#jesus crispy i had no idea

[avatar-aaang]

holy shit okay I was looking at the comments on one of my fics bc I wanted to respond but I recognized one of the usernames and holy shit????? that author wrote one of my fav fics ever I am SCREAMING how did I not realize sooner holy shit

[thepariahcontinuum]

Thoughts on Cosmic Fury, if you have watched it.

If you were to hypothetically decide to write a new PR fanfic, what would it be about? 😁😁😁 (had to ask as someone who is still obsessed with Aegis)

I haven't actually watched it yet so any opinions I have would be based entirely on gut-reaction/hearsay and emotional response to it....But here we go.

If you're gonna make a send off, final chapter to a 30 year franchise before a complete reboot, in the same year as something like "Once & Always" then you shouldn't need to bend and twist canon to do it. Not to blow my own trumpet but if I personally can tie the shows various seasons together for a new story then there's no reason the actual writers can't.

The suits were.....Well the best part of them are the re-used helmets and if that's gonna be the case then they honestly may as well have taken the Kyuranger helmets and put those on new suits, at least that way the helmets would have fit the theming and th Zords.

Sweet Jesus fucking crispies I HATE that Megazord, I hated it in Kyuranger and I hate it now... Honestly given that out of all the Megazords that are brought back (Somehow) the Wild Force Megazord doesn't make an appearance and given that they're clearly willing to make new elements I would have reworked the Wild force Megazord instead of using those mecha....I mean Lion, Bull, Shark/Swordfish, Wolf.... We've got a solid start.

As for making my own story.... Probably the another OC story. But the idea of Minh and JJ meeting, which was originally considered is definitely an interesting one.... I'd have to bend timelines and canon to make it happen, but giving them Billy as a mentor is definitely a fun idea

[ssreeder]

SREEDIE I CANT BELIEVE I FUCKING DID I AGAIN

though tbf you did update at the speed of light this time around so I hardly had a chance

ANYWAYS once again you get to be blessed with double comments from yours truly <3

changgggg my beloved (also iroh parallels???? that’s so slay of you sreedie)

lmao not him being Relieved that he looks like a creep bc it’s a good cover

listen chang absolutely anybody who is on good terms with zuko starts attracting shit at some point don’t feel too bad about it

YES TOPH WE LOVE TOPH

not jet finding comfort in the fact that even though he might be annoyed, sokka is guaranteed to be More annoyed by the tent situation-

ohoho is jet gonna help train sokka to sword fight??? plot twist

ykw jet is so valid for refusing to be sokka’s punching bag I hate that he’s really growing on me BUT if I am being honest with myself I never Really disliked jet

it’s going to be So Ironic if jet is the person who gets sokka to open up about his experiences in prison but I think it’s funny (and I honestly think it’ll work out well bc sokka doesn’t want to be pitied or have people change their opinion of him for the worse after they find out how much he suffered and jet wouldn’t do that)

FUCK fulo I hate that the earth kingdom army is sympathetic towards him even though I understand why

quon??? is apologising???? yeah this man is way better than zhao but he’s still the scum of the earth

ZUKO protect your fucking hands PLEASE (also fun fact I’m pretty sure I fractured my pinky at one point bc it’s kinda bent but I never got it actually checked out and That hurt like a bitch so zuko really has an insane pain tolerance to not even flinch when his pinky was snapped holy moly)

zuko? familiar with the bending suppressant??? no, really?? what gave you that idea mr medic sir.

“I got… caught.”

“Caught doing what?”

“Being a… fucking… idiot.”

- I think this is the contender for my favourite zuko dialogue even though it’s in incredibly unfortunate circumstances

PLEASE LET THE MEDIC FUCKING DO SOMETHING TO HELP OUR FIREBENDERS SREEDIE JESUS CRISPY

mm I’m a certified rasu simp someone should design a tshirt so we can start a club

ugh sokka just TELL suki already you just need to mention zuko’s name once and she’ll lead the conversation from there with her questions

god the section with the medic cleaning zuko is brutal dude

AND THATS A WRAP

can I just say.. when you made the meme for me I was like :3 and then I actually read what you wrote and I was like >:(

LOVE YOU TO BITS AND PIECES HOPE YOU ENJOY MY NEXT ESSAY

leeeeeeeeeeeeeekiiiiiiiiiiii bestie babe how you doin?!

Yes Zuko is the center of shit happening to people around him. Maybe he’s cursed? Maybe he’s maybelline? WHO KNOWS!

Jet is just there for the ride it’s not his fault Sokka is flip flopping between wanted to murder him and wanting to share his murder thoughts with him.

I can confirm Zuko has been caught being a fucking idiot multiple times. Canon.

Yeah the medic scene was 4/10 - SAD :(:(:(:(

Anyway I made you a meme and you’re complains??? FOR SHAMEEEEE. See ya soon leeks reeksy

[casspurrjoybell-17]

Heart’s Choice - Chapter 11

*Warning Adult Content*

- Carlos -

Today, Rexi's food truck is stationed near the entrance of a small recreational park, targeting parents with kids, hungry joggers and those recently released from the prison colloquially known as high school.

The eponymous Rexi has blue hair, a brash attitude and a passion for good food.

The burgers she serves out of her small food truck are simple but delicious and her fries are greasy, crispy, hot and always fresh.

Unlike a regular fast-food chain, though, when she's out of ingredients for the day, there are no more burgers to be had.

I'm not the only one with frequent Rexi's cravings, either and she usually closes up around two.

It's one-thirty already and I barely stop myself from running to get in line, instead forcing myself to match Detective Turner's more measured pace.

"You eat here often?" he asks, as we shuffle towards the ordering window behind a distressingly large family.

Not only will it take forever to get their orders but there might not be any burgers left by the time they're done.

Meanwhile, I'm nearly fainting with hunger and fidget uncomfortably, rocking forward on the balls of my feet and then back on my heels.

"Probably more often than I should. Two or three times a month. Though Rexi's only opened two months ago. Started out just wanting to support another small business owner. Now I'm hooked."

"It's that good, huh?"

"If we're lucky, you'll find out," I grumble, as the fruitful couple and their numerous offspring place orders at the window.

Luck is with us, however.

The kids all want chicken fingers, the father orders a veggie burger and only the mother asks for a Rexi's classic.

Even if it was the last one, I wouldn't grudge it her, she probably needs the energy.

Finally, it's our turn and Rexi greets me with a gap-toothed smile.

"Carlos. How's it going, man? Haven't seen you in a while. You been cheating on me with the golden arches?"

I laugh.

"Never. I even brought a friend."

Rexi looks at Turner and her grin widens.

"Ooh, es muy guapo. Bien hecho, güey."

She holds out her hand for a fist bump and I laugh anxiously.

"Oh, no. It's not... I shouldn't even say 'friend.' He's, uh... He's a cop."

Rexi's smile fades.

"A cop? What you doing, hanging with a cop?"

Turner takes over.

"Getting lunch. But when you have a moment, I do have some questions for you."

"You can ask now," Rexi says, nodding over our heads.

I turn around and see that there's a lull in the burger demand and no one else has joined the line.

"Then I'll decide if you're welcome here."

Unperturbed, Turner pulls up something on his phone and holds it out to her.

"You recognize this person?"

Rexi nods.

"Don't know his name but he comes 'round regular. He was here..."

She looks up and to the side as she searches her memory.

"Last Friday. He came just as I was shutting things down. There was a little league game in the park across the street and I'd already sold out."

Guilt twists my gut.

Kyle didn't take my money and run, after all.

"Was he alone?" I ask.

Rexi looks at me quizzically, as if wondering why I'm asking questions, too.

"Yeah. Far as I could tell."

"What did he say?"

She shrugs.

"Not much. I told him I was out of beef patties and fries but I had some veggie burgers left. He wasn't interested. He swore at me and fucked off down the street, probably in search of the next best thing. Haven't seen him since. Why? Is he missing or something?"

I glance at Turner, expecting him to step in but to my surprise, he lets me take the lead.

"Kyle worked for me at the shop," I say. "He was, um... He was murdered, last Friday."

Rexi's eyes go wide.

"Holy shit. Jesus, I'm sorry. Uh, I mean, how can I help?"

"We're trying to retrace his steps on the day he died," Turner says.

"You said he might have gone elsewhere for lunch. Any idea where, specifically?"

"No, not specifically. He headed that way."

She points west, down the street.

"There's a Wendy's and a McDonald's two blocks over but if he was really looking for the next best thing, he'd have gone to Burger Me, Daddy."

"Burger Me... Daddy?" I lift my brows at her.

"Yeah. It just opened. You haven't been?"

"Nope."

"Well, not to encourage the competition but give it a try. It's... different. Might be your scene."

She winks at Turner and he scowls with more than necessary vehemence.

"In the meantime, can I get you boys anything? Or are you just here to grill me?"

"I'll have the classic with cheese and a large fries and a chocolate shake," I say, the words spilling from my mouth before I can stop them. "Please."

Rexi blinks at me and looks at Turner.

He gives her a lazy smile that makes my heart clench with nonsensical jealousy.

I really need to eat something.

"The same for me," he says.

We retreat to a picnic bench to wait for our order and I make sure to sit as far away from Turner as I can.

"She's interesting," Turner says, nodding towards the food truck, where Rexi trades places with her one employee, taking over the grill while the other woman stands at the window.

"You believe her?"

"No reason I shouldn't," I say, shrugging.

"She seems genuine."

"Yeah," he agrees, still watching the food truck like a cat watching a bird. "She does. Then again, a lot of things that seem genuine turn out to be fake."

The burgers are delicious.

Mine is, anyway and from the first bite to the last, my attention is nowhere else.

Finally, my appetite sated at last, I look up to find Turner watching me with the same predatory keenness with which he'd been watching Rexi before.

Self-consciously, I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin and note that he's only a few bites into his own meal, while I've reduced mine to a bit of stray tomato and greasy paper.

"Sorry," I say, apologizing reflexively. "I was hungry."

"No need to be sorry," he says, still staring at me with a gaze that could spark a fire.

"In fact, that should be my line. I've been a poor host so far. I usually only eat one meal a day. I should have remembered most... people... require more regular nourishment."

I recall how, the night before, he'd eaten over half the pizza on his own.

"You always eat like that?" I ask.

"Since my divorce," he says with a shrug. "I'm no cook and it's less hassle that way. I only have to think about it once a day."

I laugh.

"I guess that's how it is in the wild, huh? Most carnivores are lucky if they eat once a day."

The look he gives me is so intense it makes me really glad we're not eating at that place Rexi mentioned because holy shit, he could snap his fingers and have me on my knees.

I look away, hoping he doesn't see that on my face, perceptive as he is and clear my throat.

"Anyway, if you're open to it, I can cook, if you like. I can, you know... While I'm staying with you, that is... To, like... help out or whatever."

"I won't stop you," he says, popping a fry in his mouth with a level of hotness that should be illegal. "I always appreciate a good meal."

'Jesus fucking Christ.'

If the man told me to bend over right now, right in front of Rexi's innocent food truck and the family seated at the next bench over, I'd do it.

I cough and take a sip of milkshake to cool my head.

'The fuck is wrong with you, hombre? Get your mind out the fucking gutter already. Concentrate on Kyle.'

"So, what next?" I ask. "We gonna keep on the trail or..."

As I speak, Turner's phone buzzes.

He holds up a hand, excusing himself and checks it.

Frowning, he rises and answers it, walking away and into the adjacent park.

If he means to keep his conversation private, however, he doesn't walk far enough because I can hear his side perfectly well.

"Hey, Becky. What's up?" he asks, and waits for a reply, hips angled as he rests his weight on one side, shoulders tense. "No, no. I'm not busy. Go ahead.

He listens, head cocked to the side as he holds his phone to his ear and I see agitation in the way he shifts it to the other side.

"Hey, hey. Slow down. You know I can't take them. I'm barely home as it is and..." he pauses again, listening. "No, I get that. But Becky, listen to me. I can't just..."

He goes stiff, chest heaving as if he's about to enter fight or flight mode and my nerves tingle as at a threat of danger as his voice raises in pitch and volume.

"You did what? I swear to God, Becky, if you don't..."

He holds the phone away from his face, checking the screen, then pockets it with forced calmness and strides back towards our table, face set as stone.

Scooping up the remains of his meal, he tosses it in the trash bin, plastic tray and all.

I cast Rexi a glance and press my hands together in a 'please forgive us' gesture and trail after him towards his vehicle.

"Hey," I call. "What's going on? You got kids or something?"

He unlocks his car with a 'beep beep' from his remote key.

"Or something," he says. "Get in. We're going home."

[mamapyjnommer]

More recent foods

Japanese vegetable curry with pre-made breaded chicken cutlets. Easy katsu curry!

Five Guys! We literally never eat out but the kid was at a birthday party that just happened to be next door to a Five Guys. What can you do?

Roast chicken with mixed root mash (potato, carrot and swede), sautéed lettuce and green beans.

These were an idea from one of my moots on Twitter. Lotus root skulls on spicy mapo tofu!

Cheat pilau with leftover roast chicken, one of those curry packet rices and some chopped tomato and cucumber, mini poppadoms and chutneys

This was so damn good. Bacon, crispy grilled cheese and homemade kimchi sandwich. I urge you to do this.

Eggs Royale for Mother’s Day.

Homemadeish dorayaki! I’d never had pre-made mini pancakes before and was thrilled to find they were exactly the right size and texture for dorayaki. The first one is clotted cream and jam, like a cream tea, and the second is actual anko that we realised we bought months ago with no plans to use it. Totally doing this again.

Jesus, it’s been a month of gluttony. I’ve got one more recipe post to share once I’ve written it up—it’s an exciting one based on a meal I’ve admired for years in my favourite movie.🧹🐈‍⬛🎀🥖

[thisislizheather]

June Jaunts 2022

Whoa boy, is this late! I’ve been traveling a ton, but I won’t let this lateness happen again. Here’s what went down in June.

The best tweets of the month can be found over here and here.

I recapped how my spring list of things to do went.

I wrote my summer list of things I want to do.

Some things I’ve watched & rewatched:

Friday Night Lights - it’s still a great show, just maybe not as incredible as I remembered it from the first viewing. Best two lines of all time though? “You might be the luckiest man and not even know it.” As well as, “Success is not a goal, it’s a byproduct.”

The Way, Way Back - UGH! It was not good. Other than Sam Rockwell being his usual great self, the whole movie just falls flat. As if someone watched Adventureland and loved it so much that they wanted to make their own terrible version.

PEN15 - An insanely good show. The best episode might be the bottle one about Maya’s mother. Can’t say enough good things about this perfect show.

Stealing Beauty - forever a favourite. A young girl goes to the Italy countryside to find herself? Nothing more poetic.

How do I feel about the trailer for Hocus Pocus 2? I just wish it had more of the classic cast in it. I’m hoping there will be surprise appearances by more of the original characters, so I’ll try to get onboard. I just hate new main characters being introduced in a beloved movie.

Forever in awe of how good the limited edition Kit Kat flavours always are.

I don’t even know the song but I love the line, “You don’t need Givenchy you need Jesus” and that’s just a very cool line. I should be embarrassed to say that aloud, but here we are.

I tried the chocolate cream cold brew at Starbucks and whoa. Fully understand the big deal now.

Trader Joe’s has this blood orange tea that is my summer iced tea obsession.

My dear friends Katie & Greg got me a gift certificate for Paintbucket in Brooklyn, so I went for a pedicure and loved it. Choosing a colour from a swatch on the wall is such a great idea. There’s definitely something The Wing-inspired about the design motif of the place itself, but I’m still into it. They offer wine and the service was great - of course it’s overpriced for what it is, but it’s nice to have a decadent little experience every once in awhile.

Above Photo: Paintbucket in Brooklyn

I’m dying to make these summer recipes:

Marinated Tomato BLATs

Sun Dried Tomato Corn Chowder

Cheesy Poblano Corn Enchiladas

Crispy Southern Corn Fritters

Blueberry-Ginger Buckle

Some things I’m looking forward to doing this month: I’m going to write full posts on each city I visited on my trip from last month, I’d like to see something on Broadway, I want to eat all of the summer corn and tomatoes I can get my hands on, and I really want to watch the new season of Only Murders In The Building.

If you’ve got any interest in reading last month’s roundup, you can see what went down in May over here.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 292: You Say Jeans

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “well anyway here’s that Touya reveal I foreshadowed like a million years ago, viva la 2020.” Dabi was all “hello world, I’ve killed 30 people and today I’m going to explain to you all why” before he proceeded to explain ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but everyone was so distracted by his tale of child abuse and hero conspiracies that they didn’t much seem to notice. Can’t Ya See-Kun’s Shark Friend was all “IS THIS THE END OF HERO SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT”, and Horikoshi was all “STAY TUNED”, and then Dabi set himself on fire and leaped off of Machia’s back like the chaotic evil, I-just-bleached-all-my-brain-cells weird little fire man he is, ready to burn everyone to crispy bits before they could even react properly to his whole big revenge speech. Fortunately he did not succeed on account of THE RETURN OF THE JING, THE JOAT, BEST FUCKING JEANIST, back from the dead by popular demand in what critics are calling “the best fucking comeback since Jesus himself.”

Today on BnHA: Best Jeanist snatches up Machia and the rest of the League with his fiber steel cables before you can say “more like BEAST JEANIST amirite.” Dabi gets all worked up and lights Hadou on fire which is a real JERK MOVE, and is all “THIS RIGHT HERE IS ALSO ENDEAVOR’S FAULT”, which, NOT SUPER CONVINCED ON THAT, BUT OKAY. Anyway so then he burns up all the cables holding him which is crazeballs btw, and then he and Shouto start fighting, and so basically the whole thing is a literal hot mess and we’ll see how that goes. Meanwhile Tomura wakes up and summons some Noumus, and poor Jeanist has to deal with those on top of the still-attempting-to-rampage Gigantomachia, and everyone else is all “we can’t help you on account of we’re all half dead”, and so it’s looking really bad. And then -- and I can’t stress enough how much I don’t even have the faintest idea how to segue into this next part -- the chapter ends with Mirio!?! just sort of POPPING UP OUT OF THE GROUND all, “SURPRISE, BITCH”, and it literally was so surprising that I am still just kind of speechless. WELL-PLAYED, I GUESS, lol wtf.

lol okay so the first page in the RHA scan is just the “three musketeers” movie promo image that we all already saw a few days ago. but it does confirm that (a) it is indeed a movie, and (b) that it’s set for a summer 2021 release! how exciting

okay so now back to our special Dabi edition of Making a Murderer

“ray of hope” oh hell yes. SAVE US MR. JEANIST

I guess he had a TV in his private hero jet or something?

gotta say, “dammit Dabi” does not even remotely sound like Authentic Best Jeanist Dialogue to me though. gonna need Caleb to see to this. well but what do you guys think? does Best Jeanist curse?? I personally feel like he’s one of those guys who NEVER EVER swears no matter what, except under the most hilariously trifling circumstances. like he’s eating an avocado one day and he accidentally stains the cuffs of his beloved jostume green and he’s all “FUCK��

btw how fucking rich is Best Jeanist though that he has his own fucking plane? the thought just suddenly occurred to me, you know? like even Endeavor, whose agency has its own on-site luxury apartment suites for all of his interns, still drives around in a dinky little car that Bakugou has declared to be too small. which, I guess we know why he felt that way now, seeing as the guy he previously interned with apparently gets around in Jeans Force One

anyway so back to the part where Jeanist shows up to save the day!! YEAH JEANIST WOOOOO

ILU JEANIST YOU REALLY ARE THE BEST!! HUGS AND KISSES!!!

lmao we just saw Gigantomachia take out like a hundred guys not ten chapters ago. and Best Jeanist shows up and takes him down in like two seconds. HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES LEAGUE OF VILLAINS. BET YOU’RE WISHING YOU’D TAKEN HIS QUIRK NOW, AFO. GET FUCKED YOU OLD SPUD

KACCHAN IS SO HAPPY TO SEE HIM AWW

SIDE NOTE, IIDA, YOU AND I ARE GONNA HAVE WORDS LATER ABOUT YOU ACTUALLY AGREEING TO PUT HIM BACK DOWN. YOU DO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS CHILD IS STILL DRIPPING BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE FROM HIS MULTIPLE STAB WOUNDS, RIGHT? WAY TO ASSERT YOUR AUTHORITY THERE. I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE CLASS PRESIDENT NOT THE CLASS CLOWN, COME ON NOW

LMAO DABI IS FRANTICALLY TRYING TO DO THE PLOT MATH

SHOULDA CHECKED MORE CLOSELY MY GOOD MARK. LOOKS LIKE YOU MISSED THE “MADE IN CHINA” STICKER ON THE BOTTOM. YOU HAVE BEEN BAMBOOZLED. OR ACTUALLY, I GUESS THE MORE ACCURATE WORD HERE IS JAMBOOZLED, AHAHAHAHA. JEANS

HOLY SHIT DABI

I legit almost thought that was Tomura for a second. you two look so alike now with the white hair and the crazy eyes

meanwhile, Shouto is still crying and it’s a lot to take, you guys. lotta feels

ffff come on Jeanist you better do something awesome again here, the mood of the chapter is starting to slip now

YES, GOOD, THAT’LL WORK

WELL YOU TELL ME, SPINNER. I GUESS THAT MEANS BEST JEANIST IS OFFICIALLY THE STRONGEST CHARACTER IN THE SERIES NOW. SORRY I DON’T MAKE THE RULES

ffff now Spinner is trying to wake Tomura back up. nah, how’s about we not do that

OH MY GOD HADOU YESSSS

MY GIRL OUT HERE WITH THE “NO THANK YOU” BOUT TO CURBSTOMP THE BIG BAD WITH HER QUIRK KSFHLKLK WHO HERE HAD “HADOU SAVES THE DAY” ON YOUR WAR ARC BINGO CARDS, YOU LOVE TO SEE IT!!

