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bytemycupcakes · 2 days ago

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I'm so normal about Villys and Cabin Boys I spent all day making designs for all seven of them.

(click for quality sorry I'm too lazy to make them individual for easy closeups)

Design notes and headcanons under the cut!

Cabin Boys Design Motifs: Flannel shirts. Hefty footwear sporting steel toes. Fingerless Gloves and some sort of small pack (Or lots of Pockets- Etho.) "Hey guys lets all wear green and not tell Scar" /j

Scar: Vex - After being trapped in Secret Life for so long he genuinely thought Wild life may have been a dream. Now another game has begun and He's having to come to terms with Wild being a real game. And thus all the emotions coming with it. Due to his final death in the previous game via Grian abandoning him to be killed by his snail (and the general rocky dynamic they had the whole game), He's finally accepting They've DEFINITELY been broken up since Double Life. He's handling this well clearly. With all of two buttons done on his shirt, he cant keep it tucked in- He WILL claim this is for easy removal for the Hot Tub. Do Not Believe Him. His team is convinced he hasnt seen a hairbrush since his previous victory. Now that he knows Wild Life wasnt a dream, Scar supposes he's just permanently going grey now. Fun! Scar has his winners "crown" as a pseudo brand over his heart- Taking the shape of a mangled crown. His cane seems to be hand carved from Dark Oak- Wait thats not available yet? Dont Question it. He wears Hiking boots and a pack strapped to his leg. He seems to not have anything but his eye colour displaying his remaining lives.

Scott: Celestial Horse - Scott is just COVERED in Star motifs. It comes with being a celestial creature he supposes. His winners "crown" is the yellow star nestled in his half-star shaped ahoge. He has high waisted jeans with his flannel tucked into them to give the silhouette of a crop top. The flannel of course is falling off his shoulders- though his hair seems to hide it most of the time. His pack is just strapped around his waist, and his boots are- Well they have steel toes! Etho HATES that they're heels. Not Very Woodsy. But Scott's Cute so who cares really? He's keepign his tail braided- Not just for it beign a death game- but they're Cabin Boys, so He needs to make sure his tail stays out of the way. Scott's lives are shown via the two main stars on his head, the streaks in his hair/tail, and his eyes.

Bdubs: Nobody knows what he is honestly.... - Bdubs Stole his flannel from Etho because he didnt have his own and wanted to match everyone. He's been going grey since his bleached hair phase. I'm sorry I didnt pull from his old skin for his face I hate not-smiling Bdubs you cant make me not draw a smile. Bdubs has combat boots, and his fanny pack is what displays his remaining lives (its base colour will change from green to yellow to red, and the respective hearts will grey out as well) aside from the faint coloured glow in his massive eyes. The bandages around his arms arent for any injury, they're just a quick option to keep his hands protected with all the building and inevitable combat.

Etho: Artic Fox - Kakashi as a canadian mountain man. Etho is THE prepared cabin guy for this team. Sure he's got cargo pants and a thick jacket, yet He still has pockets you couldn't even understand. His jacket is flannel so he really didnt need the extra shirt- So bdubs can have it. (ethubs truther what who said that) His jacket has a patch on each arm, but only one has anything on it- Being the canadian maple leaf- The other is entirely Blank. Etho is one of very few lifers who's (not hidden) eye doesn't give away his lives- That would be great if he didnt have his headband showing it off instead. Etho's boots are shockingly high quality and even have traction spikes on them.

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The Villians Villys motifs: Roses. Seatbelt buckled belts. Heart Patches (Pearl's is currently missing). Converse-adjacent shoe types. "eye bags".

Pearl: Grey Wolf - She is shocked to find she arrived in this game looking like a shotty recreation of her old look from 2011... Her hair is already growing out who did this dye job?? Seems the dye didnt cover up the moons in her hair though. (Her hair will continue to "grow out" to her normal brown as the season progresses). Her old apperances bright blue eye ALMOST overtakes the life-series-induced Green Eyes- So she has sectoral heterochromia for awhile. Pearl has small roses woven into a crown with moon phase emblems. Her winners "crown" is the crescent ahoge that floats above her head. Due to her win being Double Life, and Scott, already a winner, was her soul mate, her crown took a similar apperance to his- She's been covered in moons almost like he is covered in Stars because of this as well. Several games later and she still has to live with that connection to him. Pearl's outfit is as emo/scene as I could make the original skin. Featuring many belts, wedge heel knee high converse, a single fishnet glove and too many bracelets on one arm. And- Oh god who did this smokey eye look- she looks like she hasnt slept in weeks because of it. Gross! (/dram) Pearl has a studded checker belt, and her seatbelt buckled belt has its buckle looking similar to the Watchers logo as she's a previous EVO member. She is Currently missing her hoodie, and thus her heart patch- Her jacket will reappear later (whenever cc!Pearl puts on a hoodie'd skin), and the patch will be on her back. She misses her jacket :(

Grian: Avian (Cardinal) - Grian is grateful he didnt spawn in his old outfit like Pearl did- At least. He didnt entirely... He Spawned in with his Link Hat... But he was able to rip it off his head and shove it in his pocket before anyone figured out what it was. Everyone assumes it's a handkerchief or something- It's green so maybe it'll show his lives (it will not). He's wearing Kahki cargo pants and his shoes go halfway up his lower legs. They have suns embroidered into their sides. Grians seatbelt buckled belt also sports the watchers logo like Pearls. He has a pouch strapped to the belt with a poppy and some lilacs embroidered into it. He hasn't seen this pouch since 3rd life. Scar did the embraidery for him... Huh. Interesting. He's so sure he didn't base in the desert on purpose Guys Stop Looking At Him Like That- Grians winners "crown" is a glow always behind his head. Its like he glows like the sun (though Much less bright. Its tolerable- sometimes barely noticeable. But bright enough that he's not in a bad spot if he runs out of torches). He and Gem have matching large roses. His Heart patch is a third light-green to show he's down to 5 lives. And after his diamond crash out he is TIRED. He is EXHAUSTED. He's got eyebags now. Guess he matches Pearl and Gem now.

Gem: Deer - Gem. Is. Sick. Poor girl. Her eyes seem dull, her eyebags are dark. She's always sniffling and her hair is a mess. But she swears she's fine. Alongside the rose she has to match Grian, Pearl braided some rosebuds and leaves into her hair. She may have lost her pvp Match against Etho (as shown by the light green slowly filling the Heart patched to her chest), but she's keeping a sword strapped to her hip- She even crafter a little rose bulb to put on the end of it. It's just run through her belt- Shes the only oen in the team without the Watchers logo. For obvious reasons of course. Hers instead has a green button and will change with her lives. Her overalls have vines and roses embroidered down the sides, and of course she has her bi flag as always. Her shoes are checkered- a popular pattern way back in the day.

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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 2 days ago

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Hi! I love your writing style and I had this in the back of my mind for a bit and I’m hoping you would put this into words if it inspires you but imagine Lando and Daniel wanting to prank Max before a big conference by slipping a little blue pill in his redbull but max has a fall that morning and scrapes his palms, and all of it culminates into him hiding in the locker changing rooms, taunted by his friends, unable to take care of himself because of the injuries and the reader as his PR manager finds him like 20 minutes before the conference and tries to convince him to let her help him out as “professionally” as possible (like a handjob maybe?) and maybe max wants to return the favour at some point?

Blue Pills - Max Verstappen

warnings: badly written smut, technically a drink spiking, not proof read

"Max is too calm, we have to do something big this time." Daniel said, thinking over his time in Red Bull with the Dutchman. It was no secret that Daniel and Lando got up to all sorts of trouble together, and now Max Verstappen was their next victim.

So far, they had kept their pranks relatively harmless. They had stolen Charles' phone and texted Carlos some rather... risque messages, they had replaced Nicholas' Nutella with marmite, and they had stolen Kimi's drink. He wasn't very bothered.

Most of them were funny. Well, Charles didn't find it overly funny but Carlos did, so that was at least half of their goal accomplished. For Max, they needed something that was more than just a bit of a laugh. They needed something that people would remember.

"We could try and stick something on his back?" Lando suggested, and Daniel shook his head immediately.

"No. We need something that will actually rattle him. It's hard to get to Max." he said, wracking his brains for something. If only there was a way to- oh, oh. Now that would be good. "I've got it," Daniel beamed, the plan formulating perfectly in his head.

"We've got to be sneaky about it, but we can definitely pull it off. I need you to be a distraction for me, OK? Then we just let the magic happen," Daniel said, and Lando was curious to know what the Australian had up his sleeve, but he was sure that he'd find out sooner rather than later.

"OK, sure." Lando nodded, already liking where this was going. The papaya pair planned how they were going to execute their devious plan, trying to keep their voices down so that no one would hear them.

Meanwhile, Max was in medical. On track, he was careful and clinical beyond belief. He didn't make many mistakes. But when his two feet were firmly, or not so, planted on the ground, he was one of the clumsiest men you could find.

He was literally just walking through the paddock, when he tripped over his own feet and fell to the tarmac. He held his hands out to break the fall, ending up with his palms getting grazed to hell on the rough surface. Thankfully, there was no one around to witness it apart from you, but he could live with that.

Being Max's PR manager meant that you spent a lot of time with him weekend in and weekend out, so you had become accustomed to his spells of ditsiness. He should have been glad you were there, since he wouldn't have gone to medical if you hadn't forced him to.

All they did was clean them and wrap them, but he looked like a boxer walking around with his hands wrapped. At least he could hold things and at least he could still race. He just had to look at the positives.

To add insult to injury, Max had a press conference to go to. But first, you dropped him off to the hospitality centre for him to take a second and relax before he had to go into the worst part of his weekend. Of course, he wouldn't be Max if he didn't have his trusty Red Bull in hand, so you picked an ice cold one up for him on your way.

"You better be here when I go in or else I'm not going." he said, and you knew he was deadly serious. Max didn't give a shit, if he didn't want to go, then he wouldn't. The only reason that he ever went to any of his menial media obligations was for you.

Your entire job was making sure he said the right thing and was where he was meant to be on time. He felt bad for giving you the amount of hassle that he did, but every driver did it to their PR manager. He knew how hard you worked, so he wasn't going to ruin it by being too much of a handful for you.

You left him there while you went to run some quick errands, watching as Daniel and Lando approached him. Once you were gone, they waited for him to put his drink down before springing into action. "Hey Max, did I show you that video I got in Thailand? Of the waterfall in the sunset?" Lando asked, ready for everything to fall into place.

"No, you didn't. Show me." Max said. He was intrigued.

"My phone's on charge. C'mon, I need a walk." Lando said.

"Sure," the Dutchman nodded. He had taken the bait. Lando and Max walked out of sight and left Daniel to carry out his master plan. Looking around to make sure that no one had their eyes on him, he produced two little blue pills from his pocket.

They were embarrassing to buy, and he had to send some poor intern to get them so that he wouldn't be recognised. The last thing that he needed was people thinking that he needed viagra to get it up, because he most certainly didn't.

Daniel wasn't actually sure how many he needed, as the pack stated various amounts for various levels of arousal. So, he opted for the one that he thought meant 'hard enough to be visible, but not so hard that it's impossible to get rid of'.

He popped them through the top of the Red Bull can, watching the blue dissolve into the energy drink through the hole with a fizz. Just as the tablets had melted down, he heard Max and Lando's voices behind him. This was going to be amazing.

Max sat back down in his seat, holding Lando's phone in his hand as he scrolled through the videos from his trip to Thailand. With the other, he reached out and took a few sips of the Red Bull. Daniel and Lando glanced at each other, trying not to give away the fact that they were up to something. It tasted slightly off, but he didn't think much of it.

You had gotten a fresh one from the fridge; he had seen you do it. It was probably just the heat making it taste a little weird.

All of the drivers had been pretty on edge around them, not wanting to fall prey to their predatory pranks. Max didn't seem overly phased, though. Then again, he was used to it from having Daniel as a teammate and Lando as a long time friend.

After talking for long enough, Max had finished the Red Bull. Daniel was stressing slightly. He was trying not to be too obvious as he looked at Max's crotch, looking for any sort of sign that the pills were actually working.

Max, on the other hand, was trying to ignore the odd feeling of arousal that he was currently experiencing. For some reason, he was suddenly horny. Glancing down, he saw the slight bulge that was already forming in his jeans .

There wasn't even anything around him that he would find even remotely arousing, and now he was getting a full on hard on out of nowhere? Daniel and Lando both noticed the flush in his cheeks as he fidgeted in his seat, knowing that their plan had worked.

"Just going to the toilet," Max choked out, wanting to get out of there before the extent of his problem could be realised. He was gone before the McLaren boys could make a comment, and they were going to let him sweat for a few minutes.

"Did you see his face? Priceless," Daniel laughed.

"That is a genius idea, I like it." Lando giggled back, standing and going to follow Max to the changing rooms. He wanted to see this for himself.

Daniel followed, both of them walking in to find Max pacing the locker rooms with a massive tent in his jeans. "Damn, Max. Didn't know you enjoyed media day that much." Lando laughed, and Max instantly knew. He had fallen victim to the infamous papaya pranksters.

"What did you do?" he asked, unable to hide the bite in his tone. He was all for harmless pranks, but this was downright humiliating. If people found out that he had gotten an erection in the middle of the paddock, he'd never live it down. Max Verstappen, 4 time world champ and the guy who gets bricked up when he has to do an interview.

"We didn't do anything-" Daniel started with a smirk before Max cut him off.

"What the fuck did you two idiots do?!" Max shouted, not caring who heard.

"We just gave you one or two of those blue things..." Lando trailed off, suddenly thinking that this joke had gone a little too far.

"Viagra? You gave me fucking viagra?! I've got a press conference!" Max raged, now realising that is all made sense. The sudden arousal, Daniel and Lando being a bit weird all day, the strange taste of his drink. They had spiked him, and now he was hard as a rock and had no way to deal with it. There was half an hour before the press conference, and he knew that this stuff lasted a while if the problem wasn't taken care of.

That was when another issue cropped up: he couldn't take care of it. His hands were bandaged up and, even in his state, that would not feel good at all. There was no way that he could hide it, either. He was screwed.

"Only two." Daniel clarified, as if that would make the situation better. Looking between Max, Lando, and Max's dick, Daniel quickly sussed out that this may not have been his brightest idea to date. They'd stick to prank texts next time. Well, if there was a next time if Max didn't murder both of them right then and there.

