#clang polls

[wabblebees]

((please rb if you vote! obv this is just silly but im curious+wanna see ppls opinions<3))

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

Cyberverse Maccadam

[doumadono]

Warnings: smut w/o plot, smut, creampie, fem!reader, rough smut, fingering, semi-public, pro hero Bakugo

A/N: this request got the highest number of votes during the Sinful Sunday poll. Thank you to everyone who voted!

SINFUL SUNDAY MY HERO ACADEMIA & MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The day had been long, grueling, and sweat-inducing. As a pro hero, keeping in peak physical condition was not just a choice but a necessity. 

The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the faint hint of metal, the rhythmic clanging of weights creating a steady soundtrack to your exertion. 

Bakugo Katsuki, your relentless partner, trainer and one of the top pro heroes, was pushing you harder than ever. His methods were harsh, but you knew they were designed to break your limits and build you up stronger.

"You're slowing down, weakling," Bakugo growled, his voice rough with exertion but tinged with a hint of challenge.

You rolled your eyes, slowly trotting on the treadmill. "I kept up with you for nearly two hours, didn't I? Besides, I think you're just trying to cover up how tired you are."

His eyes flashed with annoyance and something darker, more primal. "Watch your mouth, or I'll show you just how much energy I have left."

Soon, he decided to move to another thing on his to-do list.

You were on the leg press machine, your muscles screaming in protest with each rep. Your tight, grey tank top clung to your sweat-drenched body, the fabric almost translucent against your skin. Every bead of sweat that slid down your nose felt like a drop of fire, a testament to your hard work and determination. Your shorts, snug and form-fitting, accentuated the curve of your ass, catching Bakugo's keen eye every now and then.

"Come on! Push harder!" Bakugo barked, his tone leaving no room for excuses. He stood close, his intense gaze fixed on you, arms crossed over his broad chest.

You gritted your teeth, the burn in your legs almost unbearable. "I'm trying," you managed to gasp out, your breaths coming in ragged bursts.

"Trying isn't enough," he snapped back. "You either do it or you don't. Now give me ten more!"

With a frustrated growl, you summoned every ounce of strength left in you, pushing against the resistance of the machine. Sweat poured off you, dripping onto your décolletage, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym. Your body was a study in tension, muscles straining, every fiber of your being focused on completing the set.

"Eight... nine... ten," you counted aloud, finally locking the weights back in place. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving, muscles trembling with exhaustion.

Bakugo was immediately in your space, his presence as overwhelming as ever. He crouched down, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing with a mixture of pride and challenge. "You did it," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But you're not done yet. Get up."

You groaned, the thought of more exercise almost unbearable. But you knew better than to argue. Bakugo's training methods were brutal, but they were effective. And you had a point to prove, both to him and to yourself.

He led you to the next station, a set of free weights. "We're gonna work on your shoulders now. I want to see perfect form, or we're starting over. Got it?"

You nodded, gripping the weights with determination. Bakugo's eyes never left you, his scrutiny both motivating and nerve-wracking. As you lifted, you could feel his gaze burning into you.

"Keep your back straight," he instructed, moving closer. His hands brushed against your skin as he adjusted your posture, sending a shiver down your spine. "Good. Now, lift."

You followed his lead, lifting the weights with as much precision as you could muster. Every muscle in your body was on fire, but you refused to back down. 

"That's it. Keep going," he urged, his voice softer now but no less demanding. "I want ten perfect reps."

You lost yourself in the rhythm, each lift a battle against your own limits. The sweat continued to pour, dripping off your chin and landing on your chest, mingling with the fabric of your tank top. 

Finally, you finished the set, dropping the weights with a triumphant gasp. Your body was exhausted, every part of you trembling from the exertion. But there was also a sense of exhilaration, a rush of endorphins that made the pain worth it.

Bakugo stepped closer.

For a moment, you thought he might critique your form again, push you for another round. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away a bead of sweat. "You did great, Y/N," he said quietly, his voice a rough whisper. "But don't think this means I'm going easy on you next time."

You smiled, a sense of accomplishment swelling in your chest. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Suki."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something more intense passing through them. "Good.”

Before you could respond, Bakugo's lips were on yours, the kiss fierce and demanding. 

You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands gripping his muscular shoulders, feeling the strength and heat of his body.

He pulled back slightly, his breath hot against your lips. "Shower. Now."

You nodded, unable to form words, your body already responding to the command. The journey to the locker room was a blur, your mind focused solely on the promise of what was to come. 

The familiar scent of sweat and the sterile cleanliness of the gym's showers greeted you as Bakugo practically dragged you inside.

You stripped off your clothes.

Bakugo was quick to follow, his eyes never leaving your body. “Fucking hot as hell,” he commented, licking his lips. 

There was no shyness between you; the raw attraction was too overwhelming to allow for any hesitation. 

Inside the shower, the steam enveloped you both. The water was warm as you stepped under the spray.

Bakugo couldn't help but steal glances at your toned figure, his eyes tracing the contours of your muscles as they flexed beneath your skin. You, in turn, couldn't resist sneaking peeks at his powerful physique, the water sluicing off his rippling muscles.

Bakugo's body was pressing against yours from behind. His hands were rough, calloused from years of hero work. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his broad chest as his lips found the sensitive spot on your neck. 

Bakugo's lips traveled down your neck, nipping and licking at the sensitive spot just below your ear. 

You moaned, your head falling back to give him better access. 

He took full advantage, his tongue tracing a path down to your collarbone before moving further still. His fingers found your hardened nipples, teasing them into peaks as his mouth closed around one, sucking and flicking it with his tongue. 

You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Bakugo smiled against your skin, switching his attention to your other breast as his hand slid down your body.

Your breath hitched as his calloused fingers brushed against your clit, the sensation almost too much to bear. 

He began to circle the sensitive nub, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm. 

The teasing motions of his fingers had your legs shaking, threatening to give out beneath you.

Sensing that, Bakugo wrapped his strong arm around your waist to support you, his grip possessive and firm. With his free hand, he guided you closer, your bodies now pressed tightly together. 

The feel of his hard cock pressing against your stomach, made you gasp, and you reached out to gently brush the pads of your fingers against his mushroom tip.

He let out a hiss while his fingers continued their expert ministrations, sliding easily through your wet folds. He increased the pressure, his movements more insistent as he focused on rubbing your clit with his thumb while his middle finger teased your entrance. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice a low, husky growl. "You like this, don't ya, bitch?”

You could only nod, your voice lost to the overwhelming sensations. 

He slipped a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right to hit that sweet, spongy spot. 

Your inner, velvety walls clenched around his digits. “Suki,” his name fell on your lips like a mantra.

The intensity of your orgasm was almost too much to handle, your vision blurring as you were consumed by the release. 

Bakugo's mouth found yours once more, swallowing your moans with a deep, hungry kiss. His tongue danced with yours, the kiss wild and unrestrained.

Finally, he slowed, his fingers slipping out of you, leaving you feeling both satisfied and achingly empty. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. "You look so fucking beautiful like this," he whispered, his voice filled with awe and desire as he brought his fingers up and tapped them against your lips.

Without hesitation, you parted your lips, welcoming his fingers in. The taste of your own, sweet juices on his fingers was intoxicating, a reminder of the pleasure he had just given you. You met his gaze, your eyes dark with desire as you licked his fingers clean, savoring every drop.

Bakugo's eyes flashed with something primal, his breath hitching as he watched you, jerking his cock with a free hand. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice low and rough. "You're gonna be the death of me."

The hot water cascaded down your bodies, washing away the sweat and grime of the training session.

With a fierce kiss, he lifted you up.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling the hard length of his erect cock pressing against your wet folds. Your core throbbed with need, and you rocked your hips, seeking friction. “Shit.” You looked into his crimson eyes, silently giving your consent.

Bakugo's breath was ragged as he reached between you, positioning the tip of his dick at your entrance, running it up and down through your folds. "You're gonna regret challenging me," he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

"Oh, Suki," you moaned, his name a plea on your lips.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

"Katsuki," you repeated, your voice trembling as you wrapped your hands around his neck.

With a powerful thrust, he entered you, the sensation both painful and pleasant. The feeling of being filled by him was overwhelming, and you clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

You gasped out an "Oi!" as he started moving, thrusting into you, allowing his cock to drag back and forth against your sensitive fold whenever he was withdrawing, feeling your hands grip his shoulders and your breath panting against his neck.

