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[verricherri]

Rhett Abbott one night stand vibes with accidental pregnancy? Surprise me with how the ending turns out please 🙏🏻✨

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A/N: I definitely went overboard with this one 😭 scrapped three drafts before landing here — so this version? she’s the chosen one. Warnings: soft, protective Rhett coming your way. you're not ready and neither am I. i melt for this Rhett — like full-on puddle.  Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The baby was asleep when he started talking.

Not that she’d understand a word of it — all curled up in her cotton wrap, her fingers twitching against his shirt, her breath warm and even where it ghosted over his collarbone. But Rhett liked to think she’d remember the sound of his voice. The shape of it. The safety.

He shifted in the old rocking chair, boots planted firm on the creaky wooden floor — though the nursery didn’t look quite finished. Shelves only half-installed. A mobile still waiting to be hung. There was a paint roller in the corner and a small pile of unopened baby books someone had dropped off weeks ago. Maybe him. Maybe you.

He looked down at her — all six pounds of her — and smiled without teeth.

“You wanna know how you got here?”

The room stayed quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere near the baseboard heater.

“Well,” Rhett said softly, adjusting her weight in his arms, “That’s a long story. And not the kind I ever thought I’d be tellin’.”

His thumb brushed over the soft edge of her ear. So small.

“So small,” he whispered. “Didn’t think somethin’ so tiny could turn my whole life upside down.” He smiled, barely. “Just like your mama did.”

He leaned his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan that never worked quite right.

“She wasn’t supposed to stay, you know. Not that night. Wasn’t even supposed to look at me, let alone... God.” He let out a breath “I don’t even remember what song was playin’. Just remember her laugh. It was like drinkin’ somethin’ too fast — made my head spin.”

The baby sighed in her sleep.

“I didn’t mean to let her go, kid. I just didn’t know how to make her stay.”

The memory tightened in his chest like a rope.

One night. That’s what it had been. One stupid, beautiful night. And in the morning — she’d left. Quiet as sunrise.

No note. No number.

Just the smell of her on his shirt and the shape of her still carved into the sheets.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I told myself not to chase her. Thought if I kept busy, if I stuck to riding and kept my head down, I’d forget.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I didn’t. Not once.”

He looked down again — at her tiny fists, her sleep-pink mouth.

“You’ve got her eyes,” he whispered. “Big and soft. Like you see more than you should.”

He kissed her forehead.

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

The chair creaked as it rocked. Outside, the sky was turning bright over the ridge.

“And if she won’t tell you how it happened,” he said, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I will.”

—

The music was loud. Too loud for the size of the room, too loud for how late it was, but no one seemed to care — not the old jukebox wheezing out another George Strait hit, not the drunk couple trying to two-step on scuffed wood floors, not the college kids tossing back shots they couldn’t afford. The Wabang bar hadn’t changed. Not in years. Probably never would.

Rhett didn’t come here much anymore.

He was nursing a beer in the farthest corner of the room, half in the shadows, half pretending to care about the pool game in front of him. Someone was shouting about a scratch, someone else laughing too loud. He felt the thud of bass more than he heard it. His boots tapped once. Twice. Then stilled.

And then he saw you.

Across the room. Laughing at something a friend said. Hair tied up, strands falling loose, cheeks warm with heat and liquor and the kind of confidence that made his throat tighten. You were wearing a denim jacket and a black tank top, and for a second — just a second — you looked right at him.

And smiled.

Rhett blinked.

That smile hadn’t been meant for him. Couldn’t’ve been. He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since school. Not since that awkward period where he’d liked you a little too much and you’d barely known his name. You ran with a different crowd. The smart ones. The ones who didn’t stay.

But you were here now. And walking toward him.

Shit.

“Rhett Abbott,” you said, dropping into the seat across from him without asking. Your voice was soft and surprised, like you weren’t entirely sure you were doing this. “I thought that was you.” He stared for half a beat too long. “Hey.”

That was all he could get out. Hey.

You laughed again. “Don’t sound too excited.” “No—I mean. Yeah. I just—didn’t expect…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doin’ here?” “Visiting. Friend’s birthday. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts.” You gestured to the room. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You look… the same.” “That good or bad?” You tilted your head. “That depends. You still ride?” His mouth quirked. “Sometimes.” “Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

You looked at him differently then. Like the game had changed. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

“I always thought you didn’t like me much,” you admitted, nursing your drink now. “You were kind of… intense.” “That mean I scared you?” You laughed. “A little.” He smirked, eyes drifting down and back up. “Still do?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him — like you were trying to decide if this was dangerous, or if you wanted it to be.

The jukebox whirred into a slower song. Something mournful. Something sweet.

You held out your hand. “Wanna dance?”

Rhett looked down at it, then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t think. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t play it safe.

He stood and took your hand.

—

The floor was sticky. The music was old. But the way you fit against him, the way your head dipped toward his chest — it felt brand new.

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

The dance slowed, the music fading into something else. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Outside, the air had cooled. You walked together, neither of you saying much. The kind of silence that buzzed between skin and breath. When you got to your car, you paused. Unlocked it. Didn’t open the door.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” you said. Rhett leaned against the passenger side. “You wanna ride?” You looked up at him. “Where?” He met your eyes. “Anywhere you want.”

—

The truck smelled like pine and leather. You didn’t turn on the radio. Just let the wind and gravel speak for you.

He didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Just drove.

And you didn’t stop him.

The motel was just outside of Wabang. Old sign flickering, vending machine humming near the front desk. Rhett didn’t even flinch when the clerk handed him a key — Room 6 — didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations. Just nodded, paid in cash, and led you up the crooked concrete steps.

The room smelled like stale AC and cheap soap.

One lamp. One bed. One heartbeat between yes and no.

You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand. “I don’t usually do this,” you said.

Rhett didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“Me neither.”

You turned to face him.

The light hit him just right — tired, tan, a little older than you remembered. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much and still chose softness anyway.

He didn’t touch you first. You did.

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

There were no loud declarations. No fumbling urgency.

Just a quiet look.

A question in your eyes.

An answer in his touch.

When he undressed you, it was careful. Slow. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

When you pulled his shirt off, he didn’t say a word. Just looked at you.

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust.

Something like hope.

—

The morning light hit too hard through the cheap motel curtains.

You were already dressed when Rhett stirred, still tangled in the sheets. He watched you pull your jacket on like you couldn’t get it done fast enough. Like if you moved quickly enough, you could leave the night behind entirely.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you said softly, eyes on the floor. “You leavin’?” You hesitated. Then nodded, “This doesn’t need to be anything.”

He sat up slower than he meant to, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold him up.

“Right,” he said, even though it didn’t feel right. Not at all.

You gave him the kind of smile people give at airports or funerals — polite, distant, already halfway gone.

“Take care, Rhett.”

You left without looking back.

—

He didn’t go home. Not right away.

Drove for a while. Long enough to burn through a quarter tank. The day felt dull around the edges, like sound underwater. By the time he pulled into the ranch yard, the sun had barely cleared the ridge.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something burning. Royal sat at the table, flipping through paperwork. Cecilia moved silently at the stove, frying eggs she wouldn’t eat.

Rhett stood in the doorway, unsure why he’d even come in.

“You’re late,” Royal said without looking up.

Rhett didn’t answer.

Royal glanced up, eyes sharp. “You hungover or just stupid?” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.”

That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Royal kept going. “Whatever it is, drop it. You’ve got a ride next week and I don’t need your head three counties away.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just nodded, slow.

Cecilia set a plate down in front of him. Toast. Eggs. The kind of comfort she never named.

She didn’t say a word — just looked at him, once, with something like knowing in her eyes.

Then she walked away.

—

He didn’t talk about it again.

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Instead, he trained harder. Rode more.

Got thrown off a bull in Sheridan and got back on like it didn’t matter.

Told himself it didn’t. Told himself it was better this way.

He hadn’t seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

—

It was the kind of day that didn’t ask much. Overcast sky, wind low and steady, that late-autumn chill sliding down the back of your neck like a warning. Rhett wasn’t even supposed to be in town — just running an errand for Perry, picking up horse feed and a new belt buckle he didn’t need.

He didn’t plan on seeing her.

Didn’t plan on freezing in the middle of the grocery aisle, one hand around a can of coffee he wasn’t sure he’d even grabbed.

But there she was. By the end cap near the bakery. Reaching for something on a high shelf.

She looked the same, but softer. Hair pulled back in a low knot. Jacket zipped halfway. She turned slightly as she adjusted her footing and—

His breath caught.

There it was.

Not obvious, not dramatic. But there. A soft curve beneath her coat.

A bump.

She didn’t see him at first. He should’ve walked away. Turned around. Left it alone.

But he didn’t.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then—

“You gonna tell me?”

She froze.

Didn’t turn right away. Just let the sound of his voice sink in like a stone.

When she did face him, her eyes flickered — surprise, guilt, something else he couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you,” you said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see this either.” His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back up. “You should’ve told me.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how.” “You could’ve called.” You shook your head. “And said what? That I left in the morning and came back months later with a bump?” Rhett didn’t flinch. “Would’ve been better than this.” You hugged your arms across your chest, suddenly very small in the wide-open aisle. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me at all if you thought that.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.”

He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.”

That stopped him. Softened him.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.” You flinched. “Her?” He shrugged, eyes never leaving yours. “Guessin’.” You blinked fast. “I wasn’t asking for anything, Rhett.” “Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

You stared at him — not sure if you were angry, relieved, or just stunned.

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing.

He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. Rhett took a breath like it hurt to let it out. “I like you.”

You blinked.

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

He looked down, then back up — eyes steady.

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.”

You were quiet. Breathing shallow.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said softly. “Even if I already cracked something that night.”

Then, lower now. Barely above a whisper, but it landed like thunder:

“I want to be responsible for this. For you. For them. I know it’s not simple. I know I messed up by not sayin’ it sooner. But I’m sayin’ it now.”

You swallowed hard, something in your chest twisting sharp and sudden.

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

—

The knock came just before dusk.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You stood at the window for a good ten seconds before opening the door.

Rhett stood on your porch, holding a brown paper bag and a half-flustered expression.

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

“I brought you dinner,” he said finally. You stared. “You’re serious?” He held up the bag like it was proof of intent. “You need help. And I didn’t think ‘I like you’ was gonna be enough if I didn’t show up again.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.

The kitchen was small, warm. Lived-in, but tired. Dishes drying by the sink. A plant you weren’t sure was dying. Mail on the table you hadn’t opened.

Rhett unpacked without asking where things went. Two frozen meals. A loaf of bread. Oranges. Ginger tea.

“You researched what pregnant people eat?” you asked dryly. He paused. Scratched the back of his neck. “Nah. Asked that lady at the checkout. The one with grandkids. Real loud voice.” You snorted. “Mrs. Henley?” “That’s the one,” he said, almost sheepish. “She said oranges help with heartburn. Scared the hell outta me, honestly.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

He glanced around, his fingers tapping the edge of your counter. “You got anything that needs fixin’? Leaky faucet? Broken hinge? Lights out?” “Why?” “Because I’m standin’ here and I wanna do somethin’ more than just breathe the same air as you.” You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, but not too close.

“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he said. “That I meant what I said. I want to be part of this. I don’t wanna watch you do it alone when I can stand beside you.” You blinked, throat tightening. “You make it sound simple.” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s hard as hell. But hard things are worth stayin’ for.”

The silence sat thick between you.

Then he said it. Soft. Unapologetic.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you after that night. You disappeared, and I told myself I’d imagined it all — that it was just one of those things. But now... now I know better. And I’m not walkin’ away from that twice.” Your voice cracked before you even meant to speak. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?” His eyes didn’t falter. “Then I wait. I show up. I do the dishes. I fix the porch. I buy groceries. I wait.” You laughed once — a shaky, wet sound. “That sounds stupid.” “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

—

You didn’t ask him to stay.

But you didn’t ask him to leave either.

The sun dipped low outside, turning the kitchen gold. Rhett stood awkwardly by the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that the groceries were unpacked and the speech was over.

You broke the silence first. “You hungry?” He blinked. “What?” “You brought food,” you said, softer this time. “Might as well eat it.” He nodded once, slow and cautious, like the offer might disappear if he moved too fast. “Yeah. Alright.”

You microwaved the meals he brought — chicken something for you, beef stew for him. He stood by the sink the whole time, watching the timer count down like it mattered. When it beeped, he jumped a little. You pretended not to notice.

You both sat at the table like strangers trying not to be.

Halfway through dinner, you said, “You always eat this quiet?” He looked up, eyes warm with the smallest flicker of something — relief, maybe. “Only when I’m nervous.” You paused mid-bite. “You’re nervous?” “‘Course I’m nervous,” he said, nudging his tray with his fork. “You’re smart. And strong. And pissed off. And pregnant. And sittin’ across from me after months of not speakin’. I’d be an idiot not to be nervous.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. But your lips curled, just slightly. Just enough.

After you both finished, Rhett grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the counter. Like it was his house. Like he belonged there.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

He threw the towel away. Then turned to face you again. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Still unsure.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you stood. Crossed the room. And leaned back against the counter next to him.

“Okay,” you said. Just that. No fanfare. His head turned, eyes searching yours. “Okay?” You nodded. “Okay. One step at a time.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I can do one step,” he said. “I’m good at steady.” You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re also good at falling off bulls.” He smirked. “Falling for difficult things is kind of my brand.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh.

And it felt like the first true thing between you since that night.

—

It started with the screen door.

You’d mentioned, offhand, that it creaked every time the wind hit it. Not as a complaint. Not even really expecting anything. Just one of those things people say when they’re tired and trying to ignore the things that bother them.

Two days later, it was fixed.

No note. No fuss. Just... fixed.

And then came the squeaky bathroom faucet. Then the broken fence post near the back gate. Then the step on the porch that’d always slanted left until suddenly, quietly, it didn’t.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did.

He stopped by every few days now. Always with a reason.

Brought extra milk once. Said he “accidentally bought two.” Dropped off a hammer the second time. Claimed he “forgot it last time,” even though you were pretty sure it hadn’t been there at all.

And once — just once — he showed up with a tupperware of stew and mumbled something about “Cecilia made too much.” You didn’t question it.

You started leaving the porch light on without thinking about it.

—

One night, you found him sitting on your steps, your dog curled up next to his boot, watching the wind move through the trees like it was a story worth hearing.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. Just sat there with the kind of quiet you didn’t mind.

You opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You’re just gonna sit there all night?” He looked up, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna bug you.” You gestured toward the couch. “You wanna come in or not?”

He smiled — small, crooked — and followed you inside.

—

The living room felt warmer with him in it. He didn’t say much. Just took off his boots, set his hat on the counter without thinking, and leaned back into your secondhand couch like it remembered him.

You brought two mugs of tea and sat beside him, knees almost touching.

“I didn’t think you’d keep coming,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to stop,” he replied, just as soft.

You looked at him — really looked.

At the faint scrape on his knuckles. At the way his shirt pulled at the shoulders from work. At the way he exhaled like he hadn’t had a quiet place to land in a while.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch.

“You always stare this much?” he asked, voice low. “Only when I’m trying to figure someone out.”

He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched over the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric.

“I’m not that complicated.” You raised a brow. “That’s what complicated people say.”

He smiled at that. Small. But real.

“I just like bein’ here,” he said. “That’s all.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked around the room — at the dim lamp, the mismatched throw pillows, the chipped mug on the table still holding yesterday’s tea bag. Then back at you.

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

That quiet landed deeper than you expected.

But before you could say anything, he added, softer:

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. He looked nervous now, like he’d gone too far.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. You just let your foot rest against his, and this time, you didn’t move it.

And he stayed.

—

It came out quiet.

Like most true things do.

You were sitting on the floor in the living room, sorting through the week’s mail, legs folded under you. Rhett was on the couch behind you, flipping through a hardware catalog he had no intention of ordering from. It was just background noise. Just a way to fill the silence between what had already been said and whatever was next.

You set an envelope down and said, “I found out on a Wednesday.” Rhett looked up. “Yeah?” You nodded, eyes still on your hands. “I didn’t feel right. Thought maybe I was just tired, maybe stress, maybe—hell, I don’t know. But something told me to go pick up a test.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t even wait until I got home. I used the gas station bathroom down by that old diner. Locked the door. Waited. Shook the whole damn time.” You let out a quiet breath. “Didn’t need to wait the full three minutes. It showed up quick.”

Rhett stayed quiet.

You looked down at your fingers. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either. I just... sat there. For a long time.”

Still nothing from him. Just presence. Just patience.

“I went home. Put the test in the trash. Took another one the next morning. Same result. And I just… kept going. Like it hadn’t happened.” You paused, trying to shape it right. Then: “I wasn’t scared of being a mom. I was scared of telling you.” Rhett’s voice came out low. “Why?” “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to blow up your life.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t want it to feel like some trap. Like you owed me something just because I kept it.”

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over.

Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave.

He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.”

That stopped you. Fully stopped you.

He glanced over. “If you hadn’t told me? If I’d never known? I’d be walking around not even realizing I had this chance. You.” You swallowed, throat tight. “It didn’t feel like a chance. It felt like a mess. And I was already halfway drowning in it.” Rhett nodded. Quiet. “I’m not afraid of mess.” “I am,” you said. He didn’t look away. “Then let me be the part that’s steady.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it.

—

You turned to him, slow. Careful.

“What if we tried?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.”

Silence. But not the bad kind.

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred.

“I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

You swallowed, suddenly breathless.

“And now you’re here,” he added, voice dropping. “Asking me what if. After everything. After the mess. After the one night I never stopped thinkin’ about.” He smiled — slow, soft, disbelieving. “This don’t feel real. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.” You shifted closer. “Well… what if it’s real?” He reached for your hand then. Fully, deliberately. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto it.”

Your fingers curled around his. Steady. Sure.

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

—

The house was quiet except for the sound of her breath.

Tiny, rhythmic. Almost like wind through cotton.

She was asleep against your chest, her body curled up like a comma, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. You hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Across the room, Rhett sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his work shirt, still dusted in hay and dirt from a day he didn’t complain about. His eyes were locked on her — your daughter — like she was the sun coming up over the ridge.

“She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. You looked down. “You think?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “That stubborn little pout? That’s you.” You smiled, exhausted but full. “She’s got your frown when she sleeps.” He chuckled. “Poor thing.”

The lamp threw soft amber light across the floorboards. Everything felt warm, lived-in, quiet in a way neither of you had known before.

Rhett shifted up onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle her. One arm draped behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck like a whisper.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

You looked down at her — at her sleep-heavy face, the rise and fall of her breath. You still couldn’t believe something so new could feel so right.

“She changed everything,” you said. Rhett let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And somehow made it all make sense.”

The baby shifted, sighing softly, and you both stilled — protective without speaking, already moving in tandem without having to try.

—

The baby in his arms stirred, bringing Rhett back to the now.

She was heavier these days. A little bigger. A little louder when she wanted something. But in that moment, cradled against his chest in the quiet, she was still. Warm. Safe.

The house around them was hushed — not the tense kind of silence he used to know, but the good kind. Familiar. A hum of peace under the floorboards.

The late morning light spilled through the window. Golden, soft-edged. It lit up the room in streaks — caught the dust in the air, glinted off the framed photo on the mantel, and landed square on his left hand where it curled around her tiny back.

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger.

He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

Steady.

Staying.

Rhett rocked slowly in the old chair, voice low and careful.

“And that,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her forehead, “is how you came to be.”

He looked down at her — same stubborn pout, same tiny fists — and smiled to himself.

“Wasn’t part of the plan, sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re the best thing I never saw comin’.”

She shifted, one arm flopping up against his chest like she knew she was being talked about.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad,” he went on. “Didn’t even know if I was gonna be good at any of this. I still don’t, some days. But then you cry, or smile, or fall asleep on me like this, and I figure... maybe I don’t have to know everything. Maybe just bein’ here is enough.”

A beat.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

His thumb brushed gently over her back. She sighed in her sleep. Like she already believed him.

Rhett leaned back a little further, gaze catching again on the wedding band. It felt heavier in the sunlight. Not in a burdensome way — just real. Earned.

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

Another pause. No rush.

“You were a happy accident, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

His voice dipped even lower, almost a promise.

“You’re ours. All the way.”

And outside, the wind moved through the trees, steady and light — as the sun kept shining.

[writersdrug]

Just thinking bout how bartender!simon would react to to someone leaving their number with a tip for the reader. Just imagine he’s going through the tips at the end of the night and sees a ripped piece of paper with a lil note and number scrawled on it clearly meant for her👀

You must not have seen it - otherwise, you would have pranced over to the bar and gloated about yet another phone number. This one catches him off guard since you hadn't announced it.

It's alright, though. You and Ghost had worked out a system for cock-sure customers like this one. It acted as a coping mechanism for Simon, letting his frustration towards your universal attractiveness out - you thought it was just a fun way to cock block them, and assumed Simon thought the same.

At the end of your shift, you sit at the bar, Simon leaning over it and his phone between the two of you. He texts the number with a general "hi, it's me from the bar :)". He lets you send a few lines to the guy - you atart off simple, slowly sending more and more off-the-rails comments, like "What kind of car do you have? I had to sell mine so the police wouldn't trace me back to the crime." Or "I'm actually under a contract here. I owe the bartender a favor for getting rid of my ex-husband. I can't quit until I'm sixty."

After you've had your fun, and the bar begins to wind down for the night, you head home and leave the rest of the conversation in his hands. He scrolls through what you've said so far, chuckling at the strangeness in your creativity. He then sends his own series of texts. "If you treat me nice, I can show you where I hide the bodies." "Oh, I can't eat at Sevvy's anymore - I got banned after the incident." "Did you know that it's relatively easy to kill someone by breaking their nose? Well, that one guy was easy. Maybe everyone's different."

It's not too long after that when his messages stop going out, and a notification generates on his screen, saying "this number has blocked you." Simon considers it a success.

In the office upstairs, all of the receipts with mobile numbers scribbled on them are pinned to the corkboard by the monitors. Price gives it a disapproving look every time he sees it, but he only becomes impressed with how quickly they begin to take up space on the board. Every Saturday afternoon, before the pub opens, you and Soap go up there and choose a victim at random. He enters the number into several spam websites, like job recruiters or the farmers almanac. Goes on something like "Roommate Finder" and replies to a bunch of postings with the number.

