#he's about to get his own damn ethanol

[la-grosse-patate]

Roger Cadoret | Far Cry New Dawn (8/?)

[matrixbearer2024]

If you take spicy requests, can you write about Ford teasing reader during sex? Like making the reader begging Ford to stop teasing them sexually

A/N: OH HELL YES LEZZGO! This man, this man istfg there's two sides of his fanbase and that's either him being an inexperienced cutie or a straight up sex god. WHAT THOSE FINGERS DO THOOO- remember ya'll my inbox is open for more spazz about this mans come feed me ideas HAHAHAHA- ANYWAY- because this is a spicy 18+ request, fic is under the cut.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Addicted (Stanford Pines x Reader)

Ford just couldn’t get enough of you, his love, his life, his vice, his addiction. You drove him crazy by simply existing, he couldn’t get enough. Now presented with the opportunity to return the favor, Stanford Pines was going to go the full nine yards and maybe an extra mile.

You didn’t know how you got in this situation to be totally honest; back pressed against the wooden walls of your shared bedroom while being kissed senseless by no one other than Stanford Pines. In one moment you were both sharing wine late into the night, laughing and chatting about whatever. In the next– you were here, the alcohol forgotten as you got drunk on something entirely different. 

Fingers tangled into his hair, you returned his passionate kisses with a fervour; earning a deep grunt from the scientist. The tension wound tight between the both of you, intense and electrifying every action and setting it alight. You were drowning in this man, intoxicated by the smell of leather and ink that clung to him like a second skin. There wasn’t anyone else you knew who could swear the scent of a library like an irresistible cologne. 

Thirty years had been far too long.

Ford couldn’t tell where his desire began and his affections ended, the situation played with his head like a snake eating it’s own tail. It should have already triggered the alarms in his head the second you came to him with a bottle of Port, all the more when you offered to share. Now, the uncorked beverage simply sat off to the side; an afterthought halfway empty. 

It wasn’t as if Stanford didn’t have self-control, the man was disciplined and strict especially with himself. The problem starts when you’re introduced into that situation. You leave Ford grasping at straws to maintain a coherent mind, much less a sane one. Like the differing poles of a magnet, the two of you were just drawn to each other for reasons words couldn’t begin to explain.

One was so bored of the mundane ordinary, the other wanted to find respite in it.

A sharp gasp spilled from your lips when Stanford so easily hefted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist for purchase. You both surged on like desperate teenagers getting lost and crazy in each other. Ford quickly took the opportunity to trail kisses down your neck and on your collar, sucking a couple hickeys that caused you to squirm and cry out for him. 

The idea that he’s able to maneuver you like this, to position you in any way he wanted with ease really set something off in your brain. Likewise, the way you writhed against him drove your lover up a damn wall. The way your fingers shakily dug into the knit of his turtleneck made Ford’s ego swell with pride. It was because of him you were like this, pliant and at his mercy.

Initially, he felt guilty for even indulging in the first kiss when you both shared that glass. One turned to two, then three and four; another and another no matter how much he tried to stop. You kept pushing his buttons and foolish as ever, Stanford kept falling for it. 

He told himself that he was going to take it slow with you, to treat you like royalty the way you deserved. Hilariously enough, Stanford failed to factor in that for every queen– there was a king; and you would stop at nothing to treat him as such.

The researcher knew the buzz that ran in his veins wasn’t because of the ethanol he consumed; the tightness in his slacks and heat in his blood wasn’t because he was inebriated. Sure, he was completely wasted; lightheaded, dizzy and incoherent, but it wasn’t because of the Port. 

Need burned through his flesh when you roughly pulled him back to meet your lips, a low moan slipping from your lover when you lightly tugged at his silver strands. His hands firmly gripped your hips in retaliation while fingers danced around the waistband of your pyjama bottoms.

“Ford. Bed. Now.”

You mumbled amidst fervent kisses, the scientist shivering at the stern tone of your instruction. It was always like this between the both of you; a push and pull that didn’t have just one person explicitly calling the shots. His heart thundered against his ribcage when you nibbled at his bottom lip, you just couldn’t stop teasing him for even a moment could you?

Stanford didn’t dare to break away from kissing you as he clumsily shuffled over to the bed nearby, he was surprised he still even had as much coordination as he did with you distracting him this much; and as if luck decided to taunt him with a jinx– Ford tripped and caused the both of you to ungraciously tumble on top of the mattress.

You both shared a surprised look when that happened before breaking out into giggles, that was an overdue dampener; not to mention extremely sobering. Your lover awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and shyly looked away as he adjusted his glasses, only then did you realise how much of a number you really did on him. 

Tousled hair, red-faced, swollen lips, it really reminded you of the first time you’d both gotten carried away snogging back in university. Though, back then you’d both been interrupted for different reasons. Stanford looked really adorable like this, plus– he’d gone all bashful. 

You were hoping tonight would end in a different way though. 

Gently cupping his cheek, you urged the man to look at you again and gave him a brief peck on the nose. You knew you’d gotten the reaction you wanted when the flame of desire reignited behind his eyes. Moving his spectacles to rest on top of his head, you leaned forward to whisper in his ear,

“I never said we had to stop~”

The response was instantaneous, an excited squeal erupting from your throat as Stanford pinned you down against the bed. He was capable of doing a lot, even back then; you just had to poke and prod him to elicit the reactions you wanted. The researcher just smiled down at you amused, leaning down to meet your lips in a gentle kiss.

“You’re still a minx.”

“I’m your minx.”

That sass quickly left you when he snapped his hips into yours, despite the fact you were both clothed– you could feel his arousal through the fabric. Your face bloomed in a furious red, it’s been so long…

“You look cute.”

Forget his trademark eloquence, the enamoured gaze Ford was giving you sent butterflies to your stomach. He never did look at you with anything less. Curiosity and adoration seemed to mix in his eyes around you, hand in hand and step by step. You sighed happily when he went back to nuzzling your neck, only jolting when you felt his teeth graze your skin. The heat surged in your core, the mood was back.

“May I?”

You’d laugh if it weren’t for the distracting feeling of his calloused palms roaming your skin, your nerves melting and then some from the stimuli. There was no underestimating how much your lover knew, applying that knowledge in practice however… sometimes you’d still get burned since age did make him much bolder compared to back then.

“Yes please.”

That was all the permission he needed, gently biting down on your neck as his hands cupped your breasts.  The moan you let out was no short of sinful, Ford’s eyes narrowed into slits and his actions grew a bit rougher. He felt you shiver when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, arching into his hands as your breathing grew laboured. 

“Ford~!”

The rush of need shot straight down. That had set something off in him, he needed to hear you say his name like that again. Your sweet tone was only doing him in, Stanford couldn’t help bucking his hips into yours and a shiver raced up his spine. You rewarded his actions with another desperate cry of his name.

The scientist thanked his lucky stars that he had the foresight to soundproof the rooms back when he built his home.

Stanford finally allowed his hands to wander elsewhere after some time, moving his lips down to replace his fingers instead when giving your breasts attention. He was being so thorough and meticulous; however, it was driving you crazy just how insanely slow the man was being. 

A small sadistic part of Ford wondered just how far he could take it before you’d beg him to do more; but even that would already be a test of his own control that was rapidly wearing thin thanks to your adorable noises.

“Ford please…”

“Please what my dear?”

You would slap this man for his smug tone if you weren’t so impatient on getting him to rail the thoughts out of you. Even if you squealed in surprise at him suddenly groping your ass, his hands had slipped below the garter of your bottoms and he gently kneaded the supple flesh.

“Don’t– Don’t tease!!!”

You cried out when his teeth grazed your nipple, oh fuck this arrogant man–!

“Why should I?”

Ford chuckled against your skin when one of your legs weakly kicked his side, he continued to press kisses to your chest while one of his hands finally shifted to give you attention where you sought it the most. It didn’t surprise him how soaked you were, but he couldn’t say the same for how receptive you were. Just the faintest touch already had you shaking in his arms.

“Sensitive?”

You kicked him again, only to exclaim in surprise when he started to rub at your clit. You could tell he was still teasing, the pace he chose would sooner drive you crazy from the frustration than the creeping pleasure. All the more when his tongue flicked over a nipple, you screamed his name in frustration.

“Ford!! Please stop teasing!”

“You’ll have to do better than that my love.”

You attempted to buck into his hand but the other was holding you down in place, he sucked harshly on your breast as a consequence and you wailed. It was simultaneously too much and too little, what kind of hell was this?!

“Please~!! Please, Ford! I need–”

He didn’t give you the chance to finish that statement before a finger finally slipped into your entrance, the scientist shivered at how warm and velvety your insides felt wrapped around his finger. He kind of regretted not removing his slacks now prior to this, they were painfully uncomfortable now.

“You’re so pretty for me~”

You whined at the praise, shivering at the gently firm pace he chose in thrusting his finger in and out of you. Pulling him up by the collar, you messily crashed your lips into his again as he added another finger inside of you and curled them. 

He knew how you ticked, what would get you to cave to him. Your head fell back when he purposefully pressed into that spongy part that would have you seeing stars. It should’ve been a bigger concern to you how smug your lover was being, abusing that spot with his fingers until you became an incoherent mess. You cried out his name like a broken record, Ford found himself hooked on it– on you.

“Please– please– Ford–!”

When he slowed his pace down when you got closer to that precipice, you knew he wasn’t going to let you fall over that edge so easily. Fuck. So much for hoping he'd play good boy tonight.

It was going to be one of these nights again.

Fic is also here on Ao3 :D

[maulusque]

Clone genetic enhancement ideas

So the clones were genetically enhanced, but i don’t really see any writers (in fanfic or in published stuff) really exploring what that MEANS beyond “clone very stronk”. Here are some ideas that would actually make clones significantly different from just a regular-ass human in peak condition. 

-enhanced senses: eyesight, hearing, etc. I’m talking eyes like a HAWK

-better reflexes

-quicker information processing

-can hear sounds of higher and lower frequency than standard humans

-can see light of a broader spectrum than human standard

-learn quicker, retain information and skills better (potential problem: if you learn something the WRONG way, that way might stick really well)

-photographic memory (really useful for memorizing layouts and maps)

-immunity to various diseases

-can tolerate a wider range of temperatures and environments

-increased stamina and strength baseline. Clones can just run full-tilt for hours and hours and be like “ah a nice stroll”. Over long distances, they can out-pace jedi in the same way that humans can out-pace horses.

-higher tolerance of certain poisons/toxins (clones can straight-up drink ethanol, and get maybe a little tipsy)

-bodies respond quickly to physical stress, and slowly to the absence of it (basically, this means that physical conditioning results in stronger muscles and a stronger cardiovascular system really quickly, and it takes MUCH longer for a clone to lose strength and conditioning due to not exercising than standard humans. Think how much valuable training time is saved if they only have to go on a run like, once a month in order to stay in shape)

-increased ability to function through intense pain and acute injuries. Basically, semi-disabling the pain system so it’s less distracting. Probably not good for the survival of the individual in many situations, but an advantage on the battlefield. 

-heal faster and better, with fewer long-term complications. Clones can dislocate their shoulders and NOT have the joint be permanently fucked up, because the Kaminoans re-designed the whole damn thing to suck WAY less.

-actually, unique internal anatomy. There’s probably a lot about the human body besides the shoulder joint that is actually just really stupid, and something no intelligent designer would actually build. So the Kaminoans can fix a lot of that stuff. Better knees, maybe. Stronger ribs. Maybe Cody punches droids not just because he’s a mad bastard, but also because his metatarsals are literally as strong as steel. 

-Hearing loss/hearing damage? No problem, your ear can regrow those little hair-thingies that help you hear. 

-Of course, it takes energy to maintain muscle mass, which is why human bodies lose it if we’re not using it. Clones need significantly more calories than standard humans. However, their digestive systems are enhanced to extract calories and nutrients from food much more efficiently, so food goes much farther. Potential weird side effect: maybe clones only have to poop like, once a week?

-You could probably extend that into increased ability to tolerate long periods without food/on low rations, despite the increased need for calories. 

-wouldn’t it be NEAT if the kaminoans somehow designed self-repairing DNA. This would mean that others couldn’t take a DNA sample from a clone and modify it to create their own clones (basically, it protects their product. It’s like DRM for clones). This ALSO means that clones couldn’t get cancer, and that they’d be immune to radiation poisoning. So a clone could just walk up to a sphere of uranium at critical mass and pick it up. Maybe with oven mitts on if it’s hot. (this would also make it harder for a rapid-aging cure to be developed, but uhhhh fanfic writers find a way)

- “bred for obedience” I think most of this would have to be accomplished through tightly-controlled messaging and cultural norms as the clones grow up- basically, enshrining obedience as a desirable and almost sacred trait, to be prized higher than anything else, including the lives of your brothers. In the same way that we hear stories of people sacrificing their lives to protect their loved ones, the clones would grow up hearing stories of soldiers sacrificing their brothers’ lives to obey an order from a superior. 

-SOME of the “obedience” thing could be engineered, though. Humans are already super social, but it would probably make sense for the clones to have an even greater need for social bonds. This would make for greater teamwork and coordination, and better unit cohesion, since the clones would be more inclined to prioritize friendship/agreeing with someone over winning an argument. It would also make it so they’d bond with their natural-born generals more easily, so they would obey them not just because they’re supposed to, but because they’d be much quicker to see them as a friend, and someone who’s trust they want to earn, someone they want to incorporate into their group and make happy.

-consequently, clones who find themselves alone do NOT do well. Isolation has a much more profoundly negative impact on clones than on regular humans.

-Originally, clones designed to operate alone or in small teams would not have the social enhancement- ARC troopers, spec-ops teams, etc. There wouldn’t be much of a noticeable difference in everyday interactions, but they’d also be vaguely weirded out by what they interpret as aggressive friendliness from their brothers, and their brothers would think they’re a bit shy and standoffish. 

-actually this social modification would make it MUCH harder for clones to kill people. REGULAR HUMANS are already super bad at killing people- i remember reading this article about how as soon as soldiers have to point their weapons at actual people, their aim gets mysteriously much shittier. Even when compared to situations that are exactly the same, except they’re not shooting at other humans. So reconcile this how you will, idk.

-I imagine a lot of these enhancements would be accomplished not through DNA, but through microorganisms. Retroviruses could explain the DNA resistant to modification, and the increased healing speed, and possibly some disease resistance (do i know anything about retroviruses other than a vague concept of what they are? no i do not. will that stop me? also no.) Their metabolism can be partially explained through specially engineered gut microbes.

-not sure how they’d go about making clones “resistant to any stress”, because you can’t exactly turn off the trauma response in the brain without breaking a bunch of other things. They could probably do a bit of fiddling to make clones more resistant to chemical imbalances, and therefore more depression-resistant. I think most of the “stress-resistance” would have to come through training. Either they train the clones to basically suppress everything, which might work alright in the short term. OR they actually have systems in place that help prevent the development of things like PTSD and help treat trauma. Meaning the clones are literally trained in self-care, positive self-talk, talking about their pain with their brothers, and having community rituals around things like death and grief. I don’t think that’s super likely because one thing that’s integral to those concepts is the concept of “i am a person and i have worth, and if i feel angry about something bad happening, that is ok and valid” and considering that a whole lot of bad things happen to the clones all the time and their childhood is a whole boatload of bad all happening at once, i don’t think the kaminoans would want the clones realizing “hey wait a minute i’m a person and i don’t deserve to be treated this way and it’s ok for me to be mad at you”. 

- the clones were supposedly engineered to be “less aggressive” but i think there was literally nothing more to that than a cover story for the control chip. The clones wouldn’t be raised with a lot of the aggressive western concept of masculinity, where anger is the default reaction to like, everything, and your personal pride is extremely important and also fragile (no offense lmao). So you wouldn’t have clones posturing and getting angry over perceived slights and fighting each other all the time, like everyone in-universe apparently expects to be the case. Anyway, why would you want your soldiers to be less aggressive? they’re literally supposed to fight and kill the enemy. You want them fully capable of getting angry, anger is the human response to fear and danger that lets us DO something about it. 

-obviously the biggest component in how they behave would be how they are raised, but that’s an entirely different post

-Specializations! I imagine that initially, the Kaminoans had different clones with different traits engineered specifically to fill certain roles. However, as the war went on, they struggled to keep up with demand and had to start shoving clones into whatever roles were needed (hence Fives and Echo becoming ARCs, despite not being engineered as ARC troopers). 

-Command clones would have better abilities in the executive function parts of the brain that deal with extrapolation, planning ahead, spatial reasoning, etc. They’d also have increased visual pattern recognition (like a pigeon)

-search-and-rescue troops would also have the pigeon pattern recognition abilities. The coast guard literally strapped pigeons to helicopters who would tap a button when they saw orange in the water, because they were better at spotting it than humans. Pigeons can detect cancer in microscope images of cells, because they’re that good at pattern recognition

-Pilots would have hella reflexes, excellent spatial awareness and spatial reasoning skills, much greater ability to process visual information, stronger hearts and blood vessels (to resist greater Gs of force), and they’d also be much shorter, to better fit into a cockpit. Which reminds me of Axe, that poor bastard from Ahsoka’s squadron over Ryloth who was almost eight feet tall. rip poor Axe, how did you even become a pilot, you long bastard.

-medics who can smell certain diseases. If you want to get a little bit out there, make the medics able to purr so they can sooth stressed-out patients. 

-infantry would have even greater endurance than everyone else, as well as greater tolerance for, and ability to, remain constantly on alert.

-ability to fall asleep at will? that would be super dope.

-maybe more efficient sleep, so to an adult clone, 4 hours of sleep is genuinely sufficient.

-concept: clones can sort of turn down their bodily functions- slow their digestion, heart, lungs, the whole nine yards- to last longer in adverse conditions. Sort of a half-hibernation (or quarter hibernation- they’d still be able to talk and think, but they’d feel very lethargic). They wouldn’t be able to function very well, but it would be great for things like enduring intense cold, periods without food, low-oxygen environments, and it would be especially useful if you were wounded and waiting for help, since you could slow your circulation, meaning it would take you a lot longer to bleed out. This state could be triggered by a combination of physical actions such as sitting or lying still, breathing slowly and deeply, and focusing on slowing the heart down (humans can actually slow down their hearts consciously if you practice at it, this is basically that, but turned up to like 1100).

