#it was gonna be black-on-white anyway so i can handle it

[bridgeandtunnelblues]

LOOK WHO FORGOT TO MIRROR HIS CUT...

...2½ HOURS IN

[lovebugism]

eddie fucking you in the back of his van whilst it’s raining😫

hope you like it lovie!! — after a series of ruined date nights, eddie makes up for another failure the only way he knows how (established relationship, smut 18+, 1.4k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie was gonna take you out, come hell or high water — literally.

It was like the universe was conjuring up ways to keep you apart. He tries to plan a date night with you, and suddenly you have to pick up your coworker’s extra shift and the brakes in his van don’t work anymore.

He takes you to a drive-in to see some black-and-white horror movie, and for the first time in weeks, things are actually looking pretty good. With some candy he brought from home, the two of you settle under the covers in the back of his van, lazing against one another as the projector flickers on.

And then it just starts fucking pouring.

It’s like he blinks and the whole thing gets canceled and the entire parking lot is empty.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he grumbles under his breath, not unlike the black storm clouds rolling overhead.

You giggle at his dramatics. The heavenly sound melts with the wild cadence of rain, tapping rhythmically against the rusted tin roof of the van. 

You’re still being a good sport about the whole thing despite the circumstances. You don’t care what you’re doing, really. You’re happy just doing nothing with Eddie. 

“They refunded us for next week. We can just come back Saturday.”

“I wanted to do it this Saturday,” he whines, all boyishly angry. With his arms crossed over his chest, he leans his head back and bares his milky white neck. “This was supposed to be our night together— why does everything have to get so fucked all the time?”

“It’s not like everything’s totally ruined,” you assure him, practically cooing as you smooth out the frown between his brows with your thumb. “At least we’re together. Who cares about the rest of it?”

“I know, but… You were really excited about it. And I was really excited to watch you watch the movie.”

Eddie tries to be serious, but he’s grinning the second he makes you laugh.

“Shut up…”

“I mean it,” he tells you, serious and quiet with it. His cheek squishes against his shoulder when he pouts at you. “I think I might be heartbroken, babe.”

You know what he’s playing at. You lean into it, anyway.

“Yeah?” you hum with narrowed eyes.

He nods.

“Want me to make it better?”

“Please?”

You close the short distance between you to press a kiss to his mouth. It’s the chastest little peck — you’re practically gone the second you’re there. Eddie chases you when you pull away, tasting of nicotine and pink starbursts when he kisses you deeper.

You get lost in him like it’s nothing, sighing when his soft tongue juts gently against your own. He’s sucking softly at your bottom lip one second, and the next, you’re lying on a pile of fuzzy blankets.

His rings and cold knuckles brush your sides when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for its removal. You come to then, pulling back from him with a low click sounding between your kissed mouths.

“Wait…”

“What?” he wonders, lips rosy and swollen. His deep, chocolate eyes dart between both of yours, looking for any sign that something might be wrong.

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“No— Everyone already left.”

He’s breathless from having been kissed so ardently. He leans down for more anyway. His stomach twists with rejection when you press against his shoulders to stop him.

With a sigh, he concedes and rises off of you again. His shirt is wrinkled and skewed around his neck from your passionate touches. Still on his knees, he reaches for the metal handle of the back door and shouts into the roaring rain — “Hello? Anyone out here?”

“Eddie!” you shout, giggling and jerking backward when rogue droplets sprinkle inside.

The van shakes when he slams the door shut again.

“See?” he lilts with a lopsided grin. “No one.”

You shake your head at him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“You love me, though,” he mutters as he settles back over you. The weight of his body is warm against your own. With your hands on his sides, you pull him somehow closer.

“Unfortunately…” you gripe, kissing the breath from his lungs a second later.

When he reaches for the hem of your shirt again, you let him take it off.

—————

The thundering rain against the roof almost drowns out your gentle moans. Eddie’s glad you’re breathing them right into his ear, so he can hear everything he’s doing to you. 

His thrusts are slow and measured. Almost painfully unrushed. He shushes your begging to go faster — “Just let me make you feel good,” he mutters, slurred and low, “Let me hit that spot.” He pierces you with his cock, tilting his hips to hit deep inside you until you make a pretty noise for him, then he creeps back out again.

He never pulls all the way out, though, ‘cause he might die if he left the warm velvet you are around him. He keeps his pelvis pressed intently against your own, the coarse hair at the base of his cock steady on your pussy. The pressure against your clit is merciless.

“Put your legs around me, baby,” he mumbles against your mouth because he knows the different angle will make it better for you. 

He almost smirks when you obey him without thinking, but his mouth parts with an unexpected moan before he can. You pull your knees back and tuck your ankles around his waist, heels pressing gently above his ass. 

Your cunt widens and suckles him further in.

Eddie grumbles a hearty, poorly muffled moan into your neck.

“There you go— just like that,” he praises. “Doing so good for me, pretty. Always so good for me.”

You whine again, high and light, like the praise is equally as pleasurable as his cock.

His metal chain glides between your breasts when he pulls back from you. He tucks his ringed fingers into your waist and sits back on his haunches, balls resting warm and wet against your ass. He keeps rocking into you, unhurried.

“What happened to that mouth you had before, huh?” Eddie wonders, still breathless.

He smirks when you moan in response. He knows you don’t have the words to answer him. He knows he’s fucked you far too stupid.

“Thought I was incorrigible, remember? What happened to that?”

Your mouth parts in a silent whimper, back arching and brows pinching when his cock hits deeper than you think he’s ever been. The pleasure feels borderline electric — makes your spine tingle and your legs go numb.

“Yeah… For someone who loves mouthing off—” Eddie continues to tease despite his breathlessness. You clench around him, and he has to remember to exhale. “—You open up so easily for me. Don’t ya, honey?” 

You wanna say something. You think you almost do. But his thrusts are as merciless as they are slow. He presses impossibly deep within you and keeps hitting that spot until you tremble. The words get caught in your throat, along with a silent moan.

“That’s okay, honey. Just let me fuck you. Let me make you feel good,” Eddie slurs, mumbling like he’s talking to himself. “Go dumb for me like you always do. So perfect at that— god.”

He tilts his head back to howl a groan. Through fluttering lashes and a blurry vision, you see his clenched jaw and taut neck and heaving chest. 

Eddie always talks a big game when he gets you all sweet and pliable underneath him. He loves to be dominant while he tears you apart, but as his own orgasm crawls up his spine, his true colors start to show.

He leans back over you again, caging you beneath his warm weight. He stops hiding his pathetic whines and whimpers and instead buries them into your sweat-slick shoulder. He babbles in your ear, a bunch of garbled nothingness because words are starting to lose meaning.

“Fuck, honey. Oh, fuck— you’re so fucking— shit. You’re so goddamn pretty, baby, you know that? So good for me. So soft, too. Shit. This pussy’s gonna kill me.”

He tucks his face into your neck and tries to kiss you through his whines. His ringed fingers crawl behind your back, holding you like his life depends on it while his measured thrusts grow rapid and sloppy. 

Eddie begs you to cum, or rather demands it because he can feel himself about to explode. “Cum— Cum for me— right fucking now.”

You do. You’ve been hanging by a thread the whole time, really. And like you expected, Eddie’s not too far behind you. Your unabashed moans entwine, mixing with the wild cadence of the rain against the tin roof of the rocking van.

[dduane]

From the Writing Advice dep't: A complicated ask, a serial answer (part 1)

Every now and then I get an ask in the box that's complex enough that it has to be taken apart and answered in pieces. Also, sometimes I get queries in that are painful enough (in varying ways) that I elect not to attribute them when answering. This one is both.

I read the ask (and reread it, and rereread it, four or five or six times after it came in, and a bunch more times while I was on my back this week being sick), and gradually came to realize that for it to be properly handled I had no choice but to break it into pieces for best management.

There are three main strands to the issues this ask brings up: motivation, growth as a writer, and coping with or succeeding despite the current state of the publishing industry.

So let's dig in. Here's the first part of the ask:

I know there's no One True Path, but I'm struggling with this, and I'm sure others are too, so I'll just ask it. I want to make a career out of writing, but with shrinking attention spans and so much content to mindlessly consume, how do you keep the motivation to write? My friends get mad at me for getting discouraged when not even they read my writing. They get mad and say, "write for yourself, not for the validation!"

Welp. (sigh)

First of all, I think your friends are absolutely right. But we'll come back to that.

You have to understand that as far as the Search for Motivation goes, I'm probably Spiders DD, the outlier who seriously should not have been counted. I have been motivated to write stuff pretty much nonstop since I was eight, and did my first novel in crayon in a school notebook. (It was one of the thick notebooks. The ones with the black and white marbled covers. Most of you who come of US schools know the kind.)

So I'm really the wrong person to be asking about this, especially since it's now nearly the Year of our (Wood!) Dragon 4722, which would make me nearly, uh, six Years of the Dragon old. And being of such age, and a career midlist genre writer, I have the same source of motivation as the vast majority of my similarly-aged colleagues: the need to write or starve. (There's an Irish saying perfectly descriptive of my situation: "Too old to dig ditches and too scared to rob banks." That's my situation exactly. There's nothing left for me to do but to write.) :)

...Anyway, it's kind of amazing how that kind of motivation'll focus your intention, and help you keep it in place, once you're been working with it for a while.

At the beginning of a career, though, things can look a lot different as you start getting a handle on exactly what it is you like to write and why you like writing it. And having another job to keep you afloat while you find your way is seriously a very good idea if you can manage it.

It sounds very much to me as if you're still in the early "finding your way" stages. This is a place that a lot of writers pass through, so don't be concerned. It's rare for sudden perfect motivation-to-write to crystallize out of nothing. And never forget, the word itself is based on old Latin roots for movement, and provokes the question, "Yeah, okay, but which way?" Movement without intended direction tends to turn into a lot of unfocused flailing, which looks good on Kermit, but not so much on the rest of us.

(inserting a cut here, because honestly, this is gonna go on a bit)

So you need to sit down and start asking questions—and answering them—so you can draw some kind of map. "I want to make a career out of writing"? Fine. What kind of writing? Fiction? Nonfiction? If fiction, what kind? What do you like to read? Why? Is that something you'd like to write? Why? Why not? If there's something else you'd rather be writing—what else? And why?

The more you ask the questions and answer them—"Keep asking the next question," Ted Sturgeon never used to stop saying—and the further along your investigations get, the more likely you are (as you get close to the answers that matter) to start getting the itch to write something, something in particular. This process may take a while, and the itch may take a good while to manifest. Don't be alarmed by that. The old saying is that the fire from Heaven won't descend until you've built the altar for it. And it may take a while piling the rocks up into the right shape. Don't hurry. If this is something you intend to spend a lifetime on, make sure the foundations are sound. The time taken will be worth it.

And BTW, do you intend that kind of length of commitment? If you're not sure, that's fine. But there's no one else to ask at this point who can give you meaningful answers. This is the time to get into it. Work out what "having a career in writing" looks like for you. Then start investigating to see whether your conception has any foundation in reality as a kind of lifestyle you actually have decent odds on achieving. (Again, I'm an outlier here. I'd been writing for pleasure for a long time before I had the good fortune to befriend an actual career writer, examine his habits [and those of other writers in the LA area] at close range, and realize that this line-of-work choice was actually something that could be successfully pulled off by mere mortals.) After investigation, this is a call that only you can make.

But anyway. Once you've started experiencing the kind of motivation that comes of increased certainty about what you want to do and why, you'll find you're way less concerned about sourcing or supporting it externally. It tends to fuel itself. (As once it does descend, the fire from Heaven is tenacious stuff: more Greek than otherwise.)

But also: trying to designate outsourced exterior stimulants for motivation is a bad idea. The reason's simple: one day you'll need them and they won't be there. Conditions will have changed, or the outside-of-you sources into the hands of which you've resigned your motivational agency may not be available for one reason or another, temporarily or permanently... and then where are you? The concept's a nonstarter. If your motivation's acting up, you need to be looking inward, not outward, for ways to kickstart it. This is one of the most personal parts of the writing process. You need to own it.

(And yeah, even career writers' motivation slips sometimes: annoying career things happen, cyclic lows cut in at a bad time, you name it. Most of us work out ways to jar the motivation back into correct operation when it acts up. But for such corrections to work you must first know what it's like to generate or mine yours yourself... and you're still working on that. The methods you find to generate motivation toward doing the Work will also assist you in diagnosing it when it goes south, and putting it right again.)

