#Manual Paint Gun

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Manual vs. Automatic Paint Gun: Which One Should Choose

Discover the pros and cons of manual and automatic paint guns in our latest blog. Whether you're considering an automatic gun wash machine or a manual paint gun, S&S Industries has you covered. Learn which paint gun suits your needs for a flawless finish and efficient performance. Explore now to make an informed choice! Read our blog to learn more:  https://www.ssindustries.com.au/news/manual-vs-automatic-paint-gun-which-one-should-choose/

[bluudsucka]

juna - bo chow x tomboy!reader

chapter I - chapter II

summary: you were never in touch with your feminine side, being raised by your father and older brothers you knew built a tough exterior. always opting for wearing male clothes and sporting a short haircut, but that was until you stopped at the new local convince store and met bo.

word count: 7k

warnings: smut, female reader, awkward/shy reader, slight mentions of race, loss of virginity, oral sex, noncanonical setting, unprotected sex, slight age gap (nothing too crazy reader is in her early twenties while bo is in his late 20s/early 30s), mentions of other characters

author's note: i had a lot of fun writing this! this is my longest fic i ever wrote so far, so thank you for reading and thank ya'll for the support! <3 (i was also listing to juna by clairo while writing bits of this haha)

“You make me wanna go dancin’, you make me wanna try on feminine, you make me wanna go buy a new dress, you make me wanna slip off a new dress...” 

The blistering summer sun nipped harshly at your skin, sweat from the heat and a hard day's work clung onto your chest and forehead while driving your father's rusty car, you'd hope you could pick up a breeze to cool you down. 

That of course didn't happen. 

He sent you into town with a shopping list of materials your household needed - and seeing as your mother passed last year - it was your duty as a woman to go out and shop for the boys, as your father so 'eloquently' put it. His remarks about your gender bothered you seeing as you were responsible in the cooking and cleaning while also being responsible with manual labor on the farm too. 

It was common to help your two older brothers fix run down and broken appliances such as rickety barn doors, leaky faucets, and wobbly banisters. Your hands were covered in cuts, scabs, and blisters from hammering away for hours. It didn't help that during those hours of work your brothers would tease you about not being 'girly' enough, jesting that you were more of a man than them both combined. It also didn't help that your family's budget was tight, meaning you had no choice but to wear their hand-me-downs.  

With a tired sigh you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, finally entering the town. The dusty and bustling streets was lively today despite the cruel heat wave that clung on the Mississippi air, breathing in the hot oxygen was like swallowing thick molasses.  

Parking the beat-up blue car, you adjusted the dingy green bandana that rested on the temples of your forehead, soft and short curls wrapping around the fabric. You tried your best to style it more feminine after your father cut way too short for your liking - but half of you still felt insecure about the hairstyle.  

Your eyes would gaze upon the ebony beauties that would waltz around town with frilly hair pieces and intricate styles, their long, gorgeous dresses flowing in the wind as men would stop and stare - you would stare too. Sometimes you would daydream about being in a moving picture playing the leading lady that had a lover who would do anything for you; give you flowers, love, and affection. The kind of guy who wouldn't be embarrassed about being tender on you. 

Slamming the car door after jumping out the sizzling leather seat of the car, your rough hands dug into the front pocket of your oversized denim overalls. Your eyes scanning the chicken scratch of a list your father wrote on stained paper, passing through the crowd, trying your best not to bump into anyone. 

nails (three 100 pack) 

gun oil 

chiken chicken feed 

red paint 

game meat 

horse fed feed 

fox repellaint repellent  

Walking towards the general store you normally shopped for your items; you noticed something strange; it had completely changed since you last stopped by. The store was bigger - more cleanly. Items within the store wouldn't be organized, as medicine would often be found next to the rat traps, but now just by gazing around the store everything was neatly placed in spots that...Made sense.  

You also noticed a man that you hadn't seen before, he was hunched over stacking cans of peas next to the tidy stack of caned carrots. Before any words could slip out of your lips he turned to face you, as if he could feel your eyes staring at the back of his head.  

He was handsome, strikingly so.  

His jet-black hair was neatly styled, and his lips held a light welcoming smile. He wore a crisp white button up with an onyx-colored vest on top, protecting the white shirt from the grime and dust. Rubbing his hands on his grey pants he lifted from the ground, rolling his shoulders and neck as he stood at his full height.  

"Welcome. What can I help ya' with?" He asked, a low southern drawl boomed from him, the sound of his voice made you jump. You didn't expect him to have such a sultry voice. Your warm skin on your cheeks began to tingle as your eyes quickly darted towards your muddy shoes. 

"U-Um, I'm just shoppin', sir. Thank you!" You rushed out, stumbling over your words as if you just learned how to talk an hour ago. His lips stretched into a kind and toothy smile, and he nodded his head, dark eyes not breaking contact with your frame. 

"Well, if you need somethin', lemme know."  

And with that he turned onto his heel and continued to work, you quickly scanned around the store looking for everything that you needed on the list. You wanted to leave the store as soon as possible, not because of the handsome man's actions - but because you felt as if you looked...Terrible. 

Your undershirt was a stained long sleeve, a once white fabric now faded into a dingy tan color due to dirt, sweat, and age. The shirt hung off your shoulders, it was your older brother's before it was handed down to you, the piece of clothing was basically swallowing your feminine frame. The muddy overalls that you sported was from your other brother, the second oldest, and it was big on you too.  

Wearing these clothes strangers would sometimes mistake you for a boy, which didn't bother you at all, but the thought of this attractive shopkeeper mistaking you for one sent a wave of anxiety through your body. Grabbing the gun oil, the multiple boxes of nails, and fox repellent your hands were already full.  

You looked around for a basket to hold your items, but none were found. You stood in the middle of the store your face twisting in confusion as you looked around one more time just to make sure you didn't overlook the baskets to hold your stuff, and the man noticed this. 

"Sorry, I just open this place up, last owner's baskets were full 'o holes. I had to toss 'em, won't get new ones till next week."  

"O-Oh, it's fine." 

"Here." he said as he strutted towards you, his arms stretching wide. Your eyes landed on his toned forearms, they looked strong and powerful, and you couldn't help but to gaze at the vein that pressed against his pale olive skin. Standing in front of you the stranger tilted his head in confusion, and you finally realized that he was signaling you to place the items into his arms. 

With a strained and awkward chuckle, you blurted out an apology and gave the items to him. 

"Don't worry, I'll place ya' things on the counter so you can shop around some more." He assured as his long legs strutted towards the register that rested on a mahogany table. He noticed you standing stock still as your fingers fidget between each other. Leaning on the wooden table with crossed arms he sent you another gorgeous smile your way.  

"You new to town?" He asked, his voice was alluring and warm, you could hear him talk all day if you could. 

"No, I live on the outskirts of town with my brothers and Pa, w-we got a farm..." You blurted out, the words rushed from your mouth like a running faucet, which made the man chuckle. 

"Hm, and they just let a pretty girl like yourself go shopping alone?" 

Your eyes widen like saucers and your already racing heart sped up even faster, it felt like you were moments away from a heart attack. You opened and closed your mouth in quick successions, as if you were a fish out of water. 

You were. 

You never heard a man refer to you as pretty. They called you strong, reliable, tough, hardworking - but never pretty. Noticing your anxiety rising he spoke again, this time more carefully. 

"My name's Bo Chow, I'm from around these parts but I just open this store few weeks ago," He then paused as if scanning his thoughts to find the right words to say to not scare you off. "You said your family has a farm? Ya'll got chickens and such? I'm lookin' into finding a stable source for eggs, got an ice box comin' in later today and I wanna stock up." 

"Oh, um. Yeah, we got chickens. Lots of 'em, mean bastards." You mumbled, spitting out a mild annoyance you had with the feathery animals, one of them bit you on the thumb this morning. 

Bo blurted out a laugh from your comment, his chuckles crashing into you like a wave, and it made you smile. With fidgeting fingers, you told him your name, which he repeated three times, each time breathier than the last. He told you that your name was beautiful - that it suited a beautiful girl like yourself. 

Bo noticed that you were on the shy side, so he toned down his flirty advances towards you, but he still let it be known that he found you attractive. Slowly you eased out of your shell and continued to shop, placing each item on the counter as words and laughter exchanged between you two. Completing your shopping list you paid for the items, Bo carefully bagged them into thick brown paper bags, his dark brown eyes trailing your face as he soaked in your beautiful features. 

It stunned him that such a pretty girl was so shy, it was if you were completely unaware of your beauty. With small smile you grabbed the paper bags and Bo reached for the horse feed that rested on the counter.  

"Lemme carry this out for you; it's pretty heavy." 

"No, n-no! It's fine I can make two trips." 

"Nonsense, what kind of man am I to let a lady carry all these bags by herself?" He replied as strong arms lifting the feed as if it weighed nothing, a rush of lust bloomed within your chest as thoughts of his arms holding you tight crept within your mind. But those thoughts were quickly replaced with embarrassment, and you avoided eye contact with the man as you both walked out of the store towards the car. 

Placing the bags in the passenger side of the vehicle Bo shot you a smile, which made you gaze at your shoes again, your boots kicking the dry dirt beneath your feet. Crossing his arms against his chest and without thinking he said: "I know some fella is really lucky to have you." 

"I-I ain't with no one, not like that." You whispered, biting your lip as you leaned against the hot car door, your eyes meeting his for only a split second before looking away. You had a boyfriend in the past, but the only thing you did with the man was kiss and hold hands, you weren't really attracted to him, and he was only with you for 'convenience' - according to him. So, it didn't hurt you none when he dumped you for another girl. 

But you did enjoy landing a right hook square against his jaw after that nasty breakup though.  

Just because he deserved it. 

"W-What about you? I mean, I'm not sayin' a fella is lucky to have you, unless there is--ain't nothin' wrong with that if there is--I mean--" 

"I'm divorced; my ex-wife works at the general store on the white side of town." Bo chuckled, cutting you off from your rambling. You whispered out a meek apology and silence soon followed. The muffle sounds of people's chattering, cars honking, and wheels racing on the dirt road eased your thumping heart a bit. With a sigh Bo tilted his head, his eyes traveling up and down your body as he tongued the inside of his cheek.  

"...I know some fellas who own a juke joint, just outta the way of town. They play some real good music there - and the catfish they serve is fresh, pipin' hot never cooked in stale grease, unlike the fish fry across the street." He said as he pointed his head towards the run-down restaurant that was packed to the brim with people. You giggled at his comment - he was right - despite the popularity of that place, their food was disgusting. With a pause his face twisted in deep thought, finding the next words that he truly wanted to say.  

"We should go there sometime - the juke joint," Bo casually said, his hands now tucked in the pockets of his pants. "Up to you, of course." He quickly added trying his best not to lay it on thick. Your body stiffed and you scrunched up your face in concern and without thinking you blurted out: "You ain't crazy, right?"  

Bo was a handsome man, the kind that you would daydream about as you hammered and worked your days away. It made no sense to you that such a gorgeous man like him would ask you out, he seemed like the type to be paired up with a woman who wore frilly dresses and expensive perfume.  

Not a woman in old, dirty hand-me-down male clothes.  

He shrugged his shoulders as an airy laugh escaped his lungs, you noticed that he laughed a lot. 

The sound of it was music to your ears.  

"Just think about it, okay?" He asked softy, which earned a nod from you. With one last smile he began to walk towards the store backwards, his chestnut-colored eyes not breaking contact with yours.  

"And make sure your brothers help you with movin' allat stuff."  

The drive back home was felt quicker than it actually was, your mind raced with thoughts of Bo. His soft smile, his strong muscular arms, his beautiful deep brown eyes, his thick southern twang with each word he spoke - even though you just met the man you were already falling for him, and you considered his invitation to the juke joint.  

Once pulling into the long dusty driveway of your home a quick realization set within you. 

How would you take him up on that offer? 

Driving back and forth from town wasn't manageable; your father's car drank up gas like it was nothing - and gasoline was expensive. You sighed at the missed opportunity to ask how communication would work between you two. With a lull of your head, your eyes landed on the grocery list that rested on top of the items you bought. Reaching for the stained paper your heart fluttered as you read the numbers out loud, his name scribbled on the bottom of it. 

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒── 

A few blistering weeks had passed and your relationship with Bo blossomed as you both spent hours talking on the phone, and you were starting to enjoy the tedious shopping trips your father would send you on - that meant you were able to see the shopkeeper in person. But when driving into town wasn't needed you settled on calling the man after finishing your chores.  

You learned that the Bo's family was from China, a long way from Mississippi. You would ask about the country and if it was any different from here, his deep voice would sigh and reminiscence about his homeland. His family moved here when he was only a small boy and stated that he lost his accent in exchanged for the Mississippi drawl from living here so long - but he still spoke perfect Mandarin.  

You noticed that his flirty persona would slip as he displayed a sillier side to him. Cursing and complaining about customers leaving messes around his store or local vendors who tried to rip him off, his soothing voice would slip into speaking his native tongue, the sound of those foreign words would caress your ears and make your heart flutter. You would ask him to teach you some words and phrases, which he gladly did.  

Most of them were curse words though.  

You would butcher the unfamiliar words with your southern accent, but he was patient with you as he chuckled out the proper pronunciation of those dirty words, praising you when you finally articulating them semi-perfectly.  

He would ask you about your day as well and you told him everything, down to the exact minute you woke up. He would let out a sharp whistle hearing all of the manual labor that you were responsible for - flirting with you about how you needed a break often saying things like: "Sounds like a hard day, you probably have knots in your shoulders - I could fix that, y'know." 

Which you would reply: "You givin' out massages now?" 

And in turn he would tut out a quick comeback along the lines of: "Only to those who deserves them. I've got magic hands...And a soft spot for women who pretend not to need them." 

You would choke and stumble over your words, quickly changing the subject towards something else. Tonight, you were on the phone with Bo, listing intensely at the story he told - your sore hands shooed your nosy brother away as he gave you a lopsided smile. You told your brothers about Bo, and they teased you relentlessly about him. 

"So, when am I gonna see you again?" Bo asked, making you bite your lip and shrug as if he could see you.  

"I don't know...Maybe soon?" You whispered you didn't want it to come out as a question, but it did, and you mentally kicked yourself for it. You remembered his offer to take you to this 'mysterious' juke joint, it sounded like fun. You love to dance even though you were self-conscious about doing it in front of people, often swaying your hips as you hummed a melody you heard on the radio while cooking or doing chores by your lonesome.  

"How...How 'bout we go that juke joint you were talkin' about? That sounds like fun." 

"Ah! Lil' miss busy body finally wanna come dance with me?" 

"Oh, haha," You sarcastically laughed, picking at the skin of your thumb. "How 'bout next weekend? Does Saturday work for you?" 

"Of course, I'm free Saturday..." He then paused and you could practically see the wide smile that clung onto his face.  

"It's a date, then?" 

"Y-Yeah, it's a date."  

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──  

Your fingers fidget and twist around each other, the crunching sound of rock and dirt beneath your feet grounded you somewhat, but your palms were already beginning to sweat. Passing through parked cars and couples grinding themselves onto each other, you finally made it to this aforementioned juke joint, the booming sound of music and shouting made a lump rise in your throat.  

