#hacker answers

[askthehacker]

You catch the faint crackle of static from a nearby radio, just barely making what sounds like someone's voice.

H̵̪̹͖̆̍̀̂̏̇́͆̕͠ē̶̡̡̛̺̼̣͉͖͖̙̜̄͗̒̽̃̈̎̚̕͘͝͠l̶͎̹͔̽̃̾̐̑l̸̨̹͈̘̜̖͙̮̗͇͇̒̀̓̈̐͜o̴̢̯̟͎̙̺̫͚̙̥̜̬̬͌̊̏͑̚̚?̸̡̡̪̥̥̱̥̯̦̫̹͂̏̅͘ ̴̢̧̖̩͚̐̏͋͜H̶̡̨̤̰̖̘̦̺͇̦͋̈́͊̐͊͛̅̔̓͛̑͋̚̕ͅe̶̹̮̪̟̪̘̔̒͑̓l̶̥̈́̆̇̉̓́͗͛̾̍̑̃͝l̵̛̹̺̹̝̲̇̂͌̄̓́͑̏͘͜͝ǫ̶̡̱͖̖̗̻̘̘͕͑̅͠ͅͅ?̵̛̺̣͜?̴̭͙̮̝͚͚̔͝

̴̮̰͌̓̄h̵̹̃e̵̖͠y̸̫̿ ̷͔̊c̸͚͊ä̴̗́n̷͓̈́ ̵̦̀ỹ̷̢o̷͔͌u̵̪͌ ̵͍̎h̵̼́e̵̔͜ǎ̷͚ȑ̶̳ ̵̬̀m̷͍̊e̴̱̊?̴͉̈́

C̴͇̕o̵̞͐m̷̝̒ȅ̵̖ ̴̻̔ơ̶̜n̸̲͊ ̶͉̂I̸̺̊ ̴̤̐w̷͖̓a̴̺̐ṉ̶̀n̵̡͝ä̷͔́ ̴̙̿s̷̰̎ḙ̷̋e̶̩͐ ̸͔̒i̶̙͊f̴͚͘ ̸̰̐t̸͎̒h̸̦͛i̷̘̿s̸̜̅ ̸̡̇s̴̯̔h̸̥͂ĩ̷̙t̵̹͑ ̵̭̃w̷͙͠o̶̻̕r̵͕̔k̶͎̋s̷̹͑-̶͔̽

@just-another-programmer

....¿qué demonios?

Who is there!?

[prettygirl-gabi]

Chocolate-Covered Strawberries

Rating: Mature

Warning: Vinnie being a munch..oral (fem receiving), reader has some thicc thighs MDNI!!

I repeat MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!!!

Category: F/M

Fandom: Vinnie hacker...

Relationships: Vinnie Hacker x black f reader

Summary: Vinnie being a munch before his stream...

---

---

Vinnie’s POV

It’s not often I get the luxury of waking up before her, but when I do, I make the most of it. The early morning light spills through the blinds, casting a soft glow on her smooth brown skin. She’s curled up on her side, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her hair is freshly done—a crown of thick, shiny braids that she got done yesterday. She looks like a goddess.

But that’s not why I’m awake. No, I’ve been staring at her thick thighs peeking out from under the covers for the past five minutes. Those thighs that drive me insane every single time. I swallow hard, knowing I have a full day ahead of me—a 24-hour stream I promised my fans—but before I let the day steal me away from her, I have to make this moment ours.

I shift carefully, peeling the blankets off her without waking her. She stirs, mumbling something incoherent, and I freeze. Once I’m sure she’s still asleep, I get to work, kissing the inside of her thighs and trailing upward.

“Mmm... Vinnie?” Her voice is groggy, but there’s a hint of amusement laced in her tone.

“Morning, baby,” I mumble against her skin.

“Vinnie, what are you—” Her words cut off into a soft gasp as I slide her legs apart gently.

“Just let me take care of you,” I whisper, already lost in her scent, her warmth.

She moans softly, and I swear, it’s the best sound in the world. I take my time, savoring every second, every taste, every reaction. She tries to push my head away at one point, half-heartedly, but I grip her thighs firmly, holding her in place.

“Vinnie, you’re such a—”

“A munch?” I finish for her, grinning against her.

Her laughter is breathy and light. “Yes. A damn munch.”