Also: (sighing) Please let your friends off the hook as regards reading your material, and feedback. Your motivation to write should not be dependent on their feedback, and it's not a good idea to try to make friends feel responsible for keeping you on the creative track. Chief among reasons for this: they may not feel themselves up to the task of giving you the writing support you're apparently asking them for—possibly because they simply don't feel competent to. (This is where we could get into how I had to stop @petermorwood from rewriting his third novel for the third time due to conflicting notes from friends... but let's leave that for later.) At best you're possibly making your friends deeply uncomfortable. At worst, the pressure may damage the friendships.

Tl:dr; our friends may love us dearly, but that doesn't make them competent editors. If you're online, so are many writers' groups who'll welcome a new member who needs advice. Wait till you've got more data and clarity on your motivational issues, and then start shopping around for assistance that seems friendly and trustworthy.

And finally (for the moment), about other people's attention spans:

It'd be good if you can start training yourself away from the habit of worrying about those. For one thing, there's absolutely nothing you can do about them. You might as well worry about the 11-year sunspot cycle. The attention-span issue is just one more distraction from things you should usefully be thinking about. But also: A lot of what we hear about that situation strikes me as fearmongering (as, IIRC, it was supposed to cause the downfall of western civilization around the time I started writing for Scooby-Doo).

If you look around, you'll see that loads of people are willing to spend HUGE amounts of their attention on stuff they love. (I mean, have you been on AO3 lately? And we're just talking about free stuff, there. Lots of other people will do the same for traditionally published work, given the chance and the money.) Your job is to get on with writing, start putting what you're doing out there where people will have a chance to fall in love with it, and then deal with the consequences.

More of this next time. (And please bear with me, as I'm still not up to best operating speed after the last week's illness. I'll get to everything else you sent me, I promise.)

HTH!

[kelppsstuff]

So like what if Adam didn't die and lute managed to come out of the battle WITH an arm?

I want both of them to suffer a little so hear me out

What if our dear reader is an exorcist? So of course she's an angel!

What'll their reaction be if the two witnessed their dear close friend, the sweetest angel and friend they had the fortune to meet in their long lives, sacrifice herself so that the two of them would go back safely? (Forcing herself to go beyond her limits, healing all of their wounds and even opening a portal back to heaven just for the two of them.)

+ the fact that they're both horrible people and the only person who cared for both of them, tended their wounds, always there to back them both up, is now gone?

Angst is calling for me to make the two of them suffer a lil

Omg yes! This is such a good idea! I love making characters suffer! ALSO I do every request so don’t be afraid to send them! And it may take me some time to get to them, but I shall get to them. Sorry it took so long hope you enjoy! By far the favorite thing I’ve ever wrote. Like legit made me cry.

“I’m so fucking sorry!”

Part One| Part Two

Masterlist

Warning: death, angst, cursing

Summery: Adam and Lute watch you die, the only person they loved

—

“Are you guys sure about this? I mean what if her father shows up?” You spoke to the two exterminator angels.

They both looked to you simultaneously and there eyes softened on your worried form. Lute was the first to speak up to ease your worries. “It’s gonna be okay. Lucifer was the one who let us do this yearly anyways.” You nodded your head. She was right but you still worried.

“Don’t worry about it, hot stuff. If he shows up I can handle him.” Adam spoke ever so confidently. “Promise?” You were so afraid for them. Adam walked over and gave you a hug, kissing the top of your head. “Promise.” You reached out for Lute, wanting her to join the hug as well.

As she joined the hug you spoke from between their chest. “After the battle let’s all go and have a beach day.” The two angels laughed and agreed.

—

You hurried to Lute as you so saw her rip her arm off. You never flew so fast in your life. When you got to her you stopped her from flying after Vaggie. “We have to help Adam!” She spoke frantically.

“And I will. You need to sit down and let me help you first.” You sat her on the ground and placed your hands over where her arm should be.

A white glowing light came from your hands as you focused on rebuilding her arm. You started to feel dizzy as blood pooled in your moth. You could see black spots but when you were down Lutes arm had been good as new. You would t even know it’s been severed if not for her uniform sleeve. You two went to stand but the ground rumbled. You looked up and saw a golden light. Adams golden light came down in the middle of the hotel.

You quickly threw Lute away from the beam and got hit instead. A cut was in your shoulder. In went clean through. Your arm was fucking toasted from the severed nerves. You finally blacked out.

—

“Welcome to heaven.” Saint Peter spoke as you arrived at the golden gates. Though you weren’t interested in him, more so the man beside him talking to another female. “Then when the concert was over a BUNCH of girl came to the back to meet me. It was awesome.” The man spoke. You quickly intruded the conversation. “You play in a band?”

The man is what seemed like a mask turned to look at you, while sipping his drink loudly. “Sure am babe! Your looking at the first man!” Your eyes widened, but not because he was first man. “What part in the band do you play.”

You showed no interest in him being the first man. Normally that would piss him off but this time he didn’t care. “Guitarist.” Your smile widened.

You looked to the girl, clearly wanting her to joking the conversation as well. “Are you apart of the band?!” You were so excited and nice. It felt refreshing for Lute. “No.” Her voice sounded cold, though talking to you sparked a warmth inside her. “I’m Y/N.”

Lute smiled and extended her hand. “Lute.” You started to excitedly shake her hand. Happy to make a new friend.

Adam wrapped his arm around you both. “I’m Adam.” Well two new friends.

—

“You guys what?!” You asked, eyes wide at what just came out of Adams mouth. It was a slip up on Adams part. They had just gotten done with the extermination and Adam was use to telling you everything. So he may have slipped up and started talking about the extermination.

“Listen babe. It has to be done.” Adam was worried. Worried that you would get kicked out of heaven if Sera found out you knew.

Lute was the one who explained the whole situation. How the sinners were up-rising. How it needed to be done to protect heaven.

To both Adam and Lutes surprise you understood. It made them happy that you were accepting of it. For the first time they truly felt like someone wouldn’t leave. Sure they had each other before this but there friendly relationship really started from you being there glue.

“Okay babe but now that you know you have to become an exterminator like us.”

That made you nervous but Adam and Lute always stayed with you during it. They also didn’t expect you to kill anyone. All you needed to do was wear the uniform one day a year.

—

You stared at the papers that needed to be done. Since you didn’t kill the demons you demanded to do Adams paperwork.

You slowly blinked. You were tired but you had an hour to finish this and give it to Sera.

A coffee was placed right in front of you. You looked up and saw Lute. You smiled at her and grabbed the coffee. You also grabbed her hand and gave her a friendly kiss on the lips.

It was something you two had started doing recently. A way to give each-other the attention you craved.

Just as that had happened Adam walked through the door. His eyes widened. You were quick to explain it was platonic before he could assume anything. One he understood what happened he demanded you start doing that with him. He demanded the same thing from Lute as well.

As time went on many people believed you were in a poly relationship. But y’all were platonic friends who did romantic things sometimes.

Sure y’all all had sex together quite a bit, but no one ever felt any romantic feelings. It was all friendly and it felt natural.

—

You groaned awake at the sound of Adam shouting. “All of man-kind came from these nuts!” You opened your eyes to see Lute staring down at you, panic in her eyes. You smiled at her. Though your moment was cut short at the sound of Adam gasping. You looked over to him and saw a little maid stabbing him. You and Lute shouted Adams name as your hurried to fly to him. Fuck.

“Adam look at me your going to be fine.” You spoke your tone in confidence despite the tears running down your face. He smiled at his two girls looking over him.

He may have lost two wives, but he gained two best friends he would never replace for a damn thing.

You started to heal his wound with your hand like you did Lutes arm. You could feel pain all throughout your body as you pushed your limits. Your eyes started bleeding as did your nose.

Lute was conflicted as she watched you. She knew you needed rest but she didn’t want Adam to die. All you had to do was save Adam she would get you to a hospital.

But you weren’t making it back.

As Adam eyes opened he felt better than the first day he was made. He looked to Y/N and she smiled at him. Happy he was okay. He went to talk but she fell to his side. Her breath shallow. He hurriedly got up and looked her up and down. At that moment the portal closed and all the angels were gone beside him, you and Lute.

“Fuck babe look at me.” Your eyes were distant but you focused back in on him. Your Adam. Your apple.

“I love you, Apple. I love you too, wild girl.” You said to them both. Making them cry harder. “I love you too. More than anything.” They both said to her simultaneously. You closed your eyes and a portal opened.

“Fuck!” Lute shouted. She knew you weren’t going to make it.

“I’m so fucking sorry!” He spoke loudly as your eyes started to flutter closed. “It’s okay. Be happy. And go have that beach day.” Lute sobbed in her hand as she fell to the ground.

Adam gripped to you harder his tears falling to your chest as he cried silently. He couldn’t shout anymore. “Come back to us.” He whispered. You didn’t complete his wish. The one time you didn’t give him what he wished for.

Your breathing stopped and your halo fell. “I’m sorry baby.” Adam cooed in your ear, as he started to rock the two of you. Begging for god to give him back the one of the two woman he ever loved. You and Lute.

He looked to the sky. “You cruel manipulative bastard! Was a good person. I thought god was supposed to be merciful.” Lucifer watched as the first man shared the same rage he once had with god. “I have never asked for anything! I didn’t ask for Lilith. I didn’t ask for Eve! All I ask is to bring Y/N back to us.” But god did not respond. Leaving Adam to turn his rage to the group watch.

“I will kill you all!” He shouted, the tears coming from his eyes seeming endless. “I will have my vengeance.”

He picked you up as Lute grabbed your halo. The two walked through the portal.

They did have that beach day, but it was your funeral. Where your body was buried where no one could find. Only him and Lute. The two hugged each other as they both lost the person they loved most.

—

OMG I HAVE NEVER CRIED WHILE WRITING SOMETHING UNTIL THIS DAY! But I hoped you enjoyed! And I do take requests so please send away!

- kelp 💛 (someone help I’m dying from heartache)

Taglist

[hrryshoney]

you’re asking me my symptoms, doctor

gynecologist!matty healy x reader

A/N: hii here’s beloved gyno!au. title is reference to Escapism by Raye lol. i’ll put warnings but def don’t read if this is gonna make u uncomfy. anyways this really came to me in a prophetic vision (slut hour daydreams) so i hope u enjoy and it lives up to expectations? and Shouts to everyone who i bounced ideas w and talked abt this Man w! ty ily mwah mwah

warnings: smut 18+, fingering, inappropriate actions in a doctors office, a bit of corruption maybe hmm idk, degradation, praise, taboo topics/power imbalance (doctor/patient), use of Y/N, dom and sub dynamics, problematic age gap maybe (reader is 22/23, matty is 29/30), dirty talk, etc..

You were sitting nervously on the exam table, leg bouncing up and down. Doctor’s offices always unnerved you, to say the least. The unnatural fluorescent lights with their buzzing, the cold chill, and sterile smell.

Today, though, you had to book your gynecologist appointment. Now, you’ve been to one gyno before, a woman whose practice was nice and small before you moved cities. Going into your third year of University, you wanted a change in scenery. Now, your gyno would be a man.

A kind woman with dark hair had just come into your room after knocking twice, giving you a hospital gown and a warm smile. Telling you to undress to your underwear and bra. That you should, “Sit tight! The doctor will be in soon.”

So, here you were. On the examination bed, awaiting your doctor eagerly. When you heard a similar knock on the door, but an imperceptibly firmer one, your head shot up. “Come in,” you cleared your throat and called out.

When the handle turned and your aforementioned Doctor walked in, you felt deceived. Deceived in the best way, though, because your Doctor was hot.

He was wearing a white coat, one with a silver tag that read MATTY, his medical badges hanging from the plate. With his glasses and the lightest dusting of gray through his black, curly hair. He couldn’t have been younger than his late 20s, if older than his early 30s. And as he reached out to grab the clipboard off the counter, you were able to see the smallest bit of black ink on his wrist.

He looked down at his documents, squinting slightly. He then set it back on the counter, walking about the room and getting some hand sanitizer from the dispenser. Your eyes are drawn to his hands immediately. When he clears his throat, you come to.

“Good afternoon, love. Y/N, correct? I see it says here you’ve only been to the gynecologist once before, and it was a female doctor,” you nod along to his words, watching him take a seat and hold eye contact with you. “Just wanted to let you know, you shouldn’t be worried. Just typical stuff today, alright?” You nod again, feeling smaller now. Even when he’s sat on his stool, he feels bigger than you.

