#just all these snippets of scenes and feelings

[caterpillarskimono]

Netflix & Chill

summary: set at the start of season two of Animal Kingdom; you moved to Oceanside, California six months ago, renting an apartment above an old bar that you were also hired to tend to full-time. in that time, you met Andrew Cody, and whatever this is between the two of you is finally reaching the point of no return.

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: 18+ only, MDNI, fem! reader, slight age gap (reader is 29, Andrew is mid to late 30s), suggestive themes, NSFW (just barely), kissing, Andrew Cody pleading with you, sexual tension, intense eye contact

author’s note: this is JUST a snippet of a series I’m working on. this is also the FIRST reader fic I’ve ever written, so please be gentle with me ❤️ I truly hope you enjoy this. you may have questions, but all will be answered once I start posting the different chapters in order. just kinda testing the waters with this one.

Your stomach tightens, an unfamiliar warmth stirring in your abdomen.

Well. Not entirely unfamiliar, you suppose. It’s become routine since you met Andrew. But it’s different this time. This time it pulses, it pounds. It slithers further down, resting heavy between your legs. You can practically feel the blood pumping there, and you press your thighs together as tightly as you can to stave off the growing ache between them.

If Andrew notices, he says nothing. Briefly, you look his way, at the intensity of his focus on what’s happening on the television in front of you both. A shiver races down your spine and back up again as you recall the many times you’ve felt the intensity of that stare on you. It’s a curious thing, the way you can feel his green eyes on you before you even notice he’s in the room. The way the air between you two always feels so charged when you meet his gaze. Countless moments passed between you fill your mind’s eye, and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep the moan that threatens to leave you at bay.

Suddenly, he’s looking at you, and his eyes are dark with… concern? You’re not sure. All you know is that his pupils are blown so wide all you can see is black. And there’s something behind them you’ve only seen glimpses of before now. Something primal. Hungry?

“Are you ok?” he says, and your face is suddenly very hot and you know your eyes are wide as saucers because holy fuck, did you just moan out loud?

You clear your throat and turn your gaze back to the television. “I’m fine, just something caught in my throat, it’s fine.”

“Fine…” Andrew repeats, as if he’s testing the word, repeating it back not so much as a question, but more like he’s trying to really dig into the meaning behind it.

“Yup,” you say, your lips making a popping sound for emphasis. You lean forward for your glass of red wine. You chug it in one go, slamming it back down on the coffee table unceremoniously. “Totally fine.”

A moment passes, long and heated and heavy because you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s staring. Studying you. Like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve, but is trying desperately to make sense of.

Finally, he looks away. You watch the scene unfolding in the Netflix Original you selected (and what the actual fuck is 365 Days about anyway) and you try your absolute damndest not to look at the handsome man to your left again.

The female lead is… definitely enjoying herself, her lover’s head barely visible between her legs. She reaches down to grip his dark hair, gripping hard by the looks of it, yanking and pushing his mouth deeper against her. She throws her head back and begins to cry his name over and over, in tandem with the way she’s bucking up into his mouth. He groans loudly, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

That’s enough for Andrew to turn his attention back on you, and instantly, your cheeks redden with embarrassment. You try not to look into his eyes, those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes that you’ve dreamt about every single night since he first walked into your bar six months ago.

But you fail in your efforts, just like every single time before when you’ve tried to hide from the weight of his stare. One look into those eyes, and you almost gasp.

You were right earlier. He does look hungry. And he looks as if he wants to devour you.

And you want him to. God, you want him to ruin you.

“Are you okay?” And his voice comes out so soft that it almost sounds like there’s a nervous tremor behind the words.

“Y-yeah,” you manage to stammer out. You suddenly want to hide, to take cover and not face him. Because you know what you’re about to confess, and try as you might, you can’t stop the words spilling awkwardly from your lips.

“That’s just… I’ve never… not that, anyway.”

A beat. And then Andrew crooks up an eyebrow. “You’ve never?…. What, exactly?”

“I mean,” and an exasperated huff passes from your lips. You throw your head back against the couch, squeezing your eyes shut. “That… All of that. What he’s doing, how he’s making her feel, I’ve never felt… that.”

He frowns. Quickly snatches the remote from the coffee table, pausing the film. The sudden silence is like a record scratch, and you lift your head up and stare ahead.

A shot of the female lead is frozen onscreen, her body arched like a cat stretching in satisfaction. Her mouth is wide open, her eyes slammed shut. You can’t stop looking and memorizing this shot of pure ecstasy. Wondering what it’s like to feel that. Wondering what it would be like to feel it with the handsome - albeit dangerous - man beside you.

“You’ve… never had an orgasm?”

You force yourself to look at him then, and you fight to maintain a poker face. You shake your head in response to his question. Your hands, the tips of your fingers begin to twitch, your veins seemingly trembling beneath the surface of your skin. You’re nervous, why the fuck are you nervous? What the actual fuck is happening right now?

Andrew no longer looks as if he wants to devour you. No, there’s something else there that you can’t quite place. But you feel your heart begin to race, you feel the ache between your legs grow so heavy, pulsing in tandem with the quickening of your breathing, and you become aware of one thing and one thing only.

He… he wants you. You think he wants you just as badly as you want him. Maybe even more.

And, God, you just wish he’d take you already. Make you his. You’ve never wanted to belong to someone else before. It’s strange and all-consuming in the way it weighs on you, rattling your bones

Your eyes fall to his mouth, and you bite your bottom lip again out of nervous habit. Every mouth that’s ever been on yours has been uninvited. But this man? You’ve already invited him in without even realizing it. You want this man to press his lips to your flesh and make you his home.

Maybe a second goes by, but it’s a second too long where neither of you says anything, and you just know you’ve misread his expression entirely. You tear your eyes from his, sitting up slightly, shaking your head. You don’t know where to put your hands, so you clasp them together and tuck them tight between your now bouncing knees.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I said that, I think it’s the wine and I’m just - I’m really tired, today was long, and just please forget -“

“Hey.” His voice interrupts you softly. Gently. It’s the same soothing tone you’ve heard used on frightened animals, and it cools the flames of your skin, calms the almost painful beating in your chest. You go quiet, but you don’t dare look at him. You don’t need - can’t handle - the confirmation that you’ve read him, read whatever this is between you two, completely and utterly wrong.

You hear the shift of his body as he sits up, too, mirroring the way you’re sitting. Then silence. One beat, two beats, three.

And then his hand is on your knee, squeezing it. Your body stills, and you gasp as he begins to smooth his hand up higher, fingers digging so slightly into your inner thigh, grip tightening the higher his touch travels. Instinctively, you part your legs, just enough for him to slide his fingers further between. He pauses his touch at the middle of your thigh, above your knee, but too far from where you’re dying for his touch. A whimper almost passes between your lips, but you bite your inner cheek just in time to keep it at bay until you can swallow it down.

It doesn’t register that he’s moved as close as he can to you, hard chest pressed at your side, mouth at your cheek. He gives you the gentlest kiss, the second kiss he’s ever given you and much more chaste than the first. His mouth slowly travels to just beneath your earlobe, and your body almost melts against him.

