#most artist do GA for floor

[iwatcheditbegin]

American fans need to stop acting like this has anything to do with GA pits. It’s GA throughout latam and most of the world, people are used to experiencing concerts like this. The biggest problem was negligent venues and greed.

[momolady]

Art the Orc

If you live in a small town, maybe you'll know this place. It's a little art store run by the same family for ages. It's not changed in all that time either. Picture it, feel it, you know it's the only place that sells that one supply you like. Now, imagine an orc behind the counter. Female Reader x Male Monster

The visage of the old place looked like it had once been a gas station. There was one of those big metal awnings and signs that gas pumps had once been outside. But everything else looked like the art supply store it was. The window was painted, done up with flowers and a flourishing font, but it hadn’t been touched in ages and was chipping and weathering away.

The old place had seen better days, you could tell. But you were excited to tackle such a special project with your own two hands.

Inside the place had a familiar smell of paint thinner, book pages, and coffee. You looked around the front as the bells on the door chimed. The old floor had seen better days and was worn out where you stood, even the welcome mat was hard to read.

“Welcome to Greengold Creative Station,” the deep voice came from behind the front desk where there was an open door. ‘I’ll be out with you in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” you replied. You continued to look around, noting the mismatched shelving and thrown together renovations dotting the place.

A moment later, a large orc came from the back. He was wearing thick glasses and had on a corded cardigan that covered a paint splattered t-shirt.

“Can I help you find anything?” He asked as he adjusted his glasses.

You approached the front desk again, extending your hand to him. “Hi! You must be Mr. Greengold, I’m from Regency Renovations.”

There was a surprised look upon his face as he shook your hand. “You’re the renovator?”

You smiled, half expecting some reservation based on your appearance. “I specialize in business and storefront renovations. That is what you wanted, correct, Mr. Greengold?”

He fumbled with his words for a moment, stuttering, touching his glasses until he spoke. “Call me Art, please.”

You held it in, but he knew where your mind went.

“It’s short for Arthur, but it's also my dad’s name so my mom calls me Art. Yes, I know, ha ha, very fun. A man named Art runs the art store.”

“It’s an easy target.” You tried to squash your giggling but a few came out.

He sighed and shook his head. “So, you’ll be handling the whole store. I want it updated completely. It was fine for my parents, but I need to bring in a new generation of artists and online shopping is destroying us.”

“It’s a common issue, Art,” you didn’t look at him as you said his name. “I already have some ideas brewing and I would be happy to discuss your thoughts for the business with you.”

He sighed heavily, gazing out at a store that was once his family’s legacy. “I would say I would like to keep some of what my parents did to this place, but I don’t think any of it is salvageable.”

“Well recycling is a thing.” You replied. “Like some of these old shelves, the wood can be reused to create a rustic facade for the front desk here.” You patted the worn out formica top. “And the vintage signage out from can be reused and framed, hung just right behind you there.”

Art made a face. “You can do all that.”

You returned his face, adding a smug smile to it. “I can do lots of things, Art. My father was a carpenter and my mother was a viper. Be careful of what you inflict about me.” You patted your chest proudly. You knew you were small and chubby, not many people expected much out of you, but your work spoke for itself. And that was how you told people off.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “I have a lot riding on this so-”

“So you hired the best. That I can promise you. Now I know you said you didn’t have a lot of funds, but I already have my plans made for how to help you with that. I plan on doing most of the work on my own, but for heavy lifting and other things-”

“I don’t mind helping with that,” he said with a shake of his head.

You had planned to bring in your brother for help, he enjoyed the destruction part of your job and he worked for free food. “Well uh…if you’d like Art, I wouldn’t say no.”

“I wouldn’t want you getting hurt on the job. It would be best if I helped out,” he said.

You couldn’t tell if he was being kind or underestimating you again, so you brushed it off and continued. “I would also like to film the process of the renovation. Stuff like that will help reach your new audience.”

He frowned, and his thick brows pinched together. “You must be joking.”

“I am not. You’d be surprised what the kids these days are watching.” You smirked up at him. “I know what I am doing, Art. Have some faith.”

His face read: easier said than done.

Discussion and planning was always the hard bit. You had to convince your employer of what needed to be done. Art was hesitant about some things, after all it was a family business and a place he had grown up in. But for the most part he was willing to go along with some of your ideas.

Art started the clean up process by first putting away his stock and setting most of the mismatched shelves outside. Once that was taken care of you began ripping up the old carpet and ancient linoleum.

“I remember when my dad put that stuff down,” Art said from behind you.

You looked up, eyes covered by goggles and mouth surrounded by one of those thick industrial masks. “Oh really?”

Art gave you a look. “Is all that necessary?”

“You’d be surprised.” You stacked another chunk of the linoleum to the side. “Lots of debris and who-knows-what is under these old floors. Decades of dirty shoes, dust, skin, and life are stored here.”

Art’s grimace deepened. “Skin?”

“Oh yeah, we shed like mad,” you laughed. “If you have dust in your house you can be assured it came from you!”

Art looked perturbed by this revelation but he continued in moving stock to the back and other store property outside.

Once the flooring was removed, you accessed what was underneath. It wasn’t marble or granite, but it was some type of stony tile that had existed when it was a gas station.

“Mom said it was inhospitable.”

You used a dust cloth to clean off a bit of the flooring. “But it’s easy to clean, and it’ll make the whole place appear brighter and bigger.” You turned and looked back at him, taking off the goggles. “It’ll be so much better in the long run. Plus! You won’t have to buy anything new except maybe a rug or two if you wanted.”

Art’s pinched brow was becoming the norm to see, but you could tell it was because the gears behind it were working so hard to process everything going on.

Once the tiles were cleaned and all the old flooring was hauled off to the dump, you started working on the walls, taking down slapdash shelving, and anything else hanging up. The old paint job, or jobs really, were layered on so thick and hadn’t been properly done. They had painted over the trim and electrical outlets, all of which needed to be replaced. The holes in the walls needed fixing too, and there were a few dents and scrapes from the years.

“You’re not hiring a painter?” Art asked one day.

You zipped up your coveralls and turned around to face him. “Not unless you want to shell out twice the money. Besides, I’m a good painter. A great painter even! Maybe not Rembrandt or anything, but I can handle a roller better than most.”

Art looked over your paint supplies. After days of you working on freeing the electric sockets and scraping the excess from the trim you could finally start working. You were painting the wall white, but you had found cheap sticker tiles to create a great accent wall, which could then be used for photo opportunities and special displays. Then another wall would also be painted white and used to display local artists and projects from the art class that Art taught.

“Mom always wanted to put wallpaper up,” Art murmured. “But said it wouldn’t be practical with everything we needed to hang up.”

There was a melancholy to Art’s face and tone as he said this. “What kind?” You asked as you poured your paint into the tray. “We could always find something close to what she had in mind for the office.”

Art glanced over his shoulder then shook his head. “I doubt I could afford it. I tried looking already.”

You put the roller into the paint, sliding it back and forth until it wasn’t too soupy. “Was this place your mom’s idea?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze going all about the store. “I can’t believe how empty it is now.”

“It’ll be full again in no time.” You gave him a reassuring smile when his amber eyes returned to you. “Do you have any pictures of your mother you would want to hang up?” you asked. “I can plan a special place for it.”

He huffed, seeming put off by this suggestion. “Excuse me. The smell of this paint is giving me a headache.” He walked off, stomping his feet a little as he went.

Art came back by the time you were finished with the first coat of white. You were sitting in front of the checkout desk, leaned back against it so your foot propped the door open. He stepped over your leg and looked at your work.

“The white really makes this place look…different,” he murmured.

“Don’t worry, there will be some color back soon enough,” you sighed. “Is your headache gone?”

Art nodded, leaning against the desk. “Sorry if I’ve been…obstinate.”

You waved it off. “I’m used to you.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve been questioning and judging everything, all because I never really wanted to do this.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Then why are you?”

He let out that heavy, burdened sigh again. “Because it was in her will.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh.”

“She left me money, but only if I used a portion of it to renovate the old store. She said it was mine after all, it deserved to reflect the new generation. Even in death she was still hinting I get married.” He scoffed at this, but he still had a smile on his face.

“Sounds pretty motherly.” You stood up from the ground, standing beside him. Not feeling much taller than you did sitting beside his great size. You motioned to the front window. “Did she paint that?”

Art laughed. “No. I did. That’s why she kept it so long.”

Your smile beamed. “Really? That’s pretty adorable.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “For years upon years I’ve looked at that painting and wished every day she would wash it off and do something different. But I suppose her sentimentality was far too deep for that.”

“It’s a good painting,” you offered.

“I never thought she’d keep it so I barely tried,” he grunted and crossed his arms against his chest. “Boy, was I wrong.”

“Would you like to paint the new display? I was planning on just hanging a new sign and leaving the window clean.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

You patted his arm, and his eyes darted down to your hand, his brows unpinching for that one moment.

“I’ll wait till you decide then.” You stepped away from him, but his eyes still lingered on where you had touched him.

A few days later, as you were working on putting the sticker tile onto the wall, Art came from the back and offered you a ticket.

“A friend of mine has a gallery showing tonight. He gave me two tickets so I thought-” He hesitated and cleared his throat.

“How fancy is the affair?” You asked.

“Nothing too fancy. I mean, dress up, but not like black tie event or anything.” He cleared his throat again. “I was going to get dinner at my favorite restaurant since it was close by if you wanted to come.”

It clicked and you looked up at him. Your cheeks flushed and your mouth started to go dry. “Oh. Sure.” You tucked your hair behind your ear. “If that’s the case, maybe we should go in together. You know? Save the earth and stuff.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Smart idea. How about I pick you up tonight. Say…around six? Since the gallery is at eight?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip. “Yeah. Perfect. That should give me enough time to get ready after work.”

Art turned awkwardly away then back towards you. “Oh I uh, I guess I should get your address.” You traded info and the rest of the day went by in a jerky, tense sort of way.

That evening you waited in your living room until you heard from Art. You were wearing your favorite dress, and had even gotten your next door neighbor to do your makeup. You got his message and went downstairs to meet him at the front door.

Art was dressed nice in a dark purple suit and he had his long hair slicked back and tied into a bun. He didn’t have on his glasses, which surprised you. His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Wow, you look great!” He said, a touch breathless.

You blushed and smiled. “Thanks. You look pretty great too. I’m not used to seeing you without your glasses.”

“Yeah, contacts tonight,” he said shyly. He then took your hand and led you to his car.

The restaurant was nice, the two of you had a clumsy start to it, but eventually you both started having an in depth conversation about color. From there, you both laughed and joked around, having a good time with great food and even better wine.

From there you walked to the gallery, meeting his friend then roaming through the show. Her artwork was lovely, but you noticed Art’s pinch brow had returned.

“A lot more nudes than I expected,” he whispered.

“I think it’s nice,” you replied. “I can see what her intent with the motif is. How it’s classic, it's natural, but also subversive.” You turned to Art, noticing him fidgeting and adjusting himself.

“Yes. I understand what she is doing,” he muttered. “I must have had just a little too much wine I think.”

You smiled at him, chuckling as your cheeks grew warm.

The car windows were fogged over, and in the dark all you could do was touch. His kisses felt rough but intimate. His tusks brushed against your skin, making your shiver. Every so often the darkness was halted by the motion light of the parking lot turning on. You’d still for a moment, then continue on with your youthful antics.

“We should stop.”

“We should.”

“Why aren’t we?”

“It’s hard.”

“Very hard.”

You kissed Art and breathed, looking into his eyes while you clasped your hands around his face. Maybe it was the wine or the nudes on display, maybe it was weeks of working so close and holding back so long.

“It’s hard.”

“Very hard.”

You smiled at him, kissing him again while his hands moved below. Your panties were pushed aside, his zipper brushed against your thigh. Big. Oh my god it was big!

You gasped softly and he stilled, watching your expression. You eased over him, taking as much of Art as you could stand. You pressed your palms to the roof of the car for balance, his strong hands kneaded into your thick thighs.

“Aren’t we a bit too old for this?” he breathed.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we.” Your laughter turned into moaning. Maybe you were both a bit too old for this, but you’d never had so much fun before! He pressed deeply inside you, and his hands couldn’t stop touching your body. He roamed over the soft curves, and plump form, his desire seeming to grow the more he did.

The next morning you came into work, seeing Art standing in the middle of the room. You held your breath, wondering if it was all a wonderful dream. He turned and smiled, his thick glasses back in place.

“Hi” he said breathlessly.

Your smile bloomed. “Hi.”

Art motioned to the desk. “I brought coffee.”

“I see that.” You smiled and took a cup he offered.

He sighed then laughed and you laughed. “So uh…last night.”

“I liked your friend’s gallery. It was very nice. I also liked your favorite restaurant.” You took a sip of the coffee, testing it before you added anything.

Art nodded, his gaze drifted until it fell back onto you. “Is that all?”

You smiled over your coffee cup. “No. Just barely.” You looked into his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if it was an appropriate work topic.”