“Gonna need your words, Y/N.” You can’t tell if he’s joking, even if you see the smirk on his face. Shifting in your seat, your gown ruffling below you, you manage a, “Yes, Doctor.” Through your dry mouth.

“Ah, almost forgot to introduce myself properly.” He laughs, but you swore you saw his eyes darken for a swift second. “I’m Doctor Healy, but you can call me Matty if you feel so inclined.” He grinned, and you felt like his words had a double meaning past the surface.

“You’re here for a routine checkup, I take it?” Moving over to the sink, pumping soap on his hands and running the water. “Lay back for me.” He instructed you as he washed, back turned. You listened without second thought, body going stiff.

You heard the tap turn off, Matty was drying his hands with paper towel now. He walked over to the table, standing above you and looking down. “If you don’t mind, can I ask you some questions before we begin?”

You began to nod, but remembered your reaction from earlier. Giving him another “Yes, Doctor.” he smiled easily. “Great… Now, are you sexually active?”

If you thought you were tense before, then you were like a board now. “Um, no.” You let your eyes flutter shut as you felt your skin heating, feeling terribly bare.

“Right, have you been? In the past?” was this a normal question to ask? Of course, they’d want to know of your bodily health. But of your… sexual activity as well? For you, though, there was nothing to report. Seeing as you were a virgin, which meant no sexual experiences other than yourself.

“Um, sorry, what are these questions for?” You couldn’t stop yourself from nervously laughing, your deflection of an answer hanging in the examination room.

Matty’s eyes dragged along your frame, going from your lips and then back to your eyes. You almost missed the beginning of his sentence when he spoke up. “All protocol, of course. It’s slightly awkward, but I’m obligated to ask. So?”

“So, no. I.. have not been in the past, or like, ever.” And you wanted to melt into the floor. Surely you would have to switch doctors after this again. Too embarrassing of a feat to face.

Another look and pause that goes on for much too long. Your stomach was starting to hurt. Well, maybe not hurt, but you needed to fix it and quick. When Matty claps and rubs his hands together, it snaps you out of it. “Interesting. Well, then, let’s begin.”

You noted that his pupils were huge behind the glasses, and his black slacks hugged his crotch very well. Did they look like that when he came in? You shifted again, trying to rub your thighs for some friction.

“Can I touch you?” His accented voice was deep and gravelly now. Leaving not much to the imagination of how this phrase might sound in a different situation coming from his mouth. His mouth, pink lips that he couldn’t stop licking, and slight stubble on his chin.

“Yes, Doctor Healy.” Your voice sounded submissive enough, and you almost yelped when his hand came down to grab your gown covered thigh. Roughly drawing circles with his thumbs into the spot. “Good girl. You’re tense.”

You shivered, eyes closing and opening again. The silence in the room felt so loud, and your doctor’s appointment was feeling a bit too erotic for what it was at this point. “I- I don’t know why I am.” Lie.

“Need you to relax for me, sweetheart.” His cold hands rub up and down your thighs. He’s making eye contact with you, causing you to cast your eyes to the ceiling. “Wanna put your legs in the stirrups?”

“Would that help, Doctor Healy?” You hear the sharp inhale of breath, followed by a cough. Trying not to lift your hips off the examination table from his constant skin to skin contact.

“It would, thank you.” He moves to grab your legs, setting them on the edge of the platform. His grip feels rougher than acceptable, fingertips leaving indents on your thighs. He reaches under your gown, looking at you for your nod and slipping your panties off. “May I start?”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you.” And when you feel his fingers run down your slit, you don’t think it’s protocol. You were already embarrassingly wet from the interaction. As his hands move and brush your clit, you can’t hold back the moan. When you open your eyes, you’re met with Matty peering at you over his glasses, an amused smirk barely peeking through his expression.

“Oh, that’s no good, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, faux disapprovingly. His thumb comes back to press on your clit. “You’re so wet. What’s that from, huh?” He took his middle and ring finger, circling around your hole.

“It’s- You! You’re doing it, it’s your fault.” You cry out in pleasure and frustration. He was so condescending, but it felt so good. You know you needed to be more conscious of your volume, still being in a doctor’s office.

“My fault?” He almost gasped in surprise, “Oh, no. I don’t think so. I’m just trying to do my job, make sure everything’s okay down here.” Maneuvering his hand, he gave you two quick but firm taps on your clit with his middle and index finger. “Can you remove your gown for me?”

“Is this protocol, Doctor Healy?” You asked, half genuinely curious to see his answer. Moving to lift your bum, untying the gown from behind your back. Your legs were slightly shaking, and you saw his hand go to cover the smile that graced his mouth. You moved both your shoulders out of the arm holes, discarding the gown to the side. Leaving you in just your simple black bra, that had simple lace trimming.

“‘Course, making sure you’re in shape, and all.” His eyes dragged down your frame, stopping at your breasts. He was taking in your figure now, so you had the time to do the same. Your eyes immediately pulled to the now prominent bulge in his pants, and his fingers that seemed to twitch in anticipation.

“Do I appear to be in shape, then? Good for you?” Unbeknownst to you, what you had just said lit even more of a flame inside of Matty. You were asking him if you were good for him? He could show you what a good little slut he could make you.

He lets his hands rest between the apex of your thighs again, “Gonna spread you open a bit, okay? Think this’ll loosen you up for me.” Matty’s long fingers make their way to your cunt, running them up and down. He slides them down to your hole, collecting the wetness there and spreading it up to your clit.

His other hand came up to unclip your bra from behind your back. He did this expertly with one hand, leaving it to fall so he could grab at your breast. Palming at it for a while before pinching your nipple. You let out a whimper, and he gave you a soft slap on the side of your chest. He grabbed it roughly again, evening it out and applying more pressure to your clit as he did.

Your hand came to cover your mouth, not wanting to let your moans out. A soft, “Doctor,” fell from your lips, causing him to slip one finger inside of you. You couldn’t hold back, then. “Please, yes!”

Matty is running the tip his finger lightly along the inside of you, and it’s not enough. You begin to whine, but he cuts it off quickly. “Gotta relax or I won’t be able to run my tests. You don’t want that, do you?” His smirk is enough to make you want to slap it off him. Though, your whole body goes slack when he pushes his whole finger inside of you.

You’re moaning freely now, seeming to have forgotten that you’re still in a professional establishment. You were relentless, the pleasure he was giving you was too much in the best way. “Doctor- Matty. Please, need it.”

Matt’s pupils dilated, if it was possible for them to get larger. “Say my name again for me.” He groaned out, rocking his hips into the side of the table to relieve some tension. “Matty. Matty! Need you, please.” You obliged easily, drunken off the feeling. Matty pressed a second finger into your pussy.

“Poor thing. Never had anyone in this little hole before, huh? Perfect little cunt is so tight for me, were you saving yourself?” You think your reactions have gotten to his head, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your head was nodding in response to his words, eyes rolling back to your head.

You could feel pressure building in your stomach, the sound of his voice was getting to you. “Mhm. Doctor, think I’m gonna cum. Please, can I?” His hand sped up after hearing your words, thumb pressing on your clit. You could feel yourself dripping down your thighs, on to the protective cover of the exam table.

Your hips began to lift off the surface again, before Matty’s unoccupied hand came to press down on your abdomen again. “Feels that good, darling? Can’t even stay still for me.” You opened your eyes to look at him, gaze falling to how his hand lifted off of you and went to palm himself. “Come on, be my good little slut and cum for me.”

Ultimately, that was what did you in. You gasped loud enough for the whole office to hear, eyes clamping shut. You saw white behind your eyelids and your hips lifted freely off the table this time. Matty’s fingers coming out of you, rubbing your clit through your orgasm. You heard Matty moan in the back, making out a “fuck me, that’s good. You’re beautiful,” coming from his mouth.

As you came down from it, you opened your eyes to see him licking both of his fingers. “Taste sweet, gonna have to get my mouth on you next time.” He said nonchalantly, still looking down at your pussy. You tried to take your hands and put them in front of it, feeling shy all the sudden.

“Little late for that after I made you cum.” He giggled, going to get a towel from the cabinet above the sink. “Lemme clean you up.” You flustered but agreed in the end. When he came back with the towel, he leaned down to kiss you. You reciprocated easily, jumping when the towel came in contact with your skin.

“Thank you for.. that. For the appointment, Doctor.” You giggled, his head snapping up and eyes narrowing. You raised your hands in faux defence, the smile staying on your face. He smiled with you.

“Came so nicely for me, think I should be the one saying thanks.” He gave you another smirk, getting your panties from the side when they had been discarded. He tapped your thigh, signaling for you to put your legs through. Doing the same with your bra, he then helped you off the examination table.

“Seriously, you were really good. You know, for my first time.”

“Would barely call that a first time, I’ll give you that another time though.” He winked, turning around to look for your other clothes. Your jaw dropped, but you recollected yourself before he turned back to see.

“Right well. Thank you..” You said awkwardly, looking down at your feet. Where were you supposed to go from here? You just got fingered by your gynecologist in his public doctor’s office. You would have to reflect on this when you got home.

“Not an issue, really.” Matty sidestepped you to get to one of the cabinets behind you, slapping your ass as he did. Tease. He was being much too normal about this.

“I mean, what kind of doctor would I be if I left you unsatisfied with your appointment?”

[thedvilsinthedetails]

rosekiller band au microfic pt2

yayyy part 2 is here! (Again if there’s any typos lmk ty)

(also yeah I changed their ages slightly, the skittles r now 23 not 25 what r u gonna do about it?)

anywayssss here’s the ppl that asked to be tagged/said they wanted more so im tagging them anyway (sorry if u didn’t want that): @always-reading @lady-stardust-incarnate @lulublack90 @idk-what-to-put-here-123 @weirdtinkerbellversion @depressedtheatrekiddo @blu3stars @nikholascrow @good-oldfashioned-lover-girl @picklerab23

(As always if u wanna be tagged or not tagged pls lmk I won’t mind at all <3)

Link to Part One

Link to Next Part

***

Evan woke up the next morning to the harsh bleep of his phone that always managed to elicit pure terror in his body. He groaned and rolled out of bed. He’d forgotten to turn off the alarm and of course he was awake at six in the fucking morning on a Saturday.

He threw on a dressing gown over his tank top and plaid pyjama bottoms, slipped into his fluffy slippers and trudged to the kitchen for some coffee.

Once he got to the kitchen he saw Dorcas was already sat at the little island she passed him a warm cup of coffee as soon as he sat down. Dorcas had always been the earliest riser of the band, always eager to get ready quickly and get the hell out of the house, he supposed that’s what growing up as the eldest sister to four brothers did to you. 

“Heard your alarm go off, figured you’d forgot to turn it off.”

“Dorcas you lifesaver. And I mean seriously a lifesaver, I might have murdered someone without this coffee.”

Dorcas laughed.

“Who?”

Evan rubbed his eyes.

“Barty probably. He’s fucking annoying.”

“Any excuse to get up close to him then more like.”

Evan’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes.

“Please you’re shit at hiding it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout Cas.”

Evan mumbled, taking a long drink from his mug. 

“Please, save the crap. If you don’t have a crush on him, why do you get so worked up by people calling you a couple. It consumes your every waking thought, now why is that? Tell me.”

“Ughhh I don’t want to think about it.”

He groaned and stared into the brown murky depths of the mug he was cradling close to him.

Dorcas softened.

“Look, Marls and Barty are really close, our next tour stop is London which means she’ll obviously drop by rehearsals. I can get her to ask him if he-“

“He doesn’t.”

Evan ran his thumb over a tiny chip in the ceramic. It was a mug Barty had painted around four years ago, Dora had decided for her sixteenth she wanted to go to a pottery painting place like when they were little. Barty was- honestly pretty shit at painting. The background was covered in vast uneven strokes of black. He’d tried to paint a white ferret on it - ‘Ev this one is for you, if you were any animal I’d say you’d be a ferret.’ - thing is it looked more like a snake with legs that was also, well, a zombie. It was Evan’s most prized possession. He’d be taking it to the grave. He turned it to look inside the handle. Barty had been too lazy to paint that part so instead he’d just written crudely with the brush - ‘B + E forever bitches!’. His eyes crinkled fondly as he read it. 

“I just need to get over it.”

His expression hardened and he looked up at Dorcas again.

“Get over what?”