When Price decides to comment on it, Soap gives him a shrug. "Should ne'er have left 'is contact information in a public area."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Your car spies on you and rats you out to insurance companies

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (Mar 13) in SAN FRANCISCO with ROBIN SLOAN, then Toronto, NYC, Anaheim, and more!

Another characteristically brilliant Kashmir Hill story for The New York Times reveals another characteristically terrible fact about modern life: your car secretly records fine-grained telemetry about your driving and sells it to data-brokers, who sell it to insurers, who use it as a pretext to gouge you on premiums:

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/11/technology/carmakers-driver-tracking-insurance.html

Almost every car manufacturer does this: Hyundai, Nissan, Ford, Chrysler, etc etc:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2020/09/09/ford-state-farm-ford-metromile-honda-verisk-among-insurer-oem-telematics-connections/

This is true whether you own or lease the car, and it's separate from the "black box" your insurer might have offered to you in exchange for a discount on your premiums. In other words, even if you say no to the insurer's carrot – a surveillance-based discount – they've got a stick in reserve: buying your nonconsensually harvested data on the open market.

I've always hated that saying, "If you're not paying for the product, you're the product," the reason being that it posits decent treatment as a customer reward program, like the little ramekin warm nuts first class passengers get before takeoff. Companies don't treat you well when you pay them. Companies treat you well when they fear the consequences of treating you badly.

Take Apple. The company offers Ios users a one-tap opt-out from commercial surveillance, and more than 96% of users opted out. Presumably, the other 4% were either confused or on Facebook's payroll. Apple – and its army of cultists – insist that this proves that our world's woes can be traced to cheapskate "consumers" who expected to get something for nothing by using advertising-supported products.

But here's the kicker: right after Apple blocked all its rivals from spying on its customers, it began secretly spying on those customers! Apple has a rival surveillance ad network, and even if you opt out of commercial surveillance on your Iphone, Apple still secretly spies on you and uses the data to target you for ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Even if you're paying for the product, you're still the product – provided the company can get away with treating you as the product. Apple can absolutely get away with treating you as the product, because it lacks the historical constraints that prevented Apple – and other companies – from treating you as the product.

As I described in my McLuhan lecture on enshittification, tech firms can be constrained by four forces:

I. Competition

II. Regulation

III. Self-help

IV. Labor

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/30/go-nuts-meine-kerle/#ich-bin-ein-bratapfel

When companies have real competitors – when a sector is composed of dozens or hundreds of roughly evenly matched firms – they have to worry that a maltreated customer might move to a rival. 40 years of antitrust neglect means that corporations were able to buy their way to dominance with predatory mergers and pricing, producing today's inbred, Habsburg capitalism. Apple and Google are a mobile duopoly, Google is a search monopoly, etc. It's not just tech! Every sector looks like this:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

Eliminating competition doesn't just deprive customers of alternatives, it also empowers corporations. Liberated from "wasteful competition," companies in concentrated industries can extract massive profits. Think of how both Apple and Google have "competitively" arrived at the same 30% app tax on app sales and transactions, a rate that's more than 1,000% higher than the transaction fees extracted by the (bloated, price-gouging) credit-card sector:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/07/curatorial-vig/#app-tax

But cartels' power goes beyond the size of their warchest. The real source of a cartel's power is the ease with which a small number of companies can arrive at – and stick to – a common lobbying position. That's where "regulatory capture" comes in: the mobile duopoly has an easier time of capturing its regulators because two companies have an easy time agreeing on how to spend their app-tax billions:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

Apple – and Google, and Facebook, and your car company – can violate your privacy because they aren't constrained regulation, just as Uber can violate its drivers' labor rights and Amazon can violate your consumer rights. The tech cartels have captured their regulators and convinced them that the law doesn't apply if it's being broken via an app:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/18/cursed-are-the-sausagemakers/#how-the-parties-get-to-yes

In other words, Apple can spy on you because it's allowed to spy on you. America's last consumer privacy law was passed in 1988, and it bans video-store clerks from leaking your VHS rental history. Congress has taken no action on consumer privacy since the Reagan years:

https://www.eff.org/tags/video-privacy-protection-act

But tech has some special enshittification-resistant characteristics. The most important of these is interoperability: the fact that computers are universal digital machines that can run any program. HP can design a printer that rejects third-party ink and charge $10,000/gallon for its own colored water, but someone else can write a program that lets you jailbreak your printer so that it accepts any ink cartridge:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Tech companies that contemplated enshittifying their products always had to watch over their shoulders for a rival that might offer a disenshittification tool and use that as a wedge between the company and its customers. If you make your website's ads 20% more obnoxious in anticipation of a 2% increase in gross margins, you have to consider the possibility that 40% of your users will google "how do I block ads?" Because the revenue from a user who blocks ads doesn't stay at 100% of the current levels – it drops to zero, forever (no user ever googles "how do I stop blocking ads?").

The majority of web users are running an ad-blocker:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

Web operators made them an offer ("free website in exchange for unlimited surveillance and unfettered intrusions") and they made a counteroffer ("how about 'nah'?"):

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

Here's the thing: reverse-engineering an app – or any other IP-encumbered technology – is a legal minefield. Just decompiling an app exposes you to felony prosecution: a five year sentence and a $500k fine for violating Section 1201 of the DMCA. But it's not just the DMCA – modern products are surrounded with high-tech tripwires that allow companies to invoke IP law to prevent competitors from augmenting, recongifuring or adapting their products. When a business says it has "IP," it means that it has arranged its legal affairs to allow it to invoke the power of the state to control its customers, critics and competitors:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

An "app" is just a web-page skinned in enough IP to make it a crime to add an ad-blocker to it. This is what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model" and it's everywhere. When companies don't have to worry about users deploying self-help measures to disenshittify their products, they are freed from the constraint that prevents them indulging the impulse to shift value from their customers to themselves.

Apple owes its existence to interoperability – its ability to clone Microsoft Office's file formats for Pages, Numbers and Keynote, which saved the company in the early 2000s – and ever since, it has devoted its existence to making sure no one ever does to Apple what Apple did to Microsoft:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

Regulatory capture cuts both ways: it's not just about powerful corporations being free to flout the law, it's also about their ability to enlist the law to punish competitors that might constrain their plans for exploiting their workers, customers, suppliers or other stakeholders.

The final historical constraint on tech companies was their own workers. Tech has very low union-density, but that's in part because individual tech workers enjoyed so much bargaining power due to their scarcity. This is why their bosses pampered them with whimsical campuses filled with gourmet cafeterias, fancy gyms and free massages: it allowed tech companies to convince tech workers to work like government mules by flattering them that they were partners on a mission to bring the world to its digital future:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

For tech bosses, this gambit worked well, but failed badly. On the one hand, they were able to get otherwise powerful workers to consent to being "extremely hardcore" by invoking Fobazi Ettarh's spirit of "vocational awe":

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

On the other hand, when you motivate your workers by appealing to their sense of mission, the downside is that they feel a sense of mission. That means that when you demand that a tech worker enshittifies something they missed their mother's funeral to deliver, they will experience a profound sense of moral injury and refuse, and that worker's bargaining power means that they can make it stick.

Or at least, it did. In this era of mass tech layoffs, when Google can fire 12,000 workers after a $80b stock buyback that would have paid their wages for the next 27 years, tech workers are learning that the answer to "I won't do this and you can't make me" is "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" (AKA "sharpen your blades boys"):

https://techcrunch.com/2022/09/29/elon-musk-texts-discovery-twitter/

With competition, regulation, self-help and labor cleared away, tech firms – and firms that have wrapped their products around the pluripotently malleable core of digital tech, including automotive makers – are no longer constrained from enshittifying their products.

And that's why your car manufacturer has chosen to spy on you and sell your private information to data-brokers and anyone else who wants it. Not because you didn't pay for the product, so you're the product. It's because they can get away with it.

Cars are enshittified. The dozens of chips that auto makers have shoveled into their car design are only incidentally related to delivering a better product. The primary use for those chips is autoenshittification – access to legal strictures ("IP") that allows them to block modifications and repairs that would interfere with the unfettered abuse of their own customers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

The fact that it's a felony to reverse-engineer and modify a car's software opens the floodgates to all kinds of shitty scams. Remember when Bay Staters were voting on a ballot measure to impose right-to-repair obligations on automakers in Massachusetts? The only reason they needed to have the law intervene to make right-to-repair viable is that Big Car has figured out that if it encrypts its diagnostic messages, it can felonize third-party diagnosis of a car, because decrypting the messages violates the DMCA:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2013/11/drm-cars-will-drive-consumers-crazy

Big Car figured out that VIN locking – DRM for engine components and subassemblies – can felonize the production and the installation of third-party spare parts:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

The fact that you can't legally modify your car means that automakers can go back to their pre-2008 ways, when they transformed themselves into unregulated banks that incidentally manufactured the cars they sold subprime loans for. Subprime auto loans – over $1t worth! – absolutely relies on the fact that borrowers' cars can be remotely controlled by lenders. Miss a payment and your car's stereo turns itself on and blares threatening messages at top volume, which you can't turn off. Break the lease agreement that says you won't drive your car over the county line and it will immobilize itself. Try to change any of this software and you'll commit a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Tesla, naturally, has the most advanced anti-features. Long before BMW tried to rent you your seat-heater and Mercedes tried to sell you a monthly subscription to your accelerator pedal, Teslas were demon-haunted nightmare cars. Miss a Tesla payment and the car will immobilize itself and lock you out until the repo man arrives, then it will blare its horn and back itself out of its parking spot. If you "buy" the right to fully charge your car's battery or use the features it came with, you don't own them – they're repossessed when your car changes hands, meaning you get less money on the used market because your car's next owner has to buy these features all over again:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

And all this DRM allows your car maker to install spyware that you're not allowed to remove. They really tipped their hand on this when the R2R ballot measure was steaming towards an 80% victory, with wall-to-wall scare ads that revealed that your car collects so much information about you that allowing third parties to access it could lead to your murder (no, really!):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

That's why your car spies on you. Because it can. Because the company that made it lacks constraint, be it market-based, legal, technological or its own workforce's ethics.

One common critique of my enshittification hypothesis is that this is "kind of sensible and normal" because "there’s something off in the consumer mindset that we’ve come to believe that the internet should provide us with amazing products, which bring us joy and happiness and we spend hours of the day on, and should ask nothing back in return":

https://freakonomics.com/podcast/how-to-have-great-conversations/

What this criticism misses is that this isn't the companies bargaining to shift some value from us to them. Enshittification happens when a company can seize all that value, without having to bargain, exploiting law and technology and market power over buyers and sellers to unilaterally alter the way the products and services we rely on work.

A company that doesn't have to fear competitors, regulators, jailbreaking or workers' refusal to enshittify its products doesn't have to bargain, it can take. It's the first lesson they teach you in the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Your car spying on you isn't down to your belief that your carmaker "should provide you with amazing products, which brings your joy and happiness you spend hours of the day on, and should ask nothing back in return." It's not because you didn't pay for the product, so now you're the product. It's because they can get away with it.

The consequences of this spying go much further than mere insurance premium hikes, too. Car telemetry sits at the top of the funnel that the unbelievably sleazy data broker industry uses to collect and sell our data. These are the same companies that sell the fact that you visited an abortion clinic to marketers, bounty hunters, advertisers, or vengeful family members pretending to be one of those:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/07/safegraph-spies-and-lies/#theres-no-i-in-uterus

Decades of pro-monopoly policy led to widespread regulatory capture. Corporate cartels use the monopoly profits they extract from us to pay for regulatory inaction, allowing them to extract more profits.

But when it comes to privacy, that period of unchecked corporate power might be coming to an end. The lack of privacy regulation is at the root of so many problems that a pro-privacy movement has an unstoppable constituency working in its favor.

At EFF, we call this "privacy first." Whether you're worried about grifters targeting vulnerable people with conspiracy theories, or teens being targeted with media that harms their mental health, or Americans being spied on by foreign governments, or cops using commercial surveillance data to round up protesters, or your car selling your data to insurance companies, passing that long-overdue privacy legislation would turn off the taps for the data powering all these harms:

https://www.eff.org/wp/privacy-first-better-way-address-online-harms

Traditional economics fails because it thinks about markets without thinking about power. Monopolies lead to more than market power: they produce regulatory capture, power over workers, and state capture, which felonizes competition through IP law. The story that our problems stem from the fact that we just don't spend enough money, or buy the wrong products, only makes sense if you willfully ignore the power that corporations exert over our lives. It's nice to think that you can shop your way out of a monopoly, because that's a lot easier than voting your way out of a monopoly, but no matter how many times you vote with your wallet, the cartels that control the market will always win:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/05/the-map-is-not-the-territory/#apor-locksmith

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/12/market-failure/#car-wars

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[babyblankyerror]

On the Stanley hit man thing(please note 1: prices are at least semi accurate to the 70s and 2: I have no idea how hitmen work and there’s only so many google searches I’m willing to have in my history. Also the name of The Guy is a reference to an actual person who was related to an actual big US government fuck up):

Rubbing soap and water into well-worn gloves in some gas station bathroom in the middle of the night was, at this point, a new normal for Stanley. There were better ways to do this, he knew that, but patience and a horrifying amount of soap did the job just fine. Better than leaving the gloves on the ground where someone might stumble across them and realise there are small dried splatters on them.

The best way to get blood out of fabric was to wash it out quickly. Flood it with water, then scrub soap into it and try to wear through it with paper towel after paper towel until the water runs clear. It was a similar method to removing paint from a roller or shirt. That meant that Stan could just pretend he’d messed up on some project, for an art class or something. Or was messing around with his brother's paints. There was only so well that could work after years of the same routine, but it still worked so there was no reason to change it.

As he ran the gloves under the faucet again, the water flowed only carrying suds. No more damning pinkish hue. Now he just had to dry them, and that could be done back in the Stanley-Mobile.

First he’d have to leave the gas station. Then call the number given to him last week when he got the job and tell them it was done. He’d learn where to meet them to get the back half of his payment, then he could see how to split it. Enough to keep going went to him, a little bit went towards saving in case of an emergency, and the rest went to his dork of a brother.

The first step, out of all of them, was always the hardest. There are only so many ways you can hide sopping wet gloves, especially when it’s warm enough out that you can’t just wear a bulky jacket with inner pockets.

He folded them in half, longways, and put one in each of his pant pockets. It was as inconspicuous as he could get.

Stan hurried to the door of the bathroom, before opening it at a much more reasonable speed and meandered out of the gas station store. He took special care to walk in plain view on his way out. As much as he’d love to skirt around the edge of the store to keep out of view, that would only look suspicious and risk drawing attention.

As the store door closed behind him he let his shoulders drop slightly and fished his gloves out of his pocket as well as his keys. His car was parked right outside so there was no need to separate the actions.

Unlocking the door he sat down in the driver’s seat. He already had a small towel on the passenger side of the bench seats. He dropped the gloves on the towel before swinging his door shut, sticking his key in the ignition, and starting the engine. There was a pay phone a few blocks down, but having just left the store he should still move his car.

It was funny how despite about… three years, he wants to say, he still was always on edge after a job. It made sense, considering that the jobs he took consisted of killing people, but it was still a lot of time to adjust to it. At least the pay was good, and he had ways to get through the actual murder part.

Just line up the shot, and count to three. If you make it to three you might chicken out and fail, or if you aren’t sure of aim you might panic since they keep breathing after the shot. Not to mention you leave a distinctive trace of who’s done it with the bullet. But guns left less room for regret and letting them live than knives or fists. It helped that he pulled the trigger on two, before his mind could catch up to what he was doing. By the time he was weighing whether or not he should do it, he was already checking to see if any blood was on him. Usually just his hands if he got close, but on occasion a drop or two would land elsewhere on him.

Shoes he filed the treads off left no recognizable prints as he would walk away.

The drive to the pay phone was silent beyond the low rattling of the engine. Shifting gears and parking the car was so automatic that if he was asked if he’d done it or not he genuinely wouldn’t know the answer. He took a few coins out of the cup holder and a note from where it was tucked into his front visor.

The air had the everpresent heat of summer, only cut through by a slight wind. He vaguely wondered if it was similar weather where Ford was. Sure Indiana was northeast of Arkansas, but it couldn’t account for that great of a change in weather. Especially since there would be enough plants to keep the heat in at night as opposed to if Ford was in the desert out West. Ford should have been in the desert out West, or at least just near it. He’d driven through the west coast once, it went from desert to a small bit of forest by the coast.

He slotted a coin into the phone and punched in the numbers written on the little sheet of paper. It rang for a few moments before someone answered with a tired ‘hello’. Made sense, it was probably around midnight.

“Is this S Higgins?” Stanley asked, staring up at the sky. The town was big enough that the lights faded some of the stars out. Probably for the best, Ford always liked the stars and it was best to not think about Ford when on the call with a client. His voice got too soft, and when your voice gets soft suddenly everything is up for negotiation.

“It is. I take it, you've done it?” The voice on the other end of the line replies. Always with euphemisms and never saying what they asked for. They wanted someone dead and now they’re dead, and he’s the only one that has to face it.

“Yup. You can check; Kelly on York street- dead center of Warren.” Stan says. He knows they won’t check, but it’s always best to give the information so there’s never any doubt he’s done it. It’ll be in the headlines anyways, Warren doesn’t seem like a place where a double homicide goes unreported on. A lovey dovey couple who just so happened to know a few details problematic to an ongoing political career.

“Is Ray’s in Monticello in three days good for you?” Came from the phone, crackly and disconnected. Three days, enough time for news and an investigation to start. Also enough time to plan out where to go next. There were certain people who talked, and it was through that grapevine his name got spread around. Or more accurately his license plate and car’s description did, it was not exactly inconspicuous, and with that ways to contact him. He just had to go wherever people who knew people that might want someone dead were. So pretty much anywhere, but he’d been thinking about seeing New Orleans so maybe he’d head there. And if nothing came up he was certain to find something in Mobile.

“Around lunch?” He asked. The least suspicious time of day. You could openly talk about his work at lunch and it would be taken as a joke. Because it’s the middle of the day and no actual plots could ever take place in the middle of the day.

“See you then.” The words came out and were quickly followed by a clack and silence. He set the phone up and made his way back to the Stanley-Mobile.

Monticello was less than twenty miles away. He could get there and get a motel room that night. But Warren was a small town and the newcomer disappearing the night of two murders would put the cops on his tail, so he swung around and headed back towards the motel he’d gotten a room at here.

The fact he didn’t immediately collapse meant he must have been running on adrenaline, and so rather than fight it for sleep he got his things packed. He’d sleep in and leave at a reasonable time in the morning before heading to Monticello. That seemed ideal.

———

Over the next couple days the only notable occurrences were the headlines about what he’d done, and him visiting the Allen House. From murder to the suicide house tourist trap. Way to go him!

Stanley had to admit though, while the ‘hauntedness’ of the Allen House left something to be desired he enjoyed the fun romp. He could do it better if he wanted to, but that would mean getting a house which would probably require legal documents that were left back in the apartment on top of a pawn shop in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. Or he could do it illegally, which was much more likely, but at this point too much of a hassle when his current gig worked just fine.

Noon was approaching though so he turned on the Stanley-Mobile and headed towards Ray’s.

The diner was somewhat cosy despite having a metal back wall that looked like that of a storage container. Probably the warm lighting, benches, and soft music playing from a radio on the counter. He grabbed a table by a window, staring out of it to wait.

After a few dozen minutes of nothing he decided to go ahead and order some fries and a burger, making sure it wasn’t enough he could reasonably eat. He got a to-go bag after picking at them for what he deemed a good amount of time.

It was maybe another half hour or a bit longer when he watched a slightly too-clean Pacer roll up. A man who looked like he’d just been told what ‘casual’ meant last night stepped out and headed towards the diner. That was, without a doubt, Higgins then.

When he walked in the door Stanley waved him over, calling his name with a slight cheer as the man came over.

“You did… the job.” Higgins muttered, pulling a chair opposite Stanley’s spot on a padded bench and shuffling to sit down.

“I did. It’s on the news if you need to check.” Stanley said, leaning back slightly.

“I… I already saw the news. I have the money.” Higgins said, pausing to hum and haw before continuing, “Three thousand, right? Here, in cash.” Higgins said, reaching into a pocket on the inside of his clearly not weather appropriate jacket. And right. Stanley really should remember to get checks and not cash. Checks were easy to hide, especially since he went about being a contract killer in the dumbest way. Instead of just getting in with one group and staying there with a consistent pay and a good public facing business set up for him, he traveled around and essentially worked commission. Granted he got his start making enemies, so maybe staying in one place wasn’t the best. Especially when he could then work for just about anyone he deemed not an immediate risk, instead of just one organization. No matter what though, he should get better about checks instead of cash. Too late now though. Stanley held his palm out and felt a small stack of hundred dollar bills hit his hand, with no small amount of worry. He clutched the bills and tilted his palm down, hiding them from any quick glances.

Stanley dropped the bills into the to go bag as he reached in, and pulled out a small container with the fries.

“I have extra if you want.” He said, opening the lid and turning them towards Higgins. The man seemed to writhe in his chair, face morphing into a performance of guilt. He was certainly new to this. Higgins got up with a rushed apology and excuse of having to get back home. Stanley watched him go and placed the fries back in the bag. Well, to the bank then. He should deposit the cash slowly, he knows this, but he’s fairly certain that the new semester is starting m at Backupsmore which means Ford will need to be spending his money on textbooks. Which means Stanley is going to be extra sure to pay for his tuition.

Stanley’s pretty sure he caught an article about Ford and some other guy proving something or other about the universe, and a few more campus newspapers mentioning the two of them spending time together. So his brother finally made a friend! He’d drive up and hug the nerd out of pride if he weren’t certain Ford wouldn’t be too willing to speak to him. He did figure though, that he had enough saved for an emergency that what he’d usually cut out of his pay for à ‘just in case’ could go to Ford’s friend instead. A brief line of phone books and library visits, as well as word of mouth, made it clear that the guy was also the first of his family to go to college. And was riding on a couple scholarships in order to just cover tuition, but probably still had to take out a loan or two. He wasn’t going to risk Ford’s friend having to drop out and leave him alone due to finances.

