crunchbites-muscle-structure

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veg vs fru

 veg vs fruit

anon don’t think that i don’t know about your motive the second i read your msg you wash-pumpkin lover

(feel free to send me shitty photoshop requests of rvb characters) 

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𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝓅𝓊𝓂𝓅𝓀𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒽, 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝓋𝒷 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓂. 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽𝒹𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎

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I’m sick and tired of being called “mortal” like, you don’t know that. Neither do I. I have never died even ONCE. Nothing has been proven yet. Stop making assumptions. It’s rude.

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dependent personality

some curst caboose for your dinner table owo

tags: fluff, caboosexcounselor, cabounselor, daddy kink, yaoi

After the fall of Agent Maine, AKA the Meta, certain investigative measures became imperative. Project Freelancer assets had been scattered and returned to a central point. Freelancers themselves had escaped the grasp of the UNSC and affiliated organizations, and were brought back for interrogation. Exactly what happened needed to be known- and that required thorough questioning of all involved parties.

For the first six, this was a simple matter of question-and-answer. Some embellishment, especially from the red sergeant, happened naturally, and some downplaying as well, such as from Agent Washington. Then the Counselor reached someone who neither embellished nor downplayed, but told the story in such a chaotically different way as to demand further observation.

"Could you repeat that, Private Caboose?"

"I think the Meta could have been a good friend! He had some anger problems but so did Tex and she was a nice lady. She helped me learn how to flirt with the tank!"

"Right." Price jotted this down in an illegible calligraphic scrawl only he could read. "And you say 'Tex' and the Meta shared a similar personality issue in the form of 'anger problems'?"

"Yes! They both had O'Malley!"

"O'Malley?"

"That is the AI who has the scary voice and makes people really strong. I do that without any special voices in my head!"

"You do... What, exactly?"

"I get really mad and get really strong and save the day!"

Price sat back in his armchair, brows drawn together in only the faintest sign of scrutiny as he eyed the giant of a private. Michael J. Caboose was quickly becoming interesting, in the way that Agent Florida and Agent North Dakota had been interesting- unassuming strength, an inner fire concealed behind a lie of a smile. They were Price's favorite sort to study, for their individual method of self-presentation. Agents like South Dakota and Carolina had been exceedingly boring, in that they were exactly what their surface suggested. Caboose had joined a rare group- those that invited Price to study further.

"I see," he said, pulling himself from reverie. "And what inspires this enraged state? Competition? A need for victory?"

"I have to keep my friends safe. They are usually good at doing that themselves, but sometimes they are tired."

"And you believe you can protect them?"

"When they need me to."

"And would you consider yourself... A good soldier?"

Caboose's head tilted to the side for a moment, blue eyes sparkling. "I think I am! I try really hard to take care of my team and stay in shape and I am really good at drill!"

"Drill? As in organized movement?"

"Yes! But we don't do that much. We kind of don't do anything until we have to fight somebody. We should really do more as a team, like bake cookies!"

Price was learning he could repeat a single word and Caboose would unravel more of what went on behind those beaming blues. "Cookies?"

"Yes! I love cookies!" Caboose dropped his voice, hushed with excitement. "Are there cookies here?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Can we get some cookies? We could bake some together."

This caught Price off-guard, though no outward flinch or movement suggested as much. "We as in you and I?"

"Yes! You seem like you could use a cookie."

"We are not here to talk about me."

"Maybe we should! Everyone needs someone to talk to."

Caboose smiled brightly, invitingly, and Price stared at him for a moment. Not even Agent North Dakota, known for being far too caring, had ever dared try to pry into the mind of the counselor. What interest had this private in Price's private mind?

~^~

"And Leonard- don't even get me STARTED on Leonard. I've never met a man so flexible. You must be to get your head that far up your asshole!"

"Leonard like Church?"

"The original. Director Leonard Church, the one who made the AI your friend was based off of."

"A-I..."

"Yes. The Alpha AI fragment you knew in Blood Gulch. When I speak of Leonard, I mean the original whiny bastard who created your friend."

"So you were friends with Church's daddy!"

"Er."

"That is okay. Did Church have a mommy, too?"

Those bright, innocent blue eyes. Price cleared his throat. "Not exactly. AI aren't made how people are. Though Alpha did split and form the Beta fragment- which made things even worse for dealing with Leonard."

"That must have been very difficult."

"Managing his mental health was clearly going to be impossible from the start; within two weeks of my assignment with Project Freelancer, I had decided simply to see where encouraging him would lead. It went exactly where I suspected it would."

"And where is that?"

"They're all dead now."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Death only means they are not here right now!"

"I-" Price paused, reaching for a cookie. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said! But I will slow it down so you are sure to understand. Sometimes people go away and you think they will not come back, but they always do. Church always does! He is still around, he is just in the Epsilon unit right now!"

"You don't think death is a permanent state?"

"I have not seen it be permanent yet!"

"You believe your friend will come back?"

"He always does!"

Price stared at those innocent blue eyes, and something dark in him craved to take them over and introduce Caboose to the truth of death. To tell him his friend would never come back. The Meta and Tex would never come back. Caboose's best friend was dead, and the Epsilon unit was not a replacement. It would be so easy to wreck that innocent, sweet naivety- and watch the ensuing chaos as Caboose's mind broke.

Price took another bite of cookie. It would be as simple as defining mortality.

"Private Caboose..."

"Yes?"

That bright beaming smile. Those wondrous blue eyes.

"Your friends are very lucky to have you."

"They do not think so."

An unexpected flash of indignation sparked in Price's chest. "Oh?"

Caboose whispered, "Tucker is kind of stupid."

"Oh. And Agent Washington?"

"He seems nice. I'd like to keep him. He is not Church, but he could be a Church."

Price's moment of chaotic desire passed. "How is that?"