-one thing that never made sense to me was the whole “we’re running out of jango fett’s DNA, all the new clones won’t be as good, and we have to stop ventress from stealing the original DNA” because like, can’t they just, get the EXACT SAME DNA from the clones?? you know, the exact genetic copies? With all the enhancements already done? But now my idea is that the kaminoans have engineered the clones so their DNA straight up can’t be copied. The clone’s own body can obviously replicate it, but if you take a sample and try to extract the DNA, it just self-destructs or something. This is to protect their intellectual property, but also means that they literally have to use a couple of Jango Fett’s actual human cells for every single clone they make (and the fact that they then have to do all the above enhancements to every single embryo helps explain why there’s so many small mutations, such as hair color and height). So they kinda shot themselves in the foot with that one. 

-of course since things like ADHD and autism have a strong genetic component, the kaminoans could theoretically engineer those out of the clones, but actually FUCK THAT so for whatever reason, that’s just not something they are able to do, and neurodivergent clones are absolutely a thing

[rhaenyratargeryn]

A Series of Firsts, pt. I (Crow x f!guardian)

Rating: T

Summary: First confessions, first drink, first kiss. All in one.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment her perspective shifted. It was one thing to say, when you awake as a guardian, whomever you were in your past life is gone, and another to put it into practice.

Especially when you knew the person that guardian had been in the very recent past.

Especially when you were the reason that person had died.

Of all the things Crow had learned (mostly against his will) about who he was before he awoke to the Light, that was one thing she was glad he had not discovered.

Which was a whole other mess for her mind and her heart to work out. It was hard enough at the start seeing the face of the man who she had hunted, had chased over the stars with hatred in her heart and revenge in her hands. Hands that had fired the Ace of Spades into Uldren Sov until he breathed no more.

Uldren had been proud. Haughty. A prince in his status and his manner.

And now this man who wore his face was hissing at having scorched his fingertips on the crackling campfire after adding a log. He sheepishly blew on them as Glint shook his small chassis with a chiding air.

“I told you to use a smaller log.”

“By all means, show me how it is done, Sparky.”

Glint couldn’t scowl, but the way his edges tightened and he groaned said well enough that he hated the endearment.

“That’s what I thought.” Crow said with a grin, catching her eye as she watched him. The expression softened, his voice lowering, “How’s it coming?”

Right. She was supposed to be mixing up the stew. Pulled from her thoughts, she returned to stirring, mixing packets of dried vegetable and meat rations into the stock that was, in truth, mostly water. It was a typical meal for guardians on the ground. And… well, despite Zavala having learned of Crow’s real identity, it was too risky still to have him walking around the tower.

He’d needed to “get out and stretch his wings” as he called it, and so here she was. Camped out in the EDZ with the Lightbringer formerly known as Uldren Sov. The man she had killed. And now the man she was stupidly, and irreversibly already half in love with.

There had been moments. Lots of moments. Too many moments.

First she’d thought the affection stemmed from the fact he looked up to her. Just another new Lightbearer with an awed respect for the Young Wolf, Hero of the Red War, the “Chosen One”… it wasn’t like she had set out to be any of those things. She had just done what needed to be done. She recalled she told him that once and he had chuckled with such… fondness. His voice pitching low then as it did now or whenever they were alone.

Like their conversations were a secret. His words for her ears alone.

She set the pot over the flame on it’s hanger, noting that despite Glint’s criticisms, the flame was high enough and hot enough to use.

“You seem distracted tonight.” Crow said, letting his hood fall back. Even in the dark his eyes glowed faintly, the color of a sunrise.

She told herself the shiver that ran up and down her arms was from the chill in the air.

“I’ve never been a talker.” She said and settled back down next to him. It was near enough that one of them only had to reach out to touch the other. It would be too obvious to move now, she thought with a silent curse, frowning to herself.

“Is that so?” Crow said, his voice so earnest that for a moment she didn’t realize he was teasing her until she looked up and saw the faint smile on his lips.

Her traitorous heart skipped. Where was her Ghost? For that matter, where was Glint? They had both been here a moment ago.

“I thought… well… I thought maybe you were regretting bringing me along. I can’t say that last shot at the Fallen was my best moment.”

She had nearly forgotten. It was a small skirmish, something she could have easily taken solo. A Captain had swiped in close, nearly taking her arm off with his sword. Crow’s shot had missed, but it had forced the Captain back, giving her enough time to dispatch the Fallen herself. She had been surprised, but hadn’t given it more thought than that.

But now, in the dim light, she could see the same expression on Crow’s face he had worn when he came down from his perch and helped her bandage the shallow wound. It hadn’t been embarrassment, or even quite disappointment… but something else. Something deeper.

“It still saved me a very uncomfortable rez.” She said and the Crow just nodded, his brow pinched slightly as he cast his eyes aside. She turned, tilting her head to try to get back into his line of sight.

“Hey, I mean it. I would have regretted not bringing you along. This is so much better than being off on my own.”

Surprise flashed over his features, a deeper shade of indigo spreading across his cheeks. She suddenly found herself wishing a Taken portal would open up and swallow her whole. She turned away before he could see the same flush spread over her own face.

“… I agree.” Crow said and she risked another look over at him. He was smiling.

“One nice thing about being out of Spider’s lair— well, one of the nice things— I get to see you more often.”

She didn’t know what to say. The silence between them was only broken by the faint chirping of insects, the crackle of the fire and the faint bubbling sound of their dinner. Crow was looking at his hands, fidgeting with his gloves and picking at the fabric.

“Anyway. I appreciate that you humor a kinderguardian like me.” Crow began, his voice tinged with forced humor to hide the deprecation, “Letting me tag along—“

“I like it too.” She said, the words coming out so fast it came out more as “liketoo” than a comprehensive sentence.

The Crow had stopped fidgeting. The insects and the fire were overloading her senses again.

“… I really respect you. As a guardian, as a comrade. And… And I like to think of you as a friend.” Crow continued, “…and I like to think of you.”

He stopped.

“You like to think of me as—?” She prompted, breath held in her lungs.

He smiled, “That’s all. I like to think of you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Crow’s confession had brought a permanent heat to his cheeks, his expression softening as if he were marveling that he managed to even get the words out. She was marveling them too. Or more like, feeling her thoughts collapse inward on themselves like a black hole.

“What... um. What does that mean?” She said, feeling dumb and fumbling and definitely not like someone with the title of “Godslayer”.

“I… “ he began, but whatever it was that had slipped forward was beginning to retreat once more, “…well, I… it’s… just a sentiment I suppose.”

It was now or never.

“I think about you too. Often. A lot. I think about you a lot. And… I know I’m this ‘role model’ and thought of as this untouchable big damn hero and everyone— no. Look. The point is, me too.”

To his credit, the Crow listened to her outburst with quiet attentiveness, even nodding once or twice in understanding.

“It just seems impossible.” He said at last, shrugging slightly, “I can’t imagine why someone like you—”

“Don’t look at the pedestal.” She said, her voice firm, “Just look at me. C’mon, you’ve seen how I eat. I talk in my sleep too, I know I do. I never clean my guns right and I’ve had half a dozen sparrow related rezes because I’m a shitty driver.”

That last one got a laugh.

“So let’s just focus on the win here, yeah? You like me.” She waited until the Crow picked up on the prompt and he nodded, confirming it, “And I like you. Now it’s out there.”

Crow let out a breath that turned into a nervous laugh, “It’s definitely out there.”

When it became apparent neither one of them knew how to go on, there was a soft sigh from somewhere nearby. Glint and her own Ghost glided out from the trees, coming to perch near their guardians.

“And what were you two doing?” Crow said, clearly relieved for a subject change.

“Oh, just— just patrolling.” Glint said hurriedly, earning what could be imagined was a wry look from her own Ghost. He turned that look on her then as if he were exasperated with her for something.

She had a funny feeling why the pair had left them alone.

—-

A day had become a week and then a week had easily fallen into the next. Devrim had even radioed in at one point to tell them to “leave some for the rest of us” after the fourth Fallen patrol they had decimated.

They worked well together, the awkwardness of the night before fading into routine. It surprised her how natural such a foreign concept like touch was to them. A bump on the shoulder with a closed fist, a silent congratulations for a good shot. The brush of their hands when they passed ammo or a water canteen. The touch of his arm, brushing against her own perhaps every thirteenth of a second when they walked too close together.

Even at the campfire they slowly had begun to draw nearer and nearer, their orbit closing in on the other. His, with an innocent like curiosity. Her own interest decidedly less innocent, but also still— cautious. She felt the pull of his light, new and bright. Her own had not shimmered so in a long time… he was naive, young and rash. He needed looking after, not another responsibility. The point driven even further home now by the way he teetered unsteadily even sitting.

Devrim had sent a patrol over to meet them with fresh supplies. One of them being a bottle of something he called “Gulchshine” which, judging by the smell, was maybe only one molecule away from pure ethanol. Crow hadn’t drank since he was revived. Which was the same as saying he’d never drank before at all.

“This is disgusting. I can’t stop drinking it.” Crow said, his voice not so much slurred as it was relaxed. Open and unguarded.

“What is that? Is that lemon? Or is it just my taste buds dying?”

“It… definitely seems like lemon.” She said, giving a tiny sip to the cup in her own hand. There was a citrus like bite beneath the taste of rubbing alcohol, but it was not near sweet or sour enough to mask the bitterness of the clear liquid.

“Like someone whispering the word ‘lemon’ from another room.” Crow murmured and took another sip, a shudder going over him as he swallowed. He brought the bottle to his lips again and with a chuckle, she leaned nearer and said in a soft voice,

“Lemon."

Crow nearly choked on his laugh. It was a nice sound, one she didn’t hear often enough from him.

“That exactly.” He said after he’d caught his breath, turning towards her with a grin. The smile faded at the realization of how close they were. His eyes half-closed and dreamy in their regard as he lifted a hand up to brush back a strand of hair from her face.

She could smell the alcohol on his warm breath, the moss of the greenery around them, the fresh air… could feel the warmth from the Earth beneath them and from his hand on her cheek. She reached out, holding him by the chin to keep him in place as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss, as faint as the sweet taste of citrus, on his lips.

She had not expected to do that. She equally did not expect him to curl his hand behind her head and pull her in, his mouth already open for another kiss which she happily provided. Crow groaned, an involuntary and needful sound.

Desperation. She could taste it in his kiss, in the way he tentatively returned the soft touch of her tongue, inexperienced but so eager to learn. To feel. He craved it in every gasp, every pull of his fingers through her hair. He wanted to be touched— with tenderness, with kindness. His body lit with it, his breathing fast and quick and his touch edging towards rough in its eagerness. Like he couldn’t get close enough. A wanting so strong and so foreign and yet familiar. She felt him struggle with it— with his body knowing vaguely what it wanted but his mind struggling to keep up.

So she guided him. Over and over. Kissing not just his lips but the highpoint of his cheek and the juncture where his jaw met his neck. She let her teeth rasp over his pulse, thready and rapid at his throat and relished in the way he shivered. She wasn’t sure when she had been settled into his lap, only that she enjoyed the way it made her just a fraction taller.

They were wearing too many clothes. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over every expanse of his skin until he remembered her touch more than he remembered any bullet or beam or weapon that had ever struck him. The sudden movement of her hands to the hem of his shirt had an immediate sobering effect, his body going rigid beneath her.

“… too fast.” She said, nodding half at her self. She let her hands slide back up, resting her arms around his shoulders. Crow swallowed thickly and she repressed the urge to kiss his neck all over again.

“I’ve never— I mean, not that I remember…”

It made perfect sense. His uncertainty mixed with certainty. Moments of lucidness where he no doubt remembered past lovers, past kisses, and then for them to fade like starlight from his grasp. Despite the confession, the Crow didn’t look daunted, his hands still clutching to her waist.

“Do you want to stop?” She asked, shifting her weight back.

“I…“ Crow paused, his pupils blown wide, an eclipse on a sunset sky, “… I just want to touch you. Is… is that okay?”

“That’s okay.” She said, pressing a kiss to his jaw and relishing in the way he relaxed beneath her hands. His arms held her so tightly, their ribs pressed together hard enough for there to be a faint spark of pain. She didn’t care.

His fingers had found a spot beneath her collar, seeking out the soft skin at the nape of her neck. She turned her cheek against his, pressing and rubbing her lips against him more than actually kissing. Crow seemed dazed, a soft hum coming from his throat as she felt his eyelashes brush against her skin, his eyes closing.

“Is everyone this warm?” He asked, unthinking, “Sorry— weird question.”

“Probably has something to do with the Gulchshine.”

She pulled back, placing her hands on either side of his face and noting the warmth radiating from his skin.

“You’re flushed down your neck.” She said, observing the darker blue color that bloomed out over his skin.

“I’m not that drunk.”

She rose an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t drunk, just not that drunk.”

“So is this for me then?”

He didn’t answer, a sputter dying in his throat as he shook his head.

“I lied. I’m drunk.”

She laughed and kissed him again, just to be sure and he breathed into it like she was the very air he needed. An arm around her waist, his hand tangled in her hair, he followed her kiss by kiss, learning his own rhythm and occasionally trying something new. Discovering how he liked to kiss her. How he liked to be kissed back. It felt important. It felt special. These things only heightening the very intimacy of the act.

She’d never felt this way just from kissing someone before. Something she imagined they had in common.

“... if I knew it felt this good, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“You really are drunk.”

He made a questioning noise, his mouth too busy testing out the way she has kissed his neck on her own. He licked a long line up to her jaw. She had definitely not shown him that.

“People are more honest when they are drunk.” She clarified, her words veering towards breathless

“Glitch might have mentioned it.”

At the mention of the ghosts, both guardians froze, eyes drifting to where the two lights were perched, watchful but silent nearby.

They had forgotten they were there.

Oh god they had forgotten they were there.

“Don’t mind us.” Her own Ghost said, voice filled with dry amusement.

[anika-ann]

A Cup of Truth (S.R)

Type: One-shot, a bit of coffee shop AU

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3000

Summary: Your favourite pretty blond comes in every day to get a cup of good ol’ joe. You flirt on occasion; mostly you, because your suit of armour – which people boringly call an apron – and his smiles give you confidence.

When the band of dumb goons picks your damn workplace to attack, your confidence flies out of the window. Well. Good thing that the resident Avenger heroes save the day including the one in his all-American star-spangled glory.

Prompt: “You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere.” (Bold in the text)

Warnings: hostage situation, violence, non-consensual drug use/injected, hospitals, slightly crack-ish humour (?) and some fluff

A/N: For marvelcapsicle’s challenge. Thank you for letting me participate, darling, may you gain more and more sweet followers in the future ♥

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Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before or after injected with the serum, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would punch bullies in their face.

When it came to people close to his heart, that rule amplified tenfold. No one touched the people he cared for. And while he would not necessarily call all of them friends, he would go rabid should any harm come their way.

To be fair, the list of ‘his people’ who were still alive wasn’t long; he could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. Tony. Natasha. Clint. Thor. Bruce. Probably Fury. Really, his circle was a bit monotonous, people who could protect themselves just fine at most times, but simultaneously with high-risk job of being the first defence line for the world’s greatest threats.

And then there was you.

You, with your inviting smile whenever he appeared at your counter at the café he had discovered during his endless walks.

You, handing him a drink different to his usual ‘boring’ cup of joe once a week, because that was the deal you had offered and Steve, caught in his curiosity about today’s world and your adorable challenging expression, agreed.

You, with your pretty eyes, irises twinkling at his attempts at flirting, no matter how awkward and out-of-time they sounded, graciously returning the favour… if he was reading the situation right.

You, always grinning wide when discovering a doodle he had left on his napkin, taking it with you back to the counter.

You, blissfully unaware of his double life, genuine in your demeanour, dealing with plain old Steve Rogers, and perfectly safe; at least as safe as one could be on Manhattan.

You in a headlock, as five rogue SHIELD agents decided to crash into the café you worked at of all the damn places, choosing it with deadly precision and nearly driving the poor Captain America into a cardiac arrest.

Not that you had any idea your life mattered to the proclaimed Star-Spangled Man more than anyone else’s. You were the exception to the rule; you were the precious outsider Steve caught feelings for, the one that was not supposed to learn about his other persona for at least a while longer and sure as hell was not supposed to get herself in a mess like this one.

Steve stood frozen as Natasha had two men at gunpoint, Clint fighting another, the last one having been already knocked down by Steve himself. The only injured people were the few customers, scarce at the hour, and the employees; some bruises and insignificant bleeding wounds between all of them.

The worst problem still remained; Perez had his arm around your neck, visibly squeezing your windpipe at least partly if the colour of your face – one stained in tears and Steve could kill at the moment, kill with no remorse – was anything to go by.

He gripped his shield tighter, staring the man down with his jaw clenched and his heart beating its way out of his chest, the syringe at your carotid scaring him more than the reduced airflow to your lungs.

“It’s over, Perez! Let her- let the woman go,” Steve howled, knees slightly bend in posture allowing him to spring forward at any second, to throw his weapon, to punch the living daylight of the bastard that not only betrayed SHIELD, but put his hands on you.

Big, big mistake. He really shouldn’t have done that.

“I like her exactly where she is, Cap,” Perez snarled, a wicked smile on his bloody lips, only his eyes giving away a fraction of his fear. “Move and she gets a ticket straight to hell.”

Perez was outnumbered and he knew it; even if he managed to escape, they would find him easily with Tony Stark’s system of surveillance. Yet, he tightened his grip and with you involuntarily acting like a human shield for him, he started backing away, gaze flickering between the three present Avengers.

Natasha’s right arm twitched as if she wanted to shoot him on spot – but she didn’t want to risk leaving the other two without the threat of immediate death for even a second.

And then several things happened at once; Clint knocked his opponent down with the construction of his bow; Perez who saw it lost his nerve and swiftly slammed the needle into your neck, piercing your skin easily, as easily as Steve’s panicked shout ripped from his throat.

The next second, an arrow was sticking from Perez’ shoulder as he jerked back with a cry of pain and Clint put another arrow through his hand, adding one to his thigh for a good measure. Two gunshots sounded in the background, Natasha’s aim as unmistakable as ever.

Perez fell to the ground with a scream, not even reaching for the gun in his holster before Steve was there to knock him out with a brutal hit straight to his face with his vibranium shield. The crack sounding at the impact was like music to Steve’s ears, the blood spurting from Perez’ nose a pleasant visual.

Yet, it didn’t feel half as satisfactory as Steve hoped as you had stumbled and toppled over your own feet. He barely managed to slow down your fall, gloved palm shooting up under the spot between your shoulder blades, his other hand holding your shoulder. He supported your enfeebled weight as you practically lied over the unconscious man.