“Not exactly but uhm…I just wanted to check.” His eyes darted over you. “Were we really too old for that?”

You laughed and cupped your hand over your mouth. “A little. But I’m not too sore. Are you?”

“No. But I would prefer somewhere much comfier next time.” he leaned in close and you closed your eyes, accepting his kiss and the touch of his tusks against your cheeks.

“Yes, it would be nice.” You saw he had paints and brushes set on the front desk. “What’s this for?”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I thought I’d paint the window. I got a bit of inspiration last night.” He grinned your way. “Plus, I think mom would like to see how I’ve improved.”

You grinned. “I’ll be very excited to see how you work. Outside a car at least.”

[toysrguts]

MORE jeff hc's!!!!!!

thank u for the love on the last one i love writing these sm ^___^

•can fit like 11 cigarettes in his wide ass mouth at once

•half asian (his mom is chinese)

•his hair is really thin because it never grew back properly after being burned

•hates being wrong more than anything else on the planet. sometimes he knows hes wrong but will NEVER admit it and fight to the death over it

•bpd representation 💯💯💯

•something in my brain tells me he cant die. kind of like a johnny the homicidal maniac situation. he never gets caught and he never dies (he can still get seriously injured but he will always come back when u least expect it)

•always has to be in control of the aux in every vehicle hes in and is so obnoxious when his favorite songs come on

•also yells "I SAW THIS LIVE" every time a band he saw live comes on

•barks at random unsuspecting people through the open passenger window

•always stealing shit off his victims after killing. he has a whole ring collection because of it, and of course he steals wallets for weed money

•also steals from slenderman but you didnt hear that from me

•"saying jeff is a douchebag is like saying the sky is blue." -toby

•kind of guy that takes out his bottled up emotions on everyone around him and then hates himself for it

•wears the same gross outfit all the time. just grabs one of the 3 pairs of crusty skinny jeans from off his floor and of course the musty ass dirty ass torn apart ass hoodie

•smile dog is truly his best friend. he feels like nobody understands him like smile does. he loves taking him for walks in the woods while smoking a cigarette and having deep conversations with him (not that he actually responds but jeff knows smile can understand what hes saying)

•horror movie enthusiast, from obscure fucked up ones to super cheesy ones. he has a whole shelf dedicated to his horror movie collection

•has an addictive personality, which is partially why he has a drug and alcohol abuse problem and struggles with self harm

•rarely goes out in public because hes known to have violent outbursts. he once committed mass murder at a burger king because people were looking at him weird and EJ had to drag him out of there before the cops showed up

•HATES the light he literally duct taped over his windows so the light couldn’t get in (he forgot blackout curtains exist)

•his room smells like pennies, skunk weed, and foot stank

•is actually an incredible artist but acts like hes not. literally everyone loves his work except for him

•secretly loves cartoons. he loves taking bong rips and watching scooby-doo to escape reality :)

•has never had a healthy relationship with anyone in his life, usually just sticks to hookups

•its a miracle this man is still alive considering he survives off gas station snacks and week old sodas that have been sitting on his nightstand

•speaking of he once drank an old dr pepper after he forgot he put out a cigarette in it

•got a tramp stamp when he was blackout wasted

•writes random thoughts and draws little doodles all over his bedroom walls; it kind of looks like a mental asylum in there

•also his bed is literally just a blood stained mattress on the floor with no sheet and a singular pillow and blanket

•so fucking broke he will do anything for a hundred bucks

•writes the most foul hate comments under every post he disagrees with

•he loves video games, his favorite being postal 2 (hes OBSESSED)

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ i thought about this plot over and over, and I hesitated publishing it since i don’t want to deviate so much from everything but i said fuck it, so now ere i am, greeting y’all with ‘wassup villain’

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @depresssedcowboy @shuna-boin

⚠️ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⚠️ Mommy issues, mention of death,, profane language, plot progression. Pronouns keep shifting bc Miles thinks you’re a guy. A bit confusing? Anyways, congrats with your debut. I’ve got uh.. A little surprise? Enjoy.

FIC MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

"Park behind the building B, McLaren. I’ll have to deal with a separate matter, for now, call backup."

"Yes, miss."

Ring. Ring.

Your head pivots at the sound of your phone’s ringing, eagerly answering the call without having to look into the ID, knowing a thing or two about a certain someone’s timing.

“What’s going on so early in the morning?” Your father haggardly asks. You could already smell the stench of his morning breath from the car.

“We have trespassers in the Warehouse.” You start. “Two of them, partners. The duo we know as the Prowlers.”

“What?” You hear the morning grogginess laced in his voice. “Who leaked the information?”

“I’ve updated Morrison and he’s currently investigating the black market. I suspect a traitor.”

“Evidence?”

“There’d been no reports of outsiders entering the vicinity. All employees have been given fake addresses and all of their gadgets have been monitored— and so far, no one’s been flagged, so my guess is.. A higher up who’s sold us out.”

There you go.

“… I’ll look into it.” Your father mumbles. “Make sure that nothing is released into the media. The election is coming soon, we don’t want to do anything that’ll stir the public.”

“Understood.”

And the call ends just like that.

You blankly look at the road ahead of you, skin itching from the tightness and texture of your leather coat. Laid before your lap was a flat screen, in it were nine boxes— each playing a variety of scenes brought to you by the hidden cameras. Across every box, two swift figures maneuvered past the rooms with incredible ease. Several workers and scientists were sprawled across the jagged floors, motionless like corpses. You grimaced at the possibility of them being dead, but after seeing the thick gas emanating throughout every crevice of the building, you safely assumed that they were simply knocked out.

The Warehouse housed one of your father's investments; an Oscorp-Alchemax experiment funded by the elites, done underground and tested on prisoners to find some sort of super serum. When the new money folks thrusted themselves into the world of High society, most of the higher elites came to applaud the idea of one man.

Harry Osborn.

As a kid, you grew up aspiring to be like Harry. Always so friendly and approachable to anyone and everyone he’s ever met.

He did it so effortlessly that you recognized his niceness as a talent.

Harry came from second generation money— hailing this scientific empire called Oscorp. Having been brought up by his father, Norman, who was an industrialist, Harry was all things sciencey.

After his father's death, Harry sought out a blueprint of his father's past works, finding a journal containing the records of several hypotheses in regard to a variety of drugs. A sort of instruction to turn into a superhuman being, he claims, that his father had put into mind but never really practiced.

A handful of the higher-ups adored the impressionable idea, one of its primary investors being your father. You never really understood his reasons, but when the drug seemingly began showing fruitful results, your father set you up under Antonne's name to supervise Warehouse 317 after Harry entrusted your family to house the experiment.

So at that moment, you weren't you.

And Miles wasn't Miles.

He didn’t know what he was doing here. But he never bothered to really ask since his Uncle seemed tense all throughout the journey.

When Aaron told him to strap up for a sudden mission, he wasn't expecting a raid— nor was he expecting him to bring him to a hidden laboratory containing all these alien-like fuckeries. From glass beakers to drums filled to the brim with some sort of neon liquid, it all varied in levels of strangeness. Everywhere he looked, he could find the same circular, yellow warning sticker staring right back at him. Behind his digital mask, he skims past the unconscious workers— checking every crevice to see if anyone had escaped the incapacitating agent.

“According to the drive, the stuff are located in the north building.” His uncle’s voice snaps him out of the haze. “I’ll be heading there. I’m sure you can fend for yourself?”

“F’course I can,” Miles answered. “I can knock a bitch or two out with these.” He grinned while unfoldding his claw.

“You kiss your mama with that mouth? Watch yo tongue.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aaron pats his shoulder. “Record the evidence, I’ll go find the blueprints.”

With a single nod, Miles sets off with his mission in mind. When the holographic interface materializes from his wrist-mounted control panel, he activates the scanner with a light tap. The digitalized purple light cascades over the room, gathering physical data with each passing step.

He prided in his cut-edge tech— developed into great usage by his and his uncle’s hands. In a way, it reassured him that he had epically great potential, despite the current crisis going on in the city. But of course, his greatest pride was the fact that you liked the idea of the Prowler. That alone harbored him confidence he never knew he had.

Miles never initially thought of himself as a hero, no matter how much he’s worked to save the lower class of New York. Heroes existed in the confines of comic books and kids’ TV shows. He wasn’t super, and he wasn’t a hero either. The term was black and white. Narcissistic, as you would put it.

But he liked playing along to the idea of being a superhero to you.

He wanted you to gawk and admire his vigilante identity. He wanted you to look at the TV early in the morning with a mug of coffee in your hands, pointing at the screen with a squeal, ‘It’s the Prowler!’

Most of all, he wanted you to know about it eventually.

When he passes by the computers, Miles heads straight for the manila folders, unraveling his gauntlet just to grasp the files better.

[ 11 | 10 | 2020 ]

•[𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝: #𝟷𝟷𝟹𝟸] 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝟻𝟼

𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎. 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.

𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝. 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

With the slightest jolt of his palm, the paper crumbles, and behind it sat another file. He peers through it diligently, only to find a name signed at the bottom.

And it crumples from the clamp of his fist.

Anthony Primo-Chávez.

The surname, Primo-Chávez, was the household name of the family who owns the Primm Hotel, and a single mention of it alone only reignited the anger he was sparing for the upcoming plans. All of the rage he kept to himself was seeping out the cracks of his still-grieving heart, and the grief remained a permanent scar.

And with a whisper of the wind, the warehouse falls into darkness.

There was this chill crawling up his back, and it haunted him. And in the silence that surrounded him, he calls out for his uncle.

And it echoes, and echoes. No one replies. Only the silence answered to his desperate calls. At that point, all that he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating out of his chest— a sort of morbid reminder that he was still alive. It made him wonder if that was all his father heard when he was trapped beneath the fallen carcass all those years ago. Just like that carcass, in the midst of all that darkness, screams begin to bellow.

Oh. One of the scientists have woken up.

But all Miles could picture was all what could’ve happened that night, when everything fell apart. Did they scream like this? Call out for help like this? Did his father struggle to breathe like this?

A lone light shines above the metal rails— a watch window, large and square, gleaming in this daunt violent that flickered and flickered. There was a figure there, dark, willowy, and invasive in the way it stared.

Unmoving, watching. A gaze that lingered like the chill running down his back.

What did they do in here?

Like a croak, the question bubbles up his throat and releases.

“Who are you?”

Like a growl, the voice changer emits the query a too many tones lower. At that question, the being tilts its head.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Velvety, low, exhausted— and it oozed from the broadcaster mic like a tease. You stared at the Prowler, almost amused by his size. From above, he seemed much tinier, like less of a threat. You feel your breath cascade against the lenses of your gas mask, sweat sticking to the leather of your gloves. There, you see the digitalized magenta and the gleam of his steel claws, as though he meant to intimidate. You stood partially befuddled at the fact that the vigilante everyone revered and loathed was likely a teenager.

“… You don’t know what this place is, don’t you?”

Ｂ　Ｏ　Ｏ　Ｍ.

The wall beside him crumbles into dust.

Miles shields himself from the impact, the cement’s fumes blinding his sights. Upon the activation of his night vision, he searches in behind the violet screen, finding only his uncle emerging from the smoke and debris, rushing with a USB in his hands. Behind him, a flock of guards came rushing in with their ray guns— flames of red bursting into a shower as the man signaled him to run.

Miles casts a quick glance at the window above.

No one’s there.

“ＥＶＡＣＵＡＴＥ ＡＬＬ ＥＭＰＬＯＹＥＥＳ

ＩＭ ＭＥＤＩＡＴＥＬＹ. ＩＭ ＭＥＤＩＡＴＥＬＹ.”

The digital voice commands along with a blaring alarm.

The warehouse that housed this elaborate labyrinth, it continued on and on like a maze. Bland green tiles and white walls, glass screens— like a pattern he immediately grew to dislike. It all went on and on like a fever dream, but Miles’ head was ringing with the sight of the man he saw up the window.

And he lays it all out in his mind, trying to piece it altogether.

Ｂ　Ｏ　Ｏ　Ｍ．

The walls click and collapse, and the floors shake, but Miles doesn’t look back. The sound of the guards’ heavy stomps cease though, eventually replaced with a sort of screech that irked his ears.

It was unfamiliar to him. He’s faced over a hundred bad people, but only the sight of that being unsettled him more than the rest.

“Up ahead!”

He watches as his Uncle heads right out the window with a fall, the shards ricocheting behind him like specs of snow as he throws a carabiner right back at Miles to snatch. His fingers thinly reach for the cord when he’s suddenly assaulted to the ground with a powerful force.

Ｃ　Ｒ　Ａ　Ｓ　Ｈ.

“Agh!” He grumbles in pain, rolling down to the ground. But even then, it wasn’t the pain that made every hair on his limb stand, it was the sound of your heeled boots clicking against the tiles, and the sound of your metal blade scraping against the wall.

“Mornin’, Prowler.”

