#genuinely had to pause for a second like. is this because im a cat. is this a fucking fantasy microaggression

[strixhaven]

people hitting you up in ffxiv is so funny but also. what is wrong with allos

[philtstone]

24. Showing up injured at their friend/mentor’s house: for shawn? :)

[emerges from writing this fic bloody and beaten and on the verge of collapse] ill explore karen vicks character in an overly complicated post-episode missing scene fic or die trying! set immediately post "right turn or left for dead". i genuinely dont know if im happy with this but i also cant figure out how to fix it. actually, it would have probably been easier to write if i was willing to rewatch the episodes its based on. which i am not, because i am a sensitive little soul. so i winged it. i think there are like 10 different ideas that crop up and theyre all equally fascinating as character threads but i have no idea if i tied them together in an even remotely coherent way. also, WOULD she say that??? i had to call my brother twice to ask. this is what yall get for sending me actually interesting prompts, huh

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Henry’s voice said on the phone. “I’ll send Shawn over with them on his way out. He's going in your direction, anyway.”

In her short tenure as the junior detective to Henry Spencer’s lieutenant, Karen Vick observed two things:

First, that he was a far more clever strategist than most people gave him credit for. Despite the ongoing wreckage of his impending divorce and a kid who was slipping through his fingers as everyone looked on, Karen didn’t agree with the other junior detectives’ impression of him as a smash-the-door-down old school hard ass with thinning hair and a worst attitude. The man played four dimensional chess right out of a bonafide Star Trek episode. When he really wanted something done, Henry Spencer could bullshit and bluff and battle plan with the pros, and half the time you’d get too caught up in the blustering misdirect to realize his game was intricately thought out three steps in advance.

It was how they caught the Shorttown Killer, and also how they got that idiot Trembley at the mayor’s office to finally replace their coffee maker. Karen went home to her then-boyfriend, now-husband, and, right before bed, pulled out an old school workbook and took notes.

The second thing was that Henry Spencer loved his son. 

Not a lot has changed since then, Karen thinks, staring down the weirdness that she now faces through her open front door.

“… Oh — Mr. Spencer,” Karen says, because it’s rude not to greet your employees when they show up at your home outside of work hours, and are also your old friend-slash-colleague’s kid. “Hello. Thanks for — bringing these over.”

“Dad said it was urgent,” Shawn says.

Urgent isn’t quite how Karen would describe it, but hearing through the grapevine that your department might be facing an audit sometime in the next quarter does light a fire under the proverbial ass. Karen would rather bend a few rules and make sure the last year’s i’s and t’s are dotted and crossed right than leave her detectives vulnerable to the whims of a mayoral stooge. 

In general, Karen prides herself on caring about the people under her command just enough that it inspires genuine friendship and loyalty. The just is important. Care needs tempering – it’s important to pull back, press pause, keep certain lines uncrossed. It’s especially important if you want to be successful as a woman in an authority position where lives are often on the line. 

What she’s saying is that she tries to make it none of her business what her employees get up to in their spare time. She really genuinely does. She’s shut O’Hara down gently midway through the twelfth sweetly-frazzled attempt to overshare about her dating life (or her efforts to befriend her next-door neighbor, or the endearing personality quirks of her last cat – rest in peace, Triscuit, you will be missed –) enough times to be well-versed in the art of I Won’t Ask, You Won’t Tell, But You’ll Probably Know I Care Anyway.

An invaluable rapport to maintain. In any situation, Karen thinks, but especially when you’re a person who regularly hires and works alongside Shawn Spencer.

She’s not sure whether what she’s looking at right now makes her want to second guess or double down on her usual policy. 

“Special delivery,” Shawn adds, like everything is super normal.

Karen narrows her eyes. She glances behind them into the quiet residential street.

“Shawn,” she says.

“Yes, Chief?”

“You didn’t drive here, did you?”

“Ha,” he says, half rolling his eyes to accompany a weird aborted grin. “No. Even I don’t think riding a motorcycle with a concussion is a good idea. What if someone who wasn’t me got hurt? That’s — that would be no good, then you’d have to arrest me. Wouldn’t that be a huge bummer for the whole team, Chief? Gus would cry. And my dad wouldn’t let me take his truck.”

Karen stares at him. Shawn stares at the ground.

“I got a cab,” he says.

“And you are … taking another cab – home?”

Shawn looks quite suddenly like he’s going to be sick.

“Sure,” he says. 

Shawn looks terrible. Bruised face, bags under his eyes, and a weird frenetic energy twitching in his limbs that doesn’t pair well with his general air of exhaustion. He’s holding his shoulders stiffly and can barely meet her eye. His t-shirt and sweatpants are rumpled, like he slept in them, even though it’s too early in the evening for Henry to have woken him up to send him here, and when he thrusts the promised files out into the air toward her, abrupt and, admittedly, Shawn-like, he only just hides the awkward wince that immediately overtakes his left side.

The last couple days have been a bit of a whirlwind, so Karen can’t say she necessarily blames herself for not looking more closely. 

Even so.

Slowly, Karen reaches forward and divests him of the case files. They slip a little bit, because Karen can’t seem to stop peering shrewdly at Shawn’s face while she does it, and on instinct he reaches forward to stop the stack from toppling. 

It does help, but the autopilot he moves on makes it harder to mask what is to Karen’s eyes a very obvious flinch. 

“Alright,” is all he says. “Well, good to see you. Time to head back to the old hay stack.”

Like a needle in a haystack and time to hit the hay, Karen supplies needlessly in her own head. Aloud, she says, in many ways against her better judgment, 

“Mr. Spencer, are you okay?”

Shawn sways on the spot for a second, one fist clenched, mouth half open. For a strange moment, Karen gets the impression that he’s trying really hard not to say the wrong thing.

“... As rain,” he finally manages, then nods to himself like he achieved some great feat. “Okay. Well –”

“Did something happen to your shoulder?” 

“What? No!” Shawn’s eyes flutter closed and he shakes his head, “I’m – fine, Chief. It’s not – I mean, I’m – normal, fine. Fine in a normal way.”

“That’s not something an individual who’s fine in a normal way would say,” Karen says. 

“Uh, is it not! It is. I would know, because I am that individual. It’s – I was – there’s just mild – pfft … stab wound – or something, who would even …”

Is Shawn broken? is the unhelpful thought that pops into Karen’s head. She’s never heard an attempt to bullshit collapse so quickly into pathetic nothingness before – certainly not from Shawn.

Perhaps even more than his father, the kid’s a pro.

And then the rest of the sentence catches up with her.

“A mild stab wound?”

Oh boy. She watches Shawn’s eyes widen with the panic that proceeds an unquestionable blunder.

“Chief –” 

“In.”

“Chief, I really, really don’t think –”

“Inside my house. Now.”

He’s certainly uncoordinated enough that he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Karen herds him  through the door as firmly as possible and leads them in a beeline past Richard’s office toward the bathroom, ignoring the reedy stream of consciousness that spills out of Shawn’s mouth as they go.

“Oh, hey, woah, it’s been like forever since I was in here. Did you redecorate? I swear that lamp wasn’t there the last time we visited. It could be the tacos I had earlier, but I’m sensing a distinct neo-modern Chinese aesthetic going on here, Chief, which calls to mind the merits of cultural appreciation in suburban home decor – hey, is that your husband’s office? Can I meet him? Is he home? That man is a true enigma to us, Chief, and it’s leading me to believe that he must possess all the facial and personality qualities of the pop superstar Mr. Pitbull Worldwide –”

Richard is home, actually, and Karen needs to alert him to the fact that they have an unexpected house guest, so, ignoring Shawn completely, she calls out,

“Honey? Shawn Spencer’s here for a couple minutes about a work thing! I’ll go up to put Iris to bed in a second!” in the finely-honed There Are Many Layers Of Complicated To This secret married tone that Richard should probably be able to catch through the closed office door. 

“Alright,” floats out her husband’s pleasant voice. “Tell him hi from me.”

Perfect. There’s about a ninety-three percent chance he understood.

They make it to the bathroom, only stumbling slightly. Shawn says,

“-- or The Rock. Does your husband look like Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson? I really think that would make so many things about the Chief Vick family make sense –”

Karen closes the bathroom door with a snap and crosses her arms.

“Sit,” she says, in a voice that even he knows brooks no argument.

Shawn does. He looks – well, beyond uncomfortable, and more than a little bit miserable, and probably closer to completely dissociating than either of them are prepared for. Karen wonders belatedly if he's gotten any sleep at all in the last forty-eight hours.

“I’m assuming you have not been to the hospital.”

He gives her a baleful look, like he really expected better of her. She only just stops herself from rolling her eyes in response. And there’s that huge goose egg on his forehead, too. What, exactly, he got up to in between Carlton’s wedding reception and oh-eight-hundred hours this morning Karen has no idea, but he looks like someone’s run him through the world’s most aggressive industrial tumble dry cycle and spat him mercilessly back out. 

Or maybe over with a truck.

Sending a silent prayer to the universe that Iris never hit puberty and remains a sweet-tempered six-year-old forever, Karen gets to business.

“Well, I had to at least ask. Shawn. Does it need stitches?” He mumbles the answer the first time, and then looks beyond startled when she grabs him under the chin so he’ll look her in the eye. “Listen. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. But you’re going to tell me the truth. Got it?”

Shawn grimaces so hard at her words it’s almost a flinch. 

“No,” he says finally, clearly enough that she hears him. Karen raises an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think it needs stitches,” he articulates, but doesn’t meet her eye.

“Hm. Alright. I have gauze and tape in the medicine cabinet. Can I … is it alright if I pull up the sleeve of your t-shirt?”

Released from her hold, he groans and presses his face into one palm. “Chief –”

“I don’t really know what you expected, coming here! It’s not like I’m any less of a hardass than your father.”

“Yeah, but I can bitch back at my dad,” Shawn says, sounding like he’s finally realizing the magnitude of his mistake. Karen smiles grimly.

“Tough. Now pull your shirt up while I get the first aid kit.”

While Shawn proceeds to wrestle awkwardly with his t-shirt in a muted shuffle against the toilet seat, Karen rummages efficiently through the cabinet and eyes him through the bathroom mirror. He seems oddly reluctant to expose himself. In fact, in a stark contrast to his usual insistence on making his presence and contributions as obtrusively obvious as possible, Shawn seems intent on shrinking into the aforementioned Asian-flavored floral wallpaper (which does need an update, unfortunately) with all the equanimity of an anxious chameleon. Karen feels her eyebrows crease. Taking the first aid kit in hand, she brings it over and deposits it into his arms, ignoring his small startle.

“How about you hold that,” Karen says. Shawn does, against his chest, like a pillow. She walks around him and surveys the damage, antiseptic gauze in hand.

He wasn’t lying about the severity, at least. It’s a shallow thing, already mostly congealed, and has only stained his shirt in a small smattering spot of crusty brown blood.

Karen swabs at it with the alcohol using light careful fingers.

“Ow, ow ow ah –”

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s hardly a life-threatening injury.”

“Super insightful, Chief,” Shawn snaps, as genuinely sarcastic as he’s probably ever been with her, “never thought of that myself. Totally the reason why I just had to go to the hospital.”

He doesn’t pull away, but she can feel the tension radiating through his back. She blinks, one eyebrow crawling up her forehead. 

Alright then. So that’s how it’s going to be. 

“I’m assuming your father doesn’t know about this,” she says.

Shawn grunts, noncommittal. Huh. Maybe he does know, then, and has just been disallowed from doing anything about it right now.

She tosses the first used antiseptic wipe into the trash.

Goddamn four dimensional chess.

She supposes she’s never been bad at the game. She may as well work her way backwards through the moves: Guster, the most obvious node in Shawn’s turn-to-in-a-crisis-system, would never voluntarily abandon his friend in a time of need, so Karen assumes that whatever this is has either already included his support or not been made known to Gus at all yet. Henry’s likely exhausted his own usefulness in the situation, and Detective O’Hara is …

Karen has to work very hard for her hands not to pause in a way that gives away her hard-earned mental sleuthing. A bad feeling wholly unrelated to her ill-advised hangover of the day before begins to bloom at the back of her gut.

“You have really small hands, Chief.”

Shawn’s voice is notably more subdued than before.

“Do I?” 

“They’re like … little kangaroo hands. Like the mom kangaroo from Whinnie the Pooh.”

“Didn’t you know?” Karen says, not unkindly. “They’re given out at the hospital when all first-time moms leave with their baby.”

He lets out a tired little laugh, more boyish than he probably means it to be, and in spite of herself Karen feels her heart clench. She isn’t blind. In all her last seven years as the leader of their chaotic little precinct, she has never seen Juliet O’Hara look as ill as she did yesterday morning. The usually sweet-faced young woman had all the pallor of a Victorian ghost, and stood so far away from Shawn in any given room that to an unassuming observer he might have had the plague.

There are only a handful of things, Karen thinks, that could have invited that particular evolution in their dynamic. She rips the surgical tape from its canister a little bit more harshly than is strictly necessary and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

“So,” she says conversationally, laying the tape down in neat, gentle little strips, trying not to pinch the wound too tightly. “Any fun plans for the evening?”

Shawn sniffs. She can see him gripping his hands together over his knee from where she stands above him.

“Um, yeah, uh –” he clears his throat, “you know me, Chief. We’re working our way through a Robert Guillame marathon, which means some good old fashioned Benson, running commentary on the quality of that child acting, naturally.”

“Naturally.” 

“Then Gus and I were gonna hit up the new, the new chili cheese joint up by Hermosa, you know – they’re doing sliders –”

“Chili cheese sliders?” Karen hums, contemplative.

“Buy ‘em by the pound,” Shawn agrees. “Then I was thinking of getting a tattoo, maybe a belly button piercing, I’ve been really – really needing a change – would you let Iris get one, if she asked?”

“A tattoo?” Karen clarifies, cutting off the next piece of tape. The skin around the cut is warm to her touch but Shawn’s arms have goosepimpled. The hair at the back of his head sticks up unstyled, like he slept weirdly and couldn’t be bothered to fix it come morning.

“Of a marmoset. That’s what I’m thinking. With distinctly effeminate vibes.”

“Well, Dick hates marmosets. So I’d probably encourage her toward something else. Perhaps a sea lion.”

“Like Shabby.” The nervous note has bled into his legs again, and his earlier subdued tone has gone back to sounding strained. “Yeah, that’ll – that could be it.”

“All in one night, huh?” Karen says.

“I –” Shawn doesn’t even hiss when she presses down with a cotton gauze to cover the last of the thickened blood. His legs are properly jittering again. “I was – yeah, y-you know me, Chief, total night owl.”

“Shawn?”

“Yeah?”

“What about going home?”

Silence. Shawn doesn’t answer for a moment long and pregnant enough that Karen wonders if her question will be ignored entirely. 

Then,

“Chief,” he says finally, in an awful, tiny little voice, “I really, really fucked up.”

Finally, her hands do falter in their ministrations; as emotionally exuberant as Shawn often is, she doesn’t think she’s ever actually heard him close to tears. For a horrible moment she wonders if Shawn Spencer will suddenly start crying atop her toilet seat for reasons neither of them are capable of discussing honestly. Then she wonders if her horror makes her a terrible boss.

Boss – mother – person.

Oh, dear.

She sets down the surgical tape and lays a ginger palm over the newly-bandaged gouge in his shoulder. It’ll probably scar, but not at all badly. She doesn’t like to think about the far more obvious one just below, puckering in a violent yet unassuming divot. Another narrow miss for Henry’s boy. 

At this point there are so many of them to count, Karen has to question the statistical likelihood of the whole thing. Becoming a mathematical anomaly is, Karen can attest with confidence, not exactly the future the Lieutenant Spencer she knew dreamed of for his increasingly unmanageable teenager. 

Doing what he loved, on the other hand – absolutely. Being with a person he loved, even more so. Karen grits her teeth at the irritating web she’s spent the last six years constructing around herself and wonders if this evening right here is some kind of cosmic karma for leaving Iris in the care of nannies for the first three years of her life.

That sounds like the kind of thing those horrible parenting magazines and Karen’s mother-in-law would claim, anyway.

“Shawn,” she says slowly, because she has to at least knock this possibility off the list before risking her career in an attempt to mediate her detectives’ love lives, “did you … you weren’t – unfaithful, were you?”

“What?!” 

Shawn yanks his shoulder away and whirls around to face her with such a look of horrified betrayal on his face that it’s almost comical. 

“No!” 

Thank fucking God, Karen thinks. Aloud, she says,

“Well, I’m sorry, I had to at least ask!”

“No! No! What the hell, Chief!”

“Oh would you be quiet! I’m gathering my evidence here!”

“How could I – I would never – you’d even think that I could –”

“I know! Shawn, for God’s sake –” He’s scrambled to his feet in the cramped bathroom space, glaring, and has probably messed up all that surgical tape in the process. The half open first aid kit and his crumpled shirt press lopsided against his front and her garbage can is now full of oxidizing bits of cotton. Karen officially gives in to the urge to press her palms against her forehead. “I had to ask!” she repeats finally. “You and I both know you’re not gonna give me much else to work with, and you sounded so – so sad!” 

Shawn barks out a hysterical little laugh. Karen almost growls in frustration. 

“I am not going to risk all the very hard-earned rules I have in place without knowing for sure that my instincts aren’t wrong. Is that so hard to appreciate?”

Does it count as sound police work when the framework for your investigation is an unacknowledged lie? Karen doesn’t really know. Probably there’s another math metaphor to be made in there (you screwed your proof from the very beginning, maybe, Richard the professor would definitely have thoughts), or just a straight up joke. How to solve a case that’s cold before it ever has the chance to go live; a cover-up if she ever saw one. Unlikely that O’Hara will peep a word, and things will be a true mess for a few weeks, if she can’t make an educated guess about it. And no one will be explaining anything to Carlton, either …

Right before their goddamn audit, Karen thinks, aggrieved. She wonders if Henry considered this in his calculus. Send Shawn over, have her deal with him. Offer a huge unspoken you’re gonna be walking into a shitstorm tomorrow canary for her perennially chaotic mess of a coal mine. 

She can’t help but feel begrudgingly grateful, but that doesn’t mean she and he won’t be having words about this later.   

“Jesus, Karen,” Shawn mutters, pressing his face back into his free hand. Karen shakes her head and squares her shoulders.

“Well then! Back to the issue. You fucked up.”

“You know what? I can’t talk about this with you.”

“Oh, Mr. Spencer, I assure you I am more than well aware.”

Shawn blinks at her between his fingers, looking genuinely confused for the first time since he showed up at her door. 

Karen does not bother to clear up his confusion; it’s better this way, anyhow.

“Will you be sleeping at Gus’s place or your father’s?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“I’m – I don’t –” Shawn doesn’t meet her eye. The earlier thread of anxiety is back. “I wasn’t …”

So, neither. 

“Put your shirt back on,” she says. “We’re relocating to the living room.”

“Chief –”

“That was an order, Mr. Spencer.”

The living room is as quiet and mundane as it was an hour ago. It’s past Iris’s bedtime – she’ll have to go up, and soon at that. Karen seats her guest, retrieves a mug and a bag of chamomile from the kitchen, and removes the fluffy throw blanket from the basket behind the couch on her way back in. He’s deflated completely by the time the tea and blanket are set in front of him. Small and exhausted. Caught. It’s a horrible way to think about it. But she can’t avoid the hundred yard stare – Karen has seen it one too many times in people only just realizing they’re about to go away for life.

“Shawn,” she says, firm as she can make it. “Drink the tea. You’re dehydrated.”

“I’m … what?”

“Your lips are dry. You shouldn’t be dehydrated with a concussion.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and Karen suddenly wonders if he’s going to get up and leave. She has experience with these things – she knows a runner when she sees one.

“I might as well have,” Shawn finally whispers.

She doesn’t catch it the first time. “What?”

“I – I might as well ha – Chief, I …” Deep shuddering breaths. He’s finally shutting down, she realizes. She can’t send him back out like this; Henry would give her the stink eye for a month.

Goddamn Spencers and their goddamn irritating overcomplicated lives.

Karen pushes the tea directly into his hands and tilts her chin so she can meet Shawn’s eye. He’s still lucid enough that she doesn’t think he’ll start hyperventilating, but now that the outrage and adrenaline has worn off, the symptoms of shock are pretty hard to miss. “Shawn,” she says again, and wills for him to understand.

“What if she – what if I never –” He can’t get the full sentence out. He looks at her, eyes wide and terrified.

Life sentence, Karen thinks again. The messy stack of files Shawn brought over sits almost unimportantly on the coffee table between them and a memory comes to her, unbidden, of words penned carefully in the corner of a modified police report that she pulled the minute the door closed on the McCallum case seven years ago. 

Date: May 4th, 1995. Reporting Officer, Spencer, Lt. H. Perpetrator a caucasian male, brown hair, five foot nine, insists on wearing those stupid earrings just to spite me. What the hell do you want me to write here, Chief? Spent two hours in the fucking principal’s office convincing them not to expel him one month off from graduation. All that effort, and I still booked the kid. It’s gonna follow him for life, and it’s gonna be me that did it to him. For life. You think he’ll ever forgive me? He’s the greatest thing in my pathetic little world and he keeps breaking my heart, and I can’t even properly accept that it’s my fault. 

How’s that for a fucking crime.