Steve didn’t bother paying attention to his surroundings, knowing that the noise around him was Romanoff and Barton apprehending the remaining thugs. Instead, his gaze scanned you head to toe, focusing on your face and neck when he couldn’t find any other injury.

You were pale, eyes misted, unfocused, skin worryingly cold to his touch.

“Hey-- hey! Can you hear me?” Steve demanded urgently, lightly patting your cheek.

At that, your pupils zeroed on him, wide with disbelief, and to his immense shock, a lazy smile spread on your lips.

“Steve?” you breathed out his name and blood crystalized in his veins, his heart, already panicking, speeding up. How did you know his name? Perhaps the drug, the whatever liquid in the syringe was taking effect and you were turning delirious? Shit, they needed a doctor-- “You’re the pretty blond. Steve. My flirty Steve… my hero. Everyone’s hero.”

Steve’s horror escalated with each word. Good news: you were still breathing and apparently quite lucid, even if your speech was more of a mumble. Bad news: his secret identity just blew up.

Luckily, he considered the good news much more important; and lucid he would like to keep you, so he shot Natasha and Clint a meaningful glare, wordlessly asking them to call help. He wasn’t sure whether it registered because both of the spies were staring at him wide-eyed as the woman in his arms just outed him like the café’s regular… one that flirted with her, no less.

Steve cleared his throat, focusing on his mission – to keep you talking. There was no much point in denying it, was it?

“Eh... yeah, it’s me. How-how did you know? I wear a mask-“

“Muscly… real muscly… and that ass,” you muttered and Steve nearly choked on his spit, certain that he just turned red all over, including the area you pointed out.

Wait, did that mean that you had been checking him out?

So not important right now.

“Oh, uhm- how are you feeling? We have to-“

“You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere,” you continued babbling as if you hadn’t heard him and Steve gulped, feeling his teammates, who still hadn’t called a doctor, what the actual hell- watching you with interest. ”…could bounce a penny off it… no, that ain’t right, a quarter off of it, that’s it… Dream of it sometimes… biting-“

Clint coughed loudly to cover his laughter, finally springing into action after that uncomfortable remark that gave Steve quite a visual he wasn’t sure how he felt about just yet.

“Alright, as amusing as this is, we should get her some medical attention…”

Steve only took his eyes off of you for a moment, shooting Barton a look that screamed ‘You think?!’

“I want to touch it… please lemme touch it—just once,” you pleaded quietly, swaying even in your practically horizontal position, straining your neck to catch a glimpse of the object of your interest. “The best I’ve even seen-“

“I think it’s ethanol she got injected with…” Natasha announced, sniffing the syringe with disgust in her voice. “High concentration.”

And Steve felt like he just got hit by Thor’s hammer… in his head. Seriously?

“…alcohol?” he asked, dumbstruck and utterly relieved, the heavy weight in his stomach lifting a bit. “You think she’s merely… drunk?”

“Well, alcohol straight to the bloodstream is seriously nasty on its own, S-“

“Alcohol nasty, yesss. And this really hurts,” your voice interrupted Natasha and Steve’s heart clenched uncomfortably when the surprised grimace appeared on your face, your eyes indeed clouding in pain, looking up at him, doe-eyed, so vulnerable and trusting.

“Hey, no sad Steeb! Your eyes pretty too. Little pictures you draw… so suuuper cute. I like your hair. You came in the day, wind blew, so messy-- like bed hair, wanna try top that-- I betcha I can do better-“

“Sounds drunk enough to you?” Natasha hummed casually and Steve didn’t even have to look at her to know she was smirking, while he was both fretting over your state and blushing to the roots of his hair because of your blunt compliments and unfiltered fantasies.

You turned your head slowly to Nat as she spoke, a crooked grin curling up your lips. “Hey, you’re pretty too-“

Much to Steve’s annoyance, the Russian spy had the audacity to chuckle and wink at you.

“Why thank you-“

“But prefer blonds,” you babbled again, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “He’s real nice. His biceps are like… huge. Bigger than my head-- ow, my head… spi-spinning- I think-? Whoa— oh… “

Steve called out your name in panic as you went limp in his arms, your body pliant, folding like a house of cards.

“I like her,” Clint noted as he jogged to Steve’s side, kneeling to take your pulse on the unharmed carotid with a furrow to his brows. “The medics are on their way, she’ll hold on until then.”

Steve sighed in relief when Clint nodded in affirmation again, feeling your heart still beating.

Steve’s grip on your tightened, hand sliding behind your head to cradle it gently rather than letting it dangle in such unnatural angle. He manoeuvred it so your cheek rested against his chest, his newly free hand sneaking under your knees so he could lift you with ease as he stood up.

“Nice, Rogers. Keep going like this, squads with weights, and you’ll keep that exceptional ass of yours in shape,” Natasha teased him, but when he turned to glare at her, she gave him a soft smile and beckoned towards your nearly motionless body. “She’ll be okay. Let’s go get her some help.”

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Your head was pounding. The right side of your neck was itchy as hell and felt extremely stiff. The beeping sounding in your ears was a thing from nightmares, echoing in your aching skull.

You felt like shit and honestly, you could cry when you tried to open your eyes and the sharp light hit them, making you swiftly close them again.

A realization slowly crept at you that there was a presence of an intrusive smell too, making you want to puke— or was that just the brutal hangover? Because you felt unbelievably hungover on top of everything. The world seemed to be spinning even behind your closed eyelids and you couldn’t but groan, deciding to only curse the universe mentally since your throat resembled a Sahara Desert.

“Oh, hey gorgeous,” a female voice greeted you from your left and you snapped your eyes open with a startle, staring with shock at the beautiful redhead sitting by your bedside.

For few long seconds, you wondered if you died and went to heaven, because there was a non-descript angelic-like creature watching over you.  You quickly brushed that thought aside, because there was no way Heaven looked like a hospital room and provided you with such shitty sensations attacking your poor body.

So you asked the only logical question, ignoring the dryness of your mouth which soon cause you to cough.

“…who are you?”

A plastic cup with a heavenly cold liquid landed in front of you, the straw sticking from it directed to your lips as the stunning woman frowned discontentedly.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she asked, seemingly hurt. “My heart is breaking! You told me I was pretty.”

You blinked slowly, finally adjusting to the light, finally able to talk without pain (that much pain, that was) and your head started pounding some more, embarrassment filling every fibre of your being.

What the- oh god, you had really got drunk, hadn’t you, and now you had a total blackout on what you had been up to in your questionable state.

“Eeeer… I did? I mean, you are… but-“

“But you prefer blonds, yeah, I know,” the mysterious woman finished your sentence to her liking and your eyes went wide. How did she- and who was she again, sitting in your hospital room like that? Had you really got so smashed that you didn’t remember her when you should have? When had you met? Shit, your mind was so foggy… “And you think Steve’s a bit prettier. And his ass is the best you’ve ever seen, so I get it…”

“The hell?!” you squealed in utter horror, sitting up straight as the words registered, a flash of blue, red and white flickering in the back of your mind, followed by a sharp stung in your temples. A nauseatingly strong pain resembling an intense cramp – only like ten times worse – shot up your neck as you moved so quickly, ripping a startled yelp from your throat.

A hazy image of the café you worked at blended into a picture Steve’s beautiful eyes – did this woman know your regular, your handsome flirty blond regular? –, sensation of gentle hands cradling your jaw, a sting in your neck—

“You need to be careful with how much you move. Your neck took quite a hit, they had to perform a surgery on you, you got a transfusion. They worried about your brain too. They’ve been monitoring you for four days now and this is the first time you’re awake,” your stranger explained patiently, voice full of compassion.

Your hand involuntarily rose to massage the incriminated place, still unsure of what the woman was talking about, the images in your brain confusing the hell out of you. You still had no idea who she was, but her face was starting to feel a bit familiar – you assumed that whatever had happened, she had been there too, possibly helping you.

And there was something in her green eyes, cautious yet somewhat calming, making it easy to trust her for some inexplicable reason.

“Steve’s gonna be pissed at me for missing it,” she added and grinned. “I made him leave to take care of himself before he could actually start taking roots in here. He’s been worried too. A lot.”

The amount of question marks in your head just doubled, but at the same time, your heart fluttered. Steve had visited you? Often, apparently? That was really, really sweet of him. The thought of him guarding you – and didn’t he have a physique of a bodyguard, once mentioning he was in private security when asked –, brought a dreamy smile to your face.

Perhaps it wasn’t only about flirting for him either…?

“Keep looking so lovestruck and I might forgive him that he hasn’t mention you before. Though I guess I can’t blame him, wanting to keep— anyway. I’m Natasha. Nice to meet you,” she extended her hand towards you at last and you automatically accepted it, telling her your name in return.

Even though that was probably beside the point seeing as she had been found at your bedside in a hospital.

“Hi, Natasha. Nice to meet you too… I think.”

The redhead burst out into a quiet laughter at your hesitance. “Fair enough. After Steve comes back and explains what exactly happened – because it’s not quite my place to tell you –, call me back for the good details. It’s fun to make him blush.”

Despite just only having met this woman, you decided that you kinda liked her and nodded in acceptance of her offer. Steve might be sweet – perhaps even sweet on you it seemed – but some harmless teasing could never hurt. Not when it apparently had something to do with his glorious ass.

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Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before injected with the serum or after, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would fight for what mattered.

His teammates and friends certainly fell into the category. The somewhat relationship he had been trying to build with you was right there with them, definitely worth fighting for.

So, after revealing his identity – an action which become inevitable at that point, really – he had a delicate confession to make and a bold question to ask in an almost shy voice. He still asked it, because he would be damned if he gave up on you.

You said yes, your confession about certain harboured feelings matching his.

You said yes, you would like to go out with him very much, because you liked him too.

And no, it wasn’t just because he owned the best backside you had ever seen. Steve Rogers was, according to you, quite memorable and worth fighting for in general too.

(Steve, over time, might have developed a bit of a love-hate relationship with the fact you were getting along with Natasha so well. It was good news and bad news at the same time, seeing as it often resulted in the two of you teaming up against him. Once again, the good news won him over… because he simply loved how easily you fit into his world and how surprisingly well he fit into yours.)

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S.R. masterlist

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Thank you for reading :-*

It’s once a again a bit different from my usual writing; it’s short (like wtf me? short?) and it’s with a quote that is hard to do justice to... so I hope you liked it at leats a bit. Feedback always appreciated :-*

[josephslittledeputy]

OC Profile

Tagged by @yeetslovescheese thank you so muuuch! I’ve been wanting to do this for my Captain in New Dawn :) 

Tagging @havingsomemorejohnlarks​ (if you want of course) and anyone else who wants to jump on the bandwagon! 

(Doing this for after the end of New Dawn*)

GENERAL

Name: Sultana Garcia

Alias(es): Sunny, Captain, Cap, Rabbit, and Lollipop

Gender: Female; She/They

Age: 25

Birthdate: April 4, 2010

Place of Birth: Ojai, California (Home birth babyyy)

Hometown: Ojai

Spoken languages: English and some Spanish, though after being stuck in a bunker for half of her childhood she naturally forgets most of it

Sexual Preference: Bisexual

Occupation: Sunny used to be the Captain of Security for Thomas Rush. After the whole thing with the Twins and Ethan however, she takes over the Highwaymen

APPEARANCE

Eye Color: One green and one blue, also when the power of Eden’s gift triggers her eyes gain a faint glow

Hair Color: Red, though originally it’s a more natural red, but Sunny just loves the way dye can make her hair pop with color

Height: 5'6"

Scars: Uhhh where to begin? She’s littered with various scars from being on her own in the apocalyptic wasteland of California (before Rush saved her that is), and she only collects more as time goes on. Her most noticeable one is the one marring half of her face

FAVOURITE

Color: R E D, this bish loves red so much I swear

Hair Color: She’s impartial, but blonde does catch her eye

Eye Color: No preference

Song: Anything on the Highwaymen radio, honestly who gave them the right to have so many bangers on there? Also she’s quite fond of the Die Antwoord tracks that come on as they’re so obnoxious and make her wanna go feral and do some chaotic shit

Food: Anything Kim cooks at Prosperity, she’s never truly had good cooking until she came to Hope County (Okay so Rush can cook, but the way Kim seasons her food is so much different from Rush’s, even if shes grateful for anything that isn’t in a can or past its expo date)

Non-Alcoholic Drink: Listen, she’d genuinely take someone down for some damn juice, as it’s a luxury in the apocalypse

Alcoholic Drink: Do shots of ethanol with Sharky count? Other than that she isn’t much of a drinker

HAVE THEY..

Passed University: Is that a joke? Sunny hardly remembers much about the world before the apocalypse (even if she was 8 at the time it happened), so anytime someone talks about something like this, it only confuses her. She definitely makes old man jokes to Rush whenever he brings up his time in university

Had Sex: Absolutely

Had Sex In Public: I mean... when in an apocalypse, am I right?

Gotten Pregnant: Definitely not, honestly Sunny isn’t sure what to do with babies. Why do they have a soft spot? Is it a secret button to activate their sleeping ninja powers? At least that’s what Sharky told her about Blade... She shouldn’t believe him, should she...

Kissed a Boy: Yes

Kissed a Girl: Not before coming to Hope County, but that sure changes with the Twins lollll

Gotten Tattoos: I don’t think there is literally an inch of skin that isn’t covered in a tattoo? If there is, Sunny’s quick to cover it. The only thing she regrets is running out of room lol

Gotten Piercings: Septum, snake bites, earring on the left side,  

Been in love: absolutely

Stayed up for more than 24 hours: One time for a dare, but she regretted it the second the sun came up as her parents were dragging her to some fancy ceremony where she definitely, may or may not, have passed out directly on a designer cake.... She didn’t hear the end of that one for quite a while

ARE THEY…

A Virgin: No

A Cuddler: Yes, definitely. She’s more like a cat that will go and lay on you...

A Kisser: Sometimes

Scared Easily: Only when she’s lost deep in thought, most of the time Sunny’s the one doing the scaring

Jealous Easily: Honestly, hardly. It’s not that she doesn’t get jealous, but mostly she has better things to do that don’t involve feelings that cloud her judgement

Trustworthy: It really depends on who you are

Dominant: This bish will peg your ass to death, okey

Submissive: Pretty much never, with the exception of when she’s with Lou... But she definitely loves to provoke her before giving in

In Love: Well she was having lots of feelings for Rush she’d yet to tell him, when a certain pair of twins had to go and ruin that

Single: Well, yes and no? Sunny and the Twins have a very... very complicated relationship 

RANDOM QUESTIONS (Tw: self harm/suicide mention)

Have They Harmed Themselves: Certainly not intentionally! Definitely by accident though, doing something stupid of course

Have They Thought About Suicide: No, surprisingly

Have They Attempted Suicide: Also no

Wanted To Kill Someone: Oh god yeah, this is an apocalypse after all. Though she’s never felt that urge stronger than after watching Rush get shot..

Have/Had A Job: Used to be Captain of Security now she runs the Highwaymen

Have Any Fear(s): After so many years in an apocalypse, Sunny has little to be afraid of. Though the one thing she feared most was losing Rush, and yeah... we all know how that goes

FAMILY

Siblings: Only child, much to her dismay

Parents: Cheryl and Antonio Garcia

Children: None, never ever (Okay, does Mila count? She’s not Sunny’s but still the Cap’s protective of her anyway)

Significant Other: Rush before the whole thing happened, then sort of Lou? Again really complicated...

Pets: Timber and Horatio! That’s her babies right there, they’re both such goofballs  and if anyone even thinks of eating them she’d take their eye out with a fork ^-^

[7-wonders]

The Thrill of the Chase

Summary: Your path once again crosses with Michael’s, this time under much more dire circumstances. Life and death, specifically yours, has suddenly never been more prevalent in your mind.

Word Count: 2602

A/N: Hey y’all, this takes place after Lost In the Shadows! We’ve been talking a lot of True Blood on here lately, and when I wrote this sort of situation with Eric Northman, somebody said they could imagine this with Michael. Hence, this new work. I hope you enjoy, and please remember that likes, comments, and reblogs are what makes my world go round.

In the weeks since you had discovered that vampires are not just a myth written about in romantic novels and scary stories, and that your boss, Michael Langdon, was the first vampire and the Antichrist, life had been quieter than you were expecting. After luring Michael to your lab and forcing him to tell you about vampires, you had thought that he was going to make you go missing or force you to swear that you would remain silent. To your surprise, however, he gave you space. You had seen him multiple times since the incident had occurred, but every time he kept his distance, choosing to greet you with a simple smile before moving on to whatever a vampire CEO needs to do. 

Maybe this is some predatory habit of vampires, where they bait their prey before backing off and driving them mad with anticipation before striking. If it is, you would rather Michael get whatever he’s planning over with. This wait, whether it be for something or nothing, is starting to affect your work.

Speaking of work, it’s then that you shake yourself out of your thoughts and realize nearly an hour has passed since the typical work day ends. You sigh, running a hand through your hair and looking disdainfully at the paperwork that still litters your desk. Some days, being head of R&D has its perks. Others, when you have to sift through hundreds of funding requests from developers just as idiotic as Jeff and Mutt, make you want to walk out and never come back. You doubt you’d find a job with health insurance as good as Kineros’s, though.

Deciding that a walk to clear your head will do you some good, you stand and relish in the popping noise that your shoulders make when you stretch. The building’s your favorite when it’s almost completely empty, the comforting silence a perfect work environment. Greeting one of the custodians as she mops the hall in the direction away from your lab/office, you decide to walk downstairs to give her uninterrupted time to clean without you getting in the way. 

Eventually, and like always, you end up down at the main lab that Jeff and Mutt inhabit. You’ve made it a habit to come and check that everything is turned off and put back where it’s supposed to be, not trusting two men constantly high on cocaine to properly dispose of used chemicals and turn off the power source to loose wires. After getting on them numerous times about proper lab etiquette, they’ve actually become quite vigilant. Tonight, however, you can already see a bunsen burner that looks like it’s still on. While concerning, it’s not a disastrous situation. It’s not, at least, until you turn the light on and notice the ethanol-soaked rag right next to the open gas source.

That’s when the explosion happens.