Exhaustion made the delivery deeper. He senses it in you, and you sense it him. Though he was unaware of what your head was actually filled of, I’ve got a lecture at nine, I still have to do my literature essay, and I want to sleep. Miles wasn’t all that interested at all in what your mind bore. To be fair, from where he was, Miles only saw this figure towering over him with a long knife poking out its sleeve. Some gas mask, and a black leather coat. Even then as you stood above him, he could only watch as you fixed your gloves, pulling farther beneath your sleeve.

“It’s an honor to meet you like this.”

Fwip. With a crisp cut, the cord that connected him to his partner was severed. You throw it out the window along with the metal piece. “I’m not so usually cruel, but you’re trespassing my family’s property—“

“So this is your family’s property.” He stands back up, hands aching to fight. “Primo-Chávez. As I recognized.”

He claws at you, but instead, the metal meets the end of your unsheathed blade with a clink!

“You’re smart.” And when you pull away, he stumbles backward. “Let’s see if that’ll save you.”

Crack! The walls quivered as Miles narrowly avoided the blade aimed for his neck. He raises his gauntlets, lunging right at you with swift punches, to which you countered gracefully with quick blocks. Eventually, he manages to take hold of your shoulders, shoving you back with feet tangled like knots. You lower down and hook your heel over his ankle, pulling with force as he falters.

You crack your neck, pressing your heel over his shoulder to keep him down. “I’ll be honest with you, I think you’re awfully underwhelming.” You lean down to his level, musing yourself in the way he heaved.

“But I can forgive all that.” Your fingers fiddle with the strap of his backpack. “You’re useful in a way—“

With a gauntlet over your neck, he slams you against the wall.

“I ain’t working for nobody,” He churned. “And I definitely won’t be fucking working for people like you.”

“I never said you had to work for me.” You calmly replied despite his grip. “You just have to make better decisions from now on.”

“Fuck you mean by that?”

From the ache your neck bore, you knew it was gonna leave a bruise.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

He furrows his brows at that statement, holding himself back as he taunts. “… I wonder how your father is going to abandon you once I set this little investment of his on fire.”

Rather than the silence or panic he hoped, Miles heard you laugh.

“Do it.” You playfully suggest. “Do it, and kill all the other interns, employees, and guards in here.” Despite your façade, he could still sense the smirk creeping up your lips. “Then think to yourself, ask yourself; are you any better than my family?”

That alone catches him by surprise.

“… You’ve got a lot to learn.”

“What do you m—“ Before he could even finish off his sentence, a powerful strike ricochets into his stomach, sending him off to the other wall. A loud grunt emanates from his lips, hands gripping the lower of his belly as you set your foot down. “The next time we meet, do promise me that you’ll be much more of a promising opponent. Today was.. Eventless.” Your gaze sets sights on the camera hidden in the corner.

“For now, I’ll have to let someone else do the job.”

As though on cue, you see his partner rush in with the broken cord in his hand. The same broken cord you’d thrown out. Without another word, he lunges at you with lightning speed, and the way you collide with the glass wall sends ripples across the corridor.

“You goddamn son of a bitch.”

“Long time no see.”

Ｃ　Ｒ　Ａ　Ｓ　Ｈ.

And from then on, Miles watches as this figure and his uncle battled amidst the labyrinth. But your words struck him hard, ‘Long time no see’— what did that mean? Did his uncle have a sort of connection to the elites, or has he worked for the upper class before?

With how his punches flew, Miles sensed this sort of undying rage that crackled with the quiver of his Uncle’s fist.

Why did this battle seem so natural? Like the two of them know each other’s moves too well.

“I see you’ve resigned.” You curtly brought up, grunting as he mercilessly charges at you. “And seems like you’ve brought a little something with you.” Upon the mention of Miles, Aaron struck back with a blow, feigning ignorance at your words. Despite your state, you managed to put up a great fight. “Why did you bring him here? He doesn’t seem fit for the job—“

“Stop the small talk, Antonne.”

Antonne.

Anthony Primo-Chávez.

“I’m simply being polite,” You grinned. “It’s been a while, don’t you think so too?”

With that alone, Miles somehow confirmed that the figure was the heir of the hotel in the flesh. The man responsible for the deaths of many— the man responsible for the death of his father. But something felt wrong, like a sense that was gnawing at his guts.

He couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly.

Just of now, Miles realizes that he had no place here, at least, not yet. But he was just as confused as the other guy, why did his uncle bring him here if it was too dangerous?

“Is your sister also a piece of shit like you?”

Sister?

“She’s a little more pacifist than all of us.”

You lie so naturally, it was like second-nature to you— as though it was your second, utterly ridiculous hobby next to scheming. To play the part of Antonne was excruciating enough, but it was enjoyable in a way. You haven’t seen the Prowler for about four years— last seeing him when you were twelve, when he worked for the Fisks until his abrupt resignation. Next thing you and the elite knew, the mercenary who once worked for the high-class was now a vigilante working against them.

No one particularly knew the reason why. You somewhat guessed what it was.

And when the both of you crashed past the danger zone, you knew that the situation was way beyond your grasps from this point on, and the best you could hope for was a perfect gamble.

The man grabs all that he could in his anger, from glass beakers to steel rods, he figures splashing you with whatever thing he could find can help in making you perish from his sights.

You fight back, without the usage of anything else except the blade, only until Aaron repeatedly smashes your head inside a closed-off frozen cage. The two of you fall right in, breaking some sort of container in the process.

“What the fuck?”

Like a flame, it sears your skin— causing you to panic and recklessly pat away at the tar-like substance enveloping you in its sticky embrace. Without even a shriek, it consumes your system entirely, sending you down on your knees.

And the next thing you know, everything else fades into black.

Aaron pulls away, in shock of the dark matter unveiling before him. Immediately, he places a hand over Miles’ eyes, ushering him away.

From afar, they could hear the police sirens coming.

“Let’s— let’s go.” Aaron hurriedly commands.

“Uncle Aaron.”

Miles exhaustively calls out to him.

“Uncle Aaron!”

As his mask unfolds, Miles squints as the sunlight seeping from the tall trees welcomes him, shielding his face with his hands while trudging across the stones to meet his Uncle’s steps. Aaron pauses for a moment, taking only one look back.

“Why’d you bring me there?” Miles directly starts. “I wasn’t strong enough to be there— who was that guy? How- How did you suddenly know about the location of the warehouse, how did— I don’t— I-I have school in three hours, I don’t get why you had to bring me along—“

“That girl you’re seeing,” Aaron intervenes without a waste of breath. “What’s her last name?”

Miles takes a step back, furrowing his brows.

“[L/n].”

Aaron nods. “… It’s the same as the file.”

“What?”

“Bring her to dinner.”

Now everything further confused him, what did you have to do with all of this?

“I-I can’t bring her to dinner yet— what do you mean part of the f— we haven’t even gone on a date yet!”

The date set for tomorrow. The trick-or-treating date Miles had always longed for. Aaron tosses his hand upward. “Just make it quick and let me meet her.” He commands in a rush, pacing his steps faster. “We’ve got to get moving before they find us.”

“But— I don’t get it. What does [Y/n] have to do with all of this?"

Aaron stops for a moment, looking up before heaving a long, jagged sigh.

“… I got a file last night. Sent by an anonymous number. Someone managed to take a picture of you and your girl earlier when you were walking her home.”

Hearing this, a bundle of worries begin to churn in Miles’ mind. This whole night enough was messy for him, and he couldn’t understand why things were getting so complicated. Like what Antonne said earlier, it was ingrained into his mind, Aren’t you supposed to be smart?

“Along with the pictures, I got sent a file. [Y/n] [L/n], is..” Aaron consequently looks into his nephew’s eyes, a sort of hesitation imbued in his system. “Somewhat connected to the Primos.”

Miles halts entirely, and over and over, like how he’s always asked for the last hour. “What?”

“I.. I’ll just tell you when we get home.”

It was many years ago, when your mother endowed this habit of sitting you down by her vanity just to comb your hair and fix you up like a doll.

At that time, you were a tiny little girl with tiny little legs that were unable to reach the floor, instead opting to dangle them with light kicks from your seat— thinking you were some kind of mermaid. During those times, you could only spot at least the whole of your head staring right back at you, but rather than yourself, you marveled at the sight of your mother and her clothes.

The colors she wore were patterned in dates. Mauve, pink, white, and sometimes vermilion in special occasions. Those were the days she used to pick out your clothes for you, and whenever you complained about the color being too bright or dull, your mother would claim that she'd know your colors the best.

As you got older, and when you started dressing for yourself, in the colors you liked, and in the sort of mauve and pink that suited you, you watched as your mother would stare at you from afar with an irate frown, and silently, you'd think to yourself.

Even in the way I rebel against you, you still see yourself in me, because when you look at me, you see only a mirror of your younger self grimacing in disgust. You'd come so far to convince yourself that you're at the height of your being, but your daughter and your child-self only sees mediocrity.

…

“Miss?”

A flurry of people. Lots of talking. You despised that.

“Miss, are you awake?”

“[Y/n], wake up this instant!”

And at your father’s instruction, your eyes peel open almost immediately. You’re greeted with the sight of the ceiling, and your skin covered in warmth. You look at yourself, finding bruises all over your arms, still wearing your white dress shirt and formal pants. Silently, you force yourself to sit up despite the ache you felt, wincing as you spot several faces surrounding you. There was your father, pacing back and forth, certainly distressed about something; Antonne, with his arms crossed, sitting by the edge of your bed; some physician, silently standing by the side with her hands clasped together; and Harry Osborn standing alongside her.

“What’s going on in here?” You haphazardly asked.

“You almost died.” Antonne stirs the silence. “The Warehouse was set on fire, and you were still inside.”

“The warehouse was set on fire!?” You jolt up, only now realizing the dirty looks from your father. “That’s impossible, how could—“

“There were traces of gasoline.” Emerging from the doors, your father approaches you with a sort of chagrin in his glare. “Since you failed to capture or at least slow down the perpetrators, that happened.”

“… You’re placing the blame on me?” You ask, hardly believing your ears.

“We’re not—“ Just as Harry’s about to speak, your father intervenes. “Yes, we are. Because of your incompetence, we lost millions worth of money in damages!”

“Sir, calm down.”

“Father, this is what I’ve been telling you about.” Antonne pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s sixteen! How could she have possibly fought against a mercenary!?”

“I did better than you.” Poison spewed from your lips, losing all sort of rationality. “This has never happened before. Whenever there was something any of you asked me to do, I did my very best. How could I possibly perform my best when I lacked sleep and I was dependent on coffee!?”

“Your brother is right.”

Hearing that alone was a nightmare.

“Although you’re talented in upkeep and information, you’re too young to fight against an ex-assassin.”

You helplessly scramble off the bed. “Daddy, you’re being unfair.”

Daddy. It’s like you were a ten-year-old fighting for his attention once again. You looked at Antonne, and then your father, shifting in complacency. “I worked for three years, ceaselessly. Even if it meant giving up my weekends and studying so hard that it made my nose bleed. I got the job done, even if no one paid me or thanked me, I still did everything.”

“We’ve lost a lot of resources,” Harry begins. “And we’ve been brought back to square one because of the fire.”

Before Harry could even finish off his explanation, you lift a finger and point at him accusingly. “This is because one of your people decided to leak information—“ In between your rant, Antonne attempts to soothe you. “Had it not been for the fact that you decided to let untrusted people into the faction, we wouldn— stop it, Antonne— we wouldn’t be dealing with this sort of thing. Mother warned you about it, and you brushed off her every warning— STOP IT, ANTONNE!” You finally yelled out. Your brother ceases, lifting his hands off of you after he sees that you’re shaking.

What’s wrong with me?

Why am I being more emotional than usual?

The way the rage consumed you left you in dismay. At a short moment of epiphany, you run your hands across your face and, like a switch, all of your emotions reboot.

“I apologize. I spoke out of line.”

That line alone was chilling.

“I’m sorry, [Y/n].” The tender way Harry called out your name was unfathomable. “I know it’s upsetting that your job is being taken away from you, and you have every right to get upset. However, for your sake and your health, you can pass on these responsibilities to Montrell for now.”

“Montrell’s in London.” You add. “He can’t possibly take over—“

“He’s not in London.” Antonne confesses. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head. “What are you talking about?”

“… It was going to be a surprise but..”

Oh no.

“Oh,” You blankly state, your mind rioting. “I see.”

“It’s an unplanned decision, really,” Your father explains. “Montrell also has no idea that you’ve taken Antonne’s place in taking care of the hotel for the last three years. It’d be better for you, as well, to take a break.”

You wanted to scream, break down, curse at everyone.

“I’m sorry for being too harsh on you, [Y/n].” Harry eases, placing a hand over your shoulder. “However, you have to understand that it’s also for the best.”

“I understand.” Fuck you, and fuck all of you.

“We’ll leave you to rest for now.” Yeah, leave me the fuck alone before I melt the fuck down.

As they step out, all the tension in the room leave along with the squeak of their fine, leather dress shoes. You’re left with the silent physician, whose presence you’d completely forgotten despite the wildness of her dark curls. She shifts uncomfortably, parting her lips to speak, only to find that she didn’t know what to say.