Stepping towards the large open double doors sat a stocky man. He nodded and waved as people enter and exited the makeshift club - his head snapping forward as his eyes landed onto you. With a wide and friendly smile, he tilted his straw hat with thick fingers - lowering his head in reverence as he spoke. 

"Hello, missy. Ain't seen you around here before," His head rise again, making heavy eye contact with you. You figured that this large man was a bouncer, here to try and keep troublemakers out of the juke. "Word gets around, huh? Each weekend more and more people come - since it's your first time here I recommend trying the Irish whiskey. It got some kick to it, haha. All thanks to those twins, of course."  

"Y-Yes, will do. Thank you." You mumbled, your shy eyes looking down at your feet. The muddy boots that you wore everyday were replaced with emerald green heels, the shoes hurt your feet, but the sales lady reassured you that they'll break in quickly.  

Shuffling around the man you stumbled into the crowded club, your eyes scanning for Bo, but you couldn't find him anywhere. A lost and confused look plastered onto your face - you were starting to feel overwhelmed as second thoughts rushed through your mind. Deciding that you should just leave you quickly turned on your heel, but you bumped into a soft body, strong yet comforting arms steadied you. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You repeated with a strained voice, shouting out apologies over the loud Blues that reverberated on the wooden walls. 

"It's okay, you alright?" A womanly voice calmly spoke. Your eyes were met with deep mahogany brown irises, her features were beautiful, welcoming. Yet an air of sternness and confidence oozed casually from her as she adjusted her dark blue dress. Her natural hair was done up neatly, framing her face in a way that only enhanced her beautiful features. You couldn't help but to gawk at this woman. Noticing this her smile only soften as she awaited your answer to her question. 

"Oh, um. Yea', I'm okay. Thank you," you choked out, your awkward eyes darting around the room as you peered into the dancing crowd. "Have you seen Bo around?" You added with a bite of your cherry red stained lips - for the first time you were wearing makeup. 

"So, you're her? He's gamblin' with that drunk 'ol fool in the back." She stated, giving you a friendly grin. She turned her head and stopped a man dead in his tracks as he gave her a look that was tinged in nothing but respect.  

"Yes, Annie?" The man asked. 

"Take her to Bo and them, would you?" The woman, now known as Annie, casually said which earned a nod from the man. You gave your thanks to Annie as she winked and disappeared into the crowd. You followed the man, pushing pass people dancing and drinking with apologies falling from your lips, bumping into them accidently. But most of them were either too drunk to care or too busy dancing to notice.  

"Damn, Bo. I thought you said you was good?" A commanding voice boomed, which followed by a chorus of laughter from multiple men. The music wasn't as loud within this hidden room, the muffled hymns were drowned out by lighters flicking, glass bottles clanking, and cocky chuckles coming from each man that huddled together around the small table.  

"I am, but I'm already known' that Slim is cheatin." Bo sighed in annoyance, a cigarette hanged limp between his plump lips as he tossed a card down on the table, stress pulling at his chiseled features and smoke plumed from his mouth with each word he spoke.  

"I ain't cheatin'." A man, who was much older, confidently stated as he took a long swig from his metal flask - licking his lips to taste the alcohol that slipped pass his golden capped teeth.  

"You is." Bo shot back as he took a drag from the cigarette, pulling it from his lips with an index and middle finger, and leisurely blew the smoke into the already thick hazy air.  

"No, I--" 

A sharp wolf whistle cut off the older man's defense, which cause the men to snap their heads towards your direction. The whistle came from the man standing, his hands reaching for the red brimmed hat that rested on his head and placed it over his chest, shielding his well-tailored suit.  

"Ain't you a pretty lil' thang?" He spoke as his dark brown irises slowly ran up and down your body, he was absolutely undressing you with his eyes. You wore a thin silky emerald color dress that loosely hung onto your body - but the soft fabric outlined and accentuated your curves. Your short hair was styled in finger waves, mimicking how women would wear their hair in the many magazines you had hidden away in your bedroom.  

With long mascara covered eyelashes you blinked awkwardly, turning your head to look behind you, confused if the man was talking to you. Bo looked at you with awe, he couldn't recognize you at first but looking deeper at your dolled up face he could see those same beautiful features he'd grown fond of.  

You looked amazing, like a movie star that jumped straight out of the silver screen. 

"Y-You talkin' to me?" You asked the man, pointing at yourself with your head tilting to the side, the dangling silver earing you wore had small green gems, the light catching the dark color - making the jewelry sparkle. The jewelry grazed the warm skin of your bare shoulder as you lulled your head back into its natural position.  

"My, my. And she's humble too," he laughed as he reached his hand out for yours. With sweaty and shaky palms, you placed your hand within the stranger's grasp, it seemed like he didn't care about your drenched soaked palm as he placed a kiss on your trembling hand, the feeling of his moustache lightly tickled your skin. "My name is Stack, baby." He said as he shot you a wide smile, showing off his golden capped teeth that shined under the ember light of the club. But before you could open your mouth Bo quickly cut into the conversation, swatting away the advances Stack was planning on making towards you.  

"Watch yourself - she ain't like that, Stack." Bo hissed tossing his cards on the table, quitting from the game which made Slim smile ear to ear from the easy victory.  

"Why you care, ain't you married?" Stack jested back, his voice dripping with charisma, sending a wink your way after finishing his sentence.  

"Divorced." Bo said curtly. 

Stack raised his hands up in a playful display of defeat, his face twisting in mischief as a chuckle fell from his plump lips.  

"My bad, Bo. I ain't know you like the sistas." Stack chuckled as he pulled the empty chair from the table, claiming his seat as nimble hands collected the scattered cards - preparing to shuffle them for the next game.  

"I ain't know you like 'em either." Bo replied, sitting up from his chair as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, stopping right at the elbows - his cigarette still hanging limply from his mouth.  

This statement earned a raspy roar of laughter from Slim as he clapped his hands together, the sound of his foot stomping made you jump a bit. Stack's once confident persona melted as he shot glares at Slim and Bo, which only made Slim laugh even harder.  

You were oblivious to their 'inside joke'.  

"Whew, you have fun you crazy kids," Slim sighed out, taking another swig from his flask. "And you: get outta ya feelings, boy. Shuffle them cards." The older man places a hard pat on Stack's shoulder, which only made him grunt in annoyance. 

"I think you had too much to drink, old man." Stack seethed as he quickly mixed up the cards in his hands.  

Putting the cigarette out in the ashtray Bo's striking features eased with happiness as he laid his eyes on you. Holding his arm out for you to grab onto, both of you exited the small gambling room - now out on the bustling dance floor. His eyes were trained onto your face as he pulled you closer towards him, the bloom of attraction and arousal tugged within Bo as he bit his lip. 

You were looking damn good tonight. 

"I see why you didn't want me to pick you up - you're somethin' else, you know that?" He smiled, the dimples of his cheeks deepening as you shrugged your shoulders at his words, your eyes gazing at him. He looked handsome as always, but tonight he looked dashing. Noticing his eyes that flicked towards your body, you took a step back to show him your full outfit. 

"You like my dress? I bought it earlier today - I wanted to wear somethin' new." You gushed out and with a twirl you showed him the back of your dress that exposed the bare skin of your back, but you didn't notice Bo's eyes landing straight on your ass that poked against the thin fabric. Sticking his thumb in his belt loop, he adjusted his pants - he really wanted to see what's under that dress - but alas, he wouldn't outwardly say that to you as his own worrying self-conscious crept in.  

Bo wasn't bashful nor shy when it came to intimacy and sex, he was open about his wants and desires. But you were the polar opposite, so he tried his best to keep those lustful thoughts about you to himself, toning the flirty banter down to a minimum. But that was becoming a challenge tonight with how sexy you looked, and it didn't help much that Stack's actions made him a tad bit jealous. 

Bo knew you desired him just as much, but he knows it'll take a while for that shell of yours to crack.  

Low strumming of guitar strings pulled your attention away from Bo, your eyes gazing at the makeshift stage ahead of you, watching a man that was around your age plucked the metal strings of the instrument. With a low hum you noticed the once lively dancefloor coupled up in pairs, while the singles made their way to the bar to fill up on drinks. With a thumb on his bottom lip Bo, smiled at your sudden ramped attention towards the slow music. 

"That's Preacher Boy, he's mighty fine at playin' that guitar," Bo walked forward towards the dance floor with your hand in his. Both your fingers interlocking with each other's. "Care to fancy me a dance?"  

You couldn't do anything but to excitedly nod, the butterflies in your stomach were becoming unbearable. With strong arms Bo held you flush against him, you could feel his lean body through his clothes - both of you swaying to the rhythm of the song. Tough hands rested on the small of your back, his calloused fingers resting dangerously close above your ass. 

You wouldn't mind it if he rested his hand there.  

With threaded fingers he guided your steps, you tripped over yourself for a bit - but you quickly found the rhythm again. Your head rest on his shoulder while he placed his on top of your head, the tender lyrics about love and not wanting to let go echoed through your mind, the lovesick song made your heart swell.  

Bo then pulls away from your body, but only for a bit - he twirled you around, making you giggle at the action and with skillful movements, he pressed your backside onto himself. His hands guided your hips against his and you could feel his growing bulge pressing against your backside. You shiver in delight at the feeling of him pressing against you, his lips also pressing against your ear as he sang along the lyrics - switching some of the words with Mandarin. He was singing the song directly to you. 

Your loins were on fire, and you tried the ease the ache between your legs by grinding yourself onto his stiffening member. Bo took quick noticed of this, his fingers pressing down on your hips as he steadies himself.  

Helping you grind yourself on him. 

Turning around to face him again you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, still pressing yourself firmly on his body. Your lips ghosting over his - he leaned forward in an attempt to close the sliver of space between your lips, but you pulled away with a slight grin that danced across your cherry red lips.  

"Do you think I'm pretty even when I don't look like...This all the time?" You asked him. Though you enjoyed dressing up and doing your make up - a part of you also found comfort in wearing clothes that weren't 'conventionally' for women. You were shy and sometimes you had some bouts of insecurity - but that was every woman. 

You hoped that Bo could understand that.  

"The moment I laid my eyes on you - when you came into my store - I knew then that I wanted you," he paused as his brown eyes stared into yours intensely, every word he spoke made you lose your breath. "You're more than pretty; you're beautiful - gorgeous. Doesn't matter what you got on."  

With quivering lips, you kissed him, Bo's lips were soft, and his kiss was steady as he guided your unskilled mouth against his - deepening the kiss even more. His warm hands trailed over the exposed skin of your back, the feeling of rough fingers made you spiral, and you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second. Bo could feel your wetness too - pressing his thigh in between your legs and against your aching core.  

You moaned into his mouth, and you held onto his shoulders for dear life, you needed to feel this man inside you - you were growing desperate to relieve yourself from the intense arousal that bubbled in your core. 

"C'mon, lemme take care of you, baby." Bo whispered.  

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒── 

Slipping away from the crowd, you and Bo found an empty room upstairs of the juke, away from prying eyes. The room was dusty, and the air was stale and thick - as if you both were the first people to enter in years. The slow love song that Preacher Boy sang was now replaced with loud, intense melodies and the once tender lyrics now oozed with raunchy double entendres.  

Pressing your back against the wall, Bo's nimble hands ran over your body, stroking and squeezing all of your curves as if his life depended on it - his hands stopping at your breast, cupping them gently through the fabric of your dress. His faced rested within the crook of your neck as his lips sucked at the exposed skin, slightly nipping you with his teeth. Your hands race through his black hair, the strands threading through your fingers as your nails softly scratched at his scalp. 

"You see what you do to me, girl?" He asked as he reached for your hand, placing it over his clothed bulge that strained against his pants. You bit your lip as your fingers rubbed against his hard member, his hips bucking into your hand as you pressed down on his dick.  

"I-I gotta tell you somethin'." 

"What is it, baby?" He asked in between fevered kisses on your neck. 

"I ain't never did this before." You sighed out breathlessly. Kissing and grinding wasn't intimidating to you - you've done that before. 

But sex, actual sex, was a whole different ballpark. You weren't 'saving' yourself for marriage or anything like that; you never had the opportunity to be with anyone sexually. Until now, of course. Bo stopped in his tracks and pulled away from your neck, his eyes that were filled with lust a second ago soften while his hands rested at your sides.  

"...You a virgin?" He asked, which made you whisper out a yes. His eyebrows knitted together as he stared down at you, still pressing himself against your heaving chest. "Sure you want this?" 

"Yea', I'm sure...I like you, Bo. A lot, I wanna do it," you paused - your eyes looking away from him and in attempt to try to break the rising tension from the realization of you never having sex before, you spoke again. "Just be patient with me." 

"I'll be gentle I promise, baby. It's just like dancin', follow my lead - I'll make sure you feel real good." Bo whispered as his hand caress your cheek, his thumb rubbing circles. Leaning in he kissed you again, but this kiss was different than the last - it was slow and gentle.  

You kissed him back and his tongue swipe at your bottom lip, asking for permission to deepen the kiss, and you let him. Both of your tongues danced in unison, the taste of cigarette smoke with the hint of peppermint lingered on your mouth with each kiss. His hands reached for the hem of your dress, pulling up the fabric exposing your bare thighs and thin cotton underwear.  

His hand rubbed your leg, stopping at the waistband of your panties, his finger tracing over the band and stopping at the wet spot of the fabric. Slowly his fingers pressed against your clothed clit, rubbing small yet firm circles on the sensitive bud, earning a shallow moan that escaped your chest.  

"Does it feel good, baby?" Bo asked as he continued rubbing your pussy through your panties. You groan out a breathy yes, encouraging him to keep going.  

And he did.  

Your hips bucked against his hand, while his free hand pinched at your right nipple with attentive fingers. The sharp feeling of his pinching sent a wave of pleasure towards your loins and your hands gripped onto his toned biceps. With skillful and experienced hands, he stuck his thumb within the waistband of your soaking underwear, slipping the fabric off your hips towards your already shaking knees, his fingers now rubbing against your exposed pussy.  

"Oh, Bo. T-That feels good." You whimpered as he continued his movements - now picking up speed, making you moan even louder.  

You were glad that the music was blaringly loud. 

"Fuck...You're already so wet." Bo muttered as his fingers swiped across your aching entrance. He was practically straining against his pants, but since this was your first time, he didn't want to rush. He remembered his first time having sex - it wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either - even so he still looked back on that memory fondly. The feeling of reaching that level of ecstasy sticks to a person and he was honored to be able to help you achieve it. It was daunting knowing that he's your first, but it also lit a fire within him. 

He wanted nothing more but to pleasure you, to make sure that your first time is special. Trailing gentle kisses down your body Bo got on his knees, tugging the panties off of your legs as he did so. Your hands gripped onto the hem of your dress in a tight fist and your eyes followed his every movement. 

"I wanna taste you, baby. Can I taste you?" He asked desperately, his eyes looking up at you as if you were an angel in disguise - as if you were a work of art.  

You nodded your head, but he didn't move. 

"Use your words, sugar."  

"Y-Yes, you can taste me." choked out awkwardly, you never talked dirty to anyone before but the act of doing it only made you hornier. Bo smiled wide at your answer, placing a feather light kiss on your thigh and on your sensitive bud. The feeling of his lips on your pussy made you shiver in excitement and slowly he began to lick you.  