The face of the bank teller was of mild confusion when he went to deposit five hundred dollars. Just because he wasn’t waiting to deposit the money didn’t mean he was an idiot. He was just going to spend the day hopping between a few banks to do it in chunks. Stil suspicious on paper but he has a current guise of being ‘an artist’ so sudden large deposits because he ‘sold a painting’ at least didn’t get too many questions.

At the end of it all he ended up sending one thousand five hundred to Ford’s annual tuition, so he should be set for a while longer. Though the idiot of a genius was taking twelve different full courses and each individual course has its own lesser tuition so it wasn’t the full semester it would have been if his brother knew how to stop. Frankly that had been the main reason he’d stepped in, Ford probably could have managed the tuition for one or even two or three courses on his own but somewhere in his mind he’d decided that taking twelve was a good idea. Stanley’s sure Ford could have figured it out, but that’s his brother and he didn’t want Ford to have to figure it out.

He sent seven hundred to Ford's friends’ tuition after some double checking names, and so the apparent Fiddleford McGucket had one less thing to worry about.

That meant he had eight thousand remaining, he wouldn’t have to take another job for a while. A long while. Maybe he just goes to New Orleans as a vacation.

~~~~~~

Ford and Fiddleford were staring at the Backupsmore administrator. They’d gone to check up on what they had to pay for tuition, only to find out that not only had Ford’s gotten a significant amount paid(which was becoming an odd yet consistent occurrence) but Fiddleford’s as well.

The money had been wired in, which meant whoever sent it had a known bank account, but had apparently mandated anonymity. As far as the school administrators were aware, it could have been the king of England sending the money.

The walk back to their dorm was shared in stunned silence. It wasn’t until Ford was sitting on his bed that Fiddleford stopped pacing and stared out the window before gripping his hair and yelling, in the whisper yell mandates by shared walls, cried out.

“WHAT in the world is GOIN’ ON.”

Fiddleford turned to Ford, lowering his hands to gesture in confused annoyance.

“Well, we know whoever is sending this must have a lot of money on hand. And we have been covering a lot of neuroscience, and specifically how to alter brains- right? It’s probably some larger entity with stakes in our current research.” Ford posed, though his voice still tilted with unsureness.

“True, but you started getting the payments before the whole tie thing. So there must have been some sort of investment before then.” Fiddleford argued. Ford shrugged.

“I mean, I suppose the sheer number of courses I was taking may have been noteworthy?” He offered.

Fiddleford began to pace muttering to himself, before an idea seemed to strike him.

“Hey, if we can get into the school records and figure out what bank the money has been being wired from, maybe we can call them and ask for information?” Fiddleford suggested. Ford took a moment to think through the idea, before grinning and jumping up.

“Exactly! Even if we can’t get a name, we’ll still get a rough area and we can go through phone books until we find someone who has a ridiculous amount of disposable cash and a vested interest in both of us!” He exclaimed.

They were probably going to have to break into an office or something, hopefully childhood shenanigans with… his childhood shenanigans would help with that.

Bro you need to publish this on ao3 or post it on tumblr or SOMETHING because HOLY SHIT?!??!?!

THIS is exactly what I was imagining for the Au!!! This is fuckkng great!!! I LOVE LOVE THIS AND YOU AND AAAAAAAA

I imagine Fiddleford doesn't really worry about the random money Ford gets until HE starts getting it too. Then yeah he's freaking out because WHAT THE HECK??

I love this you wrote this so well, so nice and omg??? You did research??? That's more than I'd ever do XD

[boypied]

WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE SCARY MOVIE?

pairings: drew starkey x ghostface!male reader

summary: drew starkey is lying down on his bed, shirtless when he gets a call from an unknown number that turns out to be ghostface. After the conversation ends, the ghostface bursts through his bedroom in an attempt to kill him, but the only one that gets penetrated is ghostface's hole.

requested by: anonymous.

warnings: SMUT, anal sex, top!drew, bottom!reader, knife play, oral sex (r!giving).

Drew runs his hand down across his rippling abs, feeling each dip and curve that his fingers fall into. He was lying in his bed, bored out of his mind having nothing to do until one idea popped into his head; masterbation! His fingers traced along the waistband of his underwear about to slide in until he was interrupted by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. He tried ignoring it till it rang again, and again, and again till his phone was basically at the point it was vibrating off his desk side table. He picks it up angrily, answering in a pissed off blue-balls type of way, "Hello?" Drew says, annoyed, waiting for a reply but only hearing breathing down the phone."Who is this?" He asks slightly more toned down and calm immediately, hearing a high pitch noise and then a deep voice; "What's your favourite scary movie?"

Drew's eyes widen in shock and confusion, 'this isn't really happening.' he wonders to himself before replying to the question with a small tremble of fear on his face "hellraiser" he mumbles into the phone, his hands shaking with fear. Drew stands there frozen in fear as he listens to ghostface's breathing over and over until he replies; "since you love it so much, how about a quiz. get one wrong, and you die. " Hearing a serial killer say that over the other line causes his heart to skip a beat, "fine. Let's get this over with" his reply shaky and scared waiting for the quiz to begin. "In the movie, Hellraiser, the "box" is the catalyst for the horrifying events that take place in this movie. Who is the first character to open it?" Once the question is fully comprehended in Drew's mind, his eyes widen when he can't remember."Uh.." he stutters out.

"Cat, got your tongue?" Ghostface says smugly from the other line. After a couple more seconds of silence from Drew, ghostface ultimately decides that time has run out "times up, pretty boy." Ghostface says with a chuckle hanging up from the call, Drew looks around his room waiting for the attack to happen. Ghostface barges through his bedroom door, holding a knife high in the air, ready to strike into Drew's flesh. Drew lets out a low scream before lunging himself at Ghostface, tackling the knife from his body, Ghostface stuggles and fights back, throwing Drew down on the bed. A small smirk appears on your face under the ghostface mask as you eye up the trembling, sweaty, muscular man that is lying down below you. Something just comes over you, and you drop down to your knees and swiftly begin fiddling with Drew's belt pulling it off in one quick motion.

Drew's cock had already become stiff the moment you barged into his bedroom door and he got to see just how small you were compared to him, and the way he had enough time to check out your ass in the black cloak, he knew at that moment that he wasn't going to die but he was going to get his dick wet. Drew's eyes widen, and a smirk creeps up on his lips as he sees the supposedly maniac killer drop down onto his knees and whip out his cock revealing his bushy but maintained pubes, You lift up your ghostface mask ever so slightly just so your mouth could be revealed. You tease his tip by rubbing it against your lips back and forth before sliding it into your mouth as you begin swirling your tongue around his beautifully pink tip.

Drew's eyes look down to be met with dark shallow holes of the mask, and his eyes travel further down to meet your mouth as he watches his cock disappear into your slick wet mouth. You tongue making sure to coat every inch of his large shaft, making it all wet and easy to slip back and forth down your throat. Your eyes roll back under the mask as he begins to buck his hips up into your throat, causing you to gag making your throat tighten around his member as it fucks your mouth. The wet sounds of your mouth echos throughout the room. What was supposed to be a murder turned into a mouth fucking party, and you just let it happen he had some sort of control over you.

You tried to remain still and silent as he bucked his hips up into your mouth, his tip curving down your throat. Drew grips the back of the Ghostface mask pushing your head right down to the base of his cock, his maintained tidy pubes tickle against your upper lip. Drew removes his hand from the back of your head allowing you to take control of his cock, you could've easily grabbed the knife from the floor... but no. You decide to wrap your hands around the base of his cock and begin to jerk it up and down while your swirl your tongue around his pretty pink tip, gently rubbing your lips against it.

You hover your mouth over his tip, you slowly open your mouth allowing spit to drip out and onto his cock. You watch it run down before it reaches your hand and you use it as lube to jerk his cock again up and down, faster and faster. Drew lets out quiet, with little moans and whimpers, before some sort of dominance takes over his mind and body as he grips the back of your head pulling you off his cock in one swift motion. He stands up and lifts you up onto the bed, he lifts up your Ghostface gown revealing black shorts that hug your ass just right, "fuck yes" he mumbles to himself spanking your left cheek once them spanking the second cheek once.

Drew pulls down your ass-hugging shorts, revealing perfectly round and juicy cheeks. Drew licks his lips until you stand up, putting a knife to his neck. "Eat. my. ass." You say sternly, and in a commanding tone, Drew pulls his hands up. "woah woah." He says laying his body down cautiously on the bed as you slowly climb on top of him, your knees either side of his chest as you slowly sit down on his face feeling his nose and tongue slip right in between your cheeks. Drew begins to lap up your hole, tasting it. He gently pushes his tongue as deep into your boy-pussy as he possibly can, feeling his tongue inside your hole could've made you orgasm right then and there.

You can feel Drew's mouth change into a smirk as his tongue laps around in circles, he begins to tongue fuck you. He pushes his tongue back and forth inside your ass. You lean down and take his dick back in your mouth, moaning around his cock sending the vibrations straight to the base and then his balls. You begin to shake your ass on his face, Drew brings his hands up to your ass giving it a smack, and then gripping it as he tongue fucks you. You pull your ass away from Drew's tongue, hearing him let out a "awh" as his tongue suddenly feels the cold air. You pull up your black Ghostface gown, twerking your ass against his cock hearing it slap back and forth against your bubble butt. Drew lets out moans and groans as he feels your fingers against his tip gently adjusting it to fit right at your hole, you gently push yourself down feeling his cock penetrate into you.

Drew throws his head back, letting out a groan as his mouth turns into an O shape. "fuck fuck fuck" he keeps repeating himself over and over as he feels your hole squeeze around his cock, you let out a chuckle as you place your hands down on his abs feeling them as you begin to bounce up and down on his cock. Drew's body shudders under your touch, feeling your hands graze against his abs, you buck your hips back and forth feeling his cock rub against your sweet spot, milking it with each and every buck of your hips. Drew's eyes darken with hunger as he pushes you off his cock and placing you into the doggy style position.

With one spank of your ass Drew becomes ultimately mesmerised with your ass, the way it jiggles. A smirk grows on his face as he lines his cock up with your hole thrusting deep inside, feeling his cock being warmed by your boy-pussy. You feel his pubes against your ass as he stays inside you without movement, he slowly pulls out before thrusting back in roughly watching your ass jiggle "oh shit" he lets out with a huge laugh "fuck yes!". Your eyes widen feeling the pace he's fucking you at, "ah!" You gasp out bitting your lip to try and remain quiet.

Drew can't take his eyes off of your ass, the way it ripples and jiggles makes Drew fuck you harder "these backshots are going crazy" he says out in a frat boy tone causing you to roll your eyes. He grips onto your hips pushing you on and off his cock watching it disappear and then reappear with just a few thrusts, "you like that, mr ghostface?" Drew says in a cocky tone as he smacks your ass and thrusts deep into you, milking your g-spot. He rubs his hand in circles, around your ass feeling the shape and the jiggle "so perfect," he mumbles under his breath before spanking it once more for a final jiggle.

Drew grips your hips once more fucking you into oblivion causing you to shoot your load from the stimulation, "A-AH!" You groan out throwing the ghostface mask off, sweat dripping off your face becoming a moaning mess against the bedsheets as your hand grip the sheets. "Take it like a good boy!" Drew groans out, thrusting his hips sloppily once more before shooting his load deep inside your boy-pussy. You collapse against the bed feeling Drew's cock slip out of your hole, Drew spanks your ass once more letting out a laugh.

He lays down next to your limp body, your face all sweaty as you breathe heavily. "Don't think we're done yet. This is your ten minute break," he says with a huge smile on his face, causing you to smirk slightly. Your hole makes a wet sound as Drew's cum seaps out and drips down onto your balls, you bite your lip excited for what's to come.

taglist - @starboye @mailmango @ghostking4m @kingchaospostsstuff @ghostking4m @crispysoup318 @inhumanshadows @its-ares

[mollyjames]

Had the most cursed Nightreign run last night. It was me, Soy, and wolfstar running Duchess, Revenant, and Guardian respectively. Run started well, but went south when we died to the first rain while trying to finish off a crucible knight evergaol. Runes were too far gone to retrieve, but that's fine. It was early so we only lost level 4, and there would be time to retrieve them later. Then, with the first rain still closing in, Morgott invaded.

The Morgott raid is tough. He picks a target and attacks them exclusively until downed, and then leaves. If you can kill him first though, your team gets the Traces of Grace-Given Lord buff, which improves attack power at each newly found site of grace. This is a very good buff and well worth getting. Fortunately he was aggroed on me and Duchess is very mobile. It took longer than we would have liked, but we took him down and got the buff.

Our bad luck continued for a bit (we opened an evergaol with a Deathbird inside, not worth it, ran away) until wolfstar randomly found a Cord End. This is a super rare drop that eventually led to our team getting 3 Sacrificial Twigs to split. The Sacrificial Twig isn't powerful, but it does let us die once without losing runes or level, so we took them for safety. We scrape and claw our way through day 2 and somehow manage not to die once, and Twigs are useless for the final day, so we didn't wind up needing them.

Before dunking our head in some goo and heading up to the final boss, we stop to take stock. I decide to dive into the rain and swap out the Twig for a nearby talisman that will actually be useful. Soy and wolfstar both get a little more ambitious, and decide to use their Twigs to make a suicidal run to opposite corners of the map to grab one last flask charge for the final fight: the idea being when they die in the rain, they'll respawn with their levels and runes safely back in the circle.

As I'm waiting for them to get back I start idly checking my passives and notice I was able to get 10 stacks of Grace-Given Lord. Soy dies just before getting her flask, but the Twig worked and she's back with no penalty. I ask how many stacks everyone has because I want to know if the effect is global. wolfstar confirms he has 10 stacks. Soy does not appear to have any stacks. That's weird. It should show some kind of number. Is this a glitch? wolfstar grabs his flask and dies, respawns with no penalty. Then he starts to laugh. His stacks? Also gone now. The Sacrificial Twig saved our runes, but it did not save the Grace-Given Lord buff.

Needless to say, we did not win that run.

TIL dying resets Traces of a Grace-Given Lord, even if you're carrying a Sacrificial Twig

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Fourteen - Nightmares

Part Thirteen

———

Human mass is made up primarily of six elements; oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. That makes up around 99% of the human body, 0.85% is made up of another five, being potassium, sulfur, sodium, chlorine, and magnesium. Together the eleven elements are necessary for human life, the trace elements of the other 0.15% included, probably. 

There is no discernable thing that keeps them specifically alive, such as a Spark, but most organics experience similar characteristics. 

To most mechanicals, just understanding what they're made out of, they think if they harm an organic too much they will simply pop. It grossed most of them out and a decent number preferred to stay away. Those who didn’t find them gross, just don’t understand how they could live without a spark or something resembling a spark.

Mechanicals and organics, they typically didn’t get along whether for prejudice or misunderstanding.  

—

Once the cybertronians cleared out, they could disable the mobility assist and eat. Talking over private comms and eating, wearing their visors if they could, otherwise maintaining the wider visual feeds. The mix of alien food and perishable earth food was becoming less and less frequent as little of the stuff from Earth that would go bad remained. Almost seven months since they left home and they’d managed to make it last this long was nothing short of great planning and a miracle in the name of Prowl’s processor.

Hound was chuckling, eating the last of his almonds and something that had been deemed ‘Carrot Potatoes’, which was only called that because its growth process was similar. It did not look like a potato or carrot, or taste like either, it was more meat-like than anything but they couldn’t exactly say that out loud. Jazz learned that the hard way when mention to Prowl over three years ago that it tasted like beef, only the exact translation was that it tasted like organic animal muscle and Prowl found that endlessly disturbing. It generally was cut up and dried or superheated, similar to roasting. For the moment, Hound was enjoying the fired version as it was most similar to beef jerky. Along with the food, they had a nutrients drink of Prowl’s design, which was foul, but provided them with what they couldn’t get from any of the food they had access to. It was easier to wash down with water, which thankfully they did have regular access to.

Sideswipe was laughing, gesturing, “I can’t believe that, I mean, come on. Primus selected him specifically to be the leader of a whole planet?” Breakdown groaned, “Not this conversation, again.” Sunstreaker laughed and took a drink from the thing Prowl designed, not even gagging or choking on it like the rest of them. Supposedly he was used to the taste of vitamins and dirt. “I’m just saying, the mech is just like the rest of us. A somewhat normal life before the damn war and now he was selected by their creator to lead the planet, that would be like if god came down to Hound and made him the leader of the free world and the pope at the same time.” With a shake of his head, Jazz groans, “I hate that you’ve all held onto the pope analogy, it was a bad one and I regret it.” They all laughed at that, it didn’t translate well and to be honest, it’s what they all called him over private comms. 

It took them a while to calm down from their laughing fits, Hound finishing off his food first and disengaging his camera, “Alright everyone should get their heads down.” Breakdown chuckled lightly, “You say that like we’ll all be awake in an hour.” disabling his own camera for the night, “Yeah, I know. You all kicked ass today, just, get some rest.” Hound chuckled light as he took off his helmet and visor, shaking his head a bit, “Night guys.” With a chorus of nights and good nights, they all turned off their camera and microphones, turning off the comm line for the night. Each adjusting their settings as needed, setting up alerts and things for the night. It was difficult, having to sleep in your mech but they all made it work. Cots and sleeping bags, makeshift wash stations, pillows and blankets, or even just a bit of storage were all stuff they took cues from Jazz about. It made their life just that little bit more normal that they needed. 

—

It was the middle of the dark cycle when Sunstreaker shot up from his makeshift cot in his mech suit, they had all agreed it would be easier to remain in their cockpits as much as possible when in the field but when back in Iacon they would run any updates or cleaning protocols that were necessary. He was breathing heavily, sweating and unable to truly pull himself from the dream, “I can’t breathe.” Sunstreaker’s voice was faint, strangled from crying, practically falling off the cot he goes to the command chair and starts to run the toxicity test on the air outside his mech. The longer he was in the suit the worse he was getting, starting to hyperventilate, the claustrophobia was kicking in. Grabbing hold of part of his helmet, practically yanking the visor from it he holds it up to read the current reading before unsealing his suit.

The outside air was cool with a light breeze, the heater was several feet away but keeping the metal of their mech suits warm. Sunstreaker pulled himself from where his suit laid and fell to the ground painfully, gasping desperately as the panic attack set in. 

Nightmares were common for pilots, anything from the life before the suit, the comparability testing, being physically made compatible, or just the life as a pilot weighed heavily.  They all had nightmares. Nights where you’d wake up in a cold sweat or nights where you couldn’t breathe, it’s just usually you weren’t in the thing that brought about the nightmare.

Sunstreaker stayed where he fell for a while, both from the pain and the panic. The visor was still covering his face and his hands were over his ears, taking deep breaths when he could and when he couldn’t he was choking on the air. Nightmares and panic attacks were too common among pilots, but it was part of the way of life. What started to bring Sunstreaker out of his was a gentle tremor in the ground, much like how Megatron would shake the ground but significantly softer. Taking a breath, he slowly pushes himself up from the floor, holding his arm that he landed on painfully and tries to look around. Only now becoming away from where he was and what he was doing. Suddenly aware when bright blue eyes locked on his small form and stared, saying something in Cybertronian that he could only partially understand without the translator, “Shit.” In that moment, even in all his years of training and fighting, even back when he street raced he never froze like he did now.

Bluestreak wasn’t entirely sure what he was staring at, it was dark certainly but this small thing was sitting near one of the strange human mechanicals, one of his friends if he was being honest with himself. The twins, the split sparked idiots had grown on him, and had found his work impressive. It meant a lot. Taking a moment, he looks closer with a frown, “Are you lost, little thing?” The planet they were on had everything from organics to some cybertronian’s living on it. It was meant to be a peaceful place but their energy farms had been clocked by the Quintessons in the last quartex and now the fields outside the energy farms were battlefields. This was happening across the universe, especially in cybertronian space and apparently as distant of a quadrant as where the strange mecha were from. 

They both stared at each other for a long time, the visor on Sunstreaker trying to help out with translations rolling across the screen and what little else it could do separated from the mech suit, and Bluestreak was trying his hardest to seem non-threatening. One step from Blue though shook the ground and Sunny was quick to grab part of his suit to stabilize himself. That was a bad idea. 

Bluestreak was quick to grab the organic away from Sunstreaker, knowing the mech needed his recharge and brought the thing close to his face. Sunstreaker stumbled and nearly fell, clutching desperately at Bluestreak’s hand, swearing, “Fuck! Put me down!” Bluestreak’s scowl was rather menacing when it was this large and close, Sunstreaker nearly fell again as Blue started to back away from the group and the warmth of the heater, causing Sunstreaker to shiver from the cool night air. After all, a pilot didn’t sleep in his assistant suit if he could help it. 

With all the connectors embedded in his body, those being connected to the assistant suit made it hard to move and the wires both in the suit and down his back pinched painfully when leaning wrong, let alone trying to sleep in it. NASA had been kind enough to send them up with astronaut pajamas, but Sunstreaker kept those in Iacon where it was just about always cold. Now, he really wished he was wearing more than his boxers. Blue kept glowering at him and he was catching just about every other word, desperately holding onto his palm, he raises a hand and struggles with their very strange language, “Negative-motion!” Bluestreak stopped, his eyes widening slightly and Sunstreaker sighed, practically melting, “Thank god that worked. Uh.” He stares at Bluestreak before bringing himself back to standing, still shaking lightly. 

“Name, me. Star-Orbit-Postive, Positve-Speed-Positive-Movement-Someone.” Sunstreaker winced, it was a rough translation at best but, Bluestreak’s eyes flicked over to his suit before looking back and shaking his head a bit, “Negative. Name, Star-Orbit-Positve, positive-direction.” And he pointed. Sunny groaned and rubbed his face, taking the visor off briefly with a frown, trying to think. He continued to shiver, glancing over to his suit, and looked back, “Me, Negative-size. Motion-speed-negative. Movement-pain-positive, in—“ He stops and points, “Star-orbit-positive, positive-direction.” Holding up the visor briefly, before putting it back on and acting like he was holding a set of controls, “Movement-pain-positive, in Positive-size, positive-plating.” He hoped it would come across, if he was just in his suit he could explain. Then again, if he was in his suit he wouldn’t need to explain. Bluestreak continued to stare, frowning before shaking his head a bit, “Negative, Star-Orbit-Positive, recharge.” Sunstreaker almost growled, throwing his hands up and dragging his hands down his visor.