She needs to go put her daughter to bed. It’s the thought that keeps running through her head, oddly enough, like a strange antidote to the impotent anger and heartbreak and frustration she’s feeling for the people under her care.

With all the notes she took in that little workbook, she still let herself become complicit in the painstaking, convoluted resolution of Henry’s mistakes without accounting for all the variables.  

Richard’s footsteps sound muffled in the next room; he’s made his way upstairs in Karen’s absence. She needs to go. She wants to hear the soft and sleepy love you Mama that with her unpredictable hours and regular long nights isn’t nearly routine enough.

“Shawn,” she says evenly. “Do you love her?”

It’s hard to reconcile the smarmy kid who tried to barter with her for twelve hundred a day with the devastated young man sitting on the couch in front of her.

“Chief …” he starts, barely above a whisper.

“Good. Then she’ll see that. Detective O’Hara is a smart and observant woman. What she chooses to do next is her decision, but … you might be – well, comforted by the fact that she’ll know that – truth.”

Shawn stares at her. The tea steams in front of him, cooling in increments. She takes a deep breath and gets to her feet, patting his uninjured shoulder brusquely. 

“I have to go check on Iris. When I come back down, I can drive you to the Psych office.”

Iris is fast asleep when she gets there. A library book lays open face down over her stomach, and her soft brown hair fans out against the pillow, silhouetted by the soft glow of the unicorn nightlight in the wall above her. Karen turns off the bedside lamp, tucks her daughter in, and kisses her forehead. Just before she leaves, she hears it: murmured, half-awake.

“Love you, Mama.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Karen goes back to her living room, car keys in hand. She’s planned her next move in the driver’s seat enough times throughout her career that it shouldn’t be too hard. 

[getstickbugdlol]

i genuinely need somebody to tell me if im being the asshole here.

i called my mom when i found out about duncan and asked her to come be with me. she got here the day that i broke up with him and she said she'd help me pack his shit and that we would redo the apartment to be my space. i really feel i have to emphasize that redoing the apartment was not my idea nor was it something i asked for. tbh i didnt even ask her to help me pack his shit i just asked her to be here because i needed my mom.

over the past few weeks my mom has made a few comments about how she's spent a lot of money redoing the apartment, and how i should be respectful of things she buys me because she works hard and she sacrifices for this and that everything she's buying me is with money she could have kept for herself but she's choosing to give it to me. i currently am working for her and she and my grandma are covering half my expenses through grad school - which is, again, something that i did not ask for - i had planned to keep working full time and i even said i was going to go back to work after my first semester and she told me no bc i worked through undergrad and i should be able to focus on grad school! and i really do appreciate how much time and energy she's sunk into doing all this, and ngl, she has done most of it by herself bc i was just not in a state to do anything at all for like three weeks.

my mom is a generally clean person but she ALWAYS has comments about my housekeeping skills when she comes to stay. thats a sensitive area for me bc i struggle with it and it is something we've been fighting about since i was a literal child. she went to DC to visit my sister this weekend, and i had a super busy weekend but i really did try to keep things clean and set aside special time for cleaning. i vacuumed, i took out trash and recycling (genuinely hard for me from a sensory standpoint), made sure dishes were put away and everything was picked up and i vacuumed. my mom came back from DC at midnight and literally the first thing she said to me was there was a french fry outside the trash can, and when i said oh i didn't notice, she said well you can enjoy having bugs in your apartment.

so tonight my mom and i were watching severance and my mom paused mid episode to get ice cream. after a second she paused and said "what smells in here?" and determined that it was a mildewy spoon. she then said my sponge was mildewy and said she was concerned that when she left i wouldn't notice things like that and asked me what the solution was. i told her i didn't want to fight and she said we aren't fighting i'm just asking you a question. i said i didn't wash the dishes (bc i didn't - they've been done twice since my mom came back from DC and not by me) and that I hadn't noticed the sponge or spoons were mildewy but I'd replace it. My mom then said that wasn't the point and she needed to know my solution and we had the same conversation we've had literally like 700 times at this point in my life where she asks what the solution is, I say I don't know, what do you think, and she says (in very simplified terms because this always takes at least two hours) I can't give you a solution you have to come up with it, but I say I didn't notice the problem so how can I come up with a solution, she says my brain doesn't work like yours so it has to be you, and I say, I literally don't know because this is not a priority for me like it is for you, and she says, stop victimizing yourself. So we went on and on like that for a while until she once again brought up that I can't get rid of stuff in the apartment because she bought it and she felt that me not noticing it was dirty was being disrespectful to her, and that it's important for me to be hygienic for myself and my cats. She mentioned several times that I'd had somebody in to clean the apartment a few times when Duncan was living here - which was not even something that's on the table for me rn so I'm not sure why she zeroed in on that particular detail. Her exact words were "Two adults living in the apartment and neither one of you will fucking clean it so you have to hire somebody to clean it" and she made the point that I'm about to not have much money and that SHE can't afford that

Ultimately I'm sure I could have handled it better bc I have had this conversation like 700 times and I was really annoyed at having to fight at all and also being mid severance and I have a lot of anxieties about Duncan's deceit being tied to my demands that he do some housework and I will fully and readily admit I am not a good housekeeper and I don't enjoy it but I don't know if I'm like....genuinely being disrespectful bc that's really not what I want to do with my mom but she also has the emotional regulation of a sheet of rice paper so it's hard to tell

[jamesvanriemsdyk]

Best GMs and coaches in the league ACC to you?

we can start with gms because coaching is a bit more complicated. best gms in the league is easy to look at because like, who has a good team? who has had a consistently good team? whose locker room is the most cohesive, whose coaching staff is the best? who is the best at acquiring and keeping the best players, coaches, staff, etc? and you can see that in the way teams play. 

(putting this under the cut because it got long. and i mean Long.)

so, in no particular order: kyle dubas (leafs), steve yzerman (red wings, i will explain this later), don waddell (canes), julien brisebois (lightning), joe sakic (avs), and kelly mccrimmon/george mcphee (golden knights) (god i still hate that name and also will explain this later too) are the best in the league in my opinion. honorable mention to marc bergevin, who has held onto his job much longer than he arguably should have, but still has a decent team on the ice and a decent coaching staff, although the french rule does severely handicap them (i understand why it exists but it does, it just does). 

david poile (preds) is the longest tenured gm in the league (has been the preds gm since fucking 1997, thats insane, thats legit before i was born, what the fuck), and i do genuinely think he is very good at his job, and that he is very hockey smart, but oh boy have his recent decisions been suspect as hell, and that reflects in the state of his team. doug wilson (sharks), who is the second longest tenured gm in the nhl, is in the exact same boat (the karlsson deal is a nightmare, and also did he just forget that his star core was gonna get old and retire or ??).

with dubas, waddell, brisebois, sakic, and mccrimmon/mcphee all have the same basic strengths: they draft well, they have a fundamental understanding of their team structure and how to manage public perception of the team and everything that implies, and they have two fingers on the pulse of their locker room at all times. im not going to pretend to know as much about sakic and mccrimmon/mcphee as i do the eastern gms, but it doesnt take much to figure it out. look at the avs, and their locker room, the success theyve found after being dead fucking last in the league. look at the knights and their incredible success that theyve found after literally not existing before 2017. ive talked about dubas a lot on my blog, but its incredibly easy to see that waddell and brisebois do the same shit he does, and i can do a deep dive on them if asked. bergevin has moments of brilliance, like the suzuki trade and acquiring caufield and anderson, but things like kotkaniemi’s development and their entire blue line give me a massive pause, which is why he’s not in the main list. he’s a good gm. he’s just not the best.

in regards to steve yzerman: you have to understand that this is the man that built the tampa bay lightning as we know them. this man was gm of the bolts until fucking 2018. tampa bay has been a monster in the eastern conference for years, BECAUSE of the work steve yzerman put in. his team set the franchise record for wins, and he was the first and is the only lightning gm to have won gm of the year. look up the 17-18 roster. it is, essentially, the roster that won them the cup last year. make no mistake, i think brisebois is great, and hes on the list for a reason, but the biggest part of brisebois’ success was steve yzerman’s incredible hockey mind. brisebois essentially had to sell off a fourth of his roster, and the lightning are still a top team in their division and in the league, and thats why he’s there (it is so incredibly easy to fuck shit up post cup win), but the brisebois lightning would not exist without steve yzerman, plain and simple.

what steve yzerman is doing in detroit should be watched very, very closely by every single person in the hockey world. youre fucking nuts if youre not paying attention to them, not gonna lie. the mantha trade was excellent, if really sad if you know even a bit about the wings, but the amount of draft picks steve yzerman has amassed and the way he’s using the prospects and players he already has is really fucking admirable. mike babcock left the red wings organization absolutely in tatters, and i think, honestly, it was always steve yzerman’s plan to go home to detroit and rebuild. if there is anyone who is going to strike absolute gold this draft year, it is steve yzerman. watch the red wings, i am telling you, keep a beat on detroit. they are going to be good. its not an if, its a when.

(real quick on the knights situation: mcphee was the first gm of the knights, and was also president of hockey ops at the same time, and then in 2019 mcphee said he was just gonna focus on his job as president, but we all know hes still an integral part of the way the knights are run, and he and mccrimmon have kinda been building the knight together since the beginning anyway bc mccrimmon was originally mcphee’s agm. so. thats why theyre together)

as for coaches, it’s very simple. rod brind’amour (canes), sheldon keefe (leafs, yes im biased, we’ll get into it), jared bednar (avs), joel quenneville (panthers), jon cooper (lightning), barry trotz (isles), and mike sullivan (pens).

(disclaimer: obviously coaching is done as a team, and assistants and specialist coaches and staff are all very important, but the head coaches set the tone and organize the entire machine, if you will, so im going to be talking about head coaches as if theyre the entire coaching staff. its just easier this way im sorry)

im gonna just start with the easy ones: barry trotz, mike sullivan, and jon cooper have been in the league for years. cooper is the longest tenured coach in the nhl for a reason (again, just look at the tampa bay lightning. its the gm’s job to make the coach’s life easier and the coach’s job to make the gm’s life easier, and this is one of the prime examples of it in the league. its dope as hell tbh), trotz is one of the most respected coaches in the hockey world for a reason (the caps lost something when he walked. they just did. and now the isles are absolute hell to play against and that is largely the coaching of barry trotz, you legit cannot tell me im wrong), and while mike sullivan does have his faults, i think hes found a way to please both management and the crosby-and-malkin unit, which has been really really fucking hard to do. he also led the pens to back to back cups, which you can never really uh. ignore. lmao. so theres those three.

i know less about bednar, but again, another example of the coach and gm working together to make each others’ lives easier. sakic gets bednar the players and staff he needs to make the avs better, and bednar takes those players and staff and makes them into the absolute giant they are. it wouldve been really, really easy to fuck up makar’s development, or bowen byram’s, or sam girard’s, or ryan graves’s, or jost or mackinnon or rantanen’s, but he hasn’t, and he hasn’t just given up on players like burakovsky or kadri, he’s given them new life as players and made them more successful.

joel quenneville is the reason the bl/ckh/wks were a legacy team point blank period. sure they had the talent, sure the gm drafted well, but you do not get the legacy of the chicago bl/ckh/wks without joel quenneville. they fired him on a whim and it absolutely was a mistake, and the moment the cats hired him i literally out loud said ‘oh no’ because i knew exactly what that meant for the leafs and their position in the standings. the panthers are underrated generally, yes, but they would not be the powerhouse they are this season without quenneville. just look at q’s wiki stats. he’s absolutely unbeilevable. he won the jack adams in fucking 2000, before he’d even won any of the cups with the h/wks. i cant tell you what kind of a locker room coach this guy is, but i can tell you his teams win and win convincingly, and that firing him was the biggest mistake the h/wks have made in years.

whenever i talk about coaching, i talk about rod brindamour and sheldon keefe in the same breath every single time because there is no match, and i mean none, for the love inside those locker rooms. the avs, maybe, but my point stands. keefe and brindamour fucking BLEED team spirit, it is at the center of their coaching styles and their teams are good because of it specifically. marner and matthews are good, yes, and they always have been, but they have surpassed all expectation and then some with keefe. aho, teravainen, and svechnikov are good, yes, and they always have been, but they have surpassed all expectation with brindamour. brindamour and keefe have both hashtag played the game, so they Get It, and more than that, theyve grown and changed their understanding of the game as the game itself has changed, and so they can command the authority of their teams while also connecting to them on a really deep level. i should make a note here that keefe and brindamour are incredibly, deeply hockey smart, and that they are also just technically good coaches, skimming their wiki or nhl dot com articles will tell you that, but what makes them stand out to me is that their players would fucking die for them. the leafs would go through the end boards for keefe, the canes would do the same for brindamour. travis dermott said it best when keefe got promoted: boys wanna play for him. beyond that, the management skills both brindamour and keefe have are just frankly amazing (the amount of ego keefe specifically has to manage in the leafs locker room is astounding and he does it so incredibly brilliantly). the leafs and the canes are talented, yes, and would have been talented regardless of who was coaching them. but brindamour and keefe bring both of those teams from talented to exceptional, and the true mark of an amazing coach is not only how many games their team wins, but how they win them, and the leafs and canes have been winning games this year for and because of each other, and that starts with their coaches. what makes a great coach, to me, is not the talent on the team (though that certainly helps), but how the coach manages his players no matter who they are, and how he helps those players grow not just as players as people, because no matter how much pure stats people and twitter hockey dudebros wanna deny it, that shit does affect on ice play, and it does make good players better.

so theres my analysis of the best coaches and gms of the nhl, im so sorry this is so long, oh my god. also, shoutout to @bishops--knifetrick for sending me an ask about this literally a month ago that i just never answered, sorry for that, but here i hope this is good. :)

[possum-rat]

King ophelia

is this nearly 2 months late? yes yes it is.

@king-ophelia 

“If i die im totally haunting your ass”

(Y/n) x C!Sam  Platonic

______________

Mentions of: death, blood,tommy’s prison arc 

There had always been a close Mentor and Student type of bond Between a certain droopy elf-eared green-tinted skinned man and a young kid around the age of 15-16? Some might even say that it was closer, more Father and child-like. So naturally when Awesamdude began distancing himself from everyone while making the prison (Y/n) felt a mixture of anger and slightly guilt. Guilt because it wasn't Sam’s duty to take care of them. Sam had simply shown them Human kindness, and (Y/n) not having many good encounters with people had clutched to the praise that Sam had given on the regular. (Y/n) had only felt angrier and angrier as time passed. Especially when Ponk had stumbled into their small dark oak cottage on the outskirts of what was Pogtopia. His red yellow and black mask burned beyond repair and holding what was left of his arm. Leaping up from the small couch situated in the middle of the small one-floor house (Y/n) turns their attention to Ponk. As they work feverishly whispering that it’ll be okay more to themselves than anything else. That day they realize that the Man that they had admired so much and had tried to please didn't care. ------ “Sam? I made something look!” (Y/n) says happily as they pull the prosthetic arm they had been working on for Ponk. “I'm busy (Y/n), Tommy needs help with something,” Sam states as he brushes past (Y/n) without a thought. “Of course. It’s always Tommy and tubbo this. Why don't you have a second of time for me?” (Y/n) mumbles dejectedly. Shoving the arm back into their bag they grumble annoyed. Eventually, they bump into Foolish. “(Y/n)! Didn't see you there! How are you?” he asks cheerfully crouching into a squat. “I made something for Ponk. I tried showing Sam but he was busy. As always.” They say quietly while fiddling with the hem of the bag. Foolish’s emerald eyes widen in interest. “You did? Can I see?” Nervously they pull a wooden base of an arm armor of the bag before turning their attention to Foolish, (Y/n) smiles shyly up at the man before gently placing the arm in his huge calloused hands. Foolish sits on the ground in front of (Y/n) and turns the arm silently, his jade eyes staring intently at the arm that’s a quarter -if that -the size of his hand. Growing more nervous and agitated at the lack of response (Y/n) a close mentor-student type of bond between Sam and (Y/n). If you were to look closer it might be called a Father/child type of bond. Maybe even Found Family. Always ever since (Y/n) had been younger. (Y/n) had always looked up to him, always trying to be just like him. Horror was the least they felt when Ponk- stumbled into (Y/n’s) small cottage. His arm was bloody in his other arm. His mask torn in places, his hood pulled up pasted his face. To cover the deep cuts. Dropping the book they had been reading: The Book thief, on the couch they spring up and run toward Ponk one line still ringing in their head. “I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate.” The meaning of those words smacks (Y/n) like a truck. Just like how Sam had destroyed (Y/n’s) view on the world, Ruining the one last thing that kept (Y/n’s) view of the parental figure like a parent. It didn't help that (Y/n) was the youngest in the vast land of DreamSmp. Being 12 when they lost their first life jumping in front of Technoblade's fireworks that Schlatt had ordered him to fire at Tubbo. And 13 when they had lost their second life to a forest fire that Niki had started. Niki had apologized of course, but techno. You know how he is. ---- It had been a few weeks after Ponk’s visit, and (Y/n) had been wandering around looking for Sam for some input. Eventually finding him they tap his shoulder and present the Wood and golden ornate hand they had been making during the past 2 weeks. “Sam! Look!” They state excitedly. As they hold out the arm. “That's nice (Y/n). But I'm busy. I need to help Tommy with his hotel.” Sam says as he shrugs (Y/n) off brushing past them. Nodding slowly (Y/n) stands on the prime path before turning and shoving the arm into their bag before walking down the prime path with no particular idea. “Oh- sorry I didn't see you there-” A tall man with bright observant jade green eyes and golden shining olive skin gazes down wearing Egyptian royalty wear with gold, and emerald stitching along the hems of the shendyt. Shifting down he smiles down at (Y/n) his gold ornately patterned Wesekh with lapis emerald and Netherite hangs off his chest while he grins happily. Sharp shark-like teeth gleaming. “(Y/n) right?” he asks as he offers out a huge hand. “Y-Yeah. You're Foolish right?” the man nods causing (Y/n) to breath in deeply the scent of pine filling their nose. (Y/n) gazes at the ground while Foolish asks “May I see the arm you tried showing Sam?” nervously (Y/n) obliges. As Foolish sits on the ground examining the minuscule arm (Y/n) grows agitated at the lack of negative response- well any response. “Sorry- I know. It's stupid and it won't work-” they mutter quietly. “No, no-no. that’s not it at all. Im amazed at the level of detail on the fingers and the knuckles (Y/n).” --------- “Tommy? I can give a note to Dream so you don't have to see him.” (Y/n) states with an undertone of wanting to prove themselves. “No- You're too young-” he begins. “No.” They interrupt loudly. Tommy raises an eyebrow. (Y/n) never really questioned anybody's judgment, they merely followed without question. “I- uh. I want to help. Please.” they continue their voice growing quieter as the sudden jolt of courage dissolves into fear of rejection. Tommy nods a small smile on his face. “Sure. Only if you pinky promise you’ll be safe okay?” ------ As they reach the prison, the anger they had repressed for months begins bubbling up. In addition to anxiety. (Y/n) hadn't really interacted with Dream much. Only briefly when he needed somewhere to hide. And foolishly (Y/n) had let him. As they reach the other end of the portal Sam doesn't look up from the desk he’s sitting at. “Tommy. Kid. I have something for you to sign.” he says tiredly. As he places a book in front of (Y/n). “Read that out loud.” (Y/n) feels a twinge of anger at the nickname Sam had given Tommy. Sam had never taken the time to do that for (Y/n). Taking a deep breath they begin. “Page 1 I HEREBY ASSUME ALL OF THE RISKS OF VISITING THE HOLDING CELL, including by way of example and not limitation, any risks that may arise from negligence or carelessness on the part of the Prison guards, prisoners misbehaving, from dangerous or defective equipment”  (Y/n) read haltingly and slowly sounding out negligence. Sam suddenly glances up and sighs “(Y/n) why are you here. Tommy said he’d be here.” ignoring what sam had asked they continue rambling

“Page 2 or property owned, maintained, or controlled by the Prison Guards. I certify that I waive, release, and discharge the Prison from any and all liability, including but not limited to, death, disability, personal injury, property damage,” they glare at Sam and murmur “you did that to ponk. You hurt him.” they take another breath before continuing:

Page 3 property theft, or actions of any kind which may hereafter occur to me, including my traveling to and from visiting the Prisoner. Written name, then sign: (Y/n)” They sign it and slide the book toward Sam. “(Y/n). Why are you here.” they scoff annoyed and reply “Why else? I'm visiting Dream. I'm telling him something Tommy wanted me to say.” ------------- As (Y/n) reaches the platform they turn toward Sam and state. “Sam. If I die. Then I’m totally haunting your ass.” Sam sighs and retorts “You're not going to die. And stop talking. Face forward.” Nodding (Y/n) turns forward tears forming in their eyes. Gazing up at the ceiling (Y/n) lifts a hand pressing it against their eyes while mentally shouting at themself to not cry. Being in prison wasn't as bad as they thought. Dream seemed nice enough, so he made conversation. “So (Y/n) have you made anything new? I’ve heard that you like making things.” Dream says as he leans against the wall his tone curious. (Y/n) jumps at the opportunity of having someone showing genuine interest in what they enjoy. “Well- I’ve started reading Norse Myths. Those are cool- I also really like- I like uh building things. Like a few weeks ago I made a fake arm for ponk cuz Sam ripped him off.” They state excitedly. Dream nods his mask contorting into a small smile. “Wait-” Dream pauses his mask’s eyebrows contorting into a frown “Did you say Sam ripped off Ponks arm?” (Y/n) freezes the hairs on the back of their neck suddenly standing on end. They laugh awkwardly, alarms blaring internally “What- nooo that's preposterous. Why would Sam do that? I mean Sam loves Ponk.” they blabber nervously as they fiddle with their hands nervously. Suddenly there’s an ear-splitting boom. Causing (Y/n) to freeze in place. ------ About a week has passed since (Y/n) got trapped in the prison. (Y/n) eventually grew more nervous and twitchy whenever Dream so much as looked at them. On the 4th day, they had gotten a cat. (Y/n) had named the calico “Fat Ass” as he was one of the Fattest cats (Y/n) had seen. On the 8th day or so (Y/n) had been trapped Fat Ass had seemed to have enough with everything and committed unalive by walking into the lava. (Y/n) would never forget his pitiful yowls as he burned alive. The ninth day (Y/n) began growing desperate Screaming at the lava for hours on end until their throat grew dry or Dream had yanked them up and tossed them across the small room. As he yelled “(Y/N) SAM DOESN'T CARE. HE’S GOING TO LEAVE YOU HERE TO FUCKING ROT. WHY WON'T THAT GET THROUGH YOUR FUCKING HEAD.” (Y/n) grew silent at that. Playing with the orangy drawstrings of their hoodie. “Okay.” (Y/n) whispers in defeat. “You win. Just stop yelling at me please.” Dream scoffs bending closer to (Y/n) grabbing the collar of their Hoodie. “(Y/n). You're pathetic. I could kill you right now and revive you because I'm bored. I could do that for hours and Sam wouldn't move a damned muscle.” (Y/n’s) (e/c) eyes widen in fear as they whisper “Your lying.” gulping they rasp “You wouldn't. You don't have it in you-” Dream grins. “(Y/n), I’m a GOD.” He Lifts a clenched fist before sending it into their gut. “I can do this as much as I want and you can't do anything about it.” He sends blow after blow. And as he bends closer to (Y/n). They take the chance and grip his ears tightly. Before screaming as loud as they could. “SAM-” As Dream sends another punch to their gut (Y/n) pulls down hard on the ear. Dream squeezes his hands around (Y/n’s) throat. “SAM PLEASE HELP. DAD-” they wail as they kick trying to escape Dream’s grasp as air begins to be a long-lost luxury. “Aw- Are you calling for daddy? He won't come (Y/n). He’s busy.” Those last words are the final words (Y/n) here before everything doubles and shifts into kaleidoscopic colors and shapes, and they take one last half-hearted breath.

