#Like has this man EVER seen a kangaroo

[hyperfixated-maybe]

Currently thinking about the way Ernest Shepard draws Roo in the Winnie the Pooh books

specifically this bottom one because like

what the fuck

What even is that scrungy little 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 next to tigger

[angsthology]

“YOU CAN’T DISAPPOINT A PICTURE” — or an alt title: roo vs. jenson to roo and jenson

from the freezing act and disappearing act to no choice not to act (do i know what i meant? absolutely not.)

a/n yarg hey this is set on 2022 and the rest of 2023, after the events of the great (coming not so soon but im workin on it)

THE KANGAROO VS. THE WORLD

2022

it was her first points. her first points... ever in formula one. she was on… a different kind of high. nothing was going to ruin that moment for her. nothing except one.

as of right now, she was not noticing anything else besides the man in front of her—and even that was debatable.

this time, it was her turn to be catatonic.

daniel, who was one of the blokes lucky enough to witness what was currently happening in front of him could not help but laugh, well, he was putting his entire life into not laughing. but, well, it was hard not to.

he’s—no one, has ever seen her like this before.

she was usually so… either kept to herself or an absolute menace. there was really no in-between. but one for sure thing she always is was functional, even is the function is cracked up to a hundred or zero. so to see her malfunctioning was way funny for daniel.

daniel, still giving his entire life not to laugh, answers the question for her, “of course, she will! right, kid?”

at that, her blubbering stopped and her attention was fixed on the australian—that had betrayed her.

her mind was still reeling in—half present and half out of it, “i—yea—huh?” she looked towards daniel for… anything.

he didn’t respond with anything else and pulled on her race suit that was now unzipped and collecting around her waist down, her top half showing off the crimson-red fireproofs she wore underneath.

her mind was going faster than an rb19 and the next thing she knew she was sitting in the middle of a very fine world champion she was so ready to risk everything for and… and daniel ricciardo.

she was so in her own world, she failed to notice the former calling out her name.

oh my god, he knows my name, she thought.

she cleared her throat, posture changing feigning ‘professionalism’, “what was that?”

“congratulations on scoring your first points today!”

she blinked. she knew what he said. she was just… processing.

truly, she didn’t know how or why it happened or even what had happened at all but she somehow ended up in a finger guns position pointing at her long-time celebrity crush.

she stayed at the end position for quite a while. besides the sound of the track and every other surroundings, it was quiet. jenson was too stunned to speak; roo was berating herself in her head absolutely throwing every curse word in her head—if anyone were to read her mind right now, they would start crying from all the screams and cries of her own stupidity. daniel—now, daniel on the other hand; was having the time of his life. the dam had broken and he was now clutching his stomach besides the girl laughing his ass off.

his—very loud, very distracting—laugh paused her inner turmoil at herself and directed all towards him. her eyes were void of any emotions and her entire look was unpredictable. she narrowed her eyes at the australian before quickly fisting her hand out to hit the man right where he was clutching it, making him grunt in shock and eventually drop to the ground groaning—his laugh somehow still straining behind.

still in pain, from both his laughter and the hit, daniel managed between discomfort, “oh—you’re good, man, you’re good.”

her eyes were still trained down to the rolling australian, giving him her deadliest-calmest glare later on slowly look up to meet jenson’s; completely freezing in her spot once more with eyes wider than max’s winning gap as if his stare was one of medusa’s.

later on, she found herself in the haas—they stopped trying to get rid of her eventually—hospitality with mick sitting on one of the chairs and herself pacing around the room talking his ear off.

“i hate daniel! i hate him! i told him a million times! i never wanted to meet jenson in person! i just wanted a picture! i hate him so much!” she whined, stomping around the room dramatically.

eventually she sat herself down next to mick. not knowing how else to respond, he extended his hand and giving her a few pats on the shoulder.

“you know, he’s probably was very happy to see you too.” he tries.

“don’t.”

he raised both his hands in surrender.

it was an interesting sight to see: britney spears walking and talking with snoopy in the paddocks.

“i just think he’s neat, you know.” she explained with a shrug.

the older man chuckled with a shake of his head, “you do know you’re talking about a cartoon dog, right?”

she gasped, “rude. he is the cartoon dog.” with a hand over her heart, she then continues, “he’s more than that! he’s a pilot, an icon, and most importantly; a best friend.” she paused, remembering a detail she forgot to mention, “—to woodstock. i don’t care about charlie brown, that kid’s an idiot.”

nico made a contemplating face, “you’re so mean to him why—”

she was about to reply until she was cut off by a british accent that made her entire blood run cold and paralyze her nerves, eyes widening slightly—position permanently cemented to the ground where her body jerked to a stop.

“oh, hey, jense!” he greeted back, turning his attention and entire body away to face the blonde getting closer.

to her dismay, he waved the world champion over.

(what is that—what the hell?! I’M SWEATING BULLETS LIKE A FUCKING WATERFALL.)

he was getting closer.

(FUCK!—what do i do?)

closer.

“yeah, i was just here talking to—” nico said as jenson was in easier earshot, his hands already motioning to his side. just as he turned around the moment the brit arrived by his side, he was met with dust. besides that, no other evidence showed there was once a girl in an alfa romeo racing suit next to him. “wha—kid?” he looked around, “where’d she go?”

jenson frowned slightly, “ah. sorry about that, mate. most likely my fault.”

nico turned to him confused, “what?”

he shrugged sadly, “i don’t know. that kid is like allergic to me i think—never got any chance to properly talk to her.”

again nico put his thinking face on and after a good few conversations with himself in his head, his face cracked up with a smile.

he slapped jenson’s back and rest his hand there—shocking him in the process—“believe me, she doesn’t.”

end of 2023

she. was. done.

finally.

this year was definitely not her year and she was glad it was over.

during their final debrief mick was her pillar; she was on her last set of batteries and was about to shut down, the entire time she had her head resting on his shoulder half-asleep. he didn’t complain, thankfully—surprisingly none of her team either.

after they declared dismissed, she was so ready to be hauled—by who, she didn’t really know. but man she wished—back to her bed—did not matter which one but whichever the closest was—and pass out until the next season starts.

unfortunately, it was not that easy yet for her.

the only people left in the room was her, porsche’s team principal, his assistant, her head engineer, and... mikey.

now that she really thinks about it, she doesn’t really know what it is mikey does.

“you look rough.” the man started. “not wearing any makeup today?” he asked genuinely. he knew how much makeup therapy usually improves her mood, which is why it made sense to him seeing her so—gone.

“i am wearing makeup.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

he motioned for her to take a seat, and so she did.

the air was… unreadable. usually it’s pretty light with them, they loved her and she loves them. maybe it was the lack of mick in the room?

she was so tired, she didn’t care for the thick silence in the room, opting to just break it herself.

“am i getting sacked? are you going to make me burn my own contract?”

she was getting dangerous. tired roo means her defense systems are losing charge—if she was a drinker, this would be a glimpse of her in an honest drunk state.

no one really stopped her so her mouth just kept moving, “i mean, i wouldn’t be surprised after the year i had i was kinda shit—i’d be pretty sad, though. i love you guys. i love you,” she looked at her engineer, “i love you,” she looked to her personal trainer, “i love you,” to her team principal. and last but not least, “and i love you.” she looked slightly up at her team principal’s assistant that stood behind him.

“oh good grief, when the hell is he getting here?” the man in the middle whispered under his breath as he rubbed his forehead, in the background the driver still mindlessly listing all the people she loves.

“and i love that guy who always has chocolate for me—oh wait that’s mick again.”

“just got a text from jackie says they’re close.” whispered back mikey.

as if on cue, right after mikey locked his phone, the door opens—thankfully—stopping roo’s listing, catching all of their attentions.

she was still yapping when she turned to the door but came to an abrupt stop when she sees the person who walks in.

the man waved.

“oh no, it’s jenson button.” she says flatly—at this point it was like she was drugged with truth serum; her words held no emotions or feelings whatsoever, but everyone was sure it was all genuine.

she was about to turn back to her team when with no warnings, no wind, no signs, she was hit with a tsunami—not even joking. the moment her head turned her face was splashed with a bucket of cold water.

so. so. cold.

oh that definitely woke her up.

“WHAT THE FU—”

as if she hadn’t had enough thrown at her, a towel was draped over her head before she can finishing cursing out her team. (one, to dry her up and two, to shut her up.)

emerging from under her towel, she looked towards the three culprits’, eyes going from jenson button at the front of the room and back to them, “in front of jenson button?!” she scolded in a whisper.

“it humanizes you,” explained her team principal shortly.

she quieted. sucked in a breath and stare at him flatly, “die.”

mateo—her team principal—was unfazed by it, opting to ignore her comment instead and continue with the business they had originally set up for.

“now that you’re awake,” he started.

“whatever.” she rolled her eyes.

ignoring her, mateo continues, “i’m going to put this in simple words you’ll understand.”

“why do you hate me?”

“i know you don’t like to talk about… whatever the hell this year was, but one thing for sure, we—” he motioned towards himself, mikey, and olivia (her head engineer), “—decided it’d be good for you to have a manager.”

she stayed silent, blinking her thoughts in until she found her words;

“and he is… your best candidate?” she asked stiffly motioning to the british driver that she’s sure can kill her with a stare.

mateo looked anywhere but anyone, slightly dodging the question. he shrugged, “well.”

“seriously?!” commented the world champion. he rolled his eyes and made way to sit on the chair next to hers, slightly making the hair on her arms rise. “look, kid, i know it’s probably going to be hard for you to even be in the same room with me—but i promise, i would not be doing this if i weren’t sure of you. you are one of the best talents i’ve seen in my life and i think i could help you reach a lot more good things.”

she took in his words and she’d be lying if hearing all those things coming out of his mouth didn’t give her a type of sensation—butterflies in her stomach, warmness in her heart, and the burning tears building behind her eyes—and a surge of courageous in her veins.

she smiled, “no, i think you’re right. and, i mean, i’m in the same room as you right now and i’m all fine.”

after that, papers were signed and deals were made, and to her; the rest was history.

(including all her previously embarrassing moments.)

princess (mick) HSAZGFKJSDGS YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE i js died oh my god what did i do

te1enoviyuh 🎵 Simple Minds • Don't You (Forget About Me)

liked by f1porsche, atticusingh, and 4,476,928 others

tagged: jensonbutton

te1enoviyuh mischief not managed zzz

see all 487 comments.

roomcgrittle CONSTABLE REGGIE

buttoncunt JENSON????? kid r u even alive still

dunphyrrari did u fall asleep typing the caption

te1enoviyuh dunphyrrari okay thats funny u deserve a notice

dunphyrrari te1enoviyuh I WON

f1porsche Watch out (the rest of) 2024 they’re coming for you. 😉

selvnika i thought *i* was your manager...

te1enoviyuh selvnika if anything IM your manager. your around the clock arounf the world babysitter

sargeantist selvnika now hold on... back tf UP. WDYM MANAGER??

schupastry sargeantist JUST STAY CALM DO NOT MAKW ANY ASSUMPTIONS.

disneyprincemuke im just here for the ride tbh

bonus

mateo sighs at his phone, his employee no better than before she had management.

“do you ever regret this? ‘cause i do. —kinda.” commented the unlucky woman known as her pr manager (jackie.)

“who thought this was a good idea, again?”

being the self-aware king himself; mikey immediately choked on his water and quickly made his escape.

anyone noticed a cameo? not proofread | taglist; @treehouse-mouse @disneyprincemuke @yansbolobao @leilanixx @judespoision @vellicora @bborra @woozarts crossed out means i cant tag u

[minisugakoobies]

Confessions of a Dirty Mind | Bang Chan

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader Genre: smut, and they were roommates!, porn with the barest of plots, a little fluff Rating: M (18+) Warnings: incredibly thirsty pining, reader’s a bit feral for her roommate, the giggles will be deployed as a weapon, reader drops the d word (daddy) in her dirty thoughts but never says it out loud, accidental texts, body worship (abs, thighs, breasts - everything gets praised), love bites/marking, grinding, chan is thick everywhere, chan throws reader around a little, hints at dom!chan, fingering, oral sex (m + f receiving), facefucking, cum eating, reader is kind of an idiot but that's okay!, I wrote this out of a dire need to s this man’s d Word Count: 6.5K Disclaimers: NSFW; obviously I don’t own SKZ - they just inspire me Summary: The absolute last thing you want is for your roommate to find out just how much you want him. Right?

A/N: Well, as threatened promised, I'm writing for Stray Kids now in addition to BTS! This came out of absolutely nowhere last week. I've just got Bang Chan brainrot 24/7 now, so that's cool. Thanks to @minttangerines @bangtanintotheroom @sugalaritae for their support (and amazing Aussie accents!!) 💕

Unbeta'd as usual. Please let me know what you think! Like if you'd like to see more skz fics from me… that would fuel me to keep writing. If everyone hates this I'm quitting writing and moving to the wild to live with the koalas ✌️

Being roommates with your crush is its own special type of torture. Always being so close to what you want but never being able to touch. To taste. To feel. 

You weren’t always this feral. Once upon a time, you were normal. Well-adjusted, even. Then you had to move for your job and needed to find a place to stay fast and your best friend Minho just happened to know someone looking for a roommate. 

Honestly, looking back, it was too easy. Should’ve known there’d be a catch. And that catch was your sanity. 

Because Minho’s friend Bang Chan turned out to be the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life. 

Listen. A lot of people use phrases like that all the time, “the hottest man you’ve ever seen,”  some hyperbole they say for ridiculous effect, but you mean it. You have never seen anyone as beautiful as this man, with his chiseled cheekbones, thick lips, and those dimples. 

Fuck. Those dimples. Almost as maddening as the washboard abs he’s constantly showing off. You didn’t know a person could be allergic to shirts until you met Chan. 

And now you’re suffering. Every. Damn. Day. 

It’s not just that he’s the most gorgeous man on the planet. No, that would be hurtful enough, but he’s also kind. Smart. Silly as hell. You’re constantly plagued by his sweet smiles and unbelievably adorable giggles. 

The worst part, though, is the way he can flip between sexy and soft instantaneously. Like when the two of you argue over something stupid. All of your arguments are fundamentally stupid. The two of you get on so fucking well, the only things you argue over are opinions on pointless things. Like last night, when you’d joined him for a beer while he watched tv. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Chan had declared, twisting sideways on the couch to look at you. “There’s no way a koala could possibly defeat a kangaroo in a cage match!”

“Sure it could.” 

“No, it could not!” Chan let loose a flurry of high-pitched giggles. “Have you ever seen a kangaroo? Those things are ripped! One kick or punch, and the koala’s out.” He mimed a powerful punch.

You tipped back the remainder of your beer before pointing the bottle at him. “Yes it could! Think about it - what do koalas do?” When he just blinked, you continued. “They climb! And what do koalas usually have?” Again, a blank stare. “Syphilis! So… think about it! All that little guy has to do is climb up the kangaroo, give him some germs, and boom! Kangaroo goes down.” You grin smugly. “There’s a reason they call syphilis the silent killer.” 

Chan fixed you with his signature Look™, the one you think of as “stern dom daddy” - thick eyebrows drawn, bottom lip tucked between his teeth, dark eyes scanning your face - and you felt your knees go weak. Then he blinded you with the full sunshiny force of his smile, eyes closing, dimples popping. 

“That is an absolutely insane argument, not to mention completely incorrect. I don’t even know where to start explaining why you’re wrong.” He paused. “No, actually, let’s start with the fact that it’s chlamydia, not syphilis, that koalas get, and go from there.” By the time he’d finished  and you’d finally conceded that a kangaroo would probably win, the two of you were nearly in tears from laughing.

His duality is whiplash-inducing. And always leaves you in ruins. 

So when your feelings overwhelm you, when you feel like you’re absolutely bursting at the seams with need, you do what you always do. Torture Minho. 

Your bff is used to you venting to him about your crippling inability to make a move. On anyone. Ever. Over the years, he’s weathered dozens of crushes that never went anywhere because while you’re definitely a total treasure, you lack the confidence to make any of your (usually horny) dreams come true. He’s come to expect the endless text messages you send. 

Except that now, “messages” might not be the right word for them. “Unhinged ravings” might be more accurate. 

Ughhhh he’s so damn fine Today he came home from the gym all sweaty and I nearly offered to give him a bath With my tongue. My TONGUE Minho!

Like he’s always done, Minho bears it all in stride with his usual unwavering compassion.

You’re a lunatic

He doesn’t even try to convince you to say something to Chan about your feelings anymore. Now he just waits for you to exhaust yourself and then he changes the subject. Usually by sending photos of his cats. 

It’s an odd friendship, but neither of you would trade it for anything. 

At the moment, you’re ignoring your pain by lying on your bed, in a tee and sweats, watching a movie on your laptop. You can hear your roommate rummaging around his room. Your apartment features a Jack and Jill bathroom, so it’s easy for you to hear what’s going on next door through the adjoining space.

“Channie, why are you pacing around?” you call out. 

Your phone buzzes. 

Trying to find my shirt  

“Are you seriously texting me from the next room?” Pausing your movie, you trudge through the bathroom. The door to Chan’s room is open so you don’t bother to knock, flopping down on his bed as he digs through his closet. He’s shirtless as usual, blond curls shaking with the force of his rummaging.

“Yeah, sorry, ‘m in a hurry and didn’t want to stop looking,” Chan admits sheepishly, throwing a grin over his shoulder at you. You ignore the fluttering in your stomach and get comfortable, resting your head on your arms.

“You could’ve just said it out loud. I can hear you all over this apartment.” It’s not a big space. Which only amplifies your angst, as it’s hard to escape from your desires when the source of it is just constantly right there. Sprawling out on the tiny couch in the living room. Making himself a midnight snack in the kitchen. Lounging on your bed while you sit at your desk, trying not to stare at his reflection on your screen. “What shirt are you looking for?” 

“My tiger tank.” 

You know the shirt he’s speaking of - his white tank top with an embroidered tiger’s head on the chest. It’s a favorite of yours, cut low enough on the sides and in the front to show off his biceps and pecs at the same time. The first time you’d seen Chan in it, Minho had accused you of being a vampire because you couldn’t stop talking about how much you wanted to nibble on his collarbones. 

“Ah! Found it!” Chan raises the shirt over his head victoriously before yanking it on. He takes a moment to inspect himself in his mirror and you wonder if he truly recognizes just how stunning he is. He catches your eye in the reflection. “What are you up to tonight? Wanna come out with me, ‘Lix, & ‘Bin? We’re gonna get some drinks.”

Sure, you’d love to hang out at the bar with Chan and his friends. They’re always a good time. Except when closing time arrives and once again you’re forced to bear witness to your roommate getting hit on by basically every woman in the bar. Not that you can blame them. But it’s especially awful on the nights when he leaves with someone else. You’d rather not deal with that tonight.