Bluestreak had started to walk away again by the time Sideswipe was back in his assistant suit and up, moving over quickly and just grabbing Sunny, “Blue, what the hell.” Sunstreaker grabbed desperately at his brother’s hands, eyes wide still and clutching desperately, “This organic is clearly lost Sides.” Bluestreak smiled a bit, “Plus, you should be in recharge.” “Yeah, well, so should Sunny.” Walking back over, his steps significantly lighter than Bluestreak’s as to make sure the others remained asleep, he lowered Sunstreaker back to his suit, “He’s freezing, why’d you take him away from the heater?” Sideswipe was practically growling, turning and glaring at Bluestreak, visor darkening, “Organics on this planet usually wear more of those organic coverings.” Sideswipe rolled his eyes, watching as Sunstreaker closed up his suit, Bluestreak’s eyes widening, “What the?” Sideswipe turned around and shoved Bluestreak hard, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the heater and away from his sleeping friends. 

Sideswipe’s fist collided with Bluestreak’s face, “You could have killed him! It’s freezing out here!” Blue caught his first the second time, “Sides, calm down!” “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” And he tackled Blue to the ground.

The inside of Sunstreaker’s suit was now just as cold as it was outside, the heater only helping so much as he pulled on his assistant suit and activated his direct comm to Hound, sending out his distress alert as he shivered. Trying to get in the pilot's seat and his suit up while Bluestreak and Sideswipe fought a dozen meters away. 

It took only a few seconds for Hound to wake up, frowning at Sunstreaker’s distress alert before getting up. Pulling on part of his assistant suit he activated his visual feeds, then quickly climbed into his piloting chair while swearing. They would draw the attention of the other awake cybertronian’s and wake up everyone else if they kept fighting. His suit was the easiest to get up and moving, though he wasn’t in his entire mobility assistant suit he was quick to override the controls and move over towards them as fast as he could. Just managing to grab Sideswipe and haul him off Bluestreak, “Enough! Go back to bed, now!” “But Sunny,” “Is fine. Go to him, now. I will handle this with Bluestreak.” Sideswipe yanked himself from Hound’s hold, glare evident even with the visor before storming back towards the heater and wrapping his arms around Sunstreaker when he was finally able to sit up.

”I swear, I didn’t do anything.” Bluestreak was bloodied, wiping at his mouth at energon leaked from the gashes there. Hound offered a hand to him, frowning, “I know, but we clearly need to talk.” With hesitation, Blue took Hound’s hand carefully. Sighing slowly, Hound helps Blue up then gestures, “We need to talk away from the others and we need to get Prowl on comms.” Bluestreak almost stopped dead in his tracks, “Prowl? But I just said,” “I know what you said. It has nothing to do with that. Come on.” He gestured towards where there was a turned off heater, away from the few cybertronian’s milling around outside.

—

Sunstreaker was still shivering, his mech shaking lightly, “I’m fine Sides, really.” he leaned his head against his brother’s shoulder, “I just had a nightmare and needed some air, I didn’t think anyone would be around.” Sideswipe was fuming, holding Sunstreaker close, “He could have killed you and not even realized it.” Sighing, “Yes, but I’m okay. Least till Hound has to explain the big secret.” He bangs his head lightly against Sideswipe’s shoulder, “I can’t believe I was so stupid and reckless.” Sideswipe quick led shook his head and held Sunstreaker closer, reading the message Hound sent, “You couldn’t breath, were not supposed to be spending every waking and sleeping moment in these suits.” He sighs slowly and shifts, “Come on, we need to get some more sleep for tomorrow. Hound is handling Bluestreak, as much as I want to kill him.” Sunstreaker nodded a bit and started to deactivate the connections, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be, just go back to sleep Sunny. Hound’s got it.” Sunstreaker gently pulled off his helmet and visor, disabling the external feeds. Seeming to everyone who didn’t know their secret like he’d already fallen back to sleep. Sideswipe watched and waited for a few minutes before removing his own helmet, wincing as he unplugged part of the assistant suit from the piloting apparatus. He was bleeding a bit, from where wires had torn into his skin. 

A pilot is supposed to wear the entire mobility assistance suit when piloting a mech, but sometimes you had to save your brother from dying before you could get every piece on. Padding over to his makeshift bed, Sideswipe pulled out a medical kit to cover the gashes he’d gotten from the raw connections to himself instead of the suit. Him, Sunstreaker, Breakdown, Jazz and Hound had scars from doing this in the past that reopened far too easily. 

—

The comm only had to ping twice before Prowl was on the line, “Hound, it’s the middle of the night cycle.” Though he didn’t sound tired, it was more the concern, “This line secure? No one is listening in?” There were two quick clicks of mechs abandoning the line, “Now there is not. Why?” Hound sighed and sat down, turning the heater on high, “Sunstreaker climbed from his suit when Bluestreak was around, there was some sort of altercation and I need you to connect Bluestreak to the comm line.” Prowl was eerily quiet on the other side, after a moment Hound could tell the poor guy was hitting his head on his desk before there was another click, “Alright, what is happening? Why did an organic of all primes forsaken things climb into Sunny’s chest?” He sounded horrified and Hound bit his lip, trying to not yell and took a breath, “Bluestreak, that organic is Sunstreaker.” Shifting a bit, he claps his hands awkwardly, “And you came way too close to killing him for his brother’s liking or mine.” Taking a breath, Prowl clears his throat, “I will handle this Hound, you should return to the others and get more sleep.” Nodding a bit, it took Hound a second to speak, “Thank you Prowl.” He stood and hands shaking lightly, chose to walk away. Disconnecting himself from the comm line as Bluestreak started to yell.

When Hound got back to the makeshift campsite, all the others were either still asleep or back to sleep. He took a moment, standing away from the others and dragged his hands over his head. They were on yet another alien planet, around people they were just beginning to trust and now someone Sunstreaker had genuinely trusted just attempted to kill him. Maybe not purposefully, maybe even not-knowingly, but these other mecha were dangerous. Hound had to remind himself how dangerous they were. Moving back over and lowering himself to the ground, he stares up at the stars, tomorrow would be a day where none of them trusted Bluestreak again. Trust earned is just as easily lost. Looking over to Sunstreaker, he reaches out and turns the heater up, sighing a bit as it warms the metal around him comfortably. 

How could he protect them when everyone knew what they were.

—

Prowl was shouting, Bluestreak had his head down and was trying not to cry. The prime had clear orders whenever it came to organics and nine times out of ten it was to leave them alone. But Blue knew Sunny, knew he hated when he was splattered with energon or anything remotely gross. The guy liked to keep his paint clean, he didn’t think an organic with its slime would be appreciated. Now, he just felt stupid. He’d never seen them eat, they slept more than any other mechanicals he knew, and they preferred to handle their repairs themselves instead of going to Knockout; though who could really blame them for that. Everyone just thought they were weird, like their fascination with death, their avid prayer, and lots of talk about things that couldn’t translate.

“This is a secret that you must keep Bluestreak, you know the prejudices of our people and you know how they’ll be treated. Everyone will think they are piloting around corpses.” Bluestreak shuddered and gagged lightly, “They practically are!” “No, no they are not. Their suits were designed specifically for them, in most cases, Their people needed a way to fight the Quintessons and this was their solution.” Bluestreak leaned back against the seat, staring at the sky, “They look so much like us.” Prowl sighed deeply, “Blame Swerve, regardless, not only am I asking you to keep this secret Blue, but they are as well. Hence why Hound was the one to start this conversation, he only left because of his anger.” Bluestreak paused and looked over to the humans, their solitary huddle, optics leaking, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” There was a moment of silence before Prowl spoke up, softly now, “I know and they will come to understand that, but remember that Jazz has been organic all these stellar cycles, everything he’s heard,” Blue gasped lightly, “He told them.” Prowl hummed sympathetically. Even Bluestreak found some of the things others said offensive, some of their people couldn’t comprehend how they were living beings or intelligent ones. Sure, some weren’t so bad but even then. 

Hiccuping lightly, Bluestreak takes a deep invent, “Primus Prowl, how did you keep this slag a secret for so long? Does the Prime even know?” There was another delay on the line, “I kept it a secret, cause I knew if I said anything it would put Jazz in jeopardy. And I didn’t tell the Prime because we needed him, we need them or we won’t survive these invasions.” They fell silent, both staring off into space, even on separate planets, “I’ll keep their secret Prowl, but how will I get back their trust?” Prowl opened and closed his mouth, “Blue, I wish I knew. Humans are fickle and unpredictable at best.” Bluestreak groaned and slid to the ground, covering his face, “To say as the humans do then, I fucked up.” Prowl chuckled a bit sadly, “Yes, unfortunately you have.” Bluestreak stayed there on the ground, by himself and the overly warm heater.

Prowl disconnected the line and stared at the display of maps and battle plans, the bots who were there to the left side and the humans to the right, taking a slow invest, he adjusted Sunstreakers, Sideswipes, and Hound’s statuses and marked them to not be disturbed until they reached out to the other mecha. It was the only thing he could do from so far away. Glancing over to the icon for Optimus, he thought about it, like he always did in a moment like this before returning to adjusting the plan for tomorrow. They’d just have to survive till they returned to Iacon then they’d be able to discuss this at his— Jazz’s apartment. 

———

A/N

So, this was not the initial direction that I planned to take this part but I love it so much. I knew that the twins were going to spill the secret in some way, I originally wanted it to be in a stupid way but I prefer to write angsty stuff.

Let me know if you guys want to know what his nightmare was about? I haven’t written anything down but I know what it is.

Thank you all for all the love I’ve been getting on these fics and I am thinking of setting up a release schedule? I know it will probably be between 4:30 and 6 EST. But I don’t know how many days a week cause at the moment I’m flying by the seat of my pants.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU!

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Shadow | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, unwanted sexual contact (not on reader)

Word Count: 5069

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Sam made himself and Dean don goofy outfits to go investigate the death of some poor girl who died the previous week. You were dressed as their supervisor, so you didn’t have to dress like the third Imagination Mover.

“You know, I’ve gotta say Dad and me did just fine without these stupid costumes,” Dean complained. “I feel like a high school drama dork. What was that play that you did? What was it— Our Town. Yeah, you were good, it was cute.”

“You did theater?” you asked Sam.

“Look, you wanna pull this off or not?” The brunet changed the subject.

“I’m just sayin’, these outfits cost hard-earned money, okay?”

“Whose?” You gave Dean a look.

“Ours. You think credit card fraud is easy?”

***

The landlady of the young woman’s apartment building let you into the deceased’s room. She called the alarm company as useful as “boobs on a man.” She explained how Meredith had been found in pieces scattered around the apartment. The landlady said there had been no signs of break in, and allowed you and the Winchesters to check the apartment out for a bit.

“So, a killer walks in and out of the apartment—no weapons, no prints, nothin’,” Dean said.

“I’m tellin’ ya, the minute I found that article, I knew this was our kind of gig,” Sam replied.

The EMF meter Dean was holding beeped rapidly.

“I definitely agree with you,” you chimed in.

“So, you talked to the cops?” Sam asked his brother.

Dean smirked. “I spoke to Amy, a, uh, charming, perky officer of the law.”

You ignored the way your heart squeezed in your chest. “Yeah? What’d you find out?” You did your best not to let on the emotional storm he was sending you into.

“Well, she’s a Sagittarius,” he said dreamily. “She loves tequila, I mean— wow. Oh, and she’s got this little tattoo—”

“Dean!” Sam cut his brother off.

“What? Yeah. Uh, nothin’ we don’t already know. Except for one thing they’re keepin’ out of the papers. Meredith’s heart was missing.”

“Her heart?” the younger brother sounded stunned. “So, what do you think did it to her?”

“Well, the landlady said it looked like an animal attack. Maybe it was— werewolf?”

You shook your head. “No, the lunar cycle’s not right. Plus, if it was a creature or somethin’, it would’ve left some kind of trace. It’s gotta be a spirit.”

Dean looked down at the blood stains on the white carpet and seemed to notice something. “Sam, see if you can find any masking tape.” His idea of taping the space between the splotches of blood like a twisted connect-the-dots revealed a strange symbol on the ground that looked like an “S” with a small circle cutting through the middle of it.

***

You were gulping down beers like there was no tomorrow and trying to peel your eyes away from Dean flirting with the gorgeous bartender. You and Sam were sitting at an empty table and leafing through his father’s journal.

“(Y/N), if you stare any harder at him, you’re gonna burst a blood vessel.”

You looked over at Sam. “Shut up.”

“You like him, huh?”

“What am I, five? No, I don’t like him,” you responded. 

He gave you a knowing look. “C’mon, (Y/N/N), don’t lie to me.”

You sighed, taking a big gulp of your drink first. “I don’t know, man. I’m not good with feelings.”

Before Sam could respond, Dean was back over at your table. “I talked to the bartender,” he grinned. 

“Did you get anything? Besides her number?” Sam asked.

Dean scrunched his face up. “Dude, I’m a professional. I’m offended that you would think that.” Sam gave him a look, and Dean bashfully held up a napkin with the bartender’s number on it in response.

“You mind doin’ a little bit of thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?” you asked.

“Huh? Look, there’s nothing to find out. I mean, Meredith worked here, she waited tables, everyone here was her friend. Everybody said she was normal. She didn’t do or say anything weird before she died, so— what about that symbol, you find anything?”

The younger brother shook his head. “Nope, nothing. It wasn’t in Dad’s journal or in any of the usual books. I just have to dig a little deeper, I guess.”

“Well, there was a first victim, right? Before Meredith?” you brought up.

“His name was, uh, his name was Ben Swardstrom.” He pulled a newspaper clipping out of the journal and handed it to Dean, “Last month he was found mutilated in his town house. Same deal; the door was locked, the alarm was on.”

“Is there any connection between the two of them?”

“Not that I can tell—I mean, not yet, at least. Ben was a banker, Meredith was a waitress. They never met, never knew anyone in common—they were practically from different worlds.”

“So, to recap, the only successful intel we’ve scored so far is the bartender’s phone number," the younger brother deadpanned.

Dean smirked at you and Sam, and you tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. Sam seemed to notice something on the other side of the room.

“What?” you asked.

Without answering you, Sam got up from the table and headed past his brother. You followed him to a table where a blonde woman with short hair sat.

“Meg?” he asked.

You furrowed your eyebrows as the woman turned around and exclaimed, “Sam! Is that you? Oh, my god! What are you doing here?” She gave him a hug, and you could see on Sam’s face that he was confused.

“I’m just in town, visiting friends,” he lied.

The young woman looked around. “Where are they?”

You stepped up from his side. “Me!” you lied. “Nice to meet you. I’m (Y/N).”

She gave you a smile, “Yeah, I remember, Sam told me about you.”

You turned to the younger Winchester. “He did?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam answered. “Meg, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to California.”

Dean came up between you and Sam; eyes raking over Meg’s body.

“Oh, I did. I came, I saw, I conquered. Oh, and I met what’s-his-name, something Michael Murray at a bar,” she explained.

Sam looked confused. “Who?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, the whole scene got old, so I’m living here for a while,” she shrugged.

Dean cleared his throat loudly, but was ignored.

“You’re from Chicago?” Sam questioned.

“No, Massachusetts. Andover. Gosh, Sam, what are the odds we’d run into each other?” The grin she gave unsettled you. 

“Yeah, I know, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Dean cleared his throat again, earning a “Dude, cover your mouth,” from Meg.

Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, um, I’m sorry, Meg. This is, uh— this is my brother, Dean.”

She looked surprised. “This is Dean?”

“So, you’ve heard of me?” Dean gave her a salacious grin.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you. Nice; the way you treat your brother like luggage,” she said harshly.

“Sorry?” Dean was stunned and so were you.

The woman didn't let up, and if it weren't for your horrible gut feeling, the two of you would likely be good friends. “Why don’t you let him do what he wants to do? Stop dragging him over god’s green earth.”

“Meg, it’s alright,” Sam said.

Dean whistled lowly. “Okay, awkward. I’m gonna get a drink now. C’mon, (Y/N).”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” And with that, you bounded off to the bar with him. “What’s with that chick?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know. Weird, right?”

“Yeah, completely,” you responded.

The older Winchester motioned at the pretty bartender he’d spoken to earlier for two beers. 

“Sam ever mention her?” you asked him. “They seemed pretty chummy.”

“Why, you jealous?”

You scoffed. “No way. He reminds me too much of my brother. Freud would be rolling in his grave if I was. She’s just… bizarre.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he grumbled, sipping his beer.

Sam came over to you and told you it was time to go.

“What, why?” you asked.

“Just… come on, (Y/N/N),” Sam responded. He dragged the two of you out of the bar after you and Dean chugged your beers quickly.

“Who the hell was she?” Dean questioned as you crossed the street outside of the bar.

“I don’t really know. I only met her once. Meeting up with her again? I don’t know, man, it’s weird.”

“Yeah, she seemed to really know you,” you said. “You said you only met her once?”

He nodded.

“And what was she saying? I treat you like luggage? What, were you bitchin’ about me to some chick?” Dean’s tone was on-guard immediately.

“Look, I’m sorry, Dean. It was when we had that huge fight when I was in that bus stop in Indiana. But that’s not important, just listen—”

“Well, is there any truth to what she’s saying? I mean, am I keeping you against your will, Sam?”

Sam stopped his brother. “No, of course not. Now, would you listen? I think there’s somethin’ strange going on here, guys.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean muttered. “She wasn’t even that into me.”

You elbowed him sharply. “Upstairs brain, please.”

“I mean like, our kind of strange.” Sam ignored his brother’s comment. “Like, maybe even a lead.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“I met Meg weeks ago, literally on the side of the road. And now, I run into her in some random Chicago bar? I mean, the same bar where a waitress was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don’t think that’s a little weird?”

“Well, yeah,” you said. “But I think I would’ve noticed if she was following us.”

“Yeah, okay, Nancy Drew,” Dean chided.

“Listen, dickhead, I’m very observant,” you responded playfully.

“Guys, can we focus, please? Look, I could be wrong, I’m just sayin’ that there’s something about this girl that I can’t quite put my finger on,” Sam continued.

“Well, I bet you’d like to. I mean, maybe she’s not a suspect, maybe you’ve got a thing for her, huh?” Dean’s grin was widening by the second.

Sam rolled his eyes and you laughed.

“Maybe you’re thinkin’ a little too much with your upstairs brain, huh?” Dean pointed to his head and then down to his groin.

Sam gave the two of you a bitchface. “Do me a favor. Check and see if there’s really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts, and see if you can’t dig anything up on that symbol on Meredith’s floor.”

“What are you gonna do?” Dean asked him.

“I’m gonna watch Meg.”

The older brother laughed. “Yeah, you are.”

“I just wanna see what’s what. Better safe than sorry.”

“Alright, you little pervert.” Dean continued walking.

“Dude!”

“We’re goin’, we’re goin’.” 

“Bye, Sam!” you called over your shoulder. You and Dean walked a few blocks down to Sam and Dean’s motel room and set to work searching for Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts.

***

About thirty minutes later, Sam called you. “Hey.” You continued clicking through pages on your computer.

“Finding anything?” he asked.

“Yeah, she checks out. High school yearbook picture and everything.”

Dean took your phone from you. “Let me guess. You’re lurkin’ outside that poor girl’s apartment, aren’t you?... You’ve got a funny way of showin’ your affection. Now, look, why don’t you go knock on her door and, uh, invite her to a poetry reading, or whatever it is you do, huh?... Yeah, that (Y/N) did have some luck with. It’s, uh, turns out it’s very, very old school, like two thousand years before Christ. It’s a sigil for a Daeva.”

Dean handed the phone back to you. “He’s lookin’ for a nerd definition. You’re better with that than I am.”

You rolled your eyes. “ 'Daeva' translates to ‘demon of darkness’. They’re Zoroastrian demons, and they’re freakin’ animals, dude. Dean said they’re demonic pitbulls.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“Google, man. It’s a magical place.”

He laughed. 

“Oh, one more thing!” you gasped. “These Daevas, they have to be summoned; conjured.”

Sam sounded surprised. “So, someone’s controlling it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’. And, from what I gather, it’s pretty risky business, too. These bitches tend to bite the hand that feeds them.”

“And, uh, the arms, and torsos,” Dean quipped loud enough for his brother to hear. 

“So, what do they look like?” Sam asked you.

“Nobody knows. I mean, summoning a demon that ancient? We’ve definitely got a major player in town.”

Dean took the phone back from you. “Now, why don’t you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?... No, bite her. Don’t leave teeth marks, though— Sam? Are you—?” He took your phone away from his ear. “He hung up.”

“Yeah, you fucking perv. You know he’s a total prude,” you snickered. “I’m kind of exhausted, if I’m being honest. Do you mind if I sleep here for a bit?” you asked him, referring to his bed that you were lounging on.

He shrugged. “Go right ahead. I’ll wake you up when Sam’s back.”

“Thanks. Night, Dee.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

You rolled away from him, sighing contentedly. You brought the covers up around your neck, and Dean's scent engulfed you as you did so.

You often found yourself unable to rest when you were alone in your room. Some part of you was still afraid of your father bursting into your room at four in the morning to go run drills if he was disappointed in your performance from the day before. And if sleep did grace you, it was normally hours of tossing and turning before you could finally turn your brain off. But somehow, this man you were just beginning to know made you feel safe enough to drift off in minutes.

***

You awoke to Dean lightly shaking you awake. You snapped into fight or flight and gripped his wrist, shooting up from the bed.

“Whoa, whoa, relax. It’s just me,” he told you.

“Sorry,” you said, cheeks burning. “Hey, Sam.”

Sam proceeded to explain what he’d seen after following Meg into a warehouse. 

“So, hot little Meg is summoning the Daeva?” Dean quipped.

“Looks like she was using that black altar to control the thing,” Sam responded.

“So, Sammy’s got a thing for the bad girl,” he chuckled. “And what’s the deal with that bowl again?”

“She was talking into it. The way witches used to scry into crystal balls or animal entrails. She was communicating with someone.”

“With who? With the Daeva?”

The younger man shook his head. “No, (Y/N) said those things were savages. No, this was someone different. Someone who’s giving her orders. Someone who’s comin’ to that warehouse.”

Dean thought for a moment and then looked over some of the papers the two of you had spread out on the table. “Holy crap.”

“What?” You jumped out of bed and walked over to him.

“What I was gonna tell Sam earlier—I pulled a favor with my—” he cleared his throat— “friend, Amy, over at the police department. The complete records of the two victims— we missed something the first time.”

“What?”

“The first victim, the old man— he spent his whole life in Chicago, but he wasn’t born here. Look where he was born.” He pointed to a spot on the page.