They both turned to find Barty in the doorway. His hair was sticking up in all directions. Fuzzy spikes of green and black. He stretched his arms all the way up as he yawned, flexing his wrist so his ‘SKITTLES’ tattoo was on full display. He had one of Evan’s jumpers on over his pyjama top. Evan really wanted to reach out and hold. Why’d he have to go and look so soft? Wasn’t fucking fair. 

“Nothing Jr.”

Barty nodded in response as he padded over and sat himself in the chair next to Evan.

“Why’re you even awake?”

Dorcas asked.

Barty dropped his head down onto the island counter dramatically.

“Forgot to turn off my alarm.”

Dorcas laughed out loud, fully threw her head back and everything.

“Two birds of a fucking stupid feather you two are.”

She got up and put her mug in the sink before heading out of the kitchen. Barty turned his head up to look at Evan as soon as she was gone.

“You don’t have to tell me anything Evan, but if you want to you can. You know that right?”

Barty lifted his head and propped it up on his hand as Evan nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah I know Barty.”

“Good.”

Barty shuffled his chair closer before dropping his head onto Evan’s shoulder and falling quiet. It was instinctual, the way Evan brought his arms up around him. After a few moments he looked down though, Barty was suspiciously silent.

“Bee?”

He whispered.

“M’awake. You’re just comfy Ev. You’re really good at hugs.”

Might be ‘cause I was built to hold you.

Damn that’s a fucking stupid thing to say. Fuck I’ve turned into Reg whenever he’s around James.

Yeah Evan needed to get over this like fucking yesterday.

•••

Barty breathed in deeply, face buried in the crux of Evan’s neck. He couldn’t help it really. Evan smelled like home. Probably a creepy thing to say, oh well wasn’t like he said it out loud. Evan was home though, plain and simple.

He didn’t want to move, probably ever. Still eventually as the rest of the group came pattering into the kitchen and things got livelier he had to shift away.

•••

They got on the train at noon, ready to head to London. Evan took the window seat watching as the city turned to rolling hills turned to city again. Barty kept sneaking glances over at him, wasn’t really sure what he was looking for honestly but-

“What?”

Evan asked finally, tone irritated.

“Nothing, just bored.”

“Oh um-“

Evan glanced around, he and Barty were in a two seater while the rest of the band sat around the table in front of them, chatting animatedly.

“S’fine Ev, not anything you can do about it, I’m gonna be bored till we get off this bloody train. Fucking buzzing.”

“Excited for tomorrow then yeah?”

Barty turned to him with shining eyes. 

“D’you remember when we were eighteen? First time at the O2 for a concert? Fuck d’you remember seeing it like that, covered in all the lights ‘n shit. Eventim Apollo doesn’t even compare.”

Evan chuckled. They’d gone to the O2 for the first time June 2019 to see a concert when Evan was still in his backstreet boys phase, something no one was allowed to talk about now under any circumstances.

“D’you remember what you said to me?”

•••

“Look at that stage Ev. Imagine playing there. For all these people.”

Evan turned to Barty and ruffled his hair.

“One day Bee, we’ll be playing here. I promise you yeah? We’ll be playing here and it’ll all the fucking sold out.”

“You think?”

•••

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

***

AHHH I HOPE U LIKED ITTTT (idk when part 3 will be coming but hopefully soon <333333)

[luci-is-a-bitch-x3x]

Obey Me! Lucifer & Mammon with a Goth MC! : basically my thoughts on what the brothers reactions would be, how they would handle having a goth partner, ext.

━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━

Hello!♡ this is my first time doing anything like this lol. Its probs gonna be bad at first, but ill work on it over time! Mammon couldnt be yellow, because i can't find the yellow, sorry. :< Feel free to reblog or leave you're thoughts in the comments! Add on to my ideas or whatever! Anyways enjoy my little idea. Sorry for any jokes, spelling errors, or grammar errors in advance! Without futher distraction, content!! ♡

━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━

Goth MC! who does the make up, the white foundation the "crazy" eyeliner, the black/grey or dark color eyeshadow and blush. Classic black or red lipstick with matching nail polish on the Mc's fingers. The saggy looking hair that matches the make up, oh so well. Goth MC! Who has the unkept look, but at second glance you can tell their well kept. At least to some extent. The Mc has raggy, ripped looking outfit but upon closer inspection its clear the outfit is perfectly kept up with. Goth MC! Who has an over extent looking outfit, looking like rags on rags, and the Mc has a dead looking apperance appearing to have risen from the grave. Almost the perfect example of a goth baddie. How will the brothers react?

Lucifer

When Goth MC! tumbles down into devildom for the very first time, the most of a reaction they'll see Lucifer give is raise of eyebrows, a subtle hint of curiosity.

Lucifer is oddly intrigued by this Mc. Him being the Avatar of Pride he takes appearance seriously. Not as serious as Asmo. Lucifer finds this MC to be endearing however. The way the MC seems to not care what others think of their appearance, captures his attention.

Lucifer originally thought it was the freedom Goth MC seemed to have that captured his attention. Maybe he wanted to be free of his prideful nature and be able to do crazy things like this MC. Bit dramatic Luci. Lucifer wanted to believe this, but he found his mind wandering to Goth Mc as he worked on paperwork. He apprectiated the look the MC has going. He thought it fit the MC perfectly, eventually he would tell the MC in attempts to swoon them. But for now he continues to sketch paperwork occasionally getting distracted by thoughts of Goth Mc.

Once Lucifer is dating Goth Mc, he compliements them constantly. Yes, there is the personality compliemnts but im talking compliements to the Mc's gothy aesthetic. "My dear, you look as heart stopping as a vampire." You'll either crack up at the almost dad pun. Or swoon at how it matches you're aesthetic. And hey? Who doesn't like being compared to a vampire?

Lucifer will treat his Goth partner like Goth royalty. We're talking the best goth attire. This Mc gets the best make up, outfits, accessories, you name it, Lucifer will get it, top price too. Although he would love his partner no matter what he has a reputation to upkeep so the best as always MC. Stop saying you feel bad he wants to be you're sugar daddy silly.

Lucifer will proudly take Goth MC out. Fancy restrauants, cute little outings, just grocery shopping together? He will either hold the Mc's hand or the Mc should hold his arm. If not his hand is on the Mc's lower back guiding them. One, for protection, two, he wants to show this Mc off. Especially if the Mc has talked about people being ashamed of their goth attire. Lucifer is proud of his Mc. He's proud to call the Goth little human his. So you should be proud too!

Lucifer adapts easily to understanding you. (If you tell him goth culture he listens and remembers what you tell him well) He doesn't even realize it at first but he slowly adapts to doing things in a gothic sense. Normally lucifer would give his partner red roses, but for this Mc it was always a black or grey type of flower, whether roses or anything he could find, he would get the flowers in a color that would fit the Mc's aesthetic choices.

Mammon

Mammon comes to get the Mc after the Mc arrive in devildom. Luci orders him to babysit us. So here Mammon comes marching angrily to pick the Mc up from R.A.D but when Mammon marches into the student council room, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the Goth Mc. Although the Goth Mc almost reminded him of his debt collectors, (the witches or something similar, just dark aesthetics thats what I assume the people Mammon gets in debt to look like) Mammon couldn't help but find the Goth Mc attractive. Mammon is so lost in thought that he'd be standing there staring at the Mc with his jaw dropped.

His brothers begin to tease him and the Mc manages to snap him out of his lovesick trance, Mammon immediately goes tsundare on the Mc. "Oi' what do you think you're doing human?!? Looking like some kind of a freak!! Did yah just crawl outta' a coffin?!?!" Mammon manages to say this with his hand covering his mouth, muffling his words to an extent. He is blushing like crazy and avoiding eye contact, telling the Mc everything they needed to know.

Dating Mammon is quite interesting. Goth Mc is drawn to darker things, maybe things considered "odd" or "scary" to other. But- "The Great Mammon doesn't get scared!!!" Oh great. Now hes sobbing and clutching onto the Mc for dear life. Council him and pretend he was a brave boy. He needs it man.

Mammon is really good with fashion, and when he has Grimm, he loves spending it. So he will get the Mc goth attire and make a big deal about it, how they should be grateful. yada yada although Mammon will never outright say it, he's just grateful the Mc accepts his gifts and chooses to be with him.

If anyone gives the Goth Mc problems over their attire, mammon is quick to defend the Mc. Doesn't matter who's saying it. Their wrong. Mammon knows a gem when he sees it. Thats treasure standing there, as a perfect goth little human.

Mammon goes to lots of places. On errands for the witches. He sees lots of stuff, when he sees stuff that matches Goth Mc's aesthetic, he will gladly get it for them. If he has the Grimm he pays, if not.... "Hey! I'm a demon, whadda'yah expect?!?" Can you really blame him? He just wanted to spoil his partner.

━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━

Thats all for now babes! Hope you enjoyed! ♡ I plan to do the rest of the brothers, as well as: Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon, Simeon. I'm going to also do Luke but that will be purely platonic. Might even add more with these characters if the thoughts arise! So if you enjoyed this stay tuned! Lots more thoughts & drabbles to come! Stay safe & remember to drink water loves! ♡

━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━━☆*:･ﾟ✧✧ ♡ ❀ ♡ ✧━

⟡˙⋆Masterlist⋆˙⟡

[foone]

So if Threshold happens to different Trek crews, who gets who pregnant? Voyager is one of the few shows where it makes heterosexual sense, (for lack of a better word, "sense" not being the word anyone would use to describe threshold)

So for Voyager, it being Paris (pilot) and Janeway (captain) makes sense through that lens. Paris, sure, because he is a pilot. We could pick a Science Guy to do it, but then it might be B'Elanna who does the flying fast, and then who is she going to kidnap for Lizard Sex? Harry? ... Yeah it'd be Harry. Anyway once you've picked Paris, you've got to figure out which woman is funniest to have him abduct into Lizardry. B'Elanna? No, not funny enough. She'd be a Klingon lizard and beat him up instead of mating, even if they did get married later. Besides, what if she evolves into a super-advanced Klingon, not a lizard? *claps* PUT TUVOK ON THE SHUTTLE. Kes? No, they already did a Tom v Neelix episode. Seven of Nine isn't on the show yet, so Janeway it is.

Ok so for other shows, we gotta pick a pilot or science guy (who might be screwing around with transwarp, and thus get Lizarded) and someone they could turn into a lizard to have babies with. The show is assuming heterosexual pairings here, but we know about things so we are not so limited.

The original series: as much as I'd love to say Sulu and Uhura ("I'll save you, fair maiden!" "sorry, neither"), I think TOS was much less of an ensemble than later Treks, so it'd need to be Spock. Spock is doing some science stuff, he gets hyper-evolved, and he picks someone else to hyper-evolve and turn into his lizard bride. As much as I want to say "Kirk", I think it's more likely that he runs off with Uhura and then Kirk has to rescue them. Kirk was always about being the one who rescues people, having the Enterprise come rescue Lizard!Spock (is that antisemitic?) and Lizard!Kirk and it's called commanded by McCoy? Nah.

TNG: the direct analogy to VOY would mean we have Wesley and... Picard? No, no, and no. Sorry. Frankly, we already had this plot on TNG (Genesis), and canonically the answer is Worf and Troi. The problem with it being a pilot thing is that Wesley is a child and Data (the official science guy) is an android, so he can't really be hyper-evolving. We could go with Geordi, the other Science Guy, but then we've got the image of a black man kidnapping a white woman. Uhhhh no. We already did that episode and it is an example of Deep Shame for the show. So Worf and Troi it is.

DS9: so this is what inspired me to make this post. We all agree Sisko would be a damn good father to his lizard babies, but would it be him? If so, with who? You could have it be Dax, and she lizards first and kidnaps him, which makes some sense given that she's a Science Guy. But you also have to consider Weird Guys. Every Trek series needs a Weird Guy so that whenever an ancient alien artifact turns the whole crew into Muppets or whatever, they can be the one who isn't affected and can thus solve it. This is all to say, Odo/Kira could be done. We've had a few episodes where he's been shown to do very extreme things out of his pining for her, so it makes some sense. Odo/Quark would be funnier but given how the DS9 writers handled Profit and Lace, I really don't want to see them do a gay mpreg episode.

ENT: the series with canon mpreg! Direct translation of would be Mayweather/Archer. Mmm. Probably not. I think it's gonna be a rarepair: Trip/Hoshi. Trip/T'Pol is too canon to be funny. The next best option is Archer/T'Pol and that's just kinda bleh. It makes sense but it's just the kind of thing they'd do and it'd be bland. We can do better. Honorary mention: Trip and Reed.