"He is grumpy. And tired. And he thinks me and Tucker are not smart. I like him."

"You like people who look down on you and have unpleasant personality traits?"

"I think they need good friends to teach them how to be good people!"

Unexpectedly, Price laughed. A grating, breathy sound, one that rusted around his vocal cords from lack of laughing muscles being used, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Perhaps you can teach me."

Caboose took Price's hand. "I think that would be nice."

Price marveled at himself for being unable to bear the thought of destroying that innocence. He had never been averse to ruining minds and consequently lives- but this one time, with Private Michael J. Caboose, Price couldn't do it. Even as he had considered it, figured in a heartbeat how to do it, known that the power of a word could accomplish great and terrible things, he had been unable to.

Caboose smiled. "And then you could be friends with Church's other daddy!"

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screwed

Wash has it in his mind to seduce York- without breaking the rule of always wearing his helmet.

Agent New York had a uniquely impressive dick.

Wash had seen lots of dicks. He was Wash, so of course he had. He only liked cats for the irony of liking some kind of pussy. And because the only animal with a phallic nickname was roosters, AKA cocks, and that just... Wasn't the same. He left that shit for Peckerman. Ha- pecker.

But back to the point: York's uniquely impressive dick.

Wash was one of few among the MOI's inhabitants privileged enough to have seen the thing. The first time he saw it was in the shower-room, by complete accident- he totally misjudged which shower stall was in use and which was empty, totally by accident, complete accident, like, totally unintended. He pulled back the curtain and, voila! York's dick, everything North had hinted it would be. And God, the fucking smirk York gave Wash- Wash hadn't been able to stop thinking about that dick for weeks because of that smirk.

He showed up in the mess hall two days later and knew he had a challenge before him. Mess hall was serving bananas. Wash always ate with his helmet on- not due to insecurities, but due to the Director's pointed induction of Wash: "An' so lahng ahs heh kehps is hellmit awn an thaht gawd-fuhsaykyen faise aht uh mah sat, heh cahn be uh Frieelahnceauh." So Wash had to find a way to eat a banana seductively while wearing a helmet.

This went about as well as you would think, for a socially awkward cat-loving dickophile, but damn did he manage. York noticed- whether his reaction was good or disgusted, Wash couldn't really tell, he was focusing on not dying while eating this banana. North caught Wash in the hall afterwards and congratulated him on his performance, and Wash replied that it had probably been his worst ever, of all time.

So about a week went by after that, no real progress made on the dick-front. A weird closet session with Maine, the resident "straight," and an uncomfortable conversation with Carolina, but that was about it. So Wash took more drastic measures.

There was a reason, you see, that York and Pork rhyme.

Wash came into the hall a few days later with his plan in place. He sat down with North and York as usual, took the greetings and insults they welcomed him with, and then withdrew a hot pink bendy straw from his pocket and inserted it to his drink. He saw the strangled look North had, like that one meme of the guy sitting in like a computer room or whatever with his veins and eyes bulging out of his head- yeah, North looked about like that.

York, on the other hand, stared with parted lips and wide eyes as Wash took a long swallow through the bendy straw. Wash had never really watched porn, so he didn't know just how pornographic what he was doing managed to look, but he'd seduced quite a few dick-bearers, and he pretty much knew what to do.

And the best part? It worked.

About twenty minutes after dinner had ended, York found Wash in the bathrooms and demanded to know: "Why?"

"Your-" Wash paused and rephrased. "You are uniquely impressive."

Because, after all, York was a dick.

"So- you-"

"Yes."

"But you can't take off your helmet. You can't suck dick with a helmet on."

Wash lowered down to his knees. "Oh really?"

Seducing York was easy; he was pretty basic. A few kisses planted here, use of his nails, a little hand-work. York was soon whining for Wash do whatever the fuck it was he was going to do. Which meant it was time to SUCC.

Wash tugged down York's shorts and the Dick itself whirled into view.

Wash wasn't really sure how a human had a corkscrew dick and he wasn't going to ask- he just knew it would probably work about like a bendy straw and that meant he could work with it. He threaded it through the hole at the bottom of his helmet and into his mouth and York made a soft noise like a cow.

Wash was particularly good at sucking dick and he proved it then. A lil slurp-slurp, using his hands to supplmement where his mouth couldn't reach, pulling and releasing. A basic, instinctive motion for a basic slut like York- a basic slut with an impressive corkscrew penis.

It was considerably underwhelming just how quickly York came. Wash swallowed, because that was one of his many talents, and then carefully removed the corkscrew dick from his helmet and rose to his feet.

"Told you I could suck dick with a helmet on." He headed out of the bathroom and spotted familiar eggplant armor in the hall. "Hey, North- you owe me $20. I not only seduced him. I did it without ever removing my helmet. So that's one-up on when I did it to you."

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knife lovers

Felix pulled Connie closer. Connie, cute, sweet Connie, with her big brown eyes and her physics-defying hair. So cute. So soft. She was very asleep. She was very cute! Felix was usually pretty Grossly Sensual but with Connie? He was uwu personified. uwu! so soft and sweet. Like Connie! 

Connie shifted in her sleep, and then opened her eyes. "Wh-?" 

"Shh, knife girlfriend, just sleep." 

"WHAT THE ROCKY ROAD FUDGE IS THIS SHIT-" 

She jumped up with knives ready and Felix sighed because this was inevitable. He wanted Connie to be his knife girlfriend but she always just wanted to fight. 

The door busted open. Oh FUCK. South Dakota was rage personified. She was like the opposite of uwu. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY KNIFE GIRLFRIEND-" 

And before South could kill him, Felix was arrested for Connie snuggling.

The end.