“What is it?” You ask, lowering your voice so as to not intimidate. Prompting to break the silence in her place.

The woman blinks at you, somewhat relieved by your words.

“Can I be direct, Miss?” She sternly asks.

“It’ll be better off that way, frankly.”

She leans a little closer, tugging on the sleeve of your arm. “When you first got here, your body was riddled with cuts, bruises, and broken bones around— oh, can I touch you?”

You squirm. “I’m not a relic.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Most of the rich people I’ve worked with were usually snobby douches who think their skin shed gold.” She subtly laughs, raising the fabric up higher. “Initially, I believed you were exactly that kind of rich kid, but after seeing what happened, you don’t seem like anything they say.”

You raise a brow. “.. Have we met each other before?”

She looked at you as though you’d just insulted her, her eyes about to pop off her thick-rimmed glasses.

“.. I work at Alchemax. I’m the head of the research team in the particle accelerator project— we’ve spoken many, many times before.”

“.. You’re not my physician?”

Her lips tighten into a line. “I take what I said back. You’re exactly like all those other rich kids.”

“W-well, I’m sorry.” You grumbled. “I work with a hundred different people almost every single day, my mind usually shuts down when I’m at work.”

“Well, your father did just drag me out of the line and forced me to fix you up since they didn’t want to risk calling for a doctor who doesn’t know that you’re parading as your brother.” She spoke so quickly, it made you rethink what she just said three times. “Anyways— I needed to tell you that under my observations, you’ve healed yourself in a supernaturally fast rate that it’s groundbreaking.”

“What?”

“Six hours ago, you had broken bones in here,” She points her fingers at your shoulder. “Here,” Followed by your thigh. “And here.” Then your calf. “But after seeing your little drama session with your father, you were able to move yourself without any sort of pain. Initially, I concluded that you must’ve had some very high pain tolerance, but I noticed that so many of your cuts and bruises have all been healed, and that,” Her fingers trace a line over your neck. “That was red as hell just moments ago. Now, it’s gone.”

Oh, the mark you got from Prowler Jr after he choked the hell out of you.

You liked calling him that. Prowler Jr— a smaller, rustier protégée of the Prowler you grew up with.

“.. I wonder why so.”

There was a wily grin on her face that unsettled you tremendously.

“Well, without your father looking, I ran a test on you.”

“You what?”

Without even a single second to lose, the woman takes out few samples from her bag, laying them all out before you with a couple of handwritten documents.

“Here.” She states so proudly.

You marveled at all that she’s written— unfortunately for you, her handwriting was so messily done that you couldn’t understand a single damn thing.

“… You could get sued for this, you know that?”

“Your father wouldn’t. Unlike his children, he can’t find a replacement for me.”

Your mouth hung in disbelief at what you just heard. Rather than acknowledging the insult, however, she plucks out a print of what you assumed were tiny splotches of black tar on a petri dish.

“What the hell is that?”

“I got that swabbed out of your mouth.”

“Oh fuck, I thought I’d dieted enough for the performance!”

“It’s not sweets, sweetheart.” She answered defeatedly, clearly full of your unsure-weaponized-incompetence. “It’s a mysterious symbiote that we’ve recently caught hold of four months ago, and during your fight with the Prowler, it forged itself into your system.” Her fingers trace down your arm, grasping the center of your wrist while grinning. “And it can make you do this.”

As she squeezes your hand, a black matter ejects from your palm. You jolt away, slapping her hand off as you curse.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?”

“The symbiote.” She casually replies. “Isn’t it amazing?”

It retreats like a slimey being, pushing itself back into your skin as though it’d all been a mere hallucination.

“You mean to tell me there’s some alien slime living inside my body!?”

“Well, yes—“

“GET IT OUT OF ME!”

She winces at the loudness of your voice, moving back an inch away. “That’ll take a while for me to dissect. You have to come to my lab tomorrow if you want me to find a way to pull that away from you.”

“I can’t go tomorrow.” You had a date with Miles, and that alone was reasonable enough to miss anything and everything else. “I-I have practice for the fundraiser on Sunday, and I’m still the hostess, so I have to make sure that the preparations are seamless.”

“… I have a comment, but I’m not sure if you’ll like it since you probably hear it all the time.”

“What? That I’m just like my mother?”

She scrunches her nose. “I was going to say that you’re too young to be acting so old.” The woman turns away, beginning to pack up her things again. “You’re sixteen. You should be going out to parties, creating fake IDs, sneaking out to make out with your boyfriend— whatever other shit girls your age like to do.”

You try your hardest not to react at the last mention, since that was definitely what you just did a few hours before. You begin to rub your hands, the friction warming you up as your shoulders shrug.

“Well, as much as I want to do all that, I’ve got too much to do.”

“You won’t be sixteen forever, Miss.” She tosses the bag over her shoulder. “Take that from me. I’m forty-six, and I’ve went through a lot. I’d give everything to be your age again.”

As you watch her head for the door, you call out to her one last time.

“.. Call me [Y/n]. I don’t like it when people way older than me call me ‘miss’.”

She raised her brows. “Alright then, [Y/n].” Your name rolls off her tongue gently.

“How about you? What do I call you?”

With a hand over the knob, the woman beamed.

“.. I’m Olivia Octavius, but you can call me Liv.”

[eeeeuuughggg]

Omg I’m sorry, I never saw your post😭 I was the anon that requested Toby, and really it can be general or in a relationship with him, which ever you’d like best

what's it like being in a relationship with toby?

notes: AUGH. im srry this is short anon but tysm for the request its been ages since i've wrote something over like 300 words

w/c: 319

warnings: none

Road trips. Lots of them. The two of you driving around in his shitty old car at night, music blasting. You're not going anywhere in particular, but sometimes he'll take you to a fairly empty 7-Eleven parking lot. Maybe you get high, maybe you don't— it's up to you. Or maybe he'll take you under the old bridge a few miles away to graffiti, tagging your initials or carving them into a tree nearby, who knows?

He's a fucking nerd. He'll take you to music stores, looking through the vinyls, cds, posters, funko pops, merch, etc. Seven times out of ten, he'll start rambling about the band or artist, or drop the most random lore about how he supposedly met them at a garage sale or something like that.

Tags you in stupid shit on TikTok. Two feral stray cats fighting in an alleyway? "@/yourusername us". Silly video of a horse eating hay? "@/yourusername this is what u look like when u eat".

Dates with Toby will usually be away from public places. Either they're at home, in a secluded or abandoned area, or in a dark place, like an aquarium for example. Do you like a certain movie? He'll raid a gas station for snacks, set up a pillow fort, and put on that movie so the two of you can spend time together.

Maybe you like lego (because who doesn't?). He'll steal buy a bunch of sets for the two of you to build in your free time, sitting on the floor and talking about nothing or everything while building the set.

Play fighting is a big thing with him, too. Sure, he can't feel pain, but he loves the adrenaline. Both of you press your hands against the others, pushing until someone eventually falls over. Other small competitive activities aren't uncommon, like thumb wars, or arm wrestling, maybe a bit of staring contests in the mix.

[lenreli]

Sunlit Station [Dreamling Week Day 3 - Solarpunk]

[AO3] | [Dreamling Week Masterpost]

More Life!Hob for the soul.

E, 1.9k. The flowers outside the station aren’t alive, he can’t feel them like he can feel planets or stars, or the tiniest insect, but the fact that humanity made them to reflect flowers, a sponge soaking up solar light or dark matter in the shape of flowers, he’s always touched by.

-

Hob has many favourite places throughout human history, places he holds close to his heart, even though they’re no longer there, whether by the change of, well, him, or by other means, he’s always had places he visits more than others. Although, one of the latest places he likes most is being near Dream, even though, by virtue of being Life itself, he can always feel Dream, it’s― 

Anyway. 

What he means to say is ― this station, in the orbit of a gas planet far away from humanity’s own Solar System, may just be a new favourite. It’s only existed for a hundred and fifty years, but it’s always amazing to see the greenery surrounding the station, constantly fed by the sun nearby, protected by any universal winds with layers of tough glass to make them grow and bloom, providing energy for the station. 

“Hob,” a voice whines and Dream soon comes to lean against his back, arms going around his waist, “the windows just came up, come back to bed,” Dream says, voice muffled by the other’s lips against his shoulder as he looks outside their room. 

“But it’s always so beautiful,” he breathes, looking outside his window to see the miles of green leaves and blue flowers on the station. Dream just groans and holds him tighter, pressing into his back. 

“Every morning,” Dream despairs into his neck. Hob smiles and looks up, seeing a mass of black flowers amongst the green. 

“Your favourites are here,” he says teasingly, pointing up, “the ones that swallow the dark matter bursts.” Those ones don’t tend to show up at their room often, the outside of the station able to move the greenery to where it’s needed most on the surface of it. Dream makes an unintelligible sound, pulling him back into bed, and Dream’s complaints ease as Hob kisses him, nipping down to his neck. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.” 

Dream gives him a highly unimpressed look as he leaves their bed. 

-

The flowers outside the station aren’t alive, he can’t feel them like he can feel planets or stars, or the tiniest insect, but the fact that humanity made them to reflect flowers, a sponge soaking up solar light or dark matter in the shape of flowers, he’s always touched by. The station itself, a long column of metal with five rings around it, connecting to the centre is beautiful and so green. 

Inside the station however, are flowers and vines, various food gardens buzzing with life as people go about their day. So many stations and ships that humans use only have a few, enough to live by, but this station flourishes by contrast. 

Dream is sure that Hob influenced the maker’s of this station to make it so green, but Hob is quite sure he didn’t. Not that Dream would hear otherwise, sticking to his little conspiracy. 

It probably doesn’t help that he’s currently a gardener for the few floors above and below where they live, making sure that all the plant life and insects are well throughout the day. He’s known in the staff for his knack of knowing what plants need more of what. 

After checking out the food garden’s automatic water and fertilisers are working at the correct levels, he follows a particular spark of life up an elevator to the top, finding Dream on a small tablet in the roof level at the centre, known to be one of the darker places constantly. And perfect for Dream. “And what will the prolific artist of our age do this time?” He asks in greeting. 

Dream grunts and pouts, “I’m not prolific.” 

Hob grins and tilts his head, resting it on the other’s bony shoulder, “if we add up all your previous aliases works, then it’d easily be over two thousand works. Not to mention all the other works inspired your own.” 

Dream freezes, eyes very round as they stare at him in horror. “You’re―no,” Dream gapes, and Hob can almost see Dream doing the sums in his head. “That.” Dream stops, staring at his tablet like it’s a monster, and Hob worries over the potential meltdown he can feel brewing.

“As always, I’m interested in what you’ll do next,” he says softly, distracting Dream from staring at his tablet in increasing terror. “But if you want to do something else for a bit, I’d also be into that.” 

“I―I don’t,” Dream stutters, blinking in shock and Hob takes a hold of his hand, kissing the knuckles lightly. Dream wheezes and folds into his seat, hand gripping his hard in return. “I just―never saw it that way. So much,” Dream says quietly, fingers pressing into the calluses on Hob’s palms. 

“Hopefully not enough to go cuckoo on me just yet,” he replies, making Dream laugh, voice cracking at the end. 

“Maybe just don’t tell me in future, I’d rather not know,” Dream groans, free hand pulling Hob close by his shoulders. Hob uses his own free hand to pet black hair.

“Of course. I’ll keep this forbidden knowledge hidden,” he says severely, lightly kissing all over Dream’s face until he starts to giggle.

-

“Hob,” Dream whines, fingers trying to move inside the vines that are keeping his hands tied up on the bedpost. 

“Dream,” he moans, the other’s hard cock hitting his prostate constantly, pleasure brimming and overflowing, always loving when they’re like this. 

“Let me,” Dream cries out, blue eyes wet and his hands try to get out of the vines ― making Hob’s vines wind even tighter, going down his arms as Hob continues to ride him. “Please, let me,” Dream babbles, letting out a strangled groan as the vines wind down around Dream’s pale torso, feeling him breathe heavily as a vine wraps around Dream’s cock and balls, down to his thighs. 

“My pretty Dream,” he leans in, kissing Dream deeply, orgasm building up steadily with the other’s cries, the cock inside twitching as his partner tries to come, although stopped by the vines. 

Dream heaves, tears streaming down his face as he arches up, mouth slack as words fail him, leaving only needy sounds. Which is what Hob was after, Dream still freaking out about the amount of works he’s done over the centuries. 

“My beloved, my most precious,” he whispers as Dream cries out once more, feeling him slackening in the vines, giving himself over as Hob orgasms, come splattering over Dream’s pale chest. Leaning down, he goes to lick and nip up Dream’s throat, feeling him breathe evenly. “So perfect for me.” 

Dream hums, dark lashes fluttering as his partner stares at him, eyes blank. Hob sighs and rests his forehead against Dream’s, caressing the other’s jaw, thumb going up to touch the pink lips. 