“Lawrence,” you breathed. 

Dean continued to shuffle through files. “Meredith, second victim? Turns out she was adopted. And guess where she’s from.”

“Holy crap,” Sam muttered. “I mean, it is where the demon killed Mom. That’s where everything started. So, you think Meg’s tied up with the demon?”

“I think it’s a definite possibility,” the older brother answered.

“But I don’t understand. What’s the significance of Lawrence? And how do these Daeva things fit in?” Sam questioned.

“Beats me. But I say we trash that black altar, grab Meg, and have ourselves a friendly little interrogation.” 

“No, we can’t. We shouldn’t tip her off. We’ve gotta stake out that warehouse. We’ve gotta see who, or what, is showin’ up to meet her.” Sam pulled a hand through his hair and began to pace.

“I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t think we should do this alone,” Dean said.

“Dean, do you even think your dad will answer?” you asked him, knowing what he meant.

He didn’t answer but told you, “You and Sam go stake out the trunk. Get me somethin’ good.”

You nodded. “C’mon, Sam.”

You grabbed anything and everything out of the trunk that could’ve been remotely useful. Holy water, numerous weapons, and different books containing dozens of different exorcism rituals. 

When you returned to the room, Dean was talking to who you deduced was his father on the phone. “We think we’ve got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom. So, uh, this warehouse—it’s 1435 West Erie. Dad, if you get this, get to Chicago as soon as you can.” 

“Voicemail?” you questioned.

He nodded. He gestured to the stuffed duffel bags you and Sam were holding. “Jesus, what’d you get?”

“We ransacked the trunk,” Sam explained and listed off all the things you had grabbed.

Dean nodded and breathed deeply. “Big night.”

“Yeah. You nervous?” the younger brother asked.

“No. Why, are you?”

“No. No way.” He was silent for a moment. “God, could you imagine if we actually found that damn thing? That demon?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, alright?” 

“I know. I’m just sayin’, what if we did? What if this whole thing was over tonight? Man, I’d sleep for a month. Go back to school— be a person again.”

“You wanna go back to school?” you asked Sam.

“Yeah, once we’re done huntin’ the thing,” he answered.

You felt slightly saddened. “Oh.”

“Why, is there somethin’ wrong with that?”

“No, no! It’s, uh, great. I’m proud of you,” you told him.

“I mean, what are you two gonna do when it’s all over?” Sam asked.

“It’s never gonna be over,” Dean answered. “There’s gonna be others. There’s always gonna be somethin’ to hunt.” He looked to you. “And I’m gonna need a new hunting partner if Sam’s not gonna be around… so…”

You gave him a lopsided smile. 

Sam continued prodding. “But there’s got to be somethin’ that you want for yourself—”

Dean cut his brother off. “Yeah, I don’t want you to leave the second this thing’s over, Sam.” He turned away.

“Dude, what’s your problem?”

“Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh?” Dean asked his brother rhetorically. “I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?”

“ ‘Cause Dad was in trouble. ‘Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom.” Sam looked confused. 

“Yes, that, but it’s more than that, man. You and me and Dad— I mean, I want us… I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again.”

Sam’s tone softened. “Dean, we are a family. I’d do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before.”

Dean looked heartbroken, and yours ached for him, too. “Could be.”

“I don’t want them to be. I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you’re gonna have to let me go my own way.”

You watched Sam with sad eyes, but you and Dean said nothing as you left the room to head to the warehouse.

***

You carefully climbed your way up the elevator shaft hearing Meg’s melodic voice talking in a language you couldn’t recognize getting louder and louder as you ascended. You tried your best not to make much noise while you climbed; a feat the brothers seemed to have trouble with.

You peeked over the cement slab that made up the seventh floor of the warehouse. Meg’s back was turned to you and she continued speaking into the goblet she was holding. Sam quietly pulled the gate open just wide enough for you and the brothers to slip through. The three of you headed behind two of the support posts of the warehouse. You drew your guns from your jeans and steadied your breath to attack her.

“Guys,” Meg spoke; never turning around.

You looked at the brothers in shock.

“Hiding’s a little bit childish, don’t you think?” her smooth voice continued. 

“Well, that didn’t work out like I planned,” Dean muttered to you. You would have laughed had it not been for your situation.

Meg turned and her boots clacked on the floor as she approached you. “Why don’t you come out?”

You slowly moved from behind the crates.

“Sam, I have to say, this puts a real crimp in our relationship,” she snarled.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“So, where’s your little Daeva friend?” you asked her.

“Around,” she sing-songed. “You know, that shotgun’s not gonna do much good.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. The shotgun’s not for the demon,” Dean responded. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

“So, who is it, Meg? Who’s coming? Who are you waiting for?” Sam jumped in.

“You,” she smiled. Just behind her on her left, you saw shadows beginning to form in the shape of demons in flowing, tattered robes on the wall.

Before you knew it, you were knocked to the ground, screaming in pain as something slashed your right cheek and left shoulder. It was proving difficult to fight something you couldn’t see. You screamed in pain again as you felt a slash across your thigh, and whited out from the pain.

When you came to, your hands were bound behind your back. You struggled against your restraints as Dean spoke. “Hey, Sam? Don’t take this the wrong way, but your girlfriend… is a bitch.”

Dean had been tied on your right side; backs against the sides of the cement post.

“This, the whole thing, was a trap,” Sam figured out. “Running into you at the bar, following you here, hearin’ what you had to say. It was all a set-up, wasn’t it?”

Meg laughed.

“And that the victims were from Lawrence?” Sam continued.

“It doesn’t mean anything. It was just to draw you in, that’s all,” the blonde smiled.

“You killed those two people for nothin’.”

“Baby, I’ve killed a lot more for a lot less,” she replied smugly.

“You trapped us. Good for you. It’s Miller time.” You could hear the smile in the older brother’s voice. “But why don’t you kill us already?”

You thought for a second. “Because it’s not a trap for us. It’s a trap for John.”

Meg tsked at the brothers. “I like her. She’s a lot quicker on the uptake.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re dumber than you look,” Dean told her. “ 'Cause even if Dad was in town, which he is not, he wouldn’t walk into something like this. He’s too good.”

Meg approached Dean and straddled his legs. “He is pretty good. I’ll give you that. But you see, he has one weakness.”

“What’s that?” the older brother winced uncomfortably. You strained against your restraints even more, trying to be able to get to Dean.

You could see Meg leaning closer to Dean, her voice somehow becoming even more sultry. “You. He lets his guard down around his boys, lets his emotions cloud his judgment. I happen to know he is in town. And he’ll come and try to save you. And then the Daevas will kill everybody— nice and slow and messy.”

Dean’s voice strained in discomfort. “Well, I’ve got news for ya. It’s gonna take a lot more than some… shadow to kill him.”

“Oh, the Daevas are in the room here—they’re invisible. Their shadows are just the only part you can see,” she explained. 

“Why you doin’ this, Meg? What kind of deal you got worked out here, huh? And with who?” Sam asked her.

“I’m doing this for the same reasons you do what you do: loyalty. Love. Like the love you had for Mommy and Jess.”

“Go to hell,” he responded.

“Baby, I’m already there.” She slid over to Sam and straddled him. “C’mon, Sam, there’s no need to be nasty.” 

You didn’t like the full show you were being given of Meg leaning into his ear and ghosting her lips over his neck. “I think we both know how you really feel about me. You know, I saw you watching me— changing in my apartment. Turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Ew, Sam!” you scolded him.

“Get a room, you two,” Dean grumbled simultaneously.

“I didn’t mind. I liked that you were watching me. Come on, Sammy. You and I can still have a little dirty fun.” Meg kissed up his neck.

“You wanna have fun? Go ahead then. I’m a little tied up right now,” Sam responded.

She smiled and continued to kiss him. She stopped when she heard something from your side of the room. She stalked over to yours and Dean’s post and took the knife from his hand, tossing it into a corner. Meg walked back over to Sam. “Now, were you just trying to distract me while your brother cuts free?”

“No, no,” he told her. “That’s because I have a knife of my own.” She seemed confused until he broke free and knocked his head against hers; sending her to the floor.

“Sam! Get the altar!” you instructed.

He ran over to it and aggressively turned it over. Before you knew it, Meg was sent flying out of the warehouse’s window and to the ground below. Sam came back over to you two and cut you free. You headed over to the window to see Meg’s dead body sprawled over the ground. “So, I guess the Daevas didn’t like being bossed around,” Sam remarked.

“Yeah, I guess not. Hey, Sam?” Dean said. “Next time you wanna get laid, find a girl that’s not so buckets-o’-crazy, huh?”

***

You and the boys returned to their motel room so you could patch each other up and recover. You weren’t so convinced that your run-in with the Daevas was over and brought the duffel bag inside with you.

“Why didn’t you just leave that stuff in the car?” Dean asked you.

“Better safe than sorry,” you shrugged.

The older Winchester unlocked the door before you and you entered the room. You noticed the silhouette of a burly man standing by the window. You flipped on the light while Dean exclaimed, “Hey!”

The man turned around, and your jaw nearly fell to the floor at the sight of the scruffy, tanned man before you.

“Dad?” Dean breathed out.

John smiled. “Hey, boys.” He and his oldest son walked toward each other and shared a long hug. You smiled at them sadly. When they pulled away, John turned to his youngest. “Hi, Sam.” They shared a long look before John turned to you. “Didn’t think I’d see you again after Jericho,” he told you.

You responded, “I didn’t think I’d see your boys again after Jericho, either.” 

John gave you a half-smile. “Thank you. For looking after them.”

You nodded in acknowledgement.

“Dad, it was a trap. I didn’t know; I’m sorry,” Dean began.

“It’s alright. I thought it might’ve been.”

“Were you there?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, I got there just in time to see the girl take the swan dive. She was the bad guy, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys answered their father. 

“Good. Well, it doesn’t surprise me. It’s tried to stop me before,” John sighed. “It knows I’m close. It knows I’m gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to hell. Actually kill it.”

“How?” you asked.

“I’m workin’ on that,” the older man responded.

“Let us come with you. We’ll help,” Sam urged. 

John’s tone hardened. “No, Sam. Not yet. Just try to understand. This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don’t want you caught in a crossfire. I don’t want you hurt.”

Sam shook his head. “Dad, you don’t have to worry about us.”

“Of course I do. I’m your father.” He paused. “Listen, Sammy, last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam nodded.

“It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” Tears formed in Sam’s eyes as he finally hugged his father.

Suddenly, you were thrown across the room by an invisible force, something clawing at your back. 

“No!” Dean yelled before he was thrown down next to you. 

Deep claw marks formed on a number of parts of your body— your legs, arms, face, stomach— everywhere. 

“Shut your eyes!” Sam yelled over the chaos. “These things are shadow demons, so let’s light ‘em up!” Suddenly, a bright light began to fill the room.

You and the three men fumbled your way around trying to feel your way out of the room. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean called to you while Sam called to his father.

“I’m here!” you told him. You felt his arms around you pulling you out of the room. Your leg protested and made you yelp in pain. You knew Dean was hurting, too, and you tried your best to continue moving forward.

“(Y/N), let me help you!” Dean urged you as you continued to stumble out of the room.

“No!” you said, but Dean swept you up anyway. “Dean!” He carried you out of the room and toward the car. You finally gave in and wound your arms around his neck. When he put you down in the backseat, you held your leg and groaned in pain. 

“Alright, come on,” Sam said. “We don’t have much time. As soon as the flare’s out, they’ll be back.” Sam moved to get in the car, too.

“Wait, wait, wait! Sam, wait. Dad, you can’t come with us.”

Sam huffed. “What? What are you talkin’ about?”

“You boys— you’re beat to hell,” John protested.

“We’ll be alright,” Dean answered.

“Dean, we should stick together. We’ll go after those demons—”

Dean turned to his brother. “Sam! Listen to me! We almost got Dad killed in there. Don’t you understand? They’re not gonna stop. They’re gonna try again. They’re gonna use us to get to him. I mean, Meg was right. Dad’s vulnerable when he’s with us. He— he’s stronger without us around.”

“Dad, no—” Sam put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “After everything— after all the time we spent lookin’ for you, please. I gotta be a part of this fight.”

“Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you’ve got to trust me, son—”

Sam shook his head as his father continued to speak.

“—Okay, you’ve gotta let me go,” John told him. Finally, Sam patted his father’s shoulder and allowed him to move away.

The three of you watched as got in his truck and drove off. You knew Dean was right, but it was so bizarre to let this man you spent so much time looking for leave just like that.

“Come on,” Dean told his brother. And with that, the three of you were off to god-knows-where to lick your wounds and get a hopefully decent amount of sleep. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @stephshaww @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @here-for-the-extravaganza @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @rei0812 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm

[nishloves]

blue eyes; gojo satoru

synopsis : you were someone who always admired his beautiful crystal eyes, but now that they don't shine as much as before, now that they don't hurt and have been discarded, satoru wonders if his eyes are still your favorite.

potential manga spoilers // a tad bit insecure gojo // wc: 700 // fluff // unedited.

as he carded his fingers through the stray strands of your hair, he couldn't help but twirl the fibre around his fingers, his heart melting as he peered at you— at you playing with your mobile.

it has been weeks since the events, weeks since satoru fell into your arms, your relatively small hands almost cradling him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, hell, he would never admit it but the strongest— no, satoru gojo felt safe in your arms, safer than anytime in his nearly thirty year old life.

it has been weeks since he almost kidnapped you from your duties and ran away to malaysia for a month long vacation, a special urn in his luggage with a different—bluer set of goggles adorning him.

as he smiled at you texting to others about how you both have been well these past few days, his gaze couldn't help but admire you; your soft smile, the curve of your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered at an interval of approximately four seconds and the way your eyes— eyes...

eyes.

he pursed his lips almost involuntarily, his hand which was tracing circles over the small of your back stopping momentarily, his thoughts speeding a hundred miles per second. you loved his eyes, never let him feel as if they were a curse, he remembered the way you would gaze at those crystalline blue miracles which refracted faintest of light— a shimmer which isn't present now, a shine whine is duller now, a look of youth— a twinkle that is lost— would you look at his eyes the same? now that they aren't as special as before? would you—

"satoru?"

honey. like mellowed honey, he decided that, that was the best representation of the way his name rolled off your tongue.

"yes darling?" he asked, tilting his head to look at you, only to find you gazing up at him— more specifically at his eyes, observing you syncing your own blinks with his.

"baby?" he asked again.

you could only smile sheepishly as you buried your face in his chest, your cheeks burning pink.

"sorry, it's just that— you're so pretty, your eyes are so beautiful, i'd stare at them for ages if I could."

he almost gasped, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped, looking down at you; his brows furrowed and an almost— almost pleading look in his eyes.

"still?" he asked.

"what do you mean still?"

"you love my eyes that bad?"

you giggled, as if it was the funniest question your fiancée had ever sked you.

"obviously! they are your eyes! my favorite shade of blue, with perfect lashes— on my favorite person, I'd love them for eternity."

he smiled, so bright that his eyes twinkled— not in the way they used to but somehow prettier.

he had a thousand words to say— no, maybe a million, a billion or even more than that. his thumb traced your cheekbone as he looked at your fondly, his lips morphed into a cheeky smile, his vessels almost tugging at his heart as he took in all of you.

but despite the infinite number of words he wanted to say—

"i know. i'm gorgeous." was all he said.

you laughed, looking back at your phone as you leaned your head against his chest, turning to look at your mobile again as satoru resumed his ministerings.

'you know,' he realised as he looked at your giddy smile.

'she always knows,' he realised as he kissed the top of your head.

[charliegyrth]

Fat Camp Reunion - Part 2

Jacob's Incredible Story

Read Part 1 here. (So far, Phillip the narrator has gone back to his childhood drama camp to discover that everyone there is now obese. He has no idea why, but he's about to find out thanks to Jacob, his first boyfriend.)

***

I got a little lost on the way to the cabins. The trails were exactly the same, but I was too overloaded with thoughts to pay attention. Finally, I made it to the cabin with a big number 4 on its door.

It looked like all the other cabins, small and wooden with wide windows on either side of the entrance. The only difference (besides the number) was a mobility scooter sitting on the porch. That was my first hint of what I’d see inside.

The door creaked as I pushed it open. I braced myself for what I’d find.

“Phillip!” a familiar voice shouted.

“J-Jacob.” My breath caught in my throat.

I’d seen people this big before. Not in real life, but on those trashy reality shows. My 600-Pound Life or Half-Ton Fiancé or whatever. (I’d never actually watched those shows, of course, but you can’t escape their commercials.)

Jacob sat on one of the cabin’s beds, his massive body filling up most of the mattress. His arms and legs looked useless, covered in Michelin Man rolls. His belly was huge and shapeless, spreading around him in all directions, and his chest (once sporting muscular pecs much nicer than mine) had sprouted drooping sacks of fat with fist-sized nipples that were more-than-visible under the thin fabric of his food-stained shirt.

I thought the other guys were huge, but Jacob outweighed all of them by at least a hundred pounds. Could he even walk anymore? He must be able to, since his mobility scooter was parked outside. He must’ve been able to make the ten trudging steps from the door to the bed.

I was horrified. And sad. I felt so, so sad for him. I might’ve elevated my memories of him in my brain, but he used to be the most handsome, the most naturally athletic man I’d ever known. Now, he was buried.

And the saddest part was that, despite how soft and weak his body was, his face was still recognizably Jacob. He had a new slab of flesh under his jaw, but overall, his head didn’t look nearly as fat as the rest of him. (And he still had the same adorable blond curls.)

I think that made everything worse. If his face had been as unrecognizable as his body, then maybe I could handle what he’d become. Instead, all I saw was my first love, my beautiful Jacob, trapped in fat.

“Sit with me,” he said in his familiar voice. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

I didn’t want to sit with him. I didn’t want to touch him, because that would only make all of this real. And even if I wanted to, there wasn’t any space left on the mattress.

I remained standing in the middle of the cabin. “Jacob, what happened to you?”

“I grew.”

That answer made me gulp.

“Please sit,” he tried again. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Slowly, I approached him. I looked into his eyes, seeing the same wide-open, trusting expression that I’d falling in love with all those years ago, and I sat next to him. I couldn’t avoid feeling his side-fat. He felt so warm.

Neither of us said anything for a long time. It was awkward.

Finally, Jacob spoke. “You look great. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone your size.”

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. “Can I… feel you?”

“Okay?”

He raised his hand to my chest and slid his sausage fingers across my pec. “Wow. That’s hard.” His voice sounded intrigued, as if he couldn’t even remember when he had muscles just like these.

“Thank you.”

He felt my stomach next, tracing his fingers between my (very slight) abs. “Huh,” he said, like he was studying me.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” I said.

Jacob took a deep breath and then (finally!) he gave me some answers. “The year after we went to Sunrise Pines, a new company moved to our town. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Moulton proper before…”

“I haven’t,” I interrupted him. I’d only been to the camp itself, not the town nearby. When my mom dropped me off here, we didn’t even drive through Moulton. We just took the freeway.

“Well, back then, Moulton was really struggling. It was a mining town, but the mines closed in the 90s and our population started shrinking. And then we got a new factory. Sweet Cheeks Confections. Ever heard of them? They make donuts, snack cakes, a whole bunch of packaged stuff.”

I shook my head.

“Well, they’re great. You’re really missing out.” He placed his hand on my thigh, still curiously feeling my hard muscle as if he’d forgotten what it felt like. “So once the factory opened, a lot of the locals started working there. And our shops were filled with their products. Everyone loved ’em.”

“And that’s why your whole town got fat?” I asked. It seemed crazy that extra snacks on store shelves would lead to such extreme obesity.

“Nope. We got fat because of their advertising campaign.”

“Huh?”

He paused his story. “Um, can you hand me some of those?” He nodded toward a pile of brownie boxes on the dresser next to me. Each one had the bright pink Sweet Cheeks label. I guess I had seen those at 7-Eleven before.

I grabbed a box and handed it to him. More accurately, I placed it on his belly.

He bit his lip, a bit embarrassed. “Um, all of them, please. I haven’t eaten in an hour.”

There were four more boxes on the dresser. I piled them up on his belly while his tore open the first box. I watched as he shoved the first brownie into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. Then he shoved in a second and a third.

“Okay,” he said, the burst of sugar giving him the energy to continue. “So the advertising campaign. Sweet Cheeks wanted to increase its local sales, so they started giving out free samples and hosting eating competitions every weekend. When I first heard about the competitions, I thought they were stupid. But then I learned that Sweet Cheeks would be filming the contestants and using the winners for nationwide commercials. As an actor looking for my big break, I couldn’t pass that up.”

He ate a couple more brownies stacked on top of each other.

“When I signed up for the first one, I was about your size. How much do you weigh? Like 250?”

That number made me choke. “250? I’m… Dude, I’m 170.”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s been so long. I guess I can’t really think in such low numbers anymore.” He glanced down at my torso. “170. Dang. Yeah, I weighed about that much. But I really wanted to win. To get famous or whatever. So I just went for it. Stuffed myself senseless. Beat four other contestants, all much bigger and older than me. It was at our town park. Cameras everywhere. Best feeling of my life.”

“So they put you in their commercials?” I asked. I didn’t remember this at all.

“Sadly, no. They had competitions every weekend. I kept going back. I kept winning. Every time, the Sweet Cheeks reps gave me trophies and made me pose for a bunch of photos. They had me sign contracts so they could use my eating footage for their ads, but those never happened. They went in another direction.” He held up one of the brownie boxes (empty now), tapping his thumb against the smiling cupcake mascot. “They thought that this cartoon guy would sell more.”

“Okay?” I said. I still didn’t understand where this story was going.

“I didn’t get famous,” he said as he opened up the second box, “but I didn’t care anymore. I had attention. You remember what it was like on the stage, watching an audience laugh at your jokes and hang on every word. Well, the crowds at these competitions were like that times 100. Every bite I took was riveting to them. The cheers. The chanting. The fucking signs that they held up. I know it was just in Moulton, but people loved me.”

“For eating brownies?” I asked. I was watching him eat brownies right now. He seemed to shove them in between sentences, so fast that he barely had to stop talking. I didn’t feel like cheering at all. I just felt sad for him.

“For eating everything,” he said. “Every weekend was different. And I don’t know if you knew this about me, but people sort of follow my lead.”