I don’t argue. She’s not wrong. I keep going until she’s trembling beneath me, her hands clawing at my shoulders and back. She leaves marks—I know she does—but I can’t bring myself to care. She tastes like chocolate-covered strawberries, and I tell her as much when she finally catches her breath.

“You’re insane,” she says, panting as she pulls the covers back over her.

“Insanely in love with you,” I counter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her braids smell like coconut oil and heaven.

“You’re lucky I love you too,” she mutters, but I catch the small smile tugging at her lips.

Fast forward two hours later, and I’m sitting in front of my PC, logging into my stream. I decided to stream shirtless today—partly because it’s comfortable, but mostly because she stole my shirt after I showered. Seeing her tiny frame swallowed up in my oversized shirt did things to me, but I had a schedule to keep.

“Yo, what’s up, chat?” I greet my viewers, running a hand through my hair. Comments flood in immediately, the chat scrolling so fast I can barely keep up.

“Bro, why are you shirtless?”

“Vinnie, what happened to your back??”

“Why are your lips so swollen???”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Man, y’all are nosy today.”

The questions keep coming, though.

“Did you get in a fight?”

“Did you fall or something?”

I glance over at her sitting on the couch behind me, still wearing my shirt, her thick thighs on full display. She’s scrolling through her phone, pretending not to notice me staring.

“Nah,” I say, smirking. “No fight. No fall. Just... let’s call it ‘relationship perks.’”

Chat explodes.

“WHAT???”

“VINNIE EXPLAIN.”

“PERKS???”

She looks up from her phone and arches an eyebrow at me. “Relationship perks, huh?”

“What?” I shoot back, grinning. “It’s true.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, and that only makes me laugh harder.

About halfway through the stream, I’m taking a break to grab water when she wanders into the kitchen. She’s still wearing my shirt, and it’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing her soft, brown skin. She’s so tiny—barely reaching my chest, but she packs enough attitude for someone twice her size.

“Hey,” I call out, pulling her into my arms before she can escape.

“Vinnie, you’re live,” she says, swatting at my hands, though she doesn’t pull away.

“They can wait,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “God, your thighs drive me insane, you know that?”

Her cheeks flush, and she smacks my chest lightly. “Shut up!”

“What?” I tease, spinning her around and planting her on the counter. “It’s true. You’re so beautiful, baby. I can’t get enough of you.”

She bites her lip, trying to hide her smile, but I catch it anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And you’re lucky I love you,” I shoot back, leaning in to kiss her again.

By the end of the stream, the chat is still buzzing with questions about my lips, my back, and my overall mood. I ignore most of them, but when someone asks why I’m grinning so much, I can’t help but answer.

“Because life’s good,” I say simply. “And my girl’s even better.”

She throws a pillow at me from across the room, and I laugh so hard I almost fall out of my chair.

Life really is good.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[possumcollege]

Cereal Killer's outfit from Hackers 8)

Thanks for this suggestion from a movie that probably awakened a generation of queer nerds, a movie whose release likely coincides with a noticeable spike in rollerblade injuries, a movie that simultaneously makes computer hacking look cooler AND dumber than it really is, 1995's Hackers.

[snow-au-love]

Hello Snow!! I received my order package and i'm very happy ^^ Thank you so much for the manga, i'll be taking my time to translate and read all of it...

Love, Lizzy ♡.

Sorry for the late reply! Thank you so much for buying my comic😭I know the translation process is very hard, but I hope you enjoy it..! I'd love it if you could tell me your favorite scene or something😌💕💕💕

Do you like Acrossnighterrors? I know it's not the best picture to give back, but I hope you like it😘

[teecupangel]

You know I always thought the watch dogs would be a perfect setting for Desmond to take a step back from a assassin and just go around helping people, like Aiden with his vengeance for Lena, or/and causing chaos with dedsec in San Francisco

Since we already have an Aiden x Desmond idea where it looks like it’s shaping up to Aiden fucking Abstergo (and maybe even the Assassins) up for kidnapping Desmond, let’s make this one more on the side of Desmond trying his best not to be part of whatever mess DedSec is brewing in San Francisco and failing XD

It was meant to be a vacation of some sort.

The Brotherhood’s little ‘sorry we got you killed to save the world but, hey, at least you lived! Here! Have a little vacay while we try and find your team who went underground after they thought you died’ apology ‘gift’.