The sound of water, mixed with your moans and his grunts, filled the shower. 

Bakugo's pace was relentless, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. 

"Fuck," Bakugo groaned, his movements becoming more erratic. "You're so tight."

The rock of his hips picked up the pace, thrusting in the heat of your pussy as if you had not fucked in weeks, even though it had only been a day. It just felt too good to be inside you, thrusting and grinding, the slap of his hips against your mound filling the bathroom with lewd sounds. Bakugo grunted. “Yeah, fuck.” He thrust in and out, in and out, feeling your pussy stretching to take his cock, getting wetter and wetter with each of his thrusts.

Katsuki pounded into your cunny with a vengeance releasing his pent-up frustrations with each massive thrust. He grunted and panted as he plowed deeper and harder, slapping his body against yours until suddenly he stiffened as an exquisite, convulsive explosion ripped through him. As he exploded deep into your quivering pussy, he felt your echoing response as your body milked the cum from his cock with the force of your own orgasm.

“Katsuki!” you raked your nails down his shoulders, gasping for air.

Soon, the pro hero felt the second load building up, the tension coiling in his body. He gripped your hips tighter, his movements becoming more erratic. Within a minute, he shot another load of thick cum deep inside your quivering pussy. The sensation of his release sent you spiraling into another orgasm, your body clenching around him as you cried out his name.

“Katsuki!”

You were both breathing heavily, the air thick with the scent of sex. 

Bakugo leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a slow, languid kiss.

When he finally pulled out, a mix of your juices and his cum began to drip down your trembling thighs, leaving a trail of slick, glistening evidence of your shared ecstasy.

After you finally stepped out of the shower, toweling off and getting dressed, you couldn't help but steal glances at Bakugo. 

"Don't get too comfortable, Y/N,” he announced with a smirk, catching your gaze. "We're back in the gym tomorrow. No slacking."

[penascigarette]

need to pay with somethin' else

➴pairing: sleazy mechanic!joel miller x f!reader

➴wc: 3k

➴summary: strapped for cash after your car breaks down, you find yourself at the mercy of your dads best friend Joel Miller, a sleazy yet charismatic mechanic who offers an unconventional way to settle your debt

➴warnings: m!oral receiving, reader has grabbable/fuckable breasts, joels sleazy, power imbalance

➴notes: this started because i had to get my oil change and the guy was definitely giving joel vibes so here we. divider by @saradika-graphics and to @slimybeth69 for reading this over <33 also from this poll full of sleazy boys

masterlist

The engine sputters once, twice, and then dies with a pitiful wheeze. You groan, slumping forward against the steering wheel. This is the third time this week your car has left you stranded, and you’re officially at your wit’s end. The glowing check engine light on the dashboard feels like it’s mocking you as you fumble for your phone and scroll to find Joel Miller’s number.

Joel’s been your dad’s best friend since forever—gruff, handy with a wrench, and the kind of man who always seems to have a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He runs a small garage on the edge of town, the kind of place where you pay in cash and don’t ask too many questions. Your dad swears by him, though, and after a minute of internal debate, you decide to give him a call.

“Yeah?” Joel’s voice is rough when he answers, you can hear the sound of clanging metal in the background.  

“It’s me,” you say, already feeling the heat of frustration rising to your cheeks. “Car died. Again.”  

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a real piece of shit there, darlin’. Where you at?”

You rattle off your location, and he promises to swing by in fifteen minutes. True to his word, Joel pulls up in his battered pickup truck, stepping out with his usual air of quiet confidence. His eyes skim over you and your car as he approaches, wiping his hands on his coveralls already streaked with grease.  

“Pop the hood,” he says, gesturing with a tilt of his head.  

You watch as he leans over the engine, his broad shoulders flexing under his worn shirt. His hands move deftly, poking and prodding until he straightens with a frown. “Transmission’s shot,” he says flatly. “You’re gonna need a tow.”  

A tow. Great. As if your day wasn’t bad enough. “Can you fix it?”  

“Sure,” Joel says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “But it’s not gonna be cheap.”  

You hesitate, biting your lip. Money’s tight—has been for months—but you don’t have much choice. “Can you tow it to the shop?”  

Joel gives you a long look. “Yeah. Hop in the truck. I’ll take care of it.”  

The ride to his shop is quiet, except for the radio's low hum and the occasional creak of the truck’s suspension. Joel doesn’t say much, but you can feel his presence like a weight in the small cab. When you arrive, he parks outside the garage, and you follow him inside.  

The shop smells of motor oil, rubber, and metal. Familiar scents that remind you of your dad’s stories about their younger days fixing cars together. Tools are scattered across the workbench, and a half-empty coffee mug sits next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.  

Joel leans against the hood of your car, arms crossed, as he nods toward it. “It ain’t good,” he says, his voice carrying that same gravelly tone that always makes your stomach twist. “Gonna run you $700. Maybe more if I find anything else wrong and that's me givin’ you a deal sweetheart.”  

Your heart sinks. Seven hundred dollars might as well be a million. “I don’t have that kind of money right now,” you admit quietly.  

Joel smirks, and his gaze sweeps over you with an almost predatory air. “Figured as much.” He takes a slow step closer, his presence suddenly feeling a lot larger in the cramped space. “Been real kind to you the last few times, fixin’ this piece of shit for free. Even worked extra hours just to get you back on the road. But sweetheart…” His voice dips low. “That goodwill don’t come cheap forever.”  

Your stomach twists with guilt because he’s right. Joel’s helped you out more times than you can count, always brushing it off with a gruff “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” But this time, his tone carries a sharper edge, and his gaze lingers on you, sharp and calculated.  

“I’m a reasonable man,” he says after a beat, his lips quirking in a slow smirk. “We can work somethin’ out that doesn’t involve a whole lot of cash. You got other ways to make it worth my while.”  

You freeze, your breath catching. “What are you talking about?” you manage, though you're pretty sure you know what he means.  

Joel chuckles, taking another step toward you. “C’mon now. Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.” His eyes flicker over you as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You’ve got a mouth, darlin’. Seems to me like you could put it to good use and settle that bill real quick.”  

Heat floods your face. “That’s disgusting,” you snap, but your voice lacks conviction.

Joel shrugs, utterly unbothered. “ But it’s practical, ain’t it? You’re broke, and I’ve got a car to fix. Think of it as a trade. A favor for a favor.”  

You hesitate, your mind is racing. The idea is mortifying, but his words hit you where it hurts most—your empty wallet and your lack of options.  

He steps closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Look,” he says, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “You can walk outta here, take that piece of shit somewhere else, and still be stranded. Or…” His hand lifts, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You can stay. Handle this like a big girl. Ain’t gotta be a big deal, sweetheart. Just a few minutes of your time, and your car’ll be good as new.”  

Your throat tightens, your heart hammering against your ribs as you weigh the impossible choice in front of you. His eyes lock onto yours and you know he can see the hesitation written all over your face.  

“You don’t gotta decide now,” he drawls, leaning back against the workbench with infuriating ease. “But don’t take too long. Time’s money, and I got other cars to fix.”  

The air feels thick, as his words sink in. You should walk away, call your dad, and deal with the fallout later. But the thought of your empty bank account and the guilt of all the times Joel’s helped you out for free keeps you rooted to the spot.  

Finally, your voice comes out, shaky and barely above a whisper. “Okay.”  

Joel’s grin turns wicked as he tosses the rag onto the workbench. “Atta girl. Come on, then. Let’s settle this debt.”

You follow him deeper into the garage, the sound of your boots scuffing the concrete seeming deafening in the quiet space. He walks with a casual confidence as he gestures for you to sit on an old, battered stool. It squeaks under your weight, but you barely notice. Your nerves are shot.

Joel leans back against the workbench, arms crossed, his coveralls pulling tight across his body. His smirk hasn’t left—if anything, it’s grown sharper, like a wolf that knows it’s already caught its prey. “Don’t look so nervous,” he says in a teasing voice. “Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You swallow hard, your gaze darts around the space trying to distract your spiraling mind. The smell of motor oil and grease feels thicker now, as if it’s seeping into your skin. “This... this isn’t something I usually do,” you murmur.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve got that good girl vibe. Bet you don’t even jaywalk.” His tone is mocking. “S’all right, though. I’ll talk ya through it.”