It’s a perfect storm, with a combustible chemical having had plenty of time to oxidize next to a natural gas source. The heat emanating from the fluorescent lights that you turn on act as the catalyst, and you only have time to cover your eyes as the light from the rapidly-expanding flame warns you milliseconds before the explosion reaches your ears. The sheer force of velocity is enough to throw you across the room, with the all-glass interior proving no match as every surface shatters. Everything is happening so fast, yet it seems as though it’s in slow motion, an out of body experience in which you’re a passive observer watching what’s happening to you. Maybe you are having an out of body experience, since the bouncing of your head against the wall is something that you’re pretty sure knocks you out.

It’s unclear how much time has passed when you hear a voice calling your name. Long enough that the flames have started smoldering under the water of the fire alarms. You blink rapidly, trying to get your eyes to focus again. Finally, Michael Langdon comes into view. If you weren’t in a state of shock, you’d be mildly upset that of course the vampire whom you threatened last week is the one to come upon you in a state of mortal peril. Since you are dealing with a bit of shock, you can only stare at him in disbelief.

“(Y/N), can you hear me?” You nod. “What happened?”

“Cokeheads...chemicals...bunsen burner…” Damn, that sounded way more eloquent in your head. Your inability to string together a full sentence means a concussion is almost certain.

“Those fucking imbeciles,” Michael says lowly, eyes scanning you to catalogue the extent of your injuries. His eyes are dark red with veins extending to his cheeks, startling you just as much as the previous time you saw this side of him. What startles you even more is just how easily he bites into his own wrist to let blood flow, holding it out to you expectantly.

“No, I don’t wanna be a vampire.” You try to move away from Michael, but you’re in too much pain for even that.

Although your words come out slurred and confused, Michael still understands you. “You won’t, I promise. It’s a very specific ritual, and there’s not even a chance of you becoming a vampire from this. Please, just take my blood and let me heal you.”

Later, you’ll wonder if Michael had done some sort of vampire mind trick on you. That’s the only way you can justify taking his blood with so little hesitation. Regardless of the reasons why, the earnesty in his voice tells you that he’s being truthful.

Michael leans over you, slipping a hand around the back of your neck to help you up as you lower your mouth to the open wound on his wrist. While you grimace at the metallic taste when Michael’s blood first pools in your mouth, the taste changes to something much more pleasant. It’s like a new cocktail that you get at a bar; you’re not too sure of whether or not you like it, but you know that it tastes good.

By the time you notice that your head feels clearer, Michael’s deemed that you’re fully healed. To your muted horror, you realize that you don’t want to pull away, but Michael gently forces you off of him. His inquisitive eyes look you over once more, and he uses his thumb to wipe stray blood off of your lips.

“You healed me. Why?” Your head is reeling with how fast events have been moving in the span of just a few minutes, yet the one clear question you have is why Michael healed you when he could have just as easily killed you.

“Why not?”

“Well...because…”

“Are you feeling better?” Michael decides to take pity on your bewilderment, switching the subject. 

“Oh!” Now that he mentions it, you do feel better. You can think in full sentences now, and the dull ache in your head has disappeared. While you hadn’t seen any cuts on your body, the thin lines of blood left behind on your arms prove that there were wounds from the broken glass. “I am, actually.”

“You sound surprised. Did you not think that it would work?”

Laughing sheepishly, you shrug. “I mean, not really.”

You look around, just now seeing the destruction around you. “You think Jeff and Mutt have insurance that covers gross negligence?”

“Oh, they’ll be paying for this out of their own pockets. They’re lucky that I won’t have them criminally charged for any of this.” Sirens sound in the distance, and Michael pulls you up from out of the rubble. “Come, the authorities will be here soon.”

“Wait!” Michael allows you to pull him to a stop. “What do I even tell the police? I’m sure there’s security footage of me getting knocked out.”

“Conveniently, the cameras were knocked out due to the explosion.” Michael winks at you before disappearing like he was never at the scene, leaving you to stand among the carnage as authorities swarm what was once a laboratory.

//

It’s light out when you wake up after your whirlwind night, which is what you first recognize as odd. When you arrived home last night, you don’t remember falling asleep. The next thing that can be categorized as odd is the tall, blond vampiric Antichrist standing in the middle of your bedroom. You scramble up on the bed with a surprised gasp, pulling your blankets up to your chin and staring at Michael’s smirking face.

“What--how are you here? I never invited you in.”

“A common misconception about vampires.” Michael slowly approaches the bed, his languid movements reminding you of the predator that he is.

“But what about the fact that it’s light out? Shouldn’t you be a pile of ash right now?”

“I am not the final word of vampire lore.” He kind of is, and you would retort with that, if it weren’t for the way he crawls towards you. “Your heart is beating very fast.”

“That’s because I’m not sure if you’re gonna eat me.”

“Potentially, but not in the way that you’re thinking.” If Michael couldn’t hear your heart beating before, he surely can now, especially once he leans in and kisses you.

You’ve been kissed before, enough times that you would consider yourself pretty knowledgeable about the subject. If you know a bit about kissing, then Michael Langdon is an expert on it. He manages to be sensual, yet rough at the same time, a fang nicking your bottom lip and making you shudder in surprise. Just as quickly as the droplet of blood can bead up to the surface, Michael’s licked it away, moaning at the taste of your blood.

“I don’t know how I’ve managed to go so long between tasting you,” Michael mutters against your skin, using his skill to quickly remove the shirt that you had been sleeping in.

You’re not self-conscious at Michael seeing you topless, which is unusual for you. Maybe it’s just because he knows how to treat a person right, but it’s impossible to even have those thoughts when the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen is currently kissing his way down your abdomen. Michael’s fingers ghost over the top of your pants, and you thread your fingers through his hair in response. Then, there’s a loud knock on the door.

Sitting up in bed, you’re disoriented when you realize that it’s not light out, and you don’t have a gorgeous blond vampire on top of you. Somebody knocks on the door again, and you realize that must be what woke you up from your extremely vivid, extremely wonderful dream.

“I’m coming,” you say in the loudest voice you can muster, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders to combat the cold air that the open door will let in. “Michael!”

Either this is the weirdest inception-like dream you’ve ever had, or the man you were just having a sex dream about is standing at your door. “Hello, (Y/N). I hope you won’t be too upset that I woke you at this hour.”

“Uh, you’re fine.” You open the door wider to allow Michael to enter, but he just continues to stand in the same spot. “Do I...have to invite you in? Like, is that a real thing with vampires?”

“No, I just prefer to be polite and not barge into somebody’s home without their permission.” You smirk. Of course that myth would come from the overly-polite Antichrist.

“Come in, Michael.”

“Thank you.” He steps in, quickly appraising the entryway of your apartment with the detached air of someone who’s been in homes much grander than this (he probably has; you’ve seen a couple of portraits of the French court at Versailles with a blond lord who looks suspiciously like Michael). “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“That would be a question I have.”

“Well, I realized that I had forgotten to mention something about taking vampire blood when injured.”

“And you couldn’t wait until the next time that you saw me to tell me this? Wait, how did you even find my address?”

“I’m the CEO, I have everybody’s records.”

“So, what did you have to tell me?”

“I’m assuming, since you were asleep, that you had a pretty...imaginative dream about me?”

The blood drains from your face. “How did you know about that?”

“I was so wrapped up in saving you, and the commotion that followed, that I didn’t get to tell you that a human drinking a vampire’s blood bonds them to that vampire.”

“What does that mean?” you ask incredulously.

“What it means,” Michael explains patiently, “is that certain things are going to happen to you now that you have a vampire’s blood in your system. Your senses will be enhanced, you’ll have heightened strength…”

“And the dreams?”

“As I said before, drinking a vampire’s blood bonds a human to that vampire. Until my blood is out of your system, I’ll be able to sense if you’re in trouble and your emotions. It can also give you erotic dreams about the vampire whose blood you’ve consumed.”

You groan, dismay evident on your face. “Great, that’s just--fantastic. So when does it stop?”

“A couple of months? Blood doesn’t cycle through the body very fast.”

“You’re kidding me,” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

“I don’t see what’s funny about this.”

“My entire life since I’ve met you has been fucking hilarious! And now I’m apparently bonded to you because you just happened to cross my path when I was mortally wounded.”

Michael glowers at you. “I didn’t have to save your life, you know.”

“Yet you did, all the while knowing what would happen when I took your blood.” You want to say all the things you’re thinking of, like how you still would have survived out of sheer hatred for him even if you did have to wait for the ambulance to arrive (which they had, clearing you after you had explained to the very confused EMTs that you hadn’t been in the lab when the explosion happened, just right outside of it; they had accepted your lie, albeit dubiously upon seeing the devastation that wrecked the first floor of Kineros), but all you can think about are his goddamn beautiful lips and how badly you want to kiss them. “Fuck, I can’t even focus on being mad at you because of the urge to kiss your stupidly perfect face!”

The anger Michael was previously feeling evaporates as he fights the upward quirk that his lips threaten to take. “We certainly can kiss, if that’s what you’d like.”

“It’s not what I’d like! It’s that stupid bond you were talking about.”

“Maybe just once will help to quell any future urges you may have?” 

You’re not sure if you want to smack the cocky grin off his face or jump on him, so you settle for pointing to the front door. “Out.”

“Alright, but just remember that the offer still stands.” He produces a business card between his long, ringed fingers, and you snatch it out of his hand while still glaring at him. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

You slam the door behind him, leaning against it to help your shaky knees. Michael’s laughter is still on the air long after he’s left, and you sigh as you wonder how on earth you’re going to get to sleep...especially when you realize that you won’t be able to take care of your little problem without Michael knowing. That laughter suddenly seems a lot louder now.

//

Baby tag list bc I’m lazy: @moonanonwriting​ @lvngdvns​ @wroteclassicaly​ @sojournmichael​ @chibi-lioness​ @ccodyfern​ @trelaney​ @xavierplympton​ @dyns33​ @michaelsapostle​ @ajokeformur-ray​

[herding-octokittens]

Six Notable Attempts at Baking the Best Cookies Ever

Three updates in three days???? 

@mechanismszine I’m only like nine days late for this one! And more are coming!

AO3

(I totally restructured my entire ao3 organization because of an adhd/caffeine fueled breakdown, so please be patient with me)

The Toy Soldier had a mission.

It was a mission of it’s own choosing. There were no orders associated with this mission, no strings attached or people to please. In all of it’s maybe-existence, this was the first time the Toy Soldier could recall having a mission like that.

It liked the feeling, it thought.

The mission was simple enough in theory, but it had been years now and the Toy Soldier had yet to succeed. It was determined, with all of it’s wooden heart, to make the best damn cookies, ever.

The criteria for what made a cookie the best possible cookie were quite simple. If all of the Mechanisms liked the cookie, it had no option but to be the best. The Toy Soldier’s friends had such differing tastes that if it could make a cookie all of them liked, it had to be good. No, not good. Perfect.

~~~

Re-sequenced spinach cookies had been the first attempt.

According to Nastya, the octokittens liked the re-sequenced spinach. The octokittens were known to eat anything and everything they were fed, but the Toy Soldier decided that would be as good a place as any to start. It found an old recipe book in a back corner of Ivy’s library, and found a sugar cookie recipe that seemed simple enough. To make sure there was enough re-sequenced spinach to be noticeable, the Toy Soldier decided to replace all the sugar in the recipe with powdered re-sequenced spinach.

The cookies glowed when they were done, but so did half of them food on the Aurora on any given day, so the Toy Soldier figured they were fine. When it finally found the rest of the Mechanisms and offered the batch to them, only Raphaella agreed to try one. She seemed rather pleased with the result even if it wasn’t as sweet as she was expecting, but she also died seven seconds after declaring so.

As far as the Toy Soldier knew, that was not normal for cookies.

~~~

Gunpowder cookies had been the second attempt.

Gunpowder was most definitely not fit for human consumption, but neither were gasoline and ethanol and Ashes drank both of those on a semi-regular basis. And the Toy Soldier knew that Gunpowder Tim very much liked gunpowder and other explosives. It extrapolated that he would probably enjoy a cookie that tasted like one of his bombs.

The sugar cookie recipe still seemed like a good starting point, and given what little feedback Raphaella had provided, it decided to leave the sugar in as directed. Instead, it replaced the flour with the gunpowder. There were so many white powders required for cookies, removing one seemed like it would be fine.

Tim had taken one look at the cookies, and walked away without a word. The Toy Soldier thought that was probably very rude, but given that half of the cookies had exploded in the oven and the other half made rather interesting clunking noises when dropped, perhaps not.

~~~

Chocolate chip cookies had been the third attempt.

The Toy Soldier had entered the kitchen on the fourth day in a row (the third day had resulted in a failure that need not be discussed) to find Marius already waiting for it. He was sitting on the counter, flipping through it’s recipe book, humming thoughtfully.

“Hello Marius, Old Chap!”

“Oh, Toy, you’re here, good.”

“You Have My Recipe Book!”

“I do, yeah. I thought I might make a request.”

“Do You Have A Favorite Type Of Cookie? I Can Make It For You!”

“Yes! Well, no, but I might!” Marius hopped off the counter and set the book down, open to a page near the back.

“I Don’t Understand!” the Toy Soldier said, walking over to look at the book over Marius’s shoulder.

“I’ve never actually tried a chocolate chip cookie, but I’ve wanted one for a long time.”

“Oh! That Sounds Like A Very Good Idea Indeed!” The Toy Soldier declared, immediately moving to collect the ingredients. “Do You Have A Specific Flavor You Wanted? Raphaella Says That Re-Sequenced Spinach Cookies Tasted Very Good, And I Imagine Chocolate Would Just Make It Better!”

“Um, just chocolate. You don’t need to add anything else,” Marius said. The Toy Soldier thought he seemed very unsure of himself. “Sometimes, simple flavors work best.”

“Well That Is A Lovely Idea! I Will Make You Plain Chocolate Chip Cookies!”

The cookies had actually turned out very well, it thought. None of them glowed. None of them exploded. None of them melted in it’s hands.

By the time the Toy Soldier had found the rest of the crew and gathered them in the kitchen to try it’s latest attempt, the octokittens had eaten all the cookies that Marius hadn’t. Surprisingly, none of the Mechanisms were disappointed.

~~~

Snickerdoodles had been the fourth attempt.

This attempt was shortly curtailed when the Toy Soldier discovered that there was absolutely no cinnamon anywhere on the Aurora, and there were no planets within eighty five light years that grew cinnamon trees.

According to Ashes, the cinnamon-free cookie dough was still rather tasty, but this only came to light a week after the Toy Soldier had scrapped that attempt and obliterated the dough with obscene amounts of fire. It wasn’t sure what cookie dough Ashes was referring to, but it was somewhat hesitant to ask.

~~~

Peanut butter cookies had been the fifth attempt.

The Toy Soldier was quick to learn that Jonny was quite allergic to peanuts, a fact none of the crew had ever before had reason to discover.

For once, the Toy Soldier thought Jonny had a legitimate reason to attempt to throw it out of the airlock. The problem with Jonny’s revenge attempts was that Jonny couldn’t get within ten meters of the kitchen or the Toy Soldier without going into anaphylactic shock and choking to death.

After a week of distanced rage and declarations of murderous violence, Jonny and the Toy Soldier came to a hesitant truce that involved a very purposeful lack of both airlocks and peanut butter.

~~~

The Toy Soldier was on the verge of giving up.

This was a mission it had given itself. There had never been any orders for it to obey, so it could choose to stop at any time. It knew this. It wanted to stop, but it was this far in. It couldn’t stop now. It was so close! It just needed to try one more recipe, and then everyone would love the cookies and it would have made the perfect cookies and made everyone happy.

Hoisting itself to it’s feet, it spun towards the mixing bowls and came face to face with Ivy, Marius, Raphaella, and Ashes.

“Oh, Hello Friends,” it said, moving around them to get to the counter and begin spreading out the ingredients. “How Are You All Doing?”

“We’re good, Toy Soldier. How are you?” It was Marius who responded, voice hesitant.

“Oh Jolly Good, Jolly Good.” There was a brief, whispered discussion from behind it, before Marius stepped forward into it’s peripheral vision.

“Really? Because it kinda sounds like you’re, you know, not so good.”

“No, I’m Perfectly Fine, Marius.”

“Toy,” Marius spoke gently, bringing his hand up to it’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

It paused for a moment, thinking. Something was most definitely wrong, it now realized. It just didn’t know how to explain.

“What Type Of Cookies Do You Like?”

“Toy, that’s really not what we’re talking about,” Raphaella said, stepping up to it’s other side.

“I Know, Raphaella. But I Want To Make You All The Perfect Cookies. I’m So Close To Figuring It Out, I Just Need To Make The One More Batch!” It tried to put on a smile, but despite the permanent one painted on it’s face, it could tell the attempt fell flat.

“Why don’t we help you?” This time it was Ivy who spoke. “I don’t have much baking experience myself, but I know every recipe from every planet we’ve ever visited.”

“I’m really good with an oven,” Ashes added. “I even know how to not blow them up!”

“And I’m pretty good with chemistry. That’s all baking is, when it comes down to it,” Raphaella said with a smile.

“It’s really not, Raph, but that’s what I can be here for,” Marius laughed. “So what do you say, Toy? May we join you?”

This time, the Toy Soldier’s smile was much more genuine, and it nodded.

At some point, Jonny and Nastya entered the kitchen, and ended up making a batch of frosting based on an old Cyberian recipe. Brian wandered in just as the first batch was ready, and ended up being the only one who wanted to take them out of the oven. The Toy Soldier was intrigued by the fact that cookies needed to be removed right at the timer. Waiting until the oven cooled down was evidently not right, and explained many of it’s previously burned batches. It resolved to buy oven mitts the next time they touched down. Tim claimed he could smell them from across the ship, and showed up just in time to get involved in a rather vicious frosting war. 

At long last, the cookies were ready.

The Toy Soldier could say with absolute certainty that they were the best damn cookies. Ever.

[sanders-sides-fic]

There is no nice deathworlders! (Right?) [Chapter 1]

AU-Masterpost: here

ZH-8 was a horrible planet. It had terrible weather that affected spaceships even far above the thick atmosphere. There were lots of poisonous plants here, too. One wrong move and your legs would be covered in ethanol. Really, no one wanted to be stranded on ZH-8.

Somehow they had managed to get just there, though. And, even worse, seperated from each other.

Patton, a sylemn with bright blue wings and cream colored feathers, had been stranded on what looked like a beach. He made sure not to touch the clear water-like substance, though. Logan had informed him multiple times that a lot of planets had salt mixed in to some of the water on the floor. It wasn’t safe to touch.