I've not watched enough of the New Treks to have an opinion there. Maybe SNW: Ortegas and La'an. Don't ask why.

[autisticlancemcclain]

prev

“We have to go through…wait, Keith, is this right?” He flips the tablet over to Keith, zoomed in on a pair of coordinates. “This is, like, right next to a black hole. RIght right next to, worryingly next to. I don’t like how close this is. This pod is not really built for that, I don’t think.”

Keith doesn’t recognise the coordinates, so he can’t really say, but there’s a fair bit riding on this mission, so he doubts Kolivan has fucked this particular detail up. 

“Well, it’s either safe or no longer our problem.”

“I suppose.”

A little disappointed that Keith’s attempt at a joke didn’t do much to lighten Lance’s expression, he lets them lapse into silence, tilting his head back onto the seat and closing his eyes as the pod zooms forwards. 

They have a long journey ahead of them.

– – –

Keith jerks awake half-convinced he’s inside a rock tumbler. That’s how it sounds, anyway, with the ear-crushingly loud bangs and crashes coming from all around the pod, shaking the whole craft and sending Keith flying were it not for his tight grip on the ceiling handle. 

Lance has just barely beaten him to the pilot’s chair, settling in quickly and white-knuckling the yoke.

“What’s going on?” Keith shouts over the noise.

“I woke up twelve seconds before you did,” Lance grits out, jerking the yoke to the side and sending them spinning out of the way of an asteroid the size of a small house. 

“Fuck, it must be an asteroid storm, we’re gonna have to –”

“Keith, can it,” Lance barks. “Unless the next words out of your mouth are a magical solution, you need to keep them to yourself.”

Keith snaps his jaw shut. Even if he did have a magical solution, Lance can’t afford the distraction – not because he’s unskilled, but because the space in front of them is getting denser and denser, to the point where Keith can feel something wrong in the atmosphere, and asteroids are becoming unavoidable. Every second there’s a crash on the outside of the pod, shaking the whole thing and sending them careening into another atmosphere. Lance grits his teeth and tries to hold them steady, but after a point it’s impossible, and control is out of his hands.

“Strap into the crash zone!” Lance shouts. He unclips himself from the pilot’s chair, stumbling forward as an asteroid hits; Keith barely manages to dart out one arm not gripped onto the ceiling handle to catch him. “We’re not going to make it through this storm and it’s too late too –”

They’re both thrown to the side as a massive rock hurls into the pod, crushing the side concave sending the pod spinning like a top. Keith hits the ground hard, helmet bouncing off the floor so hard he sees stars, and he loses his grip on Lance as the paladin goes flying over him. The sound of crushing metal is deafening and painful, and it only compounds as more and more asteroids slam into the pod, throwing it back and forth like a rowboat in a hurricane. The pressure in the cab and all around them grows exponentially, until Keith feels like a compressed can; like his eyes are ready to pop out of his skull. He’s in so much pain he doesn’t even have the strength to be panicked.

Like a switch is turned the pressure suddenly lifts, and he’s weightless, slowly floating up in zero gravity; stomach swooping and limbs limp. The rapid change of atmosphere has him choking back vomit. Every couple of seconds the ruined pod shifts and shakes, from asteroids or gravitational forces Keith does not know, but in one particularly rough hit he’s slammed into the wall so hard his helmet cracks and for a moment everything goes dark. By the time he blinks himself awake, ears ringing and blinking slowly, sluggishly, the weightless, swoopy feeling in his stomach has returned, but not like when he’s in zero G – the same butterflies you get at the top of a rollercoaster, just as you begin to drop.

He registers the whistling sound of something falling at terminal velocity last.

The panic starts to set in, then. He scrambles to his feet, or tries to, but it’s hard; the pod is rattling every which way so there’s no solid ground to stand on, really, and he’s still dizzy and disoriented. He attempts a step forward and crashes to the ground, barely manages to catch himself. As he goes down he sees the rapidly approaching surface of something from the pod’s cracked windshield, and it’s green and grassy and flat and going to crush them to death.

“Lance?” Keith calls out, desperate and panicked. “Lance, where are you?” 

He whips his head around to look for him and almost passes out again. Bile climbs up his throat and he very nearly lets it spew out, breathing sharply through his nose and clamping his teeth to keep it down. The pod is small, and crushed, and he can’t see well over the protrusion of the cratered wall, and he can’t see Lance. 

“Lance! Answer me! Where are –”

The pod lurches sharply to the left without warning, throwing Keith to the ground again. This time he doesn’t bother getting back to his feet, instead grabbing one of the bent steel rods sticking out of the ruined pod wall to drag himself forward; tucked in close to the wall. FInally, to his great relief, as he crests the bend of the giant crater he sees a flash of blue armour; a cracked wrist guard shining with reflected light as Lance grips the steering yoke, back in the pilot’s seat, dragging it sharply upwards to try and lessen the impact of their crash. He’s struggling – Keith doesn’t know how far they’re falling from, or what level of gravitational force this random planet (if it even is a planet) has, but the speed they’re falling at is deadly. If they hit the ground the way they’re going, they’ll be crushed so fast they won’t even have time to realise they’re dying. At this point, Keith’s not even sure if anything can save them.

He sets his jaw. There’s no point in giving up.

As fast as he can go with the throbbing of his head, Keith half-crawls half-stumbles forward, using bent sections of wall and broken odds and ends to keep himself steady. He’s ready to throw up for the millionth time by the time he finally stands behind the pilot’s chair, hands gripping the arm rests, but he’s there and he’s conscious mostly and he’s capable enough.

“You good?” Lance grunts, barely audible over the sound of impending doom.

“Peachy,” Keith mutters back, planting his feet and leaning over to wrap both hands around Lance’s.

Without needing to say a word, they pull back at the same time, as hard as they can. The pod – or what’s left of it, Keith’s not sure they can accurately call this hunk of ruined metal a pod – creaks and groans with the effort, but with every second they hold their position with all the strength in their bodies, the nose of the craft inches up an up, getting closer and closer to parallel with the ground instead of perpendicular to it. 

“Incoming,” Lance warns, as the ground gets closer. “Brace yourself.”

“Grab me in three?” Keith asks.

Lance nods. “One…”

“Two…” Keith continues.

“Three!”

Milliseconds before they collide, Keith throws himself on top of Lance, curling against him. Lance whips the seat one eighty degrees so it’s facing away from the windshield and crash site rather than towards it, wrapping his arms around Keith’s torso and gripping tightly in lieu of a seatbelt.

The crash makes Keith black out again.

When he blinks back awake his ears are ringing, and everything looks and sounds like he’s underwater. His limbs are heavy and he feels like he’s been shrunk. His body’s telling him he’s been out for hours, but he knows, vaguely, that he hasn’t, because he’s not nearly well-rested enough. He inhales deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut, and tells himself he has five seconds.

One.

His limbs are all still there. Arm, arm, leg, leg. All are working, at least mostly. Good.

Two. 

His head throbs. Every pound of his heart amplifies in his head like a falling anvil in an ampitheatre. His body aches like it never has before.

Three.

The ringing in his ears hasn’t faded, but sound doesn’t sound so muted anymore. He thinks he can hear the groaning of buckling metal, and the roaring of engine flames.

Four.

There’s something sharp digging into his ankle. He can’t feel the pain of it yet, but he dreads the eventual fade of the adrenaline, the understanding that it is going to smart and it is going to smart badly.

One.

He exhales sharply and forces his eyes open, blinking rapidly to bring the blurry world into focus. He was right about the flames; he can see pieces of the engine strewn about the grass of the clearing, of some kind, that they’ve crashed in. The windshield is no longer a windshield so much as a gaping hole where the windshield once was. The nose of the craft is crushed into the strangely blue-ish dirt.

And Lance, under him, is unconscious.

“Lance,” Keith croaks, having intended his voice to be sharp and demanding but landing somewhere closer to weak and pleading. “Get up.”

He does not stir. Keith is comforted, somewhat, by the slight puffs of air fogging up his visor every few seconds, but Keith is pressed right against him and can’t really feel the movement of his chest. His head lolls back into the broken chair, hands resting limply on Keith’s back. There’s a trail of blood running down his temple.

With a heave of effort, Keith pushes himself upright, keeping his weight off Lance as best as he can. He presses the button on the side of his own helmet, relieved when his visor lights up with the info display. The second he gets the all-clear for breathable air, he places his hands on the base of Lance’s helmet, pulling it away from his head as gently as he can manage. It takes longer than he would like, but he’s terrified of pulling too hard and twisting Lance’s neck, especially if there’s a spinal injury. The second the helmet clears Lance’s hairline he tosses it to the side, letting it crack and clatter to the floor, and taps his cheeks rapidly.

“Lance? Lance, get up. Wake up. Get up now.” There’s not even so much as a twitch. Panic makes Keith’s breathing pick up. He’s blinking back flashes of Lance’s lax face, in the purple light of the castle, scratched to hell and neck bruised with fingerprints. He hopes to any god that is listening that it’s not that. He’s not sure the comms are working, and he sure as shit doesn’t have a pod. “Lance, it isn’t funny, get up!”

The urge to grab his shoulders and shake is overwhelming, He has to yank his hands away, forcing them under his thighs, leaning back and trying not to hyperventilate.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “Please don’t leave me here by myself.”

He squeezes his eyes shut again. Okay. This is fine. Keith is going to count to five again, slower this time, and when he opens them again Lance will be awakeand smirking that fuckass smirk he does when he’s being a jackass and he knows it and is convinced he’s the funniest bitch around. He’s going to be fine. He’s breathing, anyways, so he’s alive, which means there’s nothing wrong, which means they will be fine and they’ll call the team somehow and –

“...K’th?”

Keith’s eyes fly open and he nearly cries with relief, throwing his arms around Lance’s shoulders and burying his head into his shoulder. “Oh, God, you’re alive!”

Lance goes stiff as a board. Keith stiffens, too, confused and alarmed at the strange reaction, suddenly hyperaware of his position; of the way he’s half sprawled in Lance’s lap, leaning bodily against him. He’s worried suddenly that his weight is hurting Lance and all but throws himself off in his haste put space between them. The abrupt weight on his ankle reminds rudely that hey, he just crashed into the actual ground from literal space, holy shit, and he nearly goes cross eyed with the pain.

A choked off grunt brings his attention back to Lance, who is in the process, for some dumbass reason, of standing up and crawling out of the broken window.

“Lance? What the fuck are you doing?”

Lance, of course, does not listen, because he is a mother fucker and Keith has the sudden and absurd urge to contact his brother by any means necessary to apologise. For, just. Everything.

Keith scrambles out after him, biting back a pained yell at the throbbing of his ankle. Lance is moving – fast, faster than Keith would expect, but there’s a clumsiness to the movements. Like he’s still half-out of it.

“Lance?”

Again, Lance doesn’t answer. He limps around to the side of the pod and Keith follows, at a loss. 

“Lance, fucking – stop that. You’re –” Lance shakes off his hand and continues carefully pulling back the shredded inner lining of the pod, dropping pieces of cracked polymer on the ground until the hold is big enough to lean through. He comes back out with an armful of steel boxes, dented and battered, etched with Galran and Altean labels, stacking them on a section of clearing that isn’t on fire or covered in debris.

Keith makes a noise of frustration. He’s torn between dragging Lance somewhere to make sure he’s okay and screaming at him. The anger and fear swirl violently in his stomach, clawing their way up his throat, and it burns worse than the vomit.

“Fine. Fine! Ignore me. I’m calling the team. You just stack your fucking boxes, jackass.”

He stomps back into the pod, sweeping aside the broken glass and metal shards and ignoring the slight sting of his ripped gloves. He grabs his and Lance’s discarded helmets and stomps back out to the clearing, climbing a random rock and relishing in the twinge of his ankle because it feels like a fuck you, somehow, and a fuck you is what he needs right now. He mentally flings it in Lance’s direction with great relish. Lance, because he is currently a massive rat bastard, does not pick up on Keith’s rancid vibes. Keith glares at him as he mashes the buttons he has memorised on his helmet display, dialling the Voltron line. 

It rings. And rings. And rings and rings and rings.

Keith frowns, some of the fury fading for confusion.

“Well, that’s not great.”

If the personal line is down, that means they’re either asleep or busy. He hopes asleep. He quickly dials up the business line, and when that doesn’t work, somewhat desperately, the distress line. It rings.

