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[sosouthernbeats]

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[frameconfessions]

I hope the protoframes remain relevant even after this story arc for the Drifter concludes, but I also recognize how complicated things would get with how many characters they could keep trying to make stay relevant, leading to a Konoha 13 Naruto type situation where we have too many relevant characters from Umbra & Ordis all the way to Kaya Velasco.

.

[jacobthewilliam]

[SPITCUPS] Old School Hip Hop Boom Bap Beat - by WOKE BOY WONDERS

[sswed]

everybody knows im a good girl, officer

alexia putellas x policeofficer!reader

A/N: pure unadulterated smut and a g!p reader, thus minors DNI, thanks

a part two to this work: is it a crime?

wc 3k

Your work is far too important to leave for an extended period of time, be it a week or few days. You never take holidays unless it's important... or required.

Yet, Alexia has convinced you to use your precious time off to visit her during her own week-long break in the meticulous training that she does everyday. So, you fly into Barcelona with a backpack full of only clothes to stay there for two whole days. Two days that Alexia promises will be very fun and relaxing.

The first day is slightly boring. You've never been in Barcelona since you insist that Alexia flies to you since you've started dating which means that she takes this rare occasion to drag you around Barcelona.

You see the massive church that Alexia points out, you've seen it in pictures that Lucy sent you when she first got here but it looks more grand in real life than in the pictures. You see a few more things whilst you get dragged along on a full tour with your favourite tour guide, such as the Camp Nou that you see from the outside only because of renovations.

Although you can't go inside the Camp Nou, you do go into the shop which means that Alexia gets slightly bombarded with a few stray fans while you get to browse around. They've got all three of the kits that you've seen Alexia wear on TV and you pick one up to take a closer look.

Then you feel a hand on your shoulder and flitch back automatically, you whip around to see Alexia smiling slyly.

"Are you buying a shirt?" Alexia says smugly and you suddenly re-think ever picking it up.

"No," You put the red and blue shirt back on the rack and try to walk away but Alexia catches your shoulder.

"Wait, that was a joke," Alexia turns you around and loops her arms around your shoulders while you scoff a little.

"Mm and I'm being serious about not buying it," You smile at her small frown.

It's clearly for show, you've dated Alexia long enough to know that she likes to wind you up with trivial things like this, especially now that you've been together longer.

"Plus, I like the shirt I have at home," You kiss her cheek with a smirk and Alexia scoffs.

"That's Lucy's not yours," Alexia complains and you laugh.

"She's practically given it to me so, technically, it's mine." You point out whilst walking away to the exit.

Alexia walks after you and you slow down to let her catch up so you can exit the store together.

"What if I give you mine?" Alexia asks, hopefully.

You chuckle, "I don't think yours will fit me,"

Alexia sighs exasperatedly, "Lucy's doesn't either!"

You laugh and turn to her, then lower your head so you can press a kiss to her lips. It's nice and soft, a reminder for Alexia that you care about her more than she thinks you do.

"Well, maybe I'll get one with my own name on the back then," You joke and Alexia looks at you pointedly.

You shrug with a chuckle and take her hand again.

"Where to next, my very hot tour guide?"

Alexia grins and kisses your cheek before tugging you off to the next destination.

The next day you spend at home, more accurately, Alexia's apartment handcuffed to a chair in her Barcelona t-shirt and your boxers, that already have a clear wet patch in the front from where your precum is leaking.

"Ale," You whine as Alexia stands in front of you in just her underwear.

She's already wet, you can tell by the way she looks at you but, somehow, she insists on torturing you both. She's just standing there by the sofa looking extremely attractive with her washboard abs and muscular thighs that you can't touch.

"Yes, baby?" Alexia purrs before approaching you and putting her hands on your shoulders but otherwise not touching you.

You're already hard from just kissing Alexia earlier and her dragging this out is only making it hurt more. You really want her to touch you, either palm your cock through the boxers or use her mouth because that always feels like heaven on earth but she's not doing anything.

"Let me touch you, please," You groan.

Alexia looks so sexy it makes you feel slightly fuzzy. She's got your favourite underwear of hers on, you have no clue whether that is a conscience or purposeful but it makes your head spin and blood pump faster.

Alexia smirks and runs her hands down your chest, over the mesh material of the shirt and down to your stomach where your core flexes under her scalding touch. Her nails feel so good on your abs as they grate backwards and forwards but it also drives you up the wall, it makes you harder than before and you so desperately want to thrust your hips into the air.

"I don't know, baby," Alexia pretends to think for a moment as she lays her hand flat on your stomach.

You moan at the heavy touch, every ounce of pressure going straight to your cock and at this point, you might as well come in your underwear. Alexia's got you crazy like you're high off seven things at once without even knowing it.

"Fuck Ale," You sigh when Alexia runs a single nail up the middle of your stomach.

Every touch feels like it might be the last, Alexia is playing some kind of game... or she's trying to test your patience and endurance at once, one of which you lack when it comes to sex with her.

She leans forward and you think she's going to kiss you finally but instead, she changes direction just as you're about to close your eyes and her lips reach the shell of your ear instead.

"You look so good in that shirt, I should ask the president to sign you," Alexia murmurs into your ear in a sultry voice that has your hips thrusting into the air at nothing in particular.

Your breathing speeds up until you're gasping like you've ran a marathon and Alexia is smirking at you as if it's the best thing she's ever seen in her life.

"Unhandcuff me, Ale," You groan and Alexia giggles.

"Have you ever been handcuffed, officer?" Alexia backs away to place her hands on your shoulders, squeezing slightly.

You resist the urge to moan at the petting, every touch feels like a step to combustion. You shake your head a few times, unable to speak the words and thankfully, Alexia doesn't push it.

"There is always time for firsts," Alexia smirks.

You want to yell and break the chair because you don't think you're going to survive not touching Alexia or at least not being able to touch yourself.

Alexia looks you over, you look like a mess.

Your face is flushed along with your neck and she's thoroughly surprised that she's managed to get such a visceral reaction from you. The shirt you're wearing is hers, match worn and all and she's been wet from the moment you put it on. It's a little tight around the arms and shoulders but she's not one to complain.

You're completely hard in your grey boxers and it's been extremely difficult not to drop to her knees at the sight, she's thought about it every time she touches herself and now that the opportunity is right in front of her, it's been very hard to stay cool.

Eventually, after a lot of teasing that has you high as a kite on pure want, Alexia hooks her leg over your lap and places herself directly on top of you cock. The sensation is beyond measure after an hour of constant teasing, even through two pairs of underwear, Alexia feels incredible.

"Fuck, Ale, shit," You ramble as Alexia rolls her hips, grinding down on your clothed cock.

The pressure is just what you want but it's not enough, you want Alexia to let you out of these cuffs so you can fuck her properly but she's not budging.

"Ale, please, let me fuck you like you want me too," You whine and Alexia's hips stutter for a moment at the claim.

There is probably nothing else she wants than to be held down and thoroughly fucked by her hot police officer, maybe nothing other than this.

"Shh..." Alexia shushes against your lips before pressing a kiss to them.

It starts gentle and then turns into a battle of bites and bruises. Alexia's tongue traces each of your canines, studying them like an anatomy lesson before she backs away to bite down on your lip.

You hiss in pain as she licks up the little pool of blood. It's got a metallic taste to it but she doesn't care, she wants to see you just as ruined as you get to see her normally.

She pulls away soon after and you let your head lull to the side for a moment. Alexia has you going into overdrive, every sense heightened a ten-fold meaning that each press of her hips feels like the end and each slip of the tonged like a resurrection.

"I thought you were a good girl for me?" You manage to whisper out, you're so overwhelmed, so needy that you can't speak.

"You know I am, officer," Alexia murmurs against your shoulder before sliding off your lap which makes you jolt at the brief contact and then the loss of it.

"Ale," You start to whine before Alexia cuts you off by taking her underwear off.

You stare at her legs which are covered with her wetness and then at her pussy that practically flows like a river. If Alexia allowed you, then you would spend all day eating her out.

She then shrugs off her bra and your eyes roll into the back of your head at the sight of her boobs. The reminder that you still cannot touch her remains at the forefront of your mind at the weight of the handcuffs dig into your wrists.

She then drops to her knees in front of you and you take a sharp breath in. Alexia on her knees is one of your favourite sights, she's wonderfully beautiful, borderline angelically perfect.

So much so, that the sight of her down on her knees has your head spinning.

She puts a hand over your cock which is still trapped in your boxers and palms up and down a few times.

"Alexia!" You yelp at the firm contact of her hand while she smirks.

It feels like heaven and hell at the same time and you aren't sure where exactly Alexia has come from.

"You want me that bad?" Alexia looks up at you through her lashes and you moan when she makes eye contact.

"Always, Alexia, fuck... Everyday, I think about you," You cry out and Alexia grins.

"I'm very flattered, officer," Alexia chuckles before hooking her hands into the waistband of your boxers, touching the sensitive skin of your torso.

She then pulls them down in one quick motion and then your cock is free to flatten against your jersey-clad stomach. You watch as Alexia throws the boxers to join her pile of underwear and then licks her lips devilishly.

You groan loudly at the action and then cry out when she finally licks a long stripe from the base to the tip of your cock. Her tongue feels like lava in the best way possible and you are burning to get more.

"Ale, shit, you're so good," You praise blindly when Alexia swirls her tongue around the tip.

It feels ethereal, the pure pleasure liquidises itself in your veins and flows straight to your brain, there is nothing else in this moment, just Alexia. You thrash against handcuffs against when she takes you into her mouth fully, you want to card your hand through her hair like you normally do but instead you're forced to stay put.