(Y/n) wakes up in a calm place. Everything is so...peaceful...weirdly so. As they spin in a circle they see a playground. The cool midnight breeze ruffling (Y/n’s) hair as they skip toward the structure. Not thinking twice (Y/n) sits on one of the swings and begins to kick off. The rocking mixed with the cool breeze of the night and footsteps- wait why were their footsteps… Jumping from the swing at the top of its arch (Y/n) comes crashing down to earth. Wincing at the feeling of their body slamming against the ground. “Hello?” (Y/n) asks quietly. “Dear? Oh my- oh you were so young- Come here let’s have a little chat you and i.” a feminine voice says. (Y/n) tenses up and replies “Can- Could I stay here? On the swings I mean? I- I don't really know- I’m a little scared here- Where am-” the feminine figure comes into sight wearing a flattering simple black dress that throws her elegant features into greater depth. “Oh Honey, Do whatever makes you comfortable okay? You're in well that's hard to explain. But to put it simply, you're dead. I guess this Empty park is yours- what did My husband's son call it? Limbo? You're stuck here while we talk.” (Y/n) freezes tears forming as they sit in front of the woman. “No- I cant- Sam saved- I’m just- I'm dreaming right?” they whimper as they clutch the soft material of their sweatshirt. “Sam- He was- He saved me and I'm just having a nightmare.” (Y/n) whispers to themselves as they rock back and forth. “Here Honey let me help you. You have a bad cut and I don't want it to get infected.” (Y/n) nods slowly and as the gentle touch of the woman’s hand grazes their cheek (Y/n) jerks awake with a start. ------------------------- There had been an alarm. Luckily Sam had been in the prison at the time. As the automated voice says calmly “The Prisoner is displaying violent acts toward the visitor.” Sam’s blood runs cold. “(Y/n)” he gasps as he sprints through a special tunnel he had created in case of an event like this. As he waits for the lava to drain he regrets ignoring (Y/n). As the lava finally drains he can see Dream leaning against a wall, a hand covering his left ear as bloodstains it. While (Y/n) seems to be asleep at his feet. That doesn't help his fears. “Dream. What the hell did you do?” Sam asks quietly as he reaches the halfway point of his destination. Dream turns slowly before reaching down to (Y/n’s) head and turning it where it’s on full display for Sam to see. Bloody, and 2 giant purple hands print upon their throat. Sam Backs up disgust filling his brain. “They wouldn't stop yelling for you. I got annoyed.” dream states simply. Sam backs away in disgust as he crouches down and hoists (Y/n) up. “Sam- D’you know they kept begging for mercy. They shouted and I quote“Sam Please help. Dad” Dream’s tone is mocking as he stretches. “Obviously you failed them as a parent. When they first came in they were so eager to have someone listen to them for once instead of being bossed around.” Dream laughs. “They tried so hard to make you happy or to be proud of them. (Y/n) felt so neglected that they were genuinely excited when me- a prisoner showed interest. That says a lot about them doesn't it Sam.” Sam stares at the floor, his heart beating faster and faster. “Sam- I heard what they said to you before they came in here.” As Sam steps back onto the floating bridge he set’s (Y/n’s) body down and backs up his hands rubbing his face as the Lava begins to return to place. Sam leans on the wall a few feet from the lava covering the entrance of Dream’s holding cell. ----- Phantom(N/n). That's the only thing the ghost remembers. The only name apart from Awesamdude. Phantom(N/N) is pretty sure that Awesamdude isn't their name.  Standing in a small purplish room, where two unfamiliar men stand one cowering under another man with a scar running down his face making his eye white. Tensing up Phantom(N/n) backs up and crutches into a small ball trying to stay out of view. But they were spotted. The man with the scar crutches in front of Phantom(N/n) and smiles offering out a reddish hand. Phantom(N/n) gazes up at him before taking it nervously and avoiding the gaze of the man wearing green while Alive(Y/n)’s voice murmurs to stay away from Dream. The man with the scar has warm hands Phantom(N/n) notices. Glancing up Phantom(N/n) smiles up at the man, as he gently guides the two of them across the bridge. As they reach the other end Phantom(N/n) lets go of the man's hand, noticing then that he has Light brownish feathers coming from the side of his head along with wings coming from his back with dark shiny greens and other colors. “(Y/n)?” he asks as he places his hands on each side of their shoulders. Phantom(N/n) frowns before saying “Oh you're talking about Alive(Y/n), I’m Phantom(N/n)” they smile up at him taking in his injury. Gently raising their hand Phantom(N/n) places a finger on the man’s cheek while frowning. “Does it hurt?” Phantom(N/n) asks their head tilting in concern. Phantom(N/n) removes their hand from his slightly rough scar before turning when a set of footsteps grow louder. As they turn Phantom(N/n) fiddles with the orange drawstrings while they gaze at the shiny slightly refective Blackstone floor. Lowering themself Phantom(N/n) sits on the floor tracing the cool stone tile as the two people talk in hushed hurried tones. Before the man with duck-like feathers suddenly erupts “SAM- THIS IS A CHANCE FOR YOU TO TRY TO REPAIR YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH (Y/N).” The other man Sam retorts his voice shaking “Quackity. (Y/n’s) dea-” Phantom(N/n) looks up at those words. As their eyes meet Sam’s they flick their gaze back to the floor. “I’m not (Y/n). I’m Phantom(N/n).” Phantom(N/n) murmurs quietly while Quackity and Sam continue to argue. As their shouting becomes louder and louder Phantom(N/n) stands up and tries to find an exit. Finding a passageway probably for employees Phantom(N/n) walks through pressing a hand to the wall as they skip through the cold narrow halls. The cool rush of air a pleasant change in contrast to the hot sticky-stale air of the prison cell. The yelling growing fainter Phantom(N/n) feels a breath of air go. On they didn't realize they were holding in. Reaching into their pocket Phantom(N/n) pulls out a soft Bunny. One with orange wool, and a small carrot attached with a thin string. Holding it in their hands Phantom(N/n) stares at it a small smile spreading on their face. An expression of confusion replaces the small smile before the grin returns.“ You’ll be...uh...Your...Pluto. Yeah, you’ll be Pluto.” One of pluto’s shiny black eyes catches the light of something and Phantom(N/n) stiffens as they gaze forward. Slowly turning around Sam stands their Axe in hand. Tensing up Phantom(N/n) says with a huff.“That’s not nice. You shouldn’t point pointy sharp things at people. Someone could get hurt.” Sam frowns before crouching infront of Phantom(N/n) and placing the axe somewhere in his inventory. Smiling in approval Phantom(N/n) shrugs their jacket higher on their shoulder before jumping toward Sam. “Who are the rings for? You and Mr.Quackity both had 2 each. Are you married to two people? Do I get 2 more dads?” The questions roll of Phantom(N/n’s) tongue fast. Sam stands up resting Phantom(N/n) on his hip his left arm securing them to his body. Sam hesitates before nodding. “Yeah.- yeah you do. Do you want to meet them?” the two people walk through the same hall that Phantom(N/n) had walked through. “Mr.Quackity? Who are you married to? Isn’t it the man with the swirly pattern and the other man with the headband?” Quackity nods slowly before muttering. “Something like that. They forgot about me.” Phantom(N/n) doesn't seem to like this information. Squirming in Sam’s grasp Sam gently places them down before they grab Quackity’s hand and smiling up at him “Well We’ll go make them unforget! Come one!” They state firmly as if there were no room for criticism.

[sockit-2-me]

PART 2

I wanted to ask him to let me go, I’ll forget his face, he’ll forget mine and we love on. But I felt paralysed. I felt so small, this man is probably only a few inches taller than me but right now he is a mountain.

The corner of his mouth smiled as he said, “Talk to me,” he placed his fingertips on my back, so lightly I almost didn’t feel it. His touch was too gentle to be true. I know that this is the calm before the storm.

I’m questioning all my morals right now because I’m thinking about how attractive he is. I’m thinking about whether my body looks good for him. These intrusive thoughts disturb me. I could be dead in minutes and I’m thinking about sex.

His fingers glide along my back, under my tshirt, he walks slowly around the table, examining me like a doctor. Trailing further I feel him attempt to jam his hand down my jeans.

“No.” I say quietly, there was no real effort or power behind me, I’ve almost surrendered already.

“Ah she speaks,” he’s standing behind me but I could imagine him rolling his eyes.

I take a deep breath, and try to control the trembles in my voice, “please, let me go, I won’t tell the police. I won’t remember anything, I promise.”

“My dear, I want you to remember everything. You missed out on all the fun last night, it wouldn’t be fair, would it.”

“Last night?”

“Yes baby, I thought you had forgotten, you’re much less feisty today.”

“What did you do to me,” this time I burst into tears, I can’t believe a few seconds ago I was romanticising this. Im helpless. Im hopeless. Im lost. Im a damsel in distress.

His smile feels more sinister now, I can feel him feed on my fear, he loves that im dying.

“I’ll tell you all about it tonight. There’s just some things I’ve got to attend to…” he trailed off like he was distracted.

“Please-“

“Listen to me. Carefully.” This is the most serious he’s gotten yet, “If you’re going to beg me or try to run away or fight me - I will fuck you until you’re paralysed and I will keep you here for the rest of your fucking life - do you understand?” He pauses and I make a muffled yes sound, he continues. “Now that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do that anyway,” he slaps my arse gently, in an endearing fashion, “you like that don’t you?”

The last part startled me. I expected the threats. I am very afraid but I think I’m beginning to dissociate. I’m calmer than I was when he wasn’t here.

“Don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, don’t I what?” I couldn’t focus as my mind was so loud and chaotic.

“Oh my fucking god. Look at me for fuck sake… there. Are you listening to me?”

The eye contact we hold feels too intimate, like he’s my boyfriend. I don’t want to look away. Maybe he senses my humanity and fear and sweat and he lets me go. Maybe he can read my mind and knows exactly how I feel. He seems like he can read my mind. He feels larger than life.

“Alright fuck it, I’ll tell you about last night, it’s a shame you’ll never get to see the videos, they are… something else…. Anyway. Me and my guys found you walking through the high street, you were rather drunk. Do you remember that part?”

“I don’t…”

He chuckles, “Naw, your little body really takes the drugs well then hm,” he scans me up and down again before he starts to remove my clothes.

“Please don’t-“

“What did I tell you about being disobedient? I want the best for you, just do what I say. Don’t make me do this to you.”

As he speaks his motions get more anger fuelled, but he calms down. This is a man on the edge and I can not test his limits. I know he’s going to hurt me but I think I can make it out of this okay.

“It was me, and my two mates from the bar. You asked us for a lighter and you were very flirty. Not just with me. With all of us. You told us how your feet hurt, and how you really wanted to smoke a joint, how drinking made you forget your problems, how you were sad that your ex never called…” All this information seems legit. I can’t believe it. I approached him.

“So we invited you to smoke with us. You trusted us blindly, like a child being offered candy. It was cute to see you so happy, you love attention, don’t you?”

I blush.

“Don’t you? Tell me you love it.”

I don’t know what to say.

I let out a little squeal as he digs his nails into my skin, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I love it.”

“You love what?”

I pause.

“I-“

Fuck! He scratches all along the backs of my legs, it’s only then that I realise he pulled my jeans all the way to my bolted down ankles.

“I love the attention!”

“Aw baby girl loves the attention. What a spoilt little girl…” when he talks like this I find myself swooning, again I’m enjoying something that should be killing me inside.

“We brought you here pretty quickly. I drove. You were tied up and shoved in the footwell, you’re so small it’s fun to force you into little places or positions… But of course this was all consensual. As is this,” he noticed my confusion and continued, “ahh yes we prepared for this moment,” he takes out his phone and shows me the screen.

He plays a video.

It’s me.

It’s like watching a ghost on camera.

I’m so drunk, I’m laughing, having fun, I’m sitting on one of the other guys’ knees I think. My top has been lifted up so it’s above my tits, my hair is a complete state and so is my makeup.

The audio from the video plays loud and clear, “yes omg why are you guys being so weird about this! Just do it! This is me giving you permission! You can have me!” I’m smiling from ear to ear in the video. Some famous last words. Somehow I feel less safe than I did before. Is this video a way of saying I consent to everything from now on? All of a sudden this feels very long term.

“You see? It’s such a shame you can’t remember, you had so much fun. You did things you’ve never done before. And we were so proud of you. I am so proud of you.”

It feels genuine. He’s proud of me. It feels good.

“Wh-what did we do?”

“Oh my dear, I can’t tell if you’re enjoying this not,” he raises a brow and I look away, am I afraid or just ashamed?

“I’ll tell you, it’s okay. You deserve to know when you get spitroasted for the first time. You know what that means little one?”

I looked at him dead in the eye as I nodded - I never thought I’d be that girl.

“Good girl. You did a very good job, considering. I fucking loved force feeding you my dick. Watching your pussy get destroyed, your eyes rolling back, your body getting weak, as your face got violated with my cock… it was something else. Oh yeah, does your little pussy hurt?”

I am shocked. I don’t know what to say.

“I don’t know”.

He chuckles, “let’s find out then, shall we?” He asked as if I had a choice.

He pulls my panties down to my ankles, the anticipation is an extraordinary feeling. The fear is incredible.

“Oh no baby, you’re all wet. Was daddy’s story getting you all excited? Do you wanna hear about how I used your fragile little pussy? You wanna hear about how I choked you till you passed out and proceeded to fuck your unconscious body?”

My legs began fo twitch, I couldn’t help it. I felt like a sex slave. I felt like all my dirty little secrets and guilty cravings are now defining me. How can I be in such a place and feel this way. I am wrong.

“Did y-“

“Yes. And we didn’t cum in you, we’re saving that for tonight, we don’t want you to be drunk, it just wouldn’t be right.”

My breathing got heavier then.

“Baby, don’t worry, you want my cum inside you. You want it. You were catting for it last night. He tapped my pussy, you want it so bad,” he started to play with my push and I realised he might be right, “my god you’re so fucking wet. Fuck.”

I can tell in his voice how bad he wants me now. And I know that I want him too.

So I make a light moan sound, not necessarily a good or bad moan. I need to play it right here.

“Baby girl you’re too enticing,” I hear him starting to unzip his clothes, and just like that the panic kicks in.

I start shaking myself as hard as I can, lashing every way possible to get out. He’s going to get me. What if he has an sti, what if he gets me pregnant, what if he doesn’t let me out? And there’s 2 more of him somewhere.

“Shh…”

He mounts me.

He’s bearably heavy, but I keep squirming, I’m tensing my legs together and screaming.

He takes his shirt off and sticks half the sleeve in my mouth, but I just spit it out. His eyes dart to mine and I learn my lesson, I stay quiet, the way he looked at me chilled me to the bone. Submission feels like the only option, I don’t know what he might do.

“Thank you baby, now be a good girl and relax for me. I know you want it, I can feel you dripping for me.”

He rubs his dick over my pussy, I am wet, I can’t deny it. He keeps rubbing, almost like he’s teasing himself. He wants me so bad I can hear it in his voice, feel it in his motions.

He puts it in.

He keeps pushing and pushing, now it’s all the way in. It hurts. I don’t think I’ve ever had a dick this big before, I can’t see it but it feels uncomfortably big. I hold my breath and clench my fists. This isn’t gonna be quick.

[angrylizardjacket]

heard your name in every love song {Ben Hardy} 10

10. like i can pretend that i don't wanna end, i'm afraid (and dangerous)

Summary: Filming your transformation scene is messier and more enlightening than first anticipated. It’s frustrated, but you all get there in the end.

A/N: 3224 words. im like half worried that the end of this chapter is too much?? but also im kind of obsessed with it. nsfw implications. when will i move on from xmen? idk maybe never (not true), but also, to all of you saying that the reader’s character is That Bitch; you are right.

the mutant brotherhood: @daisy-lu @hervoidparadise @nedmjpeter @ultrunning @d-r-e-a-m-catchme @clementimee @that-fandom-sucks-tho @cjand10 @rest-is-detail @baileymae @rosesvioletshardy @onceuponadetectivedemigod @hazelstyles94 @bitchylittleredhead @bihemian-rhapsody @sweatyexpertgardenpanda @whereeverythingisbetter @dedxbed @xxencagedxx @glittrixvibe @a-girl-with-stress @sunflower-ben @pxroxide-prinxcesss @mrsmazzello @cubedtriangle @haileymorelikestupid @misscharlottelee @nevilles-insinuations @jovialcreatorkidtoad @brianmaysclog @sambuckywarrior @hey-yo-bedussey @bubblyanis @lifesciencesbois @elektraofcrete @diosanaz @bbdoyouloveme @kirstansworld @okilover02 @cardboardbenmazzello @dreashappyworld @juliarose21 @simonedk @greycuby @emmasunshiine @dinotje @qtrogerina @spiketacus @nympha-door-a @local-troubled-writer @emphatic-af @wh0a-thisisheavy @lustgardn @banginashton @pamacs-macs @rogerinahardy1 @tired-ass-show-girl

--

San Diego was a brief but pleasant holiday, but it felt good to get back to work the following week. They’ve already filmed Magneto and Angel’s Horseman transformations, but you and Storm were still to come, a prospect you’d been looking forward to. The only cast on set for Storm’s was Alexandra and Oscar; she’s the first Horseman turned, but for you, all three Horsemen and Apocalypse himself were waiting, and of course, there was the poor human you had to kill at the start of the scene.

The actor’s nice enough, his name’s Eddie and he’s perfectly kind and professional, which is what you want out of someone you have to make out with while surrounded by cameras. He kisses soft and tentative at first, until the director instructs him otherwise, and then he’s holding your leg up by his hip, coming in hard enough that your noses smack together and you both end up bursting out laughing. He apologizes profusely, of course, but the director just calls for the scene to rest, and you tell him it’s okay.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the other Horsemen sitting back behind the cameras, waiting for their cue. Michael and Oscar are talking quietly together, Alexandra’s on her phone, and Ben is looking up at the roof, tapping on the arm of his chair. Something about it seems strange, like he’s bothered by something, but before you have time to really think about it, the director’s coming up to you.

“Okay, Y/N, you’re lulling him into a false sense of security, right? He’s anti-mutant, and your goal is to distract him until your clone shows up, so you let him think you’re docile and sweet, uh,” he’s searching for a word to describe what he wants, but the concept curdles in your mind and you’re not sure you’ll like whatever he says, so you cut him off, tell him you get what he’s asking, without hearding whatever unsavory word was about to roll off his tongue - malleable, submissive, obedient. Thankfully, he turns to your partner.