“Nah, I’m just gonna relax. But thanks.” 

“Come on,” he wheedles, plopping down on the bed, hard enough to make you bounce a little. “You haven’t been out with us in ages. Is it the guys? Did one of them say something stupid?” 

“They always say stupid shit. That’s all they ever say,” you crack, smiling when Chan laughs. “But no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just tired.” 

Chan doesn’t say anything, just looks at you for a moment. The silence makes you inexplicably nervous, and you fiddle with his comforter for want of something to do with your hands. But then he just nods. “‘Kay. But if you change your mind, we’ll be down at Back Door.” 

“Thanks.” 

Chan heads into the bathroom to play with his hair. You slip past him, back into your room, throwing yourself dramatically onto your bed and burying your face in a plush pillow. How much longer can you stand this? 

You grab your phone. 

I’m losing my mind

You can practically hear the sigh in Minho’s voice as you read his response. 

What did Chan do now?

He’s getting ready to go out with Felix and Changbin He looks so fucking good in those tight jeans

Minho doesn’t reply. He knows to just let you get it out of your system before responding.

My mouth is literally watering It’s a Pavlovian response at this point I see denim and I start salivating

A text alert pops up in the middle of your thirsty ranting. 

Hey do you mind if I borrow your eyeliner?

“Stop texting me when you’re 10 feet away!” you yell, laughing. Chan pops his head out of the bathroom and flashes you that grin, the one that turns your insides to goo, and you sigh. “Of course you can borrow it, you know you can.” 

Thanks

“Chan!” 

His giggles float through the door and your thumbs fly.

Seriously If Chan doesn’t let me s his d one of these days I will die I will be the first person to die from ineedtosuckadick-itis

There’s a loud clattering in the bathroom, like someone’s knocked half the contents of the crowded sink counter onto the floor. Your makeup isn't cheap, so you hop up off your bed. 

“You okay in there?” The first thing you notice is the pile of smashed cosmetics on the ground. The second thing is the way your roommate is staring at you, eyes wide, sharpened kohl liner still clutched in one hand, phone in the other. “What? What’s wrong?” 

Chan doesn’t speak, but raises his phone and kind of waves it limply. 

Oh god. You were in the wrong chat. You were in the wrong chat and now Chan knows you want to suck his dick. You’ve been texting for most of your life and this is the moment your brain decides to fuck up?!

As Chan continues to stare, you realize you have two choices: fess up and own it, or play dumb.

It’s no choice.

“What, uhhhhhhh, what’s up?” 

Chan gestures to his phone. “You want to suck my dick?” He says the words as if they’re unfamiliar to him, like he’s trying them out for the first time. 

Well, shit, how are you supposed to play dumb if he’s just going to call you right out? 

“Guess the cat’s out of the horny bag now,” you mutter under your breath.

Chan cocks his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” you cough, looking at your own phone. “I mean, uh, noooo, what? Minho and I were just, um, talking about how I want to, uh, sssssss…” you glance wildly around the cramped room, hissing like a frantic snake as you fail to come up with another word that starts with s, before your eyes land on an empty glass sitting by the sink. “…Share a drink with you? Because I’m… thirsty?”

“You’re thirsty?”

Fucking understatement.

You can’t quite read the expression on Chan’s face as he glances between you and his phone. There’s a flash of dom daddy in there and then it’s gone. 

“YN. I know what ‘s his d’ means. Also, you said you had - what did you call it? Ineedtosuckadickitis.” You think Chan’s lips quirk slightly as he reminds you of your textual idiocy, but you’re too busy trying to psychically rip a hole in the floor so you can disappear forever to be certain. “Where do you get your medical info, by the way? I’m starting to worry.” 

He’s making light of the situation, which you would appreciate more if you weren’t sure you’re about to die from embarrassment. Your mind is reeling. There’s no way to get out of this. Any second now, he’s gonna realize how you feel. Then he’s gonna let you down. Gently, you hope. Then you’re gonna need to find a new place to live, because there’s no recovering from this.

“Fine.” You take a deep breath. “Yes, I said it.” Unable to look him in the eye, you focus on your phone as you speak. “I was telling Minho how much I want to suck your dick, because I’m a disgusting horny monster who can’t stop thinking about it. I’m sorry. I’m gonna go pack up my room now.” Shoulders slumping, you slink away, hoping he won’t follow. 

He does. “Wait, what?” 

You don’t answer, heading directly for your closet, tugging at your suitcase where it lies on a shelf, and he crowds into your space, arms reaching out to stop you. 

“Oi, slow down! What are you doing?” 

“I’ll try to be out quickly, so you can find a new roommate right away.” You keep pulling on the suitcase, but it’s futile. He barely has to exert any strength to push it back, so you give up. 

“YN.” Chan places his hands on your shoulders, turning you around. It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been, standing face to face like this, and the nearness of him is a little dizzying. “Back up. You don’t have to go anywhere. Just talk to me.” He lightly guides you over to your bed, taking a seat next to you. “Why do you think I’d want you to leave?” 

“Because I'm a gross little gremlin who can’t stop objectifying you?” you answer honestly. 

Chan’s eyes widen before he bursts into laughter. “You know, you’ve said a lot of bonkers things in the months you’ve been living here, but… how does wanting to suck my dick make you a ‘gross little gremlin?’” 

Oh no. You can feel it bubbling up inside you, all the things you’ve felt. All the things you’ve said. Oh, you’re going to tell him, aren’t you? 

“It’s not just sucking your dick.” Grabbing your phone, you open your chat with Minho again, and begin to read. “‘I need Chan to destroy me. Fully. Like I’m a piece of wood and he’s a lumberjack. Just split me in half. With his hands or his dick, I’m not picky.’” Your entire body radiates with humiliation. You’re a tiny sun made of molecules of mortification, on the verge of going supernova. “Um. That’s one example. And there’s more. A lot more.” 

And then you hand him your phone, looking away as he starts to scroll. 

You stare at the wall, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Until the quiet gets to you, and you give in, peering at him, expecting to find him frozen again, or worse, looking sickened by your words. 

Instead you find him smiling. And then he starts to giggle. 

“‘I’m going feral,” he reads. “‘He’s wearing that beanie again. I- ’” His laughing gets louder as he struggles to finish the thought. “‘I want him to wear me instead.’” He glances up at you, eyes glimmering with way too much amusement. “What does that even mean?!”

You groan, yanking your shirt up to cover your face. “Chan, stop!” He merely laughs harder. How can he be enjoying this? You’ve never known him to be cruel. “I get it, I’m awful, you don’t have to laugh!”

But he keeps chuckling, and then you feel his hands on your hips. Like a bewildered turtle, you poke your head out of your shirt, and he just smiles. 

“C’mere.” He keeps tugging at you until you scoot closer, swinging your legs over his lap, and pulls you in for a hug. 

It’s better than you ever imagined. His strong arms lock around your waist, keeping you in place as his chest continues to rumble with his apparently endless mirth. Tentatively, you let your hands rest on his broad shoulders, afraid that if you cling too tightly, he’ll let go. 

Chan leans back to grin at you. “You’re so fucking cute.” 

You’re so fucking confused. “I am?” 

“Yeah.” His fingers rub light circles into your lower back. The sensation is somehow both soothing and invigorating, sending sparks directly to the heat already simmering in your gut. “Just adorable.” 

You’re not adorable, you’re a dirty little freak whose mind is constantly churning out trash, but if that’s what he wants to believe, you’ll take it.  

“You’re not disturbed by all the things I’ve said?” 

“Disturbed? Nah. I’m used to the crazy shit you say.” He’s got a point. You do say a lot of crazy shit. Just not usually about him to him. “Besides, d’you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say something?” 

“About your dick??”

Chan tosses his head back, jostling you with his laughter. “No, you maniac, just something in general! Something to tell me that you like me.” When he meets your gaze again, you’re met with that Look™, and this time those sparks head straight for your cunt. “That you want me. Because…” 

He trails off, hands gripping your sides, shifting you. Until you feel it. Poking directly into your thigh. 

“Oh!”

“Yeah. Oh.” Chan licks his lips. When did his eyes get so dark? “Because I want you too, you absolute fruit loop. Took me a minute to get my bearings, wasn’t expecting you to confess it in a text like that, or with those exact words, but…” He smirks. “I’m good now.” 

His thumb traces your jawline before he cups your chin. The gentle touch sends shivers rippling through you. His eyes drop to your lips. 

“You good?” 

Funnily enough, somehow, you are. 

“Yeah. I’m good,” you whisper, tipping forward to close the space between you. 

Amazingly, despite the unyielding need to just yeet yourself onto him, you manage to hold back, simply leaning in to the kiss instead. Those plush lips that you’ve raved about feel unbelievable as they caress yours. So soft and tender, like the warmth spreading through you as he tightens his hold. Then he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, and you moan, loud and wanton, unable to control the sound, and he drops his hands to your hips again, gripping insistently. 

“C’mere,” he commands again, voice husky as his fingers hook into your sweats. “Come closer.” He exhales heavily. “Please.” 

Please? He has no idea how little he needs to beg right now. As if you’re not dying to get as close as you can! In the blink of an eye, you throw your leg over his, straddling him. His hands wrap around you again, like he can’t stand not having them on you for a second. You understand the feeling. 

You’re bolder now with your kisses, nipping and licking eagerly. A particularly sharp bite on his pouty lip makes him gasp in surprise, and you press your tongue into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut in sheer ecstasy when he sucks in response. The incessant throbbing of your clit is slightly relieved when Chan’s hips buck upwards, pushing his erection against you more firmly. He swallows your whines, breathes them back out in the form of his own groans.

The need for air eventually overwhelms you after a few minutes, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away from his face. 

“Aren’t you going to be late?” you pant, marveling at how red and swollen Chan’s lips are from kissing. The urge to dive back in before you’ve gotten enough oxygen into your system to keep from passing out is strong. “To meet the guys?”

“You really think I’m gonna leave now?” Chan huffs a laugh as he gazes at you from beneath lowered eyelids, looking as dazed as you feel, and you realize, shit, Minho’s right, you are a vampire, and you’re about to eat this man alive. “Fuck no. Besides, what kind of terrible roommate would I be if I left you at death’s door?” 

“If you - what?” 

More high-pitched giggles fill the room. How can he be so cute while actively grinding his cock against you like this? “Your disease. Remember? Ineedadickitis.” 

“I need to suck a dick,” you correct him.

“Oh, do you? Well, go on then.” He cracks up completely, bouncing you with the force of his laughter as you sit there dumbly for half a second before snapping to. 

“You’re so stupid, oh my god!” With a howl, you push him away. He goes easily, until he’s lying on his back on your bed, still cackling while he swats away your fake punches. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” His fingers lock around your wrists and with a gentle jerk you’re lying on top of him, your arms pinned between you. Before you can try to pretend that he’s wrong, try to mount yet another one of your dumb arguments, despite knowing full well that he's right, he kisses you again. 

As soon as he releases your hands, you tangle them in his hair. His hands trace down your back to grab the swell of your ass, crushing you flat against him, chest to chest. He suddenly breaks off the kiss.

“Are you not wearing a bra?” 

You shake your head and he groans, sitting up, taking you with him. His fingers curl in the hem of your top, twisting it upwards.

“Shirt off. Now.” His voice drops an octave and you shudder, quickly obeying his order. Then you grip his tank top.

“You too.” 

He reaches behind his head to peel the fabric off, tossing it on the floor. Then he lays back, propping himself up on his elbows as you openly gawk at his stomach. 

“Fuck.” He’s transfixed by your chest. 

“Jesus.” You’re mesmerized. From this close, you can see a faint trail of fine hair that runs down, cutting through the carved lines of his abs, like an arrow pointing to your desired destination. “Unreal.” 

“You can touch, if you’d like,” Chan grins up at you, obviously enjoying your reaction. 

You roll your eyes but do anyway, dragging your fingertips over his abs. His stomach twitches beneath your touch. Before you can get too far, he wiggles his hips, playfully jostling you out of your concentration.

“Can I touch, too?” 

“Jesus, yes, of course!” Grabbing his hands, you place one on each breast. “Touch me already!” 

He doesn’t waste any time, rolling your nipples between his fingers, waking the buds. You arch into him, his abs forgotten as he leans forward to take your left breast in his mouth. 

“Shit, Channie,” you whimper, combing his hair out of his face so you can watch him suckle away. He hums into you, swirling his tongue over your nipple, around and around, before dragging his tongue across to the other breast. 

“You like that, baby?” he asks, covering your chest with kisses. 

Baby? Did he really just call you baby? Is this really happening, or did you slip into one of your daydreams again? 

Nope, the hard dick rolling into the apex of your thighs as you grind down on him feels pretty real. You can’t help but moan, wondering what he looks like under those tight jeans. Is he as thick as you imagine? 

Wait, why are you still trying to imagine anything? He’s literally underneath you right now.

Your hand splays on his torso as you guide him onto his back again. Slowly, you lower yourself over him, and drag your mouth down his neck. Clearly, you’d interrupted his going out routine earlier, because he’s not wearing his normal cologne right now. Instead, the heady scent you inhale as you stick your nose into the hollow of his clavicles is pure Chan, musky and comforting. 

“Ah, that tickles!” he hisses. 

“Sorry.” You press a heavy kiss to his collarbone. “Is that better?” He nods, right before you sink your teeth in.

“Nnngh!” He lets out a throaty groan as you happily suck a love bite into his delicate skin. God, the noises this man makes! You want to record them and play them on a loop. 

You slip further down, dragging your fingernails over one of Chan’s nipples, watching his face for his reaction. A tiny “oh!” escapes him, and you repeat the motion, grinning when his back lifts off the bed. Sensitive. This is going to be fun. 

Chan raises his head when you start to kiss his abs, taking the time to lick along the ridges as you go, the salty tang of his sweat lingering on your lips. When your hands play with the skin above his waistband, he clears his throat. “You know, you don’t have to do this, just because of that text.” 

“Are you kidding me?” You pause with your fingers on the button of his fly. “You want me to stop now?” 

“I just don’t want you to think I expect anything.” Although his voice is a little shaky, like he’s trying to calm himself down, you hear the sincerity in his words. The sweetness. That warmth inside you roars into a flame. 

“Channie. I want this. Do you want this?” 

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Thank god,” you sigh, unzipping his fly.  He helps you peel off his tight jeans and you make quick work of his silk boxers beneath. Nudging his legs apart, you kneel between them 

For a moment just you stare at the sight in front of you. You were right. He’s thick. Maybe a little longer than most of the dicks you’ve been happy to be acquainted with, maybe not, but definitely thicker. 

You want to sit on him so bad. But first you want to please him, want to taste him. So much want. 

While you’re dicknotized, Chan stuffs your pillows under his head so he can have a better angle. You glance at his face and find him biting his lip, eyes looking a little desperate. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you. 

Might as well put him out of his misery. With a lick of your palm, you wrap your hand around him, and pump a few shallow strokes. He grunts at the sudden slickness, abdomen jumping slightly. 

“Ah, baby, just like that,” he says, eyes closing when you roll your thumb over the tip a few times. “Shit.” 

Your tongue darts out to follow, dipping around the head and back over, before you take it into your mouth. Just the tip, bobbing off, then a little more, then again. Each time you sink lower, he sighs. 

“Fuck, that feels so good. Keep going, take it all in.” 

Oh god, is he a talker? You’re already impossibly wet. You can’t possibly handle getting any more aroused. 

While your mouth is occupied, you lift your leg so you’re straddling one of Chan’s, resting a palm on his big thigh. You have obsessed over his thighs since the day you moved in. You refer to them as “the thunder from down under” in your texts to Minho. And here they are now, so strong and sturdy beneath you. Wild. 

Chan hisses when you deepthroat him, brushing your nose against his pelvis. Even though you pride yourself on your dick-sucking skills, you can’t help but choke slightly. More saliva floods into your mouth, and you swallow around him. 

“Oh, shit!” His hips rise up a little. You use both hands, one trying to hold him down by his hip while the other strokes in tandem with your mouth. There’s drool everywhere, and the sounds the wetness makes sounds lewd even for porn. “Baby, this mouth of yours! Feels better than I ever imagined.”

Air rushes into your lungs as you pull off, replacing your mouth with your other hand. “You thought about this?” He fantasized about you, too?

“Oh fuck yeah,” he growls. “All the time. Thought those pretty lips would look so good choking on me, and I was right.” He thrusts a little, rocking his dick up into your slippery grip. “Used to dream about fucking it.”

You moan so brokenly, he looks at you in concern. 

“Please,” you lick his darkened head almost frantically, “do it.” 

Chan studies you for a moment, brows knitting together, before he pushes your head down. 

“That’s it, go down for me,” he directs you, and you listen. “Just stay there. Let me do the work now.” 

He starts slowly, tilting his pelvis a little, fucking up into your waiting mouth. Then he cants his hips a little faster. His breathing gets heavier the harder he thrusts. Once he finds a steady rhythm, he lays his hand on the back of your head keeping you exactly where he wants you. 

You squirm restlessly as Chan fucks your throat. Having your roommate use your mouth as a sex toy is incredibly hot. Finally, you slide your hand into your sweats to give yourself some relief. Your clit is engorged, practically beating like a heart between your fingers. You let out a pleased moan, vibrating down Chan’s cock. 

“Do that again, baby.” 

You’re not denying this man anything. Again and again, you make him curse as your hums resonate across his sensitive skin. He trembles a little, and it’s intoxicating to think that you might be breaking down this big, strong roommate of yours, reducing him to a quivering mess.

At the very least, it’s something to aim for. 

Chan praises you again. “God damn it, that’s good. Gonna make me cum with that pretty mouth.” 

You suck and swallow and moan and rub yourself, feeling Chan’s thigh flex beneath you, and it hits you what he said, that you’re about to get Chan off, you, so you reach out, raking your hand up the inside of his thigh until you find his balls, squeezing gently.

“I’m gonna cum, shit, ’m gonna cum,” he moans, words slurring together. “Where, baby?” 

You stop touching yourself so you can grip the hand of his that rests on your head. He gets the point, pace not slowing, and with a few more powerful pumps, and some stuttered exhalations, he fills your mouth. You take it all, swallowing noisily and gasping for breath once he pulls out. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” 

He laughs as he says it. Your shoulders shake as you half-laugh, half-wheeze, slumping over on Chan’s thigh.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Fuck yeah,” he grins. “And I’m guessing from the sounds you were making, you enjoyed that as well? Just maybe not quite as much as me?”

You shrug. “I got what I wanted.”  

“Yeah, okay, maybe, but I bet you’d like more, hmm?” Without waiting for a response, he swiftly flips you onto your back. Just hauls you right over like you’re made of feathers. A rash of ridiculously giddy giggles burst past your lips, but they die away when he crawls up your body, the power of his gaze pinning you in place, and drops hungry lips onto yours.