Why San Francisco?

Because apparently Abstergo hasn’t gotten their little grubby hands in it that much so Desmond would have a semi-normal life.

Free boarding. Enough weekly allowance to get by and even splurge on food once a week…

It was…

Okay.

But it can get a bit monotonous so he would sometimes take a walk, look around.

Maybe climb the tallest building and use his Eagle Vision to make sure there’s no reds nearby.

There were a lot of gangs around these parts apparently but they seemed… uninterested in Desmond so they didn’t ping as red.

Desmond supposed he could do San Francisco a solid and take care of these gangs but he was on vacation.

He was sure he was going to be roped into the latest POE-related bullshit after this so he’d rather be lazy for once.

He deserved it.

He fucking died.

But, of course, since his name was Desmond Miles and his main profession was ‘fate’s favorite chew toy’…

One sunny day while he was just ordering food from a foodtruck that makes really delicious chilis that made his stomach curse him hours later (worth it though), his phone vibrated.

His phone never gave any notification.

He wanted to groan.

It seemed it was time for his vacation to be over.

Only to blink when he took out his phone and saw that it wasn’t a message or email from the Assassin only called Bishop.

It was from an app that Erudito apparently added to the phone.

… alerting him that someone tried to hack his phone.

He looked around with his Eagle Vision.

… and saw a red phone.

He blinked once more and saw that the man holding the red phone was wearing a blue baseball cap and had glasses.

And he was staring straight back at Desmond.

He mouthed the words ‘Erudito?’ to Desmond and Desmond grimaced.

Great.

Some hacker now saw his face and thought he was part of Erudito.

He has no idea how to fucking hack.

So Desmond did the best thing he could do considering the circumstances.

He ran away.

And the damn hacker ran after him.

[alienkitty259]

More is coming soon

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Bonus Chapter Part 1

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

Enough people asked for an epilogue that I decided to come back for one more chapter. I have two more scenes after this, but I didn't want this post to be 7,000 words long, so I broke it into 2 parts. I hope you like it!

“For the last time, Parker,” Eliot said through gritted teeth. “I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“J.B. said I shouldn’t let you walk without your crutch,” Parker said.

Eliot threw a hand toward the door. “I’m going twelve feet. I don’t need a crutch.”

“J.B. says you do.”

“J.B.’s a medic. He has to say that. But I’ve done a lot worse on a damaged leg than walk across a hall, all right? I’ll be fine.”

Parker’s eyes widened. “Did you remember something?”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to bring that up, but it was too late to take it back, and he couldn’t lie to her. The truth was bad, but somehow, to her, a lie would be worse.

Time to change the subject.

“Give me that,” he grumbled, gently jerking the crutch out of her extended hand. He limped to the bathroom, barely resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. It had been three days since the explosion—the latest explosion, anyway—and his patience decreased with every passing hour. Rest, they kept telling him, and he was trying, but he couldn’t just lie in bed all day until J.B. decided he was well enough to be a person again.

He set his hands on the bathroom counter, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. No, that wasn’t the problem—not the whole problem, anyway. If he was going to get through this, he had to be honest with himself. Recovery was irritating, but he’d been through worse, and he did enjoy the quiet moments when Sophie came to sit with him, or when Nate gave him summaries of their previous jobs, or when Hardison worked silently at the desk in his room while he dozed, or when Parker napped curled up at the foot of his bed like a cat.

The problem was the memories.

Most of them came to him in his dreams: fragments of images stitched together with bursts of fear, of anger, of pain. He woke in a panic most nights, hour after hour, not sure if he was in an interrogation cell or a South American jungle or a frozen, lonely cave. 

If the blood he imagined on his hands was his own, or someone else’s.

Hardison and Parker had taken to sleeping on an air mattress beside his bed, and he tried his best not to wake them, but the night before he’d jolted awake in the early hours of the morning to find Hardison tapping on his computer with his back against the bed. He didn’t say anything—didn’t even look Eliot’s way—but he was sure Hardison had heard him.

He’d already put them through so much. He didn’t want to add this burden as well.