“Do you want to?” he whispers. “Feel that, I mean?”

Finally, your eyes meet his. His mouth hovers at yours, grazing your lips with the promise of a kiss. You want to say yes, you want to say it so fucking badly that the words sting at the tip of your tongue. But Andrew reaches up, thumb at your bottom lip, and all you can manage is a nod of your head.

Suddenly he exhales, the sound heavy. As if he’s been holding his breath so long that it’s a relief to breathe out. He presses his forehead to yours and gives you the ghost of a kiss. Light, quick, so quick you don’t even have time to kiss him back. His hand starts moving again, higher and higher up your thigh until he’s right there.

And then he stills. He doesn’t move. Just keeps his very large, hand, his calloused fingers pressed firmly at the heat between your legs. “Andrew…” you moan out, squirming into his touch, trying anything to get him to keep touching you.

“I need to hear you say it. Use those pretty lips and tell me what you want. Can you do that for me? Say the word, and I’ll make you come. I’ll make you come so hard on my fingers, my mouth, my cock. Fuck, I just wanna taste you, please just say it, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

He takes your breath away with his words, with the way he goes back to kissing your cheek, nipping your earlobe between his teeth, all the while begging you. “Please, please, baby…” Over and over again like a song, like a prayer. Like he’s found salvation, and salvation is you.

“Yes,” you moan out. “Please just make me feel good. That’s all I want. Please, Andrew.”

Anyway, that’s that for now! Please let me know what you think in comments and reblogs; they motivate me and help me so much. Thx for reading! 🫶🏼❤️

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

In Buccleuch Docks (Full Scene)

Posted a snippet of this *mumble mumble* ago, promised that the full scene would be delivered, and then forgot about it... until today, on my BoCo high.

What does a Coppernob and Edward reunion in 1964 have to do with BoCo, you ask? Well, this scene is merely Nobby getting a cameo in a big Edward/BoCo WIP I've been tinkering with... on the side...

But this sort of stands alone and should be of interest to Nobbyverse fans. However, this scene is not canon to Bird at Barrow Central (Coppernob not making a visit to Barrow post-bombing until 1996). Indeed, this scene for that matter is based on a rather idiosyncratic interpretation of what was going on with Edward and the N.W.R. immediately prior to the events of Main Line Engines...

Bonus: You'd otherwise not get to "meet" Hal and Sphyrna the Hammerhead Cranes for ages yet...

Warning: It may not be "canon" to Bird at Barrow Central but it is the same fellow so. Be prepared for the angst. Edward's got some stuff goin' on in this WIP too — even if he's a bit in denial about it.

Buccleuch Docks (1964)

Coppernob wasn't expecting visitors at that hour. The sun hadn't yet put in an appearance, so there were no passengers disembarking from ships. Even the Steelworks were quiet — apparently, operations were no longer 'round-the-clock. A few of the Twenties had been able to make a visit, even though Coppernob was at the wrong dock for them to swing by on their usual route, and he expected to see more of them before his week was out. But not at the crack of dawn.

The last Furness engine he had not counted on seeing at all. Coppernob had been loaned to B.R. and stationed at Buccleuch Docks for the week in a blatant attempt to steal some rail-enthusiast thunder from the North Western region, and he well knew it. Odds were that Charles Hatt understood he was being snubbed and if he had then he might have warned his engines off crossing the line, feeding into the ancient engine's publicity. 

But the Seagull showed up. Albeit before six a.m. there was a certain amount of discretion involved.

That's what taking the morning post will do for you.

After dropping it off for the mainland engine the Seagull navigated the yard until he was alongside Coppernob's makeshift plinth. His eyes widened when he saw the damage on the older engine's dome and boiler, but Coppernob was well used to that, and for that matter the Seagulls were well used to pretending not to stare. "Good morning, Nobby!"

"'Morning, Two."

At that the Seagull blinked, and his boiler gave a little shudder. "Oh, that still feels so wrong!"

"And I still don't see a nameplate."

"Nobody calls me that."

Coppernob snorted. "Oh yes, you're riding rather high these days, aren’t you? A book named after you and everything. It's lucky you have me to keep your wheels in trim."

"It isn't that. My new name would sound wrong coming from you, too. But you might use my old Furness number... there's no one else left to use it."

"That," said Coppernob, slow and deliberate (a mighty bulwark, warding off sentiment) "would be arrant disrespect to your new owners."

"Ah. And you're famously deferential, of course, to humans not named Ramsden."

Coppernob rolled his eyes. "Your lot always fancied yourselves barristers," he muttered... not quite as crossly, perhaps, as he'd intended. "Though that Charles Hatt is quite a muckety-muck among those national rail types, these days."

"Isn't he just."

"I can remember that boy boarding L.M.S. trains after holidays to return to his apprenticeship… he was slimmer, then."

There was a pause, as both watched the great yellow-and-black hammerhead crane slowly swing a piece of container freight. Coppernob was impassive as ever, but Edward was smiling.

It was the blue engine who next spoke. "Town has never been the same without you… I expect you’re getting a good many visitors here?"

"By the train-load," said Coppernob, matter-of-factly. "They really ought to have put me at the new station. Me being here is a disruption to dock operations."

"They may move you, yet. Have you seen the new station?"

"No. But you needn't wrack your smokebox thinking how to break the news gently. I know very well how ugly it is."

Edward smiled again, tamping down a nostalgic sadness that he knew Coppernob wouldn't appreciate. (Or that he would appreciate, but would take aim at anyway, by reflex.) "Gordon complained about the new station every night for two years."

"He left off complaining too soon." Coppernob eyed the younger engine, committing several mechanical alterations to memory. "Are those new frames?"

"No?"

"Don't take that tone with me. Well, if they're the same old, then that paint is doing wonders. New boiler?"

"No."

"Then why did they raise it?"

"They did swap out for a new one for a bit, while mine was in repairs, and that one required these braces. It seems they liked the look. I'm still not so sure."

"No one cares what you think, son," said Coppernob dryly. "If you please your directors, it's all that matters."

"Thanks, Nobby. Can always count on you."

"Always. You're still taking main line trains, then?"

"Not often." Edward grew quite animated. "My friend BoCo usually takes this train. He offered it to me for a day so that I could come see you. He's a class 28 — you've seen them, haven't you? The main line diesel-electrics that are stabled here. Do you know, they were built by the company that merged with Vickers?"

"All right, son." Coppernob eyed him askance. Not exactly reproving, but bemused. "I didn't need your friend's life story." A faint blush began to grow on the Seagull's smokebox. "What do you do these days, when you're not swapping jobs with dodgy diesels?"

"He's not dodgy."

"Mechanically, son. Mechanically. They have something of a reputation."

"Their engines aren't well-made," Edward admitted reluctantly. "BoCo's very clever about managing around it, though."

"Ah," said Coppernob. "So you have something in common, is that right? But this isn't what I asked."