"You're doing so well, babe, so good for me," You moan wildly.

Alexia has you thinking of only her.

You're close, you can feel it and you chalk it up to the hours of teasing that Alexia has subjected you to but you don't want this to end too soon.

You want to feel her around you more than you want her on her knees.

"Ale, I'm going to come if you keep going," You sigh out in a half groan, half pled.

Alexia looks up at you and then pops off with a smile. In that moment, you figure out that Alexia is not the angel you've seen so far but a devil dressed in disguise.

"That soon?" Alexia teases without any bite and you don't fall for it.

Instead, you focus on the way that she pops off you, the spit connecting her mouth to your cock before she wipes her mouth roughly with the back of her hand. She stands and mounts your thighs, the front of her pussy pressing against your cock in the most delicious way possible. In that moment, you think you might faint from how hot Alexia has you burning.

"Alexia, please, take these off," You tug against the handcuffs again whilst half begging Alexia to get rid of them.

She smiles and leans forward, her bare chest coming to rest against yours as she kisses you slowly. The kiss is deep like Alexia is trying to suck the soul out of you whilst doing so and you savour each pass of her tongue against yours.

Alexia pulls back and rests her forehead against yours, you close your eyes and breathe out deeply. It's moments like these that make the trip worth it.

"I love you," Alexia mumbles, it's barely audible with your heavy breathing but you catch each syllable like a prayer.

"And I love you, Alexia," You whisper back before Alexia takes her forehead away and smirks.

"So, you'll keep the handcuffs on then?" Alexia chuckles as you groan.

She doesn't let you respond because she quickly grips the base of your cock to line it up to her pussy before sinking down. The second you feel the inside of Alexia, you let out a sickening groan, you'd been waiting all this time and now you feel as though you've ascended beyond this moment.

Your head lulls to the side for the second time today and you ball your fists when you bottom out and Alexia breaths out a breathy moan. Every touch feels unreal, like you've run back to back marathons without a break.

Alexia rolls her hips and your mouth drops open, you gasp for air but the gulps don't satiate your hunger. Instead, you let your tongue stick out like a dog as Alexia rides you relentlessly.

She's got her hands gripping your shoulders for stability and you don't know if it helps ground you or just sends you deeper into orbit. She's lifting and dropping her hips without mercy and her own moans bounce off the walls of the living room.

You don't know how long you'll last like this, with Alexia taking you at your mercy. She's rolling and lifting her hips like a machine, enjoying herself as much as you are, you know it. You can tell by the way that she's groaning loudly each time you bottom out.

You try to lean forwards to capture her lips but the handcuffs stop you. You're immobilized, only able to lean forwards the slightest bit and Alexia is just out of your reach.

"Kiss me, baby," You plea and tug at the handcuffs again.

It's like hell and heaven. Alexia feels amazing, perfectly moulded to you and every touch is like a blessing but all you want to do so come, the blister heat boiling inside you slowly taking over with each passing of hers.

Alexia smiles at you and leans forward, letting you capture her lips. You kiss her hard, taking everything you can, allowing you teeth to graze her lips without care. In turn, she groans into your mouth and rolls her hips which elicits a moan of your own.

Alexia then lifts the jersey up so she can palm a hand down your flexed abs and that's when you know you won't hold on much longer. She's touching you everywhere and the pressure feels like a burn in the best way possible.

"Ale, I'm going to come," You moan into her mouth desperately and she only speeds her movement.

"Fuck, me too, baby," Alexia groans as she pulls away from the kiss, a string of long saliva connects the two of you for a moment.

It despairs when your mouth slacks open into a silent moan and you thrash against in the wooden chair. You come hard, maybe the hardest you've ever come and Alexia tightens around you as she reaches her own climax.

The tightness makes it impossible to relax and you tense with the added pressure, your hands grip the parts of the chair you can reach and you think you might have popped a vein.

Alexia slumps against your shoulder when she rides out the high of her orgasm and you let your own head come to rest on top of hers. You breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath and she does the same.

"This might be my favourite holiday ever," You mumble, mostly to yourself but it reaches Alexia's ears non the less.

You can feel her grin against your shoulder, clearly very happy with herself.

"I told you so," Alexia says smugly but there is evident tiredness in her voice that takes over midway.

"Okay, you know best, we've established it, now can I be let out of these?" You nod to the handcuffs and Alexia lifts her head to look at you.

For a minute, you think you might get lost in her honey eyes and you wouldn't mind that.

"I don't know, let me think about it?" Alexia chuckles when you sigh.

The handcuffs get taken off soon after and you carry Alexia into the bathroom because her legs resemble jelly but you don't mind. You'd carry her to the end of the world if you had to.

Whilst in the shower, you take the opportunity to ponder. Maybe taking holidays is a good idea?

[revelboo]

god. revel youre a terrible (affectionate) influence, we got the bumblebee lego in at work and its the CUTEST goddamn thing. they gave him BUMPER STICKERS. and REASONS for said bumper stickers (like his street smarts or w/e and its. not much but i think its cute) AND his shattered glass counterpart- goldbug?? iirc?? is on one of the license plates they gave him and on top of that it TRANSFORMS AFTER YOU BUILD IT. im gonna get him n wrap him and park his cute stickered butt under my tree. they gave him a little bee in his cab and on the back of his little id card thing and everything, its so unreasonably cute

I need pictures, because that sounds so cool! Don’t make me go buy a Lego kit, they’re so darn expensive and I’m broke right now. Unfortunately, it looks like I’m the only one at work today, so I’m going to write nonsense

The Weakends Pt 10

TFP Ratchet x Reader

• Heart racing as he drags you into him, servos wrapped around your arm so tight he’s probably going to leave bruises, but it’s hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s finally opening up. And he’s also somehow not quite your size, but much closer. “I’m not okay,” he says again, voice tight with tension as you hesitantly go up on tiptoe so you can loop your free arm around his neck and give him a hug. Because you know exactly how hard it is to say those words, because as much as you push at him out of worry, you do the same thing. Work past exhaustion, forget meals or just not want to eat at all because of stress. Worry over everyone but yourself. And his other arm bands around you, pressing you to him so tight you can barely breathe.

• “I know. You don’t have to be,” you whisper and he feels like a fool clinging to you like a sparkling clutches to their carrier. Embarrassed even as it feels like a weight’s been lifted from him. And you’re giving him permission to not keep up the act, but he’s not sure if that indifference and attitude is all that’s keeping him together. If he’ll break if he loses that armor. “We can talk about it if you want? Or about anything, but Doc you’re crushing my ribs a bit.” And uttering a startled laugh, he eases up his grip on you. Freezing when you cup his cheek in a warm hand, eyes staring up at him. Smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you laugh before.”

• Sure he scoffs and laughs, but it’s always dismissive or sarcastic. Never real like this and you want to hear it again. Want this tired, exhausted bot to smile. To be happy so bad it hurts. “I laugh,” he mutters, tone defensive as his optics flick toward your hand on him, to your face, back to your hand. Not asking you to stop touching him, but clearly uncertain about it. Making you wonder how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. Held him. Kissed him. Do they do that? There’s so much about Cybertronians you have no clue about. So many things that are achingly familiar to humans, despite how different they are.

• Startlingly soft and warm, your little hand lingers on his face. That touch tempting him to touch you in return, becoming all too aware of the way you feel against him. Could turn his head and let his mouth brush your palm, could run his servos through the softness of your hair. Aware that he’s staring at you, lost in those lovely eyes. Unable to move in case you come to your senses and move away. “You should laugh more,” you say, thumb sliding against him and brushing the corner of his mouth. “I like when you smile.”

• You’ve lost your mind, but it seems to be contagious as he bends toward you. When he vents, it fans across your face and stirs your hair. His serious mouth so close to yours and his big hand sliding from your side up your back as the other lets go of your arm and his servos just barely ghost over your cheek. Blood heating with awareness of him, of those big hands on you as you want something you’re not sure is allowed or even possible. “Do you?” He asks, voice gruff and deep, lips almost brushing yours. Know that any minute he’ll realize what he’s doing and stop. The walls will go back up and you don’t want that. Don’t want to let whatever this is slip through your fingers even if it’s a mistake. Even if you’re just going to regret it. Free hand catching at his chassis, you crush your mouth to his before you can overthink how terrible an idea this is. And he recoils back in surprise or distaste and it hurts, your face heating at the rejection. Then his mouth comes down on yours, those hands tightening on you until there’s no way they won’t leave bruises and Cybertronians do kiss. He kisses with a consuming desperation that leaves you molten with the need for more. For everything.

Previous

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[fallenprophets]

midnight, lose my mind

rust cohle x reader

» can be read as a prequel or sequel to televangelism but doesn't have to be

» summary: although you and rust have been "together" for a while now, you've never kissed- and you're perfectly fine with this fact. only now, he seems to want to try.

» warnings: mentions of sex but that's it

» a/n: soooo self indulgent. literally don't know what came over me when i wrote this. listened to lorde and sydney ross mitchell on LOOP. yk. like a normal person

»»»»

I’m not sure how or when our relationship evolved into what it is now. It feels like only yesterday that the most intimate contact with him that I had was the moment our eyes met for a split second across the room; I was lucky if he held my gaze long enough to blink that slow blink of his. And yet here he is, all pretty and domestic, almost, sitting on my bed, shirt buttons undone, hair messy. He’s watching me where I sit on the windowsill, occasionally taking those deep drags of his from a cigarette before passing it to me. I can’t really remember when he first came over; first stayed the night. It just happened, so natural. I just know that now he’s almost always here; and when he’s not, I’m usually at his, borrowing his shirts, smoking his cigarettes. 