Sighing, he turned on the faucet and washed his face in cold water, savoring the sharper sensation against the warmth and comfort he’d been wallowing in. A deep-rooted, unconscious instinct warned him that he couldn’t afford to get soft, that it was dangerous to get complacent, and it chafed at him every time someone told him he should be relaxing. He wanted to—wanted to ease their worries and prove that he was getting better, that he could pull his own weight—but each new memory made him withdraw further into himself, afraid to show his vulnerability.

Eliot ran his left hand through his hair, being careful to avoid the still-healing cut in his scalp. This couldn’t continue. He needed to get a hold of himself, figure out how to process his issues, and move on. He needed to be useful again.

First: a good night’s sleep. He’d tried to be on his feet as much as possible today, hoping to wear himself out before bed, and he was feeling the strain in his muscles. He finished washing up and changed into a new pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt—Hardison had gone to buy him extra clothes, and to replace the ones he’d ruined of Sunny’s—and stumped back to his room.

Parker was already tucked into the space between the air mattress and the bed, submerged beneath a pile of blankets Sunny had crocheted the winter she’d slipped on the ice and broken her foot. “Took up every new hobby I could find to keep myself from goin’ stir crazy,” she’d told Eliot the day before. “I still have my hooks and yarn in the basement if you want to give it a try.”

He wasn’t quite that desperate, but it was getting close.

Carefully, he turned off the light and leaned his crutch against the end of the bed. Maneuvering into it without stepping on Parker was a little tricky, but he managed, letting out a little sigh as his sore muscles relaxed against the mattress.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Parker said, her voice muffled beneath the blankets. “Was it?”

“Why sleep on the floor when you’ve got an air mattress right there?” Eliot countered.

“I don’t like how it dips when Hardison isn’t there.”

Hardison was still downstairs, but he’d be up in a few hours, if the last few nights were any pattern. Whether or not he slept on the air mattress was another matter. He had the first night, but the second, he’d spent as much time at the desk as the mattress. The night before, Eliot wasn’t sure he’d slept at all.

“You sure you’re comfortable?” Eliot asked, peering doubtfully over the side of the bed.

Parker poked her face out of the covers. “Yep. It’s cozy.”

Eliot laid back, closing his eyes against the light from the open door. “You don’t have to go to bed now,” he said. “Everyone else is still awake downstairs. I can handle a few hours on my own.”

“I’m tired,” Parker said.

He considered that. She’d been sleeping almost as much as he had over the last few days, and he had no idea whether that was normal for her. Her voice had been cheerful enough, and there was nothing to make him think she was lying—but he did, suddenly, inexplicably. Or maybe not lying, but... withholding.

Like he was.

“Parker?” he said, quietly, and was rewarded by the sound of her shuffling the blankets again.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

She hesitated just a second too long. “Yeah.”

“Because if you’re not...”

“I am,” she said. “Are you?”

“...Yeah.”

“There you go, then.” She settled back into her burrow of yarn, and he let her. He had no right to force her to talk, and he preferred to leave the offer open rather than keep digging on his own. He wanted to think she’d come to him eventually, if something was bothering her. 

He laid back, resting his right hand on his stomach and folding the other behind his head. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

The hours passed in stretches of restless dozing, punctuated by bursts of wakefulness when the dreams started. They weren’t as disturbing tonight—no faces in his crosshairs, no bones breaking under his hands—but several times he woke and had to check to make see which injuries he still had and which had healed long ago. Hardison came in sometime after the fourth nightmare, and he sat with his back to the desk and the glow of his laptop lighting his face as he worked on who knew what. Eliot rolled to his side, then his stomach, then his back again, finding he slept better when the faint computer light touched his eyelids. Hardison hummed a few times, the melody low and soothing, and Eliot found himself listening for it each time he woke. 

He’d just faded off to a wordless rendition of “Imagine” when a sharp cry ripped him awake. He shot upright, swinging his legs for the side of the bed before he remembered his healing gunshot wound, and pain knifed up his thigh and down to his foot. He froze on the edge of the mattress, hissing in a breath through his teeth, listening.

“Parker,” Hardison said softly. “Parker, look at me.”

Eliot blinked in the laptop light until he could make out the shape of Hardison kneeling on the air mattress. Parker was still bundled under her blankets, and the whole pile trembled as she shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathless. “I’m sorry, Eliot. Go back to sleep.”

Eliot relaxed his grip on the bed, breathing out through his nose to soothe the pain still pinching his leg. “What happened?”