Immediately, you surge up into him, pressing as close as you can. Both of you are glistening with sweat, his hair sticking to his face and yours as he licks into your mouth, hot and wet. You’re drowning in him. It’s everything you ever wanted. How the fuck can you possibly want more? But you do, and this feeling makes itself known as you start to whimper needily.

Chan’s hand quickly locates your breast, tenderly cupping your flesh. “Have I told you how fucking gorgeous you are? So pretty.”

You preen at his words, humming contentedly. Fuck. Do you have a praise kink, or is it just that Chan’s the one saying these words that is getting you more worked up? You roll your hips, seeking friction, and Chan’s hand slides downward until he reaches where you need him.

“Oh, baby, so wet,” he says, voice hushed, almost reverent. “Just dying to be touched, yeah? Let me help you.”

With sure movements, lithe fingers stroke along your lips, opening you up. Fingertips squeeze your clit, playing with the aching pearl, causing you to squeal, and you could die, having made such a sound, except you’ve clearly already died and gone to heaven.

Even as his hand rubs, his lips never leave yours. You thrash in his grip when he slides a finger inside you, finding your g-spot with surprising quickness and pressing the fuck out of it, and he still chases your mouth, covering your chin in kisses. Your legs kick out as he alternates between fondling your clit and stroking your walls, until he suddenly stops, pulling his fingers out so he can rid you of your sweats. 

“You still with me?” he asks, kneeling between your legs, and you wonder if you look as wrecked as you feel, sucking in air like a fish. You must be a mess, if your appearance matches how you feel. But you’re also excruciatingly aroused and frustrated, so close to coming that you’re ready to blow.

“Yes. I’m here, I’m good.” 

“Good.” The Look™️ is back. He grabs your legs and bends them, pushing your thighs into your torso. “Here. Be a good girl and hold these.”

Yes, daddy. You bite your tongue to keep from screaming the words, and grasp your legs behind your knees, pulling them to the side as much as you can, opening you up wide.

“Yes, Channie.”

He smiles at that, eyes so dark you can almost see yourself. “So good for me. Hold tight, baby.” 

He sticks out his tongue, eyebrows cocking as he dives down, tracing your folds lightly before flattening the pink muscle and dragging it heavily upwards. You keen as his hot mouth suctions onto your clit. He rolls your clit around with his tongue before flicking it in a quick motion, over and over. 

“Jesus!” You’re a live wire, muscles jolting and twitching. As he continues working over the tiny bundle of nerves, his fingers slip inside you again, two this time, scissoring you apart, making room for his tongue. 

You gasp as he plunges inside, tracing your inner walls. He’s so loud, the noises his mouth makes as he sucks and laps, and messy, too, slick dripping from his chin when he lifts his face, making sure you’re watching him. Of fucking course you’re watching him. There’s literally nothing else in the world you’d rather be looking at right now than Bang Chan, the hottest man in the galaxy, devouring your pussy like it’s his last meal. 

“Tastes so good,” he rasps, turning his face to press sloppy kisses to your inner thigh. “Think you can hold out a little longer? Let me enjoy, yeah?” 

At this point, you’re a fucking tinderbox, one spark and you’ll explode, but sure, why not let the man enjoy himself a little more? 

“O-okay,” you stutter weakly. “I’ll… try.” You bite your lip. “But maybe…” 

Chan brushes his lips over your slit. With a shaky hand, you let your left leg go so you can reach out, brushing some damp locks off his forehead, and he looks at you. 

“Maybe a little slower?” you ask. 

He smiles, nodding a little. “Got ya.” 

Instead of pulling your hand back, you thread your fingers into his hair, and he hums, burying his face again. Only now, his tongue rolls slowly over your cunt, languidly, each pass taking longer and longer. He still keeps the pressure up, makes sure he’s pushing just as firmly against your sensitive folds, still fucks his tongue into you just as deeply as he was before, but now his movements aren’t so frenzied. They feel purposeful, like he’s intent on savoring the moment. 

And you realize you should, too. So you barely blink as you observe everything he does - every kiss, every groan, every time his eyes close. You try to commit it all to memory, so you can relive this moment over and over again. In case this is it.

Chan keeps humming, not so much a melody as just wordless sounds, getting louder when your thighs start to squeeze a little. Your hand grips the roots of his hair, not so much guiding him as hanging on. Until he takes your clit in his mouth again, and you cry out, holding him in place. 

“Right there, Channie, please!” Your voice breaks as you beg him not to stop. He doesn’t let up, not even when you release your death grip on your right leg, letting it fall over his shoulder like the other one. You dig your fingers into the blanket beneath you, fisting the material. “Fuck, just like that!” 

Your hips rise off the bed as you start to hump his face, grinding harder and harder. Chan slides his fingers back into your already clenching hole and finds your g-spot again. You wail helplessly, mind already going, body not far behind, as your muscles start to contract, everything tightening - 

“Fuuuuck!” 

With a loud groan, you come all over Chan’s face. He keeps tonguing your clit through your orgasm, but has to use his hands to hold your thighs open so he doesn’t asphyxiate. You tug at his hair, riding out the waves of bliss on his mouth. 

When you finally relinquish your grasp on his head, he stops. He slides your legs from his arms, then sits back on his heels to examine his handiwork.

You’re a limp noodle. No bones. No muscles. Couldn’t move if you tried. Your climax completely wiped you out, leaving nothing behind. But you’re a very happy noodle, practically purring as you smile at the ceiling. 

Chan, on the other hand. Chan appears to be ready for the next round. A point made obvious by the massive erection he’s again sporting. You blink at him a few times. 

“I’m going to need a minute.”

He laughs, draping himself over you, arm slung over your stomach, head on your shoulder. “Nah mate, you’re done.” 

A rather petulant whine bubbles up from deep within you. “Nooo, I’m good, I’m good!” 

You try to reach for his dick, but he catches your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Which is a surprisingly sweet move, but not what you want right now. It’s not that you don’t want to cuddle with him - if he asked, you’d wrap yourself like a blanket around him and snuggle him for hours.

It’s that you’re not ready for this moment to be over. 

“Relax,” he laughs. “Plenty of time for that later. Just rest for a bit.” 

“Later?" There’s gonna be a later?

Chan kisses your neck lightly. “Yeah, later. Not done with you yet, baby.” 

You sigh, bringing a hand up to stroke his back. Okay. Maybe a little nap is fine. If there’s going to be a later. 

Fuck, you can’t wait to text Minho. 

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜 

© 2023 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

I don't feel right tagging my usual tl since that was for my BTS writing, so I'm just gonna tag some moots that I think might like this:

@moni-logues @yoongimingyu @borahae-k @nabiolive @jikooknoona @sowoozoo-7 @eoieopda @here4btsfics @candlewaxandp0lar0ids @ballelino @starlostjimin @augustbutwinter @blueversaillesdreams @hobivore @hobi-gif @seokjinger-ale @hannahbee12719 feel free to tell me if I'm way off base, no pressure to actually read! 💕

[annievrse]

boyfriend!eren headcanons pt.6 .*･｡ﾟ

—ᡣ𐭩 headcanons a/n: surprise i know u missed him part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

bf!eren lives to be a complete and utter menace (but we already knew that)

adding onto drunk bf!eren from previous parts, you will literally have to chase this man down the street before he takes a sip of water. he is cheeky and the biggest pest ever, but when you bribe him, he succumbs (even though you never go through with the bribe)

drunk bf!eren sings his heart out to mr. brightside. i will not be taking criticism at this time thank u

bf!eren stands by the notion that hangovers are a myth, even when his head is in the toilet bowl and he can't move for a whole day (maybe 2)

bf!eren has no personal space at all because he shows his affection in weird ways ok (will bring a chair into the bathroom while you're showering just so he can talk to you.....)

bf!eren panics when you use his full government name & whines about it until you call him baby :/

bf!eren absolutely 100% hates the silent treatment (so if you use it on him, use it wisely)

bf!eren knows he looks hot with his hair tied back, but sometimes he wishes to shave it all off....... you threatened to leave him if he did so, and you never heard him complain about his hair again

bf!eren gets pissed when you don't give him a kiss before you leave. he gets all yappy and bratty and so fucking annoying that you just have to kiss him stupid on the mouth for like half an hour 😐 (works 9/10 times)

bf!eren always stands in front of you on escalators (so he is there in case you fall :/)

bf!eren does NOT like pancakes. serve them to him and he will summon the devil and make you suffer a crazy death (his words not mine ok)

bf!eren sends you the most heartfelt messages 😍 (e.g. i wanna put you in my pocket and eat you like some m&ms 😘☝️…… if i were a kangaroo, i’d put u in my pouch 🦘🥰) 🤔

bf!eren is not afraid of most things, as we know, he is quite reckless, fearless etc etc. EXCEPT of you when he leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor (he learnt quite quick to not do that. walk him like a dog, girl)

bf!eren pays crazy attention to you. he is very very observant and probably knows you better than you know yourself

bf!eren who, when you take him on a date to those cute arcades, is insanely competitive. he needs to win those shitty games. he believes you are very capable on your own, so he will not half-ass something so you can win (you are the air-hockey champion in the relationship, and no matter hard he tries, eren will always lose). but he spends all his coins on a claw machine because he won’t let rigged games beat him (spoiler: he wins. “never back down, never what?”)

bf!eren wears his cap backwards when he is having a bad hair day (don’t mention it to him or he will pout, unless you want him to, then go for it)

bf!eren kisses you sloppily everywhere he can (in a public setting) after a day of classes where you haven’t seen him. he gets clingy and will NOT remove his hands from you

this one is a little shorter i hope that is not a problem 🫵

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter nine

gifsource

[ chapter nine — 8.5k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight ] "i never fucking asked you to!" richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

just outside your apartment building stands mikey, hunched against the wind and smoking. he gives you a friendly nod and you grant him a nod in response, guarded but polite.

you never know what you’ll get with this guy. he alternates between foul moods that verge on frightening and a brilliant good temper that tempts you to shine your phone in his eyes to see the confirmation of pinprick pupils. he has moderate nights, but they’re becoming rarer and rarer. 

still, his company beats the emptiness of your apartment. like a creature taken to a faraway zoo, you haven’t acclimated to your new environment in chicago, haven’t learned how to take this much loneliness; that’ll come later.

for now, you’re still standing on your separate little patches of sidewalk, familiar strangers engaged in tacit truce, when it comes flying out of nowhere.

fuck. 

mikey snarls it so savagely that you look over for threat assessment, just quick enough to catch him looking up at the pitiless hard sky, profile: once-broken nose, twisted mouth, adam’s apple. wild gleam of desperate dark eye, more startling than the snarl. sudden rage from a man is no surprise, but this one looks worse. this one looks caged. 

you can sympathize with that.

what? you say gruffly. 

his eyes shutter, his jaw pulses. nothing.

you shrug, turn away. resume the truce. 

in your peripheral, you can see him looking down and firing off a text. and you think that’s it, that’s all, but then he turns to you and says, you’re good at getting people to fuck off, yeah?

his voice is the voice of a friend, low and familiar, warm and a touch wry. his dark eyes the same. you’re looking at each other directly and it feels like a touch. 

a laugh startles out of you. you’ve been pretty direct about rejecting his attempts at conversation, belligerent, sweet, or otherwise. but here he goes again, trying, and you’re tempted.

mikey turns so he’s facing you, chucks his cigarette, and sticks his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his big gray hoodie. for some reason, that does it.

yeah, you say, i’m a world-class expert at getting people to fuck off. they should be giving me tenure, the way i could teach that shit.

then you’re the one i wanna talk to. 

you’ve got nobody else in this godforsaken city except patients and threats, and so it’s probably a side effect of loneliness, nothing to do with the man himself, but still: it feels good that somebody wants to talk to you.

you hesitate, fighting it. he exhales. 

who’s after you? you say. debt collector? ex?

my brother, actually. there’s an odd space, flicker grimace, between brother and actually. he’s not proud of this. again, you can sympathize.

why do you want your brother to fuck off?

he says nothing, rubs his shoe against a lump of hardened gum on the asphalt. ‘s complicated.

with that, your sympathy—never in abundant supply to begin with—goes down the drain. if he’s gonna play the whiny teenager, making you beg him for his deep dark secrets, fuck it. compassion isn’t your style anyway.

okay, you say flatly. you turn towards the street, keeping him in your periphery just in case. the silence grows heavy, but you ignore it. 

fuck it, he mutters. then, louder, it’s not that complicated. carmy’s the baby, and ma was always telling us to keep him out of trouble. i guess it stuck.

that’s such an innocuous way to put it, pulled from childhood. what about the rage from earlier, his trapped eyes? sense tells you to end things here. don’t be a trash bag for this man’s problems, whatever they are.

the thing is, though. it does feel good to have somebody talk to you like you’re a person. 

what’s the trouble? you say.

he sighs, settles in. you ever seen a house on fire? 

no, i’ve seen a helicopter on fire, but that’s…you look over at him, and you can tell it’s not the flames he’s talking about. no. you?

sort of. he pauses, and the silence is full enough that you know to wait for the coming story. so when i was little, i used to sneak down to the basement, right? i was supposed to be babysitting carmy and sugar, putting them to bed and all that good shit, but some nights i’d get bored. and they never got in much trouble without me.

they must’ve been pretty well-behaved kids, you say.

he laughs. he’s beautiful when he laughs, you can’t help but see it. not exactly.

i’m just saying, if my brother told me to stay anywhere, i would’ve been out the window by the time he’d gotten down the stairs. 

mikey gestures with his cigarette at exactly the wrong moment, and the wind snuffs out his cigarette, but he’s so caught up in his story, he doesn’t even notice.

nah, i knew how to play it. sugar was going through this phase where she was fixated on us taking her seriously, so she loved the responsibility. and what was carmy gonna do about it? he was like five. he smiles, remembering. so anyway, before i would go down there, i’d put on my little light up sneakers, cause the stairs to the basement were dark and scary. 

you find yourself smiling too. you can picture it. 

and my mom would be down there in the dark, watching the tv, sitting in my dad’s old chair. she was usually drunk or sleeping, but sometimes i think she noticed i was there with her and she was okay with it. or, i don’t know. he laughs, short and sharp. she definitely never changed the channel on account of me. i saw all kinds of crazy shit on tv before i was twelve. 

mikey pauses, then looks to you. what the fuck am i even talking about? there’s no real embarrassment in it, only appealing self-deprecation.

it works on you. you do want to know where this is going. house fire.

house fire, he echoes, pointing at you. okay, so one time i’m sitting on the floor next to dad’s chair, leaning on it, and i fall asleep. i wake up to this woman screaming. at first i think it’s real, but then i realize it’s from the tv, right? there’s a house on fire. the whole neighborhood is standing there watching, and there’s this old woman screaming, but they don’t look sorry for her. and after a second i figure out what she’s saying. she’s screaming at the firefighters to go in. and i didn’t get it, like, why is no one listening to her?

it scared him, you think. it must have. someone was in there?

i don’t know, i never found out, mikey says. mom woke up, and she saw that i was freaked out, so she got super fuckin angry and, uh. made me go to bed and all that. standing there and holding a cold cigarette, he looks tired. but when i was walking to the stairs, the woman stopped screaming. so i looked back and i saw on the tv that the house was gone. the whole thing collapsed. the roof must’ve caved in.

the silence lingers, then mikey looks across at you like a question. why should it matter whether you understand? why should you care? but your heart is in your throat.

it was right for the firefighters to stay outside, because if they’d gone in, they would have died. the roof was always going to crumble. whatever was inside the house, it was already gone.

you think you understand. so you’re inside the house. 

nah, mikey says, i’m the house. 

.

.

.

in the aftermath of christmas eve—gold chain, two generations, soup—christmas itself passes quietly without hurting much. 

save for a handful of texts, completely unexpected. 

> what’s the fastest way to infect people with food poisoning?

richie, of course. you don’t even bother to play coy by letting a few minutes elapse, like you had something better to do. he wouldn’t be fooled by that. he already knows better.

> it’s that bad?

> not fatal food poisoning, just the regular kind.

> it’s that bad? x2

> i think if we all threw up a lot we’d be having more fun.

> you want me to fake an emergency? pull a fire alarm, stage a bomb threat? i’ll drive the getaway car.

> your mind jumps to terrorism way too fast. you’re just looking for an excuse, aren’t you.

> seriously. 

> you’re the third guy. it’s al qaeda, then isis, then you.

> seriously, get out of there. come get an unfrozen burrito, if you’re hungry.

no reply. not even three dots to show he’s drafting. with your left hand, you drum a nervous beat on your kitchen table, and with your right, you send another text.

> you can bring sugar and carmy with you.

and there they are, those three dots. you don’t know if you’re more worried about what will happen if he takes up your offer, or what will happen if he turns it down. you don’t talk about carmy to richie, though richie talks about carmy to you. he knows that. you like tina and you don’t mind his other coworkers, but you avoid the berzattos like the plague. richie knows that too. your reasons are your own, but if it really comes down to it—

> it’s fine. all the people i want to save wouldn’t fit in the car anyway.

relief. yeah, that’s relief, and you feel a little guilty for it, but it’s just easier this way: you in the kitchen and no one else. 

> you have jumper cables in your trunk, don’t you? just tie pete to the top of the car like a christmas tree

> like i’d bring pete.

> cold hearted, that’s what you are.

nothing. no typing, no read 7:12pm, nothing at all. after fifteen minutes, you give up and toss your phone on your bed. drink your tea, though it has gone cold. try not to think about whatever’s happening in that other kitchen. try not to think about how close by it is, or how far. 

.

.

.

the day after christmas, you’re so busy thinking about richie that you almost deliver yourself to the feds on accident.

walking to your boss’s house without an invitation is never a good idea, doubly so when your boss deals his displeasure in blood, but after so long without pay, work, and news about your carbon monoxide poisoning patients, you’re desperate. the idea is that you’ll barter your knowledge of howie and kevin’s stupid shenanigans in exchange for information. maybe you’ll even ask for severance pay.

that’s why you’re thinking of richie. you’re trying to keep calm, and he’s something to look forward to. you wonder how he’s doing ice fishing with carmy. will they get frostbite? maybe. will they catch anything? doubtful. will they end up shouting? definitely. will—

you’re just about to take a left onto the caruso’s street when you see it: about nine or ten houses down, there’s a gaggle of suburban moms gawking at the caruso house, and beyond them, cop cars. 

this is it.

your stomach drops, and you look away immediately, heartbeat going full jackhammer about to drill through your concrete chest. keep walking straight, past the scene. you only got one glance before the instinct to flee kicked in, but you’re pretty sure that the cops were carrying heavy cardboard boxes out to their cars. you’re not worried about what evidence they might find—tweety bird wouldn’t let contraband be stored in her pantry, not in a million years—but you are worried that the cops were all a matched set. the navy windbreakers? that’s fed fashion. that’s.

yeah. this is it.

when you get on the bus, some part of you is surprised the driver even allows it. the end’s not here, but it is coming. only a matter of time. 