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this is what GOOD PUSSY sounds like *sound of gun cocking

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We’ll Name Her Henrietta

A tribute to @donprisciotte‘s excellent “Her Name was Henrietta” tale, and to @neverisadork & their wonderful chicken.

Please enjoy: fanfiction of a fanfiction. The Prequel No One Asked For.

Wilbert Neiss was a shrewd, unfriendly fellow, whose only redeeming qualities weren't his at all, but manifested in his step-daughter Daisy and his roost of prize-winning hens.

And he appreciated neither in any significant way.

Oh, the girl was alright. She had strong muscles from farming and would do the chores asked of her. A rebellious thing, always thinking too much, often drawing, and a peculiar attraction to older women. Wilbert hoped she would grow out of her unorthodox ways. He hoped that forcing her to spend copious amounts of time with the chickens would bore her to the point of becoming boring, and, while she would be even less interesting, she would at least be tolerable. Perhaps he could marry off a boring girl.

The hens, on the other hand, were initially quite what you'd expect hens to be. They were a common brown variety; he kept one rooster with them, allowing it only an hour with the hens a day. He hated roosters- cocky, nasty things, always spurring people when they didn't expect it. The hens clucked and pecked and squawked and shat all over the place. Quite ordinary indeed. A fat lot, fat enough that each year he'd take a few to the fair and win a few prizes, usually sell the best to a butcher sometime the following week. Daisy hated that.

And then came Henrietta.

The day Daisy came flouncing to the porch with news that one of the eggs had hatched, Wilbert already boasted a foul mood. He wanted nothing to do with the hens that day, only to do with his newspaper and his coffee. Daisy, with her strong arms and boyish hair, flounced up and held her chin high.

"Peggy's had her first chick!"

Daisy was neither fond nor forgiving toward Wilbert Neiss. He was her step-father, and their quarters would bind them for at least another year, and they were all each other had left besides the hens, but she felt no affection for him. He was a shrewd, unfriendly fellow, and she a rebellious girl, and so they did not get along. Still, in bouts of happiness, when good news happened by, she sometimes got carried away in her excitement and came to him with the good news. It was always a mistake.

"Toss it in the swamp," Wilbert said, sipping his black coffee, as bitter as his expression. "No need for more."

"It's a hen," Daisy said. She sought better reasoning. "Peggy's getting on in her years. She might not have anymore."

"Mightn't survive anyhow. Don't give it a name or no special care. If it dies, it dies. Now get back to mindin' the chickens, ya slavenly-"

And what came next was unpleasant enough to be left out of this tale. Wilbert Neiss said things not so nice, and Daisy responded with red-faced expletives and the whole scene was far from pretty. Daisy returned to the pen with ruffled feathers and a mind to throw Wilbert in the swamp.

She knelt in front of the chick, still only a day old, and made a promise to it then and there.

"You will always be safe here, and you will always be loved." She looked at Peggy. "We'll name her Henrietta."

And so it began.

uvu

For the next few months, Henrietta grew from a plucky young chick to a pretty young hen. Each day, she woke with her mother, enjoyed a meal of whatever was available, and spent time with Daisy. Daisy talked to her and she squawked back and sometimes she could swear Daisy actually understood. She was not fond of Daisy's step-father- he was cruel, and he kicked her, and sometimes he hypnotized her, and one time he stuck her in a box and she remained there for two days and thought she might die.

Daisy remained the light of her life through her lengthy early years. It felt as though an eternity passed, but it had only been seven months. The annual fair approached. Henrietta was average for a chicken, perhaps a bit plump, but her fellow hens were significantly larger than her. The rooster came in each day, and Henrietta knew she was gaining a shapely figure when he started to notice her like the other hens. Still, she was the youngest hen in the roost, and the smallest, and she felt it.

Daisy understood. Henrietta would squawk and bawk and cluck and scrape her foot on the ground and Daisy would tell her that it's okay, that we all feel small sometimes. Daisy was good for that. Henrietta's biological mother, Peggy, was also good, but not half as talkative as Daisy. The other chickens sometimes shunned Henrietta for being so close to a human- but Henrietta and Daisy had a bond that could not be broken.

Then Daisy started to talk about the war.

Frown lines started to groove her forehead and sometimes her eyes lost their light and color. Daisy's eyes were a warm shade of brown, like molasses and honey, and sometimes they were as colorless as peat when her emotions stole them away. It was the day Daisy came crying that her brother, a distant figure Henrietta had heard about but never met, had died for the war- that was the day Henrietta made the promise.

She would fight for this war. For Daisy's brother.

She warred with herself first. Henrietta was only a hen, after all- what could she do? But Daisy had never doubted her. As soon as Henrietta told Daisy of her new goal, Daisy wept a while and then began to teach her to make it on her own. By the time she was a year old, Henrietta had learned to read, do math, pick locks, and reach most surfaces on her own. The other hens distanced themselves even more; Peggy, never the brightest egg in the dozen, entirely forgot Henrietta was hers.

But Henrietta went unswayed. She tried harder and harder until she and Daisy could communicate entirely clearly. And then she started her plan to leave.

Daisy showed her how to get out, and the map that would lead her to the nearest recruitment office. Henrietta had no doubt that, once she got there, everything would go smoothly. It HAD to- she can't have tried so hard for so long to fail now. She refused to fail.

But Wilbert Neiss was a shrewd, unfriendly fellow. And one day he tromped down the chicken pens to retrieve Daisy and berate her for leaving a single cup by the sink, and he saw a quite unexpected sight: a chicken performing arithmetic.

He saw his fortune that day.

He berated her more for not telling him, for teaching the chicken in private, and he knew his argument was right because he was louder than her and whoever is louder is right, as that is the rule of arguments.