He hasn’t kissed me yet, though. That’s something that I think I would remember; I’ve looked at his mouth so much, ached for it. I don’t push it, though. Like him- maybe love him- too much to lose him over something so trivial. He’s done other things for me- after a few weeks, I noticed that I never ran out of cigarettes. When he came over, the dishes crowding my sink would miraculously disappear; dust stopped settling on the piles of books scattered around the living room. I found the other day that the empty first-aid kit I still keep in my bathroom had been filled. He’s even stopped smoking his usual brand of cigarettes, replaced them with the ones I said I liked. 

I don’t say anything; I don’t know if he wants me to notice, if he wants me to point it out, to thank him. For now, I enjoy it. If I’m honest with myself, I still worry that it could end at any minute; that he’ll leave before I wake up, and I’ll only see him at work, when we exchange files. 

It’s hard to believe that, though; because when I come into work, at exactly the same time every day, I find my favourite mug on my desk, filled with coffee- coffee the way I like it, with no sugar but just a little cocoa powder that I buy myself (although that has also magically stopped emptying). It’s real nice, actually. To have someone care for me in that way- to know that when I say something, like how I like my coffee or what my favourite brand of cigarettes is, he’ll file it away into a corner of his brain. 

He told me about his wife, too, the other day. I hadn’t asked; we’d been sitting in his truck, his hand on my thigh, and he’d just mentioned it, told me about his baby girl. 

I’ve never been a particularly optimistic person, but something in me knows that he won’t leave.

I shift, readjust the collar of my top. He’s still watching me in that strange way of his; like he’s trying to read my mind, to learn everything about me through the way I breathe. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing that I could reach through those murky eyes and into his mind, take out his thoughts and wrap myself in them. 

He extends an arm, and I pluck the cigarette- the packet, my favourite brand, sits next to him on the bed- from between his fingers, taking a long drag. My stomach feels strange at the feeling; it’s the closest I’ve come so far to kissing him. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I ask, handing his cigarette back. A routine question, at this point in our relationship. He usually answers with something vague, sometimes that would make Marty flip, and I listen, silent, fascinated. Sometimes, I don’t even register what he’s saying; too busy watching the way his mouth moves, his throat, the slope of his shoulders; dissecting him in my mind. 

“You,” he answers after a brief pause. His gaze has fastened itself to my collarbone. 

My heart hops and skitters like a rabbit. As a teenager, I was convinced the whole butterflies-in-your-belly thing was bullshit, but I think I understand it now. 

I swallow and tilt my head at him, try to read the lines of his face in the soft light. I don’t ask him to elaborate; I like the idea of him thinking about me, of what he’s thinking exactly being his secret. Like a little piece of me, always with him. 

It’s early spring; everything is greener outside, the sun a softer shade of gold. A light breeze blows in through the open windows, stirring the curtains, his hair. I tuck my knee up, rest my chin on him as I keep staring. I’m not hiding it anymore; not the way I used to. Back when we hardly knew each other, when all we had was brief flashes of charged eye contact across the precinct and a whole lotta wantin’, Now, he’s sitting on my bed, and he’s staring at me, so I may as well return the favour. 

I don’t know how long we sit there, just looking. We’ve done it before; often, in fact, we sit in silence, taking each other in. It makes me feel the way I used to feel when I kissed someone, only much heavier, bone-deep. I joked, once, as he drove me home- windows open, cigarette between his teeth, one hand resting on my thigh- that it was our way of having sex. He’d exhaled, almost a laugh. 

Now, he puts the cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on my bed and stands. I move to do the same, swinging my legs down from the windowsill, reaching for the handle to shut the windows. Already, I assume he’s going to leave, go back to his place to beat himself up, maybe. But instead, he motions for me to stop. I do; pull my knees back up to my chest again, push the window open further. 

He sits, and automatically I stretch my legs out, rest one across his lap, the other around his waist. Automatically, he puts a hand on my thigh, rubs it with his thumb. He shifts, and his eyes meet mine, dark and murky yet so, so clear; windows into his soul, I think. 

I open my mouth to say his name, but he shakes his head. He reaches out, his hand cupping my face. His fingers find my pulse, like a reflex. He does it when we’re alone; when we’re sitting in his truck, sometimes, he’ll reach out to press his hand to my neck, feel my pulse. 

His other hand leaves my leg and goes to my throat, resting at the nape of my neck. His skin is warm, and he smells like cigarettes and my sheets. I have a lingering suspicion that the shirt he’s wearing is mine. My downstairs neighbour turns on the radio; a song starts playing, too quiet to hear the words. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. 

I stay completely silent, try to control my breathing as he manoeuvres us closer to each other, until our foreheads touch. I’m painfully aware of every inch of my body that’s in contact with his; of the fact that he can feel how fast my heart is beating under his calloused fingers, that his breathing is really just as shallow as mine. His presence is warm, comforting. I give in to him immediately, even nudge closer so that our noses bump. I want to close my eyes, so I do; I wonder if he feels my eyelashes against his cheekbone, if it makes him feel a certain way. I think he closes his eyes too, at some point. 

After a few moments of this, I lift my hands from where they are in my lap. Half-open my eyes to find the collar of his shirt. I reach up, trace his chest through the few open buttons. Then I begin to undo them, tug the shirt (my shirt, I’m sure of it now- there’s a pale stain on the cuff from when I broke my nose a few years ago, where a bit of blood dripped) off his shoulders. He lets go of my face just for a moment to take it off fully, never really opening his eyes. I let my fingers trace his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. Feel the way they rise and fall almost imperceptibly as he breathes, the way his heart beats as I press my hand flat against his chest. 

We’ve never slept together. I don’t mind it, and neither does he, I think- we have other ways of being intimate. It’s the first time he’s ever done something like this, though. Initiated this kind of physical contact.

It’s better than any kiss I’ve ever had; from anyone. It’s personal, it’s intimate, it’s for us only. 

Finally, after what feels like hours of just breathing each other in (at some point, his thumb has started to trace circles on my cheekbone; I shudder when it does, and his breath catches almost unnoticeably for a moment) he shifts, his forehead leaving mine. I’m taken aback by the way it makes me feel; the ache deep in my chest, the way my throat tightens. 

His gaze drops, for the first time ever, to my mouth. 

Somehow, I know that he’s going to kiss me, now. 

I open my mouth, to tell him that he doesn’t have to, that I don’t need him to; but the words die on my tongue as he breaks the small gap between us, pressing his mouth to mine. 

I’m not sure exactly why, but I’d always thought he would kiss harshly, hungrily, maybe a little desperate. I’d pictured him bruising my lips, tugging at my clothes. But no- the way he kisses me is unlike anything I’d pictured. It’s soft, slow, and yes, maybe a little hungry- but not the way I had predicted. He kisses the same way he talks- slow, soft- and it makes me a little breathless. 

I press my hands to the flat of his back, pulling him closer. He pulls away for a moment, just long enough to say my name almost reverently, his thumb dragging across my cheekbone before pulling his away to trace the lines of my mouth. I smile, take his hand in mine to kiss his fingertips. He cups my face again, and I lean into the palm of his hand, suddenly hungry for his warmth, for his touch. He kisses the corner of my mouth, then moves down; slow, methodical, featherlight touches of his lips across my jaw, down my throat. He stops at the center of my collarbone, kisses it. I press my nose into his hair, breathe him in, smile despite myself. 

He comes back up, kisses me on the mouth again. Then he pulls away for good, untangles himself from my legs, stands, takes a few steps away. I stay where I am, wrapping my arms around myself. The absence of his touch, so sudden, is almost painful in a pathetic way. I watch him; I can tell he’s sifting through a thousand different thoughts. My mouth, my neck, my collarbone; all still tingle from the warm, almost feverish touch of his lips. 

He sits down on the bed again, runs a hand through his hair. Finally, I stand too, walk over, sit next to him. I shift to rest my head on his shoulder; his arm finds its place around my waist. I feel him rest his cheek on my head, take a deep breath. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I ask again, still breathless. 

“You.” The answer comes quickly; he doesn’t hesitate this time. And he shifts, his eyes meeting mine. He holds my gaze. 

“You stayin’ the night?” I don't feel stupid saying it, like I did the first time I asked to stay over at his. I feel comfortable, because I already know what his answer is.

“Yes.” Again, he says it quickly, like he was hoping I’d ask. I reach over to thread my fingers through his. His skin is warm. I wonder if he can feel my pulse where our hands touch. 

[mead-iocre]

Not Like My Mama! | Viviannne Miedema x Wife!Reader

synopsis: a glimpse of Ducky at her football lessons.

warnings: nothing. just pure fluff

word count: 1.0k

————————————

Viv tugs on the laces of the red and white football boots to make sure they’re secure. She had a strict ritual whenever she tied her boots. She would start by aligning her laces, laying them out flat, ensuring there are no twists. This step is essential to her; any sign of imperfection can unsettle her focus.

Viv would always start with her left boot first. She would pulls the laces tight, securing the boot with exactly three knots. The first knot is a standard criss-cross, pulled tightly. The second knot is a loop, ensuring a firm hold. The final knot is a smaller, tight finish, securing the previous loops. To the Arsenal striker, each knot symbolizes control, strength, and precision. 

But the owner of the little boots she was tying did not care about control, strength, or precision. All she probably cared about was running after the ball, scoring a goal or two, and maybe getting an ice-cream after practice. 