As much as Patton wanted to get away entirely from the beach and find his friends, though, he was stuck. He could barely even feel his right wing and his left leg was at least severely twisted. Enough to make standing up hurt too much to try and find anyone. But how long would he last like this? Surely there were some flesh-eating animals here and they probably didn’t get easier pray than him, all helpless and vulnerable right now. Patton shivered at the very thought.

On the planet his species originated from there were no such things as animals that ate other living things with faces and such. They had all been living off of plants and minerals. Surely that had to be one of the reasons his species was supposed to be so incredibly soft when it came to handling other species. He was usually pretty proud of this, but in his current situation he couldn’t help but wish for the aggressiveness of his proud creathen friends. Roman and Remus surely wouldn’t be devoured without a fight. No matter where they were.

One of said creathen was currently trying not to leave their body to his twin. Remus screamed at Roman, a demonic screech that chilled the older creath down to his bone. He still wouldn’t let Remus have control, though.

»You know, if you want to go destroy everything around here, great. But you’re gonna hurt yourself and than I’ll be hurt too. So stop whining and let me get a grip on the situation, will you?«, he tried to convince his feral counter part.

Remus’ laughter echoed through their skull. »Oh? Think you can do this on your own? I’m the only one around, RoRo~«, he sung.

Damn that green demon of a creath! He was right. Roman sighed. »Alright. I’ll probably regret this, but… Shared body? Because if you think I’ll grant you full control you are delirious!«

»Aw, Roman! I’m touched you wanna share the time, but whatever do you mean delirious? I’m perfectly capable of handling ourself!«

»Don’t even try. I am still very much aware of the last time I made that mistake. I’m not letting you do that so soon.« After this comment Remus was quiet for a little while, until a sigh filled the silence in their mind again. Remus made a sound of agreement at last and Roman sighed in relief of his brother agreeing to compromise. Perhaps he’d actually been sorry of the thing he did back then.

A soft glow grew around them for a few moments as the body adapted to the change inside. In their shared form Roman and Remus had obsidian black skin, with crimson scales growing diagonally across their chest. Their horns were golden and the claws were silver. And they did not have that hideous, green scar over their mouth, as Roman was relieved to know every single time. As much as Remus loved that scar, Roman hated it.

The body let out a heavy sigh. “Argh! Finally! Freedom!”, Remus screamed in full volume. He then shook his head. “You have no idea just how cramped it gets inside the mind after a few days! Urgh, no wonder I go crazy every time~”

Roman laughed inside their mind as he let Remus start to walk around, searching for the other two. “I know what you are playing at and I will not give you more time in control, brother. By now I am immune against your guilt-tripping.” And with that the bickering started.

Maybe they were too immersed in their conversation, but they didn’t notice the other person observing them. What the hell? That thing right there looked like it was an creathen, but he was talking with himself! An entire conversation. Virgil had seen many of them being slaughtered and had done so with a hand full himself if he couldn’t help it. But never before had he seen one of them talking with himself like that. Sure, he had seen the so called twin-souled alien change from the peaceful version into the feral one, had known that they lived with two people charing the body in a way that reminded him of what he’d heard about multiple personalities. But actually seeing one - or two? - engaging in a conversation outside of their head? For everyone to hear?

Then again, Virgil didn’t have much experience with non-threatened aliens, not even at this point. He had been here for months now, maybe even years. He’d lost his sense of time. All he knew was that he had lost Janus and he was supposed to be somewhere around here. Maybe Janus would know how long ago they’d meet and made a run for it? Did it even matter?

Anyways.

The point was that Virgil, as a human, hadn’t gotten to know any aliens. Only when they didn’t know who, or rather what he was, had they ever been somewhat calm around him. However, the hight that was usual for humans seemed to be uncanny for other aliens, so they always felt somewhat intimidated by him. And interactions had either been short in order to avoid being found out or with an alien that was certain he was going for the kill or something worse any minute now.

Vigil knew it was rude to stare. Still, he was kind of intrigued by the creathen trying to get along with themselves while searching for something. He should know what they were doing here, too. After all, what if they would appear to be a threat? What if they’d heard the rumors as well and wanted to hunt Janus down? What if- What if he was overthinking again? Virgil sighed quietly. He would still observe and make sure that the two-for-one-alien-deal over there was safe.

It was night wherever they were located on ZH-8 and Virgil knew that most aliens had terrible night vision. Like, absolutely horrendous night vision. They were almost blind once the sun set. Some barely had any adjustment capabilities, but most weren’t able to adjust to lightning at all. The pupils had one setting and that was day-light. It was unnerving, really, because they most likely would still end up having an iris anyways. And from a previous… “chat” with a creath had proved that they were no exception from this. So the alien over there probably couldn’t see him, even though the tree-like plant he was hiding behind was about was thick as three apples next to each other. It had a similar rounded-triangle shape as well. Virgil tried not to think about what the hell this plant was.

But it also meant, Virgil realized a little too late in utter horror, that the creathen didn’t notice the edge they were walking towards. Not until the slipped with a terrified scream, that lead to a sickening thud, which in turn lead to deafening silence.

There was no sound. None at all, not even leaves rustling in the wind. The air barely circulated here. Virgil waited and waited and waited in the silence of the absence of the alien. Nothing. Nothing at all. After what felt like an eternity, he gulped down his remaining shock and slowly walked towards the edge himself. Maybe this was a trick? Maybe the creathen had noticed him? Maybe they hadn’t been alone after all? Maybe… Maybe there was anything happening here but them having died because Virgil hadn’t warned them?

But nothing happened. And when Virgil took a look down, the creathen lay there, motionless. But the scales were still red and the horns and claws still not white. That was all that mattered, really, because it meant that the creathen was unconscious, but not dead. It wasn’t too late yet! He could safe them.

But… Should he? The creathen would probably freak once he woke up next to a human. And Virgil couldn’t afford being attacked and/or killed. He was kind of in the middle of finding and saving his best friend here. On the other hand, if he didn’t help with those wounds, the creathen would die. Only a fatal wound could make both halves of the alien pass out at the same time. Well, that and sleep, but the second option appeared to be kind of unlikely in this situation.

With a groan Virgil turned around and started to climb down carefully. It wasn’t high - only about six and a half feet - but enough to break a bone. And enough to be fatal for the presumably ten inches shorter creature with the less sturdy body. So he hurried. A big mistake when you were climbing down unknown mud-walls.

Suddenly, Virgil lost his grip and was sent falling down. He could feel the pain of a scrap on his hand and shortly after the sensation of the air being knocked out of him. Shit! Why didn’t his muscles work?! Why couldn’t he get any air in?! He was suffocating! He was definitely dying here and then janus would think that he had abandoned him and the creathen would think he had tried to kill them and the creathen’s friends would think so too when they would finde the inevitably dying creathen and-

Oh.

Just as suddenly as he had lost the air, it returned back into his lunges. As he coughed, Virgil decided not to question why that had happened for once and just be grateful it did. It took a lot of time for him to get rid of the black dots in his vision, but when he finally had…

There was a storm brewing. Unmistakably a storm, those clouds looked the same on every planet. And he was hurt and had to help this also hurt creathen here. It was just one thing after the other today, wasn’t it? He sighed, heaving the heavy creature in his arms as he started to walk in the direction of the hills a little further away, hoping to find shelter there and grumbled unhappily as he did so: “If you attack me when you wake up, I’ll give you hell, little creathen.”

What Virgil didn’t notice was the single, red scale that had come loose when the creathen had lost balance. He didn’t notice how it lay there, on top of the muddy edge, painfully obvious. And he surely didn’t notice how another alien found it long after he had carried the creathen away. That also meant he couldn’t see the desperately hopeful look in his eyes at the life sign of his creathen friends.

[haberdashing]

No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (16/17)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Not everything, though, went smoothly after that point, and not just because Jon was still trapped in his own body, unable to act of his own accord. There were incidents that reminded him of the true gravity of the situation, how one wrong move could lead to consequences much graver than his current imprisonment.

The first incident started with Jonah Magnus writing something down, though Jon hadn’t thought much of it at first; he’d peeked at a few words during the writing, as it wasn’t as if he could look away, but upon grasping that it looked to be a missive every bit as pretentious as he would have expected from Jonah, Jon let his mind wander, focused more on how Jonah Magnus’ handwriting both did and did not resemble his own (it was formal-looking handwriting, filled with dramatic loops and whorls, but still slightly different than what he’d seen Elias write before) than the actual contents of what was being written. Whether it was some sort of bragging or a suicide note or somewhere in between, Jon figured that what mattered was the action that accompanied it, not the letter itself.

Jon had barely noticed that said letter was still in his pocket as the day went on, and as his body entered the bathroom, his mind was more preoccupied with Knowing the sort of thing Daisy had used that bathtub to clean up and how inadequate her cleaning efforts really were on a biological level than with how Jonah had preoccupied himself writing something earlier in the day.

Jon only focused again on the scene in front of him when, after locking the door behind them, Jonah took out the letter and thrust it in his face while making no effort to actually attend to business there.

Read this, Jon.

Jon hadn’t planned on doing so any more than he had when the same words had been in front of him before, but his eyes instinctively looked to the top of the page--and, Jon noticed, his field of vision moved with them, his head tilting ever so slightly upwards.

He could move again, then--and yet, though he hadn’t planned to read whatever Jonah had written out loud, his voice rose to do just that, its tone calm and clinical even as Jon’s hands shook.

“Stateme-”

Jon closed his eyes, closed his mouth, gritted his teeth together to stop the words from flowing up, because he recognized the pattern now. He recognized the pattern, but he’d read just enough before to know that what Jonah wanted to share with him wasn’t a statement--not a regular one, at least, not some brief anecdote about the supernatural. It was... bigger than that. It was something more.

It was, at any rate, very much not something Jon wanted to read out loud, especially after being prompted to by his captor.

(The phrase Free will is a funny old thing, isn’t it Jon? floated into Jon’s head, and he felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of it.)

Part of him wanted to read it, though, and not just the part of him that was starting to feel resigned to whatever it was Jonah had planned for his captivity here. Part of him wanted to see what Jonah thought was so important, wanted to learn why he’d requested that Jon read it, wanted to know what this was all about, wanted to Know-

Jon pulled his hands into fists, crinkling the paper in the process.

It wasn’t a statement. That was what mattered here, right? He could feed off statements, but if this wasn’t one--and it didn’t look the part, exactly, scrawled hastily onto paper that wasn’t even official Institute stock--then that didn’t matter. If he could- could justify in his mind it being something else, that would change things, right? Dream logic, and all that?

It wasn’t a statement. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it be.

Jon hadn’t noticed that he was hyperventilating until his vision began to dim.

Do calm down, Jon. Panicking won’t get you anywhere.

“I’m not going to- to calm down!” Now Jon’s voice shook as much as his hands, but there was a strange sort of comfort to that, to knowing that his voice was his own again, panic and all. “If anything, maybe I’ll just panic louder. Martin’s out there, you know, he’ll-”

He’ll what? Think that I’m throwing a hissy fit and do his best to ignore it? Or did you think he would somehow know better?

“I...” Jon reached for the door, but as he went to unlock it he felt his body freeze up on him again, watched Jonah Magnus back away from the door and into the filthy bathtub--Jon noticed, distantly, that he could tell when his body was his own again because the shaking started up as soon as he regained control.

There was a tape recorder on the bathroom sink now, one that definitely had not been there when Jon entered the room.

Jon’s skin was crawling as he planned his next move.

“I’m not reading this.” Jon tried to sound more sure of that than he felt.

Then we’ll see how long you last in here. There’s plenty of fresh water, so it could be weeks before you succumb to hunger. Do you really think your curiosity can stay sated for that long?

“That’s your master plan? Lock me in a bathroom and hope I get bored before I die?” Jon raised his voice as he spoke, hoping that Martin might be able to overhear, might be able to put together the pieces--the mental image of Martin kicking in the door suddenly popped into Jon’s mind, and he did his best to focus on that.

You might get bored. You will get hungry. One way or another.

Jon let out a long sigh, then ran for the bathroom door, willing to fling himself into it if that was easier than unlocking the damn thing, only to have his body forced back again before he could make contact.

Don’t you want to know what’s in there? It really is fascinating work, if I do say so myself.

Jon did want to know, he did, the yearning for knowledge burned within him-

The toilet seat was up, and that gave Jon an idea.

Slowly, carefully, Jon made his way forward again, directing his gaze between the tape recorder on the sink and his own face in the mirror. (It’d been a while since Jon had gotten a good look at himself. He didn’t look well, and not just because of the scars that dotted his body now.)

“...it was always leading up to this, wasn’t it?”

More than you know.

Jon nodded, trying his best to look resigned, crouching down as he looked over at the papers still clutched in his hand... and shoved them into the water of the toilet bowl.

The paper was already starting to break apart, the ink bleeding from the pages, before Jon flushed them down to the sewers below.

Jon wasn’t surprised to find that his body was taken over again as the papers circled the drain. It didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was that whatever Jonah Magnus had written was gone now, never to return, at least not in that same form.

...this isn’t over, you know.

Jon would have laughed, if he could.

I’m pretty sure it is, actually.

The second incident came a couple days later and started as innocuously as the one before, with Martin making two cups of tea.

(Martin insisted on making meals and snacks and tea for both himself and Jonah in Jon’s body, even after showing that he knew of Jonah’s presence, and Jon did his best to determine why.

Was it simply a matter of utility, of it being almost as easy to make food for two as for one? Was Martin thinking of Jon when he did it, knowing that Jon would taste what Martin prepared for him even if he wasn’t actually the one eating it? Did Martin just not trust Jonah Magnus to fend for himself with such things?

Whatever the true reason, Jon appreciated the gesture all the same, though he was in no position to indicate as much.)

The cups were both steaming hot as Martin brought them to the table that afternoon, and Martin didn’t hesitate to take a sip of his own, but Jon’s just sat there, with Jonah making no move to drink any.

After a minute or two of this, Martin finally looked up and asked, “Aren’t you going to have some tea? I made it fresh for you, you know.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Jonah looked at Martin for a long moment before adding, “Did you know that ingesting methanol can be deadly?”

“What?” Martin’s face, pale and panicked, showed all the confusion that Jon felt but couldn’t express.

“It’s true. Though it looks and smells much like ethanol, ingesting as little as fifteen milliliters of methanol can be fatal.”

“I... wait, are...” Martin was growing paler by the second now. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

Jon’s body shook as Jonah let out a huff of amusement. “Quite the contrary, actually. I just wonder whether you know for certain whether you put more or less than fifteen milliliters of methanol in this cup of tea.”

Martin slouched down a bit in his seat, and as he did, Jon considered the implications of what had been said. Jonah Magnus seemed to be accusing Martin of trying to poison him, potentially fatally, and Martin wasn’t denying the accusation, either... but why?

Jon’s finger circled the brim of the tea cup absentmindedly. “Perhaps you’ve changed your mind about wanting to hurt Jon to get to me. That does make the game more interesting, though I would remind you that while I can find a new body if I need to, whatever you do to Jon would prove a bit more... permanent.”

“No, I- I know how that all works. Making you find a new host isn’t worth the price of losing Jon forever.”

“Well then.” Jon’s finger slid off the top of the tea cup, down its smooth surface and onto the saucer below. “If you aren’t looking to kill Jon, I believe it would be in your best interests to dispose of this cup of tea and prepare another one, one that hasn’t been adulterated in the same way.”

“Right. Of course.”

Martin took Jon’s tea cup and began emptying it out into the sink as Jon’s mind reeled.

To borrow Jonah’s metaphor, what kind of game was Martin playing here? Why would Martin try to- not to kill him, it didn’t sound like, but to poison him to some other effect? Methanol being the poison of choice, apparently, but what was so special about methanol...?

“It’s probably a good idea to use a different cup if you’re going to make a fresh batch.”

“Yes, I got that, thank you, I’m not stupid you know-”

“I am well aware of that much.”

Suddenly the information flowed into Jon’s head, everything he had been wondering and more answered in an instant.

He learned how methanol was called wood alcohol because it was once produced by distilling wood. He learned that it was often used to denature ethanol, but that some would drink the resulting mixture anyway despite its toxic properties, either not understanding the risks or being desperate enough for alcohol that they didn’t care. He learned that drinking contaminated alcohol, through this and other methods, had led to thousands of cases of methanol poisoning over the years, hundreds dying in disgrace and pain, while even the survivors often suffered long-term effects that left their lives in shambles, including-

Oh.

That was it, then, wasn’t it? That was Martin’s plan? For once the Beholding’s bank of infinite knowledge proved actually useful for something...

As Jon put together the pieces, realized why Martin had considered that particular poison to slip into his tea, for the first time in longer than Jon would care to consider, he felt something a little bit like hope.

[slashiest-slasher]

For @slashthedice‘s Frisky February!

Day 5: Aftercare

Thomas Hewitt x Male s/o (sorry for this being so late! i've been struggling with sleep again rip me)

Whenever Thomas came in you, and it was only on very special occasions that he did, he gripped your hips tight enough for you to feel your bones grind. Tight enough that if you were close, you would splatter cum all over the bed spread without warning.

And those special occasions were on days when the killing riled Thomas up, when ever someone taunted him, called him a beast, called him a freak, or a retard, or slow. On those days, Thomas took you from behind hard and fast, caring little for your own satisfaction, but it was such a turn on that in the end it didn't matter.

He grabs at your hair, bites into your shoulder, leaves patterns of lilac bruises all up and down your sides and back and throat. He prepares you, but only minimally with some lube and a few of those meaty fingers.

It leaves you walking funny the next day, and Luda Mae, bless her soul, knows to give you lighter chores. She can't blame Thomas, not really. If anything, she's happy that he has something to vent his anger into, even if it is at your expense. Before, she told you over a night cap while Thomas dozed off on the couch, he would carve up his skin, beat his skull. Mutilate his body and he would be the one bleeding and covered in bruises.

At least with you, the effects wouldn't last as long. Be so detrimental to his mental health.

You told her you would throw yourself on a blade if it meant keeping Thomas safe and happy. This, to you, was nothing.

Tonight, he moved slower, but still as fierce, and when he pulled your ass flush against him, cock buried deep, filling you up with cum, you were left on the brink. Not even when he pulled out, him cum rushing out after.

Thomas fell to the side, well spent and drowsy. Even if your cock is painfully hard, you scoot into his arms and stroked his hair and maked face. Something you wish to work on, but if it made Thomas more comfortable, you were willing to bear not seeing his face.