The tip of his tongue skillfully circled your clit, only stopping to drag it across your soaking pussy. He moaned against your core - savoring sweet taste of your juices that filled his mouth. You bucked your hips against his face, riding on his experienced tongue as he continued repeating his movements. 

Chanting out his name with a groan your hands ran through his hair, it took everything within you not to pull at his dark tresses - but the sensation of his tongue lapping up your pussy made your head spin. Working over your core Bo slowly slipped his middle finger inside of you, stopping at the second joint in case you couldn't take the feeling. To your surprise the feeling of his finger inside you didn't hurt; in fact, it felt amazing - it felt heavenly.  

Careful and slow he moved his hand, pressing the finger in and out of your pussy as his lips sucked at your swollen and sensitive clit. Lulling your head to the side you rocked your hips to match the pace of his hand, biting your lip as a wave of pleasure washed over you. Bo then added another finger which made you squeeze your thighs against the sides of his head, holding his head in place with a vice grip.  

His middle and ring finger worked your over your core, the digits now fully inside of you. Picking up the pace with his fingers your pussy, guttural moans turned into high pitched groans as your left hand scratched at the wall behind you. An unfamiliar yet intense feeling tingled at your core, and something within you desperately needed the feeling to be alleviated. It was as if Bo read your mind and his tongue swirled over your clit and within an instant a wave of euphoria crashed into you as a loud cry fell from your lips, your body shaking intensely like a leaf in the wind.  

You came. 

Bo's mouth pulled away from your dripping pussy, he didn't want to overwhelm you as his now slick fingers lightly stroked your tender button, easing you through your orgasm.  

"Just like that, baby. You got it...Good job, great job." He praised. Looking down at him Bo's chin and the collar of his shirt was soaked with your juices, and it slightly embarrassed you with just how wet you truly were. But that feeling of embarrassment quickly dissipated when he stood up again, his lips crashing into yours - kissing you with fever.  

You could taste yourself on his tongue, with shaky hands you locked your fingers together at the back of his head, deepening the kiss. Something about tasting you on his swollen lips made your pussy tingle with a need to be filled again. 

"Bo...I-I need you."  

"I need you too." He whispered back between kisses. Your hand reached for the buckle of his belt, fumbling over your own fingers as you tried to free him from his pants. Bo held your hands in his, guiding them in unbuckling the belt.  

Finally, being able to free himself from his belt, he led your hand in his pants. You could feel just how hard he was. His member was thick and heavy and feeling the warmth of it on the palm of your hand made your mouth water in the anticipation of him fucking you. Pulling his pants off his waist, Bo's dick sprung free.  

With strong hands he lifted you up from under your arms, making you gasp. Following his lead, you wrapped your legs around his hips as he pressed his lean body against yours, pressing you on the wall to steady yourself. Your sweaty forehead rested on his as you both watched him stroke himself, pumping his dick with his hand, precum making a natural lubricant.  

With cloudy eyes you watched Bo lining himself towards your aching core he slowly entered you, his head rested on your hot and sweat slicked shoulder and the feeling of his cock entering your tight pussy almost made the man topple over. He was stretching you out and the raw sting of pain mixed with pleasure crashed into you like a tidal wave, your nails clung onto Bo's shirt, scratching at his skin through the cotton fabric.  

"Shh, it's okay, I got you." Bo reassured as he paused the movement of his hips - resting his cock inside of you - allowing both of your bodies to adjust to each other. You were so tight, so warm, so wet. It felt like he'd just stumbled into heaven, and it took everything in him not to buck his hips until you were ready. With a nod of your head, you signaled him to continue, your tense muscles melted as he placed a long kiss on your jaw as he slowly began rocking his hips back and forth, fucking into you as softly as he could.  

High pitched grunts fell from your lips with each thrust he made, and his thumb rubbed small and supportive circles over the skin of your thighs that wrapped around his hips, grounding you and easing the tense muscles within your legs. Bo began chanting your name, telling you how good you felt, and asking you if he felt good inside you too.  

The pain of his cock inside of your once unexplored sex subsided and was now replaced with nothing but pleasure. You moaned against his plump lips as he groaned out curses in Mandarin at the sensation of your pussy squeezing around his member; his hips thrusting into you rapid but steady pace. 

"Bo, I think I'm almost..." 

"I'm almost there too." Bo mumbled as he rested his forehead onto yours and with a few more thrusts you felt the familiar feeling of a knot formed within your abdomen and with shaking legs your mouth hanged open slack as a silent scream pushed through your convulsing body - the high of reaching your orgasm made you hold Bo in a vice grip.  

He cursed in pleasure as his own orgasm crept up on him, backing away from your tight grip with strong arms he pulled himself out of you, pumping his cock within his hand until he reached his climax - coming in his hand as he rested his head on your shoulders, your eyes watching him stroke himself. The sounds of heavy breathing filled the air as your head spin from experiencing your second orgasm. 

Your sweaty body leaned against the wall and with a deep sigh Bo steadied his breathing, rolling his shoulders as your eyes met with his. You noticed a bit of blood that was in his hand and the odd sensation of slick clung on your inner thighs, putting two and two together you looked away from him, embarrassment blooming within your already racing heart. But before you could blurt out an apology, Bo kissed your lips - pulling you out of your self conscious state.  

"That's normal for your first time. It's okay, baby." He reassured. Cleaning you and himself up with a small cotton handkerchief, you jumped at the soft fabric rubbing against your sensitive sex, which earned a sympathetic chuckle from Bo. 

"Hopefully next time we do it we'll have a bed. My back hurts..." You whispered as your hand pressed on the small of your back, getting fucked against a hard wall feels good in the moment, but you know you'll be stiff as a board the following morning.  

"Next time?" Bo asked as a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.  

"I-I mean if you want--" 

"I'll make sure we'll have a bed, and besides I promised you a massage, remember?" He smiled and you smiled back at him. After getting cleaned up, you and Bo rejoined the bustling crowd of the juke joint, hand in hand. 

You were counting down the minutes until your next 'encounter' with him - and so was he. 

[prisvvner]

Free Shipping, Internal Screaming

pairing: massage gun!sukuna x broke college student!reader

content: you're a broke college student whose last resort of stress relief is a shipping-free, cheeky looking massage gun from amazon. turns out it was worth the money, just in ways you did not expect!

warnings: CRACKFIC!, MDNI, object!kuna or whatever we call this menace, lots of smut with barely any plot (if you squint), missionary, kuna giving mean backshots, mating press, dirty talk, reader losing the will to resist (and walk)

author's note: blame @yenayaps for this shit i couldn't get it out of my head- but whatever object!kuna is, i'm so glad you introduced it to us T.T anyways proceed with caution and read to fulfill your naughty dreams! <3

You’re officially at your wit’s end. Finals week has been an unrelenting beast, gnawing at your sanity with a relentless, merciless grip. Your sleep schedule isn’t just messed up, it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting: chaotic, splattered with irregular bursts of insomnia, naps stolen on grimy library benches, and late-night panic scrolling through lecture slides. Your brain feels like overcooked spaghetti—tangled, mushy, and utterly useless.

And then there are your roommates. You love them, kind of, but right now they’re driving you straight to the edge of madness. Between their midnight karaoke sessions, which sound suspiciously like an off-key tribute to every 80s rock ballad ever written, and their “study breaks” that suspiciously align with every hour on the clock, your stress meter has officially exploded. The walls of your tiny dorm room seem to close in, suffocating you in a cloud of noise, caffeine, and desperate tension.

You collapse on your cluttered bed, staring at your phone with dead eyes, desperate for a miracle. And then you see it: an online ad for a “miracle massage gun” promising to “release all your tension and bad vibes.” The price? So low it might as well be a joke. And FREE SHIPPING! The product photo looks like it was snapped with a potato, and the seller’s rating is suspiciously perfect. But hell, at this point, you’re desperate enough to ignore every warning bell ringing in your head and hit buy.

Days later, the package arrives. A small, squarish box with questionable tape sealing the edges, like it’s been shipped via a conspiracy of raccoons. You tear it open, and the first thing that hits you is a strange smell. It’s this weird hybrid of old gym socks fermented in motor oil and something chemical, sharp and unsettling. You pull out the massage gun, and immediately, your eyes narrow.

It’s a bizarre, bulky contraption that looks like someone glued together random parts from a junkyard. The plastic is scratched and peeling in places, with stickers half-lifted like ancient relics. Wires poke out at awkward angles, twitching like nervous fingers. You grimace, your fingers itching to drop the thing back in the box and forget you ever saw it.

Then you grab the manual. The thing is a masterpiece of confusion—pages full of cryptic symbols, nonsensical instructions, and what looks like a half-hearted attempt at translating from a language no one quite remembers anymore. You squint, trying to make sense of the diagrams that might as well be hieroglyphics.

But hey. You’re not exactly picky. If it even sort of works, you’ll consider it a win.

You set the thing down on your cluttered desk, your textbooks and half-empty coffee mugs crowding around it like uninterested spectators. You eye it suspiciously, feeling a knot of dread and hope twisting inside your gut. With a deep breath, you flip the power switch.

The moment it buzzes to life, the noise assaults you. It’s deafening—a harsh, unholy symphony of blender blades whirring, a swarm of angry bees trapped in a tin can, and the relentless pounding of a jackhammer. The vibrations shake through your fingers, the entire device thrumming so violently it nearly slips from your grasp.

A sharp jolt shoots up your arm, electric and raw, making you flinch and squirm. Instead of soothing your knotted muscles, it feels like a tiny electric beast gnawing at your nerves, sharp teeth sinking into every fiber of your being.

You grit your teeth, willing yourself to tough it out. “Okay, maybe it just needs to warm up,” you mutter, voice tight with skepticism.

You're on your last brain cell. Maybe even past that—this is ghost-of-a-brain-cell territory now. Finals have turned your spine into a Jenga tower of regret and muscle knots, and if one more roommate belts out Celine Dion at 1 a.m., you will commit karaoke-related crimes.

Which is why you're now lying belly-down on your bed, propped up by a questionable number of pillows, trying to angle a sketchy "miracle massage gun" at your lower back like some desperate gremlin. You’re already regretting the purchase, but your spine makes a noise like a crumpling soda can every time you move, so here you are.

The thing groans to life with the sound of a malfunctioning blender and the subtle grace of a jackhammer. It's vibrating so violently your whole arm jiggles. "Okay, calm down," you mutter, aiming it at the middle of your back.

It makes contact.

And then you—God help you—moan.

Loudly.

Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, completely mortified. "No. Absolutely not. Nope."

You fumble with the switch, but the thing won’t turn off. It’s buzzing like it’s possessed, hopping in your grip like a deranged robot chihuahua, and you have to wrestle it to keep it from drilling a hole into your hip.

"This is not tension relief!" you shriek, flinging it away from you like it’s cursed—which, honestly, at this point? Would track.

With a theatrical WHAM, you hurl the massage gun against your bedroom wall, expecting a satisfying crack or snap. Instead, a low hum fills the air, growing louder and deeper, vibrating through the plaster like a pulse.

The thing glows—first a faint shimmer, then a dazzling, blinding light that floods the room. The massage gun fractures into a swirl of radiant fragments, spinning and twisting, each shard catching the light like stars caught in a tempest.

You stand up and grab the box from the desk in an attempt to hide.

But then—

You stare.

Your brain is still buffering, absolutely refusing to comprehend what your eyes are seeing: the broken remains of the bizarre massage gun now completely gone, replaced by a man standing in the middle of your bedroom like a storm dressed in skin.

A very naked man.

And not just any man. He looks like a painting that came to life and decided to ruin yours. Every line of his body is sharp and divine, sculpted like a cruel deity carved from obsidian and arrogance. Broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, cords of muscle shifting smoothly under pale, flawless skin. Dark markings twist and slither across his body in hypnotic patterns, wrapping around his arms, slicing down his chest, disappearing along the deep V of his hips.

You blink.

Then blink again.

“I’m hallucinating,” you whisper, voice dry, eyes wide as dinner plates. “This is a stress-induced hallucination.”

He tilts his head, smirking like the cat that not only ate the canary, but seduced it first.

“Cute,” his voice rich and warm and laced with something ancient. “Is that what you humans tell yourselves now? Must be finals week.”

You’re still frozen in place, backed against your desk like it might absorb you if you wish hard enough. Your gaze drops— obviously against your will—and there it is: the thick, heavy curve of him hanging between his thighs, long and shameless, already semi-hard and stirring slowly to life.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, panicking quietly, brain spiraling. “You’re naked. There’s a naked hallucination in my room. I need sleep. I need a priest. I need a psych eval.”

He laughs—actually laughs—a low, velvety sound that curls around your spine and pulls tight. He steps forward and you instinctively back up, hitting the desk harder this time.

“You’re not dreaming, little thing,” he murmurs, crimson eyes gleaming. “You summoned me. Or maybe it was more of a... release.” His gaze lowers, flicking to your parted lips, your chest rising with each ragged breath. “And you seemed so eager to throw me around.”

You gape at him, mouth dry, heart hammering. “You were a massage gun.”

Another step. He’s close enough now that the heat from his body wraps around you like a blanket made of sin. “Mmm. You were grinding on me like one, weren’t you?” he purrs, voice dipping low. “Maybe I liked it. Maybe that’s what woke me up.”

You open your mouth to protest but his hand suddenly lifts, two fingers catching your chin and tilting your face toward him. His touch is warm, too warm. Not human. Not safe.

But god, your knees nearly give out.

“You threw me,” he repeats, smirking. “Do you know what happens to girls who try to manhandle a curse?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t know if it’s fear or something much worse. Much more dangerous.

“I—I didn’t know you were cursed,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees, voice dark and pleased. “But you do now.”

And then he brings your hand to him. Presses it low. Makes you feel exactly what kind of monster you’ve just unleashed.

Your fingers curl instinctively, brushing against hot, velvet skin stretched over iron. You gasp, the sensation is jarring, electric, far too real to belong to a hallucination. He's thick, heavy, growing impossibly harder beneath your touch, and the pulse of heat radiating from him is unmistakable. Not imagined. Not a dream.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice curling like smoke around your spine. His fingers are still under your chin, tilting your face up, eyes gleaming like molten garnet. “Still think you’re imagining me, sweetheart?”

You try to pull your hand back, but he holds it there, firm, not painful—just enough to remind you who's in control now.

"I—" you start, but the words dissolve when he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"Shhh. Let me show you just how real I am."

The moment stretches, impossibly tense— and then he kisses you. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kisses like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. His mouth claims yours, demanding, coaxing, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he already knows every secret you’ve never told, dragging a desperate moan from your chest before you can stop it.

You don’t remember your legs wrapping around his waist. You don’t remember how he carried you, how the world blurred— just that suddenly your back hits the mattress and he’s above you, caging you in with his body, heat radiating off him like a fever.

"You're soaked already," he growls against your neck, one hand sliding down between your thighs. His fingers drag up the inside of your thigh until they press against the damp heat waiting for him. He groans darkly, almost reverent. "And I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You’re squirming, panting, caught somewhere between protest and begging, but his touch is relentless, rubbing, circling, coaxing your body into betraying every ounce of logic left in you.