"Fuck off, both of you. I'm not dealing with you and this at the same time," he warned, and they took the hint and walked out with their tails between their legs. The pair stayed silent as they left, and they spotted you stood in hospitality. You were looking for Max.

"Have you two seen Max? He hasn't run off, has he?" you joked, but the looks on their faces told you that now certainly wasn't the time for joking.

"He's in the locker rooms. He's got a small... issue." Lando said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. You didn't know what they meant, so you took it upon yourself to go to the changing rooms.

"Max? It's me. We've got to go." you called, opening the door and stepping through.

"No, wait out there-" he started, but you were already in the room. Max was sat there, his jeans on the bench next to him while his lower half was only covered by his boxers. That was when you saw it. Max Verstappen. The man you spent every weekend with. The man that you worked closely with was sat in the locker rooms with a painfully hard dick.

"What the hell happened to you?" you asked, trying to keep your eyes on his face rather than the obvious elephant in the room.

"Those fuckers slipped me some viagra..." he mumbled, glad to admit that he wasn't just really horny but also embarrassed that he fell for it.

You looked at him with sympathy, feeling bad that he was a prank victim. But, you were also thinking practically. There was no way that he could get out of this, but you wouldn't want to go out there and do a conference if you were like this either.

"Can't you... sort it out?" you said, not wanting to be too crude.

"Not with these," he scoffed, holding up his bandaged hands. Even if he took them off, it would still be really painful and wouldn't have the desired effect. It would probably just wind him up more.

That was when Max got an idea. It was a horrendous idea that could ruin your entire relationship, but it was an idea nonetheless. He hated the fact that he had even thought of this, let alone that he was actually going to ask it out loud. "Can you?" he asked.

"Can I what?" you replied. Deep down, you knew what he was asking, but you didn't want to accept it. Even before he asked, you were contemplating your response. Something in your brain told you to do it. This was for both of your careers, so surely it would be worth it? At the end of the day, it was only Max.

The two of you were close, so what was getting him off going to do to your rapport with each other? Right, stupid question. That was going to do a lot to your relationship. It would make it so awkward, knowing that you had been intimate like that.

What excuse would you give for Max not being at the conference if you just left him to let the viagra wear off? He felt sick? His hands hurt too much? No, there wasn't time to formulate a story. "Can you sort this out? Just a handjob will do... like... just to get it over with..." he rambled, hating the words as they left his mouth.

"We never speak of this again, agreed?" you said, tentatively sitting next to him on the bench.

"Never again." he nodded, not fully believing that you were actually following through with this. "You don't even have to look," he gently said, taking the first step and pulling his erection out of his boxers.

Your eyes widened as you saw it. He was bigger than you expected, but you thought that it was probably the viagra helping him out. Precum was already beading at the tip, and you felt quite bad for him.

"Ok... here goes..." you mumbled, spitting in your hand to create some lubrication. If he was being honest, Max thought it was one of the hottest things that he had ever seen. It was the first lick of genuine arousal that he had had all day, and he wasn't complaining.

You were unsure of whether you should look or if you could cancel out the awkwardness by looking away. But you found yourself looking as you gently took ahold of his hardened length. Max shuddered at the contact, and both of you knew that this wasn't going to take long. It was better that way.

You rubbed your thumb over his tip, smearing precum over it while Max had to bite back a moan. If people heard from outside, they would be straight in and the two of you would never live that down.

You started off slow, your hand moving up and down his shaft. You were trying to remove yourself from the situation, but you couldn't help but look at his face as his head was tipped back against the wall with his eyes screwed shut and his bottom lip firmly caught between his teeth.

He looked damn handsome like this. Max's face was flushed with desire and his hair was perfectly ruffled from running his hands through it a few too many times. He was trying to keep quiet, but the whines he was letting out made heat pool between your legs.

Picking up the pace, you pumped his dick faster, wanting to find the sweet spot of how fast he wanted you to go. "Fuck... just like that..." he mumbled, his breath stuttering as he let the pleasure consume him. He had to stop himself from bucking his hips up into the contact, revelling in the fact that he was finally relieving some of the pressure.

As much as you hated to admit it to yourself, you were thoroughly enjoying this. There was a strange part of you that wanted to find out exactly what he liked and how he wanted you to do things. You got a better reaction out of him when you squeezed a bit harder. Just like his racing, Max didn't like things doing by halves.

The natural reaction was for you to be just as turned on as he was. You had to remind yourself that this wasn't about pleasure, it was simply business. You were fixing the issue that had been caused by Daniel and Lando - even if the issue was jerking off a world champion driver.

"I... I'm going to..." he trailed off, and you knew precisely what he meant. You sped up for one final time to get him there, Max's hand reaching out and gripping your thigh as if he were grounding himself as he came, spilling out onto your hand.

You kept your movements up as he rode through the high, before he relaxed back against the wall and you stopped. Letting go, you just sat there and looked at each other. "Thank you..." he softly smiled, glad that you had saved him from definite embarrassment.

"That was... well I'm not going to lie to you and say that you weren't amazing," he chuckled and squeezed your thigh. He noticed how you were clenching your thighs together as if you were also craving some sort of friction.

Before he could comment, you stood and went to get tissues. You passed him a few, and you went to the sink to wash your hands. You were washing your hands of Max's cum, which was something that you never thought you'd ever do.

"Ha, thanks." you quietly laughed as you dried them off. Max was cleaning himself up, glad that Daniel and Lando hadn't given him any more pills than they had. One hand job was enough. "Come on, we've got to go." you said, trying to distract from what the two of you had just done.

"You'll have to let me return the favour one day, yeah?" he said, and he was being sincere. Max was all for fairness, and he wasn't just going to let this happen without you getting your fair share. He saw how much you wanted it, and he could see the faint hints of arousal still lingering in your eyes.

"We're never discussing this again," you rushed, walking out of the locker room swiftly in front of him. He knew you wanted it just like he did, and he could feel himself stirring naturally this time. Now wasn't the time, though.

As the two of you walked through hospitality and towards where the conference was taking place, Daniel and Lando watched on from afar. Max didn't have an erection anymore, and you looked flustered. Their minds were running at a thousand miles a minute, and it was like both of them connected the dots at the same time.

If looks could kill, the two of them would be dead as Max glared at them. They'd have to let sleeping dogs lie. For now.

A/N - I loved writing this I can't even lie to you, this is one of my favourite requests that I have ever gotten! The smut is awful, I know it is 😂 Leave anymore requests in my inbox!

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unholyhelbig · 2 days ago

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Helloooo, i saw the requests were open so i wanted to ask one for the Oversight series like, Reader gets seriously injured when protecting Natasha from an unexpected attack on the estate, Reader insists on staying behind and covering their exit to the weapons shed for ammo so Natasha takes Ronnie and goes to secure her in the shed, when she comes back there are only a few stragglers left but cant find Reader till a long blood smear on the floor leads them to Reader who is unconcscious and bleeding out. Nat and Ronnie worried but Reader pulls through tho not easily.

Sry i know its a lotttt of angst but it would be cool to read.

Title: The Shades of Bloodlust

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: After a near fatal injury, Natasha finds her wife bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

Warnings: Blood (so much), mention of animal death (bird), Gun violence, cannon-typical mafia violence, medical talk, grief experiences, hurt/comfort, horrible grammar I don't proofread.

[a/n: It's been a very long time since I've enjoyed writing for oversight, but thank you for this prompt, it sparked up some passion!]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Natasha Romanoff had seen many types of blood. When she was six years old, she’d been playing in the front yard when a dull thud drew her attention away from the task at hand, that being making mud pies out of a patch of semi-hardened dirt in the corner of the quadrant.

It had been a bird, fallen or thrown from the nest that rested in the crook of a knotted oak. It was so unfathomably small, and moving just enough to show Natasha that maybe it was worth saving. But then, she’d seen the small trickle of sticky dark red and she swallowed down whatever nausea reared it’s head.

She’d watched the blood with a sort of sick fascination. Something that was once so alive, is now splattered out in front of her like a dropped stone. Perhaps the worst moment of all was when she decided to walk away. When the sun had dipped and the sky had turned into a muggy blue and she realized that she’d been standing there for longer than necessary.

The next time Natasha saw a copious amount of blood was when she was nine years of age. She was known for her silence at that point, often communicating in small gestured and the occasional grunt. Her mother was ever patient and her father would talk at her with a loudness that made her flinch.

She’d slotted herself between the railings of the staircase. Natasha had mastered the art of quiet, of making herself as small as possible. Her father didn’t notice her, as cunning as he is. If he had, he wouldn’t have fired the gun. Natasha was upset that he had done it in the study, close enough to all those books, soaking into their spines. The color was thready and crimson and dripped around the mans head.

Natasha had scampered up the stairs before he fired a second shot.

There was an unsettled realness to blood. The indication of an injury, often at her own hands. She melded it like art, drew it only when necessary. She was never reckless in her actions. There was never a need to bleed anyone dry unless the situation called for it. There was a lot of blood in the human body. Too much.

It seemed like gallons of blood had dripped into the kitchen; as if a deer had it’s neck slit and was dragged from one place to another. Something was struggling, fighting with the very last of it’s energy to maintain some form of life, no matter the quality.

Natasha had the muzzle of her gun down to her side, creeping slowly through a hallway that she’d moved through a million times on instinct. She wouldn’t have noticed the blood right away if the warmth didn’t soak into the fabric of her socks. It was a shock compared to the cold damp of the grass she’d just treaded.

The back storm doors were open, the subtle blue glow from the pool was the only guidance she trusted. Yes, there was blood, a lot of blood, but she held out hope that it wasn’t yours. Natasha felt bile feather at her throat.

When the two of you had both heard a noise downstairs that didn’t quite belong, you insisted that she take Ronnie to the shed. The same fortified shed that she’d left you years and years ago. It was difficult enough to deny you and corrall a nine-year-old away from something much more interesting than sleep.

“Besides,” You whispered, sleep-warm, “No one with half a lick of sense is dumb enough to break in here.”

But, she’d heard gunfire the moment she settled Veronica in between two locked cases of something a bit too nefarious to consider right now. Natasha rounded the estate and crept inside and it was too quiet for her liking. Much too quiet.

The more she moved into the kitchen, the clumsier she got, like someone grabbed her soul and untethered her so she could watch what was about to unfold from above. Natasha’s food slid and she didn’t have time catch herself on the counter.

She landed on her knees, hard. Syrupy red coated her hands and soaked through her pants and splattered across her front. A sob dislodged itself from her throat in the process. Natasha crawled to the source, rounded the island with so much dread at the base of her stomach.

“No,” she rasped out “No, no, no.”

You were on your back, one arm stretched out towards the sliding glass doors as if your last coherent thought was getting to Ronnie and Natasha. She couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from. There was too damn much. Not more than she’d seen before, but somehow infinite when it was spurting from you.

“You can’t do this. You can’t leave.”

Natasha searched your wrist for a pulse first, couldn’t find one, and went to your neck. When she still couldn’t locate anything, she pressed her ear to your chest. There was a small rasp, a small stuttered inhale that was much too far away from the exhale, but it was something.

“Baby,” she slapped your face lightly, hovering over you. “You have to wake up for me. Wake up, sweet girl.”

You coughed and it was a gurgled exploration of soft sound. Blood was in your lungs, or your throat, or both, but your eyes shot open in fear either way. Natasha hated when you were in pain, but feeling something was better than nothing.

“N…Nat.” You coughed again, trying to sit up, but Natasha held you down. “Where?”

“In the shed, she’s safe in the shed. I’m going to call someone okay? But you have to stay awake for me while I do. Can you do that?”

You hummed, a noncommittal noise, but reached up and grabbed her hand with the slightest squeeze you could manage. Natasha pawed at her back pocket and found her phone. It slid from her hand once, dropped into the smeared blood. Yelena picked up on the third ring.

“Ona ranena, ona boleye chem ranena.” Natasha stopped, couldn’t catch herself before a sob dropped from her lips. “I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. I need Lincoln Campbell and I need him now.”

She hung up before Yelena could answer, your hand was going slack in her own. She trusted her sister enough to follow through with the trauma surgeon, even if it was bleary-eyed and in pajama pants.

“Moya krasivaya devushka, pay attention to me, okay?”

“You,” your voice was nothing but a whisper “Y-you’re impossible not to pay attention to, Natasha.”

She let out a watery laughed and pulled your hand against her chest, gripped it like a vice. Held onto it harder than she’d ever held onto anything before. Of course, you were flirting while bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

“L-listen to me. I-I want” You swallowed hard, voice thick “I need you to take care of Ronnie. It has to… to be you. You’re her mom, she loves you. I… love you..”

“Stop, love, stop.” She brushed hair away from your face, hardened with dark red sediment. “Stop acting like you’re saying goodbye. Because you’re not, you hear me? You’re going to stick around and we’re going to grow old together, and we’re both going to take care of Veronica.”

“Okay,” You breathed out, something tapering off into a crackling cough.

“Okay,” Natasha sniffed, bringing her hand to your lips, kissing your knuckles. “Okay.”

Natasha Romanoff had seen many types of blood. She just never wanted to see yours.

What little words that her daughter had begun to piece together over the last three years that Natasha had been married to you, were stripped from the bone. She’d grown accustomed to silence, the startling quiet that came with unknown tragedy.

She was attached to Natasha like Velcro; her small body curled under her chin and digging her face into the comfort of the small of her neck. Ronnie played with the gold chain that hung around Natasha’s neck. The one you’d gotten her to replace something once lost.

Natasha hadn’t removed herself from the end of the sofa for the past two hours. She reveled in the scent of Ronnie, in the way she had a slightly citrus edge to her that was so much like her mother. There was a warm weight to her, tears soaking into the fabric of Natasha’s shirt.

Clint and Yelena sat unsettled in opposite ends of the living room to the point where Natasha nearly found it infuriating. You always knew how to fill the silence, to make everyone feel at ease when Natasha got too prickly. You always joked that she could start a civil war in the city with her temper, level the city all the same.

Right now, that wasn’t evident in her stance. She cradled the descendant of you close and kept her calm until her breath evened out into small, snotty, gasps. Natasha traced her fingers lightly up and down Ronnie’s spine.