And rings.

And rings, and rings, and rings.

– – –

next

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) || Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b (I Sing A Song of Love) || Chapter 15c (You Can Do This If You Try) || Chapter 16 (Let That Feeling Grab You Deep Inside || Chapter 17A: Never Tear Us Apart ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 17B: It's Tough To Be Somebody, And It's Hard Not To Fall Apart

New York City || September 1988

It's tough to be somebody And it's hard not to fall apart Here on Rehab Mountain We gonna learn these things by heart

 - “Detox Mansion”, Warren Zevon (1987) [click here to listen]

Raymond crossed the threshold, and Claire closed the door. “We just had breakfast delivered, if you’d like something to eat or drink.”

“Tea or coffee, perhaps, if you have it?”

Claire slid her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, bare feet soundless on the marble floor of the suite’s hallway. “Of course. You must excuse us, we didn’t get back until very late last night, and it’s so hard to go out for breakfast so we tend to just order room service for everything.”

“No need to apologize. I’m grateful for whatever you may have.”

The hallway turned into a sitting room, complete with a stunning view of Central Park.

“Hello, Dr. Germain.” A tall man stood at a long white couch, wearing black jeans and a black tank top, the tattoos on his arms vivid against the sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I’m Jamie Fraser.”

“Raymond. And it’s a pleasure, Mr. Fraser. Dougal speaks very highly of you.”

Raymond shook Jamie’s hand, and watched Claire busy herself at a large rolling table covered in food.

“Jamie, please. Just Jamie. Make yourself at home.” Jamie gestured to another couch, and Raymond settled against the cushions.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it? This room, I mean.” Jamie grabbed a coffee mug, wedding ring clinking softly against the china. “I grew up on a farm in upstate New York. So this is the kind of thing you can’t get used to. Or should never get used to, anyway.”

“It is incredible,” Raymond agreed. “Definitely a lot better than the view from my apartment. I’d find it hard to leave here.”

“I do,” Jamie sighed. “But playing shows at the Garden…well. That’s pretty awesome, too.”

“Here you go.” Both men looked up to see Claire, holding out a steaming mug and plate of cut fruit. “Black coffee, but there’s cream and sugar if you like.”

Raymond gratefully took the plate and mug. “Thank you, Claire. You don’t need to be so generous.”

She smiled kindly, and settled on the couch next to Jamie with a bowl of cereal. Raymond sipped his coffee, watching Jamie rest a gentle hand on her thigh.

“Tell me about yourself,” Jamie said softly. “How do you know Dougal?”

Raymond spoke at length, in between bites of banana. “We met at a conference about ten years ago. I’ve been in private practice for many years, and I’m always eager to learn new techniques, to keep on top of the latest research and thinking. Conferences are good for that kind of thing. It was one of those three day affairs in a big hotel ballroom, and there was a rather boring dinner the first night. I ended up sitting next to Dougal and Gillian. We got to talking, and that was it.”

“If you’ve known each other for so long, I’m surprised you’ve never worked at The Ridge.” Claire crunched the last of her cereal, and Jamie smiled slightly.

Raymond shrugged. “You know this better than anyone – there is one requirement to work at The Ridge, and that is that you must be an addict in recovery. I’m not that.”

Jamie’s brows rose in surprise. “And yet, you’re one of the top therapists in the country for addicts in recovery. Or so Dougal led us to understand.”

Raymond set down his plate. “I started my career focusing on patients who had experienced extreme trauma. I’m a bit older than the two of you – this would have been in the ‘50s. I had volunteered at a VA hospital during medical school, and I got to know a lot of veterans who…well, let’s just say that they had seen and done things in Germany and the Pacific that no man ever should. I resolved then and there to dedicate my life to help people like that.”

He paused, and closed his eyes.

“Many of the men I worked with turned to drink and drugs to numb their pain. To escape their reality. I learned a lot about addiction that way. Why it starts, why it persists, how much damage it inflicts on the addict and the people who love them. I’ve never had a drink or taken a drug in my life, and I hope to stay that way until the day I die.” He took a breath. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand why someone would reach that point.”

It wasn’t often that Raymond opened up – even in this muted way – about his own life. But with Jamie and Claire – who would be some of the most unique clients he’d ever work with – he knew they would give him space, and respect. And more importantly, that they would understand.

He finished his coffee, gently setting the mug on the table. Eyes open but focused downward on his hands.

“Put simply, I did not have the happiest of childhoods. I have no memory of my parents, and was in an orphanage run by nuns from the age of two. Things were not easy in Montreal during the Depression.”

“So that’s where your accent comes from,” Claire smiled.

Raymond glanced up at her, and smiled back. Tightly. “Indeed. Well, as a child I was bullied quite relentlessly. I’ve always been quite small, and you know how boys can be. So my friends were my books. Had it not been for my high school English teacher, I never would have found the courage to apply to university, or to come to New York. To fulfil my dream of helping people, and giving them the kindness and support that I never had. And somehow, by the grace of God, here I am, sitting with you today in this beautiful room. I will never be ungrateful for my improbable life.”

He glanced up at Jamie and Claire. Saw their hands entwined, gripping tightly, Claire’s face buried in Jamie’s shoulder.

Raymond flushed. “Oh my. I do apologize. I didn’t – ”

Jamie smiled sadly. “It’s fine. Claire’s fine, she’s just…did Dougal tell you anything about us?”

“Only the broad strokes.” Raymond uncomfortably scratched the back of his neck. “How you met, that you were both at The Ridge for treatment. He had to tell me about your career, regretfully I had never heard of you or your music. But I did buy your most recent CD earlier this week to prepare.”

Jamie nodded. “Interesting. I’m asking because we all seem to have something quite important in common. Claire was five when she lost her parents in a car crash. And I was eight when I lost my mother, though thankfully I had my father until just a few years ago.”

Now it was Raymond’s turn to smile sadly. “It colors your life, does it not?”

Claire straightened, and Jamie wiped away her tears with his free hand. Raymond noticed the flash of a tattoo at the base of Jamie’s thumb.

“It does.” She smiled sadly at Raymond. “It’s a hole that is never filled. Jamie and I have talked about it many times – whether we would have ended up as addicts, had we not lost our parents.” She sighed. “Thankfully I was raised by my mother’s brother – and I’m so grateful he is still in our lives. He married us. But it’s not the same.”

Raymond’s smile brightened considerably. “My heartiest congratulations on your recent wedding. It’s quite evident how deeply you love each other.”

Claire flushed happily, and Jamie kissed her cheek. “Thank you. We still can’t believe it ourselves. It’s been quite the year.”

“I can imagine. This tour must be something, if you’re selling out the Garden.”

“Well – the tour of course has been big,” Jamie remarked. “But it’s been a lot more than that, for us. A year ago now, we were at The Ridge, in treatment. I ended up being there for 17 weeks. Claire was there for, eight weeks?”

“Nine.”

“And when did the two of you get together?”

Claire glanced at her husband. “Officially, right before Jamie left. Then after that, we had some time together in January and February, but soon after that the decision was made to go on tour. Jamie had written a lot of new material at The Ridge, and he – we – thought that touring would be a good way to get back into real life. Buy us some time as I figured out what was happening with my medical license. And then…we decided to get married.”

“A three week tour,” Jamie snorted. “That was the original plan. We’re now on our fourth month, and we’ve sold out Madison Square fucking Garden for three nights.”

“How much longer will you be on the road?”

Jamie glanced briefly at Claire. “Just a few more shows and then we’ll wrap up. But then we’ll be back at it next year – the label has booked over one hundred dates, all across North America and then legs in Europe and Australia as well.”

“It’s going to be intense,” Claire added quietly. “I’ll be there with him, of course. My medical license has been reinstated, but I’m taking an informal break.” She darted a quick glance at her husband, squeezing his hand. “You should know this, Raymond – we quite desperately want to start a family. We’ve given ourselves this year to just…be. But that means there’s a good chance that while we’re touring next year I’ll be pregnant.”

Raymond folded his arms across his chest. “Which would be yet another source of stress in the situation. And another strain on your sobriety. Not to mention, your relationship. For both of you.”

Jamie gripped Claire’s hand. “And that’s where you come in, Raymond. I’ve been stone cold sober since I arrived at The Ridge. Claire, too. We’ve had each other this tour to keep each other honest, and I know I can say categorically that I wouldn’t be sober without her.”

He kissed her temple.

“But it’s not been without tremendous difficulty and so much strain,” Claire said softly. “He’s been having panic attacks.”

Raymond nodded. “Dougal did tell me that. And naturally, you’re worried that they will continue as the touring continues.”

Claire glanced at Jamie. “He – we – have learned enough about them now for him to recognize when one is coming. We can’t stop it from happening, but we can step away and ride through it together. Every time that happens, I’m grateful for the psych rotation I did in medical school.” She sighed. “But I’m not an expert, Raymond. I can’t help him the way he needs.”

“Said differently,” Jamie interjected, “it’s not fair for me to expect her to provide that kind of support. I don’t want to add to her stress. And I don’t want something to happen that could threaten her own sobriety.”

“Is that a realistic fear for Jamie to have, Claire?”

to be continued…

[dragonfirerogue-writes]

Criminal

Wednesday x Kitsune!Reader

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

Eugene waves at you as you slid down the stair railing with your pack. Your smirk was wide as you land on the carpet with a muted thud.

"Eugene! You ready for the hunt?"

The boy nods as you both make your way towards Ophelia Hall. "Yes! I have everything we need. Snacks, extra batteries, some bug jars, just in case." He says with a wiggle of his eyebrow.

You let out a laugh, only to stop right in your tracks as the sight of Wednesday in a beautiful gothic dress steals your breath away. But the confusion set in when you register the fact that Tyler was next to her. In a tuxedo. You were too baffled to say anything, so Eugene piped up.

"Wednesday, what's going on?"

You shake yourself out of your reverie and spoke up as well. "Yeah, what happened to staking out the cave?" You couldn't look Wednesday in the eyes for fear of getting drawn in again. "I broke plans to join you on this."

Wednesday didn't answer. Her eyes just flitted awkwardly from side to side, uncomfortable in the situation. You and Eugene both took that as a sign. The bee boy looks at you dejectedly.

"I guess we'll have to check out the woods on our own."

"Don't! It's dangerous. Stand down."

Your arms cross. "You don't think we can handle it?"

"We'll all go tomorrow night. Understood?"

With that, she turns and walks away with her date. The burning feeling within you builds up as you glare at the duo's backs. Eugene just pats your back, drawing your attention to him.

"Let's go anyway. We'll show her how capable we are."

Your head shakes in reply. "Sorry, Eug. I don't feel like it anymore." Your eyes didn't move, even when Wednesday and Tyler disappeared from eyesight. "I think I'm gonna put my original plans back on the docket."

Finally, you turn to look at your friend.

"Rest for tonight. We'll hit the woods tomorrow, with or without Wednesday."

You walk away, getting ready for the Rave'N.

-----+++++-----

Your eyes burned slightly at the bright whites and blues of your surroundings. Wandering around, you weave through the crowd, greeting friends as you pass them. Soon enough, you're joined by your dancer friends. The group huddles together, debating on when to execute their plan. Before you could make a decision, you see your crush on the dance floor.

The movements caught your attention and suddenly, along with some others, you were staring. She seemed so unbothered by anyone else. The unnatural dance moves seemed to inspire you.

"I know when we should do this. Irina, go talk to the DJ. Everyone have their ribbons?" When everyone nods you give them a smirk. "Just like we practiced, guys."

The dance continues on. Wednesday and Tyler dance close until you suddenly pop up between the two.

"Having fun, lovebirds?" You blurt out with a wicked grin. Wednesday balks at you.

"Y/N? What are you doing here?"

"I told you. I broke plans to hang out with you. My plans are here."

"What plan? Pestering me? You do that regardless."

Your grin goes wider. "That's just a plus."

You whirl around Wednesday to stand behind her. Before she could move, she felt something tightened around her neck. The touch of fabric slide away, revealing a black ribbon in your hands. Backing away, you tie the ends of the ribbon together and wrap the loop around your wrists, binding them together.

With a record scratch, the song playing ends abruptly, only to have another start. Vocalizations begin as you continue your path backwards, eyes never leaving Wednesday. From other points in the crowd, your friends join you, wrists also bound, jerking them around at the last two beats of each measure.

The performance begins.