You bite your lip, a mix of embarrassment and something more electric buzz in your chest. The way Joel looks at you—like he’s already unwrapped you in his mind—is both infuriating and intoxicating. 

“Nervous, sweetheart?” he drawls, cocking his head. His eyes flicker over you, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, just gotta use those pretty little lips n’suck and we'll be squared right up.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, folding your arms across your chest in a futile attempt to shield yourself from his scrutiny. 

Joel takes a slow step forward, close enough now that you can smell the mix of sweat, cigarettes and motor oil clinging to his skin. He nods toward your chest. “Why don’t you let me feel those pretty tits before we get started?”

Your eyes widen, heat rushing to your cheeks as you sputter, “That—That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Joel laughs, low and rough, his teeth flashing as he shakes his head. “C’mon now. Can’t expect a man to get off without a little foreplay, can ya?” He teases. “I ain’t askin’ for much. Just wanna get my hands on ‘em for a minute.”

You glare at him. His expression is maddening, that smug, self-assured grin like he already knows you’re going to cave. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, you roll your eyes. “Fine. Just... make it quick.”

Joel’s grin turns downright wicked as you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it up to reveal your bare breasts. The cool air brushes over your skin, making your nipples pebble, and Joel whistles low, his eyes darkening as they fixate on you.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, stepping closer. His hands are rough and calloused as they cup your breasts, his thumbs brush lazily over your sensitive nipples. “Look at these. Soft as hell. Bet they’d feel even better bouncin’ in my hands while you’re bouncin’ on my cock.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him see how his words make your stomach flutter. “Are you done?” you snap, your tone is sharp despite the way your voice shakes.

His grip tightens just enough to make you inhale sharply. “Not yet, darlin’. Let me enjoy the view a little longer.” His thumbs roll over your nipples again, and you shiver despite yourself. “These are somethin’ special. Too bad you’re such a hardass, or I’d spend some real time with ‘em.”

Your glare sharpens, and he finally lets go, his hands dropping back to his sides. He takes a step back, still grinning like the cat that got the cream. “All right, I’m good now. Let’s get to the fun part.”

You yank your shirt back down as you slide off the stool determined to get this over with. 

“See?” he says, his tone as infuriating as ever. “Told ya, a little foreplay never hurt nobody.”

You don’t dignify him with a response, focusing instead on the task ahead. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls. “On your knees.”

Your breath catches, heat pooling low in your belly at the command. You hesitate, looking up at him, and for a brief moment, his smirk falters. His gaze softens, just a fraction, enough to make your heart skip. 

“You can still back out,” he says quietly, surprising you. “Ain’t gonna force ya. You can just pay me instead.”

The reminder takes place and you take a shaky breath as you sink to the floor. Your knees press into the cold concrete, the rough texture biting through your jeans, as your hands rest awkwardly on your thighs. 

Joel’s smirk deepens as he watches you sink to the floor. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Look so damn pretty down there. Almost like you’re made for this."  

Your stomach churns at the comment, but you bite back a retort.

"Don't get shy on me now," he teases, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. "Knew you had a mouth on you. Let's see if it’s as talented as I’m guessin’.”

You swallow thickly as your eyes dart to the zipper of his coveralls. His hand moves to the fastening and the sound of the zipper cuts through the air as he drags it down. Beneath the heavy fabric, his jeans are undone, and your breath hitches when you catch a glimpse of the bulge beneath the worn denim.

Joel takes his time, pulling himself free with a casual confidence. He’s thick, flushed, and the veins are prominent against the hard length. You bite the inside of your cheek, unsure whether it’s nervousness or intrigue that has your throat tightening. 

“Go on,” he says. His fingers tangle in your hair as he guides you closer. “Start slow.”

You hesitate for a moment, then tentatively lean forward, your lips parting as you press a soft kiss to the tip. The skin is hot and velvety and the musky scent of him fills your nose. His hand tightens in your hair and a low groan slips from his lips. The sound sends a strange thrill through you, and you glance up to find his eyes locked on yours, dark and half-lidded. You are not enjoying this, you won't let yourself.

“Atta girl,” he drawls with approval. “Keep goin’.”

You take him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the head as your tongue sweeps across the sensitive underside. Joel groans, his hips jerk slightly and his fingers flex against your scalp. You move slowly, testing the waters, your cheeks hollowing as you sink lower. He’s thick enough to make your jaw ache, but you press on, spurred by the quiet, guttural noises spilling from his throat. 

“Goddamn, that feels good. You really know what you’re doin’, don’t ya? Bet you’ve had a little practice.” He grunts his free hand bracing against the edge of the workbench. His hips roll forward, pushing himself a little deeper, and you choke slightly, the intrusion catching you off guard. He eases back, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Easy now, darlin'," he says, his tone a mockery of gentle reassurance. "Don’t wanna choke you out—least not yet.”

You pick up your pace, your tongue swirling around him as you take him deeper, your nails digging into your thighs for balance. Joel’s breathing grows heavier, the tension in his body is palpable as he fights to keep control. His groans turn into curses, low and filthy, and the sound of it makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight. “You’re too damn good at this.”

His words spur you on, your movements growing more confident as you bob your head, your hand wrapping around the base of him to stroke what you can’t take in. 

“Look at you," he growls, his voice dripping with sleaze. "Takin' me so good. Never would’ve guessed a sweet little thing like you had it in ya. Bet your daddy’d have a stroke if he knew what you’re doin’ right now."

The mention of your father makes you falter slightly, but Joel’s grip in your hair keeps you in place.

"That’s right," he says with a grin. "Keep goin'. Don’t you dare stop now.”

You take him deeper, pushing the limits of how much you can take.

“Shit, that’s good," he groans, his voice ragged. "But you know what’d be even better?"

You glance up at him, your brows furrowing.

"Get up on the bench," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Wanna see those pretty tits of yours wrapped around me. Bet they’ll feel like fuckin’ heaven."

You hesitate.

"C’mon now, don’t get shy," Joel drawls, his smirk widening. "Ain’t like we’re strangers anymore. Hell, you’ve already got my cock in your mouth. Might as well give me the full experience.”

You glare at him, but his smug grin doesn’t waver. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, you stand, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and hop onto the workbench. Joel’s eyes darken as you pull your shirt up, baring your chest to him.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, his hands immediately reaching for you. His rough palms cup your breasts, squeezing them appreciatively. "These are somethin’ else. Soft as a dream. Could spend hours buried right here."

"Just get on with it," you snap, your voice sharp despite the heat flooding your cheeks.

Joel chuckles, positioning himself between your legs as he presses your breasts together around his length. The heat of him against your skin makes you shiver, and Joel groans as he begins to move, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts.

"Goddamn," he mutters, his voice thick with lust. "You feel that, darlin’? So fuckin’ perfect. Never had a set like these before."

You grit your teeth, refusing to let this turn you on.

"Don’t be so uptight," he teases, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "You’re makin’ this way harder than it needs to be. Just relax, sweetheart. Lemme enjoy myself."

His movements grow faster, the slick slide of him against your skin makes your cheeks burn, you shouldn’t be enjoying this but you are. "You’re a natural at this," he says. "Knew you’d be somethin’ special.”

Joel’s groans grow louder, his grip on you tightening as he moves with more urgency. "Shit, baby," he breathes. "Gonna ruin me for anyone else."

The heat of his praise makes you clench your thighs harder, and you close your eyes, trying to block out the sound of his voice.

"Look at me," Joel demands. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. 

"That’s my girl," he murmurs, his voice softening. "Fuckin’ perfect."

Finally, with a groan, Joel stills, his release spilling across your skin. He stays there for a moment letting the last of the white-hot ropes coat your skin before he steps back, his breathing is ragged as he tucks himself back into his jeans.

"Clean yourself up," he says, tossing you a rag. His smirk is back, lazy and self-satisfied

You glare at him, wiping your chest with quick, angry movements.

"Don’t look so pissed," Joel says with a chuckle. "You did good. Real good. Might just start offerin’ you a permanent tab.”

“Fix my car.” you snap, sliding off the workbench.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it fixed up for you. Go grab a drink or somethin’. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your emotions a mess you can’t quite untangle. Without another word, you grab your bag and head for the door with Joel’s laughter following you out. 