Natasha didn’t flinch when Lincoln walked into the room anymore. He still treaded lightly but it was impossible not to notice the only presence in the manor that flitted around like a shadow. He was wringing his hands nervously and Natasha never knew if that was out of fear of who he was working for, or the nerves of practicing unsanctioned medicine.

“Vital signs look good and swelling around the entry and exit points are good. She’s been stable for the last twenty-four hours. I’d say, since she’s held that, that we can start pulling her from the medically induced coma.” He took a stuttering pause, glanced around the brittle room. “If that’s what you’d like, Mrs. Romanoff.”

“Why wouldn’t I want that?” She frowned in confusion.

“We could keep her under longer, have her heal up a bit more before we bring her to.”

Natasha glanced towards Clint and Yelena, both of them had nearly blank, but relieved expressions on their faces. Ronnie curled in closer, made a small noise in her throat that Natasha could feel against her skin.

“I uh… if we woke her now, would she be in pain?”

“She’s been shot three times; she’ll feel the effects of that either way. I always push the option incase the family isn’t quite ready to face the recovery process that comes next. They’ll have to eventually, but sometimes knowing a loved one is okay, stable, is a breath of relief.”

Natasha nodded because she had nothing else to confidently do. A moment to breathe was important. Seeing the color of your eyes again held more weight. “Wake her, please, Doctor Campbell.”

“Of course,”

Natasha found herself hugging Veronica to steal some of her warmth, she buried her nose into her hair, breathed in that sharp citrus. She clenched her eyes shut, tried to will the pressure behind them away. Her shoulders were undoubtedly lighter.

“I uh, I know we joke about y/n only appealing to you because of how fast her trigger finger is, but I am glad she’s okay.”

She glowered at the girl, wanting to chastity her, but there were dark, sleepless circles under her eyes. Her skin was pale and gaunt with worry. So, she laughed instead, not loud enough to disturb the sleeping girl in her arms, but enough to break the tension that was layered thickly in the room.

Natasha eventually shifted Veronica until she was splayed against clint, his large arms working half as hard as Natasha’s did. She needed a moment, several moments, with you as you came out of your drug-induced haze.

Her body threatened to give up as she ascended the stairs. She often cursed her parents for leaning into extravagance when designing the home. By the time she reached the top of the landing, she was bone-tired.

She steeled herself to push into the room, and when she did, she figured she would fold into herself. You looked so small, piled within a mound of duvets and pillows to keep your pierced arm propped up at the right degree.

Natasha watched you as if you were a wounded animal. The slow rise and fall of your chest, the even softer sounds of your exhales. All reassurances, yes, but startling. You had always been headstrong. She should have known that you’d fight off death like you had her when the two of you first met.

“oh, darling.”

Even from here, she could see the tension in your face. There was a furrow of your brow, the slight downturn of your lips that were much paler than usual. Lincoln had hooked you up to an IV, dark red stemming from the bag. It brought Natasha some comfort, seeing something go in, instead of leak out.

Natasha made herself as slight as possible, curling up on her side of the bed. She watched the slow and therapeutic up and down of your chest. It wasn’t stuttered as it had been. Natasha wanted to reach out and touch you, but held herself strong. She got close enough to feel the warmth of you, though.

She drifted into a state that was half sleep, and half wakefulness. But, when you stirred, it was in one jerky motion that had her shooting up. You never disturbed gracefully, usually pulled from the trenches of your own mind.

You blinked your eyes open, stared straight up at the ceiling. A guttural groan hit the back of your throat. You had yet to notice Natasha. She’d froze the moment you stopped freezing. She watched as you took in your own sluggish state, the packed wounds on your shoulder, your stomach and your leg. All three spots no less than critical.

“Oh, fuck.”

Your head dropped to the side, stare lighting up when you saw Natasha. She still didn’t break herself out of her stone prison. She gazed at you in awe, and you gazed right back. “Hi,”

The pitiful greeting broke her from her stupor. A laughed sob came from her mouth. Of course, you’d offer something soft despite the sharp edges of the situation. Natasha crumpled, she touched the spots of you she was sure wouldn’t hurt you.

Her hand was placed against your cheek, lips pressed so gently against yours they could have been phantom, a figment of your imagination. But you felt the wetness of her tears. The deepness of a second kiss that you cried into.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” She pulled back, shifted a strand of hair from your eyes. She had repeated it for your sake and her own. “fuck, you’re okay.”

“Mm, you would have killed me if I died.”

“Damn right, malysh. You scared the hell out of me. When I… When I saw you on that floor, I thought I’d lost you and it was the worst feeling in the world. There was so much blood, I was sure you wouldn’t…”

Natasha didn’t finish her sentence. She nosed into the small of your neck, breathed in the antiseptic orange scent of you. Rationally she knows she should go get Veronica, or Yelena, or Lincoln. But she wanted to be selfish right now. She wanted to cling to you and with the vice grip you were delivering back.

Her tears soaked into the collar of your shirt, but neither of you mentioned it. It was startling when Natasha cried. She was always so in control, so put together despite the pressures thrust her way. But, when it came to you, she felt safe enough to break down, to tremble against you.

“Ronnie is worried, but okay.” Natasha mumbled into your throat. “Exhausted from all the worrying and passed out on the couch. At least she was when I came up here.”

“God, I traumatized her, didn’t I? I traumatized my wife and our kid.”

“No, no.” Natasha chuckled softly. “You didn’t. You had me take her to the shed. She didn’t see anything.”

Another hum, this one relieved, moved through you. Natasha liked the way it felt against her skin. Liked even more, the life she felt under her touch. The reassurance that you were going to be just fine.

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x reader #Mafia au #Yelena Belova #Kate Bishop #Clint Barton #Reader insert #request #natasha romonova #Bishlova #kate bishop x yelena belova

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thelazydetectivecat · 17 hours ago

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Okay but hear me out he never gets adopted that's true but he still robin so Jason and Damien would still be after him. They are the only ones who know about Danny and are quite frankly terrified of him. Jason tried to kill Tim at the titans tower? Danny beat the everlasting life out of him and then sent him to frostbite to cure his rabies but not his injuries. The red hood did not go near robin again. Damian tried to kill Tim multiple times and when he got particularly close to killing him let's say he didn't have physical injuries but he sure has a mental ones. He still sees the nightmares of himself getting ripped apart. So when Jason comes back into the family the only one to believe I'm about Danny is Damien because he also has personal experience with the being. The other think they are paranoid and are joking around. Except when the other heroes end up with artifacts from the infinite realms. Apparently young justice got invited into Drake manor and met Danny for the first time and he gave them goodie bags before they left. They had artifacts but generally were pretty useful for them but also pretty fun. Like Kon got an artifact that let him see how the outfits would look on him before he bought them. Bart got a little illusion that challenges Bart to be faster while racing him and when they accidentally end up in another universe the illusion will just simply guide him back to the original universe and etc. Safe to say young justice has their own older brother fatherish figure but Tim has the complete package of father I will adopt you when you are ready sort of thing the only reason why he wasn't legally adopted yet was because Danny wasn't sure how to bring it up. So when Tim invites the bats to Drake and manor for some relaxation they see this as a opportunity to investigate while Damien and Jason refuse to go anywhere near there and frankly skip. They decided going on a road trip was a better idea than going anywhere near Drake manor. And Danny has beef not only with them but the rest of the bats Tim may have forgiven them but Danny didn't so when they met Danny and his human form they thought he was normal until they were alone with him and they quite frankly were not happy with the end result. A lot of scaring was done but also a lot of scolding and yelling. They saw an Eldritch being threatening them the infinite realms wrath if they ever did something to Tim that cost him serious injury or death. When Tim came back Danny became an angel again. When the others left it's safe to say the bat family was about to make apology letters for Jason and Damien well preparing foolproof plans to keep Tim from becoming a super villain and also getting killed or heavily injured because at this point their lives depend on it.

Tim Drake's Immortal Babysitter

Tim Drake has always had someone watching over him. The Bast just don't know it.

Because before Tim was Red Robin—before he was even walking—the Drakes made a deal. They were rich, busy, and too occupied with their globe-trotting lifestyle to actually raise their son. But they still wanted Tim protected. Watched over. Cared for.

Enter Danny.

Young-looking, strangely unaging, with sharp blue eyes and a warm smile, he seemed like a responsible college kid just looking for a babysitting gig. Only he wasn’t. Because behind the casual charm and the easy grin was Phantom, the immortal protector of Amity Park—now moonlighting as the personal bodyguard of one Tim Drake.

The Drakes paid him an obscene amount of money to keep their son safe. But Danny didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he promised.

And Danny always keeps his promises.

-—

Tim doesn’t remember a time without Danny.

Danny, who stayed with him when his parents were gone for months at a time. Danny, who dried his tears and soothed his nightmares. Danny, who bandaged scraped knees and taught him how to ride a bike. Danny, who picked him up from school and brought him home to a warm meal, even when his parents didn’t care enough to call.

And when Tim got older—when he grew sharper, smarter, and far too observant—he started noticing things. How Danny never seemed to age. The way Danny was always there, no matter what. How he could do things no normal person could do—like pull Tim out of the path of an oncoming car and somehow appear twenty feet away a second later, holding him safely in his arms.

Tim figured it out by the time he was ten.

"You’re Phantom, aren’t you?" he asked one night, voice steady, too sure for a child. Danny stared at him for a moment, then huffed out a tired laugh. "Yeah, Tim. I am." Tim blinked once. "Cool. Can you teach me how to fight?"

Danny had laughed so hard he nearly cried. And then, he did teach him.

-—

So by the time Tim became Robin, Danny already knew.

He didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t tell him it was too dangerous. He just smiled wryly, ruffled Tim’s hair, and made him promise to let Danny help.

That way, when Tim was too tired to make it home? Danny was there, carrying him back to his apartment. When Tim got injured? Danny was the one who patched him up before anyone else could even find him. When Tim couldn’t stand after a fight? Danny was the one pulling him into his arms, flying him away before the family even realized he was gone.

And no one knew.

The Bats didn’t notice the subtle extra layer of protection. The faint wisp of cold air that followed Tim after patrols. The second shadow lingering on the rooftops.

None of them saw the glimmer of white hair that flickered out of sight or the flash of toxic green eyes that glared from the dark whenever someone got too close to Tim.

And Tim? Tim was happy.

Even when Bruce found out about Tim’s parentless situation and, with all his good intentions, suggested adoption—offering to bring Tim into Wayne Manor, to make him part of the family—Tim just shook his head.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he said easily. Bruce blinked. "Tim, I can give you a home. You don’t have to—" "I already have a home," Tim interrupted softly. Because he did. Because Danny was his family.

-—

The family doesn’t know. They don’t know that when Tim comes back from a rough patrol, there’s already a cup of hot chocolate waiting for him at home. That when Tim is too tired to train, there’s someone helping him stretch and taking care of his body. That when Tim doesn’t answer his comm, it’s because Danny is already there.

And when Tim is Red Robin, moving with practiced ease through Gotham, Phantom is always nearby, invisible to everyone else but always watching over him.

Tim doesn’t need to be adopted. He doesn’t need a Bat symbol on his chest to feel safe. Because he has Danny, and Danny has him.

And that's all he'll ever need.

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pellucid-constellations · 6 hours ago

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omg please i’ve been feeling shit and really having a hard time atm, pls some hurt n comfort n az being super supportive n lovinf

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word count: 630

Warnings: Injury, light angst

a/n: I'm sorry you've been feeling bad <333 I hope this helps a little!! Thank you for the request :) I'm having a little drabble spree on my blog!!

____________________________________________

"You're pushing yourself too hard." Azriel kept his voice low under the slight hum of faelights in the washroom. He used cautious fingers to bind the deep bruise on your knee with herbs and gauze, moving to the gash on your ankle when the final clasp was in place.

"I'm just weak. This will make me strong," you replied, tone final and concrete.

Azriel hummed disapprovingly. A swipe of antiseptic on your broken skin was followed by a kiss on the inside of your knee, and then Azriel rose to your seat on the washroom counter. He caged you in between his arms, locking them out with his face just inches from yours. You gazed down at the scars that freckled his skin, trailing along until they met at the web of tissue on his hands.

Azriel was strong because he had suffered. You had nothing of the sort to call upon.

"Cassian tells me you passed out."

You rolled your eyes. "Cassian should mind his business."

Azriel raised a brow and kept you in his eyeline. "I asked Cassian to make you his business. You keep coming home like this. It's not safe. You're putting yourself through this unnecessarily."

You bit the inside of your cheek as Azriel looked upon you. He still looked so soft, despite the reprimanding, his eyes searching for something you wouldn't so easily give. His mouth twitched once, as if it was difficult to look at you and not smile. But you knew this was nothing to smile about; he had told you to be more careful in training, and you hadn't listened.

"It was just a little hot, and I didn't drink enough water," you shared, gripping the counter by your legs.

"You weren't taking breaks?"

"I was sometimes."

"Did you take a break after this?" he asked, brushing a gentle finger along your bruised jaw. You looked up at the ceiling guiltily, and Azriel sighed. "It's likely that led to you passing out. Along with the heat. And not taking breaks. And the fact that you started two hours before everyone else."

You twisted your mouth to the side. So he'd caught you there, too.

"It all heals," you argued. "By tomorrow, I'll be completely fine. This makes me stronger."

"But it makes me weaker."

You reluctantly met his gaze, a hint of confusion masked by bruises and puffy cheeks that he sighed at. Azriel parted your legs with his hips and settled between them, his hands finding a home on your waist. His fingers rubbed shapes into your ribs almost immediately, almost on instinct.

"You think you have to suffer to be strong, but that is not true," Azriel began, raising his brows in a silent reprimand as you went to cut in. "I love you. I am proud to have you as my mate. I know that is why you're doing this. That you feel you must meet some imaginary baseline to be worthy.

"I worry about you. I think about you constantly, and knowing you're doing this to yourself makes me weak. Do you want me to falter in battle, my love?" Azriel teased.

Your face heated at the attention he was giving you, the seriousness balanced by his light tone and the light squeeze of his hands on your waist.

"You aren't battling anyone, Az," you mumbled, covering your face in his neck as he chuckled. "But if you were, I would want to be able to fight alongside you. To help you."