Edward twisted his lips briefly, the locomotive equivalent of a shrug. "I manage my yard, like always. I don't do much banking anymore, the trains are beyond me, but I help out here and there with branch line goods."

"Hmm. The steelworks engines say they heard your Controller uses you as something of an under-manager."

"The steelworks engines!"

"Yes. They're ex-Furness, you know. Well, the steam engines, obviously."

"Oh, I know. But I never knew them, you know. I hadn't expected they knew anything of me." Honestly the Sodor engine was surprised they were still extant.

"The Twenties have always kept up with the doings of the world. And they knew I'd want to know what was going on with you. Is what they say true?"

"No? Well, sort of. People have been saying I’m a manager now as a bit of a joke. Controller has put me in charge of trialling our newcomers for different things."

Coppernob's expression didn't change, except for his eyebrows to slowly rise. "That's a fair bit of responsibility."

"Well, I've been training up other engines since the '20s. But I'm expected to make recommendations now, and that's new... I suppose. The real difference is that this is fast becoming my only use."

Something between melancholy and bitterness stained those last words. Coppernob acknowledged it only by silence. They spent several minutes watching the activity in the docks. A great bulk carrier was being loaded at one pier. At another a tanker was slowly being siphoned of some of its precious liquid cargo.

"What's it like," asked Edward, "being back?"

Coppernob eyes followed the crate's progress upwards and then over to deck before answering. "The aluminum doesn't seem to do as brisk a trade as the hemitate did."

"No."

Coppernob was still not quick to speak. Edward, however, was these days a practiced listener, and wore him down. "More raw wool and foodstuffs go out. I suppose there are not so many locals to feed as there once were."

"Yes."

"The new crane seems strong."

"Oh, Sphyrna's very good. She's nice, too."

Coppernob gazed at the younger engine, eyes hooded against some hidden emotion. Or joke. "I suppose it would be ungracious of me to say I prefer the old one?"

"Oh," teased the ex-Seagull, "very."

"So many things these days, that I’m not to say."

"Of course you miss Hal," said Edward, more seriously. "There never was such a crane."

"His design was very common. But none braver, no." Coppernob snorted, but his heart wasn't in it. "People make much of what I did in the blitz, which was nothing. Hal kept this place going day and night. He couldn't take shelter when everyone else could. Nice easy target. But they had to take him out before they slowed him down. He never missed a beat."

"No."

"I wonder if the people remember him."

"The locals do," said Edward quietly. "One still hears him spoken of, sometimes. Our new Caledonian engines came and asked me if I knew who they were talking about, and they've only been here a couple of years."

Coppernob seemed to consider some more, eyes continuing to examine the yard. 

Finally, with an air of great deliberation, he gave his verdict. "I think my lot ran this place better."

Edward laughed, though subsiding to a diplomatic murmur when he spoke. "That's no very great boast. I hear those Hudswell Clark shunters are rather troublesome."

"To be sure. I've seen for myself." Coppernob, though to be sure his voice had been low to begin with, did not trouble to lower it further. Might have raised it, even. "Not open cheek and frank mischief, either. They've some sly game going. I don't know exactly what scheme they have, but whatever they’re about I know that a hundred years ago you could be scrapped for it without a second's thought. Do they try tricks with your lot?"

"Well, we generally shunt our own goods here. But no, they don't seem to dare give us trouble." Edward heard himself, and chuckled. "That may sound rather brash. It's because of our Controller. Though to be sure Gordon and our Scotsengines are plenty intimidating, even on their own." He gave Coppernob another would-be discreet survey. He was better at it than he and his lot had been back in 1908, that much was for sure. "How's the museum, Nobby?"

Coppernob thought it over. "All right. The Government projected 140 thousand visitors last year, and we had nearly 175."

"Oh, congratulations are in order."

"Government's still not happy. Somehow the money doesn't work out. But it sounds as though the money never is quite right, for a museum. I reckon things are going fair enough."

Edward waited, until seeing that was as much as he was going to get. "Do you like the other engines and things?"

"They're a little mad." Coppernob's mouth quirked as he owned: "So I get on with them. But don't pump me for tales about the others. Unlike some engines I hear of, we make it a point to guard each other's privacy."

"Well, then. Are many of the visitors Londoners? Or do they mostly travel in?"

"About half and half."

"... and do you like them?"

"A few, I suppose. Most I neither like nor dislike — they’re just part of the crowd."

Edward make a little hiss of amused exasperation. "Yes, but — are — are you happy there, Nobby?"

For his trouble he found himself, predictably, pinned by one of Coppernob's most inscrutable gazes. Predictable... and yet in years past it would have been more a blazing glare.

Certainly old Nobby had mellowed in the past few decades. But whether that was something to celebrate or something to mourn was unclear.

"Happy?" muttered Coppernob. "What is this preoccupation everyone has with happiness. In our day no one was happy or unhappy... men no more than their machines. You were decent or shiftless. Honest or ne'er-do-well. If you were happy you were born well or you were dead."

"Yes," agreed Edward. "I think it's been getting better, too. But now it's you who hasn't answered my question. Do you miss Barrow very much, or are you happy at Clapham?"

It hadn’t been easy to make himself ask. And when Edward saw his blank expression, saw how the ancient engine struggled with the question, he suddenly understood that none of them had ever before enquired after Nobby’s well-being, not really. No one had dared think of it. The entire railway, in Edward's day, had run on Coppernob being exactly what they all needed him to be: a source of legitimacy for the directors, entertainment for locals, an attraction for visitors, a role model for engines in service, an ally for the retirees, a minder for the young, a rod of correction for the errant, a reservoir of memory; the old number three seemed to have fulfilled all that was wanted of him effortlessly, with his own feelings immaterial. 

And now Coppernob blinked at him. Only vaguely annoyed, instead of wrathful.

"Oh, I'm all right enough. I miss Barrow as it was — but it's not coming back. Better to be among other engines like me and have something to do, than to watch strangers run this town. Clapham is a very comfortable place to sit around and be a well-polished curiosity. Though I rather miss Horwich."

"Horwich!" That had all been a bit surprising, a bit new. But it was that last sentence that really shocked the ex-Seagull. "I should have thought..."

It was Coppernob's turn to twist his lips. "I should have thought, too." Horwich Works had been a curse on Furness engines after the Grouping, its appetite for scrapping younger and younger engines never seeming to abate. In the immediate aftermath of the bombing of Barrow station Edward had needed to make several inquires before learning Coppernob's whereabouts, and the news "taken to Horwich" had chilled him to the firebox. He'd been genuinely surprised several years later when he'd had news of Coppernob putting in an appearance at some centenary celebration in Manchester... alive. "But it's not as if I had to see their scrap lines. If anything I felt closer to the rest there than here. Anyway, I liked being in the shop. There was always something going on — work-y, engine-y sort of things. The workshop really is the heart of a railway and while I was there I could almost feel... But then again, it was dark and noisy, and not the sort of place children come to visit. And I suppose these days B.R. is mismanaging it into the ground. I'm fortunate to be just where I am. Doubtless some other old thing is rusting away in storage because I have their spot at Clapham." And on that note, Coppernob seemed to feel confidences were over. "Tell that absurd Mogul to come over before I've gone."