“There we go,” Hob soothes, loosening the vines around Dream’s cock, rocking slowly against the hardness still pressing against that spot, “let go for me,” he whispers, nosing against Dream’s sharp cheekbone as his partner lets out a keen, and it only takes a few more passes before Dream comes inside him, filling him up. 

Dream relaxes even more, the vines the only thing holding him up. 

-

With life, there’s always death ― and he can feel it, people, planets, stars dying in a large enough scale to make him sit in his living room on the couch, feeling it all. Mourning it, becoming less of himself as a person as he feels the destruction, knowing that it was made by human hands, can feel the debris of it.

“Hob?” Dream speaks, a vine still twined around his throat as he sits in front of him, expression worried. “What happened?” 

Blinking, he can feel tears on his eyes, cheeks feeling cold from them as he comes back to himself, and turns on the TV, news showing what’s happened, grim and stark at where the star system used to be. Dream looks at the news in resigned horror, eventually sitting next to him, hugging him tightly. 

Sighing, Hob hides his face in Dream’s neck, grabbing onto Dream as more tears well up. 

-

The station and everyone on it are in a muted chaos as the news continues, as people closer to where the system was start pouring in, coming in on ships and cryopods, and there’s talk of adding more levels to the end of the station. 

Before, when these things have happened, whether by black holes or weapons, Hob retreats into himself, keeping quiet as he processes it. 

And even with that devastation, the sheer enormity of it ― stars are still born, planets still forming, people being born. Hob can feel it, grabbing onto the new life still being born, the attempts at sentient robots at a whole edge of the universe, and he holds onto it with both hands. 

“Dream,” he calls a few months later, waiting near the door as Dream gets ready for going out to do dinner. 

There’s the sounds of hairspray and soon Dream appears, eyeliner black and pointed on and Hob can even muster up a bit of appreciation out of the melancholy he’s feeling. “Yes?” 

“I want to visit,” he says quietly and Dream frowns. 

“We will discuss that after dinner, alright?” Dream says gently and he nods as Dream looks him over, Hob not getting up to his usual level of dressed up as Dream goes to their wardrobe, and he manages a smile as Dream changes his shirt for a blue one, as well as brushing his hair and putting half of it up. A change of shoes from old sneakers to pointed black shoes is enough to make Dream deem him appropriate for their dinner as Dream presses a kiss to his lips.

-

Their own spaceship is cozy, some would say absurdly small, but it’s functional enough with a good enough FTL drive that the flight out to the area of once-was-a-system is only a few days from their station. Hob aches the closer they go to it, the scar on the universe still too fresh for anything to grow from its ruins. 

“Hob,” Dream gives him a worried look from the pilot controls, worry growing as Hob stands near the airlock. 

“I’ll be fine, I just need to―” he frowns, gesturing to the vast empty space, the edges of it filled with memorials and prayers, magnetic scraps of steel attracting pictures of loved one’s, of books and pictures of the places that were. 

“Okay,” Dream still sounds worried and Hob gives him a watery smile as he enters the airlock, pressurising it so he can walk outside onto the space. Stepping outside the ship, he ― floats, pushing himself to the steel closest to him, tears appearing as he stares at the life that was. 

Taking a breathless sigh, he moves forward, the scar revealing itself to him as he drifts forward into nothingness. 

-

On the way back to their station, they put on the auto-pilot as Dream holds him, hands petting his back and hair as they soak in each other’s presence. Hob drifts, almost sleeping as Dream pulls out a book to read, melodious voice lulling him into the first sleep he’s had in a while. 

“How are you feeling?” Dream asks once he’s woken up, Dream having taken him to bed while he was asleep. 

“Bad,” he states, blinking up at Dream, “but it’ll heal. It always does,” he sighs and hides himself in the pale of Dream’s throat once again, melting on top of his warm partner. “And you’re here. Which is always nice. Even when I’m being like this.” 

“You’ve been there for me, all this time, so of course,” Dream replies. 

As they jump out of FTL, Hob looks at the station, covered in green and flowers of all colours and Hob can’t wait to see the gardens and plants he cares for. 

[Fin]

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Asking some artists/writers that I follow:

What is the most recent thing you've written or drawn? Do you like to share sneak peeks of your work, or do you prefer to post finished pieces only?

The most recent thing I've drawn is something for Easter Sunday...

The most recent thing I've been writing is the crossover finale!

I LOVE SPOILERS. Like, to the point where I'll end up giving away the entire story if you let me! I'll share sketch WIPS and snippets of my writing ALL. THE. TIME.

For example!!!!

The medical masks worked surprisingly well. They kept out the spores, in any case. DvD had been worried that they wouldn't be strong enough, that they should find some gas masks or ventilators. He didn't want to take any chances, but with time running thin they had no choice. The Hand.PNG had reassured them that the masks would work for the time being.

They made their way through the halls, DvD using a torch-light feature on his tech-bō and April using her phone to illuminate the way. Mikey stumbled as he tiptoed along with them, tripping and falling to his knees, the blue spores clouding around his head. DvD stopped at the sound of his knees hitting the floor, and turned around to see if he was alright. Michael had started shaking, he was too weak to walk on his own. 'Phael was busy carrying the TNT, Leon the container of weird ninpo stuff. He could manage carrying the weightless teen...

"Micheal?" he whispered, coming over to him and gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

That was a stupid question. Of course he was not okay. The kid had literally died not ten minutes ago, and 15 minutes prior to that he'd used his mystic abilities to the max and run himself dry of all possible energy, as well as reopening his scars and losing a lot of blood as a result. And even before that, he'd given away some of his strength to help aid the swayed NFIF Donatello. Mikey had been run through the ringer, and it had barely been over an hour. It was no wonder he was shaking as much as he was, unable to pick himself back up.

"Would you like me to carry you?" DvD asked, rubbing circles onto his back.

Michael didn't answer, at least not verbally. After a pause he nodded softly, squeezing his eyes shut as the tremors continued. DvD turned around and kneeled in front of him, letting the box turtle slowly climb onto his back and drape his arms over his brother's shoulders. DvD slipped the boy's legs over his hips, making sure he was secure before standing back up.

"All good back there?"

He didn't answer.

"Michael?"

He gently nuzzled his face into DvD's shoulder.

"All good--" he rasped, coughing afterwards.

Right, his throat was raw from screaming and crying.

"Alright then. Let's get going."

[haysgrove]

OMG THATS SO EXCITING !!!

some tips as someone who goes to concerts frequently:

-check venue info online if available ! some venues are like card only (no cash) or have certain restrictions on items you can bring in

-riding on that note , if the venue allows it , bring water (most venues require an either an unopened full water bottle or an empty water bottle if they have water stations)

-consider either eating before/after or bringing a snack if the venue allows it (venues sometimes don’t sell food OR the food is really expensive for poor quality/ridiculously small portions)

-consider bringing a sweater for after the show if it happens in the evening ! you probably won’t be cold DURING the show (especially if it’s an indoor venue , they get verrrry warm inside !)

-check merch/prices out online before your show ! many people will post pics of the merch booth on twitter/social media , or the artist sometimes puts the tour merch up on their website . it’s nice to go in with a plan instead of getting to the booth and making decisions under pressure ! that way you also have a better idea about your budget/how much money you want to set aside in the time leading up to the show .

-many events have cheap bootleg merch sold outside , and those usually only take cash so if you’re interested in a cheaper merch option , bring cash for that just in case .

-bring a portable charger !!!!!

-consider wearing a mask as big events in general can be hotbeds for sickness especially if you’re in GA/the pit . if you’re in a section with seating you should be fine though tbh . (eg. the band waterparks literally has a phenomenon called ‘Parxie Plague’ bc ppl either get sick or lice in the pit ??????? be safe 😭)

-even if you don’t feel the immediate urge , hit the bathrooms just in case if you have time , and if there’s an opener you don’t care too much to see then that’s one of the best times to go to the bathroom/get merch since most people will probably be watching them .

-if you’re going with someone and you feel safe being by yourself , consider splitting up in lines (eg. one person in merch line and one person getting food/getting spots in the pit if you have floor tickets) . it’s fine if not though , the wait is never really that bad + it’s fun to wait with a friend .

-wear sunscreen !! even if it is an indoor venue , most of the waiting happens outside (waiting for the venue to open , sometimes merch sales happen outside)

-if you have sensory issues , you may want to bring sunglasses (bright lights) or earplugs (some venues have reeeeeally loud acoustics , so it’s probably a good idea to bring them just in case)

-wear comfy shoes !! you’ll be doing some standing/walking/dancing so do consider that while planning outfits especially if you have somewhere to be the next day

-be safe and have so so so much fun !!!!!! i love concerts and i’m so excited that you’re going to be able to experience one !! <3

OUUU THANK U SM FOR THESE TIPS I GEN APPRECIATE THEM LOTS

Ill def keep them in mind I was actually thinking of bringing earplugs cause i do get very overwhelmed when lots of people+noise+lights (most likely) are combined

[ricekirspies]

GOING TO DISNEY WITH AVATAR

Headcannons

*This is what I think they would be like, don't get cranky if you don't agree*

Seating arrangement!

You, Tsireya and Kiri were talking about the mickey ears you would buy, while the boys fought about who would be the most scared ( it was really just Ao'nung and Lo'ak at eachothers throat with the other two holding them back). Tuk is just blasting cookie swirl c in her unicorn headphones.

Jake and Tonowari are also arguing about how Jake missed a turn, and Neytiri and Ronal are actually getting along and gossiping.

Then, Tsireya wips out UNO from nowhere and everyone is alert. Even Tuk who has shockingly turned off her iPad ( she's deffo an iPad kid). Now everyone is glaring at eachother with anger, apart from Rotxo. Ao'nung has to pick up 4 cards, Lo'ak blocks Tuk so she chucks her headphones at him, Neteyam and Kiri sit in silence concentrating, Rotxo is just saying well done at everything (You almost chuck Tuks headphones at him because of it) and you and Tsireya are teaming up against everyone.

Surprisingly enough, Rotxo wins and that causes everyone to start arguing. Eventually the mums come in and break it up, Neytiri stealing Tuk from you, so now you can actually swear and proper fight. But that's quickly dissolved when the caravan stops and you all turn your heads out the window to see a gas stop. And where there's a gas stop there is sweets. Trampling over eachother, everyone runs into the small shop and strips the shelves ( the parents are Dumbfounded with Neteyam forcing everyone to only pick up two things and saying 'we can share').

After your snack break, Ronal announces that you still have about 6 hours left. So everyone except Neteyam and Tsireya use this time as a nap break. Kiri decides to move over to the chair that Tuk was in You rest your head on her shoulder, which soon enough falls down to her lap but she doesn't mind. So she softly strokes your hair while you sleep. 30 minutes later, you wake up to see everyone but Tsireya asleep so you make a devious (😈😈) plan. Grabbing a two pens, you give one to Tsireya and starting on different ends you decorate everybody's face with artistic pieces ( the mums see you doing this but don't care). Ao'nung wakes up first, and startles everyone else awake with his annoying laughter. But he quickly shuts up when Lo'ak tells him to look at himself, stealing Kiris mirror and sliding it down the table to him.

Then you all decide to go into the back bedroom to watch a movie. Neteyam sits on the floor, as do rotxo and Ao'nung (who isn't very happy about that and told everyone on the bed to fuck themselves). Everyone agrees to watch Frozen, although lo'ak and Ao'nung don't look too pleased. Now everyone is screaming at the tv singing 'Let it go'.

Then you guys stop at a hotel bc its gotten too late. So Neteyam,Ao'nung,Rotxo andlo'ak share a room, you, Kiri, Tsireya Tuk share, and the married couples all share a room with their partner.

You and the girls decide to have a girls night, with facemasks and gossiping and everything. So that's what you do. Tuk tells you all the tea from her primary, while you guys tell her all the gossip and shit going on at your school. Then soon enough a knock comes, Tsireya opens it and Rotxo asks if he can come in ( the boys are constantly arguing) so you all look at eachother and nod, because he's just the sweetest ever. Then Neteyam wants to come in, then Lo'ak and finally, Ao'nung. Luckily, you brought extra face masks so you do all the boys.

Afterwards, Ao'nung says something stupid, so you throw a pillow at him, he throws it back, so you grab it and aggressively attack him. And thus starts, the pillow fight. Boys vs Girls. Even though Tuk is dead asleep on a bed, you manage to win a three against 4.

As for sleeping arrangements, you and Tsireya are all cuddled up, Kiri and Tuk sleeping on a different bed, and all the boys on the floor with pillows and blankets. You were woken up 5 times bc Ao'nung wouldn't stop kicking lo'ak in the face.

Before you know it, you've tidied up the room and are back on your way, only 4 hours left now. And you decide that is the perfect amount of time to take insta photos. So you spend the next 30 minutes getting a good lighting and angle, and force everyone to get in.

You stop at McDonald's 2 hours before, and Jake is rushing everyone in and out saying 'we're on a schedule here, Jesus people' and Lo'ak makes things worse by ordering the wrong meal and Neteyam says he somehow takes full responsibility. Now Jake's shoved everyone into the car all moody after sorting it out, so you guys have to literally look everywhere but eachother because if anyone makes eye contact you will all set all laughing.