"Ah, I know, my love," Azriel soothed, rubbing his hand along your back. "And whenever that time might come, I would welcome your help. But don't—don't hurt yourself to get there. I love you now. I don't need you to suffer."

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #acotar #acotar fanfiction

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kagaintheskywithdiamonds · 3 days ago

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Chapter 4 of blinded Ford is here. It's definitely my longest by far. (Here's chapters one, two, and three.)

@kale-of-the-forbidden-cities @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @cameforstuff @greenbunny7 @littlelilliana15 @dark-lord-of-awesomeness @kittynugg @artistredfox @xirine13 @anotherspookyarchivist @empressofsamoyeds @princessbubblecup @dreams-in-daylight

Stan grabbed a chair from the kitchen and pulled it into the living room (or at least it was probably a living room? Hard to tell with the house in the state that it was) and set it across from Ford’s recliner. Stan still didn’t believe in demonic possession, but he did believe that Ford was in a very unstable state, and it would probably be smart to watch him.

Especially since he’d apparently been hurting himself, going so far as to gouge out his own eyes.

Sure, Ford said that a “monster” stole his eyes, but… come on now. Not that Stan thought Ford was lying. Ford probably really believed that, which only made it worse. The thought of Ford honestly believing that some monster was attacking him, all while it was Ford’s own hand that must’ve taken a knife and…

Stan gagged at the thought. He couldn’t bear to imagine Ford mutilating himself like that. How long has he been doing this? Stan wondered. It probably didn’t start with his eyes. He had noticed the bandages on Ford’s hands while he was tying him up, and they looked old. As much as Stan didn’t want to believe it, those were likely the result of other self-inflicted injuries. He wondered just how many more wounds were hidden by Ford’s clothes. He grimaced as he pictured Ford’s body covered in scars…

Stan was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of howling wind, accompanied by an icy breeze that chilled him to the bone. Damn, that was one hell of a draft. As if Ford’s house wasn’t cold enough already. Rubbing his arms for warmth, Stan rose to his feet, eager to investigate. Eager to do something to distract himself from the gory scenarios that kept playing out in his head.

But that would mean leaving the room, and he couldn’t just leave Ford behind. He had to watch over Ford, he had to make sure he couldn’t hurt himself. He can’t. He’s restrained. Stan reasoned with himself. And he’s asleep. He glanced back at Ford and, sure enough, he was out like a light, motionless except for the steady rising and falling of his chest. He’s safe, for now.

Keep Ford safe, that was Stan’s mission. That had been his job in life for about as far back as he could remember. And while it could be argued that he was sort of laid off from that job a while back, he was eager to get back into it full-time, especially when Ford needed it so badly. And he could start by making sure neither of them froze to death.

I won’t go far, Stan told himself. If anything did happen, he’d stay close enough to hear it. He’d come running if Ford needed him.

Walking towards the source of the wind led Stan to the kitchen. He flicked the light on and oh right. Fuck. The window. Between patching up Ford’s gory eye holes and listening to him talk about demonic possession, Stan had completely forgotten about smashing the window to get into the house.

Stan hurried to close the window, but, you can’t exactly close a broken window, now can you? He’d have to board it up with something, and in his immediate vicinity he saw nothing to board it up with. Maybe once Ford was awake Stan could ask him if he had any two-by-fours lying around, and then he could board up the window with a hammer and nails.

And then he would make sure that said hammer and nails were tossed out into the snow, well out of Ford’s reach.

For the time being, though, there was nothing Stan could do to stop the wind and snow from blowing in through the broken window. He would just have to keep Ford bundled up real good, then. There were probably some extra blankets somewhere in the house. He could wrap Ford up in those while he slept.

As he stepped away from the window, Stan heard the sounds of glass crunching under his shoes. Right, he should probably do something about all the broken glass all over the place, too, and the large rock in the middle of the kitchen floor. He shuddered at the thought of Ford tripping over that rock and cutting himself on all the broken glass that waited below.

Stan picked up the baseball-sized rock and chucked it back outside from whence it came. He could only barely see the rock sink into the layer of snow that had built up, snow that was tinged yellow from the light of the kitchen. It was pitch black outside (sure is wild just how quickly the sun fucks off during the winter months), and the blizzard outside had really picked up. There had to be at least a foot of snow on the ground, maybe two. It would be a pain in the ass to dig his car out of all that snow later.

Then again, Stan didn’t plan on leaving his brother’s side anytime soon. Maybe the snow would be melted by the time he’d have any need for his car again.

The broken window overlooked the kitchen sink, which Stan noticed was overflowing with dirty dishes. Probably quite a bit of broken glass had wound up in there, too. Stan would have to wash those later, carefully picking out the glass shards from the pile of dishes as he went along. He certainly didn’t want Ford to cut himself on any of those.

Stan crouched down to start collecting the larger pieces of glass by hand. He’d need to find a broom and a dustpan to sweep up the smaller pieces, but he could start by taking care of the big ones. Once he’d collected a handful of them, he looked around for a trash can. He found one under the sink, but it was already overflowing. Sighing, he set the stack of glass shards on the kitchen counter, then pulled the overfilled garbage bag out of the plastic bin and tied it off. He set the bag of garbage off to the side. He could take it outside later, when there wasn’t a second ice age happening.

Stan started searching nearby cabinets to try and find where Ford keeps his extra garbage bags, and maybe also that broom and dustpan. When he stood near the kitchen’s exit, there was motion in the corner of his eye that caught his attention.

Ford wasn’t sleeping anymore. Or, maybe he was sleeping and he was having one hell of a nightmare. But the expression on what remained of his face was one of anger and frustration rather than fear. Stan stood hesitantly in the door frame for a few moments, watching Ford futilely try to wiggle his way free, snapping his jaws in the air as he did so. It looked like maybe he was trying to chew through the ropes, but to do that he would have to work his jaw beneath the ropes that sat across his torso, and he didn’t seem flexible enough to do so. All the while, Ford made noises that Stan would almost describe as snarling, and it was a bit disturbing to watch.

Stan thought about restraining Ford further, but it didn’t look like Ford would be able to Houdini his way out of there anytime soon. Besides, Stan had already used up all the rope they had, and he didn’t want to have to gag Ford unless absolutely necessary. And Ford wasn't going to accomplish anything from snapping his teeth at thin air.

Still, Stan felt like he should probably do something other than stare at him.

“Uh… Ford?”

Ford’s head snapped up. "Who’s there?” he hissed.

Stan held his hands up placatingly (and then felt stupid when he remembered that Ford can’t see him anyway). “It’s, uh, just me.”

Ford looked like he was taking a moment to make sense of that, and then his face shifted into a relaxed smile. “Oh, yes, my brother, Stanley. You’re still here.”

“What? Of course I’m still here.” Stan said incredulously. “Did you really think I was gonna leave you here, tied up and blind?”

Stan cursed himself the moment that last word left his mouth. Sure, they both knew Ford was blind, but Stan had avoided saying the actual word. Somehow it felt extra cruel to say it. Or maybe saying it out loud made it feel more real. Either way, Stan felt like an ass, saying it the way he did.

“Hmmm…” Ford hummed contemplatively, letting his head hang back. “I hate being blind.”

Stan avoided eye contact, like Ford could tell either way. “Uh, yeah, um… sorry about that.” he said sheepishly. He wasn’t even really sure what he was apologizing for, but it felt like the right thing to say. Really, what else is there to say in a situation like this?

“Are you warm enough?” Stan asked, eager to change the subject. “I figure you probably have some blankets around here somewhere. If not, I have some in my car—”

“No, but there’s something else you can do for me.” Ford answered, a grin spreading across his face. “Go find some paper and something to write with. I need you to draw something.”

“Um, okay.” Stan replied. That was an odd request. Still, Stan started sorting through the clutter on the ground, hoping to find a notebook or something with blank pages. “I don’t know how good of a drawer I am these days though. My art skills have probably gotten rusty since…” Since I made comics when we were kids, back when we were thick as thieves, a fucking lifetime ago.

“It doesn’t have to be a good drawing." Ford told him. "A crude sketch will suffice.”

Fair enough. It’s not like Ford could tell the difference between a good drawing and a bad one, anyway. Which made it all the more strange why Ford wanted him to draw something in the first place.

“Oh!” Stan exclaimed. “I found a pad of sticky notes. Will that work?”

“Yes, yes! That’s perfect!” Ford began to wiggle in his restraints, but he didn’t look like he was trying to escape. It looked more like he was trying to happily swing his legs back and forth.

After another minute of digging through the clutter on the floor, Stan was able to find a pen. “Okay, Six. What do you want me to draw?” he asked as he stood up and straightened his back. Stan still didn’t really know why he was doing any of this. It’s not like Ford would be able to see whatever drawing he produced, after all. But it made Ford happy, somehow, so he was willing to do it.

Except that Ford’s tone changed to being weirdly serious when he answered. “The Eye of Providence.”

“…Uh,” Stan hesitated, and totally not because he had no idea what that was.

“That pyramid thing on the back of a dollar bill.”

“Oh! With the eye on top? Uh, yeah, I can draw that.” Stan replied, putting pen to paper. “I, uh, didn’t know that thing had a name.”

Ford grinned. “It has a few names…” he hummed.

It took Stan only a few seconds to whip up a rough facsimile of the iconic symbol. As soon as he finished, Ford’s face seemed to light up. (But not literally, because why would any part of Ford’s face be literally glowing? That’s ridiculous.)

“Yes, that’s it!” Ford exclaimed. “I knew I kept you around for a reason, Mac!” His grin became even wider.

Something about Ford’s behavior made Stan feel uneasy, but he couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong. It was sort of like, what’s that thing called, the uncanny valley? Yeah, it was something like that.

“Now stick it on my face.”

“…Wait, what?” Stan must’ve heard that wrong.

“It’s a sticky note. It sticks to things, genius.” Stan saw the muscles in Ford’s face move like he was trying to roll his eyes. “Including human skin. And this forehead’s not doing anything else right now!”

“Okay but why do you want it on your face?” Maybe it was a dumb question, but this whole situation was dumb.

Again, Ford’s tone became eerily serious—which clashed with the manic grin he wore on his face. His next words were said barely above a whisper. “So I can see again.”

Ooooookay, Ford’s officially off his nuts.

But I guess I already knew that, Stan thought. Ford saying crazy things wasn’t exactly a new development at this point in the night. But Ford saying creepy things… that was a bit new. Stan wasn’t expecting his brother to start acting creepy.

But he’s not hurting himself. And he’s not scared out of his mind. So what if it was a weird request? And so what if Ford’s behavior was giving him the creeps and setting off little alarm bells in his head? Stan normally liked to trust his gut, but maybe this time his gut was being stupid. It’ll make Ford feel better. And it’s not hurting anyone. Stan argued internally.

So even though it felt weird and dumb and even though some instinct in the back of his mind insisted that this was a bad idea, Stan peeled the sticky note off the top of the stack, walked up to Ford, and pressed the square of paper onto his forehead.

“Ahhh, that’s better.” Ford mused. He then robotically turned his head in just about every direction possible, smiling the whole time.

Stan took a step back and looked at his brother, with the lower half of the post-it note draping itself over Ford’s bandages, and the crudely drawn pyramid eye thing staring back at him. Again, that stupid voice in the back of Stan’s head told him that something was wrong here, that he has reason to be afraid. And again, Stan ignored that warning, because it couldn’t possibly be right. It was just Ford. And even if Ford’s brain was fried like the egg in that dumb commercial (oh jeez, Stan hadn’t even considered drugs, but it would certainly explain some things), he was still Stan’s brother, and not anything that should be feared.

“Is there, uh, anything else I can do?” Stan asked. He still wanted to help. He definitely felt like he should be doing more than drawing cryptic symbols on post-its.

“Yes, actually!” Ford said eagerly. “You’ve got a whole pad of those stickies, so draw more. Stick ‘em on the walls, the furniture, yourself! Just go nuts with it!”

Stan narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s not like it’s hard. B’sides, I don’t even need the whole pyramid, just the eye. That’s even easier! You can draw that in, what, two seconds?” he asked rhetorically. “You’ll get through the whole stack in no time.”

Stan tapped the back of the pen on the pad of sticky notes a few times. “So, uh, you want me to draw a bunch of triangles with eyes?”

“Yes, that would be perfect!” Ford’s grin somehow became even wider. His face almost looked like it was about to burst apart at the seams.

Stan sighed. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, somehow…” Putting pen to paper again, he was indeed able to draw the symbol in about two seconds. It only took a few pen strokes, after all—three lines for the triangle, a circle for the eye, and a dot for the pupil. With the first drawing (of many) finished, Stan peeled the post-it off the top of the stack and stuck it to the nearest wall.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Stan asked.

“Not tired.” Ford answered simply. Stan wanted to argue, considering how very tired Ford was earlier, and the fact that Ford hadn’t been asleep for very long before Stan caught him trying to gnaw his way out of the ropes. But Ford was certainly acting a whole lot more… animated, than he was earlier. Maybe he took some uppers somehow (that drugs theory was looking a lot more likely), although Stan didn’t know how Ford could’ve ingested anything while restrained like that.

“Oh! And there’s something else I need you to do.” Ford said.

“Yeah?” Stan answered, working on his third or fourth triangle drawing.

“Untie me.”

Stan stopped what he was doing and looked back at Ford, whose face was pointed right at him. The Eye of Whatever-It’s-Called was still stuck to his face, and even though it was just paper, Stan swore it was staring at him somehow.

Stan actually considered for a moment if he should follow through with that request. He was pretty much willing to do whatever weird favor Ford asked of him, but doing so became a lot more difficult with Ford’s apparent multiple personalities asking for different things. And the version of Ford that he spoke with earlier that evening seemed to be adamant that he needed to be restrained in case he turned violent. And Stan, meanwhile, was adamant that Ford needed to be restrained so he didn’t hurt himself. And, yeah, Stan would have to untie him eventually, even if it was just to let Ford use the bathroom or whatever, but that could wait until Ford was acting a bit less creepy.

“No.” Stan answered, crossing his arms. “I’m not doing that, not till you get some sleep.” And start acting a bit more sane, he added silently.

Ford’s lips curled into a snarl. And even without eyes, it felt like Ford was glaring daggers at him somehow. Stan watched Ford’s body tense up, and he was almost certain Ford was about to snap. Stan braced himself for the oncoming tirade.