You tell yourself you’re never coming back here again, but the way your heart races at the thought of him makes you wonder if that’s a lie.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.2k

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It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. “It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

[rtv-puzzlevision-studios]

☆ THE RTV!PUZZLEVISION TOUR [Part 3.5]

POLL RESULT: You decided to protect SMG4 from Security.

Participants actions:

Lucas

Lilith

Nicknack

Marie

Becky

Lari

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Chaos immediately broke out the second RTV fell.

Nicknack just jumped back in time before getting crushed, another set of people getting startled by the sudden noise, one of them backing up and tripping over the unconscious TV head.

The result was a bunch of white and pink hair all over his clothes.

“What are YOU doing here?!”

The meme guardian quickly made a step as a horned girl transformed into a dragon right in front of him, blocking him off from RTV.

“LEAVE!”

Oh, he wanted to alright.

Unfortunately that was now impossible with him being surrounded by people while security had their weapons aimed, blocking the exit door.

Only other way out was the window and he wasn’t reaching that with all these people in the damn way!

In the next second another participant had suddenly moved behind SMG4.

In an instant their one hand wrapped around his throat, as they leaned forward.

“You bastard ain’t getting away again.”

SMG4 froze, but didn’t let the gun fall.

“You all don’t understand, I’m not the bad guy!”, he pressed out through gritted teeth, though aware that the current situation wasn’t helping his case. “Listen, if you just let me expl-”

“NO ONE WILL CONTROL AND ABUSE MY POWER EVER AGAIN!!”

A punch out of nowhere caught SMG4 off guard, making him loose his grip aroun the gun.

It fell to the ground with a clang, but the meme guardian was more focused on now keeping the seemingly gone crazy brown haired woman off him.

A task that was much difficult if you were still being restrained.

“I-I don’t even know you!”, he now gave back, shielding his face with his arms.

“Out of the way!”

Suddenly, two arms wrapped themselves around the woman, and in the next second Swag was dragging her away from Four while she still fought trying to reach the meme guardian.

SMG4 had no idea what he did to piss her off this much, but he wasn’t going to lose this chance.

With a swift motion, he now grabbed his current captor’s wrists, before flinging them over his shoulder.

Too late.

Even though he was free now, he was now looking up to Lucian holding a gun to his face, Chris not far behind, keeping an eye on the door.

An odd sense of deja-vu washed over him.

“I see you’re still showing up in places you clearly shouldn’t be.”, Lucian now drawled and then sighed, motioning with gun up. “Hands up.”

However, before SMG4 could do so, to his and the security’s surprise, several participants now started to step forward, standing between the meme guardian and the Puzzlevision staff.

“What- guys, this is not the time!”, Lucian spoke up in irritation, motioning for the people to get out of his way.

No can do, the participants had made a decision to protect SMG4 from getting arrested by Puzzlevision staff.

A decision Lucian couldn’t exactly hate on, but that he also didn’t agree with.

Sure, if Wr3n wasn’t watching, he may have taken the chance to put a bullet into RTV and finish the job.

However, this wasn’t said chance and so he had to follow his duty which was making sure that RTV’s attacker was arrested.

A duty the tour participants now stood in the way off.

“They aren’t going to budge, Lucian.”, Animsay now spoke up for the first time in a while again.

During the whole scene she had been eerily quiet, watching the whole thing play out.

Her smile still didn’t fit the situation.

“Take a look around, are you really going to fight all of them?”, she continued, waving around the room.

Lucian now let his gaze wander, noting that not only people were blocking his way but also that some seemed downright ready to fight.

The shapeshifter RTV had scolded before had their eyes turn into a worrisome shade of red and even the participant that had gifted Lucian the drawing not a few minutes ago seeme ready to take it up for a fight if she had to.

That one particularly stung.

Lucian loved fights, but not like this.

Giving a brief look over to Chris and Swag who looked similarly clueless on the situation, he then let out a loud sigh.

[Damn it.]

“Stay down.”, he told the two others before lowering his gun now.

His order was immediately met with disdain.

“You can’t be serious!”, Swag exclaimed, now pushing the participant he had held to the side. 

“Sir, with respect, this isn’t our job-”

“I know what my damn job is, Chris, and right I’m telling you to stay down.”  Lucian snapped. “We are not hurting tour participants.”

Chris and Swag looked like they didn’t necessarily agree to this, but now lowered their own weapons begrudgingly.

“So now, what?”, Swag then asked, waving to SMG4. “Are we just going to let him walk? He just fried our boss!”

That…was a good question.

[Sigh…]

“Let’s just…all come down for a second.”, Lucian started, talking to the whole room. “First of all, I need someone to check on the boss. Don’t touch his head, just make sure he hasn’t kicked the bucket yet.”

Wait, didn’t they have someone from the Health Department here.

“Nira! Where is Nira? Please, get over to Puzzles.”, Lucian now called out to her, waving to the TV head who was still blacked out on the floor…now decorated with sticky notes?

If the situation wouldn’t be this bad right now, he would have found this hilarious.

But he couldn’t and that was mainly because he knew they were still being watched and their watcher did not exactly play by the same morals as they all did.

Only after RTVs’ commands.

As if he summoned it, the intercom now crackled on and a new voice sounded through the building.

“Dear employees and visitors, we are currently facing a vermin problem. Until the issue is resolved, the whole building will be going on lockdown starting now.”

[What.]

SMG4 and Lucian snapped around to the windows at the same time, watching as metallic blinds now rolled down, leaving the room in darkness with the only light source being the screens and Lucian’s sign head.

The echoing sound of things shutting and locking down told the group that the rest of the studio was currently going through a similar development.

“What the hell do we need so much security for again?”, Swag asked baffled, before turning to Lucian. “Hey, you’re head of security, tell that damn system this is way overkill!”

Said object knew exactly why RTV had so much security installed and it wasn't just because of simple paranoia.

What he also knew however was that Swag was right and that this was indeed bad news.

They were pretty much locked inside now.

With an AI that currently was without supervision because the only person it really listened to was currently knocked out cold.

“I object, partner.”

The screens in the room now flickered, before showcasing a turquoise silhouette, a white line on their face showcasing soundwaves.

RTV had forbidden Wr3n to show himself with his standard avatar to other people. mainly due to few employees still remembering Wren or the incidents of Western Spaghetti.

Like SMG4, Chris and Swag.

“If you want me to lift the lockdown, you have a choice.”,

Wr3n now continued, before an arrow appeared on the screens, Animsay’s included, pointing at SMG4 who narrowed his eyes.

Until now, he had never even known that Puzzles had a sentient security system.

“Option 1: You take out 4 over there and I will give you a free pass! Tour is over, the problem solved, you all can go home!”,

Wr3n now continued, before the arrows changed to point down at RTV.

“Option 2: You wake up the big boss and he can decide what to do with you.”

The arrow now disappeared, screens switching back to the silhouette.

“Option 3: You outlaws do neither of those and we can enjoy playing a game of tag. I’m sure I can take care of this whole issue myself within the hour! So, choose wisely. Happy trails!”

With that the screens switched back to the Puzzlevision logo.

“Puzzles has an apparently homicidal AI and you still think I’m the bad guy here?”, SMG4 now spoke up, pointing at himself.

“Not the issue right now.”, Lucian growled, starting to pace in place.

“I’m not seeing you deny the homicidal part.”

If Lucian had eyes, he would have shot SMG4 a glare, so instead, the words in his sigh head simply changed to [Shut it].

He now turned to the rest of the group again.

“Listen, I know we had our differences, but without Puzzles W- the security system may see us as an actual danger. Especially, after some of you just refused to let us arrest SMG4. He saw that, he’s always watching over the surveillance.”

“Told you we should have gone through with it…”, Swag mumbled in the background, before getting boxed in the side by Chris.

Lucian took another deep breath to keep cool nerves.

“I will leave the choice on what to do up for you to decide. We need to work together here not against.”, he continued, before lowering his voice. “Though, there is an option that wasn’t mentioned by the System: The lockdown can manually be manually overwritten in the Control Room. So, we have four choices: Arrest SMG4 after all, get Puzzles to the Health Department, try to reach security or make our best run to the exit which, quite frankly, is just insane.”

He raised his hands in defense.

“Up to you. I know I’m probably getting into trouble after this either way.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Please note that this is the point where your character can indeed end up getting injured.