"Oh you're so handsome," you whisper, more to yourself, working through a tangle in his hair. "So, so handsome. How'd I get so lucky landing a hottie like you?" You wish you could see the flush underneath his mask. His eyes darting away is good enough. You press small kisses to his temples, forehead, cheek bones, trailing down to the gap in his mask.

Thomas' lips taste like copper, your doing if you went by the painfully pulsing wound on the back of your shoulder. His hands gingerly stroke up your side, feather light, before jerking away when he gets to the leaking bite marks. His eyes go wide, and he suddenly sits up, pulling you with him.

You relish in his fully nude body as he searches around his cluttered room for a first aid kit. When he finally does, and sits down further away than he needs to, he dabs at the bite mark, more mangled and torn that usual, with ethanol.

It stings, and you wince of course, but you rest a hand on Thomas' thigh. "It's okay darling. I'm sure it looks worse than it feels."

He wastes no time putting on antibiotic ointment and putting on a large bandage, before going over the rest of your form. There's nothing too serious, only mottled bruises and crescent shapes from where his nails dug too harshly into your hips. His shoulders shake as he runs his hands over with feather light touches. His chests starts heaving, and you can see the panic swelling in his eyes.

"Hey, hey!" It doesn't snap him out of his fugue, so you resort to straddling his thighs, and cradling his face in your hands. "Tommy, honey pie. It's all okay, I don't mind."

He refuses to lay a hand on you, and cannot look you in the eyes. His breathing hasn't slowed down, but the shaking has subsided.

"I love you," you blurt out. Both of you are taken aback by it, Thomas staring at you with wide, unbelieving eyes. But instead of backing down, you roll with it. "I do, I really and truly love you. Sometimes, it's so overwhelming that I don't know what to do really. And everytime you or Luda Mae catch me or chastise me for staring off and smiling like a loon, it's me thinking, about you. About how you're so strong, and you have the prettiest damn eyes I've ever seen, and you're so tender and kind. Oh Tommy, I love you so damn much it makes my heart ache!"

Thomas hides his face in your chest, and wraps his arms around your waist. You can feel the tears rolling down your skin, so you pet his hair and lean you face against his head.

One of his hands sneaks down, and wraps around your member, and strokes it. He lifts his head up, eyes puffy, and it's a cute look on him, vulnerability. He keeps his pace slow, watching each expression and taking in each sound you make until you're cumming on his chest.

Thomas pulls you down onto the bed with him, wiping a hand on the bed spread. You're dead tired, same as him, but you scrounge up the energy to stroke his skin, and whisper every single thing about him you love until his eyes drift close. You admire his lax face for a moment, before snuggling closer, and cradling your love in your arms.

[clexa--warrior]

There’s a new group of villains on Fear The Walking Dead.

Well not entirely new. These are the same people who’ve been scrawling “The end is the beginning” everywhere. The same people with the submarine who are looking for Morgan who took the Magical Key from the bounty hunter way back at the beginning of Season 6.

I admit, I’m just kind of tired at this point. Tired of all the bullshit and bad writing and the tedious characters and the predictable stories. Tired of the parade of mediocre villains. Bone weary. And yet here I am, still reviewing this damn show.

Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we?

TV’s Greatest Villains

At the beginning of Season 5, after the Most Horrible Villain Of Any Walking Dead Show was taken care of at long last, we got a new group of bad guys who . . . just wanted their warehouse back? And directions to an oil refinery?

Truly, these were now The Most Horrible Villains Of Any Walking Dead Show Ever.

Logan (played by a woefully underutilized Matt Frewer) was the head honcho of these bad apples and he fooled Morgan’s group into flying a plane they didn’t know how to fly far, far away to help some strangers in another part of the vast continent of Texas. Then he . . . moved back into his warehouse! The bastard.

After half a season of trying to fix the plane so they could fly back across the Pacific Ocean (which we all know separates the two halves of Texas) Logan tries to pretend like he’s a decent guy and fools the Morganites into showing him where the oil refinery is. Dastardly Logan! Then, just when Morgan and Logan decide that their names are similar enough that they might as well be friends, the Rangers show up!

They show up on horses with rifles and expertly kill Logan and every single member of his crew but for reasons (reasons!) they spare Morgan and the Morganites. It turns out that Logan was working for the evil witch queen of Lawton, Virginia—Truly The Most Horrible Villain Of Any Walking Dead Show Ever (Seriously). She is so evil that she kills the people working for her, who helped lead her to the oil refinery, and spared some people she didn’t know who weren’t loyal to her at all for reasons.

Yes, you heard me. Reasons! You don’t get to know the reasons. That’s not how scripts work. Scripts are supposed to be confusing, opaque and riddled with plot holes and inexplicable character choices.

Anyways, Virginia and the Rangers with their horses and their cowboy hats and their idyllic Texas aesthetic become the new Big Bads sometime in the second half of Season 5. Morgan and Friends make a PSA documentary to make sure anyone wandering from gas station to gas station is able to know who to call (GHOSTBUSTERS!) if they’re in trouble (which, like, yeah it’s a zombie apocalypse) because Morgan really wants to make up for all the bad things he’s done and so do all his friends.

Virginia is very mean, though, and so she makes a PSA, too, and that pisses Morgan off so bad that he takes his people far, far away to an abandoned Western-themed park-town filled with zombies and they make another PSA on the way that’s even more amazing and magical but a dude dies making it, marking the Best Walking Dead Death of All Time in the process. Seriously a dude decides it’s so important to film a selfie shot for the PSA that he dies when a bridge that’s collapsing surprisingly collapses! And then everyone is very sad!

Then, uh, after a spell at the new town that has no resources or water because it’s a theme park town instead of a real town, Wes and Alicia paint some stuff and June and John Dorie get married and Daniel plays some guitar and sings and Frank Dillane is like “Holy shit I’m so glad I bailed on this show” and then Virginia comes because Morgan calls her because instead of walking somewhere else they decide they should call the Evil Witch Queen Of Lawton so she can rescue them by splitting them all up (even Skidmark the cat!) and then the season ends with Morgan getting swarmed by zombies but don’t worry he’s still alive and they’ll tell us as much in a trailer that comes out before Season 6 because AMC is criminally addicted to spoiling their own shows for no reason on social media and . . . and . . .

Somewhere between Season 5’s finale and Season 6’s premiere AMC and showrunners Ian Goldberg and Andrew Chambliss must have put their heads together with Scott Gimple and decided that the Rangers and Virginia were actually super dull villains, just like the last few villains (I skipped the whole Vultures plot because they were actually so stupid they put the stadium under siege but still let Madison and co. go out scavenging because somehow they never read the Siege 101 manual or something).

Anyways, for reasons that must be obvious by now, somebody must have pointed out that Virginia is not a very good villain after all, partly because she’s just not that convincing but mostly because she made a goddamn copycat PSA and someone thought that was actually a cool story because there is no God and life’s not fair and this is also why we can’t have nice things, son.

And they must have realized that the Rangers are a like a cartoon version of what might happen in Texas after a zombie outbreak (just compare this clown show to the far more realistic Vatos gang from Season 1 of The Walking Dead). All these realizations must have felt strangely repetitive after what I can only imagine were similar revelations about Martha, the Vultures and Logan. So many revelations, so little useful insight or meaningful changes!

The Believers

In any case, they had June kill Virginia after a weird series of events that also saw one of the only good characters left on this godforsaken show get killed by yet another brat, and came up with The Believers, a group almost entirely inspired by The Monkees. These totally realistic folk live underground where they grow crops and embalm zombies and talk about how you need to be able to “see” when you look at this one creepy zombie they have entwined in vines in their basement. They’re led by a guy named Teddy played by John Glover who must really be down on his luck to take a role on this ridiculous show, though he’s actually creepy as a villain so that’s something. But no, I’m not going to feel any hope or optimism because fool me once shame on me, fool me again and George W. Bush, man. He has something to say about this.

Wes and Alicia and Al and Luciana all find their way to these people. I honestly can’t remember how they found them, but they show up to scout things out. They get interviewed like we’re back in Alexandria. Things go bad when Wes runs into his long-lost brother and ends up killing him after a scuffle over a gun. Wes’s brother has had a little too much of that Kool-Aid if you know what I mean. Wes isn’t too shook up about it. Remember when the entire brothers Dixon conflict between Merle and Daryl played out over the course of one single episode of The Walking Dead? Yeah, me neither.

Luciana says stuff because she’s still on this show for some reason. She says stuff a few times and people say stuff back to her. Al checks an embalmed zombie with a helmet on thinking it might be her lover girl from Season 5, because you totally embalm zombies with their helmets still on, but it’s not. Boy I was really worried there for a second!

Alicia sets the embalmed zombies on fire so they can get away and the others escape but Alicia doesn’t and then she has to have a whole entire conversation with Teddy and it’s pretty damn awkward when she tells him “You wanna kill me? That’s not gonna happen.”

Teddy’s like “whoa damn I was going to kill you but now that’s not going to happen crap” and Alicia’s like “So there, Teddy. You jerk face with your crazy-man beard.”

He knows something about Madison somehow. And he wants to “save you, Alicia” but “I don’t need saving” she tells him and then he talks in more cryptic circles. Teddy’s been looking for someone like Alicia for a long, long time and she’s like “listen old man at least I got some lines this episode!” which, to be fair, is true.

THE END. CREDITS ROLL.

Verdict

Yes, I am clearly mocking just about everything about this show. But I didn’t come up with this crap. I didn’t come up with Martha and the ethanol, or the plane and the beer-balloon, or Totally Pointless Logan, or Ginny and her boring ass cowboys. Maybe Teddy will be a better villain than all these. To be fair, he is a better villain already in a lot of ways. Then again, the bar set by the Vultures, Martha, Logan and Virginia is not very high. It’s so low, it’s less a bar and more of a speed bump.

So while Teddy is far more intriguing than the rest, and it’s even possible that Glover’s brief appearance here in this episode was better than the sum of all the other villains in this show since Season 4, I imagine they’ll find a way to screw him up also and then, as soon as he’s worn out his welcome, replace him with some other group of bad guys. The Shouters, a group of post-apocalyptic crazy people who wear zombie faces and shout at each other really loud, led by a bald woman named Alphapha.

Here’s the thing.

We need more than just Good Guys vs Bad Guys. There are other struggles to work with in fiction. Friction between the group that causes realistic, compelling internal strife. Survival against the elements and just the struggle of surviving in a world laid low by a pandemic, maybe without creature comforts like walkie-goddamn-talkies. Or perhaps a compelling story about a survivalist group at odds with a Native American tribe over water rights, whose intertwined family histories are marred by murder and revenge, where our heroes find themselves torn between both sides of a bloody fight they know very little about.

Yeah, what a notion.

Like I said at the very top of this review, I’m tired. I’m tired of Fear The Walking Dead. I’m tired of the same crap happening over and over again, another absurd bad guys who ultimately make the same fatal choice: They mess with Morgan Jones. NOBODY messes with Morgan Jones.

Maybe Morgan can make a PSA about how mean and delusional Teddy is and then Teddy can make a PSA about how The End Is The Beginning, Actually, Morgan You Twit. It’s just all nonsense at this point and it has been since the end of Season 3. We aren’t dealing with actual stories about real people. We’re watching a cartoon with two-dimensional cartoon villains and a bunch of uninteresting flat characters. Except a cartoon would be more fun.

What is the point of this show now? It’s like a goofier version of The Walking Dead, which also suffers from too many villain groups at this point and too many characters but not this level of crappy writing (usually).

Let me predict the plot for the remainder of Season 6 and likely part of Season 7 if AMC is actually going to let the current showrunners continue driving this show into the ground:

Teddy wants the key from Morgan so he can use it to activate the nuclear bombs on the nuclear sub that’s in the middle of Texas (because Texas, you recall, is separated by the Pacific Ocean which has dried up because ZOMBIES and the sub is there now). He wants to nuke the planet because he wants to save everyone because they’re weak probably. From this nuclear wasteland, new life will spring eternal and his cult—well protected in their underground parking garage with their cute little gardens—will be the new rulers of the world. Or at least of Texas which—we know because of geography class—accounts for approximately 57% of Earth’s land mass.

Look, I’m sorry. I’m really truly sorry but if this show continues to be a joke I don’t know why we should take it seriously. A mocking review if only fitting for a show that continues to make a mockery of itself. AMC has the resources and the wherewithal to produce a better zombie show and quite frankly audiences deserve one. There was nothing fundamentally awful about “The Holding” so I’m honestly not fully sure why I’m in such a snarky mind frame, but there was nothing very good about, either, and it’s just plain as day to me that they’re already falling into the same traps they keep falling into over and over and over again. Meet the new bad guy, same as the old bad guy. It’s all so predictable.

Because they don’t really learn from their mistakes, or because even if they do they just don’t know how to course correct. That’s the problem when you just don’t have much talent but nobody steps in and says “enough is enough!”

Because seriously, my droogies, enough is enough already.

[justjessame]

The Deal Chapter 59

There were three communities that didn’t need much rebuilding and one that needed extensive rehab. And I wasn’t very welcome in any of them. How would I know this? Because, ALL of the population of ALL three were at Hilltop in the beginning, at some point on another. And while Daryl had promised that I wouldn’t be subjected to the abuse of their collective feelings of disappointment and irritation with me, and I’m downplaying it trust me, he couldn’t be with me twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Not that he didn’t try his damnedest.

I spent my days getting used to my bow again. Soon, my Simon target was fully beheaded, and I had to grin as I made a new one. Sometimes I took Judith with me, sitting her on a blanket at my feet, telling her stories about Carl as I notched arrow after arrow and kept an eye on any danger that might try to sneak up on us, walker or human. She was walking now, and I would take her hand in mine, fold the blanket and sling my bow over my shoulder as we took our time getting back to the rest of the world.

She came with me to visit Negan on most days, even once he’d been removed to a more secure spot. I’d sit by him as she toddled around and I hoped he found some measure of peace from our time with him. On the visits that we were alone, he’d touch me more often. Taking my hand and kissing the knuckles, or leaning in to smell the side of my neck. I knew, once we returned to Alexandria, that he’d be the first real visitor to Morgan’s cell and he wouldn’t be able to get as close to me as he did in Hilltop, so I savored it as much as he did.

We knew it wouldn’t last. The quiet, the ease of our visits, but we also knew that we both found comfort in them. Negan’s lips brushing my neck, my fingers linked with his, such simple signs of affection, yet we knew what they brought to each of us. Pain. Whispered threats. And the dirty looks. When I was alone with him, I could care less about what was being said or who was shooting those damn looks my way. And then I’d leave, and the strength of his presence was gone, and I’d have to walk with my chin up and back straight as though I could give a shit.

I did though. It hurt me to know that people I barely knew thought so little of me. It hurt worse to know that the people who did know me, and quite well, seemed to share those same thoughts. Unlike my brush with falling apart from those days before meeting Negan, however, I didn’t fight feeling it. I was wide open and I owned my emotions. I cried when I felt like crying, and as Daryl and my family were learning quickly, when I was pissed they knew it now.

“Damn it, Dad,” I was glaring at him as we sat together discussing what came next. He wanted Daryl, and me clearly, to head to the Sanctuary and get it back on track. “You promised.” Not just visits with Negan, but damn it, I just got back to seeing Judith every damn day. “How the hell is this supposed to work? Plus, don’t you need all fucking hands on deck at Alexandria? You said that it was a mess that needed rebuilding.”

I knew that Daryl’s eyes were on me. I also knew that Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, Carol, and Ezekiel were watching me intently. Too fucking bad.

“Jessi,” Dad was using his patient parent voice and I nearly growled at him. “Honey, you know the place better than anyone here.” I shook my head. “You do, I can’t put one of the former Saviors in charge, not yet.”

“I barely left-” I stopped, feeling Daryl tense. Shit. “I wasn’t really given much free reign, Dad.” Not until I was ready to run away from him, I added in my head. I sighed. “I don’t know his people, I don’t know what they fucking did there.”

Daryl’s arms wrapped around me, trying to calm me down. “Jessi,” his face was practically buried in my hair. “We can go and get an idea of what needs done. We’ll visit Alexandria as much as ya want, I swear.” I wanted to fight free, but I knew that he was trying to compromise. Trying to make me see that fighting against it wouldn’t help my cause at all. And so I relaxed into his touch and sighed again.

“Fine.” I agreed, looking up at Dad with hard eyes. “What are we expected to do?”

What we were expected to do, I learned quickly, was determine who was trustworthy and how to tame those who would undoubtedly fight back. Daryl and I were supposed to take stock of the Sanctuary and learn not just what it used to be, but what it COULD become now. And so, with me at his side, dealing with the reports and people that Daryl didn’t have the patience to contend with, we started to reteach Negan’s people how things had to be from here on out.

Corn ethanol fuel, that was the plan for the Sanctuary. No one seemed to want to hear that we didn’t have nearly enough fertile ground for crops. And Eugene as a constant presence wasn’t exactly welcome for me either. Dad tried, during my trips to Alexandria, to remind me that Eugene was intelligent and he had helped win the war. Sure, thought, but you keep forgetting that I care for Negan and that smart asshole could have killed him with that backfiring gun. And, there was that memory of why I ran away from Negan, the fear that another Eugene would come and as his newest girl, I’d be expected to entertain him.

I helped where I could. Learning that the majority of Negan’s people were go with the flow types. They transferred their loyalty strangely easily, and I had to hold back an absolutely hysterical laugh when they tried to kneel for Daryl and then Dad. Once they were told those types of displays were no longer necessary, most of them fell in line quickly. There were hiccups. People not feeling safe when Daryl insisted the walker security line be killed for good. People fighting against the more open, no points, system of being fed and clothed. These were easily squashed, mostly. Daryl’s biggest issue was his discomfort in leading this way.

Nights were spent explaining that he had to understand it from their point of view. They’d been here, some of them at least from what they’d told me, for years. Negan had kept them safe. He’d given them jobs and security. Learning that he was gone AND that all the rules and ways they’d learned to live were different wasn’t an easy thing to get used to. Daryl would counter with the ones that had easily changed, and I’d point out that most were Negan’s true soldiers, the ones that were leaders because they could sense the change in tides. When you’re looking at grunts, or even the lower totem Saviors, you’re looking at people who want stability, change is hard.