He readied for the trip. He'd have to take her all the way to Washington, D.C., and show her off in all her feathered intelligence to the president himself. Because Wilbert Neiss was shrewd and unfriendly, and he was also below the level of intelligence, evidently, of the common chicken. And the only logical response to seeing a chicken do math was to sell it to the government for money. (He didn't know that giving Henrietta to the military would be entirely aligned with her goals.)

Wilbert locked Daisy in her room so she couldn't warn the bird and he started to pack. Elsewhere in the house came a distinct pecking, and he tried to ignore it as he filled his bag- but it grew louder. Peck. Peck. Peck. Shirts, trousers, need socks- peck. Peck-peck-peck. PECK.

And then he realized.

Wilbert ran down the halls to stop Daisy, but it was too late. Henrietta, down in the yard in the pen, had received the message.

She pecked and pulled and tugged and bit but the wire that held the pen in place would not come undone. Frantic, she squawked for the other chickens to help- to no avail. Wilbert tromped closer to the end of the house, and Henrietta beat her wings and pulled and shrieked and-

A heavy thump came from within the house and something red splattered against the window of the backdoor. Henrietta stared in frozen horror. Red liquid dripped down the pane.

Daisy opened the door with hands on her hips and triumphant smile, the remains of a watermelon broken behind her, Wilbert Neiss collapsed on the floor.

And Henrietta knew everything would be fine.

uvu

Life, for a time, offered simplicity and peace.

Another year passed.

Old Man Wilbert Neiss moved into a nearby facility for the elderly, as that went more smoothly than a correctional facility or any sort of mental ward. Henrietta fattened and grew and learned and every day moved closer to the point of blending with human society. She never lost sight of her goal- not even when she laid eggs for the first time.

She was a good mother, and no one would disagree with that. Daisy stayed close, keeping an eye on Henrietta and her babies as they hatched and grew. She had never been so proud. Every day she knew she couldn't possibly love anything more, and every day she loved them more than the day before.

They were a month old and fluffing out beautifully when Daisy came to the pen with bad news.

Daisy opened the door and sat down right there in the muck with Henrietta and the other chickens. Several, including Peggy, raced forward to greet Daisy, expecting food. When she had none, they toddled off to their previous positions.

Henrietta eyed her chicks, pecking around the pen, and hopped over to Daisy, perching on her leg. "Bawk?"

Daisy sighed and reached down, running an idle hand over Henrietta's back. "Henrietta- things aren't... Going to be okay."

Concern rippled through Henrietta and she forced her feathers to lie flat. "...Bawk?"

Daisy shook once, forcing down a sob, and her voice came soft: "They're coming."

Henrietta jumped up. "BAWWWK! Cluck-ha-bawk! Ba-Gawk! Hawk-bawk-ba-GAWK!"

She pecked Daisy hard and Daisy jumped up. "Hey!"

"BAWK-GAWK!"

Daisy groaned. "What's the point? We can never make it out on time-"

"BAWK! BAWK BAWK BAWK!"

Daisy reached back and pulled the latch, opening the pen. She gestured to it. "Go, then. Go free. I'm... Staying here."

Henrietta felt torn. She couldn't force Daisy to leave- but she couldn't stay and leave her chicks to be slaughtered.

She had to pick her children.

She pressed her head to Daisy's arm and jumped down toward the door, calling her chicks to her. Three looked up at her with bright eyes and made soft chirping noises. She clucked emphatically, scuffed the ground, called them forward. One by one they came along. She glanced around and didn't see anymore and jumped out of the pen, trotting off toward the trees, stopping now and then to make sure her children followed.

They had just reached the tree-line when she realized she only had three.

There should've been four.

"BWAK!"

There- out in the field between the pen and the trees- the fourth tripped over its feet in its hurry to get to her. Henrietta commanded the others to stay where they were and raced for their final sibling-

uvu

She was too late that day. And it haunted her forever after.

Too late to save any of them.

Her nest sat empty, the roost quieter. Most of its old inhabitants were gone. None had left willingly.

For weeks, Henrietta wept, in the ways a chicken could. She barely ate. She barely slept. She barely drank. She just sat in her empty nest, filled only with her regrets. She lost the shapely plumpness that had brought the rooster's attraction. She didn't want it- she didn't want more eggs. She'd already had the perfect chicks and lost them. She couldn't bare that heartbreak again.

By luck of a shotgun, Daisy had survived. She'd gotten the motivation not to give up at the last second and sprinted for the house, coming out with a POW that downed an alien and didn't save Henrietta's chicks. Henrietta didn't blame Daisy. She blamed those damned aliens, and herself for leaving her fourth chick behind anyway.

One night, she could no longer stand to sit and do nothing.

She rose from her nest and hopped to the ground. It was time. Her goal had not changed- if anything, it was amplified now. The loss of her chicks would not go without vengeance.

She fluttered around and pecked Peggy goodbye. Peggy clucked and tilted her head to the side.

"Bawk-cawk," Henrietta said. "Bawk."

And her mother clucked again, not understanding a thing, and tried to eat a rock.

Henrietta proceeded to tear through the wiring with ferocity. She could just pick the lock- but she had a duty to the hens she'd grown up with. She picked and pulled and picked and pulled. Henrietta moved faster. Peck- pull- peck- pull- peck-

Beak together, she screeched, "BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK-"

And with a SNAP, the final piece of wire broke.

Henrietta tore the rest of it away and jumped through. It scraped her sides and she lost a few feathers, but she was free, and had widened the opening in the process.

For a heartbeat she stood under the starlight, her talons sinking into dew-blanketed glass, and looked up at the moon and understood she was free. Something most chickens never felt now graced her fellows: raw, untainted freedom.

She turned to her fellows. "Bawk? Baw-gawk?"

They huddled closer together in a corner. They would not come with her. She turned to them in earnest and tried one more time.