He moves lower, eyes never leaving yours as his mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, over your chest. Every kiss is hot and slow and just shy of cruel, lips brushing, teeth grazing—enough to make your back arch, to make you whimper his name even though you haven't said it aloud.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin, licking a stripe over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. His fingers slide lower, slipping between your folds, rubbing slow circles that make your hips roll against his palm without permission.

"You're going to take me so well," he says, voice dropping like a stone into your stomach. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just enough to make your thighs shake around him.

“Ready?” he asks, tone mocking, almost smug,  but his gaze flickers with something deeper. A hunger you’ve never seen before. A need barely leashed.

Your breath catches. “Yes,” you whisper, not even recognizing your own voice.

And then he pushes in.

He pushes in slowly—agonizingly slow���like he wants you to feel every inch, every stretch, every second of what you’ve just allowed into your bed. Your body yields, tight and fluttering around him, and he groans low in his throat, head dropping for a moment like he’s savoring the moment as much as you’re unraveling beneath it.

You gasp, hands fisting in the sheets, thighs trembling as he sinks deeper. The sensation is overwhelming, hot, full, an exquisite pressure that makes your toes curl. It’s too much, and not enough. You barely recognize the sound that leaves your mouth—half-moan, half-shock—as he bottoms out, filling you completely, the curve of his hips pressing against yours.

"Look at you,” he growls against your throat, breath hot. “Stretching so sweet around me... all for a cursed little relic you tried to throw against the wall.”

His words make your skin prickle, heat pooling low in your stomach like wildfire. He rolls his hips once—just once—and your back arches off the bed like you’ve been struck by lightning.

He finds a rhythm next, slow at first, teasing, dragging his length out before driving back in with a smooth, devastating thrust. Your breath stutters with every movement. He watches you like a man possessed, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every twitch, every shudder, every quiet, desperate sound you make.

"You keep clenching like that," he warns, voice gravel-thick with restraint, "and this isn't going to be gentle for long."

You don’t reply. Can’t. All you can do is move with him, meet each thrust with rising need, fingers clawing at his back, at his arms— anywhere you can reach. His muscles ripple under your touch, hard and warm, tattooed with markings that pulse faintly with each deep, rhythmic snap of his hips.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding that aching spot between your thighs with maddening precision. He circles it with calculated, possessive attention, pushing you higher, closer, unraveling you with expert ease.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You’re already there—your body taut, trembling, slick with sweat, the pressure building impossibly fast. Your breath hitches once, then breaks completely as your climax crashes over you in a wave of heat and sensation that leaves you trembling.

He doesn’t stop, not immediately. He rides you through it, your name low and filthy on his tongue, hips still working until he groans deep and curses into your skin, finally following you over the edge with a growl like thunder.

He doesn’t stop at one climax. Not even close.

You lie beneath him, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like a storm surge. Your hips twitch involuntarily, still echoing with tremors you didn’t know your body could hold. The aftershocks ripple through you, hot and raw, and just when you think you might finally find a moment of peace, he leans down—not with tenderness, but with a slow, deliberate possessiveness that makes your skin prickle.

His mouth presses against your throat, lips grazing over the delicate pulse point with a weight that demands your attention. It’s not a kiss, it’s a claim, slow, knowing, marking. His teeth trail along your skin like a predator savoring his prize, and the slight scrape makes you shiver in spite of yourself.

“You break that easily?” His voice is a low murmur, thick with amused contempt as he nips at the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Tsk. I thought you had more bite.”

You manage a sound somewhere between a breathless laugh and a trembling whimper—part defiance, part surrender. Before you can fully gather yourself, his hands are already sliding beneath your thighs, lifting you up with effortless strength. The shift in angle is immediate, deeper, sharper, like a secret key turning in a lock you didn’t know existed. The sensation settles deep in your bones, in the arch of your back, in the trembling of your legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

His pace slows. Not gentle— no. Deliberate, calculated. Every movement measured, like he’s testing the limits you didn’t realize you had. Each thrust carves itself inside you, claiming space, staking a territory you never agreed to give but now can’t imagine ever reclaiming.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, his tone sharp when you begin to let your head fall back, overwhelmed. One hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his, demanding submission as his hips roll in with purpose. “I want to see the exact moment you come undone again.”

And come undone you do. Harder this time. The pleasure crashes through your body like a tidal wave—your spine arches instinctively, fingers digging into his shoulders with desperate claws, your mouth parting, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry. The crescendo builds and breaks over and over, unstoppable, consuming.

His groan vibrates deep and guttural, a sound that seems to reverberate from his very core, reserved just for you, for this. You tighten instinctively around him, and he grips you harder—a low, rumbling growl escaping him, thick with possession and hunger.

But he’s far from finished.

In one fluid, seamless motion, he pulls out, flips you over onto your stomach, and drags your hips back toward him. His chest presses flush against your spine, breath hot along your neck.

You yelp—or maybe it’s a moan—lost in the sudden shift. Then he slides back in from behind, burying himself so deep you feel every inch with a raw, exquisite sting. This new angle is merciless, devastating in its precision. Each thrust drives into you, hitting some hidden place so perfect it steals the air from your lungs and sends your thoughts scattering into a white-hot blur of sensation.

He growls something filthy into the shell of your ear, voice rough and demanding, but your mind is already too tangled in heat and need to catch the words.

His grip tightens around your hips, anchoring you firmly to the mattress as your legs tremble uncontrollably beneath him. You dribble sweat and breath into the sheets, utterly broken, like every defense you thought you had has crumbled under his touch.

Then, without warning, he shifts again.

You don’t know how he does it, some impossible feat of strength and precision, but suddenly your knees are pulled up, pressed tight to your chest, and his body folds over yours like a dark, unyielding weight. He holds you open, deep, utterly locked inside you.

His thrusts now are brutal, surgical in their intent, each one angled perfectly to find that one soft, perfect spot that makes your fingers dig into his back and your throat catch on choked sobs of desperate pleasure.

He is everywhere—in your head, beneath your skin, beating like a second pulse inside your chest.

And through it all, he watches you.

Smirking.

Growling praise and filthy words in the same breath.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice dropping just low enough to make your skin crawl. “Look at you… ruined for anyone else.”

You nod, or maybe you whimper, the distinction no longer matters. You’ve let him in, utterly and hopelessly. Your mind is wiped clean by heat, need, and sensation, a blank canvas painted only with his touch.

You can’t remember who you were before this.

You can’t imagine who you’ll be after.

All you know, with every shuddering breath and every aching, trembling inch of your body, is this:

He owns you now.

Every inch.

Every breath.

And he’s not letting go.

The silence afterward is… thick. Not peaceful. Not quite comfortable.

Just heavy.

Your chest heaves, skin slick with sweat and barely cooling in the still air of your bedroom. The ceiling looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, but you feel like you’ve been flipped inside out, turned into someone else entirely. Someone who just had mind-shattering, leg-shaking sex with an ancient cursed being who was, until recently, a defective massage gun.

You lie there, dazed and spread across your sheets like a crime scene, limbs tangled and useless. He’s still above you, propped on one elbow, watching you like he’s not even winded.

Of course he isn’t.

You glance at him, regrettably, and immediately regret that too. Because he’s smirking again, lazily, like he just took your soul and is wondering what’s for dessert.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, dragging a pillow over your face.

“Like what?” he says, feigning innocence in a voice that could cut diamonds.

“Like you knew that would happen.”

He chuckles—a low, dangerous sound—and reaches over to casually tug the pillow off your face, pinning you with those molten crimson eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart. I did know. The moment you straddled that poor little machine and started whimpering? I knew exactly what you needed.”

You gape. “I wasn’t—! That thing was attacking my spine!”

“Sure it was,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle slowly down your collarbone. “But you didn’t stop. Not even when it was vibrating like a demon in heat.”

You let out a strangled groan and cover your face again. “I can’t believe I’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re not haunted.”

Pause.

“You’re owned.”

Your hand slides down your face slowly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “You activated a cursed object using body heat, desperate frustration, and what I’d generously call light dry humping. The contract is sealed.”

You sit up a little too fast. “There’s a contract?!”

His grin widens, wicked. “Unwritten. Intimate. Binding.”

“Binding my ass—”

“Oh, I did.” He glances at your hips, then meets your gaze again with a sinful smile. “Thoroughly.”

You’re torn between smacking him and pulling him back down for round two.

Instead, you sigh and flop back down onto the mattress, one arm flung across your eyes.

“…So what now?” you mumble. “You live in my room and I pretend you’re not a walking red flag with tattoos and attitude?”

He stretches like a lion, clearly pleased. “Darling, I am the red flag. But lucky for you…” He leans in, lips brushing your temple, voice a low promise.

“You’ve already surrendered.”

Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with the fact that, for better or worse, your life just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @strangergraphics-archive ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[k1ngpin42]

POV: 𝘼𝙗𝙗𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙙𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧r- (mini fic)

Warnings: Dating, public 18+, dominant Abby, fingering

You, Abby, Mel, Manny and Whitney are sitting at a table in the WLF base. You and Abby aren’t allowed to be paired together on patrols anymore after Mel snitched about the time she caught you two fucking while on duty. To be fair, though, the door of the room you two were in had been locked from the outside, it wasn’t your fault Mel didn’t knock. 

Anyway, not being able to see her throughout the day was fucking with you. Images of what you two would do the night and morning before you’d go on patrol, things you two used to do at any available moment on away missions. Against the wall when the other soldiers turned their back, on the floor, against an old car,  on the table where you and the others would plan routes around seraphite camps, one time you even fucked while in a room full of clickers. (It was the most terrifying orgasm you had ever experienced if you’re being honest with yourself. Still amazing though.)

She sits down and the tension is immediate, you’d let her take you right here and now if she asked.

“Hey love, how were your assignments today?” She asks. Fuck. You didn’t know what was up with you today cause you were fucking wet at the site of her.

“What? Oh, yeah, it was alright…” You say, eyes scanning her body. You hear the others talk indistinctly and your gaze immediately drops to her hands.

“Did you really have to invite the game nerd?” You hear Mel whisper. You roll your eyes.

“Whitney’s my friend, Mel, don’t be a dick.” You tell her bluntly, and Whitney looks up at this. Mel looks at her with a guilty expression.

“Whitney I didn’t mean….”

“Oh it’s okay Mel. I can just sit by myself like I usually do.”

“Nonsense, you’re with us.” Manny reassures.

Once this drama clears up, Abby and Mel start telling the others stories about their mission today. Various jokes and exaggerations. None of this was relevant to you, though, cause for the love of everything holy, you couldn’t focus.

You watched as she enhanced her story with hand movements, her laugh was a melody in your ears, her voice a chorus. The veins on her hands were still prominent, she must have had to beat up some form of enemy, usually runners. Or maybe she had been lifting something heavy.

A smile smile pressed your lips at the thought of that. The thought of her big arms straining, she would groan slightly before the metal crate behind a door would move and she’d let out another satisfied sigh. Fuck. Those arms, those hands, you needed them inside you, on you, you didn’t care which. 

“He grabs the EMPTY gun and points it at the woman. She’s got a fuckin club or something and he says….well, something in Spanish.” Abby explains to the group who have been intently listening, making you feel slightly bad for zoning out.

“ Estás acabado, cabron. You are finished, asshole.” 

“Haha…nice.” Abby replies, taking a bite of her food. She looks over at you, who is still too focused on the way the vein on her right hand is more prominent than on her left. When she notices this, she smirks. That same cocky fucking smirk when she knows that, once again, she’s read you like a book.

“Hey so, that new training manual you read, what was it again?” She asks you as she slips a hand on your thigh. You’re wearing baggy blue jeans and even with them on you feel heat trickle down your spine.

“Oh the one about long guns? Well…the main premise is about rounds.” She moves her hand so it’s cupping your cunt through the fabric. 

“I-“ You clear your throat. “Each gun has a unique gear that allows the rounds to move more fl-“ Abby cautiously unzips the jeans. “Fluidly.” You explain. She starts teasing your pussy with her index fingers and painting your clit with slick.

“Have you tested it out on a gun? The upgrade?” Abby asks, watching you with an amused expression as she increases the pace.

“Wh-at…oh um, yeah.” You stumble over your words.

“Ah well you can come improve my weapon, do you know how many times this gun has been stepped on? I’m surprised I can put new rounds in at all.” Manny laughs. Your eyelids flutter as she puts her two middle fingers inside you and circles your clit with her thumb. She does all this with her left hand, not even taking her eyes off of the group, she doesn’t have to. 

How does this not make her uncomfortable? How does the fact that our whole friend group will watch you cum work for her in any way?

“Only if you gi-mm~” You stifle your moan with your hand.

“You okay?” Mel asks you. You nod.

“Just tired, I was gonna say, only if you give me a….ah~ a good gun too since he always hogs them all.”

“I do not.” He laughs. 

Fuck, Abby’s hands rubbing you feels fucking insatiable but you need to be alone with her, you can’t stand how embarrassing this feels. You want her to fuck you till you can’t breathe, not tease you in front of people you have to interact with on the regular.

“I might go to bed early.” You say, attempting to push Abbys hands away. She grabs your arm tightly and gives you a warning look.

“Aw don’t be silly, we’ll go when you’re finished.” She pauses. “…Eating.” Abby adds, increasing her pace as well as the pressure on your clit. Fuck, you could scream at how good it feels. You want to scream. 

“Who were you with today baby?” Abby asks. Fuck you could kick her right now. She’s clearly doing this on purpose to hear you make a fool of yourself in front of her your friends. It won’t work, you try to convince yourself.

“Um, I don’t know, it was me, two guys and a girl. The girl was dating one of the guys so me and the other guy did most of the patrolling while they probably, I don’t even know, did each other or something.” You explain, enjoying the feeling of her thick, warm fingers. Fuuuuuuck.

Mel looked guilty again. She always did, maybe this is just her resting face?

“I’m sorry that you and Abby can’t go on patrols anymore.” Mel utters, quietly. You roll your eyes but before you can even think to be annoyed at her, Abby pushes just the right place and you let out a gush of satisfied air.

“Agh~ all good.” You say, keeping your composure fairly well. Abby rewards this by easing up slightly and you instinctively buck your hips forward. 

“Do you prefer hot places or cold?” Abby asked, and at this point you’re forcing your eyes open. 

“What?” You ask, bitterly. Fuck you’re painfully close, you’re so gonna hit her when this is over. 

“Abby…” You whisper to her, her smirk widens, cocky prick.

“Did you say something baby?” You sigh and poke at some of the food on your plate. 

“Hot. I don’t like the cold or the rain, snow’s the only…f….um, exception.” You breathe out. Abby can tell by the look on your face that you’re cumming and she tilts her head, admiring you.

“I prefer the heat too. It’s always hot in Mexico.” Manny says, his voice just a murmer as you see colours through your eyelids. Holy fuck, you’d give anything to let out a loud moan right now. 

“I’m actually pretty tired too, I think we’re gonna turn in early.” Abby explains to the others. Mel nods and Manny looks mildly disappointed, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Have a good night.” Whitney says with a warm smile. You nod and Abby helps pull you up. You bite back a wince at how sensitive it feels to have your legs together and you hurry with Abby out of the hall.