I did know that. Back in camp, everyone wanted to be like Jacob, myself included. He was magnetic.

“So one-by-one, all my friends who were suspicious of Sweet Cheeks eventually gave in. That first eating competition had four people. A month later, we were up to twenty. After that, hundreds. All the guys at Sunrise Pines signed up. People in town made bets. Everyone had their favorite eaters. But I’m proud to say, no one was as skilled as me.”

He placed his second brownie box to the side. He’d eaten that entire thing without me realizing. Now he was onto the third.

“I started gaining weight pretty quickly,” he said. “Muffin top first. Then moobs. I was deeply conflicted about that. I had this really messed up image of what an ideal body type was. No offense.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I’m pretty sure he was telling me that I had an “ideal body type,” which was a compliment. But he said it in such a negative way.

“Had some doubts for a while, but when I walked around Moulton with my new belly on full display, literally everyone who saw me gave me these congratulatory belly pats and gushed about what big fans they were. They saw my gain as this badge of honor, and I started to see it that way, too. So I kept eating and growing. And the rest is history.”

Damn. This entire story was ridiculous. And the casual tone of his voice made everything seem so much more ridiculous.

“Is everyone in Moulton fat?”

He thought for a second. “Yeah. We are. Eating competitions are part of our culture now. Not just the officially sponsored ones—Sweet Cheeks stopped hosting events years ago—but, well, every meal is sort of a competition. You probably noticed that in the canteen.”

I thought back to all my old friends sitting on their fat asses with massive piles of food in front of them. I thought about all the empty plates, too. They weren’t just eating lunch. They were out-eating each other.

It’s crazy that one company’s gimmick had transformed an entire town. And honestly, I know that the effects wouldn’t have been so drastic if Jacob hadn’t been involved. He got sucked into competitive eating, and everyone automatically followed him like they always did.

He threw the third empty box to the side. He had crumbs all down his stained, white shirt, most of them collected in the depression between his overflowing moobs.

“Are you happy?” The words surprised me as they came out of my mouth.

He looked me right in the eyes. “Phillip. I’ve never been happier. Everyone I meet is in awe of me. I’m a star in my own town, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“But… I mean, can you even do things anymore?” I knew that was an awkward way of phrasing my question, but I had to ask. Aside from shoving things into his mouth, it seemed like all this weight would make most movements difficult.

He half-smiled in a very flirty way. It was the look he used to give me when he took me behind the amphitheater to make out. “I can do plenty of stuff.” Then he chuckled. “Yeah, there are limitations. You’ll probably need to help me get off this bed, for example. But I have my scooter. And I have plenty of fans who’ll do anything for me.”

That last comment filled me with a surprising amount of jealousy, and I didn’t know why.

As he demolished the fourth box, shoving in brownie after brownie in conveyor-belt speed, his eyes remained locked on me. He was studying me, gauging my reactions. If I weren’t here, he’d probably still be eating, but with me sitting next to him, he was using these brownies as some sort of test.

That left me with one question left, probably the most important one. Why had he invited me here? I mean, he’d sent me a personalized invitation. He’d planned this whole reunion, yet he wasn’t even hanging out with our other friends. He was in the cabin. With me. Eating for me. Telling me his story.

Did he expect me to like what he’d become?

What was I supposed to say right now?

The last of the brownies slid down his throat and he let out a deep, contented burp. Didn’t cover his mouth. Still watching me, waiting for a reaction.

My brain was short-circuiting. All I could do was look into his beautiful blue eyes.

His familiar eyes.

His expectant eyes.

His face was still so handsome. And his overflowing body, angled toward me as much as it would allow him… I don’t know, I felt like he was presenting himself to me, showing me the hundreds and hundreds of pounds that he’d built on himself.

What did he want me to do?!

When it was clear that I wasn’t going to say anything (that I literally couldn’t), he finally cut to the chase: “Everyone loves me in Moulton. An entire town either wants me or wants to be like me. It’s amazing. But for a while now, I’ve been thinking about you, about what we used to have. I should be in the canteen right now, showing everyone who’s still the champion. But I choose to be here with you. This is the first meal I’ve skipped in years.”

He didn’t count all those brownies. They were just a snack to him.

“I don’t know what to say.” (That was the understatement of the year.)

He took a deep breath, though it got interrupted by another slight burp. “It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me the way you’re looking at me now. I can tell you’re confused, scared. Maybe disgusted. And that’s okay. But you’ll be here for the weekend, and I just want you to keep an open mind. Can you do that?”

“Okay,” I said, though I still wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking.

“No pressure,” he added, sensing the uncertainty in my voice. “But it would be nice to try a few things. Feedings or whatever. I have a feeling you’ll like ’em.”

Before I said anything else, he slid his massive body toward me and kissed me. His belly flab covered my lap. His thick hands held my face.

I was butter. I melted into him, all the memories from what we once had came rushing back. And somehow, I enjoyed the sensation of his new body squish against me. I was his.

He ended the kiss much too soon, leaving me breathless.

“Knock knock,” someone shouted outside our door.

I instinctively pulled away from Jacob, though I didn’t have a lot of room. The edges of his belly were still resting on my thigh.

“Come in!” he shouted, though he was smiling at me as he said it.

The door creaked open and Eugene walked in first, carrying a tray of lasagna. Then a few more guys came in with equally large trays. Then a few more.

“Room service,” Jacob explained to me. “Told ya I had help.”

Bobby, the last one to enter, brought in a fold-up table that he assembled in front of us. Then everyone set the food on top, like ancient islanders making offerings to their chief.

Jacob was beaming from ear to ear. Despite all the sugar that he’d wolfed down, the sight of this spread caused his stomach to rumble. “Well,” Jacob said to me. “Open mind, right? Wanna help me finish my lunch?”

On one level, I did. For curiosity alone, I wanted to see him in action. But on another level, I really needed to clear my head. “Actually, I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll, um, be back.”

He didn’t seem disappointed. I appreciated that. “Suit yourself. But if I’m not finished when you get back, you’ll help me, right?”

“Okay.” I hurried out of there. None of the other guys left. They had already finished their lunch, and now they were ready to just sit back and watch.

As I closed the door behind me, I heard slurps and chews. And one guy (Frankie, I think) muttered, “Damn.”

I spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the camp by myself, recognizing all the old places and enjoying the fresh air. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jacob, though. About our kiss, and the way his belly felt, and the way he made my heart race.

And now I’m back in my car, writing this all down for everyone to read.

I’m so freaking conflicted. For the next two and a half days, I’ll be here. I’ve already decided that I’ll be true to my word. I’ll keep an open mind. And yeah, I’ll partake in the feedings.

What I haven’t decided (and why I’m asking for your help) is whether I’m going to just feed Jacob or whether I’m going to let him feed me too.

I can see myself learning to appreciate his body and maybe help him continue to grow it. I’m definitely open to that. But if he wants to turn the tables and feed me, if he expects me to start catching up to everyone else here, would that be a step too far?

Please. Tell me what to do. Your advice will definitely affect how I spend the rest of the weekend (and maybe the rest of my life, too.)

This weekend, should I feed Jacob or should I allow him to feed me?

To Be Continued...

Hi, everybody! Charlie Gyrth here. I hope you liked the story, but I'm serious about that final question. I'm ready to write a continuation, but I have three possible paths to take and I wanted to see which one would be most interesting:

Phillip becomes a gainer.

Phillip becomes an encourager (and stays slim).

Phillip becomes an encourager (and unintentionally gains weight).

You can vote for your answer here. I set up a poll.

[unholyhelbig]

oversight request if ur down! what if nat’s enemies captured ronnie? how would nat get her back? (i love seeing this darker side of nat… she’s hot asf when she’s mad 🥵) thx !!

Title: We Have Your Daughter [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When Veronica is taken from a friends house in the middle of the night, it's clear that reader and Natasha will stop at nothing to get her back and get revenge.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): Gun use, kidnapping, use of gags & zipties, broken glass, threating statements, knife use, strangling, and horrible grammar.

[a/n: This one wasn't my favorite thing I've ever done, but I was way too far to scrap it. I might take a small break from Oversight oneshots so I can clense my pallet a bit!]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

The phone buzzed against the mahogany table on Natasha’s side of the bed. You were in a haze of sleep, something so cloying that it was hard to distinguish what the noise was. There were four monotone vibrations and then a silence so thick that you nearly drifted back into unconsciousness. But then, it started again, louder this time, it seemed, as the phone fell from the nightstand and to the carpeted floor.

An alien blue light filled the room and you groaned softly against the side of Natasha’s neck. You’d ended up laying fully on top of her; legs tangled. Your hands were under her, holding her as close as possible. The rhythm of her heart picked up when she stirred from her own sleep.

She blinked a few times before reaching blindly to the carpeted floor and retrieving the phone. It had stopped ringing again, but soon amped back up. The number was unknown, which formed a small marble of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Natasha sat up carefully and you shifted to the side to give her more mobility. Both of you shared a frowned look of confusion. It was three in the morning, and a stranger was calling. That was enough to arise panic in anyone, but with your profession, it seemed to echo further than most.

“Romanoff,” Her frown deepened, then. You couldn’t hear much, just the warbled and panicked voice of another. “Wait, slow down.”

She flipped back the duvet and stood up, flicking on the bedside lamp. You winced at the sudden brightness but tracked her frantic movements all the same. She was pacing. It often helped Natasha think. All trace of sleep had left you both.

“No, no. We’ll be right there. Thank you.”

When Natasha hung up and her eyes met yours, any hope of a peaceful existence had been sucked from the room. The words ‘I’m sorry’ seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. But she didn’t’ say it. Instead, she threw the cell phone on the end of the bed and moved her hands through her messy russet locks.

“Natasha,” you said, almost viciously. “What happened?”

“That was Luke. Someone broke into the house. We should… get dressed. We need to get dressed and get over there.”

Her words were broken, causing you to rise despite the wave of nausea that overtook you. Unsteady on your feet, you closed the distance between and grasped onto her shoulders as if to stabilize you both. Natasha’s eyes threatened to boil over with tears, they were red-rimmed and oh, so broken.

At thirteen years old, you both had deemed Ronnie mature enough to start having sleepovers with the other kids in her class. Of course, you’d meet with the parents first, and give them all the emergency contact information. Never tightening the reigns there.

But the Jones family were trusted more than most. Ronnie and their daughter Dani had been close since diapers. You’d spent days by the pool together and even took a family vacation with them to Niagara Falls this past summer, despite how ‘lame’ Jessica’s son deemed it when they dawned the yellow plastic ponchos.

“Is she hurt? I know we told Luke and Jess to call us first if something like this happens but if she’s hurt we really should get over there right away and get to the hospital. Call an ambulance maybe? God, please tell me she’s not hurt.”

Natasha’s hand cupped your cheek, and she peered into your eyes. There was sadness behind her stare that was incomprehensible. You couldn’t stop your thoughts from rushing at you in all different directions. Her touch quieted the noise, if not for a moment.

“She’s not hurt,” Natasha frowned, backtracked. “I don’t know if she’s hurt. She’s just… gone.”

The man said his name was Grant. He didn’t give a last name, and Veronica did not ask for one. Grant would do just fine. He looked like a Grant; his eyes were beady and black, his hair combed in various directions with a generous amount of gel. He was trying to look effortless and cool.

Veronica thought he looked like he was trying too hard. Of course, she didn’t say that, but the fact remained the same. The gag that had been nestled tightly against her mouth tasted stale, like the way a thrift store smelled. Maybe it was the carpet in the trunk of the car that lodged itself into her lungs.

She was calm and collected; prepared for something like this. As much as her mothers had poked and prodded and huffed and puffed when she suggested she start to learn basic things (like how to get out of zipties, or what to do if you were trapped in the trunk of a car), they had yielded.

Really, her aunt Lena had Yielded. While she still was discouraged from the heavy-hitting stuff, she did know how to break free of most contained spaces. She could also throw a mean punch if she put her entire body weight into it. But she had been sleeping when Grant shattered the window, and groggy when he hit her temple with the blunt end of his pistol.

The selfish part of Veronica knew that her mothers were scared right now, and reveled in it, for only a brief moment. She’d let out a grunt from being jostled when the car hit a particularly bad speedbump. Her teeth bite down harder on the gag, releasing a sordid taste that did not settle her stomach.

Even at the age of six, which Veronica remembers in bits and pieces, she knew that something wasn’t right with her mother. It wasn’t wrong, either, but it put her on edge and kept her voice trapped in her chest like a music box without a key.

You’d come home smelling metallic, sometimes like the salt of the earth itself. It was much less palatable than the sweet coffee that often graced your collar. She used to inhale the familiarity of it, but had stopped when you’d begin to get bruises and deep red gashes against your skin.

It was something that you’d try to hide from her, from Aunt Darcy, but in the deepest moments of your sleep, the fabric of your shirt would lift and expose the camouflage markings on your ribs or the crack of flesh on your back that Veronica was certain hadn’t been there before.

Then there was Mama.

Natasha. Natalia. Romanoff.

She’d heard every variation of the title. The name was spoken with a certain type of urgency in some, fondness from you, and fear from most. It wasn’t until Veronica was eight and paid more attention to those around her that she realized Natasha was the source of the un-well scent on you.

“Your moms whack people,” Dani had told her one day as they played up in her room. Veronica was meant to stay the night but there had been a heated and insignificant argument about who got to marry Malibu Barbie.

She’d whined back, “They do not,”

“They do too! I heard the other mommies at the playground talking about it. They whack people and it makes everyone else afraid of them and you.”

“You’re lying!”

Veronica had felt the tears prickling at her eyes. Not because Dani’s words were too much, they were just the right amount of hurt. Deep down, Veronica knew that something was fucked up about her family. And while they tried to shield her, it never stopped people from talking.

She would get looks from the parents of her schoolmates. Once that reeked of worry, and sometimes pity. It fed her anger, stoked the coal fire that burned within her. She shouldn’t be angry at her moms, she knew it was unfair. But as she clenched the barbie in her little fist, anger was the only thing she could truly feel.

“They don’t hit people!”

“That’s not what whacked means, dummy.” Dani seemed to catch her bearings, lower her voice to keep her own mother from hearing the accusations. “People that are near your family are never seen again. That’s what Cassie’s mom said. People that are near your family die.”

How could that be true? Things were so different here. There were different smells and Dani’s family didn’t eat around the table like hers did. The house was smaller and cozier. There were pictures on the wall that were black and white and worn with age. But there was love here, just like there was love in Veronica’s house.

A house with love couldn’t be a house where her mothers… whacked people.

Natasha held her with so much warmth at night. She read her two stories if Veronica asked and would get her a glass of water in the middle of the night. Sometimes, on the way home from school, they’d stop for ice cream even though you had cautioned against it.

Someone who let her get extra chocolate sprinkles was not a killer.

But the thought lodged itself in Veronica’s head and refused to leave. She was unnaturally quiet on the ride home, having called you to pick her up early from the wall phone. She held back tears and pressed the plastic close to her face until it was numb.

Natasha had cooked steak and mashed potatoes. Usually, it was Veronica’s favorite, but she watched as the pink runoff seeped into the white mush and quelled the nausea in her stomach by taking little sips of water.

She pretended not to notice the wary look her mothers gave each other, but it was impossible to ignore the way you cleared your throat, palming the wine glass to give your hands something to do. “Baby, is something bothering you?”

The dam broke. Veronica hated when you took that tone with her because it made her cry each time, made all of the hidden emotions bubble up until her cheeks were red and she was a sniveling mess.

This time, she blinked them back and looked between both you and Natasha. She clenched her fork in her little hand and drew in a breath. These were big emotions for such a small girl and she didn’t quite know how to swallow them.

“Why is everyone afraid of you?”

Your hand tightened on the glass you were holding, just loose enough to save it from shattering. Natasha had been mid-chew, her stare moving frantically to you before she swallowed and used her napkin to wipe the edge of her mouth.

“Sweetheart, did someone tell you that?”

Veronica seemed to tremble, shrinking into herself. She had gotten so verbal over these last few years, and this was a side that you refused to let her fall back into. You set the glass down and reached across the table. You covered her hand with yours, despite her refusal to unfurl it. It helped to ground her, had since she was little.

“Dani said that people are scared of you, and that they die around you. I called her a liar, a dirty liar, but she kept telling me it was true.” She looked up with tears in her eyes. “That’s not true, right?”

The silence seemed to answer her question, but she stared at both of you. She wanted to hear it. She wanted you to look under the bed and slay all of the monsters that were intent on grabbing her ankles and pulling her down. Natasha looked down at her plate, almost shy. You gave her hand a squeeze.

“Baby, it’s complicated.” You started, her wild eyes moving to yours. You felt her grow tense. “Your Mama and I, we want to be honest with you no matter what. This family is complicated, but that will never change how much we love you.”

They’d abandoned the food and spent most of the night explaining what they could. She was still only eight years old, and they held back from her. Each year of her life, they revealed more, eased her into it. And if she asked a question, they never, ever, lied. They answered truthfully- even if it wasn’t an answer she didn’t’ want to hear.

Veronica’s muscles had become stiff. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been shoved inside of the trunk, but light was leaking through the edges. She’d drifted in and out of sleep, her legs burning. She wanted to break free of her binds and stretch them out. Grant tied a good knot.

It was no matter, she thought, because her mothers wouldn’t let her linger for long.

Glass and blood sprayed across the back patio. Someone had clearly wrapped their hand and shattered it with sheer force. They’d cut themselves at one point or another, but it didn’t’ seem to stop them from muscling their way into the Jones’s home.

Luke, in his hulking nature, reached into the highest cabinet and got his daughter a glass of water. She hadn’t touched the muffin that was set in front of her. Luke was nesting, trying to ply her with gifts to ease the horror of what had just happened.

You felt bad, having to dredge it up when the memory was still so fresh. She had the deer-in-headlights stare. Wide eyes flicked to you and Natasha. She opened her mouth and closed it in succession twice. She looked like a fish.

It wasn’t that you hated Dani, you didn’t. She was thirteen-year-old child, after all. But, you were admittedly wary about her after she had brought Veronica’s walls down when they were younger. Kids, you reminded yourself. They were innocent, but they were also mean when they wanted to be.

“I already told you, “She said, frowning down at her untouched muffin. “We were both asleep when we heard a loud crash. It didn’t wake up mom and dad. I wanted to call the cops, but Ronnie was against it. Why haven’t we called the cops?”

The silence in the room was palpable. You were studying the edges of the glass, the dried dark blood against the edges. It was better for you to focus on that, than the fact that Veronica wasn’t here. You would spiral, then. You’d think about all the places she could be, and none of them were particularly good.

“Fine. There was a man with a gun in the kitchen and he… aimed it at us. Ronnie wasn’t scared. I don’t know how, the look in his eye was determined. Horrifying. He said that he wasn’t going to hurt us, he just needed her and then he would leave.”

“And she just went?” Natasha urged; her voice strained with exhaustion.

“Yeah, yes. I didn’t try hard to stop her, he had a gun. A gun!”

“Okay, alright. Thank you, Dani.” Luke placed his hand on the small of her back. She crumbled into him, dwarfed by his sheer size. Jessica glared at her own reflection in the mirror above the sink. She had been deathly quiet.

Suddenly, Dani looked so tiny in his arms, hugging her close. Your heart seized and you frowned at the broken glass at your feet. Natasha willed herself to continue. “Dani, I’m incredibly sorry about this. About all of this; but we need to know what he looked like.”

“I don’t know, he was tall and had these blue eyes that were just unsettling. He was sort-of good looking.”

Jessica seemed to find herself at that moment, working her hand through her hair. It was damp and unkempt with sweat. “You both need to leave.”

“Jess,” Luke interjected.

“You need to leave!” She raised her voice, turning to face the group. She kept her palms on the counter to steady herself, refusing to look at Natasha, but clocking you with a deathly stare. “We’ve ignored so much. We’ve watched Veronica when the two of you leave on your business trips, and come back looking like you’ve been raised from the dead. We pretend not to notice the guns you carry even at the fucking beach! But this is not something we can ignore. Y/n, this is my home.”

Her chest was heaving with rage but there was immense sadness in her eyes. Dani’s fingers clenched at the fabric of her father’s shirt. Natasha’s hands were in her back pockets, her red-rimmed stare trained on the ground.

“I understand. Thank you for everything. We’ll uh, get someone to come by and fix the patio door. I apologize for all of the trouble.”

Natasha moved to follow you, her hand on your shoulder. You hadn’t realized you were trembling until her firm touch was there to quell it. Her words were said with a gentle authority. “I made a few calls. A patrol call will be positioned across the street for the next week. Longer, if you’d like. I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Dani stood from the barstool. “There’s one more thing. The man, he had on this gaudy jacket and there was a patch on the pocket. It was red and there was a skull with these tentacles coming out of it. Totally villain coded.”

You frowned, diverting your stare to the small bug light at the corner of the door. It emitted a small buzzing sound that was barely noticeable. If you stared at it long enough, the tears that threatened to spill over would eventually go away.

“I hope you find her.”

Dani had said in a quiet voice. And you hoped beyond hope that you did too.

There was ugly green tile in the bathroom. Veronica had counted them twice over, and then to check her blurry math, she multiplied the length and the height until the numbers matched. She was bored and cramped in the off-white bathtub of a shitty motel.

For the first half-hour, she had her eyes on the water-stained ceiling. There was an abnormally large roach that crawled in circles. It had the whole ceiling, why did it confine itself to one spot? She’d made up a story; the brown little bug was training for a race. He was following the imaginary track.

He’d win, she decided, tugging softly on her binds. Even if though the horsefly can move up to 90 miles per hour. They’d learned that in class and it was one of those facts that she just couldn’t seem to forget.