“Eddie, don’t be afraid to manhandle her, okay? You’re meant to be an asshole.” And he’s smiling, but Eddie gives you a doubtful look as he leaves.

“Are you okay with that?” Eddie asks, and something in your chest eases. You’ve had to do more than one sex scene in front of a live audience before; getting dirty in an alley was tame compared to a theater sex scene, you just wish the director wasn’t so weird about it.

“Do your worst,” you grin, thankful for his gentlemanly nature.

“My worst?” Eddie’s blushing, and your eyes widen in amusement; instead of backing down, you nod, before considering.

“As long as you’re okay with it,” you told him, and he smiled brightly, pinching softly at your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he assures, and the director calls for you both to rest the scene.

Like you, Eddie’s good at playing dark and intense when he wants to, not that you’d be able to tell that by looking at him, but he pushes you against the wall, his mouth on yours, nails digging into your thigh when he lifts your leg. His hand is holding you to the wall by your side, and when he pulls away to deliver his line, his pupils are blow wide and he, like you, is a little breathless.

Your smile is sharp when you grab the collar of his jacket to pull him closer, give him a look over as you ask him what he’s doing here, but he presses his chest to yours, trapping your hands against his chest, his lips inches from yours when he murmurs his line.

“Any chance to show those mutie freaks we’re not afraid, I’ll take.” He tells you, and you kiss the corner of his mouth after a moment, moving to whisper in his ear.

“You should be,” and when murmur it, all sharp teeth and quiet threat, he tries to step back, you shove him back, towards your waiting stunt double, done up in clone makeup, “we shall inherit the Earth.” And a choreographed brawl ensues, yourself and your stunt double Ana teaming up on Eddie as you’d rehearsed for several days.

After cut is called, Eddie gets to his feet with a grin, ready to go again. Ana gives you both a high five. You’re already resigned to having to do this another ten times, and then another twenty in the clone makeup, before you can move on from this thirty second moment.

The making out gets progressively meaner, and sloppier as the takes go on, until the director steps in and tells you both that you need to dial it back, which makes you both laugh, and kissing Eddie is like breathing. Between takes, you hang out in front of the camera, because there wasn’t usually enough time to go anywhere or do anything, but occasionally you talk to the other Horsemen, well, Alexandra, Michael and Oscar. Ben always seems to disappear the moment you want to talk to the Horsemen.

But then, finally, they’re happy with the footage of the fight, and the Horsemen are called over. The makeup team splatters you with fake blood and smudge fake dirt on you. The costume department give you a torn jacket, so you look appropriately roughed up and dangerous.

You do all the scenes as the clone while you’re still in the make up, which means Ben, who’s meant to be talking to the original alone for part of the scene, is missing, and weirdly intense and quiet when he comes back, but you figure he’s just in character.

They have you throwing yourself back onto a matt what feels like a hundred times for the actual transformation, and when you finally rise, breathing hard, the exhaustion’s not fake.

Most of the cast and crew is given a short break while your makeup is changed over to the original, and you emerge from the make up trailer feeling refreshed and ready to finish the scene. You’re still splattered with fake blood, and dirt, and your jacket’s ripped, but without the facial prosthetics, you’re feeling somewhat lighter, even eager to keep filming.

“You’re being weird,” you tell Ben bluntly while the two of you are sent to the end of the alley set, and the camera crew set up around you. You’re both sitting on the metal platform Ben jumps into the scene from, making it look like he’s landing with his wings. Ben makes a face, but thinks for a moment, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Just never seen you throw someone around like that,” he says, casting a glance to the end of the alley where Eddie’s chatting with Alexandra, laying on the ground where he’d been laying for the past few hours, pretending to be dead.

“You scared of me?” You grin, knocking your shoulder with his. He smells like smoke, the scent clinging to him, just a little, and mint he’d obviously started chewing to get rid of the taste. You lean your chin on his shoulder, giving a Cheshire Cat smile. When he turns, you’re nose to nose, and he actually seems amused.

“No,” he says very pointedly, and though he doesn’t seem annoyed at you like you’d suspected, he clearly wasn’t telling the whole truth.

“Ben,” your voice was a gentle warning, and he looked away and licked his lips, trying to find the words to explain. You sat back, regarding him cautiously.

“I’m not –“ and his voice drops even lower, so low even you, right next to him, can barely hear it, with the faintest hint of a self deprecating smile on his lips, “I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he muses, and you feel a slight weight lift off your shoulders, “at least,” he pauses for a moment, his grin stretching a little wider as he ducked his head and refused to look at you, “not in the way you’re probably thinking; kiss all the extras you like, I don’t care.”

“But then –“ but the director calls for everyone to be in place before you can ask, and right before action is called, Ben seems amused, letting you try and figure out what he meant on your own. Unfortunately he’s thrown you off your rhythm, and it takes two incredibly mediocre takes before you’re back in Cassidy’s mindset.

But then you’re there, seeing Angel, the man whose life you saved just days ago standing strong and proud, his wings now metal, something enticing in his eyes –

“You’ve gotta seduce her to the dark side,” the director tells Ben when he offers you his hand. You and Ben share a rather amused look once he’s moved back behind the camera, but the energy’s changed; by now, Ben himself knows exactly how to push your buttons with just his tone, lacing each word with implications and promises, and he’s not above using that to produce a genuine reaction from you.

“What do you want from me?” You demand once action is called, uncertain of what his character’s doing here, hesitant to trust, but his gaze is intense, his usually bright eyes surprisingly dark.

“We’re taking what we deserve,” his voice caresses every word, low and dark, eyes burning into yours, and you don’t look away, barely registering the camera in your face, catching every slight shift in your expression, “what we’re owed.” And he offers you his hand, palm up and inviting, and you glance to it, before looking back at his face. You swallow hard.

Cassidy wants power, of course, but in this moment, you realize, and you hope it shows on your face, she wants him too.

“Cut! Reset!”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and Ben breaks out into a grin, stepping back and shaking out his hands, unable to look you in the eye as he moves to reset. In contrast, you’re quiet, still in Cassidy’s headspace, trying to keep up your intensity in the meanwhile.

There’s a take where he changes the line, where he steps into your space, closer than usual, and tells you ‘we’re taking what we deserve, what we’ve been promised’ and your mind flashes to how he’d looked at you like that in the movie theater in LA, eyes dark and shiny and somehow promising and begging at once. You grab his hand – it’s not in the script, the scene is meant to cut before then, but if you don’t touch him, don’t dig your nails into his hand, you’re going to kiss him right there in the middle of shooting. And he can tell; when the director calls cut, Ben’s repressing a pleased little smirk, and he gives your hand a squeeze.

The director tells you that they’ve got all the footage they’d need, and you both head back to the other end of the alley, to the rest of the cast.

As the crew starts setting up, you sigh deeply once you reach the cast, sitting on the ground and letting yourself relax for the short time you have. Ben sits by your side, and you rest your head on his shoulder, legs out in front of you. His hand is resting on your thigh, palm up and open, you don’t even think before you start tracing shapes, this time stick figures of your characters.

“You guys sounded like you were killing it,” Eddie notes with a perfectly kind smile, smiling up at you where he was laying on your other side on his back, waiting.

“I’m just glad to have a few minutes off my feet,” you sigh, lifting your head to look at him with a tired smile. It’s been a long day.

“You alright?” Ben asks, and his thumb taps once on the side of your hand.

“I’ll be fine,” you answer, and trace a distinct check mark against his palm.

You run through the rest of the scene with little fuss, let yourself slip back into Cassidy, into that power-hungry, Machiavellian mindset, willing to kill to get what she wants. She surrounds herself with people who will be useful, and once that was Mystique, but now it’s the Horsemen; it’s a God, it’s Magneto, the man she’s molded her ideologies after, it’s Storm, with lightning simmering beneath her skin, and it’s Angel, who she knows from experience fights for his survival.

They want her; it’s validating, it’s flattering, and you smile devilishly when you tell them your name is Control.

“Control; you want them to fear you,” Oscar tells you, and raises his hands to you, and as he does, you make yourself feel it, feel the power he’s blessed you with, has surging into you all at once. As Cassidy, it overwhelms you, your senses, has you shaking, and you don’t want to scream, don’t want to hurt these people, but it’s too much; he’s forcing clones into you, out of you, bringing out the power you hadn’t even known you’d been capable of.

The first two of your screams are underwhelming, while you’re still searching for the right emotion, for the right motivation, and you feel like a fool; you know your first scream, all those weeks ago, had been talked up, and now you’re hoarse and the director’s given everyone a break, and is trying to give you a pep talk. It’s condescending. It’s everyone has off days. It hasn’t been an off day; it’s been a long day.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” you brush him off, annoyed, crackling with frustration at yourself, but finally latching onto the right emotions for the scene. He calls to reset. The other actors walk onto set, and you crunch on the lozenge you’d been sucking on, and down half a bottle of water in only a few moments.

“You okay?” Ben asks, and your eyes are flashing dangerously as you give a brief nod. For just the barest moment, he stalls, surprised, and you see a surprising emotion flicker over his face; he’s into it. It doesn’t do much for your mood, but you catalogue it in the back of your mind.

“You want them to fear you, and they will. They all will.” Oscar says, hands out, and you feel it again, powered by the need to prove yourself, show that you’re as good as Ben and the director say you are, fueled by the frustration of people feeling as though they’re allowed to condescend you because of your age, or your gender, your frustration at yourself, for ever thinking that not living up to your potential was an option.

The scream comes from your chest, lower this time, shaking with rage and frustration and pain.

You fall back, breath ragged, expression furious, and your stunt double helps you up, still in the clone makeup, but when you face the other Horsemen, you know that this was the one. They’re smiling, they look proud.

“You will bring the world to it’s knees,” Oscar tells you, voice heavy with gravitas and you believe him without hesitation, believe the smug smile he wears, and the genuine pride in his eyes. Your hands are shaking, and you step through where they’ve marked out the portal again.

“Okay cut, awesome! We’re just gonna get one more for safety,” the director calls, and you turn to him, eyes burning bright with intent.

“I can do that,” and you mean it.

After the scene’s finally wrapped, you find yourself still in a strange mindset in wardrobe, spaced out, staring into the middle distance, half dressed as you’re ruminating on the day.

I’m not jealous in the way that you think.

Ben’s words played on repeat in your head, and you knew you were close to figuring out what he meant.

You’re in hair and makeup when one of the assistants tells you how mean and badass you look, and you remember the way Ben had looked at you when you’d almost snapped at him and – oh.

“Can you leave the blood and grime and stuff?” You asked as she approached you with a makeup wipe. Pausing for a moment, she frowned, but only took a moment to shrug and agree. It didn’t give anything away about your character when paired with your plain clothes, so you were allowed to leave in it.

When anyone asks, you just shrug and put on a cheery façade, and explain that you don’t get to look this cool often. You don’t pay Ben much attention, feeling a little smug at realizing what he’d been hinting at, and wondering how you hadn’t seen it earlier.

[I get it now] you text him before heading from set towards where the company cars were coming to pick you all up and take you back to the hotel, or to wherever you want to go.

[oh?] and after a moment he follows it with [btw, im a fan of the makeup].

[of course you are] you respond, and you both know without having to communicate about it, that you’re both going back to the hotel. The car ride is silent, but Ben’s struggling to hide his smile; he knows you know.

You wait for almost twenty minutes in your own room, making sure no-one was around or in the hall, before heading next door. Ben’s waiting, sitting on the bed, flipping through his phone.

“So what have you figured out?” He asks, all smug, his gaze raking over you, still covered in fake blood and dirt, looking like you’ve crawled out of hell. He knows, and he’s making you say it.

“I can’t believe you were jealous that it wasn’t you I was throwing around today,” you say, leaning against the door; Ben’s smile widens.

“I don’t exactly think you could –“

“But you’d like me to try, right?” You asked, voice sticky sweet and poisonous as you approach him, movements slow and deliberate, like a panther moments from striking, “you watched me pretend to kill a guy and thought I want that.” He’s clearly amused, but also absolutely blushing. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy being in control, you’d realized, but he doesn’t mind having the option of not being in control.

“It’s… different watching you act,” Ben says carefully, and for a moment he averts his gaze, “Cassidy’s mean; I didn’t realise you had it in you as much as you do.” He admitted.

“Because it’s my job, Ben,” you told him, rolling your eyes, tone a little condescending, and the way you say his name has a shiver running down his spine, “and I’m very good at my job.” You told him matter-of-factly, all confidence, no hesitation. Now you’re on the bed, giving him little time to think before you’re in his lap, straddling him, one hand braced by his head against the wall as you lean in.

You’re not quite in character, but you’re not quite yourself; you’re somewhere in the middle, powerful and unapologetic.

“Fuck,” Ben muttered beneath his breath, his gaze locked with yours, pupils blown wide, grinning, “you’re hot when you’re mean.” For just a moment, you let yourself give a genuine grin at the compliment, before you kiss him hard.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Four

Ao3,   Masterpost,   C.1  C.2  C.3

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality, mentioned platonic relationships

tumblr edits out my italics when i copy/paste, and its midnight on a school night, so. italics arent in the tumblr version of this chapter cuz im not manually replacing them rn :P

Warnings: Taxidermy, swearing, fights (verbally, not physically), mentions of death, sexual innuedo (thanks remus), sympathetic everyone but there is Conflict. 

Word Count: 2,645

Patton had learned, in his many years of emotion-filled life, that every person interacted with others uniquely. An obvious thing to learn, maybe, but in his younger years he felt like it really wasn’t made clear enough.

When it finally hit Patton that other people didn’t feel things in just the same way he did, it came with slow disbelief. Shocked was he to learn that not only were people so vastly different inside, but that he might’ve been one of the most different of all- even with the other sides. After all, each of them had seemed to understand all their differences like it was second nature, while Patton tried to come to terms with the information.

And come to terms with it he had, throughout Thomas’ late teens to early twenties. It was just Patton’s nature to try and learn about his friends, and that didn’t change when the task got harder. If anything, he’d become furiously determined to know how to care for all his family better than anyone, even if it more than once sent him spiralling in thought.  

Logan, for example, was at his best when he was around other people; calmly talking, debating, doing work in the same space, anything that amounted to time spent together. So, even when Patton didn’t know what he was going on about, he did his best to at least be someone Logan could talk at. Which must’ve have worked somehow, because Patton couldn’t even count the times anymore he’d realized it had been hours after starting a conversation with his best friend, the both of them grinning and talking and enjoying each other’s company. Color Logan understood!

Roman, an even easier case to crack, didn’t really care what kind of attention he got- as long as it was positive. Which Patton was of course happy to provide! Though Roman became easily suspicious of any signs of friendship, Patton liked to think he’d weaseled his way into being a close companion, if the amount of times Roman dragged him off on adventures was any indication. Roman, too, was a check! 

Virgil had been harder to figure out; not enough support and he got nervous, too much and he’d get overwhelmed. Fine balances did not come easily to Patton, so there had been more than a little trial and error. He’d eventually landed on treating him not unlike a wild cat: to just exist in the same space and let Virgil do whatever he wanted in his own time (a method that had found resounding success!). Virgil, much as he wanted to seem mysterious, was also marked off the list of understanding. 

Janus was deceptively easy to work out. He just needed someone to challenge him, all in good sport, to be friendly and frustrating at the same time. Call it environmental enrichment, but with people! Patton was more than happy to be one of those people, pushing and pulling in equal parts banter and genuine conversation. Janus, surprisingly, was clear as well. 

Patton wondered if it was weird to think about it so much. He thought about all of them, and he wondered if they took time to decode him, too. Or maybe they just knew already- they saw the heart on his sleeve (or chest, as it were) and had him all figured out right then.

He liked to believe they did spend time thinking about it, though. It was nice to think he wasn’t the only one that cared enough to take the time, and he knew that they cared about him already! Even if they didn’t say it as much as he did, even if they showed it all differently, and even if sometimes it felt like they didn’t understand him�� 

They still cared. The hoodie around his shoulders said so. The card framed on his wall said so. The stray dog dander on his clothes said so. So long as he had that, who needed the luxury of understanding?

Patton shook his head, no, he wasn’t worrying about all them right now. Right now, there was someone else to worry about.

Remus. Remus, who always chatted on and on, but sometimes went dead quiet for no reason at all; whose expression never seemed to match his words, who laughed when he was happy and when he was angry, who yelled when he was bored and when he was overwhelmed. Remus, who threw himself around a corner for a cheap jumpscare every five minutes, limbs broken and wrapped in ragged, punk-style clothes. Who would also drape himself all the way across Patton gently and calmly, wearing something baggy and impossibly soft (but still neon as ever), talking and talking and acting like it was all perfectly normal. Remus, who Patton wasn’t even sure was officially his friend yet.

Patton wanted him to be. But there was still… something in the way. Some kind of frustrating, tense, unknowable barrier that left him on edge around the trait. If Remus could just tell him something, anything, or give him any hints at all about what Patton was supposed to make of him, then it wouldn’t be so downright impossible. But he was inscrutable, an open book written in a language Patton didn’t know.

Whenever Remus walked into the room, it was almost like nothing had even changed since his acceptance. 

Speaking of-

Patton barely had time to dodge out of the way as Remus leapt onto the couch, landing in a sprawl and taking up as much space as possible. He looked out of breath, so he’d probably booked it down the hallway and stairs, too. Just as probable was him having no reason for doing so at all. 

“Hello,” Patton said.

Remus, from his laid down position, arched his neck up until he was peering upside-down at Morality. He had a reserved look in his eyes, but it was obvious he was fighting not to grin. 

“Guess what I did.”

Patton paused. There were… a lot of ways that could go. Most of them weird.

“Um-”

Remus made a disturbingly accurate buzzer noise, exclaiming, “Took too long!”. He flipped over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his palms, his legs draped over the arm of the couch, and rocked back and forth excitedly. “I made you something!” 

The worry slipped out of Patton’s mind, replaced by curiosity. He hummed, smiling, and asked:

“Like a gift?” 

Remus beamed.

“Something like that!”

As Patton laughed by response, he ran his thumb compulsively over his bead bracelet (that he hadn’t taken off even once since getting, of course). 

“That’s so sweet!” he chirped, “You didn’t have to do that.”

The Duke puffed out a breath, ruffling the white section of his hair. He rolled his eyes and shifted around, pushing up until he sat upright. 

“Yeah, I know. Haven’t we done this dance before, Morey?”

“Okay, okay, I know,” Patton shrugged, his expression turning sheepish, “What is it, then?”

Remus’ grin widened in that almost impossibly way of his, and something about the glint of his teeth was distinctly threatening. It probably wasn’t intentional, but Patton could never really tell, when his claws tapped impatiently against his leg and something mischievous wormed into his expression.

“Well, you have to close your eyes, first!” Remus clapped his hands together, and there that glint seemed to get brighter.

“Oh, uh-”

“It’s not gonna be my dick, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Patton yelped, covering his face with his hands in embarrassment. 

“Well I wasn’t worried before you said that!”

Remus shrieked with laughter. Patton didn’t move his hands from his cheeks, a flush of discomfort starting at his ears and pricking his skin. 

“You’re hilarious, but no- not this time, at least,” -Remus winked- “But just close your eyes, okay?”

Patton took a couple deep breaths, glancing up to give Remus his best approximation of a stern glare. He then let his hands drop to his lap, palms up, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

There was a soft whoosh, and something small was dropped into Patton’s waiting hands. He ran the pad of his thumb over its surface, tracing something like fur. Soft, short fur, but when he pressed it was far too stiff to be a plush animal. 

“Remus,” Patton felt along the object with both hands, jolting when he felt something scaly at the end, “What-”

“You can look now!”

Patton did as told, staring down at his lap. 

There laid a rat. 

A dead one, to be precise. A dead, taxidermized rat, posed up on its hind legs like some goofy little cartoon character. It’s eyes were impersonal glass orbs, but its skin was perfectly, horribly real.

Patton looked up, his eyes wide with disgust, to see unfiltered excitement shining on Remus’ face. 

“I made it myself!” His pride echoed in the words, that grin stretching his lips looking all the more unnatural.

It was then that Patton’s body caught up with his brain, and he realized what exactly he was holding. He dropped it- all but threw it, actually- kicked it and scrambled back and anything to just get away. 

The gift fell to the floor with a dull thump, toppling under the coffee table and out of sight. Patton pressed his hand against his mouth, the other one tightly fisted in his lap. He felt sick- sick enough that his brain was leagues away from rationality. Because he’d really touched- held- that corpse, that thing that used to be a cute little critter, what was now a homemade trinket of horror.

He turned his attention back to Remus, and a million thoughts and feelings rushed him. Betrayal, horror, fear- and weirdest of all was surprise.

Remus’ smile twitched, and he tipped his head from side to side.

“You dropped it,” he pointed out, “I thought you liked rats?”

The noise Patton made was something between a gasp and a cry. 

“I like alive ones!” He exclaimed, pushing himself back until there was a good cushion’s distance between himself and Remus. 

Remus’ smile dipped lower. 

“Well, this way you don’t have to take care of it! It’s all of the cute with none of the trouble!”

“You think this is cute?!” 

He couldn’t believe this was happening, after everything- he hadn’t gotten through to Remus even a little? It was all still a game for him to terrorize Patton? To shove dead things into his lap and laugh about it?

But Remus wasn’t laughing, strangely. In fact, he was very still. 

“You don’t like it?”