One week deadline is starting again with this one which means you have time until next Wednesday!

Tag list:

@niranutcake @fenicearts420 @leirom71000 @entityarts @alelathedragon @mylifeisfakeenjoy @lari-the-dragon @lislelycan-i-am-dumb-lol @rat-n-atty @nia1sworld @untitled14360 @Irayasostripes @theclosetcreature @jovialoddity @purpdrawsthings @varian-the-alchemy-boi @beckycat19 @runrabitrunrunrun

[clockwayswrites]

I've been slowly (aka it's been months) poking at a pwp piece of still in a band Constantine/Batison Bruce (pre-Bat? or very early Bat). Bruce gave John the fake name Simon. It was a poll winner the other day, so I finished the first smutty scene and am on to the next, which isn't smutty so far so have a bit:

-

“Sorry it’s no Ritz, luv,” John said as he opened the door to the hotel room. It was basic, but it was clean (which is more than John could say about some of the place he had stayed).

Simon glanced around the room from under his dark bangs. “Don’t think I’ll be looking at the art much if you do things right.”

John barked out a laugh, surprised and by no means disappointed by the feisty sarcasm that was showing from under Simon’s shy demeanor. “I’ll do my job right, luv, no need to worry your pretty head about that.”

His boots hit the wall by the door with two thumps once he had finished undoing the many buckles. Simon placed his boots down much more demurely with the long laces tucked inside. Barely resisting the urge to tease Simon, John instead tossed his jacket at the small armchair that his suitcase was open on. It made a satisfying clang.

It also just felt good to have off. John rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks that came from preforming. The hotel air was cool against his bare shoulders.

[in1-nutshell]

Ratchet's daughter with the opposite personality meets MTMTE Ratchet

SFW, Platonic, Familial, from poll, Cybertronain reader

TFP/MTMTE

Buddy was starting to think that maybe these little portals were going to become a thing for her. If it was, she was going to start a personal log for it.

Earlier…

The Decepticons had found the location of their base.

They needed to leave.

Optimus was instructing everyone to go their separate ways until they could regroup.

To avoid any call to attention, each Autoboot was to go their separate ways.

That meant Ratchet and Buddy would be separated.

Buddy was nervous being away from her family.

Away from her father.

Buddy holding Ratchet’s servo as Prime activates the groundbridge.

Ratchet’s hold tightens a bit as the swirls grow brighter.

Buddy takes one last look as she looks at the Prime in front.

She slowly let’s go of Ratchet’s servo and walks to the portal.

She takes one last look at her family before running through.

If she went any slower, she would have surely turned back.

She stepped into a mountainous terrain. Perfect for hiding from anyone.

Buddy spent two weeks in the rock formations, constantly looking out for anything familiar or any contact.

She did cry a couple nights wondering what had happened to her team and father.

She missed them all dearly.

That’s when she saw another portal.

Too shocked the portal sucked her in without a second thought.

When Buddy woke up, she looked at an unfamiliar ceiling.

A medical room’s ceiling to be exact.

She slowly lifted her helm.

“Don’t do that. You hit your helm hard when you came in through the portal.”--Ratchet

Buddy turning towards the voice to see… Ratchet?

“Ratchet?”--Buddy

Ratchet turns around and walks towards her with a data pad in his servos.

“I’m guessing you have a Ratchet in your universe.”--Ratchet

Buddy nodding slowly.

“…You’re taking this strangely well. This your first time dealing with this type of thing?”--Ratchet

“Actually, I have dealt with dimensional stuff before. Though they came to my universe instead of me to theirs.”--Buddy

First Aid, Ambulon, and Velocity walked into the room.

“Oh! She’s awake. I’m First Aid and this is Ambulon and Velocity.”—First Aid

Ambulon waves as Velocity gives Buddy a warm smile.

“Wow… I haven’t seen another medical bot in forever.”--Buddy

“What do you mean by that?”--Ambulon

“In my universe it’s just me and Ratchet.”--Buddy

Ratchet now looking concerned.

“Just you and my alternative? What group were you two sent to?”--Ratchet

“Group? We don’t have a group. It’s just the last eight of us.”--Buddy

“…Eight as in a squad, right?”—First Aid

“Eight as in the only Autobots left.”--Buddy

Ambulon drops his datapad, Velocity lets out a large gasp, First Aid and ratchet flinch a bit.

Ratchet places a servo on Buddy’s shoulder.

“Well, you’re safe now kid. At least until Brainstorm finds a way to take you back.”--Ratchet

Buddy nods and vents a bit.

“What’s your designation?”--Velocity

“Buddy.”--Buddy

The medical team raised an optic.

“Buddy?”—all the medics

Buddy crosses her arms a bit.

“My first father gave me it. Before the war started.”--Buddy

“First father?”--Ratchet

“The war? That’s been over for a while now.”--Velocity

Buddy slowly moving her helm towards Velocity.

“What…”--Buddy

“The war is over in this universe kid. Megatron surrendered.”--Ambulon

CLANG!

Buddy faints on the med slab.

“…”—All the medics

“At least she was here when she fainted.”—First Aid

“Kid, appreciate the optimism, but now is not the time.”--Ratchet

Eventually when she recovered from the shock, Buddy put on a brave face and followed Ratchet and First Aid to the main bridge.

Ratchet felt Buddy hold his servo with a death grip when she saw Megatron, but he had to give it to her, she had a pretty good brave face.

She even managed to take her servo out to shake it to the former war lord.

Buddy shaking Megatron’s servo.

“Pleasure to meet you sir.”--Buddy

Megatron, a bit surprised, shakes his servo.

“Thank you…”--Megatron

“Buddy. My designation is Buddy.”--Buddy

“Buddy? That sounds like an earthy name. Were you named on Earth?”--Rodimus

“No sir—”--Buddy

“Please call me Rodimus, Rodimus Prime, Co-captain of the Lost Light.”--Rodimus

Buddy’s optics widen as she lets go of Megatron’s servo.

“Prime?! You’re a Prime!?”--Buddy

Rodimus puffing his chassis a bit.

“Yes, I am—”--Rodimus

“Is Optimus okay!? What happened? Is Orion okay?!”--Buddy

“What—”--Rodimus

It was going to take a while longer than expected for the portal to Buddy’s dimension to work, but Buddy didn’t seem to mind it too much.

Yes, she was worried for her family back at home.

But this beat staying alone in the mountain range.

Buddy naturally met Drift soon enough after spending so much time with Ratchet and Rodimus.

Drift and Buddy got along like a house fire.

Buddy got excited to see the samurai bot every time he came by the med bay.

Drift popping by the med bay.

“Hello!”--Drift

Buddy looking at him with a wide smile.

“Hi Drift!”--Buddy

“How’s the meditations working?”--Drift

“Iffy, its kind of hard for me to get. But I’ll get it sooner or later.”--buddy

“I trust you with that. You’re almost as stubborn as Ratchet.”--Drift

“Is that a challenge?”--Buddy

“I mean—”--Drift

CRUNCH!

Drift accidentally stepping on a wrench.

Buddy venting a bit.

“Drift… I needed that.”--Buddy

“Sorry!”--Drift

Meanwhile Ratchet on the other side of the med bay.

“…Why do I get the sudden feeling of pride?”--Ratchet

So many bots found themselves starting to get soft spots for the new member of the Lost Light.

And it wasn’t intentional.

Buddy was one, soft spoken and gentle in nature. And two was the youngest bot on board.

It was only natural that Buddy would get some special treatment.

Buddy sitting with Rodimus and the Rod Squad.

“What else do you want to know?”--Buddy

Swerve passing Buddy a flavored non-engex drink.

“Your fuel levels were pretty low when we checked, care to explain?”--Whirl

Buddy chugging down the drink.

“Woah…”--Rewind

Buddy finishing the drink.

“What do you mean?”--Buddy

“One. Impressive drinking skill Buddy.”--Whirl

Whirl patting Buddy on the helm.

“Two, a little bird told us that the levels were bone dry. You trying some new diet?”—Whirl

“Whirl how—“—First Aid

Whirl shushing the medic.

“I have my ways.”--Whirl

“Nope. That’s just how they are with our reserves.”--Buddy

“…”—Rod squad

Buddy happily drinking more energon.

“How-how low were the reserves.”--Tailgate

Buddy side glancing at Ratchet.