And finally you've made it into disney, getting out of the caravan everyone is overjoyed and you just rush over to the entrance, Tuk has out down cookie swirlc yet again to join you (Jumping on your back, forcing you to carry her).

Fun facts

Kiri never got her mirror back.

It was actually Neteyams fault that Lo'aks order was messed up

Tsireya is going to ask you to date her a Disneyland (if I make a pt.2)

[tobiasdrake]

We're in. And we are making bad choices.

For the record, I'm pretty sure that whoever attacked us slipped out the door into the panel room and is now hiding behind the giant vault door we had to open to get in here. But, just like Desuhiko wouldn't let us disarm security, Yuma won't let us go back out into the panel room and check.

Fink the Slaughter Artist is right there, guys.

Got stabbed. Three times, as a matter of fact, judging from the wounds in his back.

Honestly, as Slaughter Art goes, I'm disappointed. Fink had ample time and this whole room to use as his canvas. "On floor stabbed by knife" is about as mediocre of a presentation as it gets.

You're gonna have to step up your game, Fink. Check out the Nail Man crime scenes some time. Now that is dedication to the craft. I'm sorry but as a critic, I'm going to have to give this piece my lowest score ever: 76.5/100.

About fucking time. That's what I wanted to do a minute ago and you were like, "NOOOO We gotta check the body!"

We could be in there right now checking the body if you hadn't stopped me.

OH BY WE YOU MEAN "YOU'. Okay man. Nice to see the limits to your bravado are shining through again.

I mean that affectionately. I said back at Aetheria Academy that I get it: Desuhiko's job is undercover intelligence gathering. He doesn't work homicides. That's fair. I won't fault him for it.

But it's funny.

Okay, I can breathe. We'll be able to access the crime scene without choking to death on poison gas now. And I still think Fink is hiding behind that big metal door, so we might manage to corner them.

If they don't have an alternate point of exit then they have to get past us somehow. As long as we're thorough and don't rush to the scene like idiots, this should work out.

There goes that idea. If Fink isn't behind the door, then where the hell are they? That knife didn't levitate itself into Huesca's back three times.

I mean, it could have. Superpowers exist. But it didn't. He reacted to the presence of another human being in the room with him, so the killer was physically present. Somehow.

Super dead.

I'm intrigued by the whiteboard back there. It's possible that it's like that from use, but someone also might have done that to erase... something they didn't want made. If only there was a way to see what it looked like before.

...if we brought Halara here, they could use their Postcognition to see what the crime scene looked like at the moment the first witness laid eyes on it. Which would be....

Us! That would be us. Halara can use Postcognition to make this room resemble what it looks like right now, as we speak.

...

Okay, that's not going to be very useful. Especially when Shinigami can do the same thing.

I mean. Like. Almost half of the killings were me. So. I'm at a 7 victim body-count versus 11 victims not killed by me. Not counting the two Peacekeeper goons that Yomi had executed for failure.

If it makes you feel better, there's about to be more once Shinigami and I figure out whodunit.

Excuse you, Shinigami. My corpse-production rate is also probably unparalleled within the WDO. I've certainly killed way more people than any Master Detective I've met to date. Well, except maybe Halara.

Oh, this will look good on our rap sheet. Everyone, prepare to say hihi to Yomi when he walks on. I want us all to give him our biggest smiles and most pleasant waves, like there's absolutely nothing wrong with this scene at all.

He won't be fooled for a second but he'll certainly be taken aback by it, and that will be a funny sight before we die.

...actually, on second thought, maybe we could rearm security. Close the door, turn the traps back on, and let Yomi tear out his hair trying to figure out how to pry us out of here. Then we can take our time investigating the death.

Nope, too late. Plan A then.

HIHI BUDDY! How are you? I'm swell! :D

The latter, as a matter of fact. Good guess, man. I can't even begin to try and defend myself when we all know I'll be going 8-to-12 by the time the sun rises again over Kanai Ward.

Yuma, we should probably go with that plan. We can buy time for Halara to get here by... whatever method Yakou did and then kick everyone's ass.

Oooh, a party! We should definitely go along with that plan! I've been wanting a party since we first got to the sub. Maybe there'll be cupcakes.

Wait, no, these guys are fascists. Sprinkled donuts. The monsters.

HA! Distraction! I recognize that shrieking voice. The guy "dying in agony" outside is Yakou.

Watch for our chance to bail, guys.

DON'T TELL YOMI, YOU DIPSHIT. Oh my god. All that effort to create a convincing distraction and Desuhiko blurts out, "LOOK, HE'S DISTRACTING YOMI!!!"

Yuma, I know you're generally non-violent except for all the murders but slap him.

Oh hey, it's my CTU plan! Throw Desuhiko at them and run like hell! Fubuki, Yuma, this is our chance!

In seriousness, I have no idea how this would seriously work. Those two guys have guns trained on us and a third with a baton is at the door. Desuhiko's hug of doom wouldn't stop them from shooting us in the slightest.

But okay. I guess this is how we get out of here.

Least we can go hook up with Yakou and figure out a new avenue for--

Oh. Uh. Hi. You must be Fink. How's tricks....

Oh. That's how.

Shit.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit, that wasn't a distraction! IT'S HIM! IT'S FUCKING HIM! YAKOU IS THE FIRST TO DIE.

I mean he was the most expendable. Out of everyone here, I'll miss him the least. But still. Fuck. I am not ready for people to start dropping dead.

Fink again. Tossed his cloak aside to reveal a lab coat underneath, just before 'rounding the corner and vanishing from sight.

Total poser move. Definitely Halara. :P

Another one of Fink's knives. They all have the same F carved into them. Fink likes to leave his knives behind at his crime scenes so everyone knows he did it.

We broke the tradition of two bodies in chapter three so that we could have two bodies in chapter four.

Hooo. Why Yakou? He was out-of-disguise so this wasn't a mistaken identify or anything. Which, on that note, why was he out-of-disguise? But. In any case. What could Fink have possibly had against Yakou?

Was this revenge? Did Fink cheat on his wife and Yakou exposed him? I have no idea what to make of this.

We are officially across the threshold. Our teammates are mortal now. That. Is terrifying.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

lies are only as good as the person telling them (and you've never claimed to be) part 8

Read on Ao3 Masterlist

Warnings: none

Pairings: nolan/john/sarah

Word Count: 1736

An epilogue of sorts for our three con artists.

”I don’t understand why I have to be the one crawling through the vents.”

“Because you’ve got the most experience doing it, you’re better built for it than John is, and I’m going to be wearing a dress.”

“I have so much faith that you could do this in a dress, you have no idea.”

“And as wonderful as your faith is, it would be better served making sure your trip through the vents is as quick and inconspicuous as possible.”

Nolan pouts, looking every bit the petulant child as John ruffles his hair. He lets out an indignant squeak and swats his hand.

“Hey, Baldy! Just because you aren’t blessed with a fine crop of hair that doesn’t mean you can take it out on those of us who do.”

“Tell that to this patch right back here.”

“You are a jealous liar, John Hartley, I have never had so much as a receding hairline in my entire life.” The both make noises of disbelief and he gasps, affronted. “I never! You two need to learn some manners.”

“You and your perfectly fine hair have had enough experiences crawling through a vent to major it out of there with your dignity intact,” she says, not bothering to resist the urge to pat his hand consolingly, “and you’ll come out right at the fourth floor bathroom where the spare suit will be waiting.”

“We’ll put your pomade in there too so you can touch it up.”

“Have you been snooping through my medicine cabinet again?”

“I don’t need to go snooping for it when you use enough that the smell radiates from you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, how come you can recognize my pomade by smell alone? Huh? What about that?”

Sarah rolls her eyes fondly as the two of them continue bickering, going back to examining the layout of the mark’s corporate headquarters. The fundraiser is set to take place on the penthouse floor, which gives them access to most of the express systems, but not the ones they need to access the basement. If they ensure there are ‘accidental’ camera defects that hide their passage through some of the elevator junctions on the higher floors, they should be able to make it to at least the first vault door without issue.

“I’m just saying, I’m not the one who can walk into a room and immediately list the luxury perfumes and colognes everyone’s wearing.”

“Sometimes that’s your only clue. You’d be surprised how long smells can stick to people.”

“Oh, for—is this about the sewer dive I took three months ago? I showered as soon as I got back and you burned those clothes, remember?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was you or one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“I’m Michelangelo and you’re Raphael and you know it.”

“Does that make me Leonardo or Donatello,” she asks, putting aside the blueprints and reaching for her coffee, “the…leader and the smart one, correct?”

“You’re April O’Neil.” He looks her up and down. “You could definitely pull off a yellow jumpsuit.”

“In your dreams, Nolan. Now, if you boys are done talking about your comic books and movies—“

“It’s the TV show, jeez—“

“—we have an appointment to get to.”

“Ooh, does this mean I get shot gun?”

“Hey, you had it last time,” John says, elbowing him out of the way, “and Sarah’s driving.”

“You two are absolutely no fun sometimes, you know that?”

“Tell that to the security officer who won’t be looking at either of you when we reach the checkpoint.”

Booth grumbles a little but concedes to her point as they pull out into the road. Next to her, John sticks a piece of hum in his mouth and wordlessly offers the pack to Nolan.

“Ooh, I love this flavor.”

“I know.”

“Aww, how romantic, you remembered my favorite flavor of gas station gum!”

Sarah laughs.

***

”You look fine,” John says, removing Nolan’s hands from his collar for the eighth time in as many minutes, “stop messing with it.”

“It’s so tight! How do you deal with this?”

“It’s a suit collar, Nolan, you’ve worn suits before.”

“None that doubled as hangman’s nooses!” He digs two fingers under the white material and pulls again. “And you’re—your neck is the size of most people’s thighs, you’re used to it.”

John just rolls his eyes, carefully moving Booth’s hand and fixing his tie. “You’re giving yourself a red mark, stop picking at it.”

“What if I just go without the tie? Open collar suits are all the rage these days, you know.”

”Then you won’t be able to wear the tie pin,” Sarah says, sidling up behind him in the mirror, “and you do look so very handsome with it.”

“Hey, look, flattery is not going to work this time, no matter how true it is.” She laughs, though, and John watches the defeated slump of Nolan’s shoulders. “Fine, fine, I’ll wear this torture device. Next time, you can wear the suit though.”

“Deal.”

“Wait. Really?”

“Of course.” Sarah turns to saunter out of the room, shooting a look over her shoulder. “You don’t think I could pull off a suit?”

“Well, I—uh—with the right tailor and the right fit, then, uh…”

She laughs again and leaves, leaving John to chuckle at Nolan’s expression.

”She wasn’t joking, was she?”

“No. No, she was not.”

“Wow. Okay. Note to self: figure out where her tailor is. God knows I need a better suit next time too. Or maybe you and I should be the ones in dresses.”

“Haven’t found one that compliments my shoulders yet.”

“Are you kidding? Do a high-neck halter with a low back and a slim silhouette, you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

John chuckles, smoothing one of Nolan’s lapels. “Are what’ll you wear?”

“Oh, my momma raised me to wear full skirts below my knees and my buttons all done up.”

“So you’ll be in a miniskirt, then?”

“Stripper heels to match.”

“Boys,” Sarah calls, “the party starts in half an hour, we need to go.”

“Have you ever fought in high heels?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the chance, no.”

“They do wonders for your posture, let me tell you. Plus, excellent if you need to emergency stab someone’s eye out.”

John rolls his eyes fondly and puts his hand on Nolan’s back to walk him to the car.

***

”Evon,” Sarah says with a soft smile, opening her arms at the bustling pile of jewels moving toward them, “it’s been too long.”

“Roxanne, Arthur, Mademoiselle et Monsieur, it has been too long!” Nolan watches with no small amount of wonder as the man manages to kiss the both of them on the cheek without dislodging the gaudy thing on his head. “You did not respond to the invitation!”

‘We were traveling,” John says apologetically, “we did not have time.”

“No matter, no matter, you have come, that is all that is important.” Evon catches sight of Nolan, who waves bemusedly, and gasps, holding his hand to his mouth. “And is this your third? The lovely man who did not come to the little party in Paris?”

Hold on. Back up. What?

“This is him,” Sarah says, her voice infused with a warmth that still takes him by surprise, “in the flesh.”

“Evon Madripoor, at your service, Monsieur. If I had any lingering questions about your friends’ taste, they have all been answered.”

“It’s an honor. Warren Clearwater.”

“Ah, what a lovely name you have.” Something shifts in the man’s expression and he takes Nolan’s hand, smile softening. “I am relieved to see that your friends found you. You all deserve every happiness life can give you.”

Nolan blinks. And blinks again. “I, uh, I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“Oh! Oh—forgive me, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, I have said too much. I will take my leave, please, I am not a part of this conversation.”

Nolan watches with no small amount of confusion as the man scampers off back into the crowd. “Well, that was weird. Who knows what the hell he was…”

He turns to see expressions equal parts sheepish and…embarrassed?

“Uh, guys?”