“There you go, Ducky!” Viv pats the little boot before smiling at her little footballer. Her daughter was repeatedly glancing over at the pitch to find her friends, clearly eager to join them. Just like her Mama, Evelyn loved football, and she looked forward to all her weekly lessons where she got to wear her special boots. 

When she notices her slightly distracted daughter, Viv gently palms her cherubic face towards her, chuckling when her daughter whines lowly. “Hey. Look at Mama for a second. I have to go to work soon…”

“Quick, Mama. Ducky go play football!” Evie points a chubby finger at where the rest of her teammates are gathering, shouts of glee and excitement filling the park. Viv can see her wiggling her feet into her tiny football boots in anticipation. 

“Okay, okay” Viv admonishes lightly, brushing a hand over her daughter’s hair. Her wife usually did Evelyn’s hair– from pigtails and braids– she was far more skilled than Viv at that department. By some miracle, she had someone managed to tame the little girl’s curls into two, even-ish, pigtails– her preferred hairstyle today. She also managed to attach the little ribbon clips that are the same colours as Evie’s football kit to complete the look. Viv is grateful her daughter did not ask for braids otherwise there would’ve been a meltdown that morning. “Right. Have fun then, Ducky! Mama has to go to work, but Mummy will be here”

Evie perks up slightly, already knowing that she’ll be allowed to run over and join her friends in a bit. “Ducky go now!” 

Viv pulls the very excited toddler into her arms for one last squeeze, raining a few kisses all over her face, and revelling in the sweet giggles she gets in return. With one last kiss to her forehead, Viv stands up on her feet and watches her daughter run onto the pitch and greet her teammates. She turns to you, coming back from buying yourself a drink and a pastry from one of the stalls, and gives you one sweet kiss. You exchange goodbyes and promises to make plans for dinner tonight, and then you watch her walk to towards the carpark. 

————————————

The coach gently rolls a ball towards Evelyn. With determination written all over her face, she takes a few wobbly steps forward and swings her foot at the ball. She misses on the first try but quickly tries again, and this time, she makes contact. The ball rolls a few feet away, and her face lights up. She runs after the ball, her pigtails and ribbons bouncing wildly with each step.

For the next half hour, Evelyn is in her element. She chases the ball, giggles with her friends, and even scores her very first goal. You watch your daughter from the sidelines with a proud smile on your face.

Your little footballer, and your wife's mini me

During a water break, Evie is approached by a new teammate. Evie has never seen the girl before, so she reckons she must be new. 

“My Mama’s good at football” Evie turns to the new girl when she speaks to her. Evie learned earlier that her name is Ashley and she had just moved from up north but Evie doesn’t remember the name of the town. 

“Really?” 

“Mmmhmm. She can kick reeeeally far. Like all the way to the Moon!” Evie tilts her head at that. That sounds very far, but her Mama could probably kick it father than that. “but we only play in the garden when she’s not at the hospital working”

Evelyn makes a noncommittal hum, not disagreeing necessarily but not agreeing either “Hmm. So can my Mama”

“There’s Mummy” Evie points you out amongst the group of other parents. With your sunglasses onto of your head, you were wearing a bright coloured t-shirt so your daughter can easily spot you amongst the crowd. You were chatting with the other parents, but your eyes scanning the pitch, keeping an eye out for her. “But Mama is at work”

“Oh. Just like my Mama! But my Daddy is there” Ashley points to a man who is sitting on one of the benches, chatting to someone else’s parent. “Where’s your Mama?”

“Playing football…” Evie stares at her football boots on her feet. They were red and white and given to her by Auntie Leah. She said she bought them because they were Arsenal colours. 

“Oh! My Mama plays football too! Just like your Mama!” 

“My Mama plays football.” Evie emphasis. Turning her head to find you again, partly for reassurance, and also because she was getting slightly angsty because of her new friend. When you catch her eye, you give her a quick wave from where you were seated, pausing your conversation to focus all your attention on your daughter. When she gives you a quick wave back and turns to her friend, you figured all was fine. “My Mama plays for Arsenal"

Evie looks back at Ashley when she begins to speak again. “Just like Mama! My Mama likes Arsenal too! She likes the colour red very much” 

“No.” Evie stomps her red and white boot once, flattening the grass beneath her boots. She narrows her eyes slightly at her new friend. She didn’t like Ashely anymore. She didn’t get it, she didn’t understand.  

“Not like My Mama. My Mama is Vivianne Miedema”

Short and sweet. I was inspired (and currently have a case of baby fever) so wrote this in like 30 minutes, and have not spelt checked/grammar checked it throughly lol.

next couple of fics will all be leah fics so I wanted to get one more non-leah fic out before I overwhelm you with so much leah w. x reader, so stay tuned for those!

-- kisses, butter.

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

[galina]

How to create a home for oneself in a new city when you're alone?

get some music on – you're never truly alone when you have a great playlist

even though you might not feel like it, get dressed every day and put your best kit on

join nextdoor or your neighbourhood's local online bulletin, they're full of awful complaints and sales pitches but they make you feel more in the loop

go to your local baker/cafe/grocer and buy something, strike up a conversation if you can, tell them you're new in town, keep coming back and always smile

join your local library, they're amazing

move about – join a local running club if that's your thing, or go to a fitness swim class at the local pool, or sign up to a yoga studio, take a spin class, that sort of thing

don't like sport? try an adult class with the local council, like pottery, or knitting, or painting

your local café, pub, gallery or bookshop probably has a life drawing class, book club, poetry night, chess club, go and have fun

ask a colleague for recommendations of what's good in town, chances are you'll end up grabbing a drink together

go to the club if you're into it, and just get lost in the music, the best safe non judgemental place to get sweaty and press your body to other beautiful bodies

buy yourself flowers from the supermarket

cook for yourself like you would a friend, make extravagant meals because you're worth the time!

take buses and trains to explore the area, take a book with you – have a picnic, walk around, look in shops, go to a museum, just be curious

and: you're going to be ok, promise. I hope you're settling in well friend ❤️

[spitefulsatanfics]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

{} ° READING BETWEEN HEARTBEATS ° {}

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader (She/Her)

Rating: M (canon-typical violence, emotional intensity, slow-burn romance)

Word Count: ~3,700

Tone: Friends to Lovers, Emotional Intimacy, Action-Horror, Canon-Compliant (S2–S3 Era)

Written by: Little Devil ♡

“I guess I just never really thought I’d have... much of a future.”

— Sam Winchester, Supernatural, S2E17: "Heart"

Scene One: The Hunter and the Archivist

“We’ve got company,” Sam murmured, low and grim.

The chapel’s air felt dense. Holy rot lingered in the cold stone, and moonlight poured in fractured patterns through the stained glass, casting everything in bruised blue and red.

She gripped her iron dagger tighter, eyes darting toward the altar.

The demon’s trap was clever—disappearances in town, the desecrated chapel, the false Latin symbols meant to mislead. But something was off. Too old, too smug. It had lured them here.

She glanced at Sam beside her, his expression taut with instinct. “Stay close,” she whispered.

“I’ve got the exorcism,” he said, already pulling the crumpled page from his jacket. “Buy me a minute.”

Her heart clenched. “Just—don’t get fancy, Winchester.”

The demon emerged from the altar’s shadow, grinning like it wore a mask of skin. “So predictable. The brave little girl playing bodyguard.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Charging forward, she swung at the creature’s face, slicing through its cheek. It hissed, recoiling—but it was strong. Too strong.

Sam began the chant behind her.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

The demon lunged for him.

She blocked its path, slashing again. “Come on, you son of a bitch—look at me.”

It snarled, backhanded her across the pews—but she didn’t drop the blade.

Sam’s voice rose, steady.

“…omnis incursio adversarii…”

She stabbed again, grazing its ribs—but it turned on Sam, impossibly fast.

It struck him across the side.

He cried out—sharp, agonized—and collapsed onto the stone floor, clutching his ribs. Blood soaked through his shirt almost instantly.

“No,” she gasped. “Sam!”

The demon laughed. “Now it’s just you.”

She dove forward, knife flashing, forcing it back. “You don’t touch him,” she spat.

Sam, half-propped on one elbow, held the exorcism page out with shaking hands. “Finish… the chant…”

Her eyes burned. She snatched the paper from his fingers and kept it raised, her voice trembling but clear.

“…perditionem inimici…”

The demon screamed.

And then, it broke—splitting at the seams, fire-light pouring from its eyes as smoke and shadow bled from its mouth.

It shrieked.

And was gone.

Silence dropped like a stone.

She dropped the page. “Sam?” she whispered, breath catching.

He didn’t answer.

---

Scene Two: The Weight of Flesh and Faith

“Sam.” She dropped to her knees beside him, heart in her throat.

His face was pale, lips bloodless, brow slick with sweat. The wound on his side was deep, torn open from rib to hip, blood pooling fast.

She pressed her hands to it, panic flaring.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” she chanted, trying to keep pressure on the gash. He blinked slowly at her—eyes dazed, jaw slack.

“You’re bleeding too much,” she whispered.

He reached weakly for her hand. “’S alright,” he mumbled, “you’re okay…”

And then he went limp.

“No—no, no, Sam, don’t you dare.” Her voice broke. “You stay with me.”

He didn’t stir.

She had no choice. Gritting her teeth, she looped his arm around her shoulder, staggered under his weight, and began dragging him toward the door.

---

Scene Three: Stitching the Silence

The car reeked of copper and desperation. She drove like hell, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Sam’s bloodied wrist as if sheer contact could keep him tethered.