"I will. Thomas sends his regards. He can't possibly get over this way, but he wanted to say hullo."

"Thomas... ah, yes, that's the little lost sidetank, isn't it." Coppernob's expression didn't change. "Haven't heard that name in a minute."

"Oh yes. I'm sure children who visit transport museums never ask every steam engine they see if they know Thomas the Train."

"Please tell me he has no idea how famous he is."

"Fortunately not. He knows he's a fixture on Sodor but not how far that fame extends. It's about the only secret Controller's ever tried to have everyone keep and succeeded."

"Speaking of fame, I don't know if you noticed that man in street wear. He's taken at least one photograph of us and will probably take more at close-range. You meant to be discreet — will your Controller be angry?"

"Oh, no. Why would he? No, I only wanted to come when it was quiet so as to not get you in trouble. I suppose the whole point in B.R. having you out here was to try to overshadow our region."

"Oh, it was. It very much was."

"Then ought I head off the man with the camera?"

"They care. I don't."

Coppernob gave a secret, wicked smirk, as if to his own self, and Edward grinned. For an instant it was the old Nobby, a Nobby that for the Sodor engine had been bumped askew on his pedestal since 1915, the fearless golden hero of his youth. "Right. Trust you for that. Though I'm afraid I must be saying good-bye. I'm to pick up that petrol and take it back over the bridge."

"Write more often."

"More often! You never answered."

"Perhaps I didn't. Do it anyway."

"Only, I thought I must have annoyed you."

"Son, your lot has been annoying me since before the turn of the century. Don't break tradition at this late date." The old engine looked typically indifferent. Edward knew that expression very well, too well to be fooled by it, but he looked his fill anyway, re-committing it to memory. Coppernob seemed to be doing the same with him, though if he really were then he was much more subtle about it. "After all, you're my only source for news of that blasted island. No more than half of any letter about that Vickers diesel of yours, if you please."

"Very well. And I'll pass on word to James and the others today. I'm so glad to have seen you again, Nobby."

Edward half expected an idle remark in return that he, handsome old Coppernob, was of course well worth the seeing. But Nobby's playful mood — or what passed as a playful mood, for Nobby — had already passed over. He was staring ahead listlessly. Perhaps the mention of tradition had sent him on a reverie. Perhaps he was gloomy at the thought of a new day entertaining modern, unsatisfactory Barrovians. Edward did not imagine for a second that Coppernob's heart was breaking to say good-bye to him. The old engine was too tough for that.

Indeed, it seemed he was too tough to even acknowledge his departure. Edward was about to give up waiting for a response, and he gave a whistle to signal his movement.

He hadn't quite gotten off his brakes, though, when Coppernob, voice urgent and somehow bare, stopped him with a single word.

"Thirty-Four. Don't — " Coppernob broke off for an instant. Then he took a deep breath and finished, as if angry at whatever invisible force had stopped him. "Don't let them do to you what they did to me."

Edward looked over at him.

There was a new Coppernob there. One he had never shown any of the Seagulls. One he probably had shown very few engines at all.

The old engine grinned twistedly, as if to mask it. "That is what young Hatt wants, isn't it? Have you get the newcomers settled, run out your boiler ticket, then stick you on a plinth, probably at that little station of yours. The railway continues to benefit from your experience without your operational costs. I remember. I know how it goes. Don't let them, don’t you dare let them. Better scrap than that. Preservation isn’t any sort of life."

Coppernob didn't look a bit sad. But the intensity of each hissed word betrayed years of solitary pain, and Edward was terribly shaken.

"I — I can't let them scrap me," said Edward numbly. "I've been fighting to prevent that for ages."

"I know."

"Not only for myself, Nobby. I'm not a coward, I know I'm no better than all my brothers who faced the torch. But it would set a precedent for the others — Thomas and the others. I must keep going, at least until they're safe — "

Coppernob gave a harsh laugh, humorless. "Save your puff. I know. Don't I know! You mustn't fall into every single trap I did, son. Anyway, what of it? Do you suppose your friends would be happy in that position? Could you stand by, and watch it happen to them?"

"I — don't know," said Edward, still blank. The truth was that he'd assumed that the younger engines, most of them more popular than he, would be kept operational even if the future Nobby predicted for him (a future that he himself indeed saw coming) came to pass.

Coppernob's gaze was piercing. "I tried to fight them. I knew what a terrible thing they were demanding of me. You won't even try to resist — I taught you too well, didn't I? Duty above all else — that's a rule for a younger engine. It was a good rule for all those other poor sods with their short, normal lives. But you... maybe it makes no difference. It didn't for me. But fight anyway. Once you give your railway fifty years of service, you're allowed to say no, damn it. Loudly, and often."

And then Coppernob looked away. Clearly he thought there was nothing more to be said. 

After a dazed moment Edward whistled again, limply, and chuffed off.

He almost forgot the petrol altogether.

[hazbin-blog-muah]

I HAVE GOT TO TALK ABOUT EPISODE 5 OF TADC. RIGHT NOW.

POSITIVE RANT INCOMING ( SPOILER WARNING FOR TADC EP 5 )

So, I know that every episode of TADC manages to increasingly get better and better, but Episode 5 is probably my absolute favorite episode and not only because it's the latest one BUT because we GET SO MUCH in SUCH LITTLE TIME.

I really enjoyed each bit of screen time the characters had, giving them all their time to shine in their own ways - HOWEVER, since this was a Ragatha centered episode I truly enjoyed her characterization the most ( Plus the bits we got with Jax as well ).

From what we've gotten in previous episodes, I assumed Ragatha was obviously masking her true feelings with forced kindness and optimism. I also expected her to grow up in a wealthier household, due to her comment while on the stupid sauce in the last episode ( though it was a direct reference to The Adventures of Raggedy-Ann / Andy, or whatever it's titled, my apologies ). Though, her ending the episode ALONE, watching the others group off without her low key scares me a little. I've heard theories and I think if Gangle doesn't abstract next then to me I think it'll be Ragatha...I'm scared. I'm scared. But, all in all, I truly enjoyed her arc this episode; Pomni encouraging her ( agreeing with Jax, which I'll get into later ) to speak her mind. That it's okay to be vulnerable - which is also another reason I enjoyed the grouping of Ragatha and Jax considering they're both scared of being too vulnerable ( Ragatha masking with her faux optimism and Jax masking with his cruelness ).

Now, as much as I love Ragatha, I cannot stray away from the obvious...Jax's character was phenomenal in this episode ( imo ). I am biased since Jax is my favorite character. So, with that being said, I of course, like many others ate UP his scenes. I liked seeing him struggle because he's seemingly found it pretty easy to poke "fun" and make the other's time as miserable as possible WHICH as we see is due to him not seeing much of a reason to stay happy. I adored seeing his more vulnerable side, much like the small snippet we received back in episode 2.