You and four others drop to your knees as the lyrics begin and you all start to pulse your chests, as if your hearts were trying to burst out. It's clear now that it's a choreographed dance as the crowd circles you to watch. Before long, you're back up on your feet, alternating between jerking moves and smooth transitions. Your eyes land on Wednesday's as you remove the ribbon around your wrists with your teeth and toss it to her before going full out on the dance.

The goth couldn't take her eyes off of you. The way you spun and whipped around with ease as you worked the crowd was fascinating. At the second chorus, the other dancers circled you while you knelt, she could see how heavily you were breathing. But it still wasn't a moment's rest. You were still performing as your eyes pierced through hers. When your solo came, the others dropped to the floor, hidden by the fog. Only their hands and legs were seen as they did their floor choreography.

Then the bridge to the final chorus began. Instrumental with the same vocalizations that happened in the beginning. All the dancers broke from the group, weaving in and out of the members of the crowd. You, on the other hand, inched over towards Wednesday with stuttered steps. Suddenly, you surged towards her and grabbed her wrist. You bring her hand to your neck. Her fingers reflexively curl around your throat as your fox eyes and fangs make their appearance to her for the first time. You stare into her eyes as the bridge ends.

"Deo mangchyeojwo" you say alongside the song before jumping back and finishing the dance at the last chorus.

The room erupts in applause as you hit the final pose, holding it to revel in the cheers. It wasn't until you felt a drop on your face that you dropped your pose. Looking up, more drops fell, leaving red streaks on your face. The sprinkler systems had been triggered, raining red on everyone.

Cheers turn into screams as people begin to scramble away, slipping and sliding as they try to escape the 'Carrie' recreation scene. Only you and Wednesday seem to be unbothered. Your attention turned to Wednesday when you hear her scoff.

"They couldn't even spring for real pigs' blood." She looks over at you. "It's paint."

You let out a soft laugh, your anger and jealousy ebbed for the moment, especially after the dance. "I'll getcha pigs' blood and redo this whole thing."

You and Wednesday ended up in the eye of the storm. Chaos reigned around you while you had just a moment to see the goth's lips quirk up ever so slightly at your words.

The sudden hit of a vision burst that bubble.

Worried that she may fall, you moved closer to Wednesday, but she recovered quickly with wide, worried eyes. She grabs your arms to steady herself before rushing an explanation.

"Eugene is in the woods. He's in danger."

With a nod you bolt out alongside the girl, hoping to the gods that you two will make it in time.

[7ndipity]

Run!BTS Halloween Pumpkin Carving Special

Ot7

Summary: Just crack headcannons about how letting them carve jack-o-lanterns is a bad idea

Warnings: overuse of the word pumpkin, not proofread,

A/N: Did anyone ask for this? No. But it’s my blog and I’m gonna post them anyway bc they make me laugh to think about.(also, I wrote this out at like one am last night, so sorry it’s a mess)

Masterlist

Requests are open

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Everything starts out normal enough: the intro plays, Jimin starts the “Run!” “BANGTAN!” and everyone cheers. The normally all white soundstage is decorated with black and orange streamers, faux bats and spider webs hanging everywhere.

“Since it’s October,” The director starts to explain. “It’s September though.” Jin mumbled. “It’ll be October when this airs, shh.” Hobi shushes him. “Since it’s almost Halloween,” The director tries again. “We thought Army would enjoy seeing you display your creativity by carving and decorating pumpkins.”

They show the table covered in various carving and decorating tools, from paints and stickers to carving knives.

They give them like an hour to decorate their pumpkins, saying they’ll be giving out points for skill and originality, and the winner gets a prize(that’s probably food) before starting the clock and the carving/decorating begins.

Almost immediately, it’s a mess.

Everyone’s complaining about the pumpkin smell, Jimin and Jin have mini heart attacks watching Namjoon try to get a handle on using the carving knives, begging him to please just use the paints or smth but nope. Hobi is moreso doodling on his pumpkin with the pens, only using the knives to cut eye holes. Tae seems to be plotting some sort of tribute to an artist from the 1950s. Jimin’s just designing a lil chibi guy.

“YAH Namjoon!” Tae suddenly yells, noticing that the elder member has managed to catch his sleeve in the yellow paint Tae had been using, too busy trying not to throw up from the pumpkin smell to realize, leaving a bright trail across the table.

Jin and Jungkook start bickering over smth and end up chucking pumpkin guts at each other from opposite ends of the table.

Jimin tries to get up and move to avoid getting hit by the mess, but ends up just slip-sliding around in the debris(cut to a flashback to the same situation during the slip n slide soccer ep), before giving up and just ends up sitting on the floor behind the table.

Hobi also takes cover, hiding under the table in an attempt to shield his pumpkin and himself from the chaos.

Yoongi makes a crack about having flashbacks to military training.

Tae is just giving Jk all the guts from his own pumpkin to use as ammo against Jin, telling him to aim for the face. At this point, he and Yoongi are the only two still in their original seats, working mostly unbothered.

We then have a brief intermission as things are cleaned up.

The set is much cleaner now, there’s no more pumpkin carnage, but Jin and Jungkook’s hair is still noticeably sticky looking. It honestly feels like a miracle that there’s even finished products to see.

Joon’s is a slightly mangled mess, as if he dropped it(he did). Jimin’s looks cute, the face is slightly lopsided and one tooth is slightly chipped, thanks to the earlier chaos. Hobi’s is either super cute or unnervingly creepy. Tae’s is just a bunch of abstract shapes. Jin’s is a classic triangle face. Jungkook’s looks pretty good, and would've had more detail if he’d spent more time on it rather than fighting Jin. Yoongi’s is either super detailed like Jk’s, or is literally just three holes gouged into it to look like the OoO emoji.

(y’all can tell me who you think the winner is lol!)

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow@k4ngelz

[nyctophiliq]

Ashe x Fem reader who is a new night shift employee for the Route 66 cafe. One night she wears a skirts that’s dangerously short and one of the other men get a little handsy. Ashe is having none of it.

Nw if this becomes a Drabble I’ll be so excited to see the other one shots you make! Also Ty for doings gods work, I speak on behalf of the lesbians: we love you 🫶

✮ — SEE YOU AGAIN ; elizabeth caledonia ashe

content warning ; afab reader. sfw ! — lowercase writing intended, reader being harassed, a bit suggestive just for plot reasons but nothing too too suggestive

wc ; 1,3 k

moss’ notes ; SORRY THAT THIS TOOK SO LONG there were just not sufficient ideas to fulfill this amazing req, so moss apologizes and hopes you see this anonie :) moss loves the lesbians too 💗

you worked at the diner on Route 66, a restaurant well out in the desert but still a popular place for locals to come around and have a bite. it was lively, with all kinds of people coming to eat, most of them going there after work or even just for fun. it was a nice change from being behind the register, where everything always smelled like food. it wasn’t your job to serve everyone, only take orders and deliver food when asked. it wasn’t easy, either, so the hours were long, which usually meant you didn’t get much sleep. your shift ended at 7 pm sharp, though, so you had plenty of time left before you would have to lock up and head home for some rest. you had spent a lot of sleepless nights lately, not sleeping because every time you closed your eyes you saw 

"hey, waitress- a coffee refill, pronto!" one of the savages shouted before turning back to his friends and laughing loudly, sharing snarky comments about you. there was not much you could do but pick up the coffee pot from behind the counter and walk to their table.

"anything else I can do for you, boys?" you gave them your best smile, taking a small, subtle step back to put some distance between you and the group. you did try, anyways. the customers never took anything seriously, but the one with the buzz cut was still staring at you. "uhm, yeah," he said, shifting slightly, putting his leg behind you to block your path, "just make sure my buddy here gets that coffee without spilling any on him." he grinned stupidly, his hand reaching across the table and his fingers going for the top of your thigh.

you swallowed thickly, nodding politely before tipping the glass pot and pouring the bitter black liquid into one of their mugs. his hand was moving to wrap or pinch your thigh and you normally let them play, it's silly to think more, you go home and sleep this off, men play smart with you all the time, not like it means something anyway. you picked up on seeing people flirt, especially after a few months at the diner now. they liked you because they thought you looked cute, or maybe they felt pity for the poor girl who was constantly trying to keep up with them. you preferred to think that you actually had more personality than that. and yet it happened every other night, these men coming in and harassing a desperate reaction out of you.

"leave her alone or I will be payin' a very special kind of attention to you." a tall, white-haired woman stepped to your side and placed her hand on your shoulder. she looked older, maybe mid-thirties, but definitely a woman that knew how to handle herself in a fight. she smiled warmly, giving her gaze from under her eyelashes toward the man holding you and letting her hand slip down to your hip. you flushed pink as your face got hotter, feeling your body tense at her sudden move. this woman is so cool, she's probably the most beautiful person you have ever seen, smiling nervously back at her as she began to rub circles on your hip with her thumb. you weren't used to such attention from women, not even women you'd dated.

the man scoffed, looking at his buddies before starting to laugh his fucking ass off. "or what, lady? you gonna paint our nails red hot like yours?" all of them started to laugh and the woman just sucked her teeth before whistling. a giant omnic appeared behind her, towering over all of you.

"you gonna be dealing with bob over here, he is heavy and knows I don't like my woman to be harassed."  she smiled wickedly, her hand sliding farther up on your hip until the tips of your breasts were pressed against her chest. you blushed harder, biting your lip and closing your eyes. it was just a play, to get those gross men to stop hitting on you, nothing more, you need to calm down.

the four-man looked at each other, laughing once again before the man with the buzz cut stood up, wiping his lips and giving a cocky smile to the woman. "okay lady, we get it, but sharing is caring, no? wonder how she would function on-"

"you are messing with deadlock property, boy." she cut him off, pushing a gun to his head, finger on the trigger, ready to pull it if needed.  you flinched as you noticed holding it close, using both of your bodies to make sure no one saw the gun, or even know it was there. it made you sick thinking about it. 

the man gulped before stepping aside and heading for the door. "it's alright, no need to hold a grudge, alright? we don't want to mess with the deadlock, okay? we were just going, excuse us... let's go gang!" he screamed like a little kid and they were out on the door within a blink of an eye.  you stared after them, wide-eyed, before lowering your hand from your hip and letting out a shaky breath. the woman laughed a bit, patting your cheek gently before grabbing you by the arm and leading you back to sit on a stool at the counter, ignoring your protests. 

"this is my number, don't be afraid to use it." she told you kindly as she scribbled onto your notepad she took whenever you were still in shock. she nodded, putting the stack of papers down on the counter and turned to go on her way.

"thank you... i'm y/n!" you started off quietly, but when it came to telling you her name you almost woke the dead of the desert around you. she turned around, a gentle smile plastering on her face before she brushes a longer white strand out of her face.

"the name's ashe."  she said with a small, sweet smile. she offered her hands to shake. you hesitantly grabbed hers, her hand feeling soft in comparison to how rough and dry yours were. "you call me if you are in trouble, any kind, alright sugar?"

"can i still call you if i am not in trouble?" you asked hesitantly, your eyes now staring past her form, trying to find something to focus on rather than that charming smile she is about to let pull on her lips.   she chuckled softly, squeezing your hand and releasing it quickly when she realized she was doing so.

"sure, I'll be waiting sweetheart" she winked at you as she slipped one of her hands into her pocket, the other tipping her hat before she could finally turn on her heels, throwing a couple of dollar bills on the table she was sitting at, you assume, and she left the diner with her friend named bob. 

your eyes sparkled as your fingers clutched the piece of paper now inside your apron's pocket, heart fluttering at the thought of seeing ashe again. you weren't even sure what you were gonna say into the phone once she picks up, but you were sure that you wanted to hear her voice once again, utter something like today. my woman...  you smiled softly as you headed back to the front of the diner, shaking your head lightly to clear it. tonight did not end up as planned, but at the very end of it you weren't complaining because you got to have her number and she was waiting for your call.