I fell back into mediating easily. It was natural for me. As was hunting, which Daryl and I did regularly. Mostly for his sanity, because being trapped behind the walls of a huge brick building was never going to suit him easily. I rested easily in knowing that Daryl, and not me, would eventually be asking Dad for a reassignment. He hated it here as much as I did, even if I was growing used to navigating through the people’s issues and finding solutions to the rising problems.

So we’d hunt. Sometimes just to get away, and other times as we left to visit Alexandria. Daryl never let me go alone. I tried to tell myself it was because he wanted to check in with Dad. I tried to convince myself that he wanted to keep me safe, even if I was more than capable of it myself, or that he wanted to see the progress in rebuilding our former home. I even tried, as he and I sat with Judith and watched her paint and listened as she told ME a story, that he wanted to visit with her. But, I could feel his eyes on me as I walked to the cell that held Negan, and all those illusions I’d try to build in my mind for his presence here with me would fade and I knew. He was here to make sure I didn’t release him, that I didn’t stay behind with him, that Negan never got to know me as intimately as he already did again.

It took around eighteen months to rebuild and for us to all be back in the flow of things. The Sanctuary wasn’t in perfect order. Not even close, but it was better. As long as no one wanted to stay in any of the rooms that held the broken windows. Windows that were gone thanks to gunfire from a war that never had to be. The crops, still not nearly enough, were growing, but for how long? And the corn ethanol was being produced as it could be.

Alexandria was almost better than it had been. Wind mills, flowing water, and rebuilt homes along with crops of their own and a new hope filled the air. I didn’t check on Hilltop or the Kingdom personally, but regular reports and updates came in over the radios or in person. We were getting back to normal, or most of us were.

Daryl was chafing under the strain of leadership and having to walk the same path that Negan had walked. He begged me, more than once, not to remind him of whose apartment we lived in. Not to mention that I’d slept in the bed, that I’d made love in the bed, with anyone other than him. He chafed at the reminders of Negan, and I chafed at the absence of him. This wasn’t right. Not the building, not Daryl’s body on those sheets in this bed. Nothing was right, even if the flow of life continued, everything felt wrong.

[randomfandomz]

GET READY FOR A LOT OF HUSK HEADCANNONS

Im not sorry–

Depressed as f*ck so he doesnt have the modivation to take care of himself

He drinks mainly to forget, and to releive stress

Not only that but he H A T E S water(not as much as Baxter does, but he still avoids it like the plauge)

He never showers until he absolutely has to

Like his fur is always matted and alchohol scented

And he thinks licking himself clean like non-demon cats do is absolutely out of the question, it is gross and undignified, he doesnt want to lick himself and water makes his fur feel heavy and cold and he w i l l argue with you about this

He hates having fur. He just hates it. Its hard to take care of and things get stuck in it, it gets caught in things and just hhhh h h h H H - NO

Will straight up refuse to shower until Charlie makes him

Everyone in the hotel knows about shower day

The day when they make Husk take a shower because e w g r o s s o l d m a n -

Baxter somewhat sympathizes with him about his hatred of water

Not like he actually shows it or does anything to help him though- because 1) Bax really doesnt give a flying f*ck, he just wants to do science and this doesnt concern science so he couldnt care less, and 2) He doesnt wanna speak up because s o c i a l a n x i e t y . S o c i a l i n t e r a c t i o n ? N o t h a n k y o u .

Hes literally a cat, so he hates water with a burning passion

Husk's self image is kinda... ehhhhhh- I mean, its not like he really is that bad looking, if anything he looks pretty damn cool, but he honestly finds himself pretty unattractive. "The fur and wings d o n t h e l p "

Doesnt care if you call him old unless youre trying to be offensive; Hes proud of his age and experience

Even though he acts like an old man(well, he kinda is, but-) hes actually younger than Baxter, Mimzy, Alastor, Angel, and Nifty

Only Vaggie and Crymini are younger than him

When Husk first arrived at the hotel he didnt really wanna interact with anyone; New places kind of stress him out, so it took a long time for him to adjust and not snap at every little thing

Dont get me wrong, hes still a pissy alchoholic^tm, but the anger is less serious/genuine and more just because thats how he is

Husk fought in the vietnam war, and he attempted(and failed) suicide multiple times after the war until he was eventually beaten to death outside of a bar

He turned to alchoholism and gambling as a coping mechanism

Husk suffers from PTSD(Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), along with the obvious alchoholism and gambling addiction

He is very salty/sad that he's a war vet but died in a bar fight, and wouldn't be remembered for his fighting but rather for being beaten to death in a bar while trying to drink away the feelings he had about not being welcomed home because of the way the media portrayed him and his fellow soldiers that fought in Vietnam

Upon learning that Husk is a vietnam war vet(he mentioned it while drunk off his ass- more than usual) one patron who attended the hotel for a short time told him "Welcome home doc!". Husk was surprised, as he had come to terms with the idea that he would never be thanked or welcomed for his services, but he did make sure to be maybe a bit less pissy to that particular guest. He will never forget them. It meant more to him than he would like to admit.

((I can't really think of a better reason as to why Husk would bring it up, but having seen one or two instances of someone saying "welcome home" to Vietnam war vets, I really wanted to add this. The "Welcome home doc" thing was me referencing a specific instance of this ive seen. Im so sorry if I'm wrongly portraying this in anyway, I tried to do enough research first before typing this part out, but I just wanted to point out that I tried my best to be respectful while talking about the subject.))

Moving on- L A S E R P O I N T E R S

One time Angel was just casually messing around with a laser pointer, out of boredom or something

HUSK'S RESPONSE WAS IMMEDIATE

HE WILL CHASE THAT RED DOT TO THE ENDS OF THE GODDAMN EARTH

"That DAMN RED DOT where the FUCK did iT gO!?"

He HATES that he does this, but he really cannot help it

Being a cat demon, and being Husk, his hunt and kill instinct is through the roof(hunt and kill instinct is why cats chase laser pointers btw)

Was VERY pissy for the next few weeks after this incident

Husk will purr involuntarily whenever someone pets him or strokes his fur

He WILL murder anyone who attempts to pet him or make him purr without consent(*COUGH COUGH* ANGEL *COUGH*)

Same goes for the wings DO NOT TOUCH THE WINGS, JUST DONT-

In his room, Husk's bed is literally a mound of blankets and pillows inside a box

Even he needs to get warm and comfortable after a long day

He never lets anyone in his room

Like n e v e r

Angel snuck in one night- Husk's half asleep drunken a*s shoved him out and yelled at him, waking up practically all the hotel staff and a few guests

In his defense, Angel, upon seeing the sleeping Husk, scratched behind his ears. Husk started to purr, but then snapped to somewhat conciousness, and realized what the f*ck was going on-

Yes, Husk is v e r y defensive

Give him a compliment? He wont accept it under any circumstances. He will probably be flustered and claim that the other is either lying or just kissing up to him

"You know you dont have to kiss my a*s to ask me something, right? The fuck do you want?"

Charlie honestly finds his reaction to compliments very sad

Has a kind of "well ya didnt need to point it out" attitude towards insults

Alastor insults him with the worst names in the book? He accepts it and couldnt give less f*cks

Even if its someone either than Alastor insulting him, usually even if he acts offended and p*ssed off, somewhere in his mind he just accepts it

Usually Alastor is the one insulting him, but in a "best friend rights" kind of way

He likes being creative when it comes to colorful language

"Look out to my sea of f*cks, and see how it is barren"

Doesnt have a "soft spot" for kids like Angel, but doesnt mind lessening the swearing a bit and doing a few magic tricks for the occasional child that somehow found their way to the hotel

He HISSES

If Husk is hissing at you you better f*ckin rUN-

He usually refrains from hissing- its part of him rebelling against his cat-like nature, but if he is openly hissing at you it means he is at his wits-end and is honestly P * S S E D .

sERIOUSLY, F*CKING R U N -

Crymini has a blog documenting all the cat-like things Husk does, and she sometimes does the classic "THIS IS A HUSK IN ITS NATURAL HABITAT" or "LETS SEE HOW THE KITTY REACTS TO THIS NEXT THING" bit, and Husk honestly finds it insulting as f*ck

Crymini pranked Husk with a cucumber(you know how cats on the internet are terrified of them) and Husk was actually scared of it, and he ran up a f*cking tree and wouldnt come down for a solid hour, partly put of legitimate fear, and partly out of spite from seeing the slightly guilty look on Crymini's face after the first 20 minutes of him hiding up there

Being a cat demon, alchohol is actually slightly toxic to him, and he is prone to alchohol poisoning. He usually drinks beer, which has low ammount of ethanol(5-7%)[ethanol is what makes alchohol so toxic to cats]

Baxter has a spray bottle to use on Husk if he is being particularly stubborn or bothersome. Charlie sometimes uses her own spray bottle for similar purposes, but she usually says something like "Bad kitty! No!" Along with it to tease him. Husk finds it humiliating and hates when his fur is wet, so surprisingly the spray bottle thing usually works.

He is demi-panromantic and asexual

H A T E S being touched, like under any circumstances

"The last time I voluntarily made physical contact with another being was in 1970 and it was while I was loosing a bar fight. It was also the day I was beaten to death and setenced to hell."

Bonus:

Angel: Hey kitty~! Wanna cuddle~?

Husk: The last time I voluntarily made physical contact with another being was in 1970 and it was while I was loosing a bar fight.

Angel: Oh really? *snickers* And how'd that work out for ya'?

Husk: Well, it was also the day I was beaten to death and put in hell. So I dunno. You tell me.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

Birthday prompt #6

Read on Ao3 Birthday prompts masterlist

@phenixy-dunnhart​

[Sinon, j'adore l'amitié juste excellent entre Rios et Raffi, si tu veux une variation (Cris qui se sacrifie pour protéger Raffi) -> Cris getting hurt protecting Raffi] 

Some time after leaving Coppelius to gallivant around the cosmos with their motley crew, Raffi collapsed in the ops seat next to Seven and Cris and loudly announced that they had to go out for drinks, and not replicated ones. They had to find a suitably shady Space Station, go out, find a bar, and get absolutely smashed.

“We’re tired, we have time on our hands, and your replicators can’t get Romulan ale right for some reason,” she told Cris as an explanation.

(It was true, he’d messed that up the one time he had drunkenly tried to disable the Hospitality Hologram’s ability to talk.)

The dark circles under her eyes alone would have convinced him anyway. The last week had been tiring. They had spent it avoiding uncharted asteroid belts that really had no business being so large (seriously, what the hell), fixing navigation issues that Enoch swore had nothing to do with the corrupted 23rd century holos he’d helped Soji illegally download for Elnor, and chasing around the four neutered tribble-rabbit hybrids the kids had smuggled aboard.

“Why just the three of us?” Seven asked with a raised eyebrow, legs propped up on the console and disinclined to move, even for drinks.

Raffi snorted.

“Well I wasn’t going to invite JL, obviously.”

That got Seven and Cris to roll their eyes in concert. Yeah, obviously. Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, retired, was too posh and too old to have any concept of fun – or, more specifically, to be able to understand the appeal of marinating your liver in real alcohol and crawl your way back to your quarters to pass out for a day straight.

“But what about Agnes and the kids?” Cris inquired, gracelessly sprawled on the Captain’s seat with a cigar in one hand and a book in another, feeling just as lazy as Seven.

“I asked, she offered to babysit,” Raffi replied. “I don’t want to be responsible for Elnor and Soji’s first hangover.”

“Not to mention that we’d have to keep an eye out for them,” Seven agreed with a nod. “Fair enough. Let’s go to DS 11.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Whoever had deemed synthehol an adequate substitute to good old ethanol was a complete fool with appalling taste. That was Raffi’s professional opinion, and she told Cris and Seven just that as she finished her third glass of that vibrant blue liquor that made green sparks when you shook it.

(What was it again? A Bajoran jungle beer?)

Cris snorted in his own glass, full of plain Earth liquor. Seven smirked as she gulped her cocktail down, an unholy mix that was part Klingon mead, part Romulan ale and part cranberry juice. The stuff of nightmares, honestly.

“I get drunk faster on synthehol,” Seven commented idly. “Don’t produce enough of the enzyme that breaks it down into smaller molecules. Hate the taste, though.”

“Yeah, because taste is clearly of capital importance to you,” Cris snorted again. “What’s in your glass right now? That’s toxic waste, that’s not a beverage.”

“Pssht,” she slurred. “First time I got drunk, it was after one flute of champagne. Forgive me for having learned to handle my drink.”

Raffi hazily smiled at her and got herself another drink, letting her head fall on Cris’ shoulder as she leaned against him for balance. She didn’t think she could sit up straight on her own anymore. Seven studied her intently, blinking in surprise when Cris showed no sign of discomfort and even shifted his posture so she’d be more comfortable. Noticing Seven’s stare, he gave her a wry look but made no complaint about his demotion to human pillow.

Seven was getting a bit intoxicated, so she watched them for a few more seconds and returned to her drink.

“You guys are cute,” she chuckled.

“Hmm,” Raffi mumbled in turn. “Cris is very sweet. Very very sweet. He’s the best.”

Rios was silently laughing, still nursing his aguardiente. “She gets sentimental,” he mouthed without making any actual sound, a smile in his normally dark eyes. Seven smiled too, because she was getting quite intoxicated. And also, they were very cute.

“Hey, how’d you two meet?”

The question had been on her mind for a while now, but aboard la Sirena, you didn’t ask about anyone’s past. They volunteered finite amounts of information, and you had to be content with that. But Cristóbal and Raffi had always felt like kindred spirits, despite knowing them for such a short time, far more than any of the others. Picard was an xB like her, sure, and he was also a damn idealist with a Messiah complex who understood very little about her. Soji had trouble with her humanity, yes, but she was also a kid and a synth, and she had siblings, and she was ultimately nothing like Seven. Agnes was tiny and mousy and probably no good in a fistfight, with just enough teeth to not get eaten, and eyes full of stars and a bleeding heart that hadn’t learned to put on a shell. Elnor was young and innocent and very dangerous, reminding her of the ‘Annika of old,’ someone long dead and buried.

But Raffi and Rios…

They were older, they were more jaded, they were disillusioned with a fleet, a Federation and a galaxy that had completely screwed them over – and they coped with it by helping, by drinking like idiots and smoking nasty stuff, and helping some more. They were both broken and aware of it, not like the shiny kids, and they never offered empty words of comfort or grand and hollow speeches about hope and love.

(And they were badass.)

(Like her.)

(Seven was getting very intoxicated.)

So she watched Raffi drunkenly lean on Rios and she asked, because while their friendship seemed self-evident, she wanted to know how they’d found each other. How it was that they each made the other a better person instead of dragging each other down. It tugged at her own soul, brought about some memories of Icheb, and Voyager, and of the Rangers before Bjayzl.

It made her smile.

Rios and Raffi exchanged puzzled glances. They were both too drunk to delve into her reasons for asking the question, and Raffi just pursed her lips, assuming that it came from finding their interactions cute.

“Don’t think I remember,” she told Seven blearily, still nestled against Cris. “It was a while ago. S- six? Seven? Six or seven years?”

“Eight,” Cris corrected. “I don’t really remember either. We must have met in a bar.”

Seven frowned, dimly disappointed. The feeling was too fuzzy to dwell on, but she still sniffed sadly.

“You don’t remember?” She asked mournfully. “I’d remember meeting my best friend.”

“We don’t,” Cris said, carefully shrugging the one shoulder that wasn’t supporting half of Raffi’s weight. “She hired me for a job or two, I think. Then we were mostly drinking buddies. It wasn’t spectacular or anything.”

“But something must have happened,” Seven pressed.

People didn’t just casually adopt each other. (Didn’t they? She wasn’t sure. She’d kind of casually adopted them, when she thought about it. Were giant galactic conspiracies, reclaimed broken Borg cubes and synthetic apocalypses casual? Seven was completely intoxicated.)

“Oh yeah,” Raffi mumbled. “Saved my life one time.”

“We were already friends though,” Cris elaborated, adding to Seven’s ever growing list of questions. “Got upgraded to honey and babe after that.”

“An’ you called me hermana,” Raffi sighed contently.

Seven looked back and forth between them.

“Okay, you have to tell me that story.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Raf,” Cris complained as she ordered her eighth drink of the night, “slow down on the drinks. You said you wouldn’t need to spend the night on my ship.”

“Piss off,” Raffi grumbled. “Don’t need your stupid ship. Don’t need your stupid hovering.”

Cris, because he was wise, never argued with Raffi. He didn’t try this time either. Muttering Spanish profanities under his breath, he got up and paced a bit, before throwing a credit chip at the bartender.

“If she spends it all, the rest is on her,” he told the Andorian.

The guy gave a noncommittal grunt, and Cris made his way to the exit. He was two steps from the door when he head a crash, the sound of a glass being smashed to the ground. He whirled around out of instinct, his hand going for his phaser. His eyes widened as he realized where the sound had come from.

Raffi was staring down at a Nausicaan twice her size (how?), the guy who’d been sprawled on of one of the corner sofas with his buddies up until a few moments ago. She was snapping at him – about what, Cris didn’t know, didn’t care – and the man looked ready to turn her into Raffi juice.

Cris ran to them without a second’s hesitation, heart seizing painfully as frozen sludge trudged through his veins instead of blood. There were ice spikes in his throat too.

“Hey,” he yelled, getting the Nausicaan’s attention, but not Raf’s, “hey! What’s going on here?”

“Get lost,” the man growled.

“No no no,” Cris refused, words tumbling out without him even knowing whether he was speaking Standard or Spanish. “Not doing that.”

“She you friend?” The Nausicaan asked as two of his own buddies slowly got up and walked to them, ready for a fight.

Raffi finally registered that Cris had come back and blinked in surprise.

“Yeah,” Cris gritted out, looking straight into the man’s eyes. “Yeah, she’s my friend. What’s the problem?”

“She needs to learn some manners.”

“Old news,” Cris muttered under his breath, but his gaze hardened and his hand went for his phaser again. “It’s fine, we’re leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” the second Nausicaan snorted, and the third one crossed his arms and smiled with that messed-up mouth of his.

“Your friend here should apologize to ours,” he leered. “And considering how rude she was, it’d better be a nice apology.”

“I’m not kissing his freak face,” Raffi spluttered. “I already told him!”

Cris would have facepalmed, except there really wasn’t time. Grabbing Raffi by the arm, he threw her behind him and pointed his phaser at the first Nausicaan.

“It’s not on stun,” he warned.

The man snorted derisively.

“I don’t much care,” he said, tapping a finger to his thick skin and metal plated clothing. And then he cracked his knuckles. “If you want to leave, you’ll have to make me allow it.”