OH and the small hints to him having LOST someone - WHO I AM ASSUMING TO BE THE FROG CHARACTER BECAUSE OF THIS SCREEN GRAB:

IDK if that's them or not, BUT to me that's who it looks like! IDK IDK IDK.

I also liked the dynamic between Pomni and Jax this episode. Like I mentioned before, Pomni has seemed to slowly warm up to Jax throughout this episode, as she found it easy to agree with him when it came to Ragatha's situation. I also liked their moment when they were all under the stars. That was a genuinely wholesome moment between the two and I LOVED IT.

And, again, Jax talking about how Ragatha tries "way too hard" and how her hyping everyone up so much gets tiring after a while - how after so much affection, it can seem meaningless and forced, which definitely plays into his idea of isolating himself from the others as a way of not getting too attached. So when they leave, it won't hurt as much. Which is SO. SAD.

And, I would talk about Caine, but I honestly can't really pinpoint what his true motives are...like, IK he's A.I. and he can't understand that these people have their own preferences and feelings, which was evident by his inability to comprehend that they all couldn't agree on one adventure type. IDK tbh. I'm just scared for him-

I just really enjoyed this episode. It was so amazing and I can't wait for Episode 6!!!

Everyone say, "Thank you, @gooseworx & GLITCH productions" <3

[neonnoir-ao3]

Need opinions on a name for my Spamtenna fic!

(Context & Poll under the cut!) (also taking reccommendations for name ideas in general!)

Disclaimer: some of the options kinda hint at spoilers within the fic harder than others, but nothing more than tags like “hurt/comfort”, “angst with a happy ending”, etc. would.

The Plot: It’s the modern day, and Anthony Tenna has more or less lived through his glory days already, but not in a bad way! He was on TV in various forms: at his height he had a slot in the late night block, but he’d hosted multiple game shows and even a talk show at one point. As he aged, he moved to writing about his exploits and producer roles rather than being on the screen. Now in his 50s-60s (age not decided yet) he’s living life peacefully, having finally come out in the 2000s and existing without fear and judgement due to both coming out and treatment for his lifelong mental health issues. However, he stills thinks about his business partner (and hardcore behind-the-scenes fling) who vanished without a trace after his company was at the center of a mass fraud investigation. He’s started to accept Vincent G. Spamton has likely fled the country to live on the beach in a non-extradition country for the rest of his life, and the two will never cross paths again… until he sees a homeless guy in an alley one day who looks a bit too familiar. Turns out Vince has been right under his nose the entire time, now a shell of his former self both mentally and psychically. When Vince has a health emergency in front of Tony, he takes it as an opportunity to get Vince off the street and nursed back to health, as well as to find out what the hell happened after he disappeared, and perhaps even start anew with one another.

THE OPTIONS:

Option 1 — Wherever Is Your Heart (I Call Home)

A county/folk song from a queer artist that, like... if this fic was a movie, this song would be the ending credits. However, might be a little weird with the first chapters and its contents (hurt before the comfort, y’know?) (May also reformat to Wherever Is Your Heart, I Call Home)

Propaganda:

“Though your feet may take you far from me, I know Wherever is your heart I call home” “I think it's time we found a way back home You loose so many things you love as you grow”

Option 2 — Mistaken for Strangers

From one of my favorite albums of all time (Boxer by The National). Might sprinkle some references in (or as chapter names/bookends) to the rest of the album because a lot of the songs could parallel themes in the story. Also, it literally describes the main event that gets the plot rolling.

Propaganda:

“You get mistaken for strangers by your own friends When you pass them at night Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights” “Oh, you wouldn't want an angel watching over you Surprise, surprise, they wouldn't wanna watch Another un-innocent, elegant fall Into the un-magnificent lives of adults”

Option 3 — Keepsake

A 2000s indie folk song that really depicts the overarching theme/end goal of healing and reconciliation of some sort, lyrics are formatted so snippets could act as chapter names/bookend quotes. Title also goes well with the whole "[[trash heap]]! you kept it!" thing.

Propaganda:

"One gonna heal my body another gonna heal my pain One gonna settle me down then bring me back up again" "You're gonna keep my soul it was yours to have long ago" "I'm gonna put my family back together again"

Option 4 – Once Upon A Poolside

Another National-related one, but this one sucker-punched one out of nowhere (having not listened to it in months. The name is kinda funky/out of context, but this song is just so Spamtenna.

Propaganda:

“I thought we could make it through anything” “Everything is different, why do I feel the same?” “This is the closest we've ever been And I have no idea what's happening Is this how this whole thing is gonna end?”

[flyingseacow]

Ok ok ok.

Finished Cult of the Lamb (right in time for the next update)

And now I got all these thoughts.

Like the bishops?

People are already doing so much interesting stuff with Narinder, so I got nothing new there. But the others?

Leshy is interestingly enough the most elaborate and thoughtful of them, the snippet about his crown was almost poetic.

Kallarmar however, he really surprised me. Based on his previous behavior, and what the others said (including ???) I had expected a frightened sniveling crybaby, not this calm sassy thing. Not only does he seems to be the most accepting of their new life, he is super calm and friendly with the lamb.

Then I realized.... Oh. Kallarmar has already gone through his worst nightmare. He has already died, multiple times. And since the lamb has done no new harm to him, he has no real reason to fear as long as he is a good little follower. (helps that he got the absolute cutest voice) Oh yeah, and the fact that not only does he claim he was pressured into helping with binding Narinder, but also that his relic summons a skeleton - one that seems very clearly to be based on Narinder?? I have thoughts.

And Heket? Heket seems angry, but reluctingly accepting of her new life. And I realized, after what happened with Shamura, Heket was the one keeping the bishops together. For a thousand years, she was the only real thing holding up the old faith. Shamura too wounded to handle it. Leshy too young and well, chaotic. Kallarmar just wanting to hide away in his temple. She must have been under so much pressure. And she is the next youngest in the group!

Shamura is just such a tragic character. I had expected them to be more damaged without their crown, but seeing how disoriented and stuck in memories and half addled thought they are? Damn.

When I gave them the spider silk their reaction was a gut punch. I had this clear mental image of them running the silk though their fingers, mumbling to themselves, barely aware of the lamb.

Ugh, I really hope Sins of the flesh gives more lore. I got all these feels.

[thatblackstarinleo]

Because you all deserve this and so much more, and because it's Mack's birthday!!!, here's a long snippet from Chapter 12 to hold you over while you wait

Thank you for sticking with me 💙

"Hey, Smitty," Davey says, tapping the toe of his sneaker against the bottom of Will's stall. "Your boy's famous now."

Will doesn't look up. He's still half-wrapped in his compression shirt, trying to get his left sock off without yanking his ankle weird, and the last thing he needs is one of Davey's shit-eating grins to go with whatever this is. But then a phone gets shoved under his nose, and Will glances down.

It's open to an article from The Athletic. Will knew the piece was coming—Macklin had told him about it, about how the Omega writer had made him feel comfortable throughout the interview, how he hadn't asked anything stupid, how he'd actually listened. What Macklin hadn't mentioned was the pictures.