In hindsight, Patton would look back on what he said with remorse so strong it gave him headaches. He had scores of memories like that, of course, but this one’s sting would never fade, not even long after they’d moved on from it. But in that moment of fear, of revile, he could not think about anything else but the feeling of being tricked by his almost-friend laying heavy in his stomach. 

“Like it? Is this- are you joking? Remus, you made me touch a dead animal! I thought we were starting to be friends, but- oh my God, what is wrong with you?!”

Patton was sure he stopped breathing right after he said that, his voice choking out. In the silence that followed, you could’ve heard a pin drop. 

Remus stood up, and everything about the way he moved showed a woundedness that didn’t suit him. He looked at Patton with an awful intensity, his ruby-red eyes practically glowing. There was nothing vulnerable about him when he was hurt, nothing at all like how Patton would respond to something like an argument. There was only anger and tension.

He didn’t smile, but his voice stayed pitchy. Gleeful. 

“Everything,” Remus hissed, “I thought you’d catch on before now, but.”

Remus spun on his heel, and the floor beneath him bubbled with oil and acid and plague as he sank into the ground and out of the living room. The carpet shriveled, sick-green, in his wake.

That was when the understanding hit him. A lot like a train. 

“Oh, no,” whispered Patton, “Oh, no.”

Patton struggled to his feet, as if on autopilot. Was he going to go after Remus? No, no, that definitely wouldn’t go over well. He was probably halfway into the Imagination by then, anyway, ready to take his anger out on his creations and not do any talking at all. 

Patton tore his eyes away from the spot where Remus had sunk out, stumbling over to the coffee table instead. He crouched, reached his hand under it, and let his fingers touch the fur of his discarded present. He grabbed it, looked down at it. The wave of nausea when he saw the little rat was now less disgust, and much more regret. 

He cradled the preserved creature in his hands with all the gentleness he could. There was a slip of thick, yellowish paper attached to it, that in all the upset had gone completely unnoticed. It was folded in half, tied with twine to the rat’s neck. 

Patton looked into the rat’s shiny, empty eyes for far too long, watching his reflection be distorted by the spheres. He took a shuddering breath, then, and thumbed the edge of the paper, felt its grain, and flipped it open. 

“This is Jenner. You can have him, because even if you’re a priss, if you can handle me you can handle having cool shit like this. Plus, you’re weirdly nice to me, so I guess I don’t mind being nicely weird to you.

-R (the funnier one <3)”

Patton read the note once. Twice. Three, four, maybe six times the words ran over each other in his head.

The paper slipped from his fingers. He held his rat in both hands and stared down its coffee-brown snout. Patton couldn’t help bringing the figurine to his chest and hugging it tightly, like it was the thing he’d hurt so badly, serving as surrogate. Its sharp fingers and tail poked through his shirt like needles, but he ignored it, holding the irrational hope that the inanimate object could forgive him somehow. 

Jenner was creepy, that was probably intentional; his proportions and pose were so uncanny it couldn’t have been an accident. And it was so, so very Remus of a thing that Patton couldn’t stand to hate it. His shift in view was so sudden, and in some sad way he realized that the conflict had been the final piece he’d needed. What let that understanding crash into Patton’s mind, painting the picture of somebody layered.

The picture of Remus, who he was, had finally clicked into place- and at the exact worst time for it to do so.

Patton had fucked up. Massively. 

He didn’t react how he thought he would when he realized it. He didn’t grow weary and exhausted, desperate to apologize and then collapse into unthinking sleep for days. Gone was the emptiness of making promises that he hoped he could hold true on, just wanting to have gotten it right the first time. No, Patton felt something burning under his skin, something itching him to take action because he’d learned from a mistake. He knew exactly what he’d done, and he was ready to do better right damn now. 

Patton breathed in deep and exhaled sharp, because first… 

He sunk out to his room, Jenner tucked into the crook of his elbow. He rose up at his bedside and shoved a handful of knickknacks off the nightstand. With enough space cleared, Patton set his rat down on the table and stood it up on his alarm clock, facing the bed. And then, as just a final touch, he smoothed back the fur of its head and gave it a peck on the forehead.

Now, he had some planning to do. 

Chapter Five

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob

[oh-for-fic-sake]

It All Worked Out In The End

When the parents are away the kids will play... or fight one of the two.

I am genuinely have a too much fun with these imagines.

Masterlist

Warninngs: Swearing ,Mentions of fighting ,Hinting at Drugging and Rape (nothing explicit)

Jaskier stood befor you in your rented room dunking the bloodied rag into a jug of cool water before wringing it out then lightly dabbing your eye brow and angry claw marks on your face. Ciri stood off to the side apprehensive watching the bard tend to the wound.

"Got her good tho didnt i?" He smirked at that trying so hard to be disappointed in you but he really couldnt. 

"Yes I even won a bit of coin, lets just hope the other two dont come back until this has gone down we can explain the black eye and cut but not the scratches."

"Yeah ... I still have all my teeth tho!" Cheerful in your victory utterly pleased with yourself Ciri shook her head at this then spoke up in disbelief.

"Where did that even come from?" You grinned wincing again as it hurt the bruises that were forming on your cheek and jaw.

"Well my sweet Cirilla a few years of pent up anger can do wonders for your right hook or in my case bitch slap" She snorted relaxing as she saw that you were to all intents and purposes unharmed. She wandered over to the bags on the chair by the bed.

"Wait Jask did you say coin? You put coin down?" Jaskier shrugged in response to your question dipping the rag in to the water again.

"Hey they started taking bets at the bar, I wasnt gonna join in but then looked at you , there was no way you werent gonna put her down ,your face looked a lot like Geralts growley face"  He swiped over your face one last time there was a pregnant pause.

"So you gonna split the coin?"

"Nope" He said popping the p dropping the now pink cloth with a wet slap on the table. Your younger sister from another mister walked back over to you with a small vial. Poppy milk or better known to you as morphine.

"Yennefer left us some poppy milk for emergencies, you should take some now before you really start feeling it.How are we going to keep this from them?" Waving a hand motioning to your damaged face as Jaskier prepaird the medicine. If you were honest you didnt think that far ahead at the time you just needed to ko that Bitch -which you did thank you very much- but you knew what Ciri was getting at Geralt and Yennefer were a couple of mother hens... allbeit slightly more intimidating... and dangerous... and volatile. 

"Not sure we can" You replied nodding greatfully at Jaskier who offered cup of water that held a dose of the pain killer. Knocking it back before pulling faces at the bitter taste.

"Oh god! Ugh no" you shook your head befor quickly eating a cube of cheese from the small platter in front of you. The singer shrugged ignoring your outbust looking between the both of you.

"All i do know is that your going to be in trouble when they do find out" He said in a sing song voice you slumped back in the chair grunting.

"Oh yer how'd you figure its just me in shit Jask" Sputtering he glared at you

"Maybe because your the one who decided to turn savage and attack a whore! You even bit her bit" You tapped a pointing finger on the table

"Ok fisrt things first she hit me first got a strict rule never throw the fisrt punch but allways throw the last and second yeah fair enough i bit her but she was fighting dirty. And you could have pulled me off her, you also placed a bet on me which was encouraging it.If im going down your coming with me." He gaped at you in disbelief.

"What about her she didn't intervene either?" 

"She also didn't bet on me."

"I don't think Geralt himself could have dragged y/n off her" Ciri quipped from the side lines you nodded at her continuing.

"Not only that im pretty sure they left you in charge bard so really when you think about it its all your fault" He pailed as you and Ciri high fived.

"I need to lie down" Wobbling to the bed flopping on it face first.You and Ciri shared a look after a few beats of silence befor being asked the enevitable question 

"So how did it start anyway?" 

"Thats what id like to know" Came from the bed as Jaskier sat up.

"Not really sure she was just running her mouth i geuss" You lied patting her head befor freighning tirednes making your way to the other bed deciding that she never has to know the real reason to you cat fighting with a whore. A few days later after the scratches and swelling had faded the others returned they hastily made their way up to the room. Geralt started speaking as he stormed through the door.

"Can some one explain to me why iv just had to pay for a whores loss of earnings And medical costs?" You balked

"Loss of earnings I knocked out her teeth surely shes making double on blowies" Jaskier snorted into his mug

"What the fuck happened?" Geralt growled out not finding your comment amusing in the slightest as he saw the clawed bruised cheek, blackened eye and cut on your brow he quickly gave Ciri and Jaskier the once over fearing youd all been attacked, relife flooded him when he saw they were ok . Yennefer gasped striding past the seething witcher stopping in front of you placing a soothing hand on you uninjured cheek.

"Who did this?" She whispered you beamed at her nuzzling into her palm.

"Dont worry I dealt with it. Besides I got off lightly you should see my opponent" Ciri nodded in agreement befor breifly explaining.

"Y/n had a fight with a whore, beat her into the ground actually then knocked her out with a single back hander. Was quite immpressive to watch"

"Made a satisfying sound to" Jaskier added Geralt looked between the three of you.

"So Y/n had a cat fight with a whore?" You all nodded

"And did enough damage to not only knock out teeth but keep her out of work for a few days?" The three of you shared a look and nodded the hunter sighed a deep breath crossing him arms.

"Do i want to know what started it?" 

"Probably not" was you offered choosing once again to keep the fact it was for Ciri's sake to yourself, trying to trick you in to selling yourself for a night was one thing but planning to drug and sell Ciri was a completely different ball game. She was family.No one was getting away with that not on your watch its lucky you caught on to the hushed conversation. You dont want to think about what could have happend if you hadnt been paying attention. Geralt threw his hand up looking towards Yennefer when it was clear none of you were going to elaborate any more then that. Aproaching he droped his swords and bag taking Yenns place tilting your face to inspect your wounds.

"Well they didnt do much damage or manage to fracture anything ,even your nose which is good." He leaned in kissing your forhead chasetly. As yenn preceeded to pull you over to where her bag was on the bed with a healing balm in hand stippling it over the cut on your face.

"Fighting a whore honestly, can't leave you alone for a few days with out you getting into trouble. I hope you know your in trouble missy" She muttered as she flitted threw her bag then began fussing over your split knuckles applying a different ointment.

"And the money we had to give her for this whole incident is comming out of your allowance starting today" Geralt grunted from the table Jaskier and Ciri watched in peels of laughter as you tried squirming away from the sorceress pleading with the unimpressed white haired male you continued protesting at Geralt's decision until he pinned you with a stern look that shut you up. Yeah he wasnt a happy camper.

"And your grounded from singing bard" Jaskier stopped laughing 

"What?"

"you were told to take care of them and it doesnt take an idiot to guess why this is considerably heavier you dont make this much from singing alone" he growled out lifting up jaskiers bulging coin pouch .All in all the couple took it better than any of you thought they would, you were relieved they didnt push the issue as if they knew what had kicked it off they probaly would have burnt that whore house to the ground, whores and all... Jaskier did share his winnings tho so it all worked out in the end,Jaskier made a weeks worth of coin in a night, you saved Ciri ,let out some pent up aggression and Geralt didnt have kill anyone.

[plusultrachaos]

Soft prompt- eri's first Christmas with mic and aizawa and getting to celebrate it for the first time.

hey babs. happy anniversary! im dedicating this prompt to you (even though that you sent the ask in), because youve mentioned soft erasermic is your favorite. i really hope that you like it babs!

She watches each petal of the small white things fall to the ground, gasping as they collect on the edge of the window. She doesn’t try to hold back the excitement that she feels, unlike she would’ve done less than a year ago. She doesn’t let her smile drop as she remembers pleading with him to even be able to touch, much less play in the fluffy white snow that never ceased to intrigue her. 

She doesn’t let the memory rid her face of her smile, but she does let it make her hesitate. The memory plays tricks on her like a game, making her want to ask because her dads, they're different, but also what if they aren't. And it's that thought that steals the smile from her face.

“Eri?” Present Mic’s voice startles her from her intense stare down with the window. “Everything okay, sweetie?” His voice is gentle in a genuine way and it brings the smile back to her face followed but a small nod. “Good. Shou and I were wondering if you’d like to go play you in the snow? We don't have to if you don't want to, but it would be something fun to do.”

She looks at him with wide eyes, she’s sure resembles the funny cartoon characters eyes. How had he read her mind? She nods fast beforeMic can change his mind about letting her go play in the snow. Before she even lets Mic move to grab her, she’s headed to the door, ready to bolt and see just how fluffy the snow actually is. 

She hears Mic’s soft laughter and looks away from her shoes that she’s trying to shove on her feet. She tilts her head in confusion. 

“You have to put on a coat and some other things first so that you don't get cold or sick.” Eraserhead’s voice comes from the hallway and he follows it, a big fluffy pink coat filling his arms. On his head is a pastel purple hat that looks really silly on him.

“Oh.” She sets the shoe she had been trying to force onto her foot on the ground and walks over to her dads,hobbling on one foot taller than the other.. Eraserhead crouches down to her level, helping her put the nice coat over her arms and zipping it up to her chin. He wears an unusually soft smile on his face as he pickles her up into his arms. 

“Do you know what today is, kid?” His voice is soft like Mic’s earlier and it makes her cuddle closer to him, tucking her face in close with a shake of her head. “That’s okay. It’s Christmas. It used to be a holiday specifically one religion to celebrate, but after a while, it became a holiday to celebrate family and to give gifts to each other.” She pops her head up to look at her dads. 

“I don’t have to be good to get the gifts? No tests? You promised that there wouldn't be any more tests!” She tries to scramble from Eraserhead’s arms as the memory tells her to run. She cant get out of them, but she doesn’t give up just yet. She keeps trying to get out of his arms until hes shushing her gently and she stops fighting.

“No, Eri. You don't have to be good or do any tests. Not for these gifts or any other gifts. YOu get these just by being a part of our little family.” She looks at Mic aas he says this, she can feel the relief course through her system. “Now, time to get that other shoe on and play out in the snow, huh?” She nods and Eraserhead lets her slide out of his arms to go and grab Mic’s outstretched hand. 

They all play outside for a few hours. It's colder than she had anticipated, but in the most exciting way. She has a lot of fun. When they head back in, Eraserhead takes her to go change into warm pajamas that warm her up while Mic makes something warm for them to eat and drink before they open the presents that showed up next to the sad, slowly withering plant that Eraserheead and Mic own.

She and Eraserhead get to the kitchen and he helps her onto the circle stool that twists around in circles. He sits in the one next to her and they both watch as Mic cooks for them. She looks at Eraserhead and sees the same look that he gives the cats. “Do you like Present Mic? Like like-like him.” She hears Mic pause in his humming for a second before Erasehead is answering in a low voice. 

He nods.“Shh. You can’t tell him that I like-like him. It's a secret.” Small smiles pop onto both of their faces with the secret knowledge that is held between them. Eri catches the soft smile that Mic has on his own face. She giggles and pulls Eraserhead in close so she can whisper in his ear. 

“I think you should tell him, Mr. Eraser.. I think he likes you too.” She watches his smile bloom bigger like a flower on his face. 

Soon after that, Mic sets a plate in front of Eri and shes stares at it a bit before looking at him again. She looks back at the food before starting to eat what she was given. When she looks back up from her food, it is to Eraserhead and Mic hugging each other close. She doesn’t say anything to interrupt them and  gets off her chair quietly before attempting to place her dishes in the sink. She goes out into the lounge and sits on the couch, waiting for her dads to join her. 

Her eyes are latched onto the small pile of presents that surround the dying plant (maybe she should give it more life, but she doesn’t really want to and they haven’t asked her to). She really wants to know what is in the neatly wrapped packages. 

Eraserhead and Mic come into the lounge, their smiles holding a different sparkle to them, but at the same time the smiles sparkle the same, just a little bit brighter. They are the same happy smiles they had been sharing in the kitchen before. “Are you ready to open your gifts Eri?”

Christmas is a fun day and Eri can’t wait for the next one with her dads.

(there is no taglist for this one bc it is a gift.)

[starkeristheendgame]

hey!! im really sorry to bother but i really love your writing & saw that you were taking prompts!! i was wondering if you could do one where tony has a sort of kink for calling peter ‘kid’ in a way, if your comfortable of course! sorry if my English isn’t the best!

I’m so sorry that this got buried to the bottom of my inbox! I hope you’re still around and that you get to see this, and I’m so sorry again that it drowned! I hope you enjoy it and I can only apologise if you hate it 😂

Also; please, please don’t ever apologise for your verbal or lingual ability. Learning another language is hard, and English is noted as one of (if not the most) hardest languages to learn. Being bi/multi-lingual is something to be insanely proud of!

I hope you don’t mind, but all of my prompts recently have been in canon universe, so this is a neighbours AU with no powers. In which Tony is a rich ex-businessman who just wants to tinker on old cars in his (not) retirement and Peter is the high school kid that won’t leave him alone.

TW: ‘Kid’ kink (the term) | Underage character | Underage (SS&C) sex | Daddy kink

Someone had bought the house next to his over the half-term. Peter knew this because the sale sign went down and the garden was immediately de-turfed and a notice was posted through everyone’s door on Wayforest Road that ‘minor construction’ would begun within the next two weeks, from 8am to 5pm daily, save for Saturdays and Sundays.

Peter wanted to laugh in - and then punch - the face of whoever decided to term it minor. Abruptly on the following Monday, almost a full half-hour before his alarm was due to go off, Peter was awoken by deep, loud voices and the clanging of scaffolding poles as the workmen arrived.

Groaning did nothing. Neither did flopping about pathetically on his bed like a beached fish. Burrowing under his duvet and his pillow was also a lost cause; he’d left his window open to keep his room cool in the night.

Seething, Peter flung himself from bed, turned off his alarm, and hopped in the shower. The workmen were gone when he came back, but the house was now a big, ugly grey thing besides his own, and he paused on the sidewalk to eye it mulishly. “If you’re another crabby old man; I’m not helping you walk your groceries up to your porch” he announced loudly to the empty house, and scuttled away to the safety of his own home after being eyed balefully and judgmentally by Mrs. Witkin’s cat.

At the dinner table, the new house and its new occupants were all Aunt May seemed to want to talk about, despite the way Peter’s face resembled less of his usual ‘ :) ‘ and more of a ‘ -.- ‘ as she went on, guessing the features of their new neighbour animatedly around mouthfuls of mashed potato.

Tuesday morning found him jolting awake to a shout of “Jim! Jim! For fuck’s sake, Jim, get tha’ fuckin’ plank!” In a thick, overly loud Irish accent.

By Friday, Peter was ready to forgo just a punch to the face, and was willing to commit all out, planned murder. At somewhere around seven-am every morning that week, the workmen had woken him up with their clanging and their shouting and their existing. Friday evening he stomped around the corner with a glower, fingers tight around his backpack straps. Not even Mrs. Witkin’s mean old cat could deter him from scowling at the house the entire way to his door.

Town rumours be damned; that cat was just old and judgemental, like half the residents there. It was no trapped old lady or cursed young Prince.

Hopefully.

Peter crossed himself on his porch quickly just in case. It could never hurt to be a little superstitious. Especially not after the day that Mr. Herald proclaimed himself immortal and was then promptly wiped out by the tree in his yard collapsing.

By the following Monday, Peter caved and stayed at Ned’s for the night, for the first time in his entire life thankful to hear the music of his alarm and not a series of clangs or yells. It was even good enough that Ned’s snoring didn’t disturb him as much as it usually did. He felt chipper, refreshed. Right up until he turned the corner and found his street lined with vans, the workmen a little late finishing.

The next two months were cesspit of noise and strange men and sleepless days off. Apparently the person who had bought the house must’ve only liked the area and nothing about the house at all, because by week three, all that remained of it was the bare skeleton, gutted and stripped and ugly. But Peter was willing to concede that his new neighbour had good taste.

By the end of the second month the house had been entirely re-built, and Peter was convinced that his new neighbour was some very famous or important person looking for a secret hideaway, or a mob boss. There was no other logical explanation. What had once been a decent but generic detached property with a neglected garden was now a mini-mansion of sorts, all soft creams and light earth tones, with a stonewall front and staggered steps that led onto a half-gravel and half-grass front yard.

Large paned windows were already lined with thick curtains and plants and a sweeping gravel-scape led to a large garage, that seemed to be the most work of the renovation. It was huge, probably taking up over half of what used to be side garden and dead grass. No fence bordered the property, but the difference between Peter’s space and the new person’s space was immaculate and definitive.

“Huh” he mused aloud, blinking. Suddenly, he was less irritated at all those lost half-hours and more curious about who was going to be living there. They had money, for sure. Inheritance? Insurance claim payout? Illegal happenings? Aunt May’s two joking theories were suddenly looking less of a joke and more genuine possibilities.

As it would happen, Peter wouldn’t actually find out for another three or so months. The man moved in on a Saturday, quietly and with a small fleet of sleek SUV vehicles and fancy moving vans. Peter enjoyed a lazy morning, napping until the start of the afternoon and basking in the summer warmth, stretching in front of his bedroom window and looking down in time to see the last of the delivery and moving people packing down their vehicles.

Peter eyed all the bodies curiously, but it soon became clear none of them were his new neighbour, because they all stood around, flipping through paperwork, and then promptly left. Peter lingered under the pretence of dusting at his window ledge, but the street was quiet and empty.