But then Ford relaxed his posture and expression, letting his head fall back again. “Eh, that was worth a try.” he said casually, shrugging. “You’ll have to check on the portal for me, then.” he added.

Right, Ford mentioned something about a portal earlier. He was so concerned with “checking on” it, whatever that entailed, that Stan almost couldn’t convince him to sleep. Stan also remembered something about a portal in the explanation Ford had given him about demons and alternate dimensions, but that whole story was so obviously untrue that Stan hadn’t been paying much attention to the specifics.

“There’s a hidden door that leads to the lab, over there.” Ford jerked his head towards one of the room’s exits. “Go out that way and take a right. There’s a bookshelf next to a plain-looking wall. You can open the hidden door by pulling on one of the books. I’ll tell you which one when you get there.”

Stan took a moment to assemble that mental image. And once he’d put it together, he nearly facepalmed. “Are you telling me you honestly have a Scooby Doo style secret door in your house?” Stan felt like maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by that. Then again, maybe the secret door didn’t even exist, and it was just another one of Ford’s delusions. Guess I’ll find out when I get there, Stan thought.

“And don’t forget about those sticky notes!” Ford added, apparently ignoring the Scooby Doo comment. “I need you to put up as many eyes as you can!”

Stan stuck another eye drawing to the doorframe on his way out of the room. It didn’t take him long to find what must’ve been the bookshelf Ford was talking about, but there wasn’t a plain-looking wall next to it. Instead there was what appeared to be a thick metal door, left open ajar. Stan could see a set of descending stairs on the other side. And sure enough, one of the books on the shelf was left jutting out at an odd angle.

Okay, so the Scooby Doo door was real.

“Uh, I found the door.” Stan hollered in Ford’s direction as he drew another triangle. “And it’s open.” He stuck the latest drawing to the nearest wall.

“Hmm, so it is.” Ford mused. “Kevin must’ve left it open. Makes sense; I told him to get to the portal room after taking the eyes. But I can’t imagine what is taking that bastard so long. Leave it to ol’ Kevin to fuck up even the simplest instructions!”

Okay, Ford was talking more nonsense. But, wait, “Kevin”? Didn’t Ford mention a “Bill” earlier? Just how many imaginary friends did Ford have at this point?

“Go down there,” Ford ordered. “Investigate. At the bottom of the stairs there’s an elevator. Take that down to the lowest floor, that’s where the lab is. And in that lab there’s a biiiiiig room, that’s the portal room, can’t miss it. The door to that room’s got a fancy lock on it, but Kevin should’ve gotten it open by now. And yet somehow that portal’s not up and running like it should be! Go figure out what’s up!” Ford shouted from the other room. “And make sure to put up plenty of eyes while you’re down there!”

Might as well. This whole situation can’t possibly get any weirder.

Stan began to descend the stairs, still placing sticky notes along the walls as he went. Making that simple drawing over and over was a repetitive, nearly robotic motion. Line, line, line. Circle, dot. Peel, stick. After a while he could do it without thinking, really.

Just as Ford had said, at the bottom of the stairs was an elevator. Stan pushed the button to open the doors and stepped inside. He drew another triangle eye thing while he waited for the elevator to descend. Line, line, line. Circle, dot. Peel, stick.

When the elevator doors opened at the bottom floor, Stan thought he heard some computerized voice say something, but it was too faint to make out.

Stan flicked on the light switch, and he needed a moment to take in the sight in front of him as the lights flickered on. Stan wasn’t really expecting the secret underground lab to be real, either, but sure enough, it was, complete with several computers and other doohickeys that Stan couldn’t even guess the purpose of.

“Access denied.”

There was that computerized voice again, the same one Stan heard when he got out of the elevator. It sounded distant, but not too distant for Stan to make out the words this time. Ford did say something about a “fancy lock”, maybe that’s what he was hearing. But who could be trying to get in?

Line, line, line. Circle, dot. Peel, stick. Stan pressed another post-it note against the top of one of the computer monitors. Past those monitors Stan could see a huge glass window, beyond which, he could only assume, was the giant room that Ford said he “couldn’t miss”. There was too much glare on the window to get a good look at what was on the other side, but Stan thought he could make out a vague triangular shape. Probably his eyes were just playing tricks on him though after he’d drawn so many of the damn things.

“Access denied.”

Stan looked in the direction the voice seemed to be coming from. The hallway that he stood in ended in a corner just a short distance ahead, and the sound seemed to be coming from around that corner. Stan also noticed a thick bundle of cables running along the ground in a twisted serpentine path. That was another tripping hazard to be mindful of if Ford came down here later.

“Access denied.”

Carefully stepping over the bundle of cables, Stan rounded the corner.

And what he saw next left him frozen in his tracks.

Now, it should be noted that there’s more than one kind of fear. And, yes, they all stem from the primal desire to escape death, to outrun or outfight whatever danger is in front of us so we can live to see another day. But there are still several kinds of fear that communicate a few subtly different messages in order to achieve this goal. One type of fear was the one that Stan felt during most of his conversation with Ford earlier, the kind of fear that could be described as “the creeps”. That kind of fear tells you “you might be in danger,” but it’s not telling you to run, not just yet. It’s just saying “be wary, something’s not right about this, be prepared to act.”

Then there’s the kind of fear that says “you ARE in danger. RUN.” And that was the kind of fear that Stan felt when he saw the creature in front of him, a creature that could only be described as a monster.

The creature stood in front of a door, and a mechanism on that door emitted a horizontal red laser that scanned a circular object in front of it, top-to-bottom.

“Access denied.”

That object was held in the jaws of a creature whose head resembled a cow’s skull. After the computer spoke, the creature turned its head, seemingly positioning its own eye in front of the scanner.

“Access denied.”

Stan was nearly paralyzed with fear, but he needed to get back to the elevator. Maybe, if he was quiet, and didn’t make any sudden moves, he could escape without the monster noticing him. Slowly, and without taking his eyes off the beast, he took one step backward, then another—

And then the back of his foot hit something, causing him to trip. He windmilled his arms out to each side of him but it wasn’t enough to correct his balance as he fell, landing on his backside.

Oh, right. The damn cables.

The creature snapped its head in Stan’s direction. It had four front-facing eye sockets, three of which were empty. The bottom left-socket had something dangling out of it, another circular object attached by some kind of string like a paddleball.

The creature stepped into the light, and Stan could see that the two circular objects were in fact eyes. Brown eyes. Ford’s eyes.

The monster tilted its head back, allowing the eye that it held in its jaws to fall down its throat. It appeared to swallow it, only for the other eye to pop out of the creatures upper-right eye socket, now dangling by the barely-attached optic nerve to match the other one. And even though two of the creature’s eye sockets were empty, and the other two contained eyes that were clearly non-functional as they lolled out of its head, Stan swore that whatever this thing was, it was staring right at him.

It took another step forward.

And that was enough to finally break Stan out of his fear paralysis.

Scrambling to his feet, he bolted for the elevator, pen and post-its promptly forgotten about as he dropped them somewhere along the way. He hit the elevator button frantically, glancing behind him as the doors opened to see the creature slowly walking towards him, moving its many legs one step at a time.

Stan forced his way inside before the doors were even fully opened, then pressed the button to take him back to the top floor. Then he pressed it again, and again, with just as much frantic energy as he’d hit the button to open it as he watched the creature pick up its pace. The elevator doors finally began to close as he watched the creature break into a trot. Just as the doors closed the rest of the way, it lunged.

Stan fell backwards as the elevator car shook, its interior lights flickering. Stan nestled his body into the corner in a futile attempt to somehow hide himself in the small, featureless room. He felt the elevator ascend. The doors remained closed, and the creature hadn’t gotten in. Stan was safe.

Or was he?

Maybe that thing was forcing its way into the elevator shaft at that very moment. Maybe it was going to tear its way through the floor of the elevator any second now.

The elevator dinged, and Stan once again forced his way through the partially-open doors. He raced up the stairs and back through the secret door, slamming it shut behind him. Then, without thinking, he positioned himself on the far side of the nearby bookshelf. He pushed, toppling the bookshelf over and barricading the door. It probably would’ve been too heavy for him to move under normal circumstances, fully stocked with thick hardcover books, but adrenaline was one hell of a drug. As the bookshelf fell, Stan heard something snap. He didn’t know or care what it was.

Stan took a step back from the barricaded door, struggling to catch his breath. The monster had probably already called the elevator back down to the bottom floor. It was probably on its way up right that second.

But a moment passed. And then another. And there was no banging on the other side of the door, no signs of a monster trying to force its way through. Slowly, hesitantly, Stan allowed himself to relax, just a little. He felt his immediate fight-or-flight fear begin to ebb, but that other kind of fear, the kind that told him to be wary, never left.

Feeling a bit calmer, Stan noticed a hole in the wall with some kind of mechanism sticking out of it, seemingly broken. That must’ve been the thing that made the door open when the right book was pulled, and it must’ve broken when he toppled the whole shelf over. That was probably the snap he heard. Good. That made the door even harder to open now, he figured.

The adrenaline finally beginning to leave his system, Stan let exhaustion overtake him as he collapsed to his knees, still panting. He knew what he had just seen, but he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. Because if he saw what he just saw, then that unlocked a third kind of fear. And the message delivered by that type of fear was the following:

Ford’s not crazy. A monster really did steal his eyes.

And if Ford’s not crazy, then probably everything else he said was true, as well. All that stuff about portals and demonic possession and a potential apocalypse.

And as much as he still didn’t want to believe in demons, Stan became pretty certain in that moment that whoever it was that told him to go down into the lab and draw all those stupid triangles, it wasn’t Ford.

#E let me know if i should take you off the tag list #since you didn't acknowledge being tagged on the previous chapter #yes I know “drawer” isn't a word (at least not the way stan's using it) but I feel like he would say it #blind ford au #stangst #mullet stan #gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #80s stan #yes the eye-stealing monster is named kevin #bill cipher #bord

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totallynottinsel · 1 day ago

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🌄 Whiskers for Wicks

A day in the mountain, Bilbo comes across a strange spirit casting itself in the form of a short legged, fire making cat. Heats rise in more ways than one as Thorin becomes jealous of the creature taking all his husband-to-be's attention.

Thorin had told him not to venture far off, and Bilbo promised to be careful as he wandered away into the corners of the forge. The two of them had made the trip down to assess all the damage that Smaug had caused it during his livid game of troll and dwarf with the company. Needless to say, it had been bruised significantly---though nothing a bit of dwarven ingenuity couldn't mend with time. Thorin lost a small beat of time as he discussed the meticulous matter of the repairs with a contractor and her crew, only then shook back by a sudden cry calling his name.

He drew his sword in a blink, his feet already trekking against the rubble. Even if it took far longer than he would have preferred, he found Bilbo stumbling his way from a heaping of crumbled stone beams. "Bilbo! Have you been hurt?" He placed a hand along the hobbits shoulder, scanning him for injury.

"No, no, it's---" Bilbo fell short of breath, sucking in his words and blowing them back out with a huff. "There's---there is something here! I saw it--"

"What did you see?"

"I don't know! That's why I called you over here in the first place. Thorin, I do not like the sound of whatever is hiding over there, and I don't believe it fancies us, we should---"

Suddenly, a deep rumbling growl echoed near only a few feet away, drumming their ears with its increasing pitch. Then grew an imposing shadow out from the crooks of broken stone, painting a ghastly figure; large like a warg carrying a snaking tail, teeth bared, its steps heavy. There in its silhouette rose outlines of crackling flames, glowing with heat. "Get behind me!" Thorin roared, guiding Bilbo to the rear as he kept his blade trained on the shadow.

"Thorin, we have to get out from here! We are not doing this again!" He tugged at the dwarf's sleeve as they fell back with quickening steps, though they had little chance to run or find cover before the creature had stepped into the light at last.

What they had been met with in the end was shocking for the both of them. Just in varying difference...

Bilbo had begun laughing, of all things---causing Thorin to double-take between him and the creature, certainly unsettled. "...What is so amusing?"

"It's only a cat!"

Thorin's brows furrowed. He peered back to the strange being---or 'cat', as it was named---cautiously. It was small, smaller than any animal he had laid eyes on before. It was nowhere near the size of a warg, hardly enough to make up one's paw. It's head was round and body slightly longer, with pointed ears and a swishing tail and barely visible legs under its belly. It wore a short orange coat along its back, while underneath was purely white. Strange.

"Thorin, it's alright," Bilbo assured, placing a hand to the arm that still held to his sword tightly. "Hm, I had no idea they lived in mountains."

"I have never seen something like that."

"Really? Oh, well, it can't hurt us. Eh, sort of..."

As Bilbo took a step forward Thorin grasped for his arm to stop his tracks, still ill at ease with the creature despite it being deemed harmless. He particularly didn't like how it's sharply bright eyes blankly bore into his without much movement---unnatural in every sense. "You have come across one of those before?"

"On occasion, yes. There used to be a fair few living in the Shire... the farmers used to have them catch all the nasty pests, if memory serves me right! I tried stealing one for a pet as a boy once. Did horrible things to my mother's curtains, unfortunately."

Thorin hung his blade back along his hip, his shoulders falling as he sighed. "If you say it to be so that this... cat means no danger, then I trust your judgement."

"Don't hold me to it, some of them can be rather grumpy. A bit like you." Bilbo tossed a playful smile his way, one that Thorin had given up fighting against after all the attempts of saying he wasn't grumpy, he just looked quietly displeased at times in frequent spurts.

Surprised to see, the cat had been friendly. It made a soft sound Thorin had yet to hear in all his days, almost like a greeting as it sauntered to Bilbo's palm to run its head under. He watched as it circled the hobbit, bumping itself over him with its tail held high. Perhaps he had wrongly accused it of malicious intent after all.

"Oh, goodness, your... warm?" Bilbo ran another curious strum over its back, his nose scrunching in sudden confusion. "That can't be right... she's burning up!"

"She?"

"Well... yes. Come feel her fur---I must be imagining things, surely---"

Before Thorin had the moment to kneel down to the pair, the cat broke into a sneezing fit after burying its nose in Bilbo's shirt. Though no ordinary sneeze it was, as its fur sizzled into flames, its underbelly shifting into dark cracked rock. Tiny sparks of fire and heated pebbles jumped from it, catching to Bilbo's clothes. He teetered away, quickly patting the heat sticking to his chest.