.

.

.

as you get off one bus and get on another, taking a circuitous route in a useless effort to try and allay the feeling of being hunted, your dread coalesces into nausea, the kind you get when a headache or period cramps are left untended too long. it’s physical. you focus on the fraying cuff of your hoodie, and all you want to do is lie down.

you’ve expected the world to end for a long time, so you know exactly what to do. you’ve done research. you’ve imagined it all in excruciating detail, and you’re not bothered by the unknown, except for richie.

richie’s the one unknown. imagining the end of the world with him was so unbearable that you could never force yourself to go through with the exercise of imagining it, and you kept him at arm’s length just enough to pretend that the end of the world would somehow leave him untouched. now that shit’s real, you can’t pretend anymore. when it comes to richie, you’ll be flying blind. you could kick yourself. you could k—

your work phone rings. it’s your landlady. you ignore it, but she rings again and again and again. finally, she texts you.

> please come up to the office as soon as you can. we have discovered irregularities with your october and november payments, and unless this is fixed soon, we’ll have to explore our legal options.

your landlady was not the one who typed that message. if she’d been the one typing, it would’ve looked something like get your ass up here, give or take a few typos.  

so yeah, there’s cops after you. this is it.

.

.

.

when you call your brother from a newly purchased burner phone, he answers immediately. what’s up?

it’s julie.

okay, he says very flatly. one nice thing about your family: minimum talking, minimum fuss. he doesn’t say a thing about the years past. he just repeats, what’s up?

i’m probably going to prison for a while, you say.

how long? 

should i be insulted that you’re not surprised?

he says nothing. you don’t know what you expected, really, but you hate that you’ve become the talkative one. 

stifling your annoyance, you say, like ten years max? it’s not like i killed someone, but i’m in with some assholes. i don’t know, i haven’t talked to a lawyer yet. 

silence on the other end. 

you pinch the bridge of your nose, nausea swelling. you can picture him, your one and only sibling, even though you know the picture must be outdated: broad-shouldered like you are, annoying, tall, decked out in some kind of colorless athleisure and the eternal baseball cap, slanted eyes narrowed even more than usual in judgment and exasperation.

are you there? you finally say.

you need bail? he says abruptly.

god, you want so badly to give him a shove, knock the stiffness out of him. no. no money. not from you, not from mom, not from anyone. that’s why i’m calling. if anyone finds out about this, just keep them out of it, yeah?

yeah. 

that’s where you should shut up, unless you want feelings leaking into it, but today’s a day of helplessness and this conversation is no exception. 

you say, a little desperate, i don’t want anyone near this one.

i got it, pebbles. with his particular mix of sardonic affection and condescension, the fog around you lifts, and there he is standing in front of you. you can see him clearly: pissed off at you now and probably forever, but still family. not much. but not nothing.

suck my dick, you say, awash with relief.

he snorts. and adieu.

you hang up on each other at exactly the same time.

.

.

.

i’m not telling you that. 

you’ve worn your lawyer down to a thin veneer of professionalism through which her palpable annoyance has begun to show. and you’re not even sorry. it gives you a certain satisfaction, a sense of getting your own back—her steely, emotionless affect was getting on your nerves before. 

you put all your remaining money into her retainer check because she’s not just a lawyer, but an effective one, according to your research. so it shouldn’t matter that you don’t know what she thinks of you. shouldn’t matter, but it does. you want to know her judgment, one way or another. maybe it’s because this is the first time you’ve told the full story to anyone. 

or at least, as close as you’re ever gonna get to the full story.

i’ve already explained confidentiality to you, she says. 

i already knew that you’re not gonna snitch on me unless i’m about to commit another crime, you say. but i’m still not telling you. 

all right. let me get this straight. she spreads her hands out flat on her desk, and her wedding band clacks against the dark wood. there’s not a strand of her gray hair out of place, and her brown eyes have lost their annoyance. back to professionalism. disappointing. you’re here because you believe you witnessed federal agents bagging evidence at your employer’s house, and you believe your employer has been arrested. your employer is giovanni caruso—

hold up, you interrupt. giovanni? that’s his name?

you call him old caruso, son’s name is jack, there’s a limited number of organized crime families in the area and i happen to be acquainted with that landscape, generally speaking.

you snort. that’s so fucking funny. 

if your lawyer finds you more annoying than before, she doesn’t show it. you have been working for caruso for over a year and a half in an off the books capacity as a doctor. you received biweekly payments to be on call between the hours of eight in the evening and eight in the morning, and during that time, you treated multiple gunshot wounds and other injuries, including broken bones, stab wounds, and carbon monoxide poisoning. while your clients were cautioned not to tell you their names or explain how they received their injuries, you do feel that you know enough information to be of interest to the police. you are not willing to testify.

on account of not wanting to die, yes, you say, adopting a professional tone to exactly match hers, dangerously close to mocking. you’re being an asshole for a reason. she’s tried to persuade you to testify before, and you don’t want her to try it again.

she continues unperturbed. you have been threatened with violence on multiple occasions to that end, sometimes with a weapon. so far, understandable. 

now the lawyer spreads her hands out on the desk in a summary gesture. 

now all of this is not necessarily as dire a predicament as you thought when you said you might ‘get ten years’. if you had proof you were coerced, i could get your sentence reduced even more, but as things stand this seems like a set of offenses that would land you around two or three years, five at the worst. you do have a medical license, so they can’t get you on practicing without. you never directly participated in any of the presumably violent crimes leading to the injuries, and you never procured the drugs and medical supplies yourself. other than the payments to your bank account, there’s not much of a paper trail because you took no notes, used neither laptop nor smartphone—yeah, you didn’t tell her about the michael and richie phone, because that would require telling her about michael and richie—and cycled through burner phones instead. so again, it will be hard for them to nail you on specifics, unless they have multiple witnesses.

i sense a ‘but’ coming, you say.

but i need to understand why you got into this in the first place.

with that, you snap. it’s been a day, and she’s using the words of a counselor with the expression of a robot. why the fuck do you care?

ma’am, she says, that glimmer of irritation just barely showing, you are paying me to defend you. i would rather not enter that fight with one hand tied behind my back. 

you’re an idiot.

of course she doesn’t care about whether you’re good or bad, clever or stupid. there’s no judgment to be had. all she cares about is how defensible you are. you really are an idiot, and you’re so relieved.

with that, it flows freely.

i fucked up, you say. i was a resident at ui—university of illinois—and i was on my second to last year, everything was good. but then the carusos tried to blackmail me into getting them the medical files of one of my patients, so i freaked out and quit. it’s hard to convey to her just how much your world ended, without sounding melodramatic. in the end, you keep it brief. i burned all my bridges. but then i had no job and nothing else to do, and they knew it. shit happened, and now here we are. 

she doesn’t hesitate. caruso tried to blackmail you with what?

no. that’s all, that’s it. she only gets the one word.

i can’t do my job if you’re being obstructionist.

i’m not tell you that—i’m not telling fucking anyone that. i’d rather go walk onto state street bridge and blow my brains out. there’s no way she knows what you’re talking about, but some of it must creep into your voice, because she does stop for a moment and think before pressing you again, this time with a slightly milder tone.

is it sex, violence, or money? she says.

none of the above. some money was involved, but not more than a month of rent. 

you paid, or someone else paid?

all right, that’s it. you charge by the hour, right? you say.

in your current arrangement, yes.

well, the retainer’s all i got. so. you pat your hands on her desk in a brisk, final gesture. i’m gonna fuck off now, you have a think, and then tomorrow i’m gonna swing by and you can tell me what i need to know about turning myself in. in the meantime, i’m gonna go get a burrito. 

for a split second, you think she’s going to argue with you, and you can pinpoint the exact moment when she resigns herself to having an unreasonably stubborn client.

you do that, she says.

as far as you’re concerned, she got the whole story. it ends with prison, the way it was always going to end. it starts the way it was always going to start too: you fucked up.

.

.

.

so you’re inside the house. 

nah, mikey says. i’m the house.

he immediately goes digging in the pocket of his sweatpants to get his lighter, refusing to look at you. the shame is how you know this is real.

it hits you then: he’s the one you want to talk to. you distrusted him before because he was so transparently on the brink of falling apart, but now you can see that that’s just something you have in common. you’re the house. you’re the fucking house. and here he is, someone who knows what that feels like, and there’s nothing else between you. what are the chances? 

what about you, mikey says, relighting his cigarette. do you have any younger siblings, or is it just the one? 

the question comes unexpected, and you realize that he knows you have an older brother—that you’ve talked about your family, that you’ve been drawn in that much and that easily. 

just the one, you manage to say.

ping, goes a little notification sound, and there it is, saved by the bell. he gets out his phone, and you point at it.

what? he says.

i got good news and bad news.

he looks back down at his phone, grimaces at the text, then puts it away. okay. what’s the good news?

you can’t help yourself. who asks for the good news first?

he shrugs, smiles, wide open and easy. i do.

for a second, you’re both smiling at each other. but then comes your next words.

good news is, i haven’t spoken to my family since 2019. when you say it like that, you can almost make it sound like something to be proud of. so. i really am the one you want to talk to.

shit, mikey says, looking at you. 

it’s the first time you’ve thrown him off kilter, and you enjoy it. 

you really are the one i want to talk to. he switches his cigarette from his right hand to his left so he can shake yours. i’m mikey.

his hand is callused and cold, but his grip is firm. it doesn’t feel perfunctory. it skitters electricity up your arm that you promptly ignore.

i know, you say.

his smile is harder to ignore. you never said what your name was, though. 

you only vaguely remember rebuffing him the first time you both smoked outside together. it feels so far away now.

julie, you say. you only realize that you gave him your real name once it’s too late to take it back. his hand is warm, engulfing yours. 

good to meet you, julie. 

likewise.

he lets go first.

you wanna hit me with the bad news? he says.

you stick your hands in your coat pockets. bad news is: if you want him gone, you have to want him gone. you say you want him gone, but you’re still texting the kid. what’s he supposed to think?

so you’re saying i should block him? you can tell from mikey’s voice that he already hates the idea.

i’m saying you already know what to do.

i don’t! he’s almost laughing, like the whole thing is so desperate, it’s funny.

yes you fucking do, you say. you just haven’t ended it because you don’t actually think things are over for you. there’s a chance that you wake up a different person tomorrow, and that’s enough reason to postpone the end of the world, right? 

he’s not laughing now. he’s not angry, either. the whole weight of his attention is on you, and he’s gone so perfectly motionless, you know you’ve hit bullseye. yeah. you really are the one he wants to talk to.

so, you say, the reason you want your brother to fuck off is not because you think you’re gonna sink to the bottom of the ocean and drag him down with you. it’s because you don’t want him to watch you floundering around, gasping for air, trying to survive. cause it’s fucking embarrasing.

okay, he says slowly, so you think i’m, what. being dramatic? it’s not a rhetorical question. he’s locked in, he’s really asking. you think the house isn’t on fire here?

you lift your shoulders an inch, wound tight, focused. honest, but not only honest. trying hard to say it right so he understands.

i don’t know you, you say. i don’t know the situation. all i’m saying is, if it’s only shame, then you’ll stay floundering in the in-between forever, fuckin miserable, never in and never out. 

mikey is listening so intently, you think maybe he does hear you. maybe he does understand.

and, you know. don’t do that, you say. just let the kid in, if it’s shame. it’ll hurt, but it won’t kill you. 

what if it’s not shame? mikey says. what if the house is on fire?

you hesitate. you love him? 

he’s my brother. there’s years in his voice, decades. you can hear every second of them, and all you can do is nod. 

yeah, you say. look away. take one last drag on your cigarette, then snuff it out before it can burn you. chuck it in the makeshift ashtray, and throw away your empty cigarette box too.

wordlessly, mikey passes his to you. you’re used to menthols, not whatever the fuck these are, but you take it because he offered. the taste is his, and the slow exhale. 

 is watching you, but before you can gather up enough courage to look back—he’s close now, which makes looking at him feel like a risk—his phone goes off and you try to tell yourself that that feeling is relief. 

this fuckin guy, he mutters, then types a reply.

you smile to yourself over the rough affection in his voice. a private smile, all yours. you’ve lost track of time out here with him, and you’ve got no desire to find it again.

carmy’s not giving up, huh, you say. 

what? it takes a second for his mind to catch up. oh, that’s not carmy. that was richie.

he’s so funny. you know you just say random names sometimes like i already know who they are? 

richie’s my best friend, he explains.

and are you shaking him off too? you’re aware that this is a lot to ask, and you want the answer precisely because it’s a lot to ask.

to your surprise, mikey laughs. 

richie? no. he holds out his hand, and you pass the cigarette back to him. richie’s not a guy you can shake off. his wife’s been trying to leave him for like a year, but he keeps hanging on. he’s that kind of guy. 

you attempt to withhold the judgment from your voice when you repeat, for a year? 

he shrugs. on and off, but it takes two to tango. it’ll work out.

okay, companionship only goes so far, no matter how much you like mikey. you’re not about to stand here and let a man tell you that keeping a woman in a marriage against her will is a good fucking thing.

it takes two to tango, but it only takes one to leave, you say. and i bet she has her reasons. 

look, whatever she has, richie’s not a quitter, mikey says. fuck, i couldn’t shake the guy if i had a gun to his head.

you smoke in stony silence, thinking to yourself that this richie sounds like an absolute fucking nightmare. for a while, your thoughts and mikey’s veer off on such diverging paths that you’re almost about to make your excuses and go back upstairs, the feeling of camaraderie gone. and then.

hey, mikey says. there’s an odd note to his voice, nearly gentle. how did you shake your family, can i ask? what did you do? 

you look over at him and hold that look for a long moment, fighting the urge to swallow.

there’s a lot you can give to mikey, and you’ll find out just how much in the coming year. but that. you’ll never give him that.

instead, you give him what you think he needs, what you’ve turned over and over in your mind during so many sleepless nights: the conclusion you finally came to, long ago.

you gotta make absolutely sure the house is on fire, you say. because if you’re not, if you leave your brother and live on, then you’ve done something unforgivable and you’re not even dead enough to escape.

.

.

.

there’s only one more thing you need to do before you turn yourself in, and despite the overwhelming urge to duck it—be a coward, find a way—you force yourself to walk all the way to richie’s apartment building. the exercise is supposed to wear you out, take some of the fight out of you, but it fails. now you’re just waiting for him with sore legs and recurring nausea.

you don’t have to wait long. one second, you’re grimly watching the smoke from your cigarette drifting upwards, and then there’s a flicker of motion down the street. you look, and there he is. richie’s coming towards you in long strides, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, a man on a mission. he’s clearly spotted you.

hey, he calls, when he’s still stupidly far away. what’s going on?

it’s okay, you want to say, but the words won’t come. as much as you’ve kept hidden from richie, you don’t like lying to him much. so you just put out your cigarette in case you need to leave quickly, and you wait.

when richie finally reaches you, he’s evidently curious, but you speak first.

how was ice fishing? 

not too bad, weirdly enough. he settles in and lights himself a cigarette before continuing. maybe he’s under the illusion that this is one of your normal companionable nights, just happening in a different location. turns out carmy still sleeps better in a moving car, so i actually drove the long way home and i think it did him some good.

feels like it did richie some good too. he tried to take care of somebody and for once, it worked. you’re glad. he needed it, after that hell of a christmas.

you can sense his weary contentment, and you know you’re about to ruin it.

that’s good, you say quietly, and at the same time, richie says, what?

looking up into his face, your heart sinks right along with your hopes. his blue eyes are sharp enough. 

goddammit, but he’s caught on. he knows something isn’t right, and you’re not asshole enough to try and claw back an ease that’s gone for good.

i gotta go away for a while, you manage to say.

how long is a while? he says, uneasy.

you can’t do this.

hey, he says, a little softer, and you have to look away. you shouldn’t have even come. you shouldn’t have even fucking come. five minutes with him, and you’re already fighting to keep your face under control. 

can we go upstairs? it’s fucking cold. you feel exposed, visible to anyone who might drive by, and you can’t shake the rising urge to hide.

yeah, richie says. yeah, we can go upstairs. it’s not that cold out compared to your countless nights spent outside together, and he knows it, but he just opens the door for you.

.

.

.

the elevator ride is long and painful. you can practically smell the worry coming off him in waves, festering, so you don’t make him wait. as soon as his apartment door is shut and locked behind you, you say, how long i’m away kinda depends on the prosecutor. 

you, uh. he runs a hand over his mouth, thinking. fuck. what are the charges? 

we’ll see. i, uh, i have this feeling there’s feds involved. tomorrow i’m going to turn myself in. 

fuck, he says again, hard. he runs his hand from his forehead back over his skull, then just stands there for a second, head half bowed and hand gripping the back of his neck. you want to comfort him, but shouldn’t. you want to run, but can’t. 

instead, you take this opportunity to get in one last long stare. richie is the same as ever. his hair is dark and close-cut, his beard too. his eyebrows are scant, and there’s a ridge on his forehead as if to make up for it. his nose is straight and straightforward. there are bags under his eyes, because of course there are, but his eyes themselves are as blue as summer, so blue they’re barely believable. that’s him, that’s his face.

then there’s the eternal black leather jacket, oversized and complete with unnecessary shoulder straps for all the bags he’ll never carry. he smells faintly of smoke. he’s allowing you to stare at him, an indulgence that you can’t question without being a dick. he makes you want to not be a dick. all this is here, all this is real. 

richie says, what can i do?

he looks at you, and though his voice is subdued, you can tell he’s dead serious. thank god. you thought you’d have to beg for it, but here he is, offering. you really want to know?

he nods once, tight. anything. 

that one hurts, because he knows just how much a person can ask of him, and he’s standing there offering it anyway. 

i want you to stay out of it. 

dead silence. a muscle tics in his jaw. why?

i don’t want to make things messy. i don’t want to cause trouble, and there’s—you try to eke out a laugh, downplay it. but your laugh is raw and you can tell in his eyes that you’ve only made things worse.  there’s some fuckin trouble in this.

okay. he digs out his phone, swipes a couple times, and then points at the round blue logo of the jpay app. you see this? his voice is tight. i don’t know what makes you think you’re so special, but this isn’t the first time i’ve had a friend catch a charge and it probably won’t be the last. so you don’t need to look so freaked out, you’re not gonna infect me. i’m fine. i can help. 

fucking richie. the one night you need him to be unreasonable, and here he is making arguments, using logic and shit. exasperated, you try to argue your way out of this.

you were dealing coke just a few months ago.

richie scoffs. so what?

fak found out about that, didn’t he? you give him a look. fak, richie. fak. fucking—

he raises both hands, palms spread in irritation, voice rising. would you stop saying fak? 

irresistible. fak. 

i don’t—

come on.

okay. he gestures widely, in an exaggerated motion used to indicate he’s the sole light of reason in a dark world of total bullshit. maybe i've been exaggerating a little. maybe fak’s not the worst guy in the world. i mean, he can be a lot. clingy, sure. but a snitch? nah. he told carmy, but carmy’s not a cop, so that's different. it’s fine. we’re fine.

i'm just saying. if fak knows and carmy knows, other people probably know too.

it’s not even relevant, richie says. so i moved a little weight, who cares?

look, i’m not trying to be a dick, but i don’t think the cops were were hunting that hard for you. if they start digging into me, that’s gonna change. cause i’m not a snitch either, and i know they’re gonna want me to flip, so they’ll leverage whatever against me, and… yeah, you can tell he’s not finding this convincing. a bad feeling is growing in the pit of your stomach. just get it over with. 

there’s one surefire way to make him flinch, and you push that launch button, voice casual.

you helped michael get painkillers too, right? you say. 

takes a second, but he finally admits, yeah. i knew a guy.

michael was not keeping it neat and tidy, you know what i mean? it takes so much effort to seem this careless. but it works. he looks a bit more like he should—guarded, almost suspicious. 

what are you saying?

i’m saying i knew he was using within a month of meeting him. and. you can tell you’ve hurt him a little, but still, your arguments aren’t working, your wild swings aren’t working, he’s not listening to you, nd desperation wells up in you. is there nothing you can do? just, can you please stay out of this. you didn’t mean to say please, but it burst out of you. i don’t know what’s gonna go down, and i just want everyone clear of this. i know they’re coming for me, i know i’ll lose, and i don’t—i don’t want you anywhere near it all. 

richie is silent for a moment, thinking hard.

you rub your thumb over your wristbone. can we just…

what’s your plan? he says. that’s what i wanna know. like, you’re not fighting here, and i don’t get it. what happens after you turn yourself in? you’re not gonna get a deal if you don’t talk, so what? you’re just gonna sit there and take the twenty-five to life? 

twenty-five to life? you echo. richie, what the fuck do you think i did?

after one long moment of the both of you staring at each other, he hums a little james bond. 

your face lifts into a wide, incredulous smile. you think i’m. he does. he absolutely does, look at him. you could kiss him. you could shake him. you start to laugh.

his face twists like he just got pinched hard. no, i—what do i know, man, i don't know that much about the law or whatever, i just—

twenty-five to life!