“Nothing—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

A frown pulled at his eyebrows. Already regretting the movement, he slid to the end of the bed and eased over the side, settling onto the air mattress as carefully as he could without showing how much he hurt. Parker was still buried in her blankets between the air mattress and the bed, but she lifted her head when Eliot sat beside her.

“Move,” he said, pushing her gently with one hand.

She did, shuffling her entire crocheted mountain out of the way so Eliot could push the mattress against the bed. Then he sat, clenching his teeth together to hold in his pain as he bent his right leg, and patted the space beside him.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” he said, without preamble, without emotion. “Memories. Some of them are—a lot. It’s all a lot. I wake up sometimes and don’t know where I am.”

Somewhere under the blankets, Parker sat in the space he’d indicated and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. Hardison, still crouched on the ground beside her, settled on her other side. “I’ve been afraid to sleep,” he admitted softly. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up back at the hotel, after we talked to the medical examiner. If I wake up and you’re not there...” He cleared his throat and tipped his head back against the bed. “So I’ve been coming in here and working on stuff, just... keeping an eye on you. Making sure you’re still here.” He tilted his head to look at Eliot and flashed a wan smile. “Is that creepy?”

“Yes,” Eliot deadpanned, and Hardison’s smile got wider.

Parker leaned forward to put her chin on her arms. “I know they’re just dreams. I don’t need you to tell me it’s not real.”

“It is real,” Eliot said, his voice low. He didn’t look at her, but when he saw her turning toward him in his peripherals, he leaned his shoulder against hers. “Whatever you dreamed about might not be real, but the feelings are. You still have to deal with them.”

She pulled a blanket tighter around her back. “How?”

He shrugged, his shoulder lifting hers. “Dunno. ‘M still working on it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hardison asked.

Eliot turned, not sure if the offer was for him or Parker. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to open up the wounds he was still trying to understand himself, but he could hardly encourage Parker to share her problems if he wasn’t willing to do the same. All he had to bargain with was himself, but if the last few days were any indication… that was all she wanted.

He opened his mouth, but Parker shifted against his arm and let out a long, loud sigh. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” she said. “I want to go back to just feeling happy when I’m with you, instead of being afraid something will take you away. Is that... will that ever go away?”

He looked over her head at Hardison, who reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “Come here, girl,” he said, but pressed himself closer instead of pulling her toward him. “This all... this is a wound. Fresh. Bleeding, still.” His eyes were on Eliot, and he lifted the hand on Parker’s shoulder to touch Eliot’s as he went on. “It’s gonna hurt for a while. All we can do is keep it covered while it heals.”

“Covered with what?” Parker asked.

“New memories,” Hardison said. “Good ones. Ones to go over the hurt, until it doesn’t hurt so much.”

Eliot closed his eyes. Most of his memories were new, right now, so he had the benefit of extra perspective. And as much as he appreciated—and agreed with—Hardison’s suggestion, he wondered if maybe something familiar might work just as well.

“I remember meeting you,” Eliot said. He kept his eyes closed, but he could feel their gazes on his face. “That first job we all did. I remember... Nate set up the meeting, and I thought... I was... curious. I wanted to know what you two could offer that I couldn’t do on my own.”

“You mean besides your nonexistent computer skills?” Hardison asked.

Eliot let out a huff of laughter. “The geek stuff, yeah. The thieving. But Nate was right, about us being able to do more together. About being better together.” He tilted his head and opened his eyes. “It isn’t just during jobs.”

Parker bumped her arm against his. She didn’t say anything, but he could hear her meaning as clearly as if she’d spoken out loud, as clearly as he’d heard her when he’d thought she was gone.

He pressed against her, passing the message back and knowing she’d understand just as easily.

He woke an hour later, still sitting on the air mattress, with Parker’s head on his shoulder and Hardison lying across their feet. His back ached from the awkward position, but Parker and Hardison were breathing softly, and he wasn’t about to risk waking them just to get more comfortable. With a sigh, he stretched out his neck, settled his cheek against Parker’s hair, and went back to sleep.

***

It was pain that pulled him out of sleep this time; he’d slept almost dreamlessly for the first time in a week, and he felt rested even as he registered how early it must be. The sky outside his window was dark, and Hardison was still snoring on the air mattress. Parker was curled around his head, her face relaxed in sleep, and something warm and fond worked its way through Eliot’s chest. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t had any nightmares either.