By the time she hauled him into the motel room, her muscles screamed.

He was deathly still.

The first aid kit crashed open. She ripped his shirt apart—blood matted the flannel, sticking to torn flesh. The wound was jagged, puckered along the edge, still oozing.

“God,” she choked. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”

She cleaned the wound with shaking hands, jaw clenched as she poured antiseptic across it. He didn’t flinch. Too far gone.

“You’ve patched me up a dozen times,” she whispered. “Your turn.”

Thread. Needle. Gloves.

Her fingers barely worked.

She started at the top, stitching slow, methodical lines into his skin. “In… and out. You’re gonna be fine.”

His body twitched once, a low moan in his throat.

She kept going.

The wound was long. Every pull of thread felt like it tugged at her soul. When she finished, she pressed gauze into place and wrapped his torso tightly.

Then she sat beside him.

Her hands were stained red.

And suddenly—she cracked.

A sob tore out of her. She leaned over him, trembling. “Don’t die,” she whispered. “You don’t get to die.”

Her hand found his, their fingers smudged in dried blood.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve loved you since that first hunt in Nebraska. You were such a goddamn mess. But you were kind.”

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “I didn’t say it because I thought you’d leave. Or I’d lose you. I didn’t say it and now I might never get to and I’m so—”

A breath.

A twitch.

“Y/N?”

She gasped.

His eyes fluttered open.

---

Scene Four: Reading Between Heartbeats

“Sam?” she whispered.

He looked up at her, bleary, confused, but alive. “What… what happened?”

“You passed out,” she sobbed, laughing through it. “You dumbass. You scared the hell out of me.”

His hand found hers. “You stitched me up?”

“You left me no choice.” Her voice cracked. “You almost died.”

He blinked slowly, gaze focusing. “You said you love me.”

She froze. “I… yeah. I did.”

He looked at her like she’d just parted the clouds.

“I heard you.”

“I didn’t mean to—well, I did, but not like that. Not when you were—”

“I love you too,” he said.

Silence.

Then—he smiled.

She pressed her hand to his cheek, eyes shining.

“You scared me,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not.”

And she kissed him.

It wasn’t frantic. Wasn’t goodbye.

It was a beginning.

---

Scene Five: Aftermath and Morning

Later, when the worst of the pain faded and he was safe beneath the motel’s thin blankets, she sat beside him, curling into his side carefully.

His fingers traced her hand.

“You really stitched me up?” he murmured.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I think I fell in love with you somewhere between Nebraska and now.”

She laughed. “I think I’ve loved you through every dumb thing you’ve ever done.”

His head rested against hers.

Outside, the sun was rising.

And the future didn’t feel so far away.

---

◇◉□✩♡★✧□◉◇

— Written by Little Devil ♡

— Based on Supernatural S2–S3 Era

[nonsscrapheap]

did a small snippet of dance of the fire bot in a discord server! decided to make it longer for here! things might not stay the same when i officially make dance of the fire bot an actual story but doing snippets helps me gain a more solid idea for the actual fic :)

===== Dance of the Fire Bot =====

WANTED: HOT ROD [ALIVE, 50,000 SHANIX] WANTED FOR: MURDER, ASSAULT, RESISTING ARREST, DANGER TO THE PUBLIC WANTED BY: SENATE COUNCIL

"What is this?!" Ratchet snarled, gripping the datapad that depicted the young faceplate of a familiar bot. It'd been almost a couple of vorns since then, but he still remembered that red and yellow bot. "Orion—"

The enforcer held his servo up to try and calm the enraged medic, "It was issued without my knowledge Ratchet, but unfortunately it is the truth. Young Hot Rod is wanted by the Senate." He sounded apologetic, and Ratchet's anger eased slightly when he realized that Orion was hiding his frustration. Always composed, this mech.

Still, Ratchet glared at the bounty regardless.

"For clearly false charges! That youngling couldn't have possibly hurt anyone! They just want him for his olfactory outlier ability." He growled, remembering just how kind the young spark had been even after being kidnapped by that damn mercenary. How easy it was to gain his trust because 'he smelled kind'— it's a strange but nonetheless useful ability, Hot Rod's olfactory sensors. To be able to smell things beyond just normal scents...

Orion's expression turned grim and he gestured back to the datapad. "His outlier ability isn't his olfactory senses Ratchet… There's a clip of him attached to his bounty page."

Ratchet swiped and was stunned to see the sight of the young bot lashing out at- "Senator Proteus?!" He gasped, recognizing the mech being— sliced? Burned? Hot Rod had a small blade in servo, and in one surprisingly clean move; DECAPITATED the senator with a firey swing. "Wha-" The clip looped from beginning, showcasing Hot Rod constantly decapitating the senator.

Where did he even begin with the clip? The youngling he'd once saved from being kidnapped, who called him kind to his faceplate, who held earnest green optics, was effortlessly decapitating Senator Proteus' helm from his chassis with such ease while generating fire?

"There is more to this, to all of this, than meets the optic. Ratchet." Orion said quietly, servos clenching as they watched the bot who once helped Orion find and drag that poor addict to Ratchet's clinic, murder a senator. "I just hope Hot Rod is alright…"

Ratchet's grip on the datapad tightened as he watched the clip play over and over again, his optics narrow. "... Orion, look at that. At the corner over there." He pointed to the corner, something dark was moving in the background- sinuous yet spiky. Was it a cable?

Suddenly, the datapad glitched and both Orion and Ratchet were stunned to see the contents of the bounty changed.

WANTED: HOT ROD [ALIVE, 50,000 SHANIX] WANTED FOR: MURDERS OF SENATOR PROTEUS, TWO NYON OFFICERS AND THREE CIVILIAN BOTS, ASSAULT, RESISTING ARREST, DANGER TO THE PUBLIC WANTED BY: SENATE COUNCIL

They removed the clip.

And outright stated who he 'murdered' with the addition of Nyon officers and civilians. Both mechs were stunned for a moment before sharing a glance.

Something was definitely going on here.

===== Dance of the Fire Bot =====

"They changed Hot Rod's bounty." Springer muttered to Arcee, the femme looked downright murderous. Immediately he nudged her with a stern look, "Fix your expression, we're normal bots- here to buy alt mode kits."

Maybe stopping by the board to see Hot Rod's bounty was a bad idea, but the moment he saw his amica's faceplate- well, Arcee would've seen it and dragged him over anyway.

"It's not fair, Hot Rod doesn't deserve this slag." Arcee seethed quietly but did fix her faceplate into something less murder-y and more grumpy. "He saved us, saved Rust Narrows. He didn't-" kill those bots. She doesn't say because Springer nudges her again.

They were in public, Arcee. Watch your words. Springer conveyed through his optics alone- ugh, he hated being the responsible one between them both. That was Hot Rod's job, but Hot Rod wasn't there at the moment.

They had to leave him behind to hide while they bought alt mode kits, their very first alt mode kits.

It was supposed to be a more joyous occasion, they were old enough to get alt modes, to drive around the streets like the older bots... but now?

They needed those alt mode kits to get out of Nyon.

All because their amica killed a Senator who ate fragging SPARKS! The guy was a sparkeater! How did no one know? Was the whole Senate a bunch of sparkeaters? Vamparc mechs that feasted on sparks?

Anyway, they needed to leave Nyon and find somewhere else to hide. Hot Rod did at least, but like scrap they were going to let him go alone.

First agenda of the plan; get alt mode kits.

Second; get the scrap out of Nyon.

Third; get Hot Rod to teach them how to fight like him.

===== Dance of the Fire Bot =====

honestly unfinished snippet but it's a solid standing. again, some details might change in the official story but i'm liking where things are heading :D

[sosouthernbeats]

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[wilsonthemoose]

Florence

A hellhound dog show, a packet of instant soup, and one very annoyed Sam Winchester.

Dean's in bed with a bad case of what Sam isn't allowed to call the sniffles and Sam would be happy enough with the downtime if it weren't for how miserable Dean is and how miserable he's making Sam. He's a bad patient. He likes being coddled when he's sick but he hates being treated like he is sick, leaving Sam with a tight rope to walk on top of feeling like a cold isn't such a big deal anyway and Sam might as well still be working— it's. It's whatever. There's a dull throb behind his eyeballs threatening to turn into a headache.

He's grocery shopping. Dean's made a wistful comment or seventeen about Dad's famous soup, remember Sam? Dad's soup? and Sam does remember— he remembers enough cayenne pepper to clear the sinuses of half the neighbourhood and to render any flavour there might have been indiscernible, poured into one scalding cup— but he's pretty sure he'd find a way to muck it up whether or not it is technically possible to muck up that soup— so he buys chicken noodle soup from the deli and then picks up a few packets of instant soup packets too (who's to say that soup wasn't instant?) and then runs back for a bottle of cayenne pepper too because what the hell. He buys face tissues because Dean really does act like an absolute infant sometimes though he tells him to shut up when Sam points out that he once sewed a gash on his leg with shiny thread from someone's sewing kit so why's he complaining about rough tissues all of a sudden. He offers the cashier a tight smile.

He's loading the bags into the car ("One scratch, Sam, an' I'll feed your laptomp to a chickem." — "What's a chickem?" — "Shut ump.") when he feels a friendly bonk on the side of his leg.

"Hey, buddy," he greets fondly and reaches a hand out into thin air. Lancelot promptly thrusts his big head into Sam's hand and barks happily.

Even his happy, friendly bark has a way of rebounding in a way that makes the ground feel like it just shook, a little, and a woman looks up quickly, three cars over. Sam pretends to cough, loudly, and offers her a small wave. She looks affronted.