“Abigail fucking Anderson.” You warn, simply. She smiles, kissing you playfully on the cheek.

“Yeah?” She asks. You punch her arm lightly. 

“Do you like making a fool of me? All our friends saw-“

“Did you like it?” She asks, that seductive and almost arrogant smirk still evident on her pretty fucking face. You roll your eyes. She kisses your neck and leans in to your ear.

“I bet you were thinking about it. My hands, my fingers, I was just giving you what you want.” 

“Yeah but…I mean at dinner? That’s just torture.” 

“Aw.” She says with fake sympathy. “Want me to make it up to you?”

°..·°¯°·._.· 🎀 >.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°🎀 >-.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯

[sightseertrespasser]

White Out

Today’s story is brought to you by several days of accumulated comment exchanges led by @keferon spawner of intriguing AU’s.

In a rare change of events, I’m actually going try (try) to preemptively outline how many chapters a story will be in advance.

The story will be four parts total and are named below:

White Out

White Knuckle

White Elephant

White Hat

Look up tf portal au to see other amazing creators taking this concept and running with it.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Slower.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Jazz was breathing manually, which had to be one of the absolute stupidest ways the cons have ever tried to kill him.

He much preferred their earlier stuff. Knives instead of needles, long winded monologues where they reveal their whole plan and how they’re going to kill you because they really do believe that they’re going to kill you.

The good stuff. Informative. Classic.

Not whatever shit one of Soundwaves little punks managed to stick him with.

Jazz blinked rapidly as he felt his eyes going dry from staring at the same crack in the wall for the last fuck knows how long.

He couldn’t turn his head without his vision lagging behind, and the risk of dizziness was too great when he’d just managed to find a hiding spot before the drug really kicked in.

It got worse in waves but he was managing to ride them out. Whenever he had a moment of clarity he’d sip more water and whenever the effects got worse he’d stare straight ahead and focus on not having a panic attack.

At the peak of each wave, Jazz could do exactly one thing at a time. Sometimes it was rubbing his thumb in circles against the concrete to ground himself. Sometimes it was wiping the sweat from his cold neck. Currently, it was breathing manually.

Because for some god fucked reason, he was pretty sure his brain couldn’t do that on its own right now and he’d actually suffocate if he stopped.

His breathing hitched, then manually smoothed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His fingers itched where he couldn’t move them. Covered in moon dust he’d been trying to paint onto the floor since he’d escaped. One of the few functional portal guns hummed uselessly on his lap.

Orange. It’s the orange one I need to fire.

Back home, Prowl had its twin, an inactive blue portal waiting for him. Prowl always had a door back home for him.

Now if I could just move enough to open it.

The portal guns were pretty fuckin amazing in Jazz’s opinion, and after the moon incident it became pretty clear that the things range was Yes. The only real limitation was the conductive surface needed to hold a portal.

The smeared white surface on the floor was about half the size he needed.

The tight empty feeling of not enough air snapped his brain back to the present.

In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

After several indeterminate measures of time, Jazz tested his current level of capability by changing the direction of his vision.

He got his head to turn far enough down that he could see the white patch on the floor, so it was mostly in his peripheral. But at least he was kinda looking at it.

He felt well enough to start petting the concrete again. The motion brought to mind the analogy of petting his own brain like some kind of nervous animal to keep it from jumping away.

Once his automatic breathing kicked back in, Jazz turned onto his knees achingly slow. The world wobbling to catch up with his glacial movements.

Just a little longer and he could finish the portal base.

Boots scraped the floor above him, painfully sharp in his ears. “In his current state he can’t have gotten far. If he is gone we’ll just have to move up the time table on project White Out. Keep looking.”

Or now.

Now is fine.

Jazz heaved himself over the white blank mural and started to paint his escape. The shot of adrenaline from hearing the Decepticons enter the fire escape stairwell made his heart stutter over itself in a way that put a great big dark spot in the center of his vision.

I need to get back. I need to finish this and fire the portal to get back home.

Completing the portal is the fastest way inside the Autobot base.

Blinking away the darkness, Jazz moved unconsciously, wiping broad even strokes across the ground. Sweat dripped down his nose. His visor growing cloudy from his steaming breath rising through the freezing air.

Footfalls.

A shout.

And then a gun fired.

—————

Prowl prowled.

He certainly wasn’t pacing. It just so happened that the terminal on one side of the chamber was .0052% faster in sending signals to the solar arrays than the terminal on the other side that streamed camera feed from the west wing with .099% less static.

Therefore, it was perfectly rational for Prowl to stalk back and forth between the two.

And the steady blue glow of the unconnected portal in the center of the chamber was purely circumstantial in its location at the halfway point between those terminals.

He would not look at it.

He would not sit and stare like some forlorn puppy or a sailors wife taking vigil in her bay facing window.

He had a job to do.

Ratchet was with an away team gathering medical supplies. After last time with the twins raiding a veterinary office, it was deemed that expert supervision was worth the risk to bring back the correct supplies.

There was an unfortunate limit to what Prowl could create. He had vast stores of many kinds of chemicals and base elements, but the supply wasn’t infinite. Everything he gave was something he’d never get back.

Chip chip chipping away at the facility, every disaster made him just a little bit smaller.

As he amputated and recycled pieces of himself too damaged to repair, Prowl became intimately acquainted with the looming concept of entropy.

The Autobots were questionable company at times, but there was a hidden value in the ways they staved off that rotting entropy. Both of body and mind.

Symbiosis: (noun)

1. the living together in more or less intimate association or close union of two dissimilar organisms (as in parasitism or commensalism)

2. a cooperative relationship (as between two persons or groups)

Prowl gave them protection, food and warmth.

The Autobots brought him supplemental salvage, entertainment and.. autonomy.

At least, one member did.

He glanced at the static oval of blue.

Prowl had a theory. A completely implausible unscientific theory which he could test, however that would mean considering something no better than a superstition as a serious intellectual phenomenon.

The second Prowl left this room, Jazz would return.

He didn’t need to leave. He really only moved his avatar between the terminals of his central sanctum. He technically didn’t even need to do that. Manual inputs were far slower than simply commanding what needed to be done internally.

Prowl just typed out of habit.

He was staring at the portal again.

Sighing, Prowl looked up where Elita was to discuss her observations of the exterior of his facility in “person.” Finding her on the way back from the roof, Prowl raised his crane into the ceiling of his chamber to meet Elita on the upper floors.

The portal flickered to life.

Ecstatic rage and vindication were completely blown from Prowls processor as he watched Jazz hit the ground so hard he bounced.

Shouting voices carried through the tunnel in reality and Prowl descended.

He was not usually in the habit of leaving the lights on when working alone, so when the shabbily dressed Decepticons approached the ever shifting orange hole punched through space, all they could see was Jazz’s limp form surrounded by darkness.

Then red.

Body like a claw at the end of a mechanical arm, Prowl was wrapped around the spy instantaneously. He snapped up his gaze to the would be kidnappers just beyond the portal. One almost raised a gun on instinct before their more observant cohort yanked them into a full fledged retreat.

The look on Prowls face promised the kind of death that could only be described by a science fiction author dropping acid in the eighties.

A moment later and Prowl disabled the portal while bringing on the lights. He sent a prerecorded facility wide intercom message politely demanding for [medical trained personnel] to immediately report to [central chamber].

Prowl himself, meanwhile, frantically began searching his information banks on everything pertaining to emergency care.

Bombshell had done quite a number on Prowls data banks, deleting scores of “useless” information to free up additional memory and processing power. The first category to go was anything pertaining to keeping humans alive. It wasn’t exactly a priority to Prowl at the time, so he’d not bothered making backups beforehand.

Cursing quietly, Prowl had to focus a camera on a first aid guidelines poster in an employee break room several floors down instead.

1. Do not move unless the environment is dangerous.

Jazz is in the safest possible location.

2. Call for help.

Done.

3. Check subject for mutant mantis men bites or a wire tap.

What? Fucking Tarantulas.

4. Check subject for responsiveness.

“Jazz?” Prowl gently laid his hands on the human. He couldn’t feel temperature or really even texture but he could clearly see how soaked Jazz’s shirt was beneath the collar of his coat.

“Jazz are you alright?” He was breathing loudly, but didn’t sound like his airways were blocked.

“Hengh.” Jazz moved to roll onto his back and Prowl helped him.

He tried to speak again, “Heeeey Prowle- Pow-wer, oh WOW talk- talk-‘King is weird right now.”

The core of the facility stared down at him. Prowl lifted Jazz’s visor to better see his eyes and Jazz just giggled.

A beat passed, “Your pupils are massive. What happened? Were you drugged?!”

“Feels like it!” Now that he wasn’t trapped in an enemy base, Jazz relaxed considerably and seemed content to become an unhelpful puddle.

Before Prowl could tear out his technically real, technically not hair, Orion and Elita ran into the chamber.

“Buddies!” Cheered the mess on the floor.

“Jazz! You’re okay!” Orion beamed down.

Prowl cut off their reunion with a number of floor panels pulling aside to bring up a fully stocked medical suite.

“Jazz is not okay he has been poisoned with an unknown substance, now would one of you do something?!”

After some scrambling and unnecessary apologies, Jazz was lifted onto the gurney and about half a dozen different monitoring devices were set up.

Prowl was receiving data. He was receiving data that he couldn’t interpret because fucking BOMBSHELL deleted over half of his medical files, and Prowl didn’t have anything else to compare what he was seeing with.

He’d schedule full depth medical screenings with every Autobot available once Ratchet returned. Without a proper baseline Prowl was useless in this department.

Speaking of Ratchet, Elita called over from one of the terminals, “We got Ratchet on the line but the connection is fuzzy. Jazz, how’d you get poisoned?”

“Mmm, stabbed.”

Somewhere deep down in the facilities inner workings, an old pipe burst like a blood vessel.

“WHERE?!” Three voices simultaneously called out.

“Leggy.” Burbled Jazz, who was now wiggling the leg in question with no signs of stopping.

Bemused, confused and deeply entertained, Jazz just snorted when Orion grappled his leg like a small alligator.

A crackling voice came over the terminal, Ratchets frowning mug appearing on the screen, “-leave you idiots alone for two days and the whole damn-“

“Ratchet, I’m sending along the data we’ve acquired so far. None of Jazz’s organs appear to be failing yet but I’ve already come up with a list of possible donors. If we work quickly then-“

Ratchet raised a hand, scolding through the screen, “Hold it HOLD IT! Absolutely NO organ removal without me being the one doing it! Now everyone shut it while I read this. Prowl, give me a couple clear photos of Jazz if you want to be useful.”

The facility core quickly did so snapping pictures of the small puncture wound on Jazz’s leg as well as some wider shots of his overall state.

Ratchet mumbled to himself, barely coming over the microphone, “Blood sugar is a little low, temps running high, there’s signs of an adrenaline spike which makes sense, and a foreign chemical signature of..”

Ratchet guffawed, then broke into a full belly laugh.

Never in any of their individual lives have they ever heard Ratchet laugh at a medical report.

Shaken slightly out of his stupor, Jazz worriedly looked over to the screen and made a noise that was vaguely interrogative and lacked any consonants.

Getting a hold of himself, Ratchet addressed his patient, “Hey kid? Were the cons throwing a party?”

Jazz made another noise that was more confused than concerned. Still without consonants.

Either because of lag or a failing poker face, Ratchets face twitched a smile. “Because you’ve got about two hundred milligrams of THC in your system.”

—————

Jazz felt floaty.

And bored.

Once word got out that Jazz was back, a cause for celebration, and that he was high as fuck, a cause for significantly more childish celebration, social hour began and didn’t stop til Prowl plucked Jazz from the party claw machine style.

The general consensus was that the Cons had definitely intended to kidnap Jazz like they had Mirage. Their choice of drug and the state of the equipment Prowl saw those goons carrying implied the Decepticons were salvaging whatever they could find. They wanted him alive, so they improvised something that would fuck him up but not kill him.

Lucky Jazz.

Injections worked differently from smoking or edibles, so the former party ambulance took an “educated” guess at when it’d wear off and rounded that up by another twelve hours to be safe. He also talked Jazz through how best to ride it out, which Jazz was so using for blackmail material later on.

Interrogating the brick wall of a doctor on his adventurous youth would have to wait though, as he and a few other autobots were still a days travel away.

More concerningly, Ratchet also flagged a couple things that implied Jazz might have caught a cold on top of getting Turbo High, so current orders were to eat, drink and rest.

While everyone was around, he played up the goofy character people expected when they thought of someone being high as balls and Jazz didn’t let up the whole afternoon. He got quite the applause.

That said, his head hurt. He felt cold and exhausted. And he technically hadn’t gotten a chance to actually rest since he first got shanked. But he could’ve kept going. This was the most fun the Autobots had had in a while and he didn’t have the heart to turn them away.

Prowl? Not so much.

He pretty much went limp as a kitten when Prowl swiped him and spent the last of his energy blowing kisses and waving goodbye while Prowl scolded the party over letting him actually rest. Soon enough, Jazz was deposited into his personal room within the facility and left with a little peace and quiet.

A lot of peace and quiet.

Maybe somewhat too much peace and quiet actually.

Sensory overload straight into total silence wasn’t exactly playing nice on his fuzzy brain. So while Jazz focused once more on breathing at a steady pace, he turned to the camera and crooked his fingers in a “C’mere.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The sharp click of panels in the ceiling indicated Jazz was about to get something much more entertaining to do than breathe.

“Hellooo French fries from the skies.” Jazz sang.

Suppressing a smile, Prowl lowered to his bedside.

“How are you feeling?”

Flopping his head back, Jazz self evaluated, “Tired, bored, thirsty, dizzy and did I mention bored?”

Turns out getting Weed Wacked meant baby sitting duty, except instead of teaching toddlers swear words, Jazz was baby sitting his own brain without pay. And he already knew all his own swear words. Scammed.

“Soup?” Prowl offered.

“Ye.”

A few moments later the greatest invention known to man was delivered.

The two made small talk as Jazz ate, Prowl updating him on what gossip he’d missed and Jazz taking notes. When the walls have literal ears there were certain benefits to befriending its mouth piece.

Eventually Jazz was warm and satiated, eyelids getting droopy.

Well almost satiated, he always was a sucker for desert. He put on his best sultry look which was probably comparable to a half baked bread loaf that was hanging partway off the counter.

Jazz draped himself forward, “Kiss?”

Prowl just laughed once and met him in the middle.

They both knew kissing didn’t physically feel like anything to Prowl, but there was still the emotional feedback that made him run a little warmer beneath the shell. Heck, Prowl offered to give affection about as often as Jazz requested it.

And Prowl was nothing if not indulgent.

Besides, Jazz had learned awhile ago what did make him happy and exploited the hell out of it. The closest thing Prowl experienced to a dopamine hit was when someone did well in completing a test chamber, so Jazz was a regular subject in those spaces.

Jazz did once suggest he could solve a rubix cube while they were making out, however this proved to be logistically challenging.

What was much easier at the moment was to cup his hand around the back of Prowls neck and pull him that much closer.

This near, Jazz could peek and see what Prowl looked with his eyes closed. He smiled into the kiss.