The header shot's not one Will's seen before. Macklin's standing at center ice in Agganis, legs long in back joggers, the sleeves of his red BU hoodie shoved to his elbows as he holds a stick in his hands. His hair looks a bit damp, curled a little at the ends, and his head is turned just slightly toward the light. It's soft. Unposed. He looks like he doesn't even know the photo's being taken.

Will stares. His eyes catch on the angle of Macklin's neck—long and pale, flushed just faintly. If you zoom in, you can see a small bruise just above his scent gland, where Will had mouthed over his skin a little too long the night before. He hadn't even tried to mark him, he just… couldn't help himself. The look on Macklin's face is hard to name—he's not smiling, not really, but he still looks soft and tender in that look that always makes Will feel a little bit breathless.

The text underneath the photo reads, Macklin Celebrini, 17, has tallied 49 points in 29 games for Boston University this season and is widely projected to be the No. 1 overall pick in the 2024 NHL Draft.

Will scrolls without thinking.

It’s just after 9 a.m. when I meet Macklin Celebrini on a bright, frigid morning in Allston. He’s already been on the ice for over an hour, running small drills with a few of his teammates and working with BU’s skating coach. From the stands, it looks like he’s barely trying. Up close, he’s all focus.

When he steps off the ice, he's flushed and smiling. He takes off his helmet and tosses his gloves onto the bench, says hello like we've met before. We haven't.

The 17-year-old is, without much debate, the most electrifying player in college hockey this season. With 49 points in 29 games, Celebrini has broken records and expectations in equal measure. NHL scouts praise his puck sense, his edge control, his ability to change the tempo of a game. He's already drawing comparisons to McDavid and Crosby—comparisons he pretends not to hear.

I ask him how it feels, all of it—the weight, the eyes, the fact that just about everyone assumes he'll go first overall in Vegas this June.

He shrugs. "It's a lot. But it's good. I'm lucky. I mean… I still have to write a paper tonight. And I forgot to buy groceries. So I don't have time to sit around thinking about being 'The Next Anything.'" He grins. "I'm just hungry."

He's joking, but there's something behind it too. A kind of exhaustion that doesn't quite touch his voice but lingers at the corners of his eyes.

Then we talk about last fall.

Celebrini presented as an Omega in late September—just after the first game of the season. The news was confirmed in early November, under complicated, high-profile circumstances still being addressed in court. When I bring it up, he doesn't flinch, but his posture shifts slightly.

"I didn't want it to be a headline," he says, adjusting the tape around his water bottle. "But it was. And that's not really something I could control."

He doesn't elaborate on the incident or the media storm that followed, and I don't press. Instead, I ask if he feels like the league has changed at all—become more open, more ready—for someone like him.

Celebrini thinks for a second. Then, he says: "Yeah. I think so. But people are still figuring out what to do with players who don't fit the old mold."

He lifts his left wrist as if by instinct. A slim gold band catches the light. It's a simple promise bracelet, the kind you can see many Omegas wearing around their wrists on the street. But fans were quick to notice it during the World Juniors in Gothenburg, where Celebrini wore it in every game.

He rubs his thumb over it once, almost absently. I ask, carefully, if he wants to talk about his Alpha.

He exhales, almost a laugh. "He'd love it if I did."

But then, more softly: "We're just private. But he's… He's good to me. He keeps me grounded."

There's a pause. Then, when I ask if his Alpha plays hockey too, Macklin smiles—narrow and wicked. "I didn't say that," he replies, voice lilting just enough to make it clear: he won't say more.

Later, we walk across campus to grab coffee. Students recognize him, but no one stops us. We talk about the draft, the potential lottery teams—San Jose, Columbus, Chicago. I ask if he's had conversations with any of them.

"Not officially," he says, sipping his latte. "But yeah, I've talked to some guys. A few of the Michigan boys. Will Smith a bit, from BC."

He doesn't say more, but it's pretty obvious that at 17, Macklin Celebrini is already carrying more than most grown men. He doesn't talk much about the future, but when he does, I can't help but notice that there's a glint in his voice like he already knows where he's going.

For now, he has practice. Film. Homework. A season to finish. And a game to play the way only he can.

He doesn't say anything as he reads. Doesn't let his face shift, even when half the locker room's stopped pretending not to watch him. There's a brief lull in the noise—just long enough for the buzz of the Zamboni to cut through—before Cutter loudly clears his throat like he's trying not to laugh.

Will scrolls to the end, then hands the phone back without a word.

The piece is good. Too god, maybe. Personal in a way that twists under his ribs a little. He can hear Macklin's voice in every answer, in the way he always dodges praise with a joke, how he always shrugs it off. He's still not sure how Macklin got away with it without Brisson biting his head off, but maybe he didn't have the nerve.

Maybe he had, and Macklin just didn't care.

"So," Davey says, way too casual to be innocent, already grinning as he tucks his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie. "You have talked to Celebrini."

Will snorts, finally dragging his compression shirt the rest of the way over his head. "Might've spoken to him once or twice."

"And let him bite you up and down twice a day," Cutter adds, lounging against the stall wall.

"Romantic as fuck," Eamon says, appearing out of nowhere to ruffle Will's sweaty hair. "God, remember when he used to pretend he was a private guy?"

"I am a private guy," Will mutters, batting Eamon's hand away.

"You're literally not," Leno calls from two stalls down, towel slung low on his hips, one eyebrow up. "I've walked into the kitchen and seen you two fucking on the counter in broad daylight."

"Dude," Gabe says, not even looking up from his gear bag, "we share a fucking wall. I've heard the absolute filth that leaves your mouth at, like, 1:00 a.m. Don't talk to me about being private."

Will flips him off without looking and sits back, grabbing his toiletry bag from the cubby. He doesn't even try to argue anymore. There's just no point. They all know. They update the hickey count the second he walks into practice, chirp him the moment they catch a whiff of Macklin's scent on his hoodie, bitch when he walks in smiling like a dumbass.

"You keep him grounded, huh?" Davey says, doing these fucking annoying finger quotes across the room.

"Yeah," Cutter chimes in, grinning, ·grounded to the floor from how often they're fucking."

Will tries not to smile. He fails. He always fails.

"Eat shit," he says, tone flat.

"He's smiling," Cutter sings. "Smitty’s in loooooove."

Will lobs his water bottle at him without warning. It bounces off Cutter's shin and knocks Eamon's half-eaten protein bar to the floor.

"Fine him!" Fowler yells from the massage table.

"Ten bucks for being a sappy little shit," Gabe says, finally looking up. "Another fifty for emotional damage and littering."

Will sighs, pulls out his wallet, and peels off a crumpled twenty. Then another. Then another. "Sixty," he mutters. "That cover public indecency, or do I need to Venmo more for trauma counseling?"

Cutter whistles low. "Damn, Smitty! Mr. Big Spender over here."

"Yeah, well," Will says, stuffing his wallet back in his bag, "worth every damn cent."

Leno throws an empty tape roll straight at his head.

[actuallyrandompersondaily]

"Morning," Buck said, glancing back over his shoulder as he flipped a pancake on the stove.