Thorin brought himself between the two, glaring down at the cat who now appeared in its furry state again. "Is that what your cats in the Shire do?"

"No... usually they, er.. don't catch on fire. At all."

The cat raised its head, looking up at them awaiting their next move. They certainly had more on their hands than just a friendly feline, and Thorin hardly had anticipated to be outplayed by a miniature fur ball.

------

"Ah, I'll be there in a moment! I have to finish brushing out Calendula's coat." Hummed Bilbo as he crossed-leg on their bedroom carpet, the cat in his lap cozily, arching its back upward with every stroke of the wooden comb that looked suspiciously like one of his own.

"You gave it a name?"

"Of course! And she seems to be fond of it, yes?" Calendula shifted her weight to face the hobbit, replying with a quaint 'maow'. When they inquired the knowledge of Gandalf on a visit of his, he had assured Thorin that their unexpected guest had no ill intent towards them nor the mountain. A hearth spirit, he called it; no one knew just how long it could have lived in the forge, (or why it chose such a cuddly form) perhaps it may have since Erebor itself was raised from the ground. Still then, something about the little firecracker brushed Thorin the wrong way.

And apparently, Calendula felt the same. When Thorin had stepped behind them, his hand only inches from grazing the hobbits curls, a set of claws swat at him. He pulled back before she could nick him any further, and those eerily big eyes looked at him with no remorse. That in all he could excuse for friendly fire, but when he came to find Bilbo reading in the library, their preferred spot to have time together when Thorin had a break from his royal business---(or afternoon tea, in Bilbo's words)---they had a third joining.

"How was the council?" Asked Bilbo, lifting his head from his pages.

"Well enough, though half the time was spent by Fíli reading off a list of requests from Kíli."

"Was it his plan to fish out dragon scales and use them to build a wall?"

"Worse." Thorin grumbled, about to take his seat across the other till he was met with the tragically fuzzy form yet again. The cat lay curled in his chair, peacefully asleep, a glow of heat floating up and back down with each of her breaths. He barely had gotten close enough to even try and move her before a hideous growl shook from her, banishing him to sit on the floor. No amount of kingly power had any say over the demands of such a fowl creature.

"I don't believe I want to know what he's planning. Well, in any case---you've come at the perfect time! We were just discussing plant roots." Said Bilbo.

"We?" Thorin quirked a brow, shifting an eye to his side. "It speaks?"

"Ah, not exactly. But she seems rather interested."

Gandalf had told them that it could very well be a spirit of higher knowledge, fully well capable---and likely---of understanding them. And interested Calendula was. She'd easily become bolder with her complaints, incessantly meowing and swatting at Thorin when ever he would even so much as touch Bilbo's shoulder. And there she would be in the hobbits arms, entrancing him with those big eyes and softly pink paws...

For Mahal's sake, he couldn't even be in the same room with his own fiancé without that cat scraping at his boot strings. Unfortunately, Bilbo had found it rather amusing, swearing she was simply showing affection towards him.

The coming days had been particularly grueling, fixing Thorin to meetings with elven ambassadors for more hours than he was able to count with his fingers, as well as halting his nephews attempts at crafting themselves an entire boat to go search for those scales they were so set on. By nightfall, he'd ached to shed his heavy layers and huddle into bed with his One; he hadn't the chance to see Bilbo all day, which no doubt stoked his weariness further. He came to their courters, stepping carefully inside as to not wake Bilbo who was fast asleep already. He'd made it just to his side of the bed when---her.

Calendula was obnoxiously spread out over the sheets, taking up far more space than he thought her to be capable of, leaving practically no room for him at all. First the chair, now his bed, as if she had any claim to it? Thorin bit back his tongue, grumbling tiredly as he squeezed his way in, his arms and legs contorted in every which way in order to avoid touching the fuzzy furnace.

Not a wink of sleep he got, eventually abandoning his twisted spot during an early hour when a sudden rumbling of hunger coaxed him away. He went his way to the kitchen, deciding to nab a single slice of bread. He left it placed on the counter, turning his back in search of jam, only to return to the cat with her teeth sunk into the bread fully. Both of them paused, taking in the sight, until Thorin lunged forward to swipe it from her unsuccessfully. The absurdity and sleeplessness made him laugh; Had the Maker truly condemned him to such a strangely cruel fate for the rest of his days? "Is that what you've been sent here for?"

She continued gnawing on the bread. He wasn't sure what sort of answer to expect other than that.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, far too exhausted to argue with a cat. He got himself another wad of bread, now carrying a heaping of jam, and sat down from across Calendula. They both quietly ate, though nearing his last bite Thorin forwarded it to her. "Truce?"

She silently blinked, then nibbled up the offering. A satisfied sounding mew she gave afterward, and that he took as well as words. It was not long before his eyes drooped, his shoulders slowly sinking as sleep finally took him---a low thundering sound of sorts he could not name lulling him.

-----

He didn't move her from her spot this time around, as she slept cozied to Bilbo's back. He slipped into bed, closing his eyes, not wholly prepared for when a sudden weight planted itself on his chest. He froze, watching Calendula's paws disappear under her belly and make herself comfortable. Then came that sound, the purring. He became tense at first, completely bewildered by her odd rumbling---but the more it caught his ear, it wasn't so nerve-wracking. In fact, he found it to be soothing.

Bilbo shifted across the bed, a sleepily pleased hum escaping his lips as his arm snaked under the dwarf's, holding to him. Thorin found no trouble drifting off as he was cuddled with warmth.

#the hobbit #bagginshield #thorin oakenshield #jealousy july #thorin x bilbo #bilbo baggins #pov thorin #aka thorin has beef with a cat #aka aka dad who gets a cat becomes best friends with the cat #yes this silly goober WILL be a returning character #cat 🐈#ficlet #this is inspired by a random meme a mutual sent one day and it sparked the sillies #look I'm no lore expert so I don't know if a high being incarnating itselfs as a munchkin cat is possible but im doing it #not very beta'd #im just going for it 😭

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offdxty · 2 days ago

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A jaw works at the answer given, those dark brows remaining knitted over eyes that still portray the shimmer, but have softened a little with his mind having calmed down and tension slipped away from sore shoulders. They keep looking, keep observing as if not quite believing the other; Kane does, but he wonders if there's more than just the sedative that is causing the man trouble...

Did they do something else, next to giving him sedatives? Why did they even do that, why would they give Harrow sedatives to begin with? What is the purpose of him being sedated...?

Interestingly so, Kane knows what a sedative is. He knows what it does. He just doesn't see how it makes sense for them - the people who work here besides Dr. Harrow - to administer such to him. Is it about wanting to have control? Power? Would Harrow act differently if he were without them? Would he be in some sort of discomfort, pain, would he suffer so visibly that others could notice, which is why said sedative had been given to him---?

Thoughs spiral, so much so that it affects that expression sitting on Kane, not-Kane, it's features - it darkens, noticeably so, turns into something almost a little dangerous at the edges as dark, colorful irises flick back and forth, from one eye to the other; Perhaps he's trying to drill himself into the other's soul, trying to figure out what this is about, whether the man in front of him is hiding something - or unable to show what's bothering him because of that drug he's on...

All of this because he cares. Kane cares about Harrow, and he's worried about his health. About his... feelings, even. He truly is.

Another shift of a jaw, like teeth clicking into place as they press against another, before a soft exhale is allowed to leave a curved nose; Kane's eyes fall closed for a moment, a cheek sucked in before it pops back out - his gaze returning softer once again, like he had to physically force himself to let go of whatever had been boiling inside him for a moment and a half there.

---Focuses back on what Dr. Harrow has said instead - what Harrow is doing after, pulling up the canvas, showing off the tins and glass that's existing within it.

Kane looks at them, glances over at the cup of tea, then back at the man so close to him. Despite it all, despite being on sedatives and having gone through something bad himself, he...is here. He made his way over to Kane, not-Kane, it, made sure to bring a warm beverage and ointments to treat his injuries...

It warms his heart. So much so that it can be spotted on his features now, in the same way as that hardness had appeared before - just that it is made of utter softness this time, of subtly furrowed brows and slightly pursed lips. Of nostrils that flare for a second, of lids that lower themselves a bit, dark lashes framing his gaze as it continues to look, continues to take in the sight of blue combined with dilated pupils.

Then, a nod - and Kane, despite not wanting to, has to pull back his arms, let go of Harrow's upper body so that he can lift the hem of his own shirt; He's struggling for a moment, one can spot it in his brows knitting and a jawline tensing, when he inhales and then tugs - like ripping a bandaid off, he rips that fabric over his head and away, getting it over and done with to keep the pain of moving too much as minimal as possible.

Bruises have darkened since they've been revealed for the first time - yellow and green turned into blue and purple, a hint of red. Almost like tattoos blending into bronze skin, just less defined than the one that decorates Kane's left pectoral - and certainly a lot more sensivite, on top of it.

Kane swallows, puts his shirt on top of the mattress next to them... then looks down at himself for a second, taking in the sight of what that security guard has done to his physical frame.

"...It's not as bad as it looks." Another lie, because it hurts, but Kane, not-Kane, it, doesn't want Harrow to worry too much - he will be fine, he will heal, somehow. He has to, after all. "But it is a bit sore."

Another breath, one that's carefully executed so as to not put too much strain on his lungs. Oil slick returns to something a lot brigher, with Kane's gaze finding Harrow's, something a little unsure, perhaps expectant, lingering within them.

Something skeptical, again. "...What kind of ointments?" He's curious, yes, and he trusts that whatever Harrow has brought over will be good for him - but he wonders if that man even remembers what it is, or if he has to take a look at it before giving an answer.

Kane is still thinking about the sedatives.

Arthur didn’t answer immediately.

He was watching Kane, instead, watching the slow blink of his dark lashes, the way his lip curled, the way his voice sounded when he said he didn’t want to sleep. Arthur’s brows pulled faintly, not in pity but in something else; something upset with himself, something guilty.

He hated knowing that Kane’s body was aching, he hated how he phrased such terrible abuse as nothing more than him being ‘uncomfortable’.

Arthur had brought medical items on purpose for that, of course. He knew that Kane would be aching from everything, so he’d brought things to help - still in a bag, sitting nearby.

He didn’t look at it, though. It was easy to want to keep looking at Kane. There wasn’t anything crude in the thought, it wasn’t inappropriate. The man was beautiful. Kane had been a handsome man to begin with, but the way that this Kane wore it was something else entirely.

There was a softness to him, something fragile and sweet, something frightened and injured. He was trying to hold himself together, and he was doing so well - Arthur wanted to keep him safe.

This wasn’t a bad thought. It didn’t come with want. Just acknowledgement, warmth; something he normally wouldn’t be thinking, normally one who kept his thoughts in order rather well, but…

The shape of the man was far closer to him than he had been with anyone, in a while. His hand was tangled into Kane’s hair, both of them curved into the lines of each other’s body, as if they’d been poured into each other. And Kane was looking at him like that, now - like he was searching for something, brows knit together over beautiful eyes.

The question wasn’t sharp, nor was it cruel. It only pricked because it was right - was it that obvious? He felt it, sure, but he rarely wore how he felt on his face - he supposed that dilated pupils couldn’t be hidden, though. The redness in his eyes, the lower hold of his lids.

He took a small breath, before speaking. “Nothing anywhere as bad as what they did to you,” he answered, brushing it away fully. “They gave me a sedative, that’s all.” It wasn’t a bad one, not really - enough to make his thoughts blur, but little more.

Arthur exhaled, slow. His gaze dipped some to Kane’s form, again; ‘uncomfortable’. Hurting. Bruises that Arthur couldn’t see, a tension, a way Kane likely had to watch his breathing; Arthur understood injuries to a fairly intimate level.

“I brought things to help,” he said, having semi-forgotten that he had already said it before. “Ointments, balms - stuff that’ll help with the bruises, with the pain.”

He had set the bag close enough to reach without having to evict Kane from his lap, glass at tin clinking inside of the closed canvas. He opened it carefully, one-handed as to keep the other around Kane, revealing the array of supplies within. Dark jars, bandages, patches, a couple small ice packs.

He didn’t touch any of it, yet, though, his focus returning to Kane. “You’ll need to take your shirt off - I can help, if that’s easier.” He wouldn’t do it without permission, of course - but he knew that it might be hard, with the bruises being where they were.

“I brought tea, too. Something that’ll… it should help.” He could barely remember what he’d put in it, unfortunately. He had made it mindfully, though - and he trusted himself to have made something good for the other.