"BAWK!" She scuffed her foot across the ground. "Ba-cawk! Hawk-bock!"

They would not come. She had to go.

She looked at her mother one final time. This was goodbye.

And Henrietta charged into the trees and the future that awaited.

She didn't know yet about Allison, or Leonard, or Carolina, or anything that would come to pass. She didn't know about Project Freelancer or the role she would play in it. She knew only that she was free, and she had a goal. She would never see Daisy again- but she would never forget that humans can be compassionate, and humans can be good.

Sometimes everyone feels small.

But that night Henrietta knew she could take on the universe.

[crunchbites-muscle-structure]

ice cream.

a south9er ficc.

but not like that.

if you’re looking for smut, you’re in the vrong place.

It was Price's fault.

It was that goddamn counselor and his creepy eyes and monotonous yet condescending tone. It was all his fault. His entirely. No one else could be to blame, no one's poor impulse control or need for challenge. It was all Aiden Goddamn Price's fault.

It was Price's fault South Dakota was now in an ice cream eating competition with 479er.

South Dakota rapidly shoveled in spoonful after spoonful of Rocky Road while 479er, across from her, ate the equally challenging birthday cake ice cream. Gallon-size containers, because this is what professionals did. This is how a goddamn professional behaved. Chowing the fuck down on some Rocky Road to assert dominance over a smirking, cocky pilot, who was way too hot to win an ice cream eating contest. This competition was so South Dakota's to win. Fuck you.

South swallowed down bite after bite, so hurried she barely breathed, glancing up now and then to see 479er's tactics, methods, weaknesses. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. South didn't graduate top of her class to lose to a goddamn-

"Done."

South froze. "No!"

479er's spoon dropped to the ground and the empty container rolled across the table. South had never experienced pure hatred until that moment.

The other Freelancers cheered, laughed, paid off bets. South sat, red with fury, as the cocky asshole of a pilot accepted praise and high-fives and so on. She met South's eyes with that same stupid fucking smirk.

South knew what to do next.

She knew what she had to do. She couldn't do it here, but it would be done soon. She sat back in her quiet fury and planned it already.

South let the competition come to its end, the celebrations and uproar linger and dwindle. She waited as the crowd dispersed, as everyone moved on. She waited as life aboard the MOI resumed. As missions happened, trips, struggle, strife. She waited. She waited. She bided her time, till even Price had vanished from her life, till her brother became a memory. She waited.

And then the moment arrived.

"Theta? Close your eyes. You don't wanna see this."

Price's words lingered in her ears as South sauntered forward. 479er spoke up, "Oh! South! It's so good to-"

And not another word was spoken.

South consumed the pilot in her entirety, engulfed her, swallowed her down like a big ol' purple snake. Theta didn't close his eyes. He screamed. But the AI was not to stop her as South succed down 479er's toes, swallowing the final remnants of the pilot that had once been.

Price's words, the words that started it all, rang in her ears:

"Even 479er shows more dedication to maintaining a healthy diet than you."

Not anymore.

[crunchbites-muscle-structure]

dadderino

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templicious definition make them blues go loco-

[crunchbites-muscle-structure]

the director, a coward: director leonard church

hardgrove: DEUH DADDY DIRECTUH

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no scrubs.

tlc’s “no scrubs” but it’s red vs blue & it’s a shitty wattpad-style fic. pls enjoy. if you don’t you’re a coward and a scrub.

"Tucker... I can't do this anymore." A breeze whipped by and thrust Wash's frosty locks directly into the pupils of shale thunder cement pavement cloud gray eyes, instantly blinding him. "I'm sorry. I love you. But I just can't be with you." Tucker melted into a pool of tears of whiny-bitchness. "WHAHHHHHHHHHHY WASH WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME I"M TRY SO HARD MMMMSJAGHHHAGHMMAHDEHH" Wash patted his now ex-boyfriend's head. "I'm sorry... You're just not EdgyTM enough for me. We can still be-" "DON"T SAY FRIENDS YOU COWARD ASS BOTTOM BITCH," Tucker shriekded and whaPOW smacked the shit out Wash's ain't-shit ass. Tucker stormed off. He had given this man SO MUCH OF HIS FECKING TIME just to be PASSED OFF LIKE YESTERDAY'S FECKING LEFTOVERS. Who did Wash think he was, York or some shit? Tucker wasn't to be passed up like that. Uh-huh. No feckin' way, BETCH. He paused in the door. "Oh, and Washyboi?" Wash looked up with his somber Emo Band Frontman Gray Eyes. "Yes, ba- Tucker?" "I'm PREGNENT. It's SIMMONS'." From a distant pizza-scented heartbreak scene: "It's WHO'S? oH, GOD, NOOOO." It sounds orange. Tucker sweeps out of the scene like the bad bitch he is, leaving that ol' aint-shit-ass Freelancer behind. Fuck that mess. Ain't nobody got time for that. Honestly, how the feck do you pair a Lavernius with a David? What kind of white boy bullsh- Wash dissolved in angst and despair. He knew he was just a scrub. It wasn't his fault. Ever since Carolina returned, Wash had been unable to forget his one true love: Dr. Leonard Church.

uwu

Elsewhere, AKA the aforementioned heartbreak scene, Simmons had just woken up from a terrible traumatic nightmare about Grif falling off the cliff. Thank fuck the Meta died, right? No way in hell anyone present at that fight gave a half-shit about that fucking monstrosity. Simmons sighed in relief. All that mattered was that Grif had lived. Ol' nerd-ass maroon duderino hopped out of bed to go lay on his boyfriend, to find Grif had drowned himself in pizza. How? Fuck you and your physics. He just did. Simmons fell to his knees in despair. "NOOOOOOOO-" On the wall he saw it: "I can't believe you M-Pregnated Tucker." Simmons cried because, even now, after all this time- Always- He was just a fuckin' scrub.