HEY!!!!

fucking son of a... fffkfkff... someone please reassure me that fire isn’t Hadou’s weakness. someone. anyone. also could someone please dial an ambulance and send them to Horikoshi’s house. but not just yet. first I’m gonna need you to wait about fifteen minutes or so while I take care of some things

well all right then, Dabi. so you wanna go on then and explain to us all how this, too, is somehow Endeavor’s fault?

oh I see, you’ve decided that since he’s responsible for “creating” you, everyone you hurt and kill is in truth really being hurt and killed by him! well now, that sure is convenient as fuck I guess

(ETA: that’s a nice effect with the panel sides getting all warped by Dabi’s quirk though, just noticed that.)

amazing how quickly you used up that sympathy card my guy. Shouto please kick his ass, I’m fucking done lol, you can all sort out the rest in therapy later

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE DIAL BACK DEKU’S EMPATHY STATS JUST A LITTLE BIT, HOLY --

“TODOROKI-KUN IS HURT THE MOST”, HE SAYS, WITH HIS ARM BONES SHATTERED INTO LITTLE TOOTHPICK-SIZED PIECES. I MEAN, HE’S PROBABLY TALKING MORE ABOUT MENTAL ANGUISH GIVEN THE CONTEXT HERE, BUT STILL. THAT’S ENOUGH HEROICS FROM YOU ALREADY FOR ONE DAY

NOOO JEANIST

LOTS OF SMOKE IN THE AIR RIGHT ABOUT NOW AND MY BOY’S STILL DOWN A LUNG. GOD DAMMIT

“if the number one suffers a total loss here, this country will fall to pieces” well okay, real talk though, I think the “country falling to pieces” part is pretty much unavoidable at this juncture. you all are just gonna have to try your best to pick up those pieces after the fact and see what you can do with them. if I were you I’d be less worried about the number one’s reputation and more concerned with the half-dozen child soldier interns who are still on the field and very much at risk of being burned to death should you suffer that “total loss.” please try to keep it together here for them

OH FOR FUCK’S

I really thought RockLockRock was gonna come into play here. USE YOUR QUIRK TO LOCK THE ROPES IN PLACE YOU DIP!! if he seriously just sits there and does nothing when his quirk could be the deciding factor I am cancelling his useless ass cute kid or no cute kid shfkjdls

(ETA: is he even there?? did he and Manual just hightail it out of there?? “well good luck, children.”)

also, we’ll put this aside for now to perhaps speculate about later, but what’s with Tomura remembering his dad’s house yet again in that far right panel?? and being itchy again?? I still have yet to fully work out the psychological mechanisms at work as far as his itchiness goes, so I’ll admit this is intriguing to me. it seemed like it was connected to his decay quirk, but then why is it acting up again now. what is this lol

yuh oh

forgot about these guys. looks like these heroes aren’t having such a fun time

oh fucksticks

excuse me ma’am but I don’t like this. you do know that my kids are all there, right. all burnt and impaled and broken-boned and the like. well except for Iida. he’s fine still. BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I FEEL LIKE WATCHING HIM GET TORN APART BY FOUR HIGH ENDS, WTF

HORIKOSHI YOU MOTHERFUCKER I SWEAR TO GOD

god fucking... okay look. Horikoshi. you win, okay!? congratulations, you win, this is your show and we’re all just sitting here at your mercy. fine. go ahead and just kill off everyone ever, then!! what am I even gonna do about it. stop reading?? fuck

this whole thing really went from zero to fucked before I could even blink huh. I really thought this was gonna be a turning point chapter for the heroes. shows what I know I guess??

meanwhile this motherfucker is just SCREAMING

ngl, if I wasn’t currently terrified on account of things suddenly taking such a drastic turn for the worse, this would be the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Jeanist my man, I hype you up like it’s my job because you are the greatest fucking meme character in the history of time, but make no mistake, you are also highkey WORTH ALL THE HYPE AND THEN SOME

seriously, though. don’t fucking mind him you guys, he’s just standing here in the coolest pose of all time taking on Gigantomachia all alone with one fucking lung because the substance pumping through his veins is COLD-BLOODED LIQUID DENIM, and DENIM FEELS NO FEAR

Best Jeanist really needs to get his own theme song. -- oh my god I just finally thought of a title for this post. lmao and it’s the dumbest thing. omg

MEANWHILE THE TODOROKI BROS ARE OFF IN THEIR OWN DRAMATIC LITTLE FIRE WORLD

which one do you think is the Mario and which is the Luigi. well, but I mean, Dabi clearly thinks that he’s the Luigi though and that’s why he’s so mad. nobody wants to be Luigi. what a life

THAT’S IT, SHOUTO!! POINT OUT ALL OF HIS HYPOCRITICAL BULLSHIT, I WANT ANSWERS

JUST TO CLARIFY, IT’S THAT NATSU, NOT SOME OTHER NATSU!! SO WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF!!

OH, WELL IN THAT CASE

BUT OF COURSE. THAT WOULD MAKE IT ALL WORTHWHILE, holy shit. okay I’m just gonna go ahead and say it, Dabi is a piece of work. I really thought this arc would make him more sympathetic at long last, but it seems like it’s doing just the opposite?? this is like an anti-redemption arc. I don’t relish the thought of venturing into the fandom tags once I finish reading this lol

(ETA: well folks, I’ve done it. and actually it was pretty interesting because there are apparently like ten different things that people are mad about, and so it’s like. each post is a new adventure lmao.)

so Shouto is all “BRUH HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST IT” and Dabi is all “YES”, basically? like, he says he’s completely lost his feeling for anything. omg. but you were so sweet. how does that even happen

“finally I can kill you” okay for real what the heck is your damage bro?? can we not. I like Shouto just the way he is, un-killed

oh shit and now the Noumus are here

cue Bakugou diving in to save his mentor, STAB WOUNDS BE DAMNED!! actually it would make more sense for it to be Iida, but if Kacchan is really fixin’ to go full Shounen Dumbass here then he might as well go all out, y’know

-- unless of course, Deku decides to activate another quirk??

“last I checked, the main character of this series was still me” OH? WELL I SUPPOSE THAT IS TRUE, SO PRAY TELL, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT LEFT UP YOUR SLEEVE YOU SUICIDAL BRUSSELS SPROUT

fucking love how he’s all “HAHAHA WITH MY NEW QUIRKS I CAN STILL DO STUPID SHIT EVEN WITH MY ARMS AND LEGS GROUND TO A FINE POWDER” btw. what can I say. Deku gonna Deku

FMMFHDKUHK W H A T

HOLY SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. WHAT THE WHAT. QUE THE FUCK

(ETA: okay look, all the love in the world to the brave scanlators who take time out of their lives to translate the leaks every week just so we can read the chapter a couple of days early like the addicts we are. that said, translating Mirio’s signature “POWER!!” -- which was already written in English in the original scan -- to “POG-CHAMP” is just a whole new level of wtfuckery from them lmao. is the Lida person back at it again?? amazing.)

MIRIO!?!?! SHOWS UP TO SAVE THE DAY?!?! POGS HIMSELF UP OUT THE GROUND TO BEAT THE NOUMUS LIKE IT AIN’T NO THING. JUST LIKE WE ALL PREDICTED!? I’M SORRY, DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING?? YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOUR DAILY HOROSCOPE FROM ASTROLOGY DOT COM DIDN’T HAVE THAT ONE IN THE CARDS?? WAS IT NOT OBVIOUS?? TODOROKIS PLUS BEST JEANIST EQUALS MIRIO??

hot damn. Tintin really saw the writing on the wall with the impending Dabi Discourse and was all “NOT SO FAST” lmao. “HERE’S A BRAND NEW THING FOR YOU ALL TO DISCOURSE ABOUT” MIRIO YOU WILD CHILD. YOU GLORIOUS THUG

MEANWHILE LET’S NOT FORGET WHAT MIRIO HAVING HIS POWERS BACK ACTUALLY IMPLIES. HOLY SHIT. SUDDENLY WE CUT BACK TO ALL MIGHT’S OFFICE, ALL THE WAY BACK AT UA. ERI BRANDISHES HER TOKOYAMI-GIFTED BUSTER SWORD, A DETERMINED GLEAM IN HER EYE. “I HEARD YOU WERE TRYING TO HAVE A GIRL POWER ARC WITHOUT ME.” OH. MY. GOD

[imagine-straykids]

★ Sincerely, Lee Know | Ver. 01

★ Summary: In an alternate universe where Lee Minho AKA Lee Know is a sassy blogger. You get to see with your very own eyes everything he documents on his blog, whether that's his thoughts on a recent movie he had just watched, his experience eating at Taco Bell for the first time, or the bitch he almost had to fight, Lee Minho will stop at nothing to get his points across.

★ Discretion: I hope it's not confusing, but this is a roleplay? I thought the idea would be fun. A lot of cursing and mature contents will be discussed, but nothing too over the top. Beware excessive cringe maybe. This is a series. Enjoy!

★ You are currently viewing: About Me

Hi, my name is Lee Know, or I guess if we're getting personal here: Lee Minho. Although I prefer Lee Know because people always get me confused with the actor Lee Minho.

I rant and complain A LOT, but I don't think I need to tell you that, because you'll be finding it out for yourself later. But I have the mouth the size of the pacific ocean, and holding back is the last thing Lee Know does. So if you're a sensitive little bitch, then do not continue any further. If you still do and proceed to come for me, then well... that's between you and god.

More about myself? Well... I'm just your average everyday guy, but better. I like to listen to music and dance on my free time. And when I'm not doing that, then I usually hang out with my crew. They can be real idiotic and sometimes I wonder why am I even putting myself through their shit, but they are the real homies. Have been with me since forever and I know they will always have my back, so watch out.

Why I started this blog? Well, funny story. I got into an argument with Chan one day, btw shoutout to @christopherbangcorner go follow and like his stuff. I know he told me to not tell anyone about his blog but I could give two shit. Anyways, we were arguing and he said to me "You run that mouth of yours so much, why don't you put it to good use for once." so here I am. So if you're interested, keep reading. If you're just coming here to hate on me, then well... that's going to be difficult because I'm quite a likable person if I say so myself. I'm just kidding... ish.

Anyways. That's that. Proceed with caution!

Sincerely, Lee Know.

★ You are currently viewing: Rants

rant #1 2:35 p.m.

I swear, hoes these days be thirsty asf. Me and Hyunjin just wanted to go to the convenience store to get some things Chan's lazy ass ordered us to, and we legit got followed the whole way there. ARE PEOPLE LITERALLY THAT JOBLESS! Leave us alone next time or don't say I didn't warn you when I whip out my asian slipper and slap every one of you so hard you're going to regret ever meeting me in this lifetime. And like, aren't you guys supposed to be in class right now? Go back, Jesus. Bet every one of y'all are failing. How would your mothers feel if she knows you're ditching class to go chase some dicks.

10,334 views | 234 comments

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rant #2 7:02 p.m.

Yo, I just suddenly remembered the rudest customer I ever had. So I used to work at this Boba shop during my high school days, and this motherfucker with his cupcake shaped hair jimmy neutron looking ass came in and started yelling at me for getting his order wrong. Like bro... why you tryna fight a 16 year old about a $4 drink. Chill tf out. There are children dying in Africa. Now that I think about it, 16 year old me was on some adult shit. 22 year old me now would've spit in his drink.

12,943 views | 301 comments

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rant #3 5:12 p.m.

Learn to wear a goddamn mask. I will not repeat myself. You ain't no Rosa Parks, you just a stupid headass. Do all these people really think they're doing sum?

9,135 views | 212 comments

★ You are currently viewing: Photos

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★ sincerelyleeknow has uploaded a photo!

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uploaded at 10:05 A.M.

It likes me, I promise.

24,352 views | 12,842 likes | 563 comments

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uploaded at 2:15 P.M.

Yes, we know we're hot.

30,041 views | 15,624 likes | 784 comments

★ You are currently viewing: Home

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★ sincerelyleeknow just posted something!

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posted at 3:57 P.M.

yo, wtf. people actually read the shit that I write? no offense, but are you guys like... okay?! i sorta created this blog out of spite but now I just might have to roll with it.

13,524 views | 267 comments

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posted at 4:43 P.M.

I'm bored and my inbox are open. Send me something. No nudes or creepy ass messages please. There's a block button and I'm not afraid to use it.

16,223 views | 304 comments

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➤ potofnoodle923 asked: dang shawty, you cute.

sincerelyleeknow replied: tell me something I don't know.

➤ anonymous asked: why are you wearing makeup? that's gay. You're not funny and all of your followers suck.

sincerelyleeknow replied: why you mad bro? I bet you sent that from your mom's basement. go out and get some sunlight my dude. bitter ass mf i know you're scared.

➤ caillou_caillou0 asked: you're cute and all but why your hair be looking crispy.

sincerelyleeknow replied: okurr caillou. at least I have hair.

➤ flowerbeauty7 asked: go out with me?

sincerelyleeknow replied: I might consider if you're paying

➤ anonymous asked: fucking traitor hoe.

sincerelyleeknow replied: ayy chill out Chan. I helped promote your blog.

➤ anonymous asked: your friend on the right of one your photo is cute or whatever. he single?

sincerelyleeknow replied: get in line, sis

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★ sincerelyleeknow just posted something!

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posted at 6:22 P.M.

okay well that was a fucking mistake. anyways, I'm gonna bounce now. prob answer more tmr or whenever I'm not procrastinating. some of y'all weird as fuck.

11,557 views | 242 comments

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~ Sincerely, Lee Know

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: there will be better days

I’m so glad about the ending of Supernatural. It found its way, in the end. This fic is me drawing out that sensation as long as I could. I hope y’all like it, but it was written in a small way for a special group in a special discord, because I’m so glad we got to experience this dumb happy thing together. <3

title: there will be better days pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 9500 words tags: Post-Season/Series 15, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Heaven, First Time, Pining Dean Winchester

summary: Sam and Dean settle into their heaven.

(read on AO3)

They stand on the bridge, in quiet, for…

How long? It doesn't matter. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back and Sam's shoulder tucks against his side, Sam being kind enough to slump down against the railing so that the position works, at all. The view's beautiful. Some woods, a river. A place Dean doesn't recognize but that hums with steady life. What a miracle, that death can bring them something new.

He's splitting his attention, though. The trees, the flowing water, the late-summer feel where the bright gold of everything burnishes down toward fall, it's a sweet goad toward peace, but. Dean's eyes drag away, every few minutes, and it's just—Sam. His eyes steady on the rush of the receding water, and his hair tucked behind his ear, and his back, steadily rising and falling under Dean's hand. Not pulling away. Not fidgeting, or impatient. Like he'd be content with this, exactly this, as long as eternity stretches out in front of them.

A bird flits by, blue-and-white against the green of the trees. Sam's eyes follow it and he smiles, just barely, a pull of lips that makes Dean's heart thump sorely against the inside of his ribs. His body keeps thrilling, reminding him, over and over: Sam. Sam. He slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, and Sam's eyes slide to his face. "Ready?" he says.

Sam doesn't ask for what. "Yeah," he says, soft and easy, and Dean drops his head, laughs. Something that had been knotted in his chest, for years and years, loose now—everything in him, free.

He steps back, and Sam turns to keep him in sight. Dean spins the keys to the car in his palm, grinning. "You want to drive?" he says, tipping his head at the car.

Sam blinks. Shakes his head, and swallows, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "No," he says, and clears his throat, and shakes his head again. "No, I want you to drive."

*

On the road Dean gives Sam a version of the same explanation that Bobby gave him. "We can go see him," Dean says, glancing across the seat, and Sam smiles and says, "We will," but he says, "Later," and Dean's—yeah, he's good with that. Later. They have forever, to do anything they want.

It's hard to wrap his head around. He doesn't know how long he waited, for Sam. A lifetime. The length of a drive. It felt—feels—like infinity, like every second is stretched and slow and exactly as long as it needs to be. The roads out here are gorgeous, empty, room for the Impala to stretch her legs, and Dean knows in a strange and centered way that if he wanted he could drive forever, and at the same time if he parks it'll have been ten minutes, as far as his mind's concerned, and he won't have missed a thing.

The radio's playing Zeppelin, quietly. Has been since Sam got into the car. Tangerine, right now—does she still remember times like these?—and Dean looks over to find Sam looking right at him. Dean's not sure Sam's turned his head, the whole time. He could make a crack—it rises to his lips, take a picture or what, got something on my face?—but it feels distant. He gets the impulse. Sam smiles, his back against the passenger door, and Dean smiles back sort of helplessly before he turns it back out on the road, and leans back in his seat, and settles into the drive.

*

Anything they want. Anything they could need, or dream of. There doesn't seem to be any real requirement to sleep, or to eat, or to do—anything. Time, slipping strange, and a stasis of a kind if they want it. That isn't what Dean wants, but he's not totally sure, about Sam.

The world changes around curves. Massive trees obscure the turns and it feels like a new road with every switchback. A short way past and there's—a house. Not a house Dean's seen, but he rolls slower, and Sam finally looks out the window at something that's not Dean, so—a house. Okay, Dean thinks. He can deal with a house.

Two stories, and a basement, and an attic full of dust. Dean goes into a sneezing fit when he opens up the hatch and Sam sniggers at him. It's not perfect, by any means. There's a sagging porch, and the sink in the first floor bathroom doesn't work, and there's some seriously fugly wallpaper that's peeling, and a stained carpet in the rear bedroom that, yikes, did something die on it? Would that even be possible? But Sam says, "This'll work," with content in his voice, and Dean looks around and tongues the inside of his cheek and thinks, well, yeah. This'll work fine.

There's food in the fridge, when Dean opens it. "I'll fix something," Sam says, and Dean looks at him in total surprise. A lifted shoulder, like Sam's been able to make anything other than eggs and bacon and bad, bad pasta his whole life. "What? I learned."

He did. They have chicken, roasted broccoli that Dean admit doesn't taste entirely like farts, these crispy potatoes that are—well, goddamn. There's not a dining table and so they sit out on the porch, a six pack of cold beer between them, watching the night settle in. It's cool but not cold. The lamp on the porch flickers, and Dean smiles, because he's damn sure that's not a ghost and instead that he's gonna have to rip out the wiring and start fresh.

Sam leaves his empty plate on the step behind them. He leans his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the darkening sky. The treetops are shadows against deep purple and Dean wants, very badly, to put his hand in Sam's hair, to feel his neck, his back. To settle himself against the fact of Sam's spine, his ribs and lungs, all of him here. Breathing, and here. "You learned to cook, huh," he says, instead of doing anything else, and gets to watch Sam turn his head, just a little. He's still wearing the same clothes he showed up in. Strange things, that tug a little at something Dean feels like he used to know. Sam turns his head but he doesn't look at Dean; Dean just gets his three-quarter profile, and the shape of his mouth turned a little solemn, and his eyes as they flick over the view of the dark, surrounding trees.

"Yeah, I did," Sam says, after too long. "I…"

That's all, for a few minutes. Dean puts his plate down, too (mostly clean, other than some broccoli he's not gonna be forced to eat), and shifts down one more step so they're sat right next to each other, and presses his knee against Sam's. Sam looks at their knees instead of at him.

"I wanna hear everything," Dean says. He reaches and gets Sam's hand, and squeezes it, and Sam's eyes close. Shit he wouldn't have done before, but hell—he's dead, he gets to. "Everything. Okay? Every—dumbass repair you screwed up on the car, and if you took Chinese lessons at a community college, and who won the World Series, okay, because I remember, we had a bet, and I need to know if I owe you or you owe me."

Sam swallows. "Jesus," he says, under his breath, and then laughs, a little. "Jesus, we did have a bet. That was—uh, that year it was the Dodgers." He swallows again, and when he opens his eyes they're wet, and a tear rolls down very slowly, against the crease of his nose, and his mouth hitches up at the side in a piled-up dimpling fold, and his chin creases, and Dean squeezes his hand very tightly. "Dodgers. But I can't remember which way you bet."

God, Sam. Dean knocks their shoulders together and lies: "Damn, I bet they were gonna lose. How's that figure, huh? I go down and my team does all in the same year? Shitty luck." Sam shudders out another laugh, wet, and nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "Guess I owe you, Sammy. Whatever you want, okay? Figure, we got time up here. I can figure it out."

Sam's chin is still shaking. A tear falls onto the back of Dean's hand, shockingly hot. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'll think of something," he says, when he can get his teeth out of his lip. Their knees grind together, close enough that Dean might get a bruise, if there's still such a thing as bruising. Sam sniffs, hard. He always was a sloppy crier. He looks at Dean a little sidelong, and smiles kind of embarrassed. Like Dean isn't an inch from losing it himself. "I kinda—I watched a lot of soccer."