—don't get fucking offended, okay?

i'm not offended.

i'm just a well-read guy with a very active imagination, and maybe i got a little carried away, but—

his shoulders are up by his ears, he’s so defensive.

richie, you say firmly. i'm not mad.

what? there he is. finally listening. eyes looking directly at you, electric blue, raw current.

you hold that silence a little longer than you need to, just to feel it. then, deliberately giving each word its own due weight, you say, you thought i’d killed somebody, and you were gonna help me?

richie shrugs helplessly.

i thought you had your reasons, he says. i always think you have your reasons.

that shakes you to the core. 

goodwill, you already knew you had his goodwill. but faith? jesus. you’re the last person on earth that anyone should believe in, but richie doesn’t know how wrong he is and you can’t tell him, so you just to stand there under the weight of his belief and try not to crumble. at this point, prison would be a fucking mercy.

you have to get out of here.

it'll be five years at worst, you say. your voice sounds strange even to your own ears, but you keep going. the feds will be shaking me like a fruit tree hoping some juicy information tumbles down, but everything i did was pretty boring. you think of the factory, the bodies laid out like so many logs. nonviolent, anyway.

doesn’t seem very james bond to me, he says you fuckin drama queen.

bottom line, you say, the thing is enough of a mess already, so just let me do my time and we can hang out after. i don't want you anywhere near this. you start heading for the door. i gotta go anyways, i have—

you serious? he cuts in, suppressed and flat. warning bells are going off in your head, but you walk on.

dead fucking serious, you say, unlocking the front door. i don’t even want anyone to know that we’ve met. 

dead silence, and then, richie says, well maybe you don’t get a fucking choice.

you turn and meet his eyes. there it is again, that stomach-churning nausea that you thought you’d managed to quell. the plummeting feeling of having no control. it stops you in your tracks. 

what? you say.

i mean, i’m not going anywhere, so fucking deal with it? the life has come back to his voice, and with it, all the anger. his blue eyes are sparking with it, he’s gesturing, he’s gathering momentum, and you try to stop him but you already know it’s useless.

richie—

look, i don't run when things get bad, i’m not that guy. i’m here. he smacks one hand into another. like i’m in it. that's the whole fucking point.

the point of what?

you know what i’m trying to say.

the point of what, richie? 

his face twists. oh, don't do that. don't do that thing where you act like you know everything that goes on in my head.

but i fucking do, though. 

yeah, well i fucking hate it.

if you hate it so much then why did you give it to me then? 

his voice goes higher. i'm not just gonna drop you!

i am literally begging you to drop me. somehow, you’ve crossed the room, you’re up in his face and he’s not backing down and the words are flying so thick and fast as you talk over each other that you can barely make out yours, much less his. i want you to drop me, i specifically—i did so much shit so that you could drop me, i was so fucking careful—

i never asked you to!

i got rid of my phones and i stuck to my rules and—

i never fucking asked you to!

if you get involved, it's gonna be fucking awful and it won't help, it won't even help, if that's what you think—

i can help! i'm not, fucking useless, like. you guys always—

that one, you hear. you guys?

why don't you ever fucking talk to me? he says, like the words are getting torn out of him. 

who the fuck do you think you’re talking to right now? for a second, you just look at each other. breathing hard. when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. richie, you are the only person i ever fucking talk to. but it doesn’t matter. there’s nothing anyone can do.

i don't believe you.

you don’t know how to get around that. after a beat, you say, okay, what is it, richie. cruel. what is it you're gonna do that's gonna help. you asked me to explain my plan, now it’s your turn. you tell me how you’re gonna help me with this. 

fucking…he looks up for a second, and then back at you. i know what you’re doing. 

you don’t even know what the fuck you’re doing at this point, but the way he’s looking at you is frightening. you could almost believe that he knows. and honestly, you don’t want to find out.

what am i doing, you say.

.

.

.

he turns and walks away, towards the bed. after a second’s hesitation, you follow. he sits down on the bed so he can crank open the window, light up, and smoke out of it. you stay standing. you really don’t know why you haven’t left yet. you were supposed to ages ago.

sit down, he says.

fuck you. 

fucking sit down.

no. 

jesus. he exhales, slow. you can see him settling a little. do you know why carmy was opening the tomato cans?

what is this, storytime?

patiently, he repeats, do you know why carmy was opening the tomato cans.

to make spaghetti.

he points at you. exactly. but the reason he was making spaghetti is cause he’d just gotten mikey’s note. deep breath. this isn’t a story he’s happy to tell you. see, mikey had left him this note on the back of a the spaghetti recipe, but i—i didn’t give it to carmy until there was this day. syd and marcus were gone. shit had gotten bad.

i remember, you murmur.

i was in the front, and i heard people yelling fire, so i came running into the kitchen and carmy was watching it all burn. just standing there. not moving. his eyes were open, but it was like he was asleep. 

and that’s why you gave him the note?

yeah. i know i should’ve done it before. but. 

he looks up at you, and you can see him appealing to you for some kind of mercy. maybe comfort. this is the thing he’s ashamed of. you understand that, you understand him, you understand shame better than anyone else, and there’s a sick comfort in it, knowing he’s that much more like you. at least he was able to change course in the end. you never did.

you don’t tell him that, though, because you’ve realized something else.

this is the thing he’s ashamed of, which makes it usable.

so i’m carmy, in your off-base and condescending metaphor, you say, callous. you're gonna come and save me? you're gonna put the fire out.

his eyes darken. no, you're not carmy.

no?

you're mikey.

fuck you. 

so fucking selfish, he says bitterly. it’s as close to hate as you’ve ever heard from him. but you’ve gone so far, you’re not stopping now.

richie, what the fuck do you want from me?

you know what i want! his voice goes quiet when he adds, did really you think there’s anything that could keep me away from you for five fucking years?

you know what he means.

can’t put words to it, can’t accept it, can’t fucking bear it—won’t—but you do know, you know exactly what he’s trying to say to you, what he’s trying to give.

you don’t deserve it, but it’s not for you anyways, it's for michael. it's all for michael, and it would be beautiful if it wasn't such a fucking waste to love a man when he's dead. richie’s gonna throw everything he has onto the fire in the hope that it will quench the flames. that just makes it his pyre, but he’ll never see it. 

okay, you say. my turn at storytime. 

you sit down next to him on the bed, accept his cigarette. take a drag, then lean on the wide wooden sill as you breathe smoke out into the cold. lull him into it. relax his guard. 

you thought you inherited me, right? you say. conversational. no heat. you were gonna take care of me for him, that was the plan. i’m mikey.

that’s not what i meant.

you have it backwards, is the thing. you can feel yourself sinking into it, talking like you have time, matter of fact, cruelty showing at the edges. like you’re an entirely different person, which is, of course, your goal. michael didn’t give a shit about me. i was just there. i was just a woman who happened to be conveniently close by, and lonely, and he fucked me. and that was fine, that was convenient for me too, but he got worse and it got out of hand. he got hard to be around. i found out he’d started stealing from me, so i broke up with him. he found a way to get back into my apartment anyways, and he guessed the code to my safe and stole pretty much everything. so i told him tina shouldn’t call me for help next time he overdosed. i told him he could finally die, for all i cared. and he did.

you’re looking at the sheets. you’re still able to talk, somehow. you feel numb, detached, like you’re watching yourself say it. 

the only reason you know me is because i felt guilty. i was gonna take care of you for him, that was the plan, but now this is getting out of hand and i’m fucking done with it. so here goes. it wasn’t just money he stole out of my safe. go take a look in the police report. i’d bet my life that there was a sig p365 in his hand when they found him. that was mine. i’m the reason he’s dead. you want to be loyal to someone? be loyal to him.

you crush the cigarette against the fake wood of the headboard. ash falls on his pillow.

playtime’s over. stay the fuck away from me.

this time when you leave, he doesn’t stop you.

.

.

.

on the train, hollowed out and swaying, you are approached by an elderly woman. her eyes are rheumy, concerned.

are you okay? she says. 

hm? 

you’re shaking.

you look down at your hands in your lap. she’s right. 

there’s nothing else to say. 

.

.

.

[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

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a huge thank you to all readers.

taglist: @garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned, @fancyvoidtragedy, @justficsandstuff, @fromirkwood — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

[skyeslittlecorner]

Tails for all! - Gehenna edition

Other parts: Kings | Tartaros | Hades | Avisos | Nilfheim | Abaddon | Paradise Lost

Sitri

In Ars Goetia he is related to leopards, so let's keep it that way! A white spotted tail, fluffy, mid-calf length. Equal thickness, only the end is a little fluffier.

The fur is white and silky, but when held up to the light it has blue reflections, just like his hair. 

The nobles of Gehenna thought he was a kitten, and he hated it. Leraye tried to shove catnip up his nose. Also, because they spend a lot of time together, Satan has learned to wag his tail like a cat from him.

He uses it for balancing, have you seen his heels? Exactly. 

This.

Sensitiveness 9/10. Have you ever tried holding a cat by its tail? He's usually calm, but pull on him and he'll completely lose his cool. And you lose your hand.

Not suitable for sex, but best for cuddling. He will tickle you if you are naughty. Also, extremely warm. He will wrap it around your cold hands to warm them.

Belial

A beautiful man with a beautiful tail. Do you remember Toothless from How to train a dragon? Similar tail, except the fins are a little smaller.

Not necessarily scales, more like smooth, hard skin. Homogeneous, only when you touch it you feel small bumps.

Like Beelzebub, he can pull a needle from the tip of his tail. Sometimes, when he's bored, he takes vinyl records and a record player and tries to use this sting like a record player needle.

It works great in the water while swimming.

He had Jjyu on his tail for a while, but the little demon made a lot of enemies behind his back (literally).

Sensitiveness 5/10. He will talk to you with his tail if he can't talk to you with his mouth. He will wrap it around your ankle or stroke your cheek. You would create your own secret love language of gestures. And, it's perfect for grinding.

Paimon

Long, strong tail, with a flowy hair like an irish setter.  It looks beautiful, but it is strong enough to break a rib.

It's blonde at the base, but the closer it gets to the end, the more it turns pink. Nobody knows if it's natural or dyed.

A lot of colorful pins and hairbands are attached to it, the back is braided. Smells sweet, as if he washed it with bubblegum shampoo.

He loves using his tail instead of a tripod or hand for selfies.

Sometimes, when fighting arm in arm with Leraye and surrounded by enemies, they can stand with their backs to each other and intertwine with their tails. Just to protect their backs. 

Sensitiveness 4/10. He will stab you with his tail to taunt you or wrap around your waist so you can't escape. And he’d love you to brush it.

Leraye

We all know he's a puppy, so of course he'll get a kangaroo tail. Maybe not exactly, but similar in strength and agility. Longer than his legs, thick at the base like a thigh. Very short bristles, similar to Paimon, blond at the base, the further away, the darker.

When he wanted to get a piercing on his tail, he finally learned not to do it with a gun. Sitri had to help him anyway again, because he can't turn around that much.

His piercing is three spikes, smaller than his horn, on his back, a hand's distance from each other and from the base. Of course, he has teddy bears there.

His shooting position is incomprehensible to others because he leans on his tail to aim better.

He treats that tail like a chair. If his legs were as strong, he would have no problem running.

Sensitiveness 4/10. He likes it when you scratch him, especially in the opposite direction to the bristles. He'll wag that big tail like a dog.

Zagan

He is depicted as a griffin-winged bull. Let his tail be long and silver, with a white ponytail at the end. Similar to a lion's, but much larger.

If he wanted to, he can use his ponytail as a brush, but it is difficult to remove the paint from the long fur.

The silver fur is a little longer on the bottom. Compared to ponytail, it is more slippery.

Paimon really wanted to dye it, and Zagan didn't have the heart to refuse, so for half a year he wore a pink ponytail at the end. (That's why he knows how hard it is to wash it off.) Interestingly, the angels fled even more at the sight of him. It is known that the cuter the demon, the more dangerous it is.

He has a protective pattern painted on the back of his tail, near the base, just like on his talismans. He repaints it every morning, it's his little ritual.

Sensitiveness 5/10. He likes petting the underside of the tail the most, where he has longer, soft fur.

Astaroth

Let's go crazy, shall we? There is no more snake demon than him. We know that demons are shapeshifters, and I feel like he would gladly trade his legs for a snake tail. 

Its strands may be a good ten meters long, but no one has been brave enough to measure it. Black scales with a white belly.

He has no tail in his human form, he would feel too uncomfortable with so many limbs. 

From him came the legends not only about Santa Claus, but also about the nagas, i.e. snake-like deities.

Elegant and distinguished and lazy. Like Belial, he likes to swim, especially at noon when the sun warms his scales. You can use him like a mattress or a pontoon.

Sensitiveness 2/10 back, 10/10 belly.  Especially where the human body turns into a snake one. You know what I'm getting at. Along with the tail, of course, come fangs and poison. Don't try to kiss him and don't let it bite you. He'd tangle you in his embrace and wouldn't let you go.

[the-kr8tor]

Now thinking about hobat because of you 😔✨

Hobie in his bat form who refuses not to cling onto the reader, this man will seek out your pockets and climb into them, chirping happily if you were ever to scratch behind his ear. His little bat face practically smiling up at you (legit just :3)

Now this vampire has many qualities but your favourite is all the magic that comes with it, how can be a small or huge bat, preferring the smaller form usually but once in a while just climbing up your back like a toddler because he thinks it's funny to do so while you're cooking.

He likes to bite at you in his bat form, mostly for fun and not actually to drink. He might get mischievous when he's acting all cute, biting at your finger at the last minute. Making you feel a grand sense of betrayal and pretending to scold him.

You wear hats? Well this bat will nap in it while you walk around producing soft squeaks when he's finally awake again to be let out from his leather jail. Or instead just nuzzling his body into your hair.

Bat Hobie WILL lick at your fingers if you have eaten anything whatsoever. For some reason he's just keen on doing it and it's always funny to watch his reaction.

-🪦

Hobat my beloved is finally back from vampire jail

Ppl think that you're a bat magnet 😂 (the :3 owlwjskskksjwjdjs so cuteeee!!!) I bet r has stitched pockets on regular tshirts so that hobat has his own place to cling on! Like a kangaroo and her joey 🤣🤣🤣

YEESSS i think he likes the smaller form too bc he gets tired of his tall forms from time to time and just wants to be a lil unbothered bat!

HAHHAHAHA he just needs a lil nibble a lil taste of his lovie

GASP! LIKE RATATOUILLE!! You know what would be funny? R just strolling around town and whenever a fellow vampire asks them where hobie is they just lift their hat off their head and reveal a very eepy hobat!

😂😂😂 imagine eating something spicy and he doesn't know it is and now you've seen how a bat coughs

[nrdmssgs]

💕do you do aus for zhar and nik? ever since i learned, what her callsign stands for, i want a supernatural au with them, please! they are cryptids and you cant tell me otherwise! 💕

Lovie, the short answer is: I have not a single idea, how to make a decent AU. I don't understand, how this whole thing works.

However, a few days ago my friends reminded me of this idea, I had a while ago. Consider this one time promotion, but I present you with a shifters!NikxZhar

Summary: they show each other their inhuman forms. This is somewhere between the first and second chapters of Matters, if you need a timeline, so Zhar already has her call sign, works in Chimera and has burn marks. TW: swearing

Masterlist

Shifting is a very intimate moment. It should be kept to the shifter themselves and maybe their closest family. This is the well respected principle among all the shifters, so even in the Task Force they just wrote, what their 'second faces' were on pieces of paper and left those pieces on the desk, so that each of them could read and remember in silence.

Though, of course, Soap couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Wait, lammer-what? I need to google that thing."

Ghost hissed, gripping Johnny's collar and shaking him vigorously: it was considered inappropriate to comment on others 'second face' - something so personal.

Olga didn't pay any attention - she was happy as long as Nikolai wasn't around, when she had to confess, what exactly she shifts into. Back in that days she didn't trust him even her address. And she couldn't care less for what's his 'second face' was.

That's why now, many years after, she has to guess.

As they walk into the deep forest, both dressed too light for the current weather, as their blood starts running hot in anticipation, she takes a peek at him secretly.

What could this man be?

There are a few factors, that might help to guess shifters 'second face'. First of all - 'second face' would never be a form, originating too far from the place, where the shifter was born. So it is almost impossible to be born for example somewhere around Finland and be shifted into a kangaroo. The next important thing, is that what shifters call 'a second face' is in reality more a second nature - it will affect their preferences in work or their personal traits.