“Low enough for me to find Ratchet slipping his rations back, I started doing the same. We weren’t needed out in the field much, we don’t need that much fuel. The team needs it more—”--Buddy

Buddy get hugged by Tailgate who is just sobbing on her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t cry Tailgate. I’m fine.”--Buddy

“Yeesh. You sure your not related to Ratchet?”--Whirl

“Ratchet is my father.”--Buddy

“…”—Rod squad

“WHAT!?”—Rod squad

“… I think I made a mistake…”—Buddy

Rodimus draped both his arm over Drift and Ratchet.

“Congratulations you two.”--Rodimus

Ratchet tries to talk, but ends up stuttering, while Drift is just frozen in place with a big smile off his face plate.

“Wait—”--Buddy

“Shush! I bet Buddy got most of Drift’s personality and ratchet’s profession. It all makes sense now!”--Whirl

“Hold on—"--Buddy

Whirl slamming his claws on the table.

“I demand to see a DNA Test!”--Whirl

“Whirl that won’t—”—First Aid

“We need the tests!”--Swerve

“OH, MY PRIMUS I’M ADOPTED YOU BUCKET OF BOLTS!”--Buddy

“…”

Buddy hiding her face with her servos.

“Sorry…”--Buddy

“…Adopted or not she’s definitely your kid Ratchet.”--Drift

Buddy peaks out to see Ratchet looking at her with a smile.

“At least one version of me has something to look forward to.”--Ratchet

Buddy smiles brightly at the comment.

“…but seriously. The tests…”--Whirl

“I can make one!”--Brainstorm

“Brainstorm no!”--Perceptor

“Brainstorm yes!”--Brainstorm

A week later the portal was finally fixed.

It was a tearful set of goodbyes from everyone.

Especially from Ratchet and Drift.

“Hopefully we’ll see each other again.”--Buddy

“Maybe, who knows with the Lost Light.”--Drift

“Yeah, yeah, now go on. My alternative is waiting for you.”--Ratchet

Buddy smiles and jumps into the portal.

When she got out of the portal, she was back in the mountain range.

This time her comms and messages were flooded with unread messages and missed calls.

Buddy let out her SOS button and sat down on a nearby rock.

She would be with her family soon enough.

[clangpan]

It's weird to me seeing how common it is for people to not know how to swim, so I wonder if it's a region specific thing, or did I just grow up somewhere where swimming lessons in public schools is a normal thing

[guitarstringed-scars]

on stage- s. hinata

whenever you're ready

masterlist

you put your phone away into your bag, straighten up your papers in front of you, and look up to the stage for the first audition. the girl who goes first is a familiar face, the lead in your last production, so obviously she gives the audition of a lifetime.

“she's good. i mean, obviously.” you lean over to akaashi, whispering once she exits the stage. akaashi scribbles something in his notes.

“i agree. i think she could easily play one of the leads.”

you shoot him a thumbs up as the next auditioner enters the stage, for possibly the most monotone audition of all time. you end that not as good one with a quick “thanks for auditioning!” 

this is going to be a long day.

18 auditions later, and its time for a well deserved break. you and akaashi head out to the lobby of the theater and stand in front of a busted up vending machine. 

“got a quarter? i've only got 2.” you ask, eyeing the m&ms sat in the second level of the machine. 

“nope, you could ask bokuto. He’s always carrying around loose change.”

“good plan.” great plan actually, you think, maybe he's with the ginger from earlier.

with that the both of you round the corner of the lobby, where you spot the trio of volleyball players.  

oikawa notices you two first, “well if it isn't the famous writer and less famous director!” 

bokuto and the other guy turn to you two quickly. ignoring oikawa, you turn to bokuto. “Do you have a quarter?”

oikawa frowns once he realizes he's being ignored.

“yup! what do you need it for?” “vending machine around the corner.” 

the ginger cuts into the conversation at this point, “theres a vending machine here?” he asks excitedly.

“yeah, its just around the corner! want me to show you?” you respond, hopefully not sounding too eager. you shoot keiji a quick side eye, and he fortunately catches your drift.

“i'll stay behind, i'm not super hungry.”

“i'm shoyo by the way!”

“so...whats it like directing plays?” he asks, finally figuring out where to put his collection of quarters. you swiftly put your phone down.

“uhm...it's really fun. getting to direct has always been a big dream of mine, and getting to actually do it is super great, even if it's a play instead of a movie. this show might be my favorite so far. why'd you decide to audition?”

he punches in the number combination for his drink of choice, “oikawa told me i had to, but now that i'm here watching the auditions, i'm super excited! everything about it seems so cool!"

you both laugh. the vending machine clangs as the drink hits the bottom of the chute. he picks it up and hands it to you.

“i'm hoping this will convince the director to cast me.” he smiles at you, hand outstretched.

"bribery doesn't work on me,” you laugh and accept the drink, “just have a decent audition, and you'll be fine. thanks though.” 

shooting him a quick, nervous smile, you turn back into the empty theater and have a seat at the empty table.

15 mediocre auditions later, oikawa is finally up on stage. he performs the monologue perfectly, and is met by audience applause once he finishes and takes a bow. you roll your eyes, but smile at him anyway, shooting him a thumbs up. it was a perfect auditon to be fair, not that you'd ever tell him that. after torus dazzling performance, shoyo takes the stage.

“woah! how am i meant to follow that up!” he exclaims. you grin at him from the audience.

“you can start whenever you're ready.”

a/n: woohoo 2 chapters in 1 day and first meeting of shoyo and yn!!! i really like this chapter, even though theres a lot more writing than smau, but dont worry there will be a lot of smau in the next part! also i'm starting to plan a second fic, and i'm still trying to decide which character to use, so expect a poll coming soon for that!

taglist: @yuminako @mylahrins @/intergalacticrory @zzzlevislothzzz @hibernatinghamster @shoyosluver @/walllflowerrrsss

if you arent underlined i cant tag you !

[nonbinairyboi]

Nothing Left: Chapter 6

Chapter Summary: Eugene comes over to help with pain relief.

Pairing: Joel Miller x nonbinary!Reader/OC (afab, dimples, has multiple nicknames but none are their name)

Word Count: ~2.3k

A/N: The poll on whether I should do a masterlist or chapter by chapter of ASL signs or a combo was mixed, so I think I'll do a combo! I am hoping to work on that this week and also going back and editing some small mistakes in previous chapters as well. I really appreciate the comments and interactions I have been getting. It really motivates me, so thank you!

Series Masterlist (w/ASL) | Read on AO3 | Playlist

Chapter Warnings: Talk of injuries. Concussion recovery. Weed use

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 6

When you woke up next you were alone. You could hear someone moving around the kitchen, pots clanging in that way that you were sure only happens when someone is trying to be quiet and the cutlery refuses.

The sunlight streaming through the window was slightly dimmer than before. Sitting up, you grabbed onto the furniture as you made your way to the window. Clouds that foretold rain soon hung in the sky, partially obscuring the sun. You gave up trying to estimate what time of day it was and began the walk out of the room. 

As if the creaking of your door was as loud as a car alarm, startled steps quickly made their way to you. Maria rounded the corner and looked about to scold you for being up without help. You quickly raised your hands in surrender, pointed toward the bathroom and signed ‘bathroom’ for good measure. Maria didn’t speak despite looking like she wanted to, and nodded for you to continue, retreating again around the corner. 

You resisted the urge this time to look in the mirror as you washed your hands. Your vision felt a little blurrier than normal and you knew that if you looked now, your brain would fill in the blanks of your eyes with more gruesome images than were truly there. Opening the door, you jumped a bit at Maria’s figure outside of the door. You hadn’t heard her come back.

”You aren’t getting off that easily. You need to let us help you.” Maria said disapprovingly. “Ask next time.”

You raised your eyebrows in a light challenge and signed ‘how?’ with a deadpan look.

Maria let out a puff of laughter and said “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find you a cowbell to hang around your neck.”

Laughing in surprise, you let Maria help you towards the kitchen. 

“I was just heating up a little of the soup I made the other day,” Maria explained. “Could I get you to eat a little? I could make you some more tea as well.”

You nodded in reply as you were helped into your seat. You could hear babbling coming from the living room and Maria excused herself, coming back with Benjamin on her hip. 