It seemed they were all healing.

Eliot rolled to the edge of the bed, careful not to step on the air mattress as he stood and crept from the room. His crutch leaned against the wall beside the door, and he was sore enough to use it as he made his way into the hall. The house was quiet, but he didn’t want to lie in bed any longer. His hands itched to do something productive, something other than resting and recovering and talking about his feelings.

Slowly, keeping near the wall and avoiding the squeaky spots he’d learned over the last week, Eliot eased down the stairs and limped into the kitchen. Sunny had left the light over the sink on, and it was plenty bright enough to find a wash cloth and soap. He started with the obvious surfaces—the table, counters, stove—but Sunny kept a clean kitchen, and only ten minutes had passed by the time he finished. A tougher job, then. He moved on to the oven, pulling out the racks, scrubbing off the baked-on messes, the grease stains, the spills. That took a while longer, and by the time he finished, it was after 6.

Eliot brushed his hair out of his face and surveyed the kitchen. Cleaning was numbing, methodical, almost compulsory—but it wasn’t enough. He needed to fix something, build something... create something.

He looked down at his unbandaged hand. Old scars covered the knuckles, and he could see the evidence of poorly healed breaks in some of the fingers. They were tools of violence. What could he make with such hands?

Teach me to like stuff.

Eliot’s fingers twitched. Parker’s voice preceded the full memory, echoing in his head the way he’d come to hope for, to rely on, and he let it play through his mind as he stared at the scars on his hand.

He pushed a plate toward her, but she looked up at him and shook her head. “It’s just food.”

“It’s not just food, all right? Some people could look at it and see just food, but not me. I see art. When I’m in the kitchen, I’m—I’m creating something out of nothing.”

He opened his eyes. There was no recipe, but he’d done this before, hadn’t he? Hardison had said he could cook. If his body could remember how to destroy, couldn’t it remember how to make?

A quick search of the kitchen yielded a few promising results—flour, sugar, eggs—and he found a mixing bowl and spoon in the cupboards and drawers. The measurements came to him as he worked: 2 cups of flour, 1/2 cup of sugar, 2 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp salt. He mixed them with eggs and butter and vanilla extract, and then, when he couldn’t find any heavy cream in the refrigerator, made a buttermilk substitute from milk and vinegar. The steady motion of mixing felt familiar, even with his left hand, and he let himself fall into the rhythm as his mind drifted back through his newly recovered memories.

“What are you doing?”

Eliot flinched. He registered the voice as Miguel’s half a second after he reacted, which was half a second too late. He took a moment to compose his expression before he turned, hoping his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Cooking.”

Miguel stood in the doorway, and the quirk of his lips said he’d noticed Eliot’s response. “Why?”

“You don’t eat?” Eliot said, making a vague gesture with his spoon.

Miguel’s face twitched, and Eliot got the impression he was repressing a smile. “Why are you cooking so early?”

“I was up.”

Miguel moved to the counter beside him and took the empty pot from the coffee maker. “I guess that thing about 90 minutes was true, then. Hate to see what you could do when you’re fully rested.”

“Didn’t figure you’d want to see me at all after this,” Eliot said.

“Hmm.” Miguel glanced at the brace on his wrist and then back to the coffee pot. “I don’t. But I think maybe Sunny wouldn’t mind if you came to visit.”

“Not sure I’ll be going anywhere for a few days yet,” Eliot muttered. He spread some flour on a cutting board and pressed the dough over it, shaping it into a rough circle. Miguel watched him, filling the pot at the sink and scooping coffee grounds into the filter. When the coffee maker started bubbling, he leaned his back against the counter and nodded at the mixing bowl.

“What are you making?”

Eliot made a cut through the middle of his dough and answered without looking up. “Scones.”

“Where’d you learn to make those?”

The question was innocent, just casual conversation, and Eliot was relieved to feel nothing worse than impatience when he didn’t have an answer. He fell back on J.B.’s line: “Picked it up a ways back.”

Miguel snorted. “You two should put that on t-shirts.”

When the coffee was finished, Miguel poured two cups and set one on Eliot’s left side, then took a sugar bowl out of the cupboard and poured some milk into a creamer. “I have been here a while,” he said at last, dumping sugar into his mug without looking at Eliot. “The others come and go. Sunny helps the ones she can, the ones who can’t make it at the shelters. You notice patterns, after a while.”