"Any ideas, darling? Wild guesses? If you guess right - I'm the first to show, remember?" Nikolais grin shines in the last rays of dusk and Zhar understands, that her guesses are most likely to be wrong. Otherwise, he wouldn't be so arrogant.

"I need three attempts."

"Take as many as you want, but I'm not that big of a riddle." He stops on the edge of the clearing in the woods and leans against a tall dark pine.

Olga looks around, assessing the place, and turns back to Nikolai. "Ok, my best shot is a magpie or a crow. Someone of the corvidae."

"Because I'm the best pilot, you've ever seen, sokrovishe*?"

"Because you're the smart sneaky scoundrel, willing to steal anything, that is not nailed to the floor... And maybe because of all the flying."

Nik chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm afraid, the sky is my dream in every my form, but never my element. So think bigger."

Zhar tilts her head to the side. "Bigger? A wolf maybe? Statistically speaking, there must be at least one wolf in Prices Task Force and we had none, while I was serving there..."

"O-o-o-oh-h-h-h-h, I adore wolf-shifters. Something in them just makes my heart melt, little lovely puppies... " Nikolai clicks his tongue and leans closer Olga, freezing right above her ear. "But you, little thing, got yourself somebody more... massive, I should say."

"Nik, for fucks sake, I beg you: not a bear," pleads Zhar.

Nikolai looks at her and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Olga opens her mouth, but says nothing and watches him. The moment, that should have become their true bonding, grows so terribly cheesy, that she regrets even agreeing to this all. Not only she has fallen for a Russian guy - she somehow found her self the Russian bear shifter, as if she was aiming for the most cliché man on Earth. Nik breaks the silence with a loud laughter.

"Well, of course, every shifter born in Russia, must be a bear! As if you yourself are the one as well." He tosses his shirt on the bag, they brought with them, cups Zhars face and peppers it with kisses, still laughing. She doesn't react, still looking at him in shock, and he add 'just fucking with you, Nebo, don't you worry'.

"So, I was wrong? Not a bear?"

"No." Nikolai grins and places another kiss, a much longer one on her lips. "Not a bear. But that means, somebody lost and will have to shift first."

His fingers trail down her neck and tug under her sweater. "This will have to go, I guess. Unless I found myself a little mouse-girl..."

Zhar catches his lips: hard to resist him, when her body is boiling with both sides of her nature. Their kiss is full of thirst for each other, hands clutching on clothes, caressing and claiming, their heartbeats grow faster and synchronize. It is much more than a make out session - they open each other up, sharing inhuman warmth, loosing breath in each other. Everything feels much brighter in their state, every touch wakes so much more sensations right now. It feels so good, that Nikolai groans irritated, when Olga break their kiss and whispers 'not here, Nik'.

"Nobody will see you, Nebo. Not a single soul, but me." He tries to bargain for more of her proximity, but Zhar shakes her head.

"You didnt get me. Not here. I need a cliff."

Nikolai freezes. A shadow of concern crosses his gaze. Not every shifter has an equally simple way to change their form. If your 'second face' is a mammal - consider yourself lucky, because you practically can decide, when you shift, because the difference between your two forms is not that big. But in other it takes a great deal of 'motivation' for the shift to happen.

Such shifters often use adrenalin injections to trigger the process, but there are other, more 'traditional' ways.

"You're getting a shot." Nikolai doesn't even ask her - he states a fact. His voice resembles a deep, guttural roar. "This is your first shifting after the injury, I am not letting you do anything careless."

"I've never done this with a shot. Not for a single time! And i'm not starting today." Olga takes off her sweater and unbuckles her belt. They fly to the ground behind Nik. Her usual insecurities and desire to hide her scars are instantly forgotten.

"You are going to get yourself killed!" Nik grabs her arm.

He realizes his mistake too late: shifters get incredibly strong and easily irritated before the change. Zhar yanks her arm out of his grip with such force that she risks dislocating her shoulder joint. He lets her go in fear and she finally turns back.

"You dare to question my 'face'?" Something changes in her voice: it grows raucous, high and strong.

Nikolai takes a step back.

They walk to the cliff in a dead silence. No one breaks it, even when Olga takes off her last bits of clothes.

They stop on a large empty plateau, hanging above the darkening void full of rocks and trees. Zhar stretches her arms and shoulders, when she feels Nikolais hot breath on her back.

"What?" She looks back and meets his gaze: not an angry or menacing, but instead full of care and tenderness.

He walks around her, touches her cheek and kisses her forehead.

"That's all I wanted to let you know, moye Nebo*. I will be right here. Waiting." Niks voice is muffled, if there was any rage in him - he dragged it deep enough to not be shown in any way.

She presses her whole body against his for a moment and sighs. Olga knows, how hard it is for him to let her do, what she is about to do. And yet he strangles his own doubts for her.

Nikolai takes a few steps back, watching her undoing her usual bun. Waves of trembling run down her body, but he knows, that it is not from cold. It is the anticipation.

Zhar closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in and pushes herself ahead from the edge. Her motions are so calm and casual that for a few seconds Nikolai believes that she did not do anything unusual, and throwing herself into a deadly void is not a big deal. And then the chilling realization of what is happening creeps into his soul. His heaven, his beloved girl just jumped off the cliff on his very eyes. He waits for what feels like an eternity, but not a single sound appears in the black seas of tree tops waving on the wind under him. His hands run cold, throat feels dry and soar, heart runs wild. Shifting never takes so much time. Nik stands on the very edge of the plateau and whispers 'come on, come back to me, love, I beg you'.

All of a sudden, a huge black shadow, flies up right before his face so swiftly, that he instinctively covers his face. A magnificent beast of a bird straightenes her wings and lays down on the invisible streams of wind just a few dozens meters above the ground, casting a formidable shadow upon Nik. Cloaked in a tapestry of dusk and dawn, its plumage boasts a palette woven from the shades of twilight - a fusion of russet and amber intermingling with the deep hues of earth and blood.

Nikolai pulls his arm to the side, and calls her to sit on it and give her wings some rest. But she shrieks at him, rising scarlet feathers on her head. Her voice isn't anywhere near soothing bird songs - it is a war cry, a command, that only a fool would dare to disobey. So Nik lowers his hand and nods meekly. In the first minutes after the change, a shifter usually doesn't recognize anyone around. Younger ones need up to a few hours to fully understand, who are they, and what is happening to them.

Nikolai doesn't pressure her into interaction - he just descends to the ground and sits there, letting her circle above him. When she finally lands near him - Nik finally get a chance to see every smallest detail.

It's her eyes, that hypnotize him. They glint like precious gemstones amid the wild expanse, hold a glimmer of some secret knowledge, a silent witness to the untamed symphony of life and death that echo high in the sky.

She leans to the ground, curls up in an unnatural for a bird pose, and Nikolai understands, that she is tired.

"Come here, I'll hold you, my treasure." The bird looks at him attentively for a few long moments and leans her head on his lap.

Shifting back is painful: shivers run through her entire body for a long time after she loses her heathers and bones grow back to a human form. Nik caresses her shoulders and slowly rocks her back and forth to sooth her senses.

When her skin stops running so hot, he wraps her in a blanket they took from home.

"I know, I know: a girl must shift into something sophisticated and pretty. Like a hawk, falcon, or a dove... Not in-"

"You are a work of art. I've never seen anything so majestic. And I've spent quite some time in the skies." Nikolai smiles, looking her in the eyes.

"More majestic than your hellicopter?"

"Just don't tell her." Nikolai winks. "So... a vulture? A magnificent creature. And a fearful one. Dread from the skies."

"Bearded vulture. We look more menacing, than we really are, so don't worry."

"Oh love, you could leave my 'second face' eyeless in a few seconds, if you wanted." At these words of Zhar raises a confused gaze upon him. She wouldn't risk flying low enough to let something 'more massive than a wolf' to catch her.

Nik helps her back into her clothes and carefully kisses her hands, taking in a brief moment of her absolute vulnerability. When she is ready, Nikolai helps her stand and leads her to the nearest tree to lean against.

"You sure, you want to see it today? I can wait as long as you want." He whispers lowly.

"Nikolai, please! I showed you everything, it is only fair-"

"Ok-ok," he chuckles. "Just promise me to be a brave little thing and don't run away. I will be at your feet in any of my forms."

Following him with her gaze, Zhar waits until he disappears far behind the trees and sinks to the ground: the shifting was really hard for her, but she tried to hide it from Nik. Her eyes slowly get used to the dark ambience of the forest, but she notices no movement.

It is only when a few little birds quickly flutter out of the bushes and rush away, Olga finally understands, she is not alone anymore.

The first thing she notices are two eyes, mirroring moonlight. And the height at which these eyes are moving does not bode well for her. He is enormous. His colossal frame emerges from the verdant shadows. A creature of regal splendor, its tawny coat adorned with striking stripes that echoed the forest's secrets.

"Bloody hell..." Her heart skips a beat, and fear courses through her veins. Instinctively, she springs to her feet, pressing her back against the reassuring solidity of the tree. Her pulse quickens, her hand darts to the place, where her holster usually is: a primal response to the raw power embodied in the approaching feline.

The tiger freezes, his giant paw is raised for the next silent step, but remains in the air. He sees, where her hand moved, he undesrtands, what is it, shes seeking. Olga desperately tries to remember, how long ago Nik went away to shift. "10 minutes top. But he's a bloody cat - they need more time to adapt, they are much more wild than us," screams a frightened voice in her head. Before her stands a beast, approximately two hundred kilos of muscles and hunger for blood, and Zhar has nothing to help her escape. She won't even be able to shift once again - she barely stands.

However, to her astonishment, the tiger doesn't bear his teeth or growl menacingly. Instead, he approaches her after the initial pause.

Drawing closer, the tiger halts just a breath away, his golden eyes fixated upon her. But rather than aggression, the tiger displays an unexpected gesture—a subtle tilt of its head, an invitation.

Trepidation mingle with curiosity, and against all instincts, Olga tentatively extends her hand toward the majestic beast, fingers trembling in uncertainty. With tender grace, the tiger nudges his head closer, inviting her touch.

As her fingers brush against the tiger's velvety fur, a thought, not her own, but rather a dictated or a transmitted one, appears somewhere deep in her mind.

"At your feet, love. In any form. Always."

She looks deep into the ferocious predator's eyes and sees the same warmth, she often finds in Nikolais eyes.

Zhar finally gives in to her weariness and sits down, the beast pulls his head closer to her face and sniffs her hair. As gentle as she can, Olga embraces his head and scratches behind his ears. With a rumbling purr akin to a distant thunderstorm, the tiger leans into her touch, seeking more of her attention. Just as Nikolai always does.

sokrovishe - a treasure

nebo - sky/heaven

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Soldiers (Punisher Annual #2: Knight Fall)

You guys. YOU GUYS. 

I am so excited to bring you this next one for SO MANY REASONS. 

The first reason is that this is the FIRST Moon Knight comic I ever read. 

And this comic os pure WTFer set off an obsession that has directed the course of my life for over ten years now. 

Marc Spector: Moon Knight

Punisher Annual #2: Knight Fall. 1989

Written by: Mike Baron

Art by: Bill Reinhold

Gerbil: Tom DeFalco

(Tom is the editor in chief for Marvel at the time) 

We got ourselves a Punisher Annual with a Moon Knight guest appearance! 

Now I’ve talked about guest appearances again and again and again. It usually means that the guest star is going to show up HUGE on the cover with some dramatic depiction in an attempt to lure in more new readers to the title comic. 

But look at this comic cover. This isn’t Moon Knight showing up to save the day or in a little blurb bubble or box. He’s battling Frank! This looks more like a cross-over style comic! Those always depict the main character FIGHTING the other guest star! And damn if this cover isn’t amazing. Look at those two locked in close quarter combat! And that dagger! This might be a Punisher comic, but Moon Knight isn’t about to roll over! 

Now, as we all have come to expect, when you have a crossover for the first time, the two characters always spend the first couple pages fighting in some misunderstanding before they make up and team together to fight the real bad guys. But Punisher takes no quarter and Moon Knight is grumpy at best. 

Alright, so we open up on a Long Island Petshop where a Mr. Morton is purchasing Gerbils for their kids. 

For those that do not know, a Gerbil is about the size of a large mouse with a long tufted tail and kangaroo like hind feet. They're fast, bite hard, and are fun. (I used to own them as a kid for many years and loved them).

 They actually aren’t that well known, even though you can always find them in pet shops next to the hamsters. I wonder why they chose gerbil over say, mice or rats or hamsters. I get the feeling there was some inside joke among the writers here. 

…..Oh. 

Snake guy. Got it. 

MARC. 

Marc… “That man just ate a gerbil! Why does it set off all my emergency alarm bells?” 

Marc… 

So... After that... Marc calls up Frenchie on his radio and tells him that he's tailing a car and gives him details on the vehicle. 

"Oui, Marc, what's up?" 

"I'm not sure... Maybe nothing." 

MARC SPECTOR. You just watched a man eat a gerbil in a pet shop....WHOLE. What do you mean 'Nothing'?!

He tails the car to an old run down mansion . 

"That's the old Borgwardt estate--It's been taken over by something called Save Our Society... Time to head home." 

Frenchie confirms the car info with Marc. It is registered to the SOS non-profit agency that is privately funded by physicians. 

"Sort of an east coast version of the Betty Ford Clinic. Why would a man eat a gerbil?" 

Marc… You have fought werewolves. You fought a literal rat king. We’ve seen you fight ghosts and get your ass handed to you by a snake. 

AND WHAT ARE YOU WEARING!? Does Steven know you’re wearing his clothes? 

He asks Frenchie to dig into the petstore's files and get him a credit card for the guy that ate the gerbil and an address. 

Meanwhile, we meander on over to the star of our show: 

"Punisher's War Journal-- I've been on the trail of Ralph Newton, a junkie who makes a living ripping off old ladies' social security checks. Two weeks ago he pushed a seventy year old woman down a flight of stairs and she died. Newton seemed to have disappeared, butt now I have a lead--This shooting gallery in the Bronx." 

For those of you unaware of the Punisher, here's a brief howdy-do for you! 

The Punisher, AKA, Frank Castle. Originally a VietNam vet who came back with a little PTSD. His family (wife and child) were murdered by the mafia and Frank decided he'd had enough of evil in the world. He makes it his life's work to hunt down and kill anyone that makes it a living to hurt people. 

Historically, the other heroes (ESPECIALLY DareDevil and Captain America) despise Frank and often rally the other heroes to try to hunt him down and stop him from continuing his war on crime. 

He got his start in a Spider-Man comic of all places and branched out from there. 

Frank is a pretty gruff and serious man and depending on who is writing him and what series you are reading, he can be pretty violent. 

War Journal was a very popular series where he drives around in his Battle Van and writes about his missions. It works nicely because Frank isn’t much of a social man. So if you rely on the story conversations, like in all the other comics, you aren’t going to get much. But having him writing things down in his journal you get a beautiful narration that reads like a Noir film and you also get a fantastic way to get to know Frank and how he thinks. I appreciate it. 

Often when Frank meets up with other heroes, there is a fight with them telling him he's wrong for killing and them eventually trying to stop him. 

Now, we know he's going to meet up with Marc in this. And I am so excited for you guys to see this epic encounter. 

So we see Frank in his usual attire walk up to a safe house and knock on the door. 

He gets the guy to open the door posing as a seller. 

Yeah. By now, everyone knows what it means when they see that skull design. 

"Junkies. I swear they don't feel pain. You've got to break something before they stop coming at you." 

Frank shoots all but one. He tells the remaining guy he's looking for Newton. 

Lucky for the junkie he says he last saw Newton going into a rehab clinic saying he was going to get straight. 

So Frank heads up to the clinic. It's a Save Our Society clinic. 

"The place reeks of sweat and stale cigarettes, ashtrays filled to overflowing." 

Man that's good Noir. 

Frank walks up to the main desk (in his street clothes, which just means he put on a turtle neck and a coat). 

"Department of social services. I'm here to verify our use of federal funds." 

"I'm sorry, sir. There must be some mistake. This clinic is privately funded --we receive no federal funds." 

"*SIGH* Sounds like another department screw-up. Could I speak to your director?" 

(What works about this is that no one actually knows what Frank Castle looks like! He doesn’t need a disguise. Everyone knows him by what he wears. They see the giant skull and the guns. It WORKS. And Frank is surprisingly good at acting. He knows the system.) 

He's told that the director isn't in. She's Leona Hiss. (Hiss? Really? We're going there?) 

Frank heads to get info from Microchip. Hey! Microchip! I missed him! 

Microchip was Frank's old tech guy. He was the man in the van that would give Frank info and hack into things for him. 

I'd say they were good friends...But Frank doesn't have friends. I'd give you spoilers on what eventually happens to Microchip but... It's kinda a BIG spoiler and maybe someone here wants to head on over into Punisher land. So I'll leave it at that. (I came to Moon Knight from Punisher land. It was all thanks to this crossover comic… so I guess their ploy really does work sometimes.) 

Anyways... Microchip looks up this Leona Hiss person. 

A widow of an anesthesiologist who started the clinics to help drug addicts. He goes on and on and tells Frank it "Smells like a smoke screen. All her life, the lady shuns publicity. Now all of a sudden she's a big philanthropist?" 

Man, look at that light and shadow in the first panel. This art team is amazing. 

Frank sets up position on a roof across from the clinic. 

"Clock Street's eerily alive at two A.M. I see a knife fight, several drug deals...Lights are burning in the clinic but no one's entered or left. There are guards on the roof. Better move.

I take position a block away, behind the clinic. I can easily make my way back over the rooftops--Nobody's watching back here. Overhead, a faint Whoosh. Some kind of high-tech chopper." 

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. 

(This art. This art is SLAYING.) 

Oh man. Look at this meet up. Frank and his shotgun, Moon Knight facing him down. 

They know who each other are! Every time Moon Knight meets up with someone he has to introduce himself! No one knows who he is! But Frank knows him. And Moon Knight doesn’t call him Frank. He knows who he is dealing with. 

Oh man, that cover called for such an epic showdown. Both ex-marines. Both know how to handle themselves. 

Uh. 

“I presume we’re both interested in Save Our Society.” 

“Right this afternoon I saw a man eat a gerbil. He came from here.” 

“What’s his name?” 

"Helmut Snead. He used a solen credit card. Six feet, brown eyes, scar above his left eye." 

"Ralph Newton--A Junkie Murderer. What's he doing on Long Island?" 

"I don't know--But he didn't look like a junkie. I want to know how he got out of the South Bronx and into a fancy clinic." 

"How would you take this guy out?"

WHAT IS HAPPENING. 

This is incredible. You have no idea. 

Frank doesn't have friends. Frank doesn't do team-ups. Frank is brutal and tells it like it is. 