Lancelot nips at the cuff of his shirt, tugging lightly like he wants Sam to follow and Sam immediately grabs his gun out of his pocket, grabs the holy-fire glasses out of the glove box, asks "What is it buddy?" and follows. He slows only to shoot Dean a quick text to say where he's going and ignores Dean's Can't you drop the soup here first?

They're in a large warehouse filled with demons and hellhounds.

The space is large and bustling and suspiciously free of murder and mayhem. Sam's just taking the scene in when an officious voice next to him pipes, "You'll have to turn that in I'm afraid, sir," and he turns to face a small annoying looking demon holding his hand out for Sam's gun. He's wearing a suit with a purple paisley tie. Thrown for a loop, Sam's just about to sputter something clever like uh-w-what when Lancelot gambols away and starts running around with another couple of hellhounds, chasing tails and barking happily. His apparent lack of concern makes nothing any clearer whatsoever. "Your gun, sir," the demon prompts, ingratiating and oily and somehow patronizing like he's implying that Sam is slow.

"Ah, Moose, fancy seeing you here," a silky voice behind him greets.

Great. Crowley. The dull throb behind his eyes he's been determinedly ignoring is no longer dull. He turns around.

"Where are your manners, Samuel, this is a family event. Turn your gun in," Crowley says tritely and basks in his annoyed silence.

The small annoying demon takes this as his cue to start to gently pry Sam's gun from his hand and blanches when Sam yanks it back and shoots him an angry look. He scurries away from him on short legs but something tells Sam he'll be back.

Sam eyes Juliet instead, Crowley's large hellhound. She's sitting next to Crowley with her chest puffed haughtily, tail softly brushing the ground behind her in a large arc. "What's going on here, Crowley?" Sam asks, frowning around. He's never seen so many demons in one place without massive bloodshed to go with and here— here the demons are chatting and walking about with hellhounds on friggin' leashes like they're at a garden party. The walls are hung with streamers, tables on the sides laid with dishes and what looks like an actual punch bowl. Sam doesn't want to think what's in it, pink and foamy. It's— there's a definite garden party vibe to the whole thing that makes him wonder if he's accidentally downed a bottle of Dean's nyquil and is having some kind of episode.

"Annual dog show," Crowley gestures grandly, enjoying this far too much.

"Dog show," Sam repeats. And yeah— that would make sense. Except for all the ways it doesn't.

"Juliet's won the last four years," Crowley pets her head, giving her a proud dance-mom smile. She wags her tail lazily and yawns hugely, like she's used to being coddled. Sam is reminded of a saber-toothed tiger.

The annoying little creature returns, this time with an older, equally annoying looking man with him. Sam makes a conscious effort to unclamp his jaw and wonders about dental insurance fraud. "If you want to enter the competition, sir, I'm afraid you'll have to hand your gun in." Said to the vigorous nodding of the little thing's head.

Competition. Right. Sam looks over at Lancelot. So this is why he's been dragged here. Not for a hunt, but for a dog show. Right. Lancelot senses him watching and turns his large head to look at him over his shoulder, tongue lolling. Sam sighs and hands his gun over and when Crowley clears his throat, hands over two pocket knives too.

"I'll just put you in as," the older man pauses over his clipboard like he's waiting for Sam to provide his name, which, fat chance, "As Sam Winchester," he continues smoothly when it becomes clear that Sam has no intention of answering. "And your hellhound is," he pauses again like he expects Sam to have gained some newfound respect for him over the last two seconds or so.

The oily thing Sam's dying to stab in the eye practically jumps at the chance to supply "Oh yes, eh— Karathras."

Sam frowns in confusion, behind him, Lancelot pauses playing and growls, hackles raised. Sam cocks an eyebrow. "Something wrong with your throat?" he asks.

The greased imp has the wherewithal to look scared. "That-that's his— that's his name, sir," he trips over himself, explaining. "Karathras."

Lancelot growls again, advancing menacingly. Even in a room full of hellhounds, the effect is terrifying. Sam pulls out a packet of lozenges he'd bought for Dean an holds them out imperiously to the little thing. He addresses the equally odious older man, "his name is Lancelot," He says and sees Lancelot relax a little out of the corner of his eye. Well if it means that much to him.

The older man spreads a hand in an I'm-powerless-before-bureaucracy gesture and begins to say "I'm sorry, sir, but his official name—"

"I could make you choke on your own guts with just a snap of my fingers," Sam says. He doesn't do this a lot, threaten like this. Actually he never does it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to. "Learnt a trick or two from Michael," he adds.

The old man is hovering somewhere between fear and bureaucratic-slavery when Crowley pipes in again, "he could, you know," and that decides him. Lancelot pushes his head into Sam's hand again and sits down happily, enjoying being scratched behind the ears.

Sam's pretty sure word gets around about his little threat because Lancelot wins first place when Sam can clearly see a few hellhounds bigger than Lancelot, most better groomed with gleaming coats, one with coiffed fur, and some actually posing. A demon comes and places a garish yellow and purple ribbon around Lancelot's neck, offers a hesitant congratulations to Sam and hurries away. Lancelot preens.

Sam unloads the groceries on the table as Dean pulls the blanket down from his face, shivering. "Did you get the soup?" he asks miserably.

Sam hands him a cold plastic container of congealed lumpy grey stuff. Dean scowls. Sam sighs, resigned. "Okay I'll make some," he says and moves to the little kitchen range in their room.

Behind him, he hears Dean grumpily threatening Lancelot. Sam boils some water and upends the packet of instant soup powder in the saucepan. "Go. Away." Dean enunciates and Sam hears Lancelot huff petulantly back. The bed creaks loudly and from Dean's nasal yelling, Sam supposes Lancelot's making himself at home on Dean's bed. Sam turns around and there he is, four large paws around the outline of Dean's body under the covers, large head tilted to look down at Dean.

The soup turns alarmingly thick alarmingly fast— Sam had only turned his back on it for a minute— "Hey, get off, get— Sam get your dog off of me right now or— HEY—" Sam squints at the empty wrapper in the trash can, trying to read the instructions again— it says two cups of water, Sam put in two cups of water and yet— "SAM!" He turns around. Lancelot is lying flat on Dean, large head resting on Dean's shoulder, smugly ignoring Dean's attempts to elbow him off, his bushy tail wrapped around the outline of Dean's foot. Sam holds the saucepan under the tap and eyeballs another cup of water into the mess. The water floats on top of the grey stuff. The headache pingpongs off the insides of his skull. "You know, I bet Florence never drooled on her patients," Dean says, disgustedly. Sam hears the thwack of Lancelot's large tail smack on the foot of the bed as he wags it once, in acknowledgment. He's stirring the soup with one hand and shaking the bottle of cayenne pepper over it with the other hand when the cap falls off. "And what the hell are you wearing?" followed by the thwack of the tail again. Sam stifles a sneeze and scoops a dry spoon off the mountain of pepper. "At least move your stupid big leg away." The bed creaks again as Lancelot shifts.

Sam gives up eventually and just pours the stuff into a mug for Dean. When he sets it down on the table next to him, Dean cocks an eye open, looks first and him and then at the soup, picks it up, and before Sam's even begun an annoyed apology, smiles contentedly, breathing in the vapors of the orange stuff. So Sam says "Enjoy," and drops down on the next bed.

Lancelot insists on wearing the ribbon for days.

[absolutefilthimsosorry]

Spoilers for DnP Incohearent!!!!

I’m having so much fun trying to solve these that I made a list to keep track! Message if you can help me fill in any I’m missing or if I’ve got any wrong!!!

Also lmk if you see any I’ve missed!! I’m going to keep updating this and have it unrebloggable but you can reblog this post to have a link to it!

These are all gathered from this post and this post so check the notes on those first to try to solve them then look here if you need answers!

Sow march cheer ray = so much cherry

Wee nay urn for uke oye yer tub = we’ve never fucked on youtube?

Ta fold in fig = the golden pig

Feed hay hid eho = vday video

Tat he won ape hit morse him he = daddy want a bit more simmy

Watt ken ice hay = what can I say

North key bus teabag king = naughty busty baking

Fool tie enter nit hobo / fall tie mint her nepo moe / fault aye mint earn are ohm owe/ foul thyme inch hermit hole mold = full time internet homo

Cumin mile aid deed or = come in my ladydoor

Hum hay zinc tan = amazingdan

Elven ower fug sedge own = eleven hour fuck session

An berry moth ribeye adam stir = and every month we buy a hamster

March rest array = Manchester eye

Cyst herding yell = sister daniel

Add a ding teps = editing tips

Cop dubai khaki luna = topped by kakuna

Late eat tore = ladydoor

Half tugger etch two eggs cyst = have the courage to exist

Perish she end wink = Parisian twink

Coal ten big/ goal then pick = golden pig

Cyst ordain yell = sister daniel

Train youth inks = try new things

Gay mean moss/ gain ink mass = gamingmas

Soften need = soft and neat

A wools lied = owl slide

Topper bought them hill = top or bottom Phil

Coat fit firenze = golf with friends???

Few ours pig meow fits = viewers pick my outfits

Read less tar = red lester

Eye eight soup igloo = I ate super glue

Insight youth era too walls = inside you there are two wolves

Mine amy stan = my name is Dan

Clap hella = glabella

Hiss teeth rent = hits different

Eel eyes apron kay kiss = Eliza pancakes

See pram haze ink bra jet = super amazing project

Feels lie yawn = phils lion

Fuel ease snot dawn fair = Phil is not on fire

Jaw shush ear son = josh hutcherson

Ball bull him tour food = bauble in your foot?