Aunt May was anything but quiet when he finally dragged himself downstairs in search of food. “Peter! Morning, honey. Did you see the vans outside? Very fancy. Big enough for bodies, too, though” May hummed, flipping through the book she was currently reading.

Thirty Ways To Revive Your Youth.

Peter grimaced, and begun to rummage through the cupboards. “Not to question your intelligence, but. Why would a mob boss carry around his victims? Like a few teeth or knuckles ought to serve as good souvenirs. I don’t think carting around whole bodies is practical” Peter pointed out, settling on fruity oatmeal. Aunt May paused in her reading, nose twitching to adjust her glasses as she considered it.

“Hm. Point. Unless they bought the house because they run out of burial room, and these are fairly recent bodies they need the new soil for” she pointed out, and Peter pointed his spoon at her as he passed.

“Point” he agreed.

And so the weeks passed, but the mystery remained. No matter what time Peter tired to linger, or how early he awoke, his neighbour never seemed to be around. Here and there he would catch a figure roaming past the windows, kinda like a ghost, but never a clear view or a face. It was vastly disappointing, but his interest didn’t wane over the months that spanned between his rueful lack of sleep and now.

Now being a hazy Saturday morning, warm but not overly stuffy. Peter was coming back from a morning at Ned’s wherein they’d been steadily chewing away at the LEGO Galactic Supership. He was halfway down the street when a large trailer vehicle begun to drift down the street steadily, heading straight in Peter’s direction.

He paused on the sidewalk, watching it with interest. It was a transportation vehicle, and as it drew closer Peter could see there was a car on the back of it, heavily clamped down and chained to make sure it wouldn’t roll off. The vehicle passed him by some, and he got a clear view of the other car. It looked old, a little broken, rusted. Huge, though. Bigger than all the cars he’d seen before.

It pulled up right outside his neighbours house. Sensing an opportunity, and genuinely curious, Peter lingered, taking a few steps across the sidewalk to eye the car. It was a glossy red, though it had sun fade and was patchy. The chrome was glossy in places and dull, rusted in others. One headlight was missing.

The door of the cab opened, and Peter turned on his heel to see the driver getting out. The friendly greeting died on his lips as toned, thick thighs slid from the cab, followed by trim hips and a long, solid torso only half-hidden under a tank-shirt and overshirt. Broad shoulders prefaced the hottest man that Peter had ever laid eyes on.

He had a shaped jaw that was cut by stubble in a unique style that Peter had never seen anyone wearing before. He had sharp cheeks and dark, deep eyes with long lashes, tanned but not exactly browned and dark, dark hair with the barest flecks of grey at the roots, at his temples.

The man seemed surprised to find him there, pausing mid-way through pushing the door shut and peering around the street before looking back at him. One shaped brow lifted, and Peter stumbled to remember his manners, thrusting out a hand.

“Hi, Mister. Sorry - I was looking at the car. Is it for the new house?” He asked, forcing himself not to blush under the intense gaze. After a brief pause, the man took his hand, palm large and slightly rough, grip firm. He was even more attractive up close, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark lips and the strong scent of motor oil and grease.

“Would seem that way”.

And Ho-ly voice. Deep and with the softest of rumbles, soothing like a thunderstorm in the far distance. Peter clutched at his jacket when their hands dropped, coughing politely to hide whatever facial expression he’d pulled. The man strode past him and to the car, beginning to work on the many safety straps and chains.

“Did they…Is this theirs?” Peter asked after watching him quietly for several moments with a gesture towards the house besides them. Peter had discovered the house had a second parking bay on the other side, where a glossy black muscle car from the 60′s never seemed to move.

“Theirs’?” The man echoed, pausing in his movements to look up at Peter with curious amusement. It occurred to him then that it was likely some random car recovery guy had seen his new neighbour(s) before he had.

“Uh…Well. I’ve never actually seen them. So I don’t know if its one person, or a whole family, or…” Peter trailed off meekly, looking over his shoulder at the building. It looked as empty as it always did, no lights on and no figures moving behind the windows.

“Townsfolk say its some celebrity having a breakdown. Others say its some old widow using her husband’s life insurance. Even heard from someone that its a mafia lord, settling down in the middle of some quiet ass nowhere town” the recovery man grunted, hauling on a thick, heavy chain. Peter flushed.

Yeah. He was…Guilty of some pretty crazy guesses. But come on. Someone buys a house, spends upwards of hundreds of thousands doing it over, and then…Nothing. No new faces at the grocery store. Never seen, or even heard. Like a ghost.

“They’re not big fans of being…Seen. I guess? I mean, I know a guy with groceries comes around every Monday. Sometimes multiple times a week, but he always puts them in the garage and leaves. And this town is full of judgemental old people - Half of whom probably have mercury poisoning or something. There’s gonna be some pretty wild speculations going around” he pointed out, moving closer to look at what appeared to be a scratch in the paintwork.

The car gave a faint creak as the man released all of the holds on this side, snorting as he rounded the back of the vehicle and went to the other side with a loud, amused snort. Peter followed, and stifled a gasp at the sight of the other car. The man turned, eyeing him for a moment, before nodding.

“Got T-boned by an estate car. But she’s a tough old thing. Heavy metals and good steel; not like today’s cars. She came out better off” he mumbled as he worked on a thick strap, carefully taking apart the various clasps and buckles. Peter approached the car carefully, stretching up on his toes to brush his fingertips over the warped metal. He felt almost….Sad for the car.

He traced the flaking paint and the twisted, dented metal tenderly, and when he pulled away, the man was watching him again, movements slowed as he pulled the material through the metal. “Is this their car? What good is it now if its all broken up?” He asked curiously.

The man ducked his head, moving onto another thick chain. “Its just the one guy. I guess its a…Hobby. Of his. Bought her yesterday at a scrap lot”. He seemed uncomfortable saying it, but to Peter it was like gold trust. One guy. Huh. A big old house like that? That seemed rather lonely. Maybe it really was some rich old person retiring, enjoying a quiet place and a mechanics hobby.

Peter was going to ask more, but the car was freed with a grinding sound, and the man gestured him carefully back with his hand, holding it out in front of Peter to walk him back like a horse, to a safe distance. The man used two remotes to bring the car to the ground, Peter watching in fascination as rotors and rolling mechanisms moved it backwards and onto the tarmac of the road.

“How do you plan on moving it now?” Peter asked, and immediately regretted it as the man shed his over-shirt. Biceps. Shoulders. Forearms. His throat went dry and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

As it turns out, the plan was simply ‘push’. Peter scoffed, but was soon at a loss to anything but stare as the man leaned heavily against the trunk of the car, muscles bulging in the afternoon sun. Heavy or not, the car soon begun to roll, and after a moment Peter dropped his backpack and came up besides the straining man, leaning all his might against the metal.

It probably did fuck all, but the man gave him a wry grin all the same, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths as they moved the car across the flat ground and onto the side-drive space. Peter’s shoulder ached and his arms and thighs suddenly felt like jelly, but the man slapped him across the back.

“Good effort, kid” and then moved away, heading towards the front door. Peter gaped as the man simply grasped the doorhandle and pushed the door open, and floundered on the drive. “Wait! You’re just gonna walk into his house?” He called, and the man paused mid-step, looking back at him.

“Well. I ought to just ‘walk in’. Its my house”. And with a lewd, perfect wink he was gone. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself, flailing on the driveway with error logs flashing behind his eyes. That was his neighbour. His neighbour was some rich, late-thirty something hot-hot-hot guy who fixed broken classic cars.

“Oh my god” Peter muttered, stomping down the driveway to get his bags. Four months. He’d lived next to this Playgirl model for four months.

He decided against telling Aunt May. It felt selfish, but it also felt good to know he was the only person to have seen him. Even though he realised not long after reaching his room that he hadn’t even gotten his name. Peter waited by his window for hours, but saw neither hair nor hide of the man again. By morning, the transport truck was gone and the cherry red car was presumably inside the garage.

The damned guy was magic. There was no other explanation. Fuelled, Peter spent the Sunday morning in the kitchen, furiously baking with narrowed eyes and a plan. The muffins were done by mid-day, and Peter iced them carefully before boxing them, and stomping across the sidewalk to his neighbour’s house.

Peter knocked, and waited. Knocked again. Waited. “If you don’t answer the door then I’m just going to sit here” he announced loudly, knocking again before plopping down onto the porch just to prove a point. Several long minutes passed before his neighbour appeared around the corner, from the garage judging by the grease steaks up his arms, scowling.

“Kid. Here’s a life tip; if someone doesn’t answer the door, its because they don’t want company” the man huffed, but his eyes zeroed in on the box with intense curiosity, and Peter shrugged, smug.

“You came out, though” he pointed out, pushing himself to his feet. The man scoffed, but allowed him to follow, leading the way around the building where a small side-door was open.

“I came out about thirty years ago, kiddo. If that’s a congratulations cake, you’re a little late”. Peter tripped over the gravel, fighting his legs to remain upright and his stomach did a weird knot inside him. Oh. Not only was his neighbour hot, but he was at the least male inclined, too.

Very interesting.

“Actually, these are just welcome muffins. Chocolate and orange” Peter murmured, stepping inside the garage. It was bigger than it seemed, and the cherry red car stood in the centre, sanded down and clearly being worked on already.

“Peter, by the way. Peter Parker” he added after a pause, and almost offered his hand for a second time, but settled instead on thrusting the muffin box at the man. He raised a brow, but delved inside to pull one out, clearly eager at the prospect.

“Tony” he offered simply, and Peter tested it on his tongue, enjoying the shape. For now; he’d let the lack of a last name go. Good things in time, after-all. Choosing to invite himself to stay, Peter perched primly on top of the edge of the workbench, electing another raised brow, but Tony’s mouth was too full of muffin to object.

Tony begun to work as he ate, and Peter sat in content silence, watching as Tony and his bulging arm muscles took each wheel off the car and begun to strip it of all its chrome features. Peter checked his phone after a while and was surprised to find that around four hours had passed. May would be home from her sewing group about now. He ought to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” he announced, and jumped at the same time Tony did, the man smacking his arm off warped metal with a shout. Tony whirled on him, eyes wide, gaze flicking between him and the door, before he looked…Confused.

“You’re still here?” He asked, and Peter snorted as he dusted off his pants, heading for the door with a shake of his head. May came home shortly after he did, and Peter supposed he ought to let her know that he’d be visiting Tony again tomorrow.

“So he’s not a mafia boss? Or a celebrity?” She asked around a mouthful of roasted chicken, looking rather disappointed as Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“He just seems…Aloof? I don’t know. Maybe he’s some business tycoon or something. But he seems nice. I’m just going over to help him with this car he’s got. It’s real nice, too” Peter hummed, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Albeit a hot one, apparently. And you have school tomorrow, too. You shouldn’t be hanging around strangers. Unless…If he happens to be single…I’d be open to his number” May shrugged after a pause, and Peter blinked.

May was surprisingly easy to placate, and he assured her that if she wanted to, she could march right over to Tony and give him a Mother Hen Talk after dinner, but she decided against that, and in favour of a hot bath. School on Monday rolled around quicker than Peter could say ‘garage’ and he decided against telling Ned about Tony.

He wanted Tony all to himself. At least…For as long as he could. It was strange, but he found his heart thumping as he marched down Tony’s driveway and up to the garage door this time, knocking on it loudly. He’d brought lemonade and sandwiches this time.

The garage door opened, and Tony looked equally as startled to see Peter there as he had the day prior, gaze raking his body before frowning, and stepping aside with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, kid. I came here to get away from people” Tony announced pointedly, and Peter founded on him with an unimpressed gaze and an arched brow of his own.

“If you truly wanted to get away from people, you’d have moved out in the mountains or something. Now, get back to work. In an hour you can stop for supper. I brought chicken sandwiches” he ordered, taking his seat from the day before and pulling his calculus homework from his bag.

He kept his gaze down as Toy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times, before he went for his wrench, muttering to himself as he lay down on a wheeled bench and rolled under the car. Peter smiled quietly into his papers. A little over two hours later - he lost count, sue him - Peter pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the car, kicking Tony lightly in the ankle that stuck out.

“We can eat now” he announced, walking back over to his pack and taking out the tupperware he’d packed this morning. He could hear the sound of the wheels moving, and he turned, holding out the box. Tony looked perplexed, but approached and took it, still looking puzzled even as he bit into his own portion.

“Not that the pattern of snacks isn’t appreciated, kid, but…Why are you here?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and Peter actually had to think about it, flushing as his mind conjured up inappropriate responses like ‘I want to lick your arms’ and ‘You look like the hot mechanics in my pornos’.

He settled on a shrug, chewing slowly for more time. “You’re interesting. You’re my neighbour. You’re not a mafia boss or a broken down celebrity” he pointed out. Tony twitched on the last one, but gave a hum and moved away, scarfing down the last of his sandwich and returning to the car. This time, when Peter informed him he was leaving and would be back tomorrow again, Tony neither jumped nor looked surprised.

It became a pattern. Three out of seven days a week, Peter would sit in the garage with his homework or revision and Tony would work on the red car, which Peter came to learn was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. “Just like in Christine” Tony had huffed proudly, and had then been quickly appalled when Peter had simply stared blankly.

That night, Peter had watched the movie, and his next visit was spent talking animatedly about it with Tony, discussing their favourite parts and what it might be like if it was ever re-made. After a month, Aunt May picked her way across the gravel to finally meet the man her adopted son kept disappearing off to be with, and Peter had the unfortunate experience of watching them flirt together, Tony in a cheeky, smooth, outrageous manner and Aunt May like a school-girl. When he begun to gag in the corner, Tony threw an oil rag at him.

One day, a week before the summer holidays, Peter rounded the corner to find Tony stood on the porch, looking angry and tense and talking to a tall woman with red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Peter stopped and lingered, unsure of what to do. Besides him and May, he’d never seen anyone else talking to Tony. Even the grocery delivery guy simply put the bags in the garage and left.

After a while, the woman turned away, looking sullen and displeased, and slipped into a sleek black SUV, pulling off with a screech of her tires and the rev of her engine. By the time Peter reached the house, Tony was back inside, and he knocked quietly, leaning closer to the door.

Tony didn’t answer.

“Mr. Tony? I’m not sure what happened, but…If you’re not up for hanging out today, its cool. I brought soup, but I’ll leave yours on the porch. It might be hot, so…Be careful”. Peter stooped and left the thermos close to the door, before leaving. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day, longed to go see Tony, but everything in his gut told him to let him be for a time.

Whoever that man had been, he was clearly someone Tony didn’t like or want around.

Almost a whole week passed in which Tony didn’t answer the door, and by the Saturday, the first official day of the summer holidays, Peter was moping. Not to anyone that asked, but it was clear to even Ned that he’d been a little down lately, declining a celebratory LEGO fest in exchange for slinking up to his room.

No sooner had he toed off his shoes, the doorbell rung. Peter groaned, turning on his heel and abandoning his sweater on the staircase. It was probably another of Aunt May’s Amazon orders. Since she’d discovered the wonders of online shopping, Peter had learned their regular post-man was named Greg, he had two kids and a poodle, and was allergic to shrimp.

“What has she bought this ti- Tony?” Peter paused mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight on his doorstep. Tony looked rough, dark circles under his eyes, his face looking more lined than before, but he gave a weak smile up at Peter, still stiff and unsure.

“Hey, kiddo. Figured you might…I made spaghetti. And I still have your thermos. Was gonna work on the car a bit”.

Peter recognised it for the attempted invitation that it was, and didn’t bother to fight off his broad grin. “Lucky for you, I love spaghetti. I just gotta grab a sweater on” he beamed, practically flinging himself up the stairs. Tony’s spaghetti was amazing, with some kind of pink-ish sauce, little chunks of shrimp and prawns, all tangy and sweet.

He even let Peter help with the car. Or…Well. He let Peter hold the torch. And the wrench. But still.

He was still grinning when he skipped home that evening, and when he crawled into bed his dreams were filled with oil-stained arms and a low, rumbling voice. He gasped awake in the early hours, cock hard and leaning against his hip, Tony’s voice echoing in his skull.

He shouldn’t.

He bit his lip and reached down, whimpering as he wrapped a hand around himself. He was too hard to last more than a few minutes, stifling his yell of “Tony!” Into his pillow as he came. When he arrived at Tony’s house later in the day, he could barely look the man in the eyes, flustered and shy.

The holidays continued in a similar fashion. They hung out almost every day in the garage, often for an entire day. Peter felt guilty about abandoning Ned, but looking at Tony’s broad smile, listening to his quips, watching his abs flex under his shirts as he lifted things...It was worth it.

By the fourth week of his holidays, after numerous days of lounging together with takeout and Tony helping him with his homework, Peter piped up.

“Peter”.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Peter” he repeated, nudging Tony gently where they lay together on the floor of the garage, staring up at the underside of the car. It was almost complete. Something to do with the clutch, and then all it needed was new paint. “You keep calling me ‘kid’. So. Y’know. In case you’d forgotten” he hummed.

Besides him Tony stilled, only briefly, before relaxing and swatting at him. “You are a kid, though”.

“I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid” Peter huffed, rolling onto his side and kneeing Tony in the thigh. Tony let his head loll, looking across at him with dark, dark eyes, and Peter’s breath hitched. Tony was close enough to kiss. And god, Peter wanted to kiss him. Had spent the past few weeks staring at his body, his mouth when he talked, waking up at night hard and aching.

Peter let his gaze drop, to plush lips outlined by dark stubble, and then he pushed himself up, momentarily hovering over Tony as he got his legs beneath him. “And you’re an old man” he tried, teasing, tugging at a lock of hair at Tony’s temple.

For the briefest, briefest of moments, Tony’s gaze went even darker. Hungrier. Peter thought about it in the shower that night, two fingers stuffed inside himself with too-little prep, mewling against the shower tiles. Almost as if…

He begun to get bolder. Touched Tony more. Stood closer. Any excuse to be in his space. If Tony noticed he said nothing, only giving lingering, unreadable looks and only ever turning away with a poorly hidden smirk whenever Peter said anything just a little too obvious.

On the last week of his holidays, Peter was kneeling half over Tony, dabbing gingerly at a slice on his bicep while the man clutched an ice-pack to his knee. The cherry red car was out, and an old, 1957 Chrysler Saratoga was in. And apparently, angry.

“Kid, seriously. I’m fine” Tony huffed, swatting at him as he dabbed away another crust of blood, peering at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, but it had bled something fierce. Peter lifted his gaze, scowling at him.

“I’m not a kid!” He snarked, pressed a little too hard on the wound just because he could. Watched Tony flinch under his touch and instantly felt guilty. He pulled away the cloth and ducked down, pressed a kiss to the wound before he could ever think about it. Aunt May had always done it for him, kissing his ouchies better. He froze, lips against jagged skin.

“Kid” Tony rasped, looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. Peter jerked backwards, and huffed.

“Keep calling me kid, I’m gonna start calling you ‘old man’“ he scowled. He was about to say ‘Or worse, Dad’, but…That was a bumpy road and he wasn’t ready to loose whatever he had built with Tony. Not yet. The older man snorted back at him, eyes rolling, and reached out, fingers closing around his jaw gently to shake his head a little.

“Look at you. You are. That little baby face. And you’re so small, like a cat. All slender. Couldn’t even lift up the gearbox. All big eyes and too must trust. I could’ve been an old pervert or sex criminal and you just walked right up to me and wouldn’t leave” Tony murmured, voice half-gone and gaze fixed on where he held Peter’s jaw.

“Wouldn’t - Did not” Peter managed, though he was already getting hard, his breathing was already a little shorter. Sharper. Tony gave a deep breath, fingers flexing against his jaw.

“You’re just a kid. A little baby. All soft-cheeked and gentle. You’re a kid now and you’ll be a kid for a long time. Nothing like me”.

And. Huh.

Peter blinked, jaw still clasped in Tony’s grip, and he relaxed his body, inching a little closer. “What is it about that, then? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Its not. Its not bad. I’m just…I’m the bad one. Christ. Kid. You’re - You sit here doing homework. You don’t even have facial hair yet. I bet you haven’t even popped a stiffy before”. The words startled Tony as much as Peter, both visibly jolting, and Tony immediately looked like he wanted to die.

“Hey! Not true! Every night this holiday I’ve done more than ‘pop a stiffy’ over y-”. Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, watched the way Tony’s eyes widened. Fuck. They both jerked backwards, equally as taken aback by the revelation. There was no doubt as to what Peter had been about to say. Now way he could laugh it off or change it; though the subject was bad enough.

“I…”

“Kid…”

Peter huffed, leaning back on his haunches and dropping the cloth. “What, you got a kink for the word or something, Mister Tony?” Peter grumbled, but he could see Tony physically tense up opposite him, and he looked up, watched the almost shameful way that Tony turned his gaze away.

It hit him.

“You…Do” he huffed numbly.

“Its not…Christ. Peter. I’m not a…I’m not attracted to kids. I don’t know what it is. I just…Fuck. Maybe you should be calling me an old pervert. Fuck. I…Peter. You have to believe I don’t..I’ve never touched a kid. Never. My youngest partner was twenty when I was thirty. She was a hooker in Dubai and…Wait. You’re a fucking kid. I shouldn’t be talking about hookers and swearing and-”

Peter clamped a hand over Tony’s mouth, shaking his head. Jesus. He knew it was true, though. Tony was a recluse and laughably inept at anything social, but he wasn’t some scorned kiddie-toucher banished to a quaint little town.