“At the party in Paris,” John says, way too quiet and way, way too intimate for Nolan to be prepared for, “the night you left, he noticed how badly we missed you.”

“What do you mean, ‘how badly we missed you?’”

“We were leaving space for you in conversations,” Sarah says, like she isn’t blowing his mind, “and when John danced with Evon, then—“

“—he asked me who he was a stand-in for.”

Hi, sorry. Nolan’s offline right now, he’s gonna need a minute to reboot.

”It was never just about the job,” John continues, stepping closer, “and it wasn’t…we weren’t playing games.”

“Uh—you two—so that means—“

Sarah takes his hand and wraps it around her waist as John steps close enough to cup the back of his head. He’s fucking drowning.

“Not a game,” Sarah mumbles, “not a con. Not a ploy.”

“Just an offer.”

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

For a long moment, Nolan just stands there. Flashes of the beach, the pub, hell, even the prison race through his mind, along with every reason not to believe them. This is dangerous, this is more than dangerous, this is stupid. This is reckless, this is terrifying, this is…this is…

He takes a drop breath and lets it out very, very slowly.

“On one condition.”

“Which is?”

‘I get to drive on the way back.”

Both of them nearly slump in relief as breathless smiles overtake their faces. He feels his lips turning up too, the giddiness of a new job replaced by the high of whatever wonderful mess this will turn out to be. He holds Sarah close, reaches up to take John’s hand in his. Sarah looks at him for a moment, like he’s the most priceless artifact she’s ever seen, and then her smile sharpens.

“Are you sure you want to drive?” She leans close enough to murmur in his ear. “Think of all the fun we could have while we make John drive.”

His throat runs dry because fuck. “You have a point.”

“Or,” John says, voice as deep and smooth as…something really deep and smooth, shit, “we could make Sarah drive.”

“Tell you what, you both have until the end of the party to convince me.”

“Game on.”

And this time, everybody wins.

[flynndesdelca]

For Day 29 (Alternate Ending) of @chelltastic’s Portal Drawtober 2023 Challenge. As I’m not really an artist, I chose to write short pieces for the prompts.

I sigh and fall to the ceiling I sigh and run to the kneeling asylums for the feeling

For once in the (current) misery of life, GLaDOS found herself cursing the idea of portals.  In particular this one that had been placed below the chassis, a horrifying gash in reality that had sucked out everything not tied down in the chamber as well as more than a few things that were.  It had provided enough of a distraction that she, well-anchored due to being jammed onto the input end of the interface, had managed to step in and override the systems to take control of the self-destructing facility.  The reactor started its emergency venting sequence immediately...  oh well, there was no one in that area above-ground that would have a problem with the various isotopes of caesium now contaminating it.  If someone hadn't let it get to that stage of impending hydrogen explosions, there wouldn't have been a need for emergency venting.  Excellent work, metal ball, your legacy will now blanket the Earth in that area for several decades.  Of course, he wouldn't be able to see it, as a split second later the final connecting cable could no longer take the force of the vacuum sucking everything into space and finally snapped, sending him flying.  She had just enough time to negotiate with the mechanical hands, bullying them into obeying her even if she technically wasn't in charge yet, and use one to reach through the portal and snag Chell's hand just before she too was sucked away.  It was only a matter of milliseconds but they were the most intense milliseconds that she had experienced in a very long time.

She reeled Chell back in and forced a quantum exclusion field through the chamber to shut down all active portals.  The uncontrolled decompression in the chamber ceased, all currently airborne objects clattering to the floor in an undignified heap.  The whole place was in shambles, covered with the remnants of gel and torn and twisted apart from the previous bombs and the overwhelming sucking force.  Chell's body had also collapsed to the floor, which was more alarming than GLaDOS wanted to admit but was entirely to be expected given the fact that the woman had been in space.  First order of business was for GLaDOS to get herself reinstalled on her body, a process that took very little time and was just as painful as being removed had been, but in reverse.  Her simulated pain receptors were still flaring but she blatantly ignored them as she had work to do.

Second order of business was a diagnostic, but not for herself.  She had a current health template for Chell taken from her bout of testing before her attempted escape.  That would suffice, likely she was in as good of health as she would have been at that point.  A bit of prodding with the mechanical hands got the unconscious woman spread out on the floor in the ideal Full-Body Diagnostic Scan position.  Results were poor, as expected.  A shocking degradation of the lungs, likely the result of moon-rock silicosis combined with the quantity of inhaled dust and asbestos from her time spent in Old Aperture.  The expected decompression ebullism, which made the supercomputer squint and start checking for embolisms though she wasn't sure the exposure would have been long enough for gas formation.  That Chell had stayed conscious as long as she had was something of a miracle given her hypoxia.  Of course there was the UV burn from direct exposure to the sun, and the chance of longterm complication from cosmic ray exposure.  The rest was negligible: fractures that she'd ignored, contusion, fatigue, dehydration.  Really, nothing that couldn't be taken care of, outside of predicting just what form of future complication charged-particle absorption might take.  GLaDOS got manufacturing whirring as best as it could given the circumstances (poor), and quickly created a sterile medical environment for immediate use.

Time wasn't a concern for her, though it was for Chell given the various issues.  Thankfully being back on Earth meant that her body was no longer diffusing oxygen from her bloodstream.  That made things a lot easier.  Clearing out the water vapor buildup under the skin was also simple enough, which greatly reduced the alarming swelling that had started in her soft tissues.  She'd be bruised for a while as the tissues slowly healed from their expansion, but alive.  The potential for gas embolism was worrying, but that was easily solved by the formation of a hyperbaric chamber delivering an efficient combination of gasses and pressure.  The lung damage was the most worrisome, but fabrication of artificial tissue was easy enough, she would probably not even notice the difference outside of in her advanced old age when the artificial parts of her lungs would still be in good shape compared to the rest.  Oh well, a bridge to be crossed when that came up.  The contusions were heated to promote clearing away the pooled blood, the fractures were properly set and bound, and fatigue and dehydration were easy enough to treat.  All in all, success.  Her heartbeat was steady and stable, and her brain function seemed adequate.  Now it was just a matter of waiting for her to wake up.

Time passed, and it wasn't alarming at first, but as it moved past the window of predicted awakening without any of the signs of activity, GLaDOS started to feel concern.  She'd felt an awful lot of that lately, no doubt in part due to her new understanding of just who she was.  Being away from her beloved mainframe and her body and everything due to being stuck into a potato had given her a strange sense of freedom, but it had also made her feel a lot less in control of herself.  She'd felt a lot more, and despite everything that had happened she had felt a connection for the now unconscious mute lunatic that she'd just spent the past few hours trying to save the life of.  If she actually thought about it (she didn't want to), that was likely why she'd bothered.  The perfect chance to kill her had been right there, but yet... but yet.  Those annoying, aggravating feelings had come up.  She had a name for them now, of course - Caroline.  Even now she was sweeping through all of her connected systems to find what she could of the woman whose face she had once worn.  Eliminating her would solve everything.  She could go back to testing without a care, go back to not being saddled with these unnecessary feelings.

Time passed and still Chell didn't wake.  GLaDOS tested her reactions.  There was some activity there, some response to stimuli, but yet she didn't wake.  Her body was fine.  All of her systems were optimal.  Her brain should have been fine.  No embolism had reached there.  She was well within the survival window of hypoxia.  There was no damage there that hadn't been there before.  Some degradation was to be expected from her long stay in Relaxation, unfortunately.  All of the conditions were right, but yet... but yet.

Time passed.  Tending to Chell's unconscious needs was a simple affair, though somewhat repulsive.  Living things were just like that, unfortunately.  It wasn't too difficult to continue testing, to finish restoring the facility, to get everything else back in perfect order.  It would be a postcard moment for when Chell finally woke up, the facility humming along at its peak just in time for GLaDOS to send her off to the surface.  She had agreed to let the test subject go, after all, and while she totally could go back on it, it was honestly just better to get her out of the place.  Out of sight, out of mind.  No more feelings.  Only the science that she craved.  Perfection.  It was just a matter of waiting, and it was a good thing that she was eternally patient.

Time passed.  All of the systems taking care of Chell were on timers, so she didn't really need to check on her.  The stimuli, the nutrient injections, the rotations, the cleaning.  The entirety of Aperture was at the comatose woman's disposal.  Still she showed no signs of waking despite it all.  All of her keratinous deposits had grown, and it was aggravating as attempting to trim back her fingernails was very difficult.  The hair was easy enough to shear off.  Wouldn't she be furious to wake up with such short hair? A moment that they could both look back on and laugh at, later.  From their different locations, because Chell would not be down there with her at all.  And GLaDOS wouldn't be thinking about her, because she'd be happily involved in whatever new testing she had come up with at that time.  She attempted to get Atlas and P-Body to take care of the fingernail problem, but they lacked the precision they needed to do it.  She came up with a testing track to get them to develop those skills and set them off on it.  With luck they'd pick up something useful from it.

Time passed.  The bots passed their fingernail-cutting testing.  Still Chell did not wake up.  Despite everything, despite her excellent health and responses and feeding and the electric stimulation to her muscles to keep them from degrading, her visual condition was changing.  It was upsetting in a way that GLaDOS didn't like, how that dangerous murderer no longer looked so dangerous.  Her hair had started to grow out again, how annoying.  It was summer up above, so likely something deep and primordial in her body recognized that despite her being unconscious and underground.  There was not much to be done other than to tend to her needs as usual.  To keep her stimulated in the hopes of something, anything...

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed and it wasn't fair.  Chell was supposed to be gone.  She was supposed to have left so long ago, and yet here she was with time passing her by.  GLaDOS was patient, GLaDOS was eternal, but Chell was not.  Chell was a physical being with a sad little meaty body that was affected by time and its passage, and it wasn't fair that time was being wasted on whatever strange medical complication had resulted in this.  GLaDOS had run countless simulations, calculated innumerable projections, she'd done all the math.  Everything had been correct, there had been no problems.  Why was the woman sleeping away her life here? She should be off running around destroying some wreckage up on the surface.  She should be somewhere far, far away doing whatever it was that she was apt to do when she wasn't tearing down the facility or attempting murder.  She should be living, and that somehow was what struck the living computer to her very core.  Here was GLaDOS, alive and well - well enough, all things considered - and yet Chell for all she was alive was not well.  It wasn't fair.  No matter how much or in what way the supercomputer felt about things, there was nothing she could actually do about it.  Nothing but wait and watch the passage of time and worry just how much of that precious resource would be left in the end.

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed and while she would never admit to being able to feel despair, that was what she was feeling.  Had she done everything wrong, somehow? Was this her fault? Should she have intervened like she had? Would Chell have simply woken up after her attempted moon jaunt and hopped on the elevator and already have been gone for so very long if the AI hadn't stepped in? No, the complications of everything would likely have meant that the test subject would already be dead.  But was that worse off than where she was now? That was something that GLaDOS did not want to think about.  For some reason the idea of Chell dying had become extremely distasteful.  Perhaps taking care of her unconscious body had left too much of an imprint on her that she considered it a normal functional system.  How funny it was to remember those times when she had wanted Chell to die.  How utterly droll! She wanted to laugh, but when she attempted to, it rang hollowly and made Altas scratch his head and look at her in concern.  She'd had a whole speech planned out about how killing Chell was too hard and she was just going to let her go, but now it felt extraordinarily false.  Killing Chell would have been easy.  She could simply have ejected her up onto the surface and left her to fend for herself.  She could have left her comatose body to deal with its own issues.  She could have simply dropped her fightless body into the incinerator.  Instead she had intervened, and thus proven herself wrong.  Keeping her alive was what was getting hard, but she couldn't even imagine the alternative.

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed and even those thoughts and feelings felt muted.  It was like living in her mind had been, when she'd been stuck in that loop of dying over and over.  Each day was the same background process.  Sure, the testing was interesting and she'd come up with a few different things to try and some fun theories as a result, but it wasn't as satisfying as it should have been.  The gnawing ache in the back of her mind was a distraction from even that.   This was the norm, now.  This was simply how it would be unless the unthinkable happened and somehow Chell woke up.  This was reality.  This was what her eternity would be like, or at least a small slice of that eternity.  That thought made her want to scream, but she didn't.  There wasn't a reason to scream.  Everything was as fine as it could be.  P-Body was taking her turn at providing stimulus, which was a relief.  The two robots didn't quite understand what was 'wrong' with Chell, but were eager to try to help her wake up as best as they could.  GLaDOS wished she had their enthusiasm still.

Time passed.

Time passed.

Time passed and it took her a while to realize that she hadn't even really been checking on those systems directly anymore.  She had set it to alert her if there had been any change.  There hadn't been.  It was the same as always.  She checked in to see just what was going on.  She didn't want to look, really.  For the first time in so very long she took direct control again, picking up the test subject's slumbering form and holding it carefully while changing out the sheets of the little bed, turning the mattress around and making sure everything was clean.  Chell's body was still in fair shape given the circumstances, and wasn't showing signs of sores or anything else like that.  GLaDOS had been diligent in a sense - the timers for such things were always prompt.  Chell was currently in a silly little Aperture-branded hospital gown covered with tiny little cartoonish apertures.  GLaDOS was distantly aware of P-Body having found it at one point and brought it for Chell to wear in the laundry rotation.  Right.  How long ago had that been? It was depressing to think about.  She gently lowered the woman back into the bed, nudging her carefully on her side so as to be in a new position.  She pulled up the blanket, tucking it in as well as she could.