Veronica could hear Grant on the other side of the wall. He had made an exasperated phone call and threw it down on the bed. He’d been oddly gentle and patient with her when he removed her from the trunk and subsequently locked her in the bathroom.

After living with a family of deadly criminals for the better part of her life, Veronica toyed with the idea that she was being held for ransom. Her mama, she didn’t hesitate when it came to stuff like this. Veronica had asked her once if that was easier.

They’d been jogging along a small path that cut through the woods around the property. Natasha was used to doing stuff like that alone, pacing herself and breathing in the crisp scents that nature had to offer.

It had shocked her when Ronnie asked to join, but she was quick to agree. She’d slowed to a brisk walk when the girl started to fight for air. Natasha may have pushed a little hard, but she was content to walk with her daughter, all the same.

The question had caught her off guard. “Ronnie, I don’t think your mother would appreciate me answering this.”

“You’re my mom too.” She stopped by a particularly large rock, placing both hands behind her head to stretch her chest out enough to ease her breathing. “Unless you’re afraid of her.”

“You’re baiting me.”

Veronica gave her a wolfish smile. Of course, Natasha wasn’t afraid of you. She wasn’t. You would sometimes get a deep look in your eyes that made her squirm in her seat. It was the mom look- the type of look that you seemed to inherit from the moment you first hold a baby against your chest. The need to protect was deep seeded.

Natasha felt it too, especially with the girl that goaded her right now. But she knew when not to push, and when to gently suggest something to you. Right now was a terse moment that blurred the line between something you’d be okay with, and something you’d initiate the silent treatment for. She sighed.

“Sometimes, there is more to suffering than the pain that’s inflicted. Does that make sense?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Waiting for the end is more tortuous than the act of ending itself. What I mean is, putting someone out of their misery is not only a mercy in some situations, but a necessary evil. I’m not a monster, Ronnie.”

She believed her in that moment. Natasha wasn’t a monster. Not to her. She could see how some of her charges would think differently, but this was the woman who would curl up in fuzzy pajamas and watch shitty romantic comedies with her, even shedding a few tears when the lead got the girl.

Veronica let out a long sigh and slumped further down into the bathtub. An uncomfortable and sluggish hit of pain moved through her legs and to the base of her back. First the trunk, and now this.

Her body stiffened when she heard the giggle of the door handle. Heels dug into old porcelain as she pushed herself up. Parts of Veronica’s stance was numbed entirely. Her shoulders were tight with tension, and a fine layer of dust was kicked up.

Grant clenched his jaw and unclenched it at the sight of her. He’d left her to her own devices for far too long. She watched carefully as he unscrewed the cap of a water bottle. The seal cracked and she relished in the sound, praying that it hadn’t been tampered with.

He knelt down against the side of the tub, pulling her gag from her mouth. She drew in a desperate and clear breath, clocking him with a glare. Sickeningly, he smiled at that. “You must be thirsty.”

She didn’t’ dignify him with an answer but allowed him to guide the water bottle to her lips. She gulped down more than half in a hungry fashion. Spare drops soaked into her collar and drip against her jaw. He pulled away and recapped it.

“I want you to know this isn’t personal. I’m not big on the whole ‘kidnap kids’ thing. I have a son of my own, and I wouldn’t ever want something to happen to him.” He paused and resituated himself into a more comfortable position. “This is business. I do what I’m told.”

Grant was trying to relate to her, make her feel some sort of sympathy for him. She wasn’t going to fall into his tactics. Instead, she glowered at him. “I hope he has a good mom. Because when mine find you, he’s going to need one.”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m counting on it.”

This time, you had made sure that the gun was fully loaded. You were all for showmanship, leaning into the nickname that those who roamed the streets had given you. Even those who didn’t, a woman at the laundromat or the waitress that had replaced you at the diner all knew you as Roulette.

Once upon a time, you couldn’t push past the shadow that Bucky Barnes had created. He was the Winter Soldier, Natasha’s immoveable force of nature. She’d command him with a solid hand and anyone on the other side of that wrath was doomed.

It was a reputation that was impossible to live up to, yet somehow, you had done it. Not only could you kill with such ruthless abandon, but you had found a family along the way. Bucky would never question Natasha’s orders. But the two of you made them together, and that brought a new type of fear.

When Leo Fitz had moved for the weapon tucked into the back of his neatly pressed pants, you made sure to move with a quickness that rivaled anyone else in the room. The tip of your revolver was pressed to his temple, his gloved hands raising in surrender.

Ophelia Sarkissian smiled. Blood dripped across her teeth from where Natasha had connected her fist with bone. She was slammed up against the back wall of her office now. Her mantle shook with the force of the hit, and dust rained down from the ceiling.

“That’s the problem with old buildings,” she said, a mix of sticky saliva and russet discharge. “The aesthetics are there, but you sacrifice the integrity of the room. Don’t you agree, Nat?”

“I’m not here to discuss architecture.”

Natasha reached into her own pocket, not releasing her hold on the leader of Hydra. The little organization of evil had gotten admittedly bigger than either of you thought was possible. They’d gotten more men, more property. But they were resigned to Hells Kitchen and that was simply not under Natasha’s jurisdiction. She never found it in herself to care, not until now.

Knives were Yelena’s weapon of choice, but Natasha still found joy in the subtle bout of fear that flashed momentarily across Ophelia’s serpent stare. Leo attempted to move, but stilled when you pulled the metal hammer back on the revolver. All you had to do was pull the trigger and there’d be a new mural in Ophelia’s office.

“Natasha, would you mind calling your dog off? Doctor Fitz is a brilliant scientist. It’s not any old brain she’s fixing to blow out.”

The side of the silver blade had found its way to the edge of Ophelia’s eye, not quite touching it, but she knew that the slightest movement would spear her iris. She stopped squirming under Natasha’s threats.

“Okay, okay! What is it that I can do for you lovely ladies?”

“What is it you can do for us?” Natasha’s voice was a thick and hollow growl. Any sign of mercy had escaped her, one hand clenching the woman’s throat, the other pressing the tip of the knife hard enough to break porcelain skin. “Sweetness, I think you know exactly what we want.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Natty. I have my fingers in a lot of cookie jars.”

“If you’re inclined to keep your right eye intact, I suggest that you lead us to our daughter. I have no trouble taking a woman’s sight.”

Ophelia laughed and it infuriated you. Rage and impatience made a dangerous cocktail. You had tolerated the woman and her lackies through dinner parties and the occasional get together. But that was the extent of your relationship.

Seven full years and she still viewed you as nothing more than Natasha’s pet waiting to be house trained. You’d long since left your probationary period. You’d married the woman who had an iron grip on the city and in turn, raised a competent daughter in your stead.

“I have no godly idea what you’re talking about. You think I’m stupid enough to steal from you? I wouldn’t take a wine glass, much less your daughter. I have some common sense. What led you to believe that I would?”

You hated to admit that you believed her, but you still refused to remove the gun from Fitz’s temple. “The symbol on the jacket of the man who took her. It was your insipid mass of tentacles.”

Fitz cleared his throat “Ma’am, it could be Ward.”

“Ward?” Natasha asked.

“I fired him months ago. He’s mostly harmless but would do anything to get into my good graces. I suppose it would be possible for him to pull a stunt like this. Last I heard, he was living at the Motel six off county.” Ophelia gritted her teeth “It’d be greatly appreciated if you both left before you do something you regret.”

Natasha mocked a pout, dragging the tip of the blade against the side of Ophelia’s face. A trail of pin-prink spots of blood rushed to the surface of her skin. “But you’d look so good with an eyepatch.”

Veronica had drifted into an incredibly fitful sleep. She could hear the world around her; the skittering legs of the bug that ran laps on the ceiling, the slow and steady drip of the sinks faucet, the football game that Grant had turned on to drown out her movements.

It was the unmistakable sound of woods splintering that had caught her attention. Ronnie forced herself to control her breathing, just like you had taught her. She clenched down on the sour tasting gag in her mouth, heart pounding violently in her chest.

The television had been turned off and Grant’s muffled voice seeped through the crack in the door. She knew that her mother’s preferred to work silently. They tried to shield her from everything and everyone that held a potential threat. But there were some things that Veronica wanted to see. Including the downfall of her captor.

She made a small noise against the back of her gag and slammed her heel on the puke-colored tub. The dull thumb was enough to halt the movement in the room. There was shattered glass, and an exclamation that could have only been from Natasha.

Grant had locked the bathroom door from the inside and closed it. There was a strong hit that rattled the weak wood. Her breathing picked up as another hit caused the door to bend like it wasn’t a solid force at all, but entirely breakable.

Finally, it gave way and you stumbled into the bathroom in a cloud of slivers and dust. None of that seemed to bother you, eyes darting directly to the tub that your daughter had been housed in for the last six hours.

Veronica was reduced to a bubbling mess of tears. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to see you, needed to see you. There was something so warm and safe about your touch and it cut through the cold bathroom air like nothing she had ever felt before.

“Oh baby,”

Your voice cracked as you dropped to your knees, making quick work of the gag. Veronica’s jaw ached when you removed it, tossing the cloth aside. You used the very knife that Natasha had used to threaten Ophelia with to cut the zip ties that had cut dark purple bruises into her wrists.

“Oh, my baby, I’m so sorry.”

She gripped you with a strength that reminded you of the first day you’d dropped her off at kindergarten. She’d cried then too, wetting the collar of your shirt with nervous tears. Veronica had clung to you and wicked her fingers into its fabric. It broke your heart to let her go then.

You’d had a meltdown in the driver’s seat of your car with all the other parents that had emotional attachment issues. It was where you met Jessica for the first time. She’d dropped Dani off. Her second child so it was easier this time. She brought you a beer and told you that everything would be okay.

“Mom,” she whispered, over and over again, gripping you to make sure you were real. She was much too old to carry, but you didn’t give a damn in this moment. You scooped her up like she was six years old again and she wrapped her legs around your waist without any protest.

You tucked her head into the small of your neck. “Keep your eyes closed, baby girl. You’re safe now.”

Veronica clenched her eyes shut and dug further into you. She tried to ignore the noises she heard in the single-bed motel room. The choking sounds that Grant let out as Natasha did what she did best with the electrical cord of a lamp.

She kept her eyes shut in the freezing stairwell, and even when the warm mist of an early-morning dew coated his skin. She waited until she could smell the familiar leather of her mother’s car, and even then, she held you in a vice grip that you weren’t willing to let go of anytime soon.

You’d taken your jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. She curled into herself in the backseat of the car. It only took a few more minutes for Natasha to exit through the same service door that you did. Her hair was disheveled, a long gash against the side of her arm that you were certain would need stitches later.

Black blood dripped from the wound and pooled from her fingertips in small splashes against the pavement. She didn’t’ seem to notice, her adrenaline screaming loud enough to quell any pain she would have felt.

Natasha gently urged you to the side before she climbed into the backseat wordlessly. Ronnie seemed to let out a long breath of relief. She launched herself into the woman’s arms. Natasha grunted at the force but squeezed her as tightly as she could, letting her cry.

“Mama, I’m so sorry.” Veronica sniffed “I shouldn’t have gone with him, but he was going to hurt Dani.”

“Do not apologize moy malen'kiy strelok.” She pressed a kiss to Veronica’s temple, fighting back tears. “Never apologize.”

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[hollowed-theory-hall]

love your charactes analytics! 💞 have you thought about jobs in the magical world? how many are there, possible prospects? such as a healer, a teacher, translators, editors... and what could the Potterian heroes work in a world without V? like in fics, James is often written as a Quidditch player, Sirius as a healer/auror/etc, and what about Barty Jr.? Regulus Black? Blaise Zabini? Theodore Nott? others?

Anonymous asked:

hey! what is the total number of jobs in the wizarding world? we know professors, shopkeepers, healers... but what else? and what positions do the workers of the ministry hold besides the minister, his assistant, judges and aurors? and the most important thing: what would the heroes work for if there were no war? who were Sirius, Remus, Lily, Theodore Nott? 👀

Anonymous asked:

Had the Marauders, Lily, and Snape all survived the war (say for whatever reason Lily and James were not killed on Halloween, whether at an order meeting with a babysitter or Voldemort stunning them instead, other explanations, etc), do you have any theories or headcanons for what they would have done with their lives?

Thank you all so much! 😊

Well, when it comes to jobs, basically 70% of their population works at the ministry — therefore most wizards are part of the government. Even Healers seem to be government-adjacent since St. Mungo's seems very connected to the ministry. Those that aren't are most commonly either shop owners (like the Weasley twins, various broom makers, or Ollivander) or entertainers (such as musicians, Quidditch players, and authors). But then you also have suppliers of various magical goods, like wand woods which are grown differently than just any tree or dragon reserves (which I assume supply dragonhide and dragon heartstrings). And you have other writers — academics who write textbooks and journalists. You also have wizards working for Gringotts as either guards or curse breakers. There is also, obviously, the possibility of working at Hogwarts, but there only seem to be eleven professors there, so, Hogwarts isn't a large employer for wizards.

But, like, if we look at Harry's year of 40 students, at least 28 of them would go on to work in the ministry in one of its departments. Now the ministry is big compared to the size of the population (likely too big), and you have many positions there that are practically only there to give someone the minister likes a job. There are bigger or smaller offices and departments, and they all have a different social standing within the ministry. (Think how Crouch Sr was demoted from head of the DMLE to Head of International Magical Cooperation). As basically everything in their society is regulated by the ministry, you literally have an office for everything. There are definitely to many of them for me to just list here and there are many we likely haven't heard of. Like, in canon, the Spell Classification and Regulation Committee isn't mentioned, but it's implied to exist, or the Trace Tracking Office that also isn't mentioned, but I'm convinced is there.

I would add regarding the ministry jobs, that the Ministry of Magic runs on nepotism. If you don't know someone in the right places or are incredibly skilled, it's practically impossible to get a job there. Hence why the Slug Club exists. It allows muggleborns the social mobility and connections they otherwise won't have. This is something I will take into account in my job headcanons.

So, let's take a look at some of these professions and ministry departments with characters (assuming Voldemort doesn't happen/happens partially). This is all very much into headcanon territory, but it was fun to think about.

Mauraders Era

James Potter -

I think the common fan jobs of either a professional Quidditch or an Auror suit James quite well. Both include being active, a sense of adventure and danger for Aurors, and fame and glory for a Quidditch player — all things that fit James' personality quite well. I think, regardless, if he lived he would have worked as a Quidditch player/Auror until he was older and in his retirement would've joined the Wizengamot more full-time, I think.

I personally prefer to say Auror for him. Mostly because I think Sirius would choose to be an Auror and James would join him. "Never saw one without the other", so I like to keep them together.

Lily Potter -

I don't see Lily having a ministry desk job. Even if she probably could get one with Slughorn's recommendation it just doesn't sound like it'll suit her. I kinda see her doing more freelance work and writing for Charms magazines or textbooks. Occasionally making a Wizengamot appearance in James' seat if there's an issue she cares about.

Sirius Black -

As I mentioned in James' section, I see him becoming an Auror. I mean, before his arrest, he had no reason to doubt the ministry, as they were working with the Order in the first war. And I think, going to hunt down dark wizards for a living is exactly the kind of statement Sirius would make against his family.

Severus Snape -

If Snape could choose, I don't think he would become a teacher. I don't think he likes children or teaching enough for that. What he does enjoy, is inventing magic — be it spells or potions. So, I see him, if it was up to him, he'd invent spells and potions. Maybe, if he could manage it (recommendations from either Slughorn or Lucius), he'd find his way to the Committee on Experimental Charms and test experimental charms besides inventing his own.

Remus Lupin -

Remus has a problem called being a werewolf in a very bigoted and corrupt society. If Remus could choose, I think he did enjoy teaching quite a bit, and he does like Defence Against the Dark Arts. I think, if he could, he would be a teacher. I just think he'd have an easier time getting a muggle job and calling in sick once or twice a month.

Barty Crouch Jr -

Not the ministry.

Like, with how much he hates his father who represents the ministry, no way is he going to do a ministry desk job anywhere near his father. I think he liked being a teacher for that one year, and wouldn't mind being a professor as a full-time career. Although, I think his first choice of career would be something more exciting that takes him far away from his father — so I'm going Curse Breaker. He has the skills and grades for that, and I think it'll suit him.

Regulus Black -

We don't know that much about Regulus, but we know he was a Seeker in Hogwarts. So, I'd say professional Quidditch player + living off his family's wealth.

Books Era

Harry Potter -

I already talked in the past about how I don't like Harry being an Auror that much since I think he'd chafe under the authority and the ministry and I think the guy deserves a rest. So, I often prefer to headcanon he went to Auror training with Ron right after the war and decided to return to 8th year during the training cause he felt lost. Ron and he returned to 8th year and Harry decided he didn't want to be an Auror and instead became the DADA professor. I see him eventually becoming Hogwarts Headmaster.

A Harry Potter who was raised by his parents (assuming they lived) might choose a different profession. I think a Harry raised by James and Lily would go on to be a professional Quidditch player.

Hermione Granger -

I know in semi-canon material like Pottermore and in the (for me) non-canon Cursed Child, Hermione joins the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and later becomes Minister of Magic. I personally kinda hate that, since I don't think Hermione would be a good minister. I mean, she'd be better than Fudge, but, I don't know, I don't like it.

I don't mind her becoming the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and her and Harry using the Potter Wizengamot seat to improve rights for elves and werewolves. I can also see her becoming an Unspeakable and working to open the department up and actually publish the things they study about magic for the improvement of the wizarding world.

All in all, Hermione is exactly the kind of person who'd be good and happy at a ministry desk job, so I tend to give her one. Now, I think the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is more her style than being an Unspeakale, even though I said otherwise in the past. But I still like both ideas.

Ron Weasley -

As I mentioned in the Harry section, I see them starting the training together, but after 8th year, only Ron returns to become an Auror. I'd like to see Ron as the eventual head of the Auror Office and maybe head of the DMLE. I think Ron would get along in the ministry better than Harry and it's a job none of his brothers have and therefore create the difference from them (and Harry) he craves. He'll be able to succeed in a way that's all his own.

Theodore Nott -

In Cursed Child, he is mentioned to have made Time-Turners and in the books, he is implied to be taking Ancient Runes or Arithmancy or both besides Care of Magical Creatures. I talked more about his character here, and I personally think his solitary nature + interest in advanced and complex magic makes him a good fit to be an Unspeakable. I mean, studying complex magic and making advancements in magical fields yet unheard of while not talking to anyone for days is just the kind of job Theo would love doing.

Also, if Hermione is an Unspeakable too, they could have a really interesting work dynamic that would start on the colder side (Hermione would talk to him when he doesn't want to be talked to), grow to mutual respect, and eventually friendship.

Luna Lovegood -

JKR stated: "Luna became a very famous wizarding naturalist who discovered and classified many new species of animals (though, alas, she never did find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and had, finally, to accept that her father might have made that one up)."

And I like this idea quite a bit. I see her also continuing her father's work on the Quibbler on the side and the Quibbler would probably have a large "Magical Nature" section with her own discoveries and some of Neville's writing on Herbology along with other writers.

Blaise Zabini -

I have an ask about him which I'll get to eventually, but I see Blaise having a high-paying ministry job. I just, don't see him doing something super interesting, he'd want the wealth and the status with the least amount of work possible. Like, he'd probably want to go into the DMLE which is considered the most prestigious department, but I see him moving a lot in the ministry to suit his needs. like, he'd start at the Wizengamot Administration Services Office, move to the Obliviators Office for a bit before somehow ending up really high up at the Department of Magical Transportation as the head of the Portkey Office or something. He'd just move to wherever he can get a better position.

Ginny Weasley -

I actually like the canon of her becoming a professional Quidditch player for the Holyhead Harpies. I have no complaints about it, it suits her, she'd enjoy it, and she'd be good at it.

Neville Longbottom -

Like Ginny, I like Neville's canon future as Herbology professor and head of Gryffindor house. Also, I think Harry and Neville could have a greater friendship as two professors at Hogwarts and it could be fun. I think he'd be good with kids and a very caring teacher, not to mention a future famed Herbologist as I see him publishing a few books.

Draco Malfoy -

I know many headcanon Draco as a Healer, and while it's possible, I personally see him getting a ministry job. I don't know why but I see him in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Like, he is really good with charms and I think he could be great in a Spell Reversal Squad for a few years before rising in the ranks. I think it'll also be a chance for him to do something closer to the muggle world and cement his change, you know? I just kinda like this idea.

[wewerebornsextuplets]

idk how but you draw in the Oso-san style so good i need to know your secret please

HAHA thank you very much!! im glad you think so :D unfortunately im not very good at explaining how i work, but ill try my best to show what i mean!!

once again this is long as hell. you know the drill at this point

to be honest, half the battle i fight with drawing in the osmt style is just. Looking at it. the ososan art style actually fluctuates pretty wildly depending on what you're looking for, whether that be the mobile games (for instance, tabimatsu and hesowars look nothing alike in terms of style despite both being the same source material), official art and merch, or even the seasons of the show itself!

using ichi as my example here since i draw him the most, but its pretty easy to play spot the difference with the varying styles. even within a specific season you can do this across episodes, especially with season 1!

when i draw, i tend to be a bit sacrilege and use references across different media; usually ill use the show [especially season 2, if only because its a bit more "uniform"] as reference for the actual features and colors/poses/etc, but i like to use hesowars to reference proportions, since they seem to be most consistent there.

SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO NOTE: theres a WEALTH of fanartists that have styles that are INCREDIBLY similar to the show, so be careful to check your sources! these artists deserve credit for their hard work, which they often don't get since their work is reposted under the guise of being official art.

once you've pinned down the exact style you'd like to emulate, and the character you're looking to draw, its really just a matter of finding references, which is pretty easy! you can scrub through different episodes for good angles/shots, or if you're going for one of the game styles the AU wiki has most of the games catalogued to my knowledge. if you're looking to draw an oc, use characters you think they would look similar to in the show. if you really wanna waste your time, though, you can always scrub through crowd scenes in the show to see if any background characters might look like what you're going for; the season 3 episode Mt. Takao comes to mind, there were a lot of cute mob characters there.

using keiko as my example here, you can see that i pulled her features from multiple different characters to get her to look right in the style. with ocs, its important to reference a number of different characters, since the likelihood of a background character being a 1:1 for your little guy is unfortunately pretty low. there WILL, however, be a lot of characters that look KIND of like them. the key is to figure out what parts go where!

to this point, most prominent ososan women have very similar stock anime girl faces with very minor differences, so if youre looking to make a cute girl oc, most of the womens' faces can be used somewhat interchangeably. if you want your cute girl oc to have a more unique face, though, the movie gave us some women with more unique faces in the form of the NEETs' old classmates! theres also no harm in referencing male characters faces in this regard. #butchswag #kiruminikuya

BUT. going back to the assumption that you're drawing a canon character, today I'll be drawing oso for my example

when you're first getting a feel for the style, tracing some of your references can actually be a really great way to acclimate yourself to the characters proportions and features. think of like when you were a kid, and would trace over pictures of pokemon or cartoon characters so you could draw them better. its basically the same principle! this was especially helpful for me when it came to eyes; they vary the most wildly of any other trait that characters have in ososan, so going over the different shapes to get a feel for each of them was very important.

when you trace, though, I recommend doing so a bit more loosely, sort of like if you're doing a photo study for anatomy; block out the basic shapes and do small markers for different features (i.e small lines to denote where the eyes start and and, distance from nose to mouth, things like that), and from there draw the rest on your own.

after long enough you'll get a feel for the basic placement of where everything should go! the eyes and nose are undoubtedly the hardest when it comes to the sextuplets, since they shift around a LOT between games/seasons/etc. so don't feel bad if you have a hard time with that, since there isnt really a "right" answer with how frequently it changes. i still fuck it up all the time myself!

as for some basic tips, heres some stuff i try to keep in mind when drawing them that just helps the finished product look a bit nicer!

when drawing the hair + fringe line, its important to swoop it downwards a little bit; the flat across look Can work, but if you're not careful you risk showing the tops of their eyes, which is um. ew! ick! nast!

when a matsu is facing forward, their hair will usually tend towards one direction to keep the silhouette. in most screenshots i saw, the bowl cut points left! that said, dont be afraid to point rightwards if its better for your specific drawing!

and lastly: USE THE LIQUIFY TOOL. LIBERALLY. i am not joking when i say this has saved my ass so many times, its hard to get the placement right on the facial features and even harder to get everything to LOOK good, so if its available to you i HIGHLY suggest just squishing everything around with a liquify tool until it looks right. you can always go back and correct the blurry lines. its really a life saver

BUT YEAH! i dont know if this was very helpful but i hope you're at least able to gain something from it :-))

[cantwritethetword]

Biceps? Really?

Fic Descript: Superman finds out Batman has a very odd ticklish spot, and of course has to tease Bruce half to death over it.

~A/N  - HELLO ONCE AGAIN

Look at me being somewhat consistent with uploads SDJFHKALSDFJHKH amazing what meds can do

I've had these requests in my inbox for aaaaaages (im so sorry) and I feel like I can finally write something for them.

Prompts were:

Please excuse the typos and the "it's ok that this will be s(H)ort" cause that was back when I was like super burnt out AND unmedicated lmao so I was like OH JUST A LIL FIC YOU CAN DO IT but this will be a proper one lmao

Also lmao forgive me for the super boring title I couldn't think of another one.

EDIT: ALSO AGSKAGSKAGD ILL HAVE IT BE KNOWN I USE DARK MODE ON MOBILE THIS WAS ON MY LAPTOP AND IDK HOW TO GET TUMBLR TO BE DARK MODE ON LAPTOP HENCE THE WHITE SCREENSHOTS THANK YOU THAT IS ALL

- Enoy! ~

Tag List: @constanteyeburn

Masterpost Link 

"I still..." Bruce huffed as he lay on the floor, glaring at his partner. "Don't get... why you're still so surprised... every time we do this."

Clark, the absolute puppy dog, was still beaming after launching yet another random tickle attack on Bruce. Since first discovering the Batman's hilarious (and quite frankly adorable) little weakness, it was like crack for Clark. Any time he had the opportunity, he launched himself at Bruce and just started squeezing. And, because Bruce was just that damn ticklish, the poor superhero couldn't last ten seconds before crumbling into a flood of chuckles.

"I don't know." Clark grinned. "You don't seem like the ticklish type, is all. Never have."

Bruce rolled his eyes, before starting to stand up. "I am not the ticklish type."

"Uh, oh yes you are!" Clark laughed, reaching to grab Bruce's arm. "And where do you think you're going?"

Normally, Bruce's response to this would be a swift bat (hehe) at Clark's hand to push it away from him as he stood, and an even swifter escape before Clark decided to go for round 2 (it had happened before, and Bruce swore he would've passed out if Clark hadn't taken pity on him).

But this time, whatever way Clark grabbed Bruce's arm, sent electric shivers coursing down Bruce's side. Bruce let out a yelp, and half-collapsed onto one knee.

Clark gasped, his face like a kid on Christmas morning. "No way."

"Clark." Bruce's eye's widened as he pieced together what had just happened. "That wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Clark interjected, pulling Bruce closer to him using the aforementioned grabbed bicep.

The tugging motion pressed Clark's fingers right into Bruce's muscle again, forcing a symphony of strange noises, squeaks, and choked laughs out of the absolutely screwed superhero. As Bruce fell, Clark expertly manoeuvered him onto his back (for the second time that day) so that Clark could kneel on his forearms.

"What the hell Kent?" Bruce grunted, pulling his tough-guy facade over his currently anxious and flustered self. "Let me go."

Clark chuckled. "Oh no, we're investigating this."

Bruce cursed under his breath. He remembered Clark's methodical tickle monster days all too well. When Superman himself had him pinned to the floor with no hope of escape, and took his sweet ass time tracing and prodding with various numbers of fingers on any tickle spot that came to mind.

This time would be no different. Clark began with his thumbs, massaging small circles into the very center of Bruce's muscle.

And holy fuck did it tickle.

Bruce's entire torso tried to lift itself off the floor for a moment, his eyes wide in shock at just how bad it was, before his body slammed back onto the floor and flailed. His legs kicked a ticklish drum beat as the highest pitched giggle either man had ever heard escaped his lips.

"Wow you're ticklish here!" Clark laughed over the noise. "I can't believe this is even possible!"

"SHUTUP!" Bruce shouted between bouts of hysterics, twisting his hips from side to side to alleviate the torturous sensations.

"Seriously though," Clark continued as if nothing was even happening. "Ticklish biceps? You've got to be kidding me."

"CLARK!"

Superman nodded to himself, resting his hands on his thighs. "You're right, you're right, it's time to move on to something else."

Bruce gulped in mouthfuls of air before registering what Clark was implying. "No-... wait-..."

Ten feather-light fingernails touched down right above Bruce's armpit and paused for a moment, soaking in the anticipation. Clark didn't have a chance to start moving before Bruce broke into deep streams of laughter.

"Really, Batman?" Clark taunted. "Breaking that easily?"

"Fuhuhuck ohoff."

Superman rolled his eyes, before trailing down Bruce's biceps from elbow to underarm. That singular smooth movement upped Bruce's laughter by a few pitches, a good sign for what was to come.

Clark lifted his hands and reset them back to their starting position on Bruce's arm, before letting his fingers begin their descent once more.

Except this time, each finger took its turn to softly trace up a few inches before lifting and straightening again while his wrist moved further to Bruce's elbow. Like two gliding spiders, Clark's hands pulled downright squeals from Bruce.

"NOHO!" The Batman pleaded. "I CAHAN'T- CAHAN'T TAKE IHIT!"

Smirking, Clark tutted. "Oh come on, you're usually so tough!"

But, now that he thought about it, Bruce was rather red by this point (and not just from sheer embarrassment). And while it certainly was fun tormenting the usually far too stoic superhero, the fun could wait for another day.

Clark wasn't forgetting about this any time soon.

[applcrumbl]

Moonlit Man.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron X F!Reader Warnings: Sex allusions, Strong Language, Suggestive content, Word Count: 2.5K Author's Note: This took on an entirely different direction than it was supposed to, but that's life. Went very poetic with this one, take it or leave it.

Summary: A hookup-only relationship that becomes more.

The golden shine of his back in the soft glow of the balcony lighting outside. He came late and left early - though she never minded. They simply enjoyed their time together, every few nights, sometimes a week, never more than a month.

His breathing was shallow, his back defined. Comforter hanging low on his hips, it was a surprise he wasn’t freezing. The large bay window had all 3 glass panes wide open, the sound of the beach whistling through the breeze that blew gently into the room. The wind carried away the smell of sex from mere hours before.

She never slept afterwards, she couldn’t. Not when she knew he’d expect her gone in the morning. So she would wait until he snored soundly, before slipping into her shoes and sliding out the back door. Sleek. Silent.

He only slept when she was there. He couldn’t otherwise. Not when her soft heartbeat didn’t provide rhythm for him to focus on. So he would shut his eyes tight and knock himself out before she had the chance to be gone.

She never really wanted to leave. And he never really wanted her to go. How they’d found themselves in this familiar routine, neither knew. Like clockwork, and neither questioned. A fear of it ceasing altogether if it were mentioned.

There was no talking, other than the small introductory necessity beforehand, or the sexy profession of need during. Just sex. They knew each other’s names and mobile numbers. She knew he lived at Tannyhill, and he knew that she was a local. They were just sex, some light banter, and a guaranteed ride home at the end of a drunken night.

That was all.

Until it wasn’t. He’d looked her up. Breaking their unspoken arrangement. He searched instagram, he asked his friends, he’d almost near hired a private investigator when his seach turn up nothing. Her name like a needle in a haystack. Like an earring back in a freshly dug bed of soil. As if she never existed.

She did of course. It was so easy to block someone on social media. So easy to stay on a certain side of the island where one is reluctant to step foot. So easy to know where best to go on the odd occasion that one does. So easy to stay an elusive part of Rafe Cameron’s life, and carry no consequence for his action. How she liked it. No strings attached.

But despite a lack of strings, people can find other ways to be entwined. Feelings can be caught, and laughs shared. Snippets of memories, and drunken honesty. Over their short period of time together, they’d grown to enjoy the company. In ways that werent just late nights. Him sleeping first, and her slipping out.

This night were no different, and as his breath gently tickled her neck, she crept from his king sized bed as she’d done countless times before. Her underwear slid over her legs, dress over her head. She carried her shoes and jacket down the stairs of the large home. Quiet so as not to wake any of it’s other inhabitants.

The rest of her clothes were briskly added once she reached the front landing. The same path each time. Left step, right step, dodge the creaky floorboard, and out the old servants' quarter's door. It was in the house's original design to be the quietest area, so that the Plantation’s staff could once enter and exit without disruption to their masters. Perfect for her need.

She opens it, careful to dodge the miscellaneous boxes strewn about. Evidently where the family’s random items were collected. She knew that the baseball bat must’ve been Rafe's and that the dolls would have belonged to a pair of sisters she’d only heard traces of. But, as much as she’d happily let Rafe tell her all, she knew it was best to keep their paths clear and uncrossing.

“The front door is closer, you know.”

She jumps at the surprising voice, turning quickly to be met by her moonlit man. Hand clutching pearls, she steadys herself.

“Thought you were sleeping.” She states.

“I was” Rafe replies, rubbing the back of his neck, still shining with the lightest layer of sweat.

She pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Oh, then I’m sorry to wake you.”

They look at eachother. Him directly at her eyes. Her at his shoulder, avoiding his direct gaze. They spoke sometimes, but not often, and never afterwards.

“You forgot your earrings.”

“Oh,” She breathes, “Thanks.”

She hold her hands out, expectant for the boy to place the studded pearls in her grasp. He doesn’t. “I left them upstairs.” He apologises, opening his fingers to show her his empty palms.

She just nods, “I’ll get them next time.”

There would be a next time, after all, there always was.

He clears his throat, “Sorry.”

A smile without teeth, and a curt nod. These were the most words they’d uttered to one another at a single time. At least not for those moaned, or whispered under bedsheets.

She turns to leave through the open doorway. Eager to be home before the cold took over too much. Laden in nothing but the thin jacket, shoe and satin dress she wore out the night before. 

“You never answered my question.”

He catches her on the doorstep.

“Servants' quarter's door is the quietest place in the house.” She explains, “Slave owners liked not to be disturbed early in the morning.”

“Are you calling me a slave owner?”

“No!” she apologised, “I just meant it’s the quietest way out of the house.”

Typically, an air of confidence surrounded her. Conviction in uncertainty. She could pretend to be someone she was not, especially to those who knew no different. Her insecurity slips out. The strong bravado once built, comes tumbling down. 

He enjoyed this side of her. Sweet, clumsy. He seldom saw it.

“Is that why I never hear you leave?”

“I wait until you’re sleeping.”

“Why don’t you just stay?”

The question throws her for a loop. Caught off guard, she can only stutter and answer. 

“I have things to do?”

It comes out as more of a question than an answer.

“At 3am?”

She just nods, jacket pulled even tighter around her shivering body. She wants nothing more than to leave as usual.

“Why don’t you exist outside of my bedroom?”

It’s bold. It’s new. It’s nothing she ever expected to hear him say. It’s unlike anything Rafe Cameron has ever asked. It scared her. Shocked her into silence.

Any normal person would find words at that moment. Even something as simple as ‘I don’t know’. Yet, she stood, mouth agape, no sound coming out.

“I’d like it if you did.” He follows.

An admittance. A moment of pluckiness. An opportunity to spark a new light in their relationship. Testing the waters of whether or not they could be more. Whether he could have her full address. Whether she could stay over for the night.

But, her confidence is out of the window, and he needs his ego bruised a bit.

She just turns and walks away instead. Silent, except for her feet crunching the gravel path. Leaving Rafe alone at the servant's quarter’s door, which he never even knew existed. She runs from Tannyhill Plantation, and away from the man who she simply saw for sex.

Regret fills them both but for different reasons. She wishes she spoke to him. She wishes she stayed, she wished her confidence did too. She wishes that he kept sleeping and that she hadn’t forgotten her earrings. He wishes he’d offered to take her home. He wishes he’d just let her leave so that he’d know she’d come back. He wishes he’d never asked her for more than that. 

He goes back to his bedroom, and she to hers. Pulling covers up tight around her shoulders, she nods off securely in her own bed. Rafe tossed and turns as the warmth leaves the spot next to him. His bed grew colder as hers grew warmer.

-

The next time they spoke was a mere week later. Both tired of their hand, and longing for the other. Rafe was the first to fold.

Wednesday, March 11th at 09:58pm.

RAFE Can we ignore what I said? I think I was still a bit high.

Wednesday, March 11th at 10:04pm.

Y/N That makes sense. Okay. RAFE I need you. Y/N Me too. RAFE I’ll pick you up? Y/N I’ll meet you at yours. RAFE Okay.

Message read at 10:12pm.

A round trip of Kildare Island will take you an hour and a half at most, and although he didn’t know much about her, he knew she drove. No matter where she stayed on this small island, she would have been with him after 45 minutes. And he’d known from past times that she always pulled into the driveway after 22. So when the clock struck 11pm, that is when Rafe began to worry.

He worried that she’d chosen to walk. He worried that she’d gotten into a car crash and died. But, most of all, he worried that she’d changed her mind. That she wasn’t coming. He text her again.

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:16pm.

RAFE You on your way?

The speech bubble that popped up soothed him. She was alive. The fact that it came and went a few times put him on edge. What was she going to say?

Y/N No. RAFE What do u mean?

He tries to call her. The number rings once before sounding the dial tone. She clicks the decline button, hands running over her thighs.

RAFE Answer your phone. RAFE Please RAFE Have I done something? Are you in trouble? Y/N I’m fine. Why would I be in trouble? RAFE Why aren’t you coming?

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:22pm.

Y/N We’re getting too attached. RAFE We’re not. RAFE I promise.

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:29pm.

Y/N We are. And that’s okay, It’s just not what I want. Y/N It’s not what either of us want, really RAFE We’re literally not geytung attached RAFE getting*

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:38pm.

Y/N Rafe, u searched me up. You asked around for me.

He draws his cigarette. A sharp breath in and a gentle one out. Contemplating his next message. Unable to deny his actions, but embarrassed by the reason behind them.

Y/N You’re literally still wake at 1AM waiting for me to come around.

Y/N

Waiting on your fucking porch for me Y/N And I know for fact that you have other numbers in your phone that you can call instead.

His eyes snap up. Scanning the darkness for a set of headlights. How else would she know he was here?

RAFE Where are you parked? Y/N Wdym? RAFE You know i’m on my porch, which means you’re here. Where are you? Y/N Lucky guess. RAFE Don’t believe you. Y/N You should. Y/N I’m at home.  Y/N I just know what you’re doing right now because we’re getting too close. RAFE Is it really such a bad thing RAFE That i want to see you RAFE That i like you?

Wednesday, March 11th at 11:45pm.

Y/N You like my pussy RAFE Well yes RAFE But I want to know you Y/N

The speech bubble appears again before it leaves. It doesn’t show up for the rest of the evening. Or the following day. Or the next week. Month. Three Months.

-

Her life goes back to normal. His does too, only emptier. Her friends see her more, his see him less. She tries to forget about Rafe Cameron, and what it felt like to be beneath his sheets. He is plagued with thoughts of the girl who didn’t want him back. The first of her kind.

Kildare’s annual bonfire was the one chance he had of seeing her again. It was how they’d met the year previous. The first night of many stolen kisses and rumpled bedsheets. 

Rafe had considered that the fact he’d never seen her, or that none of his friends had heard of her, might be because she was a pogue. He’d never thought to ask, and ultimately he’d started not to care. But it was underlying in his mind as he sipped a beer next to the bonfire. Using its flame to illuminate the face of every girl gone past. None of which her's.

He’d tried texting her. Called once or twice whilst drunk. But never got an answer. And he’d never admit it, but he missed her. Missed her almost as much as he did his own mother. A casual hook-up held the same weight in his heart as an absent parent. The one who got away.

Except, she never really got away. Because, she was never his in the first place. He can’t lose something he never had. He can’t have something that never wanted to be his. Rafe bullied himself into the ground for screwing up the opportunity. 

She did the same for a while. Thinking, and thinking about what might have been. She’d dream of white dresses, and bearing children. She’d wonder what he was doing, who he was seeing. If he’d gotten over her. She’d convinced herself he had. She’d convinced herself he didn’t care for her anymore. She’d convinced herself that he wouldn’t even be at this stupid bonfire this year, and that the fact that she was going was stupid in itself.

But she’d do anything to at least see him again. Even if it were just the back of his shoulders, glistening in the low light of outside his bedroom window.

Maybe if she got the chance again, she’d stay. Maybe if he got the chance again, he’d keep her with him.

She sat at the bonfire. Eyes hurting from the smoke that blew her way. Unbeknownst that the very man she’d come for was exactly adjacent. Hidden by the burning embers, and floating orange ribbons. The fire died slowly as she pulled her phone out. Biting the bullet and sending the text.

Thursday, June 25th at 11:57pm.

Y/N Are you here?

An answer comes quickly.

RAFE Yes. Are you? Y/N I wouldnt have said ‘here’ if I wasn’t 

He missed her quick wit. She missed his dumb questions.

RAFE Where? Y/N Meet me by the big rock? Y/N They’re away to put the fire out.

He rises quickly, avoidant of the poured water buckets that smother the once-roaring flames. It sizzles and hisses with the drastic change in temperature, but he can barely hear it over the thundering of his own heart. Rafe practically sprints to the rock, the phone still in hand.

She follows, catching a glimpse of him for the first time in so long. He has his back turned, it feels strangely poetic. The light of flame is replaced by that of the moon, and she watches Rafe in a familiar state. Broad shoulders outlined by blue shimmer.

The open horizon of the beach feels like Rafe’s bedroom window. He takes a seat, back still turned to her. His phone in hand as he begins to draft a text. No doubt asking where she is. She fights every urge to make as she normally would, and slip away. But, they both fight their vices.

Rafe's eyes stay firmly open, as he turns to the sound of her footsteps. Hers close tight as she sits next to him, head resting on his shoulder.

[iamthepulta]

. incoherent project rambling under the cut not important

Okay, so what we're going to do is pretend everything is fine and I know enough material science to pull this research off.

Fundamentally, after the Epiphany I had last night, we're throwing out leaching. Leaching can be problem #3. Nobody has compared the two because the fucking equipment is so dissimilar it's a sample problem not a fucking research problem. I don't have the manpower to tackle it this summer and likely will not until next spring.

Chalcopyrite is a semiconductor. Fundamentally, mineralogically and structurally speaking, it is a semiconductor. For pure chalcopyrite, we get pretty accurate numbers on the nano scale of .55 eV and specific structural alignments.

However, when we treat chalcopyrite like a material, it's 1) very finnicky to make due to the sulfide system being notoriously reactive and stupid. 2) Material scientists do research by only adding one element at a time. (Usually to see how the material would perform in a solar panel situation.) 3) Comparisons to material science are unanalogous because natural systems throw a gross variety of ion substitutions into the structure.

Theoretically, we could calculate via how much of each ion, what it all evens out to be? There might or might not be math to do that. Material scientists are cracked.

Or we could just test a bunch of natural chalcopyrite while identifying the wt% of trace elements and see how that compares to resistivity/mobility ratios.

Additionally, I think grain size has a lot to do with the numbers we're seeing- moreso than the numbers themselves. A swath of chalcopyrite >1cm^2 will leach because it has adequate conductivity between grains, but disseminated chalcopyrite grains will not. This would explain the variability of Ferric/Ferrous ratios that give "adequate" leaching results.

While this comparison of chalcopyrite trace element resistivity/mobility values is important in its own right, given the lack of attention in the literature; scaling lab results onto a minesite show attention should be given to grain size and ore distribution within the rock itself if we hope to leach copper economically.