“I know, Tony. I know. And I believe you. But if its not that, then…What is it?”. Tony only blinked at him slowly, for several beats, and it was then that Peter realised that his hand was on Tony’s mouth, and the man couldn’t speak. Though he could well have moved it himself. He let it drop, flushing.

“I don’t know” Tony croaked helplessly, and he looked so small, so lost. It was instinct that had Peter leaning forwards, gathering Tony in a tight embrace. The older man stiffened, but then relaxed, hand hesitantly falling to Peter’s side, featherlight like he was scared to touch him.

“Its…You’re so delicate. So…Untouched. Like a painting. Pretty. You shouldn’t be touched. Not yet. Not by me. But I want to”. It made Peter’s spine tingle and arch, letting out a surprised breath against the curve of Tony’s jaw. Tony made him sound like the Mona Lisa or something.

“I’m not a good person, Peter. I’m…All these months, you don’t even know my last name. Half the town thinks I’m a murderer or some kind of lunatic. But I’m worse than that”. Tony practically breathed it into his shoulder, head falling. Peter clutched at him, suddenly scared. Worse than those things?

“Tony Stark”.

Peter paused. Was silent for such a long time that Tony tensed against him again, before he begun to pet gently at Tony’s shoulders. “…Who? I mean, the name is vaguely familiar. But…Who?”

Tony pulled away, leaned back, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a ludicrous expression. “Stark. Tony Stark”.

Peter raised a brow. “Bond, James Bond?”

“What? No. The weapons company? Stark Industries?” Tony asked after a pause, like it was information Peter ought to know. After another pause of his mind being ridiculously blank, Peter sat upright, head tilting.

“Oh! Yeah. Stark Industries. But…What about it?”

Tony blinked at him, slowly, like there was a punchline he’d missed, and then he was reaching out, crushing Peter to his chest to the boy fell half over him with a yelp, squeezing him gently.

“You’re - Unbelievable. Never change, kid. I’m…I did bad things. I killed people. Carried on the family name despite spending my life trying to outrun it. I…I was betrayed. So I fixed it, and I left. And I was supposed to keep my hands off anything good. Anyone good. And here you are”.

“Okay. Firstly? You gotta stop calling me ‘kid’ now I know its a kink and you don’t intend to do anything about it. Secondly…I don’t know what you did. Or what happened. But I know what you���ve been since you got here. Who you’ve become. And I think you’re a good man” he breathed, adjusting so he was no longer straining, half-straddling Tony.

“You shouldn’t…” Tony didn’t finish the sentence, and there were a million things he could’ve said. But Peter chose to ignore them all, squirming his way closer until he really was sat in Tony’s lap. And this was more than they’d ever done.

More than the one-armed hugs and lingering touches, more than leaning shoulder-to-shoulder eating noodles. More than Peter listing against Tony’s side in the early morning hours, maths homework forgotten on the bench and Tony sitting still, so still, so as not to wake him.

“I’m old enough to know ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’, Mr. Stark. Besides. This is just…Hugging. Right? Innocent” he hummed, even as he deliberately shifted on Tony’s lap, a little heavier than he ought to, spread his legs wider around Tony’s hips.

“Ki- Peter” Tony huffed against him, fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. It wasn’t until Peter shifted again that he realised; Tony was hard. Well. Getting there, but hard enough for Peter to recognise it. To feel it, digging into the round meat of his asscheek.

“I don’t touch kids” Tony repeated, and Peter snorted softly, shaking his head as he gripped at Tony’s broad shoulders, muscle honed by years of hard work. Muscle that led up to rough stubble, a sharp jaw that Peter nosed at.

“Good thing I’m not actually a kid then, Mr. Stark. That means you can touch”.

Tony surged forwards on a growl, lay Peter out like a feast on the garage floor; but still hovered over him. Reluctant. Uncertain. Peter lifted his legs, wrapped them around Tony’s waist, tight and steady. “Kiddo…”

“Mm. Your kiddo. Or I could be. If you kissed me” Peter grinned, breathless and bold with the sweet taste of Tony so close. Mere inches. “Kiss me” Peter repeated, and Tony growled as he surged downwards.

When Tony came, it was with ‘kid’ sharp and electric on his tongue. And…Well. Peter felt a little mollified, so naturally, it led to round two, pressing Tony down against the concrete, milking him for all he was worth as a broken ‘Peter!’ cracked on his tongue like a prayer.

The rounds after that were just…Well.

Purely selfish.

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Not to bother you, but I've been wondering what would happen next in that Inner Demon! Kuro au. It randomly popped into my head and now im curious lol. I'm not asking for another chapter if you dont want to write it, I just wanna know what u think would happen next! Your ideas are amazing and I love hearing from you! 🧡

Ah, you’re so sweet! Don’t take this too seriously as I haven’t planned any of it and barely edited it LOL but here you go my dear~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alright, and what am I supposed to make of that?"

It was hours later, or perhaps just minutes, and Mahiru found himself staring up at the slightly damp, bug riddled ceiling of the cave. He seemed to have fallen to the ground after Kuro had released his grip; maybe he had taken too much blood? The thought froze his muscles in visceral terror and his mind in a bid to remain sane immediately rejected the idea. Either way, he did distinctly remember hearing Kuro say that he belonged to Mahiru now, or something to that effect, and really, who wanted to have a psycho like this?

"What does what means?"

 Kuro's eyes popped in to view over Mahiru's face and he flinched back, bashing his head further on the cold stone. Frowning in irritation, at the pain in his skull, the situation in general, he sighed. "What do you mean you're mine?"

 The bright red that had flooded through Kuro's irises hadn't faded, in fact it seemed to have almost solidified against the former blue, looking like a small pool of swirling metallic paint splashed across the sky. As he watched, entranced, Kuro grinned.

 "Pretty, right?" He blinked slowly, demonstratively. "The red is a nice touch, a very easy way to identify contracts."

 "Contracts?" Mahiru repeated curiously. "What- no, I mean, how did your eyes change color?"

 "This is your blood, Mahiru." Kuro said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect it to be so beautiful, to be honest. Most blood mixes in like mud. Such a disappointing shade of brown. But this!" Kuro paused, fluttering a hand in front of his face.

"This is gorgeous. We must be compatible."

 "Compatible..." Mahiru echoed, laughing weakly. "Great."

 "You wanted to go home. I'll take you there."

 "Hold on just a second." He pushed out a hand into the scant air between them and Kuro obligingly sat back, his head cocked in innocent puzzlement. "How do you know where I live?"

 "I know everything that is YOU, now."

 "Again, what exactly does that mean?"

 Kuro smiled wickedly, leaning forward suddenly, a blur of vitality in the dank air of the cave. "Take it literally. Anything that means something to you, makes up a part of your identity, it's mine now. And in exchange-" He gestured down at himself, "you get this, anything you could possibly want."

 Startled into silence, Mahiru felt his tongue form the sardonic comment before he could think better of it. "You're quite confident." As soon as the words were out he regretted them, praying that the offense they caused wouldn't be enough to get him ripped into little pieces, but Kuro only laughed, lighter and softer than anything Mahiru had heard before.

 "Of course I'm confident. Do you still not know who I am, Mahiru?" His lips curled up mischievously and he ran a graceful, delicate finger, along Mahiru's jaw. "You're a bit thick, aren't you? Ah well, no matter! You're mine as well now, no turning back." Before Mahiru had the chance to feel offended, he continued. "I knew you were special the second I saw you."

 The conversation was running in circles and it was only a matter of time before Mahiru got motion sickness trying to follow it, so, trying to decide the simplest course of action, he chose, simply, to ignore it. Obviously Kuro was not who he had originally thought, the eyes, the horns, the preternatural speed, no, there was no way to fake that, he was something else entirely, but the question was, what? Mahiru glanced over to find Kuro staring at him raptly and he couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped. "Where am I supposed to hide you?"

"Is this just something that people like you can do?" Mahiru asked flatly, staring down at the tiny kitten at his feet. It turned it's wide, luminescent eyes (red like his blood, he thought) up to him and blinked. "I don't know what that means."

 "You really are a demanding little one." Kuro muttered as he phased back into existence, occupying the space the cat had previously. "Of course not all of us can, it is something unique to I and a few others." He paused, seeming to think carefully before speaking. "Eight total."

 There are seven others that can turn into animals?"

 Kuro nodded slowly, almost regretfully. "Yes. Seven. But you don't need to worry about them."

 "I'm not particularly worried." Mahiru sighed. "More like amazed." He watched for a moment as Kuro crept around his room, so cat like in his movements Mahiru almost laughed, and began to poke at several of the books piled haphazardly on his desk. "I do have a question."

 As though he had been in anticipation, Kuro spun on his heel, books and exploration forgotten and a lopsided smile in place. "Yes?"

 "Well, er-" Mahiru hesitated, biting his lip. "Not to be offensive or anything but, you're acting very... different now."

 "Oh?"

 "Uh, yeah..."

 "How so?"

 "Well." Mahiru glanced over, quickly looking away again when he met Kuro's amused gaze. "Well, to be blunt, you're not acting like a total nut job anymore."

 "A nut job." Kuro paused, digesting the phrase for a moment. "I do not know that one either." Four rapid steps had him directly in front of Mahiru again and he grinned. "There's so much you must tell me! But before that, what is the question?"

 "Why?" Mahiu blurted. "Why are you suddenly..." He trailed off and, at a loss for definition, gestured vaguely at Kuro. "Like this?"

 Shrugging casually, Kuro raised a brow. "One would act differently after becoming someone else, no?"

 Putting a finger to his brow in fatigued annoyance, Mahiru groaned. "No w I just know you're fucking with me."

 "Not yet, I assure you." Kuro said brightly, his grin widening impossibly when Mahiru blanched. "What can I say to make you understand?" He crossed his arms, gaze traveling lazily around the room. When his eyes lit upon the chair near the door and he paused. "I took from you and so you must take from me." He glanced over, his eyes shining through the shifting blacks and whites of his hair. "Give and take, tit for tat, you are a part of me and so I must honor that change. Act according to the new blood."

 Mahiru frowned, attempting to construct something realistic or even vaguely understandable from what Kuro had just said. "So, you're different because of me?"

 "Precisely. Perhaps if you were less stubborn I would not be quite so composed?" Kuro laughed, just a shadow of the maniacal, wild abandon from previously and shrugged. "It's an interesting change." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though looking up into the sky. "Not unwelcome. Certainly different from what I am used to."

 "What you're used to?" Mahiru prompted him after a moment.

 "Things at the court can be unbalanced." Kuro said slowly. "And so for the most part we are... unpredictable."

 Forgoing asking who exactly "we" was because he was fairly certain he didn't want to know anyway, Mahiru frowned darkly, remembering the shattered stalls and engulfing flames he had so barely escaped earlier."You seemed like a psycho."

 Kuro laughed happily. "That sounds like a compliment!"

 "It's not." Mahiru said flatly. "Psycho is bad." He too glanced around the small room quickly, taking in the limited space and lack of guest furniture. "So now what? I accept that you are some kind of- of- mythical creature. But I do not accept that I am stuck with you."

 "Whether you accept or not is of no consequence." Kuro sang, reaching out and plucking a sweater from where it lay draped over the foot of the bed. "We have a contract." He began to twist it back and forth, inspecting it from every angle, eyes wide in puzzlement.

 "About that. I didn't agree to any contract. So I don't really think it's legally binding." Mahiru crossed his arms, attempting his best impersonation of authority.

 Kuro shrugged, pulling the sweater over his head, horns turning to a bright translucent fog for a moment to allow for the collar to pass over them, and smiled, something quick and genuine, and Mahiru felt his heart skip a beat. "Unfortunate for you then that the fae do not care for legality."

It was an hour later, Mahiru standing in front of the cupboard contemplating it's bare shelving, that he finally admitted to himself that he was not the best at entertaining visitors. Not even a spare loaf of bread. He slammed the door shut in frustration and glanced into the living room, finding Kuri still curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Mahiru had turned it on in desperation about forty minutes ago and Kuro had not moved since. It was currently airing some strange episodic gum commercial but judging by Kuro's expression you would have thought it was a documentary of the end of the world.

 "How do they do this?" Kuro asked suddenly and Mahiru turned fully, watching as he pointed to the screen upon which was a helicopter view of the city.

 "Do what?"

 "Record this? Is that what you called it? It's so detailed!"

 Mahiru wandered closer, unable to ignore the impulse and peered over Kuro's shoulder. "You said you were some magical being but you've never seen a TV? Where have you been all this time?"

 "In the woods, mostly." Kuro answered casually. "It seems I should have ventured farther into town sooner!"

 Briefly imagining the utter devastation Kuro would have wrought unchecked had he indeed entered the heart of the town Mahiru held back a shiver and shook his head. "No. No way. You are way too much trouble."

 "It is not I that wishes for such destruction." Kuro said, flicking his sharp gaze up to Mahiru. "I only embody what you desire."

 "You keep saying that." Mahiru muttered, looking away in discomfort. "Listen. Do you need food? Or..." He trailed off in embarrassment, completely gobsmacked that the next words were about to leave his mouth. "Or are you actually a vampire?"

 "Vampire." Kuro rolled the word around for a moment and shrugged. "Call me what you will. You humans have always had such curious need to name everything. Regardless, it will not change that I simply am."

 Mahiru sighed. He really was getting so tired of all this mystical bullshit. "So then, did you want to get dinner?"

 Kuro froze, his shoulders going taut beneath the blanket he had huddled up in. "Dinner?" His eyes were darting from side to side as though in worry, though there was nothing but an innocuous soap opera preview on.

 "Yeah? You know, we go somewhere and get food? I honestly hate the idea of bringing you in public, but I don't have anything here." Mahiru admitted, frowning. "You have to behave."

 "Ah, I see." Kuro turned, fixing Mahiru with a strange look. "You need to eat then?"

 "I take it, based on this conversation that you don't actually require food." Mahiru muttered sarcastically. "But yes, I'm hungry."

 "Very well. Let's go." Kuro stood in one quick move, the blanket falling from his shoulders and to the couch and Mahiru flinched back a step, having completely forgotten just how tall Kuro really was. At his jerking retreat, Kuro raised a brow and a mocking smile flew across his face. "Do you truly find me so frightening?"

 An immediate affirmation withered on Mahiru's tongue as he studied Kuro's expression. It was neutral and empty but somewhere, deep beneath the veneer of indifference, he thought he could see a wiggling of disappointment. He didn't know what possessed him to do what he did, or even why he would care to do so in the first place but he found himself snorting and reaching out to wrap his hand around Kuro's wrist, tugging him roughly around the back of the couch and towards the kitchen. "Of course not, idiot. What's scary about you?"

[currently-shushing-birds]

Selfishness VS Selflessness thoughts as I watch without context as to where I am in the video

(Anything put in parentheses was added the next day :) )

the opening is so cute

voices??

They're happy to see him

..ew

Hence the marriage

HE FAILED

THE INTRO (the intro had me litterally screaming)

"ApRiL 13tH" mocking us

PATTON

I love Patton so much

Yeah Thomas watch your language

F

ROMAN

SONG

HOLY SHIT SONG

Loving game Roman's hair

I'm shaking :))

"But you're gay.."

Language Roman

Roman is smart okay

He's not having second thoughts

"Hind sight is 20/20" stop

Thomas knows his friends okay

I genuinely feel really bad for Thomas

FERAL CATS!?

The laugh-

PATTON

Where's Virgil and Logan I miss them

Ugh Catholics (edit: I should add that I was realised Catholic like Thomas)

Patton is such a sweet angellll

I just saw how long this is damn

"N o"

Karma IS a bitch though

"Why does their complexion matter?" Icon

I want a new side

"Roman that-"

Thomas you are a good person-

Leave Patton alone

ROMAN BE NICE

"You're welcome :)" he's so proud

"A BAGEL!?"

GamessssstORE

F r o g

Frogger is an icon

Stop with the PUNS

I love Patton have I said that yet

"16 GRAPHICS :D"

Damn Roman

Ugh the "encounter" was not a new side

I adore Leslie Odom Jr so fucking much I've met him :)

Feed him >:(

"Liquid lipstick of Shakespeare"

6am sharp

Fight him

"Please don't tell me you're going to wrestle Tony award winning actor Leslie Odom JR"

Patton's smile increases my life span

LOGAN

"Whatcha Doooooin logan"

I missed Logan :(

Damnit nevermind

Roman...n o

"You shouldn't press other people's buttons" okay that one was okay

"Holy hera" Percy Jackson

"One more time Roman-"

Excuse me Logan spoke

Did y'all notice Patton is a terrible lawyer

Roman knows he's a jackass at times

NO

"I dont think it matters w h y you do something" knew it

Typical tuesday

....does that imply leslie has ass??

That's not correct...ACCORDING TO THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF-

"I was just blanking in the word Guy but sure"

ROMAN IS A GOOD PERSON STFU

How am I supposed to read Logan's lowdown while true talk fuck (edit: I ended up pausing)

I'm with Patton

Thank you Patton

Roman's hair looks nice

Thomas also looks dapper look at him

That train sound scared me

WE DONT LIKE TO USE THE T WORD IN THIS HOUSE

He apologised for it I cant

"rIGHT!?"

Jesus Logan's acting weird

THE BLINDS PATTON

DID YOU BREAK MY BLINDS

...is he okay I love him

He keeps gesturing to his nose poor guy

He's in love with Logan

Was that accent okay-

Thomas is so relatable

The signature Thomas look

I'm not to commenting on the serious things because I'm paying close attention sorry

I dont believe Roman is a bad person he just doesnt have the right motives

Give Roman a hug

I agree with Thomas

ROMAN APPRECIATION

...Patton what

Buff Thomas?

Logan!

Where's Virgil :((

ME TOO THOMAS ME TOO

"I completely agree with ya...but I really dont see how that applies to what we're talking about" he's always nice

All these metaphors are throwing me off tbh

That short sigh

"Correct me if I'm wrong"

"I- uh- YOURE WRONG"

...oo you're really (edit: I seriously have no clue what I meant to put here but okay-)

PATTON

Oh my god

Give patton help

This is freaking me out

I'm only 31 minutes in

It's almost unsympathetic Patton and it...scares me?

"It's up to you" is said so creepily and makes me super uncomfortable

THANK YOU LOGAN

....deciet's theme

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG

I hate Deciet

I hate him

Kinda...he's ok

Wtf

Nice put Padton

So okay serious right now. Deciet was misleading Patton's conscience to things that would throw him off thus throwing his moral compass into orbit. Patton isn't thinking straight, it cant be a fair fight can it?

Word weapon because words hurt

It's hard to focus when their characters are so cute

Patton is thinking straight since more

Thomas...

Battle of the sides

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit

I hate that I love Deciets outfit but it's dope

Patton..

Roman is me

There's still 20 minutes left wtf

What are these analogies

Evan hansen vibes

ACTUAL LOGAN

Hey we care Logan

Logan dont be an ass

Wait so when did Deciet take over the Lowdowns

I'm going to assume it was when the text was on scene without speech

THAT FUCKING F A C E IM ROLLING

I dint know whether I hate deciet of appreciate him he's hard to like but very helpful

Roman's gay he cant do math

Deciet is a bitch

Okay but is Thomas okay?

Deciet has a point

Living for the video game music

I just noticed Deciet's (edit: got caught off guard by Deciet's name and I forgot what I was typing)

WHAT NAME?

J-...Janus

ROMAN N O

Ohhh that's..that's rough

Remus and Roman are completely different but Deciet has a damn good point

Oh gee Roman

Patton is so gentle towards Roman I'd kill for him

Roman...

No

Patton and Roman needs hug

LESLIE HE'S SORRY

Wait that's a c t u a l l y Leslie Odom JR

"This is Sanders Sides not Odom sides. I'm not threatened at all"

Everyone clapping is iconic

The background music is honestly amazing

Deciet I know you're That Bitch but stop

Patton is just so kind and he tries so hard

Look he's going to check on him

Thank you Janus

Is Deciet truly the mom side

Damn

Okay I like deciet but just...he can really make me freak out

SNAKE BOY

SNAKE ICON

He's right

Thomas said self love in a new way and I'm dead

That wink was super sweet

Oof

Thomas

DOOR YELLING IM SCREAMING

....he- okay thomas

Brunch Tuesdays

Patton made that pun

Patton and Deciet are hangin out

I'd watch Odom Sides

Okay that's all :)

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 55 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 55 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

///////////////////////

Someone in the melee noticed them in a brief moment of better visibility. They frantically called, “Boarders aft!”  Shocked into further action, Captain Mord left the fight and led the two hundred and fifty foot charge back to the map table.  They were too late.  Kurin was gone.

In a small boat, barely out of sight in the fog, Tanlin bent her back to carefully muffled oars.  The Sea Hawk circled once and disappeared into the mist.  Shortly, they heard it scream, back near the Longin. The bird came back and circled, flying low and slow ahead of them. In short order, the Wide Wing lead them to the other three boats.

It swooped down and landed on Tanlin’s heavily padded shoulder, talons adding another few small rips to the pads.  Tanlin chucked the Sea Hawk under the beak and then gave it a bit of dried skelt.  The razor sharp beak took it gently from her fingers and made short work of it.