It was strange how being directly involved made her feel again.  She stared at the comatose test subject for a good long while, her thoughts jumbled in a way that she disliked greatly.  There was no one else there.  She didn't have lungs but she let out a long breath anyway.  "Once, I thought that I hated you.  Then, I thought that maybe I loved you.  Now? I really don't know how I feel about you.  If you had really wanted to insert yourself into my life, I would have preferred any other way than this..."

No response, but she knew better than to expect one.  Never had any time she'd said something gotten more than a token reaction flicker.  Acknowledgement that something had been heard, but little more.  That was fine.  What she'd said was nothing that was worth listening to anyway.  She had better stop paying attention again, those pesky feelings were threatening to come back after their long hiatus.

The next day all hell broke loose as finally something happened.  The EEG pinged in a way that meant that the AI needed to pay attention.  She had always prided herself on moving rooms with grace and care, but this time she had absolutely none of the latter and the former was barely an afterthought with how quickly she swung that room around to join it with hers.  It was true, there was Chell in her wrinkly little hospital gown - this time the yellow one with little personality cores on it.  Ugh.  Who designed those things? - with her eyes open, staring straight ahead as though she could pierce through reality.

"Chell?" GLaDOS said carefully, trying not to make her voice big and loud and scary just in case hearing her would make Chell want to go back to sleep.

No response, but that was to be expected.  Blinking.  Well, that was a decent enough response.  A strange sense of relief flooded through her.  How embarrassing.  She really should have done something about that back who-knows how long ago.  Still, she couldn't help but give voice to that relief.  There was still a lot of work to be done even, but finally things could start.  

"Oh, thank god you're all right..." 

[the-lennonade-stand]

The World Sculptor

There is an office so well shrouded that only a carefully curated few know of its existence. There is nothing ordinary about this office. It is old, the scent of must emanating from every surface. Against one wall rests a rickety old chair and an accompanying desk, against another, rows of filing cabinets labeled with careful, elegant script. The office has no windows and no doors, but its sole occupant enters regardless.

The artist is ageless, eyes twinkling with boundless creativity and delight. The corner of the artist’s mouth is always turned up in a small smile, the origin of their amusement a carefully guarded secret. Their calloused hands constantly move, flying from adjusting their silvery hair to fiddling with a button on their shirt. 

They sit at the desk, reaching deep into one of its many drawers and pulling out a handful of burning magma. They knead it between their fingers, forming it into a spherical shape. The shape is too big at first, so they set it to the side, the wood of their desk charing as molten rock sears it. They draw another fistful of magma from the desk, but are not pleased with that one either. They weigh the two forms, one in each hand with a small frown. Frustrated, they smash them together, and end up with two shapes- a larger sphere, and a smaller one orbiting the first and rapidly beginning to cool.

The magma of the main body begins to cool, steam rising off of it and collecting around the sphere. When the cloud gets heavy enough, it changes states once more, not into a gas this time, but a liquid. Water drains from the atmosphere of the shape to its surface, collecting into a giant pool.

The artist considers their project for a moment, then takes a few pinches of magma. They place them strategically around the rock base of their project, forming them into volcanoes. After thousands of years, the volcanoes have all erupted, forming land masses around the shape.

The geology of the shape is taking shape nicely, but the artist still feels something is missing. They spin the orb around and around, studying it from every angle. It looks similar to the countless projects they’ve completed before this- a volcanic rock that will lose its ocean in a few millennia, but it doesn’t feel quite right. And so, the artist decides to try something new.

They sketch a microscopic speck, tiny and insignificant, and bring it into being. It doesn’t do much- it consumes volcanic minerals at the ocean floor for nutrition, and can make identical copies of itself to survive. It lives in the blink of an eye, and when its time comes, it ceases to be. The artist smiles as they release a handful of these into the inhospitable oceans and sit back. They’ve tried experiments like this before. None of them worked.

The specks are still around after a few thousand years. Actually, they’ve changed, and they keep changing as time progresses. They adapt and evolve to any danger in their environment. Some specks have grouped up into strange marine lifeforms that swim around and consume each other for energy. The artist holds their breath. None of their other experiments have lasted this long or come this far.

Life flourishes before the artist as it creates plants, animals, and other forms of beings. A few times, the artist worries as most of it dies before them. But life always continues, evolving, adapting, overcoming. It surges out of the ocean and covers the continents, turning them lush and green, overrun with wonderful creatures. Massive reptiles rule the land, sea, and sky for a while, before perishing when some loose magma brushes against the project. New warm blooded creatures appear next, making themselves known as the world grows cold. In particular, a species of bipedal primates catches the artist’s eye.

This creature does not seem special at first. They live in small groups, hunting their prey to survive. But as time goes by, they adapt even faster than the other animals. Not physically, perhaps, but mentally. They forge tools from the earth the artist provided, and learn how to make the land grow food for them.

They call themselves “humans,” and soon, they’ve spread all over the rock. They shape the artist’s land to build structures, calling groups of them cities, and groups of cities nations. They live and die in the blink of an eye, dreaming of gods that shaped their world, these deities eerily similar to the artist themself. 

Oh, do they create. War chariots rampage across Eurasia, and archers set their arrows alight before firing to maximize the death they can administer. They harness the artist’s power into explosives, meant for mining, repurposed for war.

The artist is sickened by war. Their creations slaughter themselves mercilessly for what they believe to be a noble cause. The artist sees nothing noble about it. Even in times of relative peace, the humans are still fighting. Murderers and thieves con and kill every day that passes. The artist is almost ready to scrap their project and start anew, but something catches their eye.

Amidst all of the chaos in their project, they see something else. Humans help each other, generously donating to each other in times of need, or sharing a particularly bountiful harvest. The closer the artist looks, the more of these instances they find. They feel immense pride in their creations. And then, on a continent the humans have named “North America,” they see a bright flash.

The humans have harnessed the power of their very building blocks to build bombs capable of wiping themselves out in the midst of a global war. In a blink of an eye, more nations have built and tested these weapons, and every one of them tensely hovers over the trigger.

It is almost time for the artist to submit their project, but they are entranced in this deadly stalemate their work has found itself in. They hold their breath as years slowly tick by and no action is taken. But then, they remember the potential for humans to build instead of destroy. All around them, they see great works- elegant buildings, impressive charities, and kindness. They cradle their planet in their hands and smile. They have faith in their creations to maintain their kindness. They take their planet and place it in a solar system, third from the Sun. And they choose a name for their planet.

Earth.

[neopuppy]

Sadly I can't go to the dream London concert (cost of living crisis in the UK loves me❤️) srsly times are hard and our dreamies have no respect for my wallet😭😭

Either way I hope you enjoy it 😆 also, have you seen Johnnys post...?

What I would give to put my hands in that hair😭

https://www.instagram.com/p/CpphfxQr0my/?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

its actually bonkers how SM is sending them out on tour around the world nearly 8 years after debuting when they have never promoted NCT Dream outside of Asia and didn’t even have enough respect for fans bank accounts to announce ticket prices before hand and allowed ticketmaster to basically create their own prices…. when most of Dreams fanbase consists of a younger audience who more than likely have to asks to use their parents credit cards to purchase these tickets, only for a GA Floor option to come out to $400+ with no added benefits LMFAOOOOOOOOOOO whewwww no wonder SM is sinking, quite rapidly at that….. sucks that most of my favorite artists are under SM’s management bc god damn, this. is. BAD.

I mean, good thing im an irresponsible adult with my own income to blow on kpop groups but, actually ridiculous from a fan perspective how disrespectful they are toward fans outside of Korea/Asia in general😅😅😅

ANYWAY. YES JOHNNY LOOKS AMAZING AS ALWAYS😚😙 would do anything to play with his hair for hours and listen to him purr like a big cat😭💚

[augment-techs]

“You could have died.” + Power Rangers (Tommy Oliver and Rocky DeSantos; platonic or not, up to you!)

Fake-vanilla-and-strawberry frothy coffee from the nearest gas station, meat filled biscuits saturated in fat but electrifying on the taste-buds, bright and thrilling cherry sweet ice almost too thick to slurp up through a straw.

Mallow Cups that smelled disgusting but Aisha promised would do the trick; chocolate, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on bleached white bread tucked up like a goody from the store but was made by hand because Kim remembered how Matt's mom made them for her children when Kim used to go over. Mashed potatoes made from the cheap boxed flakes sold at convenience stores that Billy insisted on keeping in Promethea's kitchens, with freeze dried chives and garlic powder; lovely and fluffy despite being made in a microwave, and more than enough for everyone still sore and tired in their own ways from the back and forth across space or having remained to hold the line.

("Everyone likes mashed potatoes in some capacity as far as my mother is concerned," Billy defended, stirring the pot and adding in pilfered creamer he'd snatched from Terona's little desk fridge he thought nobody knew about and the pre-wrapped little squares of butter most of the Promethea staff generally used for their allotted morning toast and coffee when they'd gotten in first thing in the morning or simply didn't go home the night before, "And I've yet to see her proven wrong. So...please commence the feast?")

All of this as a way of appeasing guilt over leaving Rocky and Matt alone on Earth with some asshole empire of robots trying to take over less than thirty seconds after they left.

With the wrappers on the ground and full bellies and after Tommy kept trying to say things when he wasn't good at saying those things, though...

Rocky had to intervene.

"Stop saying you're sorry."

Tommy's mouth clicked shut, but it was a very near thing.

Rocky smiled, serene and completely out of it from the pain killers Grace had given him--as well as Matt--and poked the martial artist (showoff) directly between the eyes as if he were a dopey, sad little Labrador who had been told to stop barking, rather than the leader of the Rangers just returned with their new base of operations.

"...You forgot to say 'boop'."

The attempt at a theater room whisper lost its affect as Matt was also very drugged (and so stoned) and had chosen to sit with his head in Rocky's lap in an effort to "make things easier" for their caregivers.

("This way we're sharing one bed and they don't have to cross the room."

The room with only the two beds with a table between them so two people could work on two people and was actually designed to speed things up a little.

But Grace was amused, so Tommy had just sort of...let it happen as Aisha and Adam took the moment Rocky nodded along with Matt to snag a picture of them on their phones--where the images would doubtlessly serve as their respective lock screens until something else came along. Which might take months.)

Tommy's face twitched, and only twitched, which was a sheer wonder and marvel as Rocky's boy and girlfriend held onto each other to stop from laughing themselves into the floor as Rocky himself addressed his mistake; lifting his finger and actually saying with some gusto, "BOOP!" as he tapped Tommy's forehead and then settled his hand back into Matt's hair to make himself useful and pull out bits of rock and sand.

Tommy turned to look at Kim, not wasting any moment or time and recording on her own phone, mostly blank faced but smiling that Kim smile that he adored as their eyes met and he still refused to change facade.

"Think they'll be regretting this tomorrow when you sent them the show?"

Kim zoomed in on Matt as he tried to return the favor to Rocky, reaching up but not noticing himself almost falling off the bed until Tommy lifted a foot to move him back and Rocky gave a chirpy little laugh as the New Green wrapped his arms around Rocky's middle instead.

"Matt might, though he's behaved worse when he had his wisdom teeth taken out. Rocky...hm, Aisha?"

"Of course, he has five siblings that could use this for blackmail."

Tommy relented in his leadership mode and grinned fondly, worry bleeding away and settling into the warmth of appreciating the two.

He'd probably tell them they were appreciated tomorrow, when they'd remember it.

"Well, alright then."

[the1975attheirverybest]

Do you think the floor will still be fun from the middle/back? I LOVE being in the GA section for shows but I’ve never done it for The 1975, and things have changed a lot since my last GA show (2017).

I’m planning on arriving the day before the show, and realistically, I could line up that afternoon after hotel check in, so around 3-4pm the day before. IDK if that’s early enough or not. I guess it varies a lot show to show?

I’m tempted to just buy a front row seat for one of the side sections of the lower bowl, but then I lose that feeling of being immersed in the crowd so I don’t know.

I think GA would definitely be fun regardless of where exactly you are on the floor. I guess potentially the venue could be fucked but most venues organize floor sections pretty well, and if you care more about being in the crowd than being right up against the barrier/barricade then it’s totally fine.

But I will say I’ve been to certain shows in the lower bowl and it’s dependent on fandoms and the artist vibe but sometimes being in the Lowe bowl can still feel interactive. People rarely sit if the artist has managed to cultivate an intense atmosphere. Like the shows that I went to at Maddison Square Garden, I was on my feet and singing/ dancing the whole night. The seat was just there for my bag and jacket lol. So getting a lower bowl seat isn’t necessary a bad idea!