And this isn't Frank being the victim to a new writer making nice in someone else's ball park. This is a PUNISHER comic. Moon Knight is the visitor. 

And on that note... MARC doesn't have friends. MARC doesn't play well with others. We literally just came off of him being a part of the West Coast Avengers and leaving because he doesn't team well! 

And here these two are, meeting for the first time and being BFF. 

In fact, the fact that they already know who one another is despite never meeting means that they have heard others talk about them. And when people talk about the Punisher or Moon Knight, they generally don't have good things to say! 

So these two heard "Yeah he's a brutal lunatic" they went "I gotta meet this chap." 

I can't stress enough how amazing this is. 

Frank is even asking Moon Knight to show how he'd take down a guy. He wants to see how Moon Knight works. And Moon Knight is letting Frank go first. 

THIS in itself is amazing. Why? Because we have two highly skilled specialists from a high combat militarized zone that were both known for ambush settings and traps. 

They know everything about this building isn't reading right, they have seen some guards and they don't know what's going on inside. So they are essentially walking into an unknown through a closed space doorway into a stairwell with numerous blind spots and possibilities for traps/ambushes. 

If it were anyone else, Marc would go first to clear the way and possibly take that first hit because he knows he can take it. 

BUT. If you REALLY look at it, Frank is older than Marc. Frank went to 'Nam. Frank has been at this longer and has turned New York into his own personal jungle. 

He offers Frank the lead out of respect AND because he knows and Frank knows that if anything is out of the ordinary, Frank will spot it FIRST and deal with it. 

This is grade A military tactics and my lord it’s beautiful. 

And you know what? 

Frank’s history is that he was team leader. And when Marc gives him lead, Frank takes it and Marc RESPECTS him. They are both used to working in this sort of setting. 

And when you think about it, Marc was NEVER the leader. He followed other people. Bushman was his leader. Marc joined other groups and let other people tell him what to do. If he didn’t like it, he went off and joined a new group. 

So when Frank says “Hold it….!” he is treading Marc like an officer under him and he has now automatically accepted Marc as following him and thus putting him under his protection. This is beautiful. I could wax on about this all day you guys. 

Uh… Back to the comic. So… Frank spots a Black Mamba that’s sluggish from being in a cold setting. 

Marc makes light chatter (he’s kinda of a goof and light chatter is what he does.) Frank quiets him. He knows there’s trouble ahead. 

In the next room, we find a junky going through withdrawal and begging the doc to hurry up. 

The 'doctor' injects him with something just as Frank and Marc bust in. 

"Hello, Ralph. I didn't know you had a license to practice medicine... And only last week you were a lousy junkie..." 

"Punisher!" 

"Drop the needle." 

"I don't think so.... SSSST!" 

And the 'Doctor' suddenly has a snake tongue and snake eyes. 

This bodes well. 

Frank opens fire on his target and it hardly phases him. 

"What have we stumbled into? They move slowly but they don't feel any pain." Moon Knight calls out while pummeling one of the snake guys. 

"It's the cold. [....] Reptiles. The colder it gets, the slower they move. You saw Ralph eat a gerbil--Snakes eat gerbils. This place looks like a herpetology lab." 

Very astute Frank. 

They manage to take down all the snake guys and Moon Knight asks if he recognizes any of them. 

Frank recognizes a couple of them as crackheads and various junkies. 

They find Ralph to be a card carrier for S.O.S. 

"Last week he's a junkie with an armful of holes and this week he's front man for a fancy long island cure club." 

"I think we know where to go next. Why don't you come with me in the chopper?" 

"Thanks, I will." 

(WHY ARE THEY SO POLITE TO ONE ANOTHER. IT'S SO OVER THE TOP.) 

So... Frank takes a ride in Marc's chopper. 

"Nice set-up. How do you keep the engines so quiet?" 

"It's a new kind of fiberglass packing." 

And they arrive back at the mansion. 

"Come on in--I've got a war room. We'll do a little digging." 

"This place is a little ostentatious, don't you think?" 

"There are so many private choppers flying in and out of the neighborhood nobody notices mine--Especially at night. The surrounding mansions and trees also cover our entrances and exits from the concealed hangar." 

I don't think that's what he meant by ostentatious, Marc. 

Inside, Frank, Marc, and Frenchie stand around a table with some maps. 

Marc tells Frank about the Borwardt estate he initially tracked snake man to earlier. 

"I ran a check on cult leaders and you'll never guess who was released from a federal prison last month--Viper." 

Frenchie tells Frank who Viper is. 

"She used to head up zat facist group Hydra, zen she went solo. She was busted in connection with the so-called snake riot in washington last year...[....] A mass hallucination where people believed they turned into snakes. I also learned that Viper was recently sprung from prison by a Dr. Tyrone." 

We head on over to SOS where we see a green lady, "Madam Viper". 

She is in a room of snake men who are 'newly converted'. 

They say they are hungry and Viper tells them that they have "a rabbit, five hamsters and a gerbil. We'll have to make another run to the pet store soon." 

She has a bit of a thing for hitting people with a whip and demanding that they all call her 'Madame Viper'. 

She is then informed that the other clinic was hit and that Newton is dead. 

She sends the new snake men out to the yard for guard duty. She's pretty sure SHIELD is out to get her. Which makes sense since she worked for Hydra. 

Unfortunately for her, it's far from shield. 

Overhead, we find the Moon Copter flying by and Moon Knight drops in with his cape and Frank drops in on a glider. 

The guards immediately open fire on them and Frank returns fire. 

FRANK. DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM. 

….I don’t know if I should count this as a window dive or not. It’s tempting. I’m not going to count it. He decides to abstain from window entrance for once. 

Unfortunately for Frank, he runs in without checking around and Marc isn't there to watch his six. 

Madam Viper jumps him and injects him with a serum. 

Now... Unfortunately for her... Frank has never responded well to drugs of any sort. He's got a history of this not going well for people that try to drug Frank Castle. 

He doesn't go down. 

In fact, it actually makes him go a little berserk. A berserk Frank Castle is NEVER something anyone wants to face. 

He’s doing fine. 

She makes a run for it. 

Elsewhere, Moon Knight is fighting his own snake man army. 

"Lets of gunfire and then it stopped! The time to start worrying about Punisher is when the gunfire stops.

Viper injects one of her larger helpers turning him into a very large and strong snake man. 

Moon Knight faces off with the big snake guy. His usual methods of just 'hit it as hard as I can' doesn't work. They don't feel pain thanks to the drugs. 

He's wearing a heat pack to keep him moving so Moon Knight decides to take this outside and....WINDOW! WE GOT A WINDOW! 

I mean… This one was legit. And he was exiting with a good reason… But I’m still counting it. 

Heat pack removed and out in the cold air, the lizard guy goes down easy. 

Moon Knight goes to find the Punisher now. 

He finds a room full of bodies and Frank in the middle having a lovely hallucination time. 

In the window outside, Marc watches a rocket thing take off with Viper escaping in it to fight another day. 

Marc manages to distract frank with his crescent darts, moving them around and letting the light reflect off of them in a hypnotic way. This lets him get close enough to take away Frank's gun. 

At this point, Frank calms down and the adrenalin that was coursing through his system and probably helping to stave off the toxic affects of the drugs wears off. 

Frank goes into convulsions and Moon Knight moves to get him out of there. Not to mention the cops are starting to show up and they need to leave. 

The cops have never been fans of Punisher (Despite what the right wing wants you to think when they put punisher logos on their giant trucks) and Frank has never liked the cops. Time to leave! 

Marc takes Frank back to his mansion and puts him to bed. 

I kid you not. 

This... This is a thing that happens a lot. He did the same thing to Jack Russel. Just... Take the drugged up guy home and let him sleep it off in his big bed in the mansion. 

Frank has a rough night, hallucinating and putting up a big of a fight but he sleeps it off. 

The next day, he wakes up feeling a bit better. 

And it ends here. Frank heading off to his next mission and Marc casual as hell as he watches his new buddy leave. 

Again I’m going to say it. WHAT. 

You don’t understand just HOW bizarre this issue was. ON BOTH SIDES. Frank was so…NICE… Marc was so amendable! They acted like long lost friends! WHAT WAS WITH THE CONSTANT REFERENCES TO GERBILS?! Why does Marc keep putting drugged up men in his bed? Why was he wearing Steven’s clothes? I have so many questions.

And from this casual weird encounter… An obsession was born. 

ALRIGHT. Let’s talk about why this works. (This is gonna get long. You can stop here if you don't want to hear me ramble and are just here for the comics).

In the Marvel universe (616), we have a lot of veterans of different wars. 

WWII has Captain America, Bucky, and Nick Fury

Vietnam has Frank Castle. 

Wolverine....a lot of wars. All the wars. Every war. 

Apparently Charles Xavier was in the Korean war (I didn't know that) 

Ben Grimm was in the Marines before his space accident (Awww. Another thing for him to bond with Marc over.) 

Then of course you have Carol Danvers who worked for the CIA in the cold war.

Rhodes (War Machine) who was in Afghanistan and Vietnam. 

There are a LOT of veterans of different wars and different time periods (Marvel time is a soup). 

The initial problem was which war. And this is where we are going to once more step onto the Drifting Pieces History soap box. 

We all know the saying “There’s no good war”. But that’s not right. Not according to politics and public opinion. 

To be a veteran of WWII was a noble and good thing. You fought a clear cut enemy, (nothing worse than a Nazi) liberated suppressed people, and most important, you came home a winner. 

What’s that? There was another war? In Korea? Never heard of that one. We totally didn’t go to Korea and fail miserably and we certainly aren’t going to talk about what happened over there. 

Oh look, Vietnam! The first publicly broadcasted war. Not like “The Whole World is Watching”. Oh no, the average citizen is suddenly getting their first look at what happens in war. Oh no, it’s not as nice and pretty as it’s supposed to be. No one talked about the atrocities that were committed by the good guys in WWII! And the Korean War certainly didn’t happen. 

This was the first war where American soldiers came home and were shunned. They were booed. They lost their jobs, lost their homes, and lost their families. Disgraced and forgotten by their country and their people. 

So we have nice shiny Captain America. A literal representation of the good of America and ideal soldier, punching Nazi and saving people in WWII. 

Then we have Frank Castle, a dirty soldier from Vietnam. I’m sure people screamed “Baby killer” at him fresh off the plane. What’s that? Frank served THREE tours in Vietnam?! He was the sole survivor of a huge ambush? He was awarded the Medal of Honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the Navy Cross, Silver and Bronze stars, and four Purple Hearts? That don’t mean shit to the average citizen that only cares about two things: 1. We lost. 2. We shouldn’t have been there in the first place. 

So he comes home, one of the best Marines in the business, and he’s got nothing. 

He gets married to a sweetheart, has two kids (a little girl and boy), and settles in living an ideal life. A quiet life. Too quiet. Frank’s got a little PTSD going on and he was very good at what he did. He didn’t want to leave. He was good over there. He was respected. He was needed. 

But he’s doing the best he can. Until that’s taken away from him in an event he’d seen over and over again in war. Blazing gun fire and his family is gone. 

He gets revenge. But there’s a problem. He isn’t seen as a loving family man that takes down the people that murdered his kids and wife. He’s seen as a violent ex-soldier from Vietnam that’s gone crazy and is shooting up the place. 

They say that for Frank, “the war never ended. It just changed missions.” 

And all these other Heroes that are also veterans? They came from good wars. Captain America spouts speeches of being a Good Soldier at Frank. He doesn’t know what it’s like to question if the bad guy really is the bad guy. 

If Frank hadn’t of been such a family man, he would have made an amazing mercenary. The best there was. 

But then you have Marc Spector. He went to war to escape trauma. He was good. He was VERY good at what he did. And dollars to donuts, he heard about another Marine that was also very good named Francis Castiglione. 

But Marc could only be good so long as it wasn’t obvious that his mental illness was a thing. Even if he lied signing up for the military, when he took the jobs working for SHIELD and the CIA, they HAD to know about his history in the mental hospital. But the second he starts to dissociate in public, he’s kicked out. Can’t have a mentally ill person hanging out around all those weapons, right? I’m sure that’s what they told themselves as they kicked him to the curb. 

Marc could have gone home here. He’d have been a disgraced hero, sitting on the side of the road on a Veteran hat asking for change. But Marc was still running. He didn’t have a childhood sweetheart waiting for him. He had trauma. 

So Marc carries on the mission and he’s GOOD. And he’s a follower. He likes being told what to do. It prevents him from thinking and taking responsibility. If people get hurt, it isn’t his fault. 

Now Frank is very thorough. There’s a chance that the first time he hears about a new Superhero showing up in Manhattan he immediately looks into it. He’s got access to SHIELD info. He finds out who Marc Spector is and he sees another soldier that was let down by his country. Another soldier that was looking to make a wrong right despite how the war went. 

And Marc? Frank’s a hero. He’s tough. He does what needs to be done to keep people safe. Frank’s a leader and he takes care of his soldiers. 

They look at one another and see soldiers struggling to find their place here in the normal life again because they never HAD normal lives to begin with. 

Moon Knight is the only one who can probably understand where Frank is coming from and not judge him. 

Much later on in the comics, when Moon Knight is desperately trying to fit in with the Avengers and be a better hero, we see him come up against Frank again. Frank understands what Moon Knight is trying to do and he asks him if he really thinks it’s going to work. 

And despite how everything else was going in that particular run (a lot. A lot was going), it was a very real moment. Frank saw through him. I’ll get more into it later when we eventually get there. But man… These two together both make me so happy and also break my heart. 

ANYWAY. Uh… Long extended explanation over! I love this issue with my whole everything. 

This writer? This artist? Why couldn’t THEY have been the ones to take over the Marc Spector run? They get it! Look how pretty they make him! Look at all that cape action! 

They even get the dichotomy of Marc in this time. We may not have STEVEN, but did you see the way Marc was dressed in the mansion? How very Steven -esque. Even the way he treats Frank at the end there. 

UGH I could go on about this all day. I’m going to stop here before I write a dissertation. I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT THIS OKAY.

[kellanved-ammanas]

Ugly Bunny

Summary: Merasmus has cursed the teams again. Scout thinks his transformation is the worst. He's proven wrong though.

~

Merasmus’ curse last year that had turned everyone on both teams into undead zombies had been fun in a morbid way. Scout had been hoping something similarly interesting would occur this year. Which it sort of had but…

“Man, why do I gotta be a bunny?” He’d been told he’d been turned into such shortly after the curse had come in near the start of that day’s battle and hadn’t been happy about it but hadn’t had much of a chance to dwell on it until now. Cool down post-battle, milling around the base’s locker room, it was impossible to miss just how lame his transformation was compared to everyone’s. No wonder the BLU Scout had burst out laughing upon running into him the first time. Scout had been laughing right back at him too of course because he’d been turned into a goofy looking fish-man. So at least he wasn’t the only one with a bad transformation but, being an enemy, BLU Scout didn’t count for much when everyone else on RED was cool.

“What’s wrong with being a bunny?” Sniper, transformed into a cool as fuck kangaroo-man, stood next to him.

“Bunnies are soft, fluffy, cute and not dangerous. I’m a killer, I shoot people and bonk them over the head with a metal baseball bat until they stop moving so I shouldn’t be a bunny. I should be something fierce like… like a dragon or something like the Pyros are.” Both Pyros had sprouted dragons and tails out of their suits and it was badass. “I’m not even a cute bunny.” He had the ugliest bunny head he’d ever seen.

“You’re good at running and jumping though which is something bunnies are known. So it’s not that out there.” And Sniper was very conveniently not contradicting Scout’s claim about being ugly, meaning he likely agreed. Which was fine, being ugly didn’t matter, but it made the rest of Sniper attempt at being encouraging fall even flatter than I would’ve if he’d tried to lie.

“Yeah, I guess. But they run and jump away from things. And you’re a kangaroo, an animal known for kick boxing people to death. Which isn’t something your good at. The only thing you have in common with it is your both Australian. So I could just as easily be a bald eagle or a Boston Terrier instead of an ugly rabbit.”

“I think you’re a cute rabbit,” Soldier, now a raccoon-man, butted both into conversation as well as the mirror space, nudging Scout aside. While raccoons were cute and fuzzy too they were also known for committing violence, especially the ones Soldier kept as pets and trained to attack intruders.

“Buddy, I heard you call a tarantula cute once so I don’t think your opinion on which animals are cute or not really means anything.”

Whether Soldier was offended or had even heard him was hard to say as he leaned in towards the mirror to make a face. His raccoon snout made it look even more sinister. Lucky him, he got a cool animal and one that happened to be among his favorites.

Demo, his face now transformed into a badass octopus, leaned in next. “At least you didn’t end up like Spy.”

“What did Spy get turned into?” Scout hadn’t seen him since the start of the battle before Merasmus had cursed them. There was no way it was worth than an ugly bunny though.

It was Soldier who answered. “A crab. A very cute, rude crab. He pinched me when I tried to pet him.”

“What’s wrong with a crab? Crabs are cool.” Scout would’ve gladly been a crab even if it was ugly. Heck a lobster would’ve been better than a damn bunny.

Demo chuckled. “Oh laddie, if you ain’t seen yet, you gotta go find him. I think he’s with Engie right now.”

Well, Scout was tired of looking at his ugly bunny face in the mirror anyway. So with a shrug, he left. Sniper fell into step with him.

Upon inviting himself into Engie’s workshop, Engie, turned into a cat-man – specifically an orange tabby – looked to be the only one in. He glanced up as Scout and Sniper entered, perhaps frowning silently, though it was hard to tell for sure with that new cute face of his. Cute as it was though, cats had claws and sharp teeth; unlike rabbits, they were predators.

Scout took a breath to ask where Spy was but… something on Engie’s workbench turned to look at him and Sniper too. A crab. Not a normal crab though, it was about the size of one, but one that eyes resembled Spy’s, up to and including the mask around them. “Is that… Spy?” he asked, pointing at it, barely holding in laughter because if it was, that was hilarious.

“Unfortunately,” Spy said, sounding just about as annoyed as Scout would’ve thought. Which only made it funnier.

Scout burst into laughter and even Sniper, next to him, let out a snort. The Spy Crab glared at them before scuttling off, his little legs skittering. He hid behind Engie’s tool box. Which wasn’t a very good hiding spot because Scout could just walk around to stand at the end of the table to laugh at him from there.

“It’s not funny!” Even Spy’s voice was smaller at that size, making his attempt to yell even less intimidating than it could be.

“Nah, it’s hilarious.” And it made Scout feel a whole lot better about his own curse. He may be an ugly bunny but at least he was still people shaped and sized.

“All righty,” Engie’s voice was just sharp enough to cut through Scout’s laughter, “you had a good laugh at him, maybe head off now and let me work.”