#preemptivejustice #interactions; shimmer!kane #plotted verse; preemptivejustice (kane)#(kane: - has literally been abused and has bad bruising all over his body man)#(but also kane: i dont like the sedatives whats going on i dont care about me what is going on with harrow is he fine is he hurting)#(are they trying to change him are they in control of him)#(;_; )

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therobotsarestuckinmyhead · 24 hours ago

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What do you think Cybertronian culture would be like in Transformers One? If you pay attention, the movie is inspired by G1, but it has its differences—in animation style, story, and characters. To what extent do Cybertronians resemble human beings?

i think their resemblances with humans are at a minimum, its really only the way how their society functions that similar to humans but even that is limited to only a few certain aspects.

culturally speaking, in TFO, i think there would be a cultural divide between the cogless and the cogged given the way Sentinel's Cybertron works. he keeps them divided. its quite literally a metaphor for class divide in a way but it might be me overanalysing it. at the same time, in the movie, its almost as if the cogless bots are considered as a sub-species in a way.

the cogless are forced to be backwards in every sense within the system they live in because the system works exactly as intended, they live in poor conditions and toil away for hours doing hard labour which means barely any free time to produce things like art or music. they have no time to think of question the world. they have no time to just sit down and wonder why their world has to be this way. they are a slave class who genuinely believes themselves to be slaves because of the idea that "someone needs to work hard and mine to keep the planet running" is prevalent and constantly spewed out by the authority like Sentinel as a "greater purpose", bots like D-16 believe with all his spark that its what he even exists for and he doesn't even question it once. they genuinely believe that their predicament is some sort of grand divine plan to keep Cybertron running until the Matrix is found.

but despite the "grand-ness" of what these miners do for Iacon & Sentinel, they are clearly discriminated against and are treated unfairly. they say "no-cog" almost like its a slur. like its the worst thing that could ever happen to you under Sentinel's system.

they overwork themselves even if it means they might collapse and injuries may be a lot more common than we think because its clear from the mining collapse scene that there is strict protocol for the miners to follow during that situation and that everyone clearly knows what to do in this situation. with the way how all the other miners seemed to have just went back to their jobs after Orion & D-16 got Jazz out of there implies that this is a frequently occurring event. i doubt they have good repairs in any way whatsoever. also from analysing their designs, its not hard to say that the cogless miners are filthy and barely get any time to clean themselves.

notice the dirt on Orion's chassis and shoulder plating? its very out-there. the cogless have a very rough life, they're basically living like coal miners from the 1900s--- poor sanitation, poor education and barely any time to do anything else but their jobs.

but despite all this, we can see how the cogless still manage to make their living spaces vibrant in way. cue the scene where D-16 and Orion meet for the first time, we see D-16 putting up a Megatronus sticker on the wall behind his recharge capsule. also, Orion finds the Megatronus sticker for D-16 and gives it to him on the train. this leads me to believe that stickers are not only for wall decoration but also for frame customizing, something like a frame ornament and after thinking a bit more about it, i realized that it perfectly make sense because we already have car-stickers in the real world so of course Cybertronians would use stickers as frame ornaments. it would be their equivalent of tattoos in a way.

also with how the trains lead to the surface and how D-16 manages to save Orion from the guards at the archives, it leads me to believe that the miners can go to upper-Iacon every now and then. its kind of messed up in a way because they get to see the world in which the cogged get to live in without every being able to experience it for themselves.

back to that sticker bit, with the way the Primes are marketed into stickers and such, it really gives you a perspective on how Iacon in general thinks of their deities as. considering the Primes are the first Cybertronians quite literally hand-crafted by Primus himself, you'd think there'd be a lot more reverence to their name. turning your warrior-gods into marketable merch is not what you'd expect typically, especially if they are in fact considered as some sort of demi-god. this leads me to believe that the Primes are not exactly considered god-like, they are legendary warriors at best. the best Cybertronians to have ever been. either that or selling merchandise of your mythos is a completely normal thing to do on Cybertron. i kind of find that funny in a way? because if there are Megatronus stickers, are there any Zeta Prime plushies? Solus Prime posters? Vector Prime stans? Alpha Trion fanfiction? are there whole ass fanclubs dedicated to the Primes? stan culture?

perhaps its Sentinel trying to dumb down the Primes and spite them by commercializing them into marketable plushies to remove the seriousness of their legacy and sacrifices.

and so he could make profits.

who knows.

anyway, now to the cogged bots.

cogged bots on the other hand are a lot more prosperous, they live in high-rises of Iacon for the most part and we can see how they have posh restaurants, racing tracks, access to knowledge--- its clear that Sentinel knows the importance of controlling the flow of information with how he keeps the archives as a restricted area. they have better education considering they occupy more high-level/skilled jobs. if there is any remnants of how Cybertron was once like before Sentinel, it would be seen within the vastly different culture that the cogged bots follow. they are the top of the system which Sentinel created.

some say that the cogged bots don't need to do any work at all but i digress because yes, they do work but they occupy jobs which conventionally have a higher position and status than any of the labour the cogless do. things like security guards, supervisors, radio hosts, TV broadcasting, and many more, evident with all the office spaces in Iacon. they do work, they do contribute to society. they're just not slaves like the cogless are.

also another fascinating thing is just how hostile the cogged bots can be to the cogless? its almost as if... Sentinel is dividing the bots to make sure they keep pointing at each other to make sure neither of them turn against him and his cronies. as if he doesn't want them to focus on him or question him in any way.

Sentinel seems to have engineered Cybertronian society to be in such a way where the cogged believe themselves to be superior because they are 'real' Transformers who can actually transform and since the cogless are, well cog-less, they cannot Transform and hence are a sort of sub-species which justifies the way they are treated however, despite the fact that they aren't 'real' Transformers, they are still here for a purpose. considering how cogless bots started appearing """coincidentally"""" just when the Matrix of leadership was """lost to the war""" and with how the Matrix being lost meant that there would be no flow of energon, he could very well paint it to look like the cogless were spawned into Cybertron for the sole purpose of mining and working in energon refineries.

this 'system' would definitely influence the way the cogged and the cogless see their world and hence, the way they perceive themselves.

man, is Sentinel just EVIL. invented a whole system of slavery and racism just to make sure he could keep his Quinteson funders happy so that he could remain at the top of Cybertron. talk about a sell-out politician... surely, human leaders aren't anything like him... right?

about the human part, they are culturally not 1:1 similar to humans and purely because of how their biology and environments are vastly different. they do have certain things which could be described as the "Cybertronian equivalent" of certain human activities, like how paints could be considered the Cybertronian equivalent of makeup or Conjux Endurae as the Cybertronian equivalent of marriage but even then, there are stark differences--- humans mainly put make up on their face but Transformers can have paints anywhere. its very slight differences.

however, on the ground of politics and society? humans and Cybertronians are almost the same. they share similar values and thoughts when it comes to freedom and social justice but our systems vary. the whole system of Primes governing and the Matrix choosing the next leader of the Transformer race is almost like a form of monarchy if you really think about it. they have no concept of democratic freedom which i find kind of funny? they're so advanced but haven't thought of democracies even once in their existence as a species. they're weirdly authoritarian. Autobots are just lucky that the Matrix of Leadership is a magical artifact which knows just the perfect bot to chose to handle that kind of political power.

thank you for listening to my TedTalk

#transformers #transformers one #tf one #tf one megatron #tfo optimus prime #tfo optimus #tfo megatron #tfo #cybertronian culture #tf analysis #zana rant #sentinel is absolutely evil when you think about it even deeper #like HOLY FUCK IS HE EVIL #thanks goodness real people are NOTHING like him #thank goodness people aren't divided into certain groups and put against each other to distract us from the real enemy haha #that would be so trippy...#tf one is a surprisingly wonderful metaphor for class divide

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gravewife · 1 day ago

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when the ice breaks - part i

synopsis: after sustaining an injury at the fragmentum front, gepard is forced off active duty and starts his temporary job in the city archives as he rests. but when trouble looms in belobog, he finds an ally in a witty archivist to unravel the truth, and maybe, find something worth fighting for beyond duty in the process.

pairing: gepard landau x archivist!reader

wc: ~1.5k words

masterlist | part ii ⪼

The first thing you noticed about Captain Gepard Landau was that he walked with a soldier's cadence. Despite the sling keeping his arm bound to his side and the missing Silvermane Guard uniform, his presence demanded attention.

His presence in the administrative building felt off. Gepard Landau was a man of action, born to be placed on the front lines with a raised shield and drawn sword, and not thrown into the world of sorting through record cabinets and being confined to chairs that creaked more than an old woman's knee. Most would've thought the Overworld would've frozen over if they ever caught a glimpse of Gepard doing anything remotely mundane.

You are a clerk for the city's archives, often tasked with cataloging the reports no one even wanted to bother with. You couldn't help but remember a conversation you had with your co-worker a of couple days prior. The Landau prodigy was injured on the Fragmentum front and he would be reassigned to an internal affairs department while he rested.

The poor sucker, you thought. Sorry you had to end up in the most boring section.

Your supervisor dumped a stack of civic records taller than your desk right in front of you, effectively breaking you out of your haze. She gestured toward the statue-like man standing by the door in silence.

"Show the Captain around," she ordered, her voice oozing false positivity.

You weren't originally assigned to him. But clearly you were in for some sort of divine punishment. You could guess that the decision to push the babysitting duty was last minute, because who in their right mind would dump the national hero onto a glorified paper-pusher?

When you turned to acknowledge the Landau, instead of the normal "Hi, how are you?", you received a curt nod. Rude, you thought.

"I'm [Y/n], your supervisor for the time being. I hope you can enjoy your temporary job here in the archives," you said with the classic customer service voice expected of someone in your job. Gepard only nodded once.

So, you did what someone of your pay grade would do: rise and give him the most lackluster tour of the city archives you could. It was brief, silent, and oh-so incredibly awkward.

He followed you through the narrow corridor of the administrative wing, his steps filling the silence of the cold hall. It was awkward, and Gepard certainly did not make the odd tension any easier to deal with. Whenever you asked simple questions, he replied curtly. When you stopped to explain a room or an object, he would stand rigidly.

This is going to be a long day.

You finally cracked after the dreadful tour. "You don't talk much, do you?"

"I only need to talk when necessary," he replied, avoiding your questioning gaze. You noticed that despite his cold aura, his voice was very smooth and low. If velvet could talk, it would probably sound exactly like him.

You only spared him a side-eye before looking forward and continuing your march down the hall. "So... I shouldn't expect you to say anything in the future?"

A moment of silence passed as you both continued down the hall. But, if you looked back for a second, maybe you would have seen the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

As you both pored over documents, something caught your eye. One of your responsibilities is to go over shipment documents, make sure everything was signed, yada-yada. But there was something off about this one in particular. Well, not just something. The signature on the document was poorly forged. The wrong ink was used, the signature wasn't even a proper signature, and the designated file number was a random string of numbers and letters you had never even seen in your life.

Amateurs, you thought to yourself. If you want to smuggle something, do it right.

But, all you could do was flag the document. It would probably end up buried in a pile of other flagged documents, never to be touched or even glanced at again. Frankly, you couldn't care less. It's not like you get paid enough to care or try.

However, when the next day arrived, Gepard arrived file in hand. The file you flagged only a day prior.

"Where did this come from?" he asked, setting it down in front of you.

"Routine Underworld inventory. Did you even look at the seal? It's from the Department of Supplies, fourth district."

"It's wrong."

"You think I didn't notice that? Believe it or not, Captain Landau, but I've been here for years. I'm not blind or an idiot."

At this point, Gepard could hardly restrain his frustration, his mental turmoil seeping into his voice, "So why did you not do anything?"

"Seriously? Do you really think I could do anything about it? Sorry to disappoint, but you place too much faith in my superiors to actually listen to my advice."

Gepard shut his mouth and blinked. His eyes flickered with guilt, and then with silent resignation. "Well, if you can't do anything, I will."

"Be my guest."

Soon after Gepard took it upon himself to search through the flagged documents, he began materializing in front of your desk with each find with an absurd amount of questions that would make most cry from frustration. He had this look in his eye, like he was building a case from invisible threads that only he could see.

When he first began working with you, he hardly ever acknowledged your existence. It was mostly due to Gepard being awkward, but nonetheless, it made it difficult to establish any form of communication between you both. Now, he sought your opinion.

"Do you trust this signature?"

"This handwriting... it doesn't look like it belongs to someone from the Overworld. What do you think?"

"How long does it take to forge a pass like this?"

You weren't too sure when the chill between you two began to thaw. Maybe it was when you stayed late to huddle over files with the Landau? Or when Gepard began to ask you more personal questions about your family, your hobbies, your past?

You even began to pick up a thing or two about him. He can't stand sugar in his tea; something to do with a prank his elder sister, Serval, pulled on him when he was younger. He read military reports front and back, always three times to make sure he didn't miss a single detail. That he often has issues going to sleep at nights since joining the Silverman Guards.

It was hard not to want to linger around work after hours now. Not because of the files or Gepard's newfound sense of economic justice. It was just because of Gepard.

One night, as the snow gently rapped against the windowpanes and the cheap heater sputtered in protest, Gepard spoke up.

"This isn't an ordinary smuggling ring," he said, voice grave.

You glanced up at him from the documents you were reading over and he was quick to explain. "This is too coordinated to be something like that."

"Maybe an insurgency?" you suggested.

He thought over your suggestion for a second. The papers that lay in front of him enraptured his attention as he slowly put the puzzle together piece by piece.

"Or... a coup," he finally murmured. The answer hung between you like permafrost.

You're only reaction was to exhale slowly. "This sounds like something a simple archive clerk should not know. I feel like you're going to have to take this research to someone who does have the capacity to do more."

You began to gather your things together and rise slowly until a firm hand gripped your arm. Gepard's hold was warm and left your arm with a weird, tingly feeling.

Upon realizing what he had just done, Gepard quickly released his hold on you and turned his entire body away from you. You were just as surprised at his actions as he was. Who would have thought the hardcore Captain could hold a wrist with that much care? And you were just as shocked upon seeing his beet-red ears and the high blush on his cheeks.

He slowly turned his face back towards you, shyly averting his blue gaze away from your face in fear of embarrassing himself any further.

"Please," his voice came out strained and desperate. He began to slowly move his eyes to meet yours. "I'm not sure why, but I want to see this through with you. It feels right since you were the one who found the first document. And... it would feel wrong to take all the credit once this is seen through."

Gepard leaned back in his chair with a tired groan. Not only did he look exhausted, but he sounded like his mind was on the verge of collapse. Something a simple nap could not fix.

You didn't have to tell him, but this was the first time you saw Gepard beneath his armor. Sure, he may have been one of Belobog's most renowned protectors, but he was also human. He wasn't invincible.

Maybe, just maybe, Gepard needed someone to carry a little of the weight that rested on his shoulders.

And maybe, just maybe, that someone could be you.

"Alright, Captain. Let's do this."

stay tuned for part ii | part ii ⪼

my requests are open! feel free to send any ideas my way!

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #gepard x reader #gepard landau #honkai star rail #hsr #gepard landau x reader #hsr gepard

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cellythefloshie · 13 hours ago

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;; February 11th, 2023 A Mama Bear Sequel.

Summary: When Parker Stacy gets taken out by a high kit, Jeremy steps up and Katie is there to see it. Kinks & Tropes: Age Gap. Divorcee. Undefined + secret relationship. Player injury. ABOUT THE OC’s: Katherine: AKA Katie. Face Claim: Bryce Dallas Howard. 40's. Mother of Parker Waylon-Stacy. Parker: Face Claim: Michael Provost. Boston Bruin's Rookie. Word Count: 3.2k

Boston Bruins vs Washington Capitals as broadcasted by Jack Edwards and Andy Brickly

Jack: And with 08:20 remaining in play in the 2nd period, the Boston Bruins are down 2-0.