As Kurin looked on in amazement, Tanlin said, “Good, Skye.  Good. Now, show us t’e way t’ ‘ome an’ nest.”  The big bird bobbed its head, and launched off her shoulder, beating up, out of sight.  Tanlin had a faraway look, as if the world about her was a dream.  

She shook herself and pointed surely through the fog, “T’at way, swift an’ quiet.”  After they had rowed for a bit, she ordered, “Step masts.  Rig t’e sails.  Lively, now!”  Without a word, the crewmen and women leapt to obey.

A cat’s paw breeze swept through the fog and filled their sails.  In a short time they were clear of the fog and scudding north through the chop raised by a brisk breeze.

Finally, Tanlin relaxed, but only a little.  She called to the other boats, “Wad t’ey nae look at our message at all?”

“No, Captain.  We were driven back by knives.”

Shaken, Tanlin asked, “T’ey refused ye rescue?  T’e Longin broke the Groit Law?  Ye were attacked wit’ knives?”  She paused and swallowed hard.  In a calm voice belied by shaking shoulders and tears she asked, “W’at losses?”

“One dead, three wounded, one missing,” they replied.  

Kurin saw Tanlin crumple a bit but then brace herself.  “‘Oo died?”

“Macoul, the helmsman,” they called back.

“T’e wounded?” she asked, shaking but dry-eyed now.

“Gemma Colin, Darkistry Colm and Lenai Halin, Captain,” they called back.

“An’ t’e missin’?”

“Bosun Modanet.”

Then she did cry but she held her course.  “A good ‘elmsmon gone. Doctor Corin’s daughter.  M’ best friend.  Arnat’s mot’er. Oi can ‘ope t’at t’e Bosun got our message t’ yer Ca’tain. I’ ‘arm t’ t’ese few ‘urts so muckle, ‘ow does anyane survive a war?”

Kurin tried to distract Tanlin from her grief.  “How did you train Skye so well?  I never heard of anyone taming a Wide Wing before.  It was like he understood you.”

Tanlin did smile, though there were still tears in her eyes, “She.  Skye’s a female.  T’under’ead’s bock ‘ome on t’e nest.  Huh, she just got bock t’ t’e ship.  She brought ‘im a fish.”

“But how did you train her so well?” asked Kurin, in genuine curiosity.

“Oi dinnae.  Oi defended t’eir nest wen t’ey decided t’ make ‘t in our rigging w’ile we rode in t’e eye o’ t’e storm.  Oi brought t’em some fish, because t’ey’d been days wit’oot food.  T’ey adopted me.  T’en w’en Mecat gave m’ a Dragon’s Gift, t’ey were on m’ shoulders, trin’ t’ protect m’ from a Groit Dragon.  T’ey got included in t’e Gift.

“Sorry, Oi’m upset an’ tellin’ ‘t badly.  Let m’ calm down an’ Oi’ll tell ‘t better.”

“Did I hear one of the crewmen call you ‘Captain’?”

“Full o’ quest’ns, arenae ye?” said Tanlin, smiling in spite of herself.  “Aye, Ca’tain Barad stepped down voluntarily, for t’e good o’ t’e ship.  T’e crew elected m’.  T’was unanimous. Ye con poll t’em yersel’, i’ ye wont.”

“What I would want is to hear Barad say that he stepped down voluntarily,” said Kurin almost wistfully.

“T’en ye shall ‘ear ‘t from ‘is ane mout’, an’ t’at, soon,” said Tanlin firmly.  She pointed.  The sails of the big square-rigger could be seen coming over the horizon.  A Wide Wing could be seen leading the ship.  When it was clear that ship and boats had seen each other, the bird dove from five hundred feet up, hitting the water cleanly, with only a small splash.  A few minutes later, it surfaced and took off, circling back to the high lookout where the nest was.

“T’at wa’ T’under’ead,” said Tanlin, proudly.  “Wen we get t’e wounded taken care o’, Oi’m going t’ take t’em a basket o’ fish, for t’eir chicks.  Oi’m part o’ t’e flock, after all, an’ tis the duty o’ t’e flock t’ care for t’e young.” She cocked her head in self-conscious imitation of a bird.  “Oi’ll take care o’ ye, t’.  Wont t’ ‘elp feed t’em?”

The Grandalor turned into the wind, using it as a brake, to stop so that the party could board.  

“What fortune?” called a light baritone voice that Kurin knew.

“She came wit’ us, Barad,” Tanlin called back.  “T’e price wa’ ‘eavy.  We ‘ave t’ree wounded, ane dead an’ ane missin’.”

“You heard the Captain,” Barad’s voice called.  “Get four stretchers rigged, now!”  Their boats bumped up to the Grandalor and tied up to a piece of cargo net that had been hung over the side for use as a ladder.  The boarding party swarmed up the net, except for Tanlin and a few others who stayed behind to tend to the dead and injured.

Tanlin turned to Kurin, “Go on, get aboard.  T’ese folk volunteered t’ be in t’is party an’ ye are t’e reason t’at t’eir blood wa’ shed.  I’ ye donnae get aboard, t’will ‘ave all been for naught.”

“I’ll go aboard, never fear that,” Kurin answered seriously.  “These people risked their lives to get me here.  I can take a few minutes to help them.  I know bandaging and that abdominal wound  needs to be rebound.  She is in shock.  Wind her tightly.  Her arms and legs, too.  It will help to keep her blood pressure up.”

“Thank you, Kurin,” said a dark haired woman, injured in both an arm and a leg, as she helped wrap the more gravely injured woman.  “I’m Darkistry, by the way.  I hope that Lenai will be able to thank you herself.  I wish that we had known this trick of bandaging two hours ago.”

“I wish that I had known it was needed,” Kurin replied seriously, bandaging an arm.  “Captain Tanlin, this woman needs to go first. She’s in deep shock.”

Tanlin, who was steadying the first of the stretchers, said, “OK, Kurin, can ye ‘elp get Lenai int’ t’e stretcher?  Oi’ll ‘old ‘t steady.”

Kurin placed the crewmen along Lenai’s still form and directed, “Everyone, lift at once, on my mark… Lift!”  They all lifted until she was high enough for Tanlin to get the stretcher under her.

Tanlin signaled for the stretcher to be raised and called, “Number ane, ready for lift!  Get ‘er directly t’ Doctor Corin in sickbay!  Oi t’ink ‘e’s going t’ ‘ave t’ operate on ‘er.”

Darkistry said, “Take Gemma next.  She’s lost a fair bit of blood and got a nasty blow to the head.  My cuts are pretty deep, but I’m not bleeding much, I just need a ride to the deck and somebody to lean on until I can get stitched up.”

“Ye’ll lie flat an’ stay t’at way until we can take care o’ ye,” Tanlin ordered.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Darkistry replied with an almost impudent grin.  As an aside to Kurin, she confided, “I never was very good at taking orders but I think that I’ll follow these.”

They helped Gemma into her stretcher and Darkistry into hers.  Crewmen went up alongside, to keep the stretchers steady.  An honor guard of Macoul’s friends came down and escorted his body up to the deck.

When they were alone in the boats, Kurin demanded, “What are you up to, Tanlin?  This ship,” she gestured at the Grandalor, “has been rebuilt for war!  I’m not blind.  You’ve changed the bow profile for better speed and ramming strength.  It’s been reinforced with at least two layers of Wing Ray for hardness and penetration.  Your bowsprit has been reinforced and broadened as part of that.

“Your standing rigging is over twice the thickness needed for storms and it’s been moved to absorb ramming shocks better.  Your rigging and sails have the coloration of fresh fireproofing by Hag extracts.

“What do you hope to gain by all of this?”  Kurin ended her tirade, hands on hips, face set and angry.

“Oi’ve made ye a promise, an’ ‘t’ll be kept!  T’is ship ‘as been remade because we see precious little o’ justice in t‘e actions o’ t’e Council!

“We are nae paddle ducks t’at ye can cut t’e ‘ead off wit’ nae struggle!  We’ll fight for t’e rights o’ the Groit Law!  Wen we can get a fair trial, we’ll submit t’ real justice!

“We’ve a few prisoners t’at we belive need t’ go for a swim t’ yer foster fat’er Iren’s halls!  T’eir trial’ll ‘ave t’ be a fleet matter.  We are ‘olding t’em until t’ey can ‘ave t’e chance t’ rebut charges o’ mutiny an’ murder!”  Tanlin paused for breath, fire in her eye.

“Tell m’ Kurin, w’at’s t’e second o’ t’e Groit Laws, t’e ane right after t’e ban on slavery?”

“The right to rebut charges.  Everybody knows that…” Kurin trailed off.

“Name m’ t’e court w’ere we can answer any charges?  T’ere’s nae such court for us.  We were condemned wit’oot trial.  Ask yer friend Sula i’ t’at precedent isnae w’ere t’e Ca’tain o’ Ca’tains got ‘is start?  T’en ask ‘ow many ships an’ lives were lost as a result.  T’e answers’ll appall ye.  

“Groit Law is put aside at groit peril.  We’ll send for Sula an’ Ca’tain Sarfin, along wit’ a quorum o’ t’e Council, yer ane Ca’tain Mord an’ ane ot’er ‘oo ‘as an interest in t’is case.  Blind Mecat.  Ye know ‘er, Oi believe,” Tanlin finished with irony.

“How can you send for Cat, or the others, for that matter?”  Now Kurin was curious again.

Instead of answering, Tanlin said, “Cume up t’ t’e deck an’ brace yersel’ for w’at ye’ll see.  Ye’ve nae beheld t’e worst t’at’s t’ be seen, yet.”  Tanlin did not wait, but climbed the net.  Shrugging, Kurin followed.

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS   NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

[generallynerdy]

Flower (Gwaine X Reader)

Summary: Gwaine spots a particularly beautiful woman in the marketplace. So, he does the only logical thing and finds her a flower to match.

Requested by @pearlll09: As promised: Merlin prompts! So i was thinking, you know when Gwaine first comes in and tries to offer Gwen the flower? What if, instead of Gwen, it was the reader? Up to you though on whether the reader accepts right away or not :)

Key: (Y/N) - your name Warnings: female reader bc canon dialogue is limiting me, cursing probably, unashamed flirting but then again its gwaine you should be prepared for that Word Count: 1,540

Note: bOI you know im possessed if i refuse to write for gwaine i love him thanks pearl

    You knew the second you met his eyes that you were screwed. You shouldn’t have dared to even look at the handsome man, because the second you did, he lit up like a torch. At that, you flushed red and moved onward, trying to rush out of the market without dropping your basket of laundry everywhere.

    You weren’t in the market often, but something always seemed to go wrong when you did.

    When you got a few stalls down, a spark of hope lit up that maybe he’d lost interest. You didn’t know the kind of man he was. He could be a pervert for all you knew.

    However, he stepped in front of you, dropping your hopes instantly and burying them in the dirt. “I think this belongs to you,” he said, voice sweet as honey.

    Admittedly, he was handsome. He had a look about him that said outsider and you’d never seen him in Camelot before. His clothes were rugged, contrasting his luxurious dark hair that you couldn’t help admiring. His dark eyes were soft, much like his voice, which seemed to be reserved solely for you when he spoke.

    “I don’t think so,” you said quickly, looking at the little white flower he held out to you. You were careful to stabilise your voice and not seem taken by him. “Not my colour.”

    “Let’s see,” he suggested. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful woman.”

    Before you could stop him, he took the flower in his fingers and placed it carefully behind your ear, tucking it into your hair. You could practically feel his breath on you as he did it, making you nervous.

    When he backed away, you scoffed, keeping your composure. “I bet you’ve got a whole bunch of those to hand out.”

    “Nope,” he said, raising his hands and giving a little smirk. “Yours is the only one.”

    You were still getting a creepy vibe off of him. What kind of person approached someone in a market?

    “Are you sure?” You asked. “I wouldn’t expect a man such as yourself to only have one.”

    The stranger laughed. “What kind of man do you take me for? A perverse one, I suppose, with the way you’ve looked at me since I got here.”

    “No one approaches a stranger in the market,” you said, “Without alternative reasons.”

    “Perhaps my only reason is to get to know you,” he suggested, a sparkle in his eyes.

    Damn, he was good. He was quick-witted, for one thing, and insanely handsome, for another. Conversation with him was somewhat addicting. You didn’t really want to leave now, not with the way he was looking at you.

“I’m Gwaine,” he said. “You haven’t told me your name.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps for good reason, Gwaine.” You could’ve sworn he smiled a little brighter when you sassed him.

“You’re like a princess to me,” he muttered. “Must have a name like Sophia or Esmeralda. That’s it. Princess Esmeralda.”

He then took a dramatic bow in front of you, immediately drawing the gaze of others around. You weren’t often the center of attention, being a maid of the castle. Occasionally attention would be drawn to Merlin, thus to you, but it didn’t happen often.

    “Stop it. People are staring,” you hissed.

    Gwaine grinned up at you stubbornly. “Not until you tell me your name.”

    “It’s (Y/N),” you said near instantly, almost worried about being in the spotlight for too long.

    “Ah. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He asked with a smile before gesturing to your basket. “Let me carry that. Princess shouldn’t have to lug her laundry around.”

    “Unfortunately, I’m not a princess,” you laughed.

    His charms were starting to wear off on you, you had to admit. You still thought he was a stubborn bastard who shouldn’t approach ladies in the market, but at least he was somewhat polite. He didn’t cat-call or objectify you. He called you princess and wanted to know your name above anything else.

    “Ah, but you see...you are to me,” he said.

    You laughed a little, tilting your head and furrowing your eyebrows at him.

Gwaine’s smile fell. “This isn’t working, is it?” He asked. He sounded disappointed, but at least he’d figured it out in the first place.

    “Not as well as you’d hoped,” you admitted.

    You reached behind your ear, taking the flower he had placed there. It was a pretty little thing, likely freshly plucked from beyond the castle walls. You wondered where he had gotten it so quickly.

    Smiling both to him and to yourself, you took the flower and handed it to him, unable to miss the gentle way his fingertips caressed your hands as he took it.

    “But perhaps not as horribly as you feared,” you whispered.

    Leaning forward, you pressed a sweet, innocent kiss to his cheek, noticing the red tint there instantly. You had outplayed him and he knew it.

    You took a second to view the shell-shocked look on his face before skirting around him, leaving him to gawk in the middle of the market. Unbeknownst to you, he broke into a smile and turned to watch you go, placing the flower in between his lips to remind him of yours.

    After the melee, you were tasked with bringing a fresh bucket of water to the kitchens, for some odd reason or another. To be honest, you weren’t paying that much attention to the task they’d given you.

    You were too distracted thinking about Gwaine, the man you had met so briefly but had left a massive impact on you.

    After only a few days in Camelot, he was already banished, which you supposed spoke to his trouble-making nature. You knew he was one when you met him, but you couldn’t have imagined he’d be banished in such a short time. Even worse, he hadn’t adhered to his exile and instead competed in the melee. He did save Prince Arthur’s life, so you supposed his intentions were honorable.

    You couldn’t stop thinking about the crazy bastard, so when you saw him, bag and all, about to pass you on his way out of the castle, you knew you had to do something.

    “Gwaine,” you said, stopping him before he continued.

    He turned on his heel and smiled instantly at the sight of you, moving to stand before you as you put down your bucket. “Princess (Y/N).”

    “Again, not a princess,” you said, though a knowing smile played at your features.

    “If only,” he sighed. “Then perhaps you could pardon me and I could stay here in Camelot with you.”

    You paused for a second. “I wish you didn’t have to go. It seems I’ve only just met you.”

    “Feels like years since you have, doesn’t it?” Gwaine grinned, knowing he had that effect on women. The bastard. He then went serious. “You could come with me.”

    Sighing, you shook your head. “I have a life here, a job. I couldn’t live the life that you do.” You stopped for a second before smiling. “I do have something of mine you should take.”

    “Oh?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

    He expected you to take something from your pocket, but instead you took him by surprise, kissing him square on the lips. He melted into your touch like a candle to a flame, so much so that it was almost adorable.

    When you pulled away, slightly out of breath, he grinned like a child. “I take it with me gladly.”

    “Be gentle with it,” you warned. “It’s delicate.”

    “Always,” he said softly, genuinely.

    Gwaine went to turn away, ready to take a journey far, far from where you would be. However, you had one more little surprise in mind.

    “Oh, and Gwaine?” You said.

    He turned once more, a sly grin on his face, which you expected was an effect of the kiss. You took the poor man by surprise once more when you slipped a small white flower behind his ear.

    “I think it’s your colour,” you smiled.

    His smile went from mischievous to genuine as he spoke quietly, only to you. “I think you’re right.”

    You were lost in his eyes when he leaned over to kiss you, making the decision for himself this time. He was a damn good kisser, distracting you so much that you barely noticed your hands reach to rest on the back of his neck.

    When he let you go again, you could tell he was reluctant to do so. He sighed, unable to help himself from tucking your hair behind your ear, reminding you of where the flower had once been.

    “Until next time,” Gwaine said, taking your hand, kissing it, and bowing again like a fool. “Princess.”

    You scoffed and rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny the smile creeping up onto your face. These last few days, it had been a very common expression for you.

    You watched Gwaine turn away and begin to weave his way through the crowd. You couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for not going with him, but you had a feeling you’d meet him again someday. You told yourself he would be back. And you would be waiting for him when he did.

Merlin Tags: @pearlll09

Masterlist

[aliensmoothie]

i wrote again!!!!!! i know these chapters are pretty short but im not really used to writing alot hsjgkskgj

♡♡♡♡♡♡

Nick looked over at Nora, "You wanna explain?"

Nora nodded, pausing to gather her thoughts. She's explained the situation a million times over, but it never gets any easier.

"i was frozen in a vault, and while i was frozen, the institute kidnapped my son." Nora started, "we don't have alot to go on, but there's a rogue scientist who might be able to get us in-"

"Hold on," Elliott interrupted "The institute kidnapped your kid?" She turned to Nick "Don't they usually go for adults?"

Nick shrugged "Not sure. Maybe they switched up their demographic."

"And you want mw involved with this?" Elliott asked.

"Well... I thought it might be a lead on your case. That's also why I wanted to get you." Nick explained.

Nora tilted her head, visibly confused.

"My brothers went missing a while back," Elliott explained, noticing Nora's confusion, "we've exhausted pretty much every option except the institute looking for them both."

"From what I've seen, the institute is the first one that people place the blame on." Nora remarked

"The only issue is that they were never replaced. Until your case, Nora, everybody who was taken by the institute was replaced by a synth right after they were taken. It's why I think this might be a lead on Elliott's case too." Nick said.

"So, where's this scientist fella?" Elliott asked, changing the subject.

Nick and Nora exchanged a knowing glance, and then both spoke up, "The Glowing Sea"

Elliott laughed a genuine hearty laugh, for quite a while, and as her laughing fit calmed down she chortled out, "ok cool cool cool, so this dude is super dead! We're just collecting a skeleton!"

"Say what you want, Elliott, you're the one who took a dunk in the Swan Pond, and came out just fine" Nick teased, smiling.

"Fair enough!" Elliott laughed, and hopped off the desk, her cat awakening and jumping to the floor.

"I'll come with you guys. Let me just grab my stuff" she began to leave the room, "make yourselves comfortable!"

Nora took in her surroundings. You could still see the remnants of when this makeshift home base was a kinda-greasy truck stop. The posters on the wall, the counter that seperates the little living room from the cooking nook.

Then, Nora looked out the windows, and saw the not-so-crucial but extremely... interesting detail that she had missed this whole time.

Mannequins dot the entire lot. All of them dressed up, posed in lively positions. In the dark, Nora would have to take a double-take to see whether or not they were human.

Nora turned towards Nick "So...... Remind me how you met this girl again?"

"Well, it wasn't that long ago. Maybe a year or two. i was making my way from a case i wrapped up back to diamond city, and she came running at me all panicked. i couldn't make sense of what she was saying, but she was coming from the direction of the city gates. And... Well, i won't divulge into the details without her word on it, but i had the feeling she hadn't gotten a particularly warm welcome."

"Why do you say that?" Nora questioned

"For one, i wasn't wearing my goggles, and that was a pretty big clue." Elliott said from the other side of the counter. And then Nora knew what they were talking about.

Elliott had pushed up her goggles, onto her forehead, and revealed her eyes. Nora would know it anywhere, they were the same eyes that sat in Nick's sockets. The iconic steel spheres, with the yellow glowing circle in the middle, piercing the late afternoon darkness. They looked like they were just a little too big for Elliott's head.

"They were shooting at you because you're a synth?" Nora asked.

"No," Elliot sighed "Well, yeah, i guess. i'm not a synth, i just have synth eyes as some makeshift prosthetics or something. But they thought i was a synth."

"It took alot of convincing for them to stop shooting, and a hell of a lot more to let her into the city so i could take her to the office." Nick said.

"'Constant supervision Valentine, don't look away from her for a second'" Elliott said in a silly gruff voice, immitating what Nora assumed was supposed to be a Diamond City Gaurd.

Nick laughed, "i'm about the only synth diamond city tolerates, and Elliott's attitude towards the gaurd wasn't really earning her any points."

"I mean, i didn't say anything that wasn't truthful! Guy probably emptied eleven clips on that dinky pipe rifle of his, and i didn't lose a drop of blood!"