Cris considered the mountain of muscles, the two goons behind it and the drunk Raffi behind him.

“Yeah, fuck that,” he muttered.

Whipping around, he snatched Raffi, threw her bony frame on his shoulder despite her vehement protests, and dashed for the exit. The Nausicaans were slower to react, but Cris’ superior speed wasn’t much of an advantage in a crowded bar where nobody cared enough to pay attention to the fight or help in any way. They had almost caught up with his by the time he reached the entrance.

So naturally, Cris did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He tossed Raffi out of the bar – the bar that was shielded against transporters for security reasons, like most of the buildings in the planet’s capital city – and barked an order into his communicator for Ian. The holo had been online dealing with an issue in the antimatter ignition chamber. As luck would have it, he hadn’t powered off yet, and Cris was gratified to see Raffi dissolve away.

And then he was pulled back and forced to turned around, and he was met with three very angry Nausicaans and the naked blades of their sword-sized daggers.

“Mierda,” Cris sighed.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” one of the men growled, and Cris had no idea if he was the first, the second or the third Nausicaan, because they all looked so damn alike. “You’re toast.”

Two of them had his arm in a duranium grip, making any escape attempt impossible.

“I told you, she’s my friend,” he said with defiant glare. “Go ahead.”

He didn’t care. They could drag it out, make it painful, make it frightening, but at the end of the day death was just the one comfort he’d been desperately awaiting for over a year now. He wouldn’t dream anymore if they pummeled him to death, and that was quite a reward for saving the life of his only friend.

(Maybe she’s miss him though. He didn’t think so. He hoped not. Raffi was too messed up on her own to add him to it.)

(Would she care? Please, let her not care.)

(He’d cared.)

(He’d cared that he had P— that he had somebody’s death on his head.)

(Please let Raffi not care.)

(She would care.)

Mierda, I can’t die.

The first kick slammed the air out of his lungs, snapping two of his ribs like twigs under a standard issue boot. It felt like he’d blacked out, but he couldn’t have – he hadn’t seen any bloody bulkheads.

The second kick caught him in the stomach and made him retch.

The third kick never came, because the transporter beam got him first. It took just long enough spiriting him away for one of the Nausicaan to throw one of his daggers though, leaving a bloody slash across Cris’ shoulder.

Cris materialized on la Sirena’s transporter pad, hurt and very confused, and was greeted by Raffi’s panicked face.

“Cris!” She yelped, falling to her knees next to him. “Are you alright?”

He groaned and tried to sit up, but his ribs wouldn’t allow so much moving around.

“Activate EMH,” he sighed.

It really fucking hurt.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You didn’t say when you called her hermana,” Seven pointed out as Cris finished his slightly slurred tale. “Or when she called you honey.”

Raffi was half-asleep by that point, but she still somehow managed to retain enough coherence to mumble an answer. Cris heard it, and smiled at Seven.

“It was after. She was so upset over the whole thing that we both slept in her quarters. She got very fussy. Didn’t ever stop fussing after that.”

“And you called her hermana,” Seven insisted, because it was the best part.

“I was too tired to remember other words,” Cris said, sounding amused. “I think I was trying to say friend, or something like that. Y’know, to explain why I’d done it. But my Standard was all messed up.”

“You ever found out if she was the one who started the fight or if it was the horny Nausicaan?” Seven asked.

“Never,” he replied, finishing his last drink. “She couldn’t remember. I did bump into the same guy once after that. Used three phasers to stun his ass into a nice nap and dumped him at the local authorities’ doorstep for weapon trafficking.”

Seven smirked and raised her glass to that, the smirk turning into a fond look when Cris turned around to gather Raffi in his arms and gently lift her up her seat. As he carried her like that, Raffi’s head resting against his chest trustingly, Seven noticed how alike they looked.

“Space siblings,” she giggled.

(Seven was smashed.)

[ljandersen]

Damsel in Distress

Pairing:  FemShep/Kaidan Alenko, Mass Effect 3

Summary:  Celebrating the victory on Rannoch, Shepard has too much to drink.  Not everyone aboard has Shepard’s best interests at heart.  Someone sees opportunity.

~*~*~

Shepard teetered to her feet and braced a hand on the card table.  “Whoever said you couldn’t fight a reaper mono a mono?  Answer’s Kaidan, by the way.”  She threw back the shot.  “Salud!”

The portside lounge was overcrowded, full of booze and celebration.  Most of the senior crew were here.  Orbiting Rannoch, finishing up peace talks, it was nice having something worth toasting.  The geth and quarian were on the same side for the first time.  She didn’t want to think about the sacrifice to get there.  That was for another time.  Tonight, light years from a port, it was shore leave without leaving for shore.  Well earned.  Needed.  Granted, some responsible parties still held the reins upstairs.

“Haha!  You’re learning, Lola.”  James reached over the card table and clinked Shepard’s glass.  “Salud!” 

“Is it normal for a military vessel to carry this much alcohol?”  Liara hovered over the card table.

Most of the partiers buzzed around the bar across the room.  Others lounged over the furniture and crowded by the door toasting and talking over each other.  Only a few were willing to go head to head with James at the card table: Garrus, Tali, Kaidan, Dr. Chakwas, and Shepard herself.  Dr. Chakwas was a card shark, but a sleeping one at this point.  She rested her face in the crook of her elbow breathing in a steady snore. 

Tali looked up at Liara.   “This is a special – hic hic.”  Tali put a hand to her chest.  “Special – hic – Special occasion.” 

James laughed and pointed at Kaidan.  Kaidan sat at Tali's side.  “Got your work cut out for you, Major.  Your student’s about to fall off her chair.”

“We’re hustling you.”  Kaidan folded his arms and tipped back in his chair.  “Your call, Vega.”

Behind her, Joker and EDI sat on the couch rewatching footage from Rannoch.  Adams regaled Cortez, Donnelly, and Daniel with the genius of the quarian fusion generator he’d seen on the flotilla tour.  No one looked as interested as Adams himself, who offered up his own questions in a rhetorical fashion and then answered them.  

It made Shepard smile seeing them all cut loose for a while.  A little unconventional, maybe rebellious, but they had forty-eight hours of hang time until the quarian and geth finished up talks.  The navigator had the bridge covered.  Who knew when they’d be in port again?  By that time, there could be more losses than wins fueling the tab.  Shepard wobbled down onto her chair.

“Read ‘em and weep, Sparks.”  James spread his cards on the stable.  “Straight.”

Garrus threw his cards on the table.  “Every time.”

“Eh, I knew you had nothing, Scars.”  James didn’t spare him a glance.  He leaned forward, his eyes on Tali.  “Well?  Gotta show ‘em some time.  Don’t let your Jedi master use the hood of your suit for wiping his tears.”

Kaidan rolled his eyes and tipping back further in his chair.  “Go ahead, Tali.”

Tali held the cards close to her mask.  She looked between them and James’s straight laying on the table.

“Hmm.  Can’t tell.”  Tali put an elbow on the table, maybe to steady her wavering cards.  “Just can’t – hic – tell.”

“You don’t need to tell,” James said.  “Time for figuring it out is over.  I called.  Now it’s time to show.  You teaching her nothing over there, Major?”

“She’s beaten you a few times,” Kaidan said.

“Luck.  Come on, Sparks.  Lay ‘em down.”

Tali snapped one card down at a time and pulled her hands back.  James stood and squinted at them.

“That is higher?”  Tali tapped a card.

“Dammit!  No way. How with the --Then the -- Holy damn.”  James plopped down in his chair.  “You were twisting the fabric on your suit.  The left wrist.”

Tali turned to Kaidan.  “Fell for it.  Hic.”

“What?” James said.  “Alenko’s red herring deal?  Dammit.  Major, you got to keep some tricks in your own bag.  You want to be writing your paycheck to me and Tali.  Do not let the student surpass the master: Poker by Vega 101.”

“A class with that philosophy isn't worth the tuition.” Kaidan got to his feet.  He put a hand on Tali’s shoulder.  “Let me get it.”

“You just – hic – I didn’t knock over – hic – that much last time.”

“All quarians get this hiccupping?”  Garrus craned his head and looked at Tali over Kaidan’s arms.

“Quite normal,” Dr. Chakwas said.  Shepard jumped.  Dr. Chakwas lifted her face from the crook of her elbow and yawned.  “Quarians have tender digestive systems when it comes to ethanol.  Not uncommon to have a little intestinal rebellion.  Where are my chips?”

“Dr. Chakwas.”  EDI came to the table.  “As you were incognizant, it was suggested your chips be exchanged for digital credits.  I have made a direct deposit into the account specified on your Alliance paystub.”

“You can see our paystubs?” Traynor turned from the group at the bar. 

“I have access to all Alliance accounts.  This information is confidential.”

Joker slouched back on the couch with a sigh.  “I’ve tried getting her to tell me how much Kaidan makes.  She won’t.”  He caught Kaidan’s sharp frown.  “What?  Just curious.  Shepard’s CO of a starship, but you’ve got the lapel chits.  Who wouldn’t want to know?  Right?  James?”

“Whoa.  Ha.  I’m not getting into that.”

“Liara,” Joker waved at her, “you’re academic.  Don’t you – Oh.  Wait.  You probably already know.”

“I do.”  Liara strolled to the bar.  “Speak to one of my brokers with five thousand credits ready, and we can talk.”

“What?  No favors?  You all forgot my birthday this year, by the way.  Not even a card.”

Shepard rested her forehead on the table.  Legion should be here.  She pulled her mind away from that trail.  No, it was a good day.  If she didn’t focus on the positives … She didn’t want to think about where that would go either.  Shepard toyed with the refilled shot by her face.

“Salud!”  She raised the glass then dribbled it into her mouth.

~*~*~

Shepard lurched upright in her chair.  A card fluttered off the sticky skin of her forehead.  She was still in the portside lounge.  Dr. Chakwas snored softly with her cheek against the table.  James slumped in his chair with closed eyes and an open mouth.  Garrus was sleeping facedown in the center of the card table, fully stretched in a chalk outline of poker chips.  She looked forward to hearing that story.  

Bodies lay across the furniture or on the floor slouched against the wall.  Donnelly looked particularly uncomfortable, folded like an accordion in the crevice between the couch and wall.

“Commander Shepard.”  EDI glided from her statured pose against the wall.

“We weren’t drugged, were we?”  Shepard laughed into the back of her hand.  The room sloshed around her with her wave of laughter. 

“Ethanol poisoning can be a serious medical condition,” EDI said, “but I do not detect levels near the threshold needed for lethality.”

“Guess that’s good.”  Shepard stood.  She stumbled forward and caught herself on EDI shoulder.  She gazed around them.  “Where, uh – they’re all here?  No.  Wait.  Who’s missing?  Don’t tell me. It’s Waldo again.”

“We do not have a crew member by the legal registered name of Waldo.  Is this colloquial for a more formalized version of another name?”

“You mean, like EDI is?”

“That is a correct example.”

Shepard patted EDI’s shoulder then used her as leverage to search the floor.  She found her comm halfway under the table and popped it into her ear.

“If you are still interested in the results of your earlier inquiry, I can update you on crew location throughout the ship.  For instance, Major Alenko –”

“Oh, yeah.  Right, right.”  Shepard wobbled around to face the table.  His chair was empty.  “Where’d he go?”

“Major Alenko is in engineering.”

“Huh?”  Shepard staggered across the room, bumping into chairs, and tripping over empty cups.  “Good night, EDI.”

In the elevator, Shepard swayed on her feet staring at the buttons.  Her cabin sounded good.  Engineering sounded better.  She punched it.  She had to check on her crew after all.  She’d just taken inventory of all her senior staff members minus one.  The elevator stopped, and she tumbled out.  The buzz of a hovercam made her look up.

“Commander!  Excellent timing.”  Allers’s stilettos clicked across the floor from her studio.  “Viewers were enthralled with footage of you taking down the reaper.  I’d love some live Q and A.”

“Oh.  Of course, of course.”  Shepard tugged on her uniform and tried to stand tall.  The floor kept moving, so it was harder than she remembered.

“Excellent.”  Allers clapped her hands and rushed to Shepard’s side.  “Any questions off limits?  Viewers like candor though.  Transparency.  Raw reactions.  Maybe some, uh, personal questions?  Just a few?”

“Give the viewers what they want.”  Shepard focused on the bot overhead.  It kept going in and out of focus.  Damn thing.  “I look at the lens, right?  No changes?”

“No changes.”  Allers clicked a button on her microphone and turned to the camera.  “Welcome to a live impromptu question and answer session with Commander Shepard aboard the SSV Normandy.  We have unrestricted access to discuss the now-infamous reaper takedown on Rannoch: Commander Shepard on foot, staring into the eye of annihilation.  We’ll discuss the liberation of Rannoch and the tenuous peace between machine and master.   Commander Shepard has also agreed to open up about her childhood, life on Mindoir before the attack, time in foster care, and the devastating massacre on Akuze.  Welcome, Commander.”

Shepard gripped Allers’s arm to steady herself.  The microphone filled her face.  “This is Commander Shepard.”

“Uh, indeed.”  Allers pulled the microphone back.  “Let’s start at the beginning.  Mindoir.  Your parents.  You had extended family there.  Tell us about them.  What was life like?”

“Mindoir?”  Shepard scrunched her face.  “Well, uh – I guess.  Got some photos.”  She fumbled with her Omni-Tool.

“Excellent.”  Allers’s eyes glowed.  She looked over Shepard’s shoulder at the screen and waved the camera bot closer.  “Perhaps a family picture?  Your parents and –”

“Commander,” a male voice snapped.  “Alliance Command is on the comm for you.”

Allers’s mouth tightened.  She forced the corners up with a perky warble in her voice.  “Ah.  Humanity’s other Spectre.  Major Alenko.  Perhaps you can—”

“An emergency, Commander.  You’re needed right away.”

A hand grabbed Shepard’s wrist.  He spun her around to face him.  Her Omni-Tool screen dropped.

“I almost found it,” Shepard huffed.  “There’s an emergency?”

Kaidan gave her a pointed look.  “Alliance Command.  Immediately.”

“Just one question.”  Allers elbowed between them and faced Shepard.  “When Mindoir was—”

“I should go.  Emergency.”  Shepard decided.

Allers frowned.  “Can we just see that photo?”

“This way, Commander.”  Kaidan yanked her away.  They rounded the corner into the main engine room and shut the door.

“Kinda loud in here.”  Shepard clutched his arm.  “Why’s the floor like this?  Moving.  Is that the emergency?”

“I got you out of the emergency.”

“Alliance Command though …”

“Bluffing.”

“Oh.” 

Shepard’s legs gave way.  She slipped, and Kaidan caught her under the arms. 

“I can tell when you’re bluffing, you know.”  She tapped his chest with a finger.

“I know.  Why do you think I offered to teach Tali instead of playing?”

“You smell good.”

“Thanks.”

He helped her to the floor.  “Guess I should’ve put you in the elevator, not dragged you back here.  Allers’s probably circling the door now.  You want me to get you to your cabin?”

“What?  No, this is good.  I kind of like the way my skin feels in here.  Eezo.”

Kaidan slid down next to her but left open space between them.  He wasn’t going to be able to hear her from there though.  Shepard scooted over.

“Whatcha doing down here?” she asked.

“Aah.  Not in my ear.”

“So loud down here though.”

“I can hear you.  Doesn’t need to be in my ear.”  He laughed but scooted over a space.  “Why am I down here?  Because all your engineers are blowing bubbles against the carpet upstairs.  Came down to check on things.”

“Why aren’t you blowing bubbles?  And why won’t you sit by me?”

“At least one experienced officer should be sober.  Consider me the designated driver.”

“And?”

“And, I saw where things were going with the drinks, so I only dabbled.”

“Not that.  The other question.”

“Any closer, you’d be sitting on me, Shepard.”

“Not true.”  Shepard shuffled up against him.  Their arms stuck together.  “Ha.  See.”

“Drunk Shepard doesn’t have a personal bubble, hm?”

“Nope.  I’d rather sit close.”  She tipped her head against his shoulder and pulled up her Omni-Tool screen.  “That’s my dad.”  She raised her wrist to his face.

He pulled her hand down and turned off the screen.

“I was trying to show you something,” Shepard protested.

“You’re drunk.  You want to show me that, show it to me when you’re sober.”

Shepard relaxed her muscles and slouched against him.  She tapped the picture up again on her Omni-Tool and studied it in her lap.  “I miss him.  Sometimes when I wake up in a sky car – it’s going fast, up and down, jerky turns – sometimes, before my eyes clear, I think he’s there.  In the pilot’s seat.  He’ll tell me he was dodging a flock of gavas, but I’ll know that’s a lie.  We’re close to home, and he wanted to wake me up.”

Kaidan unstuck their arms and slid his arm around her shoulders. He didn’t say anything, just squeezed her arm.

“You were right about the thresher maw.”  She rested her cheek against his chest.  “On Tuchanka.  The ground rumbles, and I remember.  Killed so many of them now.  I think, if only I knew then what I know now, how to do it, if I could go back …”  Her finger circled a spot on his chest by her face.

“Shepard.”  He caught her hand.  He curled it back to her lap.  “Don’t let what Allers said get under your skin.”

Shepard drew in a deep breath of his aftershave.  His chest was warm under her cheek.  It felt like old times in some ways, except for this damn uniform in her way.  She wanted the smooth skin of his chest against her face, wanted him to quiver when she pressed her lips to it.  She wanted to hook him by the back of the neck and drag him to her lips. 

She lifted her eyes.  “Kaidan, I never told you, but –”

“No, Shepard.  Unless it’s a knock-knock joke, I don’t want to hear it.  Whatever it is.  Not like this.”

“Just one thing I wanted to –”

“Come on.”  Kaidan lifted her to her feet.  “Let’s go.  I’ll check for Allers.”

Shepard tripped along behind him holding the sleeve of his shirt.  “I kept thinking as we played cards.  You know, I should stop.  Last one, last one.  I think I had too much.”

Kaidan peered around the corner toward the elevator then guided Shepard ahead of him.  The elevator doors opened.  He pushed the button for her cabin and stepped back.

“Kaidan, come with me.”  Shepard put a hand out.

Kaidan folded his arms.  “Night, Shepard.”

The doors slid shut.  Shepard slouched back against the wall.  He smelled so good.

~*~*~

From “About Mars”:

AO3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369139/chapters/52243954

FFN:  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13428855/1/About-Mars-Mass-Effect