Dean rolls his eyes, theatrical, and releases Sam's hand. "Of course you did," he says, layering on the disgust, and it's enough that Sam snorts and dashes his hand over his face, and when Dean gathers up their plates Sam's enough together that he can repeat his old dumb argument that there's a lot of strategy to find interesting in soccer, and anyway over the years the U.S. got better so it wasn't even really like rooting for foreign teams. Dean brushes it off, like he always did, and the argument's dumb but it feels—right. Something locking in, something solid. He washes the plates by hand in the sink and Sam dries them, and stacks them in the rickety cupboard Dean's definitely going to build a replacement for, and then he braces his hands on the countertop and closes his eyes again and breathes, slow. Calm, now, but still something built up inside that Dean doesn't know.

It doesn't bug him, like it might have, before. Dean chews his lip, and drains the sink, and tosses the dishrag over the faucet to dry, and says, neutral, "Hey." Sam makes a small noise, so he's not in some other universe. "Just—one thing. How long?" Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder. "It's—with how the time works, up here, I got no idea. How long was it, for you?"

He looks the same, is the thing. The same as he did when Dean was standing there, in the dark, with that strange numbness everywhere south of his spine and a stillness creeping up in his heart. The terror of that moment has already faded but the rest of the feeling is right there—looking at Sam and loving every single part of him. Pinning him into memory, exactly as he was, with his goddamn stupid haircut and his wide mouth. A few greys, at his temples. His body, lean-but-muscled, trim from running. His eyes, beautiful, even as panicked as they were, even as he told Dean that it was okay.

It wasn't. Dean knows that, now. Sam's cheek sucks in, on one side. "I was 68," he says. Dean feels the air go out of himself, a little. That's—jesus. Sam doesn't look sad about it. Not exactly. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, tipping his head. "I was—I was in bed. It wasn't bad."

Dean bites the corner of his mouth. "Guess that makes you the older brother, then, huh?"

Sam smiles, just a little. "No," he says, and doesn't elaborate more than that.

*

There are two bedrooms, upstairs. That first night they sleep in the living room, watching old movies on an old TV, Dean in a recliner that's ridiculously comfortable when he kicks the footrest out and Sam on the couch. He wakes up at dawn to Sam still sleeping, his arms folded around a pillow like he always used to do, still in that old jacket, that hooded sweater bunched up and twisted around his waist. Dean recognizes it, now. He dreamed it. His heart feels like it can hardly take knowing, but there it is, anyway. His face is soft, sleeping, and Dean gets up with his back aching just a little—turns out that there are still aches—and he crouches down, and he settles his hand on Sam's jaw, and runs his thumb over the sharp-angled turn of his cheekbone. Sam opens his eyes, slow but not like he was even really asleep, and he looks at Dean looking at him, and Dean just—it's enough. If it was just this, for eternity and past it, that would be—that'd be good.

There's a library, in the house. A small office kind of room, off the kitchen, but Sam says the books change, when he goes in and out, so it stays fresh. The fridge always seems to have something in it. There's always gas, in the car, although sometimes little things need fixing, and in the garage there are things that Dean can use to fix it, so he gets to spend afternoons contented under the big black bulk, while Sam hands him things from the toolbox, and is distracted half the time from reading so that he hands Dean the 3/8s wrench instead of the 5/8s wrench, but that gives Dean an opportunity rag on him so it works out, either way.

"Mom and Dad are here," Dean says, one day. He's doing the wiring, on the porch. As good a place to start as any. Sam's helping, kind of—actual electric work apparently wasn't one of the things he learned, over the years. "They've got a house, Bobby said."

"That's great," Sam says, and when Dean looks down he looks like he means it, soft smile and all, but Sam doesn't suggest they visit, and Dean thinks—well, later's still always on the table. They haven't gone anywhere, really, except for drives sometimes through the mountain roads, and Sam's gone for his runs in the early dawn before Dean wakes up, and Dean's found on a path through the trees a good creek, where he's fished with Sam mostly ignoring him, reading again in a lawnchair with his bare feet kicked out into the soft grass, but still paying just enough attention to smirk behind his book when Dean doesn't catch anything.

They don't really stay apart for more than the time it takes to leave a room and come back. Even with those runs, Dean only knows they happened because as he's waking up Sam comes back with sweat in his hair, and Dean gets to make fun of him for stinking up the place before Sam rolls his eyes and clatters into the bathroom to turn on the creaking ancient shower, and he leaves the door open when he does so Dean can hear the water running, and the splashing, and how Sam's apparently started to hum. He doesn't sing, but Dean recognizes the tunes anyway. When Sam comes out Dean has breakfast ready—they take turns on dinner, but for some reason Sam doesn't like to make breakfast, anymore—and they eat, and then there's some project to do or a movie to watch or a book to finish, and—Sam's right there, solidly content. Like he's making up for lost time, and taking his sweet time in doing so.

Whisky, one night. In the cupboard. It's good—some Scottish blend Crowley had left in the bunker, once, sharp and sweet and rolling smoke down the throat—and they're out on the porch again, on the new bench this time, watching the sunset come down. Sam's mostly holding his glass, rather than drinking, but he looks okay. Head leaned back against the wall, and his shoulders relaxed, broad and strong. He doesn't seem to mind that Dean watches him as much as he does the sky, but he's looking thoughtful, and finally Dean says, "Tell me." Sam rolls his head against the wall, and meets Dean's eyes. "It's been on your mind, all day. Spit it out, man."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You would've made a good therapist, you know that?" he says. Dean raises his eyebrows. "I've been… I had a son."

Dean's jaw drops. "That's—" he starts, and his brain doesn't supply anything else. Shock—bewilderment—joy, and it's the joy that wins out, and he punches Sam in the shoulder and says, "Frickin' mazel tov, dude! That's—what was his name?"

"Ow," Sam says, half-laughing, clutching his arm. "What do you think? I named him after you."

"Great choice, pick the handsome brother," Dean says, nearly automatic, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, but Dean's still spinning through it, taking it in. Sam—with a little boy—and Dean wants to know everything, everything, but Sam's gone from content to content-but-pensive, and Dean makes fun of him for going emo a lot, but this is… "He a good kid? Doing the name proud?"

"Yeah, he is," Sam says. He huffs, after a second, like he's remembering something—some memory that Dean doesn't share. There's been a lot of that, really, although Dean's not sure Sam notices when it happens. "You'd hate his taste in music, though. And he drives an electric car."

"Heathen," Dean says, and Sam raises his hands in surrender, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Dean looks at his back, broad in the grey t-shirt. He sips at his scotch. "We could—probably see him. I'd like to meet him. And you must…" Miss him, is what he wants to say, except that his heart seems to catch up to what it means, what Sam's saying. That he had a boy, a kid, and he was old enough to drive and have shitty taste in music, and it was a whole life—that the kid had a mother, and Sam had a world separate to this one, and of course Dean knew that and Dean always wanted that for him, and that was true, that wasn't ever a lie no matter what else Dean felt, deep inside where he never, ever intended for it to matter, but. Dean misses Jack, sometimes, in a soft sore way—misses Ben, even, when that pain's far-distant and not even truly his to feel—but what Sam's going through, that's different, and Dean doesn't know how to touch it.

Sam shakes his head, though. "I do," he says, answering what Dean couldn't say out loud. "But I—no, I don't want to see him. Not yet. He's living, and I think—I hope he's doing the best he can. I was kind of an old dad. Old-fashioned maybe, too, but I taught him right, I think, and he'll be okay. I want to just—let him live. In my head. You know? And later, when he's finally—god, he'd better be really old—then. I'd want to see him then."

Dean gets it, and doesn't. He's not sure he could've waited another minute for Sam, if he'd been forced to. He picks up Sam's glass, abandoned on the bench between them, and holds it forward. Sam takes it, and accepts Dean's clink when it's offered. "To Dean," he says, and Sam huffs and gives him a slanted look back over his shoulder, but he nods, and repeats it, and they finish the bottle between them that night.

*

Funny, that they ended up in the mountains. Kansas was all flat prairie and farmland and endless horizons, and Dad used to joke sometimes when they'd drive across the country's flat middle that you could roll a marble all the way from Abilene to Lincoln and the only way it'd stop is if someone picked it up. Up here it feels—different. With the hills, and the trees. Like they could be hemmed in, if they were feeling bad about it, but instead it just feels like shelter. A place of their own. A place to make their own.

Sam left the bunker, he says, one day. A fishing day, when Dean's got his cooler full of cheap beer and Sam's working on yet another friggin' book, though this time he's at least enjoying the cool air, watching the birds and the river more than he's got his nose in some old dude's ancient wisdom. "Couldn't stay," he says, and Dean—yeah. That makes sense.

Little revelations, now and then. Sam doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tell them, but he doesn't seem to feel bad about them, either. Like they're sorrows mostly dealt with, or details that don't matter in the grand scheme. Dean never had a place, when Sam was gone from him, but even the car—he couldn't drive it, when Sam wasn't there in the passenger seat beside him. He gets how the bunker could've been less a shelter than a prison, when the halls were empty, and the silence got too thick. "I left it to him," Sam says, after a little while. He tucks his bookmark into his spot, tucks the book under his arms. Dean's just holding onto the fishing pole at this point, barely paying attention to the line, but Sam's watching it for the both of them. "I didn't—take him there, ever, but I told him about hunting, about the job, and I left a letter. Explaining it all, with the key and everything. It's there if he wants it."

"Good," Dean says. Sam glances at him. "Someone should use it. He's a legacy, too."

"Yeah, he is," Sam says, and it's quiet for some reason, and then he nods down at the creek. "You're getting a bite, dude—" and oh damn it, see, this is why Sam's a distraction on fishing trips, and Dean fumbles the rod and cusses at his brother and Sam just laughs, and the afternoon's easy, and Dean finally does get a damn fish and brings it home and considers leaving the guts under Sam's pillow, but instead he fries it up with dill and cornmeal and Sam makes nearly orgasmic noises, eating out on the porch because Dean still hasn't built them a table, and Dean says, "Jeez, dude, get a room," and his ears are pink but—he's happy. Sam's happy. That's been the only goal, this whole damn time. A falling-down house in the mountains, with the two of them totally alone, turns out to be as good a place to be happy as any. Go figure, Dean thinks, watching Sam suck his fingers and then turn his eyes hopefully toward the kitchen for more.

*

A drive. There's a road that snakes up high, ending in an empty lookout point, and Sam convinces Dean to come further—a hike, up to the very top of the mountain, where the trees start to thin and there's a view like—

"Holy shit," Dean says, when he heaves himself up over that last friggin' boulder, and Sam says, "Right?"

A vastness. The forest is thick and the sky's this clear, depthless blue, and the valleys and hills spread out in front of them untouched. Like they're really the only people in all of heaven, nothing but them and the trees and the house. Sam stands with his hands on his hips, looking out, looking like a damn model for that weird orange hiking jacket he's wearing, and Dean sits down on a handy flat rock and feels the sun on his back, takes it in. "You know, I thought the memory thing would've been okay, honestly," Dean says. Sam glances back at him. Instantly knows what Dean means, from the way he's furrowing his massive forehead in disbelief. "I mean, maybe it would've gotten boring, I don't know. Stuck on our hamster wheels forever. But there was good stuff, in there, and we—I mean. We would've been together. Right?"

It had been brutally painful, at the time, but in later years Dean had thought about it. Approached it cautious, like something that would break if he touched it. Soulmates, he thinks, now, deliberate inside his own head, and Sam smiles, like somehow he heard it. "Yeah, I guess so," he says. He tips his head. "Could've watched that memory of you turfing it into the pasture on that wraith hunt about a hundred times, I think."

Dean raises his eyebrows, says, "Ha," while Sam grins at him, but then Sam looks back out at the view. "Would've been some choice ones of you, too, you know," he says, but then shakes his head, even if Sam's not looking anymore. "This is—better, though. Glad Jack did it like this."

"And Cas," Sam says, and, yeah. Cas.

Dean takes a deep breath. He hasn't gone there, in his head, really. Castiel, free of the death he'd cursed himself to, free of darkness. Dean drags his hand over his stubble, remembering. The dark, reaching out. He looks out at the clear, bright day. "He was in love with me," he says.

Sam turns his head, but Dean's focused on the trees—past them—through to that day. All the time after, Dean never said anything about it, out loud or even in his head. They hadn't had a body to burn, and Sam hadn't asked questions, careful and kind in that way Sam had learned to be once he was older, and it had been an old bruise, unhealed, that Dean didn't like to press on because what was the point? It doesn't hurt now, but it's…

"He told you?" Sam says, and Dean nods. A pause, again, and Sam comes and sits down on the rock, too. His hands are clasped between his knees and Dean looks at them instead of the trees. Broad and tan, and big, and calm like everything in Sam is calm, now. "And you didn't know?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "Did you?"

Sam's mouth tilts. "I wondered," he says, and Dean huffs, leans back on his hands, looks up at the clear sky. A breeze, just chilly enough that he's glad of his jacket. Sam shifts, beside him. "Did you want to see him?"

It's asked—a little careful. Like Sam doesn't want to influence him either way. Dean imagines it—praying, and saying—what? He doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't press him, and they sit there for a while, in quiet, with the breeze bringing the smell of the trees.

"I didn't marry her," Sam says, after a while. Dean lifts his head—another revelation. Sam's slowly rubbing his thumbs back and forth, a dry chafing, looking out at something Dean can't see. "She was a really good person. Good mother. I wore a ring so people wouldn't ask questions, but I—I think she would've said yes, if I'd asked, but I didn't ask. She moved across town, when Dean was ten. We got along fine—hooked up a few times, even, after we split, but it just…"

"Never came together?" Dean offers, when the pause has gone too long, and Sam lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling wry as he looks at Dean. "I know the feeling."

Maybe it was some cruelty of Chuck's. To make it impossible for anything else to feel true. Dean tips his leg out so it touches Sam's, and Sam huffs, and touches Dean's knee, and the heat of him sinks right through the denim before he pushes to his feet, and offers a hand to help Dean up, too. They walk back down the trail, back to where Dean parked the car, and they drive down the winding roads with sunset spilling through the valleys behind them, and when Dean parks in front of the house the porch light's on like they left it, and Sam's getting out and saying something about maybe burgers, for dinner, and he'll make potato salad if Dean'll take care of the cooking, and Dean has to pause, with his heart suddenly thick and full in his chest, and thinks—well, if it was intended to be a punishment, then shit if Chuck didn't get it wrong.

They have burgers, and potato salad. Sam doesn't put in enough mayo and Dean tells him so. They watch The Right Stuff, and Sam listens mostly patiently to Dean filling in all the extra details about the astronauts before he tells Dean that he's a nerd, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone's the nerd—" and they bicker, and wash the dishes, and Sam's beautiful, is the thing. Beautiful. Whole and healthy and content, in the lamplight in the house they're building. Beautiful his whole life, from when he was a little kid and Dean was wiping his snot-nose with the edge of his t-shirt to when he was a bitchy asshole of a teenager to when he was a high-handed and distant adult to when he was just—Dean's brother, paying him half-attention in the mornings, getting all his jokes, being bossy and being kind and being himself, and himself is all Dean ever wanted him to be.

Sam picks up one of the endless books that he's left on the kitchen counter. "You going to keep watching old nerd movies?" he says, a dimple tucked into his cheek.

Dean's chest feels somehow tight and full of molten gold, all at once. "Sammy," he says, and Sam hears the change in his voice, and blinks at him. Dean knows what Cas had meant, those years ago. How it could feel so entirely perfect, just to hold it like this, under your heart. To acknowledge it and know it for true. "You're it, for me. You know that, right?"

A slight tightening, around his eyes. He searches Dean's face but Dean—he doesn't know what expression he's wearing. It hardly matters.

"Our whole lives. I never—there wasn't ever really an option, for something else, but I don't think I ever even really wanted something else. Ever since I was little. It was you and me in my head, no matter how I thought about the future. I wanted you to have more but I never pictured anything else for me, not really. Even when I got the chance. Never came together, you know? But I don't think I wanted it to. All I wanted was you." Sam's lips have parted. Confusion there, but concern too, and Dean smiles at him. "I guess this sounds—this isn't like a goodbye or anything, or a… I don't know. I just… wanted you to know. In case you hadn't guessed."

Sam lays his hand on the counter, like he's looking for something steady. "Dean," he says, and then doesn't seem to know how to follow it up.

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't mean to drop a bomb on you," he says, and it's that loose knot again, an untangled free thing. Easy, when this had never, ever been easy. When he'd died for it, and lived through way worse than dying. Here, looking at Sam's expression—shock but also not quite shock—his other hand still clutched around his book—it feels like nothing but right. He smiles, looking at Sam's eyes. "After the life we had, man, this is the cherry on top. I don't need anything more than this."

He goes to bed. Sam's still standing there, in the kitchen, when he does.

*

Time moves more because they expect it to than because of any rules. Sam's been studying it, sort of, out of curiosity more than anything else, and he says he thinks that if they wanted it to be it could be about two pm in a warm July forever. Dean's noticed, even if he doesn't much care. How long have they been here, and still it's those last days of summer creeping into autumn, where it's cool in the shade and the sun's warm, and it doesn't snow, and if it rains it's just for long enough to make the house feel cozy and right, and then when the sun comes out again the world's washed-new, and he doesn't have to dig his car out of the mud.

It's raining the next morning, and Dean lays in bed with the covers pulled up around his shoulders and enjoys it, knowing there's nowhere to go. His room is his room only because it's the bed he picked, with the north-facing window and the view of the car, if he wants to glance down and see it; they leave their doors open, almost all the time, and they hardly have possessions that need keeping anywhere. He lifts up on an elbow after a while, and looks over the foot of the bed down the hall, and on the opposite end by the stairs Sam's door is open and he's a solid lump, in his bed, still snoozing through the rain, and Dean's heart folds up in his chest, looking. It tends to do that.

He goes through some morning things. Making the coffee, and sipping at a cup while he eats a slice of toast. He goes into the library and picks something off the shelf, and carries it back upstairs, and then it's the solitary, strange contentment of a morning crap (the door closes for that at least, and he'd wondered why that was something that stuck around in heaven until he experienced the weird peace of an unhurried morning), and then a coffee refill, and then it's still raining and he thinks—yeah, back to bed, crawling in with his coffee and his book, his back to the headboard, the house warm, the sifting rain outside nothing but soothing.

"Hey," he hears, and looks up.

Sam—oh. In his flannel pants and one of those v-neck sleeping shirts, black this time, his hair rumpled, leaning in his doorway. He closes his book and lets it fall down by his leg. Sam's eyes follow it, with a small frown.

"You really went for the beauty sleep, huh?" Dean says, as though the clock means anything. Even in heaven, he feels weird when Sam catches him reading. In that time in the bunker—after Jack disappeared—he'd started again, like he used to when he was in his twenties. Dumb stuff, nothing like what Sam would pick, but he liked the stories. Sam's never made fun of him for it, but he still—well, still.

Sam's still looking at the book but the silence has stretched, with the patter of the rain filling the space between. "I stayed awake for a long time, last night," he says, finally. "Thinking about stuff. What you said. Other things, too."

He seems okay. Not bitter, or angry, or even particularly stressed about it. Still, "Sorry," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, and looks up at Dean's face. "Don't be sorry." He pushes a hand through his hair, sort-of smiles. "Figures, you wouldn't say anything until you knew I was a sure thing."

Dean snorts. He moves the book over to his bedside table, leaves it with his empty coffee mug. He pulls his knees up under the blanket, making room, and Sam comes and sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up onto the mattress, looking at Dean steady and—and okay. They're okay.

"I had a dream last night," Sam says, finally. Dean nods—the dreams come pretty steadily, up here. Never nightmares, just invention, and memory recontextualized. "It was about… when Azazel had Dad. You remember that? Forever ago. All I wanted was to kill him. All you wanted was for us to be together. Remember?"

Of course, Dean remembers. The way he'd dragged Sam away from another fire. Sam looking at him with almost-pity, when he'd finally admitted what he wanted.

There's not a trace of pity in him, now. He pulls his knee up against his chest, comfortable. "You know, I thought about it," Sam says. "After you were gone. How everything felt—incomplete. Half-a-loaf. Even…" He shakes his head, and Dean wonders what goes there. He'll find out someday. "We were always breaking the world for each other. Normal siblings don't really do that. I don't know if you realized."

"I bet Mary-Kate and Ashley would give it a shot," Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, but rolls his eyes, too. "Sam—"

"I wondered," Sam interrupts. He lifts his eyebrows, a little, and Dean hears it as the echo it's meant to be. Despite everything he can feel his cheeks going pink. "If it wasn't just that we couldn't find something that was better, but that we never would. If you'd…"

He trails off. Dean picks at the blue yarn-ties on his blanket, watching Sam's face. Turned now, toward the rain outside, lit beautiful with morning. "I wouldn't have said anything," he says. Sure, somehow. "Even if we'd had—hell. Another decade, just you and me. When I said this was enough, I meant it."