You spent the next twenty minutes slowly taking spoonfuls of soup in between sips of tea and trying to keep it down as you smiled at the baby who was slowly becoming ‘milk drunk’. Maria took the baby to put him down for a nap and you cupped your hands around the new cup of tea that Maria had given you, warming your hands by curling them around the mug. 

You wondered how different life would have been if you had somehow been able to have been pregnant in Jackson now instead of Illinois back then. Would the birth have been easier? Would people have searched for and made you supplies as they had for Maria? Would Grace have liked it here?

Your nose burned as you tried to keep back the tears that threatened to show themselves in the gloomy afternoon.  If Grace was here, if the baby was here, you would have chosen a different home. A bigger one. And in your daydream, the vastness didn’t scare you. A different timeline. A different universe. Quantum Mechanics and string theory and all that jazz.

You inhaled through your nose in surprise as a knocking sounded at the door.

You heard a muffled, sing-song ”Don’t you dare get it! I am on my way!” from Maria and laughed to yourself, pulling yourself back to the current place and timeline you resided in. 

The door creaked open and you heard Maria say “Eugene! …What a lovely smell… Follow me.”

Chuckling, you turned in your chair so you were facing the entrance, smiling as wide as you could without hurting yourself as Eugene came into view.

Maria stood between the two of you with her hands on her hips.

”I’m not going to say anything,” She began. “But please only outside. And be discreet if you could. I have no problems with what you do, but I don’t want it getting around to the teenagers. I have enough on my hands when the parents complain about contraband liquor as it is.”

”Yes ma’am.” Eugene said, saluting her and making her crack a smile. 

“And if Tommy comes home, don’t let him have too much. I need help around here.” Maria comments. 

You smirked as Maria helped you up and into your coat before handing you over to Eugene.

“I gotcha, never fear old grasshopper.” Eugene mumbled to you as you went out back, causing you to smack him across the chest with the back of your arm. “I know, I know, I’m older, but for once I feel like the younger one with how wobbly you are. Oof-” You smacked him again as he helped you onto the bench on the back deck. 

Once settled, you closed your eyes and took a breath in to try to keep on top of the pain coursing through you. You heard the clink of metal and glass and looked over to see Eugene packing a bowl next to you. 

“Still don’t look like you’re feeling great.” Eugene commented. “I was hoping you’d be in better shape after you rested, but no offense, you look worse now.”

You scoffed in reply, focusing your eyes to the backyard. Playfully, you signed ‘same’ back at him. 

“Touché.” Eugene said, holding up the now packed bowl to you. You took it and inhaled as he lit a match and lit the bowl for you. Taking a few deep inhales, you passed it back to him and, after a moment, exhaled. 

It was silent for a few minutes as you passed it back and forth. You were grateful at how content Eugene was in silence, despite his talkative nature. He never made you feel pressured to communicate, but he had also tried harder than anyone else to learn as many signs as possible. Because of this, he knew more about you personally than you had communicated with any other person since you stopped talking, though he only shared it with your permission. He had built it naturally, asking how to do basic signs that would be helpful on patrol and around town before moving to more personal signs about family and locations. At this point, he could hold conversations with you, but he never pressured you to hold up your end. He seemed to understand that communication in general was vulnerable, even though it was helpful. 

“They might pair me with Joel while you heal. Won’t be the same on patrol.” Eugene noted. “I’ll have to see how easily he can be persuaded to stop by my garden on the way so I can check up on my babies. Otherwise, we might find ourselves in a situation with this” Eugene indicated the weed that he was grinding for a second bowl. “Maybe if I mention that it would be helpful to you he would give in easier” Eugene said, wiggling his eyebrows.

You were puzzled by his meaning and tapped him, asking ‘what?’. 

“Could be nothing. Never you mind” Eugene muttered, focused on his task. As he packed the second bowl, you leaned on his shoulder, needing support for a moment. Eugene was kind enough not to draw attention to it and simply kept going with his work. “I brought some brownies too so you can have them when I’m not here. They taste like shit but they’ll do the job.”

You were both startled by the creaking of a door behind you and whipped your heads around, with some pain on your part, to see a surly-looking Joel step outside. 

After glancing between the two of you for a moment, he asked “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.” Eugene expressed at the same time as you signed ‘of course.’

Joel pulled up a deck chair a little closer to where the two of you were huddled.

”We were just talking about you actually. But now that you are joining, I feel more confident that you’ll let me take care of my flowers out on patrol while Charlie heals.” Eugene said.

Joel glanced your way before he said “As long as it don’t take too long. I don’t like being late back since I’ve got Ellie.”

”I wouldn’t dream of putting you behind schedule,” Eugene said, winking and lighting the bowl and inhaling before passing it to Joel.

Joel was silent as he smoked before meeting your eyes purposefully and handing you the bowl. You nodded in thanks and savored the burn on your inhale.You continued passing it around in relative silence. 

“How’s the headache?” Joel asked.

You signed ‘a little better now’ and pointed to the weed. Eugene interpreted what you had said to Joel.

“How did you learn that?” Joel inquired a few moments later.

“They were close with their cousin growing up, who was Deaf.” Eugene replied for you, having learned a while ago.

Joel nodded in acknowledgment and turned to Eugene. “How’d you learn?”

“Patience, time, and lots of questions.” Eugene replied. 

You let out an involuntary giggle, thinking about how awkward it had been at first at times. Both men turned their eyes to you.

“Looks like the meds may be working, Doctor.” Joel drawled, causing both you and Eugene to start laughing. 

Eugene stared at Joel for a moment after everyone got themselves under control.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker.” Eugene said.

“You don’t know me very well.” A more relaxed Joel replied. 

“Guess that’s true.”

“So, can you teach me some basics?” Joel asked.

You nodded your head a little more enthusiastically than you had intended and ended up clutching your head in regret.

“Easy, tiger!” Eugene exclaimed as you waved him off. “Why don’t we start with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to prevent further injury?”

You turned to Joel slowly and demonstrated ‘yes’ and ‘no’ a few times, urging him to mimic you as he said the words aloud. You realized that you were a little higher than you would have liked for this endeavor when Eugene asked “What next?” and you signed ‘weed’ in reply, making even Joel chuckle, the meaning being obvious. 

You spent the next 15 minutes laughing as you tried to think of more useful signs to teach Joel, with Eugene chiming in with a few phrases and words he felt were important, notably ‘bar’ ‘beer’ and ‘whiskey’. Joel couldn’t quite get ‘whiskey’ as you generally finger spelled it and it was clear the alphabet would take him a while. 

The fall chill had started to set in and when a few drops started to fall from the sky, you all moved inside, Eugene grabbing your arm and moving you inside to the couch, where you continued to try to teach the alphabet to Joel despite how high you were. Joel sat on the chair to your left and Eugene sat on the couch facing yours. Forgetting your normal boundaries when it came to touch, you reached out and grabbed Joel’s hand, helping him form ‘g’ and then ‘h’. Realizing what you had done, you glanced up and met Joel’s eyes, scared that you had overstepped. He looked surprised, but not angry or annoyed. You slowly smiled at him while retracting your hands, glancing at Eugene for support, who looked like he was holding back a laugh. 

You drew your brows together in question, but before Eugene could reply or Joel could turn to see what you were looking at, the sound of the front door opening drew all of your attention. You turned to see a slightly soggy Ellie slamming the door shut, at which Joel exclaimed “Hey! Don’t slam the door. The baby could have been sleeping!”

Ellie paused for dramatic affect and looked around before replying “Doesn’t sound like I woke him up. Also, why are you here?”

Eugene chuckled and patted Joel’s back. “Hand’s full with that one, huh?”

Joel grunted his assent as Ellie plopped down beside you and then sniffed you.

“You smell weird.” She said, wrinkling her nose. 

Joel coughed. “Ellie, it ain’t kind to comment on how people smell.”

Ellie raised her eyebrows and all three adults in the room tried in vain to hold back smiles. Ellie looked confused and said “Adults are so weird.”

Joel went back to staring at his hands, trying to go through signs he remembered.

“Hey! Did you get to start learning without me? No fair!” Ellie exclaimed once she noticed Joel’s movements.

Eugene chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll teach you both. They usually start with a spiel about how they don’t know everything and their grammar isn’t perfect, but I’ll save you guys the time and tell you now.” Eugene then turned to you. “How’d I do?”

You playfully glared at him before signing ‘fine’ with a smile.