[lpsgirl109]

This is a post for @just-allovertheplace because they brought up a point on one of my Phin posts and I wish to elaborate

So when I say some of Phin's actions should've been a result of her own ignorance, I dont mean like, all. The attacks against Roxxon should absolutely be done from a place of hate, those fuckees killed her brother and are selling off nuform as a clean energy thing despite Knowing it's harmful. Everything against Roxxon is fine to have been malicious intent

What I mean with that post is I feel there should've been an emphasis on Phin not really thinking about the damage her attacks may cause to innocent people until after the fact. She's not putting civilians in harm's way just for shits and giggles, Roxxon is her first priority and her grief sort of blinds her to how she may be hurting others in the process. The reason I like to add her warning the people at the rally to run is that the fandom Loves using that scene to call Phin a horrible person for putting Rio in danger. And in my honest opinion, some of that can be equated to bad writing, since Phin is sort of all over the place in terms of her actions. I can definitely word this better when I finish my replay of the game but like, there's moments where the narrative villainizes her a bit Too much and it leads to people hating her more than sympathizing with her, which really doesn't work when the point of her arc was to make the player feel bad for her by the end, not cheer for her death.

This is why it works better for me if she's going into these attacks clouded by her own rage and not entirely understanding the consequences until after it has been done. She doesn't want to hurt innocent people, she wants to hurt Roxxon. She just doesn't realize innocent people Did get hurt until the action is already done. And one could say I'm watering her down and making her less evil or some shit, but I also do this because I don't really like how her or the Underground are handled in the game. You have to tread carefully when playing with the "character figting worse character is Doing It Wrong and is therefore just as bad" trope, especially in the context of the 'worse character' being a corrupt rich asshole in charge of a corrupt company who is knowingly making people extremely sick with his product just so he can sell it. And the game uses this trope pretty poorly, with how horrible Phin and the Underground are portrayed. The Underground is a literal terrorist organization and Phin herself shows no care for the people she hurts in the process of taking down Roxxon. She doesn't even care that the Underground is getting sick from handling the nuform, and that's a scene that really Icks me because there are Connotations behind saying the black girl trying to fight a huge corrupt organization that killed her brother has become no better than the white man who owns said organization and just about takes Pleasure in what he's doing. I really hope this is not a hot take and I am not the only one who thinks this.

Anyway, that's largely why in my rewrite, I tone down both Phin and the Underground a bit. If they were the only villains in the game and weren't fighting any sort of higher power, I'd probably be fine with them the way they are. It's the fact that their goal is to stop a large organization from harming the city with their product, and are written as terrorists who don't care about the innocent people they hurt that makes me look at them and go Hm. This was not handled well. At all. It's why in my opinion, Phin works best if her attacks are never meant to hurt innocent people, rather she's sort of in over her head and didn't think about the damage she'd be causing until it was too late. And like this also checks out when you remember she is an 18 year old girl, yeah she's gonna fuck up. Girliepop never even made it to her 20s /ref

Anyway this has been an episode of Peg Speaks

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places. 

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not. 

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars. 

Anyway, Rule #3. 

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?” 

“I’ll take some water.” 

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?” 

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.” 

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?” 

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it. 

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets. 

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you. 

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips. 

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile. 

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.” 

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?” 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.” 

“And how long you been doin’ this?” 

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?” 

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth. 

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.” 

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?” 

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.” 

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?” 

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative. 

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself. 

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush. 

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back. 

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar. 

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.” 

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.” 

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?” 

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take. 

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?” 

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.” 

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?” 

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area. 

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway. 

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga. 

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker. 

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?” 

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?” 

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.” 

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy. 

“I’ll take it.” 

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust  DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties  Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown  Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8. 

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack. 

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well. 

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border. 

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?” 

The dog tilts his head in response. 

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat. 

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles. 

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?” 

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both. 

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment. 

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag. 

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?” 

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.” 

“Need anything else before ya go?” 

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.   

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?” 

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee. 

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges. 

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.” 

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?” 

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.” 

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.” 

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.” 

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out. 

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.” 

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile. 

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life. 

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.” 

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens. 

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?” 

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.” 

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests. 

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion. 

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?” 

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.” 

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault. 

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave. 

He waves back. 

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves. 

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?” 

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step. 

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.” 

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance. 

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. 

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement. 

Not just your boots. 

His, too. 

They get closer with every beat. 

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there. 

That moment is enough to blind you. 

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid. 

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist. 

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!” 

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders. 

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward. 

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl. 

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate. 

[ Next Chapter ]

[thealluringj]

Joe Burrow.......Tooth Fairy?!

So I have been enjoying this fandom for the longest on Tumblr, and working on some fics for the longest but hesitated to release any of them. However, after I saw that photo of Joe and Taylor Rooks from this weekend, I said, yes, lets give this a shot. This one-shot is written more to be part of a long-term series with many one-shots and a full length chapter story, than a stand alone. But my decision on that does depend on what you all think of the fic here on tumblr. 

So PLEASE drop a note of what you think below! 

Typically, the early afternoon was the calmest time of the day in the Burrow Household. At least on the weekdays, anyway. Ava was typically at some after school activity or just getting home. Which is why the wailing and screaming caught Joe off guard as he walked through the door after a jam-packed day of meetings, press conferences and practice.  

Your 7 year old, Ava, rounded the corner at a speed that made Joe think she was running from one of the monsters she claimed lived under her bed.  

“Daddy, save me! Mommy is trying to pull my tooth out!” Ava dramatically and tearfully said, plopping herself on the floor by Joe’s feet and wrapping her limbs around his leg.  

“Joe, your daughter’s tooth is loose. She complained about it all day at school. The teacher literally called me about it because Av could not concentrate and was being disruptive to the other kids in her class. One of us needs to pull that sucker out, ASAP.” You told him as you walked to where your husband and daughter were.

“No, no one can touch it!” Ava cried, clamping a hand over her mouth.  

Sure, your daughter had her dramatic moments, but this was a new level. Seeing as her teething stage went down like a sleepless horror film, you two expected nothing less when it was time for those same teeth to fall out.  

“What if I hug you really, super tight while mommy does it? I promise it won’t be that bad, bug. And we can go get ice cream afterwards. And also, the tooth fairy, remember?!” Somehow in this situation, Joe took your chosen role of good cop right from under you.  

“Can we get ice cream without her?” Ava asked, narrowing her eyes as she accusingly pointed at you.  

“Excuse me, her has a name, ma’am. And she also happens to be my wife, which means she goes wherever I go. Ice cream included.” Joe told Ava with a raised eyebrow.  

It’s a good thing your daughter was in the room because that last sentence alone had you ready to jump his bones. For the third time that day. Trying to conceive a second child was hard work and you and Joe had dedicated the last 5 weeks of alone time to ‘putting in the hours’ to make it happen.  

“Fine. Mommy can come. But I would like 2 scoops instead of one this time. I think I earned it.” You were proud to see your own negotiating skills as a second-generation lawyer had rubbed off on your daughter. Even if your father stopped speaking to you when you left his firm one year in to join Joe in Cincinnati and start your own there. He was also not happy about the fact your choice of spouse was white. He’d always imagined you to be one half of a black power couple to one of his colleague's sons.  

After a handshake to seal the deal, the three of you moved to the kitchen to complete the task at hand. Joe sat at the island with Ava in his lap, holding onto her tightly. You and he shared a look of apprehension, unsure of how Ava was going to handle this experience. Your daughter was a unique mix of strength and sensitivity, just like her parents. You washed your hands and grabbed a paper towel while you readied yourself mentally. There was gonna be screaming and crying, that would indeed break your heart; but you had to push through and pull the very loose tooth out.  

Having checked it before now, you knew exactly how to grab the wiggly tooth and with one fluid motion it was out before Ava even realized.  

“Mommy, NO, leave it alone!” Ava screamed, holding her mouth and turning to bury her face into Joe’s chest.  

“Got it!” You cheered, gleefully doing a little dance and showing it to your husband, who took one look at the bloody thing and gagged. “that’s disgusting.”  

“Oh hush boy, you saw way worse than this when she was born.” You quipped back, still beaming with excitement that you got the thing on the first shot.  

“I don’t love how excited you are at pulling out our daughter’s tooth, if I’m being honest.” Joe flatly told you, but the smirk on his face kinda cancelled out the attempt at seriousness.  

You simply rolled your eyes playfully at him.

“Whatever. Now are we getting ice cream or not Av?” You reached over and kissed the little girl on her cheek.  

“I wanna see it first!” Ava answered back eagerly and excitedly, shocking Joe.  

“Who are you people and what is wrong with you?” Joe loudly asked as Ava examined her own tooth in excitement.  

“Daddy, we are Ava and Mommy.” Ava told him, turning in his lap before grabbing her dad’s face between her palms and looking at his eyes.  

“What are you doing, cra-cra?” Joe asked her through squashed cheeks.  

Ava giggled, “My name is Ava, not cra-cra. You are daddy and I am checking your eyes for signs of concussion. The paper said not remembering stuff and big pupils, the black circle inside the color of your eyes, are signs of them. And you DID get sacked twice on Sunday.”  

Joe glanced up at you as Ava continued her examination, wondering how Ava knew more about concussions at the age of 7 than most adults.  

You shrugged, “You did bump your head slightly on the last sack and had to leave the game for a few downs. And I told you not to leave paperwork laying around. She is reading way above grade level, possibly higher than the teacher said in her report card. She started reading some files I left in the backseat on the way home today.”  

“Ave, I’m fine. Go get your shoes on, please.” Joe stood up with Ava and turned her toward the direction of the foyer.  

“I’m starting to think we should stick to what we know. Nothing wrong with growing up as an only child. Or we do it like my dad did and we have the second when she is 16 and almost out of the house. I think two of them at this point might just be the end of us.” You giggle and settle into Joe’s arms as he pulls you into a hug.  

You leaned up and peaked him on the lips, “Considering I legit blinked was pregnant with Av, might be a little too late for that, big guy.”  

“I’m waiting!” Ava called from the doorway, interrupting your playful conversation with Joe.  

Over the years, you all had learned how to keep a low profile and the places and areas you could go where pretty much everyone treated your little family like normal people. After Ava was born, you’d settled into a nice upscale suburb of Cincy, with a park, restaurants and stores within walking distance and everyone treated you all like normal everyday neighbors. Bengals fans were incredible grateful for what Joe had done and continued to do for the organization and team they loved. So, in return, they mostly respected his desire to live unbothered with his family. Tourists weren’t really a thing there, either.  

The three of you got your ice cream, played at the park a little before heading home to work on homework and dinner.  

It was 8, dinner dishes were done, Ava was in bed with her tooth under pillow awaiting the tooth fairy when you walked into the living room where Joe was watching game film.  

“I’m gonna go take a bath and then do some work, put this under Ave’s pillow before you come up for bed, please.” You kissed his cheek and placed a folded up $5 dollar bill in Joe’s hand.  

He glanced at the money in his palm before looking up at you with a stank face, “Doesn’t 5 seem a little cheap?”  

“I got a dollar per tooth and turned out fine, blessed baby boy of Robin.” You playfully poked at Joe being a spoiled momma’s boy.  

Getting her approval was something you felt like you were still working on, even though she’d welcomed you with open arms years ago when the pair of you met at LSU while you were there attending law school.  

Joe squinted at you, “ha, ha. I’m just saying if I got $5 in 2003, our daughter should be getting more than that in 2029. Inflation is real, my love.”  

You smirk, unable to form words and kiss his forehead, “I can’t with you. Give her as much cash as you want. Just make sure she’s asleep when you do it. Her figuring the tooth fairy thing out is the last thing we need, especially after she spent half of Christmas dinner telling your family we were liars cause we wrote from Santa on those gifts.”  

“Well if little Caleb Smith had kept his god damn mouth shut, she would have thought they were from Santa!” Joe spitefully spoke of the little boy that connected the Santa-not-being-real dots for Ava during their class Christmas party.  

Joe waited till way after 10pm to slip the $10 under Ava’s pillow. He could tell by the shallow breathing she was asleep but called her name a few times to be sure. When he got no response, he knelt next to her bed. Softly lifting her head and the pillow, he quickly swapped the tooth for the money and slowly placed her head and the pillow back down.  

“Love you, bug.” Joe whispered, kissing her forehead and walking towards the door.  

“I knew it. You and mommy are the tooth fairy.” Ava’s voice rang through the quiet room just as Joe reached the threshold.  

Joe panicked, “Av, your dreaming, go back to sleep.”  

Ava sat up, arms crossed and a smile on her face, “I’ve been awake since you and mommy tucked me in so I could meet the tooth fairy. You and mommy are Santa and the tooth fairy, aren’t you? What about the easter bunny? Are you him, too? And don’t lie, daddy!”  

“No. Absolutely not.” Joe scoffed, taking a little too much interest in studying her door frame.  

“Mommy is right, you are a terrible liar.”