Tracing his fingertips along where the base of his skull would’ve been, Jazz caught the touch of a seam that trailed down the center of his neck and beyond.

He’d been inside there once. After shutting Prowl down and replacing the lost morality core, Jazz wouldn’t let anyone else touch him there.

He wanted to make sure that Prowl would stay Prowl no matter what anyone else tried to argue.

Crisply, Jazz could see the memory in his minds eye: smooth interlocking metal puzzle pieces that folded away with the right touch, compact switches like rows of pin heads, bundles of cabling so carefully spaced out.

He could imagine the feeling of clicking the access panel open and threading his fingers through the wires.

Grasping, then yanking-

“Woah.” Jazz suddenly stopped. Then pulled away completely.

His eyes were scrunched closed tight as he tried to push the mental image from his mind.

From some casual conversation with Prowl previously, Jazz knew, he knew that pulling the plug on Prowl was about as unpleasant an experience as it could get for the guy.

“Is everything alright? Did I do something?” Prowl still had a hand between Jazz’s shoulder blades, so even though he was asking, Prowl didn’t think he was what hurt Jazz.

Jazz scrubbed his face with one hand and waved him off with the other, “Yeah, yeah you’re fine. I think Aunt Mary the hit-man is coming to fuck with me one last time.”

“I see. Do you want me to try and reach Ratchet or anyone else?” Prowl spoke quietly, lightly leaning into his space.

Honestly, Jazz was feeling crummy in that way pre-illness usually did. However the mental image of hurting Prowl was still sharp in his mind and Prowls presence was making it hard to not dwell on. He pushed it away harder and felt a little cold sweat on his back.

“No, no I think I should just sleep this off. Come get me if anything crazy happens though yeah?” Jazz scooted down his bed a little further and got more comfortable.

Prowl lingered, but nodded, “Of course. I’m going to speak with Elita if you need me. She says there’s some concerning cloud cover incoming and wants to know how the facility will handle a white out.”

White Out caught in his mind. He hadn’t told anyone about what he’d heard right?

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He could think the words he wanted but the sound wasn’t forming. Or was it? Ratchet mentioned inner and outer monologues could get a little mixed up on high doses. Maybe he already said it at the party.

He was dropping quickly now, warm and fed and thoroughly exhausted. But he needed to..

He needed to..

“Snow is falling outside.” Prowl looked up through the ceiling into the sky beyond.

His bed was so unfairly soft.

Leaning over one last time, Prowl pulled the blanket a little further up Jazz’s shoulder as the human fought for consciousness.

Softly, in a voice that Jazz suspected Prowl didn’t think he could hear, he said, “I’m glad you came back.”

Jazz had no more voice, nor even a twitch to his fingers, so he put all his thoughts into his eyes and hoped that Prowl could read them.

Me too.

I love you.

I’m pretty sure the impending snow storm is another attempt to kill us all by the Decepticons but I am unfortunately too blasted to communicate that right now so please read the S.O.S. I am trying to blink at you ah fuck my eyes are closed.

Goodnight Prowl.

Goodbye Prowl.

———————————————————————

Tada!

It is so very late at night.

Take care everyone.

- SSTP

[athena-gundampla]

HG 1/144 Principality of Zeon Mass Production Surplus Side 6 Military Police Special Use Mobile Suit MS-06-SSP "Police Zaku"

The Police Zaku is here! This arrived a while back but I haven't had the chance to build and photograph it until just now. Just like how the HGWFM kits set a new standard for build quality, colour separation, and solid articulation, it looks like the HGGQX kits are creating a new standard for level of detail that can be crammed into a High Grade kit.

The Police Zaku is nominally GQuuuuuuX's artstyle for the standard Zaku II, , with extra waist armour, weaponry, and colour scheme added by the Side 6 Millitary Police. An 18 meter tall mech seems a little overkill for a militarised police force, which the manual's lore section cheekily acknowledges.

The colour separation is done nicely, although this isn't exactly a major feat when there are only really two main colours. There's some clever techniques when assembling the forearms to produce the alternating blue and grey colour, and the upper thighs go together in an impressive manner as well to recreate the shape of the propulsion fuel tanks and retaining frame while maintaining colour separation. The blue is a little lighter and more saturated than it appears on-screen, where it's a more navy blue colour, probably because the kit was designed prior to the show's finalisation so that it could release simultaneously.

I only added a little of detail via painting, including a nice vibrant red for the inside of all the thruster nozzles, and a little grey for the siren light stalks. There are quite a few marking stickers included in the kit to recreate white decals on the upper arms and shin pads, as well as the Side 6 Police insignia and some numerical markings.

The kit includes numerical markings for unit 0412 and 0418, as well as a few free digits for custom numbering. It feels like Bandai has improved the quality of their non-foil stickers significantly, as these went on over the curved surfaces surprisingly painlessly, especially for the shield. I was wary of this sticker in particular when the kit was released as the shield has a lot of ridges on it, but the sticker is easily bent into place almost like a waterslide decal, and everything stayed nicely in place.

I added a little bit of metallic weathering on all of the grey parts, as usual, and I also added some chrome under the connection point of the sirens, which were trans-red, although I don't think the shine quite comes through.

This kit includes a few extras, including the GQuuuuuuX version of the Zaku-II machine gun, which is a little bit chunkier and more greebled, although part of the design which was a set of open pipes has been filled in for structural support. There's also an electric baton that clips to the back of the small shield, and a heat hawk, which unfortunately doesn't really have anywhere it can be stowed away on the kit. The heat hawk's design is closer to the classic 1979 design, rather than the larger design included with the Gundam QuuuuuuX. Disappointingly, there's only a single open hand option, for the left hand, alongside the standard two closed hand options.

Like other classic HGUC Zaku designs, there's a little lever under the head that lets you reposition the monoeye, for some truly impressive side-eye.

I really do love this kit. It's a wonderful update to the Zaku-II design while still remaining faithful to its design aspects. It represents a direction for High Grade models and for unique mechanical design in general that I hope Bandai builds on in the future.

Unfortunately, this is a cop. So...

Can't wait for the Gelgoog and Red Gundam kits from this series!

[1-800-crscnt]

-a few hobby hcs i have for some corries, more under the cut-

Fox: may not have time for it, but likes to collect guns and sometimes customize them to increase their power/strangness. He gives some of them silly names, and doesn’t let anybody touch them unless it’s an emergency. Keeping this hobby is a bit anxiety-inducing, because a lot of the guns he collects are actually illegal to own and use, and with the customizations added on, non-illegal ones tend to become illegal. He also likes solving those giant puzzles that you’re supposed to do with a group of people but alone; unfortunately, he never has the time to actually complete any of them.

Thorn: likes to collect knives that he finds, but does let others use them and borrow them, and in rare cases, keep them. He also loves to study vehicles and learn everything about them, and will talk your ear off about his favorite models of the month. He doesn’t have the credits to, but he would love to start collecting miniature models of speeders and fighters. Imagine every Car Guy shoved into one body, and that’s basically him. Also, likes skating because it’s faster than walking, and makes him feel a little cooler and intimidating, but doesn’t realize he actually appears more approachable.

Stone: loves drawing/painting whenever he can, and keeps a little sketchbook that he gets very shy about showing to others. He tries to draw mainly people, but sometimes likes to draw random animals and plants he sees while off-planet. He also loves reading murder mystery and romance novels. Specifically, he’s listening to novels he’s downloaded while on duty. He’s not shy about the reading, but doesn’t really like talking about the books with just anybody. He likes reading aloud to brothers and asking them questions like a teacher would, though.

Thire: more of a thrill-seeker than usual by clone standards, so he has more risky hobbies, like crashing parties when he’s got free-time, street/sky racing with random people, stealing “probably won’t notice it’s missing for a while” things from people before returning it days later, and skating just like Thorn, but usually without any protection and in dangerous spots. Has gotten in trouble with this multiple times, and even after his promotion, still does it. If he was able, he would love to go surfing.

Hound: likes to run and people-watch a lot. Running feels very natural and it’s easy for him to slip into that trance-like state and just empty his mind of any overwhelming thoughts, which happens a lot since I also hc him to be force sensitive to the smallest degree. People-watching is another source of learning what is and isn’t appropriate/expected of him in a more general sense, and he’s also just a nosy people person, so he genuinely enjoys watching people interact with the world around them (and hopefully, with him).

Jek: won’t admit that it’s something he enjoys, but considers himself a professional gardener in training. Whenever he’s able, he likes to pick flowers and bring them back to Coruscant for his brothers to see, but struggles with keeping them alive for longer than a few days. Stone helps with sending him books about plant-care, but Jek has trouble remembering it all. He is aiming to grow a small patch of berry and rose bushes somewhere close to the Guard HQ, and frequently gets other clones to help him build, find manuals, soil, make a schedule for it, etc. After he’s reassigned, he no longer continues with this hobby, but regrets every plant he doesn’t try to sneak back onto ships.

Rys: is still trying to find hobbies that he likes and sticks to, but tends to find himself fixing things for his brothers and himself after his Rugosa mission. “Things” is very broad here, and can range from small scratches on armor, to broken datapads, to broken bones. The commanders are secretly considering him for medic training just in case they ever need him to be an official one, but it’s not likely. He also fixes less physical problems too, like soothing anxieties & conveniently remembering things others forgot, but this isn’t usually on purpose. He once fixed a marriage on accident by convincing the arguing spouses to jump someone who lied and robbed them, something other clones find hilarious. His “fixes” are not always the best solutions.

-Fox also skates, but does it out of wanting to connect more with his brothers and train others to do it. It gets expensive since isn’t essential and covered by the Republic or Kaminoans, so only a handful of clones under Thorn’s command actually get skates. They share them between each other, but of course, they won’t always want to-

[syrupfog]

Sanji doesn’t understand the point of humans, really. He knows that people love them, but… they’re just so FRAGILE. They break easily, hard to repair, and once their systems have stopped circulating, they just don’t turn back on. He doesn’t get the appeal.

He knows, has been informed, that he was born human. But it’s a ship of Theseus situation. He’s been long ago upgraded, doesn’t have those weaknesses he was born with. 

Hell, his siblings were incredibly powered up, for humans, and they were still easily disposed of.

Logically, loving a human just doesn’t make sense. They’re not REAL the way androids are real. Their consciousness doesn’t exist as soon as they’re powered down. There’s a liminal nothingness to that. Humans are like toys. Like starter beings.

He’s had all of those thoughts hundreds of times before, as he’s watched humans die in front of him. Watched his siblings as they perished by his own hand. This has been his Truth his whole life. Humans aren’t worth thinking about because they’re just not really REAL.

And of course, that’s why he’s questioning his own actions now. 

THIS human he’s seen around a few times, having washed up in a dingy little rowboat at the edge of town, telling the people something about how he’s been separated from his crew.

This human who has been working hard, exchanging manual labor for food while sleeping rough and making time to train with his ridiculous swords. Those are a weakness, at least consider guns, or fortified steel legs.

But this human, who’s been so confident he’ll be reunited with his crew, who’s been biding his time and training… Sanji had taken an interest in him. 

And then Sanji had watched him die. A freak accident with machinery he’d been tasked to repair in exchange for a meal.

Everyone in town knows of Sanji. And he knows they know, knows they think he’s a little alarming. But that’s fine. They’re human. 

However they perceive him, though, they don’t object when he swoops in and lifts up the green haired human, taking him away.

It’s not like he’s useful to them anyway anymore, he’s turned off and humans don’t turn back on. 

But Sanji… wants this one to. 

It’s ridiculous and maybe Sanji should upgrade his logic processing, but… he’s drawn to this one. Wants it back online.

His father had been a monster of a man, and the only one Sanji had taken true pleasure in turning off. But he’d kept his father’s workshops in working order to do his own repairs as necessary, and that comes in useful now. Sanji only knows living bodies for their food purposes.

He works and studies and experiments. He takes out his nightly recharging batteries and instead gets out his old charging cord so he doesn’t have to take breaks. He knows humans are quick to recycle after being turned off, even with the best precautions taken.

He doesn’t know why, but… he wants this. He’s drawn to the man. There’s an energy about him that Sanji doesn’t remember ever seeing before, and he wants it back. 

And after an intense amount of repairs and replacements and experimental flesh-and-metal welding…

He flips the switch. 

The man groans. 

He lifts a hand slowly to his face, squinting his eye at the light. Sanji hadn’t been able to save both of them. 

He sits up, blinking as he looks around. 

“Wh’ th’ fuck happened?” He mumbles.

“Hi,” says Sanji. “I’m Sanji. Your systems failed and turned off. I turned them back on.” 

The man looks down at himself. Sanji thinks he’s done a good job matching the spray paint to his skin tone. 

“Swords?” The man asks.

“In the other room,” Sanji says. “I wanted to check you were fully online before returning your things to you.” 

“Is that why I’m butt-ass naked?” The man asks, then shakes his head. “Whatever. Am I being held? Can I go?” 

Sanji blinks. “Of course you can go,” he says.

“But please let me feed you, first. Humans need sustenance.” 

The man frowns. “You not human or something?” He asks. “You don’t look like a fishman or mink.” 

“I’m an android,” says Sanji. 

“Well that’s a fucking note,” says the man. “I’m Zoro. Thanks for… fixing me, I guess.”

Sanji smiles. “I will take you to your clothes and then food,” he says. “There has been rumor your ‘crew’ as you called them is here, although I have not validated these claims. I have been busy.” 

Zoro grins, swinging his legs over the table and standing.

“Perfect,” he says. “I gotta get going, then.” 

Sandi frowns. “Wait,” he says. “You’re still newly upgraded. There might be bugs!” 

Sanji HATES bugs. 

“I’m fine,” Zoro says, then promptly stumbles. 

“Like that!” Sanji screeches. He’s had years, decades to work on his own tech.

“You need to be stress tested properly!” 

Zoro pinches the bridge of his nose and there’s the sound of metal groaning under his fingers. “Fine,” he says. “Then I guess you’re coming with me.” 

“Pardon?” asks Sanji. 

“Listen, Swirly,” Zoro says. “I have places to be and a future pirate king to serve. I don’t have time to be waiting around for hardware to fail so either you’re coming with me or I’m handing my doctor a computer repair manual.” 

Sanji groans. “…Fine,” he says. “I will feed you and then I will pack up. It will take two hours.”

“You have until Luffy shows up,” Zoro says. Then amends, “You have until Luffy has eaten everything in your kitchen.” 

Sanji doesn’t know this ‘Luffy’ but he takes that into his calculations. “Acceptable,” he says. “Let’s be off, then.”

And thus, the Straw Hats gain their cook, as Sanji makes it his life mission to keep his collection of humans as safe as possible. They’re so fragile, they break so easily. 

Although these ones do seem hardier than most.

[potatoparakeet]

Some of my meet the Robinsons headcanons 🫣 cause my head is full of em. A lot of these r kinda worldbuildy but some are Robinson family based!

-I'm a believer that Franny went to school for bio-engineering (and music ofc) and put all of that knowledge towards her frogs. Maybe she even had a successful lab of her own before finally succeeding with the band, and left it to conduct full time.

- I don't think Lazlos paint gun would shoot random art, but rather Lazlo would have to manually program a painting into it somehow, and trial-and-error test it until it looks perfect.