"I know you did," Sam says. "And I know you wouldn't have. Because you wouldn't have wanted to ruin anything for me, right? If I had some outside shot—some kind of normal I might've dug up?" Dean nods. Sam nods, too, and then reaches out and flicks his knee through the blanket, hard it enough that it nearly stings. Dean claps his hand over the spot and smacks Sam's hand away, but Sam's already retreating, hands up, smiling. "Truce, truce. Just saying. I wouldn't have tried for anything, if you'd been there. It would've just been me and you and the dog."

The dog. "Did he—" Dean says, distracted, and Sam says, "Old and kinda fat, and happy as he could be."

Sam's just looking at him, along the length of the bed. "Sammy," Dean says, and chews his cheek for a minute. Sam's patient. "I know it wasn't easy, that I was gone. But I'm still glad you got that shot. Glad I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't—" Sam starts, and then closes his mouth. He smiles at Dean with his lips closed, and then breathes out slow through his nose. "I'm glad you're glad," he says, instead, and maybe that's all the compromise they'll ever get, on the subject. Dean's not sure Sam gets it, smart as he is. That Dean would've always wondered. That there would've been some horizon, distant and gold, that Sam might've always looked to, and imagined something different.

The rain's slacking, outside. Sam looks out the window again, at how the sun's drawing out, the light changing. "Do you want to try to figure out the cabinets today?" he says.

God, Dean loves him. "You can work the band saw," Dean promises, and Sam rolls his eyes again, and stands up, and says, "Let me shower first, before all the excitement," and Dean watches him step into the hall and then into the bathroom and hears the shower come on, through the open door, and he thinks it'll be a good day. Inevitable argument over what color to stain the cabinet doors notwithstanding.

*

It sits between them. Dean didn't feel tense about it but saying it aloud nevertheless makes him feel almost weightless. He knows that Sam's thinking about the conversation—going over past conversations, and things they've done, and choices they've made, over and over, because Sam's an egghead who had to puzzle things out forever before he can come to some kind of peace with them—but that's okay. They're still together and nothing's ruined, and the house comes along. They work on the kitchen for a while, Sam pulling down the horrible wallpaper while Dean does the woodwork, and there's a week nearly where they build a fire outside every night and dinner's what they can rig up over the flames—hotdogs, and kebabs, and mac and cheese even that gets a weird smoky flavor to it, and honestly it's about the best version Dean's ever had.

When Sam starts talking he comes at it obliquely. They're watching a movie—Moonraker, just as dumb and wonderful as Dean remembered it—and right over the top of the scene where Jaws is whaling on the guards, Sam says, "I didn't sleep with anyone for almost fifteen years."

"Makes sense, your game is terrible," Dean says, and grins when Sam sighs. "What do you mean? After the breakup with—"

Sam still hasn't said her name. "It just didn't…" Sam shrugs. "It wasn't important somehow."

"Plus you would've thrown your back out," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, dry. "Plus that." A pause, while they both watch the end of the fight. Roger Moore was a way better Bond than people gave him credit for, Dean's always thought. "How long for you?" Dean makes a sound. "Before… You used to brag about it, you know? But you didn't come home bragging for a long time."

"You trying to get me to say just looking at your goofy mug every morning was enough?" Dean tips his head on the couch to find Sam raising his eyebrows, actually surprised. "Hah. Well, it was."

"Seriously?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs, not sure why it's coming as a shock. He doesn't actually remember himself, even though it's closer in memory for him, when he last had that urge—to just go for a hookup, to let off nervous energy. On the screen, Bond's punching someone, and Holly Goodhead's in trouble. "No need to try to fix what ain't broke, as they say," Dean says, and he can tell Sam watches his face for a while before Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

Later: Dean's peeled back the scary carpet and it turns out there's good wood flooring underneath. Go figure. He's trying to decide whether he wants to cut it out in pieces or roll the whole thing up and see if he can get Sam to carry it. Sam brings him a cup of coffee, while he's standing in the doorway to the bedroom and frowning, and then says, "I never thought about being with a guy."

Dean slops the coffee, a little. Good thing he's tearing out the carpet either way. "Uh, okay."

The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up. "It just never occurred to me," he says. "Not really."

Dean takes a sip from his mug. Even in heaven Sam manages to screw it up, somehow—this time, way too strong like he used three times the amount of grounds needed—but it's Sam's coffee, and Dean's so damn gone for him that he's fond of the sludge, too.

Apparently he's been silent too long. Sam tips his head, leaning against the doorframe, opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Do you really want to know?" Dean says, after a minute. He'd answer, he thinks. If Sam asked. What would be the point of keeping it secret, after all, with what they both already know?

"I think you just told me," Sam says, quiet, but shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the carpet. "If you think I'm carrying that whole thing downstairs you're insane."

"Worth a shot," Dean says, and they put it away, for another day.

Later: they're painting, in the hall between the kitchen and the living room, and it was a long bickering session to come up with the color but Dean thinks that Sam was really arguing just to argue and not because he cared, at all. It smells like paint, which in theory is unpleasant but which really Dean's always kind of enjoyed—because it means there's a project being done, and progress being made, and that always settles something, in his bones—and Sam's got a full on handprint of slate blue on his ass that Dean thinks somehow he still hasn't noticed, and which should cause some entertainment when he does—and Sam says, standing back and squinting at his edging work, "How did you know?" Dean grunts, not following for once. His brush needs to be cleaned. Sam reaches up and fixes a line, carefully swiping blue away from the ceiling, and says, "About us. When did you know?"

Dean pauses, fingers all tangled with the brush in the murky water. Sam's frowning up at the ceiling, patiently doing his part. That's a question he never really asked himself, and he doesn't know the answer. Too easy to say always, even if sometimes that feels like the truth. November 1983 is another answer, but of course that's wrong, too. From the first time Sam smiled at him. From the first time he guided Sam's hands around a gun and helped him pull the trigger, and they nailed that empty Coke can like it was a vamp, at thirty paces. From the day Sam left, at that shitty house in Utah, and Dean stood in the dark street with his heart bleeding out 'til it was empty. From the night Sam died, and Dean knelt in the dirt with him and understood how it felt to die, too, and yet still be forced to stand up and keep living, and to have his whole body reject it, everything in him knowing: no.

Sam crouches down by him, and nudges Dean out of the way, so he can clean his own brush. "I didn't get it, I don't think," Sam says, when Dean hasn't responded. He riffles his fingers through the bristles, blue blooming up so that Dean can't see his skin. "Not for… Man, I don't know. It might've been when I thought we were going to lose you to Amara. Maybe earlier." He draws his brush out of the water and squeezes the wet out, and Dean watches his hands, like he does so much of the time. Capable and square-palmed and long-fingered. Blue paint stuck under his fingernails. He rests his brush on the side of their paint tray and his hands lace loosely between his knees, where he's still right there, inches from Dean. "Wish it hadn't took me so long."

Dean looks at him. Sam's looking back, not really smiling but with his face soft. He stands up, after a few seconds, and from Dean's crouching vantage Sam looks impossibly tall. "C'mon," he says, easy. "Let's finish this up. I want to watch you fail at fishing at some point today."

Later—

*

There's no real time, and therefore it's no particular day. Days have passed and yet the days are still gold, and beautiful. Sam goes for a run, and comes back, and they have breakfast, and they shower, and it rains briefly midday and so Sam reads in the armchair while Dean watches a movie—Godfather II, and he tells Sam he's a barbarian for reading through it, but Sam calmly ignores him like he always does—and then the rain stops, and Dean thinks, maybe a drive, and so they go for a drive, with the late afternoon sun pouring down. They park, in front of the house, and Dean gets out, and he's thinking about dinner—Sam's turn to cook, but Dean wants steak and Sam's never actually gotten the hang of steak—and Sam says, "Hey," and so Dean turns, and there with the driver door still open on the car, Sam steps up close to him, and takes Dean's face in his hands.

Dean's heart thuds slow, in the base of his throat. Sam's been this close before but he hasn't had quite that look in his eye. He stands still, waiting, and Sam's mouth twitches into a quick smile, like he's had some funny thought that he'll share with Dean, later—and Sam leans down, and when their mouths press together it's...

Sam pulls back, after not long enough. "Is that okay?" he says.

Really asking. Dean's holding Sam's forearms, his lips warm. "You're supposed to be the smart one," he says, and his voice comes out raw. "You figure it out."

His eyes are closed. Sam laughs, softly, and Dean takes a breath, and then there's Sam's mouth, again, soft but insistent, just the right amount of pressure. Sam's very good at this. Who knew. Dean's hand slides to Sam's chest and he parts his lips, and Sam takes the invitation as it's given, licking just barely inside. They're both unshaven but the scratch of Sam's chin feels good. Sam's nose brushes his. Dean pulls back, and tilts so their foreheads are touching, and there's an infinite universe of time around them and he could just stay—here. Right here, with Sam's breath mingling with his, and Sam's hand on his face.

Once they've started, though, Sam doesn't seem to feel the need to stop. "Bed?" he says, quiet, and Dean nods, and then—Sam's room, with the sun coming in the window and the thick blue blanket soft under Dean's hand. Sam sits beside him and leans in and they kiss—again—for ages, Dean's arm around Sam's neck and no sound but their lips meeting and parting, and the breeze soughing against the house.

Sam's—happy. That's the only thing Dean can think, over and over, his heart thrilling for it. "Is it weird?" Dean says, at one point, and Sam touches his cheek with two fingers, and drags them soft along Dean's stubble to his jaw, to his chin, and shakes his head and then laughs and says, "Yeah, but who cares about weird," and Dean says, fervently, "Not me," and Sam laughs again and presses him down to the bed and kisses him, again, and again.

Clothes go away, slowly. Boots, and jackets, and Dean pushes Sam a little upright and unbuttons his shirt, careful, while Sam watches his face. "Do you know what you want?" Dean says, not pushing either way. When the shirt's open he spreads his hands on Sam's chest—god, even through the undershirt, it's—but Sam's shaking his head, and Dean tries to focus, even if focus seems a billion miles from here. "And you never…"

But no, because Sam told him. Sam lays his palm on Dean's stomach, warm. "What did you want?" Sam says. Gentle almost. "The first time you—when you thought about it. What did you picture?"

"Who says I pictured anything?" Dean says, and Sam just smiles at him, and, yeah, okay. So Sam knows him better than anyone. So what.

Naked, Sam is… It's not like Dean never saw it before, but he never let himself look, like he's looking now. Never with the sense of right, that he feels now. Sam's looking right back, which somehow comes a surprise. Dean lets Sam tug off his jeans, his boxers, and he's left on his back on the bed, and Sam stands there and his eyes go all over—from Dean's chest to his dick to his feet, for some reason—and Dean feels himself flushing, but it's more because—

"I didn't think it'd be like this," Sam says, and yeah. Yeah, that's it. Sam's flushed, too, a little red come into the hollows of his cheeks. His dick's half-hard, swinging heavy against his thigh, and Dean wants it. Wants Sam. It should be complicated but it isn't. He spreads his legs, and Sam kneels on the bed and then fits himself there, so Dean's thighs can slide against Sam's, and there's the warm glance of his belly, and his chest against Dean's, and how his nose brushes Dean's cheek and how his hair falls forward, and the dense familiar physicality of him. How he's Dean's brother and how he's—everything, everything else that ever mattered.

They rub together, kissing. Sam's fingers find his nipple and play with it, slow and insistent. Sam's hard, thick, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh, and Dean nudges under Sam's jaw, kisses his throat, drags his thumb down between Sam's pecs. "Do you want to," he says, against Sam's skin, and Sam's hand cups over the back of his head and he doesn't have to say anything for Dean to know.

There's lube, in Sam's bedside table. Dean laughs, while Sam blinks surprise at it. This perfect house. He pulls Sam in close again, and he doesn't think it'll take much—hell, they might not even have to bother—but he wants it, like this is a first time they might have had, some perfect day that never existed on earth. He drizzles the lube over Sam's fingers and Sam knows what to do, reaching below, and Dean spreads his legs wide and sinks into the pillow, into how it feels. "Do you like it?" Sam says, curious and a little pleased, and Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and drags him down for a kiss so Sam won't ask such dumb friggin questions. The slow drag and stretch of Sam's knuckles inside—and he's not going far enough or deep enough, because he's done this to women maybe but never to a guy, but it feels good, anyway.

They don't move from that position. Dean reaches down and tugs at Sam's wrist, and gets a slick dragging hand on his hip, instead. Sam kisses his cheekbone, shifts his weight, and the press inside—ah—thick, and just that first bright sting that makes it count for something, but it doesn't hurt beyond that, and it's just the slow parting drag of Sam, inside him, until he's as far as he can go and stops with his hips pressed right up close. Dean holds him there, feeling. Sam's breath against his cheek, and his weight held tense on one elbow, and their chests rising and falling together. Dean's dick presses against Sam's belly but it doesn't feel important, right now—it's more that they're—finally, they're—

"Please say I can move," Sam says, breathless, and Dean gasps in and then laughs, dizzy, says, "Jesus, you've been waiting on me? Get the lead out, come on—go—"

It lasts—

For the time it takes Dean to curl his hips up and feel how Sam jolts, hard inside. For the time it takes Sam to lift up higher, getting enough space between them that he can see Dean's face, and for him to fit his hand around Dean's jaw and press his thumb against Dean's lower lip and look him in the eyes, startled, like even after everything he's learned something new. For the time it takes Dean to wrap his thighs around Sam's waist and arch, and for Sam to bury his head down into the curve of Dean's throat, and for Dean to hold Sam's shoulders, and for it to be…

Perfect, Dean thinks, after.

They're on their sides. Dean's leg is still caught around Sam's hip. Their heads are on the same pillow and Dean's got his hand on Sam's chest, and Sam keeps tracing some nonsense shape into the skin over Dean's ribs, and the sun's still out, and the breeze is still gentle, and it feels in a way like no time has passed, at all. Like this is still their first day in heaven. That first moment, when Sam appeared on the bridge, and Dean's heart thumped into place, like it was beating again, at last.

Sam's hand settles flat on Dean's side. Dean looks up from Sam's chest, and Sam's waiting there, to meet his eyes. A smile, small. "Good job, tiger," Dean says, and Sam's smile goes deeper, and Dean rolls his eyes, and tugs Sam's chest hair in retaliation. Sam mimes pain but all he does is pull Dean an inch closer, and sigh.

"Do you think we could've made it work?" he says, eventually. Dean hmms, asking. "Before, I mean. When we were alive. It feels like…" He shakes his head, a small movement against the pillow. "I don't know. Like we wasted time."

"Maybe," Dean says. He shifts, stretching out his legs, and lifts up on one elbow. Sam tips his head back to keep looking at Dean's face. Dean looks back, unhurried. The straight line of his eyebrows, and his tip-tilted eyes. His mouth, relaxed in contentment, and the slope of his nose, and that mole that Dean feels the weirdest fondness for. He touches it, and Sam blinks, and Dean smiles at him. "It worked out, though. Don't you think?"

Sam's mouth tips, a dimple peeking up in his cheek. He looks as glad as Dean's ever seen him. "Yeah," he says, finding Dean's hand. Their fingers tangle together, caught warm against Sam's chest. "Yeah, it worked out okay."

[sadachmesarthim]

i’m impatient, this is a small excerpt from my coffee shop au. i don’t feel great today and a bit of whump-to-fluff domesticity is exactly what i need, so i’m sharing !

The first panic attack Peter was present for was terrifying.

‘Tony.. Tony, come on, you gotta open up. Talk to me.’

Tony stormed out of the bathroom, tears streaming down his face. It wasn’t like him - crying. He didn’t cry, he was a man. He didn’t need to cry. He turned, leaving out the garage. ‘I’ll be back later.’ He never specified when.

He wasn’t gone terribly long. He came back, silent and cold. The light was gone, behind his eyes. Like it’d just been... stolen.

Peter called Maria while he was gone. Thank god for those stupid dog tags, or Peter wouldn’t have known who to call. ‘Are you sure nothing happened? It’s not like him to just storm off like this, Mrs. Stark.’ She was less than helpful, more accusatory than anything. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be his best friend? Why don’t you know?’

Peter hung up.

When Tony came back, he avoided the subject entirely. Peter opted for something a bit easier than words: he reached underneath Tony, scooping him up and carrying him to bed. He was already fairly ready - no shoes, wallet and keys on the table in the living room. Peter tucked him into bed, calling Loki to come up with him.

‘Go take care of our boy, Loki.’ Tony just sat back, staring at the ceiling.

‘I’m gonna lock the house before I leave. I hope you feel better in the morning.’ He turned, prepared to turn the hall light off, when he heard Tony’s small, shaky voice from behind him -

‘You gonna come back? Tomorrow, I mean?’ Peter stopped in his tracks.

‘I’ll always come back to you, Tony. You know that.’

•|||•

And, true to his word, he came back in the morning - early enough to get to work before Tony finished his first shift. He wouldn’t be off until noon, giving Peter plenty of time to lay out his surprise.

He’d spent the last few hours scribbling on a pad of orange sticky notes and carefully placing them around Tony’s room. After the... episode he’d had last night, Peter thought it’d be a good idea to leave little reminders here & there - that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to hide, or lock himself away from the rest of the world if he wasn’t okay.

He also had lunch going - noodles prepping in a pot, chicken and asparagus in the oven, sauce reducing on the back burner. It was a good way to get Tony fed without giving him a way out. Tony never said no Peter’s food, especially right after a shift. It was the perfect set up - sure, he might be cornering Tony a bit, smothering him with affection...

Peter’s thoughts were interrupted by a particularly pathetic whine. He looked back, playfully snapping at dog behind him. “Hey, asshole! Use your words!” Loki had been pacing in front of the back door, whining. He hadn’t been outside in a while, it made sense he’d need to go. Peter stood, walking over to let the poor pup out before he made a mess.

Normally, he behaved for Peter. Fairly well, actually! Didn’t jump on the couch, stayed out of Joan’s room even when the door was open. He even knew to wipe his paws before coming back inside. He was a smart boy, but he still had his moments.

Apparently today’s moment was jumping the fence, and bolting for the driveway.

“Oh, hell no, dude, the fucking stove is on!” Peter turned and ran for the front door. Loki was smart, and fast - he only had a few seconds before Loki’d be down the block. Except...

Saved by the bell - Tony’d just pulled in. He must have heard the car. Loki was at the top of the driveway, tail wagging and barking like wild. Peter just rolled his eyes, making his way back into the house. Loki’d meet Tony in the garage the second he got out of the car. Not my problem anymore, Peter mused. At least he could finish up in the kitchen, and not chase after the oversized puppy.

Peter heard the telltale chirp of the alarm system - Tony was inside, Loki not too far behind. Tony came in through the hall, sniffing the air gratefully. “Smells good, what’d you make me?”

Peter snorted, indignant. “I didn’t make YOU anything, mister. I made US lunch - homemade Alfredo noodles, asparagus, chicken. Sound good?” Tony’s stomach rumbled. “Apparently! When’s it done?”

Peter smiled to himself. “After you go clean up, you smell like a roasting plant. What’d you do, fall in the grind bin? Oh, make sure to check your room out before you shower!!”

Tony padded away down the hall, shoes scuffing against the hardwood. He’ll have to sweep later.

Peter finished mixing the pasta in with the sauce, cutting the chicken into bite sized chunks. He turned back to the pan, happy at the thought of Tony feeling better. Peter hated seeing him upset, and last night was the worst he’d ever seen.

He didn’t hear Tony walking back into the kitchen, but he felt strong hands wrap around his waist. Felt hot, slightly wet lips press kisses to the side of his neck. He must’ve seen his room. Peter brought a hand up, gently stroking the side of Tony’s cheek with his thumb.

“Thank you.” It was sincere - apparently, he really needed it.

“Of course. You know I’m not going anywhere.” Tony sighed into the affirmation. He wasn’t used to this, this... affection. Reassurance. It was... it was raw. Nice.

“I love you.” Soft enough, it almost went unheard. Peter turned his head, kissing Tony’s forehead. “I love you too.”

He finished lunch while Tony showered, thoroughly pleased with himself. The asparagus was just crispy enough, the chicken moist and flavorful. It was like something out of a dream. He was proud.

Tony came out of the bathroom as soon as he dried off. He was shirtless, lower half just barely covered by low-slung jeans. Peter hadn’t seen this much of his bare skin since before he went to visit Rhodey. Jesus, it should be illegal to look that good. He’d gotten darker while he was out of town - Arizona looked good on him.

He walked out, stocking feet preceding quick tap tap taps on the hardwood. Loki came bounding out from the hallway, turning and leaping into Peter’s arms. He might have been a big boy, but he still thought he was a lapdog. Case in point - he tried (and very often failed) to jump straight into people’s arms.

Peter failed to catch him, hitting the floor unceremoniously with a very excited pibble in his lap. “Hey, asshole! Call your son for me!”

Tony laughed. “Oh, so he’s MY son when he’s misbehaving, is that it?”

“That’s exactly it! He gets his naughty behavior from YOU, and he’s been a shit all day!” Indignant as he was, Peter wasn’t serious. He knew that was a trait both of them instilled in the puppy, and both of them desperately needed to work it out of him.

It was endearing, but puppy kisses often didn’t have limits. No limits usually ended up with puppy tongue in your mouth, up your nose, in your ears... He was a work in progress.

