help.

Ghost.

His childhood best friend. The memory of Ghost is the only thing that pulled him out of that place. Lead him all the way back to America. All the way to Ghost’s front door. He barely even remembers the first few weeks with Ghost. Ghost doesn’t bring them up either. All Toast can remember is a few blurs of the bottom of the bottle, an overall feeling of shit, and Ghost’s face when he found Toast unconscious on the floor of the kitchen. He had slapped Toast awake, and the face Toast saw when coming to consciousness was one of fear. Sure, he’d seen Ghost afraid before, but nothing like that. It was pure panic, fear from worry. It hurts Toast’s heart to think about.

He remembers Ghost yelling, but none of what he said. He was too captivated by him. Ghost was his own guardian angel back then, always there for Toast whenever he needed him. Toast was there for Ghost too. They sort of relied on each other, both coming out of dark times in their lives.

But now, remembering Ghost’s face the last time he saw him, the anger there. Toast sighs, looking down at his mug of coffee. He hates coffee, he could never understand how Ghost drinks it. He thinks he can understand now.

Part of him thinks he is overreacting. Ghost is a grown man. He can do what he wants, he doesn’t have to stay with Toast. It’s just odd. They’ve always been there for each other, always right nearby. It’s not like Ghost to be gone for so long.

Toast thinks about Ghost’s incident next. It’s barely been a month since it happened, and it’s been a relatively smooth road. Sure there are moments like these where Ghost would get irritable for no reason, but Toast just brushed it off as him adjusting. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

He can still remember the day he found Ghost. He’d been missing for a whole day before Toast finally tracked him down. He had found him in an old warehouse where Gavin resided, a place off the grid and abandoned, but big enough for all of Gavin’s needs. Gavin had stopped him near the entrance, trying to hold him back, saying how Ghost needed time to adjust. Toast had no idea what had happened, or how Gavin was involved. He just knew he needed to get Ghost out of there.

Toast had pushed past Gavin, into a room where there were two cots laid out, a body on each. Both looked similar to the other, with similar body types and faces. However, Ghost had redder hair. That’s how Toast recognized him.

Not to mention, the other guy had way too many scars to be Ghost.

Ghost later explained to Toast what had happened. How Gavin had contacted him, told him he had a way to solve his problem. Toast knew his brother could use magic, but he still does not know to what extent. Apparently, it was enough to extract Jimmy from Ghost’s head though.

Toast shudders at the memory. Knowing that the body on the other cot was Jimmy. He’s done his best to memorize that face, in case he ever sees him again. But he hasn’t seen him since. What’s shocking though is the fact that despite keeping an eye on murders in the area, Toast’s seen no change. Knowing Gavin, he’s probably got Jimmy locked up somewhere so he can’t draw attention to himself.

Toast goes to take a sip of his coffee, gagging a bit when he realizes it’s cold. How long has he been sitting there?

He sighs, standing up to go pour the coffee out. He’s probably had too much anyway.

~~~

haha evil men

#cw cursing #swearing tw #dsfksdhfkjhsdkf this is prolly so bad im so sorry #but hey!! evil men. #and toast angst ig #paradoxical story