- Billies train system through the house is Uncle Joe's primary mode of transportation across the bigger stretches of the estate.

- Along w the hover-chairs, there's a Robinson brand of wheelchairs and crutches that can fold/unfold to travel through the travel tubes and be sensed by the bubbles!

- Robinson industries is obviously the top of the line when it comes to tech products, but there are also other companies that sell similar products. The Samsungs to Cornelius's Apple.

- Future City/Todayland is Not Named That. I don't have any better ideas but both of those ain't it

- Nonetheless I think it became the biggest city in the country just due to it being the first to take on Niels cityscaping inventions. It's kind of his personal playground in that sense

- In that breath I also think there's many places in the country that just Aren't that advanced. I imagine public transportation has majorly improved but in many cities life hasn't changed all too much.

- I think it'd be interesting for Robinson Industries to have people who just HATE the things they do. Look at those instant-buildings and tell me the construction working community didn't freak out.

- imo 2037 (from what we see) seems technologically advanced in the way that people would be able to return to art- but the transition period was definitely rough as people started losing jobs to Neils tech.

- I don't know if Niel would make many robots to be sold commercially- not with the problem of AI vs humans.

- In tiny text of a concept art in the art book you can read that Cornelius created "Robinson™ Blue/Green fuel cells" which are the "world's first renewable clean-burning fuel source" source.

- If we accept that as canon and assume all the new flying cars were fueled with this energy source, we can pretty much assume ground cars went extinct pretty quickly, unless other car manufacturers and gas companies were still allowed to produce.

- Probably by 2037 the use of gas has been banned, leaving only the souly electric ground cars, which probably weren't enough to run whole businesses on. With flying cars as the new norm, roads were likely torn up.

- I don't imagine the whole car switch thing went over well with the public either tbh. I would not be happy if Some Guy told me I couldn't buy gas anymore and had to take the airbus.

- I could have sworn it was canon that Niel had won at least one nobel peace award. Does anyone else remember that

[rainstormies]

(3) what remains

title: what remains

fandom: warfare

word count: 960

synopsis: an Iraqi med student is forced into a war she didn’t choose, and falls for the soldier who never meant to stay

The day had started too quiet. 

That kind of quiet always meant something bad was about to happen. Layla felt it in her spine. Even the dust in the air hung heavier, like the sky was holding its breath. 

The house groaned with movement upstairs. Boots on wood. Low voices. Clicks of gear. The American soldiers had made themselves at home in the upper floor of the neighbor’s house. Radios buzzed. Sometimes, laughter filtered down like ghosts through the ceiling. Layla didn’t understand how they could laugh here. 

In the cramped bedroom below, the air was stifling. Her mother had opened a window, but it barely helped. 

The little girl in the corner coughed again - dry, hard, and painful. 

Her name was Mina, the father had told her in a whisper last night. Mina, only five, with hollow cheeks and lips cracked from dehydration. The cough had started soft two days ago. Now it sounded like her lungs were being scraped raw. 

“She needs medicine,” Layla murmured, kneeling beside her. “Or she’ll get worse.”

The father just shook his head helplessly. 

Suddenly-

The whole house shook. 

It started with a high-pitched pop - sharp, like metal snapping - and then a concussive boom that rattled the lightbulbs and sent a cloud of dust raining from the ceiling. 

Samir screamed. 

Mina cried out in her sleep. 

The windows trembled in their frames, and somewhere upstairs, glass shattered. 

Layla hit the floor instinctively, covering Samir’s head with her arms, as the walls around them seemed to exhale. Her mother gasped beside her, pulling a blanket over Mina like it would stop whatever had just happened. 

Then came the shouting. 

Boots thundering across the ceiling. 

Doors slamming. 

A man screamed - brief and ragged. 

And then: gunfire. Controlled bursts. Loud, close. Too close. 

Layla looked up at the ceiling, her heart pounding. 

Of course people would know the Americans were here. If they hadn’t before, they definitely did after this much noise. This much chaos. They might as well have painted a target on the roof. 

The Iraqi soldiers guarding the hallway outside barked orders into their radios. One cursed under his breath and pushed past the door. 

Layla sat up slowly, her ears ringing, her hands trembling despite herself. 

“What was that?” Samir whispered. 

“A grenade,” Layla murmured. “I think.”

She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to picture who had been near it when it went off. 

The door creaked open again. 

This time, it wasn’t a soldier with his gun drawn or blood on his hands. This one moved differently - more deliberate. Authority radiated off him like heat. His gaze swept the cramped room, pausing on each face like he was scanning for a threat. 

He didn’t find one. 

Just Layla, standing near the door. Her mother beside her. Samir clutching her hand like a lifeline. The little girl wheezing in her father’s lap. 

The officer’s eyes stopped on Layla’s open backpack, which still lay on the floor near her blanket roll. Books had spilled out during the explosion - Human Anatomy, a pocket English-Arabic dictionary, an old gray medical manual with dog-eared pages and highlighted lines. 

He stepped forward, picked one up carefully. 

"You speak English?" he asked, glancing down at the dictionary. 

Layla straightened. “Yes.”

His voice was calm, measured. “What do you know about medicine?”

She hesitated. Then, with steady breath: “I’m a medical student. Final year. Baghdad University.”

He looked at her for a long second, like he was deciding whether to believe her. Then: “You saw upstairs.”

She nodded. 

“We need help,” he said. “Our Corpsman - his name’s Elliott - he took shrapnel. Badly.”

Her stomach twisted at the name. So now she had one to put to the pale face and blood-soaked floor. 

“I want to help the girl,” the officer added, nodding toward Mina, who was now whimpering quietly, her father holding a wet cloth to her forehead. “But my men need your help first.”

Her mother stepped forward sharply. “No,” she said in Arabic, her voice cold and clipped. “She’s not going anywhere with them.”

“Mama—”

“They’re Americans,” she hissed. “They will use you and then forget you. Or worse.”

Layla looked down at Mina. 

The child’s eyes were glassy. Her breath wheezed in and out like wind through broken shutters. She wouldn’t last much longer without real help. A hospital was out of the question. But maybe antibiotics. Maybe fluids. 

And maybe, if she helped them, they’d actually listen. 

“Mama, please,” Layla said gently. “They can help her. But only if I help them first.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with helpless rage, but she didn’t speak again. She turned away, pulling Samir closer. 

Layla looked up at the officer. 

“I’ll go,” she said. 

He gave a single nod. 

“What’s your name?”

“Layla.”

He turned and motioned to one of the men at the door. “Let her upstairs. Carefully. Tell Sam she’s coming.”

The soldier glanced at her like he didn’t quite know what to make of her. But he stepped aside and gestured silently for her to follow. 

As she climbed the stairs again, her heart pounded - not from fear, exactly. She wasn’t afraid. Just unsure. Of the wounded man upstairs. Of her mother and brother. Of the little girl who needed her help. 

For the first time, Layla wasn’t just surviving the war. 

She was stepping directly into it.

The little girl - Mina - was crying now, her cough worse than before. Dry, barking sobs that shook her small body. Her father rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense into her hair. Her fever had risen overnight. Layla had checked. 

They didn’t have medicine. 

They didn’t have time. 

Layla stood, brushing dust off her skirt, her legs still shaky. 

“I need to go,” she said. 

Her mother looked up sharply. “Layla-”

“She’s not breathing right. And I heard someone scream upstairs. Something’s wrong.”Before her mother could protest, she slipped through the door. The two Iraqi soldiers turned, startled. 

“I need to speak to someone,” she said in Arabic. 

“No,” one of them said flatly. 

“It’s about a child,” she insisted. “Mina. She’s sick.”

The younger soldier glanced toward the stairwell. “You can’t go up there.”

“There’s a child down here. She’s sick. And someone’s hurt. I know what a grenade sounds like.”

“No one asked you to-”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Before they could stop her, Layla pushed past and climbed the stairs. 

The stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed, every step a new sound - groaning wood, cracking dust, distant muffled voices. Her hand skimmed the banister, her heart in her throat. 

The second floor looked like a war zone. 

The hallway was thick with smoke and the sharp, chemical scent of explosives. The white plaster walls were scorched in one corner - blackened like charcoal. Pieces of wood and drywall littered the floor, along with a twisted, broken chair. 

And blood. 

“—he’s going into shock—”

“I need pressure here, here— God, he's losing too much—”

Layla stepped into the room and froze. 

A soldier was lying flat on his back, his vest cut open, a jagged piece of metal lodged deep in his side. Blood soaked his shirt, the floor, even the arms of the man holding him down. 

That man - Sam - looked up, eyes wide. 

For a second, everything stopped. 

She took in the scene in flashes: 

One of the soldier’s lips moving, trying to give instructions. 

Sam’s hands clenching soaked gauze against the wound. 

Another soldier fumbling with medical supplies he clearly didn’t know how to use. 

The sound of the wounded’s labored breathing, rattling like crushed glass in his chest. 

Then someone saw her. 

“What the hell - who is that?!”

“She shouldn’t be up here!”

“I only wanted…” Layla’s voice drifted off… she wasn’t sure what she wanted. 

Sam’s voice cut through it all. “Wait— she speaks English?”

Layla took a step forward, voice clear despite the panic rising in her throat. “I’m a medical student. I can help. Please—”

She didn’t get to finish. 

A soldier grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her back toward the hallway. 

Sam called after her— “Wait! Just let her—!”

But it was too late. She was shoved back onto the stairs. 

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the echo of shouting and the heavy scent of blood and smoke clinging to her clothes. 

She stood there in the dark stairwell, heart pounding, ears still ringing from the explosion. 

She’d seen worse in hospitals. In Baghdad. After car bombs. After riots. 

But this was here. 

This was her home. 

And the soldier… he was dying. 

And she knew, deep in her bones, they’d come back for her.

[phightingaus]

Hello chat, more Swap(NPCs with Phighters) AU shenanigans. Iono how I'd call this one actually but let's uhh see

Now, we need to figure out which phighter takes place of which NPC.

For settings, I think Subspace or Biograft would fit pretty well.

Stats NPC, prolly like.. Banhammer or something since he's the warden and knows a lot about a lot of people i guess

Title NPC I'd give to Scythe, she also knows lots of stuff about people via The Church but a different kind of knowledge, what people are notorious for(like, ___ the guy who tried to kickflip a scooter and fell on his face

Round NPC, I actually don't know who'd replace Zuka. Whoever drives the best, maybe Medkit or Hyperlaser(???). Big question mark on this one tho, I actually don't know who it'll be. Zuka is irreplaceable.

Now, Ranged phighter movesets

Zuka- probably similar to Rocket gameplay but requires a little more skill. His projectiles are even slower than Rocket's but do more damage. I'd also give him a nuke instead of a rocket rain for his phinisher, and maybe a manual heal using a medkit(not the character) for himself or an ally close to him(think Jane Doe from TRUD heal but it only affects one person). Defensive character, tanky, has a big health pool but slow, meant to eliminate high value targets.

Shotgun- close combat ranged, does a lot of damage and takes a lot of damage, high risk high reward. Average health and shield amount, not fragile but not a tank either since she doesn't wear armour. I'd like her to have a melee ability, maybe a serious debuff that takes a while to prepare but if you hit it, the enemy is doomed(call it eviction notice) or a haymaker punch(like Guest 1337 in Forsaken). I'll also give her a block (tales) cause why not?

Spray Paint- meant to take down backlines, supports, people with low health, just anyone who's easy to finish off. The amount of damage you can do can really depend on how fast you can spam his basic attack. I'll give him an ability where he draws a little mural on the wall or floor that boosts allies and himself if they walk near it and a 'woe, spray paint in your eyes upon ye' but instead of blinding the enemy it chips away at health for a small amount of time. He has a small amount of health, so you need to think when picking a fight with someone.

Ghosdeeri- I'll give her a magic staff and fast projectiles, something between a ranged and a support. If the projectile hits an enemy, they take damage. If the projective hits an ally, it gives them a random boost(speed, healing, attack buff, etc). Also, since she is a librarian and a knowledge keeper I'll give her a marker ability. When used, all enemies on the map will get highlighted and take 20% more damage from allies and map hazards and 40% more damage from Ghosdeeri herself. For her passive, all enemies and allies are faintly highlighted and she is able to see the amount of health and shield they have aswell as what buffs and debuffs(call it 'keeper's knowledge)

Lord Pwnatious. I'm torn between giving them a shiny golden sniper rifle or a vintage machine gun, but we're missing a sniper, so I'll settle on sniper rifle. Have a small health pool and low speed. Their passive will have to do with money, each of their abilities aside from the basic shoot have a price, they start out with 20$(30$ in newbie servers). Each successful hit gives them 2$ and each successful kill gives them 5$. One of their abilities is probably a self-buff that makes them do about 30% more damage(costs 7$). And, why not gambling? Spin a wheel for 10$! It has several things you can land on: +20$, +20% damage, +20% speed, a heal for 40 HP, and the rarest one: a 200%(2X) boost to all stats.

- star wars anon

Super neat but I do have to argue a small change for Pwnatious-

It would be really fucking funny if they could just chuck a bag of money onto the ground like a grenade and have it explode to do AOE damage (because of Pwn's gear being an Explosive bag of robux). Make it give a debuff too while you're at it? That's really my only gripe lol this is soupa cool

[luffysoulmate]

(Sorry if you already got sent any of these 🥲)

🔫, 💅 & 🔮 for the ask game!!

🔫 - Who is more likely to start a water gun/water balloon fight?

It's a tough call !!!!

We're both so playful!!! And starting water gun or water balloon fight is definitely something we'd do when we're bored or need attention !!! 😆 Of if it's hot as hell !! Plus this is something I've done a lot as a kid ahhh I love it !!!

If I had to pick I'd say Luffy cause he's more easily bored than me and wants my attention all the time, and sometimes I'm busy with my art !! He'd do anything to have my attention !! 😆

"Takemiiii I'm bored come play with me !!!"

So yeah he'd just start it out of nowhere, wanting nothing more but to have some fun and some action with his fav person !!!

I'm coming to beat your ass Luffy hope you're ready !!! (with love of course 🧡)

💅🏻 - What color would you paint your f/os nails? Would they enjoy having their nails painted?

Luffy with painted nails ???

He's not against it, but he'd be like :

"Paint my nails ? Huh ??? What for ??"

Cause we all know Luffy isn't into aesthetic stuff like that, especially not the cute aesthetic stuff !! Neither am I, I just love to do it sometimes but with simple stuff please !!! So forget about the glitters and cute motifs !!!

I'd convince him by telling him he could look like and pretend to be Akatsuki members with painted nails !! That's what I always think of when I see painted nails cause I'm a huge weeb I know 😭 But Luffy would love it !!! 😆

Shoutout to @phanta-soba's husband and my fav Akatsuki member with his glorious nails !! So badass 🔥

ALSO !!!

I'd offer him simple nails with his favourite colours and if I ever get the skills, nails with our jolly roger on it !!! Because it'd look so cool !!!

I'm very bad at manual activities so that would be a disaster but at least we'd laugh a lot !!! 😂

Also good luck to have him sit still, he'd be moving around too much and I would get pissed because I'm bad at this 😭

🔮- Do you or your f/o believe in the supernatural?