Struggling to catch his breath after laughing so hard, Scout nodded. It was tempting to stick around and make fun of Spy some more but kicking a guy when he was already so humiliated was a bit mean. Not that Scout minded being mean, but he could cut a bit of slack for his pals. “Come on, Snipes, let’s get outta here, let the kitty-cat get back to work.”

Engie grunted at that but didn’t say anything as Scout hooked his arm through Sniper’s and led the way out. “So Snipes, I know I’m ugly like this, is that a huge issue for you, is it?” he asked as he closed the door behind them.

“Um, no. Why?”

“Well, there’s one other things rabbits are known for so I thought it might be fun to head to the camper to experiment. I mean, we’re covered with fur currently, that’s gotta do something right?” Such had been his first thought upon seeing the form the curse had turned Sniper into.

The kangaroo snout made Sniper’s expression a bit harder to read but he certainly looked interested. “Sure, all right, let’s go.”

[thatbrokenpromise]

OKAY HI! I have a question for all the That Broken Promise Chaaras you feel like gaving answer: HAVE THEY EVER SEEN A POSSUM (north american one not the aussie one) AND WHAT DO?

(prompted by, seeing your au more often and staring to read it and also hearing my housemates freak out seeing a possum for the first time)

Thank you for the question! Yeah, I'm trying to engage with people more even if its taking a while to get some of my recent WIPs to a finished state.

I'm honestly not sure if I think Hyrule has possums, but in the general sense of "Reacting to strange new animals" (because goodness knows that's gonna come up for everyone at some point), a general list:

SKYLOFT: Absolutely will get himself bit being curious and happy to meet something new. In his case, this will include horses, although hopefully someone will save him before he loses any fingers.

MINISH: Curious but wary, and in addition many small creatures will react to him like they do a predator and be scared. I do not envy the group when they find this out, because, once again, this will include horses. The poor, poor stable owner. Ironically, Minish also tends to react to small predators this way despite the fact they're definitely not still 4 inches tall (eg. prey-sized) most of the time...

KOKIRI: After Termina, he's pretty blase about most new creatures and animals. Even blupees are probably going to get, at most, mild curiosity. He's not easily scared and has good enough reflexes something like a possum would get chucked into the bushes before it could bleed him.

OUTSET: A second "WILL get his ass bit." type. ALSO including horses, which he's never met! This is something I honestly think is a pretty typical Link trait but as above the details vary and just as many have more sense than required to fill a teacup as have less. Outset has less. Much less.

CHIEF: Loves small animals. Will NOT like horses. Also doesn't think much of cattle or pigs, especially given his usually associations with them are 'train hazards' which probably has not had pretty results on occasion. He'd definitely extrapolate and love cats and small dogs, but his discomfort increases with size.

ORDON: Loves everything. Everything loves him. He would probably be able to pick up a possum and love on it and the thing would be so confused by his confidence and aura as to just submit to being snuggled. This probably even extends to lizards. Ilia has never had a problem with mice in her life because they have a dozen cats. That kinda guy.

FOUR: Pretty indifferent to animals. He's confident with them, and will pet or cuddle a cat or dog or horse if it comes up to him, but he's not going to seek them out. He tends to be pretty distracted worrying about himself, so a new critter will mostly be assessed for 'does it want pets or not? No? Then who cares.'

PRINCE: Also in the 'does it want my attention or to be left alone' category of assessment. The only exception for adoring and doting on animals is his horses, and he's not interested in adding new things. A possum would be left well enough alone.

RABBIT: "Would get his ass bit" This man has ridden a winged bear, a dinosaur, and a kangaroo that is absolutely spoiling for a fight. A possum WILL get forehead kisses and it WILL like it. Thank all the Gods they cannot carry rabies. (Actual fact! Their body temperature is too low.)

SMITH: Not quite an animal person, although animals love her. She's a bit bewildered by the way other people react to horses and cats and things, because she's primarily been in love with her work but honestly she won't have an ounce of trouble despite never having been on a horse in her life Well. She won't get thrown or bit; she probably won't get where she's GOING but that's a different problem.

FAR: Very wary of new things because he's used to assessing danger or not. I imagine something like a possum would get pretty decent space, although honestly with his lifestyle the odds he's adopted one as a pet in the past is non-zero. New creatures will take him a little bit to adjust to, but if something offers him no threat he won't care much. Ordon and Rabbit are going to have some work getting him to adjust to horses.

HATENO: Loves Everything. Everything loves him. It might try to bite him, but he both will not care and will likely manage to avoid it. Pretty much equal with Ordon in terms of success with anything and everything he has to deal with. Will have his work cut out for him convincing Chief a horse doesn't mean any harm, but he's game to try.

Thanks again for the ask! God this reminds me of my first time seeing a ground hog and the "Dear GOD they're HOW BIG!?"

New creatures are the best, every time.

[the-beard-of-edward-teach]

random quotes/convos from my vc with my two friends i havent seen in months:

"a lot of time when your swimming you're just swimming through a lot of eggs..."

"and piss and shit"

"yes and sperm..."

"elephants release a smelly goo from their ears that let the ladies know that theyre down to clown. they pee their pants too"

"they wear pants?"

"well, no, but they pee and just try to make themselves as smelly as possible"

"kangaroos. kangaroos have short pregnancies"

keeps on talking but the call disconnects

New call starts

“flesh tic tacs??”

“baby kangaroos. They look like flesh tic tacs. Haven’t you seen a newborn kangaroo”

“no”

“why not”

“Im still confused why whale pregnancies take less time than elephant pregnancies. Elephant pregnancies are the longest mammal pregnancies. Nearly two years. They spend a lot of time cooking. Be glad you’re not an elephant.”

“i dont get why people say the males get pregnant with seahorses because okay but he isn’t really pregnant”

“it’s just the pouch”

“yes the pouch”

“he’s just a babysitter”

“Male emus raise the kids. i once saw online a thing that said: who would win a florida man or an emu”

“whats up with australian animals”

“i thing evolutionary—"

“revolutionary”

“sure”

“America”

“it would not be a dante’s inferno situation, actually if i leave i will write the equivalent of dante’s inferno then come back”

*presents 30 minutes of slideshow on tsams*

*presents a slideshow on ice age swapping the love interest*

"this guy realized that they cant have a mole be the love interest of a mammoth so they pretended that it didnt happen. I cant pretend"

*presents a slideshow on fictional characters they are endeared by*

"PETER LUKAS"

"NO PETER LUKAS"

"YES PETER LUKAS"

"FINE. PETER LUKAS"

"what did peter lukas do to warrant this reaction"

"HE HURT MARTIN"

"he was mean to martin. no one is mean to martin"

"no one is mean to martin"

*had silenced them to answer a call and just turned my volume back up*

"you should do a smash or pass with your faves"

"we should do it"

"WHAT DID I JUST COME BACK TO"

"i think you should a smash or pass with your faves. there are some of my faves who i would never"

"but would you ever to begin with?"

"no. nope. not at all"

"i would not kill jonathan sims. but would i marry him? i would kiss him on the hand."

"you gotta keep in mind that marrying is just roommates and being best friends."

"would i want to room with jonathan sims? no."

"i would kill victor frankenstein in an instant"

"i wouldnt wanna room with dracula"

"which of the classic halloween monsters would you want to room with"

"actually im down with dracula"

"really?"

"yeah"

"you'd be one of his brides?"

"sure"

"the fourth one?"

"actually i'd be his husband. I'd be dracula's husband."

"true. true true true"

proceeds to talk about how we dont wanna room with invisible man cause of general creepy vibes

"a group of platypuses is called a paddle"

"what about unicorns?"

"a blessing"

"a group of elephants is a memory"

"a group of owls is a parliament"

"this has to pass parliament: and its just a bunch of owls at a desk"

"a pandemonium of parrots"

[jewishbuckley]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers✨

this is a list with explanations which probably wasn't wanted but... eh

my cat (he has been described as "gay before gay was a thing" and "bitchy gay queen") and my dog (sometimes instead of running she just kind of jumps like a kangaroo to get from one spot to another)

my partner. we became friends via fandom (actually, a procedural show similar to 911) 6 years ago and so when I am insane about 911/bucktommy in his messages or on our calls, he just gets it and also despite not having seen this show he gets Very Into It. I was telling him a bit about the fandom drama regarding the daddy issues joke then later sent him the video of Buck & Tommy's first kiss, and he was like, "with Tommy like making sure things are good with Buck and Eddie like really,,, that guys your villain???" and yanno there are Other Reason he makes me happy but asdfghjhgfdsa

not to be cheesy but my in real life friend group (me, a lesbian, and a bisexual). my friend and I have a very great lesbian/gay man friendship - we skateboard and get coffee once a week, and with our mutual friend (bisexual) we go rock climbing once a week. so just... very happy to have these funky guys in my life

honestly writing makes me very happy and I'm very glad that I'm getting back into it and I'm hoping that stretching my writing muscles with fanfiction will inspire me to pick up some original fiction pieces I have in my drive (collecting dust). also related - reading. I am reading Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children and I read the first book about... 8 or so years ago but never read the whole series and I recently started reading the whole series about... 2(?) weeks ago and I'm on book four and honestly... I'm kind of glad I am waiting until now to read it in full because of how heavy this book series is (good but heavy)

...and lastly... I really love learning more about Judaism and specifically talking about Judaism in an educational context. if I can ever get my shit together and get back to pursuing education, I'm hoping to land myself in a job position where I can teach or just do something that allows me to research and talk about Judaism

[juddygirl]

Baby just tease me, Got no family plan - Bella growing up - part 2

Bella asks about Demi one day after school. Out of nowhere, to Dan who picked her up while Max is at university. She’s five now, knows how to write her own name, her fathers and  has been planning her own birthday party for three months. She’s a young girl now, not the baby Daniel once met in the staircases of their old apartment building. She wants to become a veterinarian, specialising in Kangaroos. She’s more independent, living her own little life. 

Every school day when he picks her up, Daniel laughs at her little face, she always seems to have been on the battlefield, the two little piggy tails are long gone, her backpack barely hanging on her shoulders. She lost a hairband, and her jacket, even though Max had labelled all of her belongings. She always runs to him, arms already wild open for a hug. Except that day, she’s dragging her white tennis shoes on the gravel, shoulders slumps and arms at her side. Bella can’t ever hide what mood she’s in. Her big blue eyes land on Daniel, they are telling him she’s distressed, lost even. He picks her up swiftly, but she’s still not looking at him.  Daniel hates seeing her like that, it always breaks his heart. He doesn’t have time to ask what’s wrong.  

“Do I have a mommy?” Her eyes finally locking with his, she’s looking for answers in his eyes. He’d be surprised if she found any. 

“You do, princess,” He holds her tighter, not knowing what else to say, Max never talked much about his ex. 

He also doesn’t think it’s his place to let her know who her mother is, and why she isn’t here. 

They expected it, that inevitable question, they aren’t prepared for. They foolishly expected it when she’d be older, maybe six or seven. She never questioned the fact that she had two dads and most of her friends didn’t. Her understanding the concept of reproduction and that two men can’t physically have children should have happened much later on. Not now, not after school pick up, and not with Daniel.

“Luuk said we all have a mother. He said I was lying when I told him I have two dads.” She gets tears in her eyes, and holds back a sob that makes her jolt. Daniel kisses her cheek. 

Daniel knows how much she hates to be called a liar. He knows she got this from Max, their forehead creasing the same way when they are accused of it. 

She’s more upset about that than the whole mother thing. 

“Oh princess, sometimes it’s complicated.” She looks unimpressed. “How about that, we don’t let Luuk get to us. We go get waffles before going to the restaurant as a treat?”

She agrees. Once her stomach is filled with nutella waffles, she’s in a much better mood, and seems to have forgotten about Luuk and her mother. 

Daniel hasn’t, He texts Max about this, trying to soften the blow as much as possible. He doesn’t get a reply. 

They meet at the restaurant. It’s a tradition now. Every Friday, when classes end before seven, they have dinner with the Perez, Carlos and Mick. Bella’s order is already in, along with the other kids. She doesn’t go to play with them right away, she stays with Max, clinging to him. He usually asks her to go play, to give him some time to breathe, because she wants to smother him with love, but not today. They sat at another table, just the two of them, silent until she asked the burning question. 

“Who is my mummy?” She asks.

He had hoped to do this somewhere a little more private, maybe wait until they were home but he always said he’d tell her if she’d asked. He’s a man of his word. He pulls her little hair away from her face and pulls his phone from his pocket. He looks for the only picture he kept of her. A selfie of them three taken hours after Bella was born. Demi looks miserable, angry. She’s hunching, staring at the camera and ready to murder it.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen it in years, or maybe he’s convinced himself that what he thinks happened is the truth, but if he zooms in he can see no real emotions on her face. He tries not to stare at it for too long, otherwise the burning feeling of betrayal and anger will come and spoil the story. He’ll let the emotions narrate it and she’ll believe what he says. He shows her the picture, tells her mother’s name is Demi. Bella struggles to believe she was once this tiny, but keeps looking at Demi, and Max wonders what she thinks. Can she understand Demi was just the person who birthed her? 

Bella doesn’t look like her, she’s all Max, same hair slowly turning brown instead of blonde, the ocean blue eyes, her temper is all Max. She has Daniel’s tenderness, his passion for speed. The Ricciardo raised her to care for animals, the Verstappen to be the fiercest person there could ever be. She’s got nothing from her mother, Max is sure of that. It’s only cells, half of her DNA, a name under mother on her birth certificate but it stops at that. 

“Where is she?” 

“I don’t know, baby girl. Last time I heard from her she was in America.” It’s true, he never really tried to find her, doesn’t think he should start now. If she really wanted to see Bella, she would have tried. “You know that you don’t need a mother. You’ve got Dada and me, and it’s more than enough.”

“I know, but Luuk said I was lying.” She argues back. 

“Papa will deal with Luuk Monday morning.” Max answers. 

It doesn’t sit right with him, none of it. He can’t explain it. But Max isn’t stupid. He knows she’ll want to know more, maybe not now, as she slides from his laps to go play with the other kids, but later, and he won’t know what to do. He wasn’t lying when he said he would let her know about her mother, but he hopes that she won’t try to look further than the pictures he has and the facebook page he checks once a year. 

He’s still scared she’ll come and try to take her away. 

“You’re all right?” Daniel asks, running a hand in Max’s hair. He melts into the touch and nods. A bold lie he’ll keep to himself. 

[drdespairsflame]

"I am the Mighty Boris! Beware! For I am a man to be feared!"

Introducing: Boris Vinogradov, The Ultimate Fencer!

Boris is a cocky guy, but he has the skills to back up his words. He can win any battle put in front of him.

Boris takes great pride in his title and the many stories he tells about himself. Are any of these stories true? Nobody knows, but would you really doubt a man like Boris?

Pronouns: He/Him

Height: 173 cm

Likes: Mafia Movies, Swords

Dislikes: Kangaroos

Background: As a kid, Boris was a stereotypical playground bully, always picking fights he couldn't finish. One day, a teacher got sick of Boris's bullshit and just beat him up. This event filled Boris with more rage than he ever had before, and he decided to find an outlet. This outlet was fencing. His coach has said he's "never seen such an angry child be so good at fencing." Boris was even set to go to the Olympics before, for reasons he did not know, it was cancelled. His prowess got noticed by those scouting for the New Hope's Peak Academy, and he was invited to be the Ultimate Fencer.

(The picrew currently used in this post is a placeholder that accurately represents the design, as official art of the character has not yet been made.)

Picrew Link

[safetycar-restart]

George's long legs anon 👕 here with the most difficult question of all time. But it must be settled once and for all! The discourse is:

Would Charles be a catboy or a puppy sub?

This man has been called every animal on the planet. Kangaroo, mouse, lobster, calamar. But the classic dichotomy stands. A case could be made for either, though, it’s so fucking hard to decide.

He’s sensitive to water/cold like a cat.

A kitty would also clean its whiskers like he 'paws' at his beard. Just saying.

The zoomies: Felines are fast.

And a bit grumpy/mad, plus introverted, sometimes.

His car as an enclosed space mimicks a box. Cats adore boxes.

Loving. Cats are selective with affection.

Charles being a big chaotic klutz also counts as kitten behavior, although that’s also points for puppy.

They call him what? Monegato! He is baby, he is gato.

meanwhile: 

Sharl has perfect puppy eyes. Hands down. His pretty please game is immense.

Social and loyal like a pup, loving attention, needing comfort when upset.

Doesn't seem to ever sleep (cats doze all the time).

You could say he does the blep pretty well like a cat but it's more like, sticking his tongue out wide. Dog mannerism.

Charles is loud! And moves around a lot. Neeeds to go in circles.

Loves treats and rewards :)

Like a dog, he cowers sometimes with a slouch, checks all directions, and is so bouncy when he jumps and walks.

Which direction does he tend towards more? He'd probably say puppy sub > kitty sub 100% because he prefers all things canine, but is that all there is to it? Everyone feel free to weigh in. This probably needs a poll or something. I'm going crazy.

You know what? I have no idea either and I think you're right we do need a poll. I'm gonna make my arguments for both and then at the bottom of this post will be a poll so that we can finally decide on an answer.

CATBOY:

I think Charles is a cat boy in the way that he approaches people? He'll be kind to everyone of course, will never turn down a fan asking for a picture. But when it comes to who sits next to him, who touches him, who can be in his space, he's like a cat with it?

He doesn't like people coming to him and sitting closer without prompt, doesn't like when people assume they can have a hug or even a handshake. Yet he will regularly go over to people and ask for those things. He doesn't want someone to sit by him unprompted, but he'll go himself and basically sit in their lap.

Except for you of course. You are his person. He feels nothing but love and happiness whenever you sit with him. And you can do for more than just shake his hand or ask for a hug. But he's also catlike in that regard too, because only you can touch him like that. Anyone else and he'll practically hiss at them. ESPECIALLY if that other person's attempted affection could be seen as more than platonic. He will scratch someone's eyes out if they try to kiss his cheek. Because no!! No no no not even as friends!! No no!

Also yes he's sensitive to water and cold. He requires coats and treats and LOTS of nose kisses for him to go out in the cold.

PUPPY SUB:

He's loud and he's SO needy. He'll whine and cry if you don't give him enough attention. And he's also so messy? Not in outside of scenes, but when scening? He's SO messy. He drools and cries and makes puddles when he cums and grips you so tight that you end up with scratches and bruises.

He also craves praise so much. He just wants to be your good boy. He truly just wants to make you happy, and he gets so happy when he can follow your instructions and know that he's been good for you.

And also, he LOVES being with you? He has no concept of personal space with you, well he does, but your personal space is his personal space. He does not know what alone time is either. He considers alone time to be with you, because why would he ever want to be without you?

He also sometimes gets nervous energy like a puppy would, ends up running around until you tease him and calm him down. Oh and he's a nibbler. He just goes nom nom on any and all available skin. You have a hand in front of him? CHOMP.

Alright with all that in mind... Charles?