Sure eck = shrek

High ate dust = hiatus

Add a dink deps = editing tips

Ga hay shoom air age = gay shoe marriage

Pope eat plate aim = poppy playtime

Eat aches stu = it takes two

Goo gal few ed = google feud

Baze ick lee eye meg ay = basically I’m gay

Ko min yout ti ew = coming out to you

Ender knit subvert grew oop = internet support group

Phylis turn yar a sheen yes = PHIL LESTER YOU’RE A GENIUS

With Audi intern yet wean ed brr wood halve mat = without the internet we never would have met

Gum ban yins drool I’ve = companions through life

Reed sons wide answer flail = reasons why dans a fail

Ewan dam ah some are reed = you and Dan are so married

Denver sis fill/ Denver cis full = Dan vs Phil

Or lawn huffing = all or nothing

Dunk rye core raft = don’t cry craft

Mortal jester roam and thick/ Morph adjust row antic = more than just romantic

So wall how debris poll light = swallow to be polite???

Oar hinge art = orange heart

Foray virgo em = forever home

Chai reel loop/ share real oob = cherry lube

Cad boyd anne = cat boy dan

Far turf ill lip = father philip

Tess lit hen ink = the slittening

Forth house indie rolled or touches = four thousand year old tortoises

Hey moth swish roundup floating = a month without uploading

Jam march let pet tea an farms = Je mange les petit enfants

Day lion howl tour = Dalien Howlter

Ima let all kit = I’m a little kit

Feel pearl lays shell ter = Phil plays shelter

Fewer blue key app ending = viewer spooky happenings

Hell low iam tour reel = hello I am Toriel

Laugh tuh gey mile kuh = left to get milk

Villas eek wreck why vuh = Phil’s secret wife

Footy strain gin said dent = ___ strange incident????

Snow core play sum = snokoplasm

Nope puts cereal sleeping mage innit = no but seriously imagine it

Tear rip pulling flu hence = terrible influence

Jeff why eye aisle hike vague liner = fyi I like vagina

Eggs intense all cry cis = existential crisis

List of contributors

@fletthewreck @dandp @deadandphilgames @manchesterau @thephouseplants @awrfhi @jonsaremembers @rachosaurusrex @dapgolf @dan-whoell @dnphobe @dreamingalto @steveandscraggy @phanbeats @danandfuckingjonlmao @pepper-pastry @yonpote @un-interactive-introvert @spaniel-trowel @sisterdanieldyke @queerdnp @morganadelacour @amid-fandoms @spectral-kitkat @goingpheral @angelzonearth @wdapteo @2009phan @dansevilpianotea

[theredstargalaxy]

say something into the mic 🎤

(Aka yap about anything)

Ooohohohoho! *Rubs my tiny T-rex hands together.* Yap about anything, you say? Well, allow me to regale you with a dinosaur-filled tale!

Lost media is one of my favorite things on this earth. Tales of lost films, and whispers of lost cartoons are like a siren's song to me, luring me in to find treasures that lay just under our noses. One of the best pieces of lost media I’ve ever read about is the lost video game, Dinosaur Planet. Now, for those of you who aren’t in the loop, Dinosaur Planet is a game that was developed by Rareware on the Nintendo 64 back in the late 90’s. It was set to be Rare’s last game for that console before the Gamecube was released. However, it never saw the light of day– and it’s all because of Shigeru Miyamoto.

See, there was this character that caught Miyamoto’s attention; Saber. Saber was a wolf with brownish orange fur and light markings on his face, chest, and tail. His no bullshit attitude, combined with his physical features reminded Miyamoto of another character from Nintendo’s all star roster, that character being none other than Fox McCloud of Starfox fame. So, upon seeing Saber, he went, “Huh… This nobody kinda looks like our boy, Fox. Nix Saber, and put Fox in instead.” So, because Nintendo held the majority share of Rare’s stocks at the time, Rare had no choice but to follow Miyamoto’s orders. Saber was removed, and Fox was wedged into the Saber-shaped hole that had been left behind.

Some time later, after the N64 version had been in development for several months, the Gamecube was announced. So, everything Rare had done up to that point had to be transferred to new development hardware, and possibly even a brand new rendering engine. And once Dinosaur Planet had been transferred and tinkered with, it had a new title: Starfox Adventures: Dinosaur Planet. Rare likely sent Nintendo a demo. To which they said, “Okay, put these in demo kiosks. We gotta get the kiddies foaming at the mouth for this shit.” And said disks were sent to said kiosks in Best Buys and Walmarts– and other stores that may or may not still be with us today. And then more development happened! Storylines were tweaked, textures were polished to a shine, and dialogue was recorded. Then, in the sacred year of 2002, it launched. Now under the name of Starfox Adventures, Nintendo was sure it would sell thousands– nay, millions– of copies. Sadly, it didn’t. Hell, Starfox Adventures is one of the worst selling games in the Starfox franchise– and it’s also the most hated too. However, the launch of the game, and it’s poor reception, isn’t the end of the story. No, far from it.

You remember those kiosks I mentioned earlier? Yeah, I bet you didn’t expect those to make a comeback, did ya? Those kiosks, like most others of its kind, were thought to have either been returned to Nintendo’s offices to be destroyed, or they were tossed in a landfill to rot. And for years, people figured that they’d never see those old things again. However, in 2018, the impossible became possible. Somebody–I don’t remember who– had actually found an intact and functional kiosk demo disk. And on that disk lay not only the aforementioned demo for Starfox Adventures, but various pieces of data from Dinosaur Planet. Maps, textures, music, dialogue, and the older models of Krystal, Prince Tricky, and General Scales were all there. Intact and ready for viewing on a computer. The person who discovered the disk sent it to the guys over at Hard4Games (I love those guys! I highly recommend checking them out if you’re into lost retro games, and dev kits.), and they copied all the files over to their computer. They even did an entire video on it! Thus, after years of wandering the metaphorical desert, we finally found a tiny oasis– one that dried up fairly quickly. However, there was another, bigger oasis just on the horizon.

Three years later, in 2021, Forest of Illusion announced what I feel to be the biggest, most amazing news for any fans of this lost game. An unnamed game collector in Sweden found a functional build of Dinosaur Planet on a CD they had purchased. Thankfully, perhaps knowing the game’s worth, they leaked the build online for others to play. People were ecstatic! It was like NASA after successfully putting Buzz Aldrin on the moon! Pretty soon, videos came out, showcasing the game in all its retro glory! However, the game itself wasn’t fully functional. Dating back to December of 2000, the game’s programming was incomplete. There were various bugs that caused it to crash. Some of the maps weren’t fully rendered, and load zones didn’t work properly. Entire chunks of recorded dialogue weren’t even there, giving players nothing but unsettling silence as cutscenes played– or the game would just crash due to being unable to find the audio files. So, in a sense, it was like an abandoned theme park. Sad, decrepit, broken– rotting away to expose its digital core. However, not all was lost.

As I type this, tons of fans with coding knowledge have been tinkering away, fixing errors and squashing bugs with the same dedication a doctor would afford their patient. I’m not entirely sure who’s working on it, or how long it’ll take, but someday– perhaps soon– we’ll have a fully working version of Dinosaur Planet. Hell, somebody already reversed the change that Miyamoto wanted. It’s only a matter of time… And to think, I once thought that it would never be found in my lifetime… 

If you’d like to know more, I can gladly point you in the direction of the Lost Media Wiki, or the Hard4Games YouTube channel. Thank you for taking time out of your day to read this, friends! And thank you, little racoon friends, for sending this in! Take care!

[sevasey51]

A day after Jay gets shot Connor’s wife decides to go work. Connor knows she starting a flare. Connor has been keeping Ava and Hannah in loop both in person and alerts in the log. Ava finds out Y/N is working and corners Connor. He tells her he couldn’t convince you to stay home. Ava goes right up to maternity and pulls her from the board.

The Shift She Shouldn’t Have Taken

Summary: The day after Jay’s shooting, Y/N wakes early, wraps herself in routine, and heads to work—because it’s easier than sitting still. She’s exhausted. Mid-flare. But she won’t admit it. Connor watches her go, heart in his throat, keeping Ava and Hannah updated through the log. But when Ava finds out Y/N is working despite her condition—and the trauma she’s still processing—she storms up to maternity and pulls her from the board herself. Because sometimes loving someone means stopping them, even when they don’t want to be stopped.

Connor knew she wasn’t okay when she left the apartment that morning.

She hadn’t eaten. Barely drank her coffee. There were dark circles under her eyes, her joints moving stiffly. Her port site was tender from the crash two nights ago, and her heart rate had been creeping higher since she got out of bed.

But when he gently touched her wrist and said, “Are you sure you want to go in today?”—she just gave him that tired, distant smile.

“I need the distraction.”

He didn’t argue.

He logged her vitals before she left. Entered the symptom notes. Started a fresh entry in the flare log he shared with Ava and Hannah.

“Fatigue 7/10, BP slightly low, HR elevated. Not eating. Says she’s fine. I’m not buying it.”

Ava read it less than ten minutes later.

She didn’t respond. Just gave him a knowing look when she passed him in the hallway outside the ED. Then came another entry later:

[Connor]: “Working. Started at 7. Up in maternity.”

[Ava]: “She what?”

[Connor]: “I couldn’t talk her out of it.”

She didn’t text back.

She didn’t need to.

Thirty minutes later, Ava was off the elevators and breezing through the maternity floor like a storm on a mission.