Brick: Coyle wins the face-off at centre but fumbles the puck into open ice. Both teams scramble for the puck, and it’s recovered by forward Parker Stacy, who is playing career game 72 with Boston. He takes the puck into the corner, and he’s holding it against the board trying to get a line change in — AND IN COMES HATHAWAY. That’s a head hit by Hathaway.

Brick: Yeah, that was high. That was distant, and it was high, and it was intentional.

Jack: This will be the second hit by Hathaway in that shift.

Brick: The first one was in the neutral zone against Coyle coming off the face-off, the second was in the corner behind goaltender Jeremy Swayman, and Hathaway got Stacy high on his finish. Jack: Stacy’s 5’8, standing up straight on the board with that hit. You gotta be worried about Stacy—Take a look at this hit by Hathaway, certainly worth penalty minutes… And it looks like there’s an injury here. They are calling the training staff.

Jeremy’s mask was off before the trainers could set foot on the ice. Usually he would prop it up on his head, have some water while the officials sorted out the chaos behind his net. But this wasn’t just a scrum, or a typical injury. This was Parker.

He had seen it all from where he stood in his crease. While his shoulder had been pressed firm against the bar–when his eyes should have been fixated on the puck–Jeremy had seen it all.

Parker was fast on his feet, easily one of the fastest skaters Jeremy had seen take the ice, but the moment he was in the corner protecting the puck he was vulnerable. Hathaway barreled in from centre ice for the hit, leaving his feet to make the hit, and hit Parker with full force. The way Parker’s head hit the boards before it snapped back sent Jeremy's stomach jumping up into his throat, and it remained there as he dropped his helmet to the ground and skated towards Hathaway.

“You wanna go?” Jeremy barked, the roaring sea of fans wearing black and gold fueling his anger, but then he felt a single hand on his chest, drawing him back towards his own net and to reality.

It was only then that Jeremy realized that Parker was still unmoving on the ice and that they were bringing on the stretcher.

Jeremy froze in his crease, his pulse thundering in his ears as he watched the trainers assist medical personnel with strapping Parker to the backboard and sliding a neck brace into place. The crowd rose to their feet, sending TD Garden rumbling with their ovation, doing all they could to show their rookie that he was not alone.

One by one, his teammates skated over to the gurney, trying to get a pat of reassurance on Parker’s arm or chest as they began to wheel him off the ice. Jeremy skated a half circle around the net, a single hand reaching out to tap the gurney as he tried not to hold them up too long. It was then he heard a croak of a word slip from Parker’s lips: “Mom.”

Katie.

Jeremy blinked hard twice, wondering if he had heard Parker right, or if he had imagined it. Katie couldn’t be in Boston, could she? Surely, Parker would have told him—as if he had the right to know. And not knowing that she was there was what told Jeremy what he heard was right, because Katie wouldn’t have wanted him to know she was there.

Skating a small circle around his net, Jeremy looked up at the arena that surrounded him. Somewhere, seated among the almost 18,000 in attendance, was Katie. It was impossible to spot her, but he looked anyway. If he were to spot anyone in the crowd, it would have been her, but from where he stood, anyone beyond the first few rows looked the same.

Retreating to his helmet, Jeremy casually pulled one strap free. He held it up to the refs, making sure they saw he needed his equipment attended to before he skated off to the bench with quick and strong strides. It was all he could think of to delay the game just a few more minutes since Parker was removed from the ice. He needed more time.

He skated straight to the bench, his arm outstretched as he passed off his helmet to the equipment manager while his eyes focused on Coach Montgomery.

“His mom’s here.” Jeremy spoke so quickly he almost bit down on his own tongue. Then he leaned in over the board casually, trying to make it look like he was getting a routine fix on his helmet, when in reality his stomach was in his throat and his hands were sweaty. “Stacy’s mom. She’s here.”

Montgomery’s expression didn’t change. To show he had heard what Jeremy had said, he only nodded. Then he raised his lineup card up over his mouth as he leaned in to speak discreetly into the ear of assistant coach Joe Sacco.

Jeremy didn’t get the luxury of hearing what was being said. All he got in return was his helmet and a firm, “Get back in net.”

When Jeremy returned to his place between the pipes, the rest of the game became a blur. The buzzer that ended the second period quickly became the final face-off that started the third. They started it with no updates on Parker’s status, and Jeremy spent every second of it fixated on Parker.

How his body had slumped on the ice.

The weakness in his voice when he told him that Katie was there—or maybe, Parker was calling out to her?

His thoughts hung heavily over him throughout the rest of the game. Yet, Jeremy made every glove save and stopped every shot on net he faced until the last seconds ticked away and the buzzer sounded. The final score was 2-1 in favor of Washington, but the scoreboard didn’t matter. Not when Parker was hurt, and Katie was there to see it.

Hours of binging Grey’s Anatomy and House had left a lasting impression of what an American hospital waiting room would look like. In Katie’s mind, they were supposed to be chaos in every sense of the word. From the nonstop emergencies or medical anomalies to the complicated relationships between doctors and nurses, there was always something to hold the audience’s attention.

But she wasn’t the newest guest star on a medical drama.

She was living in a horror movie.

Katie was sure the waiting room was going to be filled with cries of pain during the night. Instead, it was eerily quiet. There was a buzz from the fluorescent lights that hung overhead, and the occasional squeak of nurses’ shoes against the tile kept Katie from falling asleep in an uncomfortable armchair in the corner of the room. She tossed and turned in the chair, getting comfortable for only a minute because the squeal from another pair of sneakers would disturb her with the hope that an update on Parker’s condition would come. Yet, she sat there for hours and received nothing.

Katie’s head found its place cradled in the palm of her hand as her legs curled up to her chest. Her heels dug into the chair, trying to keep herself from sliding over the easy to clean pleather fabric of the air chair, but she found no comfort there.

Her tired eyes began to burn, desperate for a sleep that refused to take her. So they fixated on the double doors ahead of her, willing them to open, willing someone - anyone - to walk through them and tell her that Parker was okay.

She looked away when she heard an unfamiliar pair of shoes against the tile floor. They didn’t squeak like the nurses' steps. They sounded like a hollow click, distant at first but growing closer with every stride. Like a woman’s heel, but as they grew closer their impact sounded flat like a man’s dress shoe.

Katie perked up in her seat, expecting to see a doctor.

But it was him.

“Jeremy?” she asked in disbelief.

“Katie,” her name left his lips in a breath, but it sounded like a yell in the quiet waiting room.

His voice had been the first thing she heard in what felt like hours, and it left Katie scrambling in her seat. Her hands found leverage in the chair’s arms, and she pushed herself up from her seat. When she stood, she almost fell back down into the chair as her legs went numb. It felt like needles were being shot into her feet, yet she ran to him.

Jeremy’s arms were quick to welcome her, just as they had so many times before. She fit against him so perfectly as she wrapped her arms around him to clutch at the strength of his back. Consumed by the comfort of his embrace, Katie rested her cheek against his chest and took a deep breath. Finally, her eyes shut as a relieved sigh escaped her as she realized that she didn’t have to go through this alone.

“What are you doing here?” Her words were a hot whisper that washed over his neck as she tilted her head back to look up at him.

Katie could feel Jeremy take a deep inhale before he spoke. “Parker told me you were here when they were taking him off the ice,” he said slowly, “and the guys… we were all worried. I volunteered to come.”

Burying her face in the crook of his neck, Katie took a shaking inhale. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Jeremy since Christmas. And she hadn’t told him that she was going to be in Boston for the weekend. It was supposed to be a quick trip, in and out, just to see Parker, but she would be cancelling her flight home. She couldn’t leave, not when Parker was hurt.

Jeremy’s hands stroked down her back in soothing circles, his face so close to hers that she could feel his words as they were spoken on her forehead. “Have you heard anything?”

Katie shook her head slowly. “No, not yet.”

In that moment, she should have pulled away. She knew that. The last thing she should have been doing was letting her cling to him like her own personal lifeline. Jeremy was nothing more than a handful of memories that Katie spent months trying to forget, but she knew she could find the comfort she needed in him.

“Can I get you anything?” Jeremy muttered into her hair. “Coffee? Something to eat? I have a change of clothes in the car–”

“No,” Katie’s voice broke, and her fingertips pressed into her back desperately. So quickly Jeremy became the one holding her together, yet was bringing her so close to falling apart. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“Okay,” Jeremy breathed out and pulled back just enough to guide her back to the waiting room chair.

He sat beside her, his one arm stretched out around her shoulder, and made it so easy for her to rest her head against him. His warm and steady breath was a comfort she didn’t know she needed. It gave her something to fixate on when she had done nothing but worry since Parker had been hit out on the ice. And while she didn’t know for how long, his presence had been enough to lull her to sleep.

“Ms. Stacy?” It was a soft voice that cut through her sleep, and a careful touch against her arm that sent her jolting upright.

Heart racing, she took two long blinks to try to get her eyes to focus on the person in front of her. She saw pale-colored scrubs first, then a young woman with kind eyes holding a clipboard came into view.

“Ms. Stacy?” She asked again.

“Yes,” Katie nodded, “That’s me.”

She glanced at Jeremy, who slouched down in the chair beside her, also asleep.

“You can come back and see Parker now,” the nurse told her.

“Can he come with me?” Katie asked quickly.

“The doctor asks that only family come into the room,” the nurse explained gently.

Katie's hand reached out, wrapping around Jeremy's wrist and giving it a careful squeeze to coax him awake.

He wasn't family. She wasn't entirely sure what he was beyond Parker's teammate. But she wasn't above lying, and she couldn't go in alone.

“He's family,” Katie said with a tiredness in her voice that she hoped hid her subtle hesitation.

The nurse didn't argue.

It took only a moment to wake Jeremy, his warm brown eyes blinking open with the gentle squeeze of his arm and the whisper of his name. He smiled softly up at her before his expression fell solemn as he remembered where they were and why they were there.

They walked together in silence, following behind the nurse as she led them off to Parker’s private room. Their hands were intertwined until the moment Katie crossed the threshold. Jeremy’s grasp weakened and let hers fall away from his. She almost looked back at him, but the moment her eyes fell on Parker in the hospital bed, Katie froze.

Parker didn’t look sick as he lay there. He wasn’t pale, or sleeping—hell, he was smiling.

Katie’s heart swelled with relief as she rushed to his bedside, her hand reaching out to take him in her gentle hold. Her second hand rested on top of his, her lips curling up into a smile to try to hide her tears as they silently slipped down her cheeks. Her lips quivered as they parted to speak, but Parker’s attention was lost and his words were quick to interrupt her.

“Sway?” Parker asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

Katie’s eyes remained fixated on Parker’s dazed expression as she heard Jeremy’s footsteps echo through the room until he was standing right behind her. Feeling him there, so close to her, made her chest tight.

“The guys and I were all worried about you,” Jeremy explained. “You’re lucky you didn’t get the entire team in here.”

Parker nodded slowly.

Katie couldn’t help but be relieved that he didn’t question it, but why would he? He and Swayman had pretty much come up from the AHL together. They were more than just teammates. They were friends.

“Did the doctor say-” Katie started, her words cut off by a careful knock on the door.

She glanced back over her shoulder to find the doctor hovering in the doorway. “You must be Ms. Stacy,” he greeted. “Parker has been looking forward to seeing you.”

Katie couldn’t find her words. She didn’t know if it was a good thing to hear.

“Don’t worry, when we wrap up here you’ll be good to take him home,” the doctor assured, and the tension in Katie’s shoulders left in an instant.

The doctors quickly went through the diagnosis. No one was surprised to hear that he had a concussion, but it was the only injury he took away from the hard hit against the boards. He would need rest, and monitoring from the Bruin’s medical staff, but there would be nothing stopping him from returning to the lineup when they deemed ready.

Katie nodded along with the doctor’s explanation, her mind racing with everything she would need to do before morning. She would need to cancel her flight home, and see if they could extend her stay with her hotel—and she would need to reply to Dottie, who she was sure was the source of her phone’s vibration against the ass pocket of her jeans.

“I’ll call a cab,” Katie started in a stutter, “I’ll take him home and then I-”

Jeremy reached out, placing a single hand on her shoulder. She almost choked on her words under his touch. To Parker, it was a simple, innocent touch. But to Katie, it sent a wave of warmth through her that silenced both her racing mind and her tongue

“We’re all going to the same place, remember?”

Katie stared at him. Her eyes wide and head cocked. Then, she remembered: Parker and Jeremy lived together. They had decided to get a place together at the beginning of the season. It just made sense for the two rookie players on entry-level contracts in the big city. When things were unstable and at risk of changing at any moment—but it suddenly made things a lot more complicated for Katie.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Jeremy said.

Katie had to shut her eyes. Her hands reached up into her messy auburn hair as the room seemed to spin with the chaos she found herself in.

How was she supposed to care for her son when Jeremy was going to be there the entire time?

“Hey,” Jeremy said softly, a gentle hand drawing her outside Parker’s room and into the hallway.

There, away from Parker, Jeremy cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back to look up at him. “It’s okay. We’ll get it all figured out. You can stay with us. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Katie hated that Jeremy made it all seem so simple, so easy, but she was thankful.

Nodding slowly, Katie did all that she could do in her situation. She accepted it.

Jeremy pulled away slowly. His hands slipped away from her face, grazed her arms and were so close to being back at his sides when Katie reached for him. Her hand wrapped around his, and kept him close as she pressed up onto her toes and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. It was just a careful graze of her lips against his skin. A silent thank you for being there, and for his help.

Jeremy offered her a small smile, one that was heavy with something that looked like sadness. There was so much that needed to be said between them—so much explaining that she would need to do—but that time would come later. When they weren’t trying to hide away from her son, who lay in the next room.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Jeremy told her as he raised a single hand to stroke her cheek.

Katie nodded, and he took a step back and slipped away from her hold. Her eyes remained focused on her, watching as he disappeared through the same doors he had arrived through. When he was gone, Katie fell back against the wall, desperate to feel its support beneath her tired body. Her head tilted back. Her eyes shut tight as they met the fluorescent lights that were harsh in her eyes. Then, she sucked in a heavy breath. It was the first deep breath since seeing Jeremy—the first that didn’t leave her feeling like she was suffocating.

After months apart, Katie had hoped that things would be different. That Jeremy’s sweet charm would have lost its effect on her. But it consumed her all the same. Worst of all, she had missed it.

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