Eliot set his scones on a baking sheet, listening with his eyes on his work.

“Some of them end up here when they’re between things,” Miguel went on. “Like J.B. He’ll move on once his job is done, and that will be that. And then others… some of them just make bad choices.”

“That you?” Eliot asked.

Miguel flashed him a grin. “I’ve been told I have trouble with authority. I don’t think that’s true. I have trouble with people who think they’re better than others. Sunny... she doesn’t think that way. She doesn’t care where you come from, what you did, long as you do what you can to help out.”

“You been with her long?”

Miguel took a drink, finally turning to look at Eliot while he spoke. “On and off since I was a kid. She never turned me away, no matter what I did. Always welcomed me back, put me to work fixing something—the railing, or the sink, or whatever. Sometimes I think she broke stuff just to give me something to fix. Something good to do, instead of whatever trouble I got myself into.” He shot a shrewd look at Eliot as he opened the oven door and slid the scones inside. “With that money your friends helped her find, she won’t have to worry about that no more. She’ll be able to help a lot of people.”

“And you?” Eliot asked, straightening carefully to keep his weight on his left leg.

Now that he’d unleashed it, Miguel’s smile was quick and genuine. “Who knows? I suppose I’ll keep busy.”

“Sunny will need some help herself,” Eliot said, keeping his voice casual. “A lot of people will want a piece of what she’s got now.”

“They’ll have to go through me.”

Eliot grinned and picked up the coffee Miguel had poured him. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

They were silent then, drinking their coffee and enjoying the smell of the baking scones. Eliot limped over to the little table after a while so he could sit, and Miguel waved him down when the timer went off and pulled the scones out of the oven himself. “Some of those people Sunny helps,” Miguel said, tossing the dish towel he’d used as an oven mitt onto the counter. “They come to her when they’re lost. Sunny has a way of orienting people, putting their problems in perspective.”

“She did for me,” Eliot said, meeting Miguel’s gaze across the table. “And I won’t forget it.”

Miguel picked a hot scone off the stove and blew on it. “You better not. She seems to like you, for some reason.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Eliot said.

Miguel grinned. “She likes me, too.”

“Like I said.”

With a short laugh, Miguel took another scone and sauntered out of the kitchen. “You better make more,” he said over his shoulder. “I like a big breakfast.”

Eliot drained his coffee, got up, and started another batch.

[you-know-me-right]

(From: @ask-the-dairy-dinos)

Choco has some chocolate to share :3

" ...how did you know i liked chocolate?- "

[sonicasura]

*Crash*

“Ooof!”

*Bang!*

“Wait, don’t!”

*Crunch*

“Scrap.” Bulkhead exvented, letting the Earth something fall out of his three digit servos. He was in an old scrap yard several sectors… er, blocks away from the base. Not completely sure why—his processor kept jumping to how the Dinobots wrecked things and got trapped. By not knowing when to stop attacking something. His memory core continued to bring up the memory. Even if the Dinobots were safe, Prowl’s comparing had been positive, but.

The certified space bridge technician just couldn’t get the similarities to him breaking stuff out of his processor. Cybertron was more durable than Earth yet he still ran into places where his frame’s bulk were unsuited to there.

Here?

He never went an mega-cycle (hour) without bumping into something which led to breaking said thing. Bulkhead couldn’t help looking at his servos sometimes, wondering why he hard such abnormal digits. Picking stuff up was a chore unless he was super super careful.

The technician/Autobot dragged the flat of his servo over his face and got back to practicing.

Pick up, move it, set it down,

Pick up, move, set it—

*Crunch.*

“Scrap it all to the AllSpark.”

.

.

.

“…H’lp…”

Bulkhead paused in his less than satisfactory practice thinking he heard something. He stayed incredibly still, not wanting to make any noise in case it was actually what he thought.

“Pl… elp…”

Oh, scrap.

“I’m here. Where are you???” The Autobot spoke aloud, then immediately shut his trap in order to listen.

“H’r. Ov.”

Bulkhead took a few steps in the direction ever mindful of where exactly he was stepping. A human was possibly trapped, he didn’t want to accidentally squish wherever they were!

“He… re…”

He heard them clearly this time and rushed over—only to find a giant (to a human) colored brick? It had a green eye on it which blinked.