Y/N didn’t even see her at first. She was organizing supply kits, standing too long, breathing just a little too shallow, but trying to look like she had everything under control.

Ava didn’t wait for an opening. She strode straight to the board, read it, then turned.

“Off the board. Now.”

Y/N looked up, startled. “Ava?”

“Pack your stuff,” Ava said firmly, crossing her arms. “You’re not finishing this shift.”

Y/N straightened instinctively, bristling. “I’m fine.”

Ava arched a brow. “I’ve been reading the vitals log, sweetheart. You’re not even close to fine.”

“I’m—”

“Nope,” Ava cut in. “Don’t give me the Halstead grit speech. Not today. You’re coming with me. We’re doing a full check, then you’re going home.”

“I—” Y/N’s voice broke, her defenses cracking just slightly.

“I get it,” Ava said, quieter now, stepping in. “Jay’s still in ICU. You’re scared. You feel helpless. But if you stay on this floor any longer, you’re going to collapse again. And Connor won’t forgive me if I let that happen.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

And then, finally, she nodded.

Back downstairs, Connor was pacing the end of the ED hallway when he saw them step off the elevator—Ava’s hand resting lightly on the small of Y/N’s back, guiding her forward.

Y/N’s eyes found him immediately.

“I didn’t want to be the weak one,” she said softly.

“You’re not,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re the one we love. That’s why we’re pulling you out before your body makes the choice for you.”

Ava smirked behind them. “Consider yourself lucky. I’ve thrown interns off this floor with less warning.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. The first one in days.

Connor kissed her temple. “Let’s go home.”

Because sometimes strength looks like showing up.

And sometimes it looks like letting go—

When the people who love you won’t let you fall a second time.

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

They're up at Burnley and it's snowing; lightly at first, a dusting of white over grass through the second half that had them shivering in their kits as they slid mud-spattered across the pitch. They'd won thanks to the fucking Roy Kent effect, everyone except Jamie 'cause that'd require coach to actually, well, coach him. To look at a space with Jamie in it and act like he saw a person instead of nothing at all, and he used to wish he was invisible, back when he was a kid dodging fists and snarled words but now he wants to cry, just a bit, 'cause he really is trying and why can't Roy try too?

They're up at Burnley and it's snowing in huge fluffy white flakes as they board the coach and Jamie feels sick, sits in the aisle beside Sam who presses against the window, breath fogging on the glass.

"You know I'd love to give you all a day out in town to celebrate but it looks like it's gonna be a snow day for us, folks," Ted says, stood at the front of the bus with a broad smile under his moustache. They all groan and he chuckles, hands held out in front of him. "Hey, I don't make the weather — and boy, that would be something, wouldn't it? Give y'all a taste of Kansas summer instead of all this rain you've got going on. Or snow, at the moment. Anyhow, we'll make our own fun, won't we boys?"

"It's barely even snowing," Zoreaux grumbles.

Jamie hurries off the coach, ready to crawl under the blankets and draw the curtains where he can't see any of it and he's halfway to the hotel entrance when he realizes Sam isn't with him. Turns and finds him with his face turned up in the middle of the carpark with snow dusted on his hair and his jacket and melting on his skin.

"It's very beautiful," he says softly. Jamie trudges back towards him and there's a look on his face he's never seen before, all wondering and open and in that moment with icy water trickling through his hair and his fingers frozen stiff in his pockets, Jamie thinks everything in his life has been worth it for this moment, watching Sam's face as he watches the snow.

Beside them, Dani kneels to scoop up a handful and yelps, shaking out his hands, pouting with betrayal. "And very cold!"

"You gotta wear gloves, mate," Jamie says. He knocks his shoulder against Dani and Dani knocks back.

"But it looks so soft!"

Inside, Ted leads them to the conference centre instead of up to their rooms and they sit in a circle on the floor, coaches and all. Jamie ends up huddled between Sam and Dani, arms looped over each other's shoulders, two lads who've never seen snow before in their lives and Jamie who has but the cold worms into him more than it does the others, never mind how Isaac teases him that he should be tougher, northern lad that he is.

There are eyes on him, a tiger watching from the brush. Jamie glances up and it's Roy, eyes dark and hard and searching and it's the first time they've met eyes since he returned, maybe ever. Jamie breaks first. Stares down at the carpet instead — ugly fucking thing, pilly and brown and worn out. They're a Championship League team now; can't afford the good hotels any longer. A year ago he'd've thrown a fit, quit in a huff to somewhere that deserved him like he might have done when Ted became gaffer if he hadn't had City to go back to. Only it turned out Richmond had made him too soft to handle Manchester and all that came with it. He'd made it twelve years with dad hanging over his head and then broke after barely a handful of months, huddled in his bathroom with blood in his teeth, told his agent he'd take whatever as long as it was far away.

The door crashes open and it's Zoreaux, back from raiding the hotel bar 'cause Ted wouldn't let him out no matter how much he insisted it weren't a proper snowstorm and the bartender let him buy by the bottle now half the guests who were supposed to come up had cancelled. Pass it around like they had at the curse fire and Jamie still feels stupid for that, a little, spilling his guts everywhere only to be sent back, but part of him wants to try again, just to test.

He hasn't drunk much since he got back, not much appeal in it after dad's drunken rages and the constant refills of neon-coloured cocktails on Lust Conquers All, but he drinks now, both hands wrapped around the bottle of vodka — not vanilla, the regular kind — when it comes his turn, warmer and warmer from the heat of their palms with each round. Sam's slung half over his shoulders and every few seconds he giggles at nothing and Dani says, "what is it, amigo?" and Sam says, "I don't know!" and it just makes him laugh harder. Jamie shoves playfully at his chest — "Right in my ear, mate? Really?" — and they both overbalance so the window stretches above them, one of those long thin floor-to-ceiling things. Looks up at the snow spiralling through the flat white of the sky and like this he can almost feel the cold bite of it on his face, the melting weight of it on his clothes as the water trickles down over his skin.

"I got lost in a snowstorm, once," he says, dreamily. Someone else is talking but they go silent at his voice and that's got to be on the list of prick shit he's not supposed to do, probably, to keep Ted from booting him off the team again, but he can't shove the words back inside now.

"Oh yeah?" Ted asks. "I didn't know y'all got those over here. Sounds like one heck of an experience, Jamie."

He shrugs against the carpet. "Not really. I was s'posed to drive for my da, right, 'cause his usual guy was being a fucking little bitch about it and didn't want to drive in the snow—" that's how dad had put it on the phone when Jamie got called into the principal's office, said his da was on the phone with a family emergency— "and I'd never even been to the fucking neighbourhood, right, so by the time I went and got the car off his mate and his mate gave me this whole fucking stupid lecture about not crashing or getting caught and shit and found the place it was a proper white-out, and my dad had been hanging around so long with this like, massive fucking TV that someone'd called the cops so I just fucking drove off, right? 'Cept I'd never driven in snow before so we got stuck in a ditch and me da sent me out to..." he blinked, bleary with drink. "Dunno. To find someone to tow us or some shit. But I didn't know where the fuck I was and I couldn't see shit so I just walked around 'til I found the road again, and by then dad had got himself unstuck and left, and the buses weren't running so I had to walk home." It's not really a bad story but his heart's pounding all the same and the room's gone quiet. He scratches harder at the carpet; tries to laugh but it comes out strangled and faint. "Good exercise at least, yeah?"

No one says anything, still. The carpet comes up in tufts; he piles them together like he used to do as a kid picking at grass during a fire drill. It's his turn with the vodka again, handed over by a solemn-faced Dani, and he takes a long pull. The alcohol calms the frantic buzz beneath his skin, leaves him tired and heavy and warm, the silence comforting instead of worrying.

After a while, Ted clears his throat. There's a funny tilt to his smile. "Hey, I love me a silver lining. Thanks for sharing that, Jamie," he says, strained. Maybe the cold's got him sick, or maybe it's just the way the floor's spinning that's making him look funny. Jamie flops onto his back.

"Uh-huh. Sure thing, coach."

"It is very stupid to volunteer your criminal history like that," Jan Maas says.

"'S not a crime to drive the getaway car," Jamie says.

"Pretty sure it is, bruv," Isaac says.

"Huh."

"Don't worry, Jamie Tartt! We will not tell anyone!" Dani says, very loudly or else very close to his ear. There's a general murmur of agreement.

"Thanks, amigo. I won't tell anyone 'bout your crimes, neither," Jamie says. "Not that I'm saying you've done crimes and that. But if you have. Unless it's like, murder, maybe. But if you murdered someone they probably deserve it so also not then." He holds up his fist; Dani bumps it on the second try.

"You cannot break a pact made during a snowstorm," Sam says wisely.

"I still can't believe you guys think this is a real snowstorm," Zoreaux says, and Jamie drifts off to a vivid description of the horrors of Montreal in winter.

He blinks awake to find the lads shuffling back to their rooms and Roy crouched over him with his giant fucking caterpillar eyebrows scrunched. The position can't be any good on his knee but Jamie's trying not to get in fights with the coaches so much this season so he doesn't say anything. Roy doesn't, either. He blows out a sigh like one of those panthers Jamie'd seen at the zoo with mummy way back when he was a kid, mouth working like he's trying to force himself to speak.

"Your dad's a piece of shit," he says. "You don't have to find a silver lining." And then he hauls Jamie to his feet and fucking dusts off the carpet lint with the sleeve of his jacket like Jamie's his seven-year-old niece. "You played fine today. Next time you can be fucking great, but first you need to get the fuck out of your head and be more aggressive."

Jamie breaks into a grin. "Aye aye, coach."