uwu

Tex was above everyone else because she KNEW Church was a scrub. I know I just talked about the Meta fight and Tex is canonically dead but fuck you you don't know what the hell time setting is. This could be an AU. It's not. But it could be. It's just fucking canon. Somewhere in another,,,, Tex was reflecting on her own ain't-shit-ass boyfriend, and his ain't-shit-ass original form. They were both ain't-shit-ass. Church, in every iteration, was a goddamn scrub. And Tex was just boss-ass enough to make up for all the ain't-shit-ass Church brought to the relationship. She knew why they lasted. She knew why they made it when Grif and Simmons fell apart because of Simmons being a scrub. She knew why their love was stronger than Tucker and Wash's. It was because her soulmate being a scrub was just some shit she already been knew. It was no shocking revelation, no horrible plot twist, no Wattpad fantasy drama, no telenovela stress scene. It was just a fucking fact that everyone who met Leonard Church was aware of: he was a scrub. Tex loved him anyway. Tex loved him even more because her scrubmate made her look so much more boss-ass in comparison. Fuck you, Leonard Church, she thought, and sighed in contentment. You ain't-shit-ass scrub, I love you so goddamn much.

uwu

Back to the plot, Tucker fell off a cliff or astronomy tower or something else edgy and dramatic because fuck you scrub-ass Wash he IS Edgy-TM. Simmons cried some fucking more because even though he was a hoediddyhoebag he still loved that child. This why you don't do tequila, ladies and gents. Simmons cried to Sarge, "I jahahahust dohohon't u-u-understYAAAAND-" To which Sarge promptly replied, "Get your sorry ass off my steel-toed boots before I crush your thick skull open, Private. You lookin' to get an ass-kickin' this early in the morning?" "Yes, Daddy." "What the chicken FUCK did you just say????" And that's the story of how Richard Simmons died.

uwu

The only people who don't belong in this fucking fic because they are PERFECT and have never loved or been a scrub or Doc and Donut. I would like to take this time to tell you just how perfect they are. But I'm not gonna do that. Figure out your damn self. If you think they're not soulmates, you're wrong. If you think they're scrubs, I'll meet you behind the Denny's and personally explain to you how the fuck hydrogen fusion works on the sun. Does it? No. Nothing works on the sun. And you won't either. You'll just

uwu

Sarge tromped into the room where Wash was still fucking dying in his own ball of emo angst. If this were a My AI(mmortal), Wash would've already done things that would cause me to add trigger-warnings to this fic, which I'm not gonna do because I'm lazy. Deal with it preps uwu Sarge marched right up to that ain't-shit-ass bumblescrub and grabbed him by his bumblescruff. "What in Sam Hill did you do to this place? Grif is dead, Simmons is dead, Tucker threw himself off a cliff-" "he did WHAT?" "He's dead, John." "My name is Da-" "I don't give a freckled ass's shit what your name is, Private. What did you do to my boys?" "I..." He threw a hand over his forehead like the edgy melodramatic shit he is, unaware of the storm he had culled. "I broke up with Tucker." Sarge, on the outside, just seemed like regular Sarge. "And why did you do that?" "Carolina being around... She reminded me of my one true love." Sarge's grip didn't tighten. His visor didn't show the red he saw. "And who would that be, Private?" "I'm not actually-" "AND WHO WOULD THAT BE, PRIVATE?" "Director Leonard Church." Sarge lost all inhibitions. Not another goddamn Church-fucker. The only Church-fucker allowed in this hell-base was Caboose, the one good blue. Sarge's boot met Wash's chest and yeeted him all the way to Denny's, where I waited to explain hydrogen fusion on the Sun. Everything was done. Everything was over. There was one thing left on this hell-base. One. Sarge was no scrub. Sarge was not and never had been in love with a scrub. He was immune to the Curse of the Scrubs, AKA the reason all these whiny bottoms died today. He departed from Wash's death scene to do what he should've done a long time ago. He went to his bedroom. Lopez waited there. And no, it's not what you think. Sarge opened his dresser drawer. "Lopez... I ever tell you about my OTP?" "No." Sarge removed them from the drawer and brought the gift to his robo-son. "Well, son, it's time you learned. I made you, and that makes me God, of everything but the Blues. Those were produced by the Devil. And these- these were made for you. That makes them your soulmate." In Spanish, Lopez said something like, "Please don't." Sarge chuckled. "You're welcome, son." And he placed the cat ears on Lopez. It was done. Everything. It was the end. Sarge's OTP, at last, was canon.

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vore.

crunchity-munchity.

like this post and I will instantly teleport to your home and gobble up your shower curtain

[crunchbites-muscle-structure]

Ranch is best when mixed with ketchup, hot sauce, Ambrosia The Fruit Of The Gods, and a bit of the bioluminescent dust on the sword of Lavernius Tucker.

That is when Ranch is edible.

Only then.

When it is Most P O W E R F U L 

RAISE YOUR CHILDREN ON THE SWEET CREAM OF RANCHSAUCE, THAT THEY MAY GROW TO POWER AND CONQUER GALAXIES. RANCH. RANCH. Ɽ₳₦₵Ⱨ-

If you wanna make friends online you just gotta put out a little bait and see if anyone bites.