“Please don’t destroy my eye.”

——————————————

It took hours to find all the little piece of little thing. Bulkhead had to dig through pile after pile as the block creature slowly built itself back together. Once he had his head, he could point the Autobot toward pieces more readily.

“What are you exactly?” Bulkhead couldn’t help asking, though he was preoccupied through another pile. “How’d you get scrambled apart?”

The being made of block bricks huffed a small laugh at the question. “I’m a toy, sorta. Normally, I rearrange myself to my core content depending on how I want to be that day.” His voice was young yet experienced sounding all things considered. “ToyAgumon at your service, but my friends call me Brick.” He grimaced a bit which looked odd as only a head. “I got. Spooked too much when an explosion sounded off over Detroit a few nights ago. Right apart.”

Bulkhead winced at this, recalling how a fuel canister had to be thrown out of the base after the assembly line went crazy. Whoops…

“Don’t worry, I’ll help put you back together.”

—

Yes. Brick’s Bulk’s partner digimon. Do these two realize right after the ToyAgumon is put back together? Nope. They go back home… only to realize there’s a tangible connection.

A ToyAgumon is a pretty interesting choice for Bulkhead. He's the artist amongst the iterations and ain't really about breaking stuff the most. Meanwhile Brick is the living equivalent of Legos. Can break apart and reshape themselves all they want.

[m155y-74]

So it's me again ✨️

Who are your favorite Matthew characters?

AHHHH SHIT IM SO SORRY I COMPLETELY MISSED THIS IT GOT LOST IN MY INBOX i love this question so much so strap in. i think my number one is stevo from slc punk, i love him so much, his hair is incredible and he’s also the most fleshed out character matt plays, i love his world view and he’s honestly just amazing and it’s one of my fav films so i think he might win. issue is tim laflour is my boyfriend and one true love and i actually love him too much so i can’t put him second. and then there’s stu macher the icon that he is who i also love so damn much cause he is a hilarious little chaos junkie and might be my spirit animal. so i guess those three are tied at the top with stevo just edging out in first. then next is cereal killer who i love with every fibre of my being and if we met in real life he would be my best friend and he would be at the top but he doesn’t get loads of air time in his film so like we know less about him which sucks. then it’s shaggy cause i love his goofy ass and the childhood nostalgia is strong with that one. then either doug van housen or tim from the curve they’re both mental but i love them anyway

i’m really sorry but those are the only ones i’ve watched fnaf and thirteen ghost are at the top of the watchlist tho dwdw. i’m also really sorry for the rant BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK I LOVE YOU

[askthehacker]

Are you calling Sniper a bastard??

Uh, yeah?

There are only three types of people in the world.

You are either a cabron, a gringo, or a puta.

Pick your poison, cabron.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Trying to write some sturniolo stuff, kpop stuff, and uconn stuff, vinnie hacker stuff, obx stuff, but my body is like nope fuck youuuu..... being a girl kinda sucks rn like bro

Just send in requests I need some distractions and badly

[darkknig]

People say "What timeline are we in"

The same timeline where palworld a game about creatures with guns gets an official dating sim

The same timeline where a turtle has the potential to make the most human like AI ever

The same timeline where gay furry hackers hacked Disney

That's the timeline we're in

[mythgirlimagines]

Headcanons for Hacker!Nagito?

mhm!

Nagito swore to himself when he started hacking that he would always use his skills for good. Even though he mostly stuck to that, he wasn’t as sure what was “for good” at times.

His skills were undeniable, though. He tried to keep himself anonymous in all of his hacking, especially when some of his activities made it into the news for both positive and negative reasons.

He knew there was never true anonymity, though, especially on the internet. He supposed that was how Hope’s Peak had found him, despite all of his precautions.

It wasn’t hard for him to hack into Hope’s Peak’s networks at all, which was somewhat of a good thing, since he was then asked to help enforce them so nobody else could hack them.

Hacking was the one thing he was good at, the one thing that comforted him in his tumultuous life. If that was taken away from him, he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself.

[hacked-by-jake]

It's impossible not to think that Jake has the best phrases but...just a reminder...

"MC? A word."

Most important reminder of all times! The way I went down on my knees when I reached this part yesterday was SHAMELESS. And it will happen again every.single.time.

[alienkitty259]