Joel and Eugene went through some of the basics with Ellie that they had been over already, skipping over ‘bar’ and ‘weed’ for now, before turning to you for the alphabet.

You were starting to get tired again by the time everyone was getting to the letter ‘f’. 

‘I’m tired, I’m sorry’ you signed and Eugene interpreted. You noticed both Joel and Ellie slowly copying those signs as well.

“Of course. We’ll get out of your hair.” Joel replied, standing up.

“Wait!” Ellie said “Do you have pictures anywhere? I don’t know how I’m going to remember all of these without you.”

‘I have a book.’ You signed ‘Only 1.’

Once Eugene had loosely translated what you had signed, Ellie perked up.

“I like drawing.” She said timidly. “Maybe you could help me and I could draw some from the book too? I could make some extra copies in case anyone else wants to learn.”

Ellie’s words touched you deeply and you felt your eyes well up. You took a moment to breathe to stop yourself from openly crying, especially since Ellie seemed to be turning red already in embarrassment.

‘Yes’ you signed. ‘I’d like that.’

Next Chapter

Taglist:

@powellssaturn

@silas-aeiou

[themimicwecallmeg]

💫🌊~Coming from the shoreline~🌊💫 SirenHunter!TFP!KnockOut x Femme!Merformer!Reader

‼️Part 2‼️

———

☆: After a pretty long day of traveling on the sea, hidden in Knock Out’s cabin, the sounds of the shoreline woke you up slowly. The moon was already starting to peak between the sun’s orange-ish beams. The door of the cabin opened, waking you up completely as you looked at Knock Out, entering with the same prideful smile that he had when he captured decided to take you under his care.

——

☆: Wakey wakey siren… we have to bring you to my manor… you’ll have a much better place to rest… his voice seemed… almost concerned, though his almost smug tone made your hopes stay the same; slightly down.

——

☆: With the help of three of his men, Knock Out put your tank onto a wooden transport trolley. When the other men got out of the cabin, preparing everything to be ready for the disembarkation of the ship, Knock Out now had a tarp on his arm and shoulder.

——

☆: If you don’t mind my dear, I assume that you wouldn’t like to be stared at while I… bring you to my home… He paused, it was almost like he waited for an answer, though you didn’t say anything, you let him speak in his now soft but naturally cocky tone. I will put this onto your tank, he said vaguely gesturing the tarp, after all I wouldn’t want any bot to get ideas about you…

——

☆: You couldn’t help but give him a thankful glance, which made his smirk grow wider. He put the big piece of cloth above your tank like he said he would. There were some little holes purposefully made into the tarp, maybe to make sure you wouldn’t be in darkness while he was transporting you.

——

☆: At this point the sound of the docks were almost getting noisy, bots shouting around, clanging or bumping from fishing equipment, you were lucky the tarp also muffled most of this chaos. The trolley you were on started moving, the door of the cabin opened and you were now on your way to the docks…

——

☆: There was a lot going on in your processor; What did this siren hunter truly want from you? What was different about you that made him treat you like a living being and not a simple possession? Was he going to sell you like you knew he did with others of your kind..? Or was he going to keep you as his own… Hidden from any curious optics of normal and unworthy citizens?

——

In any case…

The only thing that's certain is that… for now…

He has complete control over you…

Whether you like it or not…

He doesn’t seem to care…

———

🌊🌊🌊🌊~~~

GUYS… I never genuinely thought that you guys would want a continuity of this… I thought I was a bad writer… but it looks like the very few of you that are here like this… so I will probably make a part 3 in the future…

Though since I have school… I kinda struggle to keep the schedule… I knew I’d take this risk when I started to write on Tumblr… don’t feel bad for me… I just needed to say it… I’m sure you guys understand :3

Anyway… I’m GOING to make part 3… but I don’t have any ideas for something else other than the lore post of my newly made AU, which seems to be happily suggested in its poll…

I’ll try my best to make you guys happy ^v^ see you on Wednesday!!

— Meg >:3

[scuffedclang]

GW2 ROLEPLAYERS

So. I've had this idea reserved for some time, now I finally have the drive and time to pull it off.

Y'know how the GW2 world/public RP scene is kinda well, barely existent? I have an idea that may resurrect it in some way.

This will be for US servers!

HERE WE ARE! This is my WORLD RP RESURRECTION PROJECT!

The idea is to basically make whole cities or areas the " RP event" for quite a few hours, so it's a faux event with no set premise and is only really there to drag people to the area.

World sharding kinda broke random walk up RP for the most part, buuut what if there was some type of anchor point for a single shard?

I plan on being that anchor point, I'm going to select two days of the week and for about 5 hours a night/afternoon set up a squad for people to jump in and jump out of if they want, but at least everyone will be in the same shard. I will probably rotate through cities, meaning a different one each day, people can set up their own events or businesses for these days to make these places feel a lot more lived in, I would appreciate anyone reaching out to me if they are interested in doing such, a lot of coordination is going to help this kind of project in the long run. This will of course be headed by the efforts of a fairly small guild, any help will be extremely appreciated. We are currently deciding on what days this whole thing will be, might make a poll for it if people like this idea enough. My contact information on discord is: clang Or if you want to find me on GW2 it's: CLANG.2715 Likewise with the poll, I might post a more detailed plan of everything soon.

[null-entity]

Clang.. Clang

Model: Me.

Photographer: The Remote Camera Trigger.

If you want to help support me and get awesome stuff like early access/polls & pose requests Become A Patron or you can check out my Ko-Fi store for exclusive stock!

Read My Rules Before You Use My Stock.

[wolfylady]

Salvation 4

Summary: It started with a look and then a smile. She was just another name on a continuous list of rotating faces. But then she smiled, and it wrecked his world. He would lie, cheat, and kill, just to keep her in his orbit.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Obsession and Manipulation and Stalker Behavior

Word Count: 442

Chapter 4: Three Months In

Enjoy!

Story Poll!

Series Poll!

It happened in the motor pool.

The air was thick with grease and heat—metal groaning under repair, voices bouncing off concrete and steel. Tools clanged. Engines idled. Oil stained the floor like old blood.

Crow was crouched beside a half-disassembled UTV at the far end of the bay, a clipboard balanced on her knee, sleeves pushed up. Her focus was sharp, surgical. The edge of her jaw flexed when she was concentrating, a tick Price had learned without meaning to.

She didn’t know he was watching.

But he was.

Not for the first time. Not for the last.

The tech leaned in.

New kid. Intel side. Grinning like he didn’t know better. Elbows too casual on the side rail. Fingers brushing hers under the excuse of handing off a wrench. Laughing at something she said—something she probably didn’t mean to be funny.

Crow laughed too.

But Price knew her laugh now.

He’d catalogued it.

The soft one she gave Soap when he teased her. The sharp one she gave Gaz when he earned it. The rare, real one when something actually reached her.

This one?

It was wrong.

Off-key. Tight at the edges. Performed.

His pulse kicked. Sharp. Quick.

Something coiled behind his ribs like a wire pulled too taut.

He told himself to walk past.

He had no reason to interfere. No right.

She was laughing. She wasn’t in danger. This wasn’t war.

But his feet didn’t listen.

He crossed the bay in silence.

Heavy boots. Measured steps. No sound but the scrape of rubber on concrete and the dull hum of tools in the distance.

He didn’t speak.

Just stopped behind the kid—close enough for shadow, for weight.

He didn’t need to say anything.

The tech turned.

And froze.

It took half a second for the color to drain from his face. Another for the apology to stammer out. Clumsy. Forced. Fearful.

By the tenth second, he was gone.

Crow looked up from where she was crouched. One brow arched. A little amused. A little curious.

But Price didn’t meet her eyes.

He couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure what she’d see in his face if he did.

Instead, he turned without a word. Walked away with his hands balled into fists at his sides—nails digging into his palms, breath sharp in his throat.

He told himself it was nothing. That he would’ve done the same for any member of his team.

But that was a lie.

And he knew it.

Because even after the silence swallowed his footsteps, he could still feel the heat of her behind him.

And he hated how much he needed it.

wolfYLady: Thanks for reading and for the support! Let me know what you think in the comments. Is he dark enough, or do I go darker? 🤔

🔙Chapter 3 •●• Chapter 5🔜

Read on Ao3

Master List of Twisted Sin Series🔜