[crunchbites-muscle-structure]

Oatmeal Ballerina (Tuckingmaine):

Ladies and gentledudes, chicas and chicos, reddudes and bluechachos and compadres from other teams, buckle your maracas and sit on your buttchiquitas ‘cause it’s time for another story by your amigo Vic! 555-V-I-C-K, doodely doo! Sssoooo, long story short there are infinite universes with infinite stories and all that stuff, you know how it works, dude. Anyway! This one takes place in the Epsilon AI unit. What if instead of that Tex muchacha, someone else arrived at Blood Gulch? *season 14 opening*

It was the iteration number 69, my dude, and this time Churcherino was gonna doodely-do things properly: set up an encounter with Tex, take her out, get some taco, add some extra sour cream if you know what I mean. Wink wink! Anyway, for some reason things weren’t going as he hoped, there always seemed to be something wrong with his red and blue amigos and he had to set things right. He had already explained the diddly doodely dealio to his teal-io amigo Tucker, but that muchacho wasn’t having any of that. Not really cool, dude, but then again, Church needs to take a chill pill.

“Seriously, you really need to look into the stalker thing.”

“For the last time, Tucker, it’s romantic!” “Does this dead chick have a robussy, at least?”

The camera panned to Tucker. Now, that dude was asking the important questions. It was only one small preguntita, but the courage behind it was muy mucho grande, diddly dude.

“I…Uh…I guess, ye– no, wait. Wait…” “…” “…” “You’ve never got a chance to see it, have you?” “Stop asking questions.”

“Woah oh HOLY SHIT, you’ve never seen your imaginary girlfriend’s pussy!” the aqua compadre spoke for all of us as he laughed his buttchiquitas off “What are you, a fucking incel?”

“SHUT. UP. TUCKER.” “Or what are you gonna do? Try to shoot me with the sniper rifle and hit a rock?”

“Tucker, I swear to G–” “HEY, CABOOSE!” he yelled to get the attention to our lovely Caboose dude, or Caboode, our lovely caboodely dude. “TURNS OUT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY VIRGIN IN THE TEAM ANYMORE! CHURCH IS JOINING YOU NOW, AREN’T YOU HAPPY?”

“YES!!! THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST BEST-FRIEND CLUB EVER!” dude happily emerged from behind the tank he was fixing, missing the point as always “LOOK! WE EVEN HAVE MATCHING BLUE ARMOUR!”

“They’re not the same shade, dumbass!”

“Yes they are! I’m blue…Church is blue…YOU’re the one who’s…Aqua…”

“Ugh, whatever.” he walked away “Tsk, I bet the Reds don’t have to put up with this kind of crap…Wait. ”

He couldn’t believe what his eyeballitas were spotting in the distance.  He saw a little silhouetto a of dude. Scary mucho, scary mucho, would he get dark armoured taco? Tucker walked up to them, saw dark armour and called his amigo:

“Church, look!” “Not now Tucker.”

“Church, look!”

“I said NOT NOW, Tucker.” “Your imaginary girlfriend is here!” Church ran towards them “Oh holy FUUUUUUCK, no, no, no, no!” whoop nevermind, Church ran away immediately as he noticed who that diddly figure actually was, leaving Tucker there with the dude.

“Hello. I am Agent Washington of Project Freelancer, and you’d better give me the Epsilon AI now that I ask you befo–”

“WOAH! You’re not a chick!”

“No.”

“Lame.” Tucker’s Senor El Diquito went from fiesta to siesta real quick “Oh, uhh, you wanna come in, bud? I’m making breakfast.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“No problem, let’s go.”

“After you.” Agent Washington smiled, well spoken like a true freelancer compadre, as he checked out that muchacho’s puerta behindita, fantasies of storing his dick queso in there plaguing his mind like cucarachas. No wonder he wanted to get this Epsilon thing over with, he was straight as an arrow before him but then implantation stuff went on - wink wink! - and homie was now a raging homosexual. But  the stream of consciousnacho of that muchacho was interrupted by that Tucker dude, who almost made him chill for a sec.

“You freelancers are lucky bastards, you get to hang out with hot chicks. Here it’s always all-male teams, a sausage party.”

“Well, we don’t really get to hang out with girls much…We’re always in the middle of a mission.”

“Dude, if there’s a chick nearby then you have a chance at sex, if you don’t it’s just because you’re shit at it. And you know what that means? Time for some advanced class with Professor Fuck!”

“Time for what with who?” Agent Washingdude felt like half scared and half hopeful, and also half horny. No, wait, dude, he was half hopeful and half scared because he was all around horny. His front upper body buttchiquitas went all red and caliente like the fuego he hoped he was gonna feel soon, in his burrito walls. He knew that a real amigo would have added sour cream.

“Relax, dude, it’s me. Lesson number one: First of all, you gotta talk to them, so you find the chick you want, you walk up to her and then–”

“Treat her like a princess? Absolutely not!” this mucho hetero nonsense had the whole world fall on him like some muchacho who was too borracho would have fallen from a mechanical bull, crushing his hopes and dreams real quick “I’m jaded, because I can’t trust anyone, I’m not putting effort into any of this, I–”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“What if I want to be treated like a princess, for a change? I deserve it after all I have been through!”

“…You know, maybe Church was right about things being wrong in this world.” that mucho homo nonsense, on the other handita, had triggered Tucker’s inner squickerino and he wasn’t having any of that either. He could swear every damn diddly dude in that canyon was crazy. Again, not really cool.

“Oh, right, Church…The Epsilon AI.”

“What’s your deal with him?”

“I have to take him to the Chairman so that I can get out of prison.”

“Yeah, right…He never told me about it, and he just won’t shut the fuck up talking about himself, so I’m just gonna assume you’re bluffing.”

“I’m serious.” Dude took off his helmet and his taco shell coloured eyebrows, matching with his hair, did a real threatening push-up, which mean this was an indeed big dealio, dude.

“You said you wanted to be a princess!”

“And did I fucking stutter, Private Tucker?!”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…I’m just gonna make oatmeal.” “Okay.”

 R A W R

Tuckerino looked at him like WOAH, WHAT’S GOING ON, DUDE? No noise was that unholy since the Alien Engineer compadre’s passing. Rest in peace, doodely dude. You were chill, dude.