Instead of conceding, Tony sat down next to them, pulling Loki into his lap and off the thoroughly kissed-out other man. Peter pulled himself upright, leaning against the sink for support. “I quit! I resign my place as a parent, that dog is never gonna learn!”

[rockymountainrattlesnake]

Fic writer tag game thing

I was tagged to do this by @deardiary17 and @sherl-grey! Thanks guys!

How many works do you have on a03? 

28 as of time of this post. More to come if my life ever slows the fuck down and I get my desk back from the other side of the country.

What’s your total a03 word count? 358830. Jesus wept, and so did my wrists….

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A Wretched Ark

Polyergus 

Terminarch

Amid the Fronds

The Swear Filter 

…the last two are a bit of a shock to me, not gonna lie!

Do you respond to comments, why or why not? 

Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I love comments, I really do, but my brain is often lacking in brain-juice and responding to all of them consistently is a real challenge I struggle with. Just know that I read your comment and squee’d over it, I assure you.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? 

A Wretched Ark, tied with The Endless Abyss. But AWA takes the cake by far, I guess. I’ll write the sequel eventually, guys!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? 

Terminarch, probably. I think. I mean I like to think all my endings are either bittersweet or happy, but Terminarch’s the softest of the bunch, so probably that one. 

Do you write crossovers? if so, what is the craziest one you’ve written? 

I wrote a star trek x who crossover as a half-joke a few years back. But the one I really want to write is a Warhammer40k x Doctor Who shitpost fic. That probably qualifies.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? 

Nope. I mean, not really. Aside from that one guy who came in with unsolicited opinions about Nine and leather jackets in Leather and Iron but that wasn’t really hate, and it helped me reflect more on my fic. Everyone else has been a grade-A champ.

Do you write smut? if so, what kind? No. I don’t write smut unless the planets have aligned properly, which they haven’t in about half a decade.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? No.

Have you ever had a fic translated? 

YES YES I HAVE!!!!  DER RENAISSANCE DECIDED TO TRANSLATE THE FIRST CHAPTER OF ALLEGEDLY SUPERIOR BIOLOGY INTO RUSSIAN I’M NOT OVER IT I’LL NEVER BE OVER IT I’D LOVE TO WRITE A MESSAGE IN RUSSIAN TO PUT AT THE FRONT OF THAT CHAPTER A AND IN THE DESCRIPTION BUT I CAN’T READ RUSSIAN SO I’M JUST GONNA BE SAD I GUESS

IF YOU CAN READ RUSSIAN

PLEASE ENJOY IT HERE!!!

AND THEN GO SHOWER DER RENAISSANCE IN LOVE PLEASE!!!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? 

Nope. I work alone. Until I grab a friend and yell at them about my tangled brain spaghetti. I don’t know why people still talk to me. 

What’s your all-time favourite ship? 

Well gee that’s a very thought provoking question which I’ll have to think on for some leng-NINEROSE NINEROSE NINEROSE NINEROSE NINEROSE NINEROSE NINEROSENINEROSE**NINEROSE** NINEROSE NINEROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE

Also Doc x TARDIS is pretty good too 

What’s a wip that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? 

If I abandon a fic it’s because I lost the brainpower to finish it and/or I drove the plot off a cliff and it’s officially unsalvageable. Sorry, Amid the Fronds fans, but I don’t know what I was doing with that fic.

What are your writing strengths?

Uh

I have

Good plot ideas?

I also write a lot of flowery descriptions and I like a lot of action 

Oh also I have a foolproof strategy for using the sonic screwdriver that I need to write a metapost about. That, I’m good at.

What are your writing weaknesses?

 You know that one scene where everyone is just being a boring asshole and you just want to fucking move on to the part where we get to participate in a dinosaur jousting match but no we gotta work out our fucking feelings for ten thousand fucking words first?

I hate that shit. I’m so bad at that shit. I usually slam a line break in because I hate that shit so much. My rule of thumb: if I’m getting bored, the reader probably is too. 

Also, I do this dumb thing with dialogue that I literally can’t explain in words but rest assured I know it’s there and it annoys the christ out of me.

Oh also I’m really bad at being patient enough to properly comb over each fic for mistatakes because I’m in such a rush to get the damn thing out the door. ADHD brain be like that, man. 

TLDR:

Snek iz gud riter.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

All for it, when I can finagle some translating help from someone! Thank you @bird-of-paradox. Uebersetzungschaltung would have been a trainwreck of bad grammar without your help.

What was the first fandom you wrote for? 

I would like to invoke my right to remain silent on account of my past works being crispy-fried cringe that deserved to be thrown into a volcano.

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written? Polyergus! I love that fic. Everyone should read that fic. I love it so much.

I’m gonna tag @summerartist, @sunnibits, @senadimell​ @isolus-girl and I haven’t been on this website enough to feel comfy tagging anyone else. Ha Ha I’m lonely please be my friend.

[chubbyhl]

Vault Fic #2 - The First Stuffing

Hi all -- my girlfriend suggested I post another installment of the “vault fic” aka the feedee Louis fic I started writing a year ago and never finished or showed anyone, but people seem to dig it now. I got some suggestions from awhile back to post more content from it, and people seemed to really like the idea of Louis’s first stuffing, so here you are! A nice long one. Happy Chubby Friday, and enjoy! Please note - this is a feederism centric fic. It won’t be for everyone. Also contains some unrealistic eating for entertainment purposes, don’t try this at home lol. 

-

“I forgot if you put this on your list, but this one my favorite recipes to make,” Harry said. He pulled on two oven mitts and then kneeled down, grabbing the hot dish and pulling it out. He set it on the stove and then closed up the oven, waving to the dish, “It’s five cheese baked mac and cheese. I put a bit of everything in it. White cheddar, sharp cheddar, parmesan, asiago, Swiss…and then some bacon bits, because why not.”

“Oh, that sounds so good,” Louis said, “Probably good I’ll have leftovers of that, too.”

Harry just looked at him, and then smiled, shaking his head.

“Oh, no no,” he said, “This is all for tonight.”

Louis blinked at him.

“Harry, you can’t be serious,” Louis said, “That thing could feed a family of eight.”

“That’s exactly the serving size, yes,” Harry said. He took off his gloves and waved at the dish, “Give it a minute to cool off and then we can start.”

“Harry,” Louis said, “You – you can’t expect me to eat all of that.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged, “I mean, I’ll take you having half at this point. But at some point, I’m going to make this and you’ll definitely have all of it.”

Harry kept moving around the kitchen, getting out dishes and some glasses, and Louis kept staring at the dish of macaroni. What had sounded so delicious a few minutes now loomed in front of him like his personal white whale, something Harry was expecting him to finish. Or at least, finish half of it, when Louis wasn’t even sure he could finish half a regular serving size.

Harry turned around and caught him staring, and smiled softly and came over. He tucked Louis’s cheek into his hand and kisses his forehead.

“How are we feeling?”

“Like you’re fucking with me,” Louis said, “You said today would be easy.”

“Yes, and most of today has been,” Harry said. He held up a hand, ticking down his fingers as he started a list, “Breakfast, just a bowl of cereal. A large bowl, but that’s it. Then some apple and Nutella, then a couple chicken sandwiches, and then a bagel with peanut butter. And lots of Coke.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Louis grumbled.

“Hey, hey, that’s all easy stuff,” Harry teased, “You didn’t expect me to not spoil you at least a little today, did you?”

Louis wrapped his hands around himself, looking down. He swallowed weakly, and Harry tucked a hand under his chin and lifted him to look at him.

“Hey, it’s alright, love,” Harry said, “Seriously, just eat what you think you can. But I would be very, very happy if you had half this dish. Like, you have no idea how thrilled I would be.”

Louis glanced at the dish of the pasta again, and then back at Harry. The other man was looking at him firmly, but his eyes were wide and kind, and Louis tried to remember why he was here in the first place. The Kink, yes, but also, he liked Harry. Harry was funny and sweet and cared about him. He wasn’t going to push Louis too far past his boundaries. He would be fine.

So eventually Louis nodded and murmured out “okay,” and Harry grinned and kissed him again before going to grab everything and set it on the kitchen.

Louis sat at the table, right next to Harry’s own seat. Harry poured him a tall glass of water, and then pulled the casserole dish a bit closer to the two of them. He had laid a big spoon next to the dish, and picked it up, glancing at Louis.

“Want me to feed you?” Harry asked, “Not going to lie, I’ve been dying to do that all day.”

“Yeah,” Louis said quickly, “Sure.”

Harry smiled, and then dipped into the dish. The spoon cracked past the crispy layer of baked cheese and breadcrumbs at the top, and Louis licked his lips, which made Harry smile.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Louis said. He was only a bit hungry, maybe enough for a snack, at most, because he’d been eating for a lot of the day. But he could still eat, so he was going to.

Harry grinned, and then picked up the spoon, loaded down with pasta and cheese.

“Okay, open up,” Harry said, and then softened when Louis did so, “Good boy.”

Louis flushed in spite of himself, and let Harry tuck the spoon into his mouth. He chewed, closing his eyes as he tasted it. It was creamy and so, so rich, and he hummed happily as he ate it.

“Wow, oh, man,” he said once he had swallowed, “That’s so good, holy shit.”

“Thanks,” Harry grinned, “I’ve made this more times than I can count and I haven’t gotten any complaints yet.”

“You making your mac n cheese for other boys?” Louis asked as Harry got another spoonful ready.

“That’s funny,” Harry said flatly, “Open up.”

Louis did, letting Harry give him another delicious spoonful. This would be no problem, he thought. The food was so good, surely he was hungrier than he originally thought.

Harry kept tucking pasta into his mouth, smiling at each bite Louis took.

“Doing good, love,” Harry said, “Still taste good?”

Louis nodded and smiled, letting Harry feed him. He took sips of water in between, enough to help him swallow but not enough to get him too full. Harry looked far too pleased with himself as he fed the other man, his movements as steady as his encouragement.

And then, he hit his first wall.

With a quick glance at the dish, he could tell he had only had about a regular serving and a half of the dish, and he was already full. Like, very full. Like he was having trouble chewing the mouthful Harry had just given him.

The other man watched, carefully, and frowned when Louis swallowed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and Louis shrugged.

“I – I’m full, s’all,” Louis said.

“Ah,” Harry nodded, “I see.”

He set down the spoon and nodded towards Louis.

“Lift up your shirt, pet.”

“Um,” Louis said, “What?”

“Lift up your shirt,” Harry repeated, his voice growing a bit firmer. Louis swallowed weakly, and then did what Harry asked and lifted up the hem of his t-shirt.

When he glanced down his stomach was a bit rounded, mostly bloated-looking more than anything. Harry reached out and tugged down the hem of Louis’s sweatpants, under the curve of his stomach. Then he put his hands on the warm skin of Louis’s belly and started rubbing, pressing in firmly. Louis groaned, hiccupping weakly as Harry put pressure on his full belly. Harry just watched him, and kept rubbing, then hooked his thumb into Louis’s belly button and held the curve of his stomach with the rest of his finger and gave his belly a firm jiggle. Louis gasped weakly and then covered his mouth with his hands, trying to stifle a burp working its way through his throat. Harry rubbed his stomach harder and then gave it a gentle pat.

“Any better?” he asked, and Louis blinked at him.

“Uh,” he said, “Maybe.”

“Okay, good,” Harry said, “You let me know if you feel a bit full again.”

Louis just stared at him, but Harry was already gearing up another spoonful. Louis ate it, and he felt like he could swallow with far less difficulty. And he felt fine through another spoonful, and then another.

He hit another wall when they were a fourth of the way through the dish, and once again, Harry went back to rubbing and jiggling his tight belly, which was now rounder and tighter. To Harry’s credit, he was handling it all like a true professional, even though Louis could see his eyes getting darker and wider. He kept digging into the dish, and Louis kept eating it, like another force had taken hold of him. His stomach was screaming at him, bloated and stretched far beyond capacity, but the pasta was so good, and Harry was calling him a good boy as he shoveled food into Louis’s mouth, so he kept going.

He finally, finally hit his final wall when he was nearly into the fifth serving of the dish, and he clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

“Harry, I can’t,” he panted. He was hot now, and sweating, and his stomach was in pain, and he just couldn’t keep it up.

“Okay, lovey,” Harry said, “Just one more bite? Please? Would make me so happy.”

“I – “ Louis choked out, “I dunno.”

“Come on,” Harry teased, wiggling the full spoon in front of him, “For me?”

“God, fuck you,” Louis breathed out, but even then, he opened his mouth. He accepted the food, and then chewed and swallowed with more effort than he had ever put into anything before, and then when he was done, he leaned back in his chair and cradled his belly delicately. It felt rock hard, and it was stretched, pressing out in a generous curve that stretched out the outline of his abs. Louis stifled another burp and held his hands in front of his mouth, his face turning red.

“Jesus,” he breathed out, “Oh my God.”

Harry leaned forward in his chair, his eyes dark but his smile sweet, and he reached out and put his hands on Louis’s distended stomach.

“Oh, what a good boy,” he cooed, “What a perfect, perfect boy you are.”

He rubbed Louis’s stomach carefully, pushing hard to make Louis hiccup and then just skimming his hands over the curve, touching and enjoying.

“Oh, Louis, we’re going to have so much fun,” he sighed happily. Louis just hiccupped again.

“I need to lay down,” he got out weakly.

“Of course you do,” Harry said quickly, “C’mon, I’ll get you up, and then I’ll give you another nice rub down. Does that sound good?”

Louis just gave Harry a nod, and then the other man was on his feet, helping pull Louis up. Instinctively, Louis’s hands went to his full, bloated stomach, and he whined, but Harry just held him, kissed the back of his head.

“Let’s get you to the couch. Good boy. Come on,” he said, “You ate what I made you so well, you deserve some rest.”

Louis’s eyelids were already drooping, the food in his belly making him sleepy, so he just nodded and let Harry guide him.

[alltheimaginationofme]

Desperate Dream

Drew McIntyre 

Be realistic.

Tags:  @blondekel77 @calwitch @chanelxberlinstark @briqueenofthenorth @fioportella @wrestlingfae @whocares006 @dancefaeirie @ramsaypants @alibob687 @lunarchaosqueen @keepyourdreamsalive @meremaidqueen @demonqueen29 @colbynatorsforlife

I’m back baby!... Kinda....

I turned in the bed again, waiting for an alarm I knew would come too soon. I felt the sick feeling of hollow rise in my chest, the crispy sheets felt too clean. Too cold. I open my eyes to the disgustingly bland room, who knows what hotel at this point. They all look the same. I turn to my phone, just as empty of notifications as I am of the will to rise and get the day started. The past few months would do that to anyone.

“God he drives me crazy.” I smile at Sasha. She winks and continues to scroll on her phone as Drew enters catering. While I was not the hottest star on the roster (being looks or with the audience) I always managed to keep a warm temperature around the Scottsman.

He walks with the kind of swagger you would expect from the current champion, despite him not currently having anything decorative adorning his waist. His usually unkept hair had been tied back as he picked an apple from the pile on the food table. At this point I felt myself heat in the cheeks, it would not look good to have someone like me staring at a man so openly. A married man. I frowned and picked at my now cool pasta in front of me.

Sasha leant across and caught my eye “You know… People are saying it’s not going well.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “Drew, I mean… He hasn’t gone back to Scotland, in maybe, months?” I blanked at this information. I had noticed Drew was around a lot more, I just guessed they were gearing up to finally give him a title and he needed to prove commitment. The company had always been a bit archaic like that. “Probably warming up for the title Sash, he’s getting awfully close.” I pulled the corner of my mouth down. It wasn’t like Sasha to encourage a friend into doing something bad; she was the voice of reason.

She leant back and said “I know, but...” she flipped up her phone and went back to scrolling “Management told everyone they’re free to proceed however they need to, Heyman said he’s stayed voluntarily. The call for Drew as next champ was made months ago.” Now this was new. Sasha herself was in contention for the

Raw title, it would make sense that she had this knowledge… But the idea that Drew would go months without going home hinted at something else. Superstars always went home when they could. I did occasionally, but I had no one to go back to. Didn’t sting to be away when no one noticed you were gone. I was snapped out of my musing by the rather handsome man. “Is this seat taken, ladies?” Sasha shook her head and gestured to the chair and I smiled at him, feeling heat rise in my cheeks again.

He sat fluidly and brought tonight’s matchlist in front of him, I hadn’t even seen him holding it. “Uh, hey Drew- do you know what-” I began nervously and he cut me off without even looking up “Four” I smiled tightly and looked back down. “I better get going” I rose and went to take the pasta to the bin. “God luck!” I turned to see Drew had looked up from the sheet and was smiling widely at me.

How did he know my name?

I rolled to one side of the bed and back again. The idea that soon I wouldn’t have anything but memories made me sad, so sad. But what could I expect? It was nothing more than I deserved.

Drew’s shoulder brushed mine in the small booth, we were both laughing at Bayley dragging a terrified Kevin Owens towards the dance floor. He leant back in his place while I went to grab a drink from the centre of the table. As I turned back to check where I was sitting I noticed where Drew’s eyes were. I sat back, coincidently my back was now near Drew’s outstretched arm over the booth.

I felt this sudden urge to lean into Drew, and the room got hotter. I heard him clear his throat. “You’ve been doing well lass, makin waves.” I turned to him as he spoke and raised my brows. While it was true, I was slowly making my way up the ranks, it was a shock that Drew paid any attention to it. We weren’t in the same groups of friends, it wasn’t common that people ventured past their immediate friends. “Well, I could say the same to you Mr Number One!” I smiled back to him, happy that my work had been recognised. He shook his head and smiled. My heart could’ve stopped right there and then.

I smiled at the mirror across from the bed, lost in the memory of the night. Remembered being so struck by his smile, the way his eyes crinkled and the blue hues in his irises seemed to jump. I could understand how so many of his fans had fallen for him so quickly. I had been all too keen to throw myself at his feet.

His tongue was hot and heavy against my throat, licking a trail from the base all the way to my ear. I couldn’t help but squirm, it felt so wrong to have such an exposed part of me clear with his mark. If someone walked past they could see the wet mess I had too quickly become at the short work Drew had made of me. His hands wound my waist and I found myself trembling, the sheer power of the man. Trying to get my own back, I snaked my hand into his hair and pulled sharply- in turn pulling him from my neck. Drew growled and pushed his hips into me, pushing me against the wall further. “Drew, room!” I managed to gasp at him, and we soon both fell through the door.

“Are you sure ya don’t wanna continue in the hall? I could take you right there, how many men would be jealous?” I hummed under his praise, really anything that came from his mouth I was here for. The door slammed shut and his ripped at my clothes, I was getting annoyed at how they clung to me. He grunted and one of the buttons on my shirt pinged across the room. We moved to the bed and he licked down my neck, biting at the base and pushing his hips into mine.

I gasped his name to the ceiling; my prayer was heard when Drew took the rest of his clothing off. I kissed his cheeks and his beard burned under my lips. I knew this was a lust fuelled night, but I would take the adoration and these moments to fuel the idea of an us later. He chuckled and his hands found my hips, pulling me to him before moving me further up the bed.

I scrambled backwards and stilled as arms landed either side of my head. I found his eyes and kept contact, winding my legs open and around his midsection. I wasn’t sure how long this would go, before he realised the mistake, before he became sober- before my head found it’s way back to being on top of my shoulders. I couldn’t stop now, not knowing full well I could have felt him.

We both stopped and he lowered his head slightly, lips brushing mine. “Are ya sure?” He whispered to me I nodded and again refused to blink, scared to break whatever this was. I was already too wet, too worked up from the idea. He slid in far too easily and I moaned at how filthy it was. “This all for me?” I nodded again and licked at his neck. I suppose I could at least act like just having his hands on me was enough to fuel orgasms later on. After a few strokes, I could hear myself along him and Drew was grunting. I couldn’t have this over so soon.

My hand snaked between us, I needed to hear him, needed him to use me. I needed to make this impossible to forget. He grinned at me, thinking I was going for my clit. I smirked back. “Ah fuck, yer fucking-” his neck strained as I used my index and middle finger around his cock to squeeze him as he pulled out. He strained and stuttered into me a few times and I felt him pulse. I began to rub my clit and used the moisture from his cock to assist me. Drew was whispering things in my ear that I couldn’t hear. He’s fucking me, this is really happening, Drew is splitting me open. I couldn’t hear anything past my thought. I panicked and arched off the bed, cumming so hard it might have actually been leaking from me. Drew was moaning and began to protest when I pushed him off of me. I turned on my knees, spread my legs and wagged at him.

“Fuck, that’s how I like it baby.”

I bit my lip as he slipped in again, and I knew from the tempo he wasn’t going to last for too long. I snuck my hand down again to squeeze him and he grunted, thoroughly shoving me through the bed as he came inside me. I squeezed around him and sighed.

I had been stupid. So unbelievably stupid that night. And the many nights that followed. Each time Drew knocked, I had been on my knees waiting for him. Work had been no different for us, no real interaction… But Jesus. After school curriculum would take all night learning how to make each other sing.

That didn’t stop the worst part. It was easy to ignore the guilt and feelings of pure loathing when we were in the act. But the nights where we wouldn’t be together, the nights I would go home, he had press… Or he went home… I didn’t eat, or maybe I ate too much… Or was it that I drunk too much? I couldn’t remember the last time we had been separated. My life outside work was being drained by a man that wouldn’t look twice at work.