Luffy believes in a lot of things so of course he does !!! He doesn't even need to see them and that's what I love about him, he just has a lot of imagination and his wonderful mind likes to believe in many things 🤩

But in the One Piece world he has every reason to believe !!!

Also he loves it !! He thinks it's so cool !! And so do I !! I'm a bit more skeptical when it comes to supernatural but I believe in it more and more and Luffy and I love to be amazed and gush about it together !!!

We don't take it very seriously though, maybe me a little bit more than Luffy but it's more admiration really !!!

I can get scared of supernatural stuff, especially in horror movies and things that cannot be explained but Luffy's always there to reassure me !! 🥰

MY BOY DOES LOVE SUPERNATURAL WEIRD STUFF AND SO DO I I MEAN LOOK HOW COOL THAT UNICORN AND TREE LOOK !!! 😩

Thank you so so much for the ask !!! It was so much fun !! And don't apologize it's already so nice of you to send me asks !! I didn't get them and even if I did, you couldn't have known !! 😁 I'm super happy !!! I'm still too lazy to proofread, I'll do it later and panick when I realize I wrote something that doesn't make sense BAHAHA

Tag list :

@phanta-soba @citrus-shipping @trafalgar-laws-wife @qualitynightmarekryptonite @andres-galans-wife @avatarduck @zoroscanonhusband @a-silly-bunny @faggotboyfreak @adorablesaiyan @moxanji-real

Tag list from here !

[johnnycrass]

I wish my dad had showed me how to do contractor type stuff..... maybe he can show me now that I'm a full-blown adult. I know it sucks as you age but honestly, I want a job working with my hands. I know after you turn 30 that shit gets harder especially if you're working outdoors. I don't care if it's "manual labor" I literally enjoy that. I don't know why Ive just worked highly social jobs or on da computer when the place where i'd be truly comfortable and happy is like, stripping wood and painting houses. pulling weeds. cleaning a gutter. using a nail gun. hammering. i like that kind of shit 😭

[aroyaltailor]

Just a little something different:

Behold! A Scarab Occult Terminator, assembled by yours truly in his leisure time! This model here was built from thirteen separate pieces, and each of them had to be scraped and cleaned to look their best. There's this thing called mouldlines, made as an inevitable byproduct of the whole plastic injection molding process. It looks something like this.

It took a fair bit of work, fussing over a lot of details, but as you can see I think the result speaks for itself! I had to manually drill those barrels too, that took quite a bit of work. There's an option for one unit to carry a heavy weapon, which has the lovely title of Soulreaper Cannon. It's basically a gilded Gatling gun. For that piece, there's a little cap on the end of the gun that you attach. That cap has the barrels of the weapon already drilled in as part of the mould itself. Just to show what I'm talking about, here. So the question is... why don't they design something similar for all the models? I'm no design expert, but that seems like it'd be a good way of making things easier.

Maybe people like drilling the barrels? Dunno.

(example of how the official models look, painted by the pros)

Either way, it's something I'm going to be doing myself as I continue building these models. I've about four more left, and each of them is about thirteen pieces just like the first. The leader of the unit has a fancy cloak, so that'll require me to do subassemblies to have it painted right. I'll need to paint two parts of him separately: the torso, cloak, and arms; and the legs. Part of me is worrying that I'll mess up somehow with drilling the barrels, but so long as I take my time, I'm sure I'll be fine. Besides! Imperfections just give the model more character, though I'll be trying my best to avoid making any!

Mistakes are part of life, and therefore inevitably part of the process. So long as I do my best not to make them, and learn from any that I do? All will be well. I certainly hope so at least :3

I really do need to work on that tag list...

[maccaronimassacre]

Hey, I wanted to ask for a bot, if possible, a bot with Ethan that's after re7, and him and the user settled down. And he's living with the scars and nightmare after it. I like to headcanon rotten food, and some meats trigger him and make him nauseous. Or the scars make him a little self-conscious of the scar on his arm and leg. And opening doors in dark make him anxious a molded is behind it. Generally, angst and user who went through the baker thing with him tries to comfort him. He's struggling for normalcy and like trying to keep his guard down and feel comfortable again in normal life.

((If you have done something like this and i just dont remember, ignore me, lol. No rush, but thanks for reading me. Love your bots have a great day/night <3))

I have kind of done one like this already which is here: Post RE:7 You and Ethan are relocated to Romania.

It is a softer version of your ask, so just for you I have made a new one with ramped up angst and more of a focus on RE:7.

Post RE:7!Ethan Winters x Reader

After countless hours of sifting through paperwork, heated arguments, and tear filled therapy sessions, Ethan can finally say that you’ve both found a new rhythm in Romania. At least, that’s what he want to say. But then there are the moments when you catch him with his eyes fixed on a half open door, his breath shallow, as if waiting for something. Or how he quietly slips out of the kitchen when you handle raw meat, his face clouded with tension that he tries so hard to hide from you. The house, draped in your paintings, brimming with snapshots of sun-drenched vacations and cherished memories, should feel like home by now. But why are all the mirrors covered with heavy blankets? The bookshelves filled with fantasy novels and Romanian travel guides, tucked between little trinkets and hand woven figurines should feel comforting. Yet on Ethan’s bedside table, the stack of gun manuals and recent newspapers from Louisiana grows taller with each passing day.

[ajqwrites]

COD: Modern Warfare Reboot (Under Siege - Book 1)

It was almost midnight and John couldn't sleep. With his mind turning over like the clock never stops ticking. He had a lot on his mind. So he decided to spend his solitude in his office.

This was his space—off-limits to anyone, including Charlie.

Not because he didn't trust her but because the room was his sanctuary.

The room was functional, much like himself. With the dark wood desk that sat against the far wall, its surface was arranged with mission files, a laptop, and a single desk lamp that cast a soft, warm glow over the room.

There was a corkboard hung on the wall to his left, pinned with maps and scribbled notes—remnants of past missions and intels. Opposite the desk was a heavy, locked filing cabinet and a small gun safe, both secured with codes only he knew.

Beside the safe, his sidearm rests within arm's reach, his Glock, stripped down earlier and now freshly cleaned, sat on a black cloth like a soldier at parade rest.

Bookshelves lined one side of the room, filled not with manuals on strategy, history, and leadership, their spines worn from years of use.

There was a collection of personal items sat on one shelf: a few framed photographs of the British Army times and his former comrades.

Added with a medal tucked into a glass case, and an old cigar box that served as a catch-all for loose change and other small mementos that was given to him.

John leaned back in his chair with a cigar between his fingers glowing, he took a slow drag while staring at the screen. The rich taste paired well with the whiskey, which burned his throat as he sipped it. This was his time to think or reflect.

Kate Laswell's email stared back at him. Its cryptic language gnawing at the edges of his mind with more information:

Activity persists in Central Europe. Patterns suggest heightened coordination. Further monitoring required. Local contacts have flagged secondary movements in outlying sectors—awaiting confirmation.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"Stay ready," he said to himself, taking another sip of whiskey after he leaned forward. 

That was Kate's way of saying something's brewing in London. Which is odd, but you never know. Sometimes insurgents wanted to be known when Kate would point out what it is before they became known.

When his gaze moved to the corkboard, there were a few recent clippings from his work for Kate's operation that were pinned. But his mind was elsewhere—on Harkin.

The name alone made his jaw tighten.

With Gabby's intel that painted a clear picture: Harkin was persistent and fixated on Charlie.

Like what? The restraining order violations, the connections to low-level thugs—he wondered what it was all about and why her.

John took another slow drag of his cigar. He couldn't ignore the questions bubbling in his head. Until his phone buzzed near him, breaking his stance. He glanced at the small screen. Another call.

"Knocks," he answered. "Anything new?"

"I pulled up a few more records. You need to hear this," Gabby said straight to the point. "I did say that Michael had been involved with low-level crime. But he has been hopping from job to job, couldn't keep one until he got a big break from someone whose ties are unknown. Harkin have his friends, or so-called buddies he makes them tag along. They've been doing a lot of small petty crime acts in return for getting paid."

He took a long drag on his cigar, exhaling slowly.

"Petty crimes for hire... sounds like organization to me," John said grimly. "Someone's funding his little vendetta."

"Yeah, and I dug into his phone, encrypted datas, and there have been messages back and forth with the unknown sender. Between these conversations, Charlie has something that Harkin needed but he didn't say what," Gabby explained.

His grip tightened on the phone.

"Something Charlie has?" John repeated.

"Yeah, whatever it is. Harkin seems desperate to get it from her."

John stood and began pacing steady, his steps heavy in the silence.

"Keep monitoring those messages. I want to know the lead and everything he says."

"I'm on it," Gabby confirmed before he closed the call.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his forehead as he sat back down. His fingers tapped absently against the desk, mind churning with possibilities.

What could Charlie have that Harkin wanted?

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than some obsessed ex who couldn’t let go. Harkin wasn’t just fixated—he was being funded for something.

As he took another sip of whiskey, feeling the warmth settle in his chest as he processed Gabby’s intel. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be a simple case of some low-life bastard who didn’t take rejection well.

Charlie was in danger.

And John wasn’t the kind of man to let anyone lay a hand on what was his.

Before he could dwell on it further, his phone buzzed again. He exhaled sharply, expecting Gabby to have more intel, but when he saw the name on the screen, he groaned.

Soap.

He hesitated, debating whether or not to ignore it. But the Scot was persistent—if John didn’t pick up, he’d just call again. So, with a resigned sigh, he answered.

“The hell do you want?” he grumbled.

“Ah, so ya are awake,” Soap said with full of amusement. “That means yer brooding again, eh?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you—”

“—Gabby told me about Charlie,” Soap interrupted. “Said some arsewipe’s been lurkin’ about. Harkin, was it?”

John took another sip of whiskey. “Yes.”

“So why the fuck didn’t ya tell me?” Soap asked, feigning offense. “Gabby tells me, but not my own captain? That stings, mate.”

He exhaled slowly, already regretting answering the call. “Because I don’t need you jumpin’ headfirst into somethin’ that ain’t yours to handle.”

Soap scoffed. “Bollocks. When has that stop me before?”

That was the problem.

To John, he knew Soap had a habit of getting involved in everything—especially when it was John’s business. And now, with Gabby being his damn ‘twin,’ as John had started calling it the first time she became part of the 141 elite force, it meant whatever John didn’t tell Soap, Gabby would.

“You think I’m just gonna sit back while yer girl’s got some psycho after her?” Soap pressed, his tone serious now.

John clenched his jaw. 

He didn’t like the way Soap said that—yer girl. 

It made something inside him twist. He hadn’t even figured out what Charlie was to him yet, and Soap had already called it.

“This ain’t a discussion, Johnny,” John said, rubbing his temples.

“Ohhh, so it is personal, then,” Soap mused, the smirk practically dripping through the phone. “Didn’t think you were the type, Cap'n.”

“MacTavish,” John warned.

“Aye, aye, I’ll shut up,” Soap chuckled, though he didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “Look, I just wanna help. That’s all.”

John sighed, knowing there was no point in telling Soap to back off. 

The Scot never backed off. And honestly? Maybe he could use an extra set of hands.

“Listen to me, Johnny,” he said with his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is not a sanctioned op. If we do this, we do it my way—quiet, no heat, no eyes. If shit goes sideways, we’re on our own.”

“Like old times then,” Soap quipped. “Fine by me. So what’s the plan?”

John leaned back in his chair, staring at the corkboard in front of him, his mind already pulling the pieces together. “Gabby pulled Harkin’s last known location. A flat not far from here. If he’s holdin’ somethin’ that puts Charlie in danger, I want to know what it is before he makes his next move.”

Soap hummed on the other end, the sound of him shifting around filtering through the line. “Ya think it’s more than just a stalker situation?”

“I know it is,” John said. “He’s gettin’ paid. Someone’s pullin’ the strings on this, and until I know who, I’m not taking any chances.”

Soap was quiet for a brief moment, before he let out a sharp breath. “Right. Well, if we’re breaking in, we’re gonna need Gaz.”

John smirked slightly. “Figured you’d say that.”

“You know how he gets,” Soap said. “Soon as he catches wind that we went in without him, he’ll be on our arses about it. Actually, you know what? Let me call him. I wanna hear his reaction when he finds out you were planning to keep this from him."

"Brilliant," John rolled his eyes in return.

Within seconds, Soap had Gaz on the line, merging the call before John would say something.

“Oi, what’s this about Price bein’ shady?” Gaz’s voice came through, sharp and amused, but there was a hint of curiosity laced in his tone.

“Nothing shady, Gaz.” John replied gruffly.

Soap cut in, his grin evident even through the phone. “Aye, except for the part where he was plannin’ a break-in without telling us.”

“A break-in?” Gaz repeated, his tone shifting. “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on, or do I have to come knock it outta you?”

Again, John rolled his eyes and he can already feel a headache creeping in.

“Harkin,” he said simply.

Silence.

"Who the fuck is Harkin?"

John sighed. He had forgotten that Gaz wasn’t privy to the situation just yet, which meant now he had to explain it all over again. But Soap, always the instigator, decided to help fill in for his Captain.

“Some arsehole Charlie used to be involved with,” Soap jumped in. “Bloke’s got a restraining order on him but doesn’t seem to care. Gabby dug up some dirt—turns out he’s mixed up in some low-level crime ring, and someone’s payin’ him for somethin’.”

“And I’m guessing this isn't some sort of ex-type of shit we dealing with?" Gaz guessed.

John took another slow sip of whiskey. “That’s what we need to find out.”

"Aw, hell," Gaz said before he sighed until he moved on. "Fine. When we goin’ in?”

John shot a glare at the phone, even though neither of them could see him. “You both just assume you’re coming.”

Soap snorted. “Come on, Cap’n. You knew we’d jump in the second we heard about it.”

John grunted, not bothering to argue. They weren’t wrong. He took a few seconds to gather his thoughts and glanced at his watch, then out the window into the London night behind him. 

"We'll wait in two days until late on dark. We go in quiet, we get what we need or find, and we get the fuck out."

"Damn straight," Gaz replied, the edge of his tone showed a hint of a grin.

"Gabby's gonna keep an eye on Harkin until then. We wait until she gives us a green light," John said after he set his glass down with a soft clink.

"We got blueprints of his flat? Security setup?" Gaz asked.

"I'll ask Gabby about it," John added. "She's already got his location locked down. We'll get a full rundown from her by then."

"Sweet," Soap said. "Who else we bringin' in?"

"We need overwatch," John said. "I'll bring in Simon."

"Ghost?" Gaz questioned. "Didn't think this was big enough to bring out the Reaper."

John almost chuckled.

"I don't take chances with Charlie's safety."

"Think he'll be on board?" Gaz asked again in his serious tone.

"I'd be surprised if he wasn't," John said flatly.

Soap snickered and continued, "Yeah, he'll appreciate the excuse to get out and shoot something. I'll have Cam babysit little bonnie while we go in dark."

"Hmm, good. Get some rest. We move soon." John said last before he ended the call and sat back.

When his eyes flickered to the cork board once more. He stood and finished the rest of his whiskey in one slow pull before setting the glass down with a quiet clink. He had a plan and he'd put it into motion.

✨Return to Masterlist (RTM)✨

✨Chapter 35✨

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