“Woah, dude, was that your stomach?”

“No, it was my friend…The Meta.”

“The WHAT?” “RAWQQQRRRSSSHH HAWRAWGHLHA!” announced our huge white freelancer compadre as he disabled his invisibilididdly enhancement, revealing the toned buttchiquitas he had worked hard to get.  

“He said you’re going to lead us to the Epsilon AI or else–”

“But isn’t the real you out there actually trying to get the AI?” Tuckerino yawned as he distractedly checked the oatmeal. Little did that dude know how creamy that breakfast was gonna be. Wink wink! Just sayin’. “Aren’t you just a fake you?”

“Aren’t we all fake?” Washingdude was depressed and full of thoughts of revenge and chorizo as always “Isn’t that the reason why we’re here?”

“HRWARWA?”

“Seriously, dude. It’s like 9am and thanks to you I already got a fucking headache!” whined our teal amigo, feeling said headache like a needlio stabbing his the cabeza “Congratulations, ASSHOLES!”

“Listen, I’ve been lied to, backstabbed, shot at and been called names by the same people that wronged you. I am going to put a stop to this and you don’t get to be ungrateful about it.”

“Well, we can talk about your stupid quest later, okay?” he switched off the oatmeal fuego and turned himself on “Oatmeal’s ready.”

“Epsilon has been inside of me, Tucker.” he felt like choking and a tear leaked from his right eyeballita like when the jalapenis was too spicy “It’s personal. And if I can’t take him, then I will take you.”

“Bow chicka bow wow?”

“Yes. I mean it.”

“Rawr. Wergle rawr aschhwrow?” suggested the biggest compadre, who was soon to become the main(e) dude of this spicy adventure. Mucho caliente.

“What? That’s too kinky, Meta.”

“There’s no such thing as too kinky, Wash.” dude shrugged “Alright, big dude, show me what you’ve got.”

“Whargl.” he nodded taking his armour off, he was now in the nude with his noodely-dudely jalapenis hanging, now he was squatting, mouth wide open ready for sour cream as he started literally barking, or rawring, orders to his bumblebee-armoured amigo “Gewerschlaugh rawrrawr.”

Not even time for Tuckerino to blink that Washingdude was there in front of him, nakey nakey eggs and bakey, arms up in the air, fifth position en haute, pale and delicate like a tortilla. Needless to say they all needed to chill.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?!”

“I will be a beautiful ballerina, just like Princess Tutu.”

“I…Huh?”

Something appeared to Tucker and Tucker only: it was our very own compadre Agent Florida, finally someone who was chill, ready to save the day as always, his cabeza floating on the ceiling, speaking his subordudenate words of wisdom:

“Alright, private Tucker, the ball is in your court: this only happens once in a blue moon, so please jump on the bandwagon,  you wouldn’t want to miss the boat! It’s time for me to hit the hay, now, but let me tell you this…If you remember your training the it’s going to be a piece of cake. With love, from your mentor and friend, Cappy Butch Flowers.”

The Meta was now the main(e) attraction, lubing up Washingdude’s buttchiquitas with oatmeal, the chili texture of his dudely walls feeling like heaven on Meta’s fingerinos. But there wasn’t mucho tiempo to waste, so he grabbed his Brute Shot and folded it. It was now a beautiful swan. Mucho weirdo, that wasn’t part of the plan. So the main(e) dude folded it again and it was now the biggest umbrella in the universe. He rammed it into his tortilla loooking compadre, handle vibrating inside of him, brrrr, whole lotta shaking going on, dude, wink wink! Anyway, this hugely doodely umbrella started from inside his burrito and ended right above his cabeza, top notch scratching against his skull, stretchers trapping his handitas, runnerino and top spring hurting his neck and bottom spring digging some bloody hole in his lower back, muy delicioso dude. If you want to be a mucho deliciosa princess dudette, you gotta suffer a lil bit. Our very own Tucker compadre was distracted from his oniric vision of Agent Floridude by the sharp pain of the Meta ripping and schlorping his toenails.

“AAAHH! WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Do as he says, cum in the oatmeal!” whined Washingdude “You have ten seconds before he kills us both!”

“What? I can’t cum in ten seconds! I can only cum in five!” “Four!” he yelled. They were preparing very epic cool moment to take place. Just a bit of patience and things would’ve gotten jalapeno level caliente. For now it was like, salsa.  

“Fuck!”

“Th-three!”

“Uhhhnnnn…”

“Two!”

“GASP.”

“One!”

“AOWWWWWWWWUugghhh…” he spilled his hot beans inside the hot pot of hot oatmeal. Caliente! Which means hot. Wink wink, doodely doo!

“G-g-get a spoon,” faintly emitted the freelancer muchacho “I cannot resist for much longer…”

“What am I supposed to– Oh, I got it!”

This was our bluedarino’s moment: he took a spoon, immerged it into the pot of oatmeal and flailed it around, drops of cummy oatmeal  flying towards Washingdude - who was spinning like a mucho caliente ballerina dudarina, muy delicioso dude - and bounced from his umbrella reverse-tutu to Maine who was crouching there ready to gargle. And then they went on like this again and again, dude, like, for really mucho tiempo! Too bad at a certain point Agent David Absodudely-no-chill Washington dropped dead, which was uncool. “…” “…” “…”

After this intense moment of mucho silence, the caboodely dude while entering the base with Church, no diddly idea what the hell was going on:  

“SUPER BEST-FRIEND CLUB OF BEST FRIENDS IS HERE FOR BREAKFAST TIME!”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Uhhh, Church? I’m confused.”

“It’s okay, Caboose. We’re all confused.”

The End, dude.

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oh look washington does use contraceptives

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