Sasha had been the one to spot it. I no longer looked when Drew entered the room, I knew the head would be between my legs later that night. She only looked at me and dragged me to a closet in the stadium we were in that night. “Look, I don’t know and I don’t need to know. You need to get your head in the game. Whatever has happened or is happening, you need to stop this. I don’t remember the last time we hung, the last time you were at the PC...” She shrugged and looked away. “People are talking. Of course I’m defending you, but please know that this is not worth it.” I looked at her, for the first time. I nodded… “I’m sorry Sash.” I chocked the words out and she hugged me, letting my cry into her shoulder.

Where did I think this was going? That we would just start skipping through work holding hands? So I asked. I spoke, I asked him what we were doing. It was hopeless, he gave me a demonstration that ended the conversation before it even started.

It was getting closer, there was more talk backstage. Drew was going to take the championship and run the company for the red brand. I was happy for him but… I had a decision to make. I think I had already made it when I never actually had a conversation about what we were doing. There was still a ring on his finger at press. As it loomed closer, his wife came over to see it happen live. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her. Not that she shouldn’t be there, she had every right. It was me that didn’t deserve to be there. I looked at her, so beautiful with brown locks and a glow around her that a happy wife always has.

I didn’t sleep for two nights after.

I wasn’t sure how I could live with myself, for being so selfish. For believing rumours about someone’s marriage. Never going to the source.

Be realistic, be realistic. It was never going to happen, it was nothing more than sex when his wife wasn’t there. Be realistic.

Hunter was not overly against my leaving. I gave him reasons like not being on TV and taking spots for others that deserved it more. I knew he saw through it. But he at least respected me enough to pretend to believe it. Be realistic I whisper…

[hailing-stars]

@febuwhump day 22 burned

a blowtorch is a blowtorch

summary 

“I have to go into the office for a couple of hours,” she announced. She looked down at Morgan. “You know what that means, right, Morgan?”

“Mmhmm,” said Morgan. “That I’m the only one in the house left with common sense.”

“Exactly,” she told her. “So it’s your job to keep your daddy and Peter from doing stupid things.”

“I can try, mommy, but you know they aren’t very good at listening.”

OR

Peter and Tony try to recreate something they’ve seen on a baking show, and it turns into a disaster when Tony gets out the blowtorch. 

The cold wind raged against the lakehouse, and Peter pulled his throw blanket closer. It was patterned with Disney princesses and had pink fluff around the edges. He stared at Tony with envy.

He’d stolen the thicker, cozier throw blanket when he’d arrived down to the living room, along with the control of the remote, citing that it was his privilege as savior of the universe.

Tony switched on Netflix, clicked on a baking competition, and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

“Pepper banned us from watching this,” Peter told him. “And you’re supposed to keep your feet off the coffee table.”

“What are you? A snitch?” asked Tony.

“If it gets me my blanket back, then yes,” said Peter, crossing his arms. The living room was drafty, he was cold, and Tony was annoying.

“Guess I’ll just tell May how late you were out with MJ.”

Peter frowned. “That’s petty.”

“Snitches get snitched on,” said Tony. “I don’t make the rules.”

“You do actually, and they’re stupid ones.”

Tony pelted a throw pillow at him. It soared through the air and hit Peter directly on his head, messing up his already messy-from-sleep hair. Peter was about to retaliate by digging Morgan’s toy car out of the couch cushion and chunking it at him, but Pepper walked into the room, bringing with her the end to their petty fight.

She was dressed in her office attire, achieving the accomplishment of being the only person in the household to make it out of their pajamas that day. Morgan had followed Pepper into the living room, and frowned at Peter, probably for using her blanket.

“I have to go into the office for a couple of hours,” she announced. She looked down at Morgan. “You know what that means, right, Morgan?”

“Mmhmm,” said Morgan. “That I’m the only one in the house left with common sense.”

“Exactly,” she told her. “So it’s your job to keep your daddy and Peter from doing stupid things.”

“I can try, mommy, but you know they aren’t very good at listening.”

“Preaching to the choir, baby.”

“I resent that,” said Tony.

His eyes were glazed over while he watched the contestants use a blowtorch to put the finishing touches on some smore brownies, and Peter got a horrifying premonition about how the rest of the day was going to play out.

“Please remove your feet from the coffee table,” said Pepper. She kissed the top of Tony’s head, hugged Morgan goodbye, and left them, but not before Tony removed his War Machine patterned slippered feet from the coffee table.

“Told you so,” said Peter.

Tony threw another pillow, but that time, Peter managed to dodge it by ducking.

*

It happened just like it always happened. One minute Peter had been warning Tony about watching the forbidden baking show, and the next, just a few minutes after Pepper had left them, he was completely sucked in.

“We could make that,” said Peter, watching two contestants decorate a cake shaped like a tombstone. It was a halloween themed episode. Peter’s favorite.

“Of course we could,” said Tony. “And it’d be ten times better than that one.”

That was always how it started, too. By making these statements that would later be proven laughably false. Peter could see how this was going to end badly and with a messy kitchen, and probably a lecture from Pepper, but he couldn’t stop himself. Neither could Tony.

“You know what would be better than making the cake,” said Tony. “The smores brownies.”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “But we’d need a blow torch.”

“I have a blow torch.”

“You have one for, like, tech stuff. You need a food blow torch.”

“I’m pretty sure a blowtorch is a blowtorch, kid,” Tony told him.

Morgan popped out from under the couch, like the little spy she was. “I’m gonna tell mommy you’re trying to burn the house down.”

“Morgunna, light of my life,” said Tony. “Don’t you want some brownies?”

“Umm,” she said. “Can we put gummy worms on them?”

“We can put gummy worms on some of them, sure.”

“Yayyy!!” She pulled herself up off the ground. “Let’s go set the house on fire!”

*

Peter had been the one tasked with disappearing into the garage and locating the blow torch. Yeah, it was a bad idea, but Peter loved bad ideas almost as much as he loved sandwiches from Delmar’s.

He grabbed some safety goggles as well as the torch. Just in case. He had learned it was always better to treat the kitchen with as much caution as he treated the lab and the workshop, especially if Tony was the only adult around and the person operating the stove.

“Really, kid?” asked Tony, as Peter strapped the goggles around his eyes.

“First rule of workshop safety,” said Peter, before turning his attention to the drawers, pulling out spatulas, measuring cups, and any other essential baking tool.

“And you say my rules are stupid.”

“That was your rule.” Peter left out the part about Tony making that rule after Peter had almost accidentally poked his eyeball out with a screwdriver.

Tony gave Morgan a pack of gummy bears, and told her to keep lookout for Pepper. Peter didn’t see how that would matter. The kitchen would probably be so wrecked any warning Morgan could give them to her arrival wouldn’t be long enough to cover their crimes.

Their baking started without any trouble.

It was a mess, but whenever they were in the kitchen, that was unavoidable. Peter was just happy nothing horrific had happened, like that time Tony burnt his eyebrows off, or that time Peter slipped and fell on the whipped cream that had somehow gotten spread out all over the kitchen floor.

So, it was a miracle when Tony pulled the brownies out of the oven to cool, and nobody had been hurt.

Then it was time to get the marshmallows out, and Tony picked up the blow torch.

Peter was spreading out the marshmallows on the brownies when his hands felt hot. It took him a couple of seconds to register that Tony was setting his hands on fire. Tony, who switched on the blow torch without paying attention, and didn’t realize he’d had it pointed at Peter’s hands until he yelped, ran towards the sink, switched on the cold water and let it over his burnt hands.

“You burnt me,” said Peter.

Tony switched off the blowtorch. “You put your hands in the way!”

“My hands were there first!”

“Jesus, kid,” said Tony. He walked over and offered a hand on the shoulder for support.

“Dadddddyy,” said Morgan, coming into the kitchen. She stopped, and stared at the both of them huddled over the kitchen sink. “What are you guys doing?”

“Your dad tried to set me on fire.”

“Oh,” said Morgan, with a shrug. “What’s new?”

“Morgan,” said Tony. “Is there a reason you came in here?”

“Oh yeah! Mommy’s here.”

Pepper appeared as if on cue. Peter watched as her eyes moved from the brownie batter on the ceiling, the cocoa powder spread out over the counter and the floor, and finally, the lump of butter sitting on the floor, by her feet.

She released a long, weary sigh. “What is going on? Why is there a blowtorch in the kitchen?”

“Daddy tried to set Peter on fire,” said Morgan. “Should we tell Aunt May on him?”

“Next time I leave I’m hiring a babysitter.”

“That’s completely fair,” said Peter, still savoring the cold water hitting his crispy hands. After taking a blowtorch to his hands, adult supervision didn’t sound so bad.

*

Pepper ordered Tony to clean the kitchen up, sentenced the blowtorch to a lifetime imprisonment in the garage, and told Peter he’d better get some rest on the couch, giving him a cool pack to hold onto.

The living room was empty when he wandered into it, and Peter took his favorite spot on his favorite couch, reclaimed the remote, and mostly, reclaimed the thicker, cozier blanket.

He turned off the baking show, convinced that they were evil, and possessed people with impossible ideas just like pinterest.

He was halfway through some horror film when Tony joined him. This time he picked up the Disney blanket without complaint, and left the remote alone.

“Sorry about your hands, kid.”

“That’s okay,” said Peter. “That’s what I get for going into the kitchen with you.”

“I’m not that bad.”

Peter dropped the cold pack on his chest, and lifted his pitch red, already peeling hands up, putting them on display for Tony to see.

“Okay, I’m pretty bad.”

“No more baking shows,” said Peter.

“What about Kitchen Nightmares?”

“Only if Gordon Ramsay can come over and scream at you.”

“Wouldn’t mind that, actually.”

“It isn’t a baking show, anyway.”

It was as if a light switched on in Peter’s head. He turned off the horror flick, scrolled through Netflix, until he found a cooking competition to click on. It was different. Totally different.

“We could make that,” said Tony, watching the contestants on the show.

“Oh yeah, for sure,” said Peter, with complete confidence.

[hainethehero]

Billy (😎👑)and Steve (😳🌸) share a milkshake...

Steve drove away from Hawkins Middle like a bat out of hell after spotting Nancy at the Snow Ball. He didn't want to think about her and Johnathan being all sweet and chummy with each other at their little brothers' school dance. The thought was nauseating.

He drove til he reached the old Maple Road, driving into Benny's Burger's parking lot. They were always open so he figured he'd stop for a milkshake and a burger while he waited for Dustin. It was just his luck that Billy Hargrove seemed to be there dining as well.

"Well well, if it isn't Hawkins' very own pretty boy."

Steve rolls his eyes, scratching lazily at his tired eyes. "What d'you want Hargrove?"

Billy shrugs. "I dunno. I'm bored, join me?"

And Steve knows at this point that he should refuse the offer and just get the hell outta dodge but he doesn't. He would attempt to make sense out of it later but for now, he sits down opposite Billy in the booth, avidly avoiding his eyes in favour of perusing the menu.

"What're you having?" Billy asks him casually, taking a bite of his waffle.

Steve shrugs noncommittally. "Not sure. I was thinking about having a burger."

"Burger and a Coke? Wait- you look more like a milkshake babe. Are you into milkshakes Harrington?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Why does everything you say come across as sleazy?"

Billy smirks and winks flirtatiously at him. "Can't help myself I guess. Hey Hannah darling, could you get my friend here a cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake please? Thanks hon."

Steve gapes back at him incredulously. He's known that goddamn waitress his entire life and he's never seen her crack a smile like that before.

"Close your damn mouth princess, you're gonna catch flies." Billy mutters, sipping on his Coke.

Steve stutters, still dumbfounded at Billy's apparent charm. "Why would you think I'd prefer the strawberry milkshake?"

Billy snickers into his food and then offers Steve his best panty-dropper smile. "Because pink's your aesthetic. I didn't make the rules. Pretty colours for the pretty boy, y'know?"

Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, thankful that his food arrives just in time. He takes a bite of the burger, relishing in the taste. God, it's been a while since he's eaten anything but nachos and granola.

"Jesus, at least ask it for a date first before you go down on it, Harrington." Billy taunts lightly, electric blue eyes locked on Steve.

Steve purses his lips, putting down his burger. "I'm hungry, shut up." He takes a sip of his strawberry milkshake and almost moans at how good it is. He doesn't though, because Billy would say some shit about it.

"S' it any good?" The blonde boy asks, actually looking curious.

Steve nods, smiling despite himself. "It's really good. I've actually only ever had the chocolate so, this is a good different."

Billy shoots him that lilting, one-sided smirk that makes his insides quake nervously for some reason.

"Mind if I have a taste?"

Steve screws up his stupid, pretty face. "Um, no. I'm not sharing my milkshake with you."

"Why not?"

"Because, it's my milkshake. Get your own."

Billy grins again, taking the straw out of his tall glass of Coke and sticking it into Steve's milkshake. The brunette gapes at him as he takes a long sip, wiggling those thick brows at the dumbfounded boy.

"You're pretty when you're in shock."

Steve flounders for a second before regaining his composure. "And you're pretty annoying. Why the hell'd you do that?"

Billy shrugs, taking a bite of a crispy piece of bacon.

"I can't finish an entire milkshake on my own so, it made sense to take a sip of yours. Calm down princess, my mouth is clean." He smirks, clicking his tongue at Steve.

"I don't believe that." Steve deadpans. "And I'm not a princess."

Billy tosses his head back and cackles. "You sure? Cos I'm pretty certain you just kissed a frog."

Steve shoots him a withering glare. "I didn't kiss you. You took a sip from my milkshake. But, at least you got the frog part right."

Billy snorts. "I'm hurt Harrington."

Steve sighs, rolling his eyes at Billy's childish antics. "What are you even doing here anyway?"

Billy grunts noncommittally but answers him anyway. "Maxine. She's got that stupid Snow Ball dance thingy."

"Oh, right. Yeah, so does Dustin."

"Who?"

"Dust- never mind."

Billy shrugs. "This beats being at home anyway. I don't mind."

Steve pauses at that, feeling some sort of connection through that. He too was running from another lonely night at home, just like Billy. He sits in silence for a moment before nodding.

"I get it. I kinda don't wanna be home either."

Billy considers him for a minute or two before sipping on his milkshake again. Steve lets him, a little confused as to why he didn't seem to mind it as much as he'd been pretending to earlier. Maybe it was the way Billy had casually said that they'd practically kissed.

"You'd rather be out sharing a milkshake with me." Billy finally replies, with a victorious smirk.

"Y'know you really seem to like the idea of sharing my milkshake, Hargrove." Steve mutters, noticing the slight blush on Billy's face. He can tell by the pull on the corners of his own lips that he's blushing as well.

"Maybe I do."

Billy's voice is deep and rough like gravel as he stares at Steve through hooded eyes. Steve blushes and averts his eyes to his hands on the table.

"You're an idiot, Billy Hargrove."

Billy grins. "You are beautiful Steve Harrington."

[sp00kworm]

A Creature in the Woods (Part 1)

PART 2 (To Come)

Relationships: Yautja Male x Female Reader 

Rating: Teen and up for violence 

Word Count: 10.4K

Summary:  His tribal upbringing screamed how foolish it was in the back of his mind as he peeled the skin from the human skull and set it on the bench in his ship. Gems to adorn the cavities, he reasoned, would look fetching, since no flowers could grow in the frigid temperatures. As he worked, he realised he had no idea of human customs. Dau-Ih'kui paused with the knife, claws tapping the wet bone as he thought for a moment. He killed a man in front of you, and slaughtered countless others. Who was he to dare offer gifts? His mandibles drooped at the thought of his advances being met with such disgust. He held the knife and tapped it against the bone. You had a dislike of the men, he knew that from your behaviour alone, yet they were of your kind. A dilemma curled around his mind as he reached to try and pull the brain from the back. His claws speared the flesh as he pondered the thought. Even if he went to the trouble of making this, would you even appreciate it?

A/N: I finally finished part of this monster of a fic with Chopper, the Yautja you are about to read about. I hope part 1 is enough to wet your appetites! 

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

The Universes’ Greatest Hunter. The name his race was given was well deserved. He’d seen the largest of his race bring home Xenomorph Queen heads. Many more had ended up in the gut of the beast, but the rewards and glory of being the one to server the head from it’s egg puking body was well deserved. He’d watched them cackle and roar, throwing the head at the feet of the clan chief. He’d wished it was himself that had the honour. Face-huggers were prizes of their own however, and even one Xenomorph was impressive. It wasn’t a Queen, but the shined dome of the monster’s head hung firmly over his wall. Perhaps a Queen would be better choice for his next hunt. The Yautja clicked softly, invisible against the woodland as he waited in the top of a large tree, listening to the sounds of the human planet around him. The coordinates he had been given were for the military base, and the hunter had broken them quicker than his tribe had broken the Queen on their last hunting trip.

 The fear still lingered in the air, the pheromones clinging to the leathers of his clothing. The shoulder canon flared by his ear as he watched a deer trot beneath him. The antlers were pretty, but such an easy prize. The ears and teeth of the gun armed humans would be something pretty to give to a mate. Perhaps he could do the same with the gentle curves of the stag’s antlers. He huffed to himself, mandibles stretching and flaring beneath his helmet. His claws tapped against his thighs as he watched the animals start and run beneath him. The two vicious blades on his arm jolted free as he listened to the underbrush. A bear grumbled beneath him before pushing its great claws into the bark, mouth open and lips flared as it sniffed the air. It could smell him, like any other animal, but it could not see him perched in the branches over its head, dreadlocks and metal bands swaying and blades extended to take its head. The female bear roared up the tree again and the Predator watched, head tilted, curious, before curling beneath the branch to peer closer, hair hanging down around his helmet, still invisible. The bear grunted and thumped back onto the ground.

 He struck then, blades slicing viciously through the meat of the Grizzly’s neck, taking its head clean from its body. The blood poured over the leaves, hot and sticky in the winter’s morning, creating steam. The Yautja male dropped from the branches after it, uncloaking to look at the fur more closely. It was brown and thick, the hair beginning to blot with blood. He was quick to unsheathe one of his wrist blades before slicing the beast open, taking the pelt with swift precision before plucking a few of its claws free for decoration, perhaps on a new necklace he would carve. They looked strong enough to him for a thick string to pass through without damaging the claw with the carving and drilling. He looked at his wrist, the map pulsing, the terrain unknown to his scanners. It was downloading data from its scans, mapping the terrain for him as he stood. There were primitive satellites overhead, enough for him to be able to map the area quickly. The base gave him the codes for the military ones, they were much quicker than others he had been using beforehand.

 Perhaps now he could return to the ship.

 A snap of twigs turned his head. The Yautja hunter clicked his cloaking back into place and was quickly back up into the tree, wet pelt over his shoulder, blood dripping from it onto the branch below. He held a clawed hand beneath the drip and waited, breathing slowly and quietly through the ventilation of his helmet. A hunter crouched underneath the branch.

“Jesus Christ, Mary and Joseph.” He uttered, rifle over his shoulder as he looked at the bear’s head, the tongue lolling out of it’s mouth, the meat of its body exposed to the cold elements.  The hot body steamed in the leaves, and the Yautja watched the hunter cluck his tongue.

“Bastard took a female as well. Should know better than to kill the females.” He shook his head but left the head where it was. His hand reached towards the meat of the creature, tutting before calling for some sort of hound. The beast was soft, tail wagging as it came along, sniffing through the leaves before standing by its master. He would have snorted had he not been above the male human. The beast was tame and dull in the head. Some soft pet. But it wasn’t worth his time, nor was the male, unless he dared to touch his kill. Mercifully, the hunter shook his head and moved on, trudging quietly through the leaves with his dog at his heels.

 The hunter was gone quickly, and the Predator dropped from the tree silently, claws curling as he stalked to the kill again, looking at the flesh. He drew a shorter blade and got to work cutting the meat from bone. It would be enough to keep for a while, so long as he could find his ship among the trees. The wrist gauntlet perhaps was damaged from the thump from the soldier’s rifle butt some days ago. He tapped the screen and attached buttons with a click of his mandibles, frustration growing as he tried and failed to get a lock on his own ship. He hooked the bear head on a claw before stripping it of it’s fur and meat, gouging everything free before admiring the skull and hooking it on his shoulder spike before setting off with the meat in tow, heading towards his ship. Hopefully for the last time, though he doubted the next coordinates would come fast enough.

 The Yautja cloaked as he walked, leaving the bear to rot away in the leaves as he took the food and trophies back to his ship. A fire soon roared outside of the loading dock, the strips of meat speared on sticks, cooking as the Yautja looked at the trees, daring only then to slide his mask free and try to breathe the earthly atmosphere. It was passable, chugged with some form of chemicals but the oxygen was crisp and clean in the woodlands. He set to work fixing his gauntlet as the meat cooked, bright, burning orange eyes focused on the task at hand. The language churned over the screen as it restarted and sputtered. It would take some time to fix tonight. He drew a stick from the fire and pulled pieces of the bear free with his mandibles, pushing them past sharp teeth as he examined the crispy leaves around him, thankful for the thermal, durable netting over his skin, trapping his body heat to him beneath the pieces of armour. He took the fur in his claws and draped it over his lap, beginning to rub the dried blood away with a stiff brush, looking at the skin underneath before leaving it to hang and dry by the fire, taking more meat for himself as he moved into his ship to get a small amount of rest.