"Morning," Eddie replied, reaching out to ruffle Chris' hair briefly as he padded by him into the kitchen to greet Buck with a kiss. "Wasn't expecting the full Buckley breakfast experience today, but I can't say I'm complaining."

"We were out of cereal," Chris explained, grinning at Eddie unrepentantly when he raised his eyebrow in response. "Good cereal, anyway."

Eddie, who had been about to point out that there was a brand new box of raisin bran sitting on the shelf, just shook his head fondly.

"Stick it on the list, bud, me or Buck will get it next time we go down to the shops."

"Already done," Buck said, hip checking Eddie lightly as he carried the stack over to the table. "There should be some coffee in the Hildy already, babe, do you mind topping me up?"

"Still can't believe you've made me keep that thing," Eddie muttered, but he did as Buck asked, pouring himself a mug alongside it.

Chris perked up slightly as the mugs were set down, glancing between Eddie and the machine with hopeful eyes. Eddie looked at Buck, who managed to communicate 'Well, he is a teenager' purely through facial expressions, and sighed.

"One," he said sternly, pushing a mug over to Chris and going back to fetch a third one. "No more than that, okay? And not every morning."

Chris's blinding grin was worth the pang Eddie felt at the reminder that his kid was growing up, and his heart warmed when he made it back to the table and saw that Buck had already loaded his plate with pancakes for him.

"Thanks, baby," he said, and Buck pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth with a hum.

"Of course, Eds."

[monstrsball]

Iwaizumi doesn't know what to think when he finds his boyfriend in the entry way of their apartment, soaked from head to toe and clutching his jacket to his chest.

"I'm home." Suga says with a sheepish grin while he clumsily tries to get his shoes off without using his hands.

“You’re soaked,” Iwaizumi frowns, pushing his wet bangs back out of his face and eyeing the barely noticeable trembling of his shoulders. “Why aren’t you-”

Suga’s jacket meows.

Suga frowns down at the jacket in his arms. “You were supposed to let me do the talking first.” He says lightheartedly, his words are met with another slightly more indignant meow.

“Koushi, we talked about this.” Iwaizumi says.

“It’s raining, Hajime. The poor thing was soaked, I couldn’t just leave her out there.” Suga says, his tone soft. “Can we just keep her here for tonight? Until it stops raining? And then I’ll take her to the shelter.”

Iwaizumi wants to stand firm but his resolve slowly melts away when he looks at the cat again. She’s shivering just as much as Suga, the now soaked jacket likely not helping her keep warm. She’s nuzzling into his chest in search of warmth and it tugs at Iwaizumi’s heartstrings. 

He glances back at the door to the balcony. Still raining. 

“Okay,” Iwaizumi relents. “She can stay for tonight. Until it stops raining.” 

He has a nagging feeling that ‘for tonight’ is going to turn into indefinitely but the pure joy lighting up Suga’s face distracts him from this fleeting thought. 

“Yeah, yeah. You need to get out of those clothes.” Iwaizumi reaches out to take the cat from Suga’s arms. She's oddly compliant for a stray. “I’ll dry her off and get her some food and water. I think we have some canned tuna in the cabinet.”

“Ooh,” Suga whistles, gently depositing the little tabby into Iwaizumi’s open arms. “You hear that, baby? He’s spoiling you.” He coos. 

“It’s the only thing we have,” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, readjusting his grip once he has the cat safely in his arms. She nuzzles into the newfound warmth immediately.

[coolcattime]

So still pondering about my Mianite Hunger Games au.

I do not think I'd want to do an actual AU of the events of the books. The books are very good but the characters are so particular that bending Mianite characters into them would be kinda hard (not to mention there is definitely not enough Mianite characters).

That being said, Alyssa Screziato is such a good stand-in for Katniss (not perfect obviously but I think she works really well) that I'm almost annoyed the rest of the canon characters are so hard for me to find even vague vibes for.

[indighostoast]

windmill.

He looks on. 

There were other things out there, besides that black-and-white home. Other places he could be that didn’t have him being thrown around and sparring all the time. 

And he was staring at a house; something that he hadn’t seen before yet. 

As Orange presented him with the block. 

It had color. A house with color and little paintings on the side. 

And wood. It was made of wood. 

He jumps, in excitement. lifting it up so high like a treasure to be held. 

He should try it out! Something special! 

And he bolts away before Orange can reach out for him.

Something! Something he can do! 

And he builds. And builds. 

He didn’t have any plan, in particular, the blocks were placed down automatically, painting a picture that he already had planned out. 

Then it was done, and he jumped down and watched, admiring the result despite the blocky feeling it reflected. 

A windmill. 

Built at seemingly lightning speed. 

And sure, there were some things he could’ve done better, and he knew that. The back of his mind nudging him to change. 

Still, he dashes back like an excited child, gesturing for Orange to come see it.

With his hands on his hips, and watching it turn, around and around.

Orange looks on in awe, as they step down the stairway.

(Something they like! Something he might be good at!) 

“It’s amazing.” They remarked. 

Amazing. 

Amazing. 

It was Amazing. 

They were patting him on the back, too. 

And elated, he held the block up again, pumping his arms up and pointing. 

And he’s still in a daze, shaking Orange’s hand, again, like the first time they met. 

It would be embarrassing if they knew how much it made him want to soar. 

See, they've already changed his life. 

He had wanted to make something else too, something better than that;  before Blue had arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, snatching it from him to plant crops and trees. 

He hopped onto his own creation, leaning against cobblestone as Yellow made a beacon, with stained glass. 

Orange’s words continued to echo and replay in his mind. Again and again.

Amazing. Amazing. 

That’s what he it was. 

He didn't forget. Even after the whole incident with Red. Even after all this time.

Amazing.

[zestyzigzagoon]

We're back at 'banging my head against the wall' for CS Chapter 10. I'm still standing by the fact that I'll get it posted before the end of the month, but we're probably looking at the 31st lol.

[slippery-minghus]

System Breach Sunday... Rewind ⭕

#7

“Connor!” Hank dropped to his knees in front of his android charge. Sidearm holstered, he reached out, hesitant. 

Still frozen, lifeless like a broken doll, Connor could only watch as Hank took one of his hands from where they rested in his lap. The sight seemed almost far away… nearly glowing under the weak midday sun. Even still, Connor could feel it as Hank’s warm, calloused palm squeezed his own—he could hear the Lieutenant’s elevated respiration, feel his anxious pulse through the contact in his palm—but he couldn’t react. Couldn’t reciprocate in any way.

Connor was fine, but the remaining seconds that he was powerless to prove it made something inside him hurt. 

>WARNING: COMPREHENSIVE MOTOR REBOOT REQUIRED

>Time Until Motor Reboot: 53 seconds

>

>Software Instability ^

Gently, almost fearfully hesitant, Hank reached to Connor’s chin, tilting up his head. The sensation was a stark, cutting contradiction to the deviant’s forceful grip—and in a flutter of irrationality, Connor once again found himself verifying his anti-virus program’s readout. 