 The next day there still wasn’t a present co-ordinate from his clan. There was, however, a hologram, downloaded into the message section of his ship. The Yautja male prowled towards the blinking light from his hammock, and pushed the com next to it, clicking and hissing the password for the ship to reveal the message to him. His Sister blinked into view, her head turned as she listened to someone before speaking in rough quick tones, her helmet scratched. He remembered her having got the scar along her neck as well.

“Dau-Ih'kui, the coordinates are still unknown. Our Father has been missing on the Homeworld. We suspect an ambush. Orbit the cesspit if you must. Stay safe for now. It will be perhaps a month.” Then she clicked out. He rolled his orange eyes and cracked his neck, wondering what sport could be had in such a gentle place outside of drawing more attention to himself. The bear skull was drying in the corner, the marrow weeping from it into a bucket. Stretching, he rubbed the drying skin over his head, turning to look at the scales and leathery skin, his sandy colour speckled with robust black markings over his eyes, red flicks curving over the edges of his spines and into the black patterning. His head tendrils bounced, still wrapped in shiny bands and leather, beads and small bones clinked as he turned.

 His tusks and mandibles clicked as he thought about one of the loud-mouthed soldiers trying to pronounce his name. Humans had no grasp of their language, nor would they ever, he assumed as he pushed his claws inside of the skull and curled a lump of marrow from the brain before drawing that out too and taking the bucket to dispose of the bear remains outside of the ship, donning his armour efficiently, the helmet buzzing with activity and updates. The loincloth and leather kilt flapped as he dumped the festering blood, marrow and brain out into the leaves, hoping some scavenging creature would get rid of it before it really began to smell. He cloaked as twigs snapped, and watched a rabbit bound past, sprinting for its life before a fox followed with a huff. The male watched curiously as the fox missed and heaved, stopping the chase and letting the rabbit sprint out of its view, down into the burrow and to the safety of its warren. A poor hunter chased without a decisive outcome. Dau-Ih'kui returned to his ship before realising he would have to eat again. He dumped the bucket back under the bear skull before drawing a wire from his belt.

 Snares would have to do.

 The screams of a hedgehog drew you from your normal woodland walk. The soldiers hadn’t been through recently on their exercises, nor to try and harass you into abandoning your home for the money offered by the state. They wanted the whole of the woodland area for the camp, and you were the only resident left in their way. You were glad for it. The animals here would no doubt then fall prey to hunting permits and deforestation. Let them remove you forcefully in the end. You weren’t leaving for the pitiful amount of money they were offering. The land itself was worth triple the price. The hedgehog wailed again in the brush, no doubt trapped by a fox or in a little wire trap. You listened and moved gently through the leaves, scooting your boots through the decaying mess and thorns to try and reveal the creature. It screamed again and you looked at the base of a tree to see the sleepy creature, its foot caught in a vicious wire loop. Hushing the balled-up animal you reached for the snare and gently held the hedgehog with your scarf, trying to get the animal to be still. You took the scissors from your pocket and eased its foot out, snipping the wire quickly before spraying the leg with antiseptic and burying the hedgehog back into it’s leafy home.

 The Predator watched from above, flicking from heat vision to enhanced zoom to watch you pick up the shivering animal. He silently watched you re-hide the creature and felt something akin to annoyance as you snapped the wire away from the tree and scowled, cursing the hunters for their traps. A deer would break its leg getting caught in such a trap. The Yautja pressed his wrist and pointed the screen towards you, your vitals and information quickly being noted by the contraption, recording you for later reference, as you freed and cut away snares around the area. Dau-Ih'kui hung from the branch, his feet pressed against the bark as he lowered himself closer, watching you move around in the trees, cloaked and invisible as he silently stood in the leaves. You almost grazed his arm as you rushed past, huffing and grumbling, your glove wrapped with the wires from his snares for little edible creatures. The male felt like growling as you detached his snares. He needed to eat, and the small stash of cooked bear meat wouldn’t last him a month. He watched you leave, your human shape swaying through the trees, and wondered if you would be back to spoil his other hunting spots.

 A strange part of him hoped you would. Perhaps you would be better sport than the rabbits in their little burrows.

 The Yautja reset his snares the next day, clicking to himself softly as he waited up in the tree, fiddling with the gauntlet on his wrist, claws curling into the bark to hold himself steady above the large snare he’d set. A deer swung from the branch, barking viciously loud, the stag’s antlers slamming around against the bark as it bucked and tried to free itself. This, you would have greater difficulty getting down, and Dau-Ih'kui was betting on it as he noted his snare locations and slid down from the tree to cut the buck free. He hissed as it’s antlers batted towards him and took hold of the beast’s head to hold it still as it thrashed around, mouth foaming with stress. It’s wide eyes were petrified, and it barked again, shouting, steam escaping from it’s mouth as it bucked at him before going still, breathing raggedly.

 He barely had time to cloak before you burst into the clearing.

“Holy shit.” You breathed, though Dau-Ih'kui did not understand the curse through the translator installed in his helmet behind his ear. Humans had a strange, lip heavy language that he doubted he would ever master. He did not possess the facial features for such pronunciations.

“Calm down, shh.” You soothed the animal, hands outstretched. The alien stood still, breathing as quietly as his ventilator would allow, watching you gently touch the buck’s flank before taking hold of it’s horns and holding it still, the scissors clutched in your hand again. The deer sat still, heaving and panting as you snipped it’s leg free, lowering it onto its side before getting over it’s back and working to quickly remove all of the wire wrapped around it’s leg. It shook and barked again, gutturally as you pushed its head and bolted up and away, watching it get to it’s feet and bolt for the cover of thicker trees, no doubt to lick its wound and hide away to relax.

 “These hunters need to go back to shooting these poor things.” You muttered, and Dau-Ih'kui watched you close, face perhaps ten inches from your own as you huffed and breathed, watching the deer bound away. The Yautja watched before clicking and hissing. He’d had enough of your meddling with his hunts. He needed to eat. These were not Trophies.

You fell on your backside as he decloaked in front of you, roaring through the metal of his helmet, claws sharp, advancing aggressively, his arms out and crouched low to the ground, ready to pounce should you threaten him.

“HOLY SHIT!” You reached for the scissors in your pocket and held them out in both hands, watching the creature prowl around you in a slow circle.

He reassessed his anger all too quickly, a female with nothing but half sharpened blades, both of which were attached together. You weren’t dangerous, and killing you was dishonourable in every way, never mind the fact humans were poor prey to begin with, even with important information about other alien species.

 The alien creature paused his aggressive display, the eyes of his mask turning white, analysing your prone form on the floor, hands flexing. You eyed the two jagged blades on his wrist and placed the scissors aside.

“I suppose you’re the one that’s been stringing up animals?” You accused. The tone was sharp, demanding, like the tone the females of his species adopted to get their toy males to obey them. He ground his mandibles but nodded once, noting your question, answering it without speaking, not that you would understand the language he spoke. His hair tendrils wiggled, clinking the bones and beads together, as he stalked a little closer, thumping through the leaves, skulls on his shoulders, watching you, analysing you.

“Why?” You asked and Dau-Ih'kui listened to the translation in his ear. He ignored it. You weren’t worthy of that information. The Yautja peered down at you again and admired your soft, angry facial features, your hair, your form.

 For a human woman, you were fearsome looking, and he felt the need to leave you alone, and the need to, perhaps, apologize. You didn’t know he needed to eat.

 His claw pointed at himself over the mouth before he ducked and pulled a rabbit free from his back, holding it up for you to see, towering over you with incredible height, standing an easy seven foot tall, and bulk, muscles tight and large from years hunting great beasts.

“You eat them?” You asked.

The creature nodded before holding the rabbits and beginning to stalk away through the trees, intending to find the buck that you had released. The blood trail was hot over the leaves, and he tapped his helmet before jumping back into the trees, an impressive display of strength as he vaulted and dragged himself quickly through the branches, the leaves barely rustling as he went. The heat sensor picked the trail up easily and he ignored you, left behind, focusing on getting the stag, wondering if the horns and skull would be recompense enough for attacking you while you were unarmed. As he dropped onto the quarry, he decided all too quickly, peeling the skin away and taking the cleaned-out skull with a purr.

 A knock on your door was unexpected, especially at eight o’clock in the morning. You placed your breakfast dish on the drainer, wiping your hands with a towel as you moved to unlock and open the door. Opening your mouth, you got ready to tell the Colonel to ‘piss off’ before being confronted with thin air. There was no one at the door. The chill crept up your arms as you looked outside, stepping forwards onto to tap against something placed on your doorstep. The skull span a little on the stone and you looked down in fascination at the set of antlers, sanded and plucked free of grime tenderly to make it an impressive thing to hang on the wall. Still, there was no sign of the creature that you were convinced was responsible for leaving the perfectly cleaned skull. It was either a macabre taunting joke, or it was a sign of something you didn’t quite understand. The thing could have killed you easily. Its’ hands were no doubt large enough to snap your neck with just one, yet it had let you live, hissing and clicking, ignoring you when you revealed the scissors. Unthreatening.

 You picked up the skull, looking into its perfectly hollowed out eyes, and wondered if it had spared you because of honour or because you were that little of a threat. With a soft smile, you took the skull inside, closing the door with your foot, unaware of the Yautja watching you from the tree next to your property, recording the scene to watch back inside his ship, wondering why you smiled as you took his gift inside and placed it by the contraptions you had been using all morning to make food for yourself. Dau-Ih'kui watched with interest, cloaked and invisible, his shoulder canon twitching as he watched the smile back again. A ruckus sounded behind him and he peered over his shoulder, crouched in the tree, watching as a troop of human soldiers marched along the well-trodden path to your home. The male watched over the edge of the branch, his hands held over his thighs as he watched them march to your door, knocking on it like they owned your territory. Such males in his home world would be torn to pieces for daring to enter a female’s house in such a way. He’d laughed with the other Elites when a young male had attempted to court his Sister in such a brazen manner. She almost tore his arm clean off for the insolence.

 Now he did not find it funny, watching the gun ridden soldiers’ glance around the woodlands, spooked, the fear leaking from them in palatable waves. His head tilted, tendrils falling over his shoulders as he watched them bang on your door again. The male was sure he had rid their infested base of everything able to wield a gun days ago, perhaps almost a week ago now, yet here a new batch of them stood, guns ready and eyes brainwashed with cold discipline. Unflinching to follow orders. He didn’t doubt they would shoot him on sight. They were looking for him. He wanted to laugh at their pathetic weapons. Bullets were inaccurate from such primitive barrels. He wondered again how they hadn’t advanced into plasma technology yet, and how their medicine was so far behind their own. Humans barely lived a century, whereas he had already lived for eight centuries. Dau-Ih'kui was barely old, still a mid range age of a hunter, old enough to have had the honour of hunting Xenomorphs but still not old enough to have seen an Elder die. Humans were strange enough already; he didn’t need to add their pathetic lifespans to that list.

 Your form appeared in the doorway, and the male felt himself almost snicker in the tree as your face soured into obvious anger. These males would do well to stay clear from your path.

“Colonel, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, so maybe it sinks into your thick, fucking skull. I don’t want to sell you my land.” You hissed at the group, grabbing the edge of the door, ready to slam it in their faces.

“Miss, that’s not why we’re here. There’s been...an accident. Men have been slaughtered. We think it was one of our own.” Dau-Ih'kui tilted his head from the trees, confused by their lies, “We wanted to ask you if you’d seen anyone come through here recently?” The officer asked, frowning as his men flinched at a branch falling from a tree.

“No. I haven’t seen anyone but a bear trapper in recent days.” Now you were lying, your hands crossed over your chest defensively. Dau-Ih'kui wondered why you would defend him. He had been rude and cruel, an alien threatening violence where there was none to be had. His masked face turned, heat signatures blinking to life as he watched them rush through the trees again. The Yautja looked back at the house, watching your body walk away from the door before he tapped his wrist and jumped from the tree. Considering the electric trip wire, he looked through the window before setting it up either side of the white fence posts, slamming the charges into the ground with a hiss, laughing beneath his mask before he swung himself back into the tree and set off after the soldiers marching loudly through the woods.

 They were scared when the first noises started, clicking in the trees, yet every time they turned the muzzles of their guns upwards, there was nothing but silence. The male was cloaked, walking along the branches, leaping to the next, in utter silence. As they neared a clearing, he made haste to get in front of the group, drawing trigger wires from his pouch and connecting it to two snares. If they scattered, they would quickly get snatched up. He was confident he would be able to track and hunt them through the terrain no matter where they went. Even if they didn’t, Dau-Ih'kui had his spear attached to his back. He could easily tear the creatures apart before they could blow off their guns near him. He clicked the cloaking on his armour and watched the men march into the clearing, their eyes still flicking upwards, wary as they drew close to the hidden snares. Dau-Ih'kui watched, his hand ready at his shoulder to reach for the spear. His claw twitched as he watched the first human step into the leg snare. The trip wire snapped, and the slip knot went tight around his boot, catapulting him upwards. The male screamed as he was flung upwards and a second scream followed quickly. Dau-Ih'kui clicked softly before launching two razor sharp spinning blades. Their throats split open and spurted hot blood over the leaves. The rest of the troop searched for him, fingers on the triggers of their guns.

 They looked upwards for perhaps thirty seconds. No one moved. Dau-Ih'kui stood silently on the tree branch, cloaked, mapping their heat signatures, calculating the best route through them with a knife or spear. The shoulder canon whined, charging a shot. The soldiers swallowed. There was silence between them before a gun fired, one of them nervous, his trigger finger twitching. The Predator burst into action, leaping from the tree, spear catching one in the back of the neck as he fell. The end lodged itself into the spinal column, severing the nerves and arteries as it sliced through the front of the human’s neck, blood poured down its front. Dau-Ih'kui clicked in joy at the smell of iron. The spear withdrew with a snap, at the click of a button. Shots fired towards him, and the Yautja held the body of their comrade as cover, feeling the bullets smash into the body, mangling the flesh. One pinged from his helmet before he threw the body at them and fired a plasma shot. The male fell, a hole burned through his chest. Four more stood before him as he cloaked and moved into the trees again. Silence. He could smell the fear, perched over his next victim, claws outstretched, reaching for the bullet proof vest.

 Dau-Ih'kui yanked upwards, leaning back to avoid the wild spray of bullets before dragging his knife over the man’s neck and clicking, slamming his shoulder through the end of the thick branch, watching the blood leak before he jumped, the tendrils on his head flaring upwards and slapping his back as he fell to the ground and span, the end of the spear cutting the man’s neck open, gun firing wildly, slamming the man across from him into the floor with the force of the spray. He grunted as he hit the floor before gurgling blood in his throat, a throwing blade lodged through the centre of his neck. The final one turned tail, the colonel, running for his life, back towards the place he knew he’d run to. Dau-Ih'kui hissed before recloaking himself, setting off at blaring speed behind the man before leaping back for the trees, watching as the man lagged. The Yautja waited in the tree overhanging the fence, finger poised over the release button for the trip wire.

 As predicted, the colonel crashed through the clearing, sprinting for the front door of your home. He never noticed the trap until he crashed to the floor. Dau-Ih'kui tapped a button and watched the wire snap shut over his ankles before a current was delivered from the small battery packs. He watched him writhe, mouth foaming with the shock, deep in a convulsion, before laying still over the flagstones to your door. The Predator dropped from the tree, revealing himself, hair twisting over his shoulders as he reached a clawed hand down to grab the colonel by his ankle.

“Stop!” The front door to your home burst open, and the alien only tilted his head, helmet lit up bright white over the eyes, “He didn’t do jack shit to you!” He noted the scissors in your hand again and scoffed, a hissing noise behind the helmet as he held his prey up, regarding his skin and head, wondering what the best prize would be to take.

“Don’t ignore me!” You advanced on the male and stood your ground, scowling, eyes looking between him and the unconscious man in his clawed hand.

 Dau-Ih'kui turned, the leather pieces of his kilt flapping, regarding you with a curious head tilt, inching the man back and out of your grasp. Your stance was aggressive, hands on your hips, yet your eyes were frightened. Perhaps because of the creature in his grasp.

A growl made you grab his other hand, holding the knife down and away from the soldier in his grasp, “If you kill him more will come.”

He tilted his head before shaking the man, speaking roughly into the translator, hissing and clicking violently, “More come anyway.” The helmet spouted, a conversion into poor English.

You froze, looking at the face of the metal helmet, mouth open.

The knife drew over the man’s neck before you could stop him, spurting blood over your soft jumper.

“Prey. Hunt.” The helmet buzzed out before he turned from you, dragging the bleeding body of the Colonel through the leaves, “Trophies.”

 He left you stood in the leaves, face and jumper splattered with hot human blood, in the cold autumn air.

 The corpses were rather useless to him, though he took to stripping away the meat from the bones, sniffing at the human flesh before grimacing. Distasteful. Most of it was full of chemicals. He took the lengths of thigh bone and arms before cracking ribs and finger bones away from cartilage. Dau-Ih'kui picked holes in them to let the marrow rot away and gathered his collection before holding a head in his hands, mandibles clicking as he looked at the colonel’s macabre face. He tore the eyes out with two claws and rattled the head, thinking and wondering how he was going to remove the brain without damaging the prize. He looked at the corpses and dragged them into a great pile before retrieving a flint from his belt, shoving leaves and dry branches around them before setting the bonfire alight. The Yautja turned away with his prizes and tittered, thinking about the soft human female that had interfered with the hunt. The anger pointed to a woman to win over, yet she was no Yautja, and many would never see a human as a life-mate. Yautja technology would lengthen lifespans by millennia if he did decide to pursue it.

 His tribal upbringing screamed how foolish it was in the back of his mind as he peeled the skin from the human skull and set it on the bench in his ship. Gems to adorn the cavities, he reasoned, would look fetching, since no flowers could grow in the frigid temperatures. As he worked, he realised he had no idea of human customs. Dau-Ih'kui paused with the knife, claws tapping the wet bone as he thought for a moment. He killed a man in front of you, and slaughtered countless others. Who was he to dare offer gifts? His mandibles drooped at the thought of his advances being met with such disgust. He held the knife and tapped it against the bone. You had a dislike of the men, he knew that from your behaviour alone, yet they were of your kind. A dilemma curled around his mind as he reached to try and pull the brain from the back. His claws speared the flesh as he pondered the thought. Even if he went to the trouble of making this, would you even appreciate it? He’d never found a female Yautja that he wished to dare make an advance on in such a way. Siring pups was different. A mutual agreement, of which, he had no part in after the sexual act. He wasn’t scared of the females of his race, but his trophy collection paled in comparison to some elites. He wanted to bulk it out more, enjoy the hunt for a few more centuries, before he thought about finding a mate to share it with.

 He peered down at the skull as he plunged it into a bucket of river water, washing the mucus and blood from the bone before taking a rag to it, cleaning the hollow cavities thoroughly. The bone was a dull white, the teeth a little stained from a life of coffee drinking, and Dau-Ih'kui hummed as he set to polishing every imperfection away, peeling the fillings away before sanding everything gently. The skull was set into a bucket of lacquer as he searched through his ship for adornments for the eyes and mouth. A geode sat in one drawer, forgotten after its gifting from a little tribe of strange blue skinned aliens on a moon. He prised the seal of the geode apart and tittered at the great, blue and purple crystals inside. It would be easy to chip them free and fasten them inside the bone, protruding like grotesque yet beautiful growths. Dau-Ih'kui tilted his head as he cracked the geode again, chipping away at the stone to get to the crystals inside before plucking them free with a small screwdriver and hammer he used to repair his armour. The longer crystals he glued around the edge of the eyes, inside the sockets, protruding outwards. He placed some behind the teeth and propped the mouth open with them. His final creation was a haunting skull, full of blue and purple mineral crystals. He picked the prize up in his clawed hands and turned it in the dying light, watching the sunset glitter through the minerals before purring softly, impressed with his own crafting skills.

 The butchering of the soldiers weighed heavily on you for a while, and as you laid in bed that night you rubbed at your head, trying to remove the residual ache. Nothing was working. The cold towel and water were ineffective, and the painkillers simply dulled the ache some. With a sigh, you got out of bed, tying yourself in a sheer robe before shoving your slippers on before going out into the cold air of the house. The autumn air sent a chill down your spine as you turned on the kitchen light, clicking the kettle on to boil as you pulled a mug free and looked for a form of hot drink. A knock on the door sounded as you pulled open the cutlery drawer. You froze and listened. There was nothing but the yipping of foxes and the wind blowing through tiny cracks in the house. The wind howled as you looked through the peep hole in the door. There was no one there. You opened the front door and peered around before your slipper hit something on top of the step. It skittered in a circle. You reached down to pick up the human skull, cringing at the implication before noticing the beautiful crystals stuck in the eye sockets and in the jaw, spreading out between the teeth. It was gorgeous yet macabre. You held it under your arm, glancing around the clearing as your teeth chittered in the cold.

 “Thank you…Though I’m not entirely pleased you killed someone to make me this gift. They didn’t do anything wrong. They’ve been harassing me about my land for years…yet I’m thankful you cleared them away. I know a lot of them were not good people.” You felt stupid talking to the night air, yet you knew he was there, listening in the trees above. It had the ability to go invisible, you knew that, but you hopped the alien would reveal himself.

A whirring noise sounded before the creature appeared in front of you, his helmet covered face inches away from your own, “Gift.” He offered, the voice robotic and metallic. You knew it was the work of some software inside his metal helmet. The eyes flicked from red, to white, to black again as he stood over you. The creature didn’t move, standing stock still as you clutched the jewel covered skull in your hands.

“Do you not know how to give normal gifts where you come from?” The sentence was perhaps a little more venomous than intended.

He tilted his head, listening to the translation in his ear, “Trophy is great honour to be gifted.” The tone was blunt, devoid of life, “Name?” He asked, though the robot talking for him sounded no friendlier.

 You took a deep breath before offering your hand and saying your name slowly for him. The helmet buzzed and his eye holes flicked to white again, tracking your movement.

He pointed to himself, tapping a claw to his chest, “My name Dau-Ih'kui.” The alien continued to tap his shoulder armour.

“Can you pronounce that a little slower?” You asked, listening to the machine whirr and pronounce it more exaggerated, the syllables longer, “I don’t think I can say that very well. Dow-Ee-Koo?”

He chortled at your attempted and shook his head, the thick coils of head tendrils patting at his shoulders, the bone and feather decorations clicking together, “Dau-Ih'kui.” He grumbled this time, the computer silent in his helmet. The hissing pronunciation was something you would struggle to replicate, but you followed his pronunciation as best you could before sighing and smiling at his covered face.

“Can I give you a nickname?” You ran your fingers over the crystal edges embedded in the skull. The alien nodded, “Okay then...What about Chopper? I assume it was you that shot that helicopter a few weeks back?”

 The creature nodded, no tact, no regret for what he had done, “Loud thing. Poorly designed.” Dau-Ih'kui's translator spat out for him.

“Then Chopper it is, for now, until I can get the hang of your name.” You looked at his face plate again before asking your next question, “How long will you be here for? Isn’t your hunt over now you’ve...hunted the prey?”

He shook his head softly, his dreadlocks wiggling over his shoulders before he looked at his wrist and flexed the arm wrapped with the bracer.

“Do you still have things to hunt?” You asked, opening the door again with one hand.

“No hunt. Wait for next coordinate from home.” The robotic voice tittered before the male tried to peer around you and into your abode. All he could make out was stairs and lots of wood. His eyes lit up white again as he looked inside, mapping what he could.

“Hey, you know its rude to stare into people’s houses.” You teased, a smirk curling on the edge of your lips. The alien looked down at you and shrugged, his eyes going dark again, “You can come in if you promise not to gut me or hang me from a tree.

Chopper snorted at you, almost sounding offended, “Female is not prey.” Though he didn’t elaborate as he ducked through the doorway, wrist computer blaring as his laser tracking guided itself over the walls, the pulse canon on his shoulder quivering.

 Closing the door, you sighed as the alien peered around the lounge room, claws moving to touch the soft material of the two seat sofa, clicking to himself as he went, scanning and mapping, looking for traps that perhaps you had hidden. When he deemed everything normal, he trudged over to the kitchen, his dreadlocks sweeping around the side of the door as he peered inside, throwing his head back with a click before he stepped onto the tiles and looked around at the strange devices. Although his people had weapon technology that humans could only dream of, most cooking was done with primitive fire stoves, and that was a rarity. He’d seen intergalactic versions but the burning gas of the hob amused him nonetheless for a moment before he looked at the kettle and picked it up by the handle, sloshing the hot water side to side before he poured it over the teabag for you. A quick learner, you noted.

 “Do you always keep the helmet on?” You asked as he pushed the hot mug closer to your cold hands, “Surely you’re not that bad looking underneath?” Your laugh made him tilt his head, the mesh over his chest stretching as he puffed up, spines down his torso prickling.

“Face different from human.” He offered before reaching for the edges of the helmet.

“It can’t be that scary!” You laughed and sipped the tea in your hand, holding the mug close to your face.

“As you wish.” The voice of the translator technology grumbled before releasing the pressurized latches on the helmet, pulling the chin up slowly before taking it to the side, revealing the very alien face of the male before you. A long forehead was surrounded by long tendrils, black and sleek, wrapped with metal rings, while decorations of bone pieces, beads and feathers hung within them. His eyes were like fire, burning orange, flecked with black and brown in the middle. The large mandibles flared, tusks stretching to reveal a deep-set mouth and sharp teeth. His skin was smooth, yet littered with small spines, each dipped in dark brown and black, flicked with red while red and brown patterns curved over his brow bone and along the dome of his head towards his head tendrils. The spines flared, puffing out as he trilled at your attention, trying to appear bigger, like some soft a reptilian looking cat. The light brown of his skin was rimmed around a sandy colour. He was frightening, but he was no doubt pretty to his own kind. You caught the thought before it could go any further.

 The smile on your face confused him, and the male raised his brows at you in confusion.

“You’re not that scary. I mean, if you were chasing me, I would be terrified, but you’re not ugly. Strange to me, yes, but not ugly.” You sipped your drink again and watched the alien chitter to himself.

“Not…cute.” He grunted before vaguely gesturing to your drink.

“Oh, here, I’ll make you one.” You questioned your sanity as you pulled out a large mug for him, placing the tea bag inside and pouring hot water over it before offering it to the large alien, “I know it’s a little rude, but just what are you?”

Dau-Ih'kui’s mandibles flared and moved before he uttered out, “Yautja. Predator race.” He tried to dictate in very poor English, the ‘p’ noise slurred completely, as he curled his hands around the mug and tilted his head, pointing a single claw at the rim.

“Oh, shit, you don’t have lips. Uh.” You searched in the cupboards for something he could use before pulling out a small plastic jug, “Can you use this?” You offered the jug and watched the male pour the cooling tea into it before placing the spout past his teeth and pouring. He took a large mouthful and swallowed before clicking again, showing his enjoyment by drinking some more.

“Calm down, big guy!” You chuckled as he eyed the tea bag in the bottom of the jug and placed it aside, “You’ll choke if you chug things.”

 Confusion washed over his features before he peered around and found the crystal skull once more. Chopper took it into his hands before offering it to you again.

“Gift. Make happy?” He strode over, forcing the human skull into your hands again, “Display?” The words were slurred and littered with hissing, his tongue tying around many of the easy syllables.

“You want me to put it up?”

He nodded before pointing to the hallway, and the large side table pushed up against the wall. You followed and gently placed the skull on top of the table, watching it glitter with the light from the kitchen. Chopper clicked and turned it to face the door.

“Why are you leaving me things? You left me the deer skull and antlers before this…Why? I’ve not helped you.” You asked, clutching at your arms, wrapping yourself protectively. He didn’t understand until his helmet buzzed from the table, chittering in his own language.

The Yautja nodded his head, “Could have told soldiers…” He fumbled with his claws, trying to think of the words before he strode around you, arms swinging before he pulled his helmet back over his head, hissing into the translator, “Attractive. Feisty female. You could have told the soldiers about me.” He confessed, thankful for the mask to hide the creeping green blush over his cheeks. For some reason this was nerve wracking in an entirely new way. Yautja females were not so demanding, nor wished to know a ‘why’ to his advances.

 Was it not obvious? Perhaps human had other forms of courting?

 “Do humans have other courting rituals?” He asked robotically through the mask.

You spluttered for a moment, coughing on your own spit as he tapped a claw against the crystals on the skull, “What do you mean, courting rituals!?”

“Ways to woo the females of the species.” He answered, standing still, breathing quietly. Unfazed.

“Uhm…” Hands flew to the edges of your sleeves as you tried to think of something to tell the male Yautja, “I mean…I don’t.” A deep sigh escaped you mouth, “Um. Flowers are a common approach or asking the person out somewhere?” You offered, watching the male’s spines puff up again.

“Understood.” And like that he was out of the door, “Find better gift. Prove worth.” Before he was off, into the woods, leaves crunching as he went.

“Hey!” But he was gone, leaving the door and the gate open as he left.

 Chopper didn’t come crashing through the trees again for a while. A routine developed for you as you went about your life. Feeding the chickens that pecked at the back lawn was more of an excuse to investigate the trees and hope that the huge Yautja would tear into the clearing, some trophy held in his fist. It was wishful thinking. For two weeks you fed the chickens and gazed at the trees, sighing when Dau-Ih'kui didn’t reappear. The hens clucked as you threw them their daily grain in amongst the lawn, chuckling at their disgruntled wing flapping. You didn’t have much time before you had a conference call with your boss. It was nice being able to simply work with an internet connection. It was also nice to not have the soldiers banging on your door, giving you another price for the land your home was built on. There was no way you'd ever give it to them. Maybe even less so now that Chopper was lurking in the woods. Penny, the largest Hen, clucked before trilling at your feet. With a laugh, you threw another handful of grain before locking the run again, ensuring no hungry foxes would be able to break into the poor birds.

 “Female.” The mechanical voice of a familiar alien buzzed behind you before the robotic pronunciation of your name followed.

With a gasp, you span around, peering at the rippling Woodlands around you, “Chopper?” You asked.

A rush of air filtered through his helmet before the space in front of you rippled, contorted and fuzzed into a new shape. The Yautja clicked, flexing his spines, pushing his rubber like dreads over his shoulder, brown toned skin flexing underneath the matrix of netting, “Yes?” The helmet buzzed as you pushed yourself away from the muscled, armour plated chest that had materialized in front of you.

“Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me!” You scolded him, holding your bucket of chicken feed close.

The Yautja tilted his head, the eyes of his mask glowing, clawed toes curling into the dirt as he peered at the chickens behind you, “Apologies.” He looked around you as you stepped in front of the chickens. The alien clicked and leaned down, claws poking through the chicken wire to try reach the birds. Penny nipped his finger before returning to scrounging for beetles. Chopper huffed, “Birds only good for food.”

You laughed, “That’s what they are used for. They lay eggs and eventually I take a few of the girls to eat.” With a sigh you watched the alien, noticing the pouches attached to his belt.

 “Where have you been? You’ve been gone for nearly a fortnight.” Curiously you asked before placing the chicken feeding bucket back into the little outhouse. The alien didn’t answer right away, claws smoothing his cod-piece and kilt before he adjusted the ring of skulls over his hip.

He reached upwards and undid his helmet, revealing his mandibles and tusks as he shook his tendrils over his shoulders, hissing something in his own, harsh language. The helmet in his hand translated, “Busy preparing. Have come to collect you and show you something.”

You were curious, “Show me what?”

Chopper shifted before running a claw over his wrist band, bringing up a satellite image and a blinking marked location, “Here. My ship.” He pointed a claw at the red dot and purred soothingly as he watched your reaction.

“You want to show me your ship?” You asked, feeling happiness curl on your lips.

Chopper clicked softly, brows moving down, smooth skin wrinkling, hoping that the bearing of teeth wasn’t a display of upset.

“That’s really touching.” You smiled wider and Chopper hissed, listening to the helmet’s translation with confusion. He tilted his head as you tried to phrase it another way, “I would love to see your ship…Wait, are you asking me out on a date?”

 The Yautja rolled his shoulders, turning his head to ensure that you couldn’t see the flustered look on his face, the deep green colour on his cheeks embarrassing. He nodded, the rubbery tendrils attached to the curved sides of his skull rippling over the backs of his shoulders. The bands glittered as he turned in the sunlight and pointed again at his wrist gauntlet, and at the map still being projected alongside the strange changing alphabet of his language.

“Right now?” You sighed as he firmly nodded, “Wait here. I need to go and tell my boss I’ll be away for a while.”

“Leader is inside home?” He grumbled, grabbing his helmet, pulling it on his head, ensuring it sealed against where his dreadlocks started.

You panicked, peering back outside of the outhouse as Dau-Ih'kui marched back towards the door of your home, “No! She’s not here! Chopper!” You grabbed hold of alien’s gauntlet, tugging him back, and failing to stop his stride. The seven-foot creature rumbled at your tugging, “I have to message her! I won’t have you storming in there and losing me my god damn job!”

 Dau-Ih'kui bowed his head at your harsh words, claws lowered and mouth clicking as he backed down. To go against her word was to offend a female deeply. At least, within his clan, to oppose the female you were trying to court was to earn her scorn and to put yourself at the bottom of the list to be with her. The sudden submission was odd, especially for the alien which was typically rather headstrong.

“What’s with the sudden sadness?” You asked with a smirk.

Chopper lowered his visor covered eyes again, claws rippling in a rhythm over his thigh, “Female word is law.” He tittered through the translator, “Not sad. Respect.” He offered you the door, watching as you walked into the house. The alien didn’t follow, but stood outside, watching the perimeter as you went to tell your boss about your intentions to take the rest of the day off. A little lie about a leak was enough to have her suspicions cleared.

 The Predator was stood outside, fiddling with his gauntlet, the alien language flashing across the three small screens as he typed things out with the various little buttons and altered co-ordinates. He turned his helmet covered face a little before nodding.

“Finished?” He asked softly through the helmet.

“Yep. Looks like she doesn’t really need me for the rest of the day either.” You smiled and took the alien’s arm as he peered from his wrist to your face.

The creature peered down at where you held onto his mesh covered arm, fingers flexing before he turned back to his map and closed it down, “Good. This way.” He moved forwards slowly, one great stride nearly two of your own, heading towards the tree line with another fried glance at your chicken coop.

“When we get back how about I make you something with chicken in? You seem enthralled with them after all.” The teasing was ignored by your escort, his reply merely a soft click as he greeted tired with the slow pace, weaving in and out of the trees. His large claws and paws were adapted for running at unnatural speeds, on land and in the trees. Dawdling like a human was making him annoyed.

 With a snap of his rubbery tendrils, he looked down at you, claws gripping your waist before he flicked you up and into his arms.

“Woah, big guy! You can’t just whip a girl off her feet like that!” Laughing you patted his armoured shoulder, the pauldron warm from his skin. Chopper's head tilted in confusion before he turned his sandal covered feet into the earth and took off running, snapping between trees quicker than a dog after a bird. It was all you could do to cling to the Male’s neck as he ran at breakneck speed over roots and through the closely packed trees. He was seemingly deaf to your screech as he leaped over a great sink hole and landed perfectly on the other side. The Yautja repressed the urge to purr as you pressed your face under his helmet and held his neck tight, trying to stop the wind biting at your eyes. He ignored the pressure and focused on bouncing himself up to the ridge of trees, scaling the impact his ship had made in the dirt before standing still and tittering softly. With a shuddering breath, you pushed your face out of the Alien’s spine covered shoulder and gazed into the hole at the spacecraft in the centre. It was functional from the looks, its hull propped up by landing legs and the door opening as Chopper clicked a few buttons on his wrist. It hissed and slid open, the hatch lowering to allow for people to enter. A soft grumble let you know that he was on the move again, sliding into the hole with ease before he put you back on your feet. The ship was suddenly intimidating without Dau-Ih'kui beside you.

 Dau-Ih'kui moved towards the hatch and stepped up the ramp, thighs flexing under the camouflage netting of his body suit before he turned and helped you inside, helmet lighting up inside the dark space. He uttered something to himself before tapping at his wrist again. The lights inside hummed to life, some form of generator buzzing before the control panels and lights down the centre of the ship came on with bright white light. The interior was now visible, and you gawked at the futuristic dark metal and the number of skulls littered over various work surfaces. All of them were clean and sat awaiting decoration or hanging from his walls.

“This is amazing.” You breathed, looking down at the skull in your hands, trying not to think of the man or woman it had come from, “It’s like being in some weird Sci-Fi movie.” You joked, though you knew the translator wouldn’t be able to do the joke justice.

Chopper grunted in vague amusement, “Humans are easily entertained. This is normal for my world. You are behind on many things. I have not seen such primitive medicine before.” He notes as he tucks the human skulls beneath a tarp from your sight. The Predator pointed to some form of animal skull stowed in the back, “That is more interesting. Hunted the creature for three weeks.”

You peered at the skull and laughed, “Its huge!” The horns were great and curved, ebony in colour, “And pretty. You’re pretty good at all this stuff, huh? Not many humans can do this sort of thing anymore.” You observed as you left the skulls and glanced at his control panels.

 The Yautja followed you, not stopping your investigation of his ship. He had nothing to hide from you, and it would be rude to demand where you could and could not go. He was thankful the skulls were not offensive for your tastes.

“Do you live on this ship?” You looked around aimlessly, “Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Chopper clicked a panel on the wall, revealing a small sleeping quarter, “We live solitary lives. I am used to my…own company.” He rephrased through the translator, clicking as he moved to close the door again, striding over to the flight deck of the ship.

You followed quietly, feeling sad that the male had been alone for so long, “So have you been alone since you…well since you could hunt?”

He shook his head, tendrils snapping over his shoulders, “I have hunted in parties. Sired offspring. My clan has regular socialization events.” It felt hollow, coming from the big male’s chest in a sad rumble.

“You don’t have a partner then?” You felt embarrassed asking, “I thought for sure a male with your talents would.”

Dau-Ih'kui was glad you couldn’t see the green flush on his cheeks, “I am not old enough.” He rumbled, “I am…close to seven hundred in your human years.” He confessed.

 Suddenly, the disparity between the two of you was obvious. Your lifespan was a blink to him it seemed, and what he wanted was completely foreign to you. Even his difference in technology was alienating.

“Are you okay?” A hot, leathery hand closed around your arm, rubbing gently at the coat covering your form. Even the cold didn’t bother him with his insanely high body temperature.

You smiled, “I’m fine. I just realized how different we are.” Muttering, you turned away from his ship controls and moved back out into the main area.

He caught you in the main deck area, “You are not fine. Humans do not scowl in such a way without being upset.” His fingers were gentle as he moved his hand upwards to poke at your brow and stroke over the soft skin of your cheek.

The towering alien made you sigh, “I just…” You took his hand and admired the coloration and heat of it, “We’re very different Chopper. Literally, we’re from two different worlds. What you want from me, probably isn’t a good idea, as much as…As much as I’d like to imagine it is.”

 Dau-Ih'kui scoffed, “Human is leaking saltwater from her eyes.” He swiped at the liquid and wiped it against his skin, “Your customs are of value to me if you wish for me to follow them. I do…not like seeing you upset.”

Kindness from a creature that had known you for less than a month, yet for some reason it was comforting. Chopper was a little bit like a constant guardian to you now, diverting any trespassers with brutal force if they were not easily scared off.

Dau-Ih'kui held out his hand, “You have not seen my surprise.” He waited for you to take his hand before walking you back towards his work desk, the skulls pushed aside out of view. He carefully wrapped an arm around your shoulder, trying to comfort your sniffling as he pulled out a block of wood.

He pressed a claw to the side of the piece and watched the three-dimensional image of the forest come to life, projected from some sort of device inside of the carved wood.

“You did this for me?” You sniffled and smiled, “Is this where you were for so long?” Teasingly you poked the alien’s side, ignoring his gruff grumble for the prodding.

“Skulls are not traditional human courting gifts. This is …pretty.” He rolled his shoulders, “Humans like trinkets?” He asked.

 You didn’t answer Dau-Ih'kui but reached to click the small buttons underneath the chin of his helmet. His hands moved to help you remove it, slowly revealing the leathery skin and spine covered jaw of the Yautja male to you. Burning orange eyes looked down at you as you turned off the gift, smiling at the wood before leaning up. The alien stood still, feeling the pressure of your lips against his cheek, wondering what the reason behind the strange display was.

His head tilted, “This is common human affection?” the syllables were poorly pronounced but you got the idea easily enough.

“Sure. It was a thank you for the gift. It’s gorgeous.” You reached for the wood again before the alien took hold of you, his arms grabbing you by the waist. Mandibles flared as he looked at your surprise, tusks tapping before he leaned in close and stroked the strong bones of his mouth parts over the tops of your cheeks, the dome of his head pressed to your forehead. It was a gentle gesture and Chopper clicked before hissing softly, placing your feet back on the floor.

You felt hot, the streaks of Yautja spit over your cheeks making you nervously wipe under your eyes, “Was that your version of a kiss?” Teasing him seemed to make the alien uncomfortable, and his cheeks went a little green under your attention.

 “Yautja do not...keez.” The poor male couldn’t even say it as he turned back to find his helmet, wishing to hide his face from your prying eyes. A laugh made him grip the helmet a little too tightly, the metal creaking between his hands as he turned back to look at you.

You laughed brightly before smiling at Chopper, “Then what was what you just did to me?”

The male shrugged his shoulder, “Yautja affection.” He stated like fact before placing his helmet away and turning on the lights in the next room of his ship, “Do you wish to stay?”

The ship wasn’t the most welcoming place, “Tell you what. How about we go back to mine? I’ll make you some dinner, like I promised?”

The alien considered the offer for a second before plucking his helmet back from the bench, “That is kind.” Dau-Ih'kui clicked once, twice, then pulled his helmet over his spine covered forehead. Before he could pull it the whole way down you snatched his hands and kissed the corner of his mandibles again before dancing out of his reach down the ramp to his ship.

 With a growl, he pulled down the helmet and followed with a swagger, “Woman is infuriating.”