Still clear. Still nothing. 

He was alright. 

Connor’s vision rose, panning from the Lieutenant’s knees before his own, up to the man’s concerned, gray-framed face. Hank’s expression was pained, his voice tentative, “Can you hear me, son? You okay?” His gaze shifted slightly to Connor’s right, and the finger at his chin tilted his head to follow—Connor’s LED was still an angry, cycling red. 

“Shit, you still in there, Connor?” Hank asked with a bit more urgency. But then his gaze shifted away, and his hand gently lowered Connor’s head. His tone took on a more inward quality, “His LED’s still goin’, probably means he ain’t dead… the fuck did that deviant bastard do?” Careful, probing hands prodded at Connor’s sides, his arms, shoulders, his throat—barely brushing the data panel below his jaw—yet Hank found nothing amiss. “This is why I didn’t want you going off alone, you dumbass!”

>WARNING: COMPREHENSIVE MOTOR REBOOT REQUIRED

>Motor Reboot Initiated

Finally, after so many frustrating, powerless minutes, Connor began to regain physical functionality.

His breathing was the first to come back online. In a warmer setting, the influx of air would have been vital to cool his arrested biocomponents—but as his synthetic lungs expanded, Connor was met with the frigid rush of Detroit winter. Some basic, hard-coded instinct sent a violent shiver juddering through him, and Connor’s eyes squinted shut before he realized he’d even regained the ability to blink. He wheezed again, exhaling harshly as if the next breath would not come just as cold. 

“Connor!” Hank gasped, moving to grip the android’s shoulders. “Hang on kid, hang on. I’ve gotcha.”

Though the shivers persisted, each tremor was more fluid—more lifelike—than the last. And before long, Connor was able to perform simple movements of his own volition. With meticulous focus, he strung a sequence of actions together, then executed. First, Connor reached for the Lieutenant’s wrist and grasped it lightly. He slowly shook his head. Then Connor opened his mouth, activated his vocal synthesizer, and whispered, “I’m okay.” 

Yet he sounded anything but. Connor’s voice had come out small, rattled, afraid. He hadn’t queued an emulated well of emotion, hadn’t plotted the expression he could feel furrowing his brows. Androids weren’t supposed to—

“Like hell you are! What the hell happened? What’d that fucker do to you?” Hank’s tone was rough now that the imminent danger had passed, but the sharpest edges had been sanded smooth by relief. Connor couldn’t help but think back to the echo of Hank’s anger—his fear that he might lose…

Connor blinked, then jerked his hand away from Hank’s arm. He tried to right himself, but only managed to sway in Hank’s persistent grasp. The danger had passed, but— “The deviant—” Connor pressed, eyes wide, “It can’t have gotten far. I can track its progress through the cameras from here—” 

“Woah, woah, woah, hold it,” Hank rumbled, biting back a curse as Connor nearly slumped further to the ground. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re actually okay. And not just saying it. Why’re you moving like a drunk bag of rocks?” 

[wikiangela]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by @daffi-990 💖

making more progress on alive shannon yaaay! this fic is gonna be such a mix of angst and fluff, and I hope i'll get the angst part right bc I'm not good at it, and so far a lot of after-accident stuff is turning out too cute lol (gonna fix it soon with the bombing lol) here's a lil buddie moment finally haha (they're not in love here yet but obvi there's always been something - and it's so hard to write them not in love and pining bc in my fics they're always in love already haha)

prev snippet

___

“So, it’s weird, isn’t it?” he asks, then takes a huge gulp of his beer.

“What is?” Buck asks carefully, grabbing the second bottle and opening it.

“This whole thing.” Eddie shrugs. “Shan being here. Was it weird?” he nods towards the living room, indicating Buck hanging out with her before Eddie came home. Buck thinks for a moment, not really sure how to answer.

“I mean, I guess a little bit? Not as much as I expected, we just watched TV.” It’s Buck’s turn to shrug. “It was fine. It is fine. A little awkward, but we literally just met, so hopefully that changes. Since, you know, she’s here to stay, and I’m- I’m, uh- I guess I’m here often enough, so I don’t want it to be awkward and stuff-” he stumbles over his words, suddenly not sure why it’s even important for him and her to get along. It would be so easy for them to just not see each other. It’s not like Eddie and Shannon are gonna hang out all the time now, after she’s better and gets back to her own life. All that’s gonna connect them after the divorce is Chris. So, really, Buck has no reason to want to get along with her beyond her staying here for now. They don’t have to be friends, and if it’s weird for a couple weeks, so what?

“Buck.” Eddie interrupts his rambling, his eyes softening. “I know what you mean. I- I kinda hoped you guys would get along, is that stupid?” he chuckles. And, well, it’s settled now, Buck has to make friends with her, doesn’t he? “Since you’re, you know, Christopher’s best friend.” he adds with amusement, and Buck beams. But then Eddie sighs and shakes his head. “And he’s so happy to have her around.”

“I noticed.” Buck smiles.

“Yeah. He loves being able to just go into another room and hug her, talk to her, have her help him with his homework, play games with him. Just have a relationship with her again. He’s actually-” he laughs. “He’s teaching her to play his favorite video games, and she sucks at it. So bad. He’s determined, though.” Eddie gets that look on his face he always gets when talking about Chris, so much love and fondness and adoration. It might be one of Buck’s favorite expressions of his. Not that he has any favorites, of course, that’d be weird. He’s not analyzing his best friend’s face and looks and smiles, and he’s definitely not making sure to remember every single one, mentally filing them carefully in the rapidly growing drawer with Eddie’s name on it in his mind.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gayarthur @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @lover-of-mine @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @hoodie-buck @monsterrae1 @hippolotamus @ladydorian05 @forthewolves @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @eowon @theotherbuckley @weewootruck @thewolvesof1998 @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @jesuisici33 @callaplums @loserdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @underwater-ninja-13 @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck

[non-un-topo]

Kind of obsessed with this nickname actually

[jichanxo]

sunday six :D

taking the initiative for a change.... so i'm going to boop @four-white-trees @passthroughtime @skysquid22 @overdevelopedglasses

chipping away at sensei fic this week! here's kitakata and yagami making out lol excuse my bluntness... don't feel obligated to read if you're not into that o7

Yagami reached for Kitakata’s arm, found his hand, and guided it to his hip. Yagami pulled away from the kiss.

“Touch me, would you?”

Kitakata’s breath was warm on his lips. “Where would you like it?”

“Figure it out yourself.” He said and kissed him again. Kitakata didn’t seem to complain. His fingers slipped under the hem of Yagami’s shirt, meeting skin. He touched along the base of his spine, and Yagami couldn’t suppress the slight shiver that went through him. He could only imagine how gratifying this was for Kitakata. Hell, just seeing Yagami checking him out probably made his whole week, now this. He’d never be able to stop him from flirting now.

Yagami leaned into Kitakata’s hold, into his mouth, against that eager tongue. He was about to make Kitakata’s whole damn year.

[kari-go]

